The Affair: Week 8 Page 8

  She shook her head, and he had the impression she didn’t think the topic was even worthy of pursuing. “At a Broadway play one very unlucky night.” She gave him a sheepish look. “I was clearly struck stupid by fame. If you’re a fan, I hate to break it to you, but Tommy’s lyrics are about a thousand times more poetic and smart than he could ever imagine being in his finest moment.”

  He saw the sparkle in her eyes, glad to see she was far, far from being in any distressing straits over the likes of Tommy Valian. He smiled full-out at the evidence. She blinked, looking startled. He waved over at the seating area he’d been using for a makeup station. “Have a drink with me?”

  His smile fell when she didn’t immediately respond, and her gaze roved over the garish dressing room. Would she say no? Was she just being polite, chatting it up with her friend’s ancient boss?

  He looked into the depths of her eyes. At six feet four inches, he looked down at most people. He suddenly felt like the big bad wolf, considering swallowing Red whole, and he had the distinct impression the girl was thinking the same thing . . . and was liking her thought. Another wave of simple, undiluted lust, the likes of which he wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced in his life, surged through him. Was it wishful thinking on his part, that spark of fascinated interest in her eyes? The beguiling curve of her mouth, as she smiled, was like a caress where it counted.

  No. This kind of unexpected magic was rarely one-way, at least in Seth’s limited experienced with it.

  “Well . . . a girl’s got to do something while she’s in hiding, right?”

  He raised his eyebrows in amused agreement. She went ahead of him. He followed, leaving the door locked behind them.

  * * *

  “Champagne, ice water or soda?” he asked when they approached the seating area and impromptu bar that had been set up on a long table.

  “Champagne, please,” Gia said, thankful Seth’s back was turned as she began the ungraceful process of sitting in the armor. The costume was lightweight, but still, she felt like a stiff-jointed eighty-year-old in it. To make matters worse, a dozen large mirrors scattered around the room were showcasing her ungainly maneuvering from every angle. Precisely how many mirrors did a person require? Zero, given the ridiculous way she looked at the moment. Just Gia’s luck, to be dressed this way when unexpectedly having a run-in with an extremely handsome, attractive man. She’d been curious about Seth Hightower ever since she’d first learned about him from Liza. He was reputed to be a brilliant artist, but also a bit of a lone wolf. Meeting the real man had amped her interest up to fascination. Her heart had lurched against her breastbone in flat-out shock when she had stood panicked in that hallway a moment ago and turned to stare into his inscrutable face.

  Her favorite sculpture had come to life.

  She noticed the champagne bottle looked dwarfed in his large hand. She was fascinated by his arms beneath the short-sleeved white T-shirt he wore. He had to possess the most impressive biceps she’d ever seen. He suddenly jerked to a halt while reaching for a glass. She couldn’t quite interpret the dangerous slant of his dark brows as he turned to regard her, but her heart seemed to recognize why. It leapt into overtime.

  No wonder Liza thought Seth Hightower was intimidating.

  “What?” Gia asked, freezing in the act of trying to prop her awkwardly armored body up against some cushions.

  “Liza just turned twenty-five,” he said slowly. “How old are you?”

  She stared at him in blank befuddlement. Why was he bringing up her friend’s age? A thought suddenly struck her.

  “Are you worried I’m not old enough?” she asked, a grin breaking free.

  “Are you?”

  Somehow, his suspicion thrilled her. He’s asking if you’re of age, but not for drinking. She couldn’t swear the thought that popped into her head was true, but it certainly felt that way. Seth appealed to her in an elemental way she’d never before experienced, and she didn’t want him to find her lacking in return. Unlike Tommy Valian, Seth was in his thirties, a man in his prime, both physically and in his career and life. And unlike Tommy, when Seth had looked at her earlier, she’d felt like the exact opposite of a naïve ingénue.

  “Don’t worry. I’m plenty old enough,” she assured him, repressing a smile because he was looking so fierce. He merely raised one dark eyebrow and waited. She realized he expected an answer to his question. “I told you I was Liza’s roommate in college. We’re of an age. Do you expect me to show you ID?” she teased him.

  His stare bore into her. She forced herself not to blink or flinch. His tension suddenly dissipated. He turned to pour her champagne. The sound of the liquid flowing into the flute seemed unusually sensual to her. The effervescence from the bubbles seemed to transfer to her, causing a tingle of excitement between her thighs.

  “Cecilia said your name is Gia?”

  “Yes. Gia Harris,” she said, surprised and a little embarrassed to realize she hadn’t even thought to tell him her name.

