Red (37 page)

“We haven't been friends in a…long time. Actually, I discovered we never really were.”

She tried to mask the hurt in her voice but couldn't, and he longed to touch her, to comfort her. He jammed his hands into his pockets. “What about us, Becky Lynn?”

“There is no us.” She turned back to the window and the brilliant garden beyond. “There hasn't been in a long time.”

He crossed to stand beside her, his proximity forcing her to look at him. “I think you're wrong. I think there still is an us, even if we both want to deny it.”

“I'm a married woman.”

He laughed, the sound tight and angry even to his own ears. “Your marriage is a sham. And you know it.” He took a step closer to her; she took a step back. “I think you still feel something for me, Becky Lynn. I think you still want me.”

Color stained her cheeks. “Get out.”

“If not, why won't you shoot with me? Why, for five years, have you refused to work with one of the top fashion photographers in the world? If you feel nothing for me, what's the problem?”

“I've been booked.” She narrowed her eyes and tipped her chin up. “If you haven't noticed, I'm in demand these days. I hardly have time to be at your beck and call.”

He leaned toward her, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You're running scared.”

“Go to hell.”

She moved away from him, he followed her. “Prove you don't want me… Shoot with me, Becky Lynn.”

“I don't have to prove anything to you.” She faced him, shaking with anger. “Don't you get it? You mean nothing to me. Nothing.”

“Then prove it to yourself.”

Her breath caught and he knew he had touched a nerve. “For the second time, go to hell, Jack Gallagher.”

He laughed. “You're so scared, you're practically wetting your pants. You're afraid if you shoot with me, you'll end up in my bed.”

“You bastard, you egotistical jerk.” She fisted her fingers. “You offer me a booking I'm available for, and if you can afford my day rate, I'll shoot with you.”

“You're on, Red.” He collected his jacket, then crossed to the door, stopping and looking over his shoulder at her when he reached it. “I look forward to working with you. I'll be in touch.”

Grinning, Jack crossed the driveway to his car, slid inside and picked up his cellular. He started the car and simultaneously punched in the number for The Davis Agency. No way was he going to give her the opportunity to change her mind. And if he gave Becky Lynn time to cool down, she would.

He asked for Valentine's booker, and had the woman check Valentine's schedule. He knew just the shoot he wanted her for—Garnet's fall catalog. The designer had done her entire line in shades of red—from fire engine to rose, from cinnabar to melon. They were shooting in sultry New Orleans, and he wanted all redheads for the shoot. His first choice had always been Becky Lynn, but he hadn't thought he had a chance of booking her.

Now he did. He smiled again. Now, even if he had to completely reschedule the dates of the shoot, he would have Valentine.

As he hung up the phone, he acknowledged that wanting Valentine for a job had little to do with why he wanted Becky Lynn in New Orleans with him.

B
ecky Lynn couldn't sleep. Her French Quarter hotel room was hot, stifling. The ceiling fan turned slowly, stirring up the moist, warm air, creaking with each revolution. She rolled onto her side, then switched to her back. The damp sheets tangled around her legs, anchoring them together like some sort of bizarre chastity belt.

From outside drifted in the raucous sounds of Bourbon Street, the haunting strains of a saxophone on some nearby corner, the faint click of high heels on the courtyard floor below.

Damn this city, she thought, viciously plumping her pillow. It had gotten to her. Sex was everywhere here—in the strip clubs on Bourbon Street, to couples groping in doorways, to the way the women moved, slowly and with a distinct sway, to the moist heat that permeated everything, even air-conditioned rooms.

She slammed her fist into the pillow again. And damn Jack Gallagher, for maneuvering her into this untenable position, for booking them in adjoining rooms and for being in that room with another woman.

She flipped onto her back and swore. Teri, one of the other models on location, had been all over Jack for the entire shoot—touching him, teasing him, coming on to him. And Becky Lynn knew Jack-the-ever-ready-wonder, wouldn't miss the opportunity to bed a beautiful babe. By
the end of today, the last day of the shoot, she had been ready to scratch the other woman's eyes out. And ready to do worse to Jack. Much worse.

She thought of Jack and Teri, together in his bed. Twined together, panting, making love. Swearing, Becky Lynn sat up. She lifted her hair away from her neck and drew in a deep, agitated breath.

She shifted her gaze to the French doors that led to her balcony, and glared at the gentle moonlight that streamed through, making soft squares of light on her bedroom floor.

The balcony that connected her room to Jack's.

She pictured Jack, naked, thrusting into a woman—into her. She imagined his hands on her, imagined arching into those magic hands, crying out his name with her release.

