case is that he sneaks in and I don’t have enough time to call for backup.”
Her eyes narrowed. “But you’ll still wait to arrest him until after he’s off my property.”
“That’s the plan,” he said. “But I have to be honest with you, Ms. Conroy—Mitchell Lundy is a dangerous criminal who’s played cat and mouse with the Bureau for years. If something goes wrong, we’ll still seize the opportunity to arrest him.”
“Even if it puts my employees in danger?”
“Civilian safety is always our first concern,” he said, and stubbornly, a civilian with white-blond hair came to mind.
“Are you sure you’ll recognize this Lundy fellow?”
“If I see his eyes—he sustained a wound to one eye that left a permanent and recognizable scar.”
“What if he recognizes you?”
“We’re operating under the assumption that he or his people have a file on all the agents in the state.” He frowned. “That’s why I agreed to wear the costume—I doubt if Lundy will suspect Elvis. I understand there’s a wig and sunglasses?”
“That’s right.” The shadow of a smile played on her lips, then disappeared. “Are you carrying a gun?”
“Bureau policy, ma’am.”
She nodded, then straightened. “Well, Mr. Mulcahy, you have a job to do, but so do we. If you want to fit in here at TCB, I suggest that you do whatever Gracie tells you to do.” She frowned. “In regards to work, that is. Until you make the arrest, we need for you to be a convincing performer for our customers.”
He nodded, but his stomach felt tangled. And he wasn’t sure what bothered him most—the thought of impersonating the King, or working closely with Gracie Sergeant.
“Come along, H.D.,” Cordelia said, and the hound lifted his fat rump from Steve’s instep. Steve shifted his weight to send blood back to his foot, then glanced at the pink Caddy. “Ms. Conroy?”
She turned back. “Yes?”
“Does the Caddy run?”
“Not for a year now.”
“Care if I take a look under the hood?”
“Be my guest,” she said, then withdrew a thick ring of keys from her robe pocket. She removed two keys on a separate ring, tossed them to him, then reentered the chapel.
Steve strode toward the old car, burning with curiosity. As he rolled back the cloth tarp, his pulse spiked in appreciation of the four-door Cadillac, rust spots and all. The paint was faded, revealing lots of body filler along the side panels, but the chrome was intact and the white hardtop and interior were in amazingly good condition. All four tires were flat and probably ruined, but it should have whitewalls anyway. He lifted the hood and stared down at the corroded engine, registering in one glance that two hoses were disconnected and the carburetor lid was missing.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
Steve looked up to see Gracie walking toward him, his pulse spiking again but for a different reason. Did she know that in the sunlight her white eyelet dress was transparent? She wore a lacy strapless bra and high-cut bikini panties. The silhouette of her opposing curves—breasts, waist and hips—stamped into his brain in the same place, he suspected, that songs embedded themselves to emerge as torture at the most inconvenient times.
His sex hardened, straining at his zipper, preventing him from straightening to greet her. “Yeah,” he murmured. “She’s something.” The fact that they were talking about two different things didn’t matter.
Gracie ran her hand along the top of the car. “It’s a 1955 model, just like the one Elvis bought for his mother. The real one is on display at Graceland.”
He smiled. “Have you been to Graceland?”
She shook her head. “I…haven’t seen much of the country.”
“Did you grow up here?”
“Um…no. Do you know something about cars?”
He filed away the fact that she had sidestepped his question, but let it pass. “A little.”
Her eyes went round. “Do you think you could get it running again?”
“I don’t know—I can give it a try.”
She grinned. “That would be wonderful—it would be a boon to our business if we could offer couples a ride in a pink Caddy.”
“Has anyone tried to fix it?”
She shook her head. “Just between us, Cordelia hasn’t had the money.”
He frowned. “Is business bad?”
“Well, the wedding chapel business isn’t what it used to be—the competition is fierce, and taxes are astronomical. I think Cordelia would like to retire, but she doesn’t want to put the rest of us out of a job.” Then she wet her lips. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t be telling you Cordelia’s business. I came out to get you—we need to prepare for the four o’clock wedding.”
“Right,” he said, lowering the hood and replacing the tarp. “The suit.”
“Yes, the suit. And I have a favor to ask,” she said, turning back toward the chapel.
When he lifted his head, he saw that she was wearing a thong, and all rational thought fled. “Anything,” he murmured, hurrying to catch up with her.
“How do you feel about…singing?”
He blinked. “Singing?”
“It’s just like karaoke,” she said hurriedly. “The music will play, and the words will scroll across a screen.”
“I don’t sing,” he said, shaking his head, his feet feeling heavier with every step. “I’ll wear the suit, but I don’t sing.”
She bit into her pink lower lip. “I have to be honest with you, Steve. We really need the business, and we need a good Elvis to keep our customers happy.”
“But I don’t sing,” he insisted.
She pshawed. “Everybody sings.”
“Not me.”
She crossed her arms under her breasts—an unfair and distracting maneuver, in his opinion. “Cordelia just told me that you said you’d do whatever we needed for you to do.”
A sick feeling settled into his stomach. “I did say that, yes.”
Her smile was brilliant, pushing her cheeks up, highlighting the little brown mole. “Good.” She turned back toward the chapel, practically skipping. “We have just enough time for a practice run. Do you know the words to ‘All Shook Up’?”
Steve
