The Dickens with Love (10 page)
only known him a couple of days.
“Good night,” I whispered at last, retreating to a safe distance.
“The best,” he whispered back.
52
Chapter Eight
“Bless my soul! Such a dreadful waste of candles!” scolded Miss Hayhem. “People are growing
terribly extravagant.”
“Are you having any of this?” Sedgwick asked muffledly.
I looked up vaguely. True to his word, Sedgwick had gone to get
The Christmas Cake
out of the hotel safe first thing that morning, and I had curled up on the sofa, reading while he ordered room service and had breakfast. I shuddered to think what his hotel bill would be like, but he had said he had been saving for this trip for most of his adult life.
He sounded muffled because he was speaking around a mouthful of French toast that had been stuffed
with ricotta, cream cheese and honey, sautéed then baked to plump and moist perfection.
“I’ve never seen anyone with a sweet tooth like yours. Your teeth are going to fall out. Not that that wouldn’t be a good thing.”
He looked abashed. “Sorry. I know I get a tad carried away now and then. It’s only…something about
you makes me want to eat you up.”
I pretended that didn’t send a shiver of delighted anticipation down my spine. “You did a fair job last night.”
He smiled at me beatifically. I couldn’t help smiling back.
“What do you plan on spending the money from the auction on?” I asked. “You never said.”
“You’re satisfied with the book?”
“The book is wonderful.”
I heard that and inwardly shook my head. Gushing was so not my style, but he looked pleased. “As a
matter of fact, I plan to open a school.”
“A…school?”
“For gifted but economically and socially disadvantaged kids.” He looked very serious, very earnest.
“It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time. I have a number of ideas about education.”
“
You?
You’re kidding,” I deadpanned.
“Yes,” he said missing the teasing entirely. “I have the perfect property picked out in Rye, and I have commitments from several friends who’ve pledged to come in on the venture with me. My mother and my
sister Selena have volunteered to run the art classes. I have it all planned out.”
Josh Lanyon
Clearly. So much so that I felt strangely disappointed. What had I imagined? He might decide to move
to the States? That this week might be the first week in the rest of his new life? I said, “I thought you had a job. I thought you taught chemistry at the University of London?”
“I do. And I enjoy my job. I love teaching. But I’ve always wanted to run my own school, and I
thought rather than waiting forever I would take the book and sell it and out my dream into reality while I’m still young enough to make it happen.”
“Your dream is to teach disadvantaged children?” I must have looked as appalled as I felt because he
laughed.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds.”
“How could it not be?”
He was amused as I shook my head and went back to reading.
The London street was white with snow which had fallen a few hours earlier, piled in white drifts
along the curb of the little-traveled terrace. But the pavements were neatly shoveled and swept clean, as
became the eminently respectable part of the city where Miss Hayhem lived.
A long flight of steps, with iron railing at the side, led down from the front door, upon which a silver
plate had for generations in decorous flourishes announced the name of Hayhem.
“Maybe you should explain to me how this preemptive bidding works.”
“Hmm?” I said without looking up.
“Come and eat breakfast, James,” Sedgwick ordered firmly. “And you can explain why it’s to my
advantage to sell my book to your mysterious buyer.”
I saw that perhaps he did have the makings of a good headmaster, after all. I carefully set the book
aside and scooted over to the breakfast tray.
“Would you stop calling him my ‘mysterious buyer’?” I muttered.
“Well,” he asked reasonably, “who is he then?”
I avoided meeting his eyes by paying strict attention to a breakfast burrito stuffed with eggs, cheese, smoked chicken sausage, roasted peppers and chilies.
If I knew what Sedgwick’s objection to Mr. S. was—other than the obvious one that Stephanopoulos
was rather a loathsome specimen—I’d know better how to proceed.
Perhaps Mr. S. had it wrong and Sedgwick could care less who bought the book; he had already
revealed his quixotic plans for how he wanted to spend the money, and I would do my best to guarantee
that he was paid top dollar if he sold to Mr. S.
