Chapter One
Aleksey woke to find a pair of green eyes watching him intently. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked being observed when he wasn’t aware of it. Even though he was pain free and didn’t stir restlessly through the night, and had apparently reverted to his excellent impression of being dead when he was asleep, he still wasn’t sure he wanted or needed this extreme level of scrutiny. Ben quirked a lip as if reading his mind, which it was entirely possible he was. Aleksey narrowed his eyes in response, and that got a small snort of amusement.
He suspected Ben was checking out his new scar, which they both admitted was one of his best. And they weren’t even joking and trying to make the best of a bad situation. The line ran from the top of his cheekbone, right across it and down almost to the corner of his mouth, a fine, white, flat scar through his greying stubble. Everyone saw it. He got second glances and then often third. The professor reckoned it made him look taller, which was a pretty neat trick if that were so, as being six foot four already he’d never considered that he needed additional height. The cretin said it made him look more Russian, which was possibly more astute than the additional inches.
Benjamin Rider-Mikkelsen, the only one whose opinion he really cared about, apparently found it…irresistible, and hence the waiting patiently for him to wake rather than going for a run or any other extreme form of physical excess Ben enjoyed.
Ben apparently wanted to indulge himself another way, which was usually pretty excessive too. Early morning sex. It suited them both, so Aleksey just shook his head slightly in wry admonishment for Ben’s foolishness, cupped him around the back of his neck and stopped the laughter with a kiss. As they rolled and played in the wide bed, he could hear the insanely loud, exuberant dawn chorus and see the early-morning sun beginning to streak in through the mullioned windows, its light gradually creeping across the old wooden floorboards. It had nearly reached the bed by the time Ben, holding him down, slid into him and arched in pleasure above him, his eyes closed and his long black eyelashes fanned out on his cheeks. The beam of amber seemed like an admiring finger stroking up the tanned muscles. Aleksey placed his fingertip on it and followed its path and sentiment. Ben opened his eyes and gazed down at him as he rode in and out. He took Aleksey’s roving hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing the palm. Aleksey bucked in pleasure, met a hard thrust and, entirely illuminated by the rising sun in Guillemot House, they came together in a long, silent shudder of bliss.
It was an excellent start to the day.
Almost as good was when Ben untangled himself from their post-sex snooze and went down to cook some breakfast.
But best of all was when he brought it back up to their bedroom on a tray with tea and a newspaper they’d bought on St Mary’s the previous day.
Ben crawled back in beside him, ignoring damp patches and began on his second favourite activity—possibly his first; Aleksey didn’t want to put this selection to the test too much as he had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn’t like the result. He opened the paper he hadn’t yet had a chance to look at and turned first to the classified ads. He heard a small scoff of derision but ignored it. Around a mouthful of pancake, Ben mumbled, ‘You won’t find it.’
Aleksey continued to ignore him. If he didn’t look he wouldn’t, that’s for sure. But somewhere in the world, for sale in a tiny, forgotten yard, he would find the perfect boat. It was waiting for him. He’d have thought his other half would have gone for the idea, given all the rubbish Ben spouted about fate, but no—mocking and derision.
Not seeing anything more interesting for sale than an old bicycle and a fridge, he turned to the notices. Once more, he sensed scrutiny. Ben swallowed, which was always something of a relief. ‘I checked again yesterday. He’s not been back. No sign of him at all.’
Aleksey nodded. Although it was now September, and he and Ben were snatching a few days out of their otherwise incredibly busy schedules, they had seen no evidence that their odd little lighthouse dweller had returned in the month the island had been unoccupied. They’d left the trapdoor open for him and had even propped a picture next to his slippers, which Molly had painted for him. She’d drawn herself and Billy standing in front of the tower, and she was handing him a bunch of flowers, apparently to say thank you. Clearly, Ben had intended this to be a nice gesture in exchange for Billy’s help, but when he’d suggested it, he’d apparently planned on Emilia, quite a talented artist, helping the three year old draw and paint it. Not so. It washerpresent, according to Molly, and she wanted to do it herself.
