Golden Dancer

by Tara Lain

  The seats were wide for a car, but too narrow for a bed. Still, Daniel wriggled around until he managed to wedge his body along the seat and pull Trelain’s back against his chest. When they were settled, Trelain felt lips against his neck. “Don’t mean to jump to conclusions, but that seemed pretty damned incredible to me.”

  Trelain chuckled. “Bragging, are we?”

  Daniel reached around and brought Trelain’s head up to they could see each other. “No, I think it was a mutual masterpiece.”

  Trelain gazed into those midnight blue eyes. “Yes. It was brilliant.”

  “You’ll find a hand towel in that compartment.” Daniel pointed to the spot where he’d found the condom. Trelain reached over and fished out the towel, handing it over his shoulder. Daniel wiped his hands, then put the very full condom into the towel and tossed it on the floor of the car.

  Trelain settled back against Daniel. They both still wore their shirts, but their bottom halves were bare, and he could feel Daniel’s softened cock against his arse cheeks. He glanced toward the car windows. “Do you think we’ve reached Oregon by now?”

  Daniel chuckled. “Probably more like Long Beach.”

  “I’ve never been here before.”

  “Want to stop and see the aquarium?”

  “Fish? Not my thing unless they come with chips.”

  “They might object to that. How about we go home and have a swim? Pool or ocean, your choice.”

  “Ocean. Sounds brilliant.”

  * * *

  The man who stood in front of Horst’s desk today was anything but rumpled and unsure. Rutger filled the space before him with the breadth of his chest, and while he wasn’t necessarily a candidate for Mensa, he was shrewd and without conscience. “Terrebone seems to have a new collector’s item.” His strangely high voice with its heavy German accent seemed to whisper from everywhere.

  “Are you speaking of the dancer?”

  “Yes, they’ve been seen together twice that I know of.”

  Von Berg frowned. “Not exactly privileged information. I saw it on the entertainment news. Two faggots prancing around that faggot town.”

  “I took the liberty of dispatching some men to watch the perverts. We can’t get too close to the estate, but we’ll know who goes in and out, as well as their movements.”

  “Ah, good thinking, Rutger. I like initiative.”

  The big man gave a tight smile. “I look forward to the day I can entertain the girly man dancer myself. There are a few tricks I learned in prison…”

  Von Berg got a chill.

  * * *

  Daniel glanced at the group of handsome, well-built men standing on the sand with their tongues hanging out. Turned to stone. Yeah, that’s just how good the dancer looked in those Australian trunks. Not as full-on obscene as tiny French bikinis, but nowhere near as covered as the popular California board shorts, these boy short-style trunks clung to that hard ass and those massive thighs like a lover’s caress. Daniel loved beautiful things, and the man was beautiful. But it was more than that. The guy was funny. Daniel had a weakness for humor, and the guy’s wit kept him laughing. And unpredictable! Daniel always felt a little off-balance around Trelain, and that didn’t happen to him much. Strangely, he also felt protective. For all his international fame, Trelain was a kid and one that, according to rumor, hadn’t had the easiest life. Daniel knew a lot about not-easy lives. He might like to take care of the dancer. Give the man the security and protection no one had ever given him. Yeah, he just might like that a lot.

  They had stopped for a drink on the patio of the elegant Montage Hotel, where even the jaded, celebrity-ridden crowd had stared. Trelain seemed to barely notice. He must be so used to it. After a round of French 75, their little touches and subtle caresses seemed to have gotten a rise out of the fiery Russian again, and now they were walking with purpose on the beach back toward Daniel’s house. Maybe this time Daniel would surrender his ass to a nice Cossack ride.

  He reached out and let his fingers entwine with Trelain’s. The dancer looked up and glanced at the people they were passing. Daniel knew Great Britain was pretty restrained when it came to PDA. Daniel stroked his hand with his thumb. “Don’t worry. This is Laguna Beach. People expect to see male couples here.”

  Trelain looked around. Daniel saw a few people glance their way, but no one seemed especially concerned, and who would assume that this androgynous beauty wasn’t gay anyway?

  The dancer smiled. “Must be nice.”

