“Nice outfit,” he commented with a laugh. She stood before him in a gray sweatsuit, socks, a ponytail, and instead of a basketball she was holding a large felt roll in her arms. His laughter was directed less at her outfit and more at his totally mistaken expectations.
“I said I wanted to get comfortable. What did you think I meant?” she asked, a sly smile tugging at her lips.
“Whatcha got there?”
“My passion.” Gabrielle led him over to the small round table under the porthole. They sat down, and she proceeded to unfurl the felt tube, revealing a yet-to-be-completed jigsaw puzzle. “You look shocked,” Gabrielle observed with a laugh.
“I am. Who would think that a young woman with your looks and lifestyle would be sitting around at night putting together puzzles?” Doug was surprised but also impressed. Gabrielle’s chosen pastime said a lot about her personality—her tenacity, patience, and love of a good challenge.
“It may not be glamorous, but it’s fun,” Gabrielle revealed. “They can be frustrating, and you have to approach each puzzle differently, but I love the idea of taking a pile of cardboard rubble and turning it into a beautiful picture of someplace in the world I’d like to visit.”
“And this would be the floral carpets in front of the Grand-Place in Brussels, Belgium,” Doug said after a quick examination. He picked up one of the loose pieces and after a few moments of searching, placed it in its correct spot.
“You’ve actually seen them?” she asked with excitement. “Of course you have. You have such a great life—one full of interesting and important people.”
“I know it sounds good, but the truth be known, my life is a lot more like one of your puzzles. Without all the proper pieces in place, it’s rather incomplete.”
Gabrielle smiled shyly, picked up another puzzle part, and searched for its location. Doug followed suit, and soon the two found themselves once again chatting and laughing amicably. The longer they worked to complete the picture, the more intimate their conversation became. Slowly they began to reveal the safe inner parts of their lives. Doug explained how he’d felt growing up with three older sisters. How at times he’d felt isolated, being the youngest and only boy and how writing became his instrument for attention. Gabrielle divulged to Doug how lonely and disconnected she sometimes felt without her mother, and how her success seemed less sweet without Helene there to share it. It was after 1 A.M. before Doug placed the final puzzle piece.
“A perfect fit,” he announced, staring not at the table but soulfully into Gabrielle’s eyes.
21
“It would not be difficult to fall in love with a woman this devastatingly attractive both inside and out,” Doug wrote in his notes as he waited for Gabrielle to return to the set. He knew that those exact words would never make it into his story, but they precisely summed up his feelings. He was looking forward to their lunch together this afternoon, anxious to better know this fabulous woman.
Gabrielle emerged from the wardrobe tent looking angelic in a white gauze trapeze dress that fell from her shoulders with a loose swing. She walked to her mark in the area designated by a border of light reflectors and stood in the surf between the small, silvery panels.
“Let’s roll,” Austin said, satisfied with the Polaroid samples.
As the photographer worked, Gabrielle transported herself into another place. In the movies of her mind she found herself reliving the evening before—with all its magic, mystery, and promise. She drew her hands through her hair in a lazy, sexy stretch, thinking of Doug’s touch. Next she cupped her face in her hands and, putting the tips of her two little fingers into her mouth, gently sucked her fingertips, trying to recapture the sensation of Doug’s actions. Slowly, tilting her face to the sun, she drew her hands down her neck and shoulders, stopping just short of touching her breasts.
“Whoa. This is some great stuff. Very hot, Gabrielle. Keep it coming,” the photographer called out to her. The entire crew appeared mesmerized by her simple but very seductive poses. Whoever she was thinking of was one lucky guy.
Doug, sitting nearby under a tree, could only hope that he was the impetus behind her sexy mood. He’d never felt like this before—so possessive, his emotions so out of control. On one hand, Doug was enjoying this newfound sensation, realizing that his wish had come true—he’d found the woman who could make him forget work. On the other hand, unless his feelings were reciprocated, he was setting himself up for an extended stay at the Heartbreak Hotel.
