Red (30 page)

“In this business, sex is an everyday—”

“Then I'll get out of this business.” She slid her hand to his and cupped it. “We're doing good together. Let's not mess it up now.”

She had a point, a damn good one. For the moment.

He brought their joined hands to his mouth and kissed hers. “You're some gutsy woman, Becky Lynn Lee.”

She laughed, her cheeks coloring with pleasure. “Gutsy? Me?”

“Sí, bella.”
He kissed her hand again, then let it go. “And I think you're ready.”

Her smile faltered, and she searched his gaze. “Ready for what?”

“Your first professional job. I need another model for a
Will-o-Wisp Jeans
ad.”

She shook her head, her eyes wide. “No, I don't think so. I haven't even begun to learn, I—”

“Trust me,
bella.
” He caught her chin and looked her straight in the eye. “Trust the camera. You are ready for this.”

B
ecky Lynn stood and carried her plate to the sink, though she had hardly touched her supper. She scraped the plate, then rinsed it and her glass and put them into the dishwasher. From outside, she heard the sound of laughter, the sound of people enjoying one another's company.

Alone again.

Sighing, she gazed out the open window above the sink. She was lonely. She had met people through Carlo and work, but she didn't know anybody well enough to call and suggest getting together. She had met some models who had been outwardly friendly, but after her experience with Zoe, she was afraid of letting anyone too close.

She missed Marty. And Sallie. She hadn't been able to bring herself to call either of them. Because of Jack, because they had both been right. And because, after all this time, she still hurt.

Maybe some people were meant to be alone.

She pushed that thought away because she didn't like it. And because she feared it was true. She turned from the window and crossed to the kitchen table. The latest
Vogue
had come today. It lay open on the table, open to an ad for Garnet McCall's spring line.

Jack's first
Vogue
ad. No doubt he and Garnet were celebrating appropriately.

Muttering an oath, she snapped the magazine shut and
returned to the window. Dusk had become dark, and the neighbors' windows glowed warmly. She would have liked some company tonight, would have liked some conversation. She lowered her eyes to her hands, realizing she gripped the edge of the sink so tightly her knuckles stood out white in relief.

Carlo hadn't called or come home, not that she had expected him to do either, not that he owed her that courtesy. Their arrangement was strictly professional. Besides, it was February fourteenth, and judging by the number of women who traipsed in and out of here, today would be a busy day for him.

Her cheeks heated as she thought of the number of women he took to his bed. It embarrassed her, and her being here embarrassed some of the women. She turned away from the window once more, but this time she prowled the kitchen. She should move out. She was earning a little money modeling, not a lot, but enough to get her into an efficiency in a marginal neighborhood. Carlo seemed to believe that before long, she would be making so much money she would be able to afford to live anywhere she wanted to.

She twisted her fingers together. But she was reluctant to go. She remembered what it had been like at first, before The Image Shop and Marty, before Jack and Zoe, and she didn't think she could face that kind of loneliness again.

If she moved out, she would be even more alone than she was now.

She had the feeling, too, that as reluctant as she was to go, Carlo was as reluctant to have her leave. For even though he had a great many business acquaintances and led
a hectic professional and personal life, she sensed he was as lonely as she. She sensed he had no one who he felt close to.

Not even his father. Especially not his father.

She frowned, thinking again of the women he paraded through here—mostly models, mostly one-or two-night stands. There was something frenetic, almost desperate, about the way he pursued women. And for all his supposed prowess, he didn't seem to enjoy the women all that much, he didn't seem to enjoy the sex that much.

In a funny way, she saw something of herself in him. He seemed as uncomfortable with the opposite sex as she was, almost afraid of them. She drew her eyebrows closer together, and shook her head. That thought bordered on ridiculous—the man entertained a different woman almost every night of the week.

“So serious,
bella.
And on such a pretty night.”

Startled, she whirled, a hand to her throat. “Carlo! I didn't hear you.”

He grinned. “I planned it that way. I tiptoed so I would surprise you.”

