The Gideon Affair (3 page)

Public opinion labeled Gideon as a man-whore, which was almost unavoidable considering the environment. A steady parade of actresses, models, and pseudo-celebrity types walked the red carpet at his side. Though the reality was these things were part of the job and nothing more than carefully crafted photo ops, the media still insisted on squeezing every inch of copy they could. Usually by suggesting his involvement with every living, breathing female who he spoke with.

Had he bedded his fair share of available pussy? Eh, okay. When fame and fortune had come at him fast, he’d definitely indulged. After a while, though, that shit got old. At least, it did for him. He liked getting laid just as much as the next guy but recreational sex, once mastered, lost its appeal.

Unfortunately, Paige had witnessed those rookie excesses and, to his great shame, had even facilitated one or two walks of shame away from his bed.

The way she was looking at Caro told him she was edgy where her flirty assistant was concerned. He wanted to tell her she had nothing to worry about. That she was the only woman he had any interest in flirting with—but he said nothing and just kept mindlessly shoveling birthday cake into his mouth.

He wondered how she’d react if he admitted to letting her think she’d manipulated him into hiring Caro or how he’d have hired a grandfather if that would have helped. He wasn’t stupid and knew right away that Paige chose Carolyn because she hoped the girl wasn’t his type.

He smiled at Caro, who was now rambling on about current events while recalling his and Paige’s first foray into adding someone to Team Shaw. Hiring a kid fresh out of UCLA, who had mad social media skills and a knack for remembering names, seemed like such a good idea at the time. Plus, it was obvious Paige had leaned toward ‘Brad’ because he wasn’t a female. The last thing she needed was some up-and-coming starlet masquerading as a worker bee who was only interested in fucking a celebrity or getting a SAG card. Brad was a safe bet. Or so it seemed.

Three months later, he’d bleached his ass and was working the bottom for an Indie director who was burning up the benjamins on his first big-budget studio film. Brad, the shithead, simply stopped coming to work.

Quietly snickering, he remembered sniping that Brad’s asshole now hung from the smarmy director’s rearview mirror like a fucking trophy.

Their first employee had been a complete disaster. Lesson learned.

When Carolyn had turned up with her motor mouth and wild hair, which at the time was a black and purple, neither he nor Paige was instantly swayed. But Caro was relentless and had a confidence that worked in her favor.

Had an ulterior motive been at work in his decision to employ Caro? Shit. He wished he were that smart. The hire had been a desperate move to save Paige’s sanity and, probably, her health. After the freaky dynamo had taken on the day-to-day bullshit, he realized Paige would have more time to concentrate solely on him.

“Hashtag winning,” he mumbled quietly. At the same time, he remembered what was behind Paige’s worried frown. She was working up a snit about how friendly her assistant and he were with each other. Needing Carolyn’s help wasn’t the same as sharing him. For all of Paige Turner’s professional aloofness and subtly mocking undertone where Team Shaw was concerned, she was showing signs of being way more invested in Edward Banning than Gideon Shaw.

And that wasn’t a bad thing as far as he was concerned.

Oh, for heaven’s sake
, Paige mentally grumbled. Somebody—stuff a damn sock in her mouth and make the girl shut the hell up.

Ehrmygawd, enough!

She shuffled away from her yammering assistant and the lure of the no-no dessert because falling face-first into an ice-cream cake like a hungry bear ravaging a dumpster full of food was only going to make matters worse.

Damn cramps. Stupid hormones. Ugh.

Heading for the big screen TV, she hoped for a good documentary to watch … or better yet, one of those
How It’s Made
or
House Hunters International
episodes. Both shows were great go-tos.

Ignoring everything else, she clicked the buttons on the fancy remote and shook her head.

Why was it that even with a thousand friggin’ channels, there was still nothing on?

Sighing, Paige was aggressively flipping through the entertainment offerings when she felt his intense perusal— directed solely at her. A mini-explosion fried each one of her nerve endings.

Oh, great. He was using that damn x-ray vision of his that never failed to see all sorts of things she’d prefer he didn’t. Like the way her heartbeat picked up at the sound of his deeply masculine voice, or the feeling of her stomach wobbling when he was near enough to smell.

Shocking heat poured into her center until—too great to be contained—a fireball shot into her hoo-ha with tremendous force.

And just like that, Paige got her hormones under control. Rolling her eyes, she wrinkled her nose, too.

Hoo-ha? Friggin’ really? When did I become a hoo-ha sort of a girl?

Saying ‘privates’ was usually as tame as she got. Her screenwriter friend, Patsy Steele, liked to use the expression ‘nether regions.’

Vagina was too PC. Her mother was comfortable flinging around vaginal references, but that word always made Paige feel like she was in health class.

Snatch was one of those meh words. So were kitty and va-jay-jay.

A good sign you were trying too hard? Sugar basin, love tunnel, pink taco.

And then there was the big one. The capital C word. The universally cringe-worthy epithet that always garnered everyone’s attention.

Cunt. That one occupied an exclusive category all on its own.

Guaranteed to get a reaction, women tended to use the word in an entirely different context than men did. An angrily muttered, "She’s an evil cunt," set off girl-fight alarms—but a sexy grunt and a possessive, "That cunt is mine …" Well, two entirely different things. One was likely to end with a bitch slap while the other held the promise of something hotter.

But Paige was an old-fashioned girl. No need to beat around the metaphorical bush.

Ha-ha!

