Authors: Eden Winters
“What have you got there?” Paul asked, placing the tray on the desk and then pouring two cups of tea before adding precisely the right amount of sugar to Alex’s.
“An invitation,” Alex replied, turning the envelope over in his hands.
“Hmm… I didn’t notice earlier.” Paul took the envelope, opening it to peek at the card within. A smile of pure delight lit his face. “Edmond’s finally opening his new gallery and is having an open house,” he announced.
“I hate to rain on your parade, Paul, but you know there’s no way Uncle Alfred will be able to attend.”
“Well, he’ll want to know; they’ve been friends for years. As a matter of fact, I’ll show him over dinner. Knowing him, he’ll still want to go.” Setting the card aside, Paul sank into a chair and picked up his own cup.
Alex took a tentative sip. A single taste brought a smile to his face. Paul had added a touch of brandy, the way he liked it. He peered up into the smug face of his former adversary, who merely tipped his cup in a toast.
No denying the man made life easier, reminding Alex to eat, taking care of the household, every little gesture saying how much he cared. Paul also no longer avoided him, which would have made it more difficult to get anything accomplished. A more pleasant atmosphere existed in the house when they cooperated, like now.
Considering the invitation and Alfred’s recovery, Alex put his foot down. “Out of the question. He just left the hospital, there’s no way he can attend.”
“No way I can attend what?” Both men were startled to discover Alfred standing in the doorway, dressed in robe and slippers. They’d managed to keep him in bed for nearly twenty-four hours before he’d demanded access to his own house. Since then he’d cheerfully checked in on everyone repeatedly to ask what they were doing, obviously bored out of his mind. Retirement didn’t agree with him.
“Eddie’s gallery opening,” Paul said, jumping to his feet to help Alfred to a chair.
The old man rolled his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you boys I’m not helpless?”
Paul dropped his gaze to the floor, muttering a quiet, “I know.” Expression brightening, he asked, “Would you like some tea? I’m afraid tea is all you’re allowed to have, though. No brandy. Doctor’s orders.”
“I believe I might,” Alfred replied, frowning at the “no brandy” comment.
Paul nearly raced from the room. He literally lived to do for others, and appeared happiest when preparing tea or cooking a meal for his loved ones. Alex remembered Paul’s cheerful smile when he arrived with the tea a short while ago. Was Alex himself now included on the list of loved ones? Though he hadn’t tried again, Paul also hadn’t taken him to task for the kiss in the garden. Interesting.
“Such a helpful young man, isn’t he? So efficient,” Alfred said. “He’s right, you know.”
Alex turned abruptly at his uncle’s comments, embarrassed at being caught staring at the door through which Paul had long since departed. “Right about what?” Many things fit under the heading of “right” when it came to the diminutive Sinclair.
“Right in saying I’d like to attend Edmond’s opening. He’s worked hard for this, and I regret I’ll have to miss his big night.” Alfred sighed. Suddenly, he fixed twinkling eyes on Alex, his face lighting up.
Alex froze, instantly aware the old man had hatched a plan. A plan involving him somehow.
“Alex, when was the last time you attended a gala?”
Thinking hard, Alex replayed the past few months and finally latched onto something that might be stretching the truth a little bit. “I did attend a club opening a few months back. The owner is a friend of mine.”
Scowling, Alfred shot back, “Club Inferno doesn’t count.”
Alex’s jaw dropped. “Club Infer—how did you know about the club?”
“I wasn’t a premier attorney in the scandal capital of the world for nothing, my dear boy. I have my sources.”
Oh shit.
If Alfred knew about Club Inferno, he knew….
“Yes, Alex. I know what the club is and I know why you go there. Let me also congratulate you on your decision to avoid Rico Vespucci. I’ve nothing against the nouveau riche, providing the riche is honestly acquired. Vespucci’s wasn’t.” Those piercing eyes, so alive and alert, stared at him as though they lay open Alex’s deepest, darkest secrets. “If and when you get back to Houston, you’ll find your favorite cruising spot gone. The club fronted drugs and prostitution, Alex. The doors were closed and locked last week.”
“Uncle?” Alex voice wavered. It struck him that the only weakness and frailty in Alfred was in his body. His mind remained sharp, his sphere of influence equally vast.