“But why?” She moved her gaze over him. He hid both his hands behind his back, and he looked as guilty—and as pleased—with himself as a kid who had not gotten caught while his hand was in the cookie jar. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “What are you up to?”

He whipped a bouquet of spring flowers out from behind his back. “Happy Valentine Day.”

She stared at him, shocked speechless. He laughed and took another step toward her, flowers extended. “Take them, they're for you.”

She did and held the bouquet to her face. She breathed
in their subtle perfume, overwhelmed by the sweetness of the gesture. “I don't know what to say.”

“Thank you is always appropriate.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

“This is also for you.” With his other hand, he held out a large red envelope.

She laid the bouquet on the counter and took the card, her fingers trembling. She tore open the envelope. Inside was a big, old-fashioned valentine, complete with hearts, Cupids and fancy, flowery script.

Her heart lodged in her throat. She had always dreamed of getting a valentine like this one.
Jack. She had dreamed of getting a card like this from Jack.

His image filled her mind, and she turned her back to Carlo, cheeks burning, feeling like a traitor. “It's…beautiful.” Tears stung her eyes, and she looked over her shoulder at him. “I've never been anyone's valentine before.”

He threaded his fingers through her hair, lifting it away from her neck. “Before long,” he murmured, “you're going to be the whole world's valentine. Just wait and see,
bella.
”

She lowered her eyes to the card once more, trailing her fingers over the delicately embossed paper. “It's so pretty, I—”

Suddenly, his arms were around her, pulling her against him. He buried his face in the side of her neck. First, she felt his breath against her skin, then his lips and tongue. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once—her breasts and waist and abdomen.

Fear took her breath, and for one split second her head emptied of everything but terror. She was seventeen again and powerless, being forced to the ground, her legs dragged apart.

“Ah,
bella
…I know another way for you to thank me. A better way.”

His voice brought her back to the present, replacing her fear with a measure of fury. She wasn't seventeen, and she wasn't powerless. She never would be again.

She struggled in his arms, breaking free of his grip by elbowing him hard in the ribs. Breathing hard, her legs trembling so badly she feared she would fall, she whirled to face him. “Don't do that again. Don't…ever grab me like that again. Do you understand? Never touch me that way again.” Her teeth began to chatter, and she rubbed her arms. Still, she couldn't seem to warm herself.

“Becky Lynn?” He held a hand out to her, and she backed away. “My God,
bella,
I frightened you.”

She turned away from him, and crossed to the window. She reached across the sink and closed it.

“I'm sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

“How did you expect me to react when you…when you…” She drew a deep, calming breath, then glanced over her shoulder at him. He looked so surprised, and so chagrined, it would have been funny had she not been so upset. “Why did you…do that? I thought we'd been through this before. I'd thought we'd settled it.”

“Am I so repugnant to you?” He swore in Italian and dragged a hand through his hair. “What did Jack have that I don't?”

Becky Lynn gazed at him, thinking of Jack, comparing the two brothers. Carlo was handsome, extremely handsome. He had been good to her; they had learned to get along well together.

But Jack had taken her breath away. Everything about
him, from the way he smiled, to the way he ate a sandwich, to the way he had touched her. She couldn't tell Carlo that. He wouldn't understand, and it would hurt him.

“Nothing,” she lied. “I was a fool, and I'm not going to make a mistake like that again.” She crossed to him and laid a hand on his arm. “I don't want to be some trophy to you, Carlo. I don't want you to sleep with me as a way to get back at Jack.”

“It isn't just that.” He looked at her, then away. She saw his frustration. “I care for you. You've become important to me.”

Her heart filled to near breaking. That was more than Jack had ever said to her. She curled her fingers around his arm. “I care for you, too. But you don't need to prove you're better than Jack or anybody else. I like you the way you are. I feel safe with you, Carlo. But just now, what you did… I can't, I just can't.”

A strange expression crossed his face, at once relieved and bittersweet. He covered her hand with one of his own. “I'm sorry,
bella,
for frightening you. Let me make it up to you. Come.”

