“Of course,” Esme assured her. “Your first love?”
“Is painting,” she finished.
Esme watched in wonder as the smile lit up Gia’s face. Her gaze grew distant, dreamy. She hadn’t thought Gia could get much better looking. Boy, had she underestimated the woman. “War paint?” she teased, glancing back at her bare face in the mirror.
Gia chuckled. “No, not face painting. Oil painting. Art.”
“An artist. Hmm. I’m not surprised.” The woman had the hands of an artist, hands that made her wish she were a fresh, new canvas ripe for Gia’s attention. She could almost feel the brushstrokes…
She swallowed. “It’s wonderful, Gia. What do you paint?”
“Later.” Esme watched a muscle tic in Gia’s jaw for several moments as her dark eyes grew more serious. With a quick glance at the door and back, Gia squatted before her and sandwiched one of Esme’s hands between her own. “Esme, listen to me. About the show—”
Before Gia could finish, the harried producer knocked sharply, then opened the door a crack and poked her head in. Tendrils had sprung free of her lopsided French twist into which she’d stuck two pencils and apparently forgotten them. “Dr. Jaramillo, time to go on.”
Gia stood and moved away from her, sticking her hands into her back pockets. Regret socked Esme in the stomach, and she pinned the other woman with her gaze. What had she been about to say? Absurd as it was, she didn’t want to leave this room, this woman. Gia was so comfortable to talk to, and so easy on the eyes. Women like Gia didn’t usually give Esme a second glance. Or a first, for that matter. “I—”
“Now, Dr. Jaramillo. Please,” the producer urged.
“Go on, Esme,” Gia told her, treating her to another devastating wink.
“What were you going to tell me?”
“Nothing. Just, break a leg,” she said, her voice husky. “That means good luck.” She flashed her a thumbs-up. “I’ll see you again in a few minutes.”
She looked at Gia curiously as she got out of the chair and smoothed down the front of her suit. A few minutes? Hope spiked inside her. “You will?”
“I mean, I’ll watch you on the monitors.”
“Oh.” Long awkward pause. “Well. Thank you,” she told Gia, fluffing her own hair with trembling fingers and stuffing back the wave of disappointment. What did she expect from the woman, a pledge of undying love? With one last smile for Gia and a deep breath for courage, Esme turned and trailed the producer from the room.
*
“Damnit!” Gia exclaimed as soon as the slim, soft-spoken professor was out of the makeup studio. She slumped into the chair and held her forehead in her hands as guilt assailed her gut. When the door squeaked open, she looked up to find the stage manager, Arlon, peering in at her.
Arlon raised a brow. “What’s up?”
“That poor woman has no idea what she’s in for,” Gia muttered. “She honestly thinks she’s going to talk about human cloning.”
“Ah, you soft touch.” Arlon snorted, leaning against the doorjamb with his clipboard cradled in his beefy arms. The remote radio headset nestled on his bald head looked like it had grown there, it was so much a part of the man. “Anyone who agrees to come onto The Barry Stillman Show deserves what she gets. You’d have to live in a cave to think this show bore any resemblance to legitimacy.”
“She’s never seen it, Arlon.” Gia lunged to her feet and stalked across the small room. She punched the stop button on the CD player, then braced her palms against the wall and hung her head. Esme Jaramillo had infiltrated her domain all of what—ten minutes? And already the music reminded her of Esme. Gia could still smell her lavender scent in the air.
God, she felt like a heel.
That sweet woman with the heart-shaped face and trusting eyes didn’t deserve this. Gia’d expected a renowned young scientist to be arrogant and aloof. Haughty at the very least. Instead, Esme Jaramillo had turned out to be one of the most down-to-earth, reachable women she’d met in a long time. From her inquisitive brown eyes hidden behind those endearing spectacles, to her joking manner and wide smile, Esme was nothing if not genuine.
Arlon’s skeptical voice cut into Gia’s thoughts. “Sure she’s seen it. Everyone’s seen The Barry Stillman Show.”
“Not everyone spends their days propped in front of the boob tube, Arlon. She’s a scientist. She has a life.”
