Everybody Loves Evie (15 page)

“So you're laying groundwork. You're going to weasel your way into that private poker game.”

“Barons
dinnae
weasel. That's why they have personal aides.”

“So Beckett's going to weasel your way into that game?”

“Actually, Gina and Tabasco are going in first.”

“I'm confused.”

“You're cute when you're confused.”

“I thought I was cute when cheeky.”

“That, too.”

“You're going to kiss me, aren't you?”

“Consider it practice for when we have to put on a show in town.”

I gasped when he yanked me against his body.
Bad idea,
my mind whispered, but I couldn't say why. He obliterated sane thought with an explosive kiss. Passionate. Overwhelming. He conquered. I clung. His hands moved over my face, through my hair, down my back. He grabbed my butt and lifted me and I felt the world tilt. No,
me
tilt. Falling. Floating on a wave of ecstasy as he kissed me into oblivion. Pressure. On my back, front. Squished between Arch and…something. Picnic table, I thought hazily.

Standing—at least one of us was still grounded—he'd wedged himself between my dangling legs, his upper body bent over and pressed against mine. Crazy with need, I reached between us and unbuttoned his shirt. I had it down to an art, this undressing-in-the-heat-of-a-spontaneous-moment thing. Seconds later my hands moved over his ripped abs, skimmed his sides and splayed over his strong back. Primal desires prompted monosyllabic thoughts.
Me. Want. You.

My body burned and hummed as he suckled my tongue, my lips, nipped my jaw and sucked my earlobe. Cool air washed over my hot skin as he pushed up my T-shirt, my bra.

“What if someone—”

“I'll hear them.”

Really? My heart pounded so loud even his voice, so close, sounded distant and muffled. Then he tongued my nipple and I no longer cared about voyeurs. He savored and I arched.
Me. Want.
“More,” I demanded, even as he tugged down my zipper. White-hot sensations danced through me.

Broad daylight,
good girl warned.

Afternoon delight,
bad girl crooned.

He slid his hand down my panties, touched me…there.

Drunk on lust, inhibitions blew apart. I squirmed and, knowing this dance well, he took the lead, stroking, urging.

Coming, coming.

“Oh, my god. Oh. My. God.”
Breathe.
Release
that
way only primed me for the bigger O. I gripped his waistband, thumbed open the clasp.

“Bollocks.”

My heart skipped because generally that curse signaled he was turned on, only he grasped my wrist and said, “No condom.”

“Oh.” And not the I-see-stars kind. “Well, that's…”

“For the best.” He rested his forehead against mine.

I'd yet to open my eyes. My safety mechanism. The feel of his bare torso against mine was so familiar I could easily imagine us in the shower of his suite on the ship or on the carpet of his grandfather's flat or in the closet at…well, lots of places. But then he eased away, setting my bra and shirt back to rights and my senses returned. Eyes wide-open, I stared up at the blue sky obstructed with leafy green and absorbed what had just happened, what almost happened. “We've groped and…”

“Shagged.”

“…in some unusual places, but this takes the…”

“Cake?”

I willed my brain to kick in. Full sentences, please. “A public area in broad daylight, for crying out.” I swung off the table and fastened my jeans. “Teenagers show more restraint.”

“I
dinnae
know
aboot
that,” he said, buttoning his shirt.

“Let me rephrase. Around here, teens don't have sex out in the open.” I pointed across the river. “They do it over there. On the high bank. In their cars. They say they're going stargazing, but it really means parking, which, at least here in the Midwest, means they're going to make out and get busy in the backseat.”

He studied the opposite bank while tucking in his shirttails. “Huh.”

He looked so damned sexy—rebellious yet sophisticated. The urge to jump him welled all over again. Disgusted with myself, I marched for the car. “I'm not saying I didn't enjoy what just happened, but we're not supposed to be having sex.”

“That was foreplay, love.”

“Same thing.”

“Not where I come from.”

