by Beth Ciotta
“Hell.”
“Bon jour, Murphy,” Jean-Pierre called a little too brightly.
Visibly exerted from a hard run, the bodyguard moved into the kitchen and eyed the three men. “Morning.”
Rudy was glad they’d all dressed and weren’t sitting around in their boxers. That wouldn’t have helped, no sir.
Murphy leaned back against the counter and dabbed his forearm to his sweaty brow. “Smells good, Legrand. Cinnamon?”
“Ah, oui,” JP answered without making eye contact. “Cinnamon Viennese. Café will be ready momentanément.”
“Great. I could use a cup.”
Rudy dropped into the chair across from Jake, and nod-ded at Murphy in greeting. “You were up and out early.”
“Slept like a baby last night. I was pretty wiped.”
Jake snorted. “Wonder why?”
Rudy kicked him under the table.
Jean-Pierre stopped grinding. “Where do you keep the filters, Bunny?”
“The walk-in pantry.” He started to push out of his chair.
“Do not trouble yourself,” his partner said. “Which way? Which door?”
Rudy pointed. “Second door to the left. Third shelf. Beside the paper napkins and towels.”
Murphy reached beneath his army-green T-shirt, unclipped his cell phone from the waistband of his sweatpants. When Jean-Pierre was out of earshot, he said, “Bogie called.”
Jake sobered, and swiveled in his chair. “Any more specifics?”
“Sofia’s memories are trickling back, but they’re still sketchy.” He set the phone on the counter, moved to the sink, and washed his hands. “We’re pretty certain she witnessed a crime and that she scuffled with those cowboys. It’s possible that they’re tracking her.”
Jake frowned. “Damn.”
Rudy’s pulse raced. “If anything happens to her …”
“Bogie will protect her,” Jake said.
“If he needs help, he’ll reach out to me or to his southwestern contacts.” Murphy dried his hands with a dish towel and turned, brow raised. “No way in hell is he going to risk her safety.”
Jean-Pierre came back in waving a coffee filter. “Found it.”
“Where’s Lulu?” Murphy asked, pointedly changing the subject. “She was up when I left. I’m surprised she’s not down here raiding your fridge. She’s had quite the appetite lately.”
Jean-Pierre busied himself with the coffeemaker.
“The women are upstairs,” Rudy said. “Dressing and … talking. You see … there was … that is, we were …” He tapped the quarter on the table, silently beckoning Jake to jump in at anytime.
“There was an unfortunate incident,” Jean-Pierre said as he turned on the kitchen faucet.
Murphy frowned, and Rudy knew he was thinking back on the time Lulu had thrown up on his shoes after she’d been drugged by a mobster. At the time, Jean-Pierre had labeled the occurrence an unfortunate incident. “She’s fine,” Rudy insisted while glaring at Jake. “Just embarrassed.”
Murphy crossed his arms over his chest, angled his head. “Why?”
Silence.
Murphy moistened his lips, studied each man at length. “Why is my wife embarrassed? So much so that she’s hiding upstairs while you three lounge down here. Someone spit it out.”
Rudy kicked Jake under the table. Hard.
“Ow. All right. All right.” He cursed. “We saw Lulu naked.”
Rudy groaned.
Jean-Pierre turned, eyes-wide.
“What? Why sugarcoat it?” Jake shifted, draped one arm over the back of his chair, and laid it out for Murphy. “We heard screaming. Christ, it was shrill, so naturally we rushed toward the source. Fortunately, nothing was wrong except that the hot water heater went on the blink and the showerhead and faucet malfunctioned. Unfortunately,” he spread his hands in a what-are-ya-gonna-do fashion, “Lulu was in her birthday suit.”
Murphy scraped his teeth over his bottom lip, his voice low and thoughtful. “You saw my wife in the buff.”
“Not just me. We. All three of us,” Jake emphasized, looking annoyed.
“They’re gay.”
Jake poked his thumb in his chest. “I’m married.”
Murphy braced his hands on his hips. “Did you look?”
“A wee time lapse,” Jean-Pierre answered. “You see …”
Murphy cut him off. “I’m not talking to you.” He looked pointedly at Jake.
