True Colors

Published by Dreamspinner Press 4760 Preston Road Suite 244-149 Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. True Colors Copyright © 2009 by Clare London Cover Design by Mara McKennen All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ ISBN: 978-1-935192-94-7 Printed in the United States of America First Edition May, 2009 eBook edition available eBook ISBN: 978-1-935192-95-4

To Sara for her very generous help, to Chrissy for her continuing love and care, to the ‘acorns’ who helped me through at the end, and of course, to my beloved family who supports me all the time!

True Colors

“SO… what do you think it is?” Jo leaned her head to one side and peered at the giant canvas on the wall in front of her. She couldn’t find an explanation of this one in the catalog. “Funny title—4:0045. There’s all that blue, and the green spots. Can’t see anything properly.” “It’s a metaphor, yeah?” replied her friend. He pushed his thin wire glasses up his nose and squeezed at her arm. She bit back a protest. He probably thought he was showing sympathy for her ignorance. She risked a look at her watch; only an hour before they had to be back for classes. And luckily, she thought wryly, they didn’t take the same ones. “What do you mean?” “Metaphor—a symbol for something else.” She rolled her eyes. Like she didn’t know the word. “So, it’s not a thing then?” She doubted he’d recognize humor if it bit him. “Like a pet? Like his house?” She was right about the humor, of course. His eyes narrowed with irritation. “Christ, Jo, you are so not in tune with modern art. This ain’t paint-by-numbers. This guy is angry, you know? He’s yelling at us; he’s demanding we stand up and be counted! It’s a comment on the complexity of modern socialism, on the diversity of political versus domestic issues in the context of failing economic standards and the ravages of aimless, devastating war….” Jo felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she turned to find a guy standing right beside her. His bright blue eyes flickered to her companion, then back to her. She noticed his cute nose crinkling in amused distaste; his dark auburn hair

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Clare London brushed away from a wide brow. He was very handsome. Very sweet. Her gaze ran quickly down his tall body, dressed in a wickedly sheer, vivid blue sleeveless shirt and skin-tight leather pants. He looked like one of the more mature art students, perhaps an adventurous young tutor, escorting his class to the gallery. Who cares? She felt a rush of excitement that went straight to her head. The leather pants on the long, lean thighs were fabulous. Totally. He spoke to her in a low, easy voice. “It’s a picture of my last hangover, actually… uh… Jo, isn’t it? Named after the time I got thrown out of the bar. The main thing is, though, do you like it?” “It’s cool.” She nodded, feeling a flush start high up on her cheeks. His…? “Bright. Bold. Makes me feel sort of tingly.” Her companion made a snorting sound. But the blue-eyed guy didn’t seem annoyed at her impulsive response. He nodded back, and his eyes widened with pleasure. He glanced again at her friend, and then turned his back on him deliberately. “Sooo, Jo,” he drawled. “I don’t know who this patronizing moron is beside you, but I think we’re both going to have to suffer more pretentious crap today than either of us deserves. Wouldn’t you agree?” There was a brief moment of shocked silence. The mystery guy grinned and tightened his hand on Jo’s shoulder. “You want to talk feeling tingly, just call me, okay? Number’s with the blond girl at the front desk.” “Now wait up a minute, aren’t you…?” stuttered Jo’s friend. His glasses bounced awkwardly on his nose, and he waved the catalog in his hand toward the other guy’s face. It was folded open at the publicity photo of someone. “Yeah.” The guy smiled. “I am. So get over it. Enjoy the exhibition.” And then, swiftly, he turned away and dodged back into the crowd. “He’s….” came another splutter from Jo’s young man. “Didn’t you see, for God’s sake? He’s…!” Jo wasn’t really listening. She stared at her friend instead and wondered exactly why she’d agreed to accompany him in the first place. He never listened to her, he talked too much himself, and when he did talk, he really was a pretentious moron. It wasn’t as if he had much going for him in the romantic department either, having the charisma of a clothespin…. And then a call for quiet came from a woman wearing a badge identifying

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True Colors her as the promotions director. The chattering around the room slowly ceased. “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please? Today is the opening of the gallery, as I’m sure you all know.” There was polite laughter from around her. “I think we can already see that this will be the first event of many, that this thrilling venture will have a glorious future ahead of it! It is supported, of course, by the brilliant family whose name it bears: the two incandescently talented Roswell brothers, whose own work is on show for us here tonight, to hang among some pretty prestigious company.” The visitors gazed around the room, and murmurs of appreciation followed. “Unfortunately, the older brother is unable to join us tonight. Meeting an agent, I believe. There are talks of a European tour.” More murmurs, heads nodding. “But let’s just make a toast to the younger of these two inspired young men, who is already making quite a mark in the art world and is sure to become as famous and as respected as his brother. And who is—most luckily—here with us tonight. Indeed, he has favored us with the best pieces of his recent work, and one of the main aims of this gallery is to become a showplace for his own collection.” There was some light applause. Jo listened to the buzz of comments around her. “They say he’s hardly more than a kid, but extraordinarily charming….” “…exciting talent, exciting ideas….” “He designed this whole show himself, you know.” The promotions director’s speech resumed. “So we formally welcome the latest addition to the world of commercial modern art and wish him more of the success and praise that he is already attracting. And, of course, we look forward to his forthcoming season of new work. Here’s to many more!” More applause, with much more enthusiasm now. There were a couple of whistles from the less inhibited guests. “Ladies and gentlemen, Zeke Roswell!” At the back of the room, Jo stared, entranced, at the tall, handsome, young man who moved quickly to stand beside the director. His tousled curls brushed his shoulders, a bold contrast to the vivid blue of his shirt. His movements were athletic, his arms swinging and his legs encased in leather pants. Those same leather pants that Jo had admired earlier. He stood with the same swaggering confidence that he’d shown before, waving the hand that had settled firmly on her shoulder as he spoke to her. And

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Clare London he gazed around the room with the same bright blue eyes that had teased her earlier, full of the same amusement. As she stared, open-mouthed, he caught her eye. And he winked at her.

Twelve months later

MALIA Trent brushed a small mote of dust from the lapel of her designer suit jacket and cleared her throat. She didn’t think the current view needed more comment than that. Her gaze flickered over the two young men beside her, looking for their confirmation. The three of them stood outside the entrance of the building that had just been sold, staring up at it. It was a visually striking façade with wide, high windows and pale brick walls. The upper story had a single picture window spanning the whole front of the building, embracing the sunlight like a welcome lover. But downstairs, things were less striking. The windows were dusty; there was graffiti on those same pale walls. Inside were the remnants of shop fittings and demonstration materials, suggesting it had once been busy with visitors of one kind or another. Now there were only a couple of broken chairs remaining. A single bulb hung down from the ceiling, naked of any shade. A wooden display board spanned the whole of one wall, though its fixings had obviously broken. One of the corners sagged downward, giving it a lopsided look. There was another door at the back of the room, leading presumably to the upstairs apartment. The door was ajar. Malia peered distastefully through the nearest window. “It’s in an appalling state.” She shifted uncomfortably. They’d left the limo back at the office and walked across town to view the property. Not for the first time, she wished she hadn’t worn her highest heels. “I can’t see what use it’s going to be to the corporation.” The taller of the other two men turned to her. “Malia, you’ve read the documents as well as I. As, indeed, have three sets of lawyers. Please don’t imply I’m a fool. We want the access, and we need the opportunity to expand the current operations. That means we need this side of the street as well. The whole

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True Colors block is perfect for our purposes. This particular unit has obviously been neglected, but it can be redecorated. It’s basically sound.” “But the corporation’s never considered a gallery, Miles. Why don’t we convert it into another set of offices? Legal Services needs some new space—” The man beside her cleared his throat. He didn’t need to do any more. Malia felt herself flush heavily. He was the only man she’d ever known who could do that to her, outside of orgasm, and for far less pleasant reasons. She pursed her lips, biting back a sharp response. He continued. “It was converted as an art gallery; it’s perfect for that purpose. I’m not one to pass up such an opportunity. You know my opinions on waste. I have an art collection, and this can be a promotional showroom for it. It will be a frontispiece for Media Services. We’ll use it for the entertainment of clients and for presentation events. That, of course, is your particular department.” It wasn’t that he was asking her opinion. The decision had already been made. Malia sneaked a look through her false lashes at her boss. He was young, in his late twenties, but no one would ever have accused him of being immature. Handsome…. That was a given. Private. Frighteningly smart. Single. She sighed to herself, knowing how far out of her league he was. Miles Winter’s name and reputation were known to anyone who followed the financial papers. He was the only son of wealthy parents, a father who’d made a fortune from property development and a mother who brought hereditary wealth as her dowry. In Miles’ early teens, they died in a plane crash, and he became sole heir to a large trust fund. The tabloid press cracked their journalistic knuckles and waited with glee to see how this rich young child would fritter it away. He proved them all wrong. His lawyers appointed him an eminently sensible financial advisor, and he finished his education with a master’s in business administration. Doors opened in the city for him with alarming eagerness. Over the next few years, he was promoted as the youngest ever board director of the firm where he trained; he became one of the most innovative traders on Wall Street; the youngest man to make a million-dollar fortune from his personal portfolio. It was an astonishing progression. His trust fund remained substantial and well-invested. Business rivals underestimated him at their peril. In negotiations, they knew that the compensation they’d receive would be commercially fair but very aggressively priced.

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Clare London And as an employer? Malia pursed her lips even more tightly. Miles was civil but extremely cool, sometimes hard to the point of harshness. Again, he was not to be underestimated. He paid extremely well, but he expected twentyfour/seven commitment, though he gave the same himself. He’d listen to staff feedback and reasonable suggestions, but the decisions were always his. His business instincts had been proven to be accurate time and again, so his people stayed with him. As a result, most of them had the time of their lives. And Miles Winter was as self-controlled in his personal life as he was at work. There was no outrageous scandal in his young life, no controversy. Malia could confirm that, because she spent a lot of her time searching speculatively for evidence, hoping to find some chink in that corporate armor. Just for the hell of it, of course. And he was so goddamned hot! Wore his designer clothes like they’d been tailored solely for him, which of course they usually had. A tall, tight body, toned and athletic limbs. Dusky skin with the shine of excellent health. His dark hair was cut beautifully, but somehow also managed to be a shaggy, sexy mass, falling over his forehead. And he had such incredible eyes. A mixture of deep blue and purple, dark pupils that reflected the subject but never exposed the watcher. They were fabulous even when they were like flints, as they were now. Malia felt the familiar, hopeless clench in her groin. She wondered—as she often did—why she never saw him with the same girl for more than a month or so. Wasn’t he dating that supermodel at the moment? Internationally famous; supernaturally thin. Malia sighed to herself. Half of her was damned glad that Miles Winter had never made a pass at her. The other half lay awake nights, tempting her with erotic dreams of what she might have expected if he had. “The Roswell Gallery,” murmured the third member of their group, hovering behind her. Miles Winter turned to the blond young man, focusing on him. “Do you see a sign there, Tony?” “N—no,” Tony stammered. “Sorry, Mr. Winter. That’s just what everyone knows it as.” He hopped from one foot to another, paler than ever, and obviously wishing he could lie down and melt into the pavement to escape that glare. Malia hid her smile. Only that week Tony had confessed to her he wished he’d made a different choice at college age, staying at home to run the modest family pet food business, rather than joining the Winter Corporation and putting himself in Miles Winter’s direct line of fire. But his boss’s anger never materialized. A thoughtful twist appeared at the corners of his mouth. “You knew Jacky Roswell?”

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True Colors “Knew of him, sir. The story was all over the city at the time, when he died, you know? He was a hell of a character, always at an event, always in the public eye. Brilliant artist. Presented works to the president himself, they said. He bought this building for his family, for his younger brother.” “The brother.” Miles nodded, but didn’t elaborate. Tony gabbled on nervously. “I thought the kid still lived here, though he doesn’t exhibit, doesn’t even paint anymore. Just hides out here, since… well, you know. They said he—the younger brother—had a brilliant talent of his own. Very different from Jacky Roswell; much bolder. They both painted, both sketched. But the kid’s style was a different thing altogether.” “It was,” said Miles. Malia was startled that Mr. Winter offered any comment at all, let alone one that implied he knew of the background. “Zeke Roswell, he’s called. A black sheep. A very black sheep,” she murmured. “I met him once.” “Yeah, more than a little wild, according to the press at the time,” said Tony, more confidently now. Malia knew if there was one thing her assistant was good at, it was garnering gossip. “This gallery was going to be his launch into the art world, his ticket to success.” “But that didn’t happen, did it?” said Miles, his voice suddenly sharp. Malia turned, staring at him, trying to judge his mood. “And that was well over a year ago.” “Yeah.” Tony sighed. “These things happen, I guess.” Miles tugged gently at the cuffs of his elegant, understated jacket. “They do indeed. It’s never mattered to me why it’s on the market, Tony. I just needed to know that it was and that my price was accepted.” He stared once more at the grimy windows, and his voice grew more thoughtful. “I have no interest in buying ghosts.”

CARTER Davison slipped quietly into the downtown bar. It was long past midnight, and there were only a few patrons left, nursing their last drinks for the night. None of them looked up as the paneled door to the outside world creaked closed behind him. But the barman did. He half-raised a hand to Carter and nodded him toward the booths at the far side of the room.

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Clare London “Asleep again, I guess. He’s not asked for more since eleven. I was gonna call you….” “It’s okay, Marty,” Carter murmured. It said something when his local bartender had his cell number. “I went around to his place, and he wasn’t there, so I guessed he’d be here. Anyone else?” He knew Marty would understand. “Nah. There was a kid with him earlier. They were… you know… kinda interested in each other. Fact is, I had to ask him to keep his hands on the table for the sake of the other customers getting irate. But the two of ’em had words, and the kid left hours ago.” “Fine.” Carter sighed. He knew his tone showed it was anything but. “I’ll take him now.” He was in his comfortable jeans and a loose T-shirt, but his whole body felt weary and tense. He rummaged in his jeans pocket, pulled out a few bills, and placed them on the counter to settle the tab. Marty nodded to him, closing the agreement they had between them. Carter moved quickly toward one of the corner booths. All he could see there was the crown of an auburn-haired head, the face buried deeply into the owner’s folded arms, resting on top of the stained table. Carter could hear quiet snoring. The lean young body was folded uncomfortably on the seat, but obviously not uncomfortably enough to prevent him from sleeping where he sat. Carter moved a half-empty beer glass to the other side of the table and looked down on the sleeper. “Stupid asshole,” he murmured. It wasn’t as if he expected his words to be heard. “You’ve got a bed at home, haven’t you? And a friend to come look after you. A real one, not the kids you pick up and caress when the fancy takes you. So why’re you hanging out here again?” The sleeping man must have registered something, because he stirred. And groaned. One of the arms peeled itself out from under his heavy head and stretched out straight with an ominous crack of the joint. “Shit. Carter, is that you? Where the fuck am I?” “Where do you think?” Carter sat down beside the waking man and sighed. “Thought you’d given this up after the last time. Drinking yourself stupid at Marty’s.” “Am not,” mumbled the other man. “Not stupid at all… else he’d be yelling at me for the check.” His face was visible now, though he kept rubbing a hand over it, obviously trying to wake up properly. There were tired bags underneath the bright blue eyes and the smooth, tanned skin was dull in the dimming lights of the bar. His fringe hung limply over his forehead, and as he tugged at the rest of his hair, the auburn curls tangled in a weight at the nape of his neck. “Fucking

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True Colors hair… pulled it the wrong way. It’s killing me.” “Something is,” said Carter, grimly. “Can you walk? Go home, Zeke.” Zeke Roswell groaned again and sat up. It seemed to nag at some pain in his lower back, because he grimaced a little. “Got no home, though, have I? Going to sign it all away tomorrow. Lose the whole fucking lot.” “Zeke, you did that some time ago. You lost it all, or rather you played and drank it all away. Don’t play the innocent victim with me. You’re no fool. You had a chance, but you fucked up. Right? You’ll get another. So get over it.” “Is this your Kindly Friend approach, Carter?” Zeke sighed wearily. “Or you practicing for Oprah?” “Dammit, Zeke.” Carter frowned. “Do you want me to go on lying? Go on pandering to you? You know you’re a bright, smart guy with talent the rest of us would kill for. Instead, you drink your checks away, bury yourself inside a filthy apartment, and snarl at anyone who gives you the time of day. Or you try to fuck them; seems those are the only two approaches you have in your repertoire.” Zeke growled back at him, but the sound was tired. “I’m getting the feeling you’re pissed at me, Carter. And I can walk, you know. You won’t need that fireman’s carry you used last time.” Carter rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to carry you anywhere, Zeke. Physically or metaphorically. Drop the past and move on. I’ve tried, haven’t I?” “Guess so,” replied Zeke, a thread of anger in his voice now. He pushed at the table and lurched up on unsteady feet. “Guess you think you’re better than me. But this was just a farewell drink, you know? Because I am making the break. I’m changing my life. Aren’t you pleased with that?” Carter stared at his friend. He clenched his fists at his sides. “I don’t think I’m better than you, Zeke….” “Sure,” replied Zeke. He looked steadier on his feet now, and his mouth quirked with a sly smile. “After all, you ain’t got the looks, boy. And I bet the last thing you painted was something your mom put up on the door of the fridge.” Carter smiled, responding to the younger man’s bluster. In his opinion, Zeke had more charm than was fair, at least when he was sober enough to use it properly. “As a friend, you’re a real pain in the ass, you know.” “Yeah, I am. Guess if I had more friends, they’d tell me that as well as you.” Zeke sighed and spoke more quietly. “Can I come home with you tonight, Carter?”

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Clare London Carter started. “I don’t think….” Zeke’s deep blue eyes latched on to him, and the depth of misery Carter saw there took his breath away. It was all so very reminiscent—heart-wrenchingly so. “’s corny, I know, but I don’t want to be on my own. Don’t get excited, now. I’m not making a pass at you, nothing like that….” Carter slipped an arm around Zeke’s shoulder. For a second, his fingers brushed at Zeke’s sallow cheek. He wondered if Zeke realized sometimes the effect he had on people, on him. “Please. I’m far from excited, Zeke. You’re not exactly at your best right now. I doubt you’d do yourself justice in bed. Or me, for that matter.” “Fuck that,” said Zeke, but rather fondly. “Can still get it up, you know. I like boys and girls, Carter. Never been one to restrict my options.” Carter smiled, trying not to show his deeper emotions on his face. But it was damned hard. Zeke’s voice held traces of another voice, another time. Carter’s memories piqued him with small stabs of both delight and pain. “I’ll give it serious thought, bright boy. But not tonight, eh? Let’s get going, if you’re coming home with me. I’ll need to get the spare bedding out of the cupboard again.” He dropped his arm down to hold on to Zeke’s waist, so it didn’t look quite so obvious that he was helping him stand up. Not that he and Marty didn’t know the score, but Zeke had his pride—even if he drowned it rather too regularly. Zeke coughed, and Carter felt the other man’s body vibrate against his own. “I am doing the right thing, aren’t I? It’s all the past now. Right? I’ve got to drop it and find something new.” “Jacky said the same, Zeke. All the time. Find something new, move on. You remember how he was, what he’d say. No regrets.” Zeke’s head turned sharply toward Carter, startling him. “Easy for him to say, though, eh? Mr. Happy Corpse. Mr. Leave It All Behind for some other poor fucker to suffer. For someone else to sign over all our worldly goods.” “Zeke….” Carter didn’t like the edge to Zeke’s voice. There wasn’t just pain there, but something more aggressive. He glanced over at Marty, wondering if he’d need the older man’s help after all. But Zeke’s voice calmed again. “I’m okay, Carter. Don’t get all tense on me. I’m just a little more honest than you, eh?” Carter stared at him, startled again.

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True Colors “I really do want to move on, you see,” Zeke muttered, holding Carter’s gaze. “I’ve got no fucking interest in ghosts, my friend. None at all.”

THE cab pulled up at the front entrance of the Park Gate Apartments, and the doorman bent quickly to get the door. Miles stepped out, smoothing down his jacket, allowing his case to be lifted out for him. The doorman greeted him formally, and Miles moved quickly and with familiarity past the desk. The receptionist turned away from another resident who was asking directions to confirm to Mr. Winter that his laundry was ready for him, cleaned and pressed, and that his mail was in an orderly pile for his collection. There were no messages. Miles nodded thanks. The apartments were select and luxuriously appointed. They had their own in-house facilities, including gymnasium and a reasonably sized pool. There was also a restaurant with a renowned chef and a bar and lounge exclusively for the residents. Tonight, Miles wandered over to the bar, and the manager was ready at once with his favorite rum and coke. Shortly after that, the restaurant manager came over to greet him with a respectful offer of that night’s menu, ready to take his order for dinner. Miles accepted all the service quietly and calmly. He’d been living in this building for a year now. It was what he was used to. As he debated the salmon over the sole, he leaned against the bar and watched other residents arriving. He knew few of them by sight and none by name. Most of the individuals were as select as the apartments themselves. He saw the sudden grin on the doorman’s face as a younger couple joked with him about the weather. He saw the receptionist lean forward at the desk and blush as another passing resident complimented her on something or other. Behind him, the bar manager flicked a peanut at his new barman, and they smothered an instinctive laugh. When Miles turned back to pick up his glass, the respectful quietness settled back around him. He noted the contrast, not for the first time. He didn’t know why it made him feel a little depressed. “Lookin’ a little morose there, Winter,” came a familiar male voice at his shoulder. Miles jumped, startled; he’d not been aware of any of his thoughts showing in his expression. “Wishin’ you were a man of the people? It’s not going to happen. They’re scared of you, you see.” “Scared of me? They barely know me.”

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Clare London “Okay.” The speaker gave an exaggerated sigh. “Maybe not scared of you. Just scared of displeasin’ you. They’ve got jobs and loans, y’know? They need happy tenants. They need the regular income from your exorbitantly priced suite. Upset Mr. Winter and wave goodbye to all that.” Miles’ eyes narrowed. “That’s crap, De Vere, and you know it. I only expect what other clients do: the best care, attention to every detail. It should be the standard. Don’t you agree?” His companion walked around to face him, laughing softly. He was a slim, blond man of a similar age, dressed far more casually than Miles but no less elegantly. He wore crisp linen pants and a silk shirt, left carelessly open at the neck but obviously expensive. His hair curled behind his ears, giving him a boyish look, but his pale blue eyes were sharp. As he moved, his hand trailed gently against Miles’ arm, and when Miles shook it off impatiently, the newcomer laughed again. His voice bubbled with a sense of fun, with confidence and mischief. The drawl was obviously exaggerated, but attractively so. It was noticeable that several of the staff were watching him, each of his movements followed with fascinated eyes. Miles knew his companion would have been amused at this attention, and nothing more. Red De Vere was used to the mesmerizing effect he had on people. Indeed, how often did he cultivate it for his own entertainment? “You bite every time, don’t you, Winter? I’m only teasin’; you should chill some. And I’ve been waitin’ a whole hour for you. Didn’t we agree on dinner tonight?” Miles sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He turned and lowered himself into one of the plush armchairs provided. The blond man dropped into another one beside him. “What is it, hon? Hard day at the office?” “Christ, Red,” growled Miles. “Every damn phrase you use is loaded with innuendo, isn’t it? Don’t you get tired of the lounge-lizard act?” But although the words were angry, he knew he didn’t mean it. “Guess I was right.” Red grimaced. He obviously knew it, too, because he didn’t seem to take any offense. “Come and eat with me, Miles. Eat, drink, and I swear to God I can make you merry. Goin’ to let me?” Miles had to laugh. Only a short laugh, a ripple of amusement. If it’d come from anyone else, he would have dismissed it as nothing special. But wrung from him, after the day he’d had—well, he wasn’t surprised to see Red’s eyebrows raised.

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True Colors “That’s better,” his friend said, softly. “You’re the only one who can do that, you know?” “Make it better?” Miles smiled. “Amuse me in the most unexpected way. How the hell do you get away with such outrageousness?” Red looked back steadily into Miles’ eyes. For a moment, the dilettante act was dropped, proving it was something he could put on or discard at will. “It’s good to hear you laugh, Miles. Glad to be of some service.” “Red,” protested Miles. “I didn’t mean you’re not good company for other reasons….” “No problem.” The other man smiled, his eyes brighter than before. “That’s why I’m one of your few and priceless friends. You can say what you like to me, and I accept it without judgment. Just… relax a bit, okay? Let someone close, let someone know what you’re really like. Let the damned world touch you on its own terms. It’s not weakness to join in, sweetheart.” Miles frowned back at him. He really didn’t want to argue with Red tonight, but sometimes the man’s persistence…. Red touched his arm again, pressing his fingers into the smooth cloth of Miles’ jacket. “Hey, it’s okay, I’m backin’ off. You’re just too polite to tell me, right? No need for that, hon. Look, I’m as rich as you—and let’s face it, sometimes I’m as bored as you. So it works both ways, eh? You can play your hard-ass act with me, Mr. Big Business, but I can make you laugh at the end of another fourteen-hour day. We’ll eat and drink well, and then we’ll go back to your apartment where I can stretch out these long, limber legs on your king-size bed and drink more of your best brandy. And while we’re watchin’ some reality show on your forty-two inches—screen, of course—maybe you’ll let me massage those knots out of your too, too generous shoulders.” Miles stared back. Red’s teasing touched him tonight far more deeply than he wanted to admit. Why was he feeling so unsettled? “One minute you’re dazzling the staff, next minute you’re offering me a quiet night in, in front of the TV. What are you really like, Red De Vere?” It was something he often asked himself, though not often as frankly or as openly as this. His companion shrugged his broad shoulders, a wave of his hand dismissing the question. It appeared his playboy mask was scooped up and reapplied. He unfolded himself from the chair and beckoned to the hovering restaurant staff. “I’m damned hungry, darlin’, that’s what. For anything else, ask the gossip

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Clare London papers. They tell me what I’m doin’, how my stocks are climbin’, which of my racehorses is winnin’. Even who I’m fuckin’…. Oh, especially that.” He grinned, instantly looking much younger. “And I can’t remember the last time they got it right, okay? Like you should try readin’ the info on yourself, sometimes.” “Let’s eat,” said Miles, firmly. He stood up, eager to halt the direction the conversation was heading. Red rolled his eyes, and linked an arm into Miles’ as they were ushered toward the hotel dining room. “That saucy little stick of supermodel ass joinin’ us tonight?” Miles tsked, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Don’t pretend you like her, Red. I know what you think. Anyway, Remy is busy, as I recall. Another photo shoot. A magazine interview. I think she said something like that.” Red pursed lips that were obviously preparing a characteristically caustic comment about Miles’ sometime companion, the model Remy Dion. But, unusually for him, he bit it back. “What?” Miles frowned. Red’s expression was sympathetic. “Nothin’, hon. From the look on your face, it really has been a hell of a day. Let’s eat, eh?” Miles paused, bringing them both to a halt. Behind them, the restaurant manager sucked in a worried breath. “What you said earlier. I’m not bored,” Miles said. “Am I?” He felt Red tense up. The playboy had known him for a very long time and was shrewd enough to know that Miles didn’t trust many people to come close to him. Red had been many places in his life, experienced much more than Miles in many ways. There were few things that either shocked or surprised him. Miles knew he could say anything, and Red would listen. But he couldn’t find the right words tonight to express just exactly what it was he was feeling. Anguish? A strange sense of distance and isolation from the world…. Red turned his back on the nervous manager and murmured to Miles. “Is it that bad? Somethin’ different happen today? Tell me.” Miles grimaced. Was he that obvious? “I don’t know. I don’t know what it is.” To his relief, Red didn’t press him. “You want to try some place else after dinner?” Miles glanced up swiftly, catching the flicker of excitement in Red’s eyes.

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True Colors He took a deep breath but didn’t trust himself to answer. He knew what Red meant; he knew what they often did late at night after the public bars had closed their doors, when one or other of them needed some kind of adventure. It was usually Red who initiated it, but Miles couldn’t deny he was often excited by their trips to strange, dark, exclusive clubs and entertainment that cost a small fortune, yet Red assured him was worth every cent. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.” Red smiled. “I’ve got an invitation to a new place that’s very discreet, very fresh. Very wild.” “You said discreet?” asked Miles, keeping his voice low. The manager was pathetically pleased that they were still intent on patronizing his restaurant, and was guiding them personally toward Miles’ usual table. “Hon,” drawled Red, “I don’t do anythin’ else where you’re concerned. If you’re not sure….” “No,” said Miles. “Count me in. So long as—” Red nodded, already ahead of him. “You join in as much or as little strikes your fancy. As always. It’s just good to have your company.” “Red.” Miles felt an unusual rush of gratitude. “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s just tiredness.” Red De Vere blinked hard, as if Miles had said something outrageous of his own. “No problem, like I said. Ever.” He turned back, directing his charm fully on the hesitant manager. “Now fetch me your wine list and rustle me up a fine Greek salad, okay?” He glanced back at Miles, mischief sparking in his eyes. “I’ll be needin’ some sunshine in my veins if I’m going huntin’ tonight.”

IT was the next morning, and the sun was way too bright. Or so it seemed to Miles, sitting directly opposite the drawn blinds of the office window. It was eleven a.m., he’d been offered nothing but lukewarm instant coffee by the vendor’s lawyer, and he was suffering a mild background hangover from the previous night. Red had taken him to several clubs and plied him with good food and drink and entertainment that ranged from pole dancing to poetry recitation, until Miles had tired of laughing and drinking and watching Red proposition all the best-looking patrons—of both sexes—and had taken a cab home. He looked around him, trying not to cough from the dust on top of the filing cabinets. The legal practice was a well-established one in the city, and he had no

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Clare London reason to believe they couldn’t do the job that was needed, but their office was a perfect study of faded elegance: a building that had been built for more glorious use but was now cluttered with cheap office furniture, shiny carpet, and mismatched drapes. Miles’ chair had a painfully sagging seat, and there was an unpleasant background smell of something cooked at least three mealtimes ago. He glared at the man opposite him, almost cowering behind his desk, and wondered where the hell the thousand-dollars-an-hour billable rate was spent. Apparently—the vendor’s lawyer was stuttering—there was some trouble at the gallery property that the Winter Corporation was purchasing. There’d been a break-in. “Must have used a teaspoon,” muttered a third man, slumped in a chair on the other side of the room from Miles. “Must have taken all of twenty seconds to crack those state-of-the-art locks.” Miles swiveled around to look at the speaker. The man was tall and lean, and his legs were folded awkwardly around the legs of his own chair. His hair was a mess of tousled dark curls, caught at the back of his neck in some kind of elastic. Even then, some of it had slipped free, clinging to his slim neck. He was scowling, but Miles couldn’t fail to see how striking he was, even through the bad temper. A long, straight nose, thick lips, and wickedly sharp eyes. He looked fit, though his body was restless, as if coiled around some internal energy source, his muscular arms folded tightly across a broad chest. A confrontational stance. His clothes looked as if they came from a thrift shop, but Miles admitted grudgingly to himself that he brought a personal style to them that even Remy and her designers would be envious of. He stared at the man for a long moment, knowing he could usually assess a character within a very short while. In this case, he found himself still staring even after he reckoned he knew who he was dealing with. The realization made him rather uncomfortable. This was, of course, Zeke Roswell, the owner of the property that had just been sold to Miles, as witnessed by his careful—and Roswell’s messy— signature. The owner of a reputation for rudeness and aggressive harassment; the owner of a dwindling collection of once-lauded paintings. The owner of, apparently, a debt the size of Miles’ apartment block. There were many stories about Zeke Roswell, sprung up over the past few years of his checkered life. And about his older brother, the late Jacky Roswell. Miles didn’t see any reason to let the other man know how much he, Miles Winter, knew about his life. After all, the information had only been gathered in order to facilitate this deal. A specific, one-off deal. “Is the problem dealt with now?” He directed his question back to Roswell’s

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True Colors lawyer. “Was anything taken or damaged in the burglary?” He ignored the deliberate snort from Roswell himself. “There was nothing taken, that we know,” said the lawyer slowly. He flushed. Miles bit back a sigh of frustration. He often inspired that reaction from people he stared at. “Jack shit to take,” announced Zeke, almost cheerfully. His voice was loud in the hushed, paper-crammed office, rich in tone and absurdly melodramatic. “That’s what you mean, don’t you? The gallery was stripped out months ago by the loan jackals. Nowadays, my apartment boasts the sumptuous total of three of my unsellable paintings, a microwave, and an exclusive collection of beer-bottle tops. Oh, and there were probably some empty pizza boxes there last night. I ate before I went out to—ah—celebrate my new, homeless status. Then I stayed at a friend’s overnight. You want to check my alibi? Want to check whether I even knew the name of this one? I don’t usually bother asking if it’s someone new. Haven’t you heard?” Miles’ lawyer was sitting on the other side of his client in what was probably an equally uncomfortable chair. He stared in shock at Zeke Roswell’s outburst, his mouth bobbing like a goldfish’s. Zeke’s lawyer also briefly closed his eyes. His expression was resigned; Miles suspected the man was probably used to this sort of scene, having apparently worked for the Roswells since the boys’ parents died in an accident. From everything Miles had heard, Jacky Roswell had been smart enough, but never reliable; he’d been difficult to deal with. And Zeke Roswell? Miles suspected he was just damned impossible. Miles shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position and failing. He nodded curtly to Zeke, acknowledging him. “Mr. Roswell. I’ve seen your work.” Zeke Roswell flashed him a look of pure hostility. “So whoop-de-doo. Bet that enriched your day, Mr. Winter.” Miles paused for a moment, examining the strange vibrations that Zeke’s hostility seemed to provoke in him. There was never any excuse for rudeness, of course, even if the negotiations were hostile. In fact, civility could so often be a weapon or a defense in itself. He drew himself up to reply, not without noticing the shudder of nervous anticipation through his lawyer’s frame. “I see. I understand that you don’t wish to talk about your work. Or your lack of it, in recent months.” Zeke flinched. Miles continued. “I merely wished to ask what your personal plans were now that we’ve exchanged contracts. I’m aware that the gallery is also your

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Clare London apartment, and I have no particular plans for the living quarters, so they are still available. I know they include a studio room. Will you wish to paint, yourself?” “Paint myself? Like greasepaint, you mean?” said Zeke insolently, deliberately misunderstanding. “This place may stink of a circus, but I’m not joining up just yet.” The lawyers winced at the harsh words. Miles wondered at the reasons for such aggression, but he was unfazed. “It was a straightforward enough question, Mr. Roswell, whether you are currently pursuing your artistic ambitions or not. The offer is still there, tenancy of the studio apartment. I sent the terms to your lawyers.” Zeke’s lawyer coughed in the background. “You’ll remember that letter, Zeke. What you said when I read it to you. What you did with it….” He winced again. Miles had a strange desire to smile. From the look on the lawyer’s face, whatever Roswell had done was probably considered a crime in some states. Zeke scowled even further, his gaze still on Miles. “You’re not interested in my welfare, Winter. I’m just an investment. Right?” Without raising the volume, Miles let a sharp edge creep into his voice. “Your building is the investment, Mr. Roswell. You would merely be the tenant. You are correct about the negligible level of my interest in you. Right?” There was a shocked silence. The lawyers exchanged glances across the room, not bothering to hide their concern from their clients. Papers were shuffled nervously. Zeke recovered himself well, Miles noticed. Six months of sinking, socially, from enfant terrible to embarrassing acquaintance had probably prepared him for such snubs. “Sure. Whatever. Guess I’ve got to live somewhere. At least until I find something better.” For a moment, Miles and his contract partner glared at each other. There was apparently no one else in the room, as far as Zeke Roswell was concerned. “All done, then?” Zeke said abruptly. “I can unpack my toothbrush, and Mr. Winter can expand his empire unchecked.” He rose to his feet in a slightly shocking rush of limbs and barely controlled emotion. Miles couldn’t tell exactly what emotion it was, but then he’d never pursued empathy where people’s private lives were concerned. And he was certainly not interested in Zeke Roswell’s. So he didn’t know what possessed him to speak again to the man. “You’re no friend to yourself, are you, Mr. Roswell?”

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True Colors Surprisingly, Zeke laughed aloud. “Like it’s of any interest to you, Winter. But you aren’t the first to say it. Maybe I wasn’t looking for a friend—the same way you weren’t looking for a tenant—when this whole project started.” Miles stared at him, wondering what he meant. The mixture of hostility and anxiety in the other man’s expressive eyes confused him. Zeke’s lawyer half-rose from his seat, his hand clutching his client’s copy of the signed agreement, which was obviously being completely ignored. Miles’ lawyer coughed discreetly, suggesting they should also leave, but Miles held out a hand to quiet him. Zeke paused at the doorway. He leaned against the frame, and his legs bent slightly as if he were having trouble staying upright. Miles’ eyes were drawn to tight black jeans, creasing up around Zeke’s knees; the slim band of naked skin showing above his waistband, where an ill-fitting shirt threatened to ride up over his belly. “So, Mr. Winter, you say you know my work?” “Yes.” Miles nodded. “I have two of your paintings.” He didn’t state it as either a boast or a challenge. Just a fact. “Right,” drawled Zeke. A look of surprise darted across his features, but he settled quickly back to his previous cynicism. “They were a recommended investment once, eh? Let me guess which ones….” He obviously expected Miles to protest, to be embarrassed at such a childish party game. Neither happened. Miles just continued to stare at him. Zeke narrowed his eyes. “It was 4:0615 and 4:TXTS.” Miles felt the tremor of excitement through him. How long had it been since someone had surprised him like that? “4:0615—yes. You couldn’t have known that, as I bought through an agent. You’re more perceptive than I imagined.” “Nah.” Zeke grinned as if he hadn’t just been insulted, albeit indirectly, and as if he’d momentarily forgotten his hostility toward Miles and all he stood for. “It fits your profile. 4:0615 for a smart new day. Rich yuppie equals modern abstract painting. What every condo needs on its bathroom wall. Goes with the chrome fittings and the Jacuzzi. And 4:TXTS? For those who substitute real life with new, electronic gadgets….” “No,” interrupted Miles. He took some satisfaction in seeing Roswell bite back his smug words. “I have 4:DRMS, actually.” Zeke sucked in a breath sharply. He looked stunned. The Roswell lawyer glanced quickly between the two men, maybe worrying

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Clare London that the verbal hostility might develop into something even less civilized. “Excuse my client, Mr. Winter. That was, I believe, the last thing he painted, before… before the tragic accident with his brother. It has distressing memories for him, as a result.” “Excuse my ass,” muttered Zeke. His gaze was fixed on Miles, his eyes almost feverish. “It’s full of violence. Didn’t you feel that?” He looked shocked, as if Miles shouldn’t have known about the painting, let alone bought it. There was curiosity there too. “The colors disturbed even me. It sort of took me over… I was never sure how I felt about it. Christ, the schemes were just plain crass. I was fucking amazed when somebody bought it, to tell you the truth.” Miles couldn’t tear his gaze away from Roswell’s bright, angry eyes. The man seemed to have no care for how he appeared to strangers. And he spoke so openly, so fiercely. “Mr. Roswell, I will apologize if what I’ve said….” Zeke interrupted him, rudely. “What sort of weird collector are you, Winter? I can’t see it fitting on any of your apartment’s oh-so-understated wallpapers.” Miles kept his voice both low and emotionless. “I’m color-blind, Mr. Roswell.” “Huh?” Miles tried not to bite his lip with frustration, though he disliked talking personally about himself like this. “I chose it for the very violence that you say disturbed you. I chose it for its movement. I thought that it illustrated turmoil far more clearly than any mixture of shades or dyes. Which, of course, I would never have appreciated.” The room was silent for several seconds, the air charged with tension. Then, “Fuck that,” said Zeke Roswell, though he sounded more surprised than belligerent. His lawyer made a small, whimpering sound. Miles stood abruptly, staring back at the astonished artist. He needed to be away from here; he was startled at how strongly he felt that response. “Of course, I need hardly say that you have no idea how I’ve decorated my apartment, so your assumptions may well have been offensive. However, I also assume that fact doesn’t disturb you. I’ll send an engineer around to fix your broken lock this afternoon and to collect the first month’s rent. Good day, Mr. Roswell.”

20

True Colors

ZEKE Roswell stood in the middle of the upstairs studio, looking around. He hadn’t turned on any lights in the room, but there was a sliver of soft brightness sliding across the bare floor from the hallway. Lights from the street also winked in the evening darkness, glinting through the glass of the wide studio window. It all dappled the room with weird, looping shadows. Sometimes they shivered, breaking then reassembling, but Zeke knew it was only from the movement of cars outside in the city. There was no other distraction in the studio; he was alone, and had been for several hours. The building was now secure, the broken lock fixed following the break-in. The decorators were due to move into the gallery tomorrow, and the whole place was going to be renovated. And he was still here. He had three rooms on this floor: a bedroom with a small attached bathroom, a kitchen/dinette, and the whole front of the apartment given up to the studio. When the gallery first opened, he’d painted here all the time. He’d spread canvas after canvas against the walls; mixed colors he’d only ever dreamed of; drawn bolder strokes than he’d ever dared to before. He’d been accompanied by the sharp blaze of early morning light in spring, and the dim, misty fog in winter. Slept there, too, drowsing while the sun sank under the horizon and the lights of the city at night blinked into life. The distant sound of a siren wailed through the traffic, down at ground level. Zeke’s throat constricted painfully. Everything around him then had been full of inspiration. Everything had been loaded with promise and the excitement

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Clare London of anticipation. Colors weren’t bright enough for him, the hours in a day were too short for him to get it all down on canvas. His words spilled from his mouth like bubbles and his hands were never still. And Jacky had been alive then. The memory teased at Zeke, bringing an unbidden smile. He’d sweated and argued and begged for this building. Jacky was an established success with his own house and studio, when he offered to help Zeke get somewhere, to set him up in an apartment. Zeke remembered poring over different sets of details with Jacky. He’d been the one to point out the potential of this place, as soon as he’d seen it. He’d been beside himself with excitement. He was going to be his own master; he was going to be known for his own work! No longer just the kid brother of the famous Jacky Roswell. Jacky had laughed sometimes at Zeke’s painting. Oh, he was proud of him, or so he sometimes—grudgingly—said. But the style was very different from his own, and Zeke was still very young, in both age and experience. Only later had Zeke suspected that he probably cramped Jacky’s lifestyle. It was in Jacky’s interest as well, to have Zeke move out; Jacky had a pretty complicated private life at times. There’d only been five years between them, and there were so many ways that they were similar in temperament: but in all the worst ways. There were days they argued all the time. “This is the place,” Zeke had said, just after they’d been sent the details of the gallery. He’d watched Jacky’s eyes glaze over. “Hey, brother, you listening? Just let me look at it. I’ll be out of your way then, right?” He couldn’t move in fast enough. And for the first few months, all had gone really well. The gallery had opened in a burst of glamour and publicity. He’d sold seven paintings that night alone. Come to think of it, he thought that one of them might have been 4:0615. He’d enjoyed a couple of delicious dates with that cute little girl he met. He’d given a couple of fluffy interviews and even been on TV. He was starting to consider taking on an assistant, to handle the administration of his business. He was discussing a series of murals with one of the city institutions. He’d been on a high that had colored his whole life. Then things had started to be a struggle. He had no idea, really, of how to run a commercial business. He admitted that now to himself, in the dark hours of his solitary nights. He’d been too young, too inexperienced. Too desperate to be painting, not managing a gallery. His friends—and Jacky’s—had still patronized him. He loved to paint and he’d lived well. Too well, of course. He’d ignored the

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True Colors tedious letters from his sponsors and the banks. He’d ignored most of the issues that weren’t related to his art. It had taken a frighteningly short period of time for both the glamour and the assets to start vanishing. Just a couple more months, that was all. Maybe it had been in the cards for longer than that. But it had started slipping away, so quickly that he never saw it leave any trail. By the time he began to wise up, the rot had set in. Zeke stood in the studio room that had been his pride and joy, and he stared at his stark reflection in the window. He remembered how he’d painted from that view only six months ago, when Jacky was still alive, when there was still a glittering potential ahead of him. The clouds had been low that day, the day he started. Shadows of the city buildings loomed across the window. He’d mixed and thickened and layered the colors on his makeshift palette, and then just painted how he felt. All through the day and night. He remembered how it had felt, then—the strangeness of that painting, and how it was always going to be unique to him. Of course, he had no idea then how things would be over the next few months. But it had disturbed him, even then—a brooding storm in his very mind, not just the sky outside. Must have been an omen. Later, with hindsight, that’s what he thought. That day’s work had created the painting 4:DRMS. It had been the last time he’d used color so wildly, and the last picture that had sold. God knows how it had ended up in Winter’s hands. Zeke couldn’t even remember the name of his agent from those days, the man had skipped town so swiftly when things started to go wrong. It had been the last time he’d thrown himself so deeply into that maelstrom of obsession and creativity. He’d dreamt vividly for days—never knew which came first, the painting or the troubled nights—and they’d fed off each other. Nothing else he’d ever done had compared with it, for pure, raw, emotional impact. Almost as if he’d known what was going to happen in his life…. Two weeks after he finished the painting there’d been the fire, when his brother’s apartment had somehow gone up in flames. There’d been no bastard there to help him, or to call 911. It had been gutted and charred and burned bare of anything resembling humanity, before the fire department finally arrived. His brother had burned to death. Just months ago…. How long did grief last, for God’s sake? How many stages had he been through, like that therapist had tried to tell him? Of course, after the initial fuss of

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Clare London the accident had died down, he’d been a little mad for a while. Fuck it, he’d been very mad. He’d drunk himself into a near coma for a week or so, until he was scared by the shaking of his hands and therefore his inability to paint. The friends had all fallen away, except for Carter Davison. Zeke didn’t chase after them. He didn’t really care; they were just fair-weather friends, after all. He shut his door and closed all channels of communication, and finally no one came knocking for him. People were tolerant, but only for so long: the public’s attention was always fickle. He still tried to work, however. Dammit, painting was the only thing he knew how to do. The bills still had to be paid; commissions still had to be met; the press still clamored for news of his work. He was even more newsworthy now, of course: the orphaned brother, losing his very last relative in a tragic accident. But the work he turned out then had been ugly. There was no other word for it. Aggressive and harsh, there were no more of the dynamic, vibrant colors that everyone associated with his paintings. Just ugly… and therefore unmarketable. The money ebbed even further away like a summer tide, like it had never been. Zeke had been ashamed of himself, but he was still greedy for the attention, especially when it began to wane. And that was when his previously endearing eccentricity slid into plain bad behavior. When he started to become loud and brash and aggressive; when he started to seek out sexual pleasure just for the hell of it; when he thought he could continue to live as he always had. People had still wanted to help him, he remembered. But he held them at bay. Dammit, he hadn’t needed the paperwork to tell him he’d lost everything. His heart told him so. It was difficult to care about a building—about making a living, unpaid bills and angry agents—when there was a fucking hole in the center of him. Why didn’t people see that? For many more weeks following the fire, he’d tried to keep it all together. He was his own receptionist, cleaner, and facilities manager. He’d lived and breathed the gallery. He lied to the banks and attempted to seduce angry suppliers. Gradually, he painted less and less. The demand dwindled alarmingly quickly, and he sold nothing after Jacky died. And in all honesty, he didn’t seem to have the heart for any of it. Less than three months ago, the repo men arrived and took the bulk of everything he owned, except his personal goods and some canvases he’d hidden at Carter’s apartment. He’d not painted at all after that. Carter had insisted he see a therapist, but he never followed through on treatment. But if Carter hadn’t helped him out…

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True Colors well, he’d probably be even more of a basket case than he was now. It wasn’t as if Carter didn’t suffer on his own account, but what fucking use had Zeke been to him in return? Then, two months ago, he’d sat for a day beside Carter’s telephone and started the process of selling the gallery. His gallery.

ZEKE’S eyes traveled slowly—cautiously—around the upstairs studio again. When he’d come back from Carter’s that day, armed with a list of real estate agents’ appointments and a jagged pain in his gut, he’d stood in this room for over an hour, barely moving. He’d cried too. Dammit, who wouldn’t? Then he’d left the room, closing the door on both his painting and his hopes. He’d known he was beat. He drank himself into a week of oblivion. Again. Marty had been the only guy to let him indulge it, and perhaps to keep an eye on him, but even he’d grown tired and angry with the loud, awkward young man who threw up in his restroom on a regular basis, and tried to hit on most of his younger clients. At the end of a particularly draining forty-eight hours, Zeke remembered, he’d somehow staggered home and sat slumped against the far wall of the darkened gallery. His stomach had cramped and protested with the abuse and the vomiting; he couldn’t remember eating very regularly at that time. He’d cried. Yet again. Just waiting for the final reckoning. It closed in on him, swiftly and inexorably. Lawyers; finance companies; real estate agents. And, of course, the parasitical gossip press. Ever since the fire, life had turned on him; eaten away at everything he’d ever had; brought him to where he remained today. Broke; ignored; forgotten. He’d thought reckoning came from God, but it was all far more mundane than that. Am I disappointed, or what? He sighed loudly, as if trying to expel the memories. He realized he was shaking. The studio cried abandonment to him, the dust on the windowsills disturbed by his entrance and the faintly tart smell of old paint and sour company in his nostrils. Just as he remembered from his nightmares. There were no paints left, no blank canvases. He’d either sold it all, or thrown it out. He was shocked to find that his hands ached to hold a brush; to stretch a

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Clare London rough-surfaced canvas across a frame. The smell of the cleaning fluid; the soft stickiness of the paint. He missed it like a lover, and he realized he probably always would. He hadn’t turned away from painting; rather, it had escaped from his abuse. He’d let the whole fucking thing down. Jacky…. He turned around, and went back across the landing to the small bedroom. He’d known when he sold his gallery that he had no rights to his home, either. The apartment above the gallery went with the building and his debts had swallowed the whole damned lot. Winter didn’t have to offer him a tenancy. His corporation could have used the floor for more gallery space, or to rent to another artist. My studio…. Winter could have ripped out the fittings and made an office. Or made it a cozy little pied-à-terre and used it to keep whomever he was fucking at the moment in a measure of comfort. Used it for clients; for staff. To raise pigeons, if he chose, for Christ’s sake. Zeke shook off the ramblings. Damn Winter. Smug, rich prick. Sitting there, with his cool, handsome face, and those amazing eyes, staring at him like Zeke was an alien life form. Long legs and steady shoulders, all wrapped up in Italian fabric and leather, the likes of which hadn’t touched Zeke’s own body for over a year. “I know your work,” he’d said. Yeah, right. Like he’d have found the later works interesting, the ones Zeke painted after the fire. It was all wild, dark, monochrome crap. Carter called it some kind of catharsis, but Zeke called it some kind of shit. He’d obviously lost his nerve. We won’t be seeing them in Mr. Miles Stick-up-the-ass Winter’s private collection, will we? Zeke sighed, knowing he wasn’t being fair. All this wasn’t Winter’s fault. God knows why he was so angry with him. He glanced around the bedroom. There were a couple of bags on the bed; his clothes and belongings had been packed away for a week now. He had expected to be thrown out. He’d been waiting for it, in fact. There were clothes still hanging in the closet, but they were Jacky’s things. Things that his brother had carelessly left whenever he’d visited, things that Zeke had taken from the mess that had been Jacky’s home. Zeke had left them in the apartment, not intending to take them with him, though obviously the new owner wouldn’t want them.

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True Colors Coward…. He hadn’t been able to face throwing them out. And now he was left with them again, wasn’t he? So tomorrow he’d sweep it all away. Tomorrow, he’d dispose of it all. It’d be just his place again—just him. He’d invite Carter over to share a bottle of beer, and let the poor guy try to tell him how to pull his life together. Carter. No one had been as good to him as Carter Davison. But everything came with a price. Everything he received from Carter was from a genuine, selfless desire to help, but it all came with that look that Carter always had now; that lost look. The look that Zeke couldn’t cope with. The look that he thought even a good, friendly fuck wouldn’t ease. Otherwise he’d have offered it to Carter more often. With a sigh, he started to unpack again. He figured it’d take all of three minutes.

MILES sat on the deep, soft leather couch in his city apartment and watched the panoramic night view from the window. Guests always found it so delightful. And yet he found it such a cliché. Poor little rich kid. Penthouse apartment; portfolio of Fortune 100 stocks; glamorous clothes; travel. And money—plenty of it. Equally wealthy friends and acquaintances like Red De Vere. And, of course, the even more glamorous girlfriend. Trophies, all of it. He sighed. Red was right. His friend had an instinctive judgment that Miles had never indulged in himself. He, Miles Winter, was bored. Of course, he was proud of his position in the Winter Corporation. He’d enjoyed establishing himself in the financial world over the past few years. The business negotiations were amusing; the legalities were challenging. Occasionally, he met someone who threatened to give him a fight, and he welcomed it. Because he almost always won. It wasn’t just a question of his money, which was surely plentiful enough to obtain him whatever he wished. It was also his will—a strong, single-minded, resolute will to win. He liked to be the victor. Red would have asked what the fuck else he had in his barren little universe. He, of course, lived every aspect of life to the fullest, and business was merely one element. Miles had met Red when their respective companies had been in the midst of a property deal. Red was the heir apparent to an international racing

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Clare London stable, and, at that time, was enjoying his role as crown prince-in-waiting. His father still ran the business, so Red was left with time on his hands and pockets full of dollars. He was a gift to the paparazzi, a true playboy. He spent money gleefully, he rode his own family’s horses to success on the racecourse, and he found everything an immense entertainment. Miles had been more than a little fascinated by him. He’d also been surprised to find that Red De Vere dated beautiful people of both genders, and no one chastised him for it. He’d been a culture shock to Miles, overall—to a young man who was fairly quiet on the social front, and rather more interested in stock fluctuations than roulette. And who’d never considered dating men. But Miles realized early on that Red also played the role for his own amusement, while his personal feelings were kept more carefully hidden. And it seemed that Red had seen a similar duplicity in Miles. Their curiosity had been piqued. They’d both decided to find out a little more about each other. When the property deal had been concluded, and the lawyers and accountants moved on, Red and Miles remained good friends. By then, they had a shared social life and a fast-growing friendship and trust. Neither gave that attention to anyone else. Two quite different men, yet with the same privileged life and, at heart, the same opinions of how shallow it could all be. Red joked that the analysts would have their money’s worth if they ever attempted to reason out the bond between them. He was just content that it worked; so was Miles. They left it at that. Red made no secret of the fact that he found Miles’ daytime life and ambitions astoundingly boring, though thankfully not Miles, the man. They just had different ideas on how to seek personal satisfaction. And when they argued—if Red could be accused of such an unattractive trait—then Red would laugh any offense out of his comments, and take Miles out into his nighttime world to make up. It had been a revelation to Miles, to see how the blond lived this more outrageous side of his life. The clubs he visited; the private entertainments he was invited to. The people who welcomed him hungrily, and the people he used in return—and always with his irresistible mixture of charm and cynical amusement. Miles had accompanied him a little nervously at first, but he’d never been pressed to do anything he didn’t want to. And then the curiosity and the fascination began to ensnare him. What did he want from it all? Miles had never thought of himself as introspective, but as his adult life continued, so had this dispossessed, hollow feeling. By day, he filled it with business and the mechanics of life. For personal amusement, his collection of paintings began to have a more significant priority. By night, he dated beautiful

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True Colors women, albeit fitfully, and followed Red to various dens of iniquity. Maybe just as a spectator, but he was increasingly fascinated by other sides of life. That had been the bond that had slowly deepened the friendship with Red into maturity. Red De Vere now knew him better than anyone. He knew when Miles wanted to escape from the restrictions of daily life; where he would feel the thrill of anonymity; how he could indulge tastes and desires that no one else even suspected of him; that he may not even have suspected of himself. Tastes and desires. Miles gazed around his professionally decorated room. Sensual, silken drapes; thick fabric wallpaper. The cool, perfectly proportioned chrome and glass furniture. What had Zeke Roswell said? About Miles’ oh-so-tasteful apartment? He was right in his assessment too. That was why the 4:DRMS painting hung elsewhere. Not for the first time, Miles wondered about the bizarre titles Roswell used for his work. He’d been thinking a lot about the artist since the lawyers’ meeting. The door from the apartment kitchen slid softly open, and a tall woman stepped through. She carried an opened bottle and two large crystal glasses. She was probably a little taller than Miles himself though her height was accentuated by her extraordinary slimness. She looked across at him, her eyes widened, and she smiled. Perfect teeth, smooth facial skin that barely crinkled at the edges of her mouth. She was totally stunning. Her body moved elegantly across the room, a fall of long golden hair brushing at her shoulders. “Honey, was this the right bottle? I don’t know the vintages like you do.” “Remy, it’s just wine,” he replied. Did his voice really sound that weary? “Haven’t you had enough? The party went on too long, in my opinion. We’re both pretty tired.” The woman placed the bottle carefully on the low table and slid onto the couch beside him. Her legs bent gracefully together, and she smoothed the fragile silk of her shift dress underneath her as she settled. Then she kicked off highheeled, strappy sandals and curled her feet up onto the soft cushions. She saw Miles watching, and she smiled. “You’re tired because of our aperitif, honey.” She laughed aloud, her eyes flickering around the room as if to an audience. “That delicious session before the party, hmm? If I hadn’t rolled you out of bed and off to the shower, we never would have made it there at all.” Miles wondered why he couldn’t smile back quite as eagerly. “You regret that, Remy?” He couldn’t help but admire her beauty. Even her behavior in bed

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Clare London was sensual and attractive. And so eager that he was sometimes amazed she wanted him so much. He wasn’t falsely modest; he knew he was attractive to women. And he knew how to please them. But he’d always considered himself rather cool in bed—not as enthusiastic as lovers had wanted, in the past. He hadn’t known why, nor what to do to stimulate things in that context. It had been a source of surprise to him that Remy had attached herself to him, and continued to do so. Red had once suggested that bedding Remy Dion would be like fucking a painted doll. Miles had replied with spirit that his friend was out of order, obviously jealous, and it was nothing like that. Red had apologized for the first, denied the second with asperity, and laughed at Miles’ defense. But Miles knew he should be ashamed how often that conversation returned to him, even in the middle of the night, when his naked body was covering Remy’s pale, angular form, when he was sheathed deep inside her. Gasping alongside her cute, quiet little whimpers; climaxing almost against his will. Then lying back against expensive silk sheets with the undeniable feeling of disappointment. With himself, of course. He wondered why he found real relationships beyond his undoubted abilities. “Of course not.” Remy sighed, her breath against his cheek, bringing his attention back to her. “I regret nothing that involves being naked with you, honey.” Her lips were flavored with a cherry lipstick and the remains of a sweet wine from the party they’d just been to. There was often drink on her breath; she enjoyed drinking. She smoked heavily as well, and he knew she took recreational drugs in a manner far too casual for his liking. He tolerated it, for the present. Miles hated the parties; he had no interest in being on display. But Remy adored them. And he admitted it was important that he meet these people, that he cultivate their patronage. These were the people he wanted to invest in his new development, the people who would attend the functions he intended to hold in the new gallery. “Was it tough today, darling? The business with the gallery? I guess that Zeke Roswell is a real oddball. They say he’s trouble, all the way.” Miles grunted a reply. He didn’t know why he was reluctant to discuss it with her. He often bounced business ideas off her, though he didn’t necessarily expect any return advice. He loosened his tie, and let her slip her thin fingers in between the buttons of his shirt, opening it wide to caress his chest. “What’s he like, Miles?”

