by Beth Ciotta
“I was supposed to meet with him today. He wanted to bounce a new story idea off of me. I forgot. He must have let himself in. Must have thought I’d stepped out. He was waiting for me.” A tear coursed down his cheek. “And now he is dead.”
Rudy pulled his partner into his arms and rocked him as he silently wept. His heart ached for a dozen different reasons, none of them involving jealously, all centering around love. Like Afia and Jake, and Lulu and Murphy, he and Jean-Pierre were meant to be. I am open and ready for a long-term relationship.
With a weary groan, Jean-Pierre pushed out of the embrace and swiped away tears. “I am sorry, Bunny. I am exhausted. I will be better …”
“Tomorrow?” Rudy finished with a crooked grin.
Jean-Pierre took a steadying breath and glanced around the great room. “Nice furniture.”
“I’ll give you the grand tour …”
“Tomorrow?” Jean-Pierre finished with a watery smile.
Rudy basked in that smile, tentative though it was. Holy Streisand, he’d missed this man.
“Let us go to bed.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Together?”
Jean-Pierre nodded.
Rudy’s heart pounded. “As lovers?”
“As friends. Just now, I am in need of a friend.”
Rudy stood and offered his hand. “I can do that.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Los Angeles, California
Joe spent the short walk to the mini-mart and back trying to get a handle on this insane day. Talk about action-packed. Good news: Jean-Pierre was safe. Bad news: Dupris was dead. Good news: Sofia’s publicist miraculously cooled the media’s attention on the accidental death in her home by … Bad news: Turning up the heat on her so-called secret affair with a former FBI agent.
At least the press thought she was still somewhere in Arizona. Unfortunately, that made his home a hot zone. The thought of reporters staking out his house and digging into his past set his teeth on edge.
He scanned the perimeter, soaked in the sights and smells of Los Angeles. The City of Angels. Home to more than 3.5 million residents. Top attractions: Hollywood, Disneyland, Beverly Hills, Venice Beach, and Malibu.
Fantasyland. The superficial haven of eager starlets, hungry actors, and greedy producers. Media-spinning publicists and fast-talking agents.
He’d never had much tolerance for the entertainment industry. Hollywood types raked in millions while police officers and teachers scraped by. Where was the justice in that? Maybe he’d spent too many years dwelling in the underworld. Unlike Sofia and her sister Lulu, he’d lost his sense of the fantastic. There was a time, long ago, when he’d been able to lose himself in the hard-hitting, fast-shooting, animated world of Dick Tracy. As a boy he’d devoured comic strips and books relaying the antics of the super intelligent police detective who butted heads with various colorful villains. Gangsters, arsonists, kidnappers. Tracy tackled them all. Later on, Tracy’s creator incorporated personal wrist communicators and other futuristic gadgets.
Oh, yeah, he’d dug that techno-fantasy era bigtime.
Joe smiled. Suddenly the fact that he tuned into “Spy Girl” and occasionally enjoyed it, didn’t seem so suspect. Although, Sofia fascinated him more than the show. He could look at her for hours on end and never tire of the vision. The sight of her kicking evil-doer ass, albeit fictional, was a bonus turn-on.
He unlocked the door of their hotel room and quietly slipped in. She’d said she was hungry, surprise confession of the year, but she’d looked dead tired when he’d left her. Understandable. It had been one hell of a day. A day that had left her exhausted, and him with a lot of questions.
He set the sack of groceries on the desk, glanced at the two double beds. She wasn’t sprawled on either one. Her Gothic costume was heaped on the hunter green arm chair, the babydoll platform shoes kicked to the corner.
The bathroom door was closed. Maybe she was in the shower. He had a surrreal vision of her standing naked in the stall, hot water slucing over those voluptuous curves as she shampooed that vibrant dyed hair. In his mind’s eye, the water ran purple, then red. Stained water swirling into the drain.
Just like in Hitchcock’s Psycho.
He shook off the disturbing vision of Sofia getting knifed by a crazed cowboy. Jesus, he was beat. His mind kept straying off on tangents spurred by Sofia’s musings. He shrugged out of his suit jacket, slipped off his tie, and tossed it on the desk alongside the bulging plastic bag. Plastic bag. Plastic shower curtian. “Sofia? You okay in there?”
No answer.
He nabbed a beer from the six-pack he’d purchased, unscrewed the top, and took a deep swig. He glanced at the door. “Sof?”
Silence.
He rolled his head to ease a kink, moved over and knocked.
Still, no answer.
He turned the knob and peeked in. His pulse raced at the sight of her submerged in a bubble bath, head lolled to the side, eyes closed. “Sofia.” She didn’t stir and, Christ, his heart nearly blasted through his ribs with dread. He moved in and touched her bare shoulder. “Sof.”
Her eyes flew open with a gasp. She lurched forward, one hand clasped to her throat. “Jesus, Joe. Don’t scare me like that.”
His heart skipped a beat, or twelve. “Ditto.” He set his beer bottle on the vanity, breathed. “Christ, Marino.”
“What?”
“I thought you were …”
“What?”
Dead. “Nothing.” Christ. He took another calming breath, the heady scent of vanilla and musk filling his nostrils. Sofia’s scent.
“I can’t believe I fell asleep. Although …” She relaxed against the fluted rim of the massive tub, thick clouds of bubbles caressing the swells of her breasts. “Well, yeah, okay. I guess I get it. Between the relief of knowing JP is safe, the hot water and the pills …” She whistled, smiled. “Woo, yeah, I’m toast.”
Joe stared at her. At her head and shoulders anyway. The rest of her was hidden beneath those frothy soap bubbles. His throat constricted. “What pills?”
“The ones I took to relax.”
Fuckin’ A. “Where are they?”
“The pills?”
“Yes. The goddamned pills.”
“Geesh, Bogart. Chill.” She pointed to her burgeoning travel case. “In there. Somewhere.”
“How many did you take?”
“Five.”
“Five?”
“Well, three at first, but they didn’t seem to be working, so I doubled up. I’m a big girl. Figured I needed a bigger dose.”
“You’re not a big girl, Sofia. You’re five-foot-six with a medium frame. What do you weigh? One-twenty-five? One-thirty? Give me a frickin’ break.” He rooted through scads of beauty products. “Dammit, where are they?”
“But earlier today you said I was fat.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You said, better to hide that figure than flaunt it.”
Face cleanser, crème, body oil, Vitamin C, E, B … “Meaning you have a body people notice and envy, or notice and covet. I don’t know why in the hell you starve yourself. Even if you were several pounds heavier, on a scale of ten you’re a fifteen.”
“You think I’m a fifteen?”
“Sof. For chrissake!”
“The other pocket,” she said. “Yeah, that one.”
He palmed the plastic bottle, speed-read the ingredients.
“It’s a natural supplement.”
“I see that.”
“An over-the-counter stress reliever. I was wired tight and I didn’t want to have another one of those damned attacks so, I figured what the hell? I mean it’s not like they’re addictive. What’s wrong with you, Joe?”
“Nothing.” His wobbly legs gave way. He settled on the john and stared down at the bottle in his hand. A natural supplement. He’d feared Valium or Percocet. Julietta had favored both.
“Maybe you should pop a couple of those yourself.”
She regarded him with a thoughtful frown. “All right then. Join me in here. I’ll kick up the jet sprays. A hydro-massage will do you good.”
He blinked at his fantasy woman and the two-person Jacuzzi. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m serious.” She smoothed her wet hair off of her freshly-scrubbed face, exposing those killer cheekbones. Makeup free and gorgeous. She rested her bruised forearms on the rim of the tub, propped her chin on her hands, and smiled—a flash of white teeth against mocha brown skin. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before,” she purred.
His cock twitched. “Forget it.”
She glanced at his crotch, wiggled her finely arched brows. “Nice package, by the way.”
He grabbed his beer bottle. Took a long swallow. “You’re looped.”
“Funny thing, that.” She angled her head. “Typically, I have a high tolerance for drugs and alcohol. Not that I’ve done a lot of drugs, but I have experimented, here and there, when I was younger.” She frowned. “Don’t tell Lulu.”
