A Model Hero (7 page)

“We were sleeping together. We took a cross-country trip together.”

He looked away. She’d been using him. He was supposed to feel hurt and disillusioned. Instead, he felt like the callous jerk. He might not have an acting future, but he could play the role and give them a clean break, instead of letting her string him along. “We got what we wanted from each other. I’m modeling again, so women will start beating down my door.”

“And it wouldn’t do your image any favors to have a fat girlfriend,” she finished, her voice not bitter, simply defeated.

“That’s not what I meant.” He swung toward her, nearly coming undone by the tears gathering on her lashes. He cared for her too much to hurt her the way she’d hurt him. Despite everything, he’d fallen in love.

“You’re beautiful and sexy exactly as you are,” he said, allowing his conviction to ring in his voice, hoping it covered his breaking heart, a tear no surgeon could repair. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. Don’t you dare tell yourself otherwise.”

The problem lay within him and always had. The military had denied him entrance because his body had no value for their needs. Now the modeling industry would realize the same. Without a perfect body, he wasn’t good enough. He couldn’t hide the proof from her anymore, so he had to let her go. He’d take the pain over pity.

“So, then my personality sucks. Well, at least I know you’re not the shallow, self-centered man I always thought you were.” Gretchen laughed without amusement. “See you at the photo shoot.”

He stepped out of the car and slammed the door. “You don’t need to come.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Her voice followed him into the empty house.

***

Gretchen hadn’t seen Kyle since she’d left him at his house following their trip to Texas. The delivery confirmation proved he’d received the information regarding the photo shoot, but she had doubts he’d show up until he walked into the building, females swiveling toward him. Heck, most of the men turned, too.

Despite being jaded by the handsome men who strolled through the building every single day, something about Kyle compelled everyone’s gaze. Gretchen’s was no exception. Before, she’d been able to look away, but she’d transformed into head groupie.

At least she could pretend her interest came from a business standpoint. She ambled toward him. “Thanks for coming.”

He said nothing, his shoulders tense, reminding her he hadn’t wanted
her
to attend.

The photographer, Melodie Carr, joined them. Gretchen introduced them, then backed away to let the professional take over. Kyle was right. She didn’t belong.

“Come over this way, and take your shirt off. We’ll get your chest oiled and hair styled,” Melodie said.

“The shirt stays on,” Kyle said.

Melodie narrowed her eyes. “I don’t have time for false modesty, and neither do you. If you treat me like a professional, I’ll treat you like one, and we’ll be done by noon.”

Gretchen wondered about the modesty thing. Something distressed him, but she’d never been able to figure out what. Perversely, the possibility gave her a ray of hope. Maybe he hadn’t pushed her away because she repulsed him or because he’d gotten his fill of her body and didn’t want her anymore.

She approached Kyle again. If he’d dumped her over of an insecurity he hadn’t been ready to confide, they still had a chance. It was a long shot, considering he obviously didn’t trust her. But she had to try. This week apart had been the most miserable of her existence. “You’re shooting for a calendar of sexy men,” she pointed out. “It’s all about the eye candy.”

“I can be sexy in a T-shirt,” he said.

“I know you can.” He could turn a garbage bag into sexy eye candy. He didn’t need to convince her. “Can we start with the shirt on?” she asked Melodie. “Then we’ll take the next step as Kyle gets more comfortable. He hasn’t done a photo shoot in over a year.”

He wouldn’t have to wait long for the next one. The positive publicity and the media interest in the Hero calendar had designers and charities calling her mother all week to pitch projects for Kyle, some offering substantial amounts of money, some wanting his face attached to their organization. He might have left modeling disenfranchised by her mother’s questionable ethics, but he was finally back where he belonged.

Mother had come alive with the flurry of phone calls, immersing herself in the business she loved. Both she and the designers seemed to have forgotten the past actions that had left her shunned for months, and she seemed especially interested in exploring the goodwill and bigheartedness of involving her agency in pro-bono causes.

