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Harley took his time getting the shape of his friend’s hooded eyes right, and the way his sharp lips curled upwards at their corners as though Asher was always amused by a private joke.
Without warning, fingers entered Harley’s line of sight and he looked up to find Asher standing over him as the gentleman coiled the loose lock of hair around his index and middle fingers and tucked it behind Harley’s ear.
Oh, no. Dear Christ.
Harley closed the sketchbook and stood up from the chair with a start. Asher blinked and stepped back. He folded his arms over his chest. “Apologies, Harley,” he whispered. He licked his lips.
“It’s all right,” Harley breathed, clutching the notebook to his chest. “I’m…It’s getting late?”
Asher’s expression was unreadable. “Why did you say that like it’s a question?”
All Harley could reply with was, “I didn’t.” Asher wouldn’t stop staring at him and it was uncomfortable meeting his gaze with an intensity of equal proportions. Asher didn’t blink. Not once. It was unnatural. Harley shifted his feet where he stood. “Unglue your eyes, Mister van Dijk.”
“Unglue yours,” Asher said with a coprophilous grin that sent antlers down Harley’s spine. “Mister Devonshire.”
“This isn’t a game of chess. Stop toying with me.”
The right side of Asher’s lips quirked up. “If it was, would you be a king…Or queen?”
Harley bit his bottom lip and inched backwards toward the conservatory door. “Goodnight, I’ll see you tomorrow for the beach,” he said, barely above a whisper as his fingers fumbled for the brass knob of the door.
Moving with the calm of a feline and the dignified gait of a commander, Asher paced toward him and came to a halt inches from his face. Harley sucked in a breath, his heartbeat rampant in his ears.
Asher flashed his teeth and leaned in. His lips grazed Harley’s ear. “Sleep well,” he whispered.
* * *
That evening, Harley lay awake in bed. His mind performed the incident in the conservatory like a never-ending production at the Theatre Royal until he couldn’t take it anymore.
He decided to sketch, but all that resulted in was Harley drawing countless drafts of Asher’s teasing face.
The next morning, Harley left the house earlier than he’d originally planned, with the intention of apologising to Asher before their trip to Sea Point. How the evening had concluded was abrupt. He hadn’t meant to be indecorous. He’d just been terrified of the rate in which events were unfolding in the conservatory when all he wanted to do was sketch his friend and enjoy gracious conversation.
He was still confused when It came to Asher, especially as the gentleman arrived In his life less than two hours after Theodore had left it. Harley needed time to analyse exactly what was buzzing around inside his head like a swarm of black flies before pursuing any potential direction that was granted to him.
He took the family’s cabbie to Adderley Street, which wasn’t as busy at that time of the morning as it had been the day he and his mother ran into Asher on the pavement. Getting out of it, he crossed the road and headed up the flight of stairs that lead to the entrance of Standard Bank. The two had planned to meet on the steps, but Harley preferred to be indoors.
He hoped he would find Asher inside and that the gentleman had an office in which they could talk in privately, but he was nowhere to be found.
In fact, while at the bank, Harley was informed by the branch manager that Asher van Dijk was never employed there to begin with.
Chapter Fourteen
When Lightfoot arrived on Adderley Street at half-past nine — linen duffel bag in one hand, picnic basket in the other — and caught sight of Harley sitting on the steps of Standard Bank, he knew something was wrong.
He ran through several potential reasons in his head. The first was that Harley was frustrated to have been kept waiting, but Lightfoot had an excuse. He’d stopped by a tobacconist he knew stocked Harley’s favourite brand of cigarette. The lad had run out the evening before, so Lightfoot decided to purchase a pack on the journey to their meeting point. The second, and more likely reason for Harley’s apparent foul mood, made Lightfoot cringe at the thought.
He came on far too boldly the night before. Being drawn was one of the most sensual moments of Lightfoot’s life. He had become overpowered by his attraction to the young heir and barrelled forward without a second thought. Lightfoot had been hungry. No better than a predator flashing teeth and claws. He shuddered at the memory as he gingerly approached Harley on the steps.
The third reason was that the boy had found out about Lightfoot’s true identity, but that was far too absurd to consider. There was little chance Harley had found out the truth.
Angry at being kept waiting. Overwhelmed by the stench of lust. Whatever it was that bothered Harley, Lightfoot’s options weren’t very good.
He adjusted his top hat and beamed at the lad, though it was more out of regret than anything else. “Apologies for my belated arrival,” Lightfoot said, raising the picnic basket. “But I come bearing gifts.” He dropped the duffel bag onto a step.
Harley didn’t say a word.
“Really now, you should say something, Harley-Electron,” Lightfoot said, then added quietly, “Anything.”
