Red (34 page)

J
ack stared at the party invitation that had just come, stunned, disbelieving. He reread the invitation for a third time, hoping that he had somehow misunderstood the first two times. He hadn't. Tremayne Davis requested the honor of his presence at a prenuptial bash for Valentine and Carlo Triani, the lucky couple.

Becky Lynn was marrying Carlo.
Jack sucked in a sharp breath.
How could this have happened? How could she be marrying Carlo?

Did Becky Lynn know he had been invited? he wondered. He could almost hear Tremayne telling her that everyone must be invited. Even Jack Gallagher, the man who had known the great Valentine when she had been just plain Becky Lynn, the idiot who had been too blind to see the jewel he'd had right under his nose.

Oh, yes. Jack narrowed his eyes. This was southern California, all would be invited. Even the bride-to-be's former lover and the groom's bastard half brother. And the party would be a one-hundred-percent deductible PR event and everybody would be happy. Especially the lucky couple themselves.

Disgusted, Jack tossed the invitation down.
How could this have happened? How could he have let it happen?

Muttering an oath, he crossed to his photo wall. He'd never shot Valentine, although he had tried to book her
many times. She had always, conveniently, been unavailable. But he had several candid shots of her before she had become Valentine, when she'd been Becky Lynn—his assistant, his friend, his lover.

Two of them were still tacked to his wall. He'd left them up as a punishment of sorts, and as a bittersweet reminder of what he had had and lost. Jack studied the photographs, an uncomfortable catch in his chest. In one, she was crouched down, fiddling with lighting equipment; she had looked up at him and laughed just as he snapped the shot. In the other, she was simply gazing at him, at the camera, her expression at once vulnerable, adoring and sweetly sensual. That expression had made her a famous and wealthy woman.

He reached out to touch the photograph, then realizing what he was doing, dropped his hand. How could he have spent so much time with her, and never really seen her? He looked at these photos and saw Valentine, saw what Carlo had recognized immediately. Why hadn't he been able to see back then?

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, feeling like a fool—and like a loser. He recognized the feeling; it was an ache, deep in his gut, an ache he'd experienced for the first time at age eight, when his great father had looked at him as if he were nothing, then turned and walked away.

He gazed at the images of Becky Lynn, his chest tight, thinking of the way she had once looked at him. Did she look at Carlo that way? Did she love him?

Jack drew his eyebrows together in a scowl. She was making a mistake. A big mistake. Why couldn't she see that?

“Hey, Jack. Have you heard?”

Jack looked over his shoulder at his photo assistant Pete. The other man stood in the doorway to the studio,
two bags of take-out nestled in his arms. “Yeah,” he said tightly, “I heard.”

“Sorry, man. I know how much you wanted that account.” Pete shifted the bags. “I thought you just might get it. I really did.”

Jack shook his head, still thinking of Becky Lynn and Carlo. “What account?”

“H. P. Macro-Wear.” Pete made a sound of disgust. “That Triani's one lucky bastard. First discovering Valentine. Now this.”

Jack stared at his assistant, not comprehending. “Are you saying…Carlo got Macro-Wear?”

Pete looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “I thought you said you'd heard.”

“No.” Jack shook his head. “I thought you were talking about…something else.”

“Nope, Macro-Wear. Triani got it.”

“Son of a bitch,” Jack murmured, the ramifications of the news rocketing through him. He looked at Pete. “You're sure?”

“Contracts are signed.” Pete juggled the bags. “Look, I'll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

“Fine.” His heart thundering, Jack turned back to the wall of images, to the photographs of Becky Lynn.
Carlo had gotten Macro-Wear. Carlo had slept with Hugh Preston.

He couldn't believe it. Over the years, he had heard gossip about Carlo. He had ignored it, partly because his half brother had bedded a great number of women, and partly because this town, this industry, thrived on nasty gossip.

But now he wondered if the talk had been true. Was
Carlo gay? At the very least, he was bisexual. At the very least, he had cheated on Becky Lynn.

Jack shook his head, thinking of the twisted irony of it—Becky Lynn had left him for the very same thing, betraying her with someone else, sleeping with someone to get an account.