“But you don't—”

“Come.”

He led her out to the foyer. On the entryway table lay a small leather portfolio, just big enough to comfortably fit eight-by-ten photos, the kind of book models brought with them on go-sees.

She looked at Carlo in question, and he nodded. “Go on, it's for you.”

She picked it up. The leather was fine, soft and supple in her hands, its color a deep, rich brown. Stamped in gold on the front was the word
Valentine.

“You can open it if you like, but you've seen all the photos before. They're all of you.”

“Of me?” She traced her index finger over the lettering. “I don't understand, what does Valentine mean?”

“I went to see Tremayne Davis today.”

She met his eyes. “Of The Davis Agency?”

He nodded, and her heart began to thunder. Ford, Elite and Davis were the three top modeling agencies in the world. They continually jockeyed for the top spot, stealing models and clients from one another, each outdoing the other in terms of promotion, parties and bonuses. Currently, Davis was on top—he represented the biggest names in the business and boasted the greatest annual bookings. Tremayne Davis had snagged the top of the fashion hill from Eileen Ford by anticipating the next trend in models—girls who looked less all-American and more exotic.

“I took him your book.”

Becky Lynn's gaze flew to Carlo's, her heart beating so heavily now she thought she might swoon.

Carlo laughed at her expression. “He was interested. Very interested. He wants to meet you.”

“To meet me?” she squeaked, terrified. “Tremayne Davis wants to meet me?”

“Actually, he wants to sign you. Meeting you first is just a formality. Don't worry, I'll be there with you.” Carlo laughed again. “He was so excited by your pictures, he all but took out a calculator and started tallying booking fees.”

“But what if he takes a look at me and—”

“He won't.” Carlo cupped her face in his palms. “This is it,
bella.
This is the beginning.” He moved his thumbs across her cheekbones. “What do you think?”

“I'm too stunned to think.” She laughed and shook her head. “I may never think clearly again.”

She lowered her gaze to the book—her book—again. She drew her eyebrows together. “But what about this?” She ran her fingers over the gold lettering. “Valentine. What does this mean?”

“Tremayne asked your name. It just came out of my mouth, and it felt…right.”

“I don't understand.”

“Remember I said that soon you'd be the whole world's valentine?” He smiled. “It's you, Becky Lynn. You're Valentine.”

J
ack remembered a time when he had enjoyed these monthly parties, parties the big modeling agencies threw both to introduce their new talent and to keep their old faces in front of the people in the industry who made the decision of who worked and who didn't—photographers, designers, art directors and editors, top support personnel. Hell, he remembered a time when he was so hungry to get into one that he had masqueraded as a waiter and slipped in through a service entrance.

Tonight he had an invitation, but these days he always did. He was a full-blown, card-carrying member of the fashionistas, as those in the beauty industry referred to themselves.

He pulled his 911 Targa to a stop in front of Tremayne Davis's Bel Air mansion. He gazed up at the neoclassical villa, lit up tonight like the top of an octogenarian's birthday cake. In addition to the West Coast fashionistas, tonight's guest list would also include a number of top plastic surgeons and dentists, a smattering of pro-ball players and rock stars. The champagne and caviar would flow and sometime during the evening, mysteriously, it would begin to snow, cards would be exchanged as would tongues, false promises and provocative innuendos. Many a deal for a nose or breast job had been negotiated at one
of these parties, more than one liaison between rock star and model had begun at such an occasion.

Once upon a time, he had thought being here, having reached this pinnacle, would feel like a bigger deal. He had thought he would feel important, powerful, even a bit invincible. Now he saw how ridiculous it was to take himself, his position, too seriously. Photography was his life, his chosen work, and he loved it. But it was still a job, and he was still Jack Gallagher, the same person he had been at eight and fifteen and twenty.

