Friends and Lovers Trilogy 03 - Seduced

by Beth Ciotta

  She swallowed hard, focused on her surroundings. That was definitely a cactus. A cactus, a house she didn’t recognize, and distant mountains. A hot, arid breeze ruffled her hair. She smelled sweat, fear. Her heart raced as she licked her dry lips and tried to think past the persistent pounding at the base of her skull.

  Phoenix. She was in Phoenix, Arizona. That was it. Not Los Angeles, California. Phoenix. But why? The harder she tried to remember, the more the throbbing increased.

  Phone. Gun. Phone. Gun. Her gaze dropped to her linen skirt. Blood.

  The throbbing intensified. She staggered back toward the tool shed, pulse racing. Why was there blood on her skirt and legs? Wait. Don’t panic. It had to be from a squib. A blood pack placed over a charge. Fake blood. Right? Where is the stunt coordinator?

  She backed into the shed. Her pulse slowed. She felt safer here. Less panicked. How absurd. Safe from what? She placed the gun and phone on a work bench and groped in the dark, squinting—as if that somehow helped—to make out the contents of the moonlit shed. She located a flashlight, excellent, a pair of rubber flip-flops, and an ankle-length rain slicker. Okay, good. Protection for her feet. A coat to cover the blood. The fake blood.

  This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. The words echoed in her fuzzy mind.

  Head throbbing, Sofia stuffed the gun into the deep pocket of the yellow slicker—God save her from the fury of the prop master if she misplaced a piece of his personal stock—and forced herself to leave the sanctity of the shed. Battling irrational panic, she rounded the sizable, upscale property and aimed the flashlight at a street sign. Lincoln Drive. She didn’t recognize the name. The circular driveway was empty. The house was dark. Maybe the residents were away. No matter. No way was she knocking on the door. Her brain spun in rusty circles, but her gut compelled her to gravitate toward a public place.

  Dazed, she meandered down the paved street toward a softly lit, rambling adobe resort. She squinted at the distant red neon sign. The Camelback Inn. Surely this place had a lounge. She needed to sit. She needed a drink.

  The gun weighed down the left side of the plastic slicker. The phone burned a hole in her sweaty palm.

  She needed help.

  She hit speed dial, her eyes on the front steps of that inn, her thoughts on a shot of tequila.

  “Murphy here.”

  Her lungs bloomed with relief at the sound of her brother-in-law’s no-nonsense voice. A voice of reason in any crisis. She couldn’t remember why she was in Phoenix. She was in possession of a gun and covered with blood. That qualified as a crisis, didn’t it? This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. “It’s Sofia.” Her voice sounded weak and shaky to her ears.

  Murphy heard it too. “What’s wrong? Oh, hell, don’t tell me you’re canceling the trip to Vermont. Lulu hasn’t seen you in months…”

  “I think I’m in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t know. I … ”

  “Where are you?”

  “Phoenix.”

  “What are you doing in Phoenix?”

  “I don’t know.” Her temples throbbed as she pushed through the front door and moved into the cool, swanky interior of the lobby.

  “What do you mean … Damn. The plane’s leaving the gate. I can’t get off and they’re going to make me disconnect. Where are you? Exactly.”

  “The Camelback Inn. Lincoln Drive.” She ditched the flashlight and snatched a brochure from a rack on the wall, scanned the address. “Scottsdale.” An upscale suburb of Phoenix. She massaged a fierce stabbing in her temple. How did I get here?

  “Plant your ass in a chair and don’t move. Someone will be there in twenty, give or take five.”

  A professional bodyguard, Murphy had contacts all over the states. Apparently he knew someone in Phoenix. Someone he’d trust with his sister-in-law’s welfare. She ignored the curious once-over of the front desk clerk, snapped the slicker to her chin, and shuffled her stolen flip-flops toward quiet conversation and the acoustic strumming of a Spanish guitar. The urge to drink herself into oblivion was overwhelming. “I’ll be in the bar.”

  She disconnected and pocketed the cell. She located a secluded table in a dimly lit corner of the lounge and planted her ass in a chair. She wanted a cigarette and a drink. Her cigarettes were in her purse along with her cash and credit cards. Her purse was MIA.

  Like a portion of her memory.

