The Wish (6 page)

A cook? The guy was a cook? Well, it made sense. Due to his uncle’s illness, hiring a chef would be logical. However, that didn’t give the man the right to take advantage of the situation. And where was Martha? Surely the woman who’d been employed at the house for ages hadn’t been tossed aside for the sake of a boy toy.

“No, I have no objection to you
cooking
,” Alex answered coolly. “What I object to is your crossing the lines with my uncle. You wouldn’t be the first to see dollar signs when they looked at him, and likely not the last. None succeeded in parting him from his cash, and let me tell you, he’s been conned by the best.”

Furious amber eyes burned into Alex’s as the man climbed down from the ladder. “I see. Well, rest assured there’s only one person in this room after Alfred’s money, and it sure as hell isn’t me!”

Alfred? The cook addressed his superior by first name? He’d also kissed Alfred in the hallway. Martha was the only servant in the house allowed to kiss her employer. Furthermore, what was that crack about money? The Anderson legacy belonged to Alex by right, or soon would. Who the hell did this man think he was? “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? My uncle just lost his partner and he’s vulnerable. Whatever game you’re playing with him, I want it stopped.”

A ferocious glare answered him.

“If it’s money you’re after, name your price. I’ll pay, you go away. Deal?”

Alex had to hand it to him. The guy played his role well, burning with righteous indignation so realistic Alex nearly believed it himself.

“You’re the asshole nephew, Alex,” the man growled through clenched teeth.

“Yes, and you’re the gold-digger who thinks he can flaunt his tight ass in front of a grieving old man and get himself a tidy bit of cash. Now that we’re properly introduced, why don’t you run along and find yourself another sugar daddy.” Alex couldn’t control the anger seeping into his words.

A reddened face and sharp gasp were Alex’s only warnings before the stranger loosed his wrath. “Look, Alex, while you’ve been out thinking only of yourself, screwing anything that’d drop its pants, I’ve been here when your uncle needed me!” He smacked his hand onto the countertop. “When his lover lay dying, I was here. The night Byron died, Alfred called for hours and only got your stupid voice mail. Me, he got on the first ring! Now I’m minding my own business, trying to cook one of his favorite meals, one of the few pleasures Alfred has left, and you stroll in here flinging accusations!”

The agitated hornet of a man marched across the room and yanked a phone book from a shelf beneath a wall-mounted phone. “Why don’t you take your overinflated ego out to a club somewhere and start fucking your way through greater Los Angeles, while me and my ‘tight ass’ get dinner on the table?” He flipped opened the directory to “Restaurants and Clubs” and flung the book at Alex, pages flapping. “There’s plenty of skanks at the local nightclubs. Only don’t bring them here. That would be disrespectful.”

He hoisted the ladder to his shoulder and then stormed out the back door, muttering under his breath.

Alex stood clutching the open phone book, speechless, something that didn’t happen often. Well, he certainly understood what his uncle saw in the feisty handyman/cook. Regardless of a deceptively unassuming appearance, the man exhibited the same spirit and fire of Alfred’s late lover. Feisty or not, Alex wasn’t going to give up with so much at stake. The usurper wasn’t going to take advantage of the situation, and Alex would see to it if it was the last thing he did.

O
H
DEAR
. First impressions certainly hadn’t gone well, yet Byron remained convinced that his and Alfred’s nephews belonged together, each being similar to their uncles in temperament and personality. Their first meeting, while explosive, hadn’t been explosive in the way he’d hoped. He loved his nephew, but the boy did have a temper, especially when under attack, though Byron could hardly fault the apple for falling close to the tree. The Sinclair temper did little to dispel the myth of fiery redheads, and his and Douglas’s arguments had been legendary. If his plan failed, he had only himself to blame, since he’d planted the seeds of jealousy to begin with.

