Red (17 page)

The last time she had been so foolhardy, she had paid a horrific price.

She drew a deep, steadying breath and peeked past the doorjamb again. She couldn't see Jack, but she could hear him. Minutes ticked past. She stood in the doorway, feeling uncertain and foolish. Feeling torn.

She pressed her hand to her fluttering stomach. Not every man meant her harm. Not every man was an animal like Ricky and Tommy.

Finally, she took another deep breath and stepped inside. She left the door wide open behind her. If he made a move toward her, she would scream her head off; if he tried to close the door, she would run for it.

She crossed the foyer, realizing when she reached the studio doorway, that she had been tiptoeing. Jack looked up. Their gazes met, and he smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners with the movement. “I knew you couldn't resist.”

She folded her arms over her chest, immediately defensive. “Yeah? Why's that?”

He motioned to the studio around them. “Because this interests you, that's why. Because photography interests you.”

She angled up her chin. “How do you know that?”

He opened a camera, dropped in a roll of film, then snapped it shut.

He grinned at her as he wound it. “You're here, aren't you? Against your better judgment, too.”

He had her there. One corner of her mouth lifted involuntarily in acknowledgment of that fact. Jack saw it and smiled.

“Besides,” he continued, setting the camera down,
“anybody else would have told Brianna those shots were good. Anybody else would have thought they were. You have a good eye. Where did you get your training?”

“I don't have any training.”

“Your dad a photographer or something?”

Or something was right.
She shook her head. “I've never been in a studio before. In fact, I…” She inched her chin up a fraction. “I've never even taken a photograph. I never had the opportunity.”

“No way. Not even with an Instamatic?” At her expression, he shook his head in disbelief. “What kind of place is Mississippi? They do have indoor plumbing, don't they?”

Her cheeks heated. With embarrassment. And annoyance. “Yes, we have indoor plumbing. Mississippi doesn't have anything to do with the fact that I've never taken a picture. My family didn't…we didn't have much.” She inched her chin up another notch. “Certainly not enough for luxuries like cameras and film.”

But we had enough for whiskey, she thought bitterly. There was always money for that. But she would never reveal that to Jack Gallagher.

“Sorry.” He picked up the camera and weighed it in his hand. “I shouldn't have said that.”

“It's okay.”

“Here.” He held out the camera.

She looked from him to the camera, and back. “What?”

“Today you take your first photograph.”

“I couldn't.” She shook her head and took a step backward. “Thank you, but—”

“I insist.” He grinned. “I don't think I could live with the thought that you'd never even held a camera in your hands. How could I sleep at night?”

She laughed, surprising herself, but still she eyed the camera warily. “What do I do?”

“Hold it up to your eye, focus and push the button. It's easy. Come here, I'll show you.”

She did. He showed her how to focus and which button to push to take the shot, then handed her the camera. A funny little catch in her chest, she weighed it in her palm. It was much heavier than she had imagined it would be, the metal cool against her hands. Cool and solid. Substantial.

She returned her gaze to his. “But…what should I take a picture of?”

“How about me?”

She nodded and he stepped back. She lifted the camera to her eye, focused and snapped. At that moment, Brianna swept into the room, a garment bag slung over her shoulder.

“I'm here!” She stopped dead when she caught sight of them. She shifted her gaze from Becky Lynn to Jack and back. “I thought you weren't coming.”

“I had a change of heart.” Reluctantly, she handed the camera over to Jack. “I hope you don't mind.”

“Of course not.” Brianna sounded as if she minded quite a lot. She frowned and turned to Jack. “Sorry I'm late. Big Bob was being difficult.”

Jack ambled toward her, and took the garment bag from her hands. “Couldn't bear to let you out of his sight, could he?”

Brianna sighed dramatically. “Being adored can be such a burden.”

“I'm sure it is.” A smile pulled at Jack's mouth, and Becky Lynn averted her gaze to keep from giggling out
loud. She didn't think Brianna would appreciate her amusement.

