by Beth Ciotta
“It’s not that big a deal, sweetie,” Rudy lied as he deserted the breaker panel and moved down the hall. “I just need three or four more weeks.” However long it takes to boot a pesky ghost into another dimension. “I’ll ask Jean-Pierre to pass the news on to Sofia. Will you do me a favor and call Lulu and Murphy? It’s already late and I don’t know how long I’ll be on the phone with Jean-Pierre.”
She groaned. “What am I supposed to tell them exactly?”
He was midway through the great room when the TV turned on by itself and the kitchen light went out. Rudy sighed. “Tell them that I’ve got a wiring problem.”
Los Angeles, California
Hands on hips, Jean-Pierre stared at the note Sofia had taped to the refrigerator door amidst her shoe magnet collection. Going to a spa. See you in Vermont. The note didn’t make any more sense now than it had this morning. What spa? He knew that she was planning to spend a week at Hollyberry Inn. And, oui, he was scheduled to fly in a few days ahead of her, allowing him private time with Rudy before the gang arrived. But why had she not mentioned this side trip to a spa? Why had she not left a contact number? He’d tried her cell twice today only to get her voice mail. He knew that she was a big girl; still, he worried. Sofia was not as tough as she pretended. After several months of rooming together, he figured he knew her better than anyone did, except perhaps her sister.
Sofia Marino, Hollywood’s newest cable sitcom celebrity, the star of a bazillion straight men’s wet dreams, was plagued with insecurities. Much like Rudy (the star of his wet dreams). And like Rudy, she needed to come around on her own. She needed to believe in herself, to find happiness within before she could find happiness with a life partner. These days Sofia found joy, albeit superficial joy as far as he was concerned, in her work. Wherever she was, whoever she was with, it had to do with “Spy Girl”, or some other theatrical venture. He just hoped she kept her wits and “resolutions” about her and didn’t do something she’d regret come Monday. A moment of stupidity could ruin a lifetime of happiness.
He should know. He and Rudy had almost wrecked their relationship over an isolated indiscretion. But after months of living on separate coasts, extended soul-searching, and Rudy’s surprising decision to sell his limousine service to invest in an idea they’d once dreamed up over a bottle of sangria, it looked like they were going to reunite. Finally. Thank goodness. He was so over Los Angeles, and so not over the man he’d nicknamed Gym Bunny.
Rudy Gallow: tall, dark and buff. Sigh. He pictured that bodacious butch body decked out in his formfitting black T-shirt and jeans and straddling the seat of his Harley. Then he imagined him straddling another kind of seat altogether and …
The phone rang, startling him out of an erotic daydream. He hurried toward the cordless, hoping it was Sofia, delighted that it was Rudy. “Bon soir, Bunny.”
“Hi, honey. How was your day?”
“Long. Hard. Boring. And yours?”
“Long. Hard. Not so boring.”
Blood flowed hot and south of his waistline. Jean-Pierre sank down on the sofa and palmed his bulge. “Let us focus on the long and hard.” Since he could not pop over to Vermont for un sexuel rendevous, he’d have to make due with hot and heavy phone sex. Something they’d engaged in a lot lately.
His heart throbbed as mightily as his shaft. This separation was killing him. It wasn’t just the lack of sex. It was the lack of intimate time. The cuddling, the talking, the laughing … Living with Rudy for those few months last summer had been the greatest turn-on, emotionally and physically, of his life.
There was a pause, some disturbing throat-clearing and then, “Not that I’m not up for polishing the rocket, but … ”
“Oui?”
“ … Houston, we have a problem.”
Bracing for an anxiety attack—he’d been getting a lot of those lately—he massaged his chest as a flurry of awful scenarios pirouetted in his brain. “You fell off the ladder and broke something, oui? Your arm? Your leg? I told you to hire a professional to clean out those roof pipe thingies.”
“Rain gutters. And I didn’t fall, nor did I need to hire someone to scoop out a bunch of leaves and sticks. Mission accomplished. Ye have little faith in my manly skills.”
“I have every faith in your manly skills. I will prove it Sunday night when I let you clean my pipes.”