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True Colors “Roswell?” Miles wondered where to begin. “He’s young, about my age. Longish hair, athletic figure. Dresses like a stylish tramp. Talks loudly and rudely. Waves his hands about. I don’t know what he does with his time, because he’s certainly not showing pictures anymore.” “But he’s going to stay in the apartment, you say? The one over the gallery. Is that wise, Miles?” “What do you mean?” He turned to face her and the tight buds of her breasts pressed against his bare skin, even through her dress. He knew she wore no underwear as a matter of course, as it made unsightly lines in her profile. “He’s got to have somewhere to live. I’m buying the gallery, not someone’s home.” “It’s never bothered you before, honey, whoever you evicted. I just wondered why this was different. Did he have a lot of stuff there?” Miles stared at her, confused. “What does that matter? The guy told me he had nothing of his own, just a couple of paintings, and his clothes. I don’t see why he should have been lying.” “Sweetie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to annoy you….” Miles bit back another sharp reply. He was very irritable tonight, it seemed. “No problem. There was a break-in, you know? Last night at the gallery. Though God knows, it must be obvious there’s nothing worth taking there. It happened while I was out with Red, and Roswell was… God knows where.” “And I was shooting the pantyhose commercial. Remember I told you about that? What a shambles it was….” Remy laughed, breaking into his musing, swinging her hair softly over his chest so that a thin strand caught in his mouth. He spat it out, quickly. “Do you know the Roswells, Remy? You move in those circles more than I do. Did you know Zeke’s brother, Jacky Roswell? He was an artist too.” She sighed, her breath warm against his shoulder. Her face was buried against his skin so he couldn’t see her expression. “A little. At parties, you know? He sure liked to party.” “What happened to Jacky exactly? I know he died….” “I don’t know, honey. I didn’t want to know. I guess it was something unpleasant. Come and kiss me, Miles….” But Miles only heard half of her whispered endearments. His thoughts were elsewhere. “I guess Red will know, if I ask him. And I daresay he knows about Zeke Roswell as well. I never saw much of Jacky’s work, but Zeke’s… his

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Clare London paintings were amazing. I have two. I wish I’d bought more. I used to wish I could meet the man who could express such barely repressed emotion on a plain canvas.” “And now you have, and he’s a pig. Okay, Miles?” Her voice was soft like liquid silk. She pushed him gently back onto the deep cushions, and he let her. She was teasing the zipper of his pants, and he tried to concentrate on encouraging an erection. “Why do you keep your art collection so secret? Why won’t you show me around sometime?” Miles laughed, but he knew it must have been the wrong response for some reason because she frowned back at him. “Remy, it’s no secret. I mean, that’s where we met, isn’t it? When I showed some of the collection a few months ago, at that gallery on the other side of town. You came with that stockbroker—” “And left with you.” Her musical voice was seductive. “I remember, honey.” “It’s just a personal thing,” continued Miles. Before then, he’d rarely shown his collection publicly, and never again since. It had always felt… awkward. “I’d rather wait until I have this new gallery refurbished, and then I’ll reconsider displaying some of them. They can be shown to their proper advantage, there. Anyway, you’ve shown little interest in art before, eh?” “I’m sure that Red De Vere’s seen them, Miles.” There was an unpleasant edge to her voice now. Was that what this was all about? “You spend more time with him than me. You go to clubs with him. Shows. He entertains you at his racing stables….” “Remy, for God’s sake, let’s not start that up again. Red is my dearest friend, and I’ve known him for many years more than I’ve known you.” But Remy was drifting into a well-worn path. Miles felt his attention waning, his arousal losing heart. Her silky voice was turning caustic to his ears. “You think I’m stupid, Miles. That I won’t appreciate your precious artworks. Like I don’t understand all this tedious business stuff….” Miles’ objective mind struggled with the truth, and he didn’t dare reply. Remy was internationally famous, and as distinctive as a fabulous portrait on legs—but she’d never shown any sign of being an intellectual. He looked up into the softly brimming eyes, and marveled at how she could make even a pout look gorgeous. She did seem to like him so much…. “Enough of business, then. Take me to bed, instead.” “Maybe not,” she murmured. “Maybe we should do it right here.”

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True Colors Miles groaned as her hand slid down the loosened front of his pants, and grasped him tightly. She peeled open the fabric and slipped his awakening cock out of his boxers. He knew he’d not get a chance to undress any further at the moment. She liked to play the wanton hussy whenever she thought she’d upset him. And he rarely had the heart to stop her. “He’s not a pig, Remy.” “What?” Her head raised itself out of his lap, and the eyes were large and frustrated. There was a tiny thread of saliva on her lower lip, from where she’d begun to lick gently at him. “Roswell. Zeke Roswell. Not a pig. He was actually very articulate and is obviously highly creative. The gallery had been a fantastic place before it closed; the old publicity pictures are on file. The interior design was amateur in many ways, but inspired in intention. He had a real feel for the presentation of art. He just has a problem with social skills, as if he forgets he has to connect with the rest of the world. There’s a massive chip on his shoulder. He must have been hell to deal with in business matters.” “Probably still is, honey,” came her mumbled response. “He’s an artist. They’re all a little unhinged.” Something in Remy’s voice struck Miles as still too sharp. But her mouth was very skilled, and he’d forgotten how sweet she smelled. And he did need some comfort. He relaxed a little. “He’s very passionate in the way he acts….” “Don’t talk about that damned artist anymore, Miles,” Remy complained. Her hand slid gently around the back of his waist, teasing out his shirt from the waistband, and gripping him harder. He felt the familiar scrape of acrylic nails on his bare skin. It made him shiver. Her tongue licked and caressed him, and she whispered promises against his groin. “Let it go. It’s just one more deal, whoever it is. I can help you relax. I know what you like….” As his hips thrust gently out toward Remy’s ministering touch, Miles remembered—to his chagrin—the challenging words of Red De Vere. Let someone close; let someone know what you’re really like. It’s not weakness to join in. Miles wondered why he couldn’t believe that.

ZEKE pushed a chair to one side on the dust sheet and wriggled his way past the

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Clare London decorating tables to the front of the showroom. Everywhere he went in the gallery there was the smell of fresh paint from the walls and the tart aroma of newly waxed floorboards. But he knew he had no right to complain about disruption, even with the noise of the builders, and the trucks, and the clatter of various designers and craftsmen. No, he just kept hidden up in his rooms, like the exile he was, and he had no claim in particular over what his new landlord chose to do to the property. Instead, he waited each day until the workmen were leaving, and then he snuck back down to see what progress they’d made. And despite what he wanted to believe, the gallery looked fucking good. It was much brighter downstairs now. They’d removed an internal wall and set up Perspex screens in its place. The lighting was far more subtle and imaginative than he’d ever been able to afford. He noticed that they’d left in place the massive presentation board that spanned the whole length of the room. That had been one of his innovations when he set the gallery up. Daresay they just didn’t have the time to dismantle it today. He was sure there’d be some other, more impressive display installed in its place soon. Zeke couldn’t help himself: he imagined his paintings in the room as it was now; he imagined what he would place where. He felt a frisson of long-forgotten excitement. In that moment, he despised his lively mind for the traitor it was. The front door swung open, and there was a burst of traffic noise from outside. When the door closed again, Miles Winter had stepped inside. Zeke didn’t know why he felt a shiver; the day wasn’t cold. Didn’t know what the fuck the guy was doing here, anyway. “They’ve done a full day’s work, okay?” he snapped. His voice sounded even sharper than he’d intended. “The decorators. I assume you’ve come to check up on your investment.” Miles walked forward into the room. The clamor from the street was muted behind him, though Zeke could see the activity through the glass window. People rushing past on their way home; delivery vans cutting sharply around the corner; cabs shuddering away from the curb, full of office workers seeking an early drink or two. “I’m not checking up,” said Miles, calmly. “I just wanted to see how the place was looking, with all the workmen gone.” “You want me to go?” “No,” said Miles, rather quickly. “I’d appreciate your opinion. What do you think of it?”

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True Colors Zeke stared at him, like he’d strayed into the Twilight Zone. Guess the guy had never lived through bankruptcy; guess he’d never signed over his inheritance for the sake of somewhere to sleep; guess he’d never seen someone move into his place, and turn it all upside down. Or he’d never expect to give his opinion on it. “It’s fine,” he said, and he was surprised that was all he had to say. He reached a hand out to lean against the wall, relaxing one hip toward it. “So you’re dabbling in art now, as well as ninety-seven point seven percent of the top Dow Jones stocks?” Miles pursed his lips. “I wasn’t aware that particular statistic was common knowledge. Or let’s say, of interest to you.” “Yeah,” said Zeke. He was surprised to find himself blushing. Damned if he’d let Winter know he’d been checking up on him. “I have made my opinion very clear on this whole arrangement, haven’t I?” Miles raised his eyebrows. “From the very first meeting. But I’m not dabbling at all. This is a perfect location. It makes sense to keep it as a gallery.” Zeke winced. Seemed they agreed on something, anyway. “And your sense is, of course, of prime importance, isn’t it, Mr. Winter? Do you ever fuck up anything?” Miles bit his lip. “No, Mr. Roswell, not when I’ve decided to succeed. Not when I decide to make my mark.” They glared at each other again. Miles seemed a little dazed. Maybe he’d had a hard day at the office, or whatever they called it. Zeke didn’t move but Miles shifted on his feet a couple of times, as if he were unsteady. His eyes ran over Zeke, obviously taking in his clothes. Zeke was damned if he cared. He could wear what he liked in his own place, right? Or at least, half his own place. He’d come downstairs after a nap, so he hadn’t dressed properly. His sweat shorts dipped low under his navel, just where the trail of hairs on his belly ran down under the elastic. His feet were bare, which was how he liked to be at home. He’d pulled on an old T-shirt that had shrunk one time in the wash but was a favorite of his. It was bright orange and sleeveless, and its sides just about covered the skin from armpit to midriff. Miles’ gaze lingered for a while on that band of skin, where it plumped very slightly over the waistband of Zeke’s shorts. Zeke felt unsettled. He didn’t bother admiring Miles’ beautifully cut suit; he barely acknowledged the frighteningly bright whiteness of his shirt, or the vivid turquoise of his silk tie. Well, not so’s he’d admit. It wasn’t critical, was it, whether a guy could wear clothes well or not? Instead, he stared straight into Miles Winter’s eyes, and knew that was what power really looked like. He knew

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Clare London it’d be the same throughout the tall, wiry body: Miles would be fit, well-muscled, and totally controlled. His mouth would always speak sense; his eyes would always look straight ahead. His shoulders would stretch easily, and his body would turn quickly, wherever his attention demanded. His hands would be sure and strong. Zeke didn’t know why the thought of Miles Winter’s hands caused an uncomfortable stir in the pit of his stomach. He wondered what made the cool businessman lose control. Or rather, he wondered who made him lose control. Miles’ voice broke into his reverie. “Do you have a current job?” “Huh?” “I came to see you as well, Mr. Roswell. I’ll need an artistic director for the gallery. Someone to promote it, to launch it in time for the next season. I need it to be firmly placed in everyone’s conscious mind within a year, in order to start recouping the corporation’s investment. It should be handled by someone who understands a gallery—who understands the industry.” He repeated himself, as if he thought Zeke wasn’t listening. “Who understands the arts. And artists.” Zeke badly wanted to resist saying “huh?” again, but he was struggling through the shock to find anything more coherent. Miles’ mouth twisted in half a smile, though the flickering in his eyes was surprisingly nervous. “I’d have expected more conversation from you, Mr. Roswell. Even more argument.” “You want to drop the smart comments and tell me what you’re talking about?” growled Zeke. He pushed away from the wall and straightened up. The lowering sun from outside caught his eyes as he moved and he threw up his hand to shield them. The shaft of pale sunlight ran down his arm and across his hair, lying loose on his shoulders. He hadn’t got around to a haircut recently and he’d not bothered tying it back today. Miles Winter was staring at it. The look on his face was one of astonishment. “Hey?” Zeke snapped. “You got an answer?” Miles bit his lip again and his eyes focused back on Zeke’s face. Once again, they were cool and steady. “I’m offering you the job. And it’s acceptable for you to call me Miles, as most of my executives do at the office.” Zeke stared, still angry. “Look. There’s no one else here, Miles.” The other man frowned. “I… no, I can see that. My eyesight’s fine, thank

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True Colors you. What do you mean?” “Assuming this isn’t some kind of twisted joke, there’s still no one here to see you flaunt your benevolence. Your charity toward the impoverished artist, whose livelihood and home you’ve recently acquired. Sort of an empty gesture, ain’t it?” “It’s—dammit!” Zeke was startled at the sudden expletive. Surely the uptight Miles Winter wasn’t that kind of guy. Was he? “What’s up with you, Roswell? It’s not a gesture. Not a joke. It’s a genuine offer.” Zeke was still wary. “Why me? What do you know about me? Except that I’m a failed artist, failed businessman, failed just about everything….” “You’re an artist,” snapped Miles. “You can’t fail at that, Roswell. You are or you aren’t. It’s what you do with it that matters. And I saw what you did with the gallery when… when it was yours. It was fine, it was impressive. I want that vision for it again. I want that style, that creativity. For example, take the presentation wall. That was your idea, wasn’t it?” Zeke stared at the clear-cut features of Miles’ face; the strong mouth spouting such surprising words. Words that seemed to be mismatching somewhere between Zeke’s ears and his brain. “Yeah. I… I wanted that long, deep view, to draw the eye all the way from the front of the building, back to the smaller works. It catches the sun; it runs through a range of shading at different times of the day. Though it used to get a bit dark later on.” “Not anymore, not with the Perspex facing it. That’s an improvement on the solid wall that was there before. It’ll open the whole thing out, now, giving you the illusion of more space. And the ceiling hangings?” Zeke had forgotten about them. He’d once thought he would exploit the height of the gallery ceiling by suspending some of his works. Then the supplier of the twine had let him down, and he’d abandoned the effect, but the fittings were still there. He was amazed that Miles had noticed. “I—yeah… thought it’d be an unusual effect. All I ever wanted to do was to get people to see as many paintings as I could force on them, you know? To make them see….” “That’s what I want,” said Miles. “That kind of thought. Those kind of ideas.” His voice was firm though his eyes still looked confused. “Of course, you may be painting again. You may not have the time to take on a job as well.” Zeke’s mouth opened and then shut again. He swallowed. “I won’t be

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Clare London painting again this side of Armageddon, okay? I’ve got so much time, I’m thinking of selling it to your own brokers.” Miles looked like he was struggling to follow the harsh humor. “You have a God-given talent; you must know it. People are envious of that. Even I might be envious of that. You ought to use it.” “What the fuck do you know about it, Miles?” Zeke replied, even though there was less force in his hostility now. “There’s a hell of a lot of things people tell me I ought to do. So join the club. Is painting—or not painting—a condition of the job?” Miles’ eyes widened. He looked like he might laugh, but whether from amusement or frustration, who knew? “No. Only that you make something of it, that you commit to it. That’s what I do with my own work. It’s the only way to succeed.” “And you like success, don’t you, Miles?” “I do,” he replied. Zeke heard the passion in the man’s voice and realized that these words were coming from Miles’ heart. “That’s the one area I can’t yet judge in you: whether you have that appetite as well. I want this gallery to be an oasis in the middle of the city, a gathering place for those who want to see things of beauty and of challenge. And I want its reputation to be known throughout the state, perhaps beyond. For high standards and appreciation of good pieces. For an innovative approach.” Miles paused, staring back at Zeke. “Can you do that, Mr. Roswell? Can you make that work?” Zeke was more than a little stunned, and he couldn’t fail to see that Miles was amused at that reaction. Dammit, this man wanted him, Zeke Roswell, as part of his team. What the hell was all that about? Madness, that’s what. Miles Winter was obviously a guy who lived in his own personal reality, and expected others to meet him there, rather than reach out to them. Yeah, Zeke knew that was probably his profile, too, but he wasn’t eager to examine his own navel. That wasn’t the problem. Not right now. Was he afraid? Maybe a little. It was a feeling he didn’t ever want to share. And of what? The job? The expectation? All the things he didn’t know—and didn’t understand— about Miles Winter? “Okay,” he said, quickly, before he could panic himself out of it. “Sounds good. I can do it. If you’re willing to take my word for it.” He took a deep breath, suddenly aware of how tense he was. He ran a hand aimlessly up and down the skimpy shirt, and the thin fabric crinkled and creased across his torso. When he glanced back at Miles, he thought he glimpsed the glint from a bead of sweat on

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True Colors that cool, steady throat. Miles nodded, slowly. “Good. I’ll have a contract drawn up tomorrow. We can talk about the range of executive salary. I hope it’ll be acceptable to you. And… are you going to let me call you Zeke, in return?” Zeke laughed aloud, and the sudden noise seemed to startle Miles. “Only you would ask that. Mr. Proper, eh? I’ve been called plenty of things in my life and most of ’em were in a tabloid newspaper or at the top of some legal clerk’s papers, but Zeke’s fine by me. I’ve never been an executive before, though. You’d better not expect some smart suit and tie, or the punch-card mentality. If that’s going to be any kind of problem—” “I expect professionalism,” said Miles, shortly. “Commitment, as I said. How you apply that is your decision. It won’t be easy. I assume you know how much hard work will be required. That’s a given. And I’ll know if the project’s not working.” “It will work.” Zeke watched the steely glint in Miles’ eyes and knew he was stepping into something very new. He startled himself with the confident tone of his voice. “That’s a given, too, right?”

MILES called Remy and canceled their appointment for that night. She’d wheedled and cajoled, but he wanted no party tonight, no premiere full of forced smiles and the press scribbling about what designer he was or wasn’t wearing. He couldn’t remember what the movie was they were supposed to be seeing and couldn’t muster up enough enthusiasm to find out. She could take one of her many adoring fans instead. He considered it unlikely that Remy Dion was looking for a serious relationship. She struck him as similar to him in that way. Not interested in commitment of that kind. He was sure that she was dating other people as well as him—enough gossip filtered through to him to confirm that—but he wasn’t really surprised that the knowledge didn’t upset him. He supposed he still held enough interest for her to keep up the acquaintanceship. He didn’t feel either flattered or disappointed with her attentions. Dammit. He seemed too tired to be feeling anything very clearly at the moment. He spent the evening alone in his apartment. He’d never had a problem with suffering his own company; in fact, he often preferred it. Peeling off his business

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Clare London clothes, he slipped into sweatpants and a sleeveless T-shirt. The rooms were temperature controlled, so he was rarely too warm or too cold. Then he made himself a drink and unwrapped a salad that had been delivered to his fridge, settling himself down on his deep couch to eat. It was a break from his usual fastidiousness. After all, he had a dining area, with proper cutlery and fine bone china dishes. He often entertained, and had staff come in and cater regularly for him. He also had strong opinions on how people—including himself—should behave at all times. Those standards didn’t include lounging around, or being improperly dressed. He guessed he was a bit of a control freak that way. Maybe that was why Zeke Roswell’s attitude and clothing had seemed to disturb him so much. Now he sat with one leg folded up underneath him, dressed almost sloppily, and not appearing to care about either. He was picking at a salad he had little interest in, and watching the occasional drop of water or shred of lettuce drop onto the impeccable leather covering of his furniture. How out of character. He took a deep drink of his favorite red wine and felt an unusual warmth spread through him. Sighing, he put the plate back up onto a table. He wasn’t really hungry. What was the matter with him? Perhaps he’d call Red, and see if his friend wanted to come around and entertain them both. Red never seemed unsure of anything, never seemed tired of life. Is that what I am? Miles felt a slight shock. No… just restless. Red would amuse and settle him. It was always Red who helped him find some freedom within the restrictive life that he led. Red was the one who reminded him there was a world outside. But tonight, Miles hesitated before calling his friend. Something was nagging at him. Something Red had said? Maybe something that someone else had said…. He wandered into his bedroom, thinking he might get dressed again and visit his house outside the city. He kept the art collection there, in a secure basement. It was the one place he knew he could go and be soothed, a sanctuary of sorts. He had a strange, irrational desire to go and look at the small but prestigious collection he owned; perhaps to look again at the Zeke Roswell works that he recalled so clearly. Zeke Roswell. What a strange, aggressive man he appeared to be. But for Miles Winter, would he be an asset or liability? Winner or loser? Miles was surprised to realize that he had no firm idea. He was also wary of deciding either way. Not yet, anyway.

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True Colors As he searched for pants and a casual shirt, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He wasn’t vain, though he was well aware of his good looks. An attractive façade was part of his assets, after all. But that was a reflection of other people, not him—their fault, being distracted by how he looked rather than how he acted. He straightened up, and for a second, he stared into the dark pupils of his own eyes. There’s nothing new to be seen there. His gaze followed the wide line of his shoulders, the taut skin across his throat. Reaching to his waist, he peeled off his shirt, exposing his torso. He stood and stared at himself. He slid his fingers up his chest and teased gently at his nipple. He thought he saw a flash of excitement in the reflection of his eyes, but then he doubted it. He’d never thought his skin was particularly sensitive there, but he felt a twinge of desire in his groin and its fierceness startled him. Running his hand down slowly, his fingers paused at the waistband of the sweats. He tugged it down so that his navel was exposed. Gazing at the shallow dip, he felt an urge to press his fingertip inside and caress it. Aimlessly, his other hand traced down the thin layer of hair that ran from between his nipples and over his tight abdomen. Goose pimples followed in its wake, following the trail of his damp palm. Just like another trail his eyes had followed earlier on that day... a skimpy shirt; tanned skin. Bare feet. Another half-clothed body that had somehow fascinated him. Miles saw the swelling shadow of his cock under his sweats, and realized he was suddenly, but strongly aroused. Zeke Roswell? God, no. Abruptly, he turned away from the mirror. He didn’t understand where that reaction had come from. He didn’t welcome it. Of course he didn’t. It had been a hell of a day, and the interview with Roswell had been… well, it had been unusual, to say the least. And it had certainly unsettled him. He smiled grimly, imagining what Malia or his other staff would say if he admitted that to them. He kept everything together when he was at work, relying on his cool confidence to run his business and inspire respect. But that didn’t mean he’d lie to himself when he was alone. Unsettled. Was that an adequate word for how he felt? He sighed, his fingers still lingering on his skin. He just needed to pull himself together, and get out of town for an hour or so. He definitely wasn’t interested in anything the tightness in his stomach and groin might be telling him.

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Clare London

CARTER yelled at the young man in front of him, his eyes wide with anger and frustration, his fists clenched at his sides. “It’s a brilliant offer, Zeke! Dammit, how can you even think of refusing it? And after you’ve accepted already? What the hell’s got into you?” Zeke frowned back. They were in the living room of Carter’s apartment, a place that had become as familiar to Zeke as his own. Carter was an engineer, spending long days at work and often away on site visits, but he treasured his place and had made it both comfortable and tasteful. He liked rich fabrics and coordinating furniture; he liked to collect fine glass. Carter also had an enthusiastic and well-informed interest in art, which had inspired his initial introduction to the Roswells. On the wall over his desk, he displayed an early Zeke Roswell original, a relatively modest study of swirling purple colors. Of course, Zeke knew Carter also had another original on the wall by his bed, a substantially more precious one. It was a Jacky Roswell sketch, albeit only a selection of light, minimalist charcoal strokes, but it was of Carter himself. It picked out only the shape of his head, the sweep of his hair, but it was mesmerizing. If Zeke were insulted at his work taking second place to it, he never said. “Carter, no need to get so fired up about it. I just wondered what the hell he was playing at, that’s all. Can’t see it being genuine—” “Just hiding your head in the goddamn sand like always, that’s all.” “Look, I’m not sure I want to work for him, be some pimp of an artistic director—”

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True Colors “You’re just shit scared that you can’t do it,” snapped Carter, losing patience. They were both shocked to silence. Zeke bit his lip. And then he laughed aloud. “You’re right. Christ, that’s true. I never worked for anyone but Jacky, and then myself. I never signed on to any other job, never sucked up. Never did that corporate thing, like you do. What fucking use am I going to be?” “You’re a fool,” said Carter. He ran his hand through his loose brown hair. “Look at you, Zeke. You’re impossible. One minute angry and destructive, next minute….” He grimaced. “You can do whatever you put your mind to, if you want to enough. Or you can just drink yourself out of the employment market entirely.” “Hey. I haven’t touched anything, you know?” Zeke flushed with both anger and humiliation. Carter didn’t have to be so fucking harsh. “Nothing except a beer or two, not since I sold the gallery. Christ, that’s been hard enough without you on my case as well.” Carter stared at Zeke, his eyes dark. Zeke couldn’t identify the expression he saw there. “But if you don’t take the job offer, Zeke, what else are you going to do? Where’s the money to live going to come from? You can’t do anything else.” “Okay,” Zeke replied. “Just say what you mean, why don’t you?” He found it uncomfortable to meet Carter’s eyes. “So I’ll take the damned job. I’ll be Mr. Miles Winter’s man. Get the gallery back on its feet, hose it down, shake it ’til its teeth rattle.” If he’s willing to take the risk. “You’ll enjoy it,” said Carter, doggedly. “You’re an excellent choice, and that’s why he’s offered it. It may even encourage you to paint again.” Zeke couldn’t answer. He let his shudder do that for him. “You need to be earning again. Jacky left you nothing, Zeke. He should have made provisions for you.” “Spent it as soon as he earned it, Carter. You know what he was like. And anything I got from his remaining paintings went into my damned gallery. Don’t remind me.” Carter’s eyes narrowed, as if he knew he was stepping into dangerous territory again. “What about the ‘Family’ sketches? He meant that series to go to you. He told me so.”

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Clare London “Fuck off,” sighed Zeke, but he knew he sounded half-hearted. “He never finished the series. Everyone knew it was meant to be a series of six, so who’s going to buy just four?” “Someone did. That guy in the Far East.” Zeke grimaced. “Yeah, but at a fraction of the value the whole set would’ve reached. I was never going to be a millionaire on that. Jacky never finished the work in progress, okay?” Carter shook his head. It was their most familiar argument. “He told me he had.” “Pillow talk,” said Zeke, a little cruelly. He still wasn’t meeting Carter’s eyes—didn’t want to see any flash of pain in the dark green depths. “Did he actually show the other two to you?” “No.” Carter’s voice was low. “You know that. But he was telling the truth, I know. Zeke, are you sure you don’t know where the missing sketches are?” “Dammit, back off. If I did, don’t you think I’d have put them up for sale by now? I’d have been able to keep the gallery going. I wouldn’t be selling out to the Winter Corporation.” Zeke knew Carter had to believe him. In the miserable months since Jacky’s death, while Zeke was hiding himself from the world in a passion of drinking and debauching, he’d wheedled and begged money from all sorts of sources. He’d not have stopped at selling Jacky’s work, if he had it, whatever sentimental value it might have had. Would he? The so-called “Family” sketches had been some of the last things that Jacky Roswell ever produced: gentle, evocative charcoal drawings, but full of movement and passion. The same medium as the single sketch he’d done of Carter, and one he was particularly gifted in. The critics called it an inimitable and unique style, and indeed, there were few living artists who could compare with his vision and skill in drafting a whole life story in a handful of gray strokes on paper. His work had been so different from Zeke’s boldness in paint—his younger brother’s vivid, aggressively bright colors. The sketches weren’t specific portraits, but Jacky had announced expansively they were of his family. When the first four were shown in a local gallery, they were highly praised. They illustrated a couple of young men, at various stages of growing up, the style sensual but not sexual. What raised them above other artists’ work was the very vivid and obvious devotion between the characters, a bonding love that was beyond physical passion. Jacky had dedicated the works to his family, to him and Zeke.

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True Colors Zeke hadn’t been looking at them from the point of view of artistic merit. He just saw it as a time of great excitement for them both, of a closeness that might have been better than ever. Didn’t happen like that, though, did it? Jacky always said that he was working on a set of six, and there was so much interest in them that auction reserve prices were already set at astronomical levels. But then he died—and those were the only four in existence. Others were searched for but never found. The four were sold indecently quickly to an anonymous buyer in Hong Kong, although Carter tried desperately for a while to raise the money to keep them for himself. The proceeds sank into Jacky’s estate, and just about covered his debts. No one listened to Carter’s complaints that whoever had brokered that hasty deal had been a damned crook. Now Zeke sighed, wondering why he continued to torment both himself and Carter about something that was so far in the past. “Just leave it, Carter.” But Carter wouldn’t. “They were sketches of his family, he said. And there was only ever the pair of you for him to draw. It’s been that way since you were a child. You both had each other, no one else to care for you. He was so fond of you, Zeke. You could see that in the images of both of you, at least in the four that were sold….” “Just sketches.” Zeke gritted his teeth. He spun around, turning his back on the other man. Was it ever going to stop hurting, thinking of Jacky? “Just art.” “No.” Carter stepped up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Jacky was a genius. They were beautiful, the best work he ever did. When I looked at them, I saw him. How he felt; how he lived. The vibrancy of him, the depth of his feelings. They were….” His voice faltered. “They were what I loved about him.” Zeke felt the softening in him that only Carter could bring. He’d been fond of the man for a long time. Dammit, Carter was family too. “I remember him well enough not to need the pictures, Carter. Look. Are you… in trouble? Like with money, or something? Christ knows, I can’t help. But he’d have wanted you to sell that print you have over your bed, if you had to….” “I’m fine,” replied Carter. His hand tightened on Zeke’s shoulder. “I’ll never part with it. I wasn’t with him for the money, you know, not because he was famous, or because I thought he could do something for me….” “Yeah, I know,” murmured Zeke. “I loved him.” Carter was hoarse, like he felt he had to justify it to someone; as if he were being challenged on it.

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Clare London “I know,” repeated Zeke. He was surprised how weary he sounded. Carter had been with his brother for almost two years before he died. They were an unusual couple, but the complement of their characters worked well. Carter was so obviously entranced by his lover. A mature, steady character, he’d been an excellent balance to the artist’s fractious instability. Jacky Roswell himself had seemed uncharacteristically content with the relationship. For a while, at least. Carter had taken Jacky’s death as painfully as Zeke himself. He wasn’t a man who gave love lightly, Zeke had realized that, as Carter had slowly but irresistibly fallen under Jacky’s spell. Carter Davison had no legal status in Jacky’s family, of course, no claim on his estate or his goods. After being called out to the sodden, smoking remains of the fire by a hysterical Zeke, he’d returned to his own apartment with no more souvenirs of the relationship than the sketch Jacky had gifted him in the early months of their affair, and the memory of a passionate yet erratic lover in his bed. Oh, and the friendship and unofficial guardianship of Jacky’s grief-stricken younger brother. Zeke knew his own relationship with Jacky had been stormy. He also knew he’d transferred some of that tension to Carter, now his pseudo-brother. Even when Jacky was alive, they’d argued a lot, particularly about Jacky’s inability to be faithful, his habitual unreliability. It maddened Zeke and was probably one of the reasons for his own, equally impetuous behavior. Carter was steady and sensible, so unlike Jacky. And so damned constant, regardless. Zeke had seen his brother run Carter ragged, and it had pissed him off. Yeah, we both loved him, but he royally fucked us over, didn’t he? Loved us both. Was our main encouragement, our main supporter. Then he slept around regularly, mocked my work, dismissed your loyalty as weakness…. Zeke could never work out these mixed feelings he had about his brother. It all hurt so much. Carter was still holding his shoulder. “I want you to be comfortable again, Zeke. Happy again.” “I’m happy enough. It’s you that’s so fucking sad, you know? Worse ’n me, sometimes. Yet you keep rescuing me. Can’t I rescue you in return? Give you something to bring the smile back?” Carter was a good-looking guy, Zeke saw that. And his smile had a deep, rich beauty to it that lit up his whole face. Like a gift, every time it appeared. Just wasn’t that often, nowadays. Zeke placed his hand on top of Carter’s and squeezed his fingers. Gently. Carter tensed up behind him, and Zeke heard the other man draw in a breath. He spoke quickly before Carter could withdraw. “He loved you, Carter,

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True Colors even when he was a shit to you. You put up with a lot more from him than I ever did. And I love you, too, you know. You’re as close as a brother—better than one, in some ways.” He turned at last, still clasping Carter’s hand, and came face to face with the brown-haired man. They were only inches apart. Zeke could feel Carter’s breath on his cheek; it smelled of mint. “Don’t I look like him? Don’t you see him, when you look at me? I see it often enough, even in strangers’ eyes.” “I… maybe….” Carter’s voice was a gentle moan. Zeke knew it was true. He knew he had the same bright blue eyes, the same broad forehead as Jacky’s. The same grin, full of mischief. The same sun-darkened skin, the same dark auburn hair.... “Make it work for you, Carter,” murmured Zeke. Carter was breathing more heavily. Zeke could feel his own heart beating quickly. He stroked at Carter’s chin and slipped his other hand around Carter’s slim, warm waist. The muscles shivered under his touch. “Shut those cute green eyes and hold me, and you can have a hell of a lot of fun. It doesn’t have to mean anything more.” He knew he was talking nonsense, but he kept going. He dipped his head sideways, reaching tentatively for Carter’s mouth with his own. Carter’s tongue slipped out, moistening his lips, stretching a little toward Zeke. And Zeke knew he could kiss that smile, and everything would be easier for them both, just for the moment…. But Zeke wasn’t surprised when Carter suddenly flinched away from him, and the hand that had gripped so hard at Zeke’s shoulder pushed him away instead. Zeke stepped back, holding up his hands in appeasement. “’s okay, I understand. I’m sorry, Carter, that was out of order.” “You meant it for the best, I guess.” Carter was panting slightly. His eyes were glistening. “I mean, you’ve offered before. I know how you care for me; what you’d do for me.” Zeke swallowed, hard. “Not just for you,” he muttered. But Carter wasn’t listening. “You want to give me something that doesn’t hurt so much… some kind of relief. But I can’t do that, Zeke. It wouldn’t feel right. He told me to look after you, if anything ever happened to him—not fuck you.” “Shit,” Zeke protested. His skin felt tight, his eyes pricking as traitorous tears threatened. “Maybe I need something too. I mean, I’d enjoy it a lot; of course I would, you’re great-looking. And I don’t need a lot of attention myself. Besides, it’s only fucking, and I really like that.”

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Clare London Carter looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He leaned back against his couch, a hand to his chest as his breath returned to normal. “Dammit, Zeke, don’t you see that’s the problem? I know what it’s like to get beyond that. Whatever Jacky thought about me, I loved him, and that was the best I’m ever going to get. That’s what you should be looking for. Not a quick comfort fuck, for your brother’s depressed ex-lover.” “Hey. Didn’t I say it’d be more than that?” “Okay. I’m sorry too, Zeke.” They stared at each other, hesitantly. Then Carter gently smiled. “Thanks, Zeke. For the… offer. For the flattery. But it’d still be less than we want, right?” Zeke grimaced. He rubbed a hand over his face—a familiar gesture that Carter often said was particular to him. From the look of relief on Carter’s face, it seemed to break the spell of Jacky’s ghost a little. “Guess so. Though I don’t believe in all that sentimental stuff. The devotion, the commitment. The monogamy.” “Finding your one true love?” Carter murmured. “Yeah.” Zeke laughed, probably too loudly. “Some crap made up by fiction writers, eh? There’s more to life than that.” Carter’s voice had grown in strength; his reply was harsh. “More drink, you mean? More bedmates? More excess? More loneliness? Shit, Zeke—” “Hey. Carter, no, that’s not what I meant, not what I want—” “So decide what it is you do want. Then go and find it. Not from the bottle. Not from me.” Zeke knew a dismissal when he heard it. Carter wanted to be left alone, and honestly, he didn’t blame him for it. He sighed, and went out into the hallway to find his coat. It wouldn’t take him long to amble off back across town to his apartment. There were pizza boxes to clear away, and perhaps he could find those plans and drawings of the gallery he’d thrown in one of his storage boxes, and study them tonight for a while. He stood in the hallway of Carter’s apartment, with everything of Carter’s around him, having just made a pass at his best friend. And yet his mind was full, suddenly, of the memory of another body standing close to him: another smell of shower-clean flesh, another gentle yet expensive cologne. Miles Winter and his cool, steady gaze. Zeke’s body registered it too, the blood suddenly throbbing heavily in his veins and his groin tightening in warning. How fucking mad was that?

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True Colors Carter had followed him out of the living room, and now he touched his arm. “Zeke? Is everything okay?” “Fine,” said Zeke. It was like coming back from a strange, deep, and rather stimulating dream. “I’m good. I’m cool.” Carter murmured gently, “I don’t want you to be like Jacky, you understand? Don’t choose that route.” “Carter….” “I don’t want you to be Jacky!” Carter snapped. Zeke had no answer to that. Stepping out into the hallway, he pulled Carter’s front door firmly closed behind him and set off for home.

“ZEKE Roswell?” Malia’s voice rose an octave. Tony’s desk was directly opposite hers, and he winced. “Do you hear who he’s put in charge, for God’s sake? Zeke fucking Roswell. Working with us for the grand opening of the gallery.” Tony coughed nervously. “I think that actually we’re working for him—” “I won’t have him in the gallery!” Malia interrupted heatedly. “Jesus, Tony, he’s a… a maverick. Unbalanced. Destructive. A liability. What, for Christ’s sake, does he know about promotion? About client relations, about the media? Ten years I’ve been in this business. Of course, I was barely a child when I started.” “He used to be an artist,” Tony tried to placate her. When Malia first burst into the office that morning, he’d been composing a letter to his parents, a fairly groveling one, in fact. Malia’s temper tantrums were wearing him down, and the occasional adventures in bed with her were poor compensation. He was going to try to get a flight back home at the end of the month, and see whether Dad still had the job open for him there…. “Used to be. Exactly,” she crowed. “Hasn’t produced anything new for over six months, or at least nothing with a market value of more than a pack of peanuts. So he’s a washed-up artist and knows even less about business. The gallery crashed and burned when he was in charge, and now he’s on his way to ruin it for the corporation as well.” “Mr. Winter appointed him. He must have had his reasons—”

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Clare London “Mr. Winter must have had a sense bypass,” she sneered. “You know the background, don’t you? About Jacky and Zeke Roswell? Two manic artists—two monstrous egos, I daresay. They never got on. They argued like cat and dog, or so the neighbors told me when I started negotiating to purchase the gallery. Jacky sniffed around every piece of ass in town, with brother Zeke hanging on his coattails, going the same way, I hear. So Jacky sinks half his fortune into the gallery for baby brother, just to show off his immature dabbling, and blows the rest of his money on the horses. Then one night his apartment catches fire, and the whole damned lot goes up in smoke. Loads of paintings ended up nothing but ash. You know, it’s rumored the casualties included the missing sketches from that vastly overrated ‘Family’ series? I always thought it looked like he dashed them off on the back of a cigarette pack. Well, the whole apartment ended up charred like a barbecue.” “He died in the fire,” said Tony, quietly. “Yeah, whatever,” snapped Malia. “Then baby brother goes slightly mad himself, starts turning out paintings that look more like Buster Keaton meets Freddy Krueger, and plunges toward the same kind of disrepute and bankruptcy as Jacky.” “Not quite the same,” came the slow drawl from behind them. “It’d be difficult to exit this world quite as spectacularly as Jacky Roswell, wouldn’t you think?” Malia spun around, startled; Tony was only a fraction behind her. Zeke Roswell stood there, leaning against the doorframe. There was a sudden, shocked silence. “So. Is there a problem with my team? With me?” Roswell levered himself off the door and walked over to Malia’s desk. He was tall and took long strides, and Tony just knew the artist wasn’t the man to make any concession to her personal space. Roswell put his hands down on Malia’s desk, leaned forward, and leered at her. A lock of his curly hair fell forward over his forehead. The movement caught and held her horrified eye. Tony sucked in an anticipatory breath. Malia was very flushed. She looked deeply confused, unsure whether to be afraid of Roswell’s aggression or humiliated at being caught gossiping about him. She sniffed involuntarily. Tony stood up awkwardly, his chair scraping back over the floor. He didn’t know which boss he was supposed to be supporting, if it came to a fight. Christ, he wished he’d never come to the city. “We just… just wondered why you’re

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True Colors here. Mr. Roswell. Sir.” “Gotta eat,” shrugged Roswell. “Same as you all.” He stood upright again in a sudden, fluid movement. When Malia flinched, he smiled wryly. “You… your family. You’re famous… you’ve sold paintings…,” Tony stumbled on. “Do you think I have family money?” sighed Roswell. “Is that what you both resent? You think I have rich friends, secret funds somewhere.” His eyes softened a little as he turned to face Tony. “I have to work, the same as you, or I don’t survive. There’s no other reason for me to be here, I can assure you. But it’s going to be a lot easier and a lot more fun if we can all get along.” He turned back to Malia, who had risen from her seat and was smoothing her hair down in a gesture that Tony knew was purely nervous—it was already so well-lacquered that there wasn’t a strand out of place. “You summed me up rather succinctly, Ms. Trent. I may thank you for that one day. But as for now, it’s time to get started, right? We need to get down to the gallery and measure up. Then you can give me the benefit of your ten years’ experience, right?” He grinned suddenly, the tension lifting. “And call me Zeke, okay? I don’t have any appetite for this executive/non-executive game. It’s all the same to me.” Tony smiled, much encouraged. He ignored Malia as she glowered at him. Grasping her purse, she tried to sweep past Zeke with dignity and obvious contempt, but the shaky clatter of her heels let her down. Zeke smiled at her retreat. “And as for Miles Winter, Malia….” She paused abruptly, as if his gaze was enough to hold her there. Her mouth fell slightly open, but without any words to spill out. Zeke Roswell glanced at them both, and then shrugged easily. “I doubt you know the man as well as you think. After all, I can’t see that guy suffering any sense bypass, can you?”

RED De Vere considered it had been an amusing three months, the time elapsed since his friend Miles Winter had brought the young Zeke Roswell on to his payroll. He relaxed back into his couch, nursing a generous vodka tonic. The

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Clare London luxurious den of his apartment was dimly lit, casting shadows across the black and dark red upholstery, and the thick velvet drapes. He was dressed in tight leather pants and a vivid red silk shirt. It was party wear, and he was well aware of the fact, of course. He glanced impatiently at his watch. Miles sat down on the armchair opposite him and then stood again. He paced across to the drinks table, but came back empty-handed. “Sweetheart,” drawled Red, letting his smile widen. Damn, but it was fun to see the cool Mr. Winter so disturbed. “Decide whether you’re comin’ or goin’ and stop wearin’ out the expensive flooring, okay?” “To hell with that, Red,” snapped Miles. “I just need to think things out….” “Too late,” sighed Red. “The gallery opens tomorrow night. I have an invitation, remember? Seven-thirty p.m., a bunch of exclusive guests, champagne and canapés, and a modest collection of some of the finest art pieces in circulation today. And shortly after that time, dependin’ on the effect of the Roswell touch, the reputation of your precious new gallery rises or falls.” He softened his voice, knowing that Miles—for whatever reason—seemed to need reassurance. “Why are you so nervous? You’ve opened many an event before. I’ve never seen you fail, Winter. Surely you know what Roswell has planned? He’s workin’ for you, isn’t he?” “Yes. No,” replied Miles, distractedly. “I don’t know. I mean, I saw his initial plans, and I talked through his choice of the pictures that had been offered. It looked very promising—a theme of color and movement. He explained it well, very enthusiastically. His team is all in place; in fact, I’ve never seen Malia Trent work so willingly and with such concentration. She arrives at work early and stays late. Her assistants look positively cheerful, if rather worn. They’re all working really hard, which, of course, bodes well. I… well, I wasn’t sure how he’d work in a team.” “Zeke Roswell, you mean?” murmured Red, with a large slice of tongue-incheek. Only the guy Miles hadn’t stopped talking about for the past hour. “But then he canceled the conference calls, didn’t adhere to the e-mail updates. He’s kept me completely out of the loop for over a week. The gallery windows are covered up, and he won’t let me in to see the preparations.” ‘Won’t let me in’? Red smiled wryly to himself. What kind of guy keeps Miles Winter at bay? “And there’s something about his attitude,” continued Miles. His tone was sharp, his voice getting louder. “I’m just not sure he’s followed those original plans. Dammit, I should have known he was too much of a risk.”

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True Colors Red stared. For a moment, he forgot to maintain his usually languid, bored expression. “What?” snapped Miles. He was looking very flushed. “What the hell are you staring at? You’ve seen me angry enough times for the novelty to have worn off.” “Angry, yeah.” Red grinned. “Ain’t never seen you so flustered, though, hon. Who is this guy, who ruffles the coolest cube in the ice bucket? That has you so tense you’re keepin’ me waiting, when I’m all dressed up and ready to rock?” “Leave it, De Vere. You want to go on ahead, feel free. Maybe I’m just not in the mood for socializing tonight after all.” Red was quiet, knowing instinctively to keep back while Miles gathered himself together. His friend had a fierce, cold temper, but he disliked himself when he let it run unchecked. He’d hate himself for arguing with Red about… well, about what? A minor gallery opening; a missed conference call or two? Or the man himself, Zeke Roswell, his rather rebellious employee? “Tell me about the Roswells, Red.” Miles’ voice calmed, and he stopped pacing. Red’s eyes ran quickly up and down his friend’s body; the black satin shirt, unbuttoned to the middle of his chest; the slim-legged pants; the soft leather boots. He sure looked like a man ready to go clubbing with his best friend. But he just as surely didn’t sound like one. “More about the Roswells, hon? Seems that’s all you want to talk about nowadays.” Miles obviously didn’t hear the hint of acid in Red’s tone. “What about Jacky Roswell? I hear he was fond of the horses. You’d know him, then, wouldn’t you?” Red took a while before he replied. When he did, he kept his voice deliberately toneless. “Yeah, I saw him often enough. He came to some of the race meetings.” “How was he? What sort of man?” “Charmin’.” Red sighed. “Charismatic. Damned good-lookin’—and he knew it. Arrogance by the barrel-load. But no head for gamblin’, I’ll tell you that.” “Was he ever married? Did he bring dates with him?” “Plenty of them.” Red struggled now to keep the hard edge from his tone.

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Clare London And it wasn’t part of his usual, cynical air. “I don’t think the guy was particularly fond of women, Miles. His dates would be both girls and guys, though. Never anyone for any length of time. There was a steady lover back at home, I think. But that didn’t seem to hold him back any.” Miles frowned. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to upset you. The way you talk about him….” Red sighed and sank back a little further into his couch. “It’s just… he epitomized waste, you know? Talent and selfishness. An unpleasant set of bedfellows. Did you ever see any of his work, Miles? Collect any of it?” “No… I don’t think I did. The art collection was started for me by agents, as part of the trust investment program. I don’t think I’m fully aware of everything I own, to be honest. But I will be. It’s only in the past couple of years that I’ve come to appreciate the collection. I intend to spend more time with it now.” His eyes shone briefly with pleasure. Red knew what it meant to Miles, to be able to choose and appreciate art for himself. It was one of the very few things Red thought stimulated his friend nowadays. Well, that’s what he used to think, before the past few months. “His stuff was great,” he said. Miles glanced at him, maybe surprised to hear Red’s almost awed tone. “A lyrical, ethereal style. Rather more fragile than the man himself, of course. He painted early in his career, but later on he worked mostly in charcoal—mere sketches, really. I saw the set of four that caused such a stir at the time of his death. The ‘Family’ sketches, they called them in the tabloids. Dammit, if Father hadn’t tied up so much of my inheritance in longterm funds, I’d have been tempted to bid myself, for one or more.” “Then he died. Did they have any idea what caused the fire?” “No. A horrible accident, they concluded. They reckon most of his paintings got burned along with it all. Then the shit hit the fan when they found he was almost bankrupt, and all his remainin’ stuff had to be sold pretty damned quickly to clear the debts.” Miles cleared his throat and turned away slightly, as if to hide from Red’s gaze. “Did you ever see Zeke with him?” Red stared at his friend’s tense, muscled back. He bit back a sigh. “No, hon. Never. The guy’s an enigma to me as well. Sorry if you wanted to hear somethin’ else.” Miles shook his head sharply, as if he were trying to shake thoughts out of his mind. “I need something to relax me, Red.”

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True Colors “So you’re comin’ with me after all?” Red put down his drink and stood, his heart starting to beat quickly with the anticipation of adventure. “I got the invitations for tonight. Seems like you need somethin’ hot and fast and hidden away in a dark back room. Somethin’ anonymous. Somethin’ wild….” “Yes,” said Miles, softly. Red looked at him for a moment, startled. He’d only been half-joking. He ran a hand through his hair. “You sure, Miles? It’s my world, really—you’re my treasured guest, of course—but I never feel you belong in quite the same way. My kind of fun isn’t goin’ to keep you happy forever, sweetheart.” “I know that,” said Miles, sharply. “But I only need tonight, don’t I?” Red decided it was probably sensible not to respond to that. They picked up their jackets and paused at the door of the apartment, as Red flicked fingers across his alarm keypad. Miles wasn’t meeting his eyes again. He dropped his hand away from the wall and laid it on Miles’ satin-clad arm. “You know tonight’s club is guys only, Miles? I know you’ve enjoyed yourself before at places like this—not minded it, anyway. And I like your company, you know that. But you’re dabblin’ with Remy now, and if it’s going to freak you out in any way….” Miles tensed up, but when he looked back at Red he was smiling and his expression was calm. “No problem, Red. I want to go. You’ve never taken me anywhere that’s offended or scared me. I enjoy going, even if I don’t always join in. I… I need to know what’s out there; I’ll never get the chance, otherwise. I need to be… somewhere else; someone else.” He frowned again. “It’s been a disconcerting time at work, that’s all. I don’t know how else to describe it.” “You’re findin’ out what kind of man you are.” Miles’ eyes widened briefly and Red could have kicked himself for blurting it out. He’d not offend Miles for the world, but some things begged to be said, right? “We all need to do that, hon. Just seems to be takin’ you a little longer than me.” There was a moment’s silence between them. Red let out a rueful sigh. Then Miles sighed too, but his eyes were back to normal, the dark blue depths back under control. “So we’d better be going, then?” Red grinned. Business as usual. Or perhaps not…? He dropped the tone of his voice, aiming for something low and rich with promise. “You look hot tonight, sweetheart, you know? You’ve always got that cool look as if you’re just a spectator, watchin’ the rest of us. It’s intriguin’. But if you were just after some passin’ relief… you know I’d be more than happy to help.”

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Clare London Miles’ mouth curved around a smile. “I know. If I were interested that way.” Red scowled. Damned man. He knew that Miles didn’t tell him everything that happened, let alone everything he felt. They often went their own way at the clubs, and then met back up at the end of the night. Red knew he always told more tales than he received back from Miles. After all, that was his idea of fun. But as a result, the other man’s sex life remained a pretty big secret. “More than happy. Dammit, Winter, I’m not used to askin’ for it, but you know I’d make an exception for you.” Miles looked up at him, and his eyes were warm with affection. “We covered this some years ago, De Vere, remember? When you told me that, given the word, you’d fuck me into whatever mattress we had handy, and then still talk to me in the morning. You said that was the greatest compliment you’d ever given a guy.” Red groaned. He pulled his hand away from Miles’ arm, and pitched for a wry smile. “You know that was the vodka talkin’ that night. Though it was the truth. You know that as well.” “But we have a friendship that’s a damned sight more important than a bed partner,” continued Miles. “Yeah… that was your reply then, as well.” Red sighed. Not that the chance of bedding Miles Winter would spoil a friendship—not for him, anyway. He saw no conflict at all in balancing the two arrangements. He supposed he hadn’t really thought the guy would come around; though it never hurt to ask, did it? Miles’ laughter interrupted his rueful dreams. “I’m sorry. I’m not the company I’d hoped. Perhaps I’m just distracted. It’s stress from the anticipation of tomorrow.” “No way.” Red felt stupidly disappointed. Maybe that was what made him speak a little too harshly. “You’re damned lonely. Same as I might be, if I ever stopped to find out. Instead, I seek a collection of cute companions to pass the mood, knowin’ I’ll wake up tomorrow well and truly fucked, and damned glad of it too. Then I’ll maybe buy another couple of horses, and the world will be bright again for me. But you, Miles Winter….” Miles’ eyes had darkened as if in anger, but Red continued recklessly. “You fool about with this Ice Prince exterior. You keep ’em all at arm’s length, boys and girls alike. But it’s not just about acceptin’ them. It’s acceptin’ yourself too, and what you need, what you can give. Goes two ways, and you

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True Colors can’t keep yourself bottled up forever.” “Enough.” Miles’ voice was terse. Red shook his head. “We’ll have fun tonight, but these places ain’t really for you. You need somethin’ more than a fumble in a booth and a warm, expensive rum and coke.” “And you don’t?” Red laughed. It sounded only slightly brittle to his own ears. “That’s another thing we covered some years ago, eh? The fact that we are very different in many—critical—ways. I enjoy the single life, Miles. I enjoy the transience; the fragility of it all. The anonymity and the hot, sweaty desperation. It has a poignant thrill of its own. You might enjoy it, as well, for a while, but if you’re honest with yourself, you’ve got to face other things too.” Miles walked past him into the corridor and down toward the elevator. Red took a moment, drawing the door shut behind them, gathering his thoughts. Then he joined Miles to wait for the car. “You’re fascinated by him, aren’t you?” “Who?” Red tutted. “Oh, man, what did I just say about honesty? He’s special. I haven’t seen such a spark of interest in you since I first knew you. If I see you talkin’ about someone—lookin’ out for someone—shakin’ like a cocktail whenever his name’s mentioned… well, what am I supposed to think?” Miles was rather flushed, but his voice was steely. “That’s enough, Red. Enough ridiculous, romantic nonsense. Special? I don’t believe in that, don’t have time for that.” “So find time, Miles.” Red knew his voice snapped. The elevator arrived, pinging its presence behind their conversation. “Find time for yourself. Or it’s goin’ to pass you by, and you and me will be dancin’ around this place in wheelchairs one day. I’ve given up lookin’ for myself—but I won’t give up for you as well.” Their mood eased on the ride down to the lobby. Miles was keen to talk about the night ahead, and somewhere new. Red replied, and joked, and was thinking of something quite different. He was thinking of how Miles had so neatly sidestepped his offer tonight, without ever actually confirming whether he was tempted or not; whether he was drawn to men or women. Or both. Or just the damned portfolio prices…. Red

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Clare London frowned to himself, frustrated. He was looking forward to meeting Zeke Roswell at the opening the following night. He was excited at the thought of what might be in store—for both of them. He was also wondering what kind of person would finally get Miles Winter; not just in the sense of bed and board, but the person who’d get his commitment and his fascination and his love. Red De Vere thought that that would be a fabulous thing to behold.

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True Colors

IT was the following night, around seven p.m., and the first car was arriving at the gallery. There were cabs hooting their way across the crowded road, as other early guests were looking for parking spaces, or friends to meet up with. Malia Trent stood at the open door, a tray of champagne drinks beside her. Her pale face was flushed, and there were unfamiliar creases at the side of her mouth, as if she’d been smiling too much lately. Her slim frame was shaking gently with anticipation inside her close-fitting cream silk suit; she was unusually unsteady in her high, strappy heels. Tony and some of the other assistants were on hand to help her greet the guests, and the press was already in place in the lobby area, ready to catch photos of the early arrivals. The whole atmosphere was one of tense, barely suppressed excitement. At the back of the gallery, Miles Winter and Zeke Roswell stood together, and yet… so obviously not.

ZEKE had dressed more formally for the night than his usual casual wear. He had Carter to thank for it; he’d found Zeke a pair of hip-hugging, raw silk black pants, and a matching Nehru jacket. It allowed him to wear one of his glaringly colored shirts—tonight it was a vibrant orange—but the suit was supposed to make him look respectable enough for an opening. Carter had approved of the look. Well, he’d stepped back after Zeke had changed, and let out a low whistle. He could have been joking, Zeke thought cynically. But he’d been absurdly pleased at the time. He didn’t often bother about his looks nowadays. He wanted

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Clare London to make the effort for the show, though. And he expected Miles Winter to feel appropriately grateful.

MILES was feeling many things, all of which were far from gratitude, though he had in fact registered Zeke’s new look. He should button up the damned jacket. He was trying to talk to the artist without gazing at the sheer fabric of the shirt, but it was difficult. The color didn’t bother him, for it was just another shade of green-gray as far as he was concerned. But what the hell was it made of? It looked almost transparent. When the jacket shifted on Zeke’s shoulders, Miles thought he glimpsed a flash of Zeke’s nipple underneath. He felt the tightness in his belly again. It was suspiciously like physical stimulation.

ZEKE glared at Miles, ready for whatever challenge was on offer. Miles wore one of his usual, perfectly cut business suits. His hair looked like it’d been trimmed recently, but he’d just run a hand through it, and it had somehow developed an interest in lying awkwardly across his head. It was such thick, dark hair—Zeke couldn’t help but look at the mismatched parting. He knew it’d be soft, if he ran his own hand through it. He swallowed the unwelcome thought, feeling like a hobo in the face of Miles’ elegance. The other man’s shirt was immaculately pressed and buttoned up tight to his throat; he wore a deep purple silk tie, which inexplicably drew Zeke’s eye. Or maybe it wasn’t the tie; maybe it was the slim, elegant throat. Maybe, thought Zeke fiercely, it was time to stop drooling over his boss’s physical attributes and concentrate on what might be the most important night of his life.

RED De Vere arrived at the same time as the first flurry of guests, a little earlier than he’d planned. For Miles’ moral support, right? As he wriggled his way in, there were some flashes from cameras; some loud greetings. He’d had his fair share of exposure in the press, though he was by no means an important player in

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True Colors the art world. Then the first guests turned, clutching their drinks and canapés, to view the gallery itself. A sudden hush fell over the room. Red wheeled around where he stood, temporarily pressed against the doorway, and looked appraisingly down the length of the gallery. What he saw made him catch his breath with amazement. Then he ignored the mewling voices and grunts of surprise, and his eyes sought out Miles himself. He saw them at the end of the room, Miles and another young man. It was obviously Zeke Roswell. Red’s eyes ran over him appreciatively. He’d have known that was Zeke, the infamous artist, even before he saw the unruly curls and the tightly set shoulders and the glare in the bright blue eyes. Somethin’ about that guy…. The two men looked close together; they might have been friends. Or something more. Red felt a warmth that confused him slightly. Then he looked more closely and sighed aloud. It looked a damned sight more like a standoff.

