The Case of the Sexy Shakespearean

by Tara Lain

  Llewellyn frowned a little. “M-maybe. Wh-why do you c-care?”

  George stared at him like maybe a cobra had crawled onto the table. “I guess that much money can dilute anyone’s integrity.”

  That got a much bigger frown from Llewellyn, and George saw the reaction.

  “Sorry. Didn’t really mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Oh?” He raised an eyebrow, neither of them eating.

  “I’m just worried about you. You have such an untarnished reputation, and since this is a field I’m so familiar with, I feel it’s my duty to warn you. I’m sure when you look into it further, you’ll agree with me.”

  “Maybe.” He still gazed at George.

  With a loud bark, George laughed. “Sorry. Guess I was coming on a little strong. It’s just that I lived with old Will for a few years, and I must have some investment in him being the unschooled genius rather than the urbane nobleman.”

  “A-amazing no m-matter what.”

  “Yeah, but doesn’t it thrill you that one of the greatest writers in the world ever was a dirt-poor guy with an elementary education? I know it included classics and such, but still.”

  “M-many playwrights were l-lower c-class. M-most.”

  “My point exactly. And Shakespeare, for God’s sake.” He shook his head. “It boggles my mind.”

  “Y-yes. Perhaps that’s m-my point exactly. It boggles the mind t-too much.”

  For a moment, George’s face sobered intensely; then he smiled big. “Let’s not let all this great food get cold.”

  Llewellyn cut his chicken and chewed, but George’s intensity had taken some of the casual out of casual dining.

  After pretending to chat and laugh for another hour, they left the restaurant. On the sidewalk, George said, “Would you like to go to a show or dancing?”

  “N-no, thanks. Got t-to admit, this week’s taken it out of m-me. Probably best to have an early n-night.”

  “I guess Van Pelt can be pretty intense.”

  “Y-yes.”

  “So he really wants you to do this thing?”

  “Th-there m-might be other options.”

  “Really?” If he’d been a dog, his ears would have stood up. “What?”

  “I c-can’t say now.”

  He actually glanced from side to side. “Hush-hush?”

  “Y-yeah.”

  “I’ll be watching with interest.” He led the way to the car with more enthusiasm than he’d shown for the last hour.

  In front of his house, Llewellyn said the obligatory words. “W-would you like to come in?”

  George showed teeth. “Aw, thank you, but I know you’re tired. We’ll get to know each other better next time.” He winked, and Llewellyn almost laughed at the lack of subtlety. But seconds later George pulled away from the curb as Llewellyn let himself into his house—and they hadn’t said another word about a second date. Thank God.

  Instead of stooping to pet the kitties, he hit the overhead lights, walked into the kitchen, and poured himself a beer, then threw off his jacket and collapsed on the couch, patting his lap for Marie and whoever felt up to challenging her for the position. He instantly had a lap full of fur as he downed the cool, bittersweet liquid.

  What the hell had that whole dinner been about? George just fell into line as one more person who seemed to have some stake in his research. Jesus, he’d gone from being an obscure academic toiler to the primary shaper of everybody’s dreams.

  Like some harbinger of doom, somebody knocked on his door.

  He cringed. Who the hell is that? He could go weeks and never have a visitor, and suddenly he was LAX.

  The cats went wacko, leaping up and meowing loudly as Llewellyn stood and crossed warily to the front door. “Who is it?”

  No answer. Well, hell. He needed a peephole—and a doorbell that worked. Right, and a better dry cleaner and more vacations days. Shit.

  He opened the door.

  Uhhhh—

  Grinning, Blaise Arthur leaned against the doorframe. “Since your date didn’t, can I come in?”

  “Wh-what the h-h-hell are you d-doing here, and how do you know I had a d-date?” All those words rushed out before a wave of remembrance washed over him—heat and desire so deep he could have drowned in it. With a soft gasp, Llewellyn turned on his heel and walked back into the living room, sat on the couch, and took a long swallow of beer.

  When he looked up, Blaise stood in the arch of his living room. He hadn’t stopped grinning. “That was the shortest date on record.”

