Twelve months later

Malia Trent brushed a small mote of dust from the lapel of her designer suit jacket and cleared her throat. She didn't think the current view needed more comment than that. Her gaze flickered over the two young men beside her, looking for their confirmation.

The three of them stood outside the entrance of the building that had just been sold, staring up at it. It was a visually striking façade with wide, high windows and pale brick walls. The upper story had a single picture window spanning the whole front of the building, embracing the sunlight like a welcome lover. But downstairs, things were less striking. The windows were dusty; there was graffiti on those same pale walls. Inside were the remnants of shop fittings and demonstration materials, suggesting it had once been busy with visitors of one kind or another. Now there were only a couple of broken chairs remaining. A single bulb hung down from the ceiling, naked of any shade. A wooden display board spanned the whole of one wall, though its fixings had obviously broken. One of the corners sagged downward, giving it a lopsided look.

There was another door at the back of the room, leading presumably to the upstairs apartment. The door was ajar.

Malia peered distastefully through the nearest window. "It's in an appalling state." She shifted uncomfortably. They'd left the limo back at the office and walked across town to view the property. Not for the first time, she wished she hadn't worn her highest heels. "I can't see what use it's going to be to the corporation."

The taller of the other two men turned to her. "Malia, you've read the documents as well as I. As, indeed, have three sets of lawyers. Please don't imply I'm a fool. We want the access, and we need the opportunity to expand the current operations. That means we need this side of the street as well. The whole block is perfect for our purposes. This particular unit has obviously been neglected, but it can be redecorated. It's basically sound."

"But the corporation's never considered a gallery, Miles. Why don't we convert it into another set of offices? Legal Services needs some new space--"

The man beside her cleared his throat. He didn't need to do any more. Malia felt herself flush heavily. He was the only man she'd ever known who could do that to her, outside of orgasm, and for far less pleasant reasons. She pursed her lips, biting back a sharp response.

He continued. "It was converted as an art gallery; it's perfect for that purpose. I'm not one to pass up such an opportunity. You know my opinions on waste. I have an art collection, and this can be a promotional showroom for it. It will be a frontispiece for Media Services. We'll use it for the entertainment of clients and for presentation events. That, of course, is your particular department."

It wasn't that he was asking her opinion. The decision had already been made.

Malia sneaked a look through her false lashes at her boss. He was young, in his late twenties, but no one would ever have accused him of being immature. Handsome.... That was a given. Private. Frighteningly smart. Single. She sighed to herself, knowing how far out of her league he was. Miles Winter's name and reputation were known to anyone who followed the financial papers. He was the only son of wealthy parents, a father who'd made a fortune from property development and a mother who brought hereditary wealth as her dowry. In Miles' early teens, they died in a plane crash, and he became sole heir to a large trust fund. The tabloid press cracked their journalistic knuckles and waited with glee to see how this rich young child would fritter it away. He proved them all wrong.

His lawyers appointed him an eminently sensible financial advisor, and he finished his education with a master's in business administration. Doors opened in the city for him with alarming eagerness. Over the next few years, he was promoted as the youngest ever board director of the firm where he trained; he became one of the most innovative traders on Wall Street; the youngest man to make a million-dollar fortune from his personal portfolio. It was an astonishing progression. His trust fund remained substantial and well-invested. Business rivals underestimated him at their peril. In negotiations, they knew that the compensation they'd receive would be commercially fair but very aggressively priced.

And as an employer? Malia pursed her lips even more tightly. Miles was civil but extremely cool, sometimes hard to the point of harshness. Again, he was not to be underestimated. He paid extremely well, but he expected twenty-four/seven commitment, though he gave the same himself. He'd listen to staff feedback and reasonable suggestions, but the decisions were always his. His business instincts had been proven to be accurate time and again, so his people stayed with him. As a result, most of them had the time of their lives.

And Miles Winter was as self-controlled in his personal life as he was at work. There was no outrageous scandal in his young life, no controversy. Malia could confirm that, because she spent a lot of her time searching speculatively for evidence, hoping to find some chink in that corporate armor. Just for the hell of it, of course.

