As perplexing as the ridiculous mutant film was, Christophe enjoyed it because of the company. In the past, when he had merely sought sexual release from any encounter, he hadn’t taken the time for cuddling. He’d never before had an opportunity to simply hold a man close for pure companionship.

Nor had he wanted one, truthfully. His previous liaisons had been either a duel for domination, or a quid pro quo. Even if money hadn’t changed hands, there had always been an agenda involved.

It was one of the reasons why he’d been so promiscuous at university. He’d been searching for something he’d never found—until now. He was more than content to remain with Trent nestled against him, as the first movie ended and they embarked on a second, then a third. At least the latter ones involved characters who derived their powers from science and technology, not inescapable genetic deviation.

As the credits rolled on the final film, Trent clicked a button on the remote and switched off the television. “So you’ve had your dose of the Marvel universe and survived.”

“Barely.” He gestured toward the empty doughnut box. “However I believe I may soon expire from hunger. Your ability to consume pastries rivals that of the best Frenchman I’ve ever known.”

“The nineteen-year-old metabolism has its benefits.”

“I thought you were twenty-six.”

Trent shrugged. “Like I said, depends on who you ask. It’ll change on Friday anyway.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s my birthday.”

“Really? Which one?”

Trent’s smile was sly. “Twenty. Or twenty-seven. You pick.”

“You must allow me to join in celebrating your birthday.”

Trent’s face lit up, and for an instant, Christophe could see the joy and energy that must have delighted his audiences when Trent was still an actor. If he could project that joy and energy, that charisma, beyond the footlights, then he must have been mesmerizing as a performer. That he wasn’t any longer was a travesty.

Also a mystery, which Christophe intended to solve.

“That would be awesome. What do you have in mind?” Trent waggled his eyebrows and stared pointedly at the bed.

Christophe laughed and kissed him. “You have the libido of a teenager.”

“That’s because I am one. Sort of.”

“Let us say that that may be part of our agenda, but it will assuredly not be the only line item. I want to make the night special for you in as many ways as I’m able. I’m guessing you may not have had the opportunity for special festivities of late?”

Trent’s light extinguished as if some inner connection had been severed, and Christophe immediately regretted his words. He also steeled himself for the obvious question—how could Christophe know about Trent’s dearth of celebrations—and then he’d have to confess learning about his emotional state from Logan.

Would Trent resent that? In his place, Christophe certainly would. He despised knowing that his future, both professional and personal, was discussed in a boardroom as if he were nothing better than a poorly performing company to be acquired and managed.

He pulled Trent into the circle of his arm. “It’s nearly four o’clock. A trifle late for lunch, but allow me to take you out for an early dinner.”

“Dinner . . . would be good. I’ll ditch the pajamas, but I don’t have a lot of clothing options, if you know what I mean.”

Christophe eyed the pile of clothes in the corner, which seemed to have grown—or at least gotten more tangled—since last night. “You needn’t worry. The place I have in mind is quite casual.”

“I think,” Trent cocked an eyebrow at Christophe’s suit, “your definition of casual may be different than mine. I mean, do you even own a pair of jeans?”

“You wear jeans and T-shirts because you find them comfortable, yes?”

Trent nodded. “That, plus they can stand a lot of abuse.”

“Clearly.” Christophe grinned, and although at first Trent appeared insulted, he soon laughed.

“Fair cop. But I gotta tell you, back home I’ve got some classier duds. They just weren’t on my radar when I was packing.”

“Understood. You packed for comfort. I do too. My manner of dress is a habit, a family tradition ingrained in me from childhood, so these are the clothes I feel most comfortable in.” The ones that protect me best from my unfortunate nature. “So these are the clothes I wear.”

“All right.”

Trent stood and stretched, his pants riding low on his hips, accentuating the curve of his arse and the cut of his hip bones. He glanced down and caught Christophe staring. Mother of God, his tongue was practically hanging out, and judging by Trent’s smirk, he knew precisely what effect he was provoking.

He sashayed over to his disreputable clothes pile—truly, no man should treat his clothing with so little care and respect, although considering the style Trent preferred, perhaps no respect was due. But then he bent over, keeping his legs straight and his arse elevated, and Christophe’s mouth went dry. Bloody hell, he’s as flexible as a ballet dancer.

