Red Hot Rebel (Brothers of Paradise), page 1
Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
1. Ivy
2. Rhys
3. Ivy
4. Ivy
5. Ivy
6. Rhys
7. Ivy
8. Ivy
9. Rhys
10. Ivy
11. Rhys
12. Ivy
13. Ivy
14. Ivy
15. Rhys
16. Rhys
17. Ivy
18. Ivy
19. Ivy
20. Ivy
21. Ivy
22. Rhys
23. Ivy
24. Ivy
25. Rhys
26. Ivy
27. Rhys
Epilogue
Brothers of Paradise
Seattle Billionaires Series
Other Books by Olivia
About Olivia
Copyright © 2021 Olivia Hayle
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be distributed or transmitted without the prior consent of the publisher, except in case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews.
All characters and events depicted in this book are entirely fictitious. Any similarity to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language and explicit scenes, and is intended for mature readers.
Cover by by Sarah Armitage Design
Edited by Stephanie Parent
www.oliviahayle.com
Epigraph
“We love because it’s the only
true adventure in life.”
— Nikki Giovanni
1
Ivy
I look up at the giant Hamptons mansion with nothing but trepidation. It’s the first time my modeling agency has sent me to do a live modeling gig. They’re bizarre things. Stand here and look pretty. There’s a reason I’ve always turned them down, but when Tina showed me the paycheck for this one, there was no refusing.
Melissa comes up beside me. “We’re going home together?”
“Absolutely,” I tell her. “Right after our shift is up. I have a portable charger in my bag, too.”
“Good call.” We’d been stranded at a shoot two months ago, both of our phones dead, with no way to contact an Uber.
We turn at the sound of high heels on the path behind us as the rest of the models join us. Some of them I recognize. Far from all these women share Melissa’s and my… well, let’s call it dedication to staying on the right side of the line. Throw around the word “model” and you’ll get invited into a lot of exclusive areas. Places with expensive drinks and even more expensive drugs.
“Two years ago I was the face of a national jeans campaign,” Melissa mutters at my side. “Now I’m posing at a designer’s party for all his friends.”
I shoot her a smile. “It’s three hours, and he’s paying well.”
“Thank God for that.” She pulls her bag up on her shoulder and leads the way into the house, where a woman with a headset and a clipboard is waving us in. “Let’s get this over with.”
Ten minutes later, I’m smoothing my hand over a dress that barely covers my butt. Short, flimsy and colorful, it’s part of the designer’s spring and summer collection for this year.
“Time to move!” Clipboard-Lady calls out. One of the newer models from my agency, a girl I don’t recognize, is struggling with the tiny clasps of her strappy heels.
I bend to do up the little clip. “Put them on looser than you need to,” I advise her. “When you’re walking a runway, you want straps like these to be tight. When you’re standing or posing at a photoshoot, you want them loose, or they’ll cut into your ankles when they get swollen.”
She shoots me a shy smile. “Thank you.”
“Anytime. I’m Ivy.”
“Jordan,” she says and falls into step beside me as we walk out of the pool-house-turned-dressing-room.
The house is stunning, with the turquoise water of the pool beckoning in the summer sun, and the open-air bar is fully stocked with liquor. The bartender watches us walk and grins in appreciation.
“Here, here, hurry,” Clipboard-Lady says. She’s clutching it tight to her chest. “I want the first four of you over here…. You, you, you, and you.”
Melissa is in that group, ushered into the house. “You’ll flank the entranceway—I’ll see you in a second.” She turns to the five of us remaining. “There are small x’s put around the pool. Find one each.”
And those are our only instructions.
I shoot Jordan a chagrined smile, like the things we have to do, and walk around the pool in search of an x marked by tape.
The one I find is on the back corner, close to a secluded area of the yard with lounge chairs. I suppose it won’t be long until they’re filled with guests.
“That’s it!” Clipboard-Lady calls. “Stay there, and if you need refreshments or to use the bathroom, you can rotate back to the pool house.”
Then she leaves us in a stomp of righteous agitation, off to solve another logistical puzzle to this Hamptons party.
The five of us look around at each other.
“Everyone put on sunblock?” I call.
That earns me a few laughs from the other models.
And then the boredom begins.
That’s what I’d always feared with these live modeling gigs, the ones fancy companies, clubs or designers host.
I run my hand through my hair, ensure the dress is in place. And then I go through the parts of the human skeleton I need to memorize for my physical therapy test in two days.
The spine, made up of the cervical, thoracic and lumbar vertebrae, sacrum and coccyx. The sound of tropical beats starts soon thereafter, blasting from artfully placed speakers around the house and yard.
I keep going.
The pelvis, made up of the ilium, pubis and ischium.
The first guests arrive, walking out onto the patio in sunglasses and suits. I stick out a leg, put my hand on my hip, and make my expression carefully, beautifully bored.