And he was so goddamned hot! Wore his designer clothes like they'd been tailored solely for him, which of course they usually had. A tall, tight body, toned and athletic limbs. Dusky skin with the shine of excellent health. His dark hair was cut beautifully, but somehow also managed to be a shaggy, sexy mass, falling over his forehead. And he had such incredible eyes. A mixture of deep blue and purple, dark pupils that reflected the subject but never exposed the watcher. They were fabulous even when they were like flints, as they were now. Malia felt the familiar, hopeless clench in her groin. She wondered--as she often did--why she never saw him with the same girl for more than a month or so. Wasn't he dating that supermodel at the moment? Internationally famous; supernaturally thin. Malia sighed to herself. Half of her was damned glad that Miles Winter had never made a pass at her. The other half lay awake nights, tempting her with erotic dreams of what she might have expected if he had.

"The Roswell Gallery," murmured the third member of their group, hovering behind her.

Miles Winter turned to the blond young man, focusing on him. "Do you see a sign there, Tony?"

"N--no," Tony stammered. "Sorry, Mr. Winter. That's just what everyone knows it as." He hopped from one foot to another, paler than ever, and obviously wishing he could lie down and melt into the pavement to escape that glare. Malia hid her smile. Only that week Tony had confessed to her he wished he'd made a different choice at college age, staying at home to run the modest family pet food business, rather than joining the Winter Corporation and putting himself in Miles Winter's direct line of fire.

But his boss's anger never materialized. A thoughtful twist appeared at the corners of his mouth. "You knew Jacky Roswell?"

"Knew of him, sir. The story was all over the city at the time, when he died, you know? He was a hell of a character, always at an event, always in the public eye. Brilliant artist. Presented works to the president himself, they said. He bought this building for his family, for his younger brother."

"The brother." Miles nodded, but didn't elaborate.

Tony gabbled on nervously. "I thought the kid still lived here, though he doesn't exhibit, doesn't even paint anymore. Just hides out here, since ... well, you know. They said he--the younger brother--had a brilliant talent of his own. Very different from Jacky Roswell; much bolder. They both painted, both sketched. But the kid's style was a different thing altogether."

"It was," said Miles.

Malia was startled that Mr. Winter offered any comment at all, let alone one that implied he knew of the background. "Zeke Roswell, he's called. A black sheep. A very black sheep," she murmured. "I met him once."

"Yeah, more than a little wild, according to the press at the time," said Tony, more confidently now. Malia knew if there was one thing her assistant was good at, it was garnering gossip. "This gallery was going to be his launch into the art world, his ticket to success."

"But that didn't happen, did it?" said Miles, his voice suddenly sharp. Malia turned, staring at him, trying to judge his mood. "And that was well over a year ago."

"Yeah." Tony sighed. "These things happen, I guess."

Miles tugged gently at the cuffs of his elegant, understated jacket. "They do indeed. It's never mattered to me why it's on the market, Tony. I just needed to know that it was and that my price was accepted." He stared once more at the grimy windows, and his voice grew more thoughtful.

"I have no interest in buying ghosts."

Carter Davison slipped quietly into the downtown bar. It was long past midnight, and there were only a few patrons left, nursing their last drinks for the night. None of them looked up as the paneled door to the outside world creaked closed behind him. But the barman did. He half-raised a hand to Carter and nodded him toward the booths at the far side of the room.

"Asleep again, I guess. He's not asked for more since eleven. I was gonna call you...."

"It's okay, Marty," Carter murmured. It said something when his local bartender had his cell number. "I went around to his place, and he wasn't there, so I guessed he'd be here. Anyone else?" He knew Marty would understand.

"Nah. There was a kid with him earlier. They were ... you know ... kinda interested in each other. Fact is, I had to ask him to keep his hands on the table for the sake of the other customers getting irate. But the two of 'em had words, and the kid left hours ago."

"Fine." Carter sighed. He knew his tone showed it was anything but. "I'll take him now." He was in his comfortable jeans and a loose T-shirt, but his whole body felt weary and tense. He rummaged in his jeans pocket, pulled out a few bills, and placed them on the counter to settle the tab. Marty nodded to him, closing the agreement they had between them.

Carter moved quickly toward one of the corner booths. All he could see there was the crown of an auburn-haired head, the face buried deeply into the owner's folded arms, resting on top of the stained table. Carter could hear quiet snoring. The lean young body was folded uncomfortably on the seat, but obviously not uncomfortably enough to prevent him from sleeping where he sat.

Carter moved a half-empty beer glass to the other side of the table and looked down on the sleeper. "Stupid asshole," he murmured. It wasn't as if he expected his words to be heard. "You've got a bed at home, haven't you? And a friend to come look after you. A real one, not the kids you pick up and caress when the fancy takes you. So why're you hanging out here again?"

