Everybody Loves Evie (23 page)

I looked around, noted our location. He'd parked the Mercedes under a large elm, on the edge of a grassy bank. Below us, the river and Little Turtle Rock. “Oh, my God.”

“
Stargazing
you called it.”

“But it's the middle of the day.”

“Planned on showing you the stars in my own way, lass.”

Zing. Zap.
“In broad daylight?”

“Turning conventional on me?”

As far as I could see, the only ones around, aside from us, were the birds and the bees.
Snort.
I whipped off his tie, pushed off his suit jacket and tossed them in the car through the lowered front window.

He opened the rear door and gave me a playful shove inside.

I stifled a giggle. “What are you doing?”

“Relegating you to the backseat.”

“Smart-ass.”

He kissed me. Hard.

I was all over that. All over him. Our tongues dueled as we fought to unbutton each other's shirts. Could a person expire from dire want? I smoothed my hands over his bare chest, his strong shoulders. Leaned into him as he reached around to unhook my bra. All the while we kissed and kissed.

He tasted of peanut-butter pie and chocolate milkshake—decadent. I breathed in his spicy aftershave—z
ing.
Reveled in the feel of his hands on my bare skin—
zap.
His fingers trailed lightly down my spine, inciting erotic shivers. Heaven. No.
Sin City.
I broke away, dropping my head back to allow him access to my throat, my shoulders, my breasts…“Wait!”

“What?”

“There has to be music. You can't stargaze without music.” I wormed out of his arms and leaned over the front seat. I keyed the ignition, switched on the radio and scanned for a station, any station with no static.

Arch grabbed my hips. The heat of his touch seared through the fabric of my pants.

He bit my butt and I giggled.

He bit my other cheek and I screamed.

“Sorry, love.”

“Not you! Him!” I covered my bare breasts with one arm, used my free hand to point at a man with a camera, not more than ten feet away and snapping pictures through a telephoto lens.

Arch flew out of the car just as the photographer sprinted for a copse of trees. He must've parked down the road.

I grabbed a shirt, shoving my arms in the sleeves as I scrambled out of the Mercedes.

“Screw the
Tribune,
” I heard the man shout. “The tabloids will start a bidding war over these babies!”

Could a person die of embarrassment? The bastard had my breasts, Arch kissing my breasts and biting my butt, on film! This was worse than the casino incident. I shouted a victory cry when Arch tackled the man to the ground. “Pervert!” The photographer, not Arch.

Buttoning the shirt—Arch's shirt, I realized as I struggled with the too-long cuffs—I raced forward, meaning to bash that camera to smithereens if I had to. As I dived into the tussling match, I heard the
whoop-whoop
of a cruiser siren.

Somewhere in the back of my brain Beckett groaned.
Only you.

D
EPUTY
L
EECH WAS
bored out of his skull, I decided. Disturbing the peace? He had to be kidding. I'm pretty sure the birds and the bees weren't disturbed by three boneheaded humans wrestling for possession of a camera.

The photographer, Joe Kitt, worsened matters by accusing us of assault.

Arch countered with invasion of privacy, only we were in public, Deputy Leech said. He even tossed indecent exposure into the brewing pot after Kitt treated him to digital images of Arch and me stargazing.

At this point I was seriously considering posing for
Playboy.
It seemed the entire world was destined to see my perky 32Bs. Might as well cash in on my fate. And, of course, when I thought things couldn't get worse, they did. Deputy Leech hauled us down to the station. Arch had to call Beckett to intervene, and I had to call my Mom to explain why we'd be late for the barbecue.

My life was fast becoming a screwball comedy. Had I landed a part on a reality show and forgotten? I glanced around my surroundings, equating the police headquarters to the jailhouse featured on
The Andy Griffith Show.
Comparing Deputy Leech to Barney Fife and the silver-haired receptionist—the only other employee in the room—to Aunt Bea. I fidgeted under her grandmotherly appraisal.

“Just sit tight and behave yourselves,” Leech said, “while I take Mr. Kitt's statement.”

He settled behind a dinged metal desk across the room and motioned the bloody-nosed reporter into an adjacent seat.

Frowning, I scooted my chair closer to Arch. “What's he think, we're going to go at it in front of an audience?” I asked in a low voice. “It's not like we're exhibitionists.” Although I couldn't deny the naughty thrill of going at it with Arch in the middle of the day in the backseat of a car. Especially after he'd bared his heart—sort of.

“Tell me Leech is going to come up with credible data if he runs Archibald Robert Duvall, Baron of Broxley, in the computer. I'm not sure a Web site and Wikipedia would do it for the law.”