He crossed back to his worktable, to the invitation he had tossed down in disgust. He retrieved it and tapped it against his palm. Becky Lynn didn't know, she couldn't. If she did, she wouldn't marry Carlo. He still knew Becky Lynn well enough to be certain of that.

She was making the worst mistake of her life.

He had to save her.

Jack narrowed his eyes, determination and dislike churning inside him. That son of a bitch. Duping Becky Lynn this way, tricking her into believing he was not only faithful but heterosexual, was beyond contempt.

Was Carlo doing it to hurt him? Jack wondered, fisting his fingers. Or simply to permanently attach himself to Valentine's blazing star.

Would Becky Lynn believe him?

Becky Lynn was loyal. If she had heard gossip, she would never believe it. She would never think ill of Carlo, unless she had proof. He searched his memory, trying to recall the times he had heard rumors about Carlo, trying to recall who he had heard the rumors from.

Jack squared his shoulders. He would get her proof; he had to save her.

B
ecky Lynn and Carlo decided to forgo a church wedding in favor of a quick exchange of vows at the courthouse. Considering the circumstances, it didn't seem right to get married in God's house.

Instead of throwing themselves a party after, as they were both scheduled to go on location, they decided to have one the night before. Tremayne had insisted on giving it to them as his wedding gift, and when Becky Lynn had balked at the enormity of the cost, he had reminded her that it would be good publicity and that he could write off the entire thing. So she had agreed.

Everybody in the industry had been invited, even Eileen Ford and John Casablancas, Tremayne's main competition. Becky Lynn had wondered if Jack would attend, then had cursed herself for wondering. She was marrying Carlo, and when she did, Jack would be completely and truly a part of her past. No matter what her and Carlo's arrangement, no matter that their reasons for marrying were far from traditional, she intended to be a good and faithful wife. She intended to take her wedding vows seriously.

Even if Carlo didn't.

Becky Lynn caught her bottom lip between her teeth, fighting indecision and doubt. Was she doing the right thing? In the weeks since agreeing to marry Carlo, she had
been plagued by doubt, she worried that she had rushed into her decision, that she hadn't thoroughly contemplated the emotional toll of a marriage to a man who wasn't in love with her. A man who would prefer to be with another man.

Would he ever want a family? She wanted children someday; she couldn't imagine growing old without them. Yet, how would her and Carlo's unusual arrangement affect a child?

She drew a deep, calming breath. Carlo loved and respected her. He believed in her, as she believed in him. They already had so much more than many other couples just starting out. Who needed passion when she had respect? Who needed sex when she had affection, real and true?

She had made the right decision, she told herself. She and Carlo were going to be stronger together than apart; together, they would face and conquer each problem, every trial, as it arose.

Taking another deep breath, she turned her gaze to the dressing-table mirror. She had chosen a suit for the party, in a deep, vibrant pink. The pink of spring back home, she thought, smoothing a hand down the front of the jacket. The pink of the azalea plant Carlo had sent her so long ago.

The day Jack had broken her heart.

She shook her head. She didn't want to think of Jack; she hated that no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't keep the thoughts of him, the comparisons between him and Carlo, at bay.

Becky Lynn scowled at her reflection. There was no comparison between the two, she told herself firmly. Carlo was giving and loyal; Carlo needed her. He believed in her.

Jack had never needed or believed in her. He never would.

“You look wonderful.”

She lifted her gaze and met Carlo's in the mirror. He stood in the bedroom doorway, the picture of self-confidence and sophistication, almost breathtakingly handsome in his natural-colored linen jacket and slacks.

“Pink and black is awfully bold together,” she murmured, referring to his black raw-silk shirt. “You don't think we're going to clash, do you?”

“Are you kidding? In this industry, there's no such thing as being too bold.” He smiled and crossed to her. “Besides, tonight all I can think about is how lucky I am.”

He laid his hands on her shoulders and squeezed—the reassuring touch of a big brother, of a good friend. Emotion welled up in her chest—even as she told herself it was happiness, she acknowledged despair.

“I heard the phone,” she said quickly, hoping to keep him from seeing her fears. “Who called?”

Carlo hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Hugh Preston. He called to… He's sorry he couldn't be here.”

“Are you sure?” She drew her eyebrows together. “That's all?”

“Of course.”

