by Beth Ciotta
She’d done enough research on characterization and archetypes to know that her need to excel boiled down to validation. She came from a long line of actors, dancers, and variety artists. She wanted to do honor to the Marino name. She wanted to be acknowledged for her brains and talent, not her tits and ass.
She glanced down at her baggy sweats and bargain running shoes. No risk of being ogled in this getup. Joe certainly hadn’t spared her a second glance. A good thing, she told herself, as she tossed the script on the spotless desk. She didn’t want him, of all people, to ogle. Well, okay. If she were honest, a little attention might be nice. She’d been shut up in his pristine study—who knew a man could be so anally tidy—for three hours and he hadn’t checked in once.
Did he find her that unappealing? That easy to ignore? Just because she wasn’t wearing her usual formfitting clothes and sexy heels? Again, his disinterest tweaked a nerve. Repulsed by her insecurities, she pushed to her feet. She was better than this. Stronger than this. She was more than a pretty face. And by God, she could seduce the pants off of Joe Bogart even if she was bald, fifteen pounds heavier, and chafing with eczema.
That’s, if she wanted to. Which she didn’t.
At least, that’s what she told herself as she snatched up the script for a fifth read.
Being cooped up with a woman who made his eyeballs sweat wasn’t Joe’s idea of fun. The trick was in maintaining the physical aloofness he’d adopted earlier today. As long as he didn’t touch Sofia, he could refrain from jumping her bones. Didn’t mean he didn’t think about it. He was only human. But he wouldn’t act. Human, yes. Stupid, no.
Consummating the attraction would be a messy mistake.
Never mind his personal issues. Sofia Marino was a tangle of contradictions. Tough yet sensitive. Intelligent yet impulsive. Her priorities were so freaking screwed up it made his head spin. She’d suffered an assault of some kind and all she could think about was avoiding a scandal. God forbid jeopardizing her fame and fortune. Even now, she was poring over a script she’d downloaded from the Internet. He supposed he should be grateful since it saved him from having to make inane conversation.
It had also allowed him to speak to Earl Creed in private when he’d called to report on the Beretta. Verifying ownership had been a bust as the gun wasn’t registered. The only fingerprints, aside from a partial smudged print of Joe’s, belonged to one Sofia Chiquita Marino. The report had been far from helpful in establishing her dilemma. He’d finessed Creed into personally holding on to the gun, while tap dancing around his friend’s curiosity concerning the Hollywood spy-babe.
That had been an hour ago. Joe’s biggest fear was that the owner of the mysterious house was going to turn up dead, compliments of a 9mm slug, in which case Sofia would be the number one suspect. She’d flown in from LA to spend the weekend with someone. Someone who’d sent a limousine to pick her up at the airport. Someone who lived in an affluent area. Joe’s money was on a wealthy industry professional. A man who could advance her career. With Sofia, it was always about her career.
Sometimes he wished he hadn’t done an extensive background search on the woman. But at the time, he’d still been working for the Bureau, and as Lulu had been unwittingly connected to his undercover op, he’d had an excuse to dig into her sister’s past.
Orphaned at an early age, Sofia had grown up with her grandmother and older sister. They’d apparently failed to instill the notion of commitment. The twenty-eight-year-old woman formed and abandoned relationships with men as frequently as she dropped jobs and classes. In his estimation, her hunger for stardom was a veiled need for attention. If she really wanted to be the next Meryl Streep, she would’ve pursued her dramatic studies. But instead of perfecting her craft and paying her dues, she opted to skip to the head of the class via men in power.
No doubt about it, the man in question was a man in power.
Even though Joe despised the thought of her sleeping her way to the top, he couldn’t shed the primitive desire to shelter her from harm. And though he lacked proof, his gut insisted she was indeed at risk. In order to help her, he needed a full account of last night. The bitch of it was amnesia served as a safety mechanism. If he forced her to remember before she was emotionally ready, he could send her over the edge.
A hike into the Superstitions might ease the way—the ancient, hallowed ground did wonders to heal his body and spirit—but she’d yet to emerge from his study. Apparently, that script was riveting. He’d peeked in to offer her a cup of herbal tea—God knew he was familiar with the lingering effects of a tequila bender—but had backed out when he’d remembered she’d asked him to cut the thoughtful crap.