If Mr. S. was right and Sedgwick did have some objection to selling him the Dickens, then I would
lose my commission. We would all lose out, in fact. So it was in the best interests of all of us that I conceal the fact that Mr. Stephanopoulos was the prospective buyer.
“You don’t know him,” I said.
54
The Dickens with Love
“You’d be surprised,” Sedgwick returned. “I’ve met a great many book buyers and dealers since I
arrived this week.” He held up a forkful of French toast. “Try this.”
I obediently opened my mouth. The tang of the ricotta cheese and the sweetness of the honey were
amazing. The whole breakfast was amazing. Not simply the cuisine, although I’d practically forgotten how wonderful it was to eat well-prepared good food. I’d never been with anyone who wanted to feed me or
cuddle with me or show such open and unabashed affection. It was disconcerting, not least because I was very much afraid I was going to develop a taste for it, and then what would happen once Sedgwick returned home and I was left with the usual run of predatory horndogs for romance and sex?
“Good,” I conceded, wiping at the sticky sweetness on my lips.
His eyes were focused on my mouth. “What time do you have to go into work today?”
“Eleven.”
“Damn.” He considered. “What time do you get off? Could I see you later?”
I swallowed hard. That smile of his felt like a punch in the chest. He was so beautiful and so…nice.
It was horrible. The bastard was going to make me fall in love with him if I wasn’t very careful.
“I get off at six.”
He was thinking. “I’m having dinner with some people tonight. But what about later this evening?”
I hedged—fooling myself more than him, “You could call me when you’re free and we could go from
there.”
“You have to give me your mobile number.”
I wrote it down.
He took it and said, “How does this preemptive bid business work?”
“How much are you expecting to get at auction for the Dickens?”
Sedgwick suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Evan Amherst seems to think that the bidding might go as
high as…er…several hundred thousand dollars.”
“It’ll almost certainly go over a million. Didn’t he tell you that?”
He gave me an odd look. “It seems hard to believe.”
I used to know Evan Amherst quite well. He was old school—and very convincing. I couldn’t
imagine Sedgwick seriously doubting any professional opinion Evan delivered. “Are you testing me?” I
asked bluntly.
“No.”
“In 1998 the Archimedes Palimpsest sold for two million. In 2004 Christie’s auctioned off Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle’s papers for 1.69 million.” I said very precisely, “Dickens remains one of the most popular and bestselling writers of all time. First editions of
A Christmas Carol
go for between 30 and 50K. I think the discovery of a lost work by him will fetch top dollar. I’m sure Evan told you that.”
“Something like,” he admitted.
55
Josh Lanyon
“I guess my question is, why are you not going through Christie’s or Sotheby’s for this auction? They
would jump at this.”
“I’m hoping to avoid the publicity that would ensue from such a public auction.”
“Why?”
He looked down at the breakfast tray; the first time I’d ever known him to avoid my gaze. “Because
of the way the book came into my family’s possession. It would prove embarrassing to my father, in
particular. But also to Sam who’s married to an MP.”
“Who’s Sam?”
“My sister. Samantha. She’s married to a Member of Parliament. Rather a stuffed shirt, actually. But
it’s different in England. There’s still quite a strong class system.”
“Okay. But I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The…you called it ‘provenance’ of this book would be embarrassing to several members of my
family if it were made public.”
I digested this slowly, skeptically. “Is this book yours to sell?”
He looked genuinely shocked. “Yes, it’s mine to sell. Do you think I stole it?”
“No.” No, that was pretty much impossible to believe. But there was certainly something hinky about
this deal. Not that I was in a position to object to hinkyness.
I looked at my watch. “Hell. I’ve got to go or I’ll be late. I’ll talk to my buyer and assure him the book is genuine and worth…well, at the least 1.5.” I was going to do my best to get two million for Sedgwick, but I didn’t want to promise more than I could deliver. I didn’t want to disappoint him.
