by Beth Ciotta
Whoa.
He jerked his mind out of the gutter, shifted in his seat. It’s not like she was coming on to him. She just oozed sex. She could belch and he’d probably get a boner.
Her sable brown gaze bounced from the empty shot glass to the table’s flickering candle. She looked frazzled and tired, and he had to fight like hell not to reach across the table and stroke his thumb across those million-dollar cheekbones. “I don’t know where I’m staying,” she finally said in a far-off voice. “I don’t know why I’m in Phoenix, Scottsdale, whatever. I guess I’m shooting on location, but I lost the crew.”
Great. Not just intoxicated, but totally whacked. As of last week, “Spy Girl” was on hiatus. Unless she was shooting a commercial. Cherry Onatop hawking an energy drink or some stupid shit.
“It’s probably nothing. Probably a prank. My stunt double doesn’t like me. She’s pulled some mean spirited jokes, but … it has to be a prank.” She bit her lower lip, shook her head. “This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.”
He dragged a hand down his goatee, summoned the patience of a Zen master. “What’s not happening?”
“I woke up with a gun, but it wasn’t my gun. I mean, it wasn’t Cherry’s gun.”
His senses buzzed as this meeting took on a heightened edge. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Woke up where? What gun?”
“The shed.” She motioned over her shoulder in a vague direction. “I woke up holding a prop gun.”
She dipped into the pocket of the slicker, slid a pistol across the table.
Prop gun my ass. How about a freaking Beretta 92FS? Using his bandanna, he shifted the semi-automatic to his lap, checked the chamber—empty—and then the magazine. Twenty round 9mm ammo. The high capacity factory magazine had been banned from civilian use in ‘94. It was also down three rounds. Damn. “Where’d you get this?”
“I told you, I woke up and …”
“Here you go.” Lisa placed a leather binder on the table between them, clearly unsure as to who was footing the bill.
Joe discreetly tripped the safety and slipped the Beretta in the jumbo pocket of his cargo shorts.
Sofia glanced apologetically at him. The first time since he’d sat down that she’d looked at him with anything other than hostility. “I, um, don’t have my purse.”
As if he’d allow a lady to pay. His dad, an old-world Italian, would’ve smacked him in the back of the head.
“We accept all major credit cards,” Lisa said, flashing him a toothy smile.
He flipped open the binder, eyed the total. Holy shit. Any other woman would’ve been under the table by now. He didn’t know whether to be impressed or concerned. He covered the bill with cash and a generous tip, tamping down his impatience when Lisa asked them both for their autograph. Wanting to make a quick getaway, he penned, Love that smile, J.D.
Lisa accepted their autographed cocktail napkins with a teary thank you, and graciously took her leave.
Joe pocketed his wallet and stood.
Sofia stared up at him with a funny look on her face.
“Yeah. I know. That was dishonest.”
“Actually, it was really nice. You made her night.”
The compliment made him uncomfortable. Sofia made him uncomfortable. He barely knew her and yet she’d monopolized his thoughts and dreams for nine solid months. He glanced away, not wanting her to see the frustration and longing in his eyes. Fuck.
“Joe?”
He blew out a tense breath, feigned interest in the solo guitarist. “Yeah?”
“I don’t know how I got here precisely. I mean, I don’t think I have a car. I don’t know where my purse is. I don’t have any money so I can’t get a room. I can’t remember … ”
Her voice hitched. Yeah, boy, that got his attention. He glanced down and caught her rubbing her temples.
“I can’t remember.”
He touched her then. Like he had a choice. Like he hadn’t been dying for an excuse to touch her since he’d walked into this ritzy bar. He grasped one of her hands and gave what he hoped was an impersonal, but comforting squeeze. “Come on. We’ll find your car and purse tomorrow.”
She looked up at him with watery eyes. “But I don’t have …”
“You have me.”
She burst into tears.
He’d seen her cry before. After her ex-boyfriend, exagent had tried to coerce her into her grandmother’s house for a quick lay. But, Christ, this was the vulnerable Sofia. The one that scared the hell out of him.
So much for the iron cocoon.
