“How can you be sure? Maybe it was Arcoletti getting his spectral rocks off.”
Luke sat in the other chair and scooted it close, his knees bracketing Stefan’s. He gripped the back of Stefan’s neck with one hand, thigh with the other, thumb stroking the inseam of Stefan’s jeans. “I’m sure because it’s been building since the day I was a fucking idiot and left you. That was us.” Luke leaned forward and kissed him, a brush of lips, a hint of tongue. Nothing too hot, but warm enough to chase the ice from Stefan’s chest. “Definitely us.”
Stefan leaned his forehead against Luke’s. “Thank God.”
“No shit.” Luke brushed a thumb across Stefan’s jaw, rasping against Stefan’s three-day stubble. “So how about it? You ready to get the hell out of Dead Man’s Dodge?”
Stefan tensed and pulled back far enough to look in Luke’s eyes. “It’s not that simple.”
“What do you mean?” Luke scowled and dropped his hands to his knees.
“I have debts, Luke. More than you can imagine.”
“Try me.”
Stefan clenched his hands between his knees. “The day Marius died, when I was so angry with him forcing my hand by cashing that Vegas commission check . . . I didn’t need to tell him I was leaving right before he took off. I could have waited until he got home. Had it out with him face-to-face. But instead—” The lump in his throat reduced Stefan’s voice to a croak.
Luke took his hands, gently pried them apart, and laced Stefan’s fingers with his own. “You think he crashed his plane on purpose?”
“Marius loved the grand gesture, and that was pretty freaking enormous.” Stefan tried to pull away from Luke. He didn’t deserve comfort. He needed to take responsibility.
“Stef. You didn’t kill him. Okay? He was the pilot. Not you.”
Stefan tucked his chin toward his chest and managed to nod. “I know. But I owe the Vegas hotelier. I never fulfilled the commission, and all the cash burned along with the plane. If I leave here, I’ll be back on their radar and I’m not ready. Not until I have the means to pay them back.” Stefan ran a shaking hand through his hair. “And then there’s Thomas. I have an obligation to him, too.”
Luke sat up, anger chasing the concern from his face. “Bullshit.”
“I’ve been living on his dime for four months. I can’t afford a single paintbrush myself, let alone everything I’d need to set up my own studio. Thomas’s generosity is the only thing giving me the least bit of hope I’ll be able to paint again. I owe him for that chance, not to mention four months’ worth of rent, food, and supplies.”
“You don’t owe him your life,” Luke growled.
“My life.” Stefan pushed away and stood up, tipping his chair backward against the corner of the island with a thud. “You want to know about my life? I hadn’t painted anything for two years. I was living in my fucking fifty-dollar car. Nothing,” he said, staring Luke down, deliberately mimicking his earlier tone, “is worth a repeat of that.”
Luke met his stare, eyes narrowing. “He sold two of the forgeries. Boardman. He mention that little detail?”
Stefan’s breath stalled, and his stomach plummeted. “No. He said—”
“One point two million for the set. Do you suppose that’s enough to offset the cost of these princely accommodations? And the Scotch. Let’s not forget that. You definitely want to reimburse him for the fucking Glenlivet and the joy rides on the supernatural super-highway.”
“It’s all over then.” Stefan sank onto the sofa in a crackle of ancient leather, his knees unable to hold him. “I’m officially a forger. When will you turn me in?”
Luke cracked a laugh. “Are you nuts? I’m not turning you in.”
“But the sale—”
“I’ve skated along the razor’s edge of my professional ethics before. I can do it again.”
“You’d do that? Compromise another dream?”
“It’s been more like a bad trip the last couple of years. Don’t worry about it. Stef.” Luke’s voice was low, its hard edge softened. “Come away with me.”
“And what?” Stefan’s fingers twisted together as if his hands belonged to two different people, each desperately seeking comfort. “You’ll take care of me? Like Marius? What if I don’t want to be taken care of? What if I never did?”
“So what’s your plan?” Luke spread his arms, encompassing the dreary cabin, his voice sharp again. “Stay here and play Arcoletti’s bitch? As the one plastered on his drug of choice last night, I can tell you it will not end well.”
Stefan stared at his hands, touching the place where a spot of cobalt once taunted him. “But if all he wants is to paint . . . Shit, if I could re-create the last four pictures I’d painted before Marius died, I’d jump at the chance with both freaking feet. He wants to reclaim what he lost, Luke, and I can totally understand that.”
“Yeah? Well, he didn’t want me to paint, Stefan. He wanted me to die.” Luke’s voice broke on the last word.
“Maybe it wasn’t you he wanted to die.” Stefan kept his voice low and even, because Luke was obviously three heartbeats away from a total freak-out, and Stefan was about to up the ante. “What if it was himself? And you were just his . . . I don’t know . . . avatar?”
Luke swayed in the middle of the room, his hazel eyes wide and fingers twitching. Stefan had witnessed the same behavior before, the day Luke bolted from their apartment. And as he watched Luke’s gaze dart from shadow to shadow in the shabby room, it hit him like a punch to the heart.
Luke’s choices, his actions—this isn’t trivial. It’s monumental. Not only because he’s being forced to challenge his beliefs and accept uncanny possibilities. He’s on the brink of compromising his integrity.
For me.
If Luke went through with this, hid the truth about Stefan’s forgeries, he’d be sacrificing his reputation, the career he’d found to replace the first one Stefan had stolen from him, for Stefan’s sake. A professional suicide—maybe not as final as Marius’s death, but devastating and irrevocable nonetheless.
Sweat broke out on his forehead and between his shoulders. Marius had laughed at his warning and gotten into the cockpit anyway, confident of his own invincibility. Luke wasn’t as arrogant, but he was ten times as protective and fifty times as stubborn. He’d never leave Stefan behind, never believe that Stefan didn’t want the sacrifice. And Stefan refused to cause the death of anyone—or anything—ever again.
That meant he had to force Luke to leave. Drive him away. Destroy the connection they’d barely rebuilt. Unfortunately, he knew exactly how to do it.
“One point two million you say?”
“That’s right.”
“With my cut, even after I repay Thomas, I can pay off the Vegas guys and disappear.”
Luke stilled in his latest patrol of the room and stared at him, unblinking. “You’d do that? Run?”
“Why not?” Stefan forced himself to meet Luke’s hard gaze without flinching. “You did.”
He shot off the sofa and grabbed Luke’s coat from the peg by the door, hugging it to his chest. It smelled of damp wool, wood smoke, and Luke. Stefan clutched it tighter, inhaling the scent one more time because it would have to last for the rest of his so-called life.
“If you can’t take the heat, go.” He thrust the coat at Luke. “I’m staying until I can collect.”
Luke’s jaw dropped, and the hurt in his eyes almost changed Stefan’s mind.
“You’re shitting me.”
“No.” Stefan swallowed and straightened his spine, pulling himself to his full height, two inches taller than Luke. “With what I’m painting now—”
Luke grabbed the coat and flung it on the floor. “Fuck that. It’s not you. It’s Jeremiah fucking Arcoletti.” His words flew like stones, like knives, and Stefan flinched as each one found its mark. “His style. His vision. His paintings. Not. Yours.”
“I know. That’s the point. His vision pays. I can get off the mountain and on w
ith my life.” Stefan shook his hair out of his eyes, met Luke’s furious stare, and pushed the never-fail Luke-eject button. “I can finally get the Rolex and ring out of hock.”
When Luke’s face twisted into the familiar mask of disgust, the one he’d worn so often when they’d fought over Marius’s money, the one he’d worn when he’d tossed out the forgery accusation last night, Stefan knew he’d won. If you call losing everything winning.
“You’re delusional if you think Boardman’ll come through with the cash.”
Stefan clenched his fists, his nails driving into his palms. Somehow, he kept his chin from trembling as he met Luke’s gaze. “He will if I tell him I’ll paint another.”
“You—” Luke pressed his lips together as disgust bled away into something more like impossible grief. Christ, please don’t look like that. I’m not worth it. For an instant, Stefan was afraid Luke wouldn’t take the bait. But then he bent awkwardly, snatched his coat off the floor, and limped out the door, slamming it behind him.
Stefan took a breath and blew it out, collapsing onto the sofa. The awful foreboding faded from his chest, leaving it hollow, as if Luke had dragged his heart down the mountain behind his car.
Stefan hadn’t saved Marius, but he’d learned to live with the specter of that guilt. But to be haunted by the death of Luke’s hopes, his dreams, maybe Luke himself? That Stefan couldn’t face.
It would fucking kill him.
As Luke crept down the mountain, he could still feel the Chrysler’s leather-covered steering wheel under his hands instead of the cold plastic of the rental.
God almighty, he had been so fucking stupid to imagine Stefan was the same idealistic man he’d been, willing to resume their old relationship, untouched by Marius’s insidious wealth and Luke’s own bone-headedness.
But Stefan’s eyes in the lamplight at dinner, his hands on Luke’s skin, the trust in his face when he’d shown Luke the haunted studio . . . Stefan had wanted it too, right up until he’d heard about the sale.
How could he choose money over morals? Over his own talent and artistic integrity? Shit, over his fricking sanity?
Luke inched around the last turn. Thank God he was almost off this fucking mountain for the last time.
A deer burst out of the trees and leaped in front of the car. Luke stood on the brakes, his shoulders bunched nearly to his ears, and the car slid to a halt with barely a skid.
The deer stared at him, dark eyes wide, as if resigned to death by Hyundai. Luke frowned, something tugging at his memory. That look. Stefan had worn exactly the same expression when Luke had stomped out of the cabin.
Shit-fuck-damn-it-all-to-hell. Luke slammed his fist on the horn, and the deer bounded away into the underbrush. He’d been so up in his own head he hadn’t seen it—Stefan’s fear, his sorrow, his hopeless fatalism. All there on his open face, but Luke hadn’t been able to see it beyond his own insecurities.
He punched the gas in a lead-footed rush to Franklin’s broody Victorian. The guy owed Luke some answers, and both of them owed Stefan a hell of a lot more.
Stefan lay on the sofa, counting each tick of the clock, the tiger’s-eye pendant clutched in his hand. He should be proud of himself. He’d stayed strong, and although he’d probably killed Luke’s affection for him, at least Luke’s life, his career, were still intact.
It was enough. It had to be.
How much time did he have left before Luke turned him in? He had no intention of attempting another drunken forgery, no matter what he’d implied. He had no intention of taking another penny of Thomas’s money either, but he had nothing else to hock except Luke’s pendant. Could he stand to lose it, to sever his last link to Luke?
If it means saving him from his own hero complex, then hell yes.
It could give him enough cash to get out of town, to disappear off the grid as he’d done before. Then Luke wouldn’t have to split his loyalties—he could report the forgeries and preserve his reputation, but honestly say he had no idea where the forger was.
What if he still doesn’t report them, though? If Luke was right and Thomas had knowingly foisted them off on some unsuspecting buyer, how could Stefan simply vanish without making things right? I owe the art world the truth—Thomas may have given me the opportunity to rest and heal, but he victimized me too.
The truth. Christ. Who’d ever believe it? Thomas would look like the victim and Stefan the crook. One way or another, I’m screwed. But better me than Luke—he has more to lose.
From the middle of the oak coffee table, the bottle of Glenlivet dared him. He picked it up by the neck, holding it in front of the oil lamp. The combination of the flame and the green glass bottle turned the Scotch a poisonous, seductive chartreuse. He swished the liquid back and forth and around until it swirled into a tiny vortex, threatening to pull him under.
How much was too much? If he tried it one last time, a small drink to prime the artistic pump, could he control it? Finish a piece he could call his own? Because if the only way his hands could create anything was to allow someone—something—to use him like he was a goddamned meat puppet, then he was done. Luke had nailed it—some things weren’t worth the cost.
He spun up the little whirlpool again, staring until it wound down.
What would he paint if he knew his next painting would be his last? If he had one last chance to finish? To get it right? The answer rose in Stefan’s mind as if it floated on the surface of the Scotch.
Luke.
He’d paint Luke. Not Luke as the angry conservatory student or the cocky, self-assured lover. But Luke, the honest, driven man, who could walk away from what he loved most, whether it was his career as a painter or his relationship with Stefan, if he thought it was tainted.
