Friends and Lovers Trilogy 03 - Seduced

by Beth Ciotta

  “Soon.” He stood and lowered the lights. “In the meantime, let’s relax and watch a movie.”

  “One of yours?” Maybe he wanted to familiarize her with his work. Would she sound like a kiss-up if she said she’d seen every one? She didn’t want to fall back on compliments, no matter how sincere, coy smiles or fluttering eyelashes. She wanted to do this right.

  “A classic, actually.” He settled beside her on the screening room couch. “I understand you’re a fan of Hitchcock.”

  Music swelled. Her muscles tensed. Don’t touch me, she thought as he casually draped his arm across the back of the couch. She closed her eyes, breathed deep, and listened to the haunting score, the cryptic dialogue. She knew every scene, every line.

  She knew that slightly accented voice.

  Sofia bolted upright, eyes wide. Ingrid Bergman spoke to her from a nineteen-inch television. No, wait. Ms. Bergman posing as Dr. Constance Peterson talking to her mentor about the man she loves, her patient, John Ballantine, AKA Dr. Anthony Edwardes, AKA John Brown. A man with assumed personalities.

  A man with amnesia.

  Her muscles bunched at the brush of a hand. “Don’t touch me!”

  “Easy, baby.”

  Her heart raged in her ears as Joe smoothed a reassuring palm down her rigid spine. Ingrid Bergman’s voice faded to a drone as the man in her bed took center stage.

  “You had a bad dream.”

  She pulled the sheet to her chin, remnants of the nightmare causing her to feel exposed, chilled. “Trapped.”

  Joe pulled her into his arms and leaned back against the headboard. He eased her head to his chest. “Relax, Sofia. You’re safe.”

  Her racing heart said differently. She clung to the man who’d made reverent love to her. The man who’d admitted a soul-stirring attraction. She soaked in his body heat, his strength. She listened to the steady beat of his heart and willed hers to beat in tandem. Center yourself, she heard Master Chai whisper. “What time is it?”

  “Close to four in the morning.” He held her close, stroked her hair.

  The room was dark save for the light from the television. She wondered how long Joe had been awake. Wondered if he regretted their lovemaking. Or maybe he’d been pondering her lost hours. Trying to analyze her sketchy memories. After all, he had been schooled in psychology.

  Bergman and Gregory Peck conversed in the background. Psychologist and amnesiac. The parallel was ironic. Uncomfortable with the notion, she focused on the nightstand. Her stomach fluttered at the sight of a portable book light and a stack of printed pages. “You read my script.”

  “I did.” He rested his chin on her head, continued to soothe her trembling body with sure, tender strokes. “When I have trouble falling asleep, I like to read. From Venice With Love was sticking out of the pocket of your backpack. Looked more interesting than the phone book. Hope you don’t mind.”

  She wasn’t sure. She tipped her head back and squinted up at him. “What did you think?”

  “Chick flick.”

  “And?”

  He shrugged. “Not bad, if you like chick flicks.” He quirked a faint smile and her pulse slowed to a bearable rate. “Are you going to do it?”

  “I’d have to audition.”

  “You’ll smoke the audition. You’ll smoke this part.”

  She balked at the total confidence in his voice. “How do you know? You’ve never seen me act. Maybe I suck.”

  He broke eye contact, glanced toward the screen. “You don’t suck.”

  “How do you …”

  “Tell me about the dream.”

  “What?”

  “What were you dreaming about?”

  She realized then that he’d been talking her down from an anxiety high, putting her at ease before questioning her on whatever had disturbed her sleep. “Planning on psychoanalyzing me?”

  He gazed down at her, serious as sin. “I can help you through this, Sofia. But you need to work with me. I have to know what happened back in Phoenix.”

  It seemed like a lifetime ago. It had been less than two days. A forty-eight hour nightmare from which she was no longer certain she wanted to awake. She snuggled closer to Joe, holding tight to the better part of something awful. “I can’t remember.” She worried her bottom lip. “Not everything, anyway.”

  “That’s okay. We’ll fit the puzzle together piece by piece. Tell me about the dream.”

