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Authors: Beth Ciotta

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BOOK: All About Evie
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I traded my baggy khaki capris for tight black capris. My funky, flowered sneakers for stiletto, fruit-garnished sandals. I sank lower in the seat, whipped off my T-shirt and pulled on a formfitting halter top—also featuring a fruit motif. I shifted and glanced in the rearview mirror.

Bra strap alert!

Sugar may be an exhibitionist, but I'd be damned if she was a fashion disaster. I needed to trade the bra I was wearing for a strapless push-up—which was somewhere in my suitcase, which was lying open in the parking lot. I unhooked my bra with one hand, eased open the back door and, just as I reached for my suitcase, the halter top came undone and fell down revealing my breasts, nips to the chilly March wind. Before I could cover myself I heard a little boy say, “Look, Daddy. I see bubbies.”

Mortified, I looked up to find a family of four loading into the blue van parked in the adjacent space. I smiled—what else could I do?—yanked up my top and knotted the ties behind my neck.

The father grinned, hefted the little boy into a toddler seat then rounded to the driver's side. The mother scowled while buckling in her daughter.

Thirty seconds later they were gone, and I still fussed over details. I finger-teased my hair—sexy-tousled—doused it with hair spray and shoved on a pair of Jackie O sunglasses. Big, round and black, the Gucci knockoffs concealed a good portion of my face but they were trendy and fun and, in my estimation, screamed showgirl on holiday. No offense, Mrs. O.

Lastly, because I refused to catch pneumonia, I pulled on a red cashmere shrug. Not appropriate outerwear considering the temperature, but at least my arms would be warm. Since the cropped sweater was sexy tight, I didn't figure Arch would object.

Satisfied that I looked the part, I hauled my butt and luggage back toward the vestibule—a precarious task while balancing on four-inch stilettos. Nervous laughter bubbled in my throat as I anticipated falling into a hole to China or getting hit by a clown car. This entire day qualified as a segment on
Saturday Night Live.

I didn't call Arch back until I'd claimed a seat on the shuttle chugging toward the terminal. “On my—”
gasp, cough
“—way.” I used my free hand to dab away the sweat on my upper lip. In between gulps of air—I really need to start exercising—I described my new attire.

“Brilliant,” he said with a smile in his voice. “Sugar?”

I squeezed my tingling thighs together and applied red lipstick—Sugar struck me as a Cajun Crimson kind of gal—one-handed and without the aid of a mirror. God, I was good. “Yes?”

“A bit of character profile here.” He paused, and I waited with bated breath. “You're crazy
aboot
me.
Cannae
keep your hands off of me.”

If he looked anything like what I was imagining—a beefed-up James Bond—that wouldn't be a trial. Getting paid to grope a sexy stranger? Talk about your dream gig. I tried my best to sound nonchalant, bored even. “So what do you look like,
Charles?
I don't want to paw the wrong guy.”

He chuckled, a husky rumble that made my stomach flutter. “Ever see the flick
Some Like It Hot?

I snorted. “Only a bazillion times.”

“Brilliant.”

“I'll say. Can Billy Wilder direct, or what?”

“Brilliant is slang for excellent, love.”

And
love
was slang for
baby, hon, doll
—some sort of endearment. Where was a Bridget Jones lingo guide when you needed one? “Right,” I said with conviction. I'd catch on quick enough, quick study that I am. “So is that the gig? Are we doing a stage reenactment of
Some Like It Hot?
” I chucked the lipstick and powdered my nose. I'd have to tease my hair higher and unload an entire can of hair spray if I had to cop Marilyn Monroe's helmet-head. “Wait. Marilyn played Sugar Kane, not Sugar Dupont.”

“I was drawing a comparison of myself to Tony Curtis.”

I snickered at the memory of Curtis and Lemmon in fishnets and heels, disguised as Josephine and Daphne, the homeliest members of an all-girl band. “You're in drag?”

“Not today. Visualize the part in the movie where Curtis assumes the role of the oil tycoon.”

“Meaning you look like a nearsighted yachting snob?” Even with those goofy pop-bottle glasses, Tony had looked adorable. Okay, so we're talking geeky. More stuffed shirt than superspy. The nerd and the showgirl. Works for me. My overactive imagination had me seducing Arch much as Monroe had seduced Curtis in a steamy scene on a stolen yacht.

