Red (32 page)

The commode was flushed, and Becky Lynn darted out of the bedroom, heart hammering.

Carlo liked men?
She brought a hand to her mouth.
Carlo? It couldn't be true.

She hurried down the hallway, not wanting the models to discover her still upstairs and figure out she had been eavesdropping on their conversation.

He pursued women like a man possessed.
She drew her eyebrows together. Hadn't she sensed that herself? Hadn't she thought there was a desperation about the way he chased women? A desperation but also a discomfort?

This was nonsense. She started down the wide, curved staircase. It was just ugly gossip that had no basis in reality. The two models were admittedly jealous, and had tried to make themselves less so by spreading ugly untruths.

She caught sight of Carlo across the room, in an animated discussion with another photographer. He pursued women like a man possessed, she thought again, reaching the bottom of the stairs. But possessed by what. Love of women? Sexual desire? Or something else?

Just like his father.

“Valentine. You look simply fabulous.
Fantastico.
”

As if her thoughts had conjured him, she turned and faced Giovanni. They had met several times before and although he had never been anything but charming toward
her, she didn't like him. No matter how he treated her, she couldn't forget how he had treated an eight-year-old boy who had needed a father's love.

“Hello, Giovanni.”

He caught her hand and brought it to his mouth, lingering over it a moment too long for comfort. “The most beautiful woman in the room. Why haven't I worked with you yet,
bella?
”

Bella.
That was what Carlo called her. She found something distasteful about that and about the way he was looking at her—as if she were a tasty prize to be won and sampled.

She suppressed a shudder and eased her hand from his. “I can't imagine.”

He took a step closer, sliding his gaze assessingly over her. “I think we would work very well together. Like a hand and a glove, if you know what I mean?”

She did and it made her sick. She fought the urge to tell him exactly what she thought of him. She smiled sweetly instead. “Actually, I enjoy working with Carlo. I enjoy it very much. You've heard that, I suppose?”

“Ah, yes, Carlo. I have heard that.” He leaned toward her, his dark eyes alight with challenge. “But why settle for youth when you could have experience?”

Giovanni, she decided, was a pig. He didn't care about Carlo; he saw his son as competition. And he wanted to beat him, no matter what it took, even if it meant sleeping with the woman many believed to be his son's lover.

Did he feel the same way about Jack? she wondered suddenly. Did he want to beat him, too? Had he played the two sons against each other?

She smiled again, but this time dreamily, as if thinking
of Carlo's arms. “But I don't feel like I'm settling. In fact, I think I must be the most…satisfied woman in the world.”

Color stained the old photographer's cheeks and Valentine realized he was angry. Apparently, the great Giovanni wasn't used to rejection. Poor baby. She almost laughed out loud, it felt so good.

She caught sight of Carlo across the room. “And look, there's my man now. If you'll excuse me?”

“Of course,” Giovanni said tightly, stepping aside so she could pass.

As she walked away, she couldn't help but chuckle.

J
ack tapped his portfolio against his leg, his muscles jumping with nerves and the need for activity. He had caught the red-eye from Los Angeles to New York's La Guardia Airport to arrive in time for the start of the business day. He felt as if he had been sitting forever. The flight had taken just over five hours; the cab ride from the airport to Manhattan's garment district had taken twice the normal time because of rush-hour traffic, and Hugh Preston of H. P. Macro-Wear had kept him waiting forty minutes—so far.

Jack stood and crossed to the reception area's single window. Rain threatened; the heavy sky met the steel, glass and concrete world of Manhattan, closing the city into a stifling box of gray.

Two days ago, his rep had called to say that the designer had requested Jack's book, and was so impressed with his images, he wanted to meet him.

Hugh Preston and his Macro-Wear line made Garnet McCall's operation look small-time. At forty, Hugh Preston was surprisingly young to have achieved all he had. He had come out of nowhere to jet directly to the top. The marketplace had needed what he'd had to offer: a line of men's high-end casual wear, cool, hip and sometimes funky, always comfortable, designed for the yuppie with both cash and style.

The designer was preparing to launch Macro-Wear for women. He needed a photographer to launch with him.

Jack wanted to be that photographer. He wanted it badly. He had spent the two days since his rep's call studying Hugh Preston and his line of clothing. Many in the industry called him Fashion's Boy Wonder because of his meteoric rise to the top; others had dubbed him The Golden Child because of his unerring ability to turn his ideas into solid gold.

