by Clare London
Yeah, Zeke knew that was probably his profile, too, but he wasn’t eager to examine his own navel. That wasn’t the problem. Not right now. Was he afraid? Maybe a little. It was a feeling he didn’t ever want to share. And of what? The job? The expectation? All the things he didn’t know—and didn’t understand—about Miles Winter?
“Okay,” he said, quickly, before he could panic himself out of it. “Sounds good. I can do it. If you’re willing to take my word for it.” He took a deep breath, suddenly aware of how tense he was. He ran a hand aimlessly up and down the skimpy shirt, and the thin fabric crinkled and creased across his torso. When he glanced back at Miles, he thought he glimpsed the glint from a bead of sweat on that cool, steady throat.
Miles nodded, slowly. “Good. I’ll have a contract drawn up tomorrow. We can talk about the range of executive salary. I hope it’ll be acceptable to you. And… are you going to let me call you Zeke, in return?”
Zeke laughed aloud, and the sudden noise seemed to startle Miles. “Only you would ask that. Mr. Proper, eh? I’ve been called plenty of things in my life and most of ’em were in a tabloid newspaper or at the top of some legal clerk’s papers, but Zeke’s fine by me. I’ve never been an executive before, though. You’d better not expect some smart suit and tie, or the punch-card mentality. If that’s going to be any kind of problem—”
“I expect professionalism,” said Miles, shortly. “Commitment, as I said. How you apply that is your decision. It won’t be easy. I assume you know how much hard work will be required. That’s a given. And I’ll know if the project’s not working.”
“It will work.” Zeke watched the steely glint in Miles’ eyes and knew he was stepping into something very new. He startled himself with the confident tone of his voice. “That’s a given, too, right?”
MILES called Remy and canceled their appointment for that night. She’d wheedled and cajoled, but he wanted no party tonight, no premiere full of forced smiles and the press scribbling about what designer he was or wasn’t wearing. He couldn’t remember what the movie was they were supposed to be seeing and couldn’t muster up enough enthusiasm to find out. She could take one of her many adoring fans instead.
He considered it unlikely that Remy Dion was looking for a serious relationship. She struck him as similar to him in that way. Not interested in commitment of that kind. He was sure that she was dating other people as well as him—enough gossip filtered through to him to confirm that—but he wasn’t really surprised that the knowledge didn’t upset him. He supposed he still held enough interest for her to keep up the acquaintanceship. He didn’t feel either flattered or disappointed with her attentions.
Dammit. He seemed too tired to be feeling anything very clearly at the moment.
He spent the evening alone in his apartment. He’d never had a problem with suffering his own company; in fact, he often preferred it. Peeling off his business clothes, he slipped into sweatpants and a sleeveless T-shirt. The rooms were temperature controlled, so he was rarely too warm or too cold. Then he made himself a drink and unwrapped a salad that had been delivered to his fridge, settling himself down on his deep couch to eat.
It was a break from his usual fastidiousness. After all, he had a dining area, with proper cutlery and fine bone china dishes. He often entertained, and had staff come in and cater regularly for him. He also had strong opinions on how people—including himself—should behave at all times. Those standards didn’t include lounging around, or being improperly dressed. He guessed he was a bit of a control freak that way. Maybe that was why Zeke Roswell’s attitude and clothing had seemed to disturb him so much.
Now he sat with one leg folded up underneath him, dressed almost sloppily, and not appearing to care about either. He was picking at a salad he had little interest in, and watching the occasional drop of water or shred of lettuce drop onto the impeccable leather covering of his furniture. How out of character. He took a deep drink of his favorite red wine and felt an unusual warmth spread through him.
Sighing, he put the plate back up onto a table. He wasn’t really hungry. What was the matter with him? Perhaps he’d call Red, and see if his friend wanted to come around and entertain them both. Red never seemed unsure of anything, never seemed tired of life.