Normally that crude remark would’ve elicited a laugh, or at the very least an equally crude reply. Instead, Rudy sighed. “About your visit … ”
Jean-Pierre’s heart sank. There would be no phone sex tonight. By the end of this conversation, instead of breathing heavily, he’d be breathing into a paper bag and dialing the emergency number of his analyst. He summoned patience even as his pulse accelerated and his brow beaded with sweat. Even though he was a costume designer, living in LA he’d picked up a few acting skills purely by osmosis. He could get through this conversation without letting on that he was teetering on some sort of emotional breakdown.
As Rudy yammered on about faulty wiring or such nonsense, Jean-Pierre started wondering about his own internal wiring. Maybe Dr. Mitchell was right. Maybe it was time to move on. His obsession with Bunny was compromising his happiness.
Forcing a calm, “But of course, I understand,” past the lump in his throat, he leaned forward and snatched the tissue box from the coffee table. In doing so, his teary gaze fell upon a quote he’d scribbled down recently from an unknown source. The best relationship is the one in which your love for each other exceeds your need for each other.
Ah, oui, he thought as Rudy essentially blew him off, time to move on.
CHAPTER SIX
Scottsdale, Arizona
Places! Camera!
An explosion popped in Sofia’s head. She bolted upright, a scream lodged in her throat.
Action!
Disoriented, she scrambled to her feet. Something had hold of her ankles. She kicked out, lost her balance, and went down hard. She laid there for a second, trying to catch her breath, her bearings. Her heart and head pounded in sickening tandem.
She heard a graphic curse, forced open her heavy lids, just as two hands reached for her. “No!” She grabbed, pulled, kicked, and flipped. He too landed with a thud.
Before she could peel her leaden body from the floor, he recouped and pinned her down. Skin on skin. Hard muscles. Slick. Wet. Blood. She thrashed for her life.
“Sofia, it’s me. Calm down.” He palmed her forehead. “You’re safe.”
His deep, commanding voice registered, her vision cleared. Joe. A very naked Joe, but Joe. And, thank you Jesus, the wetness was water, not blood. Her heart hammered, and she had to remind herself to breathe as she struggled to collect her thoughts. “You’re soaked.” It was a stupid thing to say, but better than your semi-hard dick is pressed against my stomach.
“I was getting out of the shower when I heard you fall.”
“That explains why you’re naked. What’s my excuse?” Her voice sounded scratchy and a full octave lower than usual. Was she coming down with a cold? What the hell was that god-awful taste in her mouth?
“You’re not naked. You’re wearing underwear.” He flashed a coy smile. “If that’s what you want to call those matching wisps of satin.”
Her brain glitched as she stared up into his smoldering brown eyes. Decadent as aged cognac. Mischief and concern sparkled in his intoxicating gaze, and that wise-ass mouth of his looked as sexy as ever, a well-trimmed goatee intensifying his already sinful good looks. A hundred questions crossed her mind, but she was too distracted by the weight of his buff body to voice even one.
Except for the naked part, this reminded her of their first encounter when he’d snuck into her dressing room at the casino and pinned her against the wall. She’d assumed the worse and had defended herself by raking his shin and stomping hard on his foot. The struggle had ended like this. With her flat on her back, him sprawled on top.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” h
e quipped.
She didn’t see the humor. “You can get off me now.”
He didn’t budge, except to shove a hank of wet hair off his chiseled cheekbones. He was even better looking than she remembered, putting every one of her male “Spy Girl” co-stars to shame. “Your strikes and counters have improved significantly.”
She wasn’t in the mood for compliments. She couldn’t breathe. Worse, she couldn’t form a thought that didn’t have to do with sex. She remembered the feel of his mouth on hers all too well. He could seduce a nun into bed with one of his full-assault kisses. And his body … Jesus. Curiosity dared her to explore the texture and sinew of his bare back and to cup what had to be a stellar ass. Instead, she shoved at his muscular shoulders. “Get … off.” She closed her eyes, not wanting to get a full frontal view, even though she’d dreamed of such an opportunity several times. It’s just not something she thought she could handle now. Although closing her eyes proved just as troubling.
