MILES WINTER definitely thought twice about answering his phone. He lifted his head off the pillow, pushed his thick hair off his forehead, and glanced at the digital clock in the darkness. Just past 2:00 a.m. Who the hell was calling at this hour? And did he really want to find out?
He was making the most of being back home from his trip to the Far East and had taken some long-outstanding leave. That is, he’d turned on his e-mail “out of office” notification, postponed any meetings for a couple of days, and was spending almost every waking moment with his lover—and as many of those moments in bed as was practicable. Or as many, he thought with a wry smile, as he had stamina for.
But the phone kept ringing. It was his personal line, which was why he didn’t immediately drop his head back onto the soft down pillow and let the call ring out.
“Miles?” A deep but muffled voice came from under the covers, somewhere around Miles’s hips. The figure under the sheet gave a wriggle and took on a decidedly human shape. “Trying to fucking concentrate down here, y’know.”
Miles gave a short, breathless bark of a laugh. It was difficult to verbalize when he was being sucked off to the edge of heaven. “I ought to answer that.” He winced as lips tightened on him. Wide, generous, tormenting lips. He knew them well, both on and off his cock. “Zeke. Can’t. Must.”
The lips paused. The body under the sheet paused. Miles’s heart didn’t; he could still feel it racing, thudding inside his bare chest. All he could hear was his own panting, and the ring tone of—
“That fucking phone,” the muffled voice snapped. There was a snort of disgust, the sheet was thrown back, and Zeke Roswell sat up beside him. Naked as the day he was born, but certainly far more developed. “Answer it, then. But if you say you have to go back to the office—”
“No way,” Miles said, more firmly than he privately suspected. He glanced down at them both: arousals at full mast, his cock glistening from Zeke’s enthusiastic attention. His lover shifted on the bed, lean and warm, his long legs stretched out on the mattress, saliva shining on his lips, and the scent of fresh sweat from his skin. For another second, Miles wavered. He’d been so close….
Zeke snorted again, ran his hand through his tousled hair, and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. “I’ll get it then, shall I?”
Miles laughed, more genuinely this time. “No way to that, either.” He knew what kind of abuse Zeke could spout over the phone if he’d been interrupted during something he felt passionate about. Usually, of course, that referred to his art, but Miles knew by now that sex came in the same category. Scrambling over the bed, he had to wrestle with Zeke’s feet as Zeke tried to move them out of the way and failed, probably a deliberate strategy in protest. Miles snatched up the phone from the bedside table, perched on the edge of the bed, and snapped on the side light. The number on display was immediately recognizable. “Red?”
“Miles.” It sounded like Red’s voice, but the background noise on the other end of the line was confusing. Footsteps, furniture scraping on a floor, someone shouting. Laughter in the distance, cut off abruptly as if a door had been slammed. The sounds carried an echo, as if bouncing off cold institutional walls.
“Is it him?” Zeke bounced on the bed behind Miles, moving over to listen in.
“What’s happened?” Miles said into the phone.
“Miles… can you just come and meet me? Please.”
There was a tight edge to Red’s usual insouciant voice. Miles felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, as if preparing for bad news.
“Where is he?” Zeke muttered behind him. “One of those show-business parties? At Marty’s bar?”
Miles struggled to remember Red’s plans this week. They’d compared diaries only a couple of days ago, hoping to arrange a business meeting. Wasn’t Red meant to be at the embassy dinner with his father tonight? It was a social rather than political event, but had been in the news all week, as dignitaries and celebrities from around the world flew in to attend.
“What’s he done now?” Zeke hissed again in his ear.
Miles held up his hand, hoping to keep Zeke’s curiosity at bay. “I’ll be there, Red,” he said. It wasn’t the first time he’d gone to meet Red at an early hour of the morning, but this time felt different. Very different. There was tension in Red’s tone: that hoarse “please.” Not that Red didn’t value Miles’s friendship—they were both secure in that—but Red was so rarely serious. Miles groped around on the floor by his feet, trying to find his underwear, still holding the phone to his ear. He and Zeke had tumbled into bed after a good dinner and plenty of wine, and they hadn’t bothered with housekeeping niceties. “Where are you?”
Red cleared his throat. There was another shout in the background and a wail from what sounded like an angry young woman. “I’m in a police station, Miles.”
Miles sat upright abruptly, accidentally knocking Zeke back on his arse on the mattress. “You’re where?”
“Come quickly,” said Red’s weary, distant voice. “For God’s sake.”
