Snowball in Hell

by Josh Lanyon

  Nathan couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away. He wondered if he was still asleep, dreaming maybe. Or maybe what Spain was saying was that Nathan was in custody, that he didn’t trust him to come back to Los Angeles on his own.

  Or—was Spain setting a trap for him? His heart jerked.

  Was there a remote chance that Spain intended what he seemed to be saying with those honey-brown eyes?

  “I don’t understand,” Nathan said at last, huskily, terrified that even this much was giving himself away.

  Spain reached over and covered Nathan’s hand with the warm strength of his own. “I’m hoping you do.”

  And after a shocked moment, Nathan turned his hand, intertwining his fingers with Spain. He was almost afraid to look at Spain’s face, but when he did, Spain looked as naked and vulnerable as he felt.

  He closed his eyes, savoring the hard, calloused strength of Spain’s grip. “What about…” With his thumb he traced the gold band on Spain’s left hand.

  “My wife died last year. Cancer. Not long after I was discharged.” Spain said huskily, “Can I tell you about myself?”

  Nathan opened his eyes, nodded.

  “Feeling this way isn’t anything new for me, but…loving Rachel made it easy to ignore.” His smile was wry. “Well, maybe not easy, but…I really loved her. We met when we were in high school. I guess she—I guess that’s what made the difference.”

  “That would do it,” Nathan said carefully. “You never—?”

  “I did. In the service. That’s when I realized there were guys just like me. Regular guys, not queers.”

  Nathan said softly, “They’re queers. We’re all queers. You think it makes a difference—”

  “I do, yeah.”

  Staring at Spain’s earnest expression, Nathan felt an unaccountable desire to cry. And that was funny because if you didn’t cry when the Nazis shot you, really what was there left to cry about? Unless it was because they hadn’t managed to kill you.

  He said, “It doesn’t make any difference. If you give in to it—give in to what you’re feeling—you’re just as vulnerable as someone like me.”

  Spain’s fingers tightened around Nathan’s. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t mean you.”

  “You do. Even if you don’t know you do.” But he squeezed Spain back, taking the simple comfort offered by holding hands. He had never held hands with anyone, man or woman.

  Spain said, “The Arlen kid was blackmailing you?”

  Unexpectedly, Nathan smiled. “I’d have had to pay him in blue stamp rations. No, it happened pretty much the way I told you, except when we left the club that night, Arlen said that if I didn’t pay up, he was going to my paper. He’d been hinting around for a bit, and I’d been dodging it, but when he left the club he gave me an ultimatum. I punched him. Knocked him down. Then I walked away. The next time I saw him was at the tar pits.”

  “How did the kid know about you?”

  Nathan didn’t look away. “I’m not always as careful as I should be. Since I came home—it’s hard. There’s not as much to distract me.” Spain’s face gave nothing away, but Nathan knew how he must see it. Facing disgrace and jail—or maybe a nut house—it wasn’t hard to believe that Nathan might kill to protect himself. Not hard at all, considering how warped and desperate he must be to do the things Arlen had seen him do.

  He waited for Spain to pull away, withdraw, but he didn’t. He kept holding Nathan’s hand as he asked, “So the Arlen kid tried to shake you down before?”

  “I ran into him a couple of times, but he never hinted he knew anything until a week or so before the Las Palmas Club.” Because he hadn’t known anything until the night Nathan ran into him at the Biltmore. After that—but he wasn’t going to tell Spain that. Wasn’t prepared to admit that much.

  “How do you figure Pearl Jarvis fits in?” Spain asked.

  “I think she knows who killed Phil—unless she killed him herself.”

  “You have anything to base that on?”

  Nathan hesitated. “She’s running scared. She’s either afraid of being arrested or she thinks she’s next on the killer’s list.”

  “And why would she be next? Do you think they were having an affair?”

  “I think so. But that wouldn’t mark her for murder. Unless the killer is Claire Arlen, in which case I think she’d have started with Pearl. No, I think Pearl was Arlen’s business partner. I think she used her connections at the club to find out stuff about people that Arlen could then use to blackmail them.”