Gretchen stood far from the studio lights as Kyle posed. In a white T-shirt. With a leather jacket hooked over one shoulder. Astride a motorcycle, a helmet propped against his hip.

“The camera loves him,” Mother murmured, leaning against the wall. “I don’t know what kind of issue he has with taking off his shirt, but his face is the real deal, and he can rock a tight T-shirt like nobody’s business.”

Gretchen watched as he delivered a succession of smoldering, brooding, and carefree expressions on demand. As soon as Mother added these shots to his portfolio, she’d have a full-time job keeping people from fighting over him. Moreover, with her business revving up, she’d move into her own place. A few weeks ago Gretchen would have wept with joy, but the thought of living alone made her feel empty.

Melodie stepped away from the camera. “I got some really good stuff, but we’re shooting for a supersexy calendar. I’d like to have some shirtless poses to add to the mix.”

“You have enough shots. One of them will be a good fit. Let’s call it wrap,” Kyle insisted.

Mother joined them under the bright studio lights. “The sexier this calendar is the more copies will sell. Leo’s been talking up Mr. September as a key selling point for distributors.”

Gretchen watched the discussion for a moment. Both Mother and Melodie had good points, but only one argument had a chance of swaying Kyle. “The money from this project goes to help people like Brett’s widow and her two little babies who will never know their father. Do it for him.”

Grief flashed across his features, and he paced the floor before stopping in front of her. “I need to show you something…in private.”

“Of course.” Her heart thundered. After the disastrous conversation when she’d dropped him off following their trip, she’d been convinced he’d never speak to her alone again. But he’d deliberately signaled her out with everyone watching, and the flimsy walls of the dressing room behind the studio offered an illusion of seclusion more than actual privacy for a discussion.

“It’s almost lunchtime,” Melodie announced, making a show of looking at her watch. “Let’s break and meet back here at one o’clock.”

“Thank you,” Gretchen said, grateful for her understanding.

“I’m holding you responsible for making sure he comes back. On time.”

Gretchen glanced at Kyle, but he was already striding from the building still wearing the leather jacket from the photo shoot. By the time she caught up he had his arm in the air, signaling for a cab, while the vehicles zipped by without stopping.

“Where’s the nearest hotel?” he asked.

“Privacy’s one thing. Taking me to a room you’ve rented for the hour is something entirely different. Let’s go to my apartment. At least I know the sheets are clean.”

“I’m not attempting anything sleazy. I need to talk to you.”

“In the living room then.” With her mother’s mementos surrounding them, Gretchen should be able to control the urge to jump him before he remembered she didn’t fit the type of woman who belonged at his side and rejected her again. She could stay focused on uncovering his hang-ups so they could make the photo shoot a success.

She ushered him inside then locked the door behind them. “What’s going on?”

Kyle tensed. He tossed the jacket onto the couch and turned to her. “If the pictures from this morning aren’t what Leo’s looking for, I need to pull out of the calendar.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason I can never model again.” He reached for the hem of his T-shirt. His hands trembled. Then in one coordinated motion he whipped the shirt over his head.

He stood straight and proud, glaring at her. His abs sculpted a breathless six-pack. His pectoral muscles glistened without a drop of oil.

The only imperfection was a single, straight scar spanning the length of his sternum.

Kyle squeezed the T-shirt in his fists, unable to move, regretting the decision to reveal his chest. He hadn’t shown it to anyone outside his cardiologist’s office and the hospital. Beyond them, only his parents and siblings knew about the surgery—about his freaking defect—at all.

Zola’s scandal had been the perfect cover to say he was leaving the industry in disillusionment. He’d planted a couple rumors. One, he had to enter a treatment program for abusing performance-enhancing drugs. Another, he needed medical help for an eating disorder. Any subsequent rumors of medical problems or surgery simply fed the rumor mill of misinformation.

Gretchen stepped toward him. She raised her index finger, grazing the bottom-most point of his scar.

He flinched.

She drew back. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” He had no physical pain. “Now, do you believe me? I can’t model. Nobody’s idea of a sexy man includes a six-inch scar running the length of his chest.”

