Lucien sighed. The article itself sounded like the usual drivel, but those pictures… most straight men didn’t walk around Venice holding hands.
“Thank you, Malik. I’m going to call my father and Morel’s PR director. If any press calls to ask you questions—”
“No comment,” Malik replied. “Or I’ll just hang up. I’m going to call Léo and Ben now and warn them.”
“Thank you,” Simon said. “And thank you so much for calling. We might not be able to stop it, but at least it won’t blindside us over breakfast.”
Lucien ended the call, and they sat there on the bed for a moment, staring at each other.
“I have to call my father,” Lucien said finally. “But first we need to know what we’re going to do.”
“What do you mean?” Simon asked blankly, and Lucien wondered if maybe he was in shock.
“We can issue separate statements denying everything.”
“Don’t be stupid!” Simon snapped. “They have pictures of us holding hands, Lucien!” He sucked in a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I just…. This isn’t how I wanted to come out.”
Lucien remained silent, unsure what to say, and Simon squeezed the hand he was still holding.
“I’d kind of started planning it. I was going to come out for you. It was… it was going to be a declaration of how I feel about you.”
The words hung between them. Lucien was torn between being elated and heartbroken that Simon wouldn’t get the moment he’d wanted.
“You’re still coming out for me,” he said huskily, and Simon heaved a sigh.
“Yeah.” He smiled weakly. “Not quite the same way, but I guess when our grandkids one day ask how I told you I love you, this will make a great story. ‘Well, kids, a trashy gossip rag printed a photo of us holding hands.’”
Forcing himself to swallow past the lump in his throat—what did he address first, love or grandkids?—Lucien chuckled. “And then you made a joke about our grandkids, and I found out you love me.” He glanced down at the bed, just to make sure it was still there, because he felt like he was floating.
Simon looked stricken. “Oh hell, I really bollocksed that up, didn’t I? What I mean to say was, Lucien, I love you. I know we haven’t known each other that long, but—”
Lucien placed his free hand over Simon’s mouth. “Stop. No qualifications. I love you.” He felt Simon’s lips move against his hand as he smiled, and he grinned in return.
IT was several hours later before Lucien had the chance to jump in the shower. Ideally, he would have liked to get a few more hours sleep, but there was no way his nerves would let it happen.
Me, nervous. How astounding.
He’d woken his father, who had in turn woken the Morel Corporation’s director of PR. The four of them had discussed the various options open to them and had settled on a simple statement that said he and Simon were seeing each other, their relationship was still new, and they were taking it one day at a time.
Guy Vernon, the director of PR, had drilled Simon very thoroughly on what the press might or might not know about him. The rumors had been around for years, but were unconfirmed. Had anyone ever asked outright if he was gay or bisexual?
“No,” Simon had replied. “I’d remember if they had, because I wasn’t going to lie. I didn’t want to say anything that might one day bite me in the arse.”
“That’s astonishing,” Guy marveled. “All those rumors, and no reporter ever just asked? Well, it’s fortunate for us. If people want to know why you never told them you were bisexual before, just tell them nobody asked. The rumors were all there, and you just assumed people believed them.”
It seemed a little slippery to Lucien, but it was the truth, so while people might speculate and doubt, there was nothing concrete with which to cast aspersions on Simon’s integrity.
So now they just had to wait. Guy had the statement prepared, ready to send out as soon as the news hit the streets—which would be very soon now. They’d considered sending it out sooner and preempting Bonjour Celeb’s headline, but decided that smacked too much of a cover-up.
They’d woken Tim, Anna, and Michel to warn them. The On the Ball offices weren’t open on Sunday, but Simon insisted it was courtesy to let their employees know they might be facing a shitstorm on Monday morning. Plus, somebody had to talk to the web host to make sure their site could handle increased traffic—just in case.
