Authors: Josh Lanyon
For a long time he stared at the photo. Why the hell couldn't he remember what had happened? It would be one thing if he'd injured his brain, but the doctors said there was no physical reason for this blank.
At last Peter dropped the brochure back into the hanging file. As he did, he noticed a couple of snapshots loose at the bottom. He drew them out and stared. Cole Constantine on what appeared to be his wedding day. Cole, beyond handsome in a severe black tux. Cole obligingly nibbling wedding cake, kissing the bride, and posing with best man Peter.
Peter stared at the photos, at his own emptily smiling face. His heart began to thud in sick tattoo. He felt ill. Automatically, he tossed the photos back into the file, closed the drawer, and locked it. What was the matter with him leaving those pictures where anyone could find them? What was the matter with him keeping those pictures at all?
He rested his face in his hands. His head ached. What a bad idea this had been. He wasn't ready to deal with this—whatever
this
was.
But it was very obvious what this was. Pictures of his married best friend. Erotic dreams of his married best friend? It was pathetic. Even if he couldn't remember any of it, it was pathetic.
There was a noise from the hallway. Peter looked up. A tall blond man stood framed in the doorway. He was very tanned, his eyes indigo blue in his handsome face. He wore a baby blue polo shirt and jeans.
Cole.
"I didn't expect you in today,” Cole said as Peter rose automatically. “Shouldn't you be taking it easy?"
Cole had a light, pleasant voice, and Peter suddenly remembered that he'd sung in the men's chorus at USC. His memory was definitely returning, and that was the good news. The bad news was he wasn't ready to face Cole. He'd wanted a little warning.
"I ... Thanks,” Peter said disjointedly. “But I can't just sit around."
"I don't know why not, with what you've been through. How are you feeling?” Cole still stood in the doorway as though waiting for permission to enter Peter's office. No. As though he felt a need to keep distance between them.
Peter felt his face heat, and he wasn't even sure why. “I'm fine."
"I'll take your word for it.” Cole's smile was quizzical, attractive. “Then you do remember what happened?"
How would Cole know about Peter's memory lapse? But of course. Detective Griffin would have been in contact with his employers—in this case the museum's board of trustees. Cole would know that Peter was claiming amnesia. He'd probably heard what Detective Griffin thought of that claim.
"No,” he added in his own defense. “It's not unusual to forget events just prior to a head injury."
"I guess that's true. But that cop ... said that you said you didn't remember ... anything."
"There are some blank spaces."
Cole was frowning, watching him closely. “Like what?"
"Just...” Peter stared at the gold band glinting on Cole's hand and abruptly lost his train of thought.
"Just...?"
What had they been talking about? Suddenly he couldn't remember what he had wanted to say—how odd was that? It wasn't as though he hadn't had time to get used to the idea that Cole was married.
"Pete,” Cole said softly, and Peter's gaze lifted to meet Cole's. He remembered the cop—Griffin—saying he didn't like to be called “Pete,” but Cole used the word like a pet name, and Peter felt no objection. How would Griffin know such a thing anyway?
"Sorry. What?"
"You shouldn't have come in so soon after being released from the hospital. The board is going to think you're well enough to face up to some kind of inquiry."
Peter's brows drew together. “I'm more than happy to talk to the board if that's what they want."
But Cole was shaking his head. “Bad idea. Better to let the police figure out what's going on. Especially if you're not clear on the details."
It took him a few seconds to work out what Cole seemed to be saying. “Do you think
I
had something to do with these thefts?"
Cole looked taken aback. “Of course not. But I'm not the problem. There are two other trustees."
Dennis Montero and Sally Orchard. But Cole was chairman, as befitted the last surviving descendant of Captain MacBride Constantine.
As though reading his mind, Cole said reluctantly, “I can't be seen to be using my influence because of our personal relationship, Pete. You know that."
"Right."
He spoke automatically, saying what was expected. But really ... when the hell should one's personal relationship be taken into consideration if it wasn't when one's friend was fighting for his survival? Was it wrong to feel like maybe Cole's personal knowledge and faith in him might be expected to surface in his favor now? Was it wrong to feel a little chilled by this strict lack of bias?
