Читать книгу: «All About Evie»

“You think we should kiss. Now.” His words sounded like a statement instead of a question. My blood pumped.

“As a professional, I take my job seriously. I know this is an improvisational gig, but a certain amount of rehearsal seems wise. After all, we’ve been doing it, getting it on, Sugar and Charles that is, for a month. If you want people to believe we’re in lust…” Crap. I meant to say love. “Well, you know what I mean.”

Way to go, Miss Transparent.

He scraped his teeth over his lower lip. Nice teeth. Nice mouth. “Appreciate your dedication, Sunshine.”

I couldn’t tell if he was serious or sarcastic, and right now I didn’t care. I wanted him to kiss me, dammit. “Let’s just get it out of the way,” I ploughed on. “The awkwardness—misaligned mouths, bumping noses and all that.”

Except there was no awkwardness. He swooped in without warning, framed my face, ravished my mouth. He kissed the ever-lovin’ daylights out of me.

All About Evie
Beth Ciotta

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to Heather Graham Pozzessere—an inspiration and a treasured friend. Thank you for all you have done and all you continue to do. Your talent is exceeded only by your generosity and kindness.

Acknowledgements

To my agent, Amy Moore-Benson—You gave me the courage to spread my wings and now we’re flying high. Thank you for your constant support and guidance!

To my editor, Abby Zidle—You got me. You championed me. I am eternally grateful for your enthusiasm, storytelling expertise and advice. Keep smiling!

To Tracy Farrell, Dianne Moggy and everyone at my publisher who helped to make my dreams come true—thank you from the bottom of my heart.

To Cynthia Valero—Your spirit soars alongside mine on this one! To Mary Stella and Julia Templeton—You keep me sane and inspired! To my sister, Barb—Your honesty and support are priceless. And to my husband, Steve—Writing about true love is easy when you’re living it.

A special thank-you to John Ciotta (my brother-in-law) and Nicola Mooney (both professional performers and cruise ship veterans) for answering my gazillion questions regarding the ins and outs of cruising. Heartfelt thanks to Al, Alicia and Jean-Marie for sharing their “cruise” experiences, and to my friend Brooks for his “magical” expertise.

Dear Reader,

I’ve been a professional performer for, well, let’s just say a long time. I admit, some of Evie’s adventures and tribulations are loosely based on my own experiences within the entertainment industry; however, she and all the featured characters are purely fictional. In kind, although I extensively researched con artists and scams, Chameleon and AIA are figments of my overactive imagination. Welcome to my world.

Anchors aweigh!

Beth Ciotta

Chapter One

IT FINALLY HAPPENED.

I, Evie Parish, snapped.

At an audition no less. Me, the ultimate professional. In front of several peers and a table of entertainment and marketing executives.

Bad enough I even had to audition.

I’d performed in this casino on a number of occasions throughout the years as a singer, an emcee, a dance motivator and a character actress. Not just this casino, but every casino in Atlantic City. I was known as the poor man’s Tracy Ullman. I had versatility out the wazoo. A stellar reputation. A kick-butt résumé. I had more experience in entertainment than any one of the six stony-faced executives who’d insisted upon this live demonstration.

I also had sequined bras older than any of the people deciding my fate.

It wasn’t their youth I resented. Okay. That’s a lie. It was their inability to afford the performer their respect and attention. In between memorizing the script that I’d been handed on arrival and checking for the umpteenth time to make sure my blush and lipstick hadn’t faded, I peeked out from the wings to gauge the reaction of the powers-that-be to the actress on deck. I watched those suits yawn, mumble and fidget through five seamless auditions. The only time they showed interest was during a giggly, stilted presentation from a big-breasted twentysomething-year-old. Granted, Britney was young, stacked and beautiful, but she was as green as the bagel I’d found this morning in the back of my fridge.

I traded a disgusted, knowing look with two friends who were also auditioning for this gig, both in their late thirties. Talented, experienced and equally ignored by the Gen-X execs. Nicole and Jayne were already slipping into day clothes and trading their heels for flats.

I should have cut my losses then and there and followed suit. I should have collected my purple fake fur coat and I Love Lucy travel tote and vacated the showroom in a dignified manner. But no. I was stubborn, desperate and, dammit, hopeful. Hopeful that they’d see something in me that they didn’t see in my friends. Hopeful that talent and experience would win out.

Talk about idealistic.

When my time came I strode onstage with confidence and grace wearing a turquoise bikini top, flowered sarong, three-inch heels and a dazzling smile. I hit my mark and launched into the poorly written promotion intended to wow casino patrons. Me, Evie Parish, a mild-mannered, small-breasted, fortysomething.

Normally I excel when reciting monologues and pitches. I can sell camp like Liza Minelli. Unfortunately, I was distracted by an overly loud conversation from the vicinity of the “judges” panel. I stopped midsentence. Did I mention that instead of reading off of the page like Britney, I’d memorized the copy? But I digress. No one instructed me to continue, so I didn’t. Instead, I shielded my eyes from the bright wash of the spotlight in order to pinpoint the commotion.

I’d endured a lot of humiliation in my twenty-five year career—including a crotchety patron yelling, “You suck!” three inches from my face while I was performing—but this took the cake. Instead of watching me, the executives were scanning a menu, arguing over what to order for lunch. Three of them, anyway. Another yapped on his cell phone, while the remaining two studied me with bored expressions.

For crying out loud!

Seething, I tugged at the hem of my midthigh sarong. Michael, my agent, who also happens to be my ex-husband—don’t ask—had told me the theme was tropical. Show some skin, he’d said. Then again he always says that.

“Should I wait?” I asked. “Start over? Pick up where I left off?” Go tell it on the mountain?

“Are you wearing bikini bottoms under that skirt?” This from the bored, clean-shaven man who looked young enough to be my…younger brother.

Certain I knew where this was leading, I shifted on my strappy heels and cocked a recently waxed, perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Yes.”

“Would you mind losing the sarong?” This from the bored woman sitting next to him. At least she knew it was a sarong.

My heart pounded with fury. The last several months, months of being rejected solely on my advancing age, weighed on my shoulders like an unlucky slot machine. “Yes, I mind.”

I heard a collective gasp from the wings. I knew without looking that Nicole and Jayne stood side by side, shocked by my defiance. I didn’t cause scenes. I was the calm one, the logical one, the one who sucked it up and took the high road no matter how low the blow.

Up until now, that is.

Now this final injustice compelled me to raise a verbal sword in defense of belittled entertainers everywhere!

I stepped out of the spotlight, allowed my eyes to adjust to the low-lighted house and gave thanks that this was a closed audition. No casino patrons to witness this humiliating debacle. No bartenders, cocktail waitresses, dealers or slot attendants to instigate gossip. Just the six executives and two stage technicians. Oh, and seven performers, including my two closest friends. I glanced toward the left wing and sure enough, Nicole, the rabble-rouser of our clique, was giving me a thumbs-up while Jayne’s horrified expression shouted, Are you mad?

“Mad as hell,” I thought, my inner voice mimicking the deranged anchorman from Network, “and I’m not going to take it anymore!”

In that same instant, the woman who’d asked me to remove my sarong said, “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Parish.”

Since a gigantic vaudevillian hook didn’t emerge from the sidelines to yank me off stage, I stood my ground. Hands trembling, I tucked my processed blond hair behind my ears and faced the enemy. “Look, I’m auditioning for the role of an emcee, not a beach bunny.” Amazingly, my tone did not betray my inner frustration. Then again, I am a damn good actress. Too bad I seemed to be the only one aware of that.

The entertainment coordinator—was she even twenty?—crossed her arms over her chest and angled her head. She didn’t look happy. “As an emcee you’d be representing this property, Mrs. Parish.”

She might as well have called me ma’am. I curled my French-manicured nails into my sweaty palms. “It’s Ms. Parish and I realize that, but—”

“What does specialty performer mean?” This from one of the marketing dudes.

My left eye twitched. I tried to wet my lips, but anxiety had robbed me of saliva. I clasped my trembling hands and twirled my funky chrysoprase ring—a gift from Jayne—around my middle finger. She claimed that the mint-green stone would ease emotional tension and stress. I’m beginning to think she bought me a clunker. Even though I knew full well that, for the sake of my untainted reputation, I should swallow my anger, sarcasm tripped off of my fat, bone-dry tongue. “Excuse me?”

“On your résumé it says specialty performer. What, like an exotic dancer?”

They snickered, turned to one another and traded unfunny quips like the local news reporters at the end of a broadcast. What’s up with that? Laughing heartily over something that wasn’t clever or funny to begin with.

As I stood there, white noise roaring in my ears, I flashed back on all of the times I—and a slew of other entertainers—had lost a gig because of an unenlightened directive from a higher-up bean counter. A person with no background whatsoever in entertainment. A person who hired and fired acts based on personal taste.

I know amazing female singers who’ve been passed over because a casino president deemed their hips too big. One even cited a vocalist’s ankles too thick. Can you imagine? Never mind that she sang her butt off. Did you even notice that the audience, your patrons, were thoroughly enjoying themselves, Mr. President? If the ankles bothered you that badly, what about suggesting she wear pants instead of a dress? Wouldn’t that be a simple, creative solution? But wait, you’re not creative. You’re not a visionary. And neither, I concluded sadly, were the execs seated in front of me.

