Friends and Lovers Trilogy 03 - Seduced

by Beth Ciotta

  She nodded, unclenching her fists as the tightness eased in her chest and the queasiness began to subside. “She said all five of them lapsed into coughing fits.”

  “Murph said he and Gordo washed theirs down with beer. Moose and Davis swallowed theirs dry like the Neanderthals they are, but Bulls-eye …”

  “… spit ground beef across the table hitting Gordo in the chest,” Sofia finished with a quirk of her trembling lips.

  “Bulls-eye’s a wuss. A superior marksman, but a wuss.” Smiling, Joe pulled a bandanna from his shorts’ pockets. “Murphy said she must’ve used half a jar of chili pepper and Tabasco.”

  “She asked them if it was too hot,” Sofia said in defense of Lulu. “They answered no, and cleaned their bowls.”

  He smoothed his kerchief over her clammy face. “Eating the chili was safer than dealing with Murphy if they’d hurt her feelings. They picked their poison. No offense to your sister.”

  “None taken.” She’d been a victim of Lulu’s cooking on more than one occasion. Unsettled by Joe’s tender care, Sofia nabbed his wrist and stilled his fussing. She felt his pulse thrumming beneath her fingers, met his gaze, and experienced an intense rush of sexual awareness.

  No mistaking. No misinterpreting. His decadent whiskey-eyes swirled with raw desire. He worked his jaw. “Feeling better?”

  “I feel like an idiot.” Her voice came out a strangled croak. “What just happened?”

  “Panic attack.”

  She trusted his diagnosis. A man trained in psychology would know the difference between hyperventilating and a coronary. She licked her dry lips. “A hangover, and then a panic attack. You’re not exactly seeing me at my best.”

  His intoxicating gaze slid to her mouth. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  More lethal than tequila, his warring gentle and dangerous aura struck her woozy with lust. “I thought you weren’t interested.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Me either.” They were both lying. Thing was, she wasn’t going to make a fool of herself twice in one day. He had to make the first move. Move, dammit.

  Joe’s body sizzled as he registered the challenge in Sofia’s eyes. Don’t do it, he told himself. Show some restraint, asshole. A light breeze ruffled her hair, wafting the scent of generic hotel shampoo. He envisioned her in her demi-bra and G-string, all that mocha flesh, and he snapped. Fuck restraint, he was all over her, and she was all for it.

  They segued into a heated blur of groping hands and sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. Eager fingers raked through each other’s hair, snaked beneath shirts to explore bare skin. Lips, teeth, tongue. She tasted better than he remembered. How was that possible? He framed that gorgeous face within his hands and devoured, savored, his brain cells burning away as she bested his enthusiasm.

  In an erotic haze, she shifted and straddled him, wrapping her long legs around his waist, grinding against what seemed like a year-long hard-on. This was better than his dreams. Better than his daily fantasies. He was hot and hard, starving and feasting. He was sitting atop a mountain with his lap and heart full of Sofia Marino. The setting sun burned into his back while Sofia deepened the kiss and seared his soul.

  He was on fire.

  He wanted more. Sweet Christ, he wanted to rule her body, to rock her with endless orgasms. He wanted her to know the gentle, skilled hand of a respectful lover.

  But not on a dusty, rocky trail. Not when she’d just suffered a memory that sent her into a tailspin. No matter how badly he ached to make love to Sofia, he refused to take advantage.

  So why the hell did he have his hands down her pants, his palms full of her bodacious ass?

  Because she was in his blood. Because he had a weakness for beautiful, vulnerable women.

  Because he was a bastard.

  His cell phone vibrated against his thigh, a life saver, because, fuck, she was working his goddamned zipper. If she got her hands on his dick, he’d lose it and nail her for sure. He was only a man. An obsessed one at that.

  His insides twisted with disappointment as he redirected her eager hands to his shoulders and severed the kiss. “I’m vibrating.”

  “Me too,” she rasped in a breathless voice. “So, why are we stopping?”

  Free of those Fanny-farmer pigtails, her hair was a sexy, just-rolled-out-of-bed mess, her full lips puffy and red from his assault. Oh, man. He glanced away before he lost control … again, reached in his pocket and fumbled.

