Haunted Heart (3 page)

Duncan glanced back the way they’d come, up the mountainside, woods all around. “Has he lived up there alone for long?”

The kid’s look turned suspicious. “What’s it to you?”

“I came here to offer him a job. We’d made an appointment and everything, but….” He let his voice trail off, hoping to elicit a response.

The guy sighed in sympathy. “Ah. Well, I can’t really help you there. I never talk to him either. I just leave the stuff right outside his door with the bill. He always pays on time. And by the time I’m driving away, the box’s usually gone. He’s a loner, I guess. Nothing wrong with that.”

“No, nothing.” One didn’t have to be social all the damn time, Duncan thought. “I just worried. We were supposed to have a friendly chat about a job. I wonder if I did something to upset him. I sure didn’t mean to.”

The kid shook his head with a humorless chuckle, his auburn hair waving about. “Nah. You showed up. That’s probably it.” He looked over his shoulder toward the dirt road disappearing into the shadows of the pines and spruces. “I don’t know much about him. I think he’s lived there for years. His grandmother lived there before him. I think she’s dead now. He probably inherited the place.”

Could this deceased grandmother have been Ruben’s only family? A profound sorrow could explain the isolation. Well, to an extent anyway. From what he had seen, Ruben’s fears made him a prisoner in his own place. Duncan really had to learn more. And going to the source seemed to be out of the question.

The delivery guy checked his wristwatch, impatience written on his face. “Hey, listen, man. It’s been fun chatting, but I gotta get going. Still got a couple of deliveries to make. Good luck with everything.” He waved good-bye and drove off, pebbles flying as he sped up, vanishing around the bend.

Duncan sighed, none the wiser, and decided to head back to the office. But as he sat down in the car, he changed his mind and headed home instead.

S
IPPING
HIS
merlot, Duncan barely tasted the wine since he was so engrossed in his research into Ruben Winterbottom. The moment he’d come home, he’d ordered Italian takeout and then taken a glass of wine with him to his study, where he planted his ass in front of the computer. He was going to find out what had happened to Ruben. Maybe that way he could get close enough to give the guy some confidence—and a job.

Speaking of which, Duncan had no intention of using the cover Ruben had made, not for free. Even if the young man had consented and even offered to do the same in writing, no way was Duncan going to rip the artist off. Bad reputation for the publishing house—and bad personal karma for him. Ruben seemed fragile enough as it was.

Unfortunately, apart from an art portfolio, the publisher didn’t do any real background checks on their artists. So Duncan was forced to use other means.

A Google search had provided precious little information about Ruben. A small note in his art school’s student listing three years ago, a minor mention in an online comic blog about a freelance book-cover artist, and finally the obituary of one Rose Winterbottom, who had died of breast cancer two years ago and was survived by a grandson, Ruben. It wasn’t much to go on.

There was a considerable amount of news about Rose, however, who had apparently been a prominent figure in the community. Charities were among her chief concerns. It seemed she had come from a wealthy family, but most all of the Winterbottoms were long dead.

Apparently, that list included Ruben’s parents, since he seemed so utterly alone.

Duncan harrumphed in frustration, raking fingers through his thick hair. “Whatever it is, Ruben, I can….” He could—what? Help the man? How? Duncan had no idea what had broken this young man. Duncan might have wished he could help, but that didn’t translate into ability to do so.

And Ruben had made it pretty clear he didn’t want to have anything to do with him or the publishing house.

Annoyed, Duncan pulled up his e-mail and started typing.

Dear Ruben,

I hope you reconsider my offer of working with Enamored Press on a permanent basis as a book cover artist. I’m confident we can find solutions to whatever problems we face.

Perhaps over time, as our professional relationship grows, we can revisit the issue of meeting in person. For now, EP would like to offer you a contract for the cover you made for the submission call. You will receive an electronic contract for review and to sign online once you’ve replied affirmatively to this email.

We here at EP look forward to working with you in the future.

Sincerely yours,

Duncan Kerr, Art Director

Enamored Press
.

