Hidden Paradise

chapter TWELVE



Mac

“’Ere, Mr. Salazar. You ain’t keepin’ up your left like I f*ckin’ told you.”

Mac raised his left arm and tried to focus on Billy Blue the boxing instructor. Billy Blue, where the hell had he got a name like that? The guy looked like a manic leprechaun hopping around in front of him, head bobbing at the level of Mac’s shoulder. Half the time, he couldn’t understand what the guy was saying, his quick Cockney patter full of glottal stops with f*ck and f*ckin’ exploding like gunfire.

“Come on, then. Ain’t got all f*ckin’ day, sir.” Billy’s gloved hands waved around vaguely in the vicinity of Mac’s chest. “Give it me.”

Mac welcomed the invitation to hit something. He stepped forward, swung a right, missed, lost his balance, staggered. He ducked away from Billy’s whirling fists. Billy was the help, though. He wouldn’t actually hit guests, would he?

“I gone easy on you up to now,” Billy said as though reading his mind. “Keep your f*ckin’ guard up, Mr. Salazar, or I’ll pop you one, innit.”

What?

Speak English, you little f*cker, or I’ll pop you one. Yeah, good idea. ’S’all in the (f*cking) footwork (innit) as Billy had said on the first lesson, so he executed a set, or balance, or whatever that dancing step was called (one-two-three) and lunged at Billy, a good, clean fast hook—

Except, Billy wasn’t there anymore and something exploded at his temple and against his back.

The ground.

Shit.

“Sorry, Mr. Salazar.” Billy leaned over him, hands on knees, contrite and worried. “Never saw you f*ckin’ comin,’ mate, you goes and runs right into my left, innit.”

How the hell did anyone understand this guy? “Huh?”

Alan and Ben, who shared the boxing lesson with him, stared down at him.“You’re bleeding,” Ben said. As usual, he had few words and most of them stated the obvious.

“Blimey, I was f*ckin’ scared for a minute. Thought I’d really hurt you, innit. You okay, are you?”

People still said blimey? Mac sat up, aware that his bare back had come into contact with damp, muddy grass; he and the others were stripped down to breeches and boots. “I’m fine.”

He wasn’t sure it was true. This day was going to hell in a handbasket.

A woman ran from the house toward them and, for one moment, Mac thought it was Lou and that she would throw herself into his arms. But it was Di, the lady’s maid, with a large first-aid box under her arm.

“I did emergency training,” she said, and thrust an object under Mac’s nose that had him coughing and spluttering.

“What the f*ck’s that?” Mac said.

“Smelling salts. You look a bit pale.”

“I feel a bit pale now.”

“Sorry, Mr. Salazar. Look, this is a cold pack. You’d better put it on your eye, but first…” She rummaged in the box and ripped open a small packet. She pressed the contents onto his eyebrow.

“Shit!” It stung like hell.

“Sorry. It’s antibacterial.”

“Can I help?” Now it was Rob who joined them—of course, the small grassy area set aside for training was just outside the kitchen area, and probably the entire staff was watching.

Mac turned away, stripping off his gloves, and reached for his shirt, hung over the fence. He raised his voice, a little too loud, the gentleman talking to his underlings. “Thank you for your concern. I’m fine.” He shrugged his shirt over his head, aware of tender patches on his back—he must have landed on some stones—and replaced the cold pack on his eye before heading back toward the house.

“Where you goin’, Mr. Salazar?”

“I’ve had enough,” Mac said, adding for effect, “innit.”

“Mr. Salazar!” Since it wasn’t Billy who called, he turned. One of the footmen hurried after him with a small silver tray, which he offered to Mac. A folded and sealed note lay on it.

He nodded his thanks and pocketed the note, waiting until he was out of sight to open it. Apparently, he had a complimentary massage at three—in fifteen minutes—which would fill the time before dinner nicely. And today, everything felt like filling time.

