Stefan shivered, still unwilling to think about that time, and how close they’d come to disaster with the authorities after they’d vanquished the ghost. Luckily, the condition of the cabin—and its lack of building permits—made the police believe the faulty-wiring-and-paint-fumes excuse for the fire, and assign the blame to Thomas as the negligent owner.
“All the more reason for us to put it behind us.” All Stefan wanted—all he’d ever wanted—was a long, uneventful, even boring life with the man he loved, in a world where the only thing you had to worry about was stupid stuff like how to pay your bills, and whether you had enough phthalo-blue to finish your painting without a trip to the art supply store. Not whether some guy who’d been dead for over half a century might come waltzing out of the woods and make himself at home in your head. “Besides, it’s not like it’ll ever happen again.”
Luke sighed. “Yeah, I guess.”
Stefan kissed him and patted his chest. “Anything I can do around your place while you’re in Milan? Take in your mail? Water your plants? Oh, wait. You don’t have any plants. They’re too needy for you.”
Luke caught Stefan’s hand, opening his mouth as if to say something, and Stefan braced himself for another rendition of Luke’s constant refrain: “You could move in.” But instead, Luke clamped his lips shut and shook his head. “Nope.” He kissed the angle of Stefan’s jaw. “I should only be gone a couple of days. We’ll talk when I get back.”
Stefan nodded, although his chest felt tight. The unsaid words floated almost visibly in the air between them. Thank God, he hadn’t voiced it this time, or they’d have parted in anger and frustration, with Stefan insisting that they live apart until he was clear of all his financial baggage, and Luke declaring that Stefan’s debts didn’t matter. But Stefan had learned his lesson about dependence—both economic and emotional—and he’d never go there again, not even with someone he trusted so completely. He lowered his forehead against Luke’s. “You’ll be home in time for the show, though, won’t you?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good. Call me when you land in Milan?”
“I’ll try. But my international calling plan sucks, and your domestic plan sucks worse.”
“It sucks, but at least it’s cheap. One step closer to fiscal self-sufficiency, right?”
As Stefan had hoped, Luke laughed at that. “Every penny counts, I guess.”
“Yeah.” Stefan sighed. “Especially since I’ve given up on prying my last four paintings out of Marius’s sister’s perfectly manicured hands. She probably burned them anyway. Or gave them to Goodwill.” He met Luke’s gaze.
“Nah,” they said simultaneously.
“She’d definitely have burned them first.” Luke straightened his collar. “Listen, communication may be iffier than we expect since I won’t be in Milan proper. It’s some village to the west, in the mountains near the French border.”
“You sure you’re up for that?” Luke’s accident had given him a phobia about driving mountain roads.
Luke nudged Stefan’s chin with his knuckle. “Hey. I got cured of that shit in October, remember? Hairpin turns and steep drop-offs don’t freak me out anymore.”
Stefan grinned. “Just guys named Giacomo.”
“What can I say?” Luke cupped Stefan’s jaw and kissed him. “We all have our quirks. See you in a couple of days, babe. Love you.”
Stefan walked him to the door and stole another quick kiss before Luke left. He sighed and wandered to his worktable, tracing the sketch of Luke with the tip of a finger. A couple of days. That’s not so long.
Behind him, the studio door burst open.
Stefan grinned, warmth gathering in his chest. “I knew it. You want me to take you to the airport after all.”
“Stefan.”
Not Luke. Stefan whipped around at the note of panic in Antoinette’s voice. She sagged against the wall, one hand clutching the edge of the door, her face as white as a blank canvas. “Christ. Antoinette.” He hurried over to wrap an arm around her before she slid to the floor. “What’s wrong?”
She gulped. “Please. Can you come? Something is wrong with Jacques. I think . . . I think he may be dying.”
Luke staggered into his condo at what-the-fuck-thirty, letting his suitcase topple to the floor. He never wanted to see the crap inside it again. He’d packed the damn thing for a two, maybe three-day stay, not five weeks.
