by Leah Blake
Trevor nodded, but didn’t answer. He stared out into the waters of the Caribbean, their jewel-like blue and green hues dazzling beneath the sunlight. Everything on this evening promised happiness and built up passion. Unfortunately, Marcus’s apartment went from sensual and inviting to cold and lonely.
Talk was overrated when the air between them spoke the volumes that words could not. Marcus straightened his shoulder and ducked back into the apartment. He pulled a small suitcase from his closet and tossed his clothes with haste. He left his toiletries in the bathroom for Trevor, packed up his laptop, and cast a glance over his shoulder.
Trevor stood in the doorway to the apartment, the curtains curling around his legs. His arms were crossed, his shoulders slumped, and his eyes held a dull ache that resonated in Marcus’s chest.
“It was nice to see you again, Marc,” Trevor said. Marcus narrowed his eyes on Trevor. Something felt off, and he wasn’t exactly sure what. “Take care, okay?”
Marcus didn’t move as Trevor returned to the lounge chair on the balcony and picked up his sketchpad. He didn’t draw, just looked at the picture as a sickening coldness seeped into Marcus’s bones.
He left the apartment, dropping the key on the counter for Trevor, and packed his suitcase on the back of his ATV. As he headed down to the docks, he had a dreadful feeling that Trevor had offered him a final farewell.
Chapter Eleven
Three Weeks Later
“Sure you ain’t joinin’ us for a brew? Helda promised us a round on the house.”
Trevor dropped his construction hat in the bed of his rusty old pickup and waved away his coworker with a small smile. “Going home. Didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Wuss,” another man taunted. Trevor promptly flashed him the mighty middle finger and winked. His good-humored nature was nothing more than a façade that hid the sour regret and self-pity he’d suffered since his return from Sinn Island. He’d tried to keep up with the unraveling investigation surrounding Marcus’s company. Unfortunately, being out of state with no access to Internet because he could barely afford a computer that didn’t come from the dinosaur age, the only chance he got to search the case was when he scrounged up enough change for a coffee at the Internet café.
The last thing he read was that the FBI spokesperson assured concerned citizens that Stark and Sons was fully cooperating in their investigation into a dirty broker, and that the clients who have been affected were already compensated by the generous brothers.
Trevor peeled off his heavy coat and tossed it onto the passenger seat.
Just like my bank account.
He shouldn’t have been shocked, and definitely shouldn’t have felt the frustration he had when he discovered a nice, hefty lump sum of ten grand sitting merrily in his bank account a week ago. He called every person he could get in touch with about taking the money back for his trip, but all of the reps had the same response. Compliments of the one and only Marcus Stark. If Marcus had an inkling of an idea about how tight things were stretched for him financially, the man would unload half of his savings into Trevor’s accounts, but he didn’t want the money. He could care less if he scraped pennies out of dirt for the rest of his life. If he had Marcus, he’d be complete.
There really are things money can’t buy. Marcus is one of them.
Trevor didn’t stand a chance against Marcus’s love of work. Damn type-A personality.
“Trev, you should join me and the boys for a brewski. You’ve been mullin’ around here since you got back from that trip of yours.”
Trevor looked back at Bob and offered him a smile. “I’m good. Really. Next time.”
Bob’s thick beard and mustache did little to hide the prominent frown on the man’s mouth. “You’ve said that the past three times.”
Trevor sighed and rubbed at his helmet-matted hair. “I’m sorry, Bob. I’ve got some things going on. I’ll be back to normal in no time.”
He snorted. “Sure. Three weeks is a little more than no time, kid. Out here, things goin’ on can lead to a very bad accident.” Bob clapped his shoulder. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll get your second round.”
“That’s generous of you.” Trevor closed the passenger door after he made sure his coat wasn’t hanging out, and offered a lopsided grin. “Next time, I’ll take you up on the offer.” He feigned a yawn behind his forearm. “I’ll catch you tomorrow.”
