by Clare London
“Thought I’d mark the occasion,” murmured Zeke. “But I guess you’ll want me to pay for the cleaning, since it was from my come.”
Miles was proud of himself, holding back the sudden, violent flush that threatened to suffuse his whole body. “You can come any time you like,” he said, quickly and passionately. “I don’t want any of it cleaned away.”
Zeke flushed too, grinning wickedly. “Going to jump your bones, Miles Winter, if you don’t watch what you say to me. Right here and now.”
Miles smiled and looked back at the picture. He was still entranced by it. “But you didn’t have to do this for the show, Zeke. To start working again—to produce a new picture from Zeke Roswell after so long away. It’s a hell of a commitment. You could have shown 4:DRMS instead. You told me once that your art could be pure torture….”
Zeke grimaced. “Yeah, hard labor, right? Guess I made rather a meal of that at the time. This wasn’t like that.” He sighed, gently. “You’ve sort of missed the point, man. This was… guess you’d call it….”
Miles stared at him. Was Zeke afraid of his own words? Afraid to give them to Miles? He slid his hand under Zeke’s elbow and held him tightly.
Zeke sighed again. “It was a labor of love, Miles. It’s for you. Not for the gallery—not for the show. For you alone. Something you can show wherever you want.” His eyes flickered with nervous emotion. “Something you can be open about.”
Miles wanted to reply but never got a word out. Zeke put a hand to Miles’ cheek, turning his head around to face him. Miles had barely enough time to start another smile before Zeke leaned forward and pressed his lips onto his. Miles gasped once, and then opened his mouth with instinctive pleasure to accept the tentative tip of Zeke’s tongue.
He sighed, deeply. The desire soaked him like a sudden sweat; the taste of Zeke’s mouth was hot and unmistakably gorgeous. He sucked lightly on Zeke’s tongue, and thrust his own in against it, eager and bold. He thought he heard himself groan aloud.
The knot of people closest to them fell into shocked silence as they watched the two men embrace. A woman gasped. Another man hissed encouragement. They stood together, Zeke grasping Miles’ arms and tilting his head so that they fit all the more easily against each other’s mouth. Miles slid his arms around Zeke’s waist and pulled him closer. To his delight, Zeke growled hungrily, his lips more forceful in response.
“Yes,” Zeke whispered, in reply to a question that Miles hadn’t yet formed. “More.”
And as Miles obliged, the kiss grew longer and deeper.
RED stood amongst the astonished spectators. When he saw Miles’ hand slip confidently around Zeke and the two bodies move closer together to kiss, he grinned. About damned time too.
“Okay, folks. Let’s move along, shall we?” He pushed firmly through the crowd of people, guiding them away from the two men. “Tonight’s entertainment’s on the walls, you know, not sproutin’ out of the top of these gentlemen’s boots.” He could see that Miles and Zeke were oblivious to anyone around them, so he turned swiftly, putting himself between the couple and the rest of the milling room. He met the shock of the approaching sponsor with a look of challenge; he knew which one of them would prevail. Malia stood by the screen, mouth wide open. Beside her, Tony was grinning. He looked as surprised as anyone else, but his mischievous eyes showed he was enjoying the spectacle.
As people moved away, albeit reluctantly, Red saw one of the younger male journalists still staring at the two entwined men. He was rather flushed and totally fascinated. Red had seen the cute little thing earlier—he was being bullied by that bitch of an arts editor. Red knew her well from other events; dammit, she understood less about art than her ass. He weighed up the kindness of nursing this naïf versus the fun of teasing him further. Then he sighed, and made the more charitable decision.
“Want an exclusive, hon?” he murmured into the startled boy’s ear. “Guess you’re lookin’ for an answer to the title of Roswell’s new picture, 4:Y. You can see it for yourself now, can’t you? I reckon it stands for For You. For Miles Winter. Go scribble that headline before your boss snaps it up instead like the predator she is.”