“My last painting,” Stefan murmured, opening the bottle. “My last chance to say it all. To say I’m sorry. To say I love you. To say farewell.” He raised the bottle halfway to his lips and froze.
I’m sorry. I love you. Farewell.
Crap.
Stefan pushed himself off the sofa and walked out the cabin door, the bottle still in his hand. Goddamned freaking epiphany. Its timing truly sucked. Halfway to the studio, he broke into a run.
Franklin opened the door at Luke’s furious pounding, his face nearly folded in half with a scowl. He cinched the belt on his red velour bathrobe with a jerk. “You know what time it is?”
“Late.” Luke sidestepped into the entryway and shut the door. “What happened to your brother?”
Franklin thrust out his chin. “He died.”
“Cut the bullshit, Franklin. I need the whole story.”
Franklin squinted at him, no doubt registering Luke’s ill-fitting clothes and less-than-pristine grooming. “Hmmph. Maybe you do.” He hobbled into the living room and lowered himself onto his peach throne.
Luke followed, back throbbing under his bandage, a reminder of how fast the ghost could turn, and willed the older man to buy into his urgency, to Luke’s sense that this whole mountain of crap had reached the avalanche point.
Franklin rested his cane across his knees, clutching it as if it were the panic bar on a roller coaster. “A party. House lit up like Christmas. Supposed to be Edward’s engagement ball.”
Luke stopped pacing. “Engagement? To a woman?”
“Why so shocked? Not like he had much choice. Not in 1945.” Franklin stared past Luke, as if he watched the scene play out on the damask drapes. “That night, Arcoletti drove up to the servant’s entrance in that Chrysler wagon of his.”
“He brought his paintings with him.”
Franklin’s gaze shifted to Luke’s face. “Yes. How did you know?”
“Never mind. Go on.”
“Bastard raged at Edward, rampaged around the servants’ hall with the same old tantrum he threw whenever Edward wasn’t all about him. Edward refused to get riled, never mind that he’d begged Arcoletti time and again to see him as someone with a life of his own. Knew Arcoletti would be sorry af
terward. He always was. And Edward would forgive him. Arcoletti never changed, but Edward always forgave.”
Luke backed up until his shoulder blades hit the mantel, pushed by the desolation in Franklin’s voice. Forgiveness. Stefan had always forgiven Luke’s temper, his suspicions, his possessiveness. What had Luke given him in return? Ultimatums and abandonment.
“Edward took Arcoletti outside so the servants wouldn’t hear the row. Out under the tree. The one in Edward, Reading.”
“No.” Luke’s voice was hoarse around the lump in his throat.
Franklin’s jaw worked, and a tear tracked a zigzag path through the creases on his face. “Father’d punished me for something that night. Don’t remember what. I was hiding under the servants’ stairs. I followed Edward outside. Saw the knife in Arcoletti’s hand. Saw him slash Edward’s . . .” Franklin’s voice faded to a cracked whisper. “Saw the whole thing.”
As if Franklin’s story had resurrected the corpse of his nightmare, Luke saw it, too, a jerky silent-film tragedy, out of place in this pastel shell of a room where nothing more frightening than poorly brewed tea should happen.
“Father covered it up. Blamed it on tramps. Convinced the police.”
“Why? Surely he’d want to catch Edward’s murderer.”
Franklin snorted his ancient dragon huff. “You’d think. But he couldn’t abide scandal. So when I found it, I didn’t tell him.”
“Found what?”
“Edward’s suitcase. And his letter.” Franklin swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple sliding under papery skin. “Said he was tired of living a lie. Planned to leave with Arcoletti, under cover of the party fuss. Wasn’t enough for that bastard, though. He killed my brother and drove away. Left Edward lying there. Like he was trash.”
Images merged and splintered like a kaleidoscope in Luke’s brain until only one remained as if lit by a carbon-arc spotlight. A tableau in black and white and blood, the dark twin of the painting in the gallery.
Edward, Dying.
This time, the image had a soundtrack and Luke heard the words. Words too late for Edward, his life draining away under the tree. Too late for Arcoletti, committed to that bonfire on the riverside with Edward’s last breath.
The Artist's Touch Page 9