Five fucking weeks. Unbelievable. He was never taking another retrieval commission without a stack of signed affidavits in three languages—and maybe a selfie or two of him with the client to prove his bona fides. Of course, that presupposed a face-to-face meeting with the client, which was also going on his nonnegotiable list, as was a personal acknowledgement from the target venue.
Because the client—or rather the contact at the client corporation—hadn’t bothered to inform their minions of Luke’s arrival, and had turned ghost, never returning any of Luke’s twice daily voicemails and follow-up emails. Every day, Luke had shown up at the crumbling estate, only to be met with narrow-eyed suspicion and told—in Italian—to come back tomorrow. God knows why they’d finally given in. Maybe they’d gotten sick of Luke’s face, or had had a miraculous tech epiphany that allowed them to accept the original email thread printout as permission at last.
On the plus side, he now had an extensive vocabulary of Italian swear words. On the minus side, five weeks of unexpected overseas living expenses had seriously fucked up his cash flow. Since he hadn’t expected to be gone for so long, it hadn’t occurred to him to demand a per diem advance, and the penalties for changing his flight had eaten up the rest of his retainer fee. How the hell was he supposed to help Stefan with his financial problems if he made such piss-poor business decisions himself?
Stefan. God, he missed him. He’d had this fantasy that Stefan would be waiting for him at the airport. How did you expect him to do that, idiot? Get in tune with the cosmic air traffic controller? Once Luke had gotten his hands on the artifact—and after all that stonewalling, the estate staff had tried to hand over two of the damn things instead of the one Luke was contracted to retrieve—he’d been constantly on the scramble. Every time he’d had a minute to try to contact Stef, it had either been the wrong time of day, or he’d had no connectivity. Finally, he’d sent an email, although he wasn’t sure it had gone through. Half the time, their messages seemed to get stuck in a freakish time warp, not arriving until days after they’d been sent.
He limped over to the black lacquer display cabinet that took up one whole wall of the living room, the walk taking twice as long as usual. Between layovers, flight cancellations, weather delays, and mechanical difficulties, his twenty-hour flight had turned into a thirty-six-hour torture session. He hadn’t been able to sleep on any of the planes either, because for some misguided, stupidly macho reason, he’d packed his pain meds in his checked bag.
Gingerly, he extracted the bubble-wrapped artifact from his padded backpack. By this time, he’d gotten used to the shiver down his back whenever he touched the damn thing. A death mask. God. Not his cup of arsenic, thanks, and way too reminiscent of Antoinette’s work, even though it wasn’t painted and glazed. He’d only looked at it once, to make sure the minions hadn’t tried to pull a fast one on him, and that had been more than enough. What kind of psycho nutjob collected this shit anyway? Serial killers or necrophiliacs, that’s who.
Still, it represented one hell of a lot in unbilled fees at the moment, so he couldn’t afford to damage it now. He left the revolting object wrapped in its bubble-wrap cocoon and tucked it behind a blown-glass vase on the bottom shelf.
He gazed longingly at the open door to his bedroom. What he wouldn’t give to collapse onto his bed—preferably with Stefan in it. He’d be here if he’d get off his stubborn horse and move in with me. No point in having that argument with himself, though, especially in the middle of the night when he’d been awake for over two days straight.
Inste
ad, he hobbled into his office and sat down at his desk with a groan. I may not be able to get up again. But his desire to stick a fork in this job was greater than his desire for sleep—Although sleep was starting to gain on it. He pulled his laptop out of the backpack, and while it was booting up, he checked his phone.
He’d left a dozen messages for his missing client with no response. What was one more? He dialed the number he knew by heart now. Straight to voicemail, as usual.
“Mr. Johnson, this is Luke Morganstern. I’ve retrieved your artifact and have been trying to contact you so that we can arrange—”
Beep. “Voicemail is full.”
Fan-fucking-tastic. Luke disconnected the call and plugged his phone into the charger. “Guess we’ll give email a try.”
He dashed off a message to the elusive Mr. Johnson, then shut down his laptop and levered himself out of the chair. He glanced at his phone. Should he call Stef? Not at three thirty in the morning, asshole.
