Red (35 page)

“Hi.” She clasped her hands together, nervous, not knowing exactly what to expect.

He looked up and smiled. “You look…exquisite.”

Her vision blurred. “Thank you.”

“Come here.” He held out a hand.

She crossed to him, the thick carpeting softly cushioning her bare feet. She fitted her hand to his, and he folded her into his arms, holding her lightly. “I love you,
bella.
I'll take good care of you.”

“I know.” She tipped her head back and met his eyes. “I love you, too.”

He smiled tenderly, and brushed away a tear that rolled down her cheek. “Don't cry for him, he's not worth it.”

Emotion choked her. When had Carlo learned to read her mind? “I know.”

He kissed her forehead, then released her. “Have some champagne. It's a very good Dom.”

“All right.” She swallowed hard and watched him pour. The situation felt strange and wrong—too intimate for the friends they were, but not intimate enough for husband and wife. It would take some time to adjust, she decided, taking the glass from him. But once she did, it would be…fine. It would be good.

“To us.”

She smiled and tapped her glass against his. “To us.”

They sat on the small couch for a long time, sipping their champagne, making small talk. After a while, their conversation dwindled, then ceased altogether.

He met her eyes. “I suppose it's time to turn in.”

“I suppose.” She set her glass on the table and stood. “Thank you for…everything. It was a very…nice day.”

He followed her to her feet. “You're welcome.”

They stared at each other a moment, awkwardly. She cleared her throat. “Well…good night.”

She started for her room, stopping when he called her name. She met his gaze over her shoulder.

“Would you like to share my bed tonight?”

She understood his offer and it had nothing to do with sex. Tears stung her eyes. “I don't want to be alone.”

“Me, neither,
bella.
Come.” He drew her toward his bedroom and the big four-poster bed. The maid had turned it down while they were at dinner, and it beckoned.

They climbed in, and Carlo eased her against his side, holding her carefully. His skin was warm against her, strong and male, and suddenly she felt more lonely than she ever had. This was the wedding night she had always dreamed of—the gown and bed, the tenderness and warmth. But not the love. Not the passion.

She drew in a tiny, broken breath. She bit her lip, not wanting him to know she was crying, not wanting to hurt him. He had given her so much.

Carlo propped himself up on an elbow and gazed down at her. She felt his gaze, though she didn't look up. “Don't be sorry,
bella.
” He stroked her arm, her hair, her back. “Don't be sad.”

“I'm not,” she whispered. “You made me very happy today.”

He turned her to face him and brushed her hair away from her face. Strands stuck to her wet cheeks and he smoothed them away, too. He searched her expression. “Then why are you crying?”

Her eyes brimmed again, and she cursed her tears. “Because I'm silly. Because I…I have so much. More than I ever thought I would.”

“I know what's wrong, and I understand. You don't have to try to hide it from me.” He caught a tear with his thumb and brushed it away. “I do want you to be happy.”

He bent and kissed her softly and deeply, but without passion. She stiffened and tried to move away.

He stopped her, catching her hands and folding them in his. “Let me make you happy, Becky Lynn.”

“You do, Carlo. You—”

“No,
bella.
” He tightened his fingers over hers. “That's not what I mean. I want to please you tonight. On your wedding night.”

She flattened her hands against his chest and looked helplessly up at him. Suddenly, she ached to be touched. Suddenly, she needed to be held and stroked and loved, she needed that so much, she hurt.

She swallowed her needs and shook her head. “You don't have to do this. Don't you see? It's not necessary.”

“It is.” He trailed his fingers over her face, then bent his head to hers once more. “Close your eyes,” he whispered, his breath stirring against her cheek. “Let me make you happy.”

She did as he asked, letting her head fall back against his chest. At first, his hands on her felt strange, wrong. At first she felt uncomfortable and like a fraud. But as he stroked her, softly, patiently—too patiently for a lover, too selflessly for passion, yet still sweetly and warmly—she began to relax.

With her eyes shut, she could close out her uncertainty and self-doubt, she could close herself off from everything but the gentle stroke of his flesh against hers. A flame, small but bright, ignited deep inside her, and she stirred, needing, and wanting, more.

He responded to her needs, sliding his hands under her gown, moving them up her thighs until her found her center. He sank into her; she whimpered and arched against his hand. He moved his fingers, caressing her deeply, rhythmically.

He bent and caught her mouth, her tongue, murmuring sounds of encouragement, still stroking, exciting her more. She curled her hands around his neck, her nails into his skin, her heart thundering. It had been so long…and she was hungry, so hungry.

Jack's image filled her head, and she remembered—everything. She arched up against Carlo's hand, clamping her thighs around him, holding him hard against her.

As she exploded with orgasm, she cried out Jack's name.

T
he bar resembled any number of others on Sunset, places where the young, rich and beautiful of Hollywood came to let down their hair and have some fun without being recognized or hassled.

Jack had come for neither. He had come to celebrate Becky Lynn and Carlo's nuptials by getting stinking, fall-down drunk. He intended to find company for the night, and to wake up tomorrow with a hangover the size of which he would never forget. He wasn't certain who this behavior would punish, but at the moment, he wanted to punish Becky Lynn.

Mrs. Carlo Triani.

The bartender poured him another shot of tequila, and Jack lifted it in a mocking, drunken salute. She had done it. Becky Lynn had married his snake-in-the-grass, faggot half brother.

Jack pulled his mouth into a tight, grim line. He hoped they would be as unhappy as hell together.

He tossed the shot back, then sucked on one of the stack of fresh lime wedges on the bar in front of him. He dropped the lime onto a cocktail napkin, turned over the shot glass, snapping it sharply onto the bar in front of him. He motioned the bartender to bring him another.

She had known about Carlo, and it hadn't mattered to her. Jack dragged a hand through his hair, dumbfounded.
It hadn't mattered to her. He couldn't figure it. Becky Lynn was devoted to the son of a bitch. She loved him.

Why? She had told him if he wanted an answer, to take a long look in the mirror. Right. She was marrying a guy who would never be a real husband to her, and she told him to look in the mirror? He couldn't figure it.

“Hey there.”

Jack moved his gaze to the woman who had taken the bar stool next to his. He skimmed his gaze over her. She was beautiful, with thick dark hair and a full, slightly parted mouth that begged for the pressure of a man's against it. He lowered his gaze. Her silk blouse was partially unbuttoned, the gaping fabric revealed the curves of her lush, full breasts.

He lifted his shot glass in acknowledgment of her greeting, then tossed the drink back. He snapped the glass down on the bar, and wished she were a redhead, a natural carrot top with a slim, curveless body and a face with features that…a guy couldn't forget.

He swore under his breath and forced his attention to the woman beside him. “What's your name?”

“Meredith.”

Shit. Strike two.

She motioned the bartender. After giving the man her order, she turned back to Jack, leaning provocatively forward. “What's yours?”

“Jack.” He sounded surly even to his own ears.

She arched an eyebrow. “Why so glum, Jack?”

“Long, boring story,” he muttered, gazing into his drink.

“I have all night.”

He slid his gaze to hers once more. “Yeah?”

“Uh-huh.” That sexy mouth curved into a suggestive half smile. “Maybe some company would cheer you up?”

She wet her lips. His body stirred. She was beautiful and willing. She was just the kind of company he had hoped to find when he'd walked into the bar at four-thirty this afternoon, hours ago now. No strings, no emotional involvement. They could pass a couple of hours, maybe the entire night, in the best possible way. And for those few hours, he could forget that this was Becky Lynn and Carlo's wedding night.

Mrs. Carlo Triani.

You lose again, Gallagher. And it's your own damn fault.

He tossed back the remainder of his drink and stood. “Thanks, Meredith. And I have to say the offer's tempting. But I'm afraid I wouldn't be good company tonight.”

