Aloes

Chris Quinton

Aloes

Manifold Press 2

Published by Manifold Press

Text: © Chris Quinton 2010 Cover image: © Diego Cervo | Dreamstime.com E-book format © Manifold Press 2010

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For further details of titles both in print and forthcoming see: http://www.manifoldpress.co.uk

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ISBN: 978-0-9565426-1-8

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Dedication All thanks to the friends who encouraged, cracked whips, critiqued and generally helped me keep on track with this story. You are as necessary to me as my beleaguered brain cell. *** In setting this book in Ulster County, New York, and Jefferson County, Pennsylvania, I have taken liberties with both places. Leidenton, named after the Dutch town, and situated four miles down the Hudson river from Kingston, does not exist. Neither does the town of Bellamy nor the Connorswood estate, set on the edge of the Cook Forest State Park in Pennsylvania.

Proof-reading and line editing: Thalia Communications www.thaliacomm.net Editor: Fiona Pickles

Characters and situations described in this book are fictional and not intended to portray real persons or situations whatsoever; any resemblances to living individuals are entirely coincidental.

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Chapter One "What the hell?" I was too mad for my howl of outrage to be anything other than a harsh screech. Cray and the twink separated with something less than style and grace. "Perry--hi--" Cray started, hitching up his pants and fumbling his zipper closed. "I--uh--it isn't like it looks, I swear!" His curly brown hair was disheveled, and the flush of arousal was rapidly draining from his cherubic face, leaving him pale with shock. "No? Because to me it looks like a train-wreck! You bastard! You're screwing that little fruit-fly on our couch!" "No!" Since the kid was bare-assed naked, the denial was a waste of breath. And the last straw. The large earthenware pot of zinnias I'd bought him for our back porch was conveniently in my hand and I threw it as if I was trying out for the New York Giants. It missed his head by inches and shattered against the wall, showering him with compost, shards and bright flowers. "Stick that in your scrapbook, Romeo!" I hissed. "You better be gone by the time I get back or I won't be responsible for your asses!" Seconds later, I was in my Mercedes 4x4 SUV and accelerating away with tires screeching. Two minutes later, a cop pulled me over. A sympathetic 5

and familiar cop. Joe Hardinger was a training buddy from the gym I used when I didn't want to run circuits round the park, and sometimes he'd join me on those runs. I was too hurt and angry to censor my tongue, so the poor bastard got the whole sob-story whether he wanted it or not. His sympathy survived my verbal onslaught and as I calmed down, I realized I was being not-sosubtly checked out. Even though he and Cray had never met, Cray not being into regular exercise, Joe knew that I was half of a same-sex couple, and I was fairly sure I'd have noticed if he'd done it before. I'd automatically assumed he was straight. That's the thing with my gaydar. Even on a good day, it didn't work so well. I didn't get a ticket. Just a warning, and another slow once-over that was accompanied by an appreciative smile. He was my height, just under six feet with broad shoulders and narrow hips, and round about the same age as me: late twenties. His eyes were deep brown under heavy black brows, and his mouth had that full bottom lip that every time, just for a split second, I wanted to bite, ever so gently. But when Joe dropped a few heavy hints about meeting me at Jake's Ladder, one of Leidenton's few gay dance clubs, when his shift ended, I backed away. Cray and I had met in 4th grade. We were nine, and we were best friends right from the start. That changed, deepened, in our senior year at high school and we were a couple from then on. We stayed together all through university, had shared a 6

dorm and then gotten our first apartment together. After graduation we'd found this small house in midtown Leidenton. That was five years ago and until today, I had thought we couldn't be happier. Okay, we'd hit a few rough patches, what couple doesn't? Cray could be a moody son of a bitch, especially after we'd settled into life in the real world outside of the campus. He had just scraped through his degrees in Literature and Political Science and had always planned to be a highpowered journalist, but somehow it never happened. Cray had settled for a librarian's post while he waited for his big break to come along, but for whatever reason it never did and the stop-gap became longer-term. Although he never did anything about finding another career, his dissatisfaction with his current one sometimes soured our relationship. But I was pretty even-tempered and it always blew over. Maybe it made me unadventurous, but in all those years I had never hooked up with anyone else, nor wanted to. Cray was my first gay kiss, the first and only man to fuck me, the first and only man I'd fucked. So, no. I couldn't. I gave Joe an apologetic refusal, and he let me go with a cautionary, "Drive carefully, Mr. Latimer." Then added, "Hey, Perry, if you change your mind, you know where to find me." Without any false modesty, I knew I was reasonably good-looking: conservatively-styled dark mahogany-red hair, gray eyes, sharp cheekbones, straight nose, and thin features that went with my lean build. But Joe's interest was a non-effective 7

salve for the pain roiling inside, and honestly? I didn't know how to go along with his invite. More importantly, I didn't want to. Apart from the fact that it felt like cheating, and yes, okay, I'd just discovered my lover was a cheating asshole, I knew in my gut that a fast fuck wasn't going to solve anything. I didn't want casual, and I sure as hell wasn't going to fall straight into another relationship of any kind. I also knew that sooner or later I would have to go home and if Cray was still there, we would have to talk. The tension behind my eyes ratcheted up another notch, and those telltale sparkles began on the edges of my vision. Which any time now would be narrowing down to a tunnel. The headache was already starting, that unmistakable ax-splitting-mybrain-in-half sensation I hadn't felt for years. I hate migraines. It had been quite a while since I'd had one: then it was waiting to find out if I'd gotten through the presentation and interview, and landed the post with BSA--otherwise known as Bennett & Symes, Architects, one of the top companies in the North Eastern Seaboard, let alone Leidenton, one of Ulster County's larger towns. This time, well, the cause was kind of obvious. God, what a shitty day, and all because I'd taken a couple of hours off and gone home early to surprise Cray with the fucking zinnias and a table booked at our favorite restaurant. He'd been surprised, all right. And so had I. Our work-hours didn't always coincide; he worked shifts at the Library, and of course my suspicions were immediately front and center. How long had he 8

been cheating on me? Who with? And why? That last one above all felt like it was burning holes in my cranium. Somehow I got back to the house without being pulled over again or hitting anything. I didn't bother checking the garage to see if Cray's car was gone, I just parked askew on the drive and groped my way toward the front porch. I needed darkness, silence and painkillers, not necessarily in that order. Before I could reach the steps, the nausea hit and I threw up onto the flowerbed. Part of me was viciously pleased with myself. Cray was the gardener, not me. The other part was vaguely sorry for the lobelias that had taken the full force of my stomach contents. By now I was practically blind, but the torture in my skull had eased off a little since I'd anointed the flowers. I knew the reprieve would be short-lived. When the agony returned in a little while, it would be exponentially worse. I fumbled my key into the lock and edged inside. "Perry?" Cray's voice reverberated through every bone in my skull, and if I'd had a gun in my hand I would have shot him for that alone. "I--" "Shut up," I whispered. "Not now." "Oh, shit--a migraine? Let me help--" "Fuck. Off. You. Out. Tomorrow." Cray was a smart guy. He ducked past me and disappeared out the door. I forgave him a little bit; he didn't slam it. I crawled on up the stairs. Normally I would have preferred to lie down in the master bedroom, but the thought of Cray fucking an anony9

mous someone in our bed was enough to veto that and make me nauseous again. But the guest room was just too far. The master bedroom it was, then. I crept into the en suite bathroom, found the transparent orange bottles collecting dust at the back of the wall-cabinet. I grabbed mine and shook out two tablets, swallowing them dry. Then I staggered to the bedroom windows, closed the drapes and lowered myself carefully onto the bed. My prescription medication was over five years old and I hoped it hadn't lost any of its potency. The time seemed to crawl by before it kicked in and then I was out for the count. Coming out of the drug-induced sleep was like attempting to climb a mountainside with an overstretched bungee rope trying to pull me back down. It was even a struggle to drag air into my lungs. The hemispheres of my brain were still separated by that fucking ax, but the pain had gone. The numbness was all-pervasive, and it took a while for me to realize it was the phone at my bedside that had prodded me awake. On automatic pilot, I groped for it, held it to my ear. If it was Cray, he was going to die. "Perry." No, it was Victor Bennett, son of BSA's co-owner and my immediate boss. "Glad I caught you. Listen, I know it's late, but you need to come back in as soon as you can make it. A client saw the work you did on the Lamont house, and wants you for the restorations on his place. This is a big one, Perry. A Victorian Gothic mansion straight out of an 10

Edgar Allan Poe story. You wait 'til you see it, you'll think you've died and gone to heaven." "What?" I managed, but the single word sounded slurred, more of a wheeze. I couldn't seem to get enough air into my lungs, and everything was offkilter, out of focus. When I started to push myself up, the room lurched sideways. Victor started to repeat himself, then stopped. "Perry, are you okay?" "Migraine," I answered as clearly as I could. "M'fine now." I wasn't, but he didn't have to know that. Victor was a damn-good manager, and BSA was a great company to work for. They had the kind of egalitarian attitude that brought out the best in their personnel, and if he wanted me downtown, that's where I was going. I could call a cab...I squinted at the clock on the night table and the green squiggles eventually resolved themselves into numbers. Five-forty-two. "Good. Come on in. The client's here, waiting to talk to you." While he was babbling, I levered myself off the bed and stood up. The room did that sickening reel again and I was falling. Pain and bright lights exploded behind my eyes and I heard Victor's startled, "Perry? What happened? Perry!" Then I faded out. The first things I was aware of were vague noises. Rhythmic bleeps and clicks, mutterings, the squeak-pad of shoes on hard flooring, the occasional clatter. I lay there listening for a while, attempting to connect the dots even though I was more 11

than half asleep. I was in a bed, but it didn't feel like my bed. I was flat on my back and I usually curl up on my left side. Cray always said I was the perfect spoon--Cray. Shit. That woke me up. That and the pain in my right temple. And the back of my head. There were other areas of hurt, but they were the worst. At least the invisible ax had gone and my brain was no longer forcibly split in two. I remembered the phone-call. Victor had a client for me--then nothing. I was going to call a cab... I tried to move and a sharp discomfort in the back of my hand warned me against it. There was something lightly pinching my septum, and my mouth and throat were desert-dry. Opening my eyes wasn't easy. My lids weighed heavy, as if each eyelash had been turned into a strand of lead. When I succeeded, the view was slightly out of focus and surreal. A white ceiling butted onto a clear glass wall, and on the periphery of my sight were various bits of gadgetry. Including a saline drip attached to the back of my right hand. I was in a hospital. Had I been in a crash? I had another go at moving, but my limbs didn't seem to be all that keen to cooperate. Something must have shown up on a monitor somewhere, because the glass door opened silently and a nurse came in, smiling. "Hello," she said quietly. "It's good to see you awake." Her voice was clear, but for some reason the words were a split second ahead of her mouth framing them. The out-of-line lip-synch was so fascinating I almost missed what she was saying, so 12

I focused on her name badge instead. Maria. "Can you tell me your name, honey?" "Uh, Perry Latimer," I croaked and she immediately held a bottle of water and a straw for me to drink. It was sheer nectar to my parched mouth. "How about your birth date?" I dutifully provided it, then the President's name, and my address. Finally, because I couldn't think of any original way of asking it, I came out with the time-honored cliché. "Where am I?" I asked. "The Intensive Care Unit, Leidenton Memorial Hospital," she smiled. "A friend found you unconscious and called 911." "Who?" Cray wouldn't be coming back until tomorrow, so who the hell? "Victor Bennett. He said he works with you." That was a relief. "Yes, he--damn it! He called to say he's got a client. I have to--" I threw back the blankets and started to swing my legs out of the bed. She stopped me with a glare. "No, you don't." The lip-synch was back on track by now, thank God. "Doctor Roth will be coming by to check you over. He's your neurologist, and you won't be going anywhere until he's sure your concussion is gone, and we've had your blood-work results back from the lab." "Blood-work?" I gaped at her. "What the hell does that mean?" Then my stomach lurched to the back of my throat. Cray and I had stopped using condoms years ago. We were exclusive, and STDs-HIV--didn't seem to be a threat. But Cray had been getting some on the side, and I couldn't remember if he'd been wearing a condom when he pulled 13

away from that twink and faced me. Panic and pain were a nauseating mixture and for a moment I thought I was going to hurl. Luckily the nurse provided a distraction. "We thought at first you'd taken an overdose," she said, and smiled at my snapped, 'No way!' "But it turned out you had a reaction to medication you'd taken for the migraine," she continued. "That and the smacks on the head you gave yourself when you fell had us worried for a while." Then she dropped the final bombshell. "It's Saturday. You've been unconscious for four days." Four days. Shit! "God," I muttered. "When can I go home?" "Depending on Doctor Roth, the earliest will probably be Tuesday or Wednesday, but don't count on it. I'll get in touch with your partner and let him know you're awake. He's been so worried about you, calling every day." Something twisted agonizingly in my chest. I started to tell her no, don't bother, but changed my mind. "I'll bet he is," I said instead. "I don't have a partner anymore. If I can get to a phone, I'll call the cheating bastard myself." I hesitated, then met her gaze squarely. "Maria, will you ask someone to check my blood for HIV?" She patted my wrist sympathetically. "Talk to the doctor," she said gently. I had to wait for that visit from Doctor Roth, so I spent some of the time looking at the get-well cards that had gathered on the bedside cabinet. There were half a dozen from the gang in my office, as 14

well as Victor and his wife, and one from the senior partners as well. Personally written and signed. They were good friends as well as work colleagues. As far as I knew, nobody else in the company was gay and it could have been uncomfortable, but no one seemed to give a damn whether I was gay, bi, or straight. My sexuality had never been an issue. There was a huge, nauseatingly sweet card from Cray, professing undying love and devotion. If that was the way he felt about me, where did the twink fit in? The scene I'd walked in on was branded into my memory; it wasn't a figment of my imagination. I took great satisfaction in ripping his fucking card to shreds. There was also a joke card offering me a crash course in How To Be A Stuntman And Survive, and it made me smile in spite of myself. It was from Joe, and I put it right at the front of the others. The last one was a picture of forest slopes in fall, with a simple, Get Well Soon, DC inside. That was a puzzle. I didn't know anyone with those initials. The cards as reading matter were soon exhausted, and since I was feeling more alert, I took a look at my surroundings. Not that there was a lot to see. There were too many bodily attachments for me actually to get out of bed and stand up unaided. I was in a glass room in a circle of glass rooms, most of them occupied as far as I could tell. A monitoring station was the hub of the circle, with a desk facing a bank of screens. Maria sat there, talking with the intern. Thanks to Cray's addiction to hospital soaps, the setup was familiar.

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Doctor Roth eventually showed up and ran some arcane tests, as required by his Neurologist's Handbook, I guessed. Then he gave my head a thorough examination. The wound would leave a scar, he said, and told me not to worry about it. Plastic surgery would take care of any cosmetic tidying up I wanted at a later date. If I had no more symptoms, I could go home in a couple of days. I requested a test for HIV and other STDs, and after I explained why, he agreed to have it done. The results would be back in three days. The next bit of the bulletin answered my 'How did I end up here?' question. Since I was close to blind at the time, I'd taken the wrong tablets. A year ago Cray had undergone dental surgery and been prescribed Mepergan, a combination of Demerol and Phenergan, and it was sitting in the bathroom cabinet, right next to my old migraine tablets. Who'd have known I was allergic to Demerol? I sure as hell didn't. Apparently I was lucky to have been aware enough to answer Victor's phone call.

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Chapter Two It was nearly two hours before another doctor came to give me more tests, and then, thank God, he disconnected me from the various bits of esoteric hospital kit. The removal of the catheter was something I hoped never to experience again, and confirmed that there was no way cock-stuffing was ever going to appear on my pathetically short list of Kinks To Try. The gizmo in the back of my hand stayed, though, and so did the small cardiac monitor. "You're doing well," Doc Steiner pronounced. "Any dizziness?" "No, I feel fine. Well," I amended, "okay, anyhow." "Great. Let's try standing." Standing worked out okay, so did walking a few steps around the room. No vertigo, no rubber knees, no shakes. Also no set date for me to be released. But I did get a promise on an upgrade from the ICU to a room on the ward if my condition remained stable overnight. Maria returned as the intern left and I was settled back in bed, propped up by pillows, and more or less alone. Well, as much as a goldfish in a bowl, of course. "Go ahead and call him, if you need to," she said, moving the phone on the bedside table closer to me. "Or I can do it for you."

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"Thanks, but no. I can handle this." With a compassionate smile, she left me to it. I rang Cray's cell, half-hoping it would go to voice mail. It didn't. "Craig Reeves," sounded crisp and businesslike in my ear. There were muted voices in the background. It sounded as if he was on the library's front desk. "It's me," I said stiffly. "Perry! Thank God! Just a minute--Ann, I have to take an urgent call--" A door opened and closed and there was silence for a moment. "Why did you do it? I'm sorry! It's all my fault, I'll make it up to you, babe, I swear--" "Do what?" Then I remembered what Maria had said. "Don't be dumb! I did not take an overdose. I had two tablets, but they were your Mepergan. I had an allergic reaction followed by concussion from the smack on my head. That's all. You don't have to make a drama out of it." "You have no idea--I come home to find blood all over the carpet, the back door kicked in and you gone God knows where!" Guilt and anger made a mess of his voice. "I phoned the fucking cops! I thought you were kidnapped! Dead! Then the hospital called me and said you'd been brought in with a head-wound and a suspected overdose, and asked about your insurance! I had to fax it through!" Fax it? The bastard couldn't deliver it personally? "It wasn't an overdose. Calm down, Cray. It was just a concussion and some tablets that didn't like me. You want to take the blame for that, fair

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enough. It was your fault I had the fucking migraine to start with." "I'm so sorry. It won't happen again, babe, I swear!" "The twink was a one-off? Just that one time?" "Yes, of course!" Spoken so quickly, his voice half an octave too high, and I didn't need the sudden certainty in my gut to know it was a lie. I took a deeper breathe and swallowed the strange bitter taste at the back of my throat. "Now give me the truth," I demanded. "How long have you been fucking round?" There was silence for a few seconds, then Cray gave a kind of hitching gasp, but didn't speak. That was all it took to give me the answer. I was dazed, cut adrift. The man I'd thought I knew for so many years had suddenly become a stranger and I didn't know why. I did know that we weren't going to come back from this. I pulled in a deep breath to steady myself. "Okay. If you haven't already, start moving out. I'll call you when I get out of here and we'll meet somewhere and have a civilized discussion about where we go from here." "That's it?" He sounded dazed. "I don't get a second chance?" "Craig, this is more than just cheating on me. God knows that's bad enough, but you fucked around and then had sex with me without protection. Two betrayals, you bastard." He wasn't going to get a shot at a third. Reconciliation just wasn't in the cards. Maybe I could have gotten past the unfaithfulness, but risking my life? No way. "I was always careful!" 19

"Sure you were. And condoms never spring a leak and you never swallow, right?" Cray loved giving blowjobs even more than getting them, and he loathed the taste of latex. My cock gave a traitorous throb at the memory. "I'll call you tomorrow," and I hung up on him. I sat there for a few minutes, caught up in twisting emotions. Grief, bewilderment, anger, and a sense of betrayal so profound it choked me. How had I missed the signs? Had there been any signs to miss? Had I been so complacent in our relationship that I'd taken his love and his loyalty for granted and not seen a thing? I knew he hated his job, sometimes envied me mine, but even in hindsight I couldn't see that we were anything other than rocksolid as a couple. "Okay, Latimer," I said aloud. "It's happened. It's over. Deal with it." Easy words to say; not so easy to practice. I straightened my spine and dialed Victor's home number. "Hi, Chief," I said when he answered, and got a shout of delight that made my ear ring. "The doc said I can escape in a day or so," I continued quickly. "Is that Gothic mansion still on the cards?" More importantly, was it still mine? But I didn't have the chutzpah to come right out with that. "Connorswood Hall. Yes, no problem. He was pretty impressed you were willing to crawl out of a sickbed to try to get to the office, and signed the deal as soon as we got back from the hospital." "He--what? He was at the hospital?" "Yup. He insisted on driving me over to your house, and helped me get inside. Uh, actually, he 20

probably saved your life. You weren't breathing too well, and he gave you CPR while I called 911. Don't worry about the back door. Paul from Construction came over and made it secure. We, uh, had to kick it in." "Oh." Inadequate, I know, but 'not breathing too well' combined with CPR sounded more like 'not breathing at all'. Maria hadn't mentioned I'd been that close to cashing in my chips. It was a very nasty shock. Then something else hit me and I felt physically sick. All that blood I'd spilled, and the poor fucking Good Samaritan had given me CPR. He must be crapping himself. "I called Craig and left a message on his voice mail to get back to me," Victor was saying. "But he never did so I guessed the hospital found him." "Yeah," I said. "They did." My voice sounded flat and strained in my own ears, so it was no surprise that Victor picked up on it. "Perry, is anything wrong?" he asked anxiously. "Nothing I can't get past," I told him briskly. Maria had mentioned Tuesday or Wednesday, so... "If it's okay with you, I'll come into the office on Thursday, and you can brief me on the Hall. What's the client's name, by the way?" "Drew Connors," he said. Hm. The mysterious DC? "Thursday's fine, but only if you're up to it. You bled like a stuck pig, Perry, and you were blue round the lips when we got there. Frightened me to death, I can tell you. Thank God the man knew CPR, that's all I can say." "Yeah. There is something else you can do, if you don't mind. I hate to ask you to do this, but he 21

needs to know as soon as possible. Would you call him and tell him I'm having the tests done and I'll be able to let him know in three days whether he's safe or not." "Safe?" Victor repeated blankly. "Blood and CPR can equal HIV," I pointed out. "Among other nasty things. I'd only just discovered Cray has been sleeping around. He could have passed on God knows what to me." "No. You're kidding me! Cray? Shit, neither of us thought about infection for a second! There was you, blue in the face and dying--don't worry, I'll call him right away. Let me know as soon as you get the results and I'll tell him. God, I can't believe Cray could be so dumb!" Neither could I. "I owe you, Victor." I said it as solemnly as I knew how. Damn-right I owed him, and Connors. I didn't know how I'd do it, but I'd somehow find a way to pay them back. "Forget it." He brushed it off impatiently. "You were in a coma, Perry! Are you sure you should be leaving the hospital so soon?" "As long as Doc Roth clears me. I had a combination of an adverse reaction and concussion from the head-injuries. I have four lumps, but so far I'm okay." "Fuck's sake, Perry, you don't do things by halves, do you? I thought it was only the night table! How the hell did they happen?" "Yeah. And the rest. According to what the EMT reported to my neurologist, it looked as if the first one was the corner of the night table. Two, my head hitting the floor. Three, the night table landing on 22

me, followed by four, the base of the stone-ware lamp that had been sitting on it. My head feels like a punch-bag, and probably looks like it." "You're a stubborn son of a bitch," Victor sighed, and started muttering about postponing my return to the office until the next week. I cut him off quickly. "I'm fine," I insisted, because physically, apart from the various lumps and the gash, I was. Physically. And I needed the distraction or I was going to fall apart. "Thursday, ten o'clock. And thanks, Victor. For everything." I hung up before he could try to talk me out of it. By then my bladder was beginning to assert its independence, and there was a pull-out toilet under the small sink not far from my bed. Cautiously I swung my legs out of bed and was relieved not to have any dizziness as I got to my feet. Apart from my head, and some bruising on my chest that I'd just noticed, I was feeling pretty good, all things considered. But Maria wasn't going to take my word for it. As soon as I started moving around, she was in my room and at my side. We had a brief discussion, which I lost, and she was at my elbow in case I had a dizzy spell and fell over. In spite of that, it was with a real sense of accomplishment that I stood there to take a piss, though having had that catheter shoved up my dick for days made it more than slightly uncomfortable. I washed my hands, dried them, and only then did I look at myself in the mirror above the sink. It was just as well I'd never been particularly vain about my looks, because right now I was a wreck 23

and the cold white light hid nothing. Even my hair looked dull brown instead of its natural dark red. My right eye socket, cheekbone and temple resembled an artist's palette all ready to paint a thunderstorm at sunset, and the swelling distorted the shape of my face. I ran a hand gingerly over my scalp, finding egg-sized lumps above both ears and on the back of my skull. Then there was the sutured wound that raked up from my right temple and angled back in a shaved line through my hair. It felt about four or five inches long, was fucking painful, and looked as if Doctor Frankenstein had sewn my brain back in. I had done a real number on myself. The next day I was transferred to a room on the ward, gaining a private bathroom and a TV in the process, and the inevitable sheaf of insurance paperwork to look through and sign. Since the clothes I'd been wearing had been cut off me when I'd been brought it, Victor and his wife Rachel had gone to the house and brought me another set, ready for my release. Even so, Wednesday couldn't come soon enough for me. Physically, I felt okay, apart from the natural discomfort from my injuries. Emotionally, I was not so good, but the regular stream of visitors that showed up in my room helped to distract me from brooding too much. Cray wasn't one of them, and I was glad of it. Maybe it made me a wimp, but I wasn't ready to confront him yet. Another thing to be grateful for

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was that no one asked me what had started the migraine and tellingly, no one mentioned Cray. Wednesday morning Doc Roth conducted a last round of neurological exams, and signed off my charts with a flourish. "You're fine," he said cheerfully. "On all counts. Here's the results on your blood-work," he continued, handing me a printout. "No HIV, no other infections." The relief was almost overwhelming. "I want to see you two weeks from today, so make an appointment before you leave." "Okay," I answered. "That's it? I can go?" "Sure," he smiled. "Just as soon as Doctor Steiner signs you out." That took another hour and another appointment call, this time to have the sutures removed from my scalp in a couple of days, then finally I could phone for a cab. I called Victor next with the good news for Connors. He promised he'd pass it along ASAP, and offered to come and collect me. I turned him down as gratefully as I could. I needed to be on my own when I walked into the house. The cab turned up at three on the dot, and I was home soon after. I stood in the living room doorway and looked around at the damaged wall, the shattered terracotta and dead zinnias amid their scattered compost. There was a painful choking pressure in my chest and I didn't know whether I wanted to break something else, or just turn round and walk out. This wasn't my home anymore. Home wasn't bricks and mortar. It was any place where we 25

were together, my lover and I. Or so I'd thought. I'd kicked him out of my life and that haven was in more pieces than the pot. It was too easy to let myself become maudlin. So I wrestled with the emotions that were threatening to choke me, forced them down and locked them away, and phoned my sister. Our mom was a die-hard Tolkien fan, and named us from the Fellowship of The Ring. Arwen and Peregrine. What kind of mother names her son after a hobbit, for God's sake? That had gotten me into a lot of scraps at school. Still, it could have been worse. Frodo... Samwise... At least Ari had been named after an elf. While we were growing up, we fought like Kilkenny Cats. She was two years older than me, bossy and stubborn. I was rebellious and stubborn. Yet we always had each other's backs. She shared the pain and grossness of her first periods--way too much information for a ten year old boy--her various crushes, teenage heartaches and ambitions. Ari was first one in our family to meet Cray back when we were in Fourth Grade, just school kids and best friends, before hormones and sex happened. She was the first one I told when I worked out I was gay, the first to know when we started dating. Sometimes I missed Ari so much it hurt. Like now. But she was living in Boston with her husband and two children. After Dad died three years ago, Mom had moved there as well to be nearer to her daughter and the then only grandkid. Now there was Adam as well as Fern. As a family we were all

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close, supportive, and the miles between us didn't matter. "Come up and stay with us for a while," she said as soon as I told her about Cray. She became more insistent when I got to telling her about the fourday coma, threatening to come down to Leidenton and forcibly abduct me if I didn't. "I can't," I said. "I have to sort out my life. I'm not going to run from it." "Don't be ridiculous, Bit!" Named for a hobbit, remember? And I was a younger brother. A natural target for a double hit, so it didn't matter that I was twenty years too old for the nickname. "It's called convalescence, not a retreat. Besides, it's not as if--" She stopped and huffed at me. I knew why. She'd always liked Cray, but once she had met and married one Patrick O'Rourke, every so often she'd tell me I hadn't met my Pat yet. "You know you can just turn up any time, hon. The kids miss you, and Pat always welcomes another faux-jock in the house he can watch football with." "I know." "So. What are you going to do about him?" Half an hour talking with Ari helped a lot. It also settled in my head what I wanted to do. I ended the call with a promise to update her at the weekend, then phoned my bank. While Cray and I had our own separate accounts, we had a joint account for household expenses and vacations: it should have held over eight thousand dollars. It had been cleaned out. That was a surprise, but I refused to let it throw me. I stopped my payments into it, then called Cray and arranged to meet him by the 27

fountain in Rowley Park. It was a pleasant, spacious public place not far from his workplace at the Heritage Library, and fairly close to our house. It was somewhere we had rarely gone as a couple, though I ran circuits round it first thing most mornings. He seemed surprised at my choice, but didn't argue it. Cray's shift was due to end at six o'clock, so I had a few hours to kill. After a very careful shower and a change of clothes, I spent them loading my two collapsible drafting tables, clothes, books, CDs and DVDs into my car, and any other belongings I wanted to take with me and could actually fit into it. I learned that SUVs have a surprising amount of room inside, if you're prepared to wedge something into every cranny. By the time I was finished, my head was aching a little, but I had all my immediate needs stowed safely away. I made it to the park with a minute to spare. I needn't have pushed it. Cray was ten minutes late. The meeting was awkward. How could it be anything else? At first Cray was shocked almost speechless by my appearance, which told me he hadn't visited me at the hospital while I was in the coma. Then he was full of apologies once more, begging and demanding in turn that we get past this, try again, as if it was nothing but a lovers' spat. I didn't interrupt him, just let him run on until he began to lose impetus. It was as if I was listening to

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a stranger in a Cray-mask, and I couldn't reconcile what I was hearing to what I'd seen. Over and again he swore he loved me, and no one else but me, and every time he did, this taste grew on my tongue. It triggered a childhood memory of my nine year old sister shoving her fingers in my mouth because Mom had painted some stuff on Ari's nails to stop her biting them. I, of course, was the one she decided had to discover how crappy it tasted. Aloes. That's what it was. And he was lying like a politician. God, I wanted so much to believe him, but there was an unexpectedly cynical part of me that wondered if he'd shut up if I just punched him in the mouth. "Are you done?" I said when he finally hesitated. Maybe he'd read something on my face because he backed up a step. "Perry?" "The house is in both our names. Go to a realtor and get it valued. You can either buy me out or put it on the market and I'll take half the proceeds." Something flashed in his eyes then, and it took me a few seconds to recognize it. Fear. "Plus half the money you took from the joint account." That was being generous on both counts, and by the way he wouldn't meet my eyes, I guessed he knew it. My salary was a hell of a lot more than his, and I'd put correspondingly more into buying and running the house, not to mention the vacations we took twice a year. Admittedly, in law the joint account belong in full to both of us and he was entitled to take it all, but morally? The light bulb clicked on in my head, illuminating a sickening suspicion. "Is that's why 29

you're so keen on us getting back together?" I asked. "The money? I'm just an ATM to you?" "No!" he protested. Again bitterness flooded my mouth and I barely managed to stop myself from spitting it out. "Perry, we had something special-don't throw it away! For God's sake, babe!" "Too late." I was feeling disconnected again, but the only pain in my head was from the injuries, not an oncoming migraine. I was thankful for small mercies. "This isn't like you, lover," Cray whispered. "You're not cold, hostile. You're the sunny one, always smiling. You light up my life, sweetheart. Don't do this to us!" "You've already done it." I stepped back as he reached out to me, blocking his outstretched arm with a sharp jab. "Those are my terms. You have a week to let me know which option you're going for. We'll keep it as an agreement between the two of us, but if I don't hear from you, or if you try to cheat your way out of it, I'll call in the lawyers and take you for every penny you have." I walked away from him and headed for the nearest Starbucks. A triple-shot cappuccino finally took away the taste of aloes.

