Tempted to hold her again, he reached out, then drew back, suddenly confused. As usual, she played havoc with his emotions.
He needed to get out of here, to go home and get his head straight.
Rising, he took care not to stir the mattress. But when his booted feet sounded against the hardwood floor, Gina woke up.
"Flint?" She gazed at him through shadowed eyes. "Don't leave. Not yet."
He stopped, struck by the quaver in her voice. "I wasn't," he lied. "I was just getting out of bed."
She sat up and pushed her hair away from her face, but several curls refused to comply. "Did you fall asleep, too?"
"Yeah." And he felt awkward about it. Somehow, sleeping in the same bed seemed more intimate than all the kissing and touching they'd done. And he wasn't comfortable feeling that close to her.
True, she was far more vulnerable than he'd ever imagined. She had an angelic side to go along with the devil in her, but she was still a career-minded woman.
Like his mother. And Tara, of course.
But at the time he'd been seeing Tara, he hadn't known the truth about his mom. Things were different now. What his mom had done had changed him.
"You were going home, weren't you?" Gina hugged a pillow to her chest. "Without saying goodbye?"
"No, I wasn't." Another lie. Another mark on his soul.
"Yes, you were. And just when I thought we were actually becoming friends."
Damn it, he thought. She looked mortally wounded, and that made him feel like a heel. He wanted to protect her, yet he wanted to push her away, to keep her at arm's length. Nothing was simple where Gina was concerned. Nothing at all.
"Friends?" He crossed his arms and heaved a rough breath. "Does that mean you don't hate me anymore?"
"Do you still hate me?"
He gave her a suspicious look. "You first."
She gnawed on her lip. "I never really did, I guess. I was just mad at you."
"Dogs get mad. People get angry," he responded, skirting around the subject.
"Don't correct my grammar. And answer the stupid question."
"Okay. I don't hate you, either." He liked her. Too damn much. But as to why, he wasn't quite sure.
"Will you fix me dinner?" she asked. "And serve it to me in bed?"
He almost laughed. She was a clever one, all right. "I suppose I could do that. But you have to return the favor sometime."
She smiled at him, and like an idiot, he wished he could kiss her.
"Thanks," she said.
"Don't thank me yet. You haven't tasted my cooking."
"I was thanking you for letting me confide in you. And for promising to keep quiet about it."
"Your family would understand, Gina."
"No, they wouldn't."
"I thought you were close to your sisters."
"I am. But they might slip up and tell my mom, and then she'd tell my dad. And if he knew I had an ulcer, he'd think I couldn't handle my job." She sat up a little straighter. "And I can. I'm darn good at what I do."
He didn't doubt that for a minute. "What are you in the mood to eat?"
"Something easy on the stomach."
"Which is?"
"How about chicken soup?"
He inclined his head. "I hope you mean the canned kind." Because he didn't have the slightest idea how to prepare soup from scratch.
"Of course not. I was talking about the real stuff."
"Sorry. That's not possible. How about just plain old boiled chicken instead? And maybe a few bland vegetables?"
"Okay." She snuggled under the covers, wiggling her toes. "I'm sure I'll be feeling better soon. And then we can face the vultures together."
"Just take care of yourself." He turned away, knowing the media frenzy wouldn't be easy to bear, not for either of them.
* * *
The following afternoon, Flint needed to get away, so he drove to the country to see his grandmother.
He sat next to her on a floral-printed sofa, watching her repair a section of damaged beads on his regalia vest, an intricate garment she'd made for him several years before. Her hands, marred with liver spots, spoke of her age, even though she worked with deft precision.
Nísh'kí was a handsome lady, graced with exotic features and salt-and-pepper hair, which she routinely wore in a single braid down the center of her back.
Her home represented the beauty and simplicity of her lifestyle. She didn't fill the old farmhouse with Indian artifacts like some Native people did, but Flint saw traces of her ancestry scattered about. She took pride in being Tsistsistas—a term the traditional Cheyenne often used to refer to themselves rather than the tribal name history had given them.
