by Clare London
“His stuff was great,” he said. Miles glanced at him, maybe surprised to hear Red’s almost awed tone. “A lyrical, ethereal style. Rather more fragile than the man himself, of course. He painted early in his career, but later on he worked mostly in charcoal—mere sketches, really. I saw the set of four that caused such a stir at the time of his death. The ‘Family’ sketches, they called them in the tabloids. Dammit, if Father hadn’t tied up so much of my inheritance in long-term funds, I’d have been tempted to bid myself, for one or more.”
“Then he died. Did they have any idea what caused the fire?”
“No. A horrible accident, they concluded. They reckon most of his paintings got burned along with it all. Then the shit hit the fan when they found he was almost bankrupt, and all his remainin’ stuff had to be sold pretty damned quickly to clear the debts.”
Miles cleared his throat and turned away slightly, as if to hide from Red’s gaze. “Did you ever see Zeke with him?”
Red stared at his friend’s tense, muscled back. He bit back a sigh. “No, hon. Never. The guy’s an enigma to me as well. Sorry if you wanted to hear somethin’ else.”
Miles shook his head sharply, as if he were trying to shake thoughts out of his mind. “I need something to relax me, Red.”
“So you’re comin’ with me after all?” Red put down his drink and stood, his heart starting to beat quickly with the anticipation of adventure. “I got the invitations for tonight. Seems like you need somethin’ hot and fast and hidden away in a dark back room. Somethin’ anonymous. Somethin’ wild….”
“Yes,” said Miles, softly.
Red looked at him for a moment, startled. He’d only been half-joking. He ran a hand through his hair. “You sure, Miles? It’s my world, really—you’re my treasured guest, of course—but I never feel you belong in quite the same way. My kind of fun isn’t goin’ to keep you happy forever, sweetheart.”
“I know that,” said Miles, sharply. “But I only need tonight, don’t I?”
Red decided it was probably sensible not to respond to that. They picked up their jackets and paused at the door of the apartment, as Red flicked fingers across his alarm keypad. Miles wasn’t meeting his eyes again. He dropped his hand away from the wall and laid it on Miles’ satin-clad arm.
“You know tonight’s club is guys only, Miles? I know you’ve enjoyed yourself before at places like this—not minded it, anyway. And I like your company, you know that. But you’re dabblin’ with Remy now, and if it’s going to freak you out in any way….”
Miles tensed up, but when he looked back at Red he was smiling and his expression was calm. “No problem, Red. I want to go. You’ve never taken me anywhere that’s offended or scared me. I enjoy going, even if I don’t always join in. I… I need to know what’s out there; I’ll never get the chance, otherwise. I need to be… somewhere else; someone else.” He frowned again. “It’s been a disconcerting time at work, that’s all. I don’t know how else to describe it.”
“You’re findin’ out what kind of man you are.” Miles’ eyes widened briefly and Red could have kicked himself for blurting it out. He’d not offend Miles for the world, but some things begged to be said, right? “We all need to do that, hon. Just seems to be takin’ you a little longer than me.”
There was a moment’s silence between them. Red let out a rueful sigh.
Then Miles sighed too, but his eyes were back to normal, the dark blue depths back under control. “So we’d better be going, then?”
Red grinned. Business as usual. Or perhaps not…? He dropped the tone of his voice, aiming for something low and rich with promise. “You look hot tonight, sweetheart, you know? You’ve always got that cool look as if you’re just a spectator, watchin’ the rest of us. It’s intriguin’. But if you were just after some passin’ relief… you know I’d be more than happy to help.”
Miles’ mouth curved around a smile. “I know. If I were interested that way.”
Red scowled. Damned man. He knew that Miles didn’t tell him everything that happened, let alone everything he felt. They often went their own way at the clubs, and then met back up at the end of the night. Red knew he always told more tales than he received back from Miles. After all, that was his idea of fun. But as a result, the other man’s sex life remained a pretty big secret.
“More than happy. Dammit, Winter, I’m not used to askin’ for it, but you know I’d make an exception for you.”