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Chapter Three The next day was another perfect April day; sunny and with the promise of warmth to come in the not too distant future. Waking alone in a generic motel room after a virtually sleepless night did not help me embrace the morning with any optimism. One good thing was that the Three Pines Motel was up-market enough to have its own diner. I'd discovered the previous evening that the food was good and plentiful, even though I didn't have much of an appetite. Breakfast was up to the same standard, and now I was hungry. By the time I'd worked my way through pancakes, maple syrup, hash browns and eggs, washed down with about a gallon of coffee, I felt ready to take on anything the world could throw at me. At ten minutes to ten I rode the elevator up to the huge open-plan office I shared with a motley crew of architects. They greeted me with welcoming cheers, and I got careful hugs and pats on the back from them all. Then Victor beckoned me into his inner sanctum. "Are you sure you want to be here?" he muttered, blocking me in the doorway. "I'm sure," I promised him. "Come on, Chief, give me a break." "You and Cray, are you two okay again?" "No, we aren't. And won't be." I suddenly noticed the man in the expensive suit standing by Victor's 31

desk and dropped my voice to the barest whisper. "Cray and I are finished." "I'm so sorry to hear that," he said. "You two are-were-- Damn it, if any two lovebirds were rock solid it was you and him! I can't believe he'd be so dumb!" "Shh!" There was no need to broadcast it throughout the entire building, and certainly not to the visitor in the room. Victor didn't listen. "Jee-zus! That's destroyed my faith in happy-ever-after." Which was ridiculous, because Victor had been married to his childhood sweetheart for over twenty years and was still besotted. "Can you please keep your voice down?" I snapped. "A Victorian Gothic mansion, you said on Tuesday," I added loudly. "That'll be my mansion," the visitor said, coming forward with his hand held out. "Hi, I'm Drew Connors, and I'm glad to see you looking a lot less gory than you did last week." The ground seemed to drop out from beneath me. I wasn't prepared for this. How do you get ready to meet the total stranger who had saved your life and could have picked up a life-threatening disease doing it? I took his hand automatically, registering the firmness of his grip and the sincerity behind his words. A hint of flavor hit my taste buds, as sweet and clean as if I'd bitten into a crisp, juicy apple. "Thank you," I said inadequately. I guessed his age to be somewhere in his mid-thirties. He was taller and broader than me, but not by much. He had neatly styled curling chocolate-brown hair, 32

eyes the color of whiskey and a strong-boned, sunbrowned face that looked dour until he smiled. Then his features were transformed and I couldn't take my eyes off him. He had dimples. Good God. "From what Victor has told me, I owe you my life." "I'm glad I was in the right place at the right time," he answered, letting go of my hand. "And thanks for letting me know I hadn't caught anything from your blood. I really appreciate that. It was the last thing on my mind at the time." There were a few moments of very awkward silence, then Victor briskly rubbed his hands together. "The Hall," he said, ushering me toward the desk. "Let's sit down and Perry can take a look at the photos." I took a seat and opened up the folder Victor pushed across to me. A series of large glossies were stacked inside it and I gave a low whistle. "Wow. This looks more like Lovecraft than Edgar Allan Poe," I said. Gothic didn't begin to describe the place. It was huge, dilapidated, and sported a tower on both corners of its frontage, with a cupola in the center. Trees and shrubs cluttered it, a creeper of some kind had all but swamped the towers and roofs, while the windows were either broken, cloaked in greenery, shuttered or boarded up. Drew chuckled. "Arkham Hall," he drawled. "I like it. There's a lake at the back. Cthulhu's Lair." I grinned at him. "That'll have to be dredged very carefully, then." Three stories and a basement, by the look of it, though there was a strong chance there were fourth floor attic rooms for servants at the back of the house, with windows facing away 33

from the road. I pulled out an aerial shot and frowned. Buried under the chaos of trees and shrubbery gone wild, there were the hinted-at remains of formal gardens, a summer house and a walled kitchen garden. The kitchen itself was an annex off the main, U-shaped house. It faced the stable block, carriage house and wide double-gates to the kitchen garden. A couple of small broken-backed barns jutted from rampant greenery like the bones of a shipwreck. "When was it built?" I asked. "Probably in the 1850s," Drew answered. "But no one knows for sure. The original deeds were destroyed in a fire in 1862, along with part of the house itself. It was rebuilt after the Civil War, and modernized in the Twenties. But it's not been touched since. I want the house and grounds restored to their heyday. Money no object." I didn't blink, though it was damn close. Those were words the architect in me loved to hear and so very rarely did. "Okay," I responded with my best insouciant smile. "The Hall's a restoration," he continued, shooting me a sidelong glance that started a flush along my cheekbones. "This is a new build." He opened a large envelope and spread them out on top of the shots of Connorswood Hall. One was of the Eyrie, the forest lodge of pleated glass, concrete and verdigrised panels I'd designed for Everett Morgan down in Connecticut, and gained myself the Palastrino Award for Design and Eco-Compatibility for it. The others were of a rocky hillside crested with majestic trees. It dropped steeply down to a pretty valley that opened out to a fantastic 34

panorama of forest, glades and small rivers. A waterfall glittered at the head of the valley. "Nice," I murmured. "Yes," Drew answered, smiling. "A couple of years ago I spent a few weeks in Greece. I visited Delphi. Have you been there? It's built on the side of a mountain, kind of clinging to a wide terrace. The hotel I stayed in had six floors. You walked in off the street right into the sixth. The others were built against the mountainside all the way down to the next terrace. That's what I want here. Something ultra-modern and ecologically sound, in a series of levels going from the top of the hill down to the stream at the bottom. Can you do it?" "Oh, God, yesss," I breathed. He laughed. "Great. But the Hall takes priority, okay? There's no rush. I don't have a deadline, so get yourself back to one hundred per cent fitness before you tackle it, okay?" "Seriously, I'm fine," I assured him. "I've got a couple of commissions on my desk, but they're pretty close to completion. I can start on this by the beginning of next month, maybe sooner. But I'd really like to see the Hall for myself before I begin putting it on the drawing board. Where exactly is it?" "A day's drive west of here in Pennsylvania. It's on the edge of Cook Forest State Park, not far from Brookville. Let me know when you're ready to pay the place a visit, and I'll give you the guided tour." He fished a pen and a business card from his pocket and scrawled a series of numbers across the back of the card. "This'll reach me," he said, holding 35

it out to me. "I'm really looking forward to working with you, Perry." Again there was apple on my tongue. This was beginning to get a little weird. We exchanged a few polite pleasantries, then Drew was leaving. He left the photos behind and I kind of shuffled them around randomly. That taste thing was starting to bother me. First aloes, then apples. I had never dropped acid in my life and didn't intend to, and the nearest I'd gotten to recreational drug use were joints in my college years. In my admittedly limited experience, LSD was the only thing I could think of that could produce that sort of reaction. Or maybe it was something to do with my reaction to the Mepergan. It was still in my system and causing these phantom sensations. "Perry!" Victor sounded exasperated. "Earth to Perry! Hey, don't zone out on me, man." "Sorry, Chief." I was holding the Eyrie photo in my right hand, the rocky hillside in my left. "I was just--" "Yeah, letting your creative Muse loose," he grinned and patted me on the shoulder. "Go get 'em, Tiger." I offered him a lopsided smile, and didn't mention I was more concerned about my mental state than building houses. I was due to go back to the hospital tomorrow to have my sutures checked out and hopefully removed. I'd mention the aloes and apples to the doctor; maybe he would know what was going on in my skull. But Victor's hand was still on my shoulder, and that didn't bode well.

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"I'll get back to my desk," I began. Victor had other ideas. "You found out Cray was cheating on you," he said quietly. "Is that why all this happened? I know it's none of my business, but, damn it, you're a friend as well as a member of the team!" I shrugged and gave him the general outline, ending up with me moving into the motel because-just because. I managed to keep my voice level and matter-of-fact. He didn't have to know I felt as if I was being gutted with a blunt knife every time I thought about it. When I finished, Victor swore like a longshoreman for a good minute before he finally let me go back to the outer office. I took the photos with me. Once at my own desk, I slid the new build shots into their envelope and spread out the Hall pictures again. This was the one I had to concentrate on, not the surreal construction of glass and stone that was busily creating itself in my imagination. Half an hour later, I jumped like a startled jackrabbit when Victor placed a sheet of paper with an address on it right under my nose. "Go here," he said quietly. "It's a fully furnished apartment in the Sequoia Hotel off Forest Road. It's only until you find somewhere else and BSA is picking up the tab." "What? No way! Victor, I can't--" "Don't argue this, Perry." There was a bite to his voice that I had rarely heard. "Thanks to you and your talent, this company has just landed a couple of huge contracts. The rent is paid for one month, 37

and one month only. That should give you plenty of time to find a place of your own and move in. If it takes longer than that, you're on your own. Deal?" "Deal," I said huskily. I couldn't look at him. My eyes were stinging. Odd how the loyalty and generosity of friends could unman me, and the betrayal of a lover hadn't. Victor gripped my shoulder tight, then walked away. I sat there until I had mastered myself again, gathered up the photos and got out of there without speaking to anyone. It wouldn't be the first time BSA had stepped in to help out one of their own in an emergency, and wouldn't be the last. A couple of years ago a kitchen-fire had hospitalised Paul in Construction, leaving his wife and young children stranded in a smoke- and water-damaged apartment. BSA had set them up in a hotel and about twenty of us had rallied round and cleaned and redecorated the whole place, working evenings and the weekend. That was the way Bennett & Symes rolled. When I got my own architect business up and running, theirs would be the role model I'd be using. The Sequoia Hotel was impressive: its first floor housed an Olympic-sized swimming pool, saunas, a gym and a fancy restaurant, and the placard by the reception desk in the foyer advertised another restaurant on the roof. The desk was manned by two girls and a guy, all name-badged and smartly uniformed and cheerfully polite. Their programmed courtesy became solicitous the moment the damage to my face registered. 38

While Deedee took my details, Julia handed over my key-card with a warm smile. Her spiel hoping I'd enjoy my stay there and to ask if there was anything at all that I needed seemed to be sincere, and heralded the arrival of that vague apple flavor. Larry, who was a fresh-cheeked young giant built like a linebacker and looked about seventeen, insisted on helping me in with my gear. I didn't take much persuading. My head was aching again, and all I wanted to do was lie down. Okay, I'd been in a coma for four days, but I still felt like a world class wimp. My ego wasn't helped by the way Larry slung a backpack over each shoulder, grabbed both folded-up steel drafting tables without any apparent effort and strolled off to the elevator with the lot. I followed, carrying my laptop and hoping the apartment wasn't too far. 914 was not much short of lavish. It had two large bedrooms, both en suite, a wide living room that looked north through yards and yards of window, and a sizable kitchen-diner. It would be very easy to get used to a place like this, but it was way out of my league. I wasn't exactly hurting for cash, but no way could I afford to live here if I had to pay the rent. Between the two of us, it only took a couple of trips to get everything out of the Mercedes and up to the ninth floor. Larry, who'd done most of the lugging around, hadn't raised a sweat, while I felt as if I'd stuck my head in a meat-grinder. His, "No problem, sir, I'm glad I could help," response to my heartfelt, "Thank you," pushed the apple button 39

again. Trying to ignore a rising sense of panic, I gave the kid a twenty dollar bill and slumped onto the couch. Apples. Aloes. What the hell was going on with my head? Was I simply losing my mind, or was it something to do with the knocks my head had taken? Was it triggered by my emotions? I was upset with Cray, naturally enough and to put it mildly, so that caused the aloes taste. While I was grateful toward all of those who had gotten the apple taste. I closed my eyes and leaned back on the cushions. I could almost see the logic, if I squinted at it sideways. Yes, I was losing my mind. That night I stretched out in a large, very empty bed and tried to sleep. It was a long time happening, and when it did my dreams were strange, ominous. An insubstantial image of Drew Connors' features were superimposed over a blindfolded man walking a maze of booby-traps that started off farcical and ended up in fire and blood. When the man turned round, it was me. I was glad when my alarm jolted me awake. I waited with stoic patience while Doc Steiner removed the sutures and gently manipulated the lumps on my skull, nodding to himself. "You're in fine shape," he announced, and by now I wasn't surprised to taste apple. Needless to say I was hanging on to every word he said. "The wound is healing up nicely as well. Give it a couple 40

of months and you can think about plastic surgery. Any dizziness? Any recurrence of the migraines?" "No," I answered, and didn't add that was a minor miracle in itself, given the emotional turmoil going on inside. "The only head pain I get is from the injuries sometimes. Uh, there is one thing, though." The doc looked at me attentively. "I'm wondering if there's still something shaken loose in my head, because, well, I'm having some weird things happen." "Highly unlikely," he said promptly. "What kind of weird?" "Uh, flavors. Sometimes people say things to me and I either taste aloes or apples." Put like that, it sounded just plaid stupid, and I could feel my face heating up. "I see. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about," he said, and the sweetness became bitter. His expression hadn't changed, but I was sure I picked up a tightening of his shoulders. He was trying to reassure me. He was also lying. The taste switches were beginning to make a crazy kind of sense. "The blows to your head weren't severe enough to cause significant damage," he continued. "There was no damage to your skull, and only minimal swelling in your brain. The CPR you were given before the paramedics took over would have kept the oxygen flow going. But you should tell Doctor Roth about this," he added quickly. "He'll schedule you for an MRI and any other tests he thinks necessary, but you'll probably find the symptoms will fade in a day or so." "Okay," I said evenly. 41

"Come back to the ED immediately if you're at all concerned," he continued, "but as you have no other symptoms, I doubt it's anything to worry about." "Okay," I said again, and thanked him. When I got back to the hotel I paused by the desk and gave Julia my best smile. "Will you do me a favor?" I asked and she nodded, her answering smile bright as the day. "Tell me one thing true and one thing false." She blinked, but her expression didn't waver. "Um, I'm getting married next week, and my fiancé has red hair like yours." Bitter and sweet. "No, you aren't, and yes, he does. Am I right?" "Yes," she laughed. I gave her a jaunty salute and headed for the elevators. It might have been a lucky guess on my part, or it might not. It was midnight before I finally gave in and crawled into bed. I'd spent the rest of the day and half the night doing some online research on weird changes that appear after brain trauma, and while more than half of the stuff I'd found had been unadulterated bullshit, there were a significant number of cases that weren't. More than that, I'd discovered that it wasn't just trauma that caused them. Sometimes tumors did, too. Maybe I was sick or crazy, maybe not. But either way, I was screwed. Another night of weird dreams didn't help, either. They weren't as creepy as the previous night's but my subconscious was obviously fixated on the new client. 42

Chapter Four Saturday morning I awoke with a surprisingly clear head. I might have strayed into my own private version of the Twilight Zone, but I wasn't going to turn my back on it and pretend it wasn't happening. Nor was I going to mope around like some spineless lovesick moron. My priorities had been given another kick in the pants and ended up realigned. Life was too short, too fragile, to spend wallowing in the past, no matter how much hurt had been dealt out. Easy to tell myself that. Not so easy to do. I took stock in the mirror after I'd shaved, ignoring the increasingly bilious paint-job. Bruises would fade--were already fading--the lumps had all but disappeared, and the scar was a livid scarlet slash that would eventually become a strip of silvery skin. I tried combing my hair over the inch-wide shaved line, but it didn't really work. Just looked like what it was; a bad comb-over. Even though I couldn't see them, I could feel where the bristles were beginning to grow back, so it would probably be like the rest of the damage and restore itself in time. I could live with that. After breakfast in the hotel's restaurant, I went grocery shopping, stocking up the kitchen's cabinets, fridge and freezer with enough supplies to last me a month. More fresh bread, fruit and veg I 43

could get as and when required. Then I headed for Stuyvesant Avenue, Leidenton's main drag, to start the apartment hunt. Between one realtor and the next, I passed Onyx & Ivory. I got my regular six week hair trim there, and thanks to recent events, I'd missed my last appointment. On the off-chance, I detoured and walked into the overly warm sauna that Carla, aka Onyx, and her husband Dan, aka Ivory, called a salon. Carla greeted me with a shriek of horror that got Dan's immediate attention and a gruff, "For God's sake, Perry! How did that happen?" "You should have seen me a week ago," I said ruefully. "Can I reschedule?" "Of course you can, hon." Carla took hold of my chin and tilted my head down a little. She was a petite woman of color, and today her unstraightened hair was woven through with narrow ribbons of purple and gold. She was striking and gorgeous and unstoppable once she had her sights set on something. She reminded me of my sister. "Let me look at you... You're going to have a permanent part in your pretty hair, honey." "No big deal," I said with a shrug. "At least it's growing back. I'm not going to bother trying to hide the scar anyhow, so I was thinking of having a buzz-cut--" "Oh, no, you don't!" she barked. She tugged me lower, inspecting the top of my head with an eagle's eyes. "Yeah, it's coming in just fine, but it looks to me like you're going to end up with a sexy white streak." 44

"You're kidding me." "Word of honor. That happens sometimes with scar tissue and damaged hair roots. The colorcoding gets lost. Don't sweat it, hon," she added, her smile widening to a grin. "You're a good-looking boy and it'll be icing on the cake." "Tell you what," Dan said, briefly abandoning his current customer to inspect my scalp for himself. "I'll do a restyle for you, shorten it more at the sides, leave it a couple of inches on top, give you a soft faux-hawk. How about that? Your hair grows thick and fast, and you'll have enough regrowth to make a feature of the white within weeks." "I'm not making a fashion statement here!" I protested. "I just--" "Trust me," Dan insisted. I opened my mouth to object again, but closed it again. Why not? A new start, a new look. I was still me, and there was no reason not to have a slight makeover. "Will it take me forever to get it right in the mornings?" I demanded. "Because I am not going to go that route." "Nah," he reassured me with a knowing grin. "Just some gel and a little finger-combing, that's all." I wasn't entirely convinced, but what the hell? "Okay," I said. "Tuesday, two-thirty." "I'll be here." From the moment I walked into the salon until I left, the faint hint of apples had drifted through my awareness.

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By the time I'd worked my way through half a dozen realtors, I was more than ready to take a late lunch. Not only had I been unable to find a partially furnished rental that suited my needs--good light was essential for my work--my brain was reeling with the constant swing between sweet and bitter that had assaulted me. Sorting truth from lies was useful, no question, but I had to find a way to tone it down or I was going to start banging my head against walls. Sitting in the window of a convenient Starbucks, I downed two cappuccinos and was nursing my third while I thought about something else. I wanted to thank Victor, and mere words weren't enough. It had to be more concrete. I knew he didn't expect or want thanks, but I needed to make the gesture. After all, no good deed goes unpunished, right? Thanks to the friendly we-are-one-big-family policy of BSA, I knew a fair bit about Victor Bennett away from the office. He played golf, supported the Giants, collected pocket watches and Civil War memorabilia, ran a softball team for his neighborhood kids, took part in charity walks at least twice a year--that light bulb went on again. He collected stuff. I'd never had any reason to hunt down antiques stores, but they couldn't be hard to find. Leidenton was, after all, close to Kingston, the county seat, and the whole of the Catskills area was a magnet for tourists. It didn't have to be an expensive gift; in 46

fact, it would be better if whatever I ended up buying, wasn't. It was the intent that was important, not the value. I wanted to do the same for Drew as well, but I knew nothing about him, whether he was gay or straight, married, partnered or single. I couldn't gift him with the plans for that waterfall of a new build, because it was contracted through BSA. No, it would have to wait until I knew him better. Getting to know him better would be a good thing. It was very easy to remember his strong jawline and generous mouth, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, those fleeting dimples, and the contained firmness of his hand-clasp. I stopped myself there. It was one thing to dream about him, but this? What the hell was I doing? Cray and I were still an unresolved train-wreck, and I was awake and thinking about another man? As if summoned by the thought, Drew Connors slid into the chair beside me and a warm shiver swept over my nerve-ends. "Hi," he said. "Saw you though the window. Mind if I join you?" "Uh, sure, no problem," I answered, controlling the impulse to beam at him like an idiot. He was wearing a tan t-shirt and khaki chinos and looked as good wearing it as he had the suit. "Back in the office the other day, I didn't say thanks for the card," I said awkwardly. "So, thank you." "You're welcome. I didn't have a chance to say it's good to see you on your feet," he replied. "You were pretty out of it the first few times I saw you." "You came to the hospital?"

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"Yes. I needed to be sure you were going to be okay. There was some discussion about you taking an overdose," he finished cautiously, "and I couldn't help overhearing some of what Victor said in the office." I groaned and rolled my eyes. "No," I growled. "No overdose." "So your ex didn't hit you, either?" Drew asked. I stared at him, my jaw dropping. "Cray?" I said stupidly, trying to imagine him physically attacking anything apart from garden pests. "God, no. I got stressed out over--something, had a migraine and took a couple of Cray's Mepergan by mistake, instead of my prescription tablets. Turns out I was allergic to the Demerol in them. That's it. End of story." I was getting fed up with having to repeat what was becoming the depressingly familiar account of the migraine and my fall and the night table, yada-yada-yada. I kept quiet about the after-affects, though. I wasn't that crazy. Yet. "Then it's time for a change of subject," Drew said quickly. "I'm glad I saw you. I was going to phone your boss and make an appointment for us to meet up, but this is better, more informal. We're going to be working together on the houses, and I kind of want us to be friends." The more I focused on him, the stronger the apple tang became. Interesting. "If that's okay with you. The way I see it, you need to know where I'm coming from with regard to the restoration and especially the new build, and this seems the best way to get to know each other. Relaxed and still professional, yes?" He smiled at 48

me and for a moment I lost track of what he was saying. I pulled myself together and nodded. "Yes," I said. "That makes sense." "Okay." His grin was wide and white. And dimpled. "I've actually got some free time until later on this afternoon, so what are you doing for the rest of the day?" Unaccountably, my spirits rose and I laughed. Couldn't help it. "Looking for antique pocket watches, Civil War memorabilia and a semi-furnished studio apartment with north-facing light." "Oh, nothing out of the ordinary, then." He stood up, still grinning. "So let's get the chores done, then maybe we can talk about the Hall afterward. There are quite a few antique stores in the Hudson Waterfront. Want to pay it a visit?" This was the once-rundown wharf area in the South Quarter of downtown Leidenton, re-furbished about five years ago to an up-market complex of restaurants, boutiques, a theater, art galleries and a couple of museums. "Yes," I answered, drained the last of my coffee and pushed back my chair. "Give me a few minutes to hit the men's room and I'm with you." If I'd thought the truth and lies deal was weird, things got even more strange in the first place we stopped at: Abbott's Collectors' Central. I'd never paid any attention to antiques, and at first it was great just wandering around, gaping at some of the ugliest ceramics ever to escape a garbage crusher, and then at the price tags gracing them. 49

"People actually pay to have these in their homes?" I muttered to Drew, eyeballing an overweight shepherdess and her fatuous expression. She was mooning over her equally idiotic swain and clutching a beribboned sheep to her large bosom. I gingerly touched my fingertip to the sheep's nose, and the apple woke up. I stepped back quickly, nearly crowding Drew into a walnut veneered something. A salesperson appeared as if propelled by springs. "Please don't touch," he intoned. "You break it, you buy it." "Sorry," I said, and told him what I was looking for. Presented with something as definite as a wishlist, his attitude changed. I was no longer a rubbernecking time-waster and a disaster waiting to happen, I was a potential customer. He led us through the store and up a flight of stairs to another, larger room. Cabinets and display shelves held an amazing array of objects, some of which actually fitted my search criteria. "Have you seen Victor's watch collection?" Drew asked as the salesman backed away to hover by the door. He obviously wasn't going to let us out of his sight. "Not recently," I admitted. "So I'll scratch the pocket watches, I think. I don't want to duplicate anything. The Civil War gear, though, that could be a much better bet." Most of the items were small and locked away in the display units, but since the sheep and its attached shepherdess had gotten a reaction, I needed to experiment. Luckily, it was something I could 50

do without the guy throwing us both out. Fake antiques were like lies, right? So if I could sense a person was lying without touching them, maybe I could do the same with objects if I concentrated hard enough. I picked a glass case showing off an array of scrimshaw and focused on each piece for a few moments. Sure enough, I started to get ping after ping of apple. Then there was the sour note of aloes. I stopped the scan and peered closer. The price tag was a lot cheaper than the rest of the carvings. Resin reproduction of a whale's tooth, the small label said. USS Constitution in full sail. "Well, I'll be damned," I whispered. "I don't fucking believe it!" "What?" Drew edged closer. "Are you having a relapse or something?" "No, I'm fine." I moved along to the next case. Immediately my interest perked up. Old sepiatinted photographs, a dog-eared hand-drawn map, and a couple of faded diaries written in penmanship not seen these days. I knew at once that was what I wanted to buy Victor. Well, not one of those diaries, that was for sure. The prices were astronomical, for God's sake. "Letters!" The salesman must have sensed I'd homed in on something, and he came to my side as smoothly as an ice-skater. "Can I help you, sir?" He couldn't. The Collectors' Central didn't have any letters written from the various battle-zones. But I was hooked now, and he had no problem with feeding my new addiction with information. I left the store at a fast clip, a list of antique dealers in my 51

hand who might well have what I needed for Victor. Drew trailed in my wake, chuckling like a lunatic. "Are you usually this..." and he waved his hands, trying to find the right word. "What?" I smiled. "Impulsive. Spontaneous." "Uh, no?" At least, I didn't think so. Was I? "Uh, you don't have to tag along with me if you have somewhere else to be." "Yes, I do. I'm having fun, Perry, and I don't have to be at my next appointment until six, so we still have four hours to find your letters and have a meal. How about it?" "That's a plan I could like." I was enjoying myself as well. He was good company, and I felt as comfortable with him as if I'd known him forever. "Good. Where's our next target?" "Sloane's Antiques near the Stuyvesant Gallery." "Okay, let's go get 'em." When I got back to the apartment, I had two letters written in the 1860s; one by a Confederate lieutenant, the other by a Federal. Both were genuine, readable even though they were foxed and dog-eared, and wrapped in protective polythene. They had cost me $150 in total, and were cheap at the price as far as I was concerned. I was also footsore, but that was a minor inconvenience. Much more important was the lack of any headache. Despite us running out of time and not getting that meal or the Connorswood Hall conversation, Drew and I had quickly developed a rapport that I 52

was sure would be useful when we finally had a chance to discuss the restoration. I wasn't used to clients acting as if we were pals who happened to be collaborating on a project, but it was a good feeling, one that I could get used to. We hadn't talked about the Hall or the new build, and nothing more personal than antiques, memorabilia-hunting and the work I'd done on the Lamont mansion. But looking back on the day, I could see that we'd laid the groundwork of a solid camaraderie. Of course, it didn't hurt that he was hot and wore no rings. For a few seconds I wondered hopefully if he was gay--and then pulled myself up short, abruptly uneasy. I pushed the thought away, along with the memory of the warm, comfortable awareness that had steadily grown the longer the day wore on, as if something knotted up inside me was unwinding. But now the cold twist was coming back, commonsense with it. Drew was a nice guy, that was all. He was open and cheerful, easy to spend time with, even if I had a hunch he could be a pushy son of a bitch when he put his mind to it. It occurred to me that maybe I had better start keeping him at a distance. Definitely on the plus side, though, was that I seemed to be getting a handle on this weird knack I'd been stuck with. Unless I was deluding myself, it had helped me pick out the authentic letters from the fake. I didn't intend to start another career as an antiques tester, though. Hopefully, the ability was only a temporary thing while the damage to my synapses healed, and not a symptom of a far more serious condition. I refused to be a hypochondriac 53

about it, and while it freaked me out every now and then, it had proven bizarrely useful. And I hadn't once thought of Cray. Maybe I wasn't so screwed after all. Sunday, I drove over to Victor's house to give him my thank-yous. I'd timed it so I would catch him soon after they got back from church, and I was invited in for Sunday lunch before I had a chance to open my mouth. Rachel refused to accept my polite refusal, and literally dragged me into the house. I said my piece and gave Victor the letters. He started to rip into me, but his voice trailed away as he began to read the first one. "Oh, my God..." he gasped. "These are just... Rachel, listen to this!" He read aloud, the timeless variations on the themes of War is hell, and I miss you all, and I'll be home soon, a poignant reminder that many didn't make it back. "Perry, you shouldn't have, but I'm damn glad you did. I've never thought to look for anything as personal as letters, but that's going to change." Rachel laughed and shook her head. "At least they won't take up the room the way the rest of the stuff does. I swear you're trying to turn the house into a museum! But they are a lovely gift, so thoughtful." She gazed up at me, misty-eyed, and for an uneasy moment I thought she was going to hug me. She didn't right then, but when I came to leave after lunch I got the full treatment, including a kiss on both cheeks. Victor, the bastard, was laughing.

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When I got back to the apartment, I called Ari with the promised update. Her first question was, "Have you spoken to Cray?" Her second followed right along before I had chance to say nothing more than 'yes': "You two aren't getting back together, are you?" "No," I replied. "No way in hell." "That's good." Her sigh of relief soughed in my ear. "When all the fuss and hurt has died down, you and he can go back to being best friends. That's what you should have stayed, you know. BFF. Momma nailed it after you guys started getting hot and heavy." That was news to me. Mom had been nothing short of supportive when I came out. "What did she say?" I demanded. "'Och, dear,'" Ari fluted in a creepily accurate imitation of our Scottish mother. "'I adore them both, but it's practically incest...' Frankly, the two of you lasted longer than we thought." "For God's sake, Ari! I love him!" "Of course you do--did--do--whatever. But, Perry, were you in love with him?" "Of all the dumb--yes!" I thought of how easy and comfortable we were together, both in our day to day lives and in bed--or we had been. We just...fitted. "Did Cray ever set you on fire just by walking into the room? Did you feel your life was transformed because he was in it? Did you--" "You've been reading those Harlequin romances again, haven't you?" I accused, taking no notice of

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the apple zing she was triggering with every word. "We're guys, for God's sake!" "You think Pat doesn't feel that way about me? I didn't get those words from a book, Perry-Bit. Direct quotes from my own dearly-beloved macho man. But forget all that. Right now I'm more concerned about your head than your heart. Literally." "I'm fine," I said quickly. Too quickly. "Oh, sure," Ari drawled. "Do you want me to come down there and smack you? Talk, bro!" I didn't have any other option. This Arwen wouldn't stay in Rivendell and knit a flag. She'd storm Minas Morgul if she thought it necessary, and wouldn't think twice about loading the kids into the car and driving to Leidenton to inflict her version of the Spanish Inquisition on me. Besides, I really needed to talk to someone about it, and I knew she wouldn't laugh me out of court. So to speak. Ari always was a good listener, and she heard me out in silence as I explained about the apples and aloes deal, all the tests I'd undergone once and would be having again. Then she fired a barrage of statements at me, and all I had to do was answer each one with either true or false. "How did I do?" I asked ten minutes later, when she'd run out of ideas. "One hundred per cent correct," she said in a small voice. "Perry, this is so weird." "Tell me about it," I muttered. "Ari, keep it to yourself, please? There's no need to worry Mom. I'll tell her as soon as I know for sure if it's a symptom

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of something serious, or just a harmless side-effect I'm stuck with." "Okay. But keep me informed, Bit, or I'll be arriving on your doorstep with thumbscrews." "I will," I promised. "You'd better. Love you, little bro. Take care of yourself." "You, too." I put the phone down and stared out of the window, not seeing a thing. I was confused, adrift without a compass, except my all-too-accurate internal compass for truth versus lies. And if I was honest, scared.

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Chapter Five The next week was going to be busy. I had those two assignments to finish up so I could prep for Connorswood Hall, and the hunt for an apartment would have to step up a gear. Resolutely, I refused to think about spending more time with Drew. Monday, I turned up at the office half an hour early to get a head start, and for a while things went well. My office phone wasn't too busy, which was pretty amazing in itself--Mondays were usually hell on wheels, with clients and other BSA departments calling in with the crises that usually blew up at the weekends. Just before lunch, I fielded one that was a little different. I leaned over from my drafting table chair and scooped the phone off my desk. "Perry Latimer," I said, wedging the handset between ear and shoulder while I widened the windows to the client's new specs. "Stay away from him," whispered an expressionless voice. "You don't want to get hurt again." "What?" I sat bolt upright, barely registering the faint hint of apple. "Who is this? What the hell are you--" The line went dead. "Perry?" Robyn said anxiously, wheeling her chair across the short space between our stations. "Are you okay?" "Yeah, I'm fine," I snorted. "It's the flake on the phone with the problem." I keyed in the code for 58

call-back. It rang for a long time before it was picked up. Then a harassed woman's voice told me I was dialing a public phone in the Schooner Mall and to get off the line because she needed to make an urgent call. By this time Robyn was poking me in the biceps with a ruler. Hard. As if I didn't have enough bruises already. "Ow! Stop that, you--" "What flake?" she demanded. "How the hell do I know? Some creep calls me and tells me to stay away because I don't want to get hurt again, he isn't going to leave a name and address!" "Wow." She gazed up at me, wide-eyed. "You have just had a threatening phone call. Oh, my God." "Stay away from who?" Adam scooted his chair across as well, colliding gently with mine. Wheeled chairs and uncarpeted floors were the perfect combination for Office Hockey. Lisa zoomed over to make it a foursome. "What's going on?" she asked. "Perry's had a threatening phone call," Robyn answered before I could get a word in edgeways. "Was it male or female?" "Male," I said, reaching for my phone. I'd call Joe, ask him if it was worth reporting. "Huh. Bet it was Cray's twink, wanting to make sure you didn't take him back," she said, and dodged a jab from Lisa's sharply pointed nails. "What? I'm just saying! Cray is a shithead, and Perry's better off without him--sorry, sweetheart, but you are!"

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"I know," I muttered, swallowing the pain along with the tang of apple. It wasn't worth bothering Joe with it. If it was tied in with Cray, I'd deal with it myself. My phone rang again, but this time it was Paul in Construction having a major meltdown. A supplier had messed up an order and the glass panels were too narrow. By the time I'd calmed him down, called the glazier specialists and discovered they'd sent the delivery to the wrong place and our panels were halfway to Manhattan, the weird message had been effectively wiped from my memory. Tuesday morning wasn't much better. I was so caught up in my work I almost forgot my appointment with Dan, and rushed into the salon a couple of minutes late. When I left, my once mundane short-back-and-sides Mr. Average haircut had been transformed into something, well, stylish. I looked jaunty. Reckless. Not me at all. "You look fantastic," Carla said as she took my money. "Like a real model. I should take a photo and hang it in the window." I rolled my eyes and made a fast exit. I got back to the office to discover that Drew had phoned, wanting to meet up for the informal discussion we hadn't managed to have. I told my stupid pulse to slow down, found his card filed in my desk and called him back. If I had any hope of finishing the assignments, any meeting would have to be after the weekend, and I expected him to 60

agree to delay it until I had a clear desk for an office-hours appointment. Instead he opted to pick me up from the office at five-thirty that afternoon. I went along with it, but I was torn. Part of me was turning cartwheels, part was undeniably reluctant, especially when he mentioned dinner afterward. But I had been carefully building defensive walls, so I accepted the invite and slapped on another row of bricks. I had cause to second-guess myself: I didn't trust the way I was reacting to him, that warm unraveling in my gut whenever he was around was neither appropriate nor safe. The clientconsultant balance had to be restored. Needless to say, I was still nose to the drafting table-shaped grindstone when Drew arrived. And as soon as he walked into the office, there it was. A barrier inside me was trying to open up and let him in. It didn't help that in contrast to my suit and corporate tie, he was wearing stone-colored chinos and an open-necked dark red shirt under a brown leather jacket. Aviator shades had been pushed up into his hair, and he looked as if he was about to set out on a fashion-shoot stroll through the park rather than a business meeting. "Ready to go?" he started, then did a classic double-take. "Hey, I like the new look. That hairstyle really suits you. The white streak is pretty cool." "Not my idea," I said shortly, reining back on the smile at the compliment. To be honest, the thing embarrassed me. It was too damn theatrical for my

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taste. Talking about taste, the apple was back: I was focusing on him too much. "Blame the night table." "Whatever. It looks good." I wasn't the only one in the room, though everyone else was milling around getting ready to leave. We collected a few sidelong glances and knowing smirks, and I could feel my face redden. He was oblivious. I didn't answer, still rattled by the unexpected flattery and my instinctive response to him. I turned off the light above my table and closed down my laptop, shoved it into its anonymous backpack along with my notebook and fastened it. "Okay, Mr. Connors, I'm ready," I said. "Okay, let's go," he answered cheerfully. "And it's Drew." The hell it was. This wasn't a social get-together, it was a business meeting and I didn't need Victor's slight frown to remind me. That afternoon we'd spent hunting down Civil War memorabilia had been a mistake, an error of judgment on my part. Drew didn't seem to think it was a mistake, if his relaxed attitude was anything to go by. All the way down Stuyvesant Avenue to the Waterfront he quizzed me on Victor's reaction to the letters, in between teasing me about my near-obsessive hunt to find them. I had to keep biting my tongue to stop myself from replying in kind. It was way too easy to accept this as a dinner with a friend. Maybe I should have client-consultant tattooed on my forehead. We ended up at Descartes, a four star restaurant geared towards the business sector. The manage62

ment wasn't in a hurry to stick menus under their customers' noses if it was obvious a lot of talking was going on, nor to chase their customers out at the end of the meal. The prices more than made up for any loss from the reduced turn-around. The booths were spacious, private and well-lit, just about right for pseudo-casual business meetings. BSA used it fairly frequently for such things, so I was familiar enough with the place. Drew had booked in advance, and we were shown to our table: it was right at the back, with empty booths around us. We were early enough in the evening to miss the full-on rush for dinner, for which I was grateful. I started the way I meant to go on. "Okay," I said crisply, taking out my notebook and pen. "Tell me about the Hall." "Connorswood is the holding the first Connors carved out in the mid seventeen hundreds," Drew replied. "The Hall came along a few generations later when more land was added to the package. It's probably built on an older foundation, but what with the deeds going up in smoke, there's no way of knowing short of archeology." "That might be feasible, if you're interested enough," I said. "Did you live there?" "No. There was some sort of family bust-up, and Mom and Dad wanted their own place when they got married. Just as well. There wasn't much cash around and what there was Grandpop spent on Grandmom's health care. She had emphysema. She died the year I started high school. Grandpop stayed on in the house, wouldn't leave, wouldn't let 63

anyone help. Certainly not me, when I was earning good money at last. The old bastard's in his nineties, and he's a stubborn, cantankerous son of a bitch." "So you don't actually own the place?" I asked, startled. The old man lived in that run-down Gothic monstrosity? I found that hard to believe. The photos had made it obvious what kind of state it was in. "Are you acting on his behalf?" "Yes, I own it, and yes, he wants this, too. Three months ago he had a bad fall. Not that I'd've known anything about it if Aunt Tammy hadn't called me. Grandpop couldn't stay in the hospital once they'd pinned him together and got him stable, his health insurance wouldn't stretch any further. He couldn't go back to the Hall. He needed to go into a residential home, and they cost an arm and a leg. It took some persuading, but he finally agreed to let me help out." His smile was ruefully affectionate. "Even then he wouldn't accept it as a gift or even a loan. The only way he'd agree to take money from me was if I bought the Hall and all its land from him--under certain conditions. So I did. At least I could make sure he was able to get into the best residential home in the area. He's a stubborn old bastard." His smile became a chuckle. "Mind you, he never approved of me. I was way too wild and erratic for him, too full of crazy ideas. He's come round, though. Up to a point." "Uh, good," I mumbled. All this was getting a little close to Too Much Information. I was a hired architect, for God's sake, not a family counselor. "How far do you want the restoration to go?" 64

"I said that when we first met in Victor's office. Back to its original state." "Okay. Let me phrase it another way. Do you intend it to be livable in for twelve months of the year, given this is the 21st century, not the 19th?" "Yes." "All modern conveniences?" "Yes." "The two are mutually exclusive and I can't do it." I closed my notebook and stood up. I swear I was not looking for a reason to leave. "It's been nice meeting you, Mr. Connors. Good luck with the Hall." "Hey! Slow down, Perry!" He caught my wrist in a light hold and I froze. Sensation zipped from his grip to my gut and on to my groin. "Of course it's doable." I wanted to twist free and walk out. I wanted to get a double fistful of red shirt and haul him to his feet and find out what his mouth--I coughed to clear the tightness in my throat and forced the words out; "Central heating. Air conditioning. Flush toilets. Sewage system. Baths and sinks with plumbed-in hot and cold water," I recited. "Electricity for light, heat, cooking, household appliances, home security systems. Shall I go on?" Drew let me go and I felt the chill of loss. Oh, God, this was bad. The mental wall-construction had to step up its pace. "Is there a compromise?" "Why are you so set on full restoration?" I asked, reluctantly sinking back into my seat.

