Easy on the Eyes (8 page)

“How’s Trevor?” Christie asks as my car appears.

I look at her, but I’m still thinking about my mom and family, and my eyes fill with tears.

Christie sees, and she puts an arm around me. “Oh, hon, no. What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “All this talk about thirty-eight being old hits a little close to home. My mom was my age when she died—
” I break off, look away, bite my lip to get control. “And the studio is making me feel old, but thirty-eight isn’t old. Thirty-eight
is still just a beginning.”

Christie’s arm squeezes my shoulders. “Do you want to come to my house for dinner tonight? I’ve got nothing planned. Simon’s
working.”

“I have more events. Two more, to be precise.” I reach up to hug her back. “But thank you. I appreciate the offer.”

She looks at me hard. “You need fewer appearances and more downtime. You need a personal life, someone to love you. A good
someone. Someone who would appreciate you. Not these ridiculous men you date— ”

“Oh, Christie.”

“It’s true.” Her eyes blaze blue fire. “You want love, need love, but the men you date are the ones you’ll never love, and
they’ll never love you back.”

“But at least this way if they die, I won’t mind,” I joke.

“Tiana Irene Tomlinson!”

“I’m kidding,” I answer, giving her a hug and motioning to the valet attendant that I’m on my way.

Christie follows me to the driver’s-side door. “But you’re not kidding. That’s why you date these dingbats, and they’re all
the same, handsome but shallow.”

“Trevor’s not shallow— ”

“Then tell me one thing you have in common besides sex.”

I slip the attendant a ten and slide behind the wheel. “He’s fun?”

“My dentist would be fun if I only had to see him now and then.”

“I see Trevor every five or six weeks.”

“And that’s not a relationship. It’s casual sex.”

“You yourself told me sex was beneficial.”

“It’d be even more beneficial if it came with a healthy, happy relationship. Let me introduce you— ”

“No!” I swiftly, firmly close the door but roll down my window. “Don’t even think about another setup. Understand? I love
you, but honestly, Christie, I don’t like your taste in men.”

T
he fund-raiser’s pre-party is at Steve Lehman’s house, and his five-acre estate is high above the city in elegant, affluent,
exclusive Bel Air.

There’s been a breeze all day, which has blown the smog out of the valley, leaving the city glittering like white fairy lights
on a Christmas tree.

Cocktail in hand, I walk slowly around Steve’s enormous Grecian-style pool, which glows with a hundred floating votives. An
orchestra plays beneath a white canopy as fountains tinkle and beautiful people laugh and talk and mill about while keeping
an eye out for someone more important to talk to.

From the corner of my eye, I see Tom and Katie appear and be welcomed to great fanfare. Across the pool, Jessica Biel is talking
to Kirsten Dunst. I knew it’d be one of those “who’s who” parties, but I thought I’d find an ally before I felt insignificant.

This is where it gets complicated.

The very fact that I’m here will put plenty of stars’ teeth on edge. If I were a different TV host, I’d work the party, say
hello to the famous faces that I’ve interviewed in the past; but I can’t stand it when they give me that little look. The
sneer. The half-annoyed, half-pitying glance that says you don’t belong.

I had enough of that at Epworth. Although I was raised in South Africa, I never had a proper South African accent, and I don’t
know if that was my dad’s doing since he was American, but the girls at Epworth teased me for sounding like a Yank, and they
made it clear that as a Yank, I was merely tolerated, not accepted.

There were times I was tempted to name-drop. I had impressive connections. The girls would have loved that my mother was a
former Miss South Africa, and her mother was Lady Hollingsworth in England but dropped the title when she moved with her new
husband, Lord Hollingsworth, to what was then Rhodesia. But I never did. Maybe it was the rebel in me, but I wouldn’t share
my past, wouldn’t share my strength, wouldn’t give them access to me.

My father always said I was the secretive one, but I’m not secretive. I’m just reserved. Contained. Willow was the one who
wore her heart on her sleeve. She was emotional and tender, just like our mother. But just because I didn’t laugh or cry as
easily didn’t mean I didn’t feel.

