by Beth Ciotta
Suddenly Jake was there, his strong arms easily shifting her from the car to the gravel driveway. “He sees it’s us,” he grumbled in her ear. “Still looks pissed.”
That’s what had her insecurities flaring. Had Rudy’s moving hundreds of miles away taken a toll on their friendship? The notion shook her to the wedge heels of her Via Spiga mules. True friendship, something she’d experienced little of in her sheltered life, was far more precious to her than her inherited fortune. Long ago, she’d bought Rudy a limousine to help him launch his own chauffer business. It seemed only fitting that he’d recently sold that car to help finance his new dream. It never occurred to her that she wouldn’t somehow fit into his new life.
Gritting her teeth against the calf spasm, Afia waddled toward the Inn. Pictures hadn’t done the rambling two-story lodge justice. Rich wood exterior. White paned windows flanked by hunter green shutters. Two cobblestone chimneys. The overall classic design echoed a bygone era. Elegant in its simplicity, Hollyberry Inn looked warm and welcoming.
More than she could say for its owner.
Closing in, she noted the broken swing, fractured mug, and Rudy’s wet lap. Maybe the mishap, and not their arrival, was the source of his foul mood. One could hope.
She climbed the steps, with Jake’s help, and moved forward to hug her old friend. The tension in his normally loving arms was unsettling. She backed away, eyed the swing, then the chauffer turned resort owner. “Are you all right?”
His troubled gaze shifted from her swollen belly to the broken swing. “I don’t want you here, Afia. Dammit, I told you I needed to postpone. It’s not safe.”
Through the years, this man had accepted her on any terms, unconditional love. He’d stood beside her even when rumors circulated that she’d offed two husbands to inherit their fortunes. Aside from Jake, Rudy Gallow was her most cherished friend, and now he was pushing her away. She fought hard to stem welling tears. If she cried, Jake would give Rudy the riot act. Normally, her bulked-up friend could easily defend himself, but there was nothing normal about this moment. “Why? Just because of some faulty wiring and a broken swing? Jake can fix the swing.” She looked up at her husband, a man she thought capable of snatching stars from the sky if he put his mind to it. “Right?”
Jake interlaced his fingers with hers and lovingly squeezed, letting her know that he understood her distress. He peered up at the broken hook and chain dangling from the ceiling. “How hard could it be?” He eyed Rudy. “As for your wiring problems, Murphy’s a whiz with all things electronic.”
“On it.” Murphy moved in beside them with Lulu in tow. “Just tell me what you need, Gallow.”
Lulu rushed forward and threw her arms around Rudy, telegraphing her sincere fondness for the man. It spoke well of Murphy that he didn’t even raise a brow. Obviously, he was confident in their relationship. “It’s a beautiful property,” she said, kissing Rudy on the cheek and then stepping back with a bright smile. “Jean-Pierre’s going to love it.”
Cheeks flushing, Rudy averted his troubled blue gaze.
His strange behavior verified something was amiss. Knowing the boys had experienced a few rocky months, Afia shifted uncomfortably, worrying that Rudy had broken off with Jean-Pierre. Or vice versa. It would be just like him to withhold bad news for fear of upsetting her. He and Jake had sheltered her from the truth more than once. She sighed heavily, weary of their overprotective tendencies. For once she wished someone would lean on her.
Misreading her discomfort, Jake raised a brow at Rudy. “Are you going to invite us in, dude? Afia needs to get off her feet.”
“No, I don’t. I’ve been sitting in the car for hours.” She smiled up at Rudy with all the love in her heart. Lean on me. “I need to stretch my legs. How about a tour of the grounds?”
“I’ll get the luggage.” Murphy nudged Jake and pointed to the ladder leaning against the corner of the house. “You get started on the swing.”
Jake kissed Afia’s temple. “Don’t overdue it, baby.” He rapped Rudy on the shoulder. “Take good care of my girl.” Then he readjusted his ball cap and set off to play repairman.
Lulu had already located a broom and was sweeping up the broken mug.
