by Tara Lain
Maybe he’d rest for a few minutes. Llewellyn’s eyes closed, and he dissolved into the smell of musky sex and spicy man. Yes, damned amazing.
Chapter Twelve
WHERE AM I? The thought barely registered in Blaise’s brain before good feelings swamped him. His body tingled in all the right places, and his usual restless energy had magically been replaced by a deep, satisfying lassitude. He didn’t want to think, much less move. Of course, thinking was the real problem.
Llewellyn’s head lay heavily on Blaise’s shoulder, his breath hushed deep and soft from his slightly parted lips. Beautiful full lips. So not nerdy. A lot of things about Llewellyn didn’t go together. Didn’t add up. That’s good for me, I guess. He sighed softly. His left arm had gone to sleep, but he didn’t want to wake Llewellyn. If he were honest, he’d like to tighten his hold and never let go. If Mother knew, she’d kill me.
Just then Llewellyn muttered in his sleep and rolled onto his side, taking the pressure—and the warmth—away from Blaise. Damn, he probably heard my thoughts.
Moving very slowly, he slid away from Llewellyn to the edge of the bed, swung his feet to the floor, and got up, glancing back at the sleeping beauty. It’s good he’s getting some rest. I’ll bet he doesn’t sleep enough. Yeah, look who’s talking.
Naked as a mole rat, Blaise felt his way toward where he vaguely remembered the bathroom door was. It took some feeling around on the wall, but he connected with the door handle, stepped in, closed the door to block the light, and flipped the wall switch. Despite the age of the house and the old-fashioned style of most of the rooms, the bathroom was obviously remodeled. Shiny marble countertops and subway tile set off a claw-foot tub and a separate walk-in shower. He peeked in. Multiple showerheads. Fun.
He used the facilities, then opened the medicine cabinet, looking for a toothbrush. The mirrored shelves contained a basic collection of just-your-usual—aspirin, aftershave, extra razor blades, mouthwash, and toothpaste. Just one toothbrush. Clearly not expecting company. Blaise dumped a capful of minty mouthwash into his mouth and swished, then spat. He washed his hands, then opened the drawers for fun. Not much to see. The only real puzzle was a small tube of eyelash glue. Funny. Maybe Llewellyn used to date women?
Blaise closed the drawer, then stepped to a door on the other side of the bathroom and opened it a crack. Oh, a closet. A big one. Llewellyn really had remodeled this area of the house thoroughly. The room looked like it might be an addition. Interesting, though. How big a closet did a man need for five pairs of khakis?
With a glance toward the bedroom, Blaise stepped into the closet and turned on the light. Wow. What a great design. Built-in shelves crawled up the back wall, with a peninsula sticking out, also containing shelves of various sizes. On the wall, two rows of hanging bars actually held a fair number of clothes. Yes, the khakis were front and center, along with various white shirts and even a few sweater vests. Seriously, Llewellyn. But when Blaise walked to the back areas of the shelves, there were suits and a couple of leather jackets. A slanted show rack held a few pair of handmade loafers that Blaise had never seen anywhere near Llewellyn’s feet. Who’d have thought he was a secret clotheshorse? But where did he wear this stuff?
Maybe he only wears them in here? A full-length floor-standing mirror was positioned in one corner, and Blaise tried to imagine Llewellyn prancing around in his closet, modeling his fancy wardrobe. Did not compute. Should I tell him I saw the clothes and ask if he’d like to go on a date with me where he can wear some of them?
Better not.
He reached to turn off the light when a tote bag caught his eyes. A copy of one of Llewellyn’s historical research pieces sat on top, and Blaise picked it up to look through it. A book on the process of research. He flipped the pages. Even on a totally academic subject, Llewellyn had an engaging writing style that clarified the most complex topics and made the reader feel cared about. Yeah, that was one of the reasons Blaise was there.
As he leaned to replace the book, something silky, black, and shiny shone beneath where the book had been. Nosiness ran in his family. First he cocked his head. He still couldn’t tell what it was, so he reached in and ran a finger over the enticing object. What the hell? He grabbed it and pulled out a longish dark wig. Is Llewellyn a secret cross-dresser? The image made him smile—the quiet, conservative geek strutting out in women’s clothing. Blaise glanced around the closet. Nothing in there suggested a female wardrobe. Quite the contrary. Most of it was pretty fashionable men’s couture.
