by Lea Santos
Gia turned to her, a curious smile on her face. She studied Emie over the rim of the glass as she took a long draw of water, then wiped the back of her hand slowly across her lips. “Such glowing admiration could make a painter wish she were the paint job itself.”
“Ha ha,” Emie replied in a tart but playful tone. If she only knew. Emie shifted her gaze to the ground, but not before it had swept down Gia’s bare, toned, sweat-sheened and paint-spattered arms. She noted the unfastened top button of Gia’s jeans with unabashed interest. “I really appreciate you getting this all buttoned up. Finished, I mean.”
“No sweat. Well, lots of sweat. But it’s calming work,” Gia said. “Gives me time to think about my current project.”
With dismay, Emie realized she’d been so focused on her own issues lately, she hadn’t even bothered to inquire about Gia and her life. Her artwork, for God’s sake. “How’s that going? Are you all settled in?”
Gia nodded. “After I finish the new painting, I think I may take a few pieces around to some of the galleries in town, see what kind of response I get.”
“That’s a wonderful idea. I’d love to see your work,” she hinted, hoping Gia’d offer to take a break and show her right that freaking minute. She supposed she could learn a lot about the woman that way.
“Sometime, sure,” Gia said, but sounded unconvincing.
Gulp. Emie felt the conversation dwindling to a close and racked her brain for something to revive it. “What’s the new painting? Can I take a peek at that one?”
Gia hiked up one shoulder, her gaze distant, as though looking inward rather than out. “I never show my works-in-progress until they’re no longer in progress.” Gia plucked an ice cube from the glass and ran it over the back of her neck and upper chest. A low sound of satisfaction rumbled from her throat, making Emie’s lungs tighten. “I needed this,” she said. “It’s hot today.”
Speak, Em. Say something. She’d guided technical lectures, spoken before grant review boards with eloquence and grace, yet nothing intelligent came to mind when presented with such brazen feminine appeal. Well, that certainly knocked one job off her list of alternate careers. She could never work as an announcer in a women’s strip club. She’d be tongue-tied the whole time. “August,” she blurted.
Gia blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“August is usually Colorado’s hottest month,” Emie said, crossing her arms over her torso. “You haven’t seen the worst of the heat wave yet.” Weather. Yes. Innocuous and socially acceptable. Let’s talk about that. She didn’t want to ponder the image of Gia running that dripping ice cube over her naked skin.
Yes. She. Did.
Emie was the one to insist they keep things platonic, so why did she want to kick herself for that rule every time she saw the woman? Over these first three days of Gia’s residence in the carriage house, they’d fallen into an easy, polite friendship. They met on the back porch each morning and shared coffee and sections of The Denver Post. Gia had kept up her half of the deal by being nothing but a gentlewoman. Almost—ugh, dared she say it? Sisterly. Yet here Emie stood lusting after the woman like a cat in heat and wishing her feelings were reciprocated. How fickle could she be?
She had probably concocted fifty weak excuses to come outside and gape while Gia painted her house, wearing only ripped jeans and a barely there tank top. Jesus, Emie had to pull herself together.
“But it’s a dry heat, yeah?” Gia grinned.
“What? Oh. Yes.” Emie pushed her lips into the semblance of a normal smile and watched Gia’s throat move as she drained the glass. A rivulet of melting ice trickled slowly down the contours of Gia’s chest, into that sacred, fragrant place between her breasts, and her nipples hardened beneath the threadbare white tank.
Dios mío, call the fire department.
“What are your plans tonight?” Gia asked, extending the empty glass toward her.
Emie jerked her gaze to the other woman’s face, then took the tumbler, clutching it to her chest. She hoped to hide her own hardened nipples, hardened for a whole other reason besides ice. “Uh, I don’t have any. I was going to peruse some lab studies, but they aren’t pressing. Why?”
Gia squinted up at the house, then stooped to gather some painting supplies into a neat pile on the sidewalk. “I thought we’d discuss some options for the makeover…over dinner, wherever you’d like,” she said casually. “Then we could catch some live jazz at El Chapultepec.” She stood, hands on hips.
Emie’s lips parted. Was Gia inviting her out?