"I saw those pictures," she said, slanting him a hawkish look.
Flint blew a windy breath. He knew Nísh'kí would disapprove of the tabloid photos, but she was a conservative woman who didn't understand the spin doctor in him.
"They weren't real," he explained. "It was a publicity stunt."
"They certainly looked real to me."
"Well, they weren't. The whole thing was a scam. Gina's family hired me to divert the press."
Nísh'kí adjusted the vest on her lap. "They hired you to pose half-naked with their daughter?"
"No. That was my idea." He gazed at his grandmother and saw her lips twitch. Suddenly he realized she was teasing him, making him pay for his public display.
Crafty old woman, he thought.
"That's what I figured," she said. "You like this girl."
He nearly squirmed, feeling like a kid who'd gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I'm attracted to her. But it's no big deal."
She threaded another bead onto the needle. "It must be a big deal. Or why else would you do that to yourself? Especially after the last one."
The last one. He knew Nísh'kí referred to Tara. His grandmother hadn't been pleased that he'd taken up with a Hollywood actress all those years ago. But she hadn't been pleased when her daughter had left the reservation to pursue an acting career, either.
Of course, they never talked about Flint's mother. Danielle was gone, and that was that. The Cheyenne, the Tsistsistas, didn't speak of the dead. What Flint knew about his mom, he'd learned from his father.
"So tell me about Gina," she said.
"I don't know what to say. She confuses me."
"You didn't look confused in those pictures."
"Nísh'kí, knock it off. I'm a grown man. I don't need this."
She chuckled under her breath. "So, when do I get to meet her? This Gina who confuses you?"
"You won't. Our scandal will be over soon."
"How soon?"
"I'm not sure." It depended on Gina's health, but he wasn't at liberty to say. He'd promised to keep her secret.
"Then why can't I meet her next week?"
Was his grandmother playing matchmaker? Or was she simply curious about the woman he'd been photographed with? "I don't know what I'll be doing next week."
"You'll be at the church powwow with me."
Damn. He'd forgotten all about the one-day event Nísh'kí church sponsored. "I'm not sure I can go."
"Then why did you bring me your vest?" She shoved the beadwork under his nose.
"Because it was damaged, and you always repair my regalia."
She put her hand on his knee. "When's the last time you danced, Flint?"
"It's been months. But you know how busy I am." He sat for a moment, missing the powwow circle in which he'd been raised. His grandmother had moved to Massachusetts after his mother had died, and she'd taught him to honor the Drum. "Okay, I'll be there. But I'm not bringing Gina."
He wasn't prepared to invite her into his scared circle. Because that would be like inviting Gina Barone straight into his heart.
* * *
Seven
« ^ »
Gina's life spun out of control in the next two days. Private citizens asked for her autograph, and reporters dogged her every m
ove. They waited outside the brownstone every morning to catch her on the way to work. They snapped candid photos, shoved microphones in her face and asked intrusive questions.
Questions about Flint. And Tara Shaw. Supposedly Tara and her current husband were having problems, which, according to the press, meant that Tara would probably seek out Flint. For comfort. And for sex.
The reporters wanted to know what Gina intended to do about it. Would she battle Tara for Flint? Would there be a catfight?
Gina turned to look at Flint. They walked hand-in-hand through an antique show, giving Boston and the rest of the world plenty to talk about.
He nuzzled her neck every time they stopped to view a rare table or an ornate cabinet. And she, of course, returned his outward affection.
Gina played her part, even though she wanted to scream. The Tara Shaw mystery was driving her crazy, and the media fueled the fire, making her wonder what Flint was hiding.
"Let's check this out." Flint steered Gina toward a vintage jewelry display, then glanced over his shoulder.
"Is our shadow there?" she asked, knowing he was checking to see if a local cameraman still followed them.
"Yep."
