Red (33 page)

H
e had gotten the account. Carlo Triani was now the photographer of record for H. P. Macro-Wear.

Carlo gazed out at the crimson flowers in his back garden, vibrant and bursting with life. He smiled to himself, liking the image, for once feeling as full of life himself.

Hugh Preston.
Carlo's smile widened. He had made a friend, had found a kindred spirit. Their minds worked synchronously, their ideas, their thoughts meshed—on the industry and fashion, on photography, on life. They had so much in common, it was almost scary.

Carlo's smile faded. Hugh was braver than he. He was stronger, bolder. Hugh wouldn't hide who he was, he refused to pretend to be something he wasn't. He said he never had.

Hugh had understood Carlo's predicament, however. He had been sensitive to his feelings. And Hugh had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he wanted to be with him again.

Carlo threw open the French doors and stepped out onto his terrace. The smell of the day, the flowers and fresh-cut grass, the sun and water, assailed him. He shut his eyes and breathed it in, letting the life fill him.

He recalled the feel of the other man's hands on him, recalled every moment of their too-short time together. It
had been incredibly exciting, fulfilling; it had been like magic.

He was falling in love.

Carlo grinned, feeling like a ridiculous, smitten adolescent for even thinking such a thing. But he couldn't deny the way he felt. And he couldn't deny that he wanted to see Hugh again.

What if Giovanni found out?

His heart began to pump wildly; his chest tightened until he had to fight to breathe. He could imagine his father's disgust, his revulsion. Every scrap of respect Giovanni had ever shown him, respect Carlo had fought for—respect he had, in a sense, died for—would have been lost. He would never measure up to the legend.

Giovanni would turn to Jack. Macho Jack. Jack whose way with women matched his own; Jack who seemed to be able to do everything and anything he put his mind to.

Oh, yes. Giovanni would choose Jack, once and for all.

Carlo flexed his fingers, a feeling of impotence and rage racing over him. He cursed his mother, Giovanni, himself. He hated being weak, being afraid. He hated the fact that he didn't have the guts to be the man he wanted to be. He swung around, and his gaze landed on the Jacuzzi.

Red water.

He shuddered and his head filled with the image of his mother, the last of her life leaking from her.

He had thrown himself at her still body and had clung to her, begging her not to leave him. They'd had to drag him off of her. Her one arm had draped over the side of the tub, and he had slipped in the puddle of blood. When he'd fought them, it had gone everywhere, staining his skin and clothes, staining his life.

Even now he could hear that lost boy cry out,
“Why didn't you love me, Madre? Why didn't you love me enough to want to live?”

Then there had been only Giovanni. Unforgiving and critical. Impatient and cold. Giovanni whose great legend preceded him like an impenetrable field of bright ice.

Carlo blinked and turned away from the pool, yet away from the garden, too. Becky Lynn had been right. He couldn't go on the way he had been, he couldn't keep pretending by sleeping with women.

But he couldn't face Giovanni's learning the truth. That would be worse than the slow death he was already living.

He brought a hand to the back of his neck and massaged the knot of muscles there. He thought of the things Becky Lynn had told him that morning two days ago. He understood her so well now. Before that morning, he had known what kind of person she was, he had liked and respected her. But he hadn't understood her. Now he did.

No wonder she feared men, no wonder she disliked being touched. He understood now how much courage it had taken her to give herself over to him and his camera. Now, he did understand the enormity of what he had given her when he had transformed her into Valentine, even if his reasons for doing so had been less than altruistic.

And he saw what shams both of their lives were, how ridiculous and sad.

Carlo drew his eyebrows together. He didn't understand her feelings for Jack, though. His half brother was the only piece of the puzzle of Valentine's life that didn't fit. What had Jack given her that had earned her respect and trust? What had she seen in Jack to love?

Maybe he, Carlo, couldn't see, only because he didn't
want to. Maybe his fear and jealousy had blinded him to something of the man Jack really was.

Carlo shook his head, annoyed with himself. He had missed nothing; Jack was as little and as narrow as he had always thought him to be. Becky Lynn had simply fallen under the spell of Jack's macho charisma.

Besides, Jack was a part of Becky Lynn's past. Carlo narrowed his eyes in thought. He was her future. They could help each other, protect each other. And he loved her, in a way he had never loved another woman besides his mother.

His blood began to thrum. Carlo Triani and Valentine, together they would be invincible. They would be safe. Together, there would be nothing they couldn't do.

All he had to do was convince her.

W
here was she?
Zoe looked around her in confusion, searching her memory, wishing she could think clearly. She had gone to a bar. On Sunset. But which one?