“What kind of asinine question is that? Of course, I looked. You see a freak accident, you look!”
Rudy slapped a palm to his forehead. Why did he flip that coin? He should’ve sucked it up and broken the news himself.
Then, Jake made it worse. “For chrissake, Murphy. I’m a happily married man. I saw your wife naked. So what? You saw my sister naked. Let’s just call it even.”
Rudy glanced from man to man. “You saw Joni naked?”
Murphy rolled his eyes. “We had a thing.”
“You slept with Jake’s sister?” came a female voice. Lulu’s voice.
All eyes shifted to the threshold. She and Afia stood side by side. Complete opposites.
Waif-like Afia had pulled her long, dark hair into a classic ponytail. She looked like a petite model for designer maternity clothes in her black flared capris and a black halter top splashed with Victorian roses.
Cupie-doll Lulu had donned funky cargo pants and a tight-fitting cartoon T-shirt. Her golden curls were still wet, but at least her eyes were dry. Red, but dry. She glanced at Afia. “Did you know?”
The dark-haired woman smirked. “No one tells me anything.”
Rudy inwardly cringed.
“I try not to think about it.” Jake stood and pulled out a chair for his wife. “Sit down, baby. I’ll get you a glass of …” He noted her frown. “Right. You’ll sit when you’re good and ready.”
Smiling now, she moved in, kissed her husband on the mouth, and sat down. “A glass of milk would be great. Thanks.”
“Sure.” Brow scrunched, the poor man moved toward the fridge.
“You had an affair with Jake’s sister?” Lulu repeated, still hovering on the threshold.
“A long time ago, princess,” Murphy said. “Ancient history.”
“Speaking of ancient history,” Rudy said, jumping on a chance to change the subject. “Remember last night when I said Hollyberry Inn was haunted?”
Afia shoved her bangs out of her doe-like eyes. “Not that again. Can we eat first? I’m starving.”
“I need to shower,” Murphy said.
Cheeks burning red, Lulu twirled a damp curl around her finger. “Don’t use our bathroom. There was, um, an incident.”
He moved to her now, pulled her into his arms, and kissed the top of her head. “I heard.”
Afia gawked at the other men. “You told him?
“About that,” Rudy tried again. “More specifically, the hot water heater and the showerhead.” He really wanted to come clean on this Casper thing. The ghost’s antics were escalating, and he wanted everyone to be aware. God forbid anyone got hurt.
“JP, is that coffee ready yet?” Jake asked after presenting Afia with a glass of milk.
“Ah, oui. I will pour you a cup. Murphy?”
“Please.”
“Me too,” Lulu said, snuggling deeper into her husband’s arms.
“No!” Afia narrowed her eyes, frowned. “You don’t want coffee, Lulu. Caffeine is bad for … it’s bad. Jake, get her a glass of juice.”
The P.I. shook his head. “Fine. Sure.”
Rudy sighed. “About the water heater …”
“Oh!” Afia gasped once, twice.
Jake nearly dropped the pitcher of freshly squeezed orange. “What?”
She gasped again and placed her hands over her stomach.
Rudy stood so fast his chair tipped over. “Should I call a doctor?”
“Are you okay?” Lulu asked, pushing out of Murphy’s arms.
“I’m fine.
Fine. He just kicked. Hard. And then … Ooh! There’s another.” She giggled.
“Jesus,” Jake said, plopping into the chair next to her. “Don’t scare me like that.”
“Le bébé is a boy?”
“We don’t know, Jean-Pierre. We want it to be a surprise. But, I keep thinking boy. Ooh! Gosh, he’s active today.”
Jake grinned, leaned down, and kissed her belly.
“Does it hurt when he kicks?” Rudy asked.
“No. Come here.” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t look so nervous. Come here. You too Jean-Pierre.”
Rudy couldn’t believe it. She lifted her shirt, right there in the kitchen in front of everyone and exposed her lily white, massively pregnant stomach. His awe skyrocketed when she took both his and JP’s hands and placed them on her belly. It felt so warm and … hard. Then he felt the kick. “Oh, man.”