  She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead and fought tears. She was not without resources. She glanced toward the bar. Plenty of men at the bar. Men who’d be willing to buy her a drink, or ten. Four Wall Street types were checking her out right now despite the klutzy shoes and chintzy raincoat. All she had to do was smile. Hell, a slight tilt of her head would do the trick. But then eventually one or all would come over, wanting to sit down. Then she’d be obligated to make small talk or to come up with a clever, unoffending reason as to why they couldn’t join her. I have a headache, even though it was true, probably wouldn’t fly. The last thing she wanted just now was the company of a randy man. And weren’t they all randy?

  “You’re even more beautiful in person.” The garbled compliment poked through her hazy memory. Her stomach turned.

  Instead of smiling at the Brooks Brothers barflies, she slipped into bitch mode, adjusting her expression and body language to telegraph a pointed thought: “Leave me the hell alone.”

  The trolling businessmen quickly turned their attention back to the bar.

  What do you know? For once the ice princess had an effect. Where she was concerned, men were usually more persistent.

  When the waitress appeared, Sofia purposely warmed. Switching character as easily as most people changed underwear, she affected her celebrity persona. She fluffed her processed, signature red hair and flashed a dazzling, mega-buck smile.

  “Oh, my gosh,” the young woman chirped. “You’re Cherry Onatop. Wow. I … wow. I love your show. Are you on vacation? Shooting on location? Is that why you’re dressed like that? Are you staying with us?”

  Sofia opted to answer the last question. “Yes, I am.” She leaned toward the girl, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Not something I’d like to get around … ” she glanced at her name tag, “Lisa.”

  “Low profile. I get it.” Lisa hugged her empty tray against her chest and winked. “Actually, lots of stars stay here, although they don’t usually hang out in the lounge. Or so I’ve heard. This is my first night. You’re my first VIP.” She beamed at Sofia as if to say, you’re really cool for hanging like a normal person. “So, would you like to run a tab?”

  “That would be fabulous,” Sofia said, feeling far from normal. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. “Let’s start with a pack of Salems, a Corona and two shots of Cuervo gold.” With any luck by the time Murphy’s friend arrived, she’d be numb.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Frank James was pissed. His nose throbbed like a mother. His stringy arm muscles burned from overuse. Instead of whizzing over the border to enjoy a windfall and some prime Mexican booty, he was driving around the outskirts of Phoenix, resisting the urge to strangle his paranoid brother, and wondering how he was going to deal with one crazy bitch.

  “Where are we?” Jesse asked.

  Frank washed down another painkiller with a swig of beer before glancing sideways. “Even if I knew I wouldn’t say.” His lanky body vibrated with frustration. “I’m not talking to you, you stupid moron.”

  “Sure you are. You just called me a stupid moron. Which, by the way, is an oxymoron.” The younger James brother wiggled the fingers of his broken hand, something the doctor had suggested to reduce swelling and stiffness. His pretty-boy features contorted in misery. “I hope to sweet Christ that doctor’s needle was sterile. Was he even certified? We should’ve asked for credentials.”

  “You saw his credentials.”

  “That framed diploma?” Jesse grunted. “So what? Now days you can forge just abo
ut any document so long as you’ve got the right computer program.” He used his forearm to tip back the brim of his Stetson. “At least he wore gloves. Although … I didn’t actually see where he got them. What if they weren’t new? You know, fresh? What if he wore them before and touched someone else’s wound? If I hadn’t been in such pain, I would’ve thought to ask.” He licked his lips, blew out a breath. “I feel sick.”

  “Don’t start.” Wired, Frank tugged at the brim of his own Stetson and gunned their beat up Chrysler down the darkened highway. He had no sympathy. “If you weren’t such a germ-a-phobe …”

  “The clinical term is Verminophobia.”

  “… we wouldn’t be in the mess to begin with.” Jesse’s freakish injury had required a tetanus shot and a cast that extended from his knuckles to above the wrist. Broken bones, torn ligaments and cartilage, but it could’ve been worse. At least his injury was under wraps and wouldn’t diminish his appeal with the ladies. Frank looked downright grotesque between his two black eyes and the cotton tubes the doc had stuffed up his swollen, fractured nose. How in the hell was he supposed to get laid when he looked like a fricking monster?