Regardless of the failure of the initial meeting, he stood by the belief that placing forbidden fruit before Alex’s nose was the only way to truly capture the boy’s attention. If Byron had learned one thing about the man over the years, it was Alex’s penchant for winning at all costs, and believing he couldn’t have something made the prize much more enticing, eventually pushing him toward the edge. Yes, Byron suffered a twinge of guilt for involving Alfred, but was sure he’d be forgiven. After all, Alfred often quoted, “Sometimes the end justifies the means.”

The one shining moment in the whole encounter had been the growing bulge in Alex’s slacks as he’d verbally sparred with Paul. The spark had lit; Byron simply needed to fan the flames until they blazed.
The end justifies the means, indeed.

5

M
URMURED
conversation greeted Alex, and he hesitated before the closed dining room door. Despite his best intentions, he couldn’t help eavesdropping, especially when one of the voices was deep and rich, totally unlike Alfred’s. The words made his blood boil.

“Alfred, you know I love you with all my heart. Still, I don’t think this is right. I know he’s your nephew, but I don’t trust him. He’s never here and hasn’t done anything for anyone in this family outside himself.”

“In this family?”
How dare the meddler consider himself a relative? Adding insult to injury, even now the two-bit con man tried to turn the tables before Alex had a chance to expose the manipulative bastard for what he was.

“Now, Paul…,” his uncle said in tones once used to placate Alex’s stern grandparents.

Paul? Why did the name sound familiar? Frantically searching his mind for some reference to a servant or business associate named Paul, Alex strained to catch the words while his uncle continued, “While it’s true he’s not been here, I’ve never asked him to be. I’m sure if I’d told him….”

“Told me what?” Alex demanded, bursting into the dining room.

Paul regarded him from a position kneeling on the floor by Alfred’s chair, the tilt of his chin haughty and unapologetic. “His napkin fell, I was picking it up,” he offered as explanation for his compromising position. With fluid, graceful motions, he rose and obtained a new napkin from the adjacent buffet before seating himself to the old man’s left, eyes clearly challenging Alex to question him.

“Uh-huh,” Alex replied. An eyebrow rose in mocking disbelief. How dare this mere servant presume to sit at the same table with the family? His grandparents were probably rolling in their graves!

The butler chose that moment to enter the room. “Excuse me, sir, might I have a word?

As Bernard conversed in hushed tones with Alfred, Paul muttered under his breath, “
Honi soit qui mal y pense.”

Shame be to him who thinks evil of it?
Well, now, what a shocker. Apparently, boy toy learned a little French somewhere down the line—or read a book or two.

When Bernard left, Alfred, oblivious to the byplay, indicated the chair to his right, directly across from Alex’s nemesis. “Sit down, Alex. You’re in for a real treat tonight.” He gave an indulgent smile. “Paul prepared beef brisket with all the trimmings—my favorite!” With a crafty gaze, he added, “I believe it’s one of your favorites as well, isn’t it?”

Alex wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of the correct answer, which would have been “yes!” Instead he feigned indifference. “What happened to Martha?” He silently fought the urge to grind his teeth in frustration over the fact that whatever “Paul” offered, his uncle seemed to be buying.

“Martha? Oh, we gave her the night off, didn’t we, Paul?” The affectionate overtones turned on the handyman/cook/fuck toy made Alex’s stomach churn. “Oh, forgive me,” Alfred said. “You have met Paul, haven’t you?”

“We’ve met,” Alex confirmed, barely restraining an impulse to punch something.

Clearly mistaking Alex’s meaning, Alfred beamed. “Oh, good. You know, I’m amazed the two of you never crossed paths before. Not once in all these years.”

Years?
“Years, Uncle? Exactly how long have you known
Paul
?” Alex spit the name like something vile.

His uncle appeared confused. “How long? Well, his whole life, naturally. He was born a few years after Byron and I built this house. Don’t you remember? I’m sure I sent Victoria pictures.”

“Pictures?” Alex’s harsh gaze cut over to the subject of those pictures, who defiantly ignored him by serving Alfred from the numerous bowls on the table.

Suddenly, he recalled his mother showing him pictures of a chubby, bald baby before she died. “Paul Sinclair? P.J.?”

