Red

“I don’t have anything in common with all those kids. They’re like babies.” He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his blue jeans. “Big job today?”

“Mmm. Giovanni has eight models booked. It’s going to be tough wrapping the shoot in one day.”

“I’d like to come. I could help out.”

She frowned and dropped her lipstick into the small zipper bag she took everywhere. She met his gaze in the glass, then looked away. “You have school.”

“So? I’ve missed before.”

“You’re in high school now. It’s different. The stakes are higher.”

“I get okay grades. I hold my own.”

“You’re very bright, Jack. And I’m proud of what you’ve done.” She zipped the bag. “My answer is still no.”

“I can’t go because Giovanni doesn’t want me around.” He folded his arms across his chest. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “We’ve been through this before, Jack. Your not coming has had nothing to do with Giovanni. It’s been my decision.”

“Is his precious Carlo going to be there? Is that why he doesn’t want me around?”

She made a sound of surprise. “What do you know about Carlo?”

He handed her the magazine, opened to the blurb. She read it and met his eyes. “I see you know the basics.”

Jack cocked his chin. “Is he living with his dear, devoted daddy? Is that why I’ve been shut out of all the great man’s shoots? Giovanni doesn’t want his legitimate son dirtied by contact with his illegitimate one, right?”

He said the last with a sneer, and his mother’s features tightened with anger. “You know better than that, Jack. I don’t want you there because I don’t think it’s good for you. And yes, Carlo is living with his father. He’s been on location with us.”

“I want to get a look at him. That’s all.” Jack made a sound of frustration. “He’s my half brother, I don’t see why wanting that is so wrong.”

She crossed to him. Even though she was tall and he was only sixteen, she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. “I don’t think it’s good for you to be around Giovanni or Carlo.”

“Why?”

She touched his cheek lightly then sighing, dropped her hand. “Isn’t it obvious? Giovanni hurt you. The situation is hurtful. I love you, Jack. I don’t want you hurt more than you already have been.”

“I can handle it,” he said, curving his fingers into fists. “I’m not a baby, after all. I’m not eight anymore. I won’t cry, for Pete’s sake.”

She said nothing. He saw sympathy in her eyes, and he hated it. He turned away from her and crossed to the window. He stared out at the street for a moment before turning back to her, frustrated. “I want to go. I love going on location. Those people are my friends. I belong there.”

She shook her head. “Not this time. I’m sorry. Maybe another.”

“Mom, I—” He bit the words back, angry with her, furious that Carlo would be there, and he was being excluded. “You say you’re doing this to protect me, it feels like you’re punishing me.”

“Oh, Jack. That’s the last thing I want you to feel.” She went to stand beside him, and laid a hand on his arm. “I don’t think it’s healthy for you to be around Giovanni or Carlo. Try to understand, I’m your mother and I have to do what I think is best for you.”

“Well, you’re wrong. It’s not what’s best.” He shook off her hand, knowing it would hurt her. “It’s unfair. And it stinks.”

“I’m sorry, Jack, but I’ve made my decision.”

“Thanks, Mom.” He swung away from her. “Thanks a lot.”

Jack went to school, but he didn’t stay. He wanted to get a look at his brother. He wanted to meet him. He decided, despite what his mother wanted or thought, that was exactly what he was going to do.

The shoot was being held at Giovanni’s studio; Jack had been there at least a hundred times before. Giovanni preferred studio work, he preferred sharp, controlled lighting and minimal backgrounds. Using both with figure and fashion created an almost surrealist fashion scenario, one that had been the hallmark of his style. Critics lauded his work as portraying the existentialism of modern life with a cool, sexual chic. It stirred the viewer. It created controversy. It had made him a star.

Giovanni’s studio was located in an old warehouse district in Los Angeles. Not the most trendy or safest part of the city, it afforded the huge, reasonably priced spaces required by fashion photographers. Giovanni’s space encompassed two floors of an old furniture warehouse. On those two floors there were changing and wardrobe rooms, several prop rooms, a room for makeup, one for hair, two bathrooms, an office and two large spaces for shooting, one with an abundance of natural light, one with none. The second-floor studio had an eight foot by eight foot section of floor that could be removed to provide dramatic, bird’s-eye angle shooting from above.

