Haunted Heart

by Susan Laine

  “Come on. Almost there. Just a bit more.”

  The last few steps happened as if in a dream, his consciousness obscure and veiled.

  Just as he reached the door and gripped the knob, his cell phone beeped with a text. Ruben didn’t need to see it to sense it was from the man outside. How considerate of him not to call because I could be in the middle of something important, Ruben thought, half sarcastically.

  Then, through the white, transparent curtains covering the door windows, Ruben saw a tall figure moving down the steps of the porch back to the driveway. He’s leaving!

  A soft, long, desperate sound escaped Ruben’s throat exactly at the same moment as he managed to pry the door open a sliver.

  The man must have heard the sound, because he stopped and turned around, peering at the cracked-open doorway.

  “Mr. Winterbottom?” He dashed back up the stairs to the porch, offering a kind smile and extending a hand. “I’m Duncan Kerr from Enamored Press. We set up a meeting for today?”

  In the afternoon sunlight, Ruben saw him clearly. Tall, athletic, beautiful. Instead of a formal suit, he wore white tennis shoes, faded blue jeans, a white tee, and a light-brown suede jacket, all lovingly hugging his healthy, muscular body. He had rugged good looks, complete with a light stubble, the tiniest cleft in his chin, strong cheekbones, high forehead, and unruly wheat-colored curls dancing about in the wind. Deep-blue eyes stared at Ruben with obvious curiosity.

  “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to finally meet you, Mr. Winterbottom,” the man said, his tone expressing awe. “You are an extremely talented artist.”

  As warmed as Ruben was by the praise, he couldn’t let go of the door to open it more than a sliver. It was as if his body had turned to stone. “T-thank you, Mr. K-Kerr.” His voice almost too soft to hear, Ruben felt only fear. Well, mostly fear, mixed with some reluctantly acknowledged arousal—Duncan Kerr was gorgeous.

  Duncan smiled. It was an attractive, sunny smile. Nice. Ruben’s heart beat a bit faster. “You’re very welcome. I may be here trying to sell my humble business to you, but every word is the God’s honest truth, I swear.” He winked as he said it, and Ruben’s lips twitched in an instinctive attempt at a smile. But his face, so long unaccustomed to such things, felt like a clay mask left out in the sun too long, about to crack.

  “I-I c-can’t meet with you today. I’m… I’m not feeling so well. I think I’m ill.” The lie felt wrong, but Ruben had no other recourse since he had so stupidly made this arrangement to meet with Kerr. “I’m s-sorry you had to come all this way for nothing.”

  Duncan’s smile faltered, and he blinked. “Oh.” Then he blinked some more and finally nodded, looking resigned. His smile returned but was dimmed. “I understand, of course. Maybe we can reschedule. I’ll e-mail you tomorrow or at the end of the week, and we can see about setting a new date for—”

  Desperate to stop the man’s plans from progressing further, Ruben spilled out hastily, “No. No. You can have the picture I sent you. Free of charge. No need to come back.” His cheeks flamed with embarrassment. How rude he had sounded. “I-I m-mean…. The cover I sent you for the art contractor position. It’s fine for you to keep it and use it as you will. Absolutely fine.” No, it was far from fine. He’d miss the money that picture could have garnered and the job opportunities that might have sprouted from it. But he knew he couldn’t see this man again. Just this small vision of him was almost too much to bear.

  Cocking his head to the side as if taking stock of the situation, Duncan seemed to be puzzled and thinking fiercely. His expression depicted concentration. “That is a most unusual offer, Ruben. May I call you Ruben?” Ruben stammered something noncommittal and frantic in response, and so Duncan continued. “There are legal technicalities, written waivers and—”

  “Fine. Fine. I’ll sign anything.” It was stupid to do that, Ruben knew, but his frayed nerves were on their last legs. And boy, wasn’t that a bout of mixed metaphors.