The room spun.
Cool air drifted over her clammy, prickly skin as Joe eased away. Her throat burned with bile. Her head throbbed and her stomach turned. “Oh, God.” She must’ve looked as sick as she felt, because, next thing she knew, he had her on her feet and in the bathroom.
She spent the next several minutes hurling into the toilet. It was painful and disgusting, and unbelievably humiliating because, damn him, he wouldn’t go away. He held her hair back from her face as she threw up whatever she’d ingested the night before. He smoothed a damp, cool cloth over the back of her neck, and then over her sweaty face when she finally eased back and collapsed against the tiled wall.
She wanted to die. The way she felt just now, it was a definite possibility.
Joe was still naked, though she seemed to be the only one who was self-conscious. She snatched the wash cloth from his hand and pressed it over her eyes, otherwise, even though she was two steps from death’s doors, she would’ve stared. The man was frickin’ gorgeous. “Could you at least wrap a towel around your waist?”
For some reason he found her request funny. Either that, or he was laughing at her sorry-looking-ass. She didn’t know. She didn’t care. No way was she lowering that cloth from her eyes to find out.
His good humor was fleeting. She felt his hand on the top of her head, a comforting gesture that brought tears to her eyes. “Feel better?”
“I feel like shit.”
“Hangover’s are a bitch.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had one.” She flashed back on a few beers and several shots of tequila. “Until now.” What had possessed her to drink so much so fast? She tried to recall last night’s events and was rewarded with a nauseating migraine. “My head is killing me.”
“I’ll have aspirin and black tea waiting in the other room.”
His hand fell away, and she instantly mourned the loss of contact. Not that she let on. Hell, no.
“I ran down to the gift shop earlier,” he continued. “Bought some essentials—toothpaste, toothbrushes, deodorant. They’re on the counter. Help yourself. Oh, and I cleaned your scrapes with peroxide last night, but you might want to reapply that antibiotic ointment.” He cleared his throat, stepped away. “I’m going to throw on some clothes. Take your time.”
“I may not move for a week.”
“The tea will be cold, but the aspirin and I will keep.”
The gentle reassurance tweaked her unease. Why was he being so nice? In the past, he’d made it clear he considered her an impetuous bimbo. A woman of poor judgment and easy virtue. Eye candy.
She flashed back on the bed she’d tumbled out of, the rumpled sheets. Warm skin, entangled limbs. Oh, no. Heart pounding, she lowered the cloth. Yep. A stellar ass. “Joe?”
Securing the towel around his waist, he paused on the threshold and glanced back. “Yeah?”
“Please tell me we didn’t sleep together.”
“Can’t do that, babe.” He was smiling when he shut the door, leaving her alone in her misery.
It was a toss up as to whether the coroner would attribute her death to mortification or a hangover.
Leading Sofia to believe that they’d had sex last night had been cruel, but damn, he’d been unable to resist. Twisted payback for the torture she’d inflicted in the middle of the night when she’d rolled into his arms, pressed that luscious, toned body against him, and clung. Man, had she clung. In return he’d lain awake with a stubborn hard-on. He was pretty certain he could’ve taken advantage and that she would’ve been a willing, though drunk, participant in a carnal slam. “You’re sexy when you’re intense.” But even he wasn’t that much of a bastard. He had, however, returned the embrace, smoothing his hands over her silky skin when she’d moaned and trembled from a nightmare. Physical contact purely for her benefit.
Yeah, right.
The shower blasted and Joe had to fight not to imagine what Sofia looked like naked, water streaming over her hot naked body, the same body that clung to him in bed where she might as well have been naked, because damn, those skimpy Victoria’s Secret undies barely covered her fine assets. Not imagining her in the shower wasn’t working, he decided while stepping into his shorts. He had the boner to prove it.
You’re in serious trouble, Bogart. Even watching her puke her guts up hadn’t diminished the attraction. If anything it had only highlighted that vulnerability of hers that burrowed under his cynical, thick skin. He had to get a grip. Solve her problem and get out with his heart and sanity intact.
