“Ms. Harris,” Kildrake greeted. “I’ll be escorting you back to Los Angeles.”
“Gee, thanks,” Gia muttered under her breath, avoiding Seth’s stare. It seemed to burn her.
“Well, we should probably get going,” Deputy Kildrake said, waving in the direction of the transport bus that would take them to the airport.
“I’m ready,” Gia said, swallowing back the lump in her throat while Seth remained silent. She hated this. He was clearly furious at her for what she’d done, but she wasn’t going to apologize for keeping herself safe from
the pain of some dramatic good-bye.
Now they would part with a bad taste in their mouths. Poorly done, Gia, a voice in her head said reproachfully. But why did Seth have to be so stubborn and prove a point like this? She wasn’t in any physical danger.
Just the emotional variety.
She and Jim started to walk toward the van, Kildrake bringing up the rear.
“Gia.”
Her heart leapt at the sound of his deep voice. She spun around, breathless. Hopeful.
“Take off that red sweater,” Seth said. “You already attract the attention of every eye within a hundred feet of you. It’s stupid to throw a spotlight on a beacon.”
As he got into the SUV and slammed the door, she stood motionless, mad at him for having the last word . . .
Missing him already.
* * *
By the time Seth returned to the house in the woods, he was drained and chilled, wiped out after the adrenaline rush. The immediacy and alarm of chasing Gia had made him forget what was about to happen. Now, reality fisted him in the gut.
The house felt as empty as he did when he went inside and locked the door behind him. Gia had shut him down about talking things out last night. He’d assumed he would have another chance during their car ride together to St. Louis. She’d eliminated that possibility too.
For a few seconds, he just stood in the high-ceilinged living room. Gia’s reading chair and ottoman were still drawn up to the fireplace, but the hearth was cold. He approached the coffee table and stared down at dozens of sketches of Gia’s face. Not just her face. The two nudes he’d done lay on the top. He suddenly dropped down heavily on the couch, his fingers pressed against his eyelids.
He never had been able to capture the magic of her. Maybe his mistake all along had been trying.
* * *
Several days later, Seth still hadn’t left the woods. It wasn’t as if he had planned it that way. He just didn’t seem to have the will to undertake the long road trip across the country. The idea of traveling alone in that SUV, of seeing familiar landmarks, of being plagued by memories . . . well, it froze him temporarily. The memories were here in the house too—in spades. It was masochistic of him to stay. He’d go and put all of this behind him.
Soon.
He knew from Charles that Gia had returned to Los Angeles safely and had moved into the studio’s Bunker Hill condo downtown. He was relieved to hear that her mother had arrived to stay with her and offer support during the trial. If he hadn’t known from Charles that Gia was whole and safe in L.A., he would have known from the nightly news. Gia’s return had refueled the simmering, smoking media fire to a full-out inferno once again. On Wednesday, he saw the same clip of her walking up the steps of the criminal justice building on a dozen different news shows. He hungrily ate up the image of her each time. She wore sunglasses and her face was pale, but she looked calm and resolute in the face of shouting reporters and microphones shoved rudely in her face. The rabid fervor and callousness of the press’s attitude toward her sickened him. He watched as she ignored the chaos around her, listening and nodding at something the plainclothes police escort said quietly near her ear.
I’m not one of your vulnerable, fragile actresses.
She wasn’t even remotely in the same category.
The trial began.
It was being televised on several stations. Various news programs speculated that Gia could take the stand as early as Friday. Privately via an e-mail to Seth, Charles confirmed there was a remote possibility of it, although the following Monday seemed more likely. “Gia’s holding up well under all the pressure, although she seems strained,” Charles wrote. “She asked me this morning if you’d returned yet, and then seemed a little put out with me when I said I wasn’t sure.”
Charles’s enigmatic message galvanized Seth for some reason. It wasn’t rational. Gia’s query, and Charles’s mention of it in the e-mail were random details. Still, it didn’t stop him from starting a major housecleaning and packing. He made another trip to the grocery store to stock up the pantry and freezer for John and Jennifer, replacing any items he and Gia had used during their stay. On Friday, he was in the midst of his manic attempt to get the house back in its original pristine condition when the perimeter security alarm began to beep.
A few seconds later, he opened the front door and walked out into a cool, sunny day.
“What the hell?” he asked, both stunned and pleased to see his niece, Joy, getting out of the passenger side of a sedan. Her hair had completely grown out now after several rounds of chemotherapy. The chestnut strands fell around her shoulders and midback, gleaming in the bright sunlight. “What happened to Mexico?” he asked Everett Hughes, Joy’s husband, as he uncoiled his tall body from the driver’s seat. He wore a billed Greek fishing cap and a wool sweater that looked like it had fed a few moths some decent meals. Everett always wore hats to cover his signature streaked blond hair and to cast his iconic face in shadow.
“Mexico? Perfect weather and sunshine every day. So overrated,” Everett said.