  Using his good gloved hand, Jesse wiped down the dashboard with anti-bacterial spray for the second time in ten minutes. “Do you know how many diseases can be transmitted through a simple sneeze or cough?”

  “Actually, yes. You list them fairly often.”

  “The man spit in my face.”

  “I know. I was there.” Talk about a disaster. It’s not like they hadn’t done what they’d been hired to do. Just that they’d been sloppy about it. Once Frank had regained consciousness, they’d eliminated the evidence, but unfortunately there was a loose thread.

  “I want my gun back,” Jesse moped.

  Breathing through his mouth, Frank envisioned the woman who’d marred his face and threatened the future of the James brothers. He tightened his murderous fingers around the steering wheel and squeezed. “I want more than that.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  You’ve got to be kidding. What kind of set up …?”

  “It’s not a set up and I don’t have time to argue. I’ll call you from the onboard mobile as soon as I’m able.” Chirp.

  Joe tossed his cell phone on the passenger seat. Murphy’s voice rang in his ears like a knell. “Sofia’s in trouble. She sounds upset.”

  And he was supposed to drop everything and race to her rescue.

  Okay, so it’s not like he had major plans for the evening. It’s not like he’d even cleared the Valley of the Sun. All he had to do was make a U-turn and head back north into Scottsdale. Actually, Lincoln Drive was closer to Paradise Valley, one of the many offshoots of Metropolitan Phoenix. If Scottsdale was the Beverly Hills of Phoenix, Paradise Valley rivaled Bel-Air. Posh. Almost exclusively residential. Lavish homes, many owned by celebrities. Given Sofia’s recent notoriety, it made sense that she’d chosen accommodations in the star-studded area. But, man, the Camelback? She had to be raking in the dough.

  He gritted his teeth and swung the jeep in the opposite direction. Just his luck she was in his neck of the woods. Or was it vice versa? Of all weekends for Murphy to be visiting. Of all nights to have to drive him to Sky Harbor International. “It’s not a set up.” It sure as hell felt like one.

  He gunned the accelerator, exited Highway 143, and peeled onto 44th Street. The sooner he handled whatever mess she’d gotten herself in, the sooner he could leave. A straight shot until he got to McDonald Drive, a short jog onto Tatum, and then a right onto Lincoln. “Sofia’s in trouble.” It had to be a man. With Sofia it was always a man.

  He spent the next few minutes steeling himself. She’d prick his anger, annihilate his last vestiges of inner calm. She’d piss him off worse than Murphy. She had a real talent for pissing him off. The last time he’d seen Sofia in person he’d gone ballistic. She’d put herself in danger in order to salvage a drug bust. As if that weren’t enough, earlier that day she’d challenged a piece-of-shit, persistent ex-lover, and then buckled. She had more moxy than common sense. More sass than substance. In spite of her scorching, exotic beauty and confident, cocky demeanor, she was insecure as hell. And like three-quarters of the male population, he wanted to fill her needs.

  With several inches of morning pride.

  Oh, yeah. He was a bona fide bastard. Then again, she was a shallow seductress. Toss up as to who was worse for whom.

  By the time he parked the jeep and pushed through the doors of The Camelback Inn he’d spun himself into an iron cocoon. She couldn’t affect him if she couldn’t get to him. He’d solve her problem and hit the road. He wouldn’t feel a thing.

  Then he saw her.

  Who could miss her? Glossy red hair. Shiny yellow coat. She threw back a shot of liquor, and then pursed those enticing, full lips around a cigarette, somehow managing to turn a nasty habit into something erotic.

  He was toast.

  Jaw clenched, he tamed an untimely hard-on by reminding himself that her troubles probably revolved around a man. Someone she’d slept with in hopes of advancing her career. Someone who’d turned the tables and used her and dumped her, or used her and stuck around. He told himself that he preferred her natural sable hair color to the studio’s Bing cherry red, and that she looked ridiculous in that shapeless, yellow rain slicker. He watched her slam back another shot and then polish off a half a bottle of beer. He noted her slouched posture and pegged her intoxicated. Watched her light up another cigarette, thinking if he kissed her right now, the way he was dying to—slow, deep—she’d taste like an ashtray. He mentally nit-picked and criticized Sofia Marino with every step in her direction.

