Heart To Hart by Erin O'Quinn

Author:Erin O'Quinn [O'Quinn, Erin]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Gay & Lesbian
ISBN: 9781611244229
Publisher: Amber Quill Press, LLC

Chapter 12

The pub table bore only an inkwell and two empty ale glasses. Simon watched Michael leave the Silver Hind. Even after the door shut on his well-cut figure, he stared at the spot the man had been. He knew his brows were bunched like those of a petulant child, and he absently rubbed his thumb and forefinger on the spot high on his nose where the eyebrows, warring, met and clashed.

Damn. The man is arrogant and crude. He felt his skin heating up inside the high starched collar, remembering the way Michael had downed the ale, in a series of long swallows, then ran his tongue over his lower lip and looked at him with a story in his eyes. A subtle reminder of a very intimate moment.

God, it would be easy to let his mind linger on last night, how he'd been splayed on the deep rug as Michael invaded his skin. This morning, too, holding Michael's essence in his hands, had been a moment he wanted to savor.

And yet, five minutes after getting out of the small bathtub, Simon had been angry at himself for revealing so much to the big, gruff man, and he was still angry. Ever since meeting Michael McCree, he'd given up more and more ground, as though backing up on the sparring mat to an opponent who was wearing him down by degrees.

He'd never allowed anyone to get physically close to him. He'd shunned the company of women all his life. There was something...frightening about the way they seemed to expect certain actions--or worse, reactions--from him.

Even his own father had never received from him a symbol of outright trust, like the card he'd given to Michael only minutes ago.

What was wrong with him? Why did he trust the man who was clearly a liar, a fraud, a mountebank--worse than a confidence man? He balled his fists now, remembering the way Michael had lied to him in his office, pretending to be asleep. What had he really been doing there? Why had he, Simon, allowed him to wriggle off the hook? And why in the name of God had he allowed him to go back there today, alone?

Because he trusts me, and I trust him.

The answer was so patent that Simon's head began to ache with the knowledge. A vision rose in his mind--the picture of a young woman, all of twenty or twenty-one years old, with the sloping, graceful neck of a swan and with high arched brows. Her lips, he remembered clearly, were set in a look of anger mingled with surprise, and she stood as if ready to flee.

Father had told him her eyes were the same blue as his. The daguerreotype was old when he'd seen it only one time, as a boy, and it was worn to a brown blur in spots where his father had apparently taken it out often to gaze at it, then return it to an inner pocket.

He'd told Simon nothing about her death. Only that she was taken by the angel Raphael.

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