Heart pumping, I hopped off the stage and approached the long table, demanding everyone’s attention with a shrill whistle. Career suicide, my logical self warned. Only I wasn’t listening to my logical self. I was listening to the injured woman who’d endured a particularly rough year, personally and professionally. There comes a time when a person needs to speak up, to demand common courtesy, respect, no matter the cost, and for me that time was now. Why I hadn’t felt this righteous urge when Michael had dumped me for another woman, I couldn’t say. Maybe I’d been too stunned, too hurt to speak up. But now I was angry. Angry and insulted and really, really pissed.

I climbed up on my soapbox. If this were a TV sitcom, patriotic music would swell in the background.

“Listen up, kids. On behalf of all the other women who auditioned today, we are professionals and expect to be treated as such. Secondly, although the harem girl and French maid costumes stored in my closet might be considered exotic and although I do dance, I am not, nor have I ever been, an exotic dancer. Those costumes, by the way, hang right alongside my fuzzy bumblebee fat-suit and mad scientist lab coat. It’s all part and parcel of being a character actress. Translation—an actress with excellent improvisational skills who can represent any given character on any given day at any given private or corporate themed party. And that’s just one of my God-given talents. I also sing and dance. Hence the term specialty performer.”

“Thank you, Ms. Parish. We’ll be in touch.”

That was it? That was the payoff to my heartfelt tirade? An expressionless don’t-call-us-we’ll-call-you?

I nodded. “Got it.”

Actually, I hadn’t. It was the second time I’d been dismissed and yet there I stood, trembling with fury…and fear. Life as I’d known it was fast swirling down the toilet. Again, I twirled the ring. “Just so you know, I’m perfect for this job.”

One of the young turks straightened his tie then coughed into his hand. “Yes. Well, thank you.”

I didn’t budge.

Twirl. Twirl.

The pubescent woman seated to his left drummed her fingers on a stack of résumés. “As a professional, I’m sure you understand that we’re looking to please our demographic. We’re looking for someone…”

“Younger?” I’d been getting a lot of that lately. Even my husband had opted for a newer model, literally. Oh, yeah. This gig was going to the giggly twentysomething. Youth over experience. Mammary glands over memory skills. “Someone with a bright smile and perky breasts?” I just wanted to be certain I understood the criteria.

The panel of execs looked at me with a collective “duh.”

That’s when I snapped. “As it happens, I have both.” In a moment of righteous insanity, I flashed a thousand-watt smile in tandem with my perky 32Bs.

Chapter Two

YOU’LL NEVER WORK IN this town again droned in my ears as I parked my used Subaru on Atlantic Avenue. I’d heard those words before, but this time, for the first time, I feared they might actually be true. I didn’t regret my tirade, just the actions. I’d bared my breasts in public. And for what? It’s not as if the execs were amused or impressed enough to give me the job. Nope. No Hollywood moment for me.

Instead they’d had security escort me off the premises, my girlfriends trotting behind, simultaneously applauding and bemoaning my spontaneous wardrobe malfunction. That’s when it occurred to me that my antics had probably been caught on film. Casinos are rampant with strategically placed security cameras. Great. Next, they’d be selling the video on QVC. Specialty Performers Gone Wild.

Talk about an opening line for tonight’s diary entry. Twenty years from now, I’d relive the moment, recorded in vibrant purple-penned detail, and laugh.

Or not.

Back in the parking garage, I’d begged off lunch—Bloody Marys—with the girls, claiming an appointment. As much as I loved them, and as much as they commiserated, panic and despair had me racing toward Michael. He’d put a positive spin on my moment of insanity. He’d salvage my career. At least that’s what I’d told myself, over and over, on the three-minute drive from the boardwalk casino to his midtown office.

I left my car and entered the turn-of-the-century brownstone, oblivious to the sights, sounds and smells of town. Though branded a seaside resort, Atlantic City falls miles short of paradise. In order to compete with Vegas, politicians and investors are revitalizing, but mostly it feels like too little too late. Even the Miss America Pageant skipped town. So much for tradition. The only recent addition worth celebrating was an impressive development of designer outlets that appealed to both tourists and locals. Not that I’ll ever shop again. Hard to shop without moolah and, as I stated before, chances are I’ll never work in this town again.

I climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked toward the door marked Michael Stone Entertainment, Inc. Before I could second-guess the wisdom of this visit, I let myself in. My stomach churned as I hovered on the threshold of Michael’s private office. I wondered if he’d heard about the incident.

I knocked lightly on the doorjamb, trying not to notice how handsome he looked in his dress shirt and power tie. Trying not to admire his new funky reading glasses—sexy—and the fact that he was wearing his sandy-brown hair shorter and his sideburns longer—also sexy. Noticing would only depress me. He was no longer mine to admire.

He glanced up from a file and motioned for me to take a seat. He was on the phone. He was always on the phone…or the Internet. He made the majority of his living wheeling and dealing with clients and buyers via modern technology. I assumed he wasn’t talking to the people I’d just flashed, otherwise he would’ve spared me more than a two-second glance.

He didn’t know yet.

I blew out a tense breath and sank down on the brown leather wing chair. I should break the news myself, beat the execs to the punch, make my excuses. I could hear Michael now. Yeah, right.

Convincing him that I’d bared my boobies in public was going to take some doing. Although I’ve worn my share of skimpy costumes in the past, in everyday life, real life, I’m preppy-trendy. Kind of a funky, contemporary Doris Day. Even in the privacy of my bedroom. Michael had never appreciated my preference for cartoon pajamas over lace teddies. Oh, yes. He was going to have a very hard time digesting the flashing incident. I was having a hard time with it myself.

He hung up the phone, keyed up a document on his computer. “How did the audition go, hon?” Michael’s pet name for all of his female artists, including his ex-wife.

My cheeks burned. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t get it.” I twirled the cosmic green ring, scuffed my bargain sandals back and forth over the carpet in a bid to warm my frozen toes. Forty-five degrees outside and here I sat in a bikini, sarong and opentoed shoes. Thank goodness for my knee-length furry coat.

I hugged my arms around my middle, looked everywhere but at Michael. I wanted to confess my sin. My fears. I wanted to crawl onto his lap, to cry on his shoulder, to lament the fact that I was washed up at forty-one. I wanted to smack him because he’d made it impossible to take comfort in his arms by divorcing me and taking up with a lingerie model half my age. Not that I’m bitter. Okay. That’s a lie. I’m bitter. But it’s something I’m trying very hard to conquer. After all, it’s not as if I still love him. I don’t.

I don’t.

I blinked back tears.

Michael cleared his throat and tapped a Cross pen on his cluttered desk. “You know, Evelyn, I’ve been thinking about taking on an associate.”

The fact that he called me Evelyn instead of Evie signaled we were entering uncomfortable territory. Evelyn is my given name, but only my mom and childhood friends call me that. And Michael…when he has something unpleasant to discuss.

I picked imaginary lint off my sleeve, fidgeted in my seat. I chose to pretend that he wasn’t considering me for the associate position. In the past, predivorce settlement, on those occasions when I hit an abnormally dry spell and gigs were nonexistent, I did have to work a day job, aka real job. Jobs that require right-brain skills. I did not excel at or enjoy any one of those normal jobs.

To this day the term nine-to-five makes my eye twitch and my stomach spasm. You can imagine all the twitching and spasming going on just now. I focused on relaxing my clenched jaw. I’ve been struggling with TMJ—Temporomandibular Joint Syndrome—for months. Stress related, my doctor said. Avoid stress. Riiiight. This moment I was wired tighter than a newly tuned piano.

Temples throbbing, I massaged the right side of my jaw and prayed it wouldn’t lock open when I spoke. I’d hit my quota of embarrassing moments this day, thank you very much. “That’s great, Michael. I guess that means business is jamming.” Not that he ever suffered slow periods, but he’d always operated solo with the exception of a secretary.

He pushed his trendy glasses up his nose, nodded. “I’m really swamped. You’re diplomatic, organized and friendly. You know the business inside and out. You’d make a damned good agent.”

To my credit, I refrained from shrieking in horror. In my mind’s eye he morphed into Darth Vader. Come to the dark side, Evie.

I shuddered. “I appreciate your praise and the job offer, but you know me and nine-to-fives.” Wow. He was right. I am diplomatic.

“Office hours are ten to six,” he said, as if that one-hour difference mattered. It was still eight regimented hours, five days a week, and entailed—ACK!—computer skills. “The job would be steady, hon, with potential for growth.”

He rattled off a few more perks. For all my twitching, I had to admit, he knew how to pitch an idea. Then again, Michael could sell a Speedo to an Eskimo. I frowned. “Don’t you think that Sasha would have a problem with us working together?” Sasha’s the twentysomething hard-body who took my place in his bed. “I mean on a day-to-day basis? Same office and all?”

“She knows there’s nothing between us.”

Ouch. Okay. We’ve been divorced for several months, separated even longer. But, still. Didn’t fifteen years of amiable bliss count for anything?

The phone rang.

He mouthed an apology and snatched up the receiver. At this point I didn’t care if it was the corporate yahoos calling to report the incident. I needed a moment to recover from that zinger and to collect my thoughts.

