Red (25 page)

Becky Lynn swallowed. Something in the other girl's tone tugged at her heartstrings. “I'm sorry.”

“Nothing for you to be sorry about.” She finished her cigarette in silence, continuing to stare out at nothing. Suddenly she stubbed out the cigarette and swung her gaze to Becky Lynn's. “Have you ever watched other people doing it? Not in a movie, but in real life?”

Startled, Becky Lynn shook her head. “Have you?”

“Lots of times.” Zoe looked away once more. “I was five the first time. I got up in the middle of the night ‘cause I'd had a bad dream. I went to my parents' room, and they were, you know, having sex. I just stood there…watching. It's not pretty, you know. It's kind of gross…like animals mating. And the sounds, they scared me.”

“Oh, Zoe, that's…awful.”

Zoe fumbled in her purse for another cigarette. When she lit it, Becky Lynn saw that her hands shook. “Actually, I think my dad saw me. I dream about it. In the dream, he turns his head and looks right at me. And he smiles. But he doesn't say anything, he doesn't…stop.” Zoe sucked in smoke. “Do you think he got a charge out of that? Out of doing it in front of his little girl?”

Becky Lynn swallowed, sick at the image. “That dream is probably just your memory playing tricks on you. It was an upsetting experience and you wished your father had seen you and stopped. From everything you've told me about the kind of father your dad was, I don't think he would do something like that.”

“Then why did he leave?” she murmured, half to herself, her eyes filling. “Why did he…go?”

Becky Lynn's heart turned over at the other girl's obvious pain. She reached across the table and covered
Zoe's hand with her own. “Maybe he didn't have a choice, Zoe. Maybe it had nothing to do with you.”

Zoe met her gaze; Becky Lynn saw gratitude in Zoe's eyes. “You're a nice person, Becky Lynn, you know that? I think you're the nicest person I've ever met.”

After that day, she and Zoe spent a lot of time together. Not just at the studio and during test shoots, but after hours and on weekends, as well. It was fun having another girl to talk to, having someone besides Jack to go places with.

She and Jack worked together and were lovers, but not in the way she had always thought lovers would be. They didn't spend every minute they could together; other than catching a movie or going out for a pizza or Chinese, they didn't go on dates. Becky Lynn secretly longed for Jack to take her out for a romantic dinner, she longed for him to send her flowers or a love note.

But Becky Lynn had learned that Jack needed his independence. He didn't like to be tied down, he didn't like to have his schedule dictated to him, not ever. He had apologized about his attitude that day at the beach. He had been tired, he'd said, and on edge. She had accepted his apology, but that day had taught her not to ask for more than he was willing to give. She had learned not to be possessive and not to be hurt when he needed space.

Becky Lynn told Zoe about her feelings, told her the things she longed for with Jack. She sometimes thought her feelings for Jack amused Zoe. Sometimes she wondered if the other woman was jealous of her and Jack's relationship.

And sometimes she didn't like the way Zoe looked at Jack, as though she wanted to eat him up. She hated her
feelings of jealousy, hated when she caught herself watching the two of them, hated the way she wanted to claw Zoe's eyes out when the other woman touched or kissed him.

She called herself overimaginative and insecure, she called herself disloyal—because most of the time, Zoe just acted like her friend. A friend who was there for her a lot more of the time than Jack was.

They had so much in common, she and Zoe, even though in most ways they couldn't be more different. Zoe liked to party. She liked men and flirting; she talked dirty and had a dark side that sometimes worried Becky Lynn.

But still, it seemed natural that when Becky Lynn mentioned a larger apartment had opened up in her building, Zoe suggested they move in together.

Becky Lynn said yes and within two weeks, she had a roommate. That first night, they stayed up until the wee hours, giggling together, sharing their dreams and their secrets.

When they finally agreed they had to get some sleep and said good-night, Becky Lynn lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling for a long time. For the first time in her life, she felt really lucky. She had a love, a friend to share secrets with, a job that she enjoyed and could be proud of.

She had everything, she decided, thinking of her mother, feeling that somehow, some way, her mother was with her.

Nothing could hurt her ever again.

J
ack began to sweat. He breathed deeply through his nose and told himself to stop thinking about what getting the Garnet McCall account would mean to his career. He told himself to concentrate instead on what he was going to say to the designer about her latest line, her photographic history, about her future and how she saw Jack Gallagher photography fitting into that future.

