by Tara Lain
Oh man, just the sight made Llewellyn’s belly flip. Swallowing, he held out his hand, and Blaise squeezed lube into it. Eyes fixed on Blaise, Llewellyn raised his legs and shoved lube into himself, then sat back and watched Blaise’s hands perform their magic on his own butt.
Blaise smiled slowly, pushed Llewellyn’s shoulder until he was flat on the mattress, then rose up enough to lie on top of him. Wriggling, he fit their parts together.
Swamped. Llewellyn’s nervous system overloaded with heat and pressure and tingling bursts of pleasure shooting into his groin and brain and heart.
Planting his hands above Llewellyn’s shoulders, Blaise began to rock his body forward and back over Llewellyn so they rubbed together in all the best places. Fantastic friction increased the tingling until it turned to a lava flow, like fire through his veins. “Oh. Oh G-God.”
“Yeah.” Blaise rutted harder, raising himself higher on his arms like he was doing the cobra pose so the contact between their hips increased.
Llewellyn heard his own moans and gasps. Too much. He clamped his arms behind Blaise’s back and locked them together, but it wasn’t enough. Raising both legs, he secured them around Blaise’s hips. As if he’d been waiting for that signal, Blaise pushed back until Llewellyn felt pressure at his opening.
“Look at me. Right here.” Blaise gazed into Llewellyn’s eyes. He wanted to close them, to hide, to do anything to break that link, but no go. Blaise held him tight, staring into his soul as he pressed inside Llewellyn’s body. No resistance. Burning joy filtered into his brain as Blaise took possession. Deep. Deeper.
Everything went black—then brilliant white as the explosion that blasted through his groin filled his head. “Blaise!” Oh God, what a perfect name. What a perfect description. His body trembled and shuddered out of his control, and somewhere, a mile away, he heard Blaise yell “Oh my God!” just before his full body weight collapsed onto Llewellyn. Who knew the weight of the world could ever feel so perfect?
He never wanted to move again. Moving might interfere with the puffy clouds of bliss floating through his chest and his brain.
Blaise breathed deeply, which pressed his chest so firmly against Llewellyn it forced him to exhale. Oh man, even more than not moving, he didn’t want to think, because that would drag his brain to only one possible conclusion. What just happened qualified as the best moments of Llewellyn’s life. That boded damned badly for his future. He’d learned long ago that wanting anything was the surest way to misery.
“May I stay?” The soft words whispered against Llewellyn’s ear.
His lips formed the reply before his brain caught up. “Y-yes.” He managed to control himself before he added—“forever.”
BLAISE GAZED into Llewellyn’s big brown eyes. Brown. Not dark blue like biographies said about Ramon Rondell. Standing in the kitchen, they gazed eye-to-eye, making Llewellyn about six one or two, not six four as fans claimed about Rondell. No eloquent words tripped off Llewellyn’s tongue. Hell, half the time he could barely get the words out. No way he faked it.
Blaise reached out and touched Llewellyn’s cheek. Sadly, this man, the shy awkward one with the plain brown eyes that bored into his soul when they finally connected with his, was the guy who captivated him. Blaise didn’t really give a shit about the rest. And that would go over like a flying pig with his mother.
Llewellyn smiled shyly. Yes, it had been a pretty intense night, hadn’t it? He said, “You’re th-thinking awfully h-hard.”
Blaise dimpled up. “My thinking won’t be the only thing that’s hard if I keep looking at you much longer. We’ll both have to call in sick.”
Llewellyn gave him a side-eyed glance. “Kind of ch-cheesy but cute.”
“Sorry.” That’s what I get for not saying what I mean—that last night didn’t just rock, it rocked my world. Better not. He leaned forward and kissed Llewellyn softly on the lips. “Can I come back? After work?” He held his breath.
“Y-you really w-want to?”
“Yes, I really do.” He tried to push all the feeling he could muster into those words.
“Okay.” The smile Llewellyn shared lit up the dim garage.
The warmth in his chest made him half want to run and half to stay right there forever. “I’ll bet we could have lunch together without anyone talking too much. Want to?” He knew his grin had to be sappy.
