Tested in Fire

by E. J. Russell

  He gripped her shoulders, looking down at her somberly. “Sugar, there’s no reason for you to be brave on my account. If you need me, I will be here. Okay?”

  Antoinette bowed her head, shoulders slumped. “Thank you, but I can manage.”

  Stefan met Rudy’s eyes over the top of her head, and Rudy mouthed Call me. Stefan nodded, and Rudy left with a last waggle of his fingers.

  Antoinette stared after him, her expression bleak. “If only I could speak to Jacques again, just for a short while. There are so many things I don’t know. So many things I need to know.”

  Preparing for the unexpected. Yeah, that was never easy, and hindsight sucked. Stefan had learned that lesson the hard way with Marius. Ask questions when you have the chance because you never know when that chance will be your last.

  Guilt niggled at the base of his skull. Had he truly learned that lesson? He and Luke still had so many unresolved issues, and Stefan was avoiding them as much as Luke was—maybe more so.

  “Perhaps there is something . . .” She pressed her lips together, glancing down at her feet. “No. I cannot. It is too much.”

  “Hey, you’ve done so much for me since I moved here, I’m willing to do whatever you need. Just name it.”

  She nodded. “I will let you know.” She left without meeting his gaze again.

  She’s not going to ask. She’s going to try to handle everything on her own. Stefan sighed and turned to his worktable as Jason emerged from the changing room wrapped in the blue cotton robe. Until this session was done, he couldn’t pursue Antoinette and try to force the issue a little. He wouldn’t do anything super intrusive, but he could at least demonstrate his willingness to step up to the plate.

  Once he was done with Jason, he’d go shopping. Pick up groceries for her as well as his own. Maybe some takeout. Somehow, he’d find a way to pay her back.

  I’ve finally got the means—meager as they are—to be something other than a drain on everybody else. And although he would never have wished anything like this on Antoinette or Signor DiBartolo, he couldn’t deny that taking care of somebody else for a change felt damned good.

  The lights in the Tiki Bar glimmered on the surface of the tequila shots lined up in front of Luke. He picked up a lime wedge, turning it over in his fingers.

  Damn damn damn. What the hell was he doing? Hadn’t he learned that running never solved anything? When his jealousy and pride had driven him away from Stefan before, he’d regretted it every moment afterward. Then the regret had fed the jealousy and pride, keeping them apart until it had almost been too late.

  Now, after seven years’ separation, Luke didn’t want to waste any more time. Who knew how much they had left? Nobody ever did, Marius’s plane getting up close and personal with that hillside a case in point.

  Luke downed one of the shots, then bit down on the lime, pressing under his jaw when the tart juice zapped his salivary glands with a nuclear tingle. Hell, it’s not Arcoletti’s ghost that’s still haunting me, haunting us both. It’s Marius, and everything he left behind. Somehow, they needed to exorcise that phantom too.

  I just need to prove I can be the guy who’s there for Stefan, who can help him—but doesn’t act like a fucking Neanderthal douchebag. A little finesse—something Luke could manage when he put his mind to it—and he could absolutely reduce Stefan’s financial stress level.

  For instance, Luke would bet anything—other than another nude modeling session—that Stefan underpriced his work on those stupid ceramic masks, and that that French bitch was underpaying him for his teaching and gallery administrative work too. Luke could work that angle and get Stefan’s compensation upped to reflect his true value.

  And as for Stefan’s other debts, the ones that were really Marius’s fault? Luke could swing a deal, negotiate something that wouldn’t turn Stefan into an indentured servant for life. It only made sense that artists shouldn’t be their own business reps. They needed to use the other side of their brains. Focus on the sensitivity shit and let someone else handle the tough words.

  And if Stefan was afraid of appearing weak, he could kiss that idea goodbye. He’d proven the size of his cojones facing down a freaking ghost, for God’s sake.

  Luke picked up the second shot, but as he brought it to his lips, he met his own gaze in the mirror behind the bar, his face framed between two bottles of scotch. He lowered the shot to the bar, setting it down with a muffled thump. He hadn’t gotten truly shit-faced since the night in Oregon when that freaking ghost had taken a joyride in his head.

