Lanyon, Josh - Adrien English 04 - Death of a Pirate King (26 page)

I glanced around. “Fine. Fabulous. What the hell was that
about?”

He’d taken his tie off and unbuttoned his collar. He looked
as tired as I felt. “January’s ex-boyfriend dropped by and found January
unconscious. He’d been hit over the head with a pre-Columbian stone carving.
According to the housekeeper, you were with January when she left at two
forty-five, which makes you the last person to be seen with January before he
was attacked.”

“That’s probably true. I left a few minutes to three -- and
called you.”

We hadn’t talked, though, I’d left a message was all -- and
if anyone really investigated my “alibi” it was going to be immediately
apparent that Jake had lied.

“We’ve got pretty good forensic evidence that January was
probably attacked around five o’clock -- not long before the ex-boyfriend
showed up. In fact, the ex may have scared off January’s attacker. You take the
kid horseback riding around that time, right?”

I nodded.

“You’ve got more than enough witnesses to support your story,
and January may pull through.”

I said, “You’ve got him under guard, I hope?”

He preserved a straight face, but I could see he was amused.
Grimly amused, but amused nonetheless. So okay, maybe I have read too many
mystery novels, but January’s assailant was ruthless and increasingly daring.

“Why the hell is Alonzo so eager to pin this on me? He’s got
his suspect in jail already.”

Jake sat down across from me. “The case against Hawthorne
isn’t going to hold water. Her lawyer came up with a witness -- one of
Hawthorne’s employees who swears Hawthorne was never anywhere near the bar the
morning they went to Kane’s to oversee the party arrangements. She’s willing to
testify that Hawthorne was never out of her sight. The DA is buying it. Hell,
I
buy it. This is a very credible
witness.”

“What possible motive would I have for attacking Al? Or
Porter, for that matter.”

Jake shook his head. “I don’t think this is about you so much
as me. Alonzo and I have history. He knows I don’t want him coming after you --
which is enough to make you…of interest to him.”

“Great.”

His mouth twitched at my tone. “Don’t worry. I’ll see he
leaves you alone.”

“My hero,” I said glumly.

He gave me a funny look.

My thoughts moving in another direction, I said, “Al’s got
two good-sized watchdogs.”

“The dogs were outside. That could mean January’s attacker
put them out -- the dogs might have known him -- or January might have let them
out. There’s every indication that he knew his attacker, or at least didn’t
feel threatened. He let his assailant into the house, and was in the process of
pouring two drinks when he was hit from behind -- twice.”

“Is he going to make it?”

“They don’t know yet.”

I nodded, stared at my hands. I liked Al January. And if I
was right in my speculations, I had brought this on him -- inadvertently -- but
did that really absolve me? If I hadn’t started poking around -- if I hadn’t
insisted on continuing with the investigation even after I could see where it
was headed --

And why? What was it to me? Nobody had asked -- or wanted --
me to keep digging after Nina Hawthorne was arrested. I had put myself back in
Alonzo’s sights and maybe got Al January murdered -- and I still didn’t have any
proof as to who had really killed Porter. Nor did I have any idea of how to get
it.

Jake said dryly, “Don’t tell me you’re actually
second-guessing yourself, Mr. Holmes?”

“You think I never second-guess myself?”

He said a little wearily, “I think you’re a chronic
buttinsky.”

I looked away from his hard gaze.

“Hell,” he muttered. To my surprise, he rose from his chair,
lowered himself to the sofa beside me, and put his arm around my shoulders. He
pulled me over to him -- and even more surprising -- I let myself lean against
him.

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “The only person who carries
the blame for murder is the murderer. So don’t put this on yourself.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, willing it to be true. And
more than that, allowing myself the pleasure of being in his arms for a moment,
that unexpected mix of gentleness and strength -- yeah, he was going to make
some mixed-up kid a good father one of these days -- the scent of his
aftershave and the light tang of his sweat after his exertions with Alonzo. I
listened to the quiet pound of his heart beneath my ear.

Jake added, “And we both know I sure as hell wouldn’t say it
if it wasn’t true. I’ve never been in favor of sleuthing as a hobby -- for
anybody.”

