“Shit. I thought going up the mountain was bad.” Luke eased around the first switchback, his fingers clenched on the steering wheel.

Stefan shifted in his seat, probably wondering what the hell was wrong with Luke. “I’ll drive if you want.”

Did he want? No. He wanted to be able to get behind the wheel without fear, to drive up, down, or sideways—well, not sideways. That hadn’t turned out so great. But if his intent was to feed Stefan before next week, he needed to get over himself.

He nodded and pulled over, so they could switch places.

Stefan put the car in gear. “You okay?”

“Fantastic. Slow down.”

“I’m riding the brake, Luke. We haven’t hit ten miles per hour yet. The only thing moving us forward is gravity.”

“Gravity sucks.”

“If I don’t speed up, we won’t get down the hill until tomorrow.”

“Really? My estimate put us at next Tuesday. Give me a minute.” Luke closed his eyes and willed his heart rate to slow, gripping the oh-shit handle for all he was worth. “Had a little incident in the Alps. Fiats? Not aerodynamic.”

“I see. I think quick is better than slow, though. I’ll try to make it smooth.”

Luke nodded and tried not to freak when the car started moving faster, tried not to remember the accident and the reason he’d been flying down the mountain like a bat out of hell. People had chalked it up to his meltdown after the Hernandez trial blew up his career. But that wasn’t it.

He’d had a fucking vision, for God’s sake. He’d woken up from another bender mourning his dead career with dream images seared into his brain—Stefan, standing alone in front of the locked gates of the Prescott estate. Stefan, shivering under a suit jacket in the backseat of some ridiculously retro car. And he’d been convinced that Stefan needed him right that fucking minute.

But since that would have made him seem insane rather than merely contemptible, he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone—not the police who’d questioned him, not his doctors or physical therapists, and definitely not the guy who’d found him in the middle of nowhere because he said his dog had insisted on it.

Besides, by the time he’d gotten out of the hospital, it had turned out he was the one standing in front of the Prescotts’ locked gates, with everyone in the house refusing his calls and Stefan MIA.

“We’re here.”

Luke took a deep breath and opened his eyes, although the look on Stefan’s face almost sent him back into tachycardia. To avoid the intensity of that gaze, the pity in those eyes, he peered out the windshield at the sign on the front of the brown-shingled restaurant.

“Karla’s Krab Korner? Seriously?”

“Don’t mock.” Stefan pointed to the marquee next to the sidewalk. “Best krab kakes in town. Says so, and it’s true.”

“You saying you pop down from your mountaintop retreat regularly to sample the local fare?”

“Not now. But I lived around here for a while before I moved into the cabin.”

Stefan led the way across the pothole collection masquerading as a parking lot, hitching his jeans up on his hips for the fifth time since Luke had walked in the cabin door. Not that Luke was counting. Or looking. Nope. Not at all.

Inside the door, the hostess, a matronly woman with a grin that compensated for the gloomy weather, squealed like a teenager and enveloped Stefan in a hug.

“Stefan. My dearie-dear.” She leaned back, her hands on Stefan’s shoulders. “Look at you. You haven’t been eating again.”

Stefan smiled and kissed her cheek. “I eat, Karla. Don’t fuss.”

“Go. Sit in your old spot. I’ll bring you the usual.” She winked at Luke. “And another for your friend.” She bustled off toward the swinging door leading to the kitchen, the bow on the back of her apron bouncing on her ample backside.

“She this friendly with everyone?” Luke followed Stefan through the maze of tables. A number of diners lifted a hand in greeting, and Stefan nodded back.

“Probably.” Stefan dropped into a booth tucked in the corner. “She’s a peach. But she gave me a job when I was new in town, so we’ve got history.”

Karla set two lemonades on the table and beamed at them. “Special of the day coming right up.”

Luke waited for her to disappear into the kitchen. “So.” He nudged his glass aside and rested his arms along the back of the booth. “Career going well?”

Stefan’s gaze slid off Luke’s face, and he jerked his chin down. “Absolutely.” He picked up his straw and tore a long strip off the wrapper, balling the paper into a pill. “You?”

“All good. Spent some time in Europe.”

“Yeah. I know. I—” Stefan broke off when Karla set two bowls and a salad the size of New Jersey on the table.

“Family style, boys. Enjoy.”

Stefan shoveled half the salad into his bowl. Luke took a smaller helping in case Stefan wanted another serving after he finished inhaling his own.

“How’d you end up here?”

“I was working my way up the coast, headed for Seattle,” Stefan said between bites of salad. “My car broke down about ten miles south.”