The stage manager whistled low. “She’s got you all worked up, Mendez. Must’ve been some looker. No, wait”—the man turned his attention to the clipboard he held—“she couldn’t be a looker if she’s on this particular show. My mistake.”
“She looked great.” Gia growled, whirling toward her colleague. With effort, she stopped and ran her palms down her face, willing herself to relax. “Doesn’t it ever get to you, Arlon?” Gia blew out a breath. “Lying to these people just to get them on the show?”
Arlon shrugged. “It’s just a job, G. Television. Mindless entertainment. Besides, you were just the makeup woman. She can’t blame you.”
“But she will. She’ll think we all lied to her, and we did. To her”—Gia pointed in the general direction of the stage—“this will be a public shaming.” She clenched her jaw, fighting back those familiar bully feelings from her past. If anyone in this world did not deserve to be bullied, it was Dr. Esme Jaramillo. “We’re sending an innocent lamb to the slaughter. How can we live with ourselves?”
“Don’t be so melodramatic. So she gets embarrassed on television. Big deal. She’ll get over it.”
Gia burned him a glare. So jaded. So cavalier.
“Besides, there’s nothing we can do about it now,” Arlon added, pressing the earphone tighter to his ear. “Looks like the good professor just went on.”
*
The whoops and hollers from the audience surprised Esme as she walked onstage and took a seat in one of the two chairs centered on the carpeted platform. She’d expected a more demure group for a show about cloning, but at least they seemed welcoming. Behind her, an elaborate set gave the appearance of a comfortable living room. Lights mounted on scaffolding glared in her eyes, but she could vaguely make out the faces in the tiered crowd seated in a semicircle before her.
After settling into her chair, she gazed around the audience searching for her family and friends. There they were, front and center. Mama, Papa, Lilly, and Pilar, all in a row.
She smiled at them, but they looked odd.
Pilar’s hands were clasped at her ample bosom, her eyes wide and serious. And Lilly? Esme could swear she looked flaming mad. Come to think of it, her father looked a little angry himself. Was Mama crying?
Perplexed, Esme squinted out at them. Yes, Mama was definitely crying. She hoped nothing bad had happened since the last time she spoke to them and fought the urge to traverse the stage and go to them. Her adrenaline level kicked up a notch. Before she could worry further, the raucous died down and Barry Stillman smiled at her from the aisle where he stood.
“Dr. Jaramillo, welcome to the show.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, pushing up her glasses with her knuckle. Laughter rippled through the audience, which confused her.
“Tell us a little about your research, Doctor.”
She crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward. Her confidence always jumped when she could discuss her studies. She favored her host with an enthusiastic smile. “Well, I’m a professor of genetic engineering at a private college in Colorado. We’re leading the country’s research into cloning. Particularly human cloning, though the procedure is still not approved in the United States.”
“Sounds like a job that could keep a woman pretty busy.”
Apprehension began to claw its way up her spine. She glanced at the empty chair next to her and wondered who should be sitting there. They hadn’t told her she would be part of a panel. And what was with Barry’s inane questions? She licked her dry lips, wishing for water. “Yes, it’s exhausting work.”
“
Probably doesn’t leave you too much time for pampering, Dr. Jaramillo, does it?” More laughter from the crowd.
Suddenly defensive, Esme sat back in her chair and crossed her arms to match her entwined legs. Her skin flamed, and a rivulet of perspiration rolled down her stiff spine. “I thought we were going to discuss human cloning.” This time the audience remained silent, but the pause seemed packed with gunpowder and about to explode.
“Well, Dr. Jaramillo, we aren’t going to discuss human cloning. We actually have a surprise for you.”
Esme blinked several times, trying to grasp what was happening to her. She glanced off into the wings and saw Gia standing there, her dark eyes urgent and pained. Their gazes met momentarily before Gia hung her head and turned away.
What in the hell was going on?
“A surprise?” Esme finally croaked out. “I don’t understand.”
“Maybe we can help you understand. Listen to this audio tape, Doctor, for a clue about who brought you on today’s show.”
Everyone fell silent, and soon a deep, accented, patronizing voice boomed through the studio. “Esme, I know you want me. But I’m here to tell you, before we have a chance, your bookworm looks have got to go. I’m doing this for your own good.”