He peered at Christophe from between his legs. “Sure you don’t want to . . . assist?”

“You, cher, are a cheeky little bastard.” Trent shot him an upside-down grin and wiggled his arse. “However, if I succumb to your tempting invitation, we shall never get our dinner. You may have the grazing instincts of a university student, but I need more than pastries to get me through the day.”

“Killjoy. Fine.” He jerked his pants to his ankles in a swift movement, and stepped out of them without bothering to stand upright. Faced with Trent’s bare arse as he rummaged through his clothing, Christophe was intensely grateful for his own elaborate layers. His alpha nature demanded that he pounce on that delectable body, grip Trent’s neck gently in his teeth, and fuck him until he’d never dare to want any other partner again.

Christophe’s civilized veneer was near to cracking, but he held on to his disintegrating control, if only because Trent’s neck was off-limits. He should thank Anton for suggesting a way for him to shift soon, because if this continued, he’d never be able to safely bed Trent again without his wolf howling for release.

And he intended to bed Trent again. Without question. And without his wolf attempting to run the show.

For now, he gritted his teeth and texted his driver to be ready in five minutes, then leaned back on the sofa, stretching his arms along its back so he could grip the cushions.

Trent stood up and stripped off his T-shirt. Totally naked, the sunlight from the window gilding his body in liquid gold, he faced Christophe and tossed the shirt over his shoulder. “What do you think? Should I go for briefs, or straight commando?”

“Ah . . .” Christophe attempted to find his voice when he wanted nothing more than to growl.

Trent grinned. “I’ll let you guess.” He squatted and rummaged in his disreputable pile. Once he’d gathered an armful of clothes, he stood and walked toward the bathroom. “Be right out.”

“Take—” Christophe swallowed in an attempt to moisten his dry mouth. “Take what time you need. I’m going nowhere.”

“Counting on it.” Trent disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door.

Christophe let his head thunk against the wall. “Jesu, give me strength.”

The door opened and Trent poked his head out. “We don’t need like a reservation or something, do we?”

Jerking upright, Christophe struggled to appear collected. “This place doesn’t do such things. We must arrive and take our chances, like everyone else.”

“Okay, then. Won’t be long, I promise. I showered earlier so—”

“I noticed. You smell divine.”

Trent grinned, his cheeks pinkening. “You’re confusing me with the doughnuts.”

“I assure you, I would never confuse your scent with anything else.”

“All righty, then. I’ll be—” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Yeah. Well. A minute.”

Trent was true to his word, or nearly. In only a couple of minutes, he emerged, fully dressed. Commando? Christophe could only hope.

“Let me grab my wallet and phone and stuff and we can go.”

Christophe rose and joined Trent by the desk, unable to resist taking another deep breath of Trent’s scent. “When you didn’t take my call earlier, I thought perhaps you didn’t want to see me again.”

Trent glanced up in surprise. “You called? I mean that was you? Jesus, I have no idea how to use this fricking phone. I only got it yesterday morning.”

“Really? I’m gratified it wasn’t a personal rejection, then. But how can you live in the world of millennials and not be an expert at mobile communications?”

Trent ducked his head, apparently intent on shoving his wallet and card key in his jeans pockets. “Like I said. I haven’t had a lot of opportunity to do that kind of shit lately.”

Christophe frowned, another notion arising as he considered Trent’s downscale wardrobe, his apparent unfamiliarity with recent entertainment and technology. He was such a contradiction. He had a new phone—apparently brand-new—and a laptop that still had the protective film on it, its cables wrapped in twist ties. His clothing was certainly well-worn—which could be nothing more than a fashion statement. He’d mentioned other wardrobe choices at home, though. Was he— Could he have come by his funds recently, perhaps by unscrupulous means? Or could Trent have been hired by the Clavret family—or worse, his family’s rivals—to entrap Christophe in some way?

He dismissed the idea at once. For one thing, what would be the point? It wasn’t as if he were planning to exercise a business coup against a rival. For another, he didn’t believe he could be so wrong about Trent. No one who had ill intent could avoid giving off the sour scent of guilt. Before his wolf senses had been blunted by last night’s suppressant, he’d detected an odd and appealing tang to Trent’s scent, but no stench of regret or reek of evil.

