The moment they were inside, Alex pinned Paul against the foyer wall, his insistent mouth descending in a savage kiss. “What the fuck?” Paul sputtered, attempting to fight off the sudden aggression.
“You know you want me, baby, why be coy?” Alex rumbled against his panting mouth.
“Alfred….”
“He doesn’t have to know,” the husky voice answered, too quickly.
“Stop it, Alex! I have to go check on Alfred!”
With unmistakable lust in his eyes, Alex commanded, “Meet me in my room later.”
Paul hissed, “Oh,hellno!”
Alex’s shocked dismay was gratifying. “What? What did you say?”
If looks could kill, Alex Martin would have gone up in flames. “Let me go, Alex. I need to go see about Alfred, and then I’m going to bed—alone.”
Once Alex released his hold, Paul sprinted down the hall like the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels, embarrassed beyond belief, for though truly offended by Alex’s actions, his traitorous body had other ideas. His sudden erection made a quick retreat awkward. He only hoped the arrogant bastard hadn’t noticed; the last thing he needed was to fuel Alex’s already raging ego.
THEevening went better than expected, and Alex didn’t even have to pretend he’d had a good time. In different circumstances, he’d have enjoyed himself immensely. It was one of the best dates he’d ever had.Wait a minute, he reminded himself,dinner with Paul Sinclair wasn’t a date.
Having forgotten his original intent in feigning friendship with Paul confused him, to say the least. The man was handsome, sincere, and passionate when he spoke of weekends spent sawing and hammering, slowly refurbishing a labor-of-love bookstore.
The image Byron’s nephew presented to the world conflicted drastically with Alex’s presumptions. On the one hand, Paul Sinclair seemed to live simply, driving a car long past its prime and working hard to build a business with his own hands. On the other hand, Paul had his own room at the mansion, across the hall from Uncle Alfred’s. Why did he say he lived in Bishop?
Making his way to his own lonely room, Alex recalled those bright eyes, aglow with excitement for such mundane things as polished wood floors, the smell of old books, and plans to renovate the upper floor of the bookstore into a coffee shop. For a precious few moments, the brooding and serious façade had cracked, allowing them to share an unexpectedly enjoyable meal, discussing trivial aspects of their lives while meticulously steering clear of heavier topics. Like Alfred, or the man they’d recently laid to rest.
If Paul was, in fact, Alfred’s lover, Alex could hardly blame the old man. Paul wasn’t as polished as most kept men of his acquaintance; no, far from it. He obviously didn’t spend hours perfecting his looks, and his appearance seemed unaltered by a surgeon’s knife, a rare occurrence in the show-business circles of Los Angeles—the sources of Alfred’s financial power.
While substantial money had passed down through the family, Alfred Anderson, attorney to the stars, had done well in his own right and could well afford to keep his boy toy very comfortably.
Alex loved his uncle and wanted him to be happy, but moving so quickly to a new lover seemed disrespectful to Byron, especially in light of Paul’s age. Nearly fifty years separated the two, though rationally Alex knew age didn’t matter. His uncle was an adult and not in the least bit senile. Alfred had the right to make his own decisions.
Finally, the real issue dawned on him. As much as he fought against the inappropriate attraction, he wanted Paul, and guilt rankled. Damn, the man was good. Not only had Paul enchanted Uncle Alfred, he’d managed to charm Alex as well, something no one else had ever done.
No, it wasn’t going to happen. Alex intended to expose the manipulator, and once he was out of the picture, Alex would help his uncle find a more suitable partner—preferably someone closer to Alfred’s own age. Afterward they could both put Paul Sinclair out of their minds for good.
8
THEdays passed, and Alex’s structured schedule rivaled his college days’. He rose early, spent much of the day learning from his uncle or other associates, and if he went to bed late, it wasn’t due to clubbing. No, these days his free evenings found him sequestered in his uncle’s office, researching. The Internet proved a valuable tool for learning pretty much anything, like the success rate of his uncle’s upcoming surgery and the attending physician’s stellar reputation. He also located a bookstore in Bishop, California, owned by Paul Sinclair, found that Paul had graduated college with honors and was highly active in charity work, both in Los Angeles and in Bishop.
Try as he might, he couldn’t find one negative thing about the man anywhere. When questioned, his uncle’s associates sung the man’s praises—at length. Alex watched and waited for Paul to slip up, then watched some more. It didn’t happen. On the contrary, with each new day he grew more and more impressed with Byron’s nephew, almost willing to turn a blind eye on the evidence of Paul’s being a little too close to Alfred. Almost.
Alex studied the man from across the dinner table, though Paul seemed oblivious, intent on his conversation with Alfred.
“There were seven interviews today for a butler and three for housekeeper.” Paul sighed, placing his napkin on his empty plate. “We found some outstanding candidates. Thank goodness it’s over and done with.”
“Well, they should be the best,” Alfred assured him. “They came from the finest agency in Los Angeles.”
Paul scowled. “Well, except for….”
“Except for what?” Alex prompted, curious.
“Well….” Paul squirmed, twisting his fingers together. “The accounting firm keeps sending people, even though I told them we’ve made our decisions. To put it bluntly, those applicants were totally unsuitable.”
Alex found it extremely telling that Alfred’s accountant took such a personal interest in his client’s affairs, above and beyond what the job description entailed. Unlike when he’d searched for information on Paul, the accountant’s name and firm produced some pretty noteworthy results, and not all of them positive.
“Don’t worry about it,” Alex said, “I’ll handle it. I’ve been meaning to give Maxwell a call, anyway.”
