True Colors

by Clare London

  “So bright,” she snarled, her voice loaded with sarcasm. “But that drawling, posturing act of yours… don’t you know that it’s only the stink of money that gets anyone between your legs?”

  Red’s eyes glinted, his body tensing with fury. “And it’s obviously been exaggerated how far you’ve risen from the gutter.”

  Carter broke in. “Enough, Remy. We know what you’re after. I daresay it was you who broke into the gallery when Miles first showed interest in buying it.”

  “And Miles’ house,” Red spat out.

  “And now here again,” continued Carter. “Round and round in circles, looking for something that probably doesn’t even exist.”

  “Damned well does!” burst out from her sculpted lips, startling the men. Anger and pain were mixed in her words. “He told me he’d finished them. All six.”

  “Whether he did or not, they were Zeke’s. All of ’em,” said Red. He had some control of his voice, but the fury was still obvious, bubbling underneath.

  “They were to be mine. The fucking sonofabitch owed me.” The obscenities were even uglier from Remy’s delicate mouth. “He wanted to sell them to me. He said so!”

  “That’s a lie,” Red snarled back.

  Carter stepped forward, nearer Remy. He laughed, but it came out so bitter and sharp it was like a finger scraped over glass. Even Red flinched. “You’re right, Red. It is a lie. He would never have sold them willingly. And never to her.”

  “He promised them to me!” Remy howled. Her face was twisted now, with anger and frustration. “All six. And then he started talking about only the four… mocking me.”

  Carter laughed again. He couldn’t keep the cruel edge out of it, though whether it was cruelty to Remy or to himself, he couldn’t have said. “Like you said, honey, he was playing with you. He told at least three lovers a month that he drew for them; that he would give them his work. That they’d be rich—that they’d be immortalized.”

  Remy’s eyes hardened. “Of course he did—and I heard him. I knew what he was like, even before I caught his eye. Even before I contrived to meet him, and take him to bed. But why shouldn’t it be the truth for me? Jacky Roswell cared nothing for his work when it was done; the creation was what mattered to him. And I wanted those sketches badly. It was right that I had them!”

  “You had no rights at all, though, did you?” said Carter. His eyes hurt, hot and stinging, but he didn’t bother wiping at them. “And no influence over Jacky anymore. Because it was over. The affair was over. You and him. He dumped you.” He watched her face; saw the spasm of total disgust that twisted her expression. “No one knew that but me—and you. He meant the sketches for Zeke, he always had. He never had any intention of selling or giving you anything. He laughed when he told me you were chasing them. He laughed, and he said that you’d believed every lie he ever told you, and that you were nothing but a liability now. Dammit, he wasn’t known for caring about an ex-lover’s sensibilities; he’d normally just have cut you dead. But he was waiting to meet you somewhere public, presumably so you couldn’t make too much of a scene. The art show that night—the night he died. You were both there, earlier in the evening. That was the night he finished with you, wasn’t it?”

  “They were to be mine….” Her voice was more of a whisper. Her body was rigid with fury and resentment.

  “No, they weren’t.” Carter felt very weary. How could she still be so deluded?

  “But you took advantage of the confusion after his death and took ’em anyway,” growled Red. “Didn’t you?”

  Remy turned back to him, her eyes sharp again. “That’s bullshit, De Vere. It was an arm’s-length sale, remember? Everyone in the business knew that. Had to be, to satisfy probate.”

  “Like hell it was.” Red’s voice was so harsh, Carter was startled. Red’s blue eyes matched Remy’s, shining like flints. “There’s little love lost between us, eh, Remy? I’ve always thought you an empty-headed, self-obsessed little bitch.”

  “You’re just jealous that your own bid for the sketches wasn’t even in the frame. You’re as greedy as the next man….”

  Red smiled, but it never reached his eyes. It was an eerie sight. Carter was fascinated to see the depth of dislike in the handsome face. A little awed too.