The entire crew was so caught up in Gabrielle’s suggestive poses that nobody noticed the huge wave until it crashed on the beach. The giant curl wiped out the set and left Gabrielle sputtering in its wake. When she came forth, she was soaking wet, her gauze dress clinging to every beautiful curve, outlining her breasts and nipples with absolute clarity and revealing the lines of her tiny panties. To the small group of people who stood by watching, it was as if suddenly the world had stopped revolving; all sound ceased, and total attention was focused on the lovely creature rising from the sea.
“Makeup,” she requested lamely, pulling seaweed from her mouth.
The mostly male crew, laughing at her weak joke in an attempt to cover their sexual arousal, rushed in to help Gabrielle. Doug, however, could not move. Seeing Gabrielle looking wet and so exposed had left him with an enormous erection the size of a California redwood. His penis felt tight and ready to explode as it strained against his khaki shorts. He wanted to take Gabrielle right here in the surf, to feel her body melt into his as the soothing ocean waters kept the heat of his desire from igniting. Finally Doug managed to pull himself into an upright position and make his way over to the scene.
“Hey, Jigsaw, you didn’t tell me you were a surfer,” Doug quipped. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I just feel a little silly. I didn’t see that wave coming at all.” Gabrielle felt herself blush, embarrassed by her sexy thoughts.
“That was one hell of a shot. We’ll wrap till after lunch,” the photographer declared, sending his model in to change.
“I’m starving,” Gabrielle announced as she reappeared in dry clothes.
“Then you’re in luck. I have lobster tail, a lovely Caesar salad, some incredible marinated olives, French bread, and—if you’re very, very good and answer all my questions—an extra-special dessert.”
Gabrielle followed Doug up the beach about one quarter of a mile to a secluded cove with a spectacular view of the ocean. He pulled a blanket from the picnic basket and smoothed it out on top of the sand. Gabrielle stood by as he set up lunch—complete with china, wineglasses, and one perfect bougainvillea flower set in a Perrier bottle.
“Lunch is served,” he announced as he helped settle Gabrielle on the blanket.
“All this for an interview,” she observed, secretly pleased by his efforts.
“Well, if I don’t ply you with great food and good wine, how else can I pull all your deep, dark secrets out of you?”
The smile and witty reply he expected were not forthcoming. Instead Gabrielle’s demeanor changed from cheery and playful to quietly apprehensive.
“Hey, I was just joking. I don’t know if you’ve read any of my work, but I have a pretty good reputation out there. I won’t embarrass you or misrepresent you in any way. I promise.”
Gabrielle forced herself to relax. She wanted to believe that Doug would not hurt her. She was merely being overly sensitive—something she must stop if she was to avoid drawing suspicion. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I know a lot of girls who’ve gotten burned by reporters who were disappointed by the facts and decided to make up their own.”
“You don’t have to worry. If you say something that you don’t want repeated, simply tell me it’s off the record. I promise, it will go no further.”
“That makes me feel much better.”
“Good. Now let’s eat.”
Together, Doug and Gabrielle hungrily devoured the lobster and salad. Conversation during their meal was li
ght and friendly. For the second time Gabrielle found dining with Doug Sixsmith to be an enjoyable experience, while Doug found her to be a delightful enigma—sophisticated and bright one second, cute and self-deprecating the next. Doug was pleasantly surprised by the depth of this young woman. Her casual ease and comfort made Gabrielle seem much older and more mature than her age would indicate.
“Time for dessert. Close your eyes and open wide,” he coerced her, placing the tip of a fat strawberry between her full lips. The erotic vision made Doug squirm slightly in his seat. “Now take a bite.”
Gabrielle bit down on the strawberry, causing the fruit’s juice to run down her chin. “Chocolate-covered strawberries! You’ve thought of everything.”
“I tried,” Doug told her, happy to see that his effort had impressed her. “We’d better get to work,” he said, pulling out his tape recorder and notepad. Before I follow through on my impulse to lean over and kiss that strawberry juice from your face.
“Let me start by telling you that I’m a little uneasy about this assignment,” Doug admitted. “Following Boris Yeltsin around is more my style.”