Trevor fiddled with his ancient car stereo until he picked up a station peppered with static. Humming to the familiar tune, he followed the rain-slick roads until he reached the outskirts of town, and his sad-looking apartment complex. It was crummy and dilapidated, but it was a roof over his head, hot water and a shower, heat—or what one would call a step above the outdoors—and air conditioning, when it felt like working. He wasn’t entertaining anyone, so who the hell cared?
He didn’t. He was grateful for the little he had.
A brutal reminder of what you left behind.
Trevor parked his truck and headed up to the second-story apartment, nodding to a couple and their young daughter on his way up the cracked cement stairs. He fidgeted with the lock on his door until it snapped back, and he slipped into his small studio abode. A far cry from the luxury of Marc’s island apartment.
He kicked off his boots at the door and undressed on his way to the bathroom, dropping his mud-streaked clothing in a plastic hamper. A hot shower, a warm meal, and some good shut-eye might help him release the mounting tensions left by the silent gap between him and Marcus.
Dressed in a clean pair of flannel night pants, he settled on his rugged sofa with a cheap frozen dinner and a cold beer. Tuesday night news held nothing of interest, and basic cable didn’t provide many shows that caught his attention. What he wanted to do was paint, but a quick glance at the unopened set of brushes from Marcus made his stomach churn. He couldn’t bring himself to dirty up their fine bristles, however bad the urge to paint grew. Sure, he could use the refunded vacation money to get a nice art setup, but he had full intentions of returning that money the instant he saw Marcus.
“If I ever see him again.”
He decidedly declined Marcus’s generous means of transportation, sticking to the charter yacht that transported the guests to the next island, the puddle jumper that he booked when he arranged for his trip, and the commercial jet back to Oregon. He should’ve asked for Marcus’s cell phone number before leaving, but he’d been swallowed by disappointment to think about it. Maybe he didn’t want to experience the rejection of his former lover once they were back in the States. Maybe he just didn’t want to face the reality that their time together on Sinn was just that—a short time together.
“Nice while it lasted,” Trevor murmured, scraping the last of the gravy from the bottom of the plastic container and licking it off his fork. He lounged back in the soft cushions, kicked up his feet, and resigned to some crime-scene show.
The impatient pounding at his door shocked him out of sleep. Trevor jumped to his feet, his mind still hazy with gray dreams, and rubbed his face with both hands. A quick glance at the clock on his wall announced the one-o’clock hour. Darkness filled the two windows in his apartment.
The pounding started again and this time, Trevor growled.
“Give me a goddamn minute, will you?” he called out, stubbing his toe on the foot of the sofa. “Fuck.”
He wiggled his toes, trying to disperse the sharp pain, and weaved his way to the door. A quick glance out the peephole gave him a distorted view of a big, burly man he didn’t recognize. He grabbed his revolver from the lopsided table next to him, ensured the chain lock was secured, and pulled the door open. “Who the hell are you?”
The man gave him a quick once-over that chilled him down to the bone. He was dressed in jeans, a nice polo, and an expensive-looking leather jacket.
“Trevor Dawson?” the man inquired. There was nothing soft or friendly about his demeanor. Everything pulsed authority and demanded obedience, starti
ng with the man’s piercing black eyes.
“Who wants to know?” Trevor asked, pissed by the late-night call. He might’ve just been jerked from the best stretch of sleep he’d had in a long time.
The man dug something out of his inside jacket pocket and flashed an FBI badge. Immediately, his heart sank. Had something happened to Marcus in this whole mess? Is that why he hasn’t called?
“Jim Renauld, FBI. Please come with me.”
“Am I under arrest for something?”
“No. I’ve been asked to escort you to headquarters.” The man jutted his chin at Trevor’s less than hospitable attire. “Get dressed. I’ll wait out here.”
“Does this have anything to do with Marcus Stark?”
“Hurry up.”
So much for answers. Trevor nodded and closed the door, tucking his weapon back in the table. He gathered a small bag with a change of clothes and toiletries, dressed in faded and torn-at-the-knee blue jeans and a flannel shirt, a pair of boots that lacked the mud from work, and grabbed his coat and phone on the way back to the door.
