Red (26 page)

A
group of high-school-age boys stood outside the police barriers, ogling the models, whistling and making lewd comments. The models didn't seem to be bothered, but the boys' presence set Becky Lynn's nerves on edge. They reminded her of boys from back home, and she found herself putting as much space as possible between herself and them. It interfered with her job, stealing both her concentration and her ability to think clearly, and she found herself cursing her own fears and Jack's choice of Venice Beach for his first Garnet McCall shoot.

In her opinion, he should have picked a less public—and more controllable—location. She had argued with him about it, but Jack hadn't wanted safe for this first, all-important shoot. He had wanted bold. He had wanted excitement and movement; he had wanted, and needed, to make a statement.

He was determined to give Garnet McCall the best damn shoot she had ever had. And as much as his choice annoyed Becky Lynn right now, she would have done the same thing had she been in charge.

One of the boys made a grab for her as she passed, and she almost jumped out of her skin. She fought off the urge to slug the little creep, and instead warned him that if he dared pull another stunt like that, she would call one of the cops they'd hired as security.

The kid backed off immediately. She realized she had probably overreacted, and blamed exhaustion. The phone hadn't stopped ringing since the news about Jack's test shoot for Garnet had hit the street. Between fielding the calls, preparing for this shoot and taking care of the day-to-day running of the studio, she hadn't had more than four hours of sleep a night for a week.

Even Cliff from Tyler Creative had called. In the fashion industry, everybody knew everybody else's business, coast to coast and beyond. Being picked up and possibly signed by a comer like Garnet McCall had caused a stir. Even if the designer didn't sign him, Jack's stock had soared.

They were happy for Jack, Cliff had said, although they worried that before long they wouldn't be able to afford him. She had assured him that they had nothing to worry about, then he had said something that had struck her as odd. They were surprised by Garnet's interest, not because Jack lacked the ability but by the enormity of the step. He had wondered if there had been extenuating circumstances.

She had laughed and assured him that the only extenuating circumstances had been the enormity of Jack's talent. It hadn't been until after she'd hung up that the man's comments began to bother her.

A day or two later, she had mentioned the conversation to Jack, but he had blown the comment off as nothing. But still it annoyed her that people would think such a thing. As if there always had to be
another
reason someone got a job, a reason other than talent and hard work.

It was one of the things she had grown to despise about this business.

Becky Lynn worked her way around the perimeter of the set. She didn't like Garnet McCall, and she didn't care
for her designs. She found both abrasive and too overtly sexy. Not that her opinion mattered; not that she wouldn't give her best for the woman.

Becky Lynn stopped and held her hands up, using them as a viewfinder. Just down the boardwalk, a half-clad young man was eating fire. Down the other way, she had seen a muscle-bound hunk juggling chain saws. She smiled to herself. Perfect images for a McCall ad.

“Jack,” she called. He was a dozen feet away, talking with one of the models. When he looked up, she motioned for him to come over. “When you have a chance, I've got an idea I want to pass by you.”

He nodded and returned to his conversation, and Becky Lynn swung around and bumped into Garnet McCall.

“Excuse me.” Becky Lynn took a step back. “I didn't see you.”

“Apparently.” Garnet smiled and looked over her shoulder at Jack. “Our boy is something special, isn't he?”

Our boy.
The woman had practically purred the words. Becky Lynn bristled. She wanted to tell the woman he wasn't “our boy,” he was hers, property of Becky Lynn Lee.

Instead, she smiled stiffly. “Yes, he is.”

The designer arched her eyebrows ever so slightly at her tone. “I overheard you call Jack. You had an idea for the shoot? I'd love to hear it.”

Becky Lynn hesitated, surprised. Clients rarely asked her opinion on the creative aspect of a shoot. That was always Jack's territory, and rightly so. Feeling as if she was over-stepping her bounds, she cleared her throat. “I thought it might be interesting to work in some of the local acts, especially the fire-eater and the guy juggling chain saws. I
thought their juxtaposition with your clothes would be exciting.”

The designer narrowed her eyes in thought, then nodded. “I like it, Becky Lynn. It's a good idea. Tell Jack I said so.”

The woman walked off and Becky Lynn watched her go, her heart thundering. Garnet McCall liked her idea.
Her idea.
She smiled, elated.

“What was that all about?” Jack came up beside her, and followed the direction of her gaze.

She turned to him and laughed. “I had a good idea.” At his questioning glance, she told him about her conversation with Garnet McCall.

Jack looked over his shoulder, down the boardwalk at the street performer. He studied the scene a moment, then nodded. “It is a good idea. The only problem with using nonprofessionals is getting them to relax in front of the camera.”

“We try it, and if it doesn't work, we move on.”