“Th-that w-would be nice.”
“I’ll meet you out front of the history building at eleven forty-five, okay?”
Llewellyn nodded with equal sappiness.
“So I’ll go out the back door and cut over to where I left my car.”
“Th-thank you for doing that.”
Blaise shrugged. “It’s better if the school doesn’t get too focused on us just yet, don’t you think?” To say nothing of his mother.
“I g-guess. And the p-police.” He looked at his shoes.
“Yeah. When this all dies down, we can talk about the best way to be public.” Llewellyn looked—what? Surprised? Shocked? No, more the first with a touch of amazement that might even be happy.
Blaise gave him another quick kiss on the nose and hurried out the back door. He’d pushed the patience of his department to the limit already, and if he wanted to keep this cushy position for a while longer, he needed to actually do some work.
After a couple of zigzags through yards, he unlocked his car on the next street and slipped inside. He glanced down at his phone—the phone he’d put on mute. Three missed calls, all from guess who. With a sigh, he hit Reply.
“Damn it, Blaise, where the hell have you been?”
“Good morning to you too. And I’ve been where I couldn’t call you back.”
“Oh, and where might that be in the middle of the night?”
Shit, he didn’t want to answer. “With Llewellyn. How the hell else do you think I found the wig? It’s gone, by the way. Along with all the upscale clothes he had in the closet.”
“Do you think he’s suspicious?” Her voice snapped. “Maybe he figures no one will believe you without the evidence. I told you that taking the wig would have been a worthwhile gamble. Damn it, Blaise. I wanted a picture of it at least, and of the clothes too.”
“I didn’t have my phone in the john when I snooped.” A lie, but a credible one.
“Sloppy. How do you expect to get ahead in this business? I trusted you with this. Do I have to come there myself?”
“He knows what you look like, Mother.” Don’t let her hear you sweat.
“I’m good at disguise.” He could hear her taking a breath to control her temper. “What’s going on with the murder?”
“We met the twin sister, who’s a piece of work.”
“In what way? Please learn to be specific.”
He hid his sigh. “As different from Anne as she can be. She’s rough, cynical, and doesn’t seem attached to anything or anyone. She barely seems to care that her sister is dead.”
“Maybe there’s a story in it?”
“Maybe. I’m staying as close to the case as I can.”
“The only thing you’re staying close to as far as I can tell is Llewellyn Lewis’s ass.”
“Thanks for your vote of confidence.” Weird how he still wanted that confidence.
“Earn it. Show me something.”
Shit. “I’m at my job. I have to go.” With a deep breath, he didn’t even wait for her to answer. He hung up.
That was a little braver than usual.
He parked, grabbed his heavy backpack he kept in the back seat, then slid out of the car and trotted into the English building to be a good teaching assistant for a change.
STOP THINKING about lunch. Llewellyn shifted in his chair at his makeshift desk in the back corner of Maria’s office. Since his office was still a crime scene, he’d hauled a few bookshelves to separate a space for him. He dragged his brain away from picturing Blaise’s beautiful eyes when he’d gazed at Llewellyn and said yes, he really wanted to come ov
er. Focus! He stared at the picture of Alonzo Echevarria, then switched over to the bio of his wife, Carmen. Interesting.
Alonzo seemed to be what they claimed—a rich guy who made his money in building maintenance and happened to have a degree in history. He was a fancy janitor. All the drive and social pretensions came from Carmen. She’d pushed him onto the board of various symphonies and operas, which was hard to picture, and according to the gossip websites had ground a few people to dust in the process. In one case she’d apparently dug up a scandal about one of the other candidates for a prestigious opera board position and made sure the story got to every sensational news source online.
Wincing, Llewellyn switched over to the Daily Phoenix and clicked on the Digging the Dirt section. He searched for Carmen Echavarria. Sure enough, several articles turned up, one written by Octavia Otto, Ramon’s nemesis. She pretty much stated that the sexy Mrs. Echevarria wanted what she wanted and didn’t care who she hurt to get it.
Llewellyn sat back. What Carmen Echavarria wanted now was to contribute a boatload of money to get a building named after her husband, and by association herself. But how badly did she want it? Surely not so much she’d kill someone.