They all looked alike, murky and crowded, with weird, frenetic lighting. They were all loud, too loud. She drew a shaky breath, dizzy, slightly queasy. The music thundered in her head, and with a sense of horror she realized that what she heard wasn't music—it was the sound of her own blood pumping through her veins.

A man on her right pressed closer to her. He smelled too sweet, like cheap cologne and bourbon. “Hey, baby.” He slurred the words in her ear. “What'say we get outta here?”

Zoe looked at the man, her breathing quick and shallow. Did she know him? Had she spoken to him? She didn't think so. He had black hair and a beard; his eyes were light, so light they seemed to burn into her. Demon eyes, she thought, a shudder racing up her spine.

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She reached for the glass in front of her, her mouth dry like death's ashes. What if she just dried up and blew away? What if she were dying right now and nobody knew, nobody could tell?

Heart pounding, she curved her hand around the damp glass, then brought it slowly to her mouth, her hand
shaking so badly, some of the liquid sloshed over the side of the glass and spilled onto her hand.

“So, babe? You want to take off?”

Her gaze flew to the demon beside her. He leaned toward her; she recognized the sickly sweetness of his breath as the scent of death. Fear choked her. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she whispered, slipping off the bar stool, stumbling a little when she reached her feet.

The man caught her arm, steadying her. “Come back, babe. I'll be waiting.”

His touch stung, and she jerked her arm away and started blindly through the packed room, the strobe lights alternately illuminating and shadowing the faces around her.

Frightened, she searched the sometimes incandescent faces for one she recognized. The crowd pressed closer; her heart beat faster, harder. She couldn't breathe; it felt as if her heart was going to pop right out of her chest.

She lowered her eyes to the dance floor and squeaked in terror. Her heart lay at her feet, bloody and still beating.

“Hello, princess.”

Princess.
The voice reverberated through her head, and she swung in its direction.
Daddy. Her daddy had come for her.

“Whoa, beautiful.” Strong hands steadied her. “I don't know what you've been into tonight, but I think you've had enough.”

“Daddy,” she whispered, tears flooding her eyes. She moved into his arms. He began to sway to the music. Zoe pressed her face to his chest, to the reassuring beat of his heart, and squeezed her eyes shut. Her daddy had come for her; she was safe at last.

“I guess tonight's my lucky night.” He laughed and pulled her closer. “I found me a beautiful princess.”

Her heart filled to near bursting. She tilted her face back and smiled up at him. Her daddy smiled back. Zoe knew she would never be frightened again.

Zoe awakened slowly. She hurt. Her head, her chest and neck, her eyes. Her entire body ached, everywhere and in a way she couldn't remember hurting before. She moaned and stirred, then cracked open her eyes. The light burned them, and she snapped them shut once more. She shifted and encountered something warm and hard.

She cracked open her eyes again. A man lay beside her, a man she didn't recognize. She frowned, working to remember who he was, where she had found him.

She drew a blank.

Careful not to awaken him, she slid out of the bed. As her feet hit the floor, the world tilted. A hand to her head, she stumbled to the bathroom.

She relieved herself, then dragged herself to the sink. She felt bad. Worse than she had ever felt. She passed a hand over her mouth, it was dry and crusted at the corners.

She turned on the cold water and rinsed her mouth, then splashed her face. Why couldn't she remember anything? Every morning, she was a little fuzzy, but after a few minutes, her memory always returned. But as hard as she tried, she couldn't recall how she had gotten here.

She must have gotten really wasted. She remembered the coke and the pills. What kind of pills? She drew her eyebrows together. She couldn't remember. She had gotten them from a guy in a parking lot.

She leaned toward the mirror and peered in. She looked
awful. She blinked and leaned closer, frowning at a mark she saw on her left breast. She brought her hand to it and winced.

What was that? She squinted into the mirror, then recoiled in horror. Teeth marks. Not a hickey or love bite—a bite. Whoever had done this had drawn blood. She saw the imprint of a mouth, of teeth, so clearly etched on her skin she could count them.

Horrified, she pushed the hair away from her face, off her shoulders. Then she saw them—bruises circling her neck. Imprints of fingers. She caught her breath. Vague, distorted images played through her head. Ugly images. Frightening ones. She remembered struggling to breathe, remembered him, the man in the bed, turning her to her stomach, remembered screaming as he shoved himself into her.

He had hurt her. He could have killed her.

She had to get out of here. She had to get out before he woke up.

Breathing hard, fighting hysteria, she tiptoed out to the bedroom, more afraid than she had ever been in her life. She didn't look at the man, afraid if she did, she would remember more of what had happened, more of what he had done to her.

She searched for her things, settling for what she could find, yanking each article of clothing on as she uncovered it. He muttered and stirred; her heart leapt to her throat, and her gaze flew to the bed.

