Haunted Heart (2 page)

Dear Mr. Kerr,

We could meet briefly at my house for coffee tomorrow in the afternoon. Would that be agreeable to you? I’m sorry I can’t be very long. I’m very busy.

Sincerely,

Ruben Winterbottom
.

He bit the inside of his cheek as he reread what he’d written. Then he deleted the bit about being unable to entertain for long and about how busy he was—all alone in his home with no one there to hurry him along. Only then did he hit Send.

Ruben still sent out a silent prayer that this Kerr could read between the lines and see the subtext for what it was: reluctance but with politeness.

Debating whether to wait for Kerr’s response, Ruben got up to fetch some coffee. But he didn’t get far. The ping sounded through the speakers, and the little red flag indicated he had an e-mail. He clicked the message open, anxiety building.

Dear Ruben,

I will arrive tomorrow at two.

Sincerely,

Duncan Kerr
.

Were they on a first-name basis now? Ruben flinched, dread filling his belly with icy coldness.

“I don’t even know him,” he reminded himself sternly, realizing rationally that he shouldn’t judge. “He could be a… a good man.” His voice hollowed out then. Hope hadn’t raised its head for a second. Ruben couldn’t trust another man, not ever again. “Fool me once…. No. No one’s ever going to fool me again.” He said the last bit louder than before, with conviction, nodding to himself.

Then, in a flash, the full horror of what was to come the next day washed over him. A tiny yelp escaped from his throat, and he knew without a shred of doubt he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep tonight.

N
OON
OF
the following day arrived all too quickly, and the afternoon loomed ahead for Ruben like some giant monstrosity he couldn’t avoid on his path to tomorrow.

Worst of all was the realization that he had suggested they have coffee on the porch. As Ruben sat in the corner of his bedroom, farthest from the doorway, clutching at his knees in cold fear, his whole body trembling like a leaf in the wind, he knew he had made a mistake.

“Why did I invite him here? Oh God, help me.” Ruben fought the sobs, dry at first, but was unable to stop them in the end. He wiped his wet eyes with his long sleeves, feeling utterly miserable.

When he had made the offer, Ruben had been thinking of days gone by when he had been able to leave the confines of his lonely house and actually contribute to the world: to be social, to meet people, be they family or strangers. For a time, he had forgotten why he could no longer have tea parties out on the porch. Duncan’s kindness had caused it. Made him lose sight of who he was now.

A coward.

Through the open windows, he heard a high-powered car come up the dirt driveway from the paved road below. Ruben began to hyperventilate, and he couldn’t budge from where he sat. White spots started to dance in his field of vision, and his skin burned.

He heard gravel crunch beneath the tires as the car drove up to the house, and then the engine was turned off. Ruben imagined a faceless, ageless, corporate type in an immaculate suit and tie stepping out of the vehicle and making his way confidently to the porch. Footsteps approached the front door. They were followed by a knock.

Ruben counted the knocks. “One. Two. Three.” He shut his eyes tight, praying in part for strength and in part for the man to just go away.

Blessed silence lasted for ten, twenty seconds. Then three knocks repeated, a bit louder this time, insistent but still courteous. The visitor wasn’t trying to raise the dead with his hammering.

Ruben buried his face against his knees and hugged himself. “Come on, you chicken. Get up and go to the door. It’s all right. Just get up, okay? Start with that. Stand up.” The scolding self-motivation seldom worked, especially when it came to situations like this when a complete stranger was rapping on his front door.

“Hello? Mr. Winterbottom?” A deep, masculine voice called out from the porch. The sound sent shivers running up and down Ruben’s spine—though this time not in fear.

Trying to gain control over his breathing, Ruben inhaled slowly and deeply. When he finally stopped gasping, he firmly pressed his palms against the wall at his back and pushed himself up. “That’s it. I can do this.”

Ruben took a step forward.

Then the visitor called out again, his tone rising an octave. “Hello? Am I too early? We said at two o’clock, didn’t we?”

Ruben’s cheeks heated when his overactive brain began picturing the owner of that sexy voice. The harder he tried to rein in his imagination, the more erotic the imagery got. He had to do a full body shake to dispel the randy thoughts, and he pinched his wayward erection back into flaccid submission.

