Page 38 of Undercover Star
"How come you have hot water? Is someone else staying here?"
"What century do you live in again? The water and heating run off a combi boiler. Hot water, as much as you want, seconds after you turn on the tap. Wouldn't work otherwise, with me being here so rarely." Matisse pulled towels from an airing cupboard at the end of the hall and pushed the fluffy stack into Josh's hands. "I often come on a whim, when I can't stand London anymore. If it's just me, I bring a box of food and booze along with me, so I don't have to bother Mhairi and Donald. Mhairi still makes sure the freezer is stocked, so you go shower while I go and see to dinner."
"You're wet, too," Josh reminded.
"Not as wet as you, and definitely not as cold."
"Maybe. But you should shower, too."
"I will. As soon as I've put dinner in the oven and found some spare clothes for you. Go."
Matisse shooed him out of the hall, and Josh gave up arguing. He seemed to have done little else this last day than argue with Matisse, and then cave to his orders. And be surprised. Better not forget that.
Matisse taking charge was... unexpected.
Enticing.
Downright hot at times.
Matisse guiding them safely through the storm wasn't a bad memory, either. The singer seemed a different man up here—more self-possessed than he was in London. He'd not once looked over his shoulder for chasing fans or reporters. He'd not minded giving his name to the authorities. In fact, he seemed to be on first name terms with the Coast Guard. It was something that needed thinking about. Josh had judged Matisse based on his London persona. What if that wasn't who he really was?
He opened the door Matisse had indicated and froze on the threshold.
The bathroom wasn't one room but two, and the decor was out of this world. The walls and floor were rough stone that looked hundreds of years old, though Josh could tell that the floor, at least, had been redone in the last decade. His freezing cold feet immediately recognised the underfloor heating, warming up despite them having only been in the house for a few minutes.
A big, squashy sofa took up the right-hand side of the outer room. A huge fireplace stretched along a good portion of the opposite wall, and facing Josh was a wall of mirrored counters with a raft of shelves and drawers. Josh had no idea what Matisse kept in all those nooks and crannies, and he couldn't be bothered to look. Through a doorway on his right, bright white tiles and porcelain sang a siren song. A huge walk-in shower with bench seats, an obscenely large tub, and a double vanity unit filled the space. A door in the corner led to a separate toilet.
The bathroom wasn't quite large enough to swallow Josh's entire London flat, but it had a damned good try. If he needed a reminder that Matisse was out of his league, he had it right here.
A shiver rocked through him, cold or chagrin he couldn't have said. He pushed the thoughts aside, shed them as he shed oilskins, jacket, T-shirt, and jogging bottoms, before he stepped into the shower. The huge tub was a temptation, but not one he wanted to face alone.
As Matisse had promised, the water ran hot moments after he'd turned on the tap. Josh braced his hands on the tiles and let the water pelt the cold from his skin. It felt wonderful and soothing, and warmth slowly soaked into his chilled frame. When a blast of cool air hit his naked back, Josh almost yelped. Then the snap of cold turned into the wet, chilly form of Matisse, and Josh pulled him close and wrapped his arms around him.
"Dinner's in the oven. Clothes are in the wash. I do have another bathroom, but I brought you some clothes and...." Matisse buried his face in Josh's neck.
"And what?"
Matisse shrugged, a little awkwardly, and Josh melted. After everything Matisse had done to help him, he thought Josh would begrudge him a shared shower?
"And what?" he teased again, suddenly desperate to hear Matisse's reason.
"I thought sharing a shower would be nicer."
The words were mumbled into his neck. Josh agreed with the sentiment. Having Matisse right there, having the chance to run his hands over the lean muscles and feel Matisse's warmth against him as he had the night after the gala.... It was more than nice.
Josh poured shampoo into his palm and rubbed it through Matisse's hair. It smelled of ginger and green tea, and Josh salivated at the thought of tasting the flavour on Matisse's skin later.
"I didn't know you could handle a boat," he said, while he ran soapy hands down Matisse's back.
"Yeah, well. Dancing's not all I do. I can also drive a car and fly a helicopter," Matisse informed him, voice a little muffled as he scrubbed his face. "Most people don't even think to ask. I couldn't have bought the island without a boat or a chopper. There's no ferry, and the sea can get rough."
"You own the island."
Matisse straightened and twirled his fingers: a wordless demand for Josh to turn. Josh complied, and a moment later he felt Matisse's hands in his hair. "I own everything but the lighthouse," Matisse told him while he shampooed Josh's hair. "Not that there is a lot else. Just the house, the jetty, and a couple of unfinished barns over on the other side. Oh, and a walled garden. But it's mine, it's private, and it's just enough out of the way. The boatmen in town won't bring any strangers out here unless they've checked with me first, so getting chased by reporters or fans isn't an issue when I'm here. I've got food, a bed, and a damned fine studio, and I can work without interruption."
"You own this island."
"We just covered that."