A shudder of awareness rippled through her; she cursed it, cursed this wanton, red town. The atmosphere had gotten to her, the shoot had gotten to her. Not Jack. Not the husky way he had murmured her name while giving her direction, not the way he had gazed deeply into her eyes, not the way his smoky voice had moved over her like a caress.

She fisted her fingers into the damp, tangled sheets. Tomorrow she left for home; once there, in her own safe bed, she would be fine, she would have her sanity back.

Her own safe bed. Her lonely bed.

She didn't want her own bed, she wanted Jack's.

With a cry, she ripped back the sheet and jumped out of bed. She crossed to the French doors and gazed out at the night, at the cool, shadowed courtyard two floors below. She pressed her fingers to the glass, longing to go out, longing to escape her suffocating room and her own desperate thoughts.

She threw open the doors. Silence greeted her, as did the crisp night air, deliciously cool against her damp,
fevered flesh. She sucked in a quick breath of pleasure and moved farther out on the balcony to its edge, to the wrought-iron railing that circled it. The scent of a flower, its perfume heavy and fragrant, assailed her. The tinkling splash from the courtyard fountain melded with the sound of her own breathing, her own heartbeat.

She wasn't alone.

Gooseflesh raced up her arms, and she turned her head. Jack stood on his half of the balcony, his doors, as hers, thrown wide to the night. The moonlight fell across his naked chest, creating sensual shapes of light and dark on his skin. Although shadowed, she felt his gaze as strongly as if he touched her.

He wore nothing but a pair of brief running shorts, and she moved her gaze slowly, hungrily over him. She thought of the first time they had been together, when they had come together in her grief. So much time had passed since then, she thought, her heart heavy and fast, so much time and space and life stood between them.

One moment became many. Still he gazed at her, until the air crackled with something electric, undeniable and red-hot. Her nipples hardened and pressed against her light cotton gown, aching for a rougher, more intimate touch. Lower, much lower, she grew hot and wet. She heard the thunder of her own heart, the quick hiss of his sharply indrawn breath.

Without a word, he strode across the balcony. His hard hands found her face and cupped it; his mouth crashed down to hers. Her head bent backward under the force of his kiss, and she brought her hands to his hair, twining her fingers in the crisp strands, anchoring him to her, meeting his force with her own.

They stumbled into her room; he kicked the doors shut behind them, then spun her around and flattened her against one. “Damn you, Becky Lynn,” he muttered against her mouth, bringing his hands to her breasts, cupping them. “Damn you to hell.”

She broke free of his mouth, panting. “What's the matter, Teri turn you down?”

“I didn't want Teri,” he said tightly, grabbing the neck of her gown, ripping it away from her, revealing her breasts. “I want you. Only you.” He brought his head to her chest, and she arched against his mouth, raking her nails over his shoulders and down his back, as desperate for him as he was for her.

He bit; she clawed. They pushed at each other, ripped at each other like animals. He tore away the last of her gown; together they struggled with his shorts, yanking them frantically over his hips, coming together again, completely naked.

Jack lifted her onto him and thrust into her, forcing her so hard against the French door that the panes of glass rattled. She curved her legs around him, anchoring him to her, meeting each of his thrusts with one of her own. Their mating wasn't pretty, it wasn't soft or affectionate. It was angry and desperate and all-consuming.

Jack caught her mouth deeply and passionately. Possessively. He caressed the inside of her, exploring every inch of her mouth—and every inch of her sex. She cried out, curling her fingers into his hair, tightening them until she knew she hurt him but unable to ease her grip.

They climaxed together.

Without drawing out of her, he carried her to the bed. They fell onto it, him taking their weight. When she tried
to extricate herself from him, he tightened his arms around her and shifted so they lay on their sides facing each other. He kissed her, slowly and softly, moving his hands and his hips, growing hard again inside her.

The second time was tender, exquisitely so. Jack roamed her with his hands and mouth, exploring and enjoying, arousing and relearning, but most of all adoring. He worshiped her body, treating her to a tenderness he had never shown her before.

She quaked and shuddered and held him to her, crying out his name, her hips bucking up off the bed, anxious, so anxious to join with him again. But he held her off, making her wait, bringing her to the brink time and again, until finally, with his own groan of need, he drew her on top of him.

The ride was swift and tumultuous. She collapsed against him at the same moment he shuddered with his own release. For long moments, they lay like that, neither speaking. As the seconds ticked past, their hearts slowed, and their flesh cooled. Still, they didn't speak.

