# Evie Ever After

Beth Ciotta

The body count on this job is freaking me out.Since I signed on to bust scam artists with Chameleon, the missions have been getting increasingly dangerous–and so has my love life! There's Arch, my bad-boy Scottish lover, who's been keeping secrets so long, he may never come clean. Then there's my sexy boss, Milo, who's in hot water with some seriously bad characters.Maybe it's time for a whole new gig–one without cons or criminals. But first I have to bring in one more bad apple…in my own inimitable style. After that, one of my guys had better step up to the plate, or it's hasta la vista for Evie….

Dear Reader,

I have to tell you I am more than a little sad that this is the end of THE CHAMELEON CHRONICLES. At the same time, Evie (my alter ego) has had one heck of a ride and deserves her happily-ever-after. But is it with Arch or Beckett? Like I’m going to tell you up front. Heh.

Speaking of…I was stunned and jazzed by the feedback from readers—50 percent cheering for Arch, 50 percent for Milo. Make my job difficult, why don’t you! Gotta love a challenge.

So I did what I do. I listened to my characters. I followed their lead. I hope you’re pleased with how things play out. I know I am!

Oh! And because I feel inclined, here’s my stock Chameleon disclaimer.

I admit, some of Evie’s adventures and tribulations are loosely based on my own experiences within the entertainment industry; however, she and all of the featured characters are purely fictional. In kind, although I extensively researched con artists and scams, Chameleon and A.I.A. are figments of my overactive imagination.

Enjoy the adventure,

Beth

## Praise for. Beth Ciotta’s. Chameleon Chronicles series

EVERYBODY LOVES EVIE

“Ciotta’s wry humor; sexy, multifaceted characters; and layered plotlines make this a fun spy romp.”

—Booklist

“The talented Ciotta’s latest Evie book is one that new readers will jump into easily. Likewise, fans will be thrilled to reenter the engaging world of this spunky, lovable heroine. After all, everybody loves a skillfully characterized, humorously narrated and undeniably well-plotted novel.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews (4 ½ stars, Top Pick)

“Ms. Ciotta writes Evie as a down-to-earth good doer who has had the sorts of experiences that many of us fantasize about. Everybody Loves Evie…[is] a nice romantic comedy, just perfect for the month of February with its hearts and flowers abounding.”

—A Romance Review

ALL ABOUT EVIE

“All About Evie is an amazing charmer. Delightful. It has all the right elements and beyond a doubt is a ‘keeper.’ I look forward to more works, sure to dazzle and entertain, by this wonderfully talented author.”

—New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“Everything about Ciotta’s latest novel is fabulous: the lovable heroine, the sexy hero, the consistently humorous internal monologue, the smooth narration and the delightfully original plot. To use one of the hero’s favorite words, it’s ‘brilliant.’”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews (4 ½ stars, Top Pick)

“If you love character-driven stories that will entrance and entertain you, Beth Ciotta is a must buy.”

—The Road to Romance

## Beth Ciotta. Evie Ever After


This book is dedicated to my agent, Amy Moore-Benson.

Your enthusiastic support and courageous spirit are a constant inspiration. Here’s to love, laughter and an exciting future!

## ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It’s true. I spend countless hours holed up in my writing room spinning adventures, but I am never alone in my endeavors. I have an amazing support system, people I can contact for advice. People who cheer me on when I’m down. Writers, readers, my agent, my editor, key people at HQN Books—amazing friends and associates.

Thank you—Steve Ciotta (my loving husband), Cynthia Valero (my artistic soul mate), Mary Stella (my Semper-Gumby angel), Heather Graham (my gentle-hearted champion), Amy Moore-Benson (my dynamic agent), Keyren Gerlach (my romantic, adventurous editor—you’re the best!) and the many readers, booksellers and librarians who have shared their enthusiasm for The Chameleon Chronicles.

Thank you to the wondrous people at Harlequin Books who’ve been there for me in a big way. Keyren Gerlach, Tracy Farrell, Margo Lipschultz, Tara Parsons, Don Lucey, Jayne Hoogenberk, Julie Chivers, Donna Hayes, Isabel Swift and Loriana Sacilotto. Oh, God. I just know I’ve forgotten someone!

Then there are those I know only through reputation. Read: their wondrous efforts.

Thank you to the talented artists, the marketing experts, the dynamic sales team, the savvy publicists—the wondrous departments that rock the house of HQN Books. You’ve treated my work with enthusiasm and tender loving care, and I am forever grateful.

Lastly, I’d like to extend a heartfelt thank-you to Emmy-winning writer/director/producer/major league baseball announcer Ken Levine. You’re not only multitalented, you’re generous beyond words. As an avid fan of your work, I’m humbled that you answered my questions pertaining to television. You’re a joy and an inspiration and I hope you enjoyed my mini-salute to M*A*S*H. Cheers, my cyberfriend.

## Also available from. Beth Ciotta

Everybody Loves Evie

All About Evie

Seduced

Charmed

Jinxed

Lasso the Moon

Evie’s adventures may be over for now, but be sure to check out Beth’s fabulous new contemporary romance

Out of the Ordinary

Coming soon!

Evie Ever After

## CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

## CHAPTER ONE

Private Jet Charter

Somewhere over Indiana

WHEN I WAS A KID I FANTASIZED about being a kick-butt crime fighter. You know, like Emma Peel of The Avengers or Agent 99 of Get Smart. Later, like most teenaged girls growing up in the seventies, I wanted to be one of Charlie’s Angels. Specifically, Jill Munroe, but only because I wanted Farrah’s hair.

Several decades and a career in the performance arts later, I’m still pining for the perfect hairstyle. The kick-butt crime-fighter fantasy, however, recently became reality. No one (except maybe my ex-husband) was more surprised than me. In this episode of my life gone wild, I’m winging through the friendly skies, escaping the scene of an anticrime.

My name is Evie Parish and I’m the newest member of Chameleon—a specialized branch of the AIA—which is something like the CIA only smaller and sneakier. Comprised of ex-grifters, former bunko cops, and now me, Chameleon creates illusions to expose despicable frauds. I used to sing, dance, and act on the stages of the Atlantic City casinos. Now the world is my stage and my idea of applause is the sound of a cell door slamming shut on the amoral keister of a scam artist. No, I don’t have a background in law enforcement (or a criminal record), but my acting and sleight-of-hand skills (compliments of a stint as a magician’s assistant) along with my scary-good memory make me perfect for this job.

Unfortunately, not everyone on the team agrees. Especially the man I’m sitting next to, the object of a fantasy fling come true, Arch “Ace” Duvall, a hunky bad boy with a Scottish accent and a soft spot for good-girl me. Call me crazy in love. Although Arch has yet to say the words, he did carve the sentiment in a tree: Arch loves Evie.

Yeah. I know. How sweet is that? And totally unexpected given his personal code. Let’s just say he’s never been in a committed relationship. Ever. Not that we’ve committed to anything other than “trying to make this thing work.”

Where was I?

Ah, yes. My new reality. An adrenaline-charged cross between Ocean’s Eleven and The Thomas Crown Affair sprinkled with the misadventures of a modern-day Doris Day. I kid you not.

A reformed con artist, Arch is one of two alpha dogs at Chameleon. The other being Special Agent Milo Beckett—known to the team as “Jazzman.” Beckett—also sexy, but in a quiet, straight-arrow way—hired me without consulting Arch. He also kissed me—without consulting Arch—which resulted in fireworks, only not the good kind. I’m one of those people who can’t jaywalk without getting busted, so naturally Arch walked in on the spontaneous lip-lock. I was mortified. Arch was pissed. And Beckett was no help whatsoever. But that’s neither here nor there. Well, it’s somewhere, just not a place I want to visit right now. I have enough worries, thank you very much.

I tried to put them out of my mind. Closed my eyes and willed the drone of the jet engine to lull me to sleep. It was nearly midnight. Hopped up on adrenaline all day and night, my body was exhausted, but my brain kept spinning scenarios worthy of a David Mamet film. Anxious, I fussed with my seat buckle and prayed for a smooth ride. My stomach was already churning. “Leaving a team member behind feels wrong,” I blurted.

“Dinnae borrow trouble, Sunshine.”

“It’s just that—”

“Jazzman’s more than qualified to manipulate a smalltime chiseler like Frank Turner. Dinnae let his moniker snow you, yeah?”

Moniker. Grifter-speak for nickname. Turner’s was “Mad Dog.”

Yikes.

“Okay, but…” I have a bad feeling. Normally, Arch and Beckett manipulated bad sorts in tandem. I couldn’t help feeling that if it weren’t for me he would’ve stuck close to his partner. Maybe not as an active participant, but at least for backup. Though not intentionally, I’d driven a wedge between the two men. All because of that stupid kiss. Oh, and the time I confided in Beckett instead of Arch.

Oops.

I suppose most women would die to have two sexy men, two crime fighters, no less, vying for their attention. As fantasies go, it’s a humdinger. In reality it’s…unsettling. Even though they both denied it, I was certain, at heart, Arch and Beckett were friends. What if Beckett’s plan curdled? What if he got hurt…or worse? How would Arch live with that? How would I live with that?

“Dinnae let that imagination of yours run wild,” Arch said. He grasped my hand to still my nervous scratching.

My tell.

Crap.

“Let it go and trust Jazzman’s judgment. He ordered us to fly oot. He had his reasons.”

I just hoped they didn’t have anything to do with me. “You’re right,” I said, faking an optimistic smile. “I’m just stunned that our part of the sting went so smoothly.”

“I’m not.” The green-eyed rebel flashed a cocky smile while stroking my cheek.

Zing. Zap.

My insides fluttered with something other than anxiety. Call me smitten. Along with countless other women.

I’ve heard the sighs. Witnessed the moony-eyed gawking. Heck, I’ve sighed and gawked myself. Arch is drop-dead gorgeous and deadly charming to boot. Talk about a dangerous combo. He’s also six years younger than my forty-one. Not that that’s an issue. Okay. That’s a lie. I’m a little self-conscious in my older woman shoes. Arch—bless his warped soul—insists age isn’t an issue. Then again, he excels at telling people what they want to hear.

“Jazzman’s more than qualified to manipulate a smalltime chiseler like Frank Turner.”

Uh. Right.

My bad feeling escalated into imminent disaster. My pulse escalated, too. It didn’t help that one of my two best friends, Jayne, had called me this morning in a tizzy over her psychic’s warning after consulting a crystal ball. “Mixing business with pleasure today is dangerous. Your friend must turn off the heat or someone will get burned.” Nic, my other best bud would snort, citing crystal balls as mystical bullshit. I prefer the term hooey, and normally I’d agree, but lately I confess I’m paranoid when it comes to this new life that seems too good to be true.

Don’t scratch.

Arch asked the lone flight attendant for a bottle of champagne. Lydia, a twentysomething redhead with a knockout body and celebrity-perfect teeth, rushed to comply. Instead of watching her fawn over her sole passenger—me being invisible in her Scot-struck eyes—I excused myself to use the private jet’s lavatory.

“You all right, lass?” Arch asked.

“Absolutely.” Liar.

I moved down the narrow aisle before my heated cheeks gave me away. I didn’t want to admit that I was feeling insecure in our new relationship. I didn’t want to vocalize my lingering worries about Milo Beckett, prompting Arch to misinterpret my concern for his partner, my boss. I didn’t want him to know I was freaking out about the recent web of lies we’d spun in order to avenge a U.S. Senator. I didn’t want him to doubt my nerve. He already questioned my virtuous nature.

Where was I?

Ah, yes. Lies.

A product of my uptight Midwestern upbringing, I’m uncomfortable with purposeful deceit. A detriment in my new line of work. A liability Arch keeps pointing out. Although he believes I possess the motivation and talent, he’s convinced I’m hindered by my goody-two-shoes morals.

I’m determined to prove otherwise.

Hence locking myself in the private jet’s lavatory for a private meltdown.

It’s not as if I could discuss my concerns with Arch: a) it would only support his theory that I’m not cut out for his line of work; b) born into a family of grifters, Arch’s concept of right and wrong is blurred.

For the last several days I’ve been ignoring or suppressing serious issues that are destined to explode in my face. This moment I was obsessing on the smoke and mirrors mission that had involved blowing a lot of smoke up a lot of butts, some belonging to my own family and friends. Even though I’d played loose with the truth for the greater good, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it would end badly.

“There are all kinds of lies,” I could hear Arch say.

I gripped the rim of the stainless-steel sink, stared into the mirror and, instead of bemoaning my darkening roots (hey, I never professed to being a natural blonde), I concentrated on obliterating my guilt. “Everyone lies.”

A global truth according to the research book I’m reading on scams and frauds. Turns out most of us lie daily albeit unconsciously. White lies. Etiquette lies. Lies of omission. Falsehoods intended to spare someone’s feelings or to perpetuate goodwill. Like the friend who assures you your botched perm doesn’t make you look like a deranged poodle. Or the parent who nurtures a child’s belief in Santa Claus.

Then there are lies with selfish yet relative harmless intent. Politicians lie to win elections. Publicists lie to catapult an unknown artist to stardom. A form of manipulation we typically take for granted. Of course they’re going to spin the truth, that’s what they do.

But no one spins the truth like a con artist. Masters of persuasion and deception, con artists—aka confidence men, grifters, flimflammers, bunko artists, hustlers—excel in telling you what you want to hear. They target character traits ranging from arrogant to insecure, needy to greedy, ambitious to lazy, and pitch the irresistible deal. No social class is immune and the mark’s intelligence is rarely a factor.

I should know. Last month I fell for a street hustle and I’m a smart cookie. Just gullible and naive, according to Arch. Then two weeks ago my mom, a mega-smart, supergrounded realist, fell prey to a Sweetheart Scam. Not that she knows, thanks to Chameleon. Point is, a good scam artist homes in on your needs and weaknesses and—bam—a sucker is born.

