Stefan crept sideways away from Luke, drawing Thomas’s focus. “Arcoletti’s gone.”
“Bring him back.” Thomas waved the gun at Luke. “I’ll shoot him again if you don’t.”
“Why?” Stefan forced his tone to remain calm and reasonable.
“They cheated my uncle out of his fame, his fortune. Our family honor.” Thomas dragged the sleeve of his duster across his nose, and a trail of snot glistened on the black wool. “He’s a great painter. A giant among artists. He deserves to be a star.”
Luke levered himself to his knees. “Except for one tiny detail. He’s dead.”
Stefan crawled another foot away. “He’s right, Thomas. Surfacing after so long, those forgeries will never stand up to scrutiny.”
“They’re not forgeries,” Thomas shrieked. “Jeremiah Arcoletti painted them. Just because he used someone else’s hands—”
Sirens see-sawed in the distance, emergency vehicles beginning the ascent up the mountain. Thomas flinched, raising his shoulders toward his ears as if to block the sound.
“Fire lookouts must have seen the smoke,” Stefan said. “The crew’ll be here any minute.”
“Get a fucking grip, Boardman,” Luke said, pushing heavily to his feet. “It’s over.”
Thomas’s gaze bounced back and forth between Luke and Stefan, his gun hand tracking a beat behind. “But my gallery! The exhibit. I can’t be labeled a forger. I won’t!”
He turned the gun toward his own temple and Luke lunged for him. The tackle took them both to the ground, and the gun went off.
Stefan’s ears deadened as if stuffed with cotton. He ran to where Luke lay draped over Thomas’s twitching body. Something wet glistened against the navy of Luke’s pea coat. Christ. Please. Not blood. He touched the wetness and brought his finger to his nose.
Oil paint. From the studio explosions. He closed his eyes and released a shaky breath.
Luke swore and pushed himself onto his haunches. “Ow. Jesus. Could this guy be any lumpier?” He held the gun in one hand, pointed away into the trees.
“Is he . . .” Dead stuck in Stefan’s throat.
“No.” Luke packed a load of contempt into the word. “Just unconscious. He couldn’t even do that right. Second-rate, all the way to the end. Good thing, too. Imagine the horror if Boardman started haunting the place. Everyone within ten miles of the joint would be wearing ascots and drinking Campari on the rocks.”
“Don’t joke, Luke.” Thomas’s motives had been less than pure, but he’d still rescued Stefan from the street and given him the means to paint again.
“Why not?” Luke stood and nudged Thomas’s leg with his foot. “He was willing to sacrifice you to Arcoletti’s ghost in order to resuscitate his uncle’s reputation and have a nice little reception with white wine, free-range goat cheese, and undeserved reflected glory. He’s worse than Marius. At least Marius was a genuine snob. Thomas is a snob-wannabe.”
Luke hobbled a few steps toward the cabin, set the gun on a flat-topped rock, and picked up Thomas’s scarf. “God, this color is so nellie.” Scowling, he wrapped the scarf around the oozing wound in his thigh. “If they ever let Boardman out of an orange jumpsuit again, he should stick to navy.”
The emergency vehicles rolled into the clearing. The flashing red lights reflected in the studio windows and turned Thomas’s hair pink.
Luke stumbled, and Stefan caught him around the waist. Luke flinched away from the pressure on his bandaged back.
“Yikes. Sorry.” Stefan shifted his grip. “Luke, you don’t have to be the tough guy. You’ve been skewered, shot, and nearly incinerated. Sit down and wait for the EMTs.”
“Nah. I’m okay.” Luke’s leg buckled, and he grabbed Stefan’s shoulders. “More or less.”
Stefan laughed at the obvious lie. “You’re a mess, Morganstern. You need someone to take care of you.”
“Maybe.” Luke grinned and tugged a lock of Stefan’s hair. “You volunteering?”
“I might. Depends. Still think I’m a dream-slayer?”
“Hey. That wasn’t your fault— Just me battling my own neuroses. Besides who needs those old things anyway? I’ve got new fantasies now. X-rated ones. You’re the star.”
“Yeah? You planning to cop to the present-tense L-word, too?”
Luke snorted. “Real men don’t use words. We beat our chests and prove ourselves with action.”
“Like facing a pyromaniac ghost?”
“Hell no. Any wuss could do that.” Luke pointed across the clearing. “I drove that fricking mountain road for you. In the dark. Fast.”
“True love.” Stefan kept his tone light, but the look in Luke’s eyes was anything but teasing, and a spike of heat shot from Stefan’s throat to his balls.
“Damn straight,” Luke rumbled, hooking a finger in the leather cord around Stefan’s neck and pulling him forward.
Luke’s kiss, in the smoking ruins of the clearing, with Thomas whimpering at their feet and firefighters advancing with intent, couldn’t have been more perfect.
After he caught his breath, Stefan traced Luke’s jaw with his thumb. “So. What happens next?”
Luke sighed and rested his hands on Stefan’s hips. “I can’t lie. It’s going to be messy. Ghostly possession doesn’t exactly fly in American jurisprudence. But you weren’t intending to defraud, and Boardman falsified the provenance, not you.”
“I still have a shit-ton of debt and zero money.”
“But you’re painting again. You. Not some fricking ghost. Franklin’s commission and his recommendations will jump-start my business. We may both be singed, bloody, and bruised, but we’re not broken. Not anymore.” Luke stepped closer and framed Stefan’s face with both hands. “Come home with me, Stef. I’m through pretending I can find anyone to replace this original.”
“I don’t know . . . That southern light. Just not the same.” But Stefan smiled and pulled Luke into a full body embrace. A kiss. Not gentle. Insistent. Possessive—the kind of possession he could live with. “But I’ll make do.”
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Major thanks to Rachel (again) and Carole-ann Galloway for their editing awesomeness. Rachel, you keep me from forgetting that what’s in my head doesn’t always make it onto the page. And Caz, you keep me from sounding too much like Cher in Clueless (you know what I’m talking about . . .).
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o the family—Jim, Hana, Nick, and Ross—who only roll their eyes briefly when I say, “Hey, guys, I’ve got a new book releasing today . . .”
Art Medium
Tested in Fire (coming soon)
Fae Out of Water
Cutie and the Beast
The Druid Next Door
Bad Boy’s Bard
Legend Tripping
Stumptown Spirits
Wolf’s Clothing
Geeklandia
The Boyfriend Algorithm
Clickbait
For a Good Time, Call . . . (a Bluewater Bay story), with Anne Tenino
Sun, Moon, and Stars (in Magic and Mayhem: Fiction and Essays Celebrating LGBTQA Romance)
The Probability of Mistletoe
E.J. Russell holds a BA and an MFA in theater, so naturally she’s spent the last three decades as a financial manager, database designer, and business intelligence consultant (as one does). She’s married to Curmudgeonly Husband, a man who cares even less about sports than she does. Luckily, C.H. also loves to cook, or all three of their children (Lovely Daughter and Darling Sons A and B) would have survived on nothing but Cheerios, beef jerky, and satsuma mandarins (the extent of E.J.’s culinary skill set).
E.J. lives in rural Oregon, enjoys visits from her wonderful adult children, and indulges in good books, red wine, and the occasional hyperbole.
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