The sleeping man must have registered something, because he stirred. And groaned. One of the arms peeled itself out from under his heavy head and stretched out straight with an ominous crack of the joint.

"Shit. Carter, is that you? Where the fuck am I?"

"Where do you think?" Carter sat down beside the waking man and sighed. "Thought you'd given this up after the last time. Drinking yourself stupid at Marty's."

"Am not," mumbled the other man. "Not stupid at all ... else he'd be yelling at me for the check." His face was visible now, though he kept rubbing a hand over it, obviously trying to wake up properly. There were tired bags underneath the bright blue eyes and the smooth, tanned skin was dull in the dimming lights of the bar. His fringe hung limply over his forehead, and as he tugged at the rest of his hair, the auburn curls tangled in a weight at the nape of his neck. "Fucking hair ... pulled it the wrong way. It's killing me."

"Something is," said Carter, grimly. "Can you walk? Go home, Zeke."

Zeke Roswell groaned again and sat up. It seemed to nag at some pain in his lower back, because he grimaced a little. "Got no home, though, have I? Going to sign it all away tomorrow. Lose the whole fucking lot."

"Zeke, you did that some time ago. You lost it all, or rather you played and drank it all away. Don't play the innocent victim with me. You're no fool. You had a chance, but you fucked up. Right? You'll get another. So get over it."

"Is this your Kindly Friend approach, Carter?" Zeke sighed wearily. "Or you practicing for Oprah?"

"Dammit, Zeke." Carter frowned. "Do you want me to go on lying? Go on pandering to you? You know you're a bright, smart guy with talent the rest of us would kill for. Instead, you drink your checks away, bury yourself inside a filthy apartment, and snarl at anyone who gives you the time of day. Or you try to fuck them; seems those are the only two approaches you have in your repertoire."

Zeke growled back at him, but the sound was tired. "I'm getting the feeling you're pissed at me, Carter. And I can walk, you know. You won't need that fireman's carry you used last time."

Carter rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to carry you anywhere, Zeke. Physically or metaphorically. Drop the past and move on. I've tried, haven't I?"

"Guess so," replied Zeke, a thread of anger in his voice now. He pushed at the table and lurched up on unsteady feet. "Guess you think you're better than me. But this was just a farewell drink, you know? Because I am making the break. I'm changing my life. Aren't you pleased with that?"

Carter stared at his friend. He clenched his fists at his sides. "I don't think I'm better than you, Zeke...."

"Sure," replied Zeke. He looked steadier on his feet now, and his mouth quirked with a sly smile. "After all, you ain't got the looks, boy. And I bet the last thing you painted was something your mom put up on the door of the fridge."

Carter smiled, responding to the younger man's bluster. In his opinion, Zeke had more charm than was fair, at least when he was sober enough to use it properly. "As a friend, you're a real pain in the ass, you know."

"Yeah, I am. Guess if I had more friends, they'd tell me that as well as you." Zeke sighed and spoke more quietly. "Can I come home with you tonight, Carter?"

Carter started. "I don't think...."

Zeke's deep blue eyes latched on to him, and the depth of misery Carter saw there took his breath away. It was all so very reminiscent--heart-wrenchingly so.

"'s corny, I know, but I don't want to be on my own. Don't get excited, now. I'm not making a pass at you, nothing like that...."

Carter slipped an arm around Zeke's shoulder. For a second, his fingers brushed at Zeke's sallow cheek. He wondered if Zeke realized sometimes the effect he had on people, on him. "Please. I'm far from excited, Zeke. You're not exactly at your best right now. I doubt you'd do yourself justice in bed. Or me, for that matter."

"Fuck that," said Zeke, but rather fondly. "Can still get it up, you know. I like boys and girls, Carter. Never been one to restrict my options."

Carter smiled, trying not to show his deeper emotions on his face. But it was damned hard. Zeke's voice held traces of another voice, another time. Carter's memories piqued him with small stabs of both delight and pain. "I'll give it serious thought, bright boy. But not tonight, eh? Let's get going, if you're coming home with me. I'll need to get the spare bedding out of the cupboard again."

He dropped his arm down to hold on to Zeke's waist, so it didn't look quite so obvious that he was helping him stand up. Not that he and Marty didn't know the score, but Zeke had his pride--even if he drowned it rather too regularly.