Assuming Cole did really believe he was innocent and wasn't just saying so out of politeness.
Peter's mouth dried and he half stuttered, “Cole, I swear to God ... I didn't have anything to do with the mural being taken. I haven't stolen a penny from the museum. I
wouldn't
."
Cole looked uncomfortable. He glanced over his shoulder as though afraid Peter's ragged voice was echoing through the museum. “I know that. I've already told you I have total faith in you."
Peter nodded. He was appalled to realize his lips were unsteady. He could not—could
not
—bear for Cole to see him cry. And apparently Cole couldn't bear it either, because he looked away. Then he stared down at his watch, saying, “Look, go home and rest. You look like death warmed over."
"I'm all right.” Peter pinched the bridge of his nose hard.
There was silence but for the sprinklers outside his window jetting silver water into the bright sunlight.
"Of course you're not,” Cole said softly.
Peter lowered his hand and Cole was gazing at him with an impatient blend of sympathy and affection. Before Peter could think of anything to say, Cole said in normal tones, “Damn. I'm meeting Angie for an early dinner, or I'd walk over to the bungalow with you."
For a moment Peter wasn't sure if he'd misheard that moment of tenderness or not. He gazed at Cole, who offered another flash of that white smile. “Come on, buddy boy. Get going.” And as Peter gazed undecidedly at his unopened laptop, trying to choose whether to take it or leave it, “That will all wait for a day or two."
Reluctantly, Peter rose. Cole was already walking away down the hall. Peter locked his office and followed him back out past the
Ripley's Believe It or Not
-style exhibits: a stuffed kangaroo, a seven-tiered platform of antique Japanese Hina dolls, and a two-handed broadsword that was nearly as tall as a small man.
As they passed the front desk, Mary looked straight through Peter and gave Cole a bright smile.
"Good night, Mr. Constantine!"
"Night, sweetheart."
Sweetheart
. Someday some unamused female was going to haul Cole up on sexual harassment charges, Peter thought with a flicker of irritation. He said nothing, suspecting this was a timeworn complaint of his. Mary certainly didn't seem to mind. She was still beaming after Cole when Peter glanced back from the doorway.
Upon meeting his gaze, she looked down at the papers on her desk that she had busily been pretending to shuffle at their approach.
The sunshine seemed very bright and very hot as they stood on the front steps. Peter's head was pounding quite desperately now, and he thought perhaps Cole was right about going home and lying down for the rest of the afternoon.
"Everything will work out; you'll see,” Cole told him. “I don't want you to worry about anything. Just take it easy for a few days."
Peter nodded dully and Cole patted his shoulder. He went briskly down the steps and strode across the green squares of lawn to the parking lot. Peter watched him go, unmoving, and when at last he saw Cole's Mercedes leave the parking lot, he turned and walked slowly back to the bungalow.
The mockingbird was singing as he let himself inside the silent house.
He wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared at the foil-covered casserole dish. He closed the fridge.
Ridiculous to feel like this. To feel ... so alone. There was an enormous difference between being alone and being lonely. The fact that he was struggling to see the difference had to be a result of his head injury. He was overtired and overmedicated and behaving like an ass.
He left the kitchen and went into his study. A copy of Georgette Heyer's
The Masqueraders
lay on the table near the wingback chair that gazed over the garden. He picked it up and a bookmark fell out.
He glanced at the page.
The ride at an end, it was Charles and Peter with them; they might have been blood brothers.
He was comforted by the realization that he recognized this passage. He knew the book. It was, in fact, a favorite, one he had read many times. He was remembering, slowly but surely it was all coming back. He glanced at the bookshelf, and Heyer's romance titles were all listed there, from
A Civil Contract
to
Venetia.
This was his home. His world. He was safe here even if he didn't yet recognize that fact.
Peter sat down in the chair, picked up
The Masqueraders
, and began to read.
