The Bohemian and the Banker

by Bonnie Dee

  Nigel took a tiny bite, then put the spoon down.

  “Go on, eat,” Jay said.

  “I would, indeed, but I’m too…” Nigel shook his head.

  “What?”

  Nigel gave a gusty laugh and shook his head again. “Nervous? Excited? I don’t know myself. I had no notion…” He gazed at Jay. “I once heard these words…a poem, I mean. And it never made much sense to me. ‘More happy love! More happy, happy love! Forever warm and still to be enjoy’d, Forever panting, and forever young.’” He paused. “And then it ends with this bit about how truth is beauty and beauty truth. And I thought of it just now and felt the most terrible desire.”

  “All the appealing bodies sprawled about, I suspect.” Jay took another bite and was struck by the fact that so many of his friends had exquisite forms. He appreciated a nice body, especially all those firm muscles and gorgeous arses, but still, did they never drag anyone home who was homely? Not this Nigel—although Jay smiled to see that his visitor had blushed too red to be pretty.

  “The desire I experienced was different.” A blush still suffused Nigel’s face. He must have been overheated from that rush of blood. “I mean to say, because I shan’t lie to you, I felt that baser interest too.” His gaze dropped to his hands, still in their dove-gray gloves. “But mostly I longed to know what it would be like to be an artist. Like you.”

  Jay laughed so hard he nearly choked on the food in his mouth. Really, Nigel provided excellent entertainment.

  “You shouldn’t laugh. Art transforms a person, a-a witness. And I was transformed.” Nigel leaned forward. He spoke solemnly as if he were a pilgrim who’d found religion. “All of this. The glorious intimacy, the informality—everything, even the leaking skylight. It is, beyond anything I know, wonderful.”

  Definitely the ardor of a true believer.

  For a moment, Jay considered straightening him out. The glorious informality was called poverty. And what kind of intimacy was it when he didn’t know the names of some of the people in his apartment? But then he supposed he envied Nigel’s enthusiasm. No need to push to end something pleasant for the bloke simply because Jay didn’t share it.

  “I suppose you dance with joy at sunrises,” he said and then wished he hadn’t been sarcastic, but Nigel didn’t take offense.

  “No. Never. Never in my life. Do you?”

  “I dance through the night, on occasion,” Jay said slowly. “And sing.” Too easy to remember his aching feet and head, his nausea from too much drink—and scoldings for arriving late at work. But he smiled, because he’d loved some of the music his friends and he made in closed cafés and empty theatres.

  “Yes.” Nigel beamed as if he’d been given a gift. “That is what I mean. That is joie de vivre.” His pronunciation of the French could have been worse. “And doesn’t one require an open mind and heart to make art?”

  “I suppose.” Jay shrugged. He let the others talk about creativity, and they did, indeed—talk and talk. In fact he expected there was a great more discussion than actual creation. He would rather debate what they planned for the next meal.

  Yet Nigel’s pleasure was slightly contagious. Instead of squalor, Nigel apparently saw glamor. Jay felt a small wave of gratitude for such enthusiasm. How could he reward such excitement? He had fed the man—or tried to. Now he might offer a drink. And he wanted to dance at dawn? Very well. Why not?

  Chapter Three

  How could he feel hunger for anything besides the amazing creature sitting beside him—not at a table like a civilized man, but lounging on the floor, leaning against large pillows like some foreign pasha? Surely Nigel was caught up in a dream, a make-believe fantasy come true. But the spoon full of noodles this handsome vision was shoving at him was quite real.

  “You really must eat some. It’s Polisson’s best dish. Well, the only one, really, but it’s delicious and filling.”

  Nigel opened his mouth to protest he had no appetite, and the spoon with the wad of noodles and sauce went inside. Flavors such as he’d never tasted in England exploded on his tongue. Exotic. Spicy. As different from his daily fare as the people in Jean Michel’s flat were from Nigel’s coworkers at the bank in London. He chewed and swallowed and opened his mouth to be fed more.

  The singer chuckled and twirled more of the noodles around the spoon, scooped up a few capers, a chunk of tomato and olives, and thrust it toward Nigel. Such decadence, being fed like this, and now Jean Michel was pouring a glass of wine and offering that too.