Where was I?

Ah, yes. Avenging and protecting U.S. Senator Clark. Once we’d determined how Frank “Mad Dog” Turner had cheated the senator’s wife at cards, cheating the cheat had been cake. Mad Dog never knew what bit him and before he had a chance to wise up, the entire team, with the exception of Beckett—got the hell out of Dodge. Or in this case, Hammond, Indiana.

Tabasco, Gina, and Woody were en route to Atlantic City via Tabasco’s single engine Cessna. While Arch and I, still masquerading as the Baron of Broxley and his fiancée, enjoyed the luxury of a private jet. Roomy accommodations, plush leather seats, expensive champagne, and an uber-sexy traveling companion. Who could ask for more?

Too bad I was battling a panic attack.

Someone knocked on the door. “Miss Parish, is everything all right?”

Lydia.

“I’m fine.” Liar. My cheeks burned and my heart raced. Since I was alone, I scratched.

“In that case, would you please return to your seat? The pilot warned we’re approaching heavy turbulence.”

I slapped a palm to my clammy forehead. So now in addition to battling an anxiety attack, I had to endure motion sickness? I blinked at the door, felt a twinge in my jaw, and realized I was clenching my teeth. Oh, no. Though I hadn’t had an episode in weeks, I still suffered from TMJ—a stress-related disorder. What if my jaw locked? It had happened before. Talk about embarrassing. Almost as mortifying as puking into an airsick bag.

Instead of exiting the lavatory, I sank down on the toilet. “Be out in a minute,” I squeaked then dropped my head between my knees. Breathe.

Thirty seconds later, another knock. “Open the door, love.”

Arch.

“Can’t.”

“Cannae or willnae?”

Both. My voice stuck in my throat as my imagination took flight.

What if Mad Dog goes rabid and attacks Beckett? Just because he’s a two-bit cheat that doesn’t mean he won’t freak out and fight back when a Fed tries to run him out of town.

What if my family refuses to forgive me for convincing them I’m “engaged” to a wealthy baron, even though I deceived them for the greater good?

What if Arch fails to win my trust as he promised?

What if I fail him by putting my faith in the safer man—Beckett?

A millisecond later, the handle clicked and the metal door swung open. Another of Arch’s talents: picking locks.

Hunched over, I glanced up. I wanted to blast him for invading my privacy, instead I wheezed.

“Bloody hell, Sunshine.” He shut the door and stooped in front of me.

Hot-faced and short of breath, I stated the obvious. “Anxiety attack.”

“I can see that.”

He’d seen it before. During our first mission when he’d dashed my assumption that he was a Bond-like super spy by confessing his true profession. “I’m a con artist, Evie.” Yeah, boy, that was a shock. He left out the part about him working for the good guys. I learned that important tidbit later from Beckett.

He stroked a hand down my back. “Talk it oot.”

I shook my head, palmed my jaw.

“Did it lock?”

“Not yet,” I said through clenched teeth.

He nudged aside my hand and massaged both sides of my face. “You’re internalizing. Let it oot and the symptoms will subside.”

Spoken like my dentist. Still, I refrained from speaking my mind. Instead, I yearned for my journal. Knowing I keep my feelings bottled, my dad had gifted me with my first diary when I was a kid. “For when your heart and mind are jammed.”

Like now.

Only my journal was in my tote bag and Arch was relentless. “You’re worried aboot Beckett.”

“I’m worried about a lot of things.” So much for the private meltdown.

Someone, Lydia, knocked again. “Excuse me, but…”

“Hold those thoughts.” Arch kissed my forehead then rose and cracked the door to speak with the persistent flight attendant.

I massaged the ache in my chest with one hand, my jaw with the other. No problem on the thought holding. I’m an expert at internalizing. At least I used to be. Since my infamous “snap” at a not-so-long-ago audition, I’d been acting out and speaking out in ways I’d only dreamed of.

“What did you say to her?” I wheezed when Arch turned back to me.

“Something to make her go away.”

He grinned and my breath stalled. Not because of the anxiety attack, but because he was so freaking gorgeous. When describing him to Nic and Jayne, I’d compared him to Gerard Butler, the Scottish actor who’d rocked our socks in a couple of action films and melted our bones as a romantic lead. We always compared people to celebrities. We’re entertainers. Go with what you know.

Lately though, when I looked at Arch I only saw Archibald Robert Duvall. (Yes, that’s his real name.) Aka “Ace” (his moniker), aka the Baron of Broxley. (His title. Bought, not inherited. Nevertheless legit.) Hunky body, dark, cropped hair, hypnotic gray-green eyes, and a knee-buckling smile. Did I mention the Celtic tattoo banded around his sculpted biceps? Yowza. And his warriorlike goatee? Swoon. Not for the first time I wondered what this charismatic rebel saw in Ivory-soap me. Not for the first time, I questioned our longevity.

And immediately dropped my head back between my knees.

Wuss!

Arch gently pulled me to my feet and into his arms. “Tell me your biggest worry.”

The jet bounced and jerked as we hit the aforementioned turbulence. Going down in flames? “I understand that Chameleon is covert,” I rasped, opening my mouth as little as possible, “but I don’t want to keep my new life, my real job, from Nic and Jayne. I wouldn’t be able to face them.”

“The reason Chameleon is so effective is because we operate under the radar, you know? Can you trust them to keep our presence and purpose under wraps?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then tell them.”

“But what if one of them slips? What if I slip? What if—” The plane bounced and I gasped. Jaw aching, stomach spinning, I closed my eyes and imagined my happy place.

London. With Arch.

Scotland. With Arch.

Anywhere, my foggy brain whispered, with Arch.

“What you need,” he said, sliding his hand up my thigh and under my dress, “is a distraction.”

Zing. Zap.

My brain cells sparked and overheated. My body, including my jaw, melted as his mouth and hands, well, distracted. This was our thing. This getting it on in the weirdest places and wildest positions. Did I mention he was a fantasy come to life?

He kissed my neck and tugged at my panties. “Ever hear of the Mile High Club?”

“You wouldn’t.”

He continued to kiss and stroke. But of course he would.

And of course, I let him.

## CHAPTER TWO

“YOU’RE HOME?”

Nic’s husky voice usually cheered me. Usually. I sighed. “Such as it is.” I glanced around my sparsely furnished apartment, despising every square inch. It lacked charm. Warmth.

Arch.

He’d turned down my invitation to spend the night. It wouldn’t have bothered me so much, but by the time we landed and he drove me home it was long past midnight. I just assumed he’d sleep over. He begged off.

“I have some things to do, yeah?”

At three in the morning?

If I’d been more alert my imagination would’ve soared. Instead, I’d zombie-walked into my bedroom and passed out. Partly because of the hot sex and chilled champagne. Mostly because I was mentally and physically exhausted. I remember thinking I could sleep for days.

I slept for four hours.

“For how long?” Nic asked.

“Four hours.”

“What?”

Ouch. Okay. Maybe it was a bad idea calling a night owl at the crack of dawn.

“You’re only going to be home for four freaking hours?”

“What? No. I slept for four hours.” Thanks to a recurring nightmare. A mish mosh of memories stemming from my first mission with Arch. A mission I’d bungled. As a result a man was dead. A bad man, but dead is dead. I worked my tight jaw and stirred sweetener into my nuked tea. “This conversation isn’t going well. Maybe I should call back later.”

“Screw that. I’m coming over.”

“Now?”

“If Arch is there, boot him out. I want some private time.”

“He isn’t here.”

“Is he still in the picture?

“Yes.”

“Beckett?”

I flashed on the kissing incident, something Nic knew about because she’d flown to Indiana thinking I was having some sort of meltdown and ended up participating in the takedown of the man scamming my mom. Her dealings with Arch and Beckett had been tense. Even so, I suspected she was attracted to the latter, which was why I was doubly embarrassed that I’d told her about the spontaneous lip-lock. “Just friends,” I said. “Coworkers.”

“Uh-huh.”

Okay. So admitting to her that I was a little confused about my feelings for Beckett had been a mistake. I just should have scribbled my worries in my journal.

Oh, wait. I did.

“Nic—”

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

“I’ll call Jayne.” What the heck? Arch had given me permission to tell them about Chameleon. No time like the present.

“Hold off on that, Evie.”

“Why?”

“Jayne’s been…weird.”

“More weird than usual?”

“Tell you when I see you.”

“But—”

She’d already signed off. Great. Leave me in suspense why don’t you?

I didn’t have time to shower and dress, so Nic was going to have to take me as is. Striped lounge pants, Star Wars T-shirt, fuzzy purple slippers. Trust me, she’d seen me in goofier getups. The mad scientist I’d once portrayed for an electronics sweepstakes came to mind. Oh, and the time I appeared as a mermaid, which would’ve been sexy except for the lobster on my head. Not a live one, of course, but still. Larry was his name. Larry the Lobster. These days he resides in a plastic chest of drawers along with a gazillion other props. Sherlock Holmes pipe and hat. Minnie Mouse ears and gloves. Clown nose, cigarette holder, flapper headband, pom-poms…

I plopped on my boring gray sofa and sipped my Earl Grey tea. I contemplated ditching those props to make room for, I don’t know, something useful? I also thought about the various costumes, wigs, and accessories crowding my closet. A glitz and goof collection I no longer needed since I had retired (not entirely of my own choice) from entertainment.

Making a living on stage had never been easy, but I’d survived and even thrived at times for more than twenty years. But then the gigs were fewer and farther between and it only got worse. I learned I wasn’t even being considered. “They’re looking for someone younger.”

Ouch.

Still, I persevered. Until that fateful day when I flashed my breasts. A moment of righteous defiance. So unlike good-girl me. But I was desperate. Standing on that casino stage, auditioning for a gig I was more than qualified for, being ignored simply based on my age, I saw my good-girl life flash before my eyes. I envisioned someone shoveling dirt over my career. My personal life was already six feet under. Losing my husband to a twentysomething hard-body was bad enough, but being robbed of my livelihood, my passion, simply because I’d had the nerve to turn forty?

That’s when I snapped. That’s when my inner bad girl came to my rescue and told those baby-faced executives what I really thought about their obsession with youth over talent. Okay. So maybe I torpedoed what was left of my entertainment career, but I unwittingly blew open the door to a new and exciting profession in fighting crime. The transition had been swift and adrenaline-charged, the stuff romantic action-packed movies are made of…only this was real life. My life.

And I was about to tell all to Nic, who only knew a little, but way more than Jayne.

As promised she showed within twenty minutes with—bonus—two mambo cups of Dunkin’ Donuts java. Way better than Earl Grey. “How do you do it?” I asked as she passed me a cup and lounged on the sofa.

“Do what?”

“Primp, dress, make a pit stop for coffee, and drive here in under half an hour?”

“It’s not like I live in another town.”

“No, but…Never mind.” I curled into the opposite corner of the sofa, trying to think of a time when I’d seen Nic look anything short of fabulous. I couldn’t. She was one of those natural exotic beauties—kind of like Halle Berry only with Penélope Cruz hair. A head-turner I’d love to hate but couldn’t because underneath her lithe beauty and cynical personality, Nic was a marshmallow. Not that I’d ever said that to her face. Even though we were polar opposites we had an understanding. She was she and I was me and Jayne was, well, a whack-a-doodle.

“So what’s going on with you?” Blunt. Typical Nic.

“I’ll fill you in. But first, tell me what’s up with Jayne.” Evasive. Typical me.

“When’s the last time you spoke to her?”

“Yesterday. Briefly. I feel bad now. I blew her off. But at the time I needed to be pumped up and she was a total buzz kill.”

“She’s been a neurotic spaz for weeks. That’s why I didn’t want to invite her over this morning. I wanted to give you a heads-up before you told her something that might send her into a tailspin. She still thinks you’ve been hired to sing at the Chameleon Club—period. She doesn’t know about the undercover work with Arch and Beckett.”

And Nic didn’t know Arch and Beckett worked undercover for the government. Yet.

“Jayne’s convinced your fate is at risk,” Nic continued. “Karmic payback for something she screwed up in a past life.”

“That sounds like Madame Helene talking.” Jayne’s crystal gazing, star-reading psychic. Nic and I had tagged along once and had both decided she was full of hooey. She was also a name-dropper, a favored psychic of B-headliner celebrities, and local hotshot execs—or so she claimed. Call me a nonbeliever. Pegging the psychic as a fake had only hurt Jayne’s feelings and since then we’d kept our opinions of Madame Helene to ourselves. Well, at least I had.

Exasperated, Nic twisted her thick, long hair into a makeshift bun. “That manipulative phony has Jayne wrapped around her cosmic-ringed fingers. I shudder to think what kind of money our friend has shelled out in an effort to predict the future. Her bimonthly visits are now up to once a week, not including phone calls.”

My stomach turned. “I had no idea.”

“That’s because you haven’t been around much lately.” She winced. “Sorry. That was harsh.”

I forced a smile. “Harsh, but true.” I’d cruised the Caribbean then flown off to London, then, after only being home a couple of days, jetted to Indiana. Granted, I’d been working, but I’d also been having a pulse-tripping adventure and whirlwind affair. My life was on the upswing whereas Jayne’s was spiraling out of control. Chagrined, I palmed my heated cheeks. “I’ve been so self-absorbed, I didn’t realize…”

Nic waved off my apology. “Forget it. You’ve been on your own emotional roller coaster. It’s just that the past few days…I think it’s time to step in, Evie.”

“What, like an intervention?”

“Someone has to be the voice of reason and it’s not Madame Helene. We have to cure Jayne of this obsession. Sure, she’s always had a new age spirit, and we’ve always supported that because, hey, to each his own. But now it’s escalated into something scary. I’m worried about her. Financially and emotionally.”

