Lessons in Power (25 page)

Orlando had successfully removed his waistcoat and was trying to get the upper hand on his shirt

buttons, which were putting up a manly resistance. “Don’t fancy a dip yourself, Jonty?”

If you were completely sober, most certainly. As it is…
“No, thank you, Orlando. I’ll just go and start the thing running. I’d better find you something to dry yourself on as well.” He busied himself in the bathroom, concentrating madly on the mundane acts of ensuring the right water temperature and finding a decent-sized towel.

“Don’t like it too hot, Jonty.” Orlando appeared in the doorway. He’d secured a surprisingly rapid

victory over the rest of his clothes and was both naked and brazen.

Jonty focussed hard on keeping his gaze above waist level, which was distraction enough as Orlando

had such a lovely, smooth chest, just soft enough to make a luxurious pillow. He wondered how it would feel to spend a night nestling on it.

“Then sort it out yourself. I’ll go and make us a pot of tea, I have a feeling you’ll need it in a minute.”

The refuge of the English in all moments of stress—
I’ll put the kettle on, we’ll have a nice cup of tea.
Jonty had laughed often enough when his female relatives had resorted to it, but now the caddy and the teapot provided a wonderful retreat from temptation.

Someone began to murder elephants in the bathroom.
Oh hell. Oh spite. He’s started to sing and my
misery is now complete.

Eventually the wholesale slaughter (not just of elephants, but of Gilbert and Sullivan, too) came to an end. Jonty heard gurgling water and wet footsteps and an extremely sheepish young man, clad only in

towels, slunk into the kitchen.

“Seem to have disgraced myself, Jonty.”

Jonty sniggered. No matter how alluring a sight he was in those towels, Orlando embarrassed was

always amusing. “Not half as much as you would have done if I hadn’t dissuaded you from bathing in the fountain at St. Thomas’s.”

“I never tried to do that!” Orlando looked horrified. “Did I?”

“You seemed very eager an hour ago, but luckily your friend Jonty can hold his drink.”

“What else have I done? I seem to be in a state of undress, but I can’t remember anything since

drinking that third Black Velvet.”

“You’ve done nothing, honestly, other than strip naked and utilise my bath.” Jonty smiled indulgently at Orlando’s increasing discomfort and pushed a hot cup of tea across the table. “Strong, with plenty of sugar. I think you need the pick-me-up.”

Orlando looked back through the doorway into the main room, saw his discarded clothing and

blanched. “Did I…parade around?”

Jonty felt torn between the delight he took in his friend’s discomfort and the concern that the man’s distress caused him. Concern won the day. “No, never worry, you were really quite discreet.”

He hastily put away the recollection of Orlando standing in the bathroom doorway being anything but

prudent. The man had such an attractive body, there had been such beauty in its brief moment of

shamelessness.

“Should get dressed, I suppose.”

“Have your tea first, I’ve got some Chelsea buns somewhere.” Jonty reached for a tin and extracted

two reasonably fresh ones. “Didn’t get a proper breakfast today and very little since. Think we should both eat.”

Which they did, in silence. The buns provided not only nourishment but an excuse not to have to talk, to simply gather thoughts and regroup. Jonty had an inkling they were on the verge of something

momentous here, if he could keep his friend focused and calm. They hadn’t touched in any significant way since the night in the Fellows’ Garden; Orlando had made sure since then that they’d barely had the chance to even be alone. Jonty understood his motivation, his fears, but he was still deeply frustrated.

He reached a sticky, currant-covered hand over the table and grasped an equally sugary one of

Orlando’s. “It’s just me here with you. Nothing you can do will embarrass or upset me. Always want to sit in the chair next to yours, remember?”

Orlando managed a smile, but the extreme discomfort he must have been feeling was plain. He

shivered. “Feeling a bit cold sitting
here
, Jonty.”

“Well let’s get you next to the fire then. Go and stir some life into the thing while I wrestle another cup out of the pot.”

After a minute or two, Jonty backed into the room bearing a tray with the drinks and some shortbread

he’d discovered. Orlando had coaxed the fire into a cheerful blaze and had then dropped onto the mat

before it, looking rosy and content in the glow. They ate and drank again in companionable silence, Jonty reflecting all the while that his aunts had probably been absolutely right to swear by the civilising and restorative effects of afternoon tea. Being before the fire together felt absolutely blissful.

Orlando broke the tranquillity. “I feel a bit of an idiot sitting here in a towel, with you fully dressed, Jonty. Should be getting dressed myself, I suppose.” Despite what he said, he didn’t show the slightest inclination to take his own advice.

“There is another solution, of course,” Jonty ventured, “for your embarrassment. Another way to

solve the problem. Bear with me for just a moment.” He rose and went into the bathroom, feeling a bit of an idiot as well. This was either going to be a masterstroke or a complete disaster. He found himself a large towel and began to undress.

He hadn’t dared do this in front of Orlando; it would have given the man too much time to become

skittish and object. Anyway, the act of disrobing was never an elegant one. The top half was fine, very alluring it had been to watch Orlando stripping off his jacket and waistcoat, but the bottom half presented all sorts of logistical difficulties. There was the significant risk of hopping around with one leg still in your trousers, which made a very unappetising sight, or worse still, being left in just your socks, which was a complete passion killer. Better to show yourself in the best possible light, he mused, removing the last item, the offending socks, and draping the towel around himself. He took a very deep breath and went back into the main room.

“Now we’re equal.” Jonty took his place next to his friend in front of the hearth. Orlando’s jaw had

dropped when he saw his friend, draped like a Greek statue, entering the room. Jonty could imagine him struggling to regain his composure but failing.

“You absolute oaf!” Orlando started to laugh, which was a rare enough occurrence at any time and

one that always set Jonty off giggling as well. They didn’t stop until the tears were streaming down their faces.

“Oh, Orlando—your face. I’ve not seen you so shocked since that lady from Girton invