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She could do it, she realized. She wanted to do it.

She drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders, determined. She and Carlo had taken a vow to protect and care for each other; he needed her now, more than he ever had.

But her doing the shoot was about more than that, Becky Lynn admitted to herself. She had never loved modeling, but had always longed to pick up the camera. If she could do this and do it well, she would help Carlo and have an entrée into the business.

Decision made, she sprang into action.

Vogue
's fashion editor stared at her, aghast. Beside the woman, the art director made small, nervous clucking noises with his tongue.

“But, Valentine…dear…you're a model.”

Becky Lynn met her gaze confidently. “I was a photographer first.”
A small white lie.
Becky Lynn crossed her fingers. “A fashion photographer.”

“Really?” The woman's forehead wrinkled with thought and Becky Lynn knew she was searching her memory. “I can't recall…who were some of your clients?”

Becky Lynn chose some of the smaller accounts she had shot with Jack, not wanting to tip the woman's memory to the fact she had been Jack Gallagher's photographic assistant. “Jon Noble Clothiers,” she murmured. “
Los Angeles
magazine, P&J Unlimited.”

“Oh, yes…well.” The woman made a small, fluttering motion with her right hand. “That's very nice, dear, but those clients are certainly not on a par with
Vogue.
”

For a split second she considered giving up, then she thought of what Jack had said to her all those years ago,
when she had pretended to be his assistant—
Illusion is everything. Act like you know what you're doing, and everyone will believe you do.

“Look, Bev—” Becky Lynn slipped her arm through the other woman's. “These shots are going to be fantastic, sensational. You'll be the one lauded as having given me my start. Quite a coup for you and
Vogue.
Besides—” She met the editor's eyes. “What do you have to lose?”

Bev narrowed her eyes on Becky Lynn. “You really think you can do this?”

“I know I can. Bev, darling…” She leaned a fraction closer to the other woman. “I'm a photographer and a top model. Who could possibly know more about what makes a great shot?”

Bev agreed to let her shoot, but not without hesitation. Jon looked as if he were either going to wet his pants or have a heart attack, and the art director couldn't stop making duck noises.

An hour later, that had all changed. Bev was smiling, the art director's mouth had stop twitching and Jon was following her every order, looking capable and completely relieved.

Becky Lynn smiled to herself, elated. The camera felt like an extension of her arm and eye, her mind. She felt totally in tune with her camera assistants, with Bev, the models.

When she had began this, she had intended to follow Carlo's plan for the spread. It hadn't worked out that way. Her own ideas, her own head, had taken over. She realized now that she couldn't have followed Carlo's plans—the shots would have been wrong, they would have rung false.

Because she was a female, the models' reactions to her
were different than they would have been to Carlo. The sex thing was gone, replaced by something friendlier, like girlfriends at a slumber party. That change in energy was being reflected in the models' body language, subtly in their expressions, their eyes. The camera would catch those changes, it would magnify them.

“Oh, Christy,” Becky Lynn exclaimed, “how wonderful. Perfect.” She shot and moved and shot again, all the while calling out direction and giddy praise.

“I like that.” Bev circled behind her. “Let's try that again. Oh, and bring Jasmine in.”

Becky Lynn did, a feeling of power and self-satisfaction sweeping through her. That worked, so she tried another variation, then another.

By the end of the session, Becky Lynn was exhausted, energized and totally sated. The way she had felt after making love with Jack, she realized. Only this time, she had been making love—making magic—with the camera.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, the camera in her lap, the studio empty now, and silent. She had sent Jon for food, informing him that they were going straight to the darkroom when he returned. If they processed until the wee hours, she could be in New York with chromes for Bev by tomorrow, late afternoon.

Becky Lynn tipped her face toward the ceiling and laughed. She had done it. She had pulled it off. And, as she had promised Bev, the shots were going to be sensational. She was as certain of that as she was that Christmas would come, she felt it deep inside her, in a place and a way she couldn't articulate but recognized.

This was what had been missing from her life, she realized. This was what she had wanted, what she had
yearned for—her own studio, her own career as a fashion photographer. Her entire life had been building to this. She felt the truth of that deep in the pit of her gut.

Her smile faded. What would Carlo think of this? Would he be happy for her? Or would he see her success as his failure?

He would be happy for her.
They didn't have any jealousy between them; he would know that initially, she had done this to help him.

Tremayne, on the other hand, would be most unhappy. Although she didn't intend to get out of modeling immediately. It would take time to make the transition, time to earn and save enough money to set up her own studio and keep her and Carlo financially comfortable.

But once she made the transition, she would never look back, and she would never miss being in front of the camera.