“Let's take a look at what you brought to wear,” he said, carrying the bag to the center of the room and laying it on the floor. “Come have a look, Becky Lynn. I'll be interested to see what you think.”

She did, but he didn't ask her opinion. Jack became all business, totally focused as he began to work. He didn't look at her or Brianna, even as he spoke to them.

He took one outfit after another out of the bag, discarding each as unsuitable. Too fussy. Wrong value. Distracting. Boring. Brianna attempted to disagree once, he stopped her cold. “Do you want me to take these shots?” he asked. She did, obviously, as she made not even a sound of protest again.

He decided on a high-necked black catsuit, a nubby, natural-colored sweater, and a huge, softly patterned silk scarf, then directed Brianna to the screen to change.

While she changed and Jack finished setting up, Becky Lynn wandered around the studio. Everything about the place interested and awed her. She recalled the way the camera had felt in her hands, cool and weighty and somehow alive. Holding it, looking through the viewfinder had felt right. A little thrill, a shiver of excitement, had moved through her, and she had wanted to take another picture. Then another.

Would she ever see the photo? She would like to, she decided. She would like to have it—
the first photograph she had ever taken.
She smiled to herself and shook her head. She was being silly.

She crossed to the studio's back wall and stopped in front of it. She moved her gaze over the photographs pinned across its surface, studying them.

“Are these yours?” she asked as he came up to stand behind her.

“All but those.” He indicated the ones at the center.

She wondered at their significance, but didn't ask.

“What do you think?”

She looked over her shoulder at him in surprise, drawing her eyebrows together. “You want my opinion?”

“Yeah, I do.”

She searched his expression, looking for the joke, the taunt, the secret amusement at having made a fool of her. She didn't see anything but sincerity in his expression. She returned her gaze to the photographs.

“Give me the truth, I can take it.”

“I think you're good. I think you're really good.”

He laughed, but with pleasure not sarcasm or malice. “Nothing up here's too muddy, is it? Nothing's too—”

“I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?”

At Brianna's question, they both turned. Brianna had stepped out from behind the screen, obviously expecting them to be awaiting her with bated breath. She didn't mask her pique that they weren't. When Jack caught Becky Lynn's gaze, his filled with amusement. She responded involuntarily, smiling.

Then he went to work, retreating to the private place she had seen him go earlier. But this time, he retreated even further.

Becky Lynn hung back and watched, fascinated, knowing instinctively that she dare not get in his way. He tuned out everything but his camera and subject, and in a strange way it was as if they became one.

As he shot, he moved, never stopping. He coaxed and cajoled and complimented Brianna.

“You're an actress, Brianna, you have to act for the camera. That's right, emote a little bit. Good. Beautiful, love. These chromes are going to be great. Just wait. Give me a little more…come on…that's right.”

Energy crackled in the room. An awesome energy, private and sexual. Becky Lynn rubbed her arms, rubbed the gooseflesh that rose on them. Jack was seducing Brianna, making love to her, without even touching her.

Engrossed, Becky Lynn responded to Jack's voice, his commands—tipping her head, softening her mouth, smiling.

She realized what she was doing and clasped her hands in front of her, feeling more than a bit foolish, but relieved to know that neither Brianna nor Jack had seen her. What would it be like to be on the receiving end of Jack's energy? Becky Lynn wondered. What would it be like to be Brianna, to be in front of Jack's camera, connected to it and him? What would it be like to feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, the only woman in Jack's world. For that, Becky Lynn guessed, was exactly what Brianna was feeling.

“That's my girl… Think sexy, the sexiest you've ever been in your life. Think about Big Bob.”

Brianna burst out laughing; Jack caught the moment and wrapped the session.

“These are going to be fantastic,” he said, rewinding the film. “You were incredible, Brianna. Very relaxed, a dream to work with.”

“It's you, Jack. You just make me feel so…good.” She stood and crossed to him. Stopping closer than appropriate for friends, she tilted her face provocatively up to his. “I don't know how to thank you.”