  “Vin Mariani,” he said. “A potent vintage made with coca. It won’t make you sleepy like other wines, but will sharpen your clarity and keep you awake all night long.” A sly smile and his half-shuttered eyes hinted at the sorts of things two men could get up to at night rather than sleep.

  A flutter of excitement beat in Nigel’s throat like a trapped bird, and he nearly choked on the food. He quickly washed down the bite with a great gulp of the special wine.

  “That’s quite good.” Nigel coughed. “Although I’m no expert on wines.”

  “More of a gin man, are you?” Jean Michel teased. “Or, no, you must drink port and claret and the like.”

  “Sometimes.” Irritating that this man believed he could see Nigel’s entire life like a photograph, or perhaps a still life, so predictable and average did he seem. Except Nigel was here, wasn’t he? He’d followed a whim and taken a strange turn down a dark alley in a foreign city this night, seen sights he’d never have imagined and indulged in vices such as this wine, which was beginning to warm his body. Before the evening was over, he believed he’d indulge in a much darker vice, and the thought terrified and deeply aroused him.

  “Jean Michel. If you’re an Englishman, how did you end up with such a name?” Nigel asked, then wanted to bite back the question. A gentleman never asked prying questions. He’d learned that almost before he learned to speak.

  The man laughed, white teeth and dimples flashing. The sound set off a growling, prowling feeling in Nigel.

  “Named John Michael back in England, but everyone calls me Jay. My stage name is more acceptable to the French and suits my character.” He framed his face with his hands and pouted his lips, reminding Nigel how they’d looked with rouge reddening them.

  The fake Frenchman tossed the spoon in the empty pot and took a sip of wine. “Did you enjoy the show tonight?”

  “Oh yes. Very much. I never knew such places existed. In London burlesque shows, the men sometimes dress in women’s clothing for comic effect, but that doesn’t compare to the performances I saw tonight.” Nigel stopped short, afraid he might cause offense by mentioning such low-brow comedy in comparison to the artistry he’d seen at the cabaret.

  “Men can be beautiful too,” Jean Michel…Jay said softly. “Men can enjoy wearing pretty things and putting on a face, becoming…a different person. Nothing like the feeling of silks or velvets against one’s flesh and the swish of heavily beaded fabric around one’s legs.” He smiled, and the quiet, reflective tone disappeared from his voice. “And I enjoy taking them off again too, because those gowns are restricting. What women must go through for fashion’s sake!”

  Suddenly, he rose, catching up the wine bottle and glass in one hand and reaching toward Nigel with the other. “Come. I know where we can go for a good view and a little privacy.”

  Privacy. Nigel swallowed hard. He knew what that word intimated. Jay wasn’t merely talking about a quiet place to talk and drink. More than that would happen, the sorts of secret vices Nigel feared and desired with every fiber of his being.

  For a moment, he stared at that long-fingered, outstretched hand with the invisible proverbial apple resting on it. Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. God would want him to turn away.

  Nigel reached out, clasped the other man’s warm hand and let him draw him to his feet.

  Jay led him back through the flat, past
the sprawling bodies, the debating writers and poets, the artist more intent on getting closer to his nude model than on his drawing pad. Voices joined in harmonious song and arguing discord, laughter and anger. A strange, creative crew that Nigel wouldn’t have minded observing from a quiet corner of the room. But even better to be leaving that crowded place to climb yet another flight of stairs.

  “Not much farther.” Jay still held Nigel’s hand, drawing him higher and higher.

  An angel taking me up to heaven. Good Lord, perhaps I’ve had too much of that wine. It was more potent than he’d thought, and he was already on his second glass.

  They reached a landing underneath a low ceiling, and Jay released him at last. He handed the glass and bottle to Nigel and used both hands to wrench open the small door that led onto the rooftop.