  She wished she could say she couldn’t remember, that the details of the dream had faded. Sadly, the conversation and actions, the realization of where she’d been and what could have happened, were painfully clear. Not wanting to look Joe in the eyes, she settled her cheek against his chest and absentmindedly stroked the dark, soft matting of hair on his defined pecs. Fuzzy-headed, she stared at the night owl movie. “We were watching Spellbound,” she said in a soft voice. Another irony.

  Joe laid his hand over hers, stilled her nervous fingers. “No, hon. You’d already fallen asleep by the time I turned on the TV. I kept the volume low, but not low enough. It must have seeped into your subconscious.”

  How easy it would be to change the subject. Naked as they were, how easy it would be to distract him. But the need to know how those cowboys figured in, what threat, if any, they posed to her friends and family overrode her embarrassment. “No, you don’t understand. In my dream, we were in a screening room. We were watching Spellbound. He knew about my fascination with Hitchcock.”

  Joe rubbed a hand over her goosepimply arm. “He, who?”

  “The man with no face.” Her temples throbbed mercilessly. “Why can’t I remember what he looked like, Joe? Who he was specifically? It’s as if I don’t want to see his face.”

  “You don’t. We’ll figure out why. Back up. Take it slow. You said you were in a screening room. A movie theater?”

  “No. A private screening room.” She swallowed hard. “In his house. The house where the limo driver dropped me. He’s a director, or maybe a producer. He makes films. Award-winning films. That much I know. He’s wealthy, powerful.”

  “Powerful enough to make you a star.”

  His tone revealed nothing, but she felt the subtle tension in his body. Her stomach turned. “I know what you’re thinking. Casting couch. Sleeping my way to the top. But, it wasn’t like that.” Her face flushed with an ugly realization. She pushed out of Joe’s arms, leaned forward, and clutched her knees to her chest. “Who am I kidding? It was like that.” She dropped her forehead to her knees and rocked. “How could I be so stupid? So trusting? He lied to me. Just like Chaz. Just like … ” All of them.

  Joe gently rubbed the base of her neck.

  She released a shaky breath. This wasn’t about the men in her past. This was about the man with no face.

  “I can hear his voice in my head,” she said, her thoughts loosening as Joe kneaded her tight muscles. “A phone call. I remember being shocked and flattered. He told me that he’d seen me in “Spy Girl”. Said he thought I’d be perfect for a role in his next movie. He invited me to his home in Paradise Valley. “Come for the weekend,” he said. “I invited a half-a-dozen other actors.” He said that the film called for an ensemble cast and he wanted to see how we interacted.”

  “But, the other actors didn’t show,” Joe surmised. “It was just you and this movie mogul.”

  She rested her chin on her knees and stared into space. “He said they’d be arriving later. We had dinner, wine. I remember he was very talkative. Very charming. I tried to relax. It was, after all, an audition of sorts. But, I was so damned nervous. Something felt wrong.” She curled her fingernails into her palms, mentally slugging herself for being so dense. Of course, something was wrong. Her gut had known what her brain refused to acknowledge. He’d invited her there for sex.

  Joe’s hands stilled. “Keep going, Sofia. This is important.”

  She looked over her shoulder, shivered at the grim set of his jaw. “You won’t like it. I don’t like it.”

 
“All the more reason for me to hear it.”

  She didn’t know what to make of that. All she knew was that she didn’t want him to think the worst. “Nothing happened … sexually,” she said with absolute certainty. “I wouldn’t have agreed. He’s married. I don’t do married men.” She winced at her word choice.

  Joe dragged a hand down his face, waited a beat, then said, “What if he didn’t take no for an answer? That’s my concern, Sofia.”

  Her heart warmed at the genuine affection in his eyes. At least, she thought it was genuine. She’d been fooled before. So many men. So many lies.

  He gently skimmed a hand down her forearm. “How did you get these bruises?”

  Her stomach clenched. “Fighting the cowboys.”

  “Not the producer?”

  “No. It never came to that.” She massaged a dull throbbing in her temples. “We were watching the movie. He was sitting next to me. Close. Too close. Don’t touch me, I thought. And then … ”

  “What?”

  “Someone’s here.”