  “And y-you know this because—”

  “I came to see you and watched you arrive home.” He glanced at his watch. “I happened to notice it was 9:00 p.m.” He grinned even broader, which looked so adorable on his beautiful face it almost made Llewellyn sigh.

  “H-how do you know w-we didn’t start at noon?”

  Blaise laughed, and it manifested as music for Llewellyn’s balls. Control your dumb self. He drank the rest of his beer.

  “Want another?” He nodded toward Llewellyn’s glass. “I thought I’d get one for myself.”

  Llewellyn’s mouth opened, and all that came out was laughter.

  Blaise turned and walked away. Llewellyn heard a distant rattle and pop, and a couple of seconds later, Blaise walked back into the room with two beer bottles. He handed one to Llewellyn and sat beside him on the couch. “I like your beer.”

  Llewellyn shook his head but said, “Th-thanks.”

  All three cats stared at Blaise, and Julius broke the ice by rubbing against him. Emily gave him a tentative sniffle, then settled beside him. With a flick of her tail, Marie Antoinette approached and gave Blaise a long look-see. Then, with the sound of heavenly harps playing in the background, she delicately stepped onto his lap.

  Llewellyn heard his own gasp.

  Blaise looked up with wide, shiny eyes and reverently applied a gentle hand to Marie’s long, pristine white, silken fur.

  In a world of awards, recognition, and prestige, Blaise had just been given the ultimate recommendation.

  Chapter Eight

  “WH-WHY ARE you here?”

  “To pet Marie Antoinette, obviously.” He grinned, and it was pretty easy to see why the cat succumbed to his charms. Jesus, that face.

  “S-seriously.”

  He looked up from the focused petting ritual. “I guess I could say I was worried about you and the pressure you must be under.”

  “Y-you could say that, or it’s t-true?”

  “Caught that subtle difference, did you?” He chuckled and looked down at Marie, who was now sprawled across his lap in wanton feline abandon. “I’d guess it’s true.”

  “Yes.”

  “Van Pelt?”

  “E-everyone.”

  Blaise looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

  Llewellyn held up one hand with fingers spread and counted them. “Anne de V-vere, V-van Pelt, Echevarria, George. I don’t even know who’s p-putting pressure on V-Van P-Pelt from the administration.”

  “Why does George have a dog in the hunt?” He got a little too close to Marie’s butt, and she gave him a warning look. He moved his hand fast.

  “He d-doesn’t. J-just thinks he knows Sh-Shakespeare was Shakespeare and w-wanted to keep me from making a m-mistake.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’ve traced v-very good arguments on b-both sides.”

  “You have?” He looked startled.

  Careful. “Y-yes. C-can’t research historical mysteries without running across it.”

  “I suppose.” But his eyes lingered on Llewellyn’s face an extra second. “Maybe you’ll discover something brand-new on one side or the other of the argument. That’d be exciting.”

  “C-could happen. It’s extensively researched already.”

  “But that’s what you do, right? Uncover new evidence.”

  Llewellyn shrugged.

  “Or tell them all to go to hell and live however you want to
live.”

  Llewellyn snorted. “There’s n-no s-such thing.”

  “Sure there is. If you don’t want much, it’s a lot easier to achieve. If you’re not attached to what you do have, you don’t care if it’s gone.”

  “Is t-that how y-you live?”

  “Hell, no, but it sure sounded Zen, didn’t it?” He laughed.

  “S-so now tell the t-truth.”

  “About why I came here?”

  Llewellyn nodded.

  Blaise stared down at Marie. “What do you think, beauty? Shall I tell him?”

  She rolled on her back and presented belly, purring.

  “I’m taking that as an affirmative vote.” He gave her a few strokes to her silky underfur, then lifted her and set her beside him on the couch.

  “Mew!” She jumped off the couch with a flick of the tail and stalked to the other side, where Llewellyn sat.

  So did Blaise. He stood in front of Llewellyn, gazing down, some kind of battle going on behind his eyes. “I don’t really give a shit about Shakespeare. But don’t tell the English department that, okay?”

  Llewellyn’s throat was so dry he barely got out the word. “Okay. W-what do you c-care about?”