  Nigel followed him outside and inhaled a deep draught of the cool night air. It smelled of coal, a taint of manure from the many horse-drawn vehicles that filled the streets, garbage from the alleys, and something else… Cooking scents from a thousand kitchens, Nigel deduced. Down on the street, the stench of a city would be overwhelming, but up here, diluted by fresher air, it made for a piquant earthy whiff—or so Nigel felt tonight when he could find no fault in any part of this excursion. Even a cockroach he’d spotted scuttling across the floor of the flat downstairs had seemed charming.

  “Ah, we’re lucky to have nearly a full moon tonight.” Jay pointed at the sky. “It gets fairly dark up here without it, although that does make for a splendid view of all the lights of the city.”

  He led the way across a flat, moon-washed rooftop toward the edge of the building. Well, nearly flat. Nigel stumbled on an uneven spot where one part met another—no doubt rain pooled in that crack and leaked through onto the unlucky residents beneath. He righted himself without losing his wineglass and caught up with Jay, who stood dramatically silhouetted against the indigo sky, a king surveying his land.

  “See?”

  Nigel saw. Since this building was on a bit of a rise, there was a fairly good view of the gas streetlights mapping the grid of Parisian thoroughfares. He could see across the rooftops of lower buildings, and the lit windows of taller buildings glittered all around. In the distance, lights marked the bridges that arched over the Seine.

  “No wonder they call it the City of Lights,” Nigel said. “The effect is quite stunning.”

  Jay nodded slightly. “I love it here. This truly has become my home in a way England never could be. I’ve found my place here.”

  “Among the artists and writers.” What must it be like to be so creative, to think in different ways from the average man? Nigel couldn’t so much as draw an apple, sing a note or write a couplet. He certainly couldn’t dance. He had not a creative bone in his body. But for tonight, he could imagine he belonged.

  “Sit down.” Jay pointed him toward a pallet someone had left up here on the roof for stargazers.

  Or maybe for other things, Nigel realized. Perhaps this was a private place for others in the building who wanted to be alone together. What sorts of activities might have taken place on that striped ticking? The thought both appalled and excited him as he plunked down beside Jay on the moldy-smelling cushion.

  Jay gestured to him to hold out his wineglass and tipped the bottle. A mere trickle poured out. “Hmm, empty already. Roux and Polisson have been at it, and it was my bottle, damn them.” He set the bottle down with a thunk. “Sharing space can drive a man insane. And Roux isn’t even my flatmate.”

  “How many of those people do you live with?” Nigel asked, and it suddenly occurred to him that one or more of them might be a lover of Jean Michel’s. He found the idea distasteful.

  “Well, Roger,,” Jay clarified, “has one of the rooms. Except when she’s off visiting one of her friends, which is rather often. When she’s gone, anyone might end up using her bed. Merde, the artist, is the one who knows the owner of the building. Lagniappe and that little monkey Polisson share a room. Whether they sleep in the same bed or not depends on whether they’re in a spat or making up. And then, of course, there’s me.”

  “So you do have a room?”

  “I have a sofa in the main room—I’ll have to drag it back out when that little entertainment is over—and a bureau for my clothing. Which means I’ve learned to sleep in the midst of chaos. It seems many of our guests never quite go home.”

  Nigel sipped the dregs of the wine, his head buzzing from the potent brew. “The lack of privacy sounds dreadful. How do you manage?”

  “I’ve learned to sleep through anything and not to fuss too much over a little mess—or having my food eaten or my wine drunk up.” Jay chuckled. “Communal living seems ideal—liberté, egalité, fraternité—but the actuality isn’t always so pleasant.”

  Nigel could imagine. Some of the exotic sheen was rubbed off the scene he’d witnessed in the flat. Such folk might be alive with idealism and creativity, but living that way would be exhausting. He’d been away from London for two days, and he already missed his quiet, well-ordered home on Stark Lane, the scent of lavender and beeswax, the dark walls and polished floors, the quiet tick of the mantel clock, his supper laid out for him by Mrs. Cubbins. Since the death of his mother, Nigel’s childhood home had become his own domain.

  “What brings you to Paris, Mr. Warren?” Jay asked. “Business, I take it?”

  “Yes. The bank I work for is arranging a loan for a British firm. I’m making sure the French company they want to invest in is solvent and isn’t playing with the numbers.”