He shed his clothes as he tottered down the hall. When he got to his bed, he managed to drop his pants on the floor and collapse onto his mattress in just his boxers. He let out an extended moan. Rather than get up so he could climb under the covers, he pawed at the comforter until he could flip it over himself, then rolled up in it like a burrito.
God, I stink. Something else to worry about in the morning. Sleep. Shower. Stef. Creepy-ass artifacts and missing clients could wait.
Was that a notification beep from his cell phone? Stefan hurried over to his worktable, the bundle of just-cleaned brushes in his hand dribbling a path on the cement floor. Nothing. Great, now he was hearing things. Maybe the obsessive way he’d checked for messages all day long had finally sent him around the bend.
It seemed like Luke had been gone forever. Funny how soon you could get used to having someone around, so that their absence ached like a phantom limb.
As Stefan returned to the sink to shake the water off his brushes, Antoinette appeared in his open studio door, slumping against it and raising a hand to her forehead in exaggerated relief.
He chuckled. “I take it the kiln crisis has been averted?”
She straightened and brushed her hands down her smock. “Somewhat. But I fear Madame Gallipolis’s lopsided vase was even more poorly constructed than we imagined. It has exploded.”
Stefan winced. “Ouch. Although I can’t say it was any great loss to the art world.”
“No. However there was . . . what do you call it? When nearby pieces were . . .” Antoinette flicked her fingers outward.
“Collateral damage?”
“Yes. Some of her classmates may be a trifle disgruntled.”
“More so than usual?”
“It depends on how attached they were to their pieces.”
He dried the brush handles and his own hands. “How’s Signor DiBartolo this morning?”
She dropped her gaze, fiddling with a lock of her hair. “As well as can be expected. He is . . . not happy.”
“If there’s anything I can do . . .”
She raised her chin, her smile obviously forced. “Thank you, but I don’t wish to impose on your kindness.”
“It’s not an imposition. We’re friends. Friends help each other.” He patted her shoulder. “Whatever you need, you let me know.”
She jerked a nod, then glanced around the empty studio, avoiding Stefan’s gaze. “Has your boyfriend not returned from his journey yet, Stefan?” She always gave his name the European pronunciation. Shte-FAHN. In a way, he liked it. In another way, it kind of pissed him off that she didn’t bother to pronounce his name correctly.
“Not yet. He’s still waiting for the guy to show up, but I’m sure it’ll be any time now.”
“But you have spoken with him recently, yes?”
“Not . . . ah . . . really.” He laid the brushes on the worktable, nudging their handles until they were perfectly parallel. “He’s had trouble with connectivity.” At least Stefan preferred to think that’s all it was.
“Stefan.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Sometimes it seems as if Monsieur Morganstern does not treat you as he ought. Are you sure—”
“Yes.” He raised his chin, forcing a smile. “Absolutely. Occasionally, we hit rough patches, like any couple, but he loves me.” Does he love me enough? I was wrong about it once before.
“Naturellement.” She tilted her head. “I have said so before, but he reminds me a bit of Jacques. They have the same gruff exterior. They even resemble one another.”
“You think?” Stefan pictured the two of them in his mind. “Maybe a little, or as much as any two men with Mediterranean ancestry do.”
“Ah. Well, perhaps I see them differently—from the perspective of how I would render their faces in clay.” Her hand sketched a curve in the air. “The forehead. The slope of the nose. The cheekbones.”
Stefan had never thought to paint Signor DiBartolo—it seemed presumptuous somehow—but regardless, he’d never considered his bone structure similar to Luke’s. “I guess.”
She made a moue of annoyance. “Forgive me. I am picturing Jacques as he was twenty years ago. The resemblance was much stronger then.”
“I can see that, I suppose. But hey, come here.” He caught her hand and drew her to the end of the worktable, where he’d just finished his commission for her. “What do you think? Does this look like Rudy’s skin tone?”
She caught her breath. “Oh. Stefan. It is incroyable.”
Rudy, a six foot six African American man with the shoulders of a linebacker and a penchant for cartoon-print scrubs, was Signor DiBartolo’s home healthcare nurse, and he was beautiful enough that neither Antoinette nor Stefan could resist using him as a model. In fact, he was the subject of three of Stefan’s portraits for next week’s show, as well as Antoinette’s latest mask. “My part was easy—you’d already captured his face perfectly.”