He leaned toward the screen, wanting desperately to resist the siren call. No such luck. He typed in Ramon Rondell and averted his eyes. If I don’t look, maybe the monster won’t eat me. But of course, like the proverbial helpless moth, his eyes flew toward the flame of the screen. A couple of stories he’d already seen occupied the bottom of the screen, but at the top…. Holy shit!
“Ramon Rondell Wears a Disguise! What Does He Look Like Under the Wig?”
What the hell? A shiver of ice crept up his spine. Okay, someone might have guessed that Ramon wore a disguise, but why the wig specifically? When had he worn it last? The club in San Jose? No. The night he went to the spa steam room. That thought produced shivers of a whole different kind. But he’d swear Blaise hadn’t recognized him. He released a long breath. Maybe he shouldn’t swear too solemnly.
He shook his head. Forget it. Ramon’s retired from public appearances. Somehow that didn’t feel like such a devastating thought, since Blaise seemed to like Llewellyn. Of course, he’d come on to Ramon, but he’d done a whole lot more than that to Llewellyn. A lot more. Stop or your penis will lead you to lunch.
He glanced at his watch. He still had an hour.
“Hey, boss.” Maria peeked around the bookcase. He’d spent his first hour in the office explaining the visit to San Francisco, the odd appearance of the brother standing when he had been confined to a wheelchair, and the arrival of Miranda. Maria had intelligently pointed out that many people who used wheelchairs most of the time could still stand, but she’d plunged into researching as many of the unique cast of weird ducks who’d crawled out of the woodwork recently as she could.
“F-find anything?”
A crease rode the bridge of her nose. “Yeah. It’s probably nothing.” She walked in and sat opposite him. “I was just digging around in some of the research that’s been done on the Shakespeare issue.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know some of the other people of the period who’ve been advanced as possible candidates to be the real Shakespeare?”
Obviously, she wanted to drag this out, so he nodded. “Marlowe, of course, B-Bacon, D-Derby, a few others.”
She cocked half a smile, but her brows stayed drawn over her nose. “And do you remember the family name of the Earl of Derby?”
“Of course. St-Stanley. William Stanley.”
Her dark eyes met his. “Do you think there’s anything beyond coincidence in the fact that George Stanley, the Shakespearean scholar, tried to talk you out of proving that de Vere was Shakespeare?”
His mouth opened, closed, then his lips parted far enough to say, “Wow.”
“Right. Probably just chance, but I saw the name Stanley and remembered what you told me about George, so I thought I’d share it.”
Llewellyn sat back in his chair. “D-damn. Never thought of it.”
She grinned. “Hard to consider someone who’s hitting on you as a potential murderer.”
He snorted. “T-true.”
“You should go ask him to lunch and suck information out of him.”
He felt himself blushing, both from her unique choice of verb and the confession he was about to make. “Uh, I’m h-having lunch with B-Blaise Arthur. To talk about the c-case.”
Her eyes danced. “Right. I’m sure murder will be at the forefront of your thoughts.”
“K-kind of.” He blushed harder but chuckled.
“I think that’s great, boss. In addition to all his obvious attributes, he seems like a nice guy. Where are you going to lunch?”
“D-don’t know.”
“Well, have fun. Maybe I’ll go hang around the English department and see what comes up.” She waggled her fingers.
When he walked into the outer office a few minutes later, she was already gone to lunch. I wonder if she meant it about the English department? Suddenly the fact that there had been a real murder and someone he cared about was treating the pursuit of a suspect as a game slapped him in the face. This could be dangerous. He shuddered. He’d talk to Maria after lunch. She could do research for him, but she needed to stay away from any face-to-face confrontations, despite the fact that George was a pretty unlikely killer.
Chapter Eighteen
AS HE locked up his office, his heart beat hard. He thought of it as the Blaise beat. Funny how he couldn’t stay away from Blaise. Ordinarily he’d never reach for the sun that way lest he, like Icarus, end up with melted wings. Hell, that kind of confidence was Ramon’s domain. But since Ramon had seen Blaise dancing that infamous night, Llewellyn had wanted him. Achingly. Embarrassingly. Still, he made like a mad dog and rushed down the hall and out into the midday sunshine. No Blaise yet. Dragging in a breath of fresh air, he leaned against the stone wall in front of his building, pulled out his phone from his pocket, and pretended he wasn’t dying of anticipation.