Her hand settled on the white gash. “What happened?”

“I’m defective. For a while the defect was only on the inside. Now the evidence is on the outside, too.” If he sounded bitter, he didn’t care. He’d been known as the model who had no major issues, whose body was as close to perfect as any could be, and he could never reclaim that status. He wanted her to reject him and get it over with, to pity him and promise never to ask anything of him.

“So, I’m guessing this scar happened some time in the past year, coinciding with your abrupt departure from civilization.” She traced the indent from the top to the base of the sternum.

He flinched again, but she didn’t stop.

“My grades in anatomy were never anything to brag about,” she continued. “But I’m going to guess heart surgery.”

He nodded, equally loving and hating the tender exploration, powerless to stop her.

Her lips quirked. “As much as I’d like to figure all this out on my own, your scar doesn’t have tattooed into it exactly what’s wrong or if you’re healed now.”

“Does it matter?”

She lifted her gaze from his chest, all amusement gone as she met his stare. “Of course, it matters. We’re talking about your health, your life. You’re under thirty years old and you had heart surgery.”

“Consider it another reason you don’t want to invest in me as a model. I could die tomorrow.”

He felt, as well as saw, her sharp intake of breath. He’d convinced himself over the past week she didn’t care about him, but he no longer believed it.

“Are you relaying an official prognosis?” she asked softly.

“No.” His cardiologist thought his chances of living to a ripe old age were just as good as anyone else’s, but he was making a different point. “I told you I was supposed to join the military with Brett. Except, I didn’t pass my physical. First they told me I had a heart murmur. More tests uncovered the tricuspid valve in my heart had a leak.”

“You knew about this the entire time I’ve known you.”

“The irony, of course, is Brett aced his health evaluation. Now he’s dead, and I’m still here.” He took a deep breath. “The stupid valve never stopped me from doing anything anyway. Well, at first. Then as the years went by, I’d get winded exercising. Weights I’d bench-pressed with no problem I suddenly couldn’t lift. Last summer, I got dizzy walking up stairs, and I couldn’t keep pretending everything was normal.”

“But you did pretend,” she accused. “I never noticed. My mother didn’t have a clue.”

Which was what he’d wanted. “The valve was failing, so I had open-heart surgery to replace it. Then I went home to recover. After I couldn’t get into the military, Zola made it easy for me to reinvent my life. But this time a backup plan didn’t fall into my lap, even though I’m as much damaged goods as a model as I am to the military.”

“You are
not
damaged goods.” Gretchen spread her hands across his chest, her palms flat against his nipples.

His battered heart warmed at her defense, but he couldn’t accept her protection. “How can you say so when you’re touching the evidence?”

“This?” She pressed her finger against the length of his disfigurement, no longer gentle. “This marks you as a survivor. It proves you’re strong and you’ve endured against the odds. You’re damn lucky to have good doctors who found and fixed the issue.”

Lucky? Him? The only time he felt lucky was when he held her in his arms. “I never thought of it that way.”

“Of course not. You’ve been too busy feeling sorry for yourself.”

Her words stung. He opened his mouth to refute them. He hadn’t been feeling sorry for himself for an entire year. Except, well, yes, a little bit, okay, maybe more than a little.

“You’re alive, all of you,” Gretchen continued. “And it’s time for you to live like you are. I don’t care if you decide to model again or not, but this,” her gentleness returned as she tapped the scar again, “should not be hidden. It might keep your chest out of live runway shows. It might change DeAngelo Vurberuchi’s offer. Companies will want to airbrush it out of print ads and will take it into account when deciding whether to hire you. Then a whole section of the industry will want you more because you have this mark, and you’ll have to walk the line between celebrating it and being exploited because of it.”

He stared at her, affection and hope ballooning inside him. He’d never once looked at his heart defect and scar like a badge of honor, but she made him want to believe. “You’re not repulsed by me?”

“Repulsed? Kyle Ramsey, don’t ever associate your name with that word. You’re a survivor. Rising above your wounds and adversity makes you a hero.”