Besides, Trent wasn’t an unknown. He was Logan’s long-time friend. Indeed, he had arrived in town for Logan, not for Christophe, and they were chance-met.

Enough. Not only were Christophe’s nerves on edge from putting off the change, but now he was seeing conspiracies when likely nothing more sinister than a formerly tight budget was at fault.

“Perhaps during dinner I could give you a few pointers. The next time I phone you, I’d prefer you to accept my call.”

“Shit, everyone wants to teach me to use my damn phone.”

Christophe’s wolf growled, a rumble in his chest. “Everyone?”

“Dude. Chill. Logan was over last night. He gave me shit about it too.”

“Very well. If Logan says you should learn, then it must be true.” He stalked across the room and held the door open. “Come. My driver is waiting downstairs.”

“A driver? Cool. Come along, Marshmont, old chap.” Trent shifted to a posh English accent. “We mustn’t keep him waiting.”

Trent grinned like a lunatic all the way down the elevator. When Christophe had had the same jealous reaction about Trent that Logan had about Riley, Trent had wanted to spike the damn phone like a football in the end zone, and screw the cost of replacement. Christophe cared enough to feel possessive. How fucking cool was that?

He bumped shoulders with Christophe when they got to the lobby. “Come on. You know Logan can’t see anybody but Riley.” He laced his fingers with Christophe’s. “Although I totally dig the get-away-from-my-bone act.”

Christophe’s lips twitched, although he didn’t quite smile, rocking that upper-crust dignity that Trent had never been able to master—or rather that he didn’t get the point of mastering. He could totally walk the walk if he needed to—he was an actor after all—but with the stuck-up assholes at his parents’ country club, it had been way more fun to play the grunge role to the hilt and watch them squirm.

Christophe squeezed Trent’s hand, though, and held on to it across the lobby and out the doors, where— Holy shit!

“When you said your driver was waiting, I thought you meant a cab, not a fucking town car.”

This time, the pointed-tooth smile made an appearance. “I wanted to impress you, but I thought the stretch limo might be a tad over the top.”

“Dude. You had me at Voodoo Doughnuts. No further effort required.” Trent grinned. “But hey, I’ll take it.”

The driver held the rear door and Trent slid in onto the wide leather seat.

Christophe exchanged a few words with the driver in French, then joined Trent. “Thank you for agreeing to accompany me.”

The car, with its heavily tinted windows and privacy screen between them and the driver, underlined the difference between Christophe’s obvious wealth and his own lack of visible means. “You realize we look like a mob boss and a rentboy.” He pointed to his jeans, the thighs worn nearly white, and the knees nothing but threads. “A low-end rentboy at that.”

“Does what others think matter so much to you, then?”

Did it? “In some ways, yeah. I mean, one of the reasons I dress like this is to piss off my dad.”

“Does it work?”

“Hell yeah. But I think I piss him off just by existing.” He was a lot happier when I was conveniently missing, so he could have the appearance of caring about me without the inconvenience of my actual presence. Trent’s rib cage seemed to shrink two sizes. “He didn’t take well to me coming out.”

Christophe took his hand again and drew him across the seat to nestle against his side. Immediately, the tightness eased. “I am sorry you had a difficult time. But he must have reconciled himself to the fact, yes?”

“Uh . . . no. Not so much.”

Christophe’s hand tightened on his, and under Trent’s cheek, his chest rose in a gigantic breath. “Did he disown you? Kick you out?”

“Technically, no. This was right before I graduated from high school, and I was practically living with a friend in Pawtucket by then. I was already eighteen, because my father made me wait an extra year before starting school so I’d be bigger for sports.” Trent glanced up at Christophe and attempted a snarky grin. “That didn’t work out so great for him.”

“You didn’t get bigger?”

“Oh I got bigger, but I hated sports. Hated them. He made me go out for them anyway.”

“Bâtard. Why must parents insist on making their children live the lives they wished for themselves?”

“Funny thing about that. The coaches for competitive sports teams expect their players to want to win, and maybe show a little aptitude. It’s amazing how bad you can be at sports if you really try.”

Christophe chuckled. “Is that what you did?”

