by Beth Ciotta
“I thought you trusted him.”
“I do. And so can you.”
“Excuse me if I take a wait-and-see attitude.”
Joe spoke close to her ear. “You’re a cynical one.”
His breath heated her neck, inciting a vision of him leaning closer and kissing the sensitive patch of skin just below her ear. She suppressed an elaboration on that fantasy and focused on his words. “Your brother made the same comment when we first met.”
“We’re observant like that. I’ll do one better.” He squeezed her elbow, his touch burning through layers of fabric. “I’ll ask, why?”
“Why am I so cynical?” Because I’ve been betrayed by all of the men in my life. She thought about the way Joe had duped Julietta into believing he’d loved her. Then, she thought about the way he’d kissed her earlier this evening, as if he couldn’t get enough of her, as if he burned for her and her alone. “None of your business.” She broke free and pushed through the outer door, desperate for a breath of fresh air. Sex. He’d been attracted to her sexually, period. A moment of heated lunacy. Love had nothing to do with it. In her case, it never did.
It was dark now. Her thoughts shifted and her body tensed at the sight of a silhouetted cactus and a small utility shed. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she’d awoken with a gun in her hand. She blocked the fragmented images, the fear. She couldn’t think about that now. Her troubles paled in comparison to Luc’s. At least she was alive. She prayed she could say the same for Jean-Pierre. She hugged herself against a cool breeze and dark thoughts. If it weren’t for the street lights and Joe’s company, she’d be paralyzed, or worse, hyperventilating.
The former FBI agent finger-combed his recently cropped hair as he strode to the Jeep. She was still adjusting to his new look. Midway between Apache Junction and Phoenix, they’d stopped at a strip mall. Again, Joe had ordered her to stay in the car while he’d disappeared inside the complex. Fifteen-minutes later, he’d emerged clean-shaven, sporting a short haircut and stylish sideburns. He’d completed the transformation from grungy handsome to Esquire gorgeous after they’d arrived at Lovejoy’s apartment, exchanging his hippy duds for a chic indigo suit. This moment he looked nothing like the jeep tour guide who’d escorted her out of the Camelback this morning. This moment he looked every inch her dream man.
When they reached the jeep, he shrugged out of his three-button jacket, giving Sofia an unobstructed view of his narrow waist and tight ass. Those tailored slacks left little to the imagination. Not that she needed to use her imagination. She’d seen him in his birthday suit, and, yeah, baby, yeah, Joe Bogart’s sculptured butt was worthy of worship.
Although she welcomed the distraction, there was something decidedly obscene about admiring one man’s hot bod while another laid cold in a morgue. Twisted attraction. Disgusted with herself, she squinted at her computer generated documents. “This can’t be legal.”
Joe opened the passenger door. “Do you care?”
“Not really.” She climbed in, fastened her seatbelt. They’d wasted enough time. Luc was dead. Jean-Pierre was missing. Her stomach ached with grief and worry. Her blood burned with purpose. She wanted to be in Los Angeles. She wanted to find Jean-Pierre alive and well, to assuage her, and his lover’s, concerns.
Even though she’d moved to Los Angeles on JP’s coattails, she felt responsible for the sensitive man. Jean-Pierre, though book smart, was far from street savvy. Of the two, Rudy was the more adventurous and experienced. How ironic that he was piddling around in a bed and breakfast resort in serene Rainbow Ridge while the poor, tender-hearted costume designer toughed it out in dog-eat-dog LA.
At any rate, her intentions were dead in the water without proper identification. Nigel Lovejoy, like that was his real name, had falsified a driver’s license and two passports in an astonishingly short time. The horn-rimmed spectacled, shaggy-haired man was a genius. He was also a fan of “Spy Girl”, and had recognized Sofia as Cherry Onatop the moment she’d taken off the baseball cap. “Groovy baby.” Good for her ego. Bad, since she was striving for anonymity. Lovejoy had offered a solution via his rebel sister’s vanity and closet. Eccentricity, it seemed, ran in family. Sofia recognized the brilliance in his thinking and didn’t hesitate.
Joe remained skeptical.
“I can’t get over what you did to your hair,” he said, as he buckled up and keyed the ignition.
