Czytaj książkę: «Evie Ever After»

Dear Reader,

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy the adventure,

Beth

Praise for
Beth Ciotta’s
Chameleon Chronicles series

EVERYBODY LOVES EVIE

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

—Booklist

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

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

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

—A Romance Review

ALL ABOUT EVIE

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

—New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

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

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

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

—The Road to Romance

Beth Ciotta
Evie Ever After

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

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

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also available from
Beth Ciotta

Everybody Loves Evie

All About Evie

Seduced

Charmed

Jinxed

Lasso the Moon

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

Out of the Ordinary

Coming soon!

Evie Ever After

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

Private Jet Charter

Somewhere over Indiana

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

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

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

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

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

Where was I?

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

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

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

“Dinnae borrow trouble, Sunshine.”

“It’s just that—”

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

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

Yikes.

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

Oops.

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

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

My tell.

Crap.

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

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

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

Zing. Zap.

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

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

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

Uh. Right.

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

Don’t scratch.

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

“You all right, lass?” Arch asked.

“Absolutely.” Liar.

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

Where was I?

Ah, yes. Lies.

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

I’m determined to prove otherwise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where was I?

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

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

Too bad I was battling a panic attack.

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

Lydia.

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

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

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

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

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

Arch.

“Can’t.”

“Cannae or willnae?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can see that.”

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

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

I shook my head, palmed my jaw.

“Did it lock?”

“Not yet,” I said through clenched teeth.

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

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

Like now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something to make her go away.”

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

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

And immediately dropped my head back between my knees.

Wuss!

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

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

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

“Absolutely.”

“Then tell them.”

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

London. With Arch.

Scotland. With Arch.

Anywhere, my foggy brain whispered, with Arch.

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

Zing. Zap.

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

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

“You wouldn’t.”

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

And of course, I let him.

CHAPTER TWO

“YOU’RE HOME?”

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

Arch.

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

“I have some things to do, yeah?”

At three in the morning?

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

I slept for four hours.

“For how long?” Nic asked.

“Four hours.”

“What?”

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

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

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

“Screw that. I’m coming over.”

“Now?”

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

“He isn’t here.”

“Is he still in the picture?

“Yes.”

“Beckett?”

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

“Uh-huh.”

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

Oh, wait. I did.

“Nic—”

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

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

“Hold off on that, Evie.”

“Why?”

“Jayne’s been…weird.”

“More weird than usual?”

“Tell you when I see you.”

“But—”

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

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

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

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

Ouch.

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

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

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

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

“Do what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My stomach turned. “I had no idea.”

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

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

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

“What, like an intervention?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go on.”

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“Go on.”

“It’s big-time hush-hush.”

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

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

“Investigates scams. I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wanted Arch.

I wanted this job.

Dammit, I wanted a new life.

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

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

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

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

“No need to get defensive,” said Nic.

“I’m not defensive.”

She arched a brow and I ached to scratch.

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

“What do you mean?”

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

“Prick.”

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

“What does Arch call him?”

“Practical.”

“You’re kidding.”

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

I was still stunned.

“Doesn’t that worry you?” Nic asked.

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

Nic snorted.

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

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

“What?”

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

“Why does it have to be secret?”

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

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

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

“I understand.”

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

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

That made two of us.

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

Ditto.

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

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

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

“I’ll have an answer today.”

“Good. Great.”

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

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

“Brace yourself.”

“Spit it out.”

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

“You’re working for the freaking FBI?”

“No, the AIA.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Artful Intelligence Agency.”

“Still never heard of it.”

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

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

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

“What about Arch?”

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

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

I smirked. “Thanks for reminding me.”

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

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

CHAPTER THREE

Philadelphia International Airport

“I’M ON THE GROUND.”

“How’d it go, mate?”

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

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

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

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

“Still there, Jazzman?”

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

“Evie’s fine.”

“I meant the entire team.”

“Sure you did.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Want to talk aboot it?”

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

“What?”

“Trouble coming my way.”

“Bad sort?”

“My sort. Gotta go.”

“Call me if you need me, mate.”

“Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door opened and closed and Milo turned.

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

At least they had one thing in common.

“We have a problem, Agent Beckett.”

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

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

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

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

“Hell, no. Sir.”

“Sources say otherwise.”

“What sources?”

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

“You had agents spying on us?”

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

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

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

Fuck. “You don’t have any proof—”

“Yes,” Crowe said, “we do.”