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Underneath him the boy shivered and shuddered. The salt into the wounds must have hurt more than anything else had.
“You did well,” Kingsley said, and heard another voice saying those same words to him once.
Kingsley stood up, cleaned himself off and straightened his clothes. As if every movement caused him agony, the boy slowly sat up. He looked down at his body, at his welts, before looking up at Kingsley again. His lips were parted, his eyes wide. He crossed his arms over his stomach and pulled his legs to his chest.
“There’s a shower through that door.” Kingsley picked up the boy’s shirt and gave it to him. “You can get cleaned up. You can stay here tonight if you want. Those welts will turn into bruises. Keep your clothes on until they’re gone.”
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t you stay? For a little while? We don’t... We can talk.”
“I don’t want to talk,” Kingsley said.
The boy scrambled to his feet and pulled his jeans on. He sat on the bed and spent longer than necessary buttoning his shirt. Kingsley finished pulling himself together. He’d shower back at the town house. Nothing worth bothering with right now. All he wanted to do was drink himself into a stupor and sleep until he woke up dead. As usual.
“You’re young,” Kingsley said. “You’ll heal fast.” He wasn’t speaking about the welts.
He gave the boy one more smile before turning his back and heading to the door.
“My name’s Justin,” the blond called out after him.
Kingsley turned around and looked at him. A square of light from the window lay across the boy’s face like a white mask.
“I’ve only been with a guy once. It wasn’t like this. I didn’t even come. If my parents knew I was gay, they’d kick me out. I just... I wanted you to know those three things.”
“Anything else?” Kingsley asked, keeping his face composed, his voice devoid of emotion.
“You’re beautiful,” Justin said. “I feel stupid for saying that to another guy, but I can’t find another word. And what you did to me was everything I’ve always wanted. So...thank you.”
“You’re thanking me?”
“They teach us manners in Texas.”
Kingsley could taste the boy on his lips. Walk away. He knew he should walk away.
He pulled out his wallet and, from it, took a slim silver card with black ink.
“My name is Kingsley Edge. Not entirely, but it’s what I answer to. I’m French. That’s the accent you hear. And if your family kicks you out—and you’re right, they might—come back to this city and find me. I can help you. I’m not saying I will help you. But I can if I’m in the mood.”
Justin took the card and held it in his fist.
“Why did you pick me tonight? Only gay guy in the club?”
“There were three if I counted correctly.”
“Then why me?”
“You’re blond,” Kingsley answered truthfully. Justin gave a little laugh.
“You must really love blonds, then.”
“No.” Kingsley smiled tiredly. “I hate them.”
Without another word or a kiss goodbye, Kingsley left the room, left the hall, left the club and walked into the rainy streets of Manhattan. He should have called for his driver to come for him and take him home. But after so much sadism, a little masochism would do him good. The rain had turned the night near freezing, and Kingsley dug his hands deep into his jacket pockets burrowing for warmth. He walked fast, lengthening his strides as the late-winter rain soaked him to the skin. After two miles he arrived home to his town house. He paused outside and looked up. After six months living here, he still couldn’t believe he owned a Manhattan palace. Three stories—four if one counted the pool in the basement—black-and-white facade, wrought-iron balconies, a glass conservatory on the roof and luxurious bedroom after bedroom after bedroom...
Any one of his bedrooms would do him right now. He wanted to be warm and naked and drunk this very second. He ran up the stairs, opened the door and shut it behind him. He didn’t lock it. He never locked the door. Someone was always in the house, always coming or going. And people only locked their doors to keep the barbarians at the gate. He was the barbarian. Why would he keep himself out?
As soon as he entered the house, he pulled off his jacket and tossed it on the floor. Someone would take care of it. Someone always did. He heard music coming from within the house. Blaise, he guessed. She’d taken to staying here most nights, even the nights he didn’t fuck her. She seemed the sort to like piano music—or at least to pretend she liked it.
He trudged up the steps but paused before he reached the first landing. The music...it didn’t sound as if it came from a stereo or a radio. No, it sounded close, and live. Alive.