“Relax, Sunshine.” He smiled and squeezed my hand. “If he researches, he'll find proper documentation supporting my claim.”

Oh, right. The land title was registered somewhere. Being a pro, he'd probably covered his cute butt in several ways. Some legal, some…creative. Again I reflected on the phony passports and bogus credit cards he'd created for the cruise sting. No doubt he had several extensive methods for creating and substantiating aliases. Which ignited a scary thought. What if
Arch Duvall
was an alias? What if everything he'd told me about this past—not that he'd revealed much—was a lie?

Cripes.

Don't go there, Parish. Not now. You've got enough to worry about.
Like Joe Kitt. “If that rat-bastard photographer insists on pressing charges—”

“He won't. Beckett will see to it, yeah?”

On cue, the government agent strode in. He didn't look angry exactly, but he didn't look pleased. Wearing my own shirt now, I glanced down to make sure I'd buttoned up, then tucked my hair behind my ears in an attempt to look prim and proper.

Unfortunately, sans jacket and tie, cuffs rolled to mid-forearm, Arch looked as rumpled as me. Plus, since I'd worn his shirt during the tussle, it was smudged with dirt and grass stains.

Beckett looked our way and I read his thoughts.

Busted.

I clenched my teeth and felt a twinge of pain.
Chill, Evie, Chill.
The last thing I needed was for my TMJ to flare.
So Beckett knows you and Arch were screwing around. Not in town, not for show, but for your own personal pleasure. At least it's out in the open. Maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe he'll take this in stride.

He braced his hands on the desk, exchanged hushed words with Aunt Bea, then glanced over and caught my gaze.

Or not.
The man was ticked. But I sensed something else. Disappointment? Jealousy?

What if you have to choose?
Arch's question echoed in my ears, taking on broader meaning, exacerbating my jaw clenching. Between what? Arch and Chameleon? Arch and Beckett? Happily ever after or happy for now?

“Deputy Leech,” Aunt Bea called across the room. “Someone to see you.”

The cop glanced over his shoulder. “Take a seat, mister. I'll be with you when—”

“This is a matter of international diplomacy,” Beckett said, forgoing a chair and approaching Leech and Kitt.

“Who are you? Part of the baron's entourage?” The deputy stood. “We don't give special treatment to royalty in this town. Law's the law, and I've got a complaint to sort out, Mr….”

“Northbrook.” He gripped the officer's hand in greeting, eyed the smirking photographer, who'd stuffed tissues up his nostrils to stem the bleeding. “The Baron of Broxley is a title of nobility, not royalty,” he said. “Nevertheless, Duvall is a foreign dignitary who works closely with specific nonprofit charities. You can see why he'd want to protect his and his lady's reputations.”

Kitt rubbed his hands together like the maniacal Snidely Whiplash. I half expected him to twist the tissues he had stuffed up his nose into a handlebar moustache. “I'm thinking the
National Enquirer.
”

My stomach turned. I'd always wanted to be famous. But not like this. “Tie me to the railroad tracks, why don't you?” I mumbled. Talk about a train wreck.

“Don't you work for the
Greenville Tribune?
” Leech asked the guy.

Kitt patted the camera sitting on the desk. “
Tribune
can't pay me enough for these babies.”

Arch, who'd been listening quietly until now, leaned forward in his seat. “How much?”

“Forget it,
Baron.
”

“I'm sure we can come to an understanding,” said Beckett.

Just then, my mom burst in. “I want to see my daughter this instant. I—Evelyn!”

I stood and braced myself for a lecture.
Good girls don't go parking. Nice girls don't strip in public. You're over forty. What were you thinking?
I was prepared for anything.

Except the hug.

She rushed forward and grabbed me up in a rib-crushing embrace.

Arms locked at my sides, I stood stiff, shocked.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

At a loss for words, I nodded.

She stepped back, scrunched her brow. “What were you thinking?”

That was more like it, only the question had lacked bite.
Who are you and what have you done with my mother?

She turned on Arch. “What were
you
thinking? A gentleman of good breeding, for goodness' sake. The least you could do is put a ring on her finger first.”

My skin heated—a full-body blush.

“I admit to poor judgment,” Arch said, looking suitably contrite. “I tend to lose my head when I'm around your daughter, yeah?”

“Of course, no one would have been the wiser if not for the paparazzi,” she said reasonably, then narrowed her steely blue eyes. “Where is he?”

Arch and I pointed to Joe Kitt.

Red-faced, Mom steamrolled across the room.

Deputy Leech staved her off with a halting hand. “Listen here, Mrs. Parish.”

“Don't you speak to me in that tone, Ronnie Leech.”