Talk about irritating.
What? So she couldn’t deal with a little simple consideration? Was she so used to men treating her like shit that she didn’t know how to handle kindness?
Agitated, Joe lifted the lid off of the pot and stirred the simmering marinara sauce. He’d no doubt catch hell for cooking her supper. But, screw it, the woman had to eat. Not that she’d agree. Five-o-clock in the evening and all she’d had today was a slice of dry toast, a banana, and four bottles of water. Normally, he’d attribute her lack of appetite to the hangover. But he knew for a fact her eating habits sucked. He knew from Murphy who’d heard it from Lulu. For some crackpot reason she thought she was overweight. It couldn’t help that she’d immersed herself in an industry obsessed with unrealistic ideals. He preferred the curvaceous bombshells of yesterday to the anorexic Stepford actresses of today. Intelligence and a healthy dose of self-confidence didn’t hurt, either. Brains and beauty were a powerful combination.
Speaking of powerful combinations … Joe inhaled the mouthwatering aromas of onions, garlic, basil, oregano, and thyme, wondering when Sofia last had a home-cooked meal. And he wasn’t talking a blender-generated smoothie.
“Smells delicious.”
The clipped observation sounded more like a gripe than a compliment. Probably pissed her off that she was actually tempted to eat. He kept his back to her and quirked a smug grin. No one could resist his Nona Maria’s marinara sauce.
“You forgot the cigarettes.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her—speaking of delicious—frowning as she rooted through the Wal-Mart shopping bags. Frankly, he was surprised it had taken her this long to seek a nicotine fix. “I didn’t forget.”
She searched the bags a second time. “I don’t see them.”
“That’s because I didn’t buy them.” He turned back to his cooking, amazed and annoyed. How was it possible for a woman sporting no make-up, hillbilly pigtails, and ill-fitting clothes to look so frickin’ sexy?
“Is this your subtle way of telling me smoking’s bad for my health?”
He ignored her sarcasm, tasted the sauce. “Let me guess,” he said, while adding a pinch of sugar. “You smoke to suppress your appetite.”
“That’s one reason.”
“What’s the other reason?”
“Calms my nerves.”
“There are healthier ways to alleviate stress.” Now, why in the hell had he said that?
“Name one.”
Against his better judgment, he ditched the spoon and turned, facing the exotic beauty head-on. “Hiking. Running. Rock climbing.” Mind-blowing sex.
“That’s three. But I get the idea.” She frowned as she inspected the two additional sweat suits he’d purchased for her, along with denim overalls, two pairs of baggy Bermuda shorts, and five oversized T-shirts. “Strenuous physical activity.”
Sex. “Cardio exercise.”
Her gaze flicked from the sportswear to him. Oomph! Those sultry eyes packed a powerful punch. She arched one perfectly-tweezed eyebrow. “What about sex?”
Yes, thank you. I’d love to have sex. With you. Now. On the kitchen table. On the floor. Against the fridge. Pick your poison. “What about it?”
“Does that count as cardio exercise?”
“Only if you do it right.”
He held her gaze, sort of a double dog dare. If she thought she could best him in a game of innuendo, she was mistaken.
But instead of flinging a comeback, she broke eye contact and pulled more loot from the bag. “Who are these for?”
“You said you needed fresh delicates.”
“But, they’re granny underwear.”
Exactly. On the off chance that he was subjected to another drunken strip show, she’d be easier to resist in high-rise cotton briefs and an old-fashioned Cross-Your-Heart bra.
He hoped.
He gave a disinterested shrug. “They’re functional.”
She scowled. “Like these sweats and T-shirts? Which, by the way, are two sizes too big.”
“Better to hide that figure than flaunt it.” Those dangerous curves would turn heads even if she were dressed in a potato sack. From the pained look on her face, he surmised she thrived on the very attention he strived to avoid. Christ. He was trying to lay low while they sorted out this mess, and she was worried about her wardrobe? Could she be anymore shallow? Disgusted with himself for being so damned attracted to her, he turned back to the bubbling sauce.
