“You did it.”
“No. I bet on my art. If fame was part of the bargain, I’d be miles away.”
For a moment, they sat in silence as his low, gruff voice replayed in her head with absolute certainty.
“You never told me what you did for a living in New York. Something to do with your major?” he asked, setting aside his empty water glass. “You lit up when you mentioned you studied history.”
Her gaze flickered across to a golden clock on a nearby table. It had taken them an hour and twenty minutes to get to the dreaded topic.
“My work does have to do with history.” She smiled at him and took the final sip out of her second glass of champagne. He arched his brows, waiting for her to continue. Silently demanding it, actually. While they talked, Gia had grown accustomed to some of his expressions. She sighed. “You can’t expect someone a few years out of undergrad to be as proud of her job as a person like you. New York isn’t the easiest place in the world to rise up the ranks—not that Hollywood is either,” she conceded.
His black eyebrows slanted. “Did you think I was bragging or something?” he asked, looking vaguely bemused.
“Of course not. I’ve had to pry every detail of your work life out of you, you’re so closemouthed about the whole thing. You’d think you were a spy or something, as hard as it is to get specifics out of you,” she joked, ignoring his narrowed stare. “I just meant couldn’t you give me the courtesy of letting me remain interesting in your eyes just a little longer by not asking me career questions?”
“There’s nothing you could say that could make you uninteresting.”
Her laughter faded at his quick, confident reply along with the frank male heat in his golden eyes.
“What do you have on under that armor?” he asked suddenly.
Her eyes widened in surprise at his unexpected question. A smile flickered across his mouth, as if he’d read her stunned reaction. “You’ve got to be uncomfortable. I wanted to bring it up earlier, but I was selfish. I didn’t want you to leave in order to change, for fear you wouldn’t come back.”
Heat flooded her cheeks at his compliment. “Oh . . . a tank top and shorts . . . along with the costume’s pants.”
He stood and set down his empty glass. He held out his hand to her. “Come on,” he urged. “Let’s get you out of it.”
Two
His hand swallowed hers. Some of the uncertainty and strangling sexual tension she was feeling fractured when one of the joints in the armor squeaked in protest as he pulled her up off the couch. She met his stare and snorted with laughter. Smiling, he tapped on the back of her shoulder matter-of-factly.
“Turn around, Tin Man.”
She spun around, every nerve in her body attuned to his presence behind her. He drew her braid over her shoulder. Had he pinched at the rope of hair, as if to better feel the texture of the strands? The small hairs on the back of her nape stood on end, hinting to her that he had. She waited with bated breath. He found the fastening at the back of her neck. His fingertips brushed a tiny fragment of her skin.
“It’s funny,” she said shakily. “People always focus on the makeup application. Nobody ever talks about the work involved in taking everything off.”
His hand lowered and she felt him loosen the fastening at her upper back. The armor began to part.
“That’s because it’s the messy, boring cleanup after the party. Usually,” he added gruffly under his breath.
Cool air rushed across her upper back, even as a hot flood of excitement hit her brain.
Usually. Had he meant she was the exception?
His fingertips brushed against her tank top as he pried apart the costume. She’d found the armor inflexible and awkward when Liza had pulled and pried it onto her earlier. Seth maneuvered the thin metal plates as if they were soft silk. After only seconds, he peeled the upper portion with the breastplate off her arms and chest. She took a deep inhalation of relief at the freedom, her breasts rising. It suddenly struck her just how briefly clad she was beneath the costume. It hadn’t felt like that before, when she’d stripped for Liza to dress her. She rubbed her bare arms nervously as he moved behind her again. She grasped for a safe topic.
“It’s very generous of you to volunteer for the Cancer Research Fund. Do you do it every year?” she asked.
“For the past several years, yeah.” She wanted to turn around and see what he was doing behind her, but she was worried her expression would betray her anxiety.
“It’s quite a contribution on your part, volunteering not only all of your expertise, but all the tools of your trade as well,” she said.
“It’s not just my contribution,” he said. She heard the sound of metal clinking and realized he was setting aside the piece of armor. “My staff volunteers their time and skill as well. I don’t force them to do it, but it’s a worthwhile cause. And very much needed.”
She turned her chin over her shoulder. She’d heard something in his voice just then.
“Do you know someone with cancer?” she asked tentatively. His stare burned into her.