Red. Erica Spindler

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      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. СКАЧАТЬ