I felt sick. How could I have been so oblivious? “Maybe Arch and Beckett can help.”

“By having them expose Madame Helene for the fraud she is?” Nic traced a finger around the cup’s plastic lid. “I thought about that. Maybe.”

Nic was a skeptic and she was hugely skeptical of the two new men in my life. She questioned their wisdom for drawing me into what she considered a dangerous profession. Also, I’m pretty sure she hadn’t swallowed the story Beckett had fed her about him and Arch being freelance fraud investigators. Even though it was sort of true. Maybe she’d trust them more when she learned they worked for the government.

“Remember when Beckett told you he and Arch were fraud investigators?”

She settled back and nodded. Even though she looked relaxed, I could tell she was braced for a jolt.

“It’s more complicated than that,” I said.

“Go on.”

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“Go on.”

“It’s big-time hush-hush.”

Her green eyes sparked with annoyance. “What the hell, Evie? Do you want to spit and shake? Draw blood?”

“All right. All right.” I took a deep breath then spewed. “Beckett wasn’t lying when he said he’s an ex-cop. He used to work in bunko. That’s a unit that—”

“Investigates scams. I know.”

“Right. Anyway, he saw too many grifters slipping through the system. According to Arch, con artists are hard to prosecute because technically there was no crime. They don’t steal people’s money. They persuade the mark to give it over—a willing participant as opposed to a victim.”

Nic smirked. “Convenient reasoning, given his past.”

I bristled in his defense. “Arch only targeted the rich and greedy. He never conned anyone who couldn’t afford the loss.”

“And that makes it right? You must really love this guy if you’re trying to rationalize criminal behavior. You’re the straightest arrow I know, Evie.” She frowned. “At least you used to be.”

I felt like I’d fallen from grace in her eyes and it didn’t feel good. “Of course it doesn’t make it right,” I snapped. “But it does separate a scam artist from a scum artist. Scum artists prey on the vulnerable, the needy. They don’t think twice about wiping out the savings of an elderly person or a lonely widow or…well, Arch would never do that. I mean he never did that. Past tense. Arch is reformed.”

“So he says.” Her frown deepened and I realized I’d only made matters worse.

The old me wanted to change the subject, to avoid confrontation. The new me, the me who was determined to fight for what I wanted, dug in my heels.

I wanted Arch.

I wanted this job.

Dammit, I wanted a new life.

I just hoped it didn’t mean losing old friends. Or my integrity.

I chugged java and braced myself for Nic’s aggressive opinions. If I could obliterate her concerns, easing Jayne’s mind would be a cinch.

“I’m serious, Evie. How do you know Arch doesn’t pull a con here and there on the side? How do you know he isn’t scamming you?”

“I just know.” Only I didn’t. There were several aspects of Arch’s life that he was unwilling to discuss. Take the mysterious “Kate” for instance. A woman from his past. A woman who’s number was programmed into a special cell phone that he used for private stuff. Stuff he didn’t want me to know about. Although he’d sworn his relationship with the woman wasn’t romantic. All I’d gleaned was that they shared a mutual interest and it had something to do with grifting. I’d agreed not to press for details because it would mean sharing my own private stuff—thoughts, dreams, and rants I’d scribbled in my diary. In particular, I wasn’t keen on him seeing the comparison chart I’d jotted listing his and Beckett’s pros and cons. Let’s just say Arch hadn’t come out the wiser choice.

“No need to get defensive,” said Nic.

“I’m not defensive.”

She arched a brow and I ached to scratch.

“Okay. Maybe I’m a little sensitive where Arch is concerned. It’s just that he’s trying to do the right thing and that can’t be easy given his upbringing.”

“What do you mean?”

“His grandfather was an art forger. His mom was a grifter and so was his dad. Arch was the result of an on-off-on again long-term affair. His dad split for good before he was even born and, yes, he knew about the pregnancy.”

“Prick.”

“My thoughts exactly. Well, almost. I called the man cold.”

“What does Arch call him?”

“Practical.”

“You’re kidding.”

I hugged my knees to my chest. “That’s what I mean. He had a skewed sense of right and wrong right out of the womb. He views his father’s choice as practical because, according to Arch, emotional attachments compromise a grifter’s judgment.” The conversation played through my head word for word. It had been a rare moment. Arch was a closed book, yet one night on the cruise ship, when I’d been obsessing on my own troubles, he’d revealed a page of his life and I’d been stunned.

I was still stunned.

“Doesn’t that worry you?” Nic asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Evie. Come on. Arch is condoning the behavior of a grifter who ditched his family for his career. How can you trust your heart to a man with iffy morals?”

Trust, as it happened, was the key sticking point between Arch and I. As he’d pointed out in another of those rare honest conversations, it went both ways. I wasn’t the only one worried about getting my heart broken.

“For what it’s worth,” I said, “when I asked Arch what he would’ve done were he in his father’s shoes, he responded, ‘I’m not my father’s son.’”

“So you’re telling me that although Arch has a twisted sense of right and wrong, he does have a sense of decency. A bad boy with a good heart.”

I smiled. “Exactly. I know you’ll find this hard to believe but he’s actually quite vulnerable.”

Nic snorted.

I wasn’t offended because I knew it was a tough pill to swallow. The man was six feet of hard muscle. He smoked Marlboros, had a tattoo and cussed a blue streak. Not to mention he socialized and tangled with bad sorts. Vulnerable didn’t fit the picture but that’s because people only saw what he wanted them to see.

I flashed on a memory and cringed. “Oh, crap.”

“What?”

“I just remembered, Arch told me about his family in confidence.” He’d given me permission to talk about Chameleon, not his personal life.

“Why does it have to be secret?”

“Because he said the more people know about him, the more vulnerable he becomes.” I thunked my forehead. “I can’t believe I betrayed him.” Again.

“Calm down.” Nic leaned over and squeezed my knee. A sweet gesture from a non-touchy-feely person. “I think your man is being paranoid, but we’ve all got our quirks. I won’t repeat what you told me about his family. Not even to Jayne.”

I massaged my pounding temples. “I hate keeping things from her, but I did promise Arch.”

“I understand.”

“I just wanted to give you some insight. I know you don’t like him—”

“I like Arch, Evie. He’s a likable guy. I just don’t trust him.”

That made two of us.

“Maybe I’ll feel differently when I get to know him better.”

Ditto.

“Moving on. So, do we break it to Jayne that you’re working with a team of fraud investigators before or after we save her from Madame Helene’s evil clutches?”

“Tough call. I’d like to get Arch’s take, if that’s okay. He understands the psychological aspects of the mark and the con artist. I don’t want to make the wrong decision only to have Jayne turn on us instead of Madame Manipulator.”

“Makes sense. Can you talk to him about it ASAP? I really want to get on this.”

“I’ll have an answer today.”

“Good. Great.”

There was a pregnant pause while we both regrouped. I didn’t know what was on her mind, but I’d yet to share what I’d wanted to reveal in the first place. “Back to Arch and Beckett’s profession.”

Nic shifted and caught my gaze. “Ah, yes. Big-time hush-hush.”

“Brace yourself.”

“Spit it out.”

“Chameleon isn’t a freelance investigative agency,” I blurted. “It’s a covert branch of a government agency. You know, like the FBI.”

“You’re working for the freaking FBI?”

“No, the AIA.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Artful Intelligence Agency.”

“Still never heard of it.”

“Me, neither. But they exist. Don’t ask me what they do, but Chameleon falls under their umbrella.”

If I were Nic I’d be pacing the floor just now, venting and spewing rapid-fire questions. She just sat there, assessing. “You’re telling me Slick is a G-man?”

Slick was her moniker for Beckett. One he didn’t care for because she usually said it with sarcasm. I had no sympathy because he called me Twinkie. “Yes,” I said. “Beckett’s a federal agent.”

“What about Arch?”

“Nope. Beckett’s the only official member of the AIA. He answers to the director, a hardnose named Vincent Crowe, and everyone on the team answers to Beckett. Well, except Arch. They’re partners. Sort of.”

“Complicated relationship. I got that. Complicated further by you.”

I smirked. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“This is an awful lot to take in, Evie.”

“I know.”

“It’s bigger than I first thought. More dangerous. And it plays right into Jayne’s fears about a friend getting burned.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you and Jayne.”

She quirked a lopsided smile. “Yes, well, you’re here now and we’re going to help our friend.”

I reached over and squeezed her hand. She squeezed back and my throat got thick as I thought about another friend in potential need.

“Any other bombs you wanna drop?” Nic asked.

“No.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

I swallowed and met her gaze. “I’m worried about Beckett.”

## CHAPTER THREE

Philadelphia International Airport

“I’M ON THE GROUND.”

“How’d it go, mate?”

“Mission accomplished.” Milo Beckett navigated the crowded terminal, fighting exhaustion and self-disgust. He’d manipulated and intimidated con artists before, but he’d never lost his composure. Then again, Turner wasn’t a professional grifter. He was a former pro athlete with an arrogant streak and, as it turned out, an explosive temper. A dirtbag who cheated at sports, cheated the IRS and cheated at cards. Still, making him disappear for the sake of a politician’s career left a bad taste in Milo’s mouth. He’d spent several hours trying to put the ugly episode out of his head. Finally, he’d resorted to rationalizing. I sold my soul to the devil for the greater good.

Evie Parish, a virtuous soul who kept him connected to innocence and the pursuit of dreams, would view that rationalization as copping out or selling out. She’d certainly disapprove of the tactics he’d employed to accomplish the senator’s goal. He hated that he cared. He wished he could stop thinking about that pleasurable but ill-timed kiss. He’d sent her away in order to focus on what he had to do. He’d sent away the entire team to shield them should his plan curdle. The separation had been an unexpected relief. The dynamics of the tight-knit group had been strained ever since Evie had tripped into their lives.

Now that they were in between cases everyone could go their separate ways. Maybe time apart would help ease the friction. Or maybe this was the end of Chameleon. He’d been contemplating leaving the AIA anyway. Screw his pension. His vision for the team had been compromised over the past year and he didn’t see things improving under the leadership of the new director. Although maybe Crowe would get off Milo’s ass now that he’d completed his unofficial directive.

Temples throbbing, he hustled toward baggage claim, anxious to get on with his life. The sooner he reported to HQ, the sooner he could decide his future.

“Still there, Jazzman?”

“Yeah.” He’d called Arch out of courtesy. Next he’d call Samuel Vine, aka Pops, a trusted friend and the bartender and caretaker of the Chameleon Club. Word would trickle down to the other team members that he was safe and on home turf. “How’s everyone doing?”

“Evie’s fine.”

“I meant the entire team.”

“Sure you did.”

Milo didn’t argue. Truth was he did worry more about Evie because, unlike the rest, she wasn’t trained in self-defense. Unlike the rest, she didn’t have skin as tough as a rhino’s. Not to mention he was infatuated with the good-hearted fireball.

“The Kid booked you a rental car,” Arch said, skating past further talk of the woman who’d put a kink in their already complex friendship.

“He texted me the info.” Woody, aka The Kid, was Chameleon’s computer geek. A wiz at all things technical. His role in the Mad Dog Turner sting had been vital as they’d relied on high-tech surveillance equipment to cheat a cheat.

“I assume Senator Clark was pleased when you handed him that briefcase packed with his wife’s lost fortune, yeah?”

“‘Impressive’ was all he said. About the money anyway.” Milo had driven to Senator Clark’s estate directly after he’d handled Mad Dog. “Mostly he wanted assurance that I’d protected him from future scandal. I’m sorry to say I was able to give it to him.” He reached in his jacket pocket for a packet of Tylenol.

“Want to talk aboot it?”

“What do you think?” He popped the pills dry, wincing when his hand bumped his split lip—compliments of Turner. Just then Milo noted two suits wearing dark shades. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Trouble coming my way.”

“Bad sort?”

“My sort. Gotta go.”

“Call me if you need me, mate.”

“Right.”

Thirty minutes later, Milo stood in Vincent Crowe’s office, clueless as to why he’d needed a personal escort to HQ. Agents McKeene and Burns had dodged the question. Didn’t matter. This couldn’t be good.

“Take a seat. Director Crowe will be in shortly,” McKeene said on his way out.

“Thank you.” He waited until the door shut then added, “Agent Ass-Kisser.”

McKeene and Burns were new men, company men. Brownnosers who made Milo’s balls twitch. He didn’t sit as directed. He hitched back his suit jacket and stared out the window, watching pedestrians navigate Independence Square on a sunny spring day.

For the most part, the new director of the AIA operated out of Philadelphia instead of Washington, D.C. A source of curiosity to Milo, although he’d never asked why. Crowe had been his boss for a month. Their relationship had been adversarial from the get-go. Because of a botched land investment sting in the Caribbean, and because Milo had been unwilling to explain why the team had operated outside of AIA jurisdiction, Crowe had put Chameleon on suspension. They were still on suspension. The mission they’d just completed had been unofficial. A favor.

Two weeks ago, Crowe had summoned Milo to this same office to inform him of Senator Clark’s plight. His wife, an obscenely wealthy gambling addict, had lost a bundle to Frank “Mad Dog” Turner, pro athlete turned restaurateur, in a series of private high-stakes poker games. She swore she was cheated. Senator Clark enlisted Vincent Crowe to clean up his wife’s mess. Crowe assigned Chameleon to infiltrate the game and win back the senator’s money and then, to ensure there wasn’t a scandal that could jeopardize the senator’s political aspirations, to make the cheat disappear.

Milo had balked. Chameleon was his brainchild and he’d formed the elite group to champion Everyday Joes, not the rich and powerful. In his opinion Clark should have contacted Gamblers Anonymous instead of the AIA. But Arch and the team had talked him into taking the case, thinking if he refused he’d be damaging his career. Milo didn’t give a flying fuck about his bureaucratic career, especially when it interfered with the work he really wanted to do. But he did care about the members of his team and if they wanted to stay tight with the AIA, he wasn’t going to screw up that connection. Against his better judgment, he’d agreed to help the senator.

