by Lea Santos
“Three long years I’ve worked on this show.” Gia leaned against the counter again, hands spread wide and braced on the edge, and crossed one foot over the other.
“You make it sound like a jail sentence.”
Gia tilted her head to the side in a gesture of indifference. “It pays the bills, but my first love…” Doubt crossed her impeccable features. “You want to hear all this?”
“Of course I do, or I wouldn’t have asked,” Emie assured her. “Your first love?”
“Is painting,” Gia finished.
Emie watched in wonder as the smile lit up Gia’s face. Her gaze grew distant, dreamy. She hadn’t thought Gia could get much more attractive. Boy, had she underestimated the woman. “With war paint?” she teased, glancing back at the mirror.
Gia chuckled. “No, not face painting. Oil painting. Art.”
“An artist. Hmm. I’m not surprised.” Gia had the hands of an artist, hands that made Emie wish she were a fresh, new canvas ripe for Gia’s attention. She could almost feel the brush strokes…
She swallowed. “It’s wonderful, Gia. What do you paint?”
“Later.” Emie watched a muscle tick in Gia’s jaw for several quick moments as her dark eyes grew more serious. With a staccato glance at the door and back, Gia squatted before her and sandwiched one of Emie’s icy hands between her own warm ones. “Emie, 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, sticking her hands into her back pockets. Regret socked Emie in the stomach, and she pinned Gia with her gaze. What had she been about to say? Absurd as it was, Emie 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 orbit Emie’s sun. “I—”
“Now, Dr. Jaramillo. Please,” the producer urged.
“Go on, Emie,” Gia told her, treating her to another devastating wink.
“What were you going to tell me?”
“It’s not important. Just, break a leg,” she said, her voice husky. “That means good luck.” She flashed a thumbs up. “I’ll see you again in a few minutes.”
Emie peered at Gia curiously as she got out of the chair and smoothed 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 fluffed her own hair with trembling fingers and stuffed back a wave of disappointment. What had she expected? A pledge of undying love? That wasn’t even in her life plan, so why now?
With one last smile for Gia and a deep breath for courage, Emie 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. “This is going to be a nightmare. 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. She’s never even heard the buzz.” Gia lunged to her feet and stalked across the small room. She punched the Stop button on the iPod dock, then braced her palms against the wall and hung her head. Emie Jaramillo had infiltrated her domain all of what—ten minutes? And already Mary J.’s “Sweet Thing” reminded her of Emie. Gia could still smell her lavender scent in the air.
God, she felt like a heel.
That sweet, intelligent woman with the heart-shaped face and trusting eyes didn’t deserve this ambush. Gia had expected a renowned young scientist to be arrogant and aloof. Haughty, at the very least. Instead, Emie 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, Emie was nothing if not genuine.
“Sure, she’s seen it.” Arlon’s skeptical voice cut into Gia’s thoughts. “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. An all-consuming career.”
He whistled low. “She’s got you all worked up, Mendez. Must’ve been some looker. No, wait”—Arlon turned his attention to the clipboard he held—“she couldn’t be a looker if she’s on this particular episode. My mistake.”
“She looked great. Gorgeous,” Gia snapped, whirling toward her colleague. With effort, she stopped, and ran her palms down her face, willing herself to relax. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”
“It’s all good.” Arlon pushed off the doorjamb and moved closer. “What’s really up?”
Gia blew out a breath. “Doesn’t it ever get to you, Arlon? Lying to these people just to get them on the show?”
He considered the question, then shrugged. “It’s just a job, G. Television. Mindless entertainment—emphasis on the mindless part. Besides, you were just the makeup artist in the whole thing. She can’t blame you.”
“But she will, that’s the thing. 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 regret-laden feelings from her past. If anyone in this world did not deserve to be bullied, it was Dr. Emie Jaramillo. “We’re sending an innocent lamb to the slaughter. How can we live with ourselves?”
“I get your point, Gia, but seriously, lay off the melodrama. So the lady 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 Emie 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 the scientific and medical aspects of 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, Iris, and Paloma, all in a row.
She smiled at them, but they looked odd.
Paloma’s hands were clasped at her ample bosom, her eyes wide and serious. And Iris? Emie could swear she looked flaming mad. Come to think of it, her father looked a little angry himself. Was Mama crying?
