Everybody Loves Evie

I hadn’t witnessed the actual shooting because I’d been disoriented, then knocked out, but Arch had claimed self-defense. I believed him. Beckett believed him. Then again, the agent had advised Arch to disappear and lie low while he smoothed things over with the AIA.

I’d assumed the smoothing over had more to do with Arch and Beckett acting outside of agency jurisdiction than with the actual shooting. After all, it had been, as they say in the movies, a clean kill.

So I’d been told.

Ugly thoughts riddled my brain, causing my neck to prickle with a nervous rash. “I can see you two have some catching up to do. Besides, I need to use the ladies’ room. Excuse me.” I stepped into the hall, desperate to purge my escalating suspicions.

“Think she’s embarrassed, son,” I heard Marvin say behind me. “Can’t blame her. What are you now? Thirty-four?”

“Thirty-five.”

“A bit old to be snogging in a closet. If you didn’t want to take her to Bernard’s place, you could’ve …”

The door clicked shut. Even though I could no longer hear them, the conversation clanged in my head, especially that part about Arch’s age. “Bastard.”

Anger propelled me down the hall. I made it halfway up a set of stairs before Arch snagged my arm. “The privy’s in the opposite direction, yeah?”

“I’m not going to the privy.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“That’s not oot. That’s up.”

“Then I’m going up. Please let go.” I slipped his grasp and continued on.

“You’re pissed.”

“You lied to me.”

“Aboot?”

“About your age.”

“For fuck sake, Sunshine.”

I hit a landing and pushed through a door. I really wanted to hit and push Arch, but I wasn’t the violent type and I’d just walked into a populated gallery. Good girls don’t cause scenes. And neither do Chameleons in training. Blend, Evie, blend. I pretended interest in a painting. I pretended to be calm. “You told me you were thirty-nine.”

“I told you what you wanted to hear.”

“I wouldn’t have slept with you if I’d known you were six years younger than me.”

“Aye, you would have,” he said with damnable confidence. “You just would have obsessed on it afterward.”

We’d had this conversation before. It was part of my personal crisis. He didn’t understand my preoccupation with my age. Then again, he wasn’t an over-forty female trying to survive in a youth-obsessed industry. These days when auditioning performers, ninety-eight percent of the entertainment executives focused on youth and beauty. Talent wasn’t a requisite as much as a bonus. Michael, my ex, had told me that himself, and, as an agent who booked performers for buyers, he would know. To add injury to insult, after fifteen years of blissful—okay, amiable—marriage, he’d dumped me for a twentysomething lingerie model. So, yeah, I had a big flipping chip on my shoulder regarding age.

I hadn’t given that obsession much thought over the past two weeks. Not being in Atlantic City and losing gigs to girls half my age and with a quarter of my experience helped. Not being around Michael and his young squeeze helped. Having sex with a charismatic hunk and learning the ins and outs of an exciting new career worked miracles.

Now the anxiety that had ruled my life pre-Arch was back. My jaw ached—remnants of TMJ. My skin itched—a nervous rash. Rejection had one-two punched my self-esteem. “I don’t want to go back.” I turned away from the paintings, pinpointed the nearest exit sign.

“I said goodbye to Marvin.”

“I’m not talking about the closet.” And I didn’t want to talk about Marvin. I didn’t want to know the connection between an art-museum janitor and an art forger. I didn’t want to know who the collective “we” was and how they’d known Arch would seek justice. Mostly because Marvin made justice sound like revenge. I didn’t want to know why Arch should be leery of Scotland Yard. Although, given his shady past, there were probably dozens of reasons. I didn’t want to know about any of that because I feared the truth was more than my squeaky-clean morals could handle.

Bottom line—I wasn’t okay with what Arch and his grandfather used to do. I wasn’t okay with his past, because his past was full of deceit. I’d fallen for the new Arch. The man who used his intelligence and experience to bring down the bad guys. After meeting Marvin, I wasn’t sure that Arch had forfeited his old lifestyle. Obviously he hadn’t cut ties with old cronies. Not that I intended to kiss off my entertainment friends when I started with Chameleon. I couldn’t imagine life without my best buds. Then again, Nicole and Jayne weren’t criminals.

“Keep clenching your teeth like that,” Arch said, “and your jaw’s going to lock.”

I hoped not, but it was possible. It had happened before, and he’d witnessed an episode firsthand. TMJ was stress-related. I needed to relax. “I’m fine,” I said, even as I felt a twinge of pain. Chill, Evie, chill.

“You said you didn’t want to go back,” he said as we breached the main doors. “Back where?”

“To where I was. What I was.”