  “I would’ve done that for you,” she teased in a husky drawl.

  Jaw clenched, he jerked out his phone, thumbed the talk button. “Yeah?”

  Sofia looked at him as though he’d gone insane. Maybe he had.

  “Lulu wants to know what you’re doing with her sister?” Murphy asked.

  Joe felt like he’d just been caught feeling up Sofia in the back seat of a car. He resisted the ridiculous urge to scan the jagged slopes for a hidden camera and focused on his “date”. She looked more than a little pissed that he’d interrupted their lustful frenzy to take a phone call. His ego roared, yes, even as his conscience yelled, bastard. “I thought you weren’t going to alert Lulu until I got back to you with details.”

  Hearing her older sister’s name, Sofia scrambled off Joe’s lap and righted her clothes, her expression morphing from pissed to embarrassed.

  “I didn’t tell her anything. She saw it on one of those entertainment news shows.”

  “What?”

  “Someone took a picture of you and Sofia coming out of the Camelback Inn. She looked frumpy and hung over. You had your arm around her. The newscaster claimed you two spent the night engaged in a, quote: drunken love-fest.”

  “Hell.”

  Sofia tucked her hair behind her ears, tugged on her sports cap. “What?”

  Joe waved her off.

  “The media ID’d you, Bogie.” Murphy lowered his voice. “It’s only a matter of time before they track your address and a camera crew turns up on your front lawn.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Any reason why you haven’t called me with particulars on whatever panicked Sofia last night?”

  “A: I don’t have particulars. B: I tried your cell three times. No service. Tried you at home, got the answering machine. Didn’t figure you’d want me to leave a message. Where are you?”

  “Bumfuck, Vermont.”

  Joe started down the trail, motioned Sofia to follow. “I thought you weren’t due at the inn for a few more days.”

  “Yeah, well, things aren’t exactly going as planned.”

  He hung back and watched Sofia scale a boulder. “I’ll say.” He salivated as the thin cotton jogging pants stretched and molded to her thighs and backside. A minute ago he’d had his hands on that goddess-like ass.

  “Has Sofia heard from Jean-Pierre?”

  “I don’t see how. Her cell phone’s dead. Wait.” He caught up to her and squeezed her shoulder. “When you checked your email, was there anything from Jean-Pierre?”

  “No.” She knuckled up the brim of her cap. “Why?”

  “She hasn’t talked to him since yesterday,” Joe told Murphy. “Why?”

  “According to Gallow, he and Jean-Pierre had a fight last night. He hasn’t been able to reach him all day. He’s worried.”

  “Gallow confided in you?” Joe snorted. “Exploring your sensitive side, Murph?” His amusement died when Sofia pressed her luscious body up against him, trying to hear whatever Murphy had to say.

  “Screw you, dickhead,” Murphy quipped. “He told Afia who told Jake …”

  “Who told you. Got it.”

  Sofia tried to grab the phone. Joe nudged her away. Her sexy scent made him insane. “We’ll give it an hour, and then give him a try.”

  “I’ll keep trying too,” Murphy said. “Probably nothing. Sofia recovered from that hangover yet?”

  “Almost.” Joe winked at her in an effort to cool her rising agitation. They didn’t have time for another panic attack.

 
; “She didn’t look so hot on the news,” Murphy said. “Getting back to that, if Sofia’s in trouble, you better haul ass.”

  He’d made that last statement in Italian, which told Joe that Lulu had just walked in and Murph didn’t want her to know her sister was at risk.

  Joe prodded Sofia back into motion while continuing his conversation with Murphy. “So, what did you tell your wife when she asked about us?”

  “That you’re exploring a mutual attraction.”

  Joe frowned at the humor in his brother’s voice. “Cazzone. I’ll call you with a report when we get situated.” He powered off, pocketed the cell, and hurried Sofia along.

  “How does Lulu know we’re together?” she asked. “Where are we going? And why did you call Murphy a prick?”

  He glanced sideways at her as they navigated the rocky descent. “Been brushing up on your Italian?” Last summer she’d butchered the insults she’d hurled at him in their parents’ native tongue.