I continue with my mental study session. It’s something I’ve perfected over the years. Waiting backstage at shows, standing in line for castings… and all the while, I’d study in my head. First for my online bachelor’s degree. It might have taken me five years to complete part-time, but I’d done it, while modeling paid the bills. It didn’t hurt that the job had other perks too. The dress I’m wearing fits like it was made for me—and I’d heard it whispered amongst the models that the designer in question often gifted his samples to models.
I wouldn’t mind taking this one home.
My gaze drifts over the sea of guests milling around the pool. Colorful drinks are in hand, or food from a catering table located somewhere inside the house. I see mini Beef Wellingtons. Oysters served on ice. Something that looks like chicken sliders.
My stomach rumbles loudly at the sight.
I press a hand to my side, making it look like a pose, and glance over to the guests sitting in the lounge chairs next to me. But they hadn’t noticed.
It’s a group of men in suits. Well, all except one. The man in the middle wears a linen button-down with the top button undone, a long leg thrown over the other. Worn, expensive boat shoes on his feet.
He’s not speaking, but he’s being spoken to—the others look to him.
He gazes at the man talking with an expression that’s haughty disdain and cool indifference rolled into one. Everything about him screams impress me.
Then his gaze shifts to mine. A dark lock of hair falls over a tan forehead, the look in his eyes switching into what do you want?
I tear my gaze away.
It’s unprofessional to stare. To be anything more than a living statue, a piece of art. I’m displaying the clothes, and that’s all.
So I keep my gaze on the milling guests beyond, changing poses, sticking out my hip. And yet all my attention is on the group of men to my side.
If I strain my ears, I can just make out their conversation. I’m not a fly on the wall, I’m a model by the pool, but at events like this, there’s really no difference.
“Australia is the right move,” a man says. “We should have the place open before the year’s end.”
“Sydney?” another asks.
“Yes.”
A deep humming sound.
“Skeptical, Rhys?” the first voice asks.
I dare a glance over.
The man who watched me is leaning forward now, hands braced on his knees. I’d wager he’s about thirty.
“You know I am. You’re making it too easy for people.”
Another of the men laughs. “Yes, and god forbid anything be easy. Where did you just return from? The Andes?”
“Yes.” A wild, taunting grin on his face. “You should try hiking sometime.”
“No, thank you. I’ll leave that to the customers.”
The dark-haired man named Rhys gives a snort of disdain. “As if they’d leave a five-star resort.”
“Some do. It’s all part of the experience.”
“The carefully packaged, curated experience, you mean.” He leans back in his chair and turns his gaze back to mine, catching me eavesdropping. Our gazes lock.
Again.
“Can we help you with anything?” His raised voice isn’t friendly, an eyebrow cocked in the same expression as earlier. Like he’s skeptical of the world at
Crap.
“No.” I toss my hair back. It’s a vain move, but it’s part of the role I’m playing tonight. “Sorry.”
“Can’t fault the woman for getting bored,” one of his friends points out. He turns drink-glazed eyes on me, sweeping them up and down my form. It’s a perusal I’m used to.
Doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable.
“How long do you have to stand up there, sweetheart?”
I keep from gritting my teeth at his tone, at the epitaph. Acting professional is all I have to do.
“Until the end of the party,” I say, waving a hand over my dress. “Showcasing the upcoming collection.”
Well, that was a mistake.
All four of the men now look down at my minuscule dress, and I don’t think it’s to admire the intricacy of the pattern. Rhys leans back in the sofa, an arm outstretched along the back of it. He doesn’t say a thing, even if he’d been the one to call me out on my staring.
“Are you allowed to drink?” one of his friends asks. “Are you even allowed to talk?”
I give them a polite smile. “There are refreshments for us in the back. They said nothing about talking, but I’m guessing it’s not what they had in mind, no.”
“I don’t know how you do it. I’d be bored after a few minutes.”
“You’re bored with everything after a few minutes,” Rhys drawls at him. “This isn’t an exception.”
Making my expression apologetic, I turn back to the crowd beyond. The sun is setting, and the pool reflects the glorious colors of the sky. Summer in the Hamptons, and all these rich people are enjoying themselves. I still haven’t seen the designer, despite it being his party.
The men’s conversation is hard to tune out, though.
“Harsh to hire models and not let them mingle with the guests. What’s the point of having them here?”
“To look at, of course.” Rhys’s voice again. It’s sardonic—like he hates the practice, or considers it beneath him.
“Hired eye-candy,” another one responds. “Here to tempt us, but not to touch.”
Okay.
Disgusting.
I glance over in time to see Rhys give a dismissive flick of his hand. “They’re just models.”
“Oh?” his friend asks, grinning. “I’m sorry, what was I thinking. They’re obviously nothing that’d ever tempt you.”