He made some sort of dumbass comforting sound, then offered her his bandanna and shifted to shield her from the bar. The last thing he wanted was attention. Especially when he had an illegal Beretta in his pocket and a plastered celebrity under his protection. Whether he liked it or not, thanks to Murphy, he was now responsible for this woman.
She mopped her tears with the kerchief, smearing more mascara, rubbing her nose red. Still gorgeous. Man. He brushed her hair from her face. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”
She managed a terse nod, pushed back from the table and shot up like a rocket. Off balance, she tripped, and fell into his arms.
“Damn flop flips,” she blubbered.
He held her steady, trying not to think about how good she smelled—vanilla and musk? Trying to decipher her words. Then he glanced down at the cheap thong sandals she’d stumbled out of. Flip-flops. Somewhere in the vicinity of a size eleven. One of the first things he’d noticed about Sofia all those months ago, aside from her gorgeous face, mouthwatering yabos and shapely legs, was her penchant for wearing spike-heeled or funky-heeled, but always three-inch high-heeled shoes. Size seven. During their initial face-to-face meeting, she’d jammed one of those heels down hard on his foot, nearly breaking his toes and emblazoning her favored footwear in his memory. “Guess you borrowed those sandals too.”
She leaned heavily against him, sighed. “My head hurts and my legs are numb.”
“Nine shots and three beers will do that to you, kid.” And she was a kid. Not even thirty. Which almost qualified him as a dirty old man. Now there was a depressing thought.
She clutched his T-shirt as her knees gave way. “I don’t want to cause a scene,” she said, slowly sliding down his body.
Too late. Ignoring the murmuring clientele, he swept her off her bare feet and headed for the lobby. Halfway to the front door, he nixed the idea of pouring her into his jeep and driving forty-five minutes to his place. He handed his credit card to the front desk clerk, thinking he was going to have to sign on for a couple of extra jeep tours before this night was over. Or, he could send the bill to Murphy. It would serve him right for disrupting Joe’s peace. And he had been at peace. Well, relative peace. At least he’d started sleeping through the night. Nice while it lasted. He was definitely sending Murph the bill.
After securing a standard room—Christ almighty, no, he did not want a suite—he spirited away fast-fading Sofia who kept muttering something about reporters and a scandal. The front desk clerk had assured her they could count on the resort’s discretion. Joe had slipped him a hefty tip as insurance. The fact that he was shacking up in a posh hotel with a plastered television star didn’t faze him. The Beretta fazed him. He wanted to know why she was in possession of a pistol with an illegal mag. He wanted to know who owned the slicker and flip-flops. He had a lot of questions, but he wouldn’t be getting any coherent answers until tomorrow.
His cell phone vibrated just as he shouldered open the door of the guest room. He placed Sofia in the center of a King-sized bed. “Don’t move.” Like there was any chance of that. She was damn near comatose.
He turned on the desk lamp, answered his phone. “Hey, Murph.”
“So?”
The clipped one-word-question brimmed with concern. “Relax. I’ve got her.”
“Is she okay?”
“Depends on your definition.” He glanced over and saw Sofia pushing hersel
f up into a sitting position.
“It’s hot in here,” she complained.
“No, it’s not,” Joe said, away from the mouthpiece. “It’s that slicker. Take it off.”
“What’s going on?” Murphy asked.
She shoved her bountiful, layered hair out of her red-rimmed eyes, swayed slightly as she fumbled with the top snaps of the coat. He imagined sliding his fingers through those decadent cherry locks. Imagined thumbing open the coat snaps one by one, peeling off layers of clothing and … He blew out a breath, wishing to hell she’d put him out of his misery and pass out. “She’s trashed.”
“Drunk?”
“Oh, yeah.” He freed his hair from the elastic band, scratched his hand over his pounding head.
“I watched that woman put away a bottle and a half of champagne at our wedding. She wasn’t even tipsy. I’ve seen her do shots of whiskey without batting an eye. Lulu said she’s never seen her drunk.”
Sofia wrestled with the snaps, cursed.
Joe massaged a dull ache in the center of his forehead. “Trust me on this.”