He tried to settle into reading a research document he’d loaded onto his Kindle app, but he kept sneaking glances down the sidewalk toward the English building. Should I tell Blaise about Maria and go check the English department to be sure she’s not waylaying George Stanley? Before he could decide, he saw sun glinting off Blaise’s golden hair as he trotted toward Llewellyn. When Llewellyn couldn’t quite control his smile, Blaise waved and smiled back. Llewellyn slipped his phone back in his pocket.
Blaise ran up, grinning. Since Llewellyn couldn’t seem to lose his own grin, it was a good thing nobody was nearby to observe. Blaise said, “Hi.”
“H-hello.”
“My car’s in the parking lot. I thought we could go someplace away from campus for lunch.”
“Th-that would be n-nice.”
“At least we won’t be warping young minds with our evil influence.”
He so wanted to reach out and take Blaise’s hand, but no such luck. “I-I have something t-to tell you. M-Maria c-came up with an idea and I—”
Blaise looked up over Llewellyn’s shoulder. His eyes widened and body stiffened. Before Llewellyn could turn, a familiar voice behind him said, “Blaise Arthur, you’re under arrest for suspicion of the murder of Anne de Vere.”
Blaise yelled, “What? What the hell?”
Llewellyn whirled on Detective Holiday. “D-don’t be ridiculous!”
Two uniformed policemen rushed to Blaise and handcuffed him behind his back. As they read him his rights, he said, “I don’t understand. I didn’t do anything!” He looked desperate and afraid, and Llewellyn wanted to rip him from the policemen’s hands and run. Everything in his gut screamed to escape.
He tried to calm his voice. “Th-there’s a m-mistake. He c-couldn’t have d-done this. Why d-do you th-think he d-did?”
Holiday frowned. “I’m not at liberty to say, but just so you know, he’s not who he says he is. You, of all people, need to be aware of that.
” He walked up to where the policemen held Blaise and nodded toward a police car that was parked a few yards down by the curb. The red curb.
Blaise looked back and yelled, “I didn’t do it, Llewellyn. Please believe me.”
“Sh-shall I c-call a lawyer?” He clutched his hands in front of his belly that threatened to lose whatever was left of breakfast.
“No. I have one.” His head disappeared into the car as the policeman pushed it down, and his body followed.
Holiday turned to Llewellyn. “We’ll need you for questioning. I’ll contact you in a few hours.”
They drove away. Llewellyn stared after them, gradually becoming aware of a clutch of students and teachers gathered nearby, watching the proceedings. Suddenly Maria ran out of the crowd and grasped his arm. “Come on, boss. Let’s get you inside, and I’ll go for lunch.”
He never wanted to eat again, but he followed Maria back to the office and collapsed on the couch. After she locked the door to the hall, she handed him a cup of his favorite tea, and he sucked it up like lifeblood.
She sat opposite him in a chair. “What the hell happened? Did Blaise Arthur really just get arrested for murder?”
He nodded and held his teacup in both hands.
“Man, that’s wacko.”
“Th-they’re g-going to question m-me. So I m-might learn s-something.”
“Well, that’s good, anyway.” She stood and walked to the phone on her desk, picked it up, and before he could say anything, she ordered pizza delivered. When she hung up, she said, “You can’t go to the police department with no food in your stomach.” She stared at him. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He felt his brows pull down. Did he want to confide in her? Yes. “H-Holiday said B-Blaise isn’t who he s-says he is. He s-said I n-need to know that.”
“Damn, talk about being purposefully provocative. He wants to throw you off base so you’ll tell him anything you know.”
He wanted to believe that. Desperately. “M-maybe.”
A half hour later, while he forced down a piece of pizza, he got a call from Holiday, who told him to come to the department as soon as he could. The trick would be not throwing up the pizza along the way.