Half Moon Chambers (13 page)

"Oh, yeah. Look at you. You've been through
the
mill, but I can still see all that training.

Lovely."

"Not... half a decade older than it should be?"

He made a wry face. "Sorry. No, that was just
pain
- you're fine. You make me think
of
Tynemouth sands, the colour of your hair, and
those
rain-cloud eyes..."

I chuckled helplessly. No-one had ever
described
my debatable charms aloud before.

"Well, that's Tynemouth for you."

"And those good hands. One day, if we ever
got
the chance, I'd have you do that all bloody
afternoon
."

I wouldn't have minded if it had been now. I'd
never
been with a man who'd spent so much time
exploring
me, touching me
--
playing with me, I
supposed
, if the whole thing hadn't felt so very
serious
. With Jack it had been straight down to
business
. "Want me to?"

"Not this time. This time just fuck me." He
pushed
upright, the lovely lean muscles rising in
his
arms. He got his balance, spread his thighs and
settled
over me. "Fuck me, Vince."

I slid into him so easily. The muscles that had
felt
so good clenching round my fingers nearly
killed
me in their grip on my shaft: I had to reach
for
the bed-head again and hang on just to stop
myself
peaking out on the spot. I arched my head
back
, biting my lip. The music, which had faded to
the
background while we talked and messed
around
, suddenly pulsed up again, and I felt its
beat
like a lifting force beneath me. Yes, high
--
I
felt
high, and wild thoughts of strange ingredients
in
Rowan's massage oil flitted through my head.

But it was just freedom from pain. For months I
had
been fighting it. Even when numbed out by
pills
it had been there, a waiting beast. Pain and
cold
. Here in this man's hothouse world, torrents
of
endorphins flooding my blood, I was flying. I
thrust
up and it didn't hurt, but Rowan growled a
warning
and stopped me, pinning me with his
weight
. "No. Let me do the work."

He did. Once I'd deep-breathed past early
climax
I could risk a look at him, and then I
couldn
't look away. He was flushed, his shaft
raised
almost to his belly. Veins throbbed in his
neck
as he shifted and writhed to take me deeper. I
whispered
his name and put out a hand to him. He
gripped
my wrist, using me for balance, and he
began
a rhythm. "That's it," he breathed. "You just
stay
where you are. There's nothing wrong with
you
--
nothing at all."

He rode me, cautiously for a few seconds
more
and then harder. Sweat broke in a sheen
across
his chest. I held on to him frantically, and
he
flexed forward suddenly to kiss me and
climaxed
, shuddering. His convulsive movements
continued
, hauling me straight up after him. I lost
control
and bucked wildly into his body, not caring
if
I knocked the bullet hard enough into my spine to
kill
me outright. I cried out, the raw sound of it
shaming
me, but the next lungful of air I could get
tore
from me in the same way
--
again, louder, and
at
last I was coming, giving over everything I had.

Tears burned me blind. "Rowan!"

"Yes. There, you're okay. I've got you." His
arms
closed around me. His mouth brushed hotly
over
my ear and the side of my face. I tried to hang
on
, because his embrace felt so good, but my flight
was
over and I was dropping into the dark. I
buried
my fingers in his hair. "I've got you," he
repeated
. "It's okay. Sleep now. Go to sleep."

* * *

My arm was heavy and slack when I raised it
to
look at my watch. Just after four in the morning.

This was the second good night's sleep I owed
to
Rowan Clyde, the full recommended eight hours. I
lay
for a while, watching shadows come and go on
the
ceiling, headlights transformed by the gauzy
curtain
into glittering wings. The next set were
blue
, moving slowly. A police car, trawling the
cobbles
of the Bigg Market for the last catch of
trouble
of the night...

I had to wake up. I belonged with the blue
lights
out there, not the gauze-filtered glow that had
briefly
softened the world for me. The return
wasn
't easy. My muscles felt dissolved. My mind
flashed
back over the long, incandescent
come
Rowan had pulled from my flesh, and a warm
pulse
of backwash arousal went through me. God,
there
were a few hours left of the night, weren't
there
? Was there a niche in time, a short-lived
alternative
universe, where I could wake Rowan
and
have that ecstatic struggle and release again?

I rolled onto my side. It hurt, but not as much
as
usual, and I put out a hand to find him.

"Rowan?"

I was alone in the bed. Reluctantly I sat up,
familiar
weights of pain fastening themselves into
place
. His absence struck me coldly. I'd have
pegged
him for someone who liked to share space
after
a fuck. Even Jack would stick around until
he
'd got his breath back. Still, it was better this
way
--
would make it easier for me to gather up my
things
, get dressed and go.

First I had to find out if this rococo palace of
his
had a bathroom. My hand closed on a soft
woollen
robe, as if he'd left it there for me to find.

He'd put a quilt over me too. We'd made love on
his
grey blanket, and he hadn't disturbed me to get
me
under the sheets. He was kind. I didn't
understand
his generosity to a discourteous
stranger
who had marched into his life demanding
he
risk his own to help stop Goran Maric, but it
had
been nice.

It didn't alter the facts. I was a copper, and I'd
gone
way out of line. I got up, shrugging into the
robe
. From him I'd have expected exotic silk, but
the
garment was ordinary, soft and very good of its
kind
. He kept wrong-footing me. The
whole
Arabian Nights atmosphere of his domain was
underpinned
with warm practicalities where they
mattered
most.

He was sleeping in a chair by the window.

The lights from outside were drifting over his
naked
flesh, and he was so still he'd become part
of
the room's patchwork shadows. He'd been there
all
along. My chagrin at waking alone faded out,
and
I took the grey blanket off the bed
--
there was
one
damp patch, but it hadn't suffered too much
--
and
carefully draped it over him.