“BUT what possessed you to think you could fit this many pictures in such a space—with all the guests as well?” snapped Miles. “I passed the selections to you to choose the best, not to hang the whole damned lot.” “You’re pissed with it—so you change it,” Zeke snarled back. “Either I’m the artistic director or you are. What’s it to be?” “Shit,” groaned Miles. He looked back up along the gallery toward the front entrance. Peering around the mismatched multitude of exhibits, all he could see were glimpses of people arriving. Lots of them, all coming to see this. Miles had never seen such a display. Zeke had re-commissioned the ceiling hangings, managing to hang twice the number of pictures that Miles had intended. The presentation wall was filled with a trail of paintings whose connection Miles couldn’t fathom at all. There was no pattern to the size of canvas or frame anywhere; the largest abstract paintings were mixed in with the smaller portraits. Guests were going to have to bend and lean around everything. They were going to have to be looking all ways at once, including up at the ceiling. To him, it all looked an impossible, awkward, unattractive mess. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to do this?” “Why do you think?” growled Zeke. His expression was a strange mixture

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Clare London of trepidation and fury. “Because you’d go ballistic and want to stop me. Just like you are now.” “But now it’s too late to stop you. You think I shouldn’t be upset at this? You’re uncontrollable. And untrustworthy, self-destructive, and damned secretive—” “Yeah? And you’re an anally repressed freak who wouldn’t know great art if it grew a dick and poked it in your color-blind eye. So just get your head out of your painfully tight ass and let’s speak our minds, okay?” Red appeared swiftly at Miles’ elbow and put a hand on his arm. It was like a restraint. His voice was low and sounded teasing, but Miles knew his friend well enough to hear the steel in the soft tone. Red very rarely used it. “Hon, there are some damned high-profile people just arrivin’ who don’t have much interest in your dirty laundry, you know? You guys need to keep your voices down a notch or two, or take this conversation someplace else. Mr. Roswell—isn’t it?—I just wanted to congratulate you before the rank and file sweep you away from me on their shoulders. It’s a splendid display, a damned bold one too. Not that this town ain’t ready to be shaken from its cultural complacency.” Miles stared at his friend. “What the hell are you talking about, Red?” “Stand back, Miles,” the blond man said, simply. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d have any problem with that.” Miles flushed. “You mean I can’t see the colors—” “I know you can’t see them all,” murmured Red. He gripped Miles’ arm more tightly, as if he was willing him to understand. “You won’t appreciate, perhaps, the theme of gold, green, and amber that runs the whole length of that damned fine wall. It carries through the most astonishing combination of art: modern portraiture, and more traditional scenes, and just plain simple abstract experimentation. All of it, reflecting and enhancing each other through the colors. I’m talking about the effect, though, hon—and I know you can see that. I know you can appreciate that. The depth and the width of art; the stepped effect of the paintings on both floor and ceiling; the emotional and sensual hurricane that’s running through what might have been more like a sterile doctor’s waiting room if it’d been left to your minimalist taste.” Miles stared at his friend, stunned into silence. Beside him, even Zeke’s mouth had dropped slightly open, his angry words dried up. “See the effect. Stand back….” Red turned him gently, twisting his body so

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True Colors that he looked back down the gallery. “Look again, Miles. With a fresh eye.” Then Red turned his gaze back to Zeke and winked at him. “Am I right, then, Mr. Roswell? Is that your vision?” “Zeke. Call me Zeke,” said Zeke, his voice flat with obviously similar shock. “Yeah, you got it. More or less. That phrase, man… that ‘emotional and sensual hurricane’….” “Yes, it’s rather good, eh?” Red nodded, looking pleased with himself. “I may just go and murmur that into the ear of that cute little assistant editor from Art and Artists, and that’s as good a pick-up line as I’ll ever find. Haven’t had a taste of that sweet little ass since—” “Red,” interrupted Miles, sharply. But his eyes were on the gallery. On the length and breadth of the paintings; on the erratic, yet stimulating arrangements of wood and canvas and paint. Red was right; he couldn’t see the shades of color, but now that he stood back and freed his heart and head from his anger and disappointment, he could see the skill, and the controlled chaos in the room. He could see creativity and talent here. He could see how Zeke’s mind may have worked. He looked at some of the guests as well, carefully. There was shock there, and initial scorn. But there was interest too. “You’re wrong. I haven’t used all the pictures you offered,” came Zeke’s low voice beside him. “Just the most effective. Those that fit with the theme of the show. It’s called Revolution. Guess it’s as good a name as any; if you don’t think it’s a better description of me than the show.” Red was moving away from them now, looking from one to the other. His eyes narrowed, shrewdly. “Nice to meet you, artist boy. I see the likeness to your brother, of course….” Zeke grimaced. “And yet I don’t see it in this show, you know?” continued Red. “You’re no Jacky Roswell, sweetheart—and that, from me, is a compliment. Keep this up and you’re going to be a great success. And that’s whether or not I seduce that assistant editor, and have a hand in draftin’ the copy for next issue’s ‘Show of the Month’.” He shook Zeke’s unresisting hand as a knot of people started drifting toward them, catalogs waving. Then he turned to Miles and laughed. “Great tie, cute boy. Didn’t I say the purple was the way to go? Though alongside your artist’s outrageous orange, it’d keep even me awake. Anyway, got to go, friends….”

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Clare London AS Red wheeled away from Miles and Zeke, picking out his next prey in the crowd of press and publishers, he caught sight of another early visitor, but one who didn’t seem to be with any particular faction. He was a tall, slim, brownhaired man, who held his glass at his side like he barely noticed it, and whose eyes had been fixed to the back of the gallery where the three of them were talking. There was the flush of something on his cheekbones—very attractive cheekbones, Red noticed. The guy had a mature, confident style in his clothes, though they weren’t this season’s by any means. He was good-looking in a careless, understated way. He’s with Roswell. It was suddenly very clear to Red. He’s here for the bad boy’s opening. I wonder what their relationship is.

IT was a late, tired, and exhilarated eleven-thirty p.m. The last few visitors were dawdling their way back out of the gallery to their transport; the post-show party would begin soon at a prestigious local club. Zeke turned and reached for a long-awaited glass of champagne, and from the other side of the table, so did Miles. The same glass. They snatched their respective hands back, and started to apologize at the same time. Then they laughed. Zeke watched Miles’ relaxed smile. His smart jacket had been discarded and the tie loosened. It exposed a further band of smooth, dark skin at his neck, just tantalizing enough to draw Zeke’s gaze. He wondered at the frisson of sensation in his fingers, just from the unexpected touch of Miles Winter’s hand. “So, Miles.” They’d barely exchanged a word all night, having been surrounded by their own particular fans and pursuers at all times. “This colorblind thing. What’s that all about?” Miles bit at his lip. Zeke grimaced, sure he’d blundered again as usual, but then Miles nodded. “There are various types, but it’s far more common than people think. About eight percent of all men are color-blind in some capacity, apparently. Mine is mild; I have the red/green variety, where I can’t distinguish all the shades between red and green. The shades all appear paler to me than to other people. They all tend toward the same color, and that’s green.” “Whoa.” Zeke was intrigued. “Kind of awkward with traffic lights, right?”

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True Colors Miles smiled. Zeke couldn’t help but like the way his expression softened when he did. “I often have a driver. And I’ve learned the position of the lights, rather than their colors. It’s more troublesome when I have to cook, for example, to tell if meat is done well enough….” “Mixing up the tomatoes and peppers?” Zeke nodded. “The ketchup and the mustard?” Miles smiled more widely, as if genuinely amused. “It’s happened, right?” Zeke grinned back. “And so… my shirt…? I guess the outrageous orange, as your friend called it, is wasted on you.” They both glanced down at Zeke’s chest. He’d long since thrown his jacket aside in the heat of the gallery. Miles flushed slightly, and Zeke wasn’t sure why, but the dark head nodded in agreement. “And so you were never going to get the theme of the show,” continued Zeke. How stupid had he been? “The feeling of seasons passing—the swing from the sharp spring green, to the late summer gold, to the burnt autumn ochre….” Miles was watching him as he spoke. Zeke realized he was accompanying his words with exaggerated hand movements, sketching the themes in the air. As soon as he caught the other man’s glance, he dropped his arms, self-conscious now. “You’re right,” said Miles, sounding thoughtful. “I would have to rely on the emotion displayed, instead. The feelings and the themes shown within the paintings, rather than their colors. But that’s of no interest to you—you must develop the exhibition as you see fit. That’s what I assumed you would do.” Zeke intended to make his next words sound casual, but they came out as a kind of strangled growl. “That blond guy. Your friend….” “Red De Vere?” Whatever. “Is he… you know. With you?” “With me?” said Miles, looking bemused. Can’t ask you outright if you’re fucking him, can I? Whether that’s the kind of thing you like. “Thought he was probably your lover or something. He seems kind of close with you.” Miles’ face grew a little tight. Maybe he blushed too. “No, he’s just my oldest friend. Did he offend you?” “Fuck, no. Didn’t mean to be rude, you know.” Zeke knew he was

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Clare London blustering, now. He sounded a complete moron. Like he should be used to apologies, the way he’d fucked up his life in the past few years. “I mean, obviously you can see whoever you like: girls, guys, supermodels….” “Thanks,” said Miles, dryly. “And he was great. Said all the right things, sent over that publisher guy to introduce himself to me, and then Malia says he’s set up the interview with the Journal….” Zeke’s words dried up. Yeah. Moron. But Miles replied calmly enough. “Red’s enjoying the controversy; he thrives on it. And he liked meeting you. It’s all been a great success.” They glanced at each other for a moment, then away. Zeke didn’t recognize the look in Miles’ eyes. “Zeke,” said Miles, slowly. “I’m sorry I doubted it at first. I’m sorry if I doubted you.” “So you fucking should be,” replied Zeke. Then he grinned, and the abrupt change obviously startled his companion. “Thanks, Miles Winter. Thanks for the job, and thanks for the freedom you gave me. Guess even I wasn’t sure at one point whether Revolution was going to work.” “It was good,” said Miles, firmly. “But….” Ain’t there always one of them? Zeke shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants, and his head dropped down. So he struck a rather confrontational pose. So he couldn’t care less. “No, nothing bad,” murmured Miles. When Zeke looked back up, he was surprised to see the other man looking slightly uncomfortable. “It’s just… there were none of your paintings out there today. I offered the two I have in my collection, plus you must have some of your own left, or access to them at least. Red tells me that the color scheme of at least one of them would have complemented your theme.” The silence tightened around them like a fist. Zeke felt every muscle in his body clench. He stared at Miles’s mouth as the man spouted all that crap, willing himself not to yell, or strike out, or just…. Fuck. He couldn’t take his eyes from Miles’ lips, though they’d stopped moving. He wondered what else Miles would say; whether he had any more complaints; what those lips would taste like, pressed against Zeke’s, hot and damp and hungry….

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True Colors What? He shook himself, disgusted with the unbidden images. He was tired, was all. He just had to hold it together for a little while longer. “This is your show, Miles. Yeah, it’s my job, but it’s your gallery. You don’t need my shit in your world. It doesn’t fit.” He turned away and picked up a discarded program, flicking aimlessly at the corners. It could have been in Chinese, the way the words swam blurrily in front of his eyes. “It never will.”

MILES knew it had been a long day. He knew the tension had been incredible, and that had been followed by the euphoria of the show, and the exhaustion of talking to everyone he needed to—and plenty he didn’t. He knew that he hated parties, even when they were on behalf of his own celebration and success. But none of that explained the depression he felt. He was in the restroom, freshening up at the end of the post-show party. It had been held at a local club, the surroundings elegant and comfortable. They’d restricted the number of press allowed in, but Miles had still been surrounded by reviewers and photographers as soon as he arrived. It meant something when he found himself hiding in the restroom, just for a moment’s peace. And it hadn’t just been the press attention to contend with tonight. There’d been an unpleasant scene, quite early on, when Red and Remy got into some kind of fight. There’d been shouting, and actually some physical violence—or rather Remy had tried to slap Red, and he’d caught her arm with a grip better suited for a grown man, twisting her wrist painfully. Neither of them would tell Miles what they’d been arguing about, and Miles had asked Red to go home. He was more weary than angry with them both. He knew that his friend despised the girl and the shallow world she represented. But Remy was a product of her upbringing; nothing more than a victim of her incredibly gorgeous looks. Red should know about both of those, to some extent. And she was harmless enough; just wanted to be with Miles. That hadn’t been the end of it, though. Afterward, Remy went on and on about the altercation, and what a beast De Vere was, and how he was so fond of his pretty boys that he obviously hated women, and how she was disappointed that Miles’ pictures weren’t all on display at the gallery, had that Zeke Roswell guy held some back for a reason, didn’t he understand how important Miles

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Clare London Winter actually was…? It went on and on until Miles realized he could no longer listen to it. In the end, he asked Remy to go home too. He wasn’t going to be in any hurry to call her tomorrow, either. He looked up into the mirror over the restroom sink and sighed. He looked tired, he could see that. Tired, and confused. Of course, if he were really honest with himself, he’d know why he felt depressed. Zeke Roswell hadn’t bothered to follow him to the party. They’d parted at the gallery, with Zeke refusing the offer of a lift in Miles’ limo, and saying he needed to clear up a couple of things first. Then he never showed up. Miles was annoyed, because he’d invited a couple of media promoters from other organizations who wanted to talk plans for future events at the gallery. He’d wanted them to meet Zeke, and to discuss it with him. Miles was personally disappointed, as well. He’d thought he might find a different side to Zeke in a more social setting. He’d been looking forward to sitting with Zeke, talking to him, being beside him…. Miles remembered the way that Zeke moved his supple hands, sketching out his thoughts; the way he tugged at that shirt, showing every line of his ribs and the sharp, rounded buttons of his nipples. The way he moved, and demanded, and argued…. Stupid. That’s what I am. I’m in danger of making a fool of myself over Zeke Roswell. Miles Winter stared at himself in the mirror, accepting that fact, but not entirely sure what to do about it.

THE week after the show had begun quietly and rather anti-climactically. But Zeke was pleased about that. He was back to calmer, solitary days—a routine of leisurely breakfast at the café down the block, some gallery work such as a quick re-measure of the walls and clearing away the remnants of the show displays, then jobs around the apartment, cleaning, sorting through storage. And at the end of the day he could sit in the studio, curled on a deep, soft-cushioned couch, facing the wide window and admiring the view of the encroaching evening. The couch was a new present from Carter—second-hand, but good quality, and deliciously comfortable. Tonight was such a night. He was in loose sweat shorts and his habitual

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True Colors tight-fitting T-shirt, and he was barefoot. The couch was warm and molded promisingly to the shape of his body. He didn’t need a TV or music; he liked the silence. Instead, he had a bottle of beer at his feet, an open sketch pad on his lap and a soft pencil behind his ear. He sighed, settling back into lassitude. But he was aware of his visitor, even before the man announced himself. Zeke felt the breath of air as the door behind him swung farther open. He heard it knock against the pile of canvases stacked against the wall. He wished he’d bothered to use the lock on the door to the apartment; it would have given him time to hide the sketch pad. But why the fuck should he? This was his home. However, he said none of that aloud. “Zeke? I’m sorry just to come up. I didn’t mean to intrude. I needed to see you, but I couldn’t get a reply on your cell.” Zeke hadn’t seen his cell phone for months. He suspected he’d sold it to someone, during one of his binges. When he needed to call someone, like Carter, he just went out to a booth. And if he needed to talk to Miles—or Miles to him— well, the guy just came over and let himself in, didn’t he? “The door was open,” said Miles, defensively, as if he’d read Zeke’s mind. “Sure,” replied Zeke, with a sigh. “I’ve got nothing to hide from my landlord, have I?” “You never came to the party after the opening.” “No, I didn’t,” said Zeke, bluntly. Let the guy work for conversation, if it mattered so much to him. He thought he heard Miles sigh. He hadn’t even turned around on the couch to face him. “Zeke, it’s just part of the job, you know. There were people there who wanted to talk about future shows; artists who wanted to show at the gallery; some agents who wanted to know if you were painting again.” “So what?” Zeke wished his growl didn’t sound so churlish, but there wasn’t much he could do about it, was there? “I’m sorry, okay? I guess I’m not used to this job business. I’ll make sure I’m—available—for all these guys next time you want me to see them. But I told you: I’m not painting again.” “So what are these?” asked Miles. His foot had caught on one of the canvases behind the door. Zeke gave an exaggerated sigh and rose from his couch. The sight of Miles gave him pause for a moment. His landlord and boss was dressed more casually

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Clare London than he’d ever seen him, still in smart pants, but with a tailored linen shirt hanging down from straight shoulders, interestingly tight across his abdomen, hinting at the well-honed muscles that must be under there. A thin silver band around his neck; hair a little less controlled than at work. Still the dark, multihued eyes; still the promise of power in every movement of his strong body. Zeke swallowed hard, not sure what was causing his heart to beat so very fiercely. “You want to see them, Miles? The crap I painted after… well, the last stuff I did? I keep them to remind me what I’ve lost, how I’ve fucked up everything. Look behind that door, if you like. Hope you can keep your supper down.” “Zeke….” Zeke pursed his lips and shook his head. With one last glance at him, Miles crouched down and pulled out the three canvases there, spreading them against the wall. He was silent for a while. Zeke felt light-headed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at them himself, and now he tried to see them through Miles’ eyes. They were, indeed, shocking. Perhaps more so to someone who would have appreciated the total bleeding of color from them, someone who would have seen the vivid contrast between the bleak, sharp grays and blacks, slashed across the background like angry blows, and Zeke Roswell’s fiercely colorful paintings of earlier, happier days. Miles wouldn’t see the loss of color, but maybe he’d see the gain of misery and fury and confusion; recognize the emergence of pain. Carter had told Zeke they were powerful paintings—but desperately uncomfortable to face. Carter, as was so often the case, was damned right. Miles drew a deep breath before he rose to his feet again, before he turned to face Zeke. Zeke stared back at him, his chest rising and falling rather quickly, apparently beyond his control because he was trying damned hard to be unmoved. Miles looked very pale. There you are, then. Then Miles’ eyes glanced down to the pad that Zeke gripped in his hand, and his eyes widened. “But you are drawing. I mean… sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.” Zeke peered at him. He suddenly wanted to laugh. Had he expected Miles to throw up on the spot, to run screaming from the room, just from looking on the disaster that was Zeke Roswell’s life? Was that his arrogance, thinking that everyone was interested in his art? That his life was on that canvas, only to be

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True Colors ignored? Or was that his delusion? His gut twisted painfully, as if forcing him to pay attention to something new and—possibly—fearful. “Zeke?” He glanced at Miles’ puzzled face and then down at his sketch pad. “Sorry. Yeah. Looks like you’re right. An expensive education sure taught you a thing or two, Miles Winter.” Miles ignored the rude sarcasm, as Zeke knew he’d done plenty of times before. “Why? I mean, what’s inspired you to start again?” Zeke wondered why the hell Miles wouldn’t go away and leave him alone to wallow. Wondered why his face was burning with some kind of embarrassment. Wondered why he felt the need to answer his unexpected visitor—and with honesty. “I don’t know. Just picked up the pencil, and… drew. Only started a day or so ago. Just felt that I needed to; that I wanted to.” “Was it because of the show?” Why the fuck does he care? Zeke stared into those dark pools of eyes. Something felt strained inside his chest. Why do I want him to? Why does he want to have anything to do with me at all? “Maybe,” he replied aloud. That was probably the truth. The show had been great, and he’d enjoyed sketching the plans and the elevations, and mocking up the presentation wall. The pens had felt good in his hands. It had meant an exposure to art again, and the glory and attraction of all the other paintings had seeped in under his defenses. Yeah, the show had given him an excitement that he hadn’t known for months; that he’d almost forgotten existed. And it had been a success, as well. “It was a success,” said Miles, in an uncanny echo of Zeke’s thoughts. “It was excellent work. I’ve come to ask you to take on another, in a few months’ time, if you think you can create the same excitement in such a short time frame—demonstrate that startling innovation again. It’s important that we keep up the interest, and build on the superb impact of that first show.” Zeke listened to the praise and knew he recognized the strange reaction inside him as pride. It just hadn’t been around for a while. There’d been a time he was proud of his work, hadn’t there? Dammit, it was never as good as he thought he could do, and he knew he’d never be as good as some… but it had been his life. “So you’re happy, Mr. Winter. With success.”

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Clare London “Yes, of course,” said Miles. He glanced around as if wondering when Zeke would ask him to sit down. Apart from the couch, there was only a bare kitchen stool in the room, and Zeke thought briefly about asking Miles to come and curl up beside him. Or maybe they’d just continue to snarl at each other across the room, forever and a day. “Yes, I am happy with it. I’ve always been honest with you about that.” Miles paused for a second and his voice gentled. “Will you show me the work you’re doing now?” Zeke was caught unawares. He couldn’t think of a caustic enough reply. Instinctively, he thrust the pad out toward Miles, and together they looked at the brief lines he’d sketched out. Beside him, Miles caught a sudden breath. He stared more closely, until Zeke was embarrassed and pulled the pad back toward him. “Like, it’s only rough templates. It never was my medium, really. It’s a little too like my brother’s style, though never so good. Dammit, I’ll probably trash the lot.” “Don’t!” cried Miles. Even as Zeke’s hand ripped the pages out of the pad and folded around them, starting to crumple the paper, Miles’ hand came down fiercely over his fist. “Leave it. It’s good, for God’s sake….” Zeke stared down at the slim, strong fingers on top of his. He compared the two skin tones, saw the living flesh against the stark white sketch paper. Both of them seemed frozen for that second. Zeke thought he could feel the gentle pulse of Miles’ palm on his. “Sorry,” said Miles, softly. Zeke cleared his throat loudly, and pulled his hand away. “You want a drink?” Miles looked puzzled. “I… not really. I just thought I might drop in for a few minutes and run over some of the plans for the next show.” “I’m… guess I’m busy.” Now he sounded ungracious. Zeke wondered if he’d ever get the tone right, if he’d always feel wrong-footed with Miles around. Miles shrugged. “But you can still keep sketching.” “Huh?” “I can talk. You can work at the same time. Or can’t you do that? With someone else around?” “Don’t know,” said Zeke, a little bemused. “Never tried. No one ever wanted to be with me when I painted or drew. I wasn’t much company then.

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True Colors So… I guess it’s okay. For a while.” He watched Miles settle himself on the stool. Cross his legs; uncross his legs. And wriggle a bit. There was no way the smart Mr. Winter was remotely comfortable on that piece of shitty plastic. Zeke sighed. It looked like he was going to be disturbed for a while longer tonight. He glanced at Miles’ gorgeous eyes and the determination in them, and as the other man crossed his arms, a ripple of muscle in them distracted him. For the first time, Zeke realized how little clothing he had on, compared to his visitor. His nipples felt tight and erect on his chest; his sweat shorts were shifting a little uncomfortably around his groin. Disturbed? Yeah, right. He went to put on a shirt, and to fetch the spare chair from his bedroom.

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MILES let himself into the darkened gallery at around ten in the evening, carrying a portfolio of drawings and spreadsheets with him regarding the next show. He’d come straight over from a late meeting on the other side of town, but he’d slipped off his jacket while he was still in the cab. He always felt overdressed when he was with Zeke Roswell. He wasn’t sure what Red would have made of that admission, and he was damned sure he wasn’t going to ask. It was a couple of days after his unexpected visit to Zeke, when he’d offered to sit and chat with him while he drew. And that had ended up as a surprisingly pleasant time. They’d talked about some of Miles’ initial ideas and some of Zeke’s visions for the actual layout of the gallery. Then there was general conversation about the team, and some light-hearted sparring about which of the marketing and sponsorship deals Miles would sign up for the new show. Miles had fetched them both a beer from the kitchen, and Zeke had found a couple of packets of nuts and crackers for snacks. Then when that conversation had come to a natural halt, Miles continued to sit there in the studio on the spare chair. Zeke had rather self-consciously picked up his sketch pad again and started to draw. He’d looked up at Miles a couple of times, almost suspiciously, but Miles made sure he was caught either examining his beer or skimming through some of the notes he’d taken about the show. He didn’t show any obvious interference, and so Zeke had slowly relaxed, turning his concentration to his ideas and his work. The studio had been quiet for an hour or so more. Zeke was sketching. Miles, however, was thinking, and reading, and watching Zeke as surreptitiously as he could. It was an attractive sight. Zeke wore the casual sweat shorts that Miles had

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True Colors seen before—the ones with the loose waistband that now dipped alarmingly at one side, exposing a stretch of paler hip. There was the smallest smudge of something dark above his hip bone. Miles realized it was a tattoo, and his mouth suddenly went dry for some unimaginable reason. Zeke’s legs and feet were bare, and the shirt he’d pulled on earlier was too tight across his chest as he wriggled about on the couch. After a while, a couple of the buttons popped open. One large, pink-brown nipple was exposed, nestling on Zeke’s tanned skin. Miles’ gaze fixed on it, fascinated. His eyes traveled over the full stretch of Zeke’s shoulders and chest, the taut muscles of his stomach. Zeke’s hair was loose, with the ends of it twisted and dragged forward over one shoulder. Every time he sat up, he pushed the hair off his forehead with an impatient hand. Then, when he leaned back over his pad, the curls fell forward again. Miles watched the movement with astonished delight. Every time. Finally, Zeke yawned and put away his drawings for the night. It was a plain dismissal, and Miles didn’t outstay his welcome. But when he suggested calling again to discuss the revised plans, Zeke had calmly agreed. So here he was, returning for another visit. Miles closed the gallery door behind him, shutting out the weary, jarring nighttime sounds of the street. Almost immediately, he was conscious of someone in the gallery with him—and just as quickly, his instincts told him it wasn’t Zeke. He turned slowly, his heart beating quickly. The room was dark, with only the streetlight to illuminate it. There was a shadow at the back wall, beside the door that led up to Zeke’s apartment. It started to move toward him, and then flowed out of the darkness of the room and became a man. It stopped moving. “Who are you?” asked Miles. The stranger looked back at him calmly. He was slightly shorter than Miles and slim to the point of thinness. He wore jeans and a light, body-hugging sweater. His hair was brown, swept across his forehead, and tucked behind an ear. His eyes were wary; they glinted in the dim light. “I was going to ask the same of you, but now I see you’re Miles Winter. I guess you have every right to visit your own gallery, whenever you like.” He stepped farther forward, and offered his hand. “I’m Carter Davison. I’m a friend of Zeke’s. I’ve been visiting him, and now I’m on my way home. I live on the other side of town.” Miles took the hand—cool, dry, assertive—and shook it. “Pleased to meet you. I think I saw you at the opening.” Carter nodded. His eyes were focused sharply on Miles, apparently appraising the other man. He didn’t seem to be intimidated by him in any way.

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Clare London Miles liked that. He grew tired of the wariness and nervousness he saw in most people’s eyes when they were introduced to him. “Zeke invited me. It was an excellent show, Mr. Winter. I’m not just repeating what the papers and magazines said, as I rarely read them. It’s my honest opinion.” “Thanks. I can see that,” said Miles, and he could. He instinctively liked this Carter Davison. “Call me Miles.” “Miles, then.” Carter smiled, and Miles was pleasantly startled by the way it transformed the other man’s face. He hadn’t thought that Carter Davison was at all melancholy until he smiled—and yet the contrast was suddenly so marked. “Zeke has talked a lot about the job here, Miles; about the show. He enjoyed preparing it—enjoyed seeing art from a different perspective. It’s given him an opportunity to develop new skills, in my opinion, particularly in negotiation and in managing people. Not that those skills didn’t need some work.” Miles smiled in tacit agreement, and Carter’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “He talks about you as well, Miles.” “Me?” Miles was surprised. “Yes,” nodded Carter. “Often. About your commitment to your work; about some of the plans you’ve shared with him. I hope they weren’t confidential.” “No.” Miles shook his head. He felt an absurd shiver through his body, and wondered if he should have kept his jacket on. “In fact, I was coming to see Zeke myself about some new ideas on the ceiling lighting and the platform blocks.” Carter’s eyebrow lifted. “You work this late on all your projects?” “I know; it’s a little irregular.” Miles bristled; he felt there was something the other man wasn’t sharing with him. Dammit, it was like being put through some kind of interview. “We’re planning another show, you may know. I’ve… found it advantageous to talk to Zeke without others around. He doesn’t mind discussing it while he works, and I can always sit and watch him draw.” “Watch him draw?” Carter’s expression twisted with sudden, anguished shock. “I didn’t think… he’s not drawn or painted for so long.” Miles thought he’d stepped across a line somewhere, and he didn’t know what to say. The two men stared at each other for a moment, and then Carter seemed to recover himself. “But I think you’re out of luck tonight, I’m afraid, because Zeke’s… busy.” “With sketching?” “Uh….” Carter seemed a little uncomfortable. “Maybe. Perhaps you’d

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True Colors better call another time.” Miles shook his head. “I must confirm a couple of these plans with him tonight. The supplier is coming to the office tomorrow morning. I’m sure he’ll spare me a couple of minutes at least.” He wondered what this man was trying to do. Was he trying to protect Zeke somehow? Or did he disapprove of Miles calling on his friend like this? Dammit, it was his gallery, wasn’t it? Miles moved into defensive mode, knowing there were few who’d even attempt to challenge him on that. Carter must have seen the quiet but total determination in Miles’ expression. He pursed his lips and stepped slightly to the side, tacitly allowing Miles to continue through. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Miles. I hope we get a chance for a longer conversation next time. I’ll let myself out.”

MILES didn’t know what made him start on up the stairs without calling or knocking. When he reached the top, he looked across the landing, searching for Zeke. The door to the studio was wide open and he could see inside. There was a table set up in there now, and a couple of display stands, though there were no pictures or plans in view. The overhead light was off, and the only light in the room was from a thick church candle, anchored on a china plate and balanced rather precariously on the edge of the table. There were two coffee mugs there as well, and another empty plate. Miles took a tentative step forward and peered further in. Over by the window, he saw Zeke with his back to him, one arm braced against the wall, facing out toward the city view. His body was silhouetted against the darkening sky outside by the single, flickering flame of the candle. His hair was tied back this evening, a short but vivid trail of dark curls against a white T-shirt that was too short, as usual; it rode up around his midriff. He wore those damned sweat shorts, though probably another pair, but the same style. Miles stared at the gap of fresh skin between shirt and shorts; followed the lines of muscles down the back of Zeke’s thighs; gazed at the slight glimmer of sweat in the hollow behind his knees, as it caught what little light there was. His heartbeat stuttered and re-settled to its regular rhythm. Almost immediately afterward, he noticed the other pair of legs. Another person stood in front of Zeke, largely hidden by him. The four limbs were closely

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Clare London pressed together and there was the shadow of fingertips at Zeke’s waist. Miles realized the other person must be extremely close, because he couldn’t see a separate face, couldn’t see easily which arm might be which. With a wash of cold shock, he also realized how stupid he was, for the pair of them were obviously kissing. Zeke’s head dipped against the girl’s, and her other hand gripped softly behind his neck, tangling into his hair, tugging him further against her. Miles saw the muscles of Zeke’s shoulders tensing as he pressed her body up against the wall more tightly, pushing his chest against her, his mouth so obviously working on hers. Miles heard a soft gasp; a moan swallowed by another eager mouth. Zeke’s free arm was hugged in front of his body, the hand hidden from view. The girl’s legs were parted against his hips. Miles imagined him flipping open the button of her jeans; he had visions of Zeke sliding his long, supple fingers down into her clothes; of touching her curls; of stroking parts that were hot and sweaty, and sensitive to every finger’s touch…. His shock became even colder as he watched the hand on Zeke’s waist slip down to his ass, and squeeze him confidently through the sweat fabric. Miles saw the muscles of Zeke’s shoulders shiver with pleasure, and his back arch under the touch. But there was something about the darkly tanned skin of the companion’s bare arm, seen clearly for the first time—something that jarred. There were strong tendons stretching to grasp at Zeke’s body, and soft hairs glinting in the evening glow. It was a masculine hand; a young man’s hand. Miles had assumed it was a girl, but it was male. He knew he had to leave. He had invaded Zeke’s privacy. Carter had tried to tell him Zeke was busy; he just hadn’t realized with what. He felt sick, and wondered briefly why a genuine error should make him feel so unstable. He wasn’t aware of making any noise as he turned to go back downstairs, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the figures straighten up and turn in his direction. “Miles?” It was Zeke’s voice. Miles cursed every God he’d ever read about and paused, his hand on the doorframe. “Hold up, Miles. We’re just finished here, you know? Marco’s just going. Aren’t you, man?” Miles stood, transfixed, staring at somewhere between the stairwell and the floor, as he heard the disgruntled mumbles from Zeke’s companion, and Zeke’s

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True Colors own careless laugh. “Not now, Marc baby. Yeah, I know. But first it was Carter calling, and now it’s my boss. I don’t have the time tonight. I’ll call you. Come on, man….” Some rustling clothes; Miles heard a zipper being wrenched up. There was a jolt to his elbow, and a young, dark-haired man pushed past him, none too gently. Miles had the brief impression of a scowling, Mediterranean-cast face, and a body that obviously worked out; then Marco was gone, lumbering down the stairs in a rather unattractive sulk. “Christ, don’t you ever knock?” growled Zeke. He came to stand next to Miles with a wry smile on his face. His cheeks were flushed; his lips plump and moist. “Guess that was useful for me, though. He’s a little too clingy for my liking.” “I interrupted you… both. I’m sorry. I thought with Carter gone, you were free.” “You met Carter?” Zeke looked at Miles with interest. “Good. I told him some stuff about you. Probably best he sees you for real, or I may be blackening your name needlessly, eh?” He laughed, easily enough. Miles leaned a little away from him. He hated him, briefly, suddenly, and had never known such a reaction in himself. How could Zeke be so cool after such embarrassment? How could he just abandon the sensual anticipation of that make-out session, and dismiss his lover so swiftly? How could he chat so calmly to Miles about other people entirely; how could he laugh as if nothing had happened there? Miles wished he could wipe his own embarrassment from his mind—the strange, churning feelings inside his stomach that he was sure were showing on his face. He’d never known such discomfort. Nor had he ever felt such desire. A desire that wracked his gut, demanding that he be where that young man had been, just moments before: wrapped around Zeke Roswell, with Zeke’s tongue in his mouth, and Zeke’s hand down the front of his pants. “Miles, you okay?” Zeke looked puzzled. His eyes appeared unnaturally bright, but that might just have been the distorting light of the candle. “You want to sit down or something? What did you want me for? Kind of late for work now, you know. I’m not drawing tonight. I just had a talk with Carter, let him know I’m not out of a job yet, and I haven’t stolen the corporation silver.” “Was that man your lover?” blurted Miles. Zeke pursed his lips. His eyes searched Miles’, but somehow his expression remained dissatisfied. “Kind of blunt, Miles, don’t you think? I know I asked you

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Clare London about Red that time… but anyway, Marco, no. He’s not my lover. Well, he has been a couple of times. I don’t know. What do you want me to say? Is it any of your damned business anyway?” Miles heard the angry tone flaring up, as it often did. Zeke had a sharp, fast-flowing temper. “You my mother or something?” Miles felt the hot misery of humiliation. “I… no, of course not. You’re right. I’ve no right to interrogate you about your sex life.” Zeke still stared at him. “What now? I told you, I can only apologize….” “Just looking, man,” Zeke said softly. His tone was gentle, not mocking. “I’ve seen you angry and tense like this before, right? But why is it different this time?” “Different?” Miles’ throat felt too tight. “Passion,” murmured Zeke. Miles saw the flicker of Zeke’s eyes as they traveled to Miles’ mouth, then back up. “That’s what it is. Never seen much of that before, not from you. Strong stuff. Like I could touch it….” Miles stepped back involuntarily, though Zeke hadn’t moved. Zeke frowned. “You’re pissed, aren’t you? What’s your problem? Is it because it was a guy? You got a problem with guys dating, guys making out?” Miles grimaced. He wanted to move away, to leave at once. And yet he knew he wanted to stay, the need just as strong. He wanted to know how Zeke’s arms would feel around his waist. He wanted to touch the soft plumpness of Zeke’s lips, and make them swell some more. What was happening to him? “I never thought about it, Zeke.” “Liar,” said Zeke, rather too loudly considering they were only a foot apart. Then he was the one to move away, backing toward the window again, a little unsteady as if he were no longer as sure of Miles as he had been. “Guess you got your supermodel, and your celebrity magazine love life, and we bohemian artists are rather disgusting to you, eh?” “I don’t date to suit the press,” said Miles, tightly. “You have no idea….” “Ever fucked a man?” asked Zeke, aggressively. “I wouldn’t discuss it with you if I had,” snapped back Miles. “Okay.” Zeke’s face was flushed and angry. A stray strand of his hair had

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True Colors caught on the edge of his jaw, and he brushed it away. He put out a hand, looking for support for some reason, and trailed it along the edge of the couch. Miles stepped forward, following Zeke’s path but still keeping several feet between them. “Better we clear the air about this now. Agreed?” Zeke’s expression had hardened. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from Miles’ mouth, as if he thirsted for the very next word. “Sure. Whatever you want,” growled Miles. His feet were moving of their own accord, determinedly, toward Zeke who continued to retreat. “You want to fire me now? Because of my—let’s say—ambiguous sexuality?” “Of course not.” Zeke stopped backing up. His heels must have knocked up against the window frame. The glass would be cold against his back. “But you figure you can come up here and harass me about my bedroom habits whenever you like?” “No.” Miles almost shouted the word. “I apologized for that.” “You apologize like I fuck, man. Plenty of enthusiasm but no fucking commitment. Do you think I can’t see in your face what you really think?” “So what do you think you see?” Miles despised himself for asking, but the temptation was just too much. He came to an abrupt halt. He was inches away from Zeke now. They were of a similar height, and their angry gazes a similar match. Miles could hear a harsh panting breath that he thought was his own, but it may have been Zeke’s as well. He couldn’t believe this man had gotten him so angry, so quickly. “Ever wanted to fuck a man?” Zeke spoke softly, through gritted teeth. His throat trembled a little, and Miles watched it, fascinated despite himself. “That’s none of your damned business.” Miles meant it too. He discussed little of his private life or his preferences, not even with Red. “But that’s what I see in your face, Miles Winter,” whispered Zeke. His eyes sparkled with the reflection of an emotion that Miles couldn’t read. Miles shivered. His anger leeched away from him like liquid through a sieve. He felt as if he were in one of those dreams where you discover yourself in the middle of the supermarket, stark naked, and your feet are somehow stuck to the floor. He didn’t often feel fear, though he wondered if that were a deficiency

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ZEKE saw the shiver all through Miles’ body. He knew he should have felt pleasure—that he could affect the cool, controlled Miles Winter; that he could unnerve him. But it didn’t feel quite like that. There was something about Miles that was calling to a painful place inside him. A harsh place; an uncontrollable place. He suddenly realized that if he kept this up, he might lose his way back from there. Zeke Roswell was scared too. He realized honestly—perhaps for the first time—just how hot Miles Winter actually was. He realized how he’d been watching the man, whenever he came around. Dammit, he’d probably been watching him from the first day they met in that dismal lawyer’s office. He knew the smell of Miles’ light, expensive cologne; he knew the tone of his voice within a crowd of people. He knew his modest hand gestures; the way he held his pen. He knew why he hadn’t told the businessman to stick his job offer where the sun don’t shine—and why tonight he’d told Marco to leave, rather than Miles himself. Zeke didn’t care about convention; he didn’t care about sucking up to the boss. What Zeke cared about was that Miles would want him. Because he wanted him in return. And badly. Fuck it, fuck it. He couldn’t be wrong, could he? Hadn’t he slept around enough to recognize the signs? He reckoned that Miles liked guys. He might not have fucked many—if any?—but he liked them that way. So… Miles might like him. Right. Why was Zeke so bothered if he did or not? Why had he held back this long, unless he was afraid of rejection? Zeke Roswell wasn’t used to sexual rejection; sex was one of the few areas of his life where he habitually had more success than failure. Miles’ breath was hot and furious in the still air, and Zeke imagined he

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True Colors could feel the trail of it on his cheek. “Kiss me,” he said. His voice sounded very hoarse. Miles’ eyes widened; Zeke watched his reflection in the dark pupils. He felt like his soul had been captured there, a tiny glimmer of life inside a sealed jar; a moth struggling against a sharp, seductive light. “Kiss me. You want to. And I want you to.” He didn’t wait for the look of shock on Miles’ face to pass. He took one step away from the wall and slipped his hand around the back of the other man’s head, tugging the angry mouth toward him. His lips rested against the firm, moist warmth of another guy’s mouth; his tongue probed at the tight lips, begging for more; his hand tightened on the smooth, slim neck, as if to stop Miles from pulling back. But Miles didn’t. Zeke felt as if he would devour Miles. He sucked and nipped at the firm flesh as if he’d never taste anything so good again. His heart was hammering so loudly the vibration hurt his eardrums, and his chest ached from the tension of trying to hold Miles’ body close to his, when at any moment it might be wrenched away. His other hand slid around the man’s broad shoulders and down his back, caressing the muscles firmly—touching the shape of him, tracing out his warmth and following the flow of his pulse, firm fingers tugging at the silken fabric of his shirt. He was almost enjoying the taste too much to register the sudden relaxation in Miles’ body; the way that his head started to move toward Zeke, rather than away; the way that his hand lifted from his side and grasped at Zeke’s waist. God dammit. Miles’ fingers tightened on the narrow strip of Zeke’s naked skin, and his hips pressed against his legs. Zeke heard a strangled groan, and knew it was his own. He was vividly aware of his cock, hot and heavy, swelling greedily and pressing against the thin fabric of his shorts. He wanted to slip his hands up under Miles’ shirt and feel the tight skin; he wanted to put a hand to the dark-haired man’s crotch and caress his cock through his pants. He wanted so much, it shocked him. He’d never been aroused so violently, so quickly, in his life. But at the same time he fought a strange, alien nervousness, holding him back. He didn’t know this man well enough. Or was it that he didn’t know him little enough? He ached to go further—to touch Miles, to try to tease him to intimacy. And yet he was terribly afraid he might find the other man wasn’t as aroused as he was…. Why do you care? His inner voice wailed, but silently. Why?

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MILES wondered when the hell he’d become so passive; it wasn’t something he’d ever seen in himself before. When Zeke had kissed him, admittedly he’d been shocked, and for that moment he couldn’t move—either away, or closer. Which is it to be? Do you want this or not? He tasted the amazing moistness of Zeke’s mouth on his, and felt the hot tip of his tongue demanding entrance. He could smell the man’s light sweat, the shampoo from his hair. The pressure of Zeke’s chest seemed to burn against his skin, even though they were both clothed. The hard nub of Zeke’s nipple pushed out through the thin cotton of the T-shirt, and brushed against him, pressing at his breast, then flicking back and away as Zeke’s head tilted slightly to get a deeper angle to his kiss. Miles let his reactions take over, letting the gorgeous warmth of desire slip through his veins and relax his astonished muscles. He put a hand to Zeke’s waist and was elated to feel the bare living muscle under his palm. The man felt the same as he talked: loud, lively, and brash. The touch was as good as he’d imagined. As he’d dreamed. He barely registered how very different this was from his caressing of Remy, of her careless feminine touches in return. The difference was like warm day against cool night—and Remy was the loser. Zeke tasted of coffee and butter and warm saliva. Miles licked the creases of his lips and the soft corners of his mouth; their noses brushed and Zeke’s evening stubble scraped across Miles’ jaw, the slight abrasiveness both startling and stimulating. Just a kiss. Miles had never felt so disorientated. It’s just a kiss, and yet everything is going to be different after it. He opened his mouth and let Zeke’s desperate tongue enter him. Everything. Some time passed before they parted again, gasping for breath. Miles’ limbs were aching with need and a fearful hunger. He had no concept of how long they’d been in each other’s arms, pressed against each other’s body, tasting each other’s mouth. He stumbled back as if pushed, slipping out of Zeke’s grasp. The other man leaned back, body limp, against the wall. His eyes were fevered, his hands trailed in the air, as if he still held Miles to him. “Shit….” Zeke gave a low, shocked gasp. “That was a fucking kiss, right?”

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True Colors For once, Miles envied him his emotive vocabulary. He couldn’t find a single word to describe how he felt. He wasn’t sure he even knew how he felt. He watched the shallow rise and fall of Zeke’s scantily covered chest; he saw the high color of Zeke’s cheeks, and the wisps of hair on his neck that were stuck with sweat to his skin. “You’re some guy, Miles Winter. You know that?” Zeke’s eyes seemed unusually wide, and they looked glazed. Miles wondered—to his shame— whether he’d looked like that when he was kissing the boy Marco. Perhaps he always looked like that with his lovers. “I….” Miles struggled with an overwhelming desire to apologize for something, but of course he’d not initiated anything. He had no idea what to say, what to do. He knew what he wanted to do, but that would have proved Zeke’s goading so right. It’s a really bad idea to mix business with pleasure, warned his common sense. I’m already dating; dating a girl, reminded his conscience. Zeke Roswell has plenty of lovers, growled his self-esteem. This means nothing more than an entertainment. Yet Miles knew most of his own relationships had only been that. “I should go now, I think,” he ground out. His mouth felt swollen from none-too-gentle use. He reached up to touch at his lips, to feel them—and then thought how inexperienced he’d look. He let his hand fall back to his side. “That’s… best.” Zeke’s tongue slipped out and wet his lips, as if they were suddenly very dry. His eyebrows rose slightly. Maybe he was preparing to deny that, but then he nodded agreement. They stared at each other one more time, but there were no more words. Then Miles left the apartment.

MADNESS! Miles Winter wondered what the hell he was doing. He’d now been back to the gallery four nights out of seven. When he was at work during the day he thought about being there, and he left earlier than usual

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Clare London each evening to travel there. He ate fitfully; he canceled date after date with both Remy and Red. He attended to business, but that was all he concentrated on. He didn’t want to admit that the only place he wanted to be was there. It was irregular, of course, even for a man like Miles Winter, whose work and leisure time often overlapped. He wouldn’t normally expect an employee to work late into every evening, except in times of crisis. He didn’t often ask Malia to stay on. He didn’t go around to Tony’s apartment to discuss the upcoming exhibition. But he went to Zeke Roswell’s. He might have argued that it was because the man lived in the gallery itself. He might have pointed out that Zeke’s working habits were irregular in themselves, in that he worked from his own timetable and he wasn’t always available to talk to Miles during the day. However, few people questioned Miles Winter’s actions, and he had no need to justify them to anyone except himself. So he sought out Zeke at the gallery, and Zeke gave him the time. He would always knock now, on the door at the back of the gallery, and wait for Zeke to come down and let him in. Was he afraid to find Zeke with another lover? Each time he visited, he still carried the papers, the plans for the second exhibition. Because that was why he came around, wasn’t it? They’d sit around Zeke’s small kitchen table, talking about work, arguing about ideas, and mentally circling around each other like predatory beasts before an attack. They were still searching for a definitive theme for the show, a new approach that would both startle and affirm. Miles would pay earnest attention to their discussion. He took many notes; he gave instruction on whom Zeke was to meet, and whom he was to cultivate over the next week or so. He drew up letters to sponsors and contributors, and roughed out budgets and income statements. Eventually, Zeke would groan that he’d had enough of fucking work during the day—that he’d had to listen to whining suppliers, and manufacturers begging for advertising franchises, and artists trying to wheedle inclusion of their work, when they shouldn’t be allowed to illustrate anything more than a fucking milk carton. Then there’d be a moment of silence, of some awkwardness. Miles knew they were both thinking of the kiss. Or rather, he knew he was, and he hoped that the bright light in Zeke’s eyes at these times meant that he was too. The memory both warmed and tormented him, like the fire that had been lit inside him, so very, very recently. Usually, Zeke would offer Miles a drink and then lope into the studio room. He’d fold his legs up underneath him on the couch and reach for his sketch pad.

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True Colors His concentration would pass entirely to the paper, it seemed, and the initially tentative strokes of soft pencil. Miles would wander in after him, pull up the solitary chair, and sit and watch. He clutched documents and notes in his hands, but they rarely held any interest for him. He had reserves of patience that stood him in good stead, because it might be a while before Zeke would speak; before he’d acknowledge that Miles was still there. Then Miles would ask to see the work, and maybe dare to make a comment as to how it appeared to him. The sketches were bare, but extremely emotive. Miles didn’t profess to be an expert, but he knew style and talent when he saw it. Zeke never told him what they were of, or gave them titles. Miles never saw if Zeke worked further on them after the initial composition, nor if he even finished them. He rarely saw any specific figures or objects, though he often glimpsed the shape of a hand or the twist of fingers as a recurring theme. But he felt most vividly the raw passion behind the contrasting strokes. There were thick, bold movements, then the slight, subtle shadings around and within, that led the eye a dance, or shocked and tricked the perspective of the viewer. Miles was amazed at what Zeke could create and evoke in such a way with a mere pencil. He looked on such a mundane thing with a new respect. Miles didn’t know why he was so fascinated by watching Zeke draw. He liked the sketches—that was genuine—but he liked even more to see the artist at work. The small furrow of concentration on Zeke’s brow; the flicker of conflicting emotions in his eyes as he worried through what he was trying to communicate. The flexing of his shoulders as he hunched over the pad, and the quick, sure movements of his wrist as he shaded and stroked with his pencil. Zeke seemed to tolerate Miles’s presence. Sometimes he left enough space on the couch for Miles to join him, but Miles never dared. So Zeke would stretch out, and grunt occasionally, and barely notice Miles’ company. Or so Miles thought, until the times that Zeke suddenly became dissatisfied or angry. He’d curse uninhibitedly, and the offending page would be ripped out and crumpled mercilessly to the floor. Then Zeke would notice Miles again. Irrationally, he’d be angry at the intrusion, there’d be harsh words spoken, and Miles would leave. We’ve known each other for such a short time. After another of these nights, Miles let himself out of the gallery into the empty street. His mind was as dark as the night that enveloped him, and full of turmoil. It’s not like we have any routine. It’s not like we’re any kind of partnership—barely any kind of friendship. He rationalized it in many ways, for many hours. The fact remained that the

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Clare London atmosphere in the studio was both a comfort and a treat to him. He felt as if another part of him were taken out at that time, examined and unveiled and caressed. He couldn’t explain what was happening to him. His only satisfaction was that for most of the time, Zeke seemed to feel the pleasure too. It was a completely intangible feeling, though. Zeke rarely touched him, even when they muddled around together within the small apartment. He occasionally brushed against him and sometimes put out a hand to emphasize something he disagreed with. Sometimes he pushed Miles’ hand away from a drawing. But Zeke had never kissed him again. Was this how limbo felt? Or hell itself?

IT was past ten o’clock when the knocking came. Zeke stretched himself, yawning, realizing he’d fallen asleep on the couch. There were no lights on and the candle had burned down to its last inch in the saucer, giving only a dim illumination around the room. But unless he was drawing, he preferred candlelight in the evenings to artificial light. He liked the glimmer and glare from the town to seep in through the window unhindered. Early in the evening, the sketch pad had slipped from his lap onto the floor. The pages were blank; there’d been no inspiration tonight. In a sleepy bad temper, he kicked it aside. He cursed himself and his vanity. He didn’t know why the fuck he’d ever thought he might start creating again. What or who had ever possessed him? It just confused him, frustrated him…. He sighed heavily. His neck was stiff from his awkward position and his hair was tangled awkwardly against his neck. Then he heard the knock downstairs again, and realized what had woken him. He sat up and winced. “Come up; it’s open.” If it were a burglar, the guy’d soon realize his mistake; if it were Carter, he’d be welcome enough. If it were anyone else, he’d just take his chances. He knew it was Miles even before the man appeared at the open doorway. He could sense him, maybe the firm footfall; maybe the waft of cologne. Maybe the increased beat of his own heart.… “Dammit, man, what time is it?” He yawned to hide his disturbance. “Were we supposed to be meeting again tonight? Hell, I need my sleep, you know. The

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True Colors day’s been a bastard, Malia dragging me half across town to meet some agent, and then he wasn’t there, and the pictures he had were way too fucking gross for us….” He realized Miles wasn’t listening. The dark-haired man just stood there, looking a little bemused. Zeke was sulkily angry with both Miles and himself. “Go home, Miles. I’m in a shitty mood, and I’m wiped. You look like you are too. Neither of us is good for shit tonight. Fuck off back to your cozy apartment and your cozier lady, and leave me to fester here. Okay?” Miles totally ignored him. His voice was low when he spoke. “There’s been a fire at my house.” Zeke was startled. “The apartment?” “No, my house out of town. They think someone was after the collection, because they’d tried to break into the security door. Then there’d been a fire in the office. It was started deliberately, the firemen think.” “You….” Zeke felt a tightening in his chest. “You’re okay?” Miles stared at Zeke as if he saw him for the first time. “I’m fine. I wasn’t there; I rarely visit except on weekends. There’s a sophisticated alarm system that alerted the fire department, and luckily they moved fast enough to prevent any real damage to the house. I don’t have sprinklers in that room because of potential damage to the paintings. Dammit, Remy keeps calling about an offer I made weeks ago, to show her around the collection. It was supposed to be this week. Thank God we weren’t there tonight.” He moved toward the couch and then hesitated. For God’s sake. Invite yourself in, why don’t you? But Zeke didn’t say anything, just pushed some crumpled paper out of the way and waved Miles over to sit beside him. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Miles was in casual clothes again; he only had a thin sweater on over his pants. Maybe he’d been relaxing for the evening when all this happened, and then he’d just left his apartment as he was. And came here. He looked damned confused. And damned cute. Zeke mentally scolded himself. So why the hell had Miles come around? He’d have assistants, he’d have contractors, he’d have friends, goddammit, to sort all this out. What was Miles expecting of him? “It’s the fire, I think, that’s so surprising,” said Miles, suddenly. He sat rigidly on the edge of the couch, a stark contrast to Zeke who was folded up

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Clare London casually on the other cushion, barefoot as usual. “Why? If it were just a burglary, I could understand that. Hell, I’ve had three break-ins in the last year alone. But there’s no need to set fire to anything, no need to damage anything. That’s just malicious. Dangerous.” Zeke felt the tremor through his body. It always happened, when the topic was mentioned. He thought he’d probably grow out of it. One day far, far in the future. “Fire… yeah. I know all about that.” Miles lifted his eyes, and Zeke was surprised to see the stark distress there. “God. I’m sorry. I should have realized the subject might be upsetting to you.” “It’s your house, your fire,” quipped Zeke, shrugging. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded cracked. “Tell me about it, Zeke.” “Why? You obviously know the stories. Don’t tell me your team didn’t fill you in on all the lurid background about your new employee.” “I want to hear you tell me. If it’s not too distressing.” I don’t do ‘distress’, Zeke wanted to shout out fiercely, but he didn’t. I did all that six months ago, and I’ve moved on, haven’t I? I’m leading my own life without him. So why am I still in pain? He shifted on the couch, tucking his legs deeper underneath his body. He was wearing a favorite T-shirt in vivid red, and thin jersey sweats. He wasn’t cold, but he found himself folding his arms around his chest as if to protect himself. “There was a fire. He died. Jacky, my brother… died. That’s the gist of it really. Maybe there’ll be a movie someday out of it.” He glared at Miles, but all he met were those deep, dark, still eyes that made him blurt truths out almost against his will. “He was all I had—just the two of us, since our parents died, since I was a young kid. He was a painter, and I wanted to be one.” Miles’silence was strangely encouraging, and he continued, slowly. “They said someone was with him the night he died. He’d been seen arriving back home with someone. He’d been at a party for the opening of a new gallery across town, where they were thinking of featuring the first four sketches that he’d just finished….” “The ‘Family’ sketches,” said Miles, quietly. “Yeah. Guess you know all about that too. He would’ve been celebrating, I expect. He liked to celebrate, Jacky did. Christ knows who he brought home, could’ve been any cute ass he met at the party.”

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True Colors “He had a lover?” “Sure, sure,” said Zeke. He tried to look bored with the whole story, but guessed both of them knew what an act that was. “But you know him, Miles. It was Carter Davison. Jacky had been seeing Carter for a long time, more on than off—but not so regular that he wanted him to move in with him. Not so caring that he wanted to acknowledge him in public. Fucked him around, of course, like he did everyone. Carter was there for home comforts, but then my bro looked for more public amusements elsewhere. We were all there to gravitate around the sun that was Jacky Roswell.” Miles was nodding; maybe he hadn’t known the connection with Carter before. He looked down at Zeke’s hands. Zeke realized he’d curled both of them into fists. “I knew he was seeing someone else. Probably more than one. Though the minute they caused him any hassle, he’d dump them. That was always his strategy. Fun, fuck, ’n flee: that’s what I called it. Carter was the only one he ever really cared about.” Zeke let his mind settle on memories of his friend, feeling the comfort. “He’s my friend as well, you know.” “I know.” Miles sounded sincere. “Then somehow the fire started. Jacky had a lot of old painting stuff still there, though he’d moved on to sketching. They think some cleaner spilled, and then a spark from somewhere caught it, and it spread fucking quickly. The fire department didn’t get there in time, in Jacky’s case. Whole place burned to the ground. Him along with it. They think he may have been asleep and was overcome by the fumes. They never found any other body, so whoever was with him at the party had gone by then. They spent a lot of time reassuring me that he probably never felt a thing. The damned therapists liked to tell me the same thing, ad nauseam.” “Did Jacky smoke?” asked Miles. “Huh?” Miles flushed. “Sorry. I wondered what had started the fire. You said a spark… or the flame from a lighter?” Zeke frowned. He didn’t want to dwell on this; didn’t Miles realize? “They never said. Wouldn’t have been Jacky, anyway—he didn’t smoke. Hated it. Hated the smell of tobacco, the way smoke stained. Ruined his pictures, he said. Wouldn’t even touch a little weed now and then.” “And afterward? The sketches?”

