Romancing the Wrong Twin

by Clare London

  It was always fun to spend time with Zeb. Aidan just wished this time it had been for a less disturbing reason.

  The pretty young woman who met Aidan at the door smiled warmly. “I’m Tanya, Mr. Hartington-George’s personal assistant. I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Z. I’m quite a fan.”

  “Zeb,” Aidan said, hoping he hadn’t hesitated for too long. “Please just call me Zeb. And… yes. Thanks.”

  “Come on through.” She gestured him into the hallway. “You’re on time.”

  Aidan wondered why she sounded surprised at that. He repitched his natural voice a little higher to Zeb’s teasing tone and smiled brightly in return. “Of course.”

  A sneaked look in the hallway mirror had him rolling his eyes. Mission accomplished, Zeb!

  He barely recognized himself. Usually he was most comfortable in a sweatshirt and jeans, but now he was dressed in what Zeb Z would wear on a daily basis: a pair of skintight, distressed-denim jeans with inexplicable splits across the knees; high-top boots in soft purple leather that screamed expensive yet were surprisingly comfortable; and two lightweight T-shirts under an off-the-shoulder, electric blue sweater. Admittedly the blue brought out the color of his eyes—no one ever said Zeb didn’t have a well-developed sense of personal style—but the rest of it made him look like an over-age member of a boy band.

  A younger man darted out from what must have been the living room, clutching a leather jacket to his chest as if in protection. He saw Aidan, glanced at Tanya with widening eyes, then back at Aidan. Then he thrust out his hand and said perfectly cheerily, “I’m Eric. He threatens to kill me on a daily basis.”

  Aidan just shook hands and nodded. He had no idea what to say to that, or even what it meant.

  Tanya frowned at Eric. “Whatever. We’re just going. The car will come for you at seven. In the meantime, if you’d like a drink?”

  But Eric took her arm and guided her toward the front door. “They can cope with that themselves, Tanya. Come on.”

  And Aidan was left on his own in the hallway.

  He took a deep breath to center himself. The house wasn’t huge, but it was in a very fashionable area of Ladbroke Grove and far more luxurious than his own small flat. That said, there wasn’t much furniture and the decoration wasn’t modern. The hallway walls were painted in plain, cool colors. No pictures hung on the walls, and there was only a single bureau and hat stand, albeit in quality wood. Eric had left the living room door ajar behind him, and Aidan took a quick peek inside before announcing himself. From what he could see, again the walls were plain and the furniture sparse. It was as if the owner was in the process of moving out—or had never really settled in.

  A male figure paused in front of the half-open door. He was distracted by something on the other side of the room, so Aidan got a first secret glimpse of the man he’d been told so much about.

  H-G.

  He was much more handsome in real life than on TV, though in most of the documentaries, H-G was wrapped up in furry parkas or oilskins with his face more than half hidden with a scarf and balaclava. Today he was wearing a very smart pair of dark trousers, a startlingly white dress shirt—which had to be brand-new to still have that sheen—and a well-cut suit jacket that settled comfortably across an impressive set of shoulders. H-G’s hair was a fabulous thatch of dark curls, and he had a dark beard and mustache to match. Guiltily Aidan recalled Zeb’s mischievous nickname: Hairy Guy. But that conjured up a Wild Man of Borneo kind of image, and H-G was far from that. The hair was naturally unruly but had been styled to a level just off his shoulders, and the beard was well trimmed.

  Aidan had never been attracted to hairy bears, not that he’d ever had much of a choice. As Zeb had gleefully pointed out more than once, Aidan seemed to attract needy and spiteful wankers who got off on bleeding him dry of any compassion and care. Oh, and his money too.

  Okay. Self-pity over, right now. I’m not Loser Aidan now. I’m the charismatic and disgustingly fascinating Zeb Z.

  For the first time in this bizarre performance, Aidan felt the tickle of mischief. This just might be fun after all. He pushed the door fully open, walked into the room, and cleared his throat.

  H-G turned slowly around to face Aidan fully. His gaze ranged over Aidan’s body, and his eyes widened. “Well. They didn’t lie.”

  “Who didn’t? What about?”

