by Tara Lain
He swallowed hard. Oh dear God. “Even th-then.”
She gave him a sideways glance. “You certainly aren’t a pushover, are you? No wonder you’re such a successful researcher.”
He just gazed at her as she stood.
“Discuss it with Van Pelt, then. Remember, according to Alonzo, even suggesting de Vere is Shakespeare will make you a laughingstock in many circles. Not the best for a famous researcher. Bad for the reputation.”
He stood beside her. “Th-thank y-you for c-coming by.”
She shook her head, then walked off the porch.
Well, hell, he didn’t really need that temptation further clouding his vision. Just when he’d pretty much decided to take this stupid case. Damn. Okay, cat food.
He reached inside the door—ignoring the caterwauls—grabbed his wallet, foldable shopping bag, and house keys from the hall table, and set out walking toward Higuera Street. Cat food or tea first?
Buy the food first, and then he could relax over a cup of tea for a few minutes at his favorite tea shop before he returned home.
On the side street that led to his house, he stopped at the small shop that specialized in pet food.
The bright-eyed salesgirl gave him a smile. “Hey, Dr. L.”
“H-hi, C-Carly.”
“Are those four-footed food fanatics at it again?”
“Y-yep.” He smiled back. He could manage one-on-one interactions so much better than groups.
She knew right where to go. Whistling through her teeth, she walked to the back and returned with six cans of Julius’s favorite that also satisfied Emily, and several packages of the homemade food Marie Antoinette chose and was all she would deign to eat. “Need anything else? Litter? Cat toys?”
“I-I’m their c-cat toy.”
She laughed. “I know how that is.” She rang up his purchases while he unfolded the nylon bag from its self-contained pouch, then put the food in. “Thanks so much, Dr. Lewis. Give those critters a pat for me. See you at school.”
He nodded and waved as he left. The brilliant fall sunshine greeted him and warmed his face as he ambled toward the tea shop. He loved the place, with its little sidewalk café and choices of all the best teas in the world. Of course, he always got the same thing. As he walked up, a couple vacated the perfect table—a medium-sized round café table in the corner of the patio, near the flower baskets and the fountain. He grabbed it and settled in with a sigh.
“Hey, handsome, how’s it hanging?”
He grinned at Lizzie Meredith, who along with her wife, Jay, owned Jazzie Tea. “H-hanging l-loose.”
She plopped down in the chair opposite him. “Lew-Lew, how come you stutter?”
His eyes must have widened in surprise, but he shouldn’t have been shocked. Lizzie said whatever came into her mind. “I-I d-don’t know.”
“Were your parents really smart like you?”
“N-no.” Maybe his father was, but how would he know?
“Well, there you are. I’ll bet nobody wanted you to show off your brains and make them look stupid, so they told you to shut up a lot.”
His mouth opened, closed, opened again. “Y-yes.”
She chuckled. “I knew that degree in psychology would come in handy someday.” She stood and wiped her palms on her baggy gray denims. “I’ll get your tea, sweetie.”
He stared after her sturdy butt. Son of a bitch. Talk about nailing him in one amateur therapy session. Yeah, and Ramon never got yelled at, so he didn’t stammer. A bit convenient, but what an interesting idea.
“Llewellyn?”
His head snapped up. “W-well, shit.”
“Excuse me?” George Stanley half laughed.
“S-sorry. S-so many coincidences.”
“Excuse me?” He full-on laughed then and slid into the chair Lizzie had occupied earlier.
Where’s the tea? Although truthfully, the morning sun shining off George’s fair hair and fair skin was diverting. Still—“H-how do y-you happen to b-be here?”
“I was staking out your home and followed you here—by way of cat food.”
“Y-you what?” His shock had to show all over his face.
George laughed nervously. “Yep. Desperate times and all that. I figured I likely wouldn’t see you if I didn’t take the issue into my own hands.”
“W-what issue?”
“Persuading you to go out with me.” He looked around. “How do we get some coffee around here?”
Llewellyn was still way back there—on the “going out with me” part.
