Friends and Lovers Trilogy 03 - Seduced (21 page)

“She’s an eyewitness to a murder. Any law abiding citizen would’ve hightailed it to the cops and spewed their story. She’s soaking up the desert sun and screwing some shifty prick. It doesn’t track.”

Jesse yawned, stretched. “The guy looked like a hippy, what with that long hair and beard, but that doesn’t make him shifty.”

“Former fed,” Frank reminded his brother. “You ever known someone to retire from the Bureau at thirty-something? They must have forced him out.”

“So, you think he’s crooked?”

Frank flashed back on the photo of the stormy-eyed man and the dark-skinned beauty. Dread shot from his balding head to the toes of his snakeskin boots. “I think he’s trouble. The longer she’s with him, the bigger the risk to us.”

Jesse nodded, as if he’d recognized the same dangerous vibe in the man the newscaster had announced as former Special Agent Joseph Bogart. “So, you think Bogart and Marino are plotting to blackmail us. Meaning, you think she knows about the quarter-mill Mrs. Cavendish shelled out?”

Frank shrugged. “I don’t know about that. Maybe they’re looking to enlist us on trade. Marino’s silence for services rendered.”

“You think they got someone they want us to cap?” Jesse angled his head. “I don’t know, Frank. Seems pretty farfetched.”

“Got any other ideas on why the bitch hasn’t spilled her guts to the law?”

“Maybe she’s scared. Maybe she asked this Bogart dude to protect her, just in case we came looking. Which we did. You know, like a bodyguard. She is a star, after all. Those Hollywood-types probably have flings with their bodyguards all the time.”

“You could be right. I hope you are.” Frank threw back the remainder of his whiskey. “Still, I don’t plan to spend the rest of my life wondering and looking over my shoulder. Not to mention that bitch should pay for what she did to my face. I ain’t gonna rest until she does.”

“So, we’re going to Arizona then.” He whistled low. “That’s gonna be one hell of a long drive, Frank.”

“If the press can’t sniff out her exact location, who says we can? No. We’re sticking to our plan.” He patted the journal in his inner jacket pocket. “We’ll make her come to us.”

“And then?”

Frank fingered his marred face, fury swirling in his liquored-up gut. “Payback time.”

Los Angeles, California

Y
ou’re even more beautiful in person.”

She didn’t mind the compliment. She minded the way he looked at her. Like a wolf salivating over a lamb. She should be flattered … that’s what he was thinking. She could tell by the arrogant tilt of his silvery head. He was handsome, wealthy, and powerful. He was in the position to make her a star. A respected cinematic star.

He was also married.

He topped off her wine. “Did you enjoy dinner?”

“Very much.” She reached for the wine glass, needing, hoping to soften her brittle nerves. Keep it casual, Sofia. Keep it business. “So, when are the others arriving?”

“Soon.” He stood and lowered the lights. “In the meantime, let’s relax and watch a movie.”

“One of yours?” Maybe he wanted to familiarize her with his work. Would she sound like a kiss-up if she said she’d seen every one? She didn’t want to fall back on compliments, no matter how sincere, coy smiles or fluttering eyelashes. She wanted to do this right.

“A classic, actually.” He settled beside her on the screening room couch. “I understand you’re a fan of Hitchcock.”

Music swelled. Her muscles tensed. Don’t touch me, she thought as he casually draped his arm across the back of the couch. She closed her eyes, breathed deep, and listened to the haunting score, the cryptic dialogue. She knew every scene, every line.

She knew that slightly accented voice.

Sofia bolted upright, eyes wide. Ingrid Bergman spoke to her from a nineteen-inch television. No, wait. Ms. Bergman posing as Dr. Constance Peterson talking to her mentor about the man she loves, her patient, John Ballantine, AKA Dr. Anthony Edwardes, AKA John Brown. A man with assumed personalities.

A man with amnesia.

Her muscles bunched at the brush of a hand. “Don’t touch me!”

“Easy, baby.”

Her heart raged in her ears as Joe smoothed a reassuring palm down her rigid spine. Ingrid Bergman’s voice faded to a drone as the man in her bed took center stage.

“You had a bad dream.”

She pulled the sheet to her chin, remnants of the nightmare causing her to feel exposed, chilled. “Trapped.”