He swung out of the car, tossed his keys to the valet and started toward the villa's front entrance. The elaborate, pillared portico had been swathed in billowy, white fabric, then laced in white lights. Like a beautiful woman draped in diamonds and sheer silk sheets, the effect was at once ethereal and sensual.

Jack tipped his head in appreciation. Tremayne Davis knew how to throw a party. He'd been to them all—Elite's and Ford's and a multitude of other smaller agencies, and in his estimation, Davis's were the best.

He stepped inside and was immediately approached by several up-and-coming models who recognized him, one after another. He was polite; he turned down each of their invitations—subtle and blatant—to get to know them better, and as quickly as possible disentangled himself from them. The hungry always worked the hardest; each of the models hoped to earn his favor and a booking.

He understood how the game was played; he simply had no interest in playing.

He scanned the crowd, looking for a particular face, a special face, looking for the vibrant red hair that had become her trademark. Valentine, the girl everyone was
talking about. The girl, the person, Becky Lynn had become.

He frowned, annoyed with himself and frustrated when he couldn't spot her. She would be here. As one of the models of the moment and The Davis Agency's face of the day, she wouldn't dare miss the party unless she was on location. Valentine was everybody's darling; everyone wanted her face and body to promote their product or look.

And no doubt she would be with Carlo—she always was. Jack gritted his teeth, recalling his half brother's smug expression that day at his studio, remembering his comment about Becky Lynn in bed. He could understand Becky Lynn's leaving him, wanting to hurt him, he supposed he deserved it. He could even understand her taking Carlo up on his offer to make her a star. But now…why did she stay with the snake? Why Carlo?

Jack didn't particularly like the answer and took a sharp right toward the bar, deciding to forgo champagne in favor of something stronger. He ordered a shot of tequila and a beer.

“Jack. How's it going?”

Jack turned to the man who had come up behind him, and he smiled. “Cliff, doing all right, man.” They shook hands. Six months ago, he'd had to give up shooting for the Tyler guys—he hadn't had the time anymore and they'd no longer been able to afford his day rate. He had regretted having to do it; he appreciated that they had given him his first real break. “How are things at the shop?”

“Great. We've got more work than we can handle.” The man downed his drink and motioned the bartender to bring
him another. “We haven't been able to find another shooter who can please Jon Noble. You spoiled him, Jack.”

“Sorry to hear that.” He grinned, obviously not sorry at all.

“Yeah, right.” Cliff stirred his drink, then dropped the swizzle stick onto his cocktail napkin. “That's really something about your Becky Lynn. Took us all by surprise.”

Your Becky Lynn.
Jack swallowed hard. “Yeah, me, too.”

“You never mentioned she was interested in modeling.”

And you were too blind to see her potential. She was right under your nose all the time, asshole.
Jack tossed back the tequila, then took a long swallow of the beer. “Yeah, well…it was kind of sudden.”

“When you see her, tell her the guys down at Tyler are real happy for her.”

“I'll do that.” Jack forced an easy smile. “I need to mingle. See you around, Cliff.”

Jack walked away from the bar, aware of Cliff's speculative gaze on his back. He muttered an oath. He couldn't get away from it. Everywhere he went, everybody was talking about Becky Lynn or Valentine or both. The fashionistas had all had a good chuckle over how Carlo Triani had stolen Valentine right out from under Jack Gallagher's nose. And those who hadn't heard the story, those who hadn't known Valentine had been his
photo assistant,
had quickly been told. And he had a good idea by whom.

That son-of-a-bitch Carlo. He was enjoying the hell out of this.

Jack took another swallow of his beer and started for the back terrace. He saw her. Although surrounded by a group of admirers and hangers-on, with that wonderful red
hair of hers, she stood out in the crowd. He swept his gaze over her, a lump in his throat. He had always loved her hair, its color and texture, the way it had felt against his skin.

Jack searched his memory. Had he ever told her that? Or how much he liked her laugh? Or how the way she looked at him made him feel special, like the only and most important man in the world?

He didn't think so. He drew his eyebrows together. What had he said to her? What had they talked about in those dizzying minutes after making love?

