The Wish (9 page)

A disgruntled “Harrumph” was all the response he got.

His passenger remained silent and brooding while they wound their way through the less frequently used roads and alleys that helped them beat downtown traffic, finally arriving at their destination with minutes to spare.

When Paul reached Berkley’s, Alex swiveled his head, checking out the parking lot. “No valet parking?”

“No,” Paul replied simply, keeping to himself the “spoiled brat” comment aching to spring off his tongue.

“And you say this was Uncle Alfred and Byron’s favorite restaurant?”

“That’s right.” Paul shut off the engine. It knocked a few times before finally dying. “Alex, just because they had money didn’t mean they flaunted it. In fact, Alfred once told me that if all you experienced of the world was first class and room service, you’d miss out on the other 99 percent of what life has to offer.”

Having gotten the last word in, he climbed from his ancient vehicle, invoking the righteous anger of the driver’s door, which shrilly protested. Momentary embarrassment shallowed his victory. He tried to keep his car in good condition, a near impossible task given the frequent trips he’d made over the past few months. Excessive mileage and years took their toll, not to mention the road salt and damp weather the old girl endured in Bishop. With a sigh, he acknowledged that, like it or not, the time had come to consider a replacement.

The two men crossed the parking lot silently and then entered the quaintly decorated restaurant. The maître d’
rushed forward. “Good evening, Mr. Sinclair. I’m sorry to hear about the loss of your uncle. Such a wonderful man.”

“Thanks, Henri.”

Snapping his fingers at a lounging busboy, Henri murmured, “Go tell Thierry an important guest is here.”

An imposing man in chef’s garb hurried out from the kitchen a moment later, embracing Paul in a breath-stealing bear hug and planting a loud kiss on both cheeks. “Paul Sinclair, how are you doing, darling?”

Paul fought the embrace enough to choke out, “I’m fine, Thierry, and you?’

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Don’t lie to me, sweetie, I know better.” Stepping back and grasping both of Paul’s slender hands in his own beefy ones, the stocky Frenchman bent to peer into Paul’s eyes. “You have my condolences. I’m truly sorry about your uncle’s passing. So sad, he was a sweet, sweet man. Lovely funeral, by the way. How’s dear Alfred holding up?”

Paul shook his head. “I can’t say for certain. He tells me he’s fine, and you know Alfred.”

“Yes, Alfred could be on fire and he’d tell you he’s fine.” Finally noticing Alex, Thierry’s eyes lit up. “Oh my; who’s this stunning creature, Pauly? Have you been holding out on your Uncle Thierry? I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

Heat crept up Paul’s cheeks. “I don’t!” he blurted, earning raised eyebrows from both men. Even the maître d’, discreetly pretending to ignore them, cast furtive glances their way.

Attempting to draw attention away from his hotly flaming face, Paul managed introductions. “Thierry, this is Alexander Martin, Alfred’s nephew. Alex, Thierry Guillaume, owner of Berkley’s.”

“Alexander? Of course! The resemblance is unmistakable. You look like a younger version of your uncle.” Ignoring Alex’s obvious impatience, Thierry continued his ebullient rambling, “I’ve known him a long time, you know. He and Byron, so much in love. I’m very sorry for your loss.” Even while offering sympathies, he cast suggestive peeks at Alex.

Sensing an imminent meltdown as Alex’s hostile glares escalated to growling, Paul intervened. “Thierry, we’ve had a long day and we’re starving. Can you send over some appetizers and a bottle of the merlot Uncle Byron liked? My usual table, please.”

Thierry sighed, apparently conceding defeat. “I hope you enjoy your dinner. If you need anything, you have only to ask.”

Paul dipped his head in acknowledgement before he and Alex followed the maître d’ to a table near the back of the restaurant. “I thought you’d appreciate some privacy.” Noticing Alex’s stony expression, he ensured Thierry was out of hearing and then explained, “He means well, he truly does. He just comes on a bit strong sometimes.”

Alex emitted a weary sigh. “Is he always like that?”

“Friendly?”

“No, looking at his customers like they were pieces of meat.”

Paul considered Thierry’s behavior. “Truthfully? I’ve never seen him act so unprofessional before. I know he ended a lengthy relationship recently; maybe he’s a bit on the prowl.” What was the problem? Didn’t Alex live to be fawned over?

The arrival of the waiter with their appetizers and wine kept the conversation light. Alex surprised him by saying, “The same for me, thanks,” when Paul placed his order.

“Uh, no offense or anything; you do realize what I ordered, right?” he ventured.

“Saltimbocca? Of course, it’s one of my favorite dishes, although I prefer the veal version. I’m sure the pork will be acceptable.”

They shared something in common? More than just Alfred and Uncle Byron? Paul might be setting himself up, but he had to ask, though he knew the question would seem absurd coming out the blue. “What’s your favorite book?”

Without missing a beat, Alex answered, “Which genre?”

Paul’s wasn’t quick enough to hide his surprise. “You read?”

Alex’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and he appeared to be fighting a laugh. “Well, I may not use the darned thing, but I did earn a law degree. Last I heard, literacy was a basic requirement.”

For the second time that evening, Paul felt his face flame. “I… I’m sorry,” he stammered, “what I meant was….”

“I know what you meant,” Alex said, letting him off the hook. “The truth is I love to read. I’m currently working on a mystery novel about a priest in eighteenth-century Italy.”

“
The Monk in the Shadows
?”

When Alex nodded, Paul found himself babbling. “You’re kidding, right? Wow, I finished that book a few days ago. It’s one of my favorites. How far are you into it?”

“Brother Rupert has left for Sicily.”

Hmmm… about a quarter into the book. I wonder if he’s found the clues yet.
“Who do you think the killer is?”

The waiter brought their salad course. The greens sat ignored and slowly wilting, no match for scintillating conversation.

“How is it you’ve already read a book that hasn’t yet been released?” Alex asked. “I had to pull a few strings to get my copy.”

Paul smiled, warming up to one of his favorite subjects. “Owning a bookstore has its advantages. I get to preview upcoming releases.”

“You own a bookstore?”

“Yup.” Paul couldn’t hide a pleased grin. “I worked at a chain during college for peanuts to learn the business. When I graduated, I found an old building in Bishop in need of major repairs and made a deal.”

Alex opened his mouth and closed it again, staring at Paul with a quizzical expression. “Why didn’t you buy into a franchise and build a new building? Wouldn’t that have been easier?”

“Nothing worthwhile is easy,” Paul replied. “Besides, buying land and building from the ground up cost more than my budget allowed. In the end, I did most of the work myself and saved a fortune.”

Dinner went by quickly after they’d broken the ice, and Paul found himself relaxing and enjoying both dinner and the company. From time to time, he reminded himself that this wasn’t a friendly date and he needed to stay on guard.

After leaving the restaurant, they took their time driving home. It had been one of the most pleasant evenings Paul had experienced in a long time, all things considered. That is, until he parked his car and entered the house, intent on checking on Alfred, having a nightcap, and curling up with a good book.

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,
hell
no!”

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.

T
HE
evening 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

T
HE
days 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.”