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"It's Grandpop's idea, not mine," he admitted. "He wants it to be a kind of museum. That was one of his conditions." "The whole house? And outbuildings?" "Yes." He sounded almost apologetic. I sighed, pushing myself back into architectmode. "Will he settle for the middle ground?" "Nope. Almost certainly not. What is the middle ground?" "Part of the house fully 19th century, the rest 19th on the surface. And if you're going to be keeping artifacts, fabrics and furniture in the museum part, then a discreet warm air circulation should be installed, regardless of authenticity. So should a security system or you might as well send out an invite to every robber and vandal in the surrounding counties." "Oh. I better start negotiations with him, then. Can you email me, detailing everything you've just said, giving me as many facts, figures and the reasoning behind them as possible?" "Sure, no problem, but I'll need more info. Did you bring any plans with you?" "No, I thought we'd just be talking. Informally." His smile piled on the charm, and I leaned back as that fucking warmth expanded enough to threaten my barricades. "Mr. Connors," I began. "It's Drew," he interrupted. "Mr. Connors, this is a client-consultant discussion," I continued, slapping another course of mental bricks onto my fortification and using my

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favorite buzz-words as virtual cement. "It is not a--" I stopped abruptly. "A date?" he finished for me and this time it was a tide of heat that swept over me. Somehow I kept my face expressionless. "Exactly," I said coldly. "BSA expects a certain standard--" "Bullshit. You're as skittish as a nun in a brothel and it's easy to guess why. You've had your personal life pushed in a stranger's face. Do you feel awkward around your boss? Because he was right there as well." "No, but--" "Is it about you being gay?" he continued, blunt as a fist to the jaw. "The blood? CPR? Having to let a stranger know he hasn't caught an STD saving your ass? All of the above?" I could feel myself flushing even more, and I hated him for that. Drew put up his hands and backed off. "I understand, I promise, but I'm sorry for being so pushy, it's a bad habit of mine. Can we start over?" I thought of BSA and the contracts he'd signed, and nodded. "How many rooms on the first floor?" I asked stiffly. Drew smiled apologetically. "I'll do my best to sketch it out," he said and held out his hand. "Lend me your notebook?" I passed it over and his fingers gripped mine as he took it. "Relax, Perry. Where's the problem with us being friends as well? I know you've just come out of a bad break-up, but you don't have to keep every man at arms length. Yes, I like you. Yes, I want to be your friend, maybe more than a friend one day." My jaw didn't drop, but it was close. I really needed to 67

get my gaydar recalibrated or something, I decided desperately. "I fully understand that right now you're still hurting." I jerked my hand away. "And I am not interested," I snapped, ignoring the apple flavor that told me he meant every word. "You don't know me. You don't know a thing about me!" "I know you're smart, generous, loyal, funny," he said, ticking off the points on his fingers. "You're modest, don't give yourself enough credit, sexy as hell and a fine-looking man. Have I missed anything?" "Yes! The part where you are certifiably insane!" I took a deep breath, repeating BSA clientconsultant three times in my head. It didn't help much. Fuck the wall, I needed a full-scale defensive barricade with watchtowers and bastions and cannons. "Can we please keep this on a professional level?" "Sure, we can," he agreed cheerfully. "But I'm still hoping you'll go back to accepting me as a friend as well as a customer, and call me Drew. Besides, Mr. Connors is my grandfather, not me. Deal?" He held out his hand to shake on it, and I hesitated. I had to admit to myself that if I'd first met him away from the office even before Cray and I had split, I would have given Drew more than a casual glance, despite him being about ten years older than me. Not that I would have acted on it, needless to say. "Deal," I said and shook his hand. His grin brought out his dimples in full strength and I forced

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myself to glance away. And met a pair of hostile eyes over his shoulder. The man was sitting in the booth opposite us. The lighting there had been lowered, and his face was mostly in shadow. As our gazes locked, his glare deepened. I glared back. Homophobic jerk. It took a few seconds for him to drag his eyes away from me, and I didn't miss the sneer that curled his lip. He had seemed vaguely familiar, not as in someone I'd met, but had maybe seen a couple of times in passing. "Perry?" Drew said. "Are you with me?" "Sorry, yes." I signaled to a waiter. "Why don't I order for us while you're producing the art masterpiece?" "Good idea. I'll have the steak, rare, fries, salad and ranch dressing." I ordered the same, and when the waiter had retreated I glanced across at the booth. It was empty. By the time the steaks arrived, Drew had filled four pages, drawing rough layouts from the first floor to the attics. Though he did say that the attics were partly speculation, as the roofs weren't in too good a shape. I'd already seen that from the photos, so it was no surprise. The basement he couldn't even guess at, as the only access from inside the house was blocked with rubble. There would have been outside access, probably at the back via the kitchen annex, but he didn't have a clue where to look for it. It didn't help that the rooms he'd drawn out were the end-results of the modernization in the Twenties. 69

Still, I had enough information there to make some educated guesses and work with them, and over coffee at the end of the meal, I started showing him some possible set-ups. Anything more concrete would have to wait until I'd actually seen the place and could judge for myself what the original layout had been. An hour or so later, we shook hands again and parted. Drew suggested another informal meeting for a meal and a chat: I gave him a vague answer and managed to get away without committing myself to anything. On the way back to the hotel, it suddenly came home to me that I was being an idiot. I was unattached. I didn't have to keep trying to shut him out. Drew was attractive, not to say hot, and if he came on to me again, I should maybe go along with it even if the ethical side of it did not sit comfortably. I considered the possibility for a warm, fuzzy five minutes, then tipped a metaphorical bucket of ice-water over my head. No way. But that night I had the first wet-dream I'd had in months, and Drew Connors had the starring role.

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Chapter Six The next morning, I didn't get another weird phone call. Instead I got a letter. It was in a plain white envelope, no postage was on it and the address was computer printout on a generic selfadhesive label. The word 'Personal' had been done in bold capitals and underlined. Inside the envelope were two sheets of paper; one held one sentence. Stay away or you'll end up with more scars. The second sheet was a printout of a photo of me. It was a close-up profile shot and the scar on my temple was clearly visible. But the details were fuzzy, as if the picture had been blown up beyond the scope of the pixels. I gaped at it in total incomprehension for a full minute, while at the same time the still-functioning part of my brain recognized the first two letters of Sloane's Antiques just behind my head. And apples on my tongue. Whoever sent this, meant it. "What the hell?" Then I understood that the weird phone call of a few days ago had escalated to an anonymous letter. A decidedly threatening letter. Anger and tension churned in my gut and I started to rip the thing to shreds. I stopped before no more than an inch was torn. This had just gone a step too far and someone needed to be slapped down. Hard. I took out my cell phone and keyed in a number. "Joe," I said when he answered. "I need to talk to

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you. It's unofficially official, if you know what I mean." "No, I don't, but that's okay." I could hear the smile in his voice. "Mary's Bakehouse, the corner of Delft and Westside." "Sure, what time?" "Twelve-thirty?" "I'll be there. Thanks, Joe." Mary's Bakehouse was a diner on the other side of downtown Leidenton, far enough from BSA's office that I had to leave early to get there on time. Joe was already there, sitting at a table that gave him a clear view of the door and the tree-lined sidewalk beyond the windows. He wasn't wearing his uniform shirt, just a white t-shirt with a dark leather jacket over it. "Neat hair," he said appreciatively as I took the chair across from him. "Looking good, Perry." "Thanks," I said. "And thanks for agreeing to meet up." "Not a problem. I'm always happy to spend time with you, even if it takes an unofficial official problem to make it happen," he added with a grin that took any sting away from the words. "Any chance you'll be hitting the gym again any time soon? Or running in the park?" "Yes to both, but not until I've found a new place to live. I'm in an apartment hotel at the moment, courtesy of Victor and BSA, but I've got less than a month to find somewhere else." "You'll do it. So, what's the problem?"

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"I got a phone call." That was when the doubts hit me. A slightly freaky call and a stupid note, and I was running to my cop friend? I shrugged and pressed on. "And an anonymous letter. Uh, the voice was male, and I didn't recognize it. He was whispering and it was muffled." Joe was making notes and nodding. "I used call-back and it was a public phone in a mall." "Okay," he said. "What did he say to you?" I repeated the message and he scribbled away in his notebook. "Did he sound angry? Aggressive?" "No, it was almost a monotone, hardly any inflection at all. As if he was reading from a script." "Accent?" I looked at him blankly. "Pick a state. Texas? Virginia? California?" "No. Um, north-east? He could have been a local, I guess," I added doubtfully. "Some companies record incoming calls. Does BSA?" "No." I shook my head. "That was the first thing I checked." "Ah-huh. Did you bring the letter?" I nodded and handed over the two printouts and envelope. I'd put them inside one of those clear plastic document sleeves, letter and picture back to back, the envelope sandwiched between them. Just in case there were any useful fingerprints. "Huh. Interesting. Do you know when this was taken?" "Saturday afternoon outside Sloane's Antiques." A chill settled between my shoulder blades. "He must have followed me there."

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"So, any ideas as to who and why?" There was a wry smile twisting one corner of Joe's mouth, and his eyebrow lifted. "No," I said. "Not for certain. That's why I'm running this by you unofficially. Somebody in the office suggested it was probably Cray's latest fuck-toy trying to make sure I don't walk back into the picture. If it is, I can't see Cray knowing anything about it," I added, forestalling his next question. "He was too keen for us to stay together." "Well, that's the likeliest suspect. Don't suppose you know the guy's name?" "Nope. All I can tell you is he's pretty, about fiveseven, not a natural blond, has a butterfly tattoo on his left ass-cheek, and he's barely legal. I can find out, though. I have to meet Cray to sort out housestuff." "Good. Let me know when you have it." He tucked notebook and pen away in his uniform pocket. "Is there a chance you and Cray will get back together?" he asked, voice neutral. "Not a cat in hell's," I answered, hunching over the sudden twist in my gut. "You know how it goes: hurt me once shame on you. Hurt me twice... He doesn't get a second go-round with me." "Glad to hear it." Joe's unashamedly lascivious grin warmed me deep inside, reminding me I really liked the idea of exploring his mouth. Maybe one day... Or not. Another brick went onto my barricade. Yet my instincts told me Joe was safe. Sex with him would be easy, uncomplicated, and most important of all, no strings attached. "How about you meeting me at the club? Is that on the cards?" 74

"It might be," I smiled. "But not any time soon." "I can wait. Are we done with the unofficial official stuff? Because I am starving and they do a pretty damn good lasagna here." "I could go for that." For the rest of the week, whenever I had the chance I chased around the town looking at apartments. With a depressing lack of success. Leidenton wasn't exactly New York, but it was close to Ulster County's capital city, and it wasn't as if I'd set my sights on some impossible dream. All I wanted was a place with good light, preferably north-facing. You'd think I was asking for a penthouse on the moon. I had lunch with Joe again on Thursday, and it was a much-needed time-out. He had rapidly changed from a work-out acquaintance and had become a good friend, something that he seemed to need as much as I did. There was some interesting sexual tension between us, but it was easy to ignore, unlike the whatever-it-was that burned between me and Drew and still haunted my nights. Joe and I had both discovered very quickly that we could chat about anything to each other. So I learned about his folks, the ex who became an ex over a year ago, and Joe's driving ambition to make detective, while he heard all about my family, my hopes and dreams before Cray's bolt from the blue. I nearly told him about the apple-aloes deal, but chickened out. I'd wait to see what Doctor Roth had

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to say about it before I talked about that to anyone else but my sister. He still suggested we hit Jake's Ladder, and though I turned him down with a smile, it was beginning to look like a good idea. Not the club itself, perhaps, but spending more time with Joe certainly did. When my life had calmed down a bit I'd start running with him in the mornings, and visiting the gym to get in some fast games of squash. Then Friday morning Cray phoned. At first he tried to insist we meet at the house over the weekend, but I turned that down, flat. In the end he agreed to lunchtime at the fountain where we'd previously met. He wouldn't tell me what his decision was over the phone, just kept on saying he had to see me. I agreed. There had been no more threatening phone calls, no more anonymous letters. It would be interesting to see if any turned up after my meeting with him. This time Cray was there first. He was waiting with his back to me, leaning against one of the ornamental lampposts with his head down. I spoke his name and he turned. His eyes widened as he gazed at me, a growing heat in them. "You're looking--good," he said, a huskiness in his voice I hadn't heard since the last time we'd fucked. "The bruising's nearly all gone." "Yes." I wished I could say he looked okay as well, but he didn't. He seemed tired, worn down, and his normally chubby features were haggard. 76

We were the same age, give or take a couple of months, but he could have been closer to thirtyseven than twenty-seven. There was a weird feeling in my gut, an uncomfortable compound of grief and anger. I wanted to hate him, but I couldn't. "Can we sit?" he asked. "Better still, can we get a coffee? Starbucks is just over there." "Okay." We walked across the park in silence, about three feet of space between us that might as well have been three miles. It hurt, oh, God, it hurt. But not as much as it had. "I'll get the drinks," I said as we entered the coffee house. "You grab a table." He nodded and peeled off to the right, making a beeline for the corner. When I came back with the coffees, he took his and hunched over it like an old man. "So," he said, not glancing at me. "Here's the thing. First of all, I've had myself checked out, and I'm clean. No STDs, no HIV. Here's the letter I got from the clinic," he continued, taking an envelope from his pocket and pushing it across the table toward me. "Then there's our house. I've done all the sums I can think of and I can't afford to buy you out, even though property prices have gone down since we bought it. I haven't moved back in there, because I can't manage the mortgage, the upkeep, any of it. I--I put back your share of the money I, uh, borrowed from our joint account." He paused, his face scarlet. "Perry, I think you should maybe buy me out." "Maybe." I opened the envelope, scanned the letter quickly. It confirmed what he'd told me, but I 77

already knew from the apple tang he was telling the truth. "Where are you living?" The address on the letter was his mother's. "With friends, but it's only until I can find a place of my own to rent. Shit, Perry, you were the best thing ever to happen to me. I can't believe how dumb I was to mess it all up." "Why did you?" I asked quietly. "Because I wanted more," he said, his voice suddenly harsh. "We had our own perfect little palace in suburbia, our perfect, predictable lives-nine-to-five and Hi, honey, I'm home. Canada and skiing for the summer vacations, Hawaii for the winter, Thanksgiving with your folks one year, with mine the next. The same go-round, the same faces-I was bored, Perry! Fucking bored! I wanted an edge, life in a faster lane! You're loving and giving, and so damned vanilla-boring!" I flinched and couldn't hide it. I wanted desperately to get away before I took a swing at him and broke his fucking jaw. "Now," he said with a broken laugh, "I'd give anything to have it all back, and I can't. I never will." "Not with me, you won't," I said grimly. "I know. That's what my mom said when she found out what I'd done. Told me it was about time I opened my eyes and grew up. She said there are some people you can hurt over and over again, and they'll keep on coming back. Then there're the ones you can only hurt once and you've lost them for ever. She's right, on all counts." He laughed again. "Don't you just hate it when moms are right?"

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I couldn't find anything to say to him for a long time. We sat there in an increasingly tense silence, sipping our coffees, while I tried to think the whole mess through. He'd destroyed in the most painful way possible everything I'd thought we had and had just twisted the knife, but I discovered that somewhere deep inside of me, I felt sorry for him. "Okay," I said abruptly. "First off, are you still seeing that twink I caught you with? And tell me the truth. I'll know if you lie." Cray hesitated for a long time, then nodded slowly. "Is he the only one you're fucking at the moment?" "No. What's it to you? You kicked me out, remember? So why do you care who I'm fucking?" "Because it seems like one of them has been playing around with a threatening phone call and an anonymous letter, telling me to stay away or I'll get hurt." "I--what? That's--just crazy!" he exclaimed. "Tell me about it. You make sure they back off and leave me alone. There is no way on God's earth that you and I are getting back together, so he doesn't have to warn me to stay away. Got that?" I gave a short laugh. "You wanted an edge, now you got it. Could be you're hooked up with a potential psycho in the making. So good luck with that." He started to speak, but I overrode him. "As for the house, this is what I'm going to do. I'll buy you out, pay off the mortgage and put it with a rental agent who'll hold it back for a while. It's got two bedrooms and a den that could be a third. If you find yourself a couple of roommates, the three of you can rent the place." It would leave me short on funds for a while, 79

but nothing I couldn't handle, and a three-way split on the rent was well within his means. I'd have to lower my sights as far as my own apartmenthunting was concerned, but renting out the house might even turn out to be an investment. Cray didn't speak right away. His face was screwed up as if he'd just bitten into a lemon. "See?" he said eventually. "Everything comes so easy to you, doesn't it? The fancy career, the stellar salary, and wow, Mr. Generosity strikes again. Sometimes I fucking hate you, Latimer!" This time I didn't hold back. I hit him right on the point of his jaw and he fell to the floor, tangled up in his chair. People screamed and pushed away, scattering like startled sheep as he lay there, blinking up at me with the expression of a stunned owl. "The offer stands, asshole," I said. "Take it or leave it." Then I walked out and didn't give a damn whether the cops had been called or not. Fuck them. Fuck Cray. I'd had it. By the time I got back to the office, I'd begun to cool down. My knuckles were reddened and swollen and hurt like hell, but didn't seem to be broken. It just went to show how much makebelieve there was in the movies. Bruce Willis didn't seem to have much trouble hitting bone on bone, but damned if I'd do it again in a hurry. Obviously, I was a wimp. But it had felt so fucking satisfying at the time. So satisfying I'd forgotten to get names and addresses from Cray.

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Naturally, my damaged hand was noticed. Robyn and Lisa pounced, cornering me between my drafting table and desk. "What the hell, Perry?" Lisa demanded, grabbing my wrist. "What have you done now? Did you fall? You aren't safe out on your own!" "Ow!" I yelped as she manipulated my abused knuckles. "Give me a break, here!" "Looks like you might have already done that," Robyn said. "I have three older brothers, hon. I know my stuff. Who did you hit?" "Hit? Perry hit someone?" Adam had a bat's hearing when it suited him, and moments later I was hemmed in by him, Jerry and Frank as well as the girls. "Bet it was Cray. Am I right?" I nodded and was crushed in a joint hug as Lisa and Robyn closed in on me. "Good for you," Lisa said fiercely. "The creep deserves it, cheating on you like that. You should have done it sooner." There was a growling agreement from the rest of the gang. Somebody cleared their throat loudly, and the huddle around me split apart. But it wasn't Victor. Joe was standing just inside the door. He was in full on-duty mode, imposing in his uniform and not-tobe-messed-with dangerous. My stomach clenched, and not in a good way. Our eyes met and one of his eyelids flickered. Did he just wink at me? "Mr. Latimer," he said. "A moment of your time, sir?" "Uh, sure, Deputy." He walked toward me, but no one got out of his way.

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"If this is about the fight," Robyn said quickly. "You have no idea of the background, the provocation--" "It's okay, Robbie," I cut in. "This is an unofficial caution, Mr. Latimer," Joe said over both of us. "The manager at the Rowley Park Starbucks requests that you stay away from her premises in future, and since no property was damaged, neither you nor Mr. Reeves will be charged with any offenses. This time." "Is Cray going to press charges?" Adam asked before I could say anything. Joe shook his head. "Since the full circumstances leading up to the altercation would come out in a court of law," he intoned, sounding as if he was auditioning for a part in an Agatha Christie movie, "Mr. Reeves accepts that he contributed to the incident and does not wish to take matters further." Then he relaxed and offered me a wry smile. "You're a lucky son of a bitch, Perry. But don't pull a fool stunt like that again. Or you will end up under arrest, and that ex of yours might grow a backbone and try to sue you for every cent you have." "Thanks, Joe," I croaked. "Nothing to do with me," he said, smile widening to a grin. "My partner talked to the witnesses. The two of you didn't exactly keep your voices down, and they overheard enough of your conversation to swear he goaded you. Cray isn't hurt, apart from a bruised jaw and battered ego. Did you break any bones?" "No, I'm fine." I seemed to be saying that a lot lately. 82

"Good. See you around, Perry." He tipped me a casual salute, gave a general nod to everyone else and strolled out of the office, shutting the door behind him. There was a long silence. Then, "Oh, wow," Lisa drawled. "He is hot." "Color me shallow, but I have to agree," Robyn chuckled. "Perry, you sly dog!" I started to protest that Joe was a friend, nothing else, but no one was listening. "Got to hand it to you," Frank said, grinning. "But who the hell gets barred from Starbucks?"

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Chapter Seven For the rest of the day I concentrated on my assignments. It wasn't easy. I kept on getting action-replays of Cray's vitriol: vanilla-boring--I wanted life in a faster lane--sometimes I fucking hate you, Latimer-- By four o'clock I just wanted to get out of there. Besides, I hadn't yet found somewhere else to live and the deadline was three weeks away. I started phoning round the realtors again to find out what they had in the lower rental brackets. Good light for my work was the one thing I couldn't compromise on; there had to be something out there that would fit the bill. I made a lot of calls, but it was the same old, same old. Not one place had the kind of light I needed. One thing I did manage to get done was set up an appointment for the next morning. One with my bank manager to buy Cray out and square away the mortgage. Once mine was the only name on the deeds, I'd find a rental agency to get the house ready for whatever Cray decided. If he decided. I was not going to let him give me the run-around. If he didn't get back to me within a reasonable time, I'd sell the place. Right then I was kicking myself for being a weak asshole. Why the hell was I trying to do the bastard a favor, when he was the one who'd crapped over everything good in my life? Shit. To cap it all, I was turning into a drama queen. I planted my elbows on my desk and 84

covered my face with my hands. "Fuck!" I snarled. Besides, it was a dumb question. I knew why. There had been a time when we were best friends in the uncomplicated way of kids, and I couldn't walk away from that. "Hey." Robyn tapped me on the shoulder. "No luck, honey?" "No," I answered. "Not yet." "Why not check the classifieds," she said, dropping a copy of the local newspaper in front of me. "Look at the advertising boards in the supermarkets. Then start hunting outside Leidenton. There are towns up and down the river within easy commuting distance, you know." It was sound advice and I took it. I also took the paper. By the time I left the office, the 'To Rent' columns had a series of rings drawn on them, and I had appointments set up to look at apartments. They were all down-market but that was no problem, and they were all in Leidenton. The two that sounded the most promising were for that evening, the rest spaced out through Saturday. After I'd gone home, grabbed a fast meal and changed into more casual clothes, I headed out for the first one. Which was a bust. The description in the paper said 'spacious and airy second floor studio apartment'. It was, but the only natural light came from three windows that opened onto a narrow alley between brownstones. The next one was a 'loft with potential', and it was situated on the edge of the Catskill Wharf 85

district, a rundown area in the North Quarter waiting on the City Fathers to pull their heads out of their asses and decide whether or not to give it the same revitalization they'd sanctioned for the Hudson Waterfront. Since it had been hanging in limbo for six years to my knowledge, no one was holding their breath. Tom Cornelius certainly wasn't. He was a weighty fifty-year-old with overlong graying hair that had once been coppery-red, and an untidy beard to match. His blue eyes were almost lost in a maze of wrinkles, as if he'd spent most of his life squinting into the sun. He owned the place, a twostory detached red brick building under a flat roof. It had once been a chandlers' warehouse, he told me, and the original company name was still up there, spelled out in yellow bricks set in across the front: Broek's Mercantile, est. 1879. If Catskill Wharf did end up having a makeover, he would be sitting pretty. Years ago and doing all the work himself, Tom had divided the first floor into a secure garage space for three cars, a small apartment for himself and his wife, and a large workshop that boasted a slipway into the Hudson. It needed to be large; he was restoring an old barge to its former glory with the help of his son. Right beside the garage doors was a pair of wide doors that opened onto an equally wide balustraded wooden staircase up to the second floor. This had once been a sail-loft. He'd started to partition it off into two apartments but had given up on it when the barge project fell into his lap. 86

So now it was a wide open space with plenty of large windows in the two long walls of whitepainted brick. At the far end was a glass and wood stable door opening onto a small balcony that overhung the river. Once it had been a platform and housing for lifting gear, and the large metal arm for the winch and pulley was still there above the balcony. In the far corner, an old wrought iron spiral stair wound itself up to a narrow door that I assumed gave access to the roof. At the other end of the loft was a big semi-enclosed bedroom that would have to be finished off, and beside that was a good-sized fully fitted bathroom. In the angle where the stairs rose was a kitchen area. The stove and sink were relatively new, as were refrigerator and freezer, the range of cupboards and worktops fitted against the wall, and the free-standing breakfast bar. Half way along the other wall was a brick-built fireplace with a hearth large enough to roast an ox. The whole place had a fine layer of dust and cobwebs, but the light that streamed in from the windows made it perfect. It was empty of virtually anything resembling furniture, but I could bring some of the stuff from the house: the double bed from the guest room, the couch, easy chairs and bookcases from the den, the dining table and chairs. Scratch that. I could bring everything from all the rooms bar the master bedroom and the living room. If Cray wanted to rent the house from me, he would have to take it semi-furnished. The rent for the loft was well within my revised budget, my SUV would have a safe haven as well, and the apple flavor told me Tom was genuine. The 87

only drawback I could see was that the place would be a bitch to heat in the winter. Big as it was, the fireplace wouldn't cut it. Maybe anticipating the question, Tom informed me that all the windows had been triple-glazed a couple of years ago, and took me down to show me the boiler. It was a massive piece of work over sixty years old, and it worked as good now as it did when it was first installed. It supplied all the hot water and hot air both he and I would need. The whole building was cool in summer, warm in winter, he assured me, and built so solid I could hold wild and noisy orgies up here and he wouldn't hear a thing. Orgies were not on my agenda, noisy or otherwise. "The loft is great," I said. "I expect you've had a lot of interested callers?" He shrugged. "Some," he said. "I'm waiting on hearing back from a couple, but they're taking their time. It's a big place for a guy on his own, though." There was just enough of a lift to the last few words to let me know he was really asking if I was half of a pair or part of a house-sharing deal. "It's just me, and I don't mind the space," I answered. "I broke up with my partner a little while ago and I need a clean break. He's gone and I'm not going to hang onto the past. Besides, this is the only place I've seen so far that has all this incredible light pouring in." "Ah-huh." Tom nodded slowly. Those shrewd eyes of his raked me from head to feet and back again. I couldn't tell how he was responding to the news that I was gay. It wasn't often that I'd get a negative reaction, but it wouldn't be the first time, 88

either. The memory of that guy in Descartes still irritated me. "Doesn't do any good to brood on might-have-beens and maybes. You an artist?" "No, an architect, and I often like to work on my projects at home." "Ah-huh," he said again. "Well, in that case, if you're interested, you better say so. Like I tell everyone who comes along to take a look, it's a case of first come, first served. First one to give me a yes, gets it." "In that case, yes. It's just what I need." "Good," Tom said, and we shook on the deal then and there. "Three months' rent as a deposit?" "No problem. I can write the check now, and I'll bring my references tomorrow. How soon can I start moving in?" I added, expecting him to say a couple of weeks at the least. "Hell, whenever you want," he answered. "Tomorrow, if you like. I'm not gonna stand on a lot of ceremony. I tend to go by gut instinct, and that tells me you're okay." "Thank you," I said, and meant it. "I'll start moving stuff from my old house as soon as I can, then." I spent another hour with Tom and Bella, his wife, sitting in their comfortable kitchen drinking coffee and talking. They were good people, friendly and hospitable, and reminded me of my grandparents, though they were a good ten years younger. Once Tom got started on the subject of the barge and its renovation, he really came alive. It was obviously a bona fide labor of love as far as he was concerned, and I didn't have to pretend to be fascinated. 89

When I finally left, I was feeling more optimistic than I had since I'd walked in on Cray and the twink. In fact, despite all the pain and heartache and apple-aloes-weirdness, it was almost creepy how things were falling into place for me. I sent Ari a jubilant text and promised her an email with all the details, including photos of the place, after I'd moved in. The optimism didn't last. I couldn't get to sleep that night, and it wasn't entirely down to the fact that I was still unused to being alone in a bed. Or that I was still hurting like hell over Cray. It was partly my traitorous libido that had been so long accustomed to regular pleasure, to sleepy morning fucking and heated urgency in the evenings. Even if it was boring vanilla sex. It was also partly Drew Connors. God help me, between the two men who were currently showing an interest, I was drawn more strongly to him. I couldn't be that boring if guys as hot as those two wanted me, could I? And just like that, my cock began to swell hopefully against the sheet. Who was I kidding? When or rather, if either of them found out just how vanilla I was, they'd be gone. Of course, that was assuming they were looking for a relationship and not just a fast fuck with the poor sap who'd been cheated on because he couldn't keep his lover satisfied. The hard-on drooped a little. Shit. Now I was getting maudlin, and without the excuse of whiskey shots. What the hell happened to that wall I was building?

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Groaning, I rolled over and pummeled my pillows into submission, and tried again to relax. Didn't happen. Every time I closed my eyes, it was Drew's face I saw; his smile creating those damnable dimples, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the deep, husky drawl as he spoke my name--and before I knew it, my hips were pushing rhythmically into the mattress. "Fuck!" My head and heart might be feeling vulnerable and insecure, but my cock just wanted some action and didn't care how it got it. I turned over again and starfished across the big bed, kicked the covers off and glared up at the darkened ceiling. The man was a client. Casual sex with a client was unethical and a very bad idea even if I wasn't rebounding like a man bungee-jumping off a high bridge. And he wasn't my type. Though when I came to think of it, did I even have a type? The only thing Drew and Joe had in common with Cray was gender, sexuality and the usual arrangement of limbs and other attachments. As far as personalities went, I'd been the responsible one, the practical one in our partnership, though it hadn't always been that way. I'd been just as giddy and feckless, but some time after we'd graduated with our degrees, I'd lost the need for bright lights and loud music, for clubs and dancing and drinking. I'd forgotten how to be spontaneous. No wonder Cray had gone looking for more excitement. Or maybe, said a small voice in my head, you grew up. Cray didn't. But it couldn't be that simple, could it? 91

Okay, if I was a grown-up now, I had better start acting like one. Regardless of Cray's opinion in the matter, both Drew and Joe seemed to think I might be worth their time. I should build on that and stop developing sexual insecurities. Drew and Joe. I discovered then that my hand was slowly stroking my cock. Joe's hand would be better, I thought. Drew's hand would be even more--and the image was there in my head: Drew's dimpled smile and heavy-lidded eyes, his lubed fingers and palm closed tight around me, his mouth--I came in a heated rush, surprised and sated in equal measure. Saturday I kept my appointment with the bank and got that ball rolling. There were papers Cray would have to sign, and as soon as he did, the money would go into his account. I left a message on his voice mail to tell him to go in and do it. For the rest of Saturday and all of Sunday, my friends rallied round, and it choked me up how generous they were with their time. Victor hired a truck from somewhere, Joe showed up with his pickup, and with the help of them and the office gang, every stick of furniture I wanted, most of the bedding, all the kitchen paraphernalia, the contents of the fridge and freezer, plus those of the store cupboards, had been moved into the loft. So had the DVD player and wide-screen TV from the den. The house was left half empty, but tidy. The debris of the doomed zinnias had been cleaned up and Rachel had managed to reduce the blood-stain on the bedroom carpet to a shadow of its former 92

self. With the days so busy, I went to bed every night too worn out to brood, and if Drew's smile or Cray's bitter words disturbed my dreams I didn't remember them in the mornings. With Victor's and Tom's go-ahead, Paul from Construction and a couple of his pals arrived Monday and Tuesday afternoon to finish off the bedroom partitioning and to add a collection of shelf units around the loft. Finally they went back to the house, dismantled the boarded-up back door and replaced it, then repaired the damaged wall where the zinnias had met their fate. Tuesday was also my day to see Doc Roth at his clinic in the hospital. I was nervous. No, make that shit-scared. No matter how much I'd convinced myself that I was okay with this, I was handling it just fine, when it came to walking into his consulting room, the facade broke. Not that I let any of it show, but I'd be surprised if Doc Roth didn't know what was going through my mind. He was smiling and relaxed, though, and started out with the usual questions: migraines, vertigo, nausea, and so on. Every time I was able to answer no, I unwound a little more. Finally, he ran through the too-familiar neurological tests, nodding to himself. "You're one hundred per cent," he said easily. "But you look like someone who has concerns. Really, you don't need to." The apple zing was reassuring, but. "Uh, yes, I do have a concern," I answered. "Doc Steiner said I should raise it with you." For days I'd 93

been trying to find a way of saying it without sounding like I needed a stay in the nearest psychiatric ward. I hadn't been successful, so I just came out with it. "People lie to me and I taste aloes. Truths are like apples." "Pardon?" I repeated it and watched his features become smoothly expressionless. "I see," he said. "It isn't uncommon to have abnormal reactions following head trauma, and given your lack of any other symptoms, I'd say you have nothing to worry about. But," he continued quickly before I could point out that I was now tasting a nasty mix of apples and aloes, "an MRI scan will tell us if there is anything going on that we need to know about." "Like a tumor," I said. "That is a possibility, yes, but again, you have no other symptoms. Perry, try not to worry too much about this. All the tests we've done so far have come up with a clean bill of health for you, but we'll get the MRI done ASAP so we'll know for certain one way or another." "Okay," I replied as he reached for his phone. That was the cue for Murphy's Law to suddenly buy in on the act. There were technical problems in the Medical Imaging Department, and earliest he could get me in for the scan was Friday morning. It was a relief to get out into the fresh spring air.