Zeke coughed, and Carter felt the other man's body vibrate against his own. "I am doing the right thing, aren't I? It's all the past now. Right? I've got to drop it and find something new."

"Jacky said the same, Zeke. All the time. Find something new, move on. You remember how he was, what he'd say. No regrets."

Zeke's head turned sharply toward Carter, startling him. "Easy for him to say, though, eh? Mr. Happy Corpse. Mr. Leave It All Behind for some other poor fucker to suffer. For someone else to sign over all our worldly goods."

"Zeke.... "Carter didn't like the edge to Zeke's voice. There wasn't just pain there, but something more aggressive. He glanced over at Marty, wondering if he'd need the older man's help after all.

But Zeke's voice calmed again. "I'm okay, Carter. Don't get all tense on me. I'm just a little more honest than you, eh?"

Carter stared at him, startled again.

"I really do want to move on, you see," Zeke muttered, holding Carter's gaze. "I've got no fucking interest in ghosts, my friend. None at all."

The cab pulled up at the front entrance of the Park Gate Apartments, and the doorman bent quickly to get the door. Miles stepped out, smoothing down his jacket, allowing his case to be lifted out for him. The doorman greeted him formally, and Miles moved quickly and with familiarity past the desk. The receptionist turned away from another resident who was asking directions to confirm to Mr. Winter that his laundry was ready for him, cleaned and pressed, and that his mail was in an orderly pile for his collection. There were no messages. Miles nodded thanks.

The apartments were select and luxuriously appointed. They had their own in-house facilities, including gymnasium and a reasonably sized pool. There was also a restaurant with a renowned chef and a bar and lounge exclusively for the residents. Tonight, Miles wandered over to the bar, and the manager was ready at once with his favorite rum and coke. Shortly after that, the restaurant manager came over to greet him with a respectful offer of that night's menu, ready to take his order for dinner.

Miles accepted all the service quietly and calmly. He'd been living in this building for a year now. It was what he was used to. As he debated the salmon over the sole, he leaned against the bar and watched other residents arriving. He knew few of them by sight and none by name. Most of the individuals were as select as the apartments themselves. He saw the sudden grin on the doorman's face as a younger couple joked with him about the weather. He saw the receptionist lean forward at the desk and blush as another passing resident complimented her on something or other. Behind him, the bar manager flicked a peanut at his new barman, and they smothered an instinctive laugh.

When Miles turned back to pick up his glass, the respectful quietness settled back around him. He noted the contrast, not for the first time. He didn't know why it made him feel a little depressed.

"Lookin' a little morose there, Winter," came a familiar male voice at his shoulder. Miles jumped, startled; he'd not been aware of any of his thoughts showing in his expression. "Wishin' you were a man of the people? It's not going to happen. They're scared of you, you see."

"Scared of me? They barely know me."

"Okay." The speaker gave an exaggerated sigh. "Maybe not scared of you. Just scared of displeasin' you. They've got jobs and loans, y'know? They need happy tenants. They need the regular income from your exorbitantly priced suite. Upset Mr. Winter and wave goodbye to all that."

Miles' eyes narrowed. "That's crap, De Vere, and you know it. I only expect what other clients do: the best care, attention to every detail. It should be the standard. Don't you agree?"

His companion walked around to face him, laughing softly. He was a slim, blond man of a similar age, dressed far more casually than Miles but no less elegantly. He wore crisp linen pants and a silk shirt, left carelessly open at the neck but obviously expensive. His hair curled behind his ears, giving him a boyish look, but his pale blue eyes were sharp. As he moved, his hand trailed gently against Miles' arm, and when Miles shook it off impatiently, the newcomer laughed again. His voice bubbled with a sense of fun, with confidence and mischief. The drawl was obviously exaggerated, but attractively so. It was noticeable that several of the staff were watching him, each of his movements followed with fascinated eyes.

Miles knew his companion would have been amused at this attention, and nothing more. Red De Vere was used to the mesmerizing effect he had on people. Indeed, how often did he cultivate it for his own entertainment?

"You bite every time, don't you, Winter? I'm only teasin'; you should chill some. And I've been waitin' a whole hour for you. Didn't we agree on dinner tonight?"

Miles sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He turned and lowered himself into one of the plush armchairs provided. The blond man dropped into another one beside him.