1994

B
ecky Lynn and Carlo celebrated their fourth wedding anniversary on the island of St. John. They were on location together, doing a resort-wear spread for
Vogue.
That morning in private, they congratulated themselves on the success of their union. It had worked out just as they had hoped and planned. Occasionally, the rumor mill buzzed about Carlo's having male lovers, but the buzzing always died down. The industry accepted them as a couple, and although the marriage seemed incongruous with the customary standards of behavior, they accepted Valentine as a true and faithful wife.

That evening, their fellow fashionistas threw them a surprise party, and in testimony of how well she and Carlo had fooled the world, one of the other models got sloppy drunk and wept on Becky Lynn's shoulder about how jealous she was of her and Carlo's wonderful marriage.

Later that night while Carlo slept, Becky Lynn walked the floors of their elegant suite. She couldn't sleep, couldn't settle down enough to even try. Sleeplessness had become a recurring problem for her. It had gotten bad enough that she'd seen her doctor about it. He had suggested a mild sleep aid, but she had refused it. She had seen
the devastation drugs wrought, and she was not about to exchange one prison for another.

Prison? She stopped on the description. Was that what she thought of her life? Was that what she thought of her marriage?

She shook her head. Of course not. She was happy. She and Carlo were happy together. It was just that she was…lonely.

The realization, one she had been unwilling to acknowledge to herself until now, echoed through her. She drew a deep breath. Even with her husband sleeping only a few feet away, she felt alone.

Longing for fresh air, Becky Lynn stepped out onto the small balcony off their sitting room. The sweet island breeze cleared her head, but didn't chase away the truth. Carlo was her friend, and during the course of their marriage, he had always been there for her. She had never had to face a decision or problem alone, she had never worried that she had no one she could trust or turn to if she needed a shoulder or an ear; she had known, without a shadow of a doubt, that she had someone in her corner.

But having a friend wasn't the same as having a love. And she couldn't deny the deep, hollow place inside her, the place that ached for something to fill it up, something that had nothing to do with beauty or professional and financial success.

Love. Intimacy and passion. She needed them to ease the ache. She needed the love of a man for a woman, the tie of passion and intimacy that bound two people together.

Jack.

Becky Lynn crossed to the balcony railing and curved her fingers around it. She leaned into the breeze, enjoying
its tug against her hair, finding the way it molded her thin cotton gown to her body sensuous. She closed her eyes and allowed herself a moment to remember, to relive the exquisite pleasure of making love with Jack.

She sucked in a sharp breath and opened her eyes, forcing the memories away. Jack had forever become a part of her past when she had promised herself to his brother. She didn't miss his ego or his selfishness, didn't miss the way he had never looked at her as anything beyond his devoted little assistant.

But she did long to be held and stroked, to be excited and aroused, to be fulfilled. She longed for a man's hands—Jack's hands—longed for the way she had felt when he made love to her.

She doubted Carlo felt the same longings she did. He took the occasional lover; she had known up front that he would, he had been honest with her. And although she knew she shouldn't feel betrayed, she did, anyway.

She turned her back to the sultry tropical night, returning to the suite, shutting the balcony doors behind her. Her gaze lit on Carlo's photography gear, stacked by the sofa. It beckoned her, and she crossed to it, at once eager and hesitant.

She took one of his cameras, the 35mm, out of its case. She weighed it in her palm, then ran her fingers lightly over its sleek metal body. The camera brought back memories, holding it called to her in a way nothing else ever had except, perhaps, the glossies all those years ago.

She shook her head. Now she was one of the glossy illusions she had once pored over. Out there somewhere, was there a young girl, as lost and alone as she had been, poring over images of her and wishing for another life? Was she,
in some way, making a difference in a confused and lonely existence?

She thought of her career, of her phenomenal success. Although not elevated to the status of supermodel, she wasn't far from it. Carlo predicted she would be offered a cosmetics contract—the crown jewel in any model's career—this year.

