by Beth Ciotta
She definitely regretted throwing Julietta in his face.
But, dammit, he shouldn’t have teased her about something as serious as lovemaking. She hadn’t been physically intimate with anyone since her breakup last summer with Chaz Bradley. Her exagent had promised her a bright future, professionally and personally. He’d made her feel secure and cherished, special. But like every other man in her life, when he’d used the “L” word, he’d really meant “lust”. For some reason she was never “the one”, just “the one of the moment.”
Then Joe had kissed her, two short months after her breakup with Chaz, and she’d felt herself falling … again. When she’d learned that the sexy special agent was sleeping with another woman, and worse, that he was using that poor girl, it had reinforced her opinion that men were pigs and not to be trusted. Jean-Pierre had taken great exception to her generalization, suggesting she merely needed appropriate time to heal.
To prove to herself that she wasn’t a sexaholic or one of those women who only felt complete if they were involved in a relationship, she’d resolved to remain celibate until the one-year anniversary of her breakup with Chaz. When a man wined and dined her, the only thing he’d be getting a piece of was her mind. She was more than willing to share her thoughts, ideas, and opinions on a wide variety of subjects, but her body was off limits. She was more than just a pretty face, dammit.
“You’re even more beautiful in person.”
Sweat broke out on Sofia’s forehead as a garbled voice echoed in the recesses of her fuzzy mind. No face. No name. Just a vague recollection.
She stumbled out of the bathroom on the verge of hyperventilating as scant memories unfolded. “I had an appointment. I flew into Phoenix to meet someone. Someone important.”
Joe pushed out of his chair and met her halfway across the room. “Who?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember.” She grabbed two fistfuls of her wet hair and tugged in frustration. “Why can’t I remember?”
“Slow down.” He grasped her upper arms and guided her into a chair. “Do you remember packing?”
“Yes. Yesterday morning. Very early. I remember packing for the weekend. I remember leaving Jean-Pierre a note saying that I’d see him in Vermont.”
“Did you tell him where you’d be over the weekend?”
“I told him I’d be at a spa, but I didn’t say where. I told my publicist and Lulu the same thing, but it was a lie. I didn’t want them to know my real plans. It was a secret. Or, I wanted it to be a secret.” She balled her fists in her lap so as not to rip her hair from the roots.
Joe poured her a cup of tea. “Sugar? Milk?”
“Black.” She thanked him, cursing her trembling hands as she lifted the cup to her lips. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. She sipped the bland brew, hoping it would calm her stomach. Swear to God she’d never touch another drop of tequila.
As if knowing her misery, he set a glass of water and the bottle of aspirin within her reach. “Visualize and walk me through yesterday. What were you wearing?”
“My pale blue linen suit—tailored jacket, mid-thigh skirt. Matching Prada shoes and handbag. I dressed to impress.” She curled her fingernails into her palms, thought hard. “I took a taxi to LAX. I remember flying into Phoenix. I don’t remember details, just fuzzy emotions. I was nervous, but excited.”
“So you landed at Sky Harbor International sometime yesterday late morning, early afternoon. Then what? Did someone meet you? Did you rent a car? Take a shuttle?”
“Someone met me. A tall blond in a dark suit. A limo driver. Tom. I remember a lot of traffic. Beautiful houses. Expensive houses. Not so much traffic. I remember driving through a big gate, up a long drive. Nervous. God, I was nervous. Then Tom stopped the limo and the door opened.”
“The limo door?”
“No, the house door and … ”
“Go on.”
Sofia swallowed as disjointed images blurred and faded. She closed her eyes, shuddering at the Picasso-like figure in her mind’s eye.
“What do you see?” Joe’s tone was gentle, persuasive. “Talk to me, Sofia.”
“Pieces of a man. Hands. Shoulders. Feet. I can’t look him in the eyes. He has no face.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.” She pressed the heels of her hands against her twitching eyelids. Her head was two seconds from exploding.
“Move inside the house. Tell me what you see.”
