Nikolai swallowed hard, shuddered before he could consider whether he wanted to, in fact, fuck Henry. A repeat of the blow- and handjob had sounded just fine until about two seconds ago. “That’s something I haven’t done.”
“What, mezze?” Henri laughed again, softly, sensuously. “Or a guy?”
“I haven’t done a guy.” Over the phone that was easier to confess. Thought it probably felt good, doing a guy. After all, plenty of men enjoyed that a great deal, among them his father and husband and their best friends and occasional lovers who, oddly enough, somehow fitted into and around their marriage. “I’ve hung out with friends in Melbourne. That’s firmly in Greek and Italian hands.” Maybe he could drag the topic back to something harmless.
“You could trust my hands with that.”
“Funny thing is, I do,” Nikolai admitted.
Another odd pause. Seemed Henri was thrown totally off his game when Nikolai ran out of banter and just admitted the truth. He was probably a boring game to Henri, who clearly enjoyed his verbal sparring.
“I could pick you up in thirty minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll be outside.” Nikolai glanced at the emails piling up in his inbox. “I do think I need a break.”
“You could bring a fresh shirt and pajamas and stay the night. I fully expect to exhaust you. You might not make it home.”
That was getting more intimate than he was ready for. He wouldn’t have minded Henri coming to his hotel; they’d blow off steam, go for some Greek food, part ways, almost like very casual friends plus sex, but actually staying the night—that was intimate. He liked Henri’s condo and the bed (and the mirrors), but wow, he liked it too much. “Not . . . I think that’s not a good idea.”
“Okay. You call the shots. Whatever you’re comfortable with. I know I can be too direct. I’m frankly amazed you’re humoring me this far.”
“I’m . . . I’m just not sure how far this should go, that’s all. I don’t want you to . . . I don’t know.” I don’t want to hurt you. Though the idea of hurting Henri was preposterous. The guy was a hell of a lot more experienced than he was, and the way he pursued a man, he had to score a great deal, and often. Yet, that penthouse was very much a bachelor pad—no traces of any previous lovers, as though none had left a mark.
“Get my hopes up?”
“Yeah. I’m not gay. I don’t want to build a habit here.”
“Habits take at least two months to establish. You can’t change over a weekend.”
Thank you, self-improvement library. “Well, then I should be safe.”
“Definitely. I’ll pick you up in thirty.”
“Okay, great, I’ll be there.”
He mentally backtracked to Well, then I should be safe. Had that sounded too worried? He enjoyed spending time with Henri. Nothing to be concerned about.
An email from his mother popped up on his screen. No doubt the chastising he’d been expecting for cutting off Anya’s ambitions.
He opened it with dread tightening his throat, but it was just a pleasant, almost chatty email about her plans to extend a house (she was by now running a veritable real estate empire) and an offer to stay in Budapest for a few days with her.
Had she caught wind of him visiting Vadim? Or maybe he was just completely paranoid by now. There was no reason or need to play the “who do you love more, Mommy or Daddy?” game of other divorced couples. Though he could never really be sure. Katya could be a manipulative matriarch in the best tradition of Catherine de Medici. Or she was really only asking about good real estate opportunities in Armenia, or maybe Georgia?
If he did take the invitation, she’d still use the opportunity to twist him around and make him feel sorry for denying his sister’s request for help.
You’d be quite sane and well-adjusted if your family had happened to somebody else, his last ex had told him. He normally didn’t run around telling people about them (if he’d wanted to, he’d handle it like an American and get a therapist), but things had progressed so far with her that he’d almost taken her along to family gatherings, and felt he needed to brief her on what she’d encounter there.
But before that worst-case scenario had happened, she’d met a nice guy who had a boring nine-to-five and wanted family and was reliable and sweet and could actually share one of her five-year plans. He’d told her that as a Russian old enough to remember five-year planning and what it meant for people in reality, he wasn’t very well-suited for the “first career to mid-level, then a house and pension plan, then marry, then two children and a second car” spiel. And he couldn’t decide whether that was a fault or a strength.