  H-G raised his eyebrows. “Well, firstly, they said you were a bit feisty.”

  Feisty? Aidan hadn’t heard that word outside of romance-novel blurbs.

  “And you wouldn’t be fazed by… you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. By what?” Aidan bit his lip to stop a laugh escaping.

  “My celebrity.”

  Jesus. Zeb was right. The man was one big blob of arrogance. “No,” Aidan said coolly. “I’m not.”

  “That’s from working in the business, I suppose.”

  “Business?” Oh, right, he was meant to be Zeb. “Yes, of course. When you’ve seen so many guys without the spray tan and makeup,” he gabbled without thinking first, “you soon realize they’ve got the same equipment under it all.”

  H-G blinked twice, hard. And then he laughed—a loud, bold sound, echoing warmly in the bleak room.

  Aidan wanted to laugh with him, but maintained his cool stare. “What’s so funny?” Had he blown it already? He hadn’t even left the house with the man yet.

  “They didn’t tell me you were witty, Zeb. I may call you Zeb?”

  Why? “Oh yes, right. Of course.”

  Dom’s language was quaintly old-fashioned, but Aidan found it rather charming, especially after the theatrical bickering of the Dreamweavers and his brother’s exuberant and affected chatter.

  “And secondly?” Aidan prompted.

  “I’m sorry?” H-G frowned at him.

  God, what a scowl he has. “You said they didn’t lie, and then you gave the first reason.”

  H-G raised his eyebrows. “You have a good memory.”

  Yes, he does have lovely eyes. “Yes, I do. Especially when I’m listening.”

  H-G’s mouth twisted as if he were trying not to smirk. “Secondly, they didn’t lie about your looks, and that you were even better-looking in real life. I concur. You’re bloody gorgeous.”

  Aidan wondered whom H-G was talking about. Zeb was the one who’d made a career based on his looks. Aidan made his on ignoring his own. So obviously H-G was talking about Zeb—or Aidan-as-Zeb. Aidan tugged self-consciously at the skintight jeans. His briefs felt uncomfortable between the cheeks of his arse and the hairs on his lower belly had snagged under the buttons of the fly. How the hell did Zeb manage to walk straight in these on a daily basis? “And you’re bloody blunt,” he returned smartly.

  H-G tilted his head. He was smiling openly now as if he was enjoying the banter. “I’ve never seen any reason to be otherwise.”

  H-G’s gaze didn’t make Aidan entirely comfortable. “Like what you see?” he said rather too snappily.

  But H-G just laughed again. “You’re not as androgynous as you look in the magazines either.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You look all man to me.” H-G’s eyes darkened, and for a moment his gaze grazed over Aidan’s groin area.

  Aha! “So you’ve seen me in magazines?”

  H-G flushed. “Now and then. Dentist’s waiting room, you know?”

  Aidan felt he’d scored a point there but wasn’t sure how to follow up any advantage. This was turning into an odd kind of tennis match.

  H-G cleared his throat. “Look, let’s both be frank about this, okay? I know this is just a promotional exercise. The sponsor is very committed to equality issues, and to have a gay couple approaching them is apparently a good PR thing.”

  “You’re doing this solely for the money?”

  “Not to the extent of turning gay for it, no,” H-G snapped back.

  For the first time, Aidan saw a flicker of the real emotions inside the man. “Sorry.
I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry.” H-G seemed to make a conscious effort to get his temper back under control. “I know you didn’t. It’s just one thing I never compromised on. I know who I am, what I feel, and what I like.”

  “That’s good,” Aidan said more gently. “I suppose you might have trouble with it sometimes.”

  H-G gave an angry shake of his head. “Anyone doesn’t like who I am isn’t worth being with. That’s always worked for me.”

  Apart from having to hire a date for this evening. But then, Aidan didn’t have a boyfriend either, did he? And he was the complete opposite to the aggressive H-G. Aidan didn’t keep his sexuality hidden, but he didn’t go broadcasting it around either. Unlike my outrageous twin. Could this outfit be any more obvious? The jeans squished his balls back and pushed his cock forward. The electric blue sweater had slipped off his shoulder again so that he felt like a provocative 1950s starlet, and it was itching his neck on the other side. It made his mood just as scratchy. He wondered briefly whose approach would be more successful in finding a soul mate—his, H-G’s, or Zeb’s.