Aleksey wasn’t too sure what the little man would make of the resultant image, but he was fairly sure it wouldn’t be what Ben had intended. It was hard, they both conceded, for even a reasonable artist to make a lighthouse look less…phallic. Still, they’d made an effort. But there was no sign anything had been disturbed since they’d last seen him rowing off to the south.
It seemed lame, even to him, but Aleksey was convinced that one day, just like the perfect boat, a story about Billy would appear in a local newspaper, and so he would be able to find him. But not today. He read an article about some milk bottles being stolen, which, being Scilly, everyone said had to be grockles. He scanned an article about an author writing a book about the history of the islands who had angered some locals, and then studied a picture of the burial mounds they’d once walked to, which had been vandalised, and, which, being Scilly, everyone also blamed on grockles. An old fisherman had been found badly beaten and had subsequently died in Truro hospital. Police were making enquiries, but, once more...grockles. He then folded the paper carefully so Ben could not see the headline following, and dropped it casually onto the floor.
He propped himself up on one hand and watched Ben eat for a while. They were limited in what they could make as they had still not had the electricity reconnected, although they had finally found where it came from. His assumptions about a generator had been wrong. When they had finally opened the locked door that led off the coal cellar, they’d discovered a coal boiler which supplied the house with hot water and heating, and on the wall of this tiny utility room there had been a dusty, spider-webbed switch board. Most disappointingly, to Aleksey and Miles anyway, the power actually came from the main grid on St Mary’s through cables laid under the sea, as it did with all the other inhabited islands of Scilly. The prince had apparently, in a fit of pique (for which Aleksey could not entirely blame him), had it disconnected when he’d been forced to sell. So, in theory, although the electrical circuit board looked as if it were the original 1930s one, he could get it all working with just a phone call—and could then buy a stove so Ben could cook more than pancakes from a packet of batter over a gas camping flame; so they could have a plug-in kettle, a working fridge…all the conveniences of modern living.
But then they could not have the sense of being returned to a simpler time, which they now did when they came to the island. Like children holidaying with grandparents, the quirks were the charm.
But he had bought them a bed. And it had been well christened since they’d arrived at the beginning of the week.
He thought about getting up then remembered they didn’t have a shower. Quirky charm, even he had to admit, was rapidly losing its appeal.
He held out his hand. ‘Swim?’
Ben glanced ruefully around at the mess. ‘We need a washing machine. Unless you want to hire a cleaning service here as well—which you obviously won’t, I suppose.’
‘I am required to keep knowledge of my ownership—’
‘The mysterious non-disclosure…? I think it’s more you just being a stupid secret squirrel, as usual.’
Aleksey narrowed his eyes. ‘Secret…squirrel? Uh huh.Don’t talk about the islandis stupid? Well, I was clearly wasting my breath at the professor’s party anyway. One thing! One thing I asked you not to talk about and you—’
‘Café? Quietly read my book? Hmm, who was it who said that to me and ended up shot in the face and playing hide-and-seek with an apocalyptic bio-weapon? Wait, the name’s coming to me. Oh, no it isn’t: he’s changed it again.’
Aleksey wrinkled his nose and turned onto his back. ‘I think I preferred it when we didn’t speak after sex. When you roamed around hotel rooms giving me the benefit of your ignorant opinions on everything.’
Ben laughed and straddled his waist. ‘I was just making sure you were watching me—which I recall you always did.’
Aleksey smirked. ‘Ah. You have discovered my secret at last: I admire your body.’
‘Admire?’ As that was accompanied by a poke in the ribs, Aleksey was forced to amend it to, ‘Like?’ That wasn’t acceptable either. He’d be bruised later. ‘Highly esteem?’ Ben began in with the fingers from both hands, leaning into the tickling. It was agony. ‘Worship. I worship and adore your body.’ Ben relented and stopped the assault, so he added slyly, ‘It’s all you’ve got going—for you—I don’t keep you for your—conversational—’ He was beyond speaking, the pain so great he could hardly breathe, but then Ben was kissing him, and he forgot about needing air or anything else to fuel his existence, for it found its own sustenance from the presence of this man in his life.
***
Chapter Two
