by Tara Lain
Anne angled toward Llewellyn, holding her menu. “What’s good here, Llewellyn?”
“I-I don’t—” He swallowed. “—know.”
Blaise leaned in on her other side and smiled at Llewellyn like they were somehow in this together. “What sort of food do you like, Anne? We three novices can decide together.”
She pulled glasses from her purse and perched them on her nose. “I’m fond of seafood and fish, but I’m quite particular about how it’s prepared. I prefer simple but still flavorful.”
“Ah, don’t we all.” Blaise gave a half grin and glanced at Llewellyn again. Despite the fact that the statement was likely 100 percent innocent, Llewellyn blushed.
That turned Blaise’s half smile full and increased the chance that the remark had been just as lewd as it sounded. “Do you like seafood, Dr. Lewis?”
Llewellyn managed a nod.
“Lobster with lots of butter?”
Llewellyn licked his lips, and Blaise smiled slowly. “You, Anne? Shall we all splurge and try the lobster?”
“Sounds delicious. How about I make it my treat?”
He whispered sotto voce. “How about we let it be the university’s treat?”
Llewellyn admired him. When would he ever have the balls to suggest the university should buy him lobster?
Blaise looked up and winked. The waiter arrived beside him, and he proceeded to order for all three of them, saying things like “I know baked potatoes are more traditional, but mashed are so decadent, don’t you think?”
Anne almost sighed when she said, “Oh yes.”
Even the waiter seemed caught up in Blaise’s easy rock-star charm. “What can I get you lovely people to drink?”
“I think champagne goes with lobster, don’t you?”
When the waiter walked away, Anne looked between Blaise and Llewellyn. “I know you were just introduced, but you seem to know Dr. Lewis, Blaise.”
A blue gaze that could penetrate metal flashed up to Llewellyn before he could shift his eyes. “Everyone knows Llewellyn Lewis, the man who solves the mysteries of history.”
Llewellyn frowned. “I-I only try.”
Anne put a warm hand on his arm. “No, I totally agree. Your research is amazing. That’s why I sought you out.”
The waiter placed champagne flutes in front of them and began to fill them with bubbly. If Van Pelt disapproved, he gave no sign. He just drank his iced tea while talking to Harley, who eyed Blaise’s champagne with open envy. When the glasses were full, Blaise lifted his. “To new friendships making exciting history.”
What the hell did he mean by that? Still, Llewellyn drank.
Anne sipped her champagne and smiled. “I have a mystery I need you to solve, Dr. Lewis.”
“L-llewellyn.”
“Llewellyn.” Her gaze drifted to the glass, and she seemed to watch the bubbles rise. “I have a famous ancestor.”
“Ed-Edward.” It wasn’t a question.
Her face lit up. “Oh yes. I knew you’d understand.”
He didn’t exactly. Feared might be a better word.
Blaise said, “Edward? Edward who?”
“De Vere.” She looked at him as if any literate person would know his name, which really wasn’t true.
“S-seven-teenth Earl of Ox-oxford.”
“Correct.” She beamed at Llewellyn.
Stanley spoke from the other side of the table. “You’re a descendant of the Earl of Oxford, Anne?”
“Yes, direct. My father was very proud of the association, but sadly he died before anything could be done to establish the earl’s true place in history.”
“How interesting. I did my dissertation on—”
The waiters began serving food, which halted the conversation, and Llewellyn tried to get excited about lobster, mashed potatoes, and forty gallons of butter. Still, his stomach turned, not only because the room full of people made him break out in hives, but also because he had a very uneasy feeling about Anne de Vere’s ancestor.
On the other hand, watching Blaise Arthur eat lobster dripping in dairy products should have been rated triple-X. Tongue, shiny lips, laughter, plus moans and slurps fit for a porn soundtrack all punctuated his thoroughly delightful attack on the sea creature. His pure enthusiasm made others at the table smile, and Llewellyn want to lick the butter from his chin—and anywhere else he could manage to spill some.
I need to get out of here.
Anne ate with fewer sound effects but definite appreciation, probably more because of the company of the sparkling young man than the food, even though it was darned good. Finally she sat back in her chair. “Oh my, that was delicious.”