It was then that Afia knew her husband and new friends sensed the same trouble she did. They were pulling together and digging in. Now that they were here, there’d be no getting rid of them until Rudy’s problems were solved. A caretaker at heart, he’d played Cupid and the voice of reason in their lives. It was time to return the favor.
Squaring her shoulders, Afia grasped Rudy’s big hand and tugged him toward a clump of leafy trees. “So. Who’s Casper?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Los Angeles, California
We’re jinxed.”
“Aren’t you being a little paranoid, Frank?”
“Ain’t that the pot calling the kettle black?” Frank resisted an eye roll as Jesse used a sanitized towellette to disinfect the tabletop the waitress had just wiped down. “We should’ve been halfway there by now.” He snatched up a handful of airport lounge peanuts, jiggled them in his palm like a pair of hot dice. If it weren’t for circumstances, he’d be sitting in a Mexican casino just now shooting craps and flirting with a brown-eyed, hot-tamale cocktail server. Talk about a freaking run of bad luck. “That’s the second time our flight’s been delayed.”
Jesse shrugged. “That’s not jinxed. That’s unfortunate.”
“Same difference.”
“As for gay-boy …”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“How was I supposed to know he’d be so squeamish? All I did was threaten to cut off his wanker. He took one look at the carving knife I swiped from the kitchen and fainted. Fainted, for chrissake.”
“I know. I was there,” Frank said dryly. He popped a cashew, chewed.
“Right. So you know it wasn’t my fault.”
“Whatever. Result’s the same. The polesmoker’s dead.”
“So what?” Jesse disposed of the anti-bacterial wipe and leaned closer to Frank, careful not to touch the table. “The cops will label it an accident,” he said in a low voice. “The pansy-ass fucker was drunk. He tripped or passed out, bashed his head on the table, and bled to death. Case closed.”
Frank agreed. Otherwise, he would’ve disposed of the body. Still, his gut warned trouble. The sooner they tied off that loose thread and crossed over to Mexico, the better. “Where in the hell’s that waitress with our drinks?”
“You’ve been downing pain pills and shots of whiskey on and off all day. Keep it up and by the time we get on the plane, you’ll be comatose.”
“That’s the plan.” The only thing he hated more than a botched job was flying.
“At least we’ve got the goods to trap the bitch,” Jesse said, applying lotion to the reddened skin around his cast. Fearful of an infection, so far he’d followed the doc’s instructions with anal precision.
Frank patted the journal tucked in the inside pocket of his denim jacket, smiling when the waitress served him a double shot of Wild Turkey. His ego smarted when the bitch frowned at him and beamed at Jesse. Then again, he looked like the friggin’ Elephant Man, thanks to Sofia Marino. He adjusted his Stetson and shrugged off the waitress’s disgust. He had bigger fish to catch, and the bait was in his pocket.
He and Jesse’s visit to Marino’s apartment hadn’t been a total bust. The note they’d snagged off of the fridge tipped them off to Vermont. The journal they’d found in her bedside drawer named specifics and the means to lure her to Hollyberry Inn, if she wasn’t already there.
Jesse inspected his cola glass for tell-tale lipstick or finger smudges, then pulled a twenty out of the wallet they’d lifted off gay-boy.
Frank’s mood lightened significantly as he sipped the whiskey and watched his brother try to pay the tab without physically touching the waitress. He couldn’t count on much in life, but he could count on his brother’s freaky phobia. Most times Jesse’
s quirks got on his nerves, but sometimes, like now, he found them damned amusing. One thing was for sure and certain; Jesse was blood and thereby his first priority. He wondered if Sofia harbored the same devotion toward her sister?
Hell, he was banking on it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Gold Canyon, Arizona
Sofia’s leg muscles screamed. Her lungs burned.
Joe had the stamina of an Olympic athlete.
He palmed her ass and she froze. She absorbed the strength of his touch, warning bells clanging in her head as heat registered between her thighs.
“Just trying to help,” he said, misunderstanding her panicked expression. “Jesus, woman. Give me your hand.” When she didn’t comply, he captured her fingers with a curse. “Grab this and …”
“I don’t need instruction.” She yanked her hand from his grasp and swiped at her moist brow. “I’ve done this before.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
She ignored his sarcasm and put her back into it.