  “Sounds as if you hold an important position if they placed such a critical decision in your hands.”

  Nigel shook his head. “Oh no. I’m not at all the final voice on this. My job is to check the company books and make certain everything is up to snuff.”

  “Ah, those numbers you so enjoy. You’re an accountant.”

  Jay reached out a hand, and Nigel’s stomach flipped. It’s going to start now. He’s going to rest his hand on my leg.

  But Jay simply hiked up his own trousers to scratch his calf. A length of pale skin riveted Nigel’s attention. No socks with those slip-on shoes. The flash of bare flesh caused a ridiculous surge of lust, as if he’d spied a more intimate body part. Nigel was transfixed by the hair on that calf.

  “Is this your first time in Paris?” Jay asked.

  “Yes,” Nigel admitted.

  “What do you think?”

  Nigel hesitated. How to express his distaste for all things French without insulting his host? “It is rather different here, isn’t it? Even in the business district. It’s not what one is accustomed to.”

  “A polite way of saying you’d rather be at home with your feet in front of your fire, a pot of tea by your side and a London Times in your hands.” Jay laughed, a full-bodied sound that shivered Nigel’s bones.

  Again, this man’s suggestion that he knew Nigel’s type all too well annoyed him. Compelled to disabuse him of his estimation, Nigel lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “Not tonight. Tonight I wish to be no other place but here. With you.”

  His heart pounded, and he knew his complexion was beet red due to this daring insinuation. But his bravery was rewarded by a widening of Jay’s eyes and a crack in his voice when he replied.

  “You’re an unexpected visitor, but a welcome one, Nigel. And you must call me Jay.”

  And now that lovely hand that had gestured so elegantly as Jean Michel sang fluttered through the air, pale in the darkness, and came to rest on Nigel’s thigh. The weight and warmth of it, even through woolen trousers, baked his flesh and sent delicious tendrils of heat crawling up toward his groin. His already stiffening cock grew rock-hard at the touch.

  Jay leaned closer and murmured, “Well, Nigel, we’ve eaten and drunk and talked and admired the view. What shall we do next?”

  Did he expect an actual answer? N
o. Clearly not. Jay’s gaze settled on Nigel’s mouth, making his lips burn from a distance, and then he leaned in so his countenance filled Nigel’s sight completely.

  Nigel clumsily put down the glass next to the pallet. He closed his eyes and parted his lips slightly. This is the moment. This is truly happening. Warm, soft flesh settled against his mouth, pressed lightly and then moved, damp and searching. A kiss.

  Nigel couldn’t remember ever being kissed on his mouth, although he supposed he must have been by his mother at some point in his childhood. But it had been years since anyone had so much as brushed their lips against his cheek or forehead. Proper British handshakes, yes. But those French businessmen with their ludicrous presses against each cheek were as close as he’d come to any kisses.

  This…was a marvel. Jay plucked lightly at his mouth with little nibbling kisses. Then, before Nigel could catch his breath, Jay’s tongue swept across his lips—and between them, gently invading his mouth. Nigel whimpered in shock and excitement.

  The caged beast inside him, which had been rumbling, shuffling in its cage all evening, burst through the bars and galloped through him. He blindly reached out to grasp anything he could: the fabric of Jay’s shirtsleeves, his shoulders, a warm neck above a collarless shirt, and, oh God, soft, soft hair that curled like silken floss around his fingers. He submitted to Jay’s kisses, not knowing what to do with his own useless tongue, until Jay tagged it, urging it to come play.

  Like this? Uncertainly Nigel moved his tongue against the other man’s, followed his lead in coiling around it. Every stroke felt more comfortable, more natural, more like the thing he’d been waiting for his entire life. Now he gripped Jay’s back through the thin cotton of his shirt, feeling solid muscle and holding on for dear life as passionate kisses swept him away.

  I will never be the same after this. My life has changed forever tonight. The realization burst over him like the sun dawning. For the space of less than a second, Nigel felt a pang of loss and grief for the familiar patterns of his simple life. But immediately that feeling was washed away by a tide of desire.