Logically, I knew that Michael thought he was doing me a favor by offering me a job within my field. A job where I could make good money, steady money, if I learned to play both sides of the fence. There was definite longevity on the business side of entertainment and I couldn’t eke out a living by dipping into the proceeds from the sale of our house forever. But instead of doing me a favor, it felt as if he was putting me out to pasture.

I could feel my arteries hardening and the grey hairs sprouting.

My lungs constricted to the size of lima beans.

He hung up the phone, straightened his tie and glanced at his watch. Since he was wearing a suit I assumed he had an impending meeting with a client. Before he could dismiss me, I sucked air into my bean-size lungs and made a last-ditch effort. “I heard through the grapevine that Tropicana is starting up a costumed greeter program.”

He set his open briefcase on his cluttered desk. “Yeah, I got a call a couple of days ago. They’re looking for attractive, animated women who can interact easily with guests while providing information on sweepstakes, slot tournaments…you know.”

Yeah, I knew. That was the point.

“They’re looking for someone exactly like you.” He tossed three files and a bottle of Tylenol into his briefcase. “Only younger.”

He latched shut his case and glanced up, meeting my steady, albeit hurt, gaze. A slight grimace indicated he’d just realized how that sounded. The phone rang, saving us both from addressing what he’d been skirting.

My age.

“Pam, slow down,” he said into the mouthpiece as I massaged a sudden, crushing ache in my chest. “I can’t understand you. Calm down, hon. Take a breath.”

Was he talking to Pam or me? Sweat beaded on my forehead and my fingers tingled. What, I wondered, did a heart attack feel like? I was certainly old enough to have one. Actor John Candy keeled over at forty-four. Okay, he had weight issues, but still.

“A car accident? What…Dammit, Pam.” He whipped off his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Of course I understand. I’ll handle it. Somehow. I’m just glad it’s not worse. Take care of yourself and check in when you can. Bye, hon.”

He hung up the phone, shoved his glasses back on and scanned computer files. “Who the hell am I going to get to cover this gig on such short notice?”

What about me? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. Pride dictated a more subtle route. Besides, I didn’t even know what the gig was. I ignored my own sudden and mysterious ailments and voiced concern for Pam what’s-her-name. “What’s wrong?” I scooted to the edge of my seat in a not-so-subtle attempt to peek at his flat-screen monitor. “What happened?”

“A disaster by way of a three-car pileup,” Michael snapped while scanning his database. “Instead of heading for the airport for a contracted engagement, Pam Jones is on her way to the hospital with a broken leg and bruised ribs.”

“That’s awful, but like you said, at least it’s not worse.” I didn’t know Pam Jones, but I had a good view of her head shot and physical stats via Michael’s computer screen. It was almost like looking into a mirror. We both had an all-American vibe going. Pale skin that freckles in the sun, wide blue-green eyes, golden-blond hair. Only Pam had been blessed with long, fairylike curls. The woman could’ve posed for a Pre-Raphaelite painting whereas I looked like a trendy poster girl for Ivory soap. My pain-in-the-butt, stick-straight hair was currently shoulder length and razor-cut into funky layers.

I refocused on Pam’s stats. Okay, she was four inches taller than me and probably a natural blonde, but, that and hairstyle aside, we were pretty interchangeable. Why not dull the shock of a last-minute replacement by offering the client a similar product? Meaning, moi.

My anxiety over being put out to pasture dampened my sensitivity to Pam’s injuries. “Which airport? A.C. or Philly? Maybe I can help. What is it? A meet and greet for conventioneers?” A few years ago I appeared as a mermaid at the Atlantic City Train Station, part of the hoopla to celebrate the arrival of the Miss America contestants. Nothing fazes me. I’m willing to lend atmospheric hoopla to any visiting organization. Well, except the porno convention I saw featured once on HBO. I draw the line at Darla-the-Dancing-Dildo.

Michael spared me a sidelong glance as he stood and rushed to his file cabinet. “It’s a—” he waggled his fingers as if to snatch words from the air “—special interest gig. Out of state. Pam was supposed to meet her contact at Philadelphia International. The ship sails out of Fort Lauderdale.”

“A cruise ship, huh?” I chewed my thumbnail, musing as he sorted through select head shots and résumés. I’d never performed on a cruise ship, but I was familiar with the venue via the experiences of friends. “How long is the engagement? What’s the pay?” Never mind that I was prone to motion sickness. I was desperate to do what I love, what I was born to do, for as long as I could. Even if it meant existing on Dramamine.

“Eight days for three plus all expenses,” he mumbled, distracted.

The timing was sweet, but the money…“Three hundred dollars?” For eight days of my life?

“Three thousand.”

Zowie. If I rushed home I could pack and be on my way within thirty-five minutes.

Michael chucked the files back into the drawer with a curse, scraped a hand over his cropped hair. “Either they don’t have the right look or they’re not qualified. What the hell am I going to tell Arch?”

Arch Productions? Never heard of the company, but if they were clients of Michael’s they had to be reputable. I stood, looped my travel tote over my arm. “Tell them I’m on my way.”

He met my gaze, bit the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t sold.

“I’m a quick study, Michael. If you’re worried about me learning my lines—”

“No script. There’s a character profile, but mostly this job hinges on improvisation.”

“Bonus.”

He peeled back his shirt cuff, checked the time. “You’d have to participate in passenger activities.”

“What, like bingo and shuffleboard? Is that supposed to scare me? Me, who’s led many a conga line not to mention limbo and hula hoop contests?” I rolled my eyes. “I can’t believe you’re hesitating. This job has me written all over it.”

Visibly frustrated, he braced his hands on his hips and raised one brow. “You’d have to room with a man.”

That was a problem because…? I knew only headliners rated private cabins. So my roommate would be a guy. So what? If he was a dancer, ten to one he was gay. If not gay, he was probably in his twenties, which also nixed hanky-panky. Although I hadn’t had sex in a year, good sex in even longer, I couldn’t imagine screwing around with someone young enough to be my…well, I just couldn’t imagine. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t appreciate the company and the view. I’m divorced, not dead.

I matched his stance and expression. “Not to repeat myself, but, bonus.” I waited a beat. Two beats. Three.

Not a flicker of jealousy.

Irritated, I narrowed my eyes. “I’m perfect for this job and you know it.”

My ex-husband, soon to be ex-agent if he didn’t buckle, sighed. “This isn’t a normal gig, Evie.”

But it was a gig. I shifted my weight, wishing I’d had time to swap my high-heeled sandals for my high-top sneakers. My feet smarted as badly as my conscience. I still hadn’t told him about my botched audition. The words wouldn’t come. Instead I said, “I need to get out of town for a while.” I pictured Michael and that barely legal model doing the horizontal mambo, let the hurt and anger swell. I nabbed his yellow-and-blue-striped tie and jerked him down to my eye level. A considerable distance since I was a foot shorter than his six foot two. “You owe me.”

Hunched over and momentarily frozen in his calfskin oxfords, he stared me down for a full minute. I don’t know what won him over—my persistence or my thinly veiled desperation. Maybe he’d read my mind and was feeling the teensiest bit guilty about Sasha. Or maybe he was considering my mental stability. After all, I had a death grip on the silk fabric looped around his neck.

Seemingly considering my sanity, he pried loose my fingers then smoothed his shirt and tie. “You do favor Pam in coloring.”

I performed a victory happy dance, giddy with excitement and relief. Eight days far and away from the city that no longer considered me an asset. Eight days to contemplate my future, padding my bank account in the process. Pam’s misfortune was my blessing.

Ignoring my comical jig—a routine that used to amuse him—Michael glanced at his watch, the phone. “You’ll be stepping into the shoes of a free-spirited newlywed.”

“A comedic role. My specialty.”

“Except we’re not talking eccentric kook.”

“What are we talking?

“Think Judy Holliday in Born Yesterday.”

The mental image was crystal clear, the irony priceless. “Ditsy ex-showgirl?”

He smirked. “You’d need to provide your own wardrobe. Miniskirts, microshorts, crop tops and stiletto heels. A Wonderbra wouldn’t hurt.”

It never did. Since I was dead set against a boob job, I owned several bust-enhancing brassieres. On occasion I’ve been hired to portray a zaftig, although usually zany, character. As a freelance entertainer I often provide my own costumes, although in this instance it struck me as odd. A low-budget production show? On a cruise ship? Maybe it was an interactive murder mystery or improvisational theater like Tony n’ Tina’s Wedding.

I started to ask specifics but was sidetracked by Michael’s cocky expression. Clearly, he expected me to back down. Clearly, he thought he knew me, which he did. Familiarity used to make me feel special. Just now I felt predictable, boring and somewhat ill.

My self-esteem plummeted by the nanosecond. The need to escape Michael, this town, my life, was excruciating. I shrugged. “So I’ll have to flaunt my body. I don’t have a problem with that.”

“Since when?”

“Since today.” This was it. Time to ‘fess up. I waited until he turned his back in search of his briefcase. “Just so you know, I flashed the execs at the audition.”

He snapped the lid closed. “What do you mean, you flashed them?”

“They were looking for T & A, so I showed them T.”