Jack checked his watch, thinking Becky Lynn knew about time, and cost and the light. “The models are almost ready—”

“I'll go see if they're interested.”

“Make it quick.”

She nodded and started down the boardwalk.

The street performers worked out even better than she had hoped. Accustomed to crowds and attention, they did their thing, interacting with the models without mugging at the camera or stiffening up. In fact, they worked out so well that Jack snagged a couple of bare-chested surf bums. The muscle-bound hunks were only too happy to strut their stuff with the models.

The chromes were going to be fantastic.

“Great,” Jack called, handing her the camera. “Let's do the fuchsia leather next. And, Willy—” The makeup artist looked up. “I want to see eyes and mouths from a mile away.”

Willy nodded and went for his box. Jack turned to her. “Let's switch to the medium-format. Polaroid back first.”

“I'll take care of it.”

While she switched cameras, Jack conferred with Garnet. Becky Lynn watched them from the corner of her eye, wanting to be in place and ready when Jack needed her.

“That Hasselblad's a fine piece of equipment. It would have been my choice from the start.”

Becky Lynn turned. She recognized the man who had come up behind her from the photographs she had seen of him, and because he looked so much like his father.

Carlo.

She narrowed her eyes.
He had come to try to throw Jack. She knew of no other reason for him to be here.

“Nice touch, though, using the street performers.”

“Can I help you with something?” she asked coolly, pretending she didn't know who he was.

He swept his gaze assessingly over her, pausing on her face for a long moment. “Who are you?”

She could imagine what he thought of her looks. Annoyed, she lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?” she countered, deciding that she disliked this man almost as much as she had ever disliked any.

“You don't know who I am?” He arched his eyebrows in disbelief. “I'm Carlo Triani. Jack's brother. We're very close.”

At her expression, he grinned and swept his gaze over her again. “You're wasted as Jack's assistant. You know that, don't you?”

“Excuse me?”

Carlo laughed, the sound deep and heartily amused. Several people glanced their way. “I guess I'll have to add being blind to Jack's many other shortcomings.”

She didn't dislike him, she amended silently, she despised him. “You don't have any business here, so I'm afraid I have to ask you to leave.”

“Hopelessly devoted to him, aren't you?” He shook his head. “Just like all the other women in his life. And just like all the others, he'll let you down.” He lowered his voice. “Don't you see that,
bella?
”

She flexed her fingers, angry with him—and with herself—for letting his lies get to her. “Mr. Triani, if you don't—”

“Carlo,” he corrected, taking a step closer to her. She forced herself not to back away from him, although she loathed his being so near her. He lowered his voice. “Besides, I've just discovered I do have business here. I've come to steal you away from Jack.”

“Oh, please.” She made a sweeping motion with her right hand. “Don't force me to call security. Don't embarrass yourself that way.”

“You should be in front of the camera, not behind it. You're wasted as Jack's assistant.”

Angry now, she folded her arms across her chest. Carlo Triani was a small, cruel man. Jack was right to hate him so much. For him to make fun of her that way, only to hurt Jack, was beyond ugly. “You're not welcome here. I don't know how to be more plain than that. Please leave.”

“Turn your head,
bella.
Let me see your profile.”

He reached out a hand to her chin, and she caught her breath and slapped his hand away. “Leave, now. I'm calling security.”

“Becky Lynn, what's going on? We're ready—”

Carlo turned. Jack stopped in his tracks, his expression freezing.

“Hello, baby brother.”

Jack released a sharp breath. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to wish you well.” He smiled. “You're moving up in the world.”

Jack fisted his fingers at his sides, readying for a fight. Becky Lynn put her hand on his arm. “Let it go,” she whispered. “Jack, please. He's not worth it.”

He ignored her. She felt his muscles quiver at the ready. “That's right,” he said softly. “I am moving up in the world. And you'd better watch your back, brother.” He took a step toward Carlo, murder in his eyes. “Now get off my set.”

Carlo grinned, unruffled, the picture of self-confidence. “Sure, bro. Whatever you say.” He walked several steps, then stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. “Think about what I said, Becky Lynn. You're wasted with him. Besides, he'll just break your heart.” He shifted his amused gaze to Jack. “Ciao, brother.”

M
ission accomplished.

Carlo smiled to himself and leaned his head against the edge of the Jacuzzi. The hot water swirled and bubbled around him, bringing him to the point of liquid relaxation. The sky was a cloudless blue, the models on either side of him lush and willing, the champagne fine, cold and dry. Life was good.

The drive over to Venice had been one of the best investments of time he had ever made. It had been worth every minute of fighting traffic just to see the look on Jack's face, to see his concentration slip, even if only for those few moments, and to see the concerned glance Garnet McCall had shot his brother's way.

But meeting Becky Lynn had been the Big Bonus.

Carlo reached behind the companion on his right for his champagne.