Jack made it onto the set without problem. Tank, as everyone called Giovanni’s doorman/driver/bouncer, let him in, commenting on how little they’d seen of him lately. Jack shrugged, told him he’d been busy and swaggered inside.

Jack saw that he’d come at a good time—things were not going well. Giovanni was shouting at everyone in English and Italian—the lighting wasn’t right, the models were incompetent, his assistants slow. The entire staff was under fire, and everyone was rushing to make corrections and adjustments.

No one had time to notice him, and he made it to the second floor without being spotted by his mother. Jack found an unobtrusive spot behind the action and looked for him. He didn’t have to look far. Carlo stood beside Giovanni, so close their shoulders almost brushed, hanging, Jack could tell, on his father’s every word. As Giovanni talked, he put his hand on his son’s shoulder. Possessively. Proudly. The way a father did a son.

Jack swallowed hard, not able to take his eyes from the two, even though watching them made him ache. Giovanni explained the lighting to Carlo, explained what he was looking for and why he wasn’t satisfied. The father teaching the son, sharing his knowledge, his experience. The way a father was supposed to, the way Jack had once fantasized Giovanni would show and teach him.

“Hey, Jack.”

He dragged his eyes from Giovanni and Carlo to look at the model who had come up to stand beside him. Gina was seventeen, but had started modeling on the circuit at twelve. Dressed now in a low-cut satin sheath, with her hair swept up on top of her head and diamonds dripping from her ears, she looked twenty-five. And sexy as hell. Many of his adolescent daydreams had centered around her.

Jack smiled. “Hey to you.”

“That’s Giovanni’s son,” the model whispered, following his gaze. “Carlo.”

Giovanni’s son. Hearing the words spoken affected him like a fist to his chest. His breath caught and he struggled to speak and breathe normally. “Yeah? How come I’ve never seen him before?”

“He’s been around the last couple of months.” She reached up to brush a curl off her forehead, then dropped her hand. One of the first rules of modeling was never touch your hair or face—doing so could ruin what the hair and makeup people had spent hours creating, and earn a major chewing out.

She leaned closer. “His mother killed herself. Slit her wrists. Rumor mill has it that he found her. Gross, huh?”

Jack’s chest tightened. He couldn’t imagine his mother doing such a thing, let alone finding her that way. “Tough break,” he muttered, not wanting to feel sympathy even as the emotion welled up inside him.

Gina laid a hand on his arm. “He’s cute, don’t you think? He looks like his dad.”

Sympathy evaporated, replaced by something harder and colder. Something that squeezed him so tightly, it hurt to breathe. Carlo did look like Giovanni. He had the man’s dark hair and eyes, the same build and skin tone—all the things Jack had so longed to see in himself all those years ago.

He scowled at the model. “If you like that swarthy European type.”

She giggled. “Sara does.”

He arched his eyebrows, not in the mood for games. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She leaned even closer. “I hear he and Sara did it.”

Jack caught a whiff of cosmetics and hair spray, her satin bodice brushed against his arm. His body stirred; his mouth turned to ash.

“Like father like son, I guess.” She moved her fingers in a rhythmic sweeping motion on his forearm. “I hear Carlo gets around. A real party animal.”

Jack swallowed, his eyes dropping to the plunging neckline of Gina’s dress. He caught a glimpse of one small, round breast. “No way,” he murmured, his jeans growing tight. He shifted uncomfortably, not thinking about Carlo doing it, but about himself doing it. With Gina. “He’s just bragging.”

“Uh-uh. I heard it from Sara herself.” She giggled again and darted a glance over her shoulder. “I’ve got to go.” She squeezed his arm and met his eyes. “Catch me later. Okay?”

Jack watched her walk away, his heart thundering, his mouth dry. He had kissed Gina. Once. He remembered that wet, desperate exchange in the dark wardrobe room and arousal tightened in his gut.

He had wanted to kiss her again, but they’d been interrupted. In truth, he had wanted to do more than kiss her. Much more.

He still did. So bad he ached.

Tugging, inconspicuously, he hoped, at the crotch of his jeans, he turned his gaze back to Carlo and Giovanni. Was it true? he wondered. Had Carlo and Sara done it?

He scowled, jealousy clawing at him. He didn’t want to believe it, but Gina and Sara were friends, good friends. They were the same age and had gotten into the business about the same time. He couldn’t imagine either of them lying about this.

