Authors: Eden Winters
Paul took the remaining stairs at a run, sliding into the office, hopefully in time to prevent murder. Having shared a house for weeks, he recognized the signs of Alex’s patience reaching an end. Alex’s short fuse burned hot, and when the dynamite exploded, there’d be no survivors. The four men crowded around the front of the desk had no idea of the danger they were in.
All eyes observed Paul’s arrival, and he swore some of the men hissed like cats. Apparently, the vultures had landed, one of many reasons he’d shied away from wealth. Nothing drew the scavengers quite like a death when money was to be had.
With his usual diplomatic flair, Paul attempted to defuse the situation. “Gentlemen, I’m sure Mr. Martin’s more than happy to meet with you at a future date. However, we’re in mourning, and this isn’t the time to discuss business. If you’d each leave your card with me, I’ll set up appointments for you next week. In the meantime I’ll ask you, out of respect for Alfred, to allow us some privacy.”
Skirting the men, he carefully maneuvered his way to Alex, laying a restraining hand on an arm tensed to swing. He breathed a sigh of relief when Isaac appeared a moment later. They might be outnumbered, but not out-muscled.
The four scavengers cowered and stammered insincere apologies, backing out of the room. The fact that Isaac stood every inch of six foot six, spent two hours in the gym every day, and had removed his suit jacket to reveal bulging muscles probably helped them decide on next week being soon enough. “I’ll show them out, boss,” Isaac said, literally herding the quartet into the hallway.
Chancing a glance up at Alex’s face, still mottled red with anger, Paul tried to smooth ruffled feathers, keeping his tone conversational. “Something I should know about?”
Eyes trained on the departing vultures, Alex replied, “You have no idea, do you?”
“About what?” Anxiety set in.
Heavy hands found and kneaded his shoulders in a comforting gesture. “Our uncles were what some people call ‘filthy rich’. You pointed out that they didn’t live like kings. Now with them gone, every Tom, Dick, and Harry is coming out of the woodwork to try to get a piece of the pie. Tomorrow morning a new security system is being installed, and you’re not to leave the house without me or Isaac. Do you understand?”
Paul’s heart dropped to his stomach. Were they actually in danger? “No more morning runs?”
Damn, but I sound petty.
“Until things calm down, I’d rather you use the treadmill.” With another squeeze to Paul’s shoulders, Alex added, “Don’t worry; I’m sure everything will settle back down soon. Until then, we can’t be too careful, you know? Especially not with scavengers prowling about.”
Though a knot of uncertainty formed in his gut, Paul nodded. Dealing with scum definitely fell under the heading of “things Alex handles.” He’d trust the man’s judgment on this.
Once the front door slammed, shutting their unwelcome guests out of their lives, the tension seemed to flow from Alex, the hardness in his eyes softening. “Now….” Throwing a quick glance toward the door, he captured Paul’s lips in an unexpectedly thorough kiss. The reassuring contact ended too soon. “I wanted to wake up together this morning. Unfortunately, circumstances prevented it,” Alex murmured, all traces of anger gone.
Unwilling to give up their moment easily, Paul pulled Alex back down. “Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish.” Alex’s lips relaxed into a smile when Paul resumed the kiss.
“Excuse me,” had them shooting nervous glances toward the door. “Boss, I think you’d better get dressed, or we’re gonna be late.” Isaac leaned in the doorway, bulging arms folded across his chest.
Alex sighed and slowly stepped away. “He’s right. I’ll be back down in little while.”
“Need some help?” Paul asked.
Alex grinned. “You think we’re running late now?” He stepped into the hallway and out of sight.
Isaac sighed and Paul squinted at him sharply. Rather than the smirking glare he expected, Isaac wore a wistful expression. He noticed Paul watching him and remarked, “Don’t worry; I know I can’t have him.”
“Oh, my God, Isaac! I’m sorry! You had feelings for Alex?” Paul had noticed him staring on occasion, sure, but Isaac had a reputation as a bit of a player. He stared at everyone.
“Nah,” Isaac replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I always knew nothing serious would ever happen between us.”
Inwardly relieved, Paul rolled his eyes and tried to make light of the situation. “You’re not going to tell me it’s because Martha would have your hide, are you?”