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Clare London Zeke let his head fall back against the soft cushions, and he closed his eyes briefly. “This guy came up after he died—someone from Hong Kong or somewhere. Said Jacky had promised the four to him. He had a paper or something to prove it. I wasn’t at my best, you know. All I knew, there were hardly any unsold pictures left and a fucking mammoth mess of debt.” “So you accepted the sale.” “Of course.” Zeke felt the anger and shame clench in his gut. “I needed money for the debts and the funeral and all. And for Carter, though he’s just that bit better with his money than I am, so he hadn’t needed the Great Artist to support him like I had.” Miles sighed, softly. “You said Jacky was showing the first four sketches. But people say there were going to be six. You’re entitled to the others…. They’d be yours, surely?” “If they existed,” said Zeke, sharply. “No sign of them. Probably a pile of ashes like Jacky himself. Don’t push me on that, Miles; it was bad enough at the time with all the press coverage, and the whining artists and critics, and that guy in Hong Kong accusing me of hiding them someplace, must have been up my ass.” “Sorry.” Miles lifted his hands in apology. They were both silent for a moment. Zeke wondered if this was what was meant by catharsis. He felt a strange, calm void inside him, having told the story again after so long. Telling it to someone other than Carter; telling it to Miles Winter, and more or less the whole of it. Less fucking expensive than therapists. “What did you do, Zeke? After he died? You had a career of your own….” Zeke shrugged. “Not really.” No one had been interested in him, except as brother to the prodigious talent so tragically ended. Everyone forgot Jacky’s less attractive character traits, as soon as he died. Zeke’s own paintings had sold while they were good and fashionable—then his grief got in the way, he couldn’t turn out the goods, and fashion discarded him like soiled litter in the gutter. He wondered how he was going to phrase that for Miles’consumption. “It was hardly fair to you, Zeke.” “Fair? What’s fair in any of this?” he snarled back. “Fair that Jacky burned to death? Fair that some days I loved him, other days I hated his guts? He despised my work, Miles, you know? Okay, he praised me like a guy would pat the head of his pet; I was a novelty. But he laughed at the style, at the use of paint, at the colors. Said I was hiding from something—blazing my way out there with shock and splash, so’s I’d never have to stand back and let people really

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True Colors judge what talent I had.” Miles frowned. “That’s harsh.” “But I guess he was right. Take away my paints, and I’ve got nothing to show anymore. Made a fucking disaster of life, the pair of us. At least his was cut short. Some would say it was a relief, before he gambled and whored it all away.” He hoped to God the stinging in his eyes was something to do with his tiredness, and not the start of tears. That was another thing he’d left in the past. “Why do you hate him like this?” asked Miles, as if from a long way away. Zeke didn’t even bother to deny it. It was a relief to speak it, after all. “I don’t know. I’m afraid to remember him—but I’m afraid when I forget about him, even for a few hours. It’s a fucking mess, I told you.” He knew he sounded very pathetic. “There’s nothing left of him. I have nothing left except all this shit in my head.” It was a sudden surprise when Miles stirred on the couch beside him. He’d leaned down and picked up Zeke’s fallen pad. “Draw him, then. Make your own memorial. You draw with great perception and passion. I’m not sure why you chose paint as your medium at all, though your paintings are excellent too. You must keep this up….” It shocked both of them when Zeke leaned over and slapped the pad from his hands. “Fuck off with the pity, Miles Winter! I know what I am. I don’t need you and your amateur psychology to tell me.” Miles’s anger flared in return. “You’re an arrogant idiot, Roswell! You have a gift. Christ, I wish I had something like that, something singular and precious like that. Look how you’ve just started this up again, and you can’t say you’re not excited by it.” Zeke glared back. “Fucking right, I’m not. I’m worn out with the whole fucking game, the painting, and the artists, and the damned hypocrisy and the money, money, money—” “It’s not all about money.” Zeke felt his whole body shudder. He shook his head. “Yeah, right. Like they said they loved his work, and they loved him, and then they fell on his estate like carrion.” “The creation, Zeke,” Miles persisted. “The conception. The satisfaction, surely… you do it for that, don’t you?”

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Clare London Zeke paused, hearing something in Miles’ tone he’d never heard before. That passion, again… a hint of something worse, like desperation. “You know nothing about it.” Miles’ raised voice startled him again. “Dammit, I watch you, Zeke! You’re absorbed into it, into the whole process. Your thoughts, your emotions. It’s where you want to be—making your art. Isn’t it?” Zeke stared at him. “I don’t know.” It was true. “I just… draw. I just sort of sit here and… draw.” “You never thought about it before? Why you are the way you are? Why you do what you do?” “No. I never had an audience before, Miles. Never had anyone interested in knowing.” Zeke felt himself flushing, but from embarrassment now. “Certainly didn’t seek too closely myself.” Miles was staring at him, shaking his head slowly. His eyes were bright, too bright, surely. “Why did you come over tonight, Miles?” asked Zeke, softly. He couldn’t face that brightness any longer; he dropped his gaze to his lap. He stroked aimlessly at his thigh, plucking at the thin material of the sweats. “Why do you come around at all?” Miles was silent for a moment. Zeke heard him take a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was steady and low. Zeke felt it thrill through his own body in an almost unwilling response. “Why do you let me, Zeke?” Zeke lifted his eyes again and met Miles’ gaze, sinking into the brilliant indigo of Miles’ dark irises. Zeke tried to identify as many shades as he could until his mind was no longer objective, and his judgment was no longer under his control. All he saw was the flicker of the dying candle flame in the two wide mirrors of Miles’ eyes. He remembered the shocking firmness of Miles’ mouth: the hot thickness of a strong, masculine tongue, probing into his own mouth, seeking out the corners and savoring the tastes. He felt again the tight grip of Miles’ hands on his waist. And he really didn’t want to, but he also remembered his hips rubbing up against another man’s groin, his sometime lover Marco, when all the time he could feel Miles Winter behind him, just watching—even as his hand slipped into Marco’s tight jeans, even as he fondled another man’s cock. “Zeke.” Miles breathed the word, nothing more. His eyes were fixed on Zeke’s as if he were absorbing every single thought passing through Zeke’s

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True Colors mind. As if he were recalling exactly the same memories. Zeke tried to swallow, to clear his painfully tight throat. “So… that brings us to a rather interesting place, doesn’t it, Miles Winter? But then I said before that we ought to clear the air.” “Yes,” replied Miles. His voice was clipped, but his eyes were sparkling now. “You did. That works best for us, I think. I dislike deception.” “And I dislike crap,” said Zeke, his voice much firmer now. He shifted on the couch, unfolding his long legs, straightening his back. He’d moved nearer to where Miles still sat on the edge of the cushion. “We may be an odd couple, Miles, but something works, doesn’t it? Something’s pushing all the right buttons, and I for one am not going to ignore it anymore. Never been known for my shy and retiring style, of course… and you’re so fucking hot, you know that?” “Hot?” Miles looked stricken. Zeke could smell the other man’s warm scent; he could feel his breath on his arm, where the hairs rose in alarm. He could hear the two of them breathing; two individual rhythms, but both fast now, and rather shallow. This was madness! But all Zeke wanted to do was touch that mouth again—that firm, so often disapproving mouth—and plunder inside for a few more blissfully greedy moments. To see the pale red flesh of Miles’ lips blossom into a hard-kissed crimson; to feel the controlled body underneath him slide into a reluctant enjoyment; to watch the rosy flush spread over the smooth skin of his neck—and know that it had been because of him, Zeke Roswell. He wanted to taste Miles Winter, and pretend for a few seconds that he was his. “That’s nonsense.” Had Miles read his thoughts? Or was he just replying from earlier…? “Nonsense from your own mouth, Zeke Roswell.” “And so…,” murmured Zeke, as he leaned forward to kiss him, “is this.”

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HOW long had they been touching like this? Miles stirred on the couch, full of hazy astonishment. Zeke had pushed him down, gently but firmly, and now he was stretched out on top of Miles, his lips at Miles’ neck, suckling softly. Miles couldn’t believe how excited he was—how loudly his heart hammered, how rasping his breaths were. He felt disorientated and there was a rushing noise in his ears. Every nerve he possessed appeared to be strained to the limit, waiting; anticipating. Zeke’s hands were all over him. They stroked at his chest, plucked at his clothing. They peeled his sweater up and over his shoulders. Miles shivered, but not from the cold. Zeke was staring at his naked chest, and sucked in an appreciative breath. He ran a slow, teasing finger down the trail of hairs running from between Miles’ nipples, down to his belly. Miles couldn’t prevent his muscles tightening instinctively at the touch, but he saw Zeke’s eyes widen with pleasure. His gaze continued, down to Miles’ lap. Then he grinned. God. Miles knew how obvious he must look. Under the restrictive linen fabric of his pants, his cock was rock hard and straining to be freed. He knew he was more aroused by Zeke Roswell than he’d ever thought he could be. Everything in the past was a sham, was now mocking him. His lukewarm response to Remy’s fondling; the brief escapades he’d had when he’d been out with Red; the frenetic scene of parties and clubs and appointments with gorgeous young bodies of all shapes, sizes, and genders—if he’d wanted them. He’d rarely

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True Colors acted on it. The mere promise had made him feel alive in a way nothing else did. Until now. He wished he knew what Zeke expected, what Zeke wanted. He didn’t know if it’d be the same as his own desires. The unfamiliar nervousness made him angry on top of his thundering need. Zeke sat up in front of him and lifted his own shirt over his head. For a moment his hand strayed down to his waistband, as if he wanted to shed the pants as well. Miles stared up at the smooth tanned skin that he’d admired before, that he’d wanted to touch. It was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, which glittered in the dying candlelight. Miles didn’t know whether Zeke was too hot, or nervous as well, or what. The shadows from the fading light glanced off the planes of Zeke’s chest, and danced across his well-muscled torso. He had only a sprinkling of dark hair on his chest and belly, a shade darker than the hair on his head. His fingers teased at a curl of it that peeped out from the top of his sweats. Miles nearly groaned aloud. The semi-nudity was incredibly erotic. The desire to touch grew inside him like a hungry parasite. He felt consumed by it. Zeke was still staring at Miles’ imprisoned erection. “This is where I ask you if you want some help with that,” he joked. His voice cracked a little on the words. “That’s a little corny, isn’t it?” gasped Miles. He felt embarrassment threatening. What was he supposed to do? What was the right thing? He saw Zeke’s gaze fixed fiercely on his groin, felt the thread of memory of their last kiss still on his lips. The firm touch, the hunger he thought he could taste in return. And underneath him, the cushions of the couch were so soft that he thought he might sink in and never reemerge. “Corny. I guess so.” Zeke sighed in reply. But he sounded amused, not regretful. His hand still ghosted around his pants, and as Miles watched, he hooked a thumb in over the elastic waistband. “How’s about I just tell you how much I want to go down on you? How much I want to suck your thick cock, and feel it throbbing and swelling between my lips? How much I want you fucking my mouth with it, to feel the taste of your come spitting out on my tongue?” Miles had heard plenty of dirty talk in his life, and he’d thought he was no easy man to shock. But he barely recognized the animalistic moan that was wrenched from him. Zeke’s eyes flashed with excitement and probably triumph. He slid off the couch completely, and dropped to his knees beside Miles’ hip. His hands were swift and efficient with the zipper of Miles’ pants; the expensive fabric was

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Clare London dragged open, and the waistband of the silk boxers underneath tugged down. Miles’ aching cock was pulled impatiently from its clothing, circled briefly by Zeke’s eager fingers. “God…,” Miles gasped. The fresh air of the room was chill against his heated skin. His cock bobbed heavily and eagerly outward from his groin, desperately seeking attention. Zeke’s fingers slid down the shaft, cupping his balls possessively. Then his other hand slid back up over the crown, spreading a thin trail of pre-come in its wake. Miles bucked his hips, thrusting hungrily into the touch. And then the fingers were gone, and there was something else warm and firm teasing his arousal, flicking its tip into his slit and sipping at the leaking drops. Zeke’s tongue; Zeke’s mouth, caressing him. It was gorgeously warm, lapping around the rim, following the trail of the vein, making Miles thrust up again, straining to reach more of it. He thought the begging in his head might have slipped out aloud. Was that why Zeke was laughing so softly? His breath warmed the curls at Miles’ groin. “So good,” Zeke murmured. “Rich. Tasty, you know…?” But the words were muffled as he gradually drew more of Miles’ cock into his mouth and started to suck. Miles thought his skin would burst. He didn’t know it was possible to be so swollen with desire. His cock felt scorching hot, and his blood raced around his body like a wailing banshee. His sight was blurred, and his groin ached all over; he gripped so hard at the cushions underneath him that he thought the fabric would tear. The edge of his zipper scratched at his thighs, and the linen was bunched uncomfortably around the top of his legs. He just ignored all of it. When he arched his hips up to thrust into Zeke’s mouth, the other man’s hands came down sharply against him, pressing his hips fiercely back onto the couch. Zeke’s mouth was the one doing the thrusting. “Soon,” Miles whispered warningly. Zeke chuckled again. He sucked with enthusiasm and obvious pleasure. When he shifted his head to concentrate on the other side of Miles’ cock, Miles could see the thin trail of saliva dribbling down his chin. Miles blinked hard, trying desperately to clear his sight, to waste not a second of this experience. But Zeke’s head slid slowly up and down, driving him crazy, his licking loud and greedy, his mouth nuzzling closer and closer up to Miles’ pubic hairs. Miles shuddered, and Zeke laughed at this evidence of a swiftly vanishing control; it was a low, humming laugh, reverberating around the already painfully sensitive flesh of Miles’ cock. “Yeah. I see that. Very soon….”

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True Colors Miles groaned loudly, unable to hold it back. Shivers of anticipation rippled across his exposed flesh. He’d never had a blow job like it; he couldn’t imagine why he’d ever thought one had satisfied him before. He had a fleeting memory of Remy in a similar position, but elegantly spitting out a stray drop of seed that had reached her lips when she hadn’t pulled away soon enough. He saw long-nailed fingers reaching rather distastefully for a tissue; he recalled his own pitiful disinterest. This was so different that it rocked his world. “Come for me,” said Zeke, his voice low and chocolate-rich, his lips shaping the words around Miles’ cock. “Miles… fuck….” Miles obeyed without question, his body arching up uncontrollably, and his hips slamming against Zeke’s chin. In the brief second of clarity before the climax spun reason right out of his head, he realized he should have checked whether Zeke would swallow or whether he should have withdrawn. Then it was too late. He came—gloriously, fiercely, intensely. It all burst out of him, spurting, looping, spilling into Zeke’s mouth. He couldn’t stop his hands embedding themselves into the curly head buried in his groin, tangling themselves in the thick, soft hair, and forcing himself even deeper into Zeke’s luscious mouth. He swallowed a sob. Would he ever experience anything that sweetly sharp again? “Ouch.” Zeke slipped his mouth off Miles’ cock, still laughing softly, though Miles couldn’t hear any offense in it. But he quickly let go of Zeke’s hair. His mouth was dry, his heartbeat still racing. His cock was still throbbing with the aftershock of ecstasy and his legs trembled as if he’d been overstraining at the gym. “So good,” murmured Zeke. Miles grinned. That would have to do as his reply. Then he collapsed back into the soft sanctuary of the cushions.

ZEKE knelt on the floor, his heart hammering with excitement, his lips a little numb. God dammit! He couldn’t remember ever having such a good time, ever having a man like Miles. Why was that so amazing?

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Clare London The man he’d just sucked to orgasm was lying there on Zeke’s couch, panting, a shocked smile on his face. He was naked to the waist, with his legs spread as wide as he could reach, stretching the material of his designer pants. The clothing was sweat-soaked and wrinkled around his thighs. Must feel clammy; awkward. But Miles wasn’t moving away. Zeke could see threads of his saliva glinting in the hair at Miles’ groin, and he thought there might still be the imprint of his fingers on the taut skin of Miles’ hips. It all made his own groin throb with need. Miles’ cock was hanging out from his open fly, relaxing back down to its usual size. It nestled against the crumpled material of his boxers, cocooned against his leg. It looked damp. The ache to touch him again was so strong that Zeke groaned aloud. He leaned back, his legs cramping with the tension. There was barely any light from the candle now. Reflections from the city buildings outside arced through the wide studio window, lighting patches of the floor and table. “My turn,” he whispered. Miles stirred again and focused on him. His smile was warm; pleased. Zeke smiled back. He slid out his tongue to lick gently at his lower lip, collecting a stray drop of come. He watched Miles’ widening eyes, so dark, so delicious. Zeke pulled his sweats down to his knees, wriggling them down and off his ankles. Miles was watching every movement, his face flushing. No underwear. See? Zeke grinned. He knelt there, stark naked, savoring Miles’ reactions. His cock jutted out, heavy and hot with need, and the weight in his shifting balls was a thick, warming ache between his thighs. Miles’ eyes flickered to the tattoo on Zeke’s hip. Zeke shrugged, blushing, surprised at his own shyness. “It was for a dare, you know?” “An artist’s palette.” Miles could apparently only manage a whisper. Zeke nodded and ran his fingers along his hip, tracing the shape of the tattoo, nestled a couple of inches from his cock: a small palette-shaped outline with a slim paintbrush threaded through it. “You like it?” Miles’ answer was nothing but a moan, and Zeke laughed, delighted. “That works for me. Just relax, okay?” Pleased with the fascination he saw on Miles’ face, he folded his hand tightly around his cock and started to stroke himself. Steady and slow. Slow. He sucked in a breath. God, it was good. The excitement of sucking off Miles, the smell and touch of the other man’s body, the fierce

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True Colors concentration in those fabulous eyes…. “Zeke, wait.” “Can’t,” he growled. “Got to see to this before I disgrace myself up against your leg like a rutting dog.” Miles had struggled to sit up. “Don’t,” he gasped. “I… I want to do that.” Zeke was startled. “You don’t have to.” But he found his whole body leaning toward Miles. Please…. Miles wriggled around, hindered by the awkwardness of his half-undone pants, until he was lying on the couch again. This time his head was at Zeke’s groin. He reached out a hand and slid it behind Zeke’s ass, tugging the lower body in closer. Zeke sucked in an excited breath, his muscles clenching at Miles’ touch. His cock reared out from his body, thick and blood-red with his need. It nudged against Miles’ nose and was met with a soft moan. “Miles, if you don’t want….” But Miles’ fingers gripped him harder. “Your smell. Your taste. God… so good.” Zeke groaned. He brushed the tip of his cock across Miles’ lips, and felt the answering lap of his tongue. They both shifted to get into a better position, and Miles’ strokes became longer and stronger. Zeke was whimpering like a baby. He wasn’t particularly proud of that, but it was all too much to resist. Miles dragged his tongue up and down the shaft, and at the end of each upstroke, he slipped his lips over the top, just capturing the hot, leaking crown in his mouth. Then he licked back down to the root, his tongue flickering underneath, catching the crinkled skin of Zeke’s balls and tickling the skin where his inner thigh met his groin. “Fuck, Miles, but you know what to do with that tongue.” Zeke flung his right hand out to grab at the arm of the couch, to anchor himself somehow. His knees shook underneath him, barely holding him still. His torso bent forward over Miles’ body, and his head dropped down so he could watch. The pulse in his forehead throbbed and his heartbeat raced faster and faster. Miles’ arm pressed against his hip, holding him tight, his other hand still resting on Zeke’s ass. Breathless, Zeke watched Miles’ dark head bobbing at his groin. The tongue rasped gently up and down his cock, teasing the skin up, and the pre-come down, then repeating the torture again and again. Then Miles lifted his head, looking up at Zeke from under his tousled hair. Zeke felt his whole body tense. Miles’ eyes reflected ocean blueness with the

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Clare London black of rock: his top lip was swollen, a startling red against his face. Below that lip, his tongue laved at Zeke’s straining cock, strong and hungry, caressing him like a succulent dish. God. Zeke had never seen anything so erotic in his life. He knew in that very second that he was completely undone. He felt things inside him unraveling, the threads racing away throughout his veins and nerves, so swiftly that he stood no chance at all of keeping control. His body convulsed as if electricity ran through it, and he shouted aloud with ecstatic, agonizing surrender. The rush of his climax hurtled down through every conduit of his body and into his cock. Even as Miles’ mouth slid away from the jerking shaft, the come burst out of him, a thick, glutinous stream that spilled out in a short arc and spattered all over Miles’ mouth and chin, dribbling on down his neck. Zeke shivered; he shook all over. It felt like he teetered on the edge of a cliff. He knew he grabbed out at Miles, but he hoped the soft folds inside his clenched fist were the couch cloth, rather than Miles’ skin. But if he let go—he knew it for certain—he’d fall over this virtual cliff, and his body would smash to bones and blood at the bottom of an equally virtual ravine. The waves of his climax kept swamping him, buffeting him; his body kept shuddering. The churning in his stomach felt like he was already falling, and he was suddenly terrified he’d be sick. And then the madness was passing, and he could hear his breathing again, although it was harsh and loud. He relaxed his hand, the fingers painfully tight against his palm, and he focused back down on Miles. “Miles?” It sounded like a question, but he really wanted to know if he still had the power of speech. And maybe just to hear Miles’ name, to see if it sounded different, now…. Now that they’d come over each other. “Zeke?” Miles was grinning back at him, damned, smug bastard! Zeke wanted to look irritated but his own smile wouldn’t let him. The man gazing back up at him was fucking gorgeous. Miles’ skin was that deeply flushed crimson that Zeke had only seen so far under the open collar of his shirt. His hair was messy, and there were tufts of it stuck with sweat over his forehead. The depths of his eyes seemed to be swirling more like a whirlpool than the steady ocean of before. He lay back on the couch, naked to the waist, staring at Zeke’s reactions with a satisfied pleasure, and nursing the rather obvious signs of a returning erection. His hand

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True Colors lay on his thigh, the flushed skin contrasting with the light material of his deeply creased pants, his fingers teasing at his twitching cock. Such a thick, rich, tasty cock. Zeke’s taste buds whimpered in memory of it. Zeke also saw the glimmering trails of his come over the firm line of Miles’ jaw, and plenty more over the soft pulse of his throat. He felt suddenly uneasy. What was the guy going to say to that? Miles didn’t actually say anything. He moved his jaw gently, as if he were testing its mobility. Then he lifted his other hand, dipped a finger into the pool of seed under his chin, and brought it to his mouth. Zeke watched, fascinated, as Miles pressed the finger into his pursed lips; as the tip of his tongue licked at the residue and sucked it inside. Zeke shivered with delight. “A pearl necklace, Miles,” he murmured. His voice sounded hoarse; he knew his smile was shaky. “That’s what they call it. Can’t say I don’t give you gifts, eh?” Miles grimaced, but was still smiling. “Sticky.” “Uh-huh.” Zeke nodded and grinned. His whole body felt hot again; the pulse was thrumming through him. It had been a long, long time since he’d been so excited. Miles’ flushed skin; the pale. shining spots of come all over him. Zeke struggled to find enough breath to banter. “So you want me to apologize for my poor aim…?” Then he caught sight of Miles’ expression, and he shut up. “No apologies.” Miles still managed somehow to sound stern. “No jokes.” “Hey, I just—” “Clean it off, Zeke,” he growled. Zeke’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Miles stretched gently and languidly, and a dribble of come trickled down his neck. “Lick me clean.”

MILES woke from his doze. He groaned a little, stretching out his cramped left leg. Zeke lay heavily against his chest. The pair of them were still tangled together on the couch, Zeke completely naked and Miles with only one leg of his boxers hanging from his ankle. Zeke’s cleaning task had been hot and impossibly exciting, and Miles’ erection had swelled again, faster than either of them could

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Clare London quite believe. Then Zeke had laughed, reaching for him, to squeeze and stroke and pump lasciviously…. Dammit, he’d barely had enough time to kick off his pants, and free his legs. He wondered how long he’d napped. The couch was deep and comfortable but not made for two grown men to sleep on. But he felt too deliciously exhausted to move; his skin still tingled. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d come more than twice in a whole night, and he’d only been here a matter of hours. He shifted, experimenting with his limbs. His muscles were stiff and his skin felt tight from the enthusiastic lapping of Zeke’s tongue. There were a couple of sticky places in his hair that would need a good washing out. He grimaced, wishing he’d taken Zeke up on his offer to run the shower for them both. But at the time, Zeke had been kissing him and stroking his belly, and one thing had led to yet another. Zeke stirred as well, yawning loudly. “Fucking bad place to sleep, man. Not going yet, are you?” “I’ve got to,” replied Miles, with a strange softness to his tone that he barely recognized. “Huh?” “The fire chief’s coming by in the morning. I’ve got to find the insurance documents. There’s a mess of clearing up to do….” Hell, he thought, there were all sorts of reasons, and none of them sounded particularly persuasive at this very minute. “Okay.” Zeke grunted and unfolded his arm from under his body. “Gotcha. Better pop out some of these twisted joints and find my bed.” Miles rolled awkwardly from the couch, and groped around for his clothes. Pulling them on, they felt damp and rough against his skin as if they no longer fit. When he was dressed again and surreptitiously tugging at a sticky tangle at the back of his head, he heard Zeke sigh loudly. He turned to gaze at the other man, and the wide eyes stared back, deep with an unfathomable expression. Zeke’s face was still soft with sleepiness; their kissing had made his lips look softened and plump. Miles’ nerves thrilled at the memory of them on both his mouth and cock. Zeke’s long, lean limbs were stretched out against the soft cushions, but his hips were twisted a little, and one leg was slightly raised so that it covered his groin, coyly. Was he waiting to say something? Miles wanted to speak, as well— but what he wanted to say was too bold, and he couldn’t think what else might be appropriate. The tension sharpened around them both again. Then Zeke grinned, and the animation rushed back to his face and body. It

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True Colors was as if his very skin sprang awake. “Sleep well, Miles. Let’s leave it at that, okay?” “Okay… of course.” Miles felt his throat tightening. He watched the muscles of Zeke’s arms as he stretched them up above his head; he saw the glistening sweat in his armpit. Zeke caught his gaze and held it. “Miles, you were amazing….” Zeke’s voice was almost a whisper. His lids dropped briefly, covering the full impact of his stare. “You want to come around tomorrow night?” Did he? Dammit, yes, more than anything else in the whole world he could think of at that moment. He wanted to laugh; to shout aloud. But he didn’t. “Yes,” he said, slowly, as carefully as he could. “That’d be good.” “Real good,” replied Zeke, his laugh getting caught up in another yawn. “So get lost, will you? I need more beauty sleep than you, you know.”

“THERE are only three weeks to go until the show,” said Tony, tentatively. “And he won’t let us see the final plans for the gallery. Mr. Winter will be furious.” Malia tsked. “Don’t worry, Tony; it’ll be fine.” She sat back in her office chair and stretched out a foot, twirling the sandal on her toes. She felt strangely relaxed nowadays. Exhausted with all of the running around that Zeke Roswell demanded and smoothing down all the feathers he ruffled in his wake—but that was challenging too. The guys in the business were getting to know Roswell and his ways. and they were coming forward now, wanting to be involved in everything he did. There were magazines calling her daily; proposals arriving in large white envelopes on her desk with alarming regularity. There were some fairly generous offers of sponsorship money too. It had been a while since she’d been so excited by a promotional project. Personally, she felt stimulated. She’d not needed her stabilizing concoction of pills for weeks now. She ate better; she slept better. She found she could think more clearly, could plan campaigns more effectively. She actually looked forward to each day at the corporation. More than that, she was starting to realize what a cute young man Tony actually was, even if he’d been rather a klutz in bed at first. “It won’t be fine,” groaned Tony, interrupting her warm thoughts. “There are pictures arriving this afternoon for framing and hanging, both from Zeke and

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Clare London from Mr. Winter, and I don’t know which ones are supposed to be used and which are to be sent back….” “You’ll find out, Tony. He’ll tell you when he’s ready. Didn’t he pull it off last time at the last minute?” Tony stared at her, curiously. “You’re quite a fan now, aren’t you, Malia? Of Zeke Roswell?” She shrugged carelessly, but suspected the enthusiasm in her eyes betrayed her. “Yeah, so I thought he was a spoiled kid, a dangerous distraction. What else was I to think? But you know what it’s been like since the very first day he started: wham, bam, watch the man! It seems he knows his stuff. He knows what works, he knows what looks good. He bounces off people, and rides roughshod over them—and then I can see the charm leaking out from underneath, and suddenly they love him, they think he can move mountains, they want to have his babies….” She stopped, seeing Tony’s amazed stare. “Okay, that’s a little extreme, I guess. But he’s opened up, Tony. He’s dropped that world-weary crap and is really into the business. I guess I can see what he must have been like before he fell from society’s grace.” She shrugged again, unable to express it satisfactorily. “Dammit, he’s fun to work for.”

IT was late afternoon that same day and several people still milled about in the gallery. The ceiling hangings were draped with thin, translucent wire, and two mock stages had been built at the opposite corners of the room. The presentation board was covered with a dust sheet, and there were strange pen markings over the Perspex wall that no one understood but Zeke Roswell. There was an air of anticipation in the room, but no obvious signs of how it would look at its approaching debut. Tony let the tension flow through him, breathing deeply like his meditation teacher had showed him. It had been like this ever since the Winter Corporation first employed Zeke Roswell. Tony had followed the bold, abrasive Roswell into what had appeared to be a ridiculous venture, clutching his draft resignation letter to his heart. Then after the first few weeks, he found himself offering suggestions, and sharing ideas with Zeke. He’d been so caught up in the plans that his letter was filed away temporarily. After the grand opening and the first show, he’d been exhausted and thrilled

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True Colors and excited beyond his comprehension. He’d also found himself in Malia’s bed, having the time of his sheltered life, and had been invited back there again too. When the announcement came that there’d be another show, and the process started all over again, he remembered the alleged resignation letter. But he couldn’t seem to put his hand on it. He thought that when he did, he might tear it up anyway. Several paintings were stacked up against the walls, packaged and labeled, awaiting delivery to the framers. Tony had brought in a couple of the younger assistants to help out, and he had Malia waiting back at the office to hear that it had all gone smoothly. He just needed Zeke’s final word to check the numbers and the specifications. “Why the fuck is this here?” asked Zeke, loudly. Tony winced. His boss was standing before one particular painting, his body rigid with emotion and his expression like thunder. Tony’s heart sank. When he answered, it came out in a squeak. “Mr. Winter… he sent it along.” “Well you can just send it back, pretty damned quick.” There was a rush of street noise as the gallery door opened, then closed again behind Miles Winter. Zeke’s head snapped up and he glared at the new arrival. Tony looked between them both, nervously. Everyone knew how they argued all the time—they were so damned different. Mr. Winter was so cool and such a perfectionist, but then Zeke Roswell just went his own brash, volatile way. God knows how the business partnership had lasted this long. They probably hated each other. It was just luck they’d never come to actual blows. Tony had pushed the memories of the last show to the back of his mind, full as they were of tension and pressure. They now resurfaced rather abruptly at the back of his throat, threatening nausea. Malia was going to kill him if they dropped behind schedule again. “I want that in the exhibition,” said Miles. His voice was calm, but his eyes were fixed on Zeke, flashing a warning. “It’s one of yours—” “I know it’s fucking one of mine,” Zeke interrupted, loudly. Miles ignored his outburst. “I want you to show your work, along with the others.” The silence that fell was louder than a shout. Tony looked at Zeke Roswell and was reminded of those cartoons where the steam comes out of the guy’s ears,

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Clare London just before he completely blows up. “Zeke… Mr. Winter. The framer closes at seven tonight, the very latest. The van’s waiting….” Miles didn’t turn to look at him, but his voice was low and calm. It brooked no argument. “Take the paintings, Tony. All of them.” “Not this one,” snapped Zeke, gripping the edge of the package they were arguing about. Tony held his breath. If they started actually fighting over it…. Miles cleared his throat, his eyes still on Zeke. “Take the rest, then. Tell the framers to begin with Zeke’s selections. He’ll confirm the rest tomorrow.” Tony swallowed hard and nodded. After all, Mr. Winter signed off on the salary checks, didn’t he? He and his dumbstruck assistants grasped their precious bundles and wriggled past the other two men, exiting the gallery. It was all done with rather indecent haste and no one dared meet either of their gazes. They all had a strong sense of self-preservation. The door swung quietly closed behind the staff and Zeke and Miles were left alone inside. Tony risked one last glance back through the window at them. Only a couple of feet apart. It looked like miles.

ZEKE knew that self-preservation was something he’d left behind him a long time ago. He was incredibly upset. The fury bubbled below his skin, threatening to explode out and decimate anything within reach. It took all his efforts to hold himself in until the other guys had left. He balanced the wrapped painting back up against the wall. He was the first to speak, his heart hammering, and the words echoing harshly inside his head. “Why? Why the fuck do you want my painting? It doesn’t fit with the theme.” Miles looked determined, though his face was paler than usual. “I think you can make it fit.” “I think I don’t damned well want to. And excuse me, but I think I made that clear enough to you before.” “It’s a fine painting, Zeke. Your work has always been good; it is good. I want you to share the praise and the publicity. You’re drawing again; you may

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True Colors paint again….” Zeke felt the rush of anger like a thick red liquid, soaking his senses. “Don’t you dare tell me what my work is! Or what I will or won’t be doing. Don’t you dare come in here with that ‘owner of the whole fucking place’ act, and patronize me.” Miles’ face was even whiter, his dark eyes a stark contrast, though his voice was still steady. “You know I’m not patronizing you, so I don’t know why you act so childishly. I can only think it’s because you’re scared.” “I’m what?” Zeke gasped, incredulous. “Scared to show your work. Scared to draw the attention again, the criticism, good and bad. Scared there’ll be an expectation of you that you don’t want to meet. Scared they’ll compare you again with your brother—” Enraged, Zeke swung a punch at him. It was a poor shot, and he didn’t get his whole weight behind the blow, but he connected to Miles’ jaw. For one shocking moment, his grunt and the sound of knuckles on flesh were the only sounds in the high, empty room. As Zeke pulled back his arm, Miles grabbed it. His jaw was scarlet from where Zeke had hit him, but he hadn’t flinched away. He spoke breathlessly, through gritted teeth. “Don’t ever do that again, you hear me?” Zeke struggled to pull his arm away from Miles’ grip, feeling like some stupid schoolboy on the playground. He should have known how strong the guy was, should have known he wouldn’t be easily intimidated. He felt like a complete ass; he felt a strange, angry betrayal. When he spoke, his voice was a loud, jagged sound, cutting through the tension. “Stay out of my life, Miles Winter. I knew it was a fucking mistake to work for you. You think I’m a possession. You think you bought me, not just my home and everything I fucking cared about. I’m just one of your ‘staff’; you do what you like with me and mine….” Miles’ eyes glinted. “Listen to yourself, Zeke. That’s bullshit, and you know it. You’ll just humiliate both of us.” Zeke wrenched himself free and turned away to lean up against the wall. He was panting, and he could feel his chest tightening painfully. “Why that one, Miles?” It was almost a snarl. “Why 4:DRMS?” “I….” Miles flushed. “You don’t know anything about this exhibition. The theme, the colors….” Zeke ignored Miles’ wince.

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Clare London “I know what I feel,” said Miles, abruptly. Zeke paused in his anger. Suddenly he was afraid to meet Miles’ gaze. “I’ve seen some of the other paintings you’re including, and there’s something….” Miles also paused, maybe embarrassed at trying to express a nonexpert opinion. “Well, they brought that particular painting of yours to mind.” Zeke drew a deep breath. His knuckles were sore but he deliberately resisted soothing them. “I never understood why you bought the damned thing in the first place.” Miles cleared his throat. “I know. I get that.” Zeke looked up, startled again. What this man did to him…. “It’s probably the most controversial painting in my collection, Zeke, but I… it’s one of the items I like best. May I look at it again?” Zeke stared at him, bemused, still angry. “Do whatever you fucking want.” Miles walked over to the painting. He looked calm, but Zeke saw his hand was shaking; his steps were a little unsteady. Miles ripped off the packaging and they both stood looking at the uncovered painting. It’s not for you, Miles. Is it? Zeke tried to examine it objectively, as Miles might: an abstract study of violent, unstructured movement; vibrant slashes of paint; thick, sweeping brushstrokes spiraling into a central whorl. Zeke bit back a moan. Emotions and memories clawed at him, and pain threatened underneath the fury. “It’s awkward, yes.” Miles’ voice was almost toneless, as if he were trying to keep his emotion in check. “Hostile, antagonistic, turbulent even. But very powerful. Two contrasting spirits, meeting in a middle ground. Making the connection regardless. That’s how I interpreted it.” “How you felt it,” whispered Zeke. It wasn’t a question, but Miles nodded beside him. “I painted that one because of Jacky,” Zeke said, quietly. His anger had gone, as fast as it arrived. He felt drained. “Just before he died, though of course I didn’t know that was going to happen. It was how he made me feel. Just like you said. It was all turmoil. That’s how we always were. Dammit, we’d been so close when we first started the gallery, then excited at the way it was going. But we were back to fighting again, as usual. It was a particularly hard time, then… a roller coaster of a time. Carter was miserable, so was I. All I could do was paint it out of me.”

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True Colors “I didn’t know.” “How the hell could you?” said Zeke, wearily. His breathing still pained him, but he was calm again. He kept his eyes fixed on the painting. He had to. The pain was real, but the memories were just that, weren’t they? Memories. “You could have told me,” persisted Miles, his voice low but urgent. “I want to know. I want to listen to you. You talk a hell of a lot, but you keep so many things secret. You don’t really open up. Not about yourself.” “You just want to know what the theme of the show is,” said Zeke, wryly. Too close, Miles. “That’s what you mean. Like Malia noses around every day; like Tony’s running a book on guessing what it’s going to be.” Miles shook his head. He looked more puzzled than angry. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? You twist the conversation around when it gets personal. Make jokes.” He sighed. “I’d like to know the theme, true.” “You’ll find out.” “On opening night?” It was Miles’ turn for a wry smile. Zeke shrugged. “And anyway, why are you encouraging a mere employee to show in your own gallery? You sure this special attention isn’t just because you’re fucking me?” For a second, he thought he’d gone too far. Miles’ hands clenched into fists, his eyes darkening again. “You can be such a shit, Roswell. I would never do that.” “I know,” said Zeke, quickly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound like it did. Sort of.” He grinned, willing Miles to follow. “And anyway, we’re not actually doing all that yet, are we?” Miles gaped at him. Then he started to laugh. “We’re certainly doing something,” he said. “Sure are,” replied Zeke. Miles’ eyelids looked heavy, as if he were dreaming. It was damned hot. “Just fooling around, maybe?” He thought of the hours spent kissing Miles’ mouth; licking Miles’ sweaty, salty skin; nibbling the tasty buds of those generous brown nipples. “We’re fooling around indeed,” Miles said. His voice had sunk to a sensual, throaty tone. “Uh-huh.” Zeke felt his heartbeat speed up again, but not from anger this time. His thoughts were on Miles’ voice; his hands; the musky sweetness of his

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Clare London flesh, taken eagerly into his mouth; the tart, sticky come splashing against his taste buds. Miles had been around night after night, and Zeke was compiling a whole portfolio of those memories. Of clothes wrenched off, of mouths meeting, and always the heat and the groans and that fabulous body under his hands…. A hell of a time it had been! “So maybe the time has come to move on,” he murmured. He ignored Miles’ shocked expression, hurrying on. “To something more, I mean. Do we want more, Miles?” They were just staring at each other. Zeke’s breathing sounded too loud to him in the deserted gallery. But then, so did Miles’. He moved back a step. Miles moved forward two, closing the gap. Zeke remembered Miles’ fingers, gentle yet questing behind his aching balls, each time moving that little bit farther toward his entrance, ghosting gently and teasingly over the protected, sensitive skin. He remembered arching in Miles’ arms, caressing his ass in return—running his own speculative fingers between the tight buttocks. When he brushed against the shockingly gorgeous puckered flesh that he found there…. Miles was watching him, smiling again. Yeah. They both wanted more of that. Zeke felt as if he were panting, like some kind of hungry animal. He felt very hot. He wondered if the guys had locked the front door behind them, or whether there was still a chance someone might walk in and disturb them. He really didn’t want that to happen right now. He was so close to Miles that he reckoned he could have slipped out his tongue and licked at the trail of teeth marks he’d left just below Miles’ sharp shoulder blade, only two nights ago…. His lips twitched, his mouth filling with the taste of desire. “You said it,” Miles whispered. He didn’t need to say anything else. Their whole bodies communicated with silent cries of need. “Only us here now,” murmured Zeke. He gazed deliberately at Miles’ mouth. His tongue slid out of his own mouth and licked swiftly at his lips. “You going to do anything about it, then? After all, you’re—” “The owner of the whole fucking place?” Miles quoted back at him. He grinned openly at Zeke now, eyes wide and shining. “Get upstairs,” he growled. “I want to do something about it, all right. And I want to do it now.” Zeke turned and almost ran for the door up to his apartment.

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MILES was moments behind Zeke as they staggered through the door to Zeke’s bedroom. He pushed Zeke into the room and up against the wall, cutting off Zeke’s shaky laughter with a fierce, clumsy kiss. He knew his mouth was greedy; his tongue probed, his teeth nipped at Zeke’s swollen lips. Zeke didn’t resist; in fact he grabbed back at Miles, inviting it. Miles ran his hand under Zeke’s shirt, stretching it forcibly up to his shoulders, trying to get to bare skin. As he peeled it off, Zeke tugged at Miles’ waistband, tugging his dress shirt out of his pants, scraping the tight muscle in his eagerness. “I want you,” Miles groaned. “Like this.” He couldn’t take his eyes off Zeke’s naked torso, off the tightening muscles. His throat hurt and his voice rasped. “Want you.” “I’ve wanted you for longer,” gasped Zeke, like it was some kind of contest. “Just been waiting.” “What for?” There was an ominous tearing noise. Miles realized he was being a little too aggressive with Zeke’s clothes. “To see what you thought about it. What you wanted. With me.” Zeke twisted his body away from the wall, stumbling back toward the bed. He dragged Miles with him, though Miles went more than willingly, his mouth reaching for Zeke’s all the way, his hands touching and grasping and sliding away in frustration when his awkward steps unbalanced him. He pulled off his necktie, loosening his shirt, his hands impatient. When a button bounced off into the corner of the room, he cursed. Zeke just laughed. Over recent nights they had spent long, sensual times undressing each other

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Clare London slowly; caressing each part of the body as it was uncovered; savoring the gradual exposure. Tonight, Miles felt as if they’d melt away if they didn’t get naked in the next forty-five seconds. He watched as Zeke shrugged out of his jeans and boxers, kicking them to the side, ripping off his boots and socks. Naked. Oh my God. Miles grabbed for him, and Zeke grunted, reaching for Miles’ clothes, pushing back playfully. It was Miles’ turn to fall backward, onto the bed. He sat down suddenly with his pants around his ankles and Zeke’s hand still trapped inside his boxers. Zeke’s laugh was short and excited, and it echoed Miles’ feelings perfectly. He gazed hopefully up at Zeke, and then Zeke dropped onto the bed beside him. Perfect. Miles held him close, kissing him, pressing up against that gloriously nude body, thrusting nipple to chest, warm groin to shivering thigh. His boxers went the way of all the other clothes, kicked and thrown to one side. Now Miles was naked as well, and his cock was hot and thick and free, tugging impatiently at its bed of dark curls. It reared out, seeking contact, brushing against Zeke’s equally swollen shaft. Miles groaned. “Fuck, that’s good,” gasped Zeke. “I want you… hold you… here,” Miles gasped, trying to make a more coherent sentence and failing. He reached down with a fumbling hand and folded it around the two aching cocks, holding them together. Zeke’s hand came to meet his, sliding his warm, slim fingers on top of Miles’. They began to pump in tandem, kissing clumsily, their bodies clutched together as the bedclothes creased in chaos beneath them. Miles felt the heat coiling up inside him, far too quickly. He’d never had so little control of himself as when he was with Zeke. His groin ached and his cock was slippery, leaking pre-come, the skin stretched tightly over it. Zeke’s foreskin wrinkled against his own, an astonishing delight, the sheath catching his as he pumped. He felt himself swelling even further, desperate for the increasing pressure of their fingers on each other, encouraging, caressing, cajoling, begging for completion. He wasn’t entirely sure anymore where the flesh of his cock ended and Zeke’s began. His stomach slid with sweat against Zeke’s; their thighs tangled in a muscular mess half on and half off the bed. His free arm grabbed at whatever skin he could find, both to caress and to anchor himself against the enthusiastic rocking of their hips.

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True Colors “Wait,” gasped Zeke. The hell I can. “Wait!” he cried again, until Miles forced himself to listen over the rushing in his ears. “I’ll come. Too soon… remember? Want more….” Miles felt his hand gripped and his fingers pried off their precious target. He could feel the pulse of blood in his cock; feel the answering hammering in his chest. His hand felt numb and the palm was slick with pre-come. Zeke wriggled awkwardly out of his grasp, the soft sucking sound of their flesh sliding away from each other. Miles thought he groaned in protest. He hoped he showed more dignity than that, but he doubted it. “Zeke… come back.” “Hush, Miles,” came the throaty chuckle. The bed rocked and creaked, and Zeke rolled over so that he was facing away. He hitched himself up onto his hands and knees and peered back over one shoulder at Miles. His hair was tousled and clung to his neck and cheek. His eyes were bright, the pupils dilated. “Take me, Miles,” he whispered. “Put those hot, wet hands on my ass and take me. Now.” Time felt suspended, for sharp, precious seconds. Then Miles remembered to breathe again. He knelt up behind Zeke’s ass, a strong, fine ass, which he’d caressed many times. He loved the feel of the muscle here, the taut skin; the soft hairs between Zeke’s thighs. His fingers ran firmly over the shape of the buttocks and the muscles clenched. Zeke’s back arched under his touch, and his head stretched back; his thighs instinctively opened a little wider. There was a dark, intimate valley between the cheeks of his ass: there was pinker skin, and sparser hairs, and the promise of something impossibly exciting, earth-shatteringly sexual. He heard Zeke moan, followed by soft murmurs of encouragement. And impatience. Miles hesitated, breathing heavily. “There’s stuff in the drawer, Miles,” Zeke gasped. “Condoms… lube. Is that what you want?” “I want you,” groaned Miles. “Do you believe me, Zeke?” Zeke looked back over his shoulder again, his brow furrowed. He glanced down at what he could see of Miles’ swollen cock: at the glistening purple tip; at the softly throbbing pulse.

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Clare London “Guess I do,” he said, breathlessly, with a rather twisted grin. “So what’s the problem?” Miles struggled with the words. He struggled with a hell of a lot more than that. He’d never seen anything as gorgeous as Zeke’s ass spread out before him, offered to him. He reached out for Zeke, stroking him, reassuring himself with the touch of warm, willing flesh. Zeke’s breath hitched suddenly. “You’ve never done it before,” he said, softly. “With a guy. Have you?” Miles flushed. How could he answer that? “Fooled around,” he gasped. He was swamped with miserable, debilitating shock. His head swam, his body felt suddenly, humiliatingly paralyzed. “Never actually….” “It’s okay, Miles.” Zeke’s voice was gentle, so different from his usual boldness. He shifted a little on the bed, slipping away from Miles’ petrified touch. “It doesn’t matter to me.” “I want you,” repeated Miles, as if he were in a daze. He felt Zeke leaving him; pulling away. This wasn’t going to happen, after all, was it? The promise; the anticipation; the need…. But Zeke was murmuring to him, his face sympathetic, still smiling. “Hey, man. That doesn’t mean I’m letting you off. Just means we’ll go a little slower, okay? You happy with top? Or would you rather go bottom…?” Miles tensed up, involuntarily. Zeke chuckled. “Another day for that, I think,” he murmured. “And bottom’s always great for me.” He shifted again, this time turning fully to face Miles, and sitting back on his heels so that they were of equal height. His hands cupped Miles’ face and his lips ghosted gently against Miles’ frozen ones. Miles melted under his touch, passing his own harsh, panting breath back into Zeke’s mouth. “Let me lead,” Zeke whispered. “I want you inside me. Fucking me. I want to show you how good it can be. Let me, Miles.” Miles ached all over, both with need and this strange, overwhelmingly sensual fear. He couldn’t have protested, even if he’d wanted. Zeke’s hands stroked him slowly, across his shoulders, down along his sides. It was stimulating; it was comforting. Zeke murmured nonsense into Miles’ ear; he breathed warmth into Miles’ body. He kissed him, often and passionately. He moved like a river flowed, like smoke enfolded. Miles couldn’t dismiss the fanciful, unbidden pictures in his mind. He was lost to it all. Zeke knelt in front

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True Colors of him and slid his hands across Miles’ chest; and then he was behind him, rubbing his chin on his shoulder blades, and tracing down the shape of Miles’ backbone with his rough tongue. How did he move like that? How had he, Miles, lost the ability to judge time and distance in this way? His head swam. He felt increasing heat along his veins, and the promise of even greater pleasure shivering in his groin. His cock was thick and heavy, bobbing at his belly, his balls damp with sweat between his legs. His skin felt gently peeled away from his bones; his nerves were exposed and panting for attention. When would it happen? What would he do? He cursed every second that Zeke kept him waiting, and yet he had no choice but to leave Zeke entirely in charge. He had never felt so adrift before; so disconnected from his own body and his actions. Zeke reached out from the bed and pulled open the top drawer of the nightstand. Then he was back, caressing Miles, kissing him, stroking him, distracting him deliciously. When Zeke finally put a confident hand back on Miles’ cock, Miles shuddered with the delight of the strong, supple fingers caressing him. Zeke chuckled, and then started to roll a condom onto Miles’s shaft, smoothing soft, cool lube along its length. “You… what about—?” Zeke sighed softly. “Miles, I can see to myself.” Miles saw him toss a small, open tube away from him, down beside the bed. It fell with a gentle clatter onto the bare boards. His other hand was busy at his hips, between his legs. Miles couldn’t see clearly what he was doing, and maybe Zeke didn’t want him to. Not yet. Zeke leaned back over and kissed him, his tongue hot and slick in Miles’ mouth. Miles saw and felt nothing but a mess of desire and lust. He knew now— of course he did—that nothing would stop him from taking Zeke tonight. Not his nerves; not his inexperience. Nothing! “Now,” he rasped. “Who’s arguing?” grunted Zeke, and the last expression Miles saw was his grin as he rolled back to his position on all fours, wriggling up against Miles’ groin. This time, Miles pressed firmly up against him. He put his hands on Zeke’s buttocks and peeled them apart, running his finger wonderingly against the glistening, newly lubricated hole. “Jesus, Miles, I’m beyond want here….” Zeke spoke with a gargled mixture

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Clare London of anger and amusement and his own, urgent need. Miles smiled, more confident now, and eager beyond belief. He slid his cock along the crease, over Zeke’s puckered skin. Then he started to push it into the tight, muscled entrance. Zeke groaned. Miles nudged the swollen crown in, gripping Zeke’s hips to give him purchase. Amazed; fascinated; unbearably excited, he watched the pucker open almost reluctantly and then swallow him gratefully as he pushed on in. Zeke groaned again, a deep, guttural noise. His legs and arms tensed up, holding himself rigid, and then his hips relaxed back into the hollow made by Miles’ body. Miles pushed again, sinking deeper. He was rewarded with the sensual pleasure of his warm, painfully clenched balls slapping against the back of Zeke’s thighs. “Okay?” he gasped. Zeke laughed, but it was cut off on a moan. “Okay.” Miles pushed again, easing himself inside, withdrawing a little then sliding back in. “Incredible….” “Uh-huh.” Zeke wriggled against him, gingerly. He was panting too. “Preaching to the converted, you know? Just….” “Huh?” “Just… get going, okay? Start moving, or I’m going to come all over the sheets before you get anywhere close.” So Miles moved. He slid himself gently out again, and then plunged back in. He gasped at the sharp, squeezing hold that Zeke had on him, and praised the cool lube that allowed him to thrust in and out of Zeke’s ass. Which he did— again and again. His hips began to slap against Zeke’s flesh, and his upper body sagged over Zeke’s back with the effort. Their skin was slick with sweat, and he slid easily back and forth against Zeke. He could hear Zeke grumbling, not knowing whether it was from frustration or anger or eagerness. The vibration of his voice ran along Miles’ chest and across his own, parched throat. He tried to reach under the other man’s body to caress his cock—to give him some attention—but Zeke grunted and batted his hand away. “Concentrate on what you’re doing.” He was panting loudly, moaning with each thrust of Miles’ cock into him. “Just… for you.” So Miles continued to grip, to pump into him, feeling his senses catch fire, and slowly and inexorably losing

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True Colors any vestige of control that he’d ever had. Underneath him, Zeke dropped his weight onto one elbow so that he could reach a hand to his neglected cock and bring himself off. “So… fucking hot….” Miles nodded, though he knew Zeke couldn’t see it. What the hell else could he do but agree? It was the most fantastic thing he’d ever known. “Tell me, Miles,” came an excited gasp from beneath Zeke’s bowed head, his body rocking against Miles’ increasingly deep thrusts. “Tell me how it feels.” God. Miles had never spoken during sex, except for obvious requests to make it more comfortable or perhaps to whisper an endearment. He wondered if he should have expected this to be different with Zeke; so many things were. Zeke talked a lot, of course, when he wasn’t drawing. He talked while they necked, and he talked while they jerked each other off, and he talked…. Well, he obviously talked through sex too. “It’s… incredible. I can’t say….” Miles could feel his tongue swelling, his lips drying. Was it so fantastic because it was his first experience with a male body? Or because it was Zeke? His brain wasn’t operating with any degree of objectivity. He cast any sensible thought aside, and gladly. He was approaching climax, he knew, and he was only holding off for this long because he just truly wanted this experience to last for the whole goddamned year…. “You feel fantastic,” Zeke hissed. “Thick… filling me. Your skin’s slick…. I want you, hard as you want, deep as you want… shit….” He groaned, and Miles felt the body underneath him shaking uncontrollably. He held on more tightly, feeling the muscles of Zeke’s ass clenching almost painfully around him. “Close,” Zeke moaned. “Close. Losing it, Miles. Shit… never felt so good….” He suddenly arched his back again and slammed back against Miles. His free hand clutched desperately at the bedclothes as he tried to support himself upright. Miles tightened an arm around Zeke’s waist to hold him and felt him shudder and jerk as he came. Miles felt the shockwaves through his own body, as if they were coming from within his limbs and flesh, as if it were his own cock throbbing and bursting inside his hand. He imagined the hot, creamy liquid spilling out on the sheets and onto Zeke’s legs. He cried out himself, and knew he couldn’t hold out any longer. “Incredible…” was the only word he could stutter out from his tortured lips. “Works for me,” came Zeke’s soft, hoarse reply. He was panting, his hips

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MILES knew for certain now that he was mad—mad for Zeke Roswell. He lay on his back on Zeke’s narrow bed, naked, his limbs draped around the other man’s and his body still shaking from climax and overall sensory overload. It was a feeling that was both shocking and very, very satisfying. Pervading the room was the faint aroma of paint. Miles realized he’d always smelled it but never acknowledged it. It wasn’t unpleasant; it was just there in the air, mixed with the occasional cooking smell and the citrus-based products that Zeke used in the shower. It wasn’t only from the gallery below, but was stronger and more specific up in the apartment. Zeke hadn’t painted for months, and yet the tracks were still with him. Aimlessly, Miles shifted the crumpled sheet under his legs. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a smudge of paint on the mattress cover. “Sorry I hit you, man,” came Zeke’s smothered voice. He was pressed in close to Miles, his face against his chest, his hands stroking lightly at Miles’ hips and thighs. Miles smiled happily. Zeke was teasing a body that was already deliciously exhausted, but still vibrated with the memories of astonishing excitement. Hit you? Miles could barely remember his own name, let alone what had happened an hour ago. “It’s okay. It was a pathetic attempt, eh? I’ve had better.” He felt Zeke’s face twisting with a smile of his own. “Oh yeah?” “Yeah,” he gently mocked. “The business world has its own share of fear and frustration, you know.” “And clumsy boxers,” muttered Zeke. “Never punched a guy before like I meant it.” “Me neither,” admitted Miles. He’d been threatened, that was true, but he’d never had to strike back. There’d always been someone there to call a halt. There was a moment of wriggling while Zeke got more comfortable, and Miles arched gently against his lover’s naked, sweat-streaked chest.

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True Colors “You fooled around with many guys before me, Miles?” Zeke’s voice was a little softer. It sounded younger. Miles took an extra breath before replying, which wasn’t just to help him get more comfortable himself. “Maybe. Some. I never wanted to go this far before. That’s what matters, surely?” “Sure, that’s cool. You think you’re bisexual, then?” Zeke’s body shifted farther down in the bed; Miles could feel his lips move against Miles’ belly, damp with a smile—the wide, lazy smile that Zeke so often wore. “Maybe. Probably,” Miles sighed. “I haven’t ever thought of it like that. I haven’t given it a name.” Zeke was making a soft, humming sound; a sound of pleasure and mischief. “Whichever way you choose, Miles Winter, you’re a loss to the other, you know? This body is magnificent….” His mouth nibbled at Miles’ groin, his tongue lapped gently at the thin flesh. Miles shivered. He didn’t see how he could be aroused again. His mind protested, but his body gleefully responded. “You like both, don’t you, Zeke? Men and women?” Zeke snorted quietly, and the breath tickled up against Miles’ stomach. “You jealous, Miles? Can’t deny it, though. I do. I like it all. So we’re much the same, aren’t we?” All Miles could see now was the top of Zeke’s head, the hair mussed, the haphazard part bobbing under his hands as he guided him down over his aching groin. He laughed softly at Zeke’s words. “I can’t think of two people less alike than us. Yet you were the one who said there was something that worked between us.” “Uh-huh,” mumbled Zeke. “Got no complaints in the mechanics department….” He nudged Miles’ legs apart, wriggling his body between them, the skin smooth and soft with sleepiness and satiation. Almost. “But our desires aren’t the same, are they?” asked Miles, piqued despite his growing arousal. “I’d like to think I’d sleep with either gender because it’s the person that matters to me….” “And I’d sleep with either gender because there’s no person that matters to me?” A bitter tone was back in Zeke’s voice. “Let’s leave it, Miles, okay? It’s enough that we’re here, and that this is damned good.” “Damned good,” echoed Miles. He gasped as Zeke’s head slipped under the only corner of the sheet still draped over them. It rippled up and down as Zeke moved, licking at him—as he laughed softly, and nipped and sucked his mark

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Clare London onto the inside of Miles’ lean thigh. Miles winced. An erotic shiver ran all the way through to the back of his neck, and beyond. He’d never experienced such an aggressive, passionate time. Zeke’s body didn’t seem to calm, even as they relaxed after climax. He still seemed to be restless, to be seeking. Now there was a kiss, and then a touch, and a bite, and a moan…. Miles had never known sex could be anything more than a careful, mutual stimulation, to produce satisfaction and relief. Exciting—but in a controllable way. Zeke Roswell wasn’t controllable in any way at all. Miles was shocked at how much this pleased and excited him, how much he welcomed it. What the hell was happening to him? “What about your girl?” mumbled Zeke, suddenly. “Don’t want to upset y’all….” Miles dragged his attention back. He’d never known anyone to talk like this—before, during, and after sex—the way that Zeke was doing. His voice was an accompaniment; it was obviously part of the package. It teased at Miles, demanding things of him, even before he could decide what he was prepared to give voluntarily. Should he accuse Zeke of jealousy too? Miles wasn’t sure he knew Zeke well enough to know how far he could tease; not in this situation, anyway. “I haven’t seen her for weeks. Well, not like that, anyway.” Neither he nor Remy had called each other for a while. It hadn’t bothered him, he realized. “I’ve seen her at social events, of course. At exhibitions; at a couple of product launches. But that’s all. And to be honest, I don’t think either of us would ever have called her my girl. Remy is her own mistress.” “It’s over then, you mean?” “Maybe,” said Miles, slowly. “And if not then, it is now.” “Huh?” “I wouldn’t sleep with anyone else at the same time as you,” blurted Miles, frankly. He was pretty sure he was blushing. Would Zeke think him foolish? But Zeke was suddenly and momentarily calm, his lips just a breath against Miles’ skin. His words were just as slowly delivered. “You’re an honest guy, Miles Winter. Guess I feel the same, though no one believes it of me. Zeke Roswell doesn’t equate to faithful; to the finer emotions.” His head suddenly appeared above the sheets, his face flushed and his eyes stripped of his cynicism and aggression. He looked very young and very wanton, with hair astray all over his neck and lips still swollen red with their previous

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True Colors kissing. Miles felt a sharp ache for him that he found a little frightening. Zeke’s voice broke harshly through Miles’ thoughts. “I don’t want this to be good for the wrong reasons, Miles, you know? I don’t want it to be good because we fight—because we’re always in conflict—and only because of that. That we use that aggression to get off, and then we fuck and make up.” Miles felt a need to be honest about everything; to make some sense of all this. He couldn’t tell Zeke how they would be tomorrow, because he didn’t know that answer yesterday, did he? He felt in a kind of limbo, and he didn’t know what it was that Zeke wanted him to say. In the same breath, he was afraid to say what he wanted, in case it broke the spell. God. He felt a mess, physically and emotionally. This uncertainty was alien to him, and he fought against it. It hurt, in some way that he couldn’t describe clearly. This wasn’t his world; this wasn’t his domain. He suspected that if he’d died and gone to heaven, this would be what he’d hope to find. But then, what would be the chances of that? He replied as carefully as he could. “I don’t believe it’s like that. I don’t think it has to be. You’re too harsh on yourself, Zeke. We’re adult, intelligent people, aren’t we? We’re not enemies, for God’s sake.” Zeke didn’t seem to acknowledge the conversation anymore. Instead, he sighed and rolled sleepily back under the covers. Perhaps he was embarrassed; perhaps he was scared of any more talk. Miles struggled with a spurt of anger, his need to clarify things. Damned man was too frustrating! Then Zeke spoke, his voice muffled against the pillow. All Miles heard was the thick richness of its desire and it overwhelmed any other feelings in him. “Forget it, Miles, okay? Forget the crap I talk. Just come here and fuck me again.” Miles’ breath halted with delighted shock. Quickly, he wriggled up to his knees and reached for the slim, lithe body beside him. He rolled Zeke onto his back to gaze down on his face again. He clutched Zeke’s knees and spread his legs wide open, pressing the thighs gently back toward Zeke’s hips. His eyes flickered down to Zeke’s groin, and his heart froze with eager excitement. “You’re gorgeous.” “Just looking?” Zeke grinned, wriggling his hips in gentle encouragement, his face flushed with pleasure. His cock was swelling again, rubbing a thin trail of pre-come against his thigh. “Get between my legs, man. Slide that deliciously thick and shiny cock so deep inside me I can feel it throbbing at the back of my throat.”