  “Whatever. But recently I’ve changed my mind about you. I’ve been investigatin’ your affairs for a long time, now—and that’s your business affairs, not your sordid and predatory bedroom career. You know I’ve been watchin’ you. You know how I feel. Ever since you ruined a couple of my friends’ peace of mind, and ever since you got your claws into Miles Winter. Hell, I don’t usually do a statutory search on my friends’ lovers, but you, dear heart, are an exception.” He moved toward her, and this time Carter didn’t stop him. “Remy Dion, the dim little model. We all believe that with so much beauty, brains must be sacrificed in exchange. But that’s not the case for you, is it?”

  The model stood silently now, her hands shaking slightly. Her eyes were wary and concentrated entirely on Red.

  “I always knew you were acquisitive—and greedy—but I guess I thought it was just an unattractive character trait. Now I find it’s a hell of a lot more than that. It’s a career choice. You’ve invested well, and you’ve had representation at every major auction in the city for the last three years. Your art collection—or whatever I can specifically identify—is second only to the state gallery itself. You’ve bought and sold art for years under your nominees. And your main agent is located in Hong Kong.” Her eyes widened; his didn’t waver. “You bought those sketches, Remy! You bought them for yourself. I don’t have all the details yet, but I will. Somehow you tricked the estate, you tricked Jacky’s wishes, and you tricked Zeke Roswell out of his inheritance. All for your own greed.”

  “And you’re still not satisfied,” added Carter, stepping up beside him. They stood together, the two men, united in their hatred for the woman in front of them. They breathed together; they shared the same cold anger.

  There was a sudden sound behind them, the creak of a hinge. Muted light spread across the gallery floor, spilling over their feet. The door to the upstairs apartment had opened wide.

  Miles Winter stood there, framed at the open doorway, dressed in sweatpants and a garish red T-shirt, staring with astonishment at the gathering in front of him.

  WHEN Miles followed Zeke up to the apartment at the end of the show, leaving their friends to lock up, he fell happily onto the couch with him, kissing and talking about the evening, how they felt and what they thought would be their future. Then Zeke had yawned loudly in Miles’ face, and Miles laughed instead. He undressed Zeke, gently and protectively, and lay down beside him on the narrow bed.

  “Got to get a bigger bed,” Zeke sighed. He’d yawned again. “Your damned hips are too bony….” And then his eyes closed.

  Miles watched him fall asleep, quickly and deeply, exhausted by the day’s events. They’d not even had sex. He didn’t mind. It was a measure of what they’d been through that they wanted to lie together. That it wasn’t just their desire leading them for once. But he found he couldn’t settle himself as quickly; there was too much going around in his mind. He undressed and lay quietly beside Zeke, his arm around him, listening to his lover’s thick, relaxed breathing and staring at the walls. There was a hell of a lot to think about, of course.

  The exhibition had been another incredible success, and he thought that Zeke’s career might be racing ahead of anything they’d ever imagined. He realized what a vibrant, unpredictable talent he’d snared in Zeke Roswell. He was glad for him—of course he was—but he couldn’t help but think Zeke wouldn’t want to stay in this gallery. Given the choice, he’d probably want to work elsewhere. He might travel; he might look for a gallery of his own again one day.

  He’ll leave me. Miles knew he was being unreasonable. He and Zeke had something special, didn’t they? They’d be together, however far he traveled. He just wouldn’t have him with him�
��like this, in bed beside him. Every night.

  And the gifted picture… dear God, the picture! Miles had been blown away by it. His appreciation of art had come to him only lately, but it had been a deep and rewarding interest. He acquired pieces for his collection that were his own personal choices, that spoke to him in some way. He didn’t broadcast what he owned; he’d rarely shown them, though he’d made some of the paintings available to Zeke for the exhibitions. But Zeke’s drawing had been created for him. It had spoken Zeke’s thoughts to him, displayed Zeke’s emotions. Miles felt that it wasn’t just a gift for him, but for them. When he thought of it, he thought of joy; of desire; of the connection between them. Of the future.