Ditto, she thought. The fact that he looked like her dream man wasn’t sitting all that well. Dream men religiously broke her heart. She missed his grunge clothes, hippy hair, and that devilish goatee. Regardless, his new look wasn’t bad, just different. His stern tone and frown indicated he was less accepting of her makeover. “That’s the third time you’ve said that, Bogart. It’s just hair. Get over it.”
“It’s just that it’s so purple and … radical.”
Not that radical. She’d just hacked off a couple of inches and given it a choppier, head-banger look with some rubbery hair pomade. Her hair grew fast and the dye was temporary. She’d be back to normal by the time they started shooting the new season of “Spy Girl”. No harm done. “It was necessary. You were right. If I didn’t do something drastic, the possibility existed that someone, like geek-boy Lovejoy, would recognize me. Since I don’t know what I’m up against, I needed to take precautions.”
She’d gone to the extreme. She’d dyed her chopped hair “vivid violet”. She’d copped a gothic, black velvet mini-dress with a laced bodice and scalloped hem, purple and black striped tights, and platform Mary Janes. By applying a fake pentagram tattoo to the swell of her right breast and makeup to the max—thick kohl eyeliner, electric-blue glam false eyelashes, vixen-purple lipstick—she’d effectively obliterated her classy, exotic appeal. She’d topped the somber ensemble with a floor-length Victorian coat. Now, she resembled a Goth poetess at best; devil worshiper at worst.
Ninety-five percent of the population would avoid her like a Hare Krishna disciple. Guaranteed no one would recognize them as the couple featured on that entertainment news show. Or, as a couple period. Death-girl and businessman did not compute.
“When we get to the airport, let me do the talking,” Joe said as he peeled onto the street. “Don’t make eye contact. Try to look sullen and withdrawn. Goth’s are typically non-violent pacifists prone to introversion when in public.”
“I’m familiar with the Gothic subculture,” Sofia said, inspecting her black nail polish and imagining the tsk-tsking of her manicurist. “I don’t need instruction from you. As soon as we hit the airport parking garage, I’ll shift into character.”
Joe shifted gears and accelerated onto the highway. “You must be a director’s nightmare.”
Her insecurities and temper flared, causing her to shoot him a deadly glare. “Listen. Regardless of what you think, I’m not a hack.”
“That wasn’t a comment on your acting abilities. It was a comment on your inability to take direction.”
“I take direction just fine when the person issuing said direction knows something I don’t, and when it’s in my best interest.”
“Like last fall when I asked you to steer clear of Oz, and specifically Anthony Rivelli?” His fingers tightened on the wheel while his razor-sharp tone sliced and diced her nerves. “I knew a helluva lot more than you, and you better believe it was in your best interest to avoid Rivelli and the Falcones.”
Fists clenched in her lap, Sofia resisted the urge to punch the chauvinistic ape as he navigated traffic with the skill and speed of a NASCAR driver. “Do you really want to revisit that night?” After dragging her out of the dance rave and into an alley, he’d kissed her stupid, and then rendered her unconscious. Knowing that he’d seduced her merely to distract and manipulate her still stung. She’d spent many a restless night dreaming about that atomic kiss. And now, on top of that, she had to live with the memory of this evening’s lustful grope.
“I’m not going to apologize for putting you in protective custody, Sof
ia.”
“I’m not going to apologize for seeking Anthony Rivelli’s help.”
“You put yourself in harm’s way.”
“To protect my sister and Rudy!” She threw up her hands in frustration. “I don’t know why we’re arguing about this. It’s ancient history.”
“Not so ancient and you’re doing it again.”
“What?” she shouted.
“Disregarding my advice. Acting impulsively, irrationally.”
She gawked at the man. She was acting irrationally? “Is this about my hair? I can’t believe you’re actually bent because I cut and dyed my hair.” She flashed on the time a stylist had cut five inches off her waist-length hair and Chaz had thrown a fit. “Well, excuse me if it makes me less fuckable in your eyes.”
Joe braked and swerved onto the bank of the highway so fast Sofia had to brace her hands on the dash to avoid whiplash. Her heart lurched when he reached across the darkened car and grabbed her by the shoulders. “I don’t ever want to hear you belittle yourself like that again. Ever.” He gave her a shake. “Understand?”