Becky Lynn inched toward the door, uncomfortable. She could see that Brianna knew how she wanted to thank him, and if what Becky Lynn had felt during the last hour was any indication, Jack would be more than willing to accept the woman's gratitude.

She wasn't wanted here. She was out of place. Embarrassed and uncomfortable, she took another step toward the door.

“Don't worry about it, Brianna. It was my pleasure.”

“But I want to thank you.” Brianna slid her arms around his neck. “It would make me feel…so much better.”

Becky Lynn cleared her throat. “Y'all, I've really got to go. Thank you, Jack. It was…interesting.”

Jack disentangled himself from Brianna. “Do you have to go? We could all go out for a drink or a bite to eat.”

She slid her gaze to Brianna. If she said yes to that, the other woman would claw her eyes out on the spot.

Becky Lynn smiled brightly and inched closer to the door. “No, I have to go. Thanks again. It was…great.”

Jack smiled. “I'll bring the proofs by The Shop. So you can see them.”

“I'd like that.” She swallowed hard. “Bye, Brianna. See you Tuesday.”

Turning, she escaped out the front door. It wasn't until she was a block away from Jack's studio that she realized she was trembling. And she wasn't sure why.

J
ack couldn't get the funny-looking redhead with the soft drawl out of his head.
Funny-looking.
He frowned. He supposed that description wasn't fair to Becky Lynn. Odd-looking, awkward, even. She had a face composed of features that didn't quite fit together. Large, almond-shaped eyes in a color that, depending on her mood, shifted between brown and hazel. A mouth too full for her narrow face and a long but unbelievably straight nose. Strong and elegant on their own, together her features unsettled rather than pleased.

He looked Brianna's proofs over one last time. Brianna, on the other hand, was extremely attractive. Pretty features and coloring, nice proportions and shapes. Everything about Brianna's looks fit neatly together. And yet her face didn't interest him, it didn't call to his artist's eye.

Did Becky Lynn's? Jack shook his head, tucked the proofs into his portfolio and started for the front door. He supposed not.
She
interested him, the person. He had never met a woman so uncertain of herself. At times, her fear became almost palpable.

He drew his eyebrows together. His mother believed Becky Lynn was a runaway, believed she had run all the way from Mississippi to California. That took some guts. It took determination and confidence.

Or a lot of fear.

He suspected the latter to be more the case than the former. What had she been running from? What had been so bad, so frightening, that she had run almost all the way across the country to escape it?

Jack locked his apartment door behind him, jogged down the steps to the sidewalk, then to his car. He tossed his portfolio onto the front passenger seat, climbed behind the wheel and started the engine.

He pulled away from the curb, heading for The Image Shop. Brianna's shots had turned out good. Several of them were excellent. He thought she would be pleased, and if she wasn't, well…it wasn't his problem if she couldn't see quality.

He had no doubts about Becky Lynn's ability to see quality, however.

He swung onto the Interstate 5 going toward Hollywood. What would she think of the shots? Not that it mattered, but he was curious. She had a damn good eye. Not better than his had been at the same age, but good.

Even though she had never been exposed to photography.

He thought about that a moment. He had a hard time believing she was a complete novice, yet he did believe her. Not with his head, but with his gut. Becky Lynn didn't have the ability to lie, and she certainly didn't have the wiles to play games.

He liked her, he realized. Despite her lack of savvy, despite her timidity. There was something basic about her. Something real and down to earth. And she was smart, her intelligence showing through the evidences of hardship and poverty, through the thick drawl and lack of worldliness.

Traffic slowed to a crawl, then came to a standstill. He swore and eased back against the seat, resigning himself to the fact that there was nothing he could do about southern California's traffic problems in general or this traffic jam in particular.

So, instead, he inched the car forward as the cars ahead of him inched forward, his thoughts returning to Becky Lynn. What was her story? And why did he scare her? He didn't think of himself as particularly threatening, especially to women. So why did he make her all but jump out of her skin?

Before Sunday's shoot he hadn't realized he unsettled her. He had assumed she disliked him. Or that she disliked men in general. But when she had refused to come into his place, choosing instead to wait alone on the front porch, he had known.

