Esme Jaramillo wiped her damp palms down the side seams of her slacks and wondered, briefly, if the taupe pantsuit her friends had insisted she wear had been the proper choice for her first  -- and probably only  -- television appearance. They'd fussed through a mountain of clothes in her hotel room that morning, while she sat in the corner and reviewed her notes, amused by their fashion plate antics. She supposed the tailored silk ensemble they'd settled on exuded a conservative enough image to offset her controversial topic: human cloning.

Now, if only she could be cloned from Jennifer Lopez for this talk show appearance, life would be just peachy. A smirk lifted one corner of her mouth as she glanced around the cramped make-up studio backstage of the set of The Barry Stillman Show.

Four beige walls, adorned with framed photos of previous guests, surrounded the beauty parlor chair she occupied. A filing cabinet claimed one corner, with a CD player perched on top. Rolling metal racks behind her held a mishmash of garments, perhaps for guests who had fashion emergencies before they were due on stage. Along with the rescue clothes hung a few smocks smeared with makeup streaks. Before her stood a long counter top stacked with more pots and jars and bottles of cosmetics than she'd ever seen, and above the counter was a huge mirror which framed the reflection of her un-made-up face.

The hot bulbs circling the mirror glared off the lenses of her large wire-framed eyeglasses and melted the creamy cosmetics piled before her. If the makeup lights were hot, Esme could only imagine what it would feel like beneath the strong stage lights in front of All Those People. She shuddered, suddenly nervous. At least her parents and her best friends, Lilly and Pilar, would be out there for moral support. She reminded herself to look for their smiling faces in the audience the minute she got out on stage.

Speaking of faces. Esme pushed her glasses atop her head and leaned forward to squint at her own mug. Ugh.

Bland. Boring. That's how she looked.

It was always how she looked. And her hair  -- she twisted her head from side to side and arranged the limp, shoulder-length locks. She sat back in the chair until her reflection was nothing but a myopic blur, and sighed. Oh well. No one expected female scientists to be attractive, anyway. Still, she was grateful a professional would be applying her makeup for the show. A woman could be vain once is her life, couldn't she?

She glanced at her watch and wondered where the makeup person was. The producer had stuck her head in the room earlier and told Esme she'd go on in fifteen minutes. That didn't leave them much time.

As if on cue, the door opened, and in walked  -- Esme plunked her glasses back on the bridge of her nose and turned. Her breath caught. Lord, he had to be a Greek god. Broad-shouldered and bronze-skinned, the man wore faded, form-fitting Levi's, low-heeled black boots, and a tight black T-shirt emblazoned with The Barry Stillman Show in red lettering. And, if her mama only knew what images the man's shiny black ponytail brought to her mind, there'd be a chorus of Hail Marys uttered in her soul's defense within minutes.

"Dr. Jaramillo?"

"Yes?" Her hand fluttered to her throat.

"I'm Gavino Mendez, your makeup artist," said the man, his deep voice smooth as creme de menthe. "You're the brilliant scientist I've been hearing so much about, yes?" He flashed her a movie star smile and extended his long-fingered hand toward her for a handshake.

Esme nodded slowly, ignoring the heated flush she felt creeping up her neck at his compliment. Disconcerted, she glanced from his face to his hand, then back at his face before she did her part to complete the handshake.

"Dios mio," she whispered more than spoke, as his warm palm slid against hers. If men like Gavino Mendez were commonplace in Chicago, she'd clone the whole darn city and become the hero of the female population. The thought curved her mouth into a smile.

Gavino released her hand and asked, "Nervous?" He turned his back to switch the CD player on, filling the room with hot Celia Cruz tunes, then began assembling brushes and pencils and pots of color, his focus on the tools of his trade.

"A-a little," Esme admitted, content just to watch him move about the close quarters they shared. His movements were skilled and confident, masculine but graceful. This was probably her one chance in life to have a man like Gavino Mendez lay his hands on her, and she was thrilled by the prospect.

"It always seems to hit people once I come in to do their makeup." He winked at her.

Esme's heart plunged before snapping back up to lodge in her throat. That wink should be classified as a lethal weapon.

"You have my sympathy," he continued, seemingly oblivious to her admiration. "I much prefer remaining behind the scenes."