  Spain nodded, as though this confirmed his own thoughts. “I think you’re right about the blackmail angle. I know of at least three people in this case who had secrets that some might consider worth committing murder over.”

  “Carl Winters and the faked antiquities,” Doyle said. “Nora Noonan and the Denver murder trial.”

  Spain’s surprise was evident, and Nathan shrugged. “Most secrets aren’t as secret as people think.”

  His own included, he admitted with painful honesty.

  “One interesting thing, though. I followed Pearl from Sid Szabo’s place. Admittedly, I’m no expert, but I think if he’s willing to shield her from the cops during a murder investigation, he must care about her. I can’t tell about her. I never paid a lot of attention to either of them.”

  “She could have more than one beau.”

  “Yeah.” Nathan shifted against the pillows. “Look, Lieutenant, I know how it looks for me, but I didn’t kill him.”

  Spain’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “You think we’d be sitting here talking if I thought you did?” He looked down at Nathan’s hand in his own, looked up and said, “My name is Mathew.”

  Mathew pulled rank and persuaded the sour-faced manageress to send up a late supper on a tray. The doctor hotel guest came by while they waited, and he examined Nathan again, pronouncing himself satisfied with his progress and recommending another day in bed, which Nathan brushed off firmly.

  The cheerful maid from the night of Nathan’s arrival brought a couple of extra blankets and a heavy purple bathrobe that had, she informed them, belonged to the late Mr. Hubbard.

  “From Mr. Hubbard’s cupboard?” Nathan asked, and she giggled, peeking briefly at him sitting up bare-chested in the bed. She set the blankets on the rocker, and Mathew took the robe, handing it to Nathan.

  Nathan eyed the blankets and said nothing, but when the door closed behind the maid, Mathew said, “Don’t worry. Nobody’s going to think anything about this. I’m supposed to keep an eye on you, according to the doctor.”

  “I’m not worried.” He wasn’t, but he thought Matt had an unrealistic idea about the way people’s minds worked—which was funny for a cop.

  Nathan stood up, feeling a little dizzy, and shrugged into the robe. Mr. Hubbard had been a bit shorter and a lot wider. The robe felt soft and smelled new, and perhaps this explained the tight, pinched face of the hotel manageress.

  He walked carefully to the window, resting his hands on the sash, staring down at the moonlit landscape. The frost on the ground shimmered with the eerie glow of the salt flats south of the Dorsale mountain range.

  They were playing Christmas carols on a phonograph downstairs, the music faint through the wooden floorboards. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” And he was. Sort of.

  “He said you appeared to be suffering from a state of severe nervous tension.” There was a smile in Mathew’s voice. “He saw you racing around outside the hotel on Thursday night. I think that’s what decided him.”

  Nathan chuckled. “Did he happen to see me get clobbered?”

  “He missed that installment of your adventures.” Mathew’s arms slipped around Nathan’s torso, warm through the robe. He held him tentatively, and Nathan knew that he could move away, and Mathew would immediately release him, and everything would end here. But it wasn’t in him—not even for Mathew’s sake. Instead, he reached up and pulled down the window shade, turning in Mathew�
�s arms.

  Mathew was a couple of inches taller; Nathan had to look up into his eyes, and Mathew was smiling—mostly with his eyes.

  “The lamp will silhouette us,” Nathan warned gently.

  Mathew’s eyes flickered with recognition.

  “Let’s eat,” he said casually, and he let go of Nathan, but then he rested an unexpectedly possessive hand on the small of his back as they moved over to the little table by the wall.

  They ate and talked, mostly about the war—their experiences were so different it was almost as though they’d been in two separate wars—and then, inevitably they returned to the subject of Phil Arlen’s murder.

  Mathew told him that Nathan was Jonesy’s candidate for Public Enemy Number One, and although Nathan laughed, secretly it filled him with dread. His life couldn’t take much close examination, and he knew only too well the attention that would come his way if he became a prime suspect in the Arlen case.

  “Who’s your favorite candidate?” he asked Mathew.

  “I haven’t completely ruled out the possibility that Arlen was kidnapped.”