Miles looked up at him, and his eyes were warm with affection. “We covered this some years ago, De Vere, remember? When you told me that, given the word, you’d fuck me into whatever mattress we had handy, and then still talk to me in the morning. You said that was the greatest compliment you’d ever given a guy.”
Red groaned. He pulled his hand away from Miles’ arm, and pitched for a wry smile. “You know that was the vodka talkin’ that night. Though it was the truth. You know that as well.”
“But we have a friendship that’s a damned sight more important than a bed partner,” continued Miles.
“Yeah… that was your reply then, as well.” Red sighed. Not that the chance of bedding Miles Winter would spoil a friendship—not for him, anyway. He saw no conflict at all in balancing the two arrangements. He supposed he hadn’t really thought the guy would come around; though it never hurt to ask, did it?
Miles’ laughter interrupted his rueful dreams. “I’m sorry. I’m not the company I’d hoped. Perhaps I’m just distracted. It’s stress from the anticipation of tomorrow.”
“No way.” Red felt stupidly disappointed. Maybe that was what made him speak a little too harshly. “You’re damned lonely. Same as I might be, if I ever stopped to find out. Instead, I seek a collection of cute companions to pass the mood, knowin’ I’ll wake up tomorrow well and truly fucked, and damned glad of it too. Then I’ll maybe buy another couple of horses, and the world will be bright again for me. But you, Miles Winter….”
Miles’ eyes had darkened as if in anger, but Red continued recklessly.
“You fool about with this Ice Prince exterior. You keep ’em all at arm’s length, boys and girls alike. But it’s not just about acceptin’ them. It’s acceptin’ yourself too, and what you need, what you can give. Goes two ways, and you can’t keep yourself bottled up forever.”
“Enough.” Miles’ voice was terse.
Red shook his head. “We’ll have fun tonight, but these places ain’t really for you. You need somethin’ more than a fumble in a booth and a warm, expensive rum and coke.”
“And you don’t?”
Red laughed. It sounded only slightly brittle to his own ears. “That’s another thing we covered some years ago, eh? The fact that we are very different in many—critical—ways. I enjoy the single life, Miles. I enjoy the transience; the fragility of it all. The anonymity and the hot, sweaty desperation. It has a poignant thrill of its own. You might enjoy it, as well, for a while, but if you’re honest with yourself, you’ve got to face other things too.”
Miles walked past him into the corridor and down toward the elevator. Red took a moment, drawing the door shut behind them, gathering his thoughts. Then he joined Miles to wait for the car.
“You’re fascinated by him, aren’t you?”
“Who?”
Red tutted. “Oh, man, what did I just say about honesty? He’s special. I haven’t seen such a spark of interest in you since I first knew you. If I see you talkin’ about someone—lookin’ out for someone—shakin’ like a cocktail whenever his name’s mentioned… well, what am I supposed to think?”
Miles was rather flushed, but his voice was steely. “That’s enough, Red. Enough ridiculous, romantic nonsense. Special? I don’t believe in that, don’t have time for that.”
“So find time, Miles.” Red knew his voice snapped. The elevator arrived, pinging its presence behind their conversation. “Find time for yourself. Or it’s goin’ to pass you by, and you and me will be dancin’ around this place in wheelchairs one day. I�
��ve given up lookin’ for myself—but I won’t give up for you as well.”
Their mood eased on the ride down to the lobby. Miles was keen to talk about the night ahead, and somewhere new. Red replied, and joked, and was thinking of something quite different.
He was thinking of how Miles had so neatly sidestepped his offer tonight, without ever actually confirming whether he was tempted or not; whether he was drawn to men or women. Or both. Or just the damned portfolio prices…. Red frowned to himself, frustrated. He was looking forward to meeting Zeke Roswell at the opening the following night. He was excited at the thought of what might be in store—for both of them.
He was also wondering what kind of person would finally get Miles Winter; not just in the sense of bed and board, but the person who’d get his commitment and his fascination and his love.
Red De Vere thought that that would be a fabulous thing to behold.