Touching everything firm with his fingertips—the walls, the bed frame, the doorway, the stair railing—Ruben made his way to the front door. His legs shook like they were made of jelly, and his stomach was tied in knots, tightening with every step he took.

“Come on. Almost there. Just a bit more.”

The last few steps happened as if in a dream, his consciousness obscure and veiled.

Just as he reached the door and gripped the knob, his cell phone beeped with a text. Ruben didn’t need to see it to sense it was from the man outside.
How considerate of him not to call because I could be in the middle of something important
, Ruben thought, half sarcastically.

Then, through the white, transparent curtains covering the door windows, Ruben saw a tall figure moving down the steps of the porch back to the driveway.
He’s leaving!

A soft, long, desperate sound escaped Ruben’s throat exactly at the same moment as he managed to pry the door open a sliver.

The man must have heard the sound, because he stopped and turned around, peering at the cracked-open doorway.

“Mr. Winterbottom?” He dashed back up the stairs to the porch, offering a kind smile and extending a hand. “I’m Duncan Kerr from Enamored Press. We set up a meeting for today?”

In the afternoon sunlight, Ruben saw him clearly. Tall, athletic, beautiful. Instead of a formal suit, he wore white tennis shoes, faded blue jeans, a white tee, and a light-brown suede jacket, all lovingly hugging his healthy, muscular body. He had rugged good looks, complete with a light stubble, the tiniest cleft in his chin, strong cheekbones, high forehead, and unruly wheat-colored curls dancing about in the wind. Deep-blue eyes stared at Ruben with obvious curiosity.

“I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to finally meet you, Mr. Winterbottom,” the man said, his tone expressing awe. “You are an extremely talented artist.”

As warmed as Ruben was by the praise, he couldn’t let go of the door to open it more than a sliver. It was as if his body had turned to stone. “T-thank you, Mr. K-Kerr.” His voice almost too soft to hear, Ruben felt only fear. Well, mostly fear, mixed with some reluctantly acknowledged arousal—Duncan Kerr was gorgeous.

Duncan smiled. It was an attractive, sunny smile. Nice. Ruben’s heart beat a bit faster. “You’re very welcome. I may be here trying to sell my humble business to you, but every word is the God’s honest truth, I swear.” He winked as he said it, and Ruben’s lips twitched in an instinctive attempt at a smile. But his face, so long unaccustomed to such things, felt like a clay mask left out in the sun too long, about to crack.

“I-I c-can’t meet with you today. I’m… I’m not feeling so well. I think I’m ill.” The lie felt wrong, but Ruben had no other recourse since he had so stupidly made this arrangement to meet with Kerr. “I’m s-sorry you had to come all this way for nothing.”

Duncan’s smile faltered, and he blinked. “Oh.” Then he blinked some more and finally nodded, looking resigned. His smile returned but was dimmed. “I understand, of course. Maybe we can reschedule.
I’ll e-mail you tomorrow or at the end of the week, and we can see about setting a new date for—”

Desperate to stop the man’s plans from progressing further, Ruben spilled out hastily, “No. No. You can have the picture I sent you. Free of charge. No need to come back.” His cheeks flamed with embarrassment. How rude he had sounded. “I-I m-mean…. The cover I sent you for the art contractor position. It’s fine for you to keep it and use it as you will. Absolutely fine.” No, it was far from fine. He’d miss the money that picture could have garnered and the job opportunities that might have sprouted from it. But he knew he couldn’t see this man again. Just this small vision of him was almost too much to bear.

Cocking his head to the side as if taking stock of the situation, Duncan seemed to be puzzled and thinking fiercely. His expression depicted concentration. “That is a most unusual offer, Ruben. May I call you Ruben?” Ruben stammered something noncommittal and frantic in response, and so Duncan continued. “There are legal technicalities, written waivers and—”

“Fine. Fine. I’ll sign anything.” It was stupid to do that, Ruben knew, but his frayed nerves were on their last legs. And boy, wasn’t that a bout of mixed metaphors.