“God forbid.” Her older sister, a veritable teetotaler, championed the slogan, Say No to Drugs! Joe, especially after Julietta’s overdose, supported the same view. Sofia’s liberal attitude was disconcerting, although, given her progressive, needy personality, not surprising.
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever experimented.”
“Nope.”
“Not even with weed?”
“Not even.” Aside from the fact that it would have squelched his career as a federal agent, he’d never had the inclination. He picked at the label on his beer bottle and blatantly stared at the most beautiful woman in the world.
“Betcha don’t miss the head-banger spikes and radical makeup.”
“It was a clever disguise.” She was a clever woman. He’d been duly impressed by her composure in the field. Almost as impressed as he was right now. She didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass that she was naked. Although, hell, it’s not like he could see anything, given her position and all those bubbles. Her mouthwatering breasts were flattened against the inside of the tub. What he wouldn’t give to be the inside of that tub.
She scraped her teeth across her lower lip. “I shampooed and scrubbed, but my hair’s still pretty purple.”
He caught a flash of insecurity in those dark brown eyes. “Hard to tell with it wet and slicked back.”
“Trust me. When it dries it will still be purple.” She lowered her lashes. “Less vibrant, but purple.”
“Sofia?”
“What?”
“You could have an orange Mohawk, and you’d still be beautiful.”
She cringed. “Am I that transparent?”
“I’m just good at reading people.”
She peered up at him, forehead wrinkled in confusion. “If you feel like that, then why were you mad when I cut and dyed my hair?”
He scraped his hand along his jaw, uneasy about revealing his thoughts. “I wasn’t mad. I was … surprised. I didn’t realize you’d go to such lengths to help a friend.”
She frowned. “You think I’m shallow.”
“I think you’re complex.”
She sighed. “That’s about the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s true.”
He chewed on that statement for a moment. The more she gave up, the more he wanted to ask about her past, specifically her multiple rocky affairs. He’d never known her to be so relaxed and forthcoming. No doubt a result of the stress-relieving tablets. Compounded by the fact that she was operating on a post-hangover, little sleep, and no food, no wonder she was crocked. Although he wasn’t thrilled that she’d relied on pills to take off the edge, he appreciated a peek at the candid, warmer side of this cynical siren.
“I like looking at you too,” she said, addressing his silent appraisal. Her lush lips curled into a lazy smile. “Although, I kind of miss your goatee.”
He smiled at that. “What is it with women and goatees?”
She shrugged. “I can’t speak for anyone else, but it makes me think of medieval times. Knights. Protectors of the realm. Powerful and dangerous. Sexy.”
“Uh-huh.” That’s twice in two days that she’d called him sexy. Although both times, she’d been under the influence.
“Lisa was right.”
“Lisa who?”
“The cocktail waitress at the Camelback. She said you look like Johnny Depp.”
“I’m surprised you remember that.” He saluted her with his beer, took another sip.
“I remember,” she said with a smirk. “I remember because I thought the same thing when I first met you.”
He grunted.
“That’s a compliment, Bogart. Depp’s frickin’ hot.”
Okay, so yeah, that was a boost to the ego. He suppressed a cocky smile, watched as she squeezed more scented gel into the water, and kicked up the jet-sprays with her sudsy toes. “Just an observation, but I don’t think you’re supposed use bubble bath in a Jacuzzi, babe.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a rule-breaker from way back.”
“Unlike your sister.”
“Lulu’s a throwback to the Victorian age. I used to call her Mary Poppins.” Sofia laughed. “She hated that. Thought I was making fun of her. I was, sort of. But secretly, I admired her. All that optimism. Priceless.”
Her laughter, rich and genuine, caught him off guard. He swigged the last of his beer, hoping to cool the heat of desire rushing to his loins. It was as if they were caught in a time warp. As if she’d never tangled with those cowboys. As if Dupris wasn’t dead.
Denial.