Lizzie came bustling out at that moment, carrying a large steaming cup of English breakfast tea latte with vanilla. She stopped. “Oh. Aren’t you cute?” She set the tea in front of Llewellyn. “This your boyfriend, Llewellyn?”
“N-no.”
George leaned back in his chair. “Trying to be. May I have a caffe latte—if you carry caffe, that is?”
“Yes, we carry the beans, though we prefer the leaves. Whole milk or two percent?”
“Two percent’s fine. And tell him to go out with me or you’ll withhold his drug of choice.”
She gave him a long once-over. “Why are you worthy, boyo?”
“Well, let’s see. I’m moderately smart—nothing compared to him, I fear. Moderately attractive—again, a pale comparison. I have a great regard for the English language and a stupendous respect for history, but nothing like his talent.” He sighed dramatically. “You’re right. Completely unworthy.”
Llewellyn chuckled. Cute, if contrived.
Lizzie planted a fist on her square hip. “Not short on fake humility, I see.” She snorted. “Besides, you drink coffee. I’ll get it.” She walked away.
“Wh-what’s this about?” Llewellyn gave him as level a stare as he could muster.
George’s expression got more serious. “Just what I said. I’d like you to accept an invitation to dinner.”
Llewellyn stared at the handsome face. Man, he wanted to say “When did you trade in Blaise?” but he couldn’t say it as coolly as he imagined it. Plus Blaise and George could have been just what it appeared—a friendly meeting between two colleagues. Bringing it up would be really gauche. “Wh-when?”
“Would I be super insulting if I asked about tonight? I mean, I’d never assume you don’t have a date.”
Lizzie strode back with a paper cup of steamy, milky coffee and plopped it in front of George. “You should try tea. It’s better.” She slid a check on the table, gave George another evaluating look, and walked away.
George watched her go with a wry smile. “Man, she’s a tough room.”
“Y-yes, okay.”
“What?”
“I’ll g-go.”
“Oh, you mean dinner? Wow, that’s great. Do you have a favorite restaurant, or shall I pick?”
“You.”
“Okay. I’ll pick you up at seven, if that works for you.”
Llewellyn cast a sideways glance. “R-right. Y-you know where I l-live.” He sipped his tea. “H-how did y-you get my address?”
“Gosh, I’m not sure. Somebody in the department, I think.” He grinned. “I’ve been asking around about you for a while.”
Llewellyn smiled and drank more tea.
“Well, I have to get back. I’ve, uh, got some meetings today. But I’ll look forward to seeing you at seven.” He grabbed the check in front of Llewellyn, glanced at it, then looked at his own. He pulled money from his pocket and laid it on the checks. Grabbing his coffee, he shuffled from foot to foot. “Glad I ran into you.”
“I th-thought you f-followed me.”
“Yeah, well, even better. See you tonight.” He hurried off. Even his back looked relieved to get away.
Interesting. George seemed uncomfortable with Llewellyn, but whatever he had on his agenda must be worth a few hours of discomfort and a dinner bill. George had been at the university for at least a year and Llewellyn for far longer. No “asking around” had ever come to his attention. The fact was, he
appeared to have become the gay-boy flavor-of-the-month only since Anne de Vere started throwing around her millions. Hell, men were following him. That was a creepy thought.
With a deep breath, he swallowed the last of his drink and left an additional tip for Lizzie. Grabbing the coveted cat food, he started home. The night would be interesting, but right then he just resented not having been able to enjoy his tea.
Chapter Seven
BLAISE STOOD behind the bush and watched Llewellyn open his door and do the now-familiar kitty dip. This had been a high-exercise morning. He’d happened to drive by Llewellyn’s and seen George Stanley creeping around, then that Echevarria chick arrived and hung out on the porch for fifteen minutes, coming away looking not altogether happy. Then Llewellyn had left the house on foot with George on his tail, so Blaise had parked and taken off in pursuit. When he saw Llewellyn’s trajectory, Blaise had hurried into the tea shop and stood inside by the window when Llewellyn took his seat on the patio—and when George accosted him.