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Clare London Miles laughed with shock. “Miles….” Zeke sounded plaintive. “Mattress… me… you… fucking. Any combination is good. Supplies in the drawer….” Miles smiled slowly. “Too much talking, man,” he murmured, mockingly. He leaned down toward Zeke so that the combined heat from their bodies started to saturate the close air of the small room again. He moistened his lips, and Zeke’s mouth ghosted toward him, begging for the kiss. His cock thrust up, rubbing insistently on Miles’ belly. “Dammit, man, do it already.” And Miles, yet again, did what he was told.

“YOU’RE sleepin’ with him, aren’t you, hon? Your artist boy?” Red’s drawl was vibrant with inquisitiveness and maybe other, more mixed emotions. Sleeping with him? Miles wondered just how many of the intimate hours spent with Zeke Roswell had actually been spent sleeping. His skin felt warmer at the mere thought. He and Red sat at the bar inside Miles’ apartment building, awaiting dinner as they so often had before. Red toyed with a tall, tempestuous-looking cocktail that scorned plastic umbrellas and promised nothing but the kick of pure alcohol. Just as he told people he liked it. He sat on a high stool, nudging his boot between the stool and the counter and aimlessly admiring his own outfit. His legs were encased in tight coffee-colored leather, and his sheer, white, silk shirt was open at the neck, showing a hint of his expensively won tan. It was all deceptively simple; totally seductive. But from the sharp look in his eyes, he knew that the current focus was not on him. Miles didn’t think his expression gave anything away, but Red smiled very broadly. “Sweetheart, you’ve got it bad. That good, is he? Guess I thought he might be. He’s a wild child, but a very bright one. Damned fine legs too….” Miles glared back at him, ready to protest that his love life was—as always—a private matter. But then, this was Red, wasn’t it? Red gave a low whistle. “Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad for you.” He touched Miles’ arm lightly, and his tone was unusually serious. “You know I

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True Colors tease, hon, but I don’t mean the half of it. This is important to you, eh?” Miles saw no reason to deny that honesty to his closest friend. “Yes, it is.” Red’s eyes sparkled still with rampant curiosity and a million questions that were inevitably going to remain unanswered. “Seems like I’ve waited years to hear Miles Winter admit that someone was important to him.” His expression said more, and wickedly: And it’s a guy. “So what about you and the supermodel, boy? Can we safely assume she’s history?” “Remy?” Miles ignored Red’s habitual contempt of the model. “I’ve seen so little of her, I assumed she’d found other diversions. That was cowardly of me, I suppose.” Red snorted, and waved at the barman for a refill for Miles’ more modest drink. “That girl lives for diversion. She ain’t going to be short of a few. You owe nothin’ to her, Miles. She’s been chasin’ you for months, and I for one am glad to see the back of her.” “Come on, Red, not that old debate again. I must admit, I don’t know why she took up with me in the first place. We hardly move in the same social circles.” Red was looking at him a little oddly. “One of my guys at the track said she was lookin’ for you, a week or so ago. Askin’ after you. She obviously knows the pair of you ain’t an item anymore. But she was askin’ when you’ll be around.” “You can tell her—” Red laughed out loud, and a couple of people in the bar area turned to stare at him, startled yet attracted by the sound. “She’ll be damned before she asks me anythin’, hon. I’m just warnin’ you, that’s all. Does she know you’re seeing Zeke Roswell?” Miles was bemused. “I don’t know. We haven’t actually advertised it to anyone, Red. Does it matter? What is this problem you have with Remy?” Red shrugged, but his eyes were unusually evasive. “She’s a leech. A serial one. She’s selfish, obsessive, greedy—” Miles broke in, surprised at his friend’s vehemence. “She’s had little enough off me. I’d say she’s harmless.” “She’s a viper, Miles.” Red’s voice was sharp. “Sometime I’ll tell you some home truths about that madam. I knew a couple of guys at the track that she got her claws into, and seems they’re the worse for it. They’re humiliated, and tryin’ to make up with wives and lovers—while Ms. Dion has a few new pieces to add

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Clare London to her collections of diamonds and gold and pretty pictures, and nary a wrinkle of inconvenience on her silk frock. I’ve been lookin’ into that girl, and what she’s about—” “What the hell are you talking about, Red?” Red saw Miles staring, and his expression became more cautious. He took a deep mouthful of his drink, and his tone settled back to its usual equilibrium. “Guess that was rude of me, since you dated her. Ignore me, hon. I know what I’m doin’.” “Which is more than I do,” mused Miles. “Nowadays I can’t decide whether I’m doing the right thing or not.” “In what way? Working with Zeke Roswell? Sleepin’ with him? I can see it may be a brave new world for a sheltered child like y’self.” He laughed, softly. “You need some technical advice from the master here?” “Red,” sighed Miles, eyebrows raised warningly. He’d barely touched his drink, and the restaurant manager was on his way over with the menus for the evening. “You’re on the borders of offensive, friend.” Red grinned back, unabashed. “It’d take more than that to offend you, Miles.” But his voice grew calmer. “So why did you choose him for the job in the first place? Answer me that. Truthfully.” Miles thought for a moment, but knew he didn’t really need to. His answer was instinctive. “I knew he could do a great job. I knew he would inspire the gallery. He would bring out the best in it. He would demonstrate a flair and skill that it needed.” “He failed before.” “Yes, but he was younger then, and he really just wanted to paint, not to be a businessman.” “He didn’t have your corporate support and experience behind him,” murmured Red, a little dryly. “Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean,” said Miles. “I offered him the job, because this time he could make it work.” “To make the gallery successful commercially.” “Well, yes, of course, but also….” “But also?” Red prompted. “I think that I admired so many things about him, Red. I still do. His talent;

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True Colors his creativity. His ability to bring art and color and vision into everything he does. His disregard for convention, for a sensible, measured view of life. Even his flagrant provocation….” Miles laughed. He sounded much too self-conscious. “He’s so much the opposite of me.” Red was shaking his head. “No, hon. He’s the complement to you. That’s how you’ve got to view it. You have your own considerable talents, and a creativity of your own—it’s just not the same as Zeke Roswell’s. I suspect that’s why you were drawn to him in the first place.” Red took Miles’ arm and squeezed it affectionately. Miles looked up at him in surprise. His mind was occupied with other thoughts. “He’s had a bad time of it, Red. Losing his brother; losing his popularity in the art world. His work is still as good, you know. Just… different. That business of the fire, and Jacky’s death—it really was horrifically shocking. God knows how things like that can happen. And then the sketches… they should have stayed here, they should have been his.” “The sketches? You mean Jacky Roswell’s work?” “Yes. They should have been Zeke’s, I understand. He was grief-stricken. He wasn’t thinking straight after the fire. Someone took advantage of that, and his inheritance was sold out from under his feet.” “That’s business,” said Red, softly. His eyes looked a little unfocused, as if his mind were also occupied elsewhere. “Sure, in principle,” agreed Miles. But this was different. “Do you know the guy who bought them, Red?” “You think I know the world and his damned dog,” grumbled Red, though obviously flattered at Miles’ nod to his friend’s networking. “Let me get back to you on that one, Miles, okay? I’m still tryin’ to pump you for salacious details on your wrinklin’ of the sheets with the young Master Picasso.” Miles continued to toy with his drink, smiling his opinion of the likelihood of that. But his thoughts still plagued him. He felt the strangest desire to talk. “I don’t know what he wants, Red. I… it’s an unusual feeling. I thought I knew the motivation of everyone who came to me for something.” Red was silent beside him now, allowing him to talk it through. “But he’s different. I don’t feel that he came to me for anything at all. Rather, I went to him with an offer. Did it make any difference to him, whether I entered into his life or not? Would our paths ever have crossed otherwise?” Miles grimaced. He felt the familiar shortening of breath that assailed him when he thought of Zeke; when he tried to make sense of him. “It’s… not just the sex, you know? That’s good. That’s very good. I just

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Clare London don’t know him well enough. Sometimes I feel as if I don’t know him at all.” Red took Miles’ glass gently from his hands, and pushed the stale drink away. “And that bothers you, sweetheart?” Miles focused on Red again. What nonsense his friend spoke, sometimes. “Of course it does.” Red’s blue eyes were bright, but a little grave. “First time I’ve ever known you to be concerned for that, Miles. You date people, and smile, and maybe you bed them for a while—but I can’t remember you ever botherin’ to understand what’s really going on inside their heads. Not that you don’t treat ’em well. Just… you don’t let them into your life that much.” Miles stared at him. He wanted to deny it, to say that his behavior with Zeke Roswell was no different from his behavior with past lovers. His honesty prevented him. The manager cleared his throat behind them but Red waved him away for the moment. “You ready to eat soon, Miles? It’s time to see to the appetites of the belly instead of the balls.” He smiled, though his eyes were wary. “Look, hon. This thing with Roswell—I won’t harass you, okay? Rely on me. You always can. And I want it to work for you.” “I don’t know if it will,” said Miles. Even as he spoke, he was shocked at the stark tone of his voice; the pain inside his chest. “It’s hard, Red. To know what to say, what to do. How to avoid ruining things….” “I know, hon,” came the low drawl in sympathetic reply. “Why do you think I live on the fringes, why I avoid the connections? But if you want him....” “Yes, I do. God, yes.” What did that sharp, fierce edge in his voice mean? “You’re as determined as they say, Miles Winter,” announced Red, swinging his leather-clad legs over the side of the stool and standing up. “If you want him, you’ll have him. I just hope he’ll be good for you, boy.” He scrawled a flamboyant signature on the bar bill, and stretched the long limbs that had been cramped for too long. “So after dinner, you comin’ out with me to relieve that tension you’re always complainin’ about?” “No,” said Miles. “No thanks.” Red’s eyebrows rose. “Doesn’t surprise me. You’ve changed, hon, you know that? But it’s good to see.” He smiled to soften his complaint. The two of them walked toward the restaurant and a dinner that neither was particularly interested in. The manager showed them to their seats, nodding respectfully, though the staff behind the table looked a little nervous.

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True Colors Red glanced around and grimaced. “Miles Winter’s reputation as a demanding client precedes him. Maybe this new image of yours ain’t common knowledge yet.” It was obvious from his smile that he intended it as a joke. “That’s what they say about me, though, isn’t it?” said Miles, tight-lipped. “That I’m ruthless. That I’m unforgiving of anything less than top standard. That I’m cold. That’s not really me, Red.” Red frowned. “I know that, hon. You just want the best.” “Zeke says that I think of success all the time.” “You’ve had to, Miles,” said Red, sharply. “It’s what you do well; it’s what nourishes you. It’s what you’ve needed, to keep your life on track. And it provides for the guys who work for you, doesn’t it?” “Yes….” Red sighed, and looked longingly toward the wine list. “But success is a greedy mistress, Miles. Or master. You’re going to have to let other things in, eventually—share your time with other claims. I’ve always said you’ve been looking for something; for a special someone....” “And I’ve always told you I have no time for that,” countered Miles. They both stared at each other for a moment, as if startled by their own thoughts. “It doesn’t always work, does it?” Miles looked away, his voice very quiet. He missed the look of sympathy on Red’s face. “Being determined, that’s not always enough. It doesn’t always get me what I want.” “You never fail, Miles. Do you?” Miles shook his head, but it wasn’t as forceful as he’d have liked. “That’s with money, not people.” He sat there, unmoving, while Red nodded through the table d’hote menu for the sake of something to do. “Not people.”

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MILES sat on the couch in Zeke’s apartment. He wore a loose T-shirt and casual pants. He nursed a glass of some kind of juice, but he kept forgetting to drink it. His other hand clenched lightly at the cushion underneath him, his gaze concentrated totally on the man sitting beside him. There was only a week to go until the opening of the second exhibition. They’d spent the morning in conference with Malia and the team, and then Zeke had left them all to go and work on more of the preparation for the show. He persisted in keeping the final details secret. His team was resigned to this bizarre approach, and if they found it strange that Miles Winter also seemed tolerant of it, they didn’t like to comment. Miles had attended to other business for the rest of the afternoon, and then he’d also gone to the gallery. By now it was early evening, and upstairs in Zeke’s apartment the candles had been lit in the studio room. Zeke was sketching, but fitfully. The light was dim, and it was obvious his attention wasn’t entirely on his work. His hair was rather sloppily tied back, as if it had worked loose during some activity and never been tidied. His sheer, shortsleeved shirt had a button mismatched, and his shorts were gathered only loosely around his waist. When he shifted, so did Miles; when he coughed, Miles stirred. Finally, Zeke smiled slightly, and put down the pad. “You going to fidget there for much longer, Miles? Or you got something on your mind?” “Only you,” Miles replied. He stared at a couple of small droplets of water at Zeke’s throat, left over from an earlier shower. He wondered at his emotional confidence, at his ability to say something so personal and so honest, so very

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True Colors easily. He felt like an entirely different person nowadays. “You’re not drawing as much this week, Zeke. Does your inspiration come and go? Is it a problem for you?” Zeke didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m just busy. With the show, you know? Only a week to go.” “You’ve bought some paints.” Miles had seen the careless jumble of stuff in the corner of the studio when he arrived. He tried to keep the curiosity out of his voice, but even so, he saw Zeke tense up. “So?” “I… thought you might want to paint again. Will you want to leave your job here?” Zeke sounded irritated. “Christ, Miles, it’s just a couple of tubes of color I wanted to think about. Just an old blank canvas I found at Carter’s. I haven’t touched a brush for months. Don’t have me running out just yet.” “You must do what you want to, Zeke.” “You think I won’t?” Zeke’s tone was wry, his expression challenging. Miles looked back into the deep, wide, stormy eyes, and sighed to himself. “Maybe.” He thought there were too many secrets. He understood discretion better than many, but where Zeke was concerned, his understanding was too confused for there to be any kind of peace. He felt a fool, most of the time. Perhaps Zeke had tired of him; of his body. Of his company. Perhaps he felt that Miles cramped his style and his creative flow. He wondered what he’d do if Zeke didn’t want him around anymore. In his bed; watching him; laughing with him; arguing. Just… around. Zeke was watching him closely, his eyes troubled. When he smiled at Miles, it looked forced. “You have no idea what goes into a work, do you? The fact that it’s work. That often it’s pure torture. That it’s also often the greatest joy—but there’s no way of knowing when a day starts which one it’ll be. I felt that with every one of my paintings. It’s no way to be, Miles. It eats away at me.” “You want to be something else? Is that why you took the job at the gallery?” “To join the ranks of normality, you mean.” “I don’t see it.” Miles smiled. “Not you.” There was no way he could resist

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Clare London touching Zeke any longer. The day for him had been one of aching, awkward frustration, and he’d been more than pleased when Zeke welcomed him around. He didn’t know what was wrong with him nowadays. He seemed so uncertain of things, so easily disturbed. He also seemed to be constantly horny, always dreaming of Zeke’s slender, muscular body underneath him, hot and sweating with desire; his yelps of pleasure when Miles caressed him; his growls of hunger when he wanted Miles to go faster, harder…. Miles reached forward and brushed aimlessly at a thread of hair on Zeke’s shorts. God, those shorts. They were so damned short, left so little to the imagination, and were so easily removed…. Zeke gasped as if Miles’ touch had carried a current right through him. And then he lifted his hand, and held it up in front of him, palm facing Miles, fingers outstretched. “Touch me, Miles.” Miles was bemused, but pleased that Zeke had responded. He lifted his hand in return and touched his fingertips to Zeke’s. The other man’s skin was ridged from gripping his pen for a while, and Miles felt the warmth of sweat on his palm. He ran his finger gently along the small lump on the side of Zeke’s middle finger—a legacy of gripping his pencil too tightly as a child. They sat there for a moment, palms a fraction apart, their fingerprints pressing gently against each other’s. For a second, Zeke closed his eyes. Miles felt as if something were being passed between them. Something shared; something beyond the mere touch of whorls of skin. Perhaps he just wished it…. Zeke opened his eyes abruptly and gazed into Miles’. His expression was an astonishing mixture; it was vulnerable, scared, and yet caressing too. Miles felt his heartbeat stutter. “Kiss me,” Zeke whispered. Miles leaned forward and touched his lips to Zeke’s. Kissing Zeke continued to be the most astonishingly good feeling he’d ever had—the slight hesitancy in that first second, then the glorious lips moving under him, and opening ravenously to take his tongue. The heat and the taste and the joyous promise of where it might lead…. Miles felt his cock swell in anticipation, and his knees spread open a little to accommodate it. “You want to go to bed again?” Zeke laughed softly, leaning eagerly into Miles’ kiss and sliding his arms around Miles’ waist. They’d been in bed for an hour before this. Zeke had greeted Miles at the door with a beer, a total lack of

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True Colors clothing, and the invitation to introduce him to the mattress springs again. Miles had responded as expected. “Greedy, greedy man you are….” Zeke’s voice was a low chuckle. “Who needs a bed?” whispered Miles. “I’m going to fuck you right here.” He watched, amused and excited, as Zeke’s breath caught and his pupils dilated. “Unless you need the comfort of your mattress…?” “Managed without it before,” gasped Zeke. Grinning, Miles pushed him down off the couch onto the bare floor, flat on his back. Zeke opened his hands in a kind of submission and his pencil fell out of his palm, rolling away toward the wall. “Too much comfort’s bad for my back, you know.” Miles laughed and kissed him again, a deep, passionate kiss. He wanted to possess Zeke’s mouth, suck his tongue against his own, taste that taste forever. When he finally lifted his head, Zeke was panting for breath. “Get these damned clothes off,” Miles growled. He knelt down beside Zeke, and tugged at the fabric of the shorts until he could see the tip of the mischievous tattoo. His impatient hands dragged Zeke several inches across the boards. “Such a stupidly inadequate shirt, flimsy fabric, some kind of sickly green….” “It’s canary yellow, you know,” gasped Zeke, but he laughed and lifted his arms, letting Miles peel it off him regardless. Miles sat back on his heels, savoring the clench of Zeke’s muscles across his torso and the way the tight curls of hair nestled on his belly. He leaned down and licked one of the large, erect nipples. He was rewarded with Zeke’s low groan. He reached again for Zeke’s shorts and tugged them down so swiftly that they snagged on Zeke’s aroused cock, and then tangled around his ankles. He had to wriggle his legs inelegantly to cast them off, but for Miles, the small, throaty sounds of need and frustration that he made were worth it. Satisfied with his work, Miles watched the glistening shaft spring free, straining outward from the darker curls of Zeke’s groin. The tip was weeping softly. It was impossibly tantalizing. Miles sighed, very softly, very deeply. “What have you been thinking about, Zeke Roswell? That’s an impressive reaction from just some harmless sketching.” “You think it’s from thoughts of you?” Zeke smirked. He reached up and grabbed at Miles’ neck, trying to tug him down on top of him. “Damned right it is! I’ve been hot for you since two hours before you last fucked me, Miles Winter. You think I greet just anyone with beer and bare flesh? I was aching for more all through that session in the bed—” “And in the shower,” murmured Miles.

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Clare London “And back in the bed.” Zeke grinned at him. Miles stroked a warm finger along the swollen shaft, and Zeke yelped. “And now I can’t even seem to keep the damned thing under control when I’m supposed to have my mind in creative mode….” “You need help,” murmured Miles. Instinctively, he licked his lips. “You need assistance to release your needs.” “Man with tongue of the devil speaks truth,” groaned Zeke. “You got a number I can call?” But Miles was already shifting, turning his head toward Zeke’s groin and reaching down eagerly to lick at his cock. Zeke moaned loudly. “Closer, Miles… want to be inside… in your mouth. Shit.” Miles drew his tongue gently away from Zeke’s cock, watching the thread of saliva stretch from the purple tip until it broke and dribbled down the wrinkling skin. The swollen flesh bobbed and beckoned shamelessly to him. Resisting Zeke’s haphazardly waving arms, he clambered between his outstretched legs and lifted the strong, tanned limbs to rest on his shoulders. Zeke gasped and was shifted even farther along the floor in the process, dragging his clothes underneath him as a kind of makeshift rug. Now, when Miles bent back down, he could rest his head more comfortably at the level of Zeke’s groin. His mouth could settle over the crown of Zeke’s cock, tormenting him; his tongue could reach under Zeke’s balls and suck one into his mouth. So he did that, just because he could. Of course. Then when Zeke gasped with pleasure, he ran his tongue back up to the tip of his shaft, licking up the stray droplets that oozed from the slit. “Miles… fuck. Do it. Please?” Miles smiled. He took a deep breath and dropped his head back down. He took almost three-quarters of its length into his mouth at only the first attempt.

ZEKE yelled. Loudly. Miles had told him once that he was glad the gallery was in the middle of the business district, rather than residential. Zeke had never made any secret of the fact he was a screamer. In fact, he was a moaner, a groaner, and a curser, too. He enjoyed announcing his pleasure every step of the way. And when Miles had also confessed that he found it an almost unbearable turn-on, Zeke saw no reason to inhibit himself. He shouted now with the ecstasy

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True Colors of being nearly deep-throated. “Shit, that’s so damned fine.” He lay back, shocked, as Miles sucked and swallowed the juices, his hands clutching fiercely at Zeke’s thighs, his head in the shelter between Zeke’s legs. So damned enthusiastic. Zeke’s head swam, and his body screamed for more. It was a delight he couldn’t see he’d ever tire of. He was so fucking responsive, the minute Miles touched him. He’d never known anyone to have such an effect on him before. Miles’ mouth attacked him. The lips sought out every crinkle of sensitivity; the tongue slid into every crevice of his nerves. One day he wanted that tongue up his ass, and he hoped it’d be one day soon…. Only trouble with Miles going down on him was that if he wasn’t careful, he came way too quickly. “Miles,” he gasped out. “Slow, slow. Get yourself naked—now. Don’t want to spill in your mouth. I want you inside me. Want your cock… making me come.” Miles’ mouth slid off him again, and Zeke moaned as the cool air of the room brushed at his oversensitive flesh. Miles sat back, struggling out of his shirt, fumbling with the zipper of his pants. Zeke thought he should help, but his fingers didn’t seem to follow orders. His heartbeat was too fast; his mouth was watering far too easily. It took all his willpower just to draw himself back up onto his elbows, and then to drag himself back up to a sitting position, by which time Miles had wriggled out of his pants and boxers and was as naked as Zeke. The two of them sat, panting and wild-eyed, half on the discarded clothing, half on the polished floor. “Okay here?” growled Zeke. “Okay anywhere,” Miles snapped back. He reached across, but with a grin, Zeke twisted his body, and Miles fell forward, unbalanced. Then it was Miles’ turn to be tumbled down onto his back, and Zeke pressed his mouth down on him, grasping and pressing Miles’ arms to his sides. “Want you…,” gasped Miles. Zeke marveled at how they could both still talk, through the skin, and the teeth, and the hot breath. “Going to get me,” he replied, breathlessly. “But my way, okay?” He moved his hands to Miles’ thighs, pressing the legs flat down on the floor. Straddling Miles’ hips, he knelt up over him, shifting his knees to find the best purchase on the floor beneath. Miles’ cock was erect, bobbing against

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Clare London Zeke’s groin, impatient and needy. He’d been teased back to a full, aching erection—and Zeke reckoned he could guess exactly what his lover needed right now. That would be Zeke’s hands on him; his mouth; his body, swallowing him whole…. “Want you.” It was only a whisper from Miles this time. A pained one. Zeke crouched down, bobbing low over Miles’ groin, his thighs straining gently as he stretched his legs wider apart. Beneath him, Miles gazed upward, his chest heaving with short, impatient breaths. Zeke ran his gaze over Miles’ long, tight torso, and the skin pulled taut over the bony hips. Delicious. He nodded to himself, smiling, and folded a hand lazily around his cock, still damp with Miles’ saliva. Slowly, he slicked his hand around in a figure eight, teasing himself to an even thicker swelling. Miles thrust his hips up to try to meet Zeke’s body above him. For a second, his balls met Zeke’s, hanging down between his legs; they brushed together heavily, and both men groaned. Miles gave a soft sob, half-laughing. “Zeke… do you get off on being such a bastard? I need….” “Leave it to me,” Zeke admonished. “I know what you need, don’t I? Just like you know what I need.” Miles peered up at him through eyes half-closed with lust. Zeke started sucking on his fingers, drawing a couple in and out of his mouth, making the most of the wet, soggy sound; in and out; rhythmically, greedily. He watched Miles’ eyes widen and his mouth open in a soundless O. Beautiful. Then he tugged the fingers out from his mouth and reached down to his groin. His other hand stayed at his chest, teasing at a nipple, tight and erect. He sighed with pleasure. “Zeke.” Miles’ groan was bliss. Zeke reached his wet hand under his heavy arousal and back behind his balls. They shifted slowly, tightening up in anticipation. His heartbeat was racing now, his whole body hot. He shifted his hips, dipping his shoulder a little to get a better reach, and then pressed his finger into himself. The skin resisted for a second, then opened up willingly. He whimpered softly, his finger reaching inside, sliding into the tight warmth. Good. So good. He fixed his gaze on Miles’ shocked face, panting more heavily, and he started to stretch himself.

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True Colors Miles moaned. Zeke focused his eyes back on him. It was difficult, because his vision was already clouded with growing delight. He slid a second finger in, beside the first. This time, the resistance was much less. “Still slick in there from last time, Miles. Felt damned good, you filling me… fucking me…. I’m ready for more.” “I… you know I am.” Miles sounded very hoarse. “I want to fill you again, Zeke. Feel you squeezing around me. Dammit. Come here now….” Zeke groaned, his hair falling forward over his forehead, his torso jerking with the movement of his fingers up inside his ass. He was so aroused it was painful, his skin was aching, his throbbing flesh was a fierce pressure in his groin. “Yeah. I want that too. I want you pumping up into me, spilling out into me… warm and thick inside of me….” Miles made a strange, guttural noise in his throat that didn’t sound human. “But not today, okay?” sighed Zeke. “Best be careful; use a condom. I don’t do it without protection, either way. That’s my way. The best way, I think. Right? Until….” He realized he didn’t know how he’d finish that sentence. What did he really mean? Until I know you better? Until we trust each other? Until we’re something more than this? He shook his head sharply. The sudden emotional disturbance scared him. “So back to the bedroom…?” Miles groaned. His eyes were half-closed, his skin flushed all over. “Not sure I can walk.” “No problem.” Zeke smirked, and shook his head. With his free hand, he reached back up onto the couch and snagged his shorts, lying half off the furniture. A quick scrabble in the pocket, and he found the condom and lube that he’d tucked in there earlier. Miles studied him as he tore the packet open with his teeth, and his fingers nimbly twisted off the cap of the tube, one-handed. Then he let them drop gently to Miles’ stomach for him to use. Miles was clumsy with them and Zeke wanted to laugh. Until he saw the determined need in Miles’ face and he decided not to. He makes me think twice. Zeke shivered, but he was sure it was just with pleasure. Miles rolled the condom on slowly, smothering lube anywhere he could reach, anywhere he could touch. All the time, Zeke watched him, still panting, preparing himself with his fingers. “Ready?” Miles’ eyes were wide, and he nodded. Zeke slipped his fingers out, and lifted himself up straight again, directly above Miles’ groin. His balls sagged briefly against the straining flesh of Miles’ cock, and his own cock twitched

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Clare London against his belly. Then he gripped at his thighs to steady himself and lowered himself down onto the slick, thick crown.

MILES gasped aloud as he breached the still-tight hole, pushing on through the initial reluctance of the flesh. He sank deliciously and possessively, deep into Zeke’s ass. His buttocks clenched and the muscles of his legs strained. His back arched, lifting off the creased pants underneath him, his heels digging in against the cool, bare floor. Above him, Zeke grunted with satisfaction. He forced himself down further until he was seated on Miles’ groin, then he slid his way back up again. Miles felt the tug on his flesh, drawing up the excitement, connecting him with Zeke. He reached up and grasped Zeke’s hips. “Ouch,” murmured Zeke, but he didn’t pull away. “Bruises like that I don’t mind.” “Me neither,” Miles snapped. Zeke tensed, staring down at him. “Not so keen on the teasing tonight, eh?” He smiled mischievously. Miles knew that Zeke liked that impatience in him; that it turned him on. “How does it feel, Miles?” he murmured, shifting on Miles’ lap. Miles gripped harder. The ache in his balls was torture, but he wanted this to last so much longer. “Sit still. Can’t speak….” Zeke made a noise of disgust. “Crap. Of course you can. You ever suspect you were so good at dirty talk? You’ll make me come with that alone.” He began to wriggle his hips, stimulating the head of Miles’ cock, still securely lodged inside him. Miles groaned. “Give me a break.” Zeke laughed, a brief, happy sound. “Tell me how it feels. I want to hear you. Your voice… low… breaking.” He sucked in a harsh breath. “It’s fucking sexy to hear you.” Miles felt a cry escape him. He suspected it was the tattered, fleeing remnants of his inhibitions. “You know how it feels to me? It feels like I’m buried… smothered… suffocated… burning.” Above him, Zeke gasped, and Miles released his hands. He flung his arms out to the side, stretched out across the floor, his fingers scrabbling for a purchase he’d never find on the smooth

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True Colors wood. “I want to fuck you, Zeke. I want to feel myself so deep in you that your skin melts into me, and covers my bones.” “Shit.” Zeke sounded awed. He began to move in earnest, encouraged by Miles’ passion. He sank lower, his ass clenching at the base of Miles’ cock, then sliding itself back up, and down again for another assault. “Tell me, lover….” Miles reached up a hand and took hold of Zeke’s rearing cock. As Zeke moved up and down on top, his cock slid in and out of Miles’ loose fist, slick with pre-come, the crown swollen and red. “Yes, I’ll tell you, Zeke.” Miles thought his voice sounded more confident than he’d ever imagined it would be, with such a performance. Zeke demanded things of him no one else ever had. Zeke took him over. And his response? Miles knew with sharp, astonishing clarity, that he surrendered to it. More willingly, every time. “You think you know what I want. But maybe not all.” Zeke was very flushed. From the fever in his eyes and the way his ass clenched around Miles’ cock, Miles knew he was close to climax. “Tell me,” his lips said, though no sound came out. Miles thrust upward, moving them both in the same rhythm. “I want to come inside you. I want to swell until I can’t bear it anymore and then just let go while you ride me. I want to stretch your ass to fit me, and all the time I’ll be pumping you along with me, so that you’ll beg the same as I will and shout the same as I will, and then your body will shudder along with me, and your ass will tighten up around my cock when you come, with me—” “Miles,” gasped Zeke, his cock throbbing inside Miles’ fist, his hips slamming down hard on Miles’ body. “Damn, but you’re good! Make me come… do it.” Miles felt the ache so deep inside him that it seemed to come from below the floor. He’d climaxed already today—several times. He’d throbbed and ached and laughed and burst into Zeke, his limbs shaking, his skin damp with sweat. But this was something more, something different. It was sharper, sweeter, more poignant. More devastating. “Yes….” Zeke hissed. A brief moment of shock passed his face, as if he’d thought he was the one in control but had been ambushed. “With me?” Miles gritted his teeth, pumping Zeke’s cock, holding back the last spiraling seconds of his own ecstasy. Zeke’s eyes were wide and damp and he wasn’t focusing on Miles anymore, but he nodded, cried out. “With you.”

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Clare London Miles came, his body arching up sharply, lifting his shoulders off the floor. He grabbed hold of Zeke’s waist to try to hold himself on the planet and climaxed, crying and shouting, making sounds like genuine sobbing. He could hear Zeke’s laugh, and then his cry of surprise and pleasure as his head went down and he came all over Miles’ hand and belly. Miles felt the muscles of his lower body seize in delight and shock; he felt Zeke’s hair brush against his face; he felt the warm come trickling down between his fingers as Zeke shuddered above him. He thought he might let go of Zeke, and let himself fly off the planet after all. He thought he probably already had. His eyes felt heavy and he let them close with relief. All he could hear was the harsh rhythm of their breathing. When Zeke nudged him, whispering for them to get back on the couch, he groaned and let himself be tugged back up. He let sleep take him because he really had no strength left for defense. The only thing he was sure of was that he still held Zeke close. He didn’t know what woke him, some time later. His body was stiff and weary, and yawning, he realized he was still folded deep into the couch. He must have drowsed for a long while because the light outside had almost gone, and the candles were half the size they were when he’d arrived. Zeke’s slow, sleepy breath tickled his neck. They were both still naked and Zeke’s body lay heavily against him. Miles tightened an arm around the other man’s shoulders. His own breath was calm, and astonishingly content. He was that, all right. Or should be. His thoughts wandered more deeply. What’s happening here? To me? To us? It was always so fierce, so exciting. Zeke was astonishing, wild, and unpredictable. Zeke gave him everything and yet sometimes gave him nothing, all at the same time. It was inexplicable. It was stimulating. It was as infuriating as hell. Miles groaned to himself, but not just from his cramped, exhausted muscles. What the hell are we becoming?

ZEKE yawned gently, feeling the comfortable pressure of Miles’ body against him. What time was it? He shook one of his feet, which had gone to sleep. Miles’

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True Colors skin was deliciously sticky against his, and there was another type of stickiness between his legs: a combination of excess lube and a few rambling trickles of his own unruly come. He sighed. Dammit. Should have gone to shower straight away, rather than napping. But what did he expect after an afternoon of hot play, and a necking session in the evening that turned into some pretty athletic fucking? The springs of this faithful old couch had already been strained almost beyond redemption, and now the floor had seen plenty of action too. “Feeling okay, Miles?” he asked, drowsily. “I don’t know how I feel,” came Miles’ unexpected reply. Zeke stirred clumsily, and groaned at the pressure of a cushion seam in the small of his back. “You want a drink? Want to take this to bed instead of cramped up here?” But Miles didn’t seem to be having the same conversation. “I don’t know how I feel when I’m with you.” “Um… is that good or bad?” asked Zeke, his brow furrowing. His face was half-buried against Miles’ neck and he couldn’t see the other man’s face very clearly. He scratched at his belly, absentmindedly. Miles’ voice was gentle but with an odd tone to it. “I feel damned excited and desperately horny. Because of you. Then I sometimes feel confused, and disorientated, and almost irrational. And that’s because of you too. I’ve never felt that way before, Zeke.” Zeke laughed. He didn’t know why he felt suddenly nervous. “You’re scaring me, Miles. I thought we were having a damned good time, and that’s better than arguing, right?” But Miles was silent. He didn’t seem to get the joke. Zeke wasn’t sure he did, either. He also didn’t want to admit that Miles’ words were an ominous echo of his own feelings. “What are we doing here, Zeke? I mean, I know what we’ve just done….” “Sure.” Zeke moaned slightly, and stretched out with remembered pleasure like a lazy cat. His soft, limp cock bobbed damply and gently against his thigh. He was looking forward to his shower, especially if Miles would join him.... “But what are you doing here, Zeke?” Miles persisted. “What am I to you?” “Miles.” Zeke felt a shiver of worry run down his back. “Look. I don’t do that introspection thing. You know me.”

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Clare London “What do you feel? That’s what you always ask me. Tell me… in return.” Miles’ lips ghosted against Zeke’s, as if he wanted to taste the reply. Zeke wanted to reach out his tongue and lick at the warm skin in the corners of Miles’ mouth. No more sex for a while, sure. But there could be other things, couldn’t there? Things he hadn’t always enjoyed before. Kissing; holding. Being together. But Miles wanted something else from him at the moment. Something he couldn’t give. Or wouldn’t give? “It’s pleasure, Miles,” he murmured, slowly. He twisted his head around. Miles’ lips were just millimeters away from a kiss. “It’s just fucking, isn’t it? But it’s the best I’ve ever had.” There was a short silence between them. “It’s just pleasure,” echoed Miles. Zeke felt his heart sink. He’d said the wrong thing; he’d fucked up again. Hadn’t he? But this was the first time in his life that the fear of it cut so deeply that regret stabbed through him. He knew he ought to find some way back, to redeem the situation. But he also realized he didn’t feel up to the task. “I don’t know what to say, Miles. What do you want me to say? I want you, and I’m excited by you, and I meant it: this is the best I ever had. But I don’t know any more than that.” He flushed, embarrassed by confession. “Let me tell you, I’ve never been with anyone more than a few weeks. Not sexually.” Not any way, really. He cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice. “Never really wanted to.” “Sure,” came Miles’ deceptively calm voice. Zeke had heard that tone before, when Miles had been talking to his staff. When there were performance issues he needed to address; delays to a deadline; things happening that didn’t meet his strategic plan. Stuff like that. Zeke knew it was the calm before the storm. “But you want to now?” “Yeah,” said Zeke, hotly. He struggled on the couch, trying to get back up to sitting. “Sure I want to now. You know I do. This is the best thrill of all, in among everything else going on; all the other shit going on in life.” There was another short silence. Zeke thought he might be holding his breath. He waited for Miles to blow up at him. But he didn’t. “It’s just a diversion, then,” he whispered. “Like you say.” Zeke didn’t know what else to say. Miles spoke like he understood, but Zeke could feel the tension running through him. He rested his head on Miles’ shoulder and his tongue went searching for a mate. Miles opened his mouth to accept it, though a little reluctantly at first. His limbs shivered with instinctive delight under Zeke’s touch, and Zeke felt his cock stir against his thigh—a little

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True Colors weary, but optimistic at the thought of more intimacy later on. He wanted Miles to ignore his thoughts for a little longer. It was so much better to relax into pure sensation. Right? “A fucking marvelous diversion, at that,” he moaned, rolling over slightly and lifting his leg over Miles’ hip. The crisis had passed, hadn’t it? He’d suck on Miles’ tongue, and Miles’ cock, and they’d be the same together as before— wouldn’t they? You sure about that? Zeke whimpered as they kissed, but it wasn’t all from sensual pleasure. For God’s sake, he needed to grow up….

CARTER entered Marty’s bar with some trepidation. He hadn’t met Zeke here for months; in fact, not since he’d last half-carried him home. Mind you, it had been Zeke who’d called him this time, not Marty. And it was a long time before closing. The bar was quietly busy with business people and young couples, and Carter nodded to a smiling Marty as he made his way through to the booths. That was where Zeke liked to sit; where Zeke liked to watch the world go by. Carter looked around for a moment, trying to find his friend, and then saw Zeke waving him over. Carter walked to the booth and slid in beside Zeke. There was a glass in front of the other man, half-full of something. Carter glanced at it. “It’s soda, Carter. Don’t make a fuss. Let me keep up the image, okay?” Carter smiled. Zeke looked wonderful, he thought; his eyes were bright, his skin flushed with health. He hugged Carter briefly to him. His welcome was always like this now. Carter could scarcely remember the ragged scrap that he’d been after Jacky’s death. Zeke’s life appeared to be recovering. “Not champagne for you? I thought you’d still be sailing on the success of the opening. I heard you on the radio that time—read about you last month in Art and Artists.” “One-hit wonder,” dismissed Zeke, though he blushed with pleasure. “No, no.” Carter shook his head. “This next show will be as good, I know it. I know you. You have the tenacity that’s needed. The commitment.” “Just haven’t shown it for a while,” murmured Zeke.

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Clare London Carter laughed softly, and waved at Marty for a beer. It was good to be out socially with Zeke again, like two friends should be. “So are you ready for the show? It’s Saturday, isn’t it?” Zeke didn’t answer directly. “You’re coming, aren’t you, Carter? Need my family around me.” “Sure. Of course. I enjoyed the last one tremendously. Miles is very impressed with you, Zeke. He thinks a lot of you.” “He said that, did he?” Carter tried to read Zeke’s expression. It was edgy; it was ambivalent. Just stress, worrying about the forthcoming show? “Not in so many words, perhaps. I saw it in his face and his attitude. Zeke, what’s happening with you these days? I’ve barely seen you for the last couple of weeks, and I assumed that was because you were so busy with the gallery. Don’t get me wrong; that’s fine. I’m not hassling you, but if there’s something wrong, and I can help….” “Nothing’s wrong, Carter,” sighed Zeke. “What did you think of him—of Miles Winter?” Carter felt the emotional undercurrents, and he chose his words carefully. “I liked him. He seemed honest. He was frank with me. A man who won’t stand for nonsense. A man who expects to get what he wants.” “Yeah, he does. He expects success.” “Yes, I presumed so. He certainly inspires it. Look at you, Zeke. Look at what you’ve achieved.” Zeke made a snorting noise but Carter ignored it. Instead, he drew a breath, and deliberately broached the most provocative subject he knew. “You’re drawing again, I think.” Amazingly, Zeke didn’t explode—or snarl. Or call for another drink. “Sure,” he sighed. “You think right. You usually do. Something stirred in me, Carter, and I just thought I’d give it a go. No painting, just the pencils. But not at all—” “Like Jacky.” Carter nodded. “Of course not.” He understood. Zeke sat back on his seat, his eyes on the bar, not his companion. “I don’t know what got me going again. Heartburn, maybe. Insomnia. Temporary insanity.” His accompanying laugh was false. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Zeke,” said Carter, softly. “You have a talent and you want to use it. No one would criticize you for that.”

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True Colors Zeke looked at Carter, but his eyes seemed to focus on a spot just north of Carter’s head. “I’m not much of a bet, am I Carter? I had a family, I lost it. I painted stuff, gave it up. I owned a gallery, fucked that up too.” Carter wondered what this was all about. “Like I say,” persisted Zeke. “There’s been jack shit success in my life so far. I’m… I don’t want anything to spoil the show for Miles. He deserves the best. He deserves the success that means so much to him. He is honest, Carter. He’s trusted me, and he’s supported me….” “And now you’re scared you’ll let him down. Is that it?” Carter saw the flicker of shock in Zeke’s eyes, and he cursed his own blindness. Zeke and Miles Winter were together in some way. He could see it in Zeke’s face; in his body language, as he hugged himself close against the table. In his over-bright eyes; in his halting words. They were drawn to each other, and perhaps already more than that. When had this all happened? How had he missed such an important thing in Zeke’s life? Things were moving on for them all, it seemed. “You can be just as successful, Zeke,” he said, slowly. “Listen to me. Be yourself. Give your own commitment. That’s success in itself, however it all turns out. You’re as caring and sincere as anyone else. Your gifts are as good as anyone else’s, your company and friendship as rich. Dammit, probably more so.” His voice had risen in passion. He knew what he said was the truth, but he was afraid that it sounded trite; that it sounded patronizing. That Zeke wouldn’t listen. “As good as anyone else?” came Zeke’s hesitant, wry comment. Carter’s heart ached to see how much the younger man wanted to believe him. How much he hid that with his cynicism and apparent carelessness. “Would I lie to you?” “No,” replied Zeke, and his sudden grin appeared. “Though when you told me I looked good in that orange shirt you may have stretched the truth a little.” Carter laughed, then. “Dammit, Zeke, Miles will see what you’re worth, as well. He must already! He trusts you, he’s relying on you. You won’t let him down. Of course you won’t.” “I’m wrong for him though, aren’t I?” said Zeke, sharply, as if Carter would know what he was really trying to say, but obviously didn’t have the balls to express aloud. “I’m bad for him. Unreliable. Not part of his structured life. Best I keep my distance, eh?” Carter knew exactly what he meant. “He wants you, Zeke. That’s all it takes to start with. Dammit, I can’t say I know how to live a good and satisfying

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Clare London relationship; I can’t say mine was much better than stormy. But I know what it means to want someone, and how strong that can be. How exciting and how rewarding—for you both.” He put his hand on Zeke’s arm. “You can trust Miles Winter, Zeke, I’m sure you can. You must.” “Must, eh?” Zeke smiled, though he looked rueful. “That’s very big brother of you.” Carter frowned. “Don’t piss me off, Zeke. I won’t rise to that attitude of yours.” He gentled his tone. “You care a lot for him, don’t you? For Miles. I’m very pleased for you. Why won’t you let him know that? Why won’t you accept it, and enjoy it?” “So what would Jacky think?” Zeke’s voice was harsh. Carter felt the stab of emotion that he always did, whenever someone mentioned Jacky’s name. “Jacky?” Part of the feeling was nostalgia; part of it was an aching mixture of agony and long-lost, bittersweet joy. “He’d be pleased too, I’m sure.” He peered at the young man on the seat beside him. Zeke seemed to have withdrawn into himself, and a chill teased at the back of Carter’s neck. “Is that what you’re worried about? What you’re scared of? That it somehow detracts from your relationship with Jacky, undermines your love for your brother? Zeke, that’s nonsense.” “I can’t help how the fuck I feel,” Zeke growled, flushing. “I thought you felt the same way. We both suffered the same pain; we both lost the same loved one. We both let him down in the end.” “But you don’t have to sacrifice your life for him.” Carter was both puzzled and shocked. He ran a hand through his hair, struggling to find the right words. Jacky’s death had been the worst thing to have happened to him, and to Zeke too. But he’d never thought Zeke would carry that grief through all of his life; that he’d put everything else on hold forever. He expected that of himself, of course. But not Zeke. “Is that what this is all about?” he repeated, trying to calm his voice. “Guilt? God…. You couldn’t have helped him, Zeke. You couldn’t have saved him. It was a terrible accident, and you lost something precious, but it’s gone now. You can’t get it back, whatever you do; however you behave.” “I loved him,” Zeke said, very low, very softly. “Hated him, too, sometimes.” Carter took a deep breath. “So did I. But I’d never have wished his death. Just… it happened. We didn’t make it happen. We had no control over it, or of course we’d have tried to stop it. But now we have to move on.” Zeke looked up,

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True Colors his eyes showing real surprise, and something about his expression jolted Carter. “Zeke, you don’t think you have to look out for me as well, do you?” Zeke’s eyes narrowed. He looked abashed and startled, as if he’d been caught out. “Hell, no. Think you manage okay on your own, Carter. Of course you do. For God’s sake, I’m no kind of guardian, am I? No kind of role model.” Carter ignored the words and went instead for the painful, exposed truth in Zeke’s expression. “I didn’t manage. You know that. If I hadn’t had you as a friend—as good as a brother—I don’t know how I would have kept going. You know that, don’t you? We helped each other, supported each other. Still do.” “Apart from the fashion advice,” growled Zeke, trying awkwardly for a joke. His eyes shone a little. “But we’re separate guys, aren’t we?” persisted Carter. “You must make your own way now, Zeke. You’ve got such potential, so much to offer. You can be something different from him, something better than him. He’s held you back enough, alive and dead. I want you to move on, now. Jacky would too. I knew him well enough to know that.” “And you?” said Zeke, very quietly. “You going to do the same? You talk a good talk, Carter. Going to walk it too?” “This isn’t about me, Zeke. Not today. This is about you and Miles.” Carter sat back in his chair and sighed deeply. Damn, if he’d known today was going to end up like this…. “Caring for someone else doesn’t mean you stop caring for me.” “Or him?” Carter held Zeke’s arm more tightly, and pulled him in for a hug. He didn’t care what the hell the rest of the bar thought, if anyone were interested in their soul searching. What mattered was Zeke. “Yes,” he whispered into the auburn curls. “Or Jacky.”

CARTER stood with Zeke for a while on the street corner outside Marty’s, ready to see his friend set off back to his apartment. He’d enjoyed the evening out, despite Zeke’s misery and—he had to admit—his own disturbed emotions. He knew Zeke provoked him sometimes, and they didn’t always agree. But they’d always been honest with each other. Zeke had learned to take him as he was. Had his honesty been what Zeke wanted? Was Zeke’s what he, Carter, needed?

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Clare London They’d stayed in the bar for another hour or so, during which the chat had eased up and the jokes been more forthcoming. Carter had persuaded Zeke into discussing the exhibition. They laughed at the memories of the last show, and then at some of the phrases used about Zeke in the publicity articles for this upcoming event. Zeke had been there before, of course—he admitted he recognized the fulsome praise and the overblown descriptions of him and his talent in the press. But they both knew how quickly those papers could be wrapped around tomorrow’s garbage. Yes, it seemed Zeke knew a lot more now than he had a couple of years back. It made Carter feel both reassured and nervous. He turned around to say goodbye and found Zeke staring at a man on the other side of the street. The man was watching them. He didn’t look like a stalker and he wasn’t hiding. In fact, he looked like he’d been on the way over but had hesitated, waiting respectfully for them to finish their conversation. The man’s eyes flickered between the two of them, and settled on Carter. Carter felt unsettled. “Who is it, Zeke? Someone for you?” “You met him once, Carter, at the first show. It’s Red De Vere—Miles’s friend, Mr. Rich Playboy. And I think it’s you he wants to see.” “Me?” The traffic stopped, and Red was now striding purposefully over toward them. Zeke pressed Carter’s arm once. “Be good, huh?” Then before Carter could reply, Zeke had gone, dodging a group of office workers on their way home and cutting through the line of cars and cabs to get across. He was grinning all the way, not bothering to hide that from Carter. Red De Vere paused in front of Carter, smiling slightly. “Mr. Davison? Sorry to butt in. I called around at your apartment with a note, but the guy in the downstairs room said you’d be here at the bar. It wasn’t far…. I thought I might catch you before you moved on elsewhere.” Called around with a note? Carter was puzzled. What on earth did he want to send me a note for? “I wanted to meet you,” continued Red, obviously seeing the surprise on Carter’s face. For the first time he looked uncomfortable. “Dammit, I thought it’d be too easy for you to turn me down on the phone. I wanted to explain what I think we need to discuss. Wanted to see you face to face, I guess.” Carter stared at him. De Vere was as tall as him, though fuller in figure. A

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True Colors stunning man, Carter noted. Striking, classically handsome features; light blond hair cut short over his ears, but longer over the forehead and into the nape of his neck. Wide shoulders. He carried himself very confidently. Yes…. Carter noted again, albeit rather unnecessarily, Red De Vere was a gorgeous-looking man, dressed to perfection in dark linen pants and shirt, under a well-cut raincoat and finished off with soft leather boots. Footwear like that must have cost a fortune; the clothes even more so. Carter wondered, bemused, why he was considering the economics of another man’s clothes. It wasn’t as if he had much interest in fashion. He felt a little disorientated. Heads turned as the crowd ebbed and flowed around them on the sidewalk. The admiration was all for Red, of course. Carter looked back at the man’s face, and saw amusement sparking in the large, pale blue eyes. It masked the flicker of uncertainty that had been blossoming there. “Will you have a drink with me? Since Mr. Roswell has now left?” “Here?” asked Carter, bluntly. Red shrugged. It was an elegant, attractive gesture, and Carter suspected that he knew that well enough. “Beer tastes the same wherever, I find. I’d sure appreciate your company.” “Is this to do with Zeke? Is that why you want to see me?” Red bit at a full, soft lip. “Partly. You have a most direct way about you, Mr. Davison. I must admit I have a quaint distaste for discussin’ my personal business on the sidewalk….” Carter nodded. Fair enough. He appreciated honesty in return, didn’t he? “I’m sorry, Mr. De Vere. I must seem very rude. You just caught me by surprise. Let’s go back inside and have a drink. Unless you’d rather reconsider the venue?” Red’s eyebrows rose very slightly. He looked across at the entrance to Marty’s, appraising the dull windows and the thick paneled wooden door, and probably smelling the slight aroma of stale beer on the breeze. He looked back at Carter. Carter smiled, slowly. “Not your usual setting?” But Red didn’t look either insulted or annoyed. He smiled back, his eyes searching Carter’s. Despite himself, Carter felt something stir in his gut— something that piqued his curiosity. “Marty’s will be fine,” Red said. “Lead the way.” His smile was easy and charming, though maybe a little cautious. “And you can buy the first round.”

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RED nursed the ice-cold beer that had brought tears of surprise to his eyes when he first drank from it. It was refreshingly good. He sat fairly comfortably in a booth at the back of the bar, with Carter Davison a foot away, sitting beside him. He’d offered for Carter to call him Red, but he’d not been offered the friendly gesture in return. “So what did you want to talk to me about, Red?” Red felt the reins of control slipping out from fingers that he’d always thought were pretty strong. His fingers; his control. Carter Davison was that unusual person, someone who didn’t immediately fawn over Red De Vere. He appeared unfazed by Red’s money, his sophistication, and—most especially—his facile wit. “I need to talk to you about somethin’. To ask for confirmation about things that you know, and I don’t. Because….” His fingers ran slowly down his beer bottle, wiping the condensation onto the tabletop. “Because you knew Jacky Roswell.” Carter’s eyes flashed suddenly, and his hands tightened on the table as if he braced himself to rise. “Hold on,” said Red, softly. “Hear me out. I know you were his lover.” “And he was mine,” said Carter, his voice a thread of strain. “Yes,” said Red. “And he was yours. I understand that.” Carter looked at him, a little more closely than before. “I don’t discuss that with anyone.”

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True Colors “And who am I, to change that, eh?” Red persisted. “Just a guy with shockingly good looks, affected mannerisms, and more money than I know what to do with. That’s what you think, isn’t it?” Carter looked startled, his eyes narrowing. “I can’t imagine how many times you’ve been told that; enough that you’re immune to the insult, I suspect. But I’ll tell you now, I make my own decisions.” Red felt a frisson of pleasure run through him. “Thank you. Please believe I don’t mean to offend or distress you. I’m just after information.” “You won’t,” Carter replied. “Offend or distress me, that is.” But his hand shook slightly as he reached again for his beer. “What is it to you, anyway? Did you know Jacky?” “A little. I own racetracks that he used to visit. I knew of his lifestyle.” Carter appeared to have relaxed back onto his seat, so Red pressed on. “And while I understand that you two were lovers, I know that he was also seein’ another person at the time of his death.” The gorgeous green eyes of the man opposite snapped up to meet his. Red was surprised at how disturbed he was, seeing the pain in them. But Carter’s voice was still calm. “So did I, Red. I always knew who he was with. So what?” Red sighed. He wondered if he’d ever get the chance of another drink with this brusque, self-contained man. He decided to make his first one last as long as he could. “I want some information about it—about that person—and I know no one else to ask.” Carter seemed to weigh the situation, just like he had when they first met on the sidewalk. Red watched the way his mouth pursed; the way he laid his hands gently on the table, fingers long and outstretched. “Does it concern Zeke?” “It concerns Miles Winter. You know that they…?” Carter nodded, curtly. “And therefore it concerns Zeke as well,” finished Red, determined to regain some advantage. “I won’t have Zeke hurt,” Carter stated. “I don’t want either you or Zeke hurt, Mr. Davison,” said Red, slowly. “I don’t want to stir up painful memories for you.” “I don’t matter.”

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Clare London “But of course you do, for God’s sake,” retorted Red. They glared at each other for a moment. Carter’s eyes eventually dropped away. He nudged his empty bottle and drummed his fingers against it. “Talk then, Red.” Red bit back the exclamation of surprise that rose to his lips. “Thank you, Mr. Davison. I appreciate that.” Carter leaned back in his seat as if he was preparing for a long session, and he suddenly smiled. Red—like many before him—was astonished at the beauty and warmth of that smile. “Call me Carter,” his companion said. “And the next round is on you.”

BEHIND the bar, in among the babble and laughter of the other customers, Marty glanced over at the booth. He was wondering when to offer more drinks. He’d seen the tension in the two bodies sitting there, and despite years of running a bar in the city center, he wasn’t entirely sure what would happen between them. For a while, he’d left them to it, watching slyly while pretending to polish the glasses. They’re still talking. It was a damned surprise. At one stage, he’d thought Davison would walk out. He knew the guy; he was one of his favored regulars. Marty knew that tightness in Carter’s body, the set of his chin when he was angry. He rarely shouted, and never caused any trouble at all in the bar. But Marty had seen him angry with the kid, and he’d also seen Carter so low that Marty had been afraid to leave the bar, even for a minute, in case Davison left and he never saw him again. Marty didn’t consider himself one of your jovial, fatherly types of bar owner, but he was fond of Davison. His opinion had often been that the kid needed a good kicking, but Davison was a man carrying a crapheap of misery. He deserved better. So there’d been that awkward moment between Davison and his mystery friend, then Davison had relaxed a bit, and the two of ‘em had talked seriously for twenty minutes or more. Then the mood had eased again, as if they’d got their business done, and were just two guys chatting over a beer. The blond one looked like a good talker. He kept Davison’s attention well, and he rarely took his eyes off him in return. Marty had to admit, he liked the way that Davison had been smiling. He’d been smiling a heap of a lot this evening.

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True Colors Marty peered at them from the corner of his eye. The blond guy was something different, of course. There was money there, for sure. He looked an arrogant, spoiled type. A type that didn’t often sit in a booth at Marty’s bar with such ease, coat thrown carelessly on the seat and beer ordered quickly and with appreciation. And he didn’t know many who’d tip quite so generously. Marty was intrigued. In his experience, those who had the riches usually held onto ’em.