He had looked into her eyes, really looked, and had seen fear. He frowned, remembering. The emotion had been raw and real; it had taken him totally by surprise.

What was she so afraid of? It would be interesting to uncover her secrets, he decided, traffic clearing as if by magic. He accelerated and swung around the car in front of him, anxious now to reach The Image Shop and start his day. He had several things scheduled, including combing the fashion mart for potential clients. One of these days, it would pay off; one of these days, a designer was going to give him a shot. When one did, Giovanni and Carlo had just better watch their backs.

Moments later, he pulled up in front of The Image Shop and greeted Mac, who rushed forward to open Jack's car door.

“Hey, Jack. What's up?”

“Just bringing by some proofs.” Jack tossed the valet his keys. “I won't be long. Twenty minutes or so.”

“I'll leave it right here.”

Jack thanked him and let himself into the salon. Tuesdays weren't quiet, no day at The Shop was, but as days of the week went, it was less wild. He had come early, hoping to beat the majority of clients, and he saw that he had. Foster was at work, as was Marty. Brianna hadn't yet arrived, Foster told him when he asked, and Becky Lynn was in back.

Marty said nothing, giving him the same cold shoulder she had given him ever since he had turned down her offer of sex. He couldn't figure it, and supposed he never would, but it grated nonetheless.

He found Becky Lynn in the break room storage closet, unpacking a box of products. He dropped his portfolio on the table. “We've got to stop meeting like this.”

Startled, she swung around, hand to her throat. Her eyes met his and the expression in hers was anything but happy to see him. “You scared me,” she said stiffly.

“So I gathered. Sorry.” He slipped his hands into his pockets and cocked his head. “How was your day off?”

“Fine.”

She folded her arms across her chest, and he sensed that she wished she was anywhere but alone with him. “You know why I'm here?”

She shook her head.

“Brianna's proofs. Remember, I told you I'd bring them by?”

“You've got them already?”

Her expression softened, her stiff wariness replaced by an almost childlike eagerness. He grinned. “Yeah. Process
ing film takes no time at all.” He turned, unzipped his portfolio and pulled out the two eight-by-ten proof sheets. He held them out. “I think they turned out pretty nice. What do you think?”

She dropped the packing slip back into the box she'd been unloading, and crossed to him, dusting her hands on the seat of her pants. She took the photos. He noticed that her hand trembled as she moved her gaze almost greedily over the shots.

“Here, look through this. It'll help.” He reached into his pocket, took out a loupe and handed it to her. “Coffee ready?”

She didn't answer; he suspected she hadn't even heard him. He left her to the proofs, went to the coffeepot and found it half-full. He poured himself a cup, then took a sip, studying her as he did.

Without instruction, she held the loupe to her eye and the proof sheet, moving from one shot to the next, her expression rapt.
She really loves this,
he thought. It wasn't simply interest. It wasn't even fascination. She loved it. He drew his eyebrows together. Why? What made this woman tick?

She lowered the loupe; reluctantly, he thought. She set the proofs gingerly on the table, then clasped her hands in front of her. “Thank you. For letting me look at these and for letting me come to the shoot.”

“You're welcome.” He arched his eyebrows in question, waiting for a comment. When none came, he shook his head. “Are they that bad?”

“Pardon?”

“The shots. Are they so bad, you don't want to comment?”

“No!” She shook her head vehemently. “Not at all. I just didn't…I didn't feel it was my…place to comment.”

“Not your place to comment?” He arched his eyebrows in disbelief. “You were a part of this shoot, in on it from the beginning. You have an excellent eye, and you were right about those other shots. Of course I'm interested in what you think.”

She flushed, looking at once embarrassed and pleased. “I think they're great,” she said softly. “I think they're wonderful.” She twisted her fingers together. “Marty and Brianna were right about you. You're…you're as good as any of those guys in the glossies, Jack. Better, even.”