“The one and only,” his adversary retorted from across the table. “Only no one’s called me P.J. since I was twelve.”

Alex searched for signs of his adversary’s having won the first round. Instead of gloating, Paul appeared tired as he placed a filled plate before Alfred. Then the stress momentarily lifted from his features, replaced by a fond smile. “I hope it’s as good as you’ve been building it up to be.” Paul loaded his own plate and sat quietly, eyes downcast.

Realizing with a start that they were waiting for him to begin, and seeing no graceful way out, Alex ladled small amounts from each bowl onto his plate before serving himself a modest portion of brisket, fully expecting a barely palatable meal. In his experience, beautiful men belonged in the bedroom, not the kitchen. That was what cooks were for.

He reluctantly sampled everything, pleasantly surprised to discover the meal was, in fact, delicious. So the mystery man was Byron’s nephew. You couldn’t tell it by looking at him; the man bore no resemblance to any Sinclairs he’d ever met, which was why he hadn’t recognized the guy. Didn’t all Sinclairs have flaming red hair and milk-white skin? And being Byron’s kin didn’t prove Paul wasn’t after Alfred’s money. Byron and Alfred had never married, even during the brief period of legal gay marriage in California, but they’d been together a very long time. Perhaps Paul expected a share of the Anderson inheritance?
He’ll get it over my dead body
.

Dinner proved a quiet affair, with Paul and Alex answering Alfred’s questions while never speaking directly to each other. If the old man noticed their suspicious glances, he gave no indication. After a dessert of fresh fruit, Alfred made his apologies and retired for the evening, leaving “you young folk” alone to get better acquainted. Alex silently glared at Paul for a full minute before pushing his chair back and stalking from the room without a backward glance.

He knew his uncle wouldn’t mind him borrowing the BMW, and even if Paul’s suggestion had been made facetiously, Alex took advantage of the information and drove to the first club to catch his eye, searching for a distraction. He ordered his usual martini and leaned against the bar, already drawing curious glances from the sparse early-evening crowd.

If he were being honest with himself, he wasn’t really in the mood for playing; he merely needed a release for his pent-up frustration. P.J. Sinclair. How Alex had tried to forget the name over the years, envying Paul a living mother and a father with the decency to die instead of walking away, never to look back except in a feeble attempt to make a profit from his late wife’s death.

Through an endless stream of lawyers and deliberations, Alex’s poor excuse for a father never once asked to see him, even while seeking full custody—primarily for the money to be gained for Alex’s upbringing. Alfred fought tooth and nail, and in the end, the courts awarded Alex to his maternal grandparents. He knew Alfred cared for him, and he’d seen his uncle regularly, but usually when Alfred visited Boston or they vacationed together. His grandparents discouraged visits to the West Coast for fear Alex would be corrupted by “those Hollywood types” and his uncle’s sexuality, and when old enough to do as he pleased, his visits were brief and infrequent, at best.

His thoughts were interrupted by a lean club boy in too tight jeans and a mesh shirt that revealed barbell-impaled nipples. He winked and sauntered over to pose provocatively against the bar. “Hey, handsome. I haven’t seen you in here before. New in town?”

The guy was unoriginal and flaming, which wasn’t Alex’s type. In his favor, he was available and passably attractive—particularly as, with pale skin and bleached-blond hair, he bore no resemblance whatsoever to the olive-skinned, dark-haired nuisance back at Uncle Alfred’s.

With a pronounced sway to his hips, the man drew closer, licking glossed lips and trailing his fingertips along the edge of the bar. Batting his lashes and grinning wickedly, he ran his eyes suggestively up and down Alex’s body. “I’d be happy to show you… around.”

Well, things couldn’t get any less complicated. “Let’s go,” Alex replied.

J
UST
a little more…. After hours of intense concentration, Byron finally managed to move the book resting on the nightstand. Slowly and surely, he worked the heavy, leather-bound volume to the edge, waiting for the right moment, and once more….