Male/Male Mystery and Suspense Box Set: 6 Novellas
Author: Josh Lanyon
Date: 2014-06-29 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: M M Romance; Mystery; Romance; Anthologies; Mystery Thriller; Novella; Lgbt; Romantic Suspense; Contemporary
Description: An incredible savings. This box set contains six complete bestselling mystery and suspense novellas by one of the leading authors of Male/Male crime and mystery fiction. The Dark Horse - Paul Hammond is dead. That’s what tough and sexy LAPD Detective Daniel Moran tells his lover, Hollywood actor Sean Fairchild—and Sean wants to believe him, but what about those threatening postcards in Hammond’s handwriting? A Vintage Affair - Somewhere in the cobwebbed cellar of the decrepit antebellum mansion known as Ballineen are the legendary Lee bottles—and Austin Gillespie is there to find them. What he

An incredible savings. Over 600 pages and 200,000 words for less than $1.50 a book. This box set contains six complete bestselling mystery and suspense novellas by one of the leading authors of Male/Male crime and mystery fiction.

The Dark Horse - Paul Hammond is dead. That’s what tough and sexy LAPD Detective Daniel Moran tells his lover, Hollywood actor Sean Fairchild—and Sean wants to believe him, but what about those threatening postcards in Hammond’s handwriting?

A Vintage Affair - Somewhere in the cobwebbed cellar of the decrepit antebellum mansion known as Ballineen are the legendary Lee bottles—and Austin Gillespie is there to find them. What he finds is the dashing and disturbing Jeff Brady.

Blood Red Butterfly - Despite falling in love with aloof manga artist Kai Tashiro, Homicide Detective Ryo Miller is determined to break the alibi Kai is supplying his murderous boyfriend—even if it means breaking Kai with it.

Don’t Look Back - Peter Killian, curator at Constantine House in Los Angeles, wakes in the hospital to find himself accused of stealing a Tenth Century Chinese sculpture.

Lovers and Other Strangers - Recovering from a near fatal accident, artist Finn Barret returns to Seal Island in Maine only to learn his twin brother has been missing for three years.

Cards on the Table - Fifty years ago a glamorous Hollywood party ended in murder—the only clue a bloody Tarot card. Timothy North is trying to find out what happened that long ago summer’s night.

Male/Male Mystery and Suspense Box Set: 6 Novellas

Smashwords edition, June 2014

Copyright (c) 2014 by Josh Lanyon

Cover by KB Smith

Edited by Keren Reed

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from JustJoshin Publishing, Inc.

ISBN: 978-1-937909-65-9

Published in the United States of America

JustJoshin Publishing, Inc.

3053 Rancho Vista Blvd.

Suite 116

Palmdale, CA 93551
www.joshlanyon.com

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Dark Horse

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

A Vintage Affair

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Blood Red Butterfly

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Don’t Look Back

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Lovers and Other Strangers

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Cards on the Table

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

The Dark Horse

Dedication:

To all those for whom The Charioteer made a difference

“But I should have come back, anyway. I should have had to come back.”

The Charioteer, Mary Renault

Chapter One

The postcard was nestled between Variety and the Edison bill.

Just an ordinary picture postcard. White font proclaimed MALIBU! across the mai tai-colored sunset. I turned the card over, and there was the spidery black writing I had thought I would never see again.

Miss me?

No signature. No signature needed. I looked at the postmark. Pacific Coast Highway. Yesterday’s date.

I stared for a long time while Dan’s deep voice receded into the cries of the gulls overhead and the pound of the waves on the beach a few yards away, until those too faded to a kind of white noise.

No. God.

Then Dan stretched across and took the card from my unresisting hand, and I was abruptly returned to the present.

The wooden chair creaked as he leaned back, his long muscular body at ease. His dark brows drew together. Absently, he raked his still-wet hair back. It wasn’t like there was a lot to read. One simple sentence.

Miss me?

A rhetorical question if there ever was one.

Water glistened on Dan’s broad sun-browned shoulders, one drop trickling down between his rock-hard pecs, sparkling through the dusting of dark hair across his flat abdomen. The tiny flicker of irritation I’d felt at his arrogance faded in the wake of lust. After he’d spent nearly a month playing Bodyguard to the Stars, I couldn’t blame him if he still occasionally reacted like he was getting paid for overtime.

“It’s not Hammond,” he said, and tossed the card to the table. It landed face up in a blob of crabapple jelly.

“The writing is the same.”

“Superficially. We’d have to get it analyzed. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Say one of his cards was delayed for a few days; it doesn’t change the fact that he’s dead.”

“If he is dead.”

His eyes, blue as the surf behind him, met mine levelly. “Sean, he’s dead. I saw the car. No one could have survived that crash.”

“Then why wasn’t his body recovered?”

“It’s somewhere in the aqueduct. I don’t know. It must have been swept away or lodged somehow.”

I nodded tightly. It’s not like there’s high tide in the California Aqueduct.

Dan’s large hand slid under my fingers nervously fiddling with a teaspoon. “It’s over, chief. Trust me.”

“I do.” It came out more husky than I’d intended.

He turned my hand palm up, lightly kissing it. The warmth of his lips against my surf-chilled skin made me shiver. I dropped the teaspoon. It hit the edge of my saucer with a silvery chime. He grinned.

You only ever hear about closeted cops, so Dan’s relaxed attitude still caught me off guard. He was probably more at ease with his sexuality than half the “civilians” I knew. He sure as hell was more relaxed than me.

I pulled my hand away at the familiar yap-yapping of the four-legged hairball belonging to our nearest neighbor, Mrs. Wilgi. Sure enough, a moment later “Mrs. Wiggly” came around the cairn of rocks, armed with her usual binoculars and police whistle.

I caught Dan’s eye. His grin was wry. He was getting to read me pretty well.

I said, “Hey, for all I know Mrs. Wiggly has a spy cam concealed in her muumuu.”

He forked another waffle off the plate. “I don’t even want to think about what that muumuu conceals.”

I laughed. My glance fell on the jam-stained postcard, and I made myself look away. If Dan said it was over, it was over. He was the expert here.

All the same, after a year of being stalked, it wasn’t so easy to drop my guard. One week after Paul Hammond lost control of his car during a police chase on Highway 138 and crashed into the California Aqueduct, I still tensed when the phone rang, waiting for that familiar whisper. I still sorted through my mail fast, trying to get it over with in case, like today, something ugly fell out of the mix. I still watched the rearview mirror everywhere I drove, although for the past three weeks Lt. Daniel Moran of the LAPD had been riding shotgun with me—when he didn’t insist on doing the actual driving.

I said, talking myself away from my anxiety, “I just don’t want to turn up in the National Inquirer as the gay Bennifer or something.”

“Dansean?” Dan suggested, playing along.

“I’m the celebrity,” I pointed out. “My name gets top billing. Maybe…Seandan.”

“You can be the top anything you like.” Dan’s eyes were very blue. “Just say the word.”

Heat rose in my face.

I mean, how ridiculous was that? You’d think I was a blushing virgin of seventeen, instead of being a reasonably experienced twenty-five-year-old veteran of the Hollywood party scene. True, most seventeen-year-olds probably saw more action than me—although things were definitely looking up these days.

Automatically, I returned Mrs. Wilgi’s wave as she tromped along the shoreline, her red-and-yellow dress puffing out and flattening against her ungainly body. The dog, barking hysterically, veered off, galloping toward the deck where we sat, as though he’d just noticed this house on the otherwise empty beach.

“Doesn’t that thing have an off button?” I murmured.

Mrs. Wilgi began clapping frantically and calling to the dog.

“Binky! Binky!”

“Speaking of off buttons,” Dan remarked, “I’m supposed to start back at work tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

I tried to hide it, but I knew he could see my disappointment.

He said, his tone very casual, “Were you planning to stay out at the beach for a few days or should I drop some things off at the house?”

“The House” being my place in the Hollywood Hills. My place and now, maybe, Dan’s place, too. It was still so new this relationship, so unexpected. We were both tentative, feeling our way along. Trying not to take too much for granted. Or spoil it by not taking enough for granted.

I said, going for the same off-hand note, “I was thinking of staying out until next weekend. What do you think? Malibu too far to drive every evening?”

“Not if I’m waking up next to you every morning.”

My heart skipped a beat. How the hell could he say this stuff and not sound corny? Practice, I guess. Dan was ten years older than me—and they had been an active ten years.

I said, “That can be arranged.”

We’d been sleeping together for one week, starting with the night Dan had returned home to tell me Hammond had crashed into the aqueduct. But the attraction had been immediate. My manager, Steve Kreiger, kept saying what a great screenplay it would make. Gay cop falls for the gay actor he’s assigned to protect from a crazed stalker. And it was true: for once real life was every bit as satisfying as the movies. Dan was a decorated officer frequently held up as the poster boy for the new and improved (read “sensitive and diverse”) LAPD. It didn’t hurt that he was articulate, smart, and old-fashioned movie-star handsome. A straight arrow in every way but one—and that one way got him assigned to my bodyguard detail.

So now we were finding out what happened after the screen faded to black and the final credits rolled.

Mrs. Wiggly was blowing her police whistle like a crime was in progress. The fur ball ignored her, barking shrilly, plumy tail waving frantically as he stood at the steps of the deck.

I tossed a sausage link, just missing Binky’s indignant nose. Both Dan and the mutt disapproved of this—the mutt vocally, Dan silently. I was getting to know him well enough to translate his silences. I smiled at him, and he shook his head a little.

“I’m trying to win him over,” I said.

“I don’t think he appreciates your cooking the way I do.”

“I guess not.”

I was going to miss our early morning swims followed by these lazy breakfasts. I was going to miss having Dan around all day. Hopefully, I’d be going back to work myself before long. But what happened if the next film I got required a location shoot? Dan and I were way too new to survive extended long distance. I knew, without asking, that he would not be willing to hang up his career in law enforcement to keep me company in New Zealand or Romania for twelve weeks. And I was at a place in my own career where I had to pick my projects carefully.

He pushed his chair back and said, “I think I’ll have a quick shower and drive into town. I want to pick up a few things.”

“Okay.” My gaze wandered back to the postcard.

“Want to help me try out my new back-scrubber?”

I laughed. He made it so easy. I rose, dismissing the card, but as I followed Dan indoors, I couldn’t help wondering…if Paul Hammond hadn’t sent that card, who had?

* * * * *

“Gotta admit, I had my doubts about you when I saw the pink bubble bath.” Dan squirted pastel gel into the ramie mitt and slid it over my shoulders. Scented steam rose from the granite floor of the large shower stall.

“Mm. That feels good.” I bent my head, and he smoothed the mitt down the nape of my neck. “It’s not bubble bath. It’s shampoo slash shower gel. There’s a difference.”

“You’d know. I’ve never seen so many grooming aids in one bathroom.” The rough cotton felt good on my wet skin, and Dan applied just the right amount of pressure. I relaxed—only recognizing at that moment how wound up I’d been.

“Tools of the trade,” I informed him. “I’m a commodity. I’m in business, and I am my product.”

“That attitude and a pair of tight jeans will get you arrested on Hollywood Boulevard.”

“They tell me attitude is everything.”

He pulled me back against his wet, hard body. I arched my neck for his kiss and his mouth closed on mine, warm and male, and with a hint of the tart-sweetness of crabapple. Our tongues slid together, twined. My heart started that heavy slow beat that matched the throb in my groin.

“You are so beautiful…”

“I bet you say that to all th—” His hands slid over my slick body, flicking my nipples. I moaned into his mouth, words failing me. If felt so good. Everything he did felt good. He never made a wrong move; that was the advantage of having so much experience. Of course, that kind of expertise was a little intimidating sometimes.

Putting my hands over his, I held them against my chest. He palmed the nipples, back and forth, just the right amount of teasing abrasion.

I turned to face him—wrapped my arms around him.

Smoothing the mitt over my ass, Dan gave one cheek a playful squeeze before sweeping the mitt up my spine. My dick came up like a divining rod, nudging his already hard thickness. Heart pounding, I pressed against him, wanting more, wanting closer. I was surprised the shower drops didn’t sizzle on my skin; I was so hot for him. Dan shook off the mitt and his hands closed on my ass, urging me closer. I groaned, feeling for his cock.

“Yeah, Sean, just like that,” he muttered.

His fingers slid down the crevice between my butt cheeks, intimate and familiar, finding the mouth of the secret passage. He delicately circled my opening, then slipped the tip of one finger inside: a sweet and slow piercing. I caught my breath.

Just a fingertip, like the press of a button—a button I badly wanted him to push. That weird clawing ache started in my belly. I made a sound in the back of my throat; even I wasn’t sure what I meant.

Dan’s kiss gentled. He kissed the underside of my jaw, his finger simply holding its place, like a book he meant to read later.

Let go, I instructed myself, impatiently. What the hell is the hold up? You want him. He wants you. Act, if you have to.

Act like…a porn star.

I found his mouth, kissed him back hard, surging up against him. I could feel his surprise. His mouth covered mine hungrily. He pushed his finger into me deeply; I started, my foot slipping out from under me in the sudsy warm water.

He steadied me, both hands on my arms, smiling. “Easy, chief.”

“Yeah.” I laughed, but after a week of this I wasn’t fooling anybody, including myself. “I’m just not sure about that yet,” I said, feeling like a fool. I still felt the memory of his finger in my body—an erotic fingerprint.

“I know.” He sounded easy and a little amused.

“I mean, I want to,” I said. “I’m just…” Why did I have to say anything? The last thing I wanted was for this to turn into an issue. Why couldn’t I just have let it happen, naturally, spontaneously?

“We don’t have to rush it.”

Was six days rushing it? Probably not. His dick poked into my belly like an elbow in the ribs reminding me that he had places to go and things to do, and so far this morning he wasn’t getting anything but talk.

Porn star, remember? Act. It’s what you’re good at.

“Let me tell you a little secret,” I said and slid to my knees to take the head of his cock into my mouth.

“Oh, my God,” Dan said, closing his eyes. His fingers brushed my cheek. “What you do to me.”

Yeah, this I knew how to do, sucking him with soft wet heat and then hard. I murmured encouragingly—not really an act, come to think of it—and tugged with my lips. Sweet and soft. Tight and hard.

Dan’s breathing went slow and deep, fingers fluttered over my ears, the base of my skull, urging me closer, but not forcing—never forcing.

The water sluiced over his shoulders and rained down on me. I tasted shower gel and clean skin and the salty tang of pre-cum. His swollen cock throbbed between my lips; he pushed deeper into my mouth. I relaxed my throat muscles and took more of him. A muscle in Dan’s cheek jumped. He looked down at me, and his eyes seemed dazed.

I made soft sounds, inciting him to riot.

Groaning, Dan braced his hands on the granite tiles. His legs trembled.

I backed off a little, laved the cleft in the head of his cock with my tongue, took him back in and sucked hard.

“I’m going to come,” he warned throatily.

His cock jumped and he began to come. Hard.

Not a problem for me. I liked this part. I swallowed enough to show I cared, then buried my head in his belly, nuzzling his genitals. He twitched and shivered. Petted my wet head, stroking the hair back from my face.

I smiled, watching him. After a few moments he shook his head like a wet dog and gave a shaky laugh.

“You are one crazy guy.”

“Hey.”

“Hey, you.” He reached up and turned off the tap, drawing me to my feet. Energized. And how the hell that worked, I had yet to figure out.

There were dents in my knees from the granite floor, and my legs felt wobbly with my own need. He pulled me against his long strong body, one hand cupping my balls. I rested my head on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his clean wet skin. The hair on his chest tickled my nose. Just the feel of those steely fingers handling me…

I guided his hand to where I needed it to be. He wrapped his fingers around my cock.

“I like that little sound you make,” he whispered.

The bedroom phone rang.

“What the hell!” I opened my eyes.

“The machine will get it.”

I nodded absently, listening. Dan’s heart was settling back into its normal rhythm. The phone rang again. Dan’s hand slowed. I rested my hand on his, urging him on. He tightened up a bit, and I caught my breath. Big brown capable hands. Good for all kinds of things: gripping a gun or shaking cocktails or…driving me to total distraction.

The phone rang a third time, and then the answering machine picked up.

“Dude!” the tinny voice of Steve Kreiger, my manager, drifted from the other room. For an eerie minute it was like he stood in the doorway watching us; I could picture him scraping the lank red hair out of those mournful basset-hound brown eyes. “You there? T.J. Hooker got you handcuffed to the bed or what?”

“Damn! I’ve got to take it.” I popped open the shower door and abandoned that sweet steamy warmth, sprinting for the bed and the night stand beyond. I heard the shower door close behind me.

I bounced on the white duvet and stretched, grabbing the phone off the receiver. “Hey.”

“Hey. So you are still alive.”

“Yep. Alive and…uh…kicking.” I sucked in my breath as two hard hands wrapped in a plush bath sheet closed around my waist. Dan toweled me down with hard efficiency, blotting shoulders and ribs and butt through the folds of the oversized towel. He rubbed my head briskly. I put the phone against my ear, listening through the fluffy cotton.

“I got a copy of The Charioteer script. I was planning to drop it by this afternoon,” Steve said.

“Roll over,” Dan ordered quietly.

I rolled over, the Naturlatex mattress molding to the contours of my body. The duvet felt damp beneath my back. I stared into Dan’s blue eyes.

He smoothed the towel over my chest, sliding down to my groin. My dwindling erection made a pup tent of white towel.

I closed my eyes and expelled a shaky breath as Dan’s fingers wrapped around my dick once more. “Er…great.” And it was great. I’d been hounding Steve to get me a look at the script for weeks. You wouldn’t think that the screen adaptation of a minor gay classic would require security clearances worthy of the Pentagon—especially given the typical indie film production budget.

Dan’s hand slid up the length of my cock. Slowly slid down. I gritted my teeth to keep from moaning.

From a long, long way away Steve said, “Yeah. But there’s a problem. Lenny Norman is directing and he doesn’t want you.”

I sat up, dislodging Dan’s hand. “You’re kidding!”

“Nope.”

“I’ve never even worked with him. Why doesn’t he want me?”

“For one thing he thinks you’re too good looking for the part of Laurie.”

I glanced across at the reflection of myself in the mirror hanging over the bureau dresser: tall, lanky, brown eyes, brown hair. “I’m not that good looking,” I protested.

“I agree. I don’t think you’re so good looking. In fact, I think you’re butt ugly. This is his opinion.”

I gnawed my lip, ignoring these witticisms. “That’s it? He doesn’t want me because of my looks?”

Steve said, a little more serious now, “That, and he thinks you’re not gay enough.”

“What? What the hell does that mean?”

“Hey, I’m just telling you what was said.”

“But what does that even mean? I’m gay. I’m out. What more does he want?” Dan’s hand closed around the nape of my neck, his fingers knowledgeably prodding the muscles knotting up. I felt a spark of annoyance; I could practically hear him telling me to take a deep breath, relax. I didn’t feel like relaxing. This was business. This was my career.

“It’s not like we had an in-depth discussion. I think it’s a political thing with him. He feels like you’re walking a line with straight audiences, that you’re not openly gay. You play it too straight, that’s what he said.”

“Well, so does Laurie! So does Ralph. I mean, it’s historical drama. It’s World War II. Nobody was out. What’s this idiot planning to do, portray them as a couple of flaming queens?”

“Chill, dude. Don’t kill the messenger. I’m just letting you know what you’re up against. He went ahead and FedExed me a copy of the script, so you’re not totally out of the running.”

I was silent. Dan scraped the back of my neck with his fingernails and I shivered. Never mind the P-Spot. Apparently I had an N-Spot.

I made myself focus.

“Do they have someone else in mind?”

“For Laurie, no. For Ralph I think they’re looking at Peter Grady.”

I swore. The last film I’d done with Peter Grady had earned us the title of “The Gay Tracy and Hepburn” in the queer press. I loved working with the guy; we had major league screen chemistry—one more reason I so wanted to do this project.

Steve soothed, “You haven’t read it yet. Maybe you won’t like the adaptation. Maybe you won’t want to do the film. Let’s not worry about it anymore ‘til you’ve seen the script. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you around two.”

“See you.” I hung up and flung myself back against the mountain of pillows.

“So who’s the bastard with the bad taste not to want you?” Dan inquired. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, putting his watch on, so apparently we had lost our window of opportunity.

“Oh.” I grimaced. “Lenny Norman. He’s directing that film I told you about. The adaptation of The Charioteer. He doesn’t want me. He thinks I’m too good looking.”

“The guy must be blind.”

It barely registered. “It’s that goddamned People magazine article. “People’s 50 Most Beautiful People.” I was number 49 or something.” I brooded over this for a moment. “And he thinks I’m not gay enough.”

Dan’s brows rose. “You seemed gay enough to me five minutes ago.”

I grinned reluctantly. “Maybe you could vouch for me.”

He got off the bed, the squeak of floorboards giving voice to my inner protest. “I’d have preferred to do something else for you, but now I’m running late.”

I shot him a quick look. He sounded regretful, not annoyed; his smile was rueful. “Sorry,” I said. “I kind of had to take that call.”

“Yeah, I know.”

I had the uncomfortable feeling that he did. Well, hell. I was out of practice at having relationships. Actually, who was I kidding? I’d never had a real relationship. Not like this. Not living together 24/7 with a for-richer, for-poorer, in-sickness and in-health option. The closest I’d come was when Steve and I roomed together for about a year after college. That was when Steve had still been trying to make it as a comic. Before he’d decided that managing my career would be easier and more lucrative than having his own.

I watched Dan move around the room dressing. Casual wear: khakis and a black T-shirt. Not the beautifully tailored suits and expensive ties he wore on duty. You couldn’t afford suits like that on a cop’s salary, but Dan supplemented his salary by working as a consultant for the film industry—which was the other reason he had snagged the bodyguard gig with me.

I tried to think what I would do all day. Now that I didn’t have to worry about being taken out by a potentially homicidal fan I’d have to find a new hobby.

Maybe I’d go for another swim after I worked out in the weight room. No problem going by myself now. Just like a big boy. Maybe I’d see if I had a copy of Renault’s The Charioteer here at the beach house and reread it. Or no, maybe that would interfere with my reading the script. Maybe I’d just put on some music and catch some rays. Sunshine was supposed to be good for depression—not that I was depressed. Exactly.

“What time will you be back?”

“About five.” Dan slid the leather badge-wallet into his pocket, double-checked the fit of his khakis in the bureau mirror. “You want me to bring something home for dinner?”

Home. That was kind of nice. I gave his question the careful deliberation it deserved. “I’ll cook. Could you pick up some scallops?”

“I’ll do that, chief.” He bent down over the bed and gave me a quick, hard kiss. “Have a good day. And don’t worry about anything.”

I answered with one of Steve’s favorite lines. “What, me worry?”

“You’re right,” said Dan. “That’s my job.”

Chapter Two

As usual Steve was late.

He showed up at a quarter to three, trudging around the back of the house to the deck where I sat sunning myself and flipping through the latest issue of Food and Wine. Duke Ellington’s “New Mood Indigo” floated through the open sliding door, sailing up to where the gulls wheeled overhead.

“Dude, you changed the lock on your front door,” he announced, tossing a powder blue-bound screenplay onto the patio table. “You never even used to close the windows. Was that Dan the Man’s idea?”

“Sort of.” The truth was I’d changed the locks after the first time Paul Hammond showed up uninvited in my living room. Steve had to be thinking of the old days—back when I’d believed I was the only crazy person to worry about.

He went into the house and reappeared a few moments later with a Corona. Pulling out one of the wooden chairs, he sat down.

“Where is he?”

I didn’t need to ask who. “He went into town to pick a few things up.”

He nodded noncommittally, took a long swig from his beer. “So how are you doing?”

“Good.”

“Yeah?”

I grinned. Steve’s answering grin was lopsided. He was my age, medium height, compact build, and an attractive freckled face. We’d been friends since college, practically as long as we’d been business partners.

He reached for the ring I wore on a silver chain around my neck. I put up a protective hand.

“Isn’t this moving kind of fast?”

I shrugged. “Feels right to me.” I could have explained the ring. It wasn’t what Steve thought. Dan and I had been in an antique shop. I’d seen the ring and said it was pretty, which it was: old-fashioned setting and “chocolate” diamonds. Dan had bought it for a couple of dollars. Mostly as a joke. It didn’t fit me or anything.

“So he’s moved in?”

“Not officially,” I admitted. “But we haven’t spent a night under separate roofs since he took the bodyguard gig.”

Steve’s smile was wry. “Well, you’re the happiest I’ve seen you in a long time.”

“I am.”

“Just…fuck, I don’t know.”

I studied him curiously. “You don’t like Dan, do you?”

He reached over and shifted the screenplay next to his elbow a fraction to the left. “I don’t know. He’s okay. I mean, he’s a great looking guy and he seems to really care about you. He makes you laugh, which is good.” He grimaced. “Maybe I’m jealous.”

“Nah. Come on. What is it?”

Steve’s brown eyes met mine. “He seems a little controlling. Possessive.”

I considered this. “He does?”

Steve raised a shoulder. “Yeah. Maybe it’s a cop thing.”

“Yeah,” I said slowly.

Steve drank more beer. “Hey, listen. I know you’re hot on doing this role, and I respect that. It’s a good script and a great role, I have no doubt. Just remember, it’s the kind of part that’s liable to get you typecast, which until now you’ve avoided. And that’s a good thing, regardless of what that asshole Lenny Norman thinks or says.”

“Duly noted,” I said.

“Peter Grady has already expressed interest in working with you again.”

“He has?”

“His people called your people.”

“You mean his agent called you?”

“Yep. And Winston Marshall, who is producing the film, is definitely interested in you—which I think is how we managed to score a copy of the script. I think he put pressure on Norman.”

It was all I could do not to grab for the screenplay then and there.

“Just keep in mind that working with a director who didn’t want you wouldn’t be a good thing. Especially for you.”

“Come on, Steve,” I said.

“Hey. I’m just saying. There are other considerations.”

“Like the fact that I wouldn’t get my usual fee? Such as it is.”

“Bingo.”

“Money isn’t everything.”

“It is when you need it.”

We talked a while longer and I invited Steve to dinner. He declined on the grounds that he had previous plans, and took off not long after. I wondered if he really had plans or if this was about Dan. It would be awkward as hell if Steve really disliked Dan.

I wondered what Dan thought about Steve. Or if he thought about him at all.

Rising, I got myself another beer from the fridge, changed the record to Frank Sinatra’s Only the Lonely and settled back in the lounge chair with the screenplay for The Charioteer.

FADE IN

EXT. DUNKIRK—DAY

The sea air worked its way into the script as I pictured the chaos of Dunkirk: the sprawl of the dead and dying beneath the black pall of smoke in the windless sky; the makeshift armada of ships and boats and skiffs and rafts and anything that could float; the exhausted and shamed British troops. Ice cold water, the whistle of shells overhead, the smell of guns and brine and blood and death—Laurie Odell with his kneecap blown off, out of his skull with morphia and pain and seasickness.

Sort of put my own problems into perspective. How the hell did anyone hold it together under those conditions? And how the hell were they going to convey the magnitude of the disaster of Dunkirk on a shoestring budget?

I had just reached the part where Ralph Lanyon realizes that the blood-drenched soldier he is asked to pronounce dead is Laurie Odell, a man who holds a special place in his boyhood memories, when I got that prickly feeling you get when you know you’re being watched.

Looking up, I expected to see Mrs. Wiggly on patrol. Nothing. The white beach was blindingly empty in the afternoon sun. A few boats dotted the distant blue glitter of the water.

I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head, staring up at the hillside behind the house. A man stood on the flat-topped rock that overlooked this private stretch of beach.

He was too far away to make out his face, but I recognized the shaggy blond hair, the baggy Hawaiian shirt, the black sunglasses.

Paul Hammond.

My mouth went dry. My heart started slugging hard against my ribcage.

It can’t be, I thought. Don’t flip out over a coincidence. This is a beach town. Half the guys around here have shaggy hair. Half the guys out here wear sunglasses and Hawaiian shirts.

I blinked. The guy on the rock was still looking my way. Or maybe he was just facing my way. Don’t start imagining things, I told myself.

Shading my eyes with my hand, I tried to get a better look, and as I stared—trying not to be too obvious about it—he waved to me.

I short-circuited, incapable for several long seconds of thinking what my next move should be. Finally, shakily, I stood and walked into the house. From inside the doorway I stared back at the hillside.

The man was gone.

He couldn’t be gone, gone. He must have moved on down the hillside where I couldn’t see him from where I stood.

“Maria?”

Maria Martinez, my housekeeper, withdrew from the oven, holding up her inky-stained orange plastic gloves. “Sí?” She gazed at me with her beautiful, solemn olive eyes.

“When you cleaned up the breakfast dishes, what did you do with the postcard that was on the table?”

“I didn’t see no postcard, Mr. Fairchild.”

“There was a picture postcard on the table. Right next to the jam pot.” I could hear the agitation rising in my voice despite the silliness of the words.

Maria was staring at me, slowly shaking her head. “No.”

“Yes.” I made a little square with my hands as though that might refresh her memory. “There was a postcard.”

Somehow her expression managed to look both polite and like she thought I was losing it. Then she brightened. “Oh, sí. Mr. Moran. He take something off the table. You ask heem, Mr. Fairchild.” She smiled to show me there were no hard feelings and returned to scrubbing the inside of the stove.

I walked over to the sliding door and stared out through the screen. Chaparral stirred in the wind. The hillside was bare of anyone.

Dan was late getting home—and that was not usual.

I told myself to get used to it. I’d done enough cop shows to know that detectives keep irregular hours—even when they’re not working.

It was five thirty when the screen door suddenly slid open. I nearly jumped out of my skin, but Dan didn’t seem to notice, walking out on the deck and kissing me hello.

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a bitch down PCH.” He handed me a bottle of wine and a flat brown-wrapped parcel.

“It’s okay.” I glanced at the wine—a very nice chardonnay—and took the parcel. “Are we celebrating?”

“Aren’t we?” Just for a moment his smile was unsure.

“I guess we are.” I picked at the string of the package. “What’s this?”

“Something for you.”

“Yeah?” I couldn’t remember the last time somebody bought me a gift Just Because. When you’re the guy with the money, people just assume you’re picking up the tab.

I tore open the wrapping and studied the indigo-blue cover: Ella Fitzgerald’s profile faced the New York nightscape. The original 1957 Verve recording of Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Gershwin Song Book.

“My God, where did you find this?”

“That little place in Santa Monica where you buy the phonograph needles.”

“I…thank you.” I turned the cover over and studied the play list. “‘The Man I Love,’” I read aloud. “‘Nice Work if You Can Get It.’” I smiled at him.

“Ain’t that the truth.” He leaned forward and kissed me again. Fresh male with a hint of mint. If this kept up I would soon be addicted to the flavor of him. “Want me to put it on?”

I nodded, handing it over and following him inside to unwrap the scallops sitting on the counter. Looking through to the living room I could see Dan’s suitcases sitting by the staircase.

I was smiling as Ella launched into “But Not for Me.” Wrong this time, Ella.

I washed the scallops while the chopped onion and garlic sautéed. Dan poured himself a martini and refilled my glass.

“So what did you do today?”

I shrugged. “Relaxed mostly.”

“Good. That’s what you need.”

I bit back my first response. He didn’t mean anything; he was thinking of the last couple of weeks, that was all. And I couldn’t really blame him. By the time Steve had persuaded me to go to the police, panic attacks were becoming part of my daily routine—right there with all the grooming aids.

I replied, “Then I got what I needed. I worked out. Read. Steve brought the script by.”

I measured out white wine and chicken stock, poured them into the frying pan, turned the heat down to a “smiling boil.” I love that phrase: smiling boil. The aroma of the cooking garlic, onion, and wine worked their magic. Cooking as therapy.

“How’s old Steve?” Dan settled on the bar stool across the counter, sipped his martini. Not that many guys can carry off a martini glass, but he had that kind of ‘50s cool that enabled him to drink martinis and still look tough.

Adding the Pernod to the pan, I reduced the heat. “Okay. Like usual.”

I hesitated. I wanted to tell him about the guy that looked like Paul Hammond, but I knew what he would think. And I knew that Paul Hammond was dead.

I did know that, it was just…

“So what did you think of the script?”

“I’ve only started reading it. I like the choices they’ve made so far.”

He picked up the plate of scallops. “You want me to start these?”

I nodded. He went outside and I added more Pernod to the sauce and took the rice off the burner. The asparagus had been perfect ten minutes earlier, but there was no way of fixing that.

When I stepped outside Dan was seated on the railing, staring out at the sunset. The water looked dark and purple, the sun orange, like a Malibu postcard. I didn’t want to think about postcards.

He glanced my way and asked, “So you think you’ll want to do it?”

I knew what he meant. “I think so, yeah. Assuming Lenny Norman can stomach the idea of me playing the lead in one of his films.”

He held his glass out and we clicked rims.

“You get restless not working,” he observed. “Cooking is not much of a diversion. And God help you if your metabolism ever slows down.”

“I’ll become the forty-ninth most beautiful character actor in Hollywood.” My metabolism would never slow down. No one in my family was fat.

Or gay.

“Those are ready,” I said, nodding to the scallops sizzling away on the grill.

According to Dan, any cooking that didn’t involve charcoal or a spatula was out of his class. He claimed he had two dishes he served for dates: his secret recipe spareribs and his eggs Benedict special. I had the impression these usually followed one another closely in his social calendar. He hadn’t fixed either of them for me yet; I wasn’t sure if that was a promising sign or not.

He rescued the scallops, handing the plate over to me. “Are we eating inside or out?”

Evenings were chilly here on the coast, but I liked being outside, liked the sound of the waves a few yards away, liked looking up at the stars. It felt like we were a million miles from town—just about far enough.

“Out.”

Dan brought down sweaters and we ate by the flickering candlelight, listening to Ella through the open glass door.

I talked to him about the script. In one of my rare pauses for breath it occurred to me that he didn’t have much to say tonight—but then Dan chose his words carefully. I wondered if he liked it this way or if I needed to give him more chances to get a word in edgewise.

In a way it had been easier a week ago when we were just dealing with being attracted to each other—now that we were embarking on a relationship—and we were embarking, the luggage in my front room made it official—it was suddenly much harder. I found myself worrying about stuff I’d never previously considered—like was he liable to suddenly notice that I was boring and self-absorbed?

I mean, I played make-believe for a living—and earned (when I did manage to get paid) a ridiculous amount of money for it. Dan was a real-life hero. He had saved lives. His job made a difference—he made a difference.

“You’re quiet all at once,” he observed.

“Makes a nice change, doesn’t it?”

He shook his head a little as though that wasn’t worth answering. “So what’s the deal with this movie? Why do you want to do it so much?”

I shrugged. “It’s hard to explain. The book was a big influence on me. You’ve never read it?”

“No.”

“It’s beautiful. It’s by Mary Renault, the one who did all those historical novels about ancient Greece. This one is contemporary—well, it was when she wrote it. Kind of a wartime romance. I probably can’t explain it without making it sound trite.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s about a wounded English soldier who falls in love with a conscientious objector during World War II.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Telling you the plot doesn’t really explain it properly.”

“I’m guessing they’re both gay?”

“That’s kind of the point of the novel. Coming to terms with their sexuality. Laurie knows he’s—”

“Laurie?”

I had the sinking feeling that if he kept interrupting, or worse, if he mocked the book, it was going to change the way I saw him, the hopes I had for what was happening between us.

I took a deep breath. Tried again. “Short for Lawrence. Mostly he’s called Spud. Anyway, he knows he’s gay, but the kid, Andrew, who is a Quaker as well as a CO, doesn’t. Doesn’t know that he’s gay. Actually, he doesn’t know that Laurie’s gay either.”

I hesitated, expecting another interruption. Dan said nothing.

“And then there’s also Ralph who was Laurie’s house master or whatever they called it when he was at school. Public school—which in Britain is private school. Laurie was sort of in love with Ralph, without realizing it. Because back then, he was like Andrew. Laurie, I mean, not Ralph. So his feelings for Andrew mirror his own relationship with Ralph, but they aren’t realistic. They aren’t real life love, see? And the book is really about that, about balancing the needs of the soul between the earthy and the ideal—and about living your life with honor and dignity. It’s based on one of Plato’s dialogs, Phaedrus, and Renault refers back to the metaphor of a charioteer trying to control two horses, a white one and a black one.”

I was babbling. But Dan nodded as though I was making great sense.

“So, anyway, Ralph comes back into his life and Laurie has to choose between Ralph and Andrew.”

“Who does he choose?”

“He chooses the dark horse. He chooses life with all its complexities and contradictions and disappointments and…delights.” I half swallowed on the last word, surprising myself by my own intensity. I tried to explain, “I read it when I was…ill.”

I met Dan’s eyes. In the wavering candlelight his gaze was attentive, understanding. I had to look away. Maybe it would have been easier if he had just laughed.

Hurriedly, I said, “I don’t know how good a film it will make because it’s a lot of talk and a lot of Laurie thinking. And it’s a period piece. And it’s a gay romance.”

“But you want to do it anyway.”

I nodded. “It…helped. The book, I mean. It helped a lot. It convinced me that there were people out there like me. Men like me. And that they were decent and honorable and courageous, not the warped diseased things that my parents believed in.”

God, how much had I drunk? I couldn’t believe I’d told him that. I wished he would say something. I felt naked; I had said too much. I shrugged. “I can’t put it into words. It struck a chord with me. It struck a chord with a lot of people. It’s considered a classic.”

“I’ll have to read it one of these days.” He covered my hand with his.

“Or maybe you can just see the movie.” Belatedly I was the one trying for lightness.

“I’ll be in the front row.” He lifted my hand and kissed the inside of my wrist, his lips sending little frissons over the sensitive scar tissue.

* * * * *

Later, when we were undressing for bed, I said impulsively, “I thought I saw Paul Hammond today.”

Dan, mid-shooting his boxers into the dirty clothes hamper, halted and turned my way. “Where?”

“On the hill behind the house.”

I knew immediately it had been a mistake to tell him. He continued to study me for a long moment, not saying anything, just assessing the situation like a good detective.

I said quickly, “I know it couldn’t have been him. It just…spooked me. It looked like him from a distance.”

“What was he doing?” I knew that neutral tone.

“Nothing. I mean, I guess he was looking out at the ocean. He waved to me.” Dan’s face changed. Before he could say anything I qualified, “I mean, I was staring his way and he waved to me, so obviously he couldn’t have been Paul Hammond. Especially since he’s dead.”

Okay. Shut up now.

Dan said, “It’s natural after a year of that bullshit that you’re still keeping an eye out for him. And it’s natural that somebody with Hammond’s build or coloring would remind you of him.”

I nodded. Was he trying to reassure me or himself?

Chapter Three

There was another postcard in the mail the next day.

Vintage colored pencil drawing of the old “movie star colony” on Roosevelt Highway. I stared at the little white houses with their red and green roofs as though I could see my poison penpal sitting inside plotting his next move.

The message on the back was in Hammond’s writing.

Soon…

I rang Dan at work.

He listened in silence as I finished, “If it’s not Hammond, then who’s sending these? The postmark is Malibu.”

He said quietly, “It’s probably some nutcase who read about you and Hammond in the papers.”

“How would he get the beach house address?”

“It might be someone local. Malibu has its share of whack jobs like anywhere else.”

“Great. So now what? I have another psycho after me? Have they found Hammond’s body?”

“It’s not Hammond.”

I clamped my jaw on a lot of things that I knew I would regret saying later.

“Fine. It’s not Hammond. So who is it? And, by the way, what did you do with the postcard from yesterday?”

I heard him draw in a breath. He said very patiently, “Okay. Look, do you want me to come home?”

I did, but hearing him say it brought me back to Earth fast. Maybe it was the word “home.”

“No.”

“Are you sure? I know this is the last thing you needed right now.”

Maybe he meant because I was in the middle of reading a script for a movie no one wanted me to do. Or maybe he meant because I wasn’t bouncing back as quickly as he’d hoped from my last psycho-stalker bout.

“I’m okay. I just don’t understand why this is happening again.” What the hell were the odds of attracting two stalkers within a year? Was it my aftershave?

“I promise you, if I thought this was a genuine threat—”

“What did you do with yesterday’s postcard?”

Did he hesitate? I couldn’t tell. He said, “I’m having it analyzed.”

So was that reassuring or not? He obviously thought the threat was real enough to investigate—or maybe he was just being careful. He was a very careful guy.

“Well, how long will it take before you know anything?”

“It’s not like TV or the movies. It takes time.”

“I know that. How long do you think?”

“A couple of weeks maybe.”

“Weeks?”

He said matter-of-factly, “It’s not high priority, Sean. I’m doing it for confirmation, that’s all.”

Into my silence, he asked again, “Are you okay or do you need me to leave work early?”

There was only one appropriate answer. I said, “I’m fine. I’ll see you this evening.”

Swimming makes me ravenous. I was raiding the fridge after a late morning dip when the phone rang. I poured OJ into the glass Maria handed me, and passed her the plate with zucchini-walnut muffins to heat in the microwave.

“Dude, you’re not going to believe this,” Steve began as I picked up. “I think someone shot at me yesterday afternoon!”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No shit. There’s what looks like a little bullet hole in the Sebring’s windshield.”

“When did it happen?”

“I don’t know. Sometime after I left your place yesterday afternoon.”

“Have you called the cops?”

“Dude. What would I tell them? I don’t know when it happened, let alone where or who might have done it. It’s probably kids screwing around. It looks like a BB hole to me, to tell you the truth.”

“You should probably report it, though.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

On impulse, I said, “Are you doing anything this afternoon?”

“Yeah. I’m taking a meeting at Warner Bros and then I’m driving down to Santa Anita Park.”

“On a weekday?”

“You’re kidding, right? The Oak Tree meet runs all this month.”

“Could you postpone the race track and meet me for lunch?”

I thought for a moment Steve’s cell phone had cut out, then he said with unusual seriousness, “What’s up? Something with Dan?”

“Dan? No. No, it’s complicated.”

“Okay. Yeah. I can meet you. At the house?”

“No, I want to get out of here for a little while. Maybe Pt. Dume? We could eat at Coral Beach Cantina. I like the crab enchiladas.”

“Yeah,” said Steve. “‘Cause nothing goes with crisis like crab enchiladas. Okay, but I can’t be there before two thirty.”

“That’s fine. It’s past Heathercliffe on PCH. Down the big hill.”

“I remember,” Steve said. “I’ll call you if I’m running late.”

I said, “You’re already running late. I’ll wait.”

* * * * *

Sitting on the tree-shaded patio of the Coral Beach Cantina, I ordered a microbrew and nachos. The jukebox was playing “Boys of Summer” by Don Henley, and I was counting the disproportionate number of blonds, both male and female, filling the seats around me, when Steve dropped into the chair across the table.

“Dude, you’re so mysterious. It must come from living with a cop.”

I summoned a weak smile.

“So what’s up?” He reached for a tortilla chip. Gooey strings of cheese stretched a foot from the platter.

“You want to order first?”

Steve grimaced and waved the waitress over. We ordered and then Steve sat back in his chair. “Okay, come on, Sean. You’re starting to make me nervous. Are you looking to change representation?”

“Of course not.”

“So what’s the deal?”

I said, “I think Paul Hammond is still alive.”

Steve swallowed his beer the wrong way. He set the mug down shakily, coughing into his bare arm. When he had his voice back, he questioned, “Why the hell would you think that?”

“Because they still haven’t found his body.”

“Because his car crashed into the aqueduct.”

“So what? There should still be a body.”

“It washed down the aqueduct.”

“It’s not like there’s a riptide in the aqueduct. They had divers looking and they couldn’t find the body.”

“Yeah, but Sean, there’s no way he could have survived that crash. I saw the photos in the newspaper. No way he walked away from that.”

“What if he wasn’t in the car when it went into the aqueduct?”

“It was a high speed pursuit. It’s not like he had time to stop, get out and push the car in and then hide behind some bushes. He was under police surveillance for another thing.”

“It was night. Someone might have missed something.”

“Sean—”

“I got a postcard from him yesterday. And another one today.”

Steve’s brows drew together. “What are you talking about?”

“The postcards have started again. Yesterday’s card said, ‘Miss me?’ Today’s said, ‘Soon.’”

“Was the handwriting—?”

“Dan’s having it analyzed to be sure, but I know his writing. It’s Hammond.”

“So Dan knows about this?”

I nodded. “He was there when I got the first card, but he doesn’t believe Hammond is alive.”

“Then who’s sending the cards?”

“He thinks it’s a copycat stalker. Someone who read about Hammond and me and decided to pick up where Hammond left off.”

“He’s the expert, I guess.”

“There’s more,” I said. I lowered my voice as though afraid somebody—Dan?—might hear this part. “I think I saw Hammond yesterday.”

Steve had a weird expression. “You are shitting me. Where?”

“On the hillside behind the house. I couldn’t be sure, but from a distance it looked a hell of a lot like him: same build, same shaggy blond hair, same baggy Hawaiian print shirt, black shades.”

“But that was from a distance,” Steve pointed out.

“I know. But I did see someone. Dan thinks—” I bit the rest of it off.

“Dan thinks what?”

Reluctantly, I said, “I feel like maybe he wonders whether I’m imagining things. Or that I’m making too much of a coincidence.”

Steve said slowly, “He knows about your breakdown, right?”

I nodded.

Steve thought it over. “But you didn’t imagine the postcards.”

“True.”

Two tanned twenty-somethings stopped by our table. A chubby blonde handed me a damp cocktail napkin to autograph.

“You were so great in Winchester 2010,” she said. “I was so, like, totally pissed when they killed you off.”

“Thanks.” I ignored Steve’s snickers.

“Told you so,” he remarked to no one in particular.

“Are you really gay?” the red-haired one said. She offered a Sharpie and her bare shoulder for me to sign.

“Nah,” I replied. “It’s just something I say to meet girls.”

They giggled then moved off whispering and looking back.

Steve drained his beer, and leaned forward on his elbows.

“Look, why don’t you come down to Santa Anita with me? Spend the weekend kicking back. I think it would do you good to get away.”

I studied him, liking the broad freckled planes of his face and his wide wry mouth. I remembered kissing that mouth. And how weird to think of that now.

I shook my head. “I don’t like crowds. And I’m tired of relaxing. I want to get back to work.”

His gaze dropped down to my chest, as though making note of the ring on the chain. “Okay. Well…what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. Obviously we can’t go to the cops again, since the cop I live with doesn’t believe there’s a problem.”

“Dude.”

The waitress brought our lunches. I waited for her to depart before I offered a lopsided smile. “I don’t know that there’s anything to do at this point. I needed to talk to someone, that’s all.”

“Hey,” Steve said, “I’m still here for you, you know that. Besides, I remember how long it took to convince you to go to the cops over Hammond. You don’t panic that easily. If you say something’s going down, I believe you.”

“Thanks, Steve.”

“One thing I can do,” he said, “is talk to LAPD myself. Find out where they are in recovering Hammond’s body.”

I said, “That would help.”

“Not if Hammond’s still alive,” he said with an odd laugh.

What I like about cooking is that, so long as you follow the recipe exactly, everything always turns out perfect. It’s too bad there’s no recipe for happiness. Happiness is more like pastry—which is to say that you can take pains to keep cool and not overwork the dough, but if you don’t have that certain light touch, your best efforts still fall flat.

The work-around is to buy what you need. I’m talking about pastry, not happiness, although money does make things easier all around.

There are a number of café bakeries in Malibu, but I mostly satisfy my sweet tooth at Cooke’s Family Market, which is where I headed after saying good-bye to Steve. I felt better having shared my fears with someone who didn’t instantly suspect I was cracking up, and I spent a pleasant half an hour selecting pastries for Saturday morning breakfast, lingering over the varieties of cheese and the amazing selection of olives.

I wasn’t allowing myself to think about Paul Hammond. I focused my thoughts on The Charioteer screenplay, and while I shopped I thought about what it would be like to lose a knee cap. Now they could probably reconstruct the joint—maybe do something bionic—but back in the ‘40s? You’d be crippled, no doubt about it. And any injury to a kneecap was going to be excruciatingly painful. Laurie Odell was younger than me; what would it be like to face years of pain? To face the rest of my life as a disabled man? I tried to think of all the things I took for granted: swimming, running—having sex. The film-Laurie was going to wear a leg brace. I felt that was gimmicky and heavy-handed, but it would make it easier to play. No having to remember which leg or faking a limp.

Pushing the cart, I turned into the arctic produce department and froze—literally. Paul Hammond stood a few feet away. He held a cantaloupe, weighing it in his hand.

I couldn’t seem to move. He was so close I could have rammed my cart into him. It was him: blue Hawaiian shirt, bushy blond hair that looked like a fright wig, deeply tanned pock-marked skin, black sunglasses…

He had to feel me staring at him, had to have followed me into the market, but he just stood there, ignoring me, fondling melons.

His cheap aftershave filled my nostrils. I felt cold to the bone, shaking on the inside and out. I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t think of what to say. If he had spoken to me—even looked at me—but he did nothing. We were alone here. Why didn’t he acknowledge me?

I couldn’t think of what to do. It was surely something obvious.

Hammond replaced one melon on the pyramid and chose another. He stepped a foot closer as he reached for a plastic tear-off bag.

I abandoned my cart and fled.

“Hi!” I said brightly as Dan walked into the kitchen.

Dan pulled off his sunglasses and studied the countertops crowded with plates of food: baked ham, scalloped potatoes, cheese macaroni, cauliflower-broccoli salad, applesauce, and pineapple cottage cheese. “Are we having a dinner party?” he asked.

I dumped a pan of corn muffins into a basket, wrapping a tea towel around them to keep them warm. “I just thought I would do something special for supper.”

Dan’s brows rose. He tilted my chin up to kiss me hello; a nice leisurely kiss that told me he had missed me and was glad to be home. I resisted the impulse to plaster myself to him and pour out my latest trauma.

“Catch any bad guys today?”

I thought my tone was just right but he was frowning a little, still watching me. “Not today.”

“Slow day for crime? Everything is ready. Why don’t you get changed?”

He ran an absent hand up and down my back. “Okay. You want me to open a bottle of wine?”

I nodded.

“Let’s see. What goes with everything in the pantry?”

I considered. “Martinis?”

* * * * *

Despite some really fabulous culinary exertions on my part, dinner was not a success. I wasn’t hungry and Dan seemed preoccupied, although he listened without interrupting as I chattered on about this and that and the other. Mostly the other.

It wasn’t until the third time I reached for the pitcher containing the blueberry vodka martinis, that he stirred.

“That’s your fifth, chief.”

“Third, but who’s counting?”

He didn’t bother to argue.

I was irritated, but I tried to keep my tone easy. “Does it matter?”

“It doesn’t so long as you’re not planning on going for a swim or getting behind the wheel. But you’re going to have a hell of a morning.”

“Promise?” I batted my eyelashes at him.

His lips twitched. “Now that is definitely the liquor talking.”

What did that mean? I thought I knew and opened my mouth to object, but Dan had apparently more to get off his chest.

“A couple of things I’ve noticed,” he said. “When you’re stressed-out you cook for a cast of thousands. And you stop eating.”

“I’m eating,” I protested.

“You’ve had one bite of ham and three bites of salad.”

“And five drinks. Jesus, am I under surveillance?”

“Hey.” His smile was crooked. “Naturally I notice what you do.”

“You notice what everyone does. It’s how you make your living. I don’t like it when you turn it on me.”

As usual he did not allow himself to be distracted from his point. “So far I’ve heard about the seasoning in the crab enchiladas at Coral Beach Cantina, I’ve heard that you’re not sure you approve of the sex scene in this new script, I’ve heard that damn dog crapped on our deck, and I’ve heard that the weather was perfect this afternoon. When do I hear what’s really on your mind?”

I laughed. And I knew I had it exactly right: lazy, untroubled. “Dan, relax. I’m just making after dinner conversation.”

There was a funny silence. He said, “You’re acting.”

Which I guess was better than being told I was lying, except he sounded like it really bothered him.

I stared at him. He stared back. It felt unpleasantly close to being emotionally strip searched.

I blurted out, “I think I saw Paul Hammond again.”

He didn’t move a muscle. At last he said, “Where?”

“At the market in Pt. Dume. I went grocery shopping after Steve and I had lunch.”

Surprisingly, this did distract him. “You didn’t tell me you were with Steve.”

“It was an impulse. Why do you care?”

“I find it odd. This morning you were freaking over postcards from the grave and in the afternoon you’re having a lunch date with Steve.”

“It wasn’t a date and it’s not like I tried to hide it.” But as I said it, I realized I had been avoiding telling him that I’d been with Steve; I wasn’t sure why exactly—or maybe this was why: the instant interrogation.

“Is that the issue?”

“Do we have to make an issue of it? You’re not on the job now. According to you there’s no danger, right? Hammond is dead.”

“I’m not talking about my job,” Dan said curtly. “I’m talking about the fact that we’re supposed to be a couple.”

Something in the way he said it caught me off guard. He was so cool and self-assured that it never occurred to me that he might not be secure about his place in my world.

For the first time it occurred to me that if I had decided to go to Santa Anita with Steve I would have to—should, at least—run it past Dan first.

I opened my mouth but before I could explain, Dan asked, “Did Steve see Hammond?”

“No. This was at the market afterwards.”

“Did anyone see him?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t point him out to anyone. He…” I stopped, knowing how it would sound.

“He what?”

“He was picking out melons. Or at least pretending to.”

“I see.”

His expression couldn’t have been more impassive.

“I know you think I’m imagining this. I know—”

“Did this guy who may or may not be Hammond make any attempt to speak to you?”

I shook my head.

“Did he do anything that could be construed as threatening?”

“He was avoiding looking at me.” I couldn’t hold Dan’s gaze. I knew how it sounded—which is why I hadn’t told him.

“That doesn’t sound like Hammond, does it?”

I shook my head.

A little more gently, he asked, “Are you sure it was Hammond?”

“It looked like him.”

“You’re not sure.”

“No.” I said, “What about the postcard that came this morning?”

“I’ll have it analyzed.” My relief was short-lived as he added carefully, “Sean, maybe it would help if you talked to someone.”

I felt like my stomach dropped to my feet. I stared at him. “You mean a psychiatrist?”

“Yeah.”

“Dan,” I said desperately, “I’m not cracking up. I did see Hammond. I’m not crazy!”

“I don’t think you’re crazy.” He reached for me, resting his hands on my shoulders, kneading my knotted muscles. “I think you’ve been under a lot of strain. First the thing with Hammond, now this business with the postcards.”

“So you agree there is something to these postcards! Or do you think I’m sending them to myself?”

I saw by his expression that the idea had crossed his mind.

I struck his hands away. “Jesus, Dan! I’m not crazy!”

“I know that. I know you’re not sending yourself postcards, okay? But what’s wrong with talking to someone? Cops do it. Hell, I’ve been through it.”

I pushed away from the table. “I am talking to someone. I’m talking to you. I don’t need a shrink. So stop using that careful tone with me. Say what’s on your mind.”

“Okay,” he said evenly. “Then here it is. I want you to talk to me, and I will help you in whatever way I can and in whatever way you need. But I’m not a doctor and we both know you have a history of…” He changed his mind about finishing that. “I think this kind of prolonged emotional strain would not be good for anyone, and it is especially not good for you.”

I stared at him. When I could speak I said huskily, “I had a breakdown when I was a kid. Yes, I tried to kill myself. That was nine years ago. It had nothing to do with—you know why. You know it was about trying to come to terms with who I was. With realizing I was gay and knowing how my family felt. How my friends saw me. How everyone saw me—thought of me. How they would take it once they found out the truth…”

I couldn’t finish it. I got up and went to the railing to stare out at the path of moonlight across the black sea. The hurt and betrayal were almost more than I could deal with. I had told Dan about this in confidence, and he was using it against me now.

“You had a second breakdown when you were twenty,” he said quietly.

Hurt gave way to indignation. Obviously he had run some kind of background check on me. Probably when he was first assigned the bodyguard gig, but maybe it was since then. Like this week when I appeared to be losing it.

I wheeled back to face him. “I was depressed. I got help. Voluntarily. It was nothing like the other time. And I’ve been fine ever since. I’m not unstable mentally or emotionally. Yes, I push myself hard, and I’m under strain—that isn’t anything new—”

“This isn’t a normal amount of strain,” he interrupted. “You had some freak stalking you for nearly a year and now you’ve got some other asshole harassing you. Anyone would need a little help dealing with that—and, listen, the last thing I want to do is hurt you, which I can see I’m doing.”

I knew I couldn’t speak without my voice cracking, so I said nothing.

“I think it would help you to talk to someone neutral. Someone who could help you put this…experience into perspective. Will you at least consider it?”

He was right about drinking so much. My head was already pounding. And that much alcohol on an empty stomach was not good.

I pushed away from the railing and headed for the glass door.

“I’m going to bed.”

“Sean—”

I slid the door shut.

* * * * *

Scratchy beard, warm soft lips on my bare back. One velvety kiss for each link of vertebra in my spine. Kiss by kiss across the little mountains of bone and nerve to the small valley above my ass. I opened my eyes blearily.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Dan murmured.

“Great,” I muttered.

“You feel great to me, that’s for sure.” His mouth moistly nuzzled the sensitive hollow; I sucked in a breath, trying not to wriggle. Closed my eyes. My head throbbed and my gut felt like it was filled with boiling acid, but it wasn’t the hangover that made me shiver. How the hell could you be irritated with someone and still crave their touch?

I burrowed my head in my folded arms and asked muffledly, “How was the couch?”

“Lonely.”

I considered this silently while he slowly rubbed his bristly cheek against my ass—cheek to cheek. “You know, insanity is not contagious,” I said. I thought I was joking, but I sounded sour to my own ears. I didn’t think I was still angry or even wounded. I could see how this all looked from Dan’s viewpoint. He didn’t know me really. I didn’t know him.

“I don’t know about that,” he said, his breath warm on my bare skin. “I’m pretty crazy about you.”

I gave a short laugh. Never at a loss for words, was he?

The mattress shifted underneath as he sat up. “I wasn’t sure I was welcome in here,” he admitted.

I raised my head and eyed him skeptically. He wasn’t smiling, in fact, just for a moment he looked younger, unguarded.

I shrugged noncommittally and buried my head in my arms again. “It was lonely here too,” I told the sheets.

“Yeah?” I felt him relax. He stroked my flank lazily. I loosened up, rested there, trying to ignore the pounding in my head, just enjoying the feel of his hand on my skin. I wondered if it would be possible to ever get tired of being touched and petted. I wondered how I’d managed to go years without it. Wondered how I would survive if I had to go back to it.

Dan’s hand stilled. He shifted around on the mattress, nudging my legs apart. I didn’t have time to do more than register this when, to my shock, I felt him spread my cheeks and lick the tender flesh like you’d taste a peach. I bucked, and he gave a low laugh.

“Jeeeeesus,” I whispered.

He licked my balls, then behind my balls, working his way back up. I couldn’t believe it—this rude kiss. He was such a fastidious and careful guy—and with the papers to prove it. I could not believe this was Dan nuzzling my ass. Maybe I was delusional.

It took all my willpower to lie still as his tongue did those shattering things: delicate, wicked, teasing tracery as he worked the sensitive skin around my hole.

Rim job. That’s what they called this. Ugly phrase for something that felt so…ravishing. Now there was a good old-fashioned word—a Biblical word—and this obviously was not Dan’s first time at ravishing someone, and if he kept this up I was most definitely going to come—

Slippery heat slowly pressed in.

I whimpered, squirmed, humped. He caught my hips, holding me fast. He kept pressing, pressing.

“D-Danny…” I wondered if I would simply dissolve; my insides felt like hot liquid. My mind felt gray and blank and shaken like the magic screen on an Etch A Sketch.

Dan’s tongue circled and then pushed right in. Deep. I could hear myself mewling, inarticulate and helpless, as his hot slick tongue thrust in and out of my clenched-tight hole. And, right on cue, I began to come.

And all those words flitting around in my brain flew away and left me spiraling into some sweet and silent space where the only thing real was Dan’s strong arms holding me close.

Chapter Four

When I woke the next time it was hours later and I had the vague memory of hearing the front door close. I rolled over and checked the clock on the other side of the bed. Nearly one o’clock.

I sat up cautiously. I felt a hell of a lot better than I had that morning, that was for sure. I rubbed my eyes, listened to the sound of the sea a few yards away and the wind whispering at the window casements. Beyond that…silence. A safe silence. The security system would be on. Dan was meticulous about that.

My ring glinted on the nightstand. I didn’t remember pulling it off, but I must have when I’d come in last night. That had been childish. I picked up the chain and fastened it around my neck.

The floorboard in the doorway creaked and I glanced around. Dan stood there filling the doorway, and I felt the hair at the nape of my neck prickle. He was so quiet. I was sure he’d gone out.

“Did I wake you? I just stepped out to check the mail,” he said.

The mail.

Not easy to speak around the knot in my throat.

What would today’s postcard read? I’m on the first step…

Before I could form the question, Dan said, “There was nothing for you.”

“There…wasn’t?”

He shook his head.

The wave of relief was so fierce it caught me off-balance; I had to look away so that he didn’t see the effort it took to control my face. I leaned forward, pretended to feel under the bed—like, what was I looking for? My dignity?

The mattress sank. I stiffened as he sat down next to me on the edge of the bed. Then he put his arm around me, and I surrendered to the desire to be held, to be comforted, turning to him, resting my face against his throat. I could feel the warmth of his skin against my mouth and eyes, feel the pulse beating at the base of his neck, slow and steady and calm. His words vibrated against my face. “Did you have a good sleep?”

I nodded. Raised my head. Pretended I was wiping sleep out of my eyes. “Yeah. I did.”

“Your cheeks are pink.” He brushed his knuckles against the bristle on my jaw. “What were you dreaming?”

I thought of what had preceded that deep, deep sleep and felt my face warm. I had dreamed about him but in the dream we had been arguing. I was glad that it had only been a dream, that we were okay again.

“I don’t remember. Remind me not to drink that much on an empty stomach.”

“You want me to fix you something to eat?”

Spareribs or eggs Benedict? I shuddered.

“I think I’m going to work out.”

He smoothed his hand over my back. “Okay, chief. If you’re going for a swim or a run, give me a shout. I need the exercise.”

* * * * *

I was staring out the window watching the surfers when the phone rang.

“I can guess who that is,” Dan commented. He closed the dishwasher and turned the dial. Maria only came in on weekdays and Dan couldn’t tolerate clutter for more than a few hours. My eyes lingered on the broad shoulders beneath the plain white undershirt, lean hips and long legs encased in faded blue Levi’s. All this and housework, too.

“Dude!” called the answering machine over the rumble of the dishwasher.

I gave Dan an apologetic look and picked up the phone.

“Hey.”

“So…” Steve asked cautiously. “Any more special deliveries?”

“No.”

“No?” He sounded as surprised as I had.

“Nothing since Friday.” I glanced Dan’s way. His back was to me, but I knew he was listening. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling.

Next to my ear, Steve said, “Wow. Maybe…maybe it was just that Hammond’s last few cards got delayed somehow.”

That startled me. “What do you mean? Why would you say that?”

“Dude, chill. I mean cards he sent before he died were delayed by the mail. Not that he’s still out there picking picture postcards. And try saying that three times fast.”

“Oh. Right.” I tried to inject a smile in my voice, but I must not have been successful.

“You okay?” Steve asked. “You sound…off.”

“Fine.”

“No more panic attacks, right?”

I flicked a look Dan’s way. He was watching me openly now. “Nope.”

I wanted to ask Steve if he’d had a chance to talk to anyone at LAPD about the recovery of Hammond’s body, but I couldn’t do it with Dan standing there. I knew that would not go over well.

“Well, groovy. Nothing to worry about, because it’s all over, right? Hey, listen, I’ve got some good news.”

“About The Charioteer?”

“Huh? Oh. No. Have you finished reading the screenplay?”

“Yes. I want to do it.”

He sighed. “All right. I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, what do you think about doing a voice-over for the new StarCatz series?”

“What the hell is StarCatz?”

“A very hot kids’ show that NBC plans to use as a mid-season replacement. The creator and producer, Dick Dexa, saw you in Winchester 2010 and he’s expressed an interest in you for Captain Starbuckle’s teenage son Jason.”

“I hope you’re kidding.” Sometimes it seemed like I’d gotten more damn attention from a bit part as a smart-ass strung-out hired gun in a big-budget action adventure flick, than I’d received in my entire film career.

“I’m not kidding you. NBC anticipates a mega hit with this show.”

“With a cartoon show?”

“I know. Unbelievable, huh? Even more unbelievable, they want you.”

“But…there’s nothing distinctive about my voice.”

“What can I say? Dick Dexa thinks you sound like a spunky space cadet.”

“Spunky? Funny.”

“I thought you’d like that.” He grew serious. “Sean, listen for a sec. I know this isn’t really your kind of thing, but it’s an easy gig and…we need it. The artsy-fartsy stuff is fine and it wins awards, but you’ve got to balance it with something that pays. If it wasn’t for your Uncle Sean’s trust fund you’d be living on pasta salad and oatmeal these days instead of whatever it is you and The Rock eat for supper.”

I said, “I understand. Twenty percent of zero is still zero.”

“Since you put it like that, yes. The decisions you make affect my income too—or lack thereof. I don’t have any rich dead relatives.”

He had a point, but…cartoon voice-overs?

I hated to disappoint him. I could hear how keen he was on this project. And I did have a responsibility to take jobs that would be good for both of us. I said reluctantly, “The thing is, what happens when the word gets around that a gay man is playing a teenage boy on a children’s show?”

“Who cares if there’s some kind of lunatic right-wing fundie boycott! All publicity is good publicity.”

“Tell it to Pee Wee Herman. You think I was anxious before, wait till I’ve been the victim of a blacklisting campaign.”

He laughed. “Hey, come on. You don’t want Lenny Norman to hear you talking like that. He’ll think you’re not Proud and Out.”

Now that bothered me. “It’s Out and Proud, and I don’t have to prove anything to Lenny Norman. He should be casting roles based on talent and ability.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not a perfect world,” Steve said with unexpected bitterness. “So are you willing to read for the StarCatz pilot?”

“I’m not comfortable with it, Steve. I’ll have to think about it.”

Silence. At last he said, “Okay, dude, it’s your life.”

I replaced the phone and went to join Dan, who had gone out on the deck. He lay on one of the wooden lounges, reading the paper, which he put aside as I hopped onto the railing, staring up at the cloudless blue sky. It was a truly beautiful day. The most beautiful day I’d seen in a long time.

“You’re sure old Steve doesn’t still have a thing for you?” His smile was quizzical.

“I’m sure. It’s just business.”

“What is?”

“The fact that he calls all the time. He’s my manager. And, unofficially, my agent. We have to stay in touch.”

“Out of curiosity, are you his only client?”

“I’m his main client.”

He nodded as though this confirmed something.

“Do you not…like him?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think about Steve. I respect your relationship.”

I realized that was the truth. I didn’t have to defend or explain—and the fact that Dan didn’t demand it somehow made it easy to talk about it.

“The romantic thing only lasted about a year. We really didn’t have a lot in common besides my career. I think I got on his nerves and—”

“He got on yours?”

“Not exactly. His insecurity makes him unkind sometimes. His humor, I mean. He makes these little digs; they’re supposed to be funny, but there’s an edge. It was…tiring. Distancing.”

“That is one hell of an observation, chief.”

I grinned at his obvious surprise. “Crazy like a fox,” I said, and tapped the side of my head. “But he’s been a good friend and a great manager. He’s gone to bat for me again and again. Personally and professionally. The fact that the other thing didn’t work out…well, that was probably just as well.”

“I think so.” He held out an arm and I slid off the railing and went to join him on the lounge.

“We survived our first argument.”

“You sound surprised. Did you think we wouldn’t?” Dan speared one of the shrimps out of the salad I had made for his lunch, chewed, his blue eyes thoughtful on mine.

“It’s still a milestone.” I selected a cherry tomato from his plate and popped it in my mouth. A little burst of sweet tangy juice on my tongue.

“I guess it is.”

“Have you ever done this before? Lived with someone?”

“No.”

“Why?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Maybe I have a few trust issues of my own.”

I frowned. “You think I have trust issues?”

His smile was quizzical; he didn’t actually answer me. I remembered the subject was supposed to be him.

“So what kind of trust issues do you have?”

“Maybe that’s not the right term. It’s probably a cop thing. People can get a little weird when they find out you’re a cop.”

“But it’s probably a turn on for a lot of guys, right?”

He seemed to be looking inward at some unpleasant memory. “Sometimes. A lot of times, the opposite.” He impaled another shrimp, chewed, swallowed. “There’s a reason cops have a high divorce rate. The hours are brutal, it’s a high-stress job, and you can’t talk about it most of the time.”

I opened my mouth, and he said, “I mean it’s the kind of stuff you don’t want to bring into your own home, not that someone wouldn’t be willing to listen.” There was something in his eyes that made me feel young and naïve.

I said slowly, “And I guess it takes a toll being afraid the person won’t come home.”

He didn’t say anything, just looked at me. I felt my breathing go funny like I was about to have one of my famous panic attacks. He said, “I’m careful, Sean. There are no guarantees in life, but I’ll do my best to come home to you.”

I nodded.

He hadn’t really explained the trust thing. Or had he? I guess he was saying that he needed to be trusted as much as he needed to be able to trust. Which was pretty much the same way I defined trust.

I opened my mouth to make another brilliant comment, but Mrs. Wilgi’s four-footed feather duster came hurtling across the sands toward us, barking hysterically.

“Jail break,” Dan remarked.

“I keep hoping he’s going to run away.”

“He has. To you.”

The dog planted itself at the foot of the stairs to the deck, yapping thinly.

“I was hoping for something further from home. Like Mars.”

“I told you not to feed him.”

“What happens if you shoot him? You have to fill out a lot of paperwork?”

“Yep.”

“It’s your lucky day,” I informed Binky. He barked all the harder.

It was my lucky day, too. Dan and I had survived our first real argument and somehow come out of it a little stronger than we had been. We walked on the beach and talked, cuddled on the couch and talked some more. Casual talk. Nothing life or death—no mention of loony stalkers, dead or alive—no reflection on where we stood as a couple. Just…talk. Like real couples do.

Late in the afternoon Dan went out to rent a couple of DVDs and bring back my favorite guilty-pleasure food—Taco Bell. I think my Friday night culinary binge had unnerved him. Or maybe he was just getting tired of my cooking. We settled on the sofa with bags of tacos and burritos to watch Cool Hand Luke, one of Dan’s favorite flicks—and one I’d never seen.

We’d just got to the famous, “What we’ve got here is failure to communicate,” line when the phone rang.

I stopped crunching. Dan sighed and hit the pause button.

“It might not be Steve,” I pointed out. “I do know other people.”

“None of them seem to have this number.”

“True.” The beach house was my getaway. I liked the fact that when I was there I was basically inaccessible—or had been before Paul Hammond had somehow found out about this place.

The phone rang the third time, the machine picked up, and Steve called, “Dude! Are you there?”

“I’ll make it quick,” I promised.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He smacked my butt as I crawled over him and off the couch.

I picked the phone up in the middle of Steve’s imperious, “Sean? Are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Dick Dexa called again. Have you thought about the StarCatz role?”

“How is this going to work if I land The Charioteer? When would they need me in the studio?”

An awkward pause.

“Look, Sean, Lenny Norman hasn’t returned my calls. I don’t think you’re going to get The Charioteer.”

My Taco Supremes began to churn. “Can I try calling him?”

“No, you can’t try calling him!”

“I just mean—”

“I know what you mean. Do you trust me to handle your career or not?”

“Of course I trust you—barring the sudden passion for cartoon cats.”

I was teasing, but he said shortly, “Do you want the part of Jason or not?”

“Doesn’t Dexa want me to read first?”

“Sean, it’s a fucking cartoon, not Ibsen. Dexa wants you. Can I tell him you’ll take the role?”

My pulse sped up. I hated arguing, especially with Steve.

I said haltingly, “No. I’m not comfortable with it.”

“Okay! Shit. Was it that hard to give me a straight answer?”

“No. I just know you think I should take the part.”

“Yes, I do. I think you need to start working pretty soon. I was right about Winchester 2010, wasn’t I? But whatever. If you’re not comfortable, that’s cool. We’ll find something else.”

I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, he added, “And, yes, I will try Lenny Norman one more time.”

“Thanks, Steve.”

I hung up and returned to the couch, climbed back over Dan’s legs. He caught my hand and pulled me down half on top of him scattering taco wrappers and shredded cheese and lettuce.

“Everything okay?”

“Fine.” I shifted onto my side and stretched out beside him, resting my head against his chest. He smelled like suntan oil and tacos and himself. Heady stuff. He put his arm around me and started the film again. I thought that maybe this was the best part of being a couple—just relaxing together, spending time with someone you could be yourself with. To my surprise I realized that I was starting to be myself with Dan. Little by little I was letting my guard down and worrying less about who he might want me to be versus who I was—I thought something in his easy acceptance of my…vulnerabilities made that possible. Of course, he hadn’t had to put up with my ticks—quirks—for very long. He hadn’t had more than a taste of life in the fish bowl, and we hadn’t had to deal with my irregular hours or my being away for weeks on end.

There had to be some reason he wasn’t already taken. It couldn’t be for lack of offers. Maybe he really did have trust issues.

The movie ended and Dan said he had some paperwork to catch up on before bed, heading for the spare room, which he had turned into his makeshift office. Through the wall I could hear the indistinct rumble of his voice on the phone while I did Pilates in the weight room next door. Kind of late for phone calls, I reflected, but cops don’t work regular hours.

I finished working out, took a quick shower and retreated to the bedroom to watch some TV and make notes on the Charioteer screenplay. I refused to think that I wouldn’t get the part. I knew how persuasive Steve could be when he wanted, and if Peter Grady was pushing for me to co-star, I knew I still had a shot.

Dan joined me in the bedroom as I was idly surfing through the channels.

“One thing I never noticed about The Charioteer,” I told him. “A lot of the misunderstandings between Laurie and Ralph and even Laurie and Andrew could have been so easily resolved if they’d just talked.”

“That’s true of most relationships, isn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

Of course, Laurie hadn’t asked questions because he hadn’t been ready to hear the answers. He had been afraid of the answers.

“Hey, go back,” Dan ordered, pulling on a pair of plaid sleep pants, and staring at the TV.

I groaned.

“Turn it back.”

I flipped back to the cheesy horror film.

He bounced down beside me on the bed. “That’s you!”

“Don’t remind me.”

We studied the on-screen mayhem in silence.

“Your hair,” Dan remarked finally.

“Yes, it’s the scariest thing in the film.”

We watched for a few more minutes.

“So…you’re actually the star of this? Do you get the girl in the end?”

“Please, Dan,” I said, “This is heterosexual romance. The girl does not ‘get it in the end.’”

His laugh sounded surprised—and I could guess why. I slanted a look his way and he shook his head. “You’re asking for trouble, chief.”

“How many times do I have to ask before I get some?”

He raised his brows and then lunged. I fell back in the nest of pillows, bringing my knee up—but watching where I put it because the last thing I wanted to do was really put him out of action. I planted my foot in his chest and he rolled over, taking me with him. We wrestled around, laughing. I liked the fact that though I was tall—six feet—Dan was taller. And I liked the fact that—although I was strong and worked out regularly—Dan was stronger. It didn’t threaten me and I didn’t feel any of the competitiveness I usually would have.

He got one arm around my waist and the other around my thigh and managed to flip me over onto my back. The Swedish mattress swallowed my frame a few obliging inches.

“The bed is having me for dinner,” I said, laughing up at him.

“And I’m having you for dessert,” Dan said, his voice deep and velvety. He was braced over me, knee between my thighs, one hand keeping both my wrists pinned above my head—not easy to do to another healthy adult male.

I didn’t have to glance at his crotch to know he was as excited as I was—though admittedly neither of us was as excited as the guy on TV behind us selling cleaning products at the top of his voice.

I said, in a very bad imitation of James Cagney, “Okay, copper. You got me fair and square.”

His lean cheek creased in amusement. “Oh? You’re going to come quietly?”

“I always do,” I whispered.

His eyes darkened and he shifted his weight back onto his knees. The hand formerly holding me prisoner was now stroking me, feathering down from the outside of my wrists to the insides of my elbows. I generally didn’t like anyone to see—let alone touch—the scars on my arms. “No hesitation marks,” Dan had said the first time his fingertips had brushed over the ugly tracks of scars. “You weren’t kidding around.”

Now my arms went relaxed and heavy under that delicate touch. I murmured my pleasure. His free hand slipped inside my boxers.

I sucked in a breath, arching blindly into his caress, reached up and yanked the soft flannel pants down, running my hands down his lean flanks. His skin felt warm and smooth.

“Open your eyes,” he ordered huskily.

I lifted my lashes. Every muscular inch of him was brown and supple; his black hair, thick and glossy, fell boyishly into his eyes as he gazed down so seriously at me.

I raised my head and kissed him, a little nip of a kiss. He kissed back, wanting more as usual, wanting it slow and deep and sexy. His lips were so soft. I stilled, opened to him. Our tongues slid together, sweet and spicy. Dan groaned in the back of his throat as though it were too good to bear, sending a little shiver down my spine.

I pulled him down on top of me and we settled into each other, his hand fastening on my hip, tugging me into that fierce bulge against my belly. My own cock throbbed in time to the pound of my heart as his hand found the elastic of my boxers and I raised my hips enough for him to hitch them off. The feel of bare skin lowering on bare skin was satisfying. Our dicks scraped up against each other, old friends and good neighbors, rubbing shoulders.

“What do you want?” His breath was hot against my ear.

I shook my head. Too hard to form the words when I was having trouble forming the thoughts. “You,” I got out.

“How?”

“Suck me?” It came as a little plea. I was a lot more comfortable giving than receiving, but tonight I craved the idea of burying myself in that wet heat. “Please.”

He chuckled at the “please.” Maybe it was funny. He lifted off me, resettled and ran a light possessive hand down my tummy, fastening on my shaft. I murmured encouragement. He bent, kissed the head of my cock and took it into his mouth.

Unbelievable.

It was like stepping into a golden bath—whatever the hell that means. Wet and hot and intense. Was it the warmth or the wetness or the pressure that felt so good? Maybe the mind-blowing combination of all three? This was where all that experience came in handy. He’d obviously been on the receiving end enough to know the little things that made all the difference. Where I offered style, he gave substance and the wonder was I didn’t shoot my load in the first five seconds.

“Oh, my God,” I groaned, and it did indeed feel like a religious experience.

That crazy mix of glib tongue and soft lips and the graze of teeth: sucking, nibbling, licking—but it was mostly the sucking that felt so shatteringly good—hard and then easy and then hard. I couldn’t help making abject sounds as he brought me to the edge, then tilted me back, then tipped me forward into the moment.

I spilled over into pleasure, moaning and tossing my head on the pillow like I was in a high fever.

Afterwards I just lay there spent and a little stunned, and he lapped up my cream, the rough rasp of his tongue reminding me of a cat—a big eat-you-alive cat—like a panther. He braced himself over me and when his mouth took mine, I could taste myself. “Fuck me, Danny,” I begged him huskily.

“Yeah?” He kissed me again, hungrily. “Sure?”

I nodded, moving against him restlessly, blindly. “I want it. I do.”

I could feel him hesitating. I didn’t want him hesitating; I didn’t want to have time to think. I wanted to ride this wave of sensation all the way out. Eyes closed, nerves still quivering in the pleasure ringing through my body, I urged, “Fuck me. Please fuck me.”

There was a dreadful little delay, cold air over my body, the slide of a drawer, a liquidy squirt. I opened my eyes. He was solemnly rubbing gel over his fingers. Lashes flickering on his cheek as he studied his slimy fingers. Oh, right. Preparation F. I closed my eyes hastily.

He moved next to me again, his hand brushing my dick. Just that accidental touch had my breath rushing in and out of my lungs, my heart pumping like mad. I scooted over to give him easy access.

He stroked and feathered, and then his well-lubed finger pushed into my tightly puckered hole. My eyes opened wide, breath catching. “Oh.”

I tried to make it sound pleased because if there’s one thing I’ve learned both from therapy and from acting, if you pretend strongly enough and consistently enough, eventually the thing you project will become real.

He smiled, but there was a little frown between his brows. “You’re trembling.”

I gave him a twitchy smile. Not so bad. I could do this. It almost felt good in a too-much-sensation-crawling-through-my-guts kind of way. He slid his finger in and out in a tame parody of fucking and my breath quivered in my chest.

It wasn’t hurting. It felt…exciting. Alarming, but exciting.

He finger fucked me gently awhile, and then said, “You want to take it to two?”

I nodded jerkily. I did. He wasn’t pushing for anything more than I wanted myself.

He pressed his other finger in slowly. Sweat broke out all over my body. I bit my lip against a yelp. It wasn’t that bad really, my body was accommodating him, it was just strange. So intense. So…familiar.

“Relax. Try not to tense.”

I laughed unsteadily. Yeah, right. I had what felt like a steel pipe jammed up my ass and I was supposed to relax? Then he did something with his fingers and I stopped laughing. A thrill of pleasure rippled through my body. What was he doing?

“How’s that?”

I grunted.

He did that thing with his fingers again. I moaned—even I could tell it was an encouraging moan.

“This is nothing,” he said softly. “It gets a lot better than this.”

I risked opening my eyes again. He was smiling, enjoying my reaction.

He knelt into the mattress, guiding my legs up to my stomach. I tucked my legs up—not a really comfortable position. I felt awkward and exposed, my butt hanging out. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I couldn’t reach him at this angle. I couldn’t read his face. My heart started pounding hard with anxiety. My breath caught in my chest. His hands were big, like fetters around my ankles. His dick swung around like a cudgel, sweeping against my ass and thighs. He positioned himself, the head of his prick nudging against my anus like a torpedo lining up to fire. He prodded. A flare of pain went through me. He was too damn big.

The bigger the better, if you were a chick. Not so great for a tight-ass like me.

“Wait!” I got out.

Dan waited, expressionless. A wave of cold sick panic flooded my gut. I brought my legs down and rolled away from him.

“I can’t do it,” I said. Way melodramatic, crouching on the edge of the bed in this flight-or-fight response, but I was aware that by now he must be ready to throttle me.

He sat back on his haunches. No need to fight. No need for flight. He was frowning but his body was at ease. He wasn’t coming after me. His voice was dispassionate.

“We don’t have to.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. Sorry was not necessary. “Not everyone likes it.”

“You do, though.”

Instead of answering, he said slowly, “We could try it the other way around.”

“God, no!”

He gave a funny laugh. “Or not.” He reached out, touched my cheek. “It really is okay, you know.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to…”

He got that speculative look—the very thing I wanted to avoid. “It can be painful the first few times. Especially if your partner isn’t experienced.”

I shook my head. “There was no first time. No one hurt me. There’s no drama here. I just—I can’t explain it.”

Maybe not totally accurate. I closed my mind to the memory of my father’s enraged face. The memory of spit-flecked words screamed in my face. “Gay? There’s nothing gay about queers. There’s nothing gay about taking it in the ass, getting butt-fucked by another queer. Men don’t take it in the ass. Queers do. Are you telling me that’s what you are? My only son is a queer?”

Dan said quietly, “Whatever is making you look like that, let it go. This isn’t a problem for me, and I don’t want it to be a problem for you.”

I nodded.

A smile tugged at his mouth. “It’s not like we can’t find other ways to amuse ourselves.”

Sunday started out every bit as beautiful a day as Saturday. Dan and I woke up early, made love, went for a swim—although it was starting to get too chilly for swimming. Summer was truly over and autumn was in the air. I could smell the wood smoke down the beach from Mrs. Wilgi’s cottage.

Dan suggested we have brunch at the Chart House, which, despite being the place in Malibu where all the tourists go, has good food, a spectacular view of the ocean and a casually romantic atmosphere. I admit I hesitated. I was a little wary about my personal life getting into the tabloids. I thought a person’s private life should be exactly that, even if you were a “celebrity.” And the idea of photos of me and my gay lover in the National Enquirer or the Star took my appetite away. But I didn’t want Dan to think I didn’t want to be seen with him in public. More, I didn’t want him to think that being with me meant he couldn’t have a normal life, so I said, sure.

To my relief none of the dogs from the “Hollywood Hunt Club” lurked in the crowded parking lot. Inside, the restaurant was packed, but one of the perks of being a celebrity is that we were seated right away. People at the crowded tables looked up and leaned over to each other as we wound our way to the table by the window. To my amusement, I realized that they were looking at Dan, wondering who he was, what they’d seen him in. Even in jeans and a sports shirt he had presence, style—not to mention striking good looks.

He would never make it as an undercover cop, I thought.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, glancing at me over the top of his menu.

I shook my head, smiling. He raised his brows and went back to his menu.

We ordered our meals, and the waitress brought our wine and warm sourdough bread crusty with garlic, thyme, and butter.

I looked across the table at Dan and he was smiling.

“Happy?” he asked.

And I realized I was. Very. And if that fullness in my chest meant anything, I was pretty close to falling in love.

He held his wine glass out and we clinked rims—and I didn’t give a damn who saw.

“Excuse me.”

I glanced up. There was a scarlet-faced kid with terrible skin hulking beside my chair.

He threw a nervous look over his shoulder at a crowded table taking up the center of the room. “Hi, my name is Sam Bowers. You came and spoke at my school last year and I just wanted to say thank you. It…meant a lot to me to…” His voice cracked nervously. “To hear about how it was for you.”

I said, “You’re welcome, Sam. I’m glad I could help.”

“I want to be an actor too. I’ve been in some school plays. This year I played Judd in Oklahoma and Iago in Othello.”

“That’s great.”

“I got great reviews in our local paper. Well, for Judd.”

I said, “That’s excellent. Hang onto those clippings.”

“Everybody makes fun of me, but I don’t care. They make jokes about the way I look. They call me queer bait. They’re all a bunch of pricks.”

I wasn’t sure what I could tell him. I hadn’t been out in high school; I’d thought being dead was preferable. His courage awed me.

“It gets easier as you get older. You won’t care what people think.”

As much.

“I don’t care what they think now!” His face got redder, his eyes were too bright. He glanced at Dan and seemed to recollect himself. “Anyway, I just wanted to thank you. You’re my hero.”

“You’re…welcome.”

He suddenly reached down and hugged me awkwardly, meaty arms clutching fiercely. I patted his back. Sam let me go and walked quickly back to his table, which was now staring our way and whispering.

I glanced at Dan and was startled at his grim expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

I couldn’t understand his tension. He couldn’t be jealous. Did he view Sam as a potential threat? According to him there was no real threat—not anymore. “He’s just a kid,” I said.

“I know. It’s cool.” He gave me a quick smile that didn’t quite soften the blue steel of his eyes.

The waitress brought our meals, sea bass for Dan and swordfish for me. We drank more wine. Sam Bowers and his family left, Sam glancing back at me several times—which did not go unnoticed by Dan.

“You can’t think that kid’s a threat.”

“I don’t.” He said, in answer to my obvious puzzlement, “It’s just…you’re very…accessible. Even after what you’ve been through this last year, you’re not…”

He didn’t finish it, and I realized he didn’t want to make me self-conscious. Or afraid. He said instead, “You were great with him. Patient, kind. You’re good with everyone. No star tripping with you; that’s one of the things I noticed right off the bat.”

“I’m not exactly A-List.”

“The biggest assholes in this town are not the A-Listers.” He smiled. “You’d be the same regardless of the roles or the money. You don’t take it seriously.”

That troubled me. “I take it seriously.”

“I don’t mean the work. You’re a professional. You don’t take the celebrity thing seriously.”

“Oh. Right.” That was true. I wasn’t that crazy about being a “celebrity.” I liked my privacy.

The waitress arrived with a dessert tray. Dan went for coffee. I chose café glacé.

Dipping my spoon into the coffee-flavored ice cream, I asked, “What did you mean Friday night when you said you had been through therapy?”

Dan’s eyes followed my tongue as I licked the whipped cream from the spoon. “I had counseling after I made the decision to be open about my sexual orientation on the job. Law enforcement is still a conservative and fairly homophobic profession; it wasn’t an easy decision.”

“What made you decide to come out?”

“It wasn’t that I wasn’t out, but I was very careful to keep the boundaries distinct between my personal and professional life.”

That sounded uncomfortably familiar. “Don’t ask, don’t tell?”

“Right. Which to a degree I still believe in. I don’t feel like it’s anyone’s business who I sleep with.” He sighed. “And…law enforcement is, in general, kind of a macho gig. We’ve got more than our share of assholes on the force, so I guess I was glad to not have to take a stand. But I had a situation come up: a homicide suspect recognized me from a gay bar and tried to…let’s call it ‘negotiate’ with me.”

“You could have been undercover,” I pointed out.

He smiled faintly. “I could have, but I was a regular at that bar, and we both knew it. I realized I had to come clean to my superiors—had to put it all out on the table.”

I wondered what I’d have chosen in that same situation. “Were you tempted to go along with the blackmail?”

“No.” He met my eyes levelly. “I knew once I started down that slope there would be no stopping. I wasn’t about to endanger a job I love. I was never ashamed of being gay.”

“And what happened after you came out?”

“A few guys were assholes and a few guys were stand up, but mostly nobody really gave a damn. Except the brass. They saw an opportunity to reverse some of the bad press and capitalize on how diverse and sensitive the new LAPD was.”

“Did the counseling help?”

“It did.” His gaze was curious. “You do all those public service announcements advising teens to seek counseling. You don’t have faith in the process yourself?”

“It’s not that. If I had been able to talk to someone when I was sixteen…things might have gone differently. Now I don’t need someone helping me understand what I’m afraid of.” I was no longer talking about being gay, and we both knew it. I added, “And I don’t think my fears are unreasonable.”

He was smart enough to leave it at that.

When we got back to the house I turned on the phonograph and put on the 1954 recording of Louis Armstrong playing W.C. Handy. I carried a stack of prospective screenplays Steve had sent over earlier in the week onto the deck and settled into the lounge chair, smearing suntan oil over my shoulders while the music wafted out through the open sliding door.

It was cooler today, the sun slipping in and out of clouds; the salty wind off the water had a nip to it. I wiped my hands together and leaned back in the chair, reaching for the first screenplay: Favored to Place. My eyes focused on the brown rag hooked to the deck railing.

Not a rag.

More like…a large toupee or something…furry.

I dropped the script from nerveless fingers. The pages fluttered in the breeze.

Far overhead I could hear a seagull crying. What a weird sound that was. Like mewing. Like a cat. Like a fluffy brown cat. Or a fluffy brown dog.

I stood up fast, but my foot hooked and I tipped the lounge chair over, sprawling on the deck. I felt like I’d had the wind knocked out of me.

“Dan,” I yelled breathlessly. “Dan! Dan!”

In the distance I could hear a jaunty trumpet sashaying into the opening notes of “Loveless Love.”

Along with the sudden lack of oxygen, I couldn’t seem to get my footing. I kicked away the cushions and chair—unable to tear my eyes away from the thing nailed to the deck railing. Nailed by its tail…

The screen door opened and Dan stepped out. “What the hell—?”

I scrambled to my knees. “It’s the dog,” I gasped. “Mrs. Wiggly’s dog.” I pointed, hand shaking.

The consternation on Dan’s face changed to something else. Something dangerous.

“Get up,” he said. He reached down and hauled me to my feet. “Inside.”

He thrust me through the half-open door, stepped in behind me and locked it. Guiding me by the arm, he edged me back a few steps. “Stay away from the door, stay away from the window.”

“He k-killed it,” I chattered. “While we were at brunch. He’s watching the house. Why would he do that? That stupid little dog. How c-could he know— But I didn’t want that!”

Dan brushed past, lifted a gun the size of a small cannon out of the clutter on the middle bookshelf, and I realized in a distant sort of way that although he had seemed to dismiss my fears he was, in fact, on high alert.

Moving past me, he unlatched the door. “Don’t open for anyone but me. Understand?”

I stared at him.

“Sean,” he said sharply. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I sucked in a quavery breath. “I understand.”

“I’ll be right back. Lock the door behind me.”

He stepped out. Gestured to the lock. I moved to the door and fumbled it locked. He motioned to me again, and I backed out of sight of the door.

Hearing his footsteps on the deck, I went to the window and, staying to the side, watched him cross the deck fast and jump down to the sand below.

He disappeared from sight.

Chapter Five

The scrape of a key in the lock brought me to my feet. Dan stepped inside, caught sight of me and stuck the gun in his back waistband, walking across to me.

“He’s long gone.”

“It’s Hammond,” I said. “I know it.”

“Shhh.” He took me in his arms. “Sean.” He held me tightly; I couldn’t have moved if I’d wanted to. I didn’t want to.

“He’s alive. I know it.” I spoke into his chest, the words vibrating against the strong thud of his heart.

“It’s not Hammond.” He stroked my back calmingly. “This isn’t Hammond’s MO.”

I raised my head. Met his eyes. “It has to be.”

“Sean, over a dozen witnesses confirm that he went into the aqueduct. He couldn’t have survived that crash. It’s not possible.”

“Then where’s the body? Why hasn’t the body shown up yet?”

He said patiently, “It washed down the aqueduct and lodged somewhere. I don’t know. But I do know that whoever is doing this, it’s not Hammond.”

I was struggling against a riptide of emotions: fear, frustration, bewilderment all dragging me further and further from shore, from safety, from sanity.

“Then who?” I cried, trembling. “Nothing else makes sense!”

“You’ve got to calm down.”

“How can I be calm when you can’t—or won’t—see what’s happening? What does it take to convince you? He’s out there. He’s coming for me.”

His hands clamped on my shoulders, anchoring me fast. “He’s not getting you. No one is getting to you. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I stopped Hammond, I’ll stop this freak too. He’s not getting near you.”

“He’s already near me!” I couldn’t help it. My control was slipping. I heard my voice shaking and wild. “He’s out there now. How could he know about what a pest that damn dog was? Tell me that? He had to have heard us. He could be listening to us now. This place could be bugged.”

“Jesus, Sean.” He pulled me close, holding me against him like he wanted to smother the words spilling out. “Stop it. Sweetheart. Stop. You’re making yourself sick.”

He kept murmuring words I couldn’t comprehend, but I understood that he was petting me, quieting me, and after a while I stopped ranting, stopped trembling, finally managing to slow those panicked shallow breaths that were making me lightheaded.

We moved over to the sofa. He left me for a moment or two. I scrubbed my face, wiping away tears I didn’t remember crying. I rested my head in my hands and tried to think. Nothing made sense. The postcards had stopped but Hammond had escalated to violence. It had been all threats up until this point. What had changed?

Dan sat down beside me. Set a glass of water on the table. He held a small brown vial that I recognized from my bathroom cabinet. I had news for him; those pills were well past their expiration date—like me apparently. I watched him shake two tablets into his palm.

“I don’t want those.”

“I know. But you need them.”

I gave him a hostile look. Anything I said now would be put down to my irrational state of mind. I held out my hand. He dropped the pills in my palm, I popped them into my mouth, took the glass of water he handed over. I washed the pills down, handed him back the glass, stretched out on the sofa and closed my eyes.

Dan brushed my hair from my forehead. I kept my eyes closed, rejecting that light, tender touch.

“Just relax.”

Yeah. Right.

“Everything will be okay, I promise you.”

I swallowed. Didn’t answer. Kept my eyes closed. He said that a lot: I promise you. But what did that mean? He couldn’t promise me anything. Not when he didn’t even believe me—when his main concern was to shut me up.

He kept stroking my hair. I didn’t want him to. I didn’t want to be comforted by him. I didn’t like the fact that his touch seemed to find a way through my defenses, that he seemed to be able to converse with me through his fingertips and my nerve endings. I tried to shut out my response, but my scalp seemed to tingle beneath the deft fingers threading my hair. The tears stopped leaking beneath my lashes. The torpidity lurking at the edge of my consciousness eddied around and sucked me down.

* * * * *

When I opened my eyes it was dark. I was lying on the sofa in the living room. Someone—Dan—had tossed the lambswool throw over me. The lights were off, but there was a fire in the fireplace. The shadows changed against the walls, flickering and indistinct. Never two the same—like Rorschach plates.

I turned my head. Dan was sitting in one of the chairs before the fireplace. His profile looked flushed in the firelight. He was staring at nothing in particular. I wondered where the gun was now. On TV and in the movies cops shoot people all the time. Dan told me he had only drawn his weapon a dozen times—and he’d only fired once. That was when he had shot and wounded a robbery suspect. He had been off-duty at the time. He had earned a citation for bravery, but there had also been an Internal Affairs audit.

“What time is it?” I asked.

His head snapped my way and he stood up. I didn’t want that. It was hard to keep the walls in place with him near me, and I wanted the walls up. It was safer behind the walls.

“How are you feeling?” He started to sit on the edge of the sofa, but I sat up, moving away from him.

“Groggy. Sorry for the…hysterics.”

“Sean.”

I cut across his compassion. “What happened—while I was out?”

“I called the sheriffs and filed a report. Then I walked down to Mrs. Wilgi and told her what happened.” He added, before I did more than look at him, “A deputy stayed here at the house until I got back.”

I nodded. I wasn’t thinking about who had been watching over me; I was thinking about poor Mrs. Wilgi who had loved that ugly little dog as though it had been her child.

“No one is taking this threat lightly, Sean.”

I refused to look at him. “I know.”

“I’ve been thinking that it might be a good time to move back to the house.”

I shrugged. “What’s the difference? He knows where I live.”

He didn’t speak for a moment, then he said, choosing his words, “If this is not Hammond, then he may not know that you have a home in the Hollywood Hills.”

I laughed derisively. “If? You mean you’re willing to consider the idea that Hammond may not be dead?”

“Yes.”

That surprised me, and I did look at him then, trying to read his expression in the gloom. His eyes glittered in the glow from the fireplace—a little spooky.

“Are you humoring me?”

“No.”

Some of my tension drained away.

“What changed your mind?”

“I don’t know that my mind has changed—but I’m keeping it open. I agree with you that it is highly unlikely you would attract two aggressive stalkers in this space of time.”

Tiredly, I thought this over. He didn’t think I was crazy; that was good, right? The fact that someone was out to get me: not so good. “When you said it wasn’t Hammond’s MO, what did you mean?”

“Hammond was what we call an Attachment Seeker. Killing the dog is more the action of a Rejection-based stalker—except the dog wasn’t yours. You didn’t even like the dog, so as threatening as the action seems, it could be perceived as a service to you.” Wearily, he added, “Which still doesn’t make sense psychologically.”

“It makes sense,” I said. I’d done plenty of reading on stalkers all on my own. “He sees himself as rejected. He didn’t get what he wanted from me and he’s moved from simple stalking to intimidation and threats. Rejection-based stalkers are the most likely to turn to violence. Isn’t that true?”

“Yes,” he said reluctantly.

“If he’s watching me, he knows that you and I are involved now. That could be the catalyst.”

“Hammond wasn’t gay.”

“Maybe he was a closet case.”

“Either way,” Dan said, “We need to think about how best to ensure your safety. I think moving back—”

“I don’t think the locale matters. We’ve got a great security system here and I can see anyone coming from a mile away.”

He looked unconvinced but didn’t argue, and I guessed that he didn’t want to pressure me when I was already emotionally distressed. That’s one of the perks of having a history of breakdown. People don’t like to upset you unnecessarily.

“All right. We’ll leave it for now. I’ve already spoken to my captain and we’ll have someone from Special Investigations here tomorrow on security duty.”

“Who? I don’t want some stranger in my—”

“Listen,” Dan said crisply, “We’ve got to have someone here during the day, and it can’t be me.”

“Why? I don’t understand.”

“Because we’re involved now, chief. There are protocols that have to be followed in order to authorize protection for you. We’re dealing with government bureaucracy, among other things.”

“What other things? If you were the best person for the job before—”

He drew a deep breath. “It’s…like a doctor operating on a family member. I can’t be objective about your safety; I don’t have any emotional distance, which means I’m not the best person for the job now.”

I opened my mouth to argue and he said, “I don’t tell you what roles to take in your career; how about you don’t try to tell me the roles to take in mine?”

His tone was even and he was still sort of smiling, but he was dead serious. I stared at him. Finally lifted a shoulder.

Sergeant Jack Markowitz had apparently transferred in from a neighboring police state—to his iron-jawed dismay. Tall, trim and no-nonsense, he showed up at the beach house at the crack of dawn on Monday before Dan left to drive into Hollywood. They greeted each other tersely, stepped out front briefly to discuss “the case,” before Dan came out to the deck to tell me good-bye.

“Stick close to the house today—and stick close to Markowitz.”

I raised an eyebrow and he said, “Not that close.”

Markowitz watched stonily from the doorway as we kissed.

“Can I fix you some breakfast?” I asked my new bodyguard after Dan drove off.

“No. Thanks.” Markowitz managed, looking like breaking bread with me would choke him.

I spent an uneventful morning working out and reading through the stack of screenplays Steve had sent over. Most of them seemed to consist of roles for strung out smart-asses; I began to think being typecast as a gay man wouldn’t be so bad after all.

At ten o’clock Maria let herself in the back door, like usual, and Markowitz scared the shit out of all of us by throwing down on her. Once we got that sorted out, Maria, with a lot of muttering under her breath, got busy vacuuming, and Markowitz amused himself “checking out the perimeter” for the nth time.

By eleven o’clock I knew it was going to be a very long day.

Steve called after lunch. “I’ve got good news and bad news. What do you want to hear first?”

I didn’t know if I could take any bad news at the moment. “What’s the good news?”

“Winston Marshall, the guy producing The Charioteer, has invited you to dinner tomorrow night.”

I felt like someone turned the lights on inside me. “For real? Where?”

I expected to hear Spago or Musso & Frank Grill, but Steve said, “At his place in Bel Air. Lenny Norman will be there too.”

“Does that mean—?”

“I don’t know what it means,” Steve admitted. “I can tell you that Marshall likes your work. He was very interested when I said you were hooked on the idea of playing Laurie. The bad news is he didn’t know you were hooked before because Lenny Norman hadn’t mentioned it to him—and that’s because Norman doesn’t want you. They’re looking at David Cort for the role.”

“David Cort,” I echoed. Davie Cort would be perfect for Laurie Odell. I could see him already in the khaki wool Battle Dress uniform of the period. He was the right age, casually attractive, a decent actor—and English. I felt nauseous.

“So is that the bad news: they’re pretty much decided on Davie Cort?”

“No.” Steve paused and I could feel my already wrenched nerves strrrrrreeetch another foot on the rack. “Um…have there been any more postcards?”

“No.”

Silence.

I said, “But someone killed my neighbor’s dog and hung it on our deck.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

“You said it.” I glanced at Markowitz who was out on the deck using binoculars to check out the bikini-clad women far down the beach. A real security threat, those teeny little swimsuits.

“Okay, well, I did some checking, like you asked. This is totally unofficial, but according to my source at Hollywood Division, there’s more than a little doubt as to whether Hammond was even driving the car when it went into the aqueduct.”

It was like he was speaking a foreign language; I heard him but the words didn’t make sense. “What?” I said at last.

“Hammond may not be dead.”

Wasn’t this exactly what I’d been saying the whole time? Why had Dan tried so hard to convince me otherwise when it was obvious his colleagues thought there was a good chance Hammond was still out there?

“Why didn’t anyone bother to share this before?” I asked.

Steve said carefully, “I think they did. I think Dan…didn’t want to alarm you.”

I bit down on my anger at Dan. “Do the cops have any leads on Hammond?”

“They’re watching his apartment and the motorcycle shop where he used to work. Nothing’s turned up. I mean, he could be dead. They’re not ruling that out.”

My brain seemed to have stalled. Steve was still talking. I tuned back in to hear him query, “You coming to this premiere at the Chinese?”

“What?”

“Are you getting hard of hearing? The premiere party for this new Peter Jackson flick. You plan on making an appearance?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why? Sean, you need to get out and be seen. You know how this business is. Not to mention the fact that sitting around brooding is not healthy.”

“I don’t know how healthy it is for me to set myself up like a sitting duck at some big Hollywood party.”

“What are you talking about? What could be safer than a tent filled with bodyguards, security, and cameras? It’s called hiding in plain sight.”

“I just don’t feel up to it.”

Mistake. I knew what he was going to say before he said a word. “Are you having…trouble again?” Which was his diplomatic way of asking if I was headed for another stay in the loony bin.

“I’m okay.”

“For real? I mean, you’re eating and sleeping and taking your meds?”

“I’m not on meds, Steve. I’m fine.”

“Hey, panic attacks are not fine.”

“I’m not having panic attacks.” Well, not many.

“Whatever you want to call not being able to function.”

I was used to Steve, so I’m not sure why that stung. “I can function just fine.”

“Really? Well, then explain to me what’s going on? You don’t want to work; you don’t want to do the publicity. You do remember that acting is a job, right? That we’re in business here?”

“Yeah, I remember,” I snapped, because I was feeling guilty. Playing the publicity game is a big part of the acting biz.

“You’re hiding out there in the sand dunes. I mean, if by some miracle you did land The Charioteer, would you be ready to take it on?”

“Of course!”

“Is this recluse shtick Dan’s influence?”

“It’s nothing to do with Dan. It would be easier for Dan if we moved back to Hollywood. He wouldn’t have to drive so far to work.”

“Then what the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know. I’m just…enjoying my Indian summer, I guess. I feel safer here.” I hadn’t meant to say that last bit aloud; it just slipped out.

“Safer? Is Dan telling you you’re safer out there? Is it his idea to keep you so isolated?”

“Why do you keep coming back to Dan?”

“Because you’ve changed since you’ve been with him. You seem afraid to make decisions on your own. I don’t know. Less confident. More dependent. More like…before.”

By “before” he meant when we had first met in college, when I was not that long out of the hospital, and still shaky. I had been less confident back then. I’d had trouble making my own decisions. No, that wasn’t true; I’d made my own decisions, but I’d agonized over the consequences. It had half killed me to know I was disappointing people, hurting people, failing. Steve had been my only friend during that period, and I had depended on him a lot. And he’d been there for me, which is what now kept me from giving into the blaze of anger his words sparked.

I worked to keep my voice neutral. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just worried about you, dude. I’ve known you a long time.”

I had to wonder if some of my anger wasn’t partly due to unease that Steve might be getting close to the truth. Was I starting to rely on Dan too much? Was I slipping back into unhealthy habits? I mean, as much as I wanted to believe that I’d be the first person to know if I wasn’t okay, that’s not usually how it works.

But I was okay. Anyone would be a little freaked with what I’d been through this past year. Even Dan agreed with that.

Although Dan had also suggested I might need to start seeing a shrink again.

Slowly, I absorbed what Steve was really getting at. I said, “Have you heard something about Dan? When you were asking about Hammond, did someone say something that gave you a bad impression?”

He hesitated, and I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle. “Steve?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I mean, cops are sort of a different breed. Sort of above the law, right? He’s never…I don’t know…gotten rough with you or anything, right?”

“Dan?”

He gave an uneasy laugh. “Yeah. No, I mean, that’s what I mean. He’s not that kind of cop.”

“What kind of cop? What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. The kind of cop you hear about on TV. I watch the news. Cops get indicted for shit all the time. Bribery, corruption, murder. They’ve got really high rates of domestic violence…”

My throat went so tight I could hardly wedge the words out. “Dan’s been nothing but wonderful to me. From day one, he’s looked out for me in every way.” Now I was angry with myself for having started this line of conversation with Steve.

He returned with unexpected bitterness, “Dan’s the man, that I do get. Unlike Dan, who I guess, gets it all.”

That caught me off guard. I didn’t know what to say. It never occurred to me that Steve truly had a moment’s regret for the past.

Into my disconcerted pause, he said, “Forget I said that. I’m sure he’s a great guy off-duty. Okay? Put it down to jealousy. Mine and maybe some other folks.” He tried to sound light. “Besides, you haven’t changed your will or anything, right? Left him your record collection and your subscription to Food and Wine?”

“No, I haven’t changed my will. And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Chill. It was just a joke.”

“Good thing you kept your day job.”

“Okay, so it was a bad joke. Listen, Sean, don’t get pissed off because I still care about you. I understand the guy won a medal, and he treats you great, but just go slow, okay? You haven’t known him that long. You’ve only spent a couple of weeks together. Basically the dude is an unknown quantity. He’s a…a dark horse.”

I laughed—sort of.

“I’m serious, dude.”

“I know you are, and it’s fucking ridiculous.”

The glass door slid open and Markowitz gave me a narrow look. I realized I didn’t sound nearly as relaxed and humorous as I’d hoped. I lowered my voice. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Everything okay?” Markowitz growled.

I nodded.

Steve was saying, “Fine. I don’t want to talk about it either. I’m sorry I ever brought it up. So, since everything is wonderful, do you feel up to taking this dinner with Marshall?”

“Hell, yes.”

Stiffly, he gave me the details, and I wrote them down while Markowitz held an undervoiced conversation with Maria that apparently had to do with what he wanted for lunch.

“Are you going to be there?”

“No,” Steve said shortly. “You’re going to have to sell yourself to them. And let me tell you now, Lenny Norman is a tough audience.”

* * * * *

Dan got home about six for a changing of the guard with Markowitz. Once again they went outside for their powwow, which I found annoying. I watched Markowitz get into his car and drive away.

“No postcards,” I informed Dan when he came back inside.

“That’s what I hear,” he said, dropping a kiss on my mouth.

“What else did you hear?”

He gave me a curious look. “I didn’t ask him for a report. Is there something I should know?”

I knew I was being a jerk and shook my head.

It was too cold to eat outside even if dining al fresco had been approved by my security team. I had the dining room table set and Dean Martin playing on the stereo. Hard to be down with Dino lounging around the room.

We had dinner and chatted about his day and mine. Dan had been called to the scene of an officer-involved shooting and was dealing with the fallout, and I’d read a bunch of scripts, so I wasn’t sure why, as usual, I seemed to be doing most of the talking.

The record player needle moved to the brassy opening of “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head.” As much as I had tried all day to block out Steve’s comments, they’d worked like burrs into my consciousness. I broke off what I was saying to ask, “Have you ever had any complaints about the way you do your job?”

Dan, in the process of cutting off a bite of pork chop, paused. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean did anyone ever accuse you of excessive force or anything?”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, and I couldn’t read his expression at all. At last, he said, “I’m a lieutenant now; it’s not like I’m out there rousting suspects. But yeah, I’ve had a few complaints over the years.”

“Like what?”

Reluctantly, he said, “Police put people in jail for breaking the law. That doesn’t win you popularity contests. I’ve had suspects claim I violated their rights or that I used unnecessary force. I’ve had female suspects accuse me of sexual harassment.” His smile was wry. “I guess that one was kind of funny, although I didn’t think so at the time.”

I wasn’t quite sure what to make of his admission; I’d been hoping he would just categorically deny it.

“Why?” he asked.

Which was a perfectly reasonable question. But for obvious reasons, I couldn’t give him a good answer. I already knew how he’d view my discussing him with Steve: pretty much the same way I’d view him discussing me with anyone else.

“I just wondered,” I said.

“You must have had some reason for wondering.”

I said vaguely, “It’s just the cop thing, I guess.”

I wasn’t really thinking about the implications of that comment, so it caught me off my mark when he responded seriously, “Is that a problem for you? Because that is who I am.”

“No, it’s not a problem.” But into the pause that followed my words, I wondered if that was totally true. When I felt vulnerable and threatened, I appreciated the fact that Dan took charge. I felt safe with him in a way I’d never felt as an adult. Maybe it was the gun. Or maybe it was the fact that he had an air of being able to handle anything. But was I still going to feel that way once the danger was passed? I didn’t want or need someone taking charge of me in my normal day-to-day life. It wasn’t reasonable, but there was a little part of me that resented how closely Dan watched me, and—a little—how he tried to protect me. I guess it reminded me, uncomfortably, of being ill. Of needing to be protected, of needing someone to take charge. I never wanted to be that person again.

But I didn’t see how I could tell that to Dan without sounding like I was pushing him away, so I did what I always did when in doubt. I started babbling. And Dan did what he always did, which was let me blab until I had to stop for breath.

“So what is it about this role that makes you want it so bad?” he asked after I’d told him about the invitation to dinner with Lenny Norman and Winston Marshall.

I shrugged. “I guess because I identified with Laurie so strongly when I was a kid. Now that I’ve read the screenplay I see how blind Laurie is. The role with teeth is Ralph. He’s the real hero of the thing. Even from the way Renault describes him in the book you can tell that it’s his story. There’s a psychological depth there that would be a real challenge to capture.”

“But you want the Laurie part?”

“Well, I don’t have the physical presence to carry off Ralph. And Laurie’s not bad. He’s smart and sensitive, and he’s got a sense of humor. He sees the stupidity of war, but he never wavers about doing his duty, and once he’s crippled, he never whines about it. He’s not afraid to face up to things. Well, except the one thing. But he’s still got a lot of courage despite his blind streak.”

“He sounds a lot like you. No wonder you identify.”

I laughed nervously. “Oh, right!”

Dan’s brows drew together, and to keep him from drawing any more ridiculous comparisons, I said quickly, “I guess it’s his ordinariness that appeals to me—appeals to most guys who read the book. Although I’m a little more impatient with him now that I’m reading as an adult. I don’t know if he’s afraid to face the reality of who he is—what he is. Maybe he’s just afraid to lose himself by loving someone completely.”

Dan’s expression was odd.

Changing the subject, I said, “I don’t know what to do about tomorrow night. I can’t show up with a bodyguard. It’ll confirm everything Lenny Norman thinks about me.”

“I don’t give a damn about what Lenny Norman thinks,” Dan said. “Until we’ve figured out who’s harassing you, I don’t want you out there on your own.”

Once again I felt a flare of antagonism at what was, after all, pretty much common sense. I guess it was the authority—verging on arrogance—in Dan’s voice. Like there was no room for discussion. What was especially unreasonable was that I’d been resentful before because he hadn’t seemed to take my fears seriously, and now that he was taking them very seriously, I was equally offended. What did I want?

“Yeah, well, I care what Lenny Norman thinks,” I said. “I want this role and I don’t want to do anything that confirms his image of me as some stereotypical Hollywood himbo.”

“A stereotypical Hollywood himbo wouldn’t want that role,” Dan pointed out.

Somehow everything he was saying tonight irritated me. I said shortly, “He thinks I’m gutless, personally and professionally, and showing up with a cop escort tends to reinforce that idea.”

“When is the dinner?” Dan asked. “I’ll get off early and drive you.”

“It’s the same thing!”

I heard the hostility in my voice before it registered in Dan’s eyes. There was an uncomfortable silence—long enough for me to try and take the words back, but I didn’t. Steve was right. I was getting way too dependent on Dan. I needed to set a few boundaries.

After a moment Dan said, “I wasn’t inviting myself to dinner. I’ll drop you off and you can ring me when you’re ready to go.”

I almost couldn’t stop myself from saying, “How is that going to look?” but sanity prevailed—a limited engagement. I said, “I’m supposed to be there at seven.”

“I’ll be home by five.”

“Great. Thanks.” If my tone had been any chillier we’d have had to throw another log on the fire.

Later that evening I stood in front of the bathroom mirror frowning at my reflection, trying to decide if there was anything I could do that might make me look more like whatever Lenny Norman imagined Laurie Odell looked like. I could skip shaving. Would chic-scruffy be more appropriate for an invalided soldier? Probably not for a guy in a World War II military hospital. Being tanned wasn’t a good idea either. I was probably too tall as well—although Peter Grady and I looked pretty good on screen together.

Davie Cort was shorter than me and a bit stockier. And a lot paler. Better shoulders. He had one of those appealing boney intelligent English faces—saved from effeteness by a broken nose.

And he had that damned accent.

Not that I couldn’t do an English accent. I was pretty good at accents, actually.

“I say, old chap,” I said to my mirrored self.

There was a quiet laugh behind me. Dan stood in the doorway, smiling. Our eyes met in the glass. He unbuttoned his collar.

“What number were you again?”

It took me a second to remember People magazine. I bit back a laugh, although I wished he hadn’t reminded me of that. “Go to hell.”

He chuckled.

“You look more like a movie star than me.”

“No need to be nasty.”

It was true, though. For old-fashioned good looks, Dan was the guy. My face was all bones, sharps and angles. I photographed well, but in real life there was nothing remarkable about me. Okay, “sherry-colored eyes” and “sun-kissed chestnut hair” if you wanted to quote People magazine.

“You’ll do fine, Laurie,” he said, turning away.

I caught my own wide-eyed look in the glass. It occurred to me that one of the things irritating me tonight was the very thing that bothered Laurie about Ralph: his take-charge attitude when no one was asking him to take charge; the protectiveness that verged on domineering; the assumption that, because he didn’t see a problem, it didn’t exist. The funny thing was that Laurie’s attitude in the book had always bothered me. He didn’t seem to fully appreciate Ralph. Now I sort of understood his point.

By lunchtime on Tuesday I was getting a little tired of Sergeant Markowitz. He had all the personality of one of those Easter Island statues. He ate about as much, too. Maybe he thought I’d sprinkled gay powder in the roast beef sandwiches. The only time he livened up was when he went out on the deck and checked out the beach bunnies—and the beach bunnies were few and far between now that the weather had turned. He even made Maria nervous—not an easy thing to do.

It was obvious he felt like he was wasting his time, and maybe he was right. There were no more postcards, no phone calls, nothing but the horrible memory of the dead dog. Maybe someone else had disliked that damned dog and got rid of it thinking it was mine. It spent so much time at my cottage I could see how the mistake might be made.

The morning dragged. The afternoon wasn’t much better. I was freaking myself out thinking about dinner that evening, wondering what I could say or do to convince Lenny Norman that I was the right guy for the job.

About two o’clock I worked out in the weight room, showered and came downstairs for a snack. As I reached the ground floor I could hear Steve’s excited and tinny voice echoing through the dining room.

“Sean. Fuck. Sean, pick up. Fuck, pick up!”

Through the glass door I could see Markowitz and Maria out on the deck in deep discussion. About what? I stretched across the counter for the phone.

“What’s up?”

“Sean! Someone shot Lenny Norman!”

I said stupidly, “When?”

“I don’t know. His gardener found him this morning.”

“Is he—?”

“Yes, he’s dead! He was shot to death. Somebody blew a couple of holes through his chest.”

Behind me I heard a key in the front door. Too early for Dan. I turned, automatically dropping the handset into the cradle, cutting Steve’s shocked voice off.

I stared across the wasteland of counter and table tops, the stretch of carpet and wooden floor. The sunlight lancing through the blinds was so bright it hurt my eyes. Hurt my head…

The front door opened and Dan stepped in, his face hard and unfamiliar behind dark sunglasses. He looked like a movie hit man, well-dressed and ruthless.

I said, “Lenny Norman’s dead. Hammond shot him.”

My voice was quiet and tired in the big empty rooms. Not strong enough to carry through the rush of noisy sunshine, but maybe he already knew what I was going to say.

I couldn’t read his face behind those dark glasses, but his mouth opened. From a long way away he said, “Sean…”

Chapter Six

I opened my eyes.

I was lying on the sofa. The ceiling fan whispered above me, the blades swirling in a hypnotic blur. It threw a black shadow flower against the plaster, the petals whirring into a smear.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Dan leaned over me, his face white. Even his lips looked pale. There were little lines around his eyes I didn’t remember seeing before. Poor Dan. Just what he needed after a hard day of chasing bad guys: scraping his crazy boyfriend off the carpet.

I whispered, “Sorry about that.”

He stroked my hair back from my forehead. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

There was, though. Lenny Norman.

I covered my eyes with my arm.

“Don’t, Sean. It’s not your fault.”

Funny how easily he could read my mind.

“No?”

“Christ, no.”

“He thinks he’s helping me.”

But how could Hammond possibly know that I was trying for a role in The Charioteer? How could he know that Lenny Norman stood in the way of what I wanted?

“Whoever is behind this doesn’t think he’s helping you.”

I lowered my arm. “We know who’s behind it. Jesus, tell me we aren’t going to go through this again. You know Hammond did this. He killed the dog and now—”

“Listen to me,” he said, and something in his tone caught my attention. “They found Hammond’s body.”

“They…” I felt winded, like he’d punched me.

“There’s no mistake. Paul Hammond is dead.”

I blinked. I had been so sure.

Dan said, “He must have been thrown from the car when it went off the road. From what the ME could tell, he crawled several yards away from the crash site before he died from internal injuries. They found him in a small gully. Apparently, because the car wound up in the aqueduct, no one thought to canvass the surrounding area.”

I put a hand to my head trying to make sense of this. “There’s no doubt?”

Grimly, Dan said, “I visited the morgue myself to make sure.”

I gathered from his expression that the trip to the morgue had been pretty ghastly; I recognized that this had been done as a favor to me, something I should be grateful for. Instead I felt bewildered.

“Then who shot Lenny Norman?”

“We can’t assume that Norman’s murder is connected to whoever is harassing you. It could have been a jealous boyfriend, a drug deal gone bad; he was not a popular guy. It could have been someone he fired or someone he turned down for a role.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?”

“I know that you believe Norman’s death is too much of a coincidence, but I’m here to tell you that coincidences happen.”

I barely heard him. It was like someone had dumped water on the circuit board of my brain; my thoughts kept shorting out. Norman’s death couldn’t be a coincidence, but how could anyone outside my immediate circle know that I feared he would stop me from getting The Charioteer? Only a handful of people could possibly know I was interested in the role. And killing Norman wasn’t doing me any favors. Most likely the entire production would be cancelled now; the adaptation had been his baby, his project, he had been the one fueling it. So if someone was trying to do me a favor, it was someone who didn’t understand how the film industry ran.

Watching me, Dan asked, “Feel ready to sit up?”

I assented.

He slipped an arm behind me and I sat up, surprised to find that I really needed his help. I felt weak. Shattered.

I stared around the room like I’d never seen it. It was so white. White carpets and white upholstery, white walls—so clinical. Medicinal. Had I picked all this stuff? The seascape over the fireplace, the dark wood furniture and bookshelves. The books themselves. They all looked like they belonged to someone else, someone who lived a long, long way away from me—maybe on another planet.

The only thing that felt real was Dan’s arm around me. Was he afraid I was going to keel over again?

I said, “I need a drink.”

He hesitated. “You don’t want to mix pills and booze.”

“I don’t plan on taking any pills.”

Another pause while he searched for a way to say what he wanted to without antagonizing me. “You might want something to help you sleep. Later.”

I shook my head. He squeezed my shoulder and rose. He was back in a minute with two fingers of brandy in a tumbler. I knocked it back, barely registering the burn down my throat, the heat pooling in my belly. Dan’s hand absently stroked up and down my spine.

“Where’s Markowitz?” I asked, then nearly dropped the glass as the phone rang. “I can’t talk to anyone,” I told Dan.

“I’ve got it.” He rose, and I instantly missed his warmth and strength. Too much.

From that detached distance I listened to him talk. Quiet and clipped. Cop talk. I remembered that I had hung up on Steve. I needed to talk to him. Later. He’d understand that it had to be later.

Dan came back and sat down beside me again. “Norman had an argument with his neighbor last night—and not the first.”

“I don’t believe—”

“Just for the sake of argument, look at these things separately for a minute.”

A thought popped into my head. I interrupted him, asking, “When did you find out Hammond was dead?”

“Yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

No apology, no explanation. Just the facts, ma’am.

Something else didn’t make sense, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I said, “Where did you say Markowitz was?”

Dan nodded toward the front room. “Did you need him for something?”

“No. I don’t need him.”

I woke up with the confused memory of the phone ringing.

The room was in darkness, the shutters closed, drapes drawn. Dan’s side of the bed—he had a side now—was empty. I rolled over in a twist of sheet, checked the clock on the nightstand. Seven thirty. At night? What the hell was I doing in bed? I was supposed to be at dinner with Winston Marshall and Lenny Norman.

It all came flooding back. Steve’s phone call and the news Lenny Norman had been murdered. My faint. Then talking with Dan until the alcohol had hit and I’d gone upstairs to lie down. Had I taken pills after that? I didn’t remember, but I felt groggy, doped.

I hadn’t dreamed that single aborted ring, had I?

I picked the phone up and heard Dan talking. “…shock. I don’t want to wake him.”

Steve replied, “I understand, but I think he’ll want to take this call.”

“I’ll tell him you rang as soon as he wakes up.”

Still only half awake, I dropped the handset, had to feel around in the coverlet for it. I put it back against my ear in time to hear Steve saying, “You mean, what you think is best for Sean. Maybe Sean wouldn’t agree.”

“In this five seconds Sean isn’t the best judge of what he needs.”

I blinked at this from a great distance. Did Dan mean that the way it sounded? Because what did that mean? And whatever it meant, it was pretty damn high-handed.

And apparently Steve agreed. He said in a tone I’d never heard before, “But I guess you are?”

I waited for Dan’s answer. He didn’t say anything, which I guess was his answer.

I replaced the phone carefully on the hook. I didn’t feel up to talking to Steve right now, I didn’t feel ready to deal with whatever this new piece of news was, but Steve was right. Dan didn’t have a right to screen my calls. I should be a lot more angry, right? It couldn’t be a good sign that I felt so apathetic; that all I wanted to do was roll over and go back to sleep.

Maybe Dan wasn’t so far off base. Maybe I wasn’t as well as I believed. My stomach twisted into knots of anxiety.

But anyone would be shocked about murder, right? And death threats, that would take a toll on anyone.

Wasn’t I basically stressing over how stressed I was? In fact, this was really sort of funny if I looked at it in just the right way.

Yep, hysterical. And if I started laughing, I’d never stop.

Say I did crack up again, what would happen with Dan and me? Nobody was going to hang in there for that. You couldn’t expect it. I tried to picture Dan driving down on visiting days to have lunch with me in my bathrobe.

I hugged the pillow and buried my face in the cool cotton. It smelled good. Like Dan.

* * * * *

I jerked awake to furtive rustling sounds.

“It’s me.” Dan spoke from near the window. “I didn’t want to startle you with the light.”

Right, because creepy sounds in the darkness were a lot less alarming.

“What time is it?”

“About three in the morning.” His shadow passed through the bars of moonlight. The mattress dipped on his side of the bed. I could hear the fatigue in his voice. “Do you need anything? You didn’t eat dinner. Do you want some scrambled eggs?”

“No.”

“A hot drink?”

