The Soul Collector - By Tamela Quijas Page 0,15
my dear,”� Luke rolled the ebony clip between his fingers.
“Then, I might suggest their use,” she frowned again. “These mikes are small and clip unobtrusively onto your shirt or jacket. They’re available in hard-wired and wireless setups, so sound clarity is captured regardless of where you might be located.”�
“I prefer to have my crew use a shotgun mike mounted on a boom.”
It was clear he didn't like having the miniature device hooked to his collar, notwithstanding that the mechanism would be almost undetectable against his clothing.
“If you use the lav mike, you wouldn't have to bring along extra crew members to operate the boom and monitor sound,”� Eva suggested. “Your show’s sound return would be far superior.”�
He didn't respond, his attention intent on the mike. Purposely, he positioned the lav mike on the collar of his turtleneck, clipping it into place. She watched while he skillfully situated the transmitter in the small of his back, before reclining comfortably into his seat.
“Miss Keyes, at the risk of repeating myself, I prefer my own equipment,” he answered, although he didn't look at her. “There are some instances where I would prefer not to have every word leaving my mouth recorded.”�
You’re a blasted stubborn man! She thought ungraciously.
“In any case, Miss Keyes, I'm afraid I must have missed it,” he responded laconically, lifting one colorless brow at her sudden confusion.
“Missed what?”�
“I assumed some little bird flew by and whispered my name into your lovely ears,” he seemed to be mocking her, and she bristled.
“Since you reminded me, I do believe you didn't answer my question,” she pointed out, not permitting him the slightest edge.
He sighed. He seemed unaffected by the chill on the set, despite the fact the television crew shivered where they stood. He remained obviously patient, as if he were a parent dealing with an overly inquisitive child.
“If you must know, my dear woman, Luke is a diminutive of my actual name,” he responded, reclining into the comfort of his seat. Effectively, he cut the questioning short, but Eva was stubborn.
“What is Luke short for?”�
“I feel we shall simply suffice with Luke,” his eyes lifted skyward again, appearing to beseech the heavens for escape. Once more, she experienced a startling sense of frustration, and wondered if he was avoiding her gaze.
She sighed, knowing she was pushing the limits of the meeting. She didn't know why she bristled in his company. Whatever it was about him, she only had to suffer through an hour of the torture. Once the interview was over, she could go back to her normal life, watching him on his ridiculous television show. Pointedly, she stared at her notes, gathering her scattered thoughts.
She was unable to focus on the scribbled words. Feigning studiousness, Eva dissected the thoughts flying into her mind, covertly watching the seated man. He spoke in an outdated manner, and his speech pattern reflected a European upbringing, one she hadn’t detected during her review of his show.
Definitely, Luke Angeles wasn’t American.
Another fact she noticed---he didn't extend his hand toward her in any form of greeting. The lack of shaking hands confused her, the gesture one repeated all over the world. Angeles, adhering to his no-touching rule, wouldn’t even extend the common courtesy.
As she mulled the thought over, she remembered he always wore gloves, even during his program. Tonight, Eva couldn't fail to notice the exquisiteness of his expensive leather driving gloves. She knew, from watching of Those Among Us, that he didn't drive!
She lifted her troubled eyes from her paperwork and blushed, realizing his cold eyes had returned to her. He appeared calm and complacent, his pallid features expressionless. Frantically, she strove to regain her composure scant seconds before she heard the director's shout they were minutes from being on air.
She inhaled, gulping in a fortifying breath, placing her notes to one side. She attempted to dispel the chill and straightened in her chair, seeking the glow of the teleprompter. Patiently, she awaited the floor crew to remind her of which camera to smile graciously into as Keyes to New York began broadcasting.
“I have with me today, Luke Angeles, bestselling author, renowned paranormal investigator, and host of Those Among Us.” Eva began in her smoothest and most dulcet of tones. She turned in her seat and focused on him, her expression rapt, and ignored the rapid thudding of her heart. She pasted an angelic smile on her lips, mentally wishing to steal a part of her guest’s equanimity.
“Tell me, Mr. Angeles, what makes someone become