Realization filtered through Esme’s disbelief like acid burning through her flesh. The phone sex voice belonged to none other than Vitoria Elizalde, her barracuda Brazilian coworker who refused to take no for an answer. Esme covered her mouth with her hand as the words slithered through her brain. I’ve been duped!
Esme had gone for coffee with Vitoria twice in the past months as a gesture of friendship. The woman was a visiting researcher from a different country, and though Esme found the woman arrogant and conceited, even predatory, she?d tried to make her feel welcome on the team. Of course Vitoria would assume a few cups of coffee meant Esme wanted more. Typical.
As the audience roared their approval, the host asked her, “Recognize that voice, Doctor?”
She couldn’t even nod, let alone speak. Bookworm looks? Mortification spiked Esme to her seat as her heart sank. Hot tears stung her eyes, and as her chin started to quiver, the audience burst into applause, chanting, “Bar-ry! Bar-ry! Bar-ry! Bar-ry!”
She glanced out at her supporters, who looked as horrified as she felt. Lilly mouthed the words, “I’m so sorry.”
Stillman’s obnoxious voice cut in with, “Audience, what’s your vote?” after which a hundred or more black placards were thrust into the air. she’s a bookworm, most of them read in neon yellow lettering. Belatedly, Papa lifted his sign to its neon yellow flipside with shaky, liver-spotted hands. she’s a beauty, spelled the stark black lettering. Esme was so ashamed for putting her parents into this position. If only she’d known it was all a trick—
“Audience? What do you have to say to Dr. Jaramillo?”
A hundred collective voices yelled at her, “Don’t worry, Bookworm. We’re going to make you over!”
Esme saw stars and gripped the chair arms so she wouldn’t faint. This was a nightmare. No wonder Gia didn’t make up her face. She wasn’t beautiful, like the woman had claimed. Rather, Gia wanted her to look her very worst when she walked onto this stage. Esme choked back a sob. For some reason, Gia’s deception cut to her core. The beautiful makeup artist had seemed so sincere. Fooled you, Esme.
“Welcome Professor Vitoria Elizalde to the show!” Barry hollered. From out of the wings opposite where she’d seen Gia sauntered smug, pantherlike Vitoria, her black hair perfectly coiffed. She raised her arms to the audience like a reigning queen as they clapped and cheered for her. She even took a bow.
How could she do this?
How could she bring Esme on national television, in front of God and her parents, friends? Everyone. Her staff, their colleagues. What the hell was wrong with this psycho bitch?
Before Esme could stop them, hot tears burst forth behind her glassesand blurred her vision. As Vitoria took the empty chair next to her, Esme lunged unsteadily to her feet and backed away, smearing at the tears rolling down her makeup-free face. She laid her palms on her flat, trembling abdomen.
“How could you?” she rasped, before wheeling on her stupid sensible heels and running from the stage trailed by the audience’s loud booing.
Offstage, the producer with pencils in her hair caught Esme by her upper arms and held her back. “Come now, Esme. They’re going to give you a makeover. It won’t be so bad.”
Her tears had escalated to sobs, which had prompted hiccups. Were these people for real? “Leave me”—hiccup—“alone, I’m not going back out”—hiccup—“there.”
She tried to push past the woman when another man arrived to assist. The producer glanced at the man for help. “Arlon?”
“Don’t, uh, cry now, miss,” the man said, his stilted words proving him ill at ease with the role of comforter. He patted her upper arm and cleared his throat. “It’s not so bad. We’ll just get you some ice for your puffy eyes and—”
“Let. Her. Go,” Gia’s dead-serious voice said from behind Esme. Both the producer and the man called Arlon diverted their attention to Gia, and Esme took advantage of the moment to push between them and run through the cables and scaffolding to the hallway that would lead her out. Behind her, she heard the producer say, “Stay out of this, Mendez.”
Esme wept freely, never so embarrassed in all her life.
She’d worked so hard to make her parents proud. They’d brought her to this country from Mexico when she was a toddler, hoping to provide her with better opportunities. They’d given up everything familiar—their family, friends, the language they both spoke so eloquently, the country they loved—for her. Her entire life was geared to show them she was grateful, that she’d made the most of her opportunities to become a success, a daughter they could be proud of. Now this.
