The Gideon Affair (6 page)

I
n the midst of a clumsy attack, Paige stumbled from the driveway to the back door of her West Hollywood bungalow, arms overflowing with stuff. It would be a miracle if the two Trader Joe’s bags didn’t tear before she made it safely to the kitchen.

Unusually humid, the hazy, warm summer day was kicking her ass as she went about the endless errands and busywork tasks she had on her to-do list. A fine sheen of perspiration from the effort and the gruesome weather made her forehead itch. Plus, the sweat dripping down the center of her back was dampening the thin white t-shirt she wore.

She didn't even know how she managed to get herself and the crap she was lugging into the house. Finally disentangled from the array of bags, the air conditioning took over.

Ahhhhh. Now that was more like it.

Sinking onto a quaint L-shaped bench in a corner of the kitchen, she admired the toile fabric—a surprising find she’d stumbled upon at an indoor swap meet. Paige loved the look of the distinctive black print against the painted white wood in her 1920’s style, fully renovated home. Just like her, it was simple and understated.

Sliding her legs apart, she slumped forward and visualized the tension leaving her spine, flexing her shoulders and dangling her fingers an inch from the floor, willing the cool air to soothe her overheated skin.

Better. Much better. Mmm.

Her eyes drifting closed, she sat back with a sigh and swung her head side to side, wincing slightly at the creaking and grinding noises made by her neck.

“This is what being tight as a drum means,” she mumbled.

Not only did it seem as if her skin was stretched excessively tight, but also every muscle and joint in her entire body felt swollen and out of whack. Stomping around town for hours hadn’t helped.

Turning cranky eyes on the Fitbit wrapped around her wrist, Paige ripped the damn thing off and was tempted to flush it down the toilet. What difference did it make to track her daily activity if she felt like being measured for a wheelchair after a day like today?

Fruuuck. Yep, fruck. That was what she said.

Looking around, she admired the Spanish architecture, arched doors, alcove ceilings, and unique bungalow-style built-ins. Every inch of the place screamed Paige—from the gorgeous hardwood floors to the tiny postage stamp-size backyard. All it lacked was a pool.

Ah, well. Maybe when she found her forever home, she’d make sure there was a pool or, at the very least, a hot tub. For now though, whining about it wasn’t very productive. The cute WeHo house lacked a pool, yeah, but the mind-boggling deal she’d worked to buy the well-situated property made up for any shortcomings.

Okay, so it hadn’t just been her working the deal. Steven Banning had a big hand in Paige’s ability to even consider, at her young age, buying a home in the crazed Los Angeles real estate market. Nothing like having a personal money manager who viewed taking care of her financial portfolio as something akin to sacred.

A small smile played around the corners of her mouth. Gideon’s parents adored her.

No. Wait. That wasn’t right. Not Gideon. Edward.

Edward’s parents treated her like the daughter they never had, and she thought they were just as incredible as her mom and dad.

In many ways, she was a part of the Banning family, which also included another son, Marshall. And oh my word, what a piece of work he was, but Paige just knew that someday Marsh was going to surprise them all.

Humph. What an unusual bunch they made. Each of them tied in that strange six degrees of separation way to one man.

Steven and Miriam Banning were salt of the earth Midwesterners. Not even five seconds after their son hit the big time, Mr. Banning had retired and ‘grabbed his life’s dream by the balls,’ as he liked to put it.

Leaving the family home where they’d raised their boys, he and Miriam packed up a lifetime of stuff and hauled it and themselves to a western retreat on the banks of a Wyoming river. Thirty acres with mountain views so majestic and beautiful they seemed fake.

Edward had quietly intervened, with her help of course. After some outdoorsy mumbo jumbo from Marsh, he decided the modest two-bedroom cabin his parents wanted to buy just wasn’t what he’d envisioned for their retirement years. Five phone calls and a dozen video tours later, she’d stumbled upon a rustic estate with a drool-worthy chef’s kitchen, vaulted ceilings, multiple fireplaces, wraparound decks, and a theater room that got Edward’s eyes all sparkly.

Paige became a bit misty remembering the moment when he explained what he’d done and handed over the keys to the mind-boggling property. Miriam had wept. Steven had cleared his throat so many times that eventually Edward had just grabbed hold of his dad for the mother of all father-son hugs.

Home and family meant everything to Edward. If it didn’t, he wouldn’t be swaggering across movie screens around the world, usually with his shirt off.

He, or rather they, had a multi-year plan to market the motherfuck out of Gideon Shaw. They'd make an ass-ton of money in the process, try to do as much off-the-radar charity work as humanly possible for veteran’s causes, and then get the hell out of Dodge. Or Hollywood, as the case might be.

From day one, setting his folks up in a dream home where Miriam could garden and Steven could fish had been priority one on the to-do list for Team Shaw. Being able to give his parents the spectacular waterfront home had given him tremendous pleasure. He especially loved that the four-bay garage came with a huge bonus room above that was easily re-styled to be the most amazing craft and project room Martha Stewart could dream up.

With Mom taken care of, the river out front was an easy sell for Dad. An avid fisherman with a remarkable talent as a landscape artist, Steven could prattle on for twenty minutes about the color of the sky above the river and how he spent an entire day trying to recreate the astonishing color on his painter’s palette.

Paige couldn’t help the snorting chuckle that thinking about the Banning homestead brought. It was funny how her mind moved these days. First, she was hot, sticky, and pissed off. Then she was waxing rhapsodic about some upholstery fabric. Before she knew it, her pique at having had a physically taxing day almost made her flush hundreds of dollars of fitness technology.

