It's Just Love (4 page)

Cursing Detroit, Gage slid his Jag into the slot. He had no
time to return to the gate and ask for another lot, even if he could find it.
The time he’d lost wandering around the studio had eaten every extra moment
he’d allowed. He’d have to rush out after taping as well, because that dark
yellow monster’s owner was sure to slam a gargantuan door into his sleek
conveyance. Who drove such a thing around town anymore? It couldn’t get more
than ten miles to the gallon.

He inched his door open, the wall so close he had to squeeze
from his seat. If he’d eaten a piece of toast for breakfast, he’d never have
made it. He sidled to the sidewalk that fronted his spot and stood for a
moment. Despite the pride he had in his luxury car, he took in the Charger.
He’d wanted a car like that in high school.

As much a luxury to his young self as the Jag ever would have
been. More, in fact, because it was the antithesis of any vehicle his prominent
surgeon father would have approved for his scion. No, he’d received a car for
his sixteenth birthday, a sensible sedan, brand new and shiny. It was transportation,
nothing to make his heart soar like his buddy’s rusty bucket that they rebuilt
on weekends. A 1969, no, 1968 Charger, just like this one. He turned to follow
the signs to the studio only to be slammed back against his hood by a fast-moving
body.

“Ooh, I’m sorry,” the young woman said, grasping his hand
and tugging him upright. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. You see—” She
winced. “I’ve never been on television before and I’m running late. The guy
inside asked if I had Tarot cards and I said yes, but they were in the car, and
I only had a couple of minutes because I have to get into makeup, and they had
me change to this weird outfit and I…” She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes at
him. “Are you okay?”

He stared, stunned by her flood of words. Dressed in an
outlandish outfit of long skirts and scarves, the woman facing him looked like
some kind of a gypsy fortuneteller from a B movie. If gypsy fortunetellers had
piles of wavy, platinum-blonde hair cascading down their backs, a golden tan,
and green eyes tipped at the outer edges. A few freckles scattered on her
short, straight nose, and her full lips were glossed baby pink. She came almost
up to his shoulder.

Captivated despite himself, he tried to remember what she’d
asked?
Oh.
“Yes, I’m fine.” He turned to survey the hood of his car. To
his horror, a short scratch marred the gleaming surface. Irritation suppressed
his initial enchantment. “I’ll need your insurance information, though.”

“What?” She leaned to the right to see past him. “What for?”

“You scratched my car.”

Her voice held nothing but disdain. “I don’t see anything,
and I am afraid I don’t carry walking insurance.”

He grabbed for her hand. “Feel this.” Taking her fingers, he
slid them along the mark in his paint. “See?” Despite his anger, her slim
forearms drew him, the way their hands laced together on his hood, nearly
hiding the damaged paint.

She yanked away. “Okay, there’s a little something there,
not actually visible to the naked eye, but I didn’t do that.”

“I beg your pardon? You knocked me down.”

“I was coming along the sidewalk, minding my own business,
and you turned and slammed right into me.” Hands on hips, head tilted back, she
met his gaze with unapologetic daring. “You’re lucky I don’t sue!”

Gage opened his mouth to retort, but a young man from
Montclief’s staff arrived and hurried them both off to makeup. Unlike the
woman, he remained in the clothes he wore: an Armani suit that Geena used to
say brought out his dark hair and blue eyes. Sitting in the salon chair next to
the klutzy car destroyer, he did his best to avoid any further conflict.

He silently rehearsed what he wanted to cover in his
appearance. In the back of his mind, a niggling concern made itself known. Why
would Montclief have him on the same show as a fortuneteller? He shrugged and
tilted his head to allow the makeup artist to dust his neck with powder.

“What’s this show about?” At the gypsy’s question, his head
snapped upright, and he caught her glance in the wall-encompassing mirror. A
crinkle formed between her straight, blonde brows.