“That’s right,” Rhys confirms, ignoring the sarcasm. “After a lifetime of being around beautiful women, I’m immune.”
“Well, I’m not. I like the look of the dark-haired one over there.”
I know without looking that he’s talking about Jordan on the other side of the pool. I grit my teeth and look back out at the crowd.
Their words shouldn’t bother me. They’re strangers. Rich, asshole strangers, but strangers nonetheless. And yet their comments slide like splinters beneath my skin.
“Ours is better,” the fourth man responds. “Blonde, busty—and look at those legs.”
It takes every ounce of self-control not to turn and glare. I’m standing right here, and they know I can hear them.
Which means they don’t give a damn.
Privilege rises from them in waves, like a too-thick cologne, oozing from the tailored clothing and disdainful voices.
I can’t wait until this party ends and I can return to the real world, my world, filled with cheap coffee, textbooks and gym sessions.
An edge of steel enters Rhys’s voice when he speaks again. “They’re just models. Air-headed and vain, here to do a job and then to leave.”
My head whips around to glare at him. He ignores me, but the surrounding men don’t. The two who’d commented on Jordan and me just laugh at my outrage.
“We have better things to discuss,” Rhys continues. The tone brokers no future deliberation on the topic.
The men fall silent.
Anger curls in my stomach, sharper than before. Who does he think he is, to comment on our purported intelligence while he knows I can overhear?
A movement to my right. I turn my head in time to watch Jordan fall from her spot by the pool, and break the surface of the water.
She’s not moving.
My reaction is borne from instinct. I dive off the edge and break the surface of the cold water. The pool isn’t large and I reach Jordan quickly, wrapping my arms around her.
She’s limp in my arms. The flowy fabric of her dress is heavy, pulling her down, and she’d fallen into the deep end. I kick my legs against the weight of the water to keep us both afloat. Stunned guests look at us around the edge of the pool.
Nobody helps.
Strong arms brush against mine beneath the surface, wrapping around Jordan. She’s pulled out of my grasp entirely.
Rhys comes into view. The man who’d disparaged me as vain and air-headed, his dark hair now plastered in unruly curls over his forehead. He moves in two strong, skilled strokes and then he’s reached the stairs in the pool.
I swim after him, gaze locked on Jordan’s face. She lolls against his shoulder.
“Jordan?” I kneel on the steps, half-submerged in water. “Jordan, wake up.”
She blinks twice, and then coughs, struggling to sit. Rhys releases her but stays next to us in the water.
“Fainted,” she whispers, and then breaks into a coughing fit that racks her body. I put an arm around her shoulders and look over at Rhys. He gazes back with serious intent, none of the snideness I’d seen earlier.
“Help me get her to the pool house,” I tell him.
He doesn’t respond, simply slides his arms around Jordan and lifts her straight out of the water. The crowd parts around us as he carries her toward the adjoining building.
I rush ahead, shaky from the adrenaline, the dress clinging like a second skin to my body. I pull open the door for him. “Put her on the couch.”
Grabbing towels, I drape them over her and smooth her hair back from her forehead. She’s starting to shake.
“Jordan? Are you okay?”
She nods, then closes her eyes. “I can’t believe I fainted here.”
“Lucky you fell into the pool,” Rhys says. He’s retreated, hands deep in the pockets of his wet chinos. The shirt clings to broad shoulders and forms droplets on the tan skin. “A fall on the stone would have been far worse.”
Jordan glances at him, eyes wide. A realization dawns in them. “Tina is going to drop me,” she whispers.
“She will do no such thing,” I tell her firmly. “The agency wouldn’t have sent you here if they didn’t like your work.”
“This is my first booking,” she whispers.
And her fear makes sense, as does my sneaking suspicion that she fainted because she hadn’t eaten, hadn’t had enough to drink, and standing out there in the sun did her in.
I grit my teeth. “When was the last time you ate?”
The guilty look on her face is enough, even if she doesn’t answer me.
“All right,” I say, all my physical therapy and anatomy lessons kicking in. “You need to change into warm clothing. There are towels in the bathroom. Think you can do that?”
She nods, and I help her walk to the en suite. “Don’t lock the door,” I tell her. “I’ll stand guard, but if you get the least bit dizzy, call out.”
“I will,” she whispers, pushing the door closed behind her.
I blow out a frustrated breath and run a hand through my now wet length of hair. Tina won’t be happy about this, that much is true. The head of our modeling agency rules it with an iron fist. And every model I talk to who doesn’t eat enough reminds me why I dislike this part-time industry of mine.
“You should change too,” Rhys points out, nodding tactfully to my second-skin dress. A glance down reveals what I already know—my nipples are hard and visible through the fabric. Thank you, unheated pool.