"What is it, hon? Hard day at the office?"

"Christ, Red," growled Miles. "Every damn phrase you use is loaded with innuendo, isn't it? Don't you get tired of the lounge-lizard act?" But although the words were angry, he knew he didn't mean it.

"Guess I was right." Red grimaced. He obviously knew it, too, because he didn't seem to take any offense. "Come and eat with me, Miles. Eat, drink, and I swear to God I can make you merry. Goin' to let me?"

Miles had to laugh. Only a short laugh, a ripple of amusement. If it'd come from anyone else, he would have dismissed it as nothing special. But wrung from him, after the day he'd had--well, he wasn't surprised to see Red's eyebrows raised.

"That's better," his friend said, softly.

"You're the only one who can do that, you know?"

"Make it better?"

Miles smiled. "Amuse me in the most unexpected way. How the hell do you get away with such outrageousness?"

Red looked back steadily into Miles' eyes. For a moment, the dilettante act was dropped, proving it was something he could put on or discard at will. "It's good to hear you laugh, Miles. Glad to be of some service."

"Red," protested Miles. "I didn't mean you're not good company for other reasons...."

"No problem." The other man smiled, his eyes brighter than before. "That's why I'm one of your few and priceless friends. You can say what you like to me, and I accept it without judgment. Just ... relax a bit, okay? Let someone close, let someone know what you're really like. Let the damned world touch you on its own terms. It's not weakness to join in, sweetheart."

Miles frowned back at him. He really didn't want to argue with Red tonight, but sometimes the man's persistence....

Red touched his arm again, pressing his fingers into the smooth cloth of Miles' jacket. "Hey, it's okay, I'm backin' off. You're just too polite to tell me, right? No need for that, hon. Look, I'm as rich as you--and let's face it, sometimes I'm as bored as you. So it works both ways, eh? You can play your hard-ass act with me, Mr. Big Business, but I can make you laugh at the end of another fourteen-hour day. We'll eat and drink well, and then we'll go back to your apartment where I can stretch out these long, limber legs on your king-size bed and drink more of your best brandy. And while we're watchin' some reality show on your forty-two inches--screen, of course--maybe you'll let me massage those knots out of your too, too generous shoulders."

Miles stared back. Red's teasing touched him tonight far more deeply than he wanted to admit. Why was he feeling so unsettled? "One minute you're dazzling the staff, next minute you're offering me a quiet night in, in front of the TV. What are you really like, Red De Vere?" It was something he often asked himself, though not often as frankly or as openly as this.

His companion shrugged his broad shoulders, a wave of his hand dismissing the question. It appeared his playboy mask was scooped up and reapplied. He unfolded himself from the chair and beckoned to the hovering restaurant staff. "I'm damned hungry, darlin', that's what. For anything else, ask the gossip papers. They tell me what I'm doin', how my stocks are climbin', which of my racehorses is winnin'. Even who I'm fuckin'.... Oh, especially that." He grinned, instantly looking much younger. "And I can't remember the last time they got it right, okay? Like you should try readin' the info on yourself, sometimes."

"Let's eat," said Miles, firmly. He stood up, eager to halt the direction the conversation was heading.

Red rolled his eyes, and linked an arm into Miles' as they were ushered toward the hotel dining room. "That saucy little stick of supermodel ass joinin' us tonight?"

Miles tsked, but his heart wasn't in it. "Don't pretend you like her, Red. I know what you think. Anyway, Remy is busy, as I recall. Another photo shoot. A magazine interview. I think she said something like that."

Red pursed lips that were obviously preparing a characteristically caustic comment about Miles' sometime companion, the model Remy Dion. But, unusually for him, he bit it back.

"What?" Miles frowned.

Red's expression was sympathetic. "Nothin', hon. From the look on your face, it really has been a hell of a day. Let's eat, eh?"

Miles paused, bringing them both to a halt. Behind them, the restaurant manager sucked in a worried breath.

"What you said earlier. I'm not bored," Miles said. "Am I?"

He felt Red tense up. The playboy had known him for a very long time and was shrewd enough to know that Miles didn't trust many people to come close to him. Red had been many places in his life, experienced much more than Miles in many ways. There were few things that either shocked or surprised him. Miles knew he could say anything, and Red would listen. But he couldn't find the right words tonight to express just exactly what it was he was feeling. Anguish? A strange sense of distance and isolation from the world....

