by Clare London
He looked around him, trying not to cough from the dust on top of the filing cabinets. The legal practice was a well-established one in the city, and he had no reason to believe they couldn’t do the job that was needed, but their office was a perfect study of faded elegance: a building that had been built for more glorious use but was now cluttered with cheap office furniture, shiny carpet, and mismatched drapes. Miles’ chair had a painfully sagging seat, and there was an unpleasant background smell of something cooked at least three mealtimes ago. He glared at the man opposite him, almost cowering behind his desk, and wondered where the hell the thousand-dollars-an-hour billable rate was spent.
Apparently—the vendor’s lawyer was stuttering—there was some trouble at the gallery property that the Winter Corporation was purchasing. There’d been a break-in.
“Must have used a teaspoon,” muttered a third man, slumped in a chair on the other side of the room from Miles. “Must have taken all of twenty seconds to crack those state-of-the-art locks.”
Miles swiveled around to look at the speaker. The man was tall and lean, and his legs were folded awkwardly around the legs of his own chair. His hair was a mess of tousled dark curls, caught at the back of his neck in some kind of elastic. Even then, some of it had slipped free, clinging to his slim neck. He was scowling, but Miles couldn’t fail to see how striking he was, even through the bad temper. A long, straight nose, thick lips, and wickedly sharp eyes. He looked fit, though his body was restless, as if coiled around some internal energy source, his muscular arms folded tightly across a broad chest. A confrontational stance. His clothes looked as if they came from a thrift shop, but Miles admitted grudgingly to himself that he brought a personal style to them that even Remy and her designers would be envious of. He stared at the man for a long moment, knowing he could usually assess a character within a very short while. In this case, he found himself still staring even after he reckoned he knew who he was dealing with. The realization made him rather uncomfortable.
This was, of course, Zeke Roswell, the owner of the property that had just been sold to Miles, as witnessed by his careful—and Roswell’s messy—signature. The owner of a reputation for rudeness and aggressive harassment; the owner of a dwindling collection of once-lauded paintings. The owner of, apparently, a debt the size of Miles’ apartment block.
There were many stories about Zeke Roswell, sprung up over the past few years of his checkered life. And about his older brother, the late Jacky Roswell. Miles didn’t see any reason to let the other man know how much he, Miles Winter, knew about his life. After all, the information had only been gathered in order to facilitate this deal. A specific, one-off deal.
“Is the problem dealt with now?” He directed his question back to Roswell’s lawyer. “Was anything taken or damaged in the burglary?” He ignored the deliberate snort from Roswell himself.
“There was nothing taken, that we know,” said the lawyer slowly. He flushed. Miles bit back a sigh of frustration. He often inspired that reaction from people he stared at.
“Jack shit to take,” announced Zeke, almost cheerfully. His voice was loud in the hushed, paper-crammed office, rich in tone and absurdly melodramatic. “That’s what you mean, don’t you? The gallery was stripped out months ago by the loan jackals. Nowadays, my apartment boasts the sumptuous total of three of my unsellable paintings, a microwave, and an exclusive collection of beer-bottle tops. Oh, and there were probably some empty pizza boxes there last night. I ate before I went out to—ah—celebrate my new, homeless status. Then I stayed at a friend’s overnight. You want to check my alibi? Want to check whether I even knew the name of this one? I don’t usually bother asking if it’s someone new. Haven’t you heard?”
Miles’ lawyer was sitting on the other side of his client in what was probably an equally uncomfortable chair. He stared in shock at Zeke Roswell’s outburst, his mouth bobbing like a goldfish’s. Zeke’s lawyer also briefly closed his eyes. His expression was resigned; Miles suspected the man was probably used to this sort of scene, having apparently worked for the Roswells since the boys’ parents died in an accident. From everything Miles had heard, Jacky Roswell had been smart enough, but never reliable; he’d been difficult to deal with. And Zeke Roswell? Miles suspected he was just damned impossible.
Miles shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position and failing. He nodded curtly to Zeke, acknowledging him. “Mr. Roswell. I’ve seen your work.”