Is that what I am? Miles felt a slight shock. No… just restless. Red would amuse and settle him. It was always Red who helped him find some freedom within the restrictive life that he led. Red was the one who reminded him there was a world outside. But tonight, Miles hesitated before calling his friend. Something was nagging at him. Something Red had said? Maybe something that someone else had said….
He wandered into his bedroom, thinking he might get dressed again and visit his house outside the city. He kept the art collection there, in a secure basement. It was the one place he knew he could go and be soothed, a sanctuary of sorts. He had a strange, irrational desire to go and look at the small but prestigious collection he owned; perhaps to look again at the Zeke Roswell works that he recalled so clearly.
Zeke Roswell. What a strange, aggressive man he appeared to be. But for Miles Winter, would he be an asset or liability? Winner or loser? Miles was surprised to realize that he had no firm idea. He was also wary of deciding either way. Not yet, anyway.
As he searched for pants and a casual shirt, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He wasn’t vain, though he was well aware of his good looks. An attractive façade was part of his assets, after all. But that was a reflection of other people, not him—their fault, being distracted by how he looked rather than how he acted. He straightened up, and for a second, he stared into the dark pupils of his own eyes. There’s nothing new to be seen there. His gaze followed the wide line of his shoulders, the taut skin across his throat. Reaching to his waist, he peeled off his shirt, exposing his torso.
He stood and stared at himself. He slid his fingers up his chest and teased gently at his nipple. He thought he saw a flash of excitement in the reflection of his eyes, but then he doubted it. He’d never thought his skin was particularly sensitive there, but he felt a twinge of desire in his groin and its fierceness startled him. Running his hand down slowly, his fingers paused at the waistband of the sweats. He tugged it down so that his navel was exposed. Gazing at the shallow dip, he felt an urge to press his fingertip inside and caress it.
Aimlessly, his other hand traced down the thin layer of hair that ran from between his nipples and over his tight abdomen. Goose pimples followed in its wake, following the trail of his damp palm. Just like another trail his eyes had followed earlier on that day... a skimpy shirt; tanned skin. Bare feet. Another half-clothed body that had somehow fascinated him. Miles saw the swelling shadow of his cock under his sweats, and realized he was suddenly, but strongly aroused.
Zeke Roswell?
God, no. Abruptly, he turned away from the mirror. He didn’t understand where that reaction had come from. He didn’t welcome it. Of course he didn’t. It had been a hell of a day, and the interview with Roswell had been… well, it had been unusual, to say the least. And it had certainly unsettled him. He smiled grimly, imagining what Malia or his other staff would say if he admitted that to them. He kept everything together when he was at work, relying on his cool confidence to run his business and inspire respect.
But that didn’t mean he’d lie to himself when he was alone. Unsettled. Was that an adequate word for how he felt? He sighed, his fingers still lingering on his skin. He just needed to pull himself together, and get out of town for an hour or so.
He definitely wasn’t interested in anything the tightness in his stomach and groin might be telling him.
Chapter 3
CARTER yelled at the young man in front of him, his eyes wide with anger and frustration, his fists clenched at his sides.
“It’s a brilliant offer, Zeke! Dammit, how can you even think of refusing it? And after you’ve accepted already? What the hell’s got into you?”
Zeke frowned back. They were in the
living room of Carter’s apartment, a place that had become as familiar to Zeke as his own. Carter was an engineer, spending long days at work and often away on site visits, but he treasured his place and had made it both comfortable and tasteful. He liked rich fabrics and coordinating furniture; he liked to collect fine glass.
Carter also had an enthusiastic and well-informed interest in art, which had inspired his initial introduction to the Roswells. On the wall over his desk, he displayed an early Zeke Roswell original, a relatively modest study of swirling purple colors. Of course, Zeke knew Carter also had another original on the wall by his bed, a substantially more precious one. It was a Jacky Roswell sketch, albeit only a selection of light, minimalist charcoal strokes, but it was of Carter himself. It picked out only the shape of his head, the sweep of his hair, but it was mesmerizing. If Zeke were insulted at his work taking second place to it, he never said.