Jack worked to suppress his excitement. He didn't have the account yet, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he knew he was right for the job. He knew his work was right for this line of clothing. The most right of any of the top shooters working today.

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his loose-fitting Macro-Wear trousers. He had some ideas for direction already. And he'd already chosen the model he thought should be the first Macro-Wear woman—Valentine.

She had the right face and body, had the look Preston's clothes called out for. She was red-hot right now, she embodied the forward-look he envisioned for Macro-Wear.

Bullshit, Jack. You just want to work with her.

Jack breathed deeply through his nose, annoyed with himself. So what if he did, he thought. That didn't mean she wasn't right for the job; that didn't mean seeing her the other night had turned him inside out and backward.

“Hugh will see you now.” The receptionist stood and smiled. “I'll take you back.”

Jack followed the woman down a long corridor to Hugh Preston's office. The designer stood and came around the desk when they entered. “Jack, glad you could make it.”

They shook hands, and Jack smiled. “I'm glad to be here.”

“Let's sit down and talk.” The designer motioned a
grouping of chairs near the picture window that looked out over Manhattan.

“Great view,” Jack murmured, taking one of the leather and chrome chairs.

“I like it.” Hugh Preston smiled. “And I like your work. I've followed what you've done for McCall. I particularly liked the series of shots for her spring collection. Impressive.”

“Thank you. I was pleased with those, too.”

“Good, you brought your book.” Jack handed it to the other man. He opened it and leafed through a moment, as if refamiliarizing himself with the images. He met Jack's gaze once more. “Let's talk about what Jack Gallagher could do for me.”

Jack began. He talked about who he perceived would be the market for the new line, what he had conceived for the images “look,” told him about his choice of Valentine for Macro-Wear's first spokesmodel. His enthusiasm came through, and before long, he and the designer were animatedly discussing the possibilities.

After a time, the conversation shifted to more personal topics. They swapped stories, talked about mutual acquaintances in the business and laughed.

Finally, Hugh checked his watch. “I hate to cut this short, but I have someplace I need to be.”

Jack smiled and followed the man to his feet. “I appreciate your taking so much time with me. I know how busy you are.”

Hugh looked down at Jack's book, then met his eyes once more. “How long are you in town for, Jack?”

“Just the day. I fly out this afternoon.”

“Why don't you stay overnight? We could do the town. I'd like to get to know you better.”

Jack opened his mouth to accept, then hesitated, something plucking at the back of his memory.

“I'd like to get to know you better,” Garnet had said. “Before I make my final decision.”

Déjà vu. With a twist.

Jack cleared his throat, and told himself he was wrong, that he was overreacting. He'd been in this business a lot of years and he had never been propositioned by another man.

But in this industry, anything was possible.

“Sounds great, Hugh. I know some ladies here in town, can I bring a date?”

“I was thinking just the two of us.” The designer smiled. “It would give us a chance to see how we get along. Creatively.”

A lump formed in Jack's throat. He swallowed hard, but kept his expression casual. “Creatively,” Jack murmured. “Interesting choice of words, but I'm not sure what you mean.”

“You know. I'd like to see how our minds meld.” The designer swept his gaze appraisingly over Jack. “We could find out how attractive we are to each other.”

Shit. Damn. Son of a bitch.
He hadn't overreacted, Hugh Preston was coming on to him. Jack stiffened. “I'd love to do the town, Hugh, but I really do need to get back to L.A. tonight.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” The designer handed Jack his book. “I like your stuff, Jack. I'll call.”

He wouldn't call, Jack acknowledged four hours later as he boarded a plane back to Los Angeles. He'd lost the account.

He swore silently. Macro-Wear would have made him
it.

Sleeping with Hugh Preston hadn't even been an option.

He swore again, this time under his breath. He handed the stewardess his ticket, then slipped into his seat. The first-class section was nearly empty, its only other occupant a pro-football player he recognized. He nodded at the man, then returned to his thoughts and the frustration roiling inside him.

He had been the best choice for the job; he had wanted it badly, he still did. The want burned, unrelieved, in the pit of his gut. The stewardess offered him champagne; he turned it down in favor of orange juice. With any luck, getting back to California would eradicate the bad taste the Preston interview had left in his mouth.

His deal making with Garnet hadn't made him feel sick at heart; that negotiation hadn't made him feel used. Because she had been a lush, sexy woman, and the thought of sleeping with her had been pleasurable.