Joe pulled her into his arms and leaned back against the headboard. He eased her head to his chest. “Relax, Sofia. You’re safe.”

Her racing heart said differently. She clung to the man who’d made reverent love to her. The man who’d admitted a soul-stirring attraction. She soaked in his body heat, his strength. She listened to the steady beat of his heart and willed hers to beat in tandem.
Center yourself
, she heard Master Chai whisper. “What time is it?”

“Close to four in the morning.” He held her close, stroked her hair.

The room was dark save for the light from the television. She wondered how long Joe had been awake. Wondered if he regretted their lovemaking. Or maybe he’d been pondering her lost hours. Trying to analyze her sketchy memories. After all, he had been schooled in psychology.

Bergman and Gregory Peck conversed in the background. Psychologist and amnesiac. The parallel was ironic. Uncomfortable with the notion, she focused on the nightstand. Her stomach fluttered at the sight of a portable book light and a stack of printed pages. “You read my script.”

“I did.” He rested his chin on her head, continued to soothe her trembling body with sure, tender strokes. “When I have trouble falling asleep, I like to read.
From Venice With Love
was sticking out of the pocket of your backpack. Looked more interesting than the phone book. Hope you don’t mind.”

She wasn’t sure. She tipped her head back and squinted up at him. “What did you think?”

“Chick flick.”

“And?”

He shrugged. “Not bad, if you like chick flicks.” He quirked a faint smile and her pulse slowed to a bearable rate. “Are you going to do it?”

“I’d have to audition.”

“You’ll smoke the audition. You’ll smoke this part.”

She balked at the total confidence in his voice. “How do you know? You’ve never seen me act. Maybe I suck.”

He broke eye contact, glanced toward the screen. “You don’t suck.”

“How do you …”

“Tell me about the dream.”

“What?”

“What were you dreaming about?”

She realized then that he’d been talking her down from an anxiety high, putting her at ease before questioning her on whatever had disturbed her sleep. “Planning on psychoanalyzing me?”

He gazed down at her, serious as sin. “I can help you through this, Sofia. But you need to work with me. I have to know what happened back in Phoenix.”

It seemed like a lifetime ago. It had been less than two days. A forty-eight hour nightmare from which she was no longer certain she wanted to awake. She snuggled closer to Joe, holding tight to the better part of something awful. “I can’t remember.” She worried her bottom lip. “Not everything, anyway.”

“That’s okay. We’ll fit the puzzle together piece by piece. Tell me about the dream.”

She wished she could say she couldn’t remember, that the details of the dream had faded. Sadly, the conversation and actions, the realization of where she’d been and what could have happened, were painfully clear. Not wanting to look Joe in the eyes, she settled her cheek against his chest and absentmindedly stroked the dark, soft matting of hair on his defined pecs. Fuzzy-headed, she stared at the night owl movie. “We were watching
Spellbound
,” she said in a soft voice. Another irony.

Joe laid his hand over hers, stilled her nervous fingers. “No, hon. You’d already fallen asleep by the time I turned on the TV. I kept the volume low, but not low enough. It must have seeped into your subconscious.”

How easy it would be to change the subject. Naked as they were, how easy it would be to distract him. But the need to know how those cowboys figured in, what threat, if any, they posed to her friends and family overrode her embarrassment. “No, you don’t understand. In my dream, we were in a screening room. We were watching
Spellbound
. He knew about my fascination with Hitchcock.”

Joe rubbed a hand over her goosepimply arm. “He, who?”

“The man with no face.” Her temples throbbed mercilessly. “Why can’t I remember what he looked like, Joe? Who he was specifically? It’s as if I don’t
want
to see his face.”

“You don’t. We’ll figure out why. Back up. Take it slow. You said you were in a screening room. A movie theater?”

“No. A private screening room.” She swallowed hard. “In his house. The house where the limo driver dropped me. He’s a director, or maybe a producer. He makes films. Award-winning films. That much I know. He’s wealthy, powerful.”

“Powerful enough to make you a star.”

His tone revealed nothing, but she felt the subtle tension in his body. Her stomach turned. “I know what you’re thinking. Casting couch. Sleeping my way to the top. But, it wasn’t like that.” Her face flushed with an ugly realization. She pushed out of Joe’s arms, leaned forward, and clutched her knees to her chest. “Who am I kidding? It
was
like that.” She dropped her forehead to her knees and rocked. “How could I be so stupid? So trusting? He lied to me. Just like Chaz. Just like … ”
All of them
.