Brilliant.

“Bang on,” he said in that bone-melting accent. “With a slight variation.”

The shuttle neared the American Airlines departure area and my pulse accelerated. I squinted out the window, searching for a young Tony Curtis. Did this mean Arch had full lips and big, moony brown eyes? “The shuttle's curbside,” I said, hoping I didn't sound as breathless as I felt. “I need to sign off so I can grab my bags.”

“I'll be waiting just inside the doors,” he said, skepticism lacing his tone. “You're sure you're up to this? Seriously, Evie, it's important that you play your part convincingly at all times, yeah?”

After I got over the thrill of hearing him say my real name, I remembered what Michael had said about a level of risk, and realized that I still didn't fully understand what I was getting into. Assignment? Alias? I should probably bail.

Three thousand dollars and eight days to reevaluate your life. And, if you're lucky, a hot fling.

What would Michael think if he knew I was contemplating a lusty romp? Would he care?

He wouldn't believe it. I'd never had a meaningless fling in my life.
You're a creature of habit, Evie.

Resentment and conviction propelled me to my feet. “There won't be any screwups,” I said as I gathered my luggage. “Lucky for you, Arch Reece, I'm one hell of an actress.”

CHAPTER FOUR

N
EVER BE MORE NERVOUS
than the person in charge.

Jayne had calmed me with those words of advice seven years ago after I'd struggled to learn a choreographed routine on very short notice. Martha Graham I am not. But I do have excellent rhythm, natural talent and those work ethics that please Michael so. I was determined to nail that dance routine even though it strained my technical knowledge. Jayne, bless her soul, couldn't understand why I was busting my hump. We're talking a Bar Mitzvah, not Broadway. I was doing the choreographer a favor. She didn't expect perfection. Why was I stressing?

“Never be more nervous than the person in charge,” Jayne had soothed after I'd broken out in a rash.

Arch didn't seem overly nervous about my trial-by-fire performance, and he was the man in charge. I'd meet the production manager or director after we boarded, but just now, Arch Reece was the man, and, aside from him asking if I was up to the task, he seemed cool as a chilled gel mask.

Despite his calm and Jayne's advice, I had a major case of the butterflies. Fortunately, nervous excitement worked in my favor. Sugar would be anxious about running late and jazzed about her impending trip with her new husband.

I scrambled off of the minibus in full Sugar mode. When portraying stereotypical characters, ninety percent of the illusion hinges on makeup, hair and costume. Look the part, feel the part. Shallow, but there it was. The heels helped with the wiggle I was certain she had. The push-up bra pumped up my sensuality. Tousled hair and red lipstick broadcasted fun and bold.

I stumbled twice—not so fun—on my short trek from shuttle to terminal due to my cumbersome suitcase and stiletto heels. Chin held high, I teetered on—across the sidewalk crowded with people and luggage, navigating the mammoth-wide revolving doors. I had a job to do, people to impress, a life to escape.

Heads turned in my harried wake. It didn't surprise me. A clumsy poster girl for Fredericks of Hollywood, lugging an
I Love Lucy
tote and a huge red suitcase, was bound to attract attention. I wasn't self-conscious because I wasn't me. I was Sugar Dupont. A ditzy newlywed looking for her brainiac husband.

My racing pulse stuttered as I cleared the revolving doors and noted a mature, silver-bearded gentleman, leaning on a fancy walking stick. I wouldn't have given him a second look except he was dressed in foppish yachting attire. White oxford shirt, beige trousers, a navy-blue blazer. He'd accented the conservative ensemble with a striped ascot, Panama straw hat and black-rimmed, round lenses—similar to the thick spectacles Curtis had worn when posing as the mild-mannered millionaire playboy, only sepia-tinted.

It couldn't be, but then he smiled and said, “Sugar, love, time's ticking,” in a quasi Cary Grant accent, and I knew that it was. My steamy fantasy evaporated, striking me momentarily breathless with disappointment. If Arch had a six-pack, it was in the fridge. The only kind of iron this round-shouldered, paunch-bellied man pumped was Geritol.

At least he had all of his teeth.

Sugar's sugar daddy abandoned his luggage and limped forward just as an overeager skycap nabbed Big Red with such enthusiasm that he jerked me off balance. If I were me I would have screamed, but I was Sugar, so I squealed as I careened forward and plowed into my bespectacled
husband
.