  “Yeah. It’s not like it used to be. At one time Laguna had one of the highest per capita gay populations in the country. Now, a lot of the crowd has moved out to the desert.”

  “Desert?”

  Daniel laughed. “Not like banishment or French Foreign Legion. No, they’ve moved to Palm Springs. Maybe I’ll take you out there some time?” Odd to realize there wasn’t anywhere he wouldn’t want to take Trelain. “But Laguna is still very gay friendly. When the big protest against gay marriage was going on, the sign-carriers lined the Pacific Coast Highway all the way from northern Orange County to the south, but they skipped over Laguna Beach. They weren’t welcome here. The picketers ended at the northern border to the city and picked up again in the south, but none were in town. In fact, people carried pro-gay marriage signs all over Main Beach. It made me proud to live here.”

  “That’s really nice. Would you ever want to get married?”

  Daniel paused. Had he thought about it? He’d told Trelain when they met that he was tired of the one-night-stand game, but was he that tired? “Yes, I just might. Marriage isn’t legal for us in California yet. Soon I hope.”

  “Yes, same in the UK.”

  “Would you ever want to get married?”

  Trelain shook his head. “Never met someone that I’d want to be with for life. I travel so much and spend so much time dancing, I can’t imagine I’d be a brilliant choice as a husband.” He gave Daniel that shy, sexy sideways glance that seemed to be a favorite of his. “Of course, I’ve been known to change my mind.”

  They got close to Daniel’s property. No one could own the beach in California, since it belonged to all the people, but Daniel loved that his estate came down to the sand. One wing of the house was built close to the water, while the main body of the house was set back on the other side of the lawn and swimming pool. He had several houses, but this was his favorite. This was where he felt truly at home.

  They clasped hands tighter. Daniel laughed. “I believe we need a shower. Think you can get your cock in me in the shower, pretty baby?”

  Those blue-green eyes lit up. “Brilliant idea. Bloody hell, I can’t wait.”

  Trelain practically dragged him to the beach-room entrance where the polished concrete floors were up to the assault of fresh sand. God, this guy was hot, and hot for it. Daniel loved that. They sat on the maple wood benches and wiped the sand from their feet, then rushed through the door laughing.

  Daniel’s butler, Carlos, was waiting. “Mr. Terrebone, Mr. Medveyev has a visitor. I put him in the formal living room.”

  Shit. He really wanted to fuck. “Were you expecting someone?”

  Trelain looked mystified. “No. I shouldn’t think the few people who know I’m here would disturb me, certainly not by arriving unannounced.”

  Daniel got to see that flash of entitlement that accompanied nearly all great artists, no matter how shy or humble they might be.

  “Shall we go see?”

  They turned to walk down the hall to the living room when a man stepped out. Tall, very casually dressed, with a shock of wildly curly dark brown hair.

  Trelain stopped. “Mac. What in the fucking hell are you doing here?”

  Chapter Eight

  Yes. What in hell was he doing there? Mac felt himself blushing, but he couldn’t stop staring. The Russian was, well, gorgeous, dressed only in a skimpy pair of swim trunks, his marble-statue body slightly blushed by the sun. Shit, his cock was half-hard. Mac could see i
t, clearly outlined against the latex. What had he been doing? Or planning to do? Behind him stood the damned billionaire thief. Terrebone was even more imposing in person than in photos. Taller even than Mac’s six feet two, beautifully hard-bodied, with a powerful chest and arms and long, lean legs. The famous silver hair looked like he somehow raked his fingers through it and it fell in perfect disarray, too long to be businesslike. Yeah. And those blue-black eyes were staring daggers at Mac right this minute. Mac wanted to vanish, but he’d come here for a reason.

  He looked at the dancer. “Hello, Trelain.”

  The superstar might be substantially shorter than his two companions, but he filled the space with pure charisma. “I repeat, Mac-Kenzie. What are you doing here?”

  Mac glanced at the art collector. This was pretty damned uncomfortable. “Uh, could we talk alone?”

  Trelain looked over his shoulder at Terrebone and then back at Mac. “You have already imposed upon my host, Mr. MacAllister. I will not further burden him by asking him to leave his own living room.”

  Okay, he probably deserved that.