Ten seconds of silent tension. Ten seconds of anticipation. He felt the shift in mood. Felt her moving in for the kill. Whatever had possessed him to invite this potent creature into his sanctuary?
“That’s not jar sauce.”
Her warm breath caressed his ear, sending a rush of blood to his groin. Or, maybe it was the brush of her full breasts against his arm as she leaned in and peered over his shoulder. Freaking A. “Bite your tongue. Nona would roll over in her grave.” He set aside the wooden spoon and moved swiftly to the refrigerator in search of something, anything. The act afforded him distance and a blast of cold air.
“Lulu said Murphy’s an incredible cook. Says he’s almost as talented in the kitchen as he is in the … well, I probably shouldn’t go there.”
“Probably not.” Maybe if he stuck his dick in the freezer …
“So, do you two have anything else in common? Hobbies?” She came up behind him, her voice tinged with blatant suggestion. “Size of your shoes?”
He mentally banged his head against the top shelf.
“I’m partial to Italian sausage.”
His shaft throbbed in answer to her husky declaration.
“Some people like it sweet, but I say the spicier the better. How about you?”
His rising temperature burned away vital brain cells. He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze lingering on her stunning face. Suddenly, he was transported back to the time in Atlantic City when he’d kissed her out of frustration. He licked his lower lip, remembering the taste of her, the feel of that luscious body when she’d succumbed to his will. “What do you think?”
She arched a sassy brow, intimating she’d hopped the same memory-train. “I think you like it hot.”
His skin tingled as her arm snaked around his waist and grabbed his sausage—recently purchased at the local butcher shop.
She withdrew the cellophane-wrapped package from the shelf, read the label. “I was right. Hot.”
Bitch. And he thought that with the utmost respect. She was damned good with the innuendoes. He braced himself for a smug grin. Instead, her expression was one of pure innocence. Yeah, right. He’d seen that look before. “Spy Girl”. Episode Six: The Hunt.
Sofia was playing him. But why? He wasn’t connected to Hollywood or New York. He couldn’t do jack for her art.
“This is what you were looking for, right?” she asked sweetly. “Meat for the sauce?”
He calmly shut the fridge door, claimed the sausage, and moved back to the stove, mindful that his pole was still at half-mast. “Do you want spaghetti or linguini?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I’m not surprised.” He wasn’t in the mood to discuss the evils of carbs and starch. “Spaghetti or linguini?”
“Maybe I need to work up an appetite.” She gently scraped her tigress claws along his forearm.
He probably imagined the seductive purr. Regardless, he’d had enough of this game. Like he needed her to turn up the heat on his personal hell. “Maybe you do.”
Her lush mouth curved into a cat-ate-the-mouse smile. “Got any ideas?”
He clicked the burner off and nabbed Sofia’s hot little paw. “One or two.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rainbow Ridge, Vermont
Rudy narrowed his choices down to three and then placed his order at Amazon.com. Access to the Internet had been iffy all afternoon. He’d been knocked off-line several times while perusing books on parapsychology. He didn’t know whether to blame Casper, his Internet server, or the phone company. Not that it mattered. The result was the same. A wasted afternoon and threadbare nerves.
For a moment he lamented purchasing a bed and breakfast twenty minutes from civilization in any direction. DSL and cable had yet to come to Rainbow Ridge. Then again, he’d been drawn to Hollyberry Inn because it was so isolated. He’d discovered serenity in wooded hillsides and endless sky. No casinos. No malls. No alternative dance clubs to tempt him back to his old trolling ways. His closest neighbors: two competing B and B’s and a popular roadside tavern. The proprietors, according to his gaydar, June-and-Ward-Cleaver straight.
It’s not that he had any inclination to stray. He’d learned his lesson on that score. Seeking satisfaction, emotionally or physically, through casual sex was a quick fix. A cop out. He was stronger than that. Better than that. Self-help books and affirmations had steered him down the right path—I am open and ready for a serious, long-term relationship—but it had taken a major misstep to drive the concept home. A misstep he regretted to this day. A misstep he and Jean-Pierre had yet to openly discuss.