  He came toward her, holding out the flute. As he handed it to her, a small smile ghosted his lips, perhaps an apology for his former sternness. He had a very hard, very sexy mouth. It fascinated her, to see something she’d grown used to being eternally frozen now animated with life. His face was well-proportioned, bold and . . . somehow beautiful, as well, although in a thoroughly masculine way Gia wasn’t sure she’d ever experienced in real life.

  He sat down on the couch, a good portion of the center cushion separating them.

  At the start of their conversation, she was equal parts nervous and excited, so she decided it was best to just focus on his face. As compelling it was, it forced all her worries into the background. Worries about the crucial juncture she was experiencing in her career, about her uncertainty about her life . . . about what she was so uncharacteristically doing here, behind a locked door with a virile stranger.

  Gia wasn’t the type to become enraptured. She didn’t dream; she made plans. Even as a child, she’d been practical.

  But she had to admit, as she stared into Seth Hightower’s indomitable, handsome face, that for the first time in her life, she was utterly entranced. Perhaps it was the amber flecks amid the golden brown of his irises that were sending electrical impulses to her nerves, making her skin feel tingly and sensitive, her lungs and throat tight and uncooperative in their usual tasks. The light touch of his forearm on her neck earlier, as they’d stood so close at the door, had garnered almost every ounce of her attention, even with Cecilia Arends and Tommy searching for her just inches away.

  “I hope you don’t think it’s odd for me to tell you this,” she began tentatively, after they’d talked for a while. She was reclining on the pillows, having found a relatively comfortable position in the armor. “But during the summer I turned sixteen, I traveled across the country with my mother from San Diego to New York by car. I tried to live on the West Coast with my mom and my new stepfather after my parents’ divorce and my mom’s remarriage, but it didn’t work. I told her it was because I’m a New Yorker at heart. I have the city and the seasons in my bones, but in reality . . .”

  She faded off.

  “You didn’t get along well with your new stepfather? Or your mother?” Seth asked, his gravelly baritone sending prickles of pleasure along the back of her neck.

  Gia grimaced regretfully. “Let’s just say I couldn’t abide by some of my mother’s life choices. At the time it was a bigger deal than it is now. She was a very talented attorney when she was with my dad and me. I was used to seeing her as a smart, together, accomplished woman. She threw away all of her potential, her career—everything—to become a La Jolla trophy wife.” She noticed that Seth remained very still as he watched her, his golden eyes trained on her with a complete—and thrilling—focus. “It was sort of hard to see, for a girl forming her own ambitions and goals for the future, that’s all,” she explained
ruefully. “Besides, it was like a watershed summer for me. Developmentally. But that’s not the point,” she said apologetically, recognizing she was rambling. “I begged my mom to drive me back to Dad’s instead of fly. I was in my Jack Kerouac stage,” she grinned. “Driving across the country sounded very romantic to me. Mom humored me because it kept me with her for a few days longer . . . and maybe I wanted that too. It was a wonderful trip, just my mom and me and the long hours on the road with the country unfolding in front of us. You can’t help but bond under those circumstances, you know? We’d been going through some real mom-daughter drama—we still go through some mom-daughter drama—but that trip . . . well, it’s a kind of touchstone for us, a wonderful memory both of us cherish,” she trailed off wistfully.

  Noticing Seth’s unwavering, palpable attention on her, she hastened to continue. “In New Mexico, we stopped at one of those roadside gas stations and stores that sell everything. I was stretching my legs and looking at some of the artwork from local artists that was on sale there, and I saw this very subtle, masterfully carved and painted sculpture of a man.” Her gaze flickered over his face; she suddenly felt uncharacteristically shy. “And it just blew me away. The face. Even though the expression was so impassive, it spoke volumes to me. I bought it with all the money I had in my purse, ignoring my mother’s protests. I still have it today, in my Manhattan apartment.”

  Seth looked vaguely amused and puzzled. “You thought I’d consider it odd for you to tell me that?”

  When she recalled her meandering approach to the topic, she laughed. She’d wandered far from the central point. “No, but now you will because of my lame storytelling skills, right? My whole point is: You look like it. The carving. It’s why I keep staring at you . . . I think . . .” she faded off awkwardly.

  He calmly took a swallow of the water he was drinking, but kept his gaze on her. Panther eyes. That’s what they reminded her of. Hypnotic. Beautiful. Warm, but also . . .

  Dangerous.

  “Were you near Albuquerque?” he asked.

  “Uh . . . yeah, I think we were.”

  “There’s a good chance it was my face, then,” he said, deadpan.

  “What?” she asked, laughing. She hadn’t expected him to say that. She’d just thought the resemblance was an odd coincidence and wanted to offer some kind of lame excuse for why she kept gawping at him.

