Noticing he’d been deserted, Alex followed the two men. Paul stood stock-still, staring in rapture at another seascape—an almost perfect replica of the painting of Douglas, Jacob, and Byron that had recently hung in Alfred’s office. The lighting, beach, and surroundings resembled the original, as did the bathing suits. The only differences were the children themselves. Instead of the Sinclair boys, the youngsters in the painting were unmistakably himself and Paul, or rather, how they’d looked at approximately ten and five years old, respectively.
The likeness of Paul held the bucket and shovel, much as his uncle Byron had in the original, while a young version of Alex admired the bright blue sails of a toy boat, an occupation previously held by Douglas. The smaller child, Jacob, who’d been building a sand castle in the background, was noticeably missing. A red “Sold” sticker dangled from the gilt frame.
“Edmond! Why?” Paul asked, his eyes glittering with unshed tears.
Before Alex could act, Edmond stepped in and wrapped his arms around Paul, clearly horrified at his reaction. “I cannot apologize enough. I had no idea the painting would affect you so,” he murmured. “I suppose I should have warned you or arranged a private viewing.” If his words hadn’t rung true, Alex would have waded in and taught him a thing or two about causing pain to an unofficial Anderson, breeding and good manners be damned.
“Your uncle commissioned it months ago,” Edmond explained. “Apparently he forgot to mention it.”
Paul nestled into the hug, obviously comfortable with the close physical contact, causing a familiar stirring in Alex. Once again, his former rival inspired his jealousy, only this time Alex wasn’t jealous of Paul, but because of Paul, nearly overcome with the urge to grab something heavy and bash the artist with it—repeatedly.
“Hey, handsome,” he heard purred into his ear. Alex glanced to the right and came face to face with an attractive, decidedly drunken female. She staggered awkwardly on her stiletto heels and grabbed his shoulder to steady herself, giggling annoyingly. She epitomized what he called “Hollywood gorgeous”: beautiful via money and cosmetic surgery, with lips too full and eyebrows fixed in permanent surprise from excessive facelifts. He’d also be willing to bet the breasts she’d been given by genetics weren’t nearly as large and perky as the ones currently spilling over the plunging neckline of her dress.
“Excuse me, I’m with someone,” he growled, peering over her shoulder to discover he’d lied. Paul and the hedgehog, as Alex privately dubbed Edmond, were nowhere to be seen.
It took some time to convince her he wasn’t interested, and he wondered, given her pouting reaction, if she’d ever been turned down before. Probably not, judging from her ample charms, but those didn’t last forever, and someone younger and prettier always waited in the wings to take their place in the spotlight.
Arguing with the tipsy, surgically enhanced female, it occurred to him how much alike they were. Only his looks were natural and he was blessed with charm, unlike this silly creature. The results were the same, though. They could snare whoever they wanted and had never crossed paths with anyone worth keeping, apparently, if they were both still alone in their thirties. Well, that was about to change for him, if he had anything to do with it.
He finally escaped when the inebriated woman found another prospect, one more eager to chat her up. Attempting nonchalance he didn’t truly feel, Alex hunted for Paul, unwilling to allow Edmond any more time with him than absolutely necessary.
Alex’s first search of the gallery ended empty-handed. On his second round, he found Edmond merrily chatting with a group of tuxedo-clad gentlemen and leaning into the embrace of an older Hispanic man. Alex felt a little better seeing him occupied with another, but his anxiety peaked about the noticeably absent Paul.
From behind a partially opened door came a familiar voice, though he’d never heard the dejected tone before. “I’m sorry, Jordan, I need to be getting back.”
Jordan? The guy who’d betrayed Paul?
Easing the door open, Alex stared into what appeared to be a store room, judging from pedestals, racks, and packing crates haphazardly strewn about the cramped space. In a far corner, Paul stood with his back toward the door, body rigid and hands on his hips. About to intervene, Alex froze when another man stepped into view.
“Oh, babe, please stay,” a masculine and surprisingly smooth voice pleaded. “I’ve missed you so badly.”
