Brothers of Paradise Series

Anyone can photograph beautiful environments and make them look, well, beautiful. Point and shoot. All you need is an iPhone, for Christ’s sake. Where’s the art?

“This is what you want me to shoot?”

Ben slaps a hand on my shoulder, even if he has to reach up to do it. His shit-eating grin is obnoxious. “Yes. Doubting your talents?”

“No. And my pictures won’t look anything like this asinine shit.” I point to a picture where a coconut has been placed in white sand, photographed up close with the ocean in the background. “Prepare yourself for a masterpiece.”

As much as I don’t travel like Ben’s clients, I understand them intimately. They’re my parents. They’re my siblings. They’re the people I grew up with, the people I meet through my job.

I know what they want.NôvelDrama.Org owns this.

“I’m ready,” he says. “Just remember that it’s a marketing campaign. It’s not going to hang in the Louvre.”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten.”

“You’ll receive the same brief as the marketing agency we’ve hired.”

“Sounds fair.”

“Your itineraries are planned in reverse, so you’ll never be at the same resort together.” He shoots me a wide grin. “I’ve never had two contractors race against one another like this.”

“Exciting?”

“I might make it standard practice.”

“And the best marketing campaign wins the bet,” I confirm.

“Yes. We’ll take an internal vote, me, my CFO, my head of PR.”

I roll my neck, work out the kinks. “Perfect.”

“Our shoot director will email you lists of some specific shots we need, some inspiration, what we’re expecting. But for the rest? You have free rein, just like you asked for. We’re not sending a stylist or assistant with you.”

“I don’t want either of them,” I comment. The part of me raised by my politer-than-life mother urges me to say thank you. But this is just a bet to the two of us, and money isn’t an issue.

And I was never good at following my mother’s rules regarding etiquette.

“The representative from the modeling agency is here, too, together with the model we chose.” There’s smug anticipation in his voice. “Ready to meet your partner in crime?”

“If I must.”

He rolls his eyes at me. “Try looking a little less tortured, will you? You’re getting to stay at all of my best resorts, and you’re traveling with a drop-dead-gorgeous woman.”

My grin is crooked. “When you put it that way…”

“Just remember to get the campaign wrapped before you cross any lines.”

“I would never.”

“Never my ass,” he scoffs. “You might consider all of this beneath you, but I know you. You’ve dated models before. Who was the last one?”

“I don’t kiss and tell,” I say. In truth, I don’t know which one he’s referring to-Ben’s information can’t be up to date. I enjoy women and women enjoy me. It’s always consensual, it’s always brief, and it’s always honest.

“The woman we chose is damn good. Sinfully sweet, you know? High-end look, but still approachable. Fierce, but would help a friend out in a pinch. Could be a good new face of Rieler Travels.”

“I thought you wanted the locations to be the face of Rieler Travels.”

“Have I ever told you how annoying I find you?”

“Regularly, yes.”

We turn down a corridor, passing office after office. Corporate prisons. I’d trade one of those for the beaches in the oversaturated pictures in a heartbeat.

Ben grins, hand on the door to the conference room. “The model? She’s someone… how do I put this? She’s the kind of person who’d dive straight in to help a friend.”

My eyes narrow. “Ben, what did you do?”

He doesn’t respond, just pushes the door open to reveal a conference room, beige walls, colorful art on the walls. A testament to Rieler’s luxury clientele. And seated at the table, flanked by two middle-aged women, is his latest practical joke.

It’s the blonde model from the Hamptons party, the one who’d looked at me with such disdain. The one who’d shivered after her dip in the pool in that tiny dress.

Fucking hell.

Ben handles the introductions, transformed into the picture of professionalism. If you hadn’t seen him drunk at two a. m. in New York clubs, like I have, you’d doubt he’s ever anything else.

“This is Rhys Marchand.” He introduces me with a flourish, but I can hear the glee in his voice. “He’s the photographer hired to shoot this campaign.”

“Delighted. I’m Tina.” A dark-haired woman extends her hand to me, her hair cut in a no-nonsense bob and a calculating look in her eyes. From Star Model Management, apparently. We shake hands.

I extend my hand to the familiar model next to her. Her blonde hair is pulled back from a face made for the camera, flushed and agitated. The eyes locked on mine are filled with more than simple dismay. Not alarm, exactly. Anger? Distaste?

Then her own professionalism kicks in and she grasps my hand. “Ivy Hart,” she says. “It’s a pleasure.”

I grip her hand tight. “I’m sure it is.”

Her eyes flash, but there’s nothing she can say, not in front of everyone.

I grab a seat across from her and turn my attention to Ben and the shoot director, giving her absolutely none.

So her name is Ivy.

Ben must have contacted the designer from the party, learned the name of the agency. Hunted her down somehow and hired her to spite me. It’s just his sense of humor.

My hand curls into a fist on the table.

I’d expected some vapid girl who’d want to party in every location we’d visit. Someone I’d spend as little time as possible with.

But no. It has to be the honey-blonde knockout I’d insulted in an effort to shut Ben’s inane friends up.