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