Friends and Lovers Trilogy 03 - Seduced (2 page)

“Liar.”

Joe concentrated on his lunch, hoping his brother couldn’t read the severity of his sweaty-palmed obsession. He knew exactly where Sofia Marino was, who she was seeing, and what she was doing. How could he not? Her exotic face and killer body had made the cover of more than one Hollyweird gossip rag over the last few months. He didn’t buy the tabloids, didn’t have to. They were at his fingertips every time he stood in a checkout line. Who could resist skimming? And okay, yes, he visited her fan site twice or twenty times a week, and watched her farfetched TV cable show, “Spy Girl”, every Wednesday night. Again, he couldn’t help it. It was like watching a train wreck. Morbid fascination. She’d gone from Broadway bomb to TV action star in less than a year, with a short stint in between as a skimpily-costumed casino greeter girl. Her costumes were still provocative, a cross between Emma Peel of the Avengers and that Tomb Raider chick, but now she had a hefty bank account and a league of fanatic fans. Mostly teenage girls and horny, techno-geek males.

Unlike those espionage-wannabes,
he
did not have a boner for Cherry Onatop—and what kind of lame, rip-off Bond girl name was
that
? No, he’d fallen in lust with Sofia Chiquita Marino, pre-Cherry, during Operation Candy Jar. He’d been seduced by a vulnerability he was certain no one other than her sister even knew existed. A vulnerability that would suck the strength and sense out of him if he allowed himself to explore their undeniable chemistry.

He didn’t need or want the complication. Just now he needed to keep life simple.

“Rudy Gallow bought a bed and breakfast up in Vermont,” Murphy said of a mutual acquaintance. “A group of us are heading up there for a week—Lulu and I, Jake and Afia, Jean-Pierre and Sofia—partly to relax, partly to give Gallow someone to practice on.” He shrugged. “What the hell? It’s gratis, Gallow’s an excellent cook, and I hear the scenery’s kick-ass. Company’s not bad either. You should come.”

Joe stuffed the empty sandwich bags into his backpack. “Let me put this in words you can understand. Not just no, but
hell
no.”

“I know what the tabloids say, but Sofia’s not seeing anyone. Lulu would know. Jean-Pierre would know. The guy’s living with her, for chrissake. He would have told Rudy and Rudy would have told Afia.”

“Who would’ve told Jake, and now since you two are tight again, Jake would’ve told you. Christ, Murph. Three couples, one of them gay, and two incompatible, but hot-for-each-other singles. You’re asking me to fly to Bumfuck, Vermont to take part in a warped version of
The Big Chill
.”

“Good movie. Better soundtrack. Percy Sledge. Marvin Gaye. Smokey Robinson.”

“You’re still hooked on Motown?” Joe smoothed his thick, shoulder-length hair off of his face, pulling it into a stubby ponytail. “Step out of the sixties, man.”

“Look who’s talking, Mr. Tie-dye-T-shirt. All you’re missing is a joint and a peace sign. When are you going to cut your hair? What’s with the goatee?”

Once a Marine, always a Marine. Murphy sported a buzz cut and a clean-shaven jaw. When he wasn’t undercover, Joe normally copped a similar look, topping it off with the classic dark suit, white shirt, and black tie. Stereotypical G-man right down to the dark shades. He’d kept the shades, protection against the Arizona sun, but chucked the suit in favor of T-shirts, jeans, and cargo shorts. The hair and the beard, well, hell, once a rebel always a rebel. He stroked his groomed facial hair, waggled his eyebrows. “Women dig this thing.”

Murphy rose. “So you’re not a total recluse then. You’re actually
dating
?”

Joe pushed to his feet, and slung the pack over his shoulder. “Let’s just say I’m not lonely.”

“Anyone special? Because this thing with Sofia…”

“There is no
thing
with Sofia.” He felt his calm slipping. A calm he’d fought hard for these last few months. There’d been a kiss. Two kisses. Two un-frickin’-believable kisses. But there was no
thing
. After utilizing a pressure point to knock her unconscious, he was relatively certain Sofia would just as soon spend a week with a baboon than with him. Which was fine, no
perfect
. “Stop trying to fix me up. Stop trying to fix my life. I’m fine. I’m happy.”

“Bullshit.”

