Friends and Lovers Trilogy 03 - Seduced (9 page)

Jake swiped off his glasses and glared at Afia. “Rudy’s not expecting us, is he?”

She cleared her throat. “Um, well, no. He sort of cancelled on us.”

“Sort of?”

She balled her fists at her side and stood her ground. “He called last night and asked us not to come. Said he was having wiring problems. But something’s wrong, Jake. I just know Rudy needs us. So, I talked Lulu into coming up here early. I’m sure once Rudy sees us he’ll be glad we ignored his wishes. I know you’re mad, and I’m sorry I lied, but I’m not sorry we’re here.”

Jake glanced at Murphy and sighed. “And to think she used to have a problem sticking up for herself.”

Gold Canyon, Arizona

I
t wasn’t the best script she’d ever read. It wasn’t the worst. The clichéd romantic comedy certainly didn’t merit four consecutive read-throughs.

But it did give Sofia a reason to stay holed up in Joe’s study.

As long as she didn’t have to interact with her host, she didn’t have to combat the need to take refuge in his arms. Or his bed. The easier it was to fool herself into thinking she was actually on holiday and not hiding from the law. The notion that she’d hurt someone still niggled at the back of her brain.

Needing to redirect her thoughts, she’d used Joe’s computer to check her email. Since the battery on her cell phone had died, she hadn’t been able to check voice messages. Most of her business associates were computer junkies and usually backed up calls with emails. Sure enough, she’d logged on to hear those magical words, “You’ve got mail.”

She had two emails from her agent. One note informing her that the studio was pressuring him about her contract—had she made up her mind yet? Another note asking her to read and consider the attached screenplay, citing it as a guaranteed cash-cow. He didn’t seem to care which project she took on as long as he got his commission. Typical. Another post was from her publicist, feeling her out about an interview and a pictorial layout for
Playboy
. The last post, and most disconcerting as she hadn’t actually given him her email address, was from her former agent/lover, Chaz Bradley.
Coming to LA on business, baby. Let’s hook up
.

Fuck you
, she’d replied.

Her response to her publicist’s request had been more delicate. Yes, she knew what that kind of
exposure
could do for her career. No, she wasn’t interested.

Aside from her own pride, she had the sensibilities of future nieces and nephews to consider. Bad enough she was the sexpot poster girl of several Cherry Onatop fan sites. She could only hope that if she committed to additional seasons, these devoted viewers would focus less on her skimpy-ass costumes and more on her kick-ass acting when the new head writer came on board.

Sofia fingered the screenplay entitled,
From Venice With Love
, and sighed. Maybe she should audition. Playing a buttoned-up history major was a vast departure from her “Spy Girls” balls-to-the-wall alter-ego. At least it would show some range.

She’d done enough research on characterization and archetypes to know that her need to excel boiled down to validation. She came from a long line of actors, dancers, and variety artists. She wanted to do honor to the Marino name. She wanted to be acknowledged for her brains and talent, not her tits and ass.

She glanced down at her baggy sweats and bargain running shoes. No risk of being ogled in this getup. Joe certainly hadn’t spared her a second glance. A good thing, she told herself, as she tossed the script on the spotless desk. She didn’t want him, of all people, to ogle. Well, okay. If she were honest, a little attention might be nice. She’d been shut up in his pristine study—who knew a man could be so anally tidy—for three hours and he hadn’t checked in once.

Did he find her that unappealing? That easy to ignore? Just because she wasn’t wearing her usual formfitting clothes and sexy heels? Again, his disinterest tweaked a nerve. Repulsed by her insecurities, she pushed to her feet. She was better than this. Stronger than this. She was more than a pretty face. And by God, she could seduce the pants off of Joe Bogart even if she was bald, fifteen pounds heavier, and chafing with eczema.

That’s, if she wanted to. Which she didn’t.

At least, that’s what she told herself as she snatched up the script for a fifth read.