Red turned his back on the nervous manager and murmured to Miles. "Is it that bad? Somethin' different happen today? Tell me."

Miles grimaced. Was he that obvious? "I don't know. I don't know what it is."

To his relief, Red didn't press him. "You want to try some place else after dinner?"

Miles glanced up swiftly, catching the flicker of excitement in Red's eyes. He took a deep breath but didn't trust himself to answer. He knew what Red meant; he knew what they often did late at night after the public bars had closed their doors, when one or other of them needed some kind of adventure. It was usually Red who initiated it, but Miles couldn't deny he was often excited by their trips to strange, dark, exclusive clubs and entertainment that cost a small fortune, yet Red assured him was worth every cent.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'." Red smiled. "I've got an invitation to a new place that's very discreet, very fresh. Very wild."

"You said discreet?" asked Miles, keeping his voice low. The manager was pathetically pleased that they were still intent on patronizing his restaurant, and was guiding them personally toward Miles' usual table.

"Hon," drawled Red, "I don't do anythin' else where you're concerned. If you're not sure...."

"No," said Miles. "Count me in. So long as--"

Red nodded, already ahead of him. "You join in as much or as little strikes your fancy. As always. It's just good to have your company."

"Red." Miles felt an unusual rush of gratitude. "Thanks. I'm sure I'll be fine. It's just tiredness."

Red De Vere blinked hard, as if Miles had said something outrageous of his own. "No problem, like I said. Ever." He turned back, directing his charm fully on the hesitant manager. "Now fetch me your wine list and rustle me up a fine Greek salad, okay?" He glanced back at Miles, mischief sparking in his eyes. "I'll be needin' some sunshine in my veins if I'm going huntin' tonight."

It was the next morning, and the sun was way too bright. Or so it seemed to Miles, sitting directly opposite the drawn blinds of the office window. It was eleven a.m., he'd been offered nothing but lukewarm instant coffee by the vendor's lawyer, and he was suffering a mild background hangover from the previous night. Red had taken him to several clubs and plied him with good food and drink and entertainment that ranged from pole dancing to poetry recitation, until Miles had tired of laughing and drinking and watching Red proposition all the best-looking patrons--of both sexes--and had taken a cab home.

He looked around him, trying not to cough from the dust on top of the filing cabinets. The legal practice was a well-established one in the city, and he had no reason to believe they couldn't do the job that was needed, but their office was a perfect study of faded elegance: a building that had been built for more glorious use but was now cluttered with cheap office furniture, shiny carpet, and mismatched drapes. Miles' chair had a painfully sagging seat, and there was an unpleasant background smell of something cooked at least three mealtimes ago. He glared at the man opposite him, almost cowering behind his desk, and wondered where the hell the thousand-dollars-an-hour billable rate was spent.

Apparently--the vendor's lawyer was stuttering--there was some trouble at the gallery property that the Winter Corporation was purchasing. There'd been a break-in.

"Must have used a teaspoon," muttered a third man, slumped in a chair on the other side of the room from Miles. "Must have taken all of twenty seconds to crack those state-of-the-art locks."

Miles swiveled around to look at the speaker. The man was tall and lean, and his legs were folded awkwardly around the legs of his own chair. His hair was a mess of tousled dark curls, caught at the back of his neck in some kind of elastic. Even then, some of it had slipped free, clinging to his slim neck. He was scowling, but Miles couldn't fail to see how striking he was, even through the bad temper. A long, straight nose, thick lips, and wickedly sharp eyes. He looked fit, though his body was restless, as if coiled around some internal energy source, his muscular arms folded tightly across a broad chest. A confrontational stance. His clothes looked as if they came from a thrift shop, but Miles admitted grudgingly to himself that he brought a personal style to them that even Remy and her designers would be envious of. He stared at the man for a long moment, knowing he could usually assess a character within a very short while. In this case, he found himself still staring even after he reckoned he knew who he was dealing with. The realization made him rather uncomfortable.

This was, of course, Zeke Roswell, the owner of the property that had just been sold to Miles, as witnessed by his careful--and Roswell's messy--signature. The owner of a reputation for rudeness and aggressive harassment; the owner of a dwindling collection of once-lauded paintings. The owner of, apparently, a debt the size of Miles' apartment block.

