“Uncle?” Alex voice wavered. It struck him that the only weakness and frailty in Alfred was in his body. His mind remained sharp, his sphere of influence equally vast.
Alex’s ever-indulgent uncle finally, for the very first time, laid down the law. “For years I’ve watched you paint the town and have a high old time of it. I smiled and turned a blind eye, knowing that’s what youth is for. You’re thirty now. It’s time to settle down and act like a man.”
Immediately on the defensive, Alex challenged, “You want me to get married.” He’d always known this day was coming and, as he’d told Paul, he couldn’t find it in him to say no.
With a rueful smile and a shake of his head, Alfred quietly responded, “No, Alex. I could no more ask you to live a lie than I could stop loving you for who you are. How can you even think that of me? Would you put me in the same class as my parents, who expected such of me? Never! What I’m asking is for you take responsibility for your life and grow up a little. The world can still be your playground. You simply need to follow the rules, or”—one bushy eyebrow lifted—“make new ones. Anderson blood flows in your veins, after all. What you need is structure, Alex. Establish high standards of conduct for yourself and stick to them.”
Alex nodded numbly, knowing he should have done this on his own without waiting for his uncle to make demands. “You’re absolutely right.”
Alfred’s nod of approval had the same effect now as years ago, instilling a sense of pride that he’d pleased the only father he’d ever known. “I have a favor to ask,” his uncle continued. “You’re right in saying that I can’t attend the showing of Edmond’s work. Instead, I’d like for you to go instead and find a new painting to hang on the wall of my office.”
Oh, was that all? For a moment Alex expected something truly horrendous to be asked of him, like visiting Aunt Helena. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Is there anything in particular you’d like?” Though he’d never admit a fondness for culture publicly, as it might tarnish the shallow image he’d slaved to create, he’d frequently attended gallery openings for the sake of the art, not merely for the social whirl or out of a sense of familial obligation. Andersons, even half Andersons, tended to get lots of invitations. He hadn’t attended any lately and was shocked to realize that, instead of attending cultural events and gallery showings, he’d been focusing solely on clubbing instead. How had that happened?
“You’ll know it when you see it,” came the enigmatic reply.
“Knock, knock,” Paul called from the hallway, warning them of his arrival. “Tea’s here!”
“One more thing, Alex,” Alfred added with a meaningful gaze. “I want you to take Paul with you.”
ALEX’S power of speech fled. Paul appeared attractive when scruffy, but cleaned up? Amazing. And the absolute best part? Paul didn’t have a clue how gorgeous he was, and that, in Alex’s opinion, was possibly his best feature.
A thick, coffee-colored mane contrasted starkly with the crisp white collar of Paul’s shirt, and the black contemporary tuxedo jacket, cut to frame his crotch rather than cover it, accentuated Paul’s compact build. Alex would bet he had no idea who’d designed his attire or how much Alfred had paid for the suit. Knowing might surely ruin the evening for Paul.
Paul smiled shyly, traipsing down the hall toward the foyer, and Alex considered any price well worth the results. The man made a fine sight in the tux, and Alex began to mentally devise ways to get him out of it. With a sigh, he recalled his solemn promise to stop making unwanted advances. When he’d started trying to lure Paul to bed he’d had ulterior motives; now the game had grown serious. The more he learned, the more he admired the open honesty of Paul Sinclair. The man represented all anyone dared ask for, rolled up into one convenient, sexy-as-hell package.
Was appreciation for his own appearance reflected in Paul’s eyes?
“Are you ready to go?” Alex asked offhandedly, as though he hadn’t been watching the clock for the past ten minutes, fearing Paul might change his mind. “I had Isaac pull the car around.” He chuckled. “Not yours—the Benz.”
Although Alfred lived well, he didn’t flaunt his wealth in his daily living, and his garage contained fairly modest vehicles for their neighborhood: an Escalade, a Town Car, a Jeep, and a sporty BMW. Down at the far end, reserved for special occasions, sat Alfred and Byron’s pride and joy: a 1958 Mercedes-Benz Type W180 220S Ponton sedan. Alfred insisted Alex and Paul “take his baby out for a little fresh air” for the gallery opening, which suited Alex. He loved making a grand entrance, and the Benz certainly guaranteed they’d be noticed.