“Carter, no need to get so fired up about it. I just wondered what the hell he was playing at, that’s all. Can’t see it being genuine—”
“Just hiding your head in the goddamn sand like always, that’s all.”
“Look, I’m not sure I want to work for him, be some pimp of an artistic director—”
“You’re just shit scared that you can’t do it,” snapped Carter, losing patience.
They were both shocked to silence.
Zeke bit his lip. And then he laughed aloud. “You’re right. Christ, that’s true. I never worked for anyone but Jacky, and then myself. I never signed on to any other job, never sucked up. Never did that corporate thing, like you do. What fucking use am I going to be?”
“You’re a fool,” said Carter. He ran his hand through his loose brown hair. “Look at you, Zeke. You’re impossible. One minute angry and destructive, next minute….” He grimaced. “You can do whatever you put your mind to, if you want to enough. Or you can just drink yourself out of the employment market entirely.”
“Hey. I haven’t touched anything, you know?” Zeke flushed with both anger and humiliation. Carter didn’t have to be so fucking harsh. “Nothing except a beer or two, not since I sold the gallery. Christ, that’s been hard enough without you on my case as well.”
Carter stared at Zeke, his eyes dark. Zeke couldn’t identify the expression he saw there. “But if you don’t take the job offer, Zeke, what else are you going to do? Where’s the money to live going to come from? You can’t do anything else.”
“Okay,” Zeke replied. “Just say what you mean, why don’t you?” He found it uncomfortable to meet Carter’s eyes. “So I’ll take the damned job. I’ll be Mr. Miles Winter’s man. Get the gallery back on its feet, hose it down, shake it ’til its teeth rattle.” If he’s willing to take the risk.
“You’ll enjoy it,” said Carter, doggedly. “You’re an excellent choice, and that’s why he’s offered it. It may even encourage you to paint again.”
Zeke couldn’t answer. He let his shudder do that for him.
“You need to be earning again. Jacky left you nothing, Zeke. He should have made provisions for you.”
“Spent it as soon as he earned it, Carter. You know what he was like. And anything I got from his remaining paintings went into my damned gallery. Don’t remind me.”
Carter’s eyes narrowed, as if he knew he was stepping into dangerous territory again. “What about the ‘Family’ sketches? He meant that series to go to you. He told me so.”
“Fuck off,” sighed Zeke, but he knew he sounded half-hearted. “He never finished the series. Everyone knew it was meant to be a series of six, so who’s going to buy just four?”
“Someone did. That guy in the Far East.”
Zeke grimaced. “Yeah, but at a fraction of the value the whole set would’ve reached. I was never going to be a millionaire on that. Jacky never finished the work in progress, okay?”
Carter shook his head. It was their most familiar argument. “He told me he had.”
“Pillow talk,” said Zeke, a little cruelly. He still wasn’t meeting Carter’s eyes—didn’t want to see any flash of pain in the dark green depths. “Did he actually show the other two to you?”
“No.” Carter’s voice was low. “You know that. But he was telling the truth, I know. Zeke, are you sure you don’t know where the missing sketches are?”
“Dammit, back off. If I did, don’t you think I’d have put them up for sale by now? I’d have been able to keep the gallery going. I wouldn’t be selling out to the Winter Corporation.”
Zeke knew Carter had to believe him. In the miserable months since Jacky’s death, while Zeke was hiding himself from the world in a passion of drinking and debauching, he’d wheedled and begged money from all sorts of sources. He’d not have stopped at selling Jacky’s work, if he had it, whatever sentimental value it might have had. Would he?
The so-called “Family” sketches had been some of the last things that Jacky Roswell ever produced: gentle, evocative charcoal drawings, but full of movement and passion. The same medium as the single sketch he’d done of Carter, and one he was particularly gifted in. The critics called it an inimitable and unique style, and indeed, there were few living artists who could compare with his vision and skill in drafting a whole life story in a handful of gray strokes on paper. His work had been so different from Zeke’s boldness in paint—his younger brother’s vivid, aggressively bright colors.
