Five
Well, hell.Lucas had promised Henri would get away from it all, but did the sprawling log and stone two-story even have running water or air-conditioning? Old house for old owner? Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Who wanted to spend the next month in a technological sinkhole with a grandfatherly curmudgeon who devoted every waking moment to reliving old glory days?When I was your age I was a star!Born in 1951 was all Henri had learned of his tutor.
Henri parked his Harley in front of the house and unhooked the trailer. If he had to travel out into the wilds, at least he went in style. Besides, from the looks of things, there were plenty of places around here to ride whenever he needed to escape the phantom of the opera hiding within the creepy old house. Helmet in one hand, duffel in the other, laptop bag slung over his shoulder, Henri clomped up to the door. He set the bag down to ring the doorbell.
With the house set back from the road down a long drive, at least he’d see his stalker coming if the guy drove up. And although trees bordered the property on three sides, open fields provided a buffer. With any luck, though, Detective Shepard would soon have the maniac behind bars. Henri slipped one of Dr. Worthington’s “emergency pills” out of his pocket and swallowed it dry. Damn, but he had the headache from hell.
He admired the view while waiting, the gorgeous green of the Colorado Rockies, and sucked in air totally devoid of car exhaust, even if breathing did take a bit more effort up here. Quiet. No passing cars, no human sounds. A bird chirped in a nearby tree, and gladiolas of every color thrived in well-tended beds. The garden needed roses.
The door opened. Henri peered inside, but a broad chest blocked his view. “Can I help you?”
Smooth as silk and rich as chocolate, the man’s voice washed over Henri. Wow. Henri glanced up, and up some more. The guy had to be every bit of six three, with russet corkscrew ringlets giving him an angelic air. Linebacker shoulders topped a body that appeared naturally stocky, and while not gorgeous in an air-brushed magazine-cover kind of way, Henri certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed. He reminded Henri of someone else. Hmm….
“I’m here to see Sebastian Unger. I’m staying for a while.” Henri had gotten the correct house, right? Though he wouldn’t mind spending a month in the glass and chrome creation down the street, a real party place from the looks of things. This rustic home stuck out among the neighbors’ newer, architectural marvels. They spoke of wealth; this house whispered of days gone by.
Chestnut-colored eyes took Henri in. Large men normally didn’t appeal to Henri. “Skinny at all costs” types inhabited his circles—and his bed, on the occasions when he managed to sneak one past the ever watchful eyes of his band and manager. This guy topped him by a good few inches and exuded sexy in an unfamiliar way. Comfort. He appeared comfortable in his own skin, unlike Henri, who at the moment had no clue who he actually was. With his soothing tenor, maybe Mr. Sexy Voice was a student too. This could prove interesting.
The man extended his hand. “You must be Henri.”
Henri removed a leather glove and locked palms. Firm grip. Nice. Especially depending on which body part benefitted from the grip. He might not be groupie material, but Mr. Smooth-As-Silk-Voice might do to warm up a bed at night. What happened in Colorado had better the hell not follow Henri back to California.
“I’m Sebastian Unger, but please, call me Seb. Sebastian’s too formal.” The foreign expression on Sebastian’s face took Henri a moment to work out. An openness, and genuine lack of guile. Creases formed on Sebastian’s cheeks, extending all the way up to his twinkling eyes. What do you know? A sincere person. In the music business.
But wait. This wasn’t the guy from online. “Aren’t you supposed to be old?”
Sebastian barked out a laugh. Damn, what a voice. It might not be a good fit for a rock band, but Henri would pay the guy to read to him—or talk dirty. “Fuck me harder” would work. “I’m twenty-five. I take it you looked up Sebastian Unger on the Internet and got my father. I’m ‘Unger the Younger,’ as they say.”
Heat rushed Henri’s face. Hell, he hadn’t blushed in years, having lost the ability after about the fiftieth time someone threw underwear onstage and offered him free use of the orifice of his choice. “Is your father here, or are you the one I’m supposed to meet with?” Oh, please, please, please, let it be this guy. If he spoke dirty, Henri might get off on his voice alone. Hell, if he read his grocery list, Henri would likely sprout wood.
“As my father died before I was born, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” Sebastian stepped aside and opened the door wider. “Please, come in.”
First chance he got, Henri would send off scathing words to the online site he’d gotten his misinformation from.
He followed his host into the house that time forgot. From his vantage point in the foyer Henri spotted what appeared to be a sitting room, completely furnished in antiques, unless he missed his guess. Margo had gone through an antique phase about the time Henri had earned his first big record deal. A spiral staircase led upward, and Henri dogged Sebastian’s heels up bare, wooden planks, worn from hundreds of footsteps. Wow! What an ass! Nice, solid handfuls. And the man’s sturdy build meant he wouldn’t break from a good pounding.
The silence seemed awkward, and ogling his host’s posterior probably wasn’t good manners. In LA among his old crowd, maybe, where an ass like Sebastian’s probably cost about seventeen thou in surgery. Homegrown ass. Who’d have thought? “How do you know Lucas?” Henri asked. Though he hadn’t learned much about his manager yet, he’d didn’t peg the man as the type to hang out at opera houses. Dive bars, maybe.
“He’s an old friend of my mother’s. We lost touch over the years and reconnected after she died.”
He’d lost his father and his mother. Poor guy. Then again, if Sebastian’s parents were anything like Henri’s….
“Here’s where you’ll be staying.” Seb opened a door and led the way into a spacious room. White curtains covered the windows, and through the lace Henri spotted mountains dotted with tall trees. What a view. “Put your things here and I’ll show you the rest of the house.” Sebastian eyed Henri’s bag. “Is that all you brought?”
“I’ve got more out in the trailer, but I’ll go get them later.” Henri stripped off his leather jacket, chaps, and other glove, and placed them on a chair, keeping his back turned to his host—offering a prime view of his ass, were the man interested in looking.
The room, like the rest of the house he’d seen thus far, was furnished in a style of days gone by. A double four-poster bed provided the focal point, with a dresser, mirror, and a chest in a matching pattern of carved wheat.
Over the bed hung a canvas of a sunlit meadow in full bloom with wildflowers. Simple, elegant, and homey. “My grandmother’s work.” Sebastian stepped up beside Henri. “She was a gifted artist, but only painted for pleasure. She never sold her paintings.”
Okay, something was expected of Henri, possibly compliments, most assuredly agreement. “It’s… nice.”
Sebastian gave him a cocked-brow perusal that seemed to find him lacking. Oh yeah. Opera guy. Cultured. His grandmother had probably taken him to art galleries and museum openings. Henri’s grandma had taken him to tractor pulls and dirt track races. God rest her soul.
The rest of the house maintained the same bygone feel. Thank God the kitchen had been updated and the bathroom sported indoor plumbing. They neared the last room on the first level. “Here’s the music room. Feel free to spend all the time you like here.” With dramatic flair, Sebastian pushed back a pocket door and ducked his head to enter the room.
Well, damn. A polished wooden floor gleamed in the sunlight streaming in from windows every bit as tall as the door. A bay window overlooked the grounds, and the end of the room was an obvious modern extension, with three glassed-in sides. In the middle of the extension sat a grand piano. An old-fashioned velvet settee sat opposite, matching chair in front, with cables, recording equipment and a stereo to make the average rock fan cry filling the remaining space. Twelve-foot ceilings would make for some hellacious acoustics.
“Do you play?” Sebastian swept a hand toward the piano.
