Only for You Page 9

  * * *

  A couple of hours later, Seth noticed Gia sitting forward and staring out the window as he merged onto I-40 East.

  “Where are we going?” she asked him with a bewildered look.

  “I told you yesterday. The Shawnee National Forest in Illinois.”

  “But . . . what airport are we flying out of?”

  “You left last night before Charles and I made a few alterations to the plan.”

  “What changes?” she asked him, her tone ominous. He glanced sideways at her and did a double take. He had to hand it to himself; he’d done a better female-to-male makeup job on Gia than he had for the Oscar nod he’d earned for turning a famous actress into an equally infamous male rock star a few years back. A seventeen- or eighteen-year-old belligerent male teenager glared back at him from the passenger seat. The wig was a little lighter than Gia’s normal hair color, featuring blond highlights. It was a high-quality human hairpiece, the style suited to trendy youth. It swirled and waved around her cheeks, ears and neck in a carefree, beachy style. The wig fit her head almost perfectly, making adhesive unnecessary. The body shaper had added a few inches to her waist and flattened her chest out, if not ideally, then adequately. Gia’s breasts were not insignificant. They weren’t huge, but they weren’t small either.

  In fact, they were perfect.

  Petal-soft, thrusting and firm with large, exquisitely sensitive pink nipples. How well he remembered how those nipples felt beneath his fingers . . . under his laving tongue. Unwelcome arousal shot through Seth.

  Again.

  He shifted uneasily in the driver’s seat.

  Her breasts had been the one doubt he’d had about the transformation.

  Things had worked out though. The slight shoulder padding and firm ribbing in the shaper, along with Gia’s naturally slender figure, gave the impression of a whipcord-lean male torso beneath a Hurley T-shirt and plaid overshirt. He’d darkened her peaches-and-cream complexion into a golden tan that would suit a beach-loving teenage boy. He’d neutralized her hallmark pink mouth into a much more innocuous pink-beige. The shadowing of her jaw with slight whisker stubble just beneath short brown sideburns was a particularly brilliant move on his part.

  He had transformed Gia Harris into a boy worthy of the cover of Tiger Beat, Seth thought amusedly, taking pains to hide his smile.

  Of course, the sunglasses were a must. He’d brought contacts for her in his kit, but he didn’t want her to be unnecessarily uncomfortable on the trip. There was something about Gia’s large, long-lashed eyes that screamed of the feminine. Or at least to Seth they did.

  Bright Eyes.

  He scowled at the intrusive thought and focused on answering her question.

  “Your disguise was going to be too much of a hassle with airport security, and we didn’t trust any private pilots well enough to hire them on such short notice. Besides, airports are blanketed with surveillance cameras. It seems as if things have gone well with Leti fooling your followers for the time being, but if something goes amiss, an airport would be the worst place for us to be. It’s better just to steer clear of them altogether. So we’re driving to Illinois instead of flying.”

  “Driving,” she repeated flatly.

  “It’ll be nostalgic,” he reasoned before shooting a significant glance in her direction. “You can relive your Jack Kerouac days.”

  He noticed her sharp intake of breath. Seth grimaced. It had been unfair to make a reference to that intimate conversation they’d had years ago about that cross-country trip with her mother, given the fact that he’d made a point of saying that was all in the past.

  “We’re taking the southern route?” she asked incredulously, staring at the highway.

  “Yeah,” he replied, his gaze safely on the road in front of him. “I thought we’d even do a few parts of Historic Route 66.”

  He didn’t look at her for several silent seconds, but he felt her gaze on his profile.

  “How long will it take?” she asked.

  “It depends. Are you going to take a turn driving?”

  “Okay,” she agreed.

  “Then if you’re game, we’ll drive straight through. I put some toiletries in a bag in the back so we can clean up on stops. Each of us can sleep while the other is driving. There are some pillows and blankets in the backseat as well. If we do that, we should get there sometime tomorrow afternoon. We’ll put up with a little discomfort now, but we’ll be in Jennifer’s comfortable beds all that much sooner.”