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Chapter Eight I'd been half-expecting another letter or phone call from the Mystery Twink on Monday, and I'd warned the girls in Reception to be on the lookout, just in case. But nothing showed up then or later, so it seemed as if my words of warning to Cray had done the trick. I got a call from Drew on Wednesday and we met up at Descartes for another working lunch, or so I thought. He was supposed to be bringing copies of the deeds, but he turned up with empty hands and an unrepentant grin. For a very brief moment I was tempted to go back to the office, but the steaks at Descartes were too good to be turned down. It was a pleasant hour, and if I was honest with myself I'd have to admit I really enjoyed being with him, even if I did get the occasional flashback to my Friday night fantasy. We kept the discussion light, drifting from sport to films and books, and discovered we had a lot in common. He told me a little bit about his work--he ran a software company in California's Silicon Valley, and that he was thinking about getting out of the management side of the industry. He missed the innovative side of it, he added with a wistful smile. I told him about the loft and Tom's barge project, and how great Tom had been, letting me move in and have stuff done to the loft on little more than a handshake. That led on to

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my current projects and how soon I would be able to start on his. When I left to go back to the office, the cold knot inside me had almost melted away. At the same time I made sure the wall not only stayed firmly in place, it was also reinforced with steel. I couldn't deny that I was feeling a pull toward Drew that I hadn't experienced before. When Cray and I had gotten together, it had been a natural progression to our friendship. This was a whole different thing, as if I was balancing on a time bomb. It was kind of unnerving. Thursday evening I officially moved out of the Sequoia apartment and into the loft. After I'd texted Ari and Mom with my new address, I rounded up everyone who'd helped and we all sat around my dining table devouring takeout pizza and beer. I invited Tom and Bella from downstairs as well. They arrived with cheerful smiles, beer and nachos, and mixed in happily with the rest of the gang. So much so that within five minutes, Tom and Victor were huddled close talking Hudson River history and barge restoration while Rachel and Bella swapped crazy-husband anecdotes and laughed a lot. Before the food was finished, the loft-warming presents came out and I was choked up again. My friends had clubbed together and bought me half a dozen bright Navajo-style rugs to hang on the walls. We put them up straight away, and not only did they bring the whole place alive, they deadened

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the cave-like echoes. I took a few photos to send to my family, then dived back into the party. For me, the evening was a triple celebration. That afternoon I'd handed over my completed assignments to Victor for signing off, and I was all set to take on the Connorswood portfolios. Then there was the truth-lie thing. I'd been playing around with it, seeing if I could find a mental on-off switch. I didn't find one as such, but somehow I found a way to let it run so far in the background it didn't bother me until I focused tight on a person or an object. So it was a win-win for me. Unless, of course, the next round of exams showed a tumor developing in my brain. But I refused to be pessimistic and poured myself another whiskey. By then Tom and Bella had left with handshakes and genuine wishes that I'd be happy there. The rest of us gravitated to the couch and easy chairs grouped in front of the fireplace, or settled cross-legged on the floor. Rachel had filled the hearth with ranks of pillar candles, and their flickering light added atmosphere and a warmth that was far more than physical. Traditional jazz murmured quietly from the sound system, and my friends were talking contentedly among themselves. Right then all was well with my world. "Floor cushions," Rachel said, resting her head on Victor's shoulder. With the two girls, they had commandeered the couch. Adam and Jerry had the two chairs, while I was sitting on the floor, propping up one arm of the couch with Joe beside me. Frank was leaning on the other end.

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"Retro," Lisa nodded. "But in this space? Perfect. Great for romantic making out in front of the fire," she added, waggling her eyebrows and leering at me. "Just make sure the covers are washable," Robyn contributed, nudging me in the ribs with her foot. Beside me, Joe sniggered and I could feel my face heating up. But they did have a point. There wasn't enough furniture in the loft. At least, not at first glance. Yet the more I thought about it, the more I was happy with it just the way it was. The cushions, though, were a stroke of genius. "Do they still make retro floor cushions?" I asked. "Oh, yes," Rachel chuckled. "Leave it to me, honey. I'll find them for you, and if I can't get covers to match the Navajo theme, I can make them." I started to protest, and it was Victor who kicked me this time. "Perry," he said with a lugubrious sigh, "Haven't you learned yet when not to argue with a woman?" Joe leaned closer. "If I were you," he drawled in my ear, "I'd quit while I was ahead." His breath was warm on my cheek, scented with beer and pizza spices. A warm shiver slid down my spine. I shot to my feet. "More beer?" I said quickly over Joe's smothered giggles. Grown men should not giggle. The loft-warming didn't start to wind down until midnight. It would have gone on longer if Victor hadn't remembered it was Thursday and there was one more working day before the weekend. I 98

refused offers to help with the tidy-up, and everyone trooped quietly down the stairs to the doors. I waved them off, all except Joe. He was still sitting behind the wheel of his pickup, but he hadn't turned on the engine. "Perry," he said as the last set of tail-lights disappeared round the block. "How about you invite me back up for coffee?" I wasn't drunk. But I wasn't sober either. His face was painted gold and black by the streetlights, his smile was affection and sensuality mixed, and I knew he was a good friend. Did I want to risk that by bringing sex into play? Joe was happy just freewheeling through life. He'd already told me that he wasn't looking for any relationship, especially now he was on the first rung of his detective career, so where was the risk? Cray wasn't a consideration anymore and I could be getting a death sentence when the MRI results came through. In the end, the answer was simple. I didn't want to hold back and think about it anymore. I would go with the flow and see where it took me. "Yeah," I said. "Coffee sounds like a good idea." Joe grinned and slid out of his seat. "I was hoping you'd say that." He stepped up to me and leaned in, kissed me quick and dirty, starting a slow burn in my blood. It felt good, and I wanted more of the same. "And I really would like a coffee as well." "Great," I said, taking his hand and leading him back into the building and up the stairs. "Because that's the only thing that's guaranteed." "Cocktease," he grinned.

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Up in the loft, I pottered around in the kitchen area while the coffeemaker did its thing. Joe cleared up the empty pizza boxes, then sat in the middle of the couch. I filled a couple of mugs and carried them across to him. The CDs were still playing on their loop, and apart from the light behind me, the loft was wrapped in the flickering glow of the hearth-candles. In spite of all the space, it was cozy, intimate, and it would be easy to kid myself that Joe looked like he belonged on that couch of mine. I wondered if Drew would be similarly at home there, and killed the thought instantly. "Hey," Joe said, his voice a slow, easy drawl. "You're looking a little lost all of a sudden." He reached up and took both mugs from me, setting them on the coffee table. "You know what they say about being thrown off a horse, don't you?" he continued, tugging me down beside him. "You gotta climb right back on board." "That's pretty cheesy," I answered, my smile growing. "Just saying. You can climb on me any time you want." "Where do you find these corny lines? Inside a fortune cookie?" "Yup. That's my secret career. I'm a fortune cookie motto writer." Bizarrely aloes ghosted through to replace the taste of apples. Obviously this weird thing of mine couldn't recognize a joke. I started to laugh. "You're crazy, you know that?" "It's been said," he chuckled huskily, and I hitched over and kissed him.

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Joe's mouth was supple and hungry, and the spices and wine on his tongue cancelled out the not-really-there flavors on mine. Arousal was a steadily increasing heat in my blood. Yes. I needed this, and so did he, if his enthusiasm was anything to go by. "This," he whispered when we finally broke for air, "is so much better when it's friends with benefits." "Mmm," I agreed, though really, what did I know? "It's all about trust, Perry," he continued. "Being comfortable with someone. Unless you get off on a little bit of stranger-danger." He was right. I knew him, liked him, and he was hot. And he felt the same way about me. But forget about the danger. "No," I said. "I don't. Us, here, is fine by me." Joe chuckled and I focused on his lower lip, gently teasing the plumpness of it with my teeth. He made a soft sound that was almost a whine. Then he did a kind of slow-motion fall sideways to the cushions, pulling me down with him, and I went willingly into his embrace. I licked my way into his mouth, relishing the taste of him, the way his breath was catching, and the slow rhythmic surge of his hips. Our tongues touched and slid together, teasing, pushing, exploring. His hands stroked down my spine and cupped my ass, half-lifting, half-dragging me further onto his body until I was lying between his thighs, our cocks aligned. The pressure of his erection against mine sent another rush of fire pulsing through me, and the 101

hard lines of zippers caught between us became borderline painful. That, and the heat of him though his clothes, sparked the need to have skin on skin contact as soon as possible. Joe was on the same page: his hands were suddenly gone from my ass and were sliding up my chest, taking my shirt with them. I moved away far enough to pull it off and drop it on the floor. Joe stripped off his, and for a few moments we just looked at each other, taking in the view. In the flickering candlelight, the hair on his chest was sleek and black, his olive-toned skin glossy over firm muscles. I'd seen him half-naked at the gym, but this was different. This time I wanted to touch and kiss and explore. "Second thoughts?" he murmured, stroking his fingertips over my nipples. The sensation zinged straight to my cock and I bucked my hips into him. "Nah," I smiled. "I'm cool." "Good," and he flipped open the top button of my jeans. "In a hurry?" I asked slightly breathlessly as he started working the zipper down. He grinned up at me. "I won't be once I can get my hands on your cock." I think I might have whimpered, because his grin became a pleased snicker. So I leaned down and cat-licked over his nipples, then bit one just hard enough for him to feel my teeth. He yelped and surged up, laughing and moaning my name over and over again. That was when we more or less lost it. We discarded our clothes in a chuckling, teasing 102

confusion of tangling limbs and busy hands. Even the jolt of falling off the couch and landing underneath him on the cold hardwood floor, didn't slow us any. Joe's weight was pinning me down, and the slide of his leaking cock against my belly was sweet. So were the kisses and nips he traced down my throat and along my collarbones. When I rolled us onto the rug, ending up with me back on top, I attacked his nipples again. They were obviously one of his main erogenous zones, and by the time I pushed my hand between us and took both our cocks in a snug grip, any trace of coordination Joe had managed to retain just vanished. It didn't take long before he came with a wordless yell, the spreading heat and scent of semen more than enough added stimulation to bring about my own orgasm. We held each other through the quivering aftershocks, then sprawled locked together for a while, catching our breath. I know I was wearing a silly grin as I lay on him, my face tucked into his neck. "Wow," Joe said reverently, turning his head and nudging me with his chin until I shifted enough for him to kiss my nose. "That was great. Better than great." "Mm," I agreed. Anything more coherent was beyond me. I wasn't one of those guys who falls asleep as soon as they've come, but right then there wasn't anything sensible I could say. This was completely unplanned and unexpected, which meant I hadn't had a chance to over-think anything. As a result, it had been light-hearted fun as well as hot.

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And cathartic. Maybe that aspect had been more important than the sex itself. "Hey." Joe's hands smoothed slowly down my spine and gently squeezed my ass. "We better move some time soon or we're going to end up glued together." "Good idea. Share a shower?" "Hell, yeah. Then I'll have to go," he added reluctantly. "I'm on the early shift tomorrow." The next morning my alarm kicked me out of a pleasant dream of last night's make out session with Joe and I crawled out of bed, yawning my way into the bathroom. It had been a perfect end to the evening, and we'd parted company with our easy friendship unaltered. There was no need to secondguess the situation, and I found I was facing the day with optimism. It helped that my hangover was comparatively mild, and after a breakfast that consisted mostly of coffee, I headed straight to the hospital for my MRI appointment. For half an hour I lay in a space-age tunnel trying not to move when told to freeze, and then I was out of there. I would have to go back to see Doc Roth early next week to get the results, and finally, if The Powers That Be were feeling generous, I hoped that would be the last of it. I was seeing far more of the real life medical dramas than I ever wanted. As soon as I got into the office, I hunted Drew's card out of my desk drawer and called him. "Hi," I 104

said when he picked up the phone. "It's Latimer from BSA. I'm about to start on the Hall project, so I'm hoping I can arrange to see it soon." "Glad you called," he answered. His voice was an easy drawl, deep and warm, and I could picture all too well the smile that went with it. That knot loosened under my ribs and spread its usual warmth. Bricks, wall... "I have to pay the place a visit in any case so this is good timing. I'll meet you at your office at nine tomorrow morning, if that suits." "Yes, that's fine." "Great. Come prepared to stay a while. At least a week." A week? "Uh," I began. "I can show you where the new house is going to be," he continued before I could say anything more. "It's in the same general area, and the photos I gave you do not do it justice." "I'll have to clear that with Victor," I said firmly. I might as well have saved my breath. "Already done and I've booked you a room in the same hotel I'm in," Drew said, blithely unaware of my increasing irritation. Yes, the man was hot, yes, I owed him my life, and possibly more importantly, yes, he was the paying customer, but his casual assumption of compliance was beginning to put up my hackles. "Is there a problem? Do you have other appointments?" "I do, as a matter of fact. I had a follow-up test done at the hospital and the results will be in next Tuesday morning. I need to be back here on Monday." 105

He hesitated, and for a moment I thought he was going to ask about it. I was all ready to shoot him down, but he didn't follow through. "One day won't be enough to let you give the Hall a thorough inspection," he said, "let alone the other site. Don't worry, I'll make sure you're able to keep the appointment, and be back in Bellamy to finish off." "Mr. Connors, if--" "I thought we agreed we're friends, and it's Drew." I gritted my teeth. Social Drew and Business Drew were two different animals, and the latter was seriously pissing me off. "If you give me the Hall's address, I can find it." He laughed quietly. "Nine," he said. "Tomorrow morning at your office. See you then, Perry." He hung up, leaving me sitting there like an idiot. Now, I'm not generally an inquisitive kind of guy. I tend to take people at their face value every time, which is why I hadn't checked Drew's background before this. But maybe because Cray had made me reevaluate that habit, I finally did some digging. Who the hell was this man, and what made him tick? Well, Google couldn't tell me much about the last part, but it had a fair bit of information on the man's background. The Connors family was Old Money, at least, on paper. Or rather, on screen. They'd won and lost fortunes over the generations, investing in railroads, ranching, coal mines, iron foundries and oil. The Depression had hit them hard, but failing ranch-land deals perked up when oil had been 106

found on the properties. More recently, Drew's grandfather had made some bad decisions, lost the oilfields, and the family sank back into poverty. Then Drew had come along and had gotten a full ride to MIT. He'd left there in 1994, halfway through his second year, moved to California with a couple of pals and formed their own software business in Silicon Valley. Then the Dot Com Bubble burst in 2000, and they lost everything. But by 2002, Drew was with Starwatch Inc as head of a design team affiliated with NASA Ames Research. These days he was still involved with the Star Trek gizmos, but he owned the damn company. The man was a millionaire. To be honest, I already knew that. The 'money no object' comment had been a clue. It wasn't much of a stretch to guess he was a go-getter who'd pulled himself out of the poverty trap by talent and hard work. No wonder he was an autocratic son of a bitch. Who had saved my life. That was his business history, all of it out in the public domain. His personal details were another matter. He hadn't volunteered much at lunch on Wednesday, and I felt uncomfortable at the prospect of looking into them. I clicked out of Google before I could follow my baser instincts. He was a client, and that was all I needed to know. It was more than enough to tell me he was way, way out of my league, and that I was right to follow my gut and keep him at arms length. I was scowling at my computer screen when my desk phone rang. It was Paola in Reception.

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"Perry," she said, her voice anxious. "You've got a personal letter again, just like the one before. Only thicker. And kind of lumpy. And I'm feeling nervous about it." "Don't be dumb," I heard Amber say. "You and Perry are acting like a pair of hysterical schoolgirls. Who sends letter bombs these days? Here, give it to me." "No!" Paola and I yelled in unison. There was a sharp crack and a shriek, and the fire alarms started up. The elevator wasn't an option now. I charged down the stairs, clearing three, four steps at a time. When I burst into Reception, Paola was wrapped around Amber, and the injured girl was screaming in a high-pitched wail. The fire alarm was shrieking, water was showering from the sprinklers in the ceiling, and the air was heavy with the stench of chemicals. What little I could see of Amber's hands and face was scorched red and flecked with black. Amber didn't need me hovering uselessly. The letter was a tattered, blackened mess on the floor, and I upended an empty trash bin over most of it to make sure no one trampled it in the rush to get to the injured girl. Suddenly the fire alarm cut off and the sprinklers stopped. A strange kind of stillness fell, broken only by the drip of water and Amber's pain.

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Chapter Nine It wasn't just Joe who turned up at the same time as the fire truck and the ambulance, He had a couple of older cops with him who reminded me of Denzel Washington and Morgan Freeman. Not that the resemblances struck me immediately, I was too concerned about Paola and Amber to pay much attention to anything else. Reaction didn't start to hit until Amber had been taken away in the ambulance. Paola began to shake, and when I eased her into my arms she clung to me like a terrified octopus, sobbing. I was shaking, too, as if my blood had been changed into ice-water. I was scared, I was nauseous and more than a bit guilty--that letter bomb had been meant for me and an innocent girl had been hurt--but mostly I felt rage, a bone-deep fury that helped to combat the chill. The remains of the letter had been taken away for examination, and Joe and the other cops were in a confab with the firemen. Then it was just the three cops talking quietly in a huddle. By the glances that speared me, I guessed that Joe was updating them on the earlier stuff. They broke up and approached us. Joe gently disengaged Paola from me, wrapped someone's jacket around her and led her away. Then Washington and Freeman, who turned out to be Murdock and Wright, took me into the nearest empty office. 109

My statement took a long time and when they finally finished with the questions, my clothes were almost dry. They wanted to know more than just the run-up to the letter bomb. They went back to my history with Cray, wanting to know all the details of the break-up, hinting that I had taken an overdose and that Cray or someone else had beaten me up, and letting me know it was okay to tell them the truth. My anger started to get away from me then, and I think I managed to convince them to drop that particular theory. Either way, I had the feeling that Cray was going to be receiving an official visit before too long, and once he'd coughed up the required information, so would his current hookups. Finally they let me go with instructions to take care and to contact them if I saw anything suspicious away from work. I said I was going out of the city on a business trip for a few days, and they seemed to think that was a good idea. I went back upstairs. By then I was desperate to find out how Amber was, but no one knew anything yet. We were all crowded into Victor's office, waiting for news from the hospital, and no one felt like getting back to work. We hung around drinking coffee for a couple of hours until Amber's father phoned from the hospital to say she was okay. Her burns were minor and her eyes weren't damaged. She'd been lucky. The relief finished me off. I made it to the men's restroom just in time for my stomach to empty itself of everything I'd eaten and drunk that day. 110

Nine o'clock the next morning, I was walking through an empty Reception on my way up to the office. It still smelt of chemicals, burnt plastics and smoke. It would be empty on a normal weekend in any case, but for various reasons, this wasn't a normal day. As soon as I got to my desk, I hunted through the drawers for the details of the florist I used to send flowers to the female members of my family for birthdays and anniversaries, and arranged for bouquets to be delivered to Amber in the hospital and to Paola's home. Finally I started to think about the up-coming project. It wasn't easy. I hadn't slept worth a damn and my brain felt like mush. Nightmares of Amber screaming, her face and hands torn to bloody rags, jolted me awake time after time. Needless to say, the dreams were far worse than the reality, and that was bad enough. When Drew breezed into the room like a blast of fresh air, I came close to hating him despite the usual warm tension in my stomach. "All set?" he asked cheerfully. "Hey, what happened downstairs? It looks like you had a fire in Reception." "Yes," I said shortly, adding a spare drawing pad to my second largest portfolio carry-case. The last thing I wanted was to talk about it. "Ready when you are." "Okay. Uh, where's the rest of your gear? We could be there a week, remember?" "In my car," I answered, the of course unspoken but obvious. "You drive, I'll follow."

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"Didn't I say? We're going in my pickup. There's some pretty rough trails in Connorswood. No sense in you damaging your wheels. Come on, Perry, lighten up. We're going to be working pretty closely together on these projects, and I thought we'd agreed to be friends." "We did," I said. "But I do need my car." "For the hospital appointment? Don't worry about it. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. I was planning on you riding with me so we could talk about the new build on the way." "There'll be plenty of time for that once we're there," I said. "Besides, I brought a lot of kit with me, and my car is a 4x4. Rough terrain won't slow it down any." To my relieved surprise, Drew shrugged and capitulated. "Okay," he agreed, his tawny eyes smiling. "That's a plan. We're booked in at the Grove Hotel in Bellamy. It should take us about six hours to get there, including rest-stops and a lunch break. I hope you've got some more casual clothes and footwear packed," he added, giving my chinos and green shirt a smiling inspection. "I wasn't kidding about the rough terrain, and Arkham Hall is semiderelict." "Yes, I'm good. All eventualities covered." "Let's hit the road, then." He led the way out, and I dutifully followed along. I felt a little like one of those small rowboats that bob along in the wake of larger yachts, but I didn't let it bother me. I had won some kind of victory with my car, albeit a small one, and right then that was good enough.

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The Grove Hotel was right in the center of the town, facing onto a neatly kept formal square. A steady stream of traffic circulated around it. Bellamy wasn't a large place, but it looked to be a thriving one. It was set high up in the hills, and those hills were all about us, green and vibrant. The fall colors would be something to see. A mile away were the Bellamy Falls, a trio of waterfalls that cascaded into one pool, and made an effective tourist hook. So did the many hiking trails, fishing lakes and rivers, if the hoardings I'd driven past were any indication. The countryside was picturesque, and the town had that spotless wellcared-for appearance that always shows when people care about their community and take pride in it. I pulled into the parking space beside Drew's rather battered green Ford pickup truck, and got out, stretching my spine as I looked around. "Tell me you didn't hire that rust-bucket," I said as he joined me. "I didn't," he answered, grinning. "I bought it locally when I knew I would be around off and on for a long while. The hotel lets me leave it here in between visits. It beats risking a hire car on the back trails." "Makes sense," I agreed. "I grew up here," Drew continued. "Graduated from Bellamy High and went off into the real world. See that street on the other side of the square? Four blocks down, take a right and ours was the second floor apartment above the grocery store." 113

"Local Boy Makes Good," I smiled and it wasn't forced. Driving always relaxes me, and I was doubly glad to have put Leidenton and the growing nightmare behind me for a while. I was tired, yes, but there was no sign of a headache of any kind, normal or migraine, thank God. It helped that I was pleasantly mellow with fresh air and new surroundings. Mellow enough to cut him some slack. "How about your folks? Do they still live in the town?" The question popped out before I could stop it. That usually happened when I unwound too much. My internal censor became disengaged. He shook his head. "They both died in '94," he answered, and I winced. That would be the year he'd dropped out of MIT. "A multiple pile-up on the Interstate." "That's tough. I'm sorry." Right then a car backfired out on the street, and for a second I was back in the office clutching my phone and listening to Amber screaming. Something must have shown on my face because Drew was looking at me anxiously. "Perry, are you okay?" "Fine. So, uh, any brothers or sisters? Sorry, again. None of my business." "I don't mind." After a moment he smiled down at me. "Nope. My only other relations apart from Grandpop are Dad's younger brother Lee, and his kids. How about you?" Okay, that was where being curious got me. I'd set myself up for that, but I didn't care. The distraction was more than welcome. "One set of grandparents, my mom, my sister, her husband, a niece and a nephew." 114

"You aiming to get married, raise a family?" "Hello, gay here." "So? This is the twenty-first century, Perry." "Huh." If he could push the boundaries, so could I. "Any marriage plans to carry on the family name?" Not that I was interested in his relationship status, marital or other. Drew nudged a sly elbow in my ribs and the brief contact felt dangerously good. "That depends," he drawled. "Come on. I don't know about you, but I need some decent coffee." He strode off toward the front steps of the hotel. I caught up with him in a few long steps, and we walked into the foyer together. The room I was given was across the corridor from Drew's, and looked out over formal gardens and rising forest. It was spacious and comfortable, more welcoming and homelike than a generic hotel room. It would be no hardship to spend a few days here, I decided, as I went back to the car for my gear. The first thing I did when I'd gotten my gear into the room was phone Victor for an update on Amber. She was recovering, but slowly. Then I set up my portable drafting table, and was just finishing unpacking my case when the phone beside the queensized bed gave a trill. It was Drew. "We've got plenty of time before dinner to take a quick look at the Hall, if you like," he said. "It would have been nice to leave it until dusk, given the nickname it's gained, but I don't want us to break any bones." 115

"Sure. But coffee first, okay?" "God, yes. The Terrace Bistro on the first floor, ten minutes." "Yeah, see you there." That gave me time to change into hiking boots, jeans and a blue polo shirt. I wasn't going to risk my decent clothes in a place even the owner classed as semi-derelict. I shoved a flashlight, a small first aid kit--semiderelict, remember?--a bottle of water, my camera and its folding tripod into the backpack. The half a dozen photos of the house Drew had given me had been fascinating tasters, and even with the sketches he'd drawn were nowhere near comprehensive enough for me to begin to plan out what was required. For that I needed my state of the art digital with its umpteen million pixels, kick-ass zoom and multi-gigabyte card. That camera had been a major extravagance, but it was worth every penny. The Terrace Bistro actually had a terrace. It was a wide half-circle enclosed by a stone balustrade and five foot tall urns overflowing with bright flowers. Wide, shallow steps led down to the gardens, echoes of a different age. Ladies in crinolines and carrying lacy parasols should have been drifting down there, escorted by suave young men in frock-coats and ruffled shirts. Instead there was a scowling Drew Connors slouched at one of the white wrought iron tables, shoving a cell phone into his pocket. "Anything wrong?" I asked, sliding into the chair opposite him.

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"No," he said curtly. "Maybe. I don't know." I had the feeling that indecisiveness was not his usual response to the maybe unexpected, so I waited him out. "Just had a call from Grandpop. He's had a visit from Uncle Lee, and now he's telling me to kick the man out of the house if he shows up, and have nothing to do with him. Like he's some Victorian autocrat, Uncle's a music-hall villain and I'm a--I don't know what." "Uh, is he usually like that?" "Hell, yes. He feuds with everyone. Always has, so I can't blame it on his age. But there was something in his voice..." "Maybe you should visit him," I suggested. "Old people can get strange ideas in their heads sometimes." Cray's grandmother was as gentle as a nun, but she was convinced the mailman was a whiteslaver out to kidnap her, and that her father--dead for forty years--was in the next room fetching his shotgun to protect her. There was high drama in the Reeves household every time mail was delivered. "Yeah. I will. His brain cells were firing on all cylinders when I saw him last week, but at ninetysix, I guess that can change overnight." His cell rang again, and I did my best to switch off my ears while he answered it. "Hi, Linda. What's the problem?" A pause. "Huh. Did he say what he wanted?" There was another, longer pause. Then, "Okay, call him back, give him this number and tell him where I'm staying. If he wants to see me, he can come here. I'm not going to change my plans on his say-so. Oh, tell him I won't be able to meet him tomorrow in any case. Okay? 'Bye." He closed his 117

phone and slipped it away, his scowl deepening. "The plot thickens," he said with an attempt at lightness. "Uncle Lee is trying to get hold of me. Urgently. Enough to bad-mouth my PA when she wouldn't put him on to me right away." He straightened in his chair. "Now I am definitely going to have a word with Grandpop. In fact, it had better be as soon as possible, if I'm going to be dragged into another family feud. We might get that evening viewing of Arkham Hall after all," he added, glancing across at me. "Grandpop's just down the road in Brookville. Come on." "You don't need a tame architect with you for a family visit," I objected, sitting tight. The last of his irritation was wiped away by his smile. It was as if the sun had come out from behind storm clouds. "I have the feeling there isn't a lot of tame in your make-up," he drawled, and I swore under my breath as my face heated. "We'll call in at the Hall on the way back." Following him out of the hotel to his pickup, it occurred to me that stubborn autocrats seemed to run in the Connors family. Brookville was about twenty spectacularly scenic miles away; we'd driven through it on the way to Bellamy but I hadn't paid it much attention. It was bigger than Drew's hometown, but it had its similarities. For one, the Anchorage Residential Home could have been designed by the same architect who'd drawn up the Grove Hotel. Except the latter had been planned as a hotel from the start, and the Anchorage had once been a country house. Now it 118

looked like a very expensive, very exclusive club house. "I'll wait in the truck," I said as he parked up and turned off the engine. "No way," he snorted. "Grandpop is a lot less likely to go off on a tirade if there's a stranger present, and I'll stand a better chance at getting more out of him." "You think?" I answered with a snort of my own. "He's a hell of a lot more likely to clam up and not say a word." "That'll be the day. Come on, Perry, I'd like your unbiased assessment of the situation, as well." This time it was more of a wheedle than an order, and I couldn't stop myself smiling even as I was shaking my head. "It's not in my contract," I said. "I'm here to restore a house, not mediate in a feud." "Tell me something." His tawny gaze was earnest, amused and somehow hungry. It reminded me of a lion's stare. "How is it that an obviously highly intelligent man can be so dumb? We're friends. That is at least as important to me as the Connorswood projects, maybe more. So that means you're involved in this." "Are you nuts?" I demanded, following him out of the truck. "No, nuts doesn't cover it," I continued, my face scarlet. "You don't drag a consultant into your personal affairs! I think you had better find another architect for your restoration, because I--" He clamped his hand over my mouth. "Don't say it," he admonished. "Not when you don't mean it." I struck his hand away. Hard. It was 119

close to being a punch, and we stood there, glaring at each other like a pair of junkyard dogs. "Timeout?" "Time-out," I agreed. "But you have got to stop this BFF crap!" Did he ever. How the hell was I supposed to keep a distance between us when he wouldn't back off? "Okay," he said smoothly. "If you insist. But I have to warn you, it won't do you any good in the long run, because I've made up my mind and no one can out-stubborn a Connors." "Want to bet?" "You're on." His voice deepened and he took a pace closer. Goosebumps prickled over my body and I suddenly found it difficult to breathe. "What are the stakes, Perry? Winner takes all?" The sudden heat in his eyes was more than enough to underscore the sexual innuendo. That and the way his gaze moved over me, as if he could see though my clothes and liked what he saw. And wanted it. "No stakes, no bet!" It wasn't just apple I could taste, it was finest hard cider with a hint of spices. Panic fuelled my anger and I put my hands on his chest, shoved him back a few steps. Who the hell did the asshole think he was? Some kind of gay Lothario who could just walk into my life and expect me to bend over when he snapped his fingers? Wasn't going to happen, even if there wasn't Cray hovering around like Banquo's fucking ghost. I wasn't wired that way. "You do not get to put the moves on me, damn it!" I told him, adding boiling oil and ballistae to my mental barricades.

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I was mad and more than a little confused, but right at that moment I wanted to deck the bastard. But I was stuck with him for the duration of the contract. I couldn't believe that not so many days ago I'd almost convinced myself I'd go along with it if he moved in on me. No way.