The agent led him to a darkly tinted black sedan waiting at the front of his complex. Another agent sat behind the wheel, sipping coffee and listening to classical music on the stereo. He shot Trevor the smallest of grins as Trevor settled in the back seat, the burly agent in the passenger seat, before they took off down the road.
“Would you like to tell me what this is all about? I’m going to have to explain to my boss why I’m not at work in a few hours,” Trevor said. He was still pissed off as hell, but his growing concern that Marcus was in trouble muted the anger.
“Robert Sampson is your boss, correct?” Jim asked.
“Yes.”
“We spoke with him a little while ago. He’s not expecting you at work. As for your request to be seen, you will have to wait until we arrive at headquarters.”
“Great,” Trevor grumbled, gazing out the blackened windows into the blackened night. He could barely make out anything beyond the car. The general unease that filled him didn’t dissipate as they pulled onto airport grounds and parked along the commuter airstrip. Only one plane looked up and running, lights blinking. Jim and his partner led Trevor to the sleek plane, loaded him up, and before long, they were in the air.
“Where are we headed?” Trevor asked. Jim exchanged a closed look with his partner, one that assured Trevor he wasn’t getting an answer. Frustration simmering, he kicked back in the reclining leather seat, dropped an arm over his eyes, and prayed to get another stretch of peaceful sleep.
Chapter Twelve
Night continued to hold reign over the country when Trevor and his FBI escorts bypassed the security code on the rear door of a tall, glass building and led him straight to an elevator. With a keycard, Jim opened up a keypad and punched in a series of numbers. The stainless steel doors closed and the car sped upward.
Trevor rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes and the cobwebs of fatigue from his mind. He took careful notice of the elevator car, guessing that the tinted-out black windows on the top corners of the car held security cameras. He was expecting to see more government logos or something, like he’d seen on television, but the car was nothing more than a warm and rich wood-paneled space with unique artwork attached to three of the four walls.
He took a closer look at Jim’s partner. The man wore a thin sports jacket. His fingertips were secured in the pockets of his jeans, the bottom of the jacket brushed away from his hips. No gun holster. No signs of a shoulder holster. No visible badge, but then again, Jim pulled his from his jacket. Still, there was something off about these two men and he couldn’t put his finger on it.
The elevator slowed and released a soft chime to announce their arrival. The doors opened.
Trevor’s brow furrowed. Is that a…living room?
Jim stepped into the dimly lit foyer with its polished white-and-cream colored marble floor and intricate white-and-gold sconces, gilded mirror, and impressive marble-topped side table. Crystal vases held enormous bouquets of exotic flowers that lent a clean, sweet aroma to the air.
“Come on,” the partner urged, sidling by Trevor.
“Um, I don’t think this is FBI headquarters,” Trevor murmured, stepping deeper into the car. Both agents turned to him. Trevor shook his head. “Sorry. Should’ve caught onto the hoax earlier. My middle-of-the-night excursion is done with you guys.”
“It’s not a hoax.”
Trevor’s gaze shot past the two men and landed hard on Marcus. The world tilted around him, his heart skipping into a thunderous thu-thump that shook his vision. This has got to be a dream.
Marcus sipped from a glass of red wine, his gaze never once leaving Trevor. He had a hand in the pocket of his black, silk night pants, a simple black linen shirt open over his chest. His hair was wild around his face, thick waves that stoked the itch in Trevor’s fingers. His eyes held a fierce, carnal expression, one that teased Trevor’s nerves and woke his cock from its deep slumber.
Trevor narrowed his eyes, still not willing to believe what he was seeing. “Marcus?”
The man gave a half grin and a short nod. “Are you going to stay on that elevator?”
Trevor tentatively stepped out of the car. Jim and the partner separated for Trevor to walk by, but he stopped where the marble turned to plush crème carpeting. A quick glance at Marcus’s bare feet and he wouldn’t dare dirty up the light flooring.
