Red (28 page)

Zoe met Becky Lynn's gaze. She smiled. “Of course we were.”

T
he light rain had become a downpour. Becky Lynn stood at Carlo Triani's front door, soaked to the skin, her stuffed duffel bag slung over her shoulder, one of Carlo's cards clutched in her hand.

Come to me. I'll make you a star.

She stared at the card, her chest heavy and aching—with the tears she had already poured out, with the ones she held back. She wouldn't cry anymore; neither Jack nor Zoe were worthy of her grief.

Then why did it hurt so much?

She pushed the thought away and dropped the duffel to the stoop. She would sooner sleep on the street than stay one night under the same roof as Zoe.

She just might have to. Becky Lynn pushed her wet hair away from her face. She had no job, no friends, no place to live. She was alone, the way she had been the day she'd arrived in California.

She lowered her gaze to the card once more.
Come to me. I'll make you a star.

She had no place else to go, no one else to go to. She drew a deep, ragged breath. But she wasn't afraid. If Carlo turned her away, if he laughed in her face, she would be okay. She would survive.

But this way, if Carlo meant what he'd said, she could have revenge.

Drawing another deep, steadying breath, she rang the bell. Several moments ticked past. Just as she began to fear he wasn't home, the door swung open.

Carlo stood before her, sleepy-eyed and half-dressed. Even as fear rippled over her, she hiked up her chin and met his gaze evenly, in challenge. “Did you mean what you said?”

He swept his gaze slowly over her, then brought it back to her face. His expression revealed nothing of his thoughts, nothing of his feelings. He nodded. “Yes.”

“I need a place to stay.”

“For how long?”

“I don't know.”

He moved his gaze over her again. This time when he returned his eyes to hers, she saw a measure of satisfaction in them. Not so much, she thought, at her pain, but rather that he had been right about his half brother.

In that moment she understood the depth of his hatred for Jack—a hatred equal to Jack's for him. She shivered and rubbed her wet arms.

“He broke your heart, didn't he?”

Tears stung her eyes. She fought them back, feeling like a fool, determined she would not humble herself in front of him or any other man. Never again. “Yes. Just like you said he would.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He narrowed his eyes. “It won't be easy. I'll expect perfection, and I'll be brutal in my criticism.”

“I know how it works,” she said, bringing her chin up another notch. “I know about photographers. I worked for Jack, remember?”

“I'll make Jack look like a Boy Scout.”

“I don't care what it takes.” She fisted her fingers. “I
don't care what I have to do. I want to hurt him, Carlo. I want to make a fool of him. The way he hurt me, the way he made a fool of me. And I don't know how else to do it.”

Wordlessly, Carlo swung the door wider. She stepped across his threshold, leaving Jack and her life with him behind forever.

1988

B
ecky Lynn stepped out of Carlo's Beverly Hills bungalow and into the still morning air. She locked the door behind her, then started across the veranda toward the car Carlo had left for her to drive to his studio.

Another day. Her twenty-eighth since leaving Jack.

She reached the car, and looked over her shoulder at the house. Its windows sparkled in the sun, welcoming and warm. The house was small—two bedrooms only—and rather plain, but the back, with its terraced decks, Jacuzzi, pool and abundance of flowers, she likened to paradise. Once upon a time she had dreamed of living in a place like this, an elegant and luxuriously appointed home.

She would give it all up to be living back at her apartment, she missed it almost desperately. As she missed the life she had thought she had—the love, the friendship.

Becky Lynn called herself a fool and fisted her fingers. Jack had discovered she was with Carlo and had called several times. She had refused to take his calls, so he had sent a note. In it he had expressed sorrow but not apology. He wanted her back, he had said—
as his assistant.

Her chest hurt, and she drew a deep breath, willing away the ache. After what they had shared—what she had
thought they'd shared—how could she go back to being just his assistant?

She drew another deep breath and lifted her chin. Her life with Jack and Zoe had been nothing but a cruel illusion. A hoax perpetrated by two people who had cared nothing for her, not even enough to regret having broken her heart. The more she reminded herself of that fact the better off she would be.

Becky Lynn reached the car, a late-model BMW in perfect condition, and unlocked it. She slipped inside, her hands beginning to shake. She hated driving in southern California. The traffic scared her, as did the size of the interstates and the complexity of the routes she had to take. The first week, she had ignored Carlo's offer of his second car, taking the bus instead. But the bus trip to Carlo's studio had taken nearly two hours, so finally she had given in and driven herself.

She had discovered over the past month that, unlike Jack who had hated mornings and liked nothing better than to sleep until noon, Carlo hated sleep. He needed very little of it, and left for his studio at six every morning, no matter how late he had been up the night before. On his way to the studio, he always stopped at his gym for a workout, then for breakfast. With Jack, she had always arrived at the studio first, she'd made coffee, made a first round of calls, then awakened him.