Being cooped up with a woman who made his eyeballs sweat wasn’t Joe’s idea of fun. The trick was in maintaining the physical aloofness he’d adopted earlier today. As long as he didn’t touch Sofia, he could refrain from jumping her bones. Didn’t mean he didn’t
think
about it. He was only human. But he wouldn’t act. Human, yes. Stupid, no.

Consummating the attraction would be a messy mistake.

Never mind his personal issues. Sofia Marino was a tangle of contradictions. Tough yet sensitive. Intelligent yet impulsive. Her priorities were so freaking screwed up it made his head spin. She’d suffered an assault of some kind and all she could think about was avoiding a scandal. God forbid jeopardizing her fame and fortune. Even now, she was poring over a script she’d downloaded from the Internet. He supposed he should be grateful since it saved him from having to make inane conversation.

It had also allowed him to speak to Earl Creed in private when he’d called to report on the Beretta. Verifying ownership had been a bust as the gun wasn’t registered. The only fingerprints, aside from a partial smudged print of Joe’s, belonged to one Sofia Chiquita Marino. The report had been far from helpful in establishing her dilemma. He’d finessed Creed into personally holding on to the gun, while tap dancing around his friend’s curiosity concerning the Hollywood spy-babe.

That had been an hour ago. Joe’s biggest fear was that the owner of the mysterious house was going to turn up dead, compliments of a 9mm slug, in which case Sofia would be the number one suspect. She’d flown in from LA to spend the weekend with someone. Someone who’d sent a limousine to pick her up at the airport. Someone who lived in an affluent area. Joe’s money was on a wealthy industry professional. A man who could advance her career. With Sofia, it was always about her career.

Sometimes he wished he hadn’t done an extensive background search on the woman. But at the time, he’d still been working for the Bureau, and as Lulu had been unwittingly connected to his undercover op, he’d had an excuse to dig into her sister’s past.

Orphaned at an early age, Sofia had grown up with her grandmother and older sister. They’d apparently failed to instill the notion of commitment. The twenty-eight-year-old woman formed and abandoned relationships with men as frequently as she dropped jobs and classes. In his estimation, her hunger for stardom was a veiled need for attention. If she really wanted to be the next Meryl Streep, she would’ve pursued her dramatic studies. But instead of perfecting her craft and paying her dues, she opted to skip to the head of the class via men in power.

No doubt about it, the man in question was a man in power.

Even though Joe despised the thought of her sleeping her way to the top, he couldn’t shed the primitive desire to shelter her from harm. And though he lacked proof, his gut insisted she was indeed at risk. In order to help her, he needed a full account of last night. The bitch of it was amnesia served as a safety mechanism. If he forced her to remember before she was emotionally ready, he could send her over the edge.

A hike into the Superstitions might ease the way—the ancient, hallowed ground did wonders to heal his body and spirit—but she’d yet to emerge from his study. Apparently, that script was riveting. He’d peeked in to offer her a cup of herbal tea—God knew he was familiar with the lingering effects of a tequila bender—but had backed out when he’d remembered she’d asked him to cut the thoughtful crap.

Talk about irritating.

What? So she couldn’t deal with a little simple consideration? Was she so used to men treating her like shit that she didn’t know how to handle kindness?

Agitated, Joe lifted the lid off of the pot and stirred the simmering marinara sauce. He’d no doubt catch hell for cooking her supper. But, screw it, the woman had to eat. Not that she’d agree. Five-o-clock in the evening and all she’d had today was a slice of dry toast, a banana, and four bottles of water. Normally, he’d attribute her lack of appetite to the hangover. But he knew for a fact her eating habits sucked. He knew from Murphy who’d heard it from Lulu. For some crackpot reason she thought she was overweight. It couldn’t help that she’d immersed herself in an industry obsessed with unrealistic ideals. He preferred the curvaceous bombshells of yesterday to the anorexic
Stepford
actresses of today. Intelligence and a healthy dose of self-confidence didn’t hurt, either. Brains and beauty were a powerful combination.