  She smiled. “It must be them.”

  “We were interrupted.” The pain in Sofia’s head intensified. Her skin prickled with sweat as she fought a bout of dizziness.

  “Interrupted by who?” Joe asked. “The cowboys?”

  He rose from the couch. “I wasn’t expecting, that is … ” He touched her shoulder, a brief intimate squeeze. “Wait here, Sofia. Enjoy the movie. I’ll be right back.”

  “I waited, but … he didn’t come back, so I went looking and …” Her memories spun out, a wild cyclone of jumbled images. Red seeping into orange and white. Blue splattered with red. Colors collided into a wall of black.

  “What is it, Sofia? What do see?”

  “Dark. Overwhelmed. I’m sinking. Suffocating.” She shook her head. “Can’t breathe. Need to come up. Need air.” Tears pricked her eyes as she clutched at her aching chest.

  Suddenly Joe was sitting in front of her, his hands framing her face. “Look at me, Sofia. Listen to what I’m saying. You’re having a panic attack. It can’t stop your heart or your breathing. Focus on something good.”

  “You,” she whispered, concentrating on his gentle touch, his earnest gaze. Visions of their lovemaking slowly overrode the ugliness, the horror. She thought about the way, he’d touched her, cherished her. She thought about his whispered endearments, and her raging pulse tempered. Her breathing eased. Exhausted, embarrassed, she slumped against him. “I’m so sorry,” she said in a thick, raspy voice. “I know it’s important for me to remember. I tried. I … Shit.” She knocked a limp fist against his shoulder. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing.” He held her close, rocked her gently. “You did good.”

  “But, I didn’t tell you anything of consequence.”

  “More than you know. Don’t worry, the rest will come.” He eased her back on the bed. “Just not tonight. You need to sleep. You’re exhausted mentally and physically.”

  He was right. Her body ached and she lacked focus and energy. “But … if I sleep, I’ll dream.”

  “I’ll be right here.”

  She hated herself for asking. Hated that she cared. “For how long?”

  “For as long as you need me.”

  “I’m going to kick your fucking ass when I see you.” Joe glanced at Sofia to make sure she was still asleep, before taking the conversation outside.

  “You can try,” Murphy said, amusement lacing his tone. “Should be fun. So, what’s got your shorts in a bunch this morning? Wait. Let me guess.” He paused, his breath audibly labored. “What did Sofia do now?”

  She burrowed her way into my heart. “She fell for another asshole’s bullshit.” Cell phone pressed to his ear, Joe relaxed against the brick façade of the motel and used his free hand to massage his chest. There wasn’t enough antacid in the world to cure this ache. No suppressing, no denying.

  He was in love.

  In all brutal honesty, he’d fallen months ago when he’d first seen her on her casino gig, dressed in a glitzy bustier, fishnets, and heels, relaying sarcastic directions to the nickel slots and the all-you-can-eat buffet to an impatient patron. Frickin’ love at first sight.

  Knowing and dealing were two different animals. What the hell was he supposed to do with all these feelings? A minor in psychology had not prepared him for this mind-bending dilemma. Wasn’t he supposed to be walking on air, quoting Shakespearean sonnets or some romantic shit? Where was the goddamned euphoria? Murphy would know. “Love warps a man,” he’d said. That’s why, after an hour of solitary hell, Joe had decided to sneak outside and ring him up. He’d meant to ask his big brother’s advice. Instead, he’d threatened him with an ass-whooping. Hell. “Sounds like I caught you in the middle of something. Dare I ask?”

  “Morning run,” Murphy said. “Thought I’d take advantage while everyone’s still asleep.”

  “Legrand made it to the inn all right?”

  “He showed. There was a scuffle between him and Gallow. Things are tense. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I promised Lulu we’d stay until the waters stilled.”

  “Not exactly the relaxing getaway you were anticipating,” Joe said.

  “No, but it’s not boring either. So,” he said after a significant pause. “What’s going on? It’s barely five a.m. on the west coast. What are you doing up at this hour?”