Sometimes he had coaxed her into bed with him and they had made love, him still sleepy-eyed and deliciously warm.

Emotion choked her, and furious with herself, she fought it back.

She wouldn't think about Jack, she wouldn't long for
him, she wouldn't waste one more daydream fantasizing about how he would come for her, beg her forgiveness and promise his undying love. Not anymore she wouldn't. She despised him. She never wanted to see him again.

Becky Lynn reached the studio, took one of the spots in the small parking lot adjacent to the building and climbed out of the car. Even though the air was warm and the sun bright, she shivered, a feeling of dread coming over her.

Modeling was the most frightening, the most humiliating thing she had ever tried to do. She felt like a fool and a fraud. As Carlo gave her direction, she pictured the reactions of the people of Bend, she imagined their jeers, their howls of amusement. And she pictured herself, ugly Becky Lynn Lee—too ugly to even look at while being raped—standing in front of the camera, trying to pretend to be something she wasn't.

Poor, ugly Becky Lynn Lee. She couldn't even try convincingly.

Becky Lynn took a deep breath and started for the building, battling the almost overpowering urge to turn and run in the opposite direction. Carlo did make Jack look like a Boy Scout. He didn't mince words; he didn't worry about how his criticism might make her feel. Time and again over the past month, he had brought her to the point of tears.

Each time, she had fought them off. She had promised herself she wouldn't humiliate herself in front of him; she wouldn't give him a reason to dump her.

That was coming, anyway; of course it was. Carlo had grown more impatient and short-tempered with each day, and she had grown more despondent.

She squeezed her fingers into fists. She wanted to hurt Jack; she wanted to make a fool of him. One day he would regret how he had treated her, he would regret having thrown her away.

If not for the hatred that drove her, she wondered if she would have anything at all to live for. It forced her eyes open in the morning; it propelled her out of bed and into the shower.

She would face Carlo, she would face the cold eye of his camera, today and every day if in doing so she could hurt Jack.

She rang the studio's buzzer and Jon, one of Carlo's assistants, let her in. “Hey, Becky Lynn. How're you this morning?”

“Okay, Jon. You doing okay?”

“Doing great.” He locked the door behind her, and they moved farther inside. “You're right on time. Carlo and I just finished printing.”

Longing swept through her, so strong she ached. She had loved processing film, had loved printing. Some days, being around the equipment was torture—she wanted to touch it, use it. She missed her old job.

She shoved her hands into her pockets. “Anything outstanding?”

Jon shifted his gaze, and Becky Lynn knew they had been processing some shots of her, and that they had been less than stellar. Several different emotions swept through her—embarrassment and anger, impotence and frustration, defiance.

Why was she doing this? Why was she putting herself through this agony? She would never be a model.

“We got some…interesting things,” he answered vaguely. “I need to clean up. See you later, Becky Lynn.”

She watched him hurry off, then followed him, dragging her feet, not yet ready to face the day ahead.

Carlo stood at the other end of the studio, his back toward her as he talked on the phone. At first, she had been afraid of Carlo, afraid of him because he was a man and could physically overpower her. She had locked herself in her room at night, going so far as to jam a chair under the doorknob for extra security. She had kept her guard up at all times, prepared to scream or fight if she had to. Though he rarely touched her, she had frozen whenever he had.

Gradually, she had begun to feel comfortable with him. Her guard had begun to slip, her fear with it.

Carlo was different than Jack. He didn't possess Jack's overwhelming and potent sexuality, the quality that at first had made her feel small and vulnerable, and later had kept her every nerve ending tingling with awareness. And he treated her differently than Jack had, too. Other than his desire to use her to hurt Jack, he seemed totally uninterested in her. She found living with someone so impassive, someone who kept himself so aloof, at once strange and reassuring.

He hung up the phone and turned to face her, meeting her gaze. He arched his eyebrows, and she sensed he knew what she was thinking.

“Good morning,
bella.
Are you ready to make beautiful pictures today?”

She inched up her chin. “Very funny.”

“I don't joke about my photographs, Becky Lynn. Not ever. You should learn that.”

She pictured herself in front of the camera and hiked up her chin another notch. “Considering the subject, perhaps you should learn to lighten up.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You'll never make beautiful pictures with that attitude.”

She flexed her fingers, spoiling for a fight. “Maybe I'll never make beautiful pictures, no matter what.”

He swore and crossed to her, stopping so close she could touch him. He looked her square in the eye. “Then quit,
bella.
Quit now, I don't need this aggravation.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, working to calm herself. Why had she started this? She had learned that Carlo used his wits and tongue to wound; she had learned that he never backed down from a verbal challenge, never tried to soothe or placate.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm frustrated, that's all.”

