After nearly an hour on the road, Christophe’s clothes were irritating him so much that his skin had to be raw beneath them. His fingers cramped from clutching the steering wheel, and his jaw ached from clenching his teeth. Soon. We’ll be there soon.
“Christo.”
“What?” His voice was as raw as his skin.
“Leaning forward over the steering wheel will not get us there any faster.” Anton’s tone was laced with amusement. “You should remember, too, that this car is calibrated for miles, not kilometers.”
Christophe glanced at the speedometer. Ninety. Shite. “Forgive me.” He eased up on the gas pedal.
“However, I believe I should take the wheel. I can tell by the way you’re fidgeting that you’re fighting your nature.”
“But you don’t want to drive.”
“No. I said I preferred to let François do it, since that is his job. But unlike you, I am capable of getting us to the lodge without actually achieving liftoff. Please. Pull over.”
“Very well.” Christophe did as Anton asked. Truth be told, he was so twitchy that when he’d spotted a deer in the trees earlier, he’d nearly swerved to chase it.
He climbed out of the driver’s seat and circled the car. Pausing with his hand on the passenger door, he closed his eyes and sniffed the cool breeze that whispered through the trees, carrying the smells of the wild—damp bark, loam, sun-warmed rock. Prey.
“Christo.” Anton’s voice, less amused now, startled him out of his reverie. “Perhaps you should get in the car. We have another hour to travel, and we need to make as good a time as possible.”
“Yes, of course. You’re right.” But when he returned to the car, Christophe cracked his window open and let the scents flow over him.
“It must be glorious.”
Christophe turned to his brother, so serious behind the wheel. “What?”
“The freedom. To be master of the forest.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Naturally. You look as if you could see heaven now.”
“No.” Christophe sighed. “I see only the woods.”
“But—”
“I was near to snapping at the flat this morning. What man wants to be so at the mercy of his nature?”
Anton chuckled. “Isn’t every man at the mercy of his nature?”
“All men don’t have a beast inside them.”
“I know some women who would argue that point.”
“Anton, you imagine that the wolf makes me stronger. He does not.”
“You speak as if you and the wolf are two different beings.”
“We are.” Christophe gripped his knees to hide the tremor in his hands. “At war with one another within the same body.”
“You must find something about it good. The power—”
“The power is an illusion, whatever Papa says. When you are not master of your own destiny, when you are forced to relinquish your humanity, how can that be power? If Papa, or Etienne Melion, or I were to lose control in the midst of a board meeting or trade negotiation, how much power do you think we could retain from inside a prison or a zoo or a laboratory?” He squeezed Anton’s arm. “Be glad you escaped the blight. I am certainly glad for you.”
Anton smiled wryly. “I appreciate the sentiment.” He jerked his chin toward the rear seat. “You’ll find water in the bag behind me, if it will help.”
“Thank you, mon frère. You are too good to me.”
Christophe downed half a bottle, then leaned back against the headrest.
The next thing he knew, the car was slowing. He opened his eyes as Anton pulled into a long, narrow parking lot edged on three sides with towering firs. At the far end, set among the trees, stood a rambling three-story building, all red wood and glass.
The tires crunched on gravel as Anton pulled the car to a stop and set the brake. “As well as the central lodge, the resort has detached cabins. I’ve booked one for each of us, although it wasn’t easy. Your friend’s wedding guests are taking up most of the place.”
“Thank you.” The additional privacy was definitely convenient, not only to keep his own comings and goings discreet, but for Trent. Should he take Christophe’s invitation, he could avoid the wedding party if he liked.
“I’ll go check us in.”
“No. I will come too.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. There are certain . . . arrangements I wish to make.” Just the notion of Trent once again in his space, in his arms, in his bed—Jesu. While the wolf might huff his approval, the heat in his chest and groin belonged solely to the man.
