How would she react if she realized her brother had lost patience with Nigel and some prank inadvertently caused his death?
What did it say about Nigel Gasp that he couldn’t tell what he felt because he’d felt nothing for so long?
His heart rocketed around in his chest as he waved his arms and kicked his feet. He had to do something—anything—to save himself. Then, there was a second concussion on the surface of the water through which he was falling like thistledown.
Ah. Naturally. Jeff Paxton to save the day.
* * *
MAYBE IT WASN’T the best idea Jeff had ever had. He probably could have come up with another way to handle the situation, but once he’d set out, nothing could satisfy him but the wet slap of Nigel’s body hitting that almost icy water and the sound of him screaming in outrage as he swam to the shore. And he would swim to shore. Nigel wasn’t an idiot. He may have been depressed, maybe even have suicidal ideations, as they said in the army shrink’s office, but when faced with actual death, Jeff truly believed Nigel would pull his head out of his ass and come up screaming. Sure he’d be mad, and Deidre would go ballistic, but maybe Nigel would stop trying to fly and stop dancing on balconies. Because no one really wanted to die, did they?
When actually faced with the prospect of dying, no one really, really wanted to die.
Especially not some shallow attention whore like Nigel Gasp. If he actually died from his nonsense, he’d be horrified; he’d be scrabbling back from the edge of oblivion, clawing at the air like a cartoon cat.
Except…
Nigel wasn’t screaming. Which was puzzling.
It was only late fall. The water was cold certainly, but not cold enough to make anyone pass out. Not cold enough to stop Nigel from rising to the surface and taking a breath.
Oh sure, it might take his breath away for a second or two. The little prick wouldn’t be able to breathe for a brief and scary moment in time while he got his bearings and learned his damned lesson. While the cold water sorted him the fuck out.
Any second now, I’ll hear…
“Shit.” Jeff toed off his shoes and dived neatly into the murky water. He felt around where he’d last seen Gasp and found him on the second sweep of his arms. Nigel was struggling like hell, and Jeff had to use a modified choke hold on him to get him settled. Jeff knew he’d been right. Nobody really faced death magnanimously. After that, Jeff wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him to the surface, but when he had a chance, Nigel didn’t gasp or sputter; he didn’t scream his head off.
Which was troublesome.
It was easy for him to pull the inert body of the bane of his existence from the water, but Christ, he hated the slimy lake bottom beneath his feet. He slipped and slid until he had Nigel on what passed for a beach, and assessed him for the basics: airway, breathing, and circulation.
“Nigel? Don’t you die on me.” Jeff tilted Nigel’s head back and shouted. “Nigel. My sister is the only person I fear on this earth. She will kill me if you don’t snap the fuck out of this, right now.”
He had the fleeting thought there should be a special place in hell where people have to perform mouth-to-mouth on drunken rock stars, but bent to his task, pinched Nigel’s nose, and gave him a puff of air, and then two.
Eventually Nigel started to cough. Holy crap. Nigel gasped and then choked, spewing foul water and boozy breath into the air like a geyser. As if that weren’t enough, he started to vomit, and after shoving Nigel over onto his side so he wouldn’t aspirate, Jeff gagged up what little he’d had to eat as well, hurling onto the pebbly beach behind Nigel’s back.
God, he’d nearly killed Nigel Gasp.
So yeah, good for him, because Nigel might have been miserable but he was alive. They sat on the beach just like that for several long minutes. Jeff terrified, Nigel half-drowned.
Wet. Cold. Puking.
Nigel got over being sick, but he switched to sobbing, which was way the hell worse. He had his arms wrapped around himself and was making an unholy wheezing noise. Jeff found it was hard to look at him just then. He felt like a heel. He’d taken his sister’s pathetic, pampered rockling and called his bluff. He’d actually thrown Nigel Gasp into frigid water. Now Deidre and his mother would disown him and Nigel’s people would sue him.