He had been torn between pleasure at the national audience
and dismay at the pop-culture element, but he hadn’t thought much about the
theme of the show, assuming he would discuss his latest book, maybe his
theories, but with a guest like the stunning, aggravating blonde…

Aaron had deflected his questions, insisting he focus on the
wide exposure. After all, he wrote popular self-help books, not scholastic
papers intended for a few university professors. All those PBS shows combined
didn’t equal the audience he would enjoy for this one hour show. He hadn’t
watched it, but he understood it was kind of like Oprah, which he had seen a
few times over the years. Several guests would convene and discuss a topic in
front of a live audience.

Live audience. That was new too.

“I’m sorry,” the esthetician working on her said. “But what
do you mean, what’s the show about? It’s the Harry Montclief show.”

He smiled at the gypsy in the mirror; it was hard not to. She
looked like a beach bunny with her smooth, golden tan and sun-whitened hair.
Only a few smile lines by her eyes made her look older than a teenager. Early
twenties, maybe? They were both covered by large, plastic smocks to protect
their clothing from the heavy stage makeup, but he wondered what the gypsy’s
body looked like under the apron and the lurid, flowing clothing she wore.
Interesting fashion sense—she’d said the show provided her attire, hadn’t she?

“I am not sure why I was asked to be here,” she said. “And
please call me Coral.”

What a lovely, unusual name.

“Oh, I don’t know either. Mr. Montclief covers a lot of
different topics. Usually controversial.” The makeup artist grinned, and the
gleam in her reflected eye worried Gage a little. Controversial?

Coral shrugged. “Well, I’m here now, so whatever it is, I’ll
go along with the program.” The makeup woman puffed a little powder over Coral’s
face and yanked off the apron. “I’m just uncomfortable in all these scarves and
things.”

He wasn’t sure why he felt so relieved.

A young man in jeans and a
Harry Montclief Show
t-shirt,
with an appalling blue and blond spiked haircut appeared through a doorway and
smiled at Coral. “Ready? I’ll take you to the green room so you can see the
start of the show on the monitors.”

She beamed back at him. “Tom! I hoped you’d be here today.”
So, it was Tom and Coral, was it? How friendly. The guy looked a little younger
than her, but not much. And she went right up and took his arm, leaning on him
and laughing at something he said in a voice too low for Gage to pick up. She
slapped his hand and giggled.

“Mr. Middleton, are you always this red?” The makeup girl
stared at him in concern. “I need to add some base here, because you don’t want
to look like this on television. Funny, I didn’t notice it before.” She bustled
over to another table and rummaged around. “I apologize.”

He stared at his reflection in the wide mirror. No, he was
not always this red. And he couldn’t understand why the sight of the gypsy-beach
bunny and her friend bothered him so much. He’d fought the urge to jump up and
pull her away.

Maybe because she had a car like Sid’s, he felt an odd
affinity to her. That must be it. It reminded him of sunny summer days lying on
his back under the chassis, laughing and joking with his best friend. It seemed
a long time since then, with thirty just under his belt. Of course, teenage men
bonded to cars as easily as to girls. He and his buddy sure had. Sentimentality
and a certain vulnerability brought on by Geena’s betrayal. Cars and women—even
for a grown man, they were a potent combination.

For a moment, he wondered if he should ask to drive the
Charger. He’d never had the chance with Sid’s—the other boy’s family had moved
away before the car was done, and his last sight of the golden beast was on a
tow truck on its way to Hemet, a city eighty miles away. Not that far really,
but school and life had taken over, and he’d never made it out there to visit
and now…

He shook his head as the artist arrived back at his side and
dropped a few small pots and a brush on the table in front of him. “Funny,
you’re not red now. Are you all right?”

“Oh, fine.” He held his head steady as she applied a light
coat of some kind of creamy makeup. She removed his smock and smiled at him.

“I guess we’re all done then. Break a leg.”

He frowned before he remembered the show biz phrase.
“Thanks. I am a little nervous.”

She leaned close and patted his shoulder. “You have no
idea.”

As he stared at her, startled, another t-shirted production
assistant, a pretty, young brunette this time, arrived and swept him away.
Despite his greater height, her speed had him puffing as she led him down one
hall then the next. At a door marked
Green Room
, he slowed, but she
called over her shoulder, “No time, we have to get you on set right away. You
were late, you know.” She sped up, disappearing around a corner. Her voice
floated back. “We were about to replace you with the dog breeder.”