“We will fire it tonight. Without any piece by Madame Gallipolis.” She touched the mask’s forehead with a fingertip. “He is so lovely. He should be a model, not a nurse.”
“We’re lucky he can be both.”
She ducked her chin, but not before he caught the pain that flickered across her face. “Yes. Of course.”
He laid an arm across her shoulders, gave her a quick hug, and lied his ass off. “It’ll be okay. You’ll see.”
“I pray you are right.” She shook back her hair and gave him a tremulous smile. “But now, I must go. It is Rudy’s half holiday, and he will no doubt have some instructions for me.” She sighed. “I fear Jacques becomes quite agitated over his . . . limitations.”
“Understandable.” He squeezed her shoulder once before releasing her. “Give them both my best.”
She nodded and left, closing the studio door behind her.
Stefan checked the clock. Jason, his next model, wouldn’t arrive for another hour, so he had enough time to clean up a little. He’d been afraid to take even a short shower this morning in case he missed Luke’s call, but morning had stretched to afternoon with no word. And I smell like acetone and probably look like a vagrant.
He started the coffee maker in his abbreviated kitchenette and left it to burble away in solitude while he headed into his tiny bathroom. If I moved in with Luke, at least I wouldn’t bang my elbows on the shower stall every damn day. But if he moved in with Luke before he could arrive free and clear of all his debts, he might just as well still be with Marius.
No. That’s not true. It’s not the same, had never been the same. Stefan preferred Luke’s temper and occasional chest-pounding to Marius’s patronizing, dismissive possessiveness. When Luke argued with him, it meant he valued Stefan’s opinions enough to acknowledge them and engage. Marius had simply ignored them.
Stefan stepped out of the bathroom into the attached changing room to towel his hair dry because doing that in the bathroom just begged for bruises. Besides, it gave him a chance to make sure the room was set up for his models—clean robes, baskets for their belongi
ngs, nothing left over from prior sessions. It was amazing the things people forgot, as if their possessions weren’t really attached to them. Even the ubiquitous cell phones frequently got left behind. Stefan had had to set up a freaking lost-and-found.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, he pushed aside the curtain and stepped into the studio proper. The aroma of coffee beckoned him across the room. He poured himself a cup as he checked the schedule pinned to the bulletin board over the counter. After Jason’s modeling session, he could—
Arms wrapped around his waist and warm breath tickled his ear. “The coffee smells great but you smell better.”
Stefan’s heart bounded up to his throat, and a smile split his face. “Luke.” He turned into Luke’s embrace and was met with a knee-melting kiss. When he could come up for air, he said, “Well, hello to you too.”
“Mmm.” Luke nuzzled the curve of Stefan’s shoulder, trailing open-mouthed kisses up his neck. “Sorry about the surprise attack. I got home in the middle of the night. Meant to be here first thing, but jet lag kicked my ass. Then I forgot to call because I was too excited to see you.”
The evidence of that excitement was hard behind Luke’s fly. Stefan’s own cock rose in response as he threaded his fingers through Luke’s overlong hair. “I’ll forgive you.” He captured Luke’s mouth in another kiss, pressing their groins together. “This time.”
Luke’s chuckle vibrated Stefan’s bones. “I like this outfit you’re wearing.” His hands wandered down Stefan’s back and grabbed the towel, whisking it away to drop on the floor at their feet. “I like it even better now.”
Stefan shivered. “Luke. Antoinette could walk in—”
“Nope.” Luke grinned, cupping Stefan’s ass with both hands. “I remembered to lock the door. Who says Luke Morganstern can’t be taught? Now . . .” His voice dropped to that rough gravel that melted Stefan’s bones. “I’ve heard a rumor . . .” He caressed Stefan’s skin, fingers wandering between his cheeks, behind his balls. “. . . that this studio has a bed in it somewhere. You wouldn’t happen to know anything . . .” He pressed a fingertip against Stefan’s hole, causing Stefan’s breath to hitch. “. . . about that, would you?”
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