That meant his brother had had sex. Something he had only fantasized about. “Like father like son,” Gina had said. Photography wasn’t the only arena where his father was a legend. For years, Jack had listened to the models whisper behind their hands about what a great lover Giovanni was. Carlo, it appeared, was following in his father’s footsteps.

An hour passed. While Giovanni worked in earnest, Carlo milled around the studio, talking and laughing with people on the set. Jack never took his eyes off the other boy, anger and resentment building inside him. These were his friends, people he had grown up with. He hated that Carlo seemed to have fitted in so quickly, he hated that everyone seemed to like his half brother. He told himself he had no reason to feel betrayed, but he did, anyway.

Carlo stopped beside Gina and bent close to whisper in her ear. The model tipped her head back and laughed, and Carlo placed his hand on the small of her back. He leaned close again, and as Jack watched, he moved his fingers a fraction lower.

Jack saw red. Gina was his, and he wasn’t about to let this come-lately son of a bitch make a move on the girl he wanted. He thundered across the studio, not bothering with stealth, forgetting about Giovanni, about his mother and the fact he wasn’t even supposed to be here.

Jack reached the two in moments and stopped beside them. “Take your hand off her,” he said, fisting his fingers.

Carlo turned slowly and met Jack’s eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Jack glared at Carlo. “Take your hand off her. Now.”

Carlo’s mouth tipped up in a lazy, amused smile. “Fuck you. I don’t hear her complaining.”

Jack took a step closer, his blood boiling. “She doesn’t have to, I’m complaining for her.”

“Jack,” Gina whispered, paling.

Carlo narrowed his eyes. He swept his gaze over Jack, recognition dawning in his eyes. “So you’re the bastard.”

Anger charged through Jack, but he held on to it. “And you’re the dickhead.”

“I wondered when we would meet.” Carlo arched his eyebrows arrogantly. His English was perfect, but he spoke with a slight accent. The accent made him seem more mature, more sophisticated than Jack. Jack felt ten years younger instead of only one. He hated that.

While Jack struggled for a comeback, Carlo laughed softly. “Dad told me about you. He said you were…an embarrassment.”

Jack wanted to lunge at him. He fought to control the urge. He took a step closer to the other boy. A full head shorter than his half brother, Carlo was forced to tip his head back to keep Jack’s gaze. “That may be, but I could kick your ass.”

“You Americans, always such cowboys. I’ve never understood it.”

“You Italians, always such pussies. I’ve never understood it.” They’d attracted attention, and a growing group gathered around them. Jack ignored them and curled his hands into fists. “Come on, I’ll take you on right now.”

“Dannazione!” Giovanni shouted, striding across the set, his face red with rage. “What the hell is going on?” A nervous titter moved through the crowd, even as it parted for him. He stopped in front of Carlo. “What are you doing?” he demanded again, turning his furious gaze on his son. “Explain yourself, Carlo. Immediatamente!”

Carlo paled, his cool arrogance disappearing. “Nothing. I wasn’t doing anything.” He cleared his throat. “I was just talking, and this…this boy started a fight.”

Giovanni turned to Jack, his expression thunderous. “What are you doing here? You don’t belong here.”

Those words hurt more than any others could have. Jack slipped his fingers into the back pockets of his blue jeans and shrugged as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Hanging out. What are you doing here?”

Giovanni swore. “How dare you two disrupt this shoot.”

“You’re right,” Carlo said quickly. “I’m sorry. My behavior was unforgivable.”

Jack angled up his chin. “Seems to me, you’re the one who’s disrupting this shoot. We were just…talking.”

“You impertinent little shit.” The photographer swept back the hair that fell across his forehead. “Get out! I don’t want to see you again. Not ever. You understand?”

“No problem, Dad. But you get this. One day, I’ll be kicking you off my set. One day, you’re going to see what a big mistake you made.”

Giovanni hesitated, surprise flickering across his expression. Then he swore. “Tank! Escort this…bastardo out.”

“Jack!”

Jack turned to see his mother pushing through the crowd, her expression stricken. He swore silently.

“What’s going on?” She stopped beside him and looked from him to Giovanni to Carlo and back. “What are you doing here?”