  “Researching an asshole.” He’d waited until Sofia had fallen asleep and then he’d fired up his laptop and utilized the motel’s wireless Internet. “A movie producer,” he ground out. He needed to talk about this, to work the anger out of his system before Sofia woke up. Murphy could handle whatever he spewed. Better him than a woman who was holding onto her composure by a thread. “She’s blocked out his face and name, but she gave me enough information to narrow the field.”

  “You better bring me up to date.”

  “You better sit down.”

  “Done,” Murphy said. “Let’s have it.”

  “There’s still a chunk missing due to Sofia’s amnesia, but here’s the general scenario.” Joe took a deep breath and began to pace. “An influential movie mogul invited her to his home under the pretense of an informal audition for his next movie. Claimed other actors under consideration would be joining them for the weekend.”

  “Un-huh.”

  “Exactly,” Joe said, acknowledging Murphy’s sarcasm. “After dinner and wine, he invited her into his private screening room to watch a movie.”

  “Smooth.”

  “Yeah.” Joe ignored a jealous pang, pushed on. “But, they were interrupted before he could make his move.”

  “The cowboys?”

  “This is where it gets sketchy. She couldn’t say for certain. I’m guessing, yes. Where else would they figure in? So, the producer guy left to greet the guests, intruders, whatever. When he didn’t return, Sofia went to find him.” He massaged the back of his neck, his muscles knotting at the memory of her gasping for air and losing control. “I don’t know what she saw, bro, but it’s bad. Bad enough to incite amnesia and subsequent panic attacks.”

  “Hard to imagine a woman who once threatened my balls with a pair of scissors having a panic attack.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s not as tough as she pretends. Although if you ever hurt her sister, I’m sure she’ll make good on the threat. She’s got a fierce streak when it comes to friends and family.”

  “Admirable trait,” Murphy noted.

  Joe agreed, but didn’t comment.

  “Sounds like we’re talking about an act of violence. I assume you checked news reports, touched base with your local connections?

  “And came up with zilch.”

  “Huh.”

  Joe could envision his brother, sitting under a tree, slick with sweat from his run, brain buzzing. He’d always enjoyed a good mystery. Probably why he got along with Jake Leeds, another puzzle-solver. “She remembers tussling with the cowboys,” he continued. “She’s got the scrapes and
bruises to support an actual struggle. She woke up in a tool shed with a Beretta. The magazine was down three rounds. No prints other than hers. She said she remembers aiming and shooting.”

  “At the cowboys?”

  “I’m guessing. Although if that’s the case, she missed her mark. If there’s really a connection, then Luc Dupris’s last words suggest they’re alive and hunting Sofia.”

  “The Beretta’s not hers, so it has to belong to the producer or one of the cowboys. Since there were no prints, the owner must’ve worn gloves,” Murphy said. “My money’s on one of the cowboys.”

  “My thoughts exactly. That would also explain why their prints weren’t found in Sofia’s apartment. That’s if they were in her apartment.”

  “I assume this movie mogul’s rich.”

  Joe grunted. “Paradise Valley. We’re talking million dollar homes.”

  “Did Sofia say if she heard knocking? A doorbell?”

  “No. Just that her host announced that they had company.”

  “A silent alarm, maybe.”

  Joe shrugged. “Possibly. Maybe they were there to rob the house. Or to shake the guy down. Maybe he owed them money. Drugs. Loan sharking. Who knows?” He’d seen it all.

  “And Sofia walked in on whatever went down.”

  The probability made him sick. “Here’s another thing. The film they were watching was Spellbound. Sofia’s a fan of Hitchcock. She’s probably seen that movie a few times.”

  “Refresh my memory.”

  “Gregory Peck played a guy who witnessed something traumatic, then blocked it out.”

  “Right. I remember,” Murphy said, voice grim. “Sounds like reality imitating fiction.”

  “A weird-ass parallel,” Joe confirmed.

  “Huh.” His brother blew out a breath. “So, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Joe jammed his hand in his pants pocket, stared at a crack in the asphalt, experienced a crack in his composure. “Yeah. Although I don’t have proof that any of this happened, my gut says it did. I’m thinking the movie bastard’s dead. Can’t say I’m sorry. I wonder how many other women that smooth-talking fuck lured into his bed with promises of fame?”