Ever.
Which was a good reason for finding an excuse to be too busy that evening, assuming he did end up
calling me after his dinner. Not that I had that kind of willpower, but I tried to tell myself I did. I tried to tell myself that my interest in Sedgwick was strictly business. Well, and sex.
I went in the shower, half-hoping that Sedgwick might join me. Even so I was startled—and
delighted—when the door to the granite stall opened and he crowded inside.
He was beautiful. I’d already noticed that, yes, but his skin was like warm, supple alabaster. None of the freckles or suntan lines of my own. The water beaded on his marble perfection and rivulets trickled through his silky dark body hair. His face, minus the specs, was young and happy.
“I thought you might be lonely.”
I laughed.
He reached for the complimentary shower gel, green tea and ginseng, lathering his hands with insane
amounts of cool-scented foam. He held his bubble-coated hands up. “Did you wash behind your ears?”
“I repeat. You’re a nut.”
56
The Dickens with Love
“Did you wash behind your…
balls
?” We were laughing as he grabbed for me, and we wrangled a
little—not much because the floor was slippery with glops of white spume. I let him win and he turned me to the wall. His soapy fingers rubbed and kneaded my shoulders. Nice. Very nice. I loved to be massaged. I let my head fall back, let the light shower spray mist on my face. He took his time poking and prodding my muscles with those hard but cherishing hands. He slapped my thigh lightly.
“Spread ’em.”
Shaking my head, I straddled my legs, and his finger rubbed over the clenched ring of my asshole and
pushed into me, pushed the soft clouds right into me. I protested feebly, “What are you doing? We don’t have time for this.”
His answer was to nip the nape of my neck and swirl his finger inside the flight path of my body. I
pushed back moaning and shivering as he covered my body with love bites and licks, while his finger—two fingers now—played havoc with my control panel. Pleasure took wing once more. It felt so good it made
me weak in the knees. I leaned heavily against the wall, groaning his name.
“Do that again. Say my name like that.” His breath was hot against my ear.
“
Sedge…
”
Our bodies were snug together. One. “I like that, like how…you sound as though you…”
He didn’t finish the thought and my concentration was sent spiraling a few heartbeats later.
“Oh,
God
.”
Well, they said cleanliness was next to godliness. I could vouch for that. It started me thinking though.
When we were languidly rinsing off, smoothing away the seed and silky lather, I asked, “Do you believe in that? God, I mean.”
“Yes.” He looked sincere, even surprised that I would ask. “Don’t you?”
I shrugged.
“There has to be more than this, don’t you think?”
“More than sex? No. This will do me fine.”
He smiled, but his eyes were serious. “Oh, but there has to be more. More to life and this world. Some purpose. Some point. When you see a beautiful piece of art or listen to music. Well, or read Dickens—”
“Or turn on the news and see who killed whom.”
He was frowning. “Do you truly not believe in God?”
“I truly don’t know. I’d like to think there is a God. That some entity was looking out for us, cared
what happened to us, that there was some point to all this. All I can tell you is, God has never answered any of my prayers.”
Did I know how to kill the afterglow or what? Sedgwick stood, absently drying himself, his face
troubled. He said at last, having clearly thought about it for a bit, “James, sometimes the answer is no.”
“What?”
57
Josh Lanyon
“God hears all our prayers, but sometimes the answer is no.”
I stared at him. How had this lovely encounter moved into such dark territory? My fault. I said lightly,
“Well, I’m probably asking for the wrong things. From now on I’ll ask for the stuff He keeps on the shelf in front.”
Sedge chuckled, but he seemed preoccupied as we dressed.
“I’ll call you as soon as my dinner is over.”
We kissed quickly—and then not so quickly. It was increasingly hard to turn away, and when I did, he
pulled me back and kissed me again. His mouth was warm and honey sweet.
I had to tear myself away.