“Why ever not?” Paul asked, lower lip stuck out in a pout. “Don’t you think a bit of dirt would be the perfect touch for our monkey suits? And wouldn’t we make quite the fashion statement when Old Betsy backfired? Not many vehicles come equipped with their own twenty-one gun salute.”
“Did they charge extra, or are military honors a standard feature?” Alex asked, enjoying Paul’s good-natured teasing. It wasn’t often he found himself in a position to flirt, normally too poised and intent on being “The Great Alex Martin, Rich Guy.” He found flirting surprisingly entertaining. Paul joining in the fun made it priceless.
Paul’s smile had an immediate effect on Alex’s libido, much deprived as it had been since their one night together. Recent abstinence must be the reason why he acted like a hormonal teen whenever his former rival came within a few feet. No one had ever inspired such instant lust in him before.
Grateful his own tux boasted a more generous cut and hid his body’s reaction, Alex opened the door and ushered Paul through. “After you,” he said, watching with keen fascination. The back of the man’s tux appeared equally flattering.
He shot a warning scowl at Isaac when he noticed the driver also enjoying the view. It looked like he’d have to keep a close eye on his companion tonight. They hadn’t even left the house, and already he’d met competition. Not that he expected any serious competition—he was Alex Martin, after all.
Climbing in, he settled himself in the car, a little closer to Paul than absolutely necessary. Paul didn’t move away.
“So,” Paul began, relaxing into the seat, hands clasped loosely in his lap. “Have you ever been to a showing of Edmond’s work before?”
“Actually, until the invitation arrived, I’d never heard of Edmond,” Alex confessed.
“Not much of an art fan, huh?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I may not know much about art, but I can point and say, ‘Oh… pretty!’” The comment earned Alex a laugh. He chose his words carefully. This newfound camaraderie might end in a minute if Paul thought him bragging. Alex opted to downplay any true interest in the subject and gave a modest portion of the truth. Now wasn’t the time to flaunt wealth and privilege. “I took art history in college,” he offered.
With a definite challenge to his words, Paul prodded, “Okay. Who’s your favorite artist?”
Alex had never passed up a challenge in his life, but prudently kept his true opinion to himself in this matter. If he mentioned the name “Kandinsky,” he’d spend the next hour babbling about one of his favorite subjects. To avoid a lengthy rant on technique and style, he gave an answer he hoped Paul would accept. “Oh, I don’t know. Monet is okay.”
Paul snorted. “Too easy. Everyone likes Monet.”
He should have known the man was too smart to buy his feeble answer. Alex leaned back against the leather seat and considered how much to tell without appearing arrogant and bringing the conversation to a screeching halt. He recalled his first exposure to art, a cherished gift given to him by his mother. “Well, when I was a child I had a book illustrated by Maxfield Parrish. As I grew older, I developed a great appreciation for Stars.”
Misunderstanding the reference, Paul replied with a puzzled expression, “A nude female?”
“It wasn’t the ‘nude’ part.” Alex contemplated the city passing outside the car window, the darkening evening the perfect shade o
f blue he remembered from the print, the lights reminiscent of the stars for which the artist named it. “I think it was more the woman’s wistful expression as she gazed up at the night sky.” Without knowing why, he voiced a sentiment he’d never before shared with anyone. “I believed I knew exactly how she felt. I’ve done the same thing, imagining myself anywhere but where I was.”
“Was your childhood that bad?” Paul asked quietly.
Alex turned to face Paul, his gaze falling into a pair of sympathetic brown eyes. He hated whining about his “poor little rich kid” upbringing, but the truth was, he’d spent a lot of years envious of less financially blessed friends and their close-knit, loving families. “Imagine growing up where you could have anything you wanted for the asking.”
“Many kids dream of that sort of thing.”
“Yeah? What if you lived in a sterile world without loving arms or kind words? Your only contact a bunch of perfect, painted dolls, and the only conversation based on what you should and shouldn’t do, and how to be a proper Anderson.”