  Maybe getting drunk was not the best plan.

  Maybe getting drunk was just another way of running.

  He dug a couple of bills out of his wallet and tossed them on the bar, leaving the last two shots untouched.

  No more running.

  Somehow, he’d eighty-six his stupid temper and insecurities, coax Stefan into dialing back on the pigheaded pride. Okay, so dial back on the pigheaded pride and stop trying to advertise Luke’s physical imperfections to the greater Sarasota art community. That was nonnegotiable, regardless of how many bets Stefan won. But they could finally start living together—even if they weren’t, well, living together.

  He left the bar, rehearsing his arguments in his head as he walked back to the gallery in the heat of the afternoon. He stopped in front of the gallery’s wide windows to admire a triptych of Stefan’s paintings, studies of the same young girl from three different angles, three different moods. Other pedestrians slowed to look too, murmuring in admiration, and warmth swelled in his chest. The man with the talent to stop random foot traffic—that man loved him.

  He still had a hard time believing that. But he’d work on it, damn it.

  Inside, the gallery was cool, ceiling fans moving the air, assisting the air-conditioning. Luke cast a cursory glance at the display of Antoinette’s masks, both the animal and human. He grudgingly admitted that she was good. But come on, masks? Still fucking creepy. Besides, there was something about her that he didn’t quite trust. She had to be fleecing Stefan out of commission money. No way could she and her partner, whatshisname, afford to rent out the studio space so cheaply without some kind of quid pro quo. If Luke could uncover the scam, maybe he could pry Stefan out of this place. Find him a studio closer to the condo.

  As he grabbed the stair railing and swung himself onto the first step up to the balcony and Stefan’s studio, Antoinette was coming down the stairs toward him. Shit, had she seen the face he’d pulled at her exhibit? It wasn’t her fault that after his last job, his mask tolerance was at an all-time low.

  “Mr. Morganstern. You have returned. Good. Stefan will be pleased.”

  “You think? I’ll go up and—”

  “But he is not here now. He has gone out to run some errands. You are certainly welcome to wait.”

  Luke snorted. “I’ve had enough of that for a while, thanks.”

  “Yes, Stefan said that your last commission was unfortunately extended.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, you know, in parts of Europe, the notion of expediency has little meaning. Perhaps to your client, they were behaving with perfect reasonableness. Stefan said you were in the Piedmont region. Was the company a local concern?”

  “I really can’t talk about it.”

  “Yet you discuss it with Stefan, yes?”

  Luke narrowed his eyes. “That’s different.”

  “I understand. You are together, as Jacques and I are together. The two of us have no secrets either, as you and Stefan do not.”

  Her face, as fragile as any of her ceramic creations, couldn’t have looked more innocent, but Luke detected a subtle dig in her words. Bring it, bitch.

  “That’s right.”

  She stepped closer, placed one long-fingered white hand on his arm, and Luke twitched like a horse dislodging a fly. “Jacques’s family is from that area, and I am familiar with it also. Perhaps I could help you contact them.”

  What
the hell. At this point, Luke had run out of leads, and if she really had connections, he could ignore his mistrust and take advantage of them. All’s fair in love and business. “Argilloso Imports.”

  She jerked, eyes widening. “Ah. No wonder you have had difficulty. There has been a . . . a shakedown.”

  “A shake-up?”

  “Yes. The company is in disarray. There was . . . what is the word . . . malfeasance. Many of the executives are gone, disgraced or worse. But I could perhaps intercede on your behalf.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Naturellement. It helps to have friends, non?” She patted his arm, and Luke disengaged, clasping his hands behind his back. “Perhaps if you told me what it was you retrieved, we could locate the correct person more quickly.”

  Yeah, I don’t think so. He had no desire to hold on to that freaky death mask for longer than necessary, but something about this woman still bugged him. “Nice of you, but now that I know my original contact might be out on his ear, I’ll call around at the company. See who’s taking up the slack. Thanks for the tip, though.”

