Red by Erica Spindler Page B

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 messedthings 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.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said again, folding his arms across his chest but hiking his chin up stubbornly. “I didn’t think. I just…reacted.”
    â€œDo 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?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” He drew his eyebrows together. “Get what out of my system?”
    â€œCarlo, Giovanni, the whole thing. This obsession you have isn’t healthy. I sympathize, I do. But—”
    â€œObsession?” he interrupted. “You think I’m obsessed with them? Great, Mom. Just great.”
    â€œWhat do you expect me to think?” She crossed tostand before him and looked him directly in the eye. “Why do you want to be a fashion photographer?”
    â€œIt has nothing to do with him. ” He glared