Chapter 4
IT was the following night, around seven p.m., and the first car was arriving at the gallery. There were cabs hooting their way across the crowded road, as other early guests were looking for parking spaces, or friends to meet up with. Malia Trent stood at the open door, a tray of champagne drinks beside her. Her pale face was flushed, and there were unfamiliar creases at the side of her mouth, as if she’d been smiling too much lately. Her slim frame was shaking gently with anticipation inside her close-fitting cream silk suit; she was unusually unsteady in her high, strappy heels. Tony and some of the other assistants were on hand to help her greet the guests, and the press was already in place in the lobby area, ready to catch photos of the early arrivals. The whole atmosphere was one of tense, barely suppressed excitement.
At the back of the gallery, Miles Winter and Zeke Roswell stood together, and yet… so obviously not.
ZEKE had dressed more formally for the night than his usual casual wear. He had Carter to thank for it; he’d found Zeke a pair of hip-hugging, raw silk black pants, and a matching Nehru jacket. It allowed him to wear one of his glaringly colored shirts—tonight it was a vibrant orange—but the suit was supposed to make him look respectable enough for an opening. Carter had approved of the look. Well, he’d stepped back after Zeke had changed, and let out a low whistle.
He could have been joking, Zeke thought cynically. But he’d been absurdly pleased at the time. He didn’t often bother about his looks nowadays. He wanted to make the effort for the show, though.
And he expected Miles Winter to feel appropriately grateful.
MILES was feeling many things, all of which were far from gratitude, though he had in fact registered Zeke’s new look.
He should button up the damned jacket. He was trying to talk to the artist without gazing at the sheer fabric of the shirt, but it was difficult. The color didn’t bother him, for it was just another shade of green-gray as far as he was concerned. But what the hell was it made of? It looked almost transparent. When the jacket shifted on Zeke’s shoulders, Miles thought he glimpsed a flash of Zeke’s nipple underneath. He felt the tightness in his belly again.
It was suspiciously like physical stimulation.
ZEKE glared at Miles, ready for whatever challenge was on offer. Miles wore one of his usual, perfectly cut business suits. His hair looked like it’d been trimmed recently, but he’d just run a hand through it, and it had somehow developed an interest in lying awkwardly across his head. It was such thick, dark hair—Zeke couldn’t help but look at the mismatched parting. He knew it’d be soft, if he ran his own hand through it. He swallowed the unwelcome thought, feeling like a hobo in the face of Miles’ elegance. The other man’s shirt was immaculately pressed and buttoned up tight to his throat; he wore a deep purple silk tie, which inexplicably drew Zeke’s eye. Or maybe it wasn’t the tie; maybe it was the slim, elegant throat.
Maybe, thought Zeke fiercely, it was time to stop drooling over his boss’s physical attributes and concentrate on what might be the most important night of his life.
RED De Vere arrived at the same time as the first flurry of guests, a little earlier than he’d planned. For Miles’ moral support, right? As he wriggled his way in, there were some flashes from cameras; some loud greetings. He’d had his fair share of exposure in the press, though he was by no means an important player in the art world. Then the first guests turned, clutching their drinks and canapés, to view the gallery itself. A sudden hush fell over the room.
Red wheeled around where he stood, temporarily pressed against the doorway, and looked appraisingly down the length of the gallery. What he saw made him catch his breath with amazement. Then he ignored the mewling voices and grunts of surprise, and his eyes sought out Miles himself.
He saw them at the end of the room, Miles and another young man. It was obviously Zeke Roswell. Red’s eyes ran over him appreciatively. He’d have known that was Zeke, the infamous artist, even before he saw the unruly curls and the tightly set shoulders and the glare in the bright blue eyes. Somethin’ about that guy….
The two men looked close together; they might have been friends. Or something more. Red felt a warmth that confused him slightly. Then he looked more closely and sighed aloud.
It looked a damned sight more like a standoff.
“BUT what possessed you to think you could fit this many pictures in such a space—with all the guests as well?” snapped Miles. “I passed the selections to you to choose the best, not to hang the whole damned lot.”