So that little shit Stanley was taking Llewellyn out to dinner. Why? When Stanley had coaxed Blaise out for coffee the previous day, he’d come on pretty strong to him. But he’d also asked a few well-placed questions about Llewellyn, usually with an almost mocking tone. He’d called him Lew-Lew and made fun of the fact that his TAs had to do all his teaching because he was too shy. Then he sits there and praises Llewellyn to the skies in that tea shop. What the fuck is his game?
And that woman.
Hell, am I any better?
Clearly, there are way too many games afoot.
As Llewellyn’s door closed behind the man and his cats, Blaise slipped between the houses to his car on the next street over. Chances were he wouldn’t learn much more—until seven o’clock.
“H-HEY, GUYS, you’re g-getting fur on my j-jacket.” Llewellyn grabbed his sports coat from the bed, displacing Marie Antoinette, who gave him a withering glance. “S-sorry.” He smoothed the dark jeans he didn’t usually wear and stared in the closet door mirror. “D-do I look okay?”
“Mewwwr.” Marie gave him her fuzzy back.
“Y-yeah. S-silk purse. Sow’s ear. I know.” He turned his back on his reflection. Funny that he was so willing to look like a mud fence when clearly Ramon had sprung from his soul in protest. Some part of him screamed to be admired and desired, but he couldn’t seem to get the two parts together. Llewellyn wasn’t ready to let Ramon in on a permanent basis. Hiding was much easier, and he had a helluva lot of practice.
His cell rang on the dresser. Probably George canceling. He grabbed it, looked at the screen, and considered not answering. “Hello, sir.”
“Lewis, what the hell are you doing?”
“Uh, getting r-ready f-for dinner.”
“I mean about Anne de Vere, of course!”
“I-I need to sp-speak to y-you, s-sir. B-but I-I’m late for an engagement.”
“What about? I can’t imagine that there’s anything to talk about.”
“H-have you sp-spoken to C-Carmen Echevarria?”
“No.”
Damn. “C-can we t-talk tomorrow or M-Monday?”
“Anne’s going to run out of patience and go to Ramon Rondell.”
“N-no, she’s n-not.”
“How do you know that?” His voice reeked suspicion.
Because I won’t take her call. “B-because she said she’d g-give me the w-weekend. Plus she wants v-validation. C-can’t get that from Rondell. Are you prepared to rename the b-building?”
“For four million, I’ll paint the damned thing orange. And how can you scoff at that much money in your bank account? Of course, since you’ll be conducting the research under the auspices of the university we’ll have to explore your claim to the money now, won’t we?”
Of course you will.
The knock on his door sent all three cats in curious pursuit. “I-I’ll talk to you l-later.”
“Don’t blow this, Lewis. It won’t be well received.” He hung up.
For a second Llewellyn thought about sitting down and typing out his resignation. After all, Ramon did pretty well, and he didn’t have a lot of expenses. Llewellyn, not Ramon. But he thought of how much he liked Maria, and the nice comfy tenure that protected his position—and the nice comfy cave of an office that protected him. True, he didn’t much like Van Pelt, but the man wasn’t usually awful. Right now his biggest motivation had a hold of him—greed—and that did bad things to everyone.
The knock came again, louder and more insistently. Llewellyn tossed off the impulse to do something rash and trotted to the door, where Julius was sniffing like a bloodhound and the girls were waiting with trembling impatience for a visitor. “I-I s-swear, you’re all d-dogs.”
He opened the door. George stood there, looking—well, actually kind of delicious. Not three-course meal, nutritional delicious, but a well-prepared appetizer. “H-hello.”
George’s eyes widened and traveled briefly down Llewellyn’s torso, stopping somewhere around the hips. Okay, these jeans did hug areas he usually disguised. George looked up quickly. “You look really nice.”
“Th-thanks. Y-you too.”
“Who have we here?” George bent down and extended a hand to the felines. Julius gave him an immediate sniff, Emily hung back as was her way, and Marie flipped her tail and walked away in disgust.
“S-sorry. She’s a pr-princess.”
“I’ll say.” He stood and wiped his hands on his tan jeans.
