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“I wouldn’t call it that. Infamous, maybe.”
“Who are you?” she asked again. This time, not a joke. She wanted to know. No, she needed to know.
“I wish I could tell you,” he said. “But it’s for the best if I don’t.”
“One question—would I like you more or less if I knew who you really were?”
“Based on experience...less,” he said.
“All right,” Lia said. “Then don’t tell me. I’m starting to like liking you.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
August was still there when Lia woke up the next morning at nine. She hadn’t expected to find him there, on the pillow next to her, but he was. Eyes closed. Heavy black lashes on peaceful cheeks. She watched him sleeping and found it a rather good show. Worth the trouble of sneaking him out of the house.
The question remained, however...how was she going to do that?
Her parents were up and about. They always were by nine. Work hard. Shag hard. That was her father’s motto in life, which she’d told him to never, ever repeat in her presence. Not that he listened. Lia would simply have to hope her parents were busy at breakfast and wouldn’t notice August sneaking out the back door and then the front gate.
“August...” Lia said as she stroked his hair.
He made a sound, not quite a sigh.
“August? Wake up.” Lia touched his shoulder. His dark eyes flew open and stared at her in surprise.
“It’s morning,” she said.
“Again? Why does this keep happening to me?” He rubbed his eyes.
“You all right?” She tried not to laugh at this beautiful bizarre man in her bed.
“Temple prostitutes are not, as a rule, morning people.”
“Tough,” she said. “I need to get you out of the house before anyone notices you’re still here.”
His eyes popped wide open.
“You’re twenty-one. Don’t tell me your parents won’t allow you to have sleepovers.”
“With a boyfriend, they’d stomach it. You aren’t my boyfriend, remember? You’re my rent boy.”
And her father would bloody kill the man, and if anyone was going to kill August, it would be her.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you ashamed of me?”
“Deeply,” she said.
“You’ll get over it,” he said, rolling up. “I need my clothes.”
“They’re on the floor. Except for your T-shirt. That’s in Gogo’s mouth.”
In the corner of her room, Gogo blissfully gnawed away at August’s heather-gray T-shirt.
“I didn’t like that shirt, anyway.”
Luckily, Lia had one of her father’s T-shirts that had ended up with her clothes through a laundry error. A soft black cotton T-shirt with the name of his art foundation—The Godwick Trust—printed in polite letters on the upper right pocket. It clung to August’s shoulders and stomach in all the very nicest ways. His hair was artfully mussed from sleep, and when he yawned and stretched, his shirt rode up, his jeans rode down on his hips and she spied the rose brand on his skin again. She felt a pang of desire, a deep one that nearly knocked the wind from her lungs. Why was she kicking him out of the house again?
Mother. Father. Rent boy. Infamy.