Jean-Pierre maintained details were insignificant.
Rudy had been so desperate to put the ugliness behind them, that he’d welcomed the man’s blind forgiveness. Now, he deliberated the wisdom of that decision. Mostly because his betrayal wasn’t as tawdry as what he knew Jean-Pierre assumed. What if that misassumption had been festering all these months? What if the details did matter? How could he propose a lifetime commitment when the possibility loomed they’d be building a future on shaky ground?
Rudy tapped his fingers on the mouse pad and stared at the empty inbox of his AOL account. More than ever he longed to clear the air. In the past four hours, he’d sent the man two emails and, between his cell and home phone, had left five voicemails. Jean-Pierre had yet to return a single message.
Rudy didn’t know whether to be worried or irritated. Either JP was more pissed about the postponed reunion than he’d admitted last night, or he couldn’t return the calls. Meanwhile, Rudy’s brain cranked out a dozen catastrophes that could have befallen his lover, including such goodies as a drive-by shooting or freak household accident.
Ironically, he’d put Jean-Pierre through this same hell the night of his betrayal. He’d driven around in a daze, avoiding confrontation rather than placing a simple phone call to let his lover know he was alive and well.
Rudy was getting a taste of his own medicine and it tasted like shit on a Ritz. Aggravated, he abandoned the computer and his tiny office in favor of the kitchen and a cup of apple-cinnamon tea. He’d prefer a glass of wine, but Casper had confiscated his stash. He could steal away to Pearl and Earl’s Tavern, but he didn’t want to risk missing a call from Jean-Pierre. The cell phone reception in this area was spotty. He’d have to settle for a cup of tea and an hour of meditation on the front porch swing.
Five minutes later, steaming cup in hand, Rudy stepped outside and settled on the traditional red cedar swing. The unfinished wood creaked beneath his weight. He relaxed against the sloped backrest, sipped his aromatic tea, and focused on positive thoughts. At least he didn’t have to worry about putting on a happy face and playing Martha Stewart to an inn full of guests.
Again, the wood creaked. The comfort springs twanged. A ripple of dread shot up his spine a split second bef
ore one of the hanging chains snapped and the left side of the bench seat collided with the porch. Rudy hit hard and careened sideways. Hot tea splattered. His ass smarted and his thighs burned. He pushed himself up, cursing Casper to hell.
He swore he heard laughter.
Rather than ramming his fist through one of the four porch posts, he muttered the sentiment he’d shared with Afia last summer when her life had taken a downward spiral. “No matter how bad it seems, it could always be worse.”
A beat later, the sentiment proved true when car tires crunched over pea rock.
“He doesn’t look happy to see us,” Murphy said.
“Nope.” Jake killed the motor. “Looks pretty pissed.” He took off his sunglasses and slid Afia a scolding look. “Then again, he did ask us not to come.”
Afia massaged her wrist, a nervous habit from her past. She didn’t regret coming, but she did regret tricking her husband and Murphy. They’d made their displeasure evident while awaiting roadside aid. Jake had been against her flying to begin with. To know she’d arranged a trip against Rudy’s wishes really burned his butt. She’d almost kissed the tow truck driver when he’d arrived with a new tire as he’d saved her from yet another lecture on her “delicate condition”.
Murphy’s reaction was to the opposite extreme. He’d fallen into tension-filled silence. She didn’t know how Lulu stood it. At least Jake got his anger out and over with. Mostly.
“Rudy doesn’t know this car. He doesn’t know it’s us,” Lulu volunteered. “He’ll perk up. You’ll see.” She didn’t wait for Murphy to come around and help her out. She pushed open the back seat door and sprang out, that adorable pink poodle purse looped over her arm.
Afia tried to follow suit, but her big belly and a spasm in her right calf made it impossible to move with the same pep and speed as Lulu. Hard to believe the golden-haired sprite was almost five years her senior. Afia wholly admired the professional storyteller’s childlike aura. Oh, to be that confident and carefree. Self-confidence had long been an issue for Afia. She’d mostly conquered her insecurities, but now and again they reared. Like now.