Friends and Lovers Trilogy 03 - Seduced

by Beth Ciotta

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I just am.”

  She glanced at the ceiling, shook her head. “How’s this going to work? We live in separate states.”

  At least she was considering the possibility. “Come here.” He tugged on her hand, and when she rose, he pulled her down onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed her head to his shoulder, soaked in her warmth, her scent. “I don’t have all the answers, Sofia. All I can say is, one step at a time.”

  She traced her fingers over his lips. “I’m sorry I overreacted before. You’re right. I’m scared. About a lot of things.”

  “I know.”

  “We need to solve the mystery.”

  He grasped her hand, kissed her palm. “Yes, we do.”

  “I can’t remember his name, Joe. I can’t remember his face.”

  “I think I can help you with that. Based on what you told me last night, I did some research, and narrowed the field to two strong possibilities.” He felt her shiver and strengthened his embrace. “Don’t worry, babe. We’ll face this together.”

  “Together,” she whispered.

  “Having a hard time with that, aren’t you?”

  “I’m sorry. You don’t know how much I want to believe … I’m just, I’m not ready.”

  “It’s okay.” He kissed her forehead, his body vibrating with optimism. “I’ll wait.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Rainbow Ridge, Vermont

  Patience rated low on Rudy’s list of admirable qualities. Not always. Just today. When chaos reined supreme at Hollyberry Inn. And though it was pleasant chaos, it ill-afforded him even five secluded minutes with Jean-Pierre.

  It started with breakfast—a crowded, noisy affair. Rudy’s idea of heaven. At first. Even though everyone had offered to pitch in, he and Jean-Pierre had taken charge. They’d worked seamlessly together, creating a smorgasbord of breakfast entrees. Rudy had concentrated on vegetable omelets, using fresh eggs from a nearby farm and Vermont’s award-winning cheddar, while Jean-Pierre whipped up a family favorite: Crêpe Millefeuille with Apple Compote and Apricot Jam. Since Afia had mentioned waffles, they’d served up a batch of those too, along with pure maple syrup and seasonal fruit.

  Twice in the kitchen, he’d come close to saying, I love you. The three words he’d never spoken to any man. The three words he longed to say to Jean-Pierre, a no-turning-back declaration. But both times, they’d been interrupted. Even at the dining room table, it had been hard to get a word in edgewise, not that he wanted to declare his love publicly, but he had hoped to address the ghost issue.

  No dice.

  Talk had revolved around children. Afia and Jake’s upcoming birth. Lulu and Murphy’s plans to adopt. Afia’s work with HIV babies and Lulu’s specialized Loonytale, an anti-drug interactive story geared toward grammar students. In between, Jake and Murphy had swapped stories regarding recent cases, lapsing once into sports, which spurred Jean-Pierre to pipe in with his take on the highly publicized Super Bowl “wardrobe malfunction”.

  Before Rudy knew it, breakfast was over. When the gang had offered to clear the table and clean the dishes, he’d accepted. Yes! Time alone with Jean-Pierre. The sooner he proposed, the sooner they could start making plans. He had his heart set on a small, intimate civil ceremony, but if Jean-Pierre wanted lavish, he’d have it. After all he’d put this man through, he’d deny him nothing.

  Wanting to give him the grand tour of their new home as a prelude to his proposal, Rudy had escorted Jean-Pierre room to room explaining that he’d only purchased essential furniture and had left the decorating up to the creative genius. Jean-Pierre, thank goodness, had been duly impressed and touched.

  He’d quickly ushered the man to the outer deck overlooking the Worchester Mountains. The sun shone, birds sang, and the pristine, green view was nothing short of magnificent. The perfect moment. But just as Rudy had prepared to drop to one knee, Afia and Lulu had winged open the sliding glass doors to announce they wanted to go into town. Unfortunately, Jean-Pierre expressed interest as well and before he knew it, Rudy had been sweet-talked into driving them into the quaint town of Rainbow Ridge while Murphy and Jake stayed behind to look further into the prowler issue and the faulty water heater. He started to tell them Casper was to blame, but why bother? Either they wouldn’t believe him or they’d interrupt him mid-sentence. That’s the kind of day he was having.