“I'm serious,” I said, stopping at the Mercedes. “We have a real problem if we can't make it one day together without breaking our resolve. I mean, what does that say about us?”

“That we're attracted to one another?”

“Why are you making light of this?”

“Because you're making too much of it, yeah?”

He had no idea. My heart soared to the moon and back and I figured now was a good time to start practicing my poker face. “You're right. No big deal. No harm done.” I was cool, calm and in control of this awkward relationship. Yes, sir, I could control my amorous feelings. I could hold my own with sexy bad boy. I quirked a sympathetic, blatantly insincere smile. “At least I got an orgasm out of it.”

His mouth twitched as he slid on his sunglasses. “I got something
oot
of it, too, Sunshine.”

I blinked, stymied by his cocky grin. “What?”

“Let's just say I'm not disappointed.” He nabbed the keys out of my hand. “I'll drive.”

So much for being in control.

T
HE
C
ORNER
T
AVERN WAS
just as I remembered it. Yellow. Banana-yellow, actually, with contrasting dark green shutters. A cracked and peeling eyesore, it had been in need of refurbishing for the last twenty years. I'm surprised Dad hadn't already hired a crew to strip and paint it white or some other nonoffensive shade. An afternoon hangout for retired farmers, railroad workers and between-gig truck drivers, the Corner Tavern sat on the corner—go figure—of Main and Fifth Street. The nighttime crowd was younger, rowdier and prone to drunk-and-disorderly behavior.

“I still can't believe he bought this place,” I muttered as Arch parallel parked curbside.

“Bet he got it cheap.”

“God, I hope so. I've only been inside once. I recall the inside being just as run-down, although the color scheme was less gaudy. It made the Chameleon Club look like an upscale martini bar.”

Arch whistled low.

“Yeah.” I glanced over, noted his expensive suit. “Even without a tie you are way overdressed.”

“Guess I'll draw attention then, yeah?”

“Oh, right. You want to be noticed.” He looked dashing and European and emitted the expected arrogance of a person of title. I looked like a funky artist—retro sixties. All I needed was a flower in my hair. There was also our age difference, which wouldn't matter as much to me if only Arch were the senior. Sighing, I flipped down the sun visor and checked my makeup in the mirror. I frowned at the faint wrinkles etching my eyes, then told myself to
stop
frowning because it only intensified the creases. “Why is it that on men crow's-feet look like laugh lines and on women they look like wrinkles?”

“You
dinnae
have wrinkles.”

“What do you call these?”

“Character lines.”

“I guess I have a lot of character,” I said drily.

“An admirable quality, Sunshine.”

I could feel his eyes on me, only this time I didn't give in to their hypnotic pull. “No one's going to buy that you are interested in me,” I said while reapplying my frosty-pink lipstick. Amazing how I could talk and apply lipstick—expertly, mind you—at the same time. Multitalented, that's me.

“They'll buy it,” he said. “Got our story straight?”

“There's not much to it.” Mostly everything was based on truth, except the baron part. Oh, and the part about us being a serious item. I felt uncomfortable lying to my dad, but I wasn't about to verbalize that. In the grand scheme of things, I wanted to prove I could fool even those close to me, aid a U.S. senator, dupe a swindler or two
and
mend my parents' frayed marriage. Bending the truth seemed reasonable.
For the greater good,
I mentally chanted as I unbuckled my seat belt.

Taking that as his cue, Arch rounded the car and opened my door, handing me out and onto the sidewalk. Con artist or titled nobility, he was always a gentleman. He fed the parking meter, then clasped my hand. “Nervous?” he asked.

“No.”

“Your palm is clammy.”

Crap.

I imagined what we looked like, the baron and the hippie, striding up a small-town sidewalk.

“We make an interesting pair, yeah?”

Scary how he could read my mind. “Yeah,” I said. In real life
and
undercover.

Arch opened the front door of the tavern, allowing me to enter first. I stopped short, eyes wide. The clientele was exactly what I'd expected: six to eight older men clad in faded jeans, plaid shirts or T-shirts, most wearing John Deere or Harley-Davidson caps. All sitting at the bar. All nursing bottles of domestic beer.

