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Then, there had been that note in his “yes” earlier. Fuck. How could one word convey such lust and submission—like he’d drop to his knees in a hot second with one command from Royce’s lips? He shut his eyes and took a deep, calming breath, then opened them when Marc shut off his car.
“Come on, I’ll show you around.” He slid out of the car, all grace and long legs.
Royce shook his head as he got out and reached into the back seat for his bag and hanging clothes. This job might very well kill him. And the man coaxing memories of Michael out of hiding had him feeling off center. Marc was nothing like his Michael—not really. He had a lot more money and a worldly air that he would have found off-putting. Michael had been a quiet, shy writer who’d never ventured out of Virginia.
No, nothing like this man who flew all over the world and bought sweet cars in Milan.
Michael’s fingers had been long, slim, and elegant like that, too. And he’d run them over Royce’s body like he’d been created out of something precious.
It was too early in the year for these memories. These fucking feelings. He had months before the anniversary of Michael’s death.
“Royce?”
He looked up when Marc called, realizing he’d been standing in the doorway of the garage.
Something in his expression must have worried Marc, because he took a few steps closer, those brows lifted in question. “Are you okay? You looked…God, you just looked so…desolate all of a sudden.”
“I’m fine,” he snapped, expecting Marc to flinch at the sheer blast of antagonism in his voice.
But that wasn’t what he did. No, that wasn’t what he did at all. The man shuddered. It had been subtle, but the reaction was so fast and so utterly responsive, Royce felt like someone punched him low in his gut. The heat and blood shot there so fast, he had to be bruising. He couldn’t look away as Marc cleared his throat and stepped back. The desperate need that flashed through his blue eyes seared into Royce like a hot iron. He couldn’t help the two intent, forward steps he took then, the desire to put his hands on the man so strong, he forgot where he was for a moment.
It came back to him when he dropped his bag.
Cursing under his breath, he swiped it up and forced himself to shove all emotions aside. Years of practice made it easy. When he finally looked around, he felt nothing.
Not one fucking thing.
He frowned when he realized they weren’t inside the house. Brick floor, beige stucco walls, a fountain…and stars twinkling over their heads. “A courtyard?”
Marc nodded and slid his hands into his pockets as he looked up. “I’m not sure what to do with it—that’s why there isn’t anything out here. But it’s really nice, especially at night. I thought I’d bring an easel out here to paint but never seem to find the time.”
“So you’re an artist, too? You don’t just buy art?”
The smile curved his lips, softening the intensity his brow line brought to his features. “I wouldn’t call me an artist, not really. And what I do is a lot more than buying art. Most of the time, I don’t buy. I show. I have a show coming up, so you’ll see. Good stuff, too. Maynard Keene, a local gem I found by accident. He was doing street art by the river, and the man has more talent in one hand than I have in my entire body.”
But Marc Foster wanted that talent. Wanted it with every breath in his body and Royce could almost feel the need and the faint despondency coming off him. The man had more layers than an onion, which happened to be one of his favorite foods. “An artist named Maynard Keene?” He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Change a letter and add one, and you have one of my favorite artists.”
“Same here. I like Keenan in every one of his bands. I even order his wine.” Marc turned, opened a door, and walked into his house. “I have some in the wine cellar. I could grab us a bottle if you’d like. Have you tried it?”
“I haven’t, but I don’t drink on the job.” Royce frowned at the door leading into the house from the courtyard. “You don’t keep that locked?”
“To me, it’s like an interior door. I keep the one from the garage locked.”
Royce looked at the windows on the first floor and the ones visible on the second. “The windows?”
“Do I keep them locked?” Marc poked his head back out the door. “I’m not sure. We’ll have to check.” He disappeared, his smoky voice lingering as he called out, “I went right, into the kitchen.”
He slowly followed, taking in everything as he walked through a hallway with the foyer and front door on one end and the kitchen on the other. A half bath opened off to the side. And art. So much art on all the walls. Sculptures and artistic little doodads covering different surfaces. It was an endless explosion of color and items that grabbed the eye.