“As you wish.” Anton didn’t sound happy though. Did he imagine Christophe couldn’t behave in a civilized manner in public now? Perhaps, given this morning’s near-disaster, such fears weren’t entirely unjustified.
The lobby was fronted with floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the forest, with a glimpse of Mount Hood’s peak above the trees. A huge fireplace dominated one wall, the reception area opposite. Christophe strode toward the front desk.
“Good afternoon. Clavret is the name. I believe we have two cabins reserved?”
The young woman behind the counter tapped away at her computer terminal. “Yes. I’m afraid I couldn’t place you near each other. One of the cabins is on the south slope and the other north, near the creek.”
“I’m sure both will be lovely.” He turned to his brother. “Do you have a preference?” Anton shrugged.
She glanced between them, clearly admiring Anton’s chiseled profile. “They’re very similar, although the one on the south has a fireplace inside and the north cabin has an enclosed fire pit on the deck.”
A fireplace would be quite romantic. Flame and shadow dancing across Trent’s skin? Breathtaking. “I’ll take the south cabin, then, if you have no objection, Anton?”
“None.”
She tapped her keyboard again, then handed them each keys and a map. “The trails are marked here and here. You can get to either cabin from the parking lot or from the lodge deck. There’s a road to the north cabin, but not the south. Sorry, I should have mentioned that.”
“Don’t be concerned. It’s fine.” Christophe pocketed his key. “Anton, why don’t you bring the car round to the door here, and I’ll retrieve my luggage. Then you can drive over to your cabin.”
“Are you sure? I can help carry your bags.”
Christophe chuckled. “I’m capable of that much.”
“If you like,” the young woman said, “our bellmen can help with luggage transportation. You can leave everything here and they’ll take it down for you.”
“You see?” He took Anton’s arm and drew him away “You need not monitor me quite this closely.”
“Christo, you couldn’t see your face at the flat, or in the car. You—”
He patted Anton’s arm. “I am well, I assure you. Leave my bags with the bellman and come meet me at my cabin when you’ve unpacked.”
“If you’re certain—”
“I am. I’ll see you shortly.”
Anton crossed the lobby with only one dubious glance at Christophe before he exited into the parking area. Christophe turned back to the concierge.
“I am expecting a guest to join me, but business calls me away until later this evening. May I leave a second key for him?”
“Of course, sir. What name?”
“Pielmeyer. Trent. Although you should list it under Clavret too, as he might ask for it under my name rather than his own.”
“Certainly, sir. And if there’s anything we can do to make your stay more enjoyable, do let us know.”
“Thank you.” He offered his most charming smile—although by the way she blinked, perhaps his feral side was yet too prominent.
He walked out onto the wide deck overlooking the forest and the mountain. As a man, he could appreciate the view, the beauty of the trees, and sky dotted with puffy clouds. In a few hours, he would care for nothing except the best path through the underbrush.
Best not to think of that. Think of Trent.
He checked his phone for messages, which he’d been unable to do with the spotty reception on the drive.
Ah. Several messages from François. His finger trembled over the screen. Would it be good news, or was he doomed to disappointment? He tapped the icon.
Suit ready.
That was good. His gift for Trent had been a last-minute impulse, because he knew Trent hadn’t any dress clothes with him. Christophe still harbored the hope that Trent would overcome his reluctance and attend the wedding, but he might hesitate if he had nothing appropriate to wear. Luckily, his tailor—who was most accommodating, given the correct monetary incentive—had had an appropriate suit on the rack, and Christophe had a very clear idea of Trent’s size.
He could map the man in his mind whenever he closed his eyes.
Another message popped up.
T called for pick up. Leaving at noon.
Christophe’s knees gave way, and he sat with a thump on one of the benches lining the deck. Thank God. Now he had incentive to get his shift over with as soon as possible, so he could spend as much time with Trent as he could.
Without the bloody wolf interfering.