He dragged Peter's trousers down and nuzzled his crotch. Peter's heart knocked frantically at his ribs. Slowly, lingeringly, he moved his hands over the other's long, lean body—broad back, firm, muscular buttocks, hard, strong thighs. Beautiful body. The sleek glide of muscles beneath brown skin.
A hot, wet mouth closed over his thickened, stiff cock and Peter groaned as the other—as
Cole—
began to suck. That slick heat pulled at him, drew him on, setting off a tingling at the base of his spine, tiny explosions of delighted sensation. So good. So unexpected. Peter shifted around so that their cocks were deep in each other's mouths. Hard to concentrate, though, because it felt so good and he wanted to make it just as good for ... for Cole.
Focus. God. Focus. But it was hard to focus because that wicked, knowledgeable mouth was doing such delicious things to him. It was like he couldn't form his lips to make suction, let alone words. He settled for a whimper that would have embarrassed him in less naked circumstances and a kiss for that other beautiful cock. All the while those feverish lips continued to work him with tongue and breath and the rumor of teeth. Peter was shivering from toes to crown, eyes fastened shut while that wonderful, warm, wet drag went on and on, sucking and sucking until at last he was delivered, screaming tension giving way in spurts of rich, salt-sweet cream.
Peter opened his eyes, shivering despite the day's languid heat, aware that he had come in his sleep. Beneath his chinos, his shorts were wet and uncomfortable. Christ! Was he fourteen? Because that had been the last time
that
happened.
And someone was knocking at the front door.
Confused, he rose too fast and, head swimming, went to answer that impatient summons, pulling out his shirt as he went through the kitchen and letting it hang out.
Reaching the front door, he unlocked it and pulled it open, uncomfortably aware of the little crinkles all across the bottom of his shirtfront.
Detective Griffin stood on his porch.
"I was beginning to wonder whether you'd skipped town,” he said after a pause.
"I was sleeping."
Griffin didn't seem to have a response to that. “Can I come in?"
"Do I have a choice?"
Griffin's grin was unexpectedly attractive. “Sure. For now. Be easier to get it over with, wouldn't it?"
"For whom?"
The grin went a little wider and a little more dangerous. Peter sighed and moved aside. Griffin followed him into the living room.
"Nice place,” Griffin said from behind Peter. He moved quietly for a big man.
"You've seen it before, haven't you?” The quality in the silence behind him made Peter turn around. Griffin was staring at him narrowly. “Are you trying to tell me you didn't search this place while I was in the hospital?"
The set of Griffin's shoulders seemed to relax. A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Nobody's searched your house. Or your office. So far. I haven't even asked for a search warrant. Yet."
"Why's that? I thought I was your number one suspect?"
"Yeah, well ... I've been wrong before.” His blue-gray gaze met Peter's levelly and then dropped to Peter's crotch. It occurred to Peter that he was standing there in sticky, wet briefs and a badly wrinkled shirt.
A strange moment passed. Peter had a vivid sense of déjà vu. He said at random, “Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"Sure,” Griffin said genially, the acceptance surprising Peter even more than his own offer had.
"Have a seat, and I'll put a pot on."
Griffin took the leather club chair by the fireplace. “Funny how we still say that,” he remarked. “Nobody puts a pot on these days."
Peter went into the kitchen and turned the coffeemaker on; then he went upstairs and changed out of his clothes yet again, this time opting for sweatpants and a T-shirt. In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his flushed face and told his reflection, “You're afraid to be on your own."
When he came downstairs again Griffin was back on his feet, staring out the window at the bird-of-paradise. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of Peter's footsteps and said, “I was starting to think you were trying to make a break for it."
"Why do you keep saying things like that? I don't have any reason to flee. I haven't done anything wrong."
"How do you know if you can't remember?"
"Because I know myself."
Griffin's mouth curled in one of those sardonic smiles.
Peter bristled. “I'm starting to take this personally. Am I honest to God your only suspect?"
"Pretty much, yeah.” Griffin was studying him. “You're still claiming you don't remember
anything
?"