  She shrugged. “So, what’s going on?”

  “We made the news.”

  She stopped in her tracks.

  “Entertainment This Millisecond, or some shit. Must’ve been that front desk clerk at the Camelback,” he explained. “He’s the only one who knew we shared a room last night. He saw how trashed you were. Probably assumed we were an item. At least, that’s what he told the media when he sent in the picture that he snapped of us this morning when we were leaving the hotel. To think I tipped the jerk to keep his mouth shut.”

  “He probably made a fortune off of that photo.” Sofia blew out a tense breath. “Give me your phone.”

  “Not now.” He grasped her elbow and urged her forward. “We have to get back, pack, and relocate before the media tracks down my address.”

  She jerked away. “Give me your phone, Joe. I mean it. I want to check on Jean-Pierre and then I have to call my publicist. I have to tell her something, anything. She can’t protect my reputation and career if she’s in the dark. I can’t afford a scandal, dammit.”

  “So you keep saying.” He bit the inside of his cheek, swallowed his opinion on her career. He handed her the phone. “Don’t tell her about your memory loss. About the gun. Tell her …”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She waved him off, while her call connected. “I’m getting an automated message on JP’s cell. Let me try home.” She punched in more numbers. Waited. “Answering machine.” She disconnected, pursed her luscious lips. “Maybe he’s at Luc’s.”

  He rolled his eyes heavenward, begging patience. Instead, he was rewarded with the ominous sight of a vulture circling high above Sofia. His neck muscles bunched. “We don’t have time for this, babe.”

  She shot him a look, dialed more numbers, and set off walking. “Laura? Hi. Yes, it’s me. I know. I heard. How bad did I look?”

  Joe shook his head. Unbelievable.

  “What do you mean, I have worse troubles?”

  Dread bolted through his system as he watched her falter and pale.

  “No, I didn’t get the message. My cell phone died and …” She blinked back tears. “That can’t be right, Laura. The police must be mistaken, I … Okay. Okay. Yes. I’ll handle it. I’ll let you know. Thanks for the damage control.” She disconnected, tossed him the phone, and took off toward the canyon at a dangerous pace.

  What the hell? Did she even remember the way? He raced after her, easily navigating the rocky descent, but he made these treks several times a week. She was a novice. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  The glance she spared him resonated with pain and grief. “LA.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It took Joe three phone calls and fifteen minutes to verify the identity of the body.

  It took him far longer to convince Sofia that the Frenchman who’d died earlier that evening was not Jean-Pierre Legrand, but his friend, Luc Dupris.

  According to his contact at the LAPD, the man Sofia’s eighty-five-year-old neighbor had found bleeding to death in the apartment adjacent to hers resembled Jean-Pierre in coloring and build. She must not have gotten a close or clear look at the man’s bloodied face. She’d just seen the shaggy brown hair, pink corduroy trousers and floral shirt, and had assumed it was her twinkle-toes neighbor.

  A paramedic and a uniformed cop supported her theory by reporting that the victim had mumbled his final words in French. No identification had been found on his person. Nothing to suggest Mrs. Liddy was mistaken in her identification. No evidence to suggest foul play. When asked about his next of kin, Mrs. Liddy named Sofia. Unable to reach the TV star, LAPD reached out to her publicist—typical Hollyweird thinking. The publicist had explained Sofia was out-of-state. She would inform her of the tragedy and have her get in touch.

  In the meantime, another mutual friend had braved the morgue to identify the corpse as screenwriter, Luc Dupris. The preliminary autopsy report confirmed that the man was intoxicated and had died of loss of blood from a head injury. The verdict: accidental death.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Sofia said, as she crammed her script, phone, and bargain wardrobe into the backpack Joe had supplied. “Why was Luc in our apartment alone? I mean, he could’ve let himself in. He knows where we keep the spare key. But where’s Jean-Pierre?”

