The Affair: Week 8 (9 page)

“Weird?”

“Not in a bad way,” she assured quickly.

He was handsome, but his smile transformed his hard features to drop-dead gorgeous. Her mouth hung open at the vision. Her gaze dropped over him, despite her mental command to keep her eyes in her head. His body was big, but lean, long and rangy. He exuded strength, and not only from his personality. His near-black hair was a tousled, sexy glory. Despite the finger-combed negligence of the style, the strands were smooth and shiny. It fell several inches past his chin. Her fingertips itched to touch it.

He took a long draw on his water, and Gia guiltily glanced away. She’d been gawking. Again.

“So if you decided you were a New York girl at heart, how come you came to Los Angeles for college?” he asked quietly.

“I got a good scholarship here,” Gia explained, thankful he’d offered a safe topic. “I’ll probably always feel a little out of place in California, but I had a good college experience.”

“I know what you mean about feeling out of place.”

She nodded. “I can imagine living on the reservation was a different world from Hollywood.”

“I spent quite a few years in the Army and was based in several places in the Middle East and Germany, as well. But even with all the places I’ve lived, I felt like a being from a different planet coming to Hollywood.” He smiled slightly in memory. “Luckily, I liked the work so much that I’ve adapted reasonably well to the alien environment.”

“You don’t regret it? Making your life here?” she asked him, leaning forward and grimacing slightly because the stiff breastplate pinched at her waist.

“Once in a while, but not too often. This is my dream job. To do it, I need to be here.”

“You must meet dozens of wannabe actors and models and the like every day, people who have migrated here with stars in their eyes,” she mused softly. “Do they ever ask your advice while you’re doing their makeup?”

“About betting on the ten-billion-to-one lottery called Fame?” he asked dryly.

“You did it.”

“No. I bet on my art. If fame was part of the bargain, I’d be miles away.”

For a moment, they sat in silence as his low, gruff voice replayed in her head with absolute certainty.

“You never told me what you did for a living in New York. Something to do with your major?” he asked, setting aside his empty water glass. “You lit up when you mentioned you studied history.”

Her gaze flickered across to a golden clock on a nearby table. It had taken them an hour and twenty minutes to get to the dreaded topic.

“My work does have to do with history.” She smiled at him and took the final sip out of her second glass of champagne. He arched his brows, waiting for her to continue. Silently demanding it, actually. While they talked, Gia had grown accustomed to some of his expressions. She sighed. “You can’t expect someone a few years out of undergrad to be as proud of her job as a person like you. New York isn’t the easiest place in the world to rise up the ranks—not that Hollywood is either,” she conceded.

His black eyebrows slanted. “Did you think I was bragging or something?” he asked, looking vaguely bemused.

“Of course not. I’ve had to pry every detail of your work life out of you, you’re so closemouthed about the whole thing. You’d think you were a spy or something, as hard as it is to get specifics out of you,” she joked, ignoring his narrowed stare. “I just meant couldn’t you give me the courtesy of letting me remain interesting in your eyes just a little longer by not asking me career questions?”

“There’s nothing you could say that could make you uninteresting.”

Her laughter faded at his quick, confident reply along with the frank male heat in his golden eyes.

“What do you have on under that armor?” he asked suddenly.

Her eyes widened in surprise at his unexpected question. A smile flickered across his mouth, as if he’d read her stunned reaction. “You’ve got to be uncomfortable. I wanted to bring it up earlier, but I was selfish. I didn’t want you to leave in order to change, for fear you wouldn’t come back.”

Heat flooded her cheeks at his compliment. “Oh . . . a tank top and shorts . . . along with the costume’s pants.”

He stood and set down his empty glass. He held out his hand to her. “Come on,” he urged. “Let’s get you out of it.”

Beth Kery
loves romance, and the more emotionally laden and sexy the romance, the better. She holds a doctorate degree in the behavioral sciences and enjoys using her knowledge of human nature to add depth and intensity to her stories. She is the
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling novelist of over thirty novels.