Becky Lynn closed her hands over the camera and drew in a deep, healing breath. She had found the course for the rest of her life.

“I
t's eleven a.m., southern California, and another perfect California dreamin' day.”

The radio station's two deejays went on the describe the latest midmorning traffic crisis, and Carlo tuned them out, gazing at his garden, thinking of Becky Lynn. The garden reminded him of her—vibrant and strong, full to bursting with life. His lips lifted. There was nothing Becky Lynn couldn't do.

Even take his pictures for him.

Sunshine spilled over him, bright and hot. He slipped his hands into the deep pockets of his silk robe. He could imagine the industry talk now:
“Carlo's wife, a model, for heaven's sake, takes his pictures for him. And they're wonderful…simply wonderful.”

His lips lifted a fraction more. He supposed he should feel emasculated or shamed, but he didn't really care. In the months since the gala and Giovanni's rejection, he had moved beyond worrying what the industry thought of him. He had moved beyond caring about making beautiful images. It all seemed so silly now.

He was happy for Becky Lynn. She had found something she could hold on to. Knowing that made it easier for him.

He turned his back to the garden and faced the spa, its water clear crystal blue. The cleaning crew had just left;
he had called them out special—he wanted the water to be perfect.

Red water.

A catch in his chest, he thought of his beautiful mother, thought of her death and his own upon finding her. Funny how death didn't frighten him anymore, funny how running from it made less sense than facing life.

He had called Hugh this morning, had left a message for him on his apartment answering machine. He had admitted to the other man what he had been afraid to admit until today, admitted the depth of his feelings. He had asked Hugh's forgiveness in advance, for everything.

A sparrow flew across his line of vision, darting toward the fruit trees at the edge of his property. His father hadn't called; he hadn't talked to him since the night of the gala. He had wondered how his father had discovered the truth about his sexual orientation, then had decided that it, too, didn't matter.

Giovanni should have known a long time ago. He should have told his father, he wished he had had the guts.

He hated having been a coward. As he looked at his life, that was the thing he most regretted.

Jack.
Carlo thought of his half brother, but didn't feel any anger toward him or blame him for this, although he suspected Becky Lynn did. He knew that he could blame no one but himself.

Carlo lifted his gaze to the blue sky.
He would have liked to have had a real brother. He would have liked it if he and Jack had been friends.

Carlo threw off his robe and stepped nude into the spa. He had been running from death for so long.

The time had come to stop running.

The deejays announced the time again, and Carlo calculated.
Twenty minutes.
That's all the time it would take.

Still and warm, the water enfolded him like a womb. He poured a glass of champagne, then sipped, enjoying the crisp, dry wine, savoring its cold sting against his dry throat. He did love the taste of good champagne; it was one of the things he had enjoyed very much.

He set the wine down and rested his head against the side of the Jacuzzi. In the background, he heard the start of an old Jackson Browne tune. He tried to remember where he had been during the song's heyday, but couldn't and let the search go, let his mind drift, picturing endless blue skies and drifting white clouds.

He saw now; he understood and forgave. It wasn't that his mother hadn't loved him, but that she had been unable to bear the pain of not being loved. Just as he couldn't bear it.

He hoped Becky Lynn, too, would understand and forgive.

Twenty minutes.

He opened his eyes and reached for the razor blade, shiny and new. The metal was cool and smooth against his fingertips, but hot and sweet against his wrists. After a moment, the burning sensation passed, replaced by a vague, reassuring numbness.

Carlo leaned his head against the spa side and dreamed of endless blue skies and the sweet absence of pain.

U
nable to quell the sense of urgency clawing at his gut, Jack changed lanes, roared around several cars, then cut them all off to fly down an exit. He flipped on the car radio. Jackson Browne's classic “Running on Empty” was winding down, fading into a more recent hit by Bruce Springsteen.

He had to see Carlo. He had to try to talk to him.

Jack muttered an impatient oath as a truck pulled out in front of him, forcing him to slow up. Since the night of the gala, the sense of urgency had been steadily growing inside him. The more he thought about Giovanni's actions, the more they sickened him.

And the more he understood them.

He saw everything so clearly now. He had been used as a pawn in Giovanni's game, a game that had fed Giovanni's giant, twisted ego. Just as Carlo had been used, as the entire fashion industry had been used the night of the tribute.

He drew his eyebrows together and gripped the steering wheel more tightly. He had spent his entire life trying to win the affection of a man who was worth less than nothing. He had longed for the admiration of a man who had, without hesitation, crushed the heart and hopes of an eight-year-old boy. He had fought for the admiration of a man whose values were so skewed as to equate a man's
value only with his sexuality; a man who before everyone to whom it would matter had purposely humiliated his son.

