New Lease of Life (2 page)

Stepping into the hallway, Colby cast his gaze over the man in front of him, trying to see beyond the baggy, faded T-shirt and loose-fitting jogging bottoms that hid a multitude of sins. From his exposed forearms and delicate wrists, Colby would have said Phillip was naturally slim, but the sunken cheeks, dark hollows beneath his eyes, and sallow skin declared him gaunt and sickly. The impression of ill health was topped off by lank blond hair in desperate need of a cut.

At least he smelled clean. Spicy with a hint of ginger.

Angry pale blue eyes glared back at him when his gaze reached Phillip’s face, and Colby wondered, horrified, if he’d actually
sniffed
the poor guy.

“Let’s get this over with,” Phillip said as he turned away and walked off down the hallway, leaving Colby a clear view of a saggy bottom. Although Colby had no doubt that the unfortunate effect was down to the mass of material on the overly large joggers and not the gentleman’s actual arse. Not that the jogging bottoms were ever likely to be put to the use they were intended, not from the way Phillip bore all his weight on the hospital-issue metal crutch or the pronounced limp as he led Colby toward the stairs.

Yet put him in some decent-fitting clothes, get a few healthy meals inside him, and let him see the sun, and Colby suspected he would find his host
exactly
to his liking. Physically, at least.

“You might wish to go first.” Phillip gestured toward the upstairs landing. “It can take me a while.”

But if you go first and you fall, I’d be there to catch you.

Distracted by that thought, Colby muttered, “Sure.” He squeezed past Phillip and made short work of the stairs. When he reached the landing, he looked back to find Phillip two steps up, his hand gripping the banister, gaze fixed in Colby’s vicinity.

“Bedroom is first on the right,” Phillip told him, raising his eyes to meet Colby’s before glancing away. “I’ve left the door to the dressing room open. Just go in, and take a look.”

The fleeting thought that Phillip might have been checking him out disappeared completely when he heard the words dressing room. Had he hit the mother lode? “Is that okay?”

“I wouldn’t have made the offer otherwise,” Phillip snapped. “I don’t want you here all day.”

Phillip dropped his gaze, focusing on the next step of his arduous climb, and muttered something Colby couldn’t make out clearly but sounded like “been a while since I had a man in my bedroom.”

“I’d have said you were more a polo man myself, rather than rugby,” Colby said. Not moving from his position at the top of the stairs, he watched Phillip continue his grueling climb. Despite sensing that much of his host’s intention in sending him on ahead was to avoid Colby witnessing his awkward and painful-looking ascent, he couldn’t move away. “Or are you saying I look like I’ve been stepped on in the huddle of the scrum one too many times?” Colby squashed his nose to the side and tugged on one ear so it stuck out from under his hair.

Phillip made a noise that could have been a bark of laughter or a wheezing breath. “Sure. You’re pug ugly. I watch for their thighs, not their faces.” Phillip faltered, his eyes narrowing and shuttering his expression from Colby’s gaze. “And if you’re planning on beating up the gay cripple, remember I know where you work.”

“Stereotyping, much? I love the game, but you’re right, the thighs can be very distracting. Although generally, I prefer my men on the skinnier end of the spectrum. And short enough to tuck under my chin. You know, when we slow dance.”

Watching Phillip’s expression of shocked realization was fun, but he was on a time limit. With a cheeky wink and a grin, Colby turned his attention to locating the bedroom. First on the right, Phillip had said.

What the hell am I doing? Flirting with a customer? I don’t flirt. And I certainly don’t slow dance.
It was true; he had two left feet, and whenever he actively tried to flirt, it turned into a failure of epic proportions.

He attempted to drown out the breathless cursing that accompanied each thud and drag below him. Not so easily done when every fiber of his being wanted to scoot back down the stairs and offer Phillip his arm.

Or toss the shorter man over his shoulder and carry him up the stairs.

CERTAIN HIS
host wouldn’t appreciate the offer of being carried up the stairs, Colby set about locating the bedroom. A tremor of excitement accompanied each step across the landing until Colby’s stomach fairly fizzed with the anticipation of what he would find in the room.