  He wasn’t sure what first made him aware of the noises down in the gallery, but he was alert in a moment. He pulled on the easiest things he could find—some clean sweats of Zeke’s that lay by the bed, and a T-shirt that was slightly more modest than Zeke’s usual look—and went down to investigate. He couldn’t believe that Red was still down there, or Carter. Hadn’t he heard the lock of the door some hours ago? When he peered down the stairwell, he couldn’t see much light from the gallery.

  He went down the steps warily, and opened the door very slightly at first. No one noticed him. It had been a surprise to see Red and Carter, standing in the semi-darkness. It had been even more of a shock to see Remy Dion there as well. He’d listened to their conversation for a while until he became incredibly, fiercely angry. He pushed the door wide open and stepped forward into the gallery to join the unlikely gathering.

  “Miles.” Red was startled. “What did you hear?”

  Miles stared back. This determination was a side of Red that he’d rarely seen, though he understood the other man’s aggression. “Enough. Is this why you two stayed late?”

  Carter nodded. “We thought she’d come tonight. The temptation would be irresistible, with both you and Zeke at the exhibition, and the potential of the sketches being here all the time. Because there were so many paintings here, we thought she’d suspect that there might be even more, hidden or stored away on the premises.” Carter’s voice was tired, and his face looked pale and drawn.

  “You know, I may have mentioned something of the sort during the exhibition,” murmured Red. “Within earshot of a few of her loose-tongued assistants. Guess the rumor got passed on, eh?”

  “Bastard….” Remy’s voice hissed with vitriol. “You set me up?”

  “We already suspected her for the other break-ins.” Carter was ignoring her, talking to Miles. “She’s been following you and Zeke around for months, trying to find the damned sketches. We wanted to force it out into the open.” He looked as if he were regretting the whole thing, now; as if he wasn’t sure where they went from here.

  “Call the police then,” said Miles, sharply. They all stared at him.

  Remy’s laugh cut like a blade through the tension. “Things are that simple for you, aren’t they, Miles Winter? Decide what you want and make the decision. That was one thing I found attractive about you in the first place: a single-mindedness I can recognize in myself. But what are you going to say to the police? You’ve no proof that I’ve committed any crime.” Her lips were curling in a smile again. “Just the fantasies of your amateur detective buddies here.”

  “You’ve broken in,” Miles stated. His jaw tightened.

  She laughed. “Who’d believe I was some kind of a burglar? How ridiculous you’ll all look, three grown men harassing a young woman like myself. A popular, famous, fairly simple young woman.” Her eyes were sly again. “After all, didn’t you invite me here tonight, yourself? I’m sure that’s what I remember. I think you may have wanted to apologize to me—in a more private setting—for your neglect of me earlier. And that’s what my story will be if you try to suggest I forced my way in here uninvited.” She drew herself to her full height. In the black clothing, even though it looked faintly bizarre, she was tall and elegant and impossibly beautiful. She demanded attention. Her charisma told the story her way. “And you have nothing to connect me with any other… ah… similar visits.”

  “There were fingerprints taken by the police, both times,” stated Miles. “You were obviously careless during some of those visits.”

  Her eyes flashed a warning at him, a measure of her anger, though her expression was pitying. “But even if it were me, honey, it’s not as if I’m on file, is it? And if they attempt to take my prints for comparison, without my permission, I’ll sue, believe me.”

  “They don’t need to,” said Miles, softly.

  “What?”

  “We have your prints already,” he continued. “Voluntarily given. They can easily be used as a comparison.” He looked over Carter’s shoulder and Remy followed his gaze. Ahead of them was the Perspex screen, glowing faintly from the localized light. There was a riot of colored marks all over it, the evidence of a fun and frivolous time had by all, that very evening. Marks of the individual fingerprints of all the guests….

  Red paint; blue; yellow.

  Remy went white.

  Red stepped forward again, to stand by Miles’ side. “Give it up, Remy. Admit it all. You’ve been discovered. Perhaps we can come to some kind of an agreement for you to leave Miles alone….”