No such thing with Henri, though. No plans, no power games, nothing but an invitation to have some fun.
Greek and casual, Henri had said, so he didn’t actually have to change, but he put on a tighter T-shirt, remembering Henri staring at his chest. Funny, he couldn’t decide how he felt about that, either. He just figured Henri’d like it; it wasn’t meant as a bastard move to show off or let the guy drool over him. Something would definitely happen, and he caught himself grinning, anticipation tightening his balls. As long as he was playing fair (and not raising expectations he couldn’t fulfill), there was no reason not to improvise as he went along.
He grabbed a light windbreaker and headed downstairs without dwelling on those thoughts any further. Though he would have to talk to Ruslan at some point and tell him what they were most likely up against.
When he came downstairs, Henri was already waiting. Ten minutes early.
“Hey.” Henri smiled at him. He was dressed in a suit, which he likely believed flattered him the most, and Nikolai agreed. He moved in it as if he’d never worn anything else. Much more comfortable than Nikolai would ever feel.
“Henri. You’re early.”
“Well, traffic wasn’t as bad as I’d thought.” Henri touched him on the shoulder and Nikolai allowed it, the friendly contact of buddies totally unaware of any possibility they might look gay. Not that it mattered much in urban Canada.
The silver rocket stood outside, and Nikolai folded himself into it, then relaxed in the leather seats. “This is comfortable in an entirely ungodly way.”
“It’s not when you try to go for a blowjob,” Henri said and patted the console. “Despite my best attempts, I’ve never managed in this car.”
Nikolai regarded the molded legroom and the high console, and since the car had no backseats, there was really only one place to have sex anywhere around the car. “Leaves the hood.”
Henri made a funny little sound close to a breathless stutter minus words.
Nikolai glanced at him, eyebrow arched. “Hadn’t occurred to you?”
Henri laughed, but it was a little strangled. “For a straight guy, you’re playing this very well.” He started the car and weaved into traffic.
With my family, it takes a great deal more than my First—okay, Second—Gay Experience to catch me out. Nikolai smiled. “Though I’ve found they are uncomfortable as hell.”
Henri shot him a warning glance. “Try not to get me to crash the car.”
“Just making conversation.” Nikolai grinned. He liked flustering Henri, liked his spontaneous, unguarded responses. Wasn’t that one of the things sex was about? Breaking down barriers? Though Henri was good at being vulnerable, despite the extremely expensive suits and the power he wielded in the boardroom.
Henri was silent for a while, then asked, “How did you spend the day?”
“Dealing with my family, and looking at the city.”
“And do you like it?”
“Well, I’d heard Toronto was nice, so I wasn’t all that surprised.” Henri was too polite to ask about the family, at least, and Nikolai wasn’t sure how he’d have responded. “What about you?”
“Caught up with work email. Once the IT guys hand you a BlackBerry, you’re giving away your weekends, regardless of where you are.”
“Electronic slave collar, yeah, sounds like it.”
/>
Henri shot him another glance. “Interesting way to describe it. Are you into it?”
“No. I mean, not really. Nothing really wild.”
Henri nodded. “I guess I was more adventurous. I had a bit of a crazy youth.”
“You did bondage?”
“One of my partners was into it, so I gave it a try. I guess that’s part of the attraction of much stronger men for me. The illusion that . . .” He waved his hand.
“You can’t control them.”
“Yeah.” Henri turned his head this way and that, checking the traffic, then parked on the side of a street, not far away from a restaurant called Hellas. “Sometimes, it’s nice not to think.”
“That’s the part I get. Just relax into it, go with the flow. But I’m not into hurting people.”
“No, you’re the gentle giant type.”
“I’m hardly that big.”
“From down here, you are.” Henri smiled at him and opened the car door. “Much as I’d like to take you back to the condo right now, I did promise you food first.”