Room service arrived just as he finished dressing. The perfect distraction, along with the two local newspapers he’d purchased in the gift shop. He scoured the Arizona Republic and the Phoenix New Times while inhaling two cups of a hearty Brazilian roast. Neither newspaper featured an article describing an accident or a crime that Sofia may have been involved in. He poured a third cup of coffee, needing all the caffeine he could get after three lousy hours of sleep, and pondered a course of action. First order of business, pick Sofia’s brain. With any luck she’d regained her memory with her sobriety. Otherwise, he’d have to call in a favor. He had a bad feeling about that Beretta.
Pipes groaned as she cut the shower. He gave her a few minutes to towel off, another vision he resisted, and then knocked on the bathroom door. During his gift store shopping spree he’d snagged a grey, hooded jogging suit, white T-shirt, and black sports cap. The outfit, each item embroidered with the hotel logo, had been overpriced, but she needed something to wear and, what the hell, in the end Murphy would be the one to pay. Just the thought of handing his brother an itemized bill for sticking him with Sofia caused him to smile.
Of course, that’s when she cracked open the door. “Forget it, Bogart. Just because it happened once, doesn’t mean it will happen again. Hell will freeze over first.”
It took him a minute to figure out what she was talking about. Then it registered and he didn’t know whether to laugh or be insulted. “Damn, Marino. I was just messing with you.”
Instead of dropping the towel in a flustered moment of outrage, she clutched it tighter, effectively concealing her magnificent breasts—much to his disappointment. She narrowed her bloodshot eyes. “You mean we didn’t sleep together?”
He leaned against the jamb, one eyebrow cocked as moist steam swirled behind her, heating up the pulse-pounding scene. “Oh, we slept together, babe. You were all over me.” He itched to needle her for the sheer hell of it, but her mortified expression had him bailing. “Relax. If I’d nailed you, trust me, you’d remember. Besides, I prefer my women sober.”
She smirked. “Since when?”
Well, tou-fucking-ché and then some. But, hey, okay, this was good. Hard to be attracted to someone who’d just driven a spear through his heart. Jaw clenched, he passed her the clothes and returned to his coffee. “Get a move on. We’ve got work to do.”
“Joe, I …”
“Forget it.” The softness in her voice suggested she was about to apologize. Lulu had probably told h
er about Julietta’s death. He didn’t want to talk about it. Especially not with Sofia. “I struck. You struck back. You’re a fighter. That’s not a bad thing.” He snatched up his cup and turned, his gaze sliding from her bruised forearms to her skinned knees. “In fact, it may have saved your life.”
Sofia wanted to go home. Far from whatever mess she’d gotten herself into.
Far, far from Joe.
She could feel his frustration seeping through the bathroom door as she quickly dressed. Luckily, the clothes he’d provided her with were baggy so she didn’t have to worry about underthings. Her G-string and bra were hand-washed, rinsed, and hanging over the towel rack to dry. Maybe she could ask him to make a lingerie run. She’d bet her shoe collection Joseph Bogart was no stranger to buying sexy undergarments. Probably kept his girlfriends stocked in racy teddies. He certainly didn’t strike her as an I-like-my-women-in-flannel kind of guy. While he was deliberating over a lacy thong or satin G-string, she could steal away.
But then what? She had no money. No ID.
Where the hell was her purse?
Maybe she’d been mugged. If she’d fought back as Joe had suggested, that would explain her scrapes and bruises. Thing was, she didn’t remember an assault.
She braced her hands on the vanity and took a deep breath. She felt horrible. Not just because she had a fierce hangover, and a lapse of memory, but because she’d been unwittingly cruel. Yes, she hated that Joe had blatantly used a young woman as a means to an end. A woman who, by his own admission, had been insecure and dependent on drugs and alcohol. And, yes, she empathized with Julietta Marcella who’d fallen for a charming man’s lies. Sofia had been down that road more times than she cared to remember. But as irresponsible as Joe had acted, in her estimation anyway, Julietta’s death wasn’t his fault. According to Lulu, who’d gotten it straight from Murphy, Joe believed otherwise. He blamed himself so much that he’d walked away from his job with the FBI.