At least he’d had the opportunity to bail Evie’s mom out of a swindle just prior to roping Turner. A win for the Everyday Joes. Unfortunately, it had also been a win for Arch. Even though something simmered between Milo and Evie it was Arch she loved. Leaving the better man, or at least the safer choice, shit out of luck.

The door opened and closed and Milo turned.

Crowe crossed to his desk. He didn’t look happy.

At least they had one thing in common.

“We have a problem, Agent Beckett.”

“Sensed that when you sent McKeene and Burns, sir.” He didn’t mistake the escort for a courtesy ride. The men had been cool and tight-lipped. Upon entering HQ, the receptionist and the five desk jockeys had greeted him warmly, which led him to believe few were privy to whatever was going down.

Crowe, a slouch-shouldered man with a puffed-up ego, settled behind an antique desk. The air crackled with arrogance and tension as he leaned back in his leather chair. “When I told you to silence the man who bilked Mrs. Clark, I didn’t mean literally.”

Milo eased into a chair as he felt the rug being pulled out from under him. “Are you telling me Mad Dog Turner is dead?”

“Are you telling me you didn’t do it?”

“Hell, no. Sir.”

“Sources say otherwise.”

“What sources?”

“My sources, Agent Beckett. Did you think I was going to send your arrogant ass and hotdog team to handle something as sensitive as the senator’s case without insurance?”

“You had agents spying on us?”

“I prefer to think of it as keeping tabs.”

Milo’s blood pressure rocketed. He eased a kink from his neck, breathed. “I won’t bore you with the details. I assume you’ve already heard them. But I will tell you that when I left Turner, he was alive.”

“And should anyone ask, I expect you to stick to that story. Don’t worry Agent Beckett, we’ve cleaned up your mess. For the senator’s sake and the sake of the AIA.”

Fuck. “You don’t have any proof—”

“Yes,” Crowe said, “we do.”

## CHAPTER FOUR

AS SOON AS NIC LEFT I DIALED Arch. Unfortunately, the call rolled over to voice mail. Instead of leaving a message I decided to try again later. If he rang back while I was in the shower, we’d end up playing phone tag.

I thought about calling Beckett. Not for advice on how to handle Jayne’s dilemma, but to make sure he was all right. Except that seemed too intimate. Curse that kiss! If only I hadn’t felt a little zing. If only he hadn’t implied romantic interest. Before, I could’ve checked up on him as a concerned colleague. If I called now…would he read more into it? Would Arch read more into it?

I padded to the bathroom in search of Tylenol. Beckett would have one. The man carried an endless supply.

Stop thinking about Beckett.

I poured two pain relievers into my hand making sure they were what I thought they were before I swallowed them. I’d recently taken a pill by mistake and it had resulted in an embarrassing scene with the government agent.

I glared at my reflection in the medicine mirror. “Why do you have Milo Beckett on the brain?”

“Because you played with fire and you’re afraid he’ll get burned,” I could hear Jayne say in an otherworldly voice.

I also had Madame Helene on the brain. But I couldn’t do anything about her until I spoke with Arch.

I moved into my bedroom in search of something to wear. After I talked to Arch I’d shower and dress and then, hell or high water, I’d go shopping. Wall hangings, throw pillows…anything to make this wasteland more homey. I’d moved into this one bedroom apartment a year ago, after my ex, Michael, and I had separated, but I’d never really lived here. I’d been in too much of a funk to decorate. Then I’d just been oblivious. But after spending a week in Arch’s grandfather’s cluttered flat then time in my childhood home, not to mention a charming Victorian B and B, I just couldn’t warm to this cold, stark apartment.

It was beyond depressing. It didn’t help that I lived alone. I’d spent most of the past month sleeping with Arch. But that had been while on assignment or on holiday. This, I thought, soaking in the earsplitting quiet, is my reality. “At least Dorothy had Toto.”

I redialed Arch, wondering if I should get a cat.

“Yeah?” Arch’s stock phone greeting.

I replied midthought. “Whoever said ‘there’s no place like home’ was full of hooey.”

“Dorothy Gale,” he said in his knee-melting accent. “Wizard of Oz. 1939.”

I smirked. “I knew that. How could I not know that? It was a rhetorical statement.”

“Ah.”

“You’re grinning, aren’t you?”

“Aye.”

“Because I’m cheeky or because I said hooey?”

“Take your pick, Sunshine.”

I smiled. I wish you were here.

“What’s wrong, lass?”

Going through sexy Scot withdrawal. “It’s about Jayne. I’d feel better if I told you in person. I need your advice, Arch, and I need it soon.”

“I can be there in…half an hour, yeah?”

“I’ll be ready.” My mind jumped tracks. “Have you heard from Beckett?” Way to ruin a sexy exchange, Parish. Only I was genuinely worried about my boss, a man I considered a friend…or something.

“He called a few minutes ago. Just landed in Philly.”

Thank God. “And?”

“Mission accomplished.”

The pent-up ache in my chest eased. “Great. That’s…great.” Beckett was home safe and Chameleon was once again in good graces with the AIA. I pumped a fist in the air. Woo-hoo!

“Evie.”

“Yes?”

“I miss you.”

Okay. That was sweet. That was…unexpected. My heart skipped and raced. “I miss you, too.”

“Answer the door naked, yeah?”

Um. “Yeah. I mean, you bet. I mean…” Holy Smoke.

“See you in thirty.”

I could imagine his ornery grin, the one that made the backs of my knees sweat. I could imagine what he was going to do to me when I opened the door—hello—naked. I peeled off my sleepwear and hopped in the shower. Thirty minute countdown to creative sex. Yeah, baby, yeah.


I’D JUST MOISTURIZED WHEN my cell rang. Naked and hot-to-trot, I adopted a Mae West drawl. “Thought about you when I was in the shower, Big Boy. Trust me. You don’t want to be late.”

“It’s Nic.”

“Oh! Sorry.” Mortified. I slipped into the purple terry-cloth robe hanging on the back of the door.

“Whatever. Listen, Evie. We’ve got trouble. Zippo-the-Clown just called and Fannie’s Flowers is in a snit. Fourth time this month Jayne didn’t show on time. She has a scheduled telegram in less than an hour. I need you to get over there now and cover her butt. Otherwise she’ll lose her job. I’m off to corral our wayward friend. Pretty sure I know where to find her.”

“Okay. I’m there.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

She signed off and I scrambled to dress. If I remembered right and I usually do, Jayne had taken a job with Fannie’s Flowers in order to make ends meet. Even though she was three years my junior, like me, she’d started losing casino bookings to younger, modelesque talent. It didn’t help that the once-popular character actor gigs were almost obsolete. Rather than nabbing a nine to five to keep afloat she’d resorted to singing telegrams. Something that went against my creative grain, but as Nic said, to each his own. Except Jayne was my friend and I’d do anything for her. Singing “Happy Birthday” to an office worker while dressed as Marilyn Monroe or a clown or—gak!—a chicken wasn’t going to kill me. Me, who’d once worked a high-roller Halloween party as PMS Pumpkin.

I think I set some sort of record blow-drying my hair and applying makeup. I was dressed and out the door in fifteen minutes. I shoved on sunglasses and race-walked to my car while dialing Arch.

“Yeah?”

“I won’t be here when you get here. I mean, there’s been an emergency. Jayne. She’s flipping out or something. I don’t know. Anyway, I have to cover one of her gigs.”

“Evie—”

“I know. I’m sorry.” I whipped open the door to my beat-up Subaru and slid behind the wheel. “If I don’t do this she might lose her job and I would feel awful. I already feel awful, but I can’t get into that.” I keyed the ignition only the car didn’t start. “Oh, no.”

“Evie—”

I tried again. Dead. Of course, I hadn’t started my car in two weeks, plus it was old plus…“Dammit.”

“Lass.”

Someone tapped on my window scaring the bejeebers out of me. I gasped and smiled.

Arch.

First I noticed he’d shaved off that sexy goatee. I’d never seen him completely clean shaven. Before the goatee, he’d sported a perpetual five-o-clock shadow—also sexy. Not that a clean shave diminished his appeal. You know how some women look great in any hair color? Same difference. Any way you cut it, or um, shaved it, the man was gorgeous.

He looked like a GQ model in his hip, casual wear. Like me, he was wearing jeans, only his looked pricey. He’d left the tails of his paisley oxford hanging out and the collar opened. I imagined ripping off that shirt, skimming my fingers over his chiseled abs, licking his sexy Celtic tattoo…I squeezed my legs together to suppress an erotic tingle. Get a grip, Evie. Think of Jayne. Right. I chucked my phone in my purse and rolled down the window. “You’re here,” I said, sounding surprised and breathless and, well, sort of stupid.

Arch grinned and pocketed his phone.

“My car won’t start.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“Thanks.” Honestly, I was happy for his company. I lived on Brigantine Island. Even though it was less than a ten minute drive to Atlantic City, it felt a world away. I felt semidisconnected here. If I didn’t see the casinos, I didn’t think about them. A blessing. I wish I could say those entertainment meccas conjured memories of the best times of my life. The incredible musicians I’d sung with. The wacky actress roles I’d nailed. Jeez, once I even sang backup for a famous boxer turned B headliner, and there was the time I’d been a featured swing dancer at a Big Bad Voodoo Daddy concert. But all I could focus on was the depressing fact that I was no longer “in demand.” In my current mind-set the casinos represented rejection. They made me feel old. I ached to let go, to move on. I had moved on. The past month of constant travel had been a welcome distraction. But I guess it had also been a form of evasion. Now that I was back in the city, my former insecurities and disillusions threatened to crush me.

At least with Arch at the wheel, I could focus on him and not the cash cows that made me feel as if I’d been put out to pasture.

“Wow,” I said as he opened the door of a black Jaguar. “Is this your car?”

“One of them.” He handed me in then rounded the sleek-mobile and climbed behind the wheel. “What?” he asked as he revved the engine.

I gawked at the leather upholstery and a couple of console gadgets that looked like something out of a James Bond car. “It’s just that, this looks really expensive.”

He shrugged as if to say not so much, which probably meant a small fortune. Again I wondered who he’d scammed in the past, how much he’d scored, and if he’d invested the money or stashed it in foreign bank accounts. He had to be rolling in dough because he lived and traveled in style. Not to mention, he’d bought a flipping Scottish Barony. I couldn’t begin to imagine how much that had cost.

I felt bad for envying his wealth. Mostly because he hadn’t earned it honestly. Then again, for all I knew, maybe he’d inherited a fortune from his family…although they hadn’t earned an honest living, either.

Crimany.

Arch backed out of my apartment complex’s parking lot and swung on to Brigantine Boulevard. “Where am I going?”

“Fannie’s Flowers. It’s on Baltic and—”

“I know where it is and if I didnae…” He tapped one of the fancy gadgets.

I buckled up and squinted at the screen. “Is that one of those GPS thingees?”

He shoved on his own dark sunglasses and smiled. My vocabulary was a constant source of amusement to the man. “It’s a navigation system with a few perks.”

He listed the perks and my eyes glazed over. I’d never been good with anything technical. I didn’t even know how to text with my cell phone.

“What’s going on with your mate Jayne?” he asked as he zipped over the bridge leading to the mainland.

His timing was great. Instead of looking at the upcoming casinos, I shifted and focused on him. In a long-winded ramble, I shared Nic’s concerns about Jayne and Madame Helene, including some background history on the area’s up-and-coming psychic. “Do you think we’re overreacting?”

“Last year Chameleon took down a fortune-teller who fleeced marks out of hundreds of thousands of dollars by convincing them that the money—whether a result of investments or inheritance—was evil. She conned some of them into believing that the ‘tainted’ money was the cause of their personal or professional trials, you know?”

“Wow.”

“Others were warned of impending doom should they not allow her to perform a ritual cleansing. The ritual, of course, involved the mark handing over the money.” He glanced over. “Follow?”

“Unfortunately.” I’d been reading up on various short and long cons. I thought I’d read it all. Boy, was I wrong.

“One woman alone handed over three-hundred grand. It all started with a ten-dollar tarot card reading. Using tricks of the trade, the fortune-teller gave a semi-accurate reading. The mark was hooked and started attending regular readings.”

My arms prickled with goose bumps. “Sounds eerily familiar.”

“The more the mark revealed aboot her life, the deeper the grifter’s hooks. By earning her trust and manipulating her fears, over time the so-called fortune-teller was able to con the woman oot of a hefty inheritance. So, no,” Arch said. “I dinnae think you’re overreacting.”

I shook my head. “Why does it seem like everyone in my life is being scammed in some way or another?”

“Because grifting is easier and more lucrative than ever, Sunshine.”

A troubling statement on several levels.

“Dinnae worry aboot Madame Helene, love. I’ll look into it. Just do what you have to do for your mate now and then we’ll proceed, yeah?”

And just like that I felt better. Arch had an amazing knack of staying calm no matter the situation, a quality that impressed and irked me at the same time. Just now I appreciated his nonchalance. By the time he parked alongside Fannie’s Flowers, I was even-keeled and ready to tackle Jayne’s gig. Whatever it was. How bad could it be?

Arch slid his glasses on top of his head, revealing those hypnotic eyes. “Do you want me to come in with you?”

“No, that’s okay. I just have to run in and pick up the costume and assignment.” I scrunched my brow. “I think. I mean, I’ve never done one of these things.”

“Singing telegram, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“With your background, lass, how hard could it be?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. I just hope I don’t have to wear anything too skimpy. I don’t do sexy well.”

“Sure you do.”

