Everybody Loves Evie (6 page)

“He isn't available.”

“We have an appointment.”

“He had a conflict. He asked me to get you started. He'll be down later.”

So the offices
were
upstairs.

Pops waved over one of the barflies, an Antonio Banderas look-alike sporting a slicked-back ponytail and a thousand-watt smile. “This is Tabasco. He'll be accompanying you.”

“Accompanying me where?”

On the flight home from the islands, Beckett had mentioned key members of Chameleon, describing Jimmy Tabasco as a transportation specialist, so I was surprised when Zorro dude grinned and replied, “On the guitar.”

“Sorry?”

“I'm not a professional like you, but I have a good ear and can read chord charts.”

“We don't have a stage,” Pops said. “But we made space over there beside the jukebox. Tabasco appropriated a small speaker system and a microphone.”

Appropriated?

“I set up a Shure 58 for you, hon, but if you prefer to use your own mic—”

“Evie,” I said. What was it with these guys and sweetie-pie nicknames? “And I'm sorry, but…why do I need a microphone?”

“You want to sing acoustically?” He scratched his jaw, shrugged. “Twinkie and Tabasco Unplugged. Works for me. How about you Pops?”

“Fine.”

“Not fine,” I croaked, a hint of hysteria in my voice. “There's been a misunderstanding. Beckett didn't hire me to sing.”

“He did,” Pops said. “Wednesdays through Sundays.”

“That gives us two days to rehearse,” Tabasco said. “Although maybe we should skip today. You don't sound so good.”

“I'm fine.” I sneezed into a cocktail napkin. “Just confused. Beckett hired me to…He said I could…”

Both men raised their eyebrows, waiting for me to elaborate. Only I realized Milo Beckett had never specifically stated my job responsibilities.

No, no, no. My luck couldn't be
this
bad. Today was supposed to be the first day of my new life. A step forward, not back. I wanted to be Evie the Chameleon, not Evie the lounge lizard!

Tabasco glanced at Pops, then back at me. “I brought along
The Real Book,
in case you didn't bring your own charts. Do you know your keys?”

My heart roared in my ears. Maybe I was still asleep, still dreaming. Maybe this was a result of mind-bending jet lag. “I'm a chick singer,” I said deadpan. “Of course I don't know my own keys.”

Tabasco chuckled at the inside joke.

“Besides,
The Real Book
is useless since I don't sing standards.”

“Only kind of music Jazzman allows,” Pops said.

I palmed my damp, pounding forehead. “Who's Jazzman?”

“Milo Beckett.” Tabasco motioned to Pops to pour me another drink. “Maybe you should have another shot, hon. You look pale.”

“Maybe I should.” Jayne had bought me that herbal medicine, and, like a cosmic ring she'd once given me, it was a clunker. Maybe I could kill the germs with alcohol and at the same time bolster myself for a confrontation with Beckett. I threw back the whiskey and only choked and hacked half as long the second time around. “How do I get upstairs?”

Tabasco shook his head. “I don't think—”

“Let her go,” Pops said. He pointed to a door marked Private. “Through there and up the stairs. When you reach the end of the line, knock.”

“You might want to button your jacket, babe.”

I ignored Tabasco's advice and strode toward the marked door. I'd be damned if I'd gussy up for Beckett. He'd tricked me, conned me. What I wanted to know was why.

B
Y THE TIME
I
HIT THE
top landing I was primed for a fight. Whatever truce Beckett and I had silently agreed to in the islands had shattered along with my
Charlie's Angel
fantasy. An image of that cocky SOB Tex Aloha exploded in my brain along with every other man who'd ever tripped up my dreams. If he thought I was going to roll over and take this news like good ole roll-with-the punches Evie Parish, he was wrong with a capital
W.

“I've changed with a capital
C!
”

Hopped up on righteousness, I banged on the door with my umbrella, then charged ahead expecting a spacious loft. Stark white walls. Stainless steel desks. Men in black tinkering with superspy gadgets. Instead I stepped into a compact living area reminiscent of Sam Spade's apartment in
The Maltese Falcon.
My gaze skimmed over the padded rocking chair, leather sofa, wooden bookcase and spindle-legged desk—all circa 1940—and landed on the scarred wood molding framing the nearest window. Was that a bullet hole?

