Evie Ever After

CHAPTER SEVEN

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

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

He rang her up.

“Hello?”

“It’s Beckett.”

Silence.

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

“Call a friend.”

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

“Your place,” he countered.

“Not comfortable with that.”

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

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

“I know.” He knocked on the door.

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

What the fuck was he doing here?

His cock twitched in answer.

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

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

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

Yet here he was.

“Awfully sure of yourself, Slick.”

“Just optimistic.”

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

“Walked into a fist.”

“That fist belong to anyone I know?”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Awfully sure of yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good call.”

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

“It’s not.”

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

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

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

“Me being fucked.”

She stiffened.

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

“The AIA?”

“You know about the Agency?”

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

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

“Your secret’s safe with me, Slick.”

“I believe you, Nicole.”

“Most people call me Nic.”

“Most people call me Milo.”

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

“I’ve been accused of murder.”

The smile slipped. “That’s big.”

They slammed back two fingers of vodka in tandem.

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

Nic refilled their glasses, chewing over his revelation.

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

“Did you?”

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

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

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

“So he died after.”

“Soon after.”

“Because of something you did.”

Milo nodded. “Apparently so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not.”

“Who’s the politician?”

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

“Privileged information, huh?”

“Sorry.”

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

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

“What?”

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

“That sounds bad.”

“It is.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Nicole—”

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

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

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

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

“Anything but the news.”

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

“Nope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me you’re not in jail, son.”

Milo frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“We heard about Turner.”

“How?”

“CNN.”

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

“Course not.”

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

“You comin’ home tonight?”

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

“Take care, Jazzman.”

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

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

“Why are you being nice to me?”

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

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

She topped off her drink. “Do you?”

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

“I know of at least one.”

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

“Are you sure?”

“Shoot.”

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

CHAPTER EIGHT

CONTRARY TO MY PREDICTION, I did not die.

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

Apparently not, because they just kept coming.

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

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

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

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

“Dinnae make me pick this lock, Sunshine.”

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

“What?”

“Did you ever see That Touch of Mink?”

“Doris Day and Cary Grant?”

“Bingo.”

“Not one of their better films, yeah?”

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

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

“I thought Day and Grant were adorable together.”

“Mismatched.”

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

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

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

“You know we do.”

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

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

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

“What’s wrong, lass?”

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

“Aye. And?”

“Now we can’t.”

“Why not?”

“For one, I’m too distracted.”

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

“He’s not under arrest?”

“No.”

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

“What else?” Arch asked.

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

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

More good news.

“What else?” His patience was amazing.

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

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

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

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

He took one look at me and smiled.

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

“It’s not so bad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aside from the obvious?”

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

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

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

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

“Icing.”

“Right. The frosting on the top.”

“Cherry on the top.”

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

His mouth quirked. “Name one.”

“You make me feel sexy.”

“You are sexy.”

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

“There are all kinds of sexy, yeah?”

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

“Helping you to focus less on the external.”

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

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

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

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

“Leave it.”

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

“Aye.”

Hmm.

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

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

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

“Dinnae talk.”

Another order.

Zing.