He smiled. “Yeah, right.” Shaking his head, he leaned over, signed on to the Internet and speed-typed an e-mail.

I squelched a smug retort. I wasn’t the only predictable one in this room.

Case closed, I thought, as he signed off AOL, snagged his briefcase and shooed me toward the door.

“What time am I expected at the airport?” I asked, more than happy not to elaborate on the botched audition.

“In three hours. You’ll have to haul ass. I’ll call you on your cell with details.” He followed me out the door, down the stairs and onto the buckled sidewalk.

I glanced over my shoulder, cursing myself for wanting to impress him even as the words left my mouth. “You won’t regret this, Michael.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” he said as we moved toward separate cars, separate lives. “It’s Arch.”

Chapter Three

THIRTY-SEVEN MINUTES later I was packed and on my way to Philadelphia International Airport.

Arch, it turned out, was my contact. Arch Reece. An acquaintance of Michael’s, although not once in the fifteen years that we’d lived together had he uttered the man’s name. Michael hit the highlights of the gig during a cell phone call as I sped west on the Atlantic City Expressway. Details were minimal and cryptic.

“Arch has your ticket. He’ll be waiting for you at American Airlines.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Today? I’m not sure.”

Cryptic statement number one.

“Don’t worry about it, Evie. He’ll approach you.”

“How will he know what I look like?”

“I e-mailed your head shot, along with a brief explanation about Pam. Be sure your phone’s charged. You always forget and—”

“It’s charged,” I grumbled. So I forgot once in a while. So what? My world, unlike Michael’s, did not revolve around phones and the Internet.

“He’s not going to like the last-minute switch,” he said, blowing over my snippy tone, “but he’s desperate and he trusts me and I trust you. You’re anal when it comes to nailing a gig.”

“Gee, thanks.”

My sarcasm garnered an exasperated sigh. “That was a compliment.”

Actually, it was. Michael respected my work ethics. He considered me a rarity. He’d told me so hundreds of times over the years. I wish every performer was as conscientious as you, Evie.

Too bad you can’t retire on stellar ethics, I thought moodily. Although rebelling hadn’t secured my future, either.

My cheeks burned with contrition. Even though my anger was righteous, I regretted my rash behavior. A spotless reputation tarnished in one bonehead moment. Flash. Poof. Tah-dah! Optimistic professional turns into cynical hoyden. It felt scary. Like I’d contracted a mysterious disease.

Like the me I knew was dying.

If I wasn’t me, the girl who brightened people’s lives with a skit, song or dance, who was I? All my life, I’d felt as if I’d been put on this earth for one reason. To entertain. Even when my marriage crumbled, I still had purpose.

“Are you all right, hon?”

No. My world was falling apart, and my jaw hurt due to some hearty teeth grinding. I opened my mouth as little as possible for fear my jaw would lock. “I’m peachy.”

I squeezed the steering wheel, punched the gas. Must. Escape. Town. “So about Arch.”

“He’ll prep you for the job before you board the ship. When he relays specifics, just remember I warned you.”

Cryptic statement number two.

Suddenly I wondered about the outrageously high but wonderful salary quote. “Meaning?”

“There’s a small level of risk.”

“Define risk.”

“Just follow Arch’s directive implicitly, otherwise…”

A pregnant pause raised the hair on my arms. “What?”

“Never mind. Just don’t deviate from Arch’s script and everything will be fine.”

“I thought there was no script.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Not really.” Approaching a toll booth, I eased left and zipped through the EZ-Pass lane, my imagination soaring. “Oh, jeez, Michael. Is this a variety act? You said I’ll be playing the free-spirited newlywed. Is Arch the daredevil groom? Is he going to saw me in half or shoot an apple off of my head?” Visions of Folies Bergère sashayed through my head. “Please tell me this doesn’t involve a rhinestone G-string and sequined pasties!”

He snorted. “As if you would bare your breasts for art.”

I smirked, slowing from seventy to sixty-five. The last thing I needed was a cop on my tail. I couldn’t afford the time or the ticket. “You think you know me so well.”

“I know I know you.”

“Because you lived with me for fifteen years?”

“Yes.”

“Meaning I’m predictable. Boring.”

“Meaning you’re a creature of habit. Jesus, Evie, what’s gotten into you? I’ve never known you to pick a fight.”

“I’m not—”

“On second thought maybe this gig is a blessing in disguise. Time away and a change of scenery can do wonders for the soul.”

He was worried about my soul? About me? Just as my blood started pumping with old, mushy feelings, his phone blipped with an incoming call.

“I’ve got to take this, hon. It might be Sasha.”

Cold resentment replaced the warm fuzzies. What was left of the professional me bid Michael a pleasant goodbye. The new cynical me, her voice growing ever louder, mentally shouted, screw you, you traitorous bastard.

The bastard called back three minutes later. His tone was clipped. “You flashed your tits for half a dozen execs?”

“And I didn’t even get any beads.” This time it was me who hung up.

ONCE I CROSSED the Walt Whitman Bridge I spent the rest of the drive navigating heavy traffic. Two accidents on I-95 South, a bumper-to-bumper nightmare. Finding an opening in the airport’s economy parking lot proved difficult. After driving up and down several long aisles, I spied a space. Finally. Yes!

As I pulled into the tight space—why don’t people park between the appropriate lines?—it occurred to me that I should contact the client to let him know I was on the way. Yes, it would be close but I’d make it.

Except…I didn’t have Arch’s number. Michael hadn’t given it to me and I hadn’t asked. He did say he gave Arch my number, intimating he would call me…which he hadn’t. What if he’d refused to take me on as a substitute for Pam? Although if that were the case, Michael would’ve called me. My phone hadn’t rung, so…

Oh, no.

I rooted through my purse, snagged my cell phone, and…Crap! No juice. Surely, I hadn’t…

But of course I had.

I’d forgotten to charge it last night. This was all Michael’s fault. He’d jinxed me.

Bastard.

I hurriedly plugged the phone into the cigarette lighter. Come on, come on.

Meanwhile, I climbed out of the idling car, dragged my supersize cherry-red suitcase off the backseat and positioned it by the driver’s door. With my luck, check-in would charge extra for being overweight. Not me, the suitcase. It couldn’t be helped. The zipper on my second suitcase busted, so I had to cram everything into Big Red. Thank goodness it was one of those expandable jobs. Something I’d spied on QVC. Still, it weighed a ton. Again, not my fault. I’d packed for two. Me and my alter ego—the ditzy, sexpot newlywed.

Cursing the brisk temperature, I plopped back down in the driver’s seat and powered on my cell. I punched speed dial to retrieve my messages. There were four. Three from Arch. One from Michael. I ignored Michael, who only ranted that Arch was trying to get in touch with me.

I searched my purse for a pen. Settling on an eyeliner pencil, I relistened to Arch’s last message and scribbled his number on a fast-food napkin. Gosh, he had a sexy voice, and that accent—British? Scottish? I couldn’t put my finger on it, but, yum.

Heart racing, I punched in his cell phone number.

He answered on the first ring. “Where the bloody hell are you?”

As far as greetings went, I’d heard better. “The airport parking lot. Economy. I’m so sorry, Mr. Reece. As you know, I didn’t have much notice and there was an accident—”

“You, too? Bollocks. Are you all right?”

I blinked as a transport shuttle breezed by, hoping another was directly on its tail. The economy lot was a good five minutes from the actual terminal, and that’s after you actually got on the minibus and hit the highway. “What? Oh, no. Not me. I wasn’t involved in an accident. I was delayed by one. Two actually. Traffic was a mess and then parking…I didn’t think I’d ever—”

“Ms. Parish.”

“Yes?”

“The plane, our plane, boards in twenty minutes. I need you here, yeah? Now.”

“Right. Of course. No problem.” Great. I was botching this gig before it even began. “I’ll be there in—”

“What are you wearing?”

“Excuse me?”

“I know what you look like. I need to know what you’re wearing,” he said in that Sean Connery-esque accent. “My wife has a distinct style.”

“Why does my style need to complement your wife’s?”

“You are my wife.”

It took a minute to sink in. “I’m playing your wife?” A fantasy reared. Bulging biceps. Rippled abs. A delicious accent to boot. Evie and the hunk.

“I thought Stone told you—”

“He did. I mean, he said I’d be playing a ditzy newlywed. He just didn’t specify that you’d be playing my husband.”

“Now you know, Sugar.”

Flirty, too. I quirked a brow, grinned. “Gotcha, honey.”

“That’s your name,” he said, and my smile slipped. “Sugar Dupont. My alias is Charles Dupont.”

I wasn’t sure which was more disconcerting: my name, Sugar, for cryin’ out loud, or the fact that he’d called a stage name an alias. Must be a foreign thing. “Charles and Sugar Dupont. Got it.” I glanced at my phone, noted it was somewhat charged, pulled the plug and cut the engine.

“I’m an eccentric novelist and you’re a Vegas showgirl. Retired.”

“Me or you?” I asked, lest he think I wasn’t paying attention. More and more this was sounding like an improvisational murder mystery. The kind where you mill about all day with the patrons, only you’re in character the entire time. One of the cast members kicks the bucket and it’s the patrons’ job to determine the identity of the killer. I’d acted in a few of these over the years and they were always a hoot. “Which one of us is retired?”