His brow creased with discomfort. “Want me to slow down?”
“Why, are you tired?” Somehow she managed the sarcastic reply in an even tone. Why was she so winded? Obsessed with maintaining a svelte figure, she worked out with a personal trainer four times a week. In addition, Tae Kwon Do kept her conditioned and limber. Then again her lack of energy could be due to lack of food, and although she was by no means a novice where cardio exercise was concerned, she was used to a more controlled environment.
“Almost there,” Joe said.
They crested at the same time.
He let out a grunt of satisfaction.
She collapsed, her body vibrating from head to toe. “Not for anything, Bogart, but where’s that big payoff you promised me?”
“Open your eyes.”
She’d rather sleep for an hour, but her screaming thigh muscles demanded satisfaction. Reluctantly, she forced open her lids and was rewarded with a breathtaking view.
Joe started to comment. She cut him off. “Don’t ruin the moment.”
“I was just going to say they don’t have sunsets like this in New Jersey.”
“No, they don’t. Now shut up.” She swiped off her sport’s cap, crossed her legs at the ankles, and settled back against the rock wall, enthralled. She’d been so focused on what he’d described as a moderate hike into the mountains that she’d failed to notice the deepening and shifting colors of the evening sky. Stark, bright blue had given way to a subtle blend of orange, red, and purple. The sheer vastness caused her lungs to bloom with wonder. No skyscrapers. No smog. Just spectacular summits and canyons, and miles of endless sky. All right, so maybe there was one perk to living in the godforsaken desert. Kick-ass sunsets.
“That’s Weavers Needle,” Joe said, pointing to one particularly remarkable rock spire. “Some say it’s the finger of God, pointing up to the sky. Others claim it’s a symbolic tombstone for all the treasure seekers who’ve died there. Ever heard of the legend of the Lost Dutchman’s Gold Mine?”
Sofia affected the accent of a salty prospector. “You mean there’s gold in them thar hills?”
Joe laughed. “Rumor has it.”
The uncharacteristic show of mirth tweaked the heat he’d incited when he’d given her the boost up and over the last boulder. She squeezed her thighs together, suppressing a sensual tingle when he raked his hands through his shaggy hair, securing the top half in a ponytail. The man’s profile was as chiseled and hypnotic as the legendary rock spire.
She focused back on the sunset. Why torture herself by drooling over a guy who’d made his disinterest blatantly clear? She’d made a fool of herself, coming on to him in the kitchen. But when he’d made that derogatory comment about her figure, she’d felt compelled to assert her feminine wiles. A quickie ego boost. She didn’t plan to follow through—no way was she breaking her no-sex-until-the-anniversary-of-her-break-up-with-Chaz resolution—but she’d certainly expected him to pounce on the invitation. Any other man would have. “I suppose you know the particulars of this Lost Dutchman legend?”
“I know the particulars of several legends. The Superstition Wilderness is steeped in myth.”
“Why?”
“Why, what?
“Why are you familiar with all of the legends?”
“A. Interesting stuff. B. Useful in my job.”
“The jeep tour thing?”
“Yeah, the jeep tour thing.”
She didn’t get it. Against her better judgment, Sofia tore her eyes from the heart-stopping vista and regarded Joe—also heart-stopping—with renewed interest.
They’d hiked for ninety minutes, sidestepping precarious rocks and various forms of cactus, eventually veering off Peralta Trail altogether. In his obsession to keep her out of the public eye, he’d chosen a less traveled route to Fremont Saddle. His rugged shortcut had proven a real heart-pumper, but Joe wasn’t even breathing hard. In fact, he looked relaxed, more relaxed than she’d ever seen him. And recently she’d seen more of Joseph Bogart than any woman who’d been celibate for eight months and counting should see.