“Can I help you?”

I whirled, envisioning a hard-boiled dick in a dark suit brandishing a revolver, and slammed into a hardheaded dick in a towel holding a bottle of aftershave.

I bounced off Milo Beckett's bare chest with an
oomph.

“Damn, Twinkie, you're soaked.”

“Yes, well, that's what happens when you get caught in a rainstorm with a cheap-ass umbrella!” The flutter of embarrassment I'd felt interrupting his postshower primping evaporated with that cream-puff innuendo. I didn't give two figs that he was half-naked, nor did I allow my female appreciation of his very male essence to distract me from my mission. “I have a bone to pick with you!”

“Could it wait until I'm dressed?”

“No. First of all, my name is Evie. Twinkie is…degrading.”

“Barging into my apartment without invitation is rude.”

“I knocked.”

“You pounded.”

“
You
lied.” Maybe not the best thing to say to your new boss on the first day, but I was steamed and fueled by two shots of whiskey.

“If this is about your position with Chameleon, you might want to rephrase that last statement.”

He was right. I knew it and he knew it. Damn. Rattled, I drew on the film-noir atmosphere and channeled Sam Spade. “People lose teeth talking like that,” I drawled in my best Bogie impersonation. “If you want to hang around, you'll be polite.”

He looked at me as if I'd grown a second nose. If he were Arch, he would've come back with,
“The Maltese Falcon.
1941.” The sexy Scot could quote as many movies as me, maybe more.

Beckett leaned forward and sniffed. “You've been drinking.”

“Pops said whiskey would take off the chill.” Yeah, boy, ain't that the truth. I was burning up.

“I'll fix you some coffee.”

“I'm not drunk, Beckett. I'm mad. At you.”

“Got that when you barged in,
Twinkie.
” He tossed the capped aftershave onto a worn leather ottoman and readjusted the towel that rode dangerously low on his hips.

I dropped my umbrella and purse on the hardwood floor, peeled off my cold, wet jacket and chucked that, too.

We stared each other down for what felt like an hour and probably amounted to three seconds. Absurdly, it felt like a game of chicken. I refused to buckle first, but when his gaze slid down my body, lingering on my chest, I panicked. Was he thinking about the time he'd seen me topless? “You misled me,” I said, inwardly cursing him a pig. At the same time, my own traitorous gaze raked over his lean, mean form. What was it about a man in a towel and the smell of deodorant soap and woodsy cologne?

“I didn't do anything except agree to a trial run.”

Startled, I glanced back up and found him watching me with a knowing smirk. He thought I was checking him out, which I sort of was.
Busted.
Could this day get any worse? “But you knew what I was thinking. I mean, that day, when I asked you for a job.”

“I did.”

“So?”

“You thought wrong.”

I stamped my foot in frustration. He talked in circles, just like…

Oh, no. “Arch put you up to this, didn't he?” I whirled and paced, my mind tripping over rapid-fire thoughts. “I knew he wasn't happy about me grifting for you, with him, but I didn't think he'd go behind my back and…” I sneezed.

“Bless you.”

“Thank you. I didn't think he'd sabotage my future,” I ranted without missing a beat. “He knew how important this was to me. I've been studying and practicing and…I even stole, I mean distracted…
dammit!
” I stopped in my tracks, tongue-tied with a zillion curses. All of them directed at Arch Duvall. “No wonder he didn't call me back. He's avoiding me. He…” I faltered, realizing I'd just shot myself in the foot.

“Looks like you weren't the only one who was misled.”

I could feel myself blushing from bleached hair follicles to painted pink toenails. My skin actually sizzled. “Okay. I might have been a little less than truthful back on the island when I intimated there was nothing between Arch and me other than friendship.”

Beckett raised a brow. “Really?”

His sarcasm grated big-time. I planted my hands on my hips, straightened my spine. If I could stand up to several marketing and entertainment executives, I could handle one arrogant Fed. “I slept with Arch. We had a fling. There. I admitted it. Are you happy now?”

“Did you get him out of your system?”

My skin prickled with a nervous rash. But I didn't scratch. That would be what Arch called a “tell.” I nodded and delivered a firm, “Yes.”

“Until you get better at lying, I'm not putting you in the field.”