“You, Sugar. I’m merely in between books.”

I knew he wasn’t flirting but, between the low timbre of his voice and that accent, he had a devastating effect on my libido. It had been aeons since I’d felt this sexually charged. Please, I thought, as I looped my purse and Lucy tote over my shoulder and abandoned the car, let him be in his mid-thirties at least. No way could I fool around with a twenty-year-old, but a guy in his thirties? A gorgeous Brit, Scot—whatever—with a hunky body? I’m pretty sure I could get down and dirty with a slightly younger man, especially if he had a mature outlook on life. “Are you by chance my roommate?” Buzzing with anticipation, I locked the car door and pocketed the keys.

“As we are married, it would make sense, yeah?”

I pumped my fist in the air. Yes. Smiling, I grabbed my bulging suitcase and, juggling tote, purse and phone, dragged Big Red toward the shuttle vestibule.

“Are you on your way yet?”

“Yup. Should be there in—”

“What are you wearing?”

Back to that. I glanced at my shuffling feet. “Lime and pink-flowered sneakers, khaki capris and a limegreen T-shirt. Although, you can’t see my T-shirt because of my coat—a pink trench. Oh, and I have an aqua wool scarf wrapped around my neck.”

After a long pause he said, “You call that sexy?”

“I call it comfortable.” I’d be spending the next couple of hours on a plane and then transferring onto the ship. Who gets sexed-up to travel?

“Sugar Dupont is an ex-showgirl. A fun-loving exhibitionist.”

“I know. Michael told me. I packed appropriate costumes for when I’m onstage.”

“In this business, the world is our stage, Ms. Parish. You’ll be on the moment you meet me at check-in. This is a round-the-clock performance. If you have a problem with this, tell me now. I cannae afford—”

“No problem.” I did a one-eighty and raced—as much as one can race when lugging one hundred pounds of luggage—back to my car. I couldn’t afford to lose this job. I would not, could not face working a nine-to-five. Then there was the flashing incident. Must. Escape. Town. “I’ll call you back in two minutes.”

I severed the connection before he could argue, whipped open the bulging suitcase right there between my car and the blue van parked next to me. I rooted out a Sugar Dupont ensemble and hunkered down in my backseat for a quick change. I’m no stranger to quick changes, but usually these occur in a dressing room or a curtained, or at least darkened, space backstage. Wiggling in and out of clothes in the backseat of my compact four-door, in broad daylight, was a new experience.

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

Bra strap alert!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I snorted. “Only a bazillion times.”

“Brilliant.”

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

“Brilliant is slang for excellent, love.”

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

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

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

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

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

Brilliant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wouldn’t believe it. I’d never had a meaning-less fling in my life. You’re a creature of habit, Evie.

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

Chapter Four

NEVER BE MORE NERVOUS than the person in charge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least he had all of his teeth.

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

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

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

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

Zing. Zap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Men.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Older man-younger woman.

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

Ouch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I smiled, trying to look cute and clueless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conflicting emotions stormed the wall around my heart like a battering ram. The best I could do was smile Sugar’s smile and walk Sugar’s walk as Arch maneuvered me through the security checkpoint and onto the golf cart thing that sped us to our gate.

By the time we boarded our plane and took our seats, he’d flashed those passports twice more. As soon as I caught my breath, I intended to ask for a look. Just now I absorbed the captain’s announcement regarding rough weather, dug in my tote for a Dramamine and struggled with the rumblings of a full-blown panic attack.

Chapter Five

I WOKE UP IN A DARK ROOM in a strange bed. Where was I? Where was Arch?

My heart and head pounded with a ferocity that made my stomach roil. I’d been dreaming about going down in flames—my career, not the plane. Standing in front of a car dealership in ninety-degree weather, wearing a gorilla costume and holding a sign that said, You’ll go APE for our prices!

That’s what you get for flashing those forty-one-year-old tits, Michael had admonished, standing next to a Cadillac, his arms wrapped around pubescent versions of Sasha and Britney.

I massaged my aching chest, waited for the depressing fog of the nightmare to dissipate. But, dammit, it clung. Just as I’d clung to my alcoholic beverage as the plane had dipped and bounced through that electrical storm. Probably hadn’t been smart to mix Dramamine with two glasses of vodka and cranberry. In fact, I sort of remembered someone saying so. An older man with nerves of steel and a sexy smile.

Arch.

I also sort of remembered him half carrying me out of the airport and finessing me into a cab. I had a vague memory of peeling off my cashmere shrug because the air was hot and sticky, and noting the palm trees and Monet sunset with a slurred, “Beautiful, beautiful.”

Arch had agreed.

Everything else was a blur.

At least my jaw hadn’t locked, and I hadn’t puked my guts into an airsick bag. Not that I recalled, anyway.

Determined to pull myself together, I flicked on the bedside lamp and padded toward the bathroom, wiping drool from the corner of my mouth—lovely. I needed to wash my face, down two glasses of water and pee. Not necessarily in that order.

A scream lodged in my throat when I eased open the door. A dark-haired, broad-shouldered man hovered over the sink, squirting hair product into his hand. Smoke curled from the cigarette anchored between his lips. Black wires dangled from the buds lodged in his ear.

Paralyzed, or maybe I should say mesmerized since this stranger’s body was freaking hot, my gaze trailed down his sculpted back, following the wires that led to a superslim MP3 player clipped to the threadbare hotel-issue towel wrapped around his taut waist. I glanced farther down and caught his bare foot tapping to whatever music he was listening to. Whoever he was, he’d just showered. The steamy room smelled of Irish Spring, tobacco and shaving cream. It was a sexy scent, smoke and all. Probably because it was so manly. I breathed in the testoster-one-charged air and nearly climaxed on the spot.

He shifted and dragged his gelled fingers through his wet hair, the muscles in his shoulders rolling with the effort. I told myself to stop staring at his impressive biceps—was that a Celtic band tattooed on his right arm?—and to back away from the threshold with my dignity intact. Was this another cast member? The producer? Where was Arch and why had he left me alone with a stranger?

My fantasies took a detour and kicked into hyperdrive along with my pulse. What if this was all a bizarre plot to get rid of me? For good. Maybe Sasha had brainwashed Michael. Lord knows she’d done something to get him to the gym every day. Maybe Arch had been hired to deliver me to this guy. Maybe he was going to whack me or sell me to some wife-collecting sheik!

Maybe I should lay off Dramamine and B movies.

The dark stranger snuffed his cigarette, nabbed a hand towel and swiped it over the fogged-up mirror. Our gazes locked.

He turned and pulled out the earbuds.

I yelped and shot backward, tripping over something big and red—Big Red—screaming—I was me, not Sugar—when the stranger rushed out of the bathroom.

I landed flat on my back.

He landed flat on top of me, his big hand covering my mouth. “Stop screaming, for fuck’s sake. It’s me. Arch.”

I recognized the voice, the accent, if not the man. I blinked up at him, amazed. Although, I should’ve known. All that testosterone. “Wah hahpn oo yor air?”

He removed his hand from my mouth. “What?”

“What happened to your hair?” I repeated. This afternoon it had been stark silver. Now it was jetblack, although it would probably lighten a shade when it dried.

“Temporary dye. Washes oot in the shower.”

A thigh-tingling image came to mind. Mr. Manly Man buck naked. Hot water sluicing over that hot bod. My insides melted as I stared up at him transfixed. He was handsome, in a bad boy sort of way, early to mid-thirties. That closely trimmed beard, when silver, had made him look significantly older. Just now he looked rebellious. His grey-green gaze sparked with mischief. His face, less creased and more defined than upon first meeting, suggested a hard-knock maturity. His body suggested he worked out religiously. Amen.

Snap out of it, Evie. “Did your wrinkles wash off, too?” I asked, tongue-in-cheek as opposed to tongue-hanging-out-of-mouth. Pant. Pant. Drool. Drool.

His sinfully attractive lips quirked. “Peeled off, actually. Prosthetics.”

If I’d had the slightest doubt, that crooked grin confirmed his identity. Arch Reece had a killer smile to go with his killer form. A rock-hard body that was presently squished against me. My heart continued to race although it had nothing to do with fear. “Um. So I guess that beer gut was fake, too.”

“Strap on, strap off.” The grin turned wicked. “What aboot you, Sunshine?”

My mind blanked then he raised himself up an inch or so and leered down at my bountiful cleavage.

Oh.

I smirked. “They’re real.”

“Impressive.”

“With the help of major padding, yes.” The ogling continued so I cleared my throat. I wanted him to roll aside. The pressure on my bladder reminded me how badly I needed to pee. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all. I value the benefits of push-up brassieres.”

“I mean, do you mind getting off?”

“Why, Ms. Parish, we hardly know each other.”

Lingering chemicals dulled my wit. By the time light dawned, he’d shifted his weight.

“You may want to close your eyes, love.”

“Why?” I asked at the same time I realized something hard pressed against my thigh. Something massive. I rolled my eyes to cover my own arousal. “What are you, on Viagra?”

“What can I say? You’re lovely.”

