She sat down on the sofa, still concentrating on her posture. “The blush becomes you,” she said. “Don’t feel you have to stay at Frank’s if it doesn’t work out.”
“I won’t, but it will.”
“Oh, Christopher.” In the secret language they shared, it was her way of asking him what she was going to do.
He sat down beside her, and his eyes told her he’d heard the real question. “Your accent is slipping.”
“It always does when I’m worried. You know he’s going to have the other two at that opening tomorrow. I won’t be the only one being interviewed.”
“I wish I could do something.” He laughed. “And I wish I weren’t so damned co-dependent.”
“At least you know you are. It’s better, isn’t it, when you know what’s wrong with you?”
He gave her a sad smile and a big hug. “You’re wonderful, you know that?”
“You think I ought to just call my soon-to-be ex and demand what I have coming?”
“Probably wouldn’t do any good.” He squeezed her arm. “Give him time. That’s all he needs, all you both need. He’s not going to let you starve.”
“I wouldn’t starve, anyway, not as long as there’s a single french fry and an ounce of Baileys and a simple little Frostie left in Southern California.”
It was brave talk for the humiliating poverty that sucked the pride from her at a soul level. How could anything in one’s life feel right when one didn’t have enough money?
“If I get this Killer Body job…” she began.
“I know.” Christopher stood and picked up the newspaper, grinning like a Buddha, his shaved head glistening in the light of the gaudy floor lamp. “According to this Rikki Fitzpatrick, you, my dear, are the Perfect Fit.”
The Perfect Fit.Christopher made her feel that way. And if she could just convince Bobby Warren, if she did a good job at the opening of his Pasadena Killer Body tomorrow and on the television interview after, she’d be able to support herself, get her own talk show. Lord knew, she’d been raked over the coals on enough of them that she’d be comfortable in charge, and she’d be kind to her guests, too. She’d never want to be a Rochelle McArthur, not even to get out of her financial trap.
Rochelle was her only competition, unless someone else surfaced at the last minute. Everyone knew Tania Marie didn’t stand a chance. If the situation were different, she’d tell the poor thing how she lost her weight, not that the headstrong girl would listen to her or anyone.
Christopher had been gone less than ten minutes when the phone rang. She recognized Jesse McArthur’s scratchy, way-too-sexy voice at once but couldn’t imagine why he’d be ringing her up.
“How’d you know I was here?” The question sounded more abrupt than she’d intended, rude almost.
“Lucas Morrison told me.”
Of course. She’d left her contact information with his assistant at Killer Body. All at once, she felt uncomfortable. Jesse was one of the most attractive men she’d ever met, so attractive and attentive she’d been thinking about him far too frequently. She’d done married once, talked about it on national television. She’d die before she did it again, especially with Rochelle McArthur’s husband.
She aimed her acquired accent straight at the phone, a princess all the way. “What can I do for you, Mr. McArthur?”
“For starters, call me Jesse. And meet me for a little toddy.”
“A drink? With you and Rochelle?”
“Just me. It could be important.”
“But hardly proper.”
“I understand how much you value propriety.” Was that a ripple of humor in his voice? “But this is business. Important business.”
Money,he seemed to be saying. Gabriella’s mouth went dry.
“I will meet with you,” she said, “but I won’t drink alcohol.”
“Whatever works.”
“And my driver’s out for the night.”