He brought the crystal flute to his lips and sipped, his mouth twitching with amusement. His brother was blind. He had a jewel right under his nose, a diamond in the rough. Becky Lynn had the face every photographer searched for. Every photographer worth his salt, that was.

Not Jack. Carlo sipped again, then returned the glass to the spa's tile ledge. He wasn't surprised that his horny, macho brother couldn't see Becky Lynn's true worth. Her
face wasn't obvious enough for him, it wasn't easy enough.

“I'm going to cool off in the pool,” companion number one—Susi—said, curving her hand over his thigh. “Interested in joining me?”

Carlo cracked open his eyes. Susi wore a bright red thong bikini and her cosmetically enhanced breasts spilled out every side of the skimpy top. He lifted his gaze to her perfect face and shook his head. “You go on.”

“How do you take the heat so long?” June, on his other side and also in a daring red bikini, pulled herself out of the spa. “I'm about to boil alive.”

“My hot Italian blood.” He grinned and arched his eyebrows. “I never get enough of it.”

“Promises, promises.” Susi dragged her hands over her slicked-back hair, bringing her breasts into stunning relief. “Join us later?”

Unmoved, Carlo leaned his head back. “Sure,” he murmured. “Maybe later.”

The girls climbed out of the Jacuzzi, and he shut his eyes, his thoughts returning to Jack and Becky Lynn. The camera would love Becky Lynn. If it didn't, well…he had nothing to lose. But if he was right, if she could be as big as he hoped—and he was hardly ever wrong—Becky Lynn would help him become a star. But even better, she would help him make Jack a laughingstock.

Carlo smiled, imagining it, imagining the entire industry laughing about how Jack had had
“this wonderful girl”
right under his nose, and had used her as an
“assistant.”

It was too wonderful, too perfect.

And maybe too late. Jack had snagged Garnet McCall.

Carlo's smile faded, hatred burning in the pit of his gut, festering. The son of a bitch had everything—looks and talent, ambition, growing success. And worse, more insufferable, Jack knew he had it all. He believed in himself with a damn-the-world arrogance that the world couldn't help admiring.

At least Carlo had always been able to compare his career to Jack's with a self-satisfied confidence. He had gotten a jump on Jack, a big jump. He had never thought his bastard half brother would be able to close the gap.

Until today.

Carlo swore and opened his eyes. The brilliant sunlight stung, and he blinked against it. But Jack didn't have Giovanni, he didn't have the Triani name, he wasn't part of the legend. And no matter how much he wanted both, he would never have them.

“Look what he's accomplished on his own.”
Giovanni's voice filled his head, damning Carlo.
“Look what he's done without my name to open all his doors. What would you have done without me, Carlo? What could you have done?”

What would he have done? he wondered. Would he be another nobody photographer? Would he have given up?

Carlo muttered another oath, furious at his own thoughts, furious at the way self-doubt ate at him. He had talent. Giovanni didn't take Carlo's pictures; his images were his alone, property of Carlo Triani, fashion photographer. If there was any similarity between his and Giovanni's style, it was a matter of influence not imitation.

He curled his hands into fists, his relaxation and pleasure of minutes ago gone, replaced by resentment and tension. He hated Jack Gallagher, he had hated him
from the moment he heard Jack's name on his own mother's lips.

His mother. His beautiful mother.

He had worshiped her. He had adored her—as all who had come into contact with her had. All but her own husband, all but Giovanni.

How had Giovanni been immune to her beauty? How had he been immune to her cries for attention, her pleas that he stop shaming her with his many public affairs? Carlo had often thought his father a sort of forbidding God, a figure from the Old Testament, judgmental and all-powerful.

“Hey…Car…lo. Carlo…”

He opened his eyes and saw red. His head filled with the image of his mother, naked in a pool of red, her once-beautiful face grotesquely white with death.

His stomach heaved; he couldn't breathe. He gripped the sides of the Jacuzzi, fourteen again, his world shattered.

“Car…lo… Come out and play.”

He blinked and the image in his head evaporated; his vision cleared. Two red bikini tops churned in the water in front of him. He lifted his gaze. The two models stood beside the spa, hands on their hips and giggling.

Anger took his breath, white-hot and stunning. He snatched the bathing suit tops and flung them out of the spa, forcing June to duck. “I hate the color red, do you hear me? I never want to see these suits again.”

The girls' faces registered shock and surprise; for a moment, the silence deafened. Then June marched across the patio and snatched up the suit tops. She tied her own on, then brought the other to Susi. She glared at him. “You bastard. Where do you think you get off?”

“Mi dispiace, bella,”
he murmured in Italian, sliding across the Jacuzzi. He tipped his face up to June's. “Forgive me. I'm sorry.”