“No. Actually, flirting with Alex was a lot of fun over the years, in spite of her scolding. He’s my boss now, and it has to stop. It’s disrespectful, and that ain’t Martha talking, that’s my mama, God rest her soul. You’ve got nothing to worry about, anyway; he’s not my type.”
Throwing his arm around Paul’s shoulders in a spirit of camaraderie, Isaac gazed down with laughter dancing in his dark-brown eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re not bad, either. Still not my type, but not bad. I like a man with some meat on his bones.”
They reached a silent agreement, and Paul knew he’d found an ally, or rather, inherited one. One of the few legacies from the uncles that didn’t make him want to run and hide.
“C’mon, Mr. Sinclair,” Isaac said, a sly grin betraying his playfulness. “It’s gonna to be a long day. Let’s go see what Theresa whipped up for breakfast.” Muscular arm still around Paul’s shoulders, nearly staggering him under the weight, Isaac led him down the hall and into the kitchen.
S
ECURITY
was tight at the cemetery where Alfred would be laid to rest next to his partner. Unlike Byron’s funeral, Alfred’s was small and intimate. So small, in fact, that Alex recognized everyone in attendance. A dapper Bernard escorted a sniffling Martha, Isaac holding up her other side. Ushers directed them to the row of chairs reserved for the family of the deceased, set under a canopy at the gravesite.
Several couples attended, both gay and straight, whom Alex knew to be old friends of Alfred and Byron’s. Former clients, many of whom graced the pages of the world’s premier magazines, were also present to pay their last respects. Richard stood near the back of the group with the rest of Alfred’s former law partners.
The funeral was by invitation only, and with the exceptions of Aunt Helena and an aging movie diva too ill to attend, every single invitation had been accounted for. Paparazzi armed with cameras and microphones fought to gain entrance into the walled sanctuary but were stopped by the finest security team Alex could hire on short notice.
He led Paul to the chairs and sat down next to him, purposefully placing a hand on one slender thigh, silently offering support while sending a clear message to any who might get ideas.
When Douglas Sinclair arrived, a member of the security detail led him to the family seating, per Alex’s instruction. Paul gave him a soft smile and grateful eyes, greeting his uncle in hushed tones.
According to Alfred’s hints concerning the contents of his will, within a few hours, Paul would be exceedingly wealthy, like it or not. Alex prayed his increased financial status wouldn’t change so unpretentious a man, prepared to fight tooth and nail to prevent scavengers like Jordan from taking advantage.
The same minister who’d presided over Byron’s funeral began the service with a prayer, and Alex listened, dry-eyed, to a touching eulogy. He figured others would think him unfeeling, but Andersons didn’t mourn in public, and he privately felt he had no need to mourn. Alfred had lived a full measure of years with the love of his life and had now reunited with Byron. Any grief would be a private thing, leaving no photographic evidence to profit a snooping reporter.
After the last “Amen,” Alex guided Paul to the waiting limousine with the rest of their acquired family, where he stood and chatted with his remaining uncle while Alex politely mingled and accepted condolences.
Social duties done, he crawled in beside Paul, who huddled into his side. Everyone who mattered either knew or suspected about them, and, gratified when Paul didn’t seem to mind a little public affection, Alex held him all the way home.
“A
S
WITH
many of my better ideas, I borrowed this one from Byron,” Alfred began, addressing his nearest and dearest through the power of technology and a video disk. “I’ve recorded private messages for each of you, to be shared as you see fit. Richard has the particulars and will ensure my wishes are carried out.”
Richard distributed the videos, and everyone shuffled from the room except for Paul and Alex.
“Richard, would you give us a moment?” Alex asked.
The attorney left the office quietly, closing the door behind him.
“This is going to change everything, isn’t it?” Paul asked, staring at the floor.
Alex cupped Paul’s chin in his hand, raising it until misery-filled brown eyes met his. “Only if you let things change,” Alex murmured quietly. “You yourself pointed out that our uncles didn’t live like millionaires. If you suddenly find yourself rich, you can follow their example. You don’t have to be something you’re not.”
“What about us?” Paul whispered. “What will this do to us?”
“Only what we let it.” Alex wrapped his lover in a crushing embrace and kissed Paul thoroughly, daring fate to take away what it had recently given him.
