“What is it that he does? You know, besides collecting ugly paintings.” Z still refused to call it art.
“He’s a venture capitalist,” RT explained. “Well, that’s the hobby he’s taken up recently. Apparently investing in others has paid off for him lately.”
“Like Shark Tank?” Z loved that show. He got a kick out of seeing those people presenting their dreams to the “sharks” who could make them or break them. Of course, he enjoyed the positive ending to the other, but it didn’t always work out that way.
“You watch a lot of TV?”
“When I can,” Z told him. He didn’t bother to tell Ryan when and where, because that would be too much information for Z to share. But yeah, he had the opportunity to watch television more often these days.
Their food was delivered, and for the next few minutes, neither of them said anything, peering around casually, doing everything except looking at one another. The tension continued to ratchet up until Z could hardly stand it.
“All right, if we’re gonna do this…” Twirling his fork around as though that explained what this was, he continued, “We should probably know a few more things about one another.”
“Like what?” RT asked, his eyes wide with concern as he looked up for the first time in a few minutes.
“Okay…” Z hadn’t given much thought to where the conversation would go, but he was good at thinking on the fly. “What’s your favorite color?”
RT looked perplexed by the question.
“It wasn’t that difficult,” Z said softly, unable to hold back the grin.
“Blue,” RT blurted.
“Blue? What color blue?”
“What?”
“Come on, it doesn’t get much easier than this. Navy? Teal? Aquamarine?”
“Blue,” RT said firmly.
Okay, so that was going nowhere.
As he tried to come up with something else, RT surprised him by tossing the same question back at him.
“Silver,” Z told him.
“Silver’s not a color,” RT told him, his eyebrows quirked.
“Sure it is,” Z offered, holding up his fork.
That must’ve stumped RT because he didn’t respond.
“Fine,” Z finally said. “I’ll tell you what I know about you.” He forked eggs into his mouth. “We’ll go from there.”
RT lifted his coffee mug to his lips.
Z set his fork down and ticked off each thing on his fingers as he listed them. “Born November third. Thirty-two years old, six foot three inches.” Angling his head slightly, he regarded RT momentarily. “Roughly one-ninety, possibly two hundred pounds. Father, Bryce, mother, Emily. Started working at Sniper 1 Security when you were fifteen, cleaning the offices because your ol’ man thought it’d be a good introduction to the way things work. Became an enforcer at eighteen, opted not to go to college in lieu of taking over the world.”
Surprisingly, that earned Z a smile from RT.
“That’s all you got?” RT asked.
“I can keep goin’ if you’d like.” Z took a drink of his water. “Favorite color is blue—just blue. You’re obsessed with the Mission Impossible movies and saw the first one at least eight times.”
RT laughed. “Okay, I get it.”
“Now your turn,” Z told him.
RT set his coffee mug down on the table. He looked as though he was gearing up for the challenge. “Born June second. Just turned thirty-one. Six foot seven inches, although your driver’s license says six foot six. Why is that, anyway?”
“People look at you funny when you say six seven, why, I don’t know.” Z laughed.
“Got it.” RT wrapped his hands around his coffee mug and continued, “Two hundred forty some odd pounds, played football in high school. Mother, Cindy, father, Thomas. Wanted to be a Navy SEAL, but a birth defect held you back. Came to Dallas right out of high school, showed up at the Sniper One office when you were twenty-one, looking for a job.”
“Not bad—”
RT continued. “Your father was in a car accident four years ago. Your mother had him transferred up here for better doctors. She moved here not long after.”
Z didn’t say anything, but he managed to hold RT’s gaze. Did he know the whole story? Did he know that Z spent…?
“You’re a serial dater,” RT continued, his eyes narrowing, his voice lowering. “You don’t use your real name most of the time, opting not to let the men you’re with know the real you, claiming it’s to keep your cover.”
Z dropped his eyes to the table. Of course RT would believe the rumors. Why wouldn’t he? Z had never disputed them, so those closest to him had taken that to mean they knew the truth. And just like all the other times, Z opted not to correct the assumption.
After all, what difference would it make?
Instead, he forced a smile and then thanked his lucky stars when the waitress came over with their bill.
“Looks like it’s time to get to work.”
With that, Z snatched the slip of paper and headed to the front without waiting to see if RT would follow.
A SHORT TIME LATER, AFTER a rather abrupt ending to their breakfast that had left Ryan’s head spinning, and then after they’d stopped for gas, Ryan and Z were walking into Jericho Ardent’s not-so-modest home. Figuring with real estate values what they were, the man made more in a minute than Ryan made in a year. Then again, the guy was a self-proclaimed multibillionaire whose hands were dipped in multiple business ventures.
“Mr. Trexler. Mr. Tavoularis. Thank you for coming. Mr. Ardent is expecting you.”
“Sure,” Ryan replied, following the older woman—a housekeeper, Ryan presumed—down a wide, marble-floored hallway.
“Mr. Ardent is waiting for you in his library.”
Not the study, not his home office. The library.
The woman opened a door, and Ryan stepped inside a room larger than Ryan’s entire house, and he understood instantly why it was referred to as a library. The walls, at least twenty feet tall, were lined with dark wood bookcases, all filled with books. There was a ladder hooked to a rail that ran horizontally across the wall, likely so that the books on the much higher shelves could be reached.
A freaking library. In. His. House.
Wonders never ceased.
“So good of you to come,” Jericho Ardent—a short, slender man with reddish-gold hair, emerald green eyes, and cheeks covered with freckles—greeted cheerily, making his way across the room and holding out his hand for Ryan to take.
He was a lot shorter than Ryan had anticipated.
Ryan returned the gesture, firmly shaking Jericho’s limp, smooth hand. Z did the same, and when Jericho turned away, Z shot Ryan a smirk, widening his eyes as though to say, “Seriously?”
Ignoring Z, Ryan moved farther into the room, joining Jericho in a plush seating area. Oversized leather furniture, strategically placed to face the enormous fireplace, sat atop a brightly colored rug with random geometric patterns. A glass-topped steel table pulled it all together.
“Have a seat, gentlemen,” Jericho urged, guiding them with his outstretched hand to a small love seat across from him.
Ryan sat down, fully expecting Z to take the chair. He managed to hide his shock when Z took a seat directly beside him. Or at least he hoped he had.
And by direct, Ryan meant damn near on top of him.
They touched from knee to hip. As though that wasn’t enough to throw Ryan off, he felt a tsunami of sensation course through him when Z casually stretched his arm across the back of the love seat, his thumb brushing along Ryan’s shoulder. His muscles tensed, the air in his lungs seized momentarily, and a tremor shot down his spine.
Not good. Not good at all.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Jericho offered, his eyes darting between the two of them before a smile broke out on his lips. Instead of waiting for them to answer, Jericho clapped his hands as though the sight of them together was the greatest thing since virtual data storage. “How long have the two of you been together?”
Ryan said, “It’s a relatively new thing,” at the same time Z said, “Two years.”
Jericho’s head tilted to the side, seemingly confused.