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Chapter Ten The woman who escorted us through the first floor hallways was smartly uniformed, looking more like an air-hostess than a carer. She knocked at a white and gilt door, then let us into a palatial apartment. On the far side of the living room, French doors stood wide, opening onto a small patio garden screened with trellis roses. but I didn't pay much attention to the view. The man enthroned in the wheelchair dominated the room. It wasn't possible to guess his height, but I suspected he was tall. He was gaunt under the old-fashioned but expensive linen jacket that looked to be a little too large for him, and his spine was ramrod straight. That might have been due to the wheelchair's upright back, but I had the feeling it was the man's natural posture. He had a neatly combed mane of thick white hair, his bushy white eyebrows were pulled into a fearsome glower, and his angular jaw jutted in a damn-you-world kind of way. He didn't look much like Drew, apart from his eyes. They were the same whiskey-gold and as direct as a laser. Once I met that stare, it was impossible to give any kind of due to his heavily-lined features and the fine tremor in his liver-spotted hands. No matter how old he was, how infirm his body, the mind behind those eyes was a steel trap and just as remorseless. I wished I was wearing my suit and tie. 122

"Grandpop, this is the architect I told you about, Perry Latimer of Bennett & Symes. Perry, my grandfather, Robert Connors." "Pleased to meet you, sir," I said dutifully. I didn't offer to shake hands. Something told me that particular social nicety wouldn't be welcome. "Can you do it?" Robert barked, harsh as a crow. "My damn-fool father had it butchered in the 'Twenties. The idiot called it modernizing. I want it back the way it should be. Well?" "Yes," I said. "I can, no question. In fact, if you can show me old photos, pictures, engravings, I can restore each room to as close to its original decor as it's possible to get." "That's quite a boast, boy," he sneered. "He can do it," Drew said quietly. "I showed you Perry's work on the Lamont house. It's why he's one of BSA's top architects, and why he wins awards." It was only one award, and that for a modern new build, but I wasn't going to correct him. "The place won't be viable, of course," I continued, "as a home or a museum, unless you settle for the suggestions I've already given Drew." "Is that so?" Unbelievably, his spine stiffened even more. "Yes, sir. It is." "Hah!" His face twisted into a monumental sneer. "Seeing is believing. I want to be kept informed every step of the way. Understood?" His gaze scorched across both of us. Did that mean he'd accepted the necessary compromises? "Yes, sir," we said in duet. "Huh. You--Perry--what kind of name is that?" 123

"It's short for Peregrine, sir," I answered, gritting my teeth. He grunted again. "There are worse things than being named for a falcon. Leroy! Hah!" "Talking of Uncle Lee," Drew interrupted smoothly, "why's he got a hornet up his ass? He's been calling my office demanding to talk to me." "The man is an idiot with delusions of grandeur. If my Eleanor hadn't been a saint, I'd have thought he was someone's bastard she'd foisted off on me. He's claiming you pressured me into selling you the Hall, says he's going to challenge it in court. Caused such a fuss they threw him out." Drew gave a hoot of laughter. "Yeah, he's an idiot, all right. He's also bluffing. The only way he could hope to win that would be to have you declared mentally incompetent." "That's what he implied," his grandfather sneered. "He's about as subtle as a charging rhino." "I'd give money to see him try to get it past a judge," Drew snorted. "And I can't remember anyone pressuring you to do anything. Not even Grandmom. I'd back you against him any day. What does he want it for, anyway? He's living and working in Washington." "Says it should stay in the family." "It has. I'm a Connors, last time I checked." "Yes. You're also queer as a nine dollar bill and more likely to sprout wings and fly than produce an heir." The scorn was back with a vengeance, and if he'd been sixty years younger, I'd probably have challenged him on it. I must have made a sound, or

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moved, because he rounded on me. "Does that bother you, boy? Working for a mincing sodomite?" That was it. I'd had enough of those fucking Connors. "No, sir," I snapped. "Does it bother you that I'm one? If it does, tough. It's not your name on the contract with BSA." "Don't you smart-mouth me, boy!" "Then keep your insults and prejudices to yourself, sir. They're not acceptable." "Hey!" Drew clapped his hands. "Time-out! Come on, guys, settle down. This solves nothing, and I'd like to find out exactly what Uncle Lee's game is. Any ideas, Grandpop?" Robert didn't answer him right away, the old bastard was too busy grinning at me like an ancient shark, the light of battle in his eyes. "You might be a pretty little faggot," he cackled, "but you've got backbone, I'll give you that." "And you," Drew countered, "are an evil old bastard. Don't react, Perry, that's one of his games, goading people to see how they'll jump." "Yeah? Thanks for warning me beforehand!" By sheer will-power, I did not shout asshole at the end. I was not pretty and I was not little. I didn't like being called a faggot, either. "I didn't expect him to try it on with you so soon," he protested. "Grandpop, play nice, for God's sake, or I'll have to find another architect and I kind of like this one." "You would. Very well. Lee's been trying to persuade me to sign over all the Connorswood land for years now. Ever since your father died." Judging by Drew's climbing eyebrows, that was news to him. 125

"He even had the nerve to bring that sour-faced brat of his with him again, just to remind me he was carrying on the family name. Wouldn't be surprised if he's heading for a nervous breakdown, the way he's fixated on the damned place. In fact, it was his whining on and on about it that gave me the idea to sell it to you." "Contrary old mule. But why does he want it? The house is virtually in ruins and the land grows nothing but trees, rocks and waterfalls. As it stands right now, the place is a money pit, and he doesn't have the resources to do anything with it." "He says he has a consortium of interested backers," Robert graveled. "But he won't give me any names. Apparently they could turn it around and make it work." "As what?" "A fancy country club right on the edge of the Cook Forest. Hunting, shooting, fishing. Private," he added, bushy brows pulling down in a fearsome scowl. "You know what that'll mean." Drew shrugged. "Not so different to what we'll be doing with it," he said. "A museum! Living history! Recreating the past so the benighted savages in the schools today can learn from it! I'd say there's a hell of a difference!" My ears pricked up. Living history? That was interesting, and why hadn't that been mentioned sooner? It would make some difference to the way I went about the proposed restoration. "If Mr. Connors is going to challenge on mental competency," I said, "and if you haven't already

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done so, you need to get legal and medical affidavits sworn out as soon as possible." "Already in hand," Drew replied. "My legal team is on it." "Independent legal and medical," I countered. "Anything coming from you will automatically be disputed. If he has good lawyers, Drew, he can tie the whole thing up in so much red tape it'll be going through the courts until you drop dead of old age, let alone your grandfather. And then, unless it's been left to someone else in an iron-clad will, it'll revert to Lee." "Brains as well," Connors the Elder rasped. "Maybe you'd better keep this one after all. Pity he isn't a female you could breed from." "God! Could you be any more obnoxious? Don't answer that!" Drew looked ready to tear his hair out, but I thought I had his grandfather's measure now. "If you think Drew needs an heir, Mr. Connors," I said. "It's no problem. I've got two words for you. Surrogate. Mother. I'll go and wait outside until you're done." "No need," Drew answered quickly. "We're finished, for now. Grandpop, you need to have a talk with the resident doc about mental competency, get her advice. Perry, can BSA's legal team recommend a good family lawyer?" "Yes, I'm sure they can. I'll call Victor and ask him to get them on it. Goodbye, Mr. Connors. It's been interesting meeting you." The old man's grating laughter followed us out of the door.

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I couldn't get out of the place fast enough, and I was halfway across the parking lot when Drew caught my arm and stopped me. Just like before, his touch was a spark that ignited a slow burning fuse inside me. "You're amazing," he said. "He's been known to reduce grown men to gibbering wrecks. You were fantastic in there, and--" He broke off, and his transforming grin illuminated his face. "Sorry, but I just gotta do this." He framed my head with his large, warm hands and kissed me. Drew's mouth was gentle on mine, his lips soft, the touch of his tongue-tip a satin glide. Something began to move through my blood and bone. Not the arousal that was already pulsing and filling in my groin. It was more like a tectonic plate shifting into alignment and settling so slowly there was little in the way of seismic fallout. At first. My hands were braced on his shoulders, all set to push him away, but I didn't. Cray was a little shorter than me, Joe was the same height, and Drew a couple of inches taller. For a few seconds it felt odd having my head tilted up to his mouth, odd and right--and then his tongue was flickering past my lips and there was fire in my blood. My bones were beginning to melt and I wanted to climb inside him, devour him, never let him go-A combination of sheer panic and self-preservation gave me the strength to lunge away, giving him a hard push as I did so, but my all carefully constructed defenses were in ruins. "No way!" I growled. "Just--no. I am not interested." God help me, it was a lie. "You keep this on 128

a professional level or I'm out of here and you can find another architect. I'm pretty damn sure you've just given BSA's Legal Department a watertight reason to break the contract." He held up his hands in surrender, and I didn't need the aloes tip-off to tell me his penitent expression was faked. The hunger in his eyes did that. This whole damn trip was turning into a circus. Or a badly written TV sit-com. I wasn't sure which, but whatever it was, I didn't want to be part of it. But I was stuck with it, at least for the time being, so I sat beside Drew in stony silence all the way back to Bellamy. He tried to hold a safely banal conversation, but frankly I didn't want to know. I was too angry, too fucking scared of the conflagration that scorched beneath my anger to give him any slack. It wasn't just that I was more than merely attracted to him; I didn't want to be pulled into that fiery hunger. Why would I, for God's sake? I was trying to get over a guy who as good as told me I couldn't give him what he wanted in a sexual relationship. If Cray found me boring and vanilla, what the hell would Drew make of me? Cray hung in there for years; I couldn't see Drew staying any longer than it took to scratch his itch before he was gone. I couldn't do that. Not with him. Casual sex with Joe was one thing. This? A whole different dimension. I clenched my hands into fists, facing up to the fact that I wanted it to be so much more and knowing I could not even think of attempting it. 129

Then there was the tiny detail of some nut job, who may or may not be tied up with my ex, trying to off me with a letter bomb. "Perry, I'm sorry," he said abruptly. "I was out of line. Please can we get past this? Friends? Friends only? I won't push for anything more." I swallowed apples and forced myself to relax. "S'okay," I answered grudgingly. "Friends only. The last thing I want right now is to get involved with anyone, least of all a client." "You need a rebound fling." Drew chuckled quietly, reaching across to ruffle my hair. The hell I did. I jerked away and glared out of the window. "But not with me. Get your ex out of your system, then you'll be ready to move on." "Oh, sure," I scoffed bitterly. "I'm not into fast fucks in toilets, anonymous one night stands, leather, piercings, fetishes, or the BDSM scene, and I don't pick up twinks." The words poured out before I could stop myself, as if an abscess had been lanced. "What you see is what you get--boring, vanilla, middle-of-the-road suburban man. If the guy who'd been sleeping with me since we were teenagers was so bored he had to find his fun on the side, and only stuck around for the easy life, how am I supposed to move on? Hit the clubs, pretend to be someone I'm not?" "Hey." His hand snaked out again, not to assault my hair, but to give me a clip upside my head. Luckily for him, the lump had almost disappeared and no longer hurt to touch. "Don't put yourself down. Your ex was a blind idiot. There are plenty of men out there who'd give their right arms to find a 130

guy like you to spend the rest of their lives with." He started to say more, but my death-glare shut him up. "Truce, remember? Do you want to take a look at the Hall now or after dinner?" "Now," I answered. As soon as dinner was over, I could get away to my room. Where I could rebuild my defenses and try to work out what the hell had hit me. Or shove it so far down in my subconscious I could forget it had ever happened. Yes, that could work. Given a choice, I'd go for Option Two. "Okay. Look in the glove compartment. There's a printout in there." I took out the sheet of folded paper and opened it up. It was a map, drawn over in red ink. A trapezoid had been lined in, with CW scrawled inside it, and CFSP outside. An X had been placed in the center of the shorter of the long sides, close to a road. That, I guessed, was the Hall. Another X sat almost opposite it on the other side of the plot. There was no scale, but it was a fair way inside that boundary line. There was the lake I'd seen in the photos, and a meandering river that flowed from the state park, through a good two thirds of the property before curling away past the new build X and out of Connorswood. "How much land?" I asked. "About six hundred acres," he answered. Shit. That was the size of a farm, for God's sake. "It straddles a low ridge, so even from the top of the towers, you won't be able to see the new house when it's built." He sounded subdued. "I'll show you that later on in the week. Have you had any ideas about it?" 131

"The new build? Some. Nothing concrete enough to put on paper, yet." I could do stilted as well. "Maybe after I've seen the site. Just so I know how to slant the design, is it to be a lodge? A summer vacation place?" It wasn't just the design on my mind, I discovered. I realized I needed to know for personal reasons if Drew was likely to be around on a permanent basis. The answer didn't help the mix of emotions this man stirred up in me. "Haven't made up my mind yet," he said, "so assume it's a year-round home. I might have to consider moving back here for a while, given Grandpop's situation. I don't want to leave him entirely defenseless as far as Uncle Lee's concerned. He's a pretty formidable force, but he is ninety-six." He'd said something similar before, and it underlined everything I already knew. He wasn't in the market for a relationship, just a fuck-buddy to pass the time. It hardened my resolve not to get involved with him. "Okay." I changed the subject fast. "So the Hall's going to be a living history museum?" I'd already scrapped some of the ideas I'd been working on, and promising new ones were taking root. "That's the plan. Grandpop's idea is to recreate life in a large Northern house before the Civil War, from the servants' quarters in the attic to the stables and vegetable garden. If possible it'll be staffed by volunteers in period costumes, and kids can spend a few days or longer actually being part of the experience; working in the gardens, the stables, the kitchen, having lessons in the schoolroom upstairs, 132

shadowing the owner and his wife, his secretary, learning what life was like with none of the modern stuff we take for granted." There was a certain dryness in his voice that told me Drew wasn't one hundred per cent sold on it. "It's a huge project," I said noncommittally. "Uh, are you sure it's viable?" He gave an amused snort. "I'm pretty damn sure it isn't. It would work as a museum, no problem, but the living history thing? I don't think so, but Grandpop's decided that's what he wants so I'm prepared to give it a chance." "It's none of my business, but you're taking a hell of a financial risk." "Possibly." He didn't sound particularly worried. "Going off-topic for a moment, and feel free to shoot me down in flames, but I'm curious about these tests you're still having. I thought you'd made a complete recovery." "I have. It's just..." Just what? A precaution? I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "Okay, long story short, there's a possibility that the head injuries are causing some unexpected longer-term effects. Or it might be symptoms of something else entirely. I have the feeling that Doc Roth is whistling in the dark at the moment. Anyway, he's sent me for an MRI. He'll take another in-depth look at the evidence, and he'll let me know the answer on Tuesday. Whatever it is, it isn't catching," I added. "What are the symptoms?" Drew asked quietly. "Headaches? Migraines?" "No. I've only had a few bad headaches since I came out of the hospital, and no migraines at all, in 133

spite of everything." Come to think of it, I hadn't had one after the letter bomb, which had to be some kind of miracle. That had been a hell of a lot more stressful than walking in on Cray fucking that boy. "Good. No vision problems? Blackouts? Seizures?" "No, none. I wouldn't be allowed to drive if I had any of them! What are you, a hypochondriac-byproxy?" I tried to make it a joke, because what I could see of his profile showed me he was genuinely concerned. "It's minor, I promise you. Not even an inconvenience. In fact, so far it's been damn useful." Shit. I hadn't meant to say that. "Yeah? How?" "Oh, just some stupid stuff. It'll probably wear off in time. That's it, we're dropping this subject." "Okay. But first, can I ask a favor?" "Sure." I shrugged. "You can ask." "Will you tell me what the doc says? I need to know you're going to be all right, Perry." "Yes," I said. "Okay." The man had saved my life. What else could I say?

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Chapter Eleven We drove through Bellamy and out the other side, the road climbing in a sweeping curve that offered some great views. I was too caught up in my thoughts and looking at the landscape to notice where we were actually going, until Drew pulled over and stopped the car. "We're here," he said, and I faced front with a start. "Good grief," I muttered lamely. The photos did not do the place justice, either in its imposing Victorian Gothic over-the-top-ness, or the sinister Arkham vibes. English Ivy and Virginia creeper hid a lot of the details, and the ivy would have to go ASAP, that was for sure. The damned plant was officially an invasive species, and could cause a hell of a lot of damage. Its unwelcome presence didn't stop the architect side of my brain seeing the possibilities of the Hall, how great it would look restored to its original glory. A smaller house would be fussy, over-ornate, swamped by the balconies, the towers, the crazy gargoyles, the tall chimneys and multi-roofed extravagance, not to mention the verdigrised cupola. But the Hall's sheer size carried it off effortlessly. It was mainly red brick, with decorative courses of yellow. The few windows I could see past the shutters and foliage were arched and framed in carved stone. I'd place

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money that the upper lights were colored glass--or would have been, back in the day. The house was set about a hundred feet from the road, at the end of a short driveway. It loomed behind massive wrought iron railings that held back what would have once been neatly trimmed shrubberies. Now they defined the word rampant, encroaching on the circle of overgrown gravel that was big enough for a coach and four to turn on. I could see another driveway leading off to curve around the house toward the stable yard at the back. Between two huge stone pillars were equally massive gates that stood closed against all-comers. They looked as if they hadn't been opened in years, let alone a few months. Both had a central motif amid the decorative scroll-work: a phoenix rising from its flaming nest. "The iron-work's original?" I asked, though I was certain it was. Drew nodded. "The phoenix crops up in one or two places in the house as well," he said. "There were probably more of them before the makeover in the Twenties." He chuckled quietly. "It's a very apt symbol for the family, given the way our luck yo-yo'ed over the years." "If you go ahead with the living history idea, the yo-yo will still be in play," I said. "There isn't a quick fix for any of this, and even if you make it as self-sufficient as possible, you'll be risking a lot of money. As it is, you'll never get back the cost of the restoration."

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"Won't be the first time I've been cut back to basics," Drew replied. He sounded so casual I wanted to kick him. "What do you mean, self-sufficient?" "Tell you later, when I've had a good look around." "Knock yourself out," he grinned, then sobered and shook his head. "Not literally, please. I don't want to see any more of your blood than I already have." Neither did I. For a second I could hear poor Amber's screams ringing in my ears. Drew climbed out of the pickup and I grabbed my flashlight and camera from my backpack, stowing them away in the pockets of my cargo pants, and joined him at the gates. Hinges groaned and shrieked like the corniest of horror movie sound effects as he heaved one open far enough for us to slide through. I wondered how the old man had coped with them. "It usually stood open," Drew said, as if he had read my mind. "I prefer to keep it shut. There is another way in further down the road. Another set of gates, not as fancy as these, onto a track that goes around to the kitchen and stable yards, and on into the woods. This one's for visiting gentry." "I think I probably qualify for the tradesman's entrance." "No way. You're halfway to being a guest, but don't expect a butler and a row of curtseying chambermaids." "Just spiders and cobwebs." "You got it. Probably rats and roaches as well."

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"Goes with the territory," I said. Maybe I should have brought my hard hat as well. All that ivy wasn't good for the brickwork. Despite the riotous shrubberies and general air of neglect, the white marble steps up to the porch showed that someone still cared. They, at least had been swept clean somewhen in the last few months, even if the deep porch itself was thick with blown leaves. "Keys to all the apartments," Drew said, holding up a complicated arrangement of joined rings and keys, some Yale, some mortise. "But we won't be able to get into all of them. Too risky." The front door opened with one of the Yale keys and almost as much protest as the gate, but once inside the house, though the still air smelled of dust and damp, there wasn't as much damage as I'd expected. At first glance, anyway. Drew had left the door ajar, letting in some welcome daylight. The spacious octagonal entrance hall with its black and white marble floor was more or less intact, apart from blocked-up windows. Facing us was what would have been an imposing staircase that swept up a half-landing. There it split into two graceful curves and continued to the second floor. But now its balustrades had been either removed or boxed in. High above us, the windows below the cupola let in a meager greenish glow. Drew didn't spare his surroundings a glance. "According to Grandpop, his apartment used to be the music room and study-cum-library before his father decided to turn the place into what he 138

thought would be a rental goldmine," he said, leading the way down a corridor toward the back of the house and unlocking another door. It opened into darkness with only minimal protest. "There's a couple of studio apartments down here on the first floor, and a pair of one-bedroom apartments. The upper floors are similar." He turned on the light and the low wattage bulb threw bizarre shadows around the room. The scents of stale tobacco, old cooking and old man joined the dust and damp. The furniture was heavy and outdated, making the room seem claustrophobic. Heavy velvet drapes had been pulled across the windows, blocking out all the natural light. Drew slid them back, sending more dust into the air. Daylight streamed in, highlighting the shabbiness of the room. Yet it was surprisingly tidy and almost comfortable. The view beyond the windows was promising: beyond the deep porch was a stone-flagged terrace, and beyond that the wreckage of once-immaculate formal gardens. "This is the living room and kitchen, bedroom and en suite bathroom's through there," Drew continued, pointing to a door over to the right. "From what I've seen, this is the only habitable apartment in the place, and the only one lived in recently. The old bastard wouldn't accept any kind of help." He sighed. "That morning he'd fallen on the front steps and broken his leg, cracked his hip. Luckily for him, the mailman had been held up and was running late. He found him and called 911. Otherwise it would probably have been the next day before anyone came along. He didn't get many visitors." He sounded sad, almost wistful. 139

"Uncle Lee was supposed to be keeping an eye out for him, and both of them had made sure I knew I wasn't to poke my nose where it wasn't wanted." "Senior citizens can be difficult," I said, which, considering the tyrant I'd just met, had to be the understatement of the century. "You hadn't visited the house before?" "Yes, but that was while Grandmom was still alive. They lived up on the second floor, in a much nicer place. Even back then, most of the other apartments were empty. Come on, I'll show you what I can of the rest of the house." With Drew and his bunch of keys to lead the way and open the doors, we explored all of the house that we safely could. An hour later, I'd taken over a hundred photos and I couldn't have accrued more layers of grime if I'd rolled in a ditch. Years ago one of the chimney stacks had toppled, breaking through the roof. The attic rooms that had taken the brunt of it were a mess of storage boxes under fallen roof beams and tiles, and years of being open to the elements had caused a cascade effect of damage in the lower floors. Some floors and ceilings were downright dangerous, and would have to be shored up before anything else could be done. The basement wasn't much better. Most of it was clogged with rubble and fallen brickwork, and was virtually impossible to explore. The door down to it wasn't locked, probably because the lock itself was a malfunctioning museum piece. While all of the larger rooms on the first and second floors had been partitioned off and their 140

ceilings lowered, the kitchen hadn't been touched as far as I could tell. Instead it had been turned into another storage room. I wondered if the original cast iron range was still there. I could see the wide mantel, but couldn't get past the stacked crates and boxes to check what was underneath it. On all three floors, some doors and windows had been plastered over or bricked up, all but invisible to the casual inspection. But not to my new talent. Running my fingers over the Twenties modifications gave me apples--the changes weren't faking anything, after all, just being true to themselves. But it varied in strength, and I was sure that the stronger tang meant the original structure was still there, waiting to be uncovered. Where the apple faded, I guessed the older feature was lost. I tested it out on one of the entrance hall's walls, and the main staircase. The wall was coated in ugly wallpaper that sported patches of leprous damp. Towards the back of the hall, the apple powered down and up again for the width of about three feet. It was at a right angle to the door that would have led to the back hall and the servants' domain, and where I would have expected the butler's parlor to be. I would need to see the older plans to verify it, but it was a logical guess. If anything about this ability was logical. The banisters had been encased in thin boards painted a bilious yellow that still lingered in peeling patches, and everywhere I touched it, I could taste double-strength apples. Up on the second floor, I hooked my fingers under one warped panel 141

and eased it away far enough to shine my flashlight inside. And saw beautifully shaped posts. Drew came to peer over my shoulder. "Wow. Promising?" "Very," I answered. Over the last hour, the awkwardness between us had disappeared and we were back to our easy camaraderie. That didn't stop the prickle of heat his nearness brought to me. I edged away slightly, hoping a few more inches of distance would cool me down. It didn't. "I'm fairly confident the banisters are intact, apart from the missing newel posts on the first floor, which is a pity. By the look of it so far, most of the house's original features have been covered over one way or another. Ripped out and replaced which would have been the more expensive option." I was babbling, but couldn't seem to stop. "There is a fair bit of damage, mostly caused by that chimney fall and the weather, some by piping in plumbing and electricity to the apartments, some by doors being where no door should be. But on the whole, it's not in too bad a shape. Even some of the fireplaces I've been able to see are original, and those that aren't can be replaced. There are suppliers who deal in reclaimed fixtures." "All is not lost on the stair front, either," Drew said with a smirk. "While you were poking around up here, I checked out the basement again. I managed to get into the first room, and I think I saw something that could be a newel post half-buried under a ton of crap. Whatever, it was a long piece of dark wood, with a phoenix carved on one end."

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"Great!" Anything else I might have said was cut off by the front door creaking a protest as it was pushed further open. "Andrew?" a harsh voice called, and Drew groaned. "Andrew! I know you're in here! Show yourself!" "Don't tell me," I muttered. "Uncle Lee. And he's a chip off the old block." "How did you guess? You must be psychic." "God. Can I cope with three generations of Connors in one day?" "Sure you can. You're tough." He started back down the stairs, then glanced over his shoulder with a wide smile when I didn't tag along immediately. "C'mon, Perry," he pleaded. "Don't wimp out on me now." It was the dimples that did it. Dutifully, I followed him down to the entrance hall, and discovered I had to contend with four generations. A gangly youth was lurking behind the tall, angular shape of Lee Connors. I didn't give the kid much attention, I was too busy trying to recall where I'd seen his father before. "Hi, Uncle," Drew drawled. "Fancy meeting you here. Hi, Rob." "Don't even think about removing a thing," Lee barked, "or tearing down so much as a strip of wallpaper! You have no right--" "Hold it right there, Uncle. For a start, I own this place and if I want I'll raze it to the ground, and there's not a damn thing you can do to stop me. Secondly--"

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"The hell I can't! My lawyers are getting an injunction against you and as soon as the judge signs it, you are dead in the water!" "Secondly," Drew continued, raising his voice over his uncle's increasingly loud diatribe. But I'd already switched off my ears. They could feud all they liked. I had a job to do and--and right then I remembered. It had been Lee sitting in that booth in Descartes, watching us. Spying? That was just creepy. By now Lee was waving his arms around in a way that should have been intimidating, and instead made him look like a total jerk. He was a few inches taller than Drew, but raw-boned where Drew was solid. He'd missed out on the tawny eyes: his were dark brown, and if he wasn't sneering and scowling in a second-rate imitation of Old Man Robert, he'd be good-looking in an average kind of way. There must have been quite an age gap between him and Drew's father, because the guy didn't look to be much over fifty, if that. I wondered what the kid was making of the family dispute, and sneaked a glance at him. Another chip. He was scowling just as fiercely as his dad, his acne-cursed face an unbecoming scarlet. But he had the family eyes, and his bones were good. He'd be worth another glance in about ten years time. At fifteen or sixteen, he just couldn't cut it. Lee was beginning to run out of adjectives, so I tuned back in just as Drew took out his cell phone. "You've got two choices," Drew said evenly. "You leave right now, and you don't come back. Or I call 144

the cops and have you arrested for trespass, and threatening behavior. Nice role model for young Robert here, you think? Or how about a third option? We can all sit down over a coffee and have a civilized discussion. What do you say?" Lee's hands clenched into fists and for a second I thought he was going to take a swing. Or maybe have a heart attack. Instead he made a visible effort to master himself. It was very easy to imagine cartoon steam coming out of his ears. His son, on the other hand, wasn't angry anymore. He was pale, biting his lower lip, and obviously scared. But maybe not of his father. His gaze was locked on us. "So now you want to negotiate?" Lee growled. "Why doesn't that surprise me?" "Discuss," Drew said wearily, rolling his eyes. "C'mon, Uncle. You know me well enough to know I don't bluff, and I don't give up. You want to talk, I'll listen--and you'll listen to me in turn. Got that? Tomorrow morning at ten, the Terrace Bistro at the Grove Hotel." "We'll be there," he snapped. "But he won't." He glared at me as if he had a personal grudge against me. "Send your lackey back to Leidenton," he spat. "This is between us, no one else, so he has no place here!" Then he turned on his heel and marched out. Rob trailed behind him, his swift glances over his shoulder revealing his new uncertainty. "Phew," Drew sighed. "Would you believe that Aunt Tammy is the sweetest woman I know? Why the hell she puts up with that bullying jerk I'll never understand. And Rob could have the makings of a

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decent human being if he didn't worship the ground Lee walks on." "Let me guess, your uncle's in the Diplomatic Corps, right?" I said and he laughed, shaking his head. "What does he do for a living?" "Apart from being a professional asshole? He's the manager of a restaurant and nightclub in Washington DC." Well, that was a surprise. Somehow, I couldn't see the man in a friendly meet-andgreet role, unless he had a Jekyll and Hyde split personality. "So now he wants to turn the Hall into an exclusive country club. That figures." It could be done, and probably a little more cheaply than the plan the senior Connors had come up with. If Lee had the backing and the capital, and the clout to pull in the big names, he could even make a success of it. "You know, if the living history deal doesn't pan out in the long run, you and Mr. Connors should consider going that route." "No way. I'm more interested in how he knows you're from Leidenton and that I hired you." I shrugged. "I saw him in Descartes the first time we ate there, and if looks could have killed, we'd be on slabs. My guess is he was tailing you to find out what you're planning. It would have been easy enough to ask one of the waiters who I work for. We often take clients there." "Huh. That sounds about right for the bastard. Okay, have you seen enough for now? Taken enough pictures? Because I am starving." That was all it took for my own belly to complain out loud and Drew grinned, nudging me with his elbow. "Sounds 146

like you need to be fed as well. After dinner you can fill me in on that self-sufficiency thing you mentioned." "I'm going to grab a few sandwiches in my room," I said, following him out to the pickup. "I want to upload the photos and do some layouts." "Uh, okay." He sounded disappointed. He paused long enough to pull out onto the road and start back to the hotel. "Sure I can't change your mind?" "I'm sure. Especially if you want those details." It was all falling into place in my head, and I was eager to get back to the hotel so I could get to work. Money no object, he'd said, and as far as I was concerned, he was crazy to invest so much in a project he didn't seem that enthusiastic about, but it had fired something inside me. "Whose tribal lands was this part of Pennsylvania?" "Huh? That came out of the left field. Uh, the Iroquois Confederacy. The Seneca, I think. Why?" "Just a thought," I answered, digging my notebook out of my backpack and starting a list. "Tell you later. Damn. Wish I'd gotten a chance to see what the outbuildings were like under the jungle. I really need to take a look at the deeds, if you have them with you." "I'll bring them along before I go down to dinner. We can go back again whenever you want," he added. "And we'll stay here for as long as you want." "Yeah," I said abstractedly, not really listening to him. "Okay."

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A short while later we were turning into the hotel's parking lot, and a few minutes after that, I was in my room. Glad that I'd already set up the drafting table and its clip-on halogen lamp by the window, I wasted no time starting to transfer my sketches and notes to paper. I'd barely made a start on the first layout when Drew knocked on my door and I yelled for him to come in. "I brought copies of the deeds, old plans, the lot," he said, dropping a thick folder on the night table. "I can see it'll be a waste of breath asking you to dinner again. Have you ordered anything?" "Not yet," I said. "Did you see that boarded up panel above the front door? I bet there's a window under there. Or the remains of one. Stained glass if we're lucky." He didn't answer directly, just laughed and picked up the room phone. "Ham?" "Mmm? Oh, yeah, thanks." "Room service," I vaguely heard him say, but the words didn't really register. "Hi, two rounds of ham sandwiches and coffee for 303, please. No side salad. Just knock and come on in, he probably won't hear you. Thanks." "What?" I said, briefly looking up from the growing details of the Hall's first floor. "Nothing. Eat it when it arrives, and I'll see you later." "Oh. Right." He was still chuckling when he left. At least, I think he was. I was concentrating on the floor plans growing under my pencil.

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Chapter Twelve "Hey," Drew said in my ear and I jumped as if he'd stuck a pin in my ass. "Shit! Don't do that! Are you trying to give me heart-failure?" My pulse was jumping, and not entirely because of the start he'd given me. Not for the first time lately, Ari's words came back to haunt me: Did Cray ever set you on fire just by walking into the room? No, but Drew did, every damn time. Well, when I knew he was there, anyhow. "Not so much. Did you know your sandwich is curling up at the edges? No, of course you don't. Did you even notice it had arrived? And the coffee's cold." "Coffee?" I latched onto the most important word. With a groan I straightened and stretched out my back until the bones clicked. "Luckily for you, I guessed you'd switch off the rest of the world. I brought up a fresh pot." "God, marry me!" I flushed scarlet. I could have bitten off my tongue as soon as the words were spoken. "Now there's an idea," he snickered. "If I'd known the way to win you over was through caffeine withdrawal and supply, I'd've tried it sooner. How's it going?" "Good. These are just rough layouts of the floors above the basement," I began, recovering fast.

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"They don't look rough to me," he interrupted. "Why the different colors?" "The red are the rooms to be kept completely in period apart from warm air ducts and very discreet security systems. The blue ones will get full modernization within the original period details. They'll house offices, accommodation and storage. Most of the first floor will be in period, along with half of the second, third and fourth. That way visitors can see 19th century life from the kitchen and ballroom right up to the servants quarters in the attic. You're also going to need disability access to all parts open to the public." "Okay, makes sense to me, but the old tyrant will take some convincing. He wanted it one hundred per cent authentic." "We already covered that. For a start, it would never pass any kind of code. Health and Safety would have a major melt-down so you wouldn't be able to get insurance to cover it. Nor would it be disability-friendly. There'd be no security for any artifacts displayed in it, and without the proper conditions, the more fragile would fade and decay. There'd be no lights, toilets or bathrooms and the only plumbing would be the hand pumps in the kitchen and the laundry. It would be freezing in winter, and do I have to mention the danger of unsupervised open fires?" "Hey, I'm convinced. All I have to do is bring Grandpop around." Drew shrugged. "But a sensibly structured argument like that should go a long way. He isn't unreasonable when shown all the options.

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He just seems like it," he added with a smile. "What about the self-sufficiency side?" "It'll never cover all the running costs, but it'll help." I'd added to the list as the ideas came to me. It was a bit jumbled, but what the hell? I tore it out of my note book and handed it over. "'Involve the local community right from the start'," Drew read out. "Check. 'Involve local history buffs'. Check. Involve local reenacting groups covering the Civil War, the War for Independence, the French and Indian Wars'; good idea. 'Contact any Seneca society or group in the area, see if they want to create a small site for public education and display in Connorswood, showing life before the Europeans showed up'; now that's inspired. There's a shallow valley that'd be perfect for it." He stared at me, those tawny eyes wide. "My God, Perry, you've put a lot of thought into this." "All part of the BSA service," I said brightly. "There's a chance that some of the outbuildings could be used for lecture rooms, a gallery, maybe a small cafe. But I want to take a look at what's left of them first. You'll need restrooms for the public as well." "This'll blow the old bastard's mind." There was more on the list, and he ran his eyes down, his smile spreading to a full-sized grin. "'Hold fetes, Renaissance Faires, hire out for weddings, film locations, local festivals, garden parties. Sell organic garden produce. Sell the idea of a video diary of all the renovation work to a TV station. Sell articles to local magazines and papers on the month to month progress of the work. Apply for tax-exempt 151

status--neat idea! 'Check out funding from state tourism and education departments'. Perry, you're a genius." "Not so fast. Most of those are long-term possibilities, and you won't be able to do all of it. The staffing level alone would put it out of the ballpark. You can't do it all with unpaid volunteers. You're going to need a committee to do the organizing and day to day stuff--" "I know. Listen, with this and those floor plans, I'm damn sure I can find enough people more than willing to pull the whole thing together. I'll admit I wasn't exactly on board with Grandpop's idea, but this--this could benefit the whole damn county, not just Bellamy and Brookville. Do you mind if I kiss you again?" "No!" I snapped, moving swiftly away from his advance. "I mean, yes, I do mind. Before you do anything about the Hall project, you've got to win over your grandfather and deal with your uncle and his injunction. Then you can sound out some of the groups, and put together a proper business portfolio with artists' impressions, detailed plans and proposals." "Hey, I'm a corporate businessman," he said, grinning. "Don't try and teach me to suck eggs. Anything else, though..." he added with a waggle of his eyebrows. I laughed and shook my head. It was more to shake off the image that immediately sprang to mind and started my blood rushing south, rather than a denial. "Forget it." I poured myself a coffee, grabbed the plate of sandwiches and made myself 152

comfortable in one of the easy chairs. "So, tomorrow. While you're practicing diplomacy with Uncle Lee, I'll be over at the Hall. I'll have to hack a way through the jungle cover if I want to get into the outbuildings, so just in case your uncle has any locals on his team, I'd like written authorization from you to be on site and to do what's necessary to examine the buildings, inside and out." "No problem." He picked up my notebook and drafting pencil, and wrote quickly on the next blank page, signing it with a flourish. "There you go, all legal and above board. You better have this as well," he continued, tugging a key ring from his pocket. It held two Yale keys and two mortise. They were dark iron, and old. "Spare keys. The front door, Grandpop's apartment and these are for the kitchen, inside and outside. You need anything, like a drink, a bathroom break, help yourself. He won't mind." "Thanks," I said gratefully. Drew stayed a while longer, and we just kicked back and talked. He asked if I'd settled in okay at the loft, and sat there smirking when I let my enthusiasm get away from me. It was late by the time he left, and I hoped I was tired enough to sleep better that night. It didn't work out like that, needless to say. Nightmares of letter bombs had alternated with explicit dreams of Drew's mouth on me, making restful sleep an impossibility. I was glad when morning came, even if I did wake up with the sheet stuck to the dried come on my belly.