  “Fine,” she mumbled, sounding so edgy and bewildered, his heart went out to her a little. “Can you turn on the radio, please?”

  He wordlessly did what she asked, finding a soft-rock station.

  “Okay?” he asked.

  She made a muffled sound of assent.

  Neither his motorcycle nor his little Nissan GT-R were appropriate for a cross-country road trip where comfort was essential. He’d borrowed an SUV from a good friend named Alexi who was a cinematographer and was out of town on location. Gia tilted the passenger seat all the way back in the roomy vehicle and turned her head determinedly away from him.

  For the thousandth time in the past twenty-four hours, he sensed her disquietude and irritation simmering in the air between them. He exhaled some of his own agitation and focused on the road.

  “How can you act so blasé about all this?”

  He blinked at her sudden question. He thought she’d fallen asleep. Her head was still turned away from him.

  “How do you think I should act? It’s a situation. I’m dealing with it,” he said bemusedly.

  She made a disgusted sound. His response had clearly just annoyed her more. “It’s only three weeks, Gia. Is it that hard for you to take a break?”

  She whipped her head around, causing her sunglasses to go slightly askew. “Why are you determined to make this all about my job? You are constantly suggesting I’m some kind of fame-aholic.”

  He stared at the road, choosing his words carefully. “I’m sorry if I’m mistaken, but from what I’ve gathered while working in the industry and from the checkout-counter tabloids, you’ve been on a meteoric rise ever since we first met. If you have taken a break, it would have been a miracle, with everything else you’ve accomplished in the past several years.”

  “So, being ambitious is my crime. When is the last time you took a three-week break, Seth?”

  When he didn’t respond, because he was mentally grasping for the answer, she made a disgusted sound. “That’s what I thought,” she said scathingly. “My crime is being an actress, not a hard worker. I suppose when you’re an artist like you, they call it creative drive, and when you’re a film actress like me, it’s just dirty, scheming ambition.”

  She jerked her arm into the backseat and grabbed a pillow. Throwing it down on the reclined seat with force, she again turned a stiff back to him.

  After twenty or so minutes, her rigid posture seemed to loosen, her body growing suppler. Seth suspected she slept. He inhaled slowly, forcing his clamped jaw and tense muscles to unclench.

  Why had he agreed to this crazy scheme when he knew how much she could get to him . . . when he knew how much he didn’t want her to? The obvious answer immediately popped into his head. It didn’t sit well with him, having the shadow of that insidious cult and its dangerous leader cast over Gia. It made him edgy to think of the press spying on her . . . hounding her.

  It made no sense. Why should he care or worry so much about a woman he hardly knew? He couldn’t go around saving every female who got herself in trouble in this soul-sucking industry. There weren’t enough minutes in the day.

  She rustled in the seat next to him. He frowned. Her soft sigh tickled the skin of his ear.

  Had she actually accused him of being blasé about this?

  What a freaking joke.

  * * *


  Gia couldn’t breathe. Someone was holding her down, crushing her, keeping her from running. No, it wasn’t someone, it was something. She clawed for air, grasping for release, but her own body seemed to be responsible for her suffocation. Her lungs refused to expand.

  “Gia!” a deep voice said sharply. “Wake up.”

  It was a command she followed without thinking. Her eyelids flew open. Bright sunlight flooded into her vision. She squinted dazedly, but her lungs were finally free. She gasped for air.

  Seth Hightower stared down at her from behind the wheel of the vehicle, his face rigid, his eyes narrowed dangerously. She lay on her side, facing him. Her lungs froze again at the uncompromisingly stark image of him. It took her a few seconds to register where he was staring with blazing eyes. She looked down slowly. The T-shirt she wore was bunched up around her chest. Everything came back to her sleep-addled brain in a rush: the need for escape from Los Angeles, Seth’s disguise . . . the rigid shaper she wore like a corset.