She loved him.
Becky Lynn squeezed her eyes shut.
She had never stopped.

Becky Lynn bit down on her lower lip to keep from crying out. She'd let herself down, she'd let Carlo down. She had promised herself she would be faithful to her husband; they had promised to forsake all others. Yet, even after everything, she had never stopped loving Jack.

She eased off him and onto her side. She felt his questioning glance but didn't meet it.

What was wrong with her? She wanted him so badly, she was willing to lay herself bare for him, yet he would never do the same for her. He had never believed in her,
had never seen her as anything but an addendum to him and his needs, be they professional or sexual.

“What's wrong?” he murmured, mimicking her thought of a moment before but with different intent. He moved his hand gently over her hair.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that rushed to her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was clear and without waver. “I want you to go now.”

“Becky Lynn?” He turned her face to his; she met his gaze evenly. “Is something wrong?”

“I just… I want you to go back to your room.”

For a moment, she thought she saw hurt in his eyes, then she called herself a fool. Jack had a much thicker skin than that—to be able to hurt him, he would have to care for her.

“Fine,” he muttered and swung out of bed. She curled into a ball of misery. He found his shorts, then pulled them on; she felt his gaze on her. She didn't look at him, she couldn't. If she did, she might beg him to come back to bed, she might totally humiliate herself and beg him to love her.

He released a pent-up breath. “What do you want me to say, Becky Lynn? What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing,” she whispered. “There's nothing to say or do.” She drew a ragged breath. “Just go. Please.”

For a long time after he left, she lay unmoving on the bed. She had let herself down, she had let Carlo down. She was a fraud; she felt like a cheat.

And neither changed the fact that she still loved Jack.

Becky Lynn turned onto her back and gazed up at the slowly spinning ceiling fan. Tangled in the sheets that smelled like their sex, she wondered what she was going to do now.

J
ack awakened to find Becky Lynn had gone. Sometime during the night, sometime in the few hours between when he had left her room and when the group assembled at the airport for their return flights, she had returned to Los Angeles. She had left a message at the front desk for one of the other models. She missed her husband, she'd written. She had gone home early.

She had run back to Carlo's safe arms, Jack thought, his mouth twisting cynically, back to her husband's passionless arms.

That had been a month ago; he hadn't seen or talked to her since.

Frustration tightened in his gut, and he muttered an oath. What they'd shared had been special, cataclysmic and stunning. It had changed the way he would look at women, and at sex, forever.

And she had simply walked away. She had kicked him out of her bed, then left without a word.

He hadn't a clue how she could have done that—he had been unable to sleep, eat or concentrate for wanting her. The want burned hot and bright inside him, stealing his sense of balance, his focus.

All he could think of, even all these weeks later, was of making love with her again.

Jack stepped into one of the Plaza Hotel's elevators
and punched the appropriate floor for the grand ballroom. He would see Becky Lynn tonight, finally. As Carlo's
adoring
wife, she would be required to be in attendance at this glittering tribute to Giovanni.

The fashionistas were throwing the old photographer a gala sixty-fifth birthday party, using the occasion as a tribute to his contribution to the art of fashion photography and his lifelong impact on the fashion industry—the man who had created the Fashion Scenario and had forever changed the face of fashion photography. Being held in conjunction with the New York showings of the designers' fall collections, fashionistas from coast-to-coast—and beyond—would be in attendance. Jack doubted many RSVPs had been returned in the negative.

He narrowed his gaze in determination. Tonight, he and Becky Lynn would talk.

Jack alighted from the elevator, nodding to various people he recognized on his way to the ballroom, but intending to stop and speak to only one.

Becky Lynn.

The ballroom had been lavishly decorated with the usual fare—balloons and streamers, elaborate flower arrangements and ice sculptures—but also with wall-size enlargements of some of Giovanni's most memorable, and influential, images.

Jack moved his gaze over them, their power stirring him deeply. No matter what he thought of Giovanni as a man, Jack couldn't deny either his gigantic talent or his awesome contribution to the medium.

The crowd parted and Jack caught sight of Becky Lynn, her bright hair a beacon in a room full of ordinary blondes
and brunettes. He gazed at her, his heart in his throat, his pulse buzzing in his head.

As if she sensed his gaze, she turned her head. Their eyes met. He felt the connection as an almost physical thing, as a shock to his system. He started for her, picking his way through the throng, never taking his gaze from hers.

When he got close enough to see the awareness in her eyes, she turned and walked away. For the entire evening, in a kind of sexual thrust and parry, a kind of frustrating and erotic mating dance, they circled each other. He caught speculative gazes on them, he didn't care if anyone knew what he was thinking and feeling; he hoped they did. He wanted to stake his claim on Becky Lynn Lee, and he intended to do just that.

