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and I’m…here. Right. I said that. Okay. Call. You know…If you feel like it.” I signed off before I made an idiot—strike that— more of an idiot of myself.
    I placed the phone on my nightstand, within reach. I told myself not to obsess about where he was and why he hadn’t answered. It was probably the middle of the night there, only I was too tired to do the math. I told myself to journal my frustrations, only I was too tired to hold a pen.
    â€œJust friends,” I mumbled. “Coworkers.” I repeated those words like a mantra over and over until I started to drift.
    Just. Friends.
    It triggered a tender memory: spooning with Arch and quoting lines from Titanic.
    I don’t know this dance.
    Just go with it.
    Right.

CHAPTER FIVE
    I WOKE WITH A START . I’d been dreaming about Arch. About pulling a con, only I screwed up—or, as Arch put it, cracked out of turn. You’re not up to this, he said, only he’d morphed into Michael, who had his arm around a young girl with a swelled tummy, and when he spoke again he said, You’re too old for this.
    It was a crummy, awful dream.
    Fuzzy-headed, I lay there for a second, willing away a sense of failure and loss. I rolled to my side, wanting to snuggle with my Scottish lover, only he wasn’t there. Right. He’s in London. I’m at home. And Michael and Sasha are shacked up and celebrating future parenthood. Not that I cared. Okay, that’s a lie. But obsessing would only agitate my TMJ.
    I massaged my tight jaw and squinted at the alarm clock. Eleven-thirty in the morning.
    It took a minute to register.
    Eleven thirty-one.
    Head thunk. The next morning!
    I kicked off my duvet, collected my wits. I’d fallen asleep around this time yesterday, woken up in the middle of the night, unpacked, showered and journaled in my diary. Wide-awake, I’d booted up my laptop, thinking maybe Arch had e-mailed—he hadn’t—and ended up clicking on Amazon.com and ordering books about con artists and scams. Eyes and heart heavy, I’d snuggled under my cover, waited for Arch to call—he didn’t—and at some point fallen back to sleep.
    I shoved my tangled hair out of my bleary eyes. “I’m supposed to be somewhere,” I rasped.
    The Chameleon Club.
    â€œCrap!” The curse came out a garbled croak. Clasping my throat, I flew into the bathroom. I was hoarse. My throat hurt and my nose was stuffed. I blamed it on a screwed-up body clock. On three weeks of travel. On the drastic changes in climate—balmy Caribbean to chilly London to windy and damp Brigantine. I sneezed, then coughed. “Great.” My first day on a new job and I was sick. If I lingered too long over my appearance, I’d be late. “Damn!”
    I primped and dressed in record time. Minimal makeup, ponytail and as close to a conventional men-in-black suit as my funky wardrobe would allow. Medicated on Robitussin and herbal cold caplets, I grabbed my purse and sailed out the door. Barring a flat tire, speeding ticket or head-on collision, I’d arrive at the Chameleon Club five minutes ahead of schedule.
    I didn’t factor in the possibility of torrential rains.
    On the short drive to the Atlantic City Inlet, the dark, fat clouds that seemed to be hovering exclusively over my car exploded. I’m not the world’s greatest driver on a clear, sunny day. I know this. If I hydroplaned, I was screwed. So I slowed to a crawl. Death grip on the steering wheel, I swiped off my MIB shades, leaned forward and squinted through my blurry windshield. The wipers weren’t wiping as much as streaking. Or maybe I needed glasses. I was over forty, after all.
    â€œYou’re too old for this.”
    The need to meet with Beckett and to start this new and exciting phase of my life intensified with each sluggish mile. I’d purposely taken the back route so I wouldn’t have to navigate Atlantic or