A cacophony of vibrant colors greeted Colby as he stepped into the bedroom. The sun hitting the jewel-toned blues and greens of the curtains and matching bedding would encourage anyone lucky enough to spend the night in the room to wake up in a joyful, exuberant mood. A room where fun screamed from each furnishing and fixture. Not “I’ve got a sex swing in the corner” type fun, but laughter. Lots of laughter. Lazy afternoons exploring. Watching the changing light reflect colors over skin. Kissing until lips tingled, desire stretched to breaking point.

It was a room that was hard to reconcile with the drab man whose frustrated exhales could be heard drifting up the stairs.

Colby shook himself when he realized he’d all but laid himself naked on the bed in his head. An open door to his right drew his attention. Had the door been closed, he would have assumed it housed an en suite bathroom, but from his vantage point, he could already make out wardrobe doors and drawers. Striding eagerly to the entrance, Colby surveyed the floor-to-ceiling storage that could only have been made for the room. No flat pack or bedroom system here, the quality and attention to detail screamed bespoke.

Hesitantly, because he might have Phillip’s express permission to rummage but it still felt wrong without him being present, Colby stepped into the small room and slid open the nearest door, marveling at the weight of it as the wood moved silently on its runners to reveal the treasure within.

“Wow!” Colby’s appreciative exclamation faded into a sigh as he reached for the closest piece of clothing—a crushed velvet single-breasted tuxedo jacket on a solid wooden hanger, no metal or plastic to be seen. He rubbed the aubergine material between thumb and forefinger. Quality. And lots of it. He flicked quickly through the first rail, giving a cursory glance at labels and stitching. Suits, waistcoats, jackets, and trousers. Mostly vintage if he was any judge, with a couple of labels for current designers whose work would be considered classic rather than fashionable. The top shelf displayed an array of hatboxes, each a work of art in itself. Colby reached up to take one from the shelf, the stretch pulling his shirt free of his chinos.

“Like what you see?” Phillip’s voice came from the doorway.

Colby glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch Phillip’s gaze on the exposed skin at his waistband. Maybe he should be asking that question, although he didn’t think it would be appreciated, not from the way his host’s mood had swung easily to anger at the slightest perceived insult. But he couldn’t resist letting the first stirrings of interest be known. He let his gaze travel the length of the man in front of him only to be met by a defiant glare that abruptly turned curious.

“Do I recognize you from somewhere?” Phillip Longhampton narrowed his eyes and considered Colby with an intensity that deepened the frown lines in his forehead.

“I doubt it, unless you’ve been to my shop for any reason.”

It certainly couldn’t have been from his former profession. This guy didn’t look like he would have any need for Colby’s award-winning, money-making fitness DVD—and accessories—
Kickstart Life
. Phillip Longhampton had the bone structure and build of the naturally slim. Not that physique had any bearing on who had bought into his fitness regime; apparently many skinny people had bought the DVD set to build and tone muscle. Hence the all-time bestseller label, the mortgage-free house—with swimming pool and home gym—and the bank balance.

And even if Phillip had bought all the DVDs and the workout clothes, or even the
Healthy Juices to Kickstart Life
book, he wouldn’t have seen Colby’s ugly mug anywhere on the packaging, the dust cover, or even leading the punishing workouts that he had so carefully devised for “optimum results in a busy life.” To quote the blurb.

“Is your shop on
the
Kings Road?”

“God, no.” Colby snorted, actually snorted—how embarrassing—and tried to cover the sound with a cough. “The rents there are extortionate.”

“Mmm. An ad campaign a couple of years ago?” Phillip mused, almost to himself. “Are you a model?”

Colby shook his head, struck dumb by his bad luck. Phillip obviously didn’t notice his discomfort.

“Something to do with fitness. A DVD. The production company went with an overmuscled gym bunny as the face of the product in the end, but I remember wanting you. I mean, the model you remind me of.”