  Shit.

  She held the concealed zipper of the rigid garment between her fingers. In her sleep, she’d ripped it down to her belly button in a desperate bid for a full breath of air. Her breasts crowded into the opening of the stiff garment, bursting to be free. A light coat of perspiration glazed the swells of flesh and the valley between them.

  One pink nipple had popped into the opening.

  It belatedly struck her what she’d seen on Seth Hightower’s face just then. It was something she hadn’t seen in over two years.

  It had been unguarded, distilled lust.

  Six

  She shoved her T-shirt down over the lewd display of her plumped breasts, sitting up and gasping for air. The seat belt jerked her back.

  She stared at an open field. A prickly-looking, colorful blanket of desert shrubs, flowers and cacti covered the ground all the way to the rust-colored mountains and a craggy butte in the far distance. They were stopped in a desolate rear parking lot. She glanced behind her and saw a 1950s-style roadside diner.

  “Where are we?” she croaked, dazedly fumbling for the seat adjuster. She realized her sunglasses lay in her lap.

  “Do you always take part in wrestling matches in your sleep?” Seth asked baldly.

  She blinked, swallowing thickly. Was that unsettlement, concern or lingering lust in his tone? The thought struck her that he had good reason to ask about her sleeping habits. They’d certainly never slept on that wild night years ago. They’d had far more crucial things to attend to than rest. That volatile thought, in combination with the memory of Seth’s blatantly lustful stare just now, left her feeling raw.

  “No, but I usually don’t sleep in torture devices like this thing you made me wear,” she said, glaring down at her rumpled T-shirt and then at Seth. She jerked the sides of the overshirt closed, feeling exposed . . . and not just because of unintentionally baring her breasts to him. She immediately regretted her sharp tone when she saw him flinch slightly and his scowl deepen. She leaned her forehead into her palm.

  “I’m sorry for snapping,” she mumbled, her cheeks still burning. The silence pressed down on her. “I haven’t been sleeping all that well lately. I went down deeper than I expected just now, and this thing was making me feel like I couldn’t breathe . . .” she faded off, waving vaguely at the restrictive device she wore—not because Seth made her. Because her life was spinning out of control. That wasn’t his fault. He was helping her, sacrificing his time, talent and energy for something he was far from obligated to do. When he didn’t respond for several seconds, she glanced over at him uneasily. He peered at her from beneath a lowered brow.

  “Have you not been sleeping because you’re worried about the people watching your house?”

  She stared out the front window blindly, her mouth falling open. Is that why she’d gone under so deeply in sleep for the first time in what felt like months? Because she’d felt safe, with Seth next to her?

  “Someone tried to break into a rear window at my house a few weeks ago. That’s why police protection was ordered,” she said in a cracking voice.

  “Jackals.”

  She turned sharply. His mouth was pressed into a hard line. Gratitude rushed through her at the edge of anger in his tone. His reaction surprised her. So did her gratefulness in the face of it. Madeline, Charles and the sheriff’s-department deputies who had been sent to protect her were all kind enough but forbearing about the whole thing. It was as if they thought dozens of reporters watching her every move, being run off the road and home break-ins were par for the course, given this situation. Sometimes she felt as if the deputies, especially, had a condescending attitude, like, Well, what did you expect, given the choices you’ve made? You sought out fame and fortune—well, now you’ve found it along with all the crap that goes with it. Deal with it, girly.

  She hadn’t realized until now just how desperate that unspoken message was making her.

  Yes, she was used to living in the public eye, and she accepted there were significant downsides to her chosen profession. But no one had openly acknowledged this different, constant, aggressive invasion of her private world since Sterling McClarin had been arrested and she’d been publicly identified as a primary witness against him. Certainly no one had labeled it as succinctly as Seth had just now with one furious, disdainful word.

  “Yesterday Charles said you live alone, although your driver is on the grounds in a carriage house. Is there usually someone there with you though?” Seth asked.