Pussy was fine—after all, it was somewhat hard to find the word offensive because it was used so much these days.

Hoo-ha must have been a brain zap that didn’t lessen the undeniable fact that the heat singeing her panties was a direct result of his nearness communicating directly with her pussy.

Yep. That was what I said.
Paige snickered.

Being around the man when he was in one of his watchful moods tested, tempted, and tantalized. Precisely why she’d become adept at shutting off her response to the solid wall of muscle with the know-it-all smirk. She didn't need the chronic horniness that defined her personal life to get the better of her.

Dropping the useless remote control, she heard a mumbled, “Shit,” and turned with a quizzical look, startled to find him staring at her with an expression she’d never seen before. What was that all about?

Carolyn was rambling on, no doubt having something to do with how awesomely fabulous and awesomely awesome Gideon was. She was a broken record on his so-called awesomeness. The word was starting to make Paige grind her teeth whenever she heard it.

Dammit. She was reacting like a bitch, and while she thought of herself as being many things, classic bitch wasn’t one of them. It wasn’t her style. Besides, the woman-as-bitch stereotype was old and stale despite the glut of reality shows celebrating the look-at-me art of female bitchiness. She liked to think she was far more clever than that. Paige’s resting bitch face resembled bored tolerance squared, though most on the receiving end wouldn’t even know what that expression meant.

But right this moment, she wasn’t able to ward off the frosty cattiness darkening her thoughts. Carolyn was pissing her off and, period hormones or not, she didn’t like the way that made her feel.

As far as Paige was concerned, Carolyn and the other countless males and females who jockeyed for a chance to jump on Gideon Shaw were welcome to the superstar. Gideon Shaw didn’t interest her. Not really. But Edward Banning did, and that was becoming a problem.

A
fter finally shooing Caro from the trailer, he was starting to relax and enjoy being alone with Paige when an interruption ruined everything.

“Change pages, Mr. Shaw,” a voice boomed as three loud thuds reverberated off the trailer door. “The AD wants a POV shot that needs blocking, sir. You have about fifteen minutes.”

Edward grimaced as Paige grabbed the new script pages from the faceless arm waving the purple sheets through the trailer door.

“Thanks, Roy,” she called out, passing the pages directly into his hands. “Make sure the chair is empty and I’ll hustle him over to makeup.”

Fuck. He had hoped to be off for the rest of the day. The weighted suit he lugged around on his torso that made him stoop and shuffle like an old man was killing him. Maybe literally. He was used to the makeup and facial prosthetics, but the uncomfortable and physically challenging bodysuit was a new experience. It left him winded and feeling like he’d been working bent over for hours on a chain gang.

And it was his real birthday, goddammit. Not his movie star birthday. Couldn’t a guy catch a break?

With his mouth set in a grim line, he felt nothing but annoyance. Oh fucking well. They didn’t pay him obscene amounts of money to whine like a little girl.

After barely enough time to glance at the script changes, another tap sounded on the door. This time, it was two quick raps and then a pause, followed by three more.

Fucking balls. The last thing he wanted right then was to deal with his co-star, Joann Jones, and her stupid warning knocks.

Paige looked at him, an eyebrow raised and a withering smirk on her face. “Looks like you and your tiger blood are up,” she quipped with a throaty growl. “JoJo’s on the prowl.”

“How much do I pay you to use that smart mouth on me?”

Only her momentarily startled expression, a result of the innuendo in his taunt, offered any indication that she gave a shit what he had to say.

“Dream on, Studmuffin.”

Her words were still hanging in the air when his co-star barged in.

Fuck. Everything about today’s timing certainly blew chunks. It had taken forever to hustle a still gushing Caro from the trailer to be alone with his assistant. He was looking forward to getting in the verbal ring with Paige for a few rounds of pun throwing and sarcastic one-liners, but he was forced instead to make nice with an aging A-list star who had a long list of hits on her IMDB page and was several years past her best days.

Switching to Gideon mode, he cleared his throat and took a deep breath that he wished he could hold until she left. Nothing polluted the air quicker than the cloying clash of scents that surrounded Joann like a putrid shroud. Paige had recently remarked that she smelled like a Beverly Hills elevator. It had taken him a minute to get the reference and then he'd laughed like hell.

“Darling,” she cooed, completely ignoring Paige, who all but blocked the unwanted woman’s visit with her body. The second she’d moved past his assistant, Paige mimicked a comically exaggerated stabbing motion, which pretty much summed up how they both felt about the declining movie star and her ultra-special brand of vicious bullshit.

“Jo,” he gritted out, his jaw clenching involuntarily. “What brings you around?”

Paige snorted and choked at the same time, earning her a caustic glare that even he felt. Joann Jones wasn’t what you would call nice. She was a vindictive bitch with an overactive ego. Having fucked half of Hollywood’s power elite, no one messed with her. The woman got whatever she wanted, a fact that openly pissed people off. And right now, it looked like the crazy cougar who fancied herself at the top of the MILF heap wanted him.

It wasn’t so much him that she wanted as his cock. There was too much of that going around these days. Nothing like a leaked sex tape to make life interesting. Only thing was … the tape everyone was talking about? The one blowing the doors off half of the free porn sites on the web? It wasn’t even him.

With the explosion of the social media phenomenon, dick pics, private photos, and intimate videos quickly became part of the pop culture construct. Nothing was sacred anymore. Or private. Or protected. When it came to the fucking Internet, nobody had any goddamn rights.