I had a sudden and totally inexplicable longing for the hot cocoa and plain animal cookies my mom used to fix me when I was a little kid and feeling sick or sad. I hadn’t seen or spoken to my mother in five years. Not since the memorable lunch where she’d spent the first half reassuring me that there were doctors and clinics and therapies to help me get over being gay, and the second half crying about what she and my father could have done to deserve a son like me.

Two days later I’d checked myself into the hospital for a few weeks of R&R. But, it only took a day for me to realize that being depressed or nervous didn’t mean I wasn’t safe with the cutlery. The first step had been learning to trust myself. The second step had been putting a healthy distance between me and my family.

“Nothing,” I told Dan. And then belatedly, “Thanks.”

He lay back with a sigh. “Jesus, what a fucked up day,” he muttered. I don’t think he meant to say it aloud. I’d never heard him sound so drained.

I lifted my head. “Are you okay? Can I get you something?”

He said huskily, “I could really use a hug right about now.”

For a sec I didn’t think I’d heard him right. I was so used to him being the caretaker that it didn’t occur to me that he might occasionally need solace—or that I’d be the person best qualified to offer it.

“Hey,” I whispered, and reached for him. His arms locked around me. I wasn’t exactly sure who was hugging whom. I rested my cheek against the soft crispness of his hair, kissed him lightly. His breath was warm against my ear. Toothpaste and a hint of the coffee he’d had earlier. He inhaled sharply. Held me even tighter.

“I love the way you smell,” he whispered.

I smiled a little. Gave him another of those tiny stray kisses. After a few minutes, I felt his body relaxing against mine, growing heavy and drowsy. It was unexpectedly comforting. I held him until I too gave into sleep.

I slept late the next morning. Dan was gone by the time I wandered into the front room.

Markowitz sat on the couch reading Variety. Maria was scouring the granite countertops. She looked up, smiling with false brightness when I walked into the kitchen.

“Buenos días!”

“Morning.” I opened the fridge. Took out the jug of orange juice.

“I make you breakfast, Mr. Fairchild,” Maria said, handing me a glass. Her soft brown eyes looked worried. Why was she worried?

“How about if I make you breakfast,” I said. “Markowitz, would you like breakfast?”

“I had a couple of Pop Tarts before I left the house,” Markowitz said from behind the newspaper.

“Me, I’m dieting,” Maria said.

That made it unanimous. I drank my orange juice watching Mrs. Wilgi walking the beach. A little speck danced in front of her. A puppy.

I sat down and turned on the TV, flipping channels ‘til I found a local station. I sat through two morning talk shows with celebrity guests—all of them much younger and prettier than me—cartoons I didn’t recognize, and finally a news update on Lenny Norman.

Police were questioning a neighbor with whom he’d had a long-running feud. And that was about it. Norman had been shot to death late Monday night. His bullet-riddled body had been found by his gardener Tuesday morning.

News at eleven. Eleven a.m. because it wasn’t very important news, the murder of one small-time indie director. Few, if any, of the at home viewers were going to recognize his film credits.

“The victim was killed by three shots from a 9 mm semiautomatic,” announced the perky blond reporter in her faux trench coat.

I said to Markowitz, who had lowered the paper for this news flash, “That’s the old police issue, isn’t it?” I knew Dan still carried a Beretta M9, though a lot of cops had switched to Glocks.

“I prefer the grip of a Beretta,” Markowitz said quite civilly. “They’ve been having problems with the Glock 21s.”

From the kitchen, Maria made clucking noises. “You don’t want feel your head with that bad stuff, Mr. Fairchild!”

The phone rang. My keepers exchanged looks.

I uncurled out of the overstuffed chair. “I’ve got it,” I said. I picked up before the answering machine.

“Dude, is that you?” Steve sounded unusually subdued.

“Yes.” I glanced at Maria. “I’ll take this upstairs.”

She nodded.

I ran upstairs, picked up, and said into the phone, “You can hang up now, Maria.” I waited for the clatter of the phone settling back on the hook, and then said, “What’s up?”

“Is everything okay?”

“Of course.”

“I tried to call last night.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I was kind of out of it last night.”

“Yeah. I heard.”

Awkward pause.

“Well, listen,” Steve said finally, “I’ve got some news. I think it’s good news. Winston Marshall called me this morning. He’s going ahead with The Charioteer. He’s already talked to Bruce Watts about replacing Lenny Norman as director, and the first person Bruce mentioned when he heard the Laurie role hadn’t been cast yet was you.”

“Bruce is going to direct?” Bruce Watts had directed my last two films. He was wonderful to work with, an actor’s director.

“The part’s yours if you still want it.”

“If I still want it? Of course I still want it!”

“Are you sure, Sean? Because there are other films and other parts.”

“What are you talking about? I want this part. I want this film.”

Steve, sounding totally unlike himself, said, “Okay, but are you…sure you’re up to it?”

“Hell, yes, I’m up to it.” The realization of what he was really saying hit me in the gut. “Why don’t you just say what’s on your mind, Steve?”

Clearly uncomfortable, he forged on. “Yeah, well, Dan and I talked last night. He said that you might not be…strong enough to go back to work so soon.”

I was holding the receiver so hard I thought it might crack. “He said what?”

“Well, with all this shit going on. First Hammond and then this other lunatic and then thinking Hammond was this other lunatic. You have to admit you have been under a lot of strain. I mean, no wonder if you’re emotionally fragile.”

I felt like I couldn’t get my breath. “Dan said I was emotionally fragile?”

Silence.

“Steve? Is that what Dan said? That I’m emotionally fragile?”

Steve said in an uncomfortable rush, “I think he’s worried, Sean. I mean, we all are. But…Dan especially.”

“What else did he say?” I had hung the phone up too quickly last night. No wonder Maria and Markowitz were giving me funny looks this morning.

“That you—” He bit it off.

“That I what? Jesus! Tell me what the fuck he said!”

Steve spoke like the words were being dragged out of him one at a time. “He thought that maybe we should talk to you together. Convince you to get yourself admitted to UCLA’s Neuropsychiatric Hospital.”

I felt like gravity suddenly slipped and I was about to float off into space.

The Neuropsychiatric Hospital at UCLA is a facility for patients who require medical assistance in stabilizing acute emotional psychiatric crisis. Residential treatment. Supervised activity from eight a.m. to eight p.m. Deck time and occupational therapy and exercise and medication. It’s a great hospital. I know. I once spent nine months there.

There was a weird humming in my ears. I wondered if I was going to make a habit of fainting.

My mouth was so dry I could hardly get the words out. “He wants to have me committed?”

“No! God, no. He wants it to be voluntary. Voluntary hospitalization, you know. Just for rest and observation.”

I swallowed so hard he must have heard it all the way in West Hollywood because he said quickly, “Like before. The second time, I mean, when you went in yourself for a—a rest.”

“I don’t need a rest. I need to get back to work.”

“We all want what’s best for you, Sean.”

I wanted to scream at that kind, noncommittal tone. He sounded like Dan at his most aggravating. I said as calmly as I could, “You’ve known me a long time, Steve. Do you think I need to be hospitalized? Do I seem irrational?” I had to fight to keep my voice even, in case I sounded as irrational as Dan apparently thought I was. “Do I seem like a danger to myself or anyone else?”

“Shit, no!” he said quickly and loyally. But then he said, “But I’m not living with you, Sean. Dan sees a different side, I guess.”

I said tightly, “If anyone is crazy, it’s Dan.”

He said, “Hey, he never used the C-word.”

“Yeah, they’re not supposed to,” I retorted. “It’s not politically correct.”

He did laugh at that, an unwilling snort of a laugh. “Well, you sound normal enough. Normal for you, anyway.”

“I’m going to have this out with Dan,” I said. “I’m tired of his—” I bit the rest of it off. Despite Dan’s betrayal, whatever happened between us was still none of Steve’s business. “You can tell Bruce that he’s got his Laurie,” I said.

“Is Dan going to go for that?”

“Dan doesn’t have a say in this.”

“Okay,” Steve said doubtfully. “Maybe I’ll wait to tell Bruce ‘til you talk to Dan, though.”

“Tell Bruce I’m in,” I said tersely. “I’ll deal with Dan.”

“Uh, sure, sure. But call me after you talk to him. I just…want to make sure you’re—well, just call me.”

“I’ll call you.”

I hung up and went downstairs. “I need some fresh air,” I told Markowitz. “I want to go for a run on the beach.”

“Not a good idea,” he said.

“You’ll be with me. I’ll be fine. I can’t stay cooped up here all day.”

“Easiest thing in the world for someone to take you out with a scope and a high-powered rifle.”

Maria dropped a cup on the granite countertop.

The smash of china barely registered. I said, “This guy doesn’t want to take me out long-distance, or he’d have done it days ago. Whatever he’s planning, it’s going to be personal delivery.”

I waited for Markowitz to pronounce his verdict. Waited to see if I was, in fact, already in protective custody.

Markowitz considered. He shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

Wobbly with relief, I went upstairs, changed into running shoes, met Markowitz on the deck.

“Here’s the deal,” he said. “If anything happens—and I mean anything—you go into the water. You go out as far as you safely can, and you stay there until I give the all clear.”

I nodded, doing a few warming lunges, while I listened.

“If you hear me whistle—” He paused to whistle once, sharply. “Same deal. You go into the water and wait there.”

I nodded and took off running.

It felt good to give my anger this physical release. I needed time and I needed distance before I confronted Dan. I didn’t want to overreact. I realized that whatever he had said to Steve had been said out of concern for me. He cared for me; I didn’t doubt that for a moment.

He wanted to shield me—whether from a bullet or a breakdown. He had been hired to protect me. So it would be a little ungrateful to be angry at him for doing that very thing now, especially since he felt he had a personal stake in my well-being.

My feet pounded the sand, my muscles burned. I ran faster, stretching out, trying to out-distance the thing I couldn’t possibly outrun.

I was afraid I was losing it; so why did Dan’s fear feel like such a betrayal?

Why did I expect him to have faith in me when I didn’t have faith in myself?

Sweat stung my eyes. I slowed, stopped. Wiped my face with my sweatshirt front.

Markowitz was huffing and puffing a few yards behind, keeping an unhappy eye on the hillside above us. I realized that I was making his job a lot harder than it had to be.

I could imagine what Dan would have to stay about this stunt. He’d probably program the guys in the white coats into speed dial.

“I’m starting back,” I called. Markowitz nodded, his relief plain, although I thought that was more about his heart exploding than my safety.

Turning, I started back toward the house at a lope.

Why the hell did I care so much what Dan thought? Dan had been wrong. Twice. He had been wrong about there being no threat to my safety, and he was wrong about me. Maybe I wasn’t as calm and courageous as he’d be if someone was stalking him, but I wasn’t losing my grip on reality. I was still operational, still firing on most of my cylinders.

For the first time I considered what would happen if I did collapse again. Would my parents be made my legal guardians? God help me. Or would I be placed in some kind of conservatorship? I’d been focused for so long on staying well and strong that the possibility had never occurred to me. I remembered Steve’s joke about my will.

Not so funny, really.

I took the steps to the deck fast, went inside, not hearing whatever Maria said to me, and headed upstairs to Dan’s office.

I told myself it was my house and I had a right to search for anything I felt I needed to search for—but it still felt about one step lower than Bunny spiking Ralph’s drinks in The Charioteer. I opened the top drawer of Dan’s desk; it wasn’t locked and I felt another stab of shame. Either he had nothing to hide or he trusted me to respect his privacy.

What had he said about having a few trust issues of his own? I guess the soup du jour was betrayal all around.

I shuffled briefly through his mail. A couple of utility bills and a credit card statement. I scanned the charges. Nothing ominous—although I winced at the small fortune he’d paid for that Ella Fitzgerald record.

I told myself I should drop it right then and there.

Instead I opened the deep side drawer and hit pay dirt. Inside the drawer was a large clear plastic bag containing postcards. My hand shook as I lifted it out. Three postcards. I turned the bag over. In Paul Hammond’s spidery writing were the usual threats: You’ll be sorry; I haven’t forgotten; and, chillingly, Time is up.

Paul Hammond’s hand and this week’s postmark. But Hammond was dead. Had been dead for over two weeks now.

Cold sweat broke out over my body.

Dan could have shot Lenny Norman believing he was helping me out, removing an obstacle from my path. Norman had been killed by a 9 mm and Dan carried a 9 mm.

Nausea welled in my throat.

But then reason reasserted itself.

Dan had been home with me Monday night.

And if Dan was my stalker, he would certainly have locked this drawer. And more to the point, if he was stalking me, he’d have made sure I got the cards. Not much point in hiding them from me if he were the one trying to terrorize me.

In this five seconds Sean isn’t the best judge of what he needs.

Sick horror gave way to rage. He had hidden these cards from me, and whatever his reason had been, he’d no right to do such a thing. He had lied to me. Pretended there was no threat. Allowed me to believe that it was all in my head.

He had withheld evidence.

I sat down at his desk and picked up the phone. I dialed his cell. He answered right away.

“Chief.”

He sounded so normal. Like he was simply glad to hear from me and hadn’t a secret in the world.

I had to steady my voice before I could get the words out.

“Can you come home?”

“What’s wrong?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Where’s Markowitz? Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine. When can you get here?”

He did some mental calculations. “It’ll take me about an hour.”

“I’ll see you in an hour,” I said and hung up.

* * * * *

He was home in fifty-five minutes.

Lost in thought, I was startled when I heard the front door. Heard Dan’s deep tones and Maria’s lighter ones. Heard his footsteps on the stairs, coming down the hall. He started to walk past his office, then looked inside. He seemed puzzled to find me sitting at his desk.

“What are you doing in here? What’s going on?”

“You tell me.”

He looked confused. Not guilty. Not wary. Just confused. “What’s wrong?”

“I had a talk with Steve. He said they’ve found a new director for The Charioteer, and if I want the part of Laurie, it’s mine.”

Dan’s blue eyes studied my face. “So that’s good news, right?”

“Yeah, I guess. Do you think I’m well enough to take the part?”

He said slowly, “Do you think you’re well enough?”

“Yes. I do.”

He considered me for a long moment. “Then what’s the problem?”

“Did you tell Steve that I wasn’t well enough to work?”

“Hell, no.”

That caught me off guard. I didn’t expect him to lie about it. I expected him to simply say what he obviously thought, that I needed to be locked up in a psych ward as soon as conveniently possible.

“You didn’t tell him that I was emotionally fragile?”

His face changed. “I might have asked him to go easy on fanning your fears about Paul Hammond.”

“You used the term ‘emotionally fragile’?”

“I may have,” his tone was guarded—obviously not wanting to rile the maniac too much.

“Did you tell Steve that the two of you should try to convince me to check myself into UCLA’s Neuropsychiatric Hospital?”

“Huh?” He looked utterly taken aback. “Of course not.”

“You didn’t try to get Steve to pull an intervention with you?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious. Steve said that you told him that I was ill and needed to be hospitalized. Voluntarily if possible.”

“I don’t know what the hell Steve is playing at, but I never said anything like that. Ever.”

“Are you saying Steve lied?”

“Are you saying I would?”

I’d expected him to waffle a bit; claim that maybe Steve had misunderstood, although as far as I could tell Steve had got it right in every way that counted.

“Steve has no reason to lie.”

I could see that hurt him; his face went stony.

“Come on, Sean. Steve is jealous as hell of you—and he plays you like a pro.” And as though that weren’t enough of a red flag flapping in my face, he added flatly, “And for the record, if I thought you needed to be hospitalized, I wouldn’t waste time calling Steve for backup or trying to talk you into it.”

I was so mad I could hardly get the words out without stuttering. “Now that I believe, you arrogant son of a bitch!” Dan’s eyes turned arctic-blue. Hard to believe I’d ever seen them warm with tenderness or alight with laughter. “You want to explain this?” I hurled the plastic bag of postcards at him. He caught them one-handed, barely glancing at the bag.

“You went through my desk?”

His contempt made me defiant. “Hey, it’s my house. And technically it’s my desk.”

He went so still he didn’t appear to be breathing, and yet, despite the silence I heard something shatter. I didn’t let myself stop to consider what I was doing; that I was deliberately destroying something that might be irreplaceable. I just kept sweeping the counters and letting the valuables smash on the floor.

“Saturday, Monday and Tuesday, but I never saw them. You want to explain that to me?”

All at once he was totally calm. “Why don’t you tell me what you think it means?”

I said, “I think you had Maria take them out of the mail when you weren’t here to grab them first.”

“That’s right.” Zero apology or guilt.

“How the hell dare you?”

He snorted. “How the hell dare I? You sound like a B-movie. I’ll tell you how the hell I dared. You were coming apart at the seams. I tried to protect you—if only from yourself.”

Well, there was pretty much the confirmation I was looking for. He might not have phrased things exactly the way Steve remembered, but the intent seemed to be the same.

“I didn’t ask you to protect me!”

“What are you talking about? It’s my job to protect you!”

“Then,” I cried. “Before we were together. Not now. Not once we—” I couldn’t finish it because whatever we had been, it was ending now. Even if I’d wanted to pull out of this tailspin, it was too late. Our relationship was crashing and burning in front of us.

“Kid, you’ve got some weird ideas of what happens when people get together.”

He had developed a knack for pushing all the wrong buttons.

“Like you’re an expert on relationships?”

He opened his mouth and then bit back whatever he started to say. Unreasonably, his restraint further goaded me.

I sneered, “I don’t have your experience, that’s for sure. And I don’t want it.”

“Yeah, that came through loud and clear.”

Not like I hadn’t asked for that one, but all at once the heat went out of my anger. I felt numb. I said, “What else did you lie about? Obviously Hammond isn’t dead, is he? I’m still getting postcards from him.”

“The postcards aren’t from Hammond,” he said with acrid satisfaction. “I didn’t lie about him being dead or about getting the cards analyzed. The writing isn’t his. It’s not even that good of a forgery.”

“Then who sent them?”

“I’m not sure. Yet.”

It took a second for that to register. He didn’t say he didn’t know, he said he wasn’t sure. So he thought he knew. He had a suspect. Another piece of information he wouldn’t be sharing because he didn’t trust me with the truth. The arrogant son of a bitch actually believed that “protecting” me meant keeping me in a state of blissful ignorance. Only ignorance wasn’t bliss. It was dangerous.

“Really? I thought you had all the answers.”

Dan said wearily, “I thought I had one or two of them figured out. I guess not.”

I understood that we were no longer talking about Steve or Hammond. My chest rose and fell as though I’d raced to get to this moment with Dan, and now here we stood with a chasm growing wider and wider between us. I could feel the ring he’d bought me resting on my breast bone like a weight on my heart.

I heard myself say, “I guess it’s over.”

I waited for him to say something. Anything.

He said nothing. His eyes never wavered from mine.

“I can’t be with someone I don’t trust. And I can’t trust someone who doesn’t trust me.”

To my amazement he laughed. Not a very pleasant laugh, granted.

His gaze moved deliberately from the plastic bag of postcards to the desk I had searched. “I can see that might be a problem.”

Heat flooded my face.

Dan shrugged. “You got one thing right. It’s over.”

Chapter Seven

I watched the Sebring crest the hilltop and wind down the road leading to the beach house. The car disappeared from sight.

I checked my watch. Four thirty. Steve was late as usual. He’d be late to his own funeral.

Over the distant crash of waves I heard the faint slam of a car door and my nerves tightened. Show time.

I caught a glimpse of a blue shirt and the top of his head as he hurried along the side of the deck. He started up the stairs, checking when he noticed me sitting at the patio table.

“Dude! What are you doing out here?”

“Waiting for you.”

“Yeah? Well, I got here as soon as I could.” He glanced past me toward the open glass door. “So where is everybody?”

“Maria’s gone for the day. Markowitz was recalled.” I shrugged. “With Hammond dead, the cops didn’t want to waste any more of the taxpayers’ money.”

“How weird is that?” Steve shook his head. “I mean, to think he was dead the whole time.” He eyed me speculatively. “But what about Lenny Norman’s murder?”

“It wasn’t connected. The cops are holding his neighbor.”

“So it’s just us? Dan really is gone?”

“Yep. That’s over.” I drained my glass. My hand shook a little and I watched him note it. The pain was real and raw; I couldn’t hide it, but I couldn’t let myself think about it for even a moment.

“Is he going to be stopping by later to pick his junk up?”

I shook my head. It had seemed like Dan’s stuff was everywhere, but it had taken him exactly seventeen efficient minutes to collect his things. He’d left nothing but his fingerprints. He sure as hell hadn’t left any excuse for coming back.

Straddling the bench across from me, Steve smiled that guileless smile I knew so well. The smile he wore when things had gone well at the race track.

“Shit, man. Just like that? True, I can’t pretend I ever liked the guy, but I know you…” Despite the smile he couldn’t bite back, his mournful brown eyes looked sadder than ever. “How are you doing?”

“Not good.” He rose, reaching for my empty glass, and I added, “Not bad enough to do a Norman Maine.”

He laughed at the A Star is Born reference and went inside the house. It took him about four minutes. When he came back he had refilled my glass and poured himself a beer.

“So…what happened?” He handed me my glass.

I took it and set it down on the table. “I asked him whether he had talked to you about getting me committed.”

“He never used the word ‘committed,’” Steve said, as though—in fairness to Dan—it was really important to keep this point straight.

“Yeah, that’s what he said. In fact, he said he never had any such discussion with you at all.”

“What’s he going to say?” Steve asked reasonably.

“True.”

“So he just denied everything?”

“Pretty much. He admitted he asked you to stop encouraging me to believe Hammond was still out there.”

“Threatened me is more like it,” Steve said.

“Really?”

“He wanted to keep you in a bubble,” Steve said. “Like it was just you two and nobody else existed. That’s not healthy.”

He glanced at my untouched glass.

I said, “He also admitted he was having Maria pick up the threatening postcards each day before I could see them.”

“Ah,” Steve said. “Makes sense.”

“Does it?” I grinned twistedly. “I thought for sure you were going to suggest that he might be the one sending them.”

He met my eyes. “So you have considered that possibility?”

“For about three seconds. It wouldn’t make a lot of sense for him to head off his own death threats.”

“Oh. Right. But I don’t know if he was exactly balanced in his feelings for you. I mean, think about how possessive he was. And controlling. And way overprotective.”

I reached up, automatically touching the ring on the chain around my neck. Steve’s eyes followed my hand.

“I guess I just never trusted the guy,” he said.

“I guess it was mutual.”

He stared. “What do you mean?”

“You said he threatened you.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

He glanced at my drink again.

I asked, “So when do I start work on the film?”

“The…film?”

“The Charioteer. What did Bruce say when you told him I was in?”

“Well, actually, I didn’t get a chance to call him yet. I’ll phone him tomorrow.”

I said, “It’s almost funny. I see this direct parallel between the characters in The Charioteer and what happened with Dan and me.”

Steve blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. In the book, Laurie keeps getting angry because Ralph keeps trying to fix things for him, but the truth is, Laurie is the one who sets that dynamic up. He turns to Ralph every time he has a problem. He knows how Ralph is. So why does he get so angry when Ralph tries to protect him?”

“Uh, dude, I have no clue what you’re talking about.” His eyes traveled to the lounge chair and the marked-up copy of The Charioteer script. “So which one offs himself?”

“What?”

“I read the scene in the script where the one guy is reading the other guy’s suicide note.”

“Oh.” My smile felt like it was on crooked. “Things aren’t always what they seem.”

“You got that right.” He held his beer out to me, and said, “Well, here’s to not looking back.” He nodded at my moisture-beaded glass, and I picked it up. He clinked the rim of his mug against my glass, and drank.

I watched the muscles in his throat move as he swallowed. I could remember kissing his throat—he had this way of throwing his head back when he laughed. I could vaguely recall what his mouth felt like on me, although those memories faded next to the vividness of my memories of Dan.

I said, “Like, for example, I can pretty much tell when someone is acting. Dan wasn’t acting. You are.”

Steve lowered his mug. Beer slopped out the top. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I thought I had myself pretty well under control, but heat suffused my body and my heart began to slug against my ribs in hard measured punches; I felt breathless with something akin to stage fright. “Can we just cut the bullshit?” I requested.

His eyes narrowed.

“You want to know where you first slipped?” I didn’t wait for his answer. He didn’t look like he would have one anytime soon. “It was that crack about changing my will. I haven’t thought about my will since I first made it out—back when we were living together.”

Steve gave a strange laugh. “Hey, dude, don’t go psycho on me, okay?”

“Up until the bit with the will you’d been pretty subtle.”

“You really are losing it, Sean. Dan’s right.”

“Dan was right about one thing,” I said. “You do know how to play me. You know just what buttons to push, what triggers my self-doubt. And there was always just enough truth in what you said. But you way overshot the mark with that story about Dan wanting me to check into UCLA.”

Steve seemed to struggle with himself. Apparently the desire to show me how smart he was, won out. “You wouldn’t take a hint,” he said. “You hardly knew the guy but you were so goddamn stubborn about him.”

I stared. I knew Steve so well. I knew everything from how he took his coffee to the sounds he made during sex. And it turned out that I didn’t know him at all.

“You had to know he was going to deny it.”

“So?” He smiled, spreading his arms. “He denied it, but here we are. I guess you believed it on some level. Maybe not for long, but long enough.”

I swallowed hard. The truth was a bitter pill.

“How did he take it, by the way? You didn’t really say. Was he iron-jawed and dignified, or did he cry?”

Stern and silent, actually, but I wasn’t going to discuss Dan with Steve. Not now, not ever. I said, “Once I finally accepted that Hammond had been dead the whole time, I started thinking about who had a reason to want me out of the way. I remembered your comment about the will—and then I remembered that the will was still in your favor.”

“I guess the fact that you never changed it says something,” he said lightly.

We were silent for a moment.

“Why, Steve?” I asked finally.

He didn’t speak, didn’t look at me.

“Is it just for the money? Because I would have given you the goddamn money.”

He rose then, shaking the table. He walked over to the railing, bracing both hands on it, staring out at the blue dazzle of the water. “No. It wasn’t just the money. Not like you think. I got in deep. Too deep. I owe over four hundred grand in gambling debts—to people who don’t understand installment plans.”

“F-four hundred grand?” I said. “You owe almost half a million in gambling debts? How the hell did you manage that?”

“Easier than you think. I convinced people I was good for it. Actually, I convinced them that you were good for it.”

“Why didn’t you stop? When you were like…I don’t know…eighty grand in? Why didn’t you come to me for help?”

“How could I? Besides, I thought I could win it back. I thought my luck would change. It always changes sooner or later.”

“Jesus Christ, Steve!”

“Don’t be so self-righteous,” he said hotly. “It’s an illness—compulsive gambling. Like alcoholism. It’s not like I could control it. You of anybody ought to understand about that kind of illness.”

Was I supposed to feel sorry for him? Because it was hard to feel much of anything other than bewilderment.

“And one of the symptoms was you planned to kill me and inherit my trust fund?”

He looked me right in the eyes and said, “I never wanted that. Never. You’re all I’ve got. I love you. I do. But…it’s you or me, Sean. And I don’t want to die.”

I said, “I know the feeling.”

He reached behind himself and pulled out a gun. I was willing to bet it was a 9 mm semiautomatic. He came back to the table and sat down. Meeting my gaze, he gave me a sad lopsided smile.

Bitterly, I said, “Why the big charade? Why the postcards and killing my neighbor’s dog? Why not just shoot me on the deck one afternoon?”

“Because as soon as your will was read I’d have been the cops’ number one suspect.”

“You got the idea when Hammond’s body didn’t turn up.”

“That’s right. That was what originally gave me the idea. I realized that if Hammond had killed you, my problems would have been over. And when they couldn’t find his body, I thought maybe if something happened to you, it would be blamed on Hammond.”

“So you created the illusion that Hammond was still out there.”

“It was easier than I expected. I still had copies of those first letters he sent you. So I just faked the postcards.”

The idea he wanted me dead was bad enough, but the deliberate cruelty of sending those cards shook me.

“What did you do, hire some asshole who looked like Hammond to follow me around? Yeah, you did. And that’s why the fake Hammond never really did or said anything to threaten me.”

He got a weird look on his face. He didn’t reply.

“Or was that you?”

“No.”

I stared at him, and then I realized what I was seeing in his eyes.

“Did you…” I swallowed hard. “Jesus. He’s dead, isn’t he? That’s why he disappeared again.”

He said with macabre cheerfulness, “He asked one too many questions.”

I absorbed this and realized that I was going to have to give up any hope of talking Steve out of killing me.

“So what was Plan B?” I asked. “If you pushed hard enough I might have another breakdown and hopefully do the job myself?”

“If you had another breakdown and…did yourself, that would be like your choice.” He was reasoning with me as though he believed he could somehow make me see it from his point of view. “I mean, you could have a breakdown a few years from now and off yourself and it wouldn’t help anyone—whereas this way you’d be saving my life.”

“But Dan kept running interference.”

“Yep.”

I owed Dan an apology.

I glanced down at my drink, the ice melted in the glass. “So what happens if I drink this?”

“You just go to sleep,” he said earnestly. “Very peacefully and naturally. There’s no pain or anything. Your heart just stops. That would be the best way. I don’t want to…” he glanced down at the gun lying between us, and swallowed.

“Why not? You shot Hammond’s double. You killed Lenny Norman, right?”

His eyes did this queer little flickery thing, like his brain was short-circuiting. But before I had time to react, he smiled, once more in control. “Lenny Norman was an asshole. I thought you might actually appreciate that one.”

Years of training, but I couldn’t quite control my expression, and reading my face, Steve said thickly, “I thought for sure that would be the end of that damned film. And I figured that might tip you over the edge—you were so obsessed about that role. But it was…bad. He begged me…”

“My God, Steve.” I put my hand over my eyes, and then remembered I needed to keep watch on him. “Think about what you’ve done.”

“I know exactly what I’ve done, and we both know I can’t go back now. Look, I don’t want to hurt you, Sean. Just drink the stuff and…go to sleep.”

I stared into his eyes. This was Steve. Steve whom I had known forever. My partner, my friend, my former lover. I just couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around it. Maybe because I didn’t want to. I picked up the glass. “You know what? You’re right. Living is overrated. Between you and Dan—I am a little tired.” I put the glass to my lips and his eyes flared with—surprise? Excitement? Fear? Maybe he didn’t know himself.

Wet touched my lips and I paused. “But you do know Dan isn’t going to believe this suicide scenario. Not unless I leave some kind of a note.”

He hesitated, glanced toward the house, and I chucked the glass with all my strength at his head. It connected with a satisfying thunk and he fell out of his chair, nearly taking the table with him. As he collapsed, he grabbed for the gun, which went off with a bang, taking a chunk out of the railing a few inches to my left. Jeeeeesus.

I hopped up from my chair, wiping my mouth with my arm. I hadn’t swallowed anything but who knew what the hell he’d laced my drink with.

“God damn you, Sean!”

His fury triggered a hysterical laugh. He was angry because I was trying to stay alive. And I was the crazy one?

Jumping from the deck, I hit the sand and sprinted for the side of the house, yelling, “Markowitz, where the hell are you?”

I slammed into a wall. A wall of hard muscle and bone and warm flesh. The wall reached out and steadied me. Dan. I blinked up at him dazedly. With his free hand he was holding a gun. Definitely not a movie prop.

Without a change of expression he put me behind him and trained the gun on Steve who had paused at the stairs of the deck.

“Freeze, Kreiger.”

Steve stared down in disbelief. Blood trickled from a cut in his hairline.

“What are you doing here?”

“Drop the gun.” Dan ordered, adding, “Or I’ll blow your fucking head off.” Which was probably not LAPD-approved script.

Steve hesitated. I could see him running his options, weighing the risk, figuring his odds: always the gambler.

Dan was like a statue; he didn’t flick an eyelash, didn’t move a muscle. He was ready and waiting—and despite the fact that Steve had wanted me dead, had cold-bloodedly plotted and planned for that very thing—I couldn’t take the idea of seeing his head blown off. I croaked, “Please, Steve…”

I spotted Markowitz edging behind the railing on the other side of the deck, his own weapon drawn.

Steve’s eyes met mine over Dan’s shoulder. He laughed the old Steve laugh and dropped his gun. It landed on the sand with a dull sound.

“Hey, what the hell.” He held his hands out. “Book ‘em, Danno!”

Dan went up the stairs, shoved Steve back into the table hard, and while Steve was picking himself back up, jammed his gun in his back waistband and took out a pair of handcuffs. Markowitz joined him a moment later.

“So it was a trap,” Steve said, trying to look over his shoulder at me. “You knew and you set me up?”

“It’s called acting,” I said.

Dan’s eyes met mine briefly. Blue and bleak. I had no idea what he was doing there—I had set my “trap” with Markowitz’s assistance—but I was glad to see him.

The wail of sirens floated in the distance.

Steve was still trying to make eye contact. He said urgently, “Hey, Sean. I’m sorry, man. If there had been another way…”

My throat closed up, choking off anything I could have said—if I’d had anything left to say.

“Very touching, asshole,” Dan growled.

* * * * *

“When did you know?” I asked Dan.

The sheriffs had come and gone, taking Steve with them. Markowitz had followed shortly after, and it was just Dan and me now. Past that adrenaline overdrive, I felt a little numb and a lot shaky. I’d have given anything for a hug from Dan, but there were no hugs forthcoming. Dan looked like Dan, but there was a force field around him that even the StarCatz would have trouble neutralizing.

“That Steve was planning to kill you?” His smile was humorless. “I knew for sure this afternoon. That bullshit story of his—the only possible reason for that was to play on your insecurities and distrust. To drive enough of a wedge between us that either you would send me away or I’d get fed up and leave.”

“He was running out of time,” I said. “It made him desperate.”

“And stupid.”

“I need a drink,” I said, and went to the bar. I poured myself a Bushmills. Dan’s whiskey. Apparently the one and only reminder of his brief stay in my life. “Did you want something?”

Anything?

“No.”

I could see the tiny lines of weariness around his blue eyes and unsmiling mouth, but he didn’t sit down, and he didn’t take his jacket off. He wasn’t staying. He didn’t want anything I had to offer.

I tossed back the whiskey, welcoming the burn in the back of my throat. It distracted me from the burn at the back of my eyes. That wasn’t going to get me anywhere. It would just embarrass us both.

Refilling my glass, I said, “But you already suspected Steve, didn’t you? That’s what you meant today when you said you weren’t sure who was sending the postcards.”

Eyes on my glass, he said, “You were right about the odds of attracting two aggressive stalkers in such a short space of time; so I knew after Hammond’s body turned up that I needed to look for someone with another motive for getting rid of you. Steve fit the bill.”

I forced myself to meet his gaze. It was hard because, as I feared, there was nothing in his eyes. No emotion. “Thank you,” I said. “You saved my life.”

He shook his head. “I was just tagging along. It was Markowitz’s show—and yours.”

“Markowitz told you—?”

“He thought I’d be interested. He thought I had a right to know.”

There was no accusation in his voice, but I knew that he was sore about that. I took a deep breath.

“Dan, I owe you an apology.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said flatly. He looked at his watch. “If you’re okay now, I’ve got someplace to be.”

“I’m okay.”

If he walked out that door I was never going to be okay again.

I set my glass down and followed him through the rooms to the front door. Hand on the door knob, he paused.

“That reminds me.” He pulled his keys out and began to work one off the ring.

“Don’t.” The word startled me. Startled him. I said, trying for lightness, trying to hide the desperation, “There’s no hurry, right?”

“And no reason to stall, right?” He smiled—and he was either a better actor than me or he really didn’t give a damn. He handed the key to me, and like a little kid I put my hands behind my back.

“I don’t want it.”

He reached around me, took my hand and pulled it forward. Not roughly, but not playing. He pressed the key into my palm.

“The truth is, I never had this.” He folded my fingers around the bite of cool metal. “You were never open to me. Not really.”

He turned, opened the door and I reached past him, slamming it shut.

“So…saving my life…that wasn’t anything personal. That’s just your job, right?”

I couldn’t read the expression in his eyes, but his voice was level. “Right. It’s my job. And wrong. Of course it’s personal. Of course I still have feelings for you. But the bottom line is, it didn’t work between us.” He shrugged.

The shrug hurt more than the words—and the words hurt plenty. Mouth dry, I said, “I want to be open to you. If you’ll show me how.”

He said very gently, “You’re still acting, Sean.”

It was like taking a hard and unexpected fall. The air seemed to slam out of my lungs. “I’m not.”

“Sean…” He sighed.

I said quickly, “You’re going to say it won’t change anything. And I guess that’s true, but I want to make love to you. One last time. And for the first time.”

He said, still trying to be kind, “It wasn’t about sex, Sean. It was about intimacy.”

“And intimacy is about trust. I do get that, Dan.” I controlled my voice. “I still want my first time to be with you.”

His eyes flickered.

We were close enough that I could feel his heat, feel the warmth of his breath fanning my face. I held his gaze with mine and I could see the darkness there, the hunger.

Into his silence, I whispered, “Isn’t ex sex supposed to be the best?”

He put his hand behind my head and pulled me forward, his mouth hard on my own. It was a grinding kiss, an angry kiss, the bump of teeth and the smear of lips. I closed my eyes and opened to him, and almost at once he gentled. We breathed in balmy moist unison until at last he broke contact.

He said softly, “You’re too good an actor, Sean.”

“You’re not being fair to either of us.” I found his hand and put it on my crotch. “I’m not that good. I want you.” He felt me over, and I strained against his hand, craving his touch through the stiff material of my jeans. “Do I have to beg? I will.”

“Sick, shameless pervert,” said my father’s contemptuous voice next to my ear. I closed my ears to that memory, focused on Dan’s face. It was a handsome face, but I loved the strength and caring and intelligence more than the trick of bone structure and coloring.

I loved him.

My hands went to my fly, and then I rethought that and reached for his. And Dan bit off a sound that could have been a laugh or maybe just impatience, and undid the button at my waist. He pulled, and the buttons popped through the denim, one by one. His big hands, warm and knowledgeable, slid inside my jeans, fastened on my hips.

I pulled his Levi’s down and his boxers, and his dick sprang free, ready and willing, regardless of whatever his brain was telling him.

“You don’t have to beg,” Dan said, acknowledging what we both knew to be true.

“Bedroom?” I asked hopefully.

He nodded, and then he was pulling his shirt over his head. I stepped out of my jeans, kicked off my boxers, and preceded him into the soft gloom of the bedroom, bouncing down on the bed.

I reached for him and he lowered himself beside me.

I was braced for his resentment to play out in roughness or haste, but Dan took his time kissing and caressing every inch of my body: His tongue scraped my nipple in pleasurable chafing, a fingertip lightly scratching the back of my knee; he brushed his nose against mine in a child’s Eskimo kiss. I smiled and sighed and relaxed, kissing him back when he’d let me, stroking his lean hard flanks.

“Please…” I whispered. I didn’t finish it. Even I wasn’t sure what I was really asking. His leaving had left me empty, aching. I wanted to fill that emptiness with memories if nothing else.

At last he helped me over onto my belly. I ignored the tightening in my gut—partly anxiety but mostly desire—and spread my legs. There was no going back now, and I wouldn’t if I could have. This was as much for me as for him.

The slide of the drawer, the squirt of the lube. I shivered convulsively as he worked warm lube between my ass cheeks. His finger delicately pierced me. I moaned at the strangely familiar invasion.

He paused. “It’s not necessary, Sean. You don’t have to prove anything.”

“Want to…” I wriggled back against his hand, trying to force him to action.

“Why?” He didn’t so much as twitch his finger.

I groaned. “Dan, why are we talking?”

“Because I need to understand what’s really happening here.” I heard the pain in his voice, and it startled me. If I could still hurt him, then on some plane he still cared for me.

I swallowed hard. “I’m trying to tell you. Trying to show you. I love you. I want to share this with you. Even if it’s…too late for you.” I pushed back against finger. “Please give me this.”

He moved his finger again, and I caught my breath. His oily thumb lightly stroked across the sensitive mouth of my hole.

“Keep breathing,” he said.

I whimpered as his thumb pressed in. He massaged, pushed a little deeper, rubbed some more.

“Relax.”

I tried. I concentrated on loosening my muscles. The tip of his other thumb slid in and he used both to massage me strongly, widening my entrance. My breaths came in shallow pants as he prepared me. He was tender, but very thorough; I’d said I’d wanted it, and he was taking me at my word. It was intense and invasive, and seemed to go on forever.

My stomach muscles were quivering, and my legs felt like jelly by the time he withdrew.

“That didn’t hurt, did it?”

I shook my head. I didn’t think I could manage my voice. I rolled over onto my back, and tucked my legs up neatly.

He leaned over me, and his mouth found one of my nipples. He tongued it, wet heat turning the tip to a hard point. Distantly I felt the pressure from the blunt head of his shaft building at the entrance of my body, but more immediate was the tease of his lips as he moved to my other nipple. His teeth closed delicately on the bud, and I writhed beneath him, aching for more.

It was almost a relief when the pressure on my hole built to a distracting pain—and then, staggeringly, I felt my body’s resistance give.

Dan’s cock slipped past the tight ring of muscle. Nerves and muscles spasmed. He was inside me.

“Okay?” He seemed to have trouble squeezing even that one word out.

I gulped and nodded. And I was okay. My shivering body was already adjusting to that thickness. I wasn’t tearing apart. I was still whole. Still me. I could still breathe. I could still move…

Dan’s thighs tightened in response, and he thrust against me, just once. “Don’t move yet,” he gasped. His hands continued to stroke and smooth my belly, my ass.

Wonderingly I reached down and touched where our bodies were joined. We were like some astonishing mythological creature—not the monster my parents pictured, but something very old and powerful. I felt wrapped in the wings of an unexpectedly sweet revelation.

“How’s that?” Dan’s voice sounded strained.

“H-hey, it’s not bad,” I said.

He laughed shakily at the wonder in my voice and cautiously began to rock his hips against me. It was a relief to give up all control and just feel, just let it happen, just ride it out.

Not bad? It was actually pretty damn good.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Just let go.”

I looked into his face. It was too dark to read his eyes, and I wanted to watch his eyes while he took me. He was pounding me harder now. I began to move too. Awkwardly. My fists clenched on the comforter. Dan’s hands slid under my ass and he lifted me up, shoving a pillow beneath my hips.

The changed angle sent a jolt of sheer exquisite feeling surging through me.

What the hell was that?

I found my own rhythm, straining into the push and pull cadence of our bodies. I jerked out, “Dan…”

He pegged me over and over, deep, powerful thrusts. It went on and on, lightning strikes of pleasure—and who was it said lightning didn’t strike the same place twice?

My fists relaxed back into hands, and I reached for Dan, stroking his sides, running my fingertips down his back, fondling whatever I could reach. Trying to tell him with touch that this wasn’t an act, that there was no pretense here.

He murmured encouragement. His face bumped my face, his mouth closed over mine, hot and wet and urgent.

Dazed, I realized that he was going to make me come just like this. I didn’t think that was possible.

At the same time Dan yelled my name, and I felt liquid seed pouring into me. I began to come, white hot waves shivering through my bones and muscles and nerves. It went on and on, like a supernova.

Then, from a long way away I felt Dan gathering me up against him, saying comforting things—like I would need to be reassured after that. I kissed him back dizzily. Lights out, I thought.

Fade to black—although it was more of a soft and restful gray.

“Was it everything you expected?” Dan asked when he got his breath back. His voice was a little dry, but his callused hand was warm on my bare skin, lazy and caressing.

Was it what I had expected? I felt wrung out, used up, boneless. I felt sated. Complete. And at the same time I felt naked and unprotected. But it was okay to be vulnerable with Dan’s arms around me. I felt closer to him than I ever felt to anyone in my life.

I shook my head. I didn’t begin to know how to answer him. I said, “Are you going to leave me, Dan?”

He licked his lips, like this was going to be a difficult thing to say.

I reached for him, and his arms came about me, loving and strong. “I’m sorry for not trusting you, for the stupid things I said, for everything,” I said into his shoulder.

“Shhh. Listen, Sean, I let you down. I screwed up. I should have listened to you. I did think you were letting your fears get the better of you.” He took a deep breath. “I did believe the strain was too much for you.”

It was painful to hear; clearly it was equally painful for him to say.

“I guess it was,” I admitted.

“No. You’re second-guessing yourself now, but the fact is, your instincts were correct. I let my own fear affect my judgment—and ultimately put you at risk.”

I could hear the guilt and regret in his voice. And what was the point of that? We had both made mistakes, both let each other down. Was the important stuff where we had failed each other or the parts where we had got it right? It felt to me like we had got a lot of it right a lot of the time.

I was afraid to ask, but I had to know. “Is it too late for us?”

After what felt like the longest moment of my life, he said almost inaudibly, “It’s not too late.”

I closed my eyes and pressed my face into his throat. I could barely hear him, but I felt the words against my mouth.

“It’s not that easy to turn it on and off.”

I said, “I don’t have a lot of experience.”

“Neither do I.” He must have caught my surprise because he said, “Oh, I have experience at this—” He ran a light hand down my back, leaving goose bumps of sensation. “Not with loving someone. I’ve never even used the word before.”

My throat closed up and I had to struggle against the bubble of emotion threatening to tear out of my chest. Love. He was right. That’s what this was about.

I managed to get the words out. “So this was your first time too?”

“Yeah, I guess it was.”

“Was it everything you expected?”

He turned his head on the pillow, and I saw the glimmer of his smile in the darkness.

A Vintage Affair

Chapter One

The house was one of those old antebellum mansions—though more reminiscent of Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte than Gone with the Wind. Four fluted, peeling columns and short white railings lined the once-elegant façade. Faded green shutters framed the windows. There was a large moss-covered fountain in the front courtyard and an iron gazebo that looked like an inhospitable birdcage. The house was named Ballineen. They named houses here in the South. Then again, they also married their first cousins, so that was hardly a recommendation.

Austin caught his expression in the rearview mirror of his BMW 507.

“It can’t be that bad,” he muttered and slid out of the roadster, slamming the door briskly behind him.

It needed to not be that bad. He couldn’t afford any problems with this cellar appraisal. Not with Whitney Martyn already hunting for a reason to get rid of him and replace him with Whitney’s fiancée, Master Sommelier Theresa Bloch. Losing his position as auction director for one of the oldest wine shops in North America was a thought too painful to contemplate. Austin had worked too hard to get where he was. His family thought his career was frivolous; being an unemployed master of wine would make him a bigger joke than he already was.

He turned at the rattling scrape of metal on stone. A young black man was raking dead leaves and twigs from a narrow walkway. He wore black jeans, a red leather jacket, and a purple do-rag. As he raked, he sang tunelessly along with an iPod.

Austin slung his laptop case over his shoulder and headed for the house. As he strolled past the fountain, it spat up a trickle of gray water. The whole place had an odd earthy scent—like an herb garden gone to rot. The petals of cherry blossoms littered the courtyard and steps to the front veranda like dirty pink confetti after the parade has passed. Spring in Georgia was supposed to be very pretty, but this was March, the wettest month. The skies were slate, and an eerie light seemed to bounce off the dark stone urns with their dead vines.

As Austin reached the covered front porch, the door swung open, and a young woman dressed like the last of the Southern belles in a yellow satin ball gown leaned seductively against the frame and smiled at him.

“Why, hello,” she drawled. She was probably in her early twenties, a bit younger than Austin, petite and very pretty with dark curls and dark eyes. “Y’all must be Mr. Gillespie.”

“That’s right.” Austin automatically shook the unexpectedly square, blunt-fingered hand she offered.

“I’m Carson Cashel, the daughter of the house. Did you have any trouble finding us?”

“Uh, no.” With five stepmothers and four stepsisters, Austin liked to think there wasn’t much a woman could do to surprise him, but he couldn’t help staring. Carson Cashel was wearing a hoop skirt, for crying out loud. “No, no trouble.”

Just make a hard right after the end of the civilized world.

She smirked at him. “What do you think of my dress, Mr. Gillespie?”

Blushing, Austin tore his gaze from her bodice. Not that he was scoping her out—hardly—but her creamy, pert breasts were all but popping from that nest of lace and ribbon like a pair of doves about to take flight.

“It’s very pretty.”

“It is, isn’t it? I thought you’d look different. Older. Like one of those wine snobs.”

Austin smiled lamely because what was he supposed to say to that? He was, probably by definition, a wine snob. Snobbery was part of the master of wine job description. He was paid to be a snob. An articulate, witty snob with a trained palate and a sensitive nose.

Carson burst into a peal of laughter. “I guess y’all are wondering why I’m dressed like it’s Halloween.”

“Well, I…”

“I’m modeling my costume. For the annual Madison Masquerade Ball on Saturday.” She turned away, throwing him a sassy look over her bare shoulder. “Well, come on! You’ll want to see the cellar straightaway, I guess.”

He wiped his feet on a grungy-looking mat and stepped over the threshold. “Thanks. I think I’m supposed to meet with Mr. Roark Cashel.”

“Oh, Daddy is…indisposed just now. He’ll see y’all later.” The bottom of Carson’s gown swept along the parquet floor as she bustled along leading the way. Austin had a glimpse of her bare feet as the hoop skirt billowed lightly from side to side.

The house had clearly seen better days. The carpet was a patched and faded blue laurel-wreath pattern; the wallpaper was coming loose in places and had discolored through time and trouble to an uneasy butterscotch hue. There was a lot of furniture, some of it good, a lot of it rubbish. The rooms smelled of rain and disinfectant and…burned bacon. It was at times like these that having a highly trained nose was a liability.

As they passed open double doors leading into a room that appeared to be some kind of back parlor, a woman’s thin voice called out, “Carson, honey, is that him?”

“Yes, ma’am!” Carson called back. She paused a few feet down the hall and whirled to face Austin. The full skirt of her gown nearly knocked over a small table. A red vase that looked a lot like Ming rocked wildly. Not that Austin was really an expert, but Rebecca, Stepmother #3, collected Ming ceramics.

“That’s Auntie Eudie,” Carson whispered. “You don’t want to talk to her right now.”

“Okay,” Austin said. It was true enough.

“Not unless you want to spend all afternoon confabulating your family tree.”

“My family tree?” Proof of Austin’s own prejudices, he thought she must be implying something social or even racial. He had inherited his mother’s wide, rather exotic hazel eyes and her honey-colored complexion—courtesy of Eurasian ancestry—but in most respects he was as WASPish as a man could get and still make his living buying, writing, and consulting on wine. He was certainly as WASPish as one would expect of any of Harrison Gillespie’s offspring.

“Genealogy. Six degrees of reparation, Cormac calls it.”

“Cormac?” He was starting to lose track. How many people lived in this mausoleum?

“My little brother.” Carson whirled away again and narrowly avoided crashing into the man who had appeared soundlessly behind her.

“Why, Jeff, you startled me!” Carson’s Georgia drawl suddenly seemed to go still-slower and stickier. Austin could practically see the peach juice dripping from every vowel. “I thought you were still in bed.”

Jeff certainly looked like he had just crawled out of bed. He was wearing a snug pair of faded jeans low on his tanned hips and nothing else. His blond hair was appealingly tousled. His light eyes met Austin’s over Carson’s curly head. He winked.

“Why, honey chile, what would be the point without you?”

“You!” She smacked his muscular brown arm. Austin expected to hear a fiddledeedee! at the least, but no. She settled for the love tap. “Mr. Gillespie, this is Jeff Brady. He’s a…friend.”

In a perfectly normal—well, for a Southerner—tone Jeff said, “Hi, Mr. Gillespie. Nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” Austin replied.

“You’re here to catalog the wine cellar?”

“That’s right.” Austin smiled politely in answer to Jeff’s white smile. Jeff Brady was just too good-looking. Austin didn’t trust anyone that handsome. Jeff looked like he should be selling toothpaste or seducing a congressional page.

“You’ve got a job ahead of you.”

“He does, doesn’t he? That cellar’s one thousand square feet if it’s an inch.” Carson smiled at Austin too. “Well, come on. Time’s a wasting.” She turned, her gown swirling like churned butter around her.

“Nice dress,” Jeff said as she passed him. He smiled at Austin again, and Austin smelled the scent of his shampoo: green apples.

As they started down a long staircase, Carson inquired, “Are you married, Mr. Gillespie?”

“No.”

“Goody!” Carson threw him another of those friendly, flirtatious glances. It was probably second nature to her, but it made Austin self-conscious.

They turned down another hallway. The decor seemed to consist of dark wainscoting and a couple of chandeliers that looked ready to fall out of the ceiling.

Carson chattered blithely as they made their way down the murky corridor. “It was such a shock Granddaddy going like that. I don’t mean in the arms of Miz Landy, because we all knew about that peccadillo. I mean his heart giving out. We all thought the doctors had removed it with his appendix years ago. I guess it’s a blessing, really.”

“A blessing? Really?” Austin offered, since she clearly expected some comment from him. He was concentrating on not walking under the sagging light fixtures in case they tore loose and crashed down.

“Oh yeah. What do they call that medical condition when people start stockpiling lots of useless junk?”

“Collecting baseball cards?”

Carson laughed. “You! Naw, hoarding. That was Granddaddy. He was always buying and hoarding wine. Whatever money was left, it’s all gone now. Or at least it’s down in the cellar.”

She chattered cheerfully all the way down the narrow stairs that led to a scratched, dark wood door. A key stuck out of the tarnished faceplate.

“It’s not locked?” Austin asked, shocked. This wasn’t merely tantamount to leaving a liquor store standing open; given the fortune in wine reputedly stored in the cellar, it was equivalent to leaving a bank unlocked.

Carson opened the door. “It’s never been locked.”

On the other side of the door was an even more rickety staircase. They went down it, Austin taking pains not to step on the hem of Carson’s dress and send them both plummeting to their deaths.

A bare bulb threw muddy light against the dingy walls. The cellar smelled of damp and mold and even-less-pleasant things. At the bottom of the staircase, an elderly black man in a dark suit was spraying a can of Raid as though it were air freshener. He turned at the pound of their feet on the wooden steps.

“Faulkner, Mr. Gillespie is here to catalog Granddaddy’s wine,” Carson announced. To Austin, she said, “Faulkner is what I guess you’d call our faithful family retainer.”

“Uh…” Austin had grown up with full-time domestic staff, but he couldn’t imagine referring to anyone as a faithful family retainer.

“Suh,” Faulkner said. The exaggerated, deferential tone was at odds with the shrewd dark gaze that met Austin’s. Faulkner was probably in his late sixties, his lined skin still supple looking, though his gray hair and mustache were grizzled.

Carson hitched up her dress and frowned at a black-soled foot. “When we used to be rich, Faulkner was our butler. He was a better butler than he is housekeeper.”

“You shouldn’t be running barefoot in this cellar, Miz Carson.”

Miz Carson ignored that. “Oh good. Everything is already set up for you.” She gazed at the card table and folding chair beneath the gently swinging lightbulb. “If you need anything else, just ask Faulkner. He’ll be pleased to give you any help you need.”

“Thanks, I should be all right.” Austin held up his laptop case. “I’ve got your grandfather’s—”

She interrupted blithely, “Oh, I wouldn’t put too much stock in Granddaddy’s record keeping, Mr. Gillespie. He was never one for figures, especially at the end. Well, not the arithmetical kind!” She threw the former butler a sly look. Faulkner remained as impassive as one of the battered statues lining the front drive.

Gazing about himself, Austin feared Carson was probably right. But if even half the bottles Dermot Cashel had claimed were in his cellar existed, this cobwebbed dungeon would prove a treasure trove.

“I’ve set up a table and chair for you over here, sir,” Faulkner said, as though Austin could possibly have missed the effort at creating a work space—positioned as it was beneath a giant spiderweb. “I’m afraid there’s no electrical extension.”

There was barely electricity, if the pallid light from overhead was anything to go by.

Austin thanked him and moved to the table, setting down his laptop case.

“I guess I’ll leave you to it,” Carson said after a moment as he removed his laptop. “Will you join us for lunch?”

Austin, his attention caught by the nearest rack, bottles blanketed in velvety dust, barely registered that. “Yes, thank you,” he said automatically.

“We’ll see you at one o’clock,” Carson called, grabbing her full skirt in two fists and trotting up the staircase. The stairs shook beneath the energetic pound of her feet. Faulkner unhurriedly followed. The door slammed shut behind them with the finality of the last nail in a coffin lid.

Austin turned his attention to the wine racks. He lifted a bottle from the nearest shelf and gingerly wiped the dust away to study the label. His heart jumped.

A 1970 Château La Gaffelière. The La Gaffelière was a Bordeaux that generally aged well. The 1970 should still be powerful with a good tannin structure. This was a very promising start. Austin returned the bottle to its cradle and looked around for something to wipe the dust off his hands. He should have worn jeans and a sweatshirt, that was obvious, but he preferred to introduce himself to the client looking as professional as possible. He wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty, but that came later.

Gingerly wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag, he moved along the tall racks, looking but not touching.

Cheval Blanc, Gruaud-Larose, DRC, Lafitte, Mouton… Oh yes. This was most definitely worth the trip from DC. Austin could admit now he’d had his doubts when he’d learned Martyn, North, & Compeau had been hired to catalog and evaluate the late Dermot Cashel’s extensive wine cellar. He’d even suspected Whitney might be trying to get him out of town in order to further his own plans for bringing his girlfriend on board.

But this was the real thing. Even without the Holy Grail of the legendary Lee bottles, this was an appraisal Austin wouldn’t have trusted to anyone else.

And if the Lee bottles really did exist?

If they did exist, it was going to be fun trying to find them. As far as Austin could tell, there was no rhyme or reason to the way the shelves had been organized. Bottles of whites and reds were mixed—as were years and vineyards.

He reined in his impatience to delve and returned to the card table, where he switched on his laptop and watched the screen for a wireless connection. No signal. Not even the promise of a signal. Austin sighed. Annoying not to be able to access his e-mail, but he could do that at the hotel this evening. He clicked on the document file he’d saved to his hard drive, and glanced over his notes.

The spreadsheet before him was his own rough effort at estimating the contents of the Ballineen cellar based on the crinkled, purple, ruled sheets of notepaper he’d received from Whitney. He’d deliberately underestimated. The purple stationery and nearly illegible writing did not induce confidence. But even underestimating—and not counting in the Lee bottles—the Ballineen cellar added up to a treasury.

If by some miracle the Lee bottles were here, the chances of their being the real thing were slim. Who could forget the drama of the Jefferson bottles in the 1980s? The greatest wine hoax ever? The very thought of another Jefferson’s bottles scandal was enough to raise the hair on the back of his neck. Not many careers could have withstood that hit. His would have hit the reef for sure. Fortunately, in 1985 Austin had been four years old and rarely drunk anything stronger than Yoo-hoo.

But had the Jefferson bottles been the real thing? That was the seduction, wasn’t it? The allure. Because wine wasn’t merely a beverage. Wine was history and art and romance and civility and culture…and maybe a bit of magic.

Austin moved his cursor down the spreadsheet, noting quantities, and then glanced at the towering shelves around him. It was probably going to be easier to take it shelf by shelf, listing the contents and location and then matching it against the inventory sheets.

Especially since the cellar wasn’t kept locked. For all he knew the family had been enjoying the Lee bottles with their fried-chicken dinners over the four weeks since Dermot Cashel’s death. It was a sickening thought, but it had to be faced. Austin was pretty sure from what he’d seen of the self-titled “daughter of the house,” she wouldn’t know a bottle of Montrachet from a bottle of Asti Spumante. There was no reason to hope the rest of the clan was any more savvy.

Not that there was anything wrong with drinking what you liked to drink—or not drinking at all, for that matter. Austin really wasn’t that much of a wine snob, and growing up in Harrison Gillespie’s house had been all about learning restraint. Moderation in all things was one of his father’s guiding principles—except when it came to marriage.

As a matter of fact, good old Robert E. Lee himself hadn’t been much of a drinker. Lee had put his thoughts about the use of liquor in writing: “My experience through life has convinced me that, while moderation and temperance in all things are commendable and beneficial, abstinence from spirituous liquors is the best safeguard of morals and health.”

Austin pulled a legal pad and pen out of his laptop case. He mapped the cellar floor plan and layout, sketched the shelving units, and labeled each one: A, B, C, and so on. He numbered the individual shelves.

At least the thick stone walls of the cellar ensured that the temperature remained cool and stable.

Shrugging out of his jacket, he hung it over the back of the folding chair, rolled his sleeves up, and loosened his tie. He picked up the pad and pen and moved to the first shelf.

Forty minutes later his hair, shirt, and shoes were covered in dust, and the palms of his hands were black. He had never worked on quite so cruddy a site. It was bad enough that he considered going back to his hotel and changing then and there, but it was a thirty-minute drive back to the town of Madison.

The smell of insecticide was fading, only to be replaced by something worse. Far worse.

It smelled like something had died down here.

Austin continued to work—he was on the bottom row of the first shelf—but he began to feel queasy. The smell was truly awful. Did they keep the garbage bins down here? Or were the canned goods going bad?

He put down the pad and pen and wandered back through the maze of tall shelves and racks. The light dimmed the farther he moved into the recess of the cellar. He was going to need a flashlight when he worked back here. The back portion was nearly in darkness. The shelves and broken furniture threw bizarre geometric shadows against the dingy walls.

Austin’s sense of unease, of disquiet, mounted. At the end of the farthest aisle, he stopped and peered more closely at the floor. It was hard to tell in the poor light, but it looked like…

What was that?

He took a hesitant step forward.

Something white and waxen rested in the aisle. It sort of looked like a hand stretching out from behind the very last shelf.

Austin stopped.

Yes, it looked like a hand: palm up, fingers outstretched…

He moved warily, reluctantly, forward another step.

It was a hand. A man’s hand. Not just a hand, because it was attached to a wrist, and what the wrist might be attached to…was concealed by the tall shelving.

“Hello?”

His voice sounded nervous in the cavernous chill of the cellar.

He took another unhappy step forward. He could now make out gray fingernails and dark hair on the backs of curled fingers. He could see every detail, it seemed, every freckle, every hangnail—not that there were any hangnails, for this man’s hand was manicured. He could see the glint of a gold watch too. It was as though Austin had suddenly developed bionic vision. Time seemed to slow as he took another dragging step forward.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

He already knew the answer to that. No one who was all right had gray fingernails and skin the color of wax. No one who was all right was that motionless.

The toe of his shoe stopped a couple of centimeters from the lax fingers. Austin closed his eyes, opened them, and made himself look around the corner of the shelf.

The man lay on his back. He was middle-aged. Maybe older. His clothes—expensive clothes—were rumpled and dirty. He needed a shave. His mouth was slack and open, his lips blue-gray. His black hair was mussed and had fallen in his dull, sunken eyes. He stared sightlessly up at Austin.

Chapter Two

Austin drew hastily back. He leaned against the shelf and closed his eyes, sucking in a couple of deep, quavery breaths.

“Crap.”

He needed to do something. What? It was so unbelievable. He peered around the shelf again.

Yes. Believable or not, it was still there. He was still there. The dead man.

The only dead person Austin had ever seen before was his mother. He had been nine, and even in death she had been very beautiful. Beautiful but not alive. Despite the things one read about the dead, she had not looked like she was sleeping. This guy did not look like he was sleeping, and he was not beautiful.

Who was he? What was he doing back here? How had he died?

Austin couldn’t tell at a glance, and he didn’t want to look more closely than that.

He turned and walked very calmly, very quietly back to the front of the cellar, then up the stairs, through the scratched and paint-blistered door, and up the next flight. It seemed strange to be moving with such calm deliberation when people in movies either fainted or screamed and ran, but that was probably shock. Or maybe this was shock. This blank lack of feeling.

A man was coming down the first flight of stairs. He wore black jeans and a black sweater. He was too much like Carson to be anyone but a brother. Same slim build, dark eyes, dark curls. He checked at the sight of Austin.

“You’re Gillespie?” He too had that soft Southern inflection.

“Yes. I just found—”

“I don’t think y’all should be down there on your own.”

Truer words were never spoken. Austin started to speak again, but the man, his own age or younger, said, “I tell you what. I’ll stay down there with you. I’m Cormac Cashel.” Cormac was scowling, but the look he directed at Austin was definitely a considering one.

In another time and place, Austin might even have welcomed that au courant appraisal. He and Richard had split up three months ago, and he just hadn’t had the time, energy, or inclination to get out and meet people. As rattled as he was, he couldn’t help noticing that Cormac was very attractive, though his interest seemed a bit surreal at the moment.

“I found something in the cellar,” Austin blurted.

Cormac went rigid. “Then it’s true? You’ve found them? You found the Lee bottles?”

“No. No, I mean there’s someone down there.”

“Oh.” The eager attention faded. “That’s Faulkner. Don’t let him scare you.”

“No, it’s not Faulkner. It’s…someone else.” It occurred to Austin that the corpse in the cellar probably belonged to a family member and that he was about to deliver terrible news. “He’s not…well.”

“That’ll be Daddy,” Cormac said sardonically. “He’s often not well. Y’all want me to throw him out of there so you can work?”

“Uh…I don’t know how to say this…”

Footsteps pounded lightly down the stairs, and another figure appeared behind Cormac. Austin recognized the too-handsome Jeff Brady. He’d put on a white tailored shirt but still exuded a sexy, just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-not-because-he-was-sleeping air. He halted, spotting Cormac and Austin, and Austin guessed that Brady had been planning to pay him a visit too.

Maybe there was no TiVo this far from town?

“Something wrong?” Brady asked, looking from one man to the other.

“Naw,” Cormac said, throwing him a look of dislike.

“Yes,” Austin said. He wasn’t sure why he was now talking to Jeff, except that he had the impression that Jeff was not part of this family. Plus Jeff appeared able to handle pretty much anything that came his way. A sort of cool, smiling authority; Beauty Stuart confounding the Union commanders.

“What is it?” Jeff inquired. “Or would you rather show me?”

“I think I’d better show you.” To Cormac, Austin said, “I’m sorry, but I have bad news. I think your father may be… There’s a body in your cellar.”

“What?”

Cormac recoiled, and Brady pushed past him on the narrow staircase. “Show me.”

Austin did an about-face and led the way quickly downstairs. Jeff was right behind him. Austin wasn’t sure if Cormac followed or not. He sort of hoped not, but mostly he was thinking that the scent of green apples made a welcome change from Raid and death.

“How did you happen to find him?” Jeff asked, brisk and businesslike.

“I was trying to work out why it smelled so bad down here. I couldn’t concentrate.”

“Yeah, I guess you must have a pretty sensitive nose in your line of work.”

“I don’t think anyone could have missed this.” Despite the old-house smells, the damp and the decay, Austin was still baffled no one had picked up on that putrid odor earlier. As he and Jeff reached the bottom, the smell of rotting garbage made his stomach churn. He’d have liked to wave Jeff on to the back of the cellar without him, but pride insisted that he lead the way.

All the same, he stood on the other side of the shelving, hand protectively shielding his mouth and nose while Jeff went around the corner.

There was a long moment of silence, and then Jeff reappeared, his handsome face grim.

“What makes you think that’s the old man?”

Austin lowered his hand. “Isn’t it?”

“Naw.”

“Who is it?”

Brady opened his mouth, then closed it. “I think we’d better call the police.”

Austin nodded, grateful to escape the cellar and its grisly contents.

They started upstairs only to be met by a delegation of concerned citizens. A tall, thin, beaky-looking man with curly silver hair and a beard that looked like pheasants could live long and prosper in its strands was leading the charge. Cormac and Carson followed—the resemblance between them was even more striking now that Carson had changed out of her ball gown and into jeans—seeming torn between an adolescent mix of nervous amusement and awkwardness. Behind them was a washed-out woman with alarmingly red hair and a very nice triple strand of pearls. Sasha, Stepmother #4, collected pearls in all shapes and sizes, and Austin knew a nice set when he saw them.

Pearls, that is.

Trailing them all was Faulkner looking as impassive as ever.

“What the hell is going on here?” demanded the bearded gentleman, who Austin guessed was Roark Cashel, the patriarch.

“There’s a corpse in the cellar,” Jeff announced. “Everyone needs to go back upstairs.”

“That isn’t possible,” quavered the lady in pearls. The genealogical Auntie Eudie, Austin presumed.

Carson and Cormac gripped each other’s arms.

“Nonsense,” Roark said. He tried to propel his way forward, and Austin nearly overbalanced on the narrow stairway. Jeff steadied him with one hand—and planted the other in Roark’s chest.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ve got a crime scene downstairs.”

“This is my house!”

“Sure, but you don’t want your fresh fingerprints found down there, Mr. Cashel. It’ll just confuse things when the police get here.”

“Police!” repeated all four of the Cashels.

“That man didn’t crawl in here to die a natural death,” Jeff said. “Of course we have to call the police.”

Roark smelled of whiskey and sleep sweat and something else. Fear. Reaction suddenly hit Austin. His stomach lurched, and he wondered if he was going to vomit on the old man’s striped socks. And how unsanitary was that? Running around in socks in these ruins? Now that he thought about it, Roark’s feet didn’t smell any too sweet either.

“Can someone let me through?” he requested.

His desperation must have made itself felt, because they all began to back up and shuffle around, the staircase squeaking and groaning ominously beneath their feet. The Cashels were talking at once, but Austin didn’t listen. His sole concern now was getting out of there without disgracing himself.

He jumped when Jeff placed a light hand on the small of his back. Kindly meant or not, that was not a normal gesture from a straight guy. Austin had pegged Jeff for aggressively heterosexual the minute he’d seen him, but nonetheless that casual touch seemed to reach right through him and cup his balls in a friendly fashion.

The clumsy procession reached the top level at last, and Austin managed to work his way to the front of the line while yet restraining himself from actually shoving anyone down the stairs. Carson discreetly indicated the powder room off the front hall, and he strode quickly down the corridor to a tiny room with red velvet wallpaper and dark paneling. After locking himself behind the flimsy door, he turned the taps on the sink and proceeded to be quickly and comprehensively sick.

After he’d flushed the toilet, he splashed a gallon of cold water on his face, rinsed his mouth, and gazed in disgust at himself in the diamond-shaped mirror. He tried to imagine his father in this same situation. Harrison Gillespie losing his breakfast just because he’d seen a dead body!

“Man up, for crap’s sake,” Austin muttered to his wan reflection.

He splashed more cold water on his bloodless face and finally abandoned the refuge of the powder room.

He could already hear what Whitney was going to say when he heard about this. Austin watched enough TV to know that the cellar was going to be labeled a crime scene and he was probably not going to be allowed back in there for days. Maybe weeks. Whitney was going to be seriously pissed. In fact, he was liable to see this as Austin’s personal failure.

Speaking of personal failures, now that Austin had a chance to think, he needed to get his laptop out of the cellar immediately. He couldn’t take an even remote chance that it might be confiscated. It wasn’t like he could do any more damage to the crime scene than he’d already unwittingly done, after all.

He started down the hall. Not tiptoeing, exactly, but trying to walk quietly. He could hear voices—agitated voices—drifting from one of the side rooms. By the sound of things, the Cashels were not taking the news of the body in the cellar well. But then he couldn’t blame them. He wasn’t taking it well either.

He had just reached the hall entranceway when his cell phone sounded with the countdown-to-spaceship-launch ringtone that meant Ernest was calling.

Austin reached for his phone. Jeff Brady stuck his head out of the parlor doorway.

“There you are. I was starting to wonder whether y’all decided to sneak out the back.”

Since there was nothing Austin would have liked more, he gave Jeff a withering look and answered his cell.

“Hey, Ernesto.”

Ernest said in his gruff voice, which made him sound more like ninety than nine, “They’re sending me to boarding school in the fall.”

Uh-oh. He’d known this was coming—just not so soon. He should be in Maryland, not way down yonder in the land of cotton.

“It’s for sure?”

“Harrison broke it to me half an hour ago.”

For some reason Ernest had called their father by his first name from the time he had been old enough to speak. And more astonishing, Harrison had allowed it. But then Ernest was a remarkable kid. The family joke was he’d been speaking in complete sentences at nine months and offering his opposing political viewpoint at eighteen. The real joke was that it wasn’t a joke.

“McDonough is a good school,” Austin said. “They’ve got riding stables and a great science program.”

“I don’t want to go.” Uncompromising.

Austin licked his lips, tried to find the right words. “It’s not like you imagine. A lot of it is really fun.”

“I’ve done my research. I don’t want to go.”

Sometimes it was easy to forget that despite the 159 IQ and his unequivocal way of expressing himself, Ernest was just a little kid.

“Listen, Ernie, I got through it. Harrison—Dad—got through it. It’s…just part of growing up.”

“I’m not going.”

“We’ll talk about it when I get home, okay?”

“When are you coming back?”

Austin looked at Jeff Brady, who was listening in on his phone conversation with unabashed interest. “Well, it might be sooner than I was thinking. But I’ll call you from my hotel tonight. We can talk more then.”

“We can talk, but I’m not changing my decision.”

“Try to keep an open mind.”

“I don’t see any point. I already know it will interfere with my work.” Ernest’s voice wobbled infinitesimally as he added, “And I’ll be homesick.”

Austin’s already sensitive stomach knotted unhappily. “I’ll call you tonight. It’s hard to talk right now.”

“What time?”

“I’m not sure. But I will call.” For an instant it went through Austin’s mind to tell Ernest the setup. He probably knew more about a homicide investigation than Austin.

“Bye.” Ernest disconnected.

Austin turned off his iPhone, and Jeff asked curiously, “Your son?”

“My brother.” Half brother, actually, but it wasn’t a distinction Austin made.

“Are you, er, married?”

“Er, no.”

Jeff scratched his jaw thoughtfully and gave Austin a funny look from beneath his long, dark lashes. “Domestic partnership?”

“I’m not involved with anyone,” Austin said shortly. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that things hadn’t worked out with Richard, but it was another failure, wasn’t it?

Jeff smiled. On a scale of one to ten, with one a wallflower and ten charismatic world leader, the smile was a devastating nine. Austin narrowed his eyes in the full force of it.

“I…see,” Jeff said, forcing those lazy, no-account Southern vowels to put in a full day’s work.

Austin stared. He began to think he had got Jeff Brady all wrong. “I need my laptop,” he said. It was the first thing that popped into his mind.

Jeff seemed to follow the non sequitur without trouble. He looked regretful. “Sorry. The cops said to keep the cellar sealed off till they get here.”

“You don’t understand. If they hold on to my laptop for any length of time, I’m ruined.”

Jeff’s blond brows rose. “You got naughty pictures on there or something?”

“Of course not.” Did he? It was Austin’s personal computer. There were a lot of things on there he wouldn’t choose to share with the public. Nothing illegal. Opinions of wines, vineyards, vintners, and others that didn’t need to be public. Not without softening them considerably. “I’ve got my notes for my next column, the rough draft of this week’s blog—and I have to be able to check my e-mail. My entire work world is on that laptop.”

“They’re not likely to hold your laptop,” Jeff reassured. “They might glance through it just to verify that you are who you say you are. I’m sure it wouldn’t be more than a few hours. Maybe overnight.”

Austin blanched. He lived on his laptop. It was like being told he wouldn’t have access to his body for a day or so.

“Jeff…” He stopped. What could he say? Why should Jeff Brady care about Austin’s problems?

And yet…Jeff tipped his head, seeming to consider all that Austin was not saying.

His eyes were green, Austin noticed absently. The rich, mysterious green of an old Bordeaux bottle.

Seeing Jeff’s indecision, Austin urged, “Please. I can’t do any more harm than I’ve already done. My fingerprints and footprints are all over the place.”

“True.” Jeff glanced back at the parlor where the Cashels were, from the sound of things, having some kind of family debate. “Okay. I’ll do this for you.” It seemed sort of a solemn way to put it, but Austin was too relieved to analyze, and Jeff added, “But we better make it quick.”

Austin flashed him a grateful look and sprinted down the dark hall. Jeff was right on his heels, running lightly, swiftly. They pounded down the staircase.

The cellar looked undisturbed, but breathing in that horrifying stink now, Austin couldn’t understand how he hadn’t smelled it the minute he’d walked in. The insecticide had masked it very effectively.

He turned off his laptop, waiting impatiently for it to power down while Jeff prowled restlessly back and forth. Every now and then he threw Austin a look that seemed both curious and expectant. Austin didn’t know what to make of it.

Watching Jeff, then glancing back at the shadowy recess where the body lay, Austin said, “You know him, don’t you?”

“Who?”

“The dead man.”

Jeff stopped walking. “What makes you say that?”

Austin thought back to those moments when Jeff had first seen the body. “You weren’t surprised when you saw him. You were…taken aback, but not really surprised.”

“You lost me.”

“You were surprised he was dead, but you weren’t surprised that, if someone was dead, it was him.”

Jeff stared. He laughed. “That’s not bad.”

Absurdly, Austin felt a flicker of pleasure that Jeff seemed even fleetingly impressed. “When I asked you who he was, you almost answered. Then you thought better of it.” Austin’s laptop screen went dark. The keyboard lights went out. He grabbed the laptop and thrust it into its case, zipping it up.

Jeff was still gazing at him with that funny smile—almost like they knew each other. What was that about? Austin felt like he was missing something. Like there was an undercurrent running that he was unaware of.

“How did he die?” He slung the bag over his shoulder.

Jeff was already moving back to the stairs, clearly uneasy about the possibility of their being discovered down here. “Couldn’t you tell?”

Austin shook his head, swallowing queasiness as he remembered the dead man’s face.

“Someone slammed him on the side of the head with that good old favorite: the blunt instrument.” Jeff added thoughtfully, “But I don’t think this cellar was where he died.”

“Then where did he—”

But Jeff was already running up the stairs. Austin had a very nice view of Jeff’s trim, tight ass and the flex and bunch of muscles beneath his jeans as he moved—and he moved well. A natural athlete.

They reached the first-landing door. Jeff glanced back. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep those thoughts to yourself for now.”

“You mean if the police ask—”

“Not the police, naw. I’m not worried about the police. I mean, don’t say anything in front of the family.”

What was the big deal? It wasn’t like they had tampered with evidence. Jeff definitely seemed on the paranoid side. Not that it mattered. He owed Jeff, and it was a harmless enough request. Jeff wasn’t asking him to lie to the police, after all. Austin nodded. “Sure.”

“Thanks…Austin.”

It was a casual comment, but something in the deliberate way Jeff said his name, said Austin as though he was testing it, trying the sound of it on, affected Austin in an almost visceral way. For an instant they stared into each other’s eyes.

Jeff treated him to another of those winning smiles and held the door for him.

“Where’ve you been?” Cormac demanded as Austin and Jeff walked into the parlor.

Austin started to respond, but Cormac interrupted. “I mean him.” He glared at Jeff with loathing.

Jeff gazed coolly back. “I went to check on Mr. Gillespie.”

“You poor child,” the fragile, titian-haired Auntie Eudie murmured to Austin. “You come and sit right down here.” She patted the green velvet upholstery, and a gust of dust moved through the air. She sneezed.

It had been a long time since anyone had called Austin a child. Not that twenty-nine was so old. In oenophile terms, he was still a young wine: light, fresh, and…um…fruity. He obeyed her summons and sat gingerly beside her on the sagging sofa.

She peered at him nearsightedly. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you,” Austin answered hastily. He was embarrassed about earlier. That had been more about his sensitive nose than his sensitive nature.

Roark stood at the liquor cabinet putting away what appeared to be fine Kentucky bourbon and living up to the reputation of the gin blossoms on his nose and cheeks. He asked of no one in particular, “Who is the infernal fellow? That’s what I want to know. What the hell was he doing in our cellar?”

Auntie Eudie said, “Mr. Gillespie is here to appraise Papa’s wine cellar, Roark.”

“Not him. Not the damned Yankee.” Roark was impatient. “The dead man!”

The Cashels all gazed expectantly at Austin. Did they think he’d brought the dead man along in his laptop case?

“I never saw him before in my life,” Austin asserted.

“’Course not,” Carson said. She gave a shiver and went to Jeff, who put his arm around her wide shoulders.

“Now, now, honey,” Jeff murmured with all the sincerity of an AT&T recording.

“Just who are you?” Cormac demanded, watching Jeff cuddling his sister.

Carson flushed. “Hush, Corrie. Mr. Brady is a friend of mine.”

“Since when?”

“Since last night at the Blind Pig Tavern.”

Cormac’s face grew even tighter and more sullen, and Austin began to wonder if all those alarming Southern plays he’d had to study in school hadn’t maybe got it right.

Roark said, “I find it most suspicious that this man appears at the same time a body turns up in the cellar.”

“What are you suggesting?” Jeff was grinning.

“I just find it most suspicious that these two events should coincide.”

Carson giggled. “Exactly which two events are you referring to, Daddy?” She was an engaging minx. Austin had to give her that.

Roark’s already red face went the color of the Confederate flag.

“Mr. Gillespie, are you by any chance related to the Macon Gillespies?” Auntie Eudie inquired, ignoring the unpleasantness brewing around her.

“I don’t think so.”

“I thought you were going out with Blythe Landreth,” Cormac said to Jeff as Roark launched into a diatribe about respecting one’s elders.

Jeff replied, “Blythe and I see each other now and then. And I see other people now and then.” He smiled at Carson.

Auntie Eudie looked disappointed. “The Gillespies are lovely people. An old and respectable family. I believe they own a pine-tree plantation down Middle Georgia way.”

Austin murmured politely, his ear attuned to Cormac and Jeff’s cool exchange. Not that it was any of his business.

Faulkner appeared in the doorway. He waited till the Cashels had stopped bickering and fallen silent. When he had their attention, he spoke to Roark using that exaggerated accent. “The pohleece are heah, suh.”

Roark knocked back the rest of his drink. “Show them in, Faulkner.”

Chapter Three

The Morgan County sheriffs turned out to be a paunchy, gray-haired investigator and an eager, young black officer, both in spick-and-span powder blue uniforms. Austin was expecting shades of In the Heat of the Night, but the two sheriffs were professional and courteous. Captain Thompson, the senior partner, greeted Jeff by name and invited him to accompany them downstairs, asking the rest of the family to wait in the parlor.

“Well!” Auntie Eudie remarked after Jeff and the sheriffs disappeared down the hallway.

“I told you there’s something not right about him,” Cormac said triumphantly.

“Where did you say you know that young man from, Carson?” Roark demanded.

“We went to the same high school, Daddy. Jeff was starting quarterback the two years the Bulldogs won the league championships.”

“I thought he moved to Savannah,” Cormac said. Clearly, he felt Jeff should have stayed in Savannah.

“He did, silly. To go to college. He came back.” Carson was smiling at her brother; a smile both teasing and understanding. It seemed to appease Cormac in some indefinable way. The resemblance between them was really striking. Not just brother and sister, Austin thought. Fraternal twins.

Confirming his thoughts, Carson ruffled her brother’s hair. She said to Austin, “Corrie is the baby of the family.”

“By ten minutes!” protested Cormac, flushing.

“Jefferson Brady!” Auntie Eudie exclaimed. “I thought I recognized him. He has the Brady eyes. A very distinct color. Myrtle green,” she informed Austin. He nodded politely. “Yes, there have been Bradys in Morgan County as long as there have been Cashels. Maybe longer. I expect Jefferson came home after his daddy died. Such a tragedy.”

“What was?” Austin asked. He couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t curious about Jeff Brady.

“Richmond Brady killing himself like that. He shot himself right beneath the portrait of old Gideon Brady.” Austin must have been looking blank, because she added helpfully, “The general.”

“Eudora, nobody gives a rat’s ass about Jefferson Brady’s family,” Roark informed her.

Eudora’s cheeks went pink. “Mr. Gillespie does.”

“It’s none of Mr. Gillespie’s business,” Roark returned. “You shouldn’t be discussing our friends and neighbors with a Yankee wine merchant.”

It was so outrageous that Austin nearly laughed. With the exception of Jeff and the sheriffs, they were all like something out of a play. Though more along the lines of While the Lights Were Out than A Streetcar Named Desire.

“Now, Daddy.” Carson came to join Austin, perching gracefully on the arm of the old sofa.

Roark ignored her. “Did you find those bottles?” he demanded of Austin.

“The Lee bottles? Not yet.”

“They’re not there,” Roark said with bitter satisfaction.

“You’ve looked for them?”

“Of course not. They were never there.”

Something about the way Roark said that didn’t quite ring true. Was that because he feared the bottles had never been a reality or because he knew what had happened to them? “You know that for a fact?” Austin inquired.

“Daddy,” warned Carson.

“Don’t Daddy me. You know as well as I do your granddaddy’s warped sense of humor. He’s laughing in hell right this minute at the notion of us thinking our fortunes are saved because of those damned wine bottles.”

“If those bottles are real, they’re worth a fortune,” Austin told him.

“Those bottles are a myth. Robert E. Lee was not a drinking man. Anyone who knows anything about him knows that much. Lee understood the Southern gentleman’s duty to present an example at all times.” Roark drained his glass and set it on the cabinet. He dropped into a spindle-legged chair upholstered in faded silver grape leaves and directed a challenging look Austin’s way.

“Lee was a man of temperate habits. That’s true,” Austin said. “I’ve done a lot of research on him in the past weeks. He kept a fully stocked wine cellar, as befitted his rank and position. We know that for a fact because we have the letters his wife wrote him regarding moving the contents of the cellar before the Federal occupation of Arlington House in the spring of 1861.”

“Take that, Daddy.” Carson’s fingers lightly played with the hair at the back of Austin’s collar. He started at that playful graze of fingertips. She winked. “Your collar was turned inside out.”

Cormac said suddenly, “I’ve been reading your ‘Message in a Bottle’ column.”

“Oh?” Everything Cormac said was in that same intense, semibrooding manner, so Austin had no clue whether that was a compliment or a prelude to vivisection.

“I want to be a writer too.”

“You should read Cormac’s stories. They’re wonderful,” Carson said. Austin’s collar was still not right. He tried not to jump this time, but it was weird, right? This tickling the back of his neck in a room full of people?

“Cormac is such a clever boy,” Auntie Eudie sighed. “Although I do wish everyone didn’t die or go mad in his stories.”

“I want to write novels,” Cormac said, scowling as though he expected someone to object.

“That’s great,” Austin said. “I only write nonfiction.”

“Yes,” Cormac said grimly, obliquely.

Who knows where that might have gone, because Jeff and the sheriffs tromped back in.

“Folks, the crime-scene people have arrived, and we’re going to let them get down to business,” Captain Thompson stated. “Meanwhile, we’re going to interview each of you privately.” His gaze fell on Austin.

Pick me, pick me. He wanted out of this nuthouse posthaste. It was obvious he wasn’t going to be doing a cellar appraisal anytime soon, so the faster he got back to Maryland and his endangered job, the better. He didn’t trust whatever machinations Whitney might be up to in his absence.

But after that considering appraisal, Captain Thompson said, “Why don’t we start with the ladies. Ma’am?” That was addressed to Auntie Eudie, who rose all aflutter, tugging nervously at her woolly pink cardigan and touching her hair as she led the sheriffs to a room where they could “set up camp.”

Jeff took her place on the sofa beside Austin.

“How’re you holding up?” He offered a glimpse of that spectacular smile, although his eyes were serious.

“Fine. Good.” Austin realized he was nervously tugging at loose threads on the sofa arm and stilled his hand before the last of the upholstery unraveled.

Jeff started to speak, but Faulkner appeared in the doorway.

“Shall I serve sandwiches and coffee here in the parlor, Miz Carson?”

“Oh!” Carson looked perplexed. Austin saw the dilemma. They needed to eat, but sitting down to luncheon with a murder investigation going on around them was a tad socially awkward. Sandwiches on a tray was probably the ideal solution, although the idea of food sent his own stomach somersaulting.

A loud snoring interrupted Carson’s response. They all glanced to the corner where Roark slumped in his chair, sleeping. His mouth was slightly ajar, his face twitching as though he was still arguing in his dreams.

“That would be lovely, Faulkner,” Carson said with the perfect self-possession developed by generations of Southern beauties in the face of flood, famine, and Civil War. “I guess you better serve those sheriffs something to eat too. We don’t want them to get in a bad mood and arrest somebody.”

Faulkner nodded graciously and withdrew.

“Where are you staying tonight?” Jeff quietly inquired of Austin.

“The Stonewall Jackson Inn in Madison.” Why were they practically whispering? Austin wasn’t sure, but he was increasingly confused by Jeff Brady’s signals. Assuming they were signals and not just Southern discourse.

“Very nice,” Jeff commented.

Austin nodded. The hotel was nice. Nineteen individually themed, luxury guest rooms’ worth of nice. Distractedly, he checked his watch. One thirty. He couldn’t believe how late it was. He mustn’t forget to phone Ernest.

“I guess you’ll be driving back tomorrow morning?” Jeff persisted.

“I suppose so. Assuming they don’t arrest me.”

Jeff chuckled.

Auntie Eudie returned with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks. She looked like she’d been having a wonderful time.

“They want to see you next, honey,” she said to Carson.

Carson left the room. Jeff rose so that Auntie Eudie could take his place on the sagging sofa. He sauntered across the room and leaned against the wall beneath a gold-framed portrait of a dashing-looking Confederate officer. There was, Austin thought wryly, a marked resemblance, although presumably Jeff wasn’t aware of it. Folding his arms, he studied the others without seeming to pay them much attention.

“It was very exciting,” Auntie Eudie informed Austin. “They showed me a snapshot of the dead man and asked me if I recognized him.”

“Did you?”

“No. He does have the Williams eyebrows. I wonder if he might be a relation.”

Jeff asked, “Did you ever see him around here?”

Roark spluttered in his sleep.

“No.” Miss Eudie was definite. “I’ve never seen him before.”

Cormac said suddenly, roughly, “I was wondering if you’d like to take a look at my work.”

Austin realized he was being addressed. “Now?”

Cormac nodded, scowling.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to wander around till we’ve been interviewed, do you?” Austin was asking Jeff. Possibly because Jeff seemed like the only normal person in the house. Although that was stretching a point.

“Naw. Nobody gets to leave till everyone has been questioned.”

Cormac said accusingly, “You were wandering around!”

Jeff shrugged.

“He was wandering around,” Cormac informed Austin. Was Austin supposed to take sides?

Faulkner reeled into the room, bearing an enormous silver tray, and just managed to lug it to the table in the corner without overbalancing.

“Thank you, Faulkner,” Auntie Eudie said vaguely. “I suppose we ought to feed those police persons too.”

Faulkner gave her a speaking look and departed.

“Why are you so tight with the police anyway?” Cormac asked Jeff. “Are you a cop?”

“Naw.” Jeff pushed lazily away from the wall and went to the table where Auntie Eudie was examining the insides of sandwiches and making pleased noises.

“Ham or turkey?” Jeff asked Austin.

Austin consulted his stomach and decided turkey was the lesser of two evils.

He rose as Auntie Eudie asked, “How do you take your coffee, Mr. Gillespie?”

“In a Starbucks cup, I bet,” Cormac said.

“I don’t drink Starbucks.” Austin nearly added or wine from a box, but that really was snobbery. Besides, he’d had some decent boxed wines. He took a cup from Auntie Eudie. “Turkey, please,” he told Jeff.

Jeff started to hand him a plate with a sandwich.

“Now that’s woman’s work!” Auntie Eudie exclaimed, and Jeff reddened and dropped the plate as though it were on fire.

“Corrie, they want you now,” Carson said, returning to the room.

Cormac swore.

“It’s not so bad, honey.” Carson came straight to the table where the others stood exchanging plates and cups. “Well, what do you think?” she said to Jeff.

Jeff seemed to be studiously avoiding Austin’s gaze. “What’s that, honey?”

“The dead man is Dominic Williams.”

“I knew I recognized those eyebrows,” Auntie Eudie mumbled through a mouthful of ham sandwich. “But I don’t recall a Williams boy named Dominic. Who is he?”

“Among other things, he’s the master sommelier at Old Plantation House.” Carson was looking directly at Austin. “Now what do y’all think of that?”

“The master sommelier?” Austin repeated uneasily.

“What is a sommelier?” Auntie Eudie inquired.

“A wine steward with a fancy title,” Jeff replied. He was studying Austin too, his expression unrevealing.

“That can’t be a coincidence,” Austin said slowly.

“Nope. I’d say not.”

“Did you know Dominic?” Auntie Eudie asked Austin.

“Me? No.” At least…he didn’t think so. It was always possible he’d run across Williams professionally at a wine tasting or a workshop or some other industry event. It was hard to judge by the one glimpse he’d had of him.

“The sheriffs sure don’t think it was any coincidence,” Carson said. She selected a ham sandwich. “I must say it was a terrible shock seeing Dom like that.”

“How exactly did you know this gentleman? You never brought him here.” Auntie Eudie turned to Austin. “You’re not eating anything, Mr. Gillespie?”

Austin picked up a sandwich and tried to look like he was between bites.

“Dom and I used to run into each other now and then.” Carson was blushing.

Jeff gave a wicked chuckle, and Carson laughed, but she still looked uneasy. “I just don’t see why Dom would be in our cellar.”

“Maybe he missed you?” Jeff teased. “Maybe he was hoping for a midnight assignation.”

Carson seemed to give this serious thought, chewing contemplatively.

“Or maybe he was searching for those wine bottles.” Jeff was looking at Austin as though he thought Austin might have a theory.

“If the plan is to auction off the cellar, maybe he was trying to get a firsthand look at the inventory,” Austin offered. It seemed unlikely the sommelier of a fine restaurant would have to resort to sneaking through his neighbors’ cellar, but then everything that had happened since he’d arrived in this house seemed unlikely.

“Maybe.”

Carson said, “If he wasn’t in our cellar, I’d say Henry knocked him off.”

“Henry?” Austin looked from Carson to Jeff, who had started to speak but instead took a bite of sandwich.

“Henrietta. The current Mrs. Williams. I never met a more jealous hag than Henrietta Williams. We were at school together.”

Cormac returned, looking grouchier than ever. “Daddy!” He shook his father awake. “Daddy, the sheriffs want to talk to you.”

Roark came awake blinking and mumbling, “The light was green when I entered the intersection.”

“You’ll never guess who the man in our cellar is,” Cormac informed them. “It’s that good-for-nothing lowlife Dominic Williams. The one who was sniffing around Carson all this winter.”

Roark took his hand from his face and snarled, “Why, I told that bastard if I saw him around here one more time, I’d fill him full of lead.”

Jeff suddenly laughed. Austin looked at him. “Your expression,” Jeff said. “You look like you think you wandered into a Flannery O’Connor story.”

“All that’s missing are the peacocks.”

“We used to have peacocks,” Auntie Eudie said. “Faulkner’s nephew shot them all with his BB gun when he was thirteen, bless his heart.”

“They’re saying they think Williams might have fallen and hit his head outside. He could have crawled into the cellar and died,” Cormac said. “The storm doors are unlocked.”

In the peculiar silence that followed, Roark rose unsteadily and left the room.

Though no one had argued, Cormac insisted, “It could have happened like that.”

“Hit his head on what?” Jeff was frowning.

“On…anything. On the brick path. On the corner of the house. Hell, on a rock in the road. Who cares?”

“Why are the storm doors unlocked?” Jeff persisted.

“’Cause somebody unlocked them,” Cormac shot back.

Austin took his sandwich back to the sofa, the better to hide the fact that he wasn’t eating and wasn’t likely to start anytime soon. The sheriffs would summon him any minute, and he could tell his story and get out of there. There was no reason to feel so nervous. No one could seriously think he had anything to do with this accident, or whatever it was.

Jeff believed it was murder.

Austin wasn’t sure how he knew that, especially since he didn’t know Jeff from Adam, but he could tell Jeff wasn’t buying the theory of Dominic Williams’s conveniently knocking himself out and then staggering into the Cashels’ cellar to quietly die. And he wasn’t sure the Cashels themselves bought that theory, although if they didn’t, they seemed to take homicide in stride.

That was the only alternative, right? If Williams hadn’t met with a fatal accident, someone in this house had killed him. Well, perhaps not in the house, but close enough that hiding him in the Cashels’ cellar seemed a good plan. Austin couldn’t fault the logic. In the normal course of things, Dominic Williams could probably have mummified down there with the oversize spiders and withered potatoes—no one the wiser.

But was that true? There was no reason to think Austin’s visit was a secret. Didn’t that support the idea of a tragic accident? Unless someone had wanted Williams’s body to be discovered.

“Maybe the colonel killed him,” Auntie Eudie remarked.

Carson giggled nervously.

“The colonel?” repeated Jeff.

“Colonel Sterling Cashel,” Auntie Eudie said proudly. She gestured to the gold-framed oval painting on the wall of the Confederate officer in full regalia. “According to the family legend, the colonel will rise from his grave when the Cashels most have need of him.”

“Where’s he been the last fifteen years?” Cormac inquired sourly.

“I just can’t see why anyone, including the colonel, would want to bash poor old Dom’s head in,” Carson said with what Austin thought was remarkable indifference for a former lover. “It’s not like he ever did anyone any harm.”

“He was a gambler, a womanizer, and a lousy driver,” Cormac retorted.

“Oh, that’s true. You did have that fender bender with him.”

“He damn near took the front of my pickup off. And then he tried to claim I rear-ended him.”

Austin felt someone’s gaze. He looked up, and Jeff was studying him intently. Their gazes tangled, and Jeff looked away, his expression self-conscious. For some reason that awkward moment brought warmth to Austin’s face and an unexpected stirring in his groin.

This was getting weirder and weirder. Given the little he knew about the South, he did not want to misinterpret curiosity for interest. That might get him lynched.

“The Williams women were always teched,” Auntie Eudie commented. “But I never heard anything about the men.”

“Well, if Henrietta was Dom’s sister instead of his wife, I guess that would make sense,” Carson said. “She’s more than teched.”

They fell silent at the sound of raised voices down the hall. A few seconds later Roark returned, flapping his arms impatiently, although no one appeared to be accompanying him. “I don’t need any help!”

The rest of the Cashels observed him with polite interest.

Roark headed for his chair again. His bleary gaze fell on Austin. “They want to see you now.”

Austin set his plate aside and went into the hallway. The young sheriff stood in an open doorway a few yards down. “This way, sir.”

Austin followed him into what had once been a large ballroom. It was the length of three large rooms. The floors were of dark wood. Three huge pink-and-amber chandeliers studded the pale blue ceiling. The ceiling was decorated with ornate white plaster moldings and medallions of classical scenes: centaurs chased nymphs, nymphs chased centaurs, warriors battled warriors.

At the far end of the of the room, next to long windows covered by dark blue draperies, sat Captain Thompson at a small writing desk. He looked up at Austin’s approach.

“Sit down, Mr. Gillespie.”

Austin sat on a fragile-looking, lyre-backed chair.

“How you doing?”

“Okay.”

“You’re probably wondering why we’ve kept you till the last to talk to.”

“Sort of.”

“Jeff Brady tells us you’re a stranger to this house and this family, and we thought your observations as an outsider might be interesting.” At Austin’s blank look, Captain Thompson added, “Or maybe not. I guess we’ll see.” He studied his notes.

“Why don’t we start with who you are and what you’re doing here?”

Austin went quickly through the basics.

“And what exactly does a master of wine do?”

Short answer: masters of wine were the industry leaders in all aspects of the global wine business, but Austin could just imagine how that answer would go down. “It’s a professional qualification. It basically means I’ve completed the Institute of Masters of Wine’s two-year program.”

“But what do you do? Do you just drink wine all day?”

This was starting to feel like one of those all-too-familiar family-dinner discussions. Austin was very proud of his master-of-wine status. He was not only one of the few American masters of wine; he was one of the youngest, period. It was a notable achievement, but to people outside the industry, it probably seemed as useless as a degree in basket weaving.

“Masters of wine do a variety of things. Some are vintners, some are winemaking consultants, some work in the restaurant-and-hotel business, some are educators. I buy and auction wine for Martyn, North, & Compeau, which is one of the oldest and most respected wine shops in North America. I host wine tastings, I contribute articles to magazines, I write a weekly blog on wine and a syndicated monthly column for several newspapers…”

Thompson and the other sheriff looked singularly unimpressed.

“I do a lot of things,” Austin finished lamely.

“And do you make money at that? Drinking wine and talking about it?”

“I…make enough. My family is…”

“Rich?” supplied Captain Thompson when Austin stalled out.

“Comfortable.”

“Seems like a job for a rich man,” Captain Thompson remarked. It wasn’t particularly critical, just an observation. “So you came down here from DC to inventory old Dermot Cashel’s wine cellar. Seems like a long way to travel. How come the Cashels didn’t get someone local to do the job?”

Like Dominic Williams? Austin said carefully, “Martyn, North, & Compeau is very well-known and very well respected within the industry. It’s not like having someone from Bev Mo show up and count bottles.”

“No need to take offense,” Thompson said easily.

“I’m not offended. It’s just… My job is more important than it sounds.”

“Sure,” Thompson said kindly. “We all like to think we’re making a difference. I like to think what I do makes a difference.” He looked at his notes again. “So why don’t you tell me in your own words exactly what happened after you arrived at this house?”

It didn’t take long to run through the events of the morning.

Thompson and the other sheriff exchanged a few glances but heard Austin out in silence.

“And did anyone do or say anything that seemed out of the ordinary to you?” Thompson inquired when Austin had wound down his recital.

“Uh…”

The young sheriff laughed. Thompson said easily, “I guess we Southerners all seem foreign to you Northerners. Let me phrase it this way: did anyone seem guilty or nervous?”

“No.”

“Did anyone suggest you shouldn’t work in the cellar?”

They had already been through this. “No. They had a work space set up for me. The butler, Faulkner, was downstairs spraying insecticide.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that.” The captain made a note on his pad. “What about these famous wine bottles? The ones that were supposed to belong to Robert E. Lee? Are they for real?”

“They could be. I didn’t see them, but I didn’t have very long to look. They were listed on the inventory sheets sent to us by the family. The list was pretty informal, but it is possible that the bottles are here.”

“Really?” Thompson was politely disbelieving. “Wine bottles belonging to General Robert E. Lee?”

“It’s possible. They’re described correctly on the inventory list: handblown dark green glass and capped with a rough seal of thick red wax. The year 1822 is etched into the glass along with the initials R-E-L. The words Blandy Madeira can be read at the base of each bottle.” Austin shrugged. “If they exist, they’ll be easy to spot.”

“And you think there’s a chance they survived all this time? Survived the war between the states?”

“Madeira is a long-lived wine, so…yes. Barring some accident to the bottles. We know that Mrs. Lee moved the Arlington House wine cellar to the Ravensworth estate. There’s evidence to support that the contents of the cellar were left at Ravensworth after she fled farther south. The house burned in 1926, but by then most of its contents had been dispersed among the Lee descendants.”

Thompson nodded thoughtfully. “And if these Lee wine bottles had survived, what would they be worth?”

“The Lee connection makes them priceless.”

“Worth killing for, would you say?”

Austin said reluctantly, “It’s possible, I guess. Is that what you think happened? That Dominic Williams was murdered?”

“We don’t know. That will be up to the forensics people to determine. It’s possible Williams could have fallen, fractured his skull, but still climbed down into the cellar. That was one helluva rainstorm last night. A man disoriented by a blow to the head might simply grab on to the first door he came to. We can’t say for sure yet. Of course, either way it doesn’t explain what he was doing on the Ballineen grounds at night in the middle of a rainstorm.”

“Did you find his car?” Austin wasn’t sure why he asked that when he dearly wanted this all to go away so he could get back to inventorying the cellar, but Captain Thompson smiled approvingly.

“Nope. That’s the trouble. We can’t find Williams’s car. Or his keys. So it looks like either he walked fifteen miles in the pouring rain at night in time to get knocked over the head, or someone drove him out to Ballineen, or someone took his keys after he was hit over the head, and drove his car away.”

Austin sincerely wished he had not asked.

Captain Thompson continued to browse his notes and nod to himself. At last he looked up and smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Gillespie. You’ve been most helpful. You have a safe trip home now.”

Chapter Four

A hot shower, a good meal with a better wine, and an early night—that was Austin’s plan as he walked into the Stonewall Jackson Inn and went up to his room—named, as each room was in this lavishly appointed hotel, for one of the town’s antebellum mansions. Anything more energetic than that was out. Never mind the seven-hundred-mile drive from DC; starting the day with finding a dead body and ending the afternoon with a police interview was guaranteed to wear anyone out.

Austin closed the hotel door, let his suitcase fall forward, and set his laptop case on the low table. The room was elegantly furnished in soothing tones of cream, fawn, cocoa, and sage. A bowl of hydrangeas sat on the fireplace mantel. Two plump and comfortable chairs and a small oval table were positioned in front. The bed was tall, and the fluffy, sand-hued duvet and pillows were down-filled. There was a bookshelf with offerings from a variety of Southern writers. The paintings were all originals by local artists. A small porch looked out over the park.

For a moment Austin stood unbuttoning his shirt, staring across the street at the tranquil view of huge shady trees, old-fashioned lampposts, and gazebos. A tall cast-iron fountain shot sparkling plumes into the soft blue sky.

On second thought, maybe he’d postpone calling Whitney. He’d rather talk to Peter anyway. Peter Compeau was the other half of Martyn, North, & Compeau. The Norths had died out in 1972, well before Austin’s time, and it was just Whitney and Peter now. Unfortunately Peter was beginning to talk more and more seriously about retiring. Austin had always known his position was liable to become precarious after Peter left. He and Whitney had never been simpatico, and now that Whitney was engaged to the very ambitious Theresa…

But he didn’t want to think about that now. Like Scarlett O’Hara, he’d think about it tomorrow. He’d had all the disappointment he needed for one day. In addition to the abrupt termination of the Cashel-cellar appraisal and his failure to find the Lee bottles was the more puzzling sense of letdown that he wouldn’t see Jeff Brady again. They’d said their casual good-byes when Austin had taken his leave of the Cashels, promising to return when the cellar was no longer a crime scene.

“You’re not going now?” Cormac had exclaimed in open disappointment.

Carson had chimed in, inviting Austin to stay longer on the off chance that the sheriffs might reopen the cellar. Austin didn’t know much about homicide investigations, but he knew enough to be confident he wasn’t going to be allowed back into that cellar anytime soon.

He had declined as gracefully as he knew how, and then he’d turned to Jeff, who had smiled into his eyes and told him to drive safe.

It was just… Well, you could tell when someone was interested, and Jeff had most definitely given off that interested vibe. That was the hard-to-figure part, because Jeff had really done nothing. It was just something in the way his gaze lingered on Austin’s, a certain warmth to his smile, maybe something in the tone of his voice. Maybe it was just part of that automatic Southern charm. Or maybe it was pheromones? Whatever it had been, it was over now.

Besides, Jeff, in addition to appearing to be happily, vigorously heterosexual, really wasn’t Austin’s type. The ex-high-school quarterback and local lothario? Although maybe that was the point. There was nothing wrong with having an uncomplicated out-of-towner.

But it hadn’t worked out, and that was probably for the best. Austin unbuttoned his cuffs and shrugged out of his shirt and tossed it to the floor.

The bathroom was black-and-white tile with a roomy rain shower complete with teak stool. In case the whole bathing procedure proved too exhausting? Austin checked out the assortment of spa products and settled for shampoo and soap. There was as much dirt beneath his fingernails as if he’d spent the morning gardening.

After his shower he changed into jeans and a Got Wine? T-shirt, flopped down on the bed, sinking comfortably into the cloud of the duvet, and called Ernest.

“I don’t see why I should have to stay there when they’re located right here in Maryland.” Ernest greeted him as though they had never ended their previous conversation.

“Because living on campus and forming those relationships with other kids is a big part of the school experience. You’re all homesick. You’re all going through all the same things, and it helps form bonds.”

“I don’t want to form bonds.”

“Friendships.”

“I don’t like little kids.”

“They won’t always be little kids.” Huh? Austin heard the echo of that and opened his eyes. He was too tired to do this right now.

“They won’t like me. They’ll think I’m weird.”

Yes, they would most definitely think Ernest was weird. No way around that. They had thought Austin was weird, and Austin wasn’t nearly as weird as Ernest. But Austin had survived. He had occasionally even thrived, and that had been under pretty much the worst possible circumstances: being shuffled off to boarding school after the death of his mother. Of course, in fairness to Harrison, what was he going to do with a grieving child around the house? Harrison had rarely been home in those days, always flying off to some war-torn corner of the world to report the death and disaster to the folks eating supper back home. The point being that if Austin could survive, Ernest, who was about a zillion times smarter and more self-possessed, could definitely do it.

“Listen, Ernesto, you can’t live at home forever with just me and the girls for friends.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not practical and it’s not healthy.” Not to mention the fact that Austin and his sisters were rarely at the house in Frederick.

“Why?”

“Because one day you’re going to work and live in the world, and you need to know how to get along there.”

Ernesto said coolly, “We’re wealthy, Austin. We don’t have to work. We choose to work. I can live at home forever and build my spacecraft.”

Cue the My Favorite Martian theme.

Austin floundered briefly, coming up with, “There has to be more to your life than your work or even your family.”

“I have Buzz and Armstrong.”

Buzz was a springer spaniel, and Armstrong was a Chincoteague pony.

“You need more. You need… Well, you’ll probably want a girlfriend one day.” Yeah, good move. Maybe he should bring up marriage and kids now and go for the grand slam of totally inappropriate advice for a child.

“Maybe I’m gay.”

“Are you?” Austin asked, startled.

Ernest gave one of his rare giggles. “No. I’m nine.”

Austin reserved comment, but he had known at nine, although looking back he wasn’t sure how he’d known. Crushes on playmates? Funny dreams? Somehow he’d known.

“Anyway, you goof, there isn’t any point us debating it, because it’s going to happen. Once Dad’s mind is made up—”

“You could talk to him.”

Austin laughed and hoped Ernest didn’t hear the trace of bitterness that slipped past. “Yeah, right. You’d have better luck talking to him yourself. You need to try and focus on the positives here.”

“There aren’t any!” Ernest’s voice went high and shrill, a reminder that despite the mighty intellect, he was still a little kid with a little kid’s emotional needs. “What will happen to Buzz and Armstrong?”

“Armstrong will go with you. And Buzz… We’ll think of something for Buzz. I’ll bring him out with me when I come to see you on weekends.”

“Will you come?”

“Of course.”

“Every weekend?”

Austin put the heel of his hand to the middle of his forehead and pushed hard, trying to inject some sense into his tired brain. “As often as I can.”

“I’m not going,” Ernest said and hung up.

Austin moaned and turned off his phone.

Food and sleep. That’s what he needed. He rolled off the bed, hunting around for his Converse Chucks.

Right on schedule the phone rang again. He picked it up. “I can’t promise to come every single weekend, but I’ll come as often as I can.”

There was a pause, and an adult, male voice drawled, “That’s a promise I’ll take.”

Austin swallowed hard, checked the cell phone display. Crap. Not Ernest, in case there was any doubt about that. There wasn’t. His heart had sped up on hearing that deep, attractive voice on the phone, because of course he’d recognized it instantly. In fact, Jeff’s voice already seemed familiar to him. How could that be?

“Oh. Hi.” He pictured it suddenly as a Lolcat caption: Oh…hai!

Jeff chuckled, and the husky, sexy sound seemed to go straight to Austin’s cock.

“Hello, Austin. What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

Just like that. The direct approach. What a relief. What a relief to know he hadn’t been imagining things. What a relief that this was dropping into his lap. Maybe literally. Hopefully literally.

“I was going to grab a sandwich downstairs, but I’m open to suggestion.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Meanwhile, can I offer a little Southern hospitality and take you to dinner?”

“You could. In fact, I’d like that a lot.”

“I’m at the office right now.” The phone crackled as Jeff shuffled papers or maybe moved mountains. What exactly did Jeff do for a living? “How about we meet in the Magnolia Room around six thirty? We’ll go on from there.”

Austin glanced at the clock beside the bed. Five to five. “Great.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Jeff clicked off. Austin glanced up and caught his reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. His cheeks were pink. His eyes were sparkling. “Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t expect too much. You’re probably going to hear football scores all evening.”

* * * * *

The Magnolia Room was probably every bit as handsome as the rest of the Stonewall Jackson Inn, but Austin had only a fleeting impression of burgundy walls, gleaming brass fixtures, and comfortable, rich, dark wood. The nicest thing in the room was Jeff, who was already sitting at the bar chatting with another patron when Austin strolled in.

He smiled and raised his glass in greeting.

“You’re early,” Austin said, joining him. He was early too, but after he’d changed clothes and watched a few depressing minutes of news on the flat-screen TV, he’d decided to wait downstairs.

Jeff had showered and shaved. He wore khakis and a short-sleeved shirt in the exact same shade of green as his eyes. And whatever his cologne was, it was already driving Austin wild. God, what was that? Bergamot, citrus, basil, mint…and something else. Icelandic moss?

“I finished up earlier than I expected. What’ll you have to drink? Or is that a silly question?”

Austin grinned and asked the bartender what they had available from local wineries.

Jeff lifted a hand in greeting to a couple who came in. They waved back and, to Austin’s relief, took a table in the corner.

The bartender brought him a glass of Habersham Scarlett, a blend of Chambourcin, cabernet sauvignon, and white wine. Austin gently swirled the wine to release the bouquet. He breathed in the voluptuous aroma of moist earth and sun-drenched berries. He tilted the glass and checked the color. The light was all wrong in the bar, of course, but it looked like a hue with some heft. He sipped. Soft and fruity. A rich, ripe blackberry-blueberry character. He nodded approval and turned back to Jeff.

Jeff was smiling at some private thought, but at Austin’s inquiring look, he tipped his head at Austin’s glass. “Not bad, I take it?”

“I’m pleasantly surprised.”

“Your eyes light up when you’re pleasantly surprised.” That smooth, deliberate charm both excited Austin and made him uneasy. Jeff planned on seducing him, and Austin had no problem with that, but he couldn’t help wondering if Jeff had some motive beyond the obvious. Things generally did not work like this for him. In fact, he couldn’t remember a guy like Jeff ever pursuing him. Not that Austin didn’t get hit on plenty, but he wasn’t Jeff’s normal type. He was pretty sure of that—even without taking into account that, from what he’d seen so far, Jeff’s normal type was female.

“Tell the truth.” Jeff sounded indulgent. “How often do you return wine?”

“Not often,” Austin said seriously. “A lot of people misunderstand the purpose of tasting wine. It’s not to decide whether you like the wine. You’re basically checking to see that it’s the right wine and that it’s not corked.”

“Wine isn’t supposed to be corked?”

“Corked as in corky. It means the wine has spoiled. The cork has been contaminated with TCA—trichloroanisole. Inevitably a certain percentage of wine is spoiled by bad corks. That’s why companies are experimenting with screw caps and glass tops and plastic corks. Of course, most people can’t tell if wine is corked unless it’s in a high concentration.”

“But you can?”

“Well, yeah.”

Jeff offered a lopsided smile, “At the risk of looking like a total redneck, I admit I’m not much of a wine drinker. It gives me indigestion.”

Austin glanced at Jeff’s glass. “Jack Daniel’s?”

“Predictable, huh?”

Sort of. But not in a bad way. Austin took another mouthful of wine, letting it roll across his taste buds, savoring it. “How were things at Ballineen when you left?” He pulled out his iPhone and texted himself a quick message with notes on the wine.

Jeff watched him, answering absently. “The sheriffs were still processing the crime scene.”

“So no arrest is imminent?”

“Naw.”

Naw. Funny how that drawl seemed to soften the negative.

Another couple entered the bar and greeted Jeff. Pleasantries were exchanged, and they moved away with surreptitious glances at Austin.

Seeing that he seemed to have lost Jeff’s attention, Austin said, “I think the butler did it.”

Jeff laughed. “Faulkner?”

“Why not? That’s the way it works in books, isn’t it? He’s like a cross between Benson and Mr. E. Blackadder.”

“I don’t know who Mr. E. Blackadder is, but I remember Benson.”

This led to a brief digression on television shows they’d watched growing up. Jeff had been a fan of JAG and MADtv. Austin confessed to What a Cartoon! Show and NewsRadio.

Austin returned to his original point. “I can’t put my finger on it, but Faulkner’s got this attitude. Like he’s having a private laugh at them all. But yet he seems kind of fond of them too.”

“Well, there you go.” Jeff swallowed a mouthful of Jack Daniel’s. “I don’t think the sheriffs are looking at Faulkner.”

“Who are they looking at?”

Jeff negligently lifted a broad shoulder. “I’m not in their confidence.”

“It seemed like you were today.”

Jeff’s eyes were very green in the muted light. “Is that so?”

Austin nodded. His phone rang. He checked the number. Ernest. Crap.

“I’ve got to take this.”

Jeff nodded politely.

Austin walked out to the polished hall, with its marble pillars and glass-slick wooden floors and giant urns with floral arrangements.

“Hey, Ernesto.”

“I could sue Harrison and Mother for mental cruelty.”

Austin closed his eyes and counted to ten. That was too long, of course, because by four Ernest was detailing the grounds for his lawsuit and citing similar cases.

“Ernie…Ernest, stop.” Austin finally made himself heard. He could hear Ernest’s unsteady breathing in the silence between them. “You can’t sue your parents.”

“Article nine of the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child—”

“Snap out of it,” Austin interrupted. “Have you considered how much that would hurt their feelings? Unless you’re prepared to sever all ties but financial, you don’t want to go in that direction.”

“I’m prepared. I won’t allow them to interfere with my work.”

My kid brother, the mad scientist. “You’re not prepared. Are you telling me you think you can sue Harrison—Dad—and then enjoy a jolly family Thanksgiving or Christmas? Are you planning to move out? What about your laboratory? What about Armstrong and Buzz?”

“I won’t be able to use my laboratory while I’m at school anyway.” He was doing that adenoidal breathing thing he did when he was trying not to cry. Austin’s heart twisted, but sympathy was just going to encourage Ernest, and he was stubborn enough without encouragement.

“Ernie, I understand that you’re upset, but if you think going to school is disruptive to your work, try suing your parents. And you’ll still have to go to school of some kind.”

“I could live with you.”

“No, Ernesto, you can’t. I’m sorry, but no. I can’t take care of a child. That doesn’t mean I don’t love you, because I do.”

“I could live with Shelia and study giraffes.”

Sometimes the kid was refreshingly…kidlike.

“Then you wouldn’t be working in your laboratory, would you?”

“I don’t care.”

“If that’s the case, I think you should call Shelia right now.” Good luck trying to locate Stepmother #1, currently somewhere in Kenya studying endangered giraffes. But anything that got Austin off the hook for a while was fine.

“I will.” Ernest disconnected.

“Good-bye,” Austin murmured to the dial tone.

He returned to the bar and said, “Sorry about that. My brother isn’t happy about going to boarding school in the fall.”

“I don’t blame him.”

“Yeah, but it’s going to happen whether he likes it or not, so he needs to try to figure out how to make the best of it.”

“Did you go to boarding school? Prep school?”

Austin nodded.

“Yeah, I thought so. You’ve got that way about you.”

“What way is that?”

Jeff said immediately, “I’m not criticizing you. I like you, Austin. I just mean it’s partly your way of talking—your accent—and it’s partly—”

Austin grinned. “My accent?”

“You’ve got the look and the attitude, but inside you’re different. Or you wouldn’t be taking your brother’s phone calls.”

Austin smiled faintly. He picked up his wineglass.

“Yeah, you’re not about the money or the position or the job in banking. What are you about?” Jeff seemed sincerely interested, and that openness and attention disarmed Austin. Before he knew it, he was explaining all about Ernest, who was, despite being a rocket ship-building genius, a lonely little boy and close to his heart. Jeff listened. He was a very good listener. He kept eye contact, and he made all the right comments, while not interrupting Austin’s train of thought.

“Holy shit,” he said at the end of Austin’s recital. “You spend your holidays with five stepmothers and four sisters? And today was the first time you were involved in a homicide investigation?”

Austin laughed. “I know how it sounds, but they all get along. Seriously. They’re kind of like…sorority sisters.”

Jeff snorted. “It sounds like a harem.”

“Probably. I think being married to my dad must be like baptism by fire. I get the impression they’re always burned-out and happy to move on when the time comes. Debra’s the only one who has some issues with the family dynamic.”

Jeff raised a hand in greeting to a newcomer who sat down at the bar. He appeared to know everyone in Madison. Or maybe he was just a regular in the hotel bar. “Debra is the current missus?”

“Ernest’s mother, yeah.”

“The documentary filmmaker.”

“You really were listening.”

“Sure I was.” Jeff turned back to Austin and treated him to another of those intimate smiles. He glanced at Austin’s wineglass. “Are you planning on finishing that? We should probably head over to the restaurant.”

“Let’s go. I’m ready.” More than ready. It had occurred to Austin that as long as he and Jeff remained in the bar, Jeff would be too much in the public eye for anything interesting to develop between them. Not that anything was necessarily going to develop. Jeff might be one of those guys who flirted with his sexuality but had no intention of truly veering from the straight and narrow, but Austin remained hopeful.

Jeff paid for their drinks, and they walked out of the restaurant to where he had parked beneath the hundred-year-old trees. Austin had been privately betting that Jeff would either drive something small and sporty or a tricked-out pickup truck, but he was wrong. Jeff drove a perfectly sensible Honda Accord.

It was dark by then—darker still beneath the trees—and the evening smelled of sweet pecans and green shadows.

Jeff opened the sedan door. Austin started to get in, but Jeff put a light hand on his shoulder. Austin turned and, reading that smiling, wary look, it seemed very natural and easy to lean in and meet Jeff halfway.

What was it about a first kiss? That first brush of mouths, the first shared breath, the first taste of another person. So often it was just plain awkward. Too much too soon. Too much information. Or alternatively, a quick, clumsy bump with noses or chins or teeth in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Kissing Jeff was different. The first kiss was quiet, almost companionable, breath light and pleasantly scented of bourbon close against his face. A pleased-to-meet-you sort of kiss. Jeff’s lips were warm, and there was the shape of a smile beneath the firm pressure. Partly, of course, it was simple biology. Jeff smelled good—Austin was falling in love with his cologne—and tasted good. An excellent vintage. Jeff kissed with just the right blend of assurance and sincerity. He kissed like he had spent a lifetime practicing—and maybe he had.

The second kiss was more urgent, less cautious, less practiced. Austin, not exactly inexperienced himself, felt the instant Jeff slipped gears and began to lose himself in the perfect combination of sweet heat and soft pressure. The sound Jeff made—a groan of distressed delight—sent excitement flashing to the base of Austin’s spine and ricocheting up to his skull before zinging back down. He opened his mouth, and Jeff’s tongue dipped in, exploring with a surprising delicacy. They were not going to make it to dinner if they kept on like this.

Which would be okay. Better than okay, except Austin wanted this evening to last. To his surprise, he wanted to get to know Jeff better. So…dinner.

He gathered his scattered wits, made a tremendous effort, and disengaged. Jeff released him reluctantly, their lips making a tiny popping sound as they pulled apart. A funny sound, but Austin, trying to catch his breath, didn’t feel like laughing.

Chapter Five

They didn’t speak until they were in the car and on their way. Jeff murmured, “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

“All day?” As attractive as Jeff was, Austin had not been thinking about sex with a police investigation going on around him.

“Okay, all decade.”

Austin said slowly, “All decade?”

Jeff chuckled. “It is you, right? You used to do those Calvin Klein ads? I recognized you the minute I saw you. You’ve got this way of standing with your head tipped, kind of looking up from under your lashes. It’s…memorable. You’ve got distinct bone structure. And your eyes are… Well, let’s just say I had a serious thing for you in college.”

“Oh crap.”

Jeff threw Austin a quick, surprised look. “Is it supposed to be a secret?”

“No. Not a secret.” Hell yes, it was supposed to be a secret. “It’s just…a long time ago. I was in college myself.”

“Why did you give it up?”

“Modeling? Are you kidding? It’s not exactly…”

Jeff said with sudden perspicacity, “Oh. Right. I was forgetting the sister who’s a social anthropologist, the sister who’s a public defender, the sister who’s a professor of political science, and the sister who writes biographies. I guess selling hair gel and underwear is out. How did you end up tasting wine for a living?”

Austin said shortly, “I don’t just taste wine for a living.”

He could feel Jeff trying to read his profile in the dusk. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Nah. It’s what most people think.”

“How did you get into it?”

“I wish I had some great story to tell. I wanted to be a concert pianist.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t good enough, though. Not by any stretch. Anyway, I had this music professor, and he used to have us, his students, over for dinner once a month. He was really into the whole epicurean thing. He tried to teach us an appreciation of good food, good wine, good company. He was just a really interesting guy.”

“Were you…?”

It took Austin a couple of seconds to understand what Jeff meant. “No. No, I don’t even know if he was—He was very private. Anyway, I started getting interested in wine, and the more I studied, the more interested I became. And then it turned out I had a very good nose and an even better palate.” Austin added derisively, “It’s my God-given talent—to be able to tell a Viognier from a Torrontes at thirty paces.”

Jeff smiled faintly.

They were driving through the beautiful, historic heart of Madison, which according to legend, was a town so pretty General Sherman had refused to burn it. It was pretty too. Very picturesque with its shady streets and gracious antebellum homes, elegant old gardens and parks, its shops and galleries and antique dealers.

The traffic was heavy on Main Street but thinned out once they turned off the central thoroughfare.

From the outside looking in, it certainly seemed charming and old-world. What would it be like to live in a place like this? A place where it was not impossible that everyone did know your name?

Shaking off his preoccupation, Austin asked, “What about you? I feel like I’ve been talking all evening.”

“Not much to tell,” Jeff said easily. “I grew up in Madison. Born and raised here. One set of parents. Two siblings, both younger—just as average-ordinary as me.”

Average-ordinary? It was the first thing Jeff had said that sounded artificial. Austin remembered Auntie Eudie’s story about Jeff’s father committing suicide beneath a family portrait. Maybe Jeff was a better listener than talker.

Austin probed, “Where’d you go to college?”

“South University in Savannah.”

“What did you study?”

He didn’t imagine that hesitation, but then Jeff said in that same casual tone, “I’ve got a BS in criminal justice administration.”

Austin absorbed that. “But you’re not a cop?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

“A private investigator. You mean like PI?”

Jeff did a bad impression of Humphrey Bogart. “Thash right, schweetheart.”

“Now that’s a day job.”

“And nights and weekends and holidays.”

“Do you mostly work for lawyers?”

“I mostly work for jealous spouses.”

“It must give you a jaded view of relationships.”

“Says the man with five stepmothers.” Jeff added lightly, “Fortunately I had a jaded view to begin with.”

“Ah.”

“What’s ah mean?” Jeff threw him another of those quick, almost wary looks.

