Games People Play (5 page)

“Then you’ll find him upstairs. Don’t keep him long if he’s resting. I want him ready for a most important guest.”

An important guest on a quiet Sunday night. Colm’s mouth quirked. He could picture the client.
Church first, family brunch, take the kids shopping, tuck them into their canopied beds, then off to the fuck palace.
Sometimes he hated the cynical bastard Avalon had turned him into. Sometimes he walked into this place and felt its embrace, felt the orgasm building even before he’d touched his first client of the evening. He belonged here. He would stay until Amelia recovered some mobility, or Azure let him off his tether.

He strolled through the Baroque-decorated lobby, weaving around circular settees and gold-leafed tables to the great curved staircase, where he took two steps at a time to the second floor. Someone was burning incense, patchouli and cedar. He breathed it in and thought about college. Another life. Ashes of memories.

Garrett answered his apartment door in a towel, his light brown hair wet and messy. “What are you doing here?”

“I got dismissed a little early today.”

“Trouble already?” He let Colm into the room and went to his dresser to pull out a pair of jeans. He was probably hooking up with Dana Cherlow, an attractive Broadway actress in town for a Kennedy Center gala. She liked her men in ripped jeans and T-shirts. Bad boy shit. She liked it rough and relentless.

“No trouble yet.” Colm leaned against the doorjamb. “Sydney needs another male model for some kind of erotic ménage à trois canvas, and you’re the only one I’d put up with. And even that’s minimally.”

“You know you want me.” Garrett dropped his towel and smacked himself on the naked ass.

“Jesus, Garrett. Don’t do that.”

“Sorry.” In the fashion Dana Cherlow favored, he pulled on a pair of snug jeans without underwear, fastened and zipped them. “Talk to me on the balcony before my appointment gets here. I need a smoke.”

They moved down the long hall, passing rooms where not a sound echoed, even though Colm knew there might be an early bird or two experiencing the eye-rolling orgasms Avalon promised. Congresswoman Margaret Vale was usually one of them at this hour. She liked a sweet, short fuck and made methodical rounds, sampling Avalon companions, one whore a week. Colm had entertained her two weeks ago, and it hadn’t been half bad. She was sexy in a cougarish way, even if he hadn’t gotten off when he was with her. It took a lot to get him to that point anymore. Two or three clients back-to-back, or a general weariness, and then he would climax. The clients loved it and took smug credit for it, although few requested it from him. And after three years, coming was just a physical response to which he was completely disconnected.

The autumn sun shone its direct rays on the two men as they stepped onto the back balcony. The wrought iron–surrounded terrace was one of Colm’s favorite places in the town house. He often brought his voyeuristic clients out here, although no passerby could really see what took place. Azure owned the two lots behind Avalon and had demolished the row houses that sat on them, then surrounded the land and its gardens with high, manicured hedges. The elite pleasure club had made her incredibly wealthy, enough to shoo off underpaid law enforcement when suspicion reared its inevitable head.

Facing away from the chilled breeze, Garrett lit a Turkish cigarette, took a long drag, and offered it to Colm in a cloud of sweet-scented smoke. Normally Colm didn’t like cigarettes, but he was wired, driven. He took it and sucked in a lungful of smoke. Closing his eyes, he held it for a moment then exhaled with a shiver. The smoke scraped his throat and spun the world around him.

“So what’s this group sex thing?” Garrett asked, leaning an elbow against the balustrade. “You, me, and one chick posing?”

“Right.” Colm looked away. He was a whore, but certain ideas were still new to him, especially when it came to his friends. He’d never touched another man, never wanted it, not even in his darkest fantasies. Azure had asked him point-blank his limitations when she’d interviewed him for the job, and he didn’t have many, but he preferred women. He craved them. Nothing could take the place of soft skin and being lost in deep, wet heat.

“Hmm.” Garrett rubbed his bare stomach beneath his T-shirt. “I don’t know.”