  Miles put out a hand to stop his friend. “No, Red. No agreement.” He walked toward Remy. He saw she tried not to flinch as he came within striking distance, though he kept his hands at his sides. Despite the casual clothes and the obvious evidence that he’d been in bed, he knew his eyes were cold and sharp. As if he were in a board meeting; as if he were in charge of the whole agenda.

  “I always wondered why you dated me in the first place, Remy. Anyone who knows me realizes I’m hardly a typical designer accessory. I understand now it was because I had an art collection. That’s how we met, after all. And of course, I was planning to buy the old Roswell gallery at the time. Yet another good reason to cultivate my company.”

  She didn’t reply. She looked as if she were considering escape, as her feet shifted slightly.

  Miles kept his voice low, but he knew they could all hear him clearly. “You spoke of single-mindedness, Remy. How far were you prepared to go to get what you wanted?”

  She cleared her throat. “You want me to say I bought the sketches, right?”

  “No—I mean everything you wanted. Not just the goods. The payback as well.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  The other two were staring between Miles and Remy. Carter looked confused; Red looked shocked.

  Miles continued, relentlessly. “You tried to get into my collection when you broke into my house. I assume you were looking for the missing sketches. Perhaps you thought Zeke had passed them to me when I bought the gallery. I don’t know what your twisted thought processes may have been. You failed, but you set fire to my office regardless.”

  “I….”

  “You set fire to my house,” he repeated. “It could only have been you. Why did you do that? It was such a spiteful, purely malicious thing. Was it because you were unsuccessful? Or because I was ignoring you—because I was bringing our relationship to an end?”

  She pouted. “No one finishes with me, Miles. I choose who I have and who I leave.”

  “Did that apply to Jacky Roswell as well?”

  “Miles?” came Carter’s questioning voice behind him.

  Miles ignored it. “Remy,” he said. “Was it payback with Jacky as well?”

  “What is he saying?” whispered Red, his hand on Carter’s arm.

  “Fuck you, Miles,” snarled Remy.

  “Like Red said.” Miles pressed on as if she hadn’t spoken. “We all see Remy the model, the sweet girl, the girl who struggles with business issues. The young woman who is a gorgeous, undemanding ornament. What about the woman who has the supreme arrogance to expect everything her own way?” Remy bit back an angry, sobbing sound. “The woman who is obsessed with being the best. With winning; with getting what she wants. T
he woman who is continually aware of how she looks and how she dresses. Who eats less than a bird. Who smokes to keep her weight down….”

  “No!” Carter’s cry came from behind him, soft and anguished.

  Miles had no time now for explanation or reassurance. His gaze remained on Remy.

  “I had to have them, Miles,” she said, her voice a whimper now. She, also, had eyes only for him. “They were beautiful. I had to have them! And he promised them to me; he did. But after the accident, the sale had to be fast, you know? Had to be finalized before the lawyers wrapped it all up in the estate.”

  “I know you bought the sketches afterward, Remy. We’ll talk about what fraudulent methods you used at another time. But what happened on the actual night of the show? The night of the accident, as you say?”

  Her eyes flickered to Carter and Red and back again. She wouldn’t look directly at Miles now. “He was mad, Miles. Quite mad. Did you ever meet him? I could see he was tiring of me. He told me as much that night. I think he had his eyes on a student who was following him around; I was redundant by then. He wanted to finish with me. But I made sure he took me home with him. I can’t remember what I said to convince him. Something about how he’d be wise to keep me sweet for a little longer.” She chewed gently at her lower lip. “Perhaps I said I’d turn my attentions to his precious baby brother. I’d heard he was always interested in willing companions, and maybe he needed education in the tastes of his big brother Jacky.”

  Behind him, Miles heard Carter catch his breath. Red moved closer to the brown-haired man, as if to support him.

  Remy continued to whine. “He wouldn’t talk about the sketches, wouldn’t honor the deal. I’d offered to give him a ridiculously good price; I offered whatever else he wanted from me. I’d pleased him enough times before to know what he liked. But he just laughed.” There was a strange, high tone to her voice. “When we first met, he’d offered me the six. Then he changed; it was only the four to be shown. Now he was saying that none of them were for sale—none of them for me.”