She nodded. His body vibrated with a restrained intensity that struck her breathless. She braced herself for a longwinded lecture or a punishing kiss. Instead, he released her and squealed the jeep back onto the highway.
No lecture. Not even a disgusted curse. Hands trembling, Sofia tucked her vivid violet hair behind her ears and settled back against the seat, processing an unspoken acknowledgment.
Joe Bogart regarded her as more than an exotic sex object.
Somehow, someway, she’d won this man’s respect.
Los Angeles, California
By the time they landed at LAX, Joe had a tension headache and a bad case of heartburn. Damned airplane food. Damned woman. Sofia’s “Gothic Girl” persona had afforded her the luxury of giving him the silent treatment during the ninety-minute flight from Phoenix to LA. Either she was pissed at him for manhandling her earlier, or obsessing on Jean-Pierre and Luc. Probably a little of both.
He was good with that. Her sullen silence allowed him to brood in peace. He regretted losing his temper, but when she’d intimated that his interest in her was purely sexual, he’d blown. Partly because he was so fiercely hot for her body, but mostly because she didn’t know, or wouldn’t acknowledge, her real potential or worth. He’d once told Murphy she didn’t use the brains she was born with, hence his impatience. In reality, she was more complex and intriguing than he’d ever imagined.
Damn.
Lusting after this woman was one thing. Liking her was unexpected and unnerving. He’d tangled with numerous unscrupulous dirt-bags in his years as an undercover fed. He’d been caught in more than one dicey situation. Very little rattled him.
Sofia Chiquita Marino shook his back teeth loose.
He battled for professionalism, struggled not to touch her as they moved quickly and anonymously through the crowded airport in search of ground transportation. If he touched her now, he’d combust. His gut, mind, and heart were at freaking war.
Months ago he’d labeled her as a classic, sensation seeking personality. Melodramatic, needy, and self-involved. Suffering from poor self-esteem, she used sex to get attention and to get ahead. A promiscuous manipulator. Typical artistic types often became overwhelmed and unable to function when confronted with intense situations, so the panic attack she’d experienced at Fremont Saddle hadn’t surprised him.
The fact that she’d altered her appearance so drastically, and not for the better, blew him away. Granted, he hadn’t been crazy about her red hair, but at least it had been a color found in nature. The style, a sexy cut reminiscent of Farrah Fawcett in her Charlie’s Angel days, had been very attractive. This new cut and color, hell, it was hideous. The make-up was garish, the tattoo trashy, and the clothes suited a ghoulish clown.
All traces of vanity, gone.
The overt sexuality, gone.
Her overdramatic tendencies and penchant to argue … gone.
The moment she’d learned a friend had died, and another had gone missing, she’d transformed into a clever, composed woman. True to her word, she’d become Abby Geyser, gothic poetess the moment they’d hit Sky Harbor International.
He’d prepped her in the car, amazed when she didn’t interrupt or challenge his instruction. The plan was straightforward. Easier not to get tripped up when you kept things simple. He’d pose as a private investigator hired to track and escort a depressed runaway home to her family. The Goth persona shaved a good ten years off of Sofia’s twenty-eight, so it was believable. If she didn’t freeze or overact.
As it happened, they made the perfect team. She was good. Better than good. She excelled in the art of deception. Utilizing the costume and specific, dead-on body language, she sold her role with nonverbal clarity. Her talents were definitely wasted on “Spy Girl”.
Her compassion and intelligence, Joe thought as they climbed into the back seat of a taxi, had been wasted on every man who’d ever taken her to bed. Behind the glamour and blatant sexuality lurked a woman in search of love and affection. He’d recognized the same vulnerability in Julietta. But he’d never felt this insane pull.
Sofia was wrong. That hideous hairstyle didn’t make her less fuckable. It made her more lovable.
He was so screwed.
She dictated the address of her apartment building to the driver.
In dire need of antacid, Joe unbuttoned his jacket, loosened his tie, and settled in for the ride.
“Can I borrow your cell?” she asked in a hushed, somber voice. “I want to try Jean-Pierre again.”