  She reached for him again. “But—” She paused with her hand outstretched and shook her head. “Of course. I understand. I’m sorry I could not help you. Sorrier than you can know.”

  As she began to trudge up the stairs, Luke gave himself a mental face-palm. Her partner is ill, maybe dying, you douchebag. Stop being such a suspicious asshole and dial back on the animosity. “Antoinette?”

  She paused and glanced down at him. “Yes?”

  “I mean it. I appreciate the offer. And I’m sorry. About Signor DiBartolo. Let me know if I can do anything to help.”

  “You are very kind, Monsieur Morganstern. Thank you.” She turned and continued up to the balcony.

  Luke waited until she’d disappeared through the door at the end of the landing before he mounted the stairs himself. When he reached Stefan’s studio, he stalled with his fingers wrapped around the doorknob. All the arguments he’d practiced on his way over suddenly seemed woefully inadequate and even a little patronizing. What could he do to level the playing field, convince Stefan that he was serious about their partnership being equal?

  I could give him what he wants without another rigged bet. His damp palm slipped on the doorknob. Another modeling session, sans griping, would probably do the trick. But damn, the idea makes my balls retract.

  What the fuck. He owed Stefan proof that he was committed, that he was ready to compromise. He slipped into the studio and strode to the curtained dressing area. If he was lucky, maybe he’d be able to distract Stefan with other naked options. Because that had worked so well last time.

  He pulled out his phone, set it to vibrate, then tossed it in one of the baskets on the shelf along with his wallet and keys. No sense risking them crashing to the floor when he hung his pants on the hook. He pulled his shirttail out of his waistband. As he undid the top button, he heard the studio door open. Maybe I don’t have to undress all the way after all.

  “Mr. Morganstern!” Not Stefan. Antoinette’s voice, an edge of panic sending it up an octave, echoed in the studio.

  Luke stepped out from behind the curtain. “Yeah?”

  “I need— Please. Jacques has fallen from the bed, and I cannot lift him. Could you help?”

  “Uh . . .” Luke cast a furtive glance at the clock above the sink. Who knew when Stefan would be back. He didn’t even know where he’d gone. “Sure.”

  “This way. Please.”

  Luke followed her out of Stefan’s studio and along the balcony that overlooked the gallery floor. When he stepped through her door, he blinked in surprise. Instead of an echoing open cement-floored mini-warehouse like Stefan’s place, Antoinette’s apartment was more like, well, an apartment—low-ceilinged and dark-paneled.

  The door opened onto a cramped entryway that reminded him a little too much of the pensione he’d stayed at for the last five weeks. He glimpsed her pottery studio through the half-open door to the left, bright and surprisingly compact given the wide open spaces of Stefan’s rooms. Through an archway directly ahead, a sitting area, the angles of light suggesting the room extended behind the studio.

  Antoinette closed the door behind him and pointed down the shadowed hallway to the right. “Down there. The door at the end of the hall.”

  Luke nodded and preceded her into the gloom. He opened the door and stepped into a curtained bedroom dominated by heavy oak furniture. A still figure lay in the four-poster bed against the opposite wall.

  Luke frowned, his pulse kicking up. If this guy had gotten himself into bed, he couldn’t be that badly off. But the wheeze of labored breath told Luke maybe the struggle had been at least a little tough. “I thought you said he’d fallen.”

  Her hair brushed his arm, the barest tickle. She tucked one hand into the crook of his elbow, as if he were escorting her to the opera instead of across a sickroom. “Yes. I did.” Her voice was tinged with sorrow. “But I did not say when.” A sharp pain stabbed Luke’s forearm, and he jerked but her grip on his elbow tightened, her fingers like a bone handcuff.

  He stared at the syringe in her hand. “What the hell?”

  “I am sorry. Truly I am, but I have no choice. It won’t be for long, though. I promise.”

  Luke’s tongue felt thick in his mouth as if it belonged to a larger beast, one without the ability to speak. He blinked eyes gone blurry.