Giovanni had never loved or respected anyone but himself, yet both he and Carlo had spent their entire lives trying to win his approval and affection. Giovanni wasn't good enough to lick either of their boots. He saw that so clearly now, why hadn't he before?

He wanted Carlo to see it, too. Carlo needed to see it. And maybe then, they could start over. Maybe then, no longer adversaries, they could begin being brothers.

Jack had heard talk since the gala, talk about Carlo burying himself in his house, refusing to come out, canceling shoots. The gleeful edge to the talk had made him angry, had made him defensive for his half brother and Becky Lynn.

Becky Lynn.
His heart turned over, and he swore silently. She had called Carlo a real man, kind and giving. She had accused him, Jack, of being totally fixed on ambition and revenge.

She had been right.

If he had been able to see further than his need to discredit Carlo and prove himself to Giovanni, he wouldn't have betrayed her. And he wouldn't have lost her.

The night before her marriage to Carlo, she had told him to take a good look in the mirror if he wanted to know why. He had finally understood what she meant. And when he had taken that look, he had come up lacking.

Becky Lynn had married Carlo and stayed with him because of the way he treated her—as if she was special, important, as if they were a team. Jack had never treated her like the treasure she was. Everything had always been about him, his needs. He had been a fool.

Jack swung onto Carlo's street, sped up it, then wheeled into his brother's driveway at a breakneck speed.

Today he had changed that. He had let go of his anger; he had forgotten revenge. In truth, he had started letting go of them, bit by bit, a long time ago. The night before Becky Lynn married Carlo, he realized. The night he had realized how much she cared for his half brother and
the why?
had started to eat at him.

Jack swung out of the car and jogged to Carlo's door. He rang the bell, then pounded on the door. “Carlo,” he shouted, “it's Jack.” He pounded again. “Open up. We need to talk.”

Music came from around back, Jack recognized the song was the same one he had been listening to in his car. He went to the side of the house, letting himself in through the unlocked gate.

“Carlo,” he called again. “It's Jack. We have to talk.”

At first, he thought Carlo was asleep, sprawled against the side of the spa, one arm dangling over the side. Then he saw the blood, the red water.

A cry of denial in his throat, Jack raced to his brother's side. He pressed his shaking fingers to Carlo's neck. Even as he found a faint pulse, Carlo's eyelids flickered open.

Alive, he was still alive.
Jack tore off his T-shirt and ripped it in strips, frantically wrapping one piece tightly around Carlo's left wrist, the other piece around his right.

“Don't,” Carlo managed to say, his voice faint, almost unrecognizable. “Don't…stop me.”

A cordless phone sat on the edge of the spa; Jack grabbed it and dialed 911, wondering why Carlo had placed it there and who he had hoped would call and stop him. Giovanni? Becky Lynn?

Or had he left it close in case he changed his mind?

Choked with emotion, he spoke as clearly and succinctly as he could to the 911 operator, then hung up the phone and turned to his brother. Carlo's skin had taken on an ashen cast, but his mouth formed a small, peaceful smile.

“No, damn you…don't you do this.” Jack gathered Carlo in his arms as best he could, pressing frantically on the bandages, hoping to stop the steady seep of blood. “Don't die, Carlo… Becky Lynn needs you. I need you. Dammit, Carlo…”

Carlo's lids fluttered up again. He met Jack's gaze though his eyes didn't quite focus. “He…always threw you up…to me.” Carlo dragged in a shuddering, weak breath. “I…wished…we were…brothers.”

Carlo's eyes shut, then eased open again, but Jack saw the incredible effort it took. Frightened, he held Carlo tighter. “Tell Becky Lynn I…”

The wail of sirens ripped through the morning air, and Jack shook Carlo. “No, damn you! You can't die. I won't let you.” He held Carlo's head against his shoulder, cradling it, rocking back and forth. “You're the only brother I've got, you son of a bitch. You can't die…you just…can't…”

The paramedics arrived and shoved Jack roughly out of the way. Jack cried out in frustration, not wanting to let go, not wanting to give up. He didn't have to ask to know it was too late.

“It's eleven forty-two and a perfect seventy-nine degrees, California. And for all of you beach bunnies out there, it's Time to Turn!”

With a howl of rage and pain, Jack snatched up the radio
and flung it as hard and as far as he could. It crashed onto the concrete, shattering, a splinter of plastic skittering into the pool.

Eleven forty-two.
He dropped his face into his hands.
Too damn late… He had been too damn…late.

From out front he heard the slam of a car door, then heard Becky Lynn call Carlo's name, a hysterical edge in her voice.
He couldn't let her see Carlo this way.