Chapter 11
THE exhibition was at an end—rather spectacularly for many, after the sensational sight of Zeke Roswell in a firm and obviously familiar lip-lock with Miles Winter, his patron and landlord. Journalists rushed to meet the next day’s copy. Remy and her entourage also left swiftly in a fit of pique because no photographer worth his salt was going to be looking at her now. Some of the sponsors rushed for the exit, grumbling about bad publicity and the fickleness of public opinion. Others smiled more tolerantly at the handsome young men, and took their time about leaving, admitting to themselves that publicity was never bad, however shocking. Those who had bought paintings or discussed future business with the Winter Corporation scrambled out of the building to call their head offices and consult their brokers. Red was heard to say to more than one such speculator that “the value of investments may go down as well as up” and his wickedly knowing smile made many suspicious that it wasn’t the NASDAQ he was talking about.
The after-show party would go ahead, of course, regardless of any scandal or shock. Red stood beside Malia at the door to “remind” departing souls of the party, and to shake his head ruefully in response to inquiries as to whether Miles would be there; whether Zeke was painting again regularly; whether the “newly discovered” couple would be announcing their private plans and intentions at that time.
Red tried not to snap the heads off the people who were being so intrusive, asking such ludicrous things. Wouldn’t he have adored such a scene if it were anyone other than his own friends involved? Instead, he savored the immense satisfaction of seeing the establishment so disturbed. He had to swallow an almost irresistible desire to create some copy of his own, just to keep the worst press vultures occupied. Maybe tell the editors of the city papers that Miles and Zeke were the love children of a past president and a spandex-clad punk rock chick, and would be consummating their forbidden love in Times Square on New Year’s Eve to the accompaniment of a symphonic orchestra and a flight of blue doves….
He knew he probably didn’t need to. The gossip preceded them already.
ZEKE eventually pulled away from Miles, only to see all the guests being shepherded out, and his friends attempting to minimize both shock and reputational damage. And Tony, still grinning. With a rueful grin of his own, Zeke offered to help with the clearing up while Miles organized the closure of the show with Malia. Carter helped them, too, collecting up the discarded catalogs, and insisting he be told if he was getting in people’s way, rather than being useful.
Zeke stopped anyone touching the exhibits. He and Miles agreed to leave most of the fittings in the gallery tonight and let the removal firm take them down tomorrow. Many of the paintings would remain in place, protected by dust sheets, although a few of the more famous and exclusive items had already been reclaimed by their owners. The people remaining at the gallery were exhausted, and still buzzing with excitement. Malia, Tony, and their assistants were almost itching to get to the celebrations. There would be plenty of time the next day to deal with the practicalities.
Zeke caught sight of Carter standing by the Perspex screen, the crumpled cover of a discarded catalog in his hand. He looked lost for a moment, his eyes following Red as the blond man did his own share of helping and joking around the room. Zeke felt a sharp, poignant ache in his heart. He’d not seen that look in Carter’s eyes since Jacky died. Even before then, it had never been that fierce. Had Carter changed so much? Or was it him, Zeke, who saw things differently now?
He went over, and Carter turned to smile at him. “Aren’t you leaving for the party soon, Zeke?”
“Nah. Miles ‘n’ me… we think it’s best we don’t go. Caused enough of a stir tonight, eh? Don’t really want to, to tell you the truth. It’s not my scene nowadays.” Miles ‘n’ me…. Zeke shivered inside at the
affection that inspired.
Carter’s voice was low and a little hesitant. “Jacky would have loved it, Zeke—your picture.”
Zeke grimaced. “He’d have said it was crap.”
Carter laughed. “Maybe. But he’d have said it was fucking talented crap.” The words sounded quite shocking in Carter’s steady tone. “That’s what he said about all your work.”
“What?”
“He loved it, loved your work. He loved you. He was jealous of your style, Zeke, your boldness.”
“Never said anything… he laughed….” Zeke struggled with disbelief, with old-remembered hurt.
“I know.” Carter sighed. “Jacky laughed at a lot of things he shouldn’t have. But he told me all about it, privately. Every time you painted anything at all, he told me you were sharp and bright and he was damned proud of you. Wished he had the feel for color that you did. And then he’d tell me not to breathe a word to you, or your head would get so fucking big you’d be even more insufferable.”
