by Rachel Kane
Violet Mulgrew saw him at the same time he saw her.
No startlement on her face.
Just a quick and tidy calculation of what evil she might inflict.
“Don’t talk to her,” he whispered to Judah. “Let’s just go.”
Judah shifted Roo onto his other arm. “Gladly.”
“Why, if it isn’t two of the three musketeers,” she said. “And with a baby, no less.”
“Be nice,” whispered Alex. “She owns this building, I can’t afford any trouble.”
“What’s that you’re whispering, Mr. Roth? Telling secrets? Lies, perhaps? Why, and here I am, a simple woman in search of a simple book.”
Too bad they weren’t outside. Alex was vulnerable—everyone was, when Violet was in charge. Noah couldn’t even huff at her, for fear of getting Alex in hot water.
But she wasn’t going to let him and Judah leave.
Not without messing with their heads first.
“I had the most interesting chat with Dalton Raines the other day. You know Mr. Raines quite well by now, I’m sure. I’m told you, Noah, have spent a great deal of time with him.”
Oh hell.
She walked right up to him, like a spider approaching a juicy fly. When she saw the newspaper, her eyes took it in quickly, sharply. She might be evil, but she was intelligent too. She tapped the name Raines in the headline. “I know what you’re up to,” she said.
“I think we need to get Roo back home for her nap,” said Judah.
“And I need to make a phone call,” said Noah. “If you’ll excuse us, Mrs. Mulgrew.”
“You’re not keeping the house. You understand that, right? Mr. Raines is going to buy it out from under you. It’ll be nice to have your bad influence out of this town once and for all.”
Her gossip was clearly behind by a few days, but Noah wasn’t the person to set her straight. The less she knew about his business, the better. She didn’t need to know that he’d been thinking of Dalton day and night. Didn’t need to know how badly he wanted to get out of here so he could call Dalton, to check on him.
“Can I…can I help you, Mrs. Mulgrew?” Alex said, trying to interrupt her attack.
“I suppose I could ask you to stop serving certain people in this town,” she said, “as having them inside your store—inside this building of mine that you are leasing—really does bring down the property values. But I won’t ask that. No. I don’t need to. Soon these boys will be out of my town forever.”
It was too much for Noah.
“Now look here—” he started.
But Judah grabbed his arm. “We’ll be on our way,” he said, practically dragging Noah out.
“I’m afraid Mr. Raines is very busy,” said the person on the other end. Noah paced outside The Overcrowded Shelf, the late-spring sun warming his back, his shoulders. The warmth was welcome. He felt so tense, recovering from Violet’s withering words, at the same time wondering how Dalton was.
What if Judah’s right? What if this is stupid?
He had to stop questioning that. He was doing the right thing. If someone might be suffering, you checked on them. It was the polite thing to do.
The good thing to do.
Noah didn’t get a lot of chances to practice being good. He had to take them when he found them.
“Can you tell him this is about his purchase of Superbia Springs? I believe he’ll want to talk to me,” he said.
“He’s in meetings all morning, Mr….Mr…”
“Turnstock. Noah Turnstock.”
“I’ll take down your number, but I can’t guarantee a callback, I’m afraid.”
He barely had his phone back in his pocket before it rang. He pulled it back out.
The number wasn’t one he recognized.
“Hello?”
“I owe you dinner,” said the voice on the other end.
“Dalton?”
“Get to the airport. I’m sending down my private plane.”
“Are you all right? The news said—”
“Just be there, okay? My assistant will text you the details.”
15
Dalton
“You’re going where?” asked Colby, his voice strained.
“Out. That’s all you need to know. I’m going out.”
“Now?” He gestured at the stacks of reports on the conference table. “Literally, right now, you’re leaving? Your first official day as CEO, and you’re ditching me with all the work?”
Dalton stared at him. His eyes were burning, feeling pin-pricked from the lack of sleep. There had not been a single moment to rest, since the call from Dad’s nurse. Your father wants to talk to you, Mr. Raines. He says… He’s says it’s really urgent.
From that moment to this, he had been here, in the company building, traveling between his office, his dad’s floor, the lawyers, the media room. Borrowing his assistant’s bottle of Visine when he had to give an interview in front of the cameras, having her bring him two extra suits so he wouldn’t look rumpled. Nothing to eat, no appetite, thinking sadly about that plate he’d left untouched back in Superbia.
Back when life was easy. God, I didn’t know how simple my life was, just a day ago.
“I need a break, Colbs. Look, we’ve been running the business anyway, nothing has changed—”
“Nothing has changed? The old man is talking about dying—”
“He’s not going to die!”
He just needed to get out of here. He needed to escape. Noah’s call had given him just the excuse he needed. Get away from this, get into some secluded restaurant where no one would bother him, split a few bottles of wine with a cute boy, forget about the world, forget about everything.
Forget about the way his father had said, I’m tired, son. I always joked that they’d find me dead in my office, clutching a pen, trying to sign one last contract.
You’re going to be fine, Dad. The doctors say—
The doctors say whatever you pay them to say. I know my own body. I can feel it coming. Look at me. No, I mean it, look at me.