She should be excited. She should yearn for the success, the adulation. Instead, she worried over how visible she was becoming; she feared that somehow, some way, her past would find her. Becky Lynn shuddered. She couldn't imagine anything more horrible than having to face her past, and her father, again.

Because of her fear, she guarded her privacy, dodged interviews and the limelight, dodged the kinds of celebrity publicity events that most models craved.

It was holding her back; both Tremayne and Carlo said so. As was her refusal to shoot with Jack, who in the last two years had become one of fashion's premier photographers. When Tremayne groused about it, she simply told him that if he wouldn't put up with her decision, John Casablancas would.

The truth was, she didn't like modeling all that much. She had become adept at playing for the camera, at pretending, but it had never gotten any less painful. She still felt like a fraud, she still heard the jeers of the good people of Bend in her head.

She fitted a lens on to the camera body, and held the camera to her eye. Even though the camera was empty, she aimed and shot, then did it again. A modicum of tension eased from her; she smiled to herself and framed another shot.

“Having trouble sleeping again?”

She lowered the camera and looked over her shoulder. Carlo watched her from the bedroom doorway, his eyes heavy with sleep. Her cheeks heated at having been caught playing with his gear. “Yeah, I am.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

She shifted her gaze to the camera in her lap and battled the ridiculous urge to cry. “I don't think so.”

“Tomorrow night we'll be home. You'll be in your own bed. That should help.”

Your bed—not ours. Never ours.
She detached the lens, then slipped it and the camera into their respective cases, her vision blurring. “You're probably right.”

For a moment, he said nothing, then he sighed. “Are you…unhappy, Becky Lynn?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. But she wasn't happy, either, and she couldn't tell him that. “I'm just…” She lifted her gaze to his. “I don't know what I am, Carlo. I guess I'm just tired.”

“Come to my bed,
bella.
” He held out a hand. “I'll rub your back. You'll be asleep in no time.”

She nodded, stood and crossed to him. Taking his hand, she let him lead her to their passionless bed.

Tremayne had outdone himself this time. He had managed to book Piquant, L.A.'s hottest new club, for an agency party. Consequently, nearly everyone who had received an invitation had decided to attend, and the club was filled to near bursting.

Becky Lynn sipped a mineral water, and moved through the crowd. She had arrived home from St. John less than twenty-four hours ago and would have skipped out tonight
if Tremayne himself hadn't called to make sure she would be in attendance. Carlo had gone directly from St. John to a shoot in New York for a Macro-Wear menswear ad. Tonight she was on her own.

Someone was staring at her.

A shiver raced up her spine, and she glanced over her shoulder and scanned the crowd. No one seemed to be paying her any undo attention, but she shifted uncomfortably, anyway. All evening she'd had the feeling that someone watched her. She couldn't seem to shake the sensation, no matter how many times she looked over her shoulder and assured herself she was wrong.

“Valentine, love, welcome back.”

She jumped, spilling some of her drink. “Tremayne! You startled me!”

“I see that.” He gestured toward the dark stain on her silk skirt. “I hope it's not ruined.”

She dabbed at it. “Not to worry. It's just mineral water.”

“Mineral water,” he repeated. “I wish all my girls had your self-control.”

She followed his gaze to Zoe. The other model stood—if the way she had draped herself on a rock star could be called standing—across the room from them, obviously high out of her mind. Tremayne, Becky Lynn could tell, was not pleased.

Sympathy for Zoe curled through her, and Becky Lynn steered his attention away from the other model, hoping she would disappear before Tremayne called her aside and gave her a dressing-down. “Thank you so much for the beautiful flowers,” she said brightly, touching his sleeve. “Carlo and I were touched that you remembered our special day.”

Tremayne smiled affectionately. “Glad you liked them. How was St. John?”

“Glorious.” From the corner of her eye she saw Zoe head out of the club, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “I see now why their beaches are called some of the most beautiful in the world.”