Esme pulled herself out of the hunk-induced stupor and cleared her throat. "I've, ah, never been on television before." He probably knows that, silly, she chastised herself. This focused male attention was rattling her composure. She wasn't used to it. "It's not too often a scientist has such an opportunity. I'm really very flattered." She nudged her glasses up with the knuckle of her pointer finger. "My parents and friends are in the audience." She cast her gaze down briefly, not wanting to appear too prideful.

Gavino peered at her, his expression darkening for an instant before he turned away. Esme wondered if she'd said something wrong, but the moment quickly passed.

"Tell me about your research, Esme  -- may I call you that?"

"Of course."

He faced her, crossed his arms over his chest, then leaned back against the counter, a position which accentuated the sculpted muscles in his arms. The bright lights shadowed the angles of his jawline and glinted off the single diamond stud in his earlobe. Esme forced her mind from its slack-jawed awe of man and back onto his question.

"Research? Research. Yes. Human cloning, that's what I research." She laughed lightly, shaking her head. "And, well, it's a touchy subject."

"How so?"

"Lots of moral and religious implications. My grandmother prays daily for my soul. She thinks my colleagues and I are trying to play God. If I ever actually clone a human being, I'll probably be excommunicated from the church." Esme ran her fingers through her hair and shrugged one shoulder.

Gavino chuckled, holding several different colored lipsticks next to her cheek. "Sounds like my grandmother. Let me guess. Catholic?"

"But, of course," she told him, her tone wry. "So, I continue to do the research, but I feel guilty about it."

He leaned his head back and laughed, giving Esme an excellent view of his muscle-corded neck, his straight white teeth. Talk, Esme. Stay on track.

"We're not necessarily trying to create people, though," she blurted, averting her gaze from his seductive Adam's Apple. "There are a lot of other medically plausible reasons to clone human beings, but it's still a little too sci-fi for most people to swallow." She wondered when Gavino would get to the part where those long fingers of his touched her face. She was prepped and ready to file away that particular sensory memory for frequent replays.

"Well, I'm sure there are medical reasons. But, it is kind of a scary thought, having little duplicates of yourself running around," Gavino conceded. He inclined his head. "Forgive my ignorance if that's a misconception. I don't know much about cloning."

"Don't apologize. There's no doubt Hollywood has put a skewed impression out there. It'll be hard for the stodgy science community to overcome."

Gavino made a rumbly agreement sound deep in his throat, then said, "Take your glasses off for me, Esme."

Anything else? she wanted to ask him. Her cheeks heated. She didn't usually have such wanton thoughts in the midst of a normal conversation. Then again, she'd never had a conversation with Gavino Mendez before.

She watched, mesmerized, as he picked up a large makeup brush and dipped it into one of the containers. Poofs of face powder launched into the air around the brush, tiny particles dancing in the light. He raised his eyebrows at her, reminding her of his request. Request? Glasses. Oh, yeah.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. She removed her frames and folded them in her lap, then closed her eyes while Gavino tickled her face with the powder brush. The sweet fragrance of the talc reminded her fondly of playing dress-up as a child, back when she still had hope she'd grow up beautiful. She wanted to smile, but didn't, fearing she'd get powder-caked teeth.

When Gavino finished, she put her glasses back on and waved her hands to fend off the cloud that still hung in the air. "I just hope the audience is open-minded about the topic and not hostile with me."

Gavino stilled. "I... uh, yeah."

A thick pause ensued, prompting a seedling of discomfort to sprout in Esme's middle. Was she missing something here?

"Well, you'll knock 'em dead, I'm sure."

"I hope you're right."

He made careful work of capping the powder container and lining up the compacts before looking back at her. "Can I ask you something, Esme?"

"Sure."

"Do you ever... watch The Barry Stillman Show?"

"Oh, you would ask me that." She twisted her mouth to the side apologetically. "I'm ashamed to say that I've never seen it. I just don't have much time for television."

Gavino pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded.

"Why?" Esme asked.

"I'm... no reason. Just wondering."

It sure sounded like there was a reason behind his "no reason," but Esme didn't want to push the man. Maybe he was just having a bad day. A fight with his wife at the breakfast table, perhaps. An ugly pang struck Esme at the thought, and her gaze fell to his left hand. No ring. No ring mark. She sighed with relief. Like it mattered. Get a life, Esme.