I knew that voice. Her teacher voice.
Ronnie
had to be one of her former Math students. She'd only been retired a few years, and he looked to be in his late twenties. It added up.

While I calculated and they faced off, the door slammed open and Dad strode in with Sheriff Jaffe. I didn't know Deputy Ronnie Leech. But I knew Ben Jaffe. He'd been policing Greenville for thirty years. He and Dad were tight.

“What in the blue blazes is going on, Deputy?” Jaffe bellowed. “I take a day off and you spark an international incident.”

Leech sputtered and Jaffe extended a hand to Arch. “Sheriff Ben Jaffe. Welcome to Greenville, sir. I'm sure we can work this out.”

Before Arch could say boo, Jaffe spun off and stalked toward Leech. Mom stood next to the pinch-faced deputy, giving Joe Kitt hell.

Dad squeezed my shoulder. “You okay, little one?”

The entertainment industry might consider me over the hill, but I was still Daddy's little girl. Call me touched. Call me two seconds from a good cry. “I'm sorry for the scene. Sorry I embarrassed you.”

He waved off the apology. “Bah.”

“How did you know we were here?” Arch asked.

“Marilyn called me, up in arms about our daughter being arrested for indecent exposure.”

I groaned.

“Not arrested,” Arch said. “And your daughter's the most decent person I know.”

“You're a good man, Archibald. Need to control your urges, but a good man.” He rapped Arch on the shoulder, then focused on me. “Thought your mother would be here by now.”

“She's over there, Dad.”

“Where?”

“Lecturing that reporter. You're looking right at her.” I realized he didn't recognize her right off because he had a rear view and her hair was short and blond and she was wearing jeans and pink running shoes. Not her typical style. Also she was yelling. Mom rarely expressed her anger in words; mostly she gave you the silent treatment. But when she did speak up, she never yelled. Amazing how hurtful a person could be with calm, well-chosen words. This moment, there was nothing calm about Marilyn Parish. She wanted Joe Kitt to give up those pictures,
now!

Kitt yelled back and Dad marched toward the action. “That's my wife you're bellowing at and that's my daughter you violated, you weasel!”

“Slander!” Kitt yelled. Then he rattled off something about freedom of the press.

Mom countered with freedom of speech, in Dad's defense, and Dad cited freedom to protect one's kin.

I stared because, hey, this was just too weird. What happened to all the squashing down your feelings and not airing dirty laundry? Not that I cared. Air away!

Jaffe and Leech got in on the argument, as did Beckett, although Beckett didn't raise his voice. Once or twice he glanced our way and I felt the intensity of his displeasure. Yikes.

Arch stood beside me as cool as Danny Ocean or any one of his fictional grifting cohorts. Only Arch was the real deal. His ability to stay as loose as a goose in abnormally tense situations was astonishing. It made the moments he did lose control—like when he'd admitted he was jealous of Beckett—all the more powerful. My heart fluttered when I thought about his unspoken confession.
He loves me.
A smart woman would run for the hills. I reached out and clasped his hand.

He gave it a squeeze and smiled down at me. “We could slip out just now and no one would notice, yeah?”

“I'm not leaving without those pictures.”

“'Course not, Sunshine. Just pointing
oot
that though we are the topic of discussion we are not the center of attention.”

I, too, saw the absurdity of the situation and smiled. Six people stood across the room engaged in a shouting match. Aunt Bea watched from her reception desk as she gabbed into the phone—no doubt igniting a firestorm of gossip. Meanwhile my heart swelled and thumped. Though the room surged with frustration, I was feelin' the love. From Arch. And most surprisingly from my parents. They'd not only rushed to my rescue, they were also fighting for my honor. Me, Evie Parish, the black sheep of the family.

I choked back tears. This was a first. This whole day was a first, stocked with surprises. I barely flinched when Smith, the reporter who'd interviewed Arch at the dance studio, and another man—rotund and chomping on a cigar—charged through the front door.

“Those pictures are the property of the
Tribune!
” Cigar Man shouted as he jumped into the angry swarm.

“Our chief editor,” Smith explained as he approached, pad and pen in hand. He zeroed in on me. “This seems to be a running theme with you, Ms. Parish.”

I blinked.

“I understand you've been banned from performing on the casino stages because you flashed your, uh, bosoms during an audition. Care to elaborate?”

“She does not.” Arch grasped the man by the elbow and steered him away from me, and suddenly there were two heated discussions in progress.

I stood away from the action, dazed. One episode of righteous insanity almost a month ago had turned my world inside out and led me to this bizarre moment. Though I really didn't want to see seminude photos of me on the cover of a tabloid, I couldn't dredge up an iota of regret.