The stranger turning entreating eyes on Paul was drop-dead gorgeous, with wheat-blond curls and dark, wide-set brown eyes. Dressed to perfection in an expensive tuxedo, he made an impressive sight. However, he couldn’t hold a candle to Paul, in Alex’s opinion.
“Don’t call me that,” Paul hissed from between clenched teeth, body trembling with barely controlled emotion. Alex hoped for righteous indignation.
“I made a mistake,” the faithless man whined, and Alex couldn’t agree more. “Please, Paul. Please give me another chance.”
The room grew quiet, and Alex waited for the words that would make one of Paul’s prospective suitors happy and leave the other disappointed. Tears dampening his cheeks, Paul turned and confronted his former lover, hands balled tightly into fists at his sides. “I told you before: I don’t believe in reruns. No matter how many times you watch the show, the characters never change, and neither does the ending.”
“Oh, I have changed, really, and if you give me a chance….” The handsome snake in the grass stepped forward, arms spread wide. Alex tensed, ready for battle. He retreated into the shadows when Paul sidestepped the embrace.
“No, Jordan. I’m sorry, I can’t do this again.” Paul lifted his pointed chin defiantly. “I notice you’ve waited until now to talk to me. My uncle’s been dying for months. Did I even once receive a phone call asking about his health? No, you only tracked me down tonight because you think he left me money.”
“It’s not like that!” Jordan protested. Even from ten feet away Alex could tell the man lied.
“Please, just go,” Paul hissed, body trembling like a tightly wound spring. Alex knew from experience how hot Paul’s temper flared and hoped Jordan did too. Though he might despise Edmond personally, the man didn’t deserve to have his party interrupted by a fistfight.
Shoulders slumped in defeat, Jordan slunk away. “Well, you have my number if you change your mind. I really do love you, Paul.” Alex ducked behind a stack of canvases. Jordan cautiously opened the door and slipped through, bored expression and rolling eyes belying his words.
Creeping from the room moments later, Paul’s tear-streaked face proved he’d indeed loved Jordan, and possibly held lingering feelings for the jerk. Didn’t Alfred say the affair ended over a year ago? With the turmoil caused by Byron’s illness and the subsequent upset of the Anderson household, quite possibly Paul hadn’t the time or energy for closure, and a year wasn’t actually a long time.
Easing back into the crowded gallery, Alex located Edmond and confirmed that, as a commissioned piece, the painting of the two boys had been sold to Byron Sinclair as a gift for his lover. Recalling his uncle’s words, “You’ll know it when you see it,” he realized he’d been set up. The matter had already been taken care of, confirmed by Edmond’s offhand remark, “… when I talked to your uncle last week to arrange delivery.” Why, the sly rascal. It seemed his uncle provided an opportunity to make up with Paul. Well, there was certainly one thing Alex believed might help.
After much discussion about pigments and hues, Edmond named a price, and Alex pulled out his checkbook. He paid for the storm scene, suspecting he’d been given a discount due to his uncle and because he asked the artist not to tell Paul, implying the painting would be a gift. Paul’s obvious adoration of the work insured that Alex couldn’t let the painting go to anyone else, “special meaning to the family” notwithstanding. If Paul liked the painting, he’d have it, even if Alex had to be sneaky in giving it to him. However, Alex swore to himself to pay Edmond back in full for naming such a low price, even
if not monetarily. Connections within the artistic communities of Houston and Boston would make it well worth the artist’s sacrifice.
After shaking hands and promising to attend the gallery’s next event, Alex headed off in search of Paul, hoping to prevent another run-in with Jordan. Alex found him in front of the commissioned painting. “Can we go home now?” Paul asked without meeting Alex’s eyes.
“If you’d like,” Alex replied, though it was exactly what he’d wanted to ask.
Paul face appeared red and blotchy. “I’d like,” he said, rushing past on his way to the door, calling over his shoulder, “Would you say goodbye to Edmond for me?”
