Everybody Loves Evie (11 page)

“An impromptu visit from you is one thing,” she said. “But to say nothing of your…friend.”

“I'm sorry.” It reminded me of the time I invited Mindy Klinger, my best friend in grade school, to sleep over without asking permission. Jeez, Louise, if I wanted to feel younger, all I had to do was come home. With each ticking second I regressed another ten years.

“And what's with this getup?” she asked, motioning to my clothes. “You're dressed like a twelve-year-old, for pity's sake.”

At this rate, by dinnertime I'd be back in the womb.

I wanted to explain that my retro cartoon T-shirt was actually fashionable and acceptable for someone my age, but I was too mortified to speak.

Beckett seized the awkward moment, releasing my hand to shake Mom's. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Parish. I'm—”

“The baron's personal aide. Yes, I know. Please call me Marilyn, and welcome.” She pumped his hand, then waved us inside. “Get off the porch, for goodness' sake. We don't want the neighbors to talk.”

Talk about what?
I wanted to ask but didn't. My mind was stuck on that other part. The baron part. But I didn't ask about that, either, because I couldn't get a word in.

“I'm beside myself, Evelyn. Nobility. Here in Greenville. In this house. Sitting on
my
sofa. If I'd known, I could have at least shopped for Earl Grey. The only tea I had to offer was Lipton.
Lipton,
for pity's sake.”

Her rambling stupefied me, but then we stepped into the living room and it all made sense. Strike that. It made no sense at all.

Arch.

My heart pounded as I drank in the delicious sight of him. He'd shaved his cropped beard into a trimmed goatee, sophisticated yet roguish. Dressed in a tailored charcoal-gray suit, crisp white shirt and a striped black-and-gray tie, he looked like a cross between a Wall Street tycoon and a model for
GQ
magazine. I'd seen him in a suit before, but he'd been disguised as a geeky sixtysomething yachting snob—pot belly strapped under his oxford shirt, ascot knotted at his neck, gray hair, fake jowls. The man walking toward me was all Arch. All sexy, all charismatic, all hunkified.

Zowie.

He took me in his arms, enveloping me in his aura of potent machismo.
Zing. Zap.
My body pulsed with equal parts desire, confusion, relief and rage. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to punch him.

“Hold that thought,” he whispered in my ear as if reading my scrambled mind. “Feels like we've been apart three years instead of three days, lass,” he said loud enough for all to hear, which made me think it was an act. He excelled at manipulating people, and just now, for whatever reason, he wanted my mom to believe he'd missed me. If I weren't savvy to his charms, I'd believe it myself. But he hadn't
missed me
enough to return my call or to be available when I needed his advice. Or to invite me to return his one miserably impersonal message so we could have a decent conversation.

It hit me then. Like a flipping pie in the face. Arch wasn't the one having trouble with our new “friend” status. It was me. My overreaction to our lack of contact hadn't been one of a friend but a lover.
Crap.
I'd declared our fling over. Trouble was I wasn't
over
Arch.

Okay, this sucked.

He brushed his mouth across my lips, escalating suckdom to new heights. I was too gaga over that brief, body-tingling kiss to speak, although I did sigh. And I think my knees sagged. Beckett no doubt noticed. Not that he'd believed me when I'd said I'd gotten Arch out of my system. But this was just proof that I'd lied and that my bluffing skills needed work.
Double crap.

Not only that, but this blew Beckett's initial plan sky-high. How could he be my boyfriend if Arch was my boyfriend? And why exactly had Arch stepped up to the boyfriend plate? And
what
was with the baron angle?

I glanced sideways and, though the agent's expression betrayed nothing, I knew he wondered the same thing. I found it hard to believe that he'd known Arch would be here. Nothing up to this point supported that theory. Nope. I suspected he was as surprised as me. We both held silent, waiting for the cagey Scot to show his cards.

Instead Mom, who was abnormally chatty, revealed her hand. “I can see you're uncomfortable, Evelyn. Don't be. Baron Duvall—or is it Baron Archibald—”

“Just Arch,” he said.

“—explained the circumstances. Normally I don't approve of lying, but I understand his immediate need to keep your relationship secret. Scottish nobility and an American entertainer.” She snorted in a knowing manner. “The press would have a field day. And considering his charity work, well…” She fluttered a hand, leaving off the rest of Arch's tale.

Okay. Never mind that she'd just suggested I was worthy of a scandal sheet simply because I'd chosen the stage over scholastics. But what the heck? Arch had passed himself off as a privileged noble and us an item? For what purpose? And how did he know we'd be here? I didn't know about Beckett, but my head hurt.

Arch graced my mom with one of his knee-buckling smiles—at least that's how they affected me. “Again, Marilyn, I appreciate your cooperation in this delicate matter. Your daughter and I aren't hiding our relationship, but we are keeping a low profile. I wanted to meet her family with
oot
the interference of the paparazzi. You know how intrusive they can be, yeah?”

“Monsters,” she said with a scowl. “Look at how they hounded poor Princess Diana and Dodi, and we all know how
that
turned out.”

I dipped my chin and massaged my temple when I really wanted to roll my eyes. Mom—logical, grounded Marilyn Parish—had fallen for Arch's cock-and-bull fairy tale like a gullible kid.

Beckett stood beside me, hands stuffed in the pockets of his Dockers, expressionless, silent. I imagine he was doing the same as me: trying to assess the situation. It was like walking in on the middle of a movie.

Eureka!