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After a shared breakfast, I left Drew to wait for his uncle to show, and headed to the Hall. I took a can of oil with me and gave the gate hinges a good soaking. A little bit of work and I could open both of them wide enough to drive through and round to the back of the house. Before I tackled the outbuildings, I climbed to the third floor nursery, the only room up there that I could safely get to. I hadn't had a chance before to do more than open the door and look around. There was comparatively little junk packed into this room, and I had a clear path to the windows. Once I'd gotten the shutters open, I should be able to get a bird's eye look at the area behind the house. Again, judicial use of the last of the oil and sheer brute strength persuaded the hinges to cooperate, and I was rewarded with what would have been a great view a century ago. Even now, it was pretty good. Closest to the house was the terrace I'd seen from the first floor apartment. It had wide, shallow steps down to the formal gardens laid out around a fountain currently swamped by greenery. Beyond that was an area of once-open parkland with a lake in the center of it. It was all massively overgrown, of course, but the echoes of its former beauty were still there. The lake was a long oval, so clogged with reeds and weeds that only a narrow strip of clear water was left down the middle of it. Cthulhu's Lair. I chuckled quietly. It was fed by the river that came down from the north before turning west and disappearing out of sight among the trees. Beyond the lake, the parkland gave way to dense forest that 154

rose toward the crest of a tree-cloaked ridge. On the other side of that I guessed would be the site of the new build. Reluctantly I dragged my eyes closer to home, picking out the summer house on the far corner of the formal gardens, before moving across to an orchard in full flower, to the walled kitchen garden. The plans had shown me there was a glass house in the part nearest to me, but the stables and carriage house blocked my view of it. At the further end I could see a large dome of vegetation. That would be the ice house. God, restoring this place to its original splendor was an amazing gift to drop into an architect's lap. Almost as good as having a free hand in designing the new house by the waterfall. Eventually, I remembered what I was really there to do, and went back down to the front door and strolled round to the stable yard. Carriage house, tack room and stables formed an L shape block that paralleled the kitchen and laundry, and backed onto the garden wall. If most of the house had been unoccupied for years, that went double for some of those outbuildings. If I had to guess, I'd've said they hadn't been used since well before the Twenties. The stables were a good case in point. Once I'd forced my way through the almost solid mass of creeper and ivy, heaved open a door that gave a great imitation of not being opened for a century or two, I was confronted by four stalls and a loose box. All of them were stacked with tarpcovered furniture and crates. 155

Other than noting that what I could see of the walls and cobbled floor was dry and sound, there wasn't a lot I could do there. The tack room next door was in a reasonable shape as well. Not nearly as cluttered as the stables, there were still a couple of saddles sitting on their racks, bridles and harnesses hanging from hooks. Name plates were set above them, coated in grime. I wiped them clean and saw fancy flower-designs surrounding names on the now-bright enamel: Jacob, General, Apollo, Minerva. Cobweb-cloaked bottles of liniment, oils, rusting tins of saddle soap and other less recognizable products lined the shelves, rubbing shoulders with assorted equine grooming equipment. This would clean up very nicely as part of the museum, and I was grinning as I pushed the door shut and latched it. The carriage house had a dilapidated buckboard and a pony trap moldering at one end. At the other was a treasure. I pulled back a tarp stiff with dirt and bird shit to reveal an ancient Ford, probably from the Twenties or Thirties. It was a Model T, maroon, not black. Whatever, a collector would pay serious money for it, even in its present state. Both the stables and the carriage house were two story buildings, but I didn't risk the outside stairs to their upper floors. Under the smothering vegetation, the wood was rotten in too many places and the roofs slumped. Before I could start to explore the two small barns, the sound of an engine pulled me back to the stable yard. Drew's pickup came round the corner of 156

the Hall and stopped beside my SUV. He climbed out, waving two bags at me. I found myself smiling broadly, pleased to see him. Too pleased. I toned it down, fast. "Lunch," he called. "Great." I'd lost track of time and now my stomach decided to get in on the act and remind me. "I'm starving." "That figures," he grinned. "Found anything interesting?" "Yeah," I laughed. "How about a vintage Ford?" "You're kidding me!" Drew's face lit up like a kid's at Christmas. You'd have thought he was ten years younger than me, not ten older. "How did the meeting go?" I asked, joining him and accepting one of the bags. It contained sandwiches, fruit and a bottle of Coke. "Like you'd expect. Grandpop was right. He's awful uptight about his business partners. Wouldn't tell me a damn thing about them, just tittered and said I wouldn't want to cross them. Which was the wrong thing to say." He grinned and winked at me. "Give me a minute to make a call." He took out his cell and selected a speed dial. "Linda, hi. I need you to do something for me, and it's urgent. Get hold of Toby in Security and tell him I need some background info on my uncle's contacts. His personal details are in his file--Leroy Connors. He is the manager at the Golden Pines restaurant and the Bayou Nights nightclub in Washington DC. He's involved with a group of businessmen and I want to know everything he can find out about them, legit and otherwise. But do it as fast and discreetly as he 157

knows how, okay? Thanks." He ended the call and dropped the phone back into his pocket. "That man is a Grade A jerk," he continued, "and Rob is doing his best to follow in Daddy's footsteps. The little punk spent most of the time sneering down his nose and sniggering, especially when Lee started in on you." "Me?" I was taken aback. "What did I do?" Drew snorted. "You were here. That was enough. I told him you're the architect I'd hired for Grandpop's plans, but he didn't buy it. He's off to inform the old tyrant I'm here with my pet rent-boy performing unnatural and disgusting acts instead of carrying out his wishes. I don't deserve the Hall, I'm a complete waste of a human being and if there was any justice in the world I'll be dead of AIDS. In other words, the same old same old." "My God," I sighed. "No one should have to put up with that shit." "Tell me about it. Y'know, it would be wonderfully poetic if Rob was to turn out gay," he continued wistfully. "Though I wouldn't wish the fallout on my worst enemy. But somehow I don't think he'd dare. Hey, you want to show me the car, then we can eat and get back to work?" So I did, and we did. There were newel posts to find in the basement. Monday morning I took a long shower, trying not to worry too much about what Doc Roth might have to tell me tomorrow. I toweled off and started dressing, concentrating on my immediate plans. 158

Like breakfast, then the drive back to Leidenton. I was actually looking forward to going home to the loft. I really liked that vast open space; it was unlike anywhere I'd lived before. I'd just finished buttoning my jeans when the room's phone chirruped politely. I scooped it up, expecting it to be Drew. It wasn't. "I hoped you'd take the hint," the voice whispered. I'd only heard it once before, but the flat monotone was instantly familiar. "But here you are. I don't want you to be hurt, so you need to get away now." "Who the fuck are you?" I yelled, too furious to fully register the apple taste. "What kind of asshole are you--Amber could have been blinded--killed-you sick freak!" "This is for your own good." If anything, his voice became quieter, and I couldn't pick much of anything from it. But I did get the impression he was nervous. Maybe I was imagining it, but I thought I could pick up a slight hesitation. And judging by the monotone, he was still reading from a script. "You think he cares about you? Not a chance. He's a user and a liar--and he has AIDS. Get away from him. This is your last warning." The line went dead. I replaced the handset as carefully as if it was an unexploded bomb and would go off if I so much as breathed on it. The message was scarier for being delivered in that flat whisper. Ooo-kay. Not Cray's psycho, then. It was Drew's. That shook me up even more, and the mingled tang of aloes with the apple

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made my gut heave. How the hell did I even begin to sort the lies from the truth in a nut job's ravings? I dragged on a t-shirt and was knocking on his door within seconds. "We need to talk," I said as he opened it. He was tying the belt of his white terry robe, and looked heavy-eyed and sleep-rumpled. The V of the robe showed curls of brown hair on his California-tanned chest, and I didn't let myself stare. There were more important things at stake than my inconvenient lust. "Good morning?" he smiled as I brushed past him. "No," I said. "It isn't. Just listen and don't interrupt." "Okay." He dropped into one of the easy chairs by the window and gestured me to the one opposite. "This sounds serious." "Yes. Over the last two weeks I've had a threatening phone call, an anonymous letter, and a letter bomb--Listen!" I snapped as he sat bolt upright and started to speak. "This morning I had another phone call from the same guy. Until today I thought it was one of my ex's fuck-toys warning me away from taking him back. Now I think you're the reason he's trying to scare me off." "Me? That's insane!" Drew hissed. "Wait a minute. The fire in--" "Yeah. Amber was burned, but not badly. The thing was addressed to me. It either misfired or it was meant to be a frightener, but either way Amber ended up in the hospital."

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"Holy shit." Drew rubbed his hands over his face, then pushed them through his hair until it stood on end. He looked and sounded stunned. "What did he say?" I repeated the last message almost word for word, and Drew's shock became controlled fury. "I don't have AIDS, HIV or anything else," he said. "There's no one in my life who'd do such a sick, crazy thing!" "You sure about that?" Apples had already told me he was, but I needed the extra confirmation. "I'm sure. I don't do casual pickups, and my last lover and I parted eighteen months ago on good terms. We've both moved on, and we're still friends." He leaned forward, his gaze intent on my face. "Perry, you do believe me, don't you?" "Yes," I answered. "I'll report the call to the cops on the case. They'll probably want to speak to you as well. Why don't you come back with me?" Suddenly it was vitally important that he did so, but he obviously didn't feel the same. "No," he said. "If this lunatic is watching you then it's best you head back alone. And stay there." "Leave the project? Before I've barely started? No way!" "For your own safety, damn it! If he wants you out of the picture, you go, and you stay gone!" "Absolutely not! I'll be back Wednesday, as soon as I can make it. If I leave at seven and drive straight through, I can be here by midday." "Perry--" He stopped and shook his head. "Okay. Give me the names of your cops. I'll pass them on to the Bellamy officers." 161

"Murdock, Wright and Hardinger," I said. "Robbery & Homicide, Police Headquarters, Leidenton. Before I leave, I'll write out the story so far for you to take to the locals. I'll see you Wednesday, noon. Where will you be? The Hall?" "Yeah. Shit, Perry, for God's sake take care." "I will." I stood up and headed for the door. "Drew," I said, just before I closed it behind me. "Watch your back." "Hey, watch your own," he responded as I shut the door. I scribbled out that report and shoved it under Drew's door, then went on down to the dining room. While I waited for my breakfast to arrive I called Joe and after he'd passed on the standard response to my question on progress: "Inquiries are ongoing," I told him the psycho had contacted me again. He swore quietly and continued muttering curses while I updated him. "I'm on my way back to Leidenton," I finished. "I'll call you again when I'm home." "Great. Maybe you'd better stay here." "No," I said. "I've already had this argument with Drew. The client," I added quickly, my face reddening. "Ah-huh. Might not be the smartest thing you've ever done, Perry, and that's speaking as a cop as well as a friend." I had a feeling it wasn't just the case he was talking about, and I wondered what he'd heard in my voice. "It's not up for discussion," I answered. "See you later, Detective." "Smartass," I heard as I ended the call. 162

Chapter Thirteen The first thing I did when I got back to the loft was phone Victor again to find out how Amber was. She was out of the hospital and still doing okay, for which I thanked God. Then I sent a text to Joe to let him know I was back in town. I made myself a quick omelet and a mug of coffee, and headed into the office, stopping off at the Amalfi Patisserie on Westside to collect some pastries for the mid-afternoon coffee break. I needed to update Victor on the Hall project in any case, and this was as good a time as any. Reception no longer smelt of the letter bomb's aftermath. It had been completely redecorated and carpeted, and Paola was seated behind the new desk. Her face lit up when she saw me, and I leaned over to give her a hug. "How are you doing?" I asked. "I'm fine," she smiled, returning the embrace with interest. "And thank you for the flowers, they're beautiful and it was a lovely thought. Mama was so disappointed when I told her you were gay." I chuckled. "Sometimes being gay means you can get away with all kinds of stuff. Uh, I'm guessing no more hand-delivered envelopes have turned up?" Paola shivered. "No. Don't worry, I'd have screamed for the cops the instant I saw one." We

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chatted for a few more minutes, then I handed over a Danish and made for the elevator. The three-thirty huddle was just beginning to form by the coffeemaker when I walked in. I joined them and we talked shop for a while. Then the teasing started. "So," Frank said slyly. "How are you getting on with the client?" "He's nearly as hunky as your friend the cop," Robyn added. "You did notice that, didn't you?" She nudged me hard in the ribs. "Has to help that he's gay," Adam contributed. "Um, gaydar still working? You have found that out, yes?" "Stop it, jerks," Lisa said loudly. "Perry's not going to go for a rebound, so get your minds out of the gutter!" "You're the one who Googled him," Robyn countered, "and said he'd be perfect for Perry!" "Did not!! "You so did! You said 'I know just who he'd--" "Hey!" I interrupted. "Right here, guys." "Okay, so how are you getting along with him?" Frank wasn't about to let it go, and I could feel my face heating up. Oh, shit... "Perry!" Victor slapped me on the back. "Just the man I need to see. Come on into my office for a moment." He was smiling but it didn't quite reach his eyes, and tension started up in my gut. I didn't say anything until the door closed behind us, shutting out the chatter in the main office. "What's happened?" I asked abruptly.

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"Nothing," he said, gesturing me to take a seat. "I just need more background on this Connors deal. Like why would I get a phone call from a Robert Connors telling me to ignore any communications I might have now or in the future with a Leroy Connors or a lawyer supposedly acting on his behalf?" It took a while to explain the soap opera dynamics of Drew's family. By the time I'd finished, Victor was looking a bit glassy-eyed and was trying not to laugh. I didn't find it that funny. I was the poor bastard who had to deal with the old tyrant. It was something of a relief to escape to my desk and clear up a few of the non-urgent Post-It notes that had accumulated while I'd been gone. Then it was back to the loft and a Chinese take-out for dinner. Joe called me later in the evening, and we arranged to meet up for a late lunch after my appointment with Dr. Roth. He didn't have time to say much on the phone, just repeated that the investigation into the letter bomb was ongoing. He did say that Cray's contacts were out of the frame, but that was no consolation. It merely made the mystery guy more of a mystery and it didn't help me sleep any better that night. Those nightmares were getting old. Sometimes it was Amber, sometimes it was Joe or Drew. Once it was my own face... When I walked into the consulting room, Dr. Roth wasn't alone. There was another white-coat sitting beside him, an older man with an iron gray beard and a turban. 165

"Hi, Perry," Dr. Roth offered a warm smile. "Come and take a seat. This is Dr. Singh, and I thought it would be an idea to run your test results past him as well, just so we could set your mind at rest." My belly had been going through a series of sickening flips as he spoke, but the apple taste didn't waver. That bit about setting my mind at rest sounded pretty damn good to me, so I was sure whatever news he had was going to be good. But I needed to hear one of them say it. "I'm an oncologist," Dr. Singh said. "I'm sure you would have researched your symptoms, and learned their possible causes. So let me say right now that at this moment in time there is absolutely no trace of anything cancerous in your body." The relief released the tension in me and for a short while I let myself fully relax. I was off the hook as far as my health was concerned. "Thanks," I said inadequately. "Have you had any more headaches?" Dr. Roth asked. "Any migraines?" "No." I shook my head. "Which given that high stress levels usually trigger one, is kind of amazing." "No other problems?" "None. I feel fine, Doc." "Good." He paused briefly and exchanged a quick glance with Dr. Singh. "How about those periodic taste sensations?" I started to tell him they were still there, but stopped. There was something eager in his eyes, in the way he was leaning forward slightly, his forearms on his desk. I had a sudden vision of me as a 166

lab rat, undergoing test after esoteric test while a team of scientists took copious notes. "Uh, well," I said instead, "you were right. They just faded away." "Glad to hear it," he replied, and I wasn't imagining the disappointment in his voice, or the rather unpleasant mingle of apples and aloes at the back of my throat. "Hey, Doc, do you have any idea what was going on there?" "As you know," he said without meeting my eyes, "you received blows to your head, to the areas where the temporal lobes of your brain are situated, and to the back of your cranium, over the hindbrain. It's possible that the concussion and associated swellings caused your neural pathways to misfire for a while, and they've since repaired themselves." There was a lot more medical-technobabble, and it sounded a hell of a lot more scary than the reality, but frankly it went over my head. I was okay, that was all I needed to know, and the aloes-apples deal was something I could live with. "That's great," I said enthusiastically, as if I'd understood every word. "We'll be able to make a better prognosis," he continued hopefully, "if the symptoms should return." In other words, he hadn't a clue what had happened inside my skull or why it had happened, and no way was I going to walk right into the fucking labs and let them mess around with my brain. "You'll be the first to know," I lied and beat a very fast retreat. 167

I got to the Bakehouse far too early, but that gave me time to inhale a much-needed coffee and calm down. While I was doing that, I remembered I had to let Ari know how I'd gotten on. I didn't want to get into a long telephone conversation with her, instead I sent a brief text, All results neg, I'm fine. Drew was next. I called him, but he didn't pick up, so I left a brief message saying I was okay, then ordered another coffee. But I wasn't okay. As I shoved my cell into my pocket, I was too aware that my hand was shaking slightly. Maybe I wasn't getting the migraines, but my nerves were screwed up, that was for sure. Yet it wasn't the psycho's threat campaign that had hurt Amber, or the weird tastes, the tests and their results that had me on edge, but something else I couldn't pin down. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. When I opened them again, Joe was there, his expression worried. "If you ask me if I'm all right I will punch you," I said quietly. When did I get to be so aggressive? "Okay," he replied cautiously. "Was it bad news? What did the doc say?" "Gave me a clean bill of health. Have you had anything back on the letter bomb yet?" "It turned up just before I left to come here," he said. "Paola told us the first letter and the package looked identical: computer printed label, no postage, dropped into the BSA mailbox and marked Personal. The brainiacs at CSI say it was an amateurish job, put together with easily obtainable substances, probably working from instructions off the 168

internet, and given the small amounts used, was most likely intended to scare rather than kill." "Tell that to Amber," I growled. "Like I said on the phone, we've spoken to Cray and his contacts. They were amazingly varied," he continued with a wry smile. "Mostly daddy bears rather than twinks." That had my jaw dropping. Cray had never shown any interest in older men. Not that I knew about. But when it came down to it, what did I know, for God's sake? "There are a few more we're trying to trace, but the new development makes it pretty certain none of them were involved. We'll be checking them out just to be one hundred per cent, of course. We'll wait for the guys at Bellamy to contact us, but we'd like to talk to Connors ourselves. Was there anything waiting for you at the loft?" I shook my head. "No, nothing. I haven't checked the house, though. Something could have been left there." "Give me the key and I'll do it. Officially." I fished out my key ring and removed the house key, sliding it across the table toward him. "Thanks, Joe." "Hey, all part of the service. Now, how about we celebrate your test results at the club tonight? I've got some good news as well." "Sorry, Joe," I said with real regret. "I'm wiped. I haven't been sleeping much lately, and I have a long drive tomorrow." "Are you sure you still want to be working that job?"

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"Yeah, I'm sure. Going to be on it for quite a while, with any luck." And with any luck, Drew would be around as well. At least for the duration. Even though I had no intention of letting him get any closer, working with him was turning out to be a masochistic pleasure. "So what's your news? Promotion already?" "I wish. No, I--uh--might have met someone," he finished in a rush. His color was high and there was a silly grin beginning to show. "That's great!" I leaned over the table and gave him a hug, genuinely pleased for him. "Who is he? Where did you meet him? What's his name? What does he look like?" My God, could I sound any more like my sister? "He's a civilian, just started working in the Special Property office this week--transferred in from Kingston. He's thirty, unattached, his name's Mark Fisher and I feel like I've been hit by a truck." If anything, Joe's flush deepened. "I think he's it, Perry," he continued, his voice gruff. "I know it's only been a few days, but I haven't felt like this before." "Yeah." That was the way I was around Drew. "I hope he feels the same way. I'd hate for you to get hurt." "I think he does. He gets this kind of dazed look when-- Shit. Can we change the subject before I end up terminally embarrassed? How's the Bellamy job going?" "Couldn't be better." I was more than happy to follow suit. "It's fascinating, restoring an old house,

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and this one is pretty special. How about you? Is being a detective as cool as it is on the TV?" Joe rolled his eyes. "You bet. Fast cars, cool chicks, hot men--who could ask for more? But seriously? I'd like it better if one of my friends wasn't being threatened by a nut job." "Protect and Serve, man," I smiled, though it felt as if it turned out to be more like a grimace. I could have done without the reminder. "Protect and Serve." I tried Drew's cell again after Joe had gone. No response. I left another message and headed for the office to deal with some more of the Post-Its. Then I phoned Drew, again left a message, and drove back to the loft. By the time I got there, a text was buzzing on my cell. I took a quick glance. It was from Ari, a simple command of 'Call me, jerk!' So as soon as I was settled on the couch with a mug of coffee, I did just that. After I'd given her a word-for-word account of my meeting with the two doctors, she was silent for a moment, then she blew her nose forcefully. "Are you crying?" I demanded. "Ari?" "No!" she growled, and sniffed. "I'm just--so relieved, you idiot! Perry, please come and stay for a while. I think we need some quality family time." "Yeah," I agreed. "That sounds good. But I can't just yet. I'm right in the middle of setting up a couple of projects."

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"Okay, but I'm going to keep on nagging until you give me a date. Change of subject. Met anyone yet?" "What?" Drew's face filled my mind. "As in a hot new boyfriend? You need to move on, Perry-Bit, especially now you have the rest of your life back." I sighed and rolled my eyes. I didn't need her to tell me that. The combined threat of death by tumor and the letter bomb was an amazingly effective way of jolting me out of the rut of insecurity and self-pity I'd dug for myself. "And don't roll your eyes at me, bro," she continued with that annoying big sister kind of omniscience. "You and Cray were more like best friends and fuck-buddies than--" "Ari! Don't start." "You know I'm right. You need more than comfortable sex to scratch your itch. You need some fire." "Do you have any idea how wrong it is for my sister to be saying this stuff?" "Get over it," she chuckled. "So there's no one in your life yet?" I hesitated. There was Joe, but he wasn't the kind of someone she was asking about. Then there was Drew and the chemistry that flared so explosively between us. Drew, who was so far out of my league it was laughable. Drew, who was not answering his phone. "No," I said. "No one." After another nightmare-haunted night, I was on the road before seven, heading away from 172

Leidenton. The edginess of the last two days had become a sense of urgency so strong I was ignoring the speed limits, risking being pulled over by a traffic cop on every stretch of suitable road. Drew still wasn't taking his calls. There was probably a very good reason for that--a perfectly innocent reason-but my instinct wasn't buying it. The fact that the psycho hadn't outright threatened him didn't stop my imagination from coming up with all kinds of horrific scenarios that would have made great scripts for slasher movies. It didn't help that when I called the Grove's reception desk, they told me they hadn't seen him since Monday morning. Drew hadn't checked out, but on Monday afternoon they'd received a phone call from his PA to tell them that he'd been called away to an urgent business meeting in San Francisco. He would be back in a couple of weeks and they were to hold his room until then. There was no obvious reason why that sounded false to me, but it did, and I floored the gas pedal again. When I reached Bellamy, I didn't go to the hotel, but drove straight to Connorswood Hall. There was no sign of Drew's pickup in front of the house, but when I went round to the back, it was parked by the kitchen door. There was a film of dust over the paintwork and windscreen. It had obviously been there for a few days. Since Monday. I tried the kitchen door. It wasn't locked and I stepped inside. "Drew?" I shouted. Large as it was, the old kitchen was too full of anonymous crates and boxes 173

to produce echoes and there was no answer from Drew either. I didn't hear even a rat's squeak. I hurried into the back hall and called again. Nothing. Of course, the man could have been anywhere from the Anchorage in Brookville to California, but this was where he'd said he'd be on Monday, and accidents can happen in ramshackle houses. I didn't want to consider that he wasn't in any condition to answer. "Drew!" By now the urgency had me by the throat. I ran to the entrance hall, yelling his name again. Then I took the stairs three at a time, calling him on each floor. Still nothing. That left only the basement. I sprinted down to the back hall and the door at the top of its stairs. It was closed. I grabbed the dirty brass handle and as soon as I touched it, pepper bit my throat. Pepper? The hell? Whatever, the mechanism in the old mortise lock didn't do anything except grate. It had jammed and the door wouldn't open. So I took a leaf out of the Bruce Willis Handbook and kicked it open. Because I wasn't Bruce Willis, it took three hefty kicks with all my weight behind them before the wood gave way and splintered open onto darkness. When I flipped the light switch, nothing happened. I ran back to my car and snatched out my backpack, thanking God that I'd left it there after my last visit to the house. As well as my first aid kit and an almost full bottle of water, it held the flashlight. Moments later, the bright beam was cutting a 174

swathe through the dark as I hurtled down the stairs. "Drew!" I shouted, and held my breath. Nothing--and then, faintly, "Perry?" from somewhere ahead of me. The corridor I was in probably ran the length of the house, but it was impossible to tell for sure. It was lined and barrel-vaulted in plastered bricks between massive timbers, as Gothic as the Hall above. Once it would have been wide enough to allow two people to walk side by side without brushing shoulders. Now it was semi-blocked by old beams, fallen bricks, plaster and lathes that had come down on top of piled up boxes. Drew had cleared enough of a pathway through it to give access to at least some of the store rooms, but the path ended in what looked like a small avalanche. "Drew?" "Here," he answered. From behind the blockage. Wedging the flashlight on an ancient tea chest, I grabbed hold of the nearest beam. At once pepper bit my tongue, combining with the dust in the air to give me a coughing fit. "Are you okay?" I shouted when I could speak again. "Hungry, thirsty, tired and pissed off," he replied. "But I'm not hurt." "Thank God. You can't get the door open?" "No. It opens out into the corridor. There's no signal for cell phones down here--go and get help." "I can do this," I said grimly. "It's not as if I'm going to start another cave-in." Most of the ceiling

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bricks had already fallen, and over my head I could see floor joists. Two beams had fallen at an angle across the door, the gaps between filled with a sliding rubble that effectively closed off the passageway as well. I dragged some of it out of the way before I tackled the beams again. I'd gotten nothing from the loose debris, but both timbers triggered pepper in my mouth. Combine that with the pepper at the jammed door, and I had something to add to the apples equal truth, and aloes, lies. I didn't attempt to guess the new meaning until I managed to heave the beams out of the way at the expense of a few splinters and a ripped nail that bled everywhere and hurt like hell. When I reached the door, I couldn't open it. The fallen timbers had proved an efficient barrier. "Okay," I muttered aloud. "So what does this mean? Deliberate sabotage? Another scare tactic? Attempted murder?" Following on from the letter bomb incident, that wasn't so much of a reach, even if I'd gotten nothing from letter or call. "What? Perry? What are you talking about?" "This was no accident." There was silence from the other side of the door. Then after a while, Drew growled, "Oh, fuck." "Did you shut the door?" I asked, wrapping my dripping finger in a grubby tissue I found in my backpack. "Yes. There's lists and stuff nailed to it on this side. I was checking it out when it sounded like the house collapsed." 176

"No, just this part of the corridor. I've shifted the beams--you push and I'll pull." Between the two of us, we forced the dust and grit-clogged hinges into submission, and they gave way with enough noise to wake the dead. Then Drew was framed in the doorway, blinking in the flashlight's beam. I have never been so pleased to see anybody in my life. We reached for each other at the same time and held on for all we were worth. He was solid as carved wood in my arms, muscles locked hard with tension, and I was sure I could feel the thuds of his heartbeat against my ribs. "I thought I heard someone or something moving around out here," he whispered into my hair. "Rats, I guessed. Then there were a couple of crashes and that was it. I couldn't move the door." "Rats can't pull down beams," I replied. My face was turned into his neck, my mouth very close to his skin. When I spoke, my lips feather-brushed his throat and he shivered. "The door at the top of the stairs was jammed as well. Or locked." "This is an old house. Doors get stuck." He didn't want to accept the truth. I could understand that. "Sure they do. But this was deliberate, Drew. Take my word for it." "You can't be sure of that," he said quietly. "Yes, I can. Okay, it's nothing that'll stand up in front of a judge, and would get me laughed out of the police station, or locked up in the local nuthouse. But I know." Then it hit me that he could have died down here. No water--how long can a man go without water? Not nearly as long as he can without food. I held him tighter, breathing in the 177

scent of him, sweat and dust and almost faded cologne, and didn't want to let him go. Not then, not ever. I realized then that he had become more important to me than anyone else, even my family, and I didn't give a damn about the carefully thought-out reasons why it would be such a bad idea. And that was something of an epiphany. Neither of us spoke. Maybe it had occurred to him as it had to me; that with him out of the way, the Hall and all its six hundred acres would go to his nearest relative--back to an old man of ninetysix who could drop dead at any moment, and whose mental health would be put to the question as soon as Lee Connors could arrange it. Drew coughed quietly in my ear. "Do you have any water with you?" he asked huskily, and I realized I was supporting most of his weight. "It's Wednesday, right? I only had half a bottle." "Sorry, yes." I propped him up against the tea chest and got the bottle out of my backpack. It was three-quarters full, and stale, but it was liquid. "Drink it slowly." He obeyed, still leaning on me, and we stayed there in the flashlight's beam until he'd finished it all. Then I pulled Drew's arm over my shoulder, picked up my flashlight and we climbed out of the basement.

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Chapter Fourteen I was all for piling Drew into my car and taking him to the nearest hospital, but he wouldn't hear of it. Instead we ended up in his grandfather's apartment. Drew slumped in an easy chair while I hunted through the kitchen cabinets for the liquids and nourishment he needed. I hit pay-dirt. Not only was there coffee and sugar, there were also cans of soup. I opened one of chicken and poured it into a pan to heat up on the stove. Luckily we both drank our coffee black; there was milk in the refrigerator, but it was solid curds and green. I gave him a glass of water to sip while the coffee perked and the soup heated, and stuck my hand under the tap to rinse off the blood. There was only a couple of splinters and they were large enough for me to use my teeth to get them out. Then I raided my first aid kit for band-aids. "So," Drew said when I brought him coffee and soup. "You're absolutely certain it was deliberate?" "Yes. Someone dislodged those beams so they fell across the door. They took a risk, though. I found you." "Uh, not so much. After you'd gone I moved your gear into my room and told Reception you wouldn't be coming back." "Why would you do that?" I demanded. "Of course I was coming back. I told you--"

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"I know!" he interrupted, his voice rising. "But if the creep who was gunning for you thought you'd left for good, you'd be safe." "So then he turned on you?" I shouted back. "Smart move!" "Yeah, well, I thought so at the time. Why are we yelling at each other?" "Because you could have died down there!" The words hung between us, the enormity of them an elephantine bulk that blocked the air from my lungs. Finally the reaction hit me. I dropped rather than sat on the other easy chair and stared at him wide-eyed. "Someone tried to kill you and make it look like an accident." "Probably the same person who wanted you away from me. Shit." Drew put the half-finished soup on the floor, and for a moment I thought he was going to throw up. "Okay, let's look at this logically. That means--" He stopped. "Lee Connors," I said for him and he flinched. "No." Drew shook his head. "The man is all kinds of an asshole, but he isn't a killer. He's full of bullshit and bluster, but that's all. I can't see him planning it out and going through with it." "The next option is whoever's backing him in this country club deal. You said he was cagey. As in scared of them, maybe?" "Maybe. No. That's just as crazy." But I could hear the doubt in his voice. "So we ask him. I'll know if he lies." "You can't be sure about that." "Oh, yes, I can. As sure as I am those beams were pulled down deliberately." 180

"Slow down, Flash," he said tiredly. Flash? What the hell? "Don't let your imagination get away from you." For a few seconds my convictions wavered. I hadn't gotten anything from the anonymous letter or phone calls, not so much as a hint of pepper. That had only kicked in today. Intent. That had to be the key. I didn't know why the letter bomb hadn't given me pepper, but no question, he--or they-wanted Drew dead. "Those blows to my head," I said, keeping my voice quiet and even with an effort. "They scrambled something in my brain. Made a few weird connections between the neural pathways, maybe. I don't know and neither does my neurologist. But the end result is a kind of a psychic thing. I can tell truth from lies, whether it's people or objects, and now it seems I can tell when something has been used to cause serious harm. The door at the top of the basement stairs, the beams. All of them were meant to trap you there. No one's been to this house since your grandfather left it, have they? Who'd think to look for you here if I've hightailed it back to Leidenton?" "Are you listening to yourself? That is insane, Perry!" "Yeah." My smile bared my teeth, but I wasn't amused. "Welcome to my new world. Test me. We'll play a little game of True Or False. You tell me something and I'll tell you which it is. Go ahead." "You really believe this shit," he said wonderingly. "I--" "Try me!" I interrupted, leaning forward. "Fuck you, just do it!" 181

"Okay! I can speak Japanese!" "True. Next?" "I've got a pilot's license." "True. Next?" It took ten minutes of rapid fire statements and answers before he caved with a muttered, "I believe you." "True," I responded, sitting back on the couch. I pinched the bridge of my nose. I didn't have a headache, just a tension that might become one. "He's your uncle. You call the shots." "Okay. Let me think about it." He picked up the soup and stirred the spoon around in the creamy liquid, but didn't drink any. "Sure. You want me to heat that up again?" "Yeah. Thanks." When I brought back the now-steaming bowl, I left it on the coffee table beside Drew's chair. His jaw was set in a stubborn jut and he was speeddialing a number on his cell. "Hi, Linda. Can you get hold of Toby and tell him I need that info he was hunting down ASAP. Things have started to get messy here and they might be involved. Thanks." He ended the call and looked up at me, frowning. "I don't want to bring the law into this," he said, something that might have been a plea in his voice. I wanted to hug him. "Not yet. I have to know for sure if my uncle's in on whatever's going on." "I can understand that," I answered. "But someone who knows you, is," I continued, belatedly remembering my call to the Grove. "In fact, the 182

hotel has had a message, supposedly from your PA, saying you've had to leave suddenly but to hold the room because you'll be back in a couple of weeks. By which time, you'd be a rat-deli down in the wine cellar." "Thanks for a nice relaxing image. Well, they're going to get a shock when I turn up alive and kicking." "And if you don't take it to the police, they will simply try again." "But we'll be on our guard. He went to a lot of trouble to make the cellar look like an accident, so I'm guessing he'll go that route again. I'll just be extra careful." "Fair enough. But." I paused, catching and holding his gaze. "Drew, his letter bomb hurt an innocent bystander. She's scarred and could have been blinded. I don't care if whoever did this is the love of your life, your first-born or your uncle, whoever it was has to pay for that." Maybe that made me an insensitive jerk, but it had to be said. "I agree. All I'm asking for is a little time." Reluctantly I gave in. "You've got it. How are you going to hold off the cops?" Drew shrugged. "I'm not. They'll do their thing with what they already have. I'm just not going to give them anything else. Yet. But you don't have to be involved. Go back to Leidenton." "No." The TV sitcom that had become my life was morphing into an equally bad PI wannabe show. With a paranormal subplot. For the first time, I started wishing I revamped shopping malls, not Victorian Gothic mansions. "The bastard brought 183

me in with the letter bomb. Besides, you need my skewed synapses." "I need you," he murmured sadly, and the flavor that zinged across my senses was apple enhanced again to hard cider. I swallowed hard, and couldn't speak for a moment. The only thought in my head was that he could have died. "Sorry," he sighed, rising quickly to his feet. "I shouldn't have said that." I didn't hesitate. I shot to my feet and a split second later I was in his space. "You could have died," I growled, as if it was his fault some lunatic was trying to waste him. I grabbed a double fistful of his shirt and yanked him closer, "You don't get to do that." Then the words were tangled up in my throat, choking me, so I pushed through my panic and confusion and craving, and claimed his mouth in a hard, desperate kiss. Drew's arms clamped around me, one a solid bar at the small of my back, welding our hips together, the other across my shoulder blades. I probably couldn't have broken free if I wanted to. Not that I had any intention of testing it. Instead I stayed as close as was humanly possible, and eased my knee between his legs so that my thigh was putting just enough pressure on his cock for me to feel the swelling heat. Drew moaned into my mouth and I drank his breath as if it was life itself. Given that he'd been trapped since Monday, it should have been gross, but it wasn't. It was Drew and he was alive, and it felt like coming home. His stubble rasped my skin as he laid a series of open-mouthed kisses along my jaw, and I dropped my head back to give him better access. He was whispering my 184

name between each kiss, and I was drifting in a vortex of apple brandy. Surrounded by Drew's presence as well as his embrace, I rested my forehead on his shoulder. "I can't promise you anything," I said, my voice muffled by his dusty, sweat-sour shirt. "I wish I could." The trouble was, I didn't know what the hell I meant by that. "But anything you want--" "I know." His lips pressed into my hair, and his hands moved sure and strong over my back. "We can work this out. We have to. I like having you in my life, Perry Latimer." I thought of Joe and how easy it was to be with him, how easy it had been for both of us to walk away afterward. Friends. With benefits. I didn't think I could be that casual with Drew. God help me, I didn't want to be that casual with Drew. I'd known the man for three weeks to the day and he had turned my world on end and shaken it inside out. "Yeah," I muttered. "Me, too." Right then I didn't care if I was rebounding. Too much had happened recently, and I'd had it hammered home just how fragile life could be. Wrapped up in his arms, feeling the solidity of his muscle and bone, I knew I'd come to a safe harbor. Surely I could allow myself this? Whatever this was. For however long it lasted. "You're thinking too much." Drew's mouth moved slowly over my scar as he spoke, the light touches tingling through me like mild electric shocks. "I can hear the gears grinding. If it helps," he continued, "I've wanted you right from the start. Something just clicked into place. I didn't know who you were, 185

what you looked like under the blood, why you were lying there, whether it was deliberate or an accident. Only that I'd been given a chance--we had been given a chance." "For what?" I asked, feeling as if I was drowning in Calvados. "Damned if I know. We should take some time to find out when this crazy mess is tied up." "Yes. We should." I leaned on him a moment longer, then reluctantly started to move away. Immediately he let me go. "So," I said quietly. "Business as usual." "Yeah. Going over this place and the rest of the property, planning out the projects. I watch your back, you watch mine, and we both watch Lee like hawks." "Perhaps we can set a trap of some kind, see who falls into it," I suggested, with no idea how in God's name we could do it. I could appreciate that Drew wanted to know exactly how deep his own family was in this mess, but we should be calling in the cops now, not later. "That's a thought. But we need to take the heat off while Toby does his digging." He gazed off into space, frowning. "If I was to drop a few hints to Uncle that I was having second thoughts..." "If it is him, he'd hold back if he thinks you might sell up and he can get his hands on the place legitimately. But if your grandfather gets to hear about it, he'd just about blow every gasket he's got left."

