Golden Dancer (6 page)

He chucked the phone into the hidden compartment, wiped his palms on his cargo pants, and went into the conference room. Most of the senior editorial staff were gathered already.

“Hi, Mac Mac.” Woo waved from the far end of the table.

Debbie shoved a chair out beside her, and he took it. She leaned over. “How are you, buddy?”

Crap, she’d been looking at him like he was damaged goods, and he was sick of it. He was going to tell her to cut it out. Okay, so he’d done a dumb thing. Not the fucking first time. As for the “did he like guys, or one guy specifically” issue? The further he got from the experience, the less it seemed likely or important. He’d lived this long as a straight man, and he was perfectly happy. Well, not perfectly happy. Probably not even very happy, but he liked his work and his friends. That was more than most people had.

“Okay, troops, listen up.” Woo called the rowdy group of staffers to order. Kind of. “So what we got for this month?” Everything moved so fast at the
Window
, they had to plan a month in advance and then adjust content day-by-day as news broke and issues changed.

Hands rose, and topics got shouted out when the hand-raising produced no results. The school problem in Los Angeles, the plight of women in Afghanistan when the US pulled out, who would be nominated for the big music awards, could cats smell diseases, recipes for summer barbecues, and on and on.

“We got a big entertainment story?” Woo looked at Hirschfield. The man shrugged his elegant shoulders. He was the only one among them that wore a suit. “I will be attending the new chamber orchestra performance later this week. They have a new clarinetist who’s supposed to be quite good.”

Woo rolled her eyes. “Clarinetist fine, but don’t get new subscribers.” Her darting black eyes landed on Mac. “So, Mac Mac, you got that dancer story for me? Med…whatever?”

Hirschfield’s eyes widened. “Medveyev? You have a story on Medveyev? He doesn’t do interviews except regarding performances.”

Woo waved a hand. “But Mac is big ballet guy. He tells me he can get a profile on this super Russian. I even have the big dinner receipt to prove it. So, Mac, you got my story? They say he’s real pretty. Pretty sells.”

Debbie looked at him, her look of compassion all over her face. He wanted to smack her, even if he did love her. “No, Hirschfield’s right. The guy weaseled out, after telling me he’d give me a story. Sorry, Woo.”

She crossed her arms. “After eating some real expensive food, he weaseled out. So, you got to first base with this guy?”

Mac cringed at the reference.

“If he like you enough to eat big dinner, maybe you can talk him into giving us just a little story.” She held her fingers a half inch apart. Then she smiled. “And some really big pictures, okay?”

“I think he’s already gone.”

Hirschfield looked at him with proverbial daggers. “No, he goes back to New York next week. That’s after he’s completed his little idyll with his new lover.”

He felt as if his heart had stopped. “What lover?”

“Oh, that billionaire art collector, Daniel Terrebone. Medveyev was seen getting into the man’s limousine after his performance last night. Seems Terrebone’s collected himself a real masterpiece this time.”

Mac couldn’t breathe. What man could steal the
Golden Dancer
—twice?

Chapter Six

Trelain stretched, extending his legs across the huge bed and arching his back. Christ on a bike, when had he slept this well? When he got to Terrebone’s mansion by the sea last night, his charming host, true to his word, had provided a masseur with magic hands, a splendid meal of salmon and creamed corn so divine, it could have been dessert, a soak in his own Jacuzzi tub, and a night’s sleep entirely by himself. He was not completely delighted by that last bit, but he had slept like the dead.

Light filtered around the blackout curtains, shielding the wall of glass that looked directly out on the sand. The man certainly knew how to live. Since their first encounter at the music center, Trelain had, of course, gone online and discovered that he was being courted by one of America’s richest men. Not Gates or Buffet rich, Terrebone insisted, but certainly top one hundred. Such was his “dabbling” in software.

After swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Trelain tugged his fingers through the tangled mane that hung around his shoulders. What time was it? He looked around the big room, still shadowed from the dark curtains. Spare, modern furniture formed a simple backdrop for spectacular abstract paintings. They’d be amazing in the light. On the bedside table, he saw a clock. As he reached out to grab it, it tipped, and the face lit up, showing eight thirty-seven a.m., then went dark again. Trelain batted it like a cat at a ball of yarn. Again it lit. Charming. And it was nice not to have a bright clock light shining in your face while you slept.