Before he could doubt what he’d written, he sent the e-mail. He was the director of the art department, after all, and was allowed to offer contracts to new artists. The final approval was with the publisher, naturally, but Duncan had good instincts.

He wondered how long he would have to wait for a reply. Considering how timid the young man had been, Duncan suspected the response time would be quite a while.

Finding out the truth about Ruben’s reclusive life had to take a backseat for now if Duncan intended to reel this fish in. So far, there had been only nibbles. Duncan needed the young man to take the bait—hook, line, and sinker.

So after pouring himself another glass of wine, Duncan parked his butt in his office chair and set out to wait. In the meantime, he could work. And he did, for over an hour, until the ping indicated a message. To be fair, he’d received a half dozen e-mails in the span of that single hour, but none had been from Ruben.

Until now, at least. Ruben’s reply was simple and short.

Mr. Kerr,

Thank you for giving me a second chance. I’ll do my best not to disappoint. I’d like to accept the offer.

Sincerely,

Ruben W
.

Duncan grinned. Success!

This answer confirmed, too, that Ruben had only offered the cover for free because he wasn’t comfortable meeting with Duncan. Well, that was fine—for now. Duncan could wait. He hadn’t gotten where he was without learning patience.

From now on he would send book blurbs directly to Ruben whenever he felt the young artist was in the best position to do the literary work justice. He was certain that would be the case often. And as time went by, maybe other things would proceed as well.

For now, though, baby steps.

I
T
TOOK
Ruben a month to get used to the fact that he got repeated artistic requests from Duncan after the first cover. The handsome art director sent him a new book blurb and cover info sheet every five days or so.

The best parts were the funny comments and emoticons Duncan always added to his messages. He personalized each line, coaxing Ruben out of his shell a little more with each new e-mail.

And he had promised Ruben challenges, which the pictures totally were. Ruben had to admit he was excited about the assignments, and the steady cash flow sure didn’t hurt. After all, though he owned the house he’d inherited, he still had to pay the utilities and buy groceries. He had a small trust fund Rose had left him since, apart from a couple of cousins in Memphis (of all places), he was the last in the Winterbottom line. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep him afloat if he sold art with relative frequency.

Thanks to Duncan, Ruben was in a position to do just that.

As he stood by the easel in the sunroom on the south side of the house, painting a new cover, he mumbled to himself, “I owe him such a great debt. I have to repay him for his kindness. Somehow.”

The new cover had an eighties fashion theme, and Ruben went a little crazy with it. It wasn’t a familiar time period for him, but it seemed to be making a comeback, so he had trendy reference points. Trying to find something erotic in huge shoulder pads and pastel legwarmers, Ruben went with a disco scene of tight miniskirts and huge earrings, and also some hot and heavy action under a strobe and a disco ball. The heroine had her head thrown back, her frizzy hair mussed, and the hero holding the small of her back, tipping her. It was erotica in an eighties setting.

Ruben had been working on the new artwork the whole morning, but his thoughts were scattered a bit. His mind kept going back to the sexy blond on his doorstep a month ago. Praying for courage, Ruben wished he could meet the man, really speak with him, and not just peek at him past a crack in the door.

And it wasn’t just his waking thoughts that strayed in Duncan’s direction; his dreams also focused on the gorgeous art director. Many a night he had startled awake, his head filled with erotic imagery, his body humming with pent-up desire, and his cock painfully erect. Going back to sleep with a boner was not an option.

Now, after a long month of midnight wanking sessions, Ruben was having a hard time getting his shit together. Unless he met Duncan and relieved some tension one way or the other, he wasn’t going to get much done. No, his art wasn’t suffering from his constant arousal. But his body was thrumming with electricity he had to release, or he’d blow up.

Shaking his limbs and jumping in place for a moment, he cleared his head long enough to finish the picture. The vibrant red tones of the bodies entwined clashed with the greens, blues, and yellows of their surroundings, giving the depiction a living, vibrating feel to it. Ruben hoped Duncan would like it.