“Mostly that I don’t always think before I speak. You do seem sort of…smooth.”

“Smooth?” Jeff laughed. “And you prefer rough?”

“No.” No. Definitely not.

Jeff turned off a road lined with oaks. They passed through tall iron gates that led down a long tunnel of trees. He said with satisfaction, “Here we are. Hope you’re hungry.”

Old Plantation House. Why did that ring a bell?

The drive ended at the entrance to a crowded parking lot surrounded by tidy green lawns and meticulously kept flower beds. A few yards farther on, a small mansion in the Greek revival style was illuminated by strategically placed spotlights.

“Old Plantation House? Isn’t that where Dominic Williams was master sommelier?”

“Yep,” Jeff replied. “It’s also the best restaurant in town.”

“I see. So you’re actually working tonight?”

“Naw.” Jeff turned off the engine, not meeting Austin’s gaze. “They make the best fried green tomatoes you’ll ever taste.”

Austin smiled without humor and refrained from commenting that they were likely to be the only fried green tomatoes he’d ever taste.

Abruptly they seemed to be out of things to talk about. They strolled up the brick path to the house in silence. Jeff had made reservations, and they were taken immediately to their table in the long dining room with its eighteenth-century paintings and crisp white linens. The walls were the crimson that seemed so popular here in Georgia, and the tables and chairs were a dark wood that looked antique.

Once they were seated, Jeff made an effort to regain their former harmony. Austin studied the menu while Jeff advised him on such heirloom dishes as Southern panfried quail with country ham or St. Simons Island shrimp bog. Austin smiled and tried to respond normally, but his pleasure in the evening had dimmed.

The sommelier brought the wine menu.

“He’s the expert,” Jeff said, nodding at Austin.

The man started to hand the red leather book to Austin. He snatched it back and gasped. “Wait.”

Austin looked up in inquiry.

“You’re Austin Gillespie.”

Austin assented cautiously.

“Only I read your column religiously. ‘Message in a Bottle.’ It’s me. Corky. I’m one of the regular commenters on your blog.”

Ordinarily Austin would have been pleased to put a face to the name, but his heart just wasn’t in it right now. Still, he made an effort. “Sure. Of course. Nice to meet you, Corky.” Austin offered a hand. They shook.

Corky spent the next half hour explaining the wine list and giving his opinions and tips. Austin consulted with Jeff as to his preferences and likes—which took about two seconds, since when it came to wine, Jeff had none. When Corky at last departed with Austin’s order for Domaine de la Pépière Clos des Briords 2007, Jeff said, “Whew. Does that happen every time you go out to dinner?”

“If I can perfectly match the wine to the meal, it makes for a better overall dining experience. And that makes for a better overall evening.” He probably sounded slightly defensive.

“I meant do you often run into fans?”

“Oh. No. Almost never. More in DC.” Austin buried himself in his menu once more, although he had already figured out he was going to try the lobster Savannah. He had been glad of the diversion offered by Corky. He was still bothered by the realization that Jeff either suspected him of something nefarious or was using him as cover for his investigation.

“Austin—” Jeff broke off as the waitress reappeared to take their order. “We need another minute, honey,” he said, smiling but firm.

The waitress retreated.

Jeff leaned forward and said quietly, “I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding. I am supposed to be working tonight. At least, that would be the smart thing. But you’re leaving tomorrow, and I wanted to have dinner with you—take you someplace nice. Someplace they don’t have in Washington DC. So I did think maybe I could kill two birds with one stone. It could be useful to see how the people Williams worked with are reacting to his death, but it won’t be so useful that it’ll make a big difference if you’d rather go somewhere else. If you’re uncomfortable, we will.”

Jeff seemed perfectly sincere. Austin was surprised by that—and by the fact that Jeff had picked up on his slight hurt. He relaxed. “No. It’s okay. Unless you plan on working through dinner.”

“No. I just wanted to get a feel for the mood here tonight.” Jeff’s smile was confident again. “I promise you’ll have my complete and undivided attention for the night.”

Austin found himself amused. Jeff clearly knew exactly how attractive he was and had no hesitation using his charm as necessary, but that was okay. Austin liked confidence as much as the next guy. He was reasonably confident himself. He glanced around the busy room. “I don’t know what it’s usually like, but it seems pretty much like business as usual to me.”

“I agree. Nobody’s cryin’ in their soup over Dominic Williams.”

“Maybe they don’t know yet?”

“They know.”

“Do you work for an agency, or are you a solo operation?”

“Solo.” Jeff added rather darkly, “Which is just the way I like it.”

“I can see the allure of self-employment.” Austin was thinking of Whitney and his own imperiled position.

Jeff beckoned to the watchfully hovering waitress, and they gave her their orders.

When she departed, he said, “Two days ago Dominic Williams disappeared. His wife, Henrietta, hired me to find him. She believed he’d run off with a local girl he’d been having an affair with all winter.”

“Carson Cashel?”

“Very good. Yeah, Carson. But when I did some checking around, I found out pretty quick that Carson hadn’t run anywhere, so if Williams was with her, they were both staying out at Ballineen. Last night I followed Carson to the Blind Pig and…” Jeff shrugged.

“You seduced her?”

“She seduced me, actually. But I don’t keep score.”

“You take your job pretty seriously.”

“Naw. I like sex.”

Austin couldn’t tell if it was a kind of bravado or not. At times Jeff seemed callous and shallow—even hard—but at other times he seemed unexpectedly sensitive and unexpectedly candid. Which was the real Jeff?

“With anyone?”

“I prefer attractive people.” Now Jeff was laughing at him.

So…okay. This probably was the real Jeff. Good to know the ground rules before they got started. It wasn’t a problem. Maybe a little disappointing to realize that Jeff was just your average, run-of-the-mill horndog, but the disappointment wasn’t logical. It wasn’t like this was the start of a relationship. They lived seven hundred miles—and a couple of universes—apart. They had absolutely nothing in common but lust. So why pretend it was anything else? Jeff had it right.

“You went home with Carson last night so you could look around for Dominic Williams?”

“That wasn’t any hardship, let me tell you. Carson is one sweet peach of a gal. Anyway, it was obvious early on that she didn’t have Williams stashed at the house. Her mind was on one thing and one thing only.” Jeff’s smile was smug, and logical or not, Austin began to get irritated.

Fortunately, Corky returned with the wine Austin had ordered, and they went through the ritual of uncorking and pouring and tasting.

The muscadet had a bright color and a scent of wet stone and warm citrus. Austin took a sip. Slightly bubbly, round, and…supple. Very nice. And a complex but sound structure: crisp, dry, but with a clean and fruity finish.

“Will you try it?” Austin asked Jeff. “I don’t believe this will give you indigestion.”

Jeff’s hesitation was kind of amusing. You just didn’t expect a big, tough private eye to be nervous of a little glass of wine. He nodded, though, and Corky poured a second glass of wine and withdrew.

“That’s not bad,” Jeff admitted after a swallow.

They sipped their wine for a few moments. Austin asked, “I’m just trying to understand. Are you bisexual? Or are you gay, and last night you were working undercover?”

The effect on Jeff was instantaneous. He set his glass down so hard the wine sloshed onto the tablecloth. He looked stricken and then furious. “Shut your mouth,” he whispered harshly.

Shocked, Austin shut his mouth.

Jeff said, still with that quiet, furious intensity, “There is no gay here.”

Austin managed to keep his mouth shut. Just.

A very long minute passed while they both struggled in silence to find a way through the stark, unbending awkwardness that had sprung up between them. Now Austin remembered why he didn’t do this kind of thing, why the strangers-in-the-night scene was almost always more trouble than it was worth.

He sipped his wine and forced himself to analyze that and only that. High acid, a bit minerally… Aromatics of apple, citrus, and saline… Yeah, plenty of saline. He pulled out his iPhone and made some quick notes. Why not make it a business dinner all-around?

Jeff seemed to struggle inwardly. He made an effort. His tone was almost normal, though still low as he said, “Sorry. Sorry, Austin. That must have seemed… You have to understand. This is a small town. We’ve only got a population of about three thousand.”

And bed checks every night. But Austin still kept his jaw clamped shut. He was not yet willing to write off the probability of getting laid. Even by this self-hating redneck jerk.

Jeff was still talking softly, urgently. “I have to live here and work here. It’s not like the North. It’s not even like Savannah. Hell, it’s not even like Athens. You ever check the Web for a listing of gay nightlife in Georgia? There aren’t fifty listings in the whole state.”

“That can’t be true.”

Jeff didn’t respond.

“So you’re in the closet.”

Jeff laughed, a short, hard laugh. “Yeah. That’s one way of putting it.”

What was another? Secret compartment? Hidden safe? Safety-deposit box? Austin struggled with himself and managed, “Then I’m flattered you invited me out tonight.”

“No, you’re not,” Jeff said grimly. “You’re appalled. And I apologize. Again. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked you out. Maybe that’s offensive to you. Maybe my whole situation is offensive. I don’t know. I just know”—his voice dropped so low Austin could barely hear the words—“I want to be with you tonight more than I’ve wanted anything in years. And I assure you I will make certain it is the best you’ve ever had.”

Austin couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from Jeff’s intense stare. He swallowed, surprised to find his mouth dry with longing. It was so wrong, but he wanted it too.

Jeff added, “But…no pressure.”

A splutter escaped Austin. He put his fist to his mouth to make it look like he was clearing his throat, but Jeff made a choked sound. Unbelievably, insanely, they were laughing. Maybe it was borderline hysteria, but Austin welcomed the release of nervous tension.

Their meals arrived then, and they turned with relief to that small diversion.

The lobster was excellent, and the wine perfectly complemented the undertones of butter and sherry and pimento. Austin realized he hadn’t eaten all day and was genuinely starving. While they ate, Jeff took the conversational lead, offering a couple of amusing anecdotes about his early days in the private-eye business. He showed an engaging willingness to share stories where he looked anything but glamorous or heroic.

Granted, there was nothing of a revealing personal nature in these reminiscences—unless the fact that Jeff could laugh so easily at his mistakes was insight into his character. Sexually arrogant he might be, but in regard to the other facets of his life, he seemed totally without pretension. It was equally clear that despite the good-old-boy attitude, he was smart, worked hard, and took his job seriously.

“What sports did you play in school?” Jeff inquired when he had finished making fun of his early career.

He’d figured this was coming. “Cross-country, swimming, lacrosse.” Austin had been a competent but not stellar athlete. He’d probably have enjoyed sports more if he hadn’t always been competing against Harrison’s record. He knew without asking that Jeff had excelled at sports. He’d be willing to bet Jeff could have given Harrison a run—literally—for his money.

“I always wanted to play lacrosse. Me? Football and cross-country.” And sure enough, Jeff had been captain of every team he’d ever been on and, undoubtedly—though he was too modest to say so—had a shelf full of trophies he now used for doorstops or paperweights.

They exchanged a few cross-country war stories, and then Austin asked, “What was it like growing up in a Norman Rockwell painting?”

It was the wrong question, though he wasn’t sure why. Jeff didn’t exactly freeze, but the guarded look was back, despite the fact that he was still smiling.

“It’s got its pluses and minuses. It’s a slower pace, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. You walk down the street in Madison, and people say hello. People look out for each other. There’s a sense of community. Everybody knows everybody else.”

They don’t know you. But Austin didn’t say that. “You’ve lived here your whole life?”

“Yep. Well, not counting the years at college. The Bradys have lived in these parts since the Revolutionary War.”

“Did you ever consider living anywhere else?”

Jeff’s smile was odd. “In college. It didn’t work out that way.” He changed the subject, turning the conversation away from himself and back to Austin.

Austin recognized the maneuver for what it was, but he went with it. He liked Jeff too much to want to risk making him uncomfortable, and it was clear Jeff had a number of “no trespassing” areas posted. Even so, Jeff was very easy to talk to. Partly it was his skill as a listener—his private-investigator training maybe?—and partly it was knowing that this night would be the entire extent of their affair that gave Austin the rare freedom to be completely honest. It was like talking to a stranger on a plane. That was what Austin told himself, anyway. The fact was, he was talking more openly and honestly with Jeff over the course of two hours than he’d talked to Richard in two years. Austin even found himself opening up about the situation with Whitney at work—and then, unbelievably—about his need to prove himself to his family. Especially to his father.

“Who is your father?” Jeff asked finally.

Now that was almost funny. He’d been talking to Jeff steadily for half an hour, revealing his greatest hopes and deepest fears, but had managed to skip right over that essential information. “Harrison Gillespie.”

“The Harrison Gillespie? The news commentator?” Jeff looked impressed—but then everyone always did. “You’re kidding. That’s like having Dan Rather for your daddy.”

“Tell me about it.”

“We used to watch him on TV every night when I was growing up.”

“Everyone did.” Except Austin. They hadn’t watched much TV at his boarding school.

Jeff studied him thoughtfully. “I see.”

“What do you see?” Austin asked, afraid that Jeff probably did see only too clearly.

“That’s quite a pedigree.”

“And I modeled underwear in college and drink wine for a living.”

“You didn’t just model underwear, and you don’t just drink wine.” Jeff was studying him. “You’re good at what you do. You’re successful, right?”

Austin nodded.

“And you like what you do?”

“I love what I do.”

“Well, there you go.” Jeff seemed to think he had made some point, but if he had, it was lost on Austin. Lifting his glass in acknowledgment, Jeff added, “For the record, you were totally right about this wine.”

“Thanks. The Pépière Clos des Briords are kind of a legend with wine geeks.” Austin suddenly remembered the Lee bottles. Another failure. Not his fault, but that wasn’t the point. Had he found those bottles, had they been the real thing, it would have bulletproofed his career. Good luck Whitney’s getting rid of him, then.

Once again Jeff seemed to read his mind, because he said, “What do you think of the chances those antique wine bottles are in that cellar?”

“I’d barely got started looking. I still don’t know how much on those original inventory sheets is really down there. I did come across some nice vintage wines, and I’ll cross-reference those I had time to list. It was such a mess down there I’d decided I could move faster and be more accurate if I tackled the shelves one by one.” Austin admitted, “I should have just searched for the Lee bottles, I guess, but I was caught between wanting to know if they were really there and avoiding the disappointment of finding out for sure that they weren’t.”

“If they were there, how much would those bottles be worth?”

“The sheriffs asked the same thing. There are supposed to be four of them. If they do exist, if they are the real thing, well, the minimum I’d expect to see each bottle go for at auction would be around five hundred grand.”

Jeff whistled. “You’re talking two million dollars worth of wine?”

“It’s the Lee affiliation that makes them close to priceless.”

“And how did old Dermot Cashel get his hands on them?”

“That’s the tricky part. He’s not here to ask, and no one seems to know. Roark collected the old man’s notes on his wine purchases and sent them on to us. I think he had only the vaguest idea of the value of those bottles alone. But really the whole cellar—just the little I saw—was thrilling.”

“Thrilling, huh?” Jeff’s smile was teasing but not unkind. “Well, in a couple of weeks, the Cashels will have their cellar back, and you can finish your inventory.”

Austin nodded, unconvinced.

“No?”

“It depends on what else is going on at the shop by then. Whitney might send someone else.” Like Theresa. Hopefully not, but it was a possibility. “On the bright side, at least the cellar will be sealed off for a time. They keep it unlocked.”

“Those storm doors should have been locked. They’re usually locked, but it’s spring and there’s a lot of gardening and repair work going on, folks looking for tools, going in and out… It happens.” Jeff tilted his head, appraising Austin. “So this might be your only trip down this way?”

“Yeah.”

Jeff said softly, “Then unless you’re just dying to try the key lime pie, why don’t I pay the bill and we get out of here and go someplace private?”

Austin’s heart skipped a beat, and the sneaking fatigue born of a long day, a rich meal, and more than enough wine vanished. He’d enjoyed the evening even more than he’d expected to, and he felt pleasantly confident that the best was still to come.

Jeff signaled to the waitress.

They ended up going back to Austin’s hotel. He had wondered if Jeff would prefer somewhere off the beaten track—Motel 6 in Atlanta?—but he made no objection when Austin suggested returning to the Stonewall Jackson Inn. If he wasn’t relaxed, he was doing a damn good imitation of it.

“That was an amazing dinner. Thank you,” Austin said as the Honda sped down the quiet streets past the stately, old homes limned in moonlight. It had been an amazing dinner, but not because of the food or drink. Austin had plenty of wonderful meals in his line of work. No, the difference tonight had been the company. Whatever else Jeff might be, he was unnervingly easy to talk to. It had been a long time since Austin had felt this kind of connection with another man.

Jeff said, “It was my pleasure,” and, without taking his gaze from the road, lifted Austin’s hand, pressing it briefly to his mouth. It was about as old-fashioned and courtly a gesture as you could ask for, but Jeff did it so lightly, so naturally, Austin barely blinked, though his mouth was suddenly dry at the sensation of unexpectedly soft lips against his bare skin.

Jeff, still not looking at him, was smiling. Austin felt his mouth curve too.

Chapter Six

Austin’s hotel room was softly lit, the polished tabletops glowing, the books and paintings and flower vases lustrous. The bedding had been turned down.

“Uh-oh,” Jeff murmured. “Is it a school night?”

Austin laughed. It had a breathless sound to it. He turned, and Jeff was right behind him, almost stepping on his heels. It was startling, but it made it easy to reach out, each moving to steady the other and somehow winding up in a hug.

Not a clinch. A hug.

It was unanticipated and surprisingly sweet to simply be held in strong arms. No demand, not even a request—just an ordinary hug. Which somehow, in these circumstances, seemed anything but ordinary. Austin could feel Jeff’s heart pounding against his own chest, and he picked up the fragrance of Jeff’s cologne, now diffused with wine and his own light male scent. Jeff smelled warm and alive in the pristine perfection of the hotel room’s recycled air.

He rubbed his smoothly shaven cheek against Austin’s. “Hello,” he murmured.

“Hello,” Austin whispered back.

Jeff’s mouth sought his, and there was an artless misjudging of lips and distances before they were kissing again, sharing breaths, laughing. Austin found both the fumble and the laughter reassuring. He didn’t particularly want to go to bed with a porn star.

The kiss moved from companionable to dizzying in a couple of thudding heartbeats. Jeff’s mouth pressed harder against Austin’s, parting his lips with a delicate tongue, tasting him in a long, fluid kiss. Jeff tasted sweet, structured, and muscular. An earthy Barolo perhaps. Colorful with complex, focused flavors and a long, mellow finish.

“What would you like?” Jeff asked after a bit. “Anything. Just ask.”

“I…” What exactly was on offer? Another of Austin’s preconceptions toppled. He hadn’t expected quite this…generosity.

“Let me suck you off.”

Austin’s breath caught in his throat. “Are you sure?” His voice came out sounding thin and ragged, because if Jeff meant something else—for example, the more likely, I want you to suck me off—the disappointment was going to kill him.

“Hell yeah, I’m sure.” Jeff’s hands went to Austin’s zipper at the same instant Austin’s hands went for his own waistband. Austin laughed again, although it felt slightly hysterical, this mutual desperation to get him out of his clothes. His trousers were down around his ankles in a couple of beats. His briefs followed, once he’d navigated them around the flagpole of his cock. Jeff gave him a gentle push, and he sat down, knees weak, on the foot of the bed. Jeff knelt before him.

“Oh yeah. That’s what I’m talking about,” Jeff said softly, and it seemed touchingly heartfelt.

Austin closed his eyes, sucking in a deep breath at the trails of lightning flashing through his skin as Jeff’s hands closed on his hips, Jeff’s breath warm against his belly.

Austin’s cock was erect and straining; his nerves felt as dangerously exposed as bare wires as Jeff’s fingers moved to stroke his thighs. All his body hair seemed to stand up crackling in a storm of static electricity as Jeff bent, closing his mouth over the sensitive head of Austin’s cock.

The noise—naked and uninhibited—that tore out of Austin’s throat filled him with distant astonishment.

The next sound he uttered was more of a squeak as the hotel-room door jumped beneath a sudden knock. Jeff’s fingers dug into his thighs as he steadied himself, and that wonderful mouth stopped working its magic.

“You expecting someone?” Jeff asked in an urgent undertone.

“No.” Austin expelled a long, rattled breath. “Maybe they’ve got the wrong room?”

They listened tensely.

The knocking began again, this time with more energy.

“Crap.” Austin rose, scrabbling to drag up his pants without doing himself injury. He started for the door on shaky legs. “Hold that thought.”

Jeff didn’t respond. His pose was wary, intent. Austin wondered if he’d run out and hide on the balcony if someone walked into the room. He felt a flicker of sadness. It was a shame because he really liked Jeff, but where could you go from that?

He raked his hair out of his eyes, flipped the security bar over, and dragged the door open.

It took a second for his eyes to adjust after the muted light of the bedroom. Cormac Cashel stood in the brightly lit hallway. He wore black jeans, a black sweatshirt with a skull-and-crossbones logo, and his perpetual scowl.

“Hi,” Austin said, surprised.

“I wanted to see you.”

Austin spared a quick look over his shoulder, but Jeff was standing out of sight behind the corner. “About wha—” The rest of that was lost as Cormac pushed into the room and wrapped his arms around Austin, hugging him tightly.

“I want to be with you tonight,” he panted in Austin’s ear. He smelled of pot and Irish Spring and nervous perspiration.

“Huh?”

“I…want to…be…with…you,” Cormac gasped out as they wrestled. Austin freed his right arm and tried to push him away, but Cormac was strong and agile, and he kept enfolding Austin while trying to cover his mouth with his own.

It seemed to be his night for hugs, but the intent here was clearly different from Jeff’s earlier embrace.

“What are you doing?” Austin demanded, finally wriggling out of that human straitjacket. The question was mostly rhetorical. He could hardly fail to understand what Cormac was doing—or at least attempting to do.

Cormac reached for him again, the hammer hit the wrestling bell, and it was round two. Austin tried to bat Cormac’s clutching hands away as Cormac gulped out, “I feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth.”

“You feel what?”

“Faulkner said that.”

“Faulkner said that?”

“William Faulkner. The greatest American novelist who ever lived.”

Someday this was going to be funny, but all Austin could think about was Jeff standing a few feet away listening to this—and the fact that Cormac must not discover Jeff’s presence in Austin’s room. Not least for the sake of Cormac’s own dignity.

Losing patience, he stiff-armed the younger man, who gave an oof.

“Knock it off!”

Cormac gasped, “You can’t say you don’t feel it too. I knew the minute I saw you. It’s like I’ve known you all my life. You’re exactly how I pictured. Exactly. Well, except for your awful accent.”

Oh great. Another guy who’d spent his formative years pawing through magazines and daydreaming.

“I don’t feel it. I don’t even know you.”

“That’s why I’m here.” Cormac tried to wrap his arms around Austin again, despite Austin’s squirming determination to keep a respectable distance. “We’re going to get to know each other. That’s what I’m aiming for.”

Oh, that’s what he was aiming for. Because it felt like Cormac had trained his sights significantly lower. Austin pushed him back again. “It doesn’t work like that!”

“Well, how does it work?” Cormac was starting to sound irritated too. “I know you’re gay.”

“That doesn’t mean… Look, I’m just not…” Austin tempered the truth at the last instant as it occurred to him how lonely and desperate Cormac must be to brave what he had to know was almost certain rejection. “I’m in a relationship. I can’t do this with you.”

“He wouldn’t have to know.”

“I would know.”

Cormac continued to clutch him, breathing unevenly, but at last his breaths slowed. His hands loosened their grasp. “I don’t understand. The second I saw you, I knew you were the one.”

“I’m sorry.” Austin was sorry. Cormac was so very genuinely puzzled that the feeling wasn’t mutual.

“Are you sure you don’t want to?”

“I’m sure.” Despite the physical evidence to the contrary. That was more about Jeff standing two feet away, his silhouette half-merged in the other shadows, than the friction supplied by wrestling around with Cormac.

“Well, all right, then.” Cormac reluctantly turned away. Austin grabbed the door for him.

“Good-bye,” Cormac said disconsolately.

“Good-bye.”

“Maybe when you come back to catalog the cellar next time?”

“I… Probably not.”

Cormac went out.

Austin closed the door and leaned against it.

Jeff came around the corner. “You okay?” He looked serious—too serious.

Austin said, “Hey, it’s not funny.”

“It was pretty funny from where I was standing.”

Someone pounded on the door.

“Oh shit,” Jeff muttered, drawing back.

Austin waited till Jeff was out of sight before yanking the door open. Cormac was rearranging his T-shirt with one hand and offering a sheaf of papers with the other.

“Will you at least read my stories?”

Austin took the stack of papers automatically. Where exactly had Cormac stored them? Probably better not to think too much about it.

“Uh, yes, if you’d like me to. I don’t write fiction, though.”

“I want you to read them.”

“Okay.”

Crestfallen, Cormac nodded and turned away. Austin closed the door, locked it, set the papers on the table, and moved into Jeff’s obliging arms.

“Let’s try this again,” Jeff said.

Yes. This. These muscular arms, this hard, taut body, that warm, smiling mouth.

Jeff murmured, “Did you put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign?”

“Do you think it’ll do any good?”

Jeff laughed. “Not in this town.”

* * * * *

Velvety, vibrant, voluptuous pulses of pleasure… There was a reason so many of the attributes used in describing wine were sexual. A very good reason. Austin threw his head back on the pillow, gulping for air, shuddering head to toe with the exquisite sensation of Jeff sucking his cock. Once again that crazy, nearly unrecognizable sound tore out of his throat as Jeff’s tongue pressed and lapped where he was most sensitive. Was it something unique to Jeff, or was it just some temporary chemical imbalance? He was sort of hoping for chemical imbalance, because falling for Jeff would be such a foolish thing to do.

Round, rich, red… Lights were flashing behind his eyelids, and nerve shocks of colors were tingling through every fiber in his body. Austin felt like he was lighting up, incandescent and luminous with feeling. So much feeling it didn’t seem possible to contain it in a human shell. Jeff took him deeper still, that incredible hot, wet mouth moving on him, his breath rolling down the sensitive skin of Austin’s inner thighs, and Austin flung his arm across his face to keep himself from yelling. Or to smother the sounds, because there was no corking them completely.

He’d been in a state of partial arousal for most of the evening, and that skillful dredge and drag, the combination of pressure and pull, had every muscle in his body clenching tight, hips jerking as the tight, soft, warm lips brought him so relentlessly, lovingly to the breaking point.

Come the vintage. Where had he heard that phrase? Was it biblical? Was it…?

Austin’s teeth closed on the back of his wrist as the explosion tore through him, flash fire racing, spiraling through the amaranthine harvest.

He swung out into a sparkling blue-black darkness and dropped like a star falling out of the sky.

Seasons later he was aware of Jeff settling beside him, running a lazy, appreciative hand down his torso. Austin wanted to say something, acknowledge what Jeff had done for him, assure him that it truly had been the best he’d ever had, but he was so beautifully relaxed. His cock rested against his thigh, spent, and the rest of his body felt as soft and boneless. He settled for a long, heartfelt sigh.

Jeff stroked his chest again. He smiled faintly, enjoying Austin’s last involuntary shudder of pleasure.

“And I was afraid this was going to be a wasted trip,” Austin mumbled.

“And I was thinking this morning was going to be just another ordinary day.”

This morning Jeff had woken in Carson’s bed. Austin preferred not to think about that.

Jeff lowered his head and licked Austin’s nearer nipple. Austin caught his breath.

“Was that true about having a boyfriend?” Jeff asked after a time.

Austin shook his head. “We broke up three months ago.”

“Yeah? How long were you together?”

Were they really going to talk about Richard? They were.

“Two years.”

“What happened?”

Austin often wondered himself. “It wasn’t anything dramatic. One day I realized I’d be happier on my own.”

“Just like that?”

“No. I hadn’t been happy for a long time, but I hadn’t been unhappy enough to do anything about it.”

“Why were you unhappy?”

“Maybe I expected too much.”

“Like what?” In the moonlight, Jeff’s face was so handsome, so perfect, it resembled a mask.

“It’s hard to explain. The sex was good, and we had a lot in common, so I kept thinking we’d get there eventually.”

“Get where?”

Jeff was beginning to remind Austin of Ernest at his most persistent. He said reluctantly, knowing how sappy he was going to sound, “To…love, I guess.”

Jeff said with genuine astonishment, “You kept thinking you’d fall in love with someone you didn’t love after two years of being together?”

“Well, how long should it take?”

“Five seconds. Give or take a second.” Jeff’s eyes, gleaming in the darkness, seemed to hold Austin’s for what felt like a very long moment.

Austin swallowed hard.

“Was he in love with you?”

“Who?” Austin asked.

“Your boyfriend. The one you kept waiting to fall in love with.”

“Richard. No. I doubt it. He moved in with a guy from his office six weeks after we split up.” He reached for the hand that was lightly caressing him, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed it. “Did I even thank you? Thank you. You’re the nicest thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”

He sensed Jeff’s smile. The hand he held gave his own a friendly squeeze.

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

“College.” Jeff added lazily, “I majored in criminal justice and minored in blowjobs.”

Austin considered this while the moonlight glancing through the balcony grillwork strewed wavering cutouts of vines and leaves across the ceiling. It seemed a pretty crass statement from someone who professed to believe in love at first sight. But maybe the five-second rule was more of a guideline. Maybe it was a line, period.

“How do you do this, Jeff?” he asked at last.

Jeff taunted gently, “You need another demonstration?”

“You know what I mean.”

Silence.

Jeff pulled his hand away and rolled onto his back. “Sex is sex. It’s all good.”

“It’s not, though. We both know that.”

“I don’t know any such thing. And you don’t know anything about me, Austin.”

“I know you’re in the closet, and I know you like sucking cock. It seems to me there’s a conflict there.”

“It seems to me there’s a conflict there,” Jeff mimicked. “The fact is, you don’t know fuck-all about me or my life.”

Austin clamped down on his impatience, his anger. He had no right to be angry. Jeff was right. He didn’t know fuck-all about him or his life, and just because he didn’t understand Jeff didn’t mean Jeff’s feelings weren’t valid. Maybe Jeff did believe that sex was sex and it was all good and it didn’t matter if you spent your life denying yourself everything you most needed and wanted. Who was to say what Jeff most needed and wanted, if not Jeff?

“So you never have sex with men? This is unusual?”

The pause lasted so long he gave up on Jeff answering, but at last Jeff gave a long, weary sigh. “I have sex with men. It’s nothing like this, all right? You don’t want to hear about it. Tonight was… This was something different. Special. One in a million.”

The awful part was Austin felt the same way.

Jeff added quietly, “But part of why it’s special tonight is because we both know this is a one time only.”

Was that true? Was it special only because it was unique? It didn’t seem that way to Austin, but he didn’t have a lot of experience with one-night stands.

He was shocked to hear himself say, “Is it? Because I feel…like there could be something more here. Or is that just me?”

There was a frozen silence.

“Don’t.” Jeff’s voice was tight. All the mockery, all the joking vanished. “Don’t say it. Don’t try to turn this into something it’s not.”

Austin laughed awkwardly, trying to pretend he didn’t feel that slow, hot flush of embarrassment washing over him. “I know. I must be overtired or something. It’s not like I don’t know how this works. That was just… Maybe it’s something in the air.” He shut up, because if he kept talking, he was going to make it worse. He was going to drive Jeff right out of this hotel room. He had already pulled away and was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to Austin.

Austin thought of and discarded a dozen possible comments. In the end, silence seemed safest.

“Listen.” Jeff’s voice was muffled. He kept his back to Austin. “It’s not just you. But that doesn’t change anything. This isn’t…going anywhere.”

“I know,” Austin said quickly, relieved to back away from it. Appalled at how much he had risked—and without justification.

“If you want me to leave—”

“No. God no. I’m not kidding about being overtired. I’m starting to babble.”

Jeff lay down again and reached for Austin. “You are,” he agreed and covered Austin’s mouth with his own.

If it wasn’t making love, it was certainly a reasonable facsimile, but Austin was not letting himself think in that direction anymore. He told himself that it was simply sex, passionate, beautiful sex, and there was nothing wrong with it. No need for it to be anything more. Jeff was inventive and experienced, but he was sensitive too, attuned to Austin, seeming to anticipate everything Austin desired before Austin was more than half-aware himself.

Austin shivered beneath a delightful assault of kissing, nipping, caressing. Jeff straddled his body, and Austin could just make out the sheen of his pale hair, the gleam of eyes and his smile in the darkness. His palms stroked Austin’s chest, grazing his nipples. That brush of callous hands on sensitive nubs started a restless ache within Austin. He moved uneasily, thrusting up under Jeff.

“We can do that if you want,” Jeff whispered, shocking Austin rigid.

More rigid.

Oh, he wanted it, all right. He wanted a lot more than this, but this felt unsafe enough. Not physically unsafe—they were taking reasonable precautions—but emotionally unsafe. He was off-kilter tonight, knocked off-balance by Jeff’s unpredictable and varied charms.

When he didn’t answer immediately, Jeff shifted, finding Austin’s cock and pressing into it, grinding against him with a deliberate and slow sensuality. Austin’s cock seemed to pulse in time with Jeff’s.

“You like that?”

“Yeah,” Austin said hoarsely.

“Me too.” Jeff’s hips rolled with that lazy, sexy rhythm. He rubbed their cocks together. “I used to dream about doing this with you—to you…” He leaned forward, braced on one muscular arm so he could bend down and kiss Austin’s eyelids…and the bridge of his nose…and the jut of his chin…his mouth…

Austin couldn’t hold back any longer. He began to thrust, rocking his hips in fierce upward motion. Jeff drove back at him. They lost the rhythm, regained it, lost it again, and snapped all restraints, each of them going hell for broke.

Long, fraught minutes passed in a haze.

Jeff went perfectly still. Austin, sweating, trembling, still fighting for his own release, felt the ripples of Jeff’s coming extending further and further out like shining water or shock waves. Hot, sharp-scented release burst against his damp skin.

Groaning, Jeff rolled over, pulling Austin on top of him, and Austin thrust violently between Jeff’s sinewy and accommodating thighs. There it was—Austin was flying, soaring up and up, not caring as his wings began to melt in bursts of salty, singed white, and he plummeted earthward, dimly surprised when he landed safely in the cradle of Jeff’s arms.

He woke to a warm mouth moving on his with gentle insistence.

Smiling, his lips parted in welcome, he reached up to hook an arm around Jeff’s broad shoulders and draw him closer. Jeff’s mouth smiled against his. He tasted…robust, full-bodied. Sleepy and warm and human.

The last twenty-four hours came back in all their astonishing detail. Austin remembered thinking that nothing must be allowed to go wrong with the Cashel appraisal—shortly before everything that could possibly go wrong had gone wrong. It didn’t seem to matter much just now.

He lifted his lashes. Morning. A soft, rosy daylight filtered through the open drapes. Jeff’s eyes looked impossibly green in the vernal luminance. There was a faint gold bristle on his jaw, and his hair was sexily mussed.

“Thank you for last night.” The whispered words were commonplace enough, but Jeff’s expression transformed them into something more.

Or maybe that’s what Austin wanted to see. He said, equally unoriginal, “I had a really nice time.”

“I wish I could stay, but it’s already six o’clock.”

Austin wished Jeff could stay too. If Jeff changed his mind, he’d reschedule his own leaving. He couldn’t say it, though. He’d said far too much the night before. It had to be Jeff’s idea, Jeff’s choice, and Austin already knew that wasn’t going to happen.

Part of why it’s special tonight is because we know this is a one time only.

But for a few sweet heartbeats, it seemed like maybe Jeff would decide to at least postpone his leave-taking.

“You really are something, you know?”

“Naw,” Austin mimicked gently.

Jeff laughed. He rested his hand against the side of Austin’s face as though trying to memorize him in the soft uncertainty of the morning light.

Austin gazed unblinkingly up at him. Stay. Please.

Jeff’s face seemed to close. He drew back, rolled lithely off the bed, and reached for his underwear and khakis.

He dressed quickly, efficiently.

Austin enjoyed the view for a few seconds. There was no point rising until Jeff left. He planned to shower and then dress and then hit the road. He’d grab coffee and breakfast on the way, fill the gas tank at that station on the corner… He forced himself to think only of the day ahead, concentrate on the practicalities of his trip home. He must not—must not—be stupid about this. Indulging in a one-night stand had been stupid enough. Trying to make it into something more than it was would not only be stupid, it would be pathetic.

Interrupting his thoughts, Jeff said suddenly, “If they do send you back this way, you could give me a call.”

Was that supposed to be some grand concession? Judging by the guarded look on Jeff’s face, it was.

Austin said neutrally, “Sure.”

Jeff swiftly buttoned his shirt.

Austin knew it was a mistake, but he couldn’t seem to stop the words. “Do you ever get to DC? Or—”

“No.”

Jeff didn’t look at him. He reached for his wallet, automatically checking its contents.

Austin opened his mouth, then closed it. What was the matter with him? It wasn’t like he couldn’t take a hint. Or like Jeff didn’t understand what he was saying.

He threw back the bedclothes, and the scent of warm linen and recent sex wafted through the room. He walked to the window and gazed down at the park.

He felt Jeff come up behind him even before warm hands fastened on his biceps.

Jeff said huskily, “Austin. I won’t ever forget last night.”

Austin said over the tightness in his throat, “The pleasure was all mine.”

He could feel Jeff’s uncertainty, his hesitation, and it was ridiculous that he found himself unable to make this easy on them both. It was crazy. Crazy to react like this. It wasn’t like he hadn’t understood the rules of engagement. Or hadn’t had them explained to him in words of one syllable.

He hadn’t had enough sleep; that was all. And yesterday had been stressful by anyone’s standards. Naturally, after all that had happened, the evening with Jeff seemed to take on a greater, almost symbolic importance. Once he was home and everything got back to normal, he was going to wonder what the fuck his problem had been.

Maybe he was coming down with the flu or something.

“Are you…?” Jeff stopped. “Austin?”

He could hear the uneasy question in Jeff’s tone, and he nodded tightly to show he was listening. He hoped Jeff didn’t say anything that required a verbal response, because that was going to be hard to pull off without embarrassing them both.

“You take care of yourself, you hear?” Jeff said at last. He dropped one quick, final kiss on Austin’s shoulder and turned away.

Austin was counting the leaves on the tree across the way when he heard the door close.

Chapter Seven

“It looks like the situation in Madison has finally been resolved,” Whitney announced to Austin in passing on the wrought-iron spiral staircase that led from the staff offices.

Austin, heading downstairs on his way to the Martyn, North, & Compeau showroom on Connecticut Avenue, paused. “So it wasn’t murder?”

“I have no idea. I suppose not.”

Whitney Martyn was a tall and lean forty-something. He had recently started touching up his thinning hair and goatee with hair color and taken to wearing polka-dot shirts. Austin attributed the dye job to Whitney’s engagement to Theresa, but what polka-dot shirts signified was beyond him. Today’s offering was white with navy blue dots.

Whitney added, “All I know for sure is the daughter phoned yesterday to say that the police had signed off on the cellar, so the appraisal can proceed.” He added meaningfully, “She asked to speak to you.”

“Who?”

“The girl. Miss Cashel.” He said it as though there was some significance to it, but if there was, it escaped Austin. “We’d like you to leave tomorrow if you can arrange it. There’ve been too many delays already.”

“But I can’t leave tomorrow,” Austin said, startled. “I’ve got the 1990 champagne cocktail party at Café Milano. In fact, I can’t leave this week. Thursday is part four in the wine workshop, and this weekend is the Margaux versus Palmer dinner at Maestro.”

“There are no auctions this week. Theresa can handle all the rest of it,” Whitney said breezily.

“Theresa?” Surprise gave way to alarm. “I host the Maestro dinner. I’ve hosted it for the last four years.”

“Martyn, North, & Compeau hosts the Maestro dinner,” Whitney shot back immediately, which was a pretty good hint that he’d been ready for Austin’s reaction. “After four years it’s probably time to mix things up.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Whitney’s eyebrows arched. “I’m sorry?”

“Is there something I should be aware of?”

Whitney responded in true asshole fashion. “I’m sure there are many things you should be aware of, Austin. Did you have something particular in mind?”

This was not the strategic moment to tackle this, but Austin felt backed into a corner by the news he was being sent back to Georgia in what felt like a deliberate move to shut him out of three major store events. Besides, the idea of returning to Madison filled him with nervous anxiety. It had taken him two weeks to stop hoping every time the phone rang that Jeff might be on the other end. In fact, it had taken a month to stop thinking about Jeff on a daily basis. For some reason he could not make sense of, Austin’s brief encounter with Jeff Brady had affected him deeply. The last thing he needed was reexposure to the virus. Even getting another chance at the Lee bottles didn’t feel like enough inducement.

“Is there some reason you’re not sending Theresa to do this inventory?” It was a mistake to let even a hint of his antagonism show. Austin knew that, and yet he was so rattled, he couldn’t help it.

“Theresa doesn’t have your experience at this kind of thing.”

“She doesn’t have my experience at teaching workshops or hosting dinners.”

“All the more reason for her to tackle it.”

Austin’s stomach felt like it rolled onto its side and began its slow descent to the bottom of the sea. “Why would that be?”

Whitney gave him a look that said as clearly as words, I didn’t want to do this now, but since you’re insisting… “Peter and I have made our decision regarding the new position.” He drew a deep breath, so maybe he wasn’t as calm as he seemed. “We’re appointing Theresa senior director.”

“Theresa,” Austin parroted. “Theresa?” Somehow he managed not to say all the undiplomatic things that immediately leaped into his mind—starting with the fact that if Theresa wasn’t leading Whitney around by his peanut-sized balls, there was no way she’d be regarded as a serious candidate. She had maybe a third of Austin’s qualifications for this job.

Perhaps Whitney knew what he was thinking—maybe because it was what everyone would be thinking. He said sharply, “Certainly Theresa. She’s eminently qualified.”

Austin had known this was coming, but he still couldn’t believe it. It was so blatantly, flagrantly unjust. He had worked so goddamned hard over the past years, and his efforts had paid off. Martyn, North, & Compeau’s stodgy, conservative rep had been replaced by a new hip, edgy image. These days they were DC’s number one wine shop, and a large part of that was due to Austin’s efforts and the following he was building. It wasn’t any secret either. Whitney knew it as well as anyone. Knew that everyone internally and externally believed the new job would be—should be—Austin’s.

“You don’t think you’ll be accused of nepotism?” Austin inquired as politely as he could manage. “I mean, she is your fiancée. And the least experienced or qualified person on staff.”

Whitney’s face went red and then white. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

“Oh, she’s not your fiancée?”

Whitney swallowed. “Be careful, Austin. In case you’ve failed to get the message, you’re not by any means irreplaceable. You work for us, not, as everyone here seems to believe, the other way around. Your continued employment following our restructure is contingent on your willingness to work under your new boss.” He added, “And speaking of nepotism, let’s not forget that you originally landed your position here because Peter and your old man are good friends.”

“I was a credentialed master of wine when I was hired. Theresa is one step from a restaurant hostess.”

Okay, that wasn’t quite fair, but neither was this.

“One more goddamned word,” Whitney said, starting to shake, “and you’re fired. And if Peter has a problem with it, he can talk to me.”

Austin opened his mouth to say the one more goddamned word—two goddamned words, actually—but he remembered he was driving out to the house in Frederick for his father’s birthday party that evening. Having to admit to the entire family that he had failed yet again was unbearable. He couldn’t do it.

But how the hell could he stay? To roll over and accept this—accept being passed over in favor of Whitney’s fiancée—was humiliating. It was insulting. It was demeaning. And given his years of enthusiastic hard work, it was plain old hurtful.

He couldn’t stay.

He couldn’t leave. This was his world. His life.

But he couldn’t stay.

Whitney was glaring at him, waiting for him to say it, quivering with anticipated righteous indignation.

In the end, that was what saved Austin: knowing how badly Whitney wanted him to quit. “Excuse me,” he managed. “I’m expected downstairs.”

* * * * *

“Haaaaapy birthday, dear Harrison, haaaaapy birthday tooo yoooou!”

The exuberant, off-key singing trailed to a straggling stop as Harrison Gillespie drew a deep breath, leaned forward, and efficiently blew out every one of the sixty candles on his birthday cake.

There was a noisy round of applause, and Harrison looked around, smiling broadly as he accepted his dues. He reached out to Ernest, who reluctantly left Austin’s side to stand self-consciously within the ring of his father’s arm.

“That’s my boy,” Harrison said.

Ernest coughed and politely covered his mouth.

Though Ernest was small for his age and a deceptively fragile-looking child, there was a marked resemblance between father and son. They had the same fierce, dark eyes, sallow complexion, and aquiline features. Harrison had been a puny, sickly child with a powerful imagination and a will of steel. He had not let anything stand in the way of his desire to become an investigative journalist, and against the odds, he had succeeded beyond even his own dreams. According to all the biographies Austin had read, anyway.

“Presents!” Debra was a petite, pretty, and energetic woman just a couple of years older than Austin. Viv, Austin’s public-prosecutor sister, referred to Debra as the “Nazi cruise director.” Debra did have a tendency to try to manage people who were getting along fine without her help, but Harrison seemed to take it all in stride. But then there was no question about who wore the pants in Harrison’s home.

“Here you are, Harry.” Bella, Stepmother #2, offered a square, flat parcel in recycled paper.

The parcel turned out—unsurprisingly, as Bella always gave books—to be a biography of Norman Podhoretz. This was the signal, and everyone pushed their presents forward. Harrison exclaimed at their generosity and accepted his due with the placidity of baby Jesus receiving the wise men. The gifts ranged from a vintage Rolex watch (Rebecca, Stepmother #3) to an exercise video (Bryant, Stepsister #1). Harrison exclaimed graciously over each and every gift.

Austin’s offering was a Kindle wireless reading device.

“Well, well,” Harrison mused, holding the box up. “Electronic books, eh? That’s very thoughtful, Austin.”

Ernest’s gift was a computer game called NIER. Harrison chuckled and hugged him. “You’ll have to teach me how to play this, Son.”

After the presents came the cake and ice cream and the annual speech from Harrison about his real legacy being his family. His legacy patted him on the back and kissed the top of his head and urged him to hurry up and cut the cake.

Austin listened and ate cake and watched his smiling stepmothers and sisters and brother—and felt like a stranger staring through a window. This was his family. He loved them. And yet he didn’t think he could feel more alien if he had been one of those white-haired, angular-faced characters in Ernest’s video game.

What was wrong with him tonight?

Partly it was his anxiety at the idea of returning to Ballineen. As much as he’d love to know if the Lee bottles were in that dusty dungeon of a cellar, he dreaded the possibility of running into Jeff again. He was embarrassed when he remembered how worked up he’d gotten over the one night they’d spent together. Sure, the sex had been terrific, but…Austin had carried on like it was love at first sight. He went cold every time he remembered the things he’d blurted to Jeff. Clearly he was not cut out for casual flings. Clearly he was a lot more romantic than he’d realized. Clearly he was a lot lonelier than he realized.

No, he definitely didn’t want to risk running into Jeff again.

Forefront, though, was the worry about what to do over the situation at the wine shop. The more Austin considered the blatant dis of Theresa’s promotion over him, the more convinced he was that he needed to do something, needed to react strongly, decisively. React as Harrison would if Harrison had elected to spend his life pursuing something as peripheral as wine consulting—and someone had the balls to challenge him. But the only something left open to Austin was to leave Martyn, North, & Compeau, and the idea of that scared him silly.

Without the clout of MN&C behind him, he was just another guy with a blog and an opinion. And who would care about his opinions if he didn’t work for MN&C?

He could try for another position at another wine shop, of course. Start over somewhere. Or he could try for a job at a winery. Or a restaurant.

Or even go for something completely different.

He didn’t want to go for something different, though. He loved his work. He loved wine. He was proud of his achievements, even if they didn’t feel like much compared to those of his family’s.

Every time one of his sisters or stepmothers asked him in that tactful way about how his job was going, he was deeply relieved that he hadn’t resigned that afternoon. Having to try to explain why he had quit… No.

So maybe he should just accept Theresa’s promotion with good grace and be grateful he still had a job.

“I’ve decided not to sue Mother and Harrison,” Ernest informed him when Austin went upstairs to say good night.

“I think that’s a wise decision.”

Ernest wore green pajamas with dinosaurs. He was brushing his teeth, and he let the toothpaste boil out and spill over his chin and spatter his pajama top. Austin sat on Ernest’s bed and watched, fascinated. Ernest didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him, and Austin envied him that. He’d been a neurotic mess of insecurities at Ernest’s age. He was probably still a neurotic mess of insecurities compared to Ernest.

“Not because I wouldn’t win,” Ernest said, foaming at the mouth. “I would. But you were right about my birthday and Christmas. I don’t think Mother and Father will let me build a reflecting telescope in the attic if I sue them.”

“You’re all heart, Ernesto.”

Ernest made an ar-ar-ar sound like a laughing sea lion. “Humor, earthling!” He nearly choked on toothpaste and had to retreat to the bathroom, where he was wasting gallons of water running the taps at full blast.

Austin was still chuckling when Ernest returned dripping but foam free.

“I’m going to make them let me come home on weekends.”

“Oh?” Austin said noncommittally.

“Harrison will do that for me,” Ernest said, supremely confident. Maybe he was right. Harrison wasn’t traveling much these days, and it wasn’t like Ernest was a child who required a lot of parental interaction.

Ernest’s small, wet hands locked on Austin’s shoulders, and he gave Austin a quick, damp kiss on his forehead. “I’m going to bed now. Good night.”

Amused at his clear dismissal, Austin rose. “Right. Night.” He dropped a quick kiss on Ernest’s spiky, little-boy-smelling hair and went to the door. “Lights on or off?”

“On. I’m going to read.” Ernest picked up a copy of An Introduction to Modern Astrophysics and crawled between sheets featuring The Jetsons. The sheets were Debra’s choice. Ernest disapproved of The Jetsons.

“Nighty-night,” Austin said and left him there surrounded by his mobiles of distant galaxies and assorted glow-in-the-dark models of planets and stars.

“Your father wants to speak to you,” Debra said when Austin arrived downstairs. “He’s in his study.”

Austin nodded, ignoring that flare of foreboding, and headed for Harrison’s study, where he found his father reclining in the big leather chair behind his desk, enjoying his habitual after-dinner cigar and brandy.

“Help yourself, Austin,” Harrison instructed.

Austin loathed cigars—few things were more effective at spoiling palate and nose—but he poured himself a brandy and took the chair on the other side of his father’s desk. Now that he thought about it, most of his meetings with his father took place either across this desk or meal tables. He could count on one hand the number of hugs he remembered receiving—even including when he was younger than Ernest. But Harrison had mellowed with age. He was more sentimental these days.

“You’re very quiet tonight,” Harrison said, studying the tip of his cigar. “Everything all right?”

“Yes. Everything’s fine, Dad.”

Harrison’s dark gaze moved to Austin’s face, scrutinizing him. “How’s the job?”

“Fine.” More than ever, Austin was glad he had not quit in a fury that afternoon. Peter was liable to phone Harrison with the news. No way would Austin’s resignation have gone unnoticed. He had an uneasy feeling not even his recent run-in with Whitney had gone unnoticed.

“I see.” Harrison was silent. Austin felt his nerves tighten. “You know, Austin,” Harrison said at last, “you’re getting to an age when it’s time to make some decisions about the future.”

Austin sipped his brandy and waited, nerves on edge.

“You rejected the idea of journalism, even though that’s what you majored in and that’s what you’ve got a degree in. You wanted to try music and then modeling. Well, your mother was a model, so I guess that’s not as strange as it might otherwise have been.”

“I did the modeling for spending money. It wasn’t ever a career choice.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. Or would be, except for the fact that you don’t seem to have ever settled on any career choice. At nine, Ernest has a better idea of what he wants to do with his life than you do at twenty-nine.”

Austin could feel the blood draining from his face. It had been a long time since they’d had one of these father-son chats. He’d have been happy to go the rest of his life without another one. “I have settled on a choice. I’m a master of wine—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Harrison burst out. “That’s a hobby. That’s not a career. What the hell kind of job is that for a grown man? Master of wine. That’s one step from claiming you want to be a Jedi knight when you grow up.” Harrison broke off and seemed to struggle for a more reasonable tone. “I understand you have some resentments, but it’s time to pull yourself together. I can get you a starting position at the Washington Post the minute you say the word.”

“I don’t want to be a journalist.” Like it wasn’t hard enough living up to the legend? Try competing in the same field.

“Then why the hell did you study journalism in college?”

“Because you wanted me to.”

That took Harrison aback for a moment, but he recovered quickly. “You didn’t know what you wanted to do with your life then, and you still don’t. Sometimes I even think this whole matter of your sexual orientation is just…” Harrison let that go.

Austin asked evenly, “Is just what?”

Harrison’s eyes were as black and hard as jet. “I’m not sure. Fear of competition? A bid for attention? Adolescent rebellion?”

Well, he’d asked. Now he knew. He should probably be furious. Oddly, he just felt numb. Numb and more depressed than he’d ever felt in his life. Austin set his brandy snifter on the desk and rose.

“I’m not an adolescent, and I’m not aware of any particular resentment. I’ve always been proud to be your son.” Harrison’s face changed. He moved as though to speak, but Austin made himself finish. “My sexuality doesn’t have to do with anything but me. It’s not a choice. I’m sorry the choices I have made with my life disappoint you, but better you than me.”

“Austin—”

“Night, Dad. Happy birthday.”

Chapter Eight

It was already unseasonably hot and sultry at ten o’clock in the morning. The scent of roses and rust drifted on the restless breeze along with the scrape, scrape, scrape of a rake on stone. The same young black man Austin had seen working in the front garden of Ballineen was still at it. He didn’t seem to have made much progress against the encroaching jungle during the past month.

One of the green shutters had fallen to the grass, giving the face of the house a bare, lopsided look, like a woman missing one of her false eyelashes.

The peeling front door opened, and Carson Cashel, dressed in tight white jeans and a black-and-white-polka-dot midriff top that revealed her flat tummy and emphasized her small, perky breasts, drawled with friendly mockery, “Why, Mr. Gillespie, I do declare.”

Remembering his last trip to Ballineen, Austin said, “How was your party?”

She looked blank, then laughed. “It was a lot of fun till Cormac got thrown out for fighting.”

“What was the fight over?”

“I don’t remember now. Something to do with whether Carson McCullers was as fine a writer as Mr. Faulkner. Did you read Cormac’s stories?”

Did she know under what circumstances those stories had been delivered to him? Austin wondered, meeting her bright, mischievous eyes.

“I did, yeah.”

“Lucky thing, because I know Cormac is looking forward to talking to you.” Yes, she was definitely laughing at him. “I told that boss of yours that he was to send you and no one else.”

“Thanks.”

Austin followed her into the house. Buckets had been strategically placed down the front hallway to catch leaks near the window casements. His nostrils twitched. The place smelled strongly of dampness, cooking turnips, and ham.

“Corrie said he didn’t believe you would come back, but I knew you would.”

“How did you know that?”

“I just had that feeling.” As Carson led him down the dark hallways, she added, “I checked the cellar myself this morning, and everything seems normal. For this house. They never did figure out how poor Dom ended up down here.”

“It’s only been a month. The investigation must still be ongoing?”

“I suppose so. It sure is a mystery.”

“I hope you don’t mind my saying so,” Austin remarked, “but you seem to take Williams’s death pretty much in stride.”

“Ballineen is a very old house. A lot of people have died here.” Carson added, “Any old how, there’s no use me pretending to feel something I don’t feel. It was all over between Dom and me long before crazy Henry started threatening to kill us.”

“Crazy Henry. You mean Williams’s wife?”

“That’s right. But in fairness to Henry, I’m sure a lot of people were happy to see the last of Dom. He did have a tendency to get on your nerves. Although, personally, I think it was probably just an unfortunate accident, his landing in our cellar.”

“Is that what the sheriffs say?”

“Oh, they don’t tell us anything.”

“But it is all right for me to work in the cellar? The sheriffs have okayed it?” Austin couldn’t help that flash of suspicion. The Cashels seemed to have peculiar notions of law and order.

He wasn’t reassured when Carson chortled without answering.

A thin voice wafted from the parlor as they passed. “Is that him, honey? Is that Mr. Gillespie?”

Carson whispered, “You better look in and say hello to Auntie Eudie.”

Austin followed her into the parlor. Auntie Eudie sat in her accustomed place on the moth-eaten sofa. She wore wire spectacles and was industriously knitting what appeared to be some kind of fox-fur stole complete with merino-wool paws.

She bestowed as friendly a smile as if Austin was a longtime friend, and Austin found himself bending down to kiss her dry, wrinkled cheek. She smelled comfortably of apple-blossom talc and gingerbread. “Why, you sit down here and tell me all the news, Mr. Gillespie.”

Austin had that familiar sense of being caught in a social riptide. There was something so…alternate universe about the Cashels. It seemed easier to go with the flow than to try to fight.

He gave a brief and probably uninformative account of the weeks since he’d left Madison. Auntie Eudie listened, her bright eyes fixed politely on his face while her fingers nimbly maneuvered the glinting needles.

“You poor boy,” she said disconcertingly at the end of his dull recital. “You’re plumb tuckered out. You need a nice long vacation.”

“You do look interestingly pale,” Carson put in mischievously, leaning over the back of the sofa so that her cheek nearly brushed Austin’s.

“It’s been a long week.” Austin did his best to change the subject, but the only thing he could think of was the unfortunate topic of Dominic Williams.

Auntie Eudie’s cheeks turned pink with indignation. “It’s perfectly clear to me that the colonel struck down Mr. Williams for sticking his nose where he had no business.”

Austin vaguely remembered her saying something along those lines the last time. “You mean you think some supernatural force killed Mr. Williams?”

Auntie Eudie looked at him over her spectacles. “Ballineen is haunted. Don’t ever doubt that, Mr. Gillespie.”

“I won’t.”

“Well, Mr. Gillespie has a mighty big job ahead of him,” Carson interjected brightly.

“That’s right,” Auntie Eudie said. “You go right ahead and start counting those bottles, Mr. Gillespie, but don’t forget to come upstairs for your meals. We’re having a proper Southern dinner for you today.”

Austin assented, thanked her, and escaped.

“Did you really read Cormac’s stories, Mr. Gillespie?” Carson inquired as they headed down the first flight of stairs to the cellar.

“I did.”

“Well, don’t you worry about telling Cormac the truth. He doesn’t mind what people say about his work, so long as they don’t disrespect Mr. Faulkner.”

By which, Austin was quite sure, she didn’t mean the faithful family retainer. He began to feel increasingly nervous about those stories.

At last they reached the cellar, which was remarkably cool, despite the heat of the day and smelled blessedly free of dead bodies and bug spray both. Austin saw no sign of crime-scene tape or anything to indicate an investigation was still in progress, so perhaps Williams’s death had been an accident.

The card table and chair were back in position beneath the giant spiderweb. Austin set his laptop case down and unzipped it.

“What did you think of Cormac’s stories?” Carson asked with sudden seriousness.

Austin glanced around. “I thought they were really well written, but I don’t know a lot about publishing or selling fiction.”

“Oh, Corrie doesn’t care about that. He means for the stories to be published after he’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

She giggled. “Dead, silly.”

“Oh.” Considering that four out of ten protagonists in Cormac’s stories had killed themselves, Austin wondered if departure was imminent. Anything he might have added was forgotten as muffled voices floated down from above.

“One more time and you won’t have to worry about your parole officer. I’ll ring your scrawny neck and feed you to the dogs.”

Parole officer? Austin stared ceilingward. “What’s that?”

Carson widened her eyes and said in a spooky voice, “Why, that’s the colonel, Austin. He doesn’t like people fooling around his wine cellar.”

“Very funny.”

Another voice, lower and indistinct, answered the first. The words weren’t clear, but the defensive tone filtered through the bricks, wood, and termites.

Carson laughed. “Naw, that’s Faulkner. And Tyrone, it sounds like. Tyrone’s Faulkner’s nephew. Great-nephew. As a matter of fact, Tyrone is going to help you out today. We thought it would go faster that way, and you won’t have to get your hands dirty.”

“I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.” As a matter of fact, Austin spent a part of every year backpacking in places like South America and Australia, checking out remote wine-growing areas.

“No, I guess you’re not.” She gave him an oddly shrewd look. “Tyrone is Auntie Eudie’s project. You might have noticed him when you drove up. He’s supposed to be trimming the boxwood, although that’s always a risk because he likes to make the hedges into shapes. Animals and such. What do you call that?

“Topiaries?”

“Topiaries. That’s right.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. No, Ty’s very artistic. But that doesn’t cut any ice with Faulkner. So it’s always kind of…tense when Tyrone is staying with us, because Auntie Eudie and Faulkner butt heads over his…administration.”

“His what?”

“I guess I’ll leave you to it,” Carson announced with one of those bewildering changes of subject. She headed for the staircase. “Now don’t forget about lunch. Jeff is coming.”

Austin froze. “Jeff?” he repeated as though the concept of Jeff was utterly foreign. In some ways that was probably true.

“Sure! You remember Jeff?” She chuckled. “He remembers you.”

What the hell did that mean?

Austin must have had a peculiar expression, because Carson confided, “When I told him you were back, he insisted on coming to lunch. I think he’s partial to Auntie Eudie’s greens. What do you think?”

“So you and Jeff are still seeing each other?”

Carson giggled. “Oh Lordy. I think we’ve seen all there is to see of each other.”

Austin opened his laptop, turned it on. He was angry with himself for asking such a question—and for caring about the answer. One night. That’s all it had been. And he thought these people were crazy?

“Jeff is a PI. Did you know that? Henry Williams hired him to find Dom.” Carson seemed enormously amused at the idea that Jeff had been poking around Ballineen—literally—on a job. Or maybe it still hadn’t occurred to her that Jeff had been using her. Austin swallowed all the things he would have liked to say.

Carson continued up the rickety staircase, calling cheerfully, “I’ll send Tyrone down to you. You just tell him what you want him to do.”

“I honestly don’t need any help.”

“Don’t be silly.”

She trotted away up the stairs.

Overhead, Tyrone the Possible Jailbird Artist and Faulkner the Faithful Family Retainer continued to exchange loud pleasantries. Austin brought up the file with the Ballineen inventory.

He stared unseeingly at the list before him.

It hadn’t totally escaped him that he might run into Jeff, but he’d been fairly sure Ballineen would be a Jeff-free zone since Jeff’s purported main interest in Carson had been her connection to Dom Williams. Austin had even assumed that once that connection was revealed, Jeff wouldn’t be welcome at Ballineen. But he’d got it wrong. Jeff, it seemed, was a regular fixture at the old homestead.

What was up with that he-remembers-you business? Had Jeff told Carson what had passed between them?

No. No, if only because Jeff would never reveal that he’d been to bed with another man.

Austin rubbed his forehead tiredly. He couldn’t deal with this right now. Could not deal with Jeff. It felt as if his whole life was coming apart. If he had to run into Jeff again, he wanted it to be when he was feeling strong and successful and in control, not when he felt like a loser professionally and personally—and with the memory of this last romantic failure vivid in his mind.

Resting his face in his hands, Austin breathed quietly, trying to gather himself for the job ahead. He’d been on the move ever since he walked out of the house in Maryland. Suddenly he was exhausted.

Where do I go from here? For years he’d convinced himself he was building something, achieving something: excelling at a career he found satisfying and rewarding—and maybe even, eventually, earning the respect of the people he loved. Now he discovered that the people he loved didn’t even believe in the validity of his sexual orientation, let alone his career choice. His job was hanging by a thread. In fact, if he had any guts, he’d cut the thread himself. He had failed with Richard; he had failed professionally—

He caught motion out of the corner of his eye. A spider had dropped from the web above him and was crawling over his keyboard. Austin brushed it away, rose, and moved the card table out from under the web. He decided to postpone his breakdown for the comforts of the hotel bar that evening.

A short while later Tyrone arrived downstairs. He was about twenty, tall, and strikingly good-looking, despite the tattoos that covered both arms. He wore baggy, distressed jeans and a white-and-purple WAR GOING ON T-shirt.

“Miz Carson says you need some help down here?”

“I honestly don’t have anything for you to do,” Austin told him. The last thing he wanted was help. He wanted to stay so busy he didn’t have one spare second to think about the all-too-swiftly-approaching lunchtime and the inevitable encounter with Jeff.

Tyrone’s face fell. He’d probably been looking forward to escaping yard work in that humid heat for a while. “I could be a big help to you. I’m a hard worker, sir.”

Austin wasn’t sure he bought the puppy-dog eyes and humble expression, but he relented anyway. It was a huge task, and whether he wanted to admit it or not, he could use help—unless he wanted to spend the next month in the spider-festooned bowels of Ballineen.

“All right. You read me the labels, and I’ll check for them on the inventory list. If they’re not on the main list, we’ll add them to a separate tally sheet.”

“Thank you, suh!” Tyrone said, sounding for an instant like Faulkner at his most ironic.

In the end, Austin’s decision to accept Tyrone’s help was a good move. Not only did it halve the work involved in moving from table to shelves, but Tyrone turned out to be surprisingly charming. He asked a lot of well-founded questions about wine and winemaking, which kept Austin’s mind blessedly occupied.

“You’re an artist. Is that right?” he asked during a rare lull.

Tyrone gave him a cheeky grin. “That’s what Miz Eudie say. She should know.”

“Did you grow up around here?”

Tyrone’s smile faded. “I grew up in Atlanta. My mama used to send me to stay here to keep me out of trouble.”

“Can’t you get into trouble in Madison?”

Tyrone’s smile returned—momentarily sharkish. “If you know where to look, you can.” He picked up the next bottle and read the label.

Austin considered this as he checked the inventory list. He could see Madison might not be the first choice for a streetwise kid from Atlanta, and something told him Faulkner was probably not the most patient guardian for a teenage screwup. Not that Tyrone was a teenager anymore.

“Do you miss Atlanta?”

Tyrone offered another of those wide grins and declined to comment.

Eventually one o’clock rolled around, and Austin’s stomach began to knot with nervous dread. He wondered what would happen if he just kept working and didn’t go upstairs? They couldn’t force him to eat lunch, after all.

“What about this bottle?” Tyrone inquired, holding up a 1959 Hermitage La Chapelle. “Is this a valuable one?”

“That’s about a ten-thousand-dollar bottle of wine,” Austin said carefully. “Don’t drop it.”

“Wow! Ten thousand dollars for a bottle of wine. Looks like the Crazy Cashels are going to be swimming in bread.” Tyrone replaced the bottle with exaggerated care.

“The Crazy Cashels?” Austin inquired curiously. “Is that how people around here think of them?”

“Yeah, but they’re not so bad. You just gotta know how to handle them.” He watched Austin click on the inventory sheet. “You going upstairs?”

“Eventually.” Austin checked the time on his desktop. One twenty. His palms started to perspire. He wiped them on his jeans. Really, what the hell was his problem? He and Jeff had had a nice time together, and that was that. So, okay, yes, he would have liked to see Jeff again, and Jeff had not been averse to that. He had said Austin should call if he was ever in town again.

Yeah, that was the part that hurt. Because Jeff was also not averse to never seeing Austin again.

“When do you think you’re going upstairs?” Tyrone asked a few minutes later. At Austin’s look of inquiry, he said, “I want to know when I should take my dinner break.”

“Sorry, I didn’t think about that. You can go now.” Austin glanced at his desktop. One thirty-five. His heart sank. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

Footsteps thumped down the stairs. Cormac appeared, scowling as usual. “Were you coming up to dinner?” Austin hesitated. Cormac put in, “Or we could just have ours down here and talk?”

Austin glanced at Tyrone, who was smiling to himself as he pulled a comb out of his pocket and ran it across his stick-straight hair.

“I think we’d better go up,” Austin said, pretending not to notice Cormac’s disappointment.

* * * * *

“There you are.” Auntie Eudie greeted them as they entered the dining room. “Mr. Gillespie, you sit right here between me and Cormac.”

Austin self-consciously took his seat next to Cormac and across from Carson. A quick glance placed Jeff on the other side of the table and down one. Jeff looked absolutely unchanged, but then how changed could he be in the space of a month? His green gaze met Austin’s across the brown-and-white china. He offered his heartbreaker smile.

“Hi, Austin. So they sent you back after all.”

“Hi. Yes.”

Auntie Eudie handed Austin a large bowl of some really revolting-looking green mush she referred to as collard greens, and he was able to turn away. He made sure he stayed busy passing salt and pepper and butter and biscuits and anything else he could lay his hands on. But eventually he ran out of busywork, and when he risked a look down the table, Jeff was staring at his plate with a somber expression.

Austin’s phone rang. He apologized, checked it, and saw that the call was from Ernest. The temptation to leave the table and take the call was great, but Austin resisted.

When he glanced up again, Jeff was smiling his way. It was an oddly tentative smile.

Austin smiled politely back.

Roark, who had been eating since Austin entered the room, put his fork down and said grimly, “How much longer is this inventory supposed to take?”

“It’s going to take at least a week merely to count everything,” Austin answered. “Longer to authenticate.”

“Why?”

“You’ve probably got a thousand bottles down there. Everything from two-dollar Charles Shaw to 1959 Hermitage La Chapelle. And not shelved in any particular order that I can see. This isn’t a job you want me to rush through.”

Roark looked unconvinced on that point as he picked up his fork and resumed eating. He glowered at Austin.

A bare foot brushed lightly over Austin’s ankle. He sat up straight. Carson winked at him from across the table.

Faulkner entered the room carrying a carved ham on a platter. He lowered it carefully to the table.

“My, my, doesn’t that smell delicious?” Auntie Eudie murmured. “You’re in for some real down-home Southern cooking, Mr. Gillespie.”

“It smells great.” Austin was confident no morsel of food could possibly wind its way through his digestive tract, given the knots his stomach was in every time he looked at Jeff. Nonetheless, he bravely took some of everything and shoveled it in, washing it down with swallows of toothachingly sweet iced tea.

Afterward he remembered almost nothing of the meal itself or the conversation, although everyone seemed to eat and talk continuously. All his awareness seemed centered on Jeff, who, as far as Austin could tell, was doing his level best to charm the birds off the trees—or more likely, the moths out of the draperies.

At the end of the meal, Roark pushed his chair back and, weaving slightly, announced he had work to do.

Hopefully it was nothing that involved heavy machinery. Austin waited till Roark safely cleared the doorway before saying, “Same here. That was a wonderful lunch, though.”

Carson asked, “Is Tyrone making himself useful?”

“Yes, he is. He’s very helpful.”

“That’s nice. Maybe his last…stay in Atlanta did him some good, bless his heart.”

“That boy is badly misunderstood,” Auntie Eudie murmured, helping herself to another slice of cobbler. “You know, he’s a very talented artist.”

Cormac snorted. “I guess you can call forgery ‘art.’”

“Any sign of the Lee bottles?” Jeff asked, speaking directly to Austin for the first time since he’d greeted him.

“No. Nothing so far.” Austin’s gaze seemed to tangle up in Jeff’s before he was able to look away.

“More iced tea?” Auntie Eudie asked of no one in particular.

Austin shook his head.

* * * * *

Back downstairs, Austin found himself on his own, Tyrone still on lunch break.

He picked up the legal pad and studied it, then walked over to the shelf where they had left off. He picked up the next bottle. A 2008 Sutter Home chenin blanc. From the sublime to the ridiculous. He sighed.

From up above, the cellar-door hinges squeaked loudly, followed by the quick, light tread of someone coming downstairs. Instantly Austin’s neck muscles went so tight he thought he was going to throw his back out. He knew who it was without having to turn, but he turned anyway.

Jeff reached the bottom step, glanced casually around the cellar, and walked up to Austin. He was smiling and seemed perfectly relaxed.

“You didn’t call me.”

“Sorry?”

“When you got in last night. You should have given me a call. I would have made time to get together.”

“I’m flattered.”

Jeff’s blond brows drew together. “Why’s that?”

Austin let it go. “I got in pretty late last night.”

“Oh. Well. What time do you think you’ll be wrapping it up today?”

Illogically, as much as Austin did not want a confrontation, his anger mounted at Jeff’s easy acceptance of the situation between them. He, on the other hand, didn’t even know what the situation was. He said shortly, “I don’t know. I’m going to try and work as late as I can tonight. I want this job done as fast as possible.”

Jeff’s smile faltered, recovered. “How’s the boy genius?”

“What?”

“Your kid brother. Has he adjusted to the idea of boarding school yet?”

“He’s getting there.” Austin stared determinedly at the shelf of wine in front of him.

There was a fresh X on the dusty label of the 1959 Hermitage La Chapelle. Had Tyrone marked the bottle for some reason?

Austin scanned the shelves he and Tyrone had inventoried. There were several bottles with those small X’s. He moved to the shelves they hadn’t got to yet. No X’s in the grime and dust. Were these marked bottles wines Tyrone wanted to learn more about? Was it a coincidence that all the bottles Tyrone had marked were very valuable?

He became aware that the pause following his reply to Jeff was beginning to stretch too long.

Jeff said quietly, “You riled at me about something?”

Riled? No, Deputy Dawg, I’m not riled. Why would I be riled? Austin gave him a steady, direct look. “Me? No.”

Jeff stared at him for a long moment. “Yeah, you are. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He made himself add, “I’ve got a lot to do. That’s all.”

After an astonished second, Jeff said, “Pardon me for taking up your valuable time.”

Austin opened his mouth, but Jeff had already turned and was vanishing back up the stairs.

Chapter Nine

The thunderstorm started around three.

The feeble light overhead flickered, went out, and as Austin reached blindly to steady himself in the inky darkness, flared back on while the old house shook in the wake of a long, booming roll of thunder. The bottles rattled musically on their shelves.

“Crap,” Austin muttered. The power was probably going to go for good any minute, and he was going to have to crawl out of the cellar on his hands and knees.

He waited grimly. The lightbulb swung gently back and forth, throwing eerie shadows.

Austin returned to work, and though the house shook and groaned beneath the storm’s onslaught, the power did not go off for more than a few seconds at a time.

Tyrone finally returned around three o’clock carrying a ghetto blaster. He apologized for taking so long to get back. “Womenfolk,” he said with a wink.

Womenfolk? Did people really still say that? Not in Austin’s neck of the woods. Did people still say neck of the woods?

“I noticed you marked some of the bottles,” Austin commented. “Did you have questions about them?”

Tyrone looked startled and guilty. “No.”

He hadn’t denied marking the bottles, Austin noted. Surely he would have if he was up to something?

They resumed work, picking up where Austin had left off. Tyrone’s ghetto blaster pumped out a frenetic song about bombs over Baghdad.

Tyrone said, “I guess I was just fooling around, not paying attention.”

“Hmmm?”

“When I drew in the dust.”

“Oh sure.”

Tyrone was smiling at him, a bright, guileless grin, but Austin couldn’t help thinking that it had taken him a long time to come up with an explanation. In fact, Austin had forgotten about the X’s until then. He began to puzzle uneasily over Tyrone’s earlier questions and interest.

He was guiltily aware that he might be suspicious simply because he knew Tyrone had a criminal past. And that, of course, could explain why Tyrone was still worrying about the X’s. He was probably used to being everyone’s favorite suspect the minute anything remotely suspicious happened.

Around five o’clock they reached a long line of Madeira. Austin’s heart sped up. This might be it. The wine in the Lee bottles was Madeira. His gaze fell on four empty spaces in a row on the rack.

Four. Just like the Lee bottles.

“Something wrong?” Tyrone asked from right behind him.

“This is odd.” Austin glanced back. Tyrone was staring at him with peculiar intensity. Austin pointed out the four empty slots.

Tyrone shrugged. Austin could smell his perspiration and his musky aftershave. Both of them were very strong up this close. Nerves. Tyrone was nervous. Why?

“The Crazy Cashels like wine with their supper. So what?”

A dead leaf crackled under the sole of Austin’s high-tops. No. Not a dead leaf. A brown and dry cherry blossom. He knelt to pick it up. The cherry blossoms were long gone. This had been tracked inside a month or so ago. The papery petals crumbled in his hand.

Tyrone stared at the blossom and then at Austin. Something flickered in his eyes. Austin’s scalp prickled. He rose quickly, telling himself he wasn’t seeing what he thought he was seeing—it was too unbelievable.

They both jumped at footsteps coming down the stairs. Tyrone was suddenly smiling again, showing that big, wide, goofy smile. He winked at Austin.

“You got company.”

Cormac appeared, looking sleepy and smelling of pot. “You can go,” he told Tyrone arrogantly.

Tyrone glanced at Austin, inviting him to share the joke. He drawled, “Yes, suh, Mistah Cashel, suh!” He sauntered past Cormac and up the stairs.

Cormac glared after him. He turned back to Austin and smiled. “I haven’t had a chance to really talk to you.”

“It’s been a busy day.”

Cormac was still smiling. “But you’re working for us, so we get to say when you can take a break.”

“It’s not quite like that.”

Cormac walked toward him, smiling with foolish affection, his eyes slightly unfocused. He held his arms out as though to hug Austin.

“Not this again,” Austin protested, backing up into the wine racks.

“But why not?”

“Because I’m here to work.”

Cormac’s stuck his bottom lip out in a boyish pout, reminding Austin briefly of Ernest, though Ernest didn’t pout much. He was more about world domination. “So what? You can do both, can’t you?”

“I don’t want to do both,” Austin said, losing patience.

Cormac stopped and placed his hands on his hips. “I don’t understand you!” It was obvious that he was telling the simple truth.

“I thought there was no gay in Georgia,” Austin said bitterly.

Cormac blinked his long lashes, looking more confused than ever.

“Look, I like you,” Austin said patiently, “but I’m not in the mood right now. Why don’t we talk about your stories?”

“How can you not be in the mood?” Cormac confided, “I’m always in the mood. Carson’s always in the mood.”

Uh-oh. “That’s nice, but I really have a lot to do. See all these shelves? Let’s talk about your stories, and then I have to get back to work.”

Cormac wrapped his arms around Austin and thrust gently against him. “Just a quickie.”

“Will you knock it off?” Austin freed himself with less patience. “No. Read my lips.”

Cormac stared at Austin’s mouth intensely and then plastered his own to it.

Somewhere in the distance, Austin heard footsteps pounding down the stairs again.

He pinched Cormac’s arm hard, and Cormac broke contact and yowled into his face like a startled cat.

“Sorry to break this up,” Jeff said coldly, “but there’s a tornado warning.”

“There’s always a tornado warning,” Cormac said irritably.

Jeff was staring at Austin as though Austin had crawled out from behind the shelves with the other insects.

Austin stared stonily back. Jeff had one hell of a nerve disapproving of anything he did.

“Why are you here all the time, anyway?” Cormac demanded of Jeff.

Jeff gave him a level look and said nothing.

A few seconds later Auntie Eudie and Carson came trooping downstairs, followed by Faulkner. They carried blankets, pillows, and an assortment of books, flashlights, and candles. Faulkner, freighting a picnic basket, closed the door behind them.

It began to look like they were preparing for a state of siege, seeming to take the tornado warning seriously. That was a surprise. Maybe Ballineen was truly in the twister’s path. That was pretty much the way Austin’s luck was running these days. In fact, at this point, getting blown away by a tornado might be an improvement.

“Isn’t Mr. Cashel coming downstairs?” Austin asked.

“Daddy won’t come down to the cellar,” Carson told him. “He says a true Southern gentleman never acknowledges fear.”

Cormac put in sardonically, “Plus he’d be in more danger trying to negotiate the stairs than he is up there.”

Faulkner switched the CD player on Tyrone’s ghetto blaster to the radio. A newscaster announced, “If you can hear my voice, you are in the tornado-warning area.”

“Tyrone just left here about ten minutes ago,” Austin said.

Faulkner said stiffly, “Tyrone can look after himself.”

“Don’t you worry. We’ll hear him if he bangs on the storm doors,” Auntie Eudie reassured him.

Austin watched them find folding chairs and set them up. Faulkner dug out a cobwebbed kerosene lantern and lit it. They seemed to have it down to a science.

“How long is the tornado warning likely to last?”

“Just depends.” Carson pulled out a deck of cards and began to shuffle them. “Strip poker?” she suggested to Jeff.

Jeff grinned lazily and joined her at the card table.

“Want to play cards, Mr. Gillespie?” Carson inquired.

“I’m going to try to work as long the light holds out.” He added doubtfully, “Will the light hold out?”

“Sure it will,” Jeff said. “Unless we actually get hit by the tornado.” His gaze glittered wickedly in the gloomy light.

Auntie Eudie took out her knitting, and Faulkner fiddled with the dials on the ghetto blaster. Austin continued to work, trying to ignore the flirtatious background conversation between Jeff and Carson. He was unhappily aware that beneath the teasing banter, Jeff was angry—angry with him—and that there was an underlying message for Austin in many of his comments. Even if Austin couldn’t figure out what the message was.

“You want your laptop turned off?” Jeff asked Austin as Carson began to deal cards. “You don’t want to take a chance of it getting zapped or knocked off this table. Your whole life is in there.”

“Just what do you plan on doing on this table, Jefferson?” Carson murmured.

Austin crossed to the table and powered down his laptop, acutely conscious of Jeff—the fine blond hairs on his tanned forearm, the gold-tipped eyelashes concealing his gaze, the hint of men’s fragrance—bergamot, citrus, basil, mint, and something else. Something intrinsically Jeff.

Jeff ignored him. With the lid closed on his laptop, Austin moved back to the safety of the wine racks.

If he looked at the situation dispassionately, it was sort of strange how much…energy and emotion there was between him and Jeff. They had only spent one night together, after all. Yet he had spent a month trying not to think about Jeff and getting angry because Jeff could apparently not think about him—and here Jeff was angry because Austin didn’t want to pick up where they had left off.

Cormac came to join him. “Can I help you?”

“Sure. If you read the labels, I’ll write them down on this pad.”

For a time they worked together, and Austin was able to tune out Jeff and Carson’s chatter.

“What’s so special about wine, anyway?” Cormac asked. “It’s just booze.”

“It’s not just booze,” Austin argued. “From the beginning, wine has possessed symbolic and spiritual significance. It’s a communion between man and nature. It links centuries and generations.”

“How many wines do you taste in a wine tasting?” Carson asked from the table.

“Usually not more than fifty. It’s hard to keep clarity of palate after that.”

“Clarity of anything, I’d say. You must get drunk as a skunk!”

“He doesn’t inhale,” Jeff drawled, and Carson giggled.

“What’s the best wine you ever had?” Cormac asked.

“I can’t really say. It’s not like that. Every wine is different and…mutable.”

Austin fully expected Cormac to guffaw, but he continued to watch him with that intense, scowling expression. “Wine changes all the time. Every day makes a difference in the life of a grape. Once the wine is bottled, it continues to mature. Even after it’s opened, it continues to interact with air and sunlight and glass. Seven different glasses means seven different tastes of wine.”

“So some of these old wines are still good to drink? They wouldn’t just be for collecting?”

“Some of these wines would be great to drink,” Austin told him. “I would love to drink some of these old wines. I had an 1864 Angelica a few years back that was produced during the Civil War, and it was amazing. Very aromatic. It tasted of raisins and walnuts. Very sweet with a long and flavorful finish. One of the best wines I can remember was an 1870 Château Montrose. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like drinking history.”

“I’d rather create history. That’s what writing is.” Cormac was regarding him with that severe, blazing look that always made Austin uncomfortable.

“Corrie, honey, why don’t you come over here and tell us one of your stories to help while away the time,” Auntie Eudie instructed.

Cormac replaced the bottle he was holding and walked over to sit on the stairs. Without any self-consciousness, he began to recite a story about a boy who set out to build a secret campfire to roast marshmallows and accidentally burned down the family barn.

Listening, Austin remembered that he still needed to talk to Cormac about his stories. He wasn’t sure Cormac was going to like what he had to say, but it needed to be said nonetheless. He glanced around the cellar. Auntie Eudie was smiling contentedly to herself as she knit her fake fox fur. Faulkner had found some sweet potatoes, and he was peeling them. The sharp penknife he used scraped steadily, the small sound lost beneath the static of the radio and the creaking timbers overhead. Faulkner’s rather ascetic face was without expression, but every so often his dark gaze would rest on Cormac.

Austin tried to analyze the complex emotions he read in the old man’s face. There was a gleam of satirical amusement, but there was tolerance too and what appeared to be genuine affection. It seemed strange that Faulkner might truly care for the Cashels. Might be able to find tolerant affection for them, when he seemed to have scant for his own great-nephew. People were confusing and contradictory.

Austin’s gaze roved to Carson, who was now playing solitaire. He liked Carson. She was a kook, but there was something direct and uncomplicated about her. In a weird way he found her more attractive than Cormac, even though Cormac was male. But then for all her flirtatiousness, there was something about Carson that reminded Austin of a playful boy.

He thought about Jeff’s comment that sex was sex. He couldn’t believe Jeff really meant that. Granted, Austin had never been with a woman. Never had any desire that he could recall. Inevitably that reminded him of his father’s charge that he’d chosen to be gay.

That was still too raw to examine closely. Instead he looked around for Jeff. He had finished playing cards, it seemed, and was leaning against the wall, watching Austin.

Meeting Austin’s eyes seemed to be his cue. He pushed away from the wall and joined Austin by the shelves.

“Any sign of those Lee bottles?” He kept his voice low so as to not disturb Cormac’s storytelling.

Austin discovered that he was relieved with a cessation in hostilities. He didn’t really want to fight with Jeff. For one thing, it wasn’t going to solve anything, and it wasn’t going to heal the pain of rejection. So why not accept what Jeff could offer, which was a very casual friendship with benefits?

“Not exactly. I did find something I wanted to show you.” In the excitement of the tornado watch, Austin had briefly forgotten those bizarre moments when he had thought Tyrone might not at all be who he seemed. When Tyrone had seemed almost…dangerous.

He showed Jeff the rack with the four empty cradles and the surrounding bottles of Madeira.

“Not that there’s any rhyme or reason to the way this cellar is organized, but it would make sense to store the Madeiras together. And there’s this.” He pulled what was left of the dried cherry blossom out of his pocket.

Jeff’s brows rose. “I’m deeply flattered you want to share your crushed potato chips with me, but—”

“They’re not potato chips. It’s what’s left of a cherry blossom. When I was here in March, the cherry blossoms were still covering the ground. It’s possible that this gives a reference point for when these four bottles were removed.”

Jeff considered this. He said neutrally, “Maybe. That doesn’t mean the four bottles that were here were the Lee bottles. It doesn’t mean that the four bottles that were here weren’t removed and drunk at dinner one night. The fact that someone tracked a cherry blossom inside isn’t exactly conclusive.”

He took the crumpled blossom from Austin, his fingers warm against Austin’s bare skin. Jeff glanced at the Cashels. “All the same, keep this quiet for now.”

“There’s something else.”

Jeff’s gaze seemed to linger on Austin’s face, but his words were matter-of-fact. “Go on.”

“Tyrone, Faulkner’s nephew, was marking some of the more expensive bottles we inventoried this morning. I was with him when I found this, and for a couple of seconds…”

“What?”

“I’m not sure. I thought he—this is going to sound ridiculous—I thought he was going to hit me. Or maybe…worse.”

Jeff stood motionless. He could have been turned to stone. “That kid’s got a rap sheet longer than US 80—including assault and battery.”

Assault and battery? Maybe he hadn’t imagined the menace in Tyrone’s eyes. Austin asked uneasily, “Was Williams’s death an accident?”

“Hell no.” Jeff’s voice was almost inaudible. “His car was found with the keys in it in the parking lot at Old Plantation House. No way did he walk out here on his own.”

“What was he doing out here at all?”

Jeff smiled wryly. “Personally? I think he was looking for your Lee bottles.”

“But how would he know they were here?”

“Because I think he sold them to old Dermot Cashel in the first place. Henrietta Williams asked me to investigate her husband’s death, and one of the first things I found out was Williams was involved in buying and selling vintage wines—and not, according to some people—always the real deal.”

Wine fraud. It was increasingly rampant. Some experts believed as much as 5 percent of wine sold in secondary markets was counterfeit.

Austin gazed at the towering shelves, the racks of green and amber bottles with their gilded and ornate labels beneath the velvety veil of dust. “Do you have proof of that?”

“Yeah. I do. Now we’re trying to figure out who would have been Williams’s partner in that lucrative sideline.”

“You think this partner killed Williams?”

“It’s one possibility.”

“Could this partner be one of the Cashels?”

“That’s also a possibility.”

Austin’s gaze got caught up in Jeff’s. He couldn’t seem to look away.

“What are you two whispering about over there?” Carson called.

Jeff turned away abruptly. Austin felt a jab of disappointment. But that was how it was always going to be with Jeff—assuming there was anything with Jeff at all—so he needed to get used to it.

“We could open a bottle of wine,” Cormac said, having finished his storytelling stint.

Austin kept his mouth shut, but it wasn’t easy.

Jeff said easily, “I believe Austin would fight to protect this wine to his last breath.”

The others laughed.

“Some things are worth fighting for,” Austin said.

The lights flickered again and went out.

Austin had that tilting sense of disorientation. On the other side of the cellar, he could hear Faulkner soothing the Cashels. Jeff put his hands on Austin’s shoulders, turning him. Austin went with it. Just the feel of Jeff’s hands resting lightly on him sent a blaze of awareness through him, as though his longing for Jeff were something constant, often banked down but always smoldering.

Unerringly, despite the almost complete absence of light, Jeff’s mouth landed on Austin’s. Until that instant Austin hadn’t realized how desperately he had wanted it, wanted to taste Jeff again, wanted his kisses. One of the major erogenous zones, lips; and no wonder, because there was something indescribably satisfying about the soft pressure of a man’s hard mouth moving on his own.

“Austin.” Jeff sounded like he was in pain.

Their mouths lingered dangerously, parted a split second before the faded light winked on.

Jeff was walking back to the card table before Austin had regained his balance.

* * * * *

At nine o’clock the radio announcer cheerfully conveyed the all clear.

“It’s too late to drive back to Madison now,” Auntie Eudie told Austin kindly. “You stay the night, honey. We got plenty of room.”

No way in hell—no way in God’s Little Acre—was he spending the night. Never mind the hours he’d already spent listening to tornado horror stories and histories of the Cashels’ and their friends’ and neighbors’ most gruesome illnesses, and the insanity that was these people’s political opinions. No way could he spend the night under the same roof as Jeff, knowing how Jeff and Carson would be passing the time.

“Thanks so much, but I’ve really got to get back.” Austin clutched his belongings as though he feared they would be forcibly taken from him as he headed for the front door. He could hear the Cashels protesting behind him. “I’ll be back tomorrow first thing,” he called without slowing down.

He opened the door and saw a fantasy landscape of trees bent nearly in half and rain coming down in glinting sheets. A large empty plastic bag for topsoil swooped past like a grubby ghost in the deluge of rain and wind. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see Margaret Hamilton fly by pedaling her bicycle.

“You can’t drive in this,” Carson protested, joining him at the door. “Even if you knew these roads, it would be crazy dangerous. Sleep here tonight. You may as well. Look at it this way: you can get an earlier start tomorrow.”

He shook his head stubbornly, although even he knew she was right. There was no way he was driving anywhere tonight.

“Why, I’m beginning to think you’re afraid of us, Austin,” Carson teased. “Now you come back in here, and I promise I’ll keep the colonel from interrupting your sweet dreams tonight.”

Fifteen minutes later he was in a large room on the second floor, holding a stack of much laundered towels and an extra wool blanket to “help keep the drafts out.”

The room had old-fashioned green-and-blue wallpaper. Two of the windows were missing blinds. There was a rummage sale’s worth of broken antiques, including a shaving stand with a cracked mirror and a small butter churn. Whatever the heck the Cashels did with butter in the bedroom, he did not want to know.

The lock on the bedroom door was broken.

Austin sat on the edge of the bed, sinking about a foot into the swamp of a mattress, and checked his phone messages.

In addition to Ernest’s earlier message, there were four messages from the direct house line in Frederick. It was hard to believe Harrison would be calling. For one thing, he didn’t believe in apologizing; and for another, he would not believe himself in the wrong. Austin pressed to retrieve the messages and got a low-battery warning. And his phone charger was in the rental car.

The windows rattled in a blast of wet wind.

Whatever Ernest or whoever was calling him wanted, it was just going to have to wait till morning.

He put his phone away and spread the extra wool blanket over the bed. He hoped the sheets had been washed in the last decade. He hoped he would not be sharing a bunk with spiders.

There was a tap on the bedroom door.

Jeff stood in the hallway. His face was grim.

“I want to talk to you.”

Austin stepped back, and Jeff entered, closing the door behind him. “I know there are things worth fighting for.” He kept his voice down, but he was angry all the same. “You don’t have the right to stand in judgment.”

“Fine. Agreed. I don’t have the right.” Austin reached for the door handle. “Was that it?”

Jeff’s eyes were dark with emotion. “What is the matter with you?”

“You know what the matter is with me.”

Jeff’s gaze fell. “Naw. Now you’re being… It doesn’t work like this, Austin.”

“I know,” Austin said tersely. “I get it. For you, it was just sex. For me, I don’t know why, but somehow it turned into something different. I don’t know why, but…it did.”

“Naw.” Jeff tried to take him into his arms. “Don’t do this. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“How does it have to be, Jeff?”

A muscle jerked in Jeff’s jaw. “You’re asking for something I can’t give you.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, you goddamned well are.”

“Jeff, what do you want me to say? I understand it was just sex for you, and I’m not asking for anything—except that you leave me alone so I can get over it.”

“Get over it,” Jeff repeated in amazement. “What are you getting over? You can’t seriously think you’re—”

“Jeff. Will you please leave me a little dignity here? Go away.”

“Austin.” Jeff looked stricken. He pulled Austin closer, and Austin remembered that first shared hug in his hotel room. The comfort of simply being held, of being genuinely cared for. But that was an illusion. Even if Jeff did care for him on some level, no way was he going to acknowledge, let alone act on those feelings. He had made that just as clear as he could.

Jeff was talking, his voice rough and uneven. “I don’t mean to hurt you, sweetheart. I didn’t want this.”

Sweetheart. Well, at least it was an improvement over the honeys they all bestowed indiscriminately on each other. Jeff’s lips brushed his temple. So gentle. Almost cherishingly. Austin closed his eyes. Who was he kidding? Of course he wanted this. Want blazed through his bloodstream like a high fever, something that would either run its course and leave him wrung out and empty, but once more cool and sane—or kill him. Either way, there wasn’t any denying how urgently he wanted Jeff.

One last time.

The door swung open. Jeff dropped Austin like a hot potato.

“What’s going on here?” Cormac demanded, looking from Jeff to Austin.

“Did you ever hear of knocking?” Jeff blustered.

Cormac bristled. “It’s my house.”

“It’s his guest room.” Jeff jerked his head Austin’s way.

“Would you both go away?” Austin requested wearily. “It’s been a really long day.”

Jeff hesitated.

“You heard him,” Cormac said imperiously.

Jeff shook his head, clearly longing to pop Cormac, but in the end he settled for shooting Austin a long, unreadable look before walking out.

“What was he up to?” Cormac asked suspiciously, closing the door behind Jeff.

“Nothing. Look, I wanted to talk to you.” As Cormac brightened, Austin amended quickly, “About your stories.”

“Oh.” Cormac looked watchful.

“They weren’t exactly my kind of thing, to tell you the truth, but I still thought they were really well written and…powerful. So—and here’s the part that you might not like—I asked a friend of mine in publishing to take a look at them.”

Cormac seemed to draw himself up to his full height. His scowl went blacker than ever. “I didn’t give you permission to do that. I don’t care what any damn publisher thinks of my work.”

“I know. I apologize. But my opinion isn’t worth a lot. I thought it would be better to show them to someone who knows books and writing. If Gary had said they were no good, I wouldn’t have said anything, but he thinks they’re excellent. He thinks they’re publishable.”

The rage drained out of Cormac’s face. He said faintly, “He does?”

“He does, yeah. And if you give me permission to let him have your contact information, he’s going to discuss it with you himself.”

“He’s going to publish me?”

“You have to talk to him yourself, but…that’s how it sounds to me.”

Cormac was smiling with an unlikely, startled sweetness. “Really?”

“Really. So I guess I can give him your information?”

“Hell yeah!”

Austin grinned wearily. “Then that’s turned out okay. Thank God.” He swallowed a yawn. “No offense, but I’ve got to get some sleep or I’m going to start hallucinating. In fact, I think I may already be hallucinating.”

A calculating look came over Cormac’s face. “I was just thinking—”

“No. No. No.”

“But you don’t know what I’m going to say.”

“You’re going to say you want to have sex with me.”

Cormac smiled again. “See? You’re thinking it too!”

Austin laughed and held open the door. “Good night, Cormac. Sweet dreams.”

He shut the door and looked for a likely chair to prop beneath the handle, but the room’s only chair was too short. Anyway, who was left? Carson would be occupied with Jeff, and Auntie Eudie was unlikely to be feeling that frisky.

Austin gave it up and climbed into the raised bed, not putting up a fight as the sagging mattress tried to swallow him whole.

He was dozing, dreamily counting wine bottles while ably assisted by the colonel, when the bedroom door opened quickly and shut again.

Austin’s eyes flashed open. He raised his head. Even in the darkness he recognized Jeff, but his nostrils twitched at a second presence. Green-apple shampoo and…Carson.

“Crap.” He sat up as a weight lowered next to his feet. The other side of the lumpy mattress dipped, and a slender, warm someone snuggled next to him. Austin scooted away, reaching for the lamp.

“Surprise!” Carson smiled broadly in the green-gold glow of the Tiffany lamp. Jeff was positioned at the foot of the bed. Austin thought his expression watchful.

“What is the matter with you people?” Austin demanded, and it wasn’t a rhetorical question.

“Awww.” Carson pouted. “Jeff said you needed cheering up, honey.”

“Oh, did he?”

Meeting Austin’s hostile gaze, Jeff said silkily, “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

“I don’t need to try it to know it’s not for me.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“What are you afraid of?”

“Now don’t be like that, Austin honey,” Carson said, nestling closer still. Her breasts pressed softly against his arm. “Jeff’s trying to do a nice thing for you.”

Austin snorted.

“Don’t you like me?” Carson asked, genuinely curious.

“Yeah, I like you.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “That doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Well, it ought to.” She nibbled delicately on his ear; there was no denying the response that shot right to his groin.

Jeff said, “Come on. You can’t tell me you’re not curious.”

No, he couldn’t tell Jeff that. He was curious. Not to experience it himself so much—although there was no question that Harrison’s suggestion that Austin’s sexuality was preference and not orientation was in play—but to see, to understand what Jeff got out of it. Jeff was smiling at him, teasing and affectionate, as though it were no big deal, just a bit of harmless fun. And the terrible part was Austin wanted Jeff badly enough one last time to take him any way he could get him, even if it meant something as outlandish as ménage à trois, or whatever they called it down South.

Jeff continued to smile that killer smile, but Austin thought there was a dangerous glitter in those green eyes.

“What’s the worst that can happen? You might find you like it?” Jeff’s voice went lower, rougher. “I dare you.”

Carson kissed his shoulder, looking from one man to the other.

Jeff held out his hand. After a tense moment, Austin reached to lace fingers and let himself be drawn forward.

Chapter Ten

“Oh, Jeff, honey…”

The surprise—the thing Austin had not expected—was that it was a turn-on to watch Jeff with Carson. Kneeling next to the headboard, Austin found his hand going to his aching groin as Carson moaned, undulating her hips, and Jeff thrust up beneath her. That too had surprised Austin—that Jeff let Carson set the pace. He had expected Jeff to have some very old-fashioned notions there, but no. Jeff was smiling and relaxed as Carson climbed on top. They were beautiful to see: Jeff, all lean and sun-gilded muscle, and Carson slim and lithe as a boy, except for those plump, dovelike breasts that Jeff took such pains to squeeze and stroke while he shoved his hips up in a smooth rolling motion.

It was a turn-on, but it was a lonely titillation, like watching a well-made porn flick—possibly one in a foreign language.

Carson’s head fell back, her black curls tumbling down her back and over her shoulders as she mewled her pleasure. She was quite lovely in her lack of inhibition, her frank enjoyment and freedom from self-consciousness. Austin was by far the most self-conscious person in that sinking raft of a bed. Huck Finn on a sexual odyssey. But it was all right; they seemed to have forgotten he was there anyway. He was glad of that. He was ashamed for having given in to what amounted to peer pressure. At his age too.

Austin bit his lip as his hand closed around his painfully stiff cock. He gave himself a comforting couple of tugs, unable to tear his eyes away. Jeff’s blond head thrust back on the pillow. His muscular chest arched up, and he flung out his arm, his hand landing on Austin’s thigh. Austin nearly jumped out of his skin, but then he stilled as Jeff began to caress him, gently kneading Austin’s rigid muscles. He was thinking that perhaps it was unconscious on Jeff’s part, just an automatic reflex, but Jeff’s gold-tipped lashes lifted, and he shot Austin a strange gleaming look.

What did that look mean?

“Still there?” Jeff asked huskily.

Austin made a noise that was part assent and part denial. He was there in body certainly. His hand worked more urgently on his cock while Jeff’s fingers stroked him, soothed as though he knew that pained and unwilling excitement too well.

With his free hand, Jeff reached up and rubbed the pad of his thumb against the nub of Carson’s clitoris. She cried out and came with a convulsive shudder. Austin pumped himself frantically while Jeff told her what a great girl she was and murmured a lot of sweet nonsense, and then he said, “Now it’s Austin’s turn.”

Carson raised her head and smiled at Austin, and every muscle in Austin’s body locked so tight he actually banged against the headboard. Astonishingly, the other two didn’t laugh. Carson raised off Jeff’s still-massive erection and padded on hands and knees toward him like a friendly lioness. Jeff sat up too, reaching out a welcoming hand.

Austin’s mouth opened, but the words seemed to have dried in his throat. What could he have said? I don’t want this? The now-painful erection between his legs gave the lie to that. But that was sex, and in that Jeff had been correct. Sex was sex. Which didn’t change the fact that Austin’s aching heart did not want this, no matter how much his aching body did.

The body won, as the body generally did. He let himself be coaxed from the safety of his vantage point, let them draw him into the nest of pillows and bedding, settling him in a comfortable tangle of stroking hands and tender mouths.

He’d never experienced anything remotely like it. It was bewilderingly, terrifyingly intense. He felt overwhelmed. He couldn’t keep track of who was doing what to him. Someone lightly squeezed the fragile sac of his testicles, someone else gently, gently bit on his nipple, and he was shocked at how much he wanted both to be Jeff. What did it matter who it was if the sensation was sufficiently enjoyable?

Somehow it did, so he kept his eyes closed and believed it was Jeff flicking the tip of his tongue against the point of Austin’s nipple and Jeff’s square hand cupping his balls.

“Shhh, shhh,” Carson was murmuring, maybe misreading the fact that he was shivering—or maybe reading it correctly, because Austin felt like he was experiencing some kind of sensory overload. Her small mouth closed over the head of his cock. She was practiced and committed, and it felt very good—not like it had when Jeff had sucked him, but still very good. Austin let his thighs fall wide and instinctively pushed up into the sweet, tight warmth of her. He heard himself moaning, and he opened his eyes in surprise in time to see Jeff climbing into position behind her.

Jeff’s eyes were fastened on his, his face absorbed, serious.

Austin swallowed hard, unable to read that look, unable to think past the distracting pleasure delivered by Carson’s inspired mouth.

Still holding Austin’s gaze, Jeff began to fuck Carson from behind, slow and deliberate. It was startling to see her face, to see the mobile, fleeting expressions, and it was a disappointment, because for all that he liked her and appreciated what she was trying to do for him, Austin didn’t want to watch Jeff fucking Carson.

He closed his eyes again, focusing only on the physical feelings, and he heard Carson panting and felt the luscious slide as she sucked all the harder and more lovingly on his cock, and the sweet feeling surged through him. Carson’s body acted as a lightning rod between them. The flash point.

Lost in sensation though he was, he felt the moment that her second orgasm caught her, felt her throat contract, felt her shudder. Austin shuddered in instinctive response.

“Austin,” Jeff said urgently. “Open your eyes.” Austin recognized distantly that Jeff felt himself shut out, that he needed the connection between them, but if that had been the case, why had he brought Carson into their bed? Jeff had set the parameters.

Hazily, beneath half-closed eyelids, Austin saw Carson master herself, saw her thrust her middle finger into her mouth, withdraw it wet and shining, and feel for the place between the crack of his ass.

“Wait.” He gasped.

The next instant she slipped into his anus, pushed and pressed with unholy knowledge. Something fluttered wildly inside Austin and tore apart. The orgasm that ripped through him was more like a convulsion or a seizure than recognizable pleasure. The sound bursting out of him was close to a shriek of pain, although he was not hurt. It was a pleasure so intense and unexpected it was almost sickening, like the sudden dip of a roller coaster. Too fast, too hard. He was shaking. Through blurred eyes, he saw Jeff reach past Carson, offering his hands.

“It’s all right. You’re all right.”

Austin curled away, ignoring him. He was on his own in this; he always had been.

However oblivious Jeff was, he seemed to understand finally that this had been too much. He was climbing over Carson, gathering Austin close, his own erection wilting as he settled them together.

He was whispering something. “Sorry. Sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean for it to happen like that.” A near-inaudible thread of apology.

Carson was murmuring her confusion. “Doesn’t he like it? But everybody likes it…”

Austin shoved Jeff away, but he hadn’t heart or energy to fight, and Jeff was determined to hang on until the last throb and twitch of electricity faded out and went dark. Gradually Austin caught his breath. It was sticky and uncomfortable, and there were too many people in his bed. Maybe he could find an empty sofa and spend the rest of the night there. In a minute. He closed his eyes.

After a time, he was aware the lights were out and that Jeff was dragging blankets up and tucking them around him.

He closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.

* * * * *

He woke warmly cocooned in blankets. Alone.

That was the good news: alone.

For a few minutes Austin lay blinking at the ceiling. It was raining. He could hear the whisper of water on glass, feel the draft from the weakened window seals, smell the rising damp and mildew.

Depression unlike anything he’d known in his adult life swamped him. He thought he would sink beneath it.

Instead, he rose and began to dress.

Someone tapped on his door. He ignored it. The door inched open. Jeff poked his head in. His eyes narrowed when he saw Austin was awake and nearly dressed.

“I didn’t think you’d be awake so early.”

“Yeah. Well.” Austin’s voice was husky. It was an effort to get the two words out.

“How’re you feeling?”

Austin looked at Jeff. On the nightstand he found his watch and snapped it onto his wrist.

Jeff slipped inside the room, then closed the door behind him. For a few moments he watched Austin. Austin ignored him.

“Okay. I’m sorry.” Jeff’s voice was edged. “It was a bad idea. You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy any of it, though. I was here, remember?”

“I remember.”

Austin turned away, and Jeff crossed the room and grabbed his shoulders, turning him. “All right. Go on. Say it. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. I’m a shit.”

“Then I don’t need to say it, do I?”

Jeff let him go. He looked like Austin had slapped him. “That’s it?”

Austin said drily, “Did you want to talk about it?”

Jeff seemed at a loss for words. He said at last, “What I want is to apologize. I’m sorry, Austin. Very sorry.”

“You said that. I believe you.”

“I don’t understand. What is it that you want?”

“Not a thing.”

“You enjoyed it,” Jeff insisted. “Why the hell wouldn’t you enjoy it? Can’t you concede that much?”

Wearily, Austin said, “I can concede that some of it felt good. I can concede that you’re right. Sex is sex. We’re talking about two different things, Jeff. You’re talking about sex, and I was talking about…a connection. An emotional connection.”

Reading Jeff’s instantly closed expression, Austin added, “And that’s what last night was really about: ending the possibility of anything between us.”

“That wasn’t—” Jeff’s voice gave out. Or maybe not, because he finished steadily enough. “No. You’re wrong about that. I don’t want that. But it’s not realistic—what you want.”

“You don’t know what I want. Hell, you don’t know what you want.”

Jeff seemed to struggle inwardly. He said at last, “I know that I don’t want to hurt you. And I swear to God that was not my intention last night. I wanted to make a point, I admit that. You pissed me off with that holier-than-thou attitude.”

Austin opened his mouth. Jeff cut in. “But it was an idiot point, and I’m an idiot for trying to make it. Can we… I don’t know. Can we…” Jeff drew a deep breath. “Can we maybe start over?”

It was the last thing he’d expected to hear. Austin pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. After a few seconds, he lowered his hands. “Has anything changed? I mean, other than the fact that you’re sorry about last night?”

The confusion on Jeff’s face was almost painful to see. “I…care about you. I can’t… I don’t know that I can do what you want. You’re asking… I don’t think you realize what you’re asking. But I can try to… We could try it one step at a time.”

“How?”

Jeff continued to stare at him with that hungry, frustrated look.

“Maybe if we didn’t live seven hundred miles apart,” Austin said. “But it’s going to be hard for me to keep coming up with excuses for flying down here just to see my good fishing buddy. Even if I fished.”

Austin waited, but Jeff seemed to have no answer, so eventually he moved past him and went out, leaving the door to the bedroom standing open.

* * * * *

Back at his hotel, Austin plugged his phone into the charger, showered, and changed into clean jeans and a fresh T-shirt.

He sat down to check his e-mail, knowing he should probably use the time to try to grab some breakfast. He really wasn’t hungry, and the sooner he got back to Ballineen and finished the appraisal, the sooner he could get home and start putting the memory of Jeff behind him.

That was the only option he could see. As much as it was going to hurt, it would hurt about a thousand times worse if he let this thing go any further. Regardless of what Jeff told himself, he was not ready to compromise, and there was no way the tentative relationship budding between them could survive without Jeff making the first concession.

Besides, if he was honest, Austin was still angry about the night before. He accepted that Jeff was sorry, but he resented the fact that he’d been manipulated, used. It would be one thing if he could convince himself that last night had been about Jeff merely, misguidedly, trying to share a sexual adventure. But they both knew that wasn’t true. Last night, first and foremost, Jeff had been trying to prove something to Jeff.

What?

That sex with Austin had been meaningless? That it had meant no more and no less than sex with Carson?

That all sex was essentially the same?

That if Austin could experience sex the way Jeff did, Austin would give up his foolish and disturbing notion that something special had happened between them?

All of the above?

None of the above?

It took a while for the knocking on his door to register. Austin went to answer the peremptory summons, and Jeff pushed into the room. His eyes looked almost black in his white face.

“Okay, that didn’t go so well. Let me try this again.”

Austin had not anticipated this; he wasn’t happy about it either. “Jeff—”

Jeff shook his head, negating whatever Austin was trying to say. “Why don’t we do it like this: what do you want from me?”

“Nothing. I’ve already told you. Nothing.”

Jeff said shortly, “Now you’re not being honest.”

Austin started to speak, but Jeff was right. Besides, what did he have to lose at this point? He said slowly, “I have feelings for you. I’d like a chance to explore them. See if there’s a chance that there could be more.”

“Me too.”

“You know what I think,” Austin said as the memory of the night before came rushing back. “I think you resent the fact that I’ve made you consider—seriously consider—that you’re closing yourself off from what you really want and what you really need.”

Jeff interrupted forcefully. “I said me too!”

Austin stared as Jeff’s words registered. Jeff agreed? Now that he had truly not seen coming. “What? You think we could have some kind of long-distance relationship?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think you could just pick up and move to Washington DC?”

“Yeah, right!” Jeff glared. “My family has lived in these parts for over two hundred and fifty years.”

But wasn’t that the point? That Jeff could never live openly as a gay man in the town where generations of Bradys had been born and died? What compromise would be possible? Yet to his astonishment, Austin heard himself say, “What if I moved here?”

Jeff said, “Would you do that?”

“I…don’t know. I may be leaving my job. It’s a possibility.”

Jeff just stared. Longing and apprehension seemed to war in his eyes.

Austin’s hope died. “It wouldn’t work, would it? It would be the same problem we have now. You don’t want to accept or even acknowledge that you’re gay.”

The G word. For an instant he thought Jeff was going to tell him to shut up again, but though a muscle jerked in Jeff’s jaw, he said nothing.

The phone rang. Not his cell phone, the hotel phone. Austin automatically picked it up. Jeff went to the window and stared out at the rain-wet park, the line of his wide shoulders uncompromising and tense.

“Where have you been?” Debra cried. “We’ve been trying to reach you since last night! Why haven’t you picked up your messages?”

“There was a storm. I—”

“Austin…” He realized then that she was crying. “Harrison’s gone.”

“Gone?” he repeated stupidly.

“It happened last night. We tried to call you. We called and called.”

“But he can’t be. He was fine.” Dimly, he was aware that Jeff had turned, was coming over to him. “That can’t be right.”

“It was a massive heart attack.”

“No.”

“They tried to resuscitate him at the hospital, but…” Debra’s voice died out, and he thought she was crying again.

Austin protested, “But that can’t be right. He just had his birthday. He was fine.”

Debra was still talking. He tried to make himself concentrate on the words. He kept thinking that he must be dreaming. “You have to come back. Now,” she said at last.

“Yes. I’m on my way.”

Numbly, he replaced the handset. He stared blankly at Jeff’s face. What had they been talking about? Jeff looked so serious and concerned. He took Austin into his arms as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and for some reason that was the last straw.

Jeff held him while he cried. He stroked Austin and squeezed the back of his neck and didn’t try to hush him or tell him it would be all right. He didn’t say much of anything at all except an occasional murmured “Austin.”

Afterward, when Austin had control of himself again, Jeff was helpful and businesslike, getting Austin booked on a small plane out of Madison Municipal and then rearranging his flight to and from Atlanta. He helped Austin pack and promised to let the Cashels know what was going on.

He drove Austin to the airport and saw him safely to the airfield.

“Fly safe,” he told Austin and hugged him—albeit briefly—right there in the bright Georgia sunlight.

Austin nodded. He felt nothing. He felt instinctively that it was the last time they would meet, but even that pain felt removed, remote. One more weight on a heart that already felt like lead. “Bye, Jeff. Take care of yourself.”

He turned away, but Jeff said urgently, “When you come back, we’ll work it out. I promise you.”

Work it out? He remembered their conversation in the hotel room. It seemed a thousand years ago. Nothing to do with real life. In any case, he wasn’t coming back. Not ever. Someone else could do the appraisal, or the fucking cellar could rot. He just didn’t care anymore. Austin smiled politely and went up the portable stairs.

As the plane lifted, he could see Jeff’s figure grow smaller and smaller, a white dot on the green of the landing field that eventually blended in with the other dots and vanished.

Chapter Eleven

The lilacs were in bloom.

Austin could smell their cool fragrance as he came down the brick steps of the house in Frederick. He’d spent the afternoon with Ernest—or maybe Ernest had spent the afternoon with him. Sometimes Austin wasn’t sure who was supposed to be comforting whom during these long, terrible three weeks since Harrison’s death. Either way, leaving Martyn, North, & Compeau had given Austin time to spend with his little brother—time they both needed.

It had also given him a chance to figure out what he wanted to be when he grew up. Not a journalist. He had toyed with the idea briefly, but Bella was the one who’d reminded him that he already had a career that he loved and was very good at and that trying to live your life for someone else was an exercise in futility. Especially when that someone else was no longer around.

Parked in the square brick courtyard was a silver Honda Accord with mud-splashed tires and fender. There was something familiar about the vehicle, although it wasn’t until Austin registered the lean, sun-browned man leaning against it that he realized what.

His heart, in hibernation these past weeks, stirred, and Austin walked quickly down the remaining steps, suddenly aware of the scent of flowers and the feel of sunlight on his face.

“Hey. Hi.”

“Hello.” Jeff, in jeans and a dark green shirt, straightened as Austin came to meet him.

“This is a surprise. Were you just going to wait out in the driveway all afternoon?” Austin asked, puzzled.

“I didn’t want to intrude,” Jeff said, “but I needed to see you.”

“How did you find me?”

“I’m a PI, remember?”

“Right.” Austin smiled uncertainly. Jeff seemed so grave and polite. They were standing close enough to hug, but Jeff made no move to hug him. Hell, they weren’t even shaking hands. Maybe he was only there to tell Austin he was required to testify at an inquest or something like that. Not knowing what to say, he settled on the truth. “It’s really good to see you.” It was. Like seeing the sun come out after a month of rain.

He didn’t ask—he was afraid to hear the answer—why are you here? But maybe the question was on his face.

“You didn’t come back,” Jeff said abruptly. “To Madison. You never came back. Not to finish the appraisal. Not for anything. It’s been three weeks, and I haven’t heard a word from you.”

Three weeks. It felt both much longer and much shorter than that. Austin had thought about Jeff a lot during that time—nearly as much as he had avoided thinking about Jeff. Because while thinking about Jeff was comforting in some respects, it was equally painful. He just couldn’t see Jeff disappointing all those generations of dead Bradys. And emotionally, Austin was at a place where he couldn’t have handled knowing for sure that it was over.

“I left the wine shop. I ended up resigning.”

If anything, Jeff’s face went sterner. “Yeah, that’s what the woman they sent to replace you said. She said you decided to write a book instead.”

Austin gave a disbelieving laugh. “Not exactly. That friend of mine who’s publishing Cormac’s stories suggested that collecting some of the wine blogs I’ve done over the years would make an entertaining book.”

“Congratulations.”

He wasn’t imagining it; Jeff seemed different. Older. Serious—almost subdued.

“How are they? The Cashels?”

“Fine. Enjoying spending all that money they don’t have yet.”

The silence that followed Jeff’s sardonic comment felt final.

Austin broke it awkwardly. “I’ve been meaning to phone you. I just…”

“Yeah?” Jeff’s smile was crooked.

It hadn’t occurred to Austin that Jeff might be hurt by his lack of communication. In fact, in his darkest moments, he had figured Jeff would probably be relieved to be let off the hook.

“I…was waiting till I knew what to tell you.”

Jeff said levelly, “I thought maybe that would be something we’d figure out together.”

Austin’s lips parted, but he really had no answer to that.

Jeff looked around. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

Austin also looked around vaguely. The gazebo? He didn’t want to bring Jeff into the house if Jeff was only here to officially tell him good-bye. There were enough painful memories in that house without adding that one. Which reminded him.

“How did the appraisal turn out? Were the Lee bottles ever found?”

“That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Right. Of course. “Let’s try the gazebo,” Austin said.

“Wait,” Jeff said suddenly. “I brought you something.” He dived back in the car and carefully lifted out a brown-wrapped package. He handed it to Austin, who took it automatically. A bottle of wine. Well, not the most imaginative gift he’d ever received, but then again, maybe it was a vintage bottle from the Cashels’ cellar. Or a bottle of champagne. Maybe they were going to have something to celebrate?

“What’s this for?”

“I guess you’d better open it and find out.”

“Is it from you?”

“It’s from me. From me to you. Personal delivery.”

Austin felt a smile starting.

As they walked to the gazebo, Jeff asked, “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay. I never thanked you for—”

“Yeah.” Jeff sounded dry. “I’d be just as happy if you forgot most of that morning.”

Oh.

“How’s the boy genius doing?” Jeff asked into his silence.

“Better than me. He’s just dealing with grief. It’s painful, but it’s uncomplicated.”

To his surprise, Jeff slung an arm about his shoulders and gave him a hard, affectionate hug. “He loved you, Austin.”

“I know. But I disappointed him too. I don’t think we ever really got a chance to know each other. Really know each other. And I always thought we would. That one day…”

When Jeff didn’t reply, Austin said, “The hardest part is not having any warning, you know? Not having a chance to say good-bye. The last time I spoke to him, we were arguing.”

Jeff had an odd expression. He said, “I only knew your daddy like most people did, through the things he wrote and the things he said on television, but there is nothing about you that could have disappointed that man. You’re honest and kind and conscientious and intelligent. You’re a good man.”

It was Austin’s turn to color. “Thanks.”

Jeff added teasingly, “And sexy as hell.”

Austin laughed, looked away over the lawn. “Thanks again. Especially for that last one, although somehow I don’t think that mattered a lot to my dad.”

They walked up into the large open-air gazebo that looked over the roses and hedges. Austin leaned against the white railing. “Do I open this now?”

Jeff nodded curtly. “Sure. I thought if nothing else, you’d want to know how it all turned out.”

Austin could feel Jeff’s sudden tension, and it affected his own nerves. He tore off the wrapping. He gazed in amazement at the dark, dusty bottle with the date 1822 etched in white above the letters R-E-L. The words Blandy Madeira were printed at the base of each bottle.

“Wait a minute…” He stared bewilderedly at Jeff.

“They were buried beneath the cherry trees at Ballineen.”

“Oh my God. But…they can’t be the real thing.”

“You’re right. They’re not.”

“They’re not?” Although Austin had just said so, he lifted the bottle, scrutinizing it closely in the dappled sunlight. “How do you know?”

“Because none of the vintage wines Dominic Williams sold Dermot were the real thing.”

“According to whom?”

“According to Henrietta Williams, his wife and partner in crime.”

“Wine fraud?” Austin stared down at the dark bottle, the mysterious liquid sloshing inside it. It was a letdown, no doubt about it, but definitely less of a letdown because Jeff had taken the time and trouble to break the news himself. “Crap. So what’s in here?”

“Hundred-year-old Madeira. The booze is real enough. It just didn’t belong to Robert E. Lee. The bottle was doctored to make it look like it came from Lee’s cellar.”

“So all that vintage wine is counterfeit?”

“Anything supplied by Dom Williams is counterfeit.”

Austin stared, perplexed. “You seem awfully pleased about it.”

“I wouldn’t say pleased, but I’m certainly glad that the Martyn, North, & Compeau representative who vouched for all that vintage wine being the real deal was some woman named Theresa Bloch and not you.”

At last Austin said faintly, “Theresa authenticated the cellar—the entire cellar?” Appraised and authenticated in the space of a few weeks? What had been the rush? Had she been in such a hurry to establish her position following Austin’s departure?

Jeff was nodding. “I thought you’d enjoy that.”

“I don’t know about enjoy. There but for the grace of God, if you know what I mean.”

“Anyway, that’s what I’ve been doing these last few weeks. Working with the sheriffs to uncover Dom’s partner in his counterfeiting scheme. It turned out to be Henry all along. We cracked the case the day before yesterday.” He added, “Or I’d have been here sooner.”

Austin found it hard to look away from that bright green gaze. When Jeff looked at him that way, he couldn’t help thinking maybe everything was going to be okay. “Who killed Williams? His wife?”

“Bingo. She claims it was an accident, but it’s hard to accidentally hit someone over the head with a bottle of Madeira.”

“She used—” Austin stared at the bottle in his hand.

Jeff gave an abrupt laugh. “Different bottle. She broke the one she used. It turns out Faulkner cleared it up.”

“Hold on,” Austin said. “I’m getting confused. Henrietta killed her husband. Why? And why did she hire you to find him in that case?”

“Henry hired me to throw suspicion off herself once Dom’s death was discovered. As for why she killed him, well, I have a suspicion that had to do with jealousy over Carson, but Henry’s not talking on that point. She claims it was an accident, but everyone knows she had a terrible temper and was jealous as hell. What she does admit is that when she and Dom heard there was going to be an appraisal of the Cashels’ cellar by such a noted expert, they panicked and went to the house, trying to recover the Lee bottles as the most likely counterfeit to fail close inspection. At some point they quarreled, and Henry whacked her husband over the head. Then she panicked and fled.”

“And Faulkner covered for her?”

“Faulkner covered for Tyrone, who he believed had killed Dom.”

“I’m lost. Where does Tyrone fit in?”

“It would be nice to ask him one of these days, but he split the afternoon he was helping y’all with the appraisal and hasn’t been seen since. From what we can get out of Faulkner, it sounds like Tyrone had either figured out the wine fraud or was hoping to lift a couple of vintage bottles to sell. We think he must have seen Henrietta conk Dom, because Faulkner saw him bury the remaining Lee bottles beneath the cherry trees. I guess Tyrone was planning to dig them up again once things cooled down, but when it looked like he might end up taking the rap for murder, he skipped.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“You can believe it,” Jeff said. “It’s taken us three weeks to put together the evidence to charge Henrietta.”

Austin stared down at the bottle.

“And that’s why you’re here? To tell me how it all worked out?”

“I’m here,” Jeff said, “because you never came back, and I’m not about to let this…this relationship go without a fight.”

Relationship, not affair. That sounded great, but what did it really mean? Had anything really changed between them?

Austin turned the bottle over absently, thinking.

Jeff said suddenly, “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that because he had trouble talking about his feelings, he didn’t care.”

“Who?”

“Your daddy.”

“He made his living talking about his feelings.”

“About big political issues. It’s not the same thing. You’re good at putting your thoughts and your feelings into words. Not everyone is.” Was Jeff still talking about Harrison, or was he talking about himself?

Austin was still thinking it over, warning himself not to assume, when Jeff said calmly, “When my daddy found out I was gay, he shot himself.”

Austin nearly dropped the bottle of Madeira. “What?”

Jeff smiled faintly—presumably at Austin’s patent horror and not his own remembrance. “I’m not saying he didn’t have some other…issues. He’d tried to kill himself once before. He battled with depression a lot of his life. That’s another thing we don’t have in the South. Southern gentlemen do not get depressed.”

Reading Austin’s expression, Jeff said, “I’m not trying to blame my dear old daddy for all my hang-ups. The truth is, I was happy enough with the way things were until you came along. I’d given up all those dreams and ideals I’d had in college, and I was doing fine. I thought. Then you showed up.”

It was impossible to read his profile.

Jeff expelled a long breath and said, “You were right. About all of it. Mostly, I didn’t want to feel what I was feeling—didn’t believe it could be true—and I guess a part of me thought that if I could make you acknowledge… Hell. I don’t know what I wanted. I was safe before you came along.”

“And now?”

“And now I realize that being safe isn’t the same as being happy. And that it’s hard to be happy without love. And if I let fear keep me from loving someone like you…” Jeff’s voice strengthened. “Which is funny, because I never thought I was one for settling down. I’ve hardly known you any time at all, but this last month I’ve missed you like I’ve never missed anyone in my life. I knew when you didn’t call after the second week that you probably weren’t going to, and I could go back to the way things were and nobody would be any the wiser. You know what? It didn’t feel safe. It felt lonely. I miss you all the time.” Jeff’s voice sounded strained. “I don’t know why you didn’t give up in the first five minutes, Austin, but since you didn’t, I’m going to ask you to give me another chance. This time I won’t let you down.”