I feel. I feel so deeply that it scares me.

I don’t let many people in because when I do, I’m wide open. Completely vulnerable. The problem is once you’re in my heart,
you stay.

Even when you’re dead. Even when you’re gone.

Feet already aching, I scan the crowd of expensive suits and elegant gowns, and while I know many of them by sight, none are
friends like Christie or Celia from
People
magazine. My friends aren’t A-listers, we’re the industry’s worker bees, and I’m here only because of Max.

It was Max who helped me through the first year following Keith’s death. After signing me to a contract, he had me move straight
to Los Angeles. By the time I arrived with my car and trailer full of possessions, his assistant had found me a sunny one-bedroom
apartment in a nice neighborhood in Santa Monica within walking distance of the beach.

Those first three months in L.A. were disorienting. Max knew my history, knew I had no one else, and he was always reminding
me to get exercise and sleep and to make sure I ate right.

As I settled in, Max introduced me to people. Sent me to meetings and lunches. Got me invited to parties. And then came the
offer. HBC was developing a new show and they needed a host. They wanted someone special, someone readers would take into
their hearts, and they wanted me.

Me. Tiana Tomlinson, nobody’s girl.

Six-plus years, here I am, sipping a sidecar and wearing a Naeem Khan gown on Steve Lehman’s lawn. If this isn’t success,
I don’t know what is.

“It’s Ms. America,” drawls a horribly familiar voice, sending a shiver down my spine.

Michael O’Sullivan. Satan himself. And yet as I turn to face him, my spirits lift ever so slightly. I’ve been a little too
blue and introspective today, and sparring with Michael should give me something fun to do. “Hello, Hollywood.”

He’s smiling at me, laughing at me, as amused by me as if I were just a floppy puppy. “
Dr.
Hollywood,” he corrects with a glint in his eye, looking ever so 007 in his tuxedo with his thick dark hair slicked back
to a glossy shine and his jaw freshly shaven.

It really is tragic that he’s this good-looking. Must fool most people into thinking he’s likable. I like that I find him
unlikable. I like that I can resist him. Too many women can’t. The man’s far too popular in this town for his own good.

“Have you recovered yet?” he asks, rocking back on his heels. “Or are you still licking your wounds?”

“I’m licking nothing, Dr. O’Sullivan.”

A tiny muscle pulls in his jaw, and I see a flash of white teeth. “Then perhaps you need a good licking.”

I blush deeply, my face burning from my collarbone to my hairline. “Dr. O’Sullivan!”

“I love that frosty tone. You do it so well.”

I tell myself I hate him. I tell myself he’s the worst company in the world, but my heart is beating a little too hard to
believe that. “Don’t you have a date somewhere needing your attention?”

Laughter lurks at the corners of his mouth. “She’s getting me a drink.”

“How chivalrous of you.”

Light flickers in his dark eyes, and I realize his eyes aren’t dark brown but the darkest shade of blue. No one has eyes that
color. They must be colored contact lenses, which makes me think that he must have done other things. O’Sullivans don’t have
chins like his, or nearly perfect noses and jaws, either.

“As a plastic surgeon, you’re an advocate of plastic surgery.” I pause. “Have you had work done yourself?”

“No, I haven’t. Are you considering work?”

“That wasn’t my question.”

His lashes lower as his gaze scrutinizes my face and then drops even lower to take in my body. It’s a slow inspection, his
gaze traveling ever so leisurely over my breasts and then down my waist to my hips and to the thighs. I grow hot beneath his
inspection but hold still, unwilling to turn chicken now.

His lashes lift and he looks into my eyes. “Are you asking for my professional or personal opinion?”

I flush hotter. “Why would I want your personal opinion?”

The very air seems to sizzle as he looks down on me. “Why wouldn’t you?”