“Shit,” breathed Zeke, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “That sure sounds like Jacky. Guess I’d better believe you.”
“Jacky wasn’t good at understanding other people’s needs. At encouraging; at nurturing. Everyone needs that, eh?” Carter touched his arm. “I don’t care I’m breaking his confidence now; I should have done it a long time ago, maybe. But you were just as bad, Zeke. You’d never listen to him, never hear his feelings under your damned arguments.”
Zeke was astonished at the whole conversation, at Carter’s frankness. “Guess there’s some truth in all of that, Carter. Maybe Jacky did love my pictures, but he was also right about me and my colors. I used them to hide things, as well as display. Went for the shock value, rather than finding the real subject and putting my talent into that. Colors served me one way—and they betrayed me another.”
Zeke noticed Red turn around at the opposite side of the gallery and look over at them. Zeke hid his smile. He and Miles had quickly noticed that, although all the guests had gone, neither of their best friends looked like they were in a rush to leave the gallery. Zeke had shrugged and murmured privately to Miles that it was because Carter and Red were aiming for some hot sex later on, stretched over the beech wood catalog table. Then he laughed at the startled look on Miles’ face, and confessed that was more fantasy than fact. But secretly, he wasn’t discouraged from that vision, especially when Carter offered to lock up the gallery when they finished for the night, so that Zeke and Miles could rest after their exhausting day. Red supported Carter, pretending that the assistant editor he once coveted had taken up a better offer for the evening. He wasn’t particularly convincing.
Now Zeke flicked an amused glance at the attractive blond, though he could see that Red’s eyes were on his companion. Carter must have been aware of the concentrated gaze directed at him. He seemed to be deliberately avoiding it.
“I’m learning so many things all over again, Carter,” Zeke muttered. “You think it’s like going back to school?”
“Jacky told me you spent next to no time there anyway,” said Carter, wryly.
Zeke grinned back. “So, is that more pillow talk, Carter?”
Carter raised an eyebrow and flushed lightly. “Maybe.” Miles was on his way over now, striding toward them. His jacket was discarded, his focus shifting impatiently away from Malia and Tony and their team as they finally left the gallery. His gaze was all for Zeke. Zeke’s eyes met his: dark, and excited, and full of desire for so many things.
Carter laid a hand on Zeke’s arm and tipped his head toward the dark-haired man. “Pillow talk, yeah. So go get some of your own, okay?”
THE digital clock on the office block across the road showed three a.m. and the road was silent and deserted. The sound of the gallery lock being worked open seemed to echo very loudly, but there was no one around on the street to hear it. The door gave a shudder and creaked ajar; a slim body, dressed all in dark clothing and hooded as well, slipped through the gap. The door closed swiftly behind it.
A torn page from a catalog whispered softly in the sudden draft and vanished under a shrouded table.
The figure paused, as if surprised that there was no reaction; no sound of alarm. Then it reached into a bag slung across its torso, pulling out a flashlight and a collection of other small tools. There was no light in the gallery itself. Outside in the business district, an occasional neon sign or clock was the only illumination.
There were strange shadows looping across the floor. Sections of staging and empty pallets had been packed against the walls after the exhibition; now they loomed up in the half-light like small, stunted mountains. Paintings of many shapes and sizes still hung on the walls, different versions of the same anonymous display, nothing on show but the folds of their protective coverings. Some had been taken down and were stacked in careful piles.
One of the floorboards creaked as the intruder moved toward one of the piles. Gloved hands ran swiftly over the paintings, feeling around the frames, pulling away the packaging and covers as quietly as possible.
Then a single light snapped on.
There was a sudden negative effect, and three people were thrown into sharp, black relief against the pale walls. Then everyone’s eyes adjusted, and the two figures at the back of the gallery were recognizable as Carter Davison and Red De Vere. Red had his hand on the light switch and Carter stood beside him. The solitary spotlight gave the Perspex an ethereal shine in the center of the deserted gallery.