  Duncan frowned, giving Ruben an idea of just how baffled the man was. “I was hoping you and I could speak about a permanent arrangement between the publishing house and—”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry. Please leave.” A pang of guilt forced tears out of Ruben’s eyes as he added in a cracked voice, “I’m so sorry to have wasted your time like this.” And he shut the door in his guest’s face.

  Then he fell to his knees, his forehead pressed against the door, and let himself cry. How horrible this whole situation was, and how worthless he felt. The first chance he’d had of actually perhaps making a life for himself and becoming strong and independent again. But no. He was doomed to eternal solitude behind four walls. Ruben slid into a fetal position. He was a mere shell of a man, a hollow husk with nothing but misery on the inside.

  “I’ll never get out of here… I’ll never be free again.”

  Chapter 4

  AS HE backed away from the door that had been slammed in his face, Duncan thought he heard the young man crying on the other side. He felt bad for Ruben for reasons he couldn’t quite define.

  But what he was absolutely certain of was that Ruben wasn’t ill. His face had been pale, a sheen of cold sweat coating his skin, but those big, dark eyes spoke of fear. No, more than fear. Ruben had been utterly terrified.

  And Duncan didn’t think he alone was to blame. Ruben had looked past Duncan every once in a while, over his shoulder, unable to meet Duncan’s gaze. Ruben’s dark gray eyes had widened, as if the sky itself had been an enemy out to get him.

  There was a name for an emotion so powerful. Phobia.

  With mixed feelings, Duncan sighed and returned to his sports car. He and his father had rebuilt the red marvel together from the ground up, and now it belonged to Duncan. But at the moment, his thoughts weren’t with the car but inside the white, country-style house and its scared little occupant.

  And what a sight Ruben had been, Duncan mused with no small amount of attraction coloring his impression. The boy may have been twenty-two, but he had seemed younger. Dark hair had flopped over his face in long, mussed-up strands that could have used some trimming. His slim figure had drowned under gray pajama bottoms and a woolly sweater with sleeves far too long. Ruben’s startled eyes had put Duncan in mind of a frightened animal.

  And yet there was something indefinably attractive about Ruben, a je ne sais quoi that drew Duncan like iron to a magnet. Because of that the young man was right up Duncan’s alley. Not quite a twink but not far off. And the mystery surrounding this talented artist only made Duncan’s instinctive infatuation deepen.

  Back in his car, Duncan planned his next move. If he left, he might never get the chance to return here again. But if he stayed, he might make Ruben even more afraid. And Duncan sure didn’t want Ruben to be afraid of him. Despite the attraction, Duncan knew Ruben had serious skills, and he wanted to recruit him, sooner rather than later.

  No way was Duncan giving up.

  Still busy with his ruminations, Duncan heard a truck coming up the winding dirt road through the trees. A blue pickup emerged, stopping close-by. A young man of maybe seventeen or eighteen jumped out, all eager like a puppy.

  A boyfriend or a lover, perhaps?

  But then the boy pulled out an open wooden crate from the truck and hauled it to the house. Inside, peeking from the top, were grocery items. Duncan frowned, curious. Ruben had stuff delivered to his home? That suggested he didn’t go out much.

  The frantic look in those big gray eyes returned to the forefront of Duncan’s mind. “Is he agoraphobic?” he puzzled out loud, whispering. He decided to find out, so he started the ignition and drove away from the house. At the end of the dirt road where asphalt replaced the ground, he stopped the car and waited.

  Five minutes later, the delivery truck approached. Duncan got out and waved the truck to a stop. The boy peeked out the window, looking mildly irritated. “What’s the problem?”

  Duncan put on the charm, ready to kill with a smil
e and dimples, as he walked up to the driver’s side window. “Hi. Sorry to bother you. I’m not bothering you too much, am I?”

  Whether the kid was gay had no bearing on Duncan’s success. Friendly advances were usually welcome, especially in unexpected situations. The guy relaxed a bit but didn’t exactly go out of his way to check Duncan out, which suggested he was straight, or not that interested, which was unlikely. “No, I guess not. What can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering if you deliver to that house a lot.”