  The bastard billionaire chuckled. “Besides, I wouldn’t miss this for a box full of chocolates. Let’s all sit down, shall we?” The man gestured back toward the beautiful ice blue room full of strict, ultramodern leather couches and grand paintings with flashes of wild, abstract color. Crap, Mac had already worn a hole in the polished hardwood during his forty-five minute wait. He did not want to go sit and chat amiably with the thieving SOB.

  What an idiot! Somehow he’d persuaded himself that Trelain was in trouble, that the dancer had been lured here under false pretenses, or he just didn’t know what he was getting into. That last part was likely true. But the man sure as fuck didn’t seem happy to see him. Of course, they hadn’t parted under the best of circumstances. He’d managed to forget all that in his haste to play Sir Galahad. He hadn’t thought this through enough to know how he’d balls this out now that he knew Trelain was pissed.

  Mac sat on one of the leather and wood Eames chairs, while Trelain posed quite beautifully on the couch opposite him. Terrebone stayed standing and leaned against the wall by the arched entry. Mac glanced at him. Wasn’t there some way to get rid of the bastard?

  Trelain leaned back against the couch as if waiting for a naughty child to explain himself. “So, why are you here?”

  Okay, move over, angels, I’m rushing in. “I heard you were here, and I live in Laguna too, and I thought I could pick you up and give you a ride back to LA, and maybe get some more information for the profile, and…”

  Trelain held up a graceful hand. “Mac-Kenzie. You Americans have an expression. There are lies, and there are damned lies, and I believe that is one of the latter. Would you care to try again?” Terrebone, the bastard, laughed.

  Mac felt trapped. He looked down at his hands. “I thought you might be in trouble?”

  “What?”

  He looked up straight into those beautiful eyes that were wide with amazement. He nodded his head toward Terrebone. “I heard you had gone off with him, and he’s got quite a reputation with men, and I just thought you might want to leave or something.” He inspected his hands again. “The part about me living in Laguna is true.”

  The eyes got wider. “You were protecting my honor?”

  “Not exactly. It’s just, he collects things, beautiful things, and I didn’t think you’d want to be collected.”

  Silence. Trelain stared at him. Terrebone never moved from his spot, his expression unreadable.

  Suddenly Trelain launched himself off the couch. In one second, Mac was juggling a squirming mass of ballet dancer. “Mac-Kenzie, that is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. My knight in shining cargo pants. You are a wonder.”

  Crap. Was that the response he’d wanted somewhere deep in his heart? Trelain was sitting on the edge of his chair hugging him tightly. Oh, Jesus. Very lightly, he touched the dancer’s bare back. Just as silky as his leg had been. And his cock. Shit, not going there. He patted that back firmly. Terrebone pushed off from the wall and watched the tableau with what looked like a slightly amused expression. How much did he know?

  The billionaire walked into the room. “I must say, Mister…Mac, is it?… this is a most extraordinary arrival.” Trelain pulled back from the hug, but stayed sitting beside Mac on the chair. The billionaire gestured toward the dancer. “I think you will find that Trelain is only as, shall we say, scathed as he wants to be. He is not being held in chains, nor have I given him false impressions of my intentions, which are, amazingly, somewhat honorable. So, why don’t you stay to dinner?”

  * * *

  After excusing himself from his cozy gathering, Daniel hid out in the office and stared at the computer. He’d done a quick search on the man now sitting in his family room with his lover, drinking his wine. Quite a history. The guy was only twenty-seven. Looked older, but Daniel figured a bunch of trips to Afghanistan, Iraq, and Somalia could have that effect on a man. Really eclectic reporting. Everything seemed to interest him. Government scandals, murders, and theft—hmm. He’d even written a really good review of the ballet’s current performance of Spectre of the Rose.

  Maybe that was how he’d met Trelain. Or maybe that was why he got the interview to begin with. Hell, he had figured they had to be lovers. Who else would come racing to the rescue but someone deeply attached? Daniel fought back a wave of jealousy so intense, it blinded him for a second. Startled him too. That kind of emotion never got you anywhere, and he seldom felt it. Obviously, Trelain was different. Strangely, his investigation so far showed no evidence that this man, Mac, was gay. No male partners at all. Not even any rumors. Odd.