  Blaise rested a knee on the couch right beside Llewellyn’s hip. “This.” In one swooping move, he leaned in and captured Llewellyn’s lips with his mouth as his palms cupped Llewellyn’s cheeks. That left them both off balance in more ways than one, and Blaise half pressed, half fell on top of Llewellyn as he rode him down onto the cushions of the couch.

  Usually Llewellyn had to consciously relax his mind to be able to enjoy a kiss or any other kind of sexual attention. Not this time. One touch of those perfect lips blew every neurocircuit, and Llewellyn’s body went up in flames—as if he were in a steam room.

  Llewellyn parted his lips as the scent of clove and orange seeped into his nose and traveled along his nerves like a drug. He couldn’t control his tongue or his hands. They wanted to be everywhere at the same time, his tongue pressing and exploring the soft, pliable recesses of Blaise’s mouth. Like being drunk, which he’d only experienced once or twice in his life. He slid his fingers under the hem of Blaise’s sweater, and the touch of soft skin—as silky as Marie’s fur—seared through him.

  One little trickle of thought tiptoed into his brain. When they’d caressed in the steam room, it had been anonymous. Nothing more than a hookup, even though Llewellyn knew with whom he was hooking. Now Blaise knew him. Llewellyn. He’d chosen him. The truth of that choice thrilled him, but—

  He must have tensed because Blaise responded, slowing the kiss and pulling back. “Problem?” He smiled down into Llewellyn’s eyes.

  “W-why?”

  Blaise shook his head but didn’t lose the grin—or the erection that pressed through his jeans into Llewellyn’s groin. Man, did that feel good. Blaise made a cute grimace. “You’re full of questions.”

  “It’s my j-job.”

  “I think you’re sexy.”

  “I think you’re cr-crazy.”

  “Would you be open to having a relationship with me?”

  “I-I don’t know. Define ‘re-relationship.’”

  Blaise pushed up on his arms and then rose to sitting. Wise but disappointing. “It’d be like most relationships, I guess.”

  “I w-wouldn’t know.” Llewellyn sat up too, hiding his sigh.

  “Oh. Well, we’d have some drinks, go to dinner and a movie, and see what happens. If we like each other, maybe we keep going.”

  “Going w-where?”

  “Jesus, Llewellyn, haven’t you ever been in a relationship with a guy?”

  “N-no.” He stared at his hands. That was mostly true. Ramon did one-night stands from time to time.

  “How come?”

  Llewellyn shrugged. “I-I’m sh-shy. I stammer. I’m p-plain. Too much work for n-not enough reward.” He smiled but gazed at his hands. Still, he could feel Blaise staring at him.

  “Now I’m the one who thinks you’re crazy. Just to be superficial, you’re tall and lithe and have a killer ass and beautiful eyes.”

  Llewellyn gaped at him.

  “You’re wicked smart and interesting as hell and you have cool cats. Your stammering doesn’t bother me, and I figure if you get comfortable with me, you’ll stammer less. But it doesn’t really matter. I like what you have to say.”

  “I-I saw you w-with G-George St-Stanley.”

  “Saw me what?”

  Llewellyn raised a shoulder. “F-flirting.”

  He frowned. “When?”

  “D-did it happen m-more than once?”

  “Just tell me.” He looked serious.

  “In the g-garden. Outside the d-department.”

  “If you were paying attention, you may have noticed that George was doing all the flirting. With both of us—you and me—I might add.”

  “T-true.”

  “So?”

  “Y-You’re a T-TA. I’m a professor.”

  “Yes, but I’m not your TA. Or your student. And don’t give me the whole age-difference crap. We’re only a few years apart, you being brilliant and advanced. Besides, I’m not proposing. Just proposing a date or two.”

  “And a r-roll on the couch.” He glanced at Blaise sideways with a grin.

  “There is that.” He sighed grandly. “But if you find that objectionable, we can always switch to the bed.”

  Llewellyn finally laughed. Why exactly am I fighting so hard? He’s adorable, he’s sexy, he’s funny—he’s suspect. Whoa. That last thought took him by surprise. He gazed at Blaise’s handsome face. But if he is questionable, the best way to answer the questions is to be around him, right? Yeah, that’s a helluva good excuse.