“Hell yeah. In fourth grade, we had this outreach program come in from this children’s theater program in Providence. One of the guys in it was this brilliant physical comedian. The actors did a workshop afterward, and he taught me how to take a pratfall. Best lesson I ever learned.”

“Is that when you decided to become an actor?”

Trent snuggled closer. “Oh, I knew way earlier. When I was about six, I used to pose in front of my mirror with a shoe for a microphone. I begged for voice lessons, dance lessons, acting lessons. No dice.” Those things weren’t befitting the true Pielmeyer lifestyle. Of course, the true Pielmeyer lifestyle had gotten blown out of the water, yacht and all, by his sexual orientation. “It’s weird. My mom sits on the board of a ballet company, a symphony, and two chamber orchestras, but when it came to a son in the arts?” He shrugged.

“Why did she not support you?”

“My mother hates confrontation. She goes with whatever the party line is, as long as she doesn’t have to take a stand. Why? Does your mother love you unconditionally, like all mothers are supposed to do?”

Christophe’s breath stilled and his face turned bleak. “My mother died giving birth to me.”

Trent scrambled upright. “Jesus. I’m sorry. I’m so used to being an asshole about parents that I forget—”

“It is scarcely your fault.” Christophe placed his hands carefully on his knees, glancing from his shoes to the blank window of the privacy shield, his throat working.

Ah, shit. Trent had used those same mannerisms when he’d played Macbeth in acting class. “You think it’s yours though, don’t you?”

Christophe shook his head. “What I think doesn’t change the past.”

“Nobody could blame you for an event that happened before you could even breathe.”

“Perhaps not. But my father . . . he knew the risks, yet chose to ignore them.”

“Yeah. Fathers. What can you do?”

“You clearly did something.”

“Yeah. I moved across the country and went to school in Portland.”

“But . . . you said you were no longer in school. And you live in a hotel.”

“That was before. Just lately I came from the ol’ homestead in Rhode Island. I bailed when I found out my father—” Trent dropped his gaze. Secrets, remember? He doesn’t need to know your father wants to get you arrested for your own kidnapping so he has an excuse to keep your money. “Well, let’s say I decided it was a good time for a visit to Portland.”

“But—”

The driver’s voice spoke over the intercom. “We have arrived, Monsieur Clavret.”

Saved by the chauffeur. Trent scooted across the seat. “Am I allowed to open my own door?”

“Of course. François opens it from courtesy, but he will not be outraged if you take matters into your own hands.”

“Right, then. Let’s see what kind of joint you think is worthy of our valuable patronage.”

He jumped out of the car and . . . immediately wanted to jump back in, as his stomach took a quick ride to his feet. They weren’t in the city anymore. They were parked in the tiny lot of a diner at a crossroads, woods marching along the edge of the streets on three sides, a sign for a gated community on the fourth.

Trent fought the urge to run, far and fast. “You didn’t tell me we were going into the fucking forest. I don’t—”

Christophe caught him by the shoulders. “Cher, forgive me. I didn’t realize you had such a strong preference for the city.”

Breathe, damn it. Fake it till you make it. He forced a laugh. “If you’re that ashamed to be seen with me that you have to take me to a dive in the middle of nowhere—”

“I am proud to be seen with you anywhere, and we are hardly in the middle of nowhere. Downtown Portland is but a few minutes away. This place,” he gestured to the sign, “I have long wanted to try it.”

“Seriously? The Skyline Restaurant?”

Christophe smoothed Trent’s hair back from his forehead. “I will tell you a secret. I am passionately fond of hamburgers. But I prefer them rare. These days, few restaurants will consent to prepare them as I like. This place will.”

“Fancy restaurants in Europe won’t fix you a burger the way you want? If you wave money at them, I’m sure they’d overcome their scruples.”

“I think perhaps you are a snob.” Christophe smiled at him, showing his canines. “You can find perfectly wonderful meals at places far less ostentatious. Besides, James Beard himself commended the burgers in this place.”

“He did, huh?”

“However, if you’d prefer someplace more—”

“No. You want to go here.” And once we’re inside, I won’t feel like the trees are creeping up on me. “Let’s see if James Beard knew what the fuck he was talking about.”