He grinned and tossed his half-full disposable coffee cup into the trash. “Better than any of those guys, huh? You made my day, Becky Lynn.” He closed the distance between them and touched the tip of her nose. “And here I thought you were going to pound me into the ground.”

At his touch, she took a quick step back from him. “Why would you think that?”

Her voice sounded small suddenly, and afraid. She didn't like to be touched, he realized. She didn't want him to touch her. He had crossed an invisible line.

He took a step away from her, giving her space. “Well, it's obvious you don't like me. It's been obvious from the first.”

“That's not true.” She folded her arms across herself. “It's just that…just that I—”

“Jack!” Brianna sailed into the room. “Foster told me you were here. Are they ready? Do you have them?”

Becky Lynn used the other woman's entrance to make her escape. She murmured something about needing to see
if anybody out front was looking for her, and hurried from the break room.

Cheeks stinging, she rushed into the main salon, glancing wildly around for something to do, for something that would occupy her thoughts.

Something that would put Jack Gallagher and the way he looked at her out of her mind.

She found nothing. None of the artists called out a request; the buffet was stocked, the waiting room neat. She passed by Sallie's office; her boss only nodded absently at her.

Becky Lynn drew in a shaky breath. Jack looked her in the eye when she talked. He listened to her. He acted as if what she had to say mattered and as if he thought her opinions had value.

Nobody had ever treated her like that before. Nobody.

She brought a shaky hand to her chest. Why did he do that? Why couldn't he treat her the way everybody else did? Then she would know how to act around him, then she wouldn't forget who she was.

Jack did make her forget herself. The way he treated her made her feel…special. The way he called her Red. He made her feel different than she was—less ugly, more like the girl she had always longed to be.

Stupid, she thought, glancing frantically around her again. She wasn't different; it was Jack who was different. And she had better not forget it.

She ducked into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. She crossed to the mirror above the sink and gazed at her reflection. She saw herself as she had been the night she'd dragged herself home after Ricky had raped her. As she had looked after she had learned of her
brother's betrayal, the way she had looked as her mother had turned away from her.

Tears choked her. It hurt to look at herself. She was ugly. She was the same girl the boys at school had called names and barked at. She was the same girl whose father reviled as too ugly to ever be loved, the girl over whose head boys had shoved a paper bag so they wouldn't have to look at her face while they raped her.

The tears welled up and spilled over, but still she forced herself to gaze into the mirror. Jack made her forget she was that girl. He looked at her as if he didn't see how ugly she was.

But he had eyes. He did see.

She fisted her fingers on the edge of the sink, her knuckles popping out, whiter even than the porcelain. If she forgot that, she would be vulnerable to him. If she forgot that, he could hurt her. Not the way Ricky and Tommy had, but in a way that would leave its own brutal scar.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She wouldn't let him hurt her; she wouldn't let anyone hurt her, not ever again.

“Becky Lynn.” Marty tapped on the door. “When you're done in there, Sallie needs to see you.”

She opened her eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay,” she called, turning on the cold water. “Be right out.” She splashed the water on her face and wrists, then patted them dry. She wouldn't forget; she would be safe.

Moments later, she reached Sallie's office. Her heart sank. Jack was with his mother, saying goodbye.

He saw her and smiled. “I'm glad I ran into you before I left. I have something for you.” He partially unzipped his book and thumbed through it. He found what he sought,
and pulled out an eight-by-ten photo. He handed it to her, looking pleased with himself.

It was a shot of him, and she stared at the photograph, not comprehending.

“It's yours,” he said. “Turn it over.”

She did. Scrawled at the bottom in black marker, he'd written:
Red's first photograph. February, 1985

Her hands started to shake. She gazed at the image, touched more than she should have been. The gesture meant nothing to him, but to her it meant…everything. No one had ever given her anything before. No one had ever been so thoughtful.

So this was how it felt to be treated with kindness, she thought, lifting her gaze to his. This was how it felt to be treated like a person whose feelings mattered.

“I don't know what to say, Jack. I…just, I—” She swallowed past the emotion choking her, and smiled weakly at him. “Thanks.”