  He must have smiled, because Blaise scooted slowly toward him with wicked intent gleaming in his eyes.

  Llewellyn heard himself giggle, which made him blush. And then he heard a knock on the front door.

  You are effing kidding me.

  Blaise whispered, “Were you expecting someone?”

  “N-no. B-but I s-seem to be everyone’s b-best friend lately.”

  The knock came again, more insistently.

  Llewellyn exhaled loudly and turned toward the door. Blaise laid a hand on his arm. “We could pretend we’re not here.” He grinned, but his voice had the ring of truth.

  Llewellyn turned his head toward the front door—where three cats were loudly meowing.

  Blaise laughed and shook his head as Llewellyn walked to the door, sighed, and opened it.

  Okay, worst possible scenario. There stood Anne de Vere, clutching what looked like a scrapbook or photo album to her chest. “I’m so sorry, Llewellyn, but I just can’t let this go without a fight. You have to see my point of view. I—” Her eyes seemed to travel past Llewellyn. “Oh. Hello, Blaise.”

  Blaise came up beside Llewellyn. “Hi, Anne.”

  “I’m sorry. I just didn’t think.” She looked back and forth between the two of them. “I thought you didn’t know each other.”

  Blaise said, “We didn’t—then.”

  “I see.” Her brows gave a little dip.

  He smiled but said, “No, you probably don’t. I was concerned that Llewellyn was getting an awful lot of pressure over this offer you made, and I came to see how he’s doing.”

  “Oh. Pressure.” She looked uncomfortable.

  “Yes. Most people don’t ignore the amount of money you’re tossing around, you know. It’s difficult for Llewellyn to make his own decisions.” Despite the implied criticism, he said it kindly.

  “I didn’t mean to place undue stress—”

  Blaise made a cute snorting sound. “Yes, you did. You want this to be as tough to turn down as possible. I get that. I—”

  Llewellyn waved a hand toward the living room. “W-why don’t you c-come in?”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded, and she crossed in front of him, walked to the living room, and took a careful seat on the couch. Funny that B
laise’s polite chastisement had made Llewellyn feel sorry for her. He glanced at Blaise, who stepped closer.

  “Shall I go?”

  Llewellyn said, “Anne?”

  “What?” She looked at Blaise. “No. Of course not.” Even though she was wearing black slacks, she pressed her knees together like she was in a skirt and hugged the album she was carrying against her chest.

  Llewellyn took the chair closest to the couch without actually sitting beside her. “D-do you have s-something t-to show me?”

  “Yes.” She thrust the album forward.

  He accepted it and opened it on his lap. If she noticed he seemed to be humoring her, she didn’t let on.

  She pulled her glasses out of her small purse and balanced them on her nose like they helped her think. “Dr. Lewis, these are copies of a series of documents that have been in my family for many years. Apparently the originals have been lost, but obviously someone in my family had them because these are photocopies, not a technology available in the sixteenth century. I’d like you to look at them. If you have a magnifying glass, it helps.”

  “Uh, y-yes.” He walked to his closest desk and pulled a magnifying glass from the top right-hand drawer. He used them all the time. Returning to his chair, he picked up the album and opened it with something between the anticipation of discovery—and dread. The first two pages were posted with a handwritten document, clearly from sometime in the previous few decades, talking about how the family deeply believed that Edward de Vere created the works credited to William Shakespeare and that the following evidence proved it.

  With a deep breath, Llewellyn turned the page. Okay, interesting. The photocopies were not very good—light in spots, crooked on one of the pages, and faded—but appeared to be of an old, handwritten document using language and calligraphy that would have been characteristic of the sixteenth or seventeenth centuries. Obviously it would be difficult if not impossible to verify the authenticity of a bad photocopy, but Llewellyn picked up the magnifying glass and tried to read. The document was the beginning of what looked like a play. He cocked his head and leaned back to catch more of the light. The play seemed to be about a fantasy setting, maybe somewhat similar to A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Though parts were hard to make out, the language was, no doubt, sophisticated, funny, and lyrical at once. Very much like what one would think of as Shakespearean.