No murals or baroque extravaganzas in the
bathroom
. It was down at the end of one of the
labyrinth
corridors, a plain, handsome space, clean
white
Victorian fittings shining serenely. I hadn't
taken
too seriously Rowan's assertion that he could
only
paint while he was high, but now I began to
sense
the divide in him. Perhaps the man who liked
solid
beds, grey blankets and plain bathrooms
did
need
something to bridge the gap. I shook myself.

The last thing I needed was to sympathise with his
addictions
. Real artists just did what they did,
didn
't they? It was a job. If they were serious about
it
, anyway.

I stared at myself in the mirror. When had I
become
so intolerant? My dad had used to annoy
me
with pronouncements like that, usually
followed
up by some choice remarks about hippies
and
layabouts. I'd made sure I was neither, but I
didn
't think I'd internalised the old sod to that
extent
. I was even starting to look like him. He'd
have
liked that, if he'd lived to see it
--
the good
son
, the copper, cast in his image.

Though maybe not in another man's dressing
gown
, mouth swollen with kisses, and a small but
distinct
lovebite over one nipple. I turned away
from
my reflection and went to relieve my aching
bladder
, then splashed enough cold water into my
face
to wake me up. It was definitely time for me
to
go.

I didn't want to leave Rowan without a word.

My trusty police notebook was in my pocket, and
reflecting
with shame that I hadn't even got as far
as
taking it out, I backtracked through the corridors
to
the place where he had divested me of my coat,
the
first move in a series of unshellings that had
ended
with me naked in his bed. I tried to think
what
to write.
Thank you
seemed inadequate,
though
in fact I was grateful
--
for the first time in
months
I hadn't woken desperately grabbing for my
painkillers
.

Somehow I took a wrong turn between the
bedroom
and the hall. I found myself in a room
little
more than a deep alcove at an angle of the
corridor
, and I turned, but before I could retreat, a
faint
gleam of gold caught my eye. A subtle
fragrance
filled the air. I paused, trying to analyse
it
--
leather and paper, evocative, spicy. Vision
adjusting
, I saw that the room was packed floor to
ceiling
with shelves of beautiful old books.

They looked and smelled nothing like my
collection
of paperbacks back home. Their spines
invited
touch. I took down and opened one
exquisite
volume. The lettering was in a script I
didn
't recognise, but I didn't need language skills
for
this one. I couldn't suppress a grunt of surprise.

Rowan's paintings were subtle
--
you had to attune
your
gaze before their eroticism came to meet you
halfway
. The illustration shimmering up at me left
no
room for doubt. It was a starkly detailed ink
portrayal
of five lovers locked in acrobatic
embrace
. I couldn't work out who was doing what
to
whom, or even if the participants were men or
women
. Breasts seemed to rise from the same slim
torsos
where upright shafts were springing.

Fascinated, I turned the book a little, trying to
make
sense of the scene.

"You found my collection."

"Christ!"

Six months behind a desk hadn't done anything
to
blunt my street-copper's reflexes. I didn't jump,
but
I jolted round, dropping the book, hands
twitching
hopelessly for a gun I hadn't gone near,
touched
or even looked at since that summer night.

Rowan took a step back from me, gesturing
surrender
with upraised palms. "Sorry. Sorry."

"Don't fucking creep up on me."

"I didn't creep. I spoke to you. You were...
absorbed
."

I glared at him, trying to climb back down.

That hadn't been just a hard-trained defence
reaction
. Fear had gone through me like a bell. I
could
taste bitter metal in my throat and my
bladder
had tried to give. Oh, I was screwed,
wasn
't I
--
even if I got back my physical form,
what
use was I with shattered nerves? "Well, next
time
speak louder. I've got to go."

"Okay." He bent to pick up the book. I was
grateful
he'd stopped to put on pyjama trousers
before
coming looking for me, though these were
soft
and clinging and did little by way of
concealment
. "I'll help you find your stuff."

"Did I hurt it?"

"What?"

"The book. Dropping it like that. Is it okay?"

He looked up at me in amusement. I didn't blame
him
--
I was still rapping out the questions, as if he
and
the book had been dragged into custody.

"Sorry. Just... all these look like antiques. I wasn't
sure
I should be touching them."

"What good's a book that can't be touched?"

As if to prove the point, he offered the little
volume
back to me.

"No, ta. I'm not sure I'm old enough. What the
hell
is
that?"

"Reproductions from a legendary Sanskrit
work
on sacred eroticism. Connecting to the gods
through
sex."

"Oh." Well, I'd asked. I cleared my throat,
tried
to get a more civil tongue into my head. I
owed
him that much for the touch of reconnection
he
'd given me, if nothing else. "Are they all... All
these
books, are they about the same thing?"

"And variations. I'm interested in erotic art.

I've found that the further you go back, the less
gender
seems to matter. The lines become less
distinct
."

I nodded, the vivid little hermaphroditic
torsos
dancing in my memory. "Where did you get
them
all?"

"Oh, you know
--
the internet puts you into
every
bookshop in the world."

"You never ordered this lot off Amazon."

"No, of course not. Antiquarian sites."

He was smiling, but his defences had gone up.

Evading the question... I wondered why, then
remembered
I was meant to be extracting myself
from
this man and his possessions, not falling
deeper
into their intriguing coils. "I really do have
to
go."

"Did it hurt? When I startled you, and you
twisted
round?"

"It doesn't matter."

"You're pale. Come and sit down for a
minute
."

I should have refused. I would have, if he
hadn
't taken hold of my hand. His fingers closed
round
mine as if I'd been a child in need of
leading
, and I followed him back into his street-lit
living
space. I hadn't spent long in there before
--
too
busy melting and kissing my way into his
bedroom
--
and hadn't noticed the curtain over the
archway
in one corner. He drew it back for me.