  By the time he dropped into the seat across from her he was thoroughly annoyed. It was a hell of a lot better than horny.

  Cigarette poised between two slender fingers, she gaped at him through glassy eyes. “Christ.”

  “Nope.” He summoned a smartass grin. “Although I have managed a miracle or two in my time.”

  Elbows on table, she dropped her forehead against the heels of her hands. “How could Murphy do this to me?”

  “I hear you, babe.” He nabbed the cigarette, crushed it out in the ashtray alongside several other stubs. He nodded toward the beer and two empty shot glasses. “How much have you had to drink?”

  “Not enough.” She straightened and tossed a sloppy wave toward the lone waitress in the room. A perky, young blonde who beamed at Sofia as though she were her hero. An obvious fan of “Spy Girl”. Or rather Cherry Onatop, the classified operative who kicked evil-doer-ass. “Two more, Lisa,” she called in a husky slur. There’d be no ass-kicking tonight. He doubted if she could find her own just now, let alone someone else’s. After two tries, she crossed her arms over what he knew was an amazing chest—hard to appreciate her luscious breasts when they were concealed beneath a fisherman’s slicker—and smirked at Joe. “Anything for you?”

  “Pass.” They glared at each other for several seconds. He silently cursed her smudged mascara, evidence that she’d been crying. Cursed the fact that her hand trembled as she fired up another cigarette. She cocked a defiant brow and blew out a stream of smoke. She was playing it cool, but man, she was stressed. He rolled back his shoulders, cocked his own damn brow. “Expecting an indoor monsoon?”

  She glanced down at the rain slicker, momentarily flustered. “Oh. No. This isn’t mine. I just … borrowed it. My clothes were ruined and I … ” She looked up, registered his blatant appraisal. “Screw you.”

  I wish. She looked confused, disheveled, and too damned gorgeous to be real. An explosive combination of Jennifer Lopez and Sophia Loren. A hot-blooded, almond-eyed, wide-mouthed sex kitten. Mocha skin. Voluptuous curves.

  Holy Jesus, he was scum. She was upset and he was fantasizing about what she did or didn’t have on beneath that slicker. His agitation quadrupled. “What’s the problem, Sofia?”

  “No problem. You can leave.”

  “I’d like nothing better, bu
t Murphy would have my ass.”

  She glanced away. “I shouldn’t have called him.”

  “But you did, and now he’s worried.”

  She smiled at the waitress, “Thanks, Lis,” and Joe found himself wishing she’d smile at him like that, all warm and fuzzy. Christ, he was pathetic.

  Lisa set down two shots of amber liquid. She looked expectantly at Joe. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything, Mr … ”

  “Special Agent Joseph Bogart. One of the good guys,” Sofia supplied with a derisive snort, then downed a shot.

  “Just Joe,” he countered. “And just the tab, thanks. We’re leaving.”

  “A fed. Wow. But not a real one, right? Because don’t they have, like, short hair and wear dark suits and stuff? You’re an actor, right? You’re … ” Lisa leaned closer, lowered her voice to an awestruck whisper. “Omagod! Johnny Depp?”

  “Afraid not.” He forced a smile. “Could we get the check, please?”

  Lisa straightened. “Sure. And don’t worry, Mr. Depp. Your secret’s safe with me.” She winked and slipped away.

  He shook his head in wonder and reached for his wallet.

  “I’m not ready to leave,” Sofia said.

  “Guess again.”

  She grabbed the beer bottle like a lifeline and reached for the second shot. “I’m not done.”

  He shanghaied the glass and tossed it back. Tequila. No salt. No lime. Plenty of disgust. He’d lost two days compliments of Jose Cuervo while undercover a lifetime ago in Tuscon. Suppressing a shudder, he slammed the glass to the table, chased it with the remnants of her beer. “I’ll walk you to your room.”

  “I don’t have a room.”

  “You’re not staying at the Camelback?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  What did that mean? He glared, waited.

  She took a long, slow drag off that damned cigarette, her full lips caressing the filter, pursing seductively as she blew out a thick stream of smoke. Hypnotized, he had an explicit vision of her working another kind of magic with that mouth.