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given to me by Special Agent Beckett, who I still thought of as Tex Aloha—don’t ask.
    â€œThe Chameleon Club,” a deep voice answered.
    Suddenly jazzed, I stood and paced. “Is Milo Beckett there?”
    â€œSorry.”
    Beckett had asked me not to refer to him by his official title, which only heightened the intrigue. He’d also asked me to call him Milo, but I wasn’t comfortable with that. He was, after all, my boss—and a government agent, to boot. I wasn’t sure if I should leave a message, only he had given me this number—oh, and a name. “Are you, by chance, Samuel Vine?”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œThen I’d like to leave a message. My name is Evie Parish and Mr. Beckett—”
    â€œHired you.”
    â€œHe told you about me?”
    â€œHe did.”
    I detected a smile in his voice. A smile at my expense. My heart pounded, and it wasn’t from pacing. Had Beckett told this man I’d tackled him? Had he told him about my lockjaw incident? Or how I’d ended up topless in St. Thomas? The government agent had witnessed more than a few embarrassing bobbles on that cruise, and it burned my buns that he’d shared them with Mr. Vine, whoever Mr. Vine was.
    â€œAre you coming in?”
    I blinked. “When? Now? No. I just got…I was in…”
    â€œEngland.”
    â€œHow did you…Oh, right. I guess Mr. Beckett told you about my vacation.”
    â€œHe did.”
    Mr. Vine was a man of few words. If he was privy to my Caribbean misfortunes, perhaps he’d keep my antics secret. One could hope. “Would it be all right if I came in tomorrow? Do you think you could ask him—”
    â€œTomorrow is fine.”
    â€œDon’t you think you should ask—”
    â€œWe’ll expect you at noon.” He gave me an address, then said something about getting back to work—him, not me. Then he said, “’Bye, Twinkie,” and hung up.
    I gaped at my phone. Before I’d known Beckett for who he really was, I’d known him as a Texas oil baron. He’d been undercover and his disguise had been a hideous combination of the Duke meets Don Ho. Hence my thinking of him as Tex Aloha. He’d repeatedly referred to me as Twinkie, and although I’d been disguised as a bubble-headed bimbo, I totally resented that name. “I can’t believe he told his associate to call me…” I couldn’t say it. I didn’t even want to think it. Did he tell the rest of the team, too? “Great.”
    The needling behind my eyeballs graduated to stabs. I stalked to the bathroom in search of Tylenol. I told myself to calm down. Milo Beckett was now my boss, and though I’d only gotten to know the real him over a sporadic two days, he seemed pretty decent. Tomorrow I’d tell him—nicely—that I didn’t appreciate the nickname. Evie is fine, thank you very much. I washed down two capsules with a paper cup of lukewarm water, then schlepped into the next room and collapsed on the bed.
    Almost time for blissful oblivion. One more call, and I’d saved the best for last. His was the voice I wanted in my ears when I fell asleep. I took a deep breath and willed my heart not to flutter. I reminded myself that we were just friends now. Parting at the airport had been easier than I’d anticipated. No bittersweet Casablanca ending. Mostly because Arch still flirted, and when the time came to board, the kiss we shared didn’t feel like goodbye. It felt like maybe later.
    Smiling, I dialed the number he’d given me. He’d told me to check in when I settled in my apartment. I assumed he’d be waiting on pins and needles, wondering if I’d arrived safely. I assumed he’d answer on the first ring. Three rings in, I heard an automated greeting. Taken aback, my brain glitched. “Hi, I…it’s me. Evie. I…well, I’m home and I’m okay