“YOU’LL have another?” asked Red, gesturing at Carter’s empty bottle. “Marty keeps looking over like he thinks I might mug you for your wallet or steal the non-matching glassware.” Carter smiled slightly. Red noted—again—the attractive way his mouth creased at the corners. Christ, but this man ought to get happy more often. He wondered what brand this damned beer was. He seemed to feel more than a little intoxicated tonight. “We finished discussing your business a long time ago, Red. Don’t you want to be off somewhere else?” “No,” said Red, rather too quickly. “Blame my curiosity. Though, God dammit, it’s all but jaded nowadays. But I’m enjoying talking to you, Carter. It’s good to meet someone who knows the artist boy.” “You’ve known Miles for a long time? What’s your opinion of his relationship with Zeke?” “Yeah. A long time. I’m pleased he’s seeing Zeke. Of course I am. Guess I’m hopin’ he knows what he’s doing, though. For both their sakes. There’s a need there for each other, but there still seems to be some kind of barrier….” He laughed softly. “Guess I hope he’s not too jaded himself to recognize what he wants and to go for it.” “No,” said Carter, slowly. “It’s more than that. Zeke is resisting it as well. He hasn’t ever given his deepest affection to anyone except Jacky. Jacky was all he needed, all he relied on. Then life knocked him back too much, too young. He’s mislaid his one talent; lost his one anchor. He’s a mess of guilt about Jacky.” “But Miles likes him a hell of a lot.” Carter paused to think carefully about his reply. Red liked that in a man; it

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Clare London was one reason he got on with Miles Winter so well. “Yes, I can believe that. And he likes Miles, probably just as much—when he lets himself. But for Miles… is that all there is?” Red sighed. “Miles has never given his deepest affection, period. This is a wild and scary time for him. He’s not used to anything where he isn’t in control. Where he can’t plan or anticipate the outcome.” Carter looked unsettled. Red wondered how often the man shared his personal thoughts and opinions. He suspected it was rarely, and couldn’t be blamed on the modest amount of beer they’d had together. “I think it’s because of Miles that Zeke is drawing again,” Carter said. “It’s opening him up, socializing him again. That’s so good for him. I welcome it.” Red saw the effort it took for Carter to admit that. To admit other devotion into his precious Zeke’s life, to consider it all objectively. Carter Davison was a scarily honest person. “You care a lot for him, Carter,” he said, carefully. “Strikes me you’d kill for him, but you won’t live his life for him. And that’s how a true friend should be.” Carter shook his head, but he smiled. “You’re a lot sharper than you like people to believe, Red De Vere.” “You’re one of the better knives in the box, yourself,” was Red’s quick response. They stared at each other, half-smiling, until Carter lifted an arm to call Marty for another beer. It broke the mood for a few minutes. When Red spoke again, he leaned forward slightly, resisting the urge to touch Carter’s hand. “So… you want to do dinner sometime?” He instinctively used his best, lazy drawl. “No strings attached.” “You can drop the act, Red.” Carter smiled. “It does nothing for me.” “I can see that,” replied Red. His heart was beating rather faster than usual. “Maybe you’ll let me know sometime just what does.” Carter raised his eyebrows at an approach that he obviously found too blatant, as if amazed that anyone would try it on him. But as Red smiled at him, he saw something flicker in Carter’s eyes, a combination of amusement and grudging tolerance. Maybe the smallest glimmer of admiration too. “A drink, then, maybe? Another day, another place?” Red persisted. Carter shook his head. Red was sure he meant to say “no” immediately. “I

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True Colors don’t date,” were the words that he actually said. “And I don’t ask very often,” Red replied gently. “They usually come to me if I want them.” In his soft, seductive voice, it sounded so dreadfully arrogant, even to his own ears. “I mean, you’re safe from me, Carter Davison. If that’s what you want.” Carter did laugh aloud, then. Red exulted in the rich smile—the way the man’s face lit up. “I’m not scared of you, Red De Vere.” “No, hon, I know. I think I’m scared of you.” “Ridiculous.” Carter grimaced. “Uh-huh,” agreed Red. “It is. But you’re an unusual, attractive man, Carter. I think anyone would be a damned fool not to be faithful to you….” He knew immediately he shouldn’t have said it, even before he saw Carter flinch. Of course, everything he’d seen today told him that Carter Davison was a very private person. What the hell had possessed him to practice his frivolous banter on him? He was private—and also very controlled. God knows what he’d be like if he let that control go a little. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. Carter seemed to ignore his apology. “And you, Red? How are you with your lovers?” His tone was very cool. “Mine?” Red sighed. He didn’t know whether he’d been scolded or scorned for his clumsy remarks. But what did he have to lose? “I like my lovers tall, dark, and silent, Mr. Davison. Amenable and adoring. Preferably lying on a bed and preferably without overnight bag. Without any baggage, to be honest. I apologize deeply for being presumptuous. I’m not qualified to comment on anyone’s relationship when I’ve had so little experience of my own.” Carter nodded. “So there is genuine breeding under that flippant charm, Mr. De Vere. I appreciate you showing me that. I suspect that you enjoy your act just that little bit too much to let your guard down very often.” “My act?” Carter smiled again. “Maybe you didn’t notice that you’ve dropped almost all your speech affectations over the past hour. And you’ve ceased running your hand through your hair in that matinee idol way when you’re preparing to answer a question.” Red flushed. He turned toward the bar and nodded over the fresh beers. After Marty had delivered them to their table and returned to the bar, Red turned

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Clare London back. Carter was staring at him, a rueful expression on his face. “I’m sorry, Red,” he said. “Guess that was my turn for presumption.” Red laughed. “That makes us even, I believe.” They grinned at each other, relaxed again. Carter took a sip of beer. “Do you always get your own way?” Red met his gaze, wondering if his own eyes reflected the unusual turmoil of his emotions. “No. But I’ll always try.” He marveled how his name had sounded different on Carter’s tongue—like a fine wine; like a delicacy to be savored. He wanted to hear it again. “Hasn’t anyone ever challenged you?” Carter’s eyes flashed. “Ever tried to tame that wild arrogance you trade on so confidently?” Red blanched at Carter’s blunt, personal criticism, but couldn’t deny it. “I don’t do ‘tamed’, Carter.” Carter laughed, and then Red realized that he hadn’t intended any real hostility toward him at all. It was just Carter’s way to be so direct. “So I imagine. And if you did, I can’t think you’d be as much fun, would you?” “So…?” asked Red, his mouth a little dry. “So another drink will be fine, another day. Sometime after the show. I think that we still have to get through that day, for the sake of both Miles and Zeke. Then we’ll see. But just that. A drink.” Red looked into Carter’s eyes, and although they showed no obvious encouragement, there was challenge there too. That was what he’d hoped for. That’s what he suspected would buy him more time with Carter Davison. “I’m not looking for anything else, you see, Red.” Red appraised the handsome, confident face and his heartbeat quickened. “But neither am I, Carter.” His voice dipped lower. “Neither am I.”

IT was around ten p.m., the night before the show. Miles stood alone in the darkened gallery and wondered why he felt things were going so wrong. One of the issues was, admittedly, that the gallery was still shrouded as before. None of the exhibits could be seen; all of the displays were hidden. He’d argued fitfully with Zeke over the past couple of weeks, demanding he show him

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True Colors what was planned. Miles wanted to know what to expect; what to be prepared for. He wanted to know whether 4:DRMS had been finally included or not. But Zeke hadn’t relented. The final preparations were his alone. Of course, I could just pull off the dust sheets and see for myself. But he didn’t. Was that the problem? That he was worried about what Zeke might do with his gallery? That he’d argued with him? Surely not. They argued all the time; it was nothing new. They were in agreement only when they let the passion take over. Was that all there was to it, to their affair? The physical passion? He hadn’t seen Zeke for the past forty-eight hours, not even spoken to him. He’d been called away to an acquisition meeting up north so he hadn’t been able to visit. But even so, there were always phones. Zeke had replaced his cell phone some time ago, and Miles could have contacted him at any time. Instead, knowing that Zeke would be busy on the show, Miles had convinced himself that the artist wouldn’t want to be disturbed. Maybe he’d never wanted to be disturbed in the first place; had never really wanted any connection with the Winter Corporation, let alone Miles Winter himself. Their last meeting had opened up all sorts of confusion and contradiction. The passion ran side by side with the pain. There’d been such physical ecstasy—matched with emotional discord. But then he’d already been warned how Zeke felt about it all, hadn’t he? Zeke had told him once, had confessed to the way he fucked: “plenty of enthusiasm, but no fucking commitment,” he’d said. Miles couldn’t deny he knew how things stood. But he wasn’t used to this sort of thing, this personal conflict. His only strategy had been to take himself away, and try to regain some perspective. For the first time ever, he hesitated at going up to see Zeke. There was a sliver of pale light under the closed door up to the apartment that suggested that Zeke was at home. Just a few feet away. Quite deliberately, Miles turned back to stare around the gallery instead. They always met here, didn’t they? The gallery felt like neutral territory in the middle of a war zone. They planned here; they argued here; they discussed here. Zeke drew here and Miles watched. They fucked here. He wanted Zeke to come to his apartment sometimes; he wanted him at his house. But there’d never even been the suggestion of it. Then there was a rustle of noise behind him, and a slice of the low light spread out across his feet. The door up to the apartment had opened. He didn’t

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Clare London turn back to face it. When Zeke spoke behind him, it wasn’t a surprise, though the tone of his voice was. He sounded a little drunk. “Miles Winter. Now there’s a surprise. You’ve been Mr. Busy for the past couple of days, I think. But it’s a little late now for checking the hold, isn’t it? The pirates have been and gone. We sail tomorrow, with or without your blessing.” “Is that how you see me?” asked Miles, trying to keep his voice steady. “Checking up on you?” “I’m an employee,” Zeke muttered. “I do what I’m told.” “You’ve never fucking done that in your life,” snapped Miles, suddenly furious, and he whirled around to face Zeke. Zeke stood, framed in the doorway, backlit by the diffused light from upstairs. Miles noted the insouciant way he leaned against the door, the grimace on his face. He saw the lean, tight body, barely dressed as Zeke so often was: the naked chest and legs; the soft jersey shorts. Miles realized suddenly that in his brief time away he’d gained no perspective at all where Zeke Roswell was concerned. He realized for the first time in his life what it felt like to want to jump someone’s bones. He realized how damned miserable he was going to be if all they ever did was argue, and he realized how it didn’t matter a flying fuck to him where they met, so long as he got to touch him, and be with him, and listen to that sharp, bright, vivid voice. He was lost to it all.

“WHOA, Miles, we don’t often hear you swear, do we?” Zeke’s eyebrows rose, and he stepped out into the gallery. His footing was sure, even in the semidarkness, but he wondered if Miles had smelled the drink on his breath and assumed he was drunk. Miles should know better, of course. He should know that Zeke wouldn’t have risked that, the night before the show. Miles’ show. But he’d had a couple of disturbed nights and had needed a quick pick-meup tonight. His regular sleep had been broken by the return of nightmares. They’d been very frequent just after Jacky died, but the therapists all said they’d pass. He hadn’t had them for a while now, and not since he’d been working at the gallery. They just came back occasionally, when he was at his most tired. And at his most stressed. That’s all it was, of course: stress about the show.

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True Colors “Guess that’s true, about me not doing what I’m told,” he said, more coolly. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me, then? Scared of what I’ll be unveiling tomorrow?” “Of course not,” snapped Miles. He looked around the gallery, and Zeke followed his gaze. They were surrounded by dark shadows looming up from the cluttered piles of display materials. Some pictures already hung on the walls, but were covered in sheets, dull and gray in the dim light. Some others had been stacked against the wall for the time being, and there were piles of discarded packaging and tissue on the floor. The Perspex wall in the center of the room was completely shrouded, with only a couple of mysterious little bumps showing under the fabric. The ceiling wires hung down, glinting above their heads like thin, metallic snakes. Zeke noticed how Miles held his hands tightly at his side—as if he had to stop himself from reaching out. He was startled to realize how strongly he felt the same. The sight of Miles had been a shock that rippled through him, speeding up his heartbeat and shortening his breath. Looked like he’d come straight from work: he wore a smart suit, a little creased from travel. His hair was a little less than perfect but he wore his habitual cologne, a light, musky smell that was all Miles. Zeke’s skin shivered in response. It felt as if Miles were all around him, the warmth of his presence suffusing the cold night air of the gallery, its teasing tendrils creeping out toward Zeke’s body. “Looks to me like you’re worried about it,” he muttered. “I want the show to do well,” Miles protested. “I want my gallery to do well—” Zeke’s chest tightened. “Your gallery?” Miles cursed under his breath, though Zeke heard it clearly. “I didn’t mean that, and you know it.” “But that’s what it is, isn’t it?” Zeke heard his voice rising in both volume and pitch. “Your gallery.” “It’s part of your life too.” Miles’ expression was pained and the words tumbled out too fast. “Your life will have a share of that success, as well.” “You took my life away with your damned corporation and your contracts,” spat Zeke. He wondered where the hell such hostility had come from, so suddenly, but he couldn’t bite the words back now. He glared at Miles, instead. The dark indigo eyes met his in return, darkening in anger. “Damn you,” growled Miles.

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Clare London “And what am I now?” Zeke continued on, relentlessly. “On a salary. On a leash to the great God of Commerce.” He felt like he’d opened his mouth, and the dam had burst. Words were falling over themselves to escape. “I’m nothing but an employee, nothing but an ill-fitting Mr. Ordinary. Everything else has gone. Everything I cared about; everything that was mine. My dreams, my plans, my talent, my independence.” His eyes blurred with dampness and anger, and for a brief moment he felt as distraught as he had when Jacky died. But this was nothing like it; of course it wasn’t. What the hell’s going on with me? One small corner of his mind was trying desperately to retain some sanity. Why am I giving the guy such a hard time? He didn’t have an answer. “Why are you like this, Zeke?” Miles’ cold voice seemed to come from far away, echoing Zeke’s own thoughts as it often had before. “Full of self-pity. Picking a fight with me. What’s happened? Have I upset you somehow?” “Christ, Miles, you are so—” “So?” Miles scowled at him. “So….” Zeke floundered. His throat was too tight to speak properly. Look at the guy there. Even when he was angry, he looked so cool; so in control. So selfconfident, so together. So gorgeous. So right. Miles stared at Zeke’s furious face for a second or two more, his whole body tensed up. Then he buttoned up his suit jacket and tugged absentmindedly at a wrinkled cuff. “I don’t have to stay and put up with this, and you know it. If you think I’ve got something to answer, okay, we can talk about it. But you don’t appear to be in that kind of mood, so I’ll go.” He turned on his heel to stride back to the door. “You appear to hate me too much to want to listen.” “I don’t hate you,” said Zeke, loudly, abruptly. Miles paused, his back still to Zeke. “I missed you like shit,” said Zeke. He didn’t know what else to say, and his words sounded bleak and pathetic in the deserted room. But, fuck, it was true. “I was only away for a couple of days,” said Miles, quietly. “I can fucking count,” said Zeke, sharply. And then Miles started laughing. He turned back… and seconds later, they were in each other’s arms. Kissing. Grabbing and grasping and reaching for each other like parched men would snatch water from its source.

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True Colors Zeke didn’t want to let go—was afraid to—but the pain in his chest meant he needed to breathe. He broke his mouth away from Miles’, gulping a deep and desperate breath. They’d both backed up to lean against the door up to the apartment, and were still standing, still wrapped around each other as if they were one person. The only light was from upstairs and from the shine in Miles’ eyes. Zeke’s heart hammered fiercely and he gripped tightly to the sides of Miles’ shirt. Miles had dropped his jacket on the floor, his shoes were kicked off and rolled to the side of the room, and he’d wrenched off his tie. Zeke liked that single-mindedness. A lot. As Miles tried to draw an equally desperate breath, Zeke dipped his head and began kissing him again. “I’m not going anywhere.” Miles laughed and moaned at the same time. “Let me breathe.” “Maybe,” gasped Zeke. “Maybe not.” He laughed, but his heart twisted in a strange mixture of pleasure and angst. Miles was such a sweet taste. Sweet and soft and fierce and unforgettable. Zeke hadn’t forgotten it, not even in his sleeping hours. The taste that he couldn’t imagine surviving without. That was true too. “Did I scare you?” Miles sighed, still smiling. “Did you really think I was running out on you?” “Like you’d dare,” Zeke protested. He hoped Miles didn’t notice his shudder. “And I suppose you’re not scared of anything, are you, Miles Winter?” Miles gripped Zeke’s waist more tightly. There was a slight hitch to his voice. “I never used to be.” “Of course, you might be scared of something,” Zeke murmured playfully, running his teeth along the lobe of Miles’ ear. “Scared that in a couple of days I’ve forgotten all about you. That you won’t get another taste of my sweet ass this side o’ Christmas.” “Like you’ve kept me at arm’s length tonight?” Something was wrong. Miles was joking along with him, but his heart wasn’t in it. Zeke felt a strange, cold wash of fear swamp him. He hid his face against Miles’ neck, whispering into Miles’ hair. “So be angry with me for giving you grief, Miles. I deserve it.” Miles tensed. Zeke could feel his heart’s rhythm beating against his chest. “No. That’s crap.” “It all is.” Zeke ground out the words. It was like a confession. “All of it. And I just keep flinging it at you.”

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Clare London “No.” Zeke sighed. It was just so perfect to have Miles back under him, squirming and gasping and willing. He really had missed him. He’d fought the alien feeling, and he’d despised himself for the strange weakness, and he’d tried to immerse himself in the preparations for the show… but he’d still missed Miles. Damned man was addictive. It had been a strange feeling, after he’d lived alone for so long. But he’d found himself listening every time a car drew up outside the gallery; turning around every time he thought he heard a knock at his apartment door; keeping his cell always in sight, fully charged. Lying in bed at night, stroking himself, his mind always on the same face, the same lips…. Zeke didn’t allow into his memory the thread of fear, the nighttime horror of waking and imagining that Miles wasn’t coming back at all. At the very least, not to him. The nightmares had nothing to do with that, did they? “Is this arm’s length, then?” He tightened his arms around Miles, aggressively. He saw a slight bubble of salty saliva at the edge of Miles’ mouth, and licked it quickly away. Miles grinned in reply and growled his pleasure. Zeke felt the increased heat between his legs, the pressure of Miles’ swelling erection against the front of his thighs. They were a damned good fit together. There was a coil of mischief and lust stirring deep inside his groin, and he slipped a hand down and palmed the straining arousal through Miles’ pants. Miles’ breath hitched again. “Dammit. Zeke.” “Yeah, I know. Want you too.” The ache of anticipation in his chest was almost unbearable. “Now.” “You mean…?” Miles sounded shocked, but when Zeke glanced up at his face, his eyes were wide with excitement. “Don’t you want to go upstairs?” “What I want, Miles Winter, is to strip that tired old business suit off your luscious limbs, suck the outline of my name all over your belly, and then spread myself for you to fuck. And yeah. Right here.” “Here?” echoed Miles. His voice sounded weak with lust at the mere thought. “Uh-huh.” Zeke grinned. “Right at the scene of the crime, eh? Where tomorrow’s show will find me, Zeke Roswell, either victor or victim. But tonight… we have no idea which one it’ll be. That’s our setting.” He started to peel open the buttons of Miles’ shirt, sliding his fingers in between each one.

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True Colors Miles shuddered; Zeke hoped it was from desire. “I don’t….” “You do,” Zeke muttered. “Whatever excuses you have, whatever inhibitions you’ve re-learned up north… they’re not going to resist me.” His lips slid hungrily along Miles’ chin, licking at the slight evening stubble he found there. He started to lap at Miles’ neck, sorely tempted to suck a mark there, but just restraining himself at the last minute. Wasn’t sure how his lover would take it, facing the press and clients tomorrow with hickeys all over. But Zeke had a terrible longing to devour Miles, to possess him, to absorb him into his very being. Miles’ skin was hot and wet under him, and the dark-haired man arched himself back, gasping. His neck was bared to Zeke, as if he begged for more attention. Zeke pushed him along, gently but firmly, up against the nearby wall. “You’re mad, Zeke Roswell.” “Uh-huh,” Zeke agreed, but he couldn’t have told Miles exactly what he was admitting to. Madness…. Was that what he felt for Miles? Was that what kept him awake, what made him ache, what gave him ridiculously hopeful dreams and debilitating nightmares? He was helpless, whatever it was. He didn’t know what to do, how to express it, even whether he wanted to…. Or what would happen if he never did. Miles took a step away from the wall, trying to regain the advantage, stumbling in the semi-darkness over a pile of stacked palettes and a couple of packing cases. He swore, reaching down to rub at his shin. “Christ, this is awkward, Zeke.” Zeke grinned. He was panting loudly and his cock was aching inside his shorts. Awkward, yeah. With one hand he grasped at Miles’ neck, drawing him back in for another bruising kiss. He slid the other hand down the front of his own shorts, rubbing some relief to his arousal. Miles’s hand came down on top of his. “I want to do that.” Zeke shivered with delight. “Be my guest,” he murmured. He sucked in his breath as he felt Miles’ cool, slender hand sliding in under the thin fabric, and wriggling around his pubic curls. He took hold of Zeke’s cock, firmly but carefully. And squeezed. Zeke groaned and leaned back against the wall beside Miles. Now it was his

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Clare London turn to arch his neck and rub up against the firm caress. He kicked away a roll of wiring at his feet, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miles push back a cart that had somehow come rolling up to greet them. Miles’ body pressed tightly up to him, the two of them flattened against the cool plaster. “We can be seen from the street,” Miles gasped. “Like, if they get down on their knees and peer under the blinds and have a relative with bat-sight.” Zeke moaned as Miles slid his fist up to the top of his swollen cock. “I’ve got no problem with that.” Miles started to pump him. Lazily; carefully; deliciously. “Fantastic. I don’t believe I ever got this up north.” “Should fucking well hope not,” Zeke growled. He’d peeled Miles’ shirt open, and pushed it back off his shoulders, wanting to feel more naked skin against his own. The cloth fell to the floor with a crumpled whisper. The door to the apartment upstairs was still slightly ajar. It shifted gently from a distant breeze, and the cooler air swept across their bared chests. Zeke’s nipples sprang erect in sudden response. “God….” He groaned. “I want to be naked, Miles. Touch me… hold me. Fuck me.” “No sucking?” murmured Miles, his arm around Zeke’s bare shoulders and his eyes fixed on the protesting tent in his lover’s shorts. Zeke grabbed Miles’ other hand, pulling it up to his face and drawing the fingers between his plump lips. He sucked them, licking into the dips between them, wetting the flesh as swiftly as he could. “Can’t wait that long. Only these,” he growled. “Put them in me.” “Looks like you’ve been missing this down south, as well,” said Miles, throatily. He swallowed heavily, just the once. His gaze followed the movement of his fingers, thrusting in and out of Zeke’s mouth. Zeke moved his legs farther apart, his hips straining against Miles’ groin, feeling for the response he needed. “You want me to get on the floor?” “No,” snapped Miles, startling him. “You’re the one who said we’d do it right here. So turn around.” Fuck. Zeke let Miles’ fingers slip noisily out of his mouth, and he slowly turned on his bare feet, facing the wall. Putting his hands out a little tentatively, he braced himself against it. His whole body felt unusually tense.

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True Colors Miles stepped up close behind him, the naked muscles of his chest covering Zeke’s bare back. Zeke felt his loose curls moved gently to one side, and Miles’ fingers running down the raised surface of his spine. He arched up against them, wondering if he really was purring like a cat, or whether it was just his desire humming inside him. Miles’ hair brushed gently against his neck, and then there were teeth and soft lips against his skin, making the shape of bites all across his shoulders and down to his shoulder blades. He was a mess of sensation: his arms threatened to shake and lose their hold; his skin leapt with goose bumps. Miles tugged gently at the waist of his shorts. Not gently. Zeke groaned to himself. How the hell was he supposed to cope with this if Miles touched him gently? The flimsy fabric started to slip down his thighs. He felt the inexpressible joy of his cock springing free, and the fresh air stroking against the weeping tip. The material pooled around his ankles and he stepped quickly out of it, kicking it to the side. He was naked, and it was fabulous. He felt every breath of air in the room, every whisper of movement from the soft, rustling tissue around the patiently waiting pictures. Miles’ fingers traced softly against his hip and Zeke knew he was following the pattern of his tattoo. Miles often liked to touch it and kiss it. Tonight, he stroked it, his fingers meandering their way down Zeke’s hips toward his groin. Zeke arched his spine again and stretched his head back toward Miles’. By shifting his hands further down the wall, he could push his ass out against Miles’ hips. The rock-hard shaft between Miles’ legs was forcing itself impatiently against the fabric of his pants, rubbing against the cleft of Zeke’s buttocks, as if it were looking for its home away from home. Zeke groaned, aloud this time. “Now, Miles. God. Get on with it.” Miles’ hand pressed firmly down on the small of his back, making him lean even farther forward. Both arms were braced against the wall now, his back straightening out, and he let his head drop down between his shoulders. A hot, clothed thigh thrust itself between his own, kicking his legs farther apart. He was panting even more heavily now and it was both astonishing and amazing to feel Miles’ fingers at his entrance. His lover gripped his buttocks, and pried them wider open. The fingers were still damp with his saliva, with Zeke’s sucking. Miles sucked in a deep breath, and then one of his fingers slid possessively into Zeke’s ass. “Fuck.” Zeke moaned and wriggled up against it, trying to draw it into him even more deeply. More, more. There was a soft laugh of pleasure from Miles, and another finger joined it. This time, it was hooked; this time it probed inside Zeke, looking for a place to bring him even more delight, even more agony.

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Clare London “There,” whispered Miles. Zeke yelped as Miles pressed against his prostate, his body already sensitive with anticipation. His legs started to shake. “Tell me, Zeke,” whispered Miles’ voice at his ear. He was panting too. “Tell me what you want.” Zeke didn’t have the time or the energy to examine this reversal of roles; the loss of his usual verbosity. He just ached for Miles. His mouth felt full of unspoken pleas, his chest strangled by his neglected needs. The rasping sound of Miles’ zipper sliding open was music to his ears. The muscles of his hole flexed and his ass throbbed with the anticipation. He could feel the hot, damp flesh of Miles’ bare groin at the back of his thighs. “Lick me first, Miles,” he whispered hoarsely. “I… please.” Miles hesitated for a second behind him, and then knelt down on the floor. His hands still rested on Zeke’s ass, but now the invasive fingers slid out, and Zeke felt his muscles tighten back up without them. Miles’ lips touched at his thighs, licking at the clenched muscle of his buttocks. The fingers returned to their work, pinching the flesh, opening up the crevice between his cheeks. Zeke felt hot breath between them, and then there was something hard, slick, and demanding up against his entrance again. Zeke was almost speechless. His throat was gripped with excitement. The tip of Miles’ tongue pressed its way inside his ass. Zeke shuddered with something deeper and more shocking than he’d ever felt before. His response was animalistic. His body surrendered every ounce of sexual control it had ever had. He couldn’t understand how he could still be standing, when every nerve felt reduced to hot liquid, leaking its sensual way all through his body. When Miles started to withdraw, and then plunged his tongue back into him, he began to wail. “Hush,” came the warning; he could feel the shape of Miles’ smile against his skin. “You want someone out there to hear you and call the police?” Zeke thought they could sell fucking tickets and he wouldn’t care. Slowly, tortuously, Miles fucked him with his tongue, gripping hard at Zeke’s legs to hold himself in place, and burying his face into the damp flesh of Zeke’s ass. Zeke wailed some more, careless of any shocked passersby. He cursed aloud, begging for more. At least, that’s what he thought he cried for. Not one of the sounds coming out of his mouth was actually under his control. He yelled when Miles slid a finger in beside his tongue, and started to probe for his prostate again. Miles sucked, and licked, and thrust, and Zeke was a blubbering wreck.

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True Colors “And now?” came the muffled words. “What do you want now, Zeke?” His lover’s voice was a damp, musky breath against his buttocks. “I want you,” he gasped. Why did the words feel different in his mouth tonight? Why did it seem more than just the usual banter, the usual begging for physical satisfaction? He felt disorientated; it wasn’t just his physical nakedness making him feel exposed. “Miles… please. Fuck me now.” When he heard the slight rustle of a plastic package being opened behind him, he realized he’d not yet asked Miles to use protection. It hadn’t even crossed his mind. Desperate times. He was so impossibly fraught; he’d have taken Miles’ cock as it was, in all its uncovered glory. In fact, the vision of that sent shivers of delight down his already shaking body. He usually provided everything they needed, when Miles came around to the gallery. Miles had never carried anything for himself before now. Zeke wondered when and where Miles bought his own supply. Perhaps it was one of the quaint customs he’d brought back from the alien north…. Or perhaps Miles was as much involved in this relationship as he was himself. Zeke wondered—yet again—why tonight felt so strange; so different. Then the physical excitement swamped him, the crown of Miles’ cock pressing insistently into him. It was damned hard, but the touch was soft too. He bit his lip as he tried to stretch his legs farther apart. Miles’ body bent slightly to get a better angle. This is where we meet. Zeke’s thoughts were wild. Miles was forcing himself in deeper, and he could hear his gasps of concentrated breath. Looking down under his braced arm, he could see the shapes of the gallery behind them. The place that he knew so well. The preparation for the show that was so much more his than Miles’. Where things were familiar, where he could continue to hide for as long as he was allowed. This is where we fit together. Miles’ hands were tight on his hips now, pulling him back and forth onto his shaft. This is how it’s always going to be… isn’t it? Miles groaned above him. Inside Zeke, his cock throbbed suddenly, swelling and heralding its imminent climax. Zeke tightened himself, pressing himself back into the harbor of his lover’s body. Miles slid a hand under Zeke’s stomach, grasped at Zeke’s cock, and began to pump him. Zeke knew he wouldn’t last long. His climax already threatened, his cock jutting out from his groin, thick, hot, and heavy. The muscles across his belly were taut; his whole body was as tight as a wire with the thrill and the need for Miles. He wanted to call to his lover; he wanted to tell him how he felt. To ask him to join in the amusement and the joy.

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Clare London For once, he couldn’t find the words. Instead, he clenched his muscles again around Miles’ cock and allowed the waves of ecstasy to flood his nerves. The floor creaked very slightly underneath them. There was the sound of sweaty, slapping flesh as Miles thrust in and out, and Zeke felt the muscles in his calves straining in protest as he held himself up for their best comfort. “Shit, Miles….” And then his climax ripped through him, bursting out of his cock and spilling over Miles’ strong hand, the come sending its steamy, thick trail over his fingers and splattering down onto the bare boards of the floor. Zeke shook under the other man’s body, his limbs jerking with the force of the reaction. There was a sharp, sweet urgency to this coming—not that he hadn’t been desperate before, many other times. But there was an emotion much deeper this time; much more than just the passion and lust. His chest was too tight, his limbs too weak. There was a pain inside that felt like heartache, the suspicion of tears springing to his eyes. Miles shuddered above him, his hips slamming tightly up against Zeke’s buttocks. He gave a deep, guttural groan of satisfaction as he also came, and the muscles of his torso tightened fiercely against Zeke’s supporting back. His arm clutched tightly at Zeke’s body, anchoring them both in the sensation. Don’t leave me. Zeke could hear the thread of a new desperation in the words in his head. He didn’t want Miles to hear him; he didn’t dare say it aloud, as he seemed to have little control over his voice tonight. But he couldn’t stop the emotion itself. The anguish came from nowhere and consumed him. Don’t ever leave me, Miles.

MILES drew out of Zeke as carefully as he could, but Zeke’s legs still buckled underneath him. He slumped down to sit on his ass on the cold boards. Miles tried to help him down but his hands were shaking too much. He felt like months of need and desire had just been released. Instead, he turned his back to the wall and slid down to the floor beside Zeke. For a while, they sat there, panting, trying to regain their normal breathing. Zeke was completely naked. Miles still had his pants on, but they were open and snagging halfway down his hips. He dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and pulled off the condom with a deep sigh. Zeke gave a soft chuckle. Miles sneaked a look at him out of the corner of his eye. He looked so good. He looked flushed, and his chest heaved a little after

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True Colors the exertions, but he looked damned happy. Physically satisfied; content. Zeke glanced back over and caught his gaze. His tongue licked out and moistened his dry lips. Miles shivered happily. “Want some water?” he murmured. They both stared over to the opposite corner of the gallery, where the light glinted off the edge of the water cooler. Then they both looked back at each other—propped against the wall, their breathing harsh in the still air, their bodies shining with sweat. There were clothes in a heap beside them and their critical muscles were probably still screaming complaints. Miles smiled. Neither of us looks as if we’ll be moving any time soon. “I’m not bothered,” said Zeke, lightly. “Can’t make the distance yet, to be honest.” They both laughed. Miles thought it had a relaxed but weary sound. “Remember, Zeke, you said you fucked with plenty of enthusiasm?” Zeke flinched a little beside him. “Love the enthusiasm,” Miles murmured. He leaned his head back against the wall and let his hands fall limply to his sides. A grin broke out over Zeke’s face and his eyes sparkled. “Welcome back, Miles,” he teased. Miles grinned back. It was a companionable feeling, sitting here with Zeke, in the afterglow of fantastic sex. Of course, the evening hadn’t exactly started out very promisingly. He needed to speak to Zeke about that. He shifted, trying to get more comfortable, and his foot knocked against the cart, causing one of its wheels to squeak. “Look. What you said earlier, Zeke….” Zeke grimaced. “It was shit,” he said, sharply. “Forget it. I was out of order, okay?” Miles ignored him. “Everything has gone, you said. Everything that matters to you. I want to know if you meant it. What you meant.” Zeke rolled his eyes. He rested his head back against the wall as well. “I don’t know what the fuck I meant, Miles. I don’t know what to think, half the time. It’s all just words to me: matters; cares; wants. Just words. I haven’t got time to talk it all out.” Miles kept silent. Zeke made a sound of frustration. “I’ve had a couple of bad nights, you

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Clare London know? Cut me some slack. I just… look, I’m just talking crap. While you were away I brooded, I suppose. Me; you; the gallery. Stuff. But whatever I think, I can’t get away from the crap. I’m nothing on my own. I’ve nothing to offer. Things just don’t work for me.” “No. Listen to me.” Zeke sighed. He wasn’t listening. “I wanted to be different from Jacky, you know? Loved him… but I didn’t want to make the same mistakes. Wanted to be different.” “You are,” whispered Miles. “You’re so much more than nothing that I can’t find the words to describe it.” Zeke was shaking his head, but Miles continued. “You’re bright and bold and you speak your mind, even—” “If it’s bullshit?” Zeke frowned. Miles tsked. “You’re honest and talented and you’ve worked damned hard for something that you’ve committed to.” Sounds like me. Who’d said something like that to him recently? Are we that alike after all? There was a short silence. Miles felt one of his calves cramping up and his ass felt numb from sitting on the floor. He forced himself to speak again. “Do you want to leave, then? Do you want to finish this? If that’s part of the problem—if it’s causing you such grief—I… I can let you go from the job.” Zeke’s head was dropped to his chest, staring at his own lap. He didn’t want to meet Miles’ eyes, did he? What did he fear? What would he say? “You’d do that? Let me give it up?” What? Let you go from the job? From me? Miles felt nauseous. His words felt like hot, dry sand in his mouth. “If that’s what you want. No point in having a hostile employee….” “I’m an executive, I’ll have you know.” “Yeah,” smiled Miles, a little sadly. “So you are.” There was another silence. “Okay,” Miles said. He slid his legs out in front of him and let loose a small groan as a joint creaked. “I’m going to say this, whether you listen or not. I didn’t mean to take everything from you. It was never meant that way. I just saw the gallery deal. It was a business matter. I saw what I wanted.” “I know that,” grumbled Zeke. “You didn’t take it away from me; of course you didn’t. I acted like a spoiled kid earlier. You just bought it. It was me who gave it away.”

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True Colors “So take it back.” “Huh?” Zeke stared at him, startled. “Take back the gallery,” said Miles, sharply. “It can be yours again. All of it.” “Don’t be fucking stupid,” protested Zeke. “I can’t ever afford that, even at the stupid rates you pay. And there’s no other way I could take anything off you.” They glared at each other for a moment. Then Zeke grunted and reached out for his crumpled shorts. Miles felt the warmth of Zeke’s body rolling away. His gut cramped. He felt the withdrawal even more deeply than that physical sign. Zeke wriggled his shorts onto his ankles and knelt, pulling them back up to cover himself. Miles sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m finding this difficult, Zeke—carrying on like this. I don’t want to, but it’s the way I am. It’s hard… never knowing how you’ll be. Never knowing how you feel toward me.” “You’re… we’re great, of course.” Zeke’s voice sounded hollow. “Anything else is just more words, isn’t it?” “No,” said Miles, deliberately. “There should be more, I think. That’s the problem. More than just this overwhelming lust….” “Nothing wrong with lust,” Zeke muttered. “Damn sight more reliable than all that love and devotion stuff.” Miles smiled. Tonight, he didn’t seem to be able to do that without sadness. “You may be right, of course. But I care for you as well, Zeke. I care a hell of a lot.” Not just words, but feelings. That’s what overwhelms me. Zeke’s disapproving silence was like a fist around his windpipe, throttling him. He was determined to speak, though, even if it were the last time he had the chance. “You’ve changed me, Zeke—just meeting you; just being with you. I can’t describe it, because it’s been a revelation to me, and I haven’t really got my head around it yet. And that’s half the problem, isn’t it?” He laughed, self-consciously. “My difficulties in handling this properly, trying to offer you what you want. But it’s been magnificent. I want you to know that.” Zeke was staring down at him. His hand paused at the waistband of his shorts and he sat back on his heels. His eyes were wide and fixed on Miles’ mouth, like he was trying to understand words in an alien language. He looked stricken. Miles struggled on. “You see, I don’t want to be always hiding away in the

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Clare London gallery, meeting only at night, fucking in the dark. You know, just as we have been. It’s exciting—God, it’s exciting—but I don’t want that to be all there is. Getting off on the conflict; ignoring everything else for the sake of fabulous sex.” Hadn’t Zeke said that to him once, that he didn’t want the intimacy to be good for the wrong reasons? Had all that been forgotten? “Zeke, I want to spend the days with you, as well. As a couple.” He thought he’d forgotten how to breathe properly, because his chest was hurting so much. “I want to be with you. Openly. Publicly.” Zeke shifted again beside him, and Miles realized how hot he felt. The pulse inside his head hammered strongly. “I know you’re not looking for that, Zeke, but it’s something I have to say for my own peace of mind. I’ve never known anyone like you—I’ve never had anything like this before. Hell, I don’t want anything like this again. At least, not with anyone else. I want to spend months learning more about you….” Years. “I’ve never felt this passion before.” His voice was softening further and further; he’d never had such trouble trying to find projection. “The color-blindness extended to more than my sight. I never saw such colors in life—never saw the things you show me now.” He couldn’t find any more words. He thought he should probably get up and make his way home now, before Zeke had to ask him to. But it was Zeke who spoke next, his voice suspiciously quiet. “You’re astonishing, Miles Winter. You’re… I never met anyone like you. You say I’ve changed you. I doubt it, man. I’m just a bit of experimentation for you. Something a bit different.” “No,” replied Miles. The pain in his chest was even sharper now. “You misunderstand. You have no idea of my experiences before you met me, and I’d thank you not to assume you do. That’s not what I meant at all. I know what I want, but I understand that you don’t necessarily feel the same.” Zeke flinched. Miles thought that maybe his words had been harsh—but then, Zeke’s had been patronizing. “Sure. Okay. You understand. Yeah, of course you do. I can’t give you more than this, Miles. I guess that’s what I’ve been trying to say all this time.” Miles’ pain was still acute, but he felt quite calm now. He felt a great relief for having spoken his true feelings. He knew that he wouldn’t get the same from Zeke—and he’d make sure he didn’t ask again. He could live with the misery, he thought. For a while, anyway. It was all about managing his expectations, wasn’t it? He’d wanted to tell Zeke that he’d take whatever was on offer, for as long as it was on offer. His feelings didn’t really matter; it’d be enough for him. But he

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True Colors knew that was a lie—just as he’d known that his pride wouldn’t let him do that. But he didn’t know where to go from here. Zeke’s words were almost a whisper now. “I wish I knew what I wanted… I wish I were you, Miles.” “Stupid idea,” Miles snapped. “Stupid ambition too.” Zeke was still musing aloud. “Your confidence; your assurance. It’s fucking attractive. I wish other things too—other stupid things. I want you to know what I really think, rather than I open my mouth every time and out comes more crap. Like I wish you had something else of mine other than those two old pictures. Wish I could give you something else….” “I don’t want anything like that from you, Zeke.” Miles sighed. “Though I’d like to share my collection with you sometime, see your reactions to it. See what artistic tastes we may have in common.” “After the show, then,” said Zeke, so softly that Miles almost missed it. “You want to see it?” “Sure.” Miles wanted to shout. I want to show it to you. I want to show you how I feel, show you how I really am. He didn’t. He rather thought he’d spoken more than his fair share already; if he said any more, he thought he’d run the risk of breaking everything up completely. He still hadn’t got a definite response from Zeke about whether he wanted to leave his job or not. Dammit, he didn’t want to hear! Zeke turned away from Miles again, groaning slightly as he struggled to his feet, pulling up his shorts properly and wincing at the returning circulation to his legs. “Got to go now, anyway. Got to get some last things ready for tomorrow. You’d better go home tonight. I don’t need any more distraction.” He smiled gently as he spoke, obviously trying to relieve the harshness of the words. “Leave me to finish up here, Miles.” Miles stared back at him, wondering if the ambiguity in Zeke’s words was deliberate or not. “It’s been a hell of a night, hasn’t it?” said Zeke. It sounded like a plea. “You’re damned right it has,” replied Miles, softly. He got carefully to his feet, scooping up his creased shirt and zipping up his pants. “I… need to think things through, Miles. You know?”

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Clare London “I know,” said Miles. “So do I.” He looked up at Zeke, whose hand was on the apartment door, ready to open it wider and go through. He didn’t say anything to try to stop him. Zeke sighed. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, okay?” And then, before Miles could say anything else, he closed the door very quietly behind him.

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ZEKE stood a foot away from the far wall of the gallery, a cleaning cloth in his right hand and a roll of masking tape around his left wrist. He sighed. Difficult with the pen in his teeth, but what the hell. His shoulders were covered with dust and he’d caught his unbound curls a couple of times on the edge of the displays, tangling them painfully. His sweats had almost worn through one knee because he’d spent the afternoon kneeling down and scrabbling across the floor as he set out the exhibition to his liking. It had to be past five o’clock, because the light outside the gallery was fading gradually. He didn’t know what time it was exactly. Mind you, he didn’t know when he’d last had a watch, or where he’d left the one he did. It never used to bother him. There was a tentative voice behind him—Tony’s. “The staff are on their way for the final run-through, Zeke. And the caterers, and the preview photographers.” “And?” growled Zeke. He reached out and shifted one of the paintings slightly to the right. “You’ve been here since 5 a.m., Zeke,” came Malia’s voice, from behind Tony. “We’re all here now. You can hand it over to us and get yourself ready.” “It’s okay,” he mumbled, not really listening. “I didn’t sleep well, anyway. Easier to get up and do some work down here.” There was a draft from the front door as it opened, and his head snapped up. It wasn’t like he was expecting someone. Not yet.

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Clare London “It’s the catalogs, the last two boxes,” called Tony, dashing over to accept the delivery. Zeke let his head drop back down. The muscles across his shoulders had tightened up instinctively. Unexpectedly, Malia put a hand on his arm. “Zeke,” she said gently. “Have you heard anything I said? It’s almost six p.m. now, and you need to get ready, unless you’re greeting your public in those.” He glanced at her elegant skirt suit and carefully made-up face, and then down at his own sweats and mottled blue T-shirt. He grinned. “Sweetie,” she said, wrinkling her nose slightly. “Unless masking tape is the new accessory and dust an artistic statement, you’d better shower and get dressed to kill.” “There’s plenty of time….” But she was gently pushing him toward the door of his apartment. He yawned, and moved a little sluggishly. “I’ll send for more coffee,” said Tony, even before Malia had to suggest it. “Is it okay, though, Malia?” asked Zeke, abruptly. His eyes flew over everything, seeing it all, focusing on nothing. “The show? Of course it is. There’s no doubt, you know? It’s going to be a riot, Zeke—an absolute success. Like last time, but better. Dammit, but haven’t you done it again? Just look at this room.” “I don’t know….” Malia made an unladylike snort. “Get the hell upstairs and make yourself the enfant terrible again, okay?” She softened her voice. “Zeke, honey, we’re proud of you. We’re proud of what we’re doing here. Please let us help you out.”

MALIA watched her boss lope slowly up the stairs and vanish into his apartment. She sighed with some relief. The vans would be arriving any second with drinks and canapés, and dozens of barely brained temporary staff who would need supervising every step of the way. The last thing she needed was some fragile artistic director getting under her feet. The responsibility should pass to her now, to get things running. Hadn’t she done this very thing for all of her working years? Tony had paused beside the Perspex wall. He looked up at it and bit at his

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True Colors lip. “So what are they going to think about this, eh?” Malia glanced up at it herself and shrugged as elegantly as she could in her severely fitted jacket. “They’ll love it. He’ll make them love it.” “Sure.” Tony smiled. “Zeke knows best.” Malia turned back to find cloths for the refreshment tables, but Tony called to her again. “There’s still a picture here unpacked. Do you want me to…?” Malia’s voice snapped back. It startled Tony, who obviously hadn’t heard such a tone directed at him for months now. “Leave that alone. Zeke said that he wants to hang that one himself—though I don’t know if there’ll be time before the first guests arrive. But he wants no one to touch it but him.” They both stood and stared at the small package, still propped against the far wall, covered in paper and bubble wrap. Neither knew quite what to say for a moment. Then the cell phones started ringing again, and yet another gum-chewing delivery boy was pushing through the door, nearly colliding with the harassed assistant struggling in backward with a tray full of strong coffees. Malia shook off her curiosity and went to work. Barely two hours later, the gallery opened its doors. The invitation list had been twice as long as the first show—and the invitations were twice as eagerly accepted. There was a slight sprinkle of rain outside and the first group of guests fell through the door, laughing and cursing and shaking their coats, reaching for the very welcome drinks. Malia smiled and served and generally facilitated. For one of the few times in her life, she wasn’t perturbed that none of them would remember her an hour later. She was just as concentrated as they were on the exhibition and its director. This early group consisted mainly of journalists, sponsors, and also several representatives of the art magazines. Red De Vere was with them, arm in arm with his favorite assistant editor. He earned an appreciative glance from Malia, looking fashionably splendid in a sapphire blue silk shirt and linen pants that were molded perfectly to his shape. He handed his designer raincoat to an assistant, nodding and smiling toward his companion. But his attention seemed otherwise distracted, his eyes running over the other arrivals as if looking for someone in particular. Malia glanced down at her guest list but couldn’t see any name linked to his. Then he browsed past her, shepherding one of the sponsors into the building with some witticism or other. There was more laughter all around, a barely suppressed excitement underlying everything. So closely after Red that any ingenuous spectator might have thought they

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Clare London arrived together, Carter Davison appeared. Malia ticked him off her list, knowing he was Zeke’s friend and special guest. He was more modestly dressed than the extravagant Mr. De Vere, but Malia admired the plain shirt and jacket, and soft fabric pants. He had an innate style that allowed him to wear ordinary clothes, and yet look extraordinary himself. He obviously didn’t like to attract attention, but maybe, to discerning people, he did. And then they all turned for their first view of the exhibition. “Shit,” came from one of the younger journalists. Malia saw a ripple of shock and excitement run through the crowd. She also saw Red De Vere turn and catch Carter Davison’s eye. Rather more intriguing, Malia saw that the brownhaired man was already watching De Vere in return. He nodded; Red raised an eyebrow and grinned back. Malia turned, trying to imagine seeing the exhibition for the first time, just as the visitors were. It was a riot of paintings again, but the theme wasn’t of color or hue as before. It was of people and touch. There were pictures of hands praying; hands waving; hands striking; hands embracing. Pictures of children, men and women, offering comfort, help, praise, and derision. People clasping each other in friendship; striking in anger; clutching in lust. The gallery was full of depictions of these people. Families; lovers; solitary figures. Everyone and anyone. Any age; any gender; any race. “Hey.” Another journalist whistled. “Fucking brilliant,” gasped a sponsor’s personal assistant, who immediately turned scarlet. Someone else laughed with delight. The pictures were on the walls and also hanging from the ceiling, as before. What was different this time was that in amongst them, Zeke had arranged a network of threads and cords. Hanging from these was a fabulously varied selection of personal effects—gloves, rings, watches, hair bands, hats, socks. They were placed so that they didn’t obscure the pictures and the story they had to tell, but instead they added their own perspective to it. This was an exhibition of people and their lives and their relationships, and the objects were part of that. Red laughed out loud, an exuberant expression of his own pleasure. “Roswell, where are you?” he called. “It’s magnificent. Come here and accept your congratulations as the talented man you undoubtedly are.” And Zeke Roswell appeared from behind the Perspex screen—the only part of the room that wasn’t covered with paintings and brightly colored, shiny,

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True Colors swinging items. He’d dressed in the black suit again, this time over a vivid red shirt. He had a small cord around his neck with a silver ankh hanging from it. His hair was glossy and his eyes were bright, but his grin was nervous. “Washes up well, doesn’t he?” Malia murmured proudly. Tony stood beside her and was the only one to hear. He squeezed her hand, and despite the table of drinks and catalogs that she was fiercely guarding, she let him. The people were flocking in now, bursting through the door and swirling around the edges of the room like a river undammed. As she and Tony watched, barely able to keep up with the collection of tickets and issue of catalogs, there was a loud burst of applause and the cameras started clicking all around. Within seconds, Zeke vanished from their view, engulfed by well-wishers and a steadily growing band of fans.

AND then Miles Winter arrived. Zeke knew immediately, some alert shivering involuntarily along his nerves. Momentarily, the cameras whirled away from him and darted to capture the latest arrival. The owner of the gallery had arrived! There were several women clustering around him, gushing effusively. Malia was attempting to keep them at bay, pressing a catalog into any hand that got too near, and drinks into the others. Miles was apologizing for being held up in traffic, on his way here from another meeting. He was smiling, but it seemed as if it were an effort. He leaned away from the free hands that reached out to shake his own, and his eyes flickered above all the heads, searching for something. On the other side of the room, with guests milling all around, Zeke looked across and caught Miles’ gaze. For that second, there was no one else in the room for him. A catalog was opened in front of him, obscuring his sight; a glass of wine was almost spilled down his black suit. An enthusiastic former art student clapped him on the shoulder. Zeke saw none of it. He saw only Miles. Miles raised a hand from his side as if to wave. Then Red arrived beside him, embracing him and taking him over to meet some of the sponsors. The contact was lost. “Zeke?” Carter arrived beside his friend, taking his arm and firmly extricating him from an overenthusiastic admirer. “It’s great, Zeke. Such an innovative idea—and such a superb collection of complementary art. I suspect

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Clare London that you’ll hear that from hundreds of other people tonight.” Zeke hugged him affectionately. “So glad you came, Carter. You’re looking damned good. That jacket’s new, right? It suits you; brings out the green in your eyes. Took some fashion advice from the Lord of the Track, eh?” “We had a beer, that’s all.” Zeke knew Carter would realize he was just teasing him. He’d not spoken to Zeke about his evening with Red De Vere, and Zeke hadn’t seen either of them in the few days leading up to the show. But Zeke peered at Carter tonight and saw a very unusual flush on his cheeks. “You like him, though, don’t you?” said Zeke, softly. He saw Carter’s eyes following Red tonight, saw the thoughtful expression on his face as he watched Red dispense his unique brand of charm and bonhomie throughout the room. Carter was characteristically frank. “He’s not the type I’d want to get close to.” Liar. “Too much of a handful for you?” Zeke grinned. “And Miles isn’t?” Carter was sharp with his comeback. “Maybe.” Zeke sighed. What did he know, anyway? This was his first sight of the damned man since last night. No word, no call, no message all day. All Zeke had to console himself with was a headache from lack of sleep, and sore calves. “Red’s different, Carter. He seems outrageous, sure. But he’s damned clever underneath it all, and he’s Miles’ friend. That’s a good enough reference for me.” “What is this, a dating agency?” Carter looked even more flushed. “Who mentioned dating?” said Zeke, slyly. He took Carter’s arm and drew him closer. He knew he sounded hoarse. “Look, he’s not Jacky.” Carter frowned. “Dammit, I know that. I wouldn’t want—” “Another one like him?” said Zeke, speculatively. “I’d be glad if that were true, you know? You deserve much better than my brother gave you. Sure, he loved you—but that was no reason to trample all over a guy like you.” “Christ, you talk nonsense,” Carter grumbled. “Especially about Red. I only had a beer with him.” “Guess the nonsense is on both sides, Carter,” Zeke replied, grinning at his friend’s obvious embarrassment. “It must be one of those nights.” Malia was bearing down on him, waving a catalog with an eager look on her face that

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True Colors implied she was selling both pictures and potential like they were going out of fashion tomorrow. Carter started to move away, acknowledging Zeke’s need to be elsewhere for a while. “Be here for me, Carter, will you?” asked Zeke, just as he turned to go and help Malia with the paperwork. “Just to the end of tonight?” Carter nodded. “I’m not going anywhere else just yet. You can rely on me.” Barely an hour later, the gallery was full. The drinks were flowing and the food fast vanishing. The place was full of the noise of chatter and calls and cries of delight and surprise. The cameras still flashed, and Zeke had given several brief interviews. Red had spun sponsor after investor after connoisseur in front of him until his head whirled and his tongue threatened to suffocate inside his mouth if it didn’t wrap itself around some iced water. Malia was heavily flushed, with wisps of her perfect hair escaping from the pins, but her central catalog looked well-thumbed, and her Filofax was significantly thicker with new contacts’ business cards. There’d been a late arrival, about half an hour earlier. Remy Dion had arrived with a group of people from her latest photo shoot, the tickets sponsored by their fashion magazine. Zeke hadn’t seen her arrive though he heard the sudden snapping of cameras and saw the reporter notebooks waving. He also saw Red moving swiftly to the opposite end of the room, expression like thunder, as if he couldn’t put enough space between him and the model. Even more surprising, he saw Carter moving after him. From the look of their subsequent conversation, Carter was calming down the lively blond. He had a restraining hand on his arm. Well, well. Zeke had allowed himself a secret smile. So that’s the result of ‘only having a beer’. He’d watched carefully, without appearing to, to see how Remy greeted Miles. It had been brief and outwardly civil, an air kiss or two. And when she put out a hand to him, he’d taken a catalog from Malia and offered that with a bland smile. Zeke had been ridiculously reassured. For the moment, he stood against a wall, drawing a reviving breath in between the gushing and greeting that was going on all around him, and trying in vain to camouflage himself into the painted plaster itself. Malia and her staff were valiantly fielding the press and the columnists and the dealers, but everyone wanted to see Zeke Roswell himself. They wanted to talk to him; to ask his opinion; to pump him for information about the exhibits. They wanted to be with him. He wasn’t just the “new boy” this time around.

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Clare London “Taking refuge?” came the low voice, tinged with amusement. Simultaneously, Zeke smelled the light cologne and felt the body warmth as the other man came to stand beside him. Miles handed him a glass of sparkling iced water, matching his own, and he nodded thanks. They both stared ahead of them, out into the gallery, but their senses were on each other alone. “Are you pleased with it, Miles?” he asked abruptly. They hadn’t exchanged a single word since Miles had arrived, but Miles didn’t seem to be offended by the blunt greeting. “It’s brilliant, Zeke. It’s magnificent. It’s a visual feast and a startling theme. They can’t stop talking about it. Red will dine out on this for weeks to come, appointing himself your unofficial agent.” “You thought I’d fuck up….” “I never did,” said Miles, rather sharply. “You’re doing me an injustice again. I knew you’d deliver. I was just never sure what.” “You wanted me to tell you all about it.” “No—but I would have liked to have shared more of it with you.” Zeke flushed, and his eyes dropped momentarily. “You just had to trust me, you know?” Miles turned his head fully and stared at him. “I know. And I did. It’s a great success. You’re to be congratulated on that.” “But….” Zeke swallowed some water, to ease his painfully dry throat. “But are you pleased with it?” Miles looked bemused. Zeke looked at the tiny furrow in the man’s brow when he did that, and the tightening of his lips. He remembered how delicious those lips were—how skilled at both taking and giving pleasure. How it had been his pleasure, for weeks now. “The theme is for you, Miles,” he blurted out. His words sounded rushed. He wished he could remember just one of those million trite little speeches he’d practiced since he last saw Miles. “It’s because of you. No particular insistence on colors. Instead, I concentrated just on the emotion; the feelings of the artists; of the subjects. The impact on the guests. Those who look—and those who really see.” He reached his hand up, like he had in his apartment last time they’d been there, palm toward Miles and fingers outstretched. Miles seemed to be struggling with some response, but he stayed silent. He lifted his own hand instead, and touched his fingertips to Zeke’s.

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True Colors “Connection,” sighed Zeke. “That’s what the exhibition is called.” With a smile, he moved away from the wall and Miles’ startled, confused expression, and he rejoined the throng.

MILES stood in the middle of the room, temporarily ignored in the middle of a throng of excited and confused guests. The Perspex screen shone out in front of them, backlit by carefully placed spotlights. It was completely blank; completely clear of any markings or signs. At the sides were attached small, shallow troughs, a ladder of them one above the other, from almost floor level up to the height of the tallest man in the room. Miles leaned past one of the staring guests and peered at the troughs. He could see the glimmer of paint in each one. There were murmurs amongst the crowd as they passed the screen, even as they praised the rest of the show. Snickers of scorn. “What the hell’s wrong with this? Just gets in the way, unless he’s going to use it.” “Guess he missed a few here.” “Ran out of pictures, more like. Couldn’t get the sponsors he’d wanted. They say he has no contacts left in the city anymore….” “So he’s still an erratic performer, eh? Still untried….” Miles stood as still as he could and bit his lip. When Zeke worked his way to his side, he turned to him with a puzzled expression. What the hell did Zeke mean by this strange vacuum in the middle of such cluttered activity? People would surely remember this empty, aching window long after they remembered the glory of the other displays. But Zeke just grinned, as if he knew what Miles was thinking and cared even less. “Still trust me, Miles?” he asked. “Yes,” replied Miles. He was glad that he found it so easy to say. “So watch.” As Miles, Carter, Red, and many other guests stared, Zeke stepped up close to the screen. He dipped the fingers of his right hand into one of the troughs of paint. Then he reached up toward the top of the screen, and carefully pressed his damp, green-streaked fingertips to its cool surface. He left the perfect mark of his fingerprints; of his unique individuality.