Wanting nothing more than to simply leave and save Paul from unpleasant memories, Alex felt obliged to accomplish one final task. “Certainly. You go out to the car. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Having already said their goodbyes to Edmond, he used the excuse to seek out the sleaze from the storeroom, needing to prove the man a slut with no true feelings for Paul. Alex found Jordan, as artfully arranged and as much on display as any of Edmond’s creations. He carefully pushed back his sleeve to reveal his Rolex, pasted on his most beguiling smile, and sauntered over, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing tray. “Mind if I ask you a question?” he began, presenting the glass to his quarry. His fingertips caressed Jordan’s palm.
Assessing eyes raked over him, measuring his worth, widening appreciatively at the expensive watch. Alex must have passed inspection, for Jordan accepted the champagne with a playful grin. One long, elegant finger circled the rim of glass. “Thanks,” he said with a seductive purr. “I’m Jordan.” Stepping close enough to rub his body against Alex, Jordan leaned in and whispered, “What’s your question?”
“You’ve already answered it.” The blatant display and hand groping Alex’s ass left little doubt about what Jordan assumed the question would be. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Alex said, forcibly removing the hand from his posterior, “I have someone waiting who’d never offer himself to the highest bidder.” Ignoring Jordan’s stuttering outrage, he spun on his heel and followed Paul out the door, winking at the sniggering waiter who’d borne witness to the exchange.
His smug triumph lasted until he climbed into the waiting car. Paul huddled sullenly in the far corner of the backseat, and Alex fought the urge to go back inside and give the fickle asshole a piece of his mind. Fortunately for Jordan, getting Paul home took priority.
His heart sank when Paul slid farther away, distancing himself. That wouldn’t do. Paul needed comfort right now, not solitude. Unable to stand the man’s obvious discomfort any longer, Alex wrapped an arm around Paul and pulled him close, ignoring the indignant “Hey!” and halfhearted resistance.
“Shh…,” Alex murmured. “You need it, take it.” Paul stopped protesting and snuggled into the embrace, relaxing against Alex with a heavy sigh. Buckling them both in, Alex met Isaac’s eyes in the rearview mirror, commenting, “Traffic’s a bit heavy tonight.”
Understanding his meaning, Isaac nodded. “Yes, it is. Maybe I should try another route.” He took a right at the next traffic light to take the long way home.
If holding Paul was all Alex could hope for, he’d make it last for as long as he could.
15
“HE’S sleeping pretty soundly,” Paul observed, gazing down at Alfred’s peacefully slumbering form. “I was hoping to say good night.”
“We can’t wake him,” Alex replied, “he needs his rest.” He and Paul stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the steady rise and fall of the blankets. His rational mind told him to say good night, but he hesitated. Paul still appeared unhinged by the encounter with Jordan. An idea sprang to life. Though he anticipated Paul shooting him down, he asked, “How about a cup of tea?”
Paul’s eyes clouded with suspicion. Then his wary expression softened, and with a barely perceptible nod, he agreed.
Considering Alfred’s office the best choice, being neutral territory, Alex led Paul there and settled him into one of the comfortably padded leather chairs. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, before hastily retreating to the kitchen. He returned moments later with a loaded tray, thankful Paul hadn’t disappeared.
After pouring them both a cup of tea, Alex leaned against the desk, waiting for Paul to speak. When minutes ticked by silently, he lost patience. “Want to talk about whatever’s bothering you?”
“There’s nothing to tell.” Paul stared at his hands, picking imaginary lint from his jacket.
Paul lying? That’s a first. He wished the man felt comfortable enough to confide in him, although he admitted he’d never done anything to earn the man’s confidence.
Then Alex remembered a surefire way to get Paul talking: mention one of his many passions, like books, music… or art. Eyes straying to the blank wall, he effectively changed the subject. “The new painting is going to look good there.” It struck him how both paintings, the new and the old, shared a similar style, not only in subject matter, simple enough to copy, but in technique. “Did Edmond paint the original?”
Paul peered over the top of his glasses, eyes red-rimmed. “Yes, back in college. He swore he’d flawed the piece somehow and sold it for a fraction of its worth. In return, Alfred gave him backing and connections. They’ve been friends ever since, which is why we were invited tonight.”