For a moment, he said nothing, then he nodded. “Maybe today will be better. Juliette is in back waiting to do your hair and makeup. Go on. I've already instructed her about what I want.”

Today wasn't better. It was worse.

“No!” Carlo shouted at her, handing one of his assistants his camera. “Terrible! You look like I'm trying to kill you.”

“How do you expect me to look?” she shouted back, fisting her fingers in impotence and rage. “I feel like you
are
killing me. I hate this.”

Carlo's assistants scurried in all directions, anxious to get out of the line of fire.

“Then go.” He strode across the set, face mottled with rage. “Run to Jack. Beg him to take you back, it's what you want.”

“Never!” She jumped to her feet. “I'll never go back.”

“You lie. You're always thinking about him. Wishing for him to come for you.”

Her cheeks burned at the truth in his words, and she wheeled away from him. “When I think about him, I think about how I hate him. About how I want to hurt him.”

Carlo crossed to her, stopping so close she could feel the heat from his body, but he didn't touch her. “Then help me,” he said softly. “This is how we can hurt him. But I can't do it alone.”

She turned and met his eyes, pleading. “I'll be your assistant. I'm good. Really good. I worked with Jack for—”

“I have an assistant. I have several.”

She caught his hands. “He would hate our working together, he would. It would hurt him.”

“Nice try,
bella.
” Carlo disentangled his hands from hers. “But no.” He touched her cheek. “You model or you go.”

Tears stung her eyes, and she spun away from him. She crossed to a small chair in the corner and sank onto it. She lowered her eyes to her feet. “Being in front of the camera is so awful. It hurts so much sometimes that I can't breathe. It's humiliating, Carlo.”

“Why do you let it be so?” He shook his head. “Enjoy yourself in front of the camera. Let yourself have fun.”

She worked to clear her throat, choked with tears. Finally, when she thought she could meet his eyes without embarrassing herself, she lifted her head. “How can I have fun?” she whispered. “I'm ugly, Carlo.”

He shook his head. “You're not—”

“I am. I can see. All my life—”

“Forget the past.” He crossed to her and squatted in front of her. “To the camera you are beautiful.”

“No.”

“Yes.” He cupped her face in his palms, forcing her to look at him. “You must believe. You must trust.”

“I can't trust. I won't. Never again.”

“Trust the camera. Believe in it.” He moved his thumbs across her cheekbones. “It won't hurt you, it can't.”

She gazed into Carlo's dark eyes, wishing she could do as he said. Wanting to believe so much, it hurt.

“I have something to show you.” He drew her to her feet. “Come.”

He led her to the darkroom. The door was open, the light on. The photographs Carlo had printed that morning were clipped to the drying line. Her heart dropped. She had requested that he not show her any photographs of herself, and he had agreed. He had said he preferred it that way, anyway, as beginning models had the tendency to obsess with the product when they should be more concerned with the process.

“Carlo, no.” Becky Lynn tugged against his hand. “Not my pictures. Please, I don't want to see them.”

“You must.” His tightened his grip, hurting her, trapping her, and panic took her breath. She struggled against him.

With a sound of disgust, he let her go, and she stumbled backward. “You look or you leave, Becky Lynn. And if you go, I won't take you back.” He swept his gaze contemptuously over her. “What will it be, Becky Lynn? Will you go or stay?”

She rubbed her wrist, her fear ebbing now that she was free. She tipped up her chin. As far as she was concerned, she had only one choice. “I'm not quitting.”

He pulled out a half-dozen contact sheets and threw them down on the table, one after another in a line. She stared at the photographs, not believing her eyes.

The woman in them was beautiful.

It couldn't be her.
She leaned closer.
But it was. It was her.

She stared at the proof sheets. They had taken these a week before, the first time Carlo had arranged to have her hair and makeup professionally done.

“Yes,
bella.
It's you.” He touched her hair lightly. “You see what I have known all along?”

Becky Lynn shook her head, still not believing her own eyes. With trembling fingers, she picked up one of the contact sheets. She gazed at it, her mouth dry, her heart fast. The woman in the photos was beautiful. The camera had taken her strong, ill-fitting features and blended them together, reshaping the whole that was her face, creating something exotic and extraordinary.

Carlo handed her a loupe, and she looked through it, her vision blurring with tears.

She recognized the woman as herself, but not as she was, but as the beautiful woman she had always longed to be. Carlo had made magic. He had given her a miracle, had given her the most perfect gift, the one she had thought she would never have.

She lowered the loupe, and lifted her eyes to his. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I never thought that I…could look…like this. Thank you so much.”

For a moment, Carlo said nothing, but his expression spoke volumes. She caught her breath. For the first time, when he looked at her, she saw emotion in his eyes. It was as if, in the space of that moment, she had become a person to him.