Perplexed, Emie squinted out at them. Yes, Mama was definitely crying. Had something bad happened since the last time she spoke to them? She fought the urge to traverse the stage and find out for herself. Her adrenaline level kicked up a notch. Before she could worry further, the raucous cheering 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 ripp
led 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 genetics engineering at a private college in Colorado. We’re leading the country’s research into cloning. Particularly human cloning, though the procedure is still quite controversial 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 spattered through the crowd.
Suddenly defensive, Emie 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. “Forgive my confusion. 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.”
Emie 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?
“Surprise?” Emie 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. “Emie, 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 Emie’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. Emie covered her mouth with her hand as the words slithered through her brain. I’ve been duped!
Emie had gone for coffee with Vitoria twice in the past month, purely as a gesture of professional respect. Vitoria was a visiting researcher from a different country, and though Emie found her insufferably arrogant and conceited, even predatory, she’d tried her damnedest to make Vitoria feel welcome on the team. Of course a cretin like Vitoria would assume a few goddamn cups of coffee meant Emie wanted more. Typical. This was exactly why Emie had chosen not to date. Ever.
As the audience roared their approval, the host asked her, “Recognize that voice, Doctor?”
She couldn’t even nod, let alone speak. First comparing her to a corpse, and now bookworm looks? Mortification spiked Emie 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. Iris 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. Emie was so ashamed for putting her parents into this humiliating 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!”
Emie saw stars, and gripped the chair arms so she wouldn’t faint. What a nightmare. No wonder Gia didn’t make up her face. She wasn’t beautiful, like Gia had claimed. Rather, all of them—Gia included—wanted her to look her very worst when she walked onto this stage. Emie choked back a sob. For some reason, Gia’s deception cut to her core. The beautiful makeup artist had seemed so sincere. It had felt as if they’d made a connection. Fooled you, Emie.
“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 Emie 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 Emie could stop them, hot tears burst forth behind her glasses and blurred her vision. As Vitoria took the empty chair next to her, Emie lunged unsteadily to her feet and backed away, smearing at the tears rolling down her makeup-free face. She tore the lavalier microphone from her lapel and tossed it aside, then laid her palms on her flat, trembling abdomen.
“How could you, Vitoria? You stupid, arrogant bitch,” she rasped, before wheeling on her comfortable, sensible heels and running from the stage trailed by the audience’s loud booing.
Offstage, the producer with pencils in her hair caught Emie by her upper arms and held her back. “Come now, Emie. 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. Now or ever.”
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 Emie. “Now.”
Both the producer and the man called Arlon diverted their attention to Gia, and Emie 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.”
Emie wept freely, never so embarrassed in all her life.
She’d worked so hard to make her parents proud. They’d brought her to the U.S. 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 her gratitude, to show them she’d made the most of their sacrifices to become a success, a daughter of whom they could be truly proud. 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, cocksure player in whom she’d never be the least bit interested. She’d never focused on appearance, but this idiotic show had thrown her supposed shortcomings into sharp relief.
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 valued their dignity so.
“Emie! Wait!”
Gia. Emie tried to keep running, to get away before she ever had to see the woman’s lying 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 wrench free. Part of her wished Gia would
just hold her and tell her everything would be okay. The stupid part of me that didn’t even exist before today, before that damned makeup room.
“Emie, please. I’m so sorry. Listen, let me ex—”
“Sorry?” Fury mixed with her humiliation as she hiccupped again. Gia had pretended to be nice to her, when all the while she’d been part of the lie. “You think that weightless word makes it all better? Leave me alone, Gia, okay?”
Emie lifted her chin, pushed up her glasses, and glared, trying her best to mask the hurt with a look of indignance. She yanked 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 she’d trusted, the woman she’d lusted after, if only for a short time. The woman who’d played a major part in the biggest humiliation of her life.
“I want to explain.”
“Yeah? And I don’t want to hear it. I want you to back the hell off. After all this, can’t you—” hiccup “—at least do that?” She turned and stumbled slowly down the long, stark corridor. 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, Emie,” Gia called after her. “You are amazingly beautiful.”
Her heart clenched. Another lie.
Emie never even turned back.
Chapter Two
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 Emie. The doctor deserved an apology, and for maybe the first time in her life, Gia would do everything she could to make things right with a person she’d hurt who hadn’t deserved it. She steered her black pickup onto Speer Blvd. South and moved to the center lane. Rolling down her window, she 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.