  “I’m still disappointed that Jake and I never made it out to LA, Jean-Pierre,” Afia said from the back seat of Rudy’s Subaru. “Not that I’d want to live there myself, but I can imagine it must be very exciting. All those celebrities.”

  “Sofie told me she was ordering a decaf espresso at Starbucks one day,” Lulu said, “and when she looked over her shoulder, who was waiting in line behind her? Mel Gibson! Can you imagine?”

  “I would have gawked,” Afia said.

  Jean-Pierre fidgeted in the front passenger seat, readjusted his seatbelt. “Sofia gawked. I was standing beside her, waiting for my Pumpkin Spice Crème. I think she even sighed.”

  Rudy navigated a curve in the road, glanced sideways at his mate. “Did you gawk?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  He smiled. “Yeah. I guess I would.”

  “So, what other celebrities did you run into out there?” Afia asked.

  Lulu reached forward and squeezed JP’s shoulder. “Tell us some of your favorite stories. You must have some great dish. I know Sofie always does.”

  Knowing JP despised the City of Angels, Rudy tried to commandeer the conversation. “Actually, I was hoping to tell you more about Casper.”

  “The cat?” Afia asked.

  “No, the ghost.”

  “Casper the Ghost,” Lulu said. “I used to watch that cartoon. He’s not exactly what I’d call a celebrity.”

  Rudy frowned at her via the rearview mirror. “I’m talking about Casper Montegue, the artist. A local celebrity. Dead.”

  “Don’t know him,” she said, swiping her wild curls out of her eyes.

  “Did you ever shop in Beverly Hills?” Afia asked Jean-Pierre.

  “You would be in heaven, Chou à la crème.” JP reached over and squeezed Rudy’s thigh, letting him know he was up to the discussion. In fact, he spent the next fifteen-minutes enthusiastically conveying the wonders of Disneyland and Rodeo Drive, appealing to Lulu and Afia’s personal interests.

  When Lulu asked about Jean-Pierre’s screenwriter friend, Rudy cringed. But Jean-Pierre simply answered, “Sadly, he recently passed on,” and moved the conversation forward.

  Rudy reached over and squeezed his hand, then announced to all that they’d be in town shortly.

  After an awkward silence, Afia asked, “Did Sofia ever take you on the set of “Spy Girl”?”

  “Ah, oui. Most interesting. I particularly enjoyed the filming of action sequences. Sofia is most skilled in martial arts. Sometimes I think she gleans more satisfaction from the stunts than the acting.”

  “That’s because the scripts aren’t so great,” Lulu said. “But that’s okay. They’re bringing on a new head writer. The second season should prove more challenging.”

  “That’s if she decides to do the second season.”

  Lulu leaned forward, frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Jean-Pierre craned his head around. “She did not tell you? She has not yet signed her contract. They want her to sign for three years. I think she is hoping to move on to film much sooner. She is … ” he shrugged. “Restless.”

  Lulu snorted. “Maybe that’s why she’s messing around with Colin’s brother. For the thrill. Jeez, they don’t even like each other.”

  Jean-Pierre crinkled his brow. “Sofia is seeing Agent Bogart?”

  Afia leaned forward too. “You didn’t know?”

  “She said nothing of this to me.”

  Lulu patted his shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. No one tells us anything either.”

  Guilt tickled Rudy’s c
onscience, causing him to blurt like an overenthusiastic tour guide. “Here we are, gang! Rainbow Ridge!”

  “Swap your Stetson for one of those ball caps we bought back in New York.” Frank parallel parked the rental car in front of a two-story brick building with a porch boasting colorful flags and pots of flowers—General Pat’s General Store. He rolled down his window and breathed in the smells of brewed coffee and baked goods.

  His stomach rumbled.

  He was hungry and bone tired, but he’d pushed hard and they’d made it from Pittsburg to Rainbow Ridge in well under Jesse’s projected fifteen hours. Thing was, between the booze, pills, and lack of sleep, he was in no shape to proceed until he got some shut eye. They’d taken a wrong turn a few miles back and had stumbled upon an abandoned cabin. The perfect hideaway. But before they settled in, they needed supplies and directions to Hollyberry Inn.