“Fuck you.” The calm exploded. Shards of guilt and anger pierced his toughened skin, making him edgy and restless.
Dammit
. He searched the vivid blue sky, summoning tranquility. Turkey vultures circled above, probably hoping for remnants of their lunch, but vultures, Christ, wasn’t
that
an ominous sign?

“You didn’t kill that girl, Bogie.”

“Yeah?” He eyed the precarious path beyond the hoodoos, needing to burn off the anxiety. He turned his back on his brother, faced his past, and hit the trail. “I guess that depends on who you ask.”

S
ofia Marino woke up with a cell phone in one hand, a gun in the other, and the nauseating feeling that she’d done something wrong. Had she blown a stunt? The director insisted on using a stunt double for precision driving and high falls, but she always tried to take on as much as possible.

Especially hand-to-hand combat.

She’d been training in martial arts for almost nine months. The longest she’d stuck with schooling of any kind. “
You need to pay attention in class,
” Joseph Bogart had once said after easily besting her. Arrogant prick. Then again, his criticism had worked as excellent incentive. Her hard-earned skills had cinched her role on “Spy Girl”. She wondered if he watched her show. She hated that she cared. The last thing she wanted to obsess on was the man who’d seduced and broken her heart with a single kiss.

Muscles aching, she shoved disheveled hair off of her clammy face and pushed to her feet. Her
bare
feet. Where were her shoes?

Moonlight streamed through a small window, illuminating what looked to be the inside of a tool shed. What scene was this? What episode? Damn, her head ached. Had she taken a hit?

Disoriented, she pushed open the aluminum door, expecting Dirk Brevin to yell, “Cut!” But all she heard was her own uneven breathing. All she saw was the back of a strange house and … was that a cactus? She inched closer to the house, wincing with each step. A motion detector light flooded the lawn. A landscaped lawn of desert flora and crushed stone. No wonder her feet hurt.

She stopped and frowned down at the phone. Her personal cell phone. Not Cherry Onatop’s compact, secret gadget phone. She blinked at the gun. Not Cherry’s gun. The villain’s gun, maybe? Had she kicked it out of his hand? Had the actor retaliated and accidentally knocked her out? If this was a set, where were the cast and crew? Where were the lights and cameras?

She swallowed hard, focused on her surroundings. That was definitely a cactus. A cactus, a house she didn’t recognize, and distant mountains. A hot, arid breeze ruffled her hair. She smelled sweat, fear. Her heart raced as she licked her dry lips and tried to think past the persistent pounding at the base of her skull.

Phoenix. She was in Phoenix, Arizona. That was it. Not Los Angeles, California. Phoenix. But why? The harder she tried to remember, the more the throbbing increased.

Phone. Gun. Phone. Gun. Her gaze dropped to her linen skirt.
Blood
.

The throbbing intensified. She staggered back toward the tool shed, pulse racing. Why was there blood on her skirt and legs? Wait. Don’t panic. It had to be from a squib. A blood pack placed over a charge. Fake blood. Right?
Where is the stunt coordinator
?

She backed into the shed. Her pulse slowed. She felt safer here. Less panicked. How absurd. Safe from what? She placed the gun and phone on a work bench and groped in the dark, squinting—as if that somehow helped—to make out the contents of the moonlit shed. She located a flashlight, excellent, a pair of rubber flip-flops, and an ankle-length rain slicker. Okay, good. Protection for her feet. A coat to cover the blood. The
fake
blood.

This isn’t real. This isn’t happening
. The words echoed in her fuzzy mind.

Head throbbing, Sofia stuffed the gun into the deep pocket of the yellow slicker—God save her from the fury of the prop master if she misplaced a piece of his personal stock—and forced herself to leave the sanctity of the shed. Battling irrational panic, she rounded the sizable, upscale property and aimed the flashlight at a street sign. Lincoln Drive. She didn’t recognize the name. The circular driveway was empty. The house was dark. Maybe the residents were away. No matter. No way was she knocking on the door. Her brain spun in rusty circles, but her gut compelled her to gravitate toward a public place.

Dazed, she meandered down the paved street toward a softly lit, rambling adobe resort. She squinted at the distant red neon sign.
The
Camelback Inn
. Surely this place had a lounge. She needed to sit. She needed a drink.

The gun weighed down the left side of the plastic slicker. The phone burned a hole in her sweaty palm.

She needed help.

She hit speed dial, her eyes on the front steps of that inn, her thoughts on a shot of tequila.

“Murphy here.”