Lou had the ability to turn him inside out and cause him no end of disturbance, and he really didn’t like it. He should get over her and have fun. There were plenty of ways, and willing people, around here to have fun with, and there wasn’t much to get over, anyway, was there?

After all, she’d used him like some sort of therapeutic f*ck machine, and told him his services were no longer needed. The day had started so well, watching her sleep and planning a sexy rendezvous in the bathing pool. He remembered, with some embarrassment, the note he’d left on her table.

He’d looked forward to getting naked in the pool with her and allowing her to use him as much as she wanted. And if he’d had any idea that she was thinking of backing out, he would have dropped the bombshell himself—afterward, of course—and told her it was over. Except, perhaps it wouldn’t have been a bombshell for her. She was so cool about everything, maybe she’d just shrug those bony shoulders and agree that it was a sensible and rational decision. He didn’t see any way he could extricate himself from the situation without feeling, and probably appearing, dumb. But it was done now. It was over before it had hardly begun.

Besides, in his new identity as a Regency gentleman, he wasn’t meant to treat a lady like that, even if he had screwed her ass off.

As he neared the bathhouse and spa, he realized he was striding with clenched fists and muttering to himself, but a good massage would work out the tension in his shoulders and the sore muscles of his back. He removed the cold pack and touched a fingertip to his eyebrow, relieved to find the bleeding had stopped.

He stepped through the doorway into the twenty-first century, the anachronism of a modern spa that Chris and Peter had decided would attract modern women to Paradise Hall. It didn’t quite work. The receptionist—or whatever you called her equivalent when she wore a print gown, cap and apron—checked his appointment on her laptop and suggested in a polite English way that possibly he would like to shower first and relax. She snorted back a giggle as she spoke and he wondered if he was catching her in the middle of watching something funny online.

Another staff member, also looking as though she enjoyed some sort of hidden joke, showed him into a room that appeared to be a cross between a brothel and a hospital facility. The shower was stainless steel and powerful, in an alcove decorated with handmade, expensive tiles—his second wife had taught him all about Italian tiles—and a ridiculous assortment of shampoos and soaps. Orchids and ferns stood on ledges and in huge earthenware pots on the floor.

The room was furnished with a chandelier and a red silk couch, which he assumed was merely decorative, since a sturdy modern massage table was also provided. More orchids, quiet piano music playing through invisible speakers, a clean, fresh scent in the air, quite unlike the rusticity of the bathhouse. Wrapped in the bathrobe the facility provided, he settled on the massage table.

Someone tapped on the door and Mac sat bolt upright as it swung open and he saw who it was. “What the hell are you doing here?”

* * *


Peter

THEY’D SET UP THEIR DESKS IN the office so they sat back-to-back to avoid distraction. But now the distraction of Chris, even out of his sight line, was more than Peter could bear. He found himself making stupid mistakes on the accounts as he sat, fine-tuned to every breath, sigh and movement Chris made. Now and again he’d receive a gust of Chris’s lime-scented aftershave and want to weep with loss and misery.

Why had he done it? Why couldn’t he have kept his mouth shut and suffered in silence? His suffering now was overwhelming. He looked back almost with nostalgia at the romantic, sighing yearning he’d had for Rob before he’d spoken and screwed all three of them up. At the time, that was unbearable, too, but in a sort of juvenile, romantic way.

A clatter at the door leading into the yard announced the arrival of the mail. Peter, facing the screen, watched from the corner of his eye as Chris picked up the letters from the mat. He wore those tight, tight trousers hugging waist to ankle that Peter adored—he himself was a little too thick around the middle to carry them off—and a coat of gorgeous dark gray wool that clung to his shoulders and waist, flaring out to brush his knees. He tried not to watch as Chris removed the coat, laying it carefully on a spare chair, and unbuttoned his waistcoat, a lovely dark red-and-gold-silk creation.

Peter ached to touch him. Chris had taken to sleeping on the couch in their living room. Peter, sleepless, in the dark hours of the night, would silently stand in the doorway watching him, hardly daring to breathe. Did Chris really sleep so soundly? How could he?