  The kid shrugged. “Every week.” Then he grinned. “Didn’t let you in, did he?” Duncan shook his head in confirmation. The guy chuckled, rubbing his jaw absentmindedly. “Yeah, he’s not much of a people person. But he’s okay. Kinda cute.”

  Duncan glanced back the way they’d come, up the mountainside, woods all around. “Has he lived up there alone for long?”

  The kid’s look turned suspicious. “What’s it to you?”

  “I came here to offer him a job. We’d made an appointment and everything, but….” He let his voice trail off, hoping to elicit a response.

  The guy sighed in sympathy. “Ah. Well, I can’t really help you there. I never talk to him either. I just leave the stuff right outside his door with the bill. He always pays on time. And by the time I’m driving away, the box’s usually gone. He’s a loner, I guess. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “No, nothing.” One didn’t have to be social all the damn time, Duncan thought. “I just worried. We were supposed to have a friendly chat about a job. I wonder if I did something to upset him. I sure didn’t mean to.”

  The kid shook his head with a humorless chuckle, his auburn hair waving about. “Nah. You showed up. That’s probably it.” He looked over his shoulder toward the dirt road disappearing into the shadows of the pines and spruces. “I don’t know much about him. I think he’s lived there for years. His grandmother lived there before him. I think she’s dead now. He probably inherited the place.”

  Could this deceased grandmother have been Ruben’s only family? A profound sorrow could explain the isolation. Well, to an extent anyway. From what he had seen, Ruben’s fears made him a prisoner in his own place. Duncan really had to learn more. And going to the source seemed to be out of the question.

  The delivery guy checked his wristwatch, impatience written on his face. “Hey, listen, man. It’s been fun chatting, but I gotta get going. Still got a couple of deliveries to make. Good luck with everything.” He waved good-bye and drove off, pebbles flying as he sped up, vanishing around the bend.

  Duncan sighed, none the wiser, and decided to head back to the office. But as he sat down in the car, he changed his mind and headed home instead.

  SIPPING HIS merlot, Duncan barely tasted the wine since he was so engrossed in his research into Ruben Winterbottom. The moment he’d come home, he’d ordered Italian takeout and then taken a glass of wine with him to his study, where he planted his ass in front of the computer. He was going to find out what had happened to Ruben. Maybe that way he could get close enough to give the guy some confidence—and a job.

  Speaking of which, Duncan had no intention of using the cover Ruben had made, not for free. Even if the young man had consented and even offered to do the same in writing, no way was Duncan going to rip the artist off. Bad reputation for the publishing house—and bad personal karma for him. Ruben seemed fragile enough as it was.

  Unfortunately, apart from an art portfolio, the publisher didn’t do any real background checks on their artists. So Duncan was forced to use other means.

  A Google search had provided precious little information about Ruben. A small note in his art school’s student listing three years ago, a minor mention in an online comic blog about a freelance book-cover artist, and finally the obituary of one Rose Winterbottom, who had died of breast cancer two years ago and was survived by a grandson, Ruben. It wasn’t much to go on.

  There was a considerable amount of news about Rose, however, who had apparently been a prominent figure in the community. Charities were among her chief concerns. It seemed she had come from a wealthy family, but most all of the Winterbottoms were long dead.

  Apparently, that list included Ruben’s parents, since he seemed so utterly alone.

  Duncan harrumphed in frustration, raking fingers through his thick hair. “Whatever it is, Ruben, I can….” He could—what? Help the man? How? Duncan had no idea what had broken this young man. Duncan might have wished he could help, but that didn’t translate into ability to do so.

  And Ruben had made it pretty clear he didn’t want to have anything to do with him or the publishing house.

  Annoyed, Duncan pulled up his e-mail and started typing.

  Dear Ruben,

  I hope you reconsider my offer of working with Enamored Press on a permanent basis as a book cover artist. I’m confident we can find solutions to whatever problems we face.

  Perhaps over time, as our professional relationship grows, we can revisit the issue of meeting in person. For now, EP would like to offer you a contract for the cover you made for the submission call. You will receive an electronic contract for review and to sign online once you’ve replied affirmatively to this email.