Her lungs bloomed with relief at the sound of her brother-in-law’s no-nonsense voice. A voice of reason in any crisis. She couldn’t remember why she was in Phoenix. She was in possession of a gun and covered with blood. That qualified as a crisis, didn’t it?
This isn’t real. This isn’t happening
. “It’s Sofia.” Her voice sounded weak and shaky to her ears.

Murphy heard it too. “What’s wrong? Oh, hell, don’t tell me you’re canceling the trip to Vermont. Lulu hasn’t seen you in months…”

“I think I’m in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I don’t know. I … ”

“Where are you?”

“Phoenix.”

“What are you doing in Phoenix?”

“
I don’t know
.” Her temples throbbed as she pushed through the front door and moved into the cool, swanky interior of the lobby.

“What do you mean … Damn. The plane’s leaving the gate. I can’t get off and they’re going to make me disconnect. Where are you? Exactly.”

“The Camelback Inn. Lincoln Drive.” She ditched the flashlight and snatched a brochure from a rack on the wall, scanned the address. “Scottsdale.” An upscale suburb of Phoenix. She massaged a fierce stabbing in her temple.
How did I get here
?

“Plant your ass in a chair and don’t move. Someone will be there in twenty, give or take five.”

A professional bodyguard, Murphy had contacts all over the states. Apparently he knew someone in Phoenix. Someone he’d trust with his sister-in-law’s welfare. She ignored the curious once-over of the front desk clerk, snapped the slicker to her chin, and shuffled her stolen flip-flops toward quiet conversation and the acoustic strumming of a Spanish guitar. The urge to drink herself into oblivion was overwhelming. “I’ll be in the bar.”

She disconnected and pocketed the cell. She located a secluded table in a dimly lit corner of the lounge and planted her ass in a chair. She wanted a cigarette and a drink. Her cigarettes were in her purse along with her cash and credit cards. Her purse was MIA.

Like a portion of her memory.

She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead and fought tears. She was not without resources. She glanced toward the bar. Plenty of men at the bar. Men who’d be willing to buy her a drink, or ten. Four Wall Street types were checking her out right now despite the klutzy shoes and chintzy raincoat. All she had to do was smile. Hell, a slight tilt of her head would do the trick. But then eventually one or all would come over, wanting to sit down. Then she’d be obligated to make small talk or to come up with a clever, unoffending reason as to why they couldn’t join her.
I have a headache
, even though it was true, probably wouldn’t fly. The last thing she wanted just now was the company of a randy man. And weren’t they
all
randy?

“
You’re even more beautiful in person
.” The garbled compliment poked through her hazy memory. Her stomach turned.

Instead of smiling at the Brooks Brothers barflies, she slipped into bitch mode, adjusting her expression and body language to telegraph a pointed thought: “
Leave me the hell alone
.”

The trolling businessmen quickly turned their attention back to the bar.

What do you know? For once the ice princess had an effect. Where she was concerned, men were usually more persistent.

When the waitress appeared, Sofia purposely warmed. Switching character as easily as most people changed underwear, she affected her celebrity persona. She fluffed her processed, signature red hair and flashed a dazzling, mega-buck smile.

“Oh, my gosh,” the young woman chirped. “You’re Cherry Onatop. Wow. I … wow. I
love
your show. Are you on vacation? Shooting on location? Is that why you’re dressed like that? Are you staying with us?”

Sofia opted to answer the last question. “Yes, I am.” She leaned toward the girl, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Not something I’d like to get around … ” she glanced at her name tag, “Lisa.”

“Low profile. I get it.” Lisa hugged her empty tray against her chest and winked. “Actually, lots of stars stay here, although they don’t usually hang out in the lounge. Or so I’ve heard. This is my first night. You’re my first VIP.” She beamed at Sofia as if to say,
you’re really cool for hanging like a normal person
. “So, would you like to run a tab?”

“That would be fabulous,” Sofia said, feeling far from normal.
This isn’t real. This isn’t happening
. “Let’s start with a pack of Salems, a Corona and two shots of Cuervo gold.” With any luck by the time Murphy’s friend arrived, she’d be numb.

F
rank James was pissed. His nose throbbed like a mother. His stringy arm muscles burned from overuse. Instead of whizzing over the border to enjoy a windfall and some prime Mexican booty, he was driving around the outskirts of Phoenix, resisting the urge to strangle his paranoid brother, and wondering how he was going to deal with one crazy bitch.