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Clare London The noise level fell around him, and there was a confused silence. Tony appeared discreetly at his side with a smile on his face and a box of wet wipes in his hand. He offered one to Zeke to wipe his hand clean of paint. “Now you,” smiled Zeke, his hands waving for Carter and the others, but his eyes solely on Miles. “Connection, remember?” Carter grinned his charming smile and stepped forward to copy Zeke’s actions. Some of the other guests laughed nervously; some moved a step forward too. Tony stood quietly to the side, with wipes for those who’d need them. Miles gazed back at Zeke. The smile started very slowly at the edges of his mouth. “What color shall I choose, Zeke Roswell?” he murmured. There was a burst of delighted laughter and a girlish giggle around the screen. Others were pushing forward, to see what the fuss was about. “Aren’t they all one to you, Miles Winter?” said Zeke. “Some are brighter than others,” Miles replied softly. Zeke smiled broadly, as if they spoke a language that wasn’t obvious in the words. “Choose what you like, Miles. The color’s not important, is it? It’s the print you leave behind that is.” Miles’ breath caught in his throat. He made as if to move toward Zeke, and then a pair of students pushed between them, crowding around the screen and jostling Zeke. Zeke grinned ruefully as he was swept back to the other side in a crowd of people. Miles followed his eyes for as long as he could, smiling with him. Then he moved in to the screen to make his own mark.

ZEKE had slipped back to his quiet corner, watching the reaction of the guests. The gallery was a laughing, chattering mess of glamorous people, dipping fingers in paint and daubing evidence of their personalities all over a Perspex wall. The clear screen was covered with multicolored prints, smudges and drips. Some of the fingerprints touched at others; some overlapped as if the fingers had entwined. People were pushing and shoving to find a space, then coming back to look at their contribution and to play the game of guessing whose the other prints were. Never had this city’s art world had such fun. “Brilliant idea, hon,” smiled Red. He appeared protectively at Zeke’s shoulder. “Audience participation, eh? No one else would dare.” His eyes lost

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True Colors their cynical glaze for a moment and he watched the participants with unadulterated amusement. A corporate executive roared with laughter and dabbed the remains of his painted fingertips onto the nose of his expensively dressed wife. A journalist shrugged in embarrassment but pushed another person aside to get to the color of paint that he preferred. A couple of young students, with complimentary tickets from their local art college and very obviously in love, refused the wipes to clean themselves and instead moved away from the screen with painted fingertips pressed together, frowning with their concentration on maintaining the touch. Zeke smiled along with the blond man. The gimmick had been taken up far more enthusiastically than even he had hoped. “They’ve got to join in, Red. No point offering connection unless there are people there to accept it. Both sides have got to be involved.” Red looked at him more carefully. “You talkin’ about art, hon?” “Of course,” replied Zeke, evenly. “That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” He felt Red tense beside him, and wondered if he was going to say something else. Or perhaps he was worried that Zeke would start prying into his meeting with Carter. But he saw the real reason why, a moment later. Remy Dion had stepped up to the screen and was making her mark in a particularly sickly yellow-colored paint. She had the female publishing editor of the fashion magazine hanging onto her left arm, and the younger son of one of the sponsors for Miles’ gallery on her other side, his arm curled possessively around her miniscule waist. Probably her next career conquest. Her cronies from the magazine cooed and fluttered around her, offering the wipes that she used quickly and thoroughly, as if the paint might poison her skin. And then, as she dropped a soiled wipe into the sycophantic hands of the younger son, she glanced across at Zeke. Her mouth smiled at her fans; a wide, eventoothed, professional smile. But it was the look in her eyes that reached Zeke, and he was shocked to see a deep, naked fury in them. Christ, he’d never even met the girl, had he? Seen her at the first exhibition, though she’d arrived late, just to accompany Miles to the after-show party. And he’d read plenty about her in the papers, with Miles when they were dating, and afterward. Most of it crap, of course, created for the sake of sensation. She and Miles had parted amicably, so he’d thought. Was that what that look was about? Jealousy? Could Miles have misjudged the situation that badly?

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Clare London He looked around and saw Miles standing by the front door of the gallery. The dark-haired man had left his prints and then moved himself away from the screen quite unobtrusively, leaving Zeke to his admirers and the fascinated finger-painters. He wasn’t looking for Remy, for his eyes passed swiftly over her. Zeke wondered if he were looking for Red. The blond man had also left his side, possibly to avoid being too close to Remy himself. It was blatantly obvious how much he disliked her. It’s time. Zeke took a deep breath. Now or never! He looked quickly over toward the door to his apartment. It was, of course, locked today, and a low table had been drawn half across it, to separate the private areas from the public. The table had been used for more catalogs and a few of the freestanding exhibits. Zeke’s eyes flickered to the wall beside the door. It was blank, as if the picture hanging had stopped short of that area. Six feet up that wall was a single picture hook, unused. Zeke caught at Tony’s arm as the boy rushed past him, probably fetching more drinks. “Showtime, Tony,” he murmured. “I need to put that last picture up, okay?” Tony nodded and smiled. They both went over to the table and Tony reached under it, pulling out the wrapped picture that he and Malia had looked at earlier. It had been safely and secretly stored there while the guests wandered past and marveled at the wealth of other exhibits. Tony helped Zeke rip off the packaging, standing behind him and keeping him partially hidden from the other people moving past. Zeke held the picture in front of him, looking down on its uncovered face. Tony was peering over his shoulder, trying to see what it was. It was smaller than many of the paintings displayed that day: a black-and-white print. When Zeke looked back up, the expression on his face obviously startled Tony. “Zeke, are you okay? We can put it back if you like….” Zeke shook his head. “It’s time to come out of whatever artistic closet I’ve been hiding in, you know? I’ve done it for myself. But now I must show that I have.” Tony grunted as if he didn’t know what the hell was going on, but as that summed up most of his working life so far, he was reconciled to it. He smiled at Zeke again, his face a bit flushed from the champagne he’d been stealing glasses of all evening. “Whatever you do, Zeke, it’s okay by me. I trust you. Here; let me help.” He held the picture steady as Zeke fixed it swiftly onto the hook. Then they both pulled away to look at it on the wall. Zeke sucked in his breath.

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TONY stared in surprise. He’d never seen anything like it. It was a pencil sketch of a pair of hands, slightly larger than life size. Solely the hands; palms facing each other, fingertips just touching. But it was so much more than just a sketch. There was something about the fluidity of the pencil lines, something that breathed in the veins and the tendons of the hands as clearly as if they were living. The shading was careful, yet it flowed easily; the color scheme was frighteningly simple, yet it implied far more depth and tone than ever a single graphite pencil had promised before. The skin on the hands seemed to wrinkle and glow; the whorls on the tips of the fingers were individually crafted. When Tony looked more closely, he realized that the hands didn’t really match, as if there were two different people involved. One hand had long, slender fingers, with the slightest nub of a lump on the side of the middle finger. The skin looked healthy, but there were creases of regular use on the fingertips. The other hand had a slightly darker tone, with skin that looked better cared for, and nails that looked carefully shaped. There was a tiny fleck at the base of the ring finger, in a crescent shape—like the memory of a scar. The hands touched at only a few points, and yet Tony felt a slow, sensual shiver as he gazed at the picture. Unlike some of the other portraits on show today, it wasn’t of hands praying, or of hands touching in passing. Instead, there was deep emotion there, and raw longing. The hands were coming together; they were embracing. He felt an unmistakably sexual charge from it, and he flushed, confused. He’d never felt that way from a mere drawing…. It fit the theme of the exhibition perfectly, of course. But Tony felt that it stood alone for some reason. It represented something more than—and different from—every other painting here today. Not like me to be so fanciful. His heart was beating far more quickly than before, and there were goose bumps up his arms. Some of this art appreciation stuff must be rubbing off on me. He was aware of the crowd behind him slowing down as they caught sight of the new addition. He turned to look at Zeke—to ask, naively, who’d drawn it—but the man had already gone from his side. He glanced quickly around the rest of the gallery and saw heads turning toward him. There was a sudden buzz of interested chatter around the room. When his eyes darted toward the doorway to the outside world, he saw his boss, Miles Winter, still standing there, though now

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Clare London his eyes were riveted on the picture. Tony wondered why Miles looked so pale tonight. Many of the original guests had left, but there was still a sizeable crowd remaining. Within a couple of minutes, almost all of them were clustered around Zeke’s new picture, or trying to get a better view of it. Tony listened with fascination to the comments around him. They were many and varied, but mostly impressed. “Whose is it?” “Christ, sweetie, you should stay on Celebrities Behaving Badly and leave art reviews to us. It’s his, isn’t it? Zeke Roswell’s. Must be….” “You’d know it was a Roswell, wouldn’t you? Even without the colors. Look at the pen strokes.” “Too delicate. More like a sketch….” “More like his brother’s work, you mean?” “There’s boldness here that you never got in Jacky Roswell’s stuff, dammit. You could admire Jacky’s skill, but this stuff of Zeke’s grabs you by the balls, and you gotta feel it….” “I always said that about his work, didn’t I?” “Makes my stomach turn, you know… in a sexy kind of way.” A couple of journalists were huddled together in front of Tony, muttering. There was a young man—obviously a trainee—and an older, more confident woman who was probably his features editor. “If it’s a new Roswell, this is a hell of a story, kid,” she muttered. “Gotta have a headline. But what’s the damn title? See anything?” The young man peered at the corner of the picture. “Says 4:Y. Nothing else. Zeke Roswell always titled his paintings cryptically like that, didn’t he?” “4:Y? ‘For why’? What the fuck does that mean?” The trainee beside her winced, nervously gripping his notepad, so tightly the bindings twisted. She peered at the picture herself, as if she were trying to see behind the canvas. “Some kind of philosophical crap-trap, I expect, like all these artists favor. Just painters, aren’t they, at the end of the day? For why… it’s probably Californiaspeak, probably a confused cry about the state of his personal angst. Like we’re bothered. He needs to get a proper job, that’d tell him for why….” She ignored the growl from the back of their group. It came from behind

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True Colors Tony, and he smiled with some satisfaction at hearing it. The young man also heard it, and he flushed. His eyes darted to Tony’s for confirmation, and Tony nodded back to him. So the kid seemed to be new to the city pages, but he looked like the kind who was keen to do well, and he would have read up on the Roswells, both of them, as soon as he knew he’d got the exhibition job. And dollar to a cent, he knew the guy standing directly behind them was the man himself—Zeke Roswell.

ZEKE and Miles both stood behind Tony; Miles had moved very swiftly to stand at Zeke’s side. Both listened carefully to the conversations around them. Both had growled at the journalist’s comments. But as Zeke reached out his hand to attract her attention, Miles’ grip held him back. Zeke turned to look at the strong, lean hand on his shoulder. He particularly stared at the tiny, crescent-shaped scar at the base of Miles’ ring finger. Miles had told him it was from a rather unexciting household accident when he was young, but it had never faded completely. Zeke remembered licking at it, many times; softly lapping up drops of spilled beer or salt from takeout supper; sucking the sweat on Miles’ fingers after an energetic session in bed; cleaning off the sticky threads of warm come, after climaxing deep inside Miles’ fist. He had a fascination for it, similar to the way that Miles caressed his tattoo. It was one of the marks of Miles—one of the things that were just his. He shivered. Reluctantly, he pulled back his hand, and sighed. “Ah, Miles, I just want to tell her—” “Leave it,” urged Miles, in a low voice. “Leave her. Why would you want to waste your time on her, anyway? This is your day, Zeke, your show. Don’t you see it now? It’s my gallery, okay, but this is all you, all yours. You’re the one they love; the one who’s a success.” He drew Zeke away from the chattering crowd, both of them knowing they had little time or chance for a private conversation here. Especially since Zeke had unveiled that picture. Miles’ voice was urgent. “I arrived late tonight, deliberately, because I knew you’d have everything in hand. I wanted to tell you I trusted you, to show you….” Zeke frowned slightly. “No, man. You’ve always been clear. It’s me that’s been giving the mixed messages, remember?” “Zeke….” Miles shook his head impatiently, ignoring him. “That doesn’t

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Clare London matter now.” His eyes were drawn back to the picture as if it were a magic charm—like a Circe calling sailors to its doom, like a Shangri-La calling to abandoned survivors. “Look at it. How could you bear to keep it hidden until now? Of course it’s your work. It cries out everything about you. And it’s… it’s fantastic. I can’t believe how beautiful it is, how rich, how vivid. But when did you…? How…?” Why didn’t you tell me? Zeke knew that was what Miles really meant. He wondered wryly when they’d lost their taste for argument. They’d always done it so well. He reckoned it was just about the same time that he started to feel as tongue-tied as a six-year-old kid in front of Miles. And that was about ten minutes ago. “Miles, I couldn’t let you see it until it was finished; if it were finished. That’s why I’ve not been drawing other stuff recently. I’ve been… working on this.” Miles grimaced. “Your evasion… your irritation when I questioned you about your painting and drawing. I thought you were pulling away from me.” “I know you did.” Zeke spoke very softly, very carefully. “And perhaps for a while I thought I should.” “You wanted to?” Zeke smiled. “No, dammit, that’s not what I said, is it? I just needed to think things through. Did that all through last night, to tell you the truth. And I started to make sense of a lot of other stuff I’ve been thinking and feeling over the last few weeks.” He didn’t dare look directly at Miles, in case he lost his nerve. He swallowed hard. “When you talked about breaking up last night—I was shocked. Shit, I’d never stopped to think whether we were together to start with, so the thought of parting was a horror I hadn’t considered. But then the horror was right there.” “Zeke—” “Hush,” said Zeke. “It’s my turn for the words, okay? I tried to pretend it meant jack shit to me, that it was all just for the pleasure of the moment. But you made me think about you, as well as myself; about all that I wanted to do for you. Made me think about why I was up nights and early mornings, doing this picture; why I’ve been sweating bricks over whether it’s good enough; why it’s so fucking important. And then I had to look at myself. At what a shit-faced little coward I was, all over you like a rash on the one hand, yet keeping you away from me on the other. I was scared, you see. Scared of what was happening to me; scared of what I wanted to say and do.” He rolled his eyes up and took a

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True Colors deeper breath. He didn’t know how long he’d have before Miles was swept away from him again, or whether he’d come back afterward. “I don’t want to be scared anymore. Not of Jacky’s memory; not of myself. Not of caring. Not of us….” Miles touched his arm; nothing more. “I want to be with you, Miles. I don’t want to leave. Not the gallery, not you. Things feel good with you; I feel good. You’ve connected me with the world again, even when I fought like hell against it. I can’t get enough of you; I can’t feel comfortable without you. You’re my connection. And hey, you’re the best fuck I ever had, of course.” He grinned nervously, glancing sideways up at Miles. “Dammit, you’re the best everything.” Miles’ eyes were very bright and sharp and fixed on Zeke’s mouth like he was waiting for something to spill out and upset him. They sparkled at every word of Zeke’s that didn’t. “You said ‘caring’,” he said very softly. “I thought that was just one of those ‘words’ you have no time for.” “Sure, that’s what it was,” replied Zeke, a little testily. He wondered if he’d gone too far. It wouldn’t be the first time, of course. Then he saw the hopeful look in Miles’ eyes and dammit, he didn’t care whether he had or not, he had to go through with this. “But now it’s a word for you. From me. You deserve a better response from me than you’ve been getting—something for all that you’ve given me.” He pointed to the painting in front of them. “And this gift is to speak for me as well. A gift for you.”

MILES could hear Malia calling over. One of the sponsors wanted to discuss the gallery and was striding across the room toward him and Zeke. Miles ignored everyone else. He drew Zeke into the shadow of the apartment door, where they could still see the picture but keep their attention on each other. Zeke looked relaxed, now that he’d spoken what was on his mind. His face was soft, and his lips moist. Miles wanted desperately to kiss them. He wondered how long it’d be before he was allowed to do that again. He reached out and stroked at the silver ankh around Zeke’s neck. It was slim and cool, a vivid contrast against the warm pulse of Zeke’s throat. Zeke’s eyes flickered half-closed at the touch, and then he opened them wide and grinned back at Miles. His expression was hungry; he was seeking even more. “So you like the picture?” “I like it,” said Miles, softly.

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Clare London “You know what it means.” Zeke looked relieved, his eyes a little damp. “You understand.” “And I see where you hung it,” said Miles, slowly. His mouth twisted into a mischievous smile, and the pair of them looked instinctively to the floor beneath the painting. They both knew that underneath the table, there was a small, dark stain on the expensive polished floor. “Thought I’d mark the occasion,” murmured Zeke. “But I guess you’ll want me to pay for the cleaning, since it was from my come.” Miles was proud of himself, holding back the sudden, violent flush that threatened to suffuse his whole body. “You can come any time you like,” he said, quickly and passionately. “I don’t want any of it cleaned away.” Zeke flushed too, grinning wickedly. “Going to jump your bones, Miles Winter, if you don’t watch what you say to me. Right here and now.” Miles smiled and looked back at the picture. He was still entranced by it. “But you didn’t have to do this for the show, Zeke. To start working again—to produce a new picture from Zeke Roswell after so long away. It’s a hell of a commitment. You could have shown 4:DRMS instead. You told me once that your art could be pure torture….” Zeke grimaced. “Yeah, hard labor, right? Guess I made rather a meal of that at the time. This wasn’t like that.” He sighed, gently. “You’ve sort of missed the point, man. This was… guess you’d call it….” Miles stared at him. Was Zeke afraid of his own words? Afraid to give them to Miles? He slid his hand under Zeke’s elbow and held him tightly. Zeke sighed again. “It was a labor of love, Miles. It’s for you. Not for the gallery—not for the show. For you alone. Something you can show wherever you want.” His eyes flickered with nervous emotion. “Something you can be open about.” Miles wanted to reply but never got a word out. Zeke put a hand to Miles’ cheek, turning his head around to face him. Miles had barely enough time to start another smile before Zeke leaned forward and pressed his lips onto his. Miles gasped once, and then opened his mouth with instinctive pleasure to accept the tentative tip of Zeke’s tongue. He sighed, deeply. The desire soaked him like a sudden sweat; the taste of Zeke’s mouth was hot and unmistakably gorgeous. He sucked lightly on Zeke’s tongue, and thrust his own in against it, eager and bold. He thought he heard himself groan aloud.

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True Colors The knot of people closest to them fell into shocked silence as they watched the two men embrace. A woman gasped. Another man hissed encouragement. They stood together, Zeke grasping Miles’ arms and tilting his head so that they fit all the more easily against each other’s mouth. Miles slid his arms around Zeke’s waist and pulled him closer. To his delight, Zeke growled hungrily, his lips more forceful in response. “Yes,” Zeke whispered, in reply to a question that Miles hadn’t yet formed. “More.” And as Miles obliged, the kiss grew longer and deeper.

RED stood amongst the astonished spectators. When he saw Miles’ hand slip confidently around Zeke and the two bodies move closer together to kiss, he grinned. About damned time too. “Okay, folks. Let’s move along, shall we?” He pushed firmly through the crowd of people, guiding them away from the two men. “Tonight’s entertainment’s on the walls, you know, not sproutin’ out of the top of these gentlemen’s boots.” He could see that Miles and Zeke were oblivious to anyone around them, so he turned swiftly, putting himself between the couple and the rest of the milling room. He met the shock of the approaching sponsor with a look of challenge; he knew which one of them would prevail. Malia stood by the screen, mouth wide open. Beside her, Tony was grinning. He looked as surprised as anyone else, but his mischievous eyes showed he was enjoying the spectacle. As people moved away, albeit reluctantly, Red saw one of the younger male journalists still staring at the two entwined men. He was rather flushed and totally fascinated. Red had seen the cute little thing earlier—he was being bullied by that bitch of an arts editor. Red knew her well from other events; dammit, she understood less about art than her ass. He weighed up the kindness of nursing this naïf versus the fun of teasing him further. Then he sighed, and made the more charitable decision. “Want an exclusive, hon?” he murmured into the startled boy’s ear. “Guess you’re lookin’ for an answer to the title of Roswell’s new picture, 4:Y. You can see it for yourself now, can’t you? I reckon it stands for For You. For Miles Winter. Go scribble that headline before your boss snaps it up instead like the predator she is.”

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THE exhibition was at an end—rather spectacularly for many, after the sensational sight of Zeke Roswell in a firm and obviously familiar lip-lock with Miles Winter, his patron and landlord. Journalists rushed to meet the next day’s copy. Remy and her entourage also left swiftly in a fit of pique because no photographer worth his salt was going to be looking at her now. Some of the sponsors rushed for the exit, grumbling about bad publicity and the fickleness of public opinion. Others smiled more tolerantly at the handsome young men, and took their time about leaving, admitting to themselves that publicity was never bad, however shocking. Those who had bought paintings or discussed future business with the Winter Corporation scrambled out of the building to call their head offices and consult their brokers. Red was heard to say to more than one such speculator that “the value of investments may go down as well as up” and his wickedly knowing smile made many suspicious that it wasn’t the NASDAQ he was talking about. The after-show party would go ahead, of course, regardless of any scandal or shock. Red stood beside Malia at the door to “remind” departing souls of the party, and to shake his head ruefully in response to inquiries as to whether Miles would be there; whether Zeke was painting again regularly; whether the “newly discovered” couple would be announcing their private plans and intentions at that time. Red tried not to snap the heads off the people who were being so intrusive, asking such ludicrous things. Wouldn’t he have adored such a scene if it were anyone other than his own friends involved? Instead, he savored the immense satisfaction of seeing the establishment so disturbed. He had to swallow an almost irresistible desire to create some copy of his own, just to keep the worst

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True Colors press vultures occupied. Maybe tell the editors of the city papers that Miles and Zeke were the love children of a past president and a spandex-clad punk rock chick, and would be consummating their forbidden love in Times Square on New Year’s Eve to the accompaniment of a symphonic orchestra and a flight of blue doves…. He knew he probably didn’t need to. The gossip preceded them already.

ZEKE eventually pulled away from Miles, only to see all the guests being shepherded out, and his friends attempting to minimize both shock and reputational damage. And Tony, still grinning. With a rueful grin of his own, Zeke offered to help with the clearing up while Miles organized the closure of the show with Malia. Carter helped them, too, collecting up the discarded catalogs, and insisting he be told if he was getting in people’s way, rather than being useful. Zeke stopped anyone touching the exhibits. He and Miles agreed to leave most of the fittings in the gallery tonight and let the removal firm take them down tomorrow. Many of the paintings would remain in place, protected by dust sheets, although a few of the more famous and exclusive items had already been reclaimed by their owners. The people remaining at the gallery were exhausted, and still buzzing with excitement. Malia, Tony, and their assistants were almost itching to get to the celebrations. There would be plenty of time the next day to deal with the practicalities. Zeke caught sight of Carter standing by the Perspex screen, the crumpled cover of a discarded catalog in his hand. He looked lost for a moment, his eyes following Red as the blond man did his own share of helping and joking around the room. Zeke felt a sharp, poignant ache in his heart. He’d not seen that look in Carter’s eyes since Jacky died. Even before then, it had never been that fierce. Had Carter changed so much? Or was it him, Zeke, who saw things differently now? He went over, and Carter turned to smile at him. “Aren’t you leaving for the party soon, Zeke?” “Nah. Miles ‘n’ me… we think it’s best we don’t go. Caused enough of a stir tonight, eh? Don’t really want to, to tell you the truth. It’s not my scene nowadays.” Miles ‘n’ me…. Zeke shivered inside at the affection that inspired. Carter’s voice was low and a little hesitant. “Jacky would have loved it,

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Clare London Zeke—your picture.” Zeke grimaced. “He’d have said it was crap.” Carter laughed. “Maybe. But he’d have said it was fucking talented crap.” The words sounded quite shocking in Carter’s steady tone. “That’s what he said about all your work.” “What?” “He loved it, loved your work. He loved you. He was jealous of your style, Zeke, your boldness.” “Never said anything… he laughed….” Zeke struggled with disbelief, with old-remembered hurt. “I know.” Carter sighed. “Jacky laughed at a lot of things he shouldn’t have. But he told me all about it, privately. Every time you painted anything at all, he told me you were sharp and bright and he was damned proud of you. Wished he had the feel for color that you did. And then he’d tell me not to breathe a word to you, or your head would get so fucking big you’d be even more insufferable.” “Shit,” breathed Zeke, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “That sure sounds like Jacky. Guess I’d better believe you.” “Jacky wasn’t good at understanding other people’s needs. At encouraging; at nurturing. Everyone needs that, eh?” Carter touched his arm. “I don’t care I’m breaking his confidence now; I should have done it a long time ago, maybe. But you were just as bad, Zeke. You’d never listen to him, never hear his feelings under your damned arguments.” Zeke was astonished at the whole conversation, at Carter’s frankness. “Guess there’s some truth in all of that, Carter. Maybe Jacky did love my pictures, but he was also right about me and my colors. I used them to hide things, as well as display. Went for the shock value, rather than finding the real subject and putting my talent into that. Colors served me one way—and they betrayed me another.” Zeke noticed Red turn around at the opposite side of the gallery and look over at them. Zeke hid his smile. He and Miles had quickly noticed that, although all the guests had gone, neither of their best friends looked like they were in a rush to leave the gallery. Zeke had shrugged and murmured privately to Miles that it was because Carter and Red were aiming for some hot sex later on, stretched over the beech wood catalog table. Then he laughed at the startled look on Miles’ face, and confessed that was more fantasy than fact. But secretly, he wasn’t discouraged from that vision, especially when Carter offered to lock up

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True Colors the gallery when they finished for the night, so that Zeke and Miles could rest after their exhausting day. Red supported Carter, pretending that the assistant editor he once coveted had taken up a better offer for the evening. He wasn’t particularly convincing. Now Zeke flicked an amused glance at the attractive blond, though he could see that Red’s eyes were on his companion. Carter must have been aware of the concentrated gaze directed at him. He seemed to be deliberately avoiding it. “I’m learning so many things all over again, Carter,” Zeke muttered. “You think it’s like going back to school?” “Jacky told me you spent next to no time there anyway,” said Carter, wryly. Zeke grinned back. “So, is that more pillow talk, Carter?” Carter raised an eyebrow and flushed lightly. “Maybe.” Miles was on his way over now, striding toward them. His jacket was discarded, his focus shifting impatiently away from Malia and Tony and their team as they finally left the gallery. His gaze was all for Zeke. Zeke’s eyes met his: dark, and excited, and full of desire for so many things. Carter laid a hand on Zeke’s arm and tipped his head toward the dark-haired man. “Pillow talk, yeah. So go get some of your own, okay?”

THE digital clock on the office block across the road showed three a.m. and the road was silent and deserted. The sound of the gallery lock being worked open seemed to echo very loudly, but there was no one around on the street to hear it. The door gave a shudder and creaked ajar; a slim body, dressed all in dark clothing and hooded as well, slipped through the gap. The door closed swiftly behind it. A torn page from a catalog whispered softly in the sudden draft and vanished under a shrouded table. The figure paused, as if surprised that there was no reaction; no sound of alarm. Then it reached into a bag slung across its torso, pulling out a flashlight and a collection of other small tools. There was no light in the gallery itself. Outside in the business district, an occasional neon sign or clock was the only illumination. There were strange shadows looping across the floor. Sections of staging and empty pallets had been packed against the walls after the exhibition; now

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Clare London they loomed up in the half-light like small, stunted mountains. Paintings of many shapes and sizes still hung on the walls, different versions of the same anonymous display, nothing on show but the folds of their protective coverings. Some had been taken down and were stacked in careful piles. One of the floorboards creaked as the intruder moved toward one of the piles. Gloved hands ran swiftly over the paintings, feeling around the frames, pulling away the packaging and covers as quietly as possible. Then a single light snapped on. There was a sudden negative effect, and three people were thrown into sharp, black relief against the pale walls. Then everyone’s eyes adjusted, and the two figures at the back of the gallery were recognizable as Carter Davison and Red De Vere. Red had his hand on the light switch and Carter stood beside him. The solitary spotlight gave the Perspex an ethereal shine in the center of the deserted gallery. The dark-clothed figure let out a gasp of shock. It was astonishing that the two men had been standing there so silently. They’d been effectively invisible up until now. “The alarm has been deactivated,” said Carter. He wasn’t surprised that his voice sounded so cold in the darkness of the room. “We were expecting you.” The intruder straightened up. It was tall, lithe, slender to the point of skinny, and still mainly in shadow. The clothes hid the figure for a moment more, but as it moved toward the men, its hand reached up and stripped the black hood from its head. Shoulder-length blonde hair swung softly against a graceful neck. Remy Dion stared warily at them. Carter’s mouth tightened. He didn’t take his eyes off her. “Interestin’ outfit,” murmured Red, beside him. There was no humor in his tone. “But then I understand that camouflage gear is the new black this season.” “Am I supposed to be shocked that it’s you?” asked Carter, clearly. Remy didn’t answer. “What are you looking for, Remy? The exhibition is over, as you well know.” “There’s nothing here for you, bitch,” growled Red. Carter held out a hand to restrain him from moving toward her. “Miles is here,” she said, her sharp, high voice grating in the tense atmosphere. She stared at them both in challenge, her face very pale. “He’s got no interest in you, darlin’,” said Red. “And I don’t think you’re

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True Colors here to pay your respects to him, are you?” “They’re not here, Remy,” said Carter. “They? I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetie.” Her voice sounded more confident now. “The missing sketches,” said Carter. “The ones you’ve been seeking for months now. The ones that would make up the whole set of six and vastly increase the value of the four that have already been sold to an anonymous buyer in Hong Kong.” “You’re talking nonsense,” she snapped, turning to stare at him. The spotlight’s reflections shimmered briefly in her eyes. “That’s nothing to do with me. You’re both mad, creeping about in the dark like this. What are you doing here yourselves?” She flashed a look of pure venom in Red’s direction. “I know this bastard De Vere, of course I do. But who the hell are you? Another of his stupid little paramours?” Red flushed angrily, but Carter remained calm. “I’m Carter Davison. I was Jacky Roswell’s lover.” Remy hissed in a sharp breath. Her eyes ran the length of Carter’s body, and for a second, her body tensed. Then she smiled—a thin, cruel shape on such a beautiful mouth. “So was I, honey.” Carter didn’t flinch. “I know that,” he said. “Do you think he wouldn’t have told me all about his other lovers? It was part of the fun for him, part of the thrill. To tell me all about it. The way you felt in bed; the things you’d say to him. The special attentions that you’d ask for, again and again….” Remy gasped aloud, though she tried to hide her shock with anger. “Don’t try those games on me, you pathetic bastard. You’re the one he left at home while he was playing with me.” “Playing,” echoed Carter. “That’s your word, Remy, and that’s the truth. For that’s what it was.” “And now what?” she said, her voice tight. Her hands were clenched at her sides. “You haven’t answered me as to what you’re doing here.” “Perhaps we wanted to see if you’d turn up tonight. If we were right about you. Like I said, they’re not here,” repeated Carter. Her eyes narrowed and he saw her sly expression. A greedy look that she obviously couldn’t hold back. “So where are they, then? I know there were six, and it’s a lie if anyone says different. Are you telling me everything was on

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Clare London display tonight? What about the rest of Miles’ collection? What about baby brother Zeke himself? Don’t expect me to believe that he wouldn’t have had some nice little souvenirs of his brother’s work, kept to himself. If they weren’t on show tonight, they must be stored somewhere….” “And that’s what this is about, Remy, isn’t it? You’ve been searching for quite a while now. Ever since you dated Jacky. You’ve been looking for anywhere the sketches might be, anywhere connected with Zeke Roswell.” She pursed her lips. “I don’t know where this fantasy is coming from.” “I was pretty sure you dated Jacky Roswell at the time of his death,” Red snapped. “And I knew you were an art collector—among many other things. It wasn’t until Miles told me the whole story of how the four sketches were sold out of the estate when Jacky died that I began to wonder if there was a connection. Carter confirmed your involvement with Jacky at that time. He helped me think some things through.” “So bright,” she snarled, her voice loaded with sarcasm. “But that drawling, posturing act of yours… don’t you know that it’s only the stink of money that gets anyone between your legs?” Red’s eyes glinted, his body tensing with fury. “And it’s obviously been exaggerated how far you’ve risen from the gutter.” Carter broke in. “Enough, Remy. We know what you’re after. I daresay it was you who broke into the gallery when Miles first showed interest in buying it.” “And Miles’ house,” Red spat out. “And now here again,” continued Carter. “Round and round in circles, looking for something that probably doesn’t even exist.” “Damned well does!” burst out from her sculpted lips, startling the men. Anger and pain were mixed in her words. “He told me he’d finished them. All six.” “Whether he did or not, they were Zeke’s. All of ’em,” said Red. He had some control of his voice, but the fury was still obvious, bubbling underneath. “They were to be mine. The fucking sonofabitch owed me.” The obscenities were even uglier from Remy’s delicate mouth. “He wanted to sell them to me. He said so!” “That’s a lie,” Red snarled back. Carter stepped forward, nearer Remy. He laughed, but it came out so bitter

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True Colors and sharp it was like a finger scraped over glass. Even Red flinched. “You’re right, Red. It is a lie. He would never have sold them willingly. And never to her.” “He promised them to me!” Remy howled. Her face was twisted now, with anger and frustration. “All six. And then he started talking about only the four… mocking me.” Carter laughed again. He couldn’t keep the cruel edge out of it, though whether it was cruelty to Remy or to himself, he couldn’t have said. “Like you said, honey, he was playing with you. He told at least three lovers a month that he drew for them; that he would give them his work. That they’d be rich—that they’d be immortalized.” Remy’s eyes hardened. “Of course he did—and I heard him. I knew what he was like, even before I caught his eye. Even before I contrived to meet him, and take him to bed. But why shouldn’t it be the truth for me? Jacky Roswell cared nothing for his work when it was done; the creation was what mattered to him. And I wanted those sketches badly. It was right that I had them!” “You had no rights at all, though, did you?” said Carter. His eyes hurt, hot and stinging, but he didn’t bother wiping at them. “And no influence over Jacky anymore. Because it was over. The affair was over. You and him. He dumped you.” He watched her face; saw the spasm of total disgust that twisted her expression. “No one knew that but me—and you. He meant the sketches for Zeke, he always had. He never had any intention of selling or giving you anything. He laughed when he told me you were chasing them. He laughed, and he said that you’d believed every lie he ever told you, and that you were nothing but a liability now. Dammit, he wasn’t known for caring about an ex-lover’s sensibilities; he’d normally just have cut you dead. But he was waiting to meet you somewhere public, presumably so you couldn’t make too much of a scene. The art show that night—the night he died. You were both there, earlier in the evening. That was the night he finished with you, wasn’t it?” “They were to be mine….” Her voice was more of a whisper. Her body was rigid with fury and resentment. “No, they weren’t.” Carter felt very weary. How could she still be so deluded? “But you took advantage of the confusion after his death and took ’em anyway,” growled Red. “Didn’t you?” Remy turned back to him, her eyes sharp again. “That’s bullshit, De Vere. It was an arm’s-length sale, remember? Everyone in the business knew that. Had to

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Clare London be, to satisfy probate.” “Like hell it was.” Red’s voice was so harsh, Carter was startled. Red’s blue eyes matched Remy’s, shining like flints. “There’s little love lost between us, eh, Remy? I’ve always thought you an empty-headed, self-obsessed little bitch.” “You’re just jealous that your own bid for the sketches wasn’t even in the frame. You’re as greedy as the next man….” Red smiled, but it never reached his eyes. It was an eerie sight. Carter was fascinated to see the depth of dislike in the handsome face. A little awed too. “Whatever. But recently I’ve changed my mind about you. I’ve been investigatin’ your affairs for a long time, now—and that’s your business affairs, not your sordid and predatory bedroom career. You know I’ve been watchin’ you. You know how I feel. Ever since you ruined a couple of my friends’ peace of mind, and ever since you got your claws into Miles Winter. Hell, I don’t usually do a statutory search on my friends’ lovers, but you, dear heart, are an exception.” He moved toward her, and this time Carter didn’t stop him. “Remy Dion, the dim little model. We all believe that with so much beauty, brains must be sacrificed in exchange. But that’s not the case for you, is it?” The model stood silently now, her hands shaking slightly. Her eyes were wary and concentrated entirely on Red. “I always knew you were acquisitive—and greedy—but I guess I thought it was just an unattractive character trait. Now I find it’s a hell of a lot more than that. It’s a career choice. You’ve invested well, and you’ve had representation at every major auction in the city for the last three years. Your art collection—or whatever I can specifically identify—is second only to the state gallery itself. You’ve bought and sold art for years under your nominees. And your main agent is located in Hong Kong.” Her eyes widened; his didn’t waver. “You bought those sketches, Remy! You bought them for yourself. I don’t have all the details yet, but I will. Somehow you tricked the estate, you tricked Jacky’s wishes, and you tricked Zeke Roswell out of his inheritance. All for your own greed.” “And you’re still not satisfied,” added Carter, stepping up beside him. They stood together, the two men, united in their hatred for the woman in front of them. They breathed together; they shared the same cold anger. There was a sudden sound behind them, the creak of a hinge. Muted light spread across the gallery floor, spilling over their feet. The door to the upstairs apartment had opened wide. Miles Winter stood there, framed at the open doorway, dressed in sweatpants and a garish red T-shirt, staring with astonishment at the gathering in

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WHEN Miles followed Zeke up to the apartment at the end of the show, leaving their friends to lock up, he fell happily onto the couch with him, kissing and talking about the evening, how they felt and what they thought would be their future. Then Zeke had yawned loudly in Miles’ face, and Miles laughed instead. He undressed Zeke, gently and protectively, and lay down beside him on the narrow bed. “Got to get a bigger bed,” Zeke sighed. He’d yawned again. “Your damned hips are too bony….” And then his eyes closed. Miles watched him fall asleep, quickly and deeply, exhausted by the day’s events. They’d not even had sex. He didn’t mind. It was a measure of what they’d been through that they wanted to lie together. That it wasn’t just their desire leading them for once. But he found he couldn’t settle himself as quickly; there was too much going around in his mind. He undressed and lay quietly beside Zeke, his arm around him, listening to his lover’s thick, relaxed breathing and staring at the walls. There was a hell of a lot to think about, of course. The exhibition had been another incredible success, and he thought that Zeke’s career might be racing ahead of anything they’d ever imagined. He realized what a vibrant, unpredictable talent he’d snared in Zeke Roswell. He was glad for him—of course he was—but he couldn’t help but think Zeke wouldn’t want to stay in this gallery. Given the choice, he’d probably want to work elsewhere. He might travel; he might look for a gallery of his own again one day. He’ll leave me. Miles knew he was being unreasonable. He and Zeke had something special, didn’t they? They’d be together, however far he traveled. He just wouldn’t have him with him—like this, in bed beside him. Every night. And the gifted picture… dear God, the picture! Miles had been blown away by it. His appreciation of art had come to him only lately, but it had been a deep and rewarding interest. He acquired pieces for his collection that were his own personal choices, that spoke to him in some way. He didn’t broadcast what he owned; he’d rarely shown them, though he’d made some of the paintings available to Zeke for the exhibitions. But Zeke’s drawing had been created for him. It had spoken Zeke’s thoughts to him, displayed Zeke’s emotions. Miles felt that it wasn’t just a gift for him, but for them. When he thought of it, he thought of joy; of desire; of the connection between them. Of the future.

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Clare London He wasn’t sure what first made him aware of the noises down in the gallery, but he was alert in a moment. He pulled on the easiest things he could find— some clean sweats of Zeke’s that lay by the bed, and a T-shirt that was slightly more modest than Zeke’s usual look—and went down to investigate. He couldn’t believe that Red was still down there, or Carter. Hadn’t he heard the lock of the door some hours ago? When he peered down the stairwell, he couldn’t see much light from the gallery. He went down the steps warily, and opened the door very slightly at first. No one noticed him. It had been a surprise to see Red and Carter, standing in the semi-darkness. It had been even more of a shock to see Remy Dion there as well. He’d listened to their conversation for a while until he became incredibly, fiercely angry. He pushed the door wide open and stepped forward into the gallery to join the unlikely gathering. “Miles.” Red was startled. “What did you hear?” Miles stared back. This determination was a side of Red that he’d rarely seen, though he understood the other man’s aggression. “Enough. Is this why you two stayed late?” Carter nodded. “We thought she’d come tonight. The temptation would be irresistible, with both you and Zeke at the exhibition, and the potential of the sketches being here all the time. Because there were so many paintings here, we thought she’d suspect that there might be even more, hidden or stored away on the premises.” Carter’s voice was tired, and his face looked pale and drawn. “You know, I may have mentioned something of the sort during the exhibition,” murmured Red. “Within earshot of a few of her loose-tongued assistants. Guess the rumor got passed on, eh?” “Bastard….” Remy’s voice hissed with vitriol. “You set me up?” “We already suspected her for the other break-ins.” Carter was ignoring her, talking to Miles. “She’s been following you and Zeke around for months, trying to find the damned sketches. We wanted to force it out into the open.” He looked as if he were regretting the whole thing, now; as if he wasn’t sure where they went from here. “Call the police then,” said Miles, sharply. They all stared at him. Remy’s laugh cut like a blade through the tension. “Things are that simple for you, aren’t they, Miles Winter? Decide what you want and make the decision. That was one thing I found attractive about you in the first place: a singlemindedness I can recognize in myself. But what are you going to say to the police? You’ve no proof that I’ve committed any crime.” Her lips were curling in

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True Colors a smile again. “Just the fantasies of your amateur detective buddies here.” “You’ve broken in,” Miles stated. His jaw tightened. She laughed. “Who’d believe I was some kind of a burglar? How ridiculous you’ll all look, three grown men harassing a young woman like myself. A popular, famous, fairly simple young woman.” Her eyes were sly again. “After all, didn’t you invite me here tonight, yourself? I’m sure that’s what I remember. I think you may have wanted to apologize to me—in a more private setting—for your neglect of me earlier. And that’s what my story will be if you try to suggest I forced my way in here uninvited.” She drew herself to her full height. In the black clothing, even though it looked faintly bizarre, she was tall and elegant and impossibly beautiful. She demanded attention. Her charisma told the story her way. “And you have nothing to connect me with any other… ah… similar visits.” “There were fingerprints taken by the police, both times,” stated Miles. “You were obviously careless during some of those visits.” Her eyes flashed a warning at him, a measure of her anger, though her expression was pitying. “But even if it were me, honey, it’s not as if I’m on file, is it? And if they attempt to take my prints for comparison, without my permission, I’ll sue, believe me.” “They don’t need to,” said Miles, softly. “What?” “We have your prints already,” he continued. “Voluntarily given. They can easily be used as a comparison.” He looked over Carter’s shoulder and Remy followed his gaze. Ahead of them was the Perspex screen, glowing faintly from the localized light. There was a riot of colored marks all over it, the evidence of a fun and frivolous time had by all, that very evening. Marks of the individual fingerprints of all the guests…. Red paint; blue; yellow. Remy went white. Red stepped forward again, to stand by Miles’ side. “Give it up, Remy. Admit it all. You’ve been discovered. Perhaps we can come to some kind of an agreement for you to leave Miles alone….” Miles put out a hand to stop his friend. “No, Red. No agreement.” He walked toward Remy. He saw she tried not to flinch as he came within striking distance, though he kept his hands at his sides. Despite the casual clothes and the obvious evidence that he’d been in bed, he knew his eyes were cold and sharp. As if he were in a board meeting; as if he were in charge of the whole agenda.

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Clare London “I always wondered why you dated me in the first place, Remy. Anyone who knows me realizes I’m hardly a typical designer accessory. I understand now it was because I had an art collection. That’s how we met, after all. And of course, I was planning to buy the old Roswell gallery at the time. Yet another good reason to cultivate my company.” She didn’t reply. She looked as if she were considering escape, as her feet shifted slightly. Miles kept his voice low, but he knew they could all hear him clearly. “You spoke of single-mindedness, Remy. How far were you prepared to go to get what you wanted?” She cleared her throat. “You want me to say I bought the sketches, right?” “No—I mean everything you wanted. Not just the goods. The payback as well.” “What the hell do you mean?” The other two were staring between Miles and Remy. Carter looked confused; Red looked shocked. Miles continued, relentlessly. “You tried to get into my collection when you broke into my house. I assume you were looking for the missing sketches. Perhaps you thought Zeke had passed them to me when I bought the gallery. I don’t know what your twisted thought processes may have been. You failed, but you set fire to my office regardless.” “I….” “You set fire to my house,” he repeated. “It could only have been you. Why did you do that? It was such a spiteful, purely malicious thing. Was it because you were unsuccessful? Or because I was ignoring you—because I was bringing our relationship to an end?” She pouted. “No one finishes with me, Miles. I choose who I have and who I leave.” “Did that apply to Jacky Roswell as well?” “Miles?” came Carter’s questioning voice behind him. Miles ignored it. “Remy,” he said. “Was it payback with Jacky as well?” “What is he saying?” whispered Red, his hand on Carter’s arm. “Fuck you, Miles,” snarled Remy.

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True Colors “Like Red said.” Miles pressed on as if she hadn’t spoken. “We all see Remy the model, the sweet girl, the girl who struggles with business issues. The young woman who is a gorgeous, undemanding ornament. What about the woman who has the supreme arrogance to expect everything her own way?” Remy bit back an angry, sobbing sound. “The woman who is obsessed with being the best. With winning; with getting what she wants. The woman who is continually aware of how she looks and how she dresses. Who eats less than a bird. Who smokes to keep her weight down….” “No!” Carter’s cry came from behind him, soft and anguished. Miles had no time now for explanation or reassurance. His gaze remained on Remy. “I had to have them, Miles,” she said, her voice a whimper now. She, also, had eyes only for him. “They were beautiful. I had to have them! And he promised them to me; he did. But after the accident, the sale had to be fast, you know? Had to be finalized before the lawyers wrapped it all up in the estate.” “I know you bought the sketches afterward, Remy. We’ll talk about what fraudulent methods you used at another time. But what happened on the actual night of the show? The night of the accident, as you say?” Her eyes flickered to Carter and Red and back again. She wouldn’t look directly at Miles now. “He was mad, Miles. Quite mad. Did you ever meet him? I could see he was tiring of me. He told me as much that night. I think he had his eyes on a student who was following him around; I was redundant by then. He wanted to finish with me. But I made sure he took me home with him. I can’t remember what I said to convince him. Something about how he’d be wise to keep me sweet for a little longer.” She chewed gently at her lower lip. “Perhaps I said I’d turn my attentions to his precious baby brother. I’d heard he was always interested in willing companions, and maybe he needed education in the tastes of his big brother Jacky.” Behind him, Miles heard Carter catch his breath. Red moved closer to the brown-haired man, as if to support him. Remy continued to whine. “He wouldn’t talk about the sketches, wouldn’t honor the deal. I’d offered to give him a ridiculously good price; I offered whatever else he wanted from me. I’d pleased him enough times before to know what he liked. But he just laughed.” There was a strange, high tone to her voice. “When we first met, he’d offered me the six. Then he changed; it was only the four to be shown. Now he was saying that none of them were for sale—none of them for me.”

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Clare London Miles bit his lip hard, holding back his own protests. “He’d drunk too much as usual. He didn’t want me in bed. Didn’t want me at all. He just wanted new and more unattractive ways of telling me so. He wouldn’t listen about the sketches, wouldn’t sign anything.” Remy was rambling now, and swaying slightly on her feet. “He refused to tell me where the missing two were hidden. He kept blabbing on about Zeke…. I guess I may have suggested at one stage that if he was that fond of baby brother, it ought to be him that Jacky went to bed with.” Miles let out a groan. She lifted her eyes now. “Don’t be so shocked, Miles. You’re ready enough to pursue your own pleasures with him, aren’t you? I was damned angry. Surely you can understand that?” “Did you fight?” he asked, keeping his voice low. Business associates had sometimes described that tone as soft and gentle as a gloved claw. “Yeah. We fought,” she snarled back at him. “You know how I like it rough sometimes, don’t you, Miles? Not that you’ve ever played those games properly with me… not like Jacky did. But this was no game, I guess. He slapped me, and I pushed back at him. He fell against the easel and hit his head. I think he was unconscious for a while. I was shaky myself. I’d dropped my bag. I’d dropped everything….” Miles glared at her. She rattled out her reply as if he’d demanded it of her; as if she were scared of what he’d do if she refused him. “It was an accident, sweetie. You know that antique lighter of mine? It’s always been faulty. The flame flares up too easily; the cover is loose. A spark from it caught at a canvas, and the fabric started to burn.” Her eyes were glazed now, as if she were having trouble remembering. Or acting as if she did. “It’s a beautiful thing, fire. Isn’t it?” Unconsciously, her tongue slipped out and licked at her lips. “Very clean; very true. It was good to see it licking all over his precious stuff: his canvases, and pencil sets, and easel… his furniture… all the good things of life that he said he treasured….” There was a sound like a sob from behind Miles. “Did you try to put the fire out?” asked Miles. The words sounded stilted. “Try to rouse Jacky?” Her eyes widened. “Heavens, that would have been very dangerous for me, wouldn’t it? If he’d woken, he might have hurt me even more. I can’t risk personal injury in my profession. And he’d made it clear that everything was

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True Colors over. I had to go, Miles. I had to get to safety. I gathered up a few of his papers that were on the nearest table, just out of instinct, you understand. And I left.” She drew a deep sigh, as if satisfied with the effort she’d put into the tale. “He deserved everything he got, Miles. I picked up my stuff, and I got a cab home.” “The whole place burned down,” growled Miles. “You took papers with his signature, so that you could forge the sale of the sketches, and you ran away. You never told anyone. You never told them that it was you at Jacky’s that night.” She looked at him as if he were mad. “Why would I do that? It was never my fault. I couldn’t be associated with such a thing. There was no need, Miles. No need.” Her slim shoulders almost shrugged. “Was there?” The atmosphere in the gallery around him was of shock, of suppressed pain and horrified disbelief. Carter’s white face shone like a mask of horror in the dim light; Red was making a swift call to the police on his cell phone, his eyes flashing to and from the man at his side. Miles stared at Remy, and felt nothing but cold disgust. “That’s what gave you the idea about setting the fire at my place, wasn’t it? You got the taste for it, for seeing flames burn whatever had disappointed you; whoever had rejected you.” “Miles, I…,” she said, just the once. The rest of her sentence dried up. “You stole Zeke’s sketches, Remy,” he said. “Just pictures, Miles,” she pouted. “Why is everyone so upset? It’s just business.” “Was Jacky just business? He was a person. He died. He was Zeke’s brother; Carter’s lover. What has your greed done, Remy?” “Zeke, Zeke, your little fuck buddy,” she snapped back, her gorgeous face distorted by the ugly words. “That’s all you can talk about, ever since you met him. Both of you, just playing at art. What the hell do either of you deserve? I saw you both at the exhibition—making out, for the whole damned city to see. Guess that’s why you never managed much for me, honey. Why you were such a damned disappointment in bed.” Miles smiled, though he felt no amusement. “I’d have said it was more to do with your own lack of sincerity, honey. Can’t help it if I find that level of superficiality less than desirable.” Behind him, someone cleared a dry throat, startling him. “He’s right, Remy. The loss is all yours. In bed, that is. And any blame for that is going to have to lie with you.”

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Clare London Miles’ blood ran hot at the sound of the new voice, at the most familiar voice. The body behind him was a warm shadow, and even as he moved to protect it, he shivered with the remembered delight of its touch. “Zeke…?” Zeke Roswell was awake, downstairs in the gallery, and standing beside him. Remy broke into loud, helpless sobs.

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THE police had come and gone, and Remy Dion had gone with them: a tall, beautiful figure, despite her astonishing outfit and tear-streaked face, and almost welcoming the attention she was getting. She had no further words for any of the men in the gallery. The police had suggested she call her lawyer, but she seemed more interested in calling her PA to have fresh clothes sent over. The officers were dismissive, having seen shock and denial too many times before, but Red rolled his eyes with disgust. He handled the liaison with the police as best and as swiftly as he could, but he felt surprisingly shaken. Closing the door behind them and shutting out the night, he turned back to face the gallery room. They’d all be required to make statements in the morning, but as Remy wasn’t denying anything, they’d been told they didn’t need to go to the station with her tonight. Carter stood quietly on one side of the Perspex screen. He’d watched the activity of Remy’s arrest without entering into it at all. Miles had taken Zeke aside and they were talking together in low, urgent voices. Red went over to Carter. It would have looked ridiculous to ignore him, wouldn’t it? Besides, that was the last thing he wanted to do. “Carter, are you okay? All that about the fire… and Jacky. I never imagined Remy was involved to that degree.” “Neither did I,” said Carter. His voice was cool, as if drained of life’s warmth. “I’m….” Red grimaced. Dammit. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this tongue-tied. “I’m deeply sorry to have dragged you into this. If I hadn’t

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Clare London gone digging around in Remy’s past, setting ridiculous traps for her with the gallery….” Red cursed himself for his clumsiness. He wanted desperately to do right by Carter, but he’d never felt so awkward, so unsure of how to deal with the man beside him. He was aghast at the way that the night had ended. “It was never your fault, Red,” said Carter, and for a second there was the flicker of animation returning to his face. “I never wanted to think of that night, to imagine what it would have been like for him. But now that I know, I think I can face it again. I can remember him without the uncertainty and the fear being there. It’s odd….” He shook his head, as if he were amazed at himself. “You know—I never told anyone that before. I never talked about it to anyone before.” His voice was almost a whisper. Red couldn’t help himself; he laid his hand on Carter’s shoulder. Perhaps it was too personal a gesture for such a self-contained man as Carter Davison, but he didn’t shake off the comforting touch. “That was the most astonishin’ thing I ever saw,” Red said, gently. “To talk about the man like you did. To tell her the things you did. I can’t imagine I’d ever have the balls to do that myself. I’d never have the courage.” “It was the truth,” said Carter, flatly. “It hurt you,” said Red. His throat felt very tight and his voice sounded hoarse, rather ugly. “Christ, it must have hurt you more than anythin’….” “No.” replied Carter, sharply. He turned and stared directly at Red. His eyes were bright again. He still looked immensely tired, but there was something fiercely alight in him now. “It was no worse than any other time with Jacky Roswell. No worse than any other jealousy or misery that he brought me. He was always sorry, believe me. He begged me—often—to stay with him, to forget all the others. They meant nothing. He genuinely believed it. He genuinely loved me. And I loved him in return. I wouldn’t have left him, not for that, anyway. Don’t you think that’s pathetic?” Red’s eyes widened sharply. “I don’t know anyone less deserving of that description than you, Carter Davison.” Carter continued to stare at him, but his eyes softened. “I envy you, in all truth,” Red said, slowly. “I’m jealous. Dammit, that’s not somethin’ you’re going to hear from my lips too often. But it’s somethin’ precious, to know what you want—to treasure it. Despite the pain that comes with it.” Carter smiled and shook his head, but gently, as if he’d heard something surprising but pleasing. “Precious, yes. Treasure it, no. I’m starting to think a little more clearly now, I think. Zeke tried to tell me that I should move on, but I

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True Colors only half-listened. Gave him plenty of advice, but took none myself.” “Don’t beat yourself up, for God’s sake—” “Hush, Red,” said Carter. Red smiled wryly. Just how many people would’ve laughed to see how willingly he complied? “I loved Jacky. I’m not ashamed to say it. And it was the best time of my life so far.” “So far…?” Red’s heart was beating way too fast. His voice was so quiet he thought Carter probably didn’t hear him. “But it was a time full of shit as well.” Carter’s eyes were wide now, and his mouth set tight. There were mixed expressions of astonishment and hopefulness on his face. He seemed to be finding his shocked feelings both strange and amusing. Red felt a humbling gratitude for being able to see them; for Carter allowing him to. He wondered when the hell he’d become so poetic. “Now Jacky’s gone,” continued Carter. “And all that went with him. I think I want something rather more rewarding now; something more mature.” “Will you let me help you look for it?” Red was startled at the tone of his voice. It had lost its seductive timbre and sounded rather childlike. “Maybe.” Carter frowned and laughed at the same time, as if he didn’t really understand where he was, or believe what had happened. “We’ve got statements to make first; Zeke and Miles to protect. When this news breaks….” Miles appeared at Red’s shoulder, taking his arm. Zeke’s pale face loomed over his shoulder. “Red, we’re going to stay here for the moment, but can you organize some secure transport for us, to be on my call? I really don’t think Zeke is up to any questioning, official or otherwise. We need a temporary break from it all.” “Sure,” said Red. He flipped the cell phone open again, perfectly happy to wake his contacts well before dawn. Carter moved away to stand by Zeke and their heads dipped in some private conversation, their voices too low for anyone else to hear them.

MILES felt exhausted. It wasn’t just physical, though he was tired from the show. No, it was a deep, saturating, emotional weariness.

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Clare London If he was affected so much, how the hell was Zeke coping with it all? Behind him, Red closed his cell, having cheerfully overridden all complaints and sleepy confusion at the security firm. “You’re a cool cookie, Winter,” he murmured. “When did you start to suspect Remy for the whole fire episode?” “I didn’t,” said Miles, bluntly. “When my house was set on fire that time, I came here to see Zeke. That’s when he told me more about his own story. I think I started to think then, about the connections between art and fire—the people who were common to us both. I didn’t have Remy in that category, I admit. But there were coincidences that hadn’t been explained; too many mysteries for my liking.” Red smiled. “You’re not at the top of the corporate tree by accident, hon. Tenacity is just one of your middle names.” Miles shook his head, dismissing the teasing. “But it wasn’t until I heard your conversations with her—you and Carter—that I knew she’d been with Jacky Roswell as well. It was the final piece of the jigsaw that I needed, to expose the fate of the sketches. And to confirm my suspicions about the fire that killed him.” “Told you to read the damned gossip press,” grumbled Red. “We might have worked this all out sooner if we’d known more about what Remy was up to. Your damned staff knows more about our social circle than we do ourselves.” Miles looked back at Carter and Zeke, now hugging. “Damned sap,” muttered Red, though he looked suspiciously moved. “Damned night this has been.” “Go and look after him, Red,” said Miles, knowing that Red would know who he meant. “If he lets me.” Red grimaced. “I’d kind of like him lookin’ after me as well, in return.” “I can’t say I’d envy him the job.” Miles smiled. “Will you come with us when the car arrives?” Red shook his head, grinning back. “I’ll go with Carter now, I think, to see him home okay. Whether he wants me to or not. He’s the sort of guy who’s going to need some persuadin’ that he needs me as a chaperone, you know?” He ignored Miles’ amused look. “And besides, I’m not going to play third wheel for anyone, let alone Mr. and Mr. Outrageous Couple.” He laughed and pressed Miles’ shoulder in support. “Call the guys when you want the limo delivered. And call me when you need me, hon, okay? I’ll see you’re both all right.”