“Just do it now, you coward,” Ruben encouraged himself. He put down the pencils, hurried to the laptop, and opened his e-mail program. “What do I want to say to him?” His fingers lay on the keyboard. “I wanna suck on your lower lip till it’s swollen and wet? I wanna lick all over your chest and abs and down the hairy treasure trail to your delicious cock? I wanna blow you till you scream?” Pursing his lips, Ruben shook his head and let out a breathless chuckle. “Yeah, maybe not
that
.”

Tucking his legs under him, he shifted the laptop onto his lap and started typing.

Dear Duncan,

Would you like to come to my house for a cup of coffee next week?

Sincerely,

Ruben W
.

It was short and to the point, he thought. And his anxieties started building with just those few words. Before he could second-guess himself to death, he hit Send. Then, to prevent any retractions, he snapped the lid of the laptop closed and took a few calming breaths.

Worrying his lower lip and wringing his hands, he wondered if Duncan would agree. Then Ruben frowned at calling the art director by his first name. When had that happened? Sighing, he fought for self-control.

Once he found a smidgeon of courage, he pulled the lid of the laptop open again, knelt on the thick, warm rug on the floor, and focused on his inner workings. Through online courses, he had taught himself yoga exercises to better handle his body’s involuntary panic attacks and nervous reactions. So far, it had worked very well.

Lost in his training, he lost track of time too.

The ping of an incoming e-mail zapped him out of his blissful calm.

He grabbed the laptop and yanked it close so he could read the message right away.

I’ll be there on Tuesday at two.

Duncan
.

Ruben’s chest heaved as both panic and relief flooded his system. He didn’t know which to react to first. “Okay. He’s coming here. Remember, I wanted this. I want this. It’s all right. I want to meet him again. It’s gonna be okay.” He kept up the whispered encouragements for a while until the tide of agitation subsided and he was the master of his emotions once more. He knew that reign would not last, but for now it was enough.

“H
ELLO
? R
UBEN
?”

The words followed the second knock on Ruben’s front door at 1:56 p.m. on Tuesday. Like before, Ruben was a nervous wreck, and he feared this would end the way it had earlier. And he really didn’t want that.

Smoothing out the imaginary wrinkles in his clothes—simple gray slacks, white dress shirt, and an open black vest, with no shoes or socks—Ruben descended the stairs, fast at first, then slowing in hesitation.

“Come on. You can do this.” The pep talk helped. Then again, it had actually started at around noon, so he was reaping the rewards of what he had sown hours ago.

Shaking his trembling hands, Ruben walked to the door, twisted the knob, and opened it before his brain could catch on and stop him.

Like the last time, Duncan looked breathtaking, and Ruben’s heart thudded in his chest. Duncan wore business casual, much like Ruben, with dark-brown slacks, a crisp, white dress shirt, and a dark, amber-colored silk tie, with no coat or jacket, and with brown loafers.

Showcasing pearly white teeth, Duncan smiled happily. “Ruben? Can’t tell you how nice it is to meet you.” He extended his hand.

Swallowing down his anxiety, Ruben matched his guest’s smile, though he felt his own was lacking. “H-hello, Mr. K-Kerr. Likewise.” He tried to raise his hand to return the greeting, but it just trembled, fighting the order his brain sent.

Duncan glanced down briefly, but then he pulled his arm back and smiled. “Shaking hands is a bit formal and old-fashioned, it’s true. Not needed among friends, right?”

Ruben blushed. Duncan’s charm and ease of adjustment only endeared him to Ruben more, causing his crush to deepen. “N-no, I guess not. Um, w-would you like to come in?” Taking a step to the side, he opened the door wider.

“Thank you.” Duncan walked in, a confident stride that exuded alpha masculinity and consequently made Ruben’s groin tingle hotly. Duncan’s gaze swept over the foyer and deeper into the house. “You have a beautiful place here.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” Ruben closed the door, staring at the floor mostly to prevent himself from tripping on his own feet, and then dashed toward the sitting room where he was planning on serving coffee. The sitting room was on the opposite side of the house from the sunroom where he drew and painted. “Please, this way.” With a shaky wave, he indicated where his guest should take a seat on the couch.