Her stomach lurched. “I can’t. I don’t remember anything beyond getting out of the limo and Tom driving away.” Unnerved, she opened her eyes and chased three aspirin with a glass of water. “The next thing I remember is waking up in the shed with the prop gun and … ” She palmed her forehead. “I can’t believe I threw away my suit. It was just stage blood, colored gel. How hard could it be to clean?”
“About that.” Joe stroked his goatee and studied her with unnerving patience. “You do know “Spy Girl” is on hiatus.”
She smirked. “How could I not know the schedule of my own show? Oh, wait.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “I mentioned my stunt double, didn’t I? I don’t know why I did that. I just, I had a sense that I screwed up an action scene. I’m certain my being here is work related. It must have been another kind of shoot.”
“The gun’s real, Sofia.”
Her skin prickled. “Real?”
“You said you threw away your suit. Where?”
The gun was real? “The ladies room down the hall from the lounge. I vaguely remember stripping in the stall and shoving the suit in the garbage pail.” She looked away, embarrassed. “I’d had a few drinks by then.”
He pushed a bowl of oatmeal and a plate of dry toast in her direction. “Eat something. You’ll feel better.”
“I’d rather have a cigarette.”
He reached into his shorts’ pocket, offered her a stick of gum, Wrigley’s Spearmint. She remembered he’d tasted like spearmint when he’d kissed her all those months ago. She resisted the memory and his offer.
Emotionless, he pocketed the gum, and moved toward the desk.
Goosebumps rose on her arms when he opened the drawer and removed the handgun in question. “If that’s a real gun, then the blood on my skirt could have been real.”
“Your legs and feet are pretty banged up. Could have been your blood.”
She wanted to believe that. She clasped her hands in her lap, fidgeted. “What if I did something wrong? What if I hurt someone and …”
“Don’t jump to conclusions.” He snatched up his cell phone. “Eat so we can get out of here. We’ve got a mystery to solve.”
She envisioned all sorts of bizarre tabloid headlines. An overnight success ruined overnight. She thought about her sister and Murphy. How they wanted to adopt a child. Would an agency reject them based on a relative’s mistakes? “I can’t afford a scandal.”
He frowned as he placed a call. “Then we’ll do our best to avoid one.”
She heard him ask for Special Agent in Charge, Creed. “But …”
“Trust me.”
He may as well have asked her for the moon.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Anything?”
“Zip.” Frank tossed the newspaper aside. He’d read three local rag sheets cover to cover. No mention of last night’s debacle. It seemed too good to be true. Why hadn’t the Marino dame run to the cops? Unless, she didn’t want the world to know where she’d been, or more precisely who’d she’d been with. Maybe her career couldn’t withstand the scandal. Maybe she was going to pretend like it never happened. Or maybe, just maybe the crazy bitch planned on blackmailing them as soon as she regrouped and figured out how to establish contact. The world was full of greedy people who worked all sorts of angles.
He cracked open a warm beer and swallowed his first painkiller of the day. Bottom line, her silence afforded him and Jesse the upper hand. Career thieves, this was their first and last professional hit, the payoff big en
ough to fund an early retirement. He refused to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder like their Wild West namesakes.
No loose ends.
Frank rose from the economy motel’s sagging twin mattress and crossed to the bathroom. He winced when he caught sight of his battered face in the bureau mirror. Disgusted, he adjusted the angle of his Stetson hoping to shadow the swelling. He’d never been a handsome man, never known women to drool over him the way they did his little brother. Jesse had the face and body of an angel, according to the ladies. He could easily get laid seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. Thing was, being a germ-o-phobe, Jesse wasn’t all that interested in swapping bodily fluids with a woman. Where was the fairness in that? Frank wondered. Not that wondering would change anything. Wasted energy, his mamma would say. He had bigger problems.
Like keeping the James brothers out of prison.
Jesse stood at the chipped enamel sink washing his left hand with anti-bacterial soap. Not surprising. He’d been on the phone, and even though he’d disinfected the receiver, his fears wouldn’t subside until he’d ridded his skin of germs, real or imagined. For a smart man, the kid was a real head case. Frank didn’t bother to ask if his broken hand was paining him for fear of setting him off on a tangent. Best to keep his mind on business. “How’d you make out?”
