Everybody Loves Evie. Beth Ciotta

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СКАЧАТЬ me as a client, he’ll have to track me down, because I’m not going to make first contact or open any of his e-mails. The least he can do is tell me in person.”

      “Evie—”

      “Listen, Nic. I know I haven’t been myself lately, but that’s a good thing, trust me.” A headache needled behind my eyes. “Just now I’m exhausted. How about you and Jayne come over tomorrow night? We’ll have drinks and catch up.”

      “We’ll bring the margaritas.”

      “Swell.”

      “I’ll let Jayne know you’re home safe. You get some rest.”

      “Thanks, Nic. Thanks for caring.”

      “That’s what friends do.”

      She signed off without any smooches or sappy goodbyes. I wasn’t insulted. Nic wasn’t the sappy sort. Jayne was another specimen altogether. If I called her now, she’d keep me on the phone for an hour, fussing and spouting New Age gibberish regarding fate and destiny. Nic, bless her soul, was saving me from a woo-woo lecture. At least for now.

      I massaged my temples and contemplated calling my dad. It had been a while since we’d spoken. Not that that was unusual. The Parishes were minimalists when it came to communication. I’m pretty sure we’re listed in the dictionary under dysfunctional.

      Still, I couldn’t get over the fact that, after twenty years as a bank president, Dad had snubbed retirement and Mom and bought a tavern. He’d never been a barfly.

      Although he enjoyed the occasional beer, the man could nurse a can of Bud for an hour. It had to be a life crisis. I could sympathize. I wanted to sympathize. But if I called him, I’d have to call Mom. Otherwise, she’d hear about it and accuse me of taking sides.

      My parents had split up just before my cruise, for reasons I still didn’t understand. Neither of them wanted to talk about it, which was normal since it was a private matter and they never talked about emotional issues. My brother, Christopher, who lived near our parents, assured me he’d “fix it.”

      I decided to wait until tomorrow, until I had more energy, before touching base on the home front. If something were terribly wrong, one of them would have called. Maybe.

      I pushed my ex and my family from my mind and concentrated on my new job. Sitting straighter, I dialed the number given to me by Special Agent Beckett, who I still thought of as Tex Aloha—don’t ask.

      “The Chameleon Club,” a deep voice answered.

      Suddenly jazzed, I stood and paced. “Is Milo Beckett there?”

      “Sorry.”

      Beckett had asked me not to refer to him by his official title, which only heightened the intrigue. He’d also asked me to call him Milo, but I wasn’t comfortable with that. He was, after all, my boss—and a government agent, to boot. I wasn’t sure if I should leave a message, only he had given me this number—oh, and a name. “Are you, by chance, Samuel Vine?”

      “I am.”

      “Then I’d like to leave a message. My name is Evie Parish and Mr. Beckett—”

      “Hired you.”

      “He told you about me?”

      “He did.”

      I detected a smile in his voice. A smile at my expense. My heart pounded, and it wasn’t from pacing. Had Beckett told this man I’d tackled him? Had he told him about my lockjaw incident? Or how I’d ended up topless in St. Thomas? The government agent had witnessed more than a few embarrassing bobbles on that cruise, and it burned my buns that he’d shared them with Mr. Vine, whoever Mr. Vine was.

      “Are you coming in?”

      I blinked. “When? Now? No. I just got … I was in …”

      “England.”

      “How did you … Oh, right. I guess Mr. Beckett told you about my vacation.”

      “He did.”

      Mr. Vine was a man of few words. If he was privy to my Caribbean misfortunes, perhaps he’d keep my antics secret. One could hope. “Would it be all right if I came in tomorrow? Do you think you could ask him—”

      “Tomorrow is fine.”

      “Don’t you think you should ask—”

      “We’ll expect you at noon.” He gave me an address, then said something about getting back to work—him, not me. Then he said, “‘Bye, Twinkie,” and hung up.

      I gaped at my phone. Before I’d known Beckett for who he really was, I’d known him as a Texas oil baron. He’d been undercover and his disguise had been a hideous combination of the Duke meets Don Ho. Hence my thinking of him as Tex Aloha. He’d repeatedly referred to me as Twinkie, and although I’d been disguised as a bubble-headed bimbo, I totally resented that name. “I can’t believe he told his associate to call me …” I couldn’t say it.

      I didn’t even want to think it. Did he tell the rest of the team, too? “Great.”

      The needling behind my eyeballs graduated to stabs. I stalked to the bathroom in search of Tylenol. I told myself to calm down. Milo Beckett was now my boss, and though I’d only gotten to know the real him over a sporadic two days, he seemed pretty decent. Tomorrow I’d tell him—nicely—that I didn’t appreciate the nickname. Evie is fine, thank you very much. I washed down two capsules with a paper cup of lukewarm water, then schlepped into the next room and collapsed on the bed.

      Almost time for blissful oblivion. One more call, and I’d saved the best for last. His was the voice I wanted in my ears when I fell asleep. I took a deep breath and willed my heart not to flutter. I reminded myself that we were just friends now. Parting at the airport had been easier than I’d anticipated. No bittersweet Casablanca ending. Mostly because Arch still flirted, and when the time came to board, the kiss we shared didn’t feel like goodbye. It felt like maybe later.

      Smiling, I dialed the number he’d given me. He’d told me to check in when I settled in my apartment. I assumed he’d be waiting on pins and needles, wondering if I’d arrived safely. I assumed he’d answer on the first ring. Three rings in, I heard an automated greeting. Taken aback, my brain glitched. “Hi, I … it’s me. Evie. I … well, I’m home and I’m okay and I’m … here. Right. I said that. Okay. Call. You know … If you feel like it.” I signed off before I made an idiot—strike that—more of an idiot of myself.

      I placed the phone on my nightstand, within reach. I told myself not to obsess about where he was and why he hadn’t answered. It was probably the middle of the night there, only I was too tired to do the math. I told myself to journal my frustrations, only I was too tired to hold a pen.

      “Just friends,” I mumbled. “Coworkers.” I repeated those words like a mantra over and over until I started to drift.

       Just. Friends.

      It triggered a tender memory: spooning with Arch and quoting lines from Titanic.

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