Little White Lie

by Lea Santos

  Synopsis

  Emie Jaramillo learned long ago that brains count more than beauty, and that’s just fine with her. She doesn’t want, nor does she need, a relationship. When her prestigious academic career earns her an invitation to appear on a national talk show, she eagerly looks forward to discussing her genetics work. Little does she know that the episode is really entitled “Those bookworm looks have to go!” Worse yet, gorgeous makeup artist Gia Mendez—a woman Emie stupidly lowers her guard around—is in on the humiliating prank.

  The fiasco just convinces Emie of what she knew all along: relationships are for other people, and women like Gia don’t belong anywhere near her world. But Gia’s about to make it up to Emie, by convincing her she has not only brains, but beauty...and she’s the only woman Gia wants in her life.

  First in the Amigas y Amor Series

  Little White Lie

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Little White Lie

  © 2010 By Lea Santos. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 10: 1-60282-163-1E

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-163-7E

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: July 2010

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Stacia Seaman

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Sheri (GraphicArtist2020@hotmail.com)

  Acknowledgments

  Big ups to the stellar staff at BSB: Len Barot, Shelley Thrasher, Cindy Cresap, LD Anderson, Connie Ward, Stacia Seaman, Sheri, Paula Tighe, Ruth Sternglantz (I don’t know that you worked on the book, Ruth, but you’re just cool), and all the rest of you. Also props to my long-suffering family (I know, I know—there should be a registry for workaholic psychos like me), to the oft-ignored friends who stood by when I was verging on apoplectic with a ten-layer cake of deadline and—mostly—life stress…in particular Rachel, Nell and Trin, Georgia, Heather, the other Heather, Terri Clark, Deb Jones Parker, the Bad Girls (you know who you are) and the ever-pink and awesome Horatio. My yogi guides, Tara, Jennifer, Dakini, Ruthann, Maya, Nancy, and Sasha for the much-needed sanity breaks. And the biggest, most heartfelt thanks to… well…to coffee. Sorry, dudes, it is what it is.

  Dedication

  For LaRita

  Chapter One

  Emie Jaramillo wiped her damp palms down the side seams of her slacks and wondered, briefly, if the taupe suit her friends had insisted she wear had been the proper choice for her first—and probably only—television appearance. They’d fussed through a mountain of clothes in her hotel room that morning while she sat in the corner and reviewed her notes, amused by their fashion-plate antics. She supposed the tailored silk ensemble they’d settled on projected a conservative enough image to offset her controversial topic: human cloning.

  Now, if only she could be cloned from the gracious and brilliantly spoken Maya Angelou for this talk-show stint, life would be just peachy. Speaking to the science community was stressful enough. But trying to explain the truth about cloning to the general public, rife with all the misconceptions and misplaced fears? Sometimes, she wondered what she’d been thinking, accepting this gig. A smirk lifted one corner of her mouth as she glanced around the cramped makeup studio located backstage of the set of The Barry Stillman Show.

  Four beige walls, adorned with framed photos of previous guests, surrounded the beauty parlor chair she occupied. A filing cabinet claimed one corner, with an iPod docking station perched atop it. Rolling metal racks behind her held a mishmash of garments, perhaps for guests who had fashion emergencies before they were due onstage. Along with the rescue clothes hung a few smocks smeared with makeup streaks. Before her stood a long countertop stacked with more pots and jars and bottles of cosmetics than she’d ever seen, and above the counter hung a huge mirror that framed the reflection of her, as usual, un-made-up face.

  The hot bulbs circling the mirror glared off the lenses of her wire-framed eyeglasses and melted the creamy cosmetics piled before her. If the makeup lights were hot, Emie could only imagine what it would feel like beneath the strong stage lights in front of All Those People. She shuddered, fending off another tsunami of nerves. At least her parents and her best friends, Iris and Paloma, would be out there for moral support. She reminded herself to look for their smiling faces in the audience the minute she got out onstage.

  Speaking of faces—Emie pushed her glasses atop her head and leaned forward to squint at her own mug. Ugh.

  Bland. Boring, she supposed. Such superficialities hadn’t bothered her for decades, but after a lighting test, the camera operator had informed the production manager that she looked “pale as a corpse.” Swell. Just what she needed to hear to calm her nerves.

  Emie was the first to concede she’d landed on the plain side of the looks spectrum, but so what? She liked herself just fine. Now, her hair—she turned her head from side to side and arranged the short wisps as best she could with a few plucks and twists of her fingers. The close-cropped style looked great on Halle Berry. Not quite the same effect on her. She sat back in the chair, until her reflection was nothing but a myopic blur. All this microscopic focus on her looks left her feeling…squirmy. She wasn’t used to it. No one expected female scientists to be bombshells, anyway, and although that stereotype had always rankled purely on principle, deep down Emie couldn’t care less. Still, she was grateful a professional would be applying her makeup for the show, if only to evict the “pale as a corpse” proclamation and ease some of her nervousness. She’d release herself to the process, just for today. A woman could be vain once in her life, couldn’t she?