Lucien got out of the shower, toweled off, and dressed. He didn’t bother with shaving or further grooming. He wasn’t planning to leave the apartment all day. He and Simon had considered returning to Paris that morning to face the media uproar from there, but as Guy had pointed out, it wouldn’t change anything. They had made arrangements for one of the Morel planes to take Simon to Budapest the next day, though, instead of him taking a commercial flight. The executive airport had much better security, and they were accustomed to keeping paparazzi at bay.
Léo had texted while they were talking to his father and Guy, and had assured them the apartment was theirs as long as they wanted it should they decide to stay on in Venice. He’d also sent the number of a “very good and discreet” local firm that could provide security and run errands for them, and offered round-the-clock service. Lucien had already called them and arranged for groceries to be delivered ASAP, and for security—which had arrived forty minutes later. There was currently one guard in the foyer of the building, and one outside the apartment. Both were well over six feet, built like tanks, and had long and distinguished military records.
Sighing over the need for guards simply to spend time with his boyfriend, Lucien walked out into the main room. The first rays of sun were peeking around the tightly closed curtains. It would have been nice to open them, but wasn’t worth the risk of a telephoto lens.
Simon was unpacking a bag of groceries.
“Oh good, they came,” Lucien said. He’d expected swift and efficient service, but also knew it could be difficult to find supermarkets open this early in Italy.
“Yes, and they’re very good,” Simon replied. “The fruit and veg and pastries are really fresh, and everything else is exactly what we asked for. I wonder if the company has a branch in Paris.”
Picking up a still-warm brioche, Lucien broke it in half and lifted a piece to his mouth. Not quite as good as the ones from his favorite patisserie at home, but still excellent. He offered the other half to Simon.
“I’ve already had one, thanks.” He grinned, and while it was strained, Lucien was still relieved to see it. “I couldn’t wait for you. They smelled too good.”
“Did you make coffee?” Lucien asked, although the lack of coffee smells would indicate no.
Simon shook his head. “Sorry, I was too busy scarfing down pastries.”
Chuckling, Lucien crossed to the cupboard beside the stove and pulled out the cafetiere. There was an automatic coffee machine, but he’d found over the years that there was something soothing about the process of making espresso the traditional way. He didn’t often take time to do it at home, but when it Italy, it made for a nice change.
Part of him knew that by occupying himself with mundane morning chores, he was avoiding the drama that loomed on the horizon. More, he and Simon were both avoiding having to talk about it.
He made the coffee as Simon finished putting away the groceries and plating the remaining pastries and some fruit. They settled at the dining table and exchanged trivialities as they ate, the lulls between sentences becoming longer and longer until they finally lapsed into silence. Lucien racked his brain for something to say. He was a highly educated man, knowledgeable on many topics, well read, current on all major social and political issues, as well as informed about the arts, sport, and any number of other topics. He was widely considered to be an interesting and amusing conversationalist.
And right then, he couldn’t think of a damn thing to say to his lover, the man he loved and planned to spend his life with.
His phone rang, an
d they both jumped and gasped. Simon began to laugh. There was an edge of hysteria to the sound, and Lucien glanced at him in concern as he swiped the phone up from the table and glanced at the display.
“Ben,” he said, and answered it, putting it on speaker. “Good morning, Ben.”
“Is it?” his friend said darkly. Lucien heard street sounds in the background. “I’m looking at the cursed headline.”
Lucien was touched. Ben had clearly not gone back to sleep after Malik had called, but instead had gone out at this ridiculously early hour, when Lucien knew he was not really a morning person, to get information for them.
“How bad is it?” Simon asked.
Ben sighed. “It could be worse. The article is mostly bullshit, but there are these two huge pictures of you at a restaurant holding hands over the table and smiling at each other. It’s pretty unmistakable that you’re more than friends.”
That was more or less what they’d been warned to expect, but something in him must have been hoping, because the disappointment was intense. Lucien slumped in his chair and met Simon’s gaze, seeing the same feeling reflected there.
A loud sound came through the phone, and Simon furrowed his brow.