“I know,” I said. “So why did you go along with this idea of
Kane’s? Because I just don’t believe that you felt incapable of getting the
truth out of a bunch of egomaniacal, pretentious Hollywood types without the
help of a tactful amateur.” I sat up, and I felt the reluctance with which he
let me go.

“You know why,” he said. His eyes met mine, and then he
looked away. His mouth curled in something that might have been self-mockery.
“One thing about you, when you make your mind up, it stays made.”

The fact that I wanted what he seemed to be saying to be true
was not a good sign. I said doubtfully, “You can’t mean you wanted to work with
me.”

“I don’t know if I’d put it quite like that,” he admitted.
“Although you do have a knack for setting things in motion. But, yeah, I wanted
a reason to see you -- to talk to you. To see if we could salvage a friendship.
And I know a mystery to you is like catnip to a cat.”

I said slowly, “But you didn’t come up with the idea?”

“No.”

“It was Paul Kane’s idea.”

He said softly, “Did I ever tell you that you talk too much?”
And he leaned forward, his mouth covering mine in an expert and persuasive
kiss. Warm lips and the funny little click of teeth as the kiss deepened into
unpredictable hunger, and his tongue was insinuating its dark and secret way
into my mouth, me opening to it, wanting it -- my hand gripping his upper arm,
fingers digging in, returning that kiss with single-minded hunger.

Strangely, my mind filled with the memory of our first real
kiss -- the first time Jake had really kissed a man.

Deep and slow, searching…
His hand cradling the back of my head, drawing me closer, tasting me. Me
tasting him back, breathing in gentle unison, filling each other’s lungs with
our quiet exhalations.

Except I hadn’t been the first man he kissed. How could I have
been? He’d been with Paul Kane for two years before he ever met me, right? And
this was all…what? Besides serving to keep me distracted? And that kiss had
only meant so much to me because I had kidded myself it meant so much to Jake
-- that he had trusted me with something precious. But the only precious things
were my memories -- and they were precious for the wrong reason.

I made myself let go, pushed him away, and got up from the
sofa -- none too gracefully.

“I don’t even know who you are,” I told him. “And I have
trouble believing you were yearning for my company when you’ve spent the last
five years fucking Paul Kane. Or, vice versa. We won’t even bring your wife
into it.”

He stared at me with narrowed, tawny eyes. “I did what?”

“You and Paul Kane. He said you’ve been lovers for five
years.”

“
Lover
s
?” He said the word like it was
repellent.

There didn’t seem to be much doubt about the genuineness of
that response. Not that his distaste for the concept was exactly the stuff that
dreams are made of, but I did feel a spark of relief that it hadn’t
all
been lies or my imagination.

But then his face changed, and I saw I had once again been
trying to convince myself of something when any fool could see what was true.

Jake stood up too -- and he was watching me like I was the
dangerous and incalculable one. “I’ve known Paul for five years,” he said.
“That’s true. And I did keep seeing him for some of the time you and I were
together.”

“I must have blinked,” I said. “I don’t remember us ever
being
together
.”

“Don’t laugh about it,” he said very quietly.

The expression on his face dried my derision. There was a
time in my life I’d have given a couple of years to see that look on Jake’s
face.

He said, still quiet, still steady, “I have feelings for
Paul, but you could not remotely describe the thing between me and Paul as
love. Not the way someone like you uses the word.”

Horrifyingly, I felt that burn in the back of my eyes. “And
what way would that be?” I asked.

He said simply, “The same way as me.”

I turned away. No way -- no fucking way -- was I ever
shedding another tear over him. I walked to the window and stared down at the
street below, distantly noting that it was emptied, that it was getting late,
that streetlamps were coming on.

Jake walked up behind me. He didn’t touch me but I could feel
him all down the length of my body, feel his heat, his…urgency.

“I would give almost anything to get back what we had,” he
said. “And you know why.”

Not really. Although we both certainly knew what the
almost anything
was that he wouldn’t
give up. But I closed my eyes, not resisting when his arms slipped around me.