“Your car?” A frisson skated across Luke’s nape. “What kind of car?”

Stefan cocked his head. “Does it matter? A 1982 Renault Le Car. Yellow, if that matters.”

The frisson turned into a full-body shiver. That was the car in my vision. Luke clamped his jaw shut. There are lots of old yellow cars. It doesn’t mean anything. Besides, it was a fucking alcohol-induced dream. Those were always weird. He was better off ignoring this one, like he did all the others. “Why Seattle?”

Stefan shrugged. “It's different from Indio. The Jennings brothers towed me into town.” He laughed, a rusty sound. “The tow cost more than the freaking car. Had to work in their garage for a while to pay them back. That’s where I met Karla, and she offered me the dishwashing gig.”

“Dishwasher? Grease monkey? Damn it, Stefan, why weren’t you painting?”

“With what? Marius’s homophobic psychopath of a sister had the locks changed on the house and the studio. During the funeral, for God’s sake.”

Luke’s fork stalled halfway to his mouth. They locked him out. But it had been Marius’s house, not the Prescott estate. Not my vision. Not my vision. “His sister? He hated the bitch. He’d never leave her so much as a cufflink.”

“Not his choice, exactly. No will.” Stefan shrugged. “She’s next of kin. She made sure I couldn’t get back in when I returned from Connecticut, not even to pack up my stuff. I was lucky I had a change of clothes at the gym or I’d have had nothing to wear but that damn suit.”

Luke set down his fork, forcing his fingers to release their death grip. He’d never doubted that alive or dead, Marius Worthington Prescott the fucking Fifth could take better care of Stefan Cobbe than Luke Morganstern ever could. That had been one of the reasons why he’d known his stupid visions were bogus, one of the reasons why he hadn’t pushed when the Prescotts stonewalled him.

Awesome. Another wrong move in his never-ending string of craptascular wrong moves.

Luke had been trying so hard not to ogle Stefan-the-forger that he hadn’t really considered Stefan-the-ex-lover. He did now, hitting Pause on the Fuck, no loop running nonstop in his brain, and pulled his head out of his ass long enough to see the light. Were the faded shirt and holey jeans more than a fashion statement? Stefan had never been into fashionable grunge. He’d always said ripped jeans were like Russian roulette for a painter looking for someplace to wipe a brush.

Stefan had always been lean, but he’d never been gaunt. Not like this. Back at the conservatory, he’d supplemented his scholarship by modeling for the life-drawing classes. His proportions perfect. Muscles smooth, defined but not outrageously cut. He’d been art, not porn.

Now, with wrists too thin to hold up the long-fingered hands and cheekbones thrown into greater relief by the dark hollows under their crests, the only thing he could model for was a public service poster on eating disorders. Luke’s stomach felt hollow despite the salad, and he took a gulp of lemonade to ease the burn in his throat.

“Thomas Boardman, who owns North Coast Gallery here in town, came in one night when I was bussing tables,” Stefan said. “I’d met him at one of Marius’s receptions a couple of years back. He offered to let me live in the cabin in return for being the exclusive rep of my work. He’s been . . . very kind.”

North Coast Gallery. Home of the fake Arcoletti. Luke clenched his teeth, swallowing his suspicions. It might be a coincidence that a guy with enough talent to forge any painting in the known universe was installed here in the gallery owner’s shack in the middle of nowhere, like some impoverished, indentured servant.

Too bad Luke didn’t believe in coincidence.

“He after your ass?”

“Not really. But he idolized Marius. I think he figures if Marius had me, I must be worth having, but he doesn’t put much effort into it.”

Stefan smiled at Karla when she delivered two plates of steaming crab—no krab kakes—accompanied by mounds of coleslaw. As he reached for the ketchup, his frayed cuffs rucked up his arms, displaying the prominent bones of his wrists.

His bare wrists.

“Where’s the Rolex?”

Stefan shrugged, his expression stony. “Sold it. Used the money to buy the car.”

Luke’s gaze snapped to Stefan’s hands, to the spot he’d fixated on seven years ago.

“Yeah. It’s gone, too.” Stefan uncurled his right hand and touched his little finger where the platinum signet used to be. The one Marius had given him at his twentieth birthday party, triggering the long, messy build-up to Luke’s fight and flight. “Why’d that bother you so much?” Stefan’s voice was soft. No recrimination. No accusation. Just curiosity. “Marius gave me other gifts. Why did that one push your final button?”

Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? Marius, crown prince of the Prescott art philanthropy dynasty, had always been a pain in Luke’s ass, strutting around the conservatory as if he owned the place. Well, he had owned the place, or his family had, but it was his implied ownership of Stefan that had spiked Luke’s asshole-o-meter.

In some deep, twisted, stupidly optimistic corner of his heart, Luke had hoped that Stefan would wait in their shitty little apartment for Luke to come back—wait until he was worthy.

Maybe he should have mentioned that instead of bolting with no explanation.

He scooped up a forkful of the surprisingly tasty coleslaw. “It felt different. Like a personal claim.”

“Marius’s family endowed my scholarship. We were friends. How could I refuse his gift without looking like a total asshole?”

“I know. Caveman response, I guess. But when was I ever reasonable when it came to you?” Luke picked up his glass, tilting it back and forth to watch the diluted lemonade ebb and flow like the tide. “That ring—well, it was something I could never afford to give you. Proof that he was the better man.”

“You know I didn’t believe that,” Stefan said, his voice barely audible above the happy chatter from the other diners.

“I did.”

“Well.” He cleared his throat, and his voice assumed a brittle brightness. “Turns out it was a good thing I kept the damn ring. When I hocked it, it fed me for three months.”

That shut the conversation down, tout de suite. But after Luke had eaten the last of his krab kakes—best in town—he exhaled, and made a diagonal run at the Question of the Day. “Have you sold anything since Marius’s crash? A painting, I mean, not personal possessions.”

Stefan’s gaze cut to the right, and he lifted one shoulder. “Not really.”

“Painting much?” Come on, Stef. Tell me. If you confess, I can help you. God, please don’t make me send you to jail.

Stefan stared down at his hands, rubbing a spot at the base of one finger. “I . . . Sort of. Yeah.”

Sort of. Fuck. “If you need money . . .” Not that Luke had much after two years of living off his savings, disability payments, and petty local jobs, but he’d find a way.

“No.” Stefan lifted his head, chin thrust out at a belligerent angle. “I’m a painter. I’ll make money when I sell a canvas.”

“Stef—”

“I said no. I’ve got enough debt to pay off. I won’t take on any more.” His hand fisted in his shirt below his collarbone. “Least of all from you.”

Luke’s throat tightened. Yeah, he’d already proven he wasn’t the go-to guy, hadn’t he? “If you need someone to rep your work, I know some good people. Legit. They’d love your style.”

“I told you. Thomas is my agent now.” Stefan stood up and pulled his sweatshirt over his head. “Can we go? Can we just go?”

Luke frowned, tracking Karla’s progress on the other side of the room. “We haven’t gotten the check yet.”

“We won’t. She never charges me.”

The burst of heat in Luke’s chest surprised him. “Is that why we came here? Because she comps your food? God’s teeth, Stef, I can afford to buy you dinner. I’m not a starving student anymore.” I’m a nearly bankrupt art investigator. Luke levered himself out of the booth, digging in his pocket for his wallet, but Stefan stopped him by clasping his wrist.

“Don’t.”

“But—”

“You’ll embarrass her and hurt her feelings. Let it go.”

It was already dark when they left the restaurant. The wind bit through Stefan’s sweatshirt on the way to the car, and he added all-weather coat to his post-sale mental shopping list. He held his hand out for the car keys. “Let me drive. I know the road.”

Luke passed the keys over without protest and climbed into the passenger seat. Huh. He really must hate driving mountain roads. The old Luke would never have relinquished the wheel once, let alone twice.

A couple of miles outside of town, Luke finally spoke. “I never told you. I was sorry to hear about Marius.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious.”

“You think I sold out for accepting Marius’s money. For letting him back me when I was starting out.”

“I didn’t—” Luke took a deep breath and exhaled on a huff. “I never blamed you. An artist’s life is tough without some kind of sponsorship or patronage. I admit I hated him for trying to influence your work, but I never wanted him dead.”

“I expected you to show up. After he died.” Stefan glanced at Luke out of the corner of his eye. “Pathetic, right? Always expecting somebody else to swoop down and save me?”

“You never tried to . . . you know.”

“Spit it out, Luke. I’m not a mind reader.”

“Kill yourself?”

Stefan glanced at Luke, frowning. “Seriously? Why would that even occur to you?”

“Fuck,” Luke mumbled, shifting in his seat to gaze out the window. “No reason. Just something I— Never mind. Stupid question.”

“No shit. Besides, ‘starving artist kills self’ is such a cliché.”

“Not funny, Stef.”