But how could he stop thinking about what getting this account would mean to his career when it would mean everything? He would cease to be
“Jack Gallagher, who?”
and would become
“Jack Gallagher, the guy who shoots Garnet McCall.”

He flexed his fingers as he prowled the lushly appointed waiting room. Finally, he would seriously challenge Carlo. Finally, Carlo would be forced to look over his shoulder because the
embarrassing bastard
was gaining on him.

“You're sure I can't get you a cup of coffee while you wait, Mr. Gallagher? I just brewed a fresh pot.”

Jack looked at the receptionist. A pretty blonde, she smiled at him. He returned her smile and shook his head. “No, thanks. I'm fine.”

He turned and crossed to a row of framed shots of garments from the various McCall collections. He cocked his head, studying both the designs and the photographs, impressed with the first but not the latter. He had heard
Garnet might be looking for a new shooter, and now he saw why—this guy's style was neither tough enough nor bold enough for her creations.

He narrowed his eyes, thinking of his chance encounter with the designer the day before. He had gone to the fashion mart in the hopes of garnering some interest in his book, enough to score an interview. Designers themselves rarely made an appearance at the mart; he usually talked to an underling—the designer's manager or assistant, the head of the sales force, even a press agent once.

Garnet McCall herself had been in the showroom. He had smiled at her, and she'd given him two minutes to show her his book.

She had been interested, very interested. She'd told him to call at her design studio the next day…so here he was, waiting and sweating.

Jack turned and found the receptionist gazing at him. Instead of being embarrassed or flustered at having been caught gaping, she sent him a slow, bold smile.

He returned the receptionist's interested smile and Becky Lynn's image filled his head. He swore silently, nodded at the receptionist and turned back to the wall and the substandard photos.

Jack scowled. He hated feeling guilty when he looked at another woman, he hated feeling as if he was cheating. He liked Becky Lynn; he liked being with her, but what he felt for her wasn't love. Even though they had been lovers for nearly a year, their relationship wasn't exclusive.

Then why did a receptionist's come-hither smile make him feel like a cheat?

Because Becky Lynn didn't understand those things about their relationship. She didn't have to say so; her
feelings were clear to read in her eyes, in the way she made him the focus of her life, in the things she expected from him.

He drew his eyebrows together, thinking of their relationship, searching his memory for the things he had said to her, promises he had hinted at without realizing it.

He had promised her nothing. He had worked at keeping their relationship loose and breezy. If she thought what they had was more, he wasn't to blame. Surely she had been in California long enough, in the business long enough, to understand how the relationship game was played.

She hadn't.

He thought back to the day he and Becky Lynn had become lovers—the day she had learned her mother was dead, the day she had told him about her past. His chest tightened thinking about it, a feeling of rage, of impotence taking his breath. He hadn't led a sheltered life; he'd seen his share of ugliness and dirt, but the thought of his Becky Lynn being brutalized that way sickened him. He had wanted to hit someone or something, he had wanted to find those boys and kill them.

They had gotten away with it. They had tried to destroy her, and they had gotten off scot-free. It wasn't right that they hadn't had to pay for their crime; for him, it made the crime that much worse.

He flexed his fingers. He should never have let sex happen between them. He had known that going in, he remembered thinking it at the time. But he had made love with her, anyway.

He had wondered countless times since, if he would have called it off had he known beforehand just how vul
nerable she was. Sometimes he thought yes, sometimes no. Most times, all he knew for certain was that he had gotten himself into a damn difficult situation.

He cared for her; he knew how much she had been hurt. She was a big part of his life. He hadn't a clue how to extricate himself from this situation. Not without losing her. Not without hurting her badly.

He didn't want to do either.

He thought of her excitement when he'd told her about this meeting, this chance at Garnet McCall. She had been completely confident. He smiled to himself. As far as Becky Lynn was concerned, he had the account, hands down.

“I like a man who can smile even after having been kept waiting a half an hour.”

Jack turned to face Garnet McCall. She stood in the doorway to the reception area, outfitted in one of her own creations—a form-fitting purple leather dress. A wide silver zipper ran from high neck to hem and held the two pieces of stressed fabric together.

He smiled his appreciation. “A man has to consider what lies at the end of the wait,” he said, crossing to her. “And in this case, what waited was quite wonderful.”

She smiled and swept her gaze over him. “I do like the way you go on, Jack Gallagher.”

“I do my best.”

She gazed at him a moment more, her expression thoughtful. “I'll just bet you do.”

