Friends and Lovers Trilogy 03 - Seduced (7 page)

A
nything?”

“Zip.” Frank tossed the newspaper aside. He’d read three local rag sheets cover to cover. No mention of last night’s debacle. It seemed too good to be true. Why hadn’t the Marino dame run to the cops? Unless, she didn’t want the world to know where she’d been, or more precisely who’d she’d been with. Maybe her career couldn’t withstand the scandal. Maybe she was going to pretend like it never happened. Or maybe, just maybe the crazy bitch planned on blackmailing them as soon as she regrouped and figured out how to establish contact. The world was full of greedy people who worked all sorts of angles.

He cracked open a warm beer and swallowed his first painkiller of the day. Bottom line, her silence afforded him and Jesse the upper hand. Career thieves, this was their first and last professional hit, the payoff big enough to fund an early retirement. He refused to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder like their Wild West namesakes.

No loose ends
.

Frank rose from the economy motel’s sagging twin mattress and crossed to the bathroom. He winced when he caught sight of his battered face in the bureau mirror. Disgusted, he adjusted the angle of his Stetson hoping to shadow the swelling. He’d never been a handsome man, never known women to drool over him the way they did his little brother. Jesse had the face and body of an angel, according to the ladies. He could easily get laid seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. Thing was, being a germ-o-phobe, Jesse wasn’t all that interested in swapping bodily fluids with a woman. Where was the fairness in that? Frank wondered. Not that wondering would change anything. Wasted energy, his mamma would say. He had bigger problems.

Like keeping the James brothers out of prison.

Jesse stood at the chipped enamel sink washing his left hand with anti-bacterial soap. Not surprising. He’d been on the phone, and even though he’d disinfected the receiver, his fears wouldn’t subside until he’d ridded his skin of germs, real or imagined. For a smart man, the kid was a real head case. Frank didn’t bother to ask if his broken hand was paining him for fear of setting him off on a tangent. Best to keep his mind on business. “How’d you make out?”

“I must’ve called twenty hotels. No Sofia Marino.” Jesse used his elbow to shut off the faucet, and a clean towel to dry his hand. “Crapped out with the car rental agencies too. Not that I expected different. We’ve got her purse, Frank. Her airline ticket and her wallet. She’s got no ID, no cash or credit. I say she’s still in the area. Shacked up with another friend, maybe.”

Frank’s gut said different, and his gut was almost never wrong. “I say she found a way home. If I were her, I’d dig out my passport, deplete my bank account, and disappear. Then again, there’s a chance she has bolder plans. Either way she needs ID, money, and maybe the help of a close friend.” He reached into his pocket and plucked out the photo strip he’d found in the woman’s purse. A result of squeezing into one of those arcade-type photo booths. Frowning, he studied the four black-and-white snapshots of the dark beauty kissing and mugging with a shaggy-haired white boy. On the back she’d written “
Me and JP, two stars on the rise
”.

“Think that’s her boyfriend?” Jesse asked.

“I’m thinking it’s possible, seeing they live at the same address. Found a Jean-Pierre Legrand listed in her little address book. Same home address as the one listed on her driver’s license.”

Jesse nodded, confirming he caught Frank’s drift. “So, we’re driving to LA.”

“Can’t spare the time. We’ll fly.” He hated to fly, but unlike his brother, he wasn’t ruled by his fears.

Jesse quirked a wicked smile while maneuvering the fingers of his busted hand. “California, here we come.”

Los Angeles, California

J
ean-Pierre was ticked. No, he was pissed with a capital P. Instead of giving Rudy hell last night, he’d placated him with a string of reassurances and sugar words.

“But of course, I understand, Bunny. Plumbing and wiring issues,” he mimicked, while hurling underwear and socks into his suitcase. “Repairmen traipsing in and out. No privacy. Not a good time. Ah,
oui
, sweetie, we can reschedule. No problem.”