“Garrett. It’s just posing. The entire female population of this city has seen your dick. Don’t go shy on me now.”

“I don’t mean that.” He passed the cigarette back, the breeze rifling his light brown hair. “I mean, will you respect me in the morning?”

Colm took a drag and tried not to laugh, but it came out in a smoky burst anyway. “This won’t affect our friendship from my standpoint as long as you remember I don’t swing both ways.”

“Jesus God, you’re the most hetero guy I know.”

Colm’s humor faded to a smile. Garrett was heterosexual himself, but if a client wanted to engage two men at once, he obliged with a shrug and a grin. Sex was sex. It all felt good. It all paid well, too.

This was a hell of a life.

“It doesn’t matter what I am,” Colm told him. “And I don’t judge your crazy ass.”

Garrett took back the cigarette and rolled it between his fingers. The air between them grew thick with smoke and something strangely like sadness. “I wouldn’t do anything to make you uncomfortable.”

“I know.” For a moment they were silent. The day had been so full of anguish, Colm couldn’t stand even a little sentimentality. He changed the subject. “Max Beaudoin is an evil bastard.”

Garrett’s eyebrows went up. “So why is the woman with him?”

“I haven’t figured it out yet, but she’s broken. I’m only going to make it worse in the end, and I try not to give a shit, but—”

“But you’re James Hanford, a good guy masquerading as a whore Azure dreamed up. James Hanford,” Garrett added, “with a sister you would give your life for. And you have. You’ve given your life. What’s one more job, one more lonely woman? Do the job, Jimmy, and put it behind you. You can do this. I’ll help however I can.”

Colm looked away, toward the high hedges that blocked out the real world beyond Avalon. Who the hell was James Hanford these days? After three years of this shit, he’d nearly forgotten his own name.

Garrett puffed smoke into the air and grinned. “Jesus H. I can’t quite picture us sharing the same chick. You’re such a control freak, you’ll be telling me every little move to make, from where to stick my tongue to where to put my damned hands.”

“Just swear to keep them off my cock,” Colm said, grateful for his friend’s sense of humor.

“Unless your illustrious artist tells me otherwise.”

“I’m telling you otherwise.”

Garrett laughed and carefully stubbed out the cigarette on the concrete floor, then blew on it and stuck it in his jeans pocket. No littering at Avalon. No cigarettes unless the client requested it. Dana Cherlow would watch Garrett smoke half a pack tonight.

“So when are you free for this thing?” Colm asked, straightening from the balustrade. Dusk was falling and he felt a strange, urgent tug back to Beaudoin’s estate.

“Normally Wednesdays are three-fuck nights, but this week’s quiet.” Garrett adjusted himself in his jeans and squinted at Colm. “Will that work for this woman—what’s her name?”

“Sydney. Sydney Warren.”

“Don’t say that too tenderly or I might think the worst.”

“There is no worst. And I’m looking forward to her ménage idea like a kick in the balls.” Colm shoved a hand through his hair. “It’s late. I gotta go.”

“Leaving me all alone in the funhouse, huh?”

“You’re the only one I know who still thinks it’s fun.” Even if Garrett did look kind of alone, standing there in the out-of-character clothing some rich bitch had chosen for him. “I’ll call you with the time as soon as I talk to Sydney. And thanks, man. Your being there will make things a lot more bearable.”

With a shrug, Garrett lit another cigarette and let the smoke snake through his lips. “See you Wednesday, Jimmy.”

Chapter Six

S
ydney found her female model by posting help-wanted flyers on bulletin boards at Capitol University, and within two hours she had five responses. Dark-haired and body-pierced in ears, brow, and tongue, Cherise Ford was a junior art student who had heard of Sydney in local art circles. Cherise loved the idea of working in Sydney’s private studio, not to mention the generous pay. Sydney liked her immediately, her youthful enthusiasm, her coltish movements, as though she had only just finishing growing and didn’t know what to do with her long limbs. And the sparkle of those piercings all over the place—they would read as erotic instead of gauche on the canvas. For the first time, excitement tickled Sydney’s muse awake. This project might well turn out to be the right combination of portraiture and sensuality she’d always sought.