“Ben, was that a truck?” he asked. “Where are you?”
Léo chuckled. “We are still at the tobacconist. Ben is experiencing a moral dilemma. He does not wish to support the newspaper by purchasing a copy, but since he has now read the article, he feels that to not purchase would be stealing.”
Ben squawked a protest as Lucien and Simon grinned at each other, momentarily distracted. “It’s not a ‘moral dilemma.’ You don’t need to make it sound stupid. It’s a… a… fuck. Fine, it’s a moral dilemma.”
Simon was still smiling as he said, “Give your conscience a break, Ben, and buy the paper. We need you to take pics and send them to us—there’s no way either of us is going out to get one, and I don’t think we’re willing to subscribe online and give them our credit card details.”
“Oh—good point,” Ben said, and a moment later Léo added, “He’s gone to buy it. Thank you, Simon. I was very much afraid that we’d be here all morning.”
“Thank you,” Simon replied sincerely. “If it weren’t for your contacts, Luc and I would be hungry and unguarded right now. And have no idea what that damn article actually said.”
“Luc?” Léo asked, a note of disbelief in his voice, and Lucien groaned. Simon winced and shot him an apologetic look. “You call him Luc? Nobody’s ever called him anything except Lucien.”
“It’s a pet name,” Lucien defended, wondering why he bothered.
“Oh, I know,” Léo said, laughing. “Luc.”
“No. Absolutely not.” It was a losing battle.
“Ben’s coming back. We’ll go home and send you some pictures. Talk to you soon, Luc.”
“Did you just call Lucien Luc?” Lucien heard Ben ask right before the call was disconnected. He stared at the phone in his hand.
“Sorry?” Simon said tentatively. Lucien looked up at him. “It just slipped out.”
Lucien began to laugh.
IN the end, that Sunday was spent mostly in bed. They’d tried watching TV to keep busy, but the constant “news” updates about their relationship quickly became tiresome. It was enough that they were in touch with Guy every hour or so as he worked with various media outlets to show their relationship in a positive, nonscandalous light. There were many more demands for interviews than they’d anticipated, and he and Simon had agreed to discuss the possibility of doing one or two.
Lucien was fairly certain he knew how that discussion would go.
Early on Monday morning, with the help of the two security guards they’d hired plus four of their colleagues, Lucien and Simon left the apartment and headed for the executive airport. They’d considered just having a helicopter pick them up, but the roof of the building wasn’t suitable, and as Simon said, if they had to leave the building to get to a helipad, they may as well just go to the airport.
Running the gauntlet of the press wasn’t as bad as it could have been. For one thing, the property’s Grand Canal location meant there wasn’t a lot of space for people to gather in front of the building, and every time too many boats had gathered, the police came along to disperse them, as it affected traffic. There were the usual shouted questions, flashing cameras, and then, when it appeared Lucien and Simon weren’t going to comment, some attempts to goad them with insults. Within a few minutes, they were safely aboard the private boat the security service had arranged, and headed to a private dock where they could transfer to a car.
When they finally reached the airport, a Morel plane was waiting to take Simon to Budapest. Another was coming for Lucien but had to take members of the executive team to a meeting in Prague first—he had reserved one of the airport’s meeting rooms to work in while he waited. He walked with Simon to the gate.
“You’ll be back in Paris on Wednesday, yes?” he asked, thinking that two days suddenly seemed like a lifetime.
“Yes,” Simon said. “And I’m there for the rest of the week. I suppose I should look at some more apartments.” The lack of enthusiasm in his voice was distinct, and an impulse hit Lucien so strongly, he could not ignore it.
“Don’t. Stay with me.”
Simon blinked at him. “What? You mean… move in with you?”
“Well, there wouldn’t be a lot of moving in to do,” Lucien said with a smirk. “Most of your things are there already—you’d just need whatever else you want from London.”