  “Anyway, mustn’t forget my manners.” H-G approached him and offered his hand. “Welcome to my home.”

  Aidan laughed softly and shook it. “Many thanks.”

  “And what about you?” H-G’s voice still had a sharp edge.

  “Sorry?”

  “Have you had trouble with being gay? I suppose not, in the fashion business.”

  Aidan bit his lip. Yes, he’d had trouble. Aidan had had trouble: bullied at school, beaten up outside a bikers’ pub one night in his teens, and as an adult, a bank official had openly sneered in his face and made comments about the poor credit rating of “party-going people like him.” Aidan had lost several vacation jobs to less-qualified people, purely on the basis of their macho and/or more conservative looks. Even in his drama-school days, while playing out their early, often immature plays in the Student Union, there were occasions when audience members from the local community had seen the largely young and gay cast and walked straight back out. Did they think they’d catch something from the interval drinks? Didn’t they want something more inclusive than TV soap operas? It had made him angry at the time, but he just shut up and got on with things. Until it got to the stage of one opening night too many, and Aidan withdrew from performing altogether, except with his pen.

  He had much more control over that.

  Gradually, that was the direction he’d taken his writing: toward that inclusivity, toward familiar scenes but with different gender dynamics. Despite any discrimination he’d suffered personally—or maybe, because of it—Aidan hated categorization of any kind. He often argued with Zeb about it, but Zeb laughed off everything that got too serious or personal, whether it was political, sexual, or just what he had for breakfast. For Zeb, maybe it was denial or fear: he’d been targeted at school the same way Aidan had, but Zeb’s life nowadays seemed easy enough.

  So maybe the problem was with Aidan himself. Wasn’t that the whole bloody reason he was here today?

  He just didn’t seem able to stand up for himself in the big bad world outside.

  Chapter Eight

  “AH… Zeb? Are you still with me?”

  “Sorry?” Aidan’s attention had drifted. What had H-G asked? Oh yes, about having any trouble being gay. “No. No trouble really. Well, some.” H-G was looking at him with eyebrows raised again, as if he thought Aidan was mentally challenged. “I’m—” What was the current popular phrase? Complicated? “—actually not keen on being categorized.” First rule of lying, right? Keep it close to the truth.

  H-G looked impressed. “Good. I can identify with that. And I’m glad you’re used to dating men publicly. No point having photos taken of us canoodling when you’re grimacing every time I lick your ear.”

  Aidan gulped again. Firstly because canoodling was another of those old-fashioned words he rarely heard nowadays, and secondly because… well, he hadn’t really thought this through. “You’re going to do that?”

  H-G gave an embarrassed laugh. “I was joking. Sorry. They tell me I’m not brilliant at it.”

  Aidan had to smile. How could he resist, when the guy looked so uncomfortable? “You get a lot of that? Photographers on the heels of your private life?”

  “Try my damnedest not to, that’s why I don’t—” H-G took a deep breath. When he continued, he sounded irritated. “Let’s say I give ’em little enough to go on. It’s the stereotype. They think I’m some tough wild man, a different species. They’re always chasing interviews. A scoop, they call it, when there’s actually nothing to find out.”

  Nothing? “Right.”

  “But it’s not a fraction of the attention you get, I’d think.” Now H-G looked bemused. “You’re like the media’s favorite playboy, aren’t you?”

  Yes, Aidan thought slowly, Zeb is.

  “Anyway, do you want a drink?” H-G cast around the room as if uncertain where his own furniture was. “We’ve got an hour to kill before the car arrives. Tanya left some wine here somewhere.”

  Aidan calmly walked past him to fetch the bottle of red wine on a table by the window. Tanya had also set out two glasses and a small plate of olives and snack biscuits. Aidan poured the wine and gazed hungrily at the snacks.

  Zeb had warned Aidan that at the premiere dinner, the food would be scarce and late in coming. “Eat what you can, when you can,” Zeb had said. “If it matters to you, that is.”