This is my cue to leave. I ought to spin on my heel the way heroines in my beloved Mills & Boon romances used to do. But I
don’t. I’m foolish and proud and reckless, and I stand there, chin up. “I do not find you attractive. I am not impressed by
your money. And I loathe plastic surgeons.”

He looks down at me, and then he smiles a slow, wickedly provocative smile. “But you do like my body.”

For a moment I’m speechless. I don’t know what to say. He’s horrible and impossible, and my heart races too fast. “Goodbye,
Dr. O’Sullivan.”

“It’s Michael, to you.”

I give him the dirtiest look I can and then walk away briskly to the other end of the glowing Grecian pool, where floating
candle boats gleam on the aquamarine surface. My heels sink into the lawn, and I can feel the weight of soil cling to the
high, lean spikes. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. And yet I could have kissed him, which makes no sense, especially as
I hate him so very much.

Tucking my tiny clutch bag, I struggle across the lawn, wishing I’d stuck with the flagstone pool deck, wishing my shoes weren’t
so high, wishing I hadn’t been on my feet all day. But most of all wishing Michael didn’t affect me like this. He makes me
too aware of me, the real me, the one who isn’t hair and makeup. The one who lost her family at fourteen. The one who lost
her husband at thirty. The one who’s worked relentlessly since then to not feel, want, need, dream.

But he makes me feel. No man other than Keith has made me feel. And that scares the hell out of me.

After another hour at Steve’s, I text my driver. I have two drivers and they’re both named John, but tonight it’s Russian
John and I let him know that he can pick me up now.

Once I’m in the back of his limo on the way to the Getty, I check my phone. Trevor called. I missed his call. I try him, but
now I go to voice mail.

In the dark I close my eyes, press fingers to my brow, and stifle the rush of longing.

I could have handled being a widow better if I’d been married longer. I could have handled being a widow if I’d had a baby.

Christie’s right. I am too alone. If I’m not on camera, I’m off at events, and with Trevor so far away I attend most of those
on my own.

The bottom line is that this long-distance thing isn’t working. I’m too lonely and am just getting emptier by the day. I need
to talk to Trevor, but I’m not good at sharing feelings. Which might be one reason I’m a reporter. I ask the questions. I
don’t have to answer them.

We’re climbing Getty Center Drive, and it’s a steep climb to the top of the mountain, where the sleek, stark Getty Center
was built ten years ago.

I’m not easily awed by theatrics anymore, but my breath catches as I step inside the museum’s largest exhibit hall. The museum’s
glass, marble, and metal surfaces have been transformed by floor-to-ceiling tents, with the billowy fabric sheathing the walls.
I’m no longer in a modern museum, but outside in the middle of a Sonoran desert sunset.

Keith loved the desert. Tucson. Morocco. Afghanistan. He’d get a kick out of this, I think.

I spend the next hour working my way around the room, making cocktail conversation. Familiar to nearly everyone, I have plenty
of people to talk to, and I’m happily surprised when dinner is announced.

Gown swishing, I thread my way through the tables with their deep violet cloths and glowing candlelight, looking for Max’s
table, dazzled all over again by the decor. The fabric walls capture the undulating hills of the desert shadows while the
fabric ceiling is that of a soft night sky.

Max spots me before I see him. He lifts an arm, signals to me. He’s been in conversation with his wife and another couple
but breaks away to speak to me.

“Love the dress,” he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you. If only my feet weren’t killing me.”

He glances around the table until he finds my seat. “Here you are. Seated between Greg Breese and Alex Frost.”

He pulls out my chair for me, and with a grateful sigh I sit down, setting my little black clutch on top of my plate. It’s
been a long day on my feet.

“Enjoying yourself?” Max asks.

“It’d be more fun with a date,” I admit.

“Too bad Trevor couldn’t be here.”

Trevor’s attended only one event with me in the six months we’ve been seeing each other, so it’s difficult to imagine us as
a couple despite the media frenzy of the past few days. “It’s a gorgeous party. Clever to do a wildlife conservation theme.
Reminds everyone that Democrats care about the environment.”