And that thought? Well, it led to her wanting a swimming pool, which reminded her of the stroke of luck that Edward’s dad made possible by taking such good care of her finances. Which brought her thoughts around to what a wonderful son Edward was, how much helping his family motivated everything he did, and how she was a part of all that.

She did a quick tally and snorted again.

Yep. Six degrees or thereabouts.

And while she was indulging in these thoughts? Paige had her libido—or however women referred to their sex drive nowadays—on total lockdown.

She had no choice—there wasn’t any other way because having an endless cavalcade of dirty thoughts shuffling through her brain about her best friend and the man she worked for was just plain stupid.

And self-defeating.

And, yes … frustrating as hell.

Maybe some mindless, in-the-moment sex would take the edge off. Release some of the raging horniness that was her constant companion.

Paige shook her head. Yeah, right. She never actually went through with any of her grand plans to get a life that didn’t revolve around Gideon Shaw. Or Edward Banning.

Quickly stashing the ice cream in the freezer and loading up an entire drawer in the fridge with yogurt, she folded the brown paper bag—an odd habit learned in childhood—and shoved it into another bag. Sometimes she wondered about her quirks because, after all, who the hell else had she ever known to alphabetize their spice cabinet?

Paige shrugged the thought away. She’d rather be an organization freak than a messy slob.

Groceries handled, she still had a stack of mail that demanded attention, but she was one huge ball of stress. The best thing she could do right then was to relax. That was what a day off was supposed to be about. Right? But she had a tough time putting her needs first. Figuring she needed a backbone, she headed into the living room and toward the large sectional sofa. Grabbing a soft throw off the arm, she kicked off her shoes, pulled the band out of her ponytail, and flopped onto the couch.

There. Time to relax.

A couple of minutes ticked by in silence.

Dammit. Why couldn’t she get comfortable?

Shoving the throw blanket aside, she uncurled, sat straighter, and repositioned, settling into the plush cushioning with her legs crossed as she attempted a casual lean against the overstuffed arm.

That was good for about a minute. And then her foot started to waggle. Soon the movement became a full-on nervous shake.

I wonder what Edward’s doing …

Paige’s head fell onto the back of the sofa as she released a weary groan. Why the hell couldn’t she keep him out of her thoughts?

Her inner voice wasn’t a goddess doing acrobatic moves or a fallen angel with questionable tastes. Nope—she had a rather stern librarian type in her head that tsked at bullshit and pushed back when Paige got wishy-washy. About anything.

The truth was, despite the über-efficient and terribly, terribly straightforward way she conducted herself, Paige was a dreamer. Always searching for deeper meaning in just about everything, she yearned for the extraordinary. Her mom said she was like that expression
still waters run deep
… calm and controlled on the outside but possessing a passionate nature that surprised those lucky enough to access her inner world. That was why she couldn’t keep him from her thoughts.

“S
o, Mr. Shaw … this has been quite the year for you.”

Edward was in yawn mode as he faced off with the nonstop parade of the press. The studio had asked the cast to sit down and make nice with some questionable interviewers. Probably because the producers had realized the movie was going to be a shit show, so they orchestrated a little damage control well in advance of the release.

Plus, he hated press sit-downs in general. Especially when Paige didn’t have complete control.

“Well, Dave, it’s certainly been busy … I’ll give you that.”

The look his response garnered suggested that the pale, stick-thin reporter who showed up wearing a t-shirt with a rudely offensive message and jeans that looked like they’d been plucked out of the laundry pile didn’t like him very much. Or at all. Take your pick.

“Must be nice. All the attention and awards.”

Oh, fuck. Another spank monkey with a shit attitude who wanted to prove his manhood by acting all kinds of snarky.

Fabulous.

Figuring it was best to head this bullshit off and push the interview into safer territory, he gave a perfunctory non-response response and waited to see where the fucker went next.

“I’m just grateful for the work and the opportunity to give the fans something worth the money they shell out. Awards are nice, but I’ve always focused on the bigger picture.”

These interviews had a certain rhythm. Knowing they filmed his every expression made him ever alert to subtext and nuance because the person asking the questions was who edited the final piece. During the filming, it was unnecessary to focus on the interviewer since they would add his reaction shots later.

When the asswipe studied his page of notes and didn’t so much as acknowledge Edward’s answer, the skin on the back of his neck prickled. Something wasn’t quite right. That sixth sense he’d developed in the war—the one that got him ramped up to alert status in a nanosecond—was broadcasting on high.

“Your box office numbers are quite impressive …”

He wanted to laugh in this little prick’s face when the guy paused for effect. What a fucking joke. He did realize that he was interviewing an actor, right?

Putz.

“… but e-qually as impressive …”

Had that fucker just tried to imitate Snape when he said that? Nobody pronounced equally quite the way Alan Rickman did.

“… are the numbers your sex tape has generated. Best I can figure, that particular starring role of yours has been a cash bonanza for Fierce Videos.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. No way was this going anywhere good.

“Care to comment on that?”

Care to comment
. Jesus. What an unbelievable dick.

Two things flashed simultaneously in Edward’s mind. First … why the hell wasn’t Paige here? She’d have this nutsack on his knees in ten seconds. And second was the idea of answering the question by shoving his dick down the guy’s throat.

Helluva comment that’d be.

Instead, years of iron-willed self-control kept him motionless in his seat. No way was he giving this turd anything useable.

Without missing a beat, Edward’s eyes bored into the interviewer. For a couple of seconds, the idiot actually tried to stare him down.

Good luck with that.

Didn’t take long for the smarmy shit to lower his eyes and clear his throat.

Uh-huh. Spineless pussy.

An incredibly long, tense silence followed. Edward never moved a muscle nor did he look away from the guy’s face.