Zeke Roswell flashed him a look of pure hostility. “So whoop-de-doo. Bet that enriched your day, Mr. Winter.”
Miles paused for a moment, examining the strange vibrations that Zeke’s hostility seemed to provoke in him. There was never any excuse for rudeness, of course, even if the negotiations were hostile. In fact, civility could so often be a weapon or a defense in itself. He drew himself up to reply, not without noticing the shudder of nervous anticipation through his lawyer’s frame. “I see. I understand that you don’t wish to talk about your work. Or your lack of it, in recent months.”
Zeke flinched.
Miles continued. “I merely wished to ask what your personal plans were now that we’ve exchanged contracts. I’m aware that the gallery is also your apartment, and I have no particular plans for the living quarters, so they are still available. I know they include a studio room. Will you wish to paint, yourself?”
“Paint myself? Like greasepaint, you mean?” said Zeke insolently, deliberately misunderstanding. “This place may stink of a circus, but I’m not joining up just yet.”
The lawyers winced at the harsh words. Miles wondered at the reasons for such aggression, but he was unfazed. “It was a straightforward enough question, Mr. Roswell, whether you are currently pursuing your artistic ambitions or not. The offer is still there, tenancy of the studio apartment. I sent the terms to your lawyers.”
Zeke’s lawyer coughed in the background. “You’ll remember that letter, Zeke. What you said when I read it to you. What you did with it….” He winced again. Miles had a strange desire to smile. From the look on the lawyer’s face, whatever Roswell had done was probably considered a crime in some states.
Zeke scowled even further, his gaze still on Miles. “You’re not interested in my welfare, Winter. I’m just an investment. Right?”
Without raising the volume, Miles let a sharp edge creep into his voice. “Your building is the investment, Mr. Roswell. You would merely be the tenant. You are correct about the negligible level of my interest in you. Right?”
There was a shocked silence. The lawyers exchanged glances across the room, not bothering to hide their concern from their clients. Papers were shuffled nervously.
Zeke recovered himself well, Miles noticed. Six months of sinking, socially, from enfant terrible to embarrassing acquaintance had probably prepared him for such snubs. “Sure. Whatever. Guess I’ve got to live somewhere. At least until I find something better.”
For a moment, Miles and his contract partner glared at each other. There was apparently no one else in the room, as far as Zeke Roswell was concerned.
“All done, then?” Zeke said abruptly. “I can unpack my toothbrush, and Mr. Winter can expand his empire unchecked.” He rose to his feet in a slightly shocking rush of limbs and barely controlled emotion. Miles couldn’t tell exactly what emotion it was, but then he’d never pursued empathy where people’s private lives were concerned. And he was certainly not interested in Zeke Roswell’s.
So he didn’t know what possessed him to speak again to the man. “You’re no friend to yourself, are you, Mr. Roswell?”
Surprisingly, Zeke laughed aloud. “Like it’s of any interest to you, Winter. But you aren’t the first to say it. Maybe I wasn’t looking for a friend—the same way you weren’t looking for a tenant—when this whole project started.”
Miles stared at him, wondering what he meant. The mixture of hostility and anxiety in the other man’s expressive eyes confused him. Zeke’s lawyer half-rose from his seat, his hand clutching
his client’s copy of the signed agreement, which was obviously being completely ignored. Miles’ lawyer coughed discreetly, suggesting they should also leave, but Miles held out a hand to quiet him.
Zeke paused at the doorway. He leaned against the frame, and his legs bent slightly as if he were having trouble staying upright. Miles’ eyes were drawn to tight black jeans, creasing up around Zeke’s knees; the slim band of naked skin showing above his waistband, where an ill-fitting shirt threatened to ride up over his belly.
“So, Mr. Winter, you say you know my work?”
“Yes.” Miles nodded. “I have two of your paintings.” He didn’t state it as either a boast or a challenge. Just a fact.
“Right,” drawled Zeke. A look of surprise darted across his features, but he settled quickly back to his previous cynicism. “They were a recommended investment once, eh? Let me guess which ones….”