“Fuck.” Kingsley stormed back down the stairs. He had one rule in his house and one rule only. No one touches the grand piano in the music room. No one. It was to be looked at and never touched, never played, never even acknowledged. Whoever dared touch his piano would be thrown into the street and forbidden from ever crossing the threshold of his house again. The person who defied Kingsley’s one law would curse the day he’d ever learned to play the fucking piano.
Kingsley threw open the door to the music room.
He stopped.
He stared.
He did not breathe.
It couldn’t be...
But it was.
The room was dark, but Kingsley could see who played his grand piano. And even if he couldn’t see, he would still know it was him. Only one man he’d ever known could play so skillfully without sheet music, without even seeing the keys. A sliver of streetlight penetrated the room and cast a circle of light around the pianist’s hair.
His blond hair.
Søren.
Frozen in place, Kingsley could do nothing but stand and listen and watch and wait and wonder. Why? How?
The music—Beethoven, Kingsley believed it was—set the room afire, and the sound moved like smoke over the floor, up the walls and across the ceiling. Kingsley breathed it in like incense.
The piece ended. The final note rose like a burning ember before falling to the floor and fading into ash.
Shock had stolen Kingsley’s courage, but now it returned to him. He couldn’t get to the man fast enough. He rushed forward as the pianist closed the fallboard and stood. Over ten years had passed since Kingsley had seen him, had looked on him with his own eyes. Kingsley had almost given up hope he would ever see him again. They’d caused each other too much pain, and someone had paid the highest price for their secrets. But that was all in the past. It would be better now between them. No hiding. No lies. Kingsley would give him his heart and his body and his soul, and this time he’d ask for nothing in return.
But as the pianist rose, Kingsley noticed something different about him. He looked the same, only older now. How long since they’d last stood face-to-face, eye-to-eye? He would be twenty-nine years old, wouldn’t he? God, they were grown men now. When had that happened? If it was possible, he was even more handsome than Kingsley remembered, and taller, too. How was it possible he was taller? His clothes, however, were far more severe. He wore all black.
All black but for one spot of white.
A square of white.
A square of white at his throat.
The pianist smiled at him, a smile of amusement with only the barest hint of apology. And not the least bit of shame.
Fuck.
Kingsley stared, incredulous. He took a small step back.
No...not that. Anything but that. Whatever hope had been in Kingsley’s heart a second earlier shattered and died like the last stray note of a symphony.
The old love, the old desire coursed through his veins and into his heart, and there was no stopping it.
He met the blond pianist’s eyes—the priest’s eyes—and released the breath he’d forgotten he’d been holding.
“Mon Dieu...”
My God.
4 (#ulink_93435002-88be-5814-a9de-841ce9c628cc)
FOR A SILENT eternity they only looked at each other.
Finally Kingsley raised his hand.
“Wait here,” he said and turned around. He turned back around again. “S’il vous plait.”
Søren said nothing. Even if Søren wanted to speak, Kingsley left before he could say a word.
Kingsley strode from the music room and shut the door behind him.
As soon as he stood alone in the hallway, Kingsley pushed a hand into his stomach. A wave of dizziness passed over him. He fought it off, ran upstairs to his bedroom and changed from his rain-soaked clothes into dry ones. He grabbed soap, a towel. He scrubbed at his face, rinsed the taste of Justin out of his mouth, toweled the rain from his hair and slicked his hands through it. In less than five minutes he looked like himself again—shoulder-length dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin inherited from his father. Did he look like he did ten years ago? Was he more handsome? Less? Did it matter to Søren anymore what he looked like?
“Søren...” He breathed the name like a prayer. How long had it been since he’d said that name out loud? What was he doing here? Last year Kingsley had been dying in a hospital in France, dying of infection from a gunshot wound. He remembered nothing of those days after his surgery but for the few minutes Søren had visited. He’d been too ill, barely conscious. He’d only heard Søren’s voice speaking to a doctor, demanding they treat him, heal him, save him. Kingsley thought it only a dream at the time, but when he awoke to find he’d been left a gift—access to a Swiss bank account with more than thirty million dollars in it—he knew it had been real.