No, the production company that had snapped up the initial copy of his workout DVD had insisted on using a different front man. The public wanted to be whipped into shape by a good-looking guy who was happy to exercise without a shirt to hinder the view of his oiled hairless chest and straining six-pack. Some ex-Army type who could be far more aggressive than Colby—who thought smiles and gentle encouragement produced much better results than shouting—would ever attempt to be. To be fair Colby had no desire to be recognized in millions of homes, from adverts and posters to the product range itself, and he could understand the backers’ concerns. And, as it was so
tactfully
pointed out to him, the people who paid out their hard-earned cash—and at £79.99 it was high-end price point fitness—wanted a role model to aspire to, not a fitness instructor who would look more at home on a building site. In San Francisco. Because “you’re a member of the Village People, right?”

If the ink hadn’t already been drying on the contract, Colby might have walked away at that slur on his sexuality, but thankfully he couldn’t. Thankfully, because little did he know at the time that one signature would give him the opportunity to walk away from a life where clients thought easy-going personal trainer equated to easy lay. Where cougars who believed their own promo and indecent relations with wannabes would try to bed him despite him being up front about his sexuality. Where aging queens tried to cop a feel and were often far more aggressive than the Z-listers on the wane who attempted to bed him in a last ditch attempt to get their name in the paper. All were shot down in flames, no matter how famous, good-looking, or bendy they might have been. Nobody got to use him to shore up a failing career. Colby had lost the occasional client that way, but those types were fly-by-nights who were rarely concerned with the serious business of fitness anyway.

“You’re in advertising, then?” Colby asked, trying to stop the conversation from veering into territory he didn’t want to explore.

“Used to be.”

“And now?” Colby couldn’t resist asking, despite Phillip’s curt response.

“None of your bloody business.”

Phillip’s response was accurate, if somewhat rudely put, so Colby returned his attention to the reason for his visit.

Carefully he removed one of the jackets from the rail and held it up against his body. Not that it would ever fit him, never in a month of Sundays. The slim-cut design was made for the narrow shoulders and nipped in waist of a waifish physique. He glanced over at Phillip, who still hovered in the doorway, but now appeared to be using the frame to hold himself up. He must have been a similar build to his father…. No, not a parent. That bedroom belonged to a younger man. Brother? Lover? Someone as vibrant as the colors that adorned the room and confident enough to wear clothes that would set him apart from the majority.

He hated to pry, especially if it meant picking at unhealed wounds, but he couldn’t run the risk of some irate ex-lover turning up at his shop. “The person these clothes belonged to—”

“They’re mine.” Colby’s surprise must have shown on his face, because Phillip continued. “Not a dead man’s or an ex-lover’s. Mine.”

These clothes had been well loved. Colby could tell from the way they had been carefully hung or folded, the array of hatboxes on the top shelf, the tissue paper wrapped around belt buckles to stop them getting scratched.

But not once had their purported owner glanced in their direction. Not the actions of a man eager to relinquish himself of clutter. Or at peace with his decision. And who could blame him? From the material to the cut to the stitching, each exquisite piece cried out to be loved. Caressed. Worn.

“Why would you want to get rid of them? They must have cost you a fortune.” It couldn’t be for the money. If Phillip was strapped for cash, he could have sold this collection piecemeal down one of London’s more hip and happening markets. Or off-load the whole dressing room to one of the vintage boutiques for a fair chunk of change. Andre, who owned the aptly named “Labels” on the Kings Road, would have wet dreams over a collection like this and then whack one of his exorbitant price tags on each and every piece. And Freddie at “Your Tat Our Treasure” would have had it photographed and up on his website before he and Phillip had finished shaking hands on the deal. If it was money he needed, Phillip had called the wrong guy. “You know I can’t pay you?”

“Does it look like I need your money?” Phillip twisted at the waist, gesturing out into the bedroom with a vague wave of his hand. “You’d be a crap charity shop if you paid for your items.”

He did sometimes, at car boot sales or the occasional church jumble, and on one occasion to the widow of a well-loved actor, long since fallen out of favor. With holes in her cardi and off milk in his tea, a quick Google search bandied around words like “destitute,” and Colby had slipped a hand into his own pocket—not the shop’s—and convinced her he always paid a modest sum for large-scale contributions. He could have raised more money had he been able to attribute the actor’s name to the items, but he promised discretion, and his reputation for getting the best quality items depended on that.