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"That is so true. We'll have to tell him what's going on," he continued reluctantly, "and that's likely to have the same effect." "So find out from his doctor if he can take a shock to the system." "Yes," Drew said with sudden decisiveness. "I'm going to freshen up in Grandpop's bathroom, then we'll head for the Anchorage. Will you phone ahead and see if we can get an appointment with their medical staff?" "Sure. I'm also going to take a look around and see if I can find out how the bastard got in. You and me and your grandfather have the only keys, yes?" "Yes. That's a good point, though how you'll tell if a lock's been picked, I don't know." "Um, pepper." "What? Oh. Pepper." He shot me a decidedly wall-eyed glance, and followed it with a rueful smile. "I knew you were a special kind of guy from the moment I first saw you. I'm beginning to realize just how special." "Go," I said, flushing. "Shower." "I'm going. You'd better have these." He tugged the chain of Hall keys out of his pocket and handed them over. "Just be careful." "I will," I said, and got out of there before the thought of Drew naked and water-sleek had me volunteering to wash his back. And front. It didn't take more than ten or eleven minutes to find where the break-in had happened. A swift brush of fingertips over every lock was enough to tell me none of them had been forced, so I started to 187

explore the apartments that were safe to enter. I began with the first floor, with the one the Twenties plans had marked as a studio. It opened right off the entrance hall, and when I flipped on the light-mildly astonished that it still worked--I saw a respectably large partially-furnished room. Once it had probably been a parlor or reception room with an almost circular alcove into the tower, now it would have made a comfortable studio with a bit of work. Okay, make that a lot of work. All the front and tower windows were shuttered, and so was the one on the left hand wall behind the swell of the tower. Or so I thought, until a few scattered ivy leaves and scuffed marks on the dusty floorboards made me give it a closer inspection. It was shuttered all right, but one of the panes of glass had broken and removed, and I was able to open the window and then the shutter without any problems beyond stiff hinges. The harshness of pepper in my mouth and a few scrapes on the window sill were all it needed to show that someone had climbed in and out with intent. The lock on the apartment's door was a Yale, so it would be child's play to get access to the entrance hall and the unlocked basement. When I returned, Drew was showered and shaved, and dressed in clean clothes. He had rooted through his grandfather's wardrobe and changed his dirty t-shirt and sweater for one of the old man's button-downs. It was tight across his chest and shoulders, but even so, a big improvement on the alternative. He looked a hell of a lot more 188

respectable that I did right then. When he shrugged on a borrowed jacket as well, he was ready to go. Before we left the house, I pulled the basement door closed, easing the damaged wood back into place. It would take a close look to see where I'd kicked it in. We took my car, leaving the pickup to collect another layer of dust, and as I drove away, I told him what I'd found. He didn't comment, just sighed and scowled into the distance. The doctor on duty was waiting for us when we reached the Anchorage. According to her the old man's heart was in pretty good condition for a man of his age. When Drew told her he had some heavy news to pass on and didn't want to trigger a collapse, she agreed to hang around the in-house clinic until we'd gone, then check Robert over and give him medication if she thought he needed it. Then we went to beard the old lion in his den. Well, his patio. He was sitting in his wheelchair in the shade of the rose-covered pergola, reading the New York Times. "Huh," he said, putting down the paper and glaring at us. "Look what the cat dragged in. And that's my jacket." "I'll explain later." "That you will. Progress report?" "Yup," Drew said easily. The pergola had a bench seat, so we sat there. Robert turned his wheelchair to face us. "So where are the plans?" he demanded. "The prospectus?" 189

"Back at the hotel and in our heads," Drew answered crisply. "There's a reason for that and I'll get to it later. Just hear me out on what I want to do with the Hall first." "What you want to do?" Robert's harsh cackle grated on my nerve ends like sandpaper. "That's a change of tune right there." "Yes, well, Perry has come up with some ideas that have a lot of potential," he said. "And I have a feeling you'll think the same." First of all, he listed the proposals for the house and outbuildings, then for the Seneca settlement, and finally the self-sufficiency hooks. The old tyrant listened without interruption, unless I took into account his frequent snorts of disgust. "You want to turn the Hall into a blasted theme park?" he blared when Drew sat back. "I might as well have sold it to Disney and be done with it!" "You wanted living history," Drew said with a shrug, completely unfazed by Robert's reaction. "Seems to me we've gone as far as we can to realistically accommodate that. So now tell me what you really think." "Hah! I said it was to be set in the 1850s, not across a couple of centuries!" He fell silent, scowling at us. Then he nodded. "Ethan Connors married a Seneca woman," he said, "back when he first carved out the holding and called it Connorswood. Yes. I agree." "I didn't know that," Drew said, a smile growing. "Boy, what you don't know would smother a small nation. Now tell me what else is going on. 190

Why take my jacket--and one of my shirts by the look of it?" "Someone tried to kill me Monday morning." I nearly choked. Nothing like coming out with it, straight from the shoulder. As it was, I half-expected Robert to laugh, but he didn't. That too-shrewd gaze was fastened on Drew's face, and his frown deepened. "How?" he barked. "Who?" "Trapping me in the wine cellar and telling the hotel I would be gone for a couple of weeks. By then, as Perry so eloquently put it, I'd be a delicatessen for the local rats." Robert didn't speak. His lips were pressed into a thin, pale line, his hands had a white-knuckled grip on the arms of his wheelchair and his eyes were doing their damnedest to burn holes in the patio's flagstones. I watched him anxiously, wondering if I should call the doctor. "I didn't just slip on the steps because I'm over ninety," he said finally, just as I was about to get to my feet. "They were greased." "Are you sure?" Drew asked quietly. The old man took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "Yes. Do you think I'm an idiot? Olive oil has a faint but distinctive smell and I was lying on the damned steps long enough to identify it. My hands slid on it when I tried to get up." Oh, fuck. The steps. I'd assumed they were clean because the old despot was house-proud. Someone must have scoured away the oil after he'd been carted off in the ambulance.

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"You didn't think to mention this to anyone?" Drew snapped. "Like the police? For God's sake, Grandpop!" "I thought, and I didn't," Robert growled. "Since I'd had an argument with Leroy the previous day when he demanded I change my will, I had nothing I wanted to tell them." "So then he tried to buy you out." "And I sold it to you." "And I ended up trapped in the cellar." "Okay," I said, standing up. "That's it. I'm calling the cops right now." "No!" bayed both Connors in chorus. I faced down two pairs of blazing golden eyes. "Fuck this!" I yelled in their faces. "Two potentially fatal accidents and a letter bomb! No way can we play Amateur Hour with--" "Perry, you agreed to give Toby some time--" "I changed my mind!" "No, you can't. We're going to play along, remember? That'll keep us out of the firing line." "Sure it will, if it's Lee Connors with or without his backers, but there's no guarantee it is him, so--" "Play along, how?" Robert cut in. "I'm going to tell him I'm thinking of selling the place after all. That'll maybe gain us some time while my Head of Security investigates the group behind this country club plan of his." "Good idea. I'll go along with that." I gaped at them. "You're both insane," I hissed, struggling to find adequate words and failing. "Get used to it," Robert instructed crisply.

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"The hell I will," I snapped, and walked out, leaving them to it. I had my key in the Mercedes' ignition when Drew caught up with me. "It will be okay," he said earnestly. "All we need is a little time for Toby to do the research. Three, maybe four days. C'mon, Perry, give me a break here." I wavered, and he knew it. "Please." "Three days." I bit the words out, silently cursing myself for being a weak-willed fool where he was concerned. I really needed to grow a backbone. "Saturday, I'm calling it in." We drove back to the hotel, and it took a determined effort on my part to stick to a legal speed. "Thanks, Perry," Drew said, breaking a silence that was more than a little uncomfortable. "I appreciate this. I know we're taking a risk, but my gut tells me we're safe enough buying time." "I hope I don't have to say I told you so," I muttered. He grinned and patted my knee, his hand lingering there. The warmth of his palm cupping the bony angle felt like a gentle brand. "It'll be okay," he answered, supremely confident. "You'll see. I'll call Uncle Lee tomorrow, arrange a meeting. What's left of the Hall to check out?" "The barns, gardens, the ice house and glass house, the parkland, the lake," I replied, glad of the distraction. "Why two?" he asked. "Barns, that is. They imply a farm, but there's nothing here that can be farmed."

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"Hay, straw and grain, probably. The hostler would have lived above the tack room and there isn't enough space above the stables to keep enough for four animals over winter, so they'd have to be stored somewhere else. There could be living quarters over the carriages as well as the tack room and stables, so barns are the alternative." "That'll be cool." "And all the firewood has to be stacked somewhere undercover. There are a lot of hearths in that house, as well as the kitchen range and the boilers in the laundry." "Yeah." He fell silent again, but the awkwardness had gone. "You know what surprises me? The amount of stuff that's been stored rather than dumped." I chuckled. "Yeah. I think your family takes the gold medal for packrattery." "That is not a word," he grinned, his hand tightening on my knee. "It's going to be a cross between a nightmare and a treasure hunt, trying to sort through it all." "You can hire firms to do that for you. House clearance specialists," I said. I started to rest my own hand on top of his. I managed to restrain myself until I remembered I didn't have to anymore. His fingers were warm and strong under my palm. "BSA can recommend some good ones. They'll give you valuations on individual items as well." "And your mojo can tell me what's junk and what's the real deal." "Uh, I don't think it'll work like that," I said cautiously. "If someone had labeled something as a 194

fake, I could tell you it wasn't, and vice versa, but that's all. It's not like I'm a psychic on a TV show, and it might not even be permanent." "I guess. How about reproductions? They're fakes, but they're not trying to pass as genuine." "They're still lies," I answered, remembering the piece of resin scrimshaw I'd seen at the antiques store. "I'm going to have to be very careful what I say to you, aren't I?" Drew said solemnly. I shot a quick glance at him. The dimples were out in full force. "Yes." I couldn't stop my own smile growing. Not that I tried very hard. "Have dinner with me tonight?" he asked, his voice quiet. It almost sounded like an invitation to a date. "Okay," I answered.

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Chapter Fifteen The receptionist at the Grove took our unexpected return with nothing more than a cheerful smile, and a raised eyebrow that seemed to be involuntary. My old room was still free so I booked back in, then followed Drew to his and collected my gear. Once I was resettled, I took a much-needed shower and tried to relax under the hot spray. Didn't happen. My imagination wouldn't shut up: what if I'd been held up? What if I'd taken Drew's and Joe's advice and stayed away? How long would it have taken him to die? By the time I'd dried off and dressed in clean clothes, food was the last thing on my mind. The thought of it was enough to make me want to hurl. I shoved all those useless what-ifs to the back of my mind and concentrated on the mundane. A knock sounded on my door as I was fingercombing the light gel through my still-damp hair. "It's open," I called and Drew walked in, smiling as he met my gaze in the mirror. "I just texted Lee," he said. "Told him I wanted to know more about his country club plans, with a hint I might be interested in buying in. Asked him to call me. Didn't want to seem too eager. I can drop the selling up hints when he phones." "Good idea," He'd changed into a dark green shirt and black pants, and he looked good enough to eat. But he'd looked the same to me covered in 196

cellar-grime and sweat, so who was I to judge? There was this magnetic compulsion that tugged at me, drawing me to him, and even though I'd already made the decision not to fight it anymore, I found myself resisting it. He was too damn sure of himself. "Yeah, I thought so," Drew said smoothly. His eyes were drifting over me, checking me out with an almost tangible caress. His smile grew. So did the golden smolder in his gaze and it re-ignited my blood. "But that's all I want to say about this godawful mess for now. Tonight it's just us. No shoptalk." "Okay," I agreed, my face heating up. "I'm ready. Let's go." "Yeah," he chuckled. "I'm hungry, too." There was a huskiness in his voice that hinted he wasn't talking about food and my flush deepened. Damn it, I was acting like a giddy teenager. I had never experienced this kind of nervous tension before; needing to be with him, wanting him to want me as much as I did him, and high as a kite on the sweet fire that was spreading through me. I was so far out of my depth it was scary. And that, whispered a snide voice in my head, is why you should have kept him at a safe distance. I ignored it. Drew hooked his fingers into my belt-loops and eased me closer. "You and me," he said softly. "I'm glad you're giving me another chance." "We need to start over," I agreed. I'd already had my epiphany and there was no going back for me, even though I knew I was going to get hurt at the end of it. But I'd survive. I slid my hands over his 197

shoulders, enjoying the feel of solid muscle under his shirt. Then I traced the line of his throat and up, framing his face. My palms felt too warm and my chest was tightening as I canted his head a little. Then I drew him down the few inches it took to reach his mouth and sealed my lips over his. My tongue probed gently until he let me in and I explored his clean mint and hint of coffee taste. Kissing Drew now was even better than the first time. Those tectonic plates didn't shift, but the deep-seated fire was there, waiting to surge to furnace heat. His arms closed around me, welding us together from knees to mouths, and our bodies fitted like pieces in a puzzle newly aligned in their proper place. Then, to prove just how perfectly in tune we were, both our stomachs woke up and reminded us loudly we were overdue a meal. The hotel's dining room was half-full. Mostly it was couples dotted around the cream and gilt chamber, with one large family group under the ornate chandelier in the center. We were seated at a table by the patio doors, giving us a view out onto the illuminated terrace and gardens. I knew from the brochure in my room that in a few months time there would be tables set out there so that diners could enjoy the warm evenings. For a moment I was lost in the Hallmark vision of Drew and I out there breathing the flower-scented air, sharing the summer nights. The sound of a cell playing Ode to Joy snapped me out of it, and Drew shrugged an apology as he took the phone from his pocket. 198

"Huh. Not Lee," he said, glancing at the small screen. "Hi, Linda, you're working late again, hon." Beat. "No problem, we haven't started eating yet. Any news from Toby?" There was another brief pause. "Uh, yeah, I guess it is too soon," he continued, a wry smile growing, "but I'm so used to you and he producing miracles. I do need that info, though." This time the pause was longer and the smile faded. "No, I haven't forgotten. Tuesday, eleven-thirty. Yes, I'll be there. My flight leaves at six-thirty Monday evening. What's the latest on the Orion blueprints?" It was a deluge of ice-water shocking me back to reality and I stopped listening to the increasingly technical one-sided conversation. While my salary was good, it in no way compared to Drew's income. More importantly, he lived and worked on the west coast. I was firmly rooted in Leidenton. I wasn't anywhere near ready to maybe relocate to California and go for my ultimate ambition of starting my own business. That prospect was years down the line. So if we began a relationship it would be a long-distance deal most of the time, and those were notorious for failing. Okay, Drew would probably commute while the two projects were running, but only between LA and Bellamy. Leidenton was another five hours away. My on-the-spot involvement would be mostly in the early stages. Once the hands-on restoration was up and running, my input would be from the office. The same went for the waterfall house. I could drive over on a Friday night and back on the Sunday any time he was there, but would that be 199

enough to hold his interest? Me, I'd take what I could get, but I'd already resigned myself to the fact that I was going to be pretty badly burned. Maybe I should just call it a day right now, while I still could. Before I fell any deeper. We could still be friends. Maybe. Just nothing more. The thought was painful. Drew was becoming a necessity: his touch, his taste, the sheer rightness of being with him. I gave myself a swift kick in the ass. No overthinking, no second-guessing. I'd made my decision and I was going to stick to it. This was Wednesday. I didn't have a lot of time left to live the dream. "Sorry about that, Flash," Drew said after a while, leaving the cell on the table. "Now, where were we?" "Looking at the menu," I answered brightly, pinning on my best smile. I intended to make the most of those five nights and five days. I'd worry about picking up the pieces afterward. Dinner was--a blur. When the meal ended, I had no idea what I'd eaten or drunk; all I was aware of was the smoldering fire of his presence and the deep timbre of his voice sinking into my bones. I studied his face as if it was a manuscript illuminated by whiskey-gold eyes and a mobile mouth I wanted to taste again, and knew that no matter what happened between us, I would never forget this man. Drew asked me questions and I answered, the words lost the moment they were spoken. Then he drained the last of the wine in his glass and picked up his cell. With his gaze locked on my face, he deliberately turned it off and shoved it in his 200

pocket. I got the message. If Toby or Linda, or anyone else decided to call, Drew wouldn't be answering it. "Coffee upstairs?" he suggested. I nodded, finished my own wine and stood up. "I thought my room," he said as we walked out, "since yours looks more like an architect's studio, and we're not talking shop this evening." "Sure," I agreed, with a casual shrug that lied in every respect. "So, uh..." I wracked my brains for a conversation topic, trying to remember if we'd covered favorite vacation-places. "Have you been to Hawaii?" "Yes, several times," he replied. We paused in front of the elevator and he pushed a button. The doors slid open, he took my hand and towed me inside. "We agreed Maui and O'ahu were really cool places." "Oh." I flushed, feeling like an idiot. But I thought to hell with it, and as the door slid closed behind us, I stepped into his personal space and slid my hands into his hair. The strands were warm and silky around my fingers. "Just a bit distracted here," I whispered, and it took only a little pressure to bring his head down to my level. I needed to kiss him the way I needed to breathe. "God, yes," he muttered and fitted his mouth over mine, his lips moving gently, his tongue probing past mine. We started a duel that stole the breath from my lungs, but I was holding my own until his hands clamped onto my ass and he lifted me to my toes, crushing our bodies together. That was when I lost control of the kiss and just hung on 201

for the ride. Pushy bastard. I should have guessed he'd be a top. I didn't have a problem with that, as long as he went along with the Taking Turns Is Fair Play policy. The ping that announced our arrival at the third floor seemed to come from far away. I would have ignored it if Drew hadn't broken the kiss and loosened his hold on me enough to let me stand on my own. "What?" I asked intelligently. "We should take this to my room," he said, his voice low and husky. "Oh. Yeah." But I wasn't in any hurry to let him go. The door started to close so Drew stuck his foot in front of it and it slid back. "Uh, what happened to your client-consultant professional level litany?" he murmured into my hair. "Not that I'm complaining, of course." "The wine cellar happened," I said. "Life's too short..." "Yeah. I learned that one years ago," he replied, and there was something in his voice that gave me an immediate flashback of him telling me his parents had been killed in an interstate pile-up. Oh, yes. That would do it. It also kind of killed the mood, needless to say. I changed my next kiss from sensual-with-tongue to closed-mouth comforting, and stood back. But I didn't release him. Not entirely. I kept hold of his hand for the walk to his door. The last few times I'd been in Drew's room, I hadn't paid any attention to it. First I was warning him about the psycho, then I was ferrying my stuff back to my own room, too freaked out about might202

have-beens and the not calling the cops deal to check out decor. This room was twice the size of mine, more like a studio apartment than anything else. One with wide glass doors onto a deep balcony that would be a great place to sit and enjoy the summer in a few months' time. A long, curved couch and two arm chairs sat in front of a huge flat screen TV, and over on the far wall was a not so mini mini-bar, a fridge, a microwave and a coffeemaker. But the room was dominated by the king-sized bed. "Like it?" Drew murmured, standing behind me. He rested his hands on my hips and rocked me back against his chest. "Yes," I answered, and I didn't sigh and close my eyes as he pulled my shirt out from my pants and began working on the buttons. I waited until he'd unfastened every one before I turned in his arms and faced him. "I've changed my mind about the coffee," I managed, starting on his shirt. "That's good. Coffee is overrated." "No, it really isn't, but right now I'd sooner have you." As I slipped his last button free, Drew eased my hands away and pushed my shirt off my shoulders, sliding it down my arms and letting it drop to the floor. For a moment he didn't say anything, nor did he move. His eyes drifted over me, and there was something almost reverent in his gaze. "God," he whispered. "Look at you...Perry..." I knew my color was high, but I did my best to ignore it. After all, he obviously liked what he saw. Though I hadn't worked out since before my stay in 203

the hospital, my body hadn't exactly fallen apart in the last few weeks, and I was in fairly good shape. Then he drove all coherent thought out of my head by running his fingertips through the fine hair on my pecs and brushing over my nipples. I caught my breath on a gasp and he did it again, his smile widening to a grin. "Sensitive?" he drawled, lightly pinching the hardening flesh. I didn't have a chance to answer. His hands glided around my ribs and before I could draw a gulp of air we were fitted close together. His mouth fed on mine, and I enticed his tongue to delve deep, willingly giving him the control he seemed to need. He was the one who'd been stuck helpless in the cellar, after all. That was as rational as I could get under the circumstances. Without breaking the kiss, we heeled off our shoes and fumbled blindly at each other's buttons and zippers, only parting to shed pants, boxers and socks. Then Drew held me away from him, his eyes traveling over me as if he could devour me by sight alone. "Perry..." he whispered again, as if he was stuck on my name. I couldn't find enough of a voice to answer him. Drew looked damn good to me as well, that was for sure. He was everything I didn't know I wanted in a man until that moment. His body was all lean muscle over strong bones, his skin tanned, paling to cream where he'd worn swim-shorts. His body hair was more generous than mine, leading my eyes down to the dense bush at the root of the uncut cock that was rising and lengthening as I watched. 204

God, I wanted him so badly it hurt my heart as well as my balls. I ran my fingertips along the curve of his collarbone. He shuddered under the feathertouch and reached for me, drawing me to him with another husky whisper of my name. If I'd thought our bodies fitted together before, now we were both fully naked it was a whole different story. Now we were two halves of a perfect whole, and the couple of inches difference in our heights paid off. His cock slid a slick path along my belly, while mine nudged his sac as I pressed between his thighs. His coarse hair was an electric jolt to my sensitive flesh, and the heat of it spread through every part of me. My focus narrowed down to just Drew. To the connection of skin on skin, of mouth and probing tongues. I had never felt more alive in my life. It was as if his every caress awoke something within me, remaking me. Then the edge of the bed caught me behind the knees and I sank down, drawing him with me. Drew's low growl of pleasure was added fuel to the fire scorching through my blood. The sensations ratcheted up with each kiss we exchanged, each stroke, each gasping breath. I was barely aware of the pause as he put on a condom, or the cool silkslick touch of his lubed fingers at my entrance as he prepared me. He was thorough, not rushing me, for which I was thankful. It had been a long time, and he wasn't small. When Drew finally entered me, I welcomed the sweet stretch of it. His name spilled from me in a litany of desire that rose to a shout as he eased in 205

with one steady push. And paused, letting me adjust to his girth. I clamped my knees around his ribs, my heels digging into his ass, craning up to claim his mouth in a hungry, sloppy kiss. Then I dropped my head back to the pillow and arched into him. "Move!" I pleaded, ordered. So he did, driving into me with a relentless rhythm and hitting my prostate with every thrust. It was too much, too intense for either of us to hold out for long. Orgasm exploded through me and he followed moments later. He filled all the empty spaces in me, the same way he filled my body. I was complete. I awoke to comfort and blinked my eyes open. Morning light glowed through the windows, unhindered by drapes. I was lying on my left side as usual, but my forehead was pressed against a warm tanned shoulder. Drew was on his back, snoring quietly. My right arm lay across his belly, and his hand was curled over mine, holding it in place. A soul-deep contentment hummed in my blood and bone. If I could spend the rest of my life waking up beside this man, I'd consider myself the luckiest man on the planet. I was enough of a realist to know it just wasn't going to happen, but that was okay. Really. Even the short time I would have with him was worth the pain of having to let him go when the time came, of living without him. Carefully, making sure I didn't disturb his sleep, I propped myself up on my elbow and looked at him, studied him so that I would remember every single thing about him, a fragile moment caught in 206

amber. The sheet had slipped aside during the night and his nakedness was beautiful, like a sleeping lion's. The sunlight gilded his untidy tangle of bedhair, his face relaxed and smiling slightly in his sleep. It made him look years younger. Crisp curls spread across his chest and down in a narrowing line to the navel that lay under my hand. The deep spring of his ribs and the muscles that overlay them were clearly defined, as if freshly sculpted, and his flat belly rose and fell beneath our joined hands. That furred line ran on down in a widening V to his groin, where his semi-flaccid cock rested across the top of one powerful thigh. In my eyes he was perfect, and my heart felt as if it would break with the love I held for him. He drew in a deeper breath, sighed, and his eyes flickered open. Hazy gold met my gaze and his dimpled smile was more dazzling than the sunlight. "Hey," Drew said, his voice rough with sleep. His hand tightened over mine. "Hey," I echoed. I wanted to say more, but the words got caught in my throat. "Timeizzit?" he mumbled, slurring it with a yawn. "Don't know." Didn't care. I glanced around for a clock and found one on the night table at his side of the bed. "Uh, ten-fifty?" I added, squinting at the thing. No wonder the sun was bright. "Huh. Hope I remembered to put the Do-NotDisturb sign on the door, or the maid is going to get a shock."

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I snickered. "Maybe she already did." I slid our joined hands down to his rapidly thickening cock, stroked it slowly. My ass ached a little, still feeling the stretch of him filling me. It was a good ache, one I hadn't felt in quite a while. With Cray, more often than not I'd been the top. With Joe, he and I had gotten off with inventive frottage, hand and blowjobs. With both men the sex had been good, satisfying. But what I had been doing last night with Drew was making love, not fucking. I hadn't realized there was a difference until now. I hadn't realized I'd turned into my sister again until now, either. "What?" Drew asked, running a fingertip over my frown. "Are you having a mini freak-out?" "Hell, no. Just trying to decide what I'm hungriest for." And my belly joined in with an audible growl. He laughed quietly. "Sounds like breakfast is first on the agenda." "No," I said with a vocal growl this time. "A shower, for two." And I kissed him, putting everything I was feeling into it, all the heady emotion and need, and the sheer delight in simply being there with him. Maybe he felt the same way, because his response was to cup my face in his hands and kiss me back as if I was the center of his world. By the time we got down to the dining room, breakfast was long gone. We settled for an early lunch and headed straight out to the Hall. This time 208

we were going to investigate the overgrown mess that was the formal gardens. They had been neglected for well over twenty years, since Drew's grandmother had become too ill to manage them. For this first exploration, I left my backpack and camera in the car. It should have been awkward, switching back to the professional client-consultant mode, but it wasn't. Mainly because we didn't. We bickered good-naturedly as we fought the claws of the rampant roses, argued the pros and cons of plowing them up and replanting, or pruning back and retraining. Like the terrace and the wide steps down to the garden, the main paths had been paved with flags of local stone, and they formed a cross that centered on the fountain. They weren't as swamped as the graveled paths, and we were able to force our way through to the fountain itself. Once we'd pulled off its shroud of vines and weeds, the fountain was fully revealed as a verdigrised and smugly coy nymph, her ubiquitous urn clogged with a rancid collection of gunk. She was standing on a large chunk of rock in the center of a huge stone basin half filled with green soup. Or primordial ooze. Even in the cool air of a Pennsylvania spring, it stank to high heaven. "Huh," Drew said, disappointment in the grunt. "I'd half expected it to be another phoenix, not Sweet Betsy from Pike." "It's a fire bird," I reminded him. "Wrong element."

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"Smartass." He hooked an arm around my waist and pulled me to him, capturing my mouth in a brief and searing kiss. "God, you taste good," he said against my throat, and nipped lightly at my earlobe. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and leaned into him. "You, too," I whispered. It wasn't exactly original or articulate, but he had a way of closing down my higher brain functions. "Perry..." Drew began, his voice soft as a breath and with a yearning in it that struck straight to my cock. But I didn't want to hear what might come next. "How about we give the garden and orchard a fast once-over," I said quickly. "Then go back to the hotel for an early dinner?" "Shit, yes! Room service. And an early night?" he added with a grin. "Got my vote." "Just so you know," Drew murmured into my hair, tightening his embrace. "Sex with you is better than great, but this is pretty damn cool as well." We stayed like that, just holding on, pressed close from knees to faces and all parts in between, for a long time. Then by mutual and unspoken agreement, we stepped away from each other and continued with the exploration of the gardens. The summerhouse was in surprisingly good condition under its blanket of over-enthusiastic creepers. Behind it we found a small enclosure boxed in by dogwoods; it was a pet cemetery, and one of the mossy headstones read: 210

Jacob born 1862 died 1893 Always Faithful "This dog lived a long time," Drew said, crouching to clear away the moss and read out the last part of the epitaph. "Thirty-one years." "Not a dog. He's a pony. There's a plate with his name on it in the tack room." The family probably hadn't gotten another pony, but I liked to think that it had been left there as another memorial to a loved pet. "Really? That I have to see." "If we cut across the top end of the lake to the orchard," I suggested, "we can take in the stable yard on the way to the kitchen garden." "Sounds good to me."

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Chapter Sixteen The lake-edge was too swampy and reed-choked to get close, but disappointingly, a few hurled stones roused only a couple of indignant water birds rather than a monstrous many-tentacled alien, so we didn't hang around there for long. The orchard sported ranks of unidentifiable fruit trees badly in need of pruning. Most were still in flower, some had tiny fruits just set. Odd petals drifted to join the scatter in the long grass. I glanced at my watch. It was mid-afternoon and the clouds were building up. The breeze had become a young wind, complete with teeth, and we headed back to the outbuildings, pausing in the meager shelter of the stable block. I shoved my hands into my pockets for the warmth. Looking at the house from this angle, with the towers, cupola and chimneys rearing against a threatening sky and their angular shapes shrouded in vegetation, the Arkham vibe was well in evidence. "Before we take a look at the tack room," Drew said, moving closer to me. "Can you give me a quick over-view? You've had a good look round the place now. What's the plan?" "The ivy and creepers are going to have to go," I answered, studying the irregular roof-line and pretending that every inch of my skin wasn't aware of him.