In retrospect, it did. In retrospect, it made him feel like shit.

The plane reached its thirty-two thousand feet cruising altitude, and Jack put his seat back and closed his eyes. What if he hadn't wanted to sleep with Garnet? Would he have been turned away as he had been today, despite his talent? Would he have still been in the trenches, fighting for his first big break?

The sour taste in his mouth turned bitter. He sipped his orange juice. The system sucked. He hadn't realized that before. He'd grown up in the industry, he had been weaned on the way it operated, but until this moment, he hadn't seen the harm in the system.

But then, the system had never bitten him in the ass before.

It had today, big time.

The Macro-Wear account would have propelled him to the top of the fashion heap. He wouldn't have had to play
the game anymore; he could have made his own rules, called his own shots.

All he would have had to do was adjust his line and lower his pants.

His line didn't adjust that far.

He thought of Becky Lynn, of Valentine, again. Was the system why she stayed with Carlo? Was it a way of playing the game? Carlo ensured her a place in the industry. He used her so much that her star had risen to the level of his. She didn't have to fight for jobs, she hadn't had to endure the worst of what beginning models went through—the cattle calls, the foreign circuit, the casting couch.

She'd had to endure only one casting couch. Carlo's.

He tightened his fingers on his glass. No matter her reasons, the thought of her and Carlo being lovers made him crazy. It affected him in a way he wouldn't have expected, deeply and in the pit of his gut. He found himself wanting to take out his anger and frustration in an irrational, physical way, found himself wanting to beat the hell out of someone or something.

Preferably Carlo.

Jack narrowed his eyes. He despised his half brother, he hated the thought of him touching Becky Lynn. He hated the thought of her being with the son of a bitch. She had asked him the other night if he ever stopped to think of someone besides himself. That comment had gnawed at him, not because he thought she was entirely wrong, not because he'd been insulted or shocked or ashamed.

But because most days, he thought of little else besides her.

If she only knew.

B
ecky Lynn couldn't put the gossip she had overheard about Carlo out of her mind. She despised that kind of talk, that kind of ugliness, so rife in the fashion industry, yet she hadn't felt outraged, she hadn't wanted to march into that bathroom and boldly defend Carlo.

She had felt as if what they were saying was true. She had felt a sense of
ah-ha,
a sense that everything she had felt about Carlo, all the conflicting vibrations she had picked up about his relationships with the opposite sex, suddenly made sense.

She frowned and turned onto Carlo's palm tree-lined street. But if the gossip was true, why hadn't he told her? If it was true, why did he pursue women so relentlessly? Why did he pretend to be something he was not? After all, in the fashion industry, being gay was neither unusual nor a detriment. Why the charade?

Becky Lynn pulled up in front of Carlo's bungalow, surprised to see both his cars parked in the driveway. She checked her watch.
Nearly eight.
On a normal day, he was usually long gone by now, never mind the fact that he had an important trip to New York to prepare for.

She swung out of her car. He must have had a big night last night, she thought, smiling. He had told her he was going clubbing on Sunset with friends. Her smile faded.
Or maybe he was ill. In all the time she'd known him, he had never slept in on a workday.

She crossed to his front door and fished his house key out of her purse. She had forgotten her book when she'd stopped by two evenings ago, and needed it for a go-see this morning. She had planned to slip in and out, but maybe she would check on Carlo first, just to make sure he was okay.

The house was completely quiet, unnaturally still. Her book lay on the entryway table, right where she had left it. She collected it, then started for the back of the house.

Carlo's bedroom door stood ajar. A shudder of déjà vu moved over her, a memory of the last time she had been in the same position, the last time she had eased open a bedroom door.

That time, she had discovered the man she loved in bed with another woman.

Only Carlo wasn't the man she loved—he was her friend, her mentor. And she wanted to make sure he was okay. She drew a deep breath and pushed the door the rest of the way open.

A woman, tangled in the sheets but obviously naked, lay across Carlo's bed. Carlo stood beside the bed, gazing down at the woman, his face a mask of misery.

Becky Lynn caught her breath. He lifted his gaze. The emptiness in his eyes, the hopelessness, tore at her.

She no longer suspected the gossip had been true. She knew it was.

Carlo was gay.