Austin’s heart jumped. He said very carefully, “What exactly are you saying? What are you asking?”

“I’m saying that together we can work this out.” Jeff’s smile was wry, but the depth of feeling in his eyes was something Austin had all but given up on ever seeing. “I don’t know how we’ll do that, but I know I want to try. And I hope you still do too. I don’t know if that means me moving here or you moving there or us finding someplace midway. I don’t know. I just know…I can’t lose you now.”

Austin looked down at the bottle he was holding. “Is this evidence in a court case?”

“Yeah, well, this piece of evidence was conveniently lost. I thought you might want to drown your sorrows or…”

“Or?”

“Toast to a new beginning.”

Austin nodded gravely. “Kind of a BYOB proposal?”

“Yep.” Jeff’s gaze never wavered.

Austin held up the bottle. “How do we get it open?”

Jeff pulled out a Swiss Army Knife with a corkscrew. He opened the bottle and handed it to Austin. “It might be vinegar, you know. It might be… What do you call it? Corked. I probably wouldn’t know the difference, but you will.”

Austin grinned. “If it’s vinegar, we’ll have a really terrific salad.”

“If you say so. Just don’t…send it back.”

Austin took the bottle, swirled it gently to release the rich, earthy bouquet: nutty and sweet in the spring afternoon. He took the first sip and handed the bottle to Jeff, leaning forward, smiling into his eyes. “Naw. I know my wines. This is an excellent vintage.”

Blood Red Butterfly

Chapter One

“Bad news,” Hernandez said. “Your homicide suspect’s alibi just turned up.”

“No way.” Ryo grabbed a paper towel and dabbed at the fleck of mustard on his navy silk tie. He shot Hernandez a look in the mirror over the bank of sinks in the john. “You’re kidding me.”

Hernandez shook his head. He was not a kidder.

“No. Way.” Now Ryo was angry. Still watching Hernandez in the mirror, he scrubbed ferociously at his tie. “Torres is not walking away from this. He popped the Martinez woman and he’s going down for it. And no little chiquita—”

Hernandez’ sour grin stopped him. “The alibi is male.”

“Male?” Ryo stopped rubbing his tie. “You mean…?”

“I mean you might even know him.” This was not a dig. Hernandez had been Ryo’s partner for a couple of years back when they were both street cops, and he knew a thing or two about Ryo’s personal life that Ryo didn’t generally share. “Might be something you can use. I don’t think the Sotels are an equal opportunity employer, you know what I mean?”

Yeah, Ryo knew what he meant. As badly as he wanted Torres, he wasn’t sure he liked that idea. He’d prefer to break Torres’ alibi, which should be easy enough to do because Torres had murdered that old woman in cold blood. Nothing and nobody was going to convince Ryo otherwise. “You believe this punk’s credible?”

Hernandez shrugged. “Torres used his one phone call to get this guy over here. See what you think. He’s sitting at your desk biting his nails as we speak.”

Ryo curled his lip, double-checking he didn’t have a piece of lettuce between his teeth. He ignored the derisive sound Hernandez made. It wasn’t about looking good, though Ryo knew he looked good—on a scale of Asian Hawtness, Russell Wong to Dean Cain, he fell comfortably in the middle of Yeah Baby!—it was about conveying bulletproof confidence and unassailable assurance. Attitude. It was half the game.

He straightened his tie. “I don’t think this is going to take long.”

Hernandez cocked and eyebrow and said nothing.

The punk was still sitting in front of Ryo’s desk, though he had stopped biting his nails. Ryo had a quick impression of a slight and slouching boyish figure clad in jeans, a pair of chucks, and a gray hoodie. Across the noisy bullpen someone slammed a file drawer and the kid flinched. Ryo smiled inwardly. Yeah, he’d smash this bogus alibi in less than twenty minutes and get back to building his slam dunk case against Mickey Torres. And this time Torres would not be getting off lightly because of his tender age and deprived childhood. This time he was going away forever. Or what counted as forever in the screwed up Los Angeles County judicial system.

The punk raised his head and Ryo almost walked into a chair. A pale, pointed, delicately-boned face, chestnut hair, wide light eyes like a faun—assuming a faun was what Ryo thought it was.

The Ice Princess.

No fucking way.

Mickey Torres’ alibi was the same guy who had three times blown off Ryo at Fubar, a gay club he used to frequent. In fact, the Ice Princess was the main reason Ryo had quit going to Fubar. A guy could only take so much rejection.

So this little stuck-up femme dude had cold-shouldered Ryo, but was willing to offer his bony ass to Mickey Torres? Willing to supply gang banger Mickey Torres with an alibi for homicide?

Ryo smiled unpleasantly, noisily dragging his chair out from behind his desk. “I’m Detective Miller. You have information for me Mr.…?”

The Ice Princess jerked straight. His face went whiter, his eyes went wider, but there was no recognition in his turquoise eyes. Just fear. Maybe the fear a lot of honest citizens seemed to feel dealing with the law. Maybe the fear of someone about to perjure himself to the police.

“Tashiro. Kai Tashiro.” His voice was light and husky. A young voice. A young man. But not as young as Ryo had originally thought. Probably in his mid-twenties. Twenty-three or twenty-four.

“How can I help you, Mr. Tashiro?” Tashiro looked about as Japanese as the big-eyed androgynous figures in the manga Ryo’s little nieces loved so much. A poser. It was another point against him, though Ryo knew that wasn’t fair.

Murder wasn’t fair.

“I got a call from a fr—Mickey Torres. He said he’d been arrested and he needed me to—” a nervous swallow, “verify where he was three nights ago.”

Ryo opened the long desk drawer, removed a file, and slammed the drawer closed, harder than he had to. Tashiro gave another one of those little jumps. Ryo opened the file, read for a moment, and then studied the man on the other side of his desk.

“Did Torres tell you what he was arrested for?”

“Homicide.” Tashiro’s voice was almost inaudible.

“That’s right.” Ryo shoved the file with the Martinez crime scene photos across the desk. “He killed a seventy-year-old woman by the name of Esther Martinez. Take a look at what he did to her. Take a good look.”

Tashiro looked—he couldn’t avoid it—and closed his eyes. He opened them almost at once. “Mickey didn’t do that.”

“Yep, he sure did. He strangled her and then, for good measure—and because he’s a fucking animal with no conscience or self-control—he beat her head in.” Ryo kept his tone cool and cordial; hoping nobody at the surrounding desks was listening too closely.

Tashiro gave a shake of his head. “He was with me, Detective Miller.”

Ryo took the file back. He considered his strategy. There were a couple of ways to play this. He hadn’t missed Tashiro’s hesitation using the word “friend” in regard to Torres.

“Okay,” he said easily. “He was with you. From when to when exactly?”

Tashiro was still wearing the hood of his sweatshirt. It gave him a strangely monkish look. “From about eleven thirty to seven thirty the next morning.”

“About eleven thirty? So is that eleven fifteen, eleven twenty, a quarter to twelve? You’re going to have to be precise about the time when you stand up in court and swear to it in front of a jury.”

Tashiro’s eyes flickered, but he said, “When we left the bar, the clock on my car dashboard said eleven twenty-eight.”

“And what bar was that?” Ryo pulled out his notebook and jotted down the times.

“Fubar.”

“Fubar. Hmm. I think I’ve heard of it. Where’s that located, exactly?”

“Santa Monica Boulevard.”

“That’s a gay bar, right?”

Tashiro nodded, not meeting his eyes.

Ryo put his pencil down. “Do you really not recognize me?”

Tashiro looked across and his eyes went wider still. “Huh?”

Ryo picked up his pencil. Made a sharp notation. “So you and Torres leave Fubar together at eleven twenty-eight on Tuesday night. Then what happens?”

“We drive—drove—to my place.”

“Which is where?”

“14159 Armacost Ave.”

Ryo grunted. “Nice.” Very nice. Half a million nice. What the hell had the neighbors made of street scum Mickey Torres? And what the hell did Kai Tashiro do for a living that he could afford that kind of prime real estate? Nothing legal probably. “Then, what? You guys sat around and played checkers all night?”

Tashiro turned a shade of pink that would require some serious crosshatching in manga. “No. We had another drink and then we…went to bed.”

“Went to bed? Yeah? Did you watch Letterman? Eat animal crackers? Tell spooky stories? I bet Torres has a few of those. Has he shared with you how he wound up in prison the first time?”

Tashiro shook his head. “We…had sex.”

“I didn’t catch that.”

“We had sex.”

“You fucked. Is that what you mean?”

Tashiro’s look was murderous. Ryo smiled. He had a very white and charming smile, and he knew how to use it for maximum annoyance. “So you’re gay?”

“Obviously.”

“No, no. We try not to make insensitive assumptions on the police force. So you’re gay and I guess Torres is gay?”

“I…”

“That news is going to cause quite a stir with the home boys. Homosexuality is not popular with Torres’ gang. And I use the word gang deliberately.”

“Is that it?” Tashiro demanded. “Are we done? Mickey was with me. I’ll swear to it in court if I have to. Can I go?”

“You don’t want to wait around for Torres to be released?”

Tashiro’s brows drew together in confusion that was at least partly dismay.

“I’m kidding you,” Ryo said. “It’ll be hours before he’s out. Lots of paperwork involved. In the meantime, we need to get a little more background on you, Kai.”

Chapter Two

His name was Kai Tashiro; he was twenty-four, single, gay, and self-employed as an illustrator.

“Huh. What do you illustrate?” Ryo asked, momentarily distracted.

“Books.” Tashiro was terse.

“What kind of books?”

“How is that relevant?”

Ryo was very polite. “To what?”

“To your case!”

“It’s hard to know. I’m still building my case. Everything could be relevant.” Ryo paused. “Or nothing.”

Tashiro gritted his jaw. Ryo repressed a smirk and went back to making notes.

Tashiro lived in a stylish, luxury condo, drove a Tesla Roadster, and claimed to possess a sizable trust fund. No wants, warrants, or priors.

And no matter how hard Ryo pressed, he did not waver in his story. Mickey Torres had spent Tuesday night from eleven twenty-eight to seven thirty in the Wednesday a.m. when they said their fond farewells over Kashi cereal.

“How often do you and Torres get together for your slumber parties?” Ryo was running out of angles, but he kept trying.

“We don’t. That is, this was the third time.”

“You’re practically going steady.”

Tashiro’s mouth tightened.

“Well, take a piece of friendly advice. Don’t make a habit of it. People around Mickey Torres have a way of turning up dead.”

Tashiro said wearily, “May I please go now?”

“You can go.” Ryo waited until Tashiro was on his feet and starting to turn away before he added, “We’ll be in touch.”

“Why?” Tashiro demanded. “I’ve told you everything I know. Everything there is to tell.”

Ryo took his time answering, deliberately looking the other man up and down, from his cowled face to the badly bitten fingernails. “Because you’re lying,” he replied. “I know Torres did it. I’m going to prove it. I’m going to break this bullshit alibi and, if I have to, you with it.”

He could see Tashiro struggling with that, struggling with anger and resentment, and fear. He controlled himself though, throwing a bitter, “Knock yourself out!” to Ryo before walking away.

Yeah, Tashiro was scared and angry and that’s the way Ryo wanted him.

The problem was…Tashiro was not lying. Not as far as Ryo could tell, and Ryo was a damn good judge of such things. If he did say so himself.

“We can’t hold Torres,” Captain Louden said. He opened the bag of Taco Bell on his desk, groped inside, and fished out an orange and purple wrapped triangle. “Don’t ask. How did Mayer do in court today?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to Mayer.”

“He’s your partner. Why haven’t you talked to him?”

Ryo ignored this feeble effort at distraction. “Torres did it, Captain. We’ve got the perp in custody. I’d stake my career on this one.”

Louden, middle-aged, paunchy, balding, perpetually irritable, thanks to perpetual indigestion, replied, “Miller, has it ever occurred to you that maybe you’re obsessed? There are other bad guys out there. They deserve a little of your attention, too.”

“Torres killed the Martinez woman. He throttled that old lady and he beat her brains in.”

“We don’t have a motive!”

“The motive is revenge. The testimony Martinez gave at the Revelez trial was responsible for putting Torres behind bars for a decade.”

“Revenge!” Louden gave a hoot of derision. “Don’t go all Korean drama on me, Detective.”

Ryo swallowed his irritation with a wide smile. “I’m not. Even if I was Korean, which I’m not.” Louden waved that off. “I’m talking machismo. I’m talking the psychological profile of a gang banger. I’m talking a freaking psychopath.”

Through a mouthful of tortilla and shredded lettuce, Louden said thickly, “What you ain’t talkin’ is anything resembling evidence.”

“Let me talk to Torres. Let me interrogate him.”

“He’s got an alibi.”

“That’s another thing. Why didn’t he say the first time we interviewed him that he had an alibi?”

“I’m thinking you could answer that more easily than me, Miller.”

Being a Korean drama queen and all? Before Ryo had a chance to respond, Louden continued, “We’ve got no grounds to hold him. And what I do not need is the public defender’s office—”

“Please. Fifteen minutes. Just give me fifteen minutes.”

Loudon shoved the rest of the taco in his mouth, chewed rapidly, and said at last, “I don’t know what good you think fifteen minutes is going to do, but you better make every second count.”

* * * * *

Torres sat in the interrogation room, arms folded on the scratched table. He stared at the ceiling, whistling soundlessly. When Ryo stepped inside the room, closing the door behind him, Torres smiled at the ceiling.

“I know you did it. I don’t care how many boy toys you trot out to vouch for you. I know you did it.”

Torres made a kissing noise. “Kai came through, huh? That little queer loooves me.”

“Yeah,” Ryo drawled. “Why not. You’re such a lovable guy. When you aren’t murdering old ladies and teenagers.”

Torres continued to smile. He was twenty-seven, medium height, muscular and tattooed. His head was shaved; his eyes were dark and long-lashed. Maybe he was good-looking, if you had no taste. To Ryo he was just another ugly face in Ugly Town.

“You can’t prove nothing, popo. I got an alibi. I got a solid citizen to speak out for me.”

“Yep, you do, amigo. But I don’t know what the boys in the barrio are going to say when they find out you’re swag.”

Torres’ eyes flattened. “Swag?”

Ryo offered his biggest and most annoying grin. “Secretly Walking Around Gay.”

Torres jumped to his feet, and Ryo braced for assault. Welcomed it, in fact. But Torres was vicious, not stupid. He stopped mid-step and held up his cuffed hands. “I know what you about. You can’t get me legally so you want me to jack you, jack a police officer. Then you can hold me.” He laughed at the disappointment he must have read in Ryo’s expression, and did a couple of double-handed karate chops in thin air. “Not going to happen. I’m walking out of here a free man.”

“Not for long. Why’d you do it, anyway? Why’d you kill that old lady? You’ve only been out of Chino a month. Can’t adjust to life on the outside?”

“I have an ALIBI, marrano. You have to let me go. This is false arrest!”

“Sure. Go. Via con Dios.” Ryo smiled. He opened the door to the interrogation room. “Officer Smith will escort you back to your cell while we finish your paperwork.”

“It’s vaya, dumbshit.”

“Yes, it is. And yes you will.” As Torres sauntered past—as much of a saunter as he could manage with leg irons—Ryo added, “Say hi to the boyfriend.”

* * * * *

It was all two-for-one drinks and cray cray good times at Fubar on Friday night.

The Ice Princess was having his usual, a Japanese Cocktail. Cognac, orgeat syrup and Angostura bitters. It was the drink that had first caught Ryo’s attention. He’d been lazily flirting with a new bartender when the order popped up. The bartender had asked if Ryo knew what the hell a Japanese Cocktail was. He had no clue. But he’d been interested in checking out whoever had ordered it. Apparently a gaijin with a taste for the mysterious Orient.

Not that strong of a taste, because he’d turned down Ryo three times running with barely a glance. But then the Ice Princess turned everyone down. Almost everyone.

It was no different that night. Kai Tashiro sipped his blood-colored cocktail and stared through the sweating, shifting crowd like he was surrounded by ghosts. He wore his usual skinny black jeans and black shirt. Unimaginative but effective with his coloring. The fingers of one hand tapped idly to the beat of the music. “Titanium” by David Guetta. Seriously. Who came to Friday Nights Dance Bitch to listen to the music?

Ryo pushed through the crowd and squeezed into the seat next to Tashiro. He had to shout to be heard over the music. “Hey there! Remember me now?”

He’d hoped to catch Tashiro off guard, but no such luck. Tashiro must have spotted him when he came in. He stared at Ryo with hostility and shouted back, “Sure. You’re the asshole cop who wants to frame Mickey for murder.”

“Sorry to be such a hard-ass.” Ryo offered his big white smile. “Nothing personal. It’s just my job. You know, good cop bad cop? Today was bad cop.”

“I hear every day is bad cop with you.”

“That what your boyfriend Torres says?”

Tashiro looked pained. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“He’s the closest thing you got to a boyfriend, right? You went home with him four times.”

“Three.”

“But who’s counting.”

Tashiro’s gaze held Ryo’s as he swallowed the last of his drink. He had painted his bitten fingernails black. The nail polish gave Ryo a weird hungry feeling. His cock stirred. Something about femme guys turned him on. Always had. And Tashiro, with his long hair and those huge, jewel-colored eyes and ethereal features, with his tall, willowy body…Ryo had wanted him from the minute he’d laid eyes on him.

“Can I get you another drink?” he asked brusquely.

“No,” Tashiro answered, equally brusque.

Ryo ignored that and fought his way back to the bar. He ordered another Japanese Cocktail and a vodka martini for himself. When he returned to the table, he found Tashiro busy rebuffing another would-be suitor with that laser-beam stare of his. The guy retreated, tail between his legs, and Ryo reclaimed his chair, placing the drinks on the table.

“Just my way of saying sorry for earlier.”

Tashiro grimaced, but he took the drink and sipped it.

“You waiting for Torres to turn up here?”

Tashiro shook his head.

“Not really his kind of scene, I guess,” Ryo said. “Unless he comes for the karaoke on Tuesday.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t know him that well.”

“Well enough to take him home with you. Well enough to alibi him for murder.”

Maybe it was the funky lighting, but Tashiro’s eyes seemed to glitter. “I don’t need to know him to take him home. I gave him an alibi because it’s the truth. He was with me.”

“Okay. Okay. Just checking.” Ryo winked at Tashiro.

Tashiro scowled.

“If you’re telling the truth, you’ve got nothing to worry about. If you’re not telling the truth…well, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. That’s all. I’m not talking about perjury or being an accessory after the fact. I’m talking about the danger you present to Torres.”

Tashiro’s elegant eyebrows drew together. “What danger?”

“Think about it. You’re the only one who can prove where he was that night. I mean, either way. Seeing you supplied him with an alibi, he might not want to take a chance on you changing your story.”

Tashiro put down his drink. He shoved back his chair, rose, and turned to walk away. Ryo caught his wrist. It was a slender wrist, but a man’s wrist, with a tensile, wiry masculine strength.

“Dude, I’m trying to help you.”

“No, you’re not. You’re trying to build your case. You don’t care about me. And you don’t care about the truth.” Tashiro yanked his hand away and disappeared through the wall of drunken, dancing bodies.

Ryo swore and went after him. He wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t part of the plan. Not part of his strategy. He had no plan. No strategy. But there he was, on his feet and in pursuit of Tashiro, who moved with unhurried grace through the writhing, many-tentacled crowd toward the entrance.

Ryo caught him on the street, bathed in the sickly, jaundiced glow of the street lamps as he unlocked the carelessly parked Tesla Roadster. Who the hell left a vehicle like that unattended? It was an open invitation to be car-jacked.

Ryo put a hand on Tashiro’s shoulder and Tashiro jumped a foot, whirling to face him.

“Sorry.” Ryo raised his hands to show he was harmless. “It’s just me.”

“What is your problem?” Tashiro yelled. “I told you the truth. Why are you harassing me?”

“I’m not. I didn’t mean to—sometimes I get a little carried away. What can I say? I’m a cop. I take my job seriously. That’s why I come here. I need to unwind once in a while.”

“You come here because you’re gay and you want to get laid!”

“That too,” Ryo admitted. The thump of music from Fubar filled the silence between them. He couldn’t help asking, “Are you sure you don’t remember me?”

“What is it with you? Remember you from where?”

“From here.”

If possible, Tashiro looked even more bewildered.

“Forget it,” Ryo said. “I just…believe it or not, I don’t want to see you get hurt. It’s not all about my case, okay?”

“You’re full of shit. This is totally about your case.”

Probably. Ryo hoped so. He wasn’t sure, though. “No. Let me prove it.”

Tashiro asked warily, “Prove it how?”

And to his shock, Ryo said exactly what he was thinking—though maybe thinking wasn’t the word because this was simply what he wanted, had wanted since the first time he’d seen Kai Tashiro sitting in the corner of that funky little club. “Let me take you home.”

“I’ve got a home.”

Ryo leaned in and said softly, “Let me make love to you.”

That was probably spreading the Cheez Whiz way too thick. Because that’s all this was, Ryo was just doing whatever he could, whatever he had to, to get to the truth, to break this bogus alibi, to put Mickey Torres back in the zoo with all the other wild animals. And anyway, lemme fuck you through the floor just didn’t have the same ring to it. Right? But his mouth dried the minute the words left it.

He fully expected Tashiro to burst out laughing. He would have in Tashiro’s place.

But maybe Tashiro was more naïve than he looked. More gullible. Because he just stood there frowning away like Aya from Weiss Kreuz or somebody else from the dimly remembered cartoons of Ryo’s youth.

“Isn’t that illegal?” Tashiro asked, at last.

“Not since 1976.”

“Huh?”

“You didn’t say no,” Ryo observed. “Does that mean you’re saying yes?”

“Aren’t I a suspect?”

“You’re an accessory after the fact, assuming you’re lying about being with Torres. But you’re not lying, right? I have your word of honor.”

“Honor?” Tashiro repeated the word like it wouldn’t translate into any language he spoke. Which was probably correct. Ryo didn’t care by then.

“Sure. You’ve alibied Torres. You’re willing to testify in court. I have to take your word, right? Why not? We’re two sons of Japan.” he teased, “Two rising sons.”

Tashiro laughed. It had a rusty sound to it. His eyes were still wary.

“What do you say?” Ryo pressed. “Your place or mine?”

Tashiro’s humor faded. He eyed Ryo skeptically, but he said finally, briefly, “Mine.”

He drove like a bat out of hell. Ryo had to keep pedal to the metal in order not to lose him. In fact, if he hadn’t had designs on Tashiro’s dubious virtue, he’d have arrested him for speeding or driving under the influence, or all of the above.

Fourteen minutes of palm trees and light trails and billboards flashing by in a neon blur. Ryo stayed right on Tashiro’s tail, but that was more to make a statement. He knew where Tashiro lived. He could have taken his time; hell, he could have stopped for doughnuts and coffee. Instead Ryo rode Tashiro’s ass every mile of the southbound CA-2. Pushing Tashiro. Crowding Tashiro.

Why? What was he doing?

Aside from risking his job?

Never in his entire professional life had he done anything like this.

But Ryo didn’t want to think about it. Couldn’t think about it. So he closed his mind to the appalled voice in the back of his mind, and swung a right on Armacost Avenue.

This was the heart of West L.A. Plenty of money, but plenty of diversity too, including a large Japanese-American community. In fact, a part of Sawtelle, from Santa Monica Boulevard to Olympic Boulevard, was known as “Little Osaka.” Not to be confused with Little Tokyo, which was in downtown Los Angeles.

This wasn’t Sawtelle, though; this was the ritzy stretch of Armacost with vaguely Mediterranean high-priced condos and luxury apartments, discreetly tucked behind fancy street lights and ornamental trees.

Ryo parked his unmarked Ford Taurus in the back, and followed Tashiro through the security gate and into the elevator that carried them to the fourth floor. Tashiro didn’t speak, didn’t look at Ryo. Ryo never took his gaze from Tashiro’s pale, withdrawn profile, though he didn’t speak either. He figured Tashiro was already regretting the impulse to bring Ryo here—Ryo was—and yet he didn’t want to take the chance of saying something that might tip the scales the wrong way.

The elevator doors opened onto an exterior walkway with four-foot stucco walls and a view of the sparkling carpet of city lights. The night was mild and smelled of smog, fast-food, hot engines and other unhealthy things. It smelled alive. Exciting. The orange and brown tile beneath their feet pounded with the beat of another tenant’s overtaxed sound system, a dull bass thump that kept time with Ryo’s heart as he watched Tashiro’s straight, slender form stalking ahead of him.

Oh yeah. Tonight you’re mine.

Tashiro reached the door of his condo and unlocked it. “Wait here a second.” He kicked off his shoes and disappeared inside. Before Ryo could respond, the door closed. He had time to remove his own shoes and start wondering whether Tashiro had just played him for the fool he was, when the door opened again.

“Putting the wife and kiddies to bed?” Ryo inquired.

“Disarming the security system.” Tashiro’s mouth curved in a malicious smile at Ryo’s surprise. “That’s right. I have my own security system. So, yeah, I’d know if Mickey had left anytime during Tuesday night.”

“Hey, did I say a word?” The minute Ryo had learned of Torres’ supposed alibi he had requested the building’s security camera tapes. Unfortunately they were erased every forty-eight hours, and he had narrowly missed his window of opportunity. In fact, he half suspected that might have been one reason Torres had delayed mentioning an alibi. Now Ryo would have to requisition Tashiro’s alarm company—maybe ultimately subpoena them, if they wouldn’t cooperate. But no need to break the mood by mentioning that now.

Tashiro crooked an arm behind his head and leaned against the door frame. He tilted his head provocatively. “Was that what you came here to find out?”

Ryo reached for him, guiding him back inside the condo, and kicking the door shut behind them. “No. I came here to find out how you get those jeans off without throwing your back out.” Tashiro felt light and supple in his arms, insubstantial, and yet as immediate and active as electricity. His eyes, those unnatural turquoise eyes, were almost level with Ryo’s. They seemed to laugh silently into his own.

If there was one thing Ryo hated, it was being laughed at. He yanked Tashiro closer, letting him feel how aroused he was, and getting more aroused in turn, by the size of Tashiro’s erection through his jeans. He covered Tashiro’s mouth with his own.

Tashiro’s mouth was not soft and receptive. He kissed back with punishing fierceness, a forceful, hungry heat that met and matched Ryo’s. It surprised Ryo and daunted him. That wasn’t his style. He didn’t want a real fight, didn’t want to hurt or be hurt. Instinctively he gentled, turning his grip into a caress and his kiss into a coaxing, and, gratifyingly, Tashiro seemed to melt in his arms. His lips parted sweetly, he murmured something that could have been enjoining or supplication, but either way was totally exciting.

His hands went to Ryo’s zipper and Ryo went for Tashiro’s waistband, but that was awkward. Tashiro knocked Ryo’s hands away and wriggled out of his jeans with the agility of an eel. Even Ryo, occupied now with shedding his own garments as fast as possible, had to spare an admiring glance for those moves.

Tashiro kicked his jeans aside and punched his fists into Ryo’s broad shoulders, sending him back against the flat surface of the door. Ryo laughed. This kind of playful wrestling, he didn’t mind. He enjoyed it. He yanked Tashiro to him and they roughly rubbed against each other. Oh God. Hot, moist friction, soft skin, hard muscle…

It wasn’t enough, not by a long shot, but if they kept at it—

Tashiro pulled free, turning his back, and settling his ass into Ryo’s groin, grinding back in invitation. Ryo groaned and wrapped his arms around Tashiro’s slim waist, drawing him closer, pressing his cock against Tashiro’s ass, seeking entrance. Not that entrance. He wasn’t so far gone he didn’t remember where he was, and who he was doing this with. He was aiming for that shadowy divide halving the white globes of Tashiro’s buttocks.

There. There it was. Not what he wanted, not tight enough or hot enough, but time being of the essence…he thrust up. “Good. That’s good.”

“More!” Tashiro urged, thickly.

Ryo bent his head, nuzzled Tashiro’s bony shoulder, tasting perfumed soap and bare skin. His own cock was rigid and ready, pearling in anticipation. He reached down with his right hand, found Tashiro’s cock as stiff as his own, feeling the pulse of Tashiro’s heartbeat in that hot, hard length.

Tashiro moaned in answer to that first tug. “Do it.”

“Yeah?” Ryo gave a rolling upward thrust and Tashiro’s muscles clenched tight. Oh, this was sweet. Sweet.

Tashiro rose on his toes, offering better access. Home run. Ryo’s cock grazed past that tight, hot center. It required superhuman effort not to push right in.

“Come on,” Tashiro gasped between thrusts. “Come on. Fuck me.”

“…am…”

“For…real…”

Ryo panted, “Not…like this.”

“Then…how?”

“Not…bare…back.”

“I…don’t…care.” Kai’s voice cracked.

Ryo gulped, “I do!”

Tashiro’s muscles clenched tight and he shifted on the balls of his feet. Ryo rocked his hips and barely managed to avoid penetrating him. A well-fucked young ass, this, with the minimum prep needed. So easy to just give in and take what Tashiro was offering, so easy…but no. God, no. Ryo wasn’t completely stupid. He didn’t trust Tashiro and even if he had trusted him, well, he’d have to be crazy to trust him. So leave it at that.

That was the extent of Ryo’s thinking. The rest of his gray matter was preoccupied with sensation. The sounds of the creaking door and floor, the flowery smell of Tashiro’s hair, the feel of his sleek, hot body gripping Ryo’s, the taste of his flushed skin.

There was an enormous red-lacquered cabinet covering half the wall of the entrance hall. Chinese not Japanese. Maybe Tashiro didn’t know the difference. What did they call that color? Cinnabar? When Ryo closed his eyes he could still see that red blazing behind his eyelids.

Tashiro knew exactly how to move to intensify the experience for both of them. He knew the sounds to make, the sounds that cued Ryo, that drove him on. Winded, wounded, wanton sounds, as though Tashiro were helpless with excitement and pleasure.

It was a turn on, no question.

Ryo jerked his hips in counter tempo to the hand briskly working Tashiro’s cock. Tashiro shoved his ass back in meter, and in far less time than it took to describe, they were both coming in molten and messy tandem.

Ryo slumped back against the door, loosening his grip of Tashiro, who fell to his knees. Neither spoke. Their ragged breathing was the only sound.

Chapter Three

“That was…wow,” Ryo managed, when he could form words again.

He had sort of been counting on their encounter lasting more than seven minutes. What now? Was he supposed to pull up his pants and say good night?

Tashiro was still trembling on his hands and knees, flame-colored hair tumbled over his skinny shoulders.

“Not that I didn’t enjoy that,” Ryo said, “but I was hoping for a drink first.”

Tashiro’s face jerked his way. He stared at Ryo. Ryo shrugged. “You know, get to know each other a little.”

It could have gone either way. Clearly Tashiro had a hair-trigger temper. Ryo watched him deciding whether he was offended or not. Then Tashiro laughed, a startled snap of sound, and jumped to his feet in a quick, lithe movement. “What do you want to drink?”

He seemed unconcerned with his nakedness. But then he was beautiful, so where was the ground for concern?

Ryo resisted the urge to reach for his own clothes. He was in great shape. There was no need for self-consciousness, right? “Martini?”

“Get out of here. Do I look like a bartender?”

“You look gorgeous,” Ryo admitted.

Tashiro stared at him in disbelief.

“Anything with vodka,” Ryo prompted, finally.

Tashiro’s eyes widened then he smiled a quirky, pointed grin. Ryo liked that, liked that Tashiro had a sense of humor, a sense of the ridiculous. Because this was ridiculous.

But ridiculous or not, he had every intention of spending the night with Kai Tashiro. He wanted to see for himself whether there was some way Torres could have duped Tashiro into covering for him. It wasn’t very likely, and the fact that one quick fuck had him trying to see Tashiro as an innocent bystander was bad news, but…Ryo liked to think of himself as a guy who dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s. So it was kind of his job to stay and see if he could punch holes in Torres’ alibi.

“Anything with vodka,” Tashiro repeated. “Doable.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and Ryo took a quick look around the condo. There were three bedrooms, one of which had been turned into an art studio. There was only a single long and very high window, and clearly no one had climbed out that way. It was a serious work space: oversized drafting table, meticulously organized shelves, compartments for art supplies, and carefully-planned lighting. Framed posters of luscious manga-style artwork lined the walls. Something Red Something read the kanji. At least, Ryo thought so. He was more familiar with hiragana.

The guest bedroom also offered no egress, but the master suite had double doors leading out onto a small balcony. Ryo checked out the balcony, but unless Torres had set up a trampoline in the pool courtyard or had sprouted wings like the gargoyle he was, he wouldn’t have had any way down from this fourth-story apartment. Let alone a way up again.

Ryo spared a quick look at the rest of the room and raised his brows at the sight of a black, wood, canopy bed sitting on a framed platform in the middle of the room. Technically, Tashiro’s bed was on a stage. Swathes of white gauze draped tastefully over the raised framework. The remaining pieces of furniture were equally stylish and impractical. Off the bedroom was a sumptuous bathroom complete with a black marble sunken tub. A large walk-in closet was mostly empty. A few pairs of skinny jeans, boots, and hoodies. Ryo had more suits than this guy had entire wardrobe pieces.

The living areas offered pale wood floors, stark black walls, crisp white crown moldings and discreet recessed lights. The furniture was oversized sectionals, chairs and couch, upholstered in a smooth, gray fabric that looked like silk. There was a white fireplace that looked unused and a giant mural of girls in kimonos gettin’ jiggy with it. Not the peel and stick kind of mural you bought for two hundred bucks. This thing looked hand-painted, old, and extremely valuable.

Possibly even more valuable was the massive aquarium built into the wall opposite the bank of picture windows. Several pale blue koi, taki asagi, swam languidly in their giant tank. A fortune in fish. Maybe that’s what Tashiro spent his wardrobe money on. How the hell would you clean such a tank?

That reminded Ryo. He looked over at the front door, but the polished floor was immaculate once more. His clothes had been retrieved and draped over a low stool next to a flower arrangement that seemed to consist of green sticks in a white vase.

Tashiro appeared at that point, drinks in hand, and Ryo went to meet him. He took his drink in one hand, wrapped his fist around the ponytail of Tashiro’s hair and dragged Tashiro’s face to his for a kiss. Tashiro’s lashes went down submissively and he opened his mouth to Ryo’s kiss—then nipped him.

“Ow!” Ryo let go and drew back, touching his lip. He checked his fingers for blood. “What was that for?”

“If I wanted to be pawed, I’d get a dog.”

“Jeez, dude!”

Tashiro was smirking at him, untroubled, unworried. He had put his jeans back on, which seemed unfair to Ryo, who wasn’t exactly sure how to rectify the situation without looking like he felt at a disadvantage—which he naturally did. Tashiro held out his drink and Ryo automatically touched his glass to it. The rims rang with crystal cheer. “Kanpai.”

“Mazel tov.” Ryo sipped. Vodka soda. Unimaginative but reliable, and it was a good vodka. Kai was drinking pale green liquid from a martini glass.

“What’s that? Absinthe?”

Tashiro’s brows rose. “I guess you’ve never seen absinthe before.”

“Nah. I’m not an absinthe kinda guy.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Meaning you are?”

“Er …no.” Tashiro gave him that quirky, three-cornered smile again.

“So what are you drinking?”

“Shochu and Midori.”

“What’s shochu?”

Tashiro offered his glass to Ryo. “I thought you were Japanese.”

“Is that a turn on for you?”

Tashiro shrugged. “Depends who’s wearing it.”

“I’m American,” Ryo said, a little testily. But he sipped the cocktail. Mostly he tasted the sweet melon flavor of the Midori. He shook his head. “Doesn’t do it for me.”

“I don’t know why not. They call it the Japanese vodka.”

“Too sweet for me.”

Tashiro laughed. It was a mocking little laugh. Ryo liked his sense of humor less that time.

“So what’s the point of all this?” He gestured at the geisha mural, the bowls of smooth black stones and spartan orchid arrangements. “You have some kind of Asian fetish?”

Tashiro flung himself down on one of the low couches. “What’s wrong with embracing your heritage?”

“What heritage are you supposed to be?” Ryo tugged on a long red strand of hair.

Tashiro gave him a level look. “I’m fifth generation. Gosei.”

Ryo grunted. He was third generation. Sansei. Not that his family paid attention to that kind of thing. The Millers were as American as apple pie and baseball. Okay, apple pie. “Did you grow up in L.A.?”

“Is this part two of the interrogation?”

“No.”

“I was born in Montana. My parents died when I was eleven and I moved back here to live with my great-great grandfather.”

“What happened to your parents?”

Ryo was standing behind the sofa so he couldn’t really see Tashiro’s expression, just the angle of his mutinous mouth and lowered lashes. “They died in a house fire. Before you ask, no. I wasn’t there. I was spending the night at a friend’s.”

That was horrifying. Ryo didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

Tashiro shrugged.

Part of being a cop, was you got hardened to other people’s tragedies. You tried, anyway, because it was the only way to survive the job. Even so…being orphaned at eleven… Still, if Kai Tashiro wasn’t crying over it, it sure wasn’t Ryo’s place. He twined a silky strand of Tashiro’s hair around his finger. “So you grew up around here? Where did you go to school?”

Tashiro shook his head briefly, impatiently, freeing his hair.

“Did you go to hoshu ko?” Hoshu ko were supplemental classes, typically weekend or after school courses, to teach Sansei kids to read, write, and speak Japanese.

Tashiro looked up, his expression sardonic. “Try Nihonjin gakko.”

“You’re kidding.” Nihonjin gakko was the kind of schooling the children of wealthy Japanese nationals received while they were living in the States. To send an American-born kid like Tashiro to Nihonjin gakko was, in Ryo’s opinion, bizarre.

“You have no clue. I trained in everything from kendo to chaji.”

“Tea ceremony!”

“Hey, if it was good enough for the samurai…”

Samurai? Tashiro was offering that funny, mocking smile again. It dawned on Ryo that maybe the person Tashiro was really mocking was himself. He said boldly, “Yeah? Well, I learned ikebana.”

Tashiro blinked. “Flower arranging?”

Ryo grinned sheepishly. “It was my mom’s idea. I was the only kid, well, the only boy, in the entire class. It was mostly all these older ladies.”

“No shit!” Tashiro chuckled and all at once, unexpectedly, they were laughing together, in something like harmony.

Never in his entire life had Ryo expected to share that bit of personal history with another dude. Of course, in his case Japanese school had only amounted to Saturday classes at the cultural center and as soon as he’d been old enough to make his feelings properly known, they’d been replaced with Little League practice.

“So your grandfather was pretty traditional?”

“You could say that.” Tashiro’s tone was dry. He said, “My turn. What made you become a cop?”

“Instead of a math professor?” It was Ryo’s turn to be dry.

“No. I’m not a math professor.”

“My mom is. My old man was a cop.”

Tashiro snorted. “Let me guess. He was killed in the line of duty.”

“Dude, you have a nasty tongue. No. As a matter of fact, he put his back out golfing and took early retirement. He lives in Florida now with his second wife.”

Tashiro laughed and finished his drink. “What’s your first name?”

“Randall. Randy. Ryo to my family and friends.”

“Well, I’m neither, Randall, but if you want to put that drink down, I’ll show you just how nasty my tongue can be.”

One thing about Kai Tashiro. He was a man of his word.

Ryo’d had plenty of blow jobs in his life but they seemed like dull exercises in spit and sucking compared to the wet hot miracle of Kai’s beautiful mouth wrapped around his cock. Kai gave head with consummate skill. Such discipline and delicacy. Ryo found himself wondering if he’d had training in that, too. How the hell did a guy learn to do that? Ryo had always thought tying knots in maraschino cherry stems was pretty cool. He’d have to rethink his party tricks.

And then, just as he was dangling there on the razor’s edge of orgasm, Kai spat him out, sat up and said, “Now fuck me.”

Ryo’s eyes flew open as a foil packet landed on his groin. He fumbled the condom on, rolled onto his knees, reaching for the proffered bottle of oil. His hand was shaking, whether from the immediate disappointment or the anticipation of what was promised, he wasn’t sure.

“Massage into lather, rinse, repeat as necessary,” Kai remarked.

Smart-ass. But the sarcasm somehow added to his appeal, or at least to the desire to fuck him into mewling submission. Ryo wanted nothing more than to bury himself to his balls in that long, lithe body. He slicked his stiff cock with a couple of quick swipes of oiled hand, and leaned over Kai. Kai bent his knee and shoved his ass up. Not the most dignified position in the world and yet somehow he did it with grace and efficiency. He reached behind himself with one black-tipped hand and spread himself for Ryo’s viewing pleasure.

Ryo’s throat moved in a sound that was close to a gulp. Probably inaudible given the boom of his heart in the ō-daiko drum of his chest.

“You’re…” Beautiful? Strange? Unique? Words failed him. English or Japanese.

“You talk too much.” Kai’s voice came out squeezed and breathless.

And talking made it personal? Okay. Maybe Kai was right. Maybe personal wasn’t a good idea.

Ryo guided himself toward that sweet little target, the pink bull’s-eye, and Kai shoved back to meet him. Ryo’s stiff cock penetrated the ring of muscle and slid home like a foot shoving into winged sandals. Contact. He was already taking flight.

Kai gave a long, lush moan—an X-rated sound if there ever was one—and made a sinuous kind of wriggle so that Ryo was indeed buried to his balls.

“Oh, yeah,” Kai breathed. “Oh, that’s it. That’s so good. Oh, yeah. Move like that.”

Ryo obliged, feeling gratified when Kai sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh. Oh, yeah. Again.”

Ryo gave a couple of tentative thrusts.

Kai made a keening sound. “You’re so big, Ryo. So big, so hard, so hot…” And then another of those gasps.

Ryo was on top but was he in control? Kind of doubtful.

Did it matter? Even more doubtful.

“Oh.”

God. Was there ever such a fucking hot little word? Was it even a word? Or was it just the craziest, fuckingest, hottest, littlest sound ever yanked out of a pair of laboring lungs?

Ryo jerked his hips spasmodically, losing restraint, losing his rhythm, and with each thrust Kai made that broken oh sound.

“Oh. Oh. Oh. RyOh…”

It excited Ryo beyond control. He began to shove and strain, ramming into Kai over and over, without style, without skill, just wanting to possess, to own, to be part of this sleek, beautiful, weirdo.

And all the while in a dim shadowy recesses of his brain, was the knowledge that Kai had done this before, done it many times, done it with Mickey Torres.

Good thing Ryo wasn’t a guy who believed in happy ever afters.

Ryo opened his eyes.

Something white and filmy was floating above him. A ghost? Probably not. Although if Captain Louden found out what Detective Miller had been up to this night, he’d probably kill him.

Did that make sense?

Probably not.

How drunk was he?

Drunk enough, obviously.

The white drapes above him swept languorously out and in, like giant moth wings. No, butterfly wings.

Ryo turned his head. Moonlight through the glass doors illuminated the other half of the mattress. He was alone in this big, empty, raft of a bed.

He looked for a clock, but there didn’t seem to be one. He sat up. There was a glass of water on the low table beside Kai’s half of the bed. He picked it up and drained it in a couple of fuzzy-mouthed gulps. That was better. His head was still pounding, but it was a more manageable thump.

Where the hell were his clothes?

Oh yeah. On that stool thing near the kitchen.

There was a bar of light beneath the door. Ryo rose and went to the door, opening it a crack. Every other light in the condo seemed to be on. He winced at the brightness, listening.

Silence.

Was he alone here?

No. There. An impatient mutter and a noise like crumpling paper. Ryo followed the sounds down the hall.

Kai was working in his studio beneath the painted gazes of the sharp featured men in samurai and kabuki costumes. He had donned his jeans again, but he was barefoot and bare-chested. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail and he had a glint of red stubble on his jaw. Lost in his work, he looked older and serious. For a few seconds Ryo watched him thoughtfully in the harsh, white light of the swing-arm lamp. Kai worked on, oblivious, frowning at the drawing, making quick adjustments and then frowning again.

Ryo leaned on the door frame. “It’s late.” He swallowed a yawn.

Kai’s head jerked and he stared blindly past the glaring light. He cleared his throat. “What time is it?”

Ryo peered at his watch. “Three. Thereabouts. What are you doing?”

“Working.”

“Now?”

Kai shrugged. “Why not now?”

“Because now is time for sleep.”

Kai made a derisive noise. “I don’t sleep.”

“You mean you sleep in the day?”

“Sometimes, I guess.”

“You have…what’s it called? Insomnia?”

“I don’t need a lot of sleep.”

In other words, insomnia. Or maybe a guilty conscience.

Ryo sauntered over to Kai’s drafting table, aware that Kai tensed, unhappy with the intrusion, but so what? Kai Tashiro had too many secrets. It wasn’t healthy to have that many secrets.

Ryo stared down at the pencil drawing. It was a cartoon of an androgynous figure dressed in period costume, though what period would be hard to say. The figure had long white hair and long white fangs. The cartoon was done in the manga style. Or at least what Ryo thought of as manga style. He was no expert, though he’d bought enough copies of Vampire Knight for his young nieces. It was also similar in style to the framed paintings on the wall.

“I think I arrested that guy last week.”

Kai snorted. Then he frowned and erased a wayward strand of the figure’s hair.

“Is he supposed to be a vampire?”

Kai sighed then nodded. “Vampire ninja.”

“Ah. How’s that pay?”

“Better than manga-ka.” Kai put a hand to the small of his back and arched, stretching his spine.

“You didn’t mention you were a manga-ka when I asked what you did for a living.”

Kai curled his lip. “I get tired of explaining what manga is to people who don’t know the difference, anyway.”

Ryo hooked a thumb at the framed portraits. “Those are your work?” Now that he had time to examine them, he could see they featured the same two impossibly handsome, sharp-featured characters. Each poster represented the cover of a different volume. There were seven all together. Kai threw a dismissive look at the row of scowling samurai and haughty kabuki actor. “Yeah.”

Ryo squinted at the kanji. “Blood Red…Butterfly?”

Kai nodded curtly.

“What is it, a series? Like Vampire Knight?”

Kai made a strangling sound. “Vampire Knight? Seriously?”

“Hey.” Ryo spread his hands. “So? What is Blood Red Butterfly?”

“What does it look like?”

“Manga.”

Kai sighed long and loudly in the manner of one who was once again going to have to explain himself to people who didn’t know the difference, anyway. “It’s Shōnen-ai. Yaoi. You know what that is?”

“Nope.”

“What they call Boy Love or BL now.”

“Boy Love?”

Kai grimaced. “Don’t worry, Mr. Police Man. They’re not boys, as you can see. Oniji Zenji is a Seventeenth Century actor in the yarō-kabuki. He’s onnagata. I suppose you don’t know what that is either?”

“You lost me at kabuki.”

“I wouldn’t be so proud of it. Anyway, he falls in love with Kato Kiyomori, a famous samurai.”

Ryo eyed the two scowling figures in the nearest poster. Zenji was pointing his fan at Kiyomori who had him at sword point. It didn’t look like it was going to be much of a duel. “And they live happily ever after?”

“Oh, hell yeah. They take out a mortgage and adopt three adorable kids and a puppy.”

Ryo laughed. He was thinking. If Kai was habitually sleepless, there went another theory—the theory that Torres had figured out the security code and somehow sneaked out while Kai was in Dreamland—and then sneaked back, in time for breakfast. “Sounds like heaven. Come on back to bed.”

“No point. I don’t like lying there staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sun to come up.”

“We don’t have to lay there.”

Kai gave him a withering look. “It’s going to take me a day or two to get over what we already did.”

Ryo blushed. “I guess I got kinda—”

“I liked it,” Kai cut across coolly. “It hit the spot. In every way. But that’s enough for one night. You should go now.”

It was kind of surprising the way his heart sank at those words—what was he expecting? Kashi cereal at the least. Damn. But Ryo was not a guy who gave up easily. He rested his hand on the back of Kai’s neck and squeezed gently, feeling the network of overstrung nerves and muscles draw tighter still. A lot of tension there.

“Come to bed,” he coaxed. “I’ll help you sleep.”

Kai tossed his pencil down. “I said no—”

“Dude, I’m offering you a backrub, that’s all.”

Kai’s expression changed, irritation giving way to wary curiosity. “A backrub?”

“Cross my heart.” Ryo held his hands out and flexed them for Kai’s inspection. Kai’s strange blue eyes studied him. “Permit the maestro to work his magic.”

Kai shook his head, but it wasn’t refusal, more like he thought Ryo was crazy. Probably true.

They padded back into the bedroom. Kai stepped out of his jeans and flung himself face down on the bed. Ryo sat on the edge of the mattress, gazing down. Kai’s skin was pale and mostly smooth, with the usual amount of nicks and scars. Nothing to indicate a particularly tough life. He was built as lightly as a kid but he wasn’t a kid. There was nothing innocent here.

Ryo rested his hands on Kai’s shoulders and squeezed lightly. Bare, warm, supple skin. Kai was nice to touch. He smelled nice, too, an exotic blend of sex and flowers.

“Go ahead,” Kai said shortly. “Ask your questions.”

“About what?”

“Come on. That’s what this is about, right? Get me relaxed and comfortable and then start in again.”

“No.” Ryo dug his thumbs in, kneaded the tight shoulders. He had kind of been thinking vaguely along those lines, but Kai seemed so vulnerable like this. Such a slight, flimsy body to contain all that energy and tension. Unexpectedly, Ryo found he really did just want to help him wind down, relax.

“Yeah, right.”

“I do have one question.”

Kai sounded bored. “I figured.”

“Are your eyes really blue?”

Kai gave a smothered-sounding laugh. His head moved in negation. “No. I wear contacts.”

“Ah.” Ryo had figured. According to his DMV records, Kai had brown eyes. Ryo continued to squeeze and ply Kai’s shoulders. He couldn’t get too enthusiastic in his ministrations given that there was no meat on Kai’s bones. Even so, Kai had decent musculature for a guy who clearly didn’t take very good care of himself. Maybe he swam. Maybe he jogged. Maybe he still practiced kendo. He stopped himself from asking.

“Next question?”

“This would work better if you’d shut up.”

There was silence and then Kai gave a huffy laugh. Some of the rigidity went out of his shoulders.

Ryo continued to work over him using long, slow, relaxing strokes. He’d dated a masseuse for a few weeks and he’d learned a few tricks along the way. The surprising thing was that it was actually kind of relaxing to give massage. Not as relaxing as getting one, true, but it was pleasant to touch and caress, especially when the body being touched and caressed was as attractive as this one.

Kai’s flanks rose and fell in slow rhythm as he breathed more deeply and evenly.

Ryo was nonplussed to hear himself say aloud, “My obaachan used to give us backrubs when we were little and couldn’t sleep.”

Kai chuckled, sleepily. “That’s sexy. Talking about your grandma.”

“I’m not trying to be sexy. I’m trying to give you a peaceful night.”

Another one of those abrupt silences. Kai lifted and turned his head to stare at Ryo, though it was doubtful he could see much in the gloom.

After a moment, he lowered himself to the mattress again. He did not speak again. In time, Ryo knew Kai was sleeping. He rose, went around to the far side of the bed, and lay down, careful not to disturb the other man.

Chapter Four

Kai Tashiro and Esther Martinez lived on different planets.

Or at least that’s how it seemed. Remembering the crystal glasses and pale blue koi and veils of white gauze, comparing all that to the shabby cleanliness of his crime scene, Ryo found himself wondering if he had dreamed the night before.

For forty-five years, the Martinez woman had lived in the little Spanish-style house on Nebraska Avenue. She had raised her children and buried a husband and grown old in this house, and though she had been well into her seventies, everyone who knew her agreed Esther was still as spry and sharp as a tack.

Oh, yeah. They had interviewed everyone on this block and the next one over. For all the good it had done. But that was the job. You spent hours and days just talking to people, collecting and then sifting through all the bits and pieces of information that might eventually form the picture—though usually the bits and pieces amounted to a lot of funny shapes that never quite fit together. Jigsaw puzzles were the same, the world over.

The only thing Ryo and his partner Eddie Mayer had gleaned from Esther’s neighbors was that she didn’t miss much and that everybody had thought she’d be good for another seventy years.

It was that sprightly sharp-eyed quality that had made Esther such an excellent witness in the Revelez case eleven years earlier. One ordinary June morning she’d been walking back from the grocery store. She had to pass Stoner Park, which in those days had been located in a much worse neighborhood than it was now. Back then the park had been a hangout for gangs, home turf to the Sotels. You could still read fifty years of gang graffiti on the surrounding sidewalk. As Esther had marched along, toting her brown grocery bags, she’d looked across what was now the skate plaza in time to see sixteen-year old Mickey Torres march up to fifteen-year old Humberto Revelez, who happened to be dating Torres’ sister without Torres’ permission, and shoot him five times in the chest.

There had been other witnesses, but none of them had been willing to come forward, let alone testify. Only Esther had had the guts—despite living in such close proximity to the park and the Sotels—to ignore the advice of family and friends, and speak out. And her testimony had been key in putting Torres away. Not forever, sadly, because Torres was a juvenile offender and this was L.A., home to bleeding hearts and misguided social activists. But for over a decade Torres had been safely locked up, and the streets of West Los Angeles had been a little less mean and a lot prettier.

But all good things come to an end, and last month Torres had been released from prison. And apparently, once on the outside, the sick bastard had nothing better to do than even old scores, including murdering old ladies.

Ryo walked slowly from room to room of the dark, silent house.

The kitchen was due for a remodel. The appliances were all that scary avocado color so popular in the seventies. The table was set for one. A box of corn flakes sat next to a small vase with artificial daisies.

Ryo thought about his own breakfast that morning—an English muffin eaten over Kai Tashiro’s sink in the condo’s large kitchen with its quartz counters and stainless steel appliances. Kai was already back in his studio working when Ryo had stumbled out of bed. It was Saturday and Ryo had the day off, though technically he was on call. That didn’t mean he would get called in. He’d have been willing to hang around for a while if Kai had been interested.

But Kai had told Ryo to help himself to a shower and whatever he could find for breakfast. And that had been that. Not so much as a good-bye kiss. Hell, he hadn’t stopped long enough to take off his headphones.

The fact that Ryo even noticed made him uneasy. He’d gotten exactly what he had wanted—a night with the Ice Princess. And yeah, it had been better than he’d imagined, given that he’d previously pretty well convinced himself Tashiro was just a prick tease.

But, no. Wrong there. Tashiro clearly had his issues, but not putting out wasn’t one of them.

So what was Ryo’s problem? It wasn’t like he was looking for a relationship. It was his experience that cops and relationships were not a good fit. In fact, the only happily married cop Ryo knew was his partner, Mayer, and in his opinion, Mayer was in the wrong line of work. And even if Ryo had been looking for a relationship, Kai Tashiro was not the kind of guy you brought home to meet Mother. Or, as Kai would no doubt call her, kaachan.

Anyway, back to the job at hand. He opened Esther’s fridge and studied the rapidly spoiling contents. He had been through this house, combed the processed crime scene, a couple of times already, but if Torres’ alibi couldn’t be broken, then maybe he needed to take another look.

Maybe his contempt for gang bangers like Torres was clouding his perspective. He doubted it, but…it never hurt to take another look.

It wasn’t like there were no other possible suspects. Esther had left fifty thousand dollars worth of CDs and stocks to her daughter, Graciela. She had left the house to her son, Oscar. Fifty grand wasn’t a fortune, but like a lot of people these days, Graciela was drowning in credit card debt. As was brother Oscar, who was trying to put his own kids through college. The house wasn’t large but it was now sitting on prime real estate.

Money was always a motive. No question. But in his initial interview with Graciela and Oscar, Ryo hadn’t caught a glimmer of anything but the shock and grief you would expect from the recently bereaved. Both Graciela and Oscar had separately brought up Mickey Torres and the threats he’d made a decade ago. In fact, those accusations were what put Ryo on Torres’ trail, but once he’d read the case files, done a little background checking on Torres, and finally personally interviewed Torres, he’d had no doubt he was talking to the perp.

Not that Esther, a bit of a busybody and the kind of old lady who turned the sprinklers on people who cut across her lawn, hadn’t managed to make her fair share of enemies. Well, enemies was a strong word, but everybody had people they rubbed the wrong way, people whose hearts wouldn’t break if you fell off the planet, who might even give you a push if it seemed safe enough. A lot of people liked Esther, a few people loved her, but it was safe to assume a couple of people hated her. Everybody made enemies.

It was the violence of the crime that caused Ryo to zero in on Torres.

Strangling was personal. It required strength—or at least know how—and in this case it had required being the special kind of person who could look your victim in the face as you choked the life out of her. And then lifting that heavy statue of the Virgin Mary that had formerly sat on the dining room credenza, and bashing it over the old lady’s head a few times. That wasn’t your average every day citizen. Or even your average every day burglar.

And while it was always possible that money-hungry offspring might commission a murder, this hadn’t been a professional hit. There had been nothing professional about it. This was animal-like rage and brutality.

The killer had come in through the dining room window during the wee hours of the morning. The other windows were secured by iron grille, but this particular window was ornamental. It had been high and round and made of stained glass. At one time it had probably been inaccessible, but the trees in the front yard had grown tall over the years, and if you were lean and agile and determined, it was your access into the house.

It hadn’t been quiet though, and the noise of the breaking glass had woken Esther who had come trucking out wearing her yellow, quilted bathrobe and carrying her baseball bat.

And that had been that.

It made Ryo angry. It made him sick. But mostly it made him determined to see Mickey Torres back behind bars where he belonged. So, yeah, maybe he did have a one-track mind, but you needed a one-track mind in his business, because it wasn’t a business for the faint of heart or infirm of purpose.

Ryo moved over to the boarded window. He didn’t need to be able to look out to know the vantage point offered a scenic view of treetops and beyond, the pale citadel-like towers of the condos on Armacost Avenue.

* * * * *

“Food before romance, Ryo-chan,” Ryo’s grandmother told him over dinner when he dropped by his mother’s house that evening.

“That’s why I’m here, Obaachan. I could be out on the town, but I’m here with my best girls.”

Dove and Raven, Ryo’s nieces, looked at each other and giggled. They were at the mysterious age where they giggled at pretty much everything. But Obaachan wasn’t letting Ryo wriggle off the hook. “Time you were getting married. That’s what I am saying.”

“If Ryo gets married, we’ll never see him again.” Ryo’s mother smiled, serving him another helping of vegetarian lasagna.

Ryo shook his head. “Not true. Not fair.” He winked at his grandmother. She winked back at him. They both knew he was the apple of her eye.

“We never see him now unless he’s looking for a hot meal,” his sister Cheryl—Cherry to her family—observed. Cherry was four years older than Ryo, and still felt it was her bounded duty to make sure he didn’t get too big for his britches.

Ryo ignored her and said to his nieces, “Tell me everything you know about being a manga artist.”

“I’m going to be a manga artist one day,” Raven informed him. She was fourteen and favored motorcycle boots and frilly dresses. Dove was twelve. Her hair was chopped like a boy and she wore skinny jeans and T-shirts with anime characters. Tonight’s shirt featured Alphonse and Edward Elric from Fullmetal Alchemist.

“I know. So what does that mean?”

“Manga-ka,” Dove corrected through a mouthful of lasagna.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Dove,” Ryo’s mom said. “You girls can be whatever you like after you graduate from college.”

Raven and Dove exchanged another of those enigmatic giggles.

“Not every career requires a college education, Mom,” Cherry put in.

“But you’re glad you have one, aren’t you?” Ryo’s mother returned without heat. “Ryo’s glad he has a college education.”

This was covering old, old ground. Cherry, a graphic artist, and her girls had been living with Ryo’s mother since Cherry’s boyfriend, a potter, had split seven years earlier. In a household of five women it was only natural there would be the occasional difference of opinion. Most of the disagreements revolved around Cherry’s girls and all the possible scenarios for their future.

“Leave me out of this one,” Ryo said. “So how do you get to be a manga artist?” Partly, he really wanted to know; partly, he really wanted to change the subject.

Raven said airily, “You start drawing and you put your stories online and then you get a lot of fans and a publisher puts your pictures in a book.”

Right. Even Ryo knew it couldn’t be that easy.

“A Japanese publisher?”

“Maybe.”

Dove said, “Sometimes one person draws and one person writes the story. Like in Bakuman.”

“Yep,” Raven agreed.

“Have you ever heard of a manga-ka named Kai Tashiro?”

Raven’s dark brows drew together. She shook her head.

“He draws samurais and that kind of thing.”

Dove and Raven seemed to find this comical. “Lots of people draw samurais!”

Dove put in, “There aren’t many boy manga-kas.”

Ryo grunted. It belatedly occurred to him that Kai probably did not draw the kind of stories his teenage nieces were—or should be—reading.

“Why all the interest in manga?” Cherry asked.

“It has to do with a case.”

“I figured. You’re about as artistic as a sledgehammer.”

“We have enough artists in the family, right?” To his nieces he said, “Do manga-ka make a lot of money?”

This, too, the girls found funny. “You don’t do it for the money,” Raven informed him.

Well, that put him in his place. Ryo devoted the rest of the meal to his food, listening absently to his mother and sister and grandmother chit chat, the girls speak in the coded language of sisters. It would have seemed like a strange coincidence, his grandmother bringing up the subject of Ryo’s marital status, except lately Obaachan was always bringing up the subject of Ryo’s marital status. Ryo was thirty-two and, in Obaachan’s opinion, it was high time he settled down. Of course, Obaachan had no idea that if Ryo did decide to settle it would not be with a lovely young girl from a good Japanese family. Then again, maybe she did know. Just because Ryo had never discussed his sexuality didn’t mean his loved ones hadn’t had plenty of time to draw their own conclusions.

He had never really considered it before. He wasn’t sure he wanted to consider it now.

And yet…what would it be like if he could bring someone here to meet his family, be part of his family? What would it be like to have someone to come home to? To fall asleep beside the same person every night? Wake up to the same face every morning? Have all the sex he wanted whenever he wanted it with the same per—well, anyway, what would that be like?

Some people made it work. Not his sister, not his parents, not most of the guys and gals he worked with, but some people had whatever it took to make love last a lifetime.

Maybe it was just luck. Or maybe it was stubbornness.

Ryo hung around until about seven and then headed back to his own apartment on Carmelina Avenue. But once home, he realized he was too restless to call it a night. He dressed again and headed over to Akbar in Silver Lake. Strong drinks, lousy DJ, and most to the point, no Kai Tashiro.

He spent the rest of the evening drinking, dancing, and flirting, until some time after one when his cell phone rang and he was called out to investigate a floater found beneath Santa Monica pier.

It was five o’clock in the morning when he finally handed the case off to Detectives Hart and Ruiz, and started home. But somehow as he was driving along Santa Monica Boulevard he ended bypassing Centinela and speeding straight on ‘til he came to Armacost.

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” he muttered, but he still made the left turn. He was too tired and tightly wound to sleep, and Kai didn’t sleep anyway, so what harm would it do to see if he was on his own?

But when Ryo pulled into the parking lot in the back he immediately spotted Mickey Torres’ ride, a black Cherokee with the license plate RUBUOUT. The Cherokee actually belonged to Torres’ kid brother, but Torres had been driving it ever since his release from Chino.

Ryo parked and got out to examine the vehicle. The hood was cold, so it had been parked for a couple of hours. Meaning Torres was planted for the night and not there to…what? Do bodily harm to Kai? Or at least not any bodily harm Kai didn’t welcome.

Ryo got back in his Taurus before he was tempted to do something really stupid. Like what? Break in and arrest Torres for daring to sleep with the guy Ryo wanted to sleep with? That wasn’t just stupid, it was pathetic.

He had no grounds for hassling Torres. As a matter of fact, he should be grateful for the reminder of where Kai Tashiro’s loyalties lay.

Ryo gazed at the dark windows of Tashiro’s condo. Finally he turned the key in the ignition, started the engine, and drove home.

* * * * *

The Tashiro Nurseries opened in 1930. The first nursery was started by three Japanese brothers newly immigrated to the States. Two of the brothers had returned to Japan right before the outbreak of World War II. The third and youngest brother, Akira, had remained behind and continued running the nursery until his incarceration in the Manzanar Internment Camp. Akira had remained in Manzanar for the duration of the War, but when the War ended, he had returned to Sawtelle and the nursery. Business had boomed and by the Sixties, there were three Tashiro Nurseries in Southern California, and Akira was a very wealthy man. A pillar of the Asian community.

He had married twice and had seven children, including three sons. One son had died in the Korean War, one son had died in Viet Nam, and one son had drowned surfing off Malibu. That, it seemed, was how Kai had eventually ended as Akira’s heir. None of the remaining daughters had managed to provide sons. In fact, two of them had not produced children at all. Kai was the first and only surviving male child in two generations. The fact that he was only one-eighth Japanese and had been born Kevin Cole was apparently irrelevant.

Ryo learned all that and more on Sunday, which he spent further investigating the principals of his case—although now and then it felt uncomfortably like stalking an ex-boyfriend. Not that Ryo had ever stalked an ex, and he hoped he wasn’t laying the groundwork now, but there was no question he was fascinated by Kai Tashiro.

His investigation yielded little, and what he did learn was not remotely sinister. Tashiro owned his condo and car. He paid his bills on time. He lived debt-free. He bought his groceries with an American Express card, but paid off the card at the end of each month. That eliminated a lot of paper trail right there.

Tashiro paid his taxes on time and the numbers all added up. More money did not go out than came in.

He had attended Cal Arts for a couple of years, but had dropped out despite excellent grades. He did not have student loans.

Eighteen months ago he’d gotten a speeding ticket. That was the closest Kai Tashiro had come to a brush with the law.

Mickey Torres on the other hand…there was a wealth of information all confirming what Ryo already knew.

Torres was the product of a broken home. He had three siblings, each the result of a different father, none of whom had stuck around longer than it took to conceive the little bastards. Despite her lousy taste in men, Mama Torres was a mostly decent, hardworking woman who had somehow raised three gang bangers and a nun. Yep, after Mickey had capped her fourteen-year old boyfriend, Maria Torres had opted for a spiritual life. She had taken her first vows when she was nineteen. Mickey’s older brother was on death row at San Quentin, but since he’d been there since 1998, it didn’t look like he was going anywhere, anytime soon. Like Mickey, the youngest Torres brother had been in and out of trouble since he was twelve. Unlike Mickey, he’d so far managed to avoid anything more serious than a handful of misdemeanors. But with Mickey home to serve as an example, that would probably change.

And then there was Mickey.

His earliest teachers described him as bright, even gifted, with an extraordinary aptitude for art. In fact, his first arrest had been for tagging the abandoned Exposition right-of-way train line. It had been all downhill from there.

So, yeah, very sad what the lack of opportunity and options could do to a kid. But, so what? Ryo had seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of similar cases during his years on the force. He wasn’t a social worker or a time traveler. He couldn’t undo the past, couldn’t change one minute of it. Plenty of other people had similar lack of opportunity and options and they didn’t turn out to be criminals, let alone murderers. It wasn’t his job to fix the system, just keep it up and running.

Torres was what he was—and that was too dangerous to let run free. Where he fit into Kai’s life, Ryo couldn’t quite see. Maybe he didn’t want to see. But given what he knew of Kai, Torres spending four nights at the condo on Armacost was significant. And worrying. Because apart from his case and—sure, admit it, sexual jealousy—Ryo didn’t want Kai to be hurt. In fact, he was made uneasy by how much the idea disturbed him.

Whether Kai thought he was slumming or whether he was genuinely infatuated with Torres or whether it was something entirely different, however Kai was reading this situation, Ryo knew Kai didn’t begin to understand what he was dealing with. It was like watching a butterfly go up against a hawk. Kai was going to end up in pieces.

Ryo couldn’t let that happen.

But how did he prevent Kai from jumping back into the fire? Nothing he said was going to stop Kai.

On impulse he contacted Akira Tashiro at his home and asked for an interview. His request was granted for that afternoon.

The house was built in the Craftsman style, a graceful structure of natural wood and smoky windows. It sat back from the street, surrounded by Japanese maples and roses. In fact, as attractive as the house was, the real beauty was the garden with its symmetrical walkways and artfully-grouped large stones. Chimes tinkled soothingly in the warm breeze as Ryo reached the front door.

Ryo rang the bell. The door opened and a very pretty, twenty-something, Japanese woman dressed in jeans and a pink flowered smock stood before him.

“Good afternoon.” Ryo flashed his tin. “I’m Detective Miller. I’m here to see Mr. Tashiro.”

It wasn’t that the woman’s face tightened. If anything her expression went more smooth, more blank. But Ryo sensed her bracing herself. “You’re here about Kai?”

Ryo raised his eyebrows. “What makes you think so?”

Her smile was polite and unamused. “Familiarity. I know Kai very well. Better than anyone.”

“And you are?”

“Laurel Tashiro.” Laurel added, “Kai’s wife.”

“Wife?” Ryo reddened at his own obvious shock, but how had he overlooked that information? He couldn’t have. Not that he never missed anything, but he wouldn’t have missed that.

“That’s right.” Laurel’s expression was a strange mixture of satisfaction and mockery. “If you’re investigating Kai, I don’t blame you for being surprised.”

“I am surprised. There’s no record of his marriage.”

“We were seventeen. The marriage was annulled.”

If that was supposed to clarify things…fail. If the marriage had been annulled, why was she still calling herself Kai’s wife—and what was she doing here at Kai’s grandfather’s home? Ryo was attempting to make sense of Laurel’s information while still trying to wrap his mind around the idea of a teenaged Kai marrying another seventeen-year old. Had they run away together? Who had pushed for the annulment?

“Are you, er, on good terms with your ex-husband?” Ryo asked.

Laurel laughed. “We’re not on bad terms. Kai is what he is. We don’t have anything to do with each other, really.”

That was clear as mud. Ryo said, “I think I’d better speak to Mr. Tashiro,” although he was already thinking better of the impulse that had brought him here. It was hard to imagine that anything he might learn in this house would tie in with his investigation, and it was suddenly clear to him that Kai would take a very bleak view of this particular digging into his past. But it was too late now. A detective had to be part psychologist, part diplomat, part…well, whatever was needed when it was needed. Sometimes that something was rude, intrusive bastard. Knowing how to handle different types of personalities, people coming from all walks of life—getting them to feel comfortable enough to open up. And then being able to assess the quality of information, and from all that, filter through all the possibilities to figure out a lead or even a suspect…it was all part of the job.

Ryo removed his shoes and followed Laurel through several beautiful, immaculate rooms that looked like no human had ever set foot in them, out shoji-style doors into a surprisingly large and lush garden.

The sound of running water and a child’s laughter greeted them as they walked down a graceful path of pale crushed stone.

“Did Kai grow up here?” Ryo questioned.

“Yes.”

“Do you live here?”

“Yes.”

At the end of the garden was a pond with a small ornamental bridge. A very old man stood on the bridge feeding koi. He wore dark monpe work pants and a baggy blue denim shirt. He had the kind of beard that was usually reserved for fairytales of ancient Japan. A small boy of about four, dressed in jeans and a Gap Kids sweatshirt, knelt beside the pond, peering down into the water.

“Please excuse the interruption, ojiisama,” Laurel said softly, formally. “This detective wishes to speak to you about Kai-san.”

The old man turned and stared at Ryo, who found himself automatically bowing. It seemed natural in this setting. In fact, it seemed mandatory. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Tashiro.”

“Mama, the koi are eating cantaloupe!” The kid began to babble about the fish. Laurel smiled and the old man’s dark gaze dropped to the animated little face and softened.

Laurel held out her hand. “Come on, Kenji-chan. Ojiisan has to talk to this man.”

Kenji jumped up and ran across the bridge, his small feet drumming lightly. He took Laurel’s hand and grinned with cheeky shyness up at Ryo.

Ryo nodded at him. “Hi.”

Kenji hid his face against his mother’s thigh. She ruffled his hair and led him away, giving Ryo a meaningful look. What meaning that look was supposed to convey, Ryo had no idea. Don’t upset the old man? Probably too late for that.

“You wished to speak to me about Kai?” Tashiro had a deep and vigorous voice, startling for one so very old. How old was he? Ryo did some quick calculating and guessed Tashiro must be close to a hundred-years old.

“Your grandson’s name turned up in one of my cases. I’m trying to get some background information on him.”

“Is Kai suspected of a crime?” Tashiro threw the last of the cantaloupe into the pond. The koi, dark red Goshiki, darted to the surface, hungry mouths sucking at the pale chunks of melon.

“Would that come as a surprise to you?”

The old man seemed to struggle internally. He shook his head and looked away from Ryo to the swarming fish. Ryo wasn’t sure the head shake meant Tashiro wouldn’t be surprised or if it meant a refusal to answer.

At last Tashiro said, “I know nothing of Kai’s life.”

That was pretty sweeping. Nothing in Ryo’s background research had indicated that state of affairs. He reconsidered his original plan of attack. While he couldn’t let Kai’s strained family relationships side rail his investigation, he didn’t want to aggravate the existing tensions more than he had to. “What can you tell me about Kai’s friends or business associates?”

Tashiro repeated, “I know nothing of Kai’s life.”

“Would it be correct to say there’s a-a family estrangement?”

“Hai.”

“Do you support Kai financially?”

“An arrangement exists.”

“What kind of arrangement?”

Tashiro turned his dark gaze back to Ryo. “The matter can have nothing to do with your investigation.”

“It depends. Could someone place financial pressure on your grandson?”

“No.” An almost rueful expression crossed Tashiro’s weathered face. “Kai’s temperament is not amenable to duress.”

“When was the last time you saw your grandson?”

“Three years ago.”

Estrangement was the right word. “His ex-wife lives with you?”

“My grandson’s wife and child live with me.”

Ryo had the feeling the ground was shifting beneath his feet. “But…Kai…that is, the marriage was annulled, according to your…”

Tashiro stared steadily at Ryo. It was pretty damned intimidating, but Ryo reminded himself he was a grown up LAPD Homicide Detective and not Kenji’s age. “According to your daughter-in-law, the marriage was annulled. You’re saying Kenji is Kai’s son?”

“Hai.”

Kai did not pay child support. That would have turned up in Ryo’s background check. Furthermore, Kenji couldn’t be more than four, five at the most, and though no expert on the topic, Ryo was pretty sure if you had children, you couldn’t get an annulment except in extraordinary circumstances—and those extraordinary circumstances would have turned up in his investigation.

Tashiro continued to stare at him, stony and unblinking.

Clearly, this line of inquiry was going nowhere fast. Ryo asked slowly, “Are you of the opinion your grandson would lie to protect a friend?”

Tashiro said bluntly, “My grandson’s entire life is a lie.”

Chapter Five

Ryo’s cell phone rang while he was in Starbucks getting coffee. The number was unfamiliar. He scowled at it and gave the ponytailed girl behind the counter his second most charming smile as she handed over his order and narrowly avoided spilling coffee down his shirt. He pressed his phone. “Miller.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” a youngish male voice snarled.

“Detective Randall Miller, LAPD. Who the fuck do you think YOU are?”

He assumed he was intimidating some asshole wrong number into better manners, but the voice yelled back, “How fucking dare you go to my grandfather with those lies?”

Unexpectedly, Ryo’s mood did a one-eighty as he recognized the ranting voice as Kai Tashiro’s.

Ryo paused to hold the glass door open for a woman with a stroller and a whining toddler. The woman glared at him, and he recalled that dropping the F-bomb in Suburbia was generally frowned on. He hung around with too many cops and robbers these days.

On the other end of the line, Kai was still giving him an earful. The words “police harassment” figured prominently.

Ryo let the door swing shut, and strode across to his Taurus, pressing the key fob to unlock the driver door. “Are you finished?” he asked Tashiro, who had been forced to pause for breath.

Kai got his wind back. “I haven’t even started!” he raged.

“Look, I don’t know what you think I said to your grandfather, but—”

It was doubtful Kai even heard him.

Ryo busied himself securing the coffees, buckling up, starting the engine, backing out of the narrow parking slot. When there was another lull on the phone, he inquired politely, “Still there?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Kai said bitterly and rang off.

Ryo pressed call back and the phone rang a couple of times before it was answered and Kai said fiercely, “Don’t ever contact me again.”

“Don’t hang up,” Ryo told him.

Gratifyingly, Kai did not hang up, though from the harsh sound of his breathing, that could change any second.

“I categorically deny that I ever said or implied that you were involved in anything illegal,” Ryo stated. “If someone drew that conclusion, I’m very sorry.” That last part was the truth. He didn’t want to do anything to hurt Kai. But he had a murder to solve, he needed cooperation, and he wasn’t getting it from Kai.

“Why would you do that? Why would you go to my grandfather? I’ve cooperated with you, haven’t I? Why would you tell Ojiisan about Mickey?” Kai sounded aggrieved now, which meant he was starting to wind down. “I told you we’re not involved.”

“Then what was he doing at your place Saturday night?”

There was a pause that lasted no longer than the time it took Ryo to wince at his own dumbness.

Kai said in a very different tone, “Are you stalking me?”

“Of course not. Torres is under surveillance.”

Kai hung up.

This time Ryo didn’t call him back. That “stalking” comment had stung. He recognized uneasily that there might be a finer line than he had realized—and that he might be over it. He knew he was obsessed with Torres. That didn’t worry him. The obsession—no, call it concerned interest—in Kai…that was different.

He hoped.

He picked up his partner at Mayer’s home in Silver Lake. Mayer had been out with the flu since last Wednesday though he’d managed to testify on another case in court on Friday. Ryo had nothing against Mayer, but he preferred to work alone. However, LAPD policy was everyone got partnered, so…Mayer.

As usual Mayer was late. He came running out of the house, shrugging into his suit jacket, and flung himself into the car. “Let’s roll!”

It was the same routine every morning with Mayer. Ryo sighed and released the brake. “How’d your testimony go with the Halpern thing?”

“Halpern’s going to walk. How’s the Martinez case building?” Mayer waved briefly to his youngest daughter peeking out from behind the front window drapes.

“It’s building. I’ve been looking for a way to punch holes in Torres’ alibi.”

“I heard.” Mayer slurped his coffee. “You’re stepping on toes.”

“Whose?”

“Toes in general.”

“Yeah, well some people shouldn’t go barefoot.”

Mayer chortled. “Some people shouldn’t wear zōris.” Meeting Ryo’s blank look, he said, “What? It’s a Japanese joke.”

“Oh. I thought it was a lame joke.”

“No, that would be a pedi-phile joke. Get it? Pedi—”

“What kind of a joke is it if I ram this car into that truck and kill us both?”

“A not funny joke.” Mayer swallowed another giant mouthful of coffee. “I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s new.”

“About the Martinez kids.”

Ryo grunted.

“Follow the money trail, Miller.”

Ryo shook his head. “It’s not the kids. I thought we agreed on that?”

“It was somebody.”

Mayer was a good detective, but he was preoccupied with his—admittedly high—clearance rate.

“I know exactly who it was. So do you.”

Mayer made a pained noise. “You’ve got Mickey Torres on the brain.”

“He did it. You know he did it.”

“We have to be able to prove he did it. It has to hold up in court.”

Ryo threw Mayer an impatient look. Ryo’s own clearance rate was nothing to sneeze at.

“We need a different angle.” Mayer dreamily contemplated a billboard with a seven-foot tall, half-nude girl kissing a bottle of vodka. “I think we should step back. Look at it from another direction.”

The money trail, in other words. “Fine by me,” Ryo said. He knew to pick his battles.

They spent most of the morning doing the never-ending paperwork that made up so much of the job, reviewing notes, making calls, and surfing the web in the interests of research.

Blood Red Butterfly Ryo keyed into his laptop. His search results included a song by an unsigned Irish grunge band, a reader of fan fiction, and first and foremost, a Wikipedia article.

Blood Red Butterfly (血 赤鮮血蝶 Buraddo Reddo Batafurai) is a yaoi manga series written by Tashi. The series premiered in the January 2005 issue of LaLa magazine and ran for a total of seven volumes. In North America, the series was released in English by Be Beautiful between September 2007 and August 2009 when the company filed for bankruptcy. Digital Manga Publishing later acquired the license and condensed the entire series into three volumes, published from September 2010 to May 2012. The series is regarded as a cult favorite.

PLOT:

(See also: List of Blood Red Butterfly characters)

In 17th Century feudal Japan, Oniji Zenji is a much-adored actor in the yarō-kabuki. Zenji is an onnagata, a male actor who impersonates women. Known as the “Blood Red Butterfly,” he is also the protégée and lover of powerful Lord Hishikawa Hino. A rift comes between the two men when Zenji witnesses Hino's murder of his rival Lord Sayama. Later he meets and falls in love with the legendary samurai Kato Kiyomori who has sworn to avenge the murder of his master, Lord Sayama. Kiyomori uses Zenji to gain access to Lord Hishikawa even though he has fallen in love with the young actor. The plot fails and Zenji turns against Kiyomori. Eventually the lovers are reunited, but circumstances arise to separate them again. Through the course of the seven volumes Zenji and the outlawed Kiyomori are often lovers and usually enemies as dramatic political events revolve around them. In the final pages of the last volume the two men write death poems pledging their eternal love for each other and commit ritual suicide.

“Holy shit,” Ryo muttered.

“You say something?” Mayer looked away from his laptop.

“Uh…no.” Ryo stared at the webpage before him. Disturbing much? Surely the fact that Kai could come up with a plot this melodramatic and tragic indicated a not so healthy psyche. Did he maybe imagine himself and Torres inextricably bound in a doomed Romeo and Julio scenario whereby they both ended in a blaze of gunfire or a drive off a rooftop?

Whatever happened to just writing about high school vampires?

Mayer, now buzzing from his third cup of coffee, said, “I say we go talk to Graciela. She’s not married. No steady boyfriend. She doesn’t have any kind of alibi for the night of her mother’s murder.”

“Who the hell would have an alibi for three o’clock in the morning? In my opinion, having an alibi is suspicious. I say we go roust Torres again and see what shakes out.”

Mayer gave him a narrow look. “Is this some kind of an Asians versus Latinos thing?”

“Excuse me?”

“If I didn’t know better, I might think it’s personal with you and Torres.”

“What can I say? I take strangling little old ladies personally.”

“Come on, Miller.” Mayer shook his head.

“She stood up to that thug,” Ryo said shortly. “She had the guts when no one else did. And she died for it. No way am I letting Torres walk.”

“I know, but you can’t let it get to you. We can only do what we can do. We’ve got other cases sitting here. This isn’t like you.”

Ryo muttered, “Maybe she reminds me of somebody.” Yeah. He hadn’t really considered it before, but maybe that was part of it. Not that Esther had been in any obvious way like Obaachan, except in that surprisingly stern moral fortitude, that spine of titanium that made backing down from the truth a physical impossibility. The world needed more people willing to do the right thing, not fewer.

Mayer cleared his throat. “Okay, well… But there’s still such a thing as innocent until proven guilty. Remember due process? We don’t have anything on Torres. So for now we have to focus our energy on the other players.”

“How about this? You go talk to the son and daughter and I’ll go pound on Torres’ door. Just so he knows we haven’t forgotten him.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so, Mr. Personality,” Mayer said. “If anything, I go talk to Torres and you talk to Gracie and Oscar. But I say we stick together. The last thing the department needs is another harassment charge.”

Ryo closed his laptop. He felt unsettled and worried after reading the Wikipedia article. Maybe it was silly, but he had an almost superstitious feeling that time was running out. Not for him, not for his case. For Kai. He pushed his chair back from his desk. “Then saddle up, amigo, because I’m going calling on Torres.”

* * * * *

They tracked Torres down to the Taco Bell on Pico where he and his compadres were enjoying the fine cuisine while scaring the shit out of the middleclass clientele by their mere raggedy-ass presence. Counting Torres, there were five youths—maybe Sotels, more likely just wannabe Sotels—and two chicas. The girls looked borderline underage, though it was hard to tell beneath the glitter eye shadow and weirdly outlined lips. Torres was the oldest of the bunch, which Ryo figured told a tale. Why wasn’t he hanging with the real hombres? Didn’t the wolf pack want him back?

The girls were talking too loud and laughing too much, the boys offered the usual swaggering sideshow of obscenities and raucous laughter. That all died away to sullen mutters when Ryo, flanked by Mayer, walked over to the center tables they had commandeered.

“Hey, look who’s here!” Ryo said to Mayer.

“Mr. Torres. And friends,” Mayer responded. “How’s the food?”

“Not so good, now that you’re stinking up the place,” a chubby youth in a camo T-shirt and red bandana responded.

Close up, Ryo could see that Torres looked like he’d been in a fight. There was a cut above his right eye, a bruise on his cheekbone, and one of his eyes was swollen shut.

“What happened to you? Another welcome home party?”

Torres lifted his lip in a contemptuous curl, and said nothing.

“You can’t just hassle us for no reason,” one of the girls piped.

“I don’t know. Assault and battery seems like a good reason,” Mayer replied. He looked at Ryo, waiting for Ryo to take lead in the questioning.

“Nobody filed a complaint,” Torres growled. He picked up his super-sized Pepsi and pursed his lips around the straw. There was something about a bad guy drinking soda pop through a straw that sorta defused the menace. But Ryo’s smirk was wiped away by the sight of the fresh ink on Torres’ hand. A large red butterfly, still crusted with the dots of Torres’ blood.

Ryo stared at the tat and a bad feeling spread in the pit of his stomach. “Or maybe your boyfriend said no?” he suggested, silkily.

As insults went, it was really pretty routine. Inflammatory, provocative, sure. But nothing out of the ordinary in the exchange of civilities between cops and crooks. No, what changed it from routine to dangerous was the fact that it was true—at least the part about Torres having a boyfriend. What changed it from routine to dangerous was Torres’ reaction. It was too raw, too revealing. He shoved the table back, sending the chicas and chalupas flying. The girls squealed as the drinks spilled across the table. The boys began swearing and squaring up.

“Don’t do it. Don’t be stupid,” Mayer warned them.

Ryo never took his eyes from Torres. Torres was the color of old ivory. His eyes were black with rage. His hands twitched by his sides like a gunslinger in the Old West. If he’d been packing, he’d have pulled his weapon. The fact that he wasn’t packing, was a surprise.

It surprised everyone, including his home boys. But that was the least of their surprises, because Torres had given himself away with that naked reaction. Torres knew it too, belatedly. Ryo wasn’t the only one observing shocked realization dawn in that fraught, frayed, pause, wasn’t the only one who saw it in the hard, young faces watching Torres struggle not to betray himself.

If there was ever a moment when Ryo felt sorry for Torres, it was then.

Torres managed a laugh. “I know what you want, chapete.” His voice was thick. “It’s not going to happen. You’re not busting me on a two four three.”

“Don’t worry,” Ryo told him. “When I bust your ass it won’t be for assaulting a police officer. And when we lock you away this time, you’ll stay locked away.”

Torres was still and silent, leaving it to his sidekicks to bluster and posture as Ryo and Mayer walked out of the restaurant into the parking lot.

“Are you out of your goddamned mind?” Mayer said furiously, as the glass doors swung shut behind them. He threw a quick look back at the building. “I thought we were going to question him.”

“What question do you think there’s left to ask?”

“Great! So what were you trying to do there? Start World War III? What do you think would have happened if they’d thrown down on us?”

“Who? Those wankstas? No way.”

“You don’t know that.”

Ryo shrugged. Yeah, he did know that. Unlike Mayer, he’d grown up in this town. He knew the cowboys from the Indians. But Mayer was right. Ryo could have handled that better. He’d been knocked off-balance, his guts in knots the instant he’d spotted that red butterfly tat. He wasn’t even sure why. So Torres had a butterfly tattoo? He was covered in tattoos. What was one more?

But that tattooed butterfly mattered. Ryo knew it did.

Mayer was still fuming. Seeing the shrug, he said, “You’re too damned cocky, Ryo. You keep pushing buttons and some day you’re going to open a fucking trap door!”

Chapter Six

In an effort to drum up business on what was typically the slowest night of the week, Fubar was advertising Dirty 30 with Sigma Alpha Spank! Ryo felt old just reading the lineup of festivities. Beer pong! Flip Cup! Dart board! Spank! Shots!

Did they do anything in this place that didn’t involve exclamation points?

But then he saw Kai sitting in his usual corner and everything was good again.

Unaware of his approach, Kai sipped his crimson cocktail and, with a small flourish, added an embellishment to the napkin he was drawing on.

Ryo reached the table and rested his hand on the back of the chair across from Kai.

“Can I join you?”

Kai glanced up. He didn’t look surprised to see Ryo. He didn’t look pleased either. “Oh. It’s you.”

Ryo jiggled the chair. “May I?”

“Why so polite? You know you’ll sit down whatever I say.”

Ryo pulled out the chair and sat down. He leaned forward so he could be heard over the music. “Why wouldn’t you take my calls? I tried calling you four times today.” It had been closer to seven, but the last few times he’d hung up when he heard Kai’s message come on.

“I didn’t have anything to say to you.” Kai’s gaze was cool and direct.

“Maybe I had something to say to you.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to hear it.”

Ryo drew the napkin Kai had been doodling on toward himself. The sketch was of a pig in a police uniform. His face warmed, although maybe that was the alcohol. He’d had a couple of drinks at the bar before he’d noticed Kai. No. Before he’d had the nerve to even let himself look for Kai.

“Nice,” he said thickly.

Kai’s mouth curved into that three-point smile. He laughed silently at Ryo. Ryo’s temper flared, but then he got his first clear look at Kai. Kai had a black eye.

Ryo’s jaw dropped. “What happened to you?”

Kai’s face grew solemn. “Somebody punched me.”

“Who?” Ryo was angry and ready to return the favor. Then comprehension took shape. “Torres?”

A malicious spark lit Kai’s eyes. The good one, anyway. “Maybe you did, Detective Miller. Maybe you tried to beat me into saying Mickey’s alibi was false.”

Ryo drew back in his chair. He stuttered, “I-I never touched you!”

“How soon they forget!”

“You know what I mean. I never—I wouldn’t ever—”

“Yes?”

Ryo swallowed and half whispered, “Hurt you.”

“All you’ve done is hurt me.”

Ryo didn’t know what to say.

Kai said, “Who would believe you? Your fingerprints are all over my place. It would be your word against mine.”

Ryo couldn’t seem to tear his stricken gaze from Kai’s glinting one.

“Maybe I should report you for police brutality? What do you think?”

Ryo’s lips parted but no words came to him.

Kai seemed to find that funny. He leaned back in his chair, laughing.

He was crazy. Ryo could see that now. Kai was out of his head. He had probably planned this trap with Torres.

The whole thing played out in his mind’s eye like the last reel in a film noir with himself in the role of patsy.

Kai righted his chair before it tipped over. He gulped, “You should see your face.”

“Why would you do this to me?” Ryo asked. “I didn’t—”

Kai stopped laughing. He said in a low, furious voice, “Why would you go to my grandfather? Why would you tell him all that shit about me and Mickey?”

“I didn’t.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m not lying. I asked questions, yes. And I guess, yes, from those questions, it’s possible your grandfather could infer—but I didn’t give him any details. If he got details, he got them from you. You filled in the blanks yourself.”

“Right. It’s my fault!”

“I’m not saying that. Of course I’m not saying that. I’m only saying—”

“You think Akira Tashiro doesn’t have the means to find out anything about me or anything about your case he wants to?”

It wasn’t something Ryo had given a lot of thought to. But he hadn’t seen Kai’s grandfather as an enemy. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, probably won’t listen to me, but you’re in a dangerous situation. I thought maybe your grandfather could…I don’t know. Apply pressure.”

“Pressure.” Kai’s face twisted. “Nice. You mean blackmail. Bribery. Coercion. But you see, I don’t need my grandfather’s money.”

“There are different kinds of pressure.”

“There sure are.” Kai spoke with contempt.

Ryo reached across the table to cover Kai’s tensed hand with his own. “Believe it or not, I’m trying to help you.”

Kai stared at their joined hands and then raised his gaze to Ryo’s. “Yeah, well I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true.” Ryo dropped his voice. Not that their conversation could be heard over the wall of noise surrounding them. “I guess it sounds crazy. I don’t know what it is about you, but from the first time I saw you, I wanted to—”

Kai laughed, a short, unfriendly sound. “That I believe.”

“It’s not just that, though yeah. I do want that. All the time.”

Kai’s lashes swept down demurely. When they rose again, his eyes seemed to shine with an unholy light. “You want it right now?”

God help him, he did. Kai Tashiro scared the hell out of him, but it didn’t change wanting him. Ryo nodded as though hypnotized.

Kai looked pleasantly interested. “Want to trade seats? You sit here in the corner and I’ll sit on your lap. You can do me right now.”

“I…”

“No one will see. No one will know. This chair is well in the shadows.” Kai gave an inviting wiggle on the chair and Ryo had to close his eyes. He was terrified he was going to disgrace himself right there in public. He was terrified at how badly he wanted to accept Kai’s insane challenge.

“It would feel so good.”

Somehow, despite the music, the voices, the general noise, he could hear Kai’s soft voice. Hear him quietly chuckling. Ryo burned with shame and anger. It was humiliating to want someone like this, humiliating to be laughed at, humiliating to deserve being laughed at.

“No? Too shy?” Kai’s voice was derisive. “How about the men’s toilet?”

Ryo shook his head sharply.

“I didn’t hear that. No?”

“Shut up,” Ryo whispered.

“Okay. How about out back?” Kai’s chair scraped.

Ryo opened his eyes.

Kai stood over him. He wore a short black leather jacket. He was leaving. His smile slanted as he studied Ryo. He shook his head sadly. “No?”

Ryo motioned negative. He had no words left.

Kai said, “Then I guess you better just come home with me.”

* * * * *

They barely managed to get the door locked before they were ripping each other’s clothes off and falling to the plush runner on the shining hardwood floor.

When it was over they lay on their backs, not speaking, their harsh breaths the only sound in the room.

At last Ryo turned his head. Kai’s eyes were closed, his expression withdrawn, remote. “I think I…”

Kai opened his eyes, turned his head to face Ryo. He raised his eyebrows.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Ryo said, instead.

Kai made an expression of distaste. “Of course you can. Of course you will. Until you get bored and move on to the next piece of ass.”

Ryo shook his head. His heart felt heavy. He had handled this wrong from the first. Was it possible to fix something that had gotten off to such a bad start?

“You can’t think that’s all this is to me?”

Kai made a contemptuous sound. He trilled in a falsetto, “Because for the first time in your life you’re soooo in luuuurve!”

There were only a few inches between them, but it felt to Ryo like reaching across a vast distance. He rested his hand against Kai’s cheek, tracing his thumb with feather lightness along the brow bone above Kai’s badly bruised eye. “Does it frighten you so much that someone might really care for you?”

Kai’s eyes squinched shut. He jerked his head away. Ryo viewed his averted face, the quick, rough rise and fall of his chest. Kai said roughly, “Then what should I think?”

“Kai.” A strange warmth flooded Ryo’s chest, an emotion that seemed to crowd out everything else, all the fear and insecurity and anger. There was no room for it in the wake of so much tenderness and compassion and…love.

Yes. Love.

He opened his mouth, but Kai said suddenly, “I earn my own way. Every penny. The trust fund is…something else.”

“Of course.” Now Ryo was not sure what they were talking about.

“I don’t need it. I want it.” Kai turned back to face Ryo. His eyes glittered. Tears? Ryo’s gut tightened. He didn’t understand, but the thought of Kai’s tears moved him almost past bearing.

He nodded, not daring to speak.

“I’m Tashiro’s heir. And I will stay Tashiro’s heir.”

“Sure.” Ryo couldn’t help asking, “What does that have to do with anything?”

Kai threw him a quick, furious look and was on his feet and moving down the hall.

“Okay,” Ryo said to no one in particular. He sat up. His jeans were tangled around his ankles. He pulled them up, zipped them, got to his feet and shrugged back into his shirt.

He looked down the hall. Still no sign of Kai.

Ryo walked into the kitchen, found the liquor cabinet. An impressive selection but no vodka. He checked the stainless steel freezer, and found a bottle of Belvedere. He splashed a couple of ounces in a short glass and drank it down. He poured a second drink.

Kai appeared, dressed in navy sweatpants and a flannel shirt. His hair was knotted in a loose ponytail and he wore glasses. “Pour me one.”

Ryo complied. As he handed the glass to Kai, Kai’s gaze flicked to his. Behind the scholarly-looking spectacles, his eyes were a warm and lovely red-brown, like fox fur.

“You took your contacts out.”

“They were bothering my eyes. I’ve been wearing them too much lately,” Kai admitted.

Ryo was smiling. “You have eyes like a kitsune.”

Kai laughed. He took a swallow of vodka and choked. “It tastes like poison. How can you drink it straight?”

“I like the taste. If it’s the real thing. If it’s good quality.”

Kai made a face, drained his glass. For a moment he stood looking at his empty glass.

With this recognition of his true feelings, Ryo seemed to have gained insight into the object of those feelings, and he recognized that Kai was self-conscious and unsure of what to say or do next. Because? Because he still didn’t believe or understand what Ryo was trying to say to him? Or because he didn’t want to hear it?

Ryo said, “I asked you out three times before you finally said yes.”

“Oh. That.” Kai’s smile was rueful. “I think maybe I do sort of remember you. I thought you were too…I don’t know. Arrogant. Conceited. Slick. I don’t like slick guys.”

“Oh.” Ouch. “I’m not that slick.”

“I know, dude.” Kai was laughing at him again, but without meanness. “You try to be, though. I don’t need that.”

“What do you need?”

Kai gave him an uncertain look. “I don’t know. What everybody needs, I guess.”

“Mickey Torres?”

It was like a door slamming shut. Kai said flatly, “You know what I believe? I believe you want what you think Mickey has. That’s about as deep as it goes with you.”

“Not true. Not fair.” Kai was turning away, and Ryo caught his arm. “Three times, remember? I quit going to Fubar because I couldn’t take seeing you there night after night and knowing I wasn’t ever going to get any closer than across the room.”

Behind the spectacles, Kai’s eyes went wide and soft and vulnerable. The pulse at the base of his neck beat visibly. But when he spoke, he said, “I have an arrangement with my grandfather. As long as I don’t bring disgrace, dishonor, to the Tashiro name, I remain his heir. If I fail in that, I lose everything. All of it goes to Kenji. So, you see, any kind of a real relationship, an open relationship, is out of the question while Ojiisan…”

Back to Ojiisan and the trust fund. Were they really walking in circles or did it just feel that way thanks to how much Ryo had had to drink that night? He said painstakingly, “Got it. But you said you don’t need his money.”

“And I said that I wanted it. That I intend to have it. Every penny of it. And then, you know what I’ll do?” Kai’s face flushed with the intensity of his emotions. “I’m going to divide the Tashiro fortune between my aunts. They’ll have it all. Every cent.” He gave a shaky, furious laugh.

“Why?”

“Because nothing would make him more unhappy.”

Or you, Ryo thought. He didn’t say that, though. Instead he said gently, “Okay. So you don’t want Kenji to have the money.”

“It’s nothing to do with Kenji!”

Kai was glaring at him again, and Ryo said, “I’m lost. Or drunk. Or both. Can we sit down? I feel like this may take awhile.”

“I love Kenji. Or I would if they would let me see him. He doesn’t know me. I don’t know him.” Kai’s face worked. “My son is growing up without his father.” There was no question the pain that accompanied those words was real.

Ryo fastened on the piece he could make sense of. “So Kenji is your son?”

“Of course.”

“And you’re married or you’re not married?”

“Of course I’m not married.” Kai’s expression changed. “Oh. I thought you knew the whole story. No wonder you’re looking at me like I’m crazy.” He pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes. “No. Kenji happened when Laurel and I tried to get back together. It didn’t last very long. Getting back together, I mean. But…there was Kenji.”

“You didn’t remarry?”

“No. I won’t do that.”

“He’s your kid, dude.”

Kai resettled his glasses. “I know that. I’ve acknowledged my paternity. As much as they’ll let me.”

“Your grandfather and your—Laurel?”

Kai nodded.

“Okay. I think I get it now. We’ll be careful. It’s not like I go around advertising my private life.”

“Huh?” Kai looked confused, taken aback. “What are you saying?”

Ryo said, “What I’ve been saying for the last hour. I care for you. I want to keep seeing you. You can set the conditions.”

Kai’s lips parted, but no words came out.

Ryo looked past him to the clock in the stainless steel microwave over the blue-brown quartz counter. “I’m saying it’s late and we should probably try to get some sleep. I have to be at work early.”

“I won’t be able to sleep.”

Ryo grinned. “Well, we don’t have to sleep.”

“But…” Kai continued to stare at him with wary uncertainty. He said finally, “You know, you’re a very strange guy, Ryo.”

“Strange is better than slick, right? Anyway, have you looked in a mirror lately? It takes one to know one.” Ryo summoned his old smirk. Maybe attitude wasn’t half the game, but it still counted for a lot. “Look, we both know I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have some feeling for me.”

“I like sex,” Kai shot back.

“Yes, you do, you little horn dog. But that’s not why I’m here tonight, so can we not pretend anymore?”

Ryo spoke with all his old confidence, but it was a relief when Kai, still looking mostly bemused, turned and led the way back to the bedroom. Through the double doors leading onto the balcony, Ryo could see the black outline of swaying palm trees. The wind had picked up. A ghostly breeze moved the white veils of the bed’s canopy.

Kai hit a switch and soft amber accent lights lit the room.

The lights changed everything, turned the room familiar and ordinary, turned it into a space where they might simply hold each other and talk, where they might indeed sleep together—and was there anything more trusting than allowing yourself to fall into a deep sleep beside a lover who was still a stranger?

But they would not stay strangers. Ryo was sure of that now.

Kai removed his glasses and began to unbutton his shirt.

“Okay if I take a shower?” Ryo asked.

“Sure.” Kai added politely, “There are clean towels in the tall cupboard.”

Ryo nodded then turned back to Kai as someone pounded on the front door. Kai’s brows drew together.

“Expecting company?” Ryo asked.

“No.”

Kai dropped his shirt on the foot of the bed and left the room. Ryo went to the doorway to watch. Kai reached the door, slid the bolt, and opened the door. Not wide enough that Ryo could see who stood on the other side, but he had an idea.

He could tell from the way Kai’s back straightened, his shoulders squared, that he had guessed right.

Torres.

“The fuck,” said Kai. “Didn’t we go through this last night?”

Ryo left his post at the bedroom door and stepped quietly down the hall, making sure he stayed out of view of the open door. Judging by his own jealousy of Torres, it was only too easy to picture what Torres might do if he realized Kai was sleeping with him, sleeping with any cop, but Ryo in particular.

He couldn’t make out the words of Torres’ answer, but he was plainly not happy. Ryo reached automatically for his shoulder holster, but he wasn’t wearing a weapon. He didn’t carry when he was out drinking and dancing in a club. His backup Beretta was in the locked glove compartment of his Taurus.

“No,” Kai said, “I’m not going through this every night, Mickey. Last night was it. Last night was good-bye.”

The door shoved inward, sliding Kai back a few inches. “You got someone in there, maricón?” Torres demanded. He sounded drunk. “You bring someone here behind my back?” His hand, marked with the butterfly tattoo, shot around the edge of the door, tangling in Kai’s hair, yanking it loose from its ponytail.

Kai knocked Torres’ hand away. “It’s none of your goddamned business who I bring home.” He rammed the heel of his hand through the door opening, Torres abruptly let go of his hair, and Kai put his shoulder to the door. Ryo jumped to join him, still trying to stay out of view.

Torres’ voice rose in shouted obscenities. His flailing arm withdrew just before the door slammed shut. He began to rain blows and kicks on the door.

“I’m warning you, you asshole,” Kai yelled. “Get out of here before I call the cops.”

Ryo threw him a quick, alarmed look.

Torres delivered a final couple of hard kicks to the door and then there was the sound of his retreating footsteps.

Ryo went to the window looking over the parking structure. Standing to the side, he watched and at last Torres appeared below. Torres flung himself into his illegally parked SUV. For a few seconds he sat revving the engine, the angry snarl rising through the night air. Finally the white Cherokee tore out of the lot, tires screeching as they hit the street.

Ryo turned to Kai who was leaning back against the door with his eyes closed. Ryo went to him, putting his arms around Kai. Kai leaned into him, wearily. His hair, soft and silky spilled over Ryo’s hands. “I don’t know what the hell he wants from me.”

Yeah, for all his worldliness, Kai was pretty naïve. Ryo said, “Torres gave you that black eye, didn’t he?”

Kai gave a short laugh, muffled against Ryo’s shoulder. “Believe me, he got the worst of it.”

“Yeah.” Ryo was thinking. “You have to watch what you say to him, though. Don’t antagonize him. Don’t threaten him with the cops.”

“What?” Kai lifted his head and stared at Ryo. “Why the hell shouldn’t I? I’m not putting up with this shit. If he’d gotten in here tonight—”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’ll deal with Torres.”

Kai’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that mean?”

“It means there are ways to deal with him—legally—that don’t involve you setting yourself up as the focus of his rage.”

“He nearly kicked down my door. You want me to be diplomatic with him?”

“Listen. Pedestrians have the right of way, but if some jackass runs a red light and mows you down, you’re still dead. Do you get what I’m saying? It doesn’t matter that you’re in the right. You have to be smart and stay safe. Which includes not threatening him with going to the cops again. You do not want him to see you as a threat.”

Kai scowled. “Mickey’s not going to do anything to me. I’m his alibi, remember?”

“It doesn’t work the way you think it does. If he thinks you’ve become a liability, well, he’s got nothing to lose. Without your alibi, he’s looking at first degree murder.”

“I’m not going back on my word,” Kai said impatiently. “I didn’t give him an alibi because we fucked. I gave him an alibi because he was here that night.”

“Kai, you’re not looking at this clearly.”

“If he kills me, he loses my alibi. So what’s the difference?”

“The difference is, Torres is a psychopath. He’s not going to weigh this logically. If he thinks he’s fucked either way, he’ll kill you. Besides that, did you hear him? It isn’t just about his alibi. He’s…”

Obsessed.

Ryo didn’t want to say the word. It hit too close to home. But if Torres was coming here night after night, risking the Sotels finding out he was gay, it wasn’t casual with him. Ryo had recognized that from the instant he’d seen the butterfly tattoo on Torres’ hand. Torres was risking his life to be with Kai. That wasn’t casual. And he wasn’t going to forgive his feelings not being reciprocated.

“If you have to deal with him again, try to be tactful. Without opening the door or letting him inside.”

“You’re serious?”

“Hell, yes, I’m serious.”

“Well, in that case, maybe I should just let him in here. What could be more tactful than letting him fuck me when he wants?”

“That’s right. Bust my balls, if you have to, but I’m on your side.” Ryo dug in his pockets for his keys. “I’m going to run downstairs to my car. Lock the door after me.”

“What? Why?”

“Just lock the door. I’ll be right back.”

“Ryo—”

Ryo slipped out the door and sprinted down the walkway to the stairs. He took them two at time. Reaching the parking lot, he ran across the warm asphalt to his car, flinching when he stepped on a piece of gravel. A faded flyer for a local club scraped past in a gust of wind. Glancing upward, Ryo spotted Kai’s silhouette watching him from the top story. He raised his hand in brief greeting but Kai did not respond.

Ryo unlocked his car, slid inside, and unlocked the glove compartment. He felt silly getting his Beretta out, but better safe than sorry. He felt naked without a gun at hand, that was the sad truth of being in law enforcement. Not carrying a firearm felt much the same as not carrying his wallet or his keys. He closed the compartment and slid back out of the car.

He pressed the fob to lock the door. Headlights swept the driveway and a white SUV turned into the parking area. A white Jeep Cherokee.

“Shit.”

Torres was back.

Ryo stood motionless, ready but waiting. He was hoping that Torres, cruising silently past, would miss him in the rows of parked cars. He couldn’t see through the tinted windows, but he was pretty sure Torres would be focused on Kai’s apartment. Especially since Kai was still standing there, outlined by the light behind him.

The Cherokee rolled past, tires sighing, engine growling, then suddenly Torres accelerated and hurtled down the driveway at the other end. The Cherokee’s taillights vanished around the corner.

Chapter Seven

“I’ll talk to him,” Kai said. “It’s going to make it worse if I act like I’m afraid of him. Like I’m afraid to face him.”

Now that he had calmed down, Kai was in a more forgiving frame of mind. In fact, he seemed almost melancholy as they lay on their sides, facing each other, talking quietly in the wide bed. If the talk had not been about Mickey Torres, it would have been a lovely thing to lie together in the darkness and simply talk and touch each other. Ryo could not remember ever sharing this kind of quiet intimacy with another man.

“What is it you think you could say that would get through to him?”

“I don’t know. Something. Let him know that it’s not…” Kai’s voice drifted away.

Ryo reached out, brushing the shimmer of hair back from the pale oval of Kai’s face. Kai’s hair crackled with static electricity, clung to Ryo’s fingers. “What?” Ryo asked.

After a second or two, Kai said, “It’s being treated like a nothing, like you don’t exist, that kills you.”

The quiet revelation closed Ryo’s throat. It took him a moment to be able to say, “He’s not like you, Kai-chan.”

“He’s like me in that. Everyone is like me in that.”

Yeah. Maybe. But you didn’t patch the cracks in the Mickey Torres of the world by applying a little sympathetic validation. It was a nice thought, but what Mickey wanted was… Ryo thought of Saturday night when he’d sat in his own car staring up at Kai’s dark windows. The last thing he wanted was to feel sorry—or akin—to Torres, but he couldn’t easily forget the hell of being on the outside. Fearing that he would always be on the outside.

The difference was, he would have taken no for an answer. Torres wouldn’t.

Ryo leaned forward and kissed Kai’s forehead. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow I’m going to my captain. I’m going to tell him everything.”

“You can’t. Sex with a suspect? You know you can’t.”

“You’re not a suspect. You’re a witness.”

“Sex with a witness is just as bad. You’ll lose your job.”

“It’s not just as bad.” But yeah, he probably would lose his job. Best case scenario was, he was going to get a reprimand and demotion. It didn’t matter. Well, yeah, it did matter. He loved his job, loved being a cop, was proud as hell of making detective. And he was a good detective. But tonight everything had changed. Now his first concern was Kai. And he couldn’t protect Kai if he didn’t come clean. It wasn’t so complicated.

“If anyone goes to your captain, it’ll have to be me,” Kai said. “I’ll tell him I need a restraining order or whatever it is. If I’m a witness, he’ll have to see that I get protection.”

“You’re a witness for the defense,” Ryo said, amused despite himself. “Anyway, you’re not in any better position. You can’t have any scandal or disgrace without jeopardizing your inheritance, right? Think about the kind of publicity that move would bring down on you.”

Actually, from that perspective, Kai had shown real courage in coming forward the first time to give Torres an alibi. Until now, Ryo hadn’t appreciated what Kai had been willing to risk. No wonder he had been scared and angry and reluctant talking to Ryo that first day.

Kai was quiet. “Okay,” he said at last. “So we’re back to Plan A. I talk to Mickey.”

Ryo sighed. “And tell him what? That you’d still like to be friends?”

“We weren’t friends,” Kai said, reflectively. “I did like him, though.” He made a sound of amusement at some memory. “He’s smart and he can be funny.”

“I’m sure he’s a great guy.”

“Maybe not, but he’s not a waste of space, which is what you think. He can draw. He designed his own body art. Did you know that? He got most of his ink when he was thirteen. His English class read The Illustrated Man, and he was inspired by the cover illustration.”

Ryo restrained himself from saying something unkind.

“I can let him know that it wasn’t just…”

Ryo wished he could see in the dark. “Wasn’t just what?”

“You know what I’m saying. If things had been different, I could have cared for him. He isn’t like you think he is.”

Yeah. Right. Was there any statement more useless than if things had been different? Wasn’t that pretty much true of everything? But Ryo restrained himself. Kai was not nearly as hard or cynical as he had first believed. He thought of the badly bitten fingernails and the insomnia, and he said only “Blood Red Butterfly.”

Kai raised his head. “Huh?”

“Blood Red Butterfly. Your story. Two men who can’t be together and can’t be apart. They hate each other and love each other and end up killing each other.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Kai made a faint sound, not quite a laugh. “That’s not what I meant, though.”

“Did you notice Torres got a red butterfly tattoo on his hand?”

Kai was perfectly still. Ryo could practically see the thought balloon over his head. At last he lowered his head to the pillow again and said, “I was seventeen when I wrote the first story.”

It was kind of a relief to hear it. Ryo said, “You mean you don’t want to be with a dude who would commit murder for you?”

Kai said quietly, seriously, “I think I’d rather be with a dude who would risk his job to keep me from being murdered.”

“Smart choice.” His spirits lifted when Kai wound his arms around him and nestled his head against Ryo’s heart.

“Hai.”

Ryo laughed. He could feel Kai’s face crease in a faint answering smile.

For a time they lay in silence, breathing in peaceful unison. Ryo’s head was throbbing. Too much vodka and too much worry. He dreaded the thought of tomorrow, and at the same time, the sun couldn’t rise fast enough.

Kai’s breaths grew deep and slow. Was he sleeping? Now there was timing for you. Then Kai sighed.

“Want a backrub?” Ryo asked.

“Hm?”

“It’ll relax me, too.”

“I could give you a backrub.” Kai sounded sleepy.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. I have many bedroom skills.” Kai still sounded more sleepy than seductive.

“You don’t have to convince me. Actually, do you have something for a headache?”

“Bathroom cupboard. Top shelf. There’s water here.” Kai rolled over and sat up. Ryo heard the plash of water pouring into a glass.

Ryo padded into the master bath, blinking as he switched on the lights and opened the cabinet. Aspirin and Tylenol both on the top shelf, as described. He dry swallowed two aspirin, absently scanning the other shelves. There was a small pharmacy here. The usual cold and flu remedies along with prescriptions for anxiety, indigestion, heartburn, acid reflux, and insomnia.

Okay. Well, at least he knew what he was getting into.

He closed the cabinet. His fingers froze on the light switch. He opened the cabinet again and picked out the vial of Restoril.

“Couldn’t find it?” Kai’s voice asked behind him.

Ryo turned holding the vial. “Sleeping pills?”

“What about them?”

“Did you take them the night Torres killed that old woman?”

Kai frowned. “Of course not. If you’ll notice, I don’t take them. Which is why we’re standing here having this conversation.”

“But you had them here.” Ryo examined the label for the date of the prescription. “This bottle was here that night?”

Kai’s face tightened into older, harder lines. “You can’t stop snooping, can you? You pretend it’s me you want. You don’t want me. You just want answers.” He grabbed the vial from Ryo and threw the pills in the cupboard. The mirrored image of their angry faces swung past as he slammed the door shut.

Ryo ignored Kai’s display of temper. “Tell me the truth. Did you take sleeping pills that night?”

“Yeah. Of course. I palmed a mouthful. I thought Mickey might like to fuck a corpse. What the hell are you talking about? Of course I didn’t take sleeping pills that night!”

Even as the words left Kai’s mouth, his expression altered. It was infinitesimal, but Ryo caught it.

He grabbed Kai’s shoulders. “But you slept?”

Kai’s mouth opened but he didn’t answer. His eyes were dark and guarded.

“You slept, didn’t you?”

“I-I’m not sure. Maybe.”

“He drugged you!”

Kai shook him off. “You’re crazy, Ryo.”

But Ryo was sure, now. He said calmly, with conviction, “You know he did. If you didn’t take them yourself, he slipped them to you.”

“No. He didn’t!” Kai looked frightened. And no wonder. “How could he, without me knowing? I’m telling you, I don’t even remember if I slept or not. You’re running away with this insane, ridiculous theory.”

“How can you not remember?”

Kai stared at him shaking his head in disbelief. “I do sleep sometimes, you know. I was nearly asleep five minutes ago—until you started asking if I wanted a backrub.”

“Think back to that night. Did he give you something to drink?”

“He didn’t give me anything.” Kai fell silent, thinking. He shook his head. “Yes, we probably drank. But if there were drinks, I fixed them.”

Ryo was thinking, too. “How hard would it be for him to use the john and grab a handful of your pills? Hell, he could have brought sleeping pills with him.”

“I think I would have noticed him pouring a handful of pills into my glass!”

“Maybe he—”

“Do I have to spell it out? We didn’t sit around sipping cocktails and making small talk.”

Ryo ignored that. “You keep a carafe of water beside your bed. He could have dumped the pills into that.”

“And then what? He poured the carafe down my throat when I wasn’t paying attention?”

“You drink a lot of water. You’ve poured yourself water twice tonight. He could have noticed that the first night he was here. And when he saw the drugstore in your bathroom—”

“You’re. Out. Of. Your. Mind.”

Ryo shook his head. “The only person you’re fooling is yourself.”

“You know what, Ryo?” Kai pointed toward the front room. “Just go. I’ve had enough of you for one night. Get the hell out of my home.”

“Sure, I’ll go,” Ryo said. “But before you start feeling too sorry for Torres, keep in mind he was willing to risk giving you an overdose just so he could go bash an old lady’s brains in.”

“Get OUT of here!” Kai yelled.

“Don’t worry, I’m going.” Ryo brushed past Kai and went into the bedroom. He found his jeans on the floor beside the bed, retrieved his gun from the bedside table, jamming it in his waistband. He went into the brightly lit living room and found his socks and boots.

Kai, dressed in sweatpants, came out of the bedroom. He folded his arms across his chest, watching silently.

“I’m still going to my captain first thing tomorrow,” Ryo told him. “So don’t do anything stupid.”

“You mean as stupid as letting you in here so you could search through my things?”

Ryo stared right back at him until Kai looked away.

As victories went, it was pretty hollow. Ryo was still getting tossed out on his ear, and all the hopeful promise and quiet intimacy of the previous hours felt like a dream. How was it possible to feel so much disappointment over something that had never really been much more than a wish?

“This isn’t about me breaking your trust. We both know what this is really about,” Ryo burst out. “This is you scared to death at the idea of the morning after. Anything is easier than that. Hell, suicide is easier than having an actual relationship with a guy who might get to know you without your fake blue eyes.”

Kai’s eyes were dark with fury. He strode down the hall and punched the security code into the pad before yanking the door open. “Don’t worry about losing your job, Ryo. You can always become a mental health expert. You’re such a natural.”

Ryo made sure he had his keys and took a final glance around the room to make sure he wasn’t leaving anything behind. He stepped outside. “Sayonara, sweetheart,” Ryo told Kai. “Don’t forget to lock the door behind me.”

It was pretty good as exit lines went, but the end result was he was still standing on the wrong side of a slammed door.

The deadbolt slid home with a smooth finality.

Ryo sighed and started down the walkway. The wind whistled a hollow, empty tune down the open corridor. He stopped, bracing himself with one hand on the low wall and pulling his boot on with the other. The windblown palm trees made a flapping sound, like broken birds. All around, the lights of West Hollywood glowed and glittered, like an overturned treasure chest.

Well, he wasn’t going to sleep tonight anyway. He might as well go get a drink somewhere. A raging hangover might help dull the pain of tomorrow. He’d meant what he said. Regardless of how things had ended with Kai, Ryo was going to Captain Louden first thing. Kai was too stubborn or too scared to see his danger, and if protecting him required the sacrifice of Ryo’s career, well, it wasn’t like Ryo hadn’t understood the risk of getting involved with the Ice Princess.

He pulled on his second boot, glancing down as motion in the driveway below caught his eye. A silver monster truck, headlights dimmed, glided to a stop in the fire lane. The doors flew open and three males in black jackets and ski masks piled out of the truck cab.

What the hell?

Ryo leaned over the wall, trying to get a clear view. As the figures vanished around the corner of the building, the cadaverous lights of the parking structure picked out the gleam of the assault rifles they carried.

Ryo’s heart went into overdrive. He raced back down the walkway, hammering his fist on Kai’s door. “Kai! Open the door. Open the door. Kai, open the door. Now. Kai! Open the—”

The door swung open. “Okay,” Kai said. “Maybe I did overreact a little.”

Ryo pushed him inside, slamming the door and sliding the lock. “Help me shove this cabinet in front of the door.” Ryo was already at the other end of the giant lacquered cinnabar cabinet, giving it a test push. It didn’t budge. “Come on. Move.”

“What? What’s go—” Kai broke off at the unmistakable and ear-shattering drawn out cra-a-a-a-a-a-k of AK-47s from below.

“They’re coming for you,” Ryo told him. “That’s the security doors going down.”

Color drained from Kai’s face, his eyes going wide with terror. He leaped to help Ryo drag and push the huge cabinet across the slick floor. Ryo swore and sweated and strained. The thing weighed a ton. Maybe literally. It felt like trying to shift a house. Thirty seconds felt like an eternity, but at last they got the cabinet positioned in front of the door.

“It won’t hold,” Kai told him breathlessly.

From below the floorboards came more bursts of gunfire and crashing sounds.

“It’ll slow them down.” Ryo fumbled for his phone. His hands were shaking as he hit speed dial, calling Dispatch. Had he made a terrible mistake in choosing to stay with Kai? Kai was the target, but it was Ryo’s job to protect everyone in this building. What if some innocent citizen got in the way? Shouldn’t he be out there seeing that didn’t happen?

“Dispatch,” came a laconic voice on the other end of the phone.

“Officer Needs Help.” With his free hand, Ryo pushed Kai toward the bedroom, still talking to dispatch, giving their address, his badge number, the number of shooters, the make of their vehicle, Torres’ name, giving everything he could think of to facilitate rescue or—if they didn’t make it out of this alive, which sickeningly felt like a real possibility—apprehension.

Kai stumbled into the bedroom and Ryo slammed the door behind them. It took Kai two tries to lock the door while Ryo plastered his back to the low bureau, scooting it noisily across the room. Kai joined him and together they shifted the bureau the last few feet in front of the locked door.

Kai’s teeth were chattering. “Th-this isn’t going to stop th-them. None of th-this will help.” He hugged himself, as though physically restraining himself from coming apart. Ryo sympathized with the feeling. He was trained to respond to mortal threat and even he was afraid. Afraid that nothing he did would be enough and that in a matter of minutes he would see Kai die.

“We just have to slow them down enough.” Ryo dropped his phone in his pocket. Help was coming. Maybe it would arrive in time.

Kai wiped at his eyes and nodded. Ryo put his arms around him. He didn’t try to reassure Kai. They listened tautly to the fast approaching pop and crack of automatic gunfire.

Kai’s arms were locked around Ryo’s waist. His face pressed against Ryo’s. His breath was moist; his damp lashes flickered in butterfly kisses against Ryo’s eyes.

“Sorry,” he said unsteadily. “Sorry for this. Sorry for all of it.”

Ryo shook his head. From down the hall came the splintering sound of the front door being shot to pieces. “Let’s go out on the balcony.”

Kai drew a breath, stepped away from him. They walked out onto the narrow balcony. Lights were blazing on all around them. Buildings coming to life. Windows and doors opening—the wrong response to gunfire, people—tenants calling out to each other.

Ryo stared down at the courtyard below. The pool was a glowing aqua square framed by lazily-swaying palm trees. Four stories down. They had a much better chance of hitting the surrounding pavement than the pool itself.

He raised his head at a faint keening sound carried on the breeze. Sirens. They sounded a million miles away.

The balcony—in fact, the whole complex—bounced. That would be the lacquer cabinet blocking the front door tipping over.

“We could climb,” Kai said suddenly, grabbing Ryo’s arm. “We could climb onto the roof.”

Ryo leaned back, staring upward. About ten feet above them, the tile roof jutted out like a black wing. “Yes! Great. Go for it.”

Kai hopped onto the ledge of the stucco balcony, slowly straightening to his full height. He was a couple of inches too short to reach the overhang.

“Stand on my shoulders.” Ryo’s eyes jerked back toward the bedroom at the deep sporadic bursts of cra-a-a-a-a-a-k, cra-a-a-a-a-a-k. Bullets tore through the door and wooden chest and opposite wall. “Steady.” He reached up a hand and Kai took it, stepping onto his shoulders. He was light, but not that light. Ryo managed to stay upright and solid. He gripped Kai’s wrists tightly.

Kai let go of Ryo’s hands, his weight shifted and then swung off Ryo’s shoulders. He clambered onto the roof and then leaned over the edge. His hair tumbled around his bloodless face. With his enormous eyes and wild hair he reminded Ryo of pictures of dying or crazed samurais he’d seen all those years ago in hoshu ko.

“Hurry,” Kai told him. “Now you, Ryo. You’re taller. You can make it standing on the ledge.”

“Go,” Ryo told him. “I’m right behind you.” He scrambled onto the narrow ledge of the balcony as the bedroom door gave with a crash, followed by the second crash of the bureau sliding across the room.

Ryo jumped. He was taller then Kai, but still not quite tall enough. His fingers brushed rough tile and he had a sickening moment when he realized there was nothing to grip, he was sliding back down. Kai’s hand clamped down on his forearm with an unexpectedly powerful grip. Kai’s other hand locked on Ryo’s collar. Ryo dangled, kicking his legs in open space, and then Kai hauled him up, hanging on until Ryo managed to throw a leg over the parapet and wriggle over onto the roof. Kai dragged him farther back from the edge.

“Run,” Ryo gasped as their pursuers spilled onto the balcony below.

Kai was on his feet and bounding away like a gazelle, gravel dusting up from beneath his bare feet. Ryo was right on his heels, but as they passed one of the large air compressors, he dropped down behind it and pulled his weapon. His heart was pounding so hard he wasn’t sure he could keep his hands steady enough to hit anything. He had never shot anyone. In fact, he’d only pulled his weapon a handful of times in his entire time on the force.

The first masked shooter swung over the edge of the rooftop. Ryo fired. The man shouted and fell back.

Ryo closed his eyes. He had shot someone. Maybe killed him. Numbly he listened to the sirens floating in the distance. Ryo opened his eyes. Bullets stitched through the air compressor and he flattened himself to the ground. He threw a quick look back at Kai. He could just make out the pale outline of him crouched at the far edge of the rooftop.

“Can you make it across to the next building?” Ryo called hoarsely. At least if Kai survived there would be some point to this, some good out of it.

Kai looked, judged the width, gave Ryo a thumbs up. Ryo gave him thumbs up in return and risked a look around the air compressor which was making mortally wounded noises.

It took a few vital seconds to pinpoint one shadowy figure climbing over the parapet. Movement to his right sent Ryo’s heart rocketing into warp speed. The remaining gunman was already on the roof and nearly on top of him. Ryo fired off a round and the gunman dived behind the concealment of a water tank closet.