We landed with a bone-jarring
thwack.
Arch, flat on his back. Me, flat on top of Arch.

My first thought was that he smelled like my dad—Old Spice. My second thought was that I'd just tackled an injured elder—
crap
. The memory of his cane clattering to the marbled tiles flooded me with an ocean of remorse.

Simultaneously, we reached out to adjust each other's glasses—silly glasses to begin with, downright comical now that they sat crooked on our tip-to-tip noses. His manicured fingertips brushed my perfectly made-up skin, and my already burning cheeks flushed hotter.

Zing. Zap.

Electrified lust shocked my deprived body. His hat had flown off, revealing a head of thick, silver waves. Distinguished came to mind, followed by sexy. Granted, I'd always had a thing for older men, but not
this
old. Then there was the matter of those Truman Capote shades, his snobby attire and Pillsbury Doughboy gut. This man was so far from my fantasy ideal we may as well have been on opposite poles. Regardless, I couldn't deny a magnetic attraction. It had nothing to do with looks and everything to do with high-octane testosterone. The heat kindling between my legs could peel the paint off of my Subaru.

He quirked a lopsided grin and I realized, with a start, that the attraction was two-sided. Arch Reece might have a soft midsection, but there was nothing soft about the anatomy south of his brown leather belt!

Knowing it would be just my luck today, I glanced down at my cleavage and, yes, indeed, my halter top had shifted. If I breathed too deep, there'd be nipplage.

I adjusted my plunging neckline, ignoring his smirk. Addressing his erection would embarrass us both, I assumed, so instead I prodded his noggin for injuries. His hair felt as dry as his skin looked. Being a cosmetic freak, I could suggest restorative treatments, but my instincts told me to shelve the beauty advice. I knew without looking that we'd acquired an audience. Remembering Arch's lecture regarding being in character 24-7, I settled on a high-pitched voice and a Brooklyn accent. The need to prove myself as a competent actress, especially given this morning's botched audition, was fierce. “Charlie, baby, are you all right?”

The arrogant SOB answered at a volume for my ears only and, I swear, his lips barely moved. “Stone said you take direction well.”

It only took a millisecond to realize…I had my hands all over him.

He acknowledged the audience with a coy smile. “My wife,” he drawled, shifting into Charles mode as he wrangled us into a sitting position. “She's crazy about me.”

Smiling and nodding, the gawkers peeled away. They had places to go, people to see. I had a gig to protect. I resisted an eye roll as I scrambled off Arch's lap, weak-kneed at the memory of his hard-on. I might've bruised his backside, but there was nothing wrong with his ego. From what I'd felt, it was
massive
. “Oh, you,” I teased, punctuating my bemused expression with a ridiculous giggle.

I swear the skycap who'd confiscated my suitcase actually sighed. Apparently, he was enchanted with my seemingly low IQ and pumped-up cleavage.

Men.

Speaking of, two security guards swooped in to save the day—albeit belatedly. They hauled Arch to his unsteady feet—good thing his trousers were baggy—dusted him off and displayed, finally, appropriate concern.

I scooped up my purse and travel tote, and retrieved the renegade cane.

My brain wrapped around an idea the same moment I wrapped my fingers around that brass-tipped spindle of polished oak. What if his walking stick, like my sunglasses, was a prop? I'd applied makeup and a hairstyle in keeping with my character. Who's to say Arch hadn't done the same?

A security guard offered my stage husband his hat while the skycap rolled our luggage to the ticket counter. Arch locked hold of his cane with one hand, my elbow with the other. “Our flight boards in eight minutes,” he said while finessing me to one of those self-serve, check-in computers. “I hope you can walk fast in those heels.”

“I hope you can keep up with that cane.”

The corners of his mouth curved as he swiped a credit card and punched the appropriate buttons under the monitor. No verbal response, just that damnable crooked smile. What was going through that mind of his? Was he pleased with my appearance? My performance?
Did I pass the audition?
I wanted to ask, but didn't. If he said something like,
Not particularly, but you'll have to do,
chances were, I'd self-destruct.

