foot in frustration. He talked in circles, just like …
Oh, no. “Arch put you up to this, didn’t he?” I whirled and paced, my mind tripping over rapid-fire thoughts. “I knew he wasn’t happy about me grifting for you, with him, but I didn’t think he’d go behind my back and …” I sneezed.
“Bless you.”
“Thank you. I didn’t think he’d sabotage my future,” I ranted without missing a beat. “He knew how important this was to me. I’ve been studying and practicing and … I even stole, I mean distracted … dammit!” I stopped in my tracks, tongue-tied with a zillion curses. All of them directed at Arch Duvall. “No wonder he didn’t call me back. He’s avoiding me. He …” I faltered, realizing I’d just shot myself in the foot.
“Looks like you weren’t the only one who was misled.”
I could feel myself blushing from bleached hair follicles to painted pink toenails. My skin actually sizzled. “Okay. I might have been a little less than truthful back on the island when I intimated there was nothing between Arch and me other than friendship.”
Beckett raised a brow. “Really?”
His sarcasm grated big-time. I planted my hands on my hips, straightened my spine. If I could stand up to several marketing and entertainment executives, I could handle one arrogant Fed. “I slept with Arch. We had a fling. There. I admitted it. Are you happy now?”
“Did you get him out of your system?”
My skin prickled with a nervous rash. But I didn’t scratch. That would be what Arch called a “tell.” I nodded and delivered a firm, “Yes.”
“Until you get better at lying, I’m not putting you in the field.”
How did he know? I didn’t scratch! Furious, I stalked closer. “Now, just a minute. I—”
“Watch out, sir! She’s dangerous!”
I turned at the familiar voice. Smelly Bearded Boy, but without the ratty trench coat. He stood on the threshold of another door, holding a stack of manila envelopes. What the …?
“I tried to help her and she threatened me. She … she …” He stammered and stared. At my chest!
“You,” Beckett said, pointing a finger at Bearded Boy, “go and fetch Evie something to wear from wardrobe.”
The kid’s eyes widened at the sound of my name. “She’s—”
“If you call me Twinkie, so help me—”
“Go,” Beckett ordered.
Bearded Boy, who I guess worked for the club, scrammed down a back set of stairs. I’m not sure who he feared more, me or Beckett.
“You,” he said, grasping my shoulders and steering me into his bathroom, “get out of those wet clothes and into a hot shower. You’re hoarse. You’re sneezing. I’ll be damned if I’ll have a team member keel over from pneumonia.” He gave me a shove and shut me in. “I’ll get dressed and make you some tea and honey,” he said through the door. “When you come out, we’ll discuss this rationally.”
I stood, stunned, listening as another door slammed. He’d just called me a team member. Maybe I’d misunderstood. Maybe the singing gig was a cover. Or just temporary.
Until you get better at lying, I’m not putting you in the field.
There was hope. I performed a happy jig. At the same time I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the vanity mirror and froze. My thin white blouse was drenched and transparent. So was my sheer bra. Unbelievable.
In addition to Beckett, now Pops, Tabasco and Bearded Boy had all gotten a primo look at my boobs.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MILO JAMMED HIS LEGS into a pair of jeans and pulled on a clean T-shirt. He raided his top drawer. “Why is it I can never find a damn pair of matching socks?” He pulled on one blue, one black, and shoved his feet into a pair of brown Skechers.
A day that had started off bad just tanked. If Vincent Crowe hadn’t phoned at six-fricking-o’clock this morning, ordering him to the Philadelphia office for a rundown on a fricking politician’s personal crisis, he wouldn’t have been racing to get back to the club for his meeting with Evie. He wouldn’t have blown out a tire and gotten caught in a downpour changing that flat and chasing a fricking renegade lug nut down the muddy embankment. He wouldn’t have had to shower and change, ultimately getting caught with his pants down, not to mention his guard.
A drenched and tipsy Evie stoked dangerous feelings, making Milo edgy. Make that edgier.
His muscles bunched as he tied his shoelaces and waited for the sound of groaning pipes, the rhythmic blast of his shower massage. He imagined Twinkie naked. Standing in his claw-footed tub, hot water racing over her hot curves. Strategically aimed shower pulsations urging her to let go.
“Christ.” Managing his fascination had been easier when she wasn’t around.
He straightened and adjusted himself. He conjured thoughts of Sister Rosa, his fifth-grade Catholic schoolteacher with the pop-bottle glasses and hooked nose. After a two-second appearance, the finger-wagging nun morphed into a gyrating babe. Not his fault. He’d been treated to a personalized version of a wet T-shirt contest. Another vision to haunt his dreams. Evie in a clingy, see-through shirt. Instead of alerting her to her sexy state, he’d tried his damnedest to ignore it. He didn’t want to embarrass her on top of pissing her off. Between the pacing and her heated mood, the thin blouse would quickly dry. She’d be none the wiser.
Enter Woody.
He couldn’t blame the kid for staring. Before making a concerted effort to avert his own gaze, Milo had copped a look, too. What hetero man wouldn’t? But Woody had been two seconds from outing Evie’s visible nipples. Hence plan B: getting her out of the room and out of those clothes.
The only thing better would be getting her into his bed. But that wasn’t going to happen. Even if he ignored his own policy against mixing business and pleasure, even if he acted out of character, poured on the charm and seduced a friend and associate’s woman, nothing would come of it. Twinkie was a good girl. Until she got over her infatuation with Arch, she’d be true to the man, even though that man would never commit to a long-term relationship.
Better to practice restraint. One of three things would happen: either his infatuation with Evie would fizzle or Evie’s infatuation with Arch would fizzle or Arch would expose himself as amoral, scaring Evie off and into the arms of the better man. And Milo believed wholeheartedly and without arrogance that he was, in this instance, the better man.
“I can’t believe I’m having these thoughts.”
Evie’s mentality closely resembled that of his ex-wife’s. The dreamer and the realist, a recipe for disaster. A smart man would learn from his mistakes. Unfortunately, every time Evie entered his personal space, Milo’s IQ dropped.
He heard sneezing and mumbling through the paper-thin walls. He imagined his new employee peeling off layers—damn—and decided to dump some grief on the man who’d