“I must’ve called twenty hotels. No Sofia Marino.” Jesse used his elbow to shut off the faucet, and a clean towel to dry his hand. “Crapped out with the car rental agencies too. Not that I expected different. We’ve got her purse, Frank. Her airline ticket and her wallet. She’s got no ID, no cash or credit. I say she’s still in the area. Shacked up with another friend, maybe.”
Frank’s gut said different, and his gut was almost never wrong. “I say she found a way home. If I were her, I’d dig out my passport, deplete my bank account, and disappear. Then again, there’s a chance she has bolder plans. Either way she needs ID, money, and maybe the help of a close friend.” He reached into his pocket and plucked out the photo strip he’d found in the woman’s purse. A result of squeezing into one of those arcade-type photo booths. Frowning, he studied the four black-and-white snapshots of the dark beauty kissing and mugging with a shaggy-haired white boy. On the back she’d written “Me and JP, two stars on the rise”.
“Think that’s her boyfriend?” Jesse asked.
“I’m thinking it’s possible, seeing they live at the same address. Found a Jean-Pierre Legrand listed in her little address book. Same home address as the one listed on her driver’s license.”
Jesse nodded, confirming he caught Frank’s drift. “So, we’re driving to LA.”
“Can’t spare the time. We’ll fly.” He hated to fly, but unlike his brother, he wasn’t ruled by his fears.
Jesse quirked a wicked smile while maneuvering the fingers of his busted hand. “California, here we come.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Los Angeles, California
Jean-Pierre was ticked. No, he was pissed with a capital P. Instead of giving Rudy hell last night, he’d placated him with a string of reassurances and sugar words.
“But of course, I understand, Bunny. Plumbing and wiring issues,” he mimicked, while hurling underwear and socks into his suitcase. “Repairmen traipsing in and out. No privacy. Not a good time. Ah, oui, sweetie, we can reschedule. No problem.”
Except, there was a problem. Jean-Pierre was tired of walking on egg shells while the man he loved worked through some insane life crisis. He was tired of being the strong one. Tired of waiting. He was just plain tired. He’d been struggling with his own personal and career crisis for months. Suffering with insomnia for weeks. Last night he’d tossed and turned, imagining tasty-cake handymen taking turns cleaning Rudy’s pipes and electrifying his nights. Not a good sign. It meant that Rudy’s one indiscretion still preyed on his mind. Deep down, he questioned the one time King of Quickie’s ability to remain faithful.
He’d forgiven the slip months ago. Everyone makes mistakes. But apparently he had a lingering issue with trust. Otherwise, his mind wouldn’t be spinning these lascivious images. Dr. Mitchell was right. He needed to confront Rudy about that night. Face to face.
“Wiring issues, my pansy tush.” Furious, Jean-Pierre shoved random shirts and pants into the suitcase. He didn’t fuss with coordinates, didn’t bother folding properly to prevent wrinkles. He just crammed articles of clothing into the case and slammed it shut.
He grabbed the handle and stormed out of the bedroom, his pulse accelerating in anticipation of the upcoming row. Sweat beaded his upper lip as he battled an anxiety attack, focusing instead on the trip he’d rescheduled a mere two hours before.
He knew he was forgetting something but, for the life of him, could not think what. Currently, he was in between jobs, master of his own schedule. So, flying to Vermont today instead of tomorrow, or instead of next month as he’d stupidly agreed to last night, would pose a problem to no one.
Except Rudy.
Just the thought of walking in on his lover and a handyman comparing their tools, had him sprinting toward the kitchen for a paper bag.
But then there was a knock on the door.
Had to be the cab driver. Better early than late. Bracing himself, he tightened the grip on the suitcase and steamrolled towards the door. There’d be plenty of time to hyperventilate after he faced his demons.