Duncan frowned, giving Ruben an idea of just how baffled the man was. “I was hoping you and I could speak about a permanent arrangement between the publishing house and—”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. Please leave.” A pang of guilt forced tears out of Ruben’s eyes as he added in a cracked voice, “I’m so sorry to have wasted your time like this.” And he shut the door in his guest’s face.

Then he fell to his knees, his forehead pressed against the door, and let himself cry. How horrible this whole situation was, and how worthless he felt. The first chance he’d had of actually perhaps making a life for himself and becoming strong and independent again. But no. He was doomed to eternal solitude behind four walls. Ruben slid into a fetal position. He was a mere shell of a man, a hollow husk with nothing but misery on the inside.

“I’ll never get out of here… I’ll never be free again.”

A
S
HE
backed away from the door that had been slammed in his face, Duncan thought he heard the young man crying on the other side. He felt bad for Ruben for reasons he couldn’t quite define.

But what he was absolutely certain of was that Ruben wasn’t ill. His face had been pale, a sheen of cold sweat coating his skin, but those big, dark eyes spoke of fear. No, more than fear. Ruben had been utterly terrified.

And Duncan didn’t think he alone was to blame. Ruben had looked past Duncan every once in a while, over his shoulder, unable to meet Duncan’s gaze. Ruben’s dark gray eyes had widened, as if the sky itself had been an enemy out to get him.

There was a name for an emotion so powerful. Phobia.

With mixed feelings, Duncan sighed and returned to his sports car. He and his father had rebuilt the red marvel together from the ground up, and now it belonged to Duncan. But at the moment, his thoughts weren’t with the car but inside the white, country-style house and its scared little occupant.

And what a sight Ruben had been, Duncan mused with no small amount of attraction coloring his impression. The boy may have been twenty-two, but he had seemed younger. Dark hair had flopped over his face in long, mussed-up strands that could have used some trimming. His slim figure had drowned under gray pajama bottoms and a woolly sweater with sleeves far too long. Ruben’s startled eyes had put Duncan in mind of a frightened animal.

And yet there was something indefinably attractive about Ruben, a
je ne sais quoi
that drew Duncan like iron to a magnet. Because of that the young man was right up Duncan’s alley. Not quite a twink but not far off. And the mystery surrounding this talented artist only made Duncan’s instinctive infatuation deepen.

Back in his car, Duncan planned his next move. If he left, he might never get the chance to return here again. But if he stayed, he might make Ruben even more afraid. And Duncan sure didn’t want Ruben to be afraid of him. Despite the attraction, Duncan knew Ruben had serious skills, and he wanted to recruit him, sooner rather than later.

No way was Duncan giving up.

Still busy with his ruminations, Duncan heard a truck coming up the winding dirt road through the trees. A blue pickup emerged, stopping close-by. A young man of maybe seventeen or eighteen jumped out, all eager like a puppy.

A boyfriend or a lover, perhaps?

But then the boy pulled out an open wooden crate from the truck and hauled it to the house. Inside, peeking from the top, were grocery items. Duncan frowned, curious. Ruben had stuff delivered to his home? That suggested he didn’t go out much.

The frantic look in those big gray eyes returned to the forefront of Duncan’s mind. “Is he agoraphobic?” he puzzled out loud, whispering. He decided to find out, so he started the ignition and drove away from the house. At the end of the dirt road where asphalt replaced the ground, he stopped the car and waited.

Five minutes later, the delivery truck approached. Duncan got out and waved the truck to a stop. The boy peeked out the window, looking mildly irritated. “What’s the problem?”

Duncan put on the charm, ready to kill with a smile and dimples, as he walked up to the driver’s side window. “Hi. Sorry to bother you. I’m not bothering you too much, am I?”

Whether the kid was gay had no bearing on Duncan’s success. Friendly advances were usually welcome, especially in unexpected situations. The guy relaxed a bit but didn’t exactly go out of his way to check Duncan out, which suggested he was straight, or not that interested, which was unlikely. “No, I guess not. What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if you deliver to that house a lot.”

The kid shrugged. “Every week.” Then he grinned. “Didn’t let you in, did he?” Duncan shook his head in confirmation. The guy chuckled, rubbing his jaw absentmindedly. “Yeah, he’s not much of a people person. But he’s okay. Kinda cute.”