  He tried to open the door, but his fingers wouldn’t grasp the handle, scrabbling against the dark paneling. His knees forgot how to hold him up, buckling and leaving him at the mercy of that damn door. He pressed his cheek against it, sliding down until he was crumpled on the floor.

  Luke squinted at the useless bundle of flesh and bone that used to be his arms. What was going on? He needed to get up. If he didn’t, this psychotic bitch could attack Stefan. Stefan didn’t know what she was capable of.

  A shove from a white hand sent him over onto his back in a nauseating blur of movement. Antoinette uttered a sharp cry of dismay as Luke’s head hit the wood floor with a crack that should have hurt. But the pain sat off in a corner, waiting. He knew it would join him later.

  A pale oval hovered above him, surrounded by a fringe of dark tentacles that swayed toward his face, trying to grab him like some monster from the deep. He tried to punch at it, to send it away, but his arms flopped uselessly on the floor.

  “Miz…stern.” The monster spoke, black maw opening. It made no sense. Of course it made no sense. Monsters didn’t talk to you. They ate you. Ripped the flesh from your bones, the blood from your veins.

  “Nnnggg.” God, why wouldn’t anything in his body work?

  “I am sorry about your head. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but you must stay still now.”

  Not likely. Why should he make the monster’s job easier? “Sssnnn.” He’d meant to call Stefan’s name. He knew he had. But he sounded like a dying snake. God, was he dying? He strained to move some part of his body to his own will and succeeded in kicking out with one leg, but he didn’t connect with the monster.

  She punished him anyway, smearing cold, vile-smelling glop on his face and shoving something up each of his nostrils. He shook his head, trying to dislodge whatever it was, but those skeleton hands gripped the sides of his head like a vise. “You must not worry—I promise you this is only for a short time, but if you do not lie quietly, you could suffocate.”

  Suffocate. Not good. He took a deep breath. The torture implements didn’t block his airway. His lungs worked. His chest convulsed in a sob.

  The monster was back, her claws dripping with gray . . . seaweed? “Please. For your own good, you must keep your eyes closed.” The seaweed drooped nearer, dripping a splat of viscous goo against his cheek. His muscles had completely betrayed him now. He could only lay on the floor, arms and legs splayed, sobs climbing up his rib cage to get caught in his throat, while the monster drowned him in mud.

  Stefan shouldered the gallery door open, juggling
two bags of takeout Thai food with the three canvas bags of groceries threaded on his arms. Having a supermarket within walking distance was one of the perks of his studio, but sometimes he forgot that he didn’t have a convenient pack mule to help carry the stuff home.

  He schlepped everything up the stairs, dropping off two of the grocery bags and one bag of takeout at his door on his way to Antoinette’s apartment. He knocked, whistling tunelessly as he looked down at the gallery floor. As usual, warmth bloomed in his middle—a combination of satisfaction, gratitude, and pure unadulterated joy—at the sight. Not only for his work, once again on display and selling, but for Antoinette’s exquisite ceramics, for the fiber arts and metalwork of the other artists in the co-op, for the display of student work along the wall by the classroom door.

  This. This was what had been missing in his professional life, even when he’d been at his most productive during his years with Marius. This community of artists, sharing space, supporting each other, encouraging others to find fulfillment with their own projects, whether art was a hobby or a vocation for them.

  He jerked out of his reverie when the door creaked open. Antoinette peered at him from a six-inch gap. Her already pale complexion was drained of any color and her green smock was splotched with gray. “Oh. Stefan. How . . . how can I help you?”

  His chest tightened with pity. She was obviously upset about the situation with Signor DiBartolo, but was still working, still honoring her commitment to their show. He smiled down at her. “Looks like I’m the one who can help you.” He held up the bag of Thai food. “I brought dinner, so you don’t have to stop what you’re doing. Plaster casts, am I right?”

  She glanced down at herself, brushing ineffectually at the spots, her fingernails caked with gray. “Oh. Yes. But I’m sorry. I cannot invite you in. Jacques—” A moan that turned into a wail curled out of the apartment, and she paled further.