She wouldn't stay with Carlo. After what they had shared, she couldn't.

“Hello, son.”

Jack drew his eyebrows together and turned to face Giovanni.

Several times during the evening, he had been aware of the old man's gaze on him and had wondered about it. Giovanni had never paid him any attention before, why tonight?

Jack lifted his eyebrows in cool question. “Hello, Giovanni.”

The older man smiled. “I see I've surprised you.”

Jack inclined his head. “We haven't spoken to each other in a long time. But then, we've had no reason to.”

“No?” Giovanni swept his gaze speculatively over Jack. “I've watched what you've done, what you've accomplished over the years.”

“Have you?”

The man nodded. “I've been proud.”

“Really? Proud?” Jack slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and arched his eyebrows again. “But what do you have to be proud of? You have had nothing to do with my success.”

“No? My blood runs in your veins. It has been obvious all along.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. This was the moment he had worked for, yet he felt nothing but a vague dislike for the man standing across from him, a mild revulsion. “How do you figure that? I seem to remember something about you already having a son. I seem to remember something about an arrangement with my mother.”

Giovanni lifted his shoulders, as if tossing the comments off as insignificant. “Neither changes the fact that you have Triani blood. That I am a part of you.” He made a sound of disgust. “Carlo, he is dead to me. He is weak, like his mother was. And he is not a man.”

Jack frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Even the woman Carlo calls his own, she is besotted with you.” Giovanni shook his head. “I had heard rumors about Carlo, but I had not known for sure. Until tonight.”

At Jack's look, Giovanni laughed. “You don't think I see? The sex, it smolders between you two. I can smell it. It has never been that way between her and Carlo, Carlo and any woman.” His gaze traveled over Jack's head, and his mouth twisted with disgust. “But with Carlo I have smelled it with other men.
Malato.
It makes me sick.”

Jack glanced over his shoulder. Carlo and Hugh Preston were together, talking quietly. They had been inseparable all evening. And although they stood respectable distances
from each other, even though their body language remained businesslike, Jack saw an unmistakable intimacy in the way they reacted to each other.

Jack had figured he'd picked up on it because he knew the truth about the two men, he hadn't thought anyone else would. He'd been wrong, obviously. He felt a moment of sympathy for his half brother, an urge to deny Giovanni's assertions, to hotly defend his brother.

He called himself a fool. Carlo would never defend him. He had done everything he could to keep him down and hurt him, including stealing Becky Lynn.

He returned his gaze to Giovanni's. “What are you getting at?”

Giovanni looked at Carlo once more. A small, self-satisfied smile tugged at his mouth. “They have asked me to say a few words to the gathering. Stay. They will be interesting words.”

Jack watched the photographer, his father, walk away, struggling to sort through the storm of emotion raging inside him. He thought of the eight-year-old boy who had conquered his fear and taken his heart to that man, only to have it crushed, only to be cruelly rejected. He thought of his vow, his promise to himself, that one day his father would want him, and realized that victory was almost his.

Giovanni was proud of Jack's accomplishments. He had called him son; he had acknowledged their shared blood.

Where was his elation? he wondered, frowning. Where was his sense of accomplishment? His pleasure?

Giovanni's choosing him over Carlo had nothing to do with him or his accomplishments. He had become the favorite son by default—simply because he was sexually aroused by women instead of men.

Jack swore, swung away from the dais and started for one of the ballroom's side exits. He had no intention of listening to anything else Giovanni had to say, he had no want to hear him. Just their brief exchange had left him with a sour taste in his mouth.

As he stepped out of the ballroom, he saw Becky Lynn up ahead, disappearing down the hallway that led to the rest rooms. He darted a glance over his shoulder, then followed her.

The hallway was empty. Smiling to himself, he followed her into the ladies' room.

Becky Lynn stood at the mirror, straightening the bodice of her low-cut gown. “Alone at last,” he murmured, his lips lifting, arousal kicking him squarely in the gut. “And not a moment too soon.”

She turned and met his eyes, her mouth forming a small, surprised
oh.
She harnessed her surprise and shook her head, managing to look indignant. “You can't be in here, Jack.”

He cocked an eyebrow and started toward her. “No? But I am. What does that mean?”

She took a step backward, a lovely shade of rose climbing up her chest and neck, over her cheekbones, going all the way to her hairline. “That you're a pervert?” she suggested, her cool tone belied by her wild flush.