She took a step backward, then another, a feeling of betrayal spiraling through her. Why hadn't he told her? Why hadn't he trusted her? She thought of the times he had
tried to get her into his bed, all the while knowing it was a lie. That hurt. It made her feel used, it made her feel valueless.

He opened his mouth to speak, and she turned and started down the hall, uncertain what she wanted to say to him, what she needed to say.

As she had known he would, Carlo followed her. She waited for him in the foyer, her heart thundering, her palms damp. She felt as if she had been tricked, duped. Jack had betrayed her; now, in a different way, she felt that Carlo had, too. She didn't even know him, she thought, light-headed. He had been hiding himself from her all this time.

As she had been hiding herself from him.

She clasped her hands in front of her. How could she be angry with him when she had been just as secretive, just as dishonest?

“Becky Lynn?”

She turned and met his gaze. He looked so unhappy, she thought, searching his expression. He looked desperate. Her anger and disillusionment dimmed, then disappeared.

She crossed to him and caught his hands. “Why didn't you tell me, Carlo? Didn't you feel you could trust me?”

“Tell you what,
bella?
I don't know what you mean.”

She took a deep breath and tightened her fingers on his. “I know you're gay.” His expression froze, and her heart turned over for him. “Please don't hide from me. We're friends. I would never hurt you.”

He cleared his throat, battling visibly to look unaffected. “Valentine,
bella,
I don't understand. Why do you say this? How could you think that I—”

“I know, Carlo.” She looked him straight in the eye.
“You don't have to pretend with me. I don't care about your…sexuality. I only care about you.”

His throat worked; she could see how her words upset him, how much he wanted to deny them. But he couldn't.

“I love you, Carlo,” she whispered, her voice choked with tears. “You don't have to prove anything to me, you don't have to pretend to be someone you're not. I love you for who you are and how you've treated me.”

He eased his hands from hers, and turned away, shutting her out. Tears flooded her eyes. She couldn't imagine her life without him. She wouldn't have one real friend in this business without Carlo. And above all, she wanted him to be happy.

She crossed to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He jerked away from her touch. The rejection hurt, and she stiffened her spine against it. “You can't go on this way,” she said softly. “I see…how it hurts you. It's like…every time you're with a woman, a little piece of you is ripped away. You're bleeding to death, Carlo. Let me—”

“Just go.”

“
Bello
…please. Let me help you.”

He faced her, fists clenched, expression devastated. “I want you to go.”

She recalled something the models had said and suddenly she understood. “It's your father, isn't it? You're trying to prove something to him. You're trying to live up to some stupid legend that has nothing to do with the person you are inside.”

Carlo swung away from her. He crossed to the French doors that looked out over the pool and gardens. For a long time, he said nothing, and Becky Lynn sensed his struggle to compose himself.

“What do you know of my father's legend?” he said finally, tightly. “What do you know of what I want or feel? How dare you come here, into my home, and say these things to me. What have you shared of yourself to give you the freedom to do this?”

“You're right.” Becky Lynn drew a deep breath. “I haven't been open with you. I wanted to bury the past. I thought that if no one knew about it, about me, that it didn't exist. That the girl I was back then didn't exist.”

She crossed to stand beside him, but didn't look at him. Outside, the sun glittered off the smooth blue of the swimming pool. “I was gang raped when I was seventeen,” she began softly. “Actually, there were three boys, but only one had time to…do me. They shoved a paper bag over my head because they didn't want to look at me while they did it. You see, I was too…ugly to even look at while…”

Emotion choked her, and she cleared her throat. “Those boys did that to me because they knew they could get away with it, and because they thought I was…nothing.” Carlo turned slowly; she felt his gaze but couldn't bring herself to meet it. “And in a way, they were right. I was poor white trash, my daddy was a no-good alcoholic who hated me about as much as they did.”

Her eyes swam, and she blinked, determined not to cry. “My whole life, it was my dreams that kept me alive. If I hadn't had them…I would have died.”

She met his gaze then. In his, she read sympathy, compassion, but most of all, understanding. “You made my dreams come true, Carlo. You've given me…everything. How could I not love you? And how can I stand back and watch you killing yourself?”

“Becky Lynn, I—”

His throat closed over the words, and she caught his hand and brought it to her mouth. “I'll go now. Think about what I said, please. Call me when you get back from New York.”

She crossed to the door, stopping when she reached it, looking over her shoulder at him. His anguish tore at her. “He's not worth it, Carlo. You know in your heart he's not.”