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"Yeah? Okay." He sounded distracted and I glanced down to see him scowling. Then I saw the too-familiar figure of Rob Connors skirting the corner of the house and walking swiftly toward us. I stifled a groan but carried on. "First thing, get floor supports put in." I paused to nod a greeting to the boy as he joined us, wondering why the hell he was here. Shouldn't the little creep be at school? "Then get the scaffolding set up so we can strip back all the vegetation and shore up. The ivy is a pain in the ass. It's an invader, and apart from the harm it does to native habitats, it causes structural damage as well." Rob was shuffling his feet, clearly impatient but not quite having the balls to interrupt. "Its roots can dig into the cement and weaken a structure. One chimney has fallen already and I can see a couple more with a lean to them, so it needs to be done as soon as possible. A storm could bring down another one and more damage is the last thing we need." "Good point. Hi, Rob. Is your dad here?" "Yeah." There was a smirk on the kid's mouth that was begging to be wiped off. "Dad's out front, looking for you. He wants to get into Granddad's apartment." He held out his hand, presumably for the keys. "Does he," Drew said, his voice flat. "I'd better go and supervise, I think. Won't be long, Perry." He strode off in the direction of the kitchen door. To my surprise, Rob didn't follow. A tense silence fell, and I wasn't in any hurry to break it. "So what are you doing here?" Rob demanded after a moment, a sharp edge to his voice. He was 213

propped against the wall, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, and his petulant expression was an instant irritant. "I'm an architect with Bennett & Symes," I answered as if he didn't already know. "We've been contracted to do the restoration on the Hall and turn it into a living history museum. I'm doing the job I was hired to do." "Oh." For a moment there was a spark of interest in those trademark eyes, but almost at once it was lost in an overdone sneer. "Who the fuck wants another museum?" "Those who don't want another fucking country club," I countered wittily. Belatedly it occurred to me that perhaps I should be trying to get the kid onside rather than smart-mouthing right back at him. "There's a lot of history around here, and your grandfather thinks it should be put out there for people to explore," I continued, trying and failing to think of a way to ask him about his father's business partners without raising any suspicions. "Whatever," he muttered. "History's boring, dude. Dad says it's the future that counts, not the past." "What about your own family's history? Don't you think that's interesting?" "Oh, sure. How To Lose Fortunes Without Really Trying. Real impressive. Dad's plans for this shithole will make a packet. The museum idea will lose one." I had to admit he had a valid point. "Maybe," I said. "But there's a good chance it'll break even with the right management, and the museum will be

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there for everyone, not just a bunch of fat-cat assholes." "No 'will be' about it. Ain't gonna happen. Dad says the old bastard's senile--Alzheimer's, or something. Dad'll get him committed and he'll take over, so you may as well quit right now," he added more forcefully. Like virtually everything else he'd said, it sounded like something he was repeating by rote. "I'll quit. When the man who hired me tells me to." I hesitated, then shrugged to myself and plowed on. "Y'know, history isn't about fortunes won and lost. It's people. Like the first Connors who grabbed all this land. Ethan, wasn't it? Did you know he married a girl from the Seneca people? Maybe that's how he started here." "What? No way!" That spark was back, and his widening smile showed familiar dimples. "That's pretty cool." Then the scowl returned. "How do you know that? You're making it up." "The old man told us. Part of the living history deal could well include a reconstructed Seneca settlement if Drew can make a deal with the nearest tribal groups." Then I had another idea. "It's all about people, Rob. Come on." "Where?" he demanded as I headed across the yard. "To the tack room. There's something I want to show you." He grunted and trailed after me, followed on my heels as I eased open the door and walked inside. There were some disgusted mutterings from him as he stared around, but I could see poorly hidden interest there as well. 215

"Okay, so what's so wonderful about this? It's all junk and dirt and cobwebs." "People," I said. "On your family tree. Who owned four horses. Or probably three and a pony. Who cared enough about them to have decorated enamel plaques for them." I touched the nearest one, still clean from the last time I was here. "Jacob, General, Apollo, Minerva. I'll bet good money the pony was Jacob. He lived to a ripe old age and they loved him. So much so that when he died, they buried him in the family's pet burial ground, complete with a headstone and epitaph." Rob came closer and reached up to run his fingertips across Jacob's plate. "That's kind of--weird," he muttered. "The family would have named them, and the guy who looked after them lived upstairs. He probably taught the kids to ride. With some research, we could almost certainly find out his name. His descendants could still be living in Bellamy. Don't you think it'd be neat to have him remembered here, where he lived and worked?" "Uh, yeah, I guess." He sounded doubtful, but I counted it as a small victory. "Won't happen, though." He pushed his hands back into his pockets and slouched out. "Dad's big business pals are the real wheelers and dealers. Uncle Andrew might be somebody in the software world, but these dudes are Washington hotshots and Dad's gonna be one of them when the deal goes through." The pride in him was unmistakable. Drew was right. The kid thought the sun shone out of his father's ass. In my opinion, his precious dad was full of hot air, all of it 216

rancid. "Dad says they'll roll right over him and not even notice. You should go back to Leidenton, tell your boss to pull the plug on the deal. Maybe when Dad's got the Hall, he'll rehire you to turn it into the country club. He says your firm is one of the best." "Maybe," I said noncommittally. "So how come you're not in school?" He shrugged and kicked at a clump of weeds. When he looked up and met my eyes, defiance was written all over his face and attitude. "Got suspended," he announced, as if it was something praiseworthy. "For fighting. Again." "Make a habit of it, do you?" Rob shrugged again, smirking now. "A man's gotta stand up for his beliefs," he said, and I could hear the echoes of his father's voice. "I got five days a couple of months back. This time it was ten." "Your mom and dad must be real proud," I responded, not bothering to keep my opinion hidden. The sarcasm went straight over his head. "Dad is. And what does Mom know? She's soft and--well, like a mom should be." His eyes slid away from me and he hunched his shoulders a little. "A proper woman, that is, not one of those hard-as-nails career bitches trying to be what they're not. It's a tough world and you gotta be the top dog or go under, yeah?" Every word was probably an echo of things he'd heard all his life. Opinions that should have died the death in the fucking Fifties, not be aired by a sixteen year old in the 21st century. My God, talk about brainwashing! Did the kid actually have an original thought of his own? 217

My memory replayed his grandfather's mini-rant about the benighted savages in the schools, and I wondered if he had Rob Junior in mind. "You'll learn," I said crisply. "What'll it be next time? Expulsion?" He stared at me as if I had suddenly started to speak in tongues, but any answer he might have made was dropped when Lee appeared in the kitchen door and bellowed his name. Even from the stable yard I could see the man was red-faced and furious. Rob startled, guilt flashing across his features for a moment before it segued back to the usual sneering aggression. Without saying anything more, or even sparing me a glance, Rob hot-footed it to him, and they disappeared round the side of the kitchen annex. Drew had followed Lee out of the house, and he strolled casually toward me. His expression was neutral, but it wasn't hard to guess it was a mask to hide his anger. "They won't be back in a hurry," he said abruptly before I could ask. "The bastard only wanted to go through Grandpop's papers, and wouldn't say what he was looking for." "You didn't let him?" "Of course not! If Grandpop wanted Lee to know his business, he'd have told him. Besides, I don't know where he keeps them--probably has them at the Anchorage." "Did you ask him about his country club plans? Let him think you'll sell up?" "Uh, no." Drew's shoulders slumped a little and the glance he shot me was embarrassed. "I, uh, kind of got a bit mad. I'll let him cool down and try it 218

again. Hey, let's go for a drive before we head back for that room service dinner. I want to show you the new build site." "Okay." I took out my keys and tossed them to him. "You know the way but the SUV's suspension is better that your truck's," I said, leaning up to snatch a fast kiss. "So you can drive." I wasn't being altruistic. It would give me ample opportunity to indulge my need to just watch him, hoard all the memories of him I could create. The trail across Connorswood started as a fork off the track that led to the barns. It meandered through the forested scenery, making detours around rocky outcrops, climbed up and down and through until my sense of direction was completely confused. Then it forded a creek that would have to be bridged if Drew wanted year-round access, and scaled the long ridge I'd seen from the nursery. The other side was a gentler incline, at first densely wooded by the usual mixture of oaks, maples, beech, ash and birches, with white pine and hemlock towering above the shorter trees. Finally it leveled out to a wide grassy terrace with only a few copses of assorted trees. The trail didn't so much end as fade into the landscape. Drew pulled up and turned off the engine. "This is it," he said. "Come on." He got out of the car and I grabbed my backpack before following him toward the nearest copse. He slowed enough to let me walk beside him, and took my hand with a smile. "You're going to love this," he assured me confidently.

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We stepped out of the trees and the images I'd seen in 8x10 photos were there before me in real life. It was so much more than I'd imagined: falling water, arching trees, the rocks and sky combining to make a woodland paradise. From where we stood, the ground sloped down to the first of three deep ledges of strata before reaching the lushly wooded valley floor and the river that ran along it, while the waterfall rumbled its song a hundred feet or so off to our right. The other side of the valley didn't rise to anything like the same height, leaving one hell of an amazing view in a near-300o sweep. "This is..." I began reverently, but words failed me. Drew chuckled and wrapped his arms around me, tugging me gently to lean back against his chest. "Yeah," he agreed. "So, Flash, can you produce the goods?" Oh, yes, could I ever. The glass waterfall of a house I already had pictured in my head merged with its true setting, and I couldn't wait to make a start on it. All thoughts of the Hall project were shunted straight to the back-burner, if only temporarily. For more than an hour I scrambled around the ledges and the valley floor, taking photos, making notes, guesstimating heights and distances. I investigated the river and waterfall as much as I could without getting drenched in icy water. It had two flows, I discovered: behind the main fall and about thirty feet down, was another river. It poured from a wide gash in the rocks in a powerful rush, 220

and if it remained unfrozen through the Pennsylvanian winters, it would be a priceless additional resource. I climbed back up to where Drew lay on a patch of grass with his eyes closed and a smile on his face. I knelt beside him and kissed him, teasing his lips apart with my tongue and exploring his mouth. I would never get tired of the taste of him, any more than I could take for granted the rush of desire and joy he triggered in me. If this was what being in love was, then Ari was right. I'd never known it until this man came into my life. "Don't you dare sell this land," I whispered against his mouth. "Or even joke about selling it. I am going to design you a house that will be everything you could ever want in a home." "Promise?" He was grinning as he dragged me to lie along the length of his body, and he parted his legs so that I nestled snug between his thighs. "Ecofriendly as well?" "Promise," I vowed. "I'm pretty sure I can give you damn-near one hundred per cent self-sufficiency. Hydroelectricity, solar panels, waste-composting, and all the rest of the latest bells and whistles modern technology can provide." "That sounds good." His hands slipped beneath my waistband and cupped my ass, the first touch cold but warming fast. I rocked against him, an involuntary groan coming from me as my cock began to fill. "Drew..." "So does that," he whispered. "I love the way you say my name."

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"Mm. Same here. Though where does Flash come from?" "Lightning flash." He grinned up at me. "You got that sexy white streak going for you. And you dazzle me, set me on fire." "Yeah?" I was suddenly breathless. "You know it." Drew tried to flip us over, but I didn't cooperate. Not this time. "No," I murmured, starting a line of kisses down from his mouth to his throat. At the same time I shifted my hips far enough for me to unfasten his pants and ease his zipper over his swelling cock. "This is my show." "Huh. I got the feeling last night you could be a toppy bastard if I let you get away with it." "I like that! If you let me!" I pushed away from him and moved down his body, then spread his pants open and lifted the waistband of his boxers over his straining erection, settling the fabric snuggly under his balls. Drew's cock was heavy and thick, its head glistening with pre-come, and the scent of his arousal was intoxicating. My mouth was watering with the need to taste him again. "God, do it!" he gasped, his hands twisting in my hair. I froze, blinking up at him, wide-eyed. "Do what?" I asked innocently. "Perry! You evil-minded bastard!" I laughed and ducked my head, swiping a long lick from the base of his cock to the head, then sucked him into my mouth, Drew gave a keening moan, and I chuckled around the weighty flesh I was teasing with my tongue. He groaned again, his 222

hips twitching as if he was trying to resist the urge to thrust down my throat. I appreciated that, even if I did have a pretty good control over my gag reflex. Then I went to work, using every trick I knew to bring him to the edge and keep him there, until he was incoherent and my jaw was aching. Finally I opened my throat and swallowed him down, and he came with a howl that sent every bird in the vicinity scattering into the sky. I'd expected him to just lay there, completely wrung out, but he didn't. Instead he wrestled me off him, scrabbled my pants open and my boxers down. He managed to get his mouth around me moments before my orgasm ripped through me. He stroked me through the aftershocks, and afterward we lay there in a tangled heap, both of us panting and him with his head pillowed on my belly. I was floating, high as a kite on sensory overload, and I wasn't ready to fall to earth any time soon. It was a long while before either of us found the energy to put ourselves to rights and think about leaving, but I gathered up my backpack, made sure the camera was inside, and we climbed back into my SUV.

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Chapter Seventeen We returned to the Hall in a companionable silence, his hand on my thigh most of the time. I was content to bask in the afterglow, and I didn't rouse out of it until we made the turn into the stable yard. Then a stray thought popped into my head and I straightened out of my lazy slouch. "Photos," I said. "Didn't you take enough?" Drew smiled. "Not mine, your grandfather's. Does he have any really old ones? Anything that will show interiors, exteriors, the gardens?" "Yes, I'm sure of it. I can remember Grandmom showing me ancient albums when I was a kid. I think I know where they are. We can take a look before we head back to the hotel." Before I could answer, Drew's cell rang. "Hi, Linda," he said cheerfully. His smile disappeared. "Okay. Thanks for letting me know. We're on our way." "Anything wrong?" I asked. "Yeah. The doc at the Anchorage phoned about Grandpop. He's had another fall." Drew was frowning. "But why use my California office number when they have my cell?" He was scrolling down for another number as he was speaking. "Hi, this is Drew Connors. How is my grandfather today? Yes, Robert Connors." He listened for a while, his expression becoming more angry. "Yes. I agree. Doc, did you or anyone at the home call my office 224

about a fall? No? That's what I thought. I'll see you soon." "Okay," I said. "Spill." "Lee visited Grandpop this afternoon. They had a furious and very loud argument and Lee was thrown out. For the second time. They intend to ban him from the premises. The old guy is okay, his blood pressure is through the roof but they've got him medicated. No fall and no phone call." He held out the keys to my SUV. "We're going to see what Lee was up to." "Was the argument before or after him wanting to get into the apartment?" "After. Shit! What the hell is wrong with him? Has he lost his fucking mind?" "Um..." The thought had occurred to me. The amount of bile and bigotry the man could spew was surely an indication that all was not entirely stable between his ears. "We'd better take separate cars," Drew said and held out the keys to my SUV. "I don't want to leave the pickup here for another night." The road we were on fully justified the label 'scenic'. It looped and dived in a switchback ride from Bellamy down toward the Clarion River Bridge, and some of the curves were tight enough to warrant a slower speed. Drew was about thirty feet in front of me, but as we approached the second of the really sharp bends I noticed that distance was increasing. And it wasn't because I was slowing. By the time he actually hit the corner, Drew's pickup took it with screaming tires. What the fuck? His 225

hazard lights came on, flashing a warning, and my stomach took a nose-dive. His brakes-- Black smoke started to come from beneath the pickup. He was using the handbrake, but the speed and weight of the pickup was too much for it and the pads were burning out. Not for a second did I believe the pickup had not been tampered with, and there wasn't a fucking thing I could do about it. I have never felt so helpless in my life. The next corner was coming up fast and there was a steep drop of nearly a hundred feet to the river below. The guard rails suddenly looked cartoon-flimsy. Ignoring the risk I kept as close to Drew as I could, and both of us made it around the bend, albeit in a sliding, fishtailing swoop. The road ahead to the next one was mercifully clear, so I put pedal to the metal and was alongside Drew in seconds. I was acting on instinct. If I'd thought it through I couldn't have attempted it. I cut in front of him and eased up on the gas. The pickup struck the rear of my SUV with a grinding crash. My car lurched forward, but stayed on the road. I started to apply my own brakes, and the stench of burning rubber filled my nostrils. Our speed didn't change. Drew's truck was heavier than the SUV, and the momentum was too much-- The corner was coming up fast. Too fast. I braked harder and we started to slew across the lanes. Luckily the pickup was locked into the wreckage of my car's fender and rear door, and it came along as well when I steered toward the other side of the road. There was a narrow verge of stones and weeds, 226

then the hillside rose almost sheer where the highway had been carved out of it, before it broke out in a rash of trees. I aimed to hit it at a shallow angle. Both of us scraping along its face would help to kill our speed. Or kill us a little bit faster. The ear-splitting screech of tortured metal joined with the tires' protests in an unholy chorus. Within moments the mirror and door were ripped away by the jagged rocks. The SUV bucked as tires blew and the rims bit into the ground. I fought the steering wheel and somehow we didn't spin out of control. Probably because the pickup was halfway up my car's ass and it acted as an anchor of sorts. By then I'd downshifted the gears and was virtually standing on my brakes. With any luck we'd slow enough to get round the curve safely. I prayed that there wasn't another vehicle coming up toward us. There wasn't, and somehow we survived it. But the slingshot effect threw us across the lanes again, and we skidded along the guard rails for what seemed like forever before we ground to a halt. I slid across the seats and climbed out of the gap where the passenger's door used to be. The bones in my legs had apparently been turned into jello, and they were shaking too much to support me. I halffell, half sat on the ground and tried not to hurl. I wanted desperately to get to Drew, but I couldn't move. Drew clambered out of his pickup and staggered toward me. He slumped to his knees at my side and clutched me by the shoulders, hauled me to his chest and held me so tightly I could draw only

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shallow breaths. And I grabbed hold of him as if by contact alone I could keep him safe. "Fucking idiot!" he gasped into my hair. "You could have been killed! What the fuck were you thinking?" "Wasn't thinking," I wheezed. "Your brakes--" I stopped, swallowing hard. "Yeah." Using each other as supports, we climbed to our feet and gazed wide-eyed at our vehicles. Both doors on the passenger side of my SUV were gone, leaving buckled metal and gouges. The pickup had fared no better. The door and most of the siding had gone as well. Every tire on the right side of both vehicles had blown, and the reek coming off the remains of the scorched rubber made my stomach heave again. That and the realization of how close we had been to going through the guard rails. Drew finally loosened one arm from around me and fumbled his cell out of his pocket. He stared at it blankly. "Better call 911," I suggested. "And whoever you spoke to about the threatening phone call." "I guess," he answered. "It had a full service only a few months ago. Brakes don't fail like that for no reason." "I'll check it out if you want," I offered. Not that I was eager to slide underneath the pickup, visions of its suspension and axles giving way flashing in front of my eyes. "You know, the pepper thing?" Drew nodded, but didn't seem to be in any hurry to actually let me go. Which suited me just fine. I

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didn't want to get go of him, either. "That's twice," he said abruptly. "You saved my life twice." I wanted to say something cool but clichéd, like, 'Hey, no problem'. But the words wouldn't come out. So I just turned my face into his neck and pressed my lips to his throat. The steady, if fast, beat of his pulse was reassuringly strong against my mouth. Then his cell rang. He nearly dropped it as we both startled. "It's Lee," he said with a groan, glaring at the small screen. "What the fuck does he want now?" He thumbed the answer key. "What--" he began angrily. That was as far as he got before his frown became surprise. "Whoa, Rob. Slow down. Say it again--no, don't hang--damn it!" He glared at his phone as if it had just bitten him. "That was Rob on his dad's cell. He said to stay at the hotel and not drive anywhere, and I should get the pickup serviced." "No kidding?" That sounded very much like he knew something nasty was going down and he couldn't stomach it. Things were beginning to add up to a very unpleasant total, and by his strained expression, Drew was doing the sums as well. "He sounded scared, Flash." "Kid's growing some smarts," I said. Before I could change my mind, I pulled free of his embrace. dropped to the ground and slithered carefully under the pickup. There wasn't much clearance between me and the underside of the crippled truck. Now, I'm not exactly mechanically-minded. I'm not one of those guys who can strip an engine and rebuild it blindfolded, but I knew enough to find what I was looking for. When I found it, the hot bite 229

of pepper told me all I needed to know. The fucking brake lines were partially severed and totally drained. Every time Drew had used the brakes, more fluid had been pumped out until they were as useless as a fucking chocolate condom. Drew was calling 911 as I wormed out from under and got to my feet. I looked around, taking stock of our situation. We were mostly on the verge, and the road was straight for a few hundred feet in front and behind us. We weren't a traffic hazard, and I was just thanking God when I discovered how lucky we'd been. A convoy of half a dozen cars and a bus rounded the bend ahead, coming up the hill toward us. If they had been traveling just a little bit faster, or if we hadn't managed to stop, we would have met them head-on and it would have been carnage. My knees threatened to give out again and I sat down fast. A truck pulled in behind us and the driver got out in a hurry. "Are you guys okay?" he called, striding toward us. "Yeah," Drew answered. "Not hurt, just--" "Shaken," I said with a sick giggle. "Not stirred." "What the fuck happened? You tailgated him? Shit! Were you crazy?" It wasn't entirely clear who he was talking to, but Drew straightened his shoulders. "Not exactly," he answered. "My brakes failed so Perry got in front of me and used his SUV to slow me down." The man's jaw dropped and his eyes swiveled from Drew to me and back again. "Fuck me," he gasped. "You two have got to be the luckiest sons of

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bitches in the fucking state! You want me to call 911?" "Thanks, but it's already done," Drew said, holding up his cell. "They're on their way." "Okay, I'll leave you to it, then. Just--shit!" He shook his head and gave us a wry grin. "Like a fucking movie. Are you guys stuntmen or something?" "No, just incredibly lucky." "Amen," I muttered. "You ain't kidding. I'm gonna be getting free beers for this one for a while. Take care, guys." He climbed back into his truck and drove away. I glanced up at Drew. His face was pale under that California tan, and his mouth was set in a grim, determined line. "You didn't contact the cops on the case, did you?" I sighed. Drew shook his head. "No. I want to talk to Lee first." "You sure that's wise?" I held out my hand, let him pull me to my feet and into his arms. "It's their job, Drew. You're not Bruce Wayne. You can't replace the law. He--" "I'm not going to. I just want to ask him why!" He bit out the last word. "Then I'm going to deck him, and then I'll call the cops. Okay? Are you with me?" "Yes." Of course I was; against my better judgment, but what the hell. I could understand why he'd want to do it that way. I'd be no different if I was in his shoes. That didn't mean it was the right thing to do.

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Chapter Eighteen It seemed like a long wait before a couple of police cars turned up from Bellamy, followed closely by a recovery vehicle. Officers Kramer and Arnolds gave us breath tests, then we were put into separate cars to have our statements taken while our vehicles, and the marks we'd left on the road right back to the second bend, were photographed. Our licenses, insurances, Drew's service report and invoice, were all recorded for posterity. Neither of us said anything about deliberate sabotage. I wondered if that would come back to bite us. There would be an official investigation, Officer Kramer told us, and if the brake failure had been due to negligence on Drew's part, then he would end up in deep shit. Okay, she didn't actually say it in so many words. It was in Officialese, but that was what she meant. Then she drove us back to the hotel. The Forest County Police would let us know when we could collect the gear we'd left in the pickup and SUV, she said. That made me a little twitchy. My backpack, with my camera inside it, had ended up wedged in the front passenger footwell, and I wanted it. So there we were, temporarily stranded. Bellamy didn't have any car rental firms, but Brookville did. We had to go there in any case, as according to Drew, Lee was staying in a motel not far from the 232

Anchorage. A cab took us to Brookville's Premier Car Hire, and ten minutes later Drew was at the wheel of a Toyota and we were on our way to the Riverview Motel. It wasn't a comfortable journey. The tension in the car could be cut with a blunt knife. Drew had a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, and what I could see of his profile showed an iron control over his emotions. I could understand where he was coming from. It was one thing to know that your uncle was an unpleasant bullying asshole, but attempted murder? That was a whole different level of shittiness to process. The Riverview was something of a surprise. I'd expected it to be a four or five star establishment, given that Lee Connors was such a hotshot in Washington. But this surely rated no more than two stars. It had an air of shabby apology about it, as if it was trying to do better but knew it wasn't quite making the grade. The paintwork was peeling on the U-shaped, two story motel, but the windows looked clean and there were no weeds growing in the parking lot. Apart from two late model cars parked up side by side, the lot was empty. "Huh," Drew said. "This isn't Lee's usual style." I didn't say anything, but the inevitable thought popped up. How much had it cost Lee to buy into this consortium? And now he had to deliver the Hall. We got out of the Toyota, and at once the sound of raised voices reached us. There was a hell of an argument going on in one of the first floor rooms, and it only took a few seconds for me to rec233

ognize Lee's ranting bellow. As one, we turned and made for the door. "--never hit your mother!" Lee yelled. "Now tell me what the fuck you were doing with my cell phone! Why did you call that dirty pervert?" "Sure you haven't!" Rob shouted, his voice an octave too high. "But you sure as hell bruise her up! I've seen them, on her arms, where you just grab her and shake her! Like you did to Ellie! She's only a kid, for fuck's sake! How does it feel to know your wife and daughter are afraid of you?" "They aren't, you little shit! It's called respect and it looks to me like you've forgotten--" "No, Dad! Woken up, maybe! There are kids at school, and I scare the crap out of them. Do you know how that makes me feel? Proud? The hell it does! Sick to my stomach! You make me sick--" There were the unmistakable sounds of an openhanded slap and a rattling thud of someone falling into furniture. Drew opened the door without knocking. Rob scrambled to his feet and shot past us, his face showing a clear hand-print across one tear-stained cheek. "You want to try hitting me next?" Drew asked with deceptive mildness. "Since I'm shorter than you as well, and a lot younger." "What the hell are you doing here?" Lee blared. But he didn't come any closer and his fists stayed firmly at his sides. "I want to talk to you," he answered. "About Grandpop's fall, about a letter bomb to Perry, a roof fall in the cellar that could have trapped me, and cut brake lines that could have killed both of us." 234

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about!" he howled, spittle flying. "Are you insane?" Apples. My stomach turned over. "Truth," I whispered but Drew didn't hear me. "No, but I'm beginning to think you are," he snapped. "Motive and opportunity. How much is at stake if you don't close the Hall deal?" Lee flinched. "You're lying," he sneered. "Of all the stupid ideas--looks like your lifestyle has finally rotted your brain!" "You think? Wonder what the cops will say about the brake lines? Are they a figment of my imagination? And how about the letter bomb that put a girl in the hospital?" There was a choked gasp behind us, and Rob sidled in. He was hanging onto the wall as if his legs were about to fold. "I did it," he croaked, his eyes fastened on me. The three of us froze like store mannequins. "No one was supposed to be hurt--I just wanted you to stay away--you weren't involved." "Rob?" Lee said in a halfway normal voice. "What the fuck are you saying?" He sounded bewildered, as if his son had suddenly started talking in tongues. Drew and Rob took no notice of him. "Let's start at the beginning, shall we?" Drew said finally. There was a barely controlled shake in the words and I could feel the sickening shock that rolled through him. The same thing lived in me and I didn't want to believe what I was hearing. But I didn't have a choice. "Grandpop told me he slipped on oil on the steps."

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"Yeah. I-I'd been suspended from school again so Dad brought me up here with him. I-I thought if he was hurt a bit, he'd agree to sell the Hall to Dad, so's he could pay for the hospital and stuff. But he didn't." "No. He sold it to me. So I was next on the hitlist. You tried to kill me, Rob. Why?" "D-dad says you're just a useless homo. A sick freak. The Hall should be ours by right, to keep it in the family. H-he's always saying you're better off dead, not spreading your disease around. He says queers--" "Is that what you think?" I asked, unable to stand any more of the vicious filth coming out of the boy. "I--no, not anymore." His father listened, his face showing his growing horror. "No!" Lee shouted. "I don't believe it! No son of mine would do such a thing! You set him up to this!" Rob's verbal diarrhea hadn't let up. By the time Lee started to listen again, the boy was recounting how he'd followed Drew to the Hall, then he'd broken in to wait for his chance. As soon as Drew had gone down to the wine cellar, Rob had hurried out to the pickup in the hopes of finding something helpful, and had. The tow-rope. He'd pulled down the timbers, put the rope back and phoned the Grove, pretending to be Drew's PA. He'd assumed that after Drew's death, the Hall would come to his father automatically. When that failed, he'd resorted to sabotaging the pickup, using something he'd seen on a TV cop show.

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"I'm sorry!" Rob panted at the end. "I wish I hadn't done any of it! I wish I hadn't listened to him!" "Who?" Lee took him by the upper arms and shook him. Me, I'd have broken his neck. Both their necks. "Someone told you to do this? Who?" "You!" Rob cried. "You're always saying how Drew's got no right to the Hall, how he's better off dead, how you wished he'd just die and get out of your way--" "My God!" Lee staggered back as if he'd been kicked in the gut and it would have been almost funny if it hadn't been so fucking tragic. "Might is right, you said! The strongest wins. Survival of the fittest, and all the rest of the crap you spew! I tried to be what you wanted, even though it made me want to hurl! You know what? No more!" he whirled to face Drew. "Yeah, it's the money. I overheard him talking to Mom. He thought the Hall was a done deal, that he could talk Grandpop into giving it to him so he signed up with these high-flying businessmen. We'll lose everything now it's fallen through, and you know what? I don't give a shit!" He turned to me. There were tears and snot flowing down his face, but he was holding his head up. "I'm sorry," he said. "About your friend, about everything. It was wrong, and I knew it was, even while I was doing it, but Dad--he's my Dad, you know? And he wanted the Hall so bad--and Uncle Andrew out of the way! But if I could take it all back, I swear I--"

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"We can talk all that out later," Drew interrupted. "What we have to do now is decide on what comes next." "What do you mean?" Lee whispered. "The police are already on the case," I said. "They have been since the threatening letter, and the letter bomb upped the stakes." Lee made a strange choked sound in the back of his throat, as if he was trying not to vomit. "As soon as they examine the pickup, they'll find the severed lines." "What we can't and won't do is protect you or your Dad from any of it, Rob," Drew continued. "Every choice a person makes has its own consequences, good or bad, and that's something you both have to deal with." "I had nothing to do with this-this madness!" Lee protested. "Oh, God, Robbie, how could you--" But he was reeling the boy into a hug as he said it, cradling his head in a gentle hand. "Hey," Drew cut in. "Maybe if you'd been a little less generous with your bullying and bigoted venom, the kid wouldn't have thought it was okay to off someone because they have a lifestyle you don't agree with. This isn't all down to Rob, Uncle." "You're too hard on him," Lee protested. "You think? Try telling Amber that," I snapped. "Not forgetting, of course, that he tried to murder one of his own family. You want they should mark him out of ten for style and technical difficulty?" Rob started to cry again, soundless sobs that shook his half-grown frame.

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"There has to be a way out of this," Lee said desperately. "I'll tell them it was me--Drew, you'll back me on that--" "No!" said Drew and Rob together. "What I will do," Drew said, "is help you find and pay for the best lawyer out there." "And counseling," I suggested. It sounded better than psychiatric help, but that was what I meant. Desperate as he'd been to measure up to his father's sick standards, the lengths he'd been prepared to go to were just chilling. As if he'd been brainwashed. Which I guessed he had been in a way. Did a lifetime of what amounted to emotional abuse equate to a variant of Stockholm Syndrome? Maybe. But all the way through the telling, the taste of apples had shown me Rob's remorse was genuine, and I hoped that there would be some way that the law could make sure Lee paid the penalty for his part in this unholy mess. Drew nodded. "And counseling. Give me a minute." He walked outside, taking out his cell as he did so. The silence he left behind was painful. Hostile as well. Lee was glaring acid-tipped daggers at me, contempt curling his lip. I was expecting him to accuse me of being another perverted faggot, but luckily for his teeth, he kept quiet. Rob was silent as well, though he had edged away from his father and closer to me. I shifted a little as well, so that I was partially shielding him. Almost, I was feeling sorry for the little punk. Five minutes crawled by, seeming more like five hours. Then Drew came back in. "Grandpop gave me the name of a good lawyer, and he'll be here in 239

half an hour. Is there any decent coffee around here?" Roy Clarkson was a short, stocky man with a shiny face and a prissy expression. He also had an eidetic memory and a line of sarcasm that brought joy to my heart. Lee tried the aggressive bluster and it got him precisely nowhere. Clarkson was there to represent Rob, not him, though he advised Lee to find a lawyer of his own since it was on the cards that he'd be facing charges as well. Needless to say, Lee scornfully turned down the warning. A couple of hours later, the five of us drove to Bellamy's police station in a convoy of three. Under Clarkson's guidance, Rob spilled the beans, held nothing back, and we gave our statements to the cops. That meant Lee as well. When he made it very clear he didn't want us hanging around, we headed back to the hotel. The last we saw of Lee was him being escorted back into the interview room between two cops. By the time we walked into Drew's hotel room, it was nearly midnight, and as far as I was concerned the last four or five hours should be cancelled, struck from the records. Drew looked tired and sad, and my heart ached for him. But there was nothing I could do to help him, except be there. While I waited for the coffeemaker to do its thing, I sent Joe a text: Case solved. Contact Bellamy ASAP. Minutes later, just as I was about to pour the coffee into the mugs, my cell rang.

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"Are you okay?" Joe demanded as soon as I answered it. "Yes. I'm fine. Just-- It was a kid, Joe." "What?" "Sixteen years old, and trying some scare tactics that escalated to a couple of attempts at murder." "Perry--" "He's in custody. No one got hurt this time." "Fuck. You're not okay." "Yes, I am. I told you--" Drew took the phone out of my hand. "He's not hurt, Joe," he said. "Just shaken up. I guess we both are." He paused while Joe talked. Then, "It was my cousin. He's made a full confession to the Bellamy cops, and they've got statements from Perry and me." Another pause. "I'll tell him. Thanks, Joe." He ended the call and wrapped his arms around me, as much for his own comfort as mine, I suspected. That was fine by me. "Joe says there was nothing at your old house, and he's left the key with Tom Cornelius. He also said he and Mark are going to take you to Jake's Ladder and get you drunk out of your skull as soon as you get back to civilization." I laughed, but it didn't come out quite right. His embrace tightened convulsively, and I held onto him with the same desperation. If I hadn't been able to slow the pickup--we would both have been dead. "Hey," he whispered into that white streak in my hair. "Flash, are you freaking out on me?" "No," I snapped. I didn't want to talk about it, and I didn't want to let him go.

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The coffeemaker came to my rescue, wheezing its message that there was caffeine waiting to be had, and I managed to drag myself away. I filled the mugs partway and topped them up with whiskey, then sat on the couch beside him while he sipped at his in silence. I took a mouthful of mine and couldn't face any more. When Drew had drained the last drop, he stood up and looked back at me over his shoulder. "Come to bed," he said. So I did. Something told me sex wasn't on the cards. That wasn't what either of us needed. Instead he spooned behind me and wrapped his right arm and leg around me, holding on as if he was trying to shield me with his body. I didn't object. He was there with me, and that was the important thing. Sooner or later I supposed we'd have to talk about what had happened, and about this intense relationship that had grown so quickly between us, but I didn't want to do either. Maybe because I didn't want to hear what he might say about us. If there was an 'us'. Shared danger was, after all, a great way to forge a temporary bond. Even I knew that. But the danger was gone now, and that left everything up in the air. What I was feeling for him was nothing at all like the warm friendship I'd built with Joe, and the love I'd had for Cray was a pale imitation of this, the real thing. I was pretty damn sure Drew was my one and only, but that didn't mean he felt the same way about me. I had two more nights with him, three more days. Drew would be leaving on Monday and for all I knew it would be a case of out of sight out 242

of mind. I'd do my level best to make sure it didn't pan out that way, but I was a realist. So I decided I'd accept whatever was going, and wrap it up with that old Spanish proverb. Take what you want, says God. Take it and pay. 

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About Chris Quinton I live in the southwest of England, in a small city with ancient roots. I share my house with my extended family, two large dogs, sundry fancy goldfish and assorted pet mice. And a vast collection of books. Writing has been an important part of my life for more years than I care to remember, and I daily thank The Powers That Be for the invention of the computer and the world wide web.  ISBN: 978-0-9565426-1-8

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