Everybody Loves Evie. Beth Ciotta

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      She crinkled her nose and Milo smiled. “My club. My rules.”

      “Dictating the artist’s song list,” she grumbled, then sneezed. “I already feel at home.”

      Bitterness laced her tone and stabbed at Milo’s conscience. Again the phone vibrated, and he thought about what Arch had said about her wanting to ditch her old life. Thing was, he’d seen her perform—singing, dancing, acting. She possessed charisma and talent. What’s pushing you to abandon your God-given gifts, Evie? He hated that he cared. “So you’re willing to work as the club’s house singer?”

      “As long as I don’t have to sign a contract. I’m agent-free—or is that a free agent? Whatever. I’m acting on my own behalf and I am a man of my word.”

      Milo bit back a smile, thinking she was cute when loopy. “Fine by me.” He’d utilized Michael Stone’s services once. After meeting Evie and learning how he’d screwed her over, he liked the smooth-talking bastard even less.

      “What should I tell Tabasco?” Woody asked, eyeing Evie, then Milo.

      Evie spoke first. “Do you have a clothes dryer in this joint?”

      Woody nodded. “In the basement.”

      “Tell him I’ll be down in twenty minutes.”

      Milo guesstimated she’d be down for the count in ten, but he jumped on the chance to get her out of those wet clothes. “I can loan you some jogging pants and a sweatshirt while you wait.”

      She nabbed the nurse’s uniform from Woody. “This will do. Thanks.” She weaved into the bathroom.

      Woody escaped down the stairs.

      Two doors slammed shut and Milo’s ass vibrated. “What?” he barked into the cell.

      “Dinnae bite my head off. You’re the one who hung up on me, yeah?”

      Arch sounded calm—but then, he always sounded calm. Milo knew him well enough to know he was agitated. He pushed, hoping to confirm or negate suspicions that Arch had fallen head over heels. “Something came up.”

      “That why you’re trying to get Evie oot of her knickers?”

      “Jealous?”

      “Concerned.”

      “Not much of a difference.”

      “Enough of a difference.”

      Just then, the topic of discussion stepped out of the bathroom looking like Nurse Goodbody. Milo’s mouth went dry.

      “Still there, mate?”

      “Uh-huh.”

      Not looking at him, she tugged up the plunging neckline. “Where’d you get this nurse’s uniform anyway?” she slurred. “Frederick’s of Hollywood? Maybe I should have opted for your shirt, Beckett. It would’ve covered more.”

      “What the—”

      “Call you back.” Milo snapped the phone shut. He imagined Arch scrambling to book the next flight back to the States. Wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Yesterday he’d been bent on guarding their partnership. Today he considered the possibility that he’d learned all that he could from the grifter. Maybe it was time to break off with Arch and the Agency, strike out on his own. It would certainly make life simpler.

      Growing pains.

      He studied Nurse Evie Goodbody, registered another kind of ache. Christ.

      She palmed her forehead, groaned. “Something’s wrong.” The color drained from her face. “Help me,” she said, just like in his dream. And toppled into his arms, just like in his dream.

      Only there was nothing sexy about this moment. She was feverish and semiconscious. Milo swooped her up and placed her on the sofa.

      “Must be allergic,” she said.

      “To whiskey?”

      “Echi-something.” Her eyes closed. Her limp hand pointed. “Purse.”

      Milo found a black purse under her soaked suit jacket. He rooted through the contents, marveled at how much junk a woman could cram into a small space. He palmed her ringing cell, glanced at the caller ID. Nic. Man? Woman? Friend? Family? Someone who’d be aware of Evie’s medical history? He allowed the call to roll over to voice mail, dug deeper and nabbed a small plastic bottle. Echinacea. An herbal remedy for colds.

      Milo uncapped the bottle, tapped out a few capsules and read the inscription. “Hell.”

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      “MIDOL?” NICOLE, MY chain-smoking, designer-chic friend, spread a coverlet on top of my duvet—as if I wasn’t warm enough—and settled on the end of my bed.

      “Yup,” I croaked, feeling as foolish now as I had several hours earlier when Beckett had informed me of the mix-up. “It’s Coco’s fault,” I said for the second time today. “My neighbor’s poodle. A while back I agreed to dog-sit, not knowing Coco was cuckoo. He chewed up two paperback novels and destroyed the cardboard box containing the pain relievers. Needing a container, I swapped out the herbal capsules to salvage the Midol. At the time, the cramp stuff was more important than the cold stuff. Only I forgot about the swap.”

      “Only you,” Nic said with a grin.

      Beckett had said the same thing.

      I’d have to commit the mortifying scene to my diary. Someday it would strike me as funny. Maybe.

      Doped up on Robitussin, Midol and whiskey, I’d suffered slurred speech, noodly limbs and severe fatigue. But I didn’t pass out. Partly because I was too stubborn and embarrassed. Partly because Beckett had plied me with hot tea and questions. He must’ve been desperate to keep me alert and talking. Surely he wasn’t that interested in my entertainment background. After a couple of hours, the storm had subsided and he finally agreed to drive me home. But only if I called someone to check in on me. Like I couldn’t take care of myself. Okay, I screwed up my medication, but that was a freak accident. Swear. “That’s what I get for not looking at what I put in my mouth.”

      “I could comment on that,” Nic said. “But I won’t.”

      Jayne’s angelic face heated to a shade that nearly matched her fiery ringlets. “Madame Helene warned me that a loved one was at risk.”

      “Madame Helene’s a nut,” Nic said, not for the first time.

      Ah, yes. My two best friends: Yin and Yang. Where Nic was the realist, Jayne was the spiritualist. A bit flighty and a lot gullible. Nic and I loved the Bohemian whack-a-doodle but questioned her faith in a certain bangle-wearing whack job. The notorious Madame Helene.

      “Loved ones are always at risk,” I pointed out calmly. “Everyone’s at risk. Every day. Not just physically but emotionally. Intellectually.”

      “Deep,” СКАЧАТЬ