  “You skipped town early. Who says Jean-Pierre didn’t do the same? Don’t borrow trouble.” He brushed past her, re-entering the kitchen to stow away the pots and utensils she’d washed while he’d transferred the marinara sauce from the fridge to the freezer. If reporters or photographers managed to breach his security system, they’d find a spotless house devoid of any sensitive materials. No family photo albums, address books, or personal correspondences to leak to the public. He’d spent the last several months laying low, riding out a death threat issued by Julietta’s uncle, mobster Paulie Falcone. Not that he’d been particularly concerned. Operation Candy Jar had dealt a crippling blow to the Falcone organization. Paulie’s energies were divided, his power restricted. Still, there were plenty of other scumbags in Joe’s past who might jump at the chance to attack his soft spot. Meaning his family, which now included Lulu and, God help him, Sofia. His sister-in-law. The woman he lusted after in his heart and dreams and occasionally, in the light of day and a moment of insanity.

  “That doesn’t explain why Jean-Pierre’s not answering his phone messages or emails,” Sofia said, refusing to let the matter rest.

  “Murphy said he had a fight with Gallow. Maybe he decided to slip away, someplace other than Vermont. Maybe he’s genuinely pissed and needs some down time.” He sponged off the memo board, erasing his Aunt Tessa’s new phone number and her recipe for biscotti.

  “No. Something’s wrong.” Her voice shook with frustration. “Would you please stop with the housekeeping crap? A man’s been killed, another’s missing. Time’s ticking.”

  Jaw clenched, he placed the sponge in the sink and turned, hands on hips. He kept expecting her to fall apart. Instead, she was pumped and motivated. As soon as they’d blown into the house, she’d changed into a fresh T-shirt and the baggy denim overalls. After taming her thick, blazing red hair into a low ponytail, she’d commandeered his Diamondbacks baseball cap and denim jacket to complete her transformation into her version of a redneck local.

  Maybe it was him, but she still looked gorgeous. Exhausted, but gorgeous. “This disguise isn’t going to work,” he said, gesturing to her clothes. “People are going to recognize you.”

  “I’m not that famous.”

  “Famous enough.” And drop-dead beautiful. They might not recognize her as Cherry Onatop. But they’d sure as hell notice those striking cheekbones and sultry eyes.

  “People aren’t going to recognize me,” she assured him in a confident tone. She zipped her bag and met his gaze, her body emanating a tangible nervous energy. “You, on the other hand … ”

  He’d changed into vintage denim bellbottoms and a baggy, long-sleeved thermal, but other than that he looked exactly as he had when that front desk cl
erk had snapped their picture. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I’ve spent years dodging attention.”

  “And months dodging life,” she muttered while stooping to tighten the laces of her shoes.

  Joe stared down at the top of her capped head. What the hell was that? A comment on his resignation from the Bureau? She sounded like his brother. Since when was reevaluating and reprioritizing dodging? “What I meant to say,” he managed in a calm tone, “is that I’m trained in deception.”

  “That makes two of us.” She stood, hefted her bulging backpack, and shifted anxiously on the generic running shoes he’d bought her. She looked all of eighteen and ready to backpack across Europe. “Ready?” she asked.

  And willing.

  “Almost.” He cursed his lustful thoughts—pull it together, Bogart—and ran a mental check list. He’d packed a suit and essentials into a rolling garment bag. His laptop was secured inside a leather case along with his genuine passport, and two sets of false ID—just in case. As Murphy was fond of saying, expect the unexpected.

  He didn’t like what they were about to do, but knew she’d find her way to Los Angeles with or without him. Since he didn’t aim on letting her out of his sight, and since they had to relocate anyway, he’d set the wheels in motion. After a couple of pit stops, they’d be on a plane headed for LA.

  Joe gave the home he’d come to think of as his sanctuary a last visual sweep. The thought of the paparazzi closing in, encroaching on his solitude and privacy, torched his blood. “How do you put up with it?” he wondered aloud as he lowered the living room blinds.

  “How do I put up with what?” Sofia asked.

  What he really wanted to know was not how, but why. Her professional aspirations were no doubt rooted in her childhood. He knew his were. “Never mind.” Understanding Sofia would only solidify an emotional bond. Bad enough the physical aspect of their relationship was spinning out of control. He tripped the security system, his body buzzing with sexual awareness as he cupped her elbow and ushered her out the door. “Let’s roll.”