  “Anything’s possible.” Nathan was being polite, and he could tell from Mathew’s grin that Mathew knew it.

  “If it wasn’t a kidnapping, I think Robert Arlen has a pretty strong motive. From everything I’ve heard, he’s worked his tail off for the old man’s approval and spent almost his entire life taking the back seat to Philip—who, by all accounts, isn’t fit to black his boots.”

  “That’s true as far as it goes,” Nathan said, “but Bob’s not the kind of guy who would murder his kid brother. Not even if he didn’t like the kid much.”

  “Is it true the old man forced Philip to marry Claire Winters?”

  “Pretty much. Clay Winters was Benedict Arlen’s partner in some early business ventures. The Arlens were Claire’s godparents, so I think Arlen was trying to kill two birds with one stone—take care of Claire and get Phil on the right track. Claire’s been in love with Phil since she was a schoolgirl, don’t ask me why.”

  “What about Robert Arlen? Did the old man arrange his marriage too?”

  “No.” Nathan smiled at the idea. “No, that was a love match. They’re crazy about each other. Ronnie was a navy nurse. She nursed Bob back to health after he cracked his plane up, and they fell in love. I think the old man threatened to disown Bob for a while, but for once Bob stood up to him, and Arlen backed down.”

  “What’s Veronica’s background?”

  “I don’t think it’s anything scandalous. Her family comes from some chicken-scratch town in Texas. Poor but honest stock.” Nathan’s smile was mocking. “One of her grandfathers was supposed to be an Old West gunfighter. In fact, that’s probably why Arlen finally acquiesced to the marriage. He’s a nut about the old west.”

  “I noticed.” Mathew said slowly, “You were probably too busy tracking Pearl across the state to notice, but we’ve found the murder weapon.” He told Nathan about the Derringer Rider found in Carl Winters’ bookstore, and the fact that everyone—including Nathan—had apparently had opportunity to plant the gun there.

  “And the gun is definitely from Arlen’s collection?”

  “No doubt about it. The last time Arlen examined the collection was a month ago, so he wasn’t able to narrow down for us when it disappeared or who might have had access to it.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to narrow it down.”

  Mathew gave him a funny look but didn’t say anything.

  When they’d finished eating, they moved over to the bed and lay down side by side, facing each other, studying each other.

  Nathan smiled faintly. He thought Mathew had no idea what to do next. He rested his hand against Mathew’s face, stroked his bristling jaw. He wanted to kiss him—his belly felt like it was swarming with butterflies at the very thought, but he figured that would be going way too far for Mathew, so he contented himself, brushing his thumb over his full bottom lip.

  Mathew caught his hand, held it and leaned forward, kissing Nathan’s mouth—soft full lips pressing warmly, firmly against Nathan’s—and Nathan realized that maybe he was the one unprepared for this, unready for this. He was shaking when Mathew raised his head.

  “You’re freezing,” Mathew said. “Let’s get under the covers.”

  They sat up, scrambling out of their clothes, pulling back the sheets and blankets, snuggling down into the warmth, rolling quite naturally into each other’s arms.

  Matt touched the little silver cross Nathan wore about his neck. “Do you always wear this?”

  Nathan nodded.

  Mathew’s fingertips brushed the chain and Nathan’s skin and collar bones. All at once he seemed peculiarly gentle. “We’ve got all night,” he whispered. “Why don’t you sleep for a while?” He settled Nathan more closely against him, cushioning his body with his own, offering his shoulder as a rest for Nathan’s head.

  Suddenly Nathan was so tired he could hardly think straight. The temptation of doing just that, of giving in to the forbidden pleasure of sleeping in another man’s arms—this man’s arms—giving up control, permitting himself to trust for just a little while, was overwhelming. He let his body relax against Mathew’s, closed his eyes.

  The light was off when he woke much later, the music downstairs was silent, but he could feel that Mathew was awake, feel his erection probing his belly. His own dick was painfully hard, balls aching—what the hell dreams had he been having?