She turned to the receptionist. While she gave the woman directions, Jack studied the designer. Garnet McCall was young, not forty yet and attractive in a lush, aggressive sort of way. A woman who had come from out
of nowhere to occupy a tier below the likes of Calvin Klein, Garnet McCall hadn't gotten there by being passive or weak.

Jack liked Garnet's aggressiveness, her straightforward way of approaching the business. With her, he would know where he stood. And he liked her clothes. They were tough and spirited. His work was well-suited to hers. Much better suited than the guy who had taken the stuff on the wall.

“I'll be in my office, Vicki. Hold all but the most important calls. Come, Jack—” She slid her hand through the crook of his arm. “Let me show you around my shop.”

Garnet took him through the facility, and he admitted being impressed. She had a large staff, all young, energetic and working at breakneck pace. The place reeked of success and of forward momentum. Everyone in Garnet's shop knew they were attached to a rising star, that they teetered on the edge of greatness. They felt it, just as he did.

He and Garnet ended up at her office, a large, spacious room complete with desk, drafting table and entertaining area. She led him to the couch and once seated, began flipping through his book, but slowly this time, studying, assessing.

Finally, she met his eyes, hers lit with challenge. She wasn't going to make this easy, he knew. But then, if she did, he wouldn't appreciate it half as much.

“I like you, Jack. I like you a lot.”

“Glad to hear it.”

She tapped his open book. “You have a fresh, bold style. A kind of lawlessness that fits my work.”

He inclined his head. “I think so, too.”

“You've had a few moments to look at my designs, a
few moments to get to know me. What do you think about my clothes, Jack Gallagher? What kind of statement do you think I'm making and where do you think I should go with my visuals?”

He met her gaze evenly, meeting her challenge, making one of his own. “Your clothes are sexy. You're sexy. And tough. Your designs aren't for the corporate woman, except when she wants to let her hair down and howl with the wolves. Your clothes are smart and stylish, they're for the woman who enjoys her body, the woman who enjoys being a woman.”

He laid his arms along the back of the couch, completely at ease now. “Your designs aren't for the weak, the mousy or the romantic. Your visuals should reflect that. They haven't so far.”

“In your opinion.”

“Yes, in my opinion.”

She stood and crossed to the desk. She leaned against it, braced on her palms. The posture accentuated the curves of her body, brought attention to the thrust of her breasts and the vee of her sex.

“You've never handled anyone of my caliber before. That concerns me.”

This was the point at which he always heard,
“Come back when you have more experience.”
Not today, he decided, determination burning in the pit of his gut. He didn't care what it took, but today he would not be turned away by that line.

He stood and crossed to stand before her, his gaze unflinchingly on hers. “I can handle your account, better than anyone else out there. Better than you can even imagine. I've heard that you've had your problems with
photographers, with your ad agency. You won't have any problems with me. You'll be unbelievably happy with Jack Gallagher.” He lowered his voice. “And with my images, the entire industry will be talking about Garnet McCall.”

She smiled and slid her gaze over him, obviously pleased. He had chosen the right approach, no doubt about it. A woman like her needed someone as tough, as confident and straightforward as himself. “They're already talking.”

“They'll talk more. A lot more.”

She cocked her head, studying him. “You've got balls, Jack Gallagher.”

“I like to think so.”

She leaned toward him, and he caught a whiff of her perfume, something earthy and potent. Arousal kicked him in the gut, and he sucked in a quick breath. The interview had just shifted from professional to personal.

“Before I make my final decision,” she murmured, curving her fingers suggestively around his forearm, “I'd like to get to know you better.” She wet her lips. “I'd like that a lot.”

His body stirred. He lowered his gaze to her mouth. He wondered how she would taste, how she would feel under his hands. Was she wet now? he wondered. He thought so. He saw the arousal in her eyes, saw her eagerness; he saw that her nipples strained against the thin, supple leather.

Nothing in this business came without a cost.

He closed the scant distance between them and lowered his voice to a husky murmur. “I'd like that, too, Garnet McCall. Very much.”

“I'm glad.” She caught his hand and brought it to her neck, to the star-shaped zipper pull. “Can you imagine what I have on under this dress, Jack?”

He eased a finger through the pull's wide opening. “Provocative question, Garnet.” He tugged and the zipper inched downward. “One I would love an answer to.”

The dress parted; he had his answer.

She had nothing on underneath.