After a day of small triumphs, her evening with Max was a different story. Normally Sydney loved the eighteenth-century stone inn in Middleburg where they went for dinner, a charming place where they used to spend evenings talking art, music, the life they would make together. But this conversation was abysmal, filled with awkward silences.

And somehow the image of Colm Hennessy sat between them, as vibrant and hot as the flickering flame of the candle by Max’s elbow.

“I’ve thought about what you said,” Sydney told Max when she couldn’t stand the silence, or thoughts of Colm, anymore. “About . . . counseling. You’re right. I’ve made arrangements to see someone in the city next week.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He smiled at her and drained his bourbon on the rocks, the ice cubes knocking in the glass. In the background filled with the clink of dishes and the low murmur of diners, Mozart spun his magic through the low-ceilinged room. Sydney closed her eyes, searching for the serenity she normally experienced in this tiny inn, but nothing came to her. Nearby, a waiter’s tray clattered to the floor and the noise jerked her back to the world.

Max’s gaze had wandered, first to the clumsy waiter, then to the flickering candlelight around them, never landing on one particular thing for more than an instant. “I’ve got a couple of trips coming up in the next few weeks,” he said abruptly, arranging his utensils alongside his plate.

“Oh?” She swallowed a bite of filet mignon and set down her fork. “Really? Where?” What she really wanted to say was,
Take me with you
.
Free me from this mess.
Except Max was the biggest tangle of all, and a trip together wouldn’t change that. Sitting across from him on this strained date, she understood it now. Without some kind of help—counseling, a shared, truthful dialogue—soon they would have nothing left, and Max didn’t seem to recognize the danger whatsoever.

“San Francisco,” he was saying, “Chicago.” He paused and smiled. “You look so wistful. You weren’t thinking about coming with me, were you? You’ve only just started working with Colm.”

“And I’m anxious to keep working,” she said flatly. “This is a challenge, remember?”

But God, she was confused. It didn’t bother Max one bit to leave her alone with a strange man—a devastatingly attractive one. Max hadn’t always been so free with her. Until recently, he’d been mildly possessive, even though she’d figured it had more to do with their agent/artist relationship than their romance. Why was this time so different? What lay in California or Chicago that would tug harder at him than his usual need to guard what he felt was his?

“Max—?”

Before she could finish her question, he withdrew a blue velvet box from inside his suit pocket, laid it on the table, and flipped it open. Pearls. A single strand. Luscious and priceless. “These might encourage you to finish what you’ve started. You can wear them to your next opening.”

Shock flooded Sydney’s face with warmth. He occasionally gave her gifts for no reason, but this was different. She touched a fingertip to one of the pearls. “They’re lovely . . .”

“Would you like to try them on?”

No.
No.
It was the last thing she wanted, pearls, gifts, shells of proclamations rather than the spoken sentiments and communication she so craved.

But the moment held an odd intimacy, so she gave a short nod. He wheeled around to her side of the table and drew the strand around her neck, fastened it, then dropped a kiss on her shoulder bared by her spaghetti-strap dress.

“You are the lovely one,” he murmured. Sydney pulled back to meet his eyes. In the candlelight they shone the color of gunmetal. In the candlelight she might believe he desired her still, that the old love between them still existed. She couldn’t ask herself if she felt the same. Not with Max’s pearls hanging on her neck.

“Thank you, Max. I’m so surprised.”

He wheeled closer and bumped the table, jostling the glasses so that Merlot splashed crimson onto the linen cloth. “Can’t you see it, Sydney? Can’t you see how much I love you?” His voice was low and nearly grim, the words clenched with a strange determination she’d never seen before. “Everything I do is for you, for us. You are my world. You must know that.”