Fuck. That had been too fucking close. Ryo sucked in a shaky breath.

Ryo risked another glance back and saw that Kai had successfully made the jump to the next rooftop. He expelled a breath. Thank God. At least Kai was safe. All he had to do was keep his head down and keep moving. Please keep your head down. Please keep moving. Please be safe.

Now all Ryo had to do was manage to stay alive for the next…how long? How long ‘til help reached him?

Another stream of bullets ploughed through the shattered air compressor. Ryo tried his best to become as one with the roof. He swore quietly, fervently. What the hell was the matter with these suicidal freaks that they didn’t give up and try to get away? They couldn’t miss that the police sirens were right beneath them now. They couldn’t miss the red and blue strobe lights cutting swaths through the nighttime.

Ryo breathed quietly, keeping his eyes on the water tank closet where he knew the other gunman was still hiding.

The night smelled of gun powder and burnt oil. Above the crackle of police radios, the buzz of voices, came a pulsing thrum of sound. Ryo raised his eyes. Across a stretch of starry sky he could see fast approaching lights and hear the droning beat of helicopter blades.

“You hear that?” he called out. “It’s over.”

The response was another fusillade of bullets.

It was over. But was it over if the bad guys didn’t know it was over?

The first gunman must have reloaded because he was advancing, firing steadily, bullets chewing stucco and tile and everything else in its way. Ryo looked desperately for new cover. He couldn’t get a clean shot off under that steady bombardment.

He inched to the other side of the compressor and risked a blind shot. He missed but the gunman ducked down behind another compressor.

Footsteps pounded past Ryo. He fired, thought he hit his target, but the shadow ran on. Ryo fired again, missed, and then was under fire himself from the first gunman.

The second shooter was going for the next rooftop and Kai. Ryo ignored the man advancing once more on him and fired again at the second shooter, but he sailed across the divide and landed on the rooftop where Kai was hiding.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. “Where are you, you sons of bitches?” Ryo cried out. He meant his fellow cops. He was talking to Mayer and Hernandez and Louden and every other cop he knew. He couldn’t do this by himself. He had nine rounds left.

The advancing gunman laughed.

The laughter cut through Ryo’s rising panic. He ducked back, took a couple of deep breaths and then threw himself forward, rolling to his side and firing off three quick rounds. One shot went wide but the other two hit the gunman dead center, plowing into his torso. He cried out, firing his AK-47 straight into the sky, and then fell backwards and lay twitching.

Ryo flipped over and jumped to his feet, running for the edge of the roof. To his horror he saw Kai and the second gunman caught in the spotlight of the hovering police chopper as they struggled on the brink of the apartment roof opposite. Why the gunman hadn’t simply shot Kai was a mystery. It seemed unlikely Kai could have managed to get the drop on his pursuer. But he was still standing, still struggling.

Ryo brought his weapon up, training it on the entwined figures, but he didn’t dare fire for fear of hitting Kai.

His heart stopped as the grappling figures stumbled and fell. They continued to fight, rolling closer to the edge, seeming unaware of their danger. And then one man went over. Ryo’s eyes closed instinctively, but not knowing was worse than knowing. He opened his eyes. Kai’s red hair blew wildly around him as he stretched out on the roof, offering his hand to the man who dangled from the edge.

Kai’s mouth was moving, but Ryo couldn’t hear the words over the whirring beat of the helicopter blades, he could only see the urgency in Kai’s face.

The man reached up, but instead of taking Kai’s hand, he caught a strand of his hair, winding it in his fist. Ryo leveled his weapon, sure the masked figure would drag Kai over the edge with him. But the man only held on for an instant before his fingers loosened, and he let go, let go of Kai, let go of the roof, let go entirely, falling into the darkness.

Chapter Eight

Fubar on a Friday Night. Cheap, strong drinks poured by the best bartenders in town; prim dudes and hot cowboys in assless chaps all dancing to Gotye’s “Somebody That I Used to Know”; crowded photo booth; dark-side-of-the-moon lighting; and glitter on the floor. The never-ending boy party. Some things never changed.

Ryo smiled faintly. The bartender, catching his eye, smiled back. Ryo nodded yes to another drink and casually glanced over his shoulder.

Yep. There, in the shadowy corner, sat a willowy figure dressed in black. A riot of chestnut hair curled and tumbled around his pointed face, reminding Ryo of one of those Renaissance Madonnas. Or maybe he was thinking of the Dark Ages? Anyway, wild hair and scholarly specs and an untouched blood-red cocktail sitting in front of him.

Ryo turned his back and sipped his vodka martini. Maybe he would go over and speak to Kai. Maybe he wouldn’t. Probably he wouldn’t. A year was a long time—and this had been a particularly long year.

But that was love and it’s an ache I still remember…

It hadn’t been love, though. Maybe something that might, in different circumstances, eventually have turned into love. A silk worm that never got the chance to be a butterfly. Ryo shook his head at himself and lifted his drink.

He would finish this drink and go. The fact was, he felt a little…old for this scene. He’d only stopped by out of curiosity. And because it was Friday night and he had nowhere he had to be—which was sometimes a lonely feeling.

But I’ll admit that I was glad it was over…

Someone crowded in on his right, jostling Ryo’s arm. “Dude,” Ryo said, turning.

He found himself confronting Cousin Itt. Okay, more like a thicket, scented of Japanese Flowers. The thicket turned its head and Ryo’s heart skipped a beat as he found himself gazing into a pair of wide brown eyes behind severe-seeming spectacles.

“Sorry. I wanted to buy you a drink,” Kai said.

For a second or two Ryo couldn’t think of a response. He was surprised and flattered and, yes, thrilled that the Ice Princess should have defrosted to such a degree as to come and say hi. There was a time when—but that time was passed and Ryo didn’t have the same fondness for games.

“Two’s my limit,” he said. “I’m driving.”

Kai didn’t respond and Ryo couldn’t seem to look away. Kai’s eyes were outlined in purple-black and he seemed to be wearing false eyelashes. He fluttered them coquettishly. Ryo felt a smile pulling at his mouth.

“How’ve you been?” Kai asked. A small black star sparkled in his earlobe.

“Okay. Good.”

“I heard you lost your job.”

“I got a new one,” Ryo said. He could say it now without a pang.

“I’m okay, too. In case you’re wondering.”

Ryo had wondered. Many times. He said reluctantly, “I heard you lost your inheritance.”

“Yeah.” Kai’s lashes swept down and then up again. “I thought you would probably call me, but you never did.” Kai caught the bartender’s eye.

“I’ve got it,” Ryo said to the bartender. The bartender nodded.

“Thank you.” Kai propped his elbow on the bar. They were pretty much standing chest to chest, and it turned out to be harder than Ryo had thought to be this close to Kai and not touch him. The sultry eyes and velvety lashes were a turn on, no question. He liked the shining mane of hair, the winking jewel in his ear.

Was anything about Kai Tashiro not a turn on? Oh yeah. The mile-wide streak of crazy.

“What are you doing now?” Kai asked. “For a living. I mean.”

“I work for a firm of private investigators.”

Kai raised his eyebrows. He turned to sip his drink.

Ryo slid his card to the bartender. “Close me out.” The bartender assented.

Kai said, “Why didn’t you call, Ryo?”

The simple directness of that caught Ryo off guard. “Why didn’t you call?”

“Because you lost your job because of me. Because I nearly got you killed. Because you were walking out on me that night and the only reason you came back was to save my life.”

“Now you know why I didn’t call.”

Kai gazed at him gravely. He nodded, picked up his drink, drained it, and turned away from the bar. He walked with remarkable steadiness through the mash of laughing, talking, dancing men.

Ryo shook his head. He was still shaking his head as he hurriedly signed his bill, pocketed his card, and followed Kai out of the club.

The sidewalk was empty. Ryo looked up and down the street. There was no sign of Kai. Well…hell.

Cigarette and voices drifted from the patio. He turned and saw Kai standing in the shadow of the building, watching him.

“Practicing your ninja skills?”

Kai said, “I was wondering how serious you were about catching me.”

“I’m willing to meet you halfway, but I’m not going to chase after you again.”

Kai said slowly, “But you just did.”

“Because what I said to you wasn’t true. Or fair. I lost my job because I deserved to lose my job. I did that without any help from you. Just like I nearly got myself killed. That wasn’t your fault. I made a lot of mistakes last year. I didn’t read Torres correctly. Not completely, anyway. So it would be just as fair to say I nearly got you killed. And as for the reason I left that night…”

“I was stupid.”

“I left because I didn’t want to turn into another Torres, forcing my way into your life, hurting you—”

“You weren’t. You didn’t. Ryo.” Kai sounded like he was in pain.

Ryo said with a flicker of humor, “If I’d realized how fast you were going to open that door, I wouldn’t have waited for gang bangers to show up.”

Kai crossed the pavement so that he was within arms’ reach again. “Ryo, can’t we go somewhere and talk?”

“Talk?” Ryo said doubtfully.

Kai, mimicking Ryo all those months ago, said, “Well, we don’t have to talk.” He tilted his head back. His smile was challenging, but it was wistful, too.

Ryo wanted to kiss him, but that was probably not wise. Instead he laughed. “Maybe we do, after all.”

“Good. You’d better drive. I’m a little drunk.”

“Where am I driving us?” Ryo wished the idea of driving somewhere, anywhere, with Kai didn’t make him so happy. But it was no use pretending. The stars suddenly seemed brighter, the night less dark.

“To your place.”

“Okay,” Ryo said slowly, “but it’s not what you’re used to.”

“Oh, RyOh.” Kai sighed.

That was the last thing he said. He was quiet as they walked to Ryo’s car. Quiet on the short drive. Quiet when Ryo let them into his apartment.

Fortunately the place wasn’t too much of a mess. There were breakfast dishes in the sink and a stack of newspapers on the coffee table and a few extra pairs of shoes scattered around, but it wasn’t too bad.

Kai moved around the front room, studying the framed photos on the shelves, checking out Ryo’s CDs and his Netflix rentals. “Harakiri?”

Ryo smiled self-consciously. “Yeah.”

“Did you like it?”

“I haven’t watched it yet. I work a lot of hours.”

Kai nodded absently and continued to prowl. “I’m living in Westwood now.”

“I’d heard.” No surprise there. The surprise would have been if he’d gone on living on Armacost Avenue.

Kai moved on to the dining alcove, stopping to examine the silk painting Obaachan had given Ryo when he was a little boy. Plum blossoms with Mount Fuji in the background.

“Have you been to Japan?” Kai asked.

“Not yet. You?”

“Oh, yeah. Lots of times. I was there in December for Comiket. We should go sometime.”

“Sure.” Ryo laughed. Kai looked surprised. “Er…would you like something?” Ryo asked. “Coffee? Water? Alka-Seltzer?”

“Jasmine tea?”

“Seriously, dude?”

“Water,” Kai said. Adding with a flash of his old imperiousness, “With a slice of lemon if you have it.”

“I don’t.” But God help him, he’d be stocking lemons and jasmine tea from now on in case Kai ever decided to drop by again. So much for his resolve not to reopen these old wounds. Ryo poured water and ice in a glass and brought it to Kai who was now sitting on the sofa. Kai drank half the glass of water and then leaned back. He had taken his glasses off. His eyes looked huge and shadowy.

“This will work better if you sit beside me.”

“Whatever you say.” Ryo sat down on the sofa.

Kai moved closer to him. “And if you put your arms around me.”

Ryo snorted but he complied. He was happy to comply, happy to put his arms around Kai again. It felt good to hold him, cradle that lanky length. Kai moved still closer and wrapped his arms around Ryo, putting his head on Ryo’s shoulder. Burying his head, in fact.

When he didn’t move, didn’t speak, Ryo’s smile faded and he put his lips to Kai’s ear. “All right, Kai-chan?”

Kai nodded. After a minute he asked in a muffled voice, “You’re not seeing anyone, are you?”

“No. Of course not.”

Of course not? Really? What was sadder, the fact that it was true or that he admitted it so easily? Ryo shook his head inwardly, but the fact was, sitting here with his arms full of the bundle of bones and hank of hair that was Kai, he was happy again for the first time in a year.

“Me neither,” Kai muttered. “I haven’t been with anyone since you.”

“That’s hard to believe,” Ryo said, but he said it gently because it was clear that it had been a tough year for Kai, too.

Kai swallowed and his whole back moved. He was so thin. Of course he was always thin. One of Kai’s hands rested on his shoulder. Ryo scrutinized the plum-painted nails. Kai wasn’t biting his nails anymore, so that was a good sign, right?

Kai said, “I thought you meant those things you said that night. I thought if I gave you time. Gave you space.”

“I…couldn’t,” Ryo said. He didn’t know how to explain it without further hurting Kai. For months he had lived those terrible life and death minutes on the rooftop over and over again. He’d questioned his every thought, every action in the days leading up to the gun battle. And long before the official inquiry was over or even the proceedings for his dismissal from LAPD, Ryo knew he’d fucked up. Fucked up about as badly as you could. The only comfort was he hadn’t gotten Kai killed. Maybe he’d even kept Kai alive. But two other men, Mickey Torres and his younger brother, had died on that rooftop. And the third shooter had wound up paralyzed. Ryo had done that. The responsibility was his. Maybe not all his, but he had a lion’s share of the blame.

And even if he could have somehow shrugged aside his guilt, he was never going to forget those final moments, watching a mortally wounded Mickey Torres lifting his hand up and caressing Kai’s hair before letting himself fall to his death. Blood Red Butterfly. How the hell did anyone compete with that? And who would want to? Ryo was just an ordinary guy. He could only offer an ordinary love. The From This Day Forward In Sickness And In Health Would You Like Takeout Tonight? kind of love. And he didn’t have a lot of experience at that either.

Kai said, “And then I thought maybe if I wrote you.”

Ryo angled his head to try and see Kai’s face. He brushed down the cloud of hair. “Did you write me?”

“Lots of times. But I could never get it right, the things I needed to say to you.”

“What did you need to say to me?”

Kai slanted a sideways look beneath those ridiculous lashes. “I love you.”

Ryo felt winded. That was almost too much. Certainly more than he’d let himself hope for. On the occasions he’d let himself fantasize, he’d always pictured himself wooing Kai, courting him, and never getting any further than the occasional I think I’d rather be with a dude who would risk his job to keep me from being murdered.

It wouldn’t have been enough, and it was one more reason he hadn’t tried to contact Kai. He didn’t have energy for or interest in those kinds of games anymore.

He had been silent too long because Kai’s expression changed, grew remote. “You don’t feel the same now.”

“It isn’t…I never expected…”

Kai shielded his face against Ryo’s shoulder. One day, when he looked back on this moment, was this going to be funny or unbearably sad? Ryo didn’t know. His stomach was knotted in a way that had not been familiar for twelve months.

“I didn’t know my grandfather when I came to live with him,” Kai said suddenly. He was still not facing Ryo. Ryo could hear the hard, fast beat of his heart and realized that Kai was scared to death and talking before he had a chance to change his mind. “I’d never met him. I didn’t know any of my mother’s family. But I tried to be what he wanted. He was all I had left. My only family. I wanted him to…”

“That’s natural,” Ryo said.

“I wanted him to love me,” Kai said more clearly. “I wanted to be worthy.”

Ryo’s eyes prickled. He closed them tight. “You are worthy.”

Kai was still speaking in that quick, rough way. “Everything he asked, I did. Everything. I changed my name. I gave up my father’s name so that I could make Ojiisan happy. He wanted me to be Japanese and so did I want it, if that would make him love me. I thought he did love me in his own way.”

Ryo nearly said, “You don’t have to tell me anymore.” But he realized in time, the point was not his hearing it. The point was Kai saying it.

“Everything was okay. Mostly. But then…when I turned seventeen, I realized that something really was wrong with me. Different, I mean. Not wrong. But I thought it was wrong.”

Now they were getting to it. Ryo had figured it must be something like this. “You realized you were gay.”

“And I thought I would find a way to change that. So. So Laurel and I ran away and got married.” Kai shuddered. “It was horrible. Not Laurel, but the whole…thing. It was a mistake. It was such a bad mistake. And I knew I wasn’t going to change. That I couldn’t change. It was a relief when they found out. Ojiisan and Laurel’s parents. They annulled the marriage.”

“And around that time you wrote Blood Red Butterfly?”

Kai sat up and looked at Ryo in surprise. “That’s right. How did you know that?”

“You told me you wrote the first volume when you were seventeen.”

“Oh. Yes, that’s right. I began writing the stories and putting them online. And people liked them. I got a contract with a publisher. And that gave me the courage to tell him…tell Ojiisan that I was gay.”

“I bet that didn’t go well.”

“No.” Kai was silent for so long Ryo thought perhaps that was the end of the story. That was okay. He felt he had heard what he needed to. He understood now why it was hard for Kai to trust anyone, including Kai.

Kai drew a deep breath and said briskly, “So I tried again to be what he wanted. And I kept trying. And then finally I wondered why he couldn’t love me as I was. And why I did love him when he wanted me to be everything I wasn’t.”

“And somewhere in there you tried to get back together with Laurel.”

Kai’s smile was wry. “Yes. Can you believe that? After that…after that crashed and burned, I knew I couldn’t be anything but what I was. And Ojiisan and I made our agreement. Which I did try to keep, though he’ll never see it that way.”

“And now that’s all over?”

Kai nodded slowly.

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Like the fever broke.” Kai’s smile was rueful. “All I wanted for so long was to win the war between us. To beat him at his own game. Make him give me what he promised. But now I see he can’t change who he is anymore than I can. Anyway, the thing I really wanted from him wasn’t the money. So I made a deal with Laurel. When…the time comes, I won’t contest Ojiisan’s will provided she gives me visitation rights to Kenji.”

“And she agreed to that?”

Kai nodded. He gave Ryo a sideways look. “I’ve been seeing him a couple of days a week for the last six months.”

“That’s…wow. I don’t know what to say. I think it’s great, though.”

“Yeah.” Kai sighed. “But I can see why maybe you’re not so sure how you feel about me. I come with baggage.”

“Yeah,” Ryo said. “I’m thinking the full set of luggage complete with carry-on containers. You know what, this time you’re not scaring me off.”

“I don’t want to scare you off. That’s the last thing I want. That’s why I thought if I explained, maybe you’d remember what you liked about me.”

Ryo brushed the curls back from Kai’s forehead. “I remember exactly what I liked about you. The same things I love about you.”

Kai flushed. His mouth quivered. He said earnestly, “I know you think there was more between Mickey and me, but you’re wrong.” His eyes gazed steadily, solemnly into Ryo’s. “I knew right from the start you were the one for me, Ryo-chan. I knew the night you told me your darkest secret.”

“What darkest secret?” Ryo said, uncertainly.

Kai leaned forward and, breath warm against Ryo’s ear, whispered, “Your early training in the art of ikebana.”

Ryo laughed. He was still laughing as his mouth found Kai’s. Kai’s lips parted sweetly, smiling beneath his own.

It was a tentative kiss at first; shared laughter, shared breath, shared wonder. It warmed, strengthened, and love swelled, stretched, spread between them like a butterfly unfurling gossamer wings.

Don’t Look Back

Chapter One

The moon was enormous—ripe, red-gold, hanging low in the sky. From the flowering jacaranda, the mockingbird was scolding. Chjjjj…chjjjj…chewk.

Peter stumbled up the brick path. His foot caught and he went down, on his knees, breathing hard. His hands were white blurs on the warm stone. He tried to focus, and he could see the ink splotches of blood—his blood—running down his face and dripping onto the bricks.

His stomach rose in protest. Swallowing down his nausea, he pushed back to his feet. The black velvet leaves of the elephant ears seemed to twitch, listening, as his footsteps scraped unsteadily up the path, past the sundial and palely glimmering statues, past the solar lanterns fuzzily glowing.

The shadows cast by the jacaranda stretched chill and dark in the warm summer evening, but the darkness edging his vision had nothing to do with the deepening night. There was blood in his eyes now; he wiped at it uncertainly.

Peter reached the top of the long, shallow garden steps. The back entrance of Constantine House loomed before him, and he staggered forward, feeling for his keys. He leaned against the door, resting his head on the painted surface, fumbling in his pockets. He pushed a key into the lock; it turned, and the door swung open, spilling him into the hallway.

Half-blind with blood and pain, he wove his way down the hallway toward the main exhibit room and his office. His foot caught on the Oriental runner and he went sprawling. Somewhere in the distance an alarm bell was clanging. He opened his eyes. Dimly, as though looking through a telescope, he could see the cool white marble face of Kwan Yin gazing down at him. She held a little vase, pouring nothingness out over his pounding head. But it wasn’t nothingness. It was nectar. Invisible nectar to feed the hungry ghosts.

Far, far at the other end of the telescope, the serene face of Kwan Yin receded, grew tinier and tinier…until at last it pinched out like a match spark in the night.

* * * * *

He was chuckling, a deep, sexy sound as he pushed Peter back on the satiny cushions. Was this for real? Was he going to go through with it? Peter blinked up as his tie was unfastened, tossed aside, his shirt unbuttoned, laid wide. The evening breeze—scented of smog and jasmine—felt cool against his overheated skin, like the lightest breath. Unlike their own breathing, which was hot and heavy and strained-sounding. Gasps and groans that were pure skin flick. For a moment Peter was thrown out of the mood, his normal self-consciousness and reticence reasserting themselves.

He narrowed his eyes, trying to see the other’s face in the summer darkness, but a warm weight lowered itself beside him. Their mouths locked; their cocks rubbed rigidly together.

Oh God. That felt good. That stiff length of soft skin and hardness—hard as bone—as desire throbbed through Peter, his heartbeat echoing in the pulse of his cock. So much sensation at once. It was overwhelming…but good. Warm breath and the tang of sweat on clean skin, the tickle of chest hair against his nipples, the glide of muscles as powerful arms pulled him close, legs wrapping around his own. Yes, it was really happening, and he wanted it to happen. He was happy to let go, loosing his doubts, his concerns, his anxieties, because this just felt right. And he refused to second-guess himself, to freeze up. He had waited a long time for this.

A long time. A lifetime.

Because this was Cole. Cole. His heart seemed to swell with emotion, happiness filling his chest because it was Cole with him. Together. The way they were meant to be. Finally…

Peter’s lashes stirred.

He opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was the cop’s hard face. He wasn’t sure how he knew the man beside his bed was a cop…he didn’t know him.

Or did he?

He was big. Not fat. Big. Tall, broad, muscular. Like a bull. One of those beautiful sleek, powerful bulls they use in bullfighting. Like Isidore Bonheur’s sculptures. Lean, fierce features…smoke-dark hair, hard blue-gray eyes, and a thin mouth that looked inclined to sarcastic asides.

Even on that first glimpse under the fluttering of eyelids, Peter felt a jolt of alarm, the knowledge that something was seriously wrong. He opened his mouth and a funny sound came out. Then another face slid into view. A woman’s face, calm and professional. A nurse. She said soothingly, “It’s all right, Mr. Killian. You’re going to be perfectly all right now.”

She sounded very sure of it, and he relaxed. He did feel all right. He felt warm and floating…relieved that the hard, unfriendly face had gone. Even happy. He’d been dreaming about… He’d been dreaming. It was confused and faraway now. He let it go. Let everything go.

The second time was the real awakening. He opened his eyes with a start. There was another nurse at his bedside, and she said something to him, something calming, something reassuring. He responded. Things got a little fuzzy and then sharpened again. His room seemed full of people, and a doctor was there asking him questions.

It was…confusing. Tiring. His head ached. A lot.

“What happened to me?” he mumbled.

“You’ve got a concussion, Mr. Killian.”

He thought that over. It wasn’t an answer, was it? Or was it? “How?” he asked.

“You were injured during a robbery.”

A robbery. Like…a mugging? He couldn’t seem to remember, although it didn’t seem like the kind of thing one would forget. It was all very bewildering. He wanted to go back to sleep.

“I don’t remember,” he said, and his eyelids drifted shut.

The next time he opened his eyes, the bull—the cop—was back.

The thin mouth curled into an unfriendly smile. “Well, Peter, we meet again.”

“Yes,” Peter said, trying to focus. His vision was off. “Do I know you?”

There was silence. The gray-blue eyes—which looked more gray than blue—narrowed. “Are you saying you don’t?”

Peter’s heart began to pound. “No.”

“No…?”

“I don’t know you.”

Another silence. Another smile—a rather cynical one. “Is that so?”

“Should I?” Peter managed. His temples were now starting to pound in time with his heart. All at once he felt very ill.

“What do you remember?”

“I…” Peter stopped. He had the sensation of sand sucking away beneath his feet. “Who are you?” His voice sounded faint even to himself.

The other laughed, and then the dark face re-formed itself into a sneer. “Honest to God. You’ve got to be kidding. You’re not seriously going to try and pull that?”

Peter stared at him; he couldn’t think of anything to say even if he could have forced words out over his rising panic. This couldn’t be happening. This… Something was wrong. And he could not let this guy, whoever he was, know how very wrong things were—that much he knew instinctively.

“I think you should go,” he said.

“Oh, you do?” Unimpressed, the cool eyes studied him. “Why? If you don’t know who I am?”

Peter said honestly, “Because I don’t like you.”

Another one of those hard laughs. “I see you do remember something. What else do you remember?”

Peter opened his mouth. Nothing came to him. This was impossible.

Wait. He knew…the nurse had called him “Mr. Killian” and this asshole had called him “Peter.” And the doctor had said…something about a mugging.

“It’s… I know who I am. But…some…details are…vague.”

“How convenient.” Unfriendly mockery. “Well, let me refresh your memory. I’m Detective Michael Griffin. LAPD Robbery and Homicide Division.” Griffin pulled a flat wallet thing out of his jacket and flashed a very large, very official-looking badge in front of Peter’s nose.

Peter narrowed his eyes. This made sense up to a point. He had been knocked out—in a robbery—so it was reasonable that the police would interview him. Right? But Detective Griffin was acting like Peter was the criminal, and clearly they had some kind of history.

And that was very hard to believe. Peter doubtfully studied Griffin’s face. Peter was a law-abiding person. He knew that about himself. He had no doubt whatsoever on that score. Maybe he couldn’t remember everything, but he knew he was not the kind of person who got into trouble with the law.

Right?

And anything else was out of the question.

Ah. So that was an additional something he now knew about himself. He liked guys. He was…gay. And comfortable with the idea.

But maybe Griffin didn’t like guys who liked guys? Maybe that was the problem with Michael Griffin. Although how would he know about Peter’s sexual preferences? Peter couldn’t imagine him confiding such a thing to…well, really to anyone. Nor did Griffin seem like the kind of guy anyone would want to confide in. Even had he been Peter’s type. Which he wasn’t. Peter couldn’t quite remember what his type was, but he was quite sure Griffin was not it.

“Is your memory coming back?” Griffin inquired.

“I was knocked out.”

“Oh right. And now you have amnesia. That’s the story?”

Griffin did not like him either. That was clear. And Peter did not feel well enough to deal with it. He closed his eyes. Opened them. Said, “Can we…talk about it later?”

“You’re not curious about what happened to you? I’d think you’d be very curious…since you can’t remember anything, right?”

Peter watched him. “I was mugged?”

“Try again.”

Peter tried again. “I was…robbed.” Griffin was from robbery and homicide, so that was a safe bet.

His thinking processes must have been transparent, because Griffin said slowly, “You’re guessing. Or you’re pretending to guess.”

God. This asshole was too much. Peter closed his eyes. He couldn’t deal with this right now.

Silence.

When the silence stretched—when Griffin didn’t go away—Peter opened his eyes and surprised an odd expression on the detective’s face. Mostly suspicion, or maybe wariness, but there was some other emotion that Peter couldn’t read. It vanished the moment Griffin saw that Peter’s eyes were open.

“Why don’t I help you out with a few points? Your name’s Peter Killian. You don’t like to be called ‘Pete.’ You’re thirty-five years old, unmarried, a native Angeleno. You’re the curator at Constantine House. Is this ringing any bells?”

Peter licked his lips. There was a horrible taste in his mouth and his head was pounding sickly. He knew he didn’t want to hear anything more. He knew he needed to.

“You’ve been curator there for a little over three years—during which time the museum has lost slightly over a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of antiquities and art objects.”

Griffin paused politely. Peter moved his head in slight negation. He couldn’t have spoken even if he’d known what to say. His heart was thudding as though he’d found himself cornered by an attack dog—which was kind of how he felt. Griffin wasn’t quite baring his teeth, but somehow the effect was the same.

“Two nights ago, for reasons known only to you, you went down to the grotto in the back of the museum garden and, to all appearances, surprised thieves in the process of removing a priceless, tenth-century painted mural.”

Tenth century. A very bad year—all one hundred of them. The “Leaden Century” as described by Cardinal Baronius. The darkest of the Dark Ages.

“What was a priceless artifact doing in a grotto in the back of a garden?”

Griffin ignored that feeble protest. “Apparently, you were struck over the head and left unconscious while the thieves made off with the wall painting—at which point you regained consciousness, made your way back to the museum, and triggered the alarms by not disarming the security system when you let yourself inside the back door.”

As Griffin spoke, Peter had a dizzying and fleeting impression of images. A small cave…flashing shadows…voices echoing in argument…the delicate lines and muted colors of a painting…two riders on horseback…Chinese, yes. A tomb painting…yes. He did remember…

He remembered…something.

It took a few seconds to absorb the implications of Griffin’s flat pronouncement.

“You don’t think that’s what happened?”

“I think it’s convenient. Like your amnesia.”

Peter let that sink in too. He had the disconcerting sensation of trying to feel his way through smoke.

“You think I was involved in the robbery?” he managed at last.

“Were you?”

“No! Of course not.”

“I thought you couldn’t remember?”

Peter tried to sit up. Not a good idea. Quite a bad idea, actually. Despite the railing, he nearly overturned right out of the narrow hospital bed. His stomach overturned too as his brain seemed to slam the roof of his skull. Dimly, he was aware of Griffin grabbing him and putting him back against the pillows. Griffin said something to him, but he couldn’t make it out. Maybe Griffin rang for help, because he could hear a buzzer going off. Peter felt sick and woozy and cold all the way through. He needed to make Griffin understand, needed to convince him, and he already knew that was going to be a hopeless cause. Griffin’s mind was made up. He believed Peter was guilty.

Then the room was full of people. There seemed to be a lot of noise and activity. Somewhere behind the wall of sound, he could hear Detective Griffin protesting—and being overridden. Peter put a hand to his head, touching some kind of bandage; his skull felt like it was about to split in half. Someone leaned over him; there was a pinch in his arm, and suddenly the commotion faded out.

It was quiet again. Warm. Dark. A black tide rushed toward him and he stepped out to meet it.

* * * * *

Mouths locked, their cocks awkward, poking, stiff as they moved against each other. A slow wriggle that turned into humping—uncomfortable, embarrassing—but then slowly, rhythmically finding themselves in step, moving faster, faster, picking up a frantic kind of speed. No longer awkward or strange, just give-and-take, a lovely reciprocity. He could hear the hard, steady pounding of the heart beating against his own. A husky voice speaking against his ear… The words were lost. But that was all right. Even without the words, this was what he had been waiting for, what he had wanted for so long.

Why had he been afraid of this? Why had he thought this wasn’t possible?

“Cole?”

He woke, startled, to sterile silence. Had he spoken aloud?

“So, Professor Peabody, I guess your memory is coming back?”

Professor Peabody? He opened his eyes.

Blue sky and clouds. That was nice. Strange but nice. Ah. Fluorescent lights behind decorative diffuser panels. He turned his head—very carefully. Medical paraphernalia…and a face he’d hoped he’d dreamed up. Although…given his most recent dreams, maybe not.

Detective Griffin was at his bedside once more, faithful as any lover. Well, he’d known that reprieve couldn’t last. Griffin had been a no-show yesterday evening, but here he was bright and early, as though standing in for Peter’s nearest and dearest. That was unsettling, now that Peter thought about it.

“Why isn’t anyone here?” Peter asked.

“I’ll try not to take that personally.”

“I mean…my…”

“Your?”

But Peter had already figured it out. There wasn’t anyone. No family. Friends… He looked doubtfully at Griffin. Those blue-gray eyes that didn’t seem to miss anything. Even if Peter had a crowd of friends queuing up outside the room, Griffin would not be letting them in till he got whatever it was he wanted from Peter.

Which was what? A confession of guilt?

When Peter didn’t speak, Griffin said, “I guess you’re wondering where Cole is?”

“Cole?”

The flash of impatience was almost concealed. Not quite. “You woke up asking for him. Now you’re pretending you don’t know who he is?”

He had to tread warily here. “I was half-asleep.”

“You’re trying to tell me you don’t remember Cole?”

Cole. Did he know who Cole was? He couldn’t picture him. And yet the name seemed imprinted on his consciousness. Too important to forget.

And yet he had forgotten.

Peter’s stomach knotted with tension. He was sliding out onto some very thin ice; he could feel the chill. What division did Griffin work for? Robbery and…homicide? Was that what he’d said? Peter couldn’t remember. But there was something about Cole. He could feel it. Something bad. Something too painful to bear.

“Who is he?”

“Cole Constantine? He’s the great-great-grandson of MacBride Constantine.”

Peter must have looked blank, because Griffin’s sarcastic mouth quirked and he said, “Captain MacBride Constantine. The founder of Constantine House. The salty old sea dog who ripped off all those treasures from foreign climes and dragged them home to Southern California.”

“What is Cole to me?”

Griffin’s slanted eyebrows rose. “Good question. For one thing, he’s your employer. Well, one of them. He’s on the trustee committee for the museum. And”—he seemed to be scanning Peter’s face closely—“you were college roommates and best friends.”

“What else?”

“You tell me.”

Peter stared. Griffin had a thin, cruel face, he thought. His eyes were wintry, like old ice.

“Has something happened to him?”

“Like what?”

The tension knotting Peter’s muscles seemed to wrench tighter. He was afraid now—starting to shake with it.

“Like…something bad.” He blurted, “Is he dead?”

Griffin laughed. “Worse than that. He’s married.”

Chapter Two

“You really don’t remember anything?” Roma shouted.

She was a small, slim woman of about forty with hazel eyes and dark hair cut in what they used to call a pixie. Apparently, she and Peter were great friends; she had turned up at the hospital to collect him and was now flying him home in her green vintage MG. She drove well, if terrifyingly fast.

He hedged, calling over the rush of wind, “It’s coming back.”

“But you remember me?”

“Sort of.”

Not really, if he was brutally honest. He had been relieved to find that he did apparently have friends. His hospital stay, though relatively brief, had been lonely and nerve-racking till Roma had shown up claiming long acquaintance. He had to take her word for it. He liked her, though. Liked her directness, liked her easy acceptance of his plight. He could believe they were friends even if he couldn’t recall that friendship.

She laughed now at his obvious discomfort. “In that case, I guess your trust is flattering.” She spared him a glance—Peter wished she wouldn’t, given the bat-out-of-hell speed they were traveling at down the 210. Having just escaped the hospital, he definitely didn’t want to wind up there again anytime soon. So there was something else he now knew about himself. He didn’t like taking chances.

“Anything you want to stop for on the way? Jessica is stocking the pantry for you, so you’ll be set for the next few days.”

Jessica, he had already gathered, was Roma’s partner. He had no recollection of her either. He had no recollection of anyone, though there was no organic reason for this lapse according to the doctors. He remembered the year, the month, and who was president. He remembered who won the fourth round at Wimbledon; he remembered seeing Duplicity—although he couldn’t remember the circumstances of seeing the film. He remembered the Art Loss Register.

He remembered pretty much everything, provided it had no personal connection to himself. Which indicated, according to the hospital’s resident psychiatrist, that his memory loss was psychosomatic. Amnesia, as it turned out, pretty much only happened in books and movies. If Peter wasn’t remembering, it was because he didn’t want to remember.

Either that or, as Detective Mike Griffin suggested, Peter was faking.

“I just want to get home,” Peter answered. He had no appetite. The hot summer wind blowing against his face was making his head hurt, although he should have been sufficiently medicated.

“Coming right up!” Roma pressed the gas and Peter closed his eyes.

Constantine House was located in La Cañada, at the junction between the 210 and 2 freeways. Built in 1880 by retired sea captain MacBride Constantine, the Victorian mansion overlooked ten acres of live-oak forest and a series of carefully cultivated gardens.

Peter had been hoping that his first sight of the house might trigger his memories, but though he recognized that it was a charming architectural hodgepodge of styles and influences, it did not resonate with him personally. It might have been the first time he laid eyes on the ornate brick chimneys, fish-scale shingles, stained-glass windows, curved wood brackets, and corner turret crowned with an enormous copper fleur-de-lis that defined the grand old Victorian.

“I don’t live there, do I?” he asked as the MG wound up the camellia-lined drive.

Roma shook her head. “You live in a cottage in the back. Did you want to stop?”

He should, of course. He should go straight to the museum. At the very least, he needed to know what was going on with the investigation from the perspective of the other victims, but even more than information, he craved silence, privacy. He’d been under a magnifying glass from the moment he recovered consciousness, and he already knew enough about himself to know that he was not comfortable with this much attention.

“I’ll see how I feel later.”

Roma nodded and they sped past the pastel-colored house with the colored windows shining like jewels in the bright sunlight. With the jacaranda trees in full purple blossom, it looked like a fantasy landscape.

It seemed strangely unpopulated too.

“Is the museum open?”

Roma replied, “Nine to five, every day except Christmas. Parking two dollars.”

“Is it closed while the police are investigating the robbery?”

“Not that I know of.” She shot him a quizzical look.

“It seems a little…deserted.”

“It’s not exactly Disneyland, you know.”

“I suppose not.”

Was the museum a fiscally sound enterprise? He had to wonder.

The drive wound behind the mansion, past the statuary and “ancient” garden and boxwood maze. Roma turned off from the main drive and headed down a small side road. Peter sighted a diminutive two-story California bungalow built in the Craftsman style: dark wood shingles and multipaned windows, sloping roof, pale stone chimney, tapered porch posts.

“Here we are. Not a scratch on you. Well, at least no more scratches than you left the hospital with.” Roma pulled to a neat stop on the half-moon drive in front of the house and grinned at him.

“Thanks. Really. I appreciate it. I’m just feeling a little…”

“Fragile?” She patted his knee and then opened her door.

Peter followed her more slowly up the stone stairs. The front door was unlocked, and they went inside the bungalow.

His immediate impression was of lemon oil and fresh flowers. The door opened onto a small living room with a hardwood floor, coffered ceiling, and a large stone fireplace. The furniture was tasteful and comfortable. Earth tones and cherrywood. Botanical prints were artfully arranged on one wall. There were a number of silver-framed photos on the low credenza. Peter recognized Roma among the other strangers captured for posterity.

Every item in the room seemed handpicked: an art nouveau wall sconce, a wrought-iron umbrella stand, a framed Edward Weston photograph. He looked around, hoping something would click…but nothing did. It was a pretty little house—a showpiece—but it could have belonged to anyone.

An arched doorway led into the kitchen, where Jessica was putting groceries away. She was tall and thin with tiger-framed glasses and curly red hair. She came to greet them, kissing Roma lightly and hugging Peter hard.

“Welcome home!”

Peter hugged her back—uncomfortable but grateful; Jessica hugged like she meant it.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good,” he assured her. And if he said it often enough it might eventually come true.

Jessica and Roma exchanged looks. Roma said, “He still doesn’t remember anything.”

“Nothing?”

He began to qualify, awkward with this. With them knowing so much about him when he knew nothing. “It’s not that I don’t remember. It’s that everything is sort of jumbled.” Plus he didn’t remember.

“Gosh,” said Jessica. “You mean you still can’t recall what happened the night the mural was stolen?”

Peter shook his head.

“Nothing?”

He shook his head again.

“Yeeouch,” said Jessica.

“You said it.” That was Roma. She and Jessica were exchanging those meaningful—but indecipherable—looks again. It made him uneasy. As though he wasn’t uneasy enough.

“If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll change.” Why was he asking their permission to change his clothes? It was bizarre to feel like a stranger in his own life. Yet he did.

He left them to it, their muted conversation following him down the hallway though the words were lost. Perhaps just as well.

William Morris olive leaf wallpaper, a Stickley library table, a New Haven Clock Co. shelf clock. The house was filled with a small fortune in antiques. His own, or did they belong to the museum? A nice perk for the curator of Constantine House if the bungalow came furnished with these lovely objets d’art.

And why was it that he could remember the name of the manufacturer of a 1904 clock but not the name of two of his closest friends?

This was his home. Presumably, it reflected his taste to some extent. It seemed comfortable, pleasant enough—immaculate. Not so much as a newspaper on a table or a coffee mug in the sink disturbed the magazine layout perfection. Was that because he was a neat freak or because someone had tidied up before he got out of the hospital?

Studying the dust-free tabletop, he wondered if the police had searched his home. If so, there was no sign, no spilled fingerprint powder, no emptied drawers or ransacked cabinets. But perhaps he had his friends to thank for that.

At the foot of the staircase was a framed picture of the house floor plan and next to that a framed black-and-white picture of the original house in 1908. The bungalow didn’t look much different now, although the plants in the garden were much larger. He examined the floor plan. Four rooms on the first floor: dining room, living room, study, kitchen. Two bedrooms upstairs. It was like a doll’s house.

Or a diorama. He went upstairs, unbuttoning his shirt. His bedroom was as clean and impersonal as the rest of the house. A brass bed, ceiling fan with etched globe lights, a folding floor screen featuring a doubtful frog gazing up at a bland heron. Again, not so much as a stray shoe or comb marred the perfection.

He tossed the shirt into the laundry, opened the closet, and blinked. His clothes hung in two neatly laundered and pressed rows—grouped by style and color. Could he really be this organized? It didn’t seem…natural.

He selected a brown polo shirt and a pair of stone-colored chinos. He didn’t appear to own a pair of simple Levi’s.

The window across from the bed looked out toward Constantine House, the half-raised blinds knocking gently in the breeze. Through the open window, he glimpsed the ornate chimneys and gables of the main house behind the purple blossoms of the jacaranda.

All at once Peter felt very tired…deflated. The bed looked comfortable, and he thought briefly about lying down. There was so much to absorb, and none of it made sense. Or at least, nothing he learned made him feel better. None of it made him feel like…himself. Whoever that was.

Turning from the temptation of the bed, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror over the dresser. He stared in fascination. If he’d expected some kind of surprised recognition now that he was on his home turf again, he was doomed to disappointment. If anything…he kept expecting someone younger. Taller. Just…different. Why? What could that possibly mean?

What he saw was a man a little above average height, decent build, brown wavy hair cut short, green eyes. He looked…ordinary. Like anyone, only…primmer. Yes. Like a librarian. Like the kind of librarian who only existed in movies. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected to look…so neat. Well, he did need a shave, but…he was so…conservative-looking. Was that who he was? He didn’t feel that…controlled.

He pushed the oval swivel mirror away and went downstairs. In the living room, he paused to examine the array of tastefully framed photographs on polished tabletops. Who the hell were all these people?

Roma and Jessica were talking quietly. They broke off when they spotted him.

“Everything all right?” Roma asked too cheerfully.

“I… Yeah.”

He could feel them making the effort not to look at each other. Jessica said, “There’s chicken and wild rice casserole in the fridge. All you have to do is heat it.”

“Thanks.” He gazed at them rather helplessly. “Look, it’s weird, I know. But there are some photos in the living room. Would you be able to tell me who the people in the photographs are?”

“Of course!” Roma said quickly. “I think we know most of your friends.”

He followed them to the living room. Jessica picked up the largest frame, a formal photograph of a couple in outdated wedding clothes.

“Those were your parents,” Roma said. Apologetically, she added, “They’re no longer alive.”

Breaking it gently. But he already knew that. He’d got that much in the hospital. No siblings either.

And so it went. “This is Ray Stevens and Paul Cheney at Alpine Village Oktoberfest. This is Bob Rodriguez, Jess, me, and you at the Abbot Kinney Festival two years ago. This is…”

With the exception of Jessica and Roma, he didn’t recognize anyone. And yet, nothing rang false. The names were even vaguely familiar—as though these were people he had known a long time ago but couldn’t quite put a face or voice to.

What did it mean? Did he really not want to remember?

Roma picked up another photo and offered it. “This is Sortilege.” It was a photo of him and a horse. A big, black, ugly thoroughbred. “He’s yours.”

“He’s my what?”

“Your horse. You stable him down at Griffith Park.”

Jessica said, “He was a racehorse, but he couldn’t run when people were watching him.”

Peter laughed.

“Seriously. He was like a rocket on the track—provided the stands were empty.”

“He has issues,” agreed Roma. “So you bought him.”

“How could I afford an ex-racehorse?”

Roma shrugged. “You knew his owner. You were at USC together.” Her gaze was curious. “You belong to some private riding group. You meet every Thursday evening down at Griffith Park for a sunset ride, and then you wind up at a Mexican restaurant for chips and margaritas.”

He closed his eyes, trying to picture it—feel it. Nothing. Nada.

When he opened his eyes, they were watching him anxiously. He nodded at the photo of a younger version of himself and a tall blond man of about the same age.

“That’s Cole,” Roma said without inflection.

So that was Cole. He stared, fascinated. Cole was handsome, no argument there. Like the leading man in a glitzy soap opera. He had a wonderful smile, wide and warm. Peter felt zero gazing at that white flash of teeth.

“And he’s an old friend?”

Did she hesitate? “That’s right. You roomed together at USC. He helped you get this job.”

“And he’s MacBride Constantine’s great-great-grandson?”

“Yep.”

He wasn’t wrong. Roma’s voice was brisk and colorless. Either she didn’t like Cole or she didn’t like…the way he felt about Cole.

How did he feel about Cole? Why couldn’t he feel anything? How long was this emotional blackout going to last?

“And he’s on the museum board of directors?”

“Right.”

She didn’t like Cole. He had been right, even if he wasn’t sure how. “And Cole and I are…close?”

She certainly hesitated then. “At one time. I don’t know how things are now. You don’t talk a lot about him.” She added, “But then you never did.”

Peter bit his lip, thinking. “Was I…? Am I seeing anyone? At all?” It was the at all that probably gave him away. It was pretty obvious he wasn’t seeing anyone on a regular basis, since no one had turned up at the hospital to hold his hand.

“Not steadily. You go out with friends. You have an active social life.”

What did that mean? Book clubs and blind dates?

Jessica volunteered, “You signed up for one of those dating services. Match.com, I think.”

“I…did.”

“You go out a lot. Though usually not more than once with the same guy.”

He absorbed that slowly.

“That’s your choice, mostly,” Roma put in.

He had the feeling she was trying to tell him something about himself, but he couldn’t for the life of him think what it was. That he was hard to please? Hard to get along with? A workaholic? His life sounded…lonely. It felt lonely.

He looked at the other photos. Mostly group pictures. Cole—an adult Cole—was in a couple of those groups.

His face must have revealed some of what he was feeling, though he thought he was hiding it well enough. “You should lie down, Peter,” Jessica said, putting a hand on his arm.

“Yes,” Roma agreed. “You’re supposed to get a lot of rest.” She patted him too. Apparently he was making them nervous. They were going to begin fluttering in a minute.

“And after you’ve rested, you can have a nice supper and…”

“And an early night,” Roma concluded.

They were trying to help obviously. Not their fault that he was feeling worse with every kind word.

“Yes, I will.” He gathered energy for the social ritual, thanking them for everything—uncomfortably aware that there was probably more to thank them for than he knew. He promised to rest and eat and thanked them some more, ushering them gently toward the front door and then out to the tidy front garden.

“Call if you need anything,” Roma told him.

“Are you sure you want to stay here on your own tonight?” Jessica worried. “We’ve got plenty of room, you know.”

Roma said quickly, “That’s an idea.”

And it was. A bad one. “I’m sure,” Peter said. “I’m fine. I’m looking forward to—I just need a little time on my own.”

They appeared sympathetic and uneasy, but they went—reluctantly—with many admonitions to take it easy and not worry and rest and eat.

At last they had tucked themselves into Roma’s MG and were speeding away as though auditioning for stunt drivers in an action flick.

Peter watched them go, and when they were out of sight, he found his keys and went out through the garden, walking slowly up to the main house.

* * * * *

A portrait of Captain MacBride Constantine hung in the entrance hall of Constantine House. At the time of his portrait sitting, the captain had been in his sixties. He’d been around the world several times—and it appeared to have been lousy weather all the way. Beneath the captain’s cap, pale blue eyes stared down any landlubber who thought he was getting into the museum without the price of an admission ticket. The snowy hair and long white beard, the ruddy cheeks and small mouth, gave the old man the appearance of a piratical Santa.

Beneath the portrait was a reception desk, and at the reception desk sat a girl scowling at the phone ringing in front of her.

She was about twenty and petite. Her hair was cut in a glossy black bob and her eyes were large and blue. She looked like something crafted in a Dutch toy shop…too perfect to be real. Like a little doll.

As Peter watched her make a petulant snatch for the phone, her name came to him. Mary. He felt a rush of relief. It was coming back. His memory was sluggishly starting to fill in the blanks. Mary Montero.

Mary, Mary Quite Contrary. He didn’t care for her, but she was the daughter of one of the trustee members. Dennis Montero. Mary had been hired as an intern for the summer, but that had been a washout and Peter had relegated her to answering phones and filing.

It was not a popular decision.

Catching Peter’s approach out of the corner of her eye, Mary glanced up. She looked startled to see him. And none too thrilled.

He managed a perfunctory smile and a “carry on” nod, as he continued to his office—and that was the second flash of memory. He remembered where his office was.

Or maybe it was just common sense, because there weren’t a lot of options. The bottom floors of the old mansion had been converted to exhibit rooms, and they were stuffed with…well, junk.

A lot of junk. Some of it relatively valuable, like the collection of jade trinkets, some of it, like the mummified crocodile, more appropriate for a white elephant sale.

He turned left at the marble statue of Kwan Yin. He passed a carefully preserved eight-feet-long giant squid, a battered mummy case, and a collection of Alutiiq masks.

It was not your ordinary Los Angeles cultural attraction, certainly. Although it seemed an accurate representation of the mess his life was currently in.

Peter turned down another hall decorated—if one was willing to use the term loosely—with a series of grim paintings by a contemporary of Hans Holbein the Younger who made Hans’s work look like the stuff of Thomas Kincaid.

His office—PETER KILLIAN was blazoned on a small brass plaque beside the door—was at the end of the hall. The door was not locked. Had he left it unlocked or had the police invaded his sanctum? Given the instinctive unease he felt on finding it unlocked, he suspected it was not usual for him to leave his door open. It was a good bet the police had been there before him.

Pushing open the door, he found himself looking into a large and lovely sitting room that had been converted into an office. And a nice office at that. The furniture was antique but comfortable. Large windows overlooked the camellia garden.

He knew, without having to look, that beyond the camellias was a small grassy knoll. Stone steps built into the hillside led down to the grotto, which had once housed the Chinese wall mural.

A strange feeling swept over him and he reached for the desk chair, sitting down heavily.

After a few seconds he felt better and looked around. On the walls were several large photos of people he didn’t recognize. Taken at museum functions, he guessed, judging by his own smiling presence in several pictures.

His gaze fell on the desk before him, taking in the old-fashioned bronze desk set, which included an inkwell. Surely he was not some kind of crank who wrote letters by quill pen? But no, his laptop sat right there in the middle of the cleared desk.

He stared at it for some time, feeling vaguely queasy. Not that he would be stupid enough to have anything on his laptop he shouldn’t, but…it still gave him a weird sensation to think anyone—or everyone—had had access to his private communications for the past three days.

After a moment or two he moved to open a desk drawer and found it locked. He checked his key ring and the key was there. He unlocked the desk and found everything in its place. If the police had searched his office, they had been discreet about it.

Removing an ebony letter opener, he began to go slowly through his mail.

There were a couple of résumés, an invitation to a charity function at the Getty, a notice of an art gallery exhibition—and a ton of junk mail that Ms. Montero was supposed to weed out for him.

He tossed the mail back into his tray to deal with when he felt more on the ball and began to go through his desk drawers in earnest. Surely something here would trigger a few remembrances or at least supply an answer or two. He came across a foldout brochure for the museum. It looked fairly old—and, as surmised, the date was 1997. Well before his time. There was a small colored photo of the grotto at the bottom of the garden. He could just make out the faded tints of the stolen mural in the background.

For a long time he stared at the photo. Why the hell couldn’t he remember what had happened? It would be one thing if he’d injured his brain, but the doctors said there was no physical reason for this blank.

At last Peter dropped the brochure back into the hanging file. As he did, he noticed a couple of snapshots loose at the bottom. He drew them out and stared. Cole Constantine on what appeared to be his wedding day. Cole, beyond handsome in a severe black tux. Cole obligingly nibbling wedding cake, kissing the bride, and posing with best man Peter.

Peter stared at the photos, at his own emptily smiling face. His heart began to thud in sick tattoo. He felt ill. Automatically, he tossed the photos back into the file, closed the drawer, and locked it. What was the matter with him leaving those pictures where anyone could find them? What was the matter with him keeping those pictures at all?

He rested his face in his hands. His head ached. What a bad idea this had been. He wasn’t ready to deal with this—whatever this was.

But it was very obvious what this was. Pictures of his married best friend. Erotic dreams of his married best friend? It was pathetic. Even if he couldn’t remember any of it, it was pathetic.

There was a noise from the hallway. Peter looked up. A tall blond man stood framed in the doorway. He was very tanned, his eyes indigo blue in his handsome face. He wore a baby blue polo shirt and jeans.

Cole.

Chapter Three

“I didn’t expect you in today,” Cole said as Peter rose automatically. “Shouldn’t you be taking it easy?”

Cole had a light, pleasant voice, and Peter suddenly remembered that he’d sung in the men’s chorus at USC. His memory was definitely returning, and that was the good news. The bad news was he wasn’t ready to face Cole. He’d wanted a little warning.

“I… Thanks,” Peter said disjointedly. “But I can’t just sit around.”

“I don’t know why not, with what you’ve been through. How are you feeling?” Cole still stood in the doorway as though waiting for permission to enter Peter’s office. No. As though he felt a need to keep distance between them.

Peter felt his face heat, and he wasn’t even sure why. “I’m fine.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Cole’s smile was quizzical, attractive. “Then you do remember what happened?”

How would Cole know about Peter’s memory lapse? But of course. Detective Griffin would have been in contact with his employers—in this case the museum’s board of trustees. Cole would know that Peter was claiming amnesia. He’d probably heard what Detective Griffin thought of that claim.

“No,” he added in his own defense. “It’s not unusual to forget events just prior to a head injury.”

“I guess that’s true. But that cop…said you didn’t remember…anything.”

“There are some blank spaces.”

Cole was frowning, watching him closely. “Like what?”

“Just…” Peter stared at the gold band glinting on Cole’s hand and abruptly lost his train of thought.

“Just…?”

What had they been talking about? Suddenly he couldn’t remember what he had wanted to say—how odd was that? It wasn’t as though he hadn’t had time to get used to the idea that Cole was married.

“Pete,” Cole said softly, and Peter’s gaze lifted to meet Cole’s. He remembered the cop—Griffin—saying he didn’t like to be called “Pete,” but Cole used the word like a pet name, and Peter felt no objection. How would Griffin know such a thing anyway?

“Sorry. What?”

“You shouldn’t have come in so soon after being released from the hospital. The board is going to think you’re well enough to face up to some kind of inquiry.”

Peter’s brows drew together. “I’m more than happy to talk to the board if that’s what they want.”

But Cole was shaking his head. “Bad idea. Better to let the police figure out what’s going on. Especially if you’re not clear on the details.”

It took him a few seconds to work out what Cole seemed to be saying. “Do you think I had something to do with these thefts?”

Cole looked taken aback. “Of course not. But I’m not the problem. There are two other trustees.”

Dennis Montero and Sally Orchard. But Cole was chairman, as befitted the last surviving descendant of Captain MacBride Constantine.

As though reading his mind, Cole said reluctantly, “I can’t be seen to be using my influence because of our personal relationship, Pete. You know that.”

“Right.”

He spoke automatically, saying what was expected. But really…when the hell should one’s personal relationship be taken into consideration if it wasn’t when one’s friend was fighting for his survival? Was it wrong to feel like maybe Cole’s personal knowledge and faith in him might be expected to surface in his favor now? Was it wrong to feel a little chilled by this strict lack of bias?

Assuming Cole did really believe he was innocent and wasn’t just saying so out of politeness.

Peter’s mouth dried and he half stuttered, “Cole, I swear to God…I didn’t have anything to do with the mural being taken. I haven’t stolen a penny from the museum. I wouldn’t.”

Cole looked uncomfortable. He glanced over his shoulder as though afraid Peter’s ragged voice was echoing through the museum. “I know that. I’ve already told you I have total faith in you.”

Peter nodded. He was appalled to realize his lips were unsteady. He could not—could not—bear for Cole to see him cry. And apparently Cole couldn’t bear it either, because he looked away. Then he stared down at his watch, saying, “Look, go home and rest. You look like death warmed over.”

“I’m all right.” Peter pinched the bridge of his nose hard.

There was silence but for the sprinklers outside his window jetting silver water into the bright sunlight.

“Of course you’re not,” Cole said softly.

Peter lowered his hand and Cole was gazing at him with an impatient blend of sympathy and affection. Before Peter could think of anything to say, Cole said in normal tones, “Damn. I’m meeting Angie for an early dinner, or I’d walk over to the bungalow with you.”

For a moment Peter wasn’t sure if he’d misheard that moment of tenderness or not. He gazed at Cole, who offered another flash of that white smile. “Come on, buddy boy. Get going.” And as Peter gazed undecidedly at his unopened laptop, trying to choose whether to take it or leave it, “That will all wait for a day or two.”

Reluctantly, Peter rose. Cole was already walking away down the hall. Peter locked his office and followed him back out past the Ripley’s Believe It or Not-style exhibits: a stuffed kangaroo, a seven-tiered platform of antique Japanese Hina dolls, and a two-handed broadsword that was nearly as tall as a small man.

As they passed the front desk, Mary looked straight through Peter and gave Cole a bright smile.

“Good night, Mr. Constantine!”

“Night, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Someday some unamused female was going to haul Cole up on sexual harassment charges, Peter thought with a flicker of irritation. He said nothing, suspecting this was a timeworn complaint of his. Mary certainly didn’t seem to mind. She was still beaming after Cole when Peter glanced back from the doorway.

Upon meeting his gaze, she looked down at the papers on her desk that she had busily been pretending to shuffle at their approach.

The sunshine seemed very bright and very hot as they stood on the front steps. Peter’s head was pounding quite desperately now, and he thought perhaps Cole was right about going home and lying down for the rest of the afternoon.

“Everything will work out; you’ll see,” Cole told him. “I don’t want you to worry about anything. Just take it easy for a few days.”

Peter nodded dully and Cole patted his shoulder. He went briskly down the steps and strode across the green squares of lawn to the parking lot. Peter watched him go, unmoving, and when at last he saw Cole’s Mercedes leave the parking lot, he turned and walked slowly back to the bungalow.

The mockingbird was singing as he let himself inside the silent house.

He wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared at the foil-covered casserole dish. He closed the fridge.

Ridiculous to feel like this. To feel…so alone. There was an enormous difference between being alone and being lonely. The fact that he was struggling to see the difference had to be a result of his head injury. He was overtired and overmedicated and behaving like an ass.

He left the kitchen and went into his study. A copy of Georgette Heyer’s The Masqueraders lay on the table near the wingback chair that gazed over the garden. He picked it up and a bookmark fell out.

He glanced at the page.

The ride at an end, it was Charles and Peter with them; they might have been blood brothers.

He was comforted by the realization that he recognized this passage. He knew the book. It was, in fact, a favorite, one he had read many times. He was remembering, slowly but surely it was all coming back. He glanced at the bookshelf, and Heyer’s romance titles were all listed there, from A Civil Contract to Venetia.

This was his home. His world. He was safe here even if he didn’t yet recognize that fact.

Peter sat down in the chair, picked up The Masqueraders, and began to read.

* * * * *

He dragged Peter’s trousers down and nuzzled his crotch. Peter’s heart knocked frantically at his ribs. Slowly, lingeringly, he moved his hands over the other’s long, lean body—broad back, firm, muscular buttocks, hard, strong thighs. Beautiful body. The sleek glide of muscles beneath brown skin.

A hot, wet mouth closed over his thickened, stiff cock and Peter groaned as the other—as Cole—began to suck. That slick heat pulled at him, drew him on, setting off a tingling at the base of his spine, tiny explosions of delighted sensation. So good. So unexpected. Peter shifted around so that their cocks were deep in each other’s mouths. Hard to concentrate, though, because it felt so good and he wanted to make it just as good for…for Cole.

Focus. God. Focus. But it was hard to focus because that wicked, knowledgeable mouth was doing such delicious things to him. It was like he couldn’t form his lips to make suction, let alone words. He settled for a whimper that would have embarrassed him in less naked circumstances and a kiss for that other beautiful cock. All the while those feverish lips continued to work him with tongue and breath and the rumor of teeth. Peter was shivering from toes to crown, eyes fastened shut while that wonderful, warm, wet drag went on and on, sucking and sucking until at last he was delivered, screaming tension giving way in spurts of rich, salt-sweet cream.

Peter opened his eyes, shivering despite the day’s languid heat, aware that he had come in his sleep. Beneath his chinos, his shorts were wet and uncomfortable. Christ! Was he fourteen? Because that had been the last time that happened.

And someone was knocking at the front door.

Confused, he rose too fast and, head swimming, went to answer that impatient summons, pulling out his shirt as he went through the kitchen and letting it hang out.

Reaching the front door, he unlocked it and pulled it open, uncomfortably aware of the little crinkles all across the bottom of his shirtfront.

Detective Griffin stood on his porch.

“I was beginning to wonder whether you’d skipped town,” he said after a pause.

“I was sleeping.”

Griffin didn’t seem to have a response to that. “Can I come in?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Griffin’s grin was unexpectedly attractive. “Sure. For now. Be easier to get it over with, wouldn’t it?”

“For whom?”

The grin went a little wider and a little more dangerous. Peter sighed and moved aside. Griffin followed him into the living room.

“Nice place,” Griffin said from behind Peter. He moved quietly for a big man.

“You’ve seen it before, haven’t you?” The quality in the silence behind him made Peter turn around. Griffin was staring at him narrowly. “Are you trying to tell me you didn’t search this place while I was in the hospital?”

The set of Griffin’s shoulders seemed to relax. A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Nobody’s searched your house. Or your office. So far. I haven’t even asked for a search warrant. Yet.”

“Why’s that? I thought I was your number one suspect?”

“Yeah, well…I’ve been wrong before.” His blue-gray gaze met Peter’s levelly and then dropped to Peter’s crotch. It occurred to Peter that he was standing there in sticky, wet briefs and a badly wrinkled shirt.

A strange moment passed. Peter had a vivid sense of déjà vu. He said at random, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Sure,” Griffin said genially, the acceptance surprising Peter even more than his own offer had.

“Have a seat, and I’ll put a pot on.”

Griffin took the leather club chair by the fireplace. “Funny how we still say that,” he remarked. “Nobody puts a pot on these days.”

Peter went into the kitchen and turned the coffeemaker on; then he went upstairs and changed out of his clothes yet again, this time opting for sweatpants and a T-shirt. In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his flushed face and told his reflection, “You’re afraid to be on your own.”

When he came downstairs again Griffin was back on his feet, staring out the window at the bird-of-paradise. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of Peter’s footsteps and said, “I was starting to think you were trying to make a break for it.”

“Why do you keep saying things like that? I don’t have any reason to flee. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“How do you know if you can’t remember?”

“Because I know myself.”

Griffin’s mouth curled in one of those sardonic smiles.

Peter bristled. “I’m starting to take this personally. Am I honest to God your only suspect?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Griffin was studying him. “You’re still claiming you don’t remember anything?”

He repeated what he’d said to Cole only a short time earlier. “You must have spoken to my doctor. It’s not unusual with head injuries to forget how the injury occurred.”

“I’m not just talking about the night of the robbery.”

“Then I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Griffin continued to eye him in that jaundiced way. “All right,” he said at last. “I think it’s time we had a little chat.”

“Let’s chat in the kitchen. The coffee should be about ready.”

Aware that he was simply stalling, that he didn’t want to have whatever conversation this was going to be, Peter turned and headed for the kitchen.

He didn’t have to look back to know that Griffin followed him. The measured tread of his footsteps on the hardwood floor raised the hair on the back of Peter’s neck.

The detective leaned against the long cabinet next to the breakfast nook while Peter took cups out of the cupboard. Griffin’s steady, impassive gaze made him self-conscious. He didn’t like it—and he recognized that it was out of character for him.

“How do you take it?” It was a perfectly reasonable question, and yet for some insane reason he felt the back of his neck growing warm.

It didn’t help that Griffin seemed to have to make his mind up about something before answering, “Milk and sugar if you’ve got it.”

Did he?

A quick glance in the fridge verified that he did. Jessica and Roma had done well by him. He had enough food here to throw a dinner party, were he so inclined—and could remember whom to invite.

He quickly prepared the coffee, aware all the time that Griffin was watching him.

“So explain to me how this amnesia thing works. How is it you know your way around your kitchen and how to fix a cup of coffee, but you can’t remember who I am or what you were doing Thursday night in the grotto?”

Peter carried the coffee cups to the breakfast nook. Since Griffin made no move to sit, he stood too—though on the other side of the nook—and sipped his coffee. He could practically feel the caffeine working in his bloodstream.

Griffin picked up his mug, swallowed a mouthful of coffee.

Peter said wearily, “Look…I don’t know why. If you talked to my doctor, then you already know that there isn’t any organic reason that I can’t remember. I just… I guess I don’t…want to. That’s what the hospital psychiatrist suggested, anyway.”

“Well, that’s sure as hell convenient.”

“What do you want me to say? I don’t know!” Peter’s voice rose and he slammed shut on it. Getting hysterical wasn’t going to help.

Griffin took another swallow of coffee, watching Peter coolly over the rim.

“I want to remember,” Peter said. “Not knowing what happened is driving me crazy.”

“So I’m supposed to believe that you suffered traumatic shock or something that night and now you can’t remember what happened?”

“I guess. I don’t know.”

“You’re not a lot of help, Professor Peabody. But then…that’s kind of your MO.”

Peter had been about to take a mouthful of coffee. He lowered his cup sharply, nearly spilling the liquid. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“About a year ago you reported a number of small thefts from the museum. I caught the case.”

Griffin had already told him this much in the hospital. Obviously more was coming. Peter resisted the temptation to speak.

“This sound familiar at all?”

“No. I’d assumed I would have filed a police report at some point.”

“That’s right. You filed a police report. Your story was that until you began cross-referencing data from the old manual catalog system to the new computer program, you hadn’t noticed that a number of small but valuable antiquities were missing from the collection. You claimed you initially thought the missing items might have been mislabeled or placed in storage. But when, after extensive searching, you were unable to locate them—and when more items disappeared—you decided that someone was stealing from the museum.”

“You keep using words like story or claimed. Implying you think I’m lying.”

Griffin raised his brows. He said blandly, “Let’s say I reserved judgment on that point.”

Peter swallowed his immediate furious response. He managed to say in an almost reasonable tone of voice, “Why would you think I lied? What would be my motive for stealing from my own museum?”

“The same as anyone’s motive would be. Money. A hundred thousand dollars is over two years’ salary for you. It’s not your museum, after all. You’re just an employee—like the gardener or the girl who answers the phones. And apparently there’s been some discussion of replacing you. Maybe you thought you’d better—”

“What?”

Peter stared at him, unbelieving.

The echo of the cop’s callous words seemed to reverberate through his brain. There was a strange rushing sensation in Peter’s head—as though a wind tunnel had opened between his ears. The floor seemed to drop out from under his feet. Griffin grabbed his arm, and for a few odd seconds, Peter’s face was pressed into the detective’s starched white shirtfront. Warm cotton, some vaguely piney aftershave, and the steady pounding of Griffin’s heart…

Blindly, he pushed Griffin away, feeling for the back of the wooden bench. He lowered himself awkwardly, bracing his elbows on the table and resting his forehead on his hands.

“All right,” Griffin said roughly after a moment. “So maybe you didn’t know that.”

“Go away,” Peter said from behind his hands.

“What does that solve?” The truculence in Griffin’s voice was undermined by something…defensiveness? Guilt? “If I go away, I just have to come back later.”

Peter struggled to control his voice. He managed, “Get out, will you?”

After a long pause, Griffin went.

Chapter Four

The grotto was at the bottom of the oldest section of the garden. It was man-made, although it looked natural enough—like a small cave covered in flowering vines. Outside the entrance was a koi pond. The red and gold fish lay quietly at the bottom of the green water as Peter stood beside the pool staring into the grotto.

There wasn’t much to see. Yellow and black police tape stretched across the open mouth. The interior was lined with tile and bits of colored glass that sparkled in the pale light from the solar lamps slowly winking on as the evening grew dark.

The ugly bare square where the mural had once hung was about ten feet long and six feet high. Not easy moving something of that size. It would take more than one man to get it safely down from the wall of the cave and carry it out of the grotto—and it would require a vehicle to transport it more than a few feet. The grounds were private and locked at night, so how had they done it?

Peter walked around the back of the grotto, passing through the grove of weeping willows, coming at last to a fence well concealed behind a bamboo wall. He followed the fence till he came to a padlocked gate marked EMERGENCY VEHICLE ACCESS ONLY. The gate opened onto a dirt road.

The thieves must have parked out here after the museum had closed for the evening and everyone had gone home. It was certainly quiet and deserted—even at this time of the evening.

The real question was, why wasn’t there more of a security system? Who, in this day and age, relied on a padlock and a single security guard—a guard who, if Peter knew anything about it, spent most evenings watching TV in the gatehouse?

Was the responsibility for the security of the museum and grounds his alone? Had it been his decision to leave the mural essentially unprotected? If so, no wonder the board was discussing his removal.

Assuming it was true—that it wasn’t something Griffin had made up to rattle him.

He’d like to believe that, but…

It had carried the ring of truth. Looking back, he thought that Griffin had probably regretted dropping that bomb. Something in his tone…some vast discomfort when he’d had to witness Peter’s reaction. You’d expect a cop to be pretty hardened, but Griffin hadn’t enjoyed seeing Peter poleaxed.

Which was interesting, because he didn’t mind baiting Peter about suspecting him of stealing from the museum. So what had been different about telling him his job was in jeopardy?

Peter turned away from the pasture and started back up the hillside. The garden smelled wonderful at night. The camellias had no scent, but the fragrance of the heirloom roses drifted on the warm breeze. He cut across the grass to the steps. The solar lanterns threw triangles of light across the bricks. In the jacaranda trees, a mockingbird was calling.

Chjjjj…chjjjj…chewk…

Peter’s steps faltered and he stood still.

He remembered falling on the steps, remembered the shock of seeing his own blood spattering the stones. He stopped and looked down, and sure enough there were little raindrop stains in the porous surface of the bricks. For an instant he was back there, the scent of mown grass and fresh blood in his nostrils and the call of the mockingbird in his ears.

And if he pushed a little harder…pushed past that veil of forgetfulness…what had he seen?

The glitter of stars beyond the pale flickering of the jacaranda blossoms. He had come outside for a breath of fresh air. He often walked down to the grotto at night. He liked the silence, the peace. But it hadn’t been silent. Not that night. Crickets…frogs… That was all right. But he heard voices…voices where no voices should be. The grounds were locked at night. Once in a while teenagers jumped the back fence.

That’s what he had thought. Kids. Kids—maybe vandals. He could hear them talking as he drew near the grotto. Talking…or arguing? He drew close and he saw oversize shadows looming against the glistening walls of the cave…

And already it was slipping away again. Like a door closing firmly in his face. This far and no further.

If only he could remember. If he could just come up with something he could give Griffin, some solid piece of evidence so that he would stop wasting time talking to Peter and start trying to find out who was behind these thefts.

There was a noise behind him. Peter whirled, ready for…he didn’t know what. It had sounded like the scrape of a shoe on brick. But there was no one behind him.

The shadow swaying on the grass was from the tree limbs moving in the breeze. Right?

He stood there for a moment, watching. Nothing moved.

And if something did move, what would he do? He glanced around for something he could use to defend himself…a fallen branch, a loose brick, a rock. One thing about Constantine House, the grounds were well maintained. No weapons available unless he was going to yank a solar lantern out of the ground and try to defend himself with it.

After a long, fraught moment, Peter began to feel foolish. The mockingbird seemed to confirm this opinion, chattering at him from high in the branches above.

He turned and went quickly up the steps.

When he reached the bungalow, he reheated the casserole left by Jessica and Roma. It was good, but he wasn’t hungry. He ate a few bites, dumped the rest into the trash, and settled for a glass of milk and a couple of pain pills. His head was aching again, mostly due to rushing back to the bungalow before the bogeyman could snatch him.

Well and truly disgusted with himself, Peter retrieved his book from the study and went up to read in bed.

His dreams were strange and troubled, and despite the tablets he’d taken before bed, he began to fight his way out of sleep—which was how Peter became aware of the faint but persistent gnawing sound from beneath his open window.

In his dream, the gnawing turned into rats chewing at the wooden siding of the house…and as rats were absolutely unacceptable, Peter woke and opened his eyes.

For a moment he lay there, eyes picking out the outline of furniture silvered by moonlight.

There it was again.

A muted scratching sound.

What the hell was that?

He rose, crossing softly to the window, and looked down. A bulky figure dressed in black stood on the crescent-shaped patio busily working at getting inside the back door.

For the space of a heartbeat Peter was rooted in place, disbelieving. Disbelief gave way to alarm. He crossed to the bed, fumbled the phone. He needed light to dial, and fuzzy with concussion and pain pills, he automatically switched on the bedside lamp.

From down below came the clang of metal on stone, and then a sound that was probably one of the large geranium pots getting knocked over—pottery hitting hard brick. Peter got back to the window in time to see the bulky figure—ski mask concealing hair and face—racing across the grass to the outstretched shadow of the trees in the back of the house.

Peter angled around trying for a better view, but he saw no one else on the terrace. He got back over to the phone and dialed 911.

The emergency operator assured him a patrol car was in the vicinity and would reach him shortly.

Peter thanked her, hung up, and began to dress swiftly. He would need to call down to the gatehouse and let the night watchman, Donnelly, know that they’d had another intruder and that the police were on the way.

As he dressed, he began to wonder. Granted, Constantine House wasn’t Fort Knox, but it seemed to him that their security was being breached with alarming monotony. And why his bungalow?

Dressed, he sat on the edge of the bed and phoned Donnelly, but no one answered the gatehouse line. The old man was probably sleeping in front of his television.

Peter sighed, hung up, and went downstairs.

For the first time, he began to consider the thefts from the museum itself. He had assumed the items—all small enough to slip into a pocket or purse—had been taken during business hours. There was a security system, but it was outdated and it only encompassed the outside perimeter doors. But the fact that intruders were getting onto the museum grounds after hours opened another unpleasant possibility.

What if the thefts were happening after hours? What if someone was bypassing the security at the main house and getting into the museum that way?

Only four people had the access code for the outside perimeter: Donnelly, museum trustee Dennis Montero, Cole, and himself.

At least…only four people were supposed to have the access code.

He shoved his feet into a pair of Vans and went down to the kitchen, turning on the overhead light to examine the back door. Sure enough, a perfect circle had been etched into the glass pane beside the inside doorknob. The circle must have been ready to pop out, because as Peter touched the doorknob to reassure himself it was still locked, the oval of glass fell out onto the bricks and shattered.

It glinted like broken pieces of moon on the terrace.

The hair prickled on Peter’s neck. Close call. Very close. What would have happened if he hadn’t woken when he did?

But what sense did breaking into the bungalow make?

He let himself out the front and ran down the long camellia-lined drive to the gatehouse. A marked patrol car was already sitting outside the tall iron gates, exhaust turning red in the glare of its taillights. Donnelly was talking to two uniformed officers. He spotted Peter.

“They’re saying you called in a prowler, Mr. Killian?” he asked as Peter reached them.

Peter nodded, out of breath from his jog. “I tried ringing down here. Why didn’t you pick up?”

Donnelly looked taken aback. “I guess I didn’t hear the phone ’coz I was standing out here.”

Peter turned to the cop who was listening to their exchange. “He—the prowler—ran toward the back of the property.”

“Do you have a description of this prowler?”

Peter resisted the temptation to point out that the prowler would probably be the guy running like a bat out of hell. “Big. He was dressed in dark clothes and wearing a dark ski mask.”

The second cop nodded and said to Donnelly, “You want to open these gates and we’ll go check it out?”

“There’s a gate in the back leading to the old fire access road. He’ll have gone out that way.”

“I’ll take the front, Ramirez, you take the back,” the cop said to his partner.

Ramirez nodded and went back to the patrol car as Donnelly moved to open the automatic gates.

Peter stood shivering while the tall gates slid slowly open. “He tried to get in the back door of the bungalow.”

Donnelly said, “He must have thought nobody was home. Probably thought you were still in the hospital.”

“Probably.” Yes. That made sense, didn’t it? Peter wished he felt convinced.

The gates open, the uniformed officer came through and followed them to the little security cart that Donnelly used. Peter grabbed a seat in the back and they shot away up the road, the cart engine humming as though they were off on a pleasure jaunt.

They pulled up outside the bungalow so Peter could get out. Donnelly eased his girth out of the little cart and led the second cop, Officer Simon, across the grass and down the hillside to the grotto.

Peter let himself back in the cottage and put the coffeemaker on. If he was going to be awake for the rest of the night, he might as well be wide awake.

Donnelly and Simon returned within ten minutes, and Peter led them around the back to see where the intruder had broken the glass.

“The glass is on the outside of the door.” The cop was giving Peter a strange look.

“It fell out when I touched the doorknob.”

“Why would you do that, sir?”

It took Peter a few seconds to understand what Officer Simon was getting at. He felt himself change color in a wave of irrational guilt. “I wanted to make sure the door was still locked. It was…reaction. If I’d stopped to think, I wouldn’t have touched it, obviously.”

The cop looked noncommittal. He proceeded to take all Peter’s information. By the time they had finished, his partner had rejoined them.

“No sign of anyone,” Ramirez said.

“I didn’t fake a break-in,” Peter said. “Someone tried to get in here tonight.”

“No one is suggesting you faked a break-in, sir,” Simon said woodenly.

“What’d I say?” Ramirez looked around for enlightenment.

“Nah, no problem,” Donnelly said. In an apparent spirit of helpfulness, he added to the police, “No way is the boss trying to pull a stunt like this. He just got out of the hospital. It’s natural he’d be jumpy.”

This, reasonably, led to an explanation about how Peter had landed in the hospital to begin with, and by the time the cops finally drove away, Peter was sure they were convinced he was either a nut seeking attention or a criminal who had just outsmarted himself. Either way…not good.

Donnelly also departed, promising to patrol the grounds every hour, and Peter finally turned out the lights and returned to bed, where he spent the remainder of the night tossing and turning—and sitting up every time a floorboard creaked.

It was a relief to open his eyes to sunlight.

The morning was growing warm by the time Peter woke, still tired and a little groggy, and for a few moments he rested in the clean cotton sheets, listening to the sweet birdsong, the lulling rustle of leaves outside the open window, the hiss of sprinklers. Drowsily, his fingers fumbled with buttons of his pajama pants, reaching inside, touching the velvet warmth of his genitals. He comforted himself with the familiar motions, using the pearl of moisture at the head of his cock to slick his strokes.

Cole, he thought. Cole…

But, unsettlingly, it was Detective Griffin’s face that kept interposing itself between Peter and the fantasy Cole. He closed his eyes against the image of Griffin’s lean, hard face, the stormy blue eyes so different from Cole’s bright blue gaze. Griffin was the last person he wanted to think of.

Especially in this context.

So how weird was it that he couldn’t help wondering what it would be like with him? Did he have some hitherto-undiscovered kink for S and M? Because it was impossible to picture Griffin being anything but the most brief and brutal of lovers.

The weird thing was his increasing certainty that Griffin was gay. From where had that conviction arisen? Griffin had said nothing to indicate his sexual inclinations, had he? Did Peter have any reason to think Griffin was anything but heterosexual—and God help the woman involved with that bastard.

But…had he and Cole ever really done this? Done anything? The dreams were so vivid, so real, but…

A glance at the clock warned him he was going to be late. Punctuality being something apparently hardwired into him.

He moved his hand faster, just the right grip, the right angle…the quiet relief of his hand pumping in steady rhythm that was almost reverie…pumping…and then the fiercely sweet outcry—hot, wet ejaculation splattering belly and thighs, soaking into the thin cotton of his pajamas.

He closed his eyes, feeling that release echoing through his overstrung nerves and body, and then rolled out of bed heading for the shower.

It was when he opened the medicine cabinet looking for shaving cream that he spotted the small brown bottle of Zoloft. His name was on the prescription.

What the hell? Antidepressants? Maybe they made sense now that his life was falling apart, but before he got whacked on the head?

For a second or two, he stared down at the bottle, trying to reconcile the drugs with what he knew about himself—what he felt he knew, anyway. In the end he was forced to conclude it was simply another mystery.

He dressed in a white tailored shirt—he seemed to have an endless supply of them—and brown trousers, breakfasted on Danish and coffee, and walked up to the museum.

The parking lot was empty, the building still locked. He let himself inside and stood there gazing in dismay at the blinking red light of the alarm system. And then, quite easily, the code came to him and he punched it in.

The green light flicked on.

The relief was almost as overwhelming as the previous panic. He was remembering. It was all coming back. First in bits and pieces, and now in greater chunks.

He unlocked his office and went inside.

Had anyone been here since the day before? It all looked exactly as he’d left it. Was this feeling of paranoia due to the remaining gaps in his memory or was there a reason for it?

He opened his laptop. The sign-in screen came up. He stared at it, frowning.

Then…he closed his eyes and just typed.

And just like that he was in—and blinking at a desktop background of himself and Cole. There were other people in the photo as well, but the center of attention was obvious—and embarrassing.

And all at once it was as though someone had splashed a bucket of cold water in his face. What was with him mooning over his married college roommate?

Was he really this lonely? This obsessed? Because from the strange perspective of an outsider looking in at Peter Killian’s life, this just seemed…pathetic.

The first thing he did was change the desktop background to a generic picture of woods. As the autumn woodland scene flashed up, replacing the photograph of his fatuous smiling face gazing at Cole’s profile, he felt an almost physical relief. Like a weight had been lifted off his chest.

Peter spent the next few hours reacquainting himself with his work life. It was some solace at least to see that however screwed up his personal life was, he was efficient and thorough when it came to his professional life.

As he went through e-mails, more and more came back to him. And not just his work life. He remembered all kinds of things. The door had swung back open—and this time it stayed open.

When he hit the gaps, it was almost disconcerting. But perhaps some of these were normal gaps. No one could remember the details of every meeting, every phone conversation, surely?

He clicked through the mail in his in-box. He had been working with a couple of local schools to arrange tours, and Sally Orchard was demanding a number of answers on questions relating to the annual charity ball to be held the following month.

He checked the files on his desktop. It looked like he had still been working on cataloging the museum’s collections. That supported what Griffin had said—that Peter had discovered the thefts when he began to move from the manual catalog system to the electronic.

What had he noticed? What had tipped him off? Somewhere he must have made notes.

Certainly there was nothing threatening in any of this. Nothing that he should have wanted or needed to forget. In fact, there was remarkably little personal information in his office or his computer. Nor was it like museum curator was a high-risk job. Mostly it was planning, displaying, and cataloging the museum’s myriad collections, which certainly seemed to be how he mostly spent his days. He also planned and oversaw tours and organized programs and the occasional workshop. That was about it. No Indiana Jones stuff for him.

His phone buzzed. He picked it up, and the perfect android voice said, “Mr. Constantine on line one.”

“Thank you, Mary.”

She clicked off. He took a breath and said, “Peter here.”

“Pete.” The warmth in that voice made him close his eyes. “I tried the bungalow, but you weren’t answering. I thought I ordered you to take it easy.”

Ordered?

“I feel better working.”

“Peter.”

Indulgent. Affectionate. Knowing. Yes. That was why he kept hanging on. But hanging on to what? A dream. Because sure as hell no memory of anything more tangible than a few brotherly hugs was coming back to him.

A little more briskly, Cole said, “How are you feeling today?”

Peter replied crisply, “Fine, thanks. Much better, in fact.”

“After last night’s adventure? Are you trying to pretend you’re Superman?”

“No, of course not. I feel fine. How did you find out about last night’s attempted break-in?”

“Donnelly called me. I don’t want to chew your ass, Pete, but you really should have called me yourself.”

He should have. And the fact that he hadn’t was more proof than anything that he was still a ways from back to normal.

“I was going to call first thing. It was two o’clock in the morning. I didn’t see the point of disturbing you and…Angie.” Angie. That was it. Yes, it was all coming back. The good and the bad.

“I understand, but—”

He blurted out, “My memory is starting to come back.”

There was a pause and then Cole said heartily, “Excellent!”

“Yes.”

There was another pause and then Cole said, “Well, since you are feeling better and since you say your memory is returning…the board of trustees would like to meet with you this afternoon. Are you up for that?”

Peter’s heart sank. “Of course.”

“It shouldn’t be… Well, obviously there are questions. Things to discuss. But I don’t anticipate any problems for you personally.”

“All right.”

The fact that Cole was bothering to say this indicated to Peter that he did indeed anticipate problems for Peter.

“We’ll see you at four in the conference room then.”

“Yes.”

Cole clicked off. Peter hung up and jumped as the phone buzzed again.

“Yes?”

Mary said tersely, “The police are here.”

Chapter Five

Peter left his office and walked to the end of the short hall in time to see Detective Griffin crossing the main exhibit room. A group of special-ed students was touring the museum, and one of the boys was making loud bird sounds.

Griffin watched them without expression.

Peter said, “You’re here bright and early.”

The hard blue gaze turned his way like an artillery battery zeroing in on a target. “I heard about your break-in.”

“And you think I faked it in order to throw suspicion off myself.”

Griffin laughed. Not only was his laugh unexpectedly appealing, something about it struck Peter as…familiar. “I admit it doesn’t really seem like your style.”

“What do you think my style is?” He threw that over his shoulder as he started to turn away, but his attention was caught by Griffin’s expression.

He hadn’t been sure before, but now—something about that lazy, knowing appraisal—he was certain Griffin was gay.

Griffin said, “I think you don’t like to take chances. I think you’re careful and that you think before you act. You’d know enough not to knock the glass out on the wrong side of the door.”

Peter grimaced. “I did knock the glass out, but it was an accident.”

They reached his office as Griffin responded, “Right. But I don’t think you have a lot of accidents. Which is why I have trouble with the scenario of you happening to walk down to the grotto at the exact moment thieves were yanking out that mural.”

“Coincidences happen.”

“Not to guys like you.”

“Careful. Thoughtful. Crooked.”

Griffin smiled that lazy smile again. “Anyway, that’s not why I dropped by.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I have news. Good news and bad news. Which would you like to hear first?”

Peter said honestly, “I don’t know if I can take bad news right now.”

Griffin gave him a long, unreadable look. “You have a partial alibi for the night of the robbery.”

Peter sagged back against the wall. “I do?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not surprised I have an alibi. I’m surprised you bothered to look for it. I didn’t get the impression you had any interest in proving me innocent.”

“It’s not my job to prove anything. My job is to collect evidence and arrest the most likely suspect.”

“Which you’ve decided is me.”

Griffin stared at him for what seemed like a long time. “You think I’m being unfair to you? Trying to railroad you?”

He probably got excellent results with that intimidating stare. Peter refused to be intimidated. “I don’t know. You seem to have your mind made up about me.”

“I consider myself a pretty good judge of character.”

“And you think I’m a thief?”

He was surprised when Griffin didn’t immediately answer.

After a pause, Peter asked, “What’s my alibi?”

“You were at Griffith Park horseback riding with friends who you later went to dinner with at Viva Fresh Mexican restaurant. Apparently that’s how you spend all your Thursday evenings.” He managed to make it sound like the kind of lame-ass thing Peter would do.

The relief was considerable. Except…the look on Griffin’s face was not reassuring. In fact, if it weren’t so unbelievable, he’d have said Griffin looked slightly sorry for him.

He made himself ask. “So what’s the bad news?”

“Donald Herschel, a local pawnshop dealer, identified you as the man who’s been coming in for the past twelve months selling items that showed up on the police report you filed.”

A perfect and utter stillness gripped Peter. Somewhere, a long way off—possibly in another lifetime—he could hear that kid in the main exhibit room squawking like a frightened bird. Farther in the distance, a phone was ringing, muted and musical.

His lips felt stiff as he said, “It’s not true.”

Griffin simply looked at him.

Peter was shaking his head, denying it, denying the panic that was threatening to close him down. “There’s some mistake.”

“Maybe. He picked you out of a photo lineup, but we’d like to see how he does with the real thing.”

“The real thing,” Peter repeated numbly. “A-a lineup, you mean?”

“Right.”

He swallowed hard. His throat felt fossilized.

“At a police station.”

“Yep.”

Peter couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from Griffin’s. He said finally, dully, “I need to get a lawyer, don’t I?”

Griffin eyed him dispassionately for what felt like a very long time. “Yes,” he said. “You do.”

* * * * *

Time flew. Not because Peter was having fun. Not even because he was busy, though he worked through the morning and afternoon. Whether he truly accomplished anything was debatable.

After Griffin left, Peter phoned a lawyer friend who recommended another lawyer who then referred him to a criminal lawyer. Peter set up an appointment with the criminal lawyer for the following morning, which was the soonest he could get—although the lawyer assured him that if Peter was arrested, he’d be there to bail him out before his mug shot was dry.

Far from reassuring Peter, this brought home to him the fact that he was probably going to be arrested—and that he had nothing to make bail with. He earned a very modest income. It was sufficient to his needs, mostly because his living expenses—rent and utilities—were covered by Constantine House. He owned no property—unless someone was in the market for a neurotic ex-racehorse—and there was less than four thousand dollars in his checking account.

Peter thanked Mr. Stephenson of Stephenson and Crane Law Offices, hung up the phone, and made straight for the men’s room, where he spent the next three and a half minutes having dry heaves.

When he’d recovered sufficiently, he returned to his office and tried to work, but the struggle to concentrate was exhausting. Given the gaps in his memory, it would have been exhausting anyway. But silent panic was now his constant companion—practically a second presence in his office.

He was so anxious about the impending police lineup—and this lunatic pawnshop dealer who had misidentified him—that he had little energy to worry about the meeting with the board of trustees scheduled for that afternoon.

It was almost a shock when he looked at the clock and saw that it was 4:02.

Mary had not told him the trustees had arrived. He wondered with a surge of hope whether the meeting had been postponed, but when he walked down the hall to the conference room—formerly the mansion’s dining room—he found the three trustees were not only already there, they were beginning to check their watches.

Sally Orchard was a heavyset, middle-aged woman who made a point of doing nothing with her hair or clothes. If she had ever worn makeup, it would have been in the interest of scaring little children on Halloween. Peter could remember a series of long and silly skirmishes with her on a variety of petty issues over everything from the museum electrical bills to a personal parking space for Sally.

Dennis Montero—one of the four people who had access to the museum security code—was a small, portly man who vaguely resembled a pig. Not an ugly pig. A cute, roly-poly, piggy-bank kind of pig. Peter had always got on well with Dennis, and Dennis smiled in greeting—and then looked guilty—as Peter entered the room.

Peter barely registered the other two, his attention being focused on Cole, who had apparently been trying to find him.

“There you are!” Cole was smiling, his blue eyes warm but troubled.

“Sorry. I lost track of time.”

Sally sniffed disapprovingly. Cole said, “We understand you’re busy. Have a seat, Peter.”

Peter took a seat at the long dark dining table that now served as conference table. Sally was clicking down the meeting’s minutes on her laptop.

Cole cleared his throat. “First of all,” he said, “the board wants to make it very clear that we’re pleased with your work at Constantine House. Your knowledge and ability is unquestioned. Your energy and enthusiasm for working with the public has been instrumental in bringing the museum out of the red. I think we’d all agree with that.”

Cole looked pointedly at Sally, who sniffed noncommittally and continued typing on her laptop.

Peter managed to find words in the dry desert of his mouth. “Thank you.”

“However”—Cole stared at the file before him as though it were the most fascinating thing in the world—“the past week has brought to light some disturbing…information.”

“I’m not stealing from the museum,” Peter said. It came out more harshly than he intended, and Dennis jumped.

“No one’s suggesting… That is…”

Cole looked at Sally, who raised her head from her laptop and said in that heavy, pompous way, “I think if you’ll look at this objectively for a moment, Killian, you’ll agree that we have no choice but to suspend you pending the outcome of the police investigation.”

Peter looked at Cole. Cole seemed unable to hold his gaze, his own eyes dark with emotion.

“It’s hard for me to look at it objectively,” Peter said. “I know I’m innocent of any wrongdoing. I’m the one who went to the police a year ago. No one would have been aware of the thefts if I hadn’t brought them to the attention of the police.”

“That’s not true,” Sally said. “The thefts were bound to be discovered eventually. It’s probable”—she corrected herself—“it’s possible that you hoped to shift any suspicion from yourself by bringing the matter to the attention of the police. After all, the investigation didn’t go anywhere.”

“So the failure of the police is my fault too?”

Cole said quietly, “Peter, this isn’t easy for any of us.”

Peter stared at him in disbelief. “No, but I think we can agree that it’s a hell of a lot less easy for me.”

Cole’s face tightened, and Peter caught himself before he said anything else. This wasn’t helping; it was probably making it worse. And maybe Cole didn’t realize how personal this betrayal felt, although he’d have to be pretty stupid not to. But maybe he was stupid. Maybe that was one of the things Peter had forgotten.

For all he knew, this was just an excuse for the board of trustees to get rid of him. He remembered what Griffin had said about there being discussion of terminating his contract with the museum. So maybe this was so much smoke screen, and the bottom line was, he was out regardless of what the police found or didn’t find.

Still, he couldn’t help saying, “Everyone seems to forget that I was attacked and injured during the robbery. If I was in on it, that wasn’t a very good plan.”

“You weren’t killed, though,” Sally pointed out. She’d have been a hit with the Salem witch trials, Peter reflected.

“I see. So you think I’d risk brain damage to try and cover my tracks, is that it?”

“No one thinks that,” Cole said, although it was obvious from Sally’s expression that, that was exactly what she thought. “This isn’t a trial or a board of inquiry or anything like that. We’re just taking the normal steps any organization in our position would take. As soon as you’re exonerated, you’ll be reinstated, of course.”

Sally clicked busily away at her laptop without comment. Dennis was looking at his watch.

Peter said tersely, “Very well. I’ll abide by your decision.”

Not that he had any choice, but the other three looked various shades of relieved.

They began gathering up their notes and paper cups, and Peter stood motionless, wondering if he was supposed to hand over his keys. Probably, since he was suspected of ripping off his own museum, but he was not going to volunteer, and apparently none of them thought of it—or if they did, hadn’t the guts to ask him for the keys flat out.

He turned and left the conference room. He could hear the murmur of their voices before he was halfway down the hall.

* * * * *

“I’m so glad you called!” Roma screamed over the roar of wind as they tore down Sunset Boulevard, weaving in and out of rush-hour traffic. “We’ve been thinking about you.”

Jessica, her hand to her tiger-framed glasses to keep them from blowing away in the gale-force breeze, nodded eager agreement.

“Thanks for doing this. I appreciate it,” Peter said. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“We’d have killed you if you called anyone else,” Roma cried. “This is so much fun. Such a great idea!”

Peter smiled weakly. He didn’t know if it was a great idea or not, but at least it was an idea—so far the only one that had occurred to him. Whoever this Donald Herschel was, this pawnshop dealer who Detective Griffin claimed had identified Peter as the seller of stolen goods, he clearly had Peter mixed up with someone else. Photos weren’t reliable. And inevitably Herschel would be trying to match the Peter of the physical lineup with the photo he’d seen. But if presented with the living, breathing Peter, surely he’d see his mistake?

And if he didn’t?

Well, if nothing else, Peter wanted a look at him. Maybe Herschel was someone he’d had some dealings with through the museum? Someone who had a grudge against him or the museum? As far-fetched as that seemed, it wasn’t as far-fetched as the idea that Peter would be fencing stolen articles from Constantine House.

It hadn’t taken him long to track the pawnshop down through the Internet. Sunset Boulevard Jewelry and Loan, proprietor: Donald Herschel. Hours: ten thirty a.m. to eight p.m.

With some fancy maneuvering, Roma managed to secure a parking space on the crowded street. She and Jessica went inside to pretend to browse as they’d discussed on the drive over.

Peter waited in the car, giving them time to position themselves. The shop was quite a bit larger than he’d expected. It looked successful and busy.

He looked at his watch and got out of the car, crossing the street.

As he was buzzed inside the security door it occurred to him that in an operation of this size, Herschel might not be there. He’d been expecting a little hole-in-the-wall with an aged Shylock, jeweler’s loupe at ready, waiting behind a battered front desk.

The reality was a large, well-lit shop stuffed with everything from televisions to musical instruments. An assortment of rifles and handguns were locked in cabinets along one wall. There was an enormous glass case of jewelry in the front of the shop. Jessica and Roma were talking to a slender young man about a man-sized harp—somewhere an angel was apparently in hock.

Another man stood behind the counter. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had long dark hair, thinning on top and a full, dark beard. His automatic smile of welcome died at the sight of Peter walking down the center aisle.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Donald Herschel?”

“You know damn well who I am. What are you trying to pull?”

“I’m not trying to pull anything. I want to know why you lied to the police.”

“Lied to the police!” Herschel laughed. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Peter glanced at Roma and Jessica, who were watching with dismay. Definitely not going the way any of them had hoped.

“Are you trying to tell me that I’ve been in here before?”

“Are you trying to tell me you haven’t?” Herschel laughed again and nodded at the security camera in the corner over the counter. “It’s a little late for that.”

Peter gazed into the security camera. He hadn’t expected that, but…it didn’t change anything. He knew he had not stolen from the museum or tried to pawn his ill-gotten booty. “You have me confused with someone else.”

“No I don’t. And I’ll tell you now what I told you the last time you brought that junk in here. I don’t deal in stolen property and I don’t deal with crooks. Now get out of my store. I’m calling the cops.”

Chapter Six

“Why?” Griffin asked when Peter opened his front door later that same evening.

Peter repeated warily, “Why?”

Griffin moved forward and Peter stepped back, allowing the detective into the bungalow. It wasn’t as though he had much choice. Griffin was bullying his way inside whether Peter wanted it or not. He jabbed his finger in Peter’s chest, emphasizing his point with each poke.

“You know something, Killian, you really are pretty stupid. Cute, in a stick-up-the-ass kind of way, but stone stupid.” Peter opened his mouth but didn’t get a chance to speak as the cop continued, “Why the fuck would you confront a witness in the case being built against you?”

Peter halted his retreat. “For that reason. Because you’re building a case against me and it’s a goddamned lie. And I don’t care how many fake witnesses you come up with—”

“You think I’m manufacturing evidence against you?” If Griffin had looked furious before, he looked combustible now. “Are you nuts? If I was manufacturing evidence against you, do you think I’d have told you we had a witness who could link you to the property stolen from the museum?”

“What the hell did you tell me for if you didn’t want me to do anything about it?”

Peter knew that wasn’t a reasonable question, so he was astonished when Griffin roared, “So you could hire a lawyer. So you wouldn’t be broadsided.”

“Why the hell would you care? You’ve been trying to stick me with this from the beginning.”

“You know why! So quit feeding me that horseshit about not remembering.”

“I don’t remember!” What the hell were they yelling about? Peter wasn’t completely sure. He only knew that the level of anger—on both sides—didn’t make sense.

Maybe Griffin had the same thought, because all at once he was ice-cold.

“I don’t know if I feel sorry for you or I’m actually a little glad to see you get what you deserve. You want to stick to that idiot story, go right ahead. But I’ve got to tell you, that amnesia bullshit might work in those romance novels you’re so fond of, but it’s not going to fly in real life. Whatever the hell it is you’re hiding, you better give it up and come clean. Or you’re going to wind up in prison.”

And on that note, Griffin wheeled away and slammed out of the house, leaving Peter gaping after him.

The door Griffin had banged shut drifted open again. Peter closed it absently, thinking hard.

Every encounter with Griffin seemed to indicate that he and Peter had had some previous interaction—and it had to be something more intimate than Peter reporting museum thefts, given the detective’s level of hostility. Peter put a hand to his chest where Griffin had poked him. Even that, that level of physicality, seemed indicative of a more personal relationship. And that comment about romance novels. How in the hell could Griffin possibly know he read romance novels?

Unless the police had searched his bungalow while he’d been in the hospital? But Griffin had said no, and why should he lie about it? He was blunt enough about everything else.

Yet another mystery, but this one niggled at him.

Unable to relax, Peter prowled around the bungalow for a time, before deciding to go up to the museum and retrieve his laptop. If nothing else, he could catch up on some e-mail.

Crickets chirped in loud chorus as he crossed the otherwise silent garden. The scent of flowers hung in the still-warm air.

Peter unlocked the back door of the museum and let himself inside, punching the security code in. In the eerie green glow of the emergency lights, the museum looked even more macabre than usual as he walked quietly down the hallway past the exhibits to his office.

He put his laptop in its case, locked his office, and returned to the main hall, his footsteps echoing emptily.

Before he reset the security code he paused, listening. All was quiet. What was he expecting to hear?

Peter left the museum and made his way quickly across the garden back to his bungalow.

He reheated another portion of chicken rice casserole and settled down at the desk in his study to work but instead found himself listing out all the possible suspects in the museum thefts.

First on his list was Mary Montero. But that was mostly because he didn’t care for the kid. As criminal masterminds went, she’d probably be too busy filing her nails. Granted, she was at the museum all day and certainly had access to the exhibits. Furthermore, her father, Dennis Montero, was one of the only people with the after-hours access code to the museum, which meant—at least in theory—that Mary had access to the code as well. But the first thefts had occurred before Mary was working in the museum.

Dennis Montero. Well, Peter had always pegged him as indolent and affable. The Monteros appeared to be affluent, though who knew about the financial details of other people’s lives. The Monteros could be struggling beneath the comfortable country-club surface. Even so it was difficult to picture Dennis down in the grotto dirtying his own hands. He’d definitely subcontract his life of crime.

Donnelly, the night watchman, certainly had access to the museum and grounds. He might be hard up for money; Peter didn’t know him well enough to speculate, let alone draw conclusions, there. The old fellow had always appeared to enjoy his job for whatever that was worth. Apparently not much since Peter had loved his job too, but the police still viewed him as viable suspect.

Cole… Well, that was ridiculous. However, for the sake of argument…yes, once upon a time Cole had been hard up for money—relatively speaking—but all that had changed when he wed Angie. Angie Rowland was a very wealthy young woman. It seemed pretty unlikely Cole would have to resort to stealing from his own museum.

Anyway, it didn’t have to be anyone with after-hours access to the museum—nor anyone on staff or working at Constantine House in any capacity. The theft of the wall mural could have been pulled off by professional art thieves, and the pilfering from the museum could possibly be occurring during business hours. Granted, it wasn’t probable, but it was possible.

Clearly it wasn’t what Detective Griffin thought. But Griffin…

Peter kept coming back to that crack about romance novels. How did Griffin know that?

It was about ten o’clock when the doorbell rang. Peter rose from his desk and went to peer through the peephole in the front door.

Cole.

Briefly he considered telling him to get lost, but not only was Cole technically still his employer, Peter felt a bitter curiosity as to what Cole thought he could possibly say.

He turned the lock and opened the door. Cole stepped inside.

“We have to talk.”

Peter moved aside and Cole brushed past him. He smelled of aftershave—Armani Code—and, very faintly, whiskey.

Inside, Cole looked around narrowly; did he think Peter might have stolen items from the museum lying about the bungalow? He looked haggard as his eyes met Peter’s.

Peter folded his arms across his chest. “What did you want to talk about?”

He could hear the coldness in his voice and could tell from Cole’s wince that he heard it too.

“If you think I’m happy about what happened today, you’re wrong.”

“I don’t think you’re happy. But you sure as hell didn’t lift a finger to stop it.”

“How could I?”

How couldn’t you? Peter thought, but Cole sounded genuinely pained, so he said wearily, “Look, I don’t want to fight with you.”

“That’s the last thing I want either.”

“Would you like a drink?”

Cole nodded distractedly. “Thanks.”

Peter went to the liquor cabinet, realizing as he did so that he knew what Cole drank—two fingers of Johnny Walker Black Label on the rocks—and he also knew that he would find a bottle in his liquor cabinet, where he kept it in hope that Cole might drop by.

He poured two drinks and carried them into the living room. Cole was still standing, gazing down at the collection of photos as though looking for answers in those freeze-framed faces.

Peter handed him his drink, their fingers brushed. Cole tossed the whiskey back in two long swallows.

“Again?”

Cole moved his head in the negative. He turned the glass nervously in his hand. “Are you still…? Do you still really not remember anything?”

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Peter studied him curiously. Why would Cole think him capable of making something like this up?

“You were… You’ve been very…unhappy.”

“Unhappy enough to turn to a life of crime?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what are you talking about? What am I so unhappy about?”

Cole said awkwardly, “I suppose a number of things in your life didn’t turn out the way you wanted.”

Wasn’t that true of everyone to a degree? Was Cole suggesting that Peter didn’t want to remember because he was unhappy and disappointed? About…what?

“I don’t understand. I have good friends. A job I love.” Yet as Peter said it, he remembered the Zoloft in the bathroom cabinet. Clearly something had not been right in his life.

As though reading his thoughts, Cole said, “But it wasn’t enough. You were lonely.”

Suddenly it was hard to meet his gaze. “Maybe.”

“I’m sorry for that. Sorry if I hurt you. It wasn’t intentional. You’re…you’re one of my oldest…one of my closest friends.”

It had to be asked. “Is that all we are? Friends?”

The Adam’s apple in Cole’s throat jumped. “Yes. God. I’m sorry. But yes. We’ve never been anything more than friends.” He said it very firmly.

“Why are you sorry?”

Cole seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes. “Because…”

“I would have liked more?”

He nodded. “It’s a long time in the past, but yes. At one time you would have liked our friendship to be more.”

Peter nodded. He thought of the dreams he’d been having. Such vivid, detailed dreams of himself and Cole. Fantasy, not memory. But very real for all that. Apparently he was a lot more of a romantic than he’d realized, carrying a torch for his best friend all these years. Romantic…or maybe just an ass.

“I don’t know why,” Cole was saying. “I’ve never…had any curiosity that way. I don’t know what you thought you saw.”

“Neither do I.” He didn’t mean it insultingly, but he could see from Cole’s expression the way it sounded. “I mean…I don’t remember feeling that. I know I—It’s obvious I had feelings for you at one time.”

“Yes.”

At one point Cole had clearly been one of the most important people in his life. Presumably someone he trusted—someone who trusted him. But that hit on the head must have knocked some sense into him.

“Was it a problem for us? My feelings for you?”

“No. God, no. We’d resolved all that years ago. Back in college.”

“Then why do you think I was so unhappy?”

Cole looked even more uncomfortable. “It’s just an impression. Things changed after my marriage last year. We weren’t as close.”

“Well, we wouldn’t be, right?”

Cole’s eyes met his. “That’s true. And maybe you had come to terms with it. But you seemed distant…worried.”

“Couldn’t it have had to do with the thefts at the museum?”

“Perhaps.”

Perhaps? Was it his imagination or was Cole something of a narcissist? Because somehow Peter had trouble believing—not that Cole wasn’t an attractive guy; he was. But…seeing him these past few days, as though for the first time, well, Peter really didn’t feel like Cole was all that much his type.

Maybe it did have to do with that fat gold wedding band on Cole’s left hand. Maybe it had to do with the fact that Cole hadn’t stood up for him with the board of trustees. Or maybe his feelings for Cole had been mostly infatuation that he was finally—and high time—growing out of. Whatever it was, as Peter scrutinized the other man, he felt oddly dispassionate, even cool.

“Cole, why did you come here this evening?”

Cole didn’t answer.

Peter thought he understood. “I appreciate your concern, but at this point it’s up to the police.”

“Yes.” Cole continued to watch him in that hard-to-decipher way.

“Or is there something else?”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know.” Peter said slowly, “Detective Griffin said that there had been some discussion of replacing me at the museum before today.”

“What?”

“He said that even before I became a suspect in the museum thefts that there was talk of terminating my contract.”

“He’s saying it to get a rise out of you or something. It’s not true.”

Peter had not thought it was true either, until he listened to Cole denying it. Then he realized that Griffin had apparently got it right. It was right there in Cole’s tone. It wasn’t the idea he was shocked at, it was the fact that Griffin had found out.

“I don’t understand.” And despite his best effort, Peter couldn’t hide his upset. “I’ve worked my ass off for the museum. You said yourself we’re finally beginning to see a profit.”

“Pete”—Cole rested his hands on Peter’s shoulders—“it’s not true. I don’t know why he told you that, but of course it’s not true.”

And the more Cole denied it, the more Peter could see that it was true.

Chilled, he said, “That’s good. I’ve been completely loyal to you and the museum. I’d be disappointed to think my loyalty wasn’t returned.”

Cole’s hands, still resting lightly on Peter’s shoulders, began to knead gently. “There’s nothing for you to worry about. No one is going to disappoint you. As soon as this mess gets cleared up, you’ll have your job back. Trust me.”

“I’d like to.”

“You can. I promise you.” He seemed to recollect himself and let Peter go. “Everything will work out. You’ll see.”

“Griffin seems to think I’m going to be arrested.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Peter had no real response to Cole’s optimism. He’d have liked to believe Cole, but he tended to think Griffin had the inside track.

“If I am arrested—”

“That’s nonsense. You won’t be arrested.” Abruptly, Cole headed for the front door, and Peter followed him slowly.

If he was arrested, it was obvious that Cole would feel himself unable to help—all part of that antifavoritism thing, apparently.

At the door, Cole hesitated. His blue eyes gazed deeply into Peter’s. His whiskey breath fanned Peter’s mouth. It was a little weird, actually. Was Cole…? Did Cole want to kiss him? Peter wasn’t sure, but it sort of seemed like…

Cole said a little huskily, “Good night, Peter.”

“Good night.”

Peter closed the door, locked it, and wondered what the hell that had been about.

Chapter Seven

Peter knew what the result of the lineup would be from the moment he arrived at the police station Wednesday morning. He could feel it in the way he was greeted—even by his lawyer—and in the way he was escorted down to the waiting room. It was obvious that this was pretty much a formality. Mr. Stephenson had as good as said so. In fact, he’d actually said he wasn’t sure why the police were wasting everyone’s time with a lineup since Donald Herschel had already identified Peter, before, during, and now after his impromptu visit to the pawnshop, as the man who’d tried to sell him stolen goods.

Peter wondered if he should apologize for wasting Mr. Stephenson’s valuable time. He’d have been happy to skip the lineup himself. At least he didn’t have long to wait before he was summoned to join a queue of eight other men approximately his height and build waiting in a hallway. They were led inside a long bare room and instructed to face what was clearly a two-way mirror.

A voice over the loudspeaker asked them to turn to the right, back to center, and then to the left. They were each asked to speak an innocuous line—Peter had already forgotten what they said about three seconds afterward.

They were thanked for their time, escorted back to the waiting room, and Detective Griffin appeared for the first time—Peter’s lawyer in tow.

Peter saw it in Griffin’s face. He was absolutely prepared, so it was a little shock to feel that wave of light-headedness washing over him as Griffin told him he was under arrest. He managed to hide it, he hoped, standing silent while Griffin put the handcuffs on him.

“Is this necessary?” Stephenson said, sounding mostly bored. “My client has cooperated every step of the way. He’s already in police custody.”

“We’ve got procedures to follow, counselor,” Griffin said, snapping the handcuffs closed. “Sorry,” he added brusquely—and that was directed to Peter, though he barely registered it.

“I’ll arrange bail proceedings as we’ve discussed, Peter,” Stephenson said, moving away.

Peter nodded. He felt like he was watching it all happen to someone else, and that was probably just as well. He embraced his inner numbness. If he could have climbed onto an astral plane, he’d have done it. He thought Griffin might have addressed a couple of other remarks to him before he was handed over to the uniformed officer who took his mug shots and fingerprints, but it was like listening to someone across a busy street.

He spent hours in a cell with a sullen-looking Asian kid who appeared to be tattooed over every visible inch of his hide and an elderly drunk with a busy mustache who was snoring for all the world like a cartoon character.

Every so often the Illustrated Man would get up, shrieking obscenities, and slam at the bars of the cell, and the sleeper would snort loudly like he was about to go into respiratory failure.

At last Peter’s name was called and he was escorted to where Roma and Jessica waited for him.

He managed a terse thanks before going to collect the envelope of his personal belongings.

“You didn’t think we were going to leave you to rot in there, did you?” Roma demanded, wrapping him in a big hug as he returned to where they patiently waited for him. She must have seen that he was fighting for his composure because she said briskly, “God, this is a depressing place. Let’s get out of here.”

“You should have called us first thing,” Jessica said, taking her turn at hugging him tightly.

“I was hoping…” Peter didn’t try to finish it. He’d been hoping for a miracle. He hadn’t got it, but the next best thing had happened: his friends had stood by him, and he’d never been so grateful to see anyone in his life. In fact, he was very much afraid he was going to make a huge fool of himself if they didn’t get out of there fast.

He sat in the back of the MG, eyes closed, while Roma rocketed them home. The hot, dry wind blowing against his face felt clean and comforting.

When they got back to the bungalow, it was nearly five o’clock. He’d spent the entire day in jail; it felt like a month. Like a lifetime.

He excused himself and went upstairs to shower, standing under the warm spray for a long, long time, letting the cleansing water sluice over his head and shoulders.

He felt marginally better when he went downstairs. Roma and Jessica were in the kitchen. They had found the flask of cold brew in the fridge that he’d put in there what felt like a year ago and were drinking iced coffee. Peter opted for whiskey.

“Hungry?” Jessica asked brightly. “There’s plenty of chicken rice casserole left.”

“Maybe later.” There was something funny about the way they were watching him. Newly—and possibly rightly—paranoid, he asked, “What is it?”

Roma nodded at the table, and he saw that there was a letter there with the official stamp of the museum.

“It came while you were in the shower,” Jessica said in a stifled voice.

Peter reached for the letter and ripped it open before he had time to think about it.

Dear Mr. Killian.

His eyes scanned the neatly typed page. It was polite and perfunctory. The Constantine House Board of Trustees had convened in an emergency meeting to reach the unanimous if regretful decision that they must terminate his contract with their organization—effective immediately. He had ten days to vacate the bungalow in which he currently resided.

His eyes were drawn again to that weirdly formal Dear Mr. Killian.

“What is it?” Roma demanded, although it was clear from her tone of voice that she had a pretty good idea what it was.

He handed her the letter and went to stare out the window over the sink at the trees.

“That lousy son of a bitch Cole,” Roma snarled. “When are you going to see him for the manipulative, selfish bastard that he is?”

Not that Peter was feeling particularly high on Cole at the moment, but this did seem a little out of the blue.

“How is it Cole’s fault?”

“Don’t defend him!” Roma and Jessica yelled in chorus, and he stared at them, bewildered.

“For God’s sake, Peter! Cole has traded on your feelings for him for years. He gives you just enough to keep you hanging on—without ever actually giving you anything. He got you to work for him instead of taking the job in Boston…”

“Boston?”

“How can you not remember this?”

Good question. He opened his mouth and closed it again.

Jessica said, “You’d agreed to take a job at a museum in Boston for nearly double the salary when Cole asked you to take the position here at Constantine House.”

“I—”

“You,” Roma said flatly. “And you’ll want to notice Cole didn’t come up with the job when you needed a job; he only suggested Constantine House after you’d already accepted another, better position. When he saw you getting away.”

“Getting away?” Peter echoed, staring at her.

“That’s right. Oh my God.” She ran both hands through her dark hair, causing it to stand up in tufts. “You have no idea how badly we wanted you to go—as much as we love you—just to get away from him. But of course he couldn’t let that happen.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Roma’s right,” Jessica said calmly. “We don’t know what Cole’s story is. We only know him through you—but that’s plenty. Maybe he’s truly conflicted or maybe he’s just so self-centered it’s pathological, but every single time you start to move on, he finds some way to drag you back. Do you know how many relationships he’s spoiled for you over the years? Just by crooking his little finger.”

Peter was shaking his head. “You’re wrong. He told me last night there was nothing between us—and there never has been.”

“And as he said it he smiled into your eyes and held your gaze and brushed your arm with his hand. Peter, we’ve been watching him in action for years. He plays you like a…a…”

“Maestro,” Jessica supplied.

Peter trailed off, unwilling to believe what he was hearing, although it was obvious from both their faces that this was a truth they had been long wanting to deliver. “Even if you’re right…even if it’s true, how does that”—he nodded at the letter now lying on the table—“have anything to do with it?”

“Because Cole totally controls that board. If you’re being terminated, then that’s Cole’s decision. For whatever reason, Cole wants you gone. Either because he thinks you’re guilty or a liability or because he’s afraid of the scandal. Or all of the above.”

“Or because you’re too much of a temptation,” Jessica put in. “I don’t think that marriage is exactly a grand passion.”

“Cole is not gay,” Roma said shortly.

“We don’t know what Cole is.”

“Other than a manipulative bastard.”

“On that we’re agreed.” Jessica looked sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Peter, but there really is a pattern here, and it’s been going on for a long time. Every time you meet someone and it seems like you’re happy, Cole finds some way to yank you back.”

Roma interjected, “He gives you just enough that you start to think maybe you do really matter to him after all. We’ve seen this again and again. I mean, I was actually glad you couldn’t remember Cole after you got hit on the head. That’s how bad it is.”

One thing was patently clear. They believed every word they were saying. And that belief, that certainty, was painfully convincing. Peter asked dully, “When was the last time this happened? That I started seeing someone else and Cole…yanked me back?”

“It’s been a while. About six months. You were seeing someone you met through work, and it seemed like it was going really well. And then Cole started having marital problems and he needed a buddy’s shoulder to cry on. And the next thing we heard, you weren’t seeing anyone anymore.”

“What was the name of this guy I was seeing?”

Roma and Jessica were both shaking their heads. “You didn’t say,” Roma said. “In fact, you were kind of mysterious about it. We thought maybe it was someone you’d met at a conference.”

“Maybe someone married.”

“Great.”

Roma said darkly, “I don’t think you’d get involved with someone married. It’s not like you haven’t had plenty of that already. I think subconsciously you didn’t want Cole to know you were getting involved with someone again.”

“You were really depressed afterward,” Jessica said. “I mean…not just down, but down.”

Peter thought again of the bottle of Zoloft in the bathroom.

“And that’s not like you,” Roma put in. “You’ve always been very positive and optimistic. Just a really enthusiastic person.” She added, “If a little slow on the uptake.”

He shot her a look, and she offered a lopsided grin. “And I say that with the greatest affection.”

“Yes. I see that.” He sighed. “I appreciate the concern. And the honesty. It’s… Don’t take this the wrong way, but I have enough to deal with without this.”

“But you need to hear this, Peter,” Jessica said earnestly. “You cannot trust Cole.”

It was practically like one of those TV interventions. He said tiredly, “I won’t. I don’t.”

Roma was glaring at the letter. “This is typical of the no-balls way that gutless jerk would handle something like this.”

He appreciated their sympathy, but really this was just making it harder. He said, “Thank you for telling me. I mean that. To be honest, I don’t know what I feel for Cole anymore.” At their expressions, he said hastily, “Except that I know I don’t…feel that. I don’t love him. And I know that whatever he feels for me”—this was the part that still felt raw—“it’s not enough to inconvenience himself when I’m in trouble.” He finished the rest of the whiskey in his glass, and the burn going down his throat helped.

There was a pause. “Why don’t you come back with us?” Jessica urged. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

Peter shook his head. He dredged up a smile, which he hoped looked more reassuring than it felt. “I’ll sleep better in my own bed, and that’s what I feel like I need now. A good night’s sleep.”

They didn’t like it, but in the end they had to accept his decision. Even so he had to promise to remember to eat the rest of the dried-out casserole, not get drunk by himself, and call if he needed anything.

When the MG had sped away, leaving the sound barrier lying broken in the dust, Peter headed for his study. Drawer by drawer he went through his desk, conviction growing with each moment.

“Those romance novels you love.”

“So you could hire a lawyer. So you wouldn’t be broadsided.”

“Sorry.”

He found what he was looking for in his address book. There was just a large initial M under the G’s. Large enough to take up the height of two lines. Whoever M was, he had been someone Peter didn’t want to lose track of.

He rang the number. It rang and rang and then an answering machine picked up and Detective Griffin curtly recited the phone number and instructed him to leave a message.

Peter hung up.

After a moment he realized tears were running down his face. He wiped them away impatiently. One mystery solved.

For a short time he and Michael Griffin had been lovers.

So that was really a relief because it was the uncertainty eating at him, right? And here was one uncertainty explained at last. Good news, really, despite the incontrovertible proof of the fool he had been, so no sense sitting here sniveling. He had probably made worse mistakes than that, starting with passing up the job in Boston.

He started as the phone at his elbow rang.

He picked it up and answered, only to discover it was the Los Angeles Times wanting an interview.

He declined and hung up.

Now Griffin’s fury at his amnesia made more sense. Or did it? Why exactly was he so angry at Peter? He’d apparently done the dumping. It was a bit unclear. Unless he really did think Peter was ripping off his own museum. Was that why he’d broken it off between them? Did he believe Peter was a thief?

The phone rang again.

Peter picked up. Another newspaper. The blood was in the water, and the sharks were circling.

Peter declined the opportunity to appear as newsworthy chum—less politely than he had turned down the Times—and hung up.

He was still staring at the phone when it rang yet again. An unpleasant reminder that he had more pressing problems than the fact that Mike Griffin didn’t like him anymore. Peter was jobless, soon-to-be homeless, and probably going to prison for theft.

He took the phone off the hook.

It wasn’t until Peter was scraping his dinner plate into the trash that he suddenly registered the absence of his laptop on his desk. He went into the study, and sure enough it was gone.

A quick search of the bungalow confirmed what he already knew. His laptop was gone.

Heart pounding, mouth dry, he called Cole.

It seemed a long time before Cole came on the line, and the sick knowledge roiled in Peter’s belly that Cole might simply refuse to speak to him at all. But at last Cole got on the line sounding friendly but wary.

“Peter! How goes it?”

“You mean aside from your firing me today? Well, I was arrested. But I guess you knew that.”

“I know. I heard your friends Roma and Jessica were able to put up the bail for you. I wish I could have… Well, you know that. But the conflict of interest between the museum and—”

“Thanks for your concern,” Peter bit out. “But that’s not why I’m calling. My laptop is missing.”

“Oh.” Cole said awkwardly, “Someone should have left a note for you. That laptop is museum property, as I’m sure you realize.”

“For chrissake, Cole. You’re acting like I’m suddenly an enemy. Like I can’t be trusted—”

“No, no. It’s not that,” Cole broke in. “It occurred to us, to Dennis, actually, that the police were probably going to confiscate your laptop anyway, and we wanted to download everything we might need before it disappeared for God knows how long waiting for you to go to trial.”

“Waiting for me to…” Peter’s voice gave out at the casual reference to his future trial date and probable fate.

“Pete.” Cole stopped. He said carefully, “We have to be realistic here.”

Peter couldn’t have spoken had his life depended on it.

“Angie and I are more sorry than we can say that things have worked out like this for you. We don’t think you stole from the museum, but…”

Angie and I?

“Right. Thanks.”

“We have no doubt that you’re going to be proven innocent, but I’m sure you see what a difficult position this is for me. Regardless of my personal feelings, my first responsibility is to the museum.”

“Yes, I got that. I assume you want me to turn over my keys too?”

“Your keys to the museum, yes. There’s no hurry about the bungalow. You still have nine days to vacate.”

Peter said, “That’s…kind of you. Nine whole days. Can you wait for the keys until tomorrow or did you want me to bring them to you right now?”

A pause. Cole sounded very subdued as he said, “We’ve been friends a long time, Pete. Try to look at this from my perspective.”

“Through your ass, you mean? Because that’s what you’re talking through.” Peter slammed the receiver down with a shaking hand. The phone rang half a minute after that. He let it ring until it stopped, and then he took it off the hook once more.

It took him a long time to relax enough to fall asleep when he finally calmed down enough to go to bed.

He wasn’t sure what woke him. The squeak of a floorboard? A shadow cutting across the band of moonlight through the window? Whatever the warning, Peter’s eyes jerked open on the knowledge that someone was in his bedroom.

There was a moment of sheer and paralyzing disbelief, and then some instinct urged movement, and he rolled off the edge of the bed. The mattress next to his head jerked, he heard the weird, squished sound of a silenced shot, then another, then another.

Horrified, he recognized that someone was shooting at him. Unbelievably, someone had just tried to kill him.

There wasn’t time to think it through. He reacted automatically, grabbing the brass clock off the nightstand and throwing it hard at the tall silhouette illuminated in the moonlight. It made a ping as it connected with the intruder’s head. He staggered back and fired, hitting the lamp next to the bed a few inches from where Peter was crouched and getting off another shot into the wall behind the nightstand.

There was nowhere to go. Peter dived beneath the bed. The shooter came around the side of the bed, stepping on the small round rug beside it, and some instinct guided Peter to grab the rug and yank hard. The man went down firing. Plaster drifted from the ceiling and a window broke.

Peter was out from under the bed desperately wrestling for the gun. He knew he was fighting for his survival, and that the only rule was to survive the next minutes. It was quick and dirty and brutal. Using both hands, he wrenched the gun out of the man’s hand and threw it across the room. The shooter punched him in the head. Dazed, Peter let go, and the man rolled away and scrambled for the door. His footsteps thudded down the stairs, a door slammed and Peter scrambled over to the phone. There was no dial tone.

He thought his attacker must have cut the phone line, and then he remembered that he had taken the phone off the hook before bed.

Legs wobbling, he went downstairs, replaced the phone, and called 911.

Chapter Eight

“That is a beaut of a shiner,” a familiar voice said admiringly. “What’s the other guy look like?”

Peter looked up from the earnest face of the young female cop taking his statement. Michael Griffin stood beside the kitchen table, his blue eyes taking in Peter’s battered face.