He stretched again, feeling the aches and bruises of every grand jeté, arabesque, and lift. No big deal, as the Yanks said; it went with the territory. He reached down and rubbed the leg muscles still slightly sore from the injury. Fuck! He was flooded with memories. He remembered walking into the rehearsal room and seeing Mac sitting at that table dressed like a street urchin, with that lovely face and wonderful curly mass of hair, just as unruly as his spirit. Mac laughing at dinner in a pair of tight black slacks that made him uncomfortable and drove Trelain crazy in completely different ways. Mac’s long cock bursting out of those pants into Trelain’s waiting hands. Double fuck.

He pushed off the bed and walked toward the bathroom, his cock at half-mast just from the memories. Chyort. Bleeding lot of good those memories did him.

After a shower, shave, and shampoo, Trelain wrapped himself in a blue silk robe and returned to the bedroom. Interesting that Daniel had put him in a room with a dressing table, clearly a space designed for a woman. He smiled. Since he operated on girl-time while dressing, why not take full advantage of this amenity? He retrieved his toiletries case from the bathroom sink and placed it ceremoniously on the beautiful Japanese-modern table. He lifted the mirror from the smooth, polished maple top.

He stared at his image, turning his head to get a better view from all angles. At least he didn’t look as tired as he had yesterday morning. This little interlude was just what he needed.

Long wet strands of hair lay over his shoulder, and he ran his fingers through the tangles, arranging them a little before trying the comb. Ouch.

There was a soft rap on the door. Um, maybe breakfast? Or maybe his host come calling. He had to admit to a little shiver at that idea. He looked over his shoulder. “Come in.”

The silver head appeared around the door. “Are you decent?”

Trelain smiled. “Almost never.”

The big man walked into the room. “Very promising.” He settled on the edge of the unmade bed. “You slept in. I think you were very tired.”

Trelain leaned back in the pretty, feminine, armless chair. “Yes. I didn’t realize how much I needed a good night’s sleep. When I’m performing, I often seem to practice grand jetés in my head all night.”

“The attention you give your art shows in everything you do, cavalier.” He stood and walked up beside Trelain, reaching out to finger some of the wet golden strands. “May I help with your hair?”

“Help?”

Daniel went to a side chair and pulled it over beside Trelain. “Yes, let me dry your hair for you, okay?”

Hm. Trelain didn’t like being fussed with much. Fussed over, of course, was fine. But the idea of Terrebone’s big hands in his hair had a certain appeal. “All right. As you Yanks say, knock yourself out.” He handed the man his hairdryer and a wooden comb. Daniel turned on the dryer.

Oh good Lord. He hadn’t been prepared for the pure sensuality of the experience. The warmth of the dryer, the white noise that made conversation impossible, the feel of the comb teeth passing through his hair, followed by the smooth palm pressing against his scalp. His head fell back and—instead of a chair back—came to lean against Daniel’s body where it stood behind him. What
part
of his body was the question. He felt an increasing lump against his skull. Oh, that part. Very nice. He took a deep breath and sank into the warmth and lassitude of growing arousal.

What? His head was flipped forward, and the dryer was applied to his hair upside down. Bloody hell! Was the man blind? Didn’t he see that Trelain was ready to be kissed?

Flip. He was upright again, flinging the hair away from his face and sputtering like a manhandled cat. Daniel switched off the dryer and turned Trelain to face the mirror. In an instant, he went from indignant to amazed. Golden silk. Daniel ran the comb through the now-dry strands. Trelain stared. Yes, he knew he was more beautiful than many people, but this? His hair stood out away from his face just enough to set off his bone structure without hiding it and fell like a glistening lamé curtain to his shoulders. He had to clear his throat before he could talk. “Ah, so that’s how you made your money. Charging $10,000 for a hairdo?”

Terrebone laughed. “You like?”

Trelain glanced at the man’s handsome face. “Yes, very much.”

“Let me do a bit more.” He sat in the chair he’d brought over and pawed through a small makeup bag Trelain carried with his toiletries. Removing a black liner pencil, he then leaned forward and touched Trelain’s cheek below his eye. “Close.”