Okay, that was sweet. That was…hot. “I’m hoping for a nerd or a Dame Edna or a dancing box of chocolates. You know, something goofy.”

He leaned in, green eyes twinkling with mischief and…uh-oh. I knew that look. He winked. “I’m hoping for a belly dancer.”

My inner thighs tingled and racy thoughts undulated through my brain. “Time’s ticking,” I squeaked while grappling for the door. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be right here,” he said, stealing a kiss before I stole away. “Thinking aboot what I’m going to do to you later. Naked.”

Zing. Zap.

I thought about the costumes in my closet and grinned. “How do you feel about French maids?”

## CHAPTER FIVE

NIC HADN’T BEEN KIDDING when she said Fannie’s Flowers was in a snit. Just my luck, or Jayne’s luck, it was the boss herself.

A cashier showed me to a back room of the bustling store where Fannie labored over a gargantuan flower arrangement. Her work was lovely, her manner was not.

“Great,” she snapped. “A substitute.”

She paused and I fidgeted. She maneuvered random buds and I swallowed a lump of dread. She looked ticked and harried and I anticipated getting bounced from a job that wasn’t even mine.

She glanced at her watch, me. “What’d you say your name is?”

“Evie.”

“Listen, Evie, if you screw this up—”

“I won’t.”

“—Jayne’s fired.”

No pressure there.

“I’m thinking of letting her go anyway.”

“Please don’t.” I tucked my hair behind my ears, wet my lips. I told the truth. Sort of. “She’s been going through a rough time, but she’s coming around and—”

“Yeah, yeah. Life’s a bitch.”

I wondered if Fannie was always this brisk or if she was just having a bad day. I thought about my normally carefree, wacky friend and wondered if this job was worth saving. Except it did help pay the bills.

It also funded her Madame Helene habit.

One problem at a time, Evie.

Right.

Fannie jerked her head. “Follow me.”

Instead of showing me to the door, she led me deeper into the storage room. Mostly it was filled with flowers and vases and baskets—florist stuff. But beyond a case of ribbons and cards, I spied two racks of costumes—entertainer stuff.

“Ever done anything like this before?” Fannie asked.

“Lots of times.” Not a bald-face lie, just a spin on the truth. No, I’d never walked into a commercial office or a private home, singing birthday or anniversary greetings, dressed as a clown or some such stuff. But I’d appeared at plenty of parties or special events dressed as a clown or some such stuff. Sometimes I sang. Sometimes I danced. Sometimes I just roamed around in character making people laugh. I’m thinking that qualified me for this gig.

I was feeling jazzed and confident, but then Fannie produced my costume.

My mouth went dry. “You’re kidding.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is there a problem?”

It was my worst nightmare, literally, come to life. “No problem.”

I stared at the furry black costume, my mind reeling with the cosmic significance. For the past month I’d had sporadic dreams about gorillas. One involved wearing a gorilla suit, much like the one in Fannie’s arms, hawking used cars with a sign that said, You’ll Go APE For Our Prices. My ex-husband had been there with his arm wrapped around his new pregnant wife. He’d made an insensitive crack about my age. I took the dream literally, thinking it indicated the hairy demise of my career.

But Jayne had consulted one of her new age books, offering me a different account. “If you dream about apes then beware of a mischief-maker in your business or social circle. Unless the gorilla is docile. Then the dream is a forecasting of a new and unusual friend.”

I knew this was probably one of a hundred interpretations, but it did pique my interest. Since Arch and Beckett had entered my life at that time, it was hard to dismiss as hooey. Call me intrigued. Or obsessed. I still didn’t know if the ape dreams were warnings of trouble or forecasts of something good. I just knew I was still having them.

Fannie dumped the heavy suit in my arms then handed me my head, I mean the ape’s head. I didn’t even want to think about what it smelled like inside. Depended on who wore it last and if the shop had had it cleaned. I started itching and sweating and worrying about peripheral vision. But mostly I pondered the significance.

“You’ll want to put that thing on after you get there,” Fannie said, now searching through files. “Hard to drive wearing those big monkey feet.”

“I have a ride,” I said distractedly, flashing back on the time I’d arrived at an event via limo dressed as a bumblebee. Only this time Arch was my driver and I’m not sure I wanted him to see me as a gorilla. Dame Edna would have been sexier.

“Do you know the song ‘Born in the U.S.A.’?” she asked while pulling out a folder.

I knew every Bruce Springsteen song ever written. Well, the biggest hits anyway. My ex-husband had been a Springsteen fan since the singer’s Asbury Park days. As an entertainment agent, one of Michael’s favorite stories was the time he almost signed The Boss as a client. That story had always made me a little sad, because I could hear the wistfulness in his voice. Like me, Michael had had bigger dreams than Atlantic City. I’m beginning to think it’s the only thing we ever had in common.

“I know the song,” I said, feeling more anxious by the moment.

“Lucky for Jayne.” Fannie handed me two tickets and one long-stemmed rose. “You’re going to sing that song with a twist on the title—‘Born in the U.S. APE.’”

“Clever.” Not.

“Then you present the guy with the rose and tickets. They’re a gift from his wife.”

Front row seats to an upcoming Springsteen concert. Lucky man. Generous wife. I shuddered to think what she’d paid. “What’s the occasion?”

She looked at the file. “Second anniversary of their first date. Sappy. But sappy is good for business. They’re having lunch at a gourmet restaurant.” She handed me a piece of paper. “Here’s the exact location, the guy’s name, and his description.”

My breath seized when I read the info. I’m pretty sure the blood drained from my face.

Fannie cleared her throat. “Is there a problem?”

I thought about Jayne. “No problem,” I croaked.

I wondered what I’d done to deserve this? Or maybe it was some sort of cosmic test. If I could survive this, I could survive anything.

I pulled an elastic band from my hip pocket and tamed my hair into a ponytail. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll slip into costume now.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” said Fannie. “Just make it quick. You’re due in twenty minutes.”


“BRILLIANT.” ARCH CHUCKLED as I stuffed my bulky gorilla self—sans head—into the passenger seat of his car.

I slid him a disgusted look.

“You wanted goofy, love. I’d say this qualifies.”

I didn’t bother stating my issue with gorillas. I just passed on the pertinent information.

“Shite.”

“You can say that again.” I placed the ape head on the floor between my big furry feet then tried to fasten my seat belt and failed.

Arch reached over, made some adjustments and slid the buckle home. He stayed close, his face hovering near mine, his gorgeous gray-green eyes shining with concern. “You dinnae have to do this.”

“Jayne will lose her job if I don’t.”

He gave me the once-over. “This monkey suit looks a bit big, Sunshine. Bet it’ll fit me.”

Tears pricked my eyes. “You’d do that for me?”

“Cannae think of much I wouldnae do for you, lass.”

I kissed him. Hard. My heart pounded with affection as I cupped his gorgeous face with my furry paws and ravished his mouth. He matched my fervor, holding my head captive while conquering my tongue. Possessive. Seductive. The kind of kiss I would have dragged out forever if I weren’t under the gun.

I broke off with a groan. “We have to go.”

“My loss.”

“Sweet talk like this is going to pay off big-time when I get you back to my place,” I said with a little smile.

Grinning, he pulled back into the one-way traffic. “Never shagged a gorilla before.”

I snorted. “Good to know.”

He turned the corner and headed toward the boardwalk. “Didnae know Stone and Sasha were back from their honeymoon.”

“Neither did I.” Over a week ago, Michael had called me from Paris, drunk and lamenting a fight he’d had with his blushing bride over me. Given the nature of this gig, I guess they made up. Whoop-te-do. “They’re celebrating the second anniversary of their first date,” I said, folding my furry arms over my gnarled stomach. “Michael and I weren’t even separated then.”

He reached over and smoothed the backs of his fingers over my cheek.

Sizzle.

That tender gesture was even hotter than that five-alarm kiss. I was definitely besotted. “To top things off,” I said, squirming in my seat, “the casino they’re dining in is the last casino I auditioned at. I’m not even sure I’m allowed on property after the stunt I pulled.”

“All the more reason for me to take this on.”

“Can you sing ‘Born in the U.S. APE’?”

He slid me a look.

“Never mind. I can do this. I need to do this. For Jayne. For me. Call me crazy, but it feels like some kind of test.” I plucked the gorilla head from the floor and fluffed the fur. “Just let me out at the main entrance. Park up there along the side. I’ll be in and out in ten minutes. Fifteen tops.”

He didn’t look happy, but he didn’t argue. A phone chimed—his.

I fiddled with the tickets and the flower while he took the call.

“Yeah?” He listened and frowned. “Bloody hell. No, I didnae know. Do some digging. See what you can find oot. I’ll be there within the half hour.”

“Who was that?” I asked as he pocketed the cell and pulled into the valet entrance.

“The Kid.”

“Bad news?”

“Unexpected.”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

He reached over and squeezed my hairy thigh. “Let’s get through the gig for Jayne, yeah?”

“Then you’ll tell me?”

“Aye.”

“Okay.” I forced a smile and lassoed my imagination. One problem at a time.

By the time Arch rounded the car and opened the door I had the head on, tickets and rose in paw—full gorilla regalia. Just like that I was on. Suddenly, it was just like any one of the hundreds of goofy gigs I’d done in the past. I was even on home turf. A casino I knew inside and out. All I had to do was stroll in and act as if I belonged. It helped that I was incognito. No one, not even the man I’d been married to for fifteen years, was going to recognize me in this monkey suit.

I gave Arch a cocky salute and waltzed toward the doors, enjoying the chuckles I heard as a doorman ushered me inside. I liked making people laugh. Bringing joy had always been a thrill and the top perk of being an entertainer.

I crossed the main concourse and headed for a bank of elevators, waving to customers as I passed by. Good thing I knew where I was going. My vision was compromised. The ape eyes were a creation of fabric and grill work. I could see, but not clearly, and only the things directly in front of me. Luckily, it didn’t smell too bad in here. In fact, it smelled as if it had just been sprayed with some sort of cleaner. Pine scent. Not a personal favorite, but anything was better than stinky sweat.

I bolstered my nerve as I neared the gourmet Italian restaurant. It’s not like I loved Michael anymore, but I had to admit, it was going to be rough seeing him with Sasha for the first time as man and wife. And worse, seeing her pregnant. Sadly, he hadn’t been interested in having children with me. So, yeah, I was a little bitter about the kid thing. But they lived in this town and I lived in this town so it’s not as if I could avoid them forever. In a weird way, getting my first look at them without them seeing me was a bonus. I could scowl or cry or roll my eyes and all they’d see is the stony pug-faced expression of a stuffed gorilla.

The hostess didn’t stop me so obviously she was in on the joke. I saw Michael and Sasha right off—the handsome, sharp-suited agent and the much-too-young for him lingerie model. They were seated directly in front of me, at a table with an ocean view. Only they weren’t alone. I recognized the casino’s entertainment coordinator and the VP of marketing. Two of the execs who’d been present during my disastrous audition.

Pile it on, cosmos.

I wasn’t anxious or intimidated. I was hopped up on indignation. I was going to be the best damned singing gorilla they’d ever seen. Put that in your banana and smoke it!

I marched up to the table and launched into song. The lyrics of the first verse actually matched my mind-set a few bitter months back. I sang them with a Southern accent and a gritty quality so Michael wouldn’t recognize my voice. Although I suppose it was muffled anyway. I sang with gusto, gyrated my hips, and wiggled my big monkey butt. By the time I made it to the chorus, the surrounding customers were clapping in time.

“Born in the U.S. APE. I was born in the U.S. APE…”

After a double chorus, I ended with a bow and extended the long-stemmed rose and concert tickets to Michael. He looked half bewildered, half amused. Then he focused on those front row and center tickets and broke out in a face-splitting smile. The comments from the surrounding tables blurred into white noise. I only had eyes and ears for Michael and his new wife, whose belly was concealed by the table. I watched them kiss and hug, listened to their sappy endearments of love…and survived.

I felt nothing aside from the rush of a job well done. The surrounding patrons were still applauding and the fact that the casino execs looked impressed was a bonus. Ah, the sweet smell of rubbing their noses in my multi-talents—talents they’d rejected based on my age. Yes! I pumped my ape fist in the air and performed a victory dance before spinning off and making a hasty exit.

Only as I neared the elevator did I realize my mistake. That victory dance was my signature happy dance, one that used to amuse Michael before he grew bored with me.

Crap!

Was he looking my way when I did it? Or gazing moony-eyed at Sasha?

Sweat trickled down my face as I pressed the down button. Come on. Come on. The door opened but it was packed and no one got off. The laughing occupants waved and shouted corny monkey comments as the doors shut. I punched the button again, peeked around the corner and saw Michael coming.

Oh, damn. Oh…bloody hell.

I zipped around the other way, slip-sliding down the marble hall in my fuzzy feet. King Kong fleeing the slot-machine jungle. I heard my name, a shushed, muffled “Evie” as I stepped onto the escalator. It was one of those really tall ones and I almost lost my balance. My heart leapt to my throat as I grabbed the railing and someone grabbed me.

“Fuck’s sake, Sunshine. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Arch?”

“Dinnae turn around. Just hold on and…try to look inconspicuous.”

I laughed.

“You were fucking brilliant by the way.”

“You saw my performance?”

“From a distance.”

“Michael didn’t see you, did he?”

“No.”

“Is he following us now?”

“No.”

“Why did you follow me?”

“Backup.”

Oh. “That was sweet.”

“Standard procedure for team members, yeah?”

“Uh-huh.” Wearing a big smile that he couldn’t see, I bastardized a movie quote in a singsongy voice. “You were worried. Because you love me. You want to smooch me. You want to hug me.”

“Sandra Bullock. Miss Congeniality. Sort of.”