If I’d thought he was sincere, I would have blushed with joy. “Yeah, right.” I could only imagine what I looked like just now. Tangled hair, bloodshot eyes, wrinkled clothes. I’d probably smeared red lipstick across my chin when I’d wiped away the drool. Lovely. Snort. “Bet you say that to all of your costars.”

“Only the stunners.”

Oh, brother. Now I knew he was playing me. This guy was a textbook charmer. And I was way too vulnerable and horny. “I have to pee.” There. That should kill the moment.

“Right.” He stared down at me, one brow raised.

Those eyes. My heart pitter-pattered. Can’t. Breathe. Now I knew why he wore those kooky, tinted glasses in public. They kept the average woman from swooning in his path. If that failed, he could beat them off with his cane.

“Fair warning, love. Lost my towel in the tumble.”

Still going for worldly, I said, “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Yeah, boy, that was a lie. If this were a Warner Brothers cartoon, ah-ooo-gah! would have been the sound effect accompanying the visual of my eyeballs literally springing out of my head as Arch pushed to his feet—full monty. It’s not as if he stood there posing. I got a two-second glimpse, tops.

Regardless, the image was burned into my brain. Holy smoke.

Then he turned around to step into a pair of grey sweatpants and I got a good look at his butt. A spectacular butt. Not quite as breathtaking as John Thomas, but impressive all the same.

I scrambled to my feet and into the bathroom before I said something stupid like, “Nice ass,” or “Is that penis for real?” While I was in there doing my thing, I collected my wits and memories. In one day, I’d been a flasher and a flashee. If you asked me, I was fast on my way to forfeiting my conservative crown. Sullying my reputation and rubbing Michael’s nose in it was a tempting goal.

At least I had something to work toward. I’d already turned cynical; surely I could handle adventurous. So long as it didn’t involve turbulence or rocky seas.

The plane ride came back in mortifying chunks. By the time I’d washed my hands and fingercombed my hair, I’d remembered everything right up until I’d fallen asleep—make that passed out—which was probably one hour into the flight from hell.

I opened the bathroom door and leaned against the doorjamb, feeling foolish and confused.

Arch sat at the desk, his callus-free fingers attacking the keyboard of a laptop. My first thought was that he was writing me out of the script. My second thought was that he looked nearly as sexy wearing sweats and a baggy T-shirt as he did wearing a towel. Nearly.

“You held my hand when we hit that bad patch of turbulence. You engaged me in a game of movie trivia to distract me from getting sick.” His knowledge of the classics floored me. Michael used to disappear when I indulged in any film dated pre-Technicolor. I cleared my throat, tucked my hair behind one ear. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

“Thank you for not hurling on me.”

“So am I, you know, fired?”

“For what?”

“For getting wasted on the job.”

“This job requires an actress who can convincingly play the role of Sugar Dupont whenever in public,” he said, typing and talking at the same time. How did he do that? “You followed my cues and stayed in character even though you were pissed. That’s bloody impressive, yeah?”

I blushed at the compliment. “Well, thank you. Except, I wasn’t angry.”

He glanced at me over his shoulder.

“Wait. Don’t tell me. Across the pond, pissed is slang for trashed. Heard it in a movie.” I shifted my weight, angled my head. “So what are you? Scottish? British? Irish?”

“Aye.” He pushed out of his chair. “Are you hungry?”

I blinked at the swift change of subject. Plus, I wasn’t clear on his answer to my question. Maybe he was a little of all three. Aye was Scottish, right? But pissed…wasn’t that a Brit thing? Yet at other times I caught a twinge of a “Danny Boy” lilt.

I glanced around the generic hotel room. “Where are we, anyway?” Surely I would’ve remembered boarding a honking-big cruise ship. Granted, I’d been looped—I’m one of those people who gets fog-brained on cold medicine—but not that looped.

“An airport hotel. Tomorrow morning we’ll cab over to the cruise port, board the ship. That’s when the real work begins.” He snatched a room service menu from a side table, gave it a three-second glance, then passed it to me. “It’s half-past eight and I haven’t eaten since morning.”

Come to think of it, neither had I. “I could stand a little something.” Like a big, juicy cheeseburger and a plate of fries smothered in brown gravy. I settled on a mixed salad and bottled water with lemon. After seeing Arch’s body, I was more than a little self-conscious about my soft spots. Tomorrow I might even do aerobics. Gag.

He shifted back to his laptop, closed the file he’d been working in and shut down. “You want a sandwich with that salad?”

Yes. “No.”

“Hung over?”

No. “Yes.” Sort of. Mostly, I wanted to tone up overnight. Like that was going to happen. But, hey, that’s what I do. Dream. Imagine. Pretend. According to my mom, my free spirit was at the root of all my problems. If I’d gone to college like my brother, I would have had a teaching degree to fall back on. Instead, I was looking at life as a gorilla.

“Why dinnae you shower?” Arch said as he moved toward the phone. “Change into something comfortable?”

“As in skimpy?” The notion appalled and intrigued me. Talk about confused.

His lips twitched. “Would you be comfortable eating dinner and going over your character profile in your bra and panties?”

“Are you asking Sugar or me?”

“You.”

“Then, no.”

“Didnae think so.”

His cocky grin liquefied my bones. Wow. Instead of melting into a puddle, I dropped to my knees and popped the latches of Big Red.

Arch chuckled and reached for the phone. It chimed, which was weird since he was calling out. He replaced the receiver and snagged a cell phone off the desk. “Yeah?”

He really needed to work on his greetings.

“Are you mental?” He jammed a hand through his damp waves. “Bugger off, mate. It’s too late.”

I tried not to listen. Okay. That’s a lie. My curiosity kept me from discreetly escaping into the bathroom. I dawdled over my suitcase, located my toiletry bag and picked through my loungewear.

“Why dinnae we leave it up to Evie?”

I froze at the sound of my name, looked up just as Arch reached down and handed me his phone.

My skin sizzled from his touch, brief though it was. Without a word he settled on the bed, kicked back—ankles crossed, hands behind his head. Like me, I guess he intended to eavesdrop.

Heart pounding, I sat back on my heels, pressed the cell to my ear. “Yeah?” Lame greeting. An Arch greeting. But the best I could manage since I didn’t know who was on the other end of the line.

“Do not get on that ship with Arch.”

Michael. “Why not?”

“I made a mistake, hon. Come home.”

My stomach knotted. I broke into a clammy sweat. Don’t puke. Don’t puke. Was he talking about Sasha? Suddenly, after a year of hootchy-kootchy with Miss January of the Beach Hut Babe calendar, he wanted to reunite with me? Insane hope surged through my blood. “What are you saying?”

“You’re not up to this job.”

Good thing I was sitting, otherwise, my knees would’ve buckled. I clenched my jaw, cursed the dreamer in me and willed my heart to keep beating. “Why not?”

“For one you get seasick.”

“I have Dramamine.” I wish I had a pill to cure me of you.

“I don’t trust Arch.”

“I don’t trust you. But we still work together. Sort of.”

Dead air.

He was probably trying to formulate an excuse for my lack of bookings without targeting my age. Somehow I resisted the urge to launch Arch’s phone against the wall.

“I wasn’t thinking straight when I booked you on this,” he finally said. “I was in a hurry and you were…”

“Desperate?”

“Yes, dammit.” He sighed. “Come home, Evie. I just got a call from Dooley’s. They’re looking for someone to host karaoke on Tuesday nights.”

“Pass.”

“Something else will come up.”

“Something already did.” I scooped up my toiletry bag and a change of clothes, forced myself to my feet. “I’ll see you in eight days, Michael.”

He lowered his voice, and I had to wonder if Sasha was within earshot. “I don’t want you to get hurt, hon.”

“Like Arch said…too late.” I thumbed off the power, calmly placed the phone on the desk. I headed for the bathroom without looking at the man my ex didn’t trust. I didn’t want to consider why. My brain was already reeling. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“I’ll order room service.”

I waited until I was in the shower, hot water pounding, before I gave in to tears.

Chapter Six

LIFE WAS CRUEL.

I watched Arch inhale a deluxe burger and fries while I picked at my salad. I didn’t even like salad. He also swilled beer while I sipped calorie-free, flavor-free water.

The waiter had forgotten my wedge of lemon.

“Do you always eat like that?” I asked.

He aimed a ketchup-drenched fry at my boring rabbit food. “Do you?”

“I’m watching my weight.”

“Why?”

“You’re kidding. Are you or are you not in entertainment?”

“I’m a man,” he said by way of an answer. “Men like curves.” He chewed the fry, swilled more beer. “Let’s go over it one more time, yeah?”

Considering my generous hips, I think he just complimented me, but I couldn’t be sure, and I wasn’t going to ask. Bad boy was all business now. Michael’s call had dampened his playful mood. I wasn’t happy about the call, either, although I felt better since the cry in the shower. I couldn’t wash away the hurt, but I did manage to rejuvenate my body. Swapping Sugar’s tight clothes for drawstring pants and an oversize Betty Boop T-shirt also helped. Ah, comfort.

I’d taken longer in the bathroom than I’d intended, but no way, no how was I going to face Mr. Manly Man on our first night together sans beauty products.

After drying my hair, I slathered my skin with French Vanilla lotion then applied mascara and sheer pink lip balm. Anything more would have been ridiculous considering we were going to turn in after dinner.