MILES knew how much he owed Red. Red had been there for Miles when he was going through his confused years, as Red liked to call them—not that Miles ever spoke aloud about them, except to Red or to Zeke. But there’d been a time when Miles was unhappy with what he had, with where his life was going. Red had stayed close to him, encouraging him, supporting him, and—not so rarely—distracting him from the straight and narrow. And thank God for Red’s distractions! The two men had been friends for many years, initially introduced through their families, but then developing an adult connection by themselves. If Miles hadn’t bonded with Red as well as he did, he might still be obsessing over business, buying art just to keep it in his own private vault, and dating pretty but vacuous women because it was expected of him. Instead, with Red’s mischievous encouragement, he’d learned slowly about the more adventurous and less rigid world outside the stock market, and opened his eyes to many different people and lifestyles. Which had included meeting, sparring with, and—eventually—loving Zeke Roswell.
But as Miles announced himself at reception at the Notting Hill police station, he mused on the fact there was one lifestyle experience he hadn’t been exposed to yet, and that was being arrested. He wasn’t quite sure how to take the place. The room was brighter than he’d imagined, the paintwork fresh if stark. The visitor chairs weren’t too uncomfortable. Despite it being so early in the morning, there were police officers on duty, and everything about their measured efficiency implied business as usual. While Miles sat waiting to be escorted through to an interview room, a couple of officers bustled in three young men who were complaining bitterly and loudly at having to leave whatever party they’d been at. The desk officer rolled his eyes at seeing them, and called them all by name. Then a large middle-aged woman shuffled up to the desk, tugging a tatty anorak close around her body, covering up what looked like a pair of fleecy pajamas. She demanded the police do something immediately about her stolen diamonds. The desk officer caught Miles’s curious eye and gave a slight smile and a nod. Another familiar customer, it seemed. Miles wondered what he’d expected: pitched gun battles on the pavement outside and drug addicts shooting up in the corners of the room? It was a wry and worthy reminder of how sheltered his life—and Red’s—had been so far. But there was no sign of such things. Not tonight, at least.
Less than fifteen minutes after Miles’s arrival, Red stared at him rather sullenly from across a plastic-topped table in interview room two. “Criminal is a damned ridiculous word, Miles. It’s a misunderstandin’, that’s all.”
Miles stared back, shaking his head. Red was dressed in a pair of clean but faded jeans, obviously borrowed and with the top button missing, which meant he had to hitch them up periodically over his slim hips. On top he wore an old sweatshirt with a poor copy of a cartoon character Miles didn’t recognize. The sleeves were too short and Red kept tugging at them. Miles tried to remember if he’d ever seen such a nervous gesture from Red De Vere—rich playboy, confident adventurer, darling of the press, gambler, sexually charming and rarely refused. Miles didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. “We’re in a police station, Red. You’ve been called in for questioning. I’m standing here with your lawyer.” The slim, well-dressed woman at his side nodded in agreement, and Miles sighed wearily. “Thanks for filling me in on it all, Fiona. What’s the actual charge being investigated?”
“Indecent exposure,” she replied. Her speech was brisk, her appearance professional. Miles knew she was one of the brightest lawyers in London, though he wondered how the hell she managed to look so beautifully booted and suited at this hideous hour of the morning. But Fiona Quinn-Marchant was on the De Vere family’s legal team. She had always been immediately available and, what was usually more important, totally discreet.
Miles rolled his eyes and turned back to Red. “What the hell did you think you were doing, stripping off in the toilet of the Kensington Hilton, at a formal embassy dinner?”
Fiona gave a small cough. She obviously wondered the same.
“Sweetheart, y’think I was plannin’ to go to the most glamorous dinner this side of the BAFTAs in my birthday suit?” Red grimaced. “I had an accident, that’s all. Or rather, a young woman had the accident, and it just sort of happened all over me. No way I could sit next to an ex-foreign minister and an X Factor runner-up with a lapful of that charmin’ gift, was there?”
Red’s affected drawl was even stronger than usual, and Miles winced. “You should have got help. Wasn’t one of the kitchen staff available? Or housekeeping?”
“Funnily enough, I wasn’t thinkin’ straight at the time.” Red’s voice hardened. “The girl just turned to me and disgorged her appetizer down my front. Obviously there should have been plenty of time to call in a dry cleaner while they served the sorbet.”
Miles just shook his head again. “Where was your new PA?” Damned if he could remember the young man’s name. Red changed them like towels, having wrung them out each time about as much.
Red lifted a hand as if to rub his forehead, then dropped it back to his side. “Damn boy couldn’t find anythin’ to lock the toilet door behind him, so all he did was push a flower display up against the handle. And then apparently his cab took the long route back to the hotel, and it was centuries before he could find the right bloody suit, or maybe it was something to do with the matchin’ tie bein’ lost in the laundry—”
“Red!”
It was Red’s turn to wince. “Sorry. I’m… not entirely myself at the moment. Whatever the excuses, Tim took far too long. Just before he arrived back, the embassy staff started to worry about where one of their prodigal sons had gone. They sent someone to check the facilities, and one of the more adventurous paparazzi bloodhounds decided to follow. Then like the lemmin’s they are, the others followed him. A few minutes later, one more toilet to check, one flower display rolled easily to the side, and the door flung open….”