“You had FBI bring me here in the middle of the night?” Trevor hitched a thumb over his shoulder at the burly Jim. “Are they even FBI?”
“No,” Marcus said, that sexy half grin widening. His unshaven jaw looked damn fine on him, better than the clean-cut businessman. “I’m sure you recall Nathan from Breakers.” Marcus motioned with his wineglass to the man who called himself Jim. “And Peter. He works as a guard on Crave.”
Trevor cocked his head, at a loss for words. He didn’t dare get overly excited. Not until Marcus explained why he sent these two men to drag him out of bed in the middle of the night for a nameless adventure.
“Boys, you may go,” Marcus dismissed. The two men filed onto the elevators and closed the doors, leaving Trevor with Marcus, and a lot of questions. “Come in.”
Trevor removed his boots and followed Marcus into a chic, white and stainless steel kitchen. A second glass of wine had already been poured, and Marcus handed it over to Trevor.
“Why didn’t you just call me?” Trevor asked. Marcus snickered.
“This was more fun. Held an element of surprise,” Marcus admitted.
“Falsely abducting me in the middle of the night by two of your employees impersonating FBI agents?” The tension began to melt away. Trevor couldn’t help but laugh as he dropped his bag on the marble floor at his feet and leaned back on the counter. He sipped the semidry red wine, something his palate wasn’t used to, especially at three thirty in the morning. “You’re something else.”
“You’ve always said that.”
Marcus finished off his wine, and Trevor took pleasure in watching the way the man’s cheeks hollowed and his throat moved with each swallow. He raked his gaze along his exposed chest and cut abs, pausing on the evident cock stand in his pants.
“Well, so, how are things going with the investigation?” Trevor asked, still uncertain why he was standing in Marcus’s presence at this ungodly hour. “Why am I here?”
“I told you to be ready and available at any time,” Marcus said. He placed his empty glass on the counter and turned his full-blown attention on Trevor. The man’s intense gaze snatched Trevor’s breath and made him sway slightly. “I’ve been eyes-deep in this investigation. It’s been a trying, and tiresome, few weeks. I didn’t bother you because I knew I didn’t have time to as much as talk for five minutes.”
“And now you have time,” Trevor surmised.
“Until the court hearings.”
“What about Sinn? Haven’t you been there?”
Marcus shook his head. “The wee
kend with you was the last weekend I was there. Julian’s been e-mailing me the financial reports while I’ve been smoothing things out at Stark and Sons. Needless to say, I’ve been waiting for this reprieve.” Marcus’s eyes darkened beneath the low lighting. “A chance to see you again and throw everything on the table once and for all.”
Trevor placed his glass down, not sure he would retain the steady hand to hold it without splashing red onto the pristine white furniture. He pressed his lips together, diverting his attention from the starved man staring at him to the floor-to-ceiling windows that had a perfect view of the San Francisco bay and skyline. God, he couldn’t let Marcus see the hope that threatened to explode inside him.
Marcus stepped up beside him and rested his hips against the countertop.
“Is this your new place?” Trevor asked.
“New. Old. Moved in shortly after you left.” Marcus folded his hands around the edge of the counter. Trevor could feel the heat of his gaze as he stared down at him. “Trevor, after our time on Sinn, I don’t think I can go another five years not seeing you.”
“No.” Trevor shook his head, lowering his eyes from the windows. “Neither can I.”
Screw it. He fucked up the first time. He allowed Mr. Stark to run him out of town with his ruffians implying his well-heard message. Come back and you may not have a second chance to leave. Marcus shouldn’t be the one to approach this topic.
“These past three weeks have been hell for me. I don’t want to go on like this anymore.” Trevor straightened up to face Marcus. “I can’t. You’ve always been my sunlight, my joy. Without you, my life is nothing but dark and dank and pitiful. Life is there, passing me by without me living it because I just can’t.”
Damn, were those tears stinging his eyes?
Marcus reached up and cupped his face, his thumbs brushing the moisture away from beneath his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched, a subtle sign that he, too, was fighting to suppress the emotional swell that thickened the air flowing between them.
