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