She sighed. The photographer had been a constant tag, an annoying tail. "What kind of pictures does he expect to get? After all, we're in a public setting."
Flint grinned. "Maybe he thinks we're going to do it, right in front of everyone."
"Very funny." She tried to keep her tone light, but she couldn't get Tara off her mind. What if the other woman really did come looking for Flint? What if she pressed those massive breasts against his chest and cried on his shoulder? The actress might be twenty-one years his senior, but she'd aged like a fine wine. Then again, she'd probably gotten a little help. A tuck here, a nip there. Beverly Hills overflowed with cosmetic surgeons, and Tara could afford the best.
Gina moved closer to Flint, making sure no one else was within earshot. "Did I tell you I was solicited by a men's magazine?"
"Really? Did they want an interview?"
"No. They asked if I was interested in doing a celebrity layout. A nude pictorial." They'd also informed her that Tara Shaw had appeared in their July, 1975 issue, posing in a feather boa and platforms.
For a moment Flint fell silent. And then he simply said, "Wow."
Wow? What was that supposed to mean? That she wasn't sexy enough to make the grade? "I told them I would think about it."
His mouth snaked into a grin. "You're kidding?"
Gina wanted to kick him, but instead she tossed a stray curl over her shoulder. She'd taken to wearing her hair loose, at least during their public outings. And why not? The media had dubbed her a "bohemian-haired beauty," and she'd decided not to spoil her new, dangerous image. "I could pull it off if I wanted to."
His grin widened. "I don't doubt that for a second."
Surprised by his reaction, she met his gaze. "So you think I'd make a good nude model?" As good as Tara Shaw? she wanted to add.
"Hell, yes."
He brushed his body against hers, making her warm. When she brushed back, he kissed her.
The lady manning the jewelry counter gasped, but Gina didn't care. She slipped her tongue into Flint's mouth and tasted his desire.
A hunger that seemed much too real to be staged.
When the kiss ended, Gina kept her arms around him, even though an elderly couple walked by and gave her a disgusted look and a biker-type guy flashed a thumbs-up. The photographer lurked at the next booth, framing the entire scene for another shot.
"Do you know what the current gossip is?" Flint asked. "Hot off today's presses?"
"No. What?"
"That we made a sex tape."
Gina's breath rushed out. "A porno?"
"A private tape of us making love," he clarified.
That sounded like the same thing to her. "How do you know that's what they're saying?"
He flashed his spin-doctor smile. "I have connections.
She studied his smile, keeping her voice to a whisper. The cameraman probably thought she was begging Flint to take her home and have his wicked way with her. On film. "You didn't start that story, did you?"
"Me? No way. I just heard about it, that's all."
Gina tilted her head. Where Flint was concerned, she didn't know what to believe. "Are you telling me the truth?"
Suddenly evasive, he let her go and turned toward the jewelry display.
The woman behind the counter, the stunned female who'd gasped earlier, watched him in awe.
As he scanned the colorful gems behind the glass, Gina slipped her hands in her pockets and tried not to focus on how this scandal would affect the rest of her life. She wasn't a movie star, like Tara Shaw. She was just an Italian girl from Boston lucky enough to be born into a wealthy family. A rich girl with an ulcer and unruly hair. How glamorous could that be?
She turned and found herself besieged by at least a hundred pairs of curious eyes. About fifty people gathered near the jewelry booth, watching and waiting for something exciting to happen.
Flint pointed to an item in the case. "May I see that?"
"Certainly." The saleswoman removed a pendant and handed it to him. She was a mousy-looking brunette with wire-rimmed glasses and fading makeup, but she made a point of smiling at him. When he smiled back at her, she all but swooned.
"I'll take it," he said a moment later. "The necklace," he added, when the woman merely stared.
"Oh, of course." She rang up the sale, quoting an astronomical price.
He paid with a credit card and walked over to Gina. "For you, milady."
She glanced at the gift he'd pressed into her hand—a diamond-and-platinum cherub shining on the end of a glittering chain. Flint had bought her an angel.
