Page 24 of Undercover Star
"No, he shouldn't have been that close." Josh growled and he didn't care. "And stop calling him a kid. He's twenty-six."
The smirk on Tim's face grew wider, grew into something that might one day be a smile. "Something else you wanna tell me, Josh?"
"No, I don't wanna tell you, but I should." Josh felt the heat in his neck, felt it spread up to his ears and across his cheeks, but he refused to look away. "I think.... We have.... Oh, for fuck's sake! I have no idea. He's fun to be with. He's... acting a lot older than he looks, and last night, after he dragged in a doctor who patched me up, I stayed at his place. There. Will that do?"
"About time."
"What?"
"I thought you hadn't noticed how he looked at you."
"I'm neither blind nor stupid." Josh blew up. "I saw, but.... He's six years younger than me. He's a star. He's not out. He's—"
"Rather taken with you. And I'm glad you're letting yourself live a bit. You've been too closed off for far too long, Josh."
"I know." Josh blew out air in a long, steady stream and slumped into the nearest seat. "But what we did wasn't right. On all fronts. We shouldn't have dragged him into this or taken advantage of him. I shouldn't have led him into danger. And I certainly shouldn't have stayed with him last night. He's given me a lead, and I'm grateful. But this is as far as it goes."
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DO YOU HAVE TIME TOmeet for a coffee?Josh sent the text the next morning. After being up all night staring at security camera footage, the last thing he wanted was more coffee. He wasn't even sure whether he wanted to see Matisse again, or whether it might be saner, safer, and more sensible to write the whole thing off as a crazy episode dreamed up by his equally crazy boss to help him out.
Only Montgomery had never been crazy. Even his most idiotic ideas tended to have a solid foundation and a damned good reason. It was what made him so good at his job. Josh wouldn't have thought of recruiting a celebrity to open the doors to Kilbride House for him. Hell, he wouldn't have let himself keep working a cold case he had a personal interest in. If he were Tim Montgomery, he'd have told himself to pull his head out of his arse and move on.
Tim hadn't done it. As long as Josh did his job, he gave him the resources to pursue his partner's killer in his own time, and he listened and backed him up as he would for any other case. Josh couldn't discount that. Just as he couldn't stop trying to find Paul's killer.
The theft from the Vatican had been a professional job: well researched, planned in minute detail, and flawlessly executed. The transfer of the stolen locket, without an obvious connection between the thief and the collector, suggested a well-oiled machine. Josh knew of a raft of other, similar thefts across Europe. Every officer on any of the art and antiques crime task forces did. They could all list the best professional thieves in the business, the most likely foreign buyers, and even the crime syndicates that took art and antiques in payment for drugs and slave labour. Art theft had long ceased to be just about art.
Josh had loved the work, frustrating as it could be at times. He still did, but now every lead he followed to its conclusion and every case he solved was tainted by his failure to avenge his partner and best friend. He'd become sharper in the last four years, more ruthless and much less forgiving.
Then Tim Montgomery threw Matisse into the mix, and the foundation he'd stood on for so long crumbled under his feet. He'd never baulked at accepting help from strangers if it gave him a shot at solving a case, stopping a robbery, or taking a thief off the street. After all, upholding and supporting the law was a civic duty. When he'd first met Matisse, he'd seen him as little more than a key to get inside Kilbride House. Now, shame heated his neck whenever he thought of the star. Shame over pulling him away from his work, as if that work had less value than Josh's own. Shame over using him. Most of all, he hated that he'd put Matisse's life in danger after he'd lied to him.
Paul would have kicked his arse. With relish.
Obtaining help under false pretences, like a common confidence-trickster or a power-seeking politician without a shred of true conviction. Acknowledging he had behaved this way stung more than the fact that he'd thought of their encounter as a lopsided kind of apology, even if it had been for just a moment.
Matisse deserved more. Consideration and the truth about Josh's case at the very least. Josh wasn't ready to voice any other truths. He didn't know yet whether they were real or simply another form of guilt.
He had no cause to be thinking stuff like that anyway. He didn't want a relationship, and it wasn't as if this could go anywhere. Matisse wasn't out, and Josh, despite his reluctance, wasn't going to hide who he was.
If he told himself a few more times, he might even believe it.
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THANK YOU FOR YOURhelp. I much appreciate it.Matisse kept hearing Josh's voice repeat the words over and over. An apology, followed by a goodbye and good luck, with no mention of what had happened between them after the gala.
Was this what one night stands were like? Matisse had never had one. Had never been brave enough to go out and find someone just to spend the night with. He'd called himself a coward often enough, but seeing how he felt about doing almost fuck all with Josh, maybe he'd been wiser than he'd thought.
When he'd gone to meet Josh for coffee four days earlier, he'd hoped to hear about Josh's case. The real details, even, rather than the make-believe Josh had dished up before. He thought he'd earned that much at least.
But all Josh had offered was an apology and a thank you.
Matisse hadn't been able to concentrate on a single thing since. He had no patience, either. Not with the dancers. Not with Lynn. Not even with his music. What he had was a sore heart and an excruciating case of blue balls.
"You're as distracted as a sheep on ice. Whatisthe matter with you?"
Matisse squinted through his fringe at the immaculately turned out woman in her six-inch stilettos standing beside the sofa in his dressing room. "Aren't you ever afraid of breaking your ankles?"
"No, dear boy. I know how to walk. You, on the other hand, seem unable to put three steps together today. Or sing a phrase that doesn't sound as if you've been strangled and kicked in the goolies."