Carlo's smile looked forced, his voice sounded hollow. The knot in her stomach tightened. “If you want to back out, I'll understan—”

“No way.” He squeezed her shoulders again, then dropped his hands. “It's time. You almost ready?”

She nodded, swallowing hard. “I just need my shoes.”

She retrieved them from the closet and slipped them on. In them, she stood several inches taller than Carlo. But no
one would look askance at that; in this business, many a bride towered over her groom.

She wouldn't have towered over Jack, no matter how high her heels.

“What's wrong?”

Her gaze flew to Carlo's; guilty heat stung her cheeks. “Nothing. Why?”

“For a moment, you looked…sad.”

“I'm just nervous, that's all.” That wasn't a lie, she was more nervous than she had been in a long time. She hadn't a clue how she was going to get through the next five or so hours, no clue how she was going to keep up her besotted blushing-bride facade.

In the end, Becky Lynn kept up her facade by doing the same thing she did every time she stepped in front of the camera—she became Valentine, playing the part that had been created just for her, the part that kept the world from touching her.

After a couple hours of people wishing her and Carlo well, of them telling her how lucky she was and what a striking couple the two of them made, Becky Lynn realized she wasn't having to work at her role anymore. She was happy, perhaps not in the same way as she had once dreamed of being, but happy nonetheless.

Alone for the first time all night, Becky Lynn took a deep breath, grateful for the opportunity to clear her head. Carlo had gone off with Giovanni and Dick Avedon, and for the moment, the partiers seemed to have forgotten that they had come tonight to wish her well. Which suited her just fine—even when playing the part of Valentine, she preferred to be Becky Lynn the wallflower.

She wandered farther from the tightest throng of party
guests, moving toward the formal fountain. The three mermaids at its center had been fashioned in the images of the first three of Tremayne's clients to achieve supermodel status. She took a sip of her mineral water, then lifted her hair off the back of her neck. She pressed the cold, damp glass to her warm skin, making a sound of relief as she did. The night was warmer than she had expected when she'd chosen the suit.

“Hello, Red.”

Jack.
She let her hair drop and turned slowly to face him. Even when she had wondered if he would come tonight, she had known he would. She should have been prepared, she told herself. She should have a well-rehearsed word or two on the tip of tongue, something she could spit out, then walk away, head held high.

But she didn't, damn it. She was on her own.

“Hello, Gallagher.”

“You look beautiful,” he murmured, moving closer. “You'll make a radiant bride.”

Pleasure at his comment moved through her, and annoyed with herself, she kept her gaze trained on his. “What are you doing here?”

“I got an invitation, just like everybody else. And I must say, how
fashion
of you to celebrate an event before it's even happened.” He lifted his beer in a mocking salute. “And of course, I came to wish the bride and groom well.”

“How nice of you,” she said coolly, her heart a hammer in her chest. “Wishes accepted. Goodbye.”

She started to brush by him, he caught her wrist, stopping her. She met his gaze again, and realized he was angry. Surprised, she searched his expression. What did he have to be angry about?

“Why are you marrying him?” he asked softly, an edge of steel in his voice.

“Why do you think?” She tugged against his grasp. “Why does any woman marry?”

“I'm not asking about any woman, Becky Lynn. I'm asking about you.” He tightened his fingers. “Do you love him?”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “Of course I do. I adore him.”

For a moment, Jack said nothing, then he leaned close. “Does he make you happy?” he asked, lowering his voice to a seductive murmur. “Does he make you ache the way I did? When he takes his hands from your body, do you beg to have them back?”

Memories swamped her. Pain and longing with them. It had been that way between them, hot and explosive. The more they had made love, the hungrier she had become, the more insatiable.

It had been so long. So long.

“Remember how it was? Remember, Becky Lynn?” His grip on her wrist eased, and he moved his fingers in slow, drugging circles. She wondered if he could feel the thunder of her pulse, and if he did what he thought of it.

He leaned closer yet, and his breath stirred erotically against her ear. “Carlo doesn't do that for you, does he? He doesn't make you weak and strong at the same time. He doesn't make you sing. I know he doesn't. He can't.”

It took a moment for his words to fully penetrate, when they did she freed herself from his grasp, and swung to face him. His being here had nothing to do with his feelings for her, he didn't love or want her. He was here because he hated Carlo. And because he wanted to beat him.

