Red Hot Rebel - Olivia Hayle Page 0,9

of champagne and laugh it off with a self-deprecating joke about how they’re stimulating the economy. Doing their part. And he dislikes models on principle.”

“Mhm,” Penny says. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot.”

“I haven’t, really.”

“And is he attractive?”

“Conventionally speaking, yes, I suppose.” Though the word conventional could never really be attached to Rhys Marchand. I suspect he would buck under the word, indignant and angry at ever being called something so basic. The thought makes me smile.

“Right,” Penny says, “you’re in trouble. He’s attractive and he’s a challenge for you.”

I put down my handbag. “I’m not in trouble.”

“Of course you are. Tell me, when was the last time a guy was ever truly a challenge for you?” My little sister grins like a cat who’s just eaten a particularly juicy canary. “When they didn’t just barrage you with demands for your phone number? When they outright challenged you?”

I frown at her. “Toothpaste. I’ve forgotten to pack toothpaste.”

Her voice reaches me easily in my small bathroom. Everything in this apartment is small. Square feet is an endangered species in Manhattan. “The last time was never!” she says. “They’re always asking you out or judging you on your looks and you hate it, Ivy. You also hate when someone is angry at you or doesn’t like you. Ipso facto, this photographer is like your specially designed kryptonite. A man who doesn’t immediately swoon. You’re in trouble.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Can you imagine how unprofessional that would be?” I force my suitcase open to fit my toothpaste inside. “Not to mention I don’t like him. He’s an overgrown trust fund brat. I’ve seen my fair share of them.”

“Mhm.”

“Give me a little credit, Penny. Getting with a photographer would be beyond irresponsible.”

“But wouldn’t it be romantic?”

I shoulder my suitcase over to the door. It’s tiny in comparison to the gigantic Samsonite the agency sent over with all of my outfits. “What time is it?”

“A quarter to nine.”

“The car should be here in ten minutes.” I give my handbag a last check—wallet, passport, keys. “I’m going to miss you.”

Penny bounds up off the sofa and wraps me in a hug. Her hair smells like it always has, papaya and coconut. She’s used the same shampoo since she was fourteen. “Have the best time,” she tells me. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime trip.”

“I’m going to enjoy every minute,” I promise.

“Good. And don’t let a spoiled photographer or dear Dad get into your head.” She pulls back, grinning. “Or me. I’ll be here, protecting your apartment for you.”

“That makes me feel so safe.” But I’m smiling too, ruffling her hair. She ducks under my hand and grabs a hold of the Megalodon of a suitcase.

“I’ll help you bring all this stuff down. And you’re really traveling alone? They’re not sending someone with you?”

“No, just me and the photographer. But there will be ground staff in each location.”

She lifts the giant into the elevator with a huff. “This is a workout, Ivy.”

“Workout clothes. Did I pack that?”

“Yes, I saw you roll it up all neatly.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Penny winks. “But you can work out in other ways. Hot foreign models, hot challenging photographers…”

I shove her and she shoves me back. But she stays on the sidewalk as I step into the black Town Car waiting outside, waving to me as it speeds away toward JFK. Away from Manhattan and the life I’ve led, from the only country I know.

The photographer might not like me, but I’m not going to let him take away a single minute of enjoyment from this trip.

4

Ivy

“Ivy Hart?” The man asking is in a suit, a black cap on his head and an electronic sign in hand. And on it, my name is written in capital letters.

I’ve only been traveling for six hours, but it’s already exceeded all of my expectations. Rieler Travels has gone all out. Business class seating on the plane—I did not know you got as much champagne as you wanted—and someone to pick me up? Never had my in-country travel in America been like this, not on any of the shoots I’d attended in Los Angeles.

“That’s me.”

He reaches for my bags. “Welcome to St. Barts, miss. Or is it Mrs.?”

“No, just miss.” I glance over my shoulder for Rhys, as if he might magically appear out of thin air. Wouldn’t surprise me if he could, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Hadn’t been on the flight, either.

“Is this your first time here?” The name on the tag reads Étienne. He speaks