"I must say, I'm impressed, though," she told him. "I didn't know any of the talk shows still dealt with legitimate topics these days."

Gavino didn't comment, so Esme went on. "If it's not people beating each other up or transvestites in love triangles, it never seems to make it to daytime TV. At least, that's what I thought until I was asked on the show." Esme glanced at her reflection, which jolted her back to the matter at hand. She pressed her fingers to her cheeks and pulled down slightly. "Aren't you going to do something with my face? I look awful."

Gavino moved in between her and the mirror and spread his legs until he'd lowered himself to Esme's eye level. Esme folded her hands in her lap as her heart thunk-thunked in her chest at his proximity. Wasn't breathing supposed to be automatic? she wondered, as she reminded herself to pull in air.

Gavino reached for her face slowly. His fingers danced along her cheekbones, her temples, then he smoothed the pad of his thumb over her chin. "No, Dr. Jaramillo, you don't look awful. You look anything but awful." His voice was a gentle caress. "You look beautiful just as you are." Her heart triple-timed. "Well... thank you, but --"

"Remember that." He touched the end of her nose. "Okay?"

She frowned, a little confused by his words and spellbound by his touch. "I  -- sure. But, I don't get it. Does that mean you aren't going to make up my face?"

The look he gave her was almost apologetic, Esme decided. "Right. I'm not going to make up your face. But, it's okay. You don't need warpaint"

So much for her moment of vanity. Disappointment drizzled over Esme before she shrugged it off and decided Gavino was trying to tactfully tell her it wouldn't make much difference. Splashing color on her features would have probably just drawn attention to their plainness. Eh, well, it didn't matter, and she wasn't going to pout about it. At least he'd touched her face. She inhaled the heady mingled scents of makeup and heated masculine skin, and decided a change of subject was in order. "How long have you done this kind of work, Gavino?" Was that relief she saw on his beautiful face? Why?

"Three long years I've worked on this show." He leaned against the counter again, hands spread wide and braced on the edge, and crossed one foot over the other.

"You make it sound like a jail sentence."

He tilted his head to the side in a gesture of indifference. "It pays the bills, but my first love..." Doubt crossed his features. "You want to hear all this?"

"Of course" Esme assured him. "Your first love?"

"Is painting," he finished.

Esme watched in wonder as the smile lit up his face. His gaze grew distant, dreamy. She hadn't thought he could get much better looking. Boy, had she underestimated him. "Warpaint?" she teased, glancing back at her bare face in the mirror.

He chuckled. "No, not face painting. Oil painting. Art."

"An artist. Hmmm. I'm not surprised." He had the hands of an artist, hands that made her wish she were a fresh, new canvas ripe for his attention. She swallowed. "It's wonderful, Gavino. What do you paint?"

"Later." She watched a muscle tick in his jaw for several moments as his eyes grew more serious. With a quick glance at the door and back, Gavino squatted before her and took her hand in both of his. "Esme, listen to me. About the show --"

Before Gavino could finish, the harried producer knocked sharply, then opened the door a crack and poked her head in. Tendrils had sprung free of her lopsided French twist into which she'd stuck two pencils and apparently forgotten them. "Dr. Jaramillo, time to go on."

Gavino stood and moved away from her, sticking his hands into his back pockets. Regret socked Esme in the stomach, and she pinned him with her gaze. What had he been about to say? Absurd as it was, she didn't want to leave him. He was so comfortable to talk to, and so easy on the eyes. Men like him didn't usually give her me time of day. "I --"

"Now, Dr. Jaramillo. Please," the producer urged.

"Go on, Esme," Gavino told her, treating her to another devastating wink.

"What were you going to tell me?"

"Nothing. Just, break a leg," he said, his voice low. "That means good luck." He flashed her a thumbs-up. "I'll see you again in a few minutes."

She looked at him curiously as she got out of the chair and smoothed down the front of her suit. A few minutes? Hope spiked inside her. "You will?"

"I mean, I'll watch you on the monitors."

"Oh." Long awkward pause. "Well. Thank you," she told him, fluffing her hair with trembling fingers and stuffing back the wave of disappointment. What did she expect from the guy, a pledge of undying love? With one last smile for Gavino and a deep breath for courage, Esme turned and trailed the producer from the room.

Copyright © 1999 by Lynda Sandoval