Van Pelt flashed all his teeth. “So glad you enjoyed it.” Leave it to the chairman to remind them of who was footing the bill. “Did you like your food, Alonzo? Mrs. Echevarria?”
She stuck out a full lower lip. “I should have ordered the lobster.” She gave Anne a sideways look and swallowed another long pull of martini.
“Yes, well, I hope you both will be able to join us tomorrow for a tour of the campus. And you, Anne. We’d love to show off our excellent facilities that help us attract researchers and educators of the caliber you see here. A staff worthy of your illustrious ancestor.” He nodded toward the assembled professors.
Llewellyn wanted to crawl under the table. Subtlety was not Van Pelt’s strong suit.
Amazingly, Blaise spoke up. “Why doesn’t everyone consider the chairman’s wonderful invitation over dessert? I notice they have mud pie, and who doesn’t love chocolate on chocolate? Perhaps some for the table?” He cocked his head at Van Pelt.
The suggestion, complete with wide blue eyes and a turn of a smile, came across as guileless. Was it? Or did this charmer know his effect on people down to the last goose bump? But it worked. Anne smiled, Mr. Echevarria stopped looking hunted, and everyone took up the discussion of the pros and cons of chocolate, agreeing it didn’t have any cons.
“Do you like chocolate, Llewellyn?”
Oh God, chitchat. His horror challenge. He opened his mouth—
Blaise leaned on his hand. “I’ll bet Dr. Lewis loves, hmmm—” He gazed upward as Anne giggled, and Llewellyn forced himself not to lean over and kiss him out of sheer gratitude for taking the pressure off him to answer. Well, that was one of the reasons. “I guess coconut. Am I right?”
Actually, he did love coconut. “Y-yes.” He nodded.
Anne’s eyes got wide. “How did you know that? I mean, you could guess a person loved chocolate, but coconut? Come on.”
“I cheated.” He connected that direct gaze again. “I read it in some obscure biography of Dr. Lewis.”
Was he more flattered or concerned that Blaise seemed to know so much about him?
Anne held up a finger. “Professor Van Pelt, if we’re ordering a selection, can we also have a slice of the coconut cake?”
“Well, of course, my dear.” Van Pelt waved for the waiter and began ordering desserts and lots of spoons and forks while Llewellyn tried to keep his eyes off Blaise.
Did he do that to keep me from having to answer?
Blaise said, “I’m so interested in hearing more about your relative, Anne.”
Leaning forward across the table, Stanley said, “So am I.” He smiled with his pleasant dimples.
She looked around the table at the interested faces and shook her head. “Perhaps later. Let’s enjoy dessert first.”
A couple of minutes later, the waiters arrived with plates piled with mud pie and one giant piece of coconut cake with ice cream next to it. They presented the pies with a flourish toward the middle of the table and distributed utensils liberally, but placed the cake ceremoniously in front of Anne.
She beamed. “Lovely, thank you.” She glanced at Llewellyn with a grin.
Blaise picked up a fork and cut a piece of cake, then swiped it through the ice cream. He turned the handle to Anne. “Care to do the honors?”
“No. You.”
Slowly he extended the fork to Llewellyn.
“B-but—” Llewellyn’s heart beat so hard he almost couldn’t hear.
“You’re the coconut expert. You have to judge.”
The treat hovered a mere inch from his lips, filling his head with the rich scent, while over the top of the frosting, all he could see were blue dancing eyes full of mischief—and lust. Must be an illusion.
He started to reach for the fork, but Blaise pulled it back. “Uh, uh, uh. Eat.” The laden fork traveled back to his lips, nudged, and with a sigh Llewellyn bit. Flavor exploded and lit up his tongue like a new-movie marquee. Did the presence of Blaise on the other end of that fork make the coconut sweeter? Oh yes. A thousand times yes.
A certain stillness made him pull back. Every person at the table was staring at him with either rapt envy or harsh disapproval. He sucked wind, pulled coconut up his nose, coughed, snorted, and sprayed particles onto the tablecloth—and all over Anne de Vere’s lap.