He kicked it up, his new loafers too smooth on the bottom to
get good traction, but afraid if he got too far behind he’d be lost and miss
the show. Replaced by a dog breeder—apparently they covered a variety of topics
on each show if they could make that work. He took a hard left and saw his PA
about a dozen yards ahead. He broke into a trot, dodging the others in the
hallway who all seemed to be heading toward him. Was nobody going to the set?

The girl stopped at a set of double doors. She held one half
open, and he scooted through, nearly losing his balance on his slippery soles,
but managing to right himself as he approached a short, roundish man with a
black pompadour.
Harry Montclief.
On stage.

“Please welcome my first guest, New York Times Book Review
and USA Today bestselling author, Gage Middleton. His
Compatible Pair
has made finding a perfect mate a lot easier, and his new book,
The Factors
,
makes it a no brainer.”

The audience clapped as Harry—who he now recognized from an internet
article on TV hosts who specialized in getting their guests to lose all dignity
and control—waved him to a seat. Gage smoothed his hair and gave the tiers of
smiling people a friendly wave.
Aaron, you’re dead meat.

* * * *

Waiting outside the stage doors, under the gleaming red
light, Coral’s stomach flipped. Through the big windows in the portals, she
watched the byplay between the host and the three people already seated around
him: the Jag guy from the parking lot, an old style matchmaker, and a
representative from an online dating service. As the final guest to be
introduced, she had surmised the reason for her appearance.

If Tom hadn’t left her to go about other duties, she might
have turned him into a toad if that was possible. She didn’t know anyone who’d
ever actually performed the spell, but it did sound entertaining. She grinned,
a little less antsy as she pictured Tom hopping about the stage, the object of
laughter and derision from everyone present.

But a moment later, a push at the small of her back
propelled her through the doors. Hot, blinding lights made it hard to see where
she went. She squinted and moved forward.

Harry Montclief met her and grasped her hand. He led her to
the front of the stage and introduced her to the audience, telling them a
little about her, from the bio she’d emailed over the weekend, while her heart
thrummed in her ears. She followed him to the semicircle and took the seat to
his right.

The woman on her other side wore a conservative, pale-pink
skirt suit and low–heeled, beige pumps. Her hair smoothed in a neat bob, she
wore a tasteful amount of carnation pink lipstick and looked like anyone’s
stylish aunt. Esther Bornstien, matchmaker. Next to Esther sat a lean, black
man in his mid-thirties wearing hip designer threads. Martel Hughy represented
Soul Brothers Meets, a gay, online dating service. The guy from the parking lot
was Doctor Gage Middleton, PhD, a self-help guru. What a jerk. Cute—but still a
jerk.

And she was the final piece of the puzzle, the love-potion
witch. The garish finale—in full regalia—to a serious discussion by
professionals. The other three had spoken in low, measured tones, making points
based on research, backed up by their multiple degrees.

She should have slammed the door in Tom’s face when he came
to invite her here. If he ever darkened her doorway again, she’d find that toad
spell and make it work. Or maybe he’d make a better newt. She should have gone
to college, despite her mother’s aversion for traditional education.

* * * *

“Now that we’re all here, we can begin our panel
discussion,” said Harry Montclief. “Let me throw out a topic, something simple
you should all be able to answer. What is love?”

Esther straightened her wig, which had slipped a little
back, showing the net covering her real hair.
Smooth bob, right.
“I’m so
glad you asked, Harry. As I tell my clients, their parents are the best judges
of who they can find happiness with. That is why they come to me. So the
children can meet someone their mother and father find acceptable. This leads
to harmony in the family and often successful business liaisons as well.”

“Children? I assume you mean single adults who take their
parents’ wishes to a ridiculous extent.” The host leaned forward and stared at
her. “I asked, what is love?”

“Oh,” she responded. “Love will come in time, for most
people. But I stand by my business and my clients have a success record that
almost nobody can match. They get married and they stay married. Young women
need guidance and young men need to be guided back into the path their fathers
intend for them. Historically, many cultures find my method successful.” She
nodded and leaned back.