I craned my head around, but I still couldn’t see him because of the ape’s limited vision. “You’re amazing.”

“You’re a pain in the arse.”

“But an adorable pain.”

“Aye,” he said with a smile in his voice. “There is that.”

“Oh!” I cried, experiencing a bout of déjà vu. “Let me know when we near the bottom. I don’t want my fur to get eaten in the teeth of the last step. Once I was working with a group of Hollywood characters and the hem of Jean Harlow’s gown got eaten and seized up the gears. She had to be cut out of the dress and—”

Suddenly I was whisked up and into Arch’s arms. “Problem solved,” he said as he carried me across the concourse and out the front door.

I giggled. “You probably look pretty silly right now.”

“Not as silly as you, lass.”

“True.”

Ten seconds later I was seated in his car and yanking off that suffocating head. I swiped my arm across my drenched forehead. “I did it, Arch. I saw them together and I didn’t feel anything. What a huge flipping relief!”

“Good to know.”

Something in his tone. Something…fragile. I hadn’t thought about it from his point of view. Had he worried I still harbored affection for my ex? Wow. More proof of the bad boy’s vulnerability.

“You look flushed,” he said as he pulled onto Pacific Avenue. “Are you okay?”

“Sure,” I said, my mind zinging with a hundred thoughts. All of them having to do with Arch and the future. “Just hot. And itchy. I can’t wait to get out of this suit. Speaking of…You’re going the wrong way. Fannie’s Flowers is south.”

“The Chameleon Club’s north.”

I flashed on The Kid’s phone call. My gut said this was about Beckett. I reached in the backseat, grabbed my tote bag and dug out my phone. “I’ll call Fannie and let her know the gig went great and that I’ll return the costume later today.”

“Good idea.”

“Oh, wait.” I squinted at the screen of my phone. “I think I have a text message. I don’t know how—”

Arch nabbed my cell, punched a couple of buttons and handed it back.

“Thanks.” I read the abbreviated text. “It’s from Nic. All it says is that Jayne’s okay and that she’ll call me later. Why didn’t she call with more of an update?”

“I can think of a couple of reasons. Neither cause for panic.”

“In other words, don’t borrow trouble.”

“Aye.”

Speaking of trouble…“So what’s the unexpected news?”

Fighting traffic, Arch cast me a quick look. “Mad Dog’s dead.”

## CHAPTER SIX

THE CHAMELEON CLUB WAS LOCATED in Atlantic City’s Inlet. Only not in the newly renovated section. And though it was situated on the boardwalk, it faced the bay instead of the ocean and was a goodly distance from the casinos and souvenir tourist traps. Let’s just say I wouldn’t walk around this area after dark. Even during the day, I held my purse close and watched for muggers and drunks. No wonder Nic and Jayne had flipped when I told them I’d been hired to sing full-time in this, well—calling a spade a spade—dive.

Arch veered into the pothole-ridden parking lot and I had visions of car thieves lurking in the abandoned building a block down. “Isn’t there a nearby garage or a secret place like the Bat Cave where you can park this thing?”

“No.”

“What if we come out and all of the tires are gone?”

“I’ll buy new ones.”

“What if the car is gone?”

“Jazzman’s fine.”

“I wasn’t talking about Beckett.”

“But you’re thinking aboot him, yeah?”

I didn’t bother to lie. Arch would know. “Aren’t you?”

“Aye.”

He didn’t elaborate. I didn’t press. He’d tried calling Beckett twice since receiving the news of Mad Dog’s death. Both calls had rolled to voice mail.

On the ride over my imagination had soared. Arch had no information other than Frank Turner had been found dead this morning in his home, the seeming victim of a burglary. So I’d filled in the blanks, creating two or three different scenarios. Surely Beckett hadn’t killed the man and if he did, it must have been in self-defense only why then would he cover it up? Only maybe he didn’t cover it up. Maybe the cops were mistaken. Or maybe it was a straight up burglary and the thieves—not Beckett—killed Mad Dog. Yeah. That was it. Only I kept going, relaying the plot of a classic caper flick, to which Arch responded, “This is real life, not a movie, yeah?”

Which was his way of telling me to stuff a sock in it.

I’d clammed up after that, until now that is. “Wait,” I said as he helped me out of his spiffy car. “I have to get out of this costume.” Even though Arch had cranked up the air, I was soaked to the skin and itchy. Unfortunately, I tend to break out in a rash when I’m nervous or anxious, although it’s usually confined to my neck and chest. This was a full body itch so I guess that meant I was ultranervous about Beckett.

Arch tugged down the back zipper. I shimmied out of the gorilla suit, sighing when a breeze hit my sweaty skin.

He peered at me over the rim of his sunglasses. “Now that’s sexy.”

He was looking at my chest.

I glanced down, not getting a straight on view like him, but I could imagine. Initially, I’d been wearing layers, only I knew I’d be hot in the ape suit, so I’d peeled off the long-sleeved T-shirt, leaving my pale pink tank top. It was soaked and so was my sheer bra. I met his appreciative gaze. “So can you see my…you know.”

“Nipples?” He quirked his first grin in several minutes then reached into his backseat and produced a denim jacket.

“Thanks.” I didn’t care that it was too big for me. Through twists of fate it seemed someone, somewhere was always getting a peek at my boobs. So far everyone on the team except…No, wait. Everyone on the team had seen my boobs. I didn’t want to think about it.

Arch lit up a cigarette and I marveled for the zillionth time how I could possibly find the nasty habit sexy. I guess it’s because it accentuated his bad-boy persona. It also stunk up the air and blackened his lungs. Lungs I cared about more and more, along with every other organ and limb of the man’s hunky body.

“You should really think about giving those things up.”

“Noted.”

“And?”

“Thinking aboot it.”

I rolled my eyes. Conversation with Arch wasn’t always easy. But I wasn’t daunted. After all, I’d been married to a man who spoke in circles for a living. As an agent, Michael had to appease both artist and buyer which often led to embellishing, twisting, and spinning his words. Sometimes the best approach was to leave off and come back to the subject later. In some ways, Michael had been a valuable training ground for Arch. Weird, but true.

We fell into mutual silence—Arch smoking, me scratching—as we made our way up the wooden steps and onto the boardwalk. Waves lapped at the shore. The sun beamed in a clear blue sky. A beautiful spring day, except for the cloud of doom I imagined hovering over the club.

Arch snuffed his Marlboro then steered me through the front door. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I flashed on the disappointment I’d experienced the first time I’d entered this run-down building. I’d expected a super spy facility, not a dingy bar that looked like it hadn’t been modernized since the 1950s. It even had a beat-up cigarette machine and a jukebox. The pictures on the faded walls featured singers and musicians from days gone by. The only artists I recognized were Miles Davis and Billie Holiday. Then again, unlike Beckett, I wasn’t a big fan of jazz. You can imagine my shock when I was told it’s the only kind of music he allows in this joint. I sing pop, rock, country, disco and R and B. I do not sing jazz.

Although, I’d have to take a stab at it. When not in the field, Beckett expected me to perform here. A cover job of sorts. Just as this bar was a cover for Chameleon. Never mind that there wasn’t a stage and that the mini sound system had been appropriated by Tabasco. At least it was better than flipping burgers in the kitchen. Maybe.

I hugged myself, scratching at my itchy skin through the sleeves of the jacket as Arch and I bypassed vacant tables and targeted the bar. Business wasn’t exactly booming. Then again it was only one in the afternoon. I was pretty certain the two barflies buzzing over their draft beers were the same two geezers I’d seen in here during my last visit.

The bartender, an elderly dark-skinned gentleman with a fondness for vests and porkpie hats, was the team member who oversaw the club when Beckett was in the field. His name was Samuel Vine, but everyone called him Pops. He had a deep, soulful voice that seemed two sizes too big for his wiry body. Pops was also a man of few words. I didn’t know his background, but I’m thinking he and Beckett went way back. Unlike Arch, he didn’t hide his emotions. Clearly, he was rattled. Even so, he forced a smile and addressed me first.

“Welcome home, Twinkie.”

Unfortunately, everyone on the team, except Arch, had picked up on my unwanted moniker. Fortunately, I’d grown used to it. “Thanks, Pops.”

“Your ma and pa okay now?”

“Happily reunited. Thanks to…” I started to say Chameleon then remembered the barflies. “Friends.”

“Good. That’s good.” His gaze flicked to the man beside me. “Ace,” he said, gripping Arch’s hand.

Arch squeezed the man’s shoulder, smiled, and the old man relaxed a little. “Heard from Jazzman?” Arch asked.

Pops leaned in and lowered his voice. “All I know is he got hauled in by the AIA. Told me he’d be in touch later. That was—” he glanced at his Timex “—three hours ago.”

I scratched my neck, my chest.

“Others are in The Cave,” Pops said then moved back to his cronies.

Arch took my hand and pulled me aside. “Maybe you should wait here.”

“Why?”

“From the way you’re scratching, I’m not sure you can handle whatever’s going on, Sunshine.”

Of all the…“I can handle it!”

“Calm down,” Arch said with a glance to the patrons. All two of them.

“I can handle it,” I whispered through clenched teeth. “This isn’t a nervous rash. I’ve never broken out on my arms before. I think it’s a reaction to that monkey suit. The fur or whatever Fannie cleaned it with. I don’t know.”

“Right then. You should shower.”

“I will. As soon as I get home.”

“Now. Upstairs.”

“Beckett’s shower?”

“Aye.”

“Forget it.”

“He’s not there.”

“I don’t care.” No way, no how was I getting naked in Beckett’s apartment. I’d been there. Done that. Almost. Thanks to ODing on a combo of over the counter medication. “I’m fine. Really. Let’s go.”

He didn’t look or sound exasperated, but I’d wager I’d taxed his patience. “Fine,” he said then steered me to a storage room.

My pulse accelerated as we navigated the jam-packed room and pushed through a concealed door. A set of creaky stairs led to the basement. A low-wattage bulb illuminated a washer and dryer and a freezer. Workout equipment. Tools. Crates of liquor and soda. All perfectly normal. Well, except for the appliances. The avocado finish screamed early 70s. Hello, Brady Bunch. The old-as-dirt dryer was probably a fire hazard. The ancient wiring couldn’t be that safe, either. I immediately redirected my basement inferno thoughts.

I’d only been down here once before. But I knew Arch had to swing aside a wall clock to get to a security pad. Unlike Pops he didn’t ask me to turn away when he punched in the code. Which intimated trust. Which gave me a warm fuzzy feeling. If only it would heal the itching sensation driving me batty.

Just as I knew it would, a wall slid open revealing The Cave. The super spy facility I’d imagined only it was hidden behind shelves of canned pretzels and assorted nuts.

I don’t know why they called it The Cave. It didn’t look like a cave. It looked like a state-of-the-art recording studio. Acoustic tiles. Plush carpeting. Leather furniture. A console of visual and audio gadgets.

A techno-geek’s dream. Speaking of…

“I dug like you said, Ace, but I didn’t get much,” Woody said as we entered the room and the wall slid shut behind us.

The Kid, as everyone except me called him, was sitting alongside Tabasco at the console tapping away at one of three computers. The two men couldn’t look more opposite.

Woody had a pasty complexion, scraggly hair, and a sparse beard. Skinny as a rail, early twenties—a dead ringer for Scooby-Doo’s Shaggy. He’d had one girlfriend and he’d lost her. It didn’t help that he was a social train wreck.

Tabasco probably had a girlfriend or two in every state. Any woman who’d ever drooled over Antonio Banderas would drool over Jimmy Tabasco. Same sexy, Latin lover vibe. Plus, he was sweet.

Tabasco’s official role with Chameleon was dual: Transportation Specialist and Location Scout. But he was also pretty savvy with tech gear. Last night he’d worked alongside Woody in the high-tech surveillance van, spying on Mad Dog’s poker game. Since the players weren’t allowed to have guests, Arch (as the Baron of Broxley) had sent me back to our hotel, only I’d stopped the cab a block down and had backtracked, slipping inside the undercover van to view the sting over Woody’s and Tabasco’s shoulders. Being on the outside looking in wasn’t where I wanted to be, but it was better than being in the dark. Due to strategically hidden cameras, Tabasco, Woody, and I had a prime view of every player and their cards via multiple monitors. Due to transmitting and receiving body wires, we had full audio contact. Between Arch and Gina, who were both in the game, Mad Dog never stood a chance even with his luminous contact lenses and marked cards.

“The only reason CNN picked up the story,” said Tabasco, “is because Mad Dog was a former pro football player.”

“Otherwise we wouldn’t have learned the news so soon,” Woody said. “A burglary that resulted in homicide. Local news stuff.”

Just then Gina emerged from another room with a cup of coffee. Without a word she perched on the cushy leather sofa and thumbed through a stack of newspapers. She barely spared us a glance. I wasn’t surprised. She hated that I was sleeping with Arch. I hated that she’d slept with Arch (something I’d learned from my meddling ex-husband). Arch, who’d refused to apologize to me for past affairs (which when I thought about it logically was, well, logical) was nevertheless sensitive to my discomfort. Hence, he’d been treating Gina with cool indifference. I was starting to feel bad about that. Especially, when I put myself in her shoes. I could fully sympathize with the plight of the woman scorned.

“Hacked into the local law’s computer system,” said Woody. “The initial report looks routine, though sketchy. Cops must be frustrated as all get out. No physical evidence. No clue as to the identity of the assailant.”

“Yet,” Tabasco said.

“Pull up that report for me, Kid.” Arch moved to the console.

I scratched. I needed a distraction from the itching that was only getting worse. Eying the stack of newspapers, I sucked it up and sat down next to Gina. Not right next to her, but close enough to make her frown.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Looking for any mention of ‘Mad Dog.’ Doubt there’ll be one since most of these papers went to press last night, but it’s worth a look. Also keeping my eye trained for any blips about Senator Clark or Vincent Crowe. Anything at all.”