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THE dawn light was creeping through the dim sky outside. It shone mistily across the bare floor of the studio room. Miles yawned, unable to hold back his tiredness. Zeke sat on his couch, legs curled up underneath him. He had just his shorts on, though Miles had insisted on draping a soft blanket around his bare shoulders. His hair was loose, curling on his shoulders. Miles had brought in two cups of strong, heavily sugared tea, but neither of them had touched a sip. He sat now at the very edge of the cushion, just like he’d done that first time, seemingly a million years ago, when he barely knew Zeke. Zeke’s clothes felt unfamiliar on his body. He wanted to reach out to the other man, and touch his face—to caress it—but he kept his hands to himself. He didn’t know what Zeke was feeling, and it worried him. Zeke looked up at him, frowning as if he felt the vibrations of Miles’ desire and confusion. “Miles, are you okay?” “Me?” “Uh-huh. About Remy. You know. She tried to fool you with just about everything….” “Christ, Zeke, of course I am.” Miles wanted to laugh, but he didn’t want to sound heartless. Remy may have fooled him, but what did that matter? It didn’t do her any good in the end. She’d never reached his heart. And it was nothing compared to the hurt she’d caused Zeke. “I would have done anything to stop you hearing all that tonight,” he said, hoarsely. It was Zeke’s turn to protest. His eyes were wide. “Why? Isn’t it better I know the truth? It answered so many of my questions. Who Jacky was with; what really happened that night; how the accident ever came to be. And it was a damned sight worse for Carter to relive all the memories.” “You can go to him if you want….” “Nah.” Zeke smiled, sleepily. “He’s got Red for the moment—even if he had to forego the hot sex on the catalog table.” “You… look, are you going to be okay about all this?” asked Miles. The revelations of the night had been stunning. Was Zeke in shock? Distraught? “Fuck it,” Zeke swore. He suddenly stretched his arms high above his head, the joints popping and the long fingers locking his hands together. The blanket

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Clare London shifted down his back, exposing the glistening skin and muscles of his torso. “Of course I’m going to be okay. What am I, a kid brother for the rest of my life? I don’t want that shit to consume me again, Miles. It’s too long gone. I’ve got to move on, haven’t I? Jacky himself would want me to keep going.” “To keep painting?” asked Miles. “I understand. You wanted something to remember him by. Perhaps your drawing tonight…?” Zeke frowned again, and sighed. “No, Miles. Dammit, how does a guy as thick-headed as you ever get to run a successful business? 4:Y has nothing to do with Jacky. Yeah, maybe I’ll draw something for him—about him—in the future. But the drawing tonight was for you alone. I’ll keep my memorials to the dead for another day.” Miles wanted to ask what plans Zeke might have for the future; when he might want to “move on,” as he said. No, I don’t. His head hurt. What the hell kind of masochist am I? And he knew that now was most definitely not the time to be discussing such things. “Zeke….” He swallowed, and started again. “Zeke, can I hold you?” Zeke’s smile was a pale imitation of other nights, but it was recognizable. He patted at the couch beside him, and Miles moved quickly along to sit there. He could feel Zeke’s warm skin close by, and his even breath warming the hairs on Miles’ shoulder, each time he exhaled. They sat silently for a moment, just gazing at each other. “You going to hold me, then, or was it all talk?” Zeke said softly. He was smirking. “I assume we’re not going back to bed, and the sun’s going to be up in no time, and this sappy look-into-my-eyes crap isn’t as warm as that blanket by any stretch of the imagination.” “Well, for a romantic offer like that….” Miles grinned back. He slid an arm around the other man’s back and the two of them melded together comfortably. He touched his lips gently to Zeke’s, but Zeke’s mouth opened greedily, and he leaned into the kiss with an awakening passion. “You been promising me this since you jumped me at the show, Winter,” moaned Zeke. They sank back where they sat, holding each other closely, leaning against the soft cushions. Miles could feel their hearts beating faster, his chest against Zeke’s. He could feel the goose bumps rising across his shoulders and down his arms. “I remember you doing the jumping, Roswell,” he murmured. Everything tasted so

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True Colors sharp and sweet tonight. He could see Zeke’s torso moving with the slightest breath; he could hear the soft bubbles in his throat as he swallowed. Zeke’s lips were rich and plump and tasted of everything good, from raspberries to toothpaste. Everything was bright and precious and rich beyond money…. “Zeke, come back with me now.” “To your apartment?” Zeke’s voice was a mumble. He was fumbling at Miles’ waistband, tugging at the sweats and trying to slide a hand inside. Miles felt the other hand move up under his thin T-shirt, pinching at his nipples mischievously. He wasn’t sure where the other six hands came from, but that’s what the touches felt like all over his body. “No, not the apartment.” Miles arched under him, his breath painfully excited in his throat. Zeke was licking his throat now, and the warm, rough tongue was like a particularly erotic cat’s. “Come back to my house. We won’t be disturbed there, and I want to show you something.” “Something on show here, right now,” chuckled Zeke. His mouth was on Miles’ neck, but his eyes were hunting at his tented lap, and had found their willing prey. “It’s eyeful enough for me.” “No…,” groaned Miles. “More than this.” Zeke sighed, sounding unconvinced. His hand slid triumphantly inside the sweats, and curled possessively around Miles’ rapidly swelling cock. When he spoke, he was breathless with desire. Needy. “Need you, Miles. Need your touch—need to feel you. Can’t see what we can get there that we can’t get here, unless… you got a bigger bed?” Miles laughed. Zeke’s touch was magnificent, sure and firm and seductive. He was aching fiercely for him already. “Sure. Several bedrooms, in fact. We could play musical beds… keep us amused for hours….” Zeke’s answering laugh was soft and wickedly sensual. “Woke up earlier with a raging hard-on, Winter, and where were you?” Facing that drama downstairs, remember? But Miles smiled. Zeke knew, of course. “Still aches,” Zeke murmured. “Aches deep and hard.” He grabbed a handful of the shirt Miles was wearing. “I like the look of you in my clothes, man. Red could really be your color.” He sighed. “And I’m going to like you a lot better out of ’em.” He nudged the sweats down over Miles’ thighs, exposing his bare skin. Miles gasped. His thick, hot cock bobbed up with the delight of freedom,

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Clare London glistening with urgent excitement. Zeke chuckled with pleasure, and then slid carefully off the couch. His body nestled between Miles’ outstretched legs, his head at his groin. He took a generous handful of Miles’ aching, shifting balls and blew gently on them. Miles groaned loudly. And then Zeke’s firm, damp lips engulfed him. Greedily. “So when do you want to go to your place?” The words were muffled, vibrating around the oversensitive flesh of Miles’ shaft. “Now is fine,” Miles gasped. How did Zeke do that? Talk and suck so magnificently at the same time? “Right now?” teased Zeke. Miles groaned again. His lover’s tongue was lapping softly at the length of his cock, tugging the skin up and down, tormenting the exposed crown and flipping the tip of his tongue against it. It’s been a hell of a night. Miles barely understood how, after all that had happened, he could feel so desperate for sex. For Zeke. He was only just realizing how charged he felt; how his body thrummed with suppressed emotion and desire. With need. “Soon, then.” His voice gargled in the back of his throat. “Okay,” murmured Zeke, with more soft laughter. His mouth paused in its work and he pulled a little away from Miles’ groin, to be able to speak more clearly. “Soon is good; that’s agreed then. Take me to yours and find me some decent breakfast, and perhaps we’ll hide out there for a few days—and nights. I can live with that.” He swallowed carefully, as if he were afraid of getting too serious. “I want us together today, Miles—and tonight. I want to know it’s all over with Remy Dion, and the gallery’s still here, and the guys are still with us, wherever they are, and the secrets are all gone….” Miles couldn’t speak, but he nodded. Zeke tightened his lips again around the crown of Miles’ cock and teased out a drop of pre-come with his tongue. Miles didn’t recognize the sound that came out of his mouth, a mixture between an anguished yelp and a whimper. Zeke’s voice was in his head; murmuring around his swollen flesh. It was all part of the caress, all part of the worship. “Miles, I want to know that you’re still here….” “I don’t want to be anywhere else,” whispered Miles. “Don’t let me go,” Zeke whispered back. He was very flushed. “It’s not just your smooth talk I’m hearing, right?” He let Miles’ cock slip completely off his tongue and stared up at him, drops of saliva shining on his mouth. He was panting, looking very wild, and his tongue flickered out and licked at his lips. He

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True Colors grinned. “You look incredibly sexy,” he growled. “Taste it too. Spread out for me, cock straining out of your pants, calling out its need. Time for you to come for me, I think.” He pressed Miles’ thighs farther apart, hampered a little by the sweats down below the hips, and his long fingers folded deliberately around Miles’ cock. Miles sucked in a breath, but all Zeke did was squeeze him gently. A lone fingertip teased at the little thread of skin attached to the crown. It was superb, agonizing. Miles glared at his tormentor, kneeling in front of him. The sensation of that simple touch was astonishingly acute. He growled with frustration. “Harder, Zeke.” “Ohhh no.” Zeke grinned at him, his eyes bright with mischief. “This’ll do it, Miles, just as well. Softly… slowly. This’ll have the required effect, I promise you.” Miles shuddered, his mouth opening in a strange, silent groan. He shut his eyes and lifted his hands, helplessly, seeking some kind of friction. But Zeke’s firm, deliberate touch kept the control just out of his reach. “Hurts, Zeke… Christ. Need more.” Zeke hushed him, laughing softly. The pads of his fingertips stroked; patted; teased. Miles sighed. Fabulous. Agonizing…. His eyes opened abruptly, suddenly very wide. A wave of involuntary sensation was rolling out along his nerves and his body shivered in anticipation of something it no longer had control over. “Shit. But how… that’s… oh my God.” “I think we know what’s happening here,” Zeke murmured. He didn’t stop stroking, didn’t increase the pace. “Relax. Let it come.” “I can’t stop it,” groaned Miles, in protest. His thighs shook with tension and his heart was racing. The ecstasy was rich, and precious, and coiling tightly in his gut. He’d never known such a feeling, without fierce stimulation around his cock; he’d never known such a gentle, simple, devastating touch. “Don’t try,” Zeke ordered. He sat back on his heels, just his fingers playing with the shuddering shaft, jutting out from between Miles’ legs. He bit gently at his lower lip, watching the skin stretching over the engorged flesh. His other hand strayed carelessly to his own lap. “Let it come, Miles. Come for me, man.” Miles arched high, unable to stop the force of his reaction. His head went backward, hard against the couch, and his feet lifted from the floor. He no longer had any feeling for whether Zeke still held him or not. All he could feel was the throb of release, and the heat bursting from the tip of his cock; damp, angry

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Clare London spurts, running down the column of purple-red flesh, covering his lower belly, covering the retreating fingers of his lover, who was laughing, laughing, with delight and his own excitement. “For you, you bastard,” he gasped, laughing as well as sobbing, his flesh rippling with the aftershock. “All for you.”

ZEKE watched as Miles came slowly back to his senses. Better than any movie. He smiled at Miles’ dazed expression and sat back on his heels. Making sure Miles was following every move, he licked the sticky threads of Miles’ come from his fingers. One by one. Very carefully. Miles gasped and reached out, clumsily trying to grab Zeke, but Zeke laughed and moved faster. He knelt up and pushed Miles back onto the couch cushions. He slid his hands under Miles’ T-shirt and peeled it up and over Miles’ head. Zeke was surprised to find he was clumsy too. Maybe it was the events of this evening, taking their toll; maybe it was the sexy, possessive look in Miles’ eyes. Whatever the reason, it took a couple of tangled attempts to get Miles’ clothes off. He wriggled when one of his arms got caught in the cotton fabric, and cursed when he tried to kick off his sweats but they got bunched around his ankles. Zeke wanted to laugh; he also wanted to suck in that moment’s breath and keep it forever. Didn’t know what the hell he wanted, really. Smiling, he grabbed the discarded shirt and, ignoring Miles’ protests about struggling to the bathroom, wiped his lover’s belly with it, cleaning off the rest of the warm, glutinous seed. Then he stripped off his shorts. They were both naked; they were grinning hungrily at each other; they both knew exactly what they wanted. “Bloody couch,” Miles muttered. He pulled himself fully upright and when his weight made the cushion bounce, took advantage of it to push Zeke back down instead. Their mouths nipped and kissed and touched… then Miles got impatient. He grasped Zeke’s thighs and wriggled in between them, spreading them apart. Zeke felt his heart skip some complicated dance movement and his cock bounced up from its nest of damp, dark curls; hot and red and inviting. He gazed

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True Colors at Miles, smiling; loving that look in Miles’ eyes. Yeah. Possessive. That’s it. “That business with the fingerprints, and Remy.” Zeke frowned. Amazing he could still be distracted…. “Was that true, Miles? That they can use the painted prints to connect her with the break-ins?” “I have no idea,” grunted Miles. “Don’t you ever shut up and just enjoy?” His fingertips ran reverently along the vein of Zeke’s shaft. He was watching it spring and flex in ecstatic response. “What? But you sounded so damned sure about it in the gallery….” Miles shrugged. “It was enough to scare her—to make her confess more, I think. That’s all I wanted to do.” “Devious bastard.” Zeke whistled, impressed. He hitched himself up on his elbows, also watching as Miles’ caresses coaxed him fuller and further. Damned hot. “So is that how you do all your business?” “Find out yourself,” whispered Miles. He dipped his head down to Zeke’s groin and lapped underneath the wrinkling sac. “Do I need an appointment, then?” gasped Zeke. He relaxed back into the touch. He’d concentrated on Miles’ enjoyment so far, and now he was aware of the heavy, aching need between his own legs. Miles’ mouth was very insistent; he felt a delicious lassitude creeping over his limbs. His legs stretched wider, his hips straining up to capture Miles’ wet touch. “I can give you ten minutes.” Miles laughed gently. His breath brushed through Zeke’s pubic hairs. “Got nothing else on my calendar at the moment.” “Only ten minutes?” Zeke thought he might protest, but then Miles’ impatient lips were on his cock, and Miles’ strong, confident fingers were probing at his entrance, and he felt his body opening out to Miles as if his very soul were being peeled open. “Damn,” he groaned. “That might… just… be enough. Don’t you ever dare tell anyone how fast I come.” “So shut the fuck up and relax,” growled Miles. He slid his fingers inside Zeke and then Zeke could feel him searching for that very spot, the one he always seemed to find so very easily and surely. Damned quick learner too. He found it. Zeke felt the ripple of agony and ecstasy roll from his head down to his curling toes. Suddenly all the jokes had gone, the banter had deserted him. He could feel the saltiness of tears at the corners of his eyes, and he was scared of what it might mean. Perhaps the shock of the evening was finally catching up with him. Perhaps… it was something else.

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Clare London His body shivered, his arms reaching for Miles. “Hold me, Miles,” he gasped. “That’s what you said you’d do, man.” Please…. “Trust me, Zeke.” Miles’s voice sounded a long way away, and he sounded suddenly worried. Worried for whom? “It’s going to be all right. I’m still here. Always will be, as long as you want me. Let me show you.” He tightened his arm around Zeke’s waist and his lips slid over Zeke’s cock, tugging it away from his belly, deep into Miles’ mouth. Zeke wanted to be with him, wanted to become part of him. He groaned loudly, and his body shuddered, every muscle tensing, every nerve thrilling. “Inside me….” Miles shook his head, his hair brushing Zeke’s belly. “We don’t have anything on hand. Later. Later is fine. I won’t let you go. Let me….” He sucked harder and twisted his fingers inside Zeke’s ass, stroking him, stimulating him. Zeke felt his body arch like a bow, his head falling back, his cock thrusting into Miles’ mouth. “Soon….” Miles laughed, a throaty, happy sound. “Soon is good.” He dragged his tongue along the vein and he crooked his finger so that it pressed one last, sweet time on Zeke’s prostate. Zeke cried loudly when he came in Miles’ mouth. Very loudly, with a voice full of ecstasy and anguish. He cried Miles’ name.

MILES walked across his luxurious dining room and flipped on another light. He hadn’t been here for a few days, but the housekeeping service had been in to dust and get it ready for his next visit. Zeke whistled loudly from the other side of the room. Miles turned around to look at him. He was dressed in a bright, possibly green T-shirt with some barely legible slogan splashed across it, and in jeans that hung low on his hips, and were frayed around the hems. He looked rather underdressed, and totally careless of the fact. Fabulous.

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True Colors “Look at this place. You’ll turn a boy’s head, Miles Winter, with your mansion.” They had called the limo at just after dawn. There’d been no sign of reporters at the gallery at that hour, though Miles decided they shouldn’t wait any longer before the press came looking for them at the scene of the previous night’s drama. They’d showered quickly and he’d dragged his suit and shirt back on. Zeke had clambered into clean clothes, grumbling all the while about needing sleep, and Miles had packed a few things for him to take, in case they stayed away for a few days or more. Miles had packed up the 4:Y picture, Zeke had thrown in a sketch pad and set of pencils, and then the limo had arrived to take them to Miles’ house. Miles now leaned against the back of a chair, watching Zeke’s gaze roam all over the room. He resisted the urge to check the zipper of his pants. He was sure it was discreetly fastened. Or should be. He sighed. It had been an eventful journey here for all of them: him, Zeke, and Zeke’s rampant libido. Miles had found just enough time to close the hatch in the limo before Zeke fell on his lap with laughter and lips. Then he’d barely pushed them both through the front door of his house before Zeke had pushed him against the wall, slipped his jacket off onto the floor, and began nipping at his neck. Miles was damned glad there were no permanent staff here. He pushed the chair back under the table, at the same time trying to push away a fantasy that nagged at him. A vision of peeling those outrageous clothes off Zeke; of laying his naked body back on this very table; of kneeling up on the chair so that he was just the right height to wriggle between Zeke’s thighs. Then Zeke reaching for his pants zipper—again—with one hand and brandishing a foil packet in the other. Whispering and urging Miles to take him. Now. Hard. Miles sighed. He was hot again. Damned hot! His hair felt a mess and his business clothes felt sticky on his tired body. He’d never felt so continuously aroused in all his life. He wondered if Zeke would want to do it in every room of the house, not just the bedrooms? He thought it very likely, judging by the stamina of the man’s sexual appetite. And I’ll enjoy every minute. He smiled to himself. They fed off each other; the desire was as eager in both of them. “It’s no mansion, Zeke, just a house. A big one, I guess. I never really thought about it.” “Like hell.” Zeke grinned. He gestured at the full-length tapestry curtains; the well-polished parquet floor; the expensive fittings around the walls. “It’s a gentleman’s room, man. A rich gentleman’s room.” “No, seriously.” Miles spoke slowly. He was surprised that he’d never

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Clare London considered it that way before. Zeke challenged so many things in his life. He provoked him, time and again. “I like the freedom that money gives me. I’m not about to give it all up. But I don’t find that much enjoyment in spending it. I don’t add any more furniture; don’t redecorate any more often. I just like things to be attractive and efficient.” “Cute,” came Zeke’s whisper at his ear. How had he moved around the table so fast? “I’m teasing. You’ll need to work on that sense of humor.” His hand brushed at Miles’ ass, squeezing a cheek. “Doesn’t matter to me whether you’re in a mansion or a mud hut.” He grimaced. “Well, that’s an exaggeration, of course. I’m a little too spoiled now, to squat for relief in a mud hut.” “Does it annoy you? Embarrass you? My money….” Zeke snorted. “What do you think I am, some kind of fortune hunter? I’ve never been embarrassed by money, Miles. Just never had any of my own for any length of time. But it’s useful. It’s….” Description escaped him for a moment. “It’s there, isn’t it? Or it isn’t. I’ve known both.” In the distance, a telephone rang, but Miles didn’t move to answer it. “Red knows to call me on my cell phone,” he said. “So do my managers. And the police, when they want us to go down to the station. Anything else will be journalists or stalkers.” “You sure they won’t be staking out this house as well? The press?” Zeke’s voice was only half-amused. “The security firm will keep a cordon around the grounds. No one can get nearer than the gate without my permission.” Miles reached out and touched Zeke’s cheek. “I said we’d be safe here. We’re hidden for a while.” “To take stock of things?” Zeke suggested. “Yes.” Miles flushed a little. “And so I have the chance to show you the one thing I do spend my money on: my art collection. I want to share it with you.” “Yeah, I remember. I’d said after the show. And I want to see it.” Zeke frowned. “What’s up? Worried how I’ll react to them? Professional jealousy or something?” “Of course not.” Zeke nuzzled against his hand, his eyes softening. “We’re so damned different in some ways, aren’t we? But the same in others. We both love the emotion of paintings; the drama of art. And this is important to you, isn’t it? It’s your personal collection.” Zeke twisted his head and kissed Miles’ palm. “It’s good. I’m honored.”

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True Colors Miles led them out of the dining room and down a corridor. They passed a lounge and several other small rooms. At the far end was a single door, unremarkable except for its heavy security bolts and alarmed entry pad. “Hey, Miles.” Zeke was smiling as Miles unlocked the door. “They’re not all going to be black and white, are they? You having your special disability, or whatever.” He yawned and lifted a hand to his mouth, trying to hide his tiredness. “No offense meant….” “None taken,” said Miles, softly. Then the paintings were there in front of the both of them—and Zeke was struck with temporary speechlessness. The door had opened into a long, rectangular room, with tastefully dimmed lighting that came on automatically as they entered. Miles knew it well, of course. He immediately felt at home. There were several padded leather couches running along the center of the room, where he’d often sat on his own for hours at a time. Against the walls were low cupboards with wide, shallow drawers like an artist’s bureau. The paintings he’d currently chosen as his favorites were hung in tasteful, expensive frames, and there were only twenty or so in total on display. But it was a magnificent collection. There were examples of several schools of painting, and they spanned several centuries. There was the passionate movement of a Reubens painting; the graphic boldness of a Lichtenstein; an early anatomical sketch of El Greco. Color was present everywhere, but of more importance was the emotion and sensual impact of the content, assailing the spectator from all sides. Miles let his eyes skim across them all, to reassure himself of his pleasure and satisfaction. Then he sighed and relaxed some more. Zeke walked slowly through the room, scouring each painting with what was obviously a critical eye. “Shit, this is great.” He sounded genuinely delighted. “You’re a dark horse, aren’t you? Keeping all these hidden away. Some of these are by my favorite artists. Dammit, a couple of them I thought had left the country. Some artists I’ve never seen work from before, but look at the fire in them. The skill… the detail….” He turned from side to side, his arms instinctively sketching out his impressions. “Miles, look, I want to spend some hours in here, you know? Is that going to be okay? With my pad, with some cool music. You have to let me. You’ve got great taste, man.” He turned to look back at Miles, and it was then that his eyes caught sight of the glossy papers pinned up on the wall by the entrance. Miles watched Zeke pale and heard his words dry up. He was suddenly very afraid of what he might have done; how he might have hurt the man he was beginning to find more important than anything else in his life. “Miles? Shit.”

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Clare London “Forgive me,” Miles rushed to say. “They’re prints. They’re only copies, just for my own interest….” “They’re Jacky’s sketches.” Zeke’s voice was chill. Miles nodded. How could he deny it? There were four pictures spread out on the white walls. They were, of course, only copies, but the quality was excellent, so that the impact of the original sketches could be appreciated. They were striking, even in amongst the other exalted inhabitants of the room. Miles watched Zeke walk toward them, a little unsteadily. How long had it been since he’d seen either the sketches themselves or copies of them? “Since I met you, Zeke—since I heard the story about your history—I’ve been seeking information about the sketches.” Miles was talking swiftly, though he had no idea if Zeke were listening. “Perhaps I just wanted to see them. But then, recently, I talked to Red about it all, and asked him to find details for me. I never realized he’d have the information at hand. He was checking up on Remy at the time. He had these copy prints because he’d been interested in bidding for the sketches himself, when they came up to auction. I asked to have the copies. To display them here.” “It’s like you’re stalking me.” Zeke was whispering. He was only a couple of feet away from the sketches when he stopped, his eyes never moving from them. “Thought I heard you say I’d be safe from that here.” Miles’ gut clenched. “That’s damned unfair, and you know it. You’re being deliberately provocative.” “That’s what being damned unfair is all about,” growled Zeke. Miles bit his lip, trying for restraint. He breathed deeply, holding himself back from approaching Zeke. “I found them so moving. I wanted to spend more time with them. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I know you better, now. I felt I was getting close to you, and I thought….” He paused. Hell, he hadn’t expected to have to apologize, but after the shock of Remy’s confessions, he realized that the sketches might be a lot more to Zeke than just a magnificent piece of art. He hadn’t thought it through, had he? But he had no personal experience of such a complex relationship as that of Zeke and his brother. “You thought….” Zeke echoed. His voice was still flat. “You thought you had the right to own my life as well as your own.” “No,” protested Miles. “Christ, haven’t we been here already? I want you to have your own life, Zeke. I don’t want to own you. Perhaps my thought was that these would be a further connection between us.” He sighed, his anger rising along with his frustration. Everything was so damned close to the surface with

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True Colors Zeke. Miles wasn’t prepared for it; he wasn’t sufficiently armored against this man’s moods. “Guess it’s too much to ask, to get a better understanding of you—” “Too fucking right it is,” snapped Zeke. “You’re pulling away from me again,” Miles growled. He wasn’t going to let this go. “You’re not giving me a chance to explain, what I wanted to know about you….” “There’s nothing to fucking know!” Zeke almost shouted. “I’m nothing, remember?” Miles’ mouth clamped shut. He didn’t have the words, and to be honest, after the trauma of the previous night and the heavy making out they’d done, he didn’t have the energy either. Zeke stopped talking too. He gazed at the pictures, one by one. He put out a hand and touched at the sleek paper. It was a gentle, hesitant touch. As if he were awed by them. Miles tried to empathize with him. After all, this was his history, wasn’t it? The four sketches followed a definite progression. They were a template for Zeke’s life. They weren’t specific drawings of him, but the implication was unmistakable in each. The first one showed the head of a young boy in his early teens, laughing, finding a joke from somewhere around him. The laughter was generous and the grin infectious. So like Zeke. The second showed two heads bent over a pad and pencils, their bodies sketched as far as their torsos, hair falling over each forehead, smiles mirroring each other. And yet they were very separate personalities. This was Jacky and Zeke, presumably, as growing young men. The third sketch was an outside study, of two young men running, playing some game, or maybe just messing around in the park. Their limbs were long and strong, and beautiful in the way of Greek statues. They were contemporary athletes; modern gods. The fourth sketch seemed further on in time, the illustrated figure appearing to be much the same age as both Miles and Zeke were today. It was a more contemplative theme. The featured man was curled in a deep, soft chair, settled comfortably enough but still looking alert, coiled like a spring. The tension was in his limbs, curled under him. The drawn lines were sharper in this sketch, even though there was a softer, deliberate smudging around the profile of his body.

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Clare London “Did that last one just after I bawled him out for upsetting Carter again,” murmured Zeke, a little breathlessly. And then he smiled, his face relaxing with his familiar, rapid change of mood. Miles wondered how long it’d take him to get used to that. “They were damned good, weren’t they?” Miles was unsure of his emotional ground. He stepped forward cautiously. “I… yes, they were. They still are. Zeke, are you upset? I never thought…. It’s too much, after last night….” Zeke turned toward him and reached out, touching his fingers to Miles’ lips, sealing the apologetic words in. “Hush. It’s fine. Guess I’m a little more strung out this morning than I thought I’d be. But that’s no excuse to treat you like that.” He grimaced. “I’m a shit.” “If that’s an apology…,” Miles said, cautiously. His heart was beating too fast and his lips ghosted for more of the touch of Zeke’s fingertips. “It is,” admitted Zeke. “Not something I’ve had much practice with.” “I want you to trust me, Zeke,” said Miles, softly. “Like I trusted you with the gallery. I want to make things good for you.” Zeke sighed. “I know. It’s just… some things you can’t control. The feelings these guys brought out in me… it’s a shock, Miles.” He moved again, even closer to the wall, and he pressed his hand flat on the last picture. “They’re me, aren’t they? Not just me as a theme, but my life in pictures. Like people kept telling me at the time, until I was fucking sick of hearing it anymore. I was glad they were sold, you know?” Miles was startled. “What?” Zeke gave a short, sharp laugh. “I was glad my life would be back in my hands, rather than just on scraps of canvas and in strokes of a pencil. Of Jacky’s pencil. I felt I was only seen as part of Jacky himself. I was only ever in his shadow.” Miles saw Zeke’s shoulders sag. His voice was low but defiant. “And then I was my own person, because he was gone. And the sketches were gone as well.” “But…?” Miles prompted, gently. He moved to stand behind his lover, as Zeke stared at the evidence of his brother’s legacy. Zeke’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “But I missed ’em. I loved them, y’see. Carter said it best: this is the best work Jacky ever did. Carter said he saw Jacky in them; the vibrancy, the depth of his feeling.” Zeke’s shoulders were shaking slightly. “Miss him too, I guess.”

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True Colors Miles couldn’t let that pass. His heart ached for Zeke as if the bereavement had been his own. He reached out, took hold of Zeke’s shoulders and drew him in close. Zeke’s body tensed for a second, and then it relaxed into the embrace. His arm snaked around Miles’ waist and he buried his head in Miles’ shoulder, his face pressed against the silk fabric of his shirt. “You’ll get them back,” said Miles, as firmly as he could around the lump in his throat. “When they find the original sale was fraudulent, they’ll be taken back from her, from Remy. They’ll be returned to you.” He gazed at the pictures himself. “That’s why I’m drawn to them myself, I think, because they’re part of your life. I want to offer you something, Zeke. I want to help you get them back, because they’re yours. They should be with you.” Zeke gave a snort. He ran his hand over his eyes, though he still kept his head tucked away from Miles’ direct sight. “You’re a damned fool, Miles Winter, you know? It’s not your problem. You’ve already given me enough.” Miles sighed. “I was afraid I took from you.” “No,” snapped Zeke. He lifted his head to stare fiercely at Miles. “You didn’t take anything from me, Miles, you hear? Well, actually, you did—but that was misery, and inertia, and self-pity. Guess I can live without them.” “Hey, I just—” “Shut up,” interrupted Zeke. His voice was harsh, but his eyes sparkled. “Look what you’ve done for me already. Given me interest in life again; personal success and satisfaction, all the stuff I thought I’d lost. Christ, what more can I ask?” He grasped at Miles’ shoulders. “It was me who wanted to give—because I’ve been taking from you all this time.” “You gave me your drawing. That was more than I ever expected.” Miles shook his head, not knowing whether to frown or laugh. He wasn’t sure if they were arguing anymore; in fact, he wasn’t entirely sure what this was all about. He also wasn’t sure what Zeke would say if he leaned forward now and kissed that damp, talkative mouth into temporary silence. “I’m damned confused here, Roswell. There appears to be an embarrassment of gifts between us, doesn’t there?” Zeke laughed awkwardly. He was gazing at Miles’ mouth, as if he knew what the other man was thinking. “I’m not sure if that makes us even, Miles. I’m not sure about anything at all.” Miles was sure of one thing right now: he was going to kiss Zeke quiet. “That’s good enough for me at the moment,” he said, firmly. “So kiss me.”

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Clare London And for once in his life, Zeke did what he was told. Miles relaxed into Zeke’s arms, relishing the delicious shivers running through his body. This was enough. All they did was kiss. He tasted Zeke, and savored him, and sucked lightly on his tongue. He felt the muscles of Zeke’s arms under his hands, the soft, jersey fabric of his shirt bunched up in his palm. He also felt the sensual response throughout the other man’s limbs, as they slowly began to relax. Zeke moaned, a deep, soft sound. Miles knew similar sounds were coming from his own throat. But he didn’t need anything more; no more talk, not just yet. Miles kissed his lover into silence, which was exactly what he’d planned to do. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been called arrogant and manipulative, and with a much less delicious motivation. When Zeke broke away finally, slowly, Miles watched him lick up the thin trail of saliva that still bound their mouths. He took a deep, slow breath. “Zeke, there’s more.” “Huh?” Zeke was confused. “You’re some kind of insatiable, Miles.” “No.” Miles shook his head. He tried to smile with a confidence he wasn’t sure he felt. “Not that; not just now. I meant there’s another reason I wanted you to see my collection. Not just because these are some of the few things I really care for, the few things that are close to me, and that I never show to others.” “Except me,” murmured Zeke. “Yes,” agreed Miles. “Let me explain, please?” Zeke nodded. “The sooner I listen, the sooner we can get back to the kissing, right?” Miles bit his lip. “Sorry,” said Zeke. He frowned as if he weren’t sure what he was apologizing for, but he obviously picked up on something in Miles’ tone. “When you started sketching again, that first time I saw your work… it woke something in me. Some recognition.” “Of what?” Miles ignored him. Let me say it in my own time. “I’d never seen the sketches then, you know? But when these prints arrived, and I had a chance to study them, I was even more sure of that feeling.” “Stop with the mysteries,” Zeke groaned. “Hush,” warned Miles. He felt very flushed now. He stepped away from

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True Colors Zeke and went over to one of the low cupboards. “Obviously every artist has their own style. There’s a signature that’s unique. But you admitted yourself, that your work was sometimes reminiscent of your brother’s style. And so I was reminded of a work I already owned, that I bought a couple of years ago.” “What are you telling me?” Zeke’s voice was suddenly very cold. “This mystery about Jacky’s missing sketches—the other two. I think that everyone thought to look for the last two, assuming that either he stopped the series or that the final two were lost somewhere. But I suspect that it was the first ones that were missing—two at the beginning of the series.” Zeke stared at him, his expression strangely blank. “It’s generally assumed that he never finished the series.” Miles ignored him again, and pointed to the prints on the wall in front of them. “You can see the pattern of these four, can’t you? The path toward maturity. This final one shows you almost as you are today—adult. The last in the series. Don’t you see it, Zeke?” Zeke pursed his lips, mulishly. “Don’t see where you’re going with this.” Miles wasn’t sure, but it looked as if Zeke were starting to shiver. “I’ve got one of the earlier sketches, Zeke.” Zeke’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and astonished. “You what?” “Remy was right, in a way, though it was pure coincidence. There was another sketch to be found, and maybe she would have found it, if her break-in had been successful. I just didn’t realize I had it until recently.” Miles’ breath sounded very ragged, even to his own ears. “Until I knew you.” He opened one of the drawers of the cupboard, his hands shaking with excitement. “My agent got it, I never knew where from, and I admit I just stored it away for a while. I didn’t take as much interest as I should have done when I first started collecting. Of course, I always liked and appreciated what I had—like your paintings. I mean, I was fascinated by them. They’re some of my favorites. But you were right in what you said to me once: I never really understood what was involved in art.” He turned back to Zeke, eyes shining. “And then, when I saw you drawing, it was fascinating. I admired you so much; I learned so much. I felt damned inadequate, to tell you the truth. What good was I, just collecting, when you could create?” “Miles….” Miles continued to speak, quickly, overriding Zeke’s protest. He realized he was afraid to let Zeke speak, for fear of what he might say. “And then your style grew familiar to me; something about the movement of the outlines. It reminded

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Clare London me of my own possession, like I said.” He pulled out a small, carefully wrapped package. “I never got to framing it, in all this time…. It felt fragile, you know? I kept it protected in here.” He unfolded the tissue paper and held out the exposed artwork to Zeke. Zeke’s gaze shifted to the offered picture. Miles’ eyes followed the same path. It was another sketch, indeed. A little smaller than the others, but on a similar theme. Held next to the copy sketches, it was obvious that it was by the same artist. It was of a boy—a young boy, less than ten years old, twisting around to look at someone behind him. His face was sketched in just a couple of strokes: a mischievous grin; a wide eye. He had shoulder-length curls, tousled on his head. It was the most identifiable sketch of Zeke in the whole set. It wasn’t as finished as the others, because there were rough lines that hadn’t been inked in, shading that hadn’t been finished. It looked as if it were a practice run—a prelude to later, more mature work. But it held the same magic. Zeke glanced back up to Miles, his expression fierce. His eyes were wet with unshed tears. Miles swallowed carefully, trying to ease his tight throat. “It’s not just the style that was familiar. It was you, as well. It’s so obviously you. It had lodged inside me, even before I knew you personally.” “So there it is.” Zeke grunted. “Shit.” Miles ran his hand back through his hair, confused. Was Zeke pleased? Angry? Dear God, if he’d misjudged this and upset him again…. To Miles, all he could see of his lover’s face was a blank page of amazement. “Zeke?” Zeke didn’t turn to look at Miles. “It’s okay. Just another fucking shock. Seems like an embarrassment of them today, eh? But look. I’m glad you’ve got it, Miles. Honestly.” “Zeke. Talk to me. Please.” When Miles put a hand back on his shoulder, Zeke nudged into the touch. Thank God. “I should’ve been with him that night, you know? The night he died. But we’d had another fight, about Carter as usual. About Jacky seeing other people all the time. Anyway, we were both still sulking and I took myself out for the night, leaving him to go to the show on his own. Or not, as the case might be.” He groaned. “All those other partners; I don’t know why I got so upset. It was just sex for him, and I guess Carter knew that too. It was up to them whether they were content with what they had. I wasn’t very mature about the whole thing, I suppose.” He turned his head around, finally meeting Miles’ gaze. “You look like

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True Colors you gained a picture and lost a gallery, man. That was just me and Jacky, you know? That’s how it went. Yes, he was sort of my sanctuary: I needed him. But it was a role he didn’t particularly enjoy. I suppose I just didn’t want to admit that.” “This is a chance to move on, Zeke,” said Miles, quietly. “There’s no guilt attached to you, now we all know the truth. Your life should never have been so troubled; your career should have been allowed to run its course. You should have been given your chance.” The flicker of suspicion danced in Zeke’s sharp eyes. “Hey, you were at the opening, weren’t you? The opening of the Roswell gallery, when I launched my work, and my brave new career. You bought a painting that night, I know. But I bet you visited in person, as well.” Miles’ eyes widened. How the hell had he guessed? “Yes. I don’t quite know why, because it wasn’t scheduled for me, and I was still buying most of my art through agents. But the gallery was in the same business district—one of the reasons I subsequently wanted to buy it—so I just thought I’d drop in and see what kind of art was being displayed.” “Did you see me?” asked Zeke, slyly. Miles nodded and smiled wryly. Who could have missed Zeke Roswell at the height of his fame? “I saw you. You were front of house, showing all the vibrancy I’ve always admired in others. No, envied, though I was wary of it, as well. You seemed very… outrageous to me, then. But the show was impressive—a show that you apparently designed yourself—and I wanted to own one of your paintings. I remember thinking that I wanted to watch your career, though I pushed it out of my mind over the next year or so.” “Pushed myself out of most minds, all that time,” growled Zeke. “I wanted to watch you,” Miles continued, thoughtfully. “Though I never really questioned why. And I never knew I wanted to know you like this….” “Like what?” murmured Zeke, mischievously. He leaned forward and his mouth breathed warm desire onto Miles’ cheek. Another couple of inches and his lips touched Miles’mouth. Zeke’s fingers sank into his dark, thick hair, and tugged his head toward him for a deeper kiss. Miles groaned. Zeke was the first to break away, panting slightly. “Look, before we start making out on that lumpy leather couch, I want to call someone. Is that okay? She lives near here. I want her to bring me something.” Miles was puzzled. “Bring you something? Look, I’m sorry I shocked you with all this. But I don’t want any more secrets, Zeke.”

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Clare London “No, Miles.” Zeke smiled, his eyes sparkling again. “That’s what this is about. No more secrets.”

THE young woman stood hesitantly at Miles Winter’s front door. She had spiky hair and bright, intelligent eyes. She wore jeans and a bright shirt, and clutched her large canvas bag nervously. When the door was opened by Zeke, her face broke into a relieved smile. “Zeke. Hi….” She was nervous in a different way, now. Her face flushed, and her grin was affectionate. Zeke smiled. Yeah. The memories were pleasant for both of them. “Hi, Jo,” he said, warmly. “Long time no see, eh?” “Yeah,” she replied. “You look good.” Zeke grinned. He knew he did. Despite the fact the button of his jeans was still undone, and his hair was escaping its loose tie in more than a couple of places. The leather couches in the art room were—as he’d suspected—damned uncomfortable places for a make-out session. “Come on in. So they let you in okay at the gate? Miles let them know you were coming, told them to smuggle you in discreetly.” As she stepped into the spacious hallway, Jo looked over his shoulder and her eyes widened. Zeke felt the shiver of possessive pleasure run through him. Without looking himself, he knew how Miles would appear to her. A tall, darkhaired, handsome man. Very handsome. He wouldn’t look as tousled as Zeke did, and his expensive clothes were probably all in order by now, but he’d still have that brooding, sensual confidence that made people take a second look. And his eyes…. Zeke turned around, no longer able to resist gazing into those gorgeous pools of mysterious color. “This is Miles, Jo. Miles Winter. It’s his house, you know.” She smiled, like she’d never have believed it was Zeke’s. “Mr. Winter,” she said, formally. “I’ve read about you in the papers.” “Christ, I thought we’d escaped all that?” Zeke snapped. Jo stared at him, puzzled. “Mr. Winter is in the business papers, Zeke, almost every week. I’m doing a business management course now, you know. I follow a lot of his companies’ stocks.” Zeke laughed. “Oh, that. Of course. Mr. Winter’s fame was well established

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True Colors before his notoriety, right?” “Hush, Zeke.” Miles stepped forward and held out his hand to Jo. “You’re Zeke’s friend. So am I. Call me when you’ve graduated, if you’re looking for a job.” Jo flushed, obviously pleased. “Lay off charming the girl, Miles, or I’m going to get insanely jealous,” Zeke joked. He saw Jo’s gaze flicker between him and Miles. She must have seen the fierce, protective look in Miles’ eyes; the way his hand brushed at Zeke’s hip, as if drawn there instinctively. Zeke smiled sympathetically at her. It wasn’t Jo causing the jealousy, of course. She smiled back at him. “I’m glad for you,” she said softly. “You look very good.” He grinned. Kept grinning. “Zeke, honey, it’s great to see you again but I’ve got to go soon,” she said. She glanced at Miles, then back to Zeke. “I’ve got a class later on this afternoon. I got a bus here….” “And Miles will arrange for you to get back,” announced Zeke, cheerfully. Miles nodded agreement, and Zeke turned back to Jo. “So—to business. Did you bring it?” “Sure,” she said. “I have it here. Just like you always told me. You said you’d call for it sometime.” She reached into the canvas bag and pulled out a small package. It was about the same size as the one that Miles had uncovered earlier. Zeke felt his lover’s body tense beside him. Zeke spoke softly as Jo started to unwrap her little bundle. “You see, Miles, I haven’t been entirely honest about the sketches. But I thought it was best, you know. I couldn’t stand the hassle, and the questions, and the arguments that were going around at that time.” “What do you mean?” Zeke smiled. He knew it probably looked a little sad. “I knew that Jacky’s first two sketches were the ones missing. You’re right about the pattern of the set, the progression of his work. I always knew, and yet I let people believe they’d been lost, or burned, or were never there in the first place. I felt that Jacky—both of us—had been harassed enough for the sake of a few sketches. I told you, I was pleased in some ways to see them gone.” “But you didn’t know I had this one…?”

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Clare London “No.” Zeke smiled ruefully. “I didn’t. Some kind of irony, eh? The one you have is the real, second one of the series. God knows how it made its way here. Jacky probably sold it to your agent for a bottle of something—or for a shag. Then he was too ashamed to tell me or forgot about it afterward. I wouldn’t be surprised at either scenario. Remy was right about that too. Jacky was only ever interested in the creative process. The possession, and the selling, and the security issues… he had no fucking interest in them.” Jo drew out a slim square of board, with a drawing attached. Miles looked down at it and drew in a sharp breath. “The very first one, Miles….” Zeke tried to keep his voice steady but it was damned hard. His breath felt too weak, too elusive. “He’d already given it to me. He said he’d ask me for it back when he finished all the others, but of course he never bothered. After all, I was to have them all anyway. He was always very sure about that.” Jo held out the drawing for them both to see, her face somber. It was an even more casual sketch than the other, but in some ways, it was more emotive. It showed a figure curled on a cushion; maybe a baby, maybe a toddler. One of its small hands stretched out at something, and the pencil strokes followed the line of the plump baby flesh. Despite the cursory sketching, the eyes were bright and somehow fully expressive. At first glance, the sketch looked banal, but there was a mesmerizing quality to it that begged the viewer to look again, to investigate further. It was the mischievous look in those eyes—the flush of soft, immature skin in the shading; the promise of intelligence and humor and the excitement of life ahead—that lifted it above any other “baby” picture. “It’s lovely,” said Miles, simply. There was a smile on his face. The sketch seemed to provoke that warm, protective feeling. “Yeah,” murmured Zeke. He moved close to Miles’ shoulder. “I didn’t know what to do with it, to tell you the truth. I never wanted to display it, and like I said, Jacky didn’t seem interested in having it back. Yet I couldn’t give it up. So….” He smiled over at Jo. “Jo was the pretty girl I was with at the end of my first exhibition, Miles. She shared that day with me, as well as you. Well, a bit more than the day, actually. I guess we might have had an even longer time together, if I hadn’t been such an arrogant prick, thinking everything would always go well for me, that I had the world and its pleasures lining up to entertain little old me.” He grinned at her, a little sheepishly. “She was a good friend to me, then. So I asked her to look after the sketch.” She blushed. “It was fun with you, Zeke. A bit exotic for me, of course… a

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True Colors bit unpredictable.” Perhaps she caught sight of the look on Miles’ face—his raised eyebrows—because she blushed even more and changed tack quickly. “That’s in the past, anyway.” She held out the sketch to Zeke. “I’m going to miss it,” she sighed. “But it belongs back with you.” They said their goodbyes, and Miles saw Jo out to the limo to take her home. It caused quite a stir amongst the few tenacious reporters who had arrived with breakfast and were hanging around the gates to the estate. Most of them had missed her quiet arrival, and now they could only imagine who was behind the darkened windows; they didn’t really have the heart or the waning interest to follow it any further. Besides, a call was coming through to them, about a breaking story in the city: a top model being taken in for police questioning. That had a damned sight more potential than a reclusive gay couple, didn’t it? Inside the house, Miles and Zeke stared at the sketches, together at last, in one form or another, safe in Miles’ art room. There were the four in copy on the wall, and two in real life, propped up on stools beside them. It was like a history of Zeke’s life, his growing up; his coming of age. “You forgive me for not telling you the truth, Miles?” “I suppose so. I understand your reasons. And it was long before I knew you.” “But I surprised you….” Miles smiled, ruefully. “I don’t think you’ll ever do anything else.” Zeke smiled back, startlingly pleased at Miles’ assessment. “You like them? The sketches?” “Yes, very much.” Miles appraised them, his eyes suspiciously misty. “They don’t have the aggression of your paintings, or the tactile impact of your drawing. But your brother was obviously an extremely talented man. They’re illustrations of you, Zeke. They’re strokes of emotion; of feeling. They’re magnificent.” “They’ll be worth a fortune now,” Zeke mused. “Especially when all six are together.” Miles nodded. “And they’re all yours, Zeke. I’m so pleased for you.” There was a long silence. Miles cleared his throat. He looked worried. “Zeke?” Zeke bit at his lip and took a very deep breath. “You can have them, Miles.”

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Clare London Miles’s brow furrowed. “What? You don’t know what you’re saying.” “Don’t treat me like a child, Miles Winter.” “That’s not what I meant.” Miles’ voice was hoarse. “But they’re your inheritance; they’re your fortune. What are you doing?” “You think that’s what I want?” Zeke turned to face him, now. He was shaking with excitement again. “An inheritance? A fortune?” Miles gave a sharp, low cry of frustration. “Shit, when do I ever know what you want? So what do you mean?” “Miles….” Zeke paused. Tell it like it is. That’s all you can do. “Let me have the gallery back. Like you said you’d do, once… when I told you not to be fucking stupid.” Miles shook his head, bewildered. “Of course I will.” “No, listen to me properly,” Zeke urged. He grabbed at Miles’ arm in his enthusiasm. “Keep the sketches in payment. They’ve got to be worth enough, haven’t they? They’re all I’ve got….” “Shit.” Miles was trying to form a sensible protest, but obviously gave up. “Go on.” “The sketches were Jacky’s, but the gallery was mine. It was all I cared about; all I ever wanted. And the sketches can buy it back for me. For anyone else, I’d say that they’re not for sale now, you know. I let them go once, because of my confusion and stupidity. But this’d be different. I could trust them with you. We’ll worry about the damned legalities in the morning—Christ, I haven’t even got the four back yet, have I?—but I’d be more than happy for you to have them.” He drew a deep, excited breath. “And I can have my dreams back.” “God, what sort of a negotiator are you?” moaned Miles. He rubbed his arm where Zeke had gripped it. Zeke was very conscious of Miles’ body close to him; his shallow, shaky breath; his racing heartbeat. Mirroring his own. “So you agree?” Why didn’t Miles answer? “You can keep them, or sell them to Red. I promise when they’re yours, I won’t interfere.” “I wouldn’t sell them,” said Miles, gently. “Why would I? If they were mine, I’d treasure them. Just like you trust me to.” “Shit, Miles… you are too much.” Zeke struggled to find the right words. Miles glanced at him. “But would you let me keep a stake in the gallery? You can have my people work for you, my company’s sponsorship.”

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True Colors Zeke laughed, a short, happy sound, breaking the tension in the room. “Dammit, I kind of hoped for that already. I’m not that much of a businessman, as you know. I’d need help. Is that a ‘yes’, then?” Miles smiled at him, all the warmth of it reflected in his eyes. “That’s a ‘yes’,” he said. Zeke felt his chest tighten and his heartbeat skip a tango—if it’d known how to do one. Miles’ voice sounded as if it came from another world. He snaked his hand around Miles’ waist and leaned in, anticipating a new kiss, his lips opening wider. “‘Yes’ to a lot of things,” murmured Miles. Zeke slid his tongue in. He liked the taste of “yes” in Miles’ mouth; he liked the taste of surprise and delight, and even the passive lust of weariness. Scary, though, right? His gallery back again… his life back in his hands. It’d be better this time. Maybe even okay. But he needed rest. They both did. They needed to sit down and assimilate all that had happened. Or lie down. Assimilation’s always damned good lying down. Miles might well have been thinking the same. His hands were busy at Zeke’s hips and ass, and Zeke resigned himself to some more making out on that damned couch, because he really didn’t think that either of them would wait to move elsewhere. Miles whispered into his ear. “Will you stay?” “Stay?” Zeke grasped at what little sense he had left. Miles’ lips were firm, greedy, nipping at his neck. “Was I going somewhere?” “I thought, what with your career success… getting back your dreams.” Zeke snorted gently, though the effect was a little lost because Miles’ tongue was still questing around his mouth. “You think the gallery’s the only dream I ever had, Winter? I got one that involves you too.” “Just one?” “Just one.” Zeke grinned and earned himself a nip on the shoulder blade. He wondered blearily when he’d lose his shirt this time. His nipples tightened, erect at the mere thought of Miles’ teasing tongue. “But it’s a damned busy one. And you do know what I want, don’t you? Whatever you said earlier—” “Yeah, I do,” interrupted Miles. “You want me, pants wide open, and spreading your butt-naked body across the dining room table.”

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Clare London Christ. Zeke’s head swam, as Miles’ lips descended onto his again. Is the man psychic or what?

THEY were still in the main bedroom. Miles wasn’t complaining. He struggled up to a sitting position, shaking off his drowsiness. The soft pillows behind him held the shape of his head, and a crisp linen sheet was still tucked around his body. How long had they been there? In bed? He peered over the edge of the mattress. The luxurious carpet was still slightly damp with a trail of footprints, running back and forth between the bathroom and the queen-sized bed. The bathroom door was open and he could see a pile of discarded clothes draped over the side of the tub. Back in the bedroom, there was also a heap of towels on the floor at the foot of the bed. On the nightstand, there were halfempty plates of snack food and the remains of a couple of drinks. “What time is it, Miles?” came a sleepy voice. “How long have we slept?” Miles smiled to himself. “I don’t know. Afternoon, maybe? Early evening?” “You want to get a sandwich?” Zeke’s head appeared out from under the sheet and he yawned. “You make me damned hungry. If I’d known we were in training for fucking as an Olympic sport….” His laugh was throaty and rich. Miles sighed, and pulled himself further upright. The picture 4:Y was propped up on a low cupboard at the foot of the bed, resting against a mirror on the wall. It faced the bed and the two men stretched out there. Miles stared at it, enjoying the proprietary feeling inside him. “So.” Zeke wriggled beside him, punching the pillow into shape behind his head. He ran a hand through his hair, but it got stuck in a particularly knotty tangle at the back of his neck and he grunted with half-hearted irritation. “Where are you going to hang all this new art of yours?” “The sketches?” Miles turned to look down at him; at the sleep-flushed skin; the tensing muscles. “They’ll go in the gallery, I think. Your gallery. And this one? Your picture for me….” “Not there as well,” said Zeke, abruptly. He flushed. “Sorry. Dammit. Didn’t mean to….” “No,” said Miles. “I agree. It should be where we both are.”

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True Colors Zeke’s eyes sparkled with pleasure. “That’s right. That’s cool. 4:Y… for us both, really.” “Connection,” said Miles. “Our connection.” He stroked the warm skin on Zeke’s chest and flipped gently at one of the nipples. He recognized that sharp catch of Zeke’s breath by now; just wasn’t sure his stamina was up to the exercise it implied. He wondered if they’d ever find enough time to eat and sleep. Zeke laughed softly. Like he heard Miles’ thoughts aloud. “Your paintings, Zeke. Why do you call them numbers, or abbreviations? Not proper names?” Zeke huffed below him, maybe frustrated by Miles’ distraction. Miles smiled at him, perfectly content to wait. Grimacing, Zeke pulled himself upright as well. The pair of them stared at themselves, reflected in the mirror on the wall ahead. Miles couldn’t tear his eyes away. Zeke looked a delicious mixture of exhaustion and contentment. His hair fell over his forehead in a very sexy mess, and his eyelids were heavy over his usually vivid blue eyes. At the base of his throat, a few drops of water glistened, left over from his earlier shower. Zeke scrunched up his eyes, and sighed. “What a fucking mess, eh? I’ve got a cramp in my left foot. And look at those fingernail marks on your chest. What’s that on your belly? Looks like a trail of congealed—” “What?” Miles glanced down at his body, startled. “Gotcha.” Zeke was laughing, loudly. As Miles rolled against him, protesting and looking for revenge, Zeke’s hand slid out from where it had been nestling between Miles’ thighs. And Miles had tried so carefully not to dislodge it when he woke up. “Thought you wanted an answer to your question?” Zeke kissed him unexpectedly. And hard. Miles stopped fighting back and relaxed into the kiss. He’d have preferred to call it strategic withdrawal, but knew what Zeke would make of that phrase. “Yes, I do.” Zeke drew away, panting slightly, his eyes slightly unfocused. “I never saw the need.” He yawned again and the sheet shifted further down his body. “No need to commit names to things; to own them.” He leaned back on his hands and gazed at the picture in question. He was suddenly, strangely serious. “Perhaps I do now. That picture, Miles… that’s how I feel about you, you know? You touched me. Helped me start drawing again. I’m still struggling with these damned words….”

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Clare London Miles murmured reassurance into his neck. “I wasn’t properly alive until I met you,” he said, simply. “I don’t know how else to describe it. You’ll have no time for sentiment, I know. But look what you did for me.” He gestured at the picture. Zeke shook his head. “You’re my inspiration, man,” he murmured. “You’ve opened my world. Opened me.” “I can only admire your talent.” Zeke shrugged, and the ripple through his muscles ran along Miles’ nerves too. “You’ve got a talent too, Miles. For getting things done, right?” He kissed Miles’ shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin. “For seeing things in me that I’d given up on.” Miles laughed. “Listen to us. I don’t know about you, but I never said such things before in my life.” “Hold me,” Zeke interrupted, hoarsely. Miles had to bend his head to hear him. “I’ll see your colors for you.” Miles slid his arm around him, pulling him close. He stared at them in the mirror, the two skin textures together; the muscle tone; the stretched limbs, entwined around each other. Zeke was watching, too, his eyes narrowed. “Need to spend more time on that, Miles. The look of us together…. Dammit, I want my sketch pad here.” Miles turned his head slightly and bit the lobe of Zeke’s ear. Zeke grunted. “Yeah. So I guess the sketching can wait until later.” Miles smiled. He slid his free hand along Zeke’s belly, tracing gently across his tattoo. “I don’t need you to see colors for me, Zeke. I can taste them in you.” He meant it too. Zeke’s mouth was warm and welcoming and unstinting. “And maybe you’ll let me be your sanctuary.” Zeke laughed, shakily. “Works for me.” Miles slid further over Zeke’s body, his hands reaching to touch possessively, to stroke, to caress. His body started to heat up; a solitary trickle of sweat ran down between his thighs. The sheet finally slipped off the bed in defeat. “Enough of the mutual appreciation society,” growled Zeke. “About who’s been the making of who.” He licked his lips. “Roll over, Winter, and get ready to be truly appreciated.”

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True Colors Miles laughed and moaned as Zeke tumbled him onto his back on the mattress. He gazed up at the strong, lithe body leaning over him. “Anything I gave to you, it’s an investment, of course.” Zeke raised his eyebrows. “In me?” “In us.” Zeke snickered softly. He dipped his head and licked at Miles’ nipple. “Get dividends, do you?” “Damned well hope so.” Zeke’s tongue slid down over Miles’ belly, licking into his navel. “You said it.” Miles sucked in a breath. Zeke’s voice was a sultry mumble and his lips nuzzled the base of Miles’ cock. Miles couldn’t find any response except a moan. “I want you, Miles. Not ghosts—just you. Only ever you….” Always talking. Miles sighed, fondly. For a man who says he struggles with words, he sure is full of them. “You’ve got me, Zeke, for as long as you want me. God, don’t stop. Yes. Yes. Right there.” He arched underneath the yearning, consuming lips. “And I’m real. This is real, isn’t it?” “Tastes like it, thank God,” came the answering mumble. “Could still do with a sandwich, though.” Miles tried to laugh but it came out as a groan. Zeke had tightened his mouth around the head of his cock and was sucking in earnest. He only paused for seconds at a time to speak, building the suspense. “Miles… we’ve got to go back to real life sometime, haven’t we?” “Yes,” sighed Miles. Maybe. Who cares? “Sometime, I guess.” He put his hand carefully on the crown of Zeke’s bobbing head, his heart a maelstrom of strong emotions. He felt the need to give support and guidance, that was all. Sexual desperation, more like. Or just… love. “Good answer. Sometime is good.” Zeke grinned. “Keep an eye on your investment’s returns, right?” Miles moaned softly. “Shut up.” He tried to reach Zeke’s shoulder, to shift him around so he could return the favor, suck him off at the same time. “You talk

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Clare London too much.” “Sure. Sorry.” Zeke had never sounded less penitent. “But I do give damned good head.” Miles rolled his eyes. That’d never make the shareholder report. Like he cared.

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CLARE LONDON took the pen name London from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fueled family home, she juggles her writing with the weekly wash, waiting for the far distant day when she can afford to give up her day job as an accountant. She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic, and sexy characters. Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter three stage and plenty of other projects in mind… she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fueled family home. Visit Clare’s Web site at http://www.clarelondon.co.uk and her blog at http://clarelondon.livejournal.com/ Read other titles from Clare London.

Available for purchase at www.dreamspinnerpress.com.

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