As if reading Emie’s thoughts, Gia raised her palms. “Before you protest, I assure you, it’ll just be two friends grabbing a bite and checking out music.”
“I-I know.” Irrational disappointment fizzled through Emie.
“My treat.”
“Oh. Well. I’m perfectly capable of paying my own way.”
“Whatever you’d like.”
Nothing seemed to faze the woman. She pulled the elastic from her ponytail and furrowed paint-flecked fingers through that gorgeous swing of hair. Sweat dampened her hairline, the back of her neck.
“I’ve heard a lot about El Chapultepec’s world-class jazz. It’ll be more enjoyable together.”
What wouldn’t be more enjoyable alongside Gia? Emie thought. She’d never even heard of El Chapultepec, such was the extent of her dismal nightlife experience. Even so, her heart quickened at the thought of an evening out with Gia. It wasn’t a date, but it kind of felt like one. The ridiculous urge to spin in a circle ribboned through her. She was such a dork. “I’ve never been there. But that would be fine,” she stammered. “Not fine. Fun, actually. So, yes. When should we go?”
The low-hanging afternoon sun burnished Gia’s face in warm gold light, highlighting her high cheekbones and effortless, endless beauty. She smiled, looking genuinely pleased. “Really? Great. I need to straighten up here, then grab a shower. Let’s say, an hour? Will that give you enough time?”
Emie nodded, firm and businesslike. “See you then. I’ll bring a notebook and pen.”
“A notebook and—why?” Confusion clouded Gia’s eyes.
“So we can take notes, write down our plan.” Emie adjusted her glasses, her skin heating with embarrassment instantly. But why? “For the makeover. You said we’d discuss it over dinner. That’s the whole point, right?” Please say no.
“Oh. Right. Of course.” The corners of Gia’s full mouth quivered. “Good, uh, you bring those things. That’ll save me the trouble of digging ’em up myself.” The diamond stud in her earlobe caught the sunlight.
Emie turned and took hesitant steps toward the porch, wondering about the look of amusement on Gia’s face. She felt like she’d made some kind of social blunder but had no clue what it was and didn’t have time to dwell on it. She only had an hour to get ready. Ugh. Dread. She didn’t date. By choice. She didn’t have a damn clue how this whole thing would go down. She slowed and finally turned back, cheeks burning. “Gia? I’m sorry. What do you suppose I should wear…to such a place?” She bit the corner of her lip as humiliation bubbled up inside her for having to show how woefully inept she was at this type of social engagement.
Gia closed the space between them in seconds and touched her nose with one paint-coated finger. “Whatever you choose will look perfect, querida. It’s not a fancy spot by any means. Wear whatever makes you comfortable.”
Emie released a pent-up breath. A smile lifted her lips, and her skin tingled where Gia had brushed it. Sadly, it was a new sensation being touched by a woman, and Emie—not so surprisingly—enjoyed the attention. “Thank you,” she said, and meant it. Gia Mendez was a nice woman. She made Emie feel less like a freakish scientist and more like the vibrant, vital woman she’d shelved decades earlier. After the Barry Stillman debacle, she never thought she’d admit it, but she was glad Gia had come to Denver.
*
The famous jazz club was nothing more than a minuscule hole in the wall on the corner of Twentieth a
nd Blake in lower downtown. Emie crossed the threshold, welcomed by a doorwoman who smiled but didn’t check their IDs. The place seemed pretty full for a weeknight, men and women nursing beverages and bouncing their heads gently to the beat of the music. The black summer wool slacks and cherry red silk blouse Emie had chosen were on the conservative side, but she didn’t feel the least bit self-conscious. Gia had told her she looked wonderful; that was enough to bolster her.
The back room was a brashly lit cantina offering no-nonsense food and a pool table. They’d just finished a meal at the restaurant next door, though, so they scanned the bar area close to the musicians. They spied a couple vacating a wood and vinyl booth halfway between the door and the tiny stage and made a beeline for it. Emie slid in, surprised that Gia took the seat beside her instead of across the table. Emie raised a quizzical brow.
“You mind? I’m a visual person. I like to be able to watch the musicians.” Gia propped the heels of her boots on the bench across from them and settled in.