Jack opened his mouth to explain; Giovanni spoke first. “I should fire you right now, Sallie. If I ever see your boy on my set again, I will. And if I fire you, nobody else will hire you. Got that?”

“You leave my mother out of this, you son of a bitch!” Jack faced the older man, his fists clenched. “I came on my own, and this has nothing to do with her.”

“It has everything to do with her, because you’re her son. Think of that the next time you decide to tangle with me.” Giovanni clapped his hands. “Show’s over. Everybody back to work.”

Tank grabbed Jack’s arm. He shook off the beefy man’s hand. “I don’t need any help,” he said tightly. “I’m going.”

He turned and walked away, aware of his mother’s distress and his half brother’s amusement. Emotions churned in his gut, and he muttered an oath. He hadn’t meant to lose his cool. He hated that Carlo had gotten the best of him, hated that—

“Jack, wait!”

Jack stopped at the front door and turned. Gina hurried to catch up with him, her progress slowed by her gown’s narrow skirt.

When she reached him, she glanced over her shoulder, then returned her gaze to him. “Outside.”

They stepped through the door and sunshine spilled over them, almost blinding after the artificial light of the studio. She smiled. “I just wanted to, you know, tell you that I liked what you did in there.” She lifted her shoulders. “I’m…flattered that you got into a fight over me. It was cool.”

One corner of Jack’s mouth lifted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She moved closer and laid her hands on his chest. She tipped her head back to gaze provocatively up at him. “I’m sorry you have to go, though.”

He placed his hands on her hips, instantly aroused. “Come with me.”

She made a sound of disappointment. “I can’t. You know that.”

He inched her closer. He wanted to kiss her, and he knew in his gut that she would let him. But he also knew it would ruin her mouth and get her in trouble. Instead, he trailed a finger over her collarbone and down to the place slippery satin ended and warm flesh began. She shuddered.

“Meet me later,” he murmured.

“Where?”

“You tell me.”

She thought a moment. “My house. Bring your books. I’ll tell my mother you’re helping me with my French.”

“I don’t know dip about French.”

She smiled, slow and sexy, and his pulse went crazy. “Don’t worry, Jack. I’ll teach you.”

She turned and walked to the door. When she reached it, she turned back to him. “Eight-thirty. I’m in the book.” Without another word, she turned and walked inside.

9

By the time Jack got home, the rush of adrenaline and anger that had enabled him to boldly face down Giovanni had evaporated, leaving in its wake shaking hands, a runaway heart and legs that felt like rubber.

Jack fell onto his bed and struggled to draw in a deep, even breath. He couldn’t put his mother’s face, her stricken expression, out of his mind. Giovanni had blamed her for her son’s actions. He had threatened to fire her, had warned that if he did, no one else in the industry would hire her.

The last hadn’t been an idle threat. He had seen the cold determination in the photographer’s eyes. Giovanni didn’t care about Sallie Gallagher or her livelihood; he wouldn’t think twice about ruining her professional reputation.

And, Jack knew, it wouldn’t take much. Getting fired once could do it. The fashion industry was a small one, one in which everyone knew everybody else’s business. He’d seen people from every area of the business have to fight their way back after having screwed up once. Time was money, the client’s money. And clients paid astronomical day rates for models and photographers and support personnel. One major shoot could cost upward of a hundred thousand dollars. Everyone had to do their job, do it well and quickly.

Jack glared at his ceiling, at the long, thin crack that ran diagonally across it. Dammit. He’d really messed things up for her. He hadn’t thought further than himself, hadn’t considered the consequences of his actions or that they might affect anyone else. It had never even occurred to him. It did now.

Gina. He squeezed his eyes shut, arousal charging through him. She had told him to “catch her later” and had promised to teach him French.

French. Did that mean what he thought it did?

Tonight could be the night. It could happen, he could lose his virginity.

He sat up and dragged his hands through his hair, his head filled with images of Gina: Gina smiling at him; Gina, her body outlined by clinging satin; Gina, her lips moist and parted. He sucked in a sharp breath. He’d been waiting his whole life for this opportunity. He wasn’t about to miss it.

Four hours later, Jack glanced at the stove, at the pot of Ragú spaghetti sauce that bubbled there. He had made a salad, Italian bread was buttered and ready for the oven.