It was the tavern itself that took me by surprise. The interior had been tastefully redecorated into a country-and-western theme. Polished hardwood floor, gleaming oak bar, matching tables and chairs. The newly painted muted red walls boasted pictures and memorabilia from movies ranging from
High Noon
to
The Magnificent Seven
to
Urban Cowboy.
Movies I'd watched growing up. Movies I'd yammered about at the kitchen table, only I'd thought no one had paid attention.

Then I saw the stage.

Choked up, I whirled and smacked into Arch.

“Easy, love.” He steadied me, frowning when he saw tears in my eyes. “What's wrong?”

“He bought this place for me. Redecorated for me. I can't believe…” I massaged a fierce ache in my chest, trying hard not to sob. “I can't believe it. I can't…face him until I settle down. He doesn't like scenes.”

“Is he a stocky man? Average height? White hair, full beard?”

I nodded.

“Then suck it up, love. Here he comes.”

“Evelyn? Is that you?”

I wiped away the tears, took a bracing breath, smiled and turned. “Hi, Dad.” But as soon as I saw his face, a hundred kind gestures exploded in my memory. The diary had been the biggest kindness. Other considerations had been subtler, so much so I'd forgotten them. Maybe he'd never understood my artistic temperament, but he'd never condemned it, and now it seemed he was encouraging it. And at a time when I'd reconciled to retire from performing.

After a moment he patted me awkwardly on the shoulder. “Now, now. What's the fuss?”

Embarrassed, I gestured to the room.

“You don't like it?”

“I believe she's overwhelmed, yeah? Speechless, in fact.” Arch stepped forward and extended a hand. “Allow me to introduce myself, Mr. Parish. I'm—”

“Archibald Robert Duvall, Baron of Broxley.” Dad clasped his hand, a firm businessman's shake. “My son called,” he explained. “Marilyn, my wife, phoned him with the news. I understand you're anxious to keep your title quiet, but we're family.”

“I understand.”

“It goes no further.”

Not that I didn't believe Dad, but I knew it was only the beginning. Christopher would tell his wife (technically family) and, being the pompous person Sandy was, she'd call everyone in whatever snooty club she belonged to, and word of nobility in Greenville would spread like wildfire. By tomorrow afternoon the
Tribune
would be dogging Arch for that interview. He winked at me and I knew he was thinking the same thing. Tell someone to keep something hush-hush and, boy, they can't wait to blab.

“Join me for a drink?” Dad asked, glancing from Arch to me. “I think we could all use a stiff one.”

I blushed, the picnic-table incident fresh in my mind. Gads.

Arch grinned. “Delighted,” he said while handing me a folded handkerchief.

I blew my nose—loudly—and rasped. “Chablis, please.” Maybe, hopefully, it would take off the edge.

“What's your poison, Bar—Mr. Duvall?”

“Call me Arch, please. I believe I'll have a scotch, thank you. Neat.”

“J&B okay?”

“Perfect.”

Dad smiled and nodded. “Swell. Oh, and my first name's George. Feel free to use it.” Clearly he was convinced and pleased that the baron, though peerage, was not a snob. His manner was easy and genuine when he told us to take a seat. “I'll get those drinks.”

I led Arch to a table far from the stage and I sat with my back to it, too. I didn't want to think about the time, money and effort Dad had put into a place he hoped I'd call home. So different from the cramped area Pops had carved out for me at the Chameleon Club. A raised stage. A lighting system. A quality sound system that had assuredly been purchased, not appropriated. And if my brother was to be believed, Dad had hired a full rhythm section, honest-to-gosh musicians, not a location scout who happened to diddle on acoustic guitar.

I should have been thrilled. I felt sick.

“You okay?” Arch asked.

“Peachy.”

“I almost believe you, Sunshine.” He squeezed my hand. “Try to get your da to talk
aboot
your ma and why they split.”