“Can I help?”

I thought I heard her sigh, only Gina wasn’t the sighing type. She reminded me of Nic—independent, cynical, worldly. She also resembled my friend in appearance, only her skin was paler and her eyes were brown. But she exuded the same sensuality. Had the same tall, slender but toned body. Except Nic was nice and Gina was mean. Okay. Maybe not mean. But definitely bitter. Again, I could relate.

She passed me the Philadelphia Inquirer without comment and I felt another twinge of guilt. Maybe if I tried harder we could strike some kind of truce. The tension I’d created between Arch and Beckett was bad enough.

Determined to fit in, I scanned the newspaper, every section, every page, every article. Meanwhile I listened to the men discuss the timeline and where they thought Beckett would have/should have been and what, if anything, could have gone wrong.

I didn’t point out that I had made similar conjectures just minutes ago in Arch’s car. I skimmed the paper and scratched, silently congratulating myself for thinking on their level.

Gina looked over her shoulder at Arch. “The Kid said you spoke with Jazzman this morning. How did he sound?”

“Tired.”

“What did he say?”

“Mission complete.”

“His part of the mission,” Gina said, “was to make Turner disappear.”

“Not literally!” I snapped. “He was just supposed to make him, you know, go away. Split the country. Change his identity and never mention the senator’s wife’s gambling problem or else—” I scratched my cheek “—something. He didn’t kill Mad Dog,” I grumbled while scratching my arms.

“Preaching to the choir, Sunshine. We’re all on Beckett’s side.” Arch sounded calm. No surprise there.

Tabasco sounded calm, but his attitude needed work. “I have a sinking feeling we’re going to be linked to Mad Dog’s death.”

“Agent Beckett did say he had a bad feeling about this case right off,” Woody added.

“I want to know why the AIA pulled him in,” Arch said, “and why he hasn’t returned our calls.”

“What’s with the red blotches on your face, Twinkie?”

I glanced up and saw Gina staring at me with—here’s a shocker—concern. I experienced a full body blush. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been acting like a dog with fleas ever since you walked in,” Woody said.

I realized then that I was scratching like a loon. My arms. My neck and chest. My face. Yet there was no relief from the incessant itching that felt as though it had wiggled beneath my skin. I felt irritable and anxious, and okay, a little scared. “Stupid gorilla suit!”

“What?” Gina laughed but she still looked concerned.

Arch moved around and crouched in front of me just as I yanked off his jacket in order to scratch my bare arms.

“Shite.”

“Shit,” Gina echoed. “That’s a serious allergy attack, Arch. Get her to a doctor.”

My eyes widened. “What? No. I’m okay. Really. I want to help you guys help Beckett.”

“Nothing we can do right now,” said Tabasco. “Jesus, babe, you’re covered in hives.”

The Kid stood in front of me shaking his head. “You look awful.”

“You always manage to say the worst thing possible,” I snapped, because he did, but not on purpose. “I’m sorry, Woody. I…” I felt an anxiety attack coming on.

“Come on, lass.” Arch pulled me off the sofa and into his arms.

I was going to die of embarrassment. I was going to die period. The itching was unbearable. But even as he carried me from the room I thought about Jayne. “What about Madame Helene?” I asked Arch. “You promised—”

“Tabasco.”

“Yeah?”

“I need to you to check up on a local psychic,” Arch said. “Madame Helene. I want to know her game.”

“Will do.”

“Kid. Gina. Call me if you learn anything more or hear from Jazzman, yeah?”

They said, “Sure,” as Arch whisked me up the stairs.

I clung and fought not to hyperventilate. I couldn’t think straight. I’d never been so physically miserable in my life. Except maybe when I had the chicken pox, but that was a faded childhood memory. Even the concussion I’d suffered in the Caribbean because of the Simon the Fish fiasco paled.

I scratched even though Arch told me not to, even though it didn’t help.

Two minutes later, he placed me in his car.

I closed my eyes to stave off tears. “I’m going to die.”

Arch kissed my forehead and buckled me in. “Not in my lifetime, lass.”

## CHAPTER SEVEN

MILO SAT IN THE RENTAL CAR, staring up at her condo. “You’re a glutton for punishment, Beckett.” They weren’t on the best of terms. Hell, she didn’t even like him. Still, he’d driven here instead of home. Somehow, he knew she’d make him feel better. Or at least she wouldn’t object if he drank himself blind.

He’d been sitting here for fifteen minutes. “Screw it.”

He rang her up.

“Hello?”

“It’s Beckett.”

Silence.

“I know this is crazy, but…I need to drink and I don’t want to drink alone.”

“Call a friend.”

“My friends are my associates. Not up for that right now.”

She paused and when she spoke again her tone was less abrasive, but not much. “What’s wrong?”

“I’d rather talk about it over Scotch.”

Silence.

His throbbing temples charged him a fool. His judgment had been off lately. Coming here was just another example. “Never mind.”

“No, wait.” She blew out a breath. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, right? I’ll meet you at The Irish Pub.”

“Your place,” he countered.

“Not comfortable with that.”

“Neither am I, but I’d appreciate it.”

“Well, damn, Slick.” Another curse, then, “I live at—”

“I know.” He knocked on the door.

A beat later it swung open and he was looking at Nicole Sparks. A lush-lipped beauty with a bad attitude. Nine days ago, she’d threatened to make his life hell if he ever hurt her friend Evie. She was an outspoken, pushy, skeptical pain in the ass. Seeing her again only convoluted his emotions.

What the fuck was he doing here?

His cock twitched in answer.

Easy, Mr. Happy. You don’t want to go there. Okay. Maybe you do, but I don’t.

The warm air sparked with mutual hostility as they sized up one another on the threshold of her third-story condo. He knew he looked bad. His lip was split and swollen. He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours. He needed a shave and his suit was rumpled.

She, on the other hand, looked chic in her slim-fitting pants and tailored blouse—black, like her long, glossy hair. Her unusual coloring—mocha skin, jade-green eyes—gave her an exotic look that solicited erotic images. He attributed his unwanted hard-on to her potent sexuality and his pathetic love life. It sure wasn’t based on healthy desire. Nic was a threatening storm to Evie’s hopeful rainbow. Not to mention she was Evie’s best friend. The dynamics of his relationships with friends and associates was already screwed. Like he needed to add another twist. Nicole Sparks was trouble on several levels and Milo didn’t want any part of her.

Yet here he was.

“Awfully sure of yourself, Slick.”

“Just optimistic.”

“You mean desperate.” She quirked a brow. “What happened to your lip?”

“Walked into a fist.”

“That fist belong to anyone I know?”

“No.”

“Arch didn’t lose his cool and pop you one for—”

“No.” He took off his sunglasses and nailed her with weary eyes. “Are you going to let me in or not?”

She waved him inside and he tried not to stare at her ass when she led him through the foyer into a spacious living room. Tried and failed.

She turned and crossed her arms over her equally enticing breasts. “I don’t have any Scotch.”

His gaze caressed her curves then locked on her killer eyes. “I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

“I’m not going to sleep with you, Beckett.”

“Awfully sure of yourself.”

“I know a come-on when I hear it and a hard-on when I see it.” Before he could respond she slipped into the kitchen. “How do you feel about vodka?”

“Same as I feel about you. I can tolerate it.”

He heard her laugh. A throaty sound that only heightened his predicament. He took off his jacket, adjusted himself then settled on the plush red couch. He rubbed a crick from his neck while noting the impeccably decorated room. So the pain in the ass had a flair for design. Classy taste. Designer taste. He wondered how she afforded it. As far as he knew, she made her living solely as an entertainer and according to Evie, times were tough.

She returned with a full bottle of Absolut Citron. Lemon-flavored vodka. Not a drink of choice, but just now he’d settle for Boone’s Farm. She sank down beside him and set two glasses on the gleaming cocktail table.

“Given your mood, figured you’d want it straight.”

“Good call.”

“I know you made a pass at Evie and that she opted for Arch,” she said straight out. “If this is some sort of rebound—”

“It’s not.”

“Because I’ve been through that more than once and—”

“This isn’t about Evie.” He poured, thinking, not for the first time, a wounded heart beat beneath Nicole’s tough facade. He wondered if she’d ever let her guard down with him. Probably not. Which was probably for the best. “I didn’t want to be around people I know—well, that is—and I didn’t want to be alone.”

Her eyes softened as she raised her glass in a toast. “What are we drinking to?” she asked.

“Me being fucked.”

She stiffened.

“Not by you, sweetheart. By my own people.”

“The AIA?”

“You know about the Agency?”

“Evie told me. Don’t worry. I know it’s…how did she put it? Big-time hush-hush.”

He smiled a little. “She does have a way with words.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, Slick.”

“I believe you, Nicole.”

“Most people call me Nic.”

“Most people call me Milo.”

“When I was a kid we had a dog named Milo.” She smiled when he grunted, then angled in and tucked her bare feet beneath that fine ass. “Just how big is this bureaucratic shaft?”

“I’ve been accused of murder.”

The smile slipped. “That’s big.”

They slammed back two fingers of vodka in tandem.

“Knew I came to the right place,” Milo said. Jury was out on who had drank who under the table the last, and only other time, they’d shared a bottle.

Nic refilled their glasses, chewing over his revelation.

“Aren’t you going to ask if I did it?”

“Did you?”

“Apparently so, though not by design.” He still couldn’t believe it, even after seeing the digital recording. He didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to feel the doubt and guilt clawing at his gut. He popped two Tylenol and slammed back a second shot.

“What does that mean?” she asked. “Apparently so.”

“When I left the scene, he was still alive.”

“So he died after.”

“Soon after.”

“Because of something you did.”

Milo nodded. “Apparently so.”

Nic watched him with a calm, cool gaze and sipped. “What does your partner say about this?”

“I haven’t told Arch yet. The incident took place around 2:00 a.m. I just learned about the unfortunate outcome a few hours ago when a pair of agents met me at the airport and escorted me to HQ.”

“Since you’re free, obviously there wasn’t enough evidence to hold you.”

“I’m free, because the Agency tampered with the crime scene. Made it look like a burglary. Trust me. The victim’s death will go unsolved.”

Nic frowned. “Wait a minute. Your people discovered the body? How’s that possible? Unless…were they there as backup?”

“They were there, unbeknownst to me, to make sure I didn’t screw up. Which, it seems, I did.”

“So they covered your ass. They compromised a crime scene, on purpose, which means they broke the law. Why would they do that? They’re federal agents for chrissakes.”

“Surely you, of all people, aren’t that naive.”

She angled her head. “Protecting one of their own?”

“So Crowe, my boss, says. He’s also protecting a certain politician.”

“You don’t sound sold on your boss’s motive.”

“I’m not.”

“Who’s the politician?”

“Can’t say.” He looked away and poured more vodka.

“Privileged information, huh?”

“Sorry.”

She shrugged, sipped. “How do those agents know for sure that you caused this person’s death? Did they spy through the windows with super-spook binoculars? Slip a bug in your shoe?”

Milo’s lip twitched. “For a second there, you sounded like Evie.” He sipped vodka to drown out thoughts of the overimaginative half-pint. He focused back on his dilemma and Nic’s question. “Spying was involved, yes. But more damning…”

“What?”

“Let’s just say they have hard evidence.”

“That sounds bad.”

“It is.”

They fell into mutual silence, drank more vodka. Milo could hear Nic’s thoughts churning. “Just an observation,” she said, “but given your background and training in law enforcement, seems you’d know whether or not what you did was intense enough to cause death. Apparently so says you’re surprised. No offense, but this whole thing sounds like a grade B thriller. Maybe I’ve watched too many documentaries on conspiracy theories, but…any chance you’re being framed, Slick?”

Damn, she was cynical. A quality he normally found off-putting in a woman. But there was nothing normal about this moment and he appreciated the benefit of the doubt. “The thought crossed my mind. Although I’m not sure how—”

“Forget the how. Why would the AIA frame you?”

“To keep me under their thumb. Maybe. I’m not a company man and Crowe is a control freak. On the other hand, could be wishful thinking on my part.”

“What if it’s not? What if there’s some elaborate plan and you’re the pawn?”

“Nicole—”

“Grow some balls, Slick. Buck the system. Investigate. Fight back.”

He’d been bucking the system for years. Bucking the system is what had brought him to this point. “I need to sleep on this,” he said honestly. “Only I can’t. My mind won’t shut down. It’s not just this. It’s…a lot of things.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.” She pulled a remote out of a mosaic box and turned on a thirty-two-inch plasma television. Nice. “Sports, news, sitcom or a movie?” she asked as she surfed channels.

“Anything but the news.”

She messed with her TiVo and settled on The History Channel. He didn’t know Nic well, but he knew she favored documentaries over sitcoms. “Ever watch this series?” she asked. “Decoding the Past?”

“Nope.”

“This episode is of particular interest to me,” she said. “Past U.S. Presidents who consulted psychics. Abe Lincoln, Woodrow Wilson, Franklin D. Roosevelt. Goes to show anyone can fall for that mystical bullshit, right?”

He cut her a glance, wondering at the hostility in her tone. Namely because it wasn’t directed at him. “Right.”

“Make yourself comfortable, Beckett. If you can’t sleep, you can at least rest.”

He didn’t argue. The vodka was already taking effect. Smoothing the edges, slowing his thoughts. He’d been awake now—he glanced at his watch—thirty-seven hours.

“Think you should call someone and let them know you’re okay?” Nic asked as she twisted her long hair into a loose braid.

He tried not to admire her stunning bone structure. Tried and failed. “Probably.” Especially since he had numerous voice messages from Arch, Pops, and Woody. Arch was probably with Evie and that was a road he didn’t want to travel just now. The less he thought about those two together, the better. He called Pops.