“What about the trouble she mentioned?”
He studied the Beretta a moment before placing it in the desk drawer. “Not up to speed on that yet.” No need to worry his brother, until he knew the score. “I’ll let you know. In the meantime, have a safe trip and give that pretty wife of yours a hug for me.”
“Fly to Vermont and hug her yourself.”
At that moment he heard a succession of pops, snaps unsnapping and … “I have to go.”
“I really appreciate this, Bogie.”
“Don’t worry.” His mouth went dry at the sight of mocha-skinned Sofia in a white satin demi-bra and G-string. “You’ll pay.” He signed off and laid the phone on the desk.
She sighed as she shrugged out of the rain slicker. “That’s better.”
For her maybe. Personally, his temperature just shot to one-fifty. Joe palmed his forehead while gathering his wits. She’d gone from hostile, to weepy, to barely coherent. Asking her to make sense just now was probably futile, but he had to try. “Sofia. Sweetheart. Where are your clothes?”
“I told you. Ruined.” Her speech was halted, softer, definitely slurred. “I know it was fake, but … couldn’t stand it. Threw them out.”
“Knew what was fake?”
“The blood.”
A muscle jumped under his right eye. “There was blood on your clothes?”
“Fake blood.”
Yeah. And she also thought the Beretta was a prop.
“And on my legs. But … ” Heavy sigh. “I washed it off.”
He glanced at her legs then. All two-hundred miles of them. Her knees and shins were covered with scrapes and welts. Damn. He squatted down and inspected the superficial wounds. “What happened?”
She shrugged. “Don’t remember.”
The running theme of the night. His mind exploded with a dozen ugly scenarios. Rape. Assault. Attempted murder. Murder. Something traumatic. Something she’d blocked out. Worried that she’d suffered other injuries, he examined her thighs, stomach, arms, back …
“Having fun?”
But there was no humor or real outrage in her words. Just resignation. Christ. He sank down beside her on the bed, framed her face in his hands. “Try to focus. Do you hurt anywhere?”
“Only when I try to focus.”
He registered the sad quirk of that sexy mouth, the confusion in her heavy-lidded eyes. “All right. Let it go. We’ll talk tomorrow when you’re sober.” He dropped his hands, averted his gaze. “I should get you some water and aspirin. Salve for those scrapes.” And some clothes. The only reason he wasn’t turned on just now was because he’d fixated on the gun and blood. On the fact that someone may have harmed or threatened her. On the possibility that she’d maimed or killed in self-defense.
She leaned forward and grazed her fingers over his goatee, his mouth. “You’re sexy when you’re intense.” She studied him with a mocking pout. “Which is most of the time.”
“Mmm.” He couldn’t comment. Wouldn’t comment. Had to be the liquor talking.
She smoothed his hair out of his face, her soft fingers caressing his forehead and cheeks. His skin burned and his cock stirred. She leaned closer and his heart slammed against his chest. “Why do you have to be such an arrogant prick?”
He laughed at that. “For the same reason, I imagine, that you’re a consistent pain in the ass. Comes naturally.”
She smiled, warm and fuzzy, at him, Christ almighty, and moistened her lips. “You ruined me for other men, Joseph Bogart. I’ll never forgive you.”
With that bit of good news/bad news, his fondest obsession slumped forward and passed out in his arms, shooting any hope of a simple, peaceful life to hell.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rainbow Ridge, Vermont
Rudy Gallow’s hopes for a relaxing, joyous reunion with friends and lovers blew sky-high when the electricity went off. And on. And off. For the third time that week.
“That settles it.” He wiped his hands on a dishtowel, groped for his cordless phone and speed dialed his best friend while making his way to the utility room.
She picked up on the second ring. “Four days and counting! Oh, Rudy, I can’t tell you how excited …”
“I need to reschedule.”
“What do you mean reschedule? You’re not serious. Please, tell me you’re not serious!”