If being without family and jobless in a rotten economy wasn’t bad enough, throwing the famous glamster nearly to his death was not exactly a major milestone on Jeff’s journey toward mental health. It was kind of a U-turn, actually, and Jeff despised himself for it.
I am so entirely fucked.
“Aw, come on. I’m sorry.”
Jeff put a hand onto the man’s thin, stark white shoulder. A dragon tattoo trailed down Nigel’s arm and wrapped around his wrist. The tat did less to make him look tough than it did to exacerbate the almost translucent whiteness of that English skin. Perfect—flawless save for a scattering of freckles on his shoulders, like beige stars against a white sky—his skin was probably already starting to burn in the morning sun.
At the very least Jeff had to get him upstairs and get those leather pants off him or they’d squeeze him like a python when they dried. Jeff tried not to enjoy that image.
“Look. Nigel,” he said to Nigel’s thin back. “I’m really sorry I lost my temper. I get that I’m fired. You’ll make my life miserable, and I’ll never work in this town again. But let’s go inside and at least get you warm, okay? Get you into a hot shower, maybe? People are probably taking pictures.”
Nigel rolled over, his long, dark hair wet and gritty, plastered to his face. It fell in clumps around bony arms and down his back like seaweed. He shook with emotion. It took Jeff a minute to understand. Nigel wasn’t crying. He was laughing—and from the looks of things, he was having trouble getting a breath. Jeff pulled him to a half-sitting position, a half hug that did nothing to alleviate his feelings of guilt or responsibility. Except for the fact that Nigel smelled like bilge water, he felt damned good in Jeff’s arms.
“Oh my fucking God.” Nigel’s laugh rang out, pure and oddly musical. “You rock.”
“I—” Jeff froze. “What?”
“That was awesome! You threw me into the lake.” Nigel collapsed back against the sand and started laughing again, and while Jeff couldn’t claim to be a big fan of the man’s half-crazy mood swings, he had to admire the full-throated, warbling laugh that came out of his mouth just then.
Jeff maintained a wary silence. This was a tactic he’d failed to employ on a number of occasions when it would have been to his benefit to do so. Maybe at last he was learning—
“You threw ME…into the lake.” The laughter started again.
“You puked in my mouth,” Jeff said finally. Maybe that would count toward some mitigation of the jail sentence he was probably going to have to serve for this. Kidnapping, assault, attempted murder.
“I know.” There was that wonderful laughter again. How could someone who laughed that beautifully make such crappy fucking music half the time? Nigel was covered with goose bumps and filth. He lurched unsteadily to his feet—still laughing—and made for the resort’s guest entrance. “You can’t beat the classics.”
“Maybe you should think about going in the back door?” Jeff caught up with Nigel as he struggled over the uneven, rocky surface in bare feet.
Nigel kept right on walking. “And miss the mileage I’ll get out of rushing through the lobby of the resort looking like this? You’re out of your mind.”
Jeff rolled his eyes and went with him, surging ahead, trying to do his job, checking the place for any unpleasant surprises. As they entered the cavernous lobby, his wet socks squelched across the polished wood floor. People whipped cell phones out, and lights flashed.
Nigel took shameless advantage as Jeff led the way with his larger body. There were more people there than he’d expected at that hour, and soon enough their picture would be spewed all over the World Wide Web as completely as the ones of Nigel that had la
nded him in this supposedly quiet little resort town in the first place. The elevator doors opened as soon as Nigel pushed the Up button.
Yeah. He’d be hearing from Deidre about this. The police too, probably, and oh fuck, his mother, because she thought Nigel Gasp walked on water. She had no idea. This time none of them would give him the benefit of the doubt. His Highness, the crown prince of pests, would see to that.
Chapter Two
They had to wait for ages in Jeff’s cramped room while housekeeping righted Nigel’s suite. Hoping to get rid of his monster headache, Jeff drank his coffee black and scalding.
“I got this move from Mick Jagger.”
Nope. Jeff wasn’t going to get rid of his headache when its cause was still right there in the room with him. After the first two hours, even watching a Mick Jagger move by a noted international star got old.