She came around the side of the house. He darted toward her, trying to block her view of Carlo as the paramedics lifted him out of the spa.

He was a second too slow. She saw Carlo and screamed.

Jack caught her and hauled her against his chest. A bird burst from its hiding place in the branches of a tree above them, the frantic beat of its wings mimicking the flailing of her arms and legs as she fought him.

She wrenched herself free and threw herself at Carlo, hanging on to him, weeping, the blood staining her white linen shirt and slacks, the vivid slashes of color an obscenity on the pristine white.

Jack went to her. “Come on, baby,” he coaxed, gently prying her fingers loose, then her arms. “Come on, honey, let go. That's right…you have to let go.”

Sobbing, she released Carlo, and the paramedics lifted him onto the stretcher. Jack held her against his chest, grief rising inside him, threatening to swallow him whole. He pressed his face to her hair, the clean fragrance of her shampoo a breath of life in this moment of death.

“I'm sorry, baby,” he whispered brokenly. “So very…sorry.”

With a cry of pain, she jerked out of his arms and whirled to face him. “Don't you tell me how sorry you are!
You did this! You killed him, you son of a bitch…you killed him.”

She lunged at him, striking out at him with her fists, sobbing out her hatred for him. He blocked her blows, but didn't try to stop her. Her accusations ripped at him, bruising him more than her fists ever could.

The police arrived on the scene and pulled her off him. The fight drained out of her, she sank to her knees and wept.

Jack gazed at Becky Lynn, hurting with a depth he hadn't felt since he had faced his father and offered him his eight-year-old heart. He drew a shuddering breath, longing to hold and comfort her, longing to take her grief and give her his own.

One of the officers laid a hand on his arm, but Jack didn't look at him, he couldn't take his gaze from Becky Lynn. He needed her so much, he couldn't draw a whole breath without her; yet she wouldn't let him touch her. She hated him; she blamed him for Carlo.

“We'll need to get a statement.”

Jack dragged his gaze to the officer and nodded. They moved away from her, but not far enough to escape her soft, brokenhearted keening.

“Is there someone you can call for her?” the officer asked. “I don't think it would be wise for you to stay.”

He had said there was, but minutes later, when he'd finished his statement, he realized he hadn't a clue who he should call. As far as he knew, Becky Lynn had no one she was close to—no family or close friends. Carlo had been her everything. The truth of that resonated through him, and suddenly he understood what Carlo had meant to her.

The understanding did not bring him peace.

In the end, he called Sallie. Stunned, she had come right over. To his great relief, Becky Lynn had turned to his mother, allowing the older woman to hold and comfort her. Jack found a prescription for Valium in Carlo's medicine cabinet and urged his mother to convince Becky Lynn to take one.

Wanting, needing to help her, he called Tremayne so she wouldn't have to, then arranged to have the spa emptied and cleaned. With nothing else to do but listen to Becky Lynn's sorrow, he left her in his mother's capable hands.

He had had a brother, now he had none.

Jack climbed into his car and drove, no destination in mind, his rage and grief churning inside him. Jack gripped the steering wheel, his jaw set so tightly it hurt. He had hated his father, yet he had tried to become him. He and Carlo had been brothers, they had needed each other, but they had both been too blinded by their ridiculous competition over Giovanni to recognize that.

He saw what was important now, who was important. He wished with all his heart that he could have seen it sooner. If he had, maybe, just maybe he would still have a brother.

He drove recklessly, his Porsche eating up the miles, and suddenly he realized his course hadn't been aimless. He had found his way to Giovanni's studio. He angled into a spot in front of the building, then slammed out of the car, his rage and grief growing to immense proportions, twisting together to form something awesome and frightening.

He burst into the studio, slammed Tank out of the way
and strode across the set, murder in his heart. A collective gasp moved through the room, then a deathly silence.

Giovanni lowered his camera, turned and saw Jack. He paled.

“You son of a bitch! You killed him!” Jack grabbed the old man's shirt in his fists. “He's dead, you bastard. Your son is dead.”

For one thin, bloodless moment, as Jack stared into Giovanni's eyes, he thought about killing him, imagined pounding him senseless, then finishing him off. Then he thought of Becky Lynn, of Sallie, and of Giovanni himself.

The bastard wasn't worth it.

Jack released him. The old photographer stumbled backward, into a tripod. It and the camera fastened atop it crashed to the floor. Giovanni righted himself, barely, and Jack advanced on him, breathing hard, fists clenched.

He met his father's eyes evenly, coldly. “You have no son now, old man. It's Sallie Gallagher's blood that runs in my veins. And what there is of you, I deny. You have no one.”

As Giovanni crumpled, Jack turned and walked away.