Jean-Pierre’s wonder was evident in his smile and twinkling eyes.
Rudy’s heart bloomed as their fingertips connected. The baby kicked again, and they bonded not only with each other, but with Afia and Jake’s unborn child. “Wow.”
Afia smiled. “Come here, Lulu.”
All eyes turned to the petite storyteller, the woman who loved children and whom children adored. A woman unable to have her own baby. Rudy swallowed an emotional lump when she actually moved forward. He and JP linked hands and stepped aside.
“You too, Murphy.”
Rudy watched the man exchange a look with Jake.
The P.I. sighed. “Go ahead. But, now we’re definitely even.”
Afia placed the couple’s palms on her tummy and held them secure. “Just wait. Wait. There!”
Tears swam in Lulu’s big eyes, but a grin split her face ear to ear. “Gee.”
Murphy traced his free hand along her cheek, then smiled down at Afia. “Thanks, hon. It’s not every day that you get to experience a miracle first hand.”
Afia beamed at the couple, her husband, then JP and Rudy. “Today is going to be a spectacular day.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Los Angeles, California
Today was going to suck. Every day after today, for the rest of her freaking life was going to suck sand. Sleeping with Joe had been a mistake. They had no future as a couple, yet she would spend eternity, here and beyond, craving the man. This is what she got for breaking her no-sex-for-a-year resolution. Although, if she were entirely honest, it wasn’t the physical act, but the intimacy, the intensity, that had been her doom. She wasn’t emotionally equipped to handle Joseph Bogart. He wasn’t like any man, any person, she’d ever known.
She heard him thanking someone. His voice alone triggered a sensual heat that slithered through her entire prone body. The door clicked shut, and though she couldn’t hear his footsteps in the plush carpet, she envisioned him carrying a tray of food to the table near the window. She smelled fresh coffee, eggs, and buttered toast. A heavenly smell that transported her back to childhood. Viv wouldn’t think of sending her granddaughters off to school without a fortifying breakfast. Sofia’s stomach rumbled. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten buttered toast. But, even the promise of a bracing cup of java and a hearty meal couldn’t lure her to open her eyes.
She lay on the bed, stiff as a board, fists clenched at her sides, feigning sleep. Call her a coward. Call her immature. She didn’t want to face Joe. What would she say? “Thanks for the great lay?” She sensed he wouldn’t appreciate the flip compliment. So, what was left? Sincerity? “You captured my heart with the most magical experience of my life. I am now and forever a slave to the memory.” A tad overdramatic. Then again, drama was in her blood.
She could go with a simple, heartfelt, “I’ll never be the same.” But, that would give him too much power. Like, he didn’t already have the capability to crush her heart with goodbye, but he didn’t have to know that.
Denial. Yeah, that was the way to go. Pretending like last night never happened wouldn’t fly, so she’d pretend like it didn’t matter. She could do that. She was, after all, a trained actress.
Her mind stumbled and skipped back to Joe admitting he’d read From Venice with Love, of his supreme confidence that she’d land the part and, what’s more, nail the part. Again, how could he be so sure? He’d never seen her perform. He’d never tuned into “Spy Girl”, even though it had run every week for several months. The more she thought about it, the greater her annoyance. He was family, for chrissake. Family, at least her family, supported one another. Lulu and Viv never missed an episode of “Spy Girl”, and what’s more, they’d attended every play she’d ever been in, no matter how minor the part, no matter the quality of the production. Joe could have tuned into her television show at least once.
She clenched her fists tighter, fought an audible growl. She did not however, fight the anger. Better anger than depression. Better anger than wistful dreaming. She could not, would not love Joe Bogart.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Startled, her eyes flew open. Dressed in jeans and a white oxford with the tails hanging out, the former fed stood next to the bed, hands on hips, staring down at her with concern and something she couldn’t decipher. Her voice stuck in her throat. Her insides twisted when she looked into those soulful eyes and reflected on the way he’d made love to her, as if she were fragile and pure. Amazingly, she’d felt as though she’d been making love for the first time. The morning after and she still felt like an insecure virgin. The bad dreams and the panic attack were a cakewalk compared to this frazzling dilemma. She summoned sarcasm to veil her nervousness. “Watching me sleep, Bogart? That’s a little creepy, don’t you think?”