I snorted. “Haven't you been listening? My family doesn't talk about private stuff, not even with family.”

“Try.”

“Here we go.” Dad set our drinks on the table. After sitting, he said, “To life's surprises.”

We toasted and I choked out, “To the Corner Tavern.”

“Got it for a song,” Dad said. “Figured I could increase business if I spiffed up the place. Invested in a decorator and attacked the inside first. Told her I wanted a Western theme. Nashville meets Hollywood.” He sipped his beer, eyed me over the rim of the frosty mug. “What do you think?”

I think it's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me.
“I love it.”

He smiled. “I'm glad.” Unspoken sentiments danced in his eyes.

Hug me,
the little girl in me implored.

He cleared his throat and focused on Arch. “Used to be in banking. Now I'm in hospitality and entertainment. Beats the hell out of retirement.”

“Idleness promotes a lazy mind, yeah?”

“Bird-watching gets boring after a while and reality shows have ruined television. Never been much of a sportsman, so that left solitaire and jigsaw puzzles. After a month of relaxation, my brain and butt felt like Jell-O. Not to mention that twenty-four hours of togetherness was hell on the marriage.”

Knowing how rigid and opinionated Mom could be, I could imagine. “So you bought this place,” I said.

He sipped, shrugged. “I like making money. Like keeping busy. Like socializing. Plus, I thought…well, let's say I looked at it as an investment for the future.”

Your future or mine?
I wanted to ask but didn't. I sensed his unease. Frankly I was surprised he'd said as much as he had. I didn't want to push too hard too fast.

He drummed his fingers, visibly weighing his words. “This thing between your mother and me, this disagreement, I don't want you to fret, little one. She'll come around. Eventually.”

So he thought she was in the wrong and I'm sure she thought the opposite. Great. “Have you seen her lately?”

“Ran into her a couple of days ago at the supermarket.”

“How'd she look to you?”

“Miffed.”

“No, I mean, how'd she
look?
You know, her appearance?”

“Same as always.” He frowned. “Why?”

“No reason.” So the makeover was recent and he hadn't seen it. My mind chugged down a few different tracks.

Arch met my gaze and raised a brow. His mind chugged, too.

Dad slapped a palm to the veneered tabletop. “So…just how serious is this thing between you two?”

“Dad.”

“Fair question,” said Arch. “Granted, Evie and I have only been acquainted for a month, but there's a special bond between us. Rest assured this relationship is more than a passing fancy, sir.”

I sipped more wine, trying to sift truth from lies. A real chore given I was listening to a master of deceit. People believed Arch because he told them what they wanted to hear. My dad wanted to believe his daughter was dating an upstanding, moral and caring man. Only the latter applied, but Dad didn't know that and I wasn't about to squeal. Known for his honesty, he'd have a fit if he knew the man currently shoveling him a load of bull was a former confidence man.

“Trust me when I say,” he heaped on, “that I have Evie's best interest at heart.”

Never kid a kidder. Never trust a grifter. But Dad did and—dang it—so did I. He was
that
convincing.

Dad drank his beer, considered. “It's plain that you're sweet on my daughter.” He turned to me. “I assume since you brought this man home to meet your family, your feelings must run deep.”

I was insanely glad that he assumed and didn't ask. It meant I didn't have to lie—or, rather, admit to the truth. Yes, my feelings for Arch ran deep. Bad news for me.
He doesn't do relationships. No matter what he says, don't believe him. That's Baron Archibald Robert Duvall talking, not Arch Duvall.

Right.

I gulped more wine.

“Don't suppose you'd be willing to give up a manor in Scotland for a ranch in Greenville,” Dad said, focusing back on Arch.

“Actually, it's a stone cottage, but—”

“Cottage.” He winked. “Sure. Well,” he said on a long sigh, “at least my little girl won't have to kill herself trying to make a living in the casinos. I imagine you can open a whole lot of doors for a talented girl like Evelyn.” He glanced toward the stage. “Doors beyond my reach.”