Peter held an ice pack to his right eye, swollen and already darkening. In addition to the black eye, he had a bruise on his jaw—as well as other less visible parts of his anatomy—a chipped molar where his teeth had collided, and two sets of scraped and bloodied knuckles.

He said bitterly, “What makes you think there was another guy? Maybe I did this shaving.”

Griffin gave a harsh laugh, but it was a sore spot with Peter. The crime scene personnel currently wandering around the bungalow had been unable to find where his assailant had broken in. The window of the kitchen door was still boarded up and no other windows had been broken. Nor had either of the locks on the doors of the house been picked or broken.

No one actually came right out and accused Peter of rigging the whole thing, but the fact that he was the primary suspect in the theft of a very valuable painting was obviously being taken into account.

Griffin flashed his ID to the female officer. “Thanks. I’ll take it from here. This is part of my ongoing investigation.”

She slid out of the breakfast nook, leaving her notes, and Griffin slid in to take her place. He eyed Peter unsmilingly, “You okay?”

“Great.”

“I’m serious. Do you need medical attention?”

Peter shook his head.

“Okay. So what happened?”

So much for sympathy. Not that Peter expected it—although, knowing what he now did about their former relationship, maybe he was unconsciously looking for some sign…but there was nothing. He nodded—gingerly—at the uniformed cop who was disappearing into the other room, and Griffin said, “I know. Let’s hear it again.”

Peter told it all again. How he had woken out of a sound sleep to find someone in his bedroom and twenty seconds later found himself fighting for his life.

“What woke you?” Griffin asked, watching him closely.

“I don’t know. Or at least I don’t remember. It happened so fast. I was only half awake.”

“What made you roll out of the way of those bullets?”

So Griffin had already been upstairs, already heard what the investigating officers had to say. This was probably just a formality. He already thought he knew everything he needed to.

Peter said wearily, “I honestly don’t know. There was a shadow over me, and I just…jumped out of the way at the same time he started firing.” He added without heat, “I know you don’t believe me. I know you all think this is part of some involved cover story.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to.” He stared through his good eye at Griffin. It was so weird knowing what he now knew. He wished…he wished he could remember their former relationship. He wished Griffin didn’t hate him so much.

Not that Griffin was acting like he hated him. Tonight he was all business, cool and professional.

“They can’t find how he broke in,” Peter said.

“Maybe he didn’t break in.”

“Yes, that has already been suggested.”

Griffin offered the wolfish grin. “Has it? That’s not what I mean, though. I don’t think you’re stupid enough to imagine something like this would work to divert suspicion from you for the theft of the mural.”

“And yet you think I’m stupid enough to steal from the museum and then report it to the cops.”

Griffin’s gaze held his own. “No. I don’t, frankly.”

Peter sat up a little straighter. “You don’t?”

“No.” Griffin added, “That doesn’t mean that having gone to the police about the thefts—establishing a precedent—you couldn’t have arranged to have the mural stolen in an attempt to make it look like part of the same pattern. This was a very different kind of crime. The earlier thefts were all small items easily pilfered. Taking the mural required planning and a partner.”

Peter gave a short, disbelieving laugh.

Griffin eyed him for an assessing interim. “But I don’t believe you were involved in that either.”

“You don’t.”

“No.”

“Then what do you think is going on?”

“I think someone wants you dead, Peter.”

Peter opened his mouth, but he couldn’t think of what he wanted to say. The truth was, as shocking as it was to hear it aloud, he had already figured that much out.

Griffin was watching Peter’s face as he continued, “Either because this someone thinks you know something, or because it’s too obvious you don’t know anything and will make a better scapegoat dead than alive.” He glanced over the uniformed officer’s notes. “Let’s take it from the top.”

Griffin was thorough, no doubt about it. By the time he had finished reviewing Peter’s account of the night’s events, the crime scene personnel had cleared out and the windows were growing light. Peter’s bruised and pummeled body was beginning to ache. He hurt from his face to his left foot—where he’d accidentally kicked the dresser while he’d been wrestling on the floor. He was so tired he could barely concentrate—but no way was he going to spend the rest of the night in the bungalow, and he said so to Griffin as he at last concluded their interview and rose.

“Where do you plan on going?”

“A hotel.”

Griffin was staring at him, his expression unreadable. “What hotel?”

“I don’t know. Wherever I can get in this time of night.” He glanced at the window. “Morning.”

Griffin said, “I’ll make a phone call and get you booked into the Best Western.”

As gallant gestures went, it wasn’t much, but tiredness and pain had lowered Peter’s resistance and he was grateful for any sign of kindness. “Thanks.”

Griffin brushed it off uncomfortably.

Peter blurted, “I remember, Mike.”

Griffin looked guarded, wary. “Oh yeah? What is it you remember?”

Peter met his gaze straight on. “Not everything. But I know we started seeing each other after I reported the museum thefts. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because we shouldn’t have been seeing each other,” Griffin replied shortly. “I crossed more than a couple of professional lines when we started going out. You want the truth? I thought you were pretending you didn’t remember about us for your own reasons.”

“What reasons?”

Griffin raised a shoulder in a kind of who-knows-with-you gesture.

“Why did you…? Is that why you broke it off? Because it was a violation of professional ethics?”

Griffin’s face tightened. “I thought you said you remembered?”

Peter admitted, “It’s more that I finally managed to put two and two together. I don’t remember…” He couldn’t seem to look away from Mike’s blue, blue eyes. Hot color flooded his face as he got out, “I’ve been having these dreams…and I think they’re about you.”

“You think?”

Peter said, “I know it sounds idiotic, but…the doctors were right. I think I didn’t remember because I didn’t want to—because it was painful. I’ve been taking a prescription for anxiety and depression since December.”

There was a funny break.

Mike’s brows drew together. “You’re on antidepressants?”

“I quit taking them after I got out of the hospital.”

“Hell. You’re not supposed to just stop taking that stuff, you know. If someone gets hold of that information…your credibility could be further damaged.”

“I know. Judging by the number of pills in the bottle, I think I was in the process of weaning myself off them. Anyway, the point is, a couple of friends told me that after we broke up, I was pretty depressed.”

Mike was still eyeing him skeptically, but something had changed in his face. Some of the hardness had gone.

“And those dreams… I kept telling myself they were of Cole. Even in my dream I kept telling myself they were of Cole, but I couldn’t see my…my lover’s face. I guess my subconscious was trying to show me that it wasn’t Cole I was with. Once I realized”—his color heightened, but he said it anyway—“the dreams are of you, yeah. Why did you break it off with me?”

Surprisingly, there was color in Mike’s face too. He said, “If you’re really not planning to stay here for what’s left of the night—and I wouldn’t, if I was you—let’s go back to my place. We can talk without getting interrupted. I have to be at the station later in the morning, but you can stay there and sleep without worrying about anyone breaking in and trying to cap you again.”

As invitations went… Well, at least it was an invitation, and the best one Peter had had in a long time.

* * * * *

Mike lived in a condo in Flintridge. On the outside it was just an innocuous, pink stucco, two-story building, and Peter was too tired to pay much attention as he followed Mike upstairs.

He remembered the inside, though—or at least it felt familiar. But maybe because it was pretty much a generic bachelor pad: comfortable furniture, plasma TV, and an impressive stereo system. There was a large tank of tropical fish against one wall and a couple of nice oils of the ocean on the other.

“You want a beer?”

Peter shook his head, watching without interest as Mike disappeared into the kitchen. He reappeared a few moments later and sat on the other end of the sofa. He took a long swallow of beer from the bottle and sighed appreciatively. “Man, it’s good to be home.”

Yes. It must be nice. Peter didn’t think he would know that feeling again until he finally regained his memory.

He said, “So what made you change your mind?”

Mike raised a lazy eyebrow. “About what?”

“You don’t think I’m guilty anymore? In the hospital you acted like you thought I was guilty.”

Mike took another swig of beer and seemed to consider the question. “I’m not going to pretend. I’d have been happy if you were guilty. I was mad as hell at you. At the way things ended between us.”

Peter tried to take this in. “But you ended them.”

“Yeah. I did.” Mike seemed to weigh his words. “I liked you a lot, Peter. I thought… Well, it doesn’t matter. But before long it was obvious it wasn’t going anywhere, and that it never would so long as Cole was part of your life.”

“There wasn’t anything between Cole and me. Cole said himself—”

“I don’t know what Cole told you, and maybe you weren’t sleeping together, but he had you on a very short leash. You’ve been infatuated with him since college, and from what I could see, he liked and encouraged that.”

Peter was shaking his head, rejecting this. “He’s married.”

Mike said dryly, “I know all about Cole’s marriage. I heard about it in detail from you. The third time you broke a date with me to go listen to Cole whine about his marriage was when I told you I’d had enough. That you were going to have to decide whether you wanted a relationship with me or with Cole. You chose Cole.”

“I…chose Cole?”

Mike said wearily, “Not in so many words. Your argument was that you weren’t going to be handed any ultimatums. And my argument was I wanted a real relationship with you—or to at least to explore the possibilities of having one—but that I didn’t want to work around Cole’s schedule.”

Peter said slowly, “But if Cole was going through a bad time…”

“Yep,” Mike said curtly. “I wasn’t very sympathetic, and I’m still not. I think Cole Constantine is a user and a manipulator. And probably a closet case. I think he married Angela Rowland for money, and I think he got what he paid for. I told you then and I’m telling you now, he’s bad news.”

“And you couldn’t—”

“No, I couldn’t. Like I said, I had feelings for you.”

Peter said resentfully, “You sure didn’t have trouble closing the door on me.”

“You have no idea how I felt. You didn’t make any attempt to find out. You chose Cole, and that was that.”

“I think six months of Zoloft says otherwise.”

After a hesitation, Mike said, “Obviously, I didn’t know that. I still don’t. That is, you might have been taking antidepressants for a lot of other reasons.”

But Peter was pretty sure, even if the details were still fuzzy, that the tension of trying to balance his changing feelings for Cole—his growing disillusionment and fear that he was indeed being manipulated—and losing Mike, who he knew, even without his complete memory, had been special, someone he could have really cared for, was the explanation for his turning to chemical relief.

He rubbed his aching temples, and Mike said gruffly, “Why don’t you get some rest. We’ll talk when I get home tonight.”

Peter raised his head, scowling. “Sleep? You think I can sleep? My life is a train wreck.” He gave a sour laugh. “I’ve lost my job, I’m being kicked out of my home, and I’ve been arrested for grand theft and charged with a felony. I’m probably going to go to prison—if someone doesn’t kill me first. How am I supposed to sleep?”

“What’s the alternative? A thirty-day supply of NoDoz?”

“You’re all heart.”

Mike sighed. “What do you want from me? You’re in deep shit. And if I tell you who I think is responsible for it, you’re not going to be happy.”

Peter stared. “You think Cole is responsible for my being arrested?”

“I think Cole has been stealing from his granddaddy’s house of horrors for some time now. And so do you, I suspect, which is why after initiating an investigation, you suddenly got cold feet. For the record? It’s another thing we argued about.” He added, “Which is why I thought you might be faking amnesia. I thought you might be trying to protect Cole.”

“Faking amnesia. You honestly thought I might fake amnesia?”

A flicker of self-consciousness crossed Mike’s face, but he said, “And if you were trying to protect Cole, I thought that putting pressure on you, making you think you were a suspect, might get you to crack.”

“You deliberately let me think I was a suspect?”

“Unfortunately, my plan backfired.”

“You’re quite a bastard,” Peter said civilly.

“I never said I wasn’t. But I’m not as big a bastard as your best buddy Cole who, I think, hired someone to try and kill you last night.”

“No. No way.”

“I don’t think he’d have the balls to do it himself.”

Peter stood up. “Cole did not break into my house. He did not hire someone else to break in. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”

Mike was unmoved. “Here’s what I think is going on. I think you walked in on the middle of Cole and an accomplice carting off that mural. I think that’s why you don’t want to remember what you saw.”

“If that were true”—Peter swallowed, and the persistent ache in his temples turned into a sick, heavy thudding behind his eyes—“then you think Cole or this accomplice attacked me. Why wouldn’t he just kill me then? Why would he wait to have to hire someone?”

“Maybe he didn’t know for sure what you saw. Maybe he was a little squeamish. Maybe he’s even a little fond of you. But he’s not fonder of you than he is of himself. I think he began to worry about you getting your memory back. Or maybe it’s more that he saw—or believed he saw—you were becoming the focus of our investigation, and he decided to set you up.”

“By killing me? Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose?”

Griffin said calmly, “I think there’s been an ongoing difference of opinion on what to do about you.”

“Between who?”

“Cole and his accomplice.”

“Who’s this accomplice?”

Mike said nothing.

Peter dropped back down on the couch. “Well? You’ve told me this much. Go ahead and hit me with it.”

“I think it ought to be pretty obvious.”

Peter fell silent, thinking. He was so god-awful tired. It was difficult to string sentences together. Let alone actually think before he spoke.

“Come on,” Mike said. “Use your head. Where did the real evidence against you come from?”

Peter said slowly, “Herschel. The guy who picked me out of a lineup. The guy who claimed I approached him trying to sell stolen goods.”

Mike didn’t agree or disagree. “See, the problem with Herschel’s story is, if it’s not true…then what does he have to gain by such a lie? It could be Cole is paying him to frame you, but the fact that he coincidentally owns a pawnshop—and has more than a few unsavory connections—leads us to speculate that his motive is a little more personal. Like a useful cover story for himself.”

“Cole is working with Herschel?”

“We began to look at Mr. Herschel more closely when he couldn’t come up with the surveillance tape of you that he originally claimed he had. His story was they reuse the old tapes, which is common enough, but claiming he had it and then backtracking aroused suspicion—especially since I was pretty sure you weren’t stealing from the museum.”

“Pretty sure.”

“What do you want?” Mike said irritably. “I didn’t think you were guilty. But I’ve been wrong before.”

Peter continued to work it out. Reluctantly, he said at last, “And the reason Herschel didn’t have to break in tonight was because Cole gave him the key to my place?”

“I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d planted some items in your bungalow to make it look like your accomplices double-crossed you—or feared you were double-crossing them. I can’t say I expected them to try to take you out.”

Peter rose again, brushing against the coffee table as he went to the window, staring out.

He didn’t want to believe it, but…too much of it made sense.

He remembered telling Cole his memory was coming back, and Cole had immediately arranged for a convening of the museum trustees—and Peter’s suspension. Roma and Jess were right. Cole ran that committee. Nothing happened that Cole didn’t want to have happen, so if Peter had been suspended, it was because Cole wanted him gone.

“I don’t believe he wanted me dead.”

Mike said nothing.

Peter turned back to face him. “I don’t believe it!” His own anger surprised him. “He wouldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t have reason to do that to me.”

“No? Would you have gone to prison for him?”

Peter opened his mouth and closed it.

“You’re a good friend, and God knows you’re loyal, but you’re not stupid. Generally. And even if Cole was willing to take the chance that you would keep your mouth shut or even take the fall for him, Herschel isn’t the trusting type.”

Peter shook his head.

Mike ignored this silent protest. “I’ll tell you something else. Herschel’s got a case full of guns in that shop of his. I’m betting one of them is going to turn up missing. First thing today, I plan on getting a search warrant.”

Peter sat down, resting his face in his hands. He wasn’t crying. He felt too numb for tears. Too tired to feel much of anything at all.

How in love with Cole he must have been to have chosen him over Mike. Funny that he couldn’t seem to remember that feeling at all.

“Hey.” Mike rose and went over to him. He squeezed Peter’s shoulder. “I’m sorry it worked out like this, okay?”

Hadn’t Cole said something similar? Peter said listlessly, “Yeah.”

“It’s not… I don’t enjoy this. What I said earlier? I don’t really…want you hurt.”

Peter nodded, still not looking up. He…couldn’t. There was just too much to deal with, to try and make sense of. Too many losses in twenty-four hours.

Mike stood over him for a moment while Peter struggled for control.

“Don’t, Peter,” Mike said at last, and there was something in his voice—a roughness intended to disguise an emotion Mike didn’t want to feel.

“I’m okay. Just…” His voice cracked and he shut up because he’d embarrassed himself enough times already in front of Mike Griffin.

To his surprise, Mike sat down next to him and pulled him, with impatient kindness, into his arms. “Cry if it’ll make you feel better,” he rasped. “But he’s not worth it.”

Peter looked up, managing an unsteady smile. “No, but you were.”

Chapter Nine

Mike stared at him, not moving—not even blinking. “You had a choice,” he said finally. “And if you had second thoughts…”

“I could have what? Are you telling me the door was always open?”

Mike seemed to experience some kind of inward struggle. “No. The door wasn’t open.”

“So? If I’d realized I’d made a mistake…?”

“Is that what you’re saying?”

It seemed sort of odd to be cold-bloodedly discussing it when he was right here in Mike’s arms. Peter angled his head and cut off anything more Mike might have had to say with a kiss. It was not the smoothest move he’d ever made, his mouth landing off-center on Mike’s. But it was surprisingly sweet—and, astonishingly, Mike tasted familiar. He tasted like spearmint gum and warm male, and the memory of all those dreams came rushing back. Except…maybe it wasn’t all dream.

Mike’s powerful arms wrapped around him, pulling him still closer, and Peter slid his hands into Mike’s thick, soft hair, trying for a better approach this time. He could feel Mike smiling wryly against his mouth—and then Mike’s lips parted.

Their tongues touched, parted. Tongue tag, he thought dizzily at the soaring rush of that contact. And you’re it. He flicked his tongue again, and Mike’s tongue—wet and hot—pushed delicately back. They were kissing deeply, hungrily then, kissing like it was a matter of life and breath, pressing closer, noses bumping, eyelashes skimming, teeth grazing. There was a wonderful relief in being wanted, knowing he was wanted.

Peter didn’t need his memory back to understand how much that had meant to him six months earlier. To be wanted, appreciated, desired, after Cole’s careful maneuverings. Cole, affectionate and teasing and always keeping him at arm’s length. Whereas Mike…Mike held him close and kissed him like Peter was the one he’d been waiting for all his life.

And Peter had been stupid enough to let him go. To choose Cole and all his hang-ups and problems. Why? Habit? Loyalty? Or something more complicated? The fear that maybe Mike was trying to manipulate him too? But it sounded like Mike had had right on his side. That Peter had been the unfair one—even if he’d acted out of loyalty and friendship to Cole. Expecting a man like Mike to sit home patiently while Peter ran off to hold Cole’s hand every time Cole had a crisis? No wonder Mike had told him to figure it out or get lost.

Peter had managed to get very lost indeed. That was obvious. He groaned against Mike’s mouth, and Mike broke the kiss to eye him watchfully. “If this isn’t what you want, you better make it clear now.”

“I’m thinking of the time we lost,” Peter said, his mouth tingling from the assault of Mike’s. “I’m thinking of what a goddamned fool I was.”

“Yeah, well if you’d stuck with me, you wouldn’t be in the mess you’re in now, that’s for sure.”

“I’m depressed enough, okay? No need to put the boot in.”

“No.” Mike’s grimace was rueful. “You know, if I’d known you were… If I’d known about the antidepressants… I don’t know. It never occurred to me you had any regrets.”

“I thought I’d blown it. That you wouldn’t—”

“My bark is worse than my bite.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, no.” Mike’s grin was lopsided.

Peter banged his mouth onto Mike’s again in a kiss both urgent and deep. His hands went to the buttons of Mike’s collar, and he began undoing them as quickly as he could. Mike grabbed Peter’s sweatshirt and tugged upward. Peter took over, wriggling out of it as Mike finished unbuttoning his own shirt, hands dropping to his belt buckle. The rest of their clothes went flying in a matter of seconds, and then they were sliding to a heap on the floor, hands slipping over each other’s bodies, kissing once more.

The coffee table rattled as Peter bumped into it, and Mike reached out blindly, shoving it away. Peter’s dreams and memories were colliding as they rolled together in a tangle of legs and arms. Mike’s heart was thundering against his own chest, and he was acutely aware of the smoothness of bare skin and the crackle of soft hair, the hardness of muscles and bone—and the hardness that was neither.

“Oh my God, I want to fuck,” Peter moaned.

Mike stopped kissing him and laughed.

Peter opened his eyes. “Why are you laughing at me? What’s funny about that?”

“You. You were always so prim and proper. I practically had to seduce you every time.” Mike asked huskily, “Have you been with anyone since me?”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t think… No. I’m sure I haven’t.”

“I have, but I’m clean.”

Peter blinked at him, not following—trying not to mind about the fact that Mike had been, reasonably enough, still seeing people, still sleeping with people. It occurred to him what Mike meant and he blushed.

“Yeah. I want to. I want you to.”

“You want me to—” Mike needed no second invitation. His hand was between Peter’s thigh, and his mouth was latched onto one of Peter’s nipples, and Peter was crying out and arching against him.

“Mike… Oh Christ…”

Mike sucked and then bit gently down, and Peter gasped and grabbed for Mike’s head, pulling it closer even as he was squirming at the intensity of pleasure. One of Mike’s hands was on Peter’s balls, squeezing them gently, teasingly. No wonder he’d been depressed. Giving up this? For what?

When was the last time he’d had this?

No question. Mike had been the last time. Mike, who despite appearances to the contrary, was tender and coaxing and sweet, who seduced with fingers and tongue and soft words till Peter—despite the aches and pains of his fight with the midnight intruder—was feverish and panting and aching for more—and then more.

And then all at once he was on his own, his body chilled by the sudden retreat.

“Where’d you go?” Peter lifted his head, and Mike was crossing the floor in three big steps from the bedroom and throwing himself down on top of Peter again.

“Right here. We need this.” He held up the tube of lubricant, and Peter shuddered with anticipation, letting his head drop back against the carpet.

“God. Yes. Do it.”

The gel was cool, startling but not unpleasant. Mike’s fingers slid along Peter’s crack, stroking, and Peter swallowed hard.

“Relax. I’ve never hurt you yet,” Mike whispered. His eyes seemed to watch every quiver of Peter’s face as he slipped inside Peter’s body.

How strange, Peter thought dreamily, even as his body moved to accommodate that invasion. Detective Mike Griffin’s finger is in my hole. Mike Griffin is thrusting his big, fat finger in and out of my ass, and I’m lying here cooing at how good it feels.

“You like that?” There was a smile in Mike’s voice.

Peter smiled too, although he didn’t open his eyes, just focused on the sensation of Mike’s finger pushing into him, drawing out, sliding back in. “Oh yes.”

“Oh yes!” Mike mimicked, but there was something indulgent in his tone. He slid another finger in, taking his time, petting and stroking, and Peter wriggled, trying to feel that touch more deeply, more intensely.

“I think you should… I think I’d like…”

“That’s what I like about you, Professor Peabody. Your way with words.”

Peter’s eyes opened. “Don’t call me that. Don’t make fun of me.”

He was astonished when Mike’s face changed. “I’m not making fun of you. At least…not like that. You’re just…funny. Sort of cute.”

“Cute?”

“In an uptight, buttoned-down way, yeah.” He rubbed his nose against Peter’s. “Very. I like you. I told you that. I like you a lot.”

Peter relaxed again under these ministrations, and then Mike was urging him up. “Here. You ride me. It’ll be easier on all those bumps and bruises.” They were trading places on the floor, Peter awkwardly straddling Mike’s hips. He was definitely feeling the battering he had taken earlier, but it didn’t matter.

He felt for Mike’s erection, pressing the head of his cock against his own well-oiled hole. He lowered himself down, and he could feel Mike shaking a little with the effort of holding still. Mike’s thick cock scraped its way in, a welcome burn, and then Mike’s hips pushed up and he could feel the softness of that silky body hair against his ass.

“Sorry. Okay?” Mike managed.

Peter nodded. Too full for words, he thought giddily.

And Mike did fill him. That thick, long cock stretched and stuffed him so that he was trembling, working to relax and accept and allow the intimacy. Mike slammed right up into his body, hard thrusts penetrating deeply, then withdrawing, to shove inside again, stroking over the place that made Peter gasp each time at the blaze of pleasure.

“I like watching your face when I fuck you,” Mike grated, rocking his hips.

Peter laughed shakily against the burn behind his eyes, because he was thinking the same thing. Mike’s face was wonderful to watch. He hoped that this was the beginning of something and not the end…

Pressure built inside him, and the pulse in Mike’s cock was echoed by his own heartbeat.

“I’m going to come…” Did they say it at the same time?

Peter came first. He hadn’t even been looking for that yet. He’d just wanted the closeness, the sense of belonging…but he was coming all right. The tension soared and then bloomed, like ginger or some more exotic spice rushing through his bloodstream.

And then he was shivering with it, wanted to curl up in the melting release of it and close his eyes.

Mike was still thrusting into him—fierce, deep strokes—and Peter could take it now, no problem. He watched Mike’s taut face through half-closed eyes, never wanting to forget this…homecoming.

Then Mike gasped something Peter missed, and the next second he was coming and Peter was feeling the shock of wet heat in his own body. Mike, chuckling unsteadily, tugged at him, and Peter was only too happy to collapse on top of Mike’s brawny chest and close his eyes, feeling absurdly safe in the powerful arms holding him tight.

* * * * *

“Hell. I’m late.”

Peter opened his eyes. It took him a few blinks to place himself. Oh, right. He was in Mike’s bedroom—in Mike’s bed. Mike was sitting on the edge of the mattress, his broad brown back to Peter as he pulled his wristwatch off and set it on the night table.

Peter reached a lazy hand to brush down Mike’s back, but Mike rose and disappeared into the bathroom. Peter heard the shower running.

He didn’t remember how they’d got from the living room to the bedroom, but he was glad he wasn’t sleeping on the floor. He was in enough pain as it was. He sat up, biting back a yelp, and managed to pull on his pants. It was not a fun process.

He hobbled into the kitchen and put the coffee machine on.

He looked at the clock. Nearly eleven o’clock. He still felt groggy.

The shower cut off. He heard Mike leave the bathroom and go into the bedroom, heard the slide of closet doors.

Mike walked into the kitchen. He was wearing black trousers and nothing else. He was combing his wet hair, and he was the sexiest thing Peter had ever seen. He felt a little self-conscious suddenly. A little out of his league.

He was painfully aware that, unlike him, life had not stopped for Mike. Mike had moved on. And sex—even some relatively spectacular sex—didn’t change that. Mike had plainly said that the door had not remained open.

“Coffee is nearly ready,” he said.

“I don’t have time.” Mike continued to comb his hair. “What are your plans today?”

“I’m supposed to meet with my lawyer.” Peter’s gut was knotting up at the thought of everything hanging over him. Maybe Mike was right about Cole and Herschel, but in the meantime Peter was the one facing trial and jail time.

“Okay. Why don’t you come back here afterward?”

Peter’s heart rose a little. He managed not to ask, Why? because he wasn’t sure he could hear Mike say something about it being safer. He needed to believe Mike wanted him for the pleasure of his company.

“I’ve got to pick up some things from the bungalow.”

“All right.” Mike disappeared into the living room.

Slightly disappointed, Peter poured coffee.

When he turned around, Mike was right behind him, and he jumped.

Mike laughed. “Hey, I’m the good guy, remember? I’m on your side.” He was dressed completely now. Fast as Superman in the quick-change department. He handed Peter a key. “Here.”

Peter took the key and put it into his pocket. “Thanks. Thanks for everything, in fact. For letting me stay here last night, and for—”

Mike kissed him, effectively shutting him up.

“You’re welcome. Be good today.”

And with that he was gone.

* * * * *

It was not a good day.

Late morning, Peter made his appearance in the overly air-conditioned offices of Stephenson and Crane. It was immediately obvious to him that Mr. Stephenson had suffered some kind of crisis of faith. Or maybe it was a crisis of confidence. Either way, it didn’t look good for Peter.

After a few costly minutes of fencing, Mr. Stephenson bluntly informed him that the DA was pressing for the maximum penalty, which likely meant up to sixteen months in a state prison.

When Peter could speak again, he protested, “But I haven’t been convicted. I haven’t even gone to trial yet.”

Mr. Stephenson didn’t seem to hear this. Given the fact that Peter had no previous criminal record and that his employers had spoken up on his behalf, there was a possibility he would get off with the lighter sentence of one year in county jail. Provided…

“What?” Peter meant, What in the hell are you talking about? But Mr. Stephenson seemed to think he meant he needed more details on his plea bargain.

“Provided,” Mr. Stephenson said briskly, “you plead guilty, thus sparing everyone the expense and scandal of a trial.”

“Provided I—are you joking?”

Mr. Stephenson’s expression indicated he was not joking. “Hear me out. It’s an extremely generous offer. The museum has indicated that they will waive your paying financial restitution, which you are clearly in no position to do.”

“But I didn’t steal the mural. I didn’t steal anything!”

Clearly, all Mr. Stephenson’s clients said that.

Peter said, “I don’t understand why you’re throwing in the towel. From what I understand, the main witness against me can’t even come up with the incriminating videotapes.”

Abruptly he seemed to have regained Mr. Stephenson’s attention. “Where did you hear that?”

“From the police.”

“Ah.” Mr. Stephenson was shuffling papers on his desk, as though getting them to all line up properly was of vital importance. “Well, that may be true, but it’s also true the police believe they have an airtight case.”

Not all the police, but that wasn’t something Peter could share.

Watching Mr. Stephenson rearrange papers some more, Peter said, “Don’t you find it suspicious that ‘the museum’ is waiving my paying financial restitution? We’re talking a small fortune.”

“A fortune you have no hope of repaying. I find it a gesture of rare compassion. Mr. Constantine, speaking on behalf of the rest of the board, testified as to your long friendship and the fact that you’ve been under considerable strain for a number of months. In fact, I believe he’d have been happy if we could have eliminated any jail time for you, but unfortunately the DA won’t consider it.”

Peter studied Mr. Stephenson, who seemed to be avoiding meeting his gaze directly.

“I see,” he said finally. “And you think taking this deal is in my best interests?”

“I do, yes.” Mr. Stephenson continued to stare at the papers on his desk.

“Thank you for your advice,” Peter said. “You can tell ‘the museum’ that you tried. However, I’m absolutely determined to take my chances in a courtroom.”

Stephenson did look up then. “That’s a mistake, Peter. Believe me, we do not want this case tried in open court.”

That was obvious.

“I appreciate your advice,” Peter said, “but I’ll be seeking new legal representation.”

Mr. Stephenson’s mouth was still open when Peter closed the door to his office.

He drove back to Constantine House and parked in front of the bungalow. Inside, everything looked perfectly normal—barring the broken window in the kitchen and the bullet holes and knocked-over furniture in the bedroom.

Peter quickly packed a couple of changes of clothing and a few other things he would need for the next few days—hoping that Mike would be agreeable to his staying on for that long. He pulled open his underwear drawer, lifted up a stack of undershirts, and spotted what at first looked like an enameled teacup with varicolored stylized flowers, mushrooms, and foliage on a cream and dark blue background.

Finally, he picked up the silver-gilt and cloisonné enamel tea glass holder by its scroll handle. His hand began to shake and he had to set the cup down. He had noticed its absence from the museum collection several months ago. One of the first items that he had noticed missing, in fact. It wasn’t in the same class as the stolen jade or the mural that had been removed from the grotto, but it was a nice piece of work and worth three to four thousand dollars. It was also an easily recognizable piece bearing the stamp of the 20th Artel and town mark for Moscow. No wonder Cole and Herschel had thought better of trying to move it right away.

Peter could just about hear the reverberation of the prison door clanging shut behind him.

Any minute now the cops were going to show up with their search warrants and a list of all the items missing from the museum. How many other articles from Constantine House were salted in here among the items rightly kept at the bungalow?

He needed to act quickly. Alarmingly, the only thing he could think of was calling Mike, and after a brief struggle with himself, that was exactly what he did.

Mike picked up on the second ring and Peter barely waited for him to identify himself before saying, “Are you someplace you can talk?”

“Yeah. Listen. Bad news. We didn’t find the gun at Herschel’s. We’re going through his records now. Maybe something will turn up, but—”

“It’s worse than that. I think my lawyer has been bought off. I’ve been advised to plead guilty in order to receive a lesser sentence. It’s like…they already have me convicted.”

“You’re not going to jail.” Mike sounded so definite, Peter felt a flicker of hope.

“Mike, it gets worse. I stopped at the bungalow to pack a few things, and I-I found a cloisonné glass holder—one of the items I originally reported missing to you.”

There was dead silence on the other end of the line.

“I don’t know what to do. Should I…? What should I do? Someone’s going to show up here with a search warrant.”

“Yeah. The search warrant has already been issued.”

“Oh God. Should I call someone? Report finding it?”

“You’ve called me.”

“I know. But…”

Mike said brusquely, “Look, I’ll handle it.”

“How?”

“I’ll tell you about it when I get home.”

“That’s another thing.” This was the hard part. Peter sucked in a deep breath. “I can’t go back to your place. I… How can I? This…conspiracy is going to drag you down too. You can’t be seen to have a personal connection with me. You know what that could mean. You could ruin your career. You could lose your job.”

There was silence. Mike said crisply, “We’ll talk when I get home.”

“Mike—”

“Listen. I think you’re worth the risk, all right? Now go back to my place and try to keep a low profile.”

It was hard to speak around the tightness in his throat. “You…don’t have to do this.”

“I know. I want to. So stop worrying. I’ll see you tonight.”

Mike disconnected.

Chapter Ten

By the time Mike made it home, Peter was just about climbing the walls. He transferred his attentions happily to Mike.

“Nice to see you too,” Mike said, breaking from the kiss long enough to dump a bag of Chinese takeout on the floor near the door. He turned back to Peter, who slipped his arms around his neck. Mike slid his free hand down the back of Peter’s trousers, his bare hand palming and kneading Peter’s ass, drawing him even closer.

“I’ve got a plan,” Mike said between frantic, hungry kisses.

“Me too.”

Mike maneuvered them toward the sofa. The arm hit Peter beneath his butt, and they fell backward onto the cushions—and then onto the floor.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry,” Mike gasped.

“This is beginning to be a habit…”

“That a problem for you?”

Peter raised his head and met Mike’s glinting gaze. He shook his head.

“Good.” Mike kissed him again.

There was mutual fumbling with buttons and zippers, a lot of flapping and kicking out of unnecessary clothes, and then they were rocking and rubbing against each other with an animal enthusiasm that most people who knew Peter would never have thought him capable of. Maybe he wasn’t capable with anyone but Mike.

Mike nipped Peter’s chin and then kissed him hard and wet, while Peter ground his hips against the stiff erection poking him in just about every vulnerable place of his anatomy but the one that counted.

Thrusting powerfully against Peter, Mike reached down and his fist closed around Peter’s bobbing cock, pumping him with pleasurable efficiency. Peter arched his back and groaned into Mike’s mouth.

The next moment he was coming in hard, creamy jerks. Mike kissed him harder as though in congratulations. He was still doing the bump and grind. Peter shivered in the aftermath, his cock giving a last spurt. Mike’s hand turned gentle and soothing. His wet fingers stroked Peter’s flank, and Peter shuddered again, pleasurably.

Then, a few seconds later, Mike was coming too, and Peter felt more liquid heat splashing him from chest to belly.

They lay on the floor breathing hard. Peter asked finally, “You said you had a plan?”

Mike nodded. “Yours wasn’t bad, though.”

Peter huffed a laugh. Rubbed his nose. “Is that Chinese I smell?”

Mike snickered. He expelled a long breath and sat up. He was on his feet and reaching down to Peter.

“Let’s shower and eat. I’ll tell you what I’ve got in mind.”

They dished out the Chinese food in the kitchen. Spicy-hot garlic beef for Mike, and plain chicken chow mein with crispy noodles for Peter. Either that was a happy coincidence or Mike remembered what he liked, and that flattered Peter probably more than it should have.

Mike put a bottle of Tsingtao beer in front of Peter and sat down across from him. “So how is your memory now?”

Peter gave him a self-conscious smile.

Mike laughed. “I didn’t mean that,” he said. “Although…” His expression softened fleetingly. “Yeah, I’d like you to remember. We had some…times worth remembering.”

And if Peter didn’t wind up in a state prison, maybe they’d have more.

“It’s like I’ve plateaued,” Peter admitted. “At first it seemed like I was going to get it all back, but…now I think a lot of it might be gone for good. I can’t seem to remember anything about last week, and I…” He gave Mike an apologetic glance. “It seems like I’ve blocked out everything about you.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound physical. Those are two completely separate chunks of time. If you’re not remembering, it’s because—”

“I don’t want to.”

Mike said with unexpected sensitivity, “Maybe you can’t yet. Maybe it’s more than you’re ready to deal with.”

Peter nodded, reaching for his beer.

“So you don’t remember anything about the night the mural was stolen?”

Peter shook his head. “Every so often I get a flash…like a series of impressions. I know I probably just walked down there for a breath of fresh air. I used to do that—sit on the stone bench near the koi pond at night and just…watch the stars. I guess I must have heard or seen something that night, and the thieves must have seen me before I could get back up to the house.”

“Who knows that? That your memory of that night is still a blank?”

“My lawyer. Pretty much everyone.”

Mike seemed to consider this. “Okay. Well, here’s what I want you to do. I want you to phone Cole and tell him that you’ve got your memory of that night back. Tell him you’ve remembered it all, everything.”

“You’re kidding. That sounds like an idea I’d come up with.”

“I know,” Mike said. “That’s why I think he’ll believe it.”

“He’ll just ask me what I saw.”

“It doesn’t matter. You tell him that he knows damn well what you saw—and what you heard. Don’t let him bully you into giving up details. Tell him you’re going to the police with everything you know, unless he’ll pay you one million dollars.”

Peter choked on his beer. When he could breathe again, he said, “One million dollars? He’ll laugh in my face.”

“His old lady is worth ten times that.”

Peter knew his gut reaction was not a logical one, but he heard himself protest, “That’s true, but Angie controls the purse strings pretty tightly.”

“I don’t blame her,” Mike said dryly. “But Cole can get the money. I think you’re forgetting how he supplements his income—and who his partner is.”

Yes. He was still resisting believing that. Why? It was obviously true. Why was it so hard—so painful—to accept that his friendship with Cole had been mostly one-sided? That he had spent years loving and serving a dream. Or maybe he had just answered his own question.

“And after I ask him for the money, then what?”

“Tell him to bring you the cash tonight at the grotto. Nine o’clock. Tell him if he’s even five minutes late, you go straight to the cops.”

“Nine o’clock at the grotto? He’s going to know that’s a trap.”

Mike said, “No. He’s going to think it’s exactly the kind of silly storybook plot you’d cook up. He thinks you’re a fool, Peter. And he knows that you’ve been in love with him a long time and that—more than anything—you want to believe he cares about you too.”

Peter couldn’t hold Mike’s gaze any longer.

“All right. I’ll do it.”

He could feel Mike’s scrutiny. “I’m not going to lie to you. We’re taking a risk here. He may just let Herschel handle it, in which case…we’re going to have a few interesting minutes keeping you alive.”

“He won’t do that.” Peter’s tone didn’t even convince him.

“Or, if he’s got balls, he’ll turn you over to the cops. If he does that…it’s going to be bad. They’ll have you for extortion as well as the rest of it.”

“They’ll have you too.”

“I can take care of myself. You…”

“What option do we have?”

“We have other options,” Mike said seriously. “You could take your chances in court, for one. Most of the case against you is circumstantial. The most damning testimony is Herschel’s ID, and with a little time we can throw significant doubt on his credibility as a witness.”

“But in order to do that, you have to reveal your hand, don’t you?”

“Reveal my hand?” Mike was faintly amused. “Why yes, I would. But I’m going to reveal it tonight too. That’s not my main concern. My main concern is that there’s a possibility that you might lose your court case and end up doing time.”

Peter heard his own gulp.

“Yeah. That’s my thought,” Mike said. “You won’t do the kind of time you will if you’re nailed for extortion as well as grand theft, but even if you just wound up in county…no. On the other hand, we could keep digging. We could stall for a few days. You could hide out here while the investigation continues. The proof against Constantine and Herschel is there, we just have to find it.”

“But if you don’t find that proof…and I go to trial and lose…” Peter closed his eyes, then opened them. “Even if I don’t lose, I don’t want to waste all those months to this. It’s a nightmare having this hanging over me. You don’t know. I have no place to live. No job. And what museum will hire me? How am I supposed to survive for…however long before my trial date comes up? I’d rather do this, take this chance and maybe be able to start work on having a normal life tomorrow.”

Mike said seriously, “Are you sure you can do it?”

Peter’s jaw tightened. “What do you mean? You think I’ll panic? I’m not a coward, Mike. And I’m not as stupid as you think, even if I have made some dumb decisions in my personal life.”

Mike shook his head. “I don’t think you’re a coward. And I don’t think you’re stupid. No. We’re talking about you setting up Cole Constantine. Are you sure you can handle that? Because for a very long time, Constantine’s been the most important person in your life.”

Peter said, “Cole stopped being the most important person in my life the day I met you.”

Mike blinked.

“I know.” Peter grimaced. “More than you wanted to hear. But it’s the truth. Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me. You did me a favor when you gave me that ultimatum, even though I didn’t see it at the time. I think I had pretty well worked the truth out for myself by the time I got some sense—literally—knocked into me.” He rose. “Talking makes it harder. Let’s get it over with.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.” Mike was still giving him a sort of quizzical look.

“I’m sure.”

Mike rose and grabbed his keys from the counter. “You can’t call from here. We’ll have to find a phone booth.”

They found a phone booth in the valley, and Peter dialed the Rowland mansion while Mike leaned against the side of the booth, head close to Peter’s as he listened in.

A maid answered the phone, and Peter asked for Cole.

The maid asked who was calling. Peter looked at Mike, who nodded infinitesimally. His breath was warm against Peter’s cheek, and Peter could see how long his eyelashes were.

There seemed to be a delay on the other end and then a couple of clicks. Were the police tapping Cole’s phone? Or was Cole just having the call transferred to someplace where he could talk in private? Cole came on the line, and Peter almost jumped at the suddenness of that familiar voice in his ear.

“Pete, where have you been? The police are looking for you. They’ve found—I’m sorry, you must know that already.” Beneath the regretful warmth, Cole didn’t sound sorry. He sounded edgy, a little impatient. Like Peter was a pain in the ass for not hanging around to get himself arrested. “When the police searched the bungalow this afternoon, they found a number of items missing from the museum.”

“I know.”

“Pete. Listen to me. You’ve got to give yourself up. What the hell are you thinking? You’re not…you’re not cut out for life on the run. I’ll help you however I can, you know that. We’ll get you a good attorney.”

“Like Stephenson?”

There was a little hesitation. Cole said, “Stephenson seems like a good man to me, but if you don’t like him, we’ll find you someone else. You have to realize, though. You’re in a bad spot, Peter. There’s a mountain of evidence against you.”

“Planted evidence.”

Cole said in the tone of someone humoring a nut, “Of course. But the bottom line is…things look very bad for you, and running away like this, well, you must realize you’re just making it all that much worse.”

A part of Peter felt a bitter satisfaction that Cole was so predictable, that he was making this easy. But the other part of him felt sick. Sick that Cole could do this to him, sick that Cole had taken all his admiration and affection—say it, love—and used it against him.

“Did you tell Stephenson to instruct me to take the plea bargain?”

“You’re getting sidetracked,” Mike said very softly.

“I did, Peter.” And Cole sounded regretful and kind. “And he told me how…how wildly you reacted. You don’t seem to realize we’re all trying to act in your best interest. You don’t seem to realize the trouble you’ve got yourself into. But if you want another lawyer, I’ll see what I can do to find someone who’ll work harder to see you don’t have to do any…er…jail time. But you have to give yourself up. You have to face up to this.”

“Stop it, Cole,” Peter said. “We both know I didn’t take so much as a marble from the museum.” He felt Mike relax beside him, saw the nod of approval out of the corner of his eye.

“Peter. They found enough evidence to—”

“I know exactly what they found. And I know who put it there. Listen to me. I’ve regained my memory.”

Another beat that felt like a misstep. “Excellent,” Cole said heartily. “All the more reason to come in and talk to the police. We all want to get this mess straightened out…” His words died off in the face of Peter’s stony silence.

“I don’t think you understand,” Peter said coldly. “I remember everything I saw that night. And I don’t plan on doing one minute of jail time.”

“Well, that’s… I’m not sure what…” Cole seemed to give up midsentence.

Mike mouthed, Offer him the deal.

“Since you’ve pretty well already ruined my name and my career, I’m willing to make a deal with you.”

Silence.

“I’ll give myself up and plead guilty to stealing from the museum in exchange for one million dollars.”

Cole laughed, although it sounded slightly hysterical. “That knock on the head must have scrambled your brains. This is clearly a desperate attempt at blackmail on top of your other crimes. Listen, old friend, I suggest you count yourself lucky the board isn’t demanding you pay restitution. That’s what Sally wanted.”

“One million dollars, old friend, or I tell everything I know.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” Cole asked angrily. “Dragging me into this won’t save you. The police will see this for what it is!”

“That’s why I’m willing to make a deal. According to Stephenson, I’m going to prison either way. This way at least my future will be secure when I get out. Either pay up or I tell everything I know—and I know quite a bit. I covered for you for a long time, Cole.”

“Y-y-you covered for me!” Cole was stuttering his astonished outrage.

Mike whispered, “Don’t debate it. Wrap it up.”

“I’ll meet you at the grotto tonight.”

“I can’t get a million dollars by tonight! Are you crazy?”

“I’ll take a down payment, and we’ll arrange how you’re going to pay the balance.”

“You’re out of your mind. This is ri—”

“Ask Herschel for the money. I’m sure he can lay his hands on some quick cash.”

Mike was nodding approval. Dead silence from Cole.

“Tonight. Nine o’clock at the grotto.” Peter hung up the phone hard.

“Okay?” Mike asked brusquely.

Peter shook his head. His eyes met Mike’s and then he looked away. “Yeah. It’s just… I guess I hoped…”

Mike snorted.

“He sounds like he’s going to turn me over to the police. If he does, I’m sunk. We both are.”

“They won’t turn you over to the cops.” Mike sounded very confident.

“I would.”

“That’s because you’re looking at this from the standpoint of an innocent person.” Mike touched his arm, indicating they should head back to the car. “Anyway, if he does report your extortion attempt, I’ll get a call and we’ll abort.”

They did not get a call, however, and at seven o’clock, Peter and Mike drove behind the back of Constantine House, hid the car, and climbed over the back fence into the museum grounds.

While Peter waited in the grotto, Mike did a quick reconnoiter of the garden.

“All clear,” he said when he’d returned to where Peter was nervously pacing up and down.

Peter watched while Mike set up the tape recorder he’d brought from work.

Mike showed him where to stand. “Say something.”

“I hope this isn’t a mistake,” Peter said.

Mike pressed Stop and then Play. Peter’s voice said faintly, “I hope this isn’t a mistake.”

“You’ll have to speak a little more loudly,” Mike told him. “Constantine’s voice will carry, but yours is softer. So speak up.”

Peter nodded.

“How often does the security guard make his rounds?”

“Donnelly is supposed to patrol the grounds every hour, but”—Peter shrugged, his eyes meeting Mike’s—“I wonder now if there was a reason the museum security was so lax. I always put the board’s resistance down to cheapness, but now I think Cole must have actively discouraged investing in decent security to make it easier for him to pilfer.”

“I think you’re right.”

At eight o’clock, they heard the whine of the security cart at the top of the hill and a few seconds later Donnelly zoomed by without even glancing down at the grotto.

Peter and Mike spent the next half hour talking desultorily, and then Mike told Peter they’d better get into position in case Cole was early.

Peter nodded and Mike faded into the deep shade beside the grotto.

“Mike!” Peter said sharply.

Mike appeared again. “What’s wrong?”

“I just wanted to say…either way this goes down, thank you.”

“Thank me when it’s over,” Mike said briskly and stepped back into his concealment.

Peter was left on his own in the grotto as the night deepened and cooled. Moonlight sifted through the jacaranda, casting odd shadows over the grass and still water of the koi pond.

Chjjjj…chjjjj…chewk, scolded the mockingbird from overhead.

And just like that…like a key turning a lock, tumblers clicking over…Peter’s memory came flooding back.

He had been thinking about Mike. Thinking how good it would have been to come home and find Mike waiting for him. Thinking of those hot, wicked things Mike used to do to him—and would never do again because Mike didn’t do second chances, and Peter had blown it. But he’d had a couple of drinks that night, and as he walked down to the grotto, he was thinking that maybe he’d try to call Mike. Maybe use the excuse of the continuing thefts at the museum, because something had to happen there. It had to stop. Had to. And…because he wanted to see Mike so badly it was worth taking the chance that Mike would tell him to go to hell. He would take the chance because maybe Mike would say—like he’d used to—“Why don’t you come over?” It had been a beautiful night, the air sweet with flowers from the garden above and the music of the crickets and the frogs, and he’d heard voices from the grotto—

Cole appeared in the mouth of the grotto, and Peter’s reflections broke off.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Cole said. “This was your idea, remember?” He tossed Peter a bundle of money wrapped in plastic.

Peter caught the bundle. It took him a second to reconcile the past with the present. So Cole had come on his own. He had not gone to the police, and he had not sent Herschel in his place. Maybe it was going to be all right after all.

Peter found his voice. “How much is it?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.” Cole added coolly, “You’ll get the rest after you turn yourself in and plead guilty.”

“That’s…not what we agreed.”

“That’s the deal, though. Once you keep your end of the bargain, we’ll deposit the balance of money in an offshore account for you.”

Absorbing this, Peter almost laughed. Not a bad move on their part at all. Once Peter had been arrested and pled guilty, no one would listen to his protests when the rest of the money didn’t suddenly appear in a mysterious offshore bank account. He’d have effectively discredited himself by that point.

Cole was watching him closely, waiting to see if he swallowed it.

Peter said, feigning reluctance, “I guess I don’t have any choice.”

“No, you don’t.”

“All right then. We’ll do it your way.”

“Yes, we will. Which means Stephenson is handling your case again—and this time you take the plea bargain like a good boy.”

“I’m not going to jail.”

Cole snorted. “For one million dollars? I think you’ll do whatever you have to, don’t you?”

Peter said bitterly, “And you’re okay with that? With me going to prison? All these years I thought we were friends. The best of friends.”

“We are friends,” Cole said curtly. “Don wanted to kill you. I’m the one who insisted we should just pay you off. I saved your life, so don’t forget that.”

“‘Just pay me off.’ You do remember that I’m the victim in all this, right? I’m being paid off to take the rap for you. You and Herschel.”

Cole’s gaze flickered. “I remember.”

“And before you take credit for saving my life, did you give him the key to my bungalow so he could try to kill me last night?”

That seemed to spark something in Cole. He snapped, “He wasn’t supposed to try to kill you. How can you think I’d agree to that! He was supposed to plant a few items from the museum to guarantee the police would have enough to strengthen their case. That bastard Griffin apparently had some doubts even after Don identified you in the lineup.”

“Herschel tried to shoot me while I was sleeping.”

“I know. I know.” Cole even looked a little queasy. “But that was not the plan. Don’s impulsive, but I never agreed to that. Never. No one wants you dead, Pete, least of all me. If you’re smart, you’ll simply do the jail time and collect your money. Think what you can do with fifty thousand dollars.”

“Let alone a million.”

“Uh…yes.”

Peter smiled, though it wasn’t much of a smile. All at once he was very tired of this game they were playing—and of Cole. He raised his voice slightly, saying, “That’s got to be enough, surely, Mike?”

Cole whipped around as Mike stepped out of the shadows beside the grotto.

“That’ll do it,” Mike agreed. To Cole, he clarified, “For both you and Herschel.”

Cole seemed to actually sway, as though shock had knocked him back on his heels. He stared at Mike in disbelief. He turned to Peter. “It’s a setup?”

When Peter didn’t answer, he repeated in a stunned tone, “You set me up?”

Mike said dryly, “Seems only fair, doesn’t it?”

Cole ignored him, speaking directly to Peter. “How could you do this to me, Peter?”

“I guess it was easier knowing that you could do it to me.”

There was a rustle of bushes behind Mike.

“Don’t move,” a harsh voice said as Mike half glanced around. Mike froze.

It took Peter’s eyes a few seconds to adjust to the flickering light, and then he made out the burly figure of Donald Herschel standing half in shadow. Light gleamed off the barrel of the gun he was aiming at Mike’s back.

For what felt like a very long time, no one moved. No one spoke. One of the koi in the pool drifted lazily to the surface, gulping for air.

It occurred to Peter, on some very distant plane, that the pond must need tending—and that he and Mike were probably going to die in the next few seconds. His gaze found Mike’s.

Herschel said in that same hard tone, “You dumb bastard. Didn’t I tell you? I told you it was going to turn out to be some kind of trap.”

Cole blustered some protest. Peter was still staring at Mike. He was hoping that Herschel would shoot him before Mike, because he really couldn’t take losing Mike again, not even for the few seconds before he died himself.

Mike looked right back at him. He looked utterly calm, utterly cool. “It’s under control,” he said to Peter—and he actually smiled.

And to Peter’s utter astonishment, the grove was suddenly ablaze with lights. Cops were seemingly springing out from behind every bush and rock, and Herschel was being ordered to throw down his weapon.

For a tense moment, Peter was sure Herschel would open fire like someone in a bad TV movie, but instead he tossed his gun into the koi pond. It landed with a heavy plop as uniformed officers moved forward.

“I told you,” Herschel said to Cole. “You never listen.”

* * * * *

It was Mike who walked Peter up to the bungalow as Herschel and Cole were handcuffed, and listened stonily to their rights being read to them. As they reached the top of the stairs, Peter could see red and blue lights cutting swaths in the warm night air. There was a veritable fleet of cop cars waiting up there.

Mike had not chosen to share that information with Peter—the fact that they were going to have backup for their little charade—but it was hard to feel resentful about having his life saved. Maybe later. Maybe after he’d had time to accept the fact that he was going to be okay after all.

“I’ve got to go down to the station to interrogate these assholes. It’s probably going to take most of the night,” Mike was saying. He broke off.

Peter looked his way and found Mike watching him alertly.

“I’m listening.”

It wasn’t easy to tell in the eerie flashing light of the police cars, but he thought Mike’s expression changed. “You okay?”

Peter nodded. He had no idea if it was true or not. Too soon to tell.

Mike nodded too, as though this confirmed his own thoughts. He didn’t say anything else until they reached the bungalow. Peter fumbled for his keys, got the door open, and felt around for a light.

The living room looked weirdly untouched. He had that sensation again of being in a museum. He had lived here for how many years? And he had never felt as at home here as he had in Mike’s apartment. Suddenly, he wondered what they were even doing there.

Mike cleared his throat. “Hey.”

Peter looked at him.

“You…you did great tonight.”

“Thanks. So did you.”

Maybe the wryness showed, because Mike said, “Peter, I didn’t tell you about the backup because you’re not very good at hiding your feelings.”

“And yet you thought I was capable of faking amnesia and stealing from my own museum.”

Mike grimaced.

“It doesn’t matter,” Peter said. “You’re right. I probably would have given the whole thing away.” He gave a short laugh. “I thought Herschel was going to kill you.”

Mike’s gaze slid back to his. “Sorry. I mean that.”

“It’s okay.”

“You…er…got the rest of your memory back, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Peter was surprised. “How did you know?”

Mike raised a dismissive shoulder, and it occurred to Peter that he was nervous. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did. Something else: Mike was hovering. He wasn’t much of a hoverer, but it was clear he didn’t want to walk away, and Peter felt his hope rise.

“Not sure. Something in your voice changed. Your stance too.”

“I remembered, yes.” Not that it really helped. Other than to clarify exactly how much he had to be depressed about, because six months ago Mike had been very definite that it was over between them. And Mike was not a man given to easily changing his mind—despite the fact that he was still standing in Peter’s living room looking like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

“So what are your plans now?”

“Well, I’m still out of a job and a place to live, but at least I’m not going to jail.”

Mike took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If you need a place to stay—I mean, until you figure out what you want to do—you can stay with me.”

In the pause that followed Mike’s words, Peter could hear the distant crackle of police car radios.

“Mike, I’m sorry about before. When you told me to make up my mind and decide if I wanted a real relationship with you or a pretend relationship with Cole, and I chose… It was a big mistake.”

“So you said before.” Mike sighed. “Hell. I guess I could have been a little more tactful. A little more patient.”

“I could have been a little smarter.”

“That’s for sure.” Mike relented slightly. “But maybe I could have been a little more honest too, because what we had was worth some extra effort.”

Peter gathered his courage. “Was?”

Mike stared at him for what seemed a long time. “Is,” he said finally.

One word. And such a little word to contain so much hope. Peter said carefully, because if he had this wrong the disappointment was probably going to kill him, “I thought that door wasn’t open anymore.”

“So did I.” Mike shrugged. Then, as he studied Peter’s face, his wolfish grin appeared. He reached for Peter. “But I’ve been wrong before.”

Lovers and Other Strangers

Chapter One

If he had been painting the scene before him, he would have used only four colors: Permanent Rose alkyd for the pink streaks in the fading sunset and the reflections in the water; Dioxazine Purple alkyd for the shadows lengthening on the creamy sand, the crevices of the rocks, the glint and gleam of water, the edges of the pier; Cadmium Yellow alkyd to blaze from windows, for the dimples in the sand, to limn the rocks, to gild the tips of scrubby, windblown grass, more reflections in the water; Indigo oil for the tumbling waves, for the indistinct forms of the buildings beyond, for the swift coming night.

For the first time in weeks, Finn felt the desire to take a palette knife and mix color, to pick up a brush and try to capture what he saw. For the first time in weeks, he felt a flicker of something close to interest, to emotion.

Maybe it was the salt air, maybe it was the cold—the briny wind whipping off the ocean stung his face—maybe it was the smell of wood smoke with all the warm memories it conjured. Or the cries of the gulls, the slap of the waves, the mingled fragrance of pipe smoke and car exhaust as he waited in the old station wagon for Hiram to carry his bags from the dock. Maybe it was all these things.

But it was the color he felt most intensely. Luminous color seeping into his consciousness, the hues and values, the shadows and lights, the dull tones, the vibrant—he was waking up. It was not a comfortable process, and Finn huddled deeper into his leather jacket.

Hiram strode to the car and threw Finn’s bags in the back. Coming around to the front, he climbed in behind the wheel. Starting the engine, he glanced briefly at Finn as he backed the car, narrowly missing a leaning tower of stacked lobster traps.

“Guess it looks pretty different after all this time?”

Seal Island didn’t look different at all in the purple dusk, but Finn said, “Three years is a long time.”

“Ay-yup,” Hiram said. “Your uncle Thomas is going to be happy as a clam at high tide to see you.”

Finn’s smile twisted. Everyone was being very kind. Especially considering what a pain in the ass he was to show up with almost no warning.

The station wagon crunched its way slowly over sand and shale, past the shadowy buildings and boats, the faded, peeling signs.

“’Course Thomas is in France right now. Some art show or another.”

Finn murmured something. He didn’t need to say anything. Hiram was happy to fill in all the blanks. There were a lot of blanks after so long.

“Martha’s arthritis is giving her heck. Well, we’re all gettin’ older. Mr. Peabody’s gone now. Pneumonia. Last month. Miz Landy took over the general store.”

The car reached the surfaced road that ran around the island—smoother in some places than others. By now the amethyst dusk was falling back before the onslaught of night. Finn felt tension growing inside, his stomach knotting up with his fists. It was irrational. Irritating. Fear of the dark? At his age? It was cold, though—bitingly. After a short battle with himself, he reached for the rough plaid car blanket that smelled of a million journeys and spread it over his left leg, which had started aching.

“Not used to the cold anymore,” he muttered, but Hiram took no notice, still palavering about people and things Finn had stopped caring about—tried to stop caring about—a long time ago. Ay-yup, what a pleasant surprise—shock, translated Finn—it had been to hear from Finn. Martha had been in a twitter ever since she got his message. And what a surprise Thomas had waiting for him when he got home. What a surprise it was going to be for everyone.

Finn almost asked then. But it was too much effort, and he wasn’t sure even now he could take the answer, so he smiled politely and stared out the window as though he had newly arrived from another planet, which was pretty much how it felt.

Stands of pine trees rose stark and sharp against the dusk as the car climbed slowly, winding up through the rolling hills. The pines looked black against the lowering sky, but that was an illusion. He’d start with a sketch, using a No. 0 watercolor brush. For the sky and water, he’d use a blend of Cadmium Yellow Medium, Cadmium Red Light, and Titanium White. For the upper sky, he’d choose French Ultramarine, Dioxazine Purple and more Titanium White…

White. He had a sudden flashback of blazing white walls and the sun bouncing off pale sand—too much light, and a brightness that hurt the eyes. The white beneath a silent gull’s wingspan, the white of the craggy clouds, the white of the tiny wildflowers growing beside the white speckled stone walls.

The lighthouse was on the other side of the island. No need to see it at all if he didn’t choose to—and why the hell would he ever want to see it again?

Hiram was saying, “Miz Estelle won first prize at Union Fair for her wild blueberry sour cream cake.”

Finn felt an unexpected twinge of hunger. “I still remember those cinnamon-sugar biscuits she used to make.”

The old man nodded in heartfelt agreement.

The car turned off the main road and ground its way up the steep last stretch. The house was called The Birches. One of those charming turn-of-the-century, ten-bedroom “cottages,” it stood in a grove of white birches overlooking Otter Cove. Green lawns swept down to the rocks at the water’s edge, ancient, gently tilting pines framed sunsets so beautiful they made the heart ache. In the failing light, the house looked eerily untouched by time.

Hiram pulled up in front of the long porch. Lights shone welcomingly from several downstairs windows.

“Ain’t no place like home,” he said, and Finn made a sound in his throat that was supposed to be humor but wasn’t.

Hiram got out of the car. The front door of the house flew open, and Martha came bustling down the shell-strewn path as Finn climbed carefully out of the station wagon. Tears glittered on Martha’s wrinkled cheeks, and she hugged him tight, pulling him to her ample bosom like he was a child again.

“Look at you, you young rascal!”

Finn didn’t have to do much more than smile and permit himself to be hugged again; Martha was doing all the talking—although afterward he had no idea of anything she’d said. He was literally overwhelmed with memories and unwelcome emotion.

Hiram went to get the bags, and Finn was being urged inside the house to warmth and comfort—the prodigal returned. By then he was exhausted. He should have brought the cane; he was hobbling badly, not used to walking any distance yet, and the plane flight and boat ride not helping any. Maybe he was more crocked up than he wanted to admit—he was certainly in more pain.

The house smelled familiar. It smelled of baking and wood fire—and the invariable ghostly hint of oil paint, although it had been decades since anyone in the house painted with oils. It smelled like his childhood: safe and warm and loved. He stared curiously as he was hustled past a familiar painted chest, wing chairs upholstered in pale gray roses, white bookcases, well-remembered paintings. It felt odd to see these things again—like he was visiting a museum.

Ushered into the kitchen, he was ensconced in the old rocker and ordered to stay put near the enormous gas stove where Martha had cooked breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the Barrets for the past thirty years. That suited him fine. Gave him a chance to catch his breath and get control of himself.

Martha and Hiram conferred outside briefly—he could imagine how that went—and then Martha was inside the kitchen and chattering a mile a minute, banging pots and pans around to relieve her feelings.

Finn eyed her curiously from the perspective of his years away. She was in her late sixties now, a small, very plump woman with silky white hair—it had been white since her early thirties—and soft dark eyes. Something about her had always reminded him of a dove, though doves were fairly stupid birds and Martha was a far-from-stupid woman.

“Now that you’ve been living in New York, I suppose you won’t be happy with fiddleheads and potatoes anymore? It’ll be fancy curries and nouveau cuisine you’re used to, I reckon.”

Finn laughed—he lived on peanut butter sandwiches half the time—and said, “I haven’t had a decent bowl of chowdah since I left here.”

She stopped chattering then, coming to him, putting her hands on either side of his head. She turned his face to the light, examining him closely. The only damage that showed was the one scar—still healing—on his temple. What didn’t show was the horrific long gash from his hip to the middle of his calf. Torn muscles, damaged nerves, but oddly no broken bones. He had been left with one hell of an ugly seam down his leg, but he knew how lucky he had been. And aside from the scars, he was going to be as good as new eventually. That was why he had to stop dwelling on the might-have-beens. The close call didn’t matter, because he was going to be all right—as soon as the headaches stopped.

Martha was staring into his eyes as though trying to read his mind. He blinked up at her, and her eyes filled with tears again. She kissed him—something he couldn’t remember her doing since he had been very small. She was clearly horrified at herself. Not as horrified as he was, though—not that she had kissed him, but that he had been so moved, his throat closed and he had to look away.

It was only for an instant. Nothing more than the aftermath of the accident—and probably his meds. It did something to you, nearly dying. And dying sometimes felt like the least of it.

“Your uncle Thomas will be here tonight,” she said.

That snapped him out of his self-consciousness. “Uncle Tom? I thought…”

“Why, I phoned him the minute I heard from you,” Martha said a little defiantly—because Finn had expressly told her not to bother Thomas. “Of course he’d want to know! Of course he’s coming home. And while I’m thinking of it, that friend of yours phoned up. Mr. Ryder. He’s coming day after tomorrow.”

The funny thing about the spell the island cast, the silken weave of childhood memories, was that he’d already forgotten he’d asked Paul to come along and lend moral support. Now he wondered why. Paul was going to be a fish out of water here, and Finn was going to have to expend energy he didn’t have in trying to keep him amused. Paul took a lot of amusing.

He brooded over this while Martha rattled cheerfully on, finally surfacing to hear her say, “…Barnaby Purdon retired from school teaching.”

“Do he and Uncle Tom still get together to play checkers once a week?”

“Every Wednesday when your uncle is here. What else? Oh, Miss Minton took first place at Union Fair for her wild blueberry sour cream cake.”

“I heard that. Is she still taking painting lessons from Uncle Tom?”

“No. No, she gave up on that idea. Your uncle Tom doesn’t teach anymore, you know. Too busy judging art shows and writing his books.”

She brought him a mug of coffee. Finn took the yellow cup, sipping cautiously. It was boiling hot, but creamy and sweet—the way he had liked it when he was a kid. Creamy and sweet—and spiked with something.

“What’s in this?” he asked. “I’m on pain pills, you know.” In fact, he urgently needed medicating. His back was beginning to ache—his leg never quite stopped—and his head was starting up again despite the muted light and warmth.

“A little something to warm your bones,” Martha told him. “It won’t do you any harm. Might put a little color in your face.”

Finn raised his brows but kept drinking. It was good. Martha’s version of an Irish coffee perhaps. All at once he was so tired he thought he might fall asleep at the fireside wrapped like an ancient granny in these cedar-scented blankets. Martha chattered comfortably on about this and that person, the changes he would soon see in the island—and of course, in Martha’s view, none of the changes were for the better.

He smiled to himself and sipped his coffee.

His smiled faded as she said, “Mr. Carlyle has a new book coming out.”

She was not looking at him, which was just as well, since he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“He’s not here now. He was in England for six months doing research for the one he’s writing now. It’s supposed to be a murder mystery about the princes in the Tower. And then he went on a book tour for the last one. It’s hard to keep ’em all straight. I don’t expect we’ll see him back till next month sometime.”

That was a relief. More than he wanted to concede. “I’ll be long gone by then.” His voice came out flat.

Martha still didn’t look at him. “Well…that’s all right so long as you don’t take three years to visit again.”

She spoke cheerfully, but he could hear the strain and knew that he had to make the effort. For his own sake, if nothing else. Had to prove that he could say it and not…well, what? That he had moved past it. That it was over and done with, chapter closed. Not forgiven, not forgotten…but old history. Con should appreciate that.

So he said, “How’s Fitch?”

And after a funny little pause, Martha said, as though the name were unfamiliar to her, “Fitch?”

“Is he…?” He tried to make his voice light, but he was never good at that kind of thing. Fitch was the old pro at games and deceiving. “Are he and Con… Did they… Are they still together?”

“Fitch and…Mr. Carlyle?” She said it almost wonderingly.

Finn remembered belatedly that this was a small island, a backwoods sort of place really, and that while a romantic relationship between two men might be silently tolerated and civilly ignored, it was never going to be openly acknowledged and condoned. But his nerves were on edge, he was tired and much more raw than he had realized; he simply blurted out, “Or did he split?”

Martha said, “Didn’t Fitch come to you in New York?”

“Come to me?” That made him blink. What a funny idea—but maybe not so funny, because Fitch wouldn’t see what he had done wrong, would he? He would expect to be forgiven as he always was by his—his words—better half.

“Didn’t Fitch follow you to New York?” asked Martha again, and she was staring at him hard now, as though only realizing that something was very wrong. But Fitch had always been her favorite. Fitch was everyone’s favorite for all he shocked and appalled people with his outrageous—but God, yes, funny—antics. The things he did and said. It was impossible not to love Fitch.

Even when you hated him.

Finn said, “He didn’t follow me to New York.”

Had that been Fitch’s intention? Had better sense prevailed? It must have hurt Fitch too; he must have felt the same persistent ache that was almost physical pain, the pain of being cut off from your other half. A phantom pain, like losing a limb. It had never happened to them before: a break so deep, so wide, there was no bridging it. Oh, they had fought, fallen out—what brothers didn’t quarrel? Finn had always forgiven Fitch, because…he loved him. And he couldn’t do without him. Until he could.

Until Con.

Because there was no forgiving that. Con had been different.

Not that Con wasn’t every bit as much to blame.

But then Finn hadn’t forgiven Con either. Never would.

Anyway, it was a long time ago. He was never going to see Con again. So what did it matter? As for seeing Fitch…he had always accepted that Fitch knew how seriously he had transgressed, because he hadn’t followed his twin to New York.

And that was just as well, because as lonely as he had been, there was no forgiveness in Finn.

Not then. Maybe not ever. Something had died in Finn that summer. That last day of summer.

But now he sat in the kitchen of the house he had grown up in, the home he had shared for twenty-three years with his twin. Slowly, he worked it out, tried to absorb what it meant. He said, “Fitch isn’t here?”

And Martha shook her head slowly, her bright, birdlike eyes wide.

Reading her expression, Finn smiled reassurance, because it seemed ridiculous—like they were talking at cross purposes and they would soon realize what the other actually meant. In a moment they would laugh as the misunderstanding was straightened out. “You mean no one’s seen him since…?”

“No.”

“No?” He took it in slowly, absorbing it much like the heat soaking into his chilled body or the alcohol wending its way through his bloodstream—a gradual realization that he was warm and tipsy and…alone in the world.

He said carefully, “No one has seen or spoken to Fitch in three years?”

“No.” And Martha looked…frightened. It was her fear that woke Finn to the belated realization that his twin brother was missing.

* * * * *

“Come here, Huckleberry,” Con murmured. His pale hair was wet and dripping from their swim, his bare brown skin shining in the sun. His dark eyes laughed into Finn’s, and his mouth—covering Finn’s—was sweet with the taste of the berries. His skin smelled like the sun and clean sweat and deep water.

From overhead came a burst of laughter—

A hand on Finn’s shoulder woke him. He jerked, opened his eyes, and his uncle Thomas was gazing down him. Uncle Tom was smiling, but his eyes were grave.

“Welcome home, Finn.”

“Hi,” Finn said. It was probably a little anticlimactic after three years, but he was fogged from sleep, disoriented to suddenly find himself in the kitchen at The Birches. He straightened, wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I must have fallen asleep.”

Martha chuckled, although her voice had that strained note again. “Sleep is exactly what you need!”

“Sounds good to me,” Uncle Thomas said wearily. He was tall and very thin with the bony features and red-brown hair that distinguished the Barrets from the rest of the small population of Seal Island. Now in his sixties, he was going silver at the temples, which perfectly suited his image as an esteemed art critic.

“I didn’t intend for you to be dragged home from Paris,” Finn apologized.

His uncle was looking at him as though he were speaking a foreign language. Translation having failed, Uncle Thomas said, “Martha told me about your accident. Said you insisted you didn’t want anyone there at the hospital. You’re all right?”

“A few bumps and bruises.”

“Well, you’re staying here till you’re back on your feet.”

Finn chuckled. “I’m on my feet now.” Or he would be if he could unfold from this rocker without landing on his face.

“You know what I mean.” Uncle Thomas said it firmly; that was the polite fiction they had all played. That Uncle Thomas was actually in charge. He had been, at best, an absentminded guardian, but he was fond of them in his own way, and Finn and Fitch had certainly never lacked for anything growing up. Well, possibly attention. But then they had always had each other, so nothing else really mattered.

“Yes,” Finn said. “Thank you.”

“This is your home,” Martha said sharply. Both men looked at her, having forgotten for a second that she was in the room, and she blushed. But she said stubbornly, “It’s not right, you and Fitch gone all these years and never coming back for so much as a visit.”

“Now, Martha,” Uncle Thomas said in his easy way. “He’s here now.” To Finn he said, “It’s too late for talk tonight. We’ll catch up in the morning. Did you need some help getting to bed?”

“I’m okay. Is it really that late?” Finn looked automatically for the old wall clock, shaped like a ship’s wheel, but it was gone, replaced by an efficient and modern titanium square.

“Nearly midnight,” Uncle Thomas said. “I meant to be here much earlier, but my flight was delayed.”

Nearly midnight? Could that be right? Could he really have been sleeping for over six hours? “Hell. You really shouldn’t have dropped everything to come home for this.” Finn was growing more awkward by the minute. “I didn’t mean to disrupt everyone’s life. I just…”

Just needed time to rest and recover. Time to come to terms with how close he had been to dying. To losing everything. Time to regain his strength and natural optimism; he was still astonishingly, aggravatingly weak. In fact, as he forced himself up out of the comfortable rocker, he was made painfully aware of how feeble he still was.

“Nonsense,” Uncle Thomas and Martha both said—and then looked at each other.

Martha said, “But you’ve neither of you had any supper.”

“I ate on the flight,” Uncle Thomas said, which happily distracted her while Finn stood swaying, biting his lip against the myriad aches and pangs and throbs.

Uncle Thomas said with unexpected determination, “I think I’ll give you a hand upstairs anyway.”

Finn nodded. No point pretending he didn’t need it. Uncle Thomas wrapped a strong arm around his waist, and Finn hung on to him as Martha bade them good night.

“I’m stiff from sitting so long.” Finn explained as they passed slowly through the hall with its lilac sprig wallpaper. “I really am fine now.”

“Of course you are. You’ll be working again in no time.”

Ah. Of course. In this house, the work was paramount. Well, it was to Finn too.

They crossed the dining room with the long formal table and harp-backed chairs where they had all eaten dinner when his grandfather was alive, across the back hallway, and then up the narrow staircase with the gleaming banisters Finn recalled sliding down as a child. Or was it Fitch who had slid down the banisters and Finn who watched? Sometimes it was hard to separate Fitch’s adventures from his own memories.

Uncle Thomas’s voice jarred him out of his preoccupation. “Martha said your friend was killed in the accident.”

Finn nodded tightly.

“Was he…was your friend…?”

Uncle Thomas floundered awkwardly, and Finn said, “He was a friend, that’s all. A good friend. He yanked the wheel at the last minute so that his side of the car took the worst of it.”

The stairs seemed to take forever. Finn could have cried in gratitude by the time they reached the upper landing—then the final leg to his old room, the room that had been his since his teens. Fitch’s room was on the other side of the adjoining black-and-white checked bath.

There was no sign of Finn’s bags, but his pajama bottoms and robe were lain across the foot of the dark wood sleigh bed. He bit back a tired smile. Martha would have unpacked while he slept downstairs. There was no privacy in this house. Lucky thing Finn had no secrets. Not anymore.

Uncle Thomas helped him undress. It was embarrassing, but Finn really was exhausted beyond action now. With his uncle’s help, he pulled on knit sleep pants—and though the older man said nothing, Finn saw his face tighten up at the terrifying scar down the left side of Finn’s body. One inch more, and Finn would have died with Tristan.

“You won’t be warm enough like that,” Uncle Thomas said. “You’ve forgotten how cold the winters are here. I’ll get you one of my pajama tops.”

He was gone down the hallway, and Finn sat looking around the room. Once again he had that weird sensation of looking at an exhibit in a museum. Books and model ships… He stared at the framed photographs on the bookshelves: pictures of himself and Fitch sailing and climbing and fishing and swimming. A skinny eleven-year-old Fitch’s arm looped around his neck in a friendly choke hold, himself giving the eighteen-year-old Fitch an impromptu piggyback. People said they couldn’t be told apart, but Finn never had to wonder who was who in the pictures—not even in the earliest photographs of them.

Uncle Thomas returned with a striped flannel pajama shirt, and Finn shrugged into it, did up the buttons.

“Is it true Fitch left the island when I did?” he asked, eyes on the buttonholes.

“Yes.”

“And no one’s heard of him since?”

“I don’t think that’s so surprising,” Uncle Thomas said grimly. Finn wasn’t exactly sure what he meant. Surely no one knew the full story of what had happened that day? But he was too tired to question.

He crawled into bed, rediscovering the pleasure of clean flannel sheets that smelled faintly of the crisp ocean breeze. Stretching out gingerly, his spine seemed to unkink like a Slinky. He was astonished when his uncle shook the folds out of the quilt at the foot of the bed and spread it over him.

“Good night,” he said politely, wondering if he was about to be tucked in and kissed.

He was spared that much. The bedside lamp went out, and his uncle said quietly, “Good night, Finn. I’m glad you’ve come home.” He went out. The door closed silently behind him, shutting Finn into the darkness.

His heart began to pound, turning over sickly in his chest. Finn waited, sweat breaking out along his hairline as he listened. Through the dormer windows, he could see the mutable darkness that was the sea; stars glittered on the waves, pinpoints of light.

No need for panic. There was plenty of light. Moonlight, starlight, reflected light…

His uncle’s footsteps died away down the hallway. Finn sat up and turned on the lamp.

He relaxed, let out a long breath. In the mellow glow, the books and toys of his childhood looked very old, very fragile.

He stared at the photos of his cheekily grinning twin and whispered, “Where are you, Fitch?”

Chapter Two

They had grown up on the island; the Barret Boys, people called them. Their grandfather was Holloway Barret, the famous artist. His lush illustrations, reminiscent of an earlier period, livened up all kinds of dry history tomes and sappy children’s stories. Their mother was Pamela Barret, whose elegant watercolors hung in galleries and private collections all around the world. But here on Seal Island off the coast of Maine, they were simply the Barrets, and Finn and Fitch were the Barret Boys. Sometimes Those Damned Barret Boys. But they were good kids mostly, and it was a tightly knit community, and they had grown up safe and sheltered.

For a time it looked as though the Barret drive for success had skipped a generation. Fitch had been expelled from college after one too many pranks, and Finn had flunked out. In Finn’s case, it was homesickness as much as anything else. That, and desperation to paint—really paint—not spend his life talking about painting or studying how others did it. At twenty, he had returned to the island in disgrace, for the first time experiencing what it felt like to disappoint the people you love. A feeling Fitch was well acquainted with and had learned, mostly, to laugh off.

He had certainly laughed off Finn’s guilt. Finn had done exactly what he wanted, why feel guilty? And if he felt truly bad about it, he could always go to Grandy, who would pull a few strings and get Finn admitted to another brand-name college where he could excel at listening politely to people who had never painted a real dab in their lives tell the people with talent what to do. Well, Finn didn’t feel that bad about it, and Fitch had laughed at him again.

Grandy had been less amused. Finishing university was about discipline and learning your craft and respect—it was nothing to do with talent. It was already obvious Finn was the keeper of the flame for his generation of Barrets. Even when he had been quite young, messing around in his mother’s studio, he had heard the adults quietly appraising him and agreeing; Finn had “the gift.” No, Finn had failed by leaving school, and Fitch was equally to blame for encouraging him.

The fact that Grandy had never gone to college was irrelevant.

And how the hell dare Fitch disparage art critics and art teachers when his uncle Thomas was one of the same, and a damned fine one!

Never mind that Fitch had been practically quoting Grandy verbatim.

That had led to one of Fitch and Grandy’s famous blowups, which ended with Fitch leaving the island yet again. He was gone for nine months that time—only returning when their mother lay dying.

Finn, quietly accepting that he was in disgrace, returned to his painting and blissfully lost himself in the work. He politely ignored everyone’s disappointment and disapproval—it only lasted a week or two had he even been aware of it. He was pretty much unaware of everyone and everything but the work. That was the summer he had finally given himself over to painting.

He had missed Fitch, of course, but he had missed Fitch in college too, and Fitch did periodically disappear when he and Grandy butted heads. No one antagonized Grandy like Fitch, and yet the old man adored him—when he wasn’t calling for his head on a palette. But then everyone adored Fitch. Finn did. Their mother had postponed her painful dying that long summer in order to spend as much time as possible with her eldest.

But that first spring—the spring after Finn had bailed out of college—was the happiest of his life. He felt that he had at last come into his own; he was consumed with painting, with “making up for lost time,” which (had he known it) amused the adults around him no end. He ate, drank, and slept painting. It was all he thought about, all he wanted.

For years it was all he wanted. And then Conlan Carlyle came home.

Conlan Carlyle, the writer—the writer of dry and dusty histories that, as Fitch had once said, could have used Grandy’s illustrations to perk them up. Con Carlyle was by way of being a neighbor although his folks were “summer folk,” wealthy New Yorkers who summered in their elegant and enormous “cottage” on the island. Con hadn’t any time for the Barret Boys, being so much older and busy with his own friends—female and otherwise…

So many remembrances; it could have been memory lane down which Finn was making his painstaking way rather than the path that led from The Birches to Gull Point. It was the morning after his arrival on Seal Island. He had borrowed his grandfather’s old walking stick, a maple cane with a nickel-silver wolf-head handle, and he was suffering the fresh air and sunshine so beloved by physicians everywhere. The fact that it was fucking freezing skipped everyone’s notice. There were thin layers of ice over the puddles in the path as he hobbled slowly past the black fir spinneys and meadows turning gold and red in the late autumn.

Automatically, his eye began isolating colors into the paints he would use…Raw Sienna, Old Holland Yellow, Indian Red, Burnt Umber, Burnt Sienna, Cadmium Orange…

He didn’t want to remember how things used to be, but it was impossible here with the salt scent of the ocean, the chill spice of pines, the taint of wood smoke—funny how fragrance brought it all back.

He passed Estelle Minton’s house. Yellow shingles and red brick, red roses behind a white picket fence. The roses Estelle had been in the process of planting three years ago were now tall—if wind-tattered. At this time of year, her beloved garden was not at its best. Smoke rose cozily from the chimney. Finn half expected Estelle to wave him down—rarely did anyone slip past her front window without being spotted—but if she saw him, she did not come out to say hello, and Finn walked on, dogged by memory.

“You’re Finn,” Con had said. “The Barret boy.” As though there were only one Barret boy.

He was twenty-three that spring, and he had met Con—literally bumped into him—walking into the Curtis Memorial Library. He had gone to the mainland to pick up art supplies and a couple of Ross MacDonald mysteries for Grandy. His thoughts had been a million miles away; he’d spent days trying to paint the fishing fleet’s sunset return but couldn’t get it right—and he had walked right into the tall man coming out the west entrance.

At the time he had thought the collision was his own fault, but now he realized Con had been nearly as distracted as he was. It was Con who had reached out to steady him, hands warm on Finn’s arms.

“Whoa! All right?” he’d said, and he was smiling, a cynical twist of his lips as though this was exactly the kind of behavior he expected from the natives. And then his brown-black gaze had seemed to sharpen. “You’re…Finn. The Barret boy.”

Finn recognized him immediately, although it had been at least two years since he’d seen Con Carlyle. All the same, he was genuinely surprised. People—strangers—had trouble telling them apart, and when had Con Carlyle been anything but a stranger, for all that they’d summered on the same island for twenty-three years?

“Yeah. How did you know?” he’d asked.

Con had smiled again—and the smile was a revelation. Finn had never seen Conlan genuinely smile. Oh, maybe a polite grimace when someone—often Fitch—was acting more like an idiot than usual; Fitch had always had a little bit of a thing about Con Carlyle.

Con had grinned that devastatingly attractive grin and raised his elegant eyebrows. “How could I not know you? You’ve been stealing my blueberries and swimming in my cove for the last twenty years.”

“Twenty-three, but who’s counting?”

He was so very attractive—pale hair, a lean, ascetic face, sable eyes lighting with unexpected laughter. It was like one of those paintings of old saints suddenly coming to life, suddenly animated and vivid.

“But maybe I’m Fitch,” Finn had suggested.

And Con had said, “You’re not Fitch.”

The funny part was that at the time Finn had imagined it was a compliment.

But he didn’t want to remember these things. What was the point of sinking down into quaggy, regretful thoughts? If he was going to dredge all that up, better to focus on the hurt, the anger, the betrayal. But why think of it at all? It was a long time ago, and he had more important things to worry about.

Like…the fact that he had walked too far from the house. That was his impatience getting the better of him, but to hell with “not rushing things.” What did that mean? You could only rest for so long. And what on earth did peace and quiet have to do with anything? It wasn’t as though he lived in a box beneath a freeway underpass. This whole idea of being sent away to recover his health was so fucking Victorian.

Even more irritating was the fact that the only place he had been able to think of going to recuperate was Seal Island. What had he been thinking? But at the time—or perhaps it was due to too much pain medication—he had yearned for home like the homesick college kid he had once been. And of course the doctors thought Seal Island was a terrific idea. The fresh salt air, the sunshine, the long, quiet nights—everyone cheerfully ignorant of how goddamned cold it was, and how…painful and tiring to face the memories you had been running from for so long.

At least he didn’t have to face anything more than the ghosts. Con was safely on his book tour, and Fitch…

That was strange about Fitch.

All these months…years without word. That wasn’t like Fitch. Even when he had clashed with Grandy the last time, he had stayed in touch with Finn. Granted, he couldn’t very well stay in touch with Finn this time.

Still…

The spark of uneasiness Finn had felt on initially hearing that Fitch was missing had kindled into quiet worry. Three years was a very long time to disappear without a word. And Fitch had never been one to hold a grudge—nor had Fitch any reason to hold a grudge, since he had come out the winner that time.

Finn became aware that with his thoughts running elsewhere, his feet had followed the familiar path to the cottage by Bell Woods. The cottage was on the edge of the old Carlyle estate; Con worked there most days, safely out of reach of his devoted family. There was no phone at the cottage—or at least there had not been a phone three years ago.

For a time Finn stood, leaning on Grandy’s cane, studying the white shingles and black shutters, the brick chimney and neglected garden. He felt surprisingly little. It was only a building, after all, and the memories existed independently of the architecture.

Lost in these thoughts, he noticed too late the door to the cottage swinging open. Con stepped outside. “Finn,” he said.

There was an alarming moment when Finn thought his mind had snapped, that he was rolling and sliding off the edge of sanity, and then he realized that he was not imagining things. Con was striding down the path toward him.

Too late to flee even if could manage it without looking like the loser in a three-legged race. So he held his ground, clenching his grandfather’s walking stick, as Con reached him.

“Finn,” Con said again, and he sounded out of breath.

He had not changed much in three years. Tall and lithe, his hair was still ash-blond, straight, and fine as silk, but he wore it a little longer now. His eyes were a shade of brown-black that Finn had never managed to determine; he remembered reading in one of the books his grandfather had illustrated about a pirate with “sparkling black-cherry eyes,” and he’d always thought that perfectly described Con’s eyes—although the wicked laughing eyes were at odds with a face as elegantly and distantly beautiful as the saint in a Renaissance painting. But there were faint little lines now around Con’s mouth and eyes, a tightness to his features. He looked tired, like he’d run too long and too far and had still not found what he was looking for.

Idiotically, the only thing Finn could think to say was, “I didn’t know you were back.”

“I got back last night.”

Good Lord. They should have held out for a group rate given the amount of traffic to the island yesterday.

“Oh. Well…nice to see you.” Finn turned to go, leaning heavily on the cane.

“Wait.” Con jerked out, “Can you…come inside for a minute?”

“Not today.” Finn kept moving, crablike, trying to escape. “I’ve got to get back.”

“Finn—” Con came alongside him.

In his slow-motion panic, his foot turned on a stone, and Con reached out to steady him. Every nerve in Finn’s body flinched away from his touch. He’d thought he was over it, but the feel of Con’s hand—the warm weight through his sweater—warned him otherwise. Bewilderingly, it was as though no time had passed at all, all his emotions were boiling right there at the surface.

“Jesus, Finn, you’re white to your lips. You should never have walked so far. Come in out of the cold for a few minutes.” Con looked—Finn didn’t think it was an expression he could capture on canvas. It surely wasn’t an expression he remembered ever seeing before on Con’s face.

“Please,” Con said.

It was something in the way he said “please.” Not a word Con had ever used a lot. Certainly not with Finn. As he stared at him, Finn was suddenly and utterly exhausted—light-headed with it. It was borne in on him how very far he had walked—and what a bad idea that had been. His head began that slow, ominous pound. He allowed himself to be led inside the cottage.

It was blessedly dim and warm inside. A fire crackled welcomingly in the fireplace, classical music was playing softly, the wooden blinds stirred in the draft, finding a way through the window casement. A stack of printed pages sat neatly beside a desktop and printer. It hadn’t changed.

Finn dropped down on the long leather sofa, put a hand over his eyes. Con hovered.

“I can’t believe you’re here.”

Finn looked at him and failed to think of anything intelligent to say. He agreed, though. Quite fucking unbelievable that he was here.

“Can I get you anything?”

“Ouch. No.” Finn shifted gingerly. Dropped the cane.

Con retrieved the cane and propped it within Finn’s reach. Con straightened, and Finn realized he was staring at the bones of Finn’s knees poking at his Levi’s, at his wrists, which still looked too thin for the rolled cuffs of his sweater.

“I heard about your accident,” Con said. “Are you… You’re all right now?”

“I’m fine.” He looked away.

“Relax, Finn. You look like you’re going to fly up the chimney any second.”

Finn’s mouth curled. He didn’t fly so well these days.

“Sit back,” Con was urging, and Finn cautiously lifted his leg onto the sofa. Easing back, he sighed relief. Yeah, whatever made Con doubt he was in great shape?

He became aware that Con still hovered over him. He looked up warily. Con asked, “Do you have anything you can take?”

“Huh?”

“For the pain.”

“Oh.” Finn grimaced. “This isn’t that bad. Anyway, I don’t like taking that crap. It makes me dopey.”

“So? I’ll run you back. Go ahead and take the stuff.” Con strode out of the room. From the kitchen, Finn heard water running, the sound of ice cube trays cracking open.

He closed his eyes, trying not to give in to the hot, throbbing poker of pain jamming into the base of his skull. Overexertion, that’s all it was. Maybe there was something to that not-rushing thing.

“Here, Finn.”

His eyes flew open. He hadn’t heard Con return, but he stood over the couch with a glass of water.

Finn inched up against the cushions, found his pills, palmed two, and reached for the glass.

He handed the water back to Con, who set it aside and pulled up a footstool.

“Finn…I’ve been waiting three years to talk to you.”

Goddamn. If that wasn’t just like Con. After three years, it was all about getting off his chest whatever it was he’d forgotten to say the last time.

“Oh, man. Please don’t.” Finn shut his eyes, leaning back. He really did not have the strength to deal with this now. Why the hell had he walked down this way? Why the hell hadn’t someone warned him Con was back?

Con’s voice dropped. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Yeah?” He grinned faintly at that.

“Please hear me out.”

“I can’t exactly run away.”

Silence.

Finn opened his eyes. Con looked as though he were in more pain than Finn. Meeting Finn’s gaze, he said, “I’ve thought about that day a million times.”

A million times? Why, in three years, that would be nine hundred times a day. Impressive. Finn said, “Forget it. Ancient history.”

Silence. Anger began to bubble up inside Finn. Why did Con have to start this up again? It was over. Done. Why couldn’t they preserve a polite fiction…like neither of them remembered or cared? What the hell did Con want from him?

But Con plowed on. “To this day I don’t know why… I don’t understand how I let it happen. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want him.” His voice sank so low, Finn hardly recognized it.

He said wearily, “We both know what it was, and it doesn’t matter. Forget it.”

“I can’t forget it. Not a day goes by that I don’t remember what a fool I was.”

Finn said irritably, “Well, you need to forget it. It was three years ago. What’s the point of bringing this up now? It’s over.”

“It’s not over for me.”

Finn stared at him, torn between shock and outrage. His heart was starting to slug his ribs like an angry prizefighter preparing for a match.

“What are you talking about?” He pushed up on an elbow and realized he was already starting to feel the effects of the pills. “You’re not going to pretend— This is such bullshit. Do you need me to say I forgive you? Fine. I forgive you, Con. I chalked it up to a learning experience.”

Maybe that was a cheap shot. Con swallowed hard. “Finn. God.” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “You hate me, don’t you?”

“Not at all.”

He heard his tone: polite. Con heard it too.

“I was afraid you would feel like this if I didn’t—” His jaw worked. “But you were so…adamant. I thought…give him time to cool down. I tried writing…”

Finn had received the letters—he’d tossed them.

The medication was kicking in big-time, the sofa beginning to glide in slow, lazy swoops. Finn dropped back in the cushions. All at once he felt quite relaxed. He felt like being candid. Why not? What did he have to lose? Nothing. “I don’t know why it mattered so much, Con. I know how Fitch is, and I always knew it wasn’t anything more than a summer romance for you—”

“Finn.”

“You made it pretty clear, really.” He smiled faintly at unfocused memory. “You were scrupulous about never saying you loved me or anything, so I don’t know why I feel the way…the way I did… Maybe I was embarrassed because it meant so much to me—”

Con kissed him, his mouth covering Finn’s, warm and insistent. Finn was too narcotized to do more than murmur a vague protest. Con released him immediately.

“I’m sorry. Damn it to hell. I’m sorry, Finn.”

“Me too,” he said woozily. “Love to chat. Have to…sleep now…”

He thought Con answered that, but by then Finn was whirling away into a comfortable blankness.

When he woke, it was to a complete absence of light.

Panic gripped him, and he threw out a hand for the lamp beside his bed, but there was only empty space. Instead of sheets, there was a giving stiffness beneath him—leather. At the same instant he realized he was dressed, although his shoes were missing, and that he was tangled in some kind of afghan. Desperately, he struggled up, saying, “Turn on the light!”

Even as Finn absorbed that the room was not in complete darkness—embers burned molten orange in a grate, and platinum moonlight filtered through slats of the blinds—a darker shadow detached itself from the sable nothingness.

A light snapped on.

Bright, inarguable light, golden warmth turning the room from a threatening unknown to a collection of comfortable old furniture and familiar paintings, one of them his own.

Con was crossing to him, saying, “I’m sorry. I thought you would sleep better with it off.”

Finn scrabbled to collect himself. Between the dark and Con, it was a rocky awakening. He tried to hide that moment of naked fear, pushing into the corner of the sofa and raking a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t know where I was.” He tried to say it casually; his heart still racing and bounding like a deer in terror. Given the way Con was looking at him, he wasn’t sure how successful he was. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep so long.”

Con ignored that. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Fine.”

“You’re quite sure?” Con was frowning, studying him.

“I’m sure.” Actually, now that the unreasoning alarm was receding, he realized that he had slept well, and the nap had refreshed him. His head had stopped hurting, and his back was about as pain free as it got these days. Self-consciously, he smothered a yawn under Con’s searching gaze. “What time is it?”

“After five.”

“Oh hell. Martha is going to think I fell off a cliff.” He glanced around the cottage. “You haven’t—”

“Installed a phone? No.” Con liked being incommunicado when he was working, and that was the purpose of the cottage—although they had used it for other things once upon a time.

Better not to think of that now.

“You still don’t carry a cell phone?”

“I’m morally and ethically opposed to cell phones.” Con was smiling, but Finn knew he wasn’t entirely kidding.

“I left mine in Manhattan.” Then, “What?” he asked edgily as Con continued to stare at him.

“You can’t know. It’s…to see you sitting there again. To hear your voice. You don’t know how long I’ve—”

“Don’t.”

Con nodded tightly. After an awkward pause, he said, “I’ll run you back now if you like.”

“I like.” He reached for his cane. Con slipped a hand under his elbow, giving him a lift to his feet.

Finn appreciated the no-fuss tact of that, but he resented needing help. Where Con was concerned, he was a mess of contradictory feelings. He freed his arm, not rudely but pointedly enough that Con’s face tightened.

Saying nothing, he helped Finn into his jacket again, the juggle of cane and flapping sleeves, and then Finn was doing up his jacket and Con was going to the cottage door.

He walked out of the cottage ahead of Finn, feet crunching on the shell-strewn path, a small, angry sound. It was a relief to Finn to realize that he didn’t care that Con was upset. Time had been he would have been racking his brains for what he’d done, how to fix it, whether it was going to end between them. He could even spare a small twisted smile now for that insecure boy.

Con opened the Land Rover door and stood back. This was the tricky part, climbing up into the seat while hanging on to both his cane and dignity. Finn knew Con wouldn’t offer help unless he asked for it.

He requested gruffly, “Will you give me a hand up?” and knew Con felt like a bastard for forcing the request.

Con took the cane from Finn’s hand, set it aside. Finn turned nervously, not sure what to expect, and then Con slipped one arm around his waist, half lifting him into the seat without any apparent effort. Unnecessary and startling, but certainly efficient. Finn flicked him a quick, uncertain look, but Con’s face gave nothing away.

He handed Finn his cane; then Con shut the door and walked around to his side of the vehicle. Finn buckled himself in; his heart was beating fast, and he knew it had something to do with being in Con’s arms again for those brief heartbeats.

Con started the engine. Neither of them looked at the other or spoke as the Land Rover bounced over the potholes and rocks. Out of the corner of Finn’s eye, he could see Con’s profile, grim as that on an ancient and imperial coin. Like an emperor of ancient Rome with a rebellious senate on his hands.

They hit a bigger hole in the road, and the truck came down hard. Finn must have caught his breath, because Con glanced his way.

“Sorry. Does it give you a lot of trouble?”

“What’s that?” he managed to ask calmly.

“Your leg. What do the doctors say?”

“It’s fine. Mostly. I’m supposed to exercise it regularly. Which is why I walked too far today.” In case Con thought he had deliberately strolled down memory lane.

Silence.

They passed Gull Point. Across the bay, Finn could see the ghostly white tower of the old lighthouse. He looked away.

Con said slowly, “Or is it driving in general? Is it still difficult getting in a car?”

Funny that Con would understand that. Finn didn’t have to answer; one sharp look had confirmed Con’s guess. His foot eased off the gas, and Finn relaxed his white-knuckle grip on the armrest as they slowed to a sedate jog.

After another mile or so, Con questioned, “Do you remember anything about the accident?”

“I remember thinking oh shit as the truck plowed into us.” He added wryly, “Famous last words.” Finn glanced at Con and was startled at how green he looked in the lights from the dashboard.

The rest of the short drive to The Birches passed without further discussion, which was a relief to Finn.

Con parked in the shell-shaped drive in front of the long porch and opened his door.

“You don’t have to get out,” Finn started quickly, but Con ignored him, coming round to his side.

He opened Finn’s door, waiting in silence as Finn fumbled with the seat belt. Yanking it open at last, Finn reached to steady himself on the hand rest. Con took his other arm, ignoring the exasperated look Finn threw him.

“Can I see you again?” Con asked as Finn clambered awkwardly out of the Land Rover and grabbed for his cane.

“I’m sure we’ll run into each other.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” It was hard to look away from the pain in Con’s dark eyes.

“I still care for you, Finn.”

Finn’s hand was clutching the cane so tightly his fingers hurt.

“I want to make things right.”

Finn bent his head. Took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said and met Con’s gaze. “I don’t feel the same.”

Con stared at him, then nodded curtly.

Finn waited politely as Con got back into the Rover and reversed in a smooth, neat arc.

That had been easy enough. The only problem was, he thought, watching the taillights as Con drove away—he knew he hadn’t told Con the truth.

Chapter Three

They had not spoken of Fitch. Not even said his name. Later, sitting at dinner with Uncle Thomas, that seemed strange.

The whole day—the whole trip so far—had a strange dreamlike quality to it. Maybe that wasn’t surprising given the meds he was taking and the fact that he’d spent a good part of the afternoon napping on Con’s sofa. What had he dreamed there? He couldn’t recall, but he had slept deeply and well. Better than he could remember sleeping for a very long time.

He’d had to tell Martha, of course—she had been giving him an earful about vanishing without a word, listing in Martha fashion all the terrible things that she had imagined happening to him. He’d stopped her at falling off the ledge at Gull Point.

“I didn’t go to the point. I walked down to Con’s cottage.”

Martha had fallen silent, eyeing him a little doubtfully. “That’s too far for you to walk yet,” she scolded feebly.

“Con’s back,” Finn told her. “I spoke to him. In fact…”

She waited, and he could see the worry in the back of her eyes.

He said, “It’s not a big deal. I overdid it walking down there, and he let me rest on his sofa. That’s what took so long.”

“Is…everything all right?”

Finn’s smile was rueful. “It’s okay. He said his piece. I said mine. We’re never going to be pals again.”

He was surprised when she turned away from him and began rolling out dough on the lightly floured breadboard. Without turning to face him, she said, “We’re not so backward as you might think, Finn. We still get the newspapers and now days we get satellite TV and the Internet. We’ve heard of gay people all the way out here, and we’re not all as closed-minded as you might have been telling yourself these three years.”

Finn couldn’t think of anything to say.

Martha, still not looking at him, said, “It wasn’t ever any secret that you and Fitch were a little bit different, and I was glad when it turned out how you felt that young Mr. Carlyle was a little bit that way too.”

The rolling pin made a comfortable and familiar thump on the board as she rolled with ferocious energy.

“I know something happened with Fitch to spoil it. I don’t know what, but you both left the island—Fitch that very day and you the next. And Mr. Carlyle went around looking like a thundercloud for a few weeks, and then he left too.”

Thump. Roll. Thump.

“I don’t know what happened, and I guess it’s none of my business—”

“I didn’t think you’d want to know,” Finn managed, finally.

“I don’t! That is, I don’t want to know about anyone’s personal business like that. But I don’t want you feeling like you have to go around pretending or telling me lies. It’s your own business who you’re…you’re sweet on. No one here ever thought any the worse of you or Fitch for that. And if that’s why you’ve been staying away all this time…”

Thump. Roll. Thump.

Finn cleared his throat. At last he said, “It wasn’t anything to do with that. At least…I don’t know. Maybe it was a little. But the main reason was I couldn’t be around Fitch or Con anymore. That’s all.”

Martha stopped rolling. “Do you think that’s why Fitch went away?”

Finn said astringently, “Fitch had everything he wanted. I don’t know why he went away.”

* * * * *

Later, thinking of that conversation while he and Uncle Thomas ate beef pot pie at the long dining room table, he asked, “Did Fitch say anything to anyone when he left that day?”

“What day?” Uncle Thomas asked, preoccupied, glancing over a review of the book he’d written on practical art criticism.

“The summer I went away. Fitch had left the day before.”

Uncle Thomas looked into the past and said, “I wasn’t here. I’d gone to Portland. I was flying to San Francisco.”

“But you came home that evening,” Finn said. “I remember your car was parked in the drive when I got back that night.”

He remembered because he had been grateful that there was no sign of his uncle when he’d let himself into the house and begun packing.

There had been no sign of anyone.

Mostly he had feared an encounter with Fitch, and when there had been no sign of him—no light beneath his door—Finn had guessed that Fitch was waiting in the cottage for Con. Because despite all Con had said—even if it was all true—Fitch would see things differently.

Fitch always did see things differently.

“I don’t remember,” Uncle Thomas said. He looked thoughtful now, but not unduly concerned. “I think my flight was canceled. Or maybe… Was I giving a guest lecture? Something happened, I remember, and I didn’t need to fly out after all until later in the week.”

Finn had not talked to anyone that night. He had packed his things, and he had left the following morning. You couldn’t really run away at twenty-three, but that had been what it felt like. He said, “Martha had gone to Harpswell. Her sister was ill.”

Uncle Thomas nodded, considering, and then he went back to eating his supper.

Finn ate slowly. The food was good. He mostly didn’t think about food, and he was surprised to find he was hungry. But as he swallowed the last bites of golden, flaky pastry, he couldn’t help thinking that there was something strangely apathetic in everyone’s reaction—lack of reaction—to Fitch’s disappearance.

Disappearance.

Because that’s what it was. Fitch had disappeared. He had fallen off the face of the earth. And no one had noticed.

Even now no one seemed to be noticing—even when Finn was pointing it out.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, and Uncle Thomas reluctantly refocused on him. “I think maybe something happened to Fitch.”

There. It was out.

“Happened to him?” Uncle Thomas sounded doubtful, eyeing Finn over the tops of his reading glasses.

“When he left the island the last time.” That sounded too portentous. “When he left three years ago.”

His uncle waited politely.

“It’s not only that he never contacted me, he never contacted anyone that I know of. We traveled in the same circles.”

“Fitch wasn’t an artist.” It was said bluntly, dismissingly. Considering that tone, Finn understood that maybe Fitch hadn’t been everyone’s favorite. Perhaps some of those careless jabs about teachers and critics had found their mark and left their wounds. Or perhaps the jabs had been in retaliation to a perceived rejection?

Finn said, “He wasn’t a painter, but he still traveled in art circles. We knew all the same people, shared a lot of the same friends.” They went to the same shows, the same bars, knew the same people—the Manhattan art scene was a small one, especially in the rarefied stratosphere the Barrets traveled in.

Uncle Thomas said slowly, clearly treading with the greatest care, “It’s possible he’d have tried to stay out of your way.”

“More than possible. At first.” Finn’s smile was crooked. “But Fitch, being Fitch, would have got over it, and he’d have expected me to do the same. He’d have arranged to bump into me at some public gathering I couldn’t escape from.”

Uncle Thomas looked unconvinced. “Maybe he knew this time was…different.”

Finn absorbed the fact that his uncle seemed to be well versed regarding his relationship with Con—including the sordid end of it. Not only was Uncle Thomas aware of it, it didn’t appear to have unduly shocked him. Granted, he’d had three years to get over the shock.

“Maybe,” Finn agreed. “I never talked to anyone about what happened, yet no one ever mentioned him to me—other than to ask how he was or what he was doing.”

Uncle Thomas still didn’t seem to get it.

Finn tried to articulate his uneasy instinct. It was difficult, because until he struggled to put it into words, he wasn’t sure himself what was bothering him so much. “Fitch couldn’t have made it to Manhattan, because no one ever mentioned him again unless it was to ask me how he was doing. Someone would have said something in passing. He wasn’t—isn’t—somebody you could ignore very easily.”

Wasn’t? He listened to the echo of that word in something very like alarm. Wasn’t?

“Perhaps he thought it would be wiser starting over elsewhere.”

“I guess that’s the way it could have happened,” Finn said slowly, unconvinced. “It’s just that he was a creature of habit.”

“Bad habits,” Uncle Thomas said grimly, and that seemed to be the end of that conversation.

* * * * *

Upstairs in his room much later that night, Finn found himself going through his old books looking for something to read, something nonnarcotic to put him asleep, turning to the comfort of vaguely recalled childhood favorites. He was flipping through Verne’s Mysterious Island—mostly studying his grandfather’s illustrations—when a snapshot fell out of the yellowed pages.

Con at age twenty or so. A reluctant smile curved Finn’s mouth as he appraised the shy arrogance of the boy staring directly into the camera lens. Bold, dark eyes watched from beneath the soft blond forelock. Elegant bone structure: a hard jaw, a proud nose, but an unexpectedly sensitive mouth. They had called him The Prince. He called them—when he deigned to notice them at all (eleven years was a big gap at that age) the Gruesome Twosome. Which pleased them inordinately.

Finn and Fitch had always pretended to not think much of him, and Fitch had gone out of his way to be frankly offensive on more than one occasion, but the fact was, they both had frightful crushes on Con. Granted, he was very good-looking, like the prince in a fairy tale or a romance novel—a living, breathing embodiment of the kind of man their grandfather had painted into his illustrations. In fact, looking back, Finn realized that Grandy had probably used a few earlier models of Carlyles for inspiration. Well, why not? Those dark and luminous eyes, the noble brows and arrogant noses and stubborn chins—and those mouths…oh those beautiful mouths.

Studying the old photo, it surprised Finn that he had never wanted to paint Con. Or had he wanted to but never dared ask? It was difficult to say. He had been so terrifyingly, overwhelmingly in love with Con. Terrifying because he knew even then it could not possibly last, so he had simply snatched at every day, every moment with Con as though it were his last.

But now, looking at the photographed face, he was sorry he had not painted him. Sorry he had not captured the play of light and shadows on that beautiful young face. Once again he felt the yearning to start work again. When he felt a little stronger. Because, as much as he wanted to tackle the work once more, he was afraid. Afraid because it had nearly been lost to him—and maybe it was supposed to be lost.

Maybe it wasn’t coming back.

* * * * *

Paul arrived in time for lunch the following day, Tuesday. Finn drove down to the wharf with Hiram, and while the old man piled Paul’s suitcases—way too many suitcases for a four-day stay—into the station wagon, Finn trailed uncomfortably after Paul, who wanted to see “the village.”

“It’s not really a village village,” Finn tried to explain while Paul tripped along from general store to post office to pub.

“If it has a pub and a post office, it’s a village,” Paul said, shoving open the green door of Wylie’s Tavern. “Let’s get a drink. I’m parched.”

“We should probably get up to the house. Martha will be waiting with lunch.”

“No way am I getting into a car with my tummy feeling the way it feels now,” Paul warned, heading for one of the battered wooden booths against the wall.

A couple of fisherman types turned from the bar to give him a long look. Finn felt color rushing to his face and was irritated. Paul was a flamboyant personality, true, but that flamboyance had never bothered Finn in Manhattan. He hadn’t thought about it twice. But here on Seal Island…Paul’s high, light voice, the white silk scarf, the broad gestures…Paul suddenly seemed like someone in a play. A play debuting on a night Finn would have preferred to stay home.

“There’s no waitress,” Finn told him. “If you want a drink, you have to get it yourself from the bar.”

Paul raised his pale eyebrows and eyed the fishermen who had gone back to nursing their beers. He raised his eyebrows lasciviously, and it was all Finn could do not to groan.

“What’ll you have?” Paul asked, and Finn shook his head.

“I’m on pain meds.”

“Anything good?” Paul threw over his shoulder before sashaying over to the bar. Finn could hear him ordering from across the room. Paul spoke to the fishermen, who answered politely, looked at each other meaningfully, then glanced back at Finn. They left shortly after, and Paul carried over two bottles of Allagash White, setting one in front of Finn.

“You haven’t changed,” Finn said. “You’re still a lousy listener.”

“One drink won’t kill you.”

“Why does everyone keep trying to pour alcohol down my throat?”

“Because if you were any more uptight…well, actually that’s hard to imagine.”

“Thanks!”

Paul fastened his mouth daintily over the lip of the bottle and guzzled. Finn watched him, but the exasperation was slowly giving way to affection. He’d stayed with Paul when he first left the island, and they’d become close friends. Not least because Paul, as one of Fitch’s ex-lovers, wasn’t about to push Finn to reconcile or forgive and forget. The only thing he ever pushed Finn on was letting him handle his work. Paul was an art dealer—a very successful one.

Paul set the bottle on the table. “How’s Fitch?” he asked, seeming to read Finn’s mind.

“I don’t know. He’s not here.”

Paul arched his eyebrows. He was very tall, very thin, with white blond hair cut in a bob, and a pale, bony, mobile face. “Where is he?”

“That’s the funny thing. No one seems to know.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Simply that. No one knows where he is.” Finn added reluctantly, “It seems like he vanished after he left the island the last time.”

“Three years ago?”

Finn nodded.

“After you caught him and…what’s-his-face in the lighthouse?”

Finn scowled, nodding.

“How…extraordinary.”

“I don’t know.” It was extraordinary, though. And not in a good way.

“Maybe he killed himself out of guilt,” Paul said cheerfully. “Chucked himself out of the lighthouse. It would be the first decent thing he did.”

“No,” Finn said, ignoring 90 percent of that comment. “He left voluntarily. He took his suitcases. As it was, he was only staying for the summer.”

Paul watched him with his cool, bright eyes. “Then why did you say he vanished?”

“Because…” Finn hesitated. “Well, let me ask you this. When was the last time you saw him? I mean, saw him at all. Even from a distance.”

Paul leaned back in the booth, squinting thoughtfully into his memories. “It’s been a couple of years, I guess.”

“Three years, I bet.”

Paul’s eyes met his. Neither of them said anything.

Finn said finally, “The only time anyone ever mentions Fitch to me is to ask how he is or what he’s been up to. In three years, I can’t remember a single person telling me they’d seen or spoken to him.”

“Gadzooks.”

The door to the tavern opened, and Hiram walked in. “Do you boys want me to come back and get you later, or did you want to come up to the house now?” His gaze rested on Paul without particular pleasure.

“What do you want to do?” Finn asked Paul, resigned.

“Home, James!” Paul rose, gathering up the two beer bottles and sauntering out. Finn sighed, and Hiram glanced his way.

“Don’t know what Martha is going to think of that,” he remarked.

Finn rose, steadying himself with the silver-topped walking stick. His mind was still on the conversation with Paul, and he said, “Hy, three years ago, when Fitch left the island…did you give him a ride down to the wharf?”

“Drove himself,” Hiram said. “He left the station wagon here and I had to walk down to get it. Don’t you remember?”

No. Finn did not remember. He had been preoccupied with his own problems that morning. He had packed the night before and had wanted to leave at first light. In his memory that was what had taken place. Granted both Hiram and Martha were early risers, so Hiram could have hiked down to the wharf at dawn and had the station wagon back at The Birches by the time Finn had appeared, bags in hand.

Hiram was already turning away, and Finn followed him out of the tavern. As they made their way down the boardwalk in Paul’s wake, the door to the general store opened and a woman stepped out.

She nodded in passing to Hiram, nodded at Finn, and then her hazel eyes widened. “Finn Barret,” she exclaimed. “I’d heard you were coming home.”

Coming home. Not how Finn had chosen to think of it, but it was true that when he had been lying in the hospital, Seal Island, not his Manhattan loft, was the place he had longed for. Longed for quite desperately.

“How’ve you been, Miss Minton?” he asked, shifting his cane to shake hands.

“Miss Minton!” She snorted. “You’re very formal these days, Finn.”

Estelle Minton was a cousin of the Carlyles. She had their fair coloring and elegant bone structure, although she somehow appeared more rawboned and faded than her relations. But then Miss Minton was both a little older and not as comfortably off as the Carlyles. She supplemented her savings by supplying baked goods to the island general store—and making wedding cakes for mainlanders. Her wedding cakes were quite well-known in Harpswell and beyond.

For a second Finn couldn’t think what she meant about being formal, but then he remembered that Fitch had always called her “Minty.” Finn had generally tried to avoid the social dilemma by not calling her anything.

Without waiting for his response, Miss Minton went on, “How are you? Still pretty crocked up, I reckon. We heard about your accident.”

Miss Minton always spoke in the plural—the royal “we,” Uncle Thomas called it. Fitch had joked that Miss Minton had an invisible best friend. Actually an invisible only friend was the way Fitch had put it.

“I’m okay,” Finn said. “I’m up and around, that’s the main thing.”

“It’s a large part of it,” she agreed. She was studying him frankly, and Finn wondered at this unusual attention. Miss Minton had never had much time for either him or Fitch—he was a little surprised to find she even remembered him.

Noticing that Paul, tired of waiting in the car, was coming toward them down the boardwalk, he said hastily, “Nice to see you again! I’ve got to get off this leg.”

Miss Minton followed the direction of his gaze. “What is that?” she asked disapprovingly, watching Paul cast his scarf over his shoulder and toss his head.

Finn muttered, “Excuse me.”

He hobbled to head off Paul, who greeted him as though he’d been given up for lost, and they made their way to the station wagon parked beside Miss Minton’s battered old pickup. Hiram joined them a couple of minutes later.

“Was that the local witch or what?” Paul inquired as the car left the marina.

Finn couldn’t help the edge that crept into his voice. “No.”

“Quaint. Very quaint. It explains a lot, I think.”

“What does?”

“This place. You. You and Fitch both. You especially, though. You’re sort of…well…a throwback.”

To what? Finn clipped, “Gee, thanks!”

“It’s not an insult. It’s not a compliment, I admit, but it’s not an insult. So are you working on anything?”

“No.”

Paul sighed disapprovingly. “I thought that was the excuse for coming back to Salem’s Lot?”

Finn glanced at Hiram, who could have been a cigar store Indian for the interest he showed in their conversation. “I never said that.”

“You did. You said you thought it would be good for your painting.”

He probably had said that, although he hadn’t meant it in the way Paul imagined.

Paul thrust his head forward from the backseat. “My, my. You’re interestingly pale all at once. Not feeling well?” he suggested.

Finn snapped, “I’m fine. Tired, that’s all.”

“Your head’s hurting again, isn’t it? Why don’t you take some of those painkillers you’ve been taunting me with?”

Finn glanced at Hiram, who was chewing the inside of his cheek and seemingly still not paying any mind to either of them. He said, “I don’t want to get in the habit.”

Paul shook his head. “Now there’s where you’re making a mistake. We are all creatures of habit.” He rattled cheerfully on, and Finn’s headache, which had only been the faintest suggestion, bloomed into full-blown pain.

“…was reading an article about migraines in Scientific American. You have to catch them before they really get their claws into you. What you want to do is disrupt the pattern—it’s like an electrical disturbance in the circuitry of your brain…”

Finn listened without hearing and nodded and told himself that he was really glad that Paul was there to keep babbling so that he couldn’t sit and brood in peace, because thinking about the past was getting him nowhere fast. It wasn’t healthy.

They reached the house, and Paul enthused about the view and the fresh air and the sea breeze and the architecture, and then they were inside and Martha was bustling up to meet them, wiping her wet hands on her apron.

“Lunch is all ready,” she said briskly. “Your uncle is working in his study.”

She seemed to be trying to telegraph some warning to Finn. He said, “We won’t disturb him then.”

Martha nodded, but he had misread her. She said, “And Con Carlyle is waiting for you in the parlor.”

Chapter Four

“Why do I know that name?” Paul asked into the silence that followed Martha’s words.

Instead of replying, Finn asked curtly, “Why is Con here?”

Martha looked uncomfortable. “I…snum he wants to talk to you.”

“Snum,” murmured Paul delightedly.

Finn was less delighted. He opened his mouth, but what was he going to do? Ask Martha or Hiram to throw Con out? Even if it were possible, it wasn’t practical. The island was too small and all their lives too intertwined to allow him to really avoid Con.

Anyway, there was always the possibility that Con really did have something of importance to say to him—like oh-by-the-way-I-forgot-to-mention-Fitch-is-now-living-in-Australia. So he nodded at Martha, told Paul he’d join him in a couple of minutes, and squared his shoulders, heading for the parlor.

Con was standing at the bookshelves by the bay windows that looked out over the ocean. He was looking through Treasure Island—the edition featuring Holloway Barret’s illustrations. He looked up at the tap of Finn’s cane.

“Martha said you wanted to see me,” Finn said with determined aggressiveness.

Con closed the book with a snap, slid it back into place on the bookshelf. “I think I owe you an apology. When I thought it over later, I realized how…”

He didn’t quite realize it, since he couldn’t seem to think of the word.

“Unwelcome?” Finn suggested, and Con’s face tightened. “Inappropriate?” Finn offered. “Overbearing?”

“Look,” Con said shortly. “Whether you want to hear it or not, the fact is I owe you an apology. Not for yesterday, for what happened three years ago.”

The light flooding through the window behind Con was very bright. Finn had to narrow his eyes against it; in fact, it was easier to turn away. Con said, “I treated you badly. Maybe I need to say it more than you need to hear it. Either way, it needs to be said.”

“All right, you’ve said it,” Finn said.

“No, I haven’t.” Con was walking toward him, calm, measured steps, and Finn felt ridiculously at bay—mostly because he couldn’t easily walk away. “I hurt you…badly. I know that. There’s no excuse for it. I’ve regretted it every single day since. I’m very sorry. Sorry for what it’s cost me, but mostly sorry for hurting you. That was the last thing I ever wanted to do.”

Finn made an impatient sound. Con had hurt him all kinds of ways that summer. Betraying him with Fitch was merely the coup de grâce. He kept his face turned, but he couldn’t shut off his awareness of the other man. He was very much afraid he was going to start shaking—from tiredness and not feeling well, but Con was liable to read that all wrong.

He came right up to Finn, and his breath was warm against Finn’s cheek and hair. He ran a light finger down Finn’s forearm as though he didn’t dare touch him but couldn’t quite stop himself either.

Softly, he said, “I realize after yesterday that you don’t feel the same anymore—I guess I didn’t really expect that although I’d hoped, obviously, that we might have another chance. That probably wasn’t realistic on my part. Both of us have changed.”

Finn risked a look, but it was a mistake, because Con was right there, gazing into his eyes, watching him far too closely. He should say something, of course, agree with Con or at least have the grace to accept his apology since there was no reason not to on these terms.

“Maybe…I don’t know. Maybe we can one day be friends,” Con said. “I’ll leave that decision up to you.”

Finn managed a grudging nod. Con seemed to be waiting for something more. When nothing was forthcoming, he turned away, moving toward the door.

Finn struggled with himself, cleared his throat, and said, “Con…thanks.”

Con paused. He said, “If it had been anyone but Fitch, would there have been a chance of you forgiving me?”

Finn said, “If it had been anyone but Fitch, it would never have happened.”

“So that’s the famous Con-man,” Paul said when Finn sat down at the dining room table. Paul was staring out the window, watching Con, tall, lean, and long-legged, striding down the gravel drive toward the woods.

“That’s him,” Finn said unemotionally, reaching for his water glass.

“What does he say happened to Fitch?”

Finn knocked back a couple of pain pills. Swallowed. “He hasn’t said anything.”

“That’s a little suspicious, don’t you think?”

Finn stared. Paul was joking, but not entirely. For reasons more unfathomable than any murder mystery, he was a big fan of the Margaret Rutherford Miss Marple movies. When they had roomed together, he had coaxed and cajoled Finn into watching all four films several times.

Finn admitted, “Well, in fairness, I haven’t asked him.”

“You haven’t asked him? Kind of an oversight, don’t you think? I mean, he’s probably the last person to see Fitch alive.”

“What are you inferring?”

“Isn’t that what you were getting at, at ye olde tavern?”

Finn opened his mouth to deny it, but the fact was, once the idea of foul play had infiltrated its way into the back of his brain, he couldn’t quite shake it.

“It’s your theory,” Paul pointed out graciously. “You’re the one saying Fitch vanished off the face of the planet, that no one’s mentioned seeing him in three years.”

“Well, yeah. But that doesn’t mean…”

“What does it mean?”

Good question. If no one had seen Fitch since he left Seal Island…

Finn sat very still, taking it in. Fitch…dead? He realized he was shaking his head, denying it. “I’d…know,” he said. “I’d feel it.”

“Uh…” Paul’s pale brows were meeting his hairline. “You’d feel it? When did you develop the psychic powers?”

“We’re tw…twins.” He actually swallowed on the word, a caught breath as the implications sank home. He’d been so angry for so long, it hadn’t ever occurred to him how he’d feel if there was no chance of ever making it up, no chance of ever seeing or talking to Fitch again.

Paul must have seen something in his face, because he said hastily, “True. True enough. I’ve read plenty of articles on the twin thing. Maybe you would know. And maybe he did split for Australia.”

That pretty much killed the lunch table conversation.

* * * * *

The light station at Seal Island had been established in 1870, but it hadn’t been operational since the 1920s. The eighty-one-foot tower was built of rubble stone and originally painted pristine white. There were two levels to the cast-iron lantern at the top of the tower: a watch room and the actual lantern room above, where once upon a time the whale oil lamp had hung. The small attached keeper’s dwelling was built of creamy white brick. Tattered berry bushes grew along the side of it, and the casement windows had been boarded up. The door wasn’t quite fastened, though, and he’d pushed it open wide…

It had taken Finn’s eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness, to make out the two figures tangled in desperate humping need on the tarp on the floor. Recognizing too late what he was looking at, he stood frozen, and they had looked up, shocked at that blaze of sunlight, both their faces briefly lit as though by a flashbulb.

Not one of them had said a word.

Finn had turned and walked out, letting the door swing back on its rusted hinges, letting that broken shriek speak for him. He had not looked back, not faltered or flinched even when Con called out to him. Con had shouted twice…and then…nothing.

That vast nothingness filled only by the waves and the shrill cries of the sandpipers.

He had walked until he had run out of beach, and then he had climbed up to the highest point on the island—Ballard’s Rock—and he had sat there motionless and numb while the sun climbed up the sky and then slipped down again. What he most remembered of that time was his amazement that anything could hurt that much and not kill him.

It never occurred to him that Con might have mistaken Fitch for him—and for that he was grateful. Grateful that he didn’t try to tell himself any comfortable lies, because that’s all it would have been. Con knew them apart, always had. He knew them in bright sunshine and he knew them in the darkness. Funny that it had never occurred to Finn just why that was.

As for Fitch…Finn didn’t waste his energy trying to understand. He knew he would never in a million years understand. If he thought about Fitch at all, it was to acknowledge that this really shouldn’t come as a surprise. Fitch firmly believed in the old saw about asking forgiveness being easier than asking permission.

Con had found him as he was making his way down the trail that night. Finn had been moving very carefully down the hillside. Moonlight was not enough to guide him, and he was damned if he was going to break his neck and have everyone think it was over Fitch and Con.

He was halfway down the rocky slope when Con materialized out of the shadows ahead of him.

“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” He sounded both angry and weary—and there was another note in his voice that Finn couldn’t quite place. Worry? Fear?

Finn didn’t know and didn’t care. He had stepped around Con, and Con had tried to put his arm around him. Finn had shoved him off.

Con had stopped walking. “We have to talk.”

“There’s nothing to say.” It was the first and only thing he said to Con that night.

He kept walking, and when Con realized he wasn’t going to stay and chat, he came striding after him.

“I know you’re hurt. I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. You know that.”

Finn had stared straight ahead, calculating how far to the beach, and then how far from there to the road that cut through Bell Woods.