Her pulse pounded beneath the strand of pearls as she stared into his eyes. “But you don’t have to buy me gifts to show me. Just talk to me. Come with me to counseling. We could start there.”

He wheeled back. “It brings me pleasure to dress you, to give you pretty things. How does that merit counseling? Oblige me tonight with . . . this.”

So she did; there was nothing left to say.

They rode home in the limousine without speaking and went their separate ways with the usual brief kiss goodnight. Sydney methodically undressed, sat down at her vanity to brush her hair . . . and burst into tears. But a part of her she’d never accessed had awakened and didn’t join in the grieving. Her world was crumbling to expose something new and not altogether unwanted, although she couldn’t yet read its abstract composition.

* * *

S
he slept until just before dawn, then went to the studio, where she stared at the beginning drawing she’d done of Colm. It was obvious she hadn’t been concentrating yesterday. The static lines also told her she’d been frustrated. She ought to dismiss him, let him go back to his life in the city and leave her to her own issues. He was too much of a distraction. She should let him go and forget pleasing Max for even one more day.

No, damn it. The paintings she was about to create would continue to support her financially and even more, she’d be doing the kind of work she really wanted to do—completely unassociated with Max for the first time. She had to see it through. And if she could say one thing about Max, it was that he was right about her work coming alive when she used live models. No more photographs. It was time to get over her fears.

Maybe she should thank Max after all.

When the day’s early sun streamed golden through the studio windows, a brief knock sounded at the door and Colm stuck his head in. “Good morning.”

Sydney slid off her barstool as though she’d been caught doing something illicit. “You’re up incredibly early.”

“I saw your lights on.”

She offered him a wry smile. “Your enthusiasm is without measure.”

“I like this job.”

Warmth crept up her neck. Before she could respond with something dismissive, he said, “I need coffee. The machine in my room doesn’t work.”

“I’ll have Hans replace it.” She studied his damp hair and thought about him standing under the showerhead just minutes before. Her gaze ran over his untucked blue shirt and jeans. There was a hole in the left knee of his Levi’s and they were terribly faded. Terribly sexy, too.

He nodded at the small coffeemaker on the table where she kept jars and extra supplies. “I know you serve Shiraz around ten a.m., but how about Starbucks at seven?”

Good Lord, why hadn’t she offered him her coffee yet? She was standing there like a besotted fool. “Will Folgers do?”

“Sure.” He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, then meandered down the ramp to where she stood at her easel. “Is that drawing what you did on our first session?”

“I kept only this one warm-up sketch. The rest are in the garbage.”

“You should never throw away a single work you do, Sydney. I’ll take them rather than see you do that.” His hair was a darker brown when wet, the chestnut highlights muted. He smelled like Irish Spring and shampoo. If she ever smelled the same scents again, she would remember this moment when a man would fish her crappy drawings out of a trash can rather than see them go to waste.

“What are we doing today?” he asked.

“I haven’t decided yet.” As she went to the table that held the ancient coffeemaker and poured some in a chipped mug, she spoke more brightly. “Did you talk to your friend about modeling?”

“I did. His name is Garrett. He’s available Wednesday night and Thursday in the morning.” He took the mug from her and sat on the edge of the platform. “He understands the nature of the project and he’s very . . . malleable.”

“Good.” She returned to the easel and set a blank prepared canvas on it. Today she would work on a portrait of Colm since they couldn’t start on the ménage until Wednesday. She wanted to gaze at his splendid male beauty and use her finest, most honed artist’s skill to render the perfect portrait—an ever elusive goal, but the drive was stronger than ever. She glanced at the play of shadow cast from her work lamp on the left side of his face. Her pulse thudded. A long time had passed since her heart had begun painting before she did.

“How do you need me today?” he asked, setting aside his coffee mug.

She jerked awake. “Oh . . . just as you are.”

“More warm-up drawings?”

She made a face. “Not today, since they obviously warmed up a whole lot of nothing yesterday.”