  He pushed his hips forward, relieved when Mathew immediately thrust back. They began to rub against each other, skin on skin, the soft pelt of Mathew’s chest hair brushing his own chest, teasing his nipples, rough but somehow sweet. Mathew’s hands smoothed up and down his spine, and he was whispering hot things into Nathan’s ear. Quiet, but not quiet enough—not nearly afraid enough—not realizing how the squeak of bedsprings, the creak of headboard could give them away.

  Nathan knew. He bit his lip hard to keep from making any sounds, all the while wishing he could understand those words breathed against his ear.

  Mathew came first, Nathan felt that slick hot spill on his belly, and he wriggled frantically, writhing, panting, gritting his jaw to keep from crying out when Mathew’s hand closed around his dick, pumping him. Like he knew Nathan needed this. Not quite the right angle, not quite the right grip, but just the touch was enough to bring him off.

  Afterward they held each other while their hearts calmed and their breathing evened out.

  It was dangerous to feel this happy, but Nathan wouldn’t have traded a moment of it.

  Matt’s experience with sex—this kind of sex—was limited. Oh, he’d had plenty of experience with lovemaking, and that was probably why. He had loved Rachel very much. Yet in some bittersweet way, this strange encounter with Nathan Doyle in a remote ski lodge was as momentous as any happening Matt had known—up to and including being born.

  In a way it was like being born. Like oxygen when your lungs were burning for air, or cold water when you were dying of thirst.

  The rushed and harried encounters of marine barracks and showers, the stolen moments in the dry grasses and steamy jungle of Guadalcanal had nothing to do with this, had no reality against the feel of Nathan’s wiry warm strength resting peacefully in his arms. He’d never known anyone like Nathan, and he’d known—lived and nearly died—with a lot of guys. Great guys.

  He didn’t kid himself that this meant anything much to Nathan, and he hoped he was enough of a realist not to let it mean too much to himself—they weren’t starting a romance, for Chrissake—but he was glad that there were still many more hours of darkness, and that they would be staying over tomorrow—and tomorrow night.

  Nathan shifted in his sleep, a slight restless movement, and Matt ducked his head, whispering something silly, tightening his grip. Nathan stilled, his breath light and surprisingly sweet against Matt’s shoulder.

  Nathan was exhausted. Well, he’d had a rough couple of days, and he was the type who
lived on his nerves. This breathing space was probably just what he needed. Maybe what Matt needed too—a little distance. From Jonesy, from the press, from Tara Renee, from Police Chief Horrall, from everyone and everything.

  Toward dawn Nathan woke and they fucked again, slowly, savoring it. And this time Matt was conscious, painfully and pleasurably conscious, of all the ways Nathan Doyle was different from the last person Mathew had made love to: the broad shoulders and hard planes of his chest instead of delicate neck and pillowy breasts; the jut of his bony, narrow hips and the sleek aggression of his cock instead of the soft reception and safe passageway of rounded belly and silky thighs; the roughness of his strong jaw, the bluntness of masculine features instead of fragile bones and feminine face.

  Matt liked his strength and his silent intensity. He liked the way Nathan held his gaze while their dicks scraped and stroked in enjoyable friction. Liked the way Nathan’s thin, hard fingers dug into the muscles of Matt’s arms. And especially he liked the way Nathan woke up randy and ready, just like himself. No coaxing, no sweet talking necessary. Nathan wanted it every bit as much as Matt.

  Sensation rolled through him like a tidal wave, leaving him shaken and gasping. He didn’t realize he’d cried out until Nathan moved, covering his mouth. “Shhhhh…”

  He opened his eyes, staring into Nathan’s, and after a dizzy moment Nathan began to laugh, very softly. And Matt laughed too, tasting Nathan’s palm clamped against his lips.

  “Merry Christmas,” Nathan said softly, taking his hand away.

  “Merry Christmas,” Matt told him.

  They had breakfast in their room, the window wide open and the crackling December air clearing out the smell of sex.

  Nathan’s suit had been brushed and pressed, his shirt and underwear laundered. The late Mr. Hubbard graciously supplied socks. Matt stared out the window at the pine trees and distant snowy mountains while Nathan dressed. He wanted to watch Nathan. He thought his body was beautiful, but he realized Nathan was self-conscious when he stared at him too long.