There were many stories about Zeke Roswell, sprung up over the past few years of his checkered life. And about his older brother, the late Jacky Roswell. Miles didn't see any reason to let the other man know how much he, Miles Winter, knew about his life. After all, the information had only been gathered in order to facilitate this deal. A specific, one-off deal.

"Is the problem dealt with now?" He directed his question back to Roswell's lawyer. "Was anything taken or damaged in the burglary?" He ignored the deliberate snort from Roswell himself.

"There was nothing taken, that we know," said the lawyer slowly. He flushed. Miles bit back a sigh of frustration. He often inspired that reaction from people he stared at.

"Jack shit to take," announced Zeke, almost cheerfully. His voice was loud in the hushed, paper-crammed office, rich in tone and absurdly melodramatic. "That's what you mean, don't you? The gallery was stripped out months ago by the loan jackals. Nowadays, my apartment boasts the sumptuous total of three of my unsellable paintings, a microwave, and an exclusive collection of beer-bottle tops. Oh, and there were probably some empty pizza boxes there last night. I ate before I went out to--ah--celebrate my new, homeless status. Then I stayed at a friend's overnight. You want to check my alibi? Want to check whether I even knew the name of this one? I don't usually bother asking if it's someone new. Haven't you heard?"

Miles' lawyer was sitting on the other side of his client in what was probably an equally uncomfortable chair. He stared in shock at Zeke Roswell's outburst, his mouth bobbing like a goldfish's. Zeke's lawyer also briefly closed his eyes. His expression was resigned; Miles suspected the man was probably used to this sort of scene, having apparently worked for the Roswells since the boys' parents died in an accident. From everything Miles had heard, Jacky Roswell had been smart enough, but never reliable; he'd been difficult to deal with. And Zeke Roswell? Miles suspected he was just damned impossible.

Miles shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position and failing. He nodded curtly to Zeke, acknowledging him. "Mr. Roswell. I've seen your work."

Zeke Roswell flashed him a look of pure hostility. "So whoop-de-doo. Bet that enriched your day, Mr. Winter."

Miles paused for a moment, examining the strange vibrations that Zeke's hostility seemed to provoke in him. There was never any excuse for rudeness, of course, even if the negotiations were hostile. In fact, civility could so often be a weapon or a defense in itself. He drew himself up to reply, not without noticing the shudder of nervous anticipation through his lawyer's frame. "I see. I understand that you don't wish to talk about your work. Or your lack of it, in recent months."

Zeke flinched.

Miles continued. "I merely wished to ask what your personal plans were now that we've exchanged contracts. I'm aware that the gallery is also your apartment, and I have no particular plans for the living quarters, so they are still available. I know they include a studio room. Will you wish to paint, yourself?"

"Paint myself? Like greasepaint, you mean?" said Zeke insolently, deliberately misunderstanding. "This place may stink of a circus, but I'm not joining up just yet."

The lawyers winced at the harsh words. Miles wondered at the reasons for such aggression, but he was unfazed. "It was a straightforward enough question, Mr. Roswell, whether you are currently pursuing your artistic ambitions or not. The offer is still there, tenancy of the studio apartment. I sent the terms to your lawyers."

Zeke's lawyer coughed in the background. "You'll remember that letter, Zeke. What you said when I read it to you. What you did with it.... "He winced again. Miles had a strange desire to smile. From the look on the lawyer's face, whatever Roswell had done was probably considered a crime in some states.

Zeke scowled even further, his gaze still on Miles. "You're not interested in my welfare, Winter. I'm just an investment. Right?"

Without raising the volume, Miles let a sharp edge creep into his voice. "Your building is the investment, Mr. Roswell. You would merely be the tenant. You are correct about the negligible level of my interest in you. Right?"

There was a shocked silence. The lawyers exchanged glances across the room, not bothering to hide their concern from their clients. Papers were shuffled nervously.

Zeke recovered himself well, Miles noticed. Six months of sinking, socially, from enfant terrible to embarrassing acquaintance had probably prepared him for such snubs. "Sure. Whatever. Guess I've got to live somewhere. At least until I find something better."

For a moment, Miles and his contract partner glared at each other. There was apparently no one else in the room, as far as Zeke Roswell was concerned.

"All done, then?" Zeke said abruptly. "I can unpack my toothbrush, and Mr. Winter can expand his empire unchecked." He rose to his feet in a slightly shocking rush of limbs and barely controlled emotion. Miles couldn't tell exactly what emotion it was, but then he'd never pursued empathy where people's private lives were concerned. And he was certainly not interested in Zeke Roswell's.