Not entirely healthy, then again the kid deserved a break. Tomorrow would come soon enough and with it reality, although he wasn’t entirely sure what that entailed. Tomorrow they’d have to crack that memory block.
“She takes after her mother, a comedic actress,” Sofia continued with a smile. “We never knew Camille. She died when Lulu was two, before I was born. But Viv said she was a hoot.”
“You had different mothers, but the same father, I know that. I also know that your mother—a dancer from Spain, right?—and Dante Marino died in a car accident when you girls were very young. Your grandmother …”
“Viv,” Sofia interrupted. “She likes to be called Viv. Grandma or Nona makes her feel old.”
Joe raised a brow. “Isn’t she seventy-something?”
“Age is a state of mind.” She added with a wistful sigh, “According to Viv.”
Age, he surmised, like weight, was probably a sensitive spot with Sofia given Hollywood’s love affair with youth. It pissed him off, but if he stated his views, like earlier today on Fremont Saddle, she’d get defensive—she came from generations of entertainers, after all—and climb up on her soapbox. He wasn’t ready for the return of defensive, cynical Sofia.
He braced his forearms on his knees and leaned forward, determined to know this woman. “Viv raised you and your sister together. Same maternal influence. How is it you turned out such opposites?”
“Wanna know my life story? Climb in. Get comfortable.”
He’d rather climb in and get busy. “No.”
“How old are you?”
He stood. Time to end this cozy chat. She was, after all, looped. “Old enough to know better.”
She rolled her eyes. “Give it up, Bogart.”
“Almost forty.”
“That explains a lot.”
He frowned. “Like what?”
“Like why you’re such an old-fashioned fuddy-duddy.”
“I’m not a fuddy-duddy.” Christ almighty. He was a former undercover agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“Prove it.” She smiled, beckoned him forward with a crooked finger.
“You are dangerous.” Contemplating his sanity, he summoned the control of a monk and exited the sexually-charged room. Maybe he wasn’t suc
h a bastard after all.
He’ll be back, Sofia smugly thought. As she’d once told Lulu, no man could say no to a naked and willing woman. And boy, was she willing. Eager and willing. She’d been dreaming about him when he’d woken her. About that kiss earlier today. A kiss as wild and haunting as the Superstition Mountains and as wondrous as that desert sunset. She wanted more. When Joe kissed her he transported her conscious being to an alternate plane. Time ceased to exist. Troubles disappeared.
Just now she needed very badly to escape. To obliterate lingering thoughts of Luc and two homicidal cowboys. Just now she needed Joe.
She glanced at the open doorway. What the hell was he doing out there? Being a gentleman? Resisting a woman in a vulnerable state? Being respectful. Well, damn.
Just then he strode back into the room.
She tried to suppress a cheeky smile and failed.
He blew out a frustrated breath. “What am I going to do with you?”
Jesus, he was handsome. “I can give you a couple of ideas if you’re really stuck.” Desire pulsed hot and rapid through her veins. Racy scenarios burned away her no-sex resolution like wildfire.
“I’m not stripping down and getting in that tub,” he said, refusing to take the bait. “On the other hand, I’m not leaving you in here alone. What if you fall asleep again? Slide under the water? What if you slip getting out of the tub and whack your head like Dupris?”
“What if.” Sofia blocked out thoughts of Luc and focused on her agenda. “You sound like Lulu. A fuddy-duddy and a worrywart.” Maybe if she needled him enough he’d kiss her just to shut her up. It would be a start.
He snatched up a folded bath towel and snapped it open. “Come on, kid. Out of the tub.”
She turned off the jet sprays and frowned up at him. “Kid? Is that what’s troubling you? Our age difference? Ten years.” She snorted. “Big deal, Bogart.”
“More like eleven, but who’s counting?”
“You.” Jeez, he was conservative. She eyed the bottle of stress-reliever pills he’d set on the counter. Understanding clicked. Conservative and haunted. “Ah.”
“What, ah?”
“You don’t want to get naked with me because you think I’m, what did you call it? Looped.” Admittedly, the pills had made her a little slow on the uptake. She should’ve sensed the connection long before this.