Speaking of powerful combinations … Joe inhaled the mouthwatering aromas of onions, garlic, basil, oregano, and thyme, wondering when Sofia last had a home-cooked meal. And he wasn’t talking a blender-generated smoothie.

“Smells delicious.”

The clipped observation sounded more like a gripe than a compliment. Probably pissed her off that she was actually tempted to eat. He kept his back to her and quirked a smug grin. No one could resist his
Nona
Maria’s marinara sauce.

“You forgot the cigarettes.”

He glanced over his shoulder at her—speaking of delicious—frowning as she rooted through the Wal-Mart shopping bags. Frankly, he was surprised it had taken her this long to seek a nicotine fix. “I didn’t forget.”

She searched the bags a second time. “I don’t see them.”

“That’s because I didn’t buy them.” He turned back to his cooking, amazed and annoyed. How was it possible for a woman sporting no make-up, hillbilly pigtails, and ill-fitting clothes to look so frickin’ sexy?

“Is this your subtle way of telling me smoking’s bad for my health?”

He ignored her sarcasm, tasted the sauce. “Let me guess,” he said, while adding a pinch of sugar. “You smoke to suppress your appetite.”

“That’s one reason.”

“What’s the other reason?”

“Calms my nerves.”

“There are healthier ways to alleviate stress.” Now, why in the hell had he said that?

“Name one.”

Against his better judgment, he ditched the spoon and turned, facing the exotic beauty head-on. “Hiking. Running. Rock climbing.”
Mind-blowing sex.

“That’s three. But I get the idea.” She frowned as she inspected the two additional sweat suits he’d purchased for her, along with denim overalls, two pairs of baggy Bermuda shorts, and five oversized T-shirts. “Strenuous physical activity.”

Sex
. “Cardio exercise.”

Her gaze flicked from the sportswear to him.
Oomph
! Those sultry eyes packed a powerful punch. She arched one perfectly-tweezed eyebrow. “What about sex?”

Yes, thank you. I’d love to have sex. With you. Now. On the kitchen table. On the floor. Against the fridge. Pick your poison
. “What about it?”

“Does that count as cardio exercise?”

“Only if you do it right.” He held her gaze, sort of a double dog dare. If she thought she could best him in a game of innuendo, she was mistaken.

But instead of flinging a comeback, she broke eye contact and pulled more loot from the bag. “Who are these for?”

“You said you needed fresh delicates.”

“But, they’re granny underwear.”

Exactly. On the off chance that he was subjected to another drunken strip show, she’d be easier to resist in high-rise cotton briefs and an old-fashioned Cross-Your-Heart bra.

He hoped.

He gave a disinterested shrug. “They’re functional.”

She scowled. “Like these sweats and T-shirts? Which, by the way, are two sizes too big.”

“Better to hide that figure than flaunt it.” Those dangerous curves would turn heads even if she were dressed in a potato sack. From the pained look on her face, he surmised she thrived on the very attention he strived to avoid. Christ. He was trying to lay low while they sorted out this mess, and she was worried about her wardrobe? Could she be anymore shallow? Disgusted with himself for being so damned attracted to her, he turned back to the bubbling sauce.

Ten seconds of silent tension. Ten seconds of anticipation. He felt the shift in mood. Felt her moving in for the kill. Whatever had possessed him to invite this potent creature into his sanctuary?

“That’s not jar sauce.”

Her warm breath caressed his ear, sending a rush of blood to his groin. Or, maybe it was the brush of her full breasts against his arm as she leaned in and peered over his shoulder. Freaking A. “Bite your tongue.
Nona
would roll over in her grave.” He set aside the wooden spoon and moved swiftly to the refrigerator in search of something, anything. The act afforded him distance and a blast of cold air.

“Lulu said Murphy’s an incredible cook. Says he’s almost as talented in the kitchen as he is in the … well, I probably shouldn’t go there.”

“Probably not.” Maybe if he stuck his dick in the freezer …