Everybody Loves Evie. Beth Ciotta
Читать онлайн книгу.
>
Dear Diary,
What was I thinking? Creating a character with a background in entertainment similar to mine. I should have known that friends and family and people who’ve worked with me within the entertainment industry would read All About Evie. I should have been prepared for the comparisons. “Obviously Evie is your alter ego,” said my husband. “Do you really feel like that?” said my sister. “I see so much of you in Evie,” said friends. And … “I had an audition that went down almost exactly like that. Was that about me?”
There are three answers to all of those questions. Yes. Sort of. And no.
Didn’t they read my Dear Reader letter?
I admit, some of Evie’s adventures and tribulations are loosely based on my own experiences within the entertainment industry. However, she and all of the featured characters are purely fictional.
I’m thinking I should make that my official disclaimer. I’m thinking I should send a mass e-mail to friends and family in preparation for Evie’s second adventure, because—what was I thinking?—in this book Evie, Arch and Milo visit Evie’s native state (which happens to be my native state) to bail her mom out of a scam. I’m thinking I should call my mom. “What you’re about to read is purely fictional! I didn’t really do ‘that’ or ‘that’ and I’m not going to do ‘that,’ although maybe I did fantasise about ‘that’ one thing.”
Luckily, my friends and family have a sense of humour and actually adored Evie. As did multitudes of readers I have never met. Speaking of readers, I need to write a new Dear Reader letter for Everybody Loves Evie. I’m thinking of something along these lines …
To the readers who wrote and asked if I really have those costumes hanging in my closet … Yes. To the readers who wrote saying I’d have to fight them for Arch Duvall … you’ll have to duke it out with Evie, because she’s got a real thing for that bad-boy con artist. To those who wrote wondering about Evie and Arch’s future, Arch and Milo’s past, Milo’s interest in Evie and Evie’s new career with Chameleon—this one’s for you. To those of you entering Evie’s world for the first time, here’s disclaimer No.2: Although I extensively researched con artists and scams, Chameleon and AIA are figments of my overactive imagination. Welcome to my world.
What do you think, Diary? What … oh, rats. My pen’s running dry. Unlike my imagination. Heh. I’ll be back.
Beth
Everybody Loves Evie
Beth Ciotta
This book is dedicated to my husband, Steve.
Your support and creative input stoked my imagination and warmed my heart. I’m still flying. All my love, always.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To Cynthia Valero with affection and admiration. You went above and beyond, my friend. Here’s to fanciful and satisfying storytelling.
To my editor, Keyren Gerlach (a dynamo and fellow animal lover)—thank you for embracing my characters and helping me to make their story shine! To everyone at my publisher—my eternal gratitude for your tireless and wondrous efforts. To my agent, Amy Moore-Benson—your expertise and enthusiasm is priceless. How fortunate I am to be on this motivated and creative team.
Sincere appreciation to all of the readers, booksellers and librarians who recommend my stories to friends and patrons. Thank you for spreading the joy!
Special thanks to those who cheer me on and keep me going … Pom-pom shakers and friends extraordinaire Heather Graham, Mary Stella and Julia Templeton. The world’s sweetest stalker-fan, Laurie, and her effervescent sister, Elsie. The always smiling JoAnn Schailey. My friends and co-workers at the Brigantine Branch of the Atlantic County Library—Sue, Alicia, Lesa, Denise, Beth, Doris, Jean Marie and Taylor. And to my wondrous family and diverse circle of friends. I am blessed!
CHAPTER ONE
London, England Trafalgar Square
CRIME DOESN’T PAY. Unless you’re a professional grifter who’s never been caught. Then, yeah, boy, ka-ching! Especially if you’re playing the long cons. Time-intensive scams such as bank-examiner schemes, pigeon drops and investment swindles garner thousands, sometimes millions of dollars. Short cons, hit-and-run hustles, can be nearly as lucrative, depending on the grifter’s charm and the mark’s greed. Not that I understand the mechanics of all of these swindles. But, thanks to the man I’m sleeping with, I’m learning.
My name is Evie Parish and I’m a professional performer. At least that’s how I used to make my living, singing, dancing and acting on the stages of the not-so-glitzy Atlantic City casinos. Unfortunately the entertainment industry has a bugaboo about mature women. My career, like my fifteen-year marriage, recently hit the skids. Not that I’m bitter. Okay, that’s a lie. But I’m learning to let go. Over forty does not equal over the hill. In fact, I’ve never felt more alive. Creative sex and a challenging new career do wonders for the spirit. Just now, my thoughts were on the latter.
Both guilt and exhilaration rushed through me as I pocketed twenty British pounds and exited a touristy pub. My eyes registered the boxy black cabs and red double-decker buses navigating Trafalgar Square’s congested streets, but instead of revved engines and squealing brakes, all I heard was the funky, eclectic soundtrack from the Ocean’s Eleven remake. The caper music, though solely in my head, fueled my getaway and fantasy mind-set. I’d had to channel a female version of Brad Pitt’s “Rusty” in order to pull off that shenanigan. I had a conscience. Rusty, the crooked card magician, did not.
Walk, don’t run, I told myself. Blend. Be a chameleon. A no-brainer for an actress who’s been everything from a premenstrual pumpkin to a roller-skating cowgirl, right? Right. Considering the heavy pedestrian traffic and considering that I’d dressed in black (London’s denim), it was easy to lose myself in the crowd. I buttoned my peacoat against the brisk evening breeze. Even though I was wired tight, my stride was loose, my expression calm. My brain replayed my mentor’s advice should the bartender come sprinting after me.
If the mark seems confused, go on the offense. If the mark seems suspicious or agitated, run.
But no one chased me down. No one yelled “Thief!” When I reached the corner of Northumberland and Whitehall, I pumped my fist in the air and performed my signature victory dance. “I did it!”
“Bloody hell, Sunshine. Dinnae announce it to the world.” Arch Duvall, a reformed con artist with a hot body and a sexy accent, clasped my arm and guided me across the bustling intersection.
I still couldn’t believe I was with this guy. As in, having a pulse-tripping fling with this guy. Me, a contemporary Doris Day. Perky, blond (this month anyway), a renowned Goody Two-shoes. Meanwhile, he reminded me of the hunky leather-clad Scot in that Tomb Raider movie. Droolworthy physique, dark cropped hair and a perpetual five-o’clock shadow, hypnotic gray-green eyes and a devastating smile. Before you label me a shallow horn-dog, let me tell you his appeal runs much deeper than his rebel good looks. He isn’t merely a fascinating confidence man, he’s a performance artist. A kindred soul.
“It worked exactly like you said,” I blurted. “I paid for my ale, played the dumb American when the bartender gave me all those weird coins in change. Too confusing, I told him. Let me trade in ten one-pound coins for a ten-pound note, please. He handed me the ten-pound note and I passed him the coins, only—”
“He told you you were one pound short.”
“I pretended to be flustered. Really? Are you sure? Maybe you dropped