The sketches weren’t specific portraits, but Jacky had announced expansively they were of his family. When the first four were shown in a local gallery, they were highly praised. They illustrated a couple of young men, at various stages of growing up, the style sensual but not sexual. What raised them above other artists’ work was the very vivid and obvious devotion between the characters, a bonding love that was beyond physical passion. Jacky had dedicated the works to his family, to him and Zeke.
Zeke hadn’t been looking at them from the point of view of artistic merit. He just saw it as a time of great excitement for them both, of a closeness that might have been better than ever.
Didn’t happen like that, though, did it?
Jacky always said that he was working on a set of six, and there was so much interest in them that auction reserve prices were already set at astronomical levels. But then he died—and those were the only four in existence. Others were searched for but never found. The four were sold indecently quickly to an anonymous buyer in Hong Kong, although Carter tried desperately for a while to raise the money to keep them for himself. The proceeds sank into Jacky’s estate, and just about covered his debts. No one listened to Carter’s complaints that whoever had brokered that hasty deal had been a damned crook.
Now Zeke sighed, wondering why he continued to torment both himself and Carter about something that was so far in the past. “Just leave it, Carter.”
But Carter wouldn’t. “They were sketches of his family, he said. And there was only ever the pair of you for him to draw. It’s been that way since you were a child. You both had each other, no one else to care for you. He was so fond of you, Zeke. You could see that in the images of both of you, at least in the four that were sold….”
“Just sketches.” Zeke gritted his teeth. He spun around, turning his back on the other man. Was it ever going to stop hurting, thinking of Jacky? “Just art.”
“No.” Carter stepped up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Jacky was a genius. They were beautiful, the best work he ever did. When I looked at them, I saw him. How he felt; how he lived. The vibrancy of him, the depth of his feelings. They were….” His voice faltered. “They were what I loved about him.”
Zeke felt the softening in him that only Carter could bring. He’d been fond of the man for a long time. Dammit, Carter was family too. “I remember him well enough not to need the pictures, Carter. Look. Are you… in trouble? Like with money, or something? Christ knows, I can’t help. But he’d have wanted you to sell that print you have over your bed, if you had to….”
“I’m fine,” repl
ied Carter. His hand tightened on Zeke’s shoulder. “I’ll never part with it. I wasn’t with him for the money, you know, not because he was famous, or because I thought he could do something for me….”
“Yeah, I know,” murmured Zeke.
“I loved him.” Carter was hoarse, like he felt he had to justify it to someone; as if he were being challenged on it.
“I know,” repeated Zeke. He was surprised how weary he sounded. Carter had been with his brother for almost two years before he died. They were an unusual couple, but the complement of their characters worked well. Carter was so obviously entranced by his lover. A mature, steady character, he’d been an excellent balance to the artist’s fractious instability. Jacky Roswell himself had seemed uncharacteristically content with the relationship. For a while, at least.
Carter had taken Jacky’s death as painfully as Zeke himself. He wasn’t a man who gave love lightly, Zeke had realized that, as Carter had slowly but irresistibly fallen under Jacky’s spell. Carter Davison had no legal status in Jacky’s family, of course, no claim on his estate or his goods. After being called out to the sodden, smoking remains of the fire by a hysterical Zeke, he’d returned to his own apartment with no more souvenirs of the relationship than the sketch Jacky had gifted him in the early months of their affair, and the memory of a passionate yet erratic lover in his bed. Oh, and the friendship and unofficial guardianship of Jacky’s grief-stricken younger brother.
Zeke knew his own relationship with Jacky had been stormy. He also knew he’d transferred some of that tension to Carter, now his pseudo-brother. Even when Jacky was alive, they’d argued a lot, particularly about Jacky’s inability to be faithful, his habitual unreliability. It maddened Zeke and was probably one of the reasons for his own, equally impetuous behavior. Carter was steady and sensible, so unlike Jacky. And so damned constant, regardless. Zeke had seen his brother run Carter ragged, and it had pissed him off.