He stirred again. His eyes opened, meeting hers. His eyes were cold and flat, like a shark's. Or a devil's. Terror choked her.

Turning, she raced for the front door and ripped it open.
She stumbled through, and sunshine spilled over her. Zoe cried out with relief.

Never again, she promised herself. Never again.

B
ecky Lynn stared at Carlo in shock. When he had called and asked if he could stop by to talk, she had thought he wanted to discuss Macro-Wear. She shook her head. “You didn't just ask me—”

“I did.” He reached across her little kitchen table and gathered her hands in his. “Marry me, Becky Lynn.”

“But Carlo—” She sucked in a quick, steadying breath. “We both know that you and I…that we're not, that you're…” Her words trailed off, and she searched his gaze.
He couldn't be serious, he couldn't be…but he was.
“I don't know what to say.”

He squeezed her hands, then released them. “Then just listen.”

She nodded and he stood and crossed to the breakfast-room window. “You were right the other day,” he began. “About everything, me, Giovanni, about what I needed. And you were right about what pretending has been doing to me.” He swung to face her. “I've felt trapped for so long. Now I see a way out. For both of us.”

When she opened her mouth to comment, he held up a hand to stop her. “Yes, you, too. Look at yourself. Here you are, you're supposed to be this beautiful, sexual creature, working in an industry that takes sex as a day-to-day part of business, yet you can't stand to be touched.
If you were married to me, you would have a cover, an easy out of any situation that made you uncomfortable.”

He crossed to where she sat and knelt in front of her. He caught her hands in his. “Imagine,
bella,
not having to put up with the come-ons, the sexual innuendos, the body-bartering. After all, we would be the most deliriously happy couple. And everyone would know it.”

He drew a deep breath. “It would be a cover for me, too. I wouldn't have to prove myself by bedding everything that moves. And even if an occasional rumor circulated, how much could people say when they saw how happy and satisfied the beautiful Valentine was?”

She lowered her eyes to their joined hands, her heart hammering. Once upon a time, she had dreamed of a romantic moment like this one, had dreamed of a handsome man, a diamond ring and a promise of undying love. Once she had dreamed about hearing those words from Jack. Tears stung her eyes. Would she never be totally free of him?

“You've thought this all out, haven't you?” she whispered, voice trembling.

“Is that so wrong? Look at me, sweet.” She met his eyes once more. “You believe in me. Do you know how rare that is in this business? In this world? Do you know how special?” He feathered his fingers across her cheek. “And I believe in you, too.”

Becky Lynn thought of her own parents, thought about Carlo's, thought of others she had known. Perhaps they would have been better off if they had married for reasons other than passion and love.

“It's a way out of the trap for both of us,” he murmured. “It's a way to be free. Marry me,
bella.
I love you.”

She swallowed hard, feeling panicky and uncertain. “Carlo, I'm…stunned. I don't know…what to say.”

“You're not surprised.” He moved his fingers over hers, stroking, reassuring. “
Bella,
be honest, you already use me as a cover. You already pretend we're lovers.”

She flushed and looked away. He caught her chin, and turned her face to his. “I do love you, Becky Lynn. Not as a lover. But as a friend. I care about you, I want to take care of you.” He cradled her face in his palms. “We could take care of each other. Neither of us would ever have to be alone again.”

The image of Jack filled her head, and tears flooded her eyes. She blinked against them, cursing him, cursing herself for being unable to let him go. She had never wanted anybody but Jack; she never would.

But she would never have him. He was an impossible dream, the man she had thought she loved had never even existed—not completely.

With Carlo, she would never have to be alone again. She would never have to face a cold dawn without someone to hold on to, would never have to face the night and the fear of disappearing, of dying, and no one even knowing she'd gone. With Carlo, she would forever have someone to share her dreams and fears, joys and sorrows.

Becky Lynn drew a shaky breath. She cared for Carlo. She loved and trusted him. He made her feel safe; when she needed support, he would be there for her. He had seen beauty in her no one else ever had.

Becky Lynn looked away, struggling to sort out her thoughts and feelings. She swallowed hard and returned her gaze to his. “Are you sure, Carlo? Loving someone and not being with them is harder than you can imagine. If you
ever…fell in love with someone else, and if I knew you were with that person, I would feel so alone and so…left out.”

He brought their joined hands to his mouth. “I can't promise I'll always be faithful, but I promise I'll never forsake you for another. I'd never do that to you. So, will you?” he asked softly, his voice thick. “Will you marry me, Valentine?”

Becky Lynn lifted her gaze to Carlo's. She never wanted to be alone again.

Her heart in her throat, she said yes.