The dark-clothed figure let out a gasp of shock. It was astonishing that the two men had been standing there so silently. They’d been effectively invisible up until now.
“The alarm has been deactivated,” said Carter. He wasn’t surprised that his voice sounded so cold in the darkness of the room. “We were expecting you.”
The intruder straightened up. It was tall, lithe, slender to the point of skinny, and still mainly in shadow. The clothes hid the figure for a moment more, but as it moved toward the men, its hand reached up and stripped the black hood from its head. Shoulder-length blonde hair swung softly against a graceful neck. Remy Dion stared warily at them.
Carter’s mouth tightened. He didn’t take his eyes off her.
“Interestin’ outfit,” murmured Red, beside him. There was no humor in his tone. “But then I understand that camouflage gear is the new black this season.”
“Am I supposed to be shocked that it’s you?” asked Carter, clearly. Remy didn’t answer. “What are you looking for, Remy? The exhibition is over, as you well know.”
“There’s nothing here for you, bitch,” growled Red. Carter held out a hand to restrain him from moving toward her.
“Miles is here,” she said, her sharp, high voice grating in the tense atmosphere. She stared at them both in challenge, her face very pale.
“He’s got no interest in you, darlin’,” said Red. “And I don’t think you’re here to pay your respects to him, are you?”
“They’re not here, Remy,” said Carter.
“They? I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetie.” Her voice sounded more confident now.
“The missing sketches,” said Carter. “The ones you’ve been seeking for months now. The ones that would make up the whole set of six and vastly increase the value of the four that have already been sold to an anonymous buyer in Hong Kong.”
“You’re talking nonsense,” she snapped, turning to stare at him. The spotlight’s reflections shimmered briefly in her eyes. “That’s nothing to do with me. You’re both mad, creeping about in the dark like this. What are you doing here yourselves?” She flashed a look of pure venom in Red’s direction. “I know this bastard De Vere, of course I do. But who the hell are you? Another of his stupid little paramours?”
Red flushed angrily, but Carter remained calm. “I’m Carter Davison. I was Jacky Roswell’s lover.”
Remy hissed in a sharp breath. Her eyes ran the length of Carter’s body, and for a second, her body tens
ed. Then she smiled—a thin, cruel shape on such a beautiful mouth. “So was I, honey.”
Carter didn’t flinch. “I know that,” he said. “Do you think he wouldn’t have told me all about his other lovers? It was part of the fun for him, part of the thrill. To tell me all about it. The way you felt in bed; the things you’d say to him. The special attentions that you’d ask for, again and again….”
Remy gasped aloud, though she tried to hide her shock with anger. “Don’t try those games on me, you pathetic bastard. You’re the one he left at home while he was playing with me.”
“Playing,” echoed Carter. “That’s your word, Remy, and that’s the truth. For that’s what it was.”
“And now what?” she said, her voice tight. Her hands were clenched at her sides. “You haven’t answered me as to what you’re doing here.”
“Perhaps we wanted to see if you’d turn up tonight. If we were right about you. Like I said, they’re not here,” repeated Carter.
Her eyes narrowed and he saw her sly expression. A greedy look that she obviously couldn’t hold back. “So where are they, then? I know there were six, and it’s a lie if anyone says different. Are you telling me everything was on display tonight? What about the rest of Miles’ collection? What about baby brother Zeke himself? Don’t expect me to believe that he wouldn’t have had some nice little souvenirs of his brother’s work, kept to himself. If they weren’t on show tonight, they must be stored somewhere….”
“And that’s what this is about, Remy, isn’t it? You’ve been searching for quite a while now. Ever since you dated Jacky. You’ve been looking for anywhere the sketches might be, anywhere connected with Zeke Roswell.”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t know where this fantasy is coming from.”
“I was pretty sure you dated Jacky Roswell at the time of his death,” Red snapped. “And I knew you were an art collector—among many other things. It wasn’t until Miles told me the whole story of how the four sketches were sold out of the estate when Jacky died that I began to wonder if there was a connection. Carter confirmed your involvement with Jacky at that time. He helped me think some things through.”