“Be serious, Luc. You want me to live with you?” There was something achingly vulnerable about the look on Simon’s face right then, and Lucien both loved and hated it. Loved that he could make Simon feel so deeply, and hated that Simon, his strong, amazing hero, should ever feel unsure about anything.
“Yes. Yes. I want you to live with me. I love you. This is not a casual relationship, Simon. We would end up living together eventually anyway—why must we be apart just for the sake of a foolish convention that says it is too soon?”
Simon’s face lit up in a smile, and he leaned forward and kissed Lucien. As always when their lips touched, Lucien felt warm tingles flood up through his body. Kissing Simon was the most addictive thing on the planet.
“Yes,” Simon said when they finally pulled apart. “Okay, yes. I want to live with you.” They kissed again, until one of the airport officials discreetly cleared her throat. Lucien let Simon go and glanced at her, and then at the door.
“Are they waiting?” he asked, and she nodded.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll lose the slot.”
“Thank you,” Simon told her. “I can’t miss this meeting.” He grabbed his bag, squeezed Lucien’s hand, and then turned for the gate. “I’ll call you tonight.”
Chapter Thirteen
SIMON leaned against the headboard in another nice but anonymous hotel and waited for Lucien to answer the phone. He was bone tired. The weekend, which had started so perfectly, had ended up being a complete energy suck.
“Hello.” Lucien’s warm voice in his ear was better than twelve hours’ sleep. Si felt muscles relax that he hadn’t even realized were tense.
“Hi,” he said on a long sigh. “How was your day?” He chuckled. Who’d have thought he’d ever be so domestic?
“Not terrible, considering,” Lucien replied. “There was press in front of the apartment and the corporate building, but I have not had to deal with them directly yet. And your day?”
Si slumped down in the bed. “I’m chalking it up as a success. I got a few odd looks, one person congratulated me, and a few sympathized over the intrusion of the media—which I thought was pretty good of them, since it must have been a pain in the arse for them to have the press outside their building—but the meeting itself went well, and there was a lot of support for On the Ball.”
Lucien sighed quietly, and Si heard the relief in it. “So, it’s going to be okay.”
“Yeah, I think so. I mean, I don’t know how that Italian guy from Friday would have acted if I’d met with him today, to be honest, but overall I think it shouldn’t be too bad. I spoke with Anna before, and Tim, and they said there’s been a lot of curiosity, lots of calls from the press, but we’re still getting as many, if not more applications—and the training camp is now officially full.” He paused. Anna had also told him that several applications had been withdrawn. That made him sad, but more so that people in need were unwilling to accept help simply because they didn’t approve of the person offering it.
“What about the withdrawals?” Lucien asked gently, and Si smiled.
“You’ve been talking to Anna, too.”
“I stopped at the office on my way from the airport,” he acknowledged. “I wanted to make sure they didn’t need anything. We have a security guard on the door for the next few days.”
Si frowned, not liking that. Of course he didn’t want Anna and Michel subjected to the press, but…. “Won’t that discourage anybody stopping by to ask about the program?”
“Possibly, but the guard has been instructed to be as polite as possible. The offices don’t get many visitors anyway.” Lucien’s tone was firm. “We need to make sure our staff and visitors are protected.”
If it were possible for hearts to melt, Si thought his might just have done so. How could he ever have considered Lucien just another billionaire businessman? He cared so much about his people—and about Simon.
“Okay,” he acquiesced. “You’re right. And if it’s only for a few days, it doesn’t really matter anyway.”
“It wasn’t negotiable,” Lucien said dryly, and Si wasn’t sure whether to chuckle or let the stab of annoyance take over. There was his autocratic billionaire.
“My mum rang me today,” he said, in a bid to change the subject. From Lucien’s sharply indrawn breath, Si guessed he’d just realized they hadn’t given a thought to warning Si’s family.
“We should have called your parents as soon as we found out.” The regret in Lucien’s voice was clear. “This is not a good start to my relationship with them.”
The Athlete and the Aristocrat Page 14