“You’re pissed with it—so you change it,” Zeke snarled back. “Either I’m the artistic director or you are. What’s it to be?”
“Shit,” groaned Miles. He looked back up along the gallery toward the front entrance. Peering around the mismatched multitude of exhibits, all he could see were glimpses of people arriving. Lots of them, all coming to see this.
Miles had never seen such a display. Zeke had re-commissioned the ceiling hangings, managing to hang twice the number of pictures that Miles had intended. The presentation wall was filled with a trail of paintings whose connection Miles couldn’t fathom at all. There was no pattern to the size of canvas or frame anywhere; the largest abstract paintings were mixed in with the smaller portraits. Guests were going to have to bend and lean around everything. They were going to have to be looking all ways at once, including up at the ceiling. To him, it all looked an impossible, awkward, unattractive mess.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to do this?”
“Why do you think?” growled Zeke. His expression was a strange mixture of trepidation and fury. “Because you’d go ballistic and want to stop me. Just like you are now.”
“But now it’s too late to stop you. You think I shouldn’t be upset at this? You’re uncontrollable. And untrustworthy, self-destructive, and damned secretive—”
“Yeah? And you’re an anally repressed freak who wouldn’t know great art if it grew a dick and poked it in your color-blind eye. So just get your head out of your painfully tight ass and let’s speak our minds, okay?”
Red appeared swiftly at Miles’ elbow and put a hand on his arm. It was like a restraint. His voice was low and sounded teasing, but Miles knew his friend well enough to hear the steel in the soft tone. Red very rarely used it.
“Hon, there are some damned high-profile people just arrivin’ who don’t have much interest in your dirty laundry, you know? You guys need to keep your voices down a notch or two, or take this conversation someplace else. Mr. Roswell—isn’t it?—I just wanted to congratulate you before the rank and file sweep you away from me on their shoulders. It’s a splendid display, a damned bold one too. Not that this town ain’t ready to be shaken from its cultural complacency.”
Miles stared at his friend. “What the hell are you talking about, Red?”
“Stand back, Miles,” the blond man said, simply. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d have any problem with that.”
Miles flushed. “You mean I can’t see the colors—”
“I know you can’t see them all,” murmured
Red. He gripped Miles’ arm more tightly, as if he was willing him to understand. “You won’t appreciate, perhaps, the theme of gold, green, and amber that runs the whole length of that damned fine wall. It carries through the most astonishing combination of art: modern portraiture, and more traditional scenes, and just plain simple abstract experimentation. All of it, reflecting and enhancing each other through the colors. I’m talking about the effect, though, hon—and I know you can see that. I know you can appreciate that. The depth and the width of art; the stepped effect of the paintings on both floor and ceiling; the emotional and sensual hurricane that’s running through what might have been more like a sterile doctor’s waiting room if it’d been left to your minimalist taste.”
Miles stared at his friend, stunned into silence. Beside him, even Zeke’s mouth had dropped slightly open, his angry words dried up.
“See the effect. Stand back….” Red turned him gently, twisting his body so that he looked back down the gallery. “Look again, Miles. With a fresh eye.” Then Red turned his gaze back to Zeke and winked at him. “Am I right, then, Mr. Roswell? Is that your vision?”
“Zeke. Call me Zeke,” said Zeke, his voice flat with obviously similar shock. “Yeah, you got it. More or less. That phrase, man… that ‘emotional and sensual hurricane’….”
“Yes, it’s rather good, eh?” Red nodded, looking pleased with himself. “I may just go and murmur that into the ear of that cute little assistant editor from Art and Artists, and that’s as good a pick-up line as I’ll ever find. Haven’t had a taste of that sweet little ass since—”
“Red,” interrupted Miles, sharply. But his eyes were on the gallery. On the length and breadth of the paintings; on the erratic, yet stimulating arrangements of wood and canvas and paint. Red was right; he couldn’t see the shades of color, but now that he stood back and freed his heart and head from his anger and disappointment, he could see the skill, and the controlled chaos in the room. He could see creativity and talent here. He could see how Zeke’s mind may have worked.