Where was she? He looked at the clock and frowned. Almost six-thirty. At five, everyone connected with a shoot either went home or on overtime. And overtime was avoided at all costs.

So, where was she?

Even as the question moved through his head for the dozenth time, he heard the front door open. Show time. He took a deep breath, suddenly feeling six instead of sixteen. “Hey, Mom,” he called. “I’m in here.”

She came into the kitchen. Without looking at him, she dropped her purse on the counter and reached for the mail.

He cleared his throat. “Hi, Mom.”

She lifted her gaze from the mail and fixed it on him. She didn’t smile. “Hello, son.”

He swallowed hard. She was still angry. And she was hurt. He felt like a complete jerk. “I made dinner.”

“I see that.” She returned her attention to the mail. “It looks good.”

She said nothing more, and he shifted from his right foot to his left, her silence damning and uncomfortable. Unable to take it another moment, he cleared his throat again. “I’m sorry, Mom. I really am.”

She met his eyes. “Are you?”

He hung his head and stubbed the toe of his Nike against the tile floor.

“I can’t tell you how upset I am by this.” She made a sound of frustration. “What were you thinking of? Disobeying me that way, behaving like that at a shoot? You know better.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, folding his arms across his chest but hiking his chin up stubbornly. “I didn’t think. I just…reacted.”

“Do you see now why I didn’t want you there? Do you understand?” She crossed to the stove and stared at the pot of sauce for long moments, then turned to face him once more, her expression troubled. “Did you get it out of your system, Jack? Do you think you can leave it alone now?”

“What do you mean?” He drew his eyebrows together. “Get what out of my system?”

“Carlo, Giovanni, the whole thing. This obsession you have isn’t healthy. I sympathize, I do. But—”

“Obsession?” he interrupted. “You think I’m obsessed with them? Great, Mom. Just great.”

“What do you expect me to think?” She crossed to stand before him and looked him directly in the eye. “Why do you want to be a fashion photographer?”

“It has nothing to do with him.” He glared at her, so angry he could hardly speak. “I…I just like it. It’s cool.”

“Oh, Jack.”

“I hate when you say my name like that, as if you pity me.” He spun away from her, crossed to the refrigerator, then faced her once more, fists clenched. “What do you expect me to feel? Shouldn’t I be curious about my half brother? Shouldn’t I wonder about him? Is that so weird? Maybe you’d understand if your mother had put you in the same position. But she didn’t, did she?”

Sallie flinched at the blow. “You have to let your anger and your hurt go, Jack. You say I can’t understand them, but I think I can. You have to let them go.”

She crossed the room and stopped in front of him. She reached out to touch his cheek, but he jerked his head away. “Don’t let your anger at Giovanni, or me, control your life. If you do, it’ll ruin it.”

She didn’t understand, Jack thought. He wasn’t hurt, he wasn’t even angry. He hated Giovanni. And he was going to show him what a big mistake he had made.

“You know about that. Right, Mom? About ruining lives.”

She took a step back from him, looking as if he had slapped her.

Remorse barreled through him, but he knew it was too late to take back his words.

“How have I ruined your life?” she asked softly. “By having you? By loving you?”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, stuffing his hands into his front jeans pockets. “I didn’t mean that.”

“But I think you did. And that’s why I’m worried.”

“Mom—”

“No.” She held up a hand. “No more. Not now.” She glanced at her watch and sighed. “There are some things I need to discuss with you, but I can’t now. I’m going out tonight.”

“Out?” Jack repeated, surprised. His mother rarely went out at night. She spent so much time on location out of town that when in town, she enjoyed being home.

“I’m meeting an old friend.” She slipped out of her vest and hung it on the back of one of the chairs set up around the small oak table. “You’ve never met her. She got out of the business right around the time you were born.”

“She was a makeup artist, too?”

“She did hair. She opened her own salon fifteen years ago and has done quite well.”

Jack frowned. Something about his mother’s tone bothered him. “Why are you meeting her?”

She met his gaze, drawing her eyebrows together. “I told you, she’s an old friend. Besides, it’s not your place to question me. I’m the parent here, and you’re in big trouble.”

“But Mom—”

“No buts.” She crossed to the phone. “I’m calling Mrs. Green next door to let her know I’m going out and to ask her to check up on you.”