“I don’t mind.” Was Gia nuts? Sitting next to her was a treat. Emie let her eyes wander around the darkened interior. Photographs of musicians who’d played there lined the walls, frame to frame. Pink bar lights shone off the black and white floor tiles and glinted off the chrome edges of the Formica tables. Up front, four musicians crowded a small, battered stage, filling the club with music through a surprisingly good-quality sound system. ONE DRINK MINIMUM PER SET, a large sign near the stage stated.
An attractive young waitress dressed in jeans and a green tank top approached the table. She spared Emie a minor glance before her ravenous gaze and 300-watt smile rested comfortably on Gia. “Well, how are you this evening?” Her voice held a whiskey rasp served up with a side shot of confident sexuality. “What can I bring you?”
Gia turned from the waitress to her. “Emie?”
“Whatever you’re having,” she said, catching the waitress’s “notice me” posture out of the corner of her eye.
Gia ordered them each a coffee with Frangelico as Emie lost herself in the husky tunes, ignoring the waitress’s blatant flirting with Gia. The chick might as well have straddled Gia’s lap to take the order. How irksome. What was Emie, invisible? Sure, she didn’t have any hold over Gia, but how would the waitress know that? Was it so obvious that a woman like Emie would never truly be with someone extraordinary like Gia?
Her stomach cramped. Don’t think about it. You have more brain power in your little finger than that bitch has at all.
When their coffees came, Emie glanced over and realized with a start how close the two of them sat. Gia’s body heat pulled her in like a magnetic force field. If she turned her head, she could probably count the barely perceptible freckles dusting Gia’s bronzed cheeks. Gia’s arm draped casually over the back of the booth, long fingers tapping out the beat next to Emie’s head. This proximity set her senses dancing, and despite the irrationality of it, she yearned to edge even nearer, to nestle into Gia’s warm sugar scent. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to fantasize how it would feel for Gia Mendez to actually be attracted to her. For her to actually let a woman break through that impenetrable emotional wall she’d built so long ago. One song ended, and another began.
“It’s just my opinion,” Gia said next to her ear, that hot, creamy voice vibrating against Emie’s skin until she could hardly bear it, “but there’s just something blatantly erotic about saxophone music. Yeah?”
Emie swallowed with effort, her lids fluttering open. A simple question. She didn’t know about the music itself, but there was definitely something erotic about a lethally sexy woman breathing on your neck in a hot smoky jazz club while saxophone rhythms thumped their way into your soul. That she could, surprisingly enough, get used to. She brushed her hand against the side of her neck. “Yes. It’s…it’s lovely,” she finally managed.
Gia’s soft laughter brought Emie’s gaze to her profile. She tried to look indignant, though the coffee and companionship had mellowed her into a great mood. “Are you laughing at me?”
“I’m laughing with you, Emie.” Gia squeezed her shoulder.
Emie crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Well, considering the fact that I’m not laughing, what’s so funny?”
Gia shifted to face her so she didn’t have to speak into Emie’s ear to be heard over the sultry bass pumping through the packed crowd, through their conversation, through their bodies. Pink light caught one side of her face while shadows claimed the other. “I don’t know…you make me happy.”
“How so?”
“Here I am talking about sax music being erotic, sensual, and you say it’s lovely.” Gia shrugged. “You’re different from the other women I’ve known. You’re just so…real.”
Inside, Emie warmed. But she arched a brow. “You thought I was an illusion?”
Gia danced soft fingers along Emie’s shoulder, studying her face with an intensity Emie could hardly bear. “Sometimes I wonder.”
Deprived of a reply, Emie turned her attention back to the band, feeling light and tingly and alive. Pulsating. Sexual. Gia said the nicest things to her, all the time. One would almost think Gia found her awkwardness attractive. Right then, it didn’t matter if Gia was schmoozing, trying to charm her way into Emie’s good graces to make up for what had happened. The flattery soothed like a balm, and Emie just wanted to enjoy the company for a while. Gia was witty and attentive, and oh so gorgeous. Emie felt warm and special tucked next to her in the booth, even if it wasn’t a “real” date.