Gold Canyon, Arizona
“I think someone drugged me.” Sofia tightened her seatbelt as Joe shifted gears and swerved the jeep off the highway, onto a bumpy dirt road. They’d held silent during the bumper-to-bumper drive from Phoenix to Apache Junction, each simmering in their own thoughts. She’d had twenty additional, nerve-racking minutes to ponder her predicament when Joe had refused to let her accompany him into the local Wal-Mart. He was determined to keep her low-profile. Like anyone would recognize her in the soccer mom get-up—sans make-up, hair divided into pigtails—but he’d been adamant.
So, she’d waited. And pondered. “There has to be a logical explanation for this memory gap.” She couldn’t blame it on the alcohol, as she’d blacked out before her asinine drinking binge. “I could’ve been at a party. Someone could’ve spiked my drink. Maybe they lured me into their car with nefarious intentions. Maybe I threw myself from a moving vehicle to escape their evil clutches. Maybe,” she drawled, rolling with the dramatic scenario, “I slid down a rocky slope, ultimately sustaining a conk on the head that affected my short term memory.”
Joe dipped his chin and glanced at her over the rims of his Ray Bans. “That’s your logical explanation?”
She gave a righteous sniff. “It would explain my injuries.”
“Don’t muddy the waters by mixing fiction with fact.”
“Meaning?”
He focused back on the road. “You just described an episode of ‘Spy Girl’.”
Specifically episode three: Dr. Fleshpot’s Revenge. Her cheeks flushed with pride. “You watch ‘Spy Girl’?”
He flexed and tightened his fingers on the steering wheel. “Read the synopsis in TV Guide.”
“Oh.” Disappointment sang through her blood. She’d secretly hoped that he’d tuned in, out of curiosity if nothing else. True, they weren’t what she would call friends, but they were family. Wasn’t he the least bit interested in his sister-in-law’s accomplishments? Her ascent from “starving actress” to “celebrity icon” had been fast and furious, even by Hollywood standards.
Okay, so she was more of a cult fave than a respected artist, but as far as she was concerned the espionage cable show was merely a stepping stone. Regardless of the farfetched premise and limited production budget, she was still proud of her work. Joe’s apathy hit a raw nerve. Damn him. Damn her. The sudden rush of inadequacy intimated she was seeking self-worth in his eyes and transported her to a place she thought she’d left behind.
Striving to keep the bitterness from her tone, she tugged the brim of her cap lower, effectively shielding her bloodshot eye
s. “So, what’s your take on my memory loss?”
He cocked his head. “Could be psychological rather than a physiological. Could be dissociative amnesia.”
“Which is?”
“Memory loss restricted to a period of time, such as the duration of a traumatic episode, possibly a violent crime.”
Her stomach gurgled with remnants of tequila and newfound angst. “You said not to jump to conclusions.”
“I’m not jumping. I’m working with what we know.”
“Which isn’t much.” She swigged from her Evian water bottle to counteract the rising bile. “You think I shot someone.”
“Didn’t say that. It’s possible an assault of some kind occurred. Probable it was ugly.”
“Great.”
His cell phone rang. He slipped on a headset and took the call, momentarily absorbed in a conversation with someone about a jeep tour.
Sofia studied the prickly, barren landscape, wondering why anyone would want to live in the godforsaken desert. Especially a man who’d, according to Lulu who’d heard it from Murphy, graduated college specializing in psychology and foreign languages. Federal agents also had to be versed in law and weaponry. She knew first hand that Joe excelled in martial arts. Given his extensive and varied training, why was he tooling snowbirds around in a jeep? Why was he living in the boonies as opposed to a city thriving with cultural and professional opportunities? She understood wanting to put the past behind you, wanting to start over, but damn, in purgatory?
Then she remembered something else her sister had said. “Colin’s worried Bogie’s never going to rejoin the living.” Sofia hadn’t given it much thought at the time, mainly because she didn’t want to think about Joe Bogart period. Now, she was curious as hell.
She eavesdropped as the man bullshitted his boss, bailing last minute on two scheduled tours and, if his expression and tone were any indication, coming out of the lie smelling like a rose. Her publicist would be green with envy. He was that good. Add master manipulator to his list of special skills. Probably why he’d been such an effective undercover agent.