“Your ego is eclipsed only by your gall.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I'm going to marry Carlo. It's too late, Jack, you lose. There's nothing you can do or say to change my mind. There's no possible way you're going to make Carlo look the fool by stealing me the night before our wedding, because I won't let it happen.”

“Carlo's gay.”

Her stomach dropped, and she took an involuntary step back from him. “What did you say?”

“Carlo's a homosexual.”

Fear took her breath, her ability to think clearly. She swung away from Jack and brought her hands to her cheeks. Jack knew about Carlo. If Jack knew, he would tell Giovanni. She couldn't let that happen. It would destroy Carlo.

“I'm sorry, Becky Lynn.” He crossed to her and touched her shoulder lightly. “I know what a blow this must be.”

“How did you…when did you—”

“When Carlo got the Macro-Wear account, I knew. You see, I lost the account because I wouldn't sleep with Preston.”

“That doesn't mean—”

“Yes, it does.” He lowered his voice. “I did some checking around, asked a few questions.”

She turned slowly to face him. She shook her head. “No, Jack, please… You didn't ask questions? Please tell me you didn't.”

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, his eyes soft with regret. “I thought you should know. I couldn't let…I couldn't let him do this to you.”

She caught his hands. “Jack, I beg you…please, don't tell anyone. Don't ask any more questions.”

For a moment, Jack gazed at her, shocked. “Are you saying…you already knew?” Her expression told him everything, because he shook his head, dumbfounded. “But then…why? He's gay, Becky Lynn. How can you… Why are you marrying him?”

She owed him nothing, and certainly not an explanation. He had thrown her away, not the other way around. She lifted her chin. “Figure it out, Jack. Take a long look in the mirror and figure it out.”

He narrowed his eyes, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “So you're determined to do this stupid thing? There's nothing I can say to change your mind?”

Tell me you need me. Tell me you believe in me.
Becky Lynn stiffened her spine, angry with herself for her thoughts. He cared for his vendetta with Carlo, not for her. He had come here tonight not to try to win her, but to hurt Carlo.

“Tomorrow at four-thirty, I'm marrying Carlo Triani. And if you tell anyone what you know, if you tell Giovanni, I'll fight you, Jack. I don't know how, but I'll find a way to hurt you.”

She pushed past him, and for the second time, he stopped her by catching her hand. “Just tell me one thing. Are you in love with him, Becky Lynn? Is that why you're doing this?”

She gazed into his eyes and for the space of a heartbeat she thought her answer might actually matter to him, that she might matter to him. She called herself a fool.

“You lose again, Gallagher. And it's your own damn fault.” She shook her hand free of his grasp. “Next time you see me, I'll be Mrs. Carlo Triani.”

The nightgown had been a wedding gift. Made of white satin and lace, it was the most beautiful piece of lingerie
Becky Lynn had ever seen. So beautiful, she had almost cried when she opened it. She curled her fingers into the slippery-soft fabric and brought it to her cheek. She had more than she had ever hoped for, the kind of life she hadn't known enough to even dream of, and yet she wanted more. She wanted the impossible.

After a moment, she slipped the gown over her head, and the sensuous fabric whispered against her skin as it fell softly to her ankles. She crossed to her vanity, picked up her brush and ran it through her hair. She looked at her funny face in the vanity mirror and thought of the absurdity of it all—the same face that had been reviled as too ugly to look at, had earned her nearly two hundred thousand dollars last year, and even though she had more money than she knew what do do with, she missed her five-dollar-an-hour job as a photo assistant.

She shook her head at her own thoughts and dragged the brush rhythmically through her hair. Carlo had rented them a luxurious two-bedroom suite at the Bel Air Hotel. After the ceremony, they'd had dinner in the hotel dining room, then taken a stroll around the hotel grounds, admiring the elegant swans in the stream that wound its way through the property.

Now Carlo waited for her in their sitting room. She laid the brush carefully on the dressing table and went in search of her husband.

Room service had brought champagne and strawberries. Carlo had dimmed the lights and turned on soft music. He wore dark-colored pajama bottoms, they looked to be made out of some soft, slippery fabric. His naked chest, smooth and muscled, gleamed in the soft light, and she had to admit he was beautiful.