Tremayne murmured something about the beaches of Monaco, then launched into a description of his last vacation there. Becky Lynn only half listened to him, her attention focused instead on the disturbing sensation that she was again being watched.

Tremayne leaned toward her conspiratorially. “I had a call from Martin Sebastian yesterday. He was asking about you.”

She jerked her attention back to the agency owner, wondering what she had missed. “Should I know him?”

“You should.” Tremayne arched his eyebrows every so slightly in reproach. “Sebastian Cosmetics.
The Sebastian Girl.
Moira Louise's contract is up this year.”

“Is it? I—” Gooseflesh raced up her arms, and she looked quickly over her left shoulder, expecting to find someone right there, his—or her—gaze boring into her. Instead, of course, there was no one.

“Are you all right, Valentine?” Tremayne laid a hand on her arm in concern. “You're as nervous as a cat tonight.”

She forced a smile. “I'm tired. In fact, I'm exhausted. I think I'd better beg off tonight, go home and get a good night's sleep.”

He nodded solemnly. “You do that. Come in to the agency tomorrow and we'll talk.”

Eager to escape the suffocating crowd and the creepy feeling of being watched, Becky Lynn said good-night to
Tremayne and started purposefully toward the door. She kept her gaze straight ahead, determined not to be stopped and drawn into conversation.

She shivered as she stepped outside. The night had grown cool, and she longed for the shawl she had decided to leave in her car. Hugging herself, she started for the parking lot across the street. When she'd arrived earlier, the valet line had been so long, she had decided to park the car herself.

“Miss Valentine, wait!”

She stopped and turned. The valet—one of the nice young men Tremayne hired for every one of his parties—jogged toward her. When he reached her, he looked a little embarrassed, and she smiled reassuringly. “What's up, Kenny?”

“I know you didn't valet tonight, but I don't think it's a good idea for you to walk clear over there by yourself. I'll get your car.”

“Thanks, Kenny.” She smiled again and handed him her keys. “That's real sweet of you.”

He blushed and started off, and she wondered if he wasn't the tiniest bit smitten with her. She shook her head at the thought. Sometimes she—

“Becky Lynn?” a man said from behind her. “Is that you?”

She froze. The voice was one she recognized from her past, deepened with age and maturity, but still recognizable from the darkest days of her life.

Her brother. Randy.

She turned slowly, pulling her armor around her, calling forth every scrap of her in-front-of-camera experience to hide her feelings. But even with all that, she couldn't quite prepare herself for the shock of seeing him, of seeing the changes in him, or for the way memories spewed forth inside her.

A catch in her chest, she studied him. He had grown up, gotten even bigger, filled out. The lines that etched his eyes and mouth spoke of a hard life, of experience won through pain.
Randall Lee's brutal legacy.

“It is you!” Her brother moved his gaze almost frantically over her. “Thank God…you're alive…you're well.”

He hugged her to him. Caught off guard, she found herself pressed against his massive chest. She struggled to breathe evenly, struggled to keep from drowning in her own turbulent emotions. She stiffened, and held herself rigid in his embrace.

Randy dropped his arms and drew away from her. She saw the regrets in his eyes, the ghosts of their tragic past.

“Look at you,” he said, going on as if he hadn't noticed that she had yet to speak, that she hadn't smiled. “So successful. So beautiful. You've just…blossomed.”

How had he found her? she wondered, a bubble of hysteria rising inside her. What was he doing here?

He must have seen the questions in her eyes, because he answered them without her asking. “I'm a rookie with the L.A. Rams. A defensive tackle. When one of the other guys gave me an invitation to this party, I never thought…I mean, Becky Lynn, it's really you.”

And it was really him—Madman Lee. The best football player Bend High School had ever had.

“We made it out, Becky Lynn.” He grasped her upper arms and smiled. “We did it, kid. We did it.”

Anger hit her with the force of a freight train at full speed. Now he wanted to be her brother. Now he wanted to smile and share self-congratulations, but when she had needed him desperately, he had betrayed her.