Gina looked over her shoulder at Arch. “The Kid said you spoke with Jazzman this morning. How did he sound?”
“Tired.”
“What did he say?”
“Mission complete.”
“His part of the mission,” Gina said, “was to make Turner disappear.”
“Not literally!” I snapped. “He was just supposed to make him, you know, go away. Split the country. Change his identity and never mention the senator’s wife’s gambling problem or else—” I scratched my cheek “—something. He didn’t kill Mad Dog,” I grumbled while scratching my arms.
“Preaching to the choir, Sunshine. We’re all on Beckett’s side.” Arch sounded calm. No surprise there.
Tabasco sounded calm, but his attitude needed work. “I have a sinking feeling we’re going to be linked to Mad Dog’s death.”
“Agent Beckett did say he had a bad feeling about this case right off,” Woody added.
“I want to know why the AIA pulled him in,” Arch said, “and why he hasn’t returned our calls.”
“What’s with the red blotches on your face, Twinkie?”
I glanced up and saw Gina staring at me with—here’s a shocker—concern. I experienced a full body blush. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been acting like a dog with fleas ever since you walked in,” Woody said.
I realized then that I was scratching like a loon. My arms. My neck and chest. My face. Yet there was no relief from the incessant itching that felt as though it had wiggled beneath my skin. I felt irritable and anxious, and okay, a little scared. “Stupid gorilla suit!”
“What?” Gina laughed but she still looked concerned.
Arch moved around and crouched in front of me just as I yanked off his jacket in order to scratch my bare arms.
“Shite.”
“Shit,” Gina echoed. “That’s a serious allergy attack, Arch. Get her to a doctor.”
My eyes widened. “What? No. I’m okay. Really. I want to help you guys help Beckett.”
“Nothing we can do right now,” said Tabasco. “Jesus, babe, you’re covered in hives.”
The Kid stood in front of me shaking his head. “You look awful.”
“You always manage to say the worst thing possible,” I snapped, because he did, but not on purpose. “I’m sorry, Woody. I…” I felt an anxiety attack coming on.
“Come on, lass.” Arch pulled me off the sofa and into his arms.
I was going to die of embarrassment. I was going to die period. The itching was unbearable. But even as he carried me from the room I thought about Jayne. “What about Madame Helene?” I asked Arch. “You promised—”
“Tabasco.”
“Yeah?”
“I need to you to check up on a local psychic,” Arch said. “Madame Helene. I want to know her game.”
“Will do.”
“Kid. Gina. Call me if you learn anything more or hear from Jazzman, yeah?”
They said, “Sure,” as Arch whisked me up the stairs.
I clung and fought not to hyperventilate. I couldn’t think straight. I’d never been so physically miserable in my life. Except maybe when I had the chicken pox, but that was a faded childhood memory. Even the concussion I’d suffered in the Caribbean because of the Simon the Fish fiasco paled.
I scratched even though Arch told me not to, even though it didn’t help.
Two minutes later, he placed me in his car.
I closed my eyes to stave off tears. “I’m going to die.”
Arch kissed my forehead and buckled me in. “Not in my lifetime, lass.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
MILO SAT IN THE RENTAL CAR, staring up at her condo. “You’re a glutton for punishment, Beckett.” They weren’t on the best of terms. Hell, she didn’t even like him. Still, he’d driven here instead of home. Somehow, he knew she’d make him feel better. Or at least she wouldn’t object if he drank himself blind.
He’d been sitting here for fifteen minutes. “Screw it.”
He rang her up.
“Hello?”
“It’s Beckett.”
Silence.
“I know this is crazy, but…I need to drink and I don’t want to drink alone.”
“Call a friend.”
“My friends are my associates. Not up for that right now.”
She paused and when she spoke again her tone was less abrasive, but not much. “What’s wrong?”
“I’d rather talk about it over Scotch.”
Silence.
His throbbing temples charged him a fool. His judgment had been off lately. Coming here was just another example. “Never mind.”
“No, wait.” She blew out a breath. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, right? I’ll meet you at The Irish Pub.”
“Your place,” he countered.
“Not comfortable with that.”
“Neither am I, but I’d appreciate it.”
“Well, damn, Slick.” Another curse, then, “I live at—”
“I know.” He knocked on the door.
A beat later it swung open and he was looking at Nicole Sparks. A lush-lipped beauty with a bad attitude. Nine days ago, she’d threatened to make his life hell if he ever hurt her friend Evie. She was an outspoken, pushy, skeptical pain in the ass. Seeing her again only convoluted his emotions.
What the fuck was he doing here?
His cock twitched in answer.
Easy, Mr. Happy. You don’t want to go there. Okay. Maybe you do, but I don’t.
The warm air sparked with mutual hostility as they sized up one another on the threshold of her third-story condo. He knew he looked bad. His lip was split and swollen. He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours. He needed a shave and his suit was rumpled.
She, on the other hand, looked chic in her slim-fitting pants and tailored blouse—black, like her long, glossy hair. Her unusual coloring—mocha skin, jade-green eyes—gave her an exotic look that solicited erotic images. He attributed his unwanted hard-on to her potent sexuality and his pathetic love life. It sure wasn’t based on healthy desire. Nic was a threatening storm to Evie’s hopeful rainbow. Not to mention she was Evie’s best friend. The dynamics of his relationships with friends and associates was already screwed. Like he needed to add another twist. Nicole Sparks was trouble on several levels and Milo didn’t want any part of her.
Yet here he was.
“Awfully sure of yourself, Slick.”
“Just optimistic.”
“You mean desperate.” She quirked a brow. “What happened to your lip?”
“Walked into a fist.”
“That fist belong to anyone I know?”
“No.”
“Arch didn’t lose his cool and pop you one for—”
“No.”