How did he know? I didn't
scratch!
Furious, I stalked closer. “Now, just a minute. I—”

“Watch out, sir! She's dangerous!”

I turned at the familiar voice. Smelly Bearded Boy, but without the ratty trench coat. He stood on the threshold of another door, holding a stack of manila envelopes. What the…?

“I tried to help her and she threatened me. She…she…” He stammered and stared. At my
chest!

“You,” Beckett said, pointing a finger at Bearded Boy, “go and fetch Evie something to wear from wardrobe.”

The kid's eyes widened at the sound of my name. “She's—”

“If you call me Twinkie, so help me—”

“Go,” Beckett ordered.

Bearded Boy, who I guess worked for the club, scrammed down a back set of stairs. I'm not sure who he feared more, me or Beckett.

“You,” he said, grasping my shoulders and steering me into his bathroom, “get out of those wet clothes and into a hot shower. You're hoarse. You're sneezing. I'll be damned if I'll have a team member keel over from pneumonia.” He gave me a shove and shut me in. “I'll get dressed and make you some tea and honey,” he said through the door. “When you come out, we'll discuss this rationally.”

I stood, stunned, listening as another door slammed. He'd just called me a team member. Maybe I'd misunderstood. Maybe the singing gig was a cover. Or just temporary.

Until you get better at lying, I'm not putting you in the field.

There was hope. I performed a happy jig. At the same time I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the vanity mirror and froze. My thin white blouse was drenched and transparent. So was my sheer bra. Unbelievable.

In addition to Beckett, now Pops, Tabasco and Bearded Boy had all gotten a primo look at my boobs.

M
ILO JAMMED HIS LEGS
into a pair of jeans and pulled on a clean T-shirt. He raided his top drawer. “Why is it I can never find a damn pair of matching socks?” He pulled on one blue, one black, and shoved his feet into a pair of brown Skechers.

A day that had started off bad just tanked. If Vincent Crowe hadn't phoned at six-fricking-o'clock this morning, ordering him to the Philadelphia office for a rundown on a fricking politician's
personal
crisis, he wouldn't have been racing to get back to the club for his meeting with Evie. He wouldn't have blown out a tire and gotten caught in a downpour changing that flat and chasing a fricking renegade lug nut down the muddy embankment. He wouldn't have had to shower and change, ultimately getting caught with his pants down, not to mention his guard.

A drenched and tipsy Evie stoked dangerous feelings, making Milo edgy. Make that edgi
er.

His muscles bunched as he tied his shoelaces and waited for the sound of groaning pipes, the rhythmic blast of his shower massage. He imagined Twinkie naked. Standing in his claw-footed tub, hot water racing over her hot curves. Strategically aimed shower pulsations urging her to let go.

“Christ.” Managing his fascination had been easier when she wasn't around.

He straightened and adjusted himself. He conjured thoughts of Sister Rosa, his fifth-grade Catholic schoolteacher with the pop-bottle glasses and hooked nose. After a two-second appearance, the finger-wagging nun morphed into a gyrating babe. Not his fault. He'd been treated to a personalized version of a wet T-shirt contest. Another vision to haunt his dreams. Evie in a clingy, see-through shirt. Instead of alerting her to her sexy state, he'd tried his damnedest to ignore it. He didn't want to embarrass her on top of pissing her off. Between the pacing and her heated mood, the thin blouse would quickly dry. She'd be none the wiser.

Enter Woody.

He couldn't blame the kid for staring. Before making a concerted effort to avert his own gaze, Milo had copped a look, too. What hetero man wouldn't? But Woody had been two seconds from outing Evie's visible nipples. Hence plan B: getting her out of the room and out of those clothes.

The only thing better would be getting her into his bed. But that wasn't going to happen. Even if he ignored his own policy against mixing business and pleasure, even if he acted out of character, poured on the charm and seduced a friend and associate's woman, nothing would come of it. Twinkie was a good girl. Until she got over her infatuation with Arch, she'd be true to the man, even though that man would never commit to a long-term relationship.

Better to practice restraint. One of three things would happen: either his infatuation with Evie would fizzle or Evie's infatuation with Arch would fizzle or Arch would expose himself as amoral, scaring Evie off and into the arms of the better man. And Milo believed wholeheartedly and without arrogance that he was, in this instance, the better man.

