Friends and Lovers Trilogy 03 - Seduced (14 page)

Rudy’s head snapped up.

“Holy smoke,” Lulu said on a breathless giggle. “The Three Stooges live.”

“What happened?” Afia asked.

Rudy blinked. The wide-eyed women stood side-by-side, safe and sound. Relief struck him speechless.

Not so Murphy. “What do you mean, what happened?” he railed. “You screamed.”

“Are you all right?” Jake scanned the women head to toe as he massaged his right shoulder. Murphy must’ve clocked him good, aggravating an old injury.

“We’re fine,” Afia said.

“Then why the hell did you scream?” Murphy reached down and offered Rudy a hand up.

Lulu frowned. “You don’t have to yell, Colin.”

“I’m not yelling!”

“You’re yelling,” Jake countered. “Why did you scream?” he repeated just as loudly.

“There was a big honking spider on the breaker panel door,” Lulu said.

Afia shuddered. “I hate spiders.”

Rudy shifted his weight and winced. His hip and ankle smarted like the dickens. “What were you doing in the utility room?”

“Tripping the breakers,” Lulu said. “Easier to catch someone creeping about if you can see him.”

Jake looked over his shoulder at Rudy. “Where were you?”

“Looking for them.” He eyed the side chair, ready to damn Casper for tripping him up and making him look like Curly or Moe, or whoever the third idiot was. He could never remember. Not that it mattered. A stooge was a stooge.

Afia winced. “Sorry about that. We put the chair in the doorway, thinking if someone followed us, they’d trip and the noise would alert us.”

Jake kissed her forehead and smiled. “Smart girl.”

“What part of ‘stay put’ didn’t you understand, princess?” Murphy asked Lulu. He scraped a hand over his buzz cut, blew out a frustrated breath. “Every time you pull a stunt like this you take five years off my life.”

Rudy was certain he’d sprouted twenty gray hairs in the last five minutes.

Lulu smiled apologetically and moved in to hug Murphy. “So, what did you find outside? Did you see anyone?”

“Not a soul. Whoever it was moved fast. All we found was a mangled rain gutter on the south side of the inn.” He wrapped his arms around her, a loving, protective embrace that summoned an envious lump in Rudy’s throat. He could use a hug himself just now. Specifically, from Jean-Pierre.

“Someone tampered with the satellite dish,” Jake said, steering Afia into a kitchen chair. “Guessing here, but since I didn’t see a ladder, I’d say someone climbed that big oak and scaled a branch to get to the dish. Probably slipped and grabbed on to the rain gutter, only the gutter gave and the prankster fell and landed hard on the ground.”

“Hence the howl,” Afia surmised. She shivered. “Sounded like something out of a horror movie.”

Rudy’s mind raced, rehashing information he’d read on
bust-a-poltergeist.com
Paranormal activity included things such as moaning, shrieking, electrical glitches, and moving objects. It would’ve been easier to suspect a burglar or vandalizing teen if he hadn’t suffered similar occurrences already.
And
if the satellite dish wasn’t near the Evergreen Suite.

“I hate scary movies.” Lulu snuggled closer against Murphy. “Vampires and werewolves. Flesh eating zombies intent on revenge.”

Jake laughed. “Jesus.”

Murphy rolled his eyes.

“What about disgruntled ghosts,” Rudy muttered.

Lulu groaned. “They’re the worst. Oh, my gosh,” she said, pushing out of Murphy’s arms to sit next to Afia. “Did you see
Poltergeist
?”

Wide-eyed, Afia shook her head no. “Dead people and demons creep me out. I’d rather face a spider than a ghost.”

Great. Rudy limped toward the fridge. “I need a beer. Anyone else?”

“Hit me,” Jake said.

Murphy nodded.

“Nothing for me, thank you,” Lulu said.

Afia passed as well. “If you hate scary movies,” she said to Lulu, “how did you make it through
Poltergeist
?”

“I closed my eyes a lot. But Sofie filled me in. Oh, wow,” she said, just as Rudy shut the fridge and turned, hands full. “This place is really old, right? What if it’s built on an ancient burial ground? What if the inn’s haunted?”

Rudy fumbled the longneck bottles.

Jake moved fast, catching the one that slipped his grip.

Murphy relieved him of another, saying to Lulu, “You might want to curb that imagination, hon.”

Jake sat next to Afia, twisted off the bottle cap. “Relax, baby. The inn’s not haunted. No such things as ghosts.”

Rudy swigged his beer.

“Whoever it was is long gone.” Murphy took a pull off the longneck, then eyed Rudy. “Had any trouble like this before?”

Like he was supposed to fess up now? “No.” He made the mistake of making eye contact with Afia.

Her sable eyes sparked with suspicion. “You would tell us, wouldn’t you?”

Oh, boy. If he glanced away, she’d know he was withholding. If he lied, she’d know that too. “Busted.” He drank more beer, tempered his expression. Maybe if he acted like it was no big deal. “The inn’s haunted.”

He expected a barrage of questions, a unified gasp, something. No one reacted. Not even a flinch.

Finally, Lulu snorted. “Yeah, right.”

Afia sighed. “I give up.”

Jake’s lip twitched. “A simple I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it would’ve sufficed, Gallow.”

Incredulous laughter bubbled in Rudy’s throat. They didn’t believe him. Rather than launching into the legend of Casper Montegue, he casually tipped his beer to his lips and expanded on the absurd. “No, seriously, I’ve got a ghost with a grudge.”

Afia rolled her big brown eyes. “A grudge against Cary Grant movies? Or TV in general?”

“Speaking of,” Lulu said to Murphy, “I don’t suppose you’d consider going back outside and realigning that dish.”

“No, I don’t suppose I would. Not tonight. I’m beat. I’m going to bed.”

She glanced at her Cinderella watch. “It’s only ten-thirty.”

Murphy nabbed her hand and gently tugged her to her feet. “We’ve been up since five this morning, princess.”

“Us too.” Jake set his beer bottle on the counter and helped Afia to her feet.

They exchanged goodnights while Rudy deposited the empty bottles in a recycle bin. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. He’d told the truth—no lectures on honesty coming his way—and they’d mistaken the truth for sarcasm, therefore no one was spooked or accusing him of going off the deep end. They were all hitting the sack, meaning he was free to surf the Internet for instant ghostbusting tips. While he was at it he’d shoot off another email to Jean-Pierre. With any luck, come morning, he and his soulmate would be back on track. With any luck, come morning, the mangled gutter and mysterious howl would be forgotten and he’d be off the hook.

Just before crossing the threshold, the two couples turned as one. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

So much for being off the hook.

Phoenix, Arizona

W
hen you said you knew a guy, I assumed you meant Special Agent Creed,” Sofia muttered under her breath as they exited the retro basement apartment of a computer whiz with an Austin Powers complex. Talk about weird. Her theory that she was an unwitting participant in a reality show version of a Hitchcock tale escalated with each ticking minute.

“Best to pick and choose what favors I ask of Creed.” Joe cupped her elbow and escorted her up the stairs.

“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.”