“Oh, I f-forgot my jacket. B-be right back.” Leaving George in the entry, he hurried into the bedroom, pulled on his khaki jacket, and stared at himself one last time. Regular old Llewellyn. He turned and lifted his jacket hem. But okay ass.
When he got back to the entry, George wasn’t there. He glanced to his right into the living room and found George staring at the books on one of his many shelves. He looked up. “I thought I had a lot of books.”
“M-my friends.”
“You have quite a few volumes on Shakespeare, I notice.”
“Y-yes.”
He smiled, but it seemed—what? Tight. “Have you started researching for Anne?”
“N-no. Those are from before.”
“Oh. You did previous research on this topic?” His brows rose with a lot of interest.
“N-no. Just Shakespearean h-history.” That wasn’t a lie, exactly. Ramon had done the research. “Sh-shall we g-go?”
“Oh, sure.” George walked with purpose toward the door, and when Llewellyn followed, the cats fell in behind. In the entry Llewellyn shrugged apologetically, then knelt and gave each of the cats a pet, reserving the last and most lavish for Marie Antoinette. “S-see you later.”
George kind of chuckled as Llewellyn stood. “It must be nice having pets—I guess.”
“It’s w-work.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
In George’s Camry, they listened to music and didn’t talk much. He’d chosen an Italian restaurant downtown. They could have walked, but Llewellyn was just as glad to drive. Sometimes walking with someone was awkward, since his legs were so long and he didn’t like to dawdle. There was also the question of touching—holding hands or arms. George said, “You sure have a nice house. I was lucky to get a two-bedroom apartment.”
“F-family house.”
“Oh wow, that’s great. It looks real historical. When was it built?”
“L-late twenties, early th-thirties.”
“Craftsman.”
“Y-yes.”
“Next time you’ll have to give me a tour.”
Llewellyn nodded. Interesting that a next time appeared to be on tap. That made two.
The restaurant turned out to be one Llewellyn considered moderately good. George had made a reservation, which earned him points with Llewellyn, and they got a nice booth in the back.
They ordered Chianti and chatted about school, weather, and San Luis, but some shoe wanted to drop, and Llewellyn kept waiting for it. The only time George had
seemed really engaged was when he looked at the Shakespeare books. Not a good sign for their social future.
A waitress bubbled over and took their orders—George for lasagna and Llewellyn for chicken piccata—and then left them with wine and breadsticks. George grabbed one and held it up in a mock swordfight. “En garde.”
Llewellyn played the game and broke George’s breadstick.
“Ah, you got me.” George held up his tumbler full of red wine. “To us.”
Llewellyn clinked glasses but didn’t smile. They both drank.
“So, are you going to do the research for Anne de Vere?”
It could be an innocent question. He’d been there when she made her grand announcement. “I d-don’t know. V-Van Pelt sure w-wants me to.”
“Want my advice?”
Ah, they’d arrived at the point. “S-sure.”
“I did my dissertation on Shakespeare, and I really think you’ll be a laughingstock if you try to push the old Oxfordian turkey of an argument.”
He nodded. “P-perhaps.”
George frowned. Probably not as dramatic a response as he’d wanted. “Seriously, all major scholars have given up the argument. There’s just too much evidence that Shakespeare was Shakespeare. I mean, all his friends acknowledged him as a writer. Even his wife.”
Llewellyn glanced up through his lashes. Finally, a subject that squeezed some juice out of the man. “You d-don’t think it could have been an inside j-joke?”
“You mean everyone getting in on the conspiracy? Hell, no. Why would they?”
“Fun. M-money.”
“You think the earl bribed all those people to pretend that old Will was really the Bard? Even Ben Johnson? You don’t believe that.” His eyes widened and his cheeks got pink.
Llewellyn shrugged.
“Honestly, even his printers and publishers acknowledged his authorship. No one in his own time thought differently. It’s just a stupid conspiracy theory cooked up long after his death.”
“M-maybe.”
The waitress brought their food, and George sat back in the chair as she placed the gooey, rich-smelling dish in front of him. As soon as she’d given Llewellyn his chicken and left, George said, “You’re going to take it on, aren’t you?”