Maybe a Halloween costume? Not likely. It was very beautiful quality hair, and it had been apparently hidden in the tote bag. Blaise held it out and stared at the wig. Wait. The steam room. The kiss. When he’d grabbed the guy in the spa, at first he’d thought it was Llewellyn, but then he’d gotten closer and seen the dark hair. Dark hair that looked a lot like the wig in his hand. Well, damn. Tricky devil. Maybe Llewellyn used a disguise to go hang out in gay men’s clubs and bathhouses—to protect his rep as a serious academic—or maybe to escape from it. Or maybe—? Shit. Blaise’s stomach flipped. He wanted to hide the wig at the bottom of a well and forget he ever saw it.
Sighing, Blaise carefully replaced the wig and set the book on top of it. He turned off the light and crept back into the bathroom. When he’d flipped the light switch off, he very quietly opened the door and peeked out. Llewellyn still snored very softly.
“Merwaowr.” Julius got up from his spot on the chair where he lay on top of Blaise’s shirt and bounced to the floor to rub against Blaise’s legs.
“Shh.” Blaise glanced at Llewellyn, but he didn’t seem to register the cat. Probably used to the meowing, since cats were essentially nocturnal. Marie Antoinette had taken up a position on the pillow Blaise had been lying on. She gave him a level stare, daring him to try to take it back.
Sadly, he wasn’t going to battle her for supremacy. He had places to go and phone calls to make—which kind of ripped his heart out. Tiptoeing, he grabbed his jeans from their heap on the floor and slid his T-shirt off the chair, still warm from Julius’s big body. He peered around in the nearly dark room but couldn’t find his boxer briefs. Oh well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d left his underwear behind.
Llewellyn gave a little moan and turned on his back. Marie Antoinette adjusted her position so she was curled around his head. Blaise wanted to pull out his phone and take a picture, it was so cute.
He sucked a deep breath and let it out slowly. Wish I didn’t have to go. Wish I didn’t have to do a lot of things. Damn, wish I hadn’t snooped. Frowning, he turned abruptly and walked out of the bedroom, pushing the door closed so Julius couldn’t follow him.
In the living room, he opened a desk drawer and found a notepad and a pencil. He wrote—
So sorry to leave. I really didn’t want to, but I have an early meeting tomorrow. You were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t want to wake you. Marie Antoinette took my place keeping you warm.
His hand paused over the L word. With a scribble he signed, See you tomorrow. Blaise.
Trying not to think, he powered out the front door, pushed the button, and closed it behind him so it would lock automatically and he wouldn’t be tempted to go back in.
He’d parked the extra distance away so as not to get Llewellyn’s neighbors talking, but hell, how many people would talk about Llewellyn Lewis if Blaise completed his mission? Maybe I don’t have to say anything? Hell, the clothes, the wig could mean a lot of things.
Yeah, but anything out of character was significant. He knew that as well as he knew his name—uh, names.
He dialed. It rang three times.
“Damn, it’s the middle of the night. Is there a reason?”
“Maybe not.”
“I’m awake now. Talk.”
“I looked in Lewis’s closet. He’s got a lot of upscale clothes that I’ve never seen him wear. Nothing even close to the usual baggy khakis. It seems odd that he’d have this alternate wardrobe if he never
wears it.”
“I agree. Anything else?”
Maybe I don’t have to say anything.
“Blaise?”
He sighed. “Yeah, there’s something else.” He took a breath and told her about the wig.
A half hour later, Blaise walked to the back entrance of the history building. Time to test the theory that the security credentials that let him in one building also worked on all the others. He pulled out his magnetic card and took a deep breath—
A NOTE. He left a note. Llewellyn stared at the top of his dresser at Blaise’s obviously quick scrawl. He so wanted to feel good about that scrap of paper, but no go. Everything felt off. He’d had sex with Blaise Arthur, and it had been better than… anything.