He’d looked, and even though he had seen his father through all this, it was like seeing him for the first time, the frail, thin shadow of the man he’d once been. The weakness where once there had been strength. Hollow eyes and hollow cheeks. Breath coming in short gasps fed by the oxygen tube.
His phone pinged; a text from his driver, saying Noah had shown up at the airport, and was now in the limo.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he told his brother, knowing that if he cut Colby off now, it was only going to make the fight that much worse later on.
He didn’t care.
He was like an animal caught in a trap, desperate to get out.
The last thing he expected when Noah got out of the car, was for him to rush over and wrap his arms around him, a look of concern on his face. Yet here he was, looking up at Dalton, their faces closer than they had ever been, and Dalton could tell he was trying to find the right words to say. He didn’t want to hear any of them. He was so tired of sympathy, so tired of the well-wishers that had been bombarding him day and night for the past twenty-four hours. All of them wanted something, their sympathy coming with a price. They knew a shake-up was coming with the company, and everyone was angling for how to profit from it. That had been as exhausting, in its own way, as his talk with his father had been.
Instead, Noah scrunched up his brow. “Wow, you look terrible up close. I would’ve thought you could afford better skin care. Maybe you need a spa day.”
“I need something,” Dalton admitted. “I’m glad you came.”
“You owe me, remember? And this had better be somewhere nice. Some place I’ll be telling my great-grandkids about, when I am in whatever nursing home they put the fabulous people into.”
His refusal to be serious was the healthiest thing Dalton had heard all day. “Get back in the car. I know just the place.”
“Is that mohair?” he asked, sitting next to Noah in the limo. H
e touched the fuzzy sleeve of Noah’s sweater.
“Angora, thank you very much,” Noah said. “I thought I should probably dress up.”
The pale, bone-colored sweater flowed like a cloud around Noah, leading down to surprisingly tight leather pants, and chrome-buckled boots with enough heel to add an inch or two to his height.
Dressed to kill, thought Dalton. Maybe they were of one mind about what tonight was for. He could barely keep himself from staring at those pants. Of course he’d been curious about the details of Noah’s body. He was a man, after all, and he thought about these things. But he hadn’t dare give it too much thought. Now, though, with the tightness of that leather, he found it was all he could think about, eyes drifting down, trying to catch a hint of a bulge, peeking out from beneath the edge of that sweater.
As a distraction from his problems, Noah was going to work out just fine, Dalton sensed.
They pulled up at Le Brillat, and red-coated valets opened the doors for them. Dalton waited to get out until he’d seen Noah step from the car, getting the full rear view. His mouth was practically watering at the sight. He could’ve reached right out and cupped Noah’s ass, rubbed each of those rounded cheeks—
Careful now. I think the lack of sleep is getting to you. Don’t start pawing him right away, you’ll ruin it.
He never thought like this. He never felt like this.
Things were going on in his head, things he didn’t want to think about.
Ignore it all.
“Monsieur Raines,” said the maitre’d with a polite nod. There was no conversation, for which Dalton was grateful. Everyone had heard the news by now. Everyone knew his elevated state. They whisked him and Noah to a private room, tried to present him with a wine list, but he waved it away and told them which bottles to bring up.
“Well?” he asked Noah, once they’d settled into the soft leather seats.
Noah was studying the room, taking in the rich gilt wallpaper, the antique lamps hanging from the ceiling casting their pale golden glows. “Wow,” he said. “Just…wow.”
“So this will do? I know you live in a mansion, so you’re hard to impress, but…”
Noah grinned. “Yes, this will do.”
The sommelier came out with the first bottle, and Dalton was very aware of how closely Noah watched him. Dalton was presented with the cork, and he inspected it, brought it to his nose, and gave the sommelier a nod. Glasses were filled, all without a word. They knew not to speak. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen Le Brillat, its silence.
Noah picked up his glass. “Now I guess I’m supposed to swirl it around and put my nose in the glass and pretend I have an opinion?”
Dalton laughed. “It’s a Duclot Bordeaux. If you don’t have an opinion, I’ve invited the wrong person to dinner.”
“Please, most of the things I drink involve vodka and fruit juice. I’m not a connoisseur.”
He raised his glass. “I take it you didn’t find anything exciting in the wine cellar of this house you’ve inherited. I have the feeling if you had, you would’ve done your research on it.”
Noah paused before lifting the glass to his lips, and Dalton wondered if he’d made a mistake, bringing up the house. Maybe Noah would think he had an ulterior motive for inviting him here. Maybe he’d think he’d brought him here to convince him to sell.
As though he’d given that even a moment’s thought over the past 24 hours.
As though he needed an excuse to get Noah up here.
“It’s a funny thing,” said Noah. “Did you know, we found an entire hidden bar in the house? Like a speakeasy? The house was built during Prohibition, and guests would sneak down through a secret door to visit the bar. Bathtub gin and jazz on the Victrola. We’re still finding odd things in the basement. It’s like a labyrinth down there.”
“But no wine?”