He winced as Afia Leeds babbled into the phone, her normally mellow voice climbing to an ear-piercing level. His friend was definitely stressed. He knew the feeling. He needed a Valium, or four. He’d settle for a glass of wine, that’s if Casper the meddlesome ghost hadn’t hidden his bottle of cabernet. Household items had been disappearing and reappearing in the oddest places for three weeks now. At first, he’d attributed the frustrating occurrences to the typical chaos of moving into a new place. But then the problems had escalated. This evening he’d resigned himself to the notion that Hollyberry Inn, his newly purchased, quaint, but ancient, bed and breakfast resort, was indeed haunted.
“Do you know what I had to go through to get Jake to agree to this trip in the first place?” Afia continued in a strangled whisper. “He made me get a doctor’s written note stating it was safe for me to fly!”
“I think the airlines require …”
“Then he blackmailed me. Said we’d fly up and spend the week in Vermont if I stopped visiting the HIV babies at the hospital!”
“I happen to know you’re a mess every time you leave those poor kids, sweetie, and that Jake only asked you to take a break until …”
“He lays out my vitamins every morning and stands there watching until I wash them down with a glass of milk! What am I, five-years-old?”
He cradled the receiver between his shoulder and ear while tinkering with the breaker panel. Sans electricity his salmon soufflé teetered on ruination. “Honey, I know Jake’s been a little controlling lately, but …”
“Lately? He’s always controlling, Rudy. I’ve learned to handle that. This is much worse. This is a … a dictatorship! Yes, that’s what it is. I’m living under the iron fist of Jake Leeds. Do this. Don’t do that.”
Rudy almost laughed. But then he risked Afia biting his head off or bursting into tears. Talk about hormonal. Poor Jake. Yeah, the alpha P.I. was a control freak, but he worshiped his wife, recent mood swings and all. “Well, you are eight months pregnant.”
“So what? Women have babies all the time!”
“But this is your first. Jake’s first.” He grappled for patience, flicked more switches. “And there was that problem with his sister’s first pregnancy. Joni pulled through with flying colors, thank God, and Kylie’s a cutie. But it was touch and go for awhile. You can’t blame Jake for being nervous. Cut the guy a break, honey.”
“You’re supposed to be my best friend.”
“I am.”
“But you’re siding with Jake.”
“I’m not siding
with anyone.” He heard the distant sound of his radio, turned, and saw the kitchen and dining room lights shining which meant the electric stove was back on. He glanced at his watch. Eight-minutes had passed. “Dammit, Casper.”
“Who’s Casper?”
Rudy flushed. “No one.” No way was he confessing he had a ghost, poltergeist, whatever. His friends would declare him bonkers or say, “I told you so.” Jake had tried to talk him into investing in a newer property. He and Afia were constantly pouring money into their genuine Victorian home. Not that Afia couldn’t afford it. She was an heiress. Jake, however, was old fashioned and insisted on handling renovations himself. Since his expertise was in private investigations, not plumbing and roofing, progress was slow. “Save yourself the hassle and the money,” he’d said.
But Rudy had wanted a place with history.
Well, Hollyberry Inn had history, all right. The realtor had shared several stories of happy honeymooners and vacationing families throughout the decades, but had failed to mention that in the early 1900s a lovesick, artistic youth had committed suicide in the Evergreen Suite. He’d learned that juicy tidbit through town gossip. “Listen, Afia, I’m serious. I don’t want you and the gang to come up here yet. I’m not ready.”
“But the grand opening is …”
“I’m going to postpone that too.”
“But Jean-Pierre …”
“I’m calling him next.” His stomach curdled with disappointment. He’d spent months getting his emotional cookies together, basing his recovery on an observation by his estranged lover, Jean-Pierre Legrand. He’d abandoned his self-help library in favor of seeking answers through meditation, hoping to embrace what he feared most: total commitment. As a result, he knew his heart inside out. He knew exactly what he wanted.
Unfortunately, Casper was screwing up his perfect scenario. With his luck he’d be on bended knee and the temperamental ghost would choose that exact moment to lob a candlestick at Jean-Pierre’s head. Rumor had it, if Casper couldn’t have the love of his life, no one could. First thing tomorrow he’d reactivate his Amazon.com account. This time he’d stock up on ghosthunting books.