  He tossed his Stetson in the back seat, smoothed his hand over his thinning hair. His head and nose hurt like a mother. He glanced over to ask his brother if he had any aspirin and noticed he’d yet to switch hats. “Listen, Jess. I know how you feel about your Stet, but we’re in the northeast now and we need to blend.” He motioned to the men and women crowding the cobblestone sidewalks. “You see anyone wearing a cowboy hat?”

  “What I see are a bunch of liberal pansies.”

  They were all kind of prissy looking. And their politics, he knew from watching the news, differed greatly from his. “I won’t argue with you there, but I will ask you to mind my direction. If we do this right, we can be on our way to Mexico in two days, tops.”

  “Ah, hell.” The younger man swiped off his Stetson, and Frank felt a pang of envy. Unlike him, his brother had a full head of thick wavy hair. “But goddammit, Frank, we’re flying.”

  Stiff from the long ride, he wasn’t about to argue. Besides, once they exacted revenge on Sofia Marino, a good portion of his anxiety would be alleviated. With no witness, no evidence, and a cool quarter mil in their pockets in addition to their nest-egg, he and Jesse would be on Easy Street.

  They tugged on their Yankee ball caps at the same time, and grimaced. Frank felt like a traitor, being a Texas Ranger fan and all, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

  Jesse leaned forward and squinted through the front window at a couple walking toward them. Two men dressed in black jeans and bright colored shirts. Trendy haircuts and those rectangular, European-type sunglasses you see in glossy menswear magazines. “Holy shit, are they holding hands?”

  “Heard there were a lot of queers in Vermont.” Frank glanced back at the general store. “We need to go in there, buy some food, while discreetly inquiring about that Hollyberry Inn.”

  “The address is in the journal.”

  “I know. But that doesn’t help me much when I don’t know the area.” He pocketed the car keys and reached for the door. “Don’t touch anything around here without your gloves, not that you would.”

  “Nice that you care, Frank, but AIDS is transmitted through sexual contact with an infected person, transfusions of blood, or by sharing syringes, not by everyday contact.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Figures you’d know particulars, seeing that disease attacks the immune system, making a body open-season for germs, but I was talking about fingerprints. I don’t want to leave behind any evidence that we were ever here. No loose threads.”

  Jesse worked a glove onto his left hand and then wiggled the fingers of his right. “Can’t wear a glove on this hand because of the cast. I’ll be mindful, don’t worry.”

  Frank frowned at his brother’s smartass expression. “What the hell are you grinning at?”

  “The fact that you knew AIDS attacks the immune system,” he said, using a bandanna to open the car door. “I’m impressed.”

  Frank shoved open his own door. “How could I not know? I’m related to a walking, talking encyclopedia on germs.”

  Leaving the car, they paused on the sidewalk and took in the sights of Rainbow Ridge.

  “Looks like that town on the Andy Griffith Show,” Jesse said.

  Frank nodded. “Mayberry.” Old-fashioned and sugary sweet. “Gives me the creeps.” He slid on a pair of oversized aviator sunglasses. Couldn’t do much about his swollen, discolored nose, but he could hide his blackened eyes. “Anyone asks,” he said to his brother as they scaled the steps of General Pat’s General Store, “we were in a car accident.”

  “Check.”

  They were in and out in less than ten minutes with a bag of groceries, a box of supplies, and directions to Hollyberry Inn which, according to the short-haired, soft-voiced, unisex-dressed proprietor of the store, wasn’t yet open for business.

  Jesse elbowed him as they descended the porch steps. “So, was Pat a man or a woman?

  Frank grunted. “Damned if I know.” He tossed their booty in the back seat, then opened the driver’s door.

  “Hold up, Frank. Isn’t that … shit, yeah. Over there, the open air café, sitting at the table far left. It’s the fruitcake we saw on that photo strip with Sofia. What’s his name?”

  “Jean-Pierre.” Frank peered over the rim of his sunglasses. “You’re right. Damn. That other guy, the one that looks like a young Sylvester Stallone, that’s Rudy. The pretty dark-haired lady with the black sunglasses, that’s Afia.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Sofia described her friends in the journal. The descriptions are pretty detailed. The peppy woman, the animated one with the blond curls, that’s Lulu.”