Her mind wandered to their earlier discussion about the makeover. They’d shoot for an exotic look, Gia had suggested over a dinner of West Texas burgers and home fries. Elizalde hailed from Brazil, she’d explained, and many Brazilian women went for that style. For Emie, “exotic” brought to mind fruit basket hats and fuchsia feather boas, but she was sure it meant something else altogether to Gia. She certainly hoped so, anyway.
She leaned closer. “Do me a favor. If you see a woman who has this exotic look we’re trying for, point her out.”
“Gladly.” Gia immediately scanned the crowd.
Emie tried to follow her gaze, but found herself staring at the sweep of Gia’s strong yet feminine jawline instead, yearning to touch it. Even masked by the enticing scents of chile and fresh baked tortillas wafting in from the kitchen, Gia smelled soapy fresh and audaciously, edibly womanly. Emie didn’t think Gia wore cologne, but that was the point. She didn’t need any help smelling incredible.
“There’s an exotic-looking woman.” Gia inclined her head toward a table adjacent to the stage.
Emie tracked her line of sight until she caught a glimpse of the woman in question, and her stomach plunged, though not nearly as far as the woman’s neckline. Wait. Maybe she was looking at the wrong person. Emie scanned the booths, but besides Ms. Cleavage, only men occupied the seats. From her poofed-up hair to her garish makeup and painted-on clothes, the woman looked nothing like what Emie had pictured as exotic. She looked like a…a total slut. A straight slut.
“You can’t possibly mean her?” Emie balked, resisting the urge to laugh out loud. “In the purple minidress?”
Gia smiled with what could only be interpreted as sloe-eyed approval. “That’s her. Looks great, yeah?”
Emie’s hand fluttered to her throat, her eyes fixed on the overblown caricature of the stereotypical barfly. Was this the kind of woman who turned Gia’s head? A little coil of disappointed jealousy sprang free inside her. She could never carry off that look, not that she had any desire to do so. She took a large swallow of her coffee and reminded herself she wasn’t trying to interest Gia. She wasn’t. The whole point of this was to get back at Vitoria.
Period.
“Well, I guess you could say she looks…exotic.” Emie fiddled with her coffee mug. “A bit much, though, don’t you think?”
“Are you kidding? If anything, she’s a little tame.”
“Tame?” Dread surged through her. “No way. She l
ooks—”
“¿Qué?”
Nose scrunched, she tipped her head side to side, searching for a kinder phrase, before giving in and saying what had immediately come to her mind. “She looks…paid for.”
Gia laughed, leaning her head back. “You won’t look exactly like that, don’t worry. By exotic, I just mean a style.”
“But that style?”
“We’re talking about a wealthy, worldly Brazilian scientist,” Gia reminded her. “Vitoria could have her pick of women. We have to choose a look that stands out from the crowd.”
Emie’s throat closed at the prospect of standing out in that manner. She’d look like the poster child for cheap and desperate cougars. Then again, what did she know? Gia had her finger on the pulse of fashion. Emie would have to trust her judgment about what would attract other women.
“She certainly does…stand out, I guess.” Her dubious gaze fell to the woman’s neckline again. She’d never fill a dress like that. They only had four weeks, and short of plastic surgery, her pert breasts were doomed to remain virtually cleavage-free. “Miracle Bra” was just a brand name, after all.
“This is what you wanted, right, querida?” Gia’s tone lowered as the musicians ended one song to a smattering of enthusiastic applause. “To look different from how you do right now? To attract Elizalde? ‘Make me a bombshell,’ I think you said.”
Emie’s head nodded as her mind screamed, “No!” She pushed her drink farther away, unsure if she had the stomach for finishing it. “I do want that, but…maybe purple minidress woman is a bad example. Find someone else who falls into the exotic realm.”
Gia glanced around, finally pointing at an in-your-face blonde wearing a royal blue leather bustier and matching miniskirt. “She has the style.”
Emie gaped, nauseated. She couldn’t even feign approval of the blonde’s immodest outfit. Mama would have a stroke if she saw Emie wearing that. She’d have a stroke herself. “Uh…okay. Anyone else?”