LITMIR.BIZ

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naked in your apartment.”

      “Bloody hell,” Arch said in Milo’s ear. “What the—”

      “I’ll call you back.” He disconnected, shoved the phone in his back pocket. “If you’re worried about someone walking in on you, lock the door.”

      “It’s not that.”

      “Then what?”

      “I don’t know you well enough.”

      “You didn’t know Arch at all and you used his shower. Hell, you slept in his suite.”

      “That was different. I was working for him.”

      “You’re working for me now.”

      “We were posing as a married couple.” She sneezed into a wad of toilet paper and leaned into the doorjamb for support.

      “You’ll be posing as a hospital patient if you don’t get into dry clothes.”

      Just then, Woody blew in, two hangers dangling from his fingertips. A nurse’s uniform and a nun’s habit.

      Milo’s ass vibrated. He ignored the incoming call, frowned at Woody. “You’re joking.”

      “All of the women’s clothes are in Hot Legs’s size,” he said.

      “Who’s Hot Legs?” asked Evie.

      “Gina,” Milo said. His primary female operator. Arch’s previous conquest. The woman who’d put Evie through the wringer on that cruise. Those two had clashed like a pit bull and a poodle. Hell would freeze over before Twinkie would wear anything worn by Gina “Hot Legs” Valente.

      “She’s taller and thinner than you,” Woody said, “so I figured anything with pants was out. These are sort of shapeless, so—”

      “I’ll risk pneumonia,” Evie said with a tight smile. “Thanks all the same.”

      Woody looked clueless and Milo had to bite his tongue. No wonder your girlfriend left you. He may as well have called Evie short and dumpy. From her pinched expression, that’s exactly what she’d heard. Women had an uncanny way of twisting a man’s words when it came to their appearance. He’d learned long ago that when a lady friend asks, Does this make my ass look big? the safest answer is a simple no.

      “You don’t look so good, ma’am,” Woody said, digging a deeper hole. But he was right. She was flushed, perspiring and shaky on her feet.

      “Yeah, well, you don’t smell so good.”

      Woody, who’d been trying to win back his girlfriend by changing everything from his wardrobe to his brand of toothpaste, looked crushed. “You don’t like my cologne?”

      “How to put this kindly?” she said with a notable slur. “No.”

      Milo studied her hard. “How many shots did Pops give you?”

      “One,” she said, holding up two fingers.

      Woody whistled. “Oh, man. She’s—”

      Milo cut him off before he could say crocked. Knowing his caretaker/bartender he wouldn’t have knowingly poured more than this half-pint could handle. Obviously she had no tolerance. “Nix the clothes,” he said to Woody. “Tell Tabasco rehearsal’s canceled. Our star’s under the weather.”

      “Don’t tell him that!” she cried. “It makes me sound like a diva. As long as I have a voice, I can sing.”

      “But you’re hoarse,” said Milo. And looped.

      “So I’ll sound like Janis Joplin.”

      “Did Joplin sing jazz?” Woody asked.

      “No, and neither do I.”

      “Actually,” Milo said, “she recorded a rendition of ‘Summertime.’”

      “Oh, right. Joplin did do Gershwin.” She snorted. “Not literally, of course. Regardless, jazz is not in my repertoire.”

      “Only kind of music Agent Beckett allows,” Woody said.

      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

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