for ninety minutes, sidestepping precarious rocks and various forms of cactus, eventually veering off Peralta Trail altogether. In his obsession to keep her out of the public eye, he’d chosen a less traveled route to Fremont Saddle. His rugged shortcut had proven a real heart-pumper, but Joe wasn’t even breathing hard. In fact, he looked relaxed, more relaxed than she’d ever seen him. And recently she’d seen more of Joseph Bogart than any woman who’d been celibate for eight months and counting should see.
She surreptitiously admired the cut, sun-bronzed muscles of his arms and legs, struggling not to reflect on their early morning wrestling match. Specifically, his naked body. The man was in prime condition. He looked oddly erotic in his ratty brown T-shirt and baggy khaki shorts. Normally, she panted after more cultured men, like her exagent, ex-lover Chaz, who suited up daily in Armani. Men in pursuit of prestige and wealth. Joe had abandoned a vital, intense job to play tour guide. Aside from the shallow physical aspect, she didn’t get her attraction. She didn’t get
him
. “So you drive tourists around, show them the sights, regale them with a few folk tales.”
“Basically.”
“And you find that fulfilling?”
“Do you find pretending to be someone else fulfilling?”
Her cheeks flushed. “Excuse me?” What the hell did that mean? Was he calling her a fake? A liar?
He lifted a brow. “Acting.”
The clarification only fueled her impatience. “Do you have a problem with entertainers?” She instantly regretted the question. It smacked of insecurity. She didn’t give a damn what he thought. She didn’t need his approval.
“I have a problem with an industry that crams youth and physical perfection down the public’s throat.”
She wanted to argue the point, but couldn’t. Meaty roles for actresses over forty were rare. Just shy of thirty, Sofia was already feeling the pressure. As for physical perfection, although she’d been blessed with her parents’ exotic good looks, she’d always been too fleshy, by most directors’ standards. Even after securing her role on “Spy Girl”, she’d still been at the mercy of an unforgiving camera. The day after filming the first episode, the director had shown up on her doorstep, offering her a packet of white powder. What she’d feared was cocaine turned out to be a laxative. “
You looked a little puffy in the rushes,
” he’d said. She’d thanked the man (arguing would’ve been career suicide), flushed the laxative down the toilet, and intensified her diet and time at the gym.
Even though Joe’s criticism had merit, she felt compelled to defend her profession. From Vaudeville to Broadway musicals to Hollywood films, the Marinos had been in entertainment for generations. Attacking the industry was like attacking a member of her family. “Believe it or not, talent does factor in.”
He glanced sideways at her. “Sometimes.”
Was that a
but-not-in-your-case
sometimes? Or, a
like-in-your-case
sometimes? Or, was it simply a blanket comment? After all, he’d never seen her perform. Unless he’d lied about not watching “Spy Girl”. “Granted,” she said, drawing her knees to her chest and hugging them to hide the agitated rise and fall of her chest, “sometimes it’s not about what you know, but who you know.” Even as she said it, her head began to throb.
“
I can give you the recognition you deserve
.”
Sofia closed her eyes, tried to envision a face to go with the masculine voice invading her head with the menace of an enemy army. Her heartbeat raged as she broke out in a nauseous sweat. No face. Just arms and legs. A nose. A shoe. Colors. Red seeping into orange and white. Blue splattered with red.
Blood.
Run!
Disoriented, Sofia pushed to her feet so fast she lost her balance and staggered forward, her dazed vision fixed on the adjacent rocky slope.
Falling …
Her knees buckled just as someone hooked her by the
She surreptitiously admired the cut, sun-bronzed muscles of his arms and legs, struggling not to reflect on their early morning wrestling match. Specifically, his naked body. The man was in prime condition. He looked oddly erotic in his ratty brown T-shirt and baggy khaki shorts. Normally, she panted after more cultured men, like her exagent, ex-lover Chaz, who suited up daily in Armani. Men in pursuit of prestige and wealth. Joe had abandoned a vital, intense job to play tour guide. Aside from the shallow physical aspect, she didn’t get her attraction. She didn’t get
him
. “So you drive tourists around, show them the sights, regale them with a few folk tales.”
“Basically.”
“And you find that fulfilling?”
“Do you find pretending to be someone else fulfilling?”
Her cheeks flushed. “Excuse me?” What the hell did that mean? Was he calling her a fake? A liar?
He lifted a brow. “Acting.”
The clarification only fueled her impatience. “Do you have a problem with entertainers?” She instantly regretted the question. It smacked of insecurity. She didn’t give a damn what he thought. She didn’t need his approval.
“I have a problem with an industry that crams youth and physical perfection down the public’s throat.”
She wanted to argue the point, but couldn’t. Meaty roles for actresses over forty were rare. Just shy of thirty, Sofia was already feeling the pressure. As for physical perfection, although she’d been blessed with her parents’ exotic good looks, she’d always been too fleshy, by most directors’ standards. Even after securing her role on “Spy Girl”, she’d still been at the mercy of an unforgiving camera. The day after filming the first episode, the director had shown up on her doorstep, offering her a packet of white powder. What she’d feared was cocaine turned out to be a laxative. “
You looked a little puffy in the rushes,
” he’d said. She’d thanked the man (arguing would’ve been career suicide), flushed the laxative down the toilet, and intensified her diet and time at the gym.
Even though Joe’s criticism had merit, she felt compelled to defend her profession. From Vaudeville to Broadway musicals to Hollywood films, the Marinos had been in entertainment for generations. Attacking the industry was like attacking a member of her family. “Believe it or not, talent does factor in.”
He glanced sideways at her. “Sometimes.”
Was that a
but-not-in-your-case
sometimes? Or, a
like-in-your-case
sometimes? Or, was it simply a blanket comment? After all, he’d never seen her perform. Unless he’d lied about not watching “Spy Girl”. “Granted,” she said, drawing her knees to her chest and hugging them to hide the agitated rise and fall of her chest, “sometimes it’s not about what you know, but who you know.” Even as she said it, her head began to throb.
“
I can give you the recognition you deserve
.”
Sofia closed her eyes, tried to envision a face to go with the masculine voice invading her head with the menace of an enemy army. Her heartbeat raged as she broke out in a nauseous sweat. No face. Just arms and legs. A nose. A shoe. Colors. Red seeping into orange and white. Blue splattered with red.
Blood.
Run!
Disoriented, Sofia pushed to her feet so fast she lost her balance and staggered forward, her dazed vision fixed on the adjacent rocky slope.
Falling …
Her knees buckled just as someone hooked her by the
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