“I can't believe I'm having these thoughts.”

Evie's mentality closely resembled that of his ex-wife's. The dreamer and the realist, a recipe for disaster. A smart man would learn from his mistakes. Unfortunately, every time Evie entered his personal space, Milo's IQ dropped.

He heard sneezing and mumbling through the paper-thin walls. He imagined his new employee peeling off layers—damn—and decided to dump some grief on the man who'd dumped her into his life in the first place.

Arch answered on the second ring. “Navigating rush-hour traffic, mate.”

“Navigating some prickly territory myself.”

“Burst Evie's bubble, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“She wanted to tackle crooks and you've got her typing reports.”

“No typing.”

“Waiting tables?”

“Singing.”

“What, like a singing bartender?”

“No. Like a lounge performer.”

Arch whistled low. “No wonder she's pissed.”

“I hired her to do what she does, what she's good at.”

“She doesn't want to go back.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means she wants to break with the past. Offering her a job as a singer in a low-class pub sets her back
aboot
twenty years, yeah?”

Milo knew about the need to move on. Like Evie, he'd recently survived a divorce. He'd also suffered his share of professional growing pains. This morning's confrontation with Crowe had elevated his craving to cut ties with the Agency. He'd gotten into this line of work to help the common masses, not the privileged few.

Prevented from doing what you're compelled to do by the man who signs the checks. Milo could imagine Evie's misery and he empathized. But not enough to put her in the field when she lacked the fortitude and training.

“She thinks you asked me to pull her out of the game,” Milo said. “Thinks you didn't approve of her being an active player.”

“I
dinnae,
” Arch said.

“But the singing position was my idea.”

The Scot held silent for a moment. Milo heard an eighties dance tune in the background—Culture Club?—and the blaring horn of an irate driver. “
Dinnae
correct her misassumption,” Arch finally said.

“You
want
her to be mad at you?”

“It would be better if she thought less of me, aye.”

“Hell,” Milo said with a short laugh, “all she had to do was ask for a copy of your personnel file.” Not that he would have turned it over. He had strict views on confidentiality. Still, he wasn't above taunting the man who'd made his life hell when they'd been on opposite sides of the law. “Did you come clean and tell her you had an affair with Gina?”

“Why bring up a dead issue?”

“Because if you're looking to cool Evie's jets, that would do it.” Someone pounded on the door. “Hold on.” Milo opened up expecting Woody with an armful of dry clothes. Instead Evie stood on the threshold, a dry towel wrapped around her upper body. Which would have been sexy had she taken off her clothes first.

“Here's the thing,” she said, “I can't get naked in your apartment.”

“Bloody hell,” Arch said in Milo's ear. “What the—”

“I'll call you back.” He disconnected, shoved the phone in his back pocket. “If you're worried about someone walking in on you, lock the door.”

“It's not that.”

“Then what?”

“I don't know you well enough.”

“You didn't know Arch at all and you used his shower. Hell, you slept in his suite.”

“That was different. I was working for him.”

“You're working for me now.”

“We were posing as a married couple.” She sneezed into a wad of toilet paper and leaned into the doorjamb for support.

“You'll be posing as a hospital patient if you don't get into dry clothes.”

Just then, Woody blew in, two hangers dangling from his fingertips. A nurse's uniform and a nun's habit.

Milo's ass vibrated. He ignored the incoming call, frowned at Woody. “You're joking.”

“All of the women's clothes are in Hot Legs's size,” he said.

“Who's Hot Legs?” asked Evie.

“Gina,” Milo said. His primary female operator. Arch's previous conquest. The woman who'd put Evie through the wringer on that cruise. Those two had clashed like a pit bull and a poodle. Hell would freeze over before Twinkie would wear anything worn by Gina “Hot Legs” Valente.

“She's taller and thinner than you,” Woody said, “so I figured anything with pants was out. These are sort of shapeless, so—”

“I'll risk pneumonia,” Evie said with a tight smile. “Thanks all the same.”

Woody looked clueless and Milo had to bite his tongue.
No wonder your girlfriend left you.
He may as well have called Evie short and dumpy. From her pinched expression, that's exactly what she'd heard. Women had an uncanny way of twisting a man's words when it came to their appearance. He'd learned long ago that when a lady friend asks,
Does this make my ass look big?
the safest answer is a simple no.

