bubble, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“She wanted to tackle crooks and you’ve got her typing reports.”
“No typing.”
“Waiting tables?”
“Singing.”
“What, like a singing bartender?”
“No. Like a lounge performer.”
Arch whistled low. “No wonder she’s pissed.”
“I hired her to do what she does, what she’s good at.”
“She doesn’t want to go back.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means she wants to break with the past. Offering her a job as a singer in a low-class pub sets her back aboot twenty years, yeah?”
Milo knew about the need to move on. Like Evie, he’d recently survived a divorce. He’d also suffered his share of professional growing pains. This morning’s confrontation with Crowe had elevated his craving to cut ties with the Agency. He’d gotten into this line of work to help the common masses, not the privileged few.
Prevented from doing what you’re compelled to do by the man who signs the checks. Milo could imagine Evie’s misery and he empathized. But not enough to put her in the field when she lacked the fortitude and training.
“She thinks you asked me to pull her out of the game,” Milo said. “Thinks you didn’t approve of her being an active player.”
“I dinnae,” Arch said.
“But the singing position was my idea.”
The Scot held silent for a moment. Milo heard an eighties dance tune in the background—Culture Club?—and the blaring horn of an irate driver. “Dinnae correct her misassumption,” Arch finally said.
“You want her to be mad at you?”
“It would be better if she thought less of me, aye.”
“Hell,” Milo said with a short laugh, “all she had to do was ask for a copy of your personnel file.” Not that he would have turned it over. He had strict views on confidentiality. Still, he wasn’t above taunting the man who’d made his life hell when they’d been on opposite sides of the law. “Did you come clean and tell her you had an affair with Gina?”
“Why bring up a dead issue?”
“Because if you’re looking to cool Evie’s jets, that would do it.” Someone pounded on the door. “Hold on.” Milo opened up expecting Woody with an armful of dry clothes. Instead Evie stood on the threshold, a dry towel wrapped around her upper body. Which would have been sexy had she taken off her clothes first.
“Here’s the thing,” she said, “I can’t get naked in your apartment.”
“Bloody hell,” Arch said in Milo’s ear. “What the—”
“I’ll call you back.” He disconnected, shoved the phone in his back pocket. “If you’re worried about someone walking in on you, lock the door.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know you well enough.”
“You didn’t know Arch at all and you used his shower. Hell, you slept in his suite.”
“That was different. I was working for him.”
“You’re working for me now.”
“We were posing as a married couple.” She sneezed into a wad of toilet paper and leaned into the doorjamb for support.
“You’ll be posing as a hospital patient if you don’t get into dry clothes.”
Just then, Woody blew in, two hangers dangling from his fingertips. A nurse’s uniform and a nun’s habit.
Milo’s ass vibrated. He ignored the incoming call, frowned at Woody. “You’re joking.”
“All of the women’s clothes are in Hot Legs’s size,” he said.
“Who’s Hot Legs?” asked Evie.
“Gina,” Milo said. His primary female operator. Arch’s previous conquest. The woman who’d put Evie through the wringer on that cruise. Those two had clashed like a pit bull and a poodle. Hell would freeze over before Twinkie would wear anything worn by Gina “Hot Legs” Valente.
“She’s taller and thinner than you,” Woody said, “so I figured anything with pants was out. These are sort of shapeless, so—”
“I’ll risk pneumonia,” Evie said with a tight smile. “Thanks all the same.”
Woody looked clueless and Milo had to bite his tongue. No wonder your girlfriend left you. He may as well have called Evie short and dumpy. From her pinched expression, that’s exactly what she’d heard. Women had an uncanny way of twisting a man’s words when it came to their appearance. He’d learned long ago that when a lady friend asks, Does this make my ass look big? the safest answer is a simple no.
“You don’t look so good, ma’am,” Woody said, digging a deeper hole. But he was right. She was flushed, perspiring and shaky on her feet.
“Yeah, well, you don’t smell so good.”
Woody, who’d been trying to win back his girlfriend by changing everything from his wardrobe to his brand of toothpaste, looked crushed. “You don’t like my cologne?”
“How to put this kindly?” she said with a notable slur. “No.”
Milo studied her hard. “How many shots did Pops give you?”
“One,” she said, holding up two fingers.
Woody whistled. “Oh, man. She’s—”
Milo cut him off before he could say crocked. Knowing his caretaker/bartender he wouldn’t have knowingly poured more than this half-pint could handle. Obviously she had no tolerance. “Nix the clothes,” he said to Woody. “Tell Tabasco rehearsal’s canceled. Our star’s under the weather.”
“Don’t tell him that!” she cried. “It makes me sound like a diva. As long as I have a voice, I can sing.”
“But you’re hoarse,” said Milo. And looped.
“So I’ll sound like Janis Joplin.”
“Did Joplin sing jazz?” Woody asked.
“No, and neither do I.”
“Actually,” Milo said, “she recorded a rendition of ‘Summertime.’”