Shirtless, clad in a pair of skintight jeans this time, Nigel fidgeted around barefoot in front of the big-screen with his arms stretched behind him like some demented chicken.
“See, it’s as though I’m a rooster. Get it?”
“What the fuck is your problem, Red Chief? Can’t you sit for five seconds? Shit.” Jeff balled up his paper napkin and threw it. “I missed both the goal and the replay, thank you very much.”
“I never figured you for an ice skating guy.”
“This is hockey, Nigel. That’s not skating. It’s combat on ice with extra-sharp shoes.”
“What time is it?”
Jeff closed his eyes and prayed for patience. “Five minutes after the last time you asked.”
“Is my suite ready yet?”
“Not unless you took a call I didn’t hear from the manager and he said it was.”
Nigel popped a handful of toffee peanuts into his mouth. “’S not soon enough.” Crunch, crunch. “This room is too small. I can’t breathe in here.”
“Open the window.”
Crunch, crunch, crunch. “I can’t. It’s sealed.”
Good thing too, so I don’t have to worry you’ll take the short way down. That British accent, which Jeff had once found sexy and pleasing, was beginning to grate on his nerves. “Turn on the air.”
“What good can come of circulating the same inadequate air?” Crunch, crunch.
“It will be cooler, and you’ll feel better.”
I’ve been trained to endure torture. I’ve been trained to endure torture.
“What would feel better is having my bloody, goddamn suite back.”
Jeff surged up out of his chair. “I need to go for a walk. Stay here and don’t make any trouble.”
“Oi.” Nigel grinned at him. “You ever read Curious George?”
Aw, man. Jeff turned. “Are you going to make trouble on purpose?”
“Will you be wanting a yellow hat?”
“Fuck you.” Jeff opened the door and took off, looking back only long enough to see if Nigel shut it behind him. He glanced at his watch and discovered that since he’d brought Nigel back into the building, allowed him to change his clothes, and taken him to his own small room in order for the hotel staff to clean and reoutfit the suite of rooms Nigel was staying in, it had been exactly one hour and forty minutes. Less than two hours and it felt like two days. Jeez. How long could he keep this up?
On his way up the emergency stairs to see what progress they were making, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and telephoned Deidre.
“Paxton.”
“Dee. It’s me again, Jeff.”
“I can read.”
“Um. How are things with the baby?” Are you done bonding yet?
“I have Nigel on the landline right now.”
“What did he say?”
“Apparently he took an unscheduled swim.”
“About that…”
“Jeff. You did three tours in the Middle East. I thought you could handle one goddamn little rock star.”
“This one little rock star has the attention span of a gnat and no filters. He has no Off button”—Jeff wished he could tell her about Nigel’s self-destructive behavior but he couldn’t worry her like that—“and no common sense.”
“Then you should get along spectacularly.”
“I swear to you, he has it in for me now.”
Deidre laughed. “Let’s think this through. Why do you suppose that might be?”
“Can’t you do something? Get him some Ritalin? Tell him to pace himself, for fuck’s sake?”
“First of all, fact of life. That man is worth nearly a billion dollars. His face has been on everything from T-shirts to lunch boxes to underwear ads. He’s the face of Aerospace Clothing LTD and Sheridan Cross. He’s Japanese beer, he’s Australian potato chips. He’s got his own yacht. Do you have a yacht, Jeff?”
Jeff ground his teeth. “He has a yacht? How has he got a yacht when he can’t swim?”
“Have you ever been in an underwear ad that ended up in an art museum?”
“No.”
“All right, then. When you are, you’ll get the big room, and he’ll have to do what you say. In the meantime, please don’t drown my rock star, Jeffie.”
“Okay. All right already.” Jeff swallowed most of what he wanted to say with what he couldn’t say. He could not, for example, in good conscience say that he needed help because Nigel might need more than a keeper. Nigel might need medical intervention.