“I still have questions.”
“Sure. I’ll ask for a table that’s a bit more private.” Henri opened the door and greeted the waiter, explaining which table he wanted, and within moments, they were comfortably tucked away in a corner, several tables away from any hapless witnesses.
“So, what did you want to know?”
“Those wild times?”
“Ah. Well, my father is the rogue in the family. Sensitive artist, beatnik, got involved in various causes. Like the Native rights movement, where he met my mother. He battled addiction for most of his life, so my uncle was forced to be the sensible one and take over the company. And he’s done really well, but he wasn’t on board with what my father did with his life. There was real poison between them—allowances cut, an attempt to have him committed, you know. I tried to escape from it all, traveled, got into a lot of different beds, some real shit, too. And one day I’m sitting on the beach in Goa, or it might have been Koh Samui, stoned out of my head, and realize I’m turning into my old man, only I can’t paint worth a damn and never organized a petition. Somehow, I’d pissed away ten years of my life, and managed not to catch AIDS or anything that couldn’t be sorted out with a course of penicillin. So, I called my uncle and asked him for help. None of his three children have a head for business. Or maybe they decided they’d be happier doing something else far, far away from him. So off I went into rehab and emerged just in time to start my MBA at Harvard. So my official CV? A load of bullshit. But the MBA, that was real. Just about killed my will to live, too.”
“I hadn’t checked that out.”
“There was a profile on me in the news when I became the designated Crown Prince of LeBeau Mining. Was voted ‘most eligible bachelor in Canada’ one year in Forbes.”
“Only that you’re gay.”
“Well, I could marry a guy in this country.” He shrugged. “But it hasn’t come up.”
Nikolai mulled that while the waiter took their order. Again, Henri made the decisions regarding wine and Nikolai put the food-related decision in his hands, too. Since Henri was a regular, he knew what was good.
Nikolai watched Henri charm the waiter with an easy smile and wondered why he hadn’t found a long-term partner. No traces from an ex or even current boyfriend in that bachelor pad. Not so much as a second toothbrush. But as the CEO-in-waiting, he might simply be too busy. “I assume your schedule doesn’t really allow you much in the way of relationships?” Nikolai asked.
“I’m very often just too tired, but yeah, sex is easier to get than a good conversation.”
Henri smiled at him, which oddly warmed Nikolai, and he wasn’t sure why he cared. Then again, Henri seemed like a really nice guy, and he was flattered and honestly hoped he’d find somebody who offered both great conversation and sex. From what he could tell, Henri deserved better than he had.
“You should take the time to find a boyfriend. It does change everything.”
“Like?”
“I don’t know. Stability. Peace. My father—” He stopped immediately, then grasped for something to save himself. He didn’t actually want to talk about Vadim, though he wasn’t ashamed of his father’s living arrangements. Or was he? No, he just didn’t talk about him with strangers. Not even with friends or work colleagues. Vadim resented sharing his life—or his thoughts—with anybody but his husband, and Nikolai was never sure if even his husband knew what was going on under the surface.
“Yes?” Henri prompted.
“My father married a guy in 2006. Once it became legal in Britain. He’s . . . at peace. He’s happy. I’m going to see him next week.”
Henri rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Is he bisexual?”
“No, he’s gay. Just took him a while to be able to live it. Despite what Putin’s doing in Russia, these days it doesn’t seem like such a big deal in the rest of the developed world, but back in the seventies, eighties . . . that was different. He was in the military. Soviet Army.”
“Ah, yes, that would be complicated.” Henri regarded him. “And what are your feelings about that? He must have left your mother?”
“She divorced him when I was very young and didn’t really get it.”
“You think she knew?”
“My mother’s not easily fooled. I’d expect she saw through him immediately. I don’t know, seems like a horrendous thing to do, doesn’t it?” And that’s just the things I can talk about in polite company.
“I think we all do things in our lives that seem a bit mad in hindsight.”