He passed her his mobile without comment, marveled as she left a calm, succinct voice mail on both her home phone and Jean-Pierre’s cell. Even though she was upset about Luc and worried about her roommate, outwardly she appeared composed. Again, he was impressed with her acting skills. Only an astute few would peg her demeanor as contrived.
She passed him back the phone. “Thank you.” She shivered beneath that Dickens-cum-Dracula crushed velvet coat.
He didn’t think it was because she was cold. The temperature was moderate and she had Jersey-girl blood. More likely she was scared. He had to admit he was beginning to get a bad feeling himself. Last he’d checked with Murphy, Rudy still hadn’t heard from Jean-Pierre. Everyone wanted to believe that the Frenchman was off on a power sulk. Even Sofia had said something about him being depressed lately. Still, she wouldn’t rest easy until she laid eyes on the man. Hopefully, he was at their apartment, and just not answering the phone. Then again, that would be too easy.
Nothing about this case was easy.
“The next block,” Sofia said to the cab driver. “You can let us off at the corner.” Her nerves were stretched tighter than Jean-Pierre’s bikini briefs. What she wouldn’t give to walk through her front door to find her roommate flitting about in his Lycra underwear, trying to decide which pants didn’t make him look fat. Lately, he’d been obsessing on the couple of pounds he’d put on since moving to California. It drove Sofia crazy. The man was an avid runner with a dream metabolism. Just now, however, she’d happily listen to him whine or philosophize on any subject from fashion forecasts to urban politics. Just as long as he was present and in good health.
Just then Joe reached over, grasped her hand, and squeezed. “We’ll find him.”
Her skin tingled. Her senses buzzed. His touch conjured a cyclone of emotions—hopeful, sexual, bittersweet. She pushed them all aside and took comfort in his confidence. She welcomed his expertise and calm. She also appreciated that he hadn’t forced conversation on her during the tension filled flight and subsequent cab ride. It was all she could do to contain her anxiety. She couldn’t slay the fear that she was somehow responsible for Luc’s death and JP’s disappearance, couldn’t temper the dread and guilt scraping at her insides like a Brillo pad.
The cabbie pulled curbside. If Joe hadn’t detained her with another gentle squeeze, she would’ve bolted from the car. She waited w
hile he paid the driver, cautioned herself to stay in character at least until she was inside her apartment and behind closed doors. Who knew if the paparazzi lurked?
Please let JP be home.
While she mentally prepared, Joe exited, nabbed their bags, and rounded the cab. He opened the door and handed her out. Her legs felt like lead pipes—unbending, heavy. Were they even working? It seemed as though she glided, rather than walked, toward the entrance of the apartment building. She and Jean-Pierre had found artsy, two-bedroom digs in a conservative, moderate-income neighborhood. Given the late hour, most residents had settled in for the evening. All was quiet on Bleaker Street. All was quiet in the renovated halls of Whitley Manor.
Sofia slowed as they neared Mrs. Liddy’s door. Poor woman. If she weren’t so considerate and kind, she would have been spared the awfulness of finding Luc’s body. According to the police, she’d noticed a UPS package sitting outside of Sofia’s apartment. Afraid that someone might filch the box, she’d knocked on the door. When no one answered she used a spare key to let herself in. She’d set the package indoors and when she’d straightened, her gaze fell upon Luc.
“Maybe I should check in with Mrs. Liddy. Make sure she’s okay.”
Joe urged her to keep moving, his voice low and tight. “You’re not checking in with anyone. You’re not here. If you’re concerned …”
“I’m concerned.”
“Then I’ll call her after we get inside.”
She didn’t argue. She understood his logic. The whole point of the excessive Goth-girl disguise was to keep Sofia Marino out of the public eye until interest dwindled on the “drunken love-fest” fiasco. On top of that, this afternoon a man had died in her apartment. Her publicist was currently spinning and wrangling to circumvent a negative impact on Sofia’s reputation. Avoiding Mrs. Liddy was definitely smart. Besides, the way she looked just now, she’d probably give the old woman a heart attack.
They stopped in front of her apartment. Sofia’s pulse spiked. Yellow police tape marked her doorway, driving home the reality of this visit.