  She glanced at her watch and wondered where the miracle-working makeup person might be. The producer had stuck her head in the room earlier and told Emie she’d go on in fifteen minutes. That didn’t leave them much time to breathe some life back into her complexion.

  As if on cue, the door opened, and in walked— Emie plunked her glasses back on the bridge of her nose and turned. Her breath caught. What the hell? Her breath never caught. But, Lord, this woman was sex personified, and even Emie couldn’t deny it. Broad-shouldered and bronze-skinned, she wore faded, form-fitting Levi’s, low-heeled black boots, and a tight black T-shirt emblazoned with The Barry Stillman Show in red lettering. And if Emie’s mama only knew what images the woman’s shiny black ponytail brought to her mind, there’d be a chorus of Hail Marys uttered in her soul’s defense within minutes.

  “Dr. Jaramillo?”

  “Yes?” Her hand fluttered to her throat, an involuntary reaction she nevertheless regretted immediately.

  “I’m Gia Mendez, your makeup artist,” she said, her husky voice smooth as crème de menthe. “You’re the brilliant scientist I’ve been hearing so much about, yes?” She flashed Emie a movie-star smile and extended a long-fingered hand for a handshake.

  Emie nodded slowly, ignoring the heated flush she felt creeping up her neck at Gia’s compliment. Disconcerted, she glanced from her face to her hand, then back at her face before she did her part to complete the handshake.

  “Dios mío,” she whisp
ered more than spoke as the makeup artist’s warm palm slid against hers. If women like Gia Mendez were commonplace in Chicago, she’d clone the whole darn city and become the hero of the lesbian population. All hail the miracle-working corpse. The thought curved her mouth into a private smile.

  Gia released her hand and asked, “Nervous?” She turned her back to switch on the purple iPod, filling the room with hot Mary J. Blige tunes, then began assembling brushes and pencils and pots of color, her focus on the tools of her trade.

  “A-a little,” Emie admitted, content just to watch Gia move about the close quarters they shared. Her movements were skilled and confident. Gia fell squarely on the androgynous side, but her graceful movements added an intriguing layer. This was probably Emie’s one chance in life to have a woman like Gia Mendez lay hands on her, and she’d be a damned liar if she claimed she wasn’t thrilled by the prospect. “Okay, a lot.”

  “It always seems to hit people once I come in to do their makeup.” Gia winked.

  Emie’s heart plunged before snapping back up to lodge in her throat. That wink should be classified as a lethal weapon.

  “You have my sympathy,” Gia continued, seemingly oblivious to Emie’s knocked-mute admiration. “I much prefer remaining behind the scenes.”

  Emie pulled herself out of the irritating lust-induced stupor and cleared her throat. “I’m a behind-the-scenes woman myself, although I’ve, ah, never been on television before.” She probably knows that, silly, Emie chastised herself. This focused sexy female attention was rattling her composure. She wasn’t used to it. “It’s not too often a scientist has such an opportunity. I’m very flattered.” She nudged her glasses up with the knuckle of her pointer finger. “My parents and friends are in the audience.” She cast her gaze down briefly, not wanting to appear too prideful.

  Gia peered at her, her expression darkening for an instant before she turned away. Emie wondered if she’d said something wrong, but the moment quickly passed so she dismissed it.

  “Tell me about your research, Emie—may I call you that?”

  “Of course.”

  Gia faced her, crossed toned arms over her chest, then leaned back against the counter, a position that accentuated the sculpted muscles in her upper body. The bright lights shadowed the curves of her cheekbones and glinted off the single diamond stud in Gia’s earlobe. Emie forced her mind from its idiotic awe of this woman and back onto her question.

  “Research? Research. Yes. Human cloning, that’s what I research.” She laughed lightly, shaking her head. “And, well, it’s a touchy subject.”

  “How so?”

  “Oh, you know. Lots of moral and religious implications. My grandmother prays daily for my soul. She thinks my colleagues and I are trying to play God. If I ever actually clone a human being, I’ll probably be excommunicated from the church. Not that I would clone a human being, but…well, I guess that’s what I’m here to do. Dispel the myths.” Emie ran her fingers through her hair and shrugged one shoulder.

  Gia chuckled, holding several different colored lipsticks next to Emie’s cheek. “Your grandmother sounds a lot like mine. Let me guess. Catholic?”

  “But of course,” Emie told her, tone wry. “So I continue to do the research, but I feel guilty about it.”

  Gia leaned her head back and laughed, giving Emie an excellent view of her long dancer’s neck, her straight white teeth. Talk, Emie. Stay on track.

  “We’re not necessarily trying to create people, though,” she blurted, averting her gaze from the seductive hollow at Gia’s throat. “And forgive me if I’m telling you facts you already know. But there are plenty of other medically plausible reasons to clone human cells. It’s still a little too sci-fi for most people to swallow.” She wondered when Gia would get to the part where those long fingers touched her face. She was prepped and ready to file away that particular sensory memory for frequent replays. She might not be the dating type, but she wasn’t dead—despite the corpse comment.