Nikolai chuckled. “For an ex-pothead, you still have the philosophy down pat.”
“I spent my twenties thinking deep thoughts. Some of that was bound to survive an MBA.”
“You don’t make it sound very appealing. I was considering it, but I’m not very academic.”
“Oh, I made friends and I worked hard and I can even use some of that these days. Mostly, it’s a method to solve problems, a way of thinking. But there’s also the danger of them crushing what’s you and putting their own methods and ideology in place. The danger is that you begin to think that’s actually you.” Henri leaned back when the waiter returned with half a dozen small plates of assorted bites and tiny dishes. “And here’s the food, in time before I admit I think you shouldn’t do it. You’re not the corporate type, Nikolai, and I don’t think it would give you anything.”
Nikolai nodded. “You’re possibly right.”
“So, tell me about your involvement with Cybele.”
Would he be giving Henri ammunition for the upcoming battle? Would he share this with his uncle? Maybe yes, despite the noticeable friction between them.
He’d have to be careful with what he shared. He couldn’t let Ruslan down. “I knew Ruslan from the rigs. He was high up on the food chain, well, high from the point of view of a driller. He was a Soviet-era petrochemical engineer, specialized in the trickier drills. Then he’s gone and the next thing I hear is that he’s started from scratch in gold exploration, got enough private backers and his own money riding on it, so I was in touch and he offered to let me come on board. I told him I have no clue about gold, but he wouldn’t hear it. He said all I needed was frontier spirit. A few years later, we took the company public, and he gave me a chunk of it. I’m not a big shareholder, but yes, that’s my pension plan. At least once we can start paying dividends.”
“You’re not selling?”
“No. I’m attached to that business. I got involved when Cybele was nothing but fancy letterhead and a one-page website. It would feel like selling my friends and a piece of myself.”
“And if somebody offered you a nicer job?”
“As an owner, I have flexibility. I can travel, visit my friends and family, or take some time out. As long as I’m on email and Ruslan knows where I am, I’m pretty much free to do what I want.”
“So you’re not drawing a salary?”
“I don�
�t need to. I made excellent money in oil. I have some dividend stocks, and I’m not living an extravagant lifestyle. What I need fits into two suitcases, and the second only because of the laptop.”
Henri shook his head. “Damn, I envy you.”
Nikolai laughed. “The main things that separate us are that MBA and the drugs.” Though he’d tried them and hated the loss of control. He wasn’t a control freak by any means, but he’d always preferred to be sober, certainly when other oil guys were involved and things became raucous. He’d heard the stories from the previous generation, who had been completely crazy, but the oil business had cleaned up a great deal since those days. The old-timers never tired of telling him it was now boring and strict and many had gotten out while the going was still good.
“I have nothing like that,” Henri said. “I’m just getting groomed to be a replacement.”
Nikolai reached over and touched his hand, and Henri glanced up and into his eyes. It was a weird moment, like recognition, just with a tightening of his balls. “Your uncle has to trust you, that’s worth something. I mean, there are big stakes, tens of thousands of workers, lots of shareholders, pensioners who rely on the dividends . . . it’s a huge amount of responsibility.”
Henri closed his fingers around Nikolai’s hand and studied it. “Ever wonder if something’s really you?”
“All the time.” Nikolai squeezed his hand and pulled back—to eat, not because he was worried about witnesses or about touching Henri. After what they’d done together, touching in public wasn’t a big deal. He’d do the same with a straight mate (unless he had a suspicion that the guy might try to punch him for it). Well, maybe less touchy-feely, at least until there was enough alcohol to act as a social lubricant—
Oh, the places his mind went.
The last mezze course consisted of dates filled with foie gras and goat cheese, drizzled in honey. The combination felt odd at first and then unfolded to be divine, the flavors spreading out into savory and salty and sweet at the same time, and the creamy and grainy, the dry and juicy textures tripping out his taste buds.
Gold Digger Page 5