She surreptitiously admired the cut, sun-bronzed muscles of his arms and legs, struggling not to reflect on their early morning wrestling match. Specifically, his naked body. The man was in prime condition. He looked oddly erotic in his ratty brown T-shirt and baggy khaki shorts. Normally, she panted after more cultured men, like her exagent, ex-lover Chaz, who suited up daily in Armani. Men in pursuit of prestige and wealth. Joe had abandoned a vital, intense job to play tour guide. Aside from the shallow physical aspect, she didn’t get her attraction. She didn’t get him. “So you drive tourists around, show them the sights, regale them with a few folk tales.”
“Basically.”
“And you find that fulfilling?”
“Do you find pretending to be someone else fulfilling?”
Her cheeks flushed. “Excuse me?” What the hell did that mean? Was he calling her a fake? A liar?
He lifted a brow. “Acting.”
The clarification only fueled her impatience. “Do you have a problem with entertainers?” She instantly regretted the question. It smacked of insecurity. She didn’t give a damn what he thought. She didn’t need his approval.
“I have a problem with an industry that crams youth and physical perfection down the public’s throat.”
She wanted to argue the point, but couldn’t. Meaty roles for actresses over forty were rare. Just shy of thirty, Sofia was already feeling the pressure. As for physical perfection, although she’d been blessed with her parents’ exotic good looks, she’d always been too fleshy, by most directors’ standards. Even after securing her role on “Spy Girl”, she’d still been at the mercy of an unforgiving camera. The day after filming the first episode, the director had shown up on her doorstep, offering her a packet of white powder. What she’d feared was cocaine turned out to be a laxative. “You looked a little puffy in the rushes,” he’d said. She’d thanked the man (arguing would’ve been career suicide), flushed the laxative down the toilet, and intensified her diet and time at the gym.
Even though Joe’s criticism had merit, she felt compelled to defend her profession. From Vaudeville to Broadway musicals to Hollywood films, the Marinos had been in entertainment for generations. Attacking the industry was like attacking a member of her family. “Believe it or not, talent does factor in.”
He glanced sideways at her. “Sometimes.”
Was that a but-not-in-your-case sometimes? Or, a like-in-your-case sometimes? Or, was it simply a blanket comment? After all, he’d never seen her perform. Unless he’d lied about not watching “Spy Girl”. “Granted,” she said, drawing her knees to her chest and hugging them to hide the agitated rise and fall of her chest, “sometimes it’s not about what you know, but who you know.” Even as she said it, her head began to throb.
“I can give you the recognition you deserve.”
Sofia closed her eyes, tried to envision a face to go
with the masculine voice invading her head with the menace of an enemy army. Her heartbeat raged as she broke out in a nauseous sweat. No face. Just arms and legs. A nose. A shoe. Colors. Red seeping into orange and white. Blue splattered with red.
Blood.
Run!
Disoriented, Sofia pushed to her feet so fast she lost her balance and staggered forward, her dazed vision fixed on the adjacent rocky slope.
Falling …
Her knees buckled just as someone hooked her by the waist and hauled her against a strong, unyielding body.
Joe.
Shaken, she dropped her head to his shoulder, conscious that she was trembling, but unable to rule her actions or dark, anxious thoughts. Her lungs ached. Her fingers tingled. Heel to bone. Spike through flesh. Pain! “This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.”
“Let the memories come, Sofia.” He tightened his embrace, cupped the back of her head as he spoke calmly in her ear. “I’m here. You’re safe.”
She gasped for air. “Not safe.”
“Why?”
“Can’t breathe. Can’t …” She massaged a fierce pain in her chest. “Oh, Jesus. I think I’m having a heart attack.”
He lowered them both to the ground, pulled her onto his lap. “You’re not having a heart attack. Stop thinking about last night. Focus on something else. Something that makes you happy. Something special.”
“Lulu.”
“Your sister.” He laughed softly, his tone full of admiration. “She’s special, all right.” He smoothed his hand over her back, massaged her shoulders while she continued to clutch her chest and gulp for air. “Relax. Focus on Lulu. Imagine her in the kitchen cooking dinner for my brother.”
She imagined comical chaos. Nervous laughter squeezed past her constricted throat.
“Uh-huh.” He continued his relaxing ministrations, his hands comforting and sure. “Did she tell you about the night she made Chili Con Carne for him and his security team?”
