Heidi hadn’t been the least bit surprised by his request. As his assistant, she was accustomed to doing all sorts of tasks for him, and finding a model was hardly unusual. But when she’d come up empty, his excessive surliness had been noteworthy.
At five minutes before ten, he strode into the workroom at EW Lingerie and surveyed the scene. His team had everything ready for the shoot. His photography assistant had set up the lighting per his instructions. He glanced toward the corner where racks of cotton, silk and lace undergarments waited beside the hair and makeup tables. Instead of hiring professional models for the shoot, the designers of the inclusive underwear brand were to be highlighted wearing their lingerie. The magazine had chosen to feature EW Lingerie—the initials standing for Every Woman—because the brand had been created by three women with a mission to bring affordable lingerie to women of all shapes and sizes without sacrificing beauty, style or comfort.
A camera was placed in Oliver’s outstretched hand as he approached the set. With an effort of will, he shoved aside all distraction and focused on what he was being paid big bucks to do. He expected a difficult shoot based on the fact that he wasn’t working with professional models, and many women wouldn’t be comfortable posing in their underwear. He was therefore delighted that the three owners were eager to have some fun and proud of their product.
After snapping several hundred photos with numerous wardrobe changes, Oliver shifted out of artist mode and noticed the room’s energy had changed. Accustomed to being the center of attention, Oliver sensed he was receiving a different sort of interest. Setting down his camera, he caught Heidi’s eye and waved her over.
“What’s going on?” he asked, noting that his team was making an effort to avoid looking his way.
“Everything went smoothly,” Heidi declared with a bright smile. “The magazine is going to love the images.”
Convinced she was hiding something, Oliver settled a hard glare on her. “I’m not talking about the shoot. I know that went well.” He narrowed his eyes at the anxious energy surrounding him. Something was wrong. “So, I’m going to ask you again, and this time you’re going to give me a straight answer. What’s going on?”
“There’s been some news.” She paused, looking like she wanted to be anywhere but standing in front of him at the moment. “It’s about your family.”
Suddenly Oliver understood why everybody was treating him like an escaped wild animal. They were afraid to set him off. He ground his teeth in irritation. It was one thing for him to terrorize his crew when something went wrong on set. It was something else for them to tiptoe around him because of his personal issues. Restraining a growl, Oliver strode to where he left his leather jacket. He scooped it up, feeling the weight of his silenced smartphone in the left pocket. Without a word to anyone, he headed out.
Oliver’s phone was in his hands and his fingers were typing Black Crescent into the search bar before the elevator reached the ground floor. His long legs carried him to the sidewalk as the first news article materialized on the screen.
Vernon Lowell Lives! Black Crescent Fugitive Located in Remote Caribbean Location.
His father was...alive.
The shock of it hit Oliver’s psyche like a hundred-foot tsunami wave, sending his emotions spinning, scrambling his thoughts. The air around him grew heavy. It was as if he floundered beneath the surface of the ocean with no sense of up or down. Unable to breathe, Oliver stumbled toward the nearest solid object and placed his shoulder against the building’s concrete facade.
That damned fishing pole. It had come from his father after all.
As this realization seared across his brain, fury replaced his initial shock. With acid burning his gut raw, Oliver scanned the bombshell article splashed all over the national news. Vernon Lowell had been spotted on a remote Caribbean island. For fifteen years Vernon had been in hiding, enjoying his life on a Caribbean island while his family faced all the public scrutiny and ridicule. Oliver gripped his smartphone until his fingers turned white.
How could this be happening? His father was alive?
With a curse, Oliver hurled his phone into the Manhattan traffic. Overcome with need to find a bar and demand a shot of whiskey, he started walking. No, not a shot, an entire bottle. Only oblivion would let him escape the rush of powerful emotion filling him. He moved toward the curb and hailed a cab, directing the driver to take him to the Soho Grand Hotel. Then, thoughts churning, he collapsed against the seat and stared unseeing out the window as Manhattan slid past.
When the taxi stopped outside the hotel, Oliver passed the fare to the driver. With his wallet still in his hand, he exited the vehicle. Oliver started toward the hotel’s front door and then stopped. Of their own volition, his fingers wrapped around the stainless dog tags dangling around his neck. Tightening his fist around the talismans, Oliver focused on calming his unsteady breathing.
The necklace bore two dog tags, one his own, the other belonging to Carson Bowles, Oliver’s best friend. The two buddies had been all sorts of bad as they drank and partied their nights away. They’d started out modeling around the same time and bought the matching necklaces after walking their first New York Fashion Week runway. Superstitious about the dog tags, they never went anywhere without them, taking them off only to work.