“You weren’t sleeping. You were thinking. And whatever you were thinking about was upsetting.”
“I’m not upset.”
“Okay then, agitated.” He studied her long and hard.
She blushed under his blatant scrutiny.
“Have something you want to get off your chest?”
She realized then that she was massaging her breastbone, trying to soothe a bothersome ache. “Heartburn,” she muttered, sidestepping his question. “What time is it?”
“Ten-thirty.”
She glanced at the windows. The curtains were drawn, but sunshine streaked through a fractional parting. “Why did you let me sleep so late?” she complained, pushing herself up to her elbows.
“You’d been going strong for almost forty-eight hours, Sofia. You needed the rest. You also need to eat.” He gestured toward the table. “I ordered omelets. Coffee. Throw something on. We’ll eat and talk about what’s bothering you.”
“You’re what’s bothering me,” she snapped. She didn’t want him to be thoughtful and caring. It would only make things harder when he dumped her. He’d been up front. He only aimed on sticking around for as long as she needed him. Once the mystery was solved, once she was out of danger, he’d be on his way. Back to his jeep tour gig, back to his isolated desert home. Well, at least he’d been honest. More than she could say for past lovers. “Stop hovering, Bogart. Just because we slept together doesn’t mean that you have to be nice.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, narrowed his eyes. “You’re starting to piss me off.”
“Good. No reason why I should be the only miserable one in this room.” Desperate for breathing space, she shooed him aside and slid out of bed in one graceful move. Grace proved a true feat this morning. Ignoring stiff muscles, various aches, and the fact that she was naked, she brushed past Joe and into the bathroom.
She sensed his gaze sliding over her body, felt a delicious tug in her stomach, and a shameless tingling between her legs. She wondered if he suffered similar symptoms. Of course, instead of thinking about sex he could be exercising his psychology chops. Textbook exhibitionist. Someone desperate for attention.
She belatedly considered her robe. Although her robe was in the other room … with Dr. Bogart. Screw it. She’d never been overly modest. Viv said she took after her mot
her, a native born Brazilian. Gabriela had always been comfortable with her body, and sexuality in general. Sofia had inherited her liberal views, whereas Lulu wouldn’t even wear a bikini. The difference in the two girls had always been a mixed source of amusement and frustration to Viv.
Sofia imagined her grandmother’s twinkling eyes and Lulu’s infectious smile and experienced a pang of loneliness. Damn. Now, on top of everything else, she was homesick! She blew out a disgusted breath while snagging her toothpaste and brush. “This day sucks.”
“It’s only going to get worse,” Joe said as she started scrubbing her teeth. “As of today, I’m taking off the gloves.”
She didn’t know what that meant. Just now she didn’t care. She was two seconds from crying and she didn’t want him witnessing the breakdown. She rinsed and spit. “Will you please go away?”
“You’re scared.”
“Of course, I’m scared!” She clanged her toothbrush into an empty glass and splashed water on her face. “I was involved in some sort of heinous crime and now I’m being hunted by a couple of lunatics! Any sane person would be rattled.”
“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about you and me. What’s happening between us.”
She angled her head and found him leaning against the door jamb with his arms folded over his chest. Handsome, confident, and caring. She’d give anything to wake up with this man every morning until she was six feet under. Talk about a pipe dream. Fight the tears. Fight the heartache. “Nothing’s happening.” She swiped the bottle of antacid off the counter and poured four tablets into her hand.
“Those won’t help,” Joe said with a sympathetic nod. “Trust me.”
Those two words snapped what was left of her control. She looked away and tossed the pills in the waste can. “We had sex. Great sex, but that’s all it was. It didn’t mean anything.” She opened the glass door of the shower stall, stepped in. Heart pounding, she shut the door and shut out the world—specifically, Joe Bogart. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. She turned on the faucet. The spray of water hit her face just as the first tear fell.
The door wrenched open. “Bullshit.” The look on his face had her backing flush against the wall. “I warned you last night, Sofia. It’s too late to back out now.”