“It was a mistake. I don’t even know why… It was…stupid. I’m very sorry. Sorry you saw it, sorry it ever happened. I haven’t been with him since you and I— It’s only the one time, and it will never happen again. I swear to you.”

And Finn had thought about how weird it was that the stars never changed. Even when something like this happened—you would think it would be raining stars—but the world never missed a beat. Ink blue waves washed gently, rhythmically, against the pale sand, and the stars were still and bright and cold.

“You’re being childish, Finn. It didn’t mean a damn thing. You know it didn’t. You know I… Can’t you stop for one minute and listen to me? This is crazy.” He reached a hand out, but Finn moved his arm away without ever breaking stride, so that it was a ghost touch.

“Finn. Finneas.”

Any second now Con was going to call him Huckleberry, and Finn was going to turn around and punch him in the mouth.

But Con didn’t. He continued to stride beside Finn, watching him, talking to him all the way down the beach, climbing up to the main road, through the woods and all the long walk back to The Birches. It got a little stream of consciousness by the end with Con telling him how he’d looked for Finn all day, how afraid he had been that Finn might do something rash, how every minute he’d regretted what he’d done, what he’d risked—and for what? For nothing. Fitch meant nothing. Finn was all that mattered.

On and on. Words Finn would have given anything to hear twenty-four hours before, but that now meant nothing. Nothing. Because something had died inside him that morning when he had opened that door.

When they reached the drive leading to The Birches, Con’s voice was husky with talking so much—he wasn’t used to it. Finn was the one who always did all the talking, although Finn was not by any stretch a chatterbox.

Con’s footsteps dragged a little as they got closer and closer to the house—reluctant to face Fitch perhaps? Or Thomas. He said huskily, “It’s no use talking to you now, I can see that. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I’m not going to let this destroy what we have together.”

But he followed Finn right onto the porch. Finn reached the doorstep with a feeling of relief. Sanctuary. He grabbed the handle and slipped inside.

Behind him, Con had said quietly, steadily, “I love you, Finn.”

Finn had closed the door.

Finn watched the shadows of the sea’s reflection moving on the ceiling of his room and let himself remember the things he had refused to consider for three years. He was mildly interested to find that he had been healing during that time, because he could remember without pain.

Or maybe it had something to do with Con’s apology. Maybe he had needed to hear it as much as Con needed to say it. He believed Con now. He had not believed him at the time; not that Con lied—far from it—just that he thought Con didn’t know what he felt—or was confusing regret at hurting Finn for something more. He knew Con was fond of him, liked him, liked fucking together, but Con had warned him early on to lighten up, to not make too much of it, to not try and turn it into some big romance.

Really, when he looked at it like that, his own shock and hurt seemed childish—exactly what Con had feared at the start.

No, the only real surprise should have been that Fitch hadn’t come after him.

Oh, not immediately. Fitch knew better than that. Fitch knew to give his twin time to cool down. But to not come at all? That was the one surprise of the day. Fitch couldn’t bear it when they quarreled, couldn’t bear to be cut off from Finn—even more than Finn couldn’t bear to be cut off from him. Even that day. Even that day, part of what Finn grieved for was the knowledge that Fitch too was lost to him. Lost forever.

Because he wasn’t going to be able to forgive him.

Maybe Fitch sensed that. Maybe that was why he never came.

Safe to say, he wasn’t fleeing out of remorse or guilt, because Fitch had never experienced such emotions. Embarrassment at getting caught, maybe. At least that was what Finn had thought before, when he had allowed himself to think about it all. Now he had to wonder.

Suppose something had happened to Fitch when he reached the mainland? Suppose he had been mugged or hit by a bus? But if either of those things had happened, Uncle Tom would have been notified by the authorities. It was barely possible that Fitch had been ashamed of what he’d done and split for parts unknown, but even if Finn could convince himself of such a scenario, he couldn’t believe that Fitch would stay away for three years. It wasn’t in his nature.

And it was perfectly obvious Fitch had not returned to their old stomping grounds. Even if he’d taken new lodgings, made new friends, hung out at new places…at some point their paths would have crossed.

So what were the remaining possibilities? Foul play? That was Paul’s theory—an appropriately melodramatic one. And yet…what else was there? Amnesia? Kidnapping? Murder?

Murder.

But if someone was going to murder Fitch…wouldn’t it be the people he had spent the summer with? His nearest and dearest? It was too hard to believe he’d caught the eye of a roving homicidal maniac. And if someone on Seal Island had wanted Fitch dead, would they have waited to strike until he left the island?

Yes. If they wanted to make it look like an accident. But in order to make it look like an accident, Fitch needed to turn up looking accidentally dead—not vanish into thin air.

Finn studied the row of model ships on his bookcase—collected one by one with loving care through his childhood. It had been rather a long childhood, now that he thought about it. But he wasn’t a child anymore, and it was time to face things.

Suppose…Fitch hadn’t left the island?

Chapter Five

“Screw Frank and Joe,” Paul growled. “I want to be Nancy!”

Finn gave him a long look, and Paul giggled delightedly.

“No pun intended.”

“Would you tone it down?”

Paul raised his eyebrows. “Maybe it’s something in the water. You seem to be turning straight.”

“I’m not turning straight. I…this is a small town. It’s not even a town. It’s a…a conservative little backwater.”

They were sitting in the station wagon in the marina eyeing the harbormaster’s office.

“That’s their problem,” Paul pointed out. “What does it have to do with us?”

“Get real, Paul. We’re trying to get information out of people. We need their cooperation. We don’t want to put anyone’s back up.” Paul opened his mouth, and Finn said, “You know what I mean.”

“Unfortunately, I think I do.” Paul shook his head, his blond hair swinging against his cheek. “Look, Frank, I can’t be anyone but who I am. Deal with it.” He got out of the car, and Finn slowly followed.

Was he in the wrong here? He wasn’t sure.

Despite everything, he had slept well again the night before, and he was starting to feel a little more like his old self. His leg wasn’t giving him constant hell, and even his headache had been a no-show nearly twelve hours now.

They went into the harbormaster’s office, empty on a Wednesday morning, and asked the girl working behind the old walnut desk if there was a way to verify what boats had left for the mainland on the afternoon of August 18, three years previous. They’d got the date from Martha, who had managed to piece together history based on her reminiscences of family disasters—her own and the Barrets’.

The girl went into a back room. Finn moved to the window and stared out at the wharf and thought about what it would take to capture that dazzle of sunlight on water. If he used a glaze of Ultramarine Blue over both the shore and sea, it would reduce the values… He could paint the ripples into the water using a mix of blues, greens, and Titanium White…then mix the Titanium White with Flake White and a bit of Cadmium Yellow, work it with a bit of Liquin into an impasto paint to catch the glitter of the sun on water. It calmed him to focus on something besides whatever information that girl was going to dig up in her dusty files.

Paul poked around, making uncomplimentary comments on the décor. Finn glanced around. Paul had a point. Gray walls, nautical charts, and a girly calendar from the year before.

The girl returned from the back room. “The Sea Auk,” she verified. Her expression was commiserating.

“Is that a problem?”

“The Sea Auk sank last year. I don’t think you’re going to have much luck tracking down her captain—he’s in Florida now—let alone her passengers.”

Paul and Finn exchanged long looks and returned to the station wagon.

“That’s awfully convenient!” Paul said when they had closed the doors against the stiff, salty wind.

Finn laughed. “What, you think someone sank The Sea Auk to cover up the fact that Fitch wasn’t onboard three years ago?”

“If the flipper fits…”

“I don’t think it does. Not that flipper, anyway. Not sabotage.”

“Fine. The boat conveniently sank so we don’t know for sure if Fitch took it or not. That doesn’t mean this is a dead end. It’s merely…a cul-de-sac. What I think you should do is start with the person with the strongest motive for getting rid of Fitch, and then work backward.”

“That would be me,” Finn said.

“Ah. Then…second strongest motive. And that would be Con-man.”

Irritably, Finn said, “Don’t call him that.”

Paul chuckled. “Int-ter-esssting.”

“No,” Finn said.

“No? What do you mean? Are you telling me you don’t have any feelings for him at all? Hmm?”

“I’m saying I don’t want to talk about it with you. I don’t ask you about what happened between you and Fitch.”

“That’s because you already had Fitch’s version.”

“That’s one side of the story.”

“It was probably true. I never knew Fitch to lie. Even when it would have been the smart or kind thing to do.”

That was true. Fitch was not a liar. Brutal frankness was his specialty. According to Fitch, he had grown bored with Paul’s jealousy and tantrums. But then Fitch always found something to grow bored with.

Paul said, “Well, personally I rule you out. At least for now. Which still leaves Con Carne or whatever his name is. You need to go and ask him the obvious question, which is: what happened after you ran off?”

“I didn’t run off. I walked off in a slow and dignified manner.”

“Whatever. What we want to know is, what did Con and Fitch chat about after you stalked off? Can you imagine being a fly on that wall?”

No. He couldn’t. Or maybe he didn’t want to, because he was sure whatever had been said would have hurt him even more badly. He said, “I still don’t see why Con would have a motive for getting rid of Fitch.”

“Oh my God. Keep your day job, lambkin! Fitch deliberately seduced him and broke up his relationship with you. Of course he would want to strangle him.”

Finn sighed, staring unseeingly at the mountain of lobster traps to the side of the car. “It wasn’t like that, though. First of all, Con had told me that he wasn’t interested in anything long-term, and that he wasn’t going to make promises to be monogamous. Secondly, although I was too stupid to see it at the time, Con had had some kind of relationship with Fitch before I ever came into the picture.”

“You’re kidding!”

Finn shook his head again.

“And they both kept that from you?”

“Fitch wasn’t staying on the island when Con and I started up. He came home later that summer—Con was already getting restless. I knew that. I could see the signs. He kept doing stuff to push me away.” Finn’s mouth curved bitterly. “I saw it, but I was in love with him.”

Paul considered this grimly. “That doesn’t mean he didn’t resent being manipulated by Fitch.”

“What makes you think Fitch manipulated him?”

“You forget. I was on the receiving end of Fitch—and I mean that in every possible sense—for nine months. I know exactly how he operated. And it wasn’t pretty.”

Finn considered Paul. Fitch could be—and frequently was—a bastard, but Paul was the only one of Fitch’s ex-lovers—that Finn knew of—who carried a grudge against him. And Paul definitely carried a grudge. He’d taken Fitch to small claims court for three months of back rent and the monetary equivalent of several gifts.

“What kind of temper does Con have?”

“I never thought of him as having a bad temper.”

“Maybe he’s the type that represses it, and when it blows…kaboom!”

Finn said doubtfully, “I just…don’t really see that.”

“You’re not being very helpful.” Paul tapped his tooth with a buffed fingernail. “Fine, who else would have had it in for Fitch? Who inherits his share of the family fortune?”

“I don’t know… I guess it would be split between me and Uncle Tom. But if money was the motive, why conceal the fact that Fitch is dead?”

“Good point.” Paul started the engine. “It’s Con. It’s got to be. You need to go talk to him.”

Finn gave a disbelieving laugh, staring as Paul guided the car across the uneven road. “You think he’s a killer and you want me to go talk to him? Thanks!”

“Are you afraid of him?”

“Of course not.” He felt a little indignant at the idea, for reasons probably best not to analyze.

“So what’s the problem? It was probably an accident.”

If it had been an accident, then Fitch’s body would have turned up. You didn’t accidentally dispose of a body.

Paul said thoughtfully, “Could it have been an accident? I mean, could he have fallen into the ocean?”

Finn considered it. “I don’t think so. He’d have washed up sooner or later. If not here, then on one of the other islands or the mainland.” He shivered, stared unseeingly out the window at the choppy green-blue water.

* * * * *

Martha was beginning to “take against” Paul. Finn knew the signs. It was not so much what she said as what she didn’t say, uncharacteristically cryptic as she fed them a late lunch of smoky potato soup with bacon croutons after their return from a hard morning of snooping.

Her dark gaze rested on the back of Paul’s head with a certain grimness, and when she caught Finn watching, Martha gave a little disapproving sniff. Paul represented Finn’s new life, which was probably reason enough right there for Martha to dislike him.

It was a shame, because Martha was generally a gold mine of information, but her suspicion of Paul made her closemouthed. Granted, she had not been on the island the day Fitch left. She had not been there that entire week. She had been tending to her sick sister on the mainland. By the time Martha returned to the island, it had all been over and both Finn and Fitch were gone—Fitch perhaps forever.

After lunch, pressured by Paul, who had decided sleuthing was the only credible means of entertainment on Seal Island, Finn went up to Uncle Thomas’s study to ask if he remembered anything about the day Fitch had disappeared.

Uncle Thomas, up to his elbows in art books, looked up distractedly and frowned. “Disappeared? You mean the day he left? I wasn’t here.”

“But you came back that evening.”

Uncle Thomas frowned. “I don’t recall seeing you or Fitch.”

“Fitch was already gone by then. We just didn’t know it.”

“Perhaps he left the following morning.”

“No, because I left the following morning. Hiram had to walk down to the village to get the car.”

“I’m sorry,” Uncle Thomas said, a fraction impatiently. “What was the question again?”

That really was the crux of it. What was it that Finn was hoping to learn? And why was he asking the people most unlikely to have reason to want Fitch dead? Was he stalling because he was afraid to face the person to whom he should most obviously be talking?

“If Fitch is dead,” he asked finally, “who inherits?”

Uncle Thomas looked taken aback. He answered without having to consider it, “You do. You and Fitch equally inherited your mother’s share of this estate. If one of you predeceases the other, the survivor takes all.”

Since Finn seemed to have nothing to say to that, Uncle Thomas went back to his research, and Finn went downstairs to find Paul. Hearing him out, Paul seemed unreasonably amused.

“We’re building quite a case against you,” he said.

“I’m laughing so hard.”

“It’s ironic, don’t you think?”

“Mostly irritating.”

Paul smirked. “Well, my suggestion is we—meaning you—go talk to the only real suspect we have.”

Finn rubbed his face in his hands without answering.

“You said you weren’t afraid of him.”

“I’m not,” he replied, his voice muffled behind his hands.

“You can take my cell phone, and if I don’t hear from you in…say, one hour, I’ll start yelling my head off.”

“I’m not afraid of Con.”

Which wasn’t exactly true—although he wasn’t afraid of Con for the reasons Paul probably imagined.

In the end, he decided to walk down to the cottage. He needed the exercise, and he wanted time to think before he arrived on Con’s doorstep. But no sooner did he close the door on The Birches than he seemed to be facing Con’s front door, and he could not claim that the walk had done anything to clear his thoughts.

He knocked before he had time to change his mind and beat a retreat.

Con came to the door. He wore jeans and a heather-and-blue tweed sweater. Reading glasses were pushed back on his forehead, and he held a green-and-white paperback titled The Princes in the Tower, keeping his place with a finger between the pages. He stared at Finn as though he were the last person in the world he expected to see—which was probably about right.

“Are you busy?” Finn asked awkwardly, since it was obvious Con was.

“Not too busy for you.” He said it simply and moved aside so that Finn could step inside the cottage.

The last time he had been here, he had been too tired and pained to really look around, but his impression of time unchanged seemed accurate now. It was all as it had been: the same comfortable furniture and rugs, the same pictures on the wall—including Finn’s painting of the cave at Otter Cove, the first place they had made love. Well, Finn had made love. For Con it had been fucking, but that was all right. Either way, Finn had good memories of that day.

The computer was a new one, and there were a couple of framed snapshots on the fireplace mantle. Finn noticed because Con had never been one for family photos.

“Did you walk down here?” Con was frowning.

“Yeah.” As Con’s frown deepened, he said, “I’m supposed to walk. Really. It’s good for me.”

“It’s two miles from The Birches. I doubt if your doctor had that kind of hike in mind.”

Finn didn’t really register that, because he had realized that while one of the photos on the mantle was of Con and his family at some anniversary celebration, the other one was of Fitch. It gave him a very strange feeling, and he missed the next two things Con said.

Picking up the frame, he studied it. They were standing outside some kind of antique store, and Fitch was smiling. He looked relaxed and happy—and so did Con. He had draped a casual arm around Fitch, who was holding a large handcrafted model of an “Ironsides” yacht.

When the hell had Fitch and Con gone off together…? Finn had the peculiar sensation of missing a step in the dark because…it wasn’t Fitch in the photo, it was him. He had completely forgotten that trip to Union—less than a week before he’d walked in on Fitch and Con in the lighthouse keeper’s cottage.

Ironically, he had started to believe that weekend that Con was falling in love with him.

“Finn, what’s the matter?” Con asked for the third time, and by now he sounded alarmed. He put a hesitant hand on Finn’s shoulder. “Why don’t you sit down?”

That seemed like a good idea, and Finn dropped into the nearest chair, still holding the framed photograph.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Con said, and if had been anyone besides Con, Finn would have considered him to be fussing. “You can’t keep doing these marathons until you’re stronger. You could fall, you could faint—”

Finn looked up into his hard, anxious face. “What happened between you and Fitch that day?”

His question cut Con off midsentence. “What do you mean?” He sounded wary.

“After I left the lighthouse cottage. What happened between you?”

“Nothing.”

Finn was abruptly irritated. He put the framed photo on the table next to him with a clatter. “Nothing? Something must have happened. You must have had something to say to each other. Like…gosh, this is awkward!”

“I don’t recall what I said to him.” Con’s expression was bleak. “I think—”

“What?”

After a hesitation, Con said, “I think I hit him.”

“You…hit him?”

“He was laughing. I don’t even remember what he said, but I…I seem to recall punching him.”

Finn closed his eyes for an instant. “Did you kill him?”

“What?”

Finn opened his eyes, and Con was staring at him, aghast. “No, I didn’t kill him. What the hell are you talking about?”

“No one has seen Fitch since that day.”

“What? What are you saying?”

Finn didn’t bother to repeat it. Con’s black gaze seemed fixed on his.

“That’s not possible. He left the island. Someone had to have seen him go.”

“I haven’t found anyone so far.”

“Wait a minute,” Con said, and it was his normal, brisk tone. He sat down in the chair across from Finn’s, leaning forward, his expression intent—he could have been applying his mind to any academic puzzle. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying no one has seen Fitch in three years?”

“Right.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It’s not possible if he’s still alive.”

“You think he’s dead?”

Finn said carefully, “As far as I can make out, you were the last person to see him alive.”

Con drew back. His expression was startled, but not…particularly guilty. He seemed astonished more than anything.

“I didn’t kill him, Finn.” Con said it plain and simple, and Finn found that unexpectedly reassuring. “I was angry, but…it was mostly at myself. What I’d done. What I’d…destroyed.”

“What happened after you hit him?”

“I didn’t wait to see. I went after you. I spent the entire fucking day searching the island for you. I thought you would go to the cove. I waited there. Then I thought you might come here. Then I thought you might go into the village. Then I tried the cove again. Then I tried The Birches. Finally I thought of Ballard’s Rock, and that’s where I was headed when I found you that night.” He swallowed hard. “By then I was…terrified…”

Finn’s smile was caustic. “You thought I’d done something dramatic like pitch myself from the cliff?”

Con said quietly, “All I knew was that you loved me and I took that love and shoved it right back in your face. You weren’t the most worldly kid.”

“I wasn’t a kid.”

“You were twenty-three, but you’d spent most of your life on this rock in the company of folks who were a lot older than you. People who thought queer only happened to other people. People in big bad cities—like Sodom and Gomorrah.”

Finn said defensively, “I had Fitch.”

Con said nothing.

“You don’t know a damn thing about it,” Finn argued hotly. “No, I wasn’t worldly, but I did get that I was only a passing thing for you. And I wasn’t about to kill myself over it.”

“I know,” Con said. “I realize that now. At the time I was…scared.”

Unappeased, Finn said shortly, “So you punched Fitch and left him there, and in all this running around the island, you never ran into him again?”

Con shook his head.

“What about when you went to The Birches?”

“I didn’t see him—” Con paused, and his expression changed.

“What? What did you remember?”

“When I was waiting for you outside the cave in Otter Cove, I vaguely remember seeing someone up in the lighthouse tower. My first thought was it was you, but then I remembered your tracks had led away down the beach.”

“So who was it?”

“I couldn’t tell at that distance, but at the time I think I assumed it was Fitch. If he’d wanted to see where either of us went, the tower would have given him a bird’s-eye view of half the island.”

“What time was that?”

“Less than half an hour after all hell broke loose.” Con studied Finn’s face. “Are you serious about this? You honestly believe Fitch is dead?”

“I…don’t know.”

Con was frowning, watching him. “Then why does everyone believe he left the island that afternoon?”

“Because his things were gone. His suitcases and clothes were gone, and Hiram’s station wagon was left at the wharf as though Fitch had driven down there and caught the boat for the mainland. And it made sense given everything that happened.”

“Does it? But didn’t Martha see him come back and pack? Didn’t Hiram drive him? Didn’t he say good-bye to Tom?”

“Martha was in Harpswell that entire week. Her sister was sick. Hiram was clearing out poison ivy at the back of the property all that afternoon. Uncle Tom was in Portland stuck at the airport. Everyone assumed Fitch came in, packed, and drove the station wagon down to the village himself.”

“He didn’t leave a note or anything?”

Finn shook his head. “But that wasn’t so unusual. He always came and went as he liked. Anytime he left a note, it was for me. He wouldn’t have done that this time…”

“I’m not so sure. I always thought that scene was more about Fitch’s jealousy over you, than Fitch’s jealousy over me.”

“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”

“It means,” Con said dryly, “that you were the most important person in Fitch’s life, and he didn’t like sharing you. Especially with me.” Finn opened his mouth to object, but Con was already following another thought. “Someone at the wharf or in the village must have seen him leave that day. There would be a record of a ticket sale, a ship’s log—something that would prove either way?”

“Paul and I did some checking earlier. The only ship that Fitch could have sailed on was The Sea Auk, which sank last year in that freak storm. No records. As for anyone remembering seeing Fitch…it was the summer. There were all kinds of visitors on the island. If this had happened last week…but three years ago? Nobody remembers anything. Even Martha and Hiram aren’t that clear on the details, and they’re part of the household.”

“But you realize what you’re saying?” Con asked quietly. “If Fitch didn’t leave the island, you’re hypothesizing that someone went into the house, packed up his things, and borrowed the station wagon to make it look like he did. You’re saying someone deliberately concealed the fact that Fitch was dead.”

Reluctantly, Finn nodded.

Con’s voice was very low. “You’re suggesting that someone murdered him.”

“It could have been an accident.”

Con was shaking his head. “If it was an accident, why wouldn’t that person come forward? Why go to elaborate lengths to hide the truth?”

“I don’t know.”

“If what you’re suggesting is true, I don’t believe it could have been an accident.”

Finn’s gaze met Con’s dark one. “But I don’t see why anyone would deliberately… I can’t believe that anyone would want Fitch dead.”

Con reached out and squeezed his uninjured knee; he withdrew his hand immediately. He said neutrally, “There was a side to Fitch you didn’t see—or didn’t see it until that day.”

“What are you saying?”

“Only that…for one instant in that cottage, when you walked away and Fitch was standing there laughing, I wanted him dead. I’m not the only person who ever felt that way.”

Finn straightened, unconsciously bracing himself as Con continued, “Fitch had a cruel streak. I don’t know why or what made him the way he was, but he enjoyed being rude, he enjoyed seeing people squirm, he enjoyed hurting people.”

Finn got up fast—and awkwardly, belatedly steadying himself on the chair, ignoring the pain in his injured leg. “That’s not true!”

Con rose too. “It is true. Are you telling me you never heard the way he talked to Thomas? Or Hiram? Or plenty of other people?”

“He was joking.”

“He wasn’t funny. He was cruel. You never talked to anyone that way.”

“I…”

“Don’t make excuses for him. The reason you never noticed any of that was because you were such a nice, sweet-tempered guy.”

“Oh great!” Finn’s face twisted in comical disgust. “Nice. There’s the kiss of death right there.”

“I know.” Con’s smile was crooked. “Awful, isn’t it? But you were the nicest guy I’ve ever known. And I wish to hell I had appreciated it at the time. I mean that as a compliment. Fitch was different with you, and you…didn’t see the way he was with others.”

“So you’re saying he made fun of someone and they killed him?”

“I don’t know what happened. I know that Fitch could have said the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time—sometimes that’s the way it happens.”

That was the historian talking. “But if someone did all those things…packed his clothes, took the car…then it was premeditated.”

“Not necessarily.”

“If someone hid his body…”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Con said. “It’s not that big an island. So where would someone hide Fitch’s body?”

Finn sat down again. “I can’t believe we’re casually talking about this, talking about Fitch being dead. Murdered.” He rested his face in his hands. “I can’t believe it.”

Con came over to him, squatted down next to him, putting an arm around his shoulders. It took all Finn’s willpower not to lean into him.

“You might be wrong. I hope you’re wrong…but you’ve made a pretty convincing case. Now I’m wondering. More than wondering. Frankly, I think Fitch probably is dead.”

Neither said anything for a time. Finally Finn raised his head. He said wearily, “I don’t know what to do. Should we call the state police? I haven’t even talked to Uncle Tom about the possibility yet. What if I am wrong?”

Con’s gaze seemed to linger on his mouth, and for an uncomfortable moment Finn thought Con might lean forward and brush his lips against Finn’s. Instead, he drew back, rising.

“Let’s wait a bit,” he said. “Why don’t we try this: why don’t we go out to the last place we know Fitch was alive?”

Finn stared at him. “The lighthouse?”

Con nodded. “The lighthouse.”

Chapter Six

“Who is Paul?” Con asked as they took the long, meandering road that wound up to the abandoned lighthouse. “You said you and Paul went down to the marina to check when Fitch might have left the island.”

Finn, distracted by any number of unpleasant reflections, dragged his gaze away from the rise and fall of the road ahead. “Paul Ryder. He’s a friend.”

“Close friend?”

“Close enough.” Finn added, “We’re not lovers, if that’s what you mean. He came because…I needed some company. At least, I thought I did. I wasn’t sure what to expect here. Paul’s an art dealer—a pretty successful one—so his schedule is, well, he makes his own schedule.”

There was nothing to read in Con’s voice or profile. He might simply have been making polite conversation. “He must be a pretty good friend to drop everything to keep you company.”

“He’s a pretty good friend,” Finn agreed. “But I think part of the attraction was he wanted to see where Fitch grew up. They had a thing a few years back, and I don’t know if Paul ever really got over it. I mean, he’s still pretty caustic and sometimes that means there are still feelings there.”

“Yes,” Con said. “Indifference is the worst.”

Finn stared out the window at the trees, the flash of brisk blue water behind the golden wall of autumn leaves. The sun was very bright. He’d forgotten sunglasses, and he put his hand up to shield his eyes.

“All right?”

He hadn’t realized that Con was watching him so closely. “I’m okay.”

“There’s an extra pair of sunglasses in the glove compartment.”

Finn shook his head. “I hate them. I won’t wear them until I don’t have a choice.”

Con’s brows drew together.

After another mile of silence, Con’s voice jerked him out of his thoughts again. “The guy who was killed in the car accident that injured you…?”

“Tristan. Another friend,” Finn said unemotionally. “He might have been something more. We never got the chance to find out.”

After a hesitation, Con said, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

They did not talk the rest of the way. It was not a long drive, but the road was a roundabout one snaking through the hills and woods. As the road wound its way, Finn glimpsed the lighthouse through tree branches. He studied Con’s profile and thought that Con’s expression was peculiar. Remote and yet resolute. As though feeling his gaze, Con glanced at him and then—perhaps misreading Finn—slowed the Land Rover.

Finn was increasingly tense as the miles passed, but it was not the fear of another accident. In fact, he couldn’t understand his own mounting stress.

It wasn’t until the final stretch of road at last uncoiled at the top of a green hillock overlooking the ocean, and Con rolled to a stop in the sandy square beside the keeper’s dwelling, that Finn recognized what was disquieting him. He glanced at Con’s grim profile, stared at the small white brick building with the boarded windows, and all the while his heart was pounding in hard, hollow slams as though someone were kicking an empty oil drum. Suddenly he was very sure he did not want to take this any further. Very sure that he would be happier not knowing what he was about to find out.

Con opened his door, and Finn said desperately, “Con—”

Leaning back inside, Con said, “What is it?”

“I’m not feeling— Can we do this another time?”

“What’s wrong?”

Finn shook his head, but Con was already coming around the front of the Land Rover, opening the door on Finn’s side. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He slipped his arm around Finn and helped him out of the vehicle, his hands very gentle, his face concerned. “It’s your eyes again?”

“Yes. No. I’m okay,” Finn said. “Maybe a little—”

“Carsick?” Con asked. “Light-headed?”

Try afraid of you, Finn thought. Because as he stared into Con’s buccaneer eyes, he couldn’t help remembering that everything Con had told him that day indicated that Con was the person most likely to have murdered Fitch—if Fitch were truly dead and not playing some cruel game.

“Jesus,” Con said, sounding alarmed as he eased Finn back against the side of the Rover. “You’re as white as the fucking stones. Do you want to— What do you want, sugar? You want to sit down or do you want to walk a little?”

Sugar. Finn could have cried at the old pet name. Why did Con have to do that? Why didn’t he call him something stupid, like “Huckleberry”? Why did he have to be so tender and…loving now? Why did he have to do any of this?

But it was Finn who had started it, not Con. It was Finn who had made the mistake of coming back here, coming back to Seal Island. He should have let well enough alone. He should have left this place and all its memories to slide into the past and sink to the bottom of his consciousness.

“Rest for a minute. You’re pushing yourself too hard.” Con was worrying aloud. “These headaches… I keep forgetting you’re only a couple of days out of the hospital. This could have waited.”

“I just need a…little air,” Finn said desperately, because he couldn’t think while Con’s hands were moving in conscious or unconscious caress on his shoulders, and Con’s face was mere inches from his own.

“You want to walk?” Con was watching him intently. “I’ll help you. Lean on me.”

He tried to slip his arm around Finn’s waist, but Finn freed himself clumsily. “In a minute. Why don’t you…why don’t you go up into the lighthouse and see…if there’s anything to see?”

“You don’t want to look for yourself?” Con’s dark eyes never left his own.

Finn shook his head.

“Are you all right if I leave you for a minute or two?”

Finn nodded tightly.

Con scrutinized him for another few seconds, clearly divided; then he said, “All right. I’ll run up and take a quick look around. The place may be locked up for all I know.”

Finn licked his dry lips, nodded again.

Con turned away and strode toward the boarded-up dwelling. Finn watched him try the door. It opened with a soprano screech of frozen hinges, and Con disappeared inside.

Finn reached into the Land Rover and grabbed his cane. He hadn’t been kidding about needing air. He felt woozy with a combination of dread and confusion. At least part of it was that irrational fear of going into that claustrophobic dark of the keeper’s dwelling, but the rest was genuine foreboding that he had started something that couldn’t be stopped.

If he forced himself to look at the situation with cold logic, Con had opportunity, means, and motive—by his own admission. And as Paul would no doubt have pointed out, Rutherford’s hatchet-faced Miss Marple was always boisterously enthusiastic about such a criminous trifecta. Con had not wanted to call the police. Con had wanted Finn to come out here alone with him. Why? So he could kill Finn too?

But…this was Con.

He was the most civilized man Finn knew; he still used the library for God’s sake. Con who drank Earl Grey tea and read fantasy and listened to Barber and wrote histories about long-ago injustices in an effort to set the score straight. Con, who had held Ripley in his arms to the very end when the old dog had to be put down. Con, who, despite his determination not to get enmeshed in a relationship, had been the gentlest and most painstaking lover Finn had known. That weekend they had gone to Union, staying at a quaint bed-and-breakfast, going to the Farnsworth Art Museum, Damariscotta Lake, the Antique Toy and Art Museum…that had been the single best weekend of Finn’s life.

It wasn’t…possible.

But what else made sense? Fitch had his faults, God knew, but the idea that someone had killed him because…because he was rude to them? Because he had been insensitive?

He got Paul’s cell phone out and began to dial the house.

“Finn, you’re closer to the edge than you realize.” A hard hand came down on Finn’s shoulder, and he nearly jumped from the rocky cliff all on his own. Lost in his own thoughts, he hadn’t heard Con’s approach, and there was no hiding his alarm as he turned, dropping the cell phone and knocking the other man’s hand away, ready to fight.

“What’s the matter with you?” Con’s expression was startled.

Finn clutched his cane with both hands, braced for whatever was coming. But it seemed that nothing was coming.

The surprise on Con’s face hardened slowly into disbelief, then anger.

“You think I killed Fitch?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “And then what? Brought you up here to murder you too?”

“What’s in the lighthouse?” Finn croaked.

“I don’t know what’s in the fucking lighthouse, because it’s too dark to see and I forgot to replace the batteries in my flashlight. What do you think is in the lighthouse? Proof that I killed your brother?”

“Did you?” Finn got out between stiff lips.

“How can you even ask me that?” Con cried, and the anguish in his voice seemed too raw to be faked. “I already told you I didn’t. I told you exactly what happened that day.”

“And you told me that you punched him and that for a minute you wanted him dead. Maybe when you hit him, he fell and hit his head—”

“If I had accidentally killed Fitch, I’d have gone to the authorities. I wouldn’t have tried to hide it.” There was contempt in Con’s voice. “I wouldn’t have spent the afternoon searching for you—which, by the way, I can prove. In part at least.”

“All right. Prove it.”

“Barnaby Purdon was fishing in Otter Cove most of the time I was waiting there after I left Fitch—alive—here.”

“That doesn’t prove anything! I only have your word that Fitch was alive when you left him. Besides, you said yourself it was too far away to know for sure who was in the lighthouse tower.”

“Well, who else could it have been?”

Finn shook his head stubbornly. “I-I don’t know. But it’s not proof, Con.”

He raked an impatient hand through his pale hair. “All right. Try this on. Estelle Minton was working in her garden when I walked up to The Birches. I think she’ll be willing to testify I wasn’t carrying a body.”

“Don’t make fun of it. For God’s sake!”

“No. You’re right,” Con said tightly. “There’s nothing funny about this. And there’s no point discussing it with you. If you think I killed your fucking brother, then go call the state police. Go do whatever the hell it is you think you need to do, Finn. But stay away from me.”

He turned and walked away to the Land Rover. He got in, started the engine, and drove away without looking back.

Finn painfully lowered himself to the ground, picked up the dropped cell phone, and dialed The Birches. He got Martha, who instructed him to invite Con to supper. He told her Con was otherwise engaged and asked for Paul.

Paul’s fluting tones answered a couple of seconds later.

“I’m at the lighthouse,” Finn told him. “Can you bring the station wagon? And can you borrow a couple of flashlights from Martha. Tell her…I don’t know. Something. Tell her I want to paint the tower or the cliffs from above and I need to get into the old building to look around.”

“Are you going to paint the tower?” asked the ever-hopeful art dealer.

“No.”

“Oh. What did you find out?” Paul demanded. “Did he admit it?”

“No, he didn’t admit anything. I don’t believe he did kill Fitch.” Finn added shortly, “I think Fitch might be playing some cruel game on all of us.”

There was a sharp silence. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. Oh, I don’t know! It’s…very hard to believe that anyone would kill Fitch. And I sure as hell don’t believe Con did.”

“What did he say that so convinced you?”

“Among other things, he told me to call the cops.”

“Oh.”

“Can you bring the car?” Finn asked wearily when the empty buzz on the line persisted.

“On my way,” Paul said and hung up.

It was about twenty minutes before the station wagon tires crunched onto the sandy shale and parked in front of the lighthouse. By then Finn was chilled through and completely depressed.

He picked himself off the ground as Paul unfolded from the station wagon and waved cheerfully.

Paul loped up, inquiring, “Is Martha a blood relation?”

“Technically she’s not any relation at all.”

“That’s good. So she can’t actually send you to bed without supper? Because those were the dire threats she was muttering when I left.”

Finn snorted.

Paul studied his face. “What’s up? Why so glum?”

Finn shook his head. “Did you bring flashlights?”

Paul held up a cautioning finger and ducked back into the car. He brought out two high-powered flashlights. “I don’t know how you’re going to get up those stairs, with that leg, though. You probably should leave it to me.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Paul shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

They opened the front door of the keeper’s cottage, flashlight beams stabbing through the darkness. Faded daylight pried through the boards nailed unevenly across the windows throwing odd bars of light here and there on the stone walls.

Plenty of light…really. Anyway, he couldn’t spend the rest of his life afraid of the dark.

“Gadzooks. It’s like a cave in here!”

Finn swallowed hard, said conversationally, “I’m amazed the place hasn’t been totally trashed.”

Paul retorted, “I think you must mean trashed in a relative sense.”

He had a point. The wooden floor and wall paneling had been pulled up and removed, and there was silver graffiti painted over one wall—a pentagram and some odd symbols—but otherwise the structure was mostly unharmed. It smelled strongly of damp and animal.

Finn’s heart was ricocheting around his rib cage in panic. It made him angry. He was not giving into this, not giving into irrational, superstitious fear. He forced his voice to stay steady, unhurried. “It’s so far from the village, there’s nothing really to tempt anyone out here but hikers and photographers.” He shone his flashlight to the black oblong at the end of the room that had once served as a kitchen. “There’s the entrance to the tower.”

“It looks like the doorway to a tomb.” It did too.

“Nice,” Finn growled.

“Well, you know. One tries,” Paul said breezily, but his voice sounded as nervous as Finn felt. It helped a little knowing he wasn’t the only one struggling. Paul added in that strained tone, “This place isn’t haunted or anything, is it?”

“It didn’t use to be.”

“Nice one yourself!”

They moved slowly to the door of the tower and looked upward. Light from a window midway up the turret cast a perfect square on the opposite wall. In the blue light filtered from the windows in the lamp room, the narrow spiral of iron staircase looked like the interior of some exotic conical seashell.

“Do you think it’s safe?” Paul inquired, shining his flashlight at the cobwebbed lowest step.

“I think safe is another one of those relative terms.” Finn directed his own beam around the circular room. “We used to play in here when we were kids. It felt different then. Not so…empty.”

“How tall is it?”

“The entire tower is about eighty feet, but that includes the lamp.”

Paul shone his light in Finn’s direction. “Not that I wouldn’t like to see the prices of your work appreciate, but I’d hate them to skyrocket because of a fatal accident. I think you should stay down here while I go up.”

No way was he staying down here with only this watery blue light to hold the darkness at bay. “You can go first,” Finn said. “I’ll take my time.”

“I’m not sure what we’re looking for at this point.”

Finn wasn’t sure what to make of this about face. Paul had pushed him to question Con, but now he seemed to be leery of the idea of investigating further. Was he maybe a little freaked inside the creepy old structure? Finn couldn’t blame him for that.

“I don’t know. That’s why we’re looking.”

Paul started up the staircase. The metal steps rang hollowly beneath his feet. He stopped.

“I’m not sure what the point of this is,” he said, a little testily. “It’s not like his body is going to be up there.” In the silence that followed his words, he said, “I didn’t mean it like that. You know what I mean.”

“It’s all right if you don’t want to go up,” Finn said. He was moving very slowly, very cautiously up the staircase, holding tight to the metal banister with his free hand and his cane with the other.

“You’re going to break your neck, and your housekeeper is going to send me to bed without supper.”

Finn stopped. “Paul, you don’t have to go up, but I do. I don’t know why, but I feel like I do. This was the last place anyone saw Fitch alive.”

But had it been Fitch in the light tower that morning? Con was not sure. Finn shrugged that thought away.

“Oh, fuck!” Paul said and turned, marching up the staircase. It clanged noisily in the wake of his steps.

“Wow!” Finn heard him say after a time.

His own progress was tedious and painful. Soaked in sweat by the time he made it to the top, it wasn’t until he was tottering on the last step that he began to consider how difficult the trip down was going to be in the fast-encroaching dusk.

“That doesn’t look too promising,” Paul said as Finn stepped out onto the circular landing. He nodded out to sea, where the sky was turning an ominous black and green. Witch lights seemed to flash and flicker in the roiling clouds.

“There’s a storm moving in,” Finn said.

“Duh. I recognize it from the movie. The one with gorgeous George Clooney and Marky Mark.”

Finn snickered, wiped his perspiring face on his sleeve. It had been a long time since he’d experienced an island gale. He wasn’t thrilled at the idea. It usually meant power outages and being completely cut off from the mainland for hours, if not days. “It may pass us by,” he said without much hope.

“I have to admit,” Paul said after a pause. “It’s quite a view.”

In accord, they stared down at the gray-green surf churning over the rocks far below them.

Paul said finally, “If…someone fell, he’d have gone straight into the drink.”

“It depends on the time of day and year,” Finn said. “In the morning, at that time of year, the tide was probably out. He’d hit the rocks.”

“Lovely.” Paul heaved a heavy sigh. “Well, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but there’s no way Fitch jumped. And there are much easier ways of killing someone than dragging them up seventy-three stairs and pushing them off a balcony.

“He climbed up to look for something that morning—there was something he wanted to see on the island. I’m wondering what it was.” Finn slowly traversed the metal platform staring out over water, rocks, hills, treetops, hills, and more rocks and water.

“See anything?” Paul asked when he rejoined him.

Finn shook his head. They stood in silence, watching the storm rolling toward them over the choppy water.

“I think we should go down before that hits,” Paul said. “This tower must act like a lightning rod in a storm.”

Finn nodded.

Paul pushed away from the side, crossed the platform, and started down the stairs, his feet clanging on the metal rungs. Finn started to turn away, stopped. The railing around the platform was painted a dull brick color. It was weathered and chipped in places. Where Paul had been standing, there were several long, narrow marks where the paint had scraped away. The marks curved over the top of the railing and continued down the other side—dropping away to nothing.

Finn counted the scratches in the paint. There were ten of them.

Chapter Seven

Wednesday evenings for as long as Finn could remember, Barnaby Purdon came to The Birches for dinner and checkers with Uncle Thomas.

Barnaby had been a teacher on the mainland, and before his retirement he made the trip back and forth from the island every weekday. Finn and Fitch had been homeschooled, but Barnaby had overseen their education as much as anyone could be said to have overseen it, and Finn had always liked the pale, twitchy but enthusiastic young man Barnaby had been. Barnaby had a way of pointing out the gossipy, interesting bits of academia, so Finn and Fitch hadn’t only studied geometry, they had learned about Harappan mathematics, and the I Ching, and Plato.

No longer young, and no longer twitchy, Barnaby was still enthusiastic, and he greeted Finn warmly that evening. “How’s that brother of yours?” he inquired as Uncle Thomas handed whiskey sours—another part of the Wednesday evening tradition—all around.

Barnaby was smiling quizzically. Gazing into his pale face, Finn abruptly remembered that here was another person Fitch had not cared for. He had called Barnaby the White Rabbit and mocked him in secret—and sometimes openly. Finn had always tried to ignore it, tune it out, but Con’s words of the afternoon resonated even though Finn had tried to deny them.

“I haven’t seen him in three years,” Finn answered and took a cocktail glass from the tray.

Barnaby raised his white eyebrows. His blond hair had turned silver now, and that reminded Finn of Miss Minton. That was something he really didn’t want to remember: the way Fitch had mocked Barnaby about Miss Minton being in love with him.

As little as Finn wanted to admit it, Con had been right. Fitch’s sense of humor could be cruel sometimes. He had been cruel about Miss Minton and Barnaby, and if there had been the tentative beginnings of something between them, it had shriveled by being exposed to merciless light too early on.

“Out of the country, is he?” Barnaby asked. “He always did have itchy feet.”

“They have powder for that,” Paul chimed in. “In Fitch’s case, I’d have recommended rat poison.”

Barnaby looked surprised, and Uncle Thomas coughed. Paul met Finn’s glare innocently.

Finn said, “To tell you the truth, I’ve been trying to find out what happened to him. No one seems to have seen him since he supposedly left the island three years ago.”

“Supposedly?” Barnaby repeated.

“Finn,” Uncle Thomas said uncomfortably and then stopped.

As though speaking to the at-home viewers, Paul said airily, “He’s very stubborn. Once he gets something into his head, it’s impossible to shake him loose. He’s convinced that Fitch is dead. That he was murdered.”

Into the shocked silence that followed Paul’s words came the sound of smashing glass from the dining room. They all turned as Martha appeared white-faced in the doorway.

“What are you saying?” she asked. Her eyes were enormous in her stricken face.

“Why did you have to put it like that?” Finn asked Paul, moving to Martha.

“What in God’s name is going on?” Uncle Thomas demanded, looking from face to face.

“It’s not true,” Martha said to Finn, but she sounded like she was begging for reassurance, not really denying it.

“I don’t know,” Finn said. “I mean, I’m not sure. There’s no proof that Fitch ever left the island. And no one ever saw him again after that day.”

“What day?” Barnaby asked, sounding bewildered.

“The day Finn found Conway Twitty and Fitch fucking in the lighthouse,” Paul said.

“That’s about enough of that,” Uncle Thomas said in a tone Finn had rarely heard. “I won’t have that kind of talk in this house.”

Paul laughed. “You do know your nephew is gay, right?”

“That’s Finn’s business. I’m not going to—”

“This is totally off the track,” Finn interrupted. “The point is that Fitch disappeared three years ago and hasn’t been seen since. I think something happened to him that day.”

“You think he’s dead,” Paul corrected.

Three horrified faces turned his way. Finn said, “I do. Yes.”

Martha faltered, “But if…if there had been some accident…”

“I don’t think it was an accident. Someone packed his things to make it look like he left on his own. That couldn’t happen accidentally.”

“But that’s…that’s crazy,” Uncle Thomas said. Barnaby glanced at him but said nothing.

“I knew it,” Martha moaned. “I always felt something was wrong, him leaving like that and Finn the next day. I knew when Finn said he hadn’t seen him…”

“No.” Uncle Thomas spoke firmly. “No. It’s impossible. Ridiculous. No one would do such a thing. And if it were true…where are his things? Where is the…the body?”

Martha moaned again. Rain shushed softly against the windows.

“No one’s looked for them,” Paul said. “No one’s looked for him. If someone started looking…”

“Have you called the police yet?” Barnaby asked calmly into the stunned silence.

Finn shook his head, gazing at his uncle. “I wanted to talk to you first.”

“C-call the police?” Uncle Thomas was practically stuttering. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve heard yet. Call the police based on…on what? This is Fitch we’re talking about, is it not? He’s just as likely to be deliberately playing some hoax on us.”

“For three years?” Martha cried. “He wouldn’t. Not for three years.”

“Martha’s right,” Finn said. “I think three years negates the possibility of this being a hoax.”

“Although I don’t put anything beyond him,” Paul said casually, moving to take a layered cream cheese biscuit off the tray on the credenza.

Uncle Thomas put his glass down. “Finn, I don’t believe you’ve thought this all the way through. Do you have any idea how truly unpleasant a police investigation would be? It would be in the papers, you understand? They would ask questions of all of us, and they wouldn’t stop until they had all the details of that day—the whole story of what happened between you and Con and Fitch.”

Not for the first time, it occurred to Finn to wonder how, if Fitch had never returned to The Birches, everyone at the house seemed to know what had taken place that morning at the lighthouse? He blurted, “How do you know about that?”

Uncle Thomas looked at Martha, and Martha, oddly enough, was the one who answered. “Mr. Carlyle came to the house to find you the next afternoon. It wasn’t hard to put together what must have happened. Fitch was… Well, he had his funny ways. No mistake.”

“Fitch was jealous of you,” Paul said. “He was jealous of you, and he was jealous of you, if you get what I mean.”

“Huh?”

“He competed with you, competed with you for attention from people like Con. From everyone, I imagine. But he also wanted you all to himself. He was jealous of time and attention you gave others, right?”

Finn stared at them bewilderedly. This was very much what Con had said, but Finn had never seen any of this in his relationship with his twin. He wanted to tell them that they were all wrong, but he was too much of a realist to believe that everyone else could see it the same way and still be mistaken.

Martha said uncomfortably, “Mr. Carlyle was… Well…”

“Con was distraught,” Uncle Tom said crisply. “I don’t see what’s to be gained by digging all this up now.”

“I think Tom’s right,” Barnaby said quietly. “Best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“I don’t understand.”

Paul said, “They want you to shut up about it. They want you to forget about Fitch.”

Finn stared at the ring of faces watching him with varying degrees of wariness. He said to Martha, “You don’t believe that, do you? You don’t believe we can—we should—just forget this? Forget that Fitch has been murdered?”

“We don’t know that for sure,” she faltered. “He might have left the island. Just because we can’t prove it, doesn’t mean he didn’t leave of his own free will. And if the police start digging…and the papers…it’s going to be…bad. Bad for all of us.”

“Murder is bad for all of us,” Finn said.

“It’s not merely you and your reputation at stake,” Uncle Thomas said flatly. “There’s my own name and reputation—this family’s name and reputation. There’s Con’s name and reputation. A thing like this could ruin us all.”

Finn opened his mouth to make an impatient reply, but Barnaby said, “Have you thought about the fact that you’ll be under suspicion as well?”

“Me?”

“If I understand correctly, there was some falling out between you, Fitch, and Conlan Carlyle. That means that you and Carlyle will be the prime suspects.”

“Do you have an alibi for that day?” Paul inquired sweetly.

Finn stared at him.

“You’re talking about disrupting a lot of lives…and we don’t even know for sure that Fitch isn’t perfectly well and merrily raising hell in some other corner of the world.” Uncle Thomas picked up his drink and sipped it. With an air of having said the final word, he said, “Martha, is dinner about ready?”

Martha made a visible effort to pull herself together. With a guilty look at Finn, she nodded to her employer and left the room.

“I don’t believe this,” Finn said at last.

Barnaby smiled uncomfortably at him—offering that same sort of silent half apology Martha had—before handing his glass to Thomas for a refill.

Finn opened his mouth. He closed it. Clearly, if he was going to proceed, it was going to be against the will of everyone at The Birches—with the exception of Paul, who moved to his side and said under his breath, “Don’t worry. We’ll find proof.”

Dinner was a strange affair. The food, as always, was excellent. Roast beef and Martha’s shrimp-stuffed triple-baked potatoes. Barnaby and Uncle Thomas chatted pleasantly about politics and general island business, directing comments to Finn and Paul, but not pausing long enough for either of the younger men to really join in the conversation—let alone redirect it. On the surface, everything seemed normal. The conversation in the parlor might never have occurred, but as casual as Uncle Thomas and Barnaby seemed, Finn was conscious of being carefully and deliberately corralled.

The discussion regarding Fitch was clearly over.

It was unbelievable, and yet…it was a perfect example of how life on Seal Island had always been…isolated and self-contained. It was as though they none of them realized how unrealistic—otherworldly—their attitude was. In fact, scooping the creamy, steaming-hot filling out of the potato shell, Finn couldn’t help wondering if maybe he was the one missing the point. Maybe he should leave well enough alone.

Not only did he dread the idea of being the focus of a police investigation—what the hell kind of an alibi did he have for that day? He’d spent it sitting on top of a mountain staring at the ocean and trying not to think. He was horrified at the idea of dragging Con into the limelight. Nothing could have convinced him of Con’s innocence as effectively as his hurt fury at the lighthouse that afternoon.

He remembered only too clearly how fiercely protective of his privacy Con had always been.

In fact, every time he thought of Con, his stomach knotted with anxiety. It had been much easier when he was confident in his unyielding anger and rancor. But Con’s remorse, his continued displays of affection and caring, were wearing Finn down. Equally wearing were the times when Con seemed to indicate that he was moving on or losing interest in pursuing anything with Finn. When it came to Con, Finn was a mess of contradictory feelings—the bottom line being that whether he could sort them out yet or not, he did still have feelings for Con. Con was making it hard to ignore those feelings. And now Finn had weakened his own position of utter inviolate righteousness by doing something fairly unforgivable…like accusing Con of murder.

’Cause nothing put a damper on romance like suspicions of homicide.

But Fitch…as angry and hurt and unforgiving as Finn had believed himself…he couldn’t bear not knowing what had happened to Fitch. Nor could he bear the idea that someone had killed Fitch and was going to be allowed to get away with it. Perhaps that was ironic, given how certain he had been that he could never forgive his twin—but knowing that now there truly would be no chance for reconciliation had changed everything.

At the same time, he couldn’t help being afraid of waking this particular old hound dog. It was a small island, and he was painfully aware that he could rule out the possibility that Fitch had been killed by a passing madman. The odds were, whoever had killed Fitch was someone Finn knew quite well. Maybe loved.

Granted, Fitch had had his secrets—certainly Finn hadn’t known about Con and Fitch until the day that he’d discovered them in the lighthouse. Maybe there was someone else on the island who had known another side of Fitch.

Or maybe someone had followed Fitch to the island. Finn glanced across the table, and Paul met his eyes.

No.

No, right? Because if Paul had been going to kill Fitch, it probably would have been when they were still together. Who waited years? And Paul had moved on. Well, he didn’t have a steady lover—but neither did Finn. No. But it wouldn’t hurt to ask whether Paul had an alibi for that weekend.

When at last the meal was finished, Uncle Tom and Barnaby took their brandies and went off to the study to play checkers.

“Where can we go to talk?” Paul asked in a stage whisper.

Finn shook his head, rising. He led the way upstairs to Fitch’s bedroom. A little frisson rippled down his spine as he pushed the door open and turned on the light.

Looking around himself, Paul said, “This was his room?”

Finn nodded. There was an obstruction in his throat that made it difficult to speak.

The room was the twin of his own—same window seat flanked by dormer windows, same funny-sloping ceiling and long bookshelves. The heavy, mismatched furniture was similar—both rooms had been furnished from other rooms within the house. As with his own room, nothing had been moved or changed, although the room was neatly dusted, the bed made.

How weird to stand here in this room again. Finn closed his eyes, trying to remember, trying to…perhaps reach out to Fitch. But all he sensed was a room that hadn’t been used for a long time. He opened his eyes. There were photos stuck on the mirror over the dresser: a snapshot of himself crossing his eyes for Fitch’s camera, a much older picture of them together swimming, and several shots of people unknown to him. There was a small bowl on the dresser with loose change, a couple of fishing lures, and a pair of dice.

Paul opened the closet door. “His clothes are still here.”

Finn joined him, looking inside. There were some odds and ends pushed to the side. A fishing vest, a couple of flannel shirts, a heavy parka. “Those are mostly his older things. Stuff he’d outgrown or only wore here on the island. He took—well, someone took—most of what he’d brought with him that summer. His suitcases are gone.”

Paul backed out of the closet and looked around the room. “There’s not a lot here.”

“He didn’t like collecting junk.”

Fitch had never been one for acquiring possessions. He had a few books, not nearly the number Finn had—nothing from his childhood. There were no games, no equivalent of Finn’s collection of old sailboat models. There was a fishing pole behind the door and a tennis racket in the closet.

“Did he keep a journal?” Paul asked.

Finn shook his head.

Paul went over to the dresser and took the photos down from the mirror, one by one. “I know some of these people.”

Finn joined him, glancing at the familiar and unfamiliar faces. “Anyone with a grudge against him?”

Paul snorted. “I have no idea why, but most people thought Fitch was perfectly charming—even when he was screwing them over.”

Finn moved to the desk and examined the desktop calendar. It was open to August 18. There was nothing noted for the day. No “betray my brother before breakfast” reminder. He flipped through the back pages, but they were all blank. He said slowly, his thoughts on Uncle Thomas and Barnaby, “I can’t decide if they honestly don’t believe Fitch is dead, or if they’re afraid he really is.”

“I think they know he’s dead. I think your uncle has suspected it long enough that it’s not even a shock.”

Finn sighed. “They’re right, though. I can’t go to the police without something more than this.”

“You could file a missing persons report and let it follow its natural course. Let the police decide if there are grounds for a murder investigation.”

“Yes, but what they said is true. If I open this can of worms, there’s no way of controlling it.”

“So?”

“So? So if the police determine that a murder investigation is warranted, Con and I will both be prime suspects.”

Paul studied Finn, head tilted to one side. “Did you kill him?”

“Ha-ha.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you had.”

“I didn’t kill my brother,” Finn said shortly. “If I had, I wouldn’t be pointing out to everyone that I thought he’d been murdered.”

“You might,” Paul said seriously. “If you thought it had been long enough that people were going to start wondering and asking questions.”

Finn said wearily, “If I had been going to kill anyone that day, it would have been myself. And I wasn’t about to kill myself.”

“You still had too many wonderful paintings left to give the world,” Paul trilled, waving his arm in a broad gesture toward the room’s only painting—one of Finn’s early studies of the lighthouse.

“Yeah, actually. You can laugh about it, but as miserable as I was, I still had a strong sense of the work I wanted to do. I knew it wasn’t always going to be as bad as it was right then.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” Paul eyed him speculatively. “And so you fled to me.”

“You were the only person I knew in Manhattan.”

“Now don’t spoil it, because I’ve always been immensely flattered that you came to me.”

Finn spluttered, “I told you that day when I apologized for barging in on you.”

“Shhhhh, don’t speak…no no no…don’t speak,” Paul said, seemingly channeling Dianne Wiest in Bullets Over Broadway. “Now that I think of it, I wonder why we never got together. We had an obvious natural bond.”

Was rage at Fitch an obvious natural bond? Finn answered, “Because I was still in love with Con and you were still in love with Fitch.”

For a long moment, Paul stared at him. He smiled—he had a surprisingly sweet smile. “I guess that’s true.” He put a hand on his hip, surveying the room thoughtfully. “All right. So if you were a body, where would you hide?”

Chapter Eight

It was a small island, but there were many places one could hide a body. It could be buried in Bell Woods or in the soft sand of the cave at Otter Cove. It could lie undiscovered beneath the wildflowers in one of the meadows or on a hillside beneath a cairn of stones.

The first challenge would be in transporting a corpse in broad daylight.

If Fitch had died at the lighthouse—and Finn and Paul could not agree on this point, as Paul did not concur that the scratches in the light tower looked like marks left by clawing fingernails. But for the sake of argument, if Fitch had died at the lighthouse…the simplest thing would have been to bury him there. The lighthouse was off the beaten track and there was less chance of discovery by a stray hiker’s dog. It also eliminated the need to move the body any distance.

“It wouldn’t be hard to lift you,” Paul commented, examining Finn, who was sitting on Fitch’s bed. “Even when you’re your normal weight, you’re pretty skinny. Maybe one forty, one forty-five? Fitch was more muscular—not a lot a heavier, though.”

“A deadweight is different.”

“Even so. I could do it. You could do it if you didn’t have to carry someone too far.”

Finn considered. “We should talk to Miss Minton. I don’t know if her memory is as sharp as it used to be, but in the old days, no one traveled the road to The Birches without her seeing them. Con said she saw him that day. She might have seen someone else.”

“Is there another way to get to this house besides the main road?”

“There isn’t another drive. There’s a trail that leads to the back of the property.” He remembered that Hiram had been clearing poison ivy out that day along the path.

There was a tap on the door frame, and both Finn and Paul jumped guiltily.

“You boys have been up here awhile,” Martha said, bringing a tray into the bedroom and setting it on the desk where Paul sat. “I brought you some hot chocolate and lobster butter cookies.”

Paul spluttered and put a hand over his mouth, his gaze finding Finn’s.

Martha straightened and eyed Finn sternly. “Mr. Carlyle called a little while ago. He wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

Paul laughed outright. Finn ignored him. He said to Martha, “Con and I argued. It’s not anything new.”

“I don’t understand these things,” she said. “It seems to me that Mr. Carlyle still has powerful feelings for you. And despite what you say, I think you still have feelings for him. Is that such a bad thing? It’s not like there’s so much love in the world that people can afford to go turning it away.”

Finn tried to imagine what Con must have said to Martha to inspire that little speech.

He opened his mouth, but Paul forestalled him, saying, “Martha, between us, who do you think might have killed Fitch?”

She turned slowly and stared at him. “I loved Fitch,” she said. “But I’ll tell you right now, sonny, you’re meddling in things best left alone. And you’re dragging Finn into dangerous waters with you.”

“No one’s dragging me into anything,” Finn said quietly. “If someone killed Fitch, I can’t ignore that.”

“There are all kinds of things we have to ignore every day,” Martha said. “Sometimes it’s better for everyone to let certain things go.”

“You’re talking about turning a blind eye to murder, not spitting on the sidewalk,” Paul said shrilly.

“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” Martha said grimly. She looked at Finn. “Don’t you stay up too late, Finn.”

Paul closed the door after her with a suggestion of a bang. Catching Finn’s expression, he burst out laughing.

* * * * *

It was still raining on Thursday morning, a steady wash of silver rain that was almost invisible in the gray daylight. Fog shrouded the sea, pierced here and there by a dripping tree. It did not look like a particularly auspicious day for sleuthing.

“You don’t think it’s going to snow, do you?” Paul asked, meeting Finn on his way down to breakfast.

“It’s not cold enough.”

“Are you kidding me? I thought the next ice age had come last night.”

Finn threw Paul a guilty glance. He’d been perfectly warm; Martha had brought him extra blankets before he’d fallen asleep. Well, perhaps there was a blanket shortage at The Birches these days. Or perhaps not.

Probably not—as Martha still seemed a little stern when they found her in the kitchen. She ordered them to the table and began piling their plates.

It brought back comfortable memories. The kitchen was very warm and smelled deliciously of bacon and coffee and cinnamon rolls. Martha had the radio on low as she listened to the weather report.

“Paul and I are going to borrow the station wagon this morning,” Finn told her as she refilled his coffee cup. “Unless you or Hiram need it for something?”

Martha directed a disapproving look at Paul, who was busily eating his haystack eggs—baked eggs on fried potato sticks with cheese and bacon topping.

“Dangerous driving conditions today,” she pronounced like a hash-slinging oracle.

“We’ll be careful.”

Martha hmphed. “I don’t need the car today.” She didn’t say more, though it was clear she wished to. Paul grimaced at his plate without looking up.

Breakfast finished, Finn and Paul climbed into the station wagon—Paul driving—and headed slowly and cautiously down the muddy road to Estelle Minton’s.

“So your uncle and the ex-school teacher… Are they…?” Paul peered over the steering wheel at the lazy whorl of fog before them.

“Are they— Huh?” Finn stared at him and did a double take. “Uncle Thomas and Barnaby? God no. They’ve been friends forever.”

“So?”

“You better get your gaydar recalibrated. Neither of them is a member of the sisterhood. I think Barnaby used to have a thing for Miss Minton, and Uncle Thomas was once engaged to a lady from the mainland.”

“What happened to the lady from the mainland?”

“The story is she declined to live on an island, and Uncle Tom couldn’t picture living anywhere else.”

“Uncle Tom is a little set in his ways, isn’t he?”

“Here it is,” Finn interrupted. “You can pull to the side of the road, but don’t get stuck in the mud.”

Most days Miss Minton could be found working out in her yard, but today there was no sign of her, although the battered pickup in the drive indicated she was home. White trails of fog wreathed the rosebushes and trees as though dragged there by the rain. A wheelbarrow sat tipped over next to stacked bags of fertilizer and soil amendment.

Finn swore as his cane sank into the mud, and Paul laughed.

“Need a hand?”

“How about a new leg?”

Crossing the deserted road, they entered through the gate. They knocked on the front door, and after a few seconds it opened. Miss Minton, dressed in comfortably baggy flannels and jeans, stared at them in surprise.

“Finn Barret. Something wrong at The Birches?”

“Nothing like that,” Finn said apologetically. “I was hoping to maybe have a word with you?”

“Well, well.” She directed a skeptical look at Paul. “I expect you’d better come in.”

They followed her into a large room with a picture window that looked out on the road. The room was comfortably furnished in crisp blue and white. A fire burned cheerfully in the grate. A black cat leisurely groomed itself on the pillow-piled sofa.

“Well, you’d better have a seat,” their hostess said. “This isn’t weather for fooling around on the roads. It must be something pretty important to bring you down here?”

Finn glanced at Paul, who was watching him, clearly wanting Finn to take charge here. Which was all very well, but it seemed sort of tactless to hint to Miss Minton he thought her longtime friends and neighbors might be murderers.

“This is going to seem like an odd request,” he said. “I wanted to put that famous memory of yours to the test.”

Miss Minton raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

“August, three years ago…Fitch and I both left the island.” He paused, but Miss Minton had nothing to say to that. “I left on the nineteenth. It was a Tuesday, about eleven o’clock in the morning. We always thought Fitch left on the previous Monday afternoon.”

“But?”

“But no one ever saw him again,” Finn said. “At least, if they did, they’re not admitting it.”

Miss Minton’s brows knitted. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at. Are you saying… What are you saying?”

“We think Fitch is dead,” Paul said as Finn groped for a less shocking way to break the news. “We think someone on this island might have killed him.”

Finn turned on him, and meeting that exasperated stare, Paul said, “What? That’s what we think!”

To Miss Minton, Finn said, “It does seem like Fitch never left the island, and what we were wondering was whether you remembered anything that might have stood out from the ordinary.”

“When?”

“That Monday. The eighteenth of August. I thought you might remember because it was during the time you were still taking art lessons from Uncle Tom.”

Miss Minton looked taken aback. “You expect me to remember something that happened three years ago? Such as what?”

“Like who traveled to and from The Birches that day.”

She was watching him with a peculiar alertness. “Ah,” she said finally. She seemed to look inward. At last she said, “My lessons were Mondays and Wednesdays, but I don’t remember taking a lesson that week.”

“Uncle Tom was supposed to fly to Boston or somewhere for an art show or a lecture. His flight was canceled on Monday, but he spent most of the day in Portland at the airport.”

“That’s right…” Miss Minton said slowly. “I do remember. Con walked past here about lunchtime right before I came in from the garden to change clothes. I don’t remember seeing him walk back, but he wasn’t at The Birches when I arrived about half an hour later. No one was there at all, and I came back home.”

“Did you see anyone else pass here on their way to The Birches that day?”

“It was a long time ago, Finn. I seem to remember your uncle driving past early in the evening. And you and Con walked by about an hour and a half after that.” Her smile was wry. “Con’s voice carried. I remember that.”

Finn colored.

“I’m surprised I remember that much after all this time,” Miss Minton commented, reaching for the cat and cuddling it in her arms.

“Why do you suppose that is?” Paul asked.

Miss Minton gave him a considering stare. “I don’t know. I guess the reason it stayed in my mind is because it was the summer—the very week, in fact—the Barret Boys left Seal Island.”

* * * * *

“She’s like something straight out of Stephen King,” Paul commented as they got back into the car. “Or possibly, What Not to Wear.”

“I don’t see that,” Finn replied irritably. Sometimes Paul’s casual unkindness reminded him of Fitch. “She’s had a hard life.”

“So had Dolores Claiborne. So had Cujo.”

Finn sat unmoving, not really listening. The fog blanketed the car in white, giving them the illusion of complete and utter privacy. “She used to be different when she was younger.”

Paul groaned. “Why do people always say that? Everyone is different when they’re younger. Nobody is born a crotchety old fart.” Studying Finn’s profile, he asked reluctantly, “Different how?”

“Happier. Softer. Pretty.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“I didn’t know her well, but she and Uncle Tom have been friends for years. She used to babysit Con—I didn’t know her then, naturally, but she was always crazy about him. They’re third or fourth cousins, I think.”

“Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Arkansas anymore.”

“I don’t mean that way. She never married, never had kids of her own. Actually, I always thought those art lessons were more about the way she liked Uncle Tom than her really wanting to become a painter.”

“Sacrilege. I thought it was old Barnaby she had a thing for?”

“She did. Well, I mean…I have no idea. What do kids know? She might have been sweet on Barnaby or he might have been sweet on her.”

“As fascinating as Miss Minton’s love life is, where to now?”

Finn said slowly, “The lighthouse.”

“I think so, yeah.”

There were a few alarming seconds while the car’s tires spun in the mud, but then they gained traction and were on the road once more, proceeding with great caution through the white nothingness.

“For the record, I hate driving in this,” Paul said.

Finn nodded absently.

“The fact that she didn’t see anyone but Con that day doesn’t mean that no one else went up to The Birches,” Paul said when Finn’s silence persisted. “They could have gone in the back way. We didn’t talk to Ezra or whatever his name is.”

“Hiram.”

“Right. Maybe he saw someone. Or maybe she missed them. Him.”

“Maybe.”

The car bounced along the uneven track, Paul accelerating as the mist thinned out in patches. “If you think about it,” he said, “it’s kind of hard to believe that someone would simply walk up and shove Fitch off the tower, and then what? Scrape him off the rocks and hide him under a bush?”

Finn rubbed his forehead, smoothing away the little ache in his temple.

“True. To really hide a body you’d either have to weight it down and dump it in the ocean or dig a grave deep enough that no one would accidentally uncover it.”

“If he was dumped in the ocean three years ago, we’re wasting our time.”

“I know.”

“Obviously, if he was killed at the lighthouse, whoever did it couldn’t take a chance on moving a body around in broad daylight. That’s what we think, right? That he was killed in broad daylight?”

“Yes. No one seems to have seen him after he and Con parted ways.”

“Which leads me to wonder—and you won’t like this—how could anyone know he’d be up there?”

Finn sighed. “Either it was Con, and he killed Fitch when he hit him—which I don’t believe—or it was someone who was maybe following Fitch?” He said slowly, working it out, “Or maybe it was someone Fitch had originally planned to meet? Because I remember that night Con was saying to me that it hadn’t been planned, that it hadn’t been arranged, it had just happened. That he’d actually come up to the lighthouse to find me because I was supposed to be sketching there that day.”

Paul’s eyes were trained on the road ahead. He grunted. “Not bad.”

“Here, you’ve missed the turn.”

Paul braked sharply, reversed, and turned off the road leading up to the lighthouse.

“So…you think Fitch arranged to meet this person, but Con showed up first, and Fitch grabbed the opportunity as it presented itself? Yeah, I can see that. He’d enjoy rubbing someone’s nose in it.”

Finn shot him a sideways look and said nothing.

“It could have been someone who was there for another reason, though.” Paul spoke meditatively, “Someone who hiked up there for the view or to sketch…”

Finn’s stomach did an unpleasant flip-flop.

Paul rambled cheerfully on. “Maybe this person had an innocent reason for being there but went a little crazy when he saw what was happening. Maybe he pretended to walk away and hid, and when Con left, he came back and killed Fitch. Because it seems to me that whoever killed Fitch must have been someone Fitch wasn’t afraid of.”

“Fitch wasn’t afraid of anyone.”

“No. He wasn’t.”

Finn added, “And I didn’t come back and kill him. It happened exactly like I said it did.”

Paul chuckled. “I never doubted you. Here we are.” The lighthouse swung suddenly into the windshield’s view, seeming to loom up out of the mist.

They took their flashlights and jackets, got out of the car, and stood staring up at the white tower. A gull appeared out of the mist, crying eerily and disappearing once more.

Paul said, “Let’s put our emotions aside for a sec and look at this logically. If Fitch was killed here, then there’s a good chance he’s buried here. Somewhere. I can’t see anyone taking the risk of moving a body very far.”

“I can’t either.”

“Could he be buried inside? Maybe put into a wall or stuck under the flooring?”

It took Finn a moment to control his voice. “I guess that’s what we’re going to find out.”

Without further discussion, they went into the light keeper’s dwelling. In silence that seemed to grow heavier with each passing minute, they moved around the small residence, checking the empty built-in closets and cupboards, pounding against the walls, which all seemed perfectly solid. The wind picked up, whistling mournfully through the boards across the window, moaning down the chimney. Far, far beneath their feet was the slow, distant pound of the surf hitting the cliffs in phantom heartbeat.

“We should have brought shovels,” Paul said.

“That would have gone over well. There’s no sense upsetting people if we don’t need to.” Finn moved the flashlight over the broken flooring.

“You mean if we don’t find anything?”

Finn studied the moldering earth beneath the broken patches of boards. Yes, Paul was right, they should have brought shovels.

Paul said shortly, “That is what you mean, right? If we don’t find anything, you’re not going to let them cover this up? You’re not going to let them get away with murder?”

Finn stared across the room at Paul’s weirdly shadowed face. “Them?”

“Yes, them. All of them. Are you going to call the police or not? Or do I need to do it?”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“If you killed him…then I understand. I can forgive it. But if it wasn’t you—”

“I told you I didn’t kill Fitch.”

Paul lifted a negligent shoulder.

“I’m not lying.” Finn’s flare of temper caught even him off guard. “And I’m not going to let anyone get away with anything, but you’re not making the call on this. And I’m not doing anything until I’ve thought it through. Until I know what I’m dealing with. And one of the things I don’t understand is why the hell you’re so hot to see Fitch get justice. You hated him.”

“I loved him!”

“You loved him? You sued him.”

The beam of Finn’s flashlight caught tears glittering on Paul’s cheeks. “So what? I was angry and bitter—and jealous, I admit that. But I never stopped loving him. Even when I hated him.”

Finn opened and then closed his mouth. Finally he managed, “Really? Well, you’ve hid it pretty well all this time.”

“What do you know about it? You’ve been moping over Conway Twitty for three years. Which ought to tell you something right there, since I’m pretty sure you thought you hated him.”

That struck a little too close to home. Finn said, “In that case, and since you’re so quick to scream for justice, where the hell were you on the eighteenth of August three years ago?”

Paul gasped as though mortally struck. Tears gave way to astonishment and then outrage. “What are you saying to me?”

“I’m saying…you’re so quick to want to call the cops, fine. Only they’re going to ask you where you were three years ago—especially since, according to you, you were still in love with Fitch. It was one thing when you were an interested bystander, but now you’re a potential suspect.”

“You…bitch!”

“Hey”—Finn shrugged—“I’m just pointing out the obvious. You’re a suspect here too. So before we go flying off to drag the state police into this, I suggest we figure out exactly what we’re dealing with. Because we’re both going to be very unpopular if it turns out Fitch isn’t dead. And if he is dead, we’re going to be even more unpopular—not to mention one of us might end up getting arrested for a crime he didn’t commit.”

Paul stood very still. “You’re turning this around on me to protect Carlyle. He’s the only one who could have done this and you know it.”

“Do you have an alibi or not?”

“I don’t know! I don’t remember where I was three years ago. I might have an alibi. When I get home, I’ll check!”

“Great. In the meantime, let’s keep our mouths shut till we know something for sure. Because right now we don’t know anything. We don’t even have a body.”

“Well, why don’t I go get a couple of shovels?” Paul offered with acid sweetness. He stared challengingly at Finn.

Finn stared back. “All right,” he said finally. “Why don’t you?”

“Do you mean that?”

“Of course I mean it. I already told you I—” He shook his head wearily. “Just…try not to let anyone see you. They’re going to be very upset if they think—”

“Give me credit for some discretion,” Paul said. He propped his flashlight on one of the window shelves and picked his way across the broken flooring.

Finn forced himself to stay where he stood as he heard the car engine fade away. Blackness was not the absence of color. If you mixed every color together, what did you get? You got black. Close enough. So there was nothing to fear in the darkness. No reason to stand here with his heart in overdrive and sweat breaking out over his body, because nothing in the darkness could hurt him. And even if there was something buried in the soft, wet square of ground next to his foot, it could not be Fitch. It was not big enough for Fitch.

He forced himself to stand there for another wrenching second or two, and then he crossed the broken floor and stepped outside. The fog had mostly dissipated; the rain was coming down in a fine misting. But overhead, the sky was heavy and dark with the promise of worse weather, and the sea looked black.

He took a couple of deep lungfuls of oxygen, and then he forced himself back into the cottage. The cottage door swung restlessly back and forth on its creaking hinges, and he propped it open with a large flat rock.

Fresh air, daylight. What more could he ask? Grimly, he took his cane and began to poke it into the soft dirt near the far corner of the house where he thought he had seen an unnatural indentation in the bare earth. The ground was very soft. The tip of the cane slid in deep and struck something—which then gave.

He straightened up, stood motionless, looked to the doorway. It stood open and empty. The door tugged in the wind, bouncing against the rock anchoring it.

Finn looked down at the square of damp earth.

An old rug?

It hadn’t sounded like that. He lowered himself carefully, kneeling awkwardly, scraping at the thing buried in the soft, damp earth.

After a time he stopped, looked around for something else to use as a shovel. He spotted a broken piece of flooring and grabbed that, carving and scraping, digging away as ferociously as a terrier despite the uneasy feeling crawling down his spine. It had to be the cold of the cottage working its way into his bones; he gritted his jaw against the incipient chatter of teeth.

“It’s a suitcase,” he got out, and the sound of his own voice startled him.

He dug more quickly, the wood making a rough whisper against the cloth of the suitcase, and then the suitcase was free and he used all his strength to drag it out of the hole in the floor. He braced a hand against the wall and pulled himself up again.

Hauling the suitcase out into the soft, rainy mist, he laid it on the patchy grass and brushed away rust and mud, struggling to yank the zipper open. The smell of rotted material and mildew wafted up. Inside were a jumble of clothes and odds and ends. Finn recognized the moldy remains of a black checked shirt, a moss green sweater, red briefs, the cotton discolored, the elastic deteriorated.

He touched the shirt—his own. Fitch had borrowed it one day, and Finn had never thought of it since.

At last he closed the suitcase lid and sat there, shaking a little with cold and exhaustion and nerves. He had not really, entirely believed it until now, but there could be no doubt.

Fitch was dead. Murdered.

He was not sure how much time had passed by the time it occurred to him that Fitch had had two suitcases. That meant the other must still lie in the cottage in another corner of wet, cushioning earth.

He forced himself back on his feet and back into the pitchy interior of the cottage. Was it darker than before or was that his overactive imagination?

Not so overactive as it turned out.

Finding his discarded cane, he began to poke again in the spongy sections of bare earth.

From outside came the rumble of thunder. He ignored it, jabbing the metal tip of the walking stick into the moldering earth. It took a while, but on the opposite side of the room, near the doorway leading to the light tower, again he struck something in the soil.

And as he did, a blast of wind, harder than the previous gusts, slammed shut the door to the cottage.

His heart seemed to stop. And then, after a moment of utter, abject, paralyzed fear, it jump-started, speeding back into life.

Finn began to feel his way across the uneven boards, reminding himself all the while that he had a flashlight—two flashlights, for Paul’s still shone from the window shelf—and that his fear was an irrational, foolish thing.

Except that wasn’t right. Maybe there wasn’t anything in the darkness to fear, but Fitch had been murdered—and that murderer could only be one of a handful of people, and they were all still on this island.

He was still absorbing the full shock of that when the cottage door was dragged open again. Instinctively, Finn turned off his flashlight as a black outline filled the doorway.

“Finn?” Con called out.

Chapter Nine

Silently, instinctively, Finn moved back, slipping through the doorway that led to the tower. Watery light from the windows high, high above moved in the base of the tower-like ghosts.

“Who’s in here?” Con called.

Finn didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t breathe. He could hear Con stepping carefully; hear the crunch of his shoes on broken concrete and splintered wood. Con was coming his way. Soundlessly, he crept behind the stairwell, hiding in the shadows. He knew the impulse telling him to climb was a false one. If he went up the stairs he would be trapped, and yet everything in him was clamoring for light and air and distance from the threat coming steadily toward him.

If he could stay perfectly silent, perfectly still…Con might leave. Might see the tire tracks in the yard and assume that whoever had been at the lamp had come and gone.

But no. The suitcase was still in the yard. He would see it, surely? Would he believe that they had left it behind? Doubtful.

Con was not leaving. Finn could see the golden circle of Paul’s flashlight beam coming toward the tower door ahead of Con’s footsteps.

Finn’s nerve broke and he went for the staircase, trying for silence but needing to move.

“Finn, you’re scaring the hell out of me,” Con said, and Finn was so startled he misstepped and came down hard on the staircase, which clanged noisily—no concealing that. In any case, for a red wash of an instant he was in too much pain to worry about it. His cane slithered and fell through the railing, hitting the wall of the tower as it dropped to the ground.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow move into the tower—caught briefly in the blue light from above.

“Finn?”

“Here,” he got out. Dimly, it occurred to him that he had resolved his fear of Con. It had been that disarming Finn, you’re scaring the hell out of me.

“Jesus. What happened?” And Con was at the stairs and bending over him. “How far did you fall?”

“I didn’t. Exactly. Just came down wrong.”

Con was running hands over him, checking for broken bones. His fingers were cold, his breath warm. He smelled like rain and aftershave.

“I’m okay,” Finn said.

“Are you sure? You could have killed yourself.”

He opened his mouth to reiterate that he hadn’t been far up the staircase, but stopped. He didn’t want Con to know he had tried to run from him. He felt stupid for his earlier fear. He had known in his heart Con couldn’t be a killer, and yet a part of him had persisted in doubting. Partly it had been the horror of finding Fitch’s suitcase, having his worst fears confirmed. Partly, though, he had feared Con.

Grabbing onto the railing, he drew himself up. Con’s hand brushed his back, offering support or maybe reassuring himself that Finn was still in one piece. “You’re sure?”

Even in that eerie light he could feel Con’s gaze. He met it and couldn’t look away. “I’m sure.” It was mostly embarrassing now. Had he fallen down the stairs it would have been different—fatally different, probably.

“What in the name of Christ were you doing?”

“I needed the light,” he said.

“Finn, sugar…” Con said, and there was a wealth of emotion in his voice that Finn couldn’t understand. Con’s head bent, his mouth covered Finn’s, and he kissed him. It was a strange kiss, though. Strangely tender. Strangely restrained. But maybe that wasn’t so strange given everything else.

Finn kissed back, tentatively. How long had he waited for this? No, that was wrong. He hadn’t waited. Hadn’t anticipated or hoped. Hadn’t let himself think about it all—because he had believed there was no chance of it ever again. But he had not forgotten. Not forgotten Con’s taste or scent or feel. He’d forgotten nothing—and nothing had changed. Finn was no longer tentative—and neither was Con. Suddenly it was hot and sweet and all the colors of the rainbow.

Finn’s fingers clenched in Con’s wet jacket, and Con was stroking his hair, kissing his face, kissing his hair. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and he found Finn’s mouth again, his own hungry and insistent. Finn opened to that delving kiss, that firm, deep, hungry kiss that seemed to call forth everything that had been wounded and sleeping deep inside him. He was waking up, all right, the reds and yellows of the color spectrum were alive and well, dancing beneath his eyelids, and his cock was getting hard for the first time in what felt like a very long time.

It was Con who broke the kiss. Finn swayed a little as contact ended, hanging on for support, and Con yielded, softly mouthed the edge of his jaw, his cheekbone, before pulling back again. His voice sounded uneven as he said, “I saw the suitcase.”

And it all came crashing back—Fitch was dead, murdered—and Finn was standing here making out. It was…a jolt. He turned, looking blindly for his cane.

Seeing his fumble, Con moved, finding the stick where it had fallen behind the staircase. He grabbed it, then pressed it into Finn’s hand, wrapping Finn’s fingers around it.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to check the tower out. After yesterday…” Con didn’t finish it, instead taking Finn’s arm and guiding him through the darkness of the cottage. There was something unusually protective in the way Con was hanging on to him. Sort of sweet, but sort of quaint too. Not that Finn minded. It was nice to have Con’s arm around him, nice to have a little help getting across the obstacle course of the broken floor. But Con had never been overly watchful.

“The other suitcase is in that corner.” He nodded to where he had been digging.

Con stopped. “So it’s true.” His tone was flat but unsurprised. “You should never have come here on your own, Finn. This is… You know what it means.”

“I know what it means. I wasn’t on my own. Paul came with me. He went back to The Birches to get shovels.”

“What the hell was he doing leaving you on your own?”

Con sounded really angry, and Finn looked at him in surprise. “I sent him to get the shovels.”

“I don’t care. He had no business leaving you on your own.” Con was moving forward, still holding Finn’s arm as though Finn couldn’t be trusted out of his sight. Which was getting a little odd.

Finn freed himself as they reached the door and stepped out into the murky daylight. Con loosed him reluctantly. “I wish you could trust me.”

“I do.” He realized it was true. He did trust Con. He knew he hadn’t killed Fitch, although maybe that was instinct more than logic. He knew that Con regretted the way things had ended between them.

“Do you?” Con’s expression was weary. Almost sad. “I know it’s my fault. I wasn’t there for you the last time, but I will be there for you this time. If you’ll let me.”

“If I’ll let you what?”

Con was giving him the strangest look. “I was hoping you would tell me, but it’s not hard to put the pieces together.”

“It’s…not?”

“I was afraid when no one at The Birches would talk about it—about your accident. I know how hard this is, but you’ve got to learn to rely on others a little with…this hanging over you.”

Finn stopped, staring. His heart was pounding hard as Con’s words sunk in. “What do you mean?”

He was afraid he knew only too well what Con meant, so it was a shock when Con said calmly, “I know you’re…losing your sight.”

Finn blinked. “I’m…”

Con said, “Do you think it makes a difference to me? It doesn’t. I still love you. Still want to be with you. Nothing could change that.”

Finn felt a crazy desire to burst out laughing—at the same time tears stung his eyes, closed his throat. “Con. Jesus. I thought you were going to accuse me of murder—like I did you.”

“I know you didn’t murder Fitch.” Con dismissed the idea as not worth considering. “I didn’t kill Fitch. I give you my word. I know you don’t have any reason to accept it—”

“Yes, I do. You never lied to me,” Finn said. “You weren’t always kind, but you never lied.”

“I lied to myself,” Con said grimly. “I told myself all the time we were seeing each other that it was just sex, a fling. Nothing more. I told myself I didn’t want to get involved. That you were too young for me. I couldn’t picture myself in a long-term relationship—an open relationship. But the only person I was fooling was me. There isn’t any getting over the way I feel about you, Finn. The way I’ve always felt about you. I’ve had three years of trying, and when I saw you again, I knew that, for me, nothing had changed.” He put a hand up and lightly traced the scar on Finn’s temple. “The car accident—”

“I’m not going blind,” Finn said.

Con held very still. “You’re…not?”

Finn shook his head. Wiped at the tears welling at the corner of his eyes. “No.” He gave a watery chuckle. “I can’t believe that’s what you thought. Were you really prepared to take care of me?”

“Hell yes.” Con was staring at him. “I had a speech all ready about how you needed—” He stopped. “Why the hell was everyone so mysterious about your accident?”

“Were they?”

“Yes. No one would tell me anything.” Con began to sound incensed. “I could see you were having trouble with your eyes—and all those headaches—”

“Well, yeah, but that was—”

“And what about that comment in the car yesterday about not wearing dark glasses until you had to?”

Finn tried to remember what comment Con meant. He really didn’t remember saying anything that should have created such a dramatic impression.

Con said bluntly, “You’re terrified of the dark.”

Finn’s smile faded. “Yes. After the accident…yeah. I couldn’t see, and they did think for a time…there was a chance I’d lost my sight.” He couldn’t meet Con’s gaze. There was too much there. He said gruffly, “It…shook me. Not least because of my painting. It’s my livelihood, and it’s…my passion. My life. I think that was the worst part. Realizing that all I had was my painting. And if that was gone—”

“But it’s not?”

Finn shook his head. “I’m going to be fine. Even the headaches have gotten better since I’ve been home. I’m not sure I believed it at first. I think I was afraid to. But…I’m going to be okay.” He grimaced. “Now I just have to get the nerve to pick up a paintbrush again.”

“Thank God,” Con said and pulled him into his arms.

At which point, with cosmic bad timing, the skies opened up. It wasn’t quite the effect of being doused with a bucket of cold water, but it wasn’t far from it. Con grabbed Finn’s arm, and they haltingly ran for the Rover, then slammed inside. Rain ticked noisily down on the metal roof.

Laughing unsteadily with a combination of stress and nerves, they were back in each other’s arms and kissing again with a near-frantic hunger, as though they had drawn back in time from some terrifying precipice. Con’s mouth was hard and soft, sweet and harsh all at the same time.

The windows began to steam.

“Ow. Ouch. This isn’t going to work.” It wasn’t easy, but Finn pulled away, trying to ease his cramping leg despite protests from other frustrated parts of his anatomy.

Con let him go, but his hands lingered. “Let’s go to my cottage.”

“Paul is going to be here any minute.” His body was already aching with thwarted desire. Well, it never rained, but it poured—literally, it seemed.

“Call him and tell him to meet us at the cottage.” Con’s smile was mostly grimace. “Better yet. Tell him to forget about it.” His breath was warm as he leaned forward to nip the side of Finn’s throat.

“Con.”

“I don’t mean that.” Con sighed. “It’s too late even if I wanted that. But this storm is going to get worse before it gets better.”

He was right. The storm was moving in, black clouds sliding across the sky, flashes of lightning flickering over the water.

“Anyway, your part in this is done. We both know what that suitcase means. It’s time to call the state police.”

“Yes.”

It was the lightning that decided Finn. That, and the fact that if he didn’t get some kind of sexual release soon, his guts would be in knots.

He pulled Paul’s cell phone out and called The Birches.

Martha answered with the news that she had not seen Paul. Finn thanked her and told her to have Paul call his cell if he did turn up. Clicking off, he said to Con, “I told him to make sure no one saw him, so I guess that’s not surprising. He’s probably on his way back now.”

They were silent while the rain beat down on the roof, and the interior of the Rover filled with the peculiarly erotic scent of damp wool and frustrated desire.

“We can’t leave the suitcase out there anyway,” Con said suddenly. “I’ll grab it and leave a note for Paul inside the cottage.”

He was out of the vehicle before Finn could object—not that he had a real objection. He was eager to get away from the lighthouse, to get away from the memories—and from what the future must bring.

* * * * *

Con was smiling, tracing Finn’s collarbone, fingers brushing sensitized skin. He kissed the hollow at the base of Finn’s throat.

Finn shivered.

“Cold?”

He shook his head. They were lying on the cushions and rugs before the roaring fireplace in the cottage. The firelight cast heated shadows over their naked bodies as they moved together, exploring with hands and lips.

Con nuzzled his way up Finn’s throat, and Finn opened his mouth, panting a little beneath that delicate, shuddery pleasure of grazing lips and tongue. When Con’s mouth covered his, he moaned softly. Their tongues touched tentatively, withdrew.

Con raised his head, and they smiled at each other.

“Am I rushing you?”

Finn chuckled. “I don’t think anyone could accuse you of rushing me.”

“You don’t know.” Con shook his head—apparently at himself. “I’ve been desperate from the minute I saw you come walking down the path the other day.”

“You hid it pretty well.”

“No. You didn’t want to see it, that’s all. I’ve been wondering if I could keep sane if I had to watch you walk away again.”

Finn smiled uncertainly. Con had to be joking, exaggerating, because he had never seemed anything but in control of his feelings.

“I’d given up on you ever coming back.” Con’s return smile was twisted. “You don’t know how much I wanted to go after you, to find you.”

Finn shook his head. “It wouldn’t have worked then.”

“I know. That’s what Thomas said.”

“You talked to Uncle Tom about…us?” That must have been some conversation.

Con nodded. “He said… Hell, it doesn’t matter now. He was right, though, and I’d pretty much accepted that I wasn’t going to get a second chance. Then Martha told me that you’d been in an accident…that it was bad.”

“Bad enough.”

“When I heard you were coming home to recover, I canceled my book tour.”

Finn examined the proud, patrician features—the dark, hungry eyes that held his own gaze.

“I love you, Finn.”

“Con—”

“Let me say this,” Con said, suddenly harsh. “Let me…get it off my chest. I didn’t intend for it to happen. The thing with Fitch and me had been over long before you and I met. I mean met as—”

“I know what you mean.”

Con’s shadowy gaze never wavered from his own. “I came to find you that morning. I was going to…break it off.” Finn closed his eyes. But he could hear the undernote of emotion more clearly. “I was going to tell you I was going to Europe for a few months. It had gotten…so intense between us. And I couldn’t handle it. I was afraid to feel that much for you, afraid it was getting out of control. So when I came upon Fitch at the lighthouse, and he made his move…I went with it. I swear to Christ I didn’t mean for you to see it. I didn’t ever intend to hurt you like that. But I was glad to…take that opportunity to distance myself from you. Do you understand?”

“No.” He did, of course, but it hurt like hell. Even now.

“But when you walked in on us, when I realized what I’d done and that there wouldn’t be any turning back from it, I knew I’d made a mistake.”

Finn opened his eyes. Con was still watching him.

“I don’t know why it took that to make me see how I really felt. But it’s the truth. I’d been so busy feeling…trapped and pressured that I hadn’t stopped to consider how much I cared for you. I’d have done anything to erase those goddamned stupid fifteen minutes with Fitch.”

Finn opened his mouth, and Con kissed him—a baby’s breath of a kiss, a dragonfly wing of a kiss. “Forgive me,” he whispered.

The kiss went from soft to seductive to searing. They seemed to kiss forever, seeming to find new ways every few seconds, the press of mouths, the taste of tongues, the slide of skin on skin, rolling and pushing against each other as they grew more fierce for union.

Finn’s healing nerves and muscles protested, but he ignored the various twinges and pains, because Con’s touch was sending chills of pleasured sensation down his spine and into his groin.

Con’s kisses were harder now, demanding and yet coaxing—making his case for him where words might have failed. His cock was like a steel pole, and Finn shuddered in a kind of sensory overload as Con’s hand went to that junction of thigh, stroking Finn’s slower reactions to stiffness.

Con was breathing hard, like he’d had to fight his way to get to this moment, and in a way he had. “What do you want? Whatever you want—”

Being asked to choose, to think, was more than Finn was prepared to do. He was running with the tide, riding that wave of feeling all the way out. He gasped, while Con did those wicked, wanton things with his hands, eyes closed, listening to the crackle of fire, the rush of rain—

Con shifted abruptly, lifting up. Finn’s eyes flew open, and then he arched, bit back a cry at the warm, wet shock of envelopment. So good, so intensely good it was frightening. Physical response pulsing through his body, flashing up and down his bloodstream like a drug, the rush of release like no other.

Con made it last and last, skilled, yes…but more than that. Loving. Loving in a way it had never been before. Or maybe he was just more experienced now. Maybe he knew enough now to recognize what neither of them had recognized three years ago—until it was too late.

Con worked him with expert hands and mouth, and orgasm ripped through Finn, a kind of convulsion of delight that left him sobbing and breathless while his cock shot spumes of white like sea foam that Con swallowed down as though it carried some magical properties.

“What about you?” Finn finally managed, when the tilting world settled back into its frame. Con was holding him, nuzzling his cheek. One hard warm arm lay across Finn’s belly, hands cupping Finn’s genitals.

Con chuckled, bumped his hips against Finn’s backside, and Finn realized from the sticky softness there that Con had come too.

They dozed for a time. It was the crack of thunder that brought Finn back to awareness. He opened his eyes, and he could see the rain sluicing down the windows across the room.

“Why hasn’t Paul called?” he asked.

Con lifted his head. “Because he’s tactful?”

“He’s not tactful. It’s been well over an hour now. It’s been two hours.”

Con considered this. “He must not have talked to Martha.”

He sounded unconcerned, and he was probably right, but Finn couldn’t help the spark of uneasiness he felt. “He should have seen your note when he got back to the lighthouse, in that case.”

“Maybe it took longer than either of you expected.”

“How long could it take to grab a couple of shovels?”

There was a pause while Con digested the implications of that. “You think Fitch is buried here? At the lighthouse?”

“I don’t know.”

Con raised his head, studying Finn’s profile. “He couldn’t be inside the keeper’s house, Finn. Most of the flooring is still intact. A suitcase, maybe two, yes. A man? No. And he couldn’t be buried on the grounds—someone would have noticed a mound that size and shape.”

Finn shivered. “He could be in the woods.”

Con kissed Finn’s naked shoulder. “That would be taking one hell of a risk—burying him in the woods there.”

“But someone did take a hell of a risk.”

Neither spoke for a time; then Finn said, “Paul wouldn’t give a damn about disturbing us. We argued earlier, and he was set on going to the state police with or without proof.”

Con expelled a long breath. “You think he’s up there digging on his own?” Finn’s gaze found his. “You want to take a run up to the lighthouse and see what’s keeping Paul?”

Finn nodded slowly.

“Okay. Let’s get it over with.” Con got to his feet in a quick move. He grabbed Finn’s discarded sweater and jeans, then tossed them to him.

Chapter Ten

Paul was not at the lighthouse.

Con’s note was still pinned beneath Paul’s flashlight inside the doorway to the keeper’s cottage.

“He didn’t come back.” Finn stared at Con.

“Maybe common sense prevailed. Nobody’s getting across from the mainland this afternoon. He probably decided to stay warm and dry up at The Birches.”

“That isn’t the way Paul thinks.”

Con considered this. “Of course not. Well, what do you want to do?”

Finn was already dialing The Birches as they made their way back to the Land Rover.

He got Martha again, and after reassuring her that he was perfectly all right—and with Con—he asked about Paul and was told he’d never arrived back at the house.

“Something’s wrong,” he told Con as he clicked off.

“He probably got stuck in the mud,” Con reassured, turning the key in the ignition. “The roads are hell right now.”

That was reasonable. Paul wasn’t used to driving rural roads, and the wind and rain made for terrible visibility. All the same, Finn was rigid with anxiety as they bumped and slid down the road from the lighthouse.

“He’ll be okay, Finn,” Con said without taking his eyes from the road.

“I should never have started this.”

“Do you mean that?”

Did he? Despite his bitterness and anger at Fitch’s behavior, despite everything—

Finn shook his head. “No.”

“No.” Con’s voice was quiet. “Murder will out.”

The wind shook the Rover and plastered soggy leaves against the windshield as they made their way beneath the storm-tossed trees. There was no sign of the station wagon along the road.

Finn rubbed his head, which was starting to pound with tension. “Who could plan something like that? If you and Fitch really didn’t intend to meet that morning—”

Con did look briefly from the road at that. “You said once I didn’t lie to you. I’m not lying about this. I didn’t go up there to meet Fitch.”

If he and Con were going to try and make a go of this—and if he was honest, he wanted to try at least—Finn was going to have to stop throwing the past in Con’s face. He was going to have to let it go. So he said neutrally, “Do you think Fitch was at the lighthouse to meet someone that morning?”

“No. Fitch followed you that morning. He wanted you to go over to the mainland with him. There was some art show he wanted you to see.”

Finn closed his eyes and then opened them. “So whoever killed him…it couldn’t have been premeditated.”

“I guess it could have been an accident.” Con sounded unconvinced. “But why didn’t this person come forward?”

“I don’t know. I guess there could have been a reason.”

Con didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to.

They were passing Miss Minton’s when Finn said, “Wait a minute. Stop. Paul might have come here.”

Con was already pulling to the side of the road, searching for a safe place to park in the wet road. “Why would he?”

“I told him to try and get shovels without anyone at The Birches noticing; he might have thought to ask to borrow Miss Minton’s. She’s got every tool known to man.”

Con killed the engine. Finn opened the door, climbing down cautiously before Con could get around to help him. He slammed shut the door against the wind, shrugging into his jacket and glancing down the woody embankment, and froze.

“Con.”

Con came around quickly and followed the direction Finn was pointing down the gully. The brown station wagon was at the bottom of the embankment, hood buried in the overhang of trees.

Con swore. Turned to Finn. “I’ll go down and check.”

“He must have gone off the road.”

“Stay right here. I’ll be right back.”

Con went slipping and sliding down the muddy slope. Gripping his cane, Finn watched tensely as he reached the station wagon, dragging open the driver’s-side door. He turned and waved all clear.

“He’s not here,” he called up.

“Where is he?” Finn demanded, which was about as dumb a question as he’d ever asked.

Con spread his hands and started back up the hillside. Finn looked over the muddy tracks along the side of the road. He found the spot where the station wagon had been parked. Had Paul tried to back out and gone over the side? But the car was nose-first down the gully, so he’d have had to deliberately pull forward over the edge.

It didn’t make sense.

Con reached the top of the embankment. “There’s no blood inside the car,” he reassured. “He can’t have been badly hurt. It’s not that far down the hillside.”

The idea occurred to them at the same time, and they gazed across the road at Miss Minton’s wall of rosebushes and the house beyond.

“He must have gone across to Mitty’s,” Con said.

“But if he had an accident, why wouldn’t he call The Birches?”

“Could he have decided to walk back for some reason?” Con had a supportive hand beneath Finn’s elbow as they started across the muddy road.

“I think the normal thing would be to—” Finn broke off as Miss Minton’s battered pickup came barreling through the gate toward them.

There wasn’t time to think, and there was no way he could have moved fast enough with his injured leg. Con grabbed him and shoved him hard to the side. Finn went sprawling as the pickup swerved, just missing Con and taking out a section of white picket fence before tearing up the muddy road, water flying up behind its tires.

Finn barely had time to register what had happened before Con was kneeling beside him.

“Finn. Jesus. Are you all right? You’re not hurt?” Con’s face was white, his hands shaking as he dragged at Finn. “Finn?”

“I’m okay,” Finn managed, clutching his injured leg and rocking a little with the pain.

Con was swearing, in between ordering Finn to let him see the damage.

“We’ve got to go after her,” Finn said, pushing him off.

“To hell with her.”

“Con. Listen to me. She’s not on her way to the fucking hairdresser. She’s heading for the lighthouse. We have to go after her.” Finn groped for his cane, and Con got up, reaching down and pulling Finn to his feet.

With Con’s help, Finn made it across the road, slamming shut the Rover door as Con ran around to the driver side, then slid behind the wheel and started the engine.

“Call The Birches,” he ordered. “Tell Martha to call the state police.”

Finn spent the remainder of the short, rough drive on the phone with Martha trying to explain what was happening—which wasn’t easy given that he wasn’t exactly clear himself what was happening.

He clicked off the phone and asked Con, “Could Paul have stolen Miss Minton’s truck?”

“Paul wasn’t driving.”

There went that theory—that Paul had arranged to meet his ex-lover and ended up killing him. It hadn’t been much of a theory to start with, but the other possibility seemed even crazier.

“You saw her? Miss Minton was driving?”

“I saw her. She deliberately swerved in order to miss me.”

They were tearing back up the slippery road to the lighthouse. As they topped the crest, Finn could see lightning flashing out over the ocean. Miss Minton’s pickup was parked near the cliff’s edge. The tailgate was down, and she was dragging something across the grass to the verge.

Con sped forward across the green, braking sharply. He was out of the Rover and running toward Miss Minton. Miss Minton, who was dragging an unconscious Paul by his legs across the short space to the ledge, dropped him and turned.

Finn, moving more slowly than Con, dropped down beside Paul, who was unconscious and gray-faced, his blond hair soaked in blood. But Finn was only dimly aware of this, his focus on Con as he struggled with Miss Minton. For one truly horrific moment, he thought Con and Miss Minton were both going over the side, but Con dragged her back.

Miss Minton was shrieking. It was difficult to make out the words through the wind and rain, but Finn thought he heard her scream, “They should have drowned him at birth!”

* * * * *

“I’ve been thinking…I’d like to paint you.”

Con’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t open his eyes. He murmured, “Oh yes? I think I’d look good in a nice robin’s egg blue.”

“Funny.” Head propped on hand, Finn studied him. Sunlight gilded Con’s hair and turned his skin honey brown against the peach-colored sheets. It was late Monday morning, and they were still in bed—they had barely been out of bed since arriving Saturday night at the little bed-and-breakfast they had stayed at in Union three years earlier.

Con reached over, lacing their fingers and bringing Finn’s hand to his mouth. He kissed it lightly and opened his eyes.

He smiled, but there was a certain melancholy in those black-cherry eyes that Finn understood only too well.

It had been four days since Miss Minton had confessed to the attempted murder of Paul Ryder and the murder of Fitch Barret three years earlier. With true New England reticence, she had declined to discuss her reasons for either crime with the state police, but she had talked to Con on the drive back to The Birches. In fact, she and Con might have been alone in the Rover for the attention she paid to Finn anxiously cradling an unconscious Paul in the backseat.

“He was bad. He was a bad seed, that one. Selfish and cruel from the day he was born. Everything he put his hand to, he spoiled.”

Finn couldn’t see Miss Minton’s face, her hair and clothes were soaked and her voice was a hoarse croak he had to struggle to hear over Paul’s stentorian breathing.

“I saw him that day. I saw him laughing as he spoiled your life the way he spoiled mine. Spoiled every chance I had for love and happiness. First with Barnaby Purdon and then with Thomas Barret. He did it deliberately. Nothing made him happier than when he was hurting people, seeing them cry.”

Her eyes raised, unexpectedly catching Finn’s gaze in the rearview mirror. She said harshly, “You don’t know. He was laughing that day. You ran off and Con knocked him down, and he was still laughing. And then he went up in the tower to see where you’d got to. And I followed him up and pushed him off. It was the easiest thing in the world.”

Finn had put his head down at that point and stopped listening.

When they had reached The Birches, everything had grown surreal. Martha had fixed tea and provided dry clothes for everyone, and they had waited together in the kitchen while Con phoned the mainland requesting emergency services and the state police. Miss Minton had stopped talking by then. She was silent and eerily docile.

A LifeFlight helicopter made it to the island to transport Paul to the mainland, where he was currently in critical but stable condition. Miss Minton had declined to say why she’d attacked Paul, but from what she’d said during the drive from the lighthouse, Con believed that she had mistakenly thought Paul had showed up at her cottage to accuse her or blackmail her—that her own guilty conscience had fooled her into thinking Paul had somehow figured out the truth.

That evening, after the state police had taken Miss Minton away, Barnaby Purdon came to the house and there was more muted, shocked discussion. The house had the feel of death after long illness…and after all, that was close to the truth of it.

Barnaby Purdon was the one who remembered that Miss Minton had been gathering gravel at the lighthouse all that long-ago week, transporting it by pickup truck to her cottage, traveling sedately back and forth along the road.

She was a strong, vigorous woman used to hauling rocks and bags of fertilizer and mulch, used to taking care of her own property. It wasn’t so hard to picture her dumping Fitch into her wheelbarrow, shoving him into her pickup, and driving him away…to bury him beneath the bloodred roses in her garden—the roses she’d been planting that August afternoon when Con had traveled the road to The Birches.

As their nearest neighbor, Miss Minton had a key to The Birches, and she’d been in the habit of going up to the house for art lessons. She knew her way around, knew that the house was deserted that day, and she had packed Fitch’s things in his suitcases, dumped them at the lighthouse and driven the station wagon down to the wharf, and then walked home.

Once he knew the why of it, Finn had stopped listening. He didn’t care about the details of how and where and when. He was grieving for Fitch. Maybe Fitch was all that Miss Minton said and believed, but he had been more than that to Finn, the best loved companion of his childhood—his other half. He had grieved for him three years ago, and he continued to grieve for him now. It was a strange comfort to think that Fitch had climbed up the light tower. He wanted to believe that Fitch had regretted what he’d done, that he’d wanted to find Finn and had gone to look for him. Con had listened to him and kissed him and said nothing, letting him talk late into the night.

The police had questioned them all; then the reporters had descended on the island, and Con had taken Finn away to Union. For two days Finn and Con had been getting to know each other again.

Now Finn admitted, “I’ve been afraid to try anything since the accident.”

“But you’ve only been out of the hospital a week or so.”

“I know but… From the time I left college—not a day went by that I didn’t work. Even if it was just to sketch something. Until the day I woke up in the hospital and couldn’t see.”

Con didn’t say anything at first, his brows drawing together as he surveyed Finn’s face. “But you’re okay, Finn. There’s no reason you can’t start working again.”

Finn nodded.

Con said, “You can paint me.” His eyes were bright beneath the soft fall of blond hair. “You can do whatever you like to me.”

Finn looked interested. “Is that right? Because I’ve been thinking I might like to experiment with different mediums…”

Con bit his fingers lightly. “This sounds promising. Tell me more.”

Finn lowered himself to Con’s arms. “I think I’d prefer to show you.”

Cards on the Table

Chapter One

The card was wedged under the brass 17 on my apartment door when I got back from my morning swim. For what felt like a long time I stood dripping on the welcome mat, staring at the slightly crooked number and the colored rectangle beneath.

A tarot card.

Finally, I removed the card, examined it. A castle in flames, a man and woman plummeting to the cliffs below, and the words The Tower.

Not good. Even if I turned it upside down so that the man and woman seemed to be doing handsprings through the clouds and lightning, it still looked pretty ominous.

I told myself that someone was playing a joke on me.

Funny stuff.

Only a handful of people even knew I was writing a book about the Aldrich case. For that matter, who would care if they did know? It was dead news in every sense.

I stuck my key into the latch and stepped into my apartment, eyes adjusting to the gloom. Dusty sunshine poured through the arched living room window. Everything looked just the way I’d left it an hour ago. In the kitchen alcove the old dishwasher was steaming, stereo lights flashed from the entertainment center, and the screen of my laptop, which sat on the coffee table, offered a gently rolling view of star-lined outer space.

I walked through to the bedroom. The bed was stripped, sheets piled for laundry in the doorway. The mirrored closet doors were shut. I got a look at my face as I moved to open them, and was irritated to see that I looked worried—hazel eyes narrowed, tanned face grim, body tense.

Jesus. The last year had turned me into an old woman.

I slid open the closet doors, jumping back as a box of photos tumbled from their precarious perch on the shelf above and dumped snapshots across the carpet.

A photo of me—in a gold-sequined sombrero, no less—and Jack celebrating my thirtieth birthday at Don Cuco’s landed by my bare toes.

I stepped over the pictorial retrospective of my life and moved on to the bathroom, poking my head inside. Another glimpse of my frowning face in the cabinet mirror—and, by the way, I really did need a haircut, I reflected, momentarily distracted by the wet spikes of my chlorine-bleached hair. The shower dripped noisily. I yanked back the curtain with a plastic rustle.

Nothing.

Okay, bathtub ring, but otherwise nothing sinister.

Of course nothing sinister. Nobody had broken in. Why would they?

But why would someone leave a tarot card on my front door?

I went back to the kitchen, poured a glass of OJ, and drank it slowly, studying the tarot card.

Was someone trying to tell me something? Was it some kind of clue?

More likely it was just some kind of weird coincidence. Right?

And even if it wasn’t a weird coincidence…what was I supposed to do about it? It wasn’t exactly a lead that I could follow up. And I couldn’t picture myself going to the police over something so…vague. There was no defined threat, and I had absolutely no suspect in mind.

I could always talk to Jack.

I stared out the window over the sink at the row of second-story apartments, red doors and turquoise railings glimpsed through the tangle of ivy and bougainvillea.

Jack Brady was a homicide detective with the Glendale PD. We’d gone out a couple of times. Slept together once. We were still on friendly, if distant, terms.

The blinds to Jack’s apartment were up so it looked like he might be home.

I stripped off the swim trunks, tossed them over the shower rod, pulled on a pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt, stuck the tarot card in my pocket, and headed upstairs to Jack’s apartment.

I could hear Neil Young’s Rust Never Sleeps playing behind the scarlet door. The smell of something spicy drifted out the open kitchen window. My stomach tightened, but it had nothing to do with hunger—not for chili, anyway. I’d liked Jack a lot.

I knocked and the door opened. Jack stood framed in the doorway. He was about thirty-five, just over medium height and build, gray eyes and dark hair. He had a small white scar over his left eyebrow and a dimple in his right cheek when he smiled. He was not smiling now. Music and the aroma of garlic and onions wafted around him.

“Hey, Tim,” he said briefly, neutrally, after a pause.

“Hi, Jack,” I said. “Could I talk to you for a minute? I could use some advice. Professional advice.”

He hesitated—just long enough for me to realize I was making a mistake. Jack was the one who’d lost interest in pursuing a relationship. We were neighbors, not friends, and this was probably the equivalent of complaining to a doctor you’d met at a party about that pain in your neck.

“Yeah, sure,” Jack said, and he stepped aside, nodding for me to come in.

Worse than looking pushy, gauche, I realized this might seem like I was coming up with an excuse to see him again. So instead of coming in, I took a step back and said, “You know, on second thought, it can probably wait.”

“Whoa!” He caught my arm as I turned away. “What’s this?” He was smiling now, his eyebrows raised.

The feel of his hand on my arm reminded me vividly of our one and only night together. The warm sure slide of his palm stroking my belly, knuckles brushing the sensitive skin between hip and thigh, long strong fingers closing at last around my dick…

I let him draw me into his apartment.

Jack closed the door and I looked around curiously. Tidy as a monk’s cell. A stark black-and-white print of the desert hung over the fake fireplace. There were a few pieces of generic guy furniture, a number of paperbacks—mostly nonfiction and mostly true crime—on a low bookshelf. Nothing had changed. Jack had changed, that was all.

“Did you want a beer?” he asked, going behind the counter that separated kitchen from living room.

“Sure.”

Jack returned a moment later, handed me a frosty cold bottle, fingers grazing mine, and then he dropped down on the couch across from me. He took a swig.

He wore Levi’s and a yellow muscleman T-shirt that displayed his hard, tanned body to perfection.

“So…what’s the problem?” He grinned and the dimple showed for a moment. I wondered if a dimple was a liability for a cop. Did bad guys ever make the mistake of overestimating that mischievous crease in Jack’s lean cheek? “Jaywalking tickets piling up? Somebody finally haul you in for disturbing the peace?”

“Er…no.” I set the bottle on the glass-topped table, leaned on one hip, fished the tarot card out of my pocket, and put it face up on the coffee table.

Jack studied it, one eyebrow arching. “The Tower?”

“Yeah. Someone stuck it on my door while I was in the pool this morning.”

“Yeah, I saw you swimming,” he said absently, reaching for the card, careful to only touch the edges. His gray eyes lifted to mine. “And you see this as…what? A threat?”

“I don’t know. I know it seems a little…” I raked a hand through my still-damp hair. “I think it has to do with the book I’m writing. About the Aldrich case. The Tarot Card Murder.”

His face showed no comprehension.

“I guess it’s supposed to be a joke.” I added doubtfully, “But it happened then, too.”

“What happened then?” he asked. “You’re not making a lot of sense, Tim.”

“Are you familiar with the Aldrich case?”

“No.”

“No?”

He looked a little exasperated at my tone. “I’m not familiar with every homicide case that ever took place in the L.A. vicinity, no.”

“Well, it’s just that it was kind of a high profile case. And it’s still unsolved.”

“I’ll try not to take that personally.”

“Back in 1957, a starlet by the name of Eva Aldrich was stabbed to death at a big Hollywood party. The only clue was a tarot card pinned on her blood-stained dress.” Like one of those old press cameras, my memory flashed on those gory old black-and-white crime scene photos. There had been one shot of Eva’s discarded and bloodstained high heel lying a few feet from her body. There was something poignant—something I couldn’t shake—when I thought about that frivolous little pump splashed with her dying blood.

“And you’re writing a book about this?”

I assented.

“You’re writing a book about a homicide that took place back in 1957?” Jack was expressionless. “And you think…what? You’ve got some geriatric killer stalking you?”

I felt color rise in my face. “I don’t know what to think,” I said evenly. “It’s kind of a weird coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. Who knows you’re writing this book?” He stared at the card, and then he stared at me. His eyes were just the color of the ocean when the mist starts rolling in.

“My publisher. The people I’ve interviewed so far.”

“And this card, The Tower, that’s the card that was pinned to the decedent’s—this Aldrich woman’s—dress?”

“No. The card pinned to her dress was the sixth card in the major arcana, The Lovers.”

“Not the same card?”

“No.”

“I see.”

“Look, I know it sounds silly. But…”

But what? I was the kind of guy who jumped at shadows? I didn’t have a sense of humor? I had too much imagination? I wanted attention? The unflattering possibilities were plenty.

He studied me for a moment, then straightened, arching his back a little like he was stiff—or bored with sitting there talking to me. “Okay. Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll do some checking for you. See what the unofficial word is on this cold case of yours.” He shrugged a broad shoulder. “It can’t hurt.”

I nodded, tension draining from my body. Maybe he was just humoring me, but I knew enough about Jack to know that if he said he’d check, he really would. Realizing I hadn’t touched my beer, I tilted the bottle to my lips. Jack watched me steadily. It made me uncomfortable.

“Have you uncovered any new info on the case?” he asked.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Maybe it is a joke.”

“Where’s the humor?”

He shrugged and checked his watch. It wasn’t pointed, just remembering that he had somewhere to be.

I set the bottle down, stood up.

“Can I hang on to this?” He nodded to the card lying on the tabletop once more.

“If there were any prints I messed them up handling the card.”

“I noticed.” He offered that half grin. “It never hurts to check.”

“Thanks, Jack.” I moved toward the door. “I know this isn’t really anything for the police. Unless something else—”

“No problem.” He held the front door for me.

As I stepped out onto the shady walkway he said awkwardly, “I’m glad you stopped by, Tim. Really. I—uh—I’ve been meaning to call.”

“Oh, shit yeah.” I shrugged. Smiled. No big deal, this. “I’ve been busy myself.”

* * * * *

Back in my apartment, I circled from room to room, trying to settle enough to get back to work. I wasn’t sure what had me more off-kilter, seeing Jack again or finding the tarot card.

After a few minutes, I sat down on the sofa with a copy of Roman Mayfield’s The Mystery of the Tarot, thumbing through until I found the description of The Tower.

Mars’ martial light shines upon The Tower, the card of war. The dark masonry of a structure built of lies crumbles beneath the lightning flash of truth. The Tower represents “false concepts and institutions that we take for real.” In a reading, the querent is often shaken when The Tower appears, expecting to be blinded by a shocking revelation. Sometimes the catalyst of reading forces the querent to face a bitter truth or knock down beliefs rooted in the concrete of self-deception.

Was someone trying to tell me I was heading for a fall?

Absently I listened to the flap of palm tree leaves outside the open window, the distant rush of traffic from the Hollywood Freeway, listened for something else too. Something that didn’t belong. There was nothing to hear but the normal sounds of apartment living: splashing and laughter from the pool, someone’s stereo playing too loudly, another bout in an ongoing argument between my neighbors on the left.

And if I listened very carefully I could hear Jack humoring me. Okay. Tell you what. I’ll do some checking for you.

That was nice of him, seeing that he hadn’t been interested in keeping up the friendship—let alone something more.

Odd to think of him watching me swim. Couldn’t have been for more than a moment—just long enough to decide he didn’t feel like a morning swim.

If I closed my eyes I could feel his broad hand on the small of my back guiding our bodies closer, the comfortable friction of bare skin on skin, the solid rub of our erections. I could feel the tickle of his chest hair, the unexpected softness of his mouth…

But it hadn’t been perfect, by any means. We’d both had too much to drink that night, and after we’d rushed past the feverish preliminaries of getting naked and getting between the sheets, there had been the usual awkward moments of trying to get into sync with each other, fitting our bodies together, finding a rhythm.

The warmth of him, the salty taste of him, the clean scent of him.

Abruptly, I sat up and started clicking away on my laptop, like I could tap and type away from memories. It was just a couple of dates. Jeez. Get over it.

I remembered I still had clothes in the laundry room washer.

The bad news—besides the rent—about living in one of those atmospheric 1940s L.A. apartment buildings was the little inconveniences, like parking in the back with the winos and homeless folk, the lack of any kind of security, and a laundry room that any Hollywood scout would immediately peg for a horror movie location.

Buried in the jungle of hibiscus and jasmine behind the pool yard, the laundry room was down a short flight of stairs. The overhead bulb was usually burned out because no one ever remembered to turn it off. There were three washers and three dryers to service the entire complex; I’d learned to take advantage of it during the day when most of the young and not-so-young professionals were working.

Carrying my laundry basket down the steps, I automatically flipped the wall switch, and, of course, nothing happened. It didn’t matter because there was enough daylight from above so that I could see to scoop soap into the battered machine.

It was warm and noisy with the sudsy washers filling up and the dryers tumbling. I put the lid down on my sodden clothes and turned to get the previous load I’d left in the dryer. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement.

I glanced swiftly toward the stairs.

A shadow filled the doorway. The door to the laundry room slammed shut.

Chapter Two

“Hey!” I yelled.

There was no response; granted, it was hard to tell over the rumble of the machines and flood of water. I put a hand out, fingers brushing the cool cement wall, and started toward the stairs.

My foot bumped into the bottom step. I couldn’t see a damn thing; it was like a crypt in there. I swore under my breath and went up the first couple of stairs—and realized there was someone with me in the humid darkness. Someone at the top of the stairs, blocking the exit.

I could feel him—and it was definitely a him because I could smell his cheap aftershave—feel his warmth and bulk—although I couldn’t see him. I stopped midcharge and teetered off-balance for a second.

He growled, “Eva Aldrich is ancient history. Butt out or you’ll be history too.”

A couple of meaty hands planted in my chest, and he shoved me hard.

I fell back, grabbing blindly at empty air, and tumbled down the stairs, landing in a painful sprawl at the bottom, my head grazing one of the vibrating washers. Dimly I was aware of the door above me opening, a flash of afternoon sunlight, and the door banging shut again.

Shocked, I just lay there for a few moments trying to process what had happened. Luckily, it was a short flight of steps. My elbow hurt and my back felt twisted, but mostly I’d landed on my ass. Nothing broken. Nothing sprained as far as I could tell. I’d banged my head against the washer, not hard, but hard enough, and that, more than anything, was scaring the shit out of me. I stayed still in the soap-scented blackness and waited for the fireworks.

Meanwhile the asshole was getting away…

But I let the thought go, just as I had to let my attacker go.

So much for thinking the tarot card pinned to my door was a joke or a coincidence. Apparently someone didn’t want this book written. Had sent a goon to lean on me like something in a pulp novel. It was crazy. Eva Aldrich had been dead for fifty years. Half the suspects weren’t even alive anymore.

The washer above me hit spin cycle, and I edged away from the juddering motion. It occurred to me that so far my circuitry seemed okay, so I got carefully to my feet and felt my way through the darkness again to the stairs and the doorway.

I pushed the door open to flickering sunlight. Shrubbery stirred in the breeze, but there was no sign of anyone. To the right, the path led to the pool yard where a woman in a red bikini baked on a lounge chair. To the left, the path led to the parking lot behind the apartment complex. The tall gate swung gently in the wake of someone’s hasty exit.

Stepping through the gate, I studied the small dusty lot crowded with cars.

A sheet of newspaper pinwheeled on the breeze, a beer can rolled to a stop a few feet away. A blue jay gave me hell from the telephone pole above.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

I noticed Jack’s Jeep was gone, so there was no point running upstairs to tell him about the latest development. And I didn’t like the fact that this was the first line of action that occurred to me.

Withdrawing from the parking lot, I headed back to my apartment, past the nearly deserted pool yard, generator humming noisily, past the open windows of my neighbors, snatches of cartoons and talk shows. I let myself into my apartment and dug the phone out from beneath the pile of throw cushions—the L.A. Times having a habit of calling right when I finally fell into a deep sleep.

My conversation with Glendale PD went pretty much as expected. The dispatcher was sympathetic but admitted that without any kind of description of my attacker—or even a suspect—there wasn’t a lot they could do. She promised to send a patrol car over to take my report, and that was basically that.

I fixed myself a sandwich, although I wasn’t hungry, poured a glass of iced tea, and sat down with my notes.

The popular theory at the time of Eva Aldrich’s death was that her ex-husband, a gas station owner by the name of William Burack, had killed her in a fit of jealous rage. Burack’s then-current girlfriend had alibied him, and the police had never been able to prove otherwise. I studied the photos of Burack. He’d been one of those big blond bruisers who turn to fat as they age. He hadn’t aged a lot, though, dying in a car crash in 1965.

Since he was dead, I couldn’t see anyone close to Burack getting worked up at the idea of my writing a book about the case. He hadn’t had any kids and his only close relative, a brother, had died sometime in the 1980s. So if someone was threatening me to stay out of the Aldrich case, it probably wasn’t because he feared I was going to uncover proof that Burack had killed his glamour-girl ex.

Which meant that someone else had.

Washing the ham sandwich down with iced tea, I considered this theory objectively. It made sense, right? Someone unconnected to Burack didn’t want me digging into the old case. Because someone, somewhere, still had something to lose if the truth about a half-century-old homicide were to be revealed.

Since there’s no statute of limitations on murder, there was an obvious motive for keeping the identity of Eva’s killer secret: her killer was still alive.

But Jack also had a point. Most of the principals in the Aldrich case were now in their seventies. Not that trial and prison would be any more appealing at age seventy than at age twenty, but it was hard to picture a member of the Geritol set scurrying around tacking tarot cards to my door and shoving me down stairways.

Besides, no senior citizen had knocked me down in the laundry room—unless it was Jack LaLanne. There had been a size and a force—and a voice—to my attacker that had indicated an adult male in his prime.

Well, on the bright side, assault and threats would make pretty good publicity for the book. Assuming I lived to write it.

I was still wound too tight to work and my muscles were beginning to stiffen up after their collision with a cement slab. I set aside my notes and occupied myself with tossing out old newspapers, vacuuming, reshelving all my reference books. I paused in the bathroom and swore at my reflection. A colorful bruise was making an appearance where my forehead had caught the edge of the washer.

Great. I’d just got rid of the last set of abrasions.

It was sometime after eight that a thump on my door sent me jumping out of my chair—and nearly my skin. Which pissed me off no end. I hated feeling wide open; it was happening way too much these days.

Eye to the peephole found a miniature Jack adjusting his tie as though it were too tight. That explained the Police! Open Up! knock. He was in official persona.

I unlocked the door, opened it.

“A chain would be a good idea,” he remarked.

I stepped back and Jack stepped inside. He looked around curiously, and I remembered that this was the only time he’d actually been in my place. He’d picked the right night; usually it looked like a cyclone had hit it.

“Would you like a beer?” I asked.

“No, I can’t st—” He broke off, staring at the discoloration on my forehead. “What happened to you?” Then his face changed, uncomfortable as he leaped to the wrong conclusion about what had happened to me.

I said shortly, “Someone threw me down a flight of stairs.”

“Oh. Right.” His eyes looked dark in the soft lighting of my apartment. “I heard you had some trouble today.” He hesitated. “Maybe I will have a beer.”

I got a cold beer from the fridge and brought it to him. He was sitting on the sofa glancing through the photos of the cast of suspects in the Aldrich case. He took the beer with absent thanks and continued looking through the photos.

He paused at one. “Now here’s a familiar face. Tony Fumagalli.”

“Tony the Cock,” I agreed. “The Early Years.”

“Don’t tell me he’s involved in this?”

I nodded. “Eva was engaged to him for about six months. She broke it off a few days before her death. No one seems to know what went wrong, but by all accounts it wasn’t an amicable split.”

“He’s not an amicable guy. Or he wasn’t. He was one of those old school gangsters like Mickey Cohen or Johnny Stompanato. He’s in some kind of old folks home now.”