That should have been it. That should have been the last time they’d seen each other. Kingsley knew that bank account had been blood money—Søren’s way of saying he was sorry for what had happened between them. The second Kingsley spent the first cent he’d accepted that apology. They were even now. No unfinished business.
So why was Søren here?
Kingsley took a steadying breath, but it did nothing to quell his light-headedness. He was almost giddy with shock. He laughed for no reason. As much as wanted to, he couldn’t leave Søren alone in the music room all night waiting for him. He had to go back, talk to him, look him in the eyes again and find out what he wanted. And he would. He could do this. Some of the most dangerous men in the world pissed themselves at the mere mention of Kingsley’s name. People feared him. They should fear him. He feared no one.
He took one more breath and readied himself to leave the bathroom and go to Søren. But then he stepped back, kicked the seat of the toilet open and vomited so hard his eyes watered.
Once he was certain he’d fully emptied his stomach of all its contents, he sat on the cold tile floor and breathed through his nose. He laughed.
Here he was, eleven years later, and Søren could still do this to him without saying a word. God damn him.
Slowly he stood and washed his mouth out again. He could run. He had money. He could leave. Go out the back door, fly away and run forever.
But no, Kingsley had to face him. He could face him. His pride demanded it of him. And if Søren had found him here, he could find him anywhere.
Outside the music room Kingsley willed his hands to stop shaking, willed his heart to slow its frenetic racing.
He threw open the door with a flourish and stepped inside.
At first he didn’t see Søren. He’d expected to find him waiting on the divan or on one of the chairs. Or perhaps even standing by the window or sitting at the piano. He hadn’t expected to find Søren bent underneath the top board of the piano. He’d turned on a lamp now, and warm light filled the room.
“What are you doing?” Kingsley asked as he came to the piano and peeked under the open lid. He spoke with a steady voice.
“Your bass notes are flat.” Søren hit a key and turned a pin inside the piano. “You shouldn’t have the piano near the window. The temperature fluctuates too much.”
“I’ll have it moved.”
“When was the last time you had it tuned?” Søren asked.
“Never.”
“I can tell.” Søren hit another key, turned another pin. Kingsley watched Søren’s hands as he worked. Large, strong and flawless hands. His clothes had changed, he’d grown taller, more handsome, and now he was a priest. But his hands hadn’t changed. They were the same hands Kingsley remembered.
Søren stood up straight and lowered the lid of the grand piano back down.
“The action is stiff. Has it not been played very often?”
“You were the first. No one’s allowed to play it.”
“No one? Then I apologize for playing it.”
“Don’t apologize. When I say no one is allowed to play it, I meant...no one but you.”
Søren glanced up and met Kingsley’s eyes. It took all of Kingsley’s resolve, fortitude and the alcohol left in his bloodstream not to break eye contact. Søren always had this way of looking at him that made Kingsley want to confess everything to him. Even back when they were teenage boys in school together, he’d had that power. But Kingsley kept silent, kept his secrets. They weren’t boys anymore.
“I’ll call someone,” Kingsley finally said. “I’ll have it tuned.”
“Call a music store. They’ll be able to recommend a good tuner.”
Kingsley and Søren studied each other over the top of the piano.
“Do you want to keep talking about the piano, or should we have a real conversation?” Søren asked.
Kingsley gave him a halfhearted smile and sat down on the piano bench. The adrenaline had subsided, but the disorientation remained. If he awoke to find himself in bed and all this was a dream, he wouldn’t be surprised.
“So...parish priest? Dominican? Franciscan?” he asked, the old words coming back to him like a language he used to be fluent in but hadn’t spoken in years.
“Jesuit,” Søren said, taking a seat on the white-and-black-striped sofa across from the piano bench.
Kingsley rubbed his forehead and laughed.
“A Jesuit. I was afraid of that. I knew they wanted you in their ranks.”
“I wasn’t recruited. It was my choice.”
“So it’s real? The collar? The vows? All of it?”