He lit a cigarette—amazing how he made a nasty habit look sexy—and walked beside me in silence as I headed toward Leicester Square. Probably trying to get a bead on my mind-set. Welcome to the club.

Though it was early spring, there was a blustery nip in the air. At least it wasn’t raining. Although it was damp and gray. All I needed to augment my dismal mood was a blanket of London’s famous fog. Hands stuffed in my coat pockets, I breezed past the discount ticket booth and cut through the heart of the theater district. I saw the play and movie marquees, heard music from a nearby dance club. I imagined countless singers, musicians, actors and dancers warming up for a night’s performance. My old life. My stomach spasmed just thinking about my washed-up career. “I have to move on.”

“You need to slow down and talk plainly, yeah?” He nabbed my elbow and pulled me onto a park bench.

I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. “This isn’t going to work.”

“What?”

“Us.”

He blew out a stream of smoke. “Because I’m a few years younger than you?”

“Six years younger. And, no, that’s not the reason, though it doesn’t help.”

“Because I lied aboot my age?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I could name a million reasons.”

He crushed out the cigarette. “Name one.”

“Milo Beckett hired me.”

No reaction.

“I’m going to work full-time for Chameleon.”

He looked at me, expressionless.

He was good at that, not telegraphing his thoughts and emotions. Still … “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Yeah?”

“You think I’m not cut out for it. That I’m too nice.”

“There is that.”

“I’m capable of fighting my nature. I’m capable of change. I have changed.”

“You’d never survive in my world, Evie. You feel too deeply.”

“What world are we talking about, Ace? Your old world or your new world?”

“One and the same, yeah?”

“No. Smoke and mirrors. Confidence games. I get that similarity. What I don’t get is your inability to differentiate between conning innocent people and conning people who prey on the innocent. Your past grifts were for personal gain at someone else’s expense. Chameleon grifts are for the greater good.”

“You can’t cheat an honest man, and I never conned anyone who couldn’t afford the loss.”

He didn’t sound or look angry, but my internal radar blipped. I’m pretty sure I’d just insulted him. There was always a calm before Arch’s storm. “The difference between a scam artist and a scum artist, huh?”

“Aye.”

Night and day to him. Bad versus evil to me. He was right. I’d never cut it as an honest-to-gosh grifter. Guilt would eat me alive or land me in jail. But those same morals, coupled with my artistic nature, told me I was a born Chameleon. They conned cons. Entrapped sociopaths through elaborate and sometimes not-so-elaborate schemes. Smoke and mirrors. Deceiving for the greater good. I wouldn’t feel guilty about duping scum artists. I’d feel like a superhero.

“After a devastating divorce and a year of celibacy, I’ve rediscovered passion, thanks to you. Now I need purpose. A new goal—because I’m not going to invest in plastic surgery, BOTOX injections and a lifetime supply of diet pills just so I can perform in the casinos.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I’m a decent singer and dancer and a damn good actress.”

“Absolutely.”

“Those acting skills, along with my excellent memory and a talent for sleight of hand make me perfect for Chameleon. I can tap dance with the best of them. All I need is to learn the steps. You’ve been teaching me the basics. You’ve seen me in action. You know I can do this.”

Looking up at the darkening sky, he dragged both hands over his head and laughed low. “Bloody hell.”

“What?”

“All this week I thought I was educating you so that you wouldnae fall prey to another scam.”

This wasn’t news to me. While sightseeing on St. Thomas, I’d fallen for a street hustle. As a result, Arch had designated himself my mentor. In a world where a sucker is born every minute, he’d declared me a grifter’s dream. Gullible and trusting. Easily persuaded and deceived. If I learned how the grifts work, I’d spot them coming a mile away.

“In truth, I gave you a crash course so that you could impress Beckett when you reported for your first day.” He angled and regarded me with an amused expression. “You snowed me, Sunshine.”

“You think I manipulated you?”

“Didn’t you?”

My stomach clenched.

“When did Beckett hire you?”

“The day I woke up in the hospital.”

“Ten days ago. Yet I’m just hearing aboot it.”

I wet my lips, scratched my neck. “I tried to tell you at the airport, before we all flew out of La Romana. You cut me off and …” I blew out a breath. “I was going to tell you first thing when you picked me up at Heathrow, but you distracted me and …”

“Yeah?”

“Well, the days just sort of whizzed by and the right moment never …”

“Uh-huh. You didnae tell me Beckett hired you because you were afraid I wouldnae approve. You worried I’d stop teaching you the basics, yeah?”

“No.”

He stilled my nervous scratching.