“A desperate pervert.” He took another step and so did she. Her backside encountered the sink. “Desperate for this.” He took yet another step forward; his hips met hers.

She sucked in a sharp breath. “Jack…please.”

He leaned his head close to hers. “Please?”

“Don't.” Even as she murmured the words, she arched ever so slightly into him, pressing her pelvis closer to his.

“Don't what?” He laid his hand on her chest, on the creamy skin and curve of her breast exposed by the gown's daring neckline. “This?” The breath hissed past her lips, and beneath his palm, her heart beat wildly. Her nipples hardened, and gooseflesh raced over her skin.

With a soft laugh, he trailed his fingers over the delicate bumps. He leaned his head to hers, his mouth to her ear. “I want you, Red. Since New Orleans, I haven't been able to think of anything but you…and me…together.” He punctuated each word with a nip to the fragrant flesh of her throat.

She flattened her hands against his chest, her own chest rising and falling with her agitated breathing. “Anyone could come in.”

“Let them.”

He slid his hands into the vee of her dress and cupped her breasts. She shuddered and curled her fingers into his tuxedo lapels. “This is a mistake. New Orleans was a mistake.”

“Mmm.” He moved his palms back and forth across her erect nipples. “Is that why you left?”

“You know why I left.” Her head fell back as he lowered his mouth to her breast. “I missed Carlo—”

“Liar.” He bit her gently, and she moaned. “You left because what happened between us frightened you.”

From outside the door, came the sound of women's voices. Jack spun Becky Lynn into the last stall, snapping the door shut just as the women walked into the bathroom.

Becky Lynn looked horrified. He smiled and laid a finger against his lips, then pointed to the floor. With her standing between him and the door, her evening gown blocked any view of his feet from outside.

He bent his head to her and pressed his mouth to her ear. “Now I have you just where I want you.”

Her eyes widened, then she shook her head and glared at him.

He pressed his mouth to her ear once more. “Yes,” he whispered, only for her. “I'm going to make love to you, Becky Lynn.”

She glared at him again. He ignored her wordless warning and brought his mouth to hers in a deep kiss. She refused him her tongue. Undaunted, he lowered his lips to her throat and shoulders; he trailed his fingers across her collarbone and down the sides of her breasts.

Becky Lynn began to tremble. Her breath came faster, and she bit down on her bottom lip to keep from verbalizing her arousal, her pleasure. She flexed her fingers, fighting the sensations, fighting him, then finally brought her hands to his hair and twined her fingers in it, clutching him to her.

And as the women chatted and smoked just beyond the stall door, she offered him her mouth and her tongue.

Her dress zipped on the side. Ever so slowly, careful not to make a sound, he eased the zipper down, then slid a hand inside. Her abdomen was smooth and soft and slightly damp. He skimmed his hand lower; her panties were soaked.

She began to quiver. He nudged the bit of lace and nylon aside and buried his fingers inside her. She widened her stance, bucking and arching against his fingers, pressing the flat of her hands against the stall walls, bracing herself.

Her head fell back, and a soft, sweet moan passed her lips, a moan that couldn't be mistaken for anything but
what it was. The women outside went silent, then figuring out what was going on in the end stall, vacated the bathroom in a shocked rush.

Becky Lynn stiffened and tried to move away from him. He refused to release her, but instead began his debilitating attack again. One moment became several; her hands came to his shoulders. She cried out again, this time with orgasm, then sagged against his chest.

He held her to him, stroking her hair, his heart thundering, his erection painful. He pressed his mouth to her hair, and squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in the scent of her, letting it fill him like the sweetness of spring.

She drew away from him, tears sparkling in her eyes. “I hate you.”

“I can tell.” He smiled softly and smoothed the dampened tendrils of hair away from her face. “Remind me to have you hate me more often.”

“I love Carlo.”

Her words hit him like an unexpected right hook. Jack stiffened, not believing he could have heard her correctly. “What did you say?”

She angled up her chin. “I love Carlo. I'm not going to leave him.”

Jack dropped his hands, furious. “Your marriage is a sham. It's a prison.”

“I won't leave him.”

“You will.” He cupped her face in his hands and looked her in the eyes, his heart thundering. “You will leave him.”

She shook her head. “I won't, not ever. He needs me.”

“I need you.” Angry, he caught her to him and rotated his pelvis against hers. “You need this.”

She wrenched free of his grasp. “This is just sex, Jack.
Don't you get it? I made a vow to always be there for him, I won't break it.”

He met her eyes, realization dawning inside him. She meant it. She had no intention of leaving Carlo.