Now here he stood staring at his tote bag in the closet and tingling. Had it been moved? Something’s different. He glanced around. Who could have been in here? The person who stole the document? Was I unconscious long enough for the assailant to come in the closet, move something, and then put it back? Seriously, would somebody violent enough to hit him in order to steal the papers then be so subtle as to try to cover his tracks? Why?
And if it wasn’t his attacker, who? Blaise could have sneaked in, but double why? If he saw the wig, surely he would have asked about it or teased him. Why don’t I trust him? Easy. Because why would that guy be interested in me? And why does he show up everywhere I am?
Hell. He sank down on the chair he used for putting on his shoes and stared around. Having this shit makes me paranoid, which is seriously dumb. Ramon needs to stop making personal appearances. The thought made his chest hurt. He’d created Ramon Rondell when he was twelve. A dashing, charming, eloquent superhero of a guy who embodied everything Llewellyn wasn’t—and knew he’d never be. He knew because his mother told him all the time. As he got older, Ramon grew up and got a job, but he still had a life of his own. Time to give it up.
With a bigger sigh than he wanted to admit, Llewellyn got a garbage bag from the kitchen. Marie followed him with interest as he gathered all Ramon’s clothes and accessories and shoved them in the bag. He tucked the wig in the middle of the jackets and pants, then took the whole thing out to the Volvo and stuck it in the trunk. He’d donate it all first chance he got.
Back in the closet, he stared at the small, neat row of khakis, then at the note from Blaise he’d set on his dresser. Right. Back to Llewellyn’s ordinary life, giving up the grandiose dreams. He reached for a pair of khakis.
A HALF hour later, Llewellyn leaned around the corner of Maria’s office. “H-hey.”
She looked up, and her eyes widened. “Hey, boss, what the hell?”
“There’s n-nobody else around?”
“No. Get in here.” She raced from her desk, grabbed his arm, and pulled him inside, then slammed the door and locked it.
He sat on the couch, and she brought him a mug. He sipped and sighed. “I should bring you tea. You’re the one who’s been fending off the attacks of the a-avaricious academics.”
She sat opposite him, holding her own cup. “I love it. The case of the avaricious academics.”
“So what’s going on?”
“Van Pelt was here Friday night and first thing this morning. I mean, seriously, boss, that man’s never kept such an ambitious schedule in his life.”
“The a-ambitious, avaricious aca-cademics.”
“Exactly.” She nodded at his closed door. “He was determined to wait in your office until you arrived, but I locked it and told him I didn’t have the key.” She grinned.
“Th-thank y-you.”
She stared at her coffee. “Have you decided what to do?”
He sighed. “I s-suppose I’ll take her m-m-money. Maybe I c-can get you made a t-teaching assistant.”
“I’d rather help in your research.”
“Y-you c-can do both. You’ll be a g-good teacher and make m-more money.”
“That’s fine, Llewellyn, but this isn’t about me. Do you feel okay about this research? I know you said it’s impossible to prove, but that’s been said about a lot of things. Do you think it’s true in this case?”
“P-probably. B-but I s-saw Anne over the weekend, and she g-gave me a document that w-was very interesting. If it was real, it could be s-significant.”
“Cool. May I see it?”
“It was st-stolen.”
“What? When? I thought you said you had it.”
He nodded. “I d-did. Someone, uh, stole it f-from me.”
“What the hell?” She threw herself backward in the chair. “Please tell me what happened.”
He glanced at his hands. “I d-don’t want to freak you out.”
“You’re already freaking me out.”
The words rushed out as much as they ever could with him. “I g-got hit over the head and the manuscript was stolen.”
“Holy shit, boss! Are you okay?”
“Y-yes. B-Blaise found me and c-called the cops.”
“Are they investigating?”
“Not really. They’re n-not very interested in a photocopy of some old p-papers about Shakespeare.”
“Wow. So if you don’t have this document anymore, why are you taking the case?”
“I-I remember it, and w-we can t-try to find the original.” He smiled. “Y-you and me.”
She let out a hissing breath. “Well then, good, I guess. No one deserves that money more than you.”
“N-not me. The school.”