He obviously expected Miles to protest, to be embarrassed at such a childish party game. Neither happened. Miles just continued to stare at him.
Zeke narrowed his eyes. “It was 4:0615 and 4:TXTS.”
Miles felt the tremor of excitement through him. How long had it been since someone had surprised him like that? “4:0615—yes. You couldn’t have known that, as I bought through an agent. You’re more perceptive than I imagined.”
“Nah.” Zeke grinned as if he hadn’t just been insulted, albeit indirectly, and as if he’d momentarily forgotten his hostility toward Miles and all he stood for. “It fits your profile. 4:0615 for a smart new day. Rich yuppie equals modern abstract painting. What every condo needs on its bathroom wall. Goes with the chrome fittings and the Jacuzzi. And 4:TXTS? For those who substitute real life with new, electronic gadgets….”
“No,” interrupted Miles. He took some satisfaction in seeing Roswell bite back his smug words. “I have 4:DRMS, actually.”
Zeke sucked in a breath sharply. He looked stunned.
The Roswell lawyer glanced quickly between the two men, maybe worrying that the verbal hostility might develop into something even less civilized. “Excuse my client, Mr. Winter. That was, I believe, the last thing he painted, before… before the tragic accident with his brother. It has distressing memories for him, as a result.”
“Excuse my ass,” muttered Zeke. His gaze was fixed on Miles, his eyes almost feverish. “It’s full of violence. Didn’t you feel that?” He looked shocked, as if Miles shouldn’t have known about the painting, let alone bought it. There was curiosity there too. “The colors disturbed even me. It sort of took me over… I was never sure how I felt about it. Christ, the schemes were just plain crass. I was fucking amazed when somebody bought it, to tell you the truth.”
Miles couldn’t tear his gaze away from Roswell’s bright, angry eyes. The man seemed to have no care for how he appeared to strangers. And he spoke so openly, so fiercely. “Mr. Roswell, I will apologize if what I’ve said….”
Zeke interrupted him, rudely. “What sort of weird collector are you, Winter? I can’t see it fitting on any of your apartment’s oh-so-understated wallpapers.”
Miles kept his voice both low and emotionless. “I’m color-blind, Mr. Roswell.”
“Huh?”
Miles tried not to bite his lip with frustration, though he disliked talking personally about himself like this. “I chose it for the very violence that you say disturbed you. I chose it for its movement. I thought that it illustrated turmoil far more clearly than any mixture of shades or dyes. Which, of course, I would never have appreciated.”
The room was silent for several seconds, the air charged with tension.
Then, “Fuck that,” said Zeke Roswell, though he sounded more surprised than belligerent. His lawyer made a small, whimpering sound.
Miles stood abruptly, staring back at the astonished artist. He needed to be away from here; he was startled at how strongly he felt that response. “Of course, I need hardly say that you have no idea how I’ve decorated my apartment, so your assumptions may well have been offensive. However, I also assume that fact doesn’t disturb you. I’ll send an engineer around to fix your broken lock this afternoon and to collect the first month’s rent. Good day, Mr. Roswell.”
Chapter 2
ZEKE Roswell stood in the middle of the upstairs studio, looking around. He hadn’t turned on any lights in the room, but there was a sliver of soft brightness sliding across the bare floor from the hallway. Lights from the street also winked in the evening darkness, glinting through the glass of the wide studio window. It all dappled the room with weird, looping shadows. Sometimes they shivered, breaking then reassembling, but Zeke knew it was only from the movement of cars outside in the city. There was no other distraction in the studio; he was alone, and had been for several hours. The building was now secure, the broken lock fixed following the break-in. The decorators were due to move into the gallery tomorrow, and the whole place was going to be renovated.
And he was still here.
He had three rooms on this floor: a bedroom with a small attached bathroom, a kitchen/dinette, and the whole front of the apartment given up to the studio. When the gallery first opened, he’d painted here all the time. He’d spread canvas after canvas against the walls; mixed colors he’d only ever dreamed of; drawn bolder strokes than he’d ever dared to before. He’d been accompanied by the sharp blaze of early morning light in spring, and the dim, misty fog in winter. Slept there, too, drowsing while the sun sank under the horizon and the lights of the city at night blinked into life.