She made a squeaking sound, Van Pelt exploded with “Dear God, Lewis!” and a couple of the professors laughed.
Fire flamed through Llewellyn’s head, and the whole room full of judging, critical monsters stood out in harsh relief like someone had turned on a klieg light. Before he could control his body, he pushed back his chair with a loud scrape, leaped to his feet, and ran out of the dining room, across the now packed restaurant where dozens of people stared, and out into the cool, dry California night.
No more. Never again. Van Pelt could take his job and shove it. He didn’t need it.
Stumbling slightly, he broke into a trot toward his car.
He almost made it.
“Dr. Lewis. Llewellyn! Please stop. Wait.”
Running footsteps came toward him, and Llewellyn powered to his car door. Just as he opened it, a hand gripped his shoulder, bringing him to an abrupt stop. He whirled to find Blaise behind him, wise enough to step back and raise his hands with a smile. “I come in peace.”
A more staccato set of footfalls sounded on the sidewalk. Well, hell, Anne de Vere. She ran up beside Blaise, breathing hard. “Please don’t go yet. It’s not everyone I’d run for in these shoes.” She stuck out one stiletto-clad foot.
Blaise said, “I’m so sorry, Dr. Lewis. I just don’t have good sense sometimes. I never should have put you in such a terrible position. I apologize from my soul.”
“N-not your f-f-fault.”
“Yes, it is. I completely overstepped my bounds. I feel like I know you, and I acted inappropriately.”
Llewellyn took a breath. “Y-you tried to make me f-feel comfortable.” He spoke slowly and got most of the words out. He didn’t want Blaise to take the blame.
Blaise smiled softly. “Yes, I did.”
Anne stepped closer. “Please don’t go until I’ve had a chance to tell you why I came.”
He met her gaze, and his whole stomach clenched. No. No way. “I—I—”
“Please let me tell you. You must know that Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford, is one of the people most often named as the true author of the works of Shakespeare.”
Blaise looked up at Llewellyn. “He is? I thought it was, like, Marlowe or Bacon.”
“No, no.” Anne waved a hand dismissively. “The Earl of Oxford has long been regarded as the most likely candidate to have written both the sonnets and the plays.”
“Yes, he’s one of the top candidates, if you believe such things.” The voice came from the sidewalk beside his car, and Llewellyn looked up to see George Stanley, Van Pelt, the Echevarrias, as well as the whole crew of dinner guests, with one or two defections, gathering there.
If I drive away, maybe I could just go to North Dakota and hide for the rest of my life? He swiped a hand over his face. Right, they love gay freaks there.
Anne frowned. “Not one of them, the most prominent among them, as I’m sure Dr. Lewis will agree.” He said nothing, and she didn’t seem to care. She was on a roll. “It’s been a dream of my family to investigate the earl’s position in this mystery for some time.”
I could run. Forget the car.
“That’s why I’ve sought out Dr. Lewis. He’s renowned throughout the world for uncovering new evidence in some of the great questions of history.” Her voice rang out like she was in a Shakespearean play herself. “That’s why I want him to prove beyond a doubt that my ancestor, Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford, is the real author of the works of William Shakespeare.”
Llewellyn shook his head back and forth like a befuddled cow. “So many tr-tr-tried. C-can’t—”
She raised her voice even more. “And I’m prepared to present the university with a historical research grant of five million dollars in order to prove this claim. One million to go to Dr. Lewis and the rest for dedication of the history building to my ancestor, Edward de Vere.”
For a second the whole street—the whole world—went silent.
Someone—maybe Echevarria—murmured, “No.”
Then Van Pelt’s voice rang out. “Well, that sounds like one of the most exciting and worthwhile historical research undertakings I’ve ever heard.”
Running wasn’t enough. Maybe he should vomit.
Chapter Four
HE’D ACTUALLY run. Stuttering that he had to get home, he’d crawled in his car, told Anne he’d talk to her another time, and raced down the street, challenging the performance statistics of the old Volvo. Bypassing several opportunities to jump off bridges between the club and his home, he pulled into his driveway and dropped his head on the steering wheel. Kill me now.