  Jesse nodded. “Sofia’s sister.”

  Frank’s lips curved into a wicked grin. “Looks like our luck’s on the upswing.”

  Paradise Valley, Arizona

  Bernard Cavendish.

  The moment Joe had said the name, Sofia flashed on the movie producer’s face, his voice. She remembered the house, the address. She recalled in vivid detail every moment right up until the womanizing bastard left her sitting in the screening room, and then she drew a blank. She’d spent the short flight from LA to Phoenix repeating her recollection to Joe over and over, hoping to break through. But every time she tried to think beyond that screening room, her mind shut down.

  By the time they’d landed at Sky Harbor International and located Joe’s jeep in the long-term parking garage, Sofia had fallen into thoughtful silence. She didn’t want to go back to the house, but she knew it was the only way to jar her memory. She needed to confront and deal with whatever had happened in order to move on.

  And she very much wanted to move on.

  This thing with Joe … what the hell was this thing with Joe? He hadn’t verbally declared love by way of those three specials words, but he had shown her love, and lust, in a manner that had rooted in her soul and twined throughout her body like a glorious vine. Something new and beyond description. It occurred that if he had tossed those words out, maybe she wouldn’t be taking him so seriously. She’d heard a hundred lines, including “I love you,” from various men at various stages of a relationship. More than once she’d been fooled into believing there was potential for a lifetime union. For all her liberal attitudes, she was old-fashioned when it came to wanting to settle down with one man.

  Hence, her avid search for the right man.

  Unfortunately, her determination to succeed in the entertainment world always steered her toward men in the business. Powerful men who stroked her ego and spoke her language, but who never tapped in beyond the superficial. She’d never truly connected with any of her exes.

  She connected with Joe.

  He challenged and intrigued her and, amazingly, he took her temperamental personality in stride.

  He’d mentioned forever and she’d vibrated with warring emotions. Her cynical self jumped on the notion that he’d only said that because there was a slim chance he’d gotten her pregnant. She didn’t know Joe well, but she knew he was a gentleman. His antiquated sensibilities would dictate that he marry the mother of his child. Then again, though conservative,
a rebel dwelled within. Maybe marriage wasn’t his agenda, but simply living together. The latter, whether she was pregnant or not, wasn’t good enough. She wanted more.

  She realized suddenly that she’d spent her entire life wanting more. Even her success on “Spy Girl” hadn’t sated a hunger that gnawed at her night and day. She felt like she was destined for something bigger. Something more important. That’s why she’d jumped at Cavendish’s weekend invitation. “I can give you the recognition you deserve.” He’d tempted her with legitimacy.

  But, as they neared the mansion that represented prestige and wealth, the vacation home of a man who’d dazzled audiences and critics worldwide with several blockbuster films, she faced the frightening possibility that, no matter her level of artistic success, it might never bring her complete joy and contentment. If this were true, then what the hell was she supposed to be doing with her life?

  Her cell phone chimed … and chimed.

  Joe shifted gears as he drove the jeep up the steep private driveway. “Babe. Your cell’s ringing.”

  “I hear it.” She reached into the handbag she’d snagged from her apartment last night and thumbed off the phone’s power. Recharging her cell had been a mixed blessing. It had allowed her the freedom to leave Lulu a short message on her cell phone, assuring her that she was fine, not to worry. And to retrieve several messages, most of which she chose not to return. Unfortunately, her publicist and agent refused to be ignored.

  “Might be important.”

  She fixated on the decorative wrought iron gates up ahead. “Discovering the truth about that night is important. Friends and family are important. Aside from Viv, the people I care about most are with your brother. If they truly need me, he’ll call you.”

  He peered at her over the rim of his Ray Bans.

  Her heart stuttered at the concern in his eyes. “It’s like I’m preparing to go on,” she said, trying to make him understand. “I need to focus. No distractions.”

  “Just remember this isn’t a one-woman show. I’ll be with you all the way.” He reached over and brushed the back of his fingers over her cheek, then shifted the jeep into park. “Security fencing. Wait here.”