Paul winced. “Doesn’t sound too thrilling when you put it that way.”
The conversation stalled until Alex said, “Tchaikovsky.”
“What?”
“You asked me who my favorite artist was. Art takes many forms, you know.” The corners of Paul’s mouth quirked up in a smile, and Alex knew he’d hit on yet another favorite topic.
“You like Tchaikovsky? Not Beethoven or Bach?”
Once again they’d found common ground on a topic. Few of Alex’s friends shared his passions if, indeed, they possessed any besides partying, spending their family’s money, and bragging over conquests. Paul, apparently, held many passions. Alex settled in for what he hoped might prove a lively debate. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re okay, just overexposed, and they never matched the fire of Russian composers, in my opinion. Who’s your favorite?”
Their earlier conversation about books came to mind when Paul asked, “What genre?”
Alex should have known. The man probably once held the title of official high school geek. A sexy geek, but a geek nonetheless. That whole “President of the Chess Club” thing lurked in Alex’s own past, however, so he wasn’t in a position to point fingers. He’d still bet scholarly Paul beat him in the geek department. “Don’t tell me you took Music Appreciation.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you,” Paul replied with a grin.
Surprised? No. Impressed? Yes. “What do you play?
“Violin.” Paul’s eyes lit with passion as they always did when discussing a topic of personal interest. “I started playing when I was nine, right after my father died.” His sudden frown and averted eyes gave warning enough of his revisiting a painful memory.
Before Alex could offer words of comfort, the vehicle pulled to a stop in an older, trendy section of town. Alex stepped from the car and reached back to help Paul, only to find the driver already there. He nearly growled at the proprietary hand Isaac placed on Paul’s back, quickly schooling his frown into a more neutral expression—they were in public, after all. If nothing else, his pretentious grandparents had taught him how to keep up appearances.
He stood on the sidewalk waiting patiently for Paul, and together they passed under the twinkling lights and greenery-shrouded arbor leading into the stucco building housing the gallery.
Curious eyes observed their entrance, and they were immediately approached by a waiter who smiled and held out a tray filled with glasses of champagne, his wink and flirtatious grin offering Alex more than a beverage. A few weeks ago, the offer would have been gladly accepted. Now, Alex had no such inclinations. A quick glance to his right showed Paul was oblivious to the exchange, busy speaking with an elderly matron, and for some unfathomable reason, Alex felt relieved.
He soon found himself caught up in the colorful displays carefully arranged around the studio. He hadn’t been honest with Paul about his appreciation for the arts but didn’t want to flaunt his wealth by disclosing the priceless classical pieces housed in Boston or the recently acquired collection of Kandinsky woodcuts for his condo. Composers weren’t the only things he admired hailing from Russia.
Alex hadn’t known what to expect when asked to attend the opening, having never before heard of Edmond Strickland. Perusing a diverse collection of oils, watercolors, and sculptures, he respected the quality of the works on display and seriously considered adding a painting or two to his growing collection. One piece in particular caught his eye, and he wandered over for closer inspection: a beach at sunset, a storm gathering on the horizon. The somber grays, blues, and blacks of the oil-painted canvas created a striking contrast to the more vivid pinks and purples, and a single ray of golden sunlight penetrated a dark cloud, like hope shining through bleak circumstance.
Mesmerized, he imagined the roar of crashing waves battering the shoreline. In his mind’s eye, brilliant flashes of lightning descended from a particularly sinister cloud, illuminating the tableau in whites, purples, and blues. A droning roll of thunder wouldn’t have been out of place. The mastery enthralled him.
When his active imagination again conjured lightning from the violently roiling heavens, for one brief moment Alex spotted a solitary figure walking along the water’s edge—a man with flame-red hair. Blinking hard to clear his eyes, he looked again, but saw only an extraordinary rendering of a stormy shoreline, nothing more.
“Yes, that’s one of my favorites too,” an intrusive voice said from his left. “I’m drawn to the whole somber ambiance.”
