Читать книгу Red - Erica Spindler, Erica Spindler - Страница 15

Someday, Giovanni would want him for his son.

Jack’s promise to himself was never far from his mind. It burned bright and hot inside him, coloring each year that passed, years that transformed him from a trusting boy into a cocky, worldly-wise sixteen-year-old.

That day, those words, shaped his life. They gave him direction, focus. He vowed he would prove himself worthy of his father’s love. He vowed he would show Giovanni what a great mistake he had made when he rejected him.

At first, he hadn’t known how he would do it; he had only known the desire twisted in his gut so tightly, there were days he thought of nothing else. Then it had come to him. He would meet his father, and beat him, in his own arena.

So while the other boys in his class at high school had involved themselves with sports and girls and parties, he had planned his future. He read everything he could about photography, talked to every assistant who would give him the time of day, studied every photographer’s technique, equipment preference and work habits.

He had needed a camera, so he had worked anywhere he could for anyone who would pay him. After school, he’d grocery shopped and run errands for the old ladies in the apartments around his and his mother’s. At night, he’d bussed tables and done dishes at the Italian restaurant on the corner. At shoots, he’d done the gofer work everyone else hated. He now owned a used Nikon F2 with a motor drive and two lenses.

Jack ran his fingers lovingly over the camera’s black metal body, over its levers and buttons. His camera. His first piece of professional equipment, the first of many. He would need a medium-format camera soon, more lenses, tripods, lights, umbrellas and darkroom supplies; he would need a place to work.

But the 35mm was a good place to start, it gave him flexibility and mobility. It was the single piece of equipment that Giovanni used more than any other.

Jack frowned and set the camera back on the shelf above his desk. Since that day eight years before, he’d only seen The Great One a handful of times. His mother had stopped bringing him to Giovanni’s shoots. She’d claimed it was her own choice and had nothing to do with the photographer, but Jack thought otherwise. He believed Giovanni had asked her to keep him away. As if by keeping him out of sight, he could deny his existence.

Whenever Jack thought about it, his determination, and his anger, grew.

As did his curiosity about his half brother. He wondered about him: what he was doing, what he looked like, if they would like each other if they ever met. He never allowed himself the foolishness of imagining them as friends, as real brothers; facing his father had taught him a powerful lesson about caring too much and about opening himself for rejection. He had promised himself he would never be so naive again.

But he wondered about Carlo, anyway. He looked for him. For some mention of him, for a picture. His mother, an avid face-watcher, took all the fashion magazines, took glossies like Vanity Fair and Lears, took commercial pulp like People. He scoured them all.

Finally, he had found a mention in People’s Passages section. Carlo’s mother, a former model, after having been involved in a tragic, disfiguring car crash, had committed suicide. The blurb mentioned her husband, fashion photographer great Giovanni, and their son Carlo.

Jack slid open the magazine and stared at the blurb and accompanying photograph, eyebrows drawn together in thought. She’d been beautiful, Carlo’s mother. Now she was dead. Did that mean Carlo would come to live with Giovanni? Had he already? The magazine was many months old, the news could have been dated already by the time the magazine had gone to press.

From the other room, Jack heard the sounds of his mother moving around, getting ready for work. It was early, not quite six, but she had a shoot with Giovanni today, a big editorial spread for Vogue, and support staff had to be on location and working hours before the shoot actually began.

She would know about Carlo.

He stood, tucked the magazine under his arm and sauntered to the other room. His mother stood in front of her bathroom mirror, putting the finishing touches on her makeup. He cocked his head, considering his mother. Tall and curvaceous with flyaway sandy-colored hair, a scattering of freckles and a fondness for offbeat clothes, his mother looked part tomboy and part bohemian bombshell.

He stopped in the doorway and smiled at her. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hey to you.” She looked at him, and her eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’re up and dressed early.”

“You know how excited I get about school.”

She made a face at his sarcasm. “If you put a little effort into it, you might enjoy it.”

“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.