Alex’s ever-indulgent uncle finally, for the very first time, laid down the law. “For years I’ve watched you paint the town and have a high old time of it. I smiled and turned a blind eye, knowing that’s what youth is for. You’re thirty now. It’s time to settle down and act like a man.”
Immediately on the defensive, Alex challenged, “You want me to get married.” He’d always known this day was coming and, as he’d told Paul, he couldn’t find it in him to say no.
With a rueful smile and a shake of his head, Alfred quietly responded, “No, Alex. I could no more ask you to live a lie than I could stop loving you for who you are. How can you even think that of me? Would you put me in the same class as my parents, who expected such of me? Never! What I’m asking is for you take responsibility for your life and grow up a little. The world can still be your playground. You simply need to follow the rules, or”—one bushy eyebrow lifted—“make new ones. Anderson blood flows in your veins, after all. What you need is structure, Alex. Establish high standards of conduct for yourself and stick to them.”
Alex nodded numbly, knowing he should have done this on his own without waiting for his uncle to make demands. “You’re absolutely right.”
Alfred’s nod of approval had the same effect now as years ago, instilling a sense of pride that he’d pleased the only father he’d ever known. “I have a favor to ask,” his uncle continued. “You’re right in saying that I can’t attend the showing of Edmond’s work. Instead, I’d like for you to go instead and find a new painting to hang on the wall of my office.”
Oh, was that all? For a moment Alex expected something truly horrendous to be asked of him, like visiting Aunt Helena. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Is there anything in particular you’d like?” Though he’d never admit a fondness for culture publicly, as it might tarnish the shallow image he’d slaved to create, he’d frequently attended gallery openings for the sake of the art, not merely for the social whirl or out of a sense of familial obligation. Andersons, even half Andersons, tended to get lots of invitations. He hadn’t attended any lately and was shocked to realize that, instead of attending cultural events and gallery showings, he’d been focusing solely on clubbing instead. How had that happened?
“You’ll know it when you see it,” came the enigmatic reply.
“Knock, knock,” Paul called from the hallway, warning them of his arrival. “Tea’s here!”
“One more thing, Alex,” Alfred added with a meaningful gaze. “I want you to take Paul with you.”
A
LEX
’
S
power of speech fled. Paul appeared attractive when scruffy, but cleaned up? Amazing. And the absolute best part? Paul didn’t have a clue how gorgeous he was, and that, in Alex’s opinion, was possibly his best feature.
A thick, coffee-colored mane contrasted starkly with the crisp white collar of Paul’s shirt, and the black contemporary tuxedo jacket, cut to frame his crotch rather than cover it, accentuated Paul’s compact build. Alex would bet he had no idea who’d designed his attire or how much Alfred had paid for the suit. Knowing might surely ruin the evening for Paul.
Paul smiled shyly, traipsing down the hall toward the foyer, and Alex considered any price well worth the results. The man made a fine sight in the tux, and Alex began to mentally devise ways to get him out of it. With a sigh, he recalled his solemn promise to stop making unwanted advances. When he’d started trying to lure Paul to bed he’d had ulterior motives; now the game had grown serious. The more he learned, the more he admired the open honesty of Paul Sinclair. The man represented all anyone dared ask for, rolled up into one convenient, sexy-as-hell package.
Was appreciation for his own appearance reflected in Paul’s eyes?
“Are you ready to go?” Alex asked offhandedly, as though he hadn’t been watching the clock for the past ten minutes, fearing Paul might change his mind. “I had Isaac pull the car around.” He chuckled. “Not yours—the Benz.”
Although Alfred lived well, he didn’t flaunt his wealth in his daily living, and his garage contained fairly modest vehicles for their neighborhood: an Escalade, a Town Car, a Jeep, and a sporty BMW. Down at the far end, reserved for special occasions, sat Alfred and Byron’s pride and joy: a 1958 Mercedes-Benz Type W180 220S Ponton sedan. Alfred insisted Alex and Paul “take his baby out for a little fresh air” for the gallery opening, which suited Alex. He loved making a grand entrance, and the Benz certainly guaranteed they’d be noticed.
“Why ever not?” Paul asked, lower lip stuck out in a pout. “Don’t you think a bit of dirt would be the perfect touch for our monkey suits? And wouldn’t we make quite the fashion statement when Old Betsy backfired? Not many vehicles come equipped with their own twenty-one gun salute.”
