Red Hot Rebel - Olivia Hayle Page 0,6

“I think I’ll manage, though.”

She swipes up a hardbound book from the table and clutches it to her chest. Her portfolio? “Good, because I’m committed to holding up my end of this collaboration.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

“Excellent,” I say, glancing from her to a picture of a smoothie bowl against a Bali sunset. This is beyond childish.

Her voice is collected again. “We don’t have to like each other to do this job. We just have to be professional,” she says.

Right. Because photography never includes a measure of trust. I run a hand through my hair, cursing at how easily this woman has managed to goad me.

If I’m going to pull this bet off, I need to find a way to get onto her good side.

“I’ll be professional.” I grab one of the printed itineraries from the table, reading from the top as I make my way to the door. “I’ll see you next week at three thirty at the Diplomatic Hotel in St. Barts.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “I’ll see you there.”

I wake to blinding lights through my windows, New York’s sun not the least bit diminished by the construction outside. A pounding headache, too, courtesy of Ben’s insistence that we share celebratory drinks last night. As if spending the last weekend in the Hamptons with him hadn’t been enough.

I prefer him in small doses, like I do with most everyone. Anyone becomes grating in large quantities, and that includes myself.

I drag myself out of bed and walk through my apartment. Stacks of books line the wall to my office. Manuscripts, potential projects. Brew a cup of coffee as I sort through the emails in my phone. A few from one of my editors, excited about the latest photography book we’re publishing. Running a small publishing company isn’t as much of a one-man show as my family likes to think.

My hand stops over an email from Ben.

We’d just been out last night.

But my scrolling stops as I read the headline. Ivy Hart’s contact details.

And it comes back to me. The conversation we’d had, the anger in her dark-blue eyes. The challenge I’d looked forward to has become something genuinely challenging.

I run a hand over my face and head into the living room. Pause in front of the display cabinet where I keep my cameras.

The gritty, old Canon is at the top. My favorite.

My gaze shifts from the camera that promises gritty authenticity to the shiny one I keep on the shelf below. I’m going to have to use this one to shoot Ben’s campaign in all its high-quality glory.

But I reach toward the old Canon DSLR just in case.

I’ll have to clear my schedule for the coming two weeks to shoot his campaign, but the alternative is reneging on a bet, and my pride would snap rather than bend. I turn one of my cameras around in my hands. Besides, it’s been a while since I was pushed out of my comfort zone. This’ll be another adventure.

Meeting people that have real lives and real problems, and not the kind who attend Hamptons parties in the summer. A party where someone hired models just to lounge around. The sheer vanity of such a thing.

What’s more, the inaction of all those high-flying guests when a woman had fallen into the pool, when her friend had been struggling to help her… disgusting. They’d all probably been too afraid to ruin their hair and dress and makeup.

Ivy had been so angry at me. It had been there in her eyes as she’d glared at me, first after I’d tried to turn the men’s attention away from the models, and then again in the pool house. Facing me like a queen, even as the thin, soaked fabric she wore made her look naked.

I put my camera back in the cabinet and close the doors to protect them from dust. Two weeks traveling and shooting a campaign is just what I need. Dirt on my hands and languages I don’t speak.

My phone rings. I debate letting it go to voice mail, but a quick glance at the name changes my mind. “Hi, Lily.”

My little sister’s voice is cheerful. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Instantly suspicious,” she chides me. “I might not be calling because I want something.”

“When you ask about my well-being,” I point out, “you always want something. I’ve known you for… twenty-nine years.”

A soft gurgling sound, and then a childish chuckle. Lily makes a cooing sound. “There, there. Jamie wants to say