Beth Ciotta - Evie Ever After

Unfortunately, not everyone on the team agrees. Especially the man I’m sitting next to, the object of a fantasy fling come true, Arch “Ace” Duvall, a hunky bad boy with a Scottish accent and a soft spot for good-girl me. Call me crazy in love. Although Arch has yet to say the words, he did carve the sentiment in a tree: Arch loves Evie.

Yeah. I know. How sweet is that? And totally unexpected given his personal code. Let’s just say he’s never been in a committed relationship. Ever. Not that we’ve committed to anything other than “trying to make this thing work.”

Where was I?

Ah, yes. My new reality. An adrenaline-charged cross between Ocean’s Eleven and The Thomas Crown Affair sprinkled with the misadventures of a modern-day Doris Day. I kid you not.

A reformed con artist, Arch is one of two alpha dogs at Chameleon. The other being Special Agent Milo Beckett—known to the team as “Jazzman.” Beckett—also sexy, but in a quiet, straight-arrow way—hired me without consulting Arch. He also kissed me—without consulting Arch—which resulted in fireworks, only not the good kind. I’m one of those people who can’t jaywalk without getting busted, so naturally Arch walked in on the spontaneous lip-lock. I was mortified. Arch was pissed. And Beckett was no help whatsoever. But that’s neither here nor there. Well, it’s somewhere, just not a place I want to visit right now. I have enough worries, thank you very much.

I tried to put them out of my mind. Closed my eyes and willed the drone of the jet engine to lull me to sleep. It was nearly midnight. Hopped up on adrenaline all day and night, my body was exhausted, but my brain kept spinning scenarios worthy of a David Mamet film. Anxious, I fussed with my seat buckle and prayed for a smooth ride. My stomach was already churning. “Leaving a team member behind feels wrong,” I blurted.

“Dinnae borrow trouble, Sunshine.”

“It’s just that—”

“Jazzman’s more than qualified to manipulate a smalltime chiseler like Frank Turner. Dinnae let his moniker snow you, yeah?”

Moniker. Grifter-speak for nickname. Turner’s was “Mad Dog.”

Yikes.

“Okay, but…” I have a bad feeling. Normally, Arch and Beckett manipulated bad sorts in tandem. I couldn’t help feeling that if it weren’t for me he would’ve stuck close to his partner. Maybe not as an active participant, but at least for backup. Though not intentionally, I’d driven a wedge between the two men. All because of that stupid kiss. Oh, and the time I confided in Beckett instead of Arch.

Oops.

I suppose most women would die to have two sexy men, two crime fighters, no less, vying for their attention. As fantasies go, it’s a humdinger. In reality it’s…unsettling. Even though they both denied it, I was certain, at heart, Arch and Beckett were friends. What if Beckett’s plan curdled? What if he got hurt…or worse? How would Arch live with that? How would I live with that?

“Dinnae let that imagination of yours run wild,” Arch said. He grasped my hand to still my nervous scratching.

My tell.

Crap.

“Let it go and trust Jazzman’s judgment. He ordered us to fly oot. He had his reasons.”

I just hoped they didn’t have anything to do with me. “You’re right,” I said, faking an optimistic smile. “I’m just stunned that our part of the sting went so smoothly.”

“I’m not.” The green-eyed rebel flashed a cocky smile while stroking my cheek.

Zing. Zap.

My insides fluttered with something other than anxiety. Call me smitten. Along with countless other women.

I’ve heard the sighs. Witnessed the moony-eyed gawking. Heck, I’ve sighed and gawked myself. Arch is drop-dead gorgeous and deadly charming to boot. Talk about a dangerous combo. He’s also six years younger than my forty-one. Not that that’s an issue. Okay. That’s a lie. I’m a little self-conscious in my older woman shoes. Arch—bless his warped soul—insists age isn’t an issue. Then again, he excels at telling people what they want to hear.

“Jazzman’s more than qualified to manipulate a smalltime chiseler like Frank Turner.”

Uh. Right.

My bad feeling escalated into imminent disaster. My pulse escalated, too. It didn’t help that one of my two best friends, Jayne, had called me this morning in a tizzy over her psychic’s warning after consulting a crystal ball. “Mixing business with pleasure today is dangerous. Your friend must turn off the heat or someone will get burned.” Nic, my other best bud would snort, citing crystal balls as mystical bullshit. I prefer the term hooey, and normally I’d agree, but lately I confess I’m paranoid when it comes to this new life that seems too good to be true.

Don’t 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.