“He’s got Alzheimer’s,” I said. “Currently residing at Golden Palms Nursing Home in Santa Barbara.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve done your homework.”

“Yeah, well.” It bothered me that this surprised him.

For a minute our eyes held. Jack seemed to notice he had a beer in his hand and took a swig.

“So,” he said, lowering the bottle. “Why don’t you tell me what happened this afternoon? Assault and battery in the laundry room?”

“They sent a uniformed officer by,” I said. “I filled out a report.”

He nodded, noting and dismissing. “What happened?”

I told him exactly what had happened.

“Did you get a look at the guy at all?”

“No. Not a glimpse.”

“What did he sound like?”

“Big.”

He grinned and that damned dimple showed. “Did he have an accent or anything that might help in identifying him?”

I thought back to the close darkness of the laundry room. “He didn’t have an accent that I noticed. I’d say he was a native Angeleno. His voice was deep, mature.” I thought it over. “He sounded confident,” I said. “Like maybe he did this for a living.”

“Hired muscle?” Jack glanced instinctively to the glossy of Tony Fumagalli in his sleazy prime.

I shrugged. “It’s possible. But anyone can hire a thug. It wouldn’t have to be someone connected to Tony the C—” I caught Jack’s eye and for some reason swallowed the rest of the word. “Tony F.”

Was that a gleam of amusement in Jack’s gaze? He said, “Yeah. And Fumagalli did have a rock ha—solid alibi for the Aldrich homicide.”

Okay, it wasn’t just me.

“He was in Vegas at the Tropicana gambling away a small fortune,” I agreed. “But he could have hired someone to kill Eva.”

“That’s true, but whoever whacked Aldrich didn’t appear to be a professional. That was not in any way an execution-style murder. She was stabbed thirteen times. That kind of MO can indicate a couple of things: a disturbed psyche and/or a perceived personal grievance.”

I knew he was right, which was why the ex-husband had been the favorite suspect. The method of Eva’s murder had indicated a certain level of rage or passion that one just didn’t associate with cold-blooded mob bosses.

“Were you able to find anything out?” I asked.

“I was in court most of the day.” He stared at the stack of photos. “I talked to a couple of people. It’s a very cold case. Frozen, in fact.”

“It’s a Hollywood legend.”

“Oh yeah. There are all kinds of wild theories about who might have offed Aldrich. Everyone from her astrologer to the commies.”

“But the most popular theory is her ex-husband, Will Burack.”

“Right.” He studied me meditatively. “You know it usually is the current or former spouse—or boyfriend—in a homicide.”

“I know. And I know the cops tagged Burack as the most likely suspect. But Burack’s dead, so who objects to my looking into this very cold case?”

“I don’t know.” Jack drained his beer bottle and rose. “I take it you’re not planning to back off from this book?”

“No.” I rose too, only half joking, “I’d have to give the advance back. And I already spent it.”

“Right.” He was all business now. “Well, let me give you some advice. Change your routine. And keep changing it. Swim in the afternoons instead of the morning. Don’t use the back parking lot as a short cut. Try a different market besides Whole Foods—and pick a day besides Tuesday to shop. The dead bolt is good, but get a chain on the door and don’t open the door until you see who’s on the other side.”

“Thanks for the advice.” I didn’t think Jack just happened to hit on Tuesdays or Whole Foods market as a hypothetical example of my shopping habits. I wasn’t sure I should be flattered by this attention to detail; it seemed more like Jack on the job rather than Jack romantically interested.

Anyway, I had a lot more important things to focus on—like the fact that while Jack apparently agreed there was a threat here, he didn’t seem to see a way to neutralize it—unless I was willing to drop the book.

I opened the door and Jack stepped out into the warm smoggy night.

He suddenly turned back to me. “Look…Tim. I really was going to call you.” He cleared his throat. “The thing is…I’m not interested in a—a serious relationship.”

I stared at him, heat flooding my face—my entire body—mouth dry, heart slamming against my collarbone. I managed to get out, in a voice that didn’t sound anything like mine, “Neither was I.”

He had the grace to wince. “I know. It’s just…you seemed kind of…vulnerable.” His eyes moved to the bruise on my forehead. “I didn’t think it was fair—”

I quit worrying about being polite on the off chance I ever ran into him around the complex again. “You don’t have to make excuses for not wanting to see me, Jack,” I said. “In fact, I kind of prefer the excuses I made up myself.”

I moved to shut the door, but his hand shot out, stopping it midswing. “I don’t think I explained that very well.”

“You underestimate your communication skills.”

“I really like you, Tim. I hope w—”

“Likewise. ‘Night.”

The door closed firmly, cutting off his subdued “Good night.”

I stood for a moment listening to him walk away. Silence filled the hollow place in my chest where my heart had used to beat.

Chapter Three

“It was all such a long time ago,” Gloria Rayner sighed.

We were sitting in the opulent “drawing room” of her Bel Air home. The room was crowded with the kinds of antiques that probably originally sat in a French palace right before the peasants had had enough and killed everyone they could lay their hands on: spindly-legged gilt chairs, brocade-covered sofas, marble-topped tables, and all kinds of gold-framed mirrors and vases and china knickknacks.

Gloria herself sort of looked like a knickknack with her platinum blonde hair and porcelain made-up face. She was very tiny and very wrinkled. Her baby blue hostess gown was a perfect match for the blue of the silk wallpaper behind her, with its designs of fantasy pagodas and curved bridges.

I said, “I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me again, Ms. Rayner.”

“That’s no hardship, Mr. North,” Gloria said with a flash of that famous smile. “You’re a delicious young morsel.” She giggled at my expression. “When you get to be my age you can say things like that.”

Actually, Gloria had been saying things like that for the last fifty years. She was nearly as famous for her racy comments as she was for the string of B movies that had secured her charter membership in the Hollywood bombshell pantheon. I’d seen a slew of those movies in the name of research, and I’d had to admit that she did have something: sexual charisma or animal magnetism. It was diffused now by age, but she didn’t seem to know that. Or maybe she did know it, and found it all the funnier.

“So you don’t have any idea why Eva broke her engagement to Tony Fumagalli?” I asked for the second time that afternoon.

Gloria bent forward to pick up one of the three white miniature poodles oscillating at her feet. “No,” she said. She straightened up, holding the poodle. “Tony the Cock. What a laugh. Did you know the name Fumagalli means ‘smoked chicken’ in Italian?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yeah. Smoked chicken!” She laughed a throaty nicotine laugh. “You said you’re a reporter?”

“I used to be.” I stroked the poodle on my own lap. It squirmed contently. “Now I’m writing this book about Eva.”

“About Eva?” she asked shrewdly. “Or about Eva’s murder?”

“Both, really. I can’t really explore the murder without understanding Eva.”

“You figure Eva out, explain her to me,” she replied. She patted the dog’s head with her gnarled fingers. Her nails were mandarin-length and painted in hot pink. One of the other dogs barked and she patted the sofa beside her. “Come on, then!”

The dog jumped, nails slithering on the slick upholstery, and wriggled into place beside Gloria.

I said, “But you were Eva’s best friend.”

“Baby, I was Eva’s only friend. Her only real friend, unless you count that quack Roman Mayfield. Now there was a queer duck. And I do mean queer.”

I looked at my notes. After a moment I said, “Roman Mayfield, the astrologer?”

“Seer to the Stars!” she scoffed. “Yep. He and Eva were as thick as thieves. He told her not to go the party that night.”

I’d heard this several times, but I’d always figured Mayfield’s premonition had been 20/20 hindsight. “Did she say so?”

“He said so. I heard him. For once he was right.” She fastened me with one of her marble blue eyes. “What paper did you used to work for?”

“The Santa Monica Mirror.”

“Never heard of it. So you decided you wanted to be An Author? My third husband was an author. What a joke. The only thing that guy authored were love letters to my secretary. Which is one reason why I don’t keep a secretary anymore. Or a husband.” She laughed that raucous laugh. “Not that I need a secretary these days. No one remembers Gloria Rayner. It’s all about which Third World country Angelina Jolie is adopting this week.” She sighed. “Hollywood isn’t what it used to be. In my day we understood about the fantasy, about entertainment. Who wants to see movie stars holding preferences about death and disease and disaster? Where’s the box office in that?”

“Uh, right.” I made an effort to drag the interview back on course. “So Eva wasn’t afraid of anyone or—?”

“Eva wasn’t afraid of anything,” she interrupted. “Although she was superstitious. She believed all that horseshit Roman used to shovel her way. It wasn’t just an affectation. Tarot cards, astrology, pick-up sticks, who the hell knows what all.”

“But she didn’t believe him that night? She went to the party at the Garden of Allah after he warned her not to.”

“She probably figured Roman was jealous. You must’ve run across the type in your line of work.”

“Roman’s type?”

“Hollywood has more than its share of jealous queens—of both sexes.” She winked at me. “I used to tell Eva I thought Roman believed he controlled the stars instead of just reading ‘em. Took it very personally when anyone didn’t hang on his every prediction.” Gloria shrugged. “Prediction or not, Evie wanted to see Stephen that night.”

“Stephen Ball?”

Gloria nodded and looked down at the dog she was patting. “They were both starring in a picture. Desire in the Dust or something. It was an adventure picture. Eva played Steve’s love interest.”

“Danger in the Dunes,” I said. “But they’d been engaged, right? Stephen Ball and Eva? For a brief time before she met Tony Fumagalli.”

“Yep, but that was all over. On Stephen’s part anyway.”

I tried to read her expression. “So it wasn’t over for Eva? Was that why she broke off her engagement to Fumagalli?”

“Like I said, baby, it was a long time ago.” She studied me. “Tim North. Do your girlfriends call you Timmy? You’re a very nice-looking boy, Timmy. You’ve got striking coloring. Blond hair and brown eyes.” She leaned closer and I automatically straightened up like you do when a wasp is trying to land on your nose. “But they’re not brown, are they? More what we used to call whiskey-colored. Very nice.” She winked. “Very nice.”

I got out, “Uh…Ms. Rayner, who do you think killed Eva?”

She replied instantly, “Will Burack. There was never a question in my mind.”

* * * * *

Gloria pressed me to stay for lunch, but I escaped on the—true—grounds that I had an appointment at the UCLA Library Department of Special Collections.

As it was, by the time I caught the bus for Westwood I was starting to feel tired and a little let down, enough so that I considered skipping UCLA and just heading home. There wasn’t any reason for it. The interview had gone fine, although it was obvious to me from Gloria’s body language and diversionary tactics that she wasn’t being candid about a number of things. That was to be expected. Maybe I wasn’t asking the right questions. Maybe I wasn’t aggressive enough. Or maybe she just needed to get a little more familiar with me—not that she wasn’t plenty familiar.

I’d had a bad night, and that always tended to color the next day. The bad night wasn’t a surprise considering the physical and emotional trauma of the day, and there wasn’t any point giving in to it. I’d had bad nights before—one in particular, which reminded me of Jack. The very last person I needed to be thinking of.

In my experience, when a guy tells you he doesn’t want a serious relationship, he really means he doesn’t want a serious relationship with you. If Mr. Right came along, he’d get serious fast enough. In a way Jack had done me a favor, although my currently fragile ego could have done without his sudden decision to come clean. I already knew Jack didn’t want to pursue a relationship, and I knew why. And once upon a time I’d probably have felt the same way.

So I didn’t blame him, but I didn’t want to be friends with him, either. In fact, I’d be happy never to run into him again. And I was going to do my best to see that I didn’t run into him again, which probably wouldn’t be hard because I was pretty sure Jack felt the same.

The bus roared along its air-conditioned way, and I popped the gold stud I’d removed for my interview with Gloria back in my ear, put my head back and closed my eyes. I thought about what I’d learned from Gloria. I kept remembering the Life magazine layout of that fateful party. Glossy black-and-white photos of Hollywood Babylon. Somehow Hollywood parties just never seemed as glamorous or exclusive as they did back in the ‘40s and ‘50s. Maybe it was because of the old star system. Those old actors and actresses had a mystique that didn’t seem to exist anymore. It wasn’t all good, of course. Part of the price of being packaged for public consumption meant sacrificing a lot of freedom both personally and professionally.

About an hour later, I sat in the hushed Ahmanson-Murphy Reading Room carefully turning the page of the September 1957 issue of Modern Screen magazine. The cover featured an artwork portrait of Eva Aldrich eating an apple. The issue had come out the month of Eva’s death, and it had been a huge seller. The article itself was not wildly informative: one of those planted publicity pieces where Eva chatted girlishly about her latest film, Danger in the Dunes, and her dreamy upcoming wedding to local businessman Tony Fumagalli.

Besides the fact that Eva mentioned her dashing costar Stephen Ball six times during the single-page interview, there didn’t seem to be any indication that her romance with Fumagalli was on the rocks.

Apparently no one—including Fumagalli—had seen it coming.

He hadn’t been the only one, I thought, studying the sexy little grin of Eva’s pinup portrait.

* * * * *

It was late by the time the bus let me off. I was dead tired and the thought of walking all the way around from Central Avenue was about as enticing as a picnic in Death Valley. I thought of Jack’s warning about not using the apartment parking lot as a shortcut, and then I thought to hell with Jack, and turned off the narrow alley that ran behind the neighboring complex.

It wasn’t really an alley, just a pathway of dirt and rocks and weeds stretching behind the buildings with a tall cinder block wall on one side shielding the apartments from the adjacent freeway.

Oleander bushes lined the freeway side of the wall, dead leaves and withered blossoms scattering the pathway as I strode along the length of two apartment complexes. At the end of the walk was a shorter cinder block wall. There were two wooden crates stacked against the wall providing makeshift steps. I climbed onto the crates and hauled myself up, balancing precariously on top of the wall as I looked down into the parking lot of my own apartment structure.

Jack, wearing jeans, boots, and a black blazer, was getting out of his Jeep. At the sound of my scrabbling ascent, he jerked around and stared.

One leg over the wall, I paused. Our gazes fastened across the roofs of cars.

Busted.

“Nice to see you take my advice seriously,” he said.

“I hang on your every word,” I returned, and I jumped down, landing with the lightness of a lot of practice beside a blue Mustang on wheel blocks.

I’m not sure why I was playing the smart-ass; I could tell by the way his face tightened that it wasn’t going to win points. But then, I didn’t want to win points with Jack anymore, and that allowed for a certain freedom. Actually, it allowed for a lot of freedom considering how very careful I’d been the couple of times we’d gone out. It had been like auditioning for a part or interviewing for a job you knew you weren’t qualified for. I’d been on my best behavior every second. Not giving a damn was surprisingly liberating.

I brushed the seat of my charcoal trousers, feeling where the rough surface of the wall had snagged the material. Jack continued to eye me. I walked toward the gate, passing close enough by him that I could see his five o’clock shadow.

“The fact is,” he said suddenly, “I wanted to talk to you.”

I’d had all the talks with Jack I wanted. “Can it wait? It’s been a long day and I need a shower.”

“It’s about your book. I found something out today that I think you ought to know.”

He sounded pretty grim, so I said, “In that case, follow me, Officer.”

He did—in silence. We got to my apartment and I let us in. The answering machine was on and I heard my twin sister Callie’s voice.

“Excuse me,” I said to Jack, and I brushed past him and grabbed for the phone before Callie hung up.

“Hey, Cal,” I said.

“Hey,” she said with obvious relief. “How are you doing?”

“Good.” I glanced at Jack who was still standing in the doorway. “Have a seat,” I mouthed at him.

Apparently he’d been waiting for an invitation. He sat down on the sofa and stared at the turned-off television.

“Are you?” Callie questioned. “Because I got this sudden feeling last night, and I’ve had it all day.”

“Ah, Cal,” I protested. But it was useless. It was the twin thing, I guess; she always knew when something was up with me, the same way I did when something was up with her. “I’m really okay.” I was uncomfortably aware of the fact that Jack couldn’t fail to hear every word.

“How’s the book coming?”

I loosened my tie, unbuttoned my collar. “It’s coming. I interviewed Gloria Rayner today.” Jack’s head turned in my direction.

“The one who does those AARP commercials? That must have been a laugh.” Her voice changed. “Are you…taking care of yourself, Tim? You know, doing everything you’re supposed to?”

I expelled a long breath. “Of course. Come on; stop acting like a big sister. You’re only eight minutes older.”

Callie chuckled. “I did a lot of living in those eight minutes. So are you still seeing the cop?”

I’d forgotten I’d told her about Jack. “No,” I said after a hesitation.

“Oh, no! What happened? He sounded—”

“Not my type.” I lowered my voice. “In fact, he was kind of an asshole.” Jack was staring at me with an odd expression. I gave him a cheerful smile. Unless he had bionic ears, there was no way he could hear what we were saying, but I had the not unpleasant feeling he somehow suspected.

“That’s too bad,” Callie was saying. “I keep hoping you’ll meet someone.”

“Low on my list of priorities right now,” I said. “I have to get this book finished.”

“Do you think you’ll have time for a trip home this summer? Mom and Dad were really hoping you would spend some time here. I think Mom wants to make up for…everything. I think she needs to. And Dad really misses you. You know that.”

This was getting way too complicated. I said carefully, “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe. It depends on the book. Hey, Cal, can I call you back? I’m in the middle of something.”

“Oh, you should have said!” She hastily said her good-byes and I said mine, and then I hung up and walked over to the chair across from Jack.

“That was the twin sister?” he said.

I nodded, surprised he remembered, but I didn’t want to get distracted from the purpose of his visit. I didn’t want to start thinking of Jack as a friend—or mistaking a cop’s attention to the little things for anything more than that. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”

“Did you ever hear of a guy named Raymond Irvine? He was a crime reporter for the Herald Examiner.”

I shook my head. “No. Should I have?”

“It depends. In 1963, he started research for a book on Eva Aldrich’s murder.”

“He couldn’t have finished it,” I said, watching his face. “There is no book on the Aldrich case.”

“No, he didn’t finish it. He was killed the same year. His car was run off the road on Mulholland Drive.”

Chapter Four

“Oh,” I said finally. And when Jack didn’t respond, “Well, accidents happen.” I spoke lightly, but I didn’t feel light. I wasn’t sure what I felt: a mix of consternation and incredulity, I guess.

“It wasn’t an accident,” Jack said. “His car was forced off the road.”

“How do you know?”

“I read the report.”

“Wow.” I didn’t know what else to say. I rubbed my jaw and glanced at Jack again. He was watching me steadily. “I guess they didn’t catch the guy?”

“Guy or gal,” Jack said. “No. The only witness was too far away to get a make on the license. The car was described as a two-toned Chevy Impala. In the 1960s the Chevy Impala was the most popular car in America.”

I said, “Will Burack was still alive in 1963.”

“I thought your theory was that Burack didn’t do it.”

“It’s too soon for me to have a theory,” I said. Jack’s gaze woke me to the realization that I’d automatically started unbuttoning my shirt. My fingers stilled. “Were there any suspects in Irvine’s death? Was a connection actually made to the Aldrich case?”

“No.” Jack raised his eyes from my apparently fascinating blue tailored shirt. “In fact, the primary suspect was the former boyfriend of a girl Irvine had been dating. But nothing was ever proven. And the boyfriend owned a Buick.”

“Then how did you make the connection to the Aldrich case?”

“The senior investigator on the Aldrich case was one of the first people Irvine interviewed when he started research for his book.”

“Bud Perkins.” I rose and stepped down the short hall to my bedroom to change. I could still see Jack angled in the closet mirror. I thought about moving out of range, and then I just…decided not to. I raised my voice as I unzipped. “Perkins passed away in seventy-eight.”

“Yeah, but he kept track of anything and anyone related to the Aldrich case. He’d stuck a note about Irvine writing a book in the file.”

I pulled on Levi’s. Buttoned them up. Jack’s mirrored gaze met mine. I said, “Was that normal?”

I was sort of pleased to see he’d lost his train of thought. He looked away, offering his profile as I watched him listen to me undress and dress. He had a weird expression. Was he afraid I was going to try and seduce him? He could rest easy. “No, it’s not normal,” he said. “Not then. Not now. But I guess the killer in the Aldrich case was Perkins’s one that got away.”

Dragging on a faded cinnamon-colored Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt with the slogan I had a nightmare I was a brunette, I returned to the front room. It hadn’t escaped my Master Detective attention that Jack still seemed to be checking into the Aldrich case on my behalf; I wasn’t sure what to make of that.

I took the chair across from him again and said, “It could be a coincidence.”

“It could.” His lips folded firmly shut as he took in my T-shirt, whether at the message or the fact that it was a woman’s tee—Jack preferring to stick to the butch side of the triangle.

“Either way, I appreciate the heads-up.”

He nodded, moved to rise, and then stopped. “Any more threats? Or tarot cards?”

I shook my head.

“I should have word on the card left on your door by tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” I slouched in my chair, crossed my ankle over the opposite knee. I had a lot to think about, and I couldn’t think with Jack there. I didn’t go so far as to drum my fingers on the armrest, but I think he got the message.

He stood, and—relieved—I stood. And then—taking me aback—he sat down once more.

“Listen,” he said slowly. “It’s possible Bud Perkins kept a private file on the Aldrich case.”

I forgot all about not being able to think with Jack in the room. “Seriously? Is there a way of finding out for sure?”

“I can do some checking.”

I was so excited at this possibility that it barely occurred to me to wonder why Jack was being so helpful. But really, what was the mystery? If he was instrumental in helping me come up with a convincing scenario for who had killed Eva Aldrich, it sure wouldn’t do his career any harm. He’d get his acknowledgment right there with the UCLA Library in the front of the book.

“That would be great,” I said. “Do you think it’s likely?”

He flicked me a look from under his lashes. “Yeah, I do. We’re not supposed to, but detectives do sometimes keep their own files, especially when a case that really gets to you goes cold and you have to move on.”

“I appreciate your taking time to look into this for me,” I said. I waited for him to get up and leave, but he just kept sitting on the sofa looking at me like he was waiting for something.

What?

I said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to eat something. Skipping meals plays hell with my wiring.”

Even a day ago I couldn’t have admitted that to him; now I had no problem. I thought that was a good sign that I was well on my way to being over Jack. Not that I didn’t still find him attractive: the easy power of his trim, muscular body; that lazy grin—that disconcerting dimple. But I found my response to him more annoying than anything.

He said, “You want to go grab a couple of burgers somewhere? There are a couple of things…”

I gazed at him with disbelief. “No,” I replied shortly. “I don’t. I’m tired. I want a shower and dinner and a couple of mindless hours in front of the tube.” I didn’t wait for his reply, uncoiling from the chair and going into the adjoining kitchen. Yanking open the fridge, I took out the still half-frozen tilapia and tossed it on the counter. It landed with a little bang—louder than I’d intended. There was no point getting mad. I knew what this was about: Jack feeling guilty. Jack trying to make good on his hope that we could still be friends.

Every muscle in my body tensed as he rose and came over to the bar separating the kitchen from the dining alcove. Watching me ripping open the plastic wrap on the fish, he said, “Sorry. I should have thought. There’s nothing that can’t wait till later.”

I gave him a brief look. “Good.”

He turned and opened the apartment door. “Don’t forget to lock this,” he said, and went out.

* * * * *

Netflix had delivered Danger in the Dunes, Eva Aldrich’s last film, so I popped it into the player and watched it while I ate my dinner.

It was not a brilliant film. One of those convoluted VistaVision adventure-romances, the plot had something to do with a lost city and Tuaregs and the rekindling of an old romance. Eva played a feisty lady reporter who, following a plane crash in the desert, gets foisted on her old explorer boyfriend played with G.I. Joe-like stiffness by the implausibly handsome Stephen Ball. What the story lacked, the chemistry between the two leads more than made up for it. Eva and Stephen Ball were hot together. Hot, as the movie trailer would have it, as the sizzling desert sun. And I didn’t think it was acting, because neither of them was particularly gifted in the thespian department.

True, sexual chemistry didn’t necessarily mean they loved each other—or even liked each other. But, according to Gloria, Eva had gone to that fateful party at the Garden of Allah to see Ball. This, only three days after ending her engagement to gangster Tony Fumagalli.

Neither Fumagalli nor Eva had given an official explanation for the end of their engagement. Had the reason been Stephen Ball? Eva had been briefly engaged to Ball soon after she landed in Hollywood in the early fifties. She’d broken it off to marry William Burack, a wealthy local businessman, but that hadn’t taken either, and two years later she had divorced Burack with some untactful comments about the grease under his fingernails. It was a matter of public record that garage-station owner Burack had not taken the split well and had continued to try to “woo” Eva back. Nowadays his idea of “wooing” would be classified as “stalking,” but things were different back in the fifties, and a lot of people were sympathetic to the idea of a husband wanting his headstrong wife back.

There were plenty of good reasons for suspecting Burack of killing Eva—including a drunken threat that if he couldn’t have her no one could—but the cops had been unable to shake his current paramour’s alibi. And Burack had a few influential friends. So he had evaded arrest, though not scandal and suspicion, and when he died in 1965, most people believed the answer to who had killed Eva Aldrich died with him.

But if Burack had killed Eva, why was someone so anxious that I not look into this half-century-old murder?

I needed to talk to Stephen Ball, but so far he had refused all my requests, and my publisher’s requests, for an interview. He still lived in the Beverly Hills mansion he had bought decades earlier.

Watching him and Eva locked in one of those grand Hollywood clinches, I had to admit they made a beautiful couple. He was tall and dashing, although I never trusted a guy with one of those pencil-thin mustaches, and she was beautiful in a bargain-basement Elizabeth Taylor sort of way.

As I studied Eva, I realized I still had no fix on her character. I’d seen most of her films—there were only twelve of them—and I’d talked to a number of people who had worked with her, but I still had no sense of who she was. She remained as impervious to analysis as her screen character was unsmudged and unmussed by sand and wind and plane crashes and Tuaregs and all that kissing.

Was that because, dying at twenty-four, her character had not been fully formed? Or was she just a shallow party girl? Or had no one really known her very well?

Or maybe the people who knew Eva best still weren’t willing to talk about her.

Gloria Rayner could certainly have told me a lot more, and maybe she would the next time we talked.

Speaking of talking, it would have been nice to be able to bounce some of my thoughts off someone, share my theories—not that I had a lot of theories at this point—but it would have been nice to…hell, watch this awful movie with someone.

Since the accident I’d cut myself off from most of my friends. From everyone, really. I didn’t see that changing anytime soon. My experience with Jack had confirmed what I already knew.

Jack.

Who was I kidding? The someone I wanted to talk to, share my theories with, bounce my thoughts—and other things—off was Jack. Even now.

And how sad was that? It was pathetic.

* * * * *

I didn’t sleep well that night. I kept thinking I heard someone outside my bedroom window. I got up and checked a couple of times, but there was no one there. When I dozed, I dreamed of burly shadow shapes warning me to mind my own business, and in my dreams it seemed like a good idea.

When I finally drifted off, it was after four in the morning, and I ended up oversleeping, which meant I had to rush to make my interview with Roman Mayfield. I didn’t want to take a chance on being late since he’d already canceled three previously scheduled meets. I had to skip my morning swim, scarf down my breakfast of instant oatmeal—chased by the usual meds and vitamins and eleven different herbs and spices—and then run for the bus.

I was so goddamned sick and tired of having to take a bus everywhere.

Mayfield lived north of Sunset Boulevard in a pseudo-French chateau built by an oil magnate in the 1920s. A security guard, suspicious that I had arrived on foot, eventually—after much back and forthing on the security booth phone—finally let me through the towering wrought iron gates. I hiked up the long, tree-lined drive to the mansion.

A maid opened the double front doors and escorted me down a mile or so of parquet floors and chandelier-lined ceilings to my audience with Mayfield. The hall was lined with photos of Mayfield and a galaxy of celebrities stretching from the late ‘40s to current day.

The maid led me through an arched doorway and I found myself in a huge room with a ceiling painted midnight blue and speckled with gold and silver stars like the night sky. At the far end of the room was an enormous desk. A very tall, very thin, bald man sat behind the desk, and behind the man was a huge black-and-gold astrology chart.

He watched with an intent, unblinking gaze as I walked toward the desk—and he said not a word. He looked like Hollywood’s idea of the head priest in an ancient Egyptian temple—if Egyptian priests wore black silk turtlenecks and Armani slacks.

I said, “Thanks very much for agreeing to see me, Mr. Mayfield.”

“Exactly as I thought!” Mayfield exclaimed in a deep, melodious voice, and he rose from behind the desk. “Sagittarius. The Archer. Am I correct?”

He was correct, actually. My birthday was December 19. But he could have found that out a number of ways; I didn’t believe he could tell just by looking at me.

“Timothy North,” I responded.

“Curious, direct, sincere, and idealistic. Useful traits for a journalist.” He came around the desk and offered his hand. “I’ve been looking forward to this meeting.”

I shook hands and said, “I know. I got your calling card.”

He continued to clasp my hand, his expression all at once guarded. He was quite a bit older than the latest of the photos in his hall gallery. Late seventies, I thought, although he looked very fit. I noticed that he had one blue eye and one brown. What was that called? Heterochromia? It seemed a nice touch for a professional oracle.

“My…calling card?” Mayfield repeated cautiously.

“Sure,” I said. “Didn’t you leave a tarot card on my front door?”

Chapter Five

After an astonished moment, Mayfield threw back his head and laughed. He had a great laugh, hearty and unrestrained. I found my lip twitching in response.

“There’s that famous Sagittarian intuition!”

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “You’re the only person involved in the Aldrich case that I know of who reads tarot cards.”

I’d been thinking about that during the long wakeful hours of the night, and it had occurred to me that whoever left the tarot card on my door had not been the same person who sent a thug to threaten me. Different psychological signature entirely. It had also occurred to me that if someone wanted to scare me off, they’d have used the Death card or the Devil card or one of the more obviously sinister-looking cards. The fact that those cards hadn’t been used made me think that the message of the card was genuine, and that rather than being threatened, I was being…encouraged. Or at least tantalized.

“Very good!” he exclaimed, and he really seemed pleased about it. “Now, my dear, sit down and tell me when exactly you were born, what time and where, and I’ll do your chart. Gratis.”

I couldn’t quite get a handle on Mayfield. He’d canceled our meeting three times and then he’d practically left an engraved invitation on my front door—after he’d already agreed again to an interview. Now that I was here, he seemed all set to distract me with astrology readings and avuncular flirtation.

I said, “That’s very kind of you, but I don’t want to take up your time, and I do have a few questions—”

“Oh, nonsense. We won’t really be able to talk until we know each other. Trust each other.”

Great.

I said, “The truth is, I have no idea what time I was born. It was sometime during the night.”

“You know the day I suppose?”

“December 19.”

“The cusp.” He was frowning. “People are so careless about these matters. Where exactly were you born?”

“Up north. Mendocino.”

“What city?” He sounded a little sharp, like he thought I was holding out on him.

“Mendocino. The city within the county.”

Mollified, he said, “And I suppose you can find out the exact hour of your birth?”

Was he expecting me to phone my parents on the spot? That would make an interesting call. No, I’m not ready to kiss and make up, but can you get my astrologer some info? Probably confirm their worst suspicions. Some of their worst suspicions.

“I can try,” I said. “Later.”

He thought this over for a moment or two and then gestured abruptly to the chair in front of his desk. He retreated behind the desk like a soldier returning to his own foxhole following the Christmas cease-fire.

“Is it all right if I tape this interview?”

He gestured vaguely with his hand.

I turned on the tape recorder, and he said, “First of all, Will Burack did not kill Evie. If that’s what you think, you’re quite mistaken.”

I said, “How do you know Burack didn’t kill her?”

Elbows on the desk, he steepled his hands together. “Burack was a Taurus. An earthy sign but not without its attractions—and appreciative of all things beautiful.”

“Like Eva?” I said, hoping we could skip the horoscope and get straight to business.

“Like Eva,” Mayfield agreed. “Eva, on the other hand, was Leo. Fire, fixed and positive, ruled by the sun. Leo is of the day, a masculine sign. Taurus is a feminine sign and of the night.” He looked at me expectantly.

I said, “I didn’t realize. So they were opposites?”

His eyes seemed to pop. “Opposites? It’s a 4-10 sun sign pattern. Square.”

“Ah,” I said. What I was thinking was, What the hell?

“There would be conflicts, naturally, personality clashes, but violence, no. Never.”

“What about Tony Fumagalli? What sign was he?”

“His sun sign was Scorpio.”

From Mayfield’s expression I got the impression this was a bad thing.

“The scorpion?” I hazarded.

“Jealous, possessive, passion that borders on mania. I’m speaking of Fumagalli in particular, you understand, not all Scorpios. It was also a 4-10 sun sign pattern.” He sighed. “Eva was always attracted to the same sort of man.”

“Do you think Fumagalli murdered her?”

He stared at me as though he didn’t understand the question. Then, finally, he said, “No.”

Right. Because of that 4-10 sun pattern thing. I asked, “Did you suspect anyone in particular?”

He gave an odd smile. “It is, as the Bard said, ‘written in our stars.’”

And if anyone could analyze the handwriting, it was Mayfield. I said, “Could you tell me who you suspect?”

He gave me a chiding look. “No, my dear, I could not. It would hardly do my career good to go around accusing my friends and clients of murder. I have, you see, an unfair advantage.” He looked up at the painted ceiling, his expression soulful.

I decided to let that go. Was I going to hear anything of what Mayfield thought and felt or was everything going to come via starlight? Or was he using the stars as a vehicle for what he personally believed? Was I going to have to do my own astrological research to verify what I was hearing from Mayfield?

“What was Eva like?” I asked. “You knew her better than anyone, didn’t you?”

His stern face softened. “She was very young. We all were. We just didn’t know it, you see? The young never recognize how truly inexperienced they are. How unprepared they are. Eva was not a great actress. She was not an intellectual giant. But she was funny. Very charming. And so incredibly lovely. It was a pleasure to simply look at her, listen to her. I laughed with Eva like I laughed with no one before or since.” He added dryly, “No doubt the champagne cocktails had something to do with it.”

As he spoke, I felt the all too familiar aura sweep over me: my stomach tightened, and with it, that panicky, scared feeling flooded through me. I couldn’t catch my breath. No time to speak, no time to think, and what was there to think except…please, no. Not now. Please…

* * * * *

I came to, terrified. A black bulk leaned over me—I couldn’t think where I was, what had happened, but the sensation of danger was overwhelming. I whimpered, unable to move.

“It’s all right, my dear. You’re all right now. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” I listened to that low croon. Realized it had been going on for some time. How long? I widened my eyes, tried to see his face. Did I know him?

He was chafing my hands. Warm hands, soft palms and soft fingers. Gentle.

It slowly dawned on me that I’d had a seizure. I swallowed. Pulled my hands away. Tried to sit up.

“No, no, my dear. Just rest.” He pressed me back. He’d put a cushion under my head. I was lying on a carpet. Indigo and brown. There was a name for that kind of carpet but I couldn’t remember it. Expensive carpet but not comfortable. I turned my head. There was a pair of red Turkish slippers underneath the desk. That seemed funny, but I felt too weak to laugh. I shifted my gaze. He was kneeling beside me. What was his name? May-something. Mayhew? Mayfield. Roman Mayfield. He wore the expression I had come to dread: that horrible mix of pity and alarm. I couldn’t deal with it.

He stroked my hair back, quite gently. “Have you ever had a seizure before, my dear?”

I affirmed. Closed my eyes. I just wanted to sleep.

“You’re…epileptic, is that it?”

I nodded, not bothering to lift my weighted lids.

“That’s all right then.”

It is? Not really. He was taking it pretty well, though, considering. Poor old guy. I was glad he wasn’t too frightened. I knew exactly what he’d seen. I’d had it described to me in detail a couple of times, and it frightened most people. It frightened me. I’d go stiff as a board, tip over, eyes rolling back in my head, my eyelashes fluttering, and I’d tremble violently for three to four minutes. Then it would stop and I’d gradually come around.

So far I hadn’t pissed myself or thrown up, which was something to be grateful for, but I couldn’t seem to shake it off like a lot of people did. I’d read about patients who had a seizure and five minutes later were back at work—or out to the theater with friends. The epilepsy poster children.

I couldn’t do that. I was exhausted and strung out afterwards. At least I’d stopped crying. That was something else to be grateful for, because at first I couldn’t help it. Every time it was over, I’d cry. I don’t even know why. It’s not like it hurt during a seizure—unless I fell on something hard, furniture or a wall—I wasn’t even conscious during the seizure. The crying was as humiliating as the seizure, but that was mostly under control now. Mostly. What was harder to control was my desire to be held—because the last thing anyone wanted to do was hold someone who’d just had a seizure. The weird thing was I didn’t even like being held usually. I was never big on cuddling. But after a seizure I just wanted the reassurance of someone’s arms around me.

It was beyond embarrassing. It was mortifying.

The worst time was the night with Jack. Too little sleep, too much to drink, and whammo. After a night of fooling and fucking, I’d seized, right there in Jack’s bed, waking him out of a deep sleep to…everything I’d prefer not to think about. He was good about it—knew exactly what to do, moving me into recovery position, talking to me, stroking my back. When I’d asked him to hold me, he’d taken me into his arms without hesitation and cradled me until I fell asleep.

It wasn’t until we’d talked later that I’d realized how disgusted and angry he was.

And that was the end of me and Jack. The memory of it was still sharp and painful enough that it dispersed my lethargy, and I opened my eyes.

Roman Mayfield was sitting cross-legged beside me. One of his hands rested on my head and the other was resting on his knee, fingers extended, thumb and forefinger joined to make a circle. His eyes were closed; he appeared to be meditating.

Like this all wasn’t weird enough?

When I moved, his eyes flew open and he smiled at me. “Better now?”

“Sorry about that,” I mumbled.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” He crawled out of the way as I sat up and then pushed onto all fours. From there I used the edge of his desk to pull myself up. Mayfield did the same, rising stiffly to his feet. I heard his knees pop. Maybe someday this would be funny. I couldn’t imagine it, but maybe. About a million years from now. I raked a hand through my hair, put shaky hands to my tie.

“Would you like to lie down?” he asked.

I laughed unsteadily. “I think I already did.”

“I mean, have a real sleep.” Those weirdly-colored eyes met mine, and I could see that he was sincere in his offer; I thought he had to be one of the kindest people I’d ever met, even if he was a little screwy.

I said, “Thanks. I think I should be going.” The thought of getting myself out of there, walking back to the bus stop, and the long bus ride, was almost overwhelming. I needed to go while I still could. “Would it be all right if I contacted you with any questions?” I was afraid to ask for another interview.

“Of course.” He gave me an oddly intent look. “I think perhaps we should reschedule, shouldn’t we?”

I nodded. Fumbled my tape recorder into my pocket.

“Now sit down and relax for a moment. I’ll have my car brought around.”

I protested, but he insisted—and he had a lot more energy than I did—so in the end, I was dropped off in front of my apartment building by Roman Mayfield’s white limousine.

* * * * *

Jack must have had the day off because he was swimming in the deserted pool as I wearily passed the courtyard on the way to my apartment. I deliberately ignored the sight of his lean brown body cutting through the aqua water, glistening powerful arms dipping slow and steady in perfect rhythm with the strong kick of his long, tanned legs.

I was going to have to work on my ignoring technique.

I was unlocking my door when I heard him call my name. “Tim!”

Unwillingly, I turned in time to see him hoist himself out of the pool, water raining down on the pavement.

He came toward me, unselfconsciously straightening his red swim trunks. “I’ve got some news.”

“Great.” I pushed my door open, practically weak-kneed with the relief of being home at last. Sanctuary. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

He caught the door before it shut on him, just as he had done the other night. The easy friendliness of his face changed. “Hey. Tim, is there some reason why we can’t be friends?”

It was spoken in the same tone that cops ask, Is there a problem here?

And, yeah, there was a problem. The problem was that he was standing too close to me and he smelled of chlorine and bare skin, and I could remember only too clearly the smooth supple texture of that skin, and the salty taste of it, and how it felt to rest my face against it and listen to his heartbeat.

“No,” I said shortly. “No reason. But I’m not feeling too hot right now, so later, okay?”

“Are you all right?” His gray eyes scanned my face with apparent concern—and I lost it.

“Like you fucking care?” I replied. “Don’t worry. It’s not your problem.”

I didn’t shout or anything, I didn’t even say it loudly, but Jack’s eyes narrowed. He glanced around like he thought someone might overhear us, and then he pushed open my door, forcing me back as he stepped inside my apartment.

“Wait. A. Minute.” He snapped each word out. “You’re the one who withheld information. So don’t give me some snotty attitude like I’m not sympathetic to your situation.”

“‘Withheld information’? What, were we on stakeout together? You have no idea what my situation is.” And just like that, I was in his face, yelling.

Jack paled, his lips folding in the way they did when he didn’t like something. His eyes looked black. He yelled back, “You know what I mean. You should have told me you’re epileptic!”

He was always so controlled; his answering anger caught me off guard. More calmly, I asked, “On the fourth date? Would there have been a fifth date?”

“I don’t know. But I do know you should have told me before we spent the night together.”

“Sorry I’m not up on epileptic etiquette,” I said bitterly. “It’s still kind of new to me.”

I watched the anger dissipate from his face and body. “I know. I remember. The accident was eighteen months ago. Look, Tim, it’s not the seizures, okay? You should have been up front with me, but—”

“Can we not do this now?” I interrupted, dropping down on the sofa. My adrenaline-fueled burst of energy was long gone. I said tiredly, “I should have told you. I know. And I know it wasn’t working between us anyway.”

Something in the quality of Jack’s silence made me look up. I couldn’t read his expression.

I said, “And I do want to stay friends, so thanks.” I tried for a smile. “So will you please go away now?”

He seemed to shake off his preoccupation. “Yeah. Of course. Sorry.” He opened the door. “Call me when you wake up. It turns out that Bud Perkins did keep his own private file on the Aldrich case.”

* * * * *

I slept till seven thirty. When I woke, I felt a lot better—a little embarrassed for coming unglued with Jack, but equally relieved to have gotten it off my chest. I showered and hunted around in the cupboard for something to eat—along with lack of sleep and stress, missing meals was another trigger for my epilepsy—and then gave Jack a call while Campbell’s soup heated on the stove.

Jack picked up immediately, and I felt a little self-conscious after our earlier confrontation.

“Hi, it’s Tim.”

“Hey,” said Jack. “Have you eaten? I’m fixing wings.”

I glanced at the canned soup bubbling on the burner. “No,” I said slowly.

“Why don’t you come up and you can look Perkins’s file over while we eat.”

“You’ve got Perkins’s personal file?”

“Yeah. There’s a lot in it, but I don’t know how relevant most of it is. I figured you’d find it interesting.”

To put it mildly. “I’m on my way,” I said.

I turned off the burner, stuck the soup in the fridge. Stopping only long enough to slip on a pair of Vans and drag the comb through my damp hair, I shook my head at my mirrored self. I had a feeling trying to work out a friendship with Jack was a bad idea. I was still too attracted to him. But, unless one of us was planning to move, there didn’t seem much help for it—and he was a valuable resource.

I stepped outside of my apartment and locked the door. The evening air was mild, filled with the hum of the pool generator and air conditioners. The lights were on in the pool, the solar-powered Tiki torches flickering in the twilight. I could smell the jasmine in the air—and a hint of tobacco smoke.

I glanced over as I started up the stairs to Jack’s apartment, pinpointing the round orange dot of the cigarette of someone standing in the shadow of the blanket of bougainvillea cascading over the side of the building. I didn’t make anything of it until I saw the cigarette arc off into the night and a bulky silhouette detach itself from the deeper shadows.

“You don’t listen too well,” the shadow said conversationally, walking toward me.

The funny thing is, my initial thought was that he said too well rather than too good. A thug with proper grammar?

He lunged for me, and instead of backing away, I moved forward and delivered an uppercut with all the power I had. Despite the fact that I was off-balance on the steps, it was a good punch; I hadn’t had time to think and so my body was loose and my hand relaxed till the last moment. I put my total body force into that strike, driving my fist squarely into his sternum. It was like punching a bull. I tried to follow through to his chin, but he’d recovered from his initial surprise by then and blocked me, slipping left and countering with a straight punch.

Ducking, I thought, Fuck. He’s a boxer.

Most street fights aren’t about training or skill. They’re about two pissed off men throwing punches until one of them falls down. So a guy who can stay cool and keep thinking, and knows the basics, has an advantage, even if he’s on the slim side. Unless he runs into a bigger guy with a lot more experience and training—which I’d just done.

The punches began to fall, landing on my arms and shoulders. I had my guard up trying to protect my head, but there was no way I could stand up to that onslaught. His fist landed in my gut and I went down on one knee, nearly losing my balance. The stairs and railing prevented me from getting clean away, and that was my only hope at that point. Through the barrier of my arms, I tried to get a good look at him, but it was nearly dark by then. He kind of looked like Mr. Clean: big and bald and sort of jolly. He seemed to be enjoying pummeling me.

Footsteps pounded on the landing above and then down the stairs, and somebody brushed over me and tackled Mr. Clean, who quit whaling on me and plunged back, crashing down the stairs with Jack on top. I lowered my arms, panting, muscles shaking, and hauled myself to my feet.

Jack and Mr. Clean were rolling around on the cement courtyard, and I had to take a moment to admire the brutal efficiency of Jack’s attack. He swung with fine, fierce proficiency—and he was better built for brawling than me, though not in Mr. Clean’s division.

Mr. Clean changed tactics, snaking around like one of those Water Wiggles. He was a wild man, and he managed to wriggle out from under Jack, grabbing for one of the umbrellaed metal tables and tipping it over. I was down the stairs by then and caught the table edge before it cracked down on Jack.

Mr. Clean rolled onto his feet, Jack scrambled up, and Mr. Clean drew a gun from beneath his lightweight sports jacket and pointed it at us.

Chapter Six

I froze. Jack’s arms came up in a hold everything position. “Easy, pal,” he said.

Mr. Clean’s eyes met mine, and they were as dark and fathomless as the barrel pointed my way. “Bang,” he said.

I stopped breathing, but instead of firing he swung the gun at Jack and said, “Don’t move. Don’t even twitch.” He was backing up, moving swiftly to the front entrance, one hand stretched behind him to keep from walking into one of the other tables or lounge chairs.

The gun swung back my way. “Last warning,” he said to me. “Stay out of the Aldrich case.”

And then he was out through the arched entrance.

“God damn it!” Jack snapped, and he went tearing up the stairs back to his apartment.

I sat down on the bottom step, feeling like a puppet after someone had cut the strings.

Bang.

I could hear the blast; feel bullets tearing into my body, plowing through flesh and bone. I felt sick, although that probably had something to do with the punches I’d received.

Jack came racing back, taking the stairs a couple at a time. He shot past me and out through the apartment complex entrance. It was dark now but I could see the gleam of the gun in his hand.

I put my head in my hands, getting my wind back. I was going to have a beautiful set of bruises in a few hours. It’d happened so fast, but that’s like anything. Fast and unexpected, like when a soccer mom runs a red light and smashes into your car. Like a lightning strike in your brain.

After a short time Jack returned, walking through the arched entryway. Spotting me still sitting on the stairs, he came over and dropped down beside me, resting his gun on his knee.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know him? Did you recognize him?”

I shook my head. “I think it’s the guy from yesterday. Same voice, I think.”

“I’ll file the report on this one. I want that asshole.” His face was all angles and sharps in the uneven light. The little white scar on his forehead stood out clearly. Meeting my gaze, he suddenly grinned. “That was a helluva punch you threw, Mr. North. You can handle yourself okay.”

“Define okay.”

“Nah, the dude was built like a brick wall.” His cheek creased. “You’ve done some boxing.”

“College.”

He nodded. After a moment he said quietly, “The guy’s connected. I’ll guarantee it.”

“You mean like mob connected?”

He nodded. “I guarantee you we’ll find him in a mug book.”

“Tony Fumagalli?” I said doubtfully. “No one seems to know—or will say—why Eva broke her engagement to him.”

“Maybe she figured out what he did for a living.”

“They called him the Gentleman Gangster in the press. It shouldn’t have been a newsflash.”

He didn’t say anything. I was crazily conscious of his shoulder against mine, his bare arm brushing my bare arm. Jack shrugged. “Tony F.’s out of play but there’s always Frankie, his son. He inherited the family business when the old man’s brain turned to mush.”

Speaking of brains turning to mush. I wiped my forehead on my arm and said, “Maybe there’s a problem with Tony’s alibi. Even so…would it really matter? Would anyone prosecute a senile old man?”

“They might.” Jack sighed. “I agree it doesn’t seem worth the taxpayers’ money.”

“Maybe Mr. Clean’s not mob connected.”

“Mr. Clean.” He snorted with amusement. Then he shook his head. “You don’t hire guys like that off the street. He’s a pro.” He smiled at me and his dimple showed. “You’ve got someone seriously annoyed with you, Tim.”

* * * * *

Splashing cold water on my face, I used one of Jack’s immaculate towels to dry off and stepped out of the bathroom.

His place was very neat. Everything-in-its-place-scary. I glanced in his bedroom as I walked past. The bed—a waterbed—was tidily made, black-and-brown striped pillows stacked comfortably on a black comforter. I wondered who he was sleeping with these days. I hadn’t noticed anyone coming or going, but then I’d tried hard not to notice. And Jack had always been discreet about his social life, even when I was part of that social life.

I found him in the kitchen tasting a honey-colored dipping sauce. “That’s good,” he announced.

“Smells good,” I agreed.

He gave me a searching glance, picked up a plastic baggie stuffed with ice cubes and tossed it to me. “Here, Rocky. Ice your hand.”

I caught the bag, glanced down at my hand, and he was right. The knuckles were puffy and pink. I applied the ice pack and glanced around. “Anything I can do?”

“The Perkins file is on the coffee table. You want a beer?”

I walked over to the sofa, sat down feeling the protest of newly punished muscles on top of yesterday’s aches and pains, and picked up the file. A stack of newspaper and magazine clippings slithered out and spilled on the carpet. Jack was right. Perkins had kept anything and everything related to Eva Aldrich. I scooped up the fragile clippings. There were also sheets of legal paper covered in faded handwriting. Perkins’s unofficial notes? I flipped through, absorbed.

“You want a beer, Tim?” Jack repeated.

I glanced up and he had a funny half grin. “Huh? No. Thanks. I don’t want to push my luck. How did you get hold of this?”

“My first partner was one of these old-timers who knew just about everyone on the force. I got hold of him and he put me in touch with Perkins’s wife. He’d only kept one file—this one.”

“Wow.” What really wowed me was that Jack had bothered to do this on his day off. It was way beyond the call of duty. I looked up. “Thanks. I really appreciate this.”

He shrugged. Turned back to the oven.

I continued reading through the folder. Perkins must have kept up the file until shortly before his death. There were several photos that I recognized from the Life magazine spread of that evening, and there were a couple of those Where Are They Now features from the early ‘70s. A lot of the stuff I’d seen on microfilm and microfiche, but some of it was new—and a bit lurid. There was speculation about drugs and alcohol and Eva’s sexual orientation—none of which had shown up in the earlier articles about her death. Was there any foundation in fact or was this all based on rumor and gossip—and boosting circulation numbers?

I barely noticed when Jack set a plate of wings and a Coke beside me. He sat down across from me and ate silently while I frowned over Perkins’s notes.

At last I looked up out of the years and distance and said, “According to Perkins, only two people at the party were unaccounted for at the time of Eva’s murder: Stephen Ball and Gloria Rayner. He didn’t seem to consider Burack or Fumagalli real suspects at all.”

Jack said, “For what it’s worth, I think Fumagalli’s alibi is unbreakable. Over a dozen people saw him at the Tropicana.”

“He could have hired someone.”

“We’ve been over it,” he reminded me. “That wasn’t a professional hit.”

He was right. “They found the knife,” I said. “It had been wiped clean of prints and dropped in the swimming pool. That information was never officially released to the press. I wonder why not.”

“Could have been a lot of reasons,” Jack said. “Usually it’s because we hope someone’s going to accidentally trip himself up during questioning.” He tipped his head at my plate. “Are you going to eat something?”

“Oh, right.” I set the file aside and picked up a little drumstick. “The murder took place during a party at the Garden of Allah, but Eva was found inside Stephen Ball’s adjacent villa. The murder weapon was a knife from Ball’s own kitchen, so the killing almost certainly wasn’t premeditated.”

“I thought you’d find that interesting.”

“I can’t believe this never came out before. It’s not even made clear in the official reports.” I bit into a wing, crunchy with baked parmesan cheese and oregano and garlic. My eyes widened. “Wow. That’s really good.” I reached for another wing. Suddenly I was starving, and even the fact that my various bruises and sore spots were starting to make themselves felt didn’t distract me.

Jack and I munched for a few minutes in an unusually companionable silence.

He neatly wiped his mouth on his napkin. I finished off my Coke. “I think Ball did it,” I said. “Perkins doesn’t come right out and say so, but I think he leaned that way too. She went to Ball’s villa during the party—why, if not to meet him? He didn’t go with her, so he must have given her a key because she got inside somehow. And he’s the only remaining principal who won’t give me an interview.”

“That’s not exactly conclusive,” Jack pointed out. He rose, went to the fridge and got himself another beer. I declined a second Coke.

“I know, but why won’t he talk to me? What does he have to hide?”

“It’s not a news story to him,” Jack pointed out. “It’s part of his life. A painful part.”

“It was fifty years ago.”

“Yeah, but all the same, it’s a touchy subject for someone or that goon wouldn’t have shown up this evening warning you to back off.”

I swallowed hard, remembering that gun pointed my way. Bang. I dropped the last chicken bone onto the pile before me.

“True.”

“By the way, I want you to come down to headquarters tomorrow and look through the mug books.”

“It was dark. I didn’t really get a clear look at his face.”

“Still.”

I sighed. “Okay.”

Jack’s gray eyes were alert. “Problem?”

“Not really. It’s just a pain in the ass not driving. It takes up half the day making bus connections. Taxis are expensive. And I really didn’t get a good look at him.”

“How long do you have to be seizure-free before you can reapply for your license?”

“At least three months. I’m not seizure-free yet.”

His gaze slid away from mine.

“Anyway,” I said into the somewhat awkward pause, “I should be going. Thanks for letting me see the file.”

“You can keep it for now. No one knows about it. You might as well.”

“Seriously?”

He nodded.

“Thanks.” I picked up the file, rose, and he said, “You don’t have to go, you know.”

I stopped and stared at him. Jack gazed steadily back at me. “How about coffee and dessert while you tell me what you’ve found out from your interviews? Might help to run your findings past someone else.”

“Uh…okay.” I sat slowly back down. “I haven’t found out much in the way of new information.”

“So you said, but you’re willing to tap Stephen Ball for murder, so you must’ve come to some conclusion from talking to people.” He went into the kitchen and switched on the coffee machine.

“I’ve seen Gloria Rayner twice. The first time we mostly talked about her. Last time we talked a little about Eva, but she’s pretty cagey. I know she could tell me a lot more if she chose. I’m hoping the third time will do the trick.”

“Gloria Rayner? She does those AARP ads?”

I could just imagine Gloria’s opinion of being remembered for her AARP work.

“She was one of those ‘50s blonde bombshells. She and Eva were best friends—and rivals, I think.”

“Romantic rivals or professional rivals?”

“Both, as far as I can tell. I know they were both trying for a role in a William Wyler film.” I watched Jack moving efficiently around his small kitchen. The overhead light shone down on hair as black and glossy as a raven’s wing. “And I’ve seen Roman Mayfield once.”

“He’s the astrologer?”

“‘Seer to the Stars.’ I forgot to tell you, he’s the one responsible for leaving the tarot card on my front door.”

Jack stopped and stared at me. “He admitted it?”

“Pretty much.”

“He admits leaving a tarot card—like somebody left on Aldrich’s body?”

“I don’t think he looked at it like that. Or maybe he did. He’s an oddball, but…” I stopped, remembering his kindness and patience that afternoon.

“But what?”

“He’s a…genuinely nice person.”

Jack looked unimpressed.

“He didn’t have a motive that I can see. He’s gay, for one thing. His relationship with Eva was strictly platonic, from what I can tell. Anyway, my point is, the card wasn’t left as a threat. I think it was supposed to be sort of a come-on, actually.”

“He sounds like a nut.”

“Probably, but he’s figured out a way to make a living at it. And, like I said, I think he’s harmless.”

“Don’t underestimate a potential threat just because he’s an old man. If he was capable of killing once, he’s still capable.”

I looked up, surprised at his serious tone. Jack carried in coffee and dessert plates on a tray, and I had to bite back a smile. The tray struck me as farcical. Not that Jack wasn’t civilized, but the bruise on his cheekbone from Mr. Clean’s fist sort of undermined the cosmopolitan effect.

I took the dessert plate he handed me and said, “And I’ve talked to a lot of people who were on the periphery of Eva Aldrich’s world, read every article on her I could find.” I tried the strawberry nut crisp. It seemed to be a baked mixture of fruit and mashed up pecan cookies and nuts topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. “This is really good,” I said thickly, and swallowed.

Jack smiled at me, a slow smile—that endearing dimple appearing unexpectedly. I suddenly ran out of things to say, and we ate our dessert in silence but for the scrape of forks on plates.

Finally I glanced at the clock on the bookshelf and set my empty plate aside. “I should go. It’s late and you’re working tomorrow.”

“I go in late tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Well, I still should go.”

He studied me without speaking, and then put his plate down.

I stood up and he stood up. “Thanks for dinner,” I said. “And, now that I think of it, thanks for saving my ass earlier.”

His eyes were so dark and intense I could hardly look away. I felt crazily self-conscious.

“You don’t have to go, Tim,” he said. “Why don’t you stay?”

Chapter Seven

I wasn’t exactly sure if it was excitement or anger, but my heart was thudding so hard I could hardly get the words out. “What are you doing, Jack?”

“Asking you to stay the night.”

Come to think of it, it was mostly anger pounding through my veins and tightening up my throat. I got out a reasonably calm, “Why? You already said you weren’t interested. You made it clear.”

“I know.” He shook his head. “But…”

“But what?” I didn’t manage to control my temper quite so well that time, and I saw his eyes glint.

Jack said quietly, “I know how this seems, but I’m not playing games with you—I like you a lot, Tim. That hasn’t changed. I still find you very attractive. That hasn’t changed either.”

“What has changed?”

“I was mad that you didn’t tell me about your seizures. I think that’s the kind of information that needs to be shared with a potential lover, but…more than that, it seemed indicative of some other problems.”

“What other problems?” Then I put a hand up. “Never mind. I don’t give a fuck what you thought my other problems were.” I turned and headed for the door.

“Wait!” He caught my arm as I yanked open the door. It was a hard grip, but it gentled almost at once into a caress sliding down my biceps and forearm and then reluctantly releasing me. Goose bumps prickled all down my skin; I felt that touch in every pore, every hair on my arm. My heart slowed, the beats heavy against my ribs. “I keep making it worse,” Jack said. He sounded so rueful, I hesitated.

Seeing my hesitation, he put a hand on my shoulder, drawing me back inside and shutting the door. The warm weight of his hand slid down my back and drew me close. Our lips touched—he tasted like coffee and strawberry nut crisp.

“Stay,” he whispered.

* * * * *

The waterbed gulped as we settled on the comforter, and I had to bite back a nervous laugh. The first night I’d had a lot to drink, too much. Tonight I was cold sober and very conscious that this was probably a bad idea.

I pulled my T-shirt over my head. Jack’s shirt was already off, his tanned chest lightly furred in silky black, his nipples brown and flat. He reached for the top of my jeans about the same moment I brushed my fingertips against his nipple. He smiled and I smiled, lightly pinching the tiny buds.

“Oh, yeah,” he murmured. He undid the buttons of my Levi’s and his hands slid knowledgeably inside the encasing denim. “Use your tongue, Timmy.”

I fully intended to, but paused, closing my eyes and savoring the feel of Jack’s big hand feeling me over. I savored his warmth through the soft cotton of my briefs, and then his fingers slipped through the fly. I pushed my hips into that exploration and moaned, my dick coming up hard and a little painfully in the binding Levi’s.

“Lift up,” Jack ordered. I raised my hips and he tugged on my jeans and briefs, helping me maneuver out of them. He kicked his own off in a couple of quick, limber twists, and I reached for him, the mattress sloshing beneath us. We kissed long and deep. I could feel the tension quivering through his lean body, echoing my own aching need. I dragged my mouth away, gasping for air.

“Jack, you’re sure about this?” I didn’t want to know if he wasn’t, so I was a little startled to hear my voice.

“Hell, yes,” he rasped. His eyes looked unfocused as they found mine. “Why? Changed your mind?”

I shook my head and he captured my mouth again, hot and hungry.

One thing about Jack, though, he wasn’t selfish. His hands were everywhere, lingering, exploring, fingertips teasing, tracing my mouth, ears, eyes; palms stroking my ribs and sides; hands cupping and caressing balls and buttocks, all this attention leaving me breathless and distracted. I tried to respond in kind, licking his nipples, nibbling his ears, sucking his lower lip.

“Mm. Nice. You taste sweet,” he whispered.

No way was this going to last long. I hadn’t been with anyone since Jack, and that had been over six months ago. His legs wrapped around me, I rocked against him, belly to belly. Caught between the press of our bodies, our stiff cocks poked and scraped against each other—part pain and part pleasure. It quickly switched from a gentle seeking for rhythm to something electric and a little desperate, bodies arching and grinding and thrusting toward release.

Jack came first. He gave a little shout and then semen shot between us, sticky and wet. He laughed, and I remembered that about the first time. He laughed when he came—a genuinely joyful sound.

Noticing that I was still writhing beneath him, he wrapped his hand around my straining dick, pumping me once, twice.

I sucked in a ragged breath and then I was coming too, Jack’s hand slipping on wet heat. Sweet pulsing relief rippled through me, sharp peaks of pleasure like sound waves singing through my nerves and muscles.

It was good, but it didn’t last nearly long enough.

Relaxed to the point of inertia, I rolled over beside Jack, listening to his breathing settling back to normal.

“That was great,” he said drowsily. He kissed my ear—I think he was aiming for my temple.

“Mmm,” I murmured. And it had been great, but I still felt a little let down. Probably nothing more than physical exhaustion; it had been a long damn day, and it was liable to be a long damn night—which was the last thing I needed, and more than likely to tempt fate.

But Jack turned his head on the black pillow and studied me with peaceful gray eyes. “Okay?”

“Yep. Great.”

“Okay if I sleep?”

So it had just been a mutual jerk off. I nodded wearily, sat up.

His hand smoothed over my back. “Hey.” He drew me back down. “Where’re you going? There’s room in this birdbath for two.”

I hesitated, remembering the last time—wondering if he’d forgotten.

“Turn the light out, Tim,” he said.

I turned the light out and gave in to the tug of his hand, settling down beside him once more.

“Night,” Jack said, his breath light and warm against my face. Judging by the sound of his breathing a few moments later he must have plunged instantly into sleep.

“Night,” I murmured, and dived in after him.

* * * * *

I opened my eyes to a long row of pristine and beautifully pressed shirts hanging in an open closet. It was clearly not my closet. There was a shoe rack on the floor beneath a second row of trousers and pants, and one of those belt caddy things. Jack actually hung up his Levi’s.

Lifting my head, I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Early still. Five thirty. Jack’s alarm wasn’t going to ring for another hour and forty-five minutes. I laid there in the rosy morning light and studied his sleeping face: the curve of black lashes against his purpling cheekbone, the relaxed line of his mouth, the stubborn jut of his bristly jaw.

I thought about kissing those softly parted lips, but things were liable to be different in the daylight.

Jack’s lashes quivered, lifted. His eyes—almost blue in the tentative sunlight—scrutinized me for a moment, then he smiled, a sleepy, sort of sweet smile. I felt my belly tighten with desire.

“Morning,” I said.

“Morning.” He reached up and brushed the tiny gold stud in my ear with a fingertip. “Sleep okay?”

“I did.” I was a little surprised at that; I’d enjoyed the best night’s sleep I’d had in a long time.

“Sore?”

I grimaced, glancing down at the bruises mottling my arms and shoulders. “He landed a few good punches, yeah. I’ll feel better after a swim.”

“I’ll swim with you.” He grinned, the dimple showing briefly. “But not just yet.”

Round two was lazy and loose, both of us taking time and trouble, trying this, that, and the other—we both seemed to like the other a lot. Jack had an instinct for what felt terrific, an astonishing delicacy and playfulness given his strength and vocation.

Before long I was in a state of screaming—and only Jack’s mouth on mine kept that from being literal truth—tension. He fingered my balls, weighing, teasing, fondling—then just when I thought I couldn’t take another second of it—he moved to my cock, tracing one finger along the cleft, running the circle of finger and thumb up and down my swollen length. I needed to feel his hand around me. Needed to feel that firm grip working me, needed to feel the blaze of friction grazing up, gliding down. I fumbled my hand on top of his, trying to guide him, moaning in abject relief when his fingers wrapped around me.

“Yes. Yes. Yes…”

The pull and pump sped up, and I thrust fiercely against Jack’s fist. I’m not sure why it was so much better than jerking myself off, but it was. Something about handing over that control, letting someone else drive. And Jack had a real sense for what felt great, that mix of imagination and empathy—or maybe it was just a hell of a lot of experience.

I wanted it to last forever, but a few more knowing tugs and I was coming in creamy surges, reduced in moments to boneless satisfaction.

“Oh…wow,” I breathed as Jack finally rolled over onto his back. He turned his head and grinned at me.

“On a scale of one to ten?”

“Is that Richter scale? Cities toppled.” I eyed him, lying there, legs splayed, thick cock still stiff and erect.

I listened to the soothing rustle of water beneath us, and all I wanted was to close my eyes and go back to sleep, but I made an effort and pushed up, positioning myself between Jack’s long brown legs.

“What are you up to?” He smiled a languorous smile.

I touched the sticky pearl at the head of his cock. “Speaking for yourself, yeah?” And I took him into my mouth. Salty taste, familiar scent…oh, Jack…

He groaned, “Oh, yeah!” And his back bowed.

His shaft was very straight, thick, strong—beautiful as it jutted out of the dark nest of curls. It deserved my full attention, and I gave it to him, sucking hard, then soft, taking him deep inside and then barely grazing the slick head with my tongue.

Jack encouraged me with throaty noises and soft shivers.

His eyes were shining and warm, his hands gentle as they locked on my shoulders, drawing me closer, urging me on. I kissed his cock, his balls—nuzzled lower and he bucked. I smiled, rose, and fastened my lips around his shaft again, probing beneath the crown with my tongue.

“Oh. My. God,” he groaned.

I began to suck him hard, pursuing, insisting, and I felt surrender well up and flow through him—the white flag spilling into my mouth.

At last he showed signs of returning life, shifting, urging me up beside him, folding me into his arms. We drifted there for a time, snoozing lightly while the waterbed lulled us.

We woke the next time when the air conditioner kicked on. It was going to be another scorcher of a day. I pulled away from Jack, my skin sticky and damp where I had rested against him.

“A swim sounds good,” he mumbled.

I nodded, sitting up and looking around for my jeans. “I’ll meet you downstairs?”

“Or we could just shower and have breakfast.”

I glanced over my shoulder. He looked supremely relaxed—and content.

“I need to work the kinks out,” I said.

He smiled—a very sexy smile. “I like your kinks.”

Well, one thing was for sure: he wasn’t one of these guys who couldn’t wait to kick you out after getting his rocks off—not normally, anyway. Our first time he hadn’t showed much interest in lingering.

I said, dragging my Levi’s on and standing up, “So…what other problems do you think I have?”

“What?”

“Last night you said my not talking about my epilepsy indicated other problems.”

His brows drew together. “Come on, Tim. I didn’t know you.”

“You don’t know me now, but you’re willing to sleep with me again. What changed?”

All the easy contentment was gone from his face, his gaze was unwavering, and his mouth unsmiling. His game face. At least I wasn’t going to hear a bunch of platitudes to coax me back into bed.

“All I knew about you was that you used to be a reporter and that you were on disability.” His eyes met mine directly. “You didn’t seem disabled, and in my line of work I’ve known a lot of people who try and take advantage of the system. You said you were estranged from your family and you didn’t seem to have any friends or outside social life.” He shrugged.

I listened to this with mounting anger. He was so exactly what my wounded self-confidence didn’t need. I said, “My parents—my mother—didn’t take the news that I was gay very well. In fact, she pretty much gave me an ultimatum. I could have my family or my ‘lifestyle.’ And my dad, though he didn’t agree, just went along with her. Then when I got hit, suddenly she—they—decided all was forgiven, and I should move home—after essentially not speaking to me for five years, they want me to move home.”

“Sometimes it takes a close call like that to wake people up.”

What I really didn’t need to hear was Jack taking the part of my parents. I said, “So you’re right. I don’t get along with my parents and I cut myself off from most of my friends after the accident. So, if that makes me a loser—”

Jack didn’t look away. “You asked me, I’m telling you. I didn’t think you were a loser, but I thought you had some problems and my professional life is stressful enough without looking for complications in my personal life. But you were smart and funny and cute as hell, and I wanted to go out with you anyway.”

I was so nonplussed by the cute as hell comment that I couldn’t think of how to respond.

“But it was obvious to me right away that you were hiding something.” I opened my mouth to object and he qualified, “That you weren’t really open, weren’t really candid.” He shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of experience with people not being candid.”

“I’ll bet. You’re a judgmental prick.”

Jack acted like he didn’t hear that. “And then I found out what it was—and it wouldn’t have been that big a deal except that you seemed to think it was.”

I turned my face and stared at the sunlight filtering through the slats of the blinds. The shadows looked like a ladder climbing up the wall. A long way to the top of that ladder.

He added flatly, “And it still worries me that you take the risks you do. Stupid risks. Like swimming alone and walking down a deserted back alley. Not wearing a Medic Alert bracelet or necklace or something.”

I faced him, but couldn’t read the expression I caught on his face. That mix of tenderness and disapproval—what did that mean? That he didn’t want to feel whatever it was he felt? I turned away again.

“But besides being smart and funny and cute as hell, you’ve got guts and discipline and the meanest right this side of North Central Avenue.”

My mouth twitched, but I didn’t really feel like smiling. I understood where Jack was coming from, and I appreciated his honesty in a way, but I also felt hurt and a little disillusioned. I was glad I’d asked him, glad that he’d been candid—before things went any further between us. Hearing the truth had…tempered my enthusiasm, so to speak.

“Last night was good, wasn’t it?” he said softly.

I nodded.

“So we’re friends again?”

“Sure.” I found my T-shirt, pulled it on.

“After all, even if I am a judgmental prick, I do make damn good chicken wings.”

I did laugh then.

Chapter Eight

We swam together that morning, and then Jack went to get dressed for work and I went inside to have breakfast and read over Bud Perkins’s private file.

Stephen Ball’s party at the Garden of Allah had started around eleven o’clock, following the premiere of Ball’s film The Professional. Over thirty Hollywood luminaries had been in attendance. Eva Aldrich had arrived late and alone. Having just publicly broken off her engagement to mobster Tony Fumagalli, she was the object of a lot of speculation, and her movements throughout the fateful evening had been easily tracked and verified. There were a number of stunning photos of her; she had been at the peak of her beauty, and if her heart was breaking, it didn’t show in Kodak color.

Eva had danced three dances and retired to the powder room for a long chat with Gloria Rayner. She had danced a fourth time—this one with Stephen Ball—drunk a champagne cocktail with the director of Danger in the Dunes, and then slipped outside at approximately two o’clock. Stephen Ball had discovered her lifeless body in his villa at three fifteen, and the authorities had been summoned.

The only reason Ball hadn’t been instantly arrested was that he had been observed walking from the hotel itself to his villa—followed almost immediately by his horror-stricken exit—by guests in the hotel swimming pool. Ball had not been inside the cottage long enough to commit murder—nor was there enough blood on his tux to account for having stabbed someone to death.

But Bud Perkins had theorized that Ball could have slipped away from the party earlier, met and killed Eva in his villa, then showered, changed into another tuxedo and returned to the party. True, there was the problem that these theoretical bloodstained clothes had never been found, and that no one had seen Ball make an earlier trip to the villa, but then no one had seen Eva heading for Ball’s villa either. And, more interestingly, no one could verify seeing Ball at the party after Eva had left.

It was clear to me, deciphering Perkins’s faded scrawl, that he had believed Ball was guilty, but he had also noted that Gloria Rayner had been MIA shortly after she and Eva had exited the powder room. Also there seemed to be a difference of opinion as to the nature of Eva’s and Gloria’s discussion. One witness reported they had been arguing, two others stated their conversation had seemed “serious but friendly.” Gloria herself claimed that she had been comforting Eva over her recent breakup with Tony Fumagalli.

Somehow I had to wrangle an interview with Stephen Ball. Not that I expected him to confess to me or anything, but I felt that speaking with him would maybe give me the direction I needed to take in the book.

If I couldn’t get an interview with Ball, I’d have to rely on whatever I could glean from my conversations with Gloria and Roman Mayfield—assuming Mayfield would hold true to his promise of another interview. I had the impression that Gloria had once had a thing for Ball, but since he wasn’t numbered amongst her many husbands, it must not have been reciprocal.

Either way, armed with Bud Perkins’s notes, I felt I had the necessary ammunition to move the next interviews into deeper water.

* * * * *

After breakfast I caught a bus for Isabel Street and spent a few depressing hours scanning mug shots in the hope of spotting Mr. Clean.

One thing for sure: there was no particular criminal physical type. Crooks came in all sizes and colors—everyone looked the worse for wear in this particular class photo. Even movie stars and solid citizens looked like the dregs of society in their booking photographs. I’d been flipping through pages of drawn and mascara-smeared faces when a uniformed officer brought me what appeared to be a printout of a composite sketch.

“What’s this?”

“Detective Brady also gave us a description of the assailant.”

I studied the printout. Nodded slowly. “It’s not quite like I remember him but…it’s not really wrong either.”

The officer nodded. “Close enough in the details to enter into a facial recognition program and run it through the database of criminals we have on file?”

“You can do that?”

“We have the technology,” she agreed. “Even if we’re not CSI.”

“Yeah, it’s close enough.”

She left me with the mug books and a Styrofoam cup of terrible coffee. Forty minutes later she was back with several printouts of digital photos. “It’s an all-star lineup,” she announced. “Any familiar faces?”

I studied the rogue’s gallery of photos, all of them blunt-featured and bald Caucasians. They were a scary-looking crew. They all looked familiar—and they all looked foreign.

My gaze lingered over an arrogant, almost handsome face. Something about the shape of the head and the alignment of features…

“Who’s this?” I asked.

The officer examined the photo. “Clyde Wells.” She looked impressed. “Is this the dude?”

I shook my head. “Maybe. I can’t be sure. Maybe.” I tried to read her face. “Who is he?”

“He works for Frankie Fumagalli.”

“Tony the Cock’s son?”

“That’s right. Frankie took over the organization when the old man lost his marbles. Clyde’s one of his enforcers.” She gave me an admiring smile. “You don’t mess around, do you? You’ve got the A-list baddies mad at you.”

* * * * *

I’d wondered if I might run into Jack at the station—and how I was supposed to react. I’d interviewed a few closeted cops when I worked as a reporter, but Jack seemed pretty relaxed about his orientation. Of course, I’d never seen him on the job; maybe he was different when he was on the clock. In any event, I didn’t run into him, so I left the police station and caught a bus back home.

As the bus rumbled along, flashing in and out of shade, I found myself thinking about Tony Fumagalli. If his son and heir was bothering to send hired muscle after me, there had to be something wrong with Fumagalli’s alibi. Some weakness that wasn’t obvious at first—or second, third, and fourth—glance. But if the police hadn’t found the chink in Fumagalli’s armor, what were the chances that I would stumble on it?

What I didn’t get was why it mattered to Fumagalli, with the old man now senile and living in a nursing home. By all accounts he was in increasingly poor health; by the time the book came out, Tony F. could easily be dead. And even if he wasn’t, prosecution was highly unlikely.

But what if prosecution wasn’t what Fumagalli Jr. feared? What if there was something else at risk?

What?

It clearly had to do with Eva’s death—or did it? It had to do with Eva, that much was sure. But if Fumagalli really had an unbreakable alibi for the murder, then the only other thing I could think of was the mysterious end of his engagement to Eva.

Why had she broken the engagement? Someone had to know. Gloria and Roman had supposedly been her closest confidants; it was inconceivable that she hadn’t spilled the beans to one or both of them in the three days before her death.

But was finding the answer to that riddle going to get me off the hook or just guarantee me being taken out?

It was moot anyway because Fumagalli wanted me to give up writing the book, and I couldn’t do that—wouldn’t do that. So either way, I had to keep going, and the more I knew—knowledge being power—the better my odds of survival.

The pulse of bright sunlight and deep shade was starting to bother me. I didn’t suffer from reflex epilepsy, and so far I’d never had a seizure triggered by outside stimuli, but I was feeling a little susceptible at the moment. Not to seizures so much as life in general. I closed my eyes, put my head back, and immediately thought of Jack. I shut that line of thought off instantly.

I liked Jack a lot—too much—and he basically thought I was a good-looking liability. Not a lot of room to go from there.

Instead, I made myself think about the night of Eva’s murder. She had been found stabbed to death with a bloody tarot card stuck to her bodice. Where had the tarot card come from? Surely Eva hadn’t walked around with The Lovers card in her handbag?

Roman Mayfield had done a couple of readings at the party, but not for Eva. I’d read several accounts of the evening, and they all had made a point that Eva did not have a reading. Granted, the readings had not been serious, more high spirits than a spiritual high.

The card had come from Mayfield’s tarot deck, that much had been established, but Mayfield had left the deck with his cape—yep, cape—hat and driving gloves in the bar at the hotel, which meant that at least thirty people had access to it. Besides, by the late ‘50s, the Garden of Allah was hosting more than its share of call girls, con artists, and riffraff. And, in fact, one theory was that Eva had fallen prey to a crazed transient. It wasn’t a popular theory, but it did have its merits.

If someone had deliberately swiped the card and followed Eva out to Stephen Ball’s cottage, then her murder had been sort of premeditated. Not completely premeditated because no one could have counted on Mayfield bringing his tarot deck to the party and doing a reading—could they?

Of course, the simplest explanation was that Mayfield had palmed his own tarot card and planted it on Eva’s body after he killed her, but that would be stupidly incriminating. Besides, what motive did he have? And besides that, his movements were accounted for during the evening.

Although I hadn’t seen the accounting myself.

* * * * *

There were two messages blinking on my answering machine when I let myself into my apartment. One was from a bookstore letting me know that they’d found a copy of the original Life magazine with the photo layout of the night of Eva’s murder.

The second was from my publisher, and the news was good. Stephen Ball had finally agreed to see me.

Chapter Nine

I didn’t like Stephen Ball.

In fairness, I hadn’t liked him even before we actually met. I never thought much of his acting and I loathed his politics. I’d seen way too many documentary clips of him testifying in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee about communists in Hollywood. He had retired from film and television at least a decade earlier, and now spent his free time on golf courses or attending lifetime achievement banquets.

Our interview was held poolside at his Beverly Hills home. Ball was drinking Tom Collinses while the current Mrs. Ball—a nineteen-year-old former Victoria’s Secret model—practiced her high dive at the end of the park-sized pool.

“I’ll be frank with you,” Ball said after I’d been seated at the large umbrella-shaded table and handed a highball glass, “I’m not happy about this book of yours.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Let’s not play games, son. You’re digging into Eva’s death and that’s a painful subject for a lot of us.”

“It was a long time ago,” I said. “Half a century.” I sipped my drink and waited for his response. I didn’t bother pointing out that there weren’t “a lot of us” left.

Ball had to be in his nineties now, but he could easily have passed for fifteen to twenty years younger. He was tall and deeply tanned with unnaturally coal-black hair and equally coal-black eyebrows and mustache. He’d had some work done around his mouth and eyes, but nothing too ridiculous. His eyes were so blue I half suspected contacts. They studied me coldly.

“And you’re going to write this goddamn book with or without my cooperation,” he commented, “so I might as well give you the facts. If you’ve been talking with that fruitcake Roman Mayfield, you could use a few facts.”

“You’re not one of Mayfield’s clients?”

“Hell no.” He snorted. “Oh, sure, I read my horoscope in the paper. Everyone does, but that’s as far as my interest in the occult goes.”

There had been a photo of a much younger Ball and the Seer to the Stars in Mayfield’s photo gallery, but maybe he had outgrown that interest early. I decided to move in another direction.

“You were a leading suspect in Eva Aldrich’s death, weren’t you?”

He said shortly, “She was found in my bungalow. Yes, you could say I was a leading suspect. Although I think the police always knew Will Burack was the real culprit.”

“Meaning you believe Burack killed her?”

“You’re goddamn right. He was the only one with a motive. That alibi of his was tissue paper. I don’t know why the cops didn’t force the truth out of him and that lying, treacherous broad he was shacked up with.”

Like how did he think the police were going to force the truth? Rubber hoses and bright lights? Mildly, I asked, “You were having an affair with Eva, weren’t you?”

“That was over a long time before,” he said, dismissing. He picked up his glass, drinking and watching me over the rim with his chilly blue eyes.

“You were engaged to her for a short time when she first arrived in Hollywood,” I agreed. “She married Burack instead. So maybe it wasn’t an affair, maybe you were just sleeping together.”

He gave a crisp laugh and nodded to me as though acknowledging a point in a game. “Maybe so. We’d just finished making a picture together. Danger in the Dunes. The old fire was still there.” He winked at me.

“But she was engaged to Fumagalli.”

“That dago!” He raised his glass to the swimwear model who’d made another perfect dive off the board at the end of the pool. “There was no way she was going to marry him.”

“Do you know why she broke it off? Was it because of you?”

“Probably.” He smiled a dazzling white smile. I suspected dentures. “Like I said, the old chemistry was there.”

“What happened the night she was killed?”

He picked up the pitcher of Tom Collins, topped off my drink and then leaned back, folding his arms across his tanned chest.

He drawled, “What do you think happened?”

“I think you arranged to meet her at your villa.”

His gaze held mine for a long moment, and then he relaxed. “I guess there’s never really been much mystery about that. Yes, I gave her my keys and told her I’d meet her there in about half an hour. The party was winding down by then, but even so, I couldn’t get away as quickly as I wanted. Finally I managed to slip out. I walked out past the pool yard. I remember thinking how quiet it was. You could hear the music from the hotel. They were playing ‘An Affair to Remember.’ I remember how bright the stars were.” His smile was suddenly strained. “There were only a couple of people in the pool by then.”

He fell silent.

I waited.

“The lights were on in the villa. It looked…welcoming.” He cleared his throat. “The front door wasn’t quite latched. I pushed it open and stepped inside. She was lying on the floor between the bedroom and the front room. Her eyes were open.” His own eyes rose out of the horrendous past and met mine. “I knew at once she was dead.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. And I was.

“She’d been wearing this dress…lots of filmy layers in a pale shade of pink. You know the kind of thing women wore back then. It was like…a cloud around her. It was splotched with her blood. There was blood everywhere. I’d never seen so much blood. They never did get it all out of that tile.”

“Did you notice the tarot card right away?”

He said slowly, “Not at first. She was, as I said, soaked in blood. It took my eyes a few moments to adjust, to recognize it—lying on her chest—smeared in her blood.”

“Not pinned to her dress?”

He shook his head. “It looked like someone had deliberately placed it on her.”

I glanced at the tape recorder winding away in the bright sunlight. “For the sake of argument, if Will Burack didn’t kill Eva, who would be your second guess?”

He stared at me for a long time, then he turned to watch his junior partner perform a tight little somersault off the diving board.

“Gloria Rayner,” he said.

* * * * *

It was dusk by the time I made it back to Glendale. I met Jack going out through the arched entranceway as I was coming in.

My instinctive delight dissolved. He was dressed for an evening on the town: boots, tight-fitting jeans, body hugging silk T-shirt. He checked for a moment, seeing me.

“Hey, Tim.”

“Hey, Jack.”

“Good day?” He didn’t look guilty exactly, just sort of uncomfortable.

“It was,” I said, and I was pleased that my voice sounded relaxed. A little flare of malicious humor prompted me to ask, “Hot date?”

“Oh…” He offered a lopsided smile—no sign of the dimple at all. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You can go as far as you want,” I assured him—and if I’d had dimples, they would have showed. No way was I going to let him know that this mattered to me. He already thought I was some pathetic loser; the last thing I wanted was for him to think I placed unreasonable significance on the fact that we’d had sex. In fact, I felt almost giddy with relief that I was able to pretend that it meant nothing—that he meant nothing. I’m not even sure where it was coming from. Maybe from the same place that final wisecrack comes right after they line you up against the wall and point the rifles. “Have a good one,” I said, and I went on through the archway, leaving him standing there framed in the bougainvillea.

Once safely inside my apartment I got a beer from the fridge and uncapped it with unsteady hands. I dropped down on the couch and chugged half the bottle, then sagged back and put the cold bottle against my hot forehead. It was stuffy as hell in the apartment, but that wasn’t my problem.

No, my problem was I had a migraine coming on. And I still didn’t have an ending for my book, the mob was mad at me, and I was dangerously close to falling for a guy who didn’t give a damn about me.

“Well, hell,” I said softly. I put the beer down, went into the bathroom, and rummaged in the cabinet for some Tylenol. Catching my expression in the mirror, I sneered.

“Get a grip,” I said.

Putting Jack out of my mind, I popped a couple of Tylenol and got to work.

I had finished transcribing the interview with Ball and entering my notes into my laptop, when something occurred to me.

Pulling my copy of Mayfield’s The Mystery of the Tarot off the shelf, I looked up The Lovers card.

Two Lovers stand in front of the Tree of Knowledge. The man represents the rational, conscious, practical mind. The woman symbolizes the intuitive, subconscious, and mystical. The man gazes upon the woman, the woman looks skyward toward an archangel who blesses their union. Upright, this card in a reading bids the querent unify both intellect and intuition. A choice must be made: will the querent follow the dictates of her heart or “use his head”? The answer lies in surrendering to a higher spiritual power. The card is also known as The Twins.

I stared at the page thoughtfully, then reached for the phone. I dialed Stephen Ball’s home. Naturally I didn’t get Ball himself, but I left a message asking him to call as I needed to verify some facts. I had a feeling it was going to take more than one message to get hold of Mr. Matinee, but I was prepared to keep calling until I got an answer.

Turning off my laptop, I gave some thought to dinner. To my relief, the migraine turned out to be just a bad tension headache, which surrendered to the pain relievers and a ham sandwich. The lights were still out at Jack’s place by the time I took my shower and went to bed, but it was still early in the evening.

And it was none of my business.

It was still none of my business at one o’clock in the morning, when I gave up on sleeping and got up to watch some Perry Mason reruns. All the same, I couldn’t help noticing that Jack’s porch light was still on, as I heated up the teakettle.

Settling on the sofa with a mug of tea, I watched Perry dispensing law and order.

I wasn’t fretting about Jack anymore—well, not much—but my brain couldn’t seem to turn off. I hadn’t let myself think about Frank Fumagalli and his pet goon all day, but now that I had nothing else to keep me busy, I couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy. Okay, a lot uneasy. I had no idea what to do about Fumagalli. How far was he liable to take this? Would he put a contract out on me if refused to drop the book? Was that what happened to Raymond Irvine back in ’63 when he started research on his book?

The doorbell rang and I spilled my tea. Even decaffeinated hot tea has an energizing effect when you pour it in your lap. I jumped up, shrugging out of my bathrobe, and then stood there, immobile, listening to the doorbell buzz a second time.

Did hit men ring first or did they just knock down the door and blast you where you stood? I slunk over to the door, peeked out in time to see Jack turning away. I yanked the door open.

He swung back to face me; his smile was tentative. “I didn’t wake you, did I? I saw the light was on.”

“No. You didn’t wake me.” I made an effort to do the friendly thing, more for my sake than his. “How was your date?”

He shrugged.

I ran out of things to say. Why was he here?

“Can I come in?”

Without a word, I stepped back and let him in. He glanced at the TV, at my discarded bathrobe, and the mug on the floor. “Listen,” he said, and stopped. He gave me a funny, uncertain look.

“I’m listening,” I said.

“Tonight…I’d agreed to go to this concert over a month ago. I couldn’t cancel.”

Something tight inside my gut slowly let go. “It’s okay,” I said. “You already said you weren’t looking for anything serious.”

“I’m not, but…” His eyes zeroed in on mine. “I kept thinking about you all evening.”

“You did?” Maybe I shouldn’t have sounded quite so surprised.

“I did. I was wondering how your day went. And what you were doing. I kept thinking about last night.”

“I…” I shrugged. “Me too.”

Jack’s dimple showed briefly. “Anyway, I was wondering if you had plans for the rest of the night?”

I wondered if I was still dreaming. Maybe I hadn’t woken up at all, and I was still tossing and turning in the bedroom, dreaming that I had put the kettle on and was watching Perry Mason reruns—and that Jack suddenly appeared at my door saying nice things and wanting sex. It seemed like the kind of thing I’d dream.

Jack was still smiling, but he tilted his head a little like he was listening for something he just couldn’t hear. His smiled slipped a fraction. “No?” he asked after a moment.

My heart did one of those little end zone victory dances, but I did my best to stay stoic. “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “I really wanted to find out how this episode of Perry Mason ends.”

“Ah.” Gravely, he studied Perry’s grim, blue-jawed visage. After a long moment, he looked back my way. “It’s the ex-wife of the other rancher.”

I gazed at him, and I couldn’t keep from smiling. “I think my schedule just opened up.”

Chapter Ten

“You have a great laugh,” Jack said.

“I have?”

He nodded, threading my hair through his fingers. “I kept hearing it tonight, kept thinking how funny you’d find this—or that.” He seemed almost puzzled—nearly as puzzled as I at the idea that Jack had spent his date thinking about what I might find humorous. Especially since I didn’t remember laughing a lot around Jack.

He leaned over and kissed me, his hand sliding down to my hip. I thrust up against him, and he said, “Do you want to fuck for real?”

“Wasn’t last night for real?”

“Last night was great. Can I fuck you?”

I thought it over. Felt an unwilling smile tugging at my mouth. Maybe I really did have a weird sense of humor, because there wasn’t much funny about that. Ironic maybe.

“Sure,” I said, “but go easy. It’s been awhile for me.”

“I won’t hurt you,” he said solemnly, and I smiled. Yes, you will, I thought, but I didn’t say it.

I turned over onto my belly and shivered as Jack ran warm hands down my sides.

“Very nice. Sleek and brown, like a…a…”

“An otter?”

He chuckled. “Not exactly. Maybe a mink. You’ve got a temper like a mink, don’t you?”

“Me? I don’t think so.” I closed my eyes as he ran a light hand over the curve of my ass. Very nice. Just palm against bare skin was lovely.

“Do you have any lube?”

“There’s some old stuff in the drawer next to the bed.”

I heard the squeak of springs, the slide of the drawer, then the tear of foil. A moment later I heard the squirt of the tube of lubricant and shivered. There was another pause before a fingertip insinuated itself at that sensitive pucker of flesh. Lots of warm gel and a gentle press. I expelled a long breath, consciously relaxing my muscles, but Jack’s entry was more caress than push. He slipped past the little ring of muscle, homing, pressing against the prostate.

I shivered.

“Good?” I could hear the smile in his voice. I grunted acknowledgement, easing myself onto his hand, unable to concentrate on more than that delicate pushing and rubbing inside me, wanting more of it…and deeper.

So fucking long. I’d forgotten how good this could feel…

After a time Jack’s second finger slipped in, slick and warm with jelly; I moaned, humping back. His breathing sounded funny, rough and fast. “You’re beautiful like this.” He moved his fingers back and forth in that shattery massage that had me squirming on the bed. I needed the cock brushing the cleft of my ass to be inside me.

“Now,” I urged. The voice didn’t even sound like me. “Fuck me now, Jack.”

He moved his hand some more, refusing to be rushed, petting and palpating, and I didn’t know whether to swear or start sobbing with the need twisting through my guts.

“Jack!” I groaned when I just couldn’t take it any longer.

And there he was, guiding himself in, controlling the thick weight of his penetration—I could feel him shaking with need and hunger, but he held it in check—until he was in, buried to the balls, and we both moaned together in relief that sounded like harmony.

He rocked against me, and I rocked back, and we slid into effortless rhythm, like we’d been working on this routine for years, like we were fuck buddies of long standing—or true lovers.

Slow and sweet, push and pull, the timed thrust and instinctive contractions that changed after a time to something neither of us could control, something powerful and primitive. Our sweat-soaked bodies labored, the sheets twisted and tangled, lungs gasping for air as we pounded against each other…the hardness of bone and muscle, the softness of skin and genitals. One hand fisted in my pillows, the other milked my dick ruthlessly while Jack’s hands dug into my hips, and I knew I’d have bruises there and didn’t care. It felt good being held so hard, pierced so deeply.

At last I began to come and I buried my face in the damp linen of my pillow and howled my relief. Jack kissed the back of my neck, and a few moments later I felt his body go rigid.

Hotness pulsed into me, spilled through me. He was coming in my ass; I was wet with his semen. Jack trembled, transfixed as orgasm rippled through him in blinding waves, and then he collapsed on top of me and started laughing.

And that was something we had in common because I loved that husky, breathless laugh of his.

I chuckled too, and he stopped laughing and said, “Turn over, I want to kiss you.” I dragged myself onto my back, and Jack hauled me into his arms and covered my mouth. The kiss surprised me, wet and deep and hungry as though he couldn’t get enough. He was kissing me like I wanted to kiss him, but wouldn’t have dared.

“Was that okay?” he asked at last, cuddling me against his side.

“Fucking A,” I returned, and he laughed again, closing his eyes, growing quiet.

I reached over, jerked the sheet over us.

* * * * *

In the morning we were relaxed and easy together, and the give and take of pleasure was quick and gentle.

“Are we swimming this morning?” Jack asked, when I brought him a cup of coffee a little later. I sat down on the foot of the bed. I liked looking at him in my bed. Liked the brownness of him against white sheets, liked the pillow-ruffled softness of his hair, liked the contentment of his sleepy gray eyes as he sipped his coffee.

“I am. Do you have time?”

He glanced at the clock, considered. “I’ve got a few errands to run before work…but sure.” He took another swallow of coffee.

“What’s your sign?” I asked, curious.

His smile was wry. “Yield? I don’t know. What’s yours?”

“Stay alert. Expect new traffic patterns.”

He chuckled.

“Seriously. What month were you born?”

“I can’t be serious about astrology. That’s what you’re talking about, right?”

I nodded. “I’m just curious.”

“That’s how it starts. Next thing you know you’re dialing Madam Cleo, credit card in hand.” He sighed. “April eleventh. Aries.” He glanced at my face. “Is that good or bad?”

I rose from the bed. “Beats me. Maybe I’ll ask Roman Mayfield. He left a message setting up another meeting.”

“This is the guy who left the tarot card on your door?”

“Yes. I didn’t tell you. I finally got to interview Stephen Ball yesterday.”

“Still think he’s your murderer?”

I found my swim trunks, pulled them on. “I don’t know. I don’t like him, but…I don’t know. He thinks—or says he thinks—that it was the husband. And if it wasn’t the husband, he says it was Gloria Rayner.”

“What was her motive supposed to be again? They both wanted the same part?”

“And maybe the same man—Stephen Ball. That reminds me. I need to try to call him again.”

Jack finished his coffee and threw back the sheets. “You make your phone call and I’ll meet you down at the pool.” He picked his jeans off the footboard. Even in the heat of the moment, Jack had managed to avoid throwing his clothes on the floor; I found that sort of endearing.

While Jack went upstairs, I tried calling Stephen Ball again. Morning though it was, he wasn’t at home—or least not at home to me—and I had to leave another message.

By the time I got outside, Jack was already in the pool doing laps.

I dived in, the water chill and refreshing despite the fact that it was already getting hot; air conditioners were starting to hum all over the complex.

Jack and I swam laps, which inevitably turned into a race, but it was friendly and I don’t think he took it too badly when I beat him by an arm’s length—both times. We horsed around for a little longer and then swam for the stairs in the deep end.

Climbing out of the pool, I felt the aura sweep over me…too much light flooding over me, bright and remorseless, bleaching out my vision. My heart sped up, but it was already too late. I felt that shift in balance, a dizzy drop though I was still gripping the railing. I put my hand out. “Jack…will you help me?”

I came back to awareness of grass tickling my face, the heat of the sun, the smell of chlorine. Someone was speaking to me, quietly, slowly.

“That’s it. That’s it. Take your time. Everything’s okay.” He was running his hand up and down my bare arm.

I croaked, “Jack?”

“Right here.”

Swallowing hard, I breathed in the smell of the grass and soil and flowers and my own sweat and sickness. I felt sleepy, weak.

“What’s…wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Jack sounded definite about that. “You had a seizure. You’re okay now.”

I opened my eyes, trying to focus. Jack’s face was hard, despite the gentleness of his touch. I closed my eyes against the truth I could read there, and hot tears threatened to spill from under my lashes.

“Don’t,” he said tersely. “I can’t take you crying.”

“No. Sorry.” I wiped the back of my arm across my face, tried to roll over so that I could push up. I felt so fucking feeble, still quivering with the physical and emotional shock; it must have been a bad one. Jack’s arm came around me at once. He was naked and wet—no, he was wearing a pair of swim trunks. And so was I.

I remembered that we had been swimming. And then it got confusing.

Just for moment I let myself rest against him. This is good-bye, I thought. This will be the end of it. I don’t blame him.

Closing my eyes, I was enfolded by comforting sensations: Jack’s sun-warmed scent, the brush of soft body hair, the hard pound of his heart beneath my ear. His heart was fast; I’d scared the hell out of him. I panted into his chest while Jack’s hands smoothed up and down my back, familiar and reassuring.

“Everything’s okay now,” he said. I had a feeling he was talking to himself.

I felt abjectly grateful to him for holding me—for the protection his arms offered. I needed that now, needed that reassurance, that anchor to reality—even if the safety of Jack’s arms was more of a dream than reality. I held tight to him, but I must have drifted off because I was startled to hear someone speaking overhead. The voice was fuzzy, loud. Jack answered quietly, “Chill out, Wallace. We’re fine. We’re going inside in a minute.”

I pried my eyes open. We were sitting on the grass in the courtyard. I was plastered against Jack. Our landlord, Mr. Wallace, stood over us, an expression of extreme distaste on his face. I pulled away, got to my knees, and couldn’t seem to figure out what to do next. Jack rose, taking me by the arms and drawing me the rest of the way to my feet. Mr. Wallace stepped back as though fearing contamination.

“This kind of thing can’t go on,” Mr. Wallace said. “There are other residents to consider.”

What the hell was he talking about? What did he think was going on? I didn’t have the energy to figure it out then. “I have to sleep,” I said woozily, leaning back into the arm Jack offered.

He helped me across the courtyard, opening my apartment door and letting us inside the air-conditioned dimness.

“I have to lie down,” I told Jack.

“I know.” He guided me down the hall to the bedroom, everything just as we’d left it a little more than an hour earlier, bedclothes still tumbled into a ball. I folded onto the side of the mattress, vaguely aware of Jack moving around, shaking out the sheets. His silence seemed ominous.

“It’s the stress,” I muttered. I rubbed my head tiredly. “I’m taking my meds. I’m doing everything right. It just happens sometimes…” I flinched at the snap of linen, avoided looking at him as he moved around the foot of the bed.

Tears started in my eyes. Hell. Not that. I wiped my eyes on the back of my arm. I wanted to say something, apologize, but what was there left to say? Instead I stretched out in the cool sheets, let my weighted lids drop shut. They flew open again as I felt Jack tugging at my clammy swim trunks. I couldn’t see him through the blur of tears.

“Lift up, Tim,” he ordered, and I obediently raised enough for him to peel them off me.

His touch was impersonal, nonerotic. I couldn’t read his face at all, but I didn’t need to. I closed my eyes again. Felt him packing pillows around me. Did he think I was going to roll off the bed? It didn’t matter. The nest of pillows was comfortable, and I turned on my side, putting an arm around one fat spongy pillow, snuggling into it. I felt the top sheet come floating down over me.

* * * * *

When I opened my eyes again it was dark outside. The bedroom light was on and Jack stood over me, frowning.

I blinked up at him, then rose up on my elbows, mumbling, “What time is it? Did I oversleep…?”

“Relax,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay before I left for work.”

“You’ve been here the whole time?” At the horror in my voice, his grim mouth relaxed into a lopsided grin. “Pretty much. I want you to lock up after I go.” He was dressed for work in jeans, blazer, and one of those immaculate white shirts. Did police detectives work at night?

I sat up, started to push back the sheet, and realized I was naked. Somehow I no longer felt comfortable trotting around nude in front of Jack.

“Thanks,” I said awkwardly. “I’ll do that.”

He hesitated. Then he bent and kissed me, his mouth cool and minty fresh.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. We…should talk.”

I couldn’t wait. Another chat where Jack explained why he didn’t want to get serious and why we should probably lay off for a while.

I nodded.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m great,” I snapped.

“Good,” he returned equally curt, and turned away. I grabbed my bathrobe as I followed him into the hall.

Jack let himself out without another word, without so much as a glance my way, and I locked the door after him.

* * * * *

I opened a can of soup for dinner, and spent a quiet, dispirited evening watching TV and flipping idly through the Life magazine I’d picked up the day before.

I was drifting off to the sounds of canned laughter when the phone rang, shocking me back to awareness. I dug the phone out from under the sofa, answered, and was surprised to find Stephen Ball finally returning my phone call.

And sounding none too pleased—or sober—about it.

“I just had a couple of follow-up questions,” I said after apologizing for disturbing Mr. Hollywood after a hard day of golfing and drinking.

“How much more can there be to say about this?” Ball demanded. “It happened half a century ago. I can’t understand why you’re stirring this up.”

“Two questions and I’ll be out of your hair,” I promised.

“Like what?”

“Do you know how The Lovers card on Eva’s body got there?”

“What the hell are you accusing me of?” he roared. “You know goddamned well how that card got there. Her killer—”

I interrupted, “If her killer was Will Burack, how did he get hold of a card from Roman Mayfield’s tarot deck? No one saw him at the party that night and Mayfield left the cards with his cloak and hat and gloves in the bar at the Garden of Allah. Someone would have seen him in the bar.”

Silence. Ball said, “Maybe it wasn’t one of Mayfield’s cards.”

“It was. Mayfield identified it. The card was missing from his own deck. I think Eva must have had the card with her, but by all accounts Eva didn’t have a reading that night. So either she stole the card out of the pack when it was left in the bar or someone else—”

“All right!” he flared. “I filched the card during my reading. Roman never noticed, pompous prick that he was. I slipped the card with my key to Eva when we danced that night. It was just…nonsense. Just romantic nonsense.” He paused and I could hear him breathing noisily down the line. “She was so beautiful that night. So…desirable. I wanted her and she wanted me.”

Another piece of the puzzle snapped into place. The killer had not brought the card with him, but the card had meant something to the killer. Or…at least the image and words “The Lovers” had meant something to the killer.

“One last question,” I said. “Can you recall whether the card was upright or reversed?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Was the picture on the card upside down or right side up?”

“How the hell would I…” I could hear the connection crackling emptily. He said a little unsteadily, “Upside down, I think. I can’t be sure…but…I seem to remember upside down.”

“Upside down.” I felt a surge of energy. “And it looked like it had been placed on her body deliberately, you said.”

“That’s right. Why would it matter?” Ball asked.

“Maybe it doesn’t. But in a reading, the meaning of the card can be changed depending on whether the card is reversed or upright. It wasn’t clear in the crime scene photos, and it was never mentioned in the report. In fact, according to all the reports, it was pinned to her dress.”

“Maybe they didn’t want to talk about her breasts.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The top of her dress—the bodice—was ripped and you could see her breasts. Maybe they didn’t want to talk about that. The papers weren’t like they are today. They still had some standards, some morals.”

“Uh…right,” I said. Ball went on talking, but I’d stopped listening. It was sinking in on me that I might have accidentally stumbled on the first real break in a fifty-year-old murder case.

Chapter Eleven

“And that’s a picture of me and Eva with Louis B. Mayer.” Gloria stabbed at the black-and-white snapshot with a scarlet talon. “He died the same year—just a month or so after Eva.” She gave me a sly look from beneath her false eyelashes. “You know what they say his last words were?”

“Cut and print?”

She laughed that smoky laugh. “Nah, but that’s not bad, baby. Nope, his last words were ‘Nothing matters.’”

“That’s depressing.”

Amused, she turned the next page of her photo album. “And here’s me and Eva with Tony at the Troubadour.” I studied the three faces. Gloria and Eva had made a pair of knockout bookends, one fair, one dark, Snow White and Rose Red—and the frog prince sandwiched between them. Tony Fumagalli was not, by any stretch, a good-looking man: short, swarthy, heavy-jowled—and chomping on a cigar in every picture.

“So what was the attraction?” I asked Gloria.

“Money, I guess. Power, definitely.” She started to turn the page. I stopped her.

“So what went wrong? Did he slap her around?”

“Now that she would have understood.”

I stared at her, trying to put two and two together. Something that Eva couldn’t forgive or understand, something that neither Eva nor Tony nor anyone else wanted to talk about…

“He’d been married before, hadn’t he?” I was thinking aloud.

Gloria’s baby blues remained pinned on the photo of her and Eva and Tony. The Three Graces: Faith, Hope, and I’ll Break Your Kneecaps. “Annulled,” she replied.

Annulled. But that could have been because Tony was of Italian descent and—all things being relative—a good Catholic. I scanned his pug-ugly face. Or maybe not.

“Was he…gay?” I asked slowly.

Gloria’s head tossed like a pony slipping its bridle. “Baby, was he ever!”

“Are you serious?”

She nodded. “He was as queer as a two-dollar bill. Evie caught him one afternoon prancing around in garters and hose and a corselette. Red garters and red corselette.”

What the hell is a corselette? I said, “Tony Fumagalli was a transvestite?”

“Imagine if that had got around!” Gloria crowed with laughter and the poodle pack came scurrying in from the next room. She began tossing colored doggie candies out of the pockets of her mint green hostess gown. “Smoked chicken nothing! They should have named him rubber chicken.”

Talk about a motive for murder. I could see Tony F. deciding he needed to shut Eva up before she spread that story around town.

“Did he threaten her?” I asked Gloria.

“I doubt it. He still thought he could get her back. You know, give her time to cool down. He didn’t know our little Eva. She had an appetite like a shark.”

“An appetite for…?”

“Sex, baby, sex!”

I nodded understanding. “Do you think he was afraid she’d tell someone?”

Gloria’s eyes were shrewd. “If he’d wanted to stop her mouth, he’d have had to kill her on the spot. What would be the point three days later? Besides, there are no secrets in Hollywood.”

There were one or two left, but they did seem to be unraveling fast.

* * * * *

I was waiting for the bus on Beverly Drive when the long black limousine pulled up in front of me, and Mr. Clean, aka Clyde Wells, got out smartly from the passenger seat.

My companions at the bus stop, all apparently employed in local domestic service, observed in interested silence as he opened the rear door and nodded encouragingly at me. “Mr. Fumagalli requests a word.”

What word would that be? Murder? Unexplained disappearance? Granted, that last would have been two words.

“I’ll give him a call,” I said. “Is he in the phone book?” As much as I’d have loved to talk to Fumagalli in controlled surroundings, I didn’t think going for a ride in his long black limousine was a smart move.

“Mr. Fumagalli prefers face-to-face.”

“Fist to face, did you say?”

Clyde grinned. “That was a slight misunderstanding, Mr. North.” He nodded again to the dark interior of the car. I could see someone sitting there in the shadows: dark suit, dark sunglasses, and a giant pinky ring. “Please don’t keep Mr. Fumagalli waiting.”

I thought it over. If Fumagalli wanted me dead, I’d already be dead. Of course he might want to oversee the next round of roughing up, but…probably not. I glanced at my bus stop companions.

“My name is Timothy North. If something happens to me,” I said, “the last place I was seen alive was in Frankie Fumagalli’s limo.”

An elderly woman in a peach-colored maid’s uniform giggled.

“Now you’re just embarrassing yourself,” Clyde told me sadly as I moved past him and ducked into the backseat.

Hey, I have seizures; not much embarrasses me anymore. I didn’t say that, though. I settled across from the man in the suit and Clyde slammed the heavy door shut. The limo glided off soundlessly. I watched my bus stop companions slide out of the frame of the tinted windows.

“I appreciate your time, Mr. North,” said a dry voice, and I turned to check out Frankie Fumagalli. “May I offer you a drink?”

He was in his late forties, slim and gray and tired-looking. He must have taken after his mother’s side of the family, because he had none of Tony’s ugly heaviness—or raw power. In fact, he looked like any worn-out corporate executive after a long, hard day of mismanaging employee retirement funds.

Tony the Cock’s son, Frankie the Weenie.

“Thanks,” I said.

He turned to the built-in bar, used a pair of tongs to drop a couple of cubes of ice into a short glass, poured a generous dose of Bulleit Bourbon, and handed it to me.

I took a mouthful. Oaky and smooth, like liquid smoke. I swallowed, comforted by the velvet burn through my belly.

“I think there’s maybe been a misunderstanding,” my host remarked, watching me with his sad, dark eyes. “I got a very…troubling visit from a couple of detectives with the Glendale Police Department. They seemed to be under the impression that someone in my employ might have been harassing you.”

I said, “Mr. Clean in the front seat there has tried to throw me down a couple of staircases; maybe that’s what they were thinking of.”

“I have no control over what my employees do in their spare time. If there’s some history between yourself and Clyde, I’d like to see it worked out in peaceable fashion.” He studied my face in the sickly light. “What do you think the trouble is?”

“I think the trouble is you’re afraid if I keep digging into Eva Aldrich’s death I’m going to discover Eva’s reasons for breaking off her engagement to your father, and that I am going to publish those reasons in this book I’m writing.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong,” he said, and he smiled. His teeth were surprisingly yellow, but I guess when you’re a mob boss no one can make you go to the dentist if you don’t want to. “If you were to publish something scandalous about my father, I’d simply sue you for everything you own—and I’d make sure that you never worked again.”

“But the damage would be done,” I said with a calm I didn’t feel. I’d never seen eyes deader than those gloomy black ones gazing at me unblinkingly now. “The book would be published and the secret would be out. It’s not much of a secret in this day and age, but you’re in a traditionally macho line of work, and image is everything, I guess.”

After a moment, he observed, “I’ve noticed that cocky guys like you annoy a lot of other guys. Maybe that’s what’s happened between you and Clyde. Maybe you just…bug him. You’re starting to bug me.”

I’d be lying if I said his words didn’t give me a qualm or two. I made myself ask, “Is that what happened to Raymond Irvine? Did he get on someone’s nerves?”

“Who?”

“Raymond Irvine. He started a book on Eva Aldrich back in 1963, but someone forced his car off the road on Mulholland Drive.”

“Oh, the reporter,” Frankie said, lifting an indifferent shoulder. “Like I said, guys like you bug other guys.”

My hands, clasped around the glass with ice, were growing cold. I said, “I’m not a tabloid writer. I don’t write gossip. Unless your father killed Eva, or had her killed, I’m not interested in writing about his sexual preferences.”

“My father didn’t kill that bimbo! He didn’t give that for her!” He snapped his fingers in front of my face.

“Then what’s the problem?”

His hand rose as though he was going to throw his glass at me. He screamed, “My mama, God bless her soul, is still alive. You think she should have to read that filth? I want you to drop this goddamned book.”

“Someone is going to write it,” I told him. “Sooner or later this big secret that you’re willing to have Clyde break my neck over is going to come out. You’d be better off letting someone like me write the story because I don’t give a damn about your father’s kinks. I can write it so that no one will think twice about Eva breaking her engagement. But if you knock off another reporter looking into Eva Aldrich’s death, you’re going to alert the interest of a lot of people—including the cops—and a lot of writers who aren’t going to be as sensitive as I am to this particular angle.”

He stared at me for what felt like a very long time. I didn’t look away, and I tried not to show that I was wishing I’d left some final word for my parents or bothered making a will. After a few moments, I put my glass to my lips and finished my drink.

“He didn’t kill her,” Fumagalli said again, at last.

“I believe you.” The car was slowing. I glanced out the window and we were drawing up to the sidewalk outside my apartment building.

“You break your word to me and it’ll be all she wrote. You get my meaning, Mr. North?”

“Yes.”

“And I don’t want any visits from Glendale PD. This conversation never happened, you got that?”

“Yep.”

Clyde jumped out and opened the door for me. I unfolded and got out into the bright sunlight. The heat felt good after the unnatural cold of the limousine. I glanced back in, but Fumagalli was staring straight ahead.

“‘Til we meet again,” I told Clyde.

He slammed the door shut and grinned at me. “I’ll be counting the minutes.”

“Do you have that many fingers?”

He shook his head like he would dearly have loved to pop me if he only had the time, and jumped back in the limo. Watching the car pull away, I wondered if maybe Jack didn’t have a point about pushing my luck.

Music drifted down from Jack’s apartment as I walked past the pool: Bob Seger’s “Beautiful Loser.”

He’s playing our song, I thought grimly, letting myself into my own apartment. I was in no hurry to hear what Jack had to say. I already knew what Jack would have to say—about everything from my joyride with Frankie Fumagalli to our own doomed relationship.

I loosened my tie and went to the fridge. I still had a couple of hours before my next interview with Roman Mayfield. I toasted sourdough bread, spread it over with cashew butter and sat down with a glass of milk, flipping through the old copy of Life magazine yet again.

A picture of Eva standing in the pool yard at the Garden of Allah caught my attention. Or rather, not Eva herself, but the crowded pool behind her. There were a few familiar faces, nearly forgotten starlets and blandly handsome young men, but one face stood out. He had hair back then, which is why I’d never particularly noticed him in the bobbing mass of young, laughing faces. A slightly blurred face gazed past the camera, staring past Eva into the encroaching darkness.

Roman Mayfield had gone swimming the night of Eva’s murder. And now I knew how, under the cover of darkness, someone could have waited for the right moment and washed away all that blood.

Chapter Twelve

“Did you bring it?” Mayfield demanded as I was ushered into the room with the starry ceiling.

“Bring…it?”

“The exact hour of your birth. For your chart.” He planted a bony index finger onto some papers on the desk in front of him.

“I forgot,” I admitted as I reached his desk.

“Forgot?”

“I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

He was staring at me as though he couldn’t believe his ears.

I said, hoping to redeem myself a little, “I do have an astrology-related question, though.”

He put his head to the side as though considering whether he should deign to listen to it. Then he nodded.

“Would Sagittarius and Aries make a good team?”

The mismatched eyes lit with interest, although he asked sardonically, “Were you thinking of playing baseball or getting married?”

“I’m just curious,” I said. “This is mostly theoretical.”

“Isn’t everything? Hmmm…the Archer and the Ram. Yes, that’s a very good match indeed. In fact, it’s a 5-9 sun sign pattern, what we call trine—which means positive and harmonious vibrations. Depending on the moon and other aspects, your chances for finding happiness and love in a permanent relationship with an Aries are excellent. In fact, the empathy and emotional fulfillment you’ll find with an Aries will rarely be as effortlessly achieved with another sign.”

I felt a weird desire to burst out laughing. Maybe Mayfield read something in my expression because he tilted his head to the side and said, “Any misunderstandings with this person will soon be cleared up.”

“That’s a relief.”

He shrugged. “Mock if you will, but the stars don’t lie.”

“I wouldn’t know about the heavenly ones, but the human ones sure do.”

After a moment he indicated the chair behind me with his finger. I sat down. I felt nervous—not afraid. The only real danger, I believed, was that I might be wrong. I might be way off base in my speculations, but I didn’t think I was.

“What have you learned?” Mayfield asked.

“I think I know who killed Eva. And I think I know how. What I don’t know is why. That’s the part that puzzles me.”

“That’s the only thing that puzzles you?” His tone was dry.

“Well, I’m not sure why you agreed to talk to me,” I admitted. “And I’m not sure why you stuck that tarot card on my door. It’s almost as though you wanted me to…”

“Discover the truth?”

I nodded.

He smiled. “Fifty years is a long time to carry the burden of grief and guilt, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes. I suppose so.”

“Yes.” He stared up at the cobalt blue ceiling with its blazing gold stars and mysterious moons. “My time is coming to a close.”

“Is that what the stars say?”

“It’s what my doctor says.” He permitted himself a grim smile. “And two specialists. It’s a cliché, but as my hour wanes, I feel the need to…make peace with the past.”

Since I had already worked out this much, I’m not sure why it felt like such a jolt to hear it out loud. “You killed Eva?” I remembered the horror of those blood-drenched photos and I just couldn’t seem to reconcile that manic violence with this quiet, gentle man.

“You already know that, my dear.” When I didn’t have an answer, he said, almost reminiscently, “She’d discovered that Tony was queer. Eva was a naïve girl in many ways, but even so it shouldn’t have been such a shock to her. She was disgusted by what she had seen and it made her cruel.”

“To you?”

He nodded “She was angry and bitter and more than a little wild that night, and I…was in love with her.”

“You were?” That hadn’t occurred to me. I had pegged him as gay; that he might be bisexual never entered my mind.

“Very much so. And I made the mistake of trying to tell her so that night.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.” A strange smile touched his pale mouth. “And, you see, at the time I had been experimenting with peyote—mostly for spiritual reasons, though not entirely—and we all drank a good deal all the time back then.”

“You’re saying it was drugs and alcohol?”

“The drugs and alcohol didn’t help, certainly.” He was silent for a moment. I thought of the times he had canceled our interviews, and I held my tongue.

At last he said, “I was the only one by the pool when she came out of the hotel and walked through the courtyard to Ball’s villa. I followed her inside. We argued. It was unlike either of us, really, those ugly, horrible things we said that night. She couldn’t separate me from Tony, you see, she thought we were the same, and she was worse after I told her I loved her.”

He fell silent. I said, “And so you picked up a knife?”

“There was a fruit basket on the table. She was cutting apples and pears up—using the wrong size knife, which was so like her—and—I don’t remember. I really don’t. I only remember standing there after it was over. It seemed like a dream. Far away and long ago—it felt more like a distant memory then than it does now. I remember I was very angry with her for making me do that. I picked up the tarot card from the table, and I placed it on her.”

“Reversed,” I said.

His strange gaze rested on me. “That’s right. The Lovers betrayed.”

“And the fingerprints didn’t matter because the card was yours to begin with.”

“That’s true.”

“And then you went outside to the pool and jumped in.”

“There was still no one in the pool. I jumped in and washed off the knife and let it sink to the bottom of the drain. By the time Stephen walked outside, the pool was full of people again, but everyone was so drunk that no one remembered who had been there first. I wasn’t clever at all, but somehow the fates worked to protect me, and I suppose I believed there was some purpose to that.”

I didn’t know what to say. He was still the same person who had showed kindness and compassion to me and he had committed an act of monstrous violence.

“And all these years you’ve kept silent.”

“I couldn’t see any value in speaking. It wouldn’t bring her back, and—I was afraid. But I’m not afraid anymore, and I was almost happy when I heard this book was to be written. I thought that if you could discover the truth, I would confirm it for you, but you would have to do the work yourself.”

“What do you expect me to do now?”

“Write your book, of course.”

“But…”

He waved his hand in one of those vague, graceful gestures. “If you feel you must inform the police, go ahead.” His smile was acrid. “It’s not as though I’m a danger to society.”

I stared at him. “It’s not like you paid your debt to society either.”

Mayfield said quietly, “You have no idea what I’ve paid. But if you’d like a price tag, I’ve contributed hundreds of thousands of dollars to charity—and there will be millions more upon my death.”

“How…long have the doctors given you?”

“Six months at the outside.”

If that were true he’d be dead long before the book was published.

I said, “Why are you leaving this up to me? I don’t want to have to make this kind of decision.”

“This is the hand you’ve been dealt,” he pronounced, for all the world like the Sphinx delivering its riddle. “Sagittarius is the truth-seeker. Now you have the truth.”

* * * * *

Jasmine scented the twilight—as did the smell of pot roast escaping from Jack’s kitchen window. I knocked on his door and a moment later it swung open. He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt that emphasized the strong brown column of his throat and the muscles in his arms.

“I left you a couple of messages,” he said.

“I know.” I handed him Bud Perkins’s file. “I thought you might want this back.”

“Are you done with it?”

“Yeah.”

He studied my face. “Do you know who killed Eva Aldrich?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“Who?”

“I guess you’ll have to read the book.”

He didn’t say anything, just stared. Finally he said, “Did you want to come in?”

“Not really.”

His face did change then. He said, “I think we need to talk, Tim.”

I said tiredly, “Maybe I can save us both some time. You feel like things are moving too quickly between us and we both need to take a step back. And I agree. It’s better if we leave it at friends.”

He said, after a pause, “I see.”

I risked a look at his face, and found I couldn’t read it easily. “Isn’t that what you were going to say?”

“No.”

“Oh.” I blinked. “What were you going to say?”

“I guess it’s moot at this point.”

He moved back as I stepped inside the doorway. I closed the door behind me and said, “What were you going to say?”

He shoved his hands inside his jeans and offered a funny smile. “That I think I could be falling in love with you, and I’m not going to let that happen unless—” His eyes rested on my face. “It’s sort of beside the point now, isn’t it?”

I shook my head. “I thought you were going to say—” I think I was more shocked than he was when my voice gave out.

He didn’t move a muscle and I got control of myself and said, “I guess I was trying to beat you to the punch.”

Jack frowned. “This is one of the things I don’t understand about you, Tim. It’s one of the things that worries me about getting involved with you.”

I had that dizzy, breathless feeling, like when you’re a kid playing crack the whip, and you find yourself at the end of the whip. Things were moving too fast for me. I put my back against the door and said, “I’ve lost my nerve. I’m afraid to hope for too much, to trust that things can work themselves out. I thought you were—repulsed.”

“By your seizures?”

I nodded.

“I’m not repulsed. They scare me. Not the seizures themselves, but—” He swallowed as though his mouth was suddenly dry. “You would have drowned the other morning, Tim. If I hadn’t been next to you, you’d have slipped back in the water and drowned. You don’t remember that, do you?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t look away from Jack’s face. He looked…stricken.

“You reached for me, and then you seized. I had to drag you out of the pool. You’re not dumb. You have to know the danger, but you swim out there morning after morning by yourself.”

“Is that why you don’t want to take a chance on me?”

“I am willing to take a chance on you,” he said, “but you’ve got to be willing to take a chance too, and stop risking your life for no good reason. You’ve got to commit to keeping yourself alive and well before I commit—”

I interrupted, “You said you couldn’t stand me crying.”

His brows drew together. Then he said, “It’s not what you think. It rips my heart out when you cry. I want to fix it for you, and I can’t.” He reached a hand out, brushing my jaw. “I can’t do anything but love you, and I’m not sure that’s what you want.”

I found that I couldn’t meet his gaze anymore. “Yeah, it’s what I want.” I stared down at my hands knotted in fists on my thighs, and I consciously relaxed them. “I think I’ve…loved you from the first time we ever went out.” I smiled a little, but it still hurt remembering how he had cut me loose, how quickly and easily he’d dropped me before.

As though he read my mind, Jack said, “Me too. I knew six months ago when I couldn’t stop noticing you, wondering about you. I told myself I couldn’t afford to get involved with you, that it wasn’t going to work, but I couldn’t help watching you, wondering how you were doing, if there wasn’t some way…”

“You hid it pretty well.”

“You just weren’t looking. I used to drink my morning coffee watching you swim, waiting for you to get into trouble. I kept trying to think what the hell I was going to do about you.”

Those dusk-gray eyes met mine steadily, and something hard and dry and twisted inside me softened and let go. I muttered, “Okay, I’ll wear a Medic Alert bracelet or even a damn dog collar if that’s what you want.”

It was a relief to be pulled roughly into his arms. “I think the bracelet is a good idea.” His mouth found mine. “While we’re on the subject of jewelry, how do you feel about rings?”

About the Author

A distinct voice in gay fiction, multi-award-winning author JOSH LANYON has been writing gay mystery, adventure and romance for over a decade. In addition to numerous short stories, novellas, and novels, Josh is the author of the critically acclaimed Adrien English series, including The Hell You Say, winner of the 2006 USABookNews awards for GLBT Fiction. Josh is an Eppie Award winner and a three-time Lambda Literary Award finalist.

Find other Josh Lanyon titles at www.joshlanyon.com

Follow Josh on Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads.

If you enjoyed these stories, check out the following titles, also by Josh Lanyon:

Novels

The Adrien English Mysteries

Fatal Shadows

A Dangerous Thing

The Hell You Say

Death of a Pirate King

The Dark Tide

Stranger Things Have Happened

The HOLMES & MORIARITY Mysteries

Somebody Killed His Editor

All She Wrote

Other novels

This Rough Magic (A SHOT IN THE DARK Series)

Fair Game (ALL’S FAIR Series)

The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks

Mexican Heat (with Laura Baumbach)

Strange Fortune

Come Unto These Yellow Sands

Stranger on the Shore

Novellas

The DANGEROUS GROUND Series

Dangerous Ground

Old Poison

Blood Heat

Dead Run

Kick Start

The I SPY Series

I Spy Something Bloody

I Spy Something Wicked

I Spy Something Christmas

The IN A DARK WOOD Series

In a Dark Wood

The Parting Glass

The DARK HORSE Series

The Dark Horse

The White Knight

Snowball in Hell (Doyle & Spain Series)

Winter (HAUNTED HEART Series)

Mummy Dearest (XOXO FILES Series)

Other novellas

The Dark Farewell

The Darkling Thrush

The Dickens with Love

A Ghost of a Chance

Out of the Blue

Lone Star (in Men Under the Mistletoe)

Green Glass Beads (in Irregulars)

Everything I Know

Short stories

A Limited Engagement

The French Have a Word for It

In Sunshine or In Shadow

Until We Meet Once More

Icecapade (in His for the Holidays)

Perfect Day

Heart Trouble

In Plain Sight

PETIT MORTS (SWEET SPOT Collection)

Other People’s Weddings

Slings and Arrows

Sort of Stranger Than Fiction

Critic’s Choice

Just Desserts

Merry Christmas, Darling (Holiday Codas)

Table of Contents

- The Dark Horse
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- A Vintage Affair
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Blood Red Butterfly
- Don’t Look Back
- Lovers and Other Strangers
- Cards on the Table
- Chapter Twelve