“I’m just as nervous. I’ve never had anyone follow me around asking questions and writing down my every word. The way I see it, we’re even.”
“Great. Here’s my first official interview question: After watching you these past few days, I can see that you seem to really enjoy your work. Is there anything about this business that you don’t like?”
“I hate that some people think that because models are attractive, they’re lazy and spoiled. That’s not true. We work very hard. The worst are the people who think that we’re not very smart.”
“Why do you think people have that impression of you?”
Gabrielle’s lip stiffened. “You think I’m stupid?” This was the one thing about her business that Gabrielle despised—the idea that people thought models were vacuous Barbie dolls and not intelligent human beings. It was hard enough trying to convince herself that she was merely illiterate, not ignorant. Fighting that particular demon had become doubly hard now that she was immersed in a career with an unjust reputation for hiring pretty faces with empty heads.
Doug was waylaid by Gabrielle’s defensive tone. “Absolutely not. I find you to be very bright and incredibly aware for someone so young,” Doug answered, his tone soft and complimentary. “How do you feel knowing that people have pegged you to be a big success?”
“Like I’ve stepped out of the rain and into the sun. My future now seems very bright, and I didn’t always feel that way,” Gabrielle answered.
“So what would you say is your secret to success?”
“Focus and faith. My mom always told me that if you focus on your goal and truly believe in what you’re doing, success will come. It works.”
“Tell me about your upbringing,” Doug asked, his reporter’s sixth sense aroused.
Gabrielle took a long swig of her Evian water before answering. Her thirst quenched, she began telling the story that she and Beatrice had concocted about her background. This was her first time going public with the story, and she hoped Doug wouldn’t ask too many probing questions.
“So your mom was a surgical nurse, your dad was in the military, and you moved around a lot while you were a kid. You’re an only child, and your mother died last year,” Doug summed up. “You’ve told me all about your mom—how close you two were, how much she wanted this career for you. What about your dad? Is he still alive?”
“No, he died about five years ago.”
“Tell me about him.”
Tell Doug about Nick? What could she say? That she never really knew her father because he’d never loved her? Should she tell him that had she not been born, her mother would have led a much more charmed life than the one she had—traipsing around the country chasing a man who obviously didn’t want her or their child? What could Gabrielle tell Doug about her father? Certainly not the truth.
Gabrielle’s father and the great love of Helene’s life, Nick Tate Donovan, with his muscular build and dark, brooding manner, was a sexy man’s man. Helene fell for Nick the first time she set eyes on him. She was a seventeen-year-old waitress, he was a twenty-seven-year-old truck driver who pulled into the Bakersfield, California, truck stop for dinner and, after a lusty romp in the back of his rig, pulled out with Helene. They were married two days later in Las Vegas.
For six months they roamed the country together. Helene had never been happier. She worshipped her new husband. And he, in his own way, loved Helene. But Nick was a loner who lived his life in search of something. He had no idea who or what that something was; he knew only that he had to have complete freedom to find it. Helene, young and insecure, was quite willing to let Nick live his life without demands or ultimatums.
It never occurred to him that Helene would ruin everything by getting pregnant. It happened almost immediately, and Helene was ecstatic. But once Nick learned the news, everything changed. As her belly swelled, Nick’s desire for Helene decreased to the level of disgust. He could not stand to look at her, let alone touch her.
Helene went through the duration of her pregnancy ignoring his coldness, assuring herself that he would turn around. The day she went into labor, Nick dropped her off in front of the hospital and went to park the car. He never came back.
For thirteen years Helene followed her husband around the country begging for another chance. He always said yes, with one condition—no Gabrielle. Helene, refusing to leave her child, would give up and marry her current suitor. It was never long before her insatiable desire for Nick became overwhelming and she, child in tow, was off again like a junkie in search of a fix. The chase ended when Nick died in a truck crash two days after Gabrielle’s fifteenth birthday.
“Basically I was a daddy’s girl. I think he felt guilty for being away so much of the time, so when he was home, he spoiled me rotten,” Gabrielle said, sticking to her script.
“I’ll bet whatever you wanted, he would give you.”
“Something like that.”