Paper rattled in the recycle box: junk mail.

He cleared his throat. “Anything interesting?”

An annoyed sort of hiss from Chris and an envelope landed on his desk. “I thought you’d set this up as an ebill.”

“I did. They said it might take several billing cycles.”

“Another Christmas job application.” Paper rustled. “A student who wants to work in the kitchen. I’ll pass this on unless you’d like to take a look?”

“No, it’s okay.” He placed the bill in his in-box, something he knew irritated the heck out of Chris. If it’s something to do now, why not just do it?

Chris didn’t say a word.

He’d had enough. This was childish and painful and his fault. All of it. He had to make the first move toward reconciliation.

“Chris, I’m so sorry. I can’t bear this silence. Can you forgive me for hurting you?”

Chris, halfway back to his own desk, stopped. “I don’t know.”

Chris’s response catapulted him from anger into fear. “What do you mean, you don’t know? What do I have to do to convince you how very sorry I am?”

“I don’t know if you can. The damage is done.” He sat down and became immersed in whatever was on his computer screen.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Peter stood and thumped his fist on Chris’s desk. “Talk to me. Stop—stop f*cking sulking!”

“Sulking?” He had Chris’s attention now. His face was bright pink.

“Yes, sulking. Try to behave like an adult about this. Let’s talk.”

“Okay.” Chris fumbled at papers on his desk, breaking eye contact with him.

Peter dropped back down into his chair. “Chris, honey?”

Chris dropped his forehead to his hand, elbow on the desk. His shoulders quivered. “I—I always knew this would happen.”

“What?” Peter said, thoroughly confused now. “Honey, don’t cry, please.”

Chris blew his nose and met his gaze. His blue eyes swam with unshed tears. “I knew you were attracted to me because I was young and pretty. Don’t deny it. I know it makes us both sound shallow, but I hoped—I knew—we had something more than that. It’s been ten years and I’m not the pretty boy you first met.”

Peter nodded, not in agreement, because he was appalled and hurt at what Chris said, but to keep him talking, even though he probably wouldn’t want to hear more.

“So I expected it to happen. That you’d pursue another young Adonis. And it has.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Peter said. “I don’t know what I can say. I have never expected you to remain a pretty boy. I’ve loved watching you become your own person—you really were a dreadful, superficial little tart when we first met. I love you for who and what you are. I love watching you flirt with other guys in front of me. I love your energy, your spirit, your enthusiasm and creativity. That’s nothing to do with age. You’ll always have that.” He shrugged. “Look at us. I’m getting grayer and having to watch my carbs. Aging is no fun.”

“I’m losing my hair,” Chris said in a burst of tearful shame. He pushed his hair back to reveal a minimal amount of exposed temples.

“Honey, it barely shows. And? So what if you are. You can shave it. You’ll look really hot. You’ll always look really hot to me.” He reached for Chris’s hand. “You know I’ve always been afraid you’ll leave me for someone more sexy, less staid. Someone more like you. And this thing with Rob. I’m so sorry. I should have just kept my mouth shut. There hasn’t been anything between us.”

“What difference does that make?” Chris said.

“Not much,” Peter said. “I know I don’t have the right to ask you for forgiveness, only for patience and time. I try to think of it as some sort of emotional virus. He’s straight, he’s a fantasy, and one day I’ll realize I’m not infatuated with him anymore. That’s all. I still love you. You’re still part of me, the best part of me, my soul mate.”

Chris gave a small smile and squeezed Peter’s hand. “I love it when you go all spiritual on me.”

“Good.” He leaned over the desk and kissed Chris, a small, tentative kiss on the mouth. He hesitated.

Chris looked at him, knowing, ironic. “I have a feeling you want to go all physical on me, too.”

“Yes. Yes, I do. I—I’ve missed you in bed. I miss not being able to have sex anywhere, anytime.”

Chris smiled. “Yeah, remember when the Paint Boys walked in on us?”