* * *
Several hours later Flint weaved in and out of traffic. Gina sat next to him, fingering the pendant around her neck. It was foolish, she knew, to feel sentimental about his gift, but she couldn't help it.
What a complex man he was. Demanding, funny, aloof. Even romantic, she thought, clutching the cherub.
He checked the rearview mirror. "Guess who's behind us?"
She didn't need to guess. "The pesky photographer."
"The very one. Boy, is that guy persistent."
"Did you know it would be like this?" she asked. "Did you know the press would be so relentless?"
"Pretty much. I've been through this before."
"Of course. With Tara." The actress who'd been troubling her for most of the day. "They keep comparing me to her."
He glanced at his mirror again. "I know. Do you want me to try to lose this guy?"
Gina crossed her arms. How easily he'd dodged the Tara issue. "This is really bothering me."
"Me, too. He's been nipping at our heels for days."
"I was talking about Tara."
Flint frowned and shifted gears. "She's a movie star. She fascinates the press."
"What does that mean? That you knew they would drag her into our affair?"
"Not to this degree, but I knew her name would surface."
Gina studied his profile. He stared out the windshield, eyes fixed on the road. "Have you heard from her?" she asked.
"No."
"Do you expect to?"
"No," he said again.
Trying to get information from him was like pulling teeth from a dinosaur. "Do you think she's upset? After all, they're saying that she and I will eventually end up fighting over you."
"I doubt the rumors bother her. Tara thrives on publicity."
"She's a married woman, Flint."
"So? Her husband is a celebrity, too. And his career is floundering right now. Sometimes in that business ignominious press is better than none at all."
Gina didn't think so, but what did she know of Hollywood? Or the type of man Tara had married?
"What about you?" she asked.
"What about me?" Flint countered.
"Do you thrive
on publicity?"
He turned and shot her a frustrated look. "Of course not. I came up with this scandal because I knew it would work. And that's part of my job, Gina. Making scandals happen, diverting the press."
She sighed, and he blew a windy breath. They sat in silence for a while. Flint kept checking his mirror, and Gina knew the photographer was still on their trail.
Finally, he said, "Are you mad at me?"
"Dogs get mad," she quipped, recalling the line he'd tossed at her last week. "People get angry."
He broke into a grin. "Touché, milady. Touché." Damn that smile of his. It drove her mad. Not angry. "I'm really attracted to you, Gina. That part of our affair is real."
She touched the angel again. "I know. For me, too."
"Then why are we always fighting?"
"Because you're a pain in the rear," she told him.
"Oh, yeah?" He was still smiling. "Well, so are you."
Gina wanted to kiss him, to put her mouth against that cocky smile, those curved lips.
He turned onto a tree-lined street where multistoned houses loomed through an abundance of foliage. Most of the structures were brick, with large, manicured lawns. The neighborhood held an affluent air, but she sensed warmth, as well.
"I'm leading that cameraman right to my front door," he said. "I must be crazy."
And she must be crazy for wanting to kiss Flint. He entered the driveway of an impressive home. The windows were stained glass, and the slates and stones that made up the two-story building embodied an alluring passage of time. The historic estate had been remodeled to reflect an artistic yet traditional style.
He parked the Corvette at a careless angle. "Maybe we should give the guy a photo op. You know, something juicy."
She checked the side mirror. A blue SUV pulled to a stop on the curbless street, but not in a blatant position. She assumed the driver tried to mask his appearance, shadowing part of the vehicle beneath an enormous tree. Apparently he didn't think he'd been found out. "We're going to accommodate that jerk?"
"Why not? He's fueling our scandal. Do you realize the newspapers have barely mentioned the pepper fiasco? No one seems to care about who spiced the gelato anymore. They care more about who's spicing the sheets." He sent her his signature grin. "And that's us, babe. You and me."
SLEEPING WITH HER RIVAL Page 8