“No. She told me she was giving a million to you and the rest to the university. Even after you pay my assistant fees”—she grinned—“you’ll have quite a bit left.”
He sat back and sipped. Truthfully, he wouldn’t mind having that much money at his disposal. Imagine all the research he could do. “Okay.”
“Cool. She’s gonna be thrilled. Shall I call her?”
What a frightening commitment to prove something he suspected was virtually not provable. “Y-yes.”
She picked up the office landline and dialed.
Llewellyn heard a phone ringing and grabbed for it, but it wasn’t his. Probably in the hall.
Frowning, Maria hung up a few seconds later. “No answer. I’m surprised, honestly. She’s been like a ghost around this office. I thought she’d spring for her phone if it rang.”
“She was at m-my house y-yesterday and w-was pretty upset about the theft of her p-property.”
Maria looked up. “Why? Doesn’t she want other people to see it? It was a copy, right?”
“Y-yes. Her only c-copy.”
“Bullshit.” She stared at him with huge eyes. “Why would she do a dumb thing like that?”
Good question. He shrugged. “Not s-sure. Anyway, t-try her again in a few minutes. Th-that will give me t-time to change my mind.” He smiled and stood.
A hammering on the outer office door made Maria snort. “Gee, I wonder who that could be?” She stood, crossed to the door, and opened it. As Van Pelt rushed in, Maria said, “Sorry, sir. Didn’t realize it was locked.”
“Lewis, what in the hell’s going on? I’ve tried to reach you all weekend.”
“A lot h-happened.”
Maria handed Van Pelt a cup of coffee, asked him to sit down, and proceeded to tell him about the theft, which gave Llewellyn a chance to sip some tea.
Van Pelt’s expression threatened rain. “How could you be so careless?”
“C-careless?” Maybe throwing the tea in his face would wake the man up.
Maria glanced at Llewellyn and stepped forward anxiously. “Sir, Dr. Lewis had no idea that was Ms. de Vere’s only copy. It was, after all, a copy.” She tried to cover her snarky expression, which made Llewellyn want to laugh. “And I’m sure no one could have guessed that some asshole would be willing to hit Dr. Lewis on the head to get it.”
Still frowning, Van Pelt said begrudgingly, “Are you hurt?”
“J-just a bump.”
“So I suppose this theft lands us dead in the water, correct?” He crossed his ar
ms tightly over his chest. “I’m sure you will now refuse the commission despite the value to the institution—”
“I’ll do it.”
“You shouldn’t have to think for one second—what?”
“I’ll d-do the research—w-with no guarantees.”
“You will?”
“The d-document was v-very persuasive. I’ll do it.”
“But the document—”
Maria said, “Dr. Lewis has a near-photographic memory. Now he needs to find the original to prove what Anne de Vere had was real.”
“Well, my God, that’s wonderful.” His smile should have cracked his face. Van Pelt was a self-interested SOB, but at least his personal identity included the university.
“I just tried to call Ms. de Vere to tell her, but she didn’t answer.” Maria waggled the phone.
Van Pelt’s mouth hung open. “Well, for God’s sake, call her again. Now!”
Maria dialed the phone but shook her head again. “She’s not answering. Maybe she gave up and went back to wherever she’s from.”
Van Pelt scowled. “Did you tell her no absolutely?”
“N-no. She was upset about the d-document. She left.”
“The last I spoke to her, I told her I’d persuade you.” The crease between his eyebrows returned. “What if she didn’t believe me? What if she’s so upset she sought out that bastard Rondell?”
“I-I doubt it.” He stared in his teacup. Interesting that she hadn’t even tried calling Rondell. Perhaps she had no contact for him, or it had been an idle threat.
Maria said, “Sir, she did a lot of research before coming to Dr. Lewis. She has to know that Rondell’s reputation is too sensational to have his findings taken seriously.”
“You never know what desperate women will do.”
Maria raised an eyebrow, and before she could snarl something as snarky as Van Pelt deserved, Llewellyn said, “We’ll k-keep tr-trying.”
“You bet your life you will.” He crossed to the couch and sat. “May I have some more coffee, Ms. Gonzalez?”