“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
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
