Red Hot Rebel - Olivia Hayle Page 0,18

real couple just out together.

“Where’s the photographer?” he asks her.

Ivy glances over her shoulder. “Oh, he’s back there.”

All right, Ivy.

Perhaps she’s still pissed about the just a model comment from weeks ago. Or some of the other things I’ve said. And perhaps rightly so, but this is in no way a proportional response. I grit my teeth as the Italian runs a hand through his wavy, styled hair and smiles widely down at Ivy.

He looks like every Italian male model ever.

I shoot the two of them walking arm in arm from behind. Turning down little alleys, stopping as Ivy points at a trattoria sign. It’s all mindless, thoughtless pictures, meant to look enticing to the high-end clients Rieler attracts.

I hate that it’s working. Even just walking around, the two of them attract admiring looks from tourists and locals alike. Maybe it’s Paolo’s form-fitting suit. Maybe it’s the way they complement one another. Or maybe it’s Ivy’s wide, effortless smile. She’s aiming that thing around without a thought to who might get hit.

I gain small, vindictive pleasure from snapping a few shots where Paolo has his eyes closed.

Ivy looks over at me. It’s the first time she has given me a second glance since Paolo arrived. “Gelateria?” she asks.

I nod. It’s not on the list of shots or locations they want, but it’s a solid idea. I regret it five seconds later, though, as I’m forced to photograph Paolo feeding Ivy a scoop of lemon gelato.

Objectively, it’s a gorgeous shot. Ivy looks up at him with something akin to amazement, and he’s smiling crookedly, a dimple in his cheek.

He knows that’s the moneymaker.

People around us stop to watch as Ivy giggles, as they pose, as Paolo bends his head closer to whisper in her ear. My finger keeps moving over the shutter at a furious pace.

“Excuse me,” an accented voice asks at my side. “But are they, like, famous?”

I glance over to see a woman with wide eyes standing at my side, a map of Rome in her hand. A tourist.

“No,” I say.

She nods absentmindedly, but she grabs a picture with her smartphone regardless. And I can’t really blame her, not as Paolo has his hand on Ivy’s waist. They’re eating from the same ice cream cone.

“All right!” I call. “We’re done at this location.”

And the bastards don’t look at me! Paolo just laughs and offers Ivy a napkin, and she blots at her red fuck-me lips.

“Vespa now?” Paolo asks me.

“Sure.” Why the fuck not.

So I shoot the two of them on a Vespa, as Paolo drives up and down the same, carefully chosen street. Ivy keeps her arms wrapped around his waist, her blonde, perfect hair flying in the wind. And just before they dip out of view, she turns and gives me the money-shot.

Gorgeous.

Over and over and over we do it.

I don’t know who’s more relieved when we’re finally by the tiny trattoria specified on the call sheet we’d received. This is where the agency wants the shot of the two of them sharing a romantic, candle-lit dinner.

I busy myself by rearranging the chairs and props, but their conversation is easy to overhear.

“You’re only here for a few days?” Paolo asks.

“Yes, we’re off to the next location tomorrow.”

“That’s such a shame,” the softly purring Italian says. I consider if he’d look better with a black eye. Now, I’m not a violent person—not usually, anyway. But I grew up with two brothers and one who was basically adopted, so I know my way around fists.

“Have a seat,” I tell them. Ivy sinks down onto a chair like it’s an art, crossing her legs and letting the silky fabric drape around her. Tanned legs and high heels on display, and I can’t fault her for them, not when they make her look like that.

The woman is a walking painting.

Damn it. I was supposed to be immune. I’d once told her I was.

She rests an elbow on the table, her hand softly curving around her cheek. Long hair flows down her back. Okay. So this woman knows her angles, and she knows them damn well.

“Where are you from in Italy?” she asks Paolo in a soft, mellifluous voice that fits the scenario we’re shooting perfectly. Intimate. Casual. Elegant.

He leans back in his chair and stretches his long legs out in front of him, proving that he too knows his angles. I take a step back and alternate between filming and shooting.

“Napoli,” he says.

Ivy leans across the table, an alluring smile on her