“Would it help if I gave you the written profile?” Arch asked, offering me a sheet of paper from his notebook. “Gave you more time to absorb? I know it’s a bit of information.”

I ignored the profile, stabbed a tomato wishing it were a meatball. Michael would have ordered me the burger without asking. Even though the salad held the appeal of grass, I decided it was kind of nice being in the company of a man who didn’t know me any better than I knew him. I decided now was a good time to dazzle Arch with one of my special skills.

“My name is Sugar Louise Dupont, maiden name Jones. Born and raised in Brooklyn, New York.” Something he’d revised since I’d adopted the accent on my own. “I’m a singer. Was a singer. A Vegas lounge lizard to be exact.” Another revision since I was too short to be a showgirl. “I bounced from stage to stage, man to man, looking for the perfect fit.” I batted my lashes. “Then I met you. It was love at first sight, well, for you, anyway. No wonder. You had a front-row seat at the midnight show as I performed “Fever” in a skintight gown—red—cut down to my navel and slit up to my thigh.”

I ignored his knee-melting grin and plowed on. “You sent a bottle of champagne backstage. Attached was a romantic note. An original poem that won my heart. I adored you before we even met. Later that night you took me out to dinner, swept me off my acrylic stilettos. One week later we were married in Gabriel’s Chapel of Love. All told we’ve only known each other for one month, hence we’re still learning the details of one another’s lives. Convenient,” I said, ditching the tomato for a cucumber. “In case you screw up.”

Arch leaned forward, picked at the label of his bottle. “I willnae screw up.”

“Neither will I.” I leaned in, as well. “I’m a quick study.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“My improvisational skills rock.”

“Witnessed that on the plane, yeah?”

The plane. “About that. I just want you to know, I’m not much of a drinker.”

“I gathered.”

“I mean, I’m not a lush. I’ve just had…It’s been a rough…day.”

“Want to talk aboot it?”

“No, thanks.” I nibbled on a cucumber.

He took a long pull of his beer, settled back in his chair. “Right then. Tell me aboot Charles Dupont.”

Every now and then I was ultraconscious of his accent and I found myself smiling because, gosh, it was sexy. About sounded like aboot and will not came out willnae. We won’t talk about what his tongue did to Rs. A nimble tongue like that could probably—well, we won’t go there.

He quirked a brow as if to say, what’s the holdup? I didn’t want to explain that I was aroused by his accent. So, I repeated everything he’d told me, down to the year his first wife died and the names of his deceased pets and estranged children. Not that I was trying to impress him.

Well, yeah, I guess I was.

He lived on an estate in Connecticut—Charles, not Arch. Came from old money. I, Sugar, didn’t know where it originated exactly, only that he had tons of it. Yup, Charlie was loaded. He was also a writer. Published under a pseudonym. Unlike Sugar, the man shunned the spotlight.

He also shunned women his own age.

He’d sprained his ankle, hence the cane, after tripping while chasing me around the room in the midst of playful sex.

Too bad that was only part of the profile. Sounds like fun.

Arch leaned back in his chair, considered me with those lightning eyes.

Zap.

Yeah, boy, I felt that. Interest.

“You’re good.”

“Thanks.” If those casino execs would’ve paid attention when I’d delivered that copy, they, too, might have been impressed with my memory skills. It felt good to be appreciated. “You’re not so bad yourself.” It wasn’t my style to gloat—even though I was sort of needy in the compliment department just now—so I turned the attention on him. Besides, I truly was impressed with Arch Reece the Actor. “When I first saw you, I thought you were, like, I don’t know, sixty.”

“Prosthetics.”

“I get that, and I’m in awe. I’ve never explored anything outside of traditional theatrical makeup. But it’s more than that. Your body language, the costume. You came off like a foppish tycoon with the hots for a brainless bimbo. Just like in Some Like It Hot. Although, Tony Curtis?” I snorted. “Try Truman Capote.”

Actually, he’d more closely resembled a bespectacled Sean Connery, post-James Bond. Like Arch, Connery possessed a timeless charisma. No way was I confessing a bad case of thigh-sweats for either man.

One side of his mouth kicked up. “If you recall, I did say Curtis with a twist, yeah?”

“Yeah.” That was another thing about his accent. Three-quarters of his statements sounded like questions, even when he didn’t finish with his signature, yeah? I remember I used to think the same thing about the dude in The Highlander TV series. Why does everything sound like a question, and why do I find that so sexy? Of course, the whole package was sexy…like Arch.

Zing. Zap.

I squeezed my legs together. Best not to think about Arch’s package.

“By the way,” I added, while pushing aside my salad, “if this weren’t a slapstick murder mystery, I’d be totally offended by Sugar’s stereotypical personality. I know lots of casino lounge singers—hello, I’m one—and none of them—” I paused “—well, ninety-eight percent of them are not brainless bimbos.”

“If you remember, Sugar was originally a showgirl, and who said anything aboot a murder mystery?”

I opened my mouth to defend dancers who just happened to be comfortable wearing pasties on their nips and balancing extravagant headpieces on their pretty noggins, but I got sidetracked by that murder mystery part. “I just assumed, I mean, we are acting in an interactive production of some sort, right?”

“Is that what Stone told you?”

“No. He said that I’d be playing a ditzy character and that I needed to participate in passenger activities.”

“That’s the sum of it.”

“There’s no show?”

“It’s more of an illusion.”

“Like magic?”

“Like smoke and mirrors.”

“For what purpose?”

“For the greater good.”

What did that mean? “Is there a production manager, director, someone in charge?”

He spread his hands wide. “You’re looking at him, love.”

“You’re the whole enchilada? Cast, crew, management?”

“Is that a problem?”

I didn’t know. I’d heard of a one-man or -woman show, but those generally took place in a theater. I thought back to something he’d said earlier today. The world is our stage. I guess he meant that literally. Needing to work off the anxiety sparking along my spine, I pushed away from our makeshift dining table, stood and paced. “Can you be more specific about our purpose? That greater good thing?”

“No.”

Huh. Well, okay, this was just weird.

He shifted in his seat, rested his forearms on his thighs. His sleeves rode up and I got another glimpse of those defined biceps. That Celtic tattoo sensitized my body like foreplay. Tribal. Hot. Yowza.

“Here’s the deal, Evie. I need you to play Sugar, my attentive wife. I need you to be the life of the party, yeah? A social butterfly. I want you to have a fantastic time on the ship.”

“Do I look like I just fell off of a turnip truck?”

“What do you mean?”

I stopped in front of him, hands on hips. “You’re paying me a lot of money to have fun?”

“I’m paying you to create a unique deception.”

My pulse fluttered at the word deception. “Is it illegal?”

“No.” He looked me dead in the eye, his expression serene as a monk. “We good?”

It took me a second to catch my breath. Those eyes of his were…I don’t know. Mesmerizing, I guess. They made you want to say yes, to anything. This guy was flipping dangerous.

So, why wasn’t I backing away?

“Just so I have this straight. The goal is to deceive someone. Someone bad, I guess, since we’re doing this for the greater good. That would also explain Michael’s mention of risk. That bad person, I guess he’s dangerous.”

So much for serene. The flash of annoyance was brief, but I caught it before he broke eye contact and nabbed the beer bottle. “You’re safe with me.”

I believed him. It wasn’t the fact that he looked as though he could pound the hell out of “The Rock,” it was more the sense that he could talk himself out of a pact with the devil.

Oh, yeah, I was curious about this man. I was curious about a lot of things, but he’d made it clear that we were operating on a need-to-know basis. And, hey now, there was a thought—maybe the less I knew, the better off I’d be.

“Michael doesn’t think I’m up for this job,” I said more to myself than Arch.

He stood, putting us toe-to-toe and warping my brain cells with a heady dose of machismo. “What do you think?”

I peered up at him, wet my lips. “I think I love a challenge.”

He grinned. “My kind of girl.”

Blood thundered in my ears like a rocker’s bass drum—louder, harder. Oh, crap, my heart was going to pull an Alien and burst through my chest. Wouldn’t that be lovely?

I waited for him to touch me. My hair was in my eyes. Why didn’t he reach up and tuck those rebel locks behind my ears like they do in romance novels? Yes, I read them—what’s not to like about happily-ever-afters? Someday, I fully expected mine.

Arch was not following the script in my head, so I revised it. I brushed my own hair out of my eyes, held his gaze. Talk about a challenge. “I’m crazy about you. Can’t keep my hands off of you.”

No expression. No response.

“Sugar,” I clarified, trying to get a bead on him and failing. “That’s what you said, right?”

“Right.”

“So I guess that means hugging and kissing and stuff.”

“When in public, aye.”

What about behind closed doors? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. “As an actor I’m sure you know how uncomfortable it can be doing it with a stranger. Kissing, that is. For the first time, I mean.” I willed my voice not to warble. Blushing was another matter. “So I’m thinking our first time shouldn’t be in front of an audience.”

“You think we should kiss. Now.”

For once his response sounded like a statement instead of a question. My blood pumped. The spirit of my friend Nicole cheered in my ear. You go, girl!