  We here at EP look forward to working with you in the future.

  Sincerely yours,

  Duncan Kerr, Art Director

  Enamored Press.

  Before he could doubt what he’d written, he sent the e-mail. He was the director of the art department, after all, and was allowed to offer contracts to new artists. The final approval was with the publisher, naturally, but Duncan had good instincts.

  He wondered how long he would have to wait for a reply. Considering how timid the young man had been, Duncan suspected the response time would be quite a while.

  Finding out the truth about Ruben’s reclusive life had to take a backseat for now if Duncan intended to reel this fish in. So far, there had been only nibbles. Duncan needed the young man to take the bait—hook, line, and sinker.

  So after pouring himself another glass of wine, Duncan parked his butt in his office chair and set out to wait. In the meantime, he could work. And he did, for over an hour, until the ping indicated a message. To be fair, he’d received a half dozen e-mails in the span of that single hour, but none had been from Ruben.

  Until now, at least. Ruben’s reply was simple and short.

  Mr. Kerr,

  Thank you for giving me a second chance. I’ll do my best not to disappoint. I’d like to accept the offer.

  Sincerely,

  Ruben W.

  Duncan grinned. Success!

  This answer confirmed, too, that Ruben had only offered the cover for free because he wasn’t comfortable meeting with Duncan. Well, that was fine—for now. Duncan could wait. He hadn’t gotten where he was without learning patience.

  From now on he would send book blurbs directly to Ruben whenever he felt the young artist was in the best position to do the literary work justice. He was certain that would be the case often. And as time went by, maybe other things would proceed as well.

  For now, though, baby steps.

  Chapter 5

  IT TOOK Ruben a month to get used to the fact that he got repeated artistic requests from Duncan after the first cover. The handsome art director sent him a new book blurb and cover info sheet every five days or so.

  The best parts were the funny comments and emoticons Duncan always added to his messages. He personalized each line, coaxing Ruben out of his shell a little more with each new e-mail.

  And he had promised Ruben challenges, which the pictures totally were. Ruben had to admit he was excited about the assignments, and the steady cash flow sure didn’t hurt. After all, though he owned the house he’d inherited, he still had to pay the utilities and buy groceries. He had a small trust fund Rose had left him since, apart from a couple of cousins in Memphis (of all places), he was the last in the Winterbottom line. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep him afloat
if he sold art with relative frequency.

  Thanks to Duncan, Ruben was in a position to do just that.

  As he stood by the easel in the sunroom on the south side of the house, painting a new cover, he mumbled to himself, “I owe him such a great debt. I have to repay him for his kindness. Somehow.”

  The new cover had an eighties fashion theme, and Ruben went a little crazy with it. It wasn’t a familiar time period for him, but it seemed to be making a comeback, so he had trendy reference points. Trying to find something erotic in huge shoulder pads and pastel legwarmers, Ruben went with a disco scene of tight miniskirts and huge earrings, and also some hot and heavy action under a strobe and a disco ball. The heroine had her head thrown back, her frizzy hair mussed, and the hero holding the small of her back, tipping her. It was erotica in an eighties setting.

  Ruben had been working on the new artwork the whole morning, but his thoughts were scattered a bit. His mind kept going back to the sexy blond on his doorstep a month ago. Praying for courage, Ruben wished he could meet the man, really speak with him, and not just peek at him past a crack in the door.

  And it wasn’t just his waking thoughts that strayed in Duncan’s direction; his dreams also focused on the gorgeous art director. Many a night he had startled awake, his head filled with erotic imagery, his body humming with pent-up desire, and his cock painfully erect. Going back to sleep with a boner was not an option.

  Now, after a long month of midnight wanking sessions, Ruben was having a hard time getting his shit together. Unless he met Duncan and relieved some tension one way or the other, he wasn’t going to get much done. No, his art wasn’t suffering from his constant arousal. But his body was thrumming with electricity he had to release, or he’d blow up.