  “No,” she murmured, a little surprised by his question. She got what he was asking. She’d never considered that he didn’t know what her relationship status was. It only made sense. She didn’t know his either. She’d certainly had a bitter moment of wondering about it in the back of the hair salon when the pretty, friendly Leti had kissed him, but then he’d denied it. She glanced over at him presently, once again unable to stop herself. He looked annoyingly good, all lean, long sexy male. His masculinity was palpable. She couldn’t help but breathe it in in the confines of the SUV, couldn’t stop being rattled by it. He wore a simple black T-shirt and jeans.

  And a belt.

  She hadn’t noticed that belt when he applied her makeup, but his shirt hem had caught on the silver tooled buckle when he sat in the driver’s seat earlier. She couldn’t stop herself from stealing glances at his lap as they exited Los Angeles, finding the image of his long, powerful bent legs, flagrantly male crotch and that damn sexy belt buckle next to his flat lower belly a powerful pull on her consciousness.

  He gripped his hands on the leather wheel, and her attention fractured even more. She’d loved his hands, even back then. She could have become addicted to the way he touched her. Unlike two years ago during their tryst, he now wore a ring on his left middle finger, a silver tooled one that looked . . . exciting next to his swarthy skin and masculine knuckles. That ring had a little surprise to it on the underside. He’d used it like a tool of his trade while he was applying her makeup earlier. Now she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  “What about your parents? Has your mother been up to see you, give you a little support during all this?” Seth asked, pulling her thoughts back to the present moment.

  Gia shook her head and scratched her neck beneath the wig, grimacing. It was starting to itch, especially after perspiring during her “wrestling match,” as Seth had labeled it.

  “Mom hates the press mob.”

  “There are few who would love it to the degree you’ve been subjected.”

  You would hate it worst of all. The thought jumped into her brain. There was something about Seth that had made her think it. He exuded independence. He certainly sidestepped the limelight. There was something so essentially private, solitary . . . even enigmatic about him.

  A lone wolf personified.

  “Some reporters have knocked on my mom’s door in La Jolla and e
ven followed her at the grocery store, trying to get an interview about me,” Gia explained wearily. “Mom and Stephen—her husband—were outraged. So was I.” She frowned slightly. Her mother also possessed that condescending attitude she’d ascribed to her police guards, but in a more crystallized form. While it wasn’t the cops’ place to give their opinion on her job, Gia’s mom certainly believed it was her right to lecture Gia on her choice of working in the Hollywood film industry.

  She saw Seth’s dark look and knew he’d noticed her frown. “My dad came out and stayed with me for a couple weeks after McClarin was arrested. He was very supportive, but let’s face it. No one loves living in a fishbowl.”

  “There’s no one who’ll support you regularly?” Seth asked.

  She felt his steady gaze on her cheek as she stared out the window and shook her head. “No one loves living in a fishbowl,” she repeated quietly. That pretty much said it all, didn’t it? Seth, of all people, would certainly understand that. Isn’t that part of why he avoided actresses? She inhaled shakily, attempting to banish her anxious thoughts. “You never said where we were.”

  “On the far side of Kingman,” he said.

  She looked over her shoulder at the retro diner and the sun-gilded, starkly beautiful desert landscape. A smile broke free. “I remember this, from my trip with Mom. I can’t believe you got us all the way to Arizona already.”

  “You were out like a light for four hours, until you started fighting there at the end. You must have been sleep-deprived. Do you want to go in and get something to eat?”

  “Yes,” she agreed. She hadn’t eaten all day, and it was almost two o’clock in the afternoon. It would help to center her, to get some food in her belly. All this chaos in her life was making her feel rootless and strange. She started to reach for the door handle, stopping short when Seth lightly gripped her upper arm.

  “I need to touch you up,” he said. “And get you back in.”

  Understanding struck her, along with a flash of embarrassment, when he glanced down at her chest.