“You don't look so good, ma'am,” Woody said, digging a deeper hole. But he was right. She was flushed, perspiring and shaky on her feet.

“Yeah, well, you don't smell so good.”

Woody, who'd been trying to win back his girlfriend by changing everything from his wardrobe to his brand of toothpaste, looked crushed. “You don't like my cologne?”

“How to put this kindly?” she said with a notable slur. “No.”

Milo studied her hard. “How many shots did Pops give you?”

“One,” she said, holding up two fingers.

Woody whistled. “Oh, man. She's—”

Milo cut him off before he could say
crocked.
Knowing his caretaker/bartender he wouldn't have knowingly poured more than this half-pint could handle. Obviously she had no tolerance. “Nix the clothes,” he said to Woody. “Tell Tabasco rehearsal's canceled. Our star's under the weather.”

“Don't tell him that!” she cried. “It makes me sound like a diva. As long as I have a voice, I can sing.”

“But you're hoarse,” said Milo. And looped.

“So I'll sound like Janis Joplin.”

“Did Joplin sing jazz?” Woody asked.

“No, and neither do I.”

“Actually,” Milo said, “she recorded a rendition of ‘Summertime.'”

“Oh, right. Joplin did do Gershwin.” She snorted. “Not literally, of course. Regardless, jazz is not in my repertoire.”

“Only kind of music Agent Beckett allows,” Woody said.

She crinkled her nose and Milo smiled. “My club. My rules.”

“Dictating the artist's song list,” she grumbled, then sneezed. “I already feel at home.”

Bitterness laced her tone and stabbed at Milo's conscience. Again the phone vibrated, and he thought about what Arch had said about her wanting to ditch her old life. Thing was, he'd seen her perform—singing, dancing, acting. She possessed charisma and talent.
What's pushing you to abandon your God-given gifts, Evie?
He hated that he cared. “So you're willing to work as the club's house singer?”

“As long as I don't have to sign a contract. I'm agent-free—or is that a free agent? Whatever. I'm acting on my own behalf and I am a man of my word.”

Milo bit back a smile, thinking she was cute when loopy. “Fine by me.” He'd utilized Michael Stone's services once. After meeting Evie and learning how he'd screwed her over, he liked the smooth-talking bastard even less.

“What should I tell Tabasco?” Woody asked, eyeing Evie, then Milo.

Evie spoke first. “Do you have a clothes dryer in this joint?”

Woody nodded. “In the basement.”

“Tell him I'll be down in twenty minutes.”

Milo guesstimated she'd be down for the count in ten, but he jumped on the chance to get her out of those wet clothes. “I can loan you some jogging pants and a sweatshirt while you wait.”

She nabbed the nurse's uniform from Woody. “This will do. Thanks.” She weaved into the bathroom.

Woody escaped down the stairs.

Two doors slammed shut and Milo's ass vibrated. “What?” he barked into the cell.

“
Dinnae
bite my head off. You're the one who hung up on me, yeah?”

Arch sounded calm—but then, he always sounded calm. Milo knew him well enough to know he was agitated. He pushed, hoping to confirm or negate suspicions that Arch had fallen head over heels. “Something came up.”

“That why you're trying to get Evie
oot
of her knickers?”

“Jealous?”

“Concerned.”

“Not much of a difference.”

“Enough of a difference.”

Just then, the topic of discussion stepped out of the bathroom looking like Nurse Goodbody. Milo's mouth went dry.

“Still there, mate?”

“Uh-huh.”

Not looking at him, she tugged up the plunging neckline. “Where'd you get this nurse's uniform anyway?” she slurred. “Frederick's of Hollywood? Maybe I should have opted for your shirt, Beckett. It would've covered more.”

“What the—”

“Call you back.” Milo snapped the phone shut. He imagined Arch scrambling to book the next flight back to the States. Wasn't sure how he felt about that. Yesterday he'd been bent on guarding their partnership. Today he considered the possibility that he'd learned all that he could from the grifter. Maybe it was time to break off with Arch
and
the Agency, strike out on his own. It would certainly make life simpler.