Scraping the bottom of my emotional well for an iota of self-confidence, I hung back and checked out the scene. Why were we in character
now?
Were other cast members present and currently blending in? How did this play into our cruise ship performance? I had a dozen questions but didn't want to alienate Arch. I didn't want to blow this gig, whatever it was. I needed the distraction as badly as the money. As if this day hadn't been wacky enough, what was with my bizarre attraction to a stuffed-shirt actor who appeared to be several years my senior?

Older man-younger woman.

Visions of Michael and Sasha rolling around in our old bed flashed in my head.

Ouch.

Old news. Old hurt. Why did it feel so fresh?


Dinnae
get skittish on me now, Sugar,” Arch said as he punched more buttons.

Did he sense my turmoil or was he merely pointing out the fact that I wasn't hanging all over him as directed? I couldn't help comparing the two of us to Michael and Sasha. The age difference chafed. Not to mention the thought of snuggling with another woman's man. Did Arch have a significant other? I knew our alliance was a charade. All the same, guilt pumped through me at the thought of groping someone's loved one.

I squeezed in close, my voice a controlled hush. “Are you married?”

“Is that a trick question, love, or did that tumble ball up your memory?” The automated system spit out our boarding passes. He retrieved the e-tickets with his right hand while waggling his ring finger. “You and I were married three weeks ago in Vegas.”

“I mean for real.” I cringed at my obvious impatience, swallowed hard when Arch turned to face me.

His expression and tone were neutral, but his words stung like salt to an open wound. “So that's what he meant by conservative, yeah?”

He,
I assumed, was Michael. I interpreted conservative to mean predictable, boring. Had Michael bitched to this man about my inadequacies? My temper flared in tandem with buried hurt.
Conservative
. I suddenly felt like a Hush Puppies loafer in a closet of Jimmy Choo high heels.

Before I could lash out, Arch moved in. He cradled the back of my head, nuzzled my ear. “No spouse. No one special. This is strictly business, yeah?”

So, he was unattached, available.
Single.
My knees wobbled with relief, or…something. His gentle touch and caring tone worked like balm on my raw nerves. He brushed his lips across my cheek and the heat between my legs raged. Good Lord.

“In or
oot?
” he asked when the ticket agent called, “Dupont!”

Because I suspected Michael expected me to bail, and because going back to what I knew in Atlantic City was scarier just now than sailing the Atlantic with a complete stranger, I croaked, “in,” swallowing a sentimental lump when Arch produced a wedding band and slipped it onto my third finger. I'd ditched Michael's ring the day he'd ditched me. Wish I could say the same for my lingering affections.

I wrestled with my issues as Arch wrestled with our luggage. Whether his grunting effort was feigned or real, I didn't know. The ticket agent and I both gave him a hand with Big Red. When she advised him of an additional charge due to the excess weight, he produced a wad of bills and paid cash. He didn't comment, though he did cast me a sidelong glance.

I smiled, trying to look cute and clueless.

The ticket agent looped destination tags around the baggage handles. “I need to see your boarding passes and photo IDs, please.”

I reached into my purse, but Arch squeezed my free hand, offering the agent two passports from his inner jacket pocket.

The woman gave the documents a cursory glance before handing them back. “Your flight leaves out of gate A6. If you don't hurry, you'll miss it.” She noted Arch's cane. “I'll have transportation waiting on the other side of the security screening checkpoint.”

Though curious about those passports, my thoughts centered on Arch as we ascended the escalator. He moved pretty fast for a man with a limp. I started to say, a man of his age, but I didn't know his age. I reminded myself that this was an act. Charles Dupont was a character. Were the deep creases in his forehead genuine or the result of expertly applied makeup? Was that trimmed beard—one of those perpetual five-o-clock shadows—homegrown or store-bought? Were his shoulders truly stooped or was he purposely slouching? What about his awkward gait? Real or affected? His current accent differed slightly from the one I'd heard on the phone, and again I couldn't pinpoint it, except to say it was Cary Grant-like, which was in keeping with Curtis's portrayal of the snobby oil tycoon.

I pushed my sunglasses up on top of my head, trying to see through Arch's disguise, and saw that other people were staring, as well. Not at Arch per se, but at us as a couple. The novelist and the showgirl. Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe. Talk about your odd couple.

For a moment, I identified with the young woman who'd professed undying love for Michael Stone. Then I thought about my love for the same man, and quickly threw up barriers. I didn't want to sympathize with Sasha. I didn't even like her. She'd stolen my husband.

BOOK: All About Evie
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