The way he smiled told her that had somehow come out wrong, but she waved his humor away.

“You know what I mean. I want to do another study of your face and shoulders today. Maybe work on it for the next two days until our models can get here and we begin on the ménage.”

“So I don’t need to change.”

“No,” she said. “Well, maybe remove your shirt.”

The slide of material on skin teased her ears and she focused hard on her toolbox as she picked out a piece of charcoal.

The wooden platform creaked.

Sydney peeked.

Colm had done as he was told, hanging one leg off the side of the stage, the other knee crooked, his bared upper body gleaming in the light. Sydney wanted more of that. His skin was so tactile, his musculature so sleek. But something about his face today . . . not as smooth and perfect. A weariness about the eyes and mouth she hadn’t noted before. Secret unhappiness in a beautiful man. It seemed like a fascinating premise to capture on canvas.

She wanted more of the shadow touching his chin and nose and left eye, so she adjusted her lamp, rose from her barstool, and approached him. “I’m going to pose you, okay?”

“Sure.”

Her fingers threatened to tremble as she gingerly touched his chin and tilted his head ever so slightly away from the light. He’d obviously shaved, but what little shadow remained prickled her fingertips. When she left a smudge on his jaw, she used her other hand to gently wipe it away. “Sorry—charcoal.”

The whole time he watched her with those all-seeing green eyes, and suddenly she couldn’t help herself. She let her gaze slide down his tanned throat to his chest.

And there it was, up close. The tattoo over his heart.
Amelia.
Nothing more than that. A shrine on flesh.

“Who’s Amelia?” she asked, staring at it.

He glanced down, realized he’d broken the pose she’d created and resumed it. “Someone who means a lot to me.”

Sydney backed away. “Is she still your . . . ?”
Jeez.
“I mean, is she still in your life?”

“Yes.”

Her fingers rolled the charcoal back and forth, back and forth as she moved away and seated herself again. She’d never seen him more solemn, and something told her not to push the subject, although a strange sensation had fisted in her solar plexus, a sort of burn in her that stole her breath.

She didn’t put on any music; they didn’t talk, nor did he ask any questions this time. They worked in sweet, heavy silence, and her charcoal sketch gradually took on the features of the man sitting in such obedient stillness six feet away. The only thing Sydney couldn’t quite capture was the expression in his eyes, but she told herself that would come with the actual painting.

“Would you like to stretch?” she asked after she’d finished the preliminary sketch.

Colm got to his feet, paced a few steps, and raised his arms over his head. The muscles of his back flexed and he yawned, giving a shuddering, full-body stretch. Sydney tried not to watch, but she couldn’t stop herself. Even now, knowing she was still with Max and Colm was a man in love with a woman named Amelia, the female in her couldn’t stop ogling.
A work of art on legs
, Max had called him. Yes, indeed.

When they resumed working, she felt restless and distraught. Squeezing beads of paint on her palette, she tried to distract herself. “Tell me about your friend Garrett.”

Colm half smiled. “He’s a good guy. Walks the wild side. That’s why I thought of him for your project.”

“He’s uninhibited?”

“In every possible way.”

Sydney smiled. “Are you?”

His gaze shot to hers and she grimaced. She needed to stop talking or she would humiliate herself. Women probably fell all over him, and it wasn’t her style. She wanted to be different. She
was
different. “You don’t seem like the type to have wild friends.”

“You don’t know me yet,” he said softly.

She quickly returned her attention to the canvas. “To quote your earlier declaration, I’d like to change that fact. So I have a few more questions.”

“Shoot.”

“What gives you that expression in your eyes?”

He hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“There’s a somberness about you I didn’t see before. I know I’m prying, but it might help me with my painting. Do you mind?”

“Your boyfriend paid me to do whatever you want. Pry away.”

Something about the edge to his words told her to shut up, but she couldn’t. Her curiosity controlled her like a puppet master. “Tell me more about your background.”