Tears shimmered in Paul’s eyes when Alex reluctantly released him. “I guess we better do what Alfred wanted,” he said, holding up his video.
“Yeah, I guess we’d better.”
With a final, fleeting kiss, Paul left the office, and Alex listened until his footsteps faded.
He poured a martini and then turned on the video before sinking into the desk chair. His uncle appeared gaunt, and judging from appearances, the recording had been made mere days ago. “Alex,” Alfred began, “I don’t have much time, and deny if you will, but deep down we all know the truth. My days are numbered. I thank you for your firm belief that I’d—how did you put it—‘outlive us all’? Sadly, reality is a cruel, cruel thing.
“I think you know my final wishes for you. Instead of wasting our time on legalities, I’d much rather take this opportunity for one more little heart-to-heart with you. Everything associated with the Anderson family is yours, as is your due. Any joint property owned by Byron and myself will be divided evenly between you and Paul, with the exception of the stipends set aside for the household staff. All real estate but the house Byron gave you outright is jointly owned by the two of you.
“I gave the Bishop house to Byron the year after we met, and one day I hope you’ll learn why he left it to you. Of everything you’ve inherited, I also hope you realize the most important things aren’t material.” Blue eyes focused and intent, Alfred implored him, “I want you to take care of Martha, Bernard, Isaac, and especially Paul.”
Given the conversations they’d had about that particular subject, Alex knew the high esteem in which Alfred held his lover’s nephew. Now, sharing his uncle’s love inspired no jealousy. Alex finally understood that the old man loved them equally, as sons.
A wryly smiling Alfred confessed, “Byron asked me on his deathbed to do everything in my power to get you two together. He firmly believed you’re kindred spirits. I agreed to his wishes because I love him, even though I know I can’t make love bloom where it won’t. What I ask is for you open your heart, if not to Paul, then to someone else. Don’t wind up a lonely, bitter old man, Alex. Victoria wouldn’t be happy with me if I didn’t look out for your happiness.”
Everything clicked for Alex. From the first night, when Paul prepared one of his favorite meals at Alfred’s suggestion, to the arranged dates at Berkley’s and the gallery opening… it was all part of one great master plan. Even the faux power failure that forced the candlelight dinner showed his uncle’s hand at work, fulfilling a promise to a dying lover. It humbled Alex, the lengths Alfred had gone through to make others happy, especially when his own health issues should have been his primary focus.
He wished he could talk to Alfred once more, for so much remained unsaid. Now, all he could do was listen.
“You may not realize it, Alex, but you’ve been groomed for years to take my place. I never dreamed passing the torch would happen so soon. Richard has the necessary papers ready for you to sign, plus one I’ve never mentioned before. It’s completely optional, of course, although it’s something I’d like you to seriously consider. There are documents drawn up to legally change your name to Anderson, or rather, drop the Martin, naming you Alexander Anderson.”
As many times as Helena had suggested a name change, this was the only time his uncle had ever broached the subject. Sheer spite had kept him from changing his name when his grandparents tried to force the issue. If he’d only known that was what Alfred wanted, Alex would have gladly ditched any reminders of his father long ago.
Then came the words he’d often heard throughout his life, words he himself had rarely said, though he meant them. “I love you, Alex, and consider you to be my son. Take care of yourself and those you love. Always remember this one bit of advice.” Expression stern, his aging uncle imparted his one last bit of wisdom, the Anderson family creed: “Never give the bastards the upper hand.”
Alfred concluded with a simple, “I love you, son.” The video faded to black.
Alex’s heart sank. How many times had Alfred said those words over the years? The only time he’d ever returned them since reaching adulthood had been a few short nights ago, when he’d felt isolated from the others in his uncle’s life.
Did the man even know how much Alex loved him? Only a few small words—why had he withheld them? Dear, sweet Byron never once heard them from Alex’s lips, though he’d been as free with his declarations as he’d been with his kindness and hugs.
How about Paul? Would Alex lose whatever chance he had with the man if he didn’t learn to open up and express how he felt?
This time, no shadow slipped into the room to offer comfort as his heart broke. Alone in the office, sitting in the same chair Alfred had sat in to impart a few final words, Alex truly grasped the error of his ways.