“Sorry.” Yeah, gallows humor probably wasn’t the best choice for either one of them. Stefan flexed his hands on the steering wheel, slowing the car as they got to the foot of the hill. “I can walk the rest of the way, so you don’t have to drive back down.”

Luke gaped at him. “Walk? Are you nuts?”

Stefan shrugged. “It’s not far.”

“It’s seven fucking miles. In the dark.”

“I’m used to walking.” He pointed to the back seat. “I’ve brought along the world’s biggest flashlight, and we haven’t had a mountain lion sighting around here for months.”

“Mountain lion?” Luke’s voice broke, and Stefan couldn’t help a grin.

“Kidding. It’s okay. Really.”

“Not on your life.” Luke huffed a breath and straightened in his seat. “Go for it.”

“Okay then. Brace yourself. We’re going up.”

Stefan started up the hill, detecting Luke’s flinch out of the corner of his eye as they rounded the first turn. Another two switchbacks up the hill, Stefan caught a glint in the road ahead, just beyond the reach of the high beams. He eased up on the gas, squinting into the darkness. This stretch of road was notorious for deer collisions. But the glint stayed outside the nimbus of the headlights.

The further they went, the more erratic Luke’s breathing became. Stefan resisted the urge to pat Luke’s leg. “We’re about halfway there. Doing all right?”

“Yes.” Luke’s voice was strained.

Stefan glanced at Luke’s profile, limned in foxfire glow from the instrument panel, registering the tight jaw and compressed lips, the hands locked on his knees. Nope. Not all right.

He sighed and shifted his gaze back to the road.

Pale face. Dark suit. White shirt.

“Christ!” Stefan stomped on the brakes, and the car skidded to a stop in a clumsy pirouette. Eyes peeled wide, mouth agape, Stefan tried to remember how to breathe.

Next to him, Luke clung to the Jesus-handle over the door, chanting, “God-no-god-no-god-no.”

Stefan put a shaking hand on Luke’s leg. “Are you okay?” Luke’s eyes were clenched shut, his teeth bared around a low moan. Stefan tightened his grip. “Luke! Answer me. Are you hurt?”

Luke’s eyes flew open. “What? No. I don’t think . . . No, I’m fine.” He leaned against the headrest with a thump. “Fuck.”

“Good. Stay here. I have to see if he’s okay.”

“Who?”

“The man in the suit. Tux. Whatever. The one in the road.”

“There’s no one there.”

Stefan peered through the windshield. The high beams lit only empty road, trees, and silver flecks of drizzle. He didn’t remember an impact, but he had to make sure. He turned off the engine, grabbed the flashlight, and climbed out. “Be right back.”

He walked to the edge of the road on unsteady legs and ran the light along the verge and over the embankment. Nothing. Not even the glint of small animal eyes. Behind him, the car door slammed, and Luke’s footsteps crunched the gravel in an uneven tempo. Stefan spun around.

“You are hurt. You’re limping.” He moved to intercept Luke, who held up a hand, warding him off.

“Old injury.” He opened the driver’s-side door, dome light revealing the grim set of his mouth, key alarm peeping like a forlorn mechanical bird.

“Let me drive.” Stefan reached for Luke’s shoulder, but Luke twisted out of the way.

“No.”

“Be sensible. This road doesn’t scare me shitless.” Stefan attempted a reassuring smile. “I promise to keep the near-death experiences to a minimum.”

The muscles bunched in Luke’s jaw. “You can’t promise that. No one can promise that. Ask Marius.”

Stefan’s breath left his lungs in a rush, as if Luke had punched him with a fist instead of remorse. “You shit.”

“I didn’t mean—” Luke exhaled hard and rubbed his hand across his mouth. “Look, my point is, when he climbed into the cockpit, he didn’t expect his plane to crash. You can’t promise what you can’t control.”

With the adrenaline from the near-miss still buzzing in his veins, Stefan crowded Luke against the car door. “No second chances, is that it? One little mistake and you write me off.”

“Little mistake?” Luke shoved at his chest with a balled-up fist, and Stefan staggered, his worn-out sneaker sinking in the mud at the edge of the road. “This mistake is hardly trivial.”

“I thought I saw someone in the road. I stopped. You wanted me to plow ahead? What if he’d really been there?”

“I’m not talking about your goddamn driving, for fuck’s sake.” Luke’s voice rose to a shout, jagged and out of place in the still woods.

“Then what?”

“Why?” Luke’s jaw worked as if he were wrestling with his words. “You have more talent than any other ten people. Why the hell are you forging a dead man’s work?”