  Aidan enjoyed his food; he wasn’t apologizing for that. When did food not matter?

  “Stupid,” said a deep voice from very close beside him.

  “What the hell?” Aidan nearly dropped the wine bottle, which would have been a pity as he could see it was really good quality, but he recovered himself in time. Abruptly he put it back on the table and whirled around.

  “God. Sorry.” H-G took a startled step backward. “You’re a high-strung creature, aren’t you?”

  “Most people would be, hearing ‘stupid’ bellowed into their ear!”

  “I didn’t mean you were stupid.”

  “Really?”

  H-G had the grace to look apologetic. “Sorry. Again. I meant the snack things. Stupid, silly little nibbles that do nothing but get stuck in your bloody teeth. I wanted her to put out some decent stuff for us to fill up on, especially when Eric said what crap the food is at these events. But Tanya, bless her heart, said you model types wouldn’t want to see huge great plates of food.”

  “Huge great plates?” Aidan tried to damp down his wistfulness. He hadn’t eaten much that day, what with the fuss of dressing up as Zeb, his nerves about the date, and the fact he’d run out of weekly grocery money and was waiting for an advance from Zeb’s fee. “Decent stuff?”

  “I’ve got cold roast beef in the fridge. Mustard, pickles, strong horseradish. Thick, fresh bread.”

  Aidan was mortified at the soft moan that might or might not have escaped his lips, but H-G seemed thoroughly pleased at his reaction. H-G’s eyes were brighter than before, his manner more relaxed.

  “Follow me, then. I’ve never been keen on this room. My mother decorated it, and her style’s somewhere back there with the Edwardians. It’s a damn sight warmer in the kitchen, and we can settle in properly.”

  IN the kitchen, Aidan sank gratefully into one of the wooden kitchen chairs without a second thought, and H-G seemed equally happy to avoid ceremony.

  H-G had been right: the room was far more cheerful, with brightly colored tiles, modern fittings, and a haphazard scattering of utensils and ingredients on the counters that proved the owner cooked there regularly. They chatted about food they both liked—with plenty of shared enthusiasm—and TV chefs, and recipes, and some of the bizarre world foods H-G had eaten on his travels. Aidan fetched plates from the cupboard while H-G buttered the bread with a generous hand. A half hour passed very pleasantly before Aidan took stock of the situation, remembering the odd circumstances
of being there at all.

  He couldn’t remember when he’d last tasted such good meat! And H-G didn’t skimp with the bread and fillings. They both munched through a couple of rounds of sandwiches, then fruit and yogurt from the best-stocked fridge Aidan had seen in years. It was glorious to feel satisfied again—even if he had to slip open the top button of his jeans under cover of his sweater.

  Right then H-G was preparing strong espressos from a coffee machine on the counter. It involved a couple of muttered curses and H-G thumping the side of the unit to get it going, but then it produced a fabulous aroma and steady drips into the coffee cups.

  “So, where are you thinking of taking me?” H-G called over without turning around.

  Aidan had been wondering whether the coffee machine was at fault or if it was operator error. H-G didn’t seem to have a large reserve of patience. “You mean, after the premiere?” H-G turned to face him, and he had that “are you mentally challenged?” look again. “Oh, of course.” What had Zeb suggested? “Maxima is our first stop. A new club, small, around the back of Soho, quiet—”

  “Quiet?” H-G interrupted with a hopeful look on his face. He carried over the coffee with something approximating triumph. The china cups looked miniscule in his large, strong hands.

  “Relatively so. But then we can move on to a couple of dance clubs.” Aidan smiled slyly. “We should be seen in as many places as possible, having fun. This is a PR campaign, remember?”

  H-G’s expression was grim. “I don’t.”

  “Don’t what? Remember why we’re here?”

  “Dance. Don’t dance.” H-G looked truculent. Even the way he dropped back into his seat was vaguely antagonistic.

  “Jesus. That’s the last thing on my mind.” But the mischief was still tingling in Aidan’s veins. He wondered for one brief, wild moment what H-G would look like in the middle of a club dance floor, with that brand-new dress shirt peeled off and the sweat trickling down the hair between his nipples and over his abs….