So he didn't know what possessed him to speak again to the man. "You're no friend to yourself, are you, Mr. Roswell?"

Surprisingly, Zeke laughed aloud. "Like it's of any interest to you, Winter. But you aren't the first to say it. Maybe I wasn't looking for a friend--the same way you weren't looking for a tenant--when this whole project started."

Miles stared at him, wondering what he meant. The mixture of hostility and anxiety in the other man's expressive eyes confused him. Zeke's lawyer half-rose from his seat, his hand clutching his client's copy of the signed agreement, which was obviously being completely ignored. Miles' lawyer coughed discreetly, suggesting they should also leave, but Miles held out a hand to quiet him.

Zeke paused at the doorway. He leaned against the frame, and his legs bent slightly as if he were having trouble staying upright. Miles' eyes were drawn to tight black jeans, creasing up around Zeke's knees; the slim band of naked skin showing above his waistband, where an ill-fitting shirt threatened to ride up over his belly.

"So, Mr. Winter, you say you know my work?"

"Yes." Miles nodded. "I have two of your paintings." He didn't state it as either a boast or a challenge. Just a fact.

"Right," drawled Zeke. A look of surprise darted across his features, but he settled quickly back to his previous cynicism. "They were a recommended investment once, eh? Let me guess which ones...."

He obviously expected Miles to protest, to be embarrassed at such a childish party game. Neither happened. Miles just continued to stare at him.

Zeke narrowed his eyes. "It was 4:0615 and 4:TXTS."

Miles felt the tremor of excitement through him. How long had it been since someone had surprised him like that? "4:0615--yes. You couldn't have known that, as I bought through an agent. You're more perceptive than I imagined."

"Nah." Zeke grinned as if he hadn't just been insulted, albeit indirectly, and as if he'd momentarily forgotten his hostility toward Miles and all he stood for. "It fits your profile. 4:0615 for a smart new day. Rich yuppie equals modern abstract painting. What every condo needs on its bathroom wall. Goes with the chrome fittings and the Jacuzzi. And 4:TXTS? For those who substitute real life with new, electronic gadgets...."

"No," interrupted Miles. He took some satisfaction in seeing Roswell bite back his smug words. "I have 4:DRMS, actually."

Zeke sucked in a breath sharply. He looked stunned.

The Roswell lawyer glanced quickly between the two men, maybe worrying that the verbal hostility might develop into something even less civilized. "Excuse my client, Mr. Winter. That was, I believe, the last thing he painted, before ... before the tragic accident with his brother. It has distressing memories for him, as a result."

"Excuse my ass," muttered Zeke. His gaze was fixed on Miles, his eyes almost feverish. "It's full of violence. Didn't you feel that?" He looked shocked, as if Miles shouldn't have known about the painting, let alone bought it. There was curiosity there too. "The colors disturbed even me. It sort of took me over ... I was never sure how I felt about it. Christ, the schemes were just plain crass. I was fucking amazed when somebody bought it, to tell you the truth."

Miles couldn't tear his gaze away from Roswell's bright, angry eyes. The man seemed to have no care for how he appeared to strangers. And he spoke so openly, so fiercely. "Mr. Roswell, I will apologize if what I've said...."

Zeke interrupted him, rudely. "What sort of weird collector are you, Winter? I can't see it fitting on any of your apartment's oh-so-understated wallpapers."

Miles kept his voice both low and emotionless. "I'm color-blind, Mr. Roswell."

"Huh?"

Miles tried not to bite his lip with frustration, though he disliked talking personally about himself like this. "I chose it for the very violence that you say disturbed you. I chose it for its movement. I thought that it illustrated turmoil far more clearly than any mixture of shades or dyes. Which, of course, I would never have appreciated."

The room was silent for several seconds, the air charged with tension.

Then, "Fuck that," said Zeke Roswell, though he sounded more surprised than belligerent. His lawyer made a small, whimpering sound.

Miles stood abruptly, staring back at the astonished artist. He needed to be away from here; he was startled at how strongly he felt that response. "Of course, I need hardly say that you have no idea how I've decorated my apartment, so your assumptions may well have been offensive. However, I also assume that fact doesn't disturb you. I'll send an engineer around to fix your broken lock this afternoon and to collect the first month's rent. Good day, Mr. Roswell."