After hauling ass downstairs, Trent huddled under the hotel’s front awning, suffering from a sudden attack of beggar’s remorse. Fitting. Because in his ratty clothes, with luggage bulging as if he’d swiped all his towels and bedding, he looked like an actual beggar too. The bell captain stationed at the door obviously thought so—he’d been giving Trent the side-eye for the last fifteen minutes.
Fucking terrific. After his big talk about self-sufficiency, here he was again, depending on the kindness of strangers. If he wanted to prove he wasn’t broken, he’d picked the wrong way to do it.
Shame curdled his belly, and he nearly bolted for the street as the sleek black town car pulled up. But he didn’t have much choice, so he sighed and shouldered the duffel as François got out.
The bell captain shooed Trent aside, clearing his own path to the car. “Don’t block the doors for the paying guests.” He hustled to the curb as François popped the trunk.
François walked past him and touched the brim of his cap at Trent. “Bonjour, Monsieur Pielmeyer.”
“Uh . . . hi.”
The bellman approached, but François held up a gloved hand. “Allow me.”
François collected Trent’s duffel and stowed it in the trunk as if it were a matched set of Louis Vuitton. Then he inclined his head at the scowling bell captain, smiled, and whoa. The string of French profanity that François unloaded would have earned him major points with the guys in Trent’s prep school French classes. The oblivious bell captain smiled back.
Well, boy howdy. There’s more to François than a chauffeur’s uniform.
For some reason, that little glimpse of kick-ass humanity spiked Trent’s regret. François was a real person. Christophe was a real person. Neither one of them deserved being imposed on because Trent’s father was a dickhead.
Guess that makes you Son of Dickhead, because you’re gonna do it anyway.
But he pulled his hood forward and slid into the backseat when François held the door, pretending he hadn’t understood a word. Nothing like a language barrier to make it easier to hide.
Safe behind the privacy shield while François navigated out of Portland, Trent huddled in the corner of the seat, poking at his phone. At least his father hadn’t stopped his cell service, although he hadn’t left Trent any messages either.
It’s not like Trent had to get in tune with the infinite to figure out that the old man was pissed: Spirit, I sense you are angry. Stop one credit card for yes, evict your son from the hotel for a hell yes.
But a few extra deets would help. Not like he could come home without any freaking way to pay for the plane ticket. Maybe this was a kick-the-gay-kid-out-of-your-life move. With Trent on the other side of the country, the country-club set would never know.
Unless his father intended to turn this into a PR win: We gave him everything, but he ran anyway. More affecting TV footage. Cue the sobbing violin soundtrack.
Jesus, he’d probably played right into dear ol’ Dad’s avaricious hands.
About half an hour later, François voice spoke through the intercom, startling Trent out of an Angry Birds game.
“Lunch, Monsieur Pielmeyer?”
Trent peered through the tinted glass. They’d stopped at a strip mall, in front of a mom-and-pop diner with a Walgreens on one side and a RadioShack on the other. Trent’s stomach rumbled. God, yes. But hello nearly empty wallet.
“No. I’m good.”
“Vous misunderstand. Monsieur Clavret treats.”
Great. Son of Dickhead strikes again. “Sure. Thanks. But you have to join me.”
“Très bien.”
During lunch, Trent regretted his decision to hide his nearly fluent French from François. If he came out with Surprise! I can understand you perfectly!, he’d seem like an asshole. But the pretense made conversation awkward. Poor François had to work way too hard.
Then Trent remembered the translation app he’d randomly downloaded yesterday when he’d been making a serious effort to get to know his phone. For the rest of the meal, the two of them used it to triangulate their conversation. Although considering some of the peculiar French-to-English syntax, the thing needed a serious upgrade.
It was kind of like the old Monty Python skit about the bogus Hungarian phrase book. While François paid the bill, Trent waited by the door and typed in My hovercraft is full of eels to see what the app would make of it.
When he showed the translation to François, he laughed so much his hat nearly fell off. Score.
Trent grinned and pointed at the front passenger seat. “I call shotgun!”