“Maybe.” My brain acknowledged the ugly truth. “Oh, God, Arch. I used you.”

“Dinnae look so stricken, love. I’m impressed.”

“I manipulated you.”

“I didnae feel a thing. Either I’m slipping or you’re gifted. A bit of both, I imagine.” He clasped my hand and skimmed his thumb over my knuckles. “Beckett has a brilliant eye for talent. He’s also obsessed with his work. If he hired you, it’s because he believes you’re a valuable asset to the team.”

My heart pounded. I wasn’t sure if it was because of Arch’s touch or Beckett’s belief. Probably both. “What do you think?”

His mouth quirked. “I think you’ve changed.”

I took that as a compliment. Three weeks ago, my self-esteem had been at an all time low, but instead of sticking my head in the sand, I’d taken a walk on the wild side. For the first time in years I felt genuinely motivated and happy. Well, except for now. Just now I felt ill. “I hope you don’t think I slept with you just to learn your secrets.”

“You slept with me because you wanted me, yeah?”

I rolled my eyes, but it was true. “Please don’t make me say it out loud. Your ego is scary big enough.”

He smiled, that ornery smile that made the back of my knees sweat. Great. “You once said that mixing business with pleasure is messy.”

“Aye.”

“Beckett said the same thing.”

“He would.” The grin broadened. “So you’re breaking off with me, yeah?”

“We’d have to be in a relationship to break up. You don’t do relationships, remember?”

“That bang-on memory of yours is going to bite me in the arse one day.”

I forced a smile of my own. “Maybe it’ll save your ass.”

He laughed. “Maybe.”

I marveled at my sudden calm. Another talent of Arch’s: obliterating my frustrations. “So you’re okay with me working for Chameleon?”

“Not my call, Sunshine.”

I frowned. “You’re not okay with it.”

“I’m okay with you.”

The man talked in circles, but I was used to it. So had my ex. “What about the not-having-sex part?”

“Are you sure you’re not breaking off with me? That sounded a wee bit like the ‘can we still be friends’ speech, yeah?” He squeezed my hand and smiled. “We don’t have to shag to get on.”

I scrunched my brow. “The least you could do is sound disappointed.”

“Didnae say I wouldnae miss it.” He kissed me then. Slow. Deep.

Heat spiraled through my system. I dug to the center of my soul not to feel anything other than lust. Lust I could manage. Anything deeper was dangerous. Loving a man like Arch was insane. First, he was too young for me. Second, what if he’d plotted to kill Simon the Fish from the get-go? Third, he’d once told me I couldn’t believe anything he said. One way or another, the man would mangle my heart.

He eased away, and my heart thump-thumped at the teasing sparkle in his eye. “So how do you want to spend your last night in London, friend?”

Sweaty-kneed, I gave him a come-hither grin. “I haven’t officially started with Chameleon.”

He nipped my earlobe. “I’ll race you back to the flat. First one to get naked gets to be on top.”

CHAPTER THREE

Atlantic City, New Jersey

SHE LOOKED LIKE MEG Ryan, only shorter and softer. Blue eyes, full lips and pair of killer legs. She ran toward him singing a Joni Mitchell classic. “Help me! I think I’m falling …”

Her voice jumped an octave, a feminine squeal, as she tripped and plowed into his open arms. They landed on the beach, rolled around in the sand and surf. “From Here to Eternity,” she said in her little-girl voice. She was obsessed with Hollywood. A real fruitcake. Twinkie, he called her, because she was so damn sweet. He shouldn’t do sweet, but he wanted to do her.

“Help me,” she sang in his ear.

“I’ll save you,” he said.

“My hero.” She flashed her dazzling smile and breasts.

He reached for those perfect 32Bs, but an alarm stopped him cold. No, not an alarm. A phone. What was a phone doing on the beach? “If this is a dream, please don’t let me …”

Milo Beckett woke up reaching for thin air. “Dammit.” He squinted at the digital clock, cursed again. Not bothering to turn on a light, he palmed his cell phone and fell back against his pillows. “Beckett here. What’s up?”

“Are you mental?”

“I’m sleep-deprived. It’s 3:00 a.m., Arch. This better be good.”

“She’s not like us.”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

“Ah.” Evie Parish. The woman of his fractured fantasy.

“Why didnae you tell me you hired her?”

“Figured you had enough on your mind. The shooting. Dodging Scotland Yard.”

“Haven’t given the shooting a second thought, mate.”

“That because it was a straight-up accident? Or because he deserved to die?”

“Let’s just say the world’s better off, yeah?”

“Skirting the issue.”

“Speaking of skirts, what’s the deal with Evie?”