“As a professional, I take my job seriously. I know this is an improvisational gig, but a certain amount of rehearsal seems wise. After all, we’ve been doing it, getting it on, Sugar and Charles that is, for a month. If you want people to believe we’re in lust—um, love—we should look like we’ve been around. Each other, that is. Intimately.”

He scraped his teeth over his lower lip. Nice teeth. Nice mouth. “Appreciate your dedication, Sunshine.”

I couldn’t tell if he was serious or sarcastic, and right now I didn’t care. I wanted him to kiss me, dammit. I wanted something in this miserable day to go right. Was that so wrong?

“Let’s just get it out of the way,” I plowed on. “The awkwardness—misaligned mouths, bumping noses and all that.”

Except there was no awkwardness. He swooped in without warning, framed my face, ravished my mouth. He kissed the ever-lovin’ daylights out of me.

His beard scratched and ignited my skin. Rough. Hot. Primal.

His tongue…Oh sweet, Lord, my panties were damp and all he was doing was kissing me!

It seemed like forever. It seemed like a blip. Next thing I knew, he was standing six inches back, draining the last of his beer.

I fought a dizzy spell and resisted the urge to glance down to see if JT had roared to life. I was, after all, a professional. Those superior acting skills kept my knees and voice from quaking. “I guess we’re good then.” We were better than good. We were Bogie and Bacall, sizzling hot!

“Right.” Arch tugged on a ball cap and denim jacket, snatched a cigarette from the pack on the desk and announced he needed a smoke. “Dinnae open the door for anyone. I have a key, yeah?”

I watched as he left and shut the door behind him.

Yeah. That went well.

Not.

Bewitched, bothered and bewildered, as the song goes, I weaved across the room, drunk on the headiness of that kiss. Hands trembling, I rooted through Big Red for my most current diary, a girlie-pink-and-white journal entitled Secrets of a Diva. Knowing I tended to bottle up my feelings, my dad had bought me my first diary when I was ten, telling me when my brain and heart were all jammed up, I should pour my thoughts onto the pages. My brain and heart were definitely jammed. Today had been a total freak-fest. And that kiss…

I unlocked the diary using the key I kept hidden in my wallet then grabbed my purple pen. The familiarity of the process provided me with a small dose of comfort. At this point, I’d take what I could get.

Dear Diary, Why are men such asses?

Chapter Seven

Atlantic City, New Jersey

The Chameleon Club

MILO BECKETT STOOD at the living room window of his second-floor apartment, hands braced on the scarred sash. Jaw set, he stared out at the Atlantic Ocean. Not that he could see it. He’d invest in a bottle of glass cleaner, but it would ruin the desired effect. His apartment was directly above his place of business—The Chameleon Club.

Seedy was the objective. He didn’t want the Inlet Tavern to attract a large clientele. The club was a front. The government operative’s goal was to blend in.

Like a chameleon.

Milo was good at fooling the masses. He’d learned from the best. His mentor, his nemesis, his partner in crime. Right now he was pissed as hell at the man.

Ocean gazing usually lowered his blood pressure, but he couldn’t see the damned ocean. A grainy film of sand and dirt streaked the outer pane, compliments of a nor’easter. The quarter moon skulked behind ominous clouds. An occasional flash of lightning illuminated choppy seas and the driving rain battering the Inlet’s boardwalk. One working streetlamp flickered on and off. Mostly off. The scene was dark and dangerous.

Like Milo’s mood.

Downstairs, a cheap audio system dished jazz classics, his music of choice. Jazz soothed his soul and kept the twentysomething customers at bay. John Coltrane’s version of “My Favorite Things” floated up through the heating ducts along with patron chatter. A couple of local seniors nursed drinks and swapped stories with Samuel Vine, The Chameleon Club’s primary bartender, the man who ran the tavern when Milo was in the field. Pushing seventy, the dark-skinned ex-boxer was still formidable, but also dependable as the rising sun. Honesty in Milo’s line of work was as rare as a thirty-year-old virgin. He’d learned long ago not to trust anyone.

Especially Arch Duvall.

He smelled more than heard Woody, the newest member of the unconventional dream team, enter the room through the secret stairwell. Dumped by his girlfriend, the twenty-five-year-old techno-geek had been trying to win her back for weeks. New haircut, new clothes. This week: new cologne.

It reeked. Aside from flies, all he’d attract with that flowery stench were curious looks.

Milo didn’t figure it was worth mentioning since they weren’t on a case. Woody, nicknamed The Kid, was a sensitive bastard. He was also brilliant. He’d been holed up in the basement for the past few hours doing what he did best—cracking and tracking.

“Did you find him?” Milo asked without turning.

“How’d you know it was me and not Vine?”

“I’m psychic.”

Woody snorted. “You saw my reflection in the window, right?”

Milo couldn’t see shit in that window. “You got me.” Another thing he’d learned from Arch. The art of lying. He turned, folded his arms over his chest. “So?”

“It wasn’t easy, sir.”

“Milo,” he prompted, although it was wasted breath. Woody had been on the team for three months. He’d yet to drop formalities where his boss was concerned. Respect had been ingrained in the Midwestern boy by the grandparents who’d raised him. He twanged ma’am and sir without thought. Sir made Milo’s balls twitch. Aside from making him feel old, it reminded him of the bureaucratic bullshit that had resulted in him overstepping and his wife stepping out.

The only time anyone referred to him as Sir or Agent Beckett was when he was at HQ, which, to their mutual relief, wasn’t often. He’d earned a reputation as a hot dog. If he weren’t so tight with the director, he’d be out on his forty-seven-year-old ass. As far as his team was concerned, the A.I.A.—Artful Intelligence Agency—operated on a “the-less-we-know-the-better” policy. He had a directive. Results, within blurred reason, were all that mattered.

Like the ones tucked away in Woody’s eccentric mind. Milo angled his head. “Where is he?”

“Fort Lauderdale. Traveled under the name of Charles Dupont.”

Arch was a pro at operating under the radar. Woody was good, but he shouldn’t have been able to track him this fast. Arch must have slipped.

Something was wrong.

“Tomorrow he’s sailing for San Juan on an adults-only cruise. The Fiesta line focuses on romance in the golden years. Caters mostly to second honeymooners, couples celebrating anniversaries. Kind of a geriatric Love Boat.”

The Benson file.

“Son of a bitch.” Milo strode to the hall closet, yanked a suitcase from the shelf.

The flowery stench followed him into his bedroom. “Do you think he’s up to his old tricks, sir?”

“I think he’s taking an unauthorized vacation.” Read: Defying team policy by acting solo. Worse, acting outside of A.I.A. jurisdiction. Chameleon’s license-to-shill wasn’t valid on foreign soil. They had domestic leeway, not international carte blanche.

And Arch knew it.

Milo crammed the case full of casual and formal wear, processing details. Vine and Woody could handle the bar. He’d have to keep A.I.A in the dark in order to keep Arch’s ass, and his own, out of a sling.

Woody scratched at his sparse goatee, also new. “Guess you’re going after him.” For a smart kid, he often stated the obvious.

“I need you to make travel arrangements.” This was the second time in eight months Arch had gone renegade. Milo’s patience was spent.

“Done.”

He glanced up.

The shaggy-haired boy, who presently resembled a modern-day beatnik, shrugged. “Figured it was the next logical move given your mood when you ordered me to track Ace.”

Aka Arch. Grifters referred to their underworld aliases as monikers. Thanks to Arch, every team member had one. Even Milo. Woody referred to everyone on the team by their monikers, except for Milo. Nope. Milo was Sir.

Ignoring his twitching balls, he clasped shut his case, pulled on a leather jacket and silently cursed Arch “Ace” Duvall. “I don’t know why I bother,” he muttered.

“Because it’s what friends do.”

He let that pass. His relationship with Arch was complicated. No one, aside from Milo and Arch, knew the particulars. He intended to keep it that way.

Woody handed him a stuffed envelope. “I made arrangements for two. It’s a couples’ cruise.”

Woody hadn’t been on the team for long but he knew Arch’s history. Knew he was up to something and that he’d just reeled in his friend. Whether he wanted in or not, Milo was now part of Arch’s game. He’d stick out like a sore thumb if he showed up single for a couples’ cruise.

“I called Hot Legs. She’s packing. You can pick her up on the way to A.C. International.”

Gina Valente, aka Hot Legs, was an ex-cop with a gift for grifting. A valuable asset, she often ensnared marks via her feminine wiles. He wasn’t keen on dragging her into this mess, but now, thanks to Arch, this was Chameleon business. “You’re two steps ahead of me, Kid.”

“Three.” He gestured to the envelope.

Milo thumbed through the contents. Travel documents. Passports. Character profiles…Aw, hell. “Why this guy?”

“You’ve played him before. You’re already prepped. We’ve got the wardrobe in stock and we’re on a tight schedule. He’s middle-aged, but he’s rich.”

“He’s annoying.”

“He gets on Ace’s nerves, that’s for sure.”

Milo cracked his first smile of the day. He shrugged out of the leather jacket, opened the suitcase to swap out the wardrobe.

Woody hovered nearby, rubbing the back of his neck—his nervous tell.

“What?”

“There’s something else, sir.”

“Spit it out.”

“Ace enlisted an unsanctioned player.”