“What I meant,” Ryan clarified, tentatively placing his hand on Z’s thick thigh, “is that it still feels new. But technically, we started dating two years ago.”
Ryan tried not to notice the way Z’s thigh muscle bunched from his touch.
“Very nice. I’m always excited to see an open couple. You’d be surprised how many same-sex couples are reluctant to let the world see how happy they are. And you two…mind if I say…yum. Let me get those drinks. What’s your pleasure?”
Eccentric, that was the word Ryan would use to describe the man standing before them.
“Water’s fine,” Ryan told him with an answering smile.
When Jericho turned away, Ryan purposely pinched Z’s thigh. Hard.
Z grunted a laugh. “Careful. Or I’ll kiss you right here and show him just how happy we truly are.”
Before he could pull his hand from Z’s thigh, Z startled him, gripping his wrist and casually pulling his hand higher, Ryan’s pinky finger brushing along the ridge of Z’s… Oh, hell, Z was hard, his erection pressed against Ryan’s hand.
Fuck.
Thankfully Jericho was facing away when Ryan snapped his hand free of Z’s grip, swallowing hard.
Desperate not to think about how hard Z was, or laying the man out on the sofa and kissing him until they both needed air, Ryan turned his attention on the man in the process of pouring their drinks.
So Jericho Ardent certainly wasn’t what Ryan had anticipated. The shrewd businessman who came across very different on the telephone had…flair.
Okay. He was flamboyant.
“And what about you, Mr. Ardent?” Z called out as Jericho was putting ice in three glasses. “Are you currently in a relationship?”
“Oh, please, call me Jeri. And yes, I am. My dear Amahn is the love of my life.”
Jericho spoke eloquently, every syllable distinct and ringing with a colorful note.
When Jericho’s gaze strayed to the far side of the room, Ryan’s followed. There on the wall was an oversized painting of a man. A man Ryan assumed was Amahn.
“And how long have the two of you been together?” Z continued to carry the conversation.
Jericho placed all three glasses on a small tray and brought them over, setting two on the glass table between them, depositing the tray there as well, and keeping one glass for himself. “Two months.” Jericho’s eyes lit up. “He moved in here with me nearly six weeks ago.”
They’d been together for two weeks before they moved in together?
Ryan’s training had him taking a mental snapshot of that information and storing it for later. From what he remembered from the file, Jericho had mentioned that the painting—the fake—had been stolen within the last two months. Obviously Z was thinking the same thing, if the way he squeezed Ryan’s shoulder was anything to go by.
In an effort to put some distance between him and Z, Ryan got to his feet, taking the glass of water as he walked over to the painting.
“This is nice,” he said, not thinking as much. He wasn’t much into art, nor could he ever imagine a life-sized painting of his significant other hanging on his wall. It was a little creepy, those nearly black eyes peering back at him, seeming to follow his every move.
“Thank you,” Jericho replied, pride dancing in his voice. “It was Amahn’s idea. He wanted me to always think of him.”
Of course it was.
“So tell me about you two. How’d you meet?” Jericho urged.
Knowing how the game was played—a cover needed to resemble as much of the truth as possible—Ryan answered. “Work. Z’s been working at Sniper 1 for a decade.”
“How convenient,” Jericho replied, sitting down and crossing his legs at the knees. “Must be nice to always see one another.”
Not wanting to go into detail or give Jericho the wrong impression, Ryan asked, “Does work take Amahn away?”
“Oh, yes. He’s so dedicated to his job.”
“And what is it that he does?” Z asked, downing his glass of water in one gulp before setting it back on the table.
“He’s the curator for the gallery,” Jericho explained.
Ryan tried to once again hide his surprise. Was Jericho so blinded by…lust, love, whatever…that he couldn’t see how all the pieces seemed to fall together?
“Has he worked there long?” Z asked.
“Three months,” Jericho said with a smile.
Holy fuck. There was no way this was a coincidence.
“Tell us about the painting,” Z urged, his eyes sweeping over Ryan slowly.
For the next few minutes, Jericho went into a long, boring story about how he’d acquired the painting from a gallery in New York, having stumbled upon it before understanding its true value. From what Ryan gathered, Jericho wasn’t aware of the coded information. He seemed genuinely proud of the piece.
“So why keep it at the gallery?” Ryan asked when Jericho was finished with his story.
“It was originally here,” Jericho explained, waving his well-manicured hand as though encompassing the room. “But Amahn said it deserved more attention. He suggested that it be kept at the gallery.” Jericho’s tone hardened. “Now I might seem na?ve to you, but I assure you, I haven’t made billions by doing rash things. So, I agreed, but the night before the painting was to be taken to the gallery, I replaced it. With a fake.”
So, like the file said, Jericho didn’t trust easily. Duly noted.
“Is it worth a lot of money?” Ryan probed.
“I take it you haven’t heard the story behind the painting?” Jericho asked.
Knowing that this was going to be another long, drawn out story, Ryan knew he would have to sit back down.
A quick glance at Z told him that Z was looking forward to fucking with him some more. Unfortunately for Ryan, there wasn’t much he could do about that.
So he sat.
THIRTEEN
Z WAS PRETTY DAMN PROUD of himself. He’d ruffled RT to the point the man couldn’t sit still. For the past ten minutes, RT had fidgeted and paced, looking at everything except for Z. And now here he was, his ass planted back on the cushion beside him.
Evidently RT had realized Jericho was about to launch into another story, and he’d retaken his seat beside Z rather than risk falling over from boredom. Of course, Z had taken advantage of the situation. Since Jericho now expected them to be open, he figured he’d go for broke. Why the hell not?
Taking RT’s hand, he linked their fingers, keeping RT’s hand firmly in his and resting it on his thigh, which was, yes, pressed right up against RT’s.
“Malcolm Jones was a starving artist for most of his life,” Jericho explained. “When he met his wife, Jenny, they fell in love and settled down in northern Pennsylvania. It wasn’t until they married that Malcolm’s work began getting noticed. Speculation was that his pieces were simply lifeless until he met the love of his life.”
From lifeless to ugly. Great.
Z wasn’t sure how this set Malcolm Jones apart, but he pretended to be interested in the story, keeping his full attention—or at least his eyes, anyway—on Jericho. He was actually very aware of RT’s hand in his, the way RT’s knuckles brushed ever so slightly against his leg.
“I know, I know,” Jericho said with a smile. “Boring, right? Well, that’s not the interesting part. Jenny worked for the CIA, had for nearly a decade before she met Malcolm. During her tenure, after they were married, she’d gone deep cover once or twice. On the last of those missions, Jenny was kidnapped, taken during an assignment in Iraq. Friends of Malcolm say that he went crazy at that point.”
“Crazy?”
“He was a conspiracy theorist. Thought that the US government was working to kidnap American citizens, ship them off, and purposely place them in the hands of the enemy. Staging it, I guess you could say.”
“How would that benefit the US?” RT asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
“According to Malcolm, they were using these kidnappings as validation for launching attacks on their enemies. Anyway, he believed that’s what happened to Jenny.”