“Right.” June bent and collected her sunglasses and keys. “I'm out of here.”

He reached out and caught her ankle. “
Per favore?
I'll make it worth your while.”

“Take your hand off me, you prick.” Furious, June shook his hand off her ankle. “I'd sooner party with a snake.”

Carlo shrugged and turned his gaze to Susi, the bit of red fabric clutched in her hands, her magnificent, manufactured breasts bared to God, the sun and his gaze.

“What about you, Susi?” He grinned disarmingly up at her. “Want to stay and play?”

Susi shot an apologetic look at the other model, tossed aside the bikini top and climbed into the spa.

With a smile, she straddled his lap.

Much later, after Susi had gone, Carlo prowled the house, on edge and antsy. He liked noise and people. He liked working. But this quiet, this emptiness meant being alone with his own thoughts, with his memories. His demons.

Red water.

Carlo shuddered and crossed to the bar. He poured a shot of vodka, the Russian brand he preferred, but he didn't drink. He stared at the clear liquid, thinking back, remembering his mother.

She had been so beautiful. Thick dark hair and velvety eyes, features that had taken the breath. Her soft, smoky voice had moved over him like a caress. He remembered it so clearly, he could still hear it in his head.

She had been famous, a fashion model, still considered by many to be Italy's most celebrated beauty—sexier than Sophia Loren, more beautiful than Isabella Rossellini.

Carlo picked up the glass and gently turned it, watching as the light caught and reflected on the clear alcohol. Sometimes he used to gaze at his mother in secret, hide and watch while she brushed her hair or bathed, when she thought she was alone. He would see her sorrow. Her unhappiness had clutched at his heart, choking him, and he had wished with everything he had that he could make her happy.

He had loved her so much. But there had always been a part of her he couldn't touch, no matter how he had wanted to, no matter how hard he had tried.

He tossed back the drink, grimacing at its burn, then poured himself another.

The industry gossip mill had had a field day with her suicide. He had heard many things, things a young man, a son, should not have heard. Many speculated that the car accident that had taken her face had not been an accident at all, but a first suicide attempt. Most said despondency over Giovanni's humiliating public affairs had moved her to take her own life.

All Carlo had known for certain was that his mother hadn't loved him enough to want to live. She had only loved Giovanni.

The phone rang, and Carlo jumped to answer it, anxious for a distraction. He thought perhaps it was June, calling to apologize, or Susi wanting to get together again.

“Have you heard?” his father demanded without greeting.

Carlo's gut tightened. His father had called about Jack's latest success. “Hello to you, too, Father.”

“Have you heard?” his father asked again, impatiently. “Jack landed Garnet McCall.”

“Yes,” Carlo said with forced disinterest. “I've heard.”

For a moment, Giovanni said nothing, then he laughed softly. “He has done much, all on his own, no? But then, with or without my name, it is my blood that runs in his veins.”

Carlo drew a sharp breath, angry at the way his father's words made him feel—like a boy who couldn't please his great father, like a boy who kept trying, anyway. He made a sound of disgust. “He's still practically an amateur. Besides, I hear he doesn't even have the account yet.” Propping the phone between his shoulder and ear, Carlo reached for the vodka and poured another shot. “I'm not going to hold my breath that McCall gives it to him.”

“Interesting.” Giovanni paused as if for effect. “Then why did you pay your brother a visit?”

Carlo set the glass down, face burning. “How did you…who told you that?”

Giovanni chuckled. “One of the models who was part of the shoot, the young one with the black hair.”

The muscles at the back of Carlo's neck tightened. He brought a hand up to massage them. “You still like the young ones, don't you, Father? Funny how you keep getting older and they…don't.”

His father laughed again, unaffected by the barb. “You only wish you could be as potent. The women, they love me. They can't get enough of Giovanni.” He paused once more. “I hear the women, they love Jack, too.”

Carlo fisted his fingers, frustration churning inside him. Meaning that women didn't talk about him, about his abilities in bed. He thought of that afternoon, of Susi and the
way she had rocked and bucked on top of him. She had been satisfied. He had seen to it.

But that wasn't what his father referred to, Carlo knew. Jack had the same macho charisma Giovanni did, the same way of drawing people, of awing them. Especially women, always women.

Becky Lynn.

“I do all right,” he said lightly, buoyed by the thought of the jewel he had discovered today. “In fact, I have company now. Company I'm neglecting.”

The sound of his father's laughter ringing in his ears, he hung up the phone. He tossed back the vodka and went in search of the Yellow Pages. He would show his father which son deserved his praise; he would show him which deserved the Triani name.

He found the book, pulled it out and flipped it open. He would woo Becky Lynn away from Jack; he would make her a star.

And in the process, publicly discredit Jack.

He dialed the number of the first Beverly Hills florist he came to.