Sure, she was a well-educated woman, a leader in her field, but she couldn’t help thinking Mama and Papa had seen her in another light today. As a homely thirty-year-old woman who didn’t even merit a date with an overblown, arrogant woman she’d never be the least bit interested in.
She shoved against the bar spanning the metal door and pushed her way into the exit hallway and wondered how she’d ever live this down, how she’d ever make it up to the parents who so valued their dignity.
“Esme! Wait!”
Gia. Esme tried to keep running, to get away before she ever had to see the woman’s face again, but Gia caught her and snaked a hand around her forearm.
“Let me go,” she said, staring at the ground as she tried to pull free. Part of her wished Gia would just hold her and tell her everything would be okay. The stupid part of her.
“Esme, please. I’m so sorry. Listen, let me ex—”
“Sorry?” Fury mixed with her humiliation as she hiccupped again. “Leave me alone, Gia, okay?”
Gia had pretended to be nice to her, when all the while she’d been part of the lie. She lifted her chin, pushed up her glasses, and glared at the other woman, trying her best to mask the hurt with a look of indignation. She wrenched her arm from Gia’s grasp and rubbed the spot she’d held with her other hand. Her chest heaved as she stared up at the woman who’d been a major part of her humiliation.
“Just, let me go. After all this, can’t you”—hiccup—“at least do that?” She turned and stumbled down the long, stark corridor slowly. Her limbs felt leaden, like all the energy had been leached out of her. She just wanted to go home and put sweats on and curl up with a glass of—
“I meant what I said, Esme,” Gia called after her. “You are amazingly beautiful.”
Her heart clenched. Another lie.
Esme never even turned back.
*
Telling the Barry Stillman people to take their job and shove it hadn’t been difficult for Gia. But packing up her worldly goods and driving across the country in search of a woman she’d met but once, a woman who haunted her dreams—and probably hated her guts—was the biggest
risk she’d ever taken.
No matter. It felt good. She’d been on the road for at least twelve hours, and as the evening skyline of Denver loomed into sight, Gia glanced down at the directions she hoped would lead her to Esme. The doctor deserved an apology, and for once, Gia would have a chance to make things right with a person she’d hurt who hadn’t deserved it. Gia steered her black pickup onto Speer Boulevard South, and moved to the center lane. She rolled down her window and breathed in the cool, dry summertime air that was so different from the stifling humidity in Chicago where she’d grown up. Then again, everything about growing up had been stifling for her.
It was almost as hard for Gia to remember herself as an angry young bully as it was to remind herself she wasn’t one anymore. She’d transformed, and she had her high school art teacher, Mr. Fuentes, to thank for her changed demeanor. Though rail thin and none too masculine, Fuentes wouldn’t be bullied. He’d never flinched when he faced the angry young Gia toe to toe, and yet he never made her feel worthless. On the contrary, Fuentes made Gia believe in her painting, in her talent. He’d showed her how to channel her pent-up rage into art and made her understand that true happiness came from inside a person, not outside. And even though Gia hadn’t gotten to the point where she could fully support herself with her painting, she’d had a couple of shows, made a few sales, and at age thirty-four, she still believed in herself.
Fuentes had won Gia’s respect, and later her admiration. She’d thanked the man on more than one occasion over the years, but she’d never gone back and told any of the people she’d hurt that she was sorry. Perhaps a turned-around life was penance enough, but the open-ended guilt of her youth hung around her heart like a lead weight. She might not be able to assuage it with one apology, but at least it was a step in the right direction. And any steps that carried her closer to Dr. Esme Jaramillo were ones she definitely wanted to take.
If she was honest with herself, it wasn’t just the chance for an apology that led her to the slight professor with the short, silky hair that just begged a woman to run her fingers through it. Something far more instinctual pulled her as well. It had taken one fitful night of remembering her gentle lavender scent, seeing images of her bright, dark eyes behind those glasses, hearing her wind-chime laughter, before Gia knew she had to see Esme again. If she didn’t, Esme’s memory would be with her forever, like a war wound. Reminding her now and then, with a stab of pain, what could possibly have been.
Radclyffe & Stacia Seaman - Romantic Interludes 2 - Secrets Page 25