Page 13 of Undercover Star
Matisse speechless wasn't a bad look either.
They posed side by side, and with Josh standing slightly behind and to one side of Matisse. His black tux framed the blue and made the suit's lapels and Matisse's golden locks stand out. Their body shapes went well together, too—Josh, taller, broader and more sombrely clad, a foil for the vibrant singer. Josh liked the picture far more than he should.
Fortunately, there was little time for him to dwell on impressions. Matisse's phone pinged an alert, and then people started to turn up, notes and drawings in hand. Matisse, it seemed, was late for a meeting. He disappeared down the corridor with a brief smile and quick wave, surrounded by three people all firing information at him.
Josh heard him field questions about colour choices, lighting, song order, feedback, and a myriad of other things Josh had no knowledge of. He wanted to follow Matisse. Wanted to see him at work and wanted to ask him questions. Instead, he stood in the hallway, clutched his bag of clothes, and watched Matisse walk away. For the first time in four years he wanted... something that had nothing to do with finding Paul's killer.
––––––––
MATISSE WAS COMINGout of rehearsal when he saw the detective leaning against the door to his dressing room. Josh Ingram had been in and out of the studio building all week. The first day, he'd come to learn how to look after Matisse during the gala event—or that's what Matisse had been told. Why he'd been here every other day since was anyone's guess. Oats and Rigger were singing his praises whenever Matisse was close enough to hear. They'd even suggested Matisse hire him as part of his security team. As if anyone with half a brain would trade a job chasing art thieves for the insanity of following Matisse around.
Matisse had wondered whether the help Detective Superintendent Montgomery had requested ended with him acting the celebrity door opener, or whether there was something else he could do to make sure Josh Ingram caught his thief. Josh's intense focus spoke to Matisse, reminded him of losing himself writing music, of playing with like-minded guys until his fingers bled, or arguing about arrangements until the alcohol ran out or they fell asleep where they sat. He wanted to help, and the chance to see how thieves were caught had been a lure. And since getting Josh into Kilbride House didn't qualify as anything remotely undercover, Matisse admitted he was just a little disappointed.
Josh pushed away from the door as Matisse came closer. He wore his heart-failure-inducing dark jeans with a deep red Henley that brought out reddish highlights in his dark curls, and Matisse's cock gave an interested twitch at the sight. Fortunately, as tired and sore as he was after four hours of rehearsals, there was little chance of him popping a boner and embarrassing himself.
"Do you have a few minutes?"
"Sure. As long as you don't mind me grabbing a shower and changing while we talk?"
"Of course not."
Josh's dark eyes grew darker as he watched Matisse open the door to his dressing room. Matisse blamed the lighting in the hallway. Josh had zero interest in him beyond his ability to get them into Kilbride House. Not to mention that delectable detectives were not on Matisse's menu on a normal day. They were even more specifically off it while Matisse prepared for a concert tour.
He pulled off his sweat-soaked T-shirt and threw it into the hamper beside the bathroom door. Then he grabbed a towel from his bag. "I'll be just a minute." He took the fastest shower ever and pulled on briefs and jeans before he returned to where Josh waited for him. "What gives?"
"Here."
Josh pushed a mug of hot, honey-laced lemon into his hands, and Matisse almost sobbed in relief. He'd been fighting all morning to reach the high notes of the song he was working on, and his throat was killing him. Hot lemon and honey were just what he needed, though he wouldn't have said no to a dram of Annandale in the mix. He swallowed a mouthful and moaned his appreciation when the dry burn and tickle eased a little. "How did you know what I needed?"
"Oats and Rigger, of course." A tiny frown pulled Josh's brows tighter. "Why do you have your security team look after you? Don't you have an assistant or something?"
"Like a PA, you mean?" He nodded to his phone on the table. "I'm perfectly capable of keeping my own calendar. And I feel like enough of a honey pot as it is. I don't need more people dancing around me. As for this?" He lifted the mug. "My security team are the ones who're with me the most. Simple as that."
The frown stayed, but Josh said nothing. His glance went around Matisse's dressing room, cataloguing everything from the racks of clothes to the stacks of towels, from shoes and boots to makeup and boiled sweets, from the keyboard, tucked into one corner of the room, to the table crowded with notes, lyrics, sheet music, and diagrams. Matisse sipped his drink, wondering what Josh Ingram saw as he took in the detritus of Matisse's life and work. And whether he really wanted to know. Compared to Josh's work, making music and entertaining crowds had to seem trite.
When Josh spoke, there was nothing of derision in his tone. "Oats said I shouldn't let you out of my sight. Even in a place like Kilbride House where nobody gets in who's not invited."
"Wouldn't you be rather out of luck if that were true?"
"How do you mean?"
"Do you think your thief has an invite?"
A touch of red tinted Josh's cheekbones. "I didn't mean him. He'll sneak his way in whether he has an invite or not. But Oats told me to keep you in sight, and you said you wanted me to run interference. So... I mean, I don't know all your tells or the people hovering around you... so I thought this might help." He held out his hand. In his palm lay a single earphone and a shortish piece of wire. "We put the wire under the collar of your shirt. Touch it, and we can talk to each other."
Matisse homed in on the tech in Josh's hand. "That's ridiculous."
"What is?"
"These are the best earphones you have? They're crap."
"What do you mean, they're crap? They're standard issue police—"
"They're crap. Even moderately loud ambient noise will drown out half of the conversation you're supposed to be having. Listen, I know I don't do what you do and all that, but microphones and headphones are my bread and butter. Think about it. I have to stand in front of a roaring crowd and sing. I have to hear the band behind me. And I have to hear any stage directions I'm being given. Good headphones... vital." He went to his dressing table, found a box, and brought it back to Josh. "Here. Look at these. Bluetooth, NFC, not obvious or clunky, but very well sealed."
"Are you giving those to your security team?"
"You bet. This microphone is cool. Ours are bulkier. Is this what you use when you go undercover?"
