LITMIR.BIZ

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of another door, holding a stack of manila envelopes. What the …?

      “I tried to help her and she threatened me. She … she …” He stammered and stared. At my chest!

      “You,” Beckett said, pointing a finger at Bearded Boy, “go and fetch Evie something to wear from wardrobe.”

      The kid’s eyes widened at the sound of my name. “She’s—”

      “If you call me Twinkie, so help me—”

      “Go,” Beckett ordered.

      Bearded Boy, who I guess worked for the club, scrammed down a back set of stairs. I’m not sure who he feared more, me or Beckett.

      “You,” he said, grasping my shoulders and steering me into his bathroom, “get out of those wet clothes and into a hot shower. You’re hoarse. You’re sneezing. I’ll be damned if I’ll have a team member keel over from pneumonia.” He gave me a shove and shut me in. “I’ll get dressed and make you some tea and honey,” he said through the door. “When you come out, we’ll discuss this rationally.”

      I stood, stunned, listening as another door slammed. He’d just called me a team member. Maybe I’d misunderstood. Maybe the singing gig was a cover. Or just temporary.

       Until you get better at lying, I’m not putting you in the field.

      There was hope. I performed a happy jig. At the same time I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the vanity mirror and froze. My thin white blouse was drenched and transparent. So was my sheer bra. Unbelievable.

      In addition to Beckett, now Pops, Tabasco and Bearded Boy had all gotten a primo look at my boobs.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      MILO JAMMED HIS LEGS into a pair of jeans and pulled on a clean T-shirt. He raided his top drawer. “Why is it I can never find a damn pair of matching socks?” He pulled on one blue, one black, and shoved his feet into a pair of brown Skechers.

      A day that had started off bad just tanked. If Vincent Crowe hadn’t phoned at six-fricking-o’clock this morning, ordering him to the Philadelphia office for a rundown on a fricking politician’s personal crisis, he wouldn’t have been racing to get back to the club for his meeting with Evie. He wouldn’t have blown out a tire and gotten caught in a downpour changing that flat and chasing a fricking renegade lug nut down the muddy embankment. He wouldn’t have had to shower and change, ultimately getting caught with his pants down, not to mention his guard.

      A drenched and tipsy Evie stoked dangerous feelings, making Milo edgy. Make that edgier.

      His muscles bunched as he tied his shoelaces and waited for the sound of groaning pipes, the rhythmic blast of his shower massage. He imagined Twinkie naked. Standing in his claw-footed tub, hot water racing over her hot curves. Strategically aimed shower pulsations urging her to let go.

      “Christ.” Managing his fascination had been easier when she wasn’t around.

      He straightened and adjusted himself. He conjured thoughts of Sister Rosa, his fifth-grade Catholic schoolteacher with the pop-bottle glasses and hooked nose. After a two-second appearance, the finger-wagging nun morphed into a gyrating babe. Not his fault. He’d been treated to a personalized version of a wet T-shirt contest. Another vision to haunt his dreams. Evie in a clingy, see-through shirt. Instead of alerting her to her sexy state, he’d tried his damnedest to ignore it. He didn’t want to embarrass her on top of pissing her off. Between the pacing and her heated mood, the thin blouse would quickly dry. She’d be none the wiser.

      Enter Woody.

      He couldn’t blame the kid for staring. Before making a concerted effort to avert his own gaze, Milo had copped a look, too. What hetero man wouldn’t? But Woody had been two seconds from outing Evie’s visible nipples. Hence plan B: getting her out of the room and out of those clothes.

      The only thing better would be getting her into his bed. But that wasn’t going to happen. Even if he ignored his own policy against mixing business and pleasure, even if he acted out of character, poured on the charm and seduced a friend and associate’s woman, nothing would come of it. Twinkie was a good girl. Until she got over her infatuation with Arch, she’d be true to the man, even though that man would never commit to a long-term relationship.

      Better to practice restraint. One of three things would happen: either his infatuation with Evie would fizzle or Evie’s infatuation with Arch would fizzle or Arch would expose himself as amoral, scaring Evie off and into the arms of the better man. And Milo believed wholeheartedly and without arrogance that he was, in this instance, the better man.

      “I can’t believe I’m having these thoughts.”

      Evie’s mentality closely resembled that of his ex-wife’s. The dreamer and the realist, a recipe for disaster. A smart man would learn from his mistakes. Unfortunately, every time Evie entered his personal space, Milo’s IQ dropped.

      He heard sneezing and mumbling through the paper-thin walls. He imagined his new employee peeling off layers—damn—and decided to dump some grief on the man who’d dumped her into his life in the first place.

      Arch answered on the second ring. “Navigating rush-hour traffic, mate.”

      “Navigating some prickly territory myself.”

      “Burst Evie’s bubble, yeah?”

      “Yeah.”

      “She wanted to tackle crooks and you’ve got her typing reports.”

      “No typing.”

      “Waiting tables?”

      “Singing.”

      “What, like a singing bartender?”

      “No. Like a lounge performer.”

      Arch whistled low. “No wonder she’s pissed.”

      “I hired her to do what she does, what she’s good at.”

      “She doesn’t want to go back.”

      “What does that mean?”

      “Means she wants to break with the past. Offering her a job as a singer in a low-class pub sets her back aboot twenty years, yeah?”

      Milo knew about the need to move on. Like Evie, he’d recently survived a divorce. He’d also suffered his share of professional growing pains. This morning’s confrontation with Crowe had elevated his craving to cut ties with the Agency. He’d gotten into this line of work to help the common masses, not the privileged few.

      Prevented from doing what you’re compelled to do by the man who signs the checks. Milo could imagine Evie’s misery and he empathized. But not enough to put her in the field when she lacked the fortitude and training.

      “She thinks you asked me to pull her out of the game,” Milo said. “Thinks you didn’t approve of her being an active player.”

      “I dinnae,” Arch said.

      “But the singing position was my idea.”

      The Scot held silent for a moment. Milo heard an eighties dance tune in the background—Culture Club?—and the blaring horn of an irate driver. “Dinnae correct her misassumption,” Arch finally said.

      “You want her to be mad at you?”

      “It would be better if she thought less of me, aye.”

      “Hell,” Milo said with a short laugh, “all she had to do was ask for a copy of your personnel file.” Not that he would have turned it over. He had strict views on confidentiality. Still, he wasn’t above taunting the man who’d made his life hell when they’d been on opposite sides of the law. “Did you come clean and tell her you had an affair with Gina?”

      “Why bring up a dead issue?”

      “Because

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