The Chase and the Catch

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

The guest room was positively decadent, John had decided when he came back into the room and had an opportunity to assess it in private. Dark wainscoting, with a similar finish on the furnishings, gave a rich, warm feel to the room, and it was balanced beautifully by buttercream walls, linens, and drapery. The hardwood floor had been softened with a thick area rug that covered most of the room, picking up the darks and lights that already existed and twining them with a sage green that had also been used as accent: a candle on a side table, an open, unmarked journal on the desk, and a single pillow in the middle of the bed.

The lighting must have been turned down before he’d arrived, and John had been relieved to find it was adjustable when he’d played with the knob. It would have sucked hard to try and get any work done if he’d had to peer at his screen through mood lighting the entire time. John had considered checking the raised panels on the walls to see if any hid electronics, for although the room didn’t appear to have a television, there were several remote controls lying on the dresser. But when he realised he’d wandered for over half an hour already, feeling fabrics and opening drawers, he decided it would be wise not to keep his host waiting any longer than necessary. And bathing was most certainly necessary.

There was a full ensuite, with a shower that took John ten minutes to figure out how to operate. The next ten, under the most pleasant stream of water that John had ever felt in his life, were spent musing William’s odd conversation. He supposed William’s reaction could have been brought about by some weird tension over having somebody new in the house, or even a protective streak that something might get released to the public that would prove detrimental to Parker’s persona. It was interesting, regardless of the reason behind it. Way too interesting, in fact, to even consider packing things in. Besides, William hadn’t seemed hostile. It’s not like there’d been any suggestion that John was in danger. It wasn’t until John stepped out of the shower, skin steaming and smelling of lemongrass and ginger, that his mind tossed up the idea that perhaps William was jealous. Maybe William harboured some deep-buried, never-pursued fantasy that he and the boss might one day have a relationship more than just that of house-servant and master. It was a thought that caused John to laugh out loud and shake his head at himself. He used a hand towel to polish fog off the mirror and spoke to his own reflection when it appeared. “Now that, Mr. Liege, sounds like your brain trying to work up some fiction.”

He pointed, exaggerating a frown. “Bad fiction.”

John tilted his head, changed expressions, and answered himself. “Oh, come on. People love that kind of thing. As long as the story doesn’t end up with the interfering author getting buried in the backyard, I say go for it.”

He dug his toes into the rug that ran the length of the vanity while he shook out the slacks and the shirt he’d thrown on the counter before his shower. It must be damned nice to live in a place where everything was so lush. It sure as all hell beat shivering on top of the tiled floor he had back at home. No matter how high one kept the thermostat, when it was minus forty degrees Celsius outside, the floor stayed cold. If this trip did nothing else for him, at least he’d get a break from the damn snow.

John was smiling when he left the guest room. He wore a short-sleeved button-up in grey, a colour he’d been told matched his eyes, and though he would argue the point that grey eyes were actually blue every time, he secretly loved to hear people say it. Unfortunately, as John had mused more often than not, once one got past his eyes, John didn’t have much going for him in the looks department. He was what his grandmother used to call “plain as dry white bread.” His hair was mostly brown, with some red tones in the right light, but it was a tendency that brought with it more freckles than he would have liked, as well as facial hair that seemed too light for the rest of his face. He caught his reflection in the glass, shrugged at it, and then paused, caught by the view behind his likeness. The yard beyond the windows had darkened into blacks and purples that were being highlighted by a brilliantly lit pool. The lighting gave the water a weird glow, as if it contained some form of plasmatic gel, and John had to take a moment to contain his smile. Some day in the future there was going to be a party out there, with the best of the best and the worst of the worst. Perhaps there would be a tryst to witness, with a young, coy actress. Or a fight with a drunken, sharp-tongued peer. And it was all his to see, to mould into a clever, entertaining story. The concept made John’s heart skip. A whole new world, and it was his to know and write about. He’d never had an opportunity quite like it; probably never would again. Unless it went well. If it went well…God…maybe other people would want him, too. Heads of industry…rock stars…Presidents…

“If you’re attempting to starve my history out of me, you’re doing a wonderful job of it so far.”

Warm, deep, and even sexier in the quiet darkness of the hallway then it was on the screen, Parker’s voice startled John out of his reverie. “I’m sorry.” He was suddenly too shy to turn and catch Parker’s gaze and opted instead to watch Parker’s reflection. “Your property is so beautiful. Did you design the layout yourself? Or—”

“Oh, of course.” Parker’s image wasn’t clear enough for John to see the amusement on Parker’s face, but he could hear it in Parker’s voice as clear as day. “Gardening is a real hobby of mine. And concrete forming, God, I’d almost forgotten how much I enjoy it. Manual labour anything, really. It just works for me.”

John lifted an eyebrow and continued to stare out at the yard, switching his focus between property and reflection. “Is this how this is going to work then? Am I to just guess at what’s truth and what’s you merely playing games?”

“I didn’t realise that you’d begun to interview me.” Parker stepped closer. He smelled like sandalwood and ocean air—an entirely swoon-worthy scent, indeed.

“That’s the cool thing about being here,” John said with a smile. “The interview is never really over.”

“Then I guess I should try hard to keep my words truthful.”

“It would make life easier, yes.” John took a breath, held it, and finally turned away from the window. “My apologies for my lack of patience at the airport earlier. It was a long flight and I admit that I—”

“You need a better photographer.”

John frowned; he tilted his head. “I’m sorry?”

“For your promos and your covers.” Parker reached up, caught John’s chin with both thumb and pointer, and moved John’s face first left, then right. “You are far more attractive in person. Bad photography is unforgivable.”

John snorted but didn’t pull away. Parker’s fingertips felt nice on his skin: very warm, very smooth, and damn strong. “I’m not trying to woo my readers. They aren’t buying my face, they’re buying my words.”

“Pretty faces sell.”

“Is that why you’ve done so well?”

Parker chuckled and released his hold but didn’t break contact. Instead, Parker slipped his finger under John’s jaw, stroked the point of John’s chin with his nail, and used light pressure to tilt John’s head higher. “I am not pretty,” Parker said quietly. “Handsome, yes. Dashing, even.” His smile softened the arrogance of his statement. “But I don’t have the boyish charm thing going for me that you do. It’s quite…nice.”

“Well now, look at you.” John turned his head away and took a step to the left. “I thought romanticism wasn’t really your gig.”

Parker shrugged. “It’s not.” His smile transformed to one with a much sharper edge. “But seduction most definitely is.”

John choked a laugh that sounded too shrill. “Seduction seems a little pointless for someone that has people falling all over themselves to please him. Besides, I was of the belief that your preferences ran to the female side of our species.”

“Then we can agree that you have a lot to learn about me.” Parker turned on his heel and began to walk down the hallway. “Let’s eat, shall we?”

It took several seconds for John to follow. Had Parker just admitted to being bi? Did everybody already know this? “Mr. Chase?” John waited for Parker to stop and turn back, and when he didn’t, John skip-stepped to catch up. “You understand that anything you tell me has the potential to be included in the biography, yes?”

“Excellent.” Parker stopped at a pair of French doors and paused with a hand on each handle. “There’s a lot I want to say with this story. And none as good as yourself for me to say it through. Trust me.” He winked, pressed the doors open, and waved John in. “After you.”