She looked up then and their gazes met. In that moment, she was Becky Lynn again, and she was his. He felt the connection like a punch to his gut.

Then she smiled, a practiced, alluring camera-smile he recognized from countless ads and countless other models. Oh, yes, gone was the Becky Lynn of old. The girl who had worn threadbare jeans and tattered sneakers, the girl who had pulled her hair into a ponytail and forgone all cosmetics, even lip gloss. Gone was the girl who had been insecure and shy and scared of her own shadow.

Left in her place, smiling at him with practiced ease, was a woman he didn't recognize, wonderful-looking but about as genuine as a paper doll.

Anger and frustration took his breath. He had been a blind fool. He deserved to be laughed at. But he didn't like it, and he wouldn't take the bullshit from her.

He worked his way through the crowd, being forced to stop along the way and make small talk. By the time he reached the place where she had been standing, she had moved out onto one of the covered porches. He followed her out.

She stood with her back to him, gazing down at the pool
and partiers below. On the night air, the music from the poolside band sounded hollow and a bit sad. “Hello, Red.”

She stiffened, then turned slowly to face him. She met his eyes in cool challenge. “The name's Valentine.”

“Oh, that's right. I forgot.” He crossed to her, stopping so close she had to tip her head back slightly to meet his gaze. “Carlo's turned you into a glamazon.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Jealous because you didn't think of it first?”

He tipped his head in acknowledgment of the shot, then delivered one of his own. “Maybe I was too busy thinking of you as a photographer.”

“As your gofer, you mean. Your girl Friday.” She angled up her chin. “You never thought of me as a photographer.”

“I admired your talent, your eye, your sensibilities. I valued your opinion. And I never thought you would be an assistant forever. You were too good.”

She sucked in a quick breath. “You never told me that before.”

He wanted to touch her, he realized, tightening his fingers on his beer glass, desire clawing at his gut. What would she do if he did? How would she respond if he pulled her to him and caught her mouth in the kind of all-consuming kiss they had once shared?

“I should have,” he said softly, lowering his eyes to her mouth. “I should have told you a lot of things.”

She cleared her throat, struggling, he saw, to compose herself. “That's nice to know, Jack. But it's too late.”

As she made a move to walk away, he caught her hand. “Is it, Becky Lynn? Is it too late?”

She met his eyes, then looked quickly away. Hers sparkled as with unshed tears, with hurt. He curved his
fingers closer around hers, a sense of urgency pressing at him. “Why are you with Carlo? I can understand your going to him because you wanted to hurt me, but why are you still with him? What can you possibly see in him?”

Her expression froze, then tightened with anger. She jerked her hand free of his. “Now I understand what this is all about. Your vendetta. Your stupid little competition with Carlo.”

He shook his head and took a step toward her. “You've got it all wrong, Becky Lynn. It's not like that.”

“Oh, I'm sure it is.” She swung away from him and crossed to the edge of the terrace. She gazed out for a moment, then turned to face him once more. “Why do you think I'm with him? Have you considered that maybe it's the way he treats me? Like I'm of value? Do you think that maybe he has something you don't?”

“You can't be in love with him.” Jack drew his eyebrows together, his heart thundering. “I know you can't be.”

She laughed, the sound cold on the warm night air. “Why? Do you think I'm in love with you?”

“Because the girl I knew couldn't be in love with Carlo Triani.”

“You don't know me, Jack. Not anymore.” She shook her head. “I'm not sure you ever did. But then, how could you? You never really looked at me.”

He thought of their time together, thought of the girl she had been when he'd found her, and the woman she had been when he'd lost her. “I looked at you. Maybe I was the first person who ever did.”

For a moment, she said nothing, but the expression in her eyes—vulnerable and full of bittersweet wishes—had
him longing to take her into his arms and hold her, just hold her for a long time.

She angled her chin up. “Let me ask you, Jack, have you ever paused to think about someone other than yourself?”

Brushing by him, she walked away.