Joe gently rubbed the base of her neck.

She released a shaky breath. This wasn’t about the men in her past. This was about the man with no face.

“I can hear his voice in my head,” she said, her thoughts loosening as Joe kneaded her tight muscles. “A phone call. I remember being shocked and flattered. He told me that he’d seen me in “Spy Girl”. Said he thought I’d be perfect for a role in his next movie. He invited me to his home in Paradise Valley. “
Come for the weekend
,” he said. “
I invited a half-a-dozen other actors
.” He said that the film called for an ensemble cast and he wanted to see how we interacted.”

“But, the other actors didn’t show,” Joe surmised. “It was just you and this movie mogul.”

She rested her chin on her knees and stared into space. “He said they’d be arriving later. We had dinner, wine. I remember he was very talkative. Very charming. I tried to relax. It was, after all, an audition of sorts. But, I was so damned nervous. Something felt wrong.” She curled her fingernails into her palms, mentally slugging herself for being so dense. Of course, something was wrong. Her gut had known what her brain refused to acknowledge. He’d invited her there for sex.

Joe’s hands stilled. “Keep going, Sofia. This is important.”

She looked over her shoulder, shivered at the grim set of his jaw. “You won’t like it.
I
don’t like it.”

“All the more reason for me to hear it.”

She didn’t know what to make of that. All she knew was that she didn’t want him to think the worst. “Nothing happened … sexually,” she said with absolute certainty. “I wouldn’t have agreed. He’s married. I don’t do married men.” She winced at her word choice.

Joe dragged a hand down his face, waited a beat, then said, “What if he didn’t take no for an answer?
That’s
my concern, Sofia.”

Her heart warmed at the genuine affection in his eyes. At least, she thought it was genuine. She’d been fooled before. So many men. So many lies.

He gently skimmed a hand down her forearm. “How did you get these bruises?”

Her stomach clenched. “Fighting the cowboys.”

“Not the producer?”

“No. It never came to that.” She massaged a dull throbbing in her temples. “We were watching the movie. He was sitting next to me. Close. Too close. Don’t touch me, I thought. And then … ”

“What?”

“
Someone’s here.”

She smiled. “It must be them
.”

“We were interrupted.” The pain in Sofia’s head intensified. Her skin prickled with sweat as she fought a bout of dizziness.

“Interrupted by who?” Joe asked. “The cowboys?”

He rose from the couch
. “
I wasn’t expecting, that is …
”
He touched her shoulder, a brief intimate squeeze
. “
Wait here, Sofia. Enjoy the movie. I’ll be right back
.”

“I waited, but … he didn’t come back, so I went looking and …” Her memories spun out, a wild cyclone of jumbled images. Red seeping into orange and white. Blue splattered with red. Colors collided into a wall of black.

“What is it, Sofia? What do see?”

“Dark. Overwhelmed. I’m sinking. Suffocating.” She shook her head. “Can’t breathe. Need to come up. Need air.” Tears pricked her eyes as she clutched at her aching chest.

Suddenly Joe was sitting in front of her, his hands framing her face. “Look at me, Sofia. Listen to what I’m saying. You’re having a panic attack. It can’t stop your heart or your breathing. Focus on something good.”

“You,” she whispered, concentrating on his gentle touch, his earnest gaze. Visions of their lovemaking slowly overrode the ugliness, the horror. She thought about the way, he’d touched her, cherished her. She thought about his whispered endearments, and her raging pulse tempered. Her breathing eased. Exhausted, embarrassed, she slumped against him. “I’m so sorry,” she said in a thick, raspy voice. “I know it’s important for me to remember. I tried. I … Shit.” She knocked a limp fist against his shoulder. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing.” He held her close, rocked her gently. “You did good.”

“But, I didn’t tell you anything of consequence.”

“More than you know. Don’t worry, the rest will come.” He eased her back on the bed. “Just not tonight. You need to sleep. You’re exhausted mentally and physically.”

He was right. Her body ached and she lacked focus and energy. “But … if I sleep, I’ll dream.”

“I’ll be right here.”