Evie Ever After. Beth Ciotta

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.

      I should know. Last month I fell for a street hustle and I’m a smart cookie. Just gullible and naive, according to Arch. Then two weeks ago my mom, a mega-smart, supergrounded realist, fell prey to a Sweetheart Scam. Not that she knows, thanks to Chameleon. Point is, a good scam artist homes in on your needs and weaknesses and—bam—a sucker is born.

      Where was I?

      Ah, yes. Avenging and protecting U.S. Senator Clark. Once we’d determined how Frank “Mad Dog” Turner had cheated the senator’s wife at cards, cheating the cheat had been cake. Mad Dog never knew what bit him and before he had a chance to wise up, the entire team, with the exception of Beckett—got the hell out of Dodge. Or in this case, Hammond, Indiana.

      Tabasco, Gina, and Woody were en route to Atlantic City via Tabasco’s single engine Cessna. While Arch and I, still masquerading as the Baron of Broxley and his fiancée, enjoyed the luxury of a private jet. Roomy accommodations, plush leather seats, expensive champagne, and an uber-sexy traveling companion. Who could ask for more?

      Too bad I was battling a panic attack.

      Someone knocked on the door. “Miss Parish, is everything all right?”

      Lydia.

      “I’m fine.” Liar. My cheeks burned and my heart raced. Since I was alone, I scratched.

      “In that case, would you please return to your seat? The pilot warned we’re approaching heavy turbulence.”

      I slapped a palm to my clammy forehead. So now in addition to battling an anxiety attack, I had to endure motion sickness? I blinked at the door, felt a twinge in my jaw, and realized I was clenching my teeth. Oh, no. Though I hadn’t had an episode in weeks, I still suffered from TMJ—a stress-related disorder. What if my jaw locked? It had happened before. Talk about embarrassing. Almost as mortifying as puking into an airsick bag.

      Instead of exiting the lavatory, I sank down on the toilet. “Be out in a minute,” I squeaked then dropped my head between my knees. Breathe.

      Thirty seconds later, another knock. “Open the door, love.”

      Arch.

      “Can’t.”

      “Cannae or willnae?”

      Both. My voice stuck in my throat as my imagination took flight.

      What if Mad Dog goes rabid and attacks Beckett? Just because he’s a two-bit cheat that doesn’t mean he won’t freak out and fight back when a Fed tries to run him out of town.

      What if my family refuses to forgive me for convincing them I’m “engaged” to a wealthy baron, even though I deceived them for the greater good?

      What if Arch fails to win my trust as he promised?

      What if I fail him by putting my faith in the safer man—Beckett?

      A millisecond later, the handle clicked and the metal door swung open. Another of Arch’s talents: picking locks.

      Hunched over, I glanced up. I wanted to blast him for invading my privacy, instead I wheezed.

      “Bloody hell, Sunshine.” He shut the door and stooped in front of me.

      Hot-faced and short of breath, I stated the obvious. “Anxiety attack.”

      “I can see that.”

      He’d seen it before. During our first mission when he’d dashed my assumption that he was a Bond-like super spy by confessing his true profession. “I’m a con artist, Evie.” Yeah, boy, that was a shock. He left out the part about him working for the good guys. I learned that important tidbit later from Beckett.

      He stroked a hand down my back. “Talk it oot.”

      I shook my head, palmed my jaw.

      “Did it lock?”

      “Not yet,” I said through clenched teeth.

      He nudged aside my hand and massaged both sides of my face. “You’re internalizing. Let it oot and the symptoms will subside.”

      Spoken like my dentist. Still, I refrained from speaking my mind. Instead, I yearned for my journal. Knowing I keep my feelings bottled, my dad had gifted me with my first diary when I was a kid. “For when your heart and mind are jammed.”

      Like now.

      Only my journal was in my tote bag and Arch was relentless. “You’re worried aboot Beckett.”

      “I’m worried about a lot of things.” So much for the private meltdown.

      Someone, Lydia, knocked again. “Excuse me, but…”

      “Hold those thoughts.” Arch kissed my forehead then rose and cracked the door to speak with the persistent flight attendant.

      I massaged the ache in my chest with one hand, my jaw with the other. No problem on the thought holding. I’m an expert at internalizing. At least I used to be. Since my infamous “snap” at a not-so-long-ago audition, I’d been acting out and speaking out in ways I’d only dreamed of.

      “What did you say to her?” I wheezed when Arch turned back to me.

      “Something to make her go away.”

      He grinned and my breath stalled. Not because of the anxiety attack, but because he was so freaking gorgeous. When describing him to Nic and Jayne, I’d compared him to Gerard Butler, the Scottish actor who’d rocked our socks in a couple of action films and melted our bones as a romantic lead. We always compared people to celebrities. We’re entertainers. Go with what you know.

      Lately though, when I looked at Arch I only saw Archibald Robert Duvall. (Yes, that’s his real name.) Aka “Ace” (his moniker), aka the Baron of Broxley. (His title. Bought, not inherited. Nevertheless legit.) Hunky body, dark, cropped hair, hypnotic gray-green eyes, and a knee-buckling smile. Did I mention the Celtic tattoo banded around his sculpted biceps? Yowza. And his warriorlike goatee? Swoon. Not for the first time I wondered