“Tell me you’re not in jail, son.”

Milo frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“We heard about Turner.”

“How?”

“CNN.”

“Killing the guy wasn’t part of the plan, Pops.”

“Course not.”

“Tell the team…” He rubbed his eyes, blew out a breath. “Tell them I need some time alone. Tell them to meet me tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. You know the place.”

“You comin’ home tonight?”

Milo glanced at Nic who’d drawn shut the curtains of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Depends.”

“Take care, Jazzman.”

“Always.” He thumbed the cell to vibrate then slipped it in his jacket pocket. If it went off, he wouldn’t feel it. A few more shots of vodka, and he wouldn’t feel anything.

“Thought it might help you relax if it was darker in here,” Nic said as she settled back on the couch.

“Why are you being nice to me?”

“You’ve been accused of murder, Slick. I’m thinking you could use some consideration.”

His mind focused on the last time they’d sat like this, watching TV, drinking. He’d woken up the next morning with her head in his lap. Nothing had happened sexually, but she’d given him the cold shoulder for the rest of the day and she’d cut her trip short. He wanted to ask why, but didn’t. Instead, he commented on her eye roll when the program’s narrator mentioned Roosevelt consulted a psychic about post-WWII world relations. “I take it you don’t believe in the supernatural.”

She topped off her drink. “Do you?”

“I’m in the business of exposing fraud, sweetheart. Do you know how many people a year are suckered by fortune-tellers, hotline psychics, and astrologers?”

“I know of at least one.”

Again with the hostile tone. “Let’s hear it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Shoot.”

She slammed back her drink and lowered the TV volume. “It’s about my free-spirited friend Jayne and a whack-job psychic.”

## CHAPTER EIGHT

CONTRARY TO MY PREDICTION, I did not die.

Thanks to prescription-grade antihistamines and a topical cream, I would indeed live to see another day. Although, I sort of dreaded it. My current track record promised some sort of calamity. A screwball moment that would end in mortification. Hadn’t I endured my share of embarrassing moments this past month?

Apparently not, because they just kept coming.

Gina had been dead-on in her diagnosis. A severe allergic reaction. A hypersensitivity response to an outside influence, according to the emergency room doctor. Said influence being a combination of heat, cleaning chemicals, and emotional stress.

If I would’ve showered when Arch urged me to, I could’ve avoided the hives. He’d had the decency not to say I told you so. Just as he’d been kind enough not to rib me about the time my jaw locked open or the time I got stuck in a tree. Although he’d been pissed about the latter since he’d thought I’d unnecessarily risked my neck to spy on my mom. Don’t ask.

Just now I was trying to think of a way to get rid of him without hurting his feelings.

I didn’t want him to see me like this. The gorilla suit had been sexier.

“Dinnae make me pick this lock, Sunshine.”

Cocooned in my purple robe, I braced my weight against my bathroom door. “I told you I’m fine, just…ugly.”

“What?”

“Did you ever see That Touch of Mink?”

“Doris Day and Cary Grant?”

“Bingo.”

“Not one of their better films, yeah?”

“What are you talking about?” I glared through the door. “It’s a classic!”

“He was funnier in Bringing Up Baby and My Favorite Wife, to name two, and had more chemistry with Hepburn or Dunne, take your pick.”

“I thought Day and Grant were adorable together.”

“Mismatched.”

“Are you talking about their age difference? That would be pretty hypocritical, considering, you know…us.”

“Age is moot when there’s chemistry, yeah?”

I perked up. “You think we have chemistry? Like Bogie and Bacall? Gable and Lombard?” Lucy and Ricky?

“You know we do.”

The connection. I’d mentioned before how we didn’t make sense, but we connected. We just need to find our rhythm.

“Hard to dance with a door between us, you know?”

I sighed. “I know.” I rested my forehead against the painted wood and imagined him doing the same. We’d had numerous conversations on the threshold of one or another bathroom, only the door had always been open and Arch had usually been wearing a towel, his upper body gloriously exposed. I imagined his broad shoulders and chiseled abdomen. His strong arms and that sexy tattoo. I let out a pathetic sigh.

“What’s wrong, lass?”

Aside from being worried about Beckett and Jayne? Selfishly, I was lamenting my own crappy luck. “We were supposed to get naked tonight,” I said with a hitch in my voice.

“Aye. And?”

“Now we can’t.”

“Why not?”

“For one, I’m too distracted.”

“You mean worried,” he said. “No need, yeah? Pops called a few minutes ago. Beckett phoned and he’s fine. Said he’d fill us in tomorrow at a team meeting.”

“He’s not under arrest?”

“No.”

Which implied he was innocent in the death of Mad Dog. I pumped a fist in the air. Yes.

“What else?” Arch asked.

“I’m worried about Jayne. I wish we had something on Madame Helene.”

“Tabasco’s working on it. He’ll have something by tomorrow.”

More good news.

“What else?” His patience was amazing.

“Well,” I said touching a hand to my face. “Remember that scene in That Touch of Mink when Cathy broke out in hives because she was nervous about sleeping with Mr. Shayne?”

“You’re getting cold feet aboot us? Shagging in your apartment is too intimate? What?”

He didn’t sound mad, but I knew him well enough to know I’d tripped a live wire. Uh-oh. “It’s not that. It’s…”

The lock clicked and I hopped back just as the door swung open.

He took one look at me and smiled.

“Are you happy now?” I didn’t know whether to cry or punch him.

“It’s not so bad.”

“It’s awful.” The topical lotion I’d slathered on my hives had dried in pink pasty splotches all over my arms, chest, neck and—ack!—face. I wasn’t exactly confident about my looks as is. I’m sure there are some perks to being over forty, but random gray hairs, crow’s-feet, and less taut skin aren’t included. At least I have perky boobs. That’s something. And I’m limber. A definite bonus.

Until recently I’d refused to let Arch shag me missionary-style. Too intimate. All I wanted was a fling. Sex, just sex. Falling in love with a man I didn’t trust, a man who didn’t do relationships wouldn’t be smart. I knew it wouldn’t take much for me to lose my heart to the sexiest, most dangerous, most caring man I’d ever known, so I’d avoided the ultimate intimacy.

Talk about a losing battle. I’d crumbled three weeks into our hot and heavy fling.

Though Arch appreciated my agility (call me Gumby), he surprisingly enjoyed the missionary-style most. He said he liked to look at my face and into my eyes when he, well, sent me over the moon to the Big O.

I didn’t want him looking at my face tonight.

“You know what your problem is?” he asked as he nabbed my robe’s sash and tugged me into the bedroom.

“Aside from the obvious?”

“You focus too much on the physical. The external, yeah?”

“Yeah? Well, my roots are in entertainment. Call me shallow.” Or realistic. Granted, it had probably been this way for decades. Youth and sexuality taking precedence over talent. Not all the time, of course, but more often than it should. Not that I’m bitter. Okay. Maybe a little.

He angled his head. “So you’re only hot for me because of what you see?”

“What? No. I mean I like what I see.” A lot. “But that’s just, I don’t know, cake.”

“Icing.”

“Right. The frosting on the top.”

“Cherry on the top.”

“Whatever. I can name a hundred reasons why I’m attracted to you that have nothing to do with your movie-star looks.”

His mouth quirked. “Name one.”

“You make me feel sexy.”

“You are sexy.”

I snorted. “Nic is sexy. Gina is sexy.”

“There are all kinds of sexy, yeah?”

Kind of like there are all kinds of lies? “Also, you always say the right thing. I don’t know why I find that appealing since I know it’s a honed skill. Con artists always say the right thing. It’s part of your toolbox. Squeezed up against confidence, sincerity, and calm. Qualities that allow you to manipulate—” I squealed as he yanked off my sash and wrapped it around my head, covering my eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you to focus less on the external.”

Not only had he blindfolded me, but without the sash my robe gaped open. I felt violated and exposed and, hello, aroused. “But I look—”

He kissed away my protest. I wondered if he had anti-itch cream on his face now, but only fleetingly. Hard to think coherent thoughts with a sizzling Scot’s tongue in my mouth. Not that I could see the man. But I could taste and smell and…Zing. Zap!

Desire snaked through my body as he palmed my bare butt and ground his erection into my belly. Erotic thoughts boogied through my head as he maneuvered me…somewhere. Or maybe that was the world shifting beneath my feet. Could this man kiss!

Delirious with desire, I think I actually whimpered when he eased away. I figured his little experiment was over and I was feeling a little ridiculous between the blindfold, my gaping robe, and my smiley face socks. Not to mention the splotchy pink cream. I reached up to untie the sash.

“Leave it.”

I’m not sure which was sexier—the fact that he’d ordered me to do so or the anticipation of his next move. I scrunched my brow. “Are you still wearing all of your clothes?”

“Aye.”

Hmm.

Before I could ask another question, he tore the robe off my body.

Um. Okay. That was exciting. I couldn’t see his mesmerizing eyes or that tribal tattoo or his ripped torso, but yeah, baby, yeah, I could feel.

Before I knew what hit me, I hit the mattress. I could feel my soft comforter beneath my bare back and Arch’s hard body—fully clothed—on top of me. “What—”

“Dinnae talk.”

Another order.

Zing.

I was officially, totally turned on. Clothes off, I said to myself while fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

“Dinnae touch.” He grasped my wrists and pushed my hands over my head.

Zap.

I felt my knuckles brush the brass railings of my headboard. “Grab hold,” he said close to my ear, “and dinnae let go.”

My heart pounded. Should I be nervous? We’d had a lot of creative sex, but never anything kinky. This was kinky. For me anyway. At least he hadn’t used handcuffs. Although if I disobeyed and let go, he could always lash my wrists to the headboard with my socks. Which reminded me, I still had them on. Arch has a thing for my collection of cartoonish socks. He thinks they’re sexy.

Definitely kinky.

My thoughts scrambled when he bit and sucked my nipples—no allergy medicine there. I gripped the brass rails and endured sweet ecstasy as he lavished attention on both breasts before kissing his way south. My heart raced as he kissed and nipped at my thighs, his warm hands urging my legs apart. I listened for the sound of his jeans unzipping and instead felt the pressure and warmth of his mouth down there, working magic. I bit back an enraptured, oh-my-God—no talking allowed—and settled on a lot of moaning.

Twice I almost climaxed. Twice he pulled away. Delirious with need, I wanted to anchor his head between my legs until I peaked, but…no touching allowed!

I could’ve ripped off the blindfold and taken back some control, but the experience was so erotic, so amazingly exciting, I didn’t want it to end.

I held tight to the headboard and endured Arch’s teasing. I squirmed and moaned, and when he finally took pity and tongued me to climax, I uttered gibberish which in my mind did not count as talking. Not that I could form a cohesive sentence right now anyway.

I lay in blindfolded darkness, breathing hard, heart racing, waiting for him to tell me to let go of the rails, only he didn’t.

“My turn,” he said, and my imagination galloped. Numerous erotic images pounded my brain only to be blown away when he mounted me missionary-style.

Given the kinky circumstances, I expected a fast and hard shag. But Arch wasn’t cooperating with my predictions. He took it slow. Achingly slow. My body trembled with delicious sensations as he tormented me with his thick, hard shaft, withdrawing completely before filling me once more.

Just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, he pulled off the blindfold and nailed me with a gaze that sent me over the moon. I relinquished my hold on the rails and latched on to his shoulders. I cried out his name. I came and I came and, “Oh, my God!” came.

Arch shuddered with his own release and dropped his forehead to mine.

My body and mind sparked and sputtered. “That was…”

“Aye.”

After a moment he rolled aside and pulled me into his arms. His heart pounded as hard as mine and he gazed at me as though I were the most beautiful woman on earth. I thought about how awful I looked and how wonderful he’d made me feel. He was right. I did focus too much on outer appearance. I thought about all the whining I’d done over the past few weeks. How I constantly compared myself to women in their twenties or Bond-type women and came up lacking. Yet I’d given a bad boy, a younger bad boy, a hard-on even with my less than perfect body slathered in chalky pink medicine.

I felt a shift deep inside. A snap.

I palmed Arch’s cheek, smiling when I noticed a pink smudge on his chin. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“Not the sex. Although that was…”

“Fan-fucking-tastic?”

I grinned. “Actually I was thanking you for the life lesson.”

“Just reciprocating, Sunshine.”

I blinked. “I’ve taught you a life lesson?”

“A couple, yeah?”

“Really?”

He kissed me. “Really.”

I wondered what, but I didn’t ask. That could wait. My need to exert my newly found confidence, couldn’t.

Looking down, I palmed John Thomas. “All tuckered out, big guy?”

“If he could talk,” Arch said, clearly amused, “he’d ask what you have in mind.”

I rolled out of bed, naked as a jaybird and more comfortable in my skin than I’d ever been. So, I looked like a flamingo threw up on me. So, I had a few smile lines and could stand to lose a couple inches in my hips. So, what? I strode to my closet and whipped out two costumes for his pleasure. “French maid or harem girl?”

Arch’s eyes twinkled and I knew he was a goner. “Bollocks.”

Yup. Toast.

## CHAPTER NINE

MILO GLANCED AT HIS DIGITAL alarm clock. Three-fucking-twenty in the morning. Seven minutes later than the last time he checked. He lay in bed, his own bed, alone. Nothing new there. Aside from a few random dates, he’d slept alone most every night since his divorce. That had been more than a year ago.

As for sex, he hadn’t been laid in months. Not for lack of opportunity, mind you. At first, he attributed his low sex drive to depression over his broken marriage, then later, to his frustration with the AIA. After a few scattered one-night stands, he realized he wanted something more than a disconnected lay. He wanted mind-blowing sex with a woman who got under his skin, a woman who challenged him, a woman who brightened his dark world.