“The Prince and the Showgirl,”
I mouthed and Arch winked at me. Yeah, boy, he'd ripped this scenario out of the 1957 movie starring Laurence Olivier and Marilyn Monroe. Considering he'd fashioned our last aliases after characters from another Monroe classic,
Some Like it Hot,
he probably thought I'd get a kick out of it. An inside joke, except I didn't get it. Why the charade?

“A driver dropped me
aboot
twenty minutes ago. I
didnae
expect to arrive ahead of you,” he said, at last addressing his partner.

“Missed our connection in Cleveland,” Beckett said, folding his arms over his maroon polo shirt. Unlike Arch, his attire was casual. Unlike Arch, he'd blend in here. “Tried to reach you on your cell,” he continued. “Couldn't get through.”

I didn't know if he was telling the truth or playing along. My patience thinned by the minute.

“Between our time in the air and spotty reception, I assumed as much.” Arch wrapped an arm about my waist, kissed the top of my head. “If she were under anyone else's protection, I would've worried, yeah?
Dinnae
know what I'd do with
oot
you, Northbrook.”

Northbrook. A character name from
The Prince and the Showgirl.
Only Beckett wouldn't know that since he wasn't a movie buff like Arch and me. Still, he didn't flinch.

“Just doing my job,” he said, and I remembered that Mom had referred to him as the baron's personal aide. Either the man was quick on his feet or he'd planned this with Arch ahead of time, although how could that be when I'd presented him with my family crisis last-minute?

“Mr. Northbrook,” Mom said as if suddenly aware of his presence. “You must be fatigued from the drive. Would you like some water? Tea? Coffee? What about lunch? You must know the baron's likes and dislikes. Join me in the kitchen while these two lovebirds say a proper hello. Tell me,” she said at a lower volume as she ushered him into the dining room, “is
personal aide
code for bodyguard? The baron mentioned you're former military.”

Number one: I've never known Mom to be so animated and gossipy. Two: I've never heard her utter the term
lovebirds.
And three:
proper hello
intimated intimacy. I'm positive she's never championed displays of affection. She didn't even hug me at the front door, for crying out loud! Yet here she was encouraging whoopee between me and a man she didn't know. Although he was—
cough
—nobility. Why did I get the sinking feeling that she was doing an internal happy dance, thinking, after years of struggling in the fickle, unstable entertainment world, I'd finally wised up and secured my future by landing an aristocrat.

As soon as they were out of the room, I wiggled out of Arch's arms. “What are you doing here?”

“Keeping my partner from ruining his career.”

It wasn't the answer I'd expected. I wanted him to be here for me. The disappointment was crushing. “I assume you're speaking of the senator's case,” I whispered.

“Aye.”

“I didn't ask Beckett to do this.”

“I know.”

“How do you…?” I narrowed my eyes. “Someone on the team contacted you.”

“Aye.”

“But you were in London, weren't you? How did you get here before us? How long have you been here?” I paced to work off rising steam, fought to keep my voice to a frustrated whisper. “I came here because my family needs me.”

“I know.”

“I guess you heard that from Gina or Tabasco, too.”

“I didn't hear it from you.”

A sarcastic statement delivered without sarcasm. How very Arch. I stopped in front of him, hands balled at my side. “Well, I
would
have told you if you would've answered the phone.”

“You could've left a message, yeah?”

“Yes, well…”

“We
dinnae
have time for this, Sunshine.” He nabbed my wrist and pulled me against his hunky body. “Listen and focus.”

At times like this it was impossible to think of myself as six years his senior. He made me feel like a besotted teen, all hormones and giggles. I blinked up into those devastating gray-green eyes, my mind and limbs mush. The use of my pet name had been enough to burn off my temper, but it was the feel of his arms around me—strong and comforting—that unraveled the bulk of my anxiety knots.

“Do you want to reunite your parents? Do you want to appear successful in their eyes and in the eyes of your school chums?” He smoothed a hand down my back and I realized I was trembling. “Do you want to prove to Beckett and the rest of Chameleon that you've got the right stuff?”

I almost fell for it. Almost believed that he wanted to make my professional dream come true. Except I remembered his reaction—or lack thereof—when I'd told him Beckett had hired me and
then
…my blood boiled just thinking about it. “You don't want me to prove I've got the right stuff. You convinced Beckett to use me as a singer instead of an active player. And now you show up here and…what? What are you playing at,
Ace?
”

“Things have changed,” is all he said. “Just know I'm here for the greater good.”

Not a perfect explanation but one that appealed to my sense of decency. Which, of course, the manipulative bastard knew. “I thought you were here because of Beckett.”

“I am. But I'm here for you, too.”

My traitorous heart thumped.

“Friends in need, yeah?”

Friends. Right.

“We need to work this nobility angle, Sunshine.”

My brain scrambled to break down his intent. Even though he said he wanted to keep his bogus title and our equally bogus relationship low-profile, surely he understood the power and speed of small-town gossip. Two days, tops, and the headline of the
Greenville Tribune
would read: European Nobility Romances Drama Queen. Mrs. Grable and my drama-club buddies would view me as a modern-day Grace Kelly. Who needs to perform when you've got a castle to keep? My family, specifically my Dad, would stop fretting that I was alone and floundering. He could give up the tavern and Mom could give up her shenanigans and all would be right in their world.

As for Beckett…My objective all along had been to dazzle him with my tap-dancing abilities, thereby earning my place in the field. If I could con an entire town—people who
knew
me—into thinking I was dating a noble, I could dupe a run-of-the-mill scum artist into believing anything.