Recalling Paul’s earlier comments, Alex urged, “Tell me about the storm scene.”
Paul sighed, running his fingers through his hair, resignation in his eyes. “You know about the Jeep, right?”
“Not the whole story.” Alex dropped into the adjacent chair, careful not to crowd Paul. As far as he knew, the Jeep was the only gift of any financial value Paul had ever accepted, so there must be an interesting reason why he’d made an exception to his “no gifts” policy.
“It happened during a visit last September,” Paul began with a sad, barely discernible smile. “Uncle Byron always loved the ocean, and, since he’d had a few pretty good days, he begged us to take him to the beach.
“Eddie arrived shortly before we left, and he and Uncle Byron talked privately for a while. Once they emerged from the study, the four of us took the Jeep down the coast.” Paul appeared small and lost, and Alex regretted asking such a pain-inspiring question, but he needed to hear what he’d missed out on, knowing in his heart he should have been in the café Edmond described with the rest of his family, sharing the memory. Now he’d have to make do with the remembrances of others.
“When we got there, the weather turned bad and Alfred got worried, wanting to come home. Uncle Byron insisted, ‘We came all this way and I’m not tucking tail and running from a few rain clouds.’” A bittersweet smile flitted across Paul’s face. “Who were we to tell him no? In the end we watched the storm from the safety of a café. Edmond went out to the beach and took tons of pictures. The result now hangs in his gallery.” Paul lowered his voice to a scant whisper, the tremulous smile fleeing. “That’s the last time Uncle Byron left the house for anything other than doctor visits.”
Alex desperately wanted to give Paul the painting but couldn’t if the giving caused more grief. Still, how shameful for something with priceless emotional value to wind up with someone who wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment that went into the creation. Though he’d wanted to surprise Paul, possibly on his next birthday, Alex now envisioned his plan backfiring. Settling for a direct approach, he threw caution to the wind. “Would it bother you if I bought that painting?”
Paul frowned, furrowing his brow. “Bother me? Why would it bother me?”
Alex shrugged. “It may bring back bad memories.”
“It’s a happy memory, Alex. We had a great time, and….” Paul looked young and vulnerable when he confessed, “I wanted the darned thing the moment I laid eyes on it, although I knew I couldn’t afford the price. I was afraid it might wind up with someone who’d only consider it an investment, never understanding how precious it is. I’ll never forget that day
—ever.”
Remorse slammed into Alex, reminded of his earlier words to Edmond, even though he’d lied. Of course then he hadn’t known the painting’s true value. He’d loved the work on its own merits; however, buying the painting for Paul far surpassed any pride of personal ownership. “Where do you think we should hang it?”
Paul stared at the wall, apparently lost in thought. After a moment he said, “The front hallway, where visitors will see it.”
“Good idea. You still didn’t explain about the Jeep. Not that you have to, mind you. That’s between you and your uncle.” Curiosity nibbled at Alex.
“No, that’s all right. Uncle Byron left it to me knowing I’d argue, goading me with a reason he knew I’d agree to.”
“What was that?” Apparently, it wasn’t often Paul accepted gifts. Byron must have made an extremely clever argument.
“He mentioned the day at the beach when I’d driven the Jeep.” Paul grinned sheepishly. “He also pointed out that my poor car isn’t going to last much longer and how he’d rather see me in the Jeep than standing on the side of the road.”
“Both extremely good points. But he always was an excellent attorney.”
“I know.” Paul’s smile dimmed somewhat. “That’s the first time I let him win, or the second time, rather.”
Alex remained silent, knowing Paul would clarify only if he wanted to. This time, his patience paid off.
“Did you happen to notice an attractive man with curly blond hair at the opening tonight?” Paul asked.
Alex knew full well who Paul meant, but wasn’t about to admit to eavesdropping, especially now, with Paul hovering on the edge of confiding. “I may have bumped into him,” was all Alex cared to confess.
“That was Jordan, my ex. I didn’t expect to see him tonight.”
“Is he the reason you wanted to leave?” Although Alex knew the answer, he needed to hear the story from Paul’s own lips.
The Wish Page 17