“Nothing drinkable. There were a few bottles left in the bar, but they’d turned into vinegar.” He finally took a sip from his glass, and his eyes did an interesting thing, leaving Dalton’s for just a moment, looking down at the red in his glass with a sudden appreciation. “My goodness.”
“It’s one of my favorites,” said Dalton. “I was thinking, we should start with oysters, unless you’d rather have escargot—”
“Um.”
“Then move on to the wild game. They do an incredible pheasant here. Or if you’d prefer to go traditional, the steak—”
“Dalton?”
“Yes?”
“I can read a menu, you know. You don’t have to do the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you order for me. I’m not a child. I can make my own decisions.”
Ah, there’s that spark of independence. I was wondering when that would come out again.
He wished he could just skip all these preliminaries, and get Noah into his apartment. Forget all the conversation, forget everything leading up to the moment. What he needed was release, not friendship, certainly not to be challenged about ordering for someone.
“I saw you at the Red Cat,” he said. “You ordered coffee, and nothing else. You don’t get to do that here. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the coffee is very good, but if you don’t eat something—”
“You’ll spank me?”
That made him laugh. “Sure, I might, if you’re naughty enough. Are you a brat, Noah?”
“My friends certainly seem to think so.”
The wine had brought a glow to Noah’s cheeks, and Dalton motioned at the waiter to have his glass refilled.
For once, everything was going to plan.
“I’ll have them bring you a menu. You can read French, right? You’ll know what all the dishes are?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I’m used to plastic menus with pictures of the food that I can point at.”
“If you order chicken fingers, I am never speaking to you again.”
“Do they have a grilled cheese sandwich? Maybe macaroni out of a box?”
“How about this. I’ll order, and if you don’t like it, you’re free to get something else. But I think you’ll enjoy what I’m suggesting.”
“Okay, but no oysters or—gross!—snails. I don’t like slimy slurpy food.”
“I don’t know where you’ve been ordering your snails, but escargot should never be slimy.”
“You can order whatever you want, but there’s a limit to what I’m willing to put in my mouth.”
Dalton raised an eyebrow. “Oh…is there a limit?”
“I’m sure you want to find out.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“You’re very certain of yourself tonight,” Noah said.
“And here you were, saying I was very uncertain before.”
“No, I said you couldn’t deal with uncertainty. You don’t like risks. You like sure things.”
Are you a sure thing? I think you are. I can see the way you’re looking at me. Don’t think I can’t see the color rising in your face, the way your throat has gone all pink, even though I haven’t touched it yet, even though my lips haven’t kissed it yet.
Another sip of wine, before motioning the waiter back over to order. He named the dishes, and without a word, the waiter nodded, slipping back into the shadows. The carpet absorbed every sound; Dalton did not even hear him go, after he turned to face Noah again.
“Maybe we shouldn’t stay for dinner,” Dalton said. “We could skip it, if you like.”
“Are you trying to weasel out of our deal? Is this the way you make your money, by cheating innocent boys like myself?”
“You don’t strike me as very innocent,” Dalton said.
16
Noah
Pop quiz: A gorgeous billionaire flies you to an exclusive restaurant, orders you the most expensive wine you’ve ever tasted, and is flirting with you mercilessly. What’s the best way to sabotage things so the night goes down in flames?
Something had changed, that was for sure. Where was the fri
endly, cheerful Dalton of days ago, the Dalton who had bashfully ordered all those roses? This Dalton was different, in a way that both excited and frightened Noah.
Dalton excited him for all the obvious reasons. It was impossible to miss just how beautiful the man was, even with his sleepy eyes…or maybe because of them, because of the exhausted look on his face that tore away all the artifice, all the good manners that separated men from their ids. Dalton was hungry for him, and couldn’t hide it. Noah had already been undressing him mentally, noting the way his fitted shirt played over the muscles in his arms and shoulders. He could easily imagine sitting in Dalton’s lap, legs wrapped around the small of his back, riding him like a mechanical bull. Yee to the haw, baby.
But.
Those eyes again. There was a desperation in them, and not just the desperation to fuck someone that Noah was used to seeing in the men who took him to dinner. He could imagine it was the look a drowning man had, while stretching out his arms, unable to keep himself above the surface, knowing he was about to go down one last time. Help me, those eyes seemed to say, even though Dalton would always be too proud to ever say those words.
Should I ruin the moment by asking him how he is?
Should I blow my chance at something I might remember forever, because I think he’s hurting and needs something more than sex tonight?
But he couldn’t think about it for long, because he felt something touch him, under the table. As Dalton aimed those green-glass eyes at him, his toe gently brushed Noah’s ankle, sending a little shiver up Noah’s spine.
You better decide quick, he told himself, uttering a tiny sigh as Dalton’s toe traced a path up his calf. The leather pants fit like skin, and he could feel every bit of that path, every little inch of contact. Fortunately he was covered by the table and tablecloth, because he could feel himself getting hard from that touch alone, and the pants made it painfully obvious when he was hard. A virtue in the clubs, but maybe not so much in a place like this.
“Tell me if you want to stay. Tell me,” said Dalton, “if you want to go.”