Whole somber ambiance? What an overinflated prick! Alex glanced over his shoulder to find a rather smallish man with dark-blond hair, artfully arranged to stand at attention, each dagger-like spike tipped in navy blue. Unlike most of the well-attired guests, this man was dressed simply, in dark gray slacks and a lightweight sweater that blended well with the colors of the painting. The newcomer sipped champagne while studying the canvas, head cocked attentively to the side.
Agitation at being interrupted subsiding for the sake of good manners, Alex inquired with feigned interest, “What draws you to it?”
“Well,” the stranger answered with a hesitant smile, “this piece brings back a special memory for me. I’ve always loved the beach, and one day a sick friend wanted to go, even though the forecast called for bad weather. So we—some other friends and I—bundled him up and drove down the coast, arriving about the same time the storm did. We found a little café and watched it roll in while we enjoyed coffee and bagels.” He added wistfully, “That was the last outing I enjoyed with my friend.” After a moment he recovered from his obviously unpleasant thoughts enough to ask, “What do you see?”
With nothing to be gained by answering truthfully, Alex gave an answer most of his acquaintances might expect—one involving monetary gain. “I see the product of an artist passionate about his work and a painting that’ll make an excellent investment, particularly if the artist’s passion continues with future paintings.”
The do-it-yourself art critic frowned, clearly disappointed. “That’s too bad.”
“Too bad?” Alex asked, surprised at the genuine sadness in the man’s voice.
“This piece is meant to be far more than paint, canvas, and a chance for financial gain.”
Suddenly, a familiar voice interrupted their awkward conversation. “Oh, there you are.” Both men turned to face the new arrival. “I was wondering where you were.” Paul hurried over and kissed a stylishly stubbly cheek. “How are you, Eddie? It’s been a while.”
The man now revealed to be the reason for the gala smiled and said nothing, nodding his head toward the painting instead. Paul faced the wall and gasped. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed. “You captured the storm perfectly!”
With a smug grin, the artist responded, “I was inspired.”
Tired of being ignored, Alex loudly cleared his throat.
Paul’s eyes widened and he quickly stammered, “I… I’m sorry, Alex, forgive my manners. I’d like you
to meet Edmond Strickland. Eddie, this is Alfred’s nephew, Alexander Martin.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Edmond said, offering his hand and nothing more, eyes returning to Paul even while he addressed Alex. “Your uncle is a wonderful man, and a very dear friend.”
“It’s nice meeting you, as well,” Alex lied, fighting a snarl. It seemed Isaac wasn’t the only competition he’d have to face tonight. He pasted on a fake smile and attempted cordiality while scheming ways get Paul to leave earlier than planned—say, in five minutes or less. “Uncle Alfred sends his apologies and speaks highly of your work.” He reminded himself that, regardless of a negative first impression, Edmond was his uncle’s friend. That alone earned the man some measure of respect.
With a flash of blindingly white teeth, Edmond replied, “While I regret Alfred couldn’t attend, I’m certainly glad Paul’s here.” To Alex’s dismay, Paul blushed at the thinly veiled flattery.
Family friend or not, Alex took an immediate dislike to Edmond’s easy familiarity and obvious flirting with the man who’d arrived with him. It might not have been an actual date, but Edmond didn’t know that, and the blatant breach of etiquette grated on Alex’s nerves. Ignoring the artist, he directed his attention to his nondate. “I’m amazed by this painting,” he said, seeing a chance to win approval since Paul obviously liked the haunting landscape too.
“It’s beautiful,” Paul agreed, eyes on the canvas and, thankfully, not on Edmond. “And has special meaning to the family.” He peered up from under long dark lashes, brown eyes glowing with excitement. “Is this the one you’d like to get Uncle Alfred?” Turning to Edmond, he asked, “It’s still available, isn’t it?”
“Now, would I offer it to another without allowing you and dearest Alfred first dibs? But don’t make a decision yet—I have another I’d like to show you.”
The artist sauntered away, casting a coy glance over his shoulder to ensure Paul followed. Was it Alex’s imagination, or was the man deliberately being provocative, and not to him, which he expected, but to Paul? Also, what did “special meaning to the family” entail?
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