“If you plan on ever seeing your family again—especially your mother, who thinks Nigel Gasp is the bee’s knees—you will make nice, do you hear me? In the meantime I’m the dairy fairy, and I don’t want my breast milk contaminated by your whining.”
“Got it.” Jeff frowned at the phone. Could whining really contaminate breast milk?
Deidre hung up before he could ask if she’d considered the cash advance he’d asked for. He guessed he’d gotten his answer.
When Jeff reached Nigel’s suite, the door was still open and the maids—plural—were scrubbing the place down with bleach. One was shampooing the area rug. The sofa and coffee table had been replaced, and he heard the sound of power tools from the bathroom.
Over the noise, he pointed to his watch and raised his brows in mute question. The maids scowled at him without stopping their work, and he backed out the door, right into Nigel.
“You were supposed to wait in my room.”
“Always expect the unexpected.” Gasp’s eyes lit with mischief.
They were nice eyes, actually. Clear and blue, like the sky. Not the kind of eyes you’d expect from a guy who was basically a cesspit of self-abuse and foolhardy alcohol consumption. There was something fine and resilient about him, which was strange given everything Jeff had observed firsthand. Gasp had neglected his perfect body, but it didn’t show. He was nearly forty but looked about twenty-five unless you got right up close. He wore a mask of innocence, when in reality…
“God, you look young for a man your age.” Jeff tried to find some obvious flaw but couldn’t. “Did you make some kind of deal with the devil?”
Nigel’s smile lost some of its brightness. “You’re not the first person to ask that.”
“Look, can we talk for a minute?” Despite the maids still working, Jeff led Nigel across the room to the sliding glass doors, then out onto the balcony. There was a small table and chair set with an ashtray and some empty bottles from the night before. He’d hardly motioned for Nigel to sit before a maid came to whisk them away.
Jeff figured he ought to start with an apology. “I’m really sorry for throwing you into the lake.”
Nigel held his hand up. “I probably deserved that. It was bloody brilliant anyway.”
“All right.” Jeff relaxed back into his chair. The view was good. So much better than his. “Can I be straight with you?”
“I don’t know.” Nigel’s eyes sparkled. “Can you?”
Jeff ignored that. “Dee loves you, you know? My mom too. You’ve charmed my whole family. They think you’re talented and full of mischief, like some
wayward royal. You get along with them better than I do.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think you’re a danger to yourself.”
His words apparently pleased Nigel. “You mean the Nigel Gasp mystique eludes you?”
“I guess it does. And I don’t know how they could have missed something that’s all too clear to me. You’ve got a death wish right now.”
Nigel stiffened. “I suppose you think you can prove that?”
“Of course I can’t prove it, or I’d be talking to Deidre about this and not you.”
“She’d never believe you. You can’t just call her and say, ‘You know Nigel’s looking to top himself.’ She’d think you were mad. It’s too fantastic. Why would I—”
“Stop it, Nigel.” Jeff wished he had a damned beer. “Don’t even try. If there’s one thing I know, it’s the way a man looks when he’s given up.”
“What are you talking about?” Nigel glanced away.
“What do you think I did in the army? Sit in a desert oasis composing sonnets? I lived with men like that. I can spot a man who’s lost track of who he is and what he’s fighting for, and you’ve got the look. It’s in the eyes.”
“Maybe you should write sonnets. You’d probably be quite good at it.”
Jeff leaned forward, trying to get Nigel to be serious for once. “Why are you doing this? You have everything.”
Nigel’s lips curved up in a faint smile. “Maybe that’s why?”
“We’re at cross-purposes here. If you keep dancing on the edge, I’m going to have to pull you back hard. You do not want to be in Camp Paxton’s Freedom Cessation Program for the next five weeks.”
“No.” Nigel’s lashes lowered. “I don’t want that.”
“I’d like to help.” Jeff reached out to the man and not the legendary rock star, laying a hand on his arm. “If you need to see a doctor or call someone…if you feel like talking about what’s bothering you—”
Gasp! Page 3