“So, besides puzzles, what else do you do to relax in your spare time?” Doug asked in a shameless attempt to satisfy his own curiosity.
“Catch up on sleep, listen to music, go to the movies. What about you? What do you like to do when you’re not chasing down a story?”
“Pretty much nothing. I love reading—biographies, Tom Clancy novels—listening to music—jazz, reggae, bossa nova. And one of my favorite pastimes—don’t laugh—is baking pies. I can make a mean apple pie, and I’ve nearly perfected the art of the light, flaky crust.”
“So you’re sort of a homebody.”
“Sounds pretty boring, huh?”
“Not at all. When you spend all your time traveling, staying home is a luxury.”
“So why aren’t you running around with some rock-star boyfriend?” Doug asked, not sure if he really wanted to know.
“I don’t have time for serious romance—with rock stars or otherwise.”
“Is that because of your work?”
“Partly. Most guys act kind of weird around me.”
“Gabrielle, I don’t think you have any idea the effect you have on men. Your looks can be rather intimidating to the average guy.”
“Are you intimidated?”
“Immensely.”
“I’m a little intimidated by you, too,” she admitted.
“Me? I’m not exactly Jean-Claude Van Damme or Arnold Schwarzenegger—more Ron Howard when he still had all his hair. What about me could possibly be intimidating? Not my debonair good looks,” Doug fished.
“For an old guy, you are kinda cute,” Gabrielle teased. Doug was a slightly hipper version of the guy next door. His face was kind and intelligent, round tortoiseshell glasses framing his hazel eyes. Light freckles were strewn across his nose, and his mouth was constantly breaking into an endearing lopsided smile. Debonair? Not exactly. But adorable? Appealing? Absolutely.
“Then I don’t see your poi
nt. Cocker spaniels are cute. Pit bulls are intimidating. Mickey Rooney is cute. Mickey Rourke is intimidating. You see where I’m going with this? Cute and intimidating don’t go together.”
“You make me feel so comfortable that I relax completely, and that leaves me feeling vulnerable and a little intimidated.”
“But if you feel comfortable and relaxed around me, how can you still feel vulnerable and intimidated?”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to trust people, uh—in this business,” she added quickly.
“I told you, you can trust me,” Doug said, taking her hand in his.
The simple touch of his hand brought up the powerful feelings of last night. The flow of emotions between them set off a panic alarm in Gabrielle’s heart. “I need to get back to work,” she said, abruptly cutting off the conversation. She felt too defenseless around Doug. Gabrielle needed to get back to work, back to safe ground. “Could I leave you here to clean up alone? Laslo works himself up into a tizzy if I’m late.”
“No problem. I’ll catch you later.”
Gabrielle wasn’t in danger of being late, but she needed time alone to think. Last night and lunch today had been wonderful, and she was confused by the contradictory emotions she was experiencing. She found herself totally drawn to Doug, both physically and emotionally, yet her brain warned her to stay as far away from him as possible.
Gabrielle’s attraction to Doug was fueled more by the little things. She liked how his eyes danced when he was excited about something he was discussing. It drove her to distraction the way he raked fingers through his thick, sandy curls when he was searching for a word. Doug made her feel safe and at ease. She was beginning to feel that Doug Sixsmith was a man she could fall in love with. He baked pies for God’s sake! Doug Sixsmith, Gabrielle decided, was a man to avoid at all costs. Gabrielle had no intention of getting serious with Doug, or any other man for that matter. Not now, not ever.
22
Felicia felt like the defiant child that, even as a youngster, she never gave herself permission to be. Carrying her beach towel, sunblock, and the latest bestseller, she headed for the beach at the Bokaru Hotel and found a chaise away from the water’s edge and out of the path of the early beachcombers. Felicia spread her towel on the chair, pulled off her leopard-print pareo, and made herself comfortable. The beaches in Martinique, true to the island’s French heritage, were topless. Trace would have a heart attack if he saw her now—wearing nothing but a very small black bikini bottom. With her husband absent, Felicia shamelessly bared her chest in all its glory.
Read Between the Lies Page 16