“Yes,” Miles said, brusquely. “I’ve already heard the highlights.”
Red turned a pleading look to Fiona. “They took my clothes, darlin’. Both clean and dirty. And my watch and wallet. How much longer do I have to sit here”—he gestured down at his borrowed clothes with an ill-suppressed shudder—“like this?”
Miles felt a rueful grin tug at the corners of his mouth. “Fiona, can we get him released on bail or something?”
Fiona stepped forward and patted Miles’s arm. “No problem. He’s not actually being charged. The hotel doesn’t wish to take it further, nor does the embassy, though I’m still waiting on a full statement from them.”
Red was feigning bravado, but when Miles glanced over quickly, he caught the sudden flash of relief in his friend’s eyes.
“Bloody lucky, I’d say,” Miles snapped.
Red scowled at him. “Like you’ve never made an arse of yourself in public.”
Miles knew it was a fair shot, considering their history together, but he still answered with spirit. “At least I haven’t flashed my arse in public!”
They glared at each other for a second. Fiona looked nervously between them, as if she didn’t know which one to approach first, if there was going to be a fight. Then Miles smiled… and laughed. It took only a moment before Red joined in.
“You bloody stupid idiot,” Miles said. “Only you could expose yourself to the whole international press in one fell swoop, with nothing between you except a spray of fern, like some socialite Greek nude.”
“It was the only thing I could reach from the flower display,” Red protested.
Miles pulled over a couple of the visitor chairs and gestured for him and Fiona to sit down beside him. They were all smiling by now. The tension in the room had eased considerably.
Red leaned forward, an earnest and unguarded look on his face. “Fiona—what happened to the woman? Was she all right?”
Fiona placed her hand over his and spoke soothingly. “I’ll find out for you.”
Miles also turned to the lawyer. “Can Red just leave now? What else can happen to him?”
Fiona pursed her lips as if trying to decide what to reply.
“You said he wasn’t being charged.”
“Yes, that’s right. But it’s a little more complex than that, Miles.”
“The press? Of course.” He’d entered the police station quickly and anonymously, but a couple of suspicious-looking cars had drawn up across the road as he closed the door behind him. He had a feeling there’d be a clutch of photographers outside when they left.
Red made a snorting noise. “I’m prepared for a few pictures in the red tops. It’s happened to me plenty of times before.”
Miles’s memory balked. There’d been the time Red hugged and kissed a winning jockey in the ring at one of his father’s racecourses. Also the time Red had worn fake coronation robes over nothing but designer briefs to a celebrity fancy dress party—attended by some of the minor royals. And the time he’d sneaked behind the scenes at Pinewood Studios and appeared unscripted in one of the crowd scenes of Les Misèrables. Most of Red’s escapades had cost his family money—and sometimes legal time—to minimize the exposure. Miles understood the concern about scandal from a family whose credibility depended on financial prestige and reputation. His family was similarly placed. But he also knew that the escapades were rarely harmful—Red was too decent for that—and showed a spark of wit that was sadly lacking in the rest of Red’s scheduled life. Also, of course, it made him the darling of the gossip magazines, and he lapped up the attention. It was a pity, Miles thought, that the spotlight always lit on Red’s looks and social misbehavior, rather than the smart brain beneath. Red worked diligently in his father’s business and was an unofficial ambassador for plenty of good causes. But that was showbiz, right?
“I’ll probably make the glossies too,” Red had continued, “but I doubt I gave anyone enough time to start filmin’ me for YouTube. Tim may have let me down at the time, but as soon as he saw me reach for the fern to cover up, he all but threw himself in front of me. I can only hope the publicity will serve him in good stead in his next job, because he’s no longer workin’ for me. No, the whole thing will be a five-day wonder until the next celebrity couple splits or a new reality TV series launches.” Red’s eyes narrowed. “Miles, hon, you’ve had enough salacious gossip about you and your man to know what I mean. Let’s get this into perspective—”
“Perspective?” Fiona frowned.
Red didn’t pause. “And to be honest, I think I’m goin’ to look better than any royal competitor in the naked-in-a-hotel scoop—”
“Red, will you listen to me?” Fiona’s voice was suddenly very sharp. Miles blinked hard, startled by the change, and Red’s mouth clamped shut. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a lot worse than the tabloid press on your case.”
Red rolled his eyes, apparently dismissive, but a wary look crept back into his eyes.
“Worse?” Miles asked.
“Red knows the trouble he’s really in.” Fiona’s smile was rueful, not amused. “It was already with him at the embassy dinner.”
“You mean….”
“My father.” Red was flushed now. A groan rumbled in the back of his throat.
Fiona nodded slowly. “Like I said. Much worse.”