  He could understand what Trelain saw in the reporter. Under that scruffy styling, or lack thereof, the man was good-looking and wildly magnetic. Compelling, really. But if he wasn’t gay, why the hell was he here?

  A soft bong announced an e-mail. Daniel clicked. So Von Berg said publicly he saw no connection between Daniel and the missing Golden Dancer, but he was trying like hell to find evidence. Daniel smiled. The old bastard believed Daniel had the statue. Well, if that was the case, let him prove it.

  * * *

  When he got back to the living room from his office, Trelain had returned to his seat on the couch. The two men were conducting an interview for this much-heralded profile they were doing for MacAllister’s news site. Much-heralded fairy tale, in Daniel’s opinion. Literally. If ever a man needed an excuse to be with another man, it was MacKenzie MacAllister. The man was as straight as a dog’s hind leg and clearly had a passion for Trelain.

  Now, Daniel sipped his cappuccino and watched the interesting dynamic between the two of them being played out at his dinner table. How did Daniel feel about them? Mixed feelings, actually. He wanted Trelain—badly. But the other man had a powerful appeal too. As long as Mac clung to his image of himself as het, he was no threat to Daniel. But who knew where this little drama could lead? Trelain was powerful bait.

  “So, Mac, did you get all the information you need for your profile?” Daniel had learned quite a lot himself listening to the questions. Mac had asked Trelain about his mother, who had literally rescued the child from Russia. He’d gotten a bit more data on the reporter too. Ballet dancer parents. There was the connection.

  Mac sipped coffee. “Keep feeding me like this, and I’ll never finish the profile just so I can enjoy more dinners.” He smiled. “Actually, the most important part of the profile is the photos. My boss is crazy for those. I’ve set up a photo shoot for tomorrow and wondered if there was a chance we could do it here? I know it would be an imposition, but…”

  “Of course. I’d love to see the shoot. And with the beach and the pool, I’m sure you can get a lot of wonderful shots.”

  Mac looked into his coffee cup, probably for forgiveness, the bastard. “I, uh, wanted to apologize for assuming you were, uh…had poor intentions toward Trelain.”

  Daniel grinned. “I’m h
ardly a saintly protector, Mac.”

  The guy squirmed a little. “I know. I just mean…” The chocolate eyes finally met his own. “He explained how wonderful you’ve been to him and what a relaxing time he’s having here. I’m really sorry for jumping to the conclusion that you were just using him. I guess I feel protective toward him, uh, because my parents are such huge fans of his.”

  The guy was really self-deluded. Daniel smiled. “No apology necessary. I know my reputation isn’t stellar in the romance department, and I’m sure I’d feel just as protective of Trelain as you do, uh, if my parents were dancers.” He saw Mac glance up, startled. Good. Keep him thinking. “Since you’ll be here tomorrow anyway, why don’t you stay tonight?”

  Trelain smiled with an expression Daniel really wished wasn’t so hopeful. “Yes, Mac, stay.”

  Mac looked a little flustered. “Oh, no, thanks. I just live out in the canyon. I’ll be here early in the morning to set up.”

  Damn, he didn’t want to be jealous of this man, but he was. Shit. “Great. Before you leave, why don’t we have some brandy on the terrace?” He ushered the two men, one so tall and gangly, the other grace personified, out through the great room to the open doors of the terrace. The late May weather hadn’t turned to southern California’s famous June gloom, and the space heaters kept the outdoor seating comfortable. He looked up at the stars. This had to be one of the oddest little dramas in a highly entertaining life. How would it play out?

  Chapter Nine

  Mac drove back up the PCH toward Broadway, which would take him out to the canyon. He had to settle down and think. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this confused, if you didn’t count the whole fucking last week. The Russian messed him up. There was no way to escape that simple fact. And now the introduction of his nemesis into the mix really got him going.

  The fact was, being at Terrebone’s place tomorrow gave him an amazing opportunity to dig a little into the theft of the Golden Dancer. He’d considered it tonight, of course, but the wildness of his thoughts and the satisfaction of his stomach made him tongue-tied on the subject. Some fucking reporter he was. When had he ever shied from doing his job? These men were scrambling his priorities.