“And Simon said the only substances he allowed to be spilled on his drop cloth were ones he created?”

They both laughed, a little tentative and shy with each other. Peter leaned to kiss him again, welcoming the flick of his tongue and warmth of his mouth. He came round to Chris’s side of the desk and stood looking down at him.

“Well, well,” Chris said, and stroked a hand down the front of Peter’s breeches.

Peter took the hand and kissed it. “Let me,” he said, and dropped to his knees. “Let me do it to you.”

He eased open the brass buttons of the fall of Chris’s trousers, hearing a moan—his own—as the full beauty of his lover’s erect cock sprang forth. A drop of liquid welled already at the slit within the broad, velvety head. He knew he could make Chris come quickly but he wanted to draw out the pleasure, to give as much as he could.

Chris sighed as Peter drew his tongue down, around, nibbling at the shaft. “Hey, big man,” Chris whispered. “Want me to do you, too?”

“No. This is all for you. Lie back, enjoy.”

Chris’s hands caressed his head. “Oh, baby, I’ve missed you. Missed this. Missed your mouth, your cock, your ass.” His hips lifted, pushing his cock deep into Peter’s mouth. “You’re teasing me. You’re going to make me wait.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Peter said. “I love you. I love doing this to you.”

He sucked and nibbled and stroked, engulfing Chris’s cock completely and then withdrawing to draw his tongue down ridges, around the softness of his balls, with a kiss to the tender skin on the inside of his thighs. Chris moaned and panted, murmuring encouragement and endearments.

Peter buried his nose in the soft nest of Chris’s pubic hair, his lover’s cock deep in his mouth, swelling and tensing. He marveled at this man’s scent, his touch, his helpless groan, the clutch of his hands as Chris gasped, incoherent and lost, and flooded his mouth with his semen.

“Nice one,” Chris said, his eyes narrowed in pleasure, sprawled and relaxed in his chair. He leaned to kiss Peter’s mouth, lapping at a drop of semen that lay warm on his lip. “Now, how about you? Undo your trousers, lover.”

Still kneeling at Chris’s feet, Peter unbuttoned his trousers with trembling fingers.

“You’re mine,” Chris said. He dipped a finger into the semen that oozed still from his cock and held it to Peter’s mouth. “Mine. No one else’s. Stroke yourself. Make it good. Make it slow.”

Peter gazed into Chris’s eyes and stroked himself, thrilled at having to obey. Chris sprawled, arrogant and beautiful in his chair, and watched, now and again dropping his hand to pinch and stroke his own awakening cock. “You’d better not come over my trousers, lover. Viv’ll be mad at me and I’ll make you explain what the stains are. But I want to see come fly out of you. So just you be careful, okay?”

“Yes, Chris.” He kept a steady, even stroke, feeling the tension build in his thighs and balls.

“Stop,” Chris said. “Stand up.” He guided Peter into his mouth, sucked hard and swirled his tongue around the shaft.

Chris released him, lips wet and shiny. “Okay. Finish yourself off.”

Peter stood before him, hand pumping hard, hard, and came over Chris’s shirt with a helpless whimper.

“What a mess,” he said, embarrassed by his copious ejaculation.

“What else is all this linen for?” Chris said, mopping up. “I’d better go and change my shirt.”

“Mmm.” Peter slid his hands inside Chris’s shirt, loving the smooth planes of his chest, the hard nipples. “Thank you, honey.”

“Okay, fun and games are over,” Chris said. To Peter’s disappointment, he tucked his cock away and buttoned up, smoothing his trousers with a flirtatious sideways glance. “Saving it for you for later. And you save it for me, okay? Even if we’re half-dead with exhaustion, you know a quickie will help us relax.”

“I love you,” Peter said. “I can’t wait to have you in bed again. I’ve missed you, missed cuddling.”

They kissed, a hard quick embrace before getting on with the day’s business, and it was only later that Peter realized Chris had not said he loved him back.