Without thinking, Trelain closed his eyes, and Daniel began to smooth the pencil along his lids, then smudged the line with a finger. “Open.” Surveying his work critically, he grabbed a pot of lip gloss, uncapped it, and put a bit on his finger. With a soft touch, Daniel smoothed the silky gloss over Trelain’s half-open mouth. Trelain wanted to suck that finger in and do some damage of the best sort, but Terrebone was so serious and intent, he hesitated.

When finished, the tall man stood and stepped back, eyeing the results. He sighed. “Just lovely. Now, dress casually, and we’ll go to breakfast. I’ll be on the terrace when you’re ready.” Just like that, he was gone.

Trelain stared in the mirror. Fascinating. He saw himself in makeup several days a week, but this was the best that subtlety could offer. He looked totally androgynous without being a queen. His turquoise eyes shone from their soft rim of darkness, peeking out from his mane of silk. A roadmap, perhaps, to Terrebone’s taste in men?

He leaned back. Well, bollocks. This was officially torment. He was hungry, but it was open to question if he most hungered for food or for a nice mouthful of Terrebone’s cock. He started to get up and hesitated. Interesting that he’d had doubts about wanting to sleep with Daniel, and now it felt as if he was the aggressor. That seemed like some billionaire-class manipulation. He laughed and walked to the closet.

* * *

The huevos rancheros were delicious. He’d had them once or twice in Mexico, but this was a California variation, dripping in ranchero sauce and cheese. Trelain sat back, enjoying his stomach being full. Now he had another hole he’d like filled, and his interest was hotter than the salsa.

They’d walked from Daniel’s house by the ocean up to the Pacific Coast Highway, where they’d caught the free trolley that carried visitors through the popular artist’s colony. Daniel kept touching his fingertips to Trelain’s arms and face. That was hardly a practice of most straight men, so they made a bit of a scene. That, combined with Trelain’s exotic androgyny and Daniel’s height, silver hair, and young face, meant the tourists stared more at them than the sights. Daniel didn’t seem to notice.

After hopping off the trolley in South Laguna, they’d made their way into a hole-in-the-wall restaurant with a huge following. People crowded the bar, though it was only a bit after ten a.m., and another group talked over the music on the partly enclosed, brightly decorated deck. All the waiters seemed to know Daniel, and they brought him “his usual” while Trelain ordered the egg dish.

That had been almost two delightful, relaxed, torturous hours ago. Daniel kept touching Trelain’s hands and pressing those long legs against his under the table.

Daniel caressed his arm. “Would you like something more?”

Trelain stopped his perusal of the Californians—although who knew how many were visiting from North Dakota—to smile at the beautiful billionaire. “Not sure where I’d put any more
food
.” He hoped the slight emphasis might get a response.

The man smiled. “Ah, but there is something else you’d like?”

Trelain modulated his voice. “You know bloody fucking well there is.”

“Sightseeing?”

“Cease being cute.”

Daniel leaned across the table, his height allowing him to get quite close to Trelain. “Perhaps you’d like a hot cock in your beautiful, rock-hard ass?”

Trelain glanced sideways from under his lashes. Yes, coy. “How do you know it’s rock-hard?”

“Your tights.”

Trelain smiled. “Hell, I thought you’d never get round to it.”

Daniel touched his cheek, finger moving in a soft circle. “My darling, I have thought about virtually nothing else since I first laid eyes on you at that party and realized all that beauty and magnetism liked boys.”

“If that’s true, you have amazing restraint.”

“I have lots of practice.”

“From stalking unwary lovers?”

He sat back. “I’m an investor. I never make the buy until the market is ready.”

Trelain’s laugh escaped. “And I’m an investment?”

The cat ate the canary. “Best I’ve ever made, I’ll wager.” Daniel pulled a cell phone from his pocket and said a few words Trelain didn’t catch. The man waggled a finger at the waiter, who hurried over and produced a check. Daniel slipped a card on it. He leaned forward again. “How do you like it, Trelain? Hard and fast or long and slow?”

Trelain couldn’t resist another coy glance. “How do you know I bottom?”

Daniel chuckled. “The way that ass wiggles, I just know it’s begging to be fucked. Plus, I’ll let you top me sometime if you want to. I like my ass reamed as much as the next man.” He ran his fingers through the silk curtain of hair he’d created. “But not today, baby. Not today.”