  He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I grew up on the Isleta Pueblo Indian Reservation near there. My mother was an artist, and she used both my brother and me as models at various times. I’d have to see it to be sure, but given the time period, it’s more likely me than Jake. We look alike, but my brother is a lot older than me—almost a whole generation. Jake would have been long gone by the time period you’re talking about. Mom did painted wooden carvings as well as watercolors and pottery, and she sold her work at local stores.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “If you’re saying there’s an actual chance that it’s you, then it’s definitely you. I immediately noticed it when I first saw you, but thought it was too unlikely to be true. I didn’t think that man could be real.” She glanced away, embarrassed she’d muttered the private thought out loud. “I just met you tonight, but I’ve been looking at your face all this time. That’s just . . . weird.”

  “Weird?”

  “Not in a bad way,” she assured quickly.

  He was handsome, but his smile transformed his hard features to drop-dead gorgeous. Her mouth hung open at the vision. Her gaze dropped over him, despite her mental command to keep her eyes in her head. His body was big, but lean, long and rangy. He exuded strength, and not only from his personality. His near-black hair was a tousled, sexy glory. Despite the finger-combed negligence of the style, the strands were smooth and shiny. It fell several inches past his chin. Her fingertips itched to touch it.

  He took a long draw on his water, and Gia guiltily glanced away. She’d been gawking. Again.

  “So if you decided you were a New York girl at heart, how come you came to Los Angeles for college?” he asked quietly.

  “I got a good scholarship here,” Gia explained, thankful he’d offered a safe topic. “I’ll probably always feel a little out of place in California, but I had a good college experience.”

  “I know what you mean about feeling out of place.”

  She nodded. “I can imagine living on the reservation was a different world from Hollywood.”

  “I spent quite a few years in the Army and was based in several places in the Middle East and Germany, as well. But even with all the places I’ve lived, I felt like a being from a different planet coming to Hollywood.” He smiled slightly in memory. “Luckily, I liked the work so much that I’ve adapted reasonably well to the alien environment.”

  “You don’t regret it? Making your life here?” she asked him, leaning forward and grimacing slightly because the stiff breastplate pinched at her waist.

  “Once in a while, but not too often. This is my dream job. To do it, I need to be here.”

  “You must meet dozens of wannabe actors and models and the like every day, people who have migrated here with stars in their eyes,” she mused softly. “Do they ever ask your advice while you’re doing their makeup?”

  “About betting on the ten-billion-to-one lottery called Fame?” he asked dryly.

  “You did it.”

  “No. I bet on my art. If fame was part of the bargain, I’d be miles away.”

  For a moment, they sat in silence as his low, gruff voice replayed in her head with absolute certainty.

  “You never told me what you did for a living in New York. Something to do with your major?” he asked, setting aside his empty water glass. “You lit up when you mentioned you studied history.”

  Her gaze flickered across to a golden clock on a nearby table. It had taken them an hour and twenty minutes to get to the dreaded topic.

  “My work does have to do with history.” She smiled at him and took the final sip out of her second glass of champagne. He arched his brows, waiting for her to continue. Silently demanding it, actually. While they talked, Gia had grown accustomed to some of his expressions. She sighed. “You can’t expect someone a few years out of undergrad to be as proud of her job as a person like you. New York isn’t the easiest place in the world to rise up the ranks—not that Hollywood is either,” she conceded.

  His black eyebrows slanted. “Did you think I was bragging or something?” he asked, looking vaguely bemused.

  “Of course not. I’ve had to pry every detail of your work life out of you, you’re so closemouthed about the whole thing. You’d think you were a spy or something, as hard as it is to get specifics out of you,” she joked, ignoring his narrowed stare. “I just meant couldn’t you give me the courtesy of letting me remain interesting in your eyes just a little longer by not asking me career questions?”

  “There’s nothing you could say that could make you uninteresting.”

  Her laughter faded at his quick, confident reply along with the frank male heat in his golden eyes.

  “What do you have on under that armor?” he asked suddenly.

  Her eyes widened in surprise at his unexpected question. A smile flickered across his mouth, as if he’d read her stunned reaction. “You’ve got to be uncomfortable. I wanted to bring it up earlier, but I was selfish. I didn’t want you to leave in order to change, for fear you wouldn’t come back.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks at his compliment. “Oh . . . a tank top and shorts . . . along with the costume’s pants.”

  He stood and set down his empty glass. He held out his hand to her. “Come on,” he urged. “Let’s get you out of it.”

  Beth Kery loves romance, and the more emotionally laden and sexy the romance, the better. She holds a doctorate degree in the behavioral sciences and enjoys using her knowledge of human nature to add depth and intensity to h
er stories. She is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling novelist of over thirty novels.