The distant sound of a siren wailed through the traffic, down at ground level.
Zeke’s throat constricted painfully. Everything around him then had been full of inspiration. Everything had been loaded with promise and the excitement of anticipation. Colors weren’t bright enough for him, the hours in a day were too short for him to get it all down on canvas. His words spilled from his mouth like bubbles and his hands were never still.
And Jacky had been alive then.
The memory teased at Zeke, bringing an unbidden smile. He’d sweated and argued and begged for this building. Jacky was an established success with his own house and studio, when he offered to help Zeke get somewhere, to set him up in an apartment. Zeke remembered poring over different sets of details with Jacky. He’d been the one to point out the potential of this place, as soon as he’d seen it. He’d been beside himself with excitement. He was going to be his own master; he was going to be known for his own work! No longer just the kid brother of the famous Jacky Roswell.
Jacky had laughed sometimes at Zeke’s painting. Oh, he was proud of him, or so he sometimes—grudgingly—said. But the style was very different from his own, and Zeke was still very young, in both age and experience. Only later had Zeke suspected that he probably cramped Jacky’s lifestyle. It was in Jacky’s interest as well, to have Zeke move out; Jacky had a pretty complicated private life at times. There’d only been five years between them, and there were so many ways that they were similar in temperament: but in all the worst ways. There were days they argued all the time.
“This is the place,” Zeke had said, just after they’d been sent the details of the gallery. He’d watched Jacky’s eyes glaze over. “Hey, brother, you listening? Just let me look at it. I’ll be out of your way then, right?”
He couldn’t move in fast enough.
And for the first few months, all had gone really well. The gallery had opened in a burst of glamour and publicity. He’d sold seven paintings that night alone. Come to think of it, he thought that one of them might have been 4:0615. He’d enjoyed a couple of delicious dates with that cute little girl he met. He’d given a couple of fluffy interviews and even been on TV. He was starting to consider taking on an assistant, to handle the administration of his business. He was discussing a series of murals with one of the city institutions.
He’d been on a high that had colored his whole life.
Then things had started to be a struggle. He had no idea, really, of how to run
a commercial business. He admitted that now to himself, in the dark hours of his solitary nights. He’d been too young, too inexperienced. Too desperate to be painting, not managing a gallery. His friends—and Jacky’s—had still patronized him. He loved to paint and he’d lived well. Too well, of course. He’d ignored the tedious letters from his sponsors and the banks. He’d ignored most of the issues that weren’t related to his art.
It had taken a frighteningly short period of time for both the glamour and the assets to start vanishing. Just a couple more months, that was all. Maybe it had been in the cards for longer than that. But it had started slipping away, so quickly that he never saw it leave any trail. By the time he began to wise up, the rot had set in.
Zeke stood in the studio room that had been his pride and joy, and he stared at his stark reflection in the window. He remembered how he’d painted from that view only six months ago, when Jacky was still alive, when there was still a glittering potential ahead of him. The clouds had been low that day, the day he started. Shadows of the city buildings loomed across the window. He’d mixed and thickened and layered the colors on his makeshift palette, and then just painted how he felt. All through the day and night. He remembered how it had felt, then—the strangeness of that painting, and how it was always going to be unique to him. Of course, he had no idea then how things would be over the next few months. But it had disturbed him, even then—a brooding storm in his very mind, not just the sky outside.
Must have been an omen. Later, with hindsight, that’s what he thought.
That day’s work had created the painting 4:DRMS. It had been the last time he’d used color so wildly, and the last picture that had sold. God knows how it had ended up in Winter’s hands. Zeke couldn’t even remember the name of his agent from those days, the man had skipped town so swiftly when things started to go wrong. It had been the last time he’d thrown himself so deeply into that maelstrom of obsession and creativity. He’d dreamt vividly for days—never knew which came first, the painting or the troubled nights—and they’d fed off each other. Nothing else he’d ever done had compared with it, for pure, raw, emotional impact. Almost as if he’d known what was going to happen in his life….