Milo reflected on the half-pint fireball awakening in the island hospital. How she’d asked after everyone’s welfare, never complaining about her own injury. He remembered her passionate argument regarding her qualifications and the spark of desperation in her deep blue eyes. He remembered how she made him feel every time they were in the same room—alive, amused and, dammit, randy. “She wanted to work for Chameleon,” he said. “I agreed to give her a shot. I didn’t specify the job.” Arch didn’t comment, but Milo heard relief in the significant pause. “Unlike you,” he continued, “I wouldn’t put an untrained civilian in the field.”

“Aye, except she’s not a novice anymore.”

“One sting does not make—”

“I taught her a few short cons, yeah?”

Milo pressed a thumb and forefinger to his closed lids. The throbbing behind his eyeballs promised to intensify within the next thirty seconds or however long it took his partner to explain his asinine actions. “Why?”

“Because she’s gullible and someone needed to open her eyes to the real world.”

“Huh.”

“Stop projecting, Jazzman.”

“Who’s projecting? One minute she’s anxious to start her new job, the next she remembers she booked a vacation. To England, no less. I assumed it was your doing, but I didn’t pry. Figured you had unfinished business.”

“Figured I owed her after dragging her into that land-investment mess. So I treated her to a holiday. So what?”

“So is it finished?”

“Aye.”

“Good. Because mixing business with pleasure—”

“Messy. I know.”

“Look what happened with Gina,” Milo said. An ex-cop, Gina Valente was a valuable member of the team, and they’d almost lost her because of Arch’s fickle dick. Thwarting company policy, they’d had a short fling. Shorter than what Gina would’ve liked.

“She still pissed?”

“I think her exact words were I’m over that amoral prick.”

“All’s well that ends wonky. Nice to know.”

Milo rolled to his side and felt his nightstand for the ever-present bottle of pain relievers. “When are you coming back?”

“Depends. We clear with the Agency?”

“Yes and no.”

“Meaning?”

“Chameleon’s on sabbatical until the new director re-evaluates our purpose.”

“You’ve got a new boss?”

“We’ve got a new boss. Vincent Crowe. Company man.”

“Hard-ass?”

“You got it.” He popped two aspirin and swallowed them dry.

“You dinnae sound happy, mate.”

Try miserable. Even before Crowe had been appointed, the Agency had started mangling Milo’s vision for Chameleon by inundating the team with cases pertaining to high-profile scams. Scams that target the select upper crust, as opposed to those that ruin lives of the blue-collar majority. Given his dealings with the new director thus far, he feared his vision was one step closer to history. “Maybe Evie could sing me a song. Cheer me up. Where is she, anyway?”

“Just put her on a plane. She’s on her way home. Be warned, she’s over the moon aboot her job with Chameleon. Has illusions aboot saving the world. Reminds me of you, yeah?”

“I don’t want to save the world, Arch. Just a naive few.”

“People like Evie.”

Milo didn’t comment.

“I’ve seen the way you look at her, mate. Remember what you told me aboot mixing business with pleasure.”

“That a warning?”

“Just an observation.”

The exchange reignited Milo’s previous suspicions that Arch had fallen in love. Dangerous territory for a man who valued emotional detachment. Never attach yourself to anyone you can’t walk away from in a split second. “You sound jealous. Just an observation.”

“Bugger off.”

“Fuck you.”

“Beckett?”

“Yeah?”

“Try a glass of warm milk. And dinnae worry aboot Crowe.”

“Thanks.” Milo disconnected and fell back against his pillows. His relationship with Arch was complicated. Onetime rivals, they now danced the same dance. Partners in anticrime. Arch occasionally slipped into old routines, solo. His last performance had earned Milo an ass chewing from Crowe. It had also pulled Evie Parish, a sexy variety performer, into their lives. As if he needed another complication coming between him and his professional goals.

He massaged his temples, dreaded another bout of insomnia. He swung out of bed and headed for the kitchen, contemplating this new and constant restlessness. He needed to take charge.

First order of business: tackling insomnia. Which meant two things: addressing his discontent with the Agency and getting a grip on his infatuation with Twinkie. In a warped, adversarial way, he considered Arch Duvall a friend. But it was his obsession to learn everything the crafty genius knew about grifting that motivated Milo to keep him close. If he pursued this attraction to Evie, he risked driving a wedge between him and the Scot. Just because Arch claimed the affair was over didn’t mean he was over Evie.

Face it, Beckett. Hiring Twinkie was a mistake. “That’s what you get for thinking with your dick.” He opened the fridge, nabbed the milk. “Just an observation.”

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