Except, there was a problem. Jean-Pierre was tired of walking on egg shells while the man he loved worked through some insane life crisis. He was tired of being the strong one. Tired of waiting. He was just plain
tired
. He’d been struggling with his own personal and career crisis for months. Suffering with insomnia for weeks. Last night he’d tossed and turned, imagining tasty-cake handymen taking turns cleaning Rudy’s pipes and electrifying his nights. Not a good sign. It meant that Rudy’s one indiscretion still preyed on his mind. Deep down, he questioned the one time King of Quickie’s ability to remain faithful.

He’d forgiven the slip months ago. Everyone makes mistakes. But apparently he had a lingering issue with trust. Otherwise, his mind wouldn’t be spinning these lascivious images. Dr. Mitchell was right. He needed to confront Rudy about that night. Face to face.

“Wiring issues, my pansy tush.” Furious, Jean-Pierre shoved random shirts and pants into the suitcase. He didn’t fuss with coordinates, didn’t bother folding properly to prevent wrinkles. He just crammed articles of clothing into the case and slammed it shut.

He grabbed the handle and stormed out of the bedroom, his pulse accelerating in anticipation of the upcoming row. Sweat beaded his upper lip as he battled an anxiety attack, focusing instead on the trip he’d rescheduled a mere two hours before.

He knew he was forgetting something but, for the life of him, could not think what. Currently, he was in between jobs, master of his own schedule. So, flying to Vermont today instead of tomorrow, or instead of next month as he’d stupidly agreed to last night, would pose a problem to no one.

Except Rudy.

Just the thought of walking in on his lover and a handyman comparing their
tools
, had him sprinting toward the kitchen for a paper bag.

But then there was a knock on the door.

Had to be the cab driver. Better early than late. Bracing himself, he tightened the grip on the suitcase and steamrolled towards the door. There’d be plenty of time to hyperventilate
after
he faced his demons.

Gold Canyon, Arizona

“I think someone drugged me.” Sofia tightened her seatbelt as Joe shifted gears and swerved the jeep off the highway, onto a bumpy dirt road. They’d held silent during the bumper-to-bumper drive from Phoenix to Apache Junction, each simmering in their own thoughts. She’d had twenty additional, nerve-racking minutes to ponder her predicament when Joe had refused to let her accompany him into the local Wal-Mart. He was determined to keep her low-profile. Like anyone would recognize her in the soccer mom get-up—
sans
make-up, hair divided into pigtails—but he’d been adamant.

So, she’d waited. And pondered. “There has to be a logical explanation for this memory gap.” She couldn’t blame it on the alcohol, as she’d blacked out before her asinine drinking binge. “I could’ve been at a party. Someone could’ve spiked my drink. Maybe they lured me into their car with nefarious intentions. Maybe I threw myself from a moving vehicle to escape their evil clutches. Maybe,” she drawled, rolling with the dramatic scenario, “I slid down a rocky slope, ultimately sustaining a conk on the head that affected my short term memory.”

Joe dipped his chin and glanced at her over the rims of his Ray Bans. “
That’s
your logical explanation?”

She gave a righteous sniff. “It would explain my injuries.”

“Don’t muddy the waters by mixing fiction with fact.”

“Meaning?”

He focused back on the road. “You just described an episode of ‘Spy Girl’.”

Specifically episode three:
Dr. Fleshpot’s Revenge
. Her cheeks flushed with pride. “You watch ‘Spy Girl’?”

He flexed and tightened his fingers on the steering wheel. “Read the synopsis in TV Guide.”

“Oh.” Disappointment sang through her blood. She’d secretly hoped that he’d tuned in, out of curiosity if nothing else. True, they weren’t what she would call friends, but they were family. Wasn’t he the least bit interested in his sister-in-law’s accomplishments? Her ascent from “starving actress” to “celebrity icon” had been fast and furious, even by Hollywood standards.