Chapter Twenty-Two

We left the lights on, a seasoned brightness that allowed a
few unthreatening shadows. It was strange and familiar. Sweet and bitter. Frightening
-- and, yes, reassuring. Because we knew each other, once past the talk when we
were down to the language of hands and mouths, we knew each other. Had always
known each other. Our bodies fit together just right, and we rocked together
gently at first, easy and slow, taking and giving comfort.

Jake groaned, rolled onto his back, taking me with him,
settling me down the length of his own long, broad body -- the press of my
arousal was caught between our tightly joined bodies as he thrust powerfully into
me. It felt so good -- hot and shivery and frantic. We twisted and writhed,
circular pressings of belly on belly. He was all fierce muscle and sinew and
bone. I put my hands on either side of his shoulders, raised myself on my
palms, thrusting back, then pushing him deeper inside my body. His hands closed
on my hips, urging me on.

So good.

So…
good
…

Jake came first, crying out, grabbing me tight, hips jerking
against me, face buried in my chest. There was wetness on his cheeks. Beneath
his lashes. Tears? The idea brought a grim smile to my own face. More likely
perspiration. And I came a moment later, spurts of sticky moisture spilling
between us, wetting our already damp bodies. I collapsed on top of him and his
breath whooshed out unsteadily against my ear.

Little bright lights flashed behind my eyes and once again I
had that sensation of flying…like I was floating through the air in a pirate
galleon, sailing dizzily through the stars and clouds and swooping over the
sparkling seas like the Peter Pan ride at Disneyland -- flying away to Never
Never Land. And I probably never should have -- I could hear the too-hard thump
of my heart in my ears -- too big for my chest -- but it was done now and no
regrets.

I smiled hazily into Jake’s tiger eyes. He kissed me, a soft
kiss sweet as melting sugar, slid his arms around me, rolling me onto my side,
spooning me, tender and all encompassing.

Second star to the right and straight on till morning…

* * * * *

We drowsed and woke and moved together again, but it was lazy
and gentle, and the tightness in my chest, the flutter in my throat was
emotion, nothing more. Something dangerously close to happiness, but…not.
Because even quiescent and content, I knew this was the lull before the storm.
But it was nice to pretend that it was old times, that Jake did not have a wife
and another life to go home to in another hour or so. That it all might yet
work out between us. Nice to lie here and kiss and pet and explore each other
as though we didn’t know the contours of each other’s body, the stroke of
thumbs and fingers and flat of hand on satin-smooth skin.

The hand that had been leisurely rubbing my flank slowed. He
said almost angrily, “Christ, you’re thin. What’s the matter with you, Adrien?”

I batted my lashes, playing Bacall to his Bogie. “Nothing you
can’t fix.”

He gave a little snort of unwilling laugh, his exploring hand
arrowing down to the swell of my ass. He pinched me, and I jumped, and then he
smoothed away the hurt.

“Bastard,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said.

We rested there for a moment, and he was smoothing his hand
over my ass. “Still beautiful, though,” he murmured. “The most beautiful guy
I’ve ever known.”

I chuckled without much humor. Not more beautiful than Paul
Kane -- unless we were talking inner beauty. I was pretty sure I was more
beautiful on the inside that Paul Kane. I hoped so anyway.

I turned my head on the pillow and he was watching me
curiously. I said, “My heart’s worse. I have to have surgery.”

Jake’s face stilled. “When?” he asked. His voice came out
thick and unwilling.

I shook my head. “I haven’t talked to the surgeon yet. It
would be soon, I guess.”

He had sucked in a sharp breath when I said I hadn’t talked
to the surgeon. He let it out carefully and said, “What the hell are you
doing?”

I smiled, thinking how odd it was that he was the only person
in the world I could say this to. “I’m scared.”

He was staring at me. “No way. I’ve never known anyone with
more guts than you.”

“We’re just not afraid of the same things,” I told him.

His face tightened and he stared at the window. At the night
beyond this room.

I brushed my knuckles against the rough velvet of his jaw.
“Everybody takes chances, Jake. You take chances. You’re taking a hell of a
chance right now.”