“Did they charge extra, or are military honors a standard feature?” Alex asked, enjoying Paul’s good-natured teasing. It wasn’t often he found himself in a position to flirt, normally too poised and intent on being “The Great Alex Martin, Rich Guy.” He found flirting surprisingly entertaining. Paul joining in the fun made it priceless.
Paul’s smile had an immediate effect on Alex’s libido, much deprived as it had been since their one night together. Recent abstinence must be the reason why he acted like a hormonal teen whenever his former rival came within a few feet. No one had ever inspired such instant lust in him before.
Grateful his own tux boasted a more generous cut and hid his body’s reaction, Alex opened the door and ushered Paul through. “After you,” he said, watching with keen fascination. The back of the man’s tux appeared equally flattering.
He shot a warning scowl at Isaac when he noticed the driver also enjoying the view. It looked like he’d have to keep a close eye on his companion tonight. They hadn’t even left the house, and already he’d met competition. Not that he expected any
serious
competition—he was Alex Martin, after all.
Climbing in, he settled himself in the car, a little closer to Paul than absolutely necessary. Paul didn’t move away.
“So,” Paul began, relaxing into the seat, hands clasped loosely in his lap. “Have you ever been to a showing of Edmond’s work before?”
“Actually, until the invitation arrived, I’d never heard of Edmond,” Alex confessed.
“Not much of an art fan, huh?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I may not know much about art, but I can point and say, ‘Oh… pretty!’” The comment earned Alex a laugh. He chose his words carefully. This newfound camaraderie might end in a minute if Paul thought him bragging. Alex opted to downplay any true interest in the subject and gave a modest portion of the truth. Now wasn’t the time to flaunt wealth and privilege. “I took art history in college,” he offered.
With a definite challenge to his words, Paul prodded, “Okay. Who’s your favorite artist?”
Alex had never passed up a challenge in his life, but prudently kept his true opinion to himself in this matter. If he mentioned the name “Kandinsky,” he’d spend the next hour babbling about one of his favorite subjects. To avoid a lengthy rant on technique and style, he gave an answer he hoped Paul would accept. “Oh, I don’t know. Monet is okay.”
Paul snorted. “Too easy. Everyone likes Monet.”
He should have known the man was too smart to buy his feeble answer. Alex leaned back against the leather seat and considered how much to tell without appearing arrogant and bringing the conversation to a screeching halt. He recalled his first exposure to art, a cherished gift given to him by his mother. “Well, when I was a child I had a book illustrated by Maxfield Parrish. As I grew older, I developed a great appreciation for
Stars
.”
Misunderstanding the reference, Paul replied with a puzzled expression, “A nude female?”
“It wasn’t the ‘nude’ part.” Alex contemplated the city passing outside the car window, the darkening evening the perfect shade of blue he remembered from the print, the lights reminiscent of the stars for which the artist named it. “I think it was more the woman’s wistful expression as she gazed up at the night sky.” Without knowing why, he voiced a sentiment he’d never before shared with anyone. “I believed I knew exactly how she felt. I’ve done the same thing, imagining myself anywhere but where I was.”
“Was your childhood that bad?” Paul asked quietly.
Alex turned to face Paul, his gaze falling into a pair of sympathetic brown eyes. He hated whining about his “poor little rich kid” upbringing, but the truth was, he’d spent a lot of years envious of less financially blessed friends and their close-knit, loving families. “Imagine growing up where you could have anything you wanted for the asking.”
“Many kids dream of that sort of thing.”
“Yeah? What if you lived in a sterile world without loving arms or kind words? Your only contact a bunch of perfect, painted dolls, and the only conversation based on what you should and shouldn’t do, and how to be a proper Anderson.”
Paul winced. “Doesn’t sound too thrilling when you put it that way.”
The conversation stalled until Alex said, “Tchaikovsky.”
“What?”
“You asked me who my favorite artist was. Art takes many forms, you know.” The corners of Paul’s mouth quirked up in a smile, and Alex knew he’d hit on yet another favorite topic.
“You like Tchaikovsky? Not Beethoven or Bach?”
Once again they’d found common ground on a topic. Few of Alex’s friends shared his passions if, indeed, they possessed any besides partying, spending their family’s money, and bragging over conquests. Paul, apparently, held many passions. Alex settled in for what he hoped might prove a lively debate. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re okay, just overexposed, and they never matched the fire of Russian composers, in my opinion. Who’s your favorite?”