  “Well, I’m sure there are medical reasons. But it is kind of a scary thought, having little duplicates of yourself running around,” Gia said, almost apologetically. She inclined her head. “Please excuse my ignorance if that’s a misconception. I don’t know much about cloning.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s no doubt Hollywood and the special interest groups who oppose us have put skewed impressions out there. It’ll be hard for the stodgy science community to overcome.”

  Gia made a rumble of agreement deep in her throat. “Take your glasses off for me, Emie.”

  Anything else? she wanted to ask. Her cheeks heated. Jesus. She didn’t usually have such wanton thoughts in the midst of a normal conversation. Or—let’s face it—ever. Then again, she’d never had a conversation with Gia Mendez before.

  Emie watched, mesmerized, as Gia picked up a large, fluffy makeup brush and dipped it into one of the containers. Poofs of face powder launched into the air around the brush, tiny particles dancing in the light. Gia paused, raising perfectly peaked eyebrows, reminding Emie of the request.

  Request?

  Glasses.

  Oh, yeah.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. She removed her frames and folded them in her lap, then closed her eyes while Gia tickled her face with the brush. The sweet fragrance of the mineral powder reminded her fondly of playing dress-up as a child, back when she still hoped—and cared—that she’d grow up beautiful. Before she realized brains were the most beautiful part of a woman anyway. She wanted to smile, but didn’t, fearing she’d get that crap in her teeth.

  When Gia finished, Emie put her glasses back on and waved her hands to fend off the cloud that still hung in the air. “I just hope the audience is open-minded and not hostile with me. With a topic like this, believe me, it can happen.”

  Gia stilled. “I…uh, yeah.”

  A thick pause ensued, prompting a seedling of discomfort to sprout in Emie’s middle. Okay, was she missing something here?

  “Well, you’ll knock ’em dead, I’m sure.”

  Stop reading into everything, Em. “I hope you’re right.”

  Gia made careful work of capping the mineral powder container and lining up the compacts before looking back at her. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you ever…watch The Barry Stillman Show?”

  “Oh, you would ask me that.” Emie twisted her mouth to the side apologetically. “I’m ashamed to say that I’ve never seen it. My work keeps me so busy, I just don’t have much time for television.”

  Gia pressed her full lips into a thin line and nodded.

  “Why?” Emie asked.

  “I’m…no reason. Just wondering.”

  It sure sounded like there was a reason behind the “no reason,” but Emie didn’t want to push. Maybe Gia was just having a bad day. A fight with her undoubtedly fantastic girlfriend at the breakfast table, perhaps. An ugly pang struck Emie at the thought, and her gaze fell to Gia’s hands. No rings of any kind. No ring marks. She sighed with relief. As if it mattered. Not all lesbian couples wore rings anyway. And, oh yeah, she wasn’t looking! Get a life, Em.

  “I must say, I’m impressed, though,” she told Gia, crossing one leg over the other, bouncing her foot to expel excess nervous energy. “I didn’t know any of the talk shows still dealt with legitimate topics these days.”

  Gia didn’t comment, so Emie went on. “If it’s not people beating each other up or fake transvestites in love triangles, it never seems to make it to daytime TV. At least, that comprised the sum total of my misconceptions until I was asked on the show.” Emie glanced at her reflection, which jolted her back to the matter at hand. She pressed her fingers to her cheeks and pulled down slightly. “Aren’t you going to do something with my face? The head camerawoman said I looked like a corpse.”

  Gia moved in between her and the mirror and spread her legs until she’d lowered herself to Emie’s eye level. Emie folded her hands in her lap as her heart thu
nk-thunked in her chest at the proximity. Wasn’t breathing supposed to be automatic? She vaguely recalled that from her high school science classes.

  Gia reached for her face slowly. Long, warm fingers danced along her cheekbones, her temples, then she smoothed the pad of her thumb over Emie’s chin. “No, Dr. Jaramillo, you don’t look like a corpse. Anything but.” Her voice was an unexpected gentle caress. “You look beautiful just as you are.”

  Emie’s heart triple-timed. “Well…thank you. And generally, I wouldn’t care, but—”

  “Just…remember that.” Gia touched the end of her nose, the gesture infinitely intimate. “Okay?”

  Emie frowned, confused by Gia’s words and way too irritatingly spellbound by her touch. “I—sure. But I don’t get it. Does that mean you aren’t going to make up my face?”

  The look Gia gave her seemed almost apologetic. “I’m not going to make up your face. But it’s okay. You’re a natural beauty. You don’t need war paint.”

  “Tell that to the camera operators.” So much for her moment of vanity. Disappointment drizzled over Emie before she shrugged it off and decided Gia was trying to tactfully tell her it wouldn’t make much difference. Splashing color on her features would have probably just drawn attention to their plainness. Like a corpse in the coffin.

  Eh, well, it didn’t matter, and she wasn’t going to pout about it. This was, after all, how she looked on a normal basis. At least Gia had touched her. Emie inhaled the heady mingled scents of makeup and heated feminine skin, and decided a change of subject was in order.

  “How long have you done this kind of work?” Was that relief she saw on the other woman’s beautiful face? Why?