He loved that about her. Paige had this amusing tomboy quality that she tried hard to hide. But once he knew what lurked inside his assistant, Edward used every trick and ploy in the book to bring out that part of her personality. Her exuberance for anything physical completely turned him on. He bet she’d be a champ at camping. Paige was the type of lifelong adventurer who’d jump at practically any challenge. She’d throw herself into the experience, not sit on the sidelines and sulk because her makeup was mussed and her shoes dirty.
The idea of spending eight glorious weeks with her at a remote location was better than getting everything he wanted on his Christmas list.
After Joann and Paige’s little dust-up a few days earlier, something he’d set in motion by refusing to kiss his co-star’s butt, he’d followed through on his threat to fuck with the actress for stepping over the line. The woman wasn’t stupid and knew damn well that most of what she’d filmed those two days would be edited down to nothing.
Delivering a performance that sucked all the oxygen out of her role had been easy. The simple truth—she was a shitty actress by today's standards. It hadn’t stretched him even a little bit to give Markus one hundred and fifty percent although it rubbed his nalgas raw that the director hadn’t really cared.
Maybe he should be concerned that so much had gone so wrong with this project. But he was financially secure for life, and if the movie tanked, it wasn’t going to set him back. Not at all.
Of course, it helped a shit-ton that his father was a retired money manager. Figuring at the beginning of this wild and crazy ride that he had a dozen-year shelf life at most, he’d been brutal when it came to money. Edward wasn’t cheap, but that didn’t mean he blew wads of cash on stupid shit either.
He drove an electric car because, well … because this was California, and that was what you did. Sure, it was a top of the line Tesla, but still. Being electric counted for something.
He’d leased his house—as well as all of the furniture. Almost all of his travel was work-related; subsequently, so too were the expenses. In short, Gideon Shaw was working his motherfucking ass off so Edward Banning—and the rest of the Banning family—could carve out a sense of security that was more than worth the price of admission to the three-ring circus of celebrity.
Inevitably, the path of this musing circled back to one strange truth that sat at the core of his world.
Gideon Shaw was a myth. A shadow figure. Quite literally, the result of a brain fart that a girl he’d met maybe an hour earlier had deftly managed.
And that girl? Paige Turner.
With the exception of his agent, Mickey—Paige was the only other person in Gideon Shaw’s life who knew the man behind the mask.
That was why he couldn’t wait for the Montana location shoot. The trip might be for work but getting away from the constant attention and being the real him? That shit was gold.
Hmm. Gold. Kind of like the sun-kissed highlights in her hair. He liked that natural glow she had. It was such a change from the heavily styled appearance that was the Hollywood norm.
Edward let out an agitated groan. All roads led back to Paige. Dammit. There it was again. Those visions from his dream … the one that was starting to haunt his nights.
Paige. Naked. As in buck-ass naked. Her hair in that messy top knot she favored when she was busy. She’d be barefoot, walking toward him with a lithe grace on toned legs that went on for miles.
He imagined a triangle of soft curls covering the temptation of her womanhood and growled, squeezing his eyes shut with a fierce frown.
The heat flooding his groin triggered a sudden hard-on that made it virtually impossible to cut off the rest of his fantasy image of the woman who shared both sides of his life.
Though naturally beautiful, Paige would never win a wet t-shirt contest. At least, that was how she explained her modest set of knockers in a town that had practically invented hydraulic tits.
This point of view mystified him. Her breasts were perfect as far as he was concerned. No, they weren’t huge—he’d seen her in a bathing suit enough times to make that a statement of fact—but they were what the universe had intended for her frame. And he thought they were pretty fucking awesome. The perfect handful.
In his fantasy, as she slowly stalked toward him, her hips would do that little shimmy thing he liked so much, and then, his gaze would land on her tits, and then, shit … it was go time after that.
Her nipples would be pink-tipped and begging for his touch. Having never actually seen Paige naked, he was working off what his imagination created. He wondered for the thousandth time if she’d like him to suck each pert, plump mound. Because, fuck to the yeah, the idea of feasting on her tits was interfering with the vow he’d made years ago—not to cross that line with her.
She was his friend more than his assistant. He trusted Paige completely. Keeping his growing desire for her on the far back burner was getting more and more involved but he had to, right? There wasn’t any other choice, but that didn’t mean his feelings weren’t complicated where she was concerned.
Did he want to sleep with her? Of fucking course, he did. He had a goddamn pulse, after all. But sex wasn’t all he wanted from Paige, and that was what kept his pants in their zippered and closed position.
She was inside him, and there wasn’t any other way to put it. She never judged or questioned his integrity. They were a damn good team. Fiercely loyal, smart-as-fuck, intuitive, and cleverly funny, Paige was his anchor. She had this uncanny knack for knowing what to do.
And that should have been the end of it. But it wasn’t. The thickening shaft in his loose-fitting pants was lobbying nonstop for a different approach to his calm, cool, collected, and sexy-as-fuck assistant.
Staying firm on the avowed side of the Do-Not-Cross line was going to be put to the test once they were away from all this crap. Might be time for Gideon Shaw to move the fuck aside. Edward Banning was sick and tired of playing second fiddle.
That sound? It was him—groaning, sighing, and growling all at once. He was on a collision course with himself, and he would be lying if he tried to pretend that making love to Paige wasn’t a need that drove him morning, noon, and night.
In 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 cr
anky 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.
“So, 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 questionabl
e 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.
The Gideon Affair Page 4