Okay, so she was more of a cult fave than a respected artist, but as far as she was concerned the espionage cable show was merely a stepping stone. Regardless of the farfetched premise and limited production budget, she was still proud of her work. Joe’s apathy hit a raw nerve. Damn him. Damn
her
. The sudden rush of inadequacy intimated she was seeking self-worth in his eyes and transported her to a place she thought she’d left behind.

Striving to keep the bitterness from her tone, she tugged the brim of her cap lower, effectively shielding her bloodshot eyes. “So, what’s
your
take on my memory loss?”

He cocked his head. “Could be psychological rather than a physiological. Could be dissociative amnesia.”

“Which is?”

“Memory loss restricted to a period of time, such as the duration of a traumatic episode, possibly a violent crime.”

Her stomach gurgled with remnants of tequila and newfound angst. “You said not to jump to conclusions.”

“I’m not jumping. I’m working with what we know.”

“Which isn’t much.” She swigged from her Evian water bottle to counteract the rising bile. “You think I shot someone.”

“Didn’t say that. It’s possible an assault of some kind occurred. Probable it was ugly.”

“Great.”

His cell phone rang. He slipped on a headset and took the call, momentarily absorbed in a conversation with someone about a jeep tour.

Sofia studied the prickly, barren landscape, wondering why anyone would want to live in the godforsaken desert. Especially a man who’d, according to Lulu who’d heard it from Murphy, graduated college specializing in psychology and foreign languages. Federal agents also had to be versed in law and weaponry. She knew first hand that Joe excelled in martial arts. Given his extensive and varied training, why was he tooling snowbirds around in a jeep? Why was he living in the boonies as opposed to a city thriving with cultural and professional opportunities? She understood wanting to put the past behind you, wanting to start over, but damn, in purgatory?

Then she remembered something else her sister had said. “Colin’s worried Bogie’s never going to rejoin the living.” Sofia hadn’t given it much thought at the time, mainly because she didn’t want to think about Joe Bogart period. Now, she was curious as hell.

She eavesdropped as the man bullshitted his boss, bailing last minute on two scheduled tours and, if his expression and tone were any indication, coming out of the lie smelling like a rose. Her publicist would be green with envy. He was
that
good. Add master manipulator to his list of special skills. Probably why he’d been such an effective undercover agent.

He’d sure snowed Julietta Marcella
.

Sofia fidgeted in her seat. Just thinking about that poor woman made her skin itch. Maybe that’s why Joe relocated to the desert, hot as hell and populated by venomous creatures. Maybe this was a form of punishment. Penance for what he perceived as an unforgivable act. Pretty harsh, considering he hadn’t been directly responsible for her death. Was it possible that he’d actually been in love with Julietta? The thought had never occurred.

Uncomfortable with the idea, Sofia focused on the clump of mountains looming ahead, rough-edged and mysterious, like Joe. He signed off with his boss and fell into thoughtful silence. She soaked in the blazing sun and foreign sights, feeling as though she’d driven onto the rehearsal lot of a classic thriller.

Be careful what you wish for.

She used to wish she’d been born earlier so she could’ve starred in an Alfred Hitchcock film. A brilliant director, he’d seen beyond the radiant beauty of Ingrid Bergman, Grace Kelly, and Kim Novak, tapping into their smoldering sensuality and cool charm to illicit performances of a lifetime. Apparently, the spiritual powers-that-be had decided to award Sofia a role in a reality show version of a Hitchcock tale, the main components nail-biting suspense and twisted attraction. She could almost imagine the Master of Suspense sitting in his celestial director’s chair chortling at her anxiety.

Joe’s Wrangler Jeep raced and bounced over the rock and hole infested excuse for a road, leaving civilization in the dust, and heightening Sofia’s trepidation. She clasped her hands in her lap rather than gnawing at her expensive French manicure. She struggled not to obsess on this morning’s fruitless investigation as they zoomed closer to his desert home.

Still, her mind percolated.

Either housekeeping had beat them to the public restroom, carting off last night’s garbage pre-dawn, or Sofia had imagined shoving her soiled suit in the gleaming trash receptacle.