It’s what he got for focusing on weird events and mysteries, but dammit, that’s what fascinated him. He never promised he could solve them all. He didn’t even want to. Just roaming around in all the facts and theories fascinated him and made him happy. Wildass theories and proofs—those were Ramon’s job. Hell, Ramon had even written an article on the real Shakespeare and given a gazillion reasons why de Vere was a likely candidate. Ramon didn’t have to prove shit. He could just talk through his fashionable hat. On the other hand, that meant Llewellyn knew intimately just how impossible proving the case would be. So many had already tried.
Lifting his head, he crawled out the door and dragged himself into the three-story house that was the only artifact of his weird parentage—a mother who had been beautiful as a girl but who slowly degenerated into a gray, broken drudge, hating the son her one liaison with a rich, powerful man had produced. Said man, who Llewellyn had never met, gave his mother this house. She’d hated it too.
He loved it.
Before he even got all the way in the door and flipped on the chandelier in the entry, his welcoming committee met him.
“Meeow.”
“Mrwaowr.”
“Mew.”
Silky bodies rubbed against his legs and tried to trip him by weaving in and out of his legs as he attempted to move. With the lights on, he bent down and immediately got Marie Antoinette—the white Persian someone had dropped off at the shelter because she was so damned finicky they couldn’t afford to feed her—jumping up on his lap.
Julius—as in Caesar—large, orange, and stocky, tried to make the leap as well and got a swipe of her paw and a hiss that put him in his place, which was flat on his butt on the floor. He might outweigh her by three times, but no one ruled Marie.
Emily Dickinson held back in her dreamy calico way. She never demanded, but wooed with her demure manner and calculating intelligence.
He petted them all liberally, then stood, still carrying Marie, and walked to the big old-fashioned kitchen with shiny new appliances. “S-sorry to b-be so late. I know you’re hungry. You w-wouldn’t believe what happened today.”
He took their dishes he’d left drying on the counter and scooped a healthy portion from the packages of wet food he kept in the refrigerator into each dish. Julius got double and the girls didn’t seem to mind. They watched their figures. Marie had to have chicken and nothing——repeat, nothing—else. H
e gave Marie her dish first—she was alpha, after all—then Emily and Julius together.
Suddenly Marie stiffened, her flat face came up, and her long white fur stood on end. “Urrrrrrr.” She stared toward the door in the kitchen that led into the dining room—no open concept when his house was built. Not sure why, Llewellyn inched his hand along the counter toward the knife block, never taking his eyes from the kitchen door.
The front doorbell rang.
He froze. No! Could Van Pelt have told Anne de Vere where he lived?
“Hello. Hello, Llewellyn, are you here?”
Well, damn. He slowly released a breath and took another as Blaise Arthur appeared in the kitchen doorway.
Blaise looked from Llewellyn’s face to his hand, just inches from grasping the handle of a butcher knife. “Whoa. Hang on, Jim Bowie. Sorry to scare you. Your door was standing open, and I was a little worried that you’d decided to run for Alaska or hang yourself by one of Van Pelt’s neckties.”
A laugh bubbled up from Llewellyn’s belly. That description so perfectly described his options, he just kept chuckling until all three cats looked at him like he was nuts. Marie relaxed her puffed-up fur seemingly one hair at a time, flicked her tail, and returned to her chicken dinner.
Finally he managed to stop laughing. “Uh, how d-did you know w-where I live?”
Blaise cocked his grin to the side. “I followed you, and I must say, I had to move pretty fast to do it.”
What the hell? “W-why?”
“I told you. Suicide prevention.”
Was he disappointed in that answer? He spread his arms. “A-as you see.”
“Feline-feeding duty.”
“I’m a cr-crazy cat lady.”
Blaise leaned against the door, arms crossed, one nicely muscled leg cocked over the other, and a sexy-as-hell grin on his face. “Neither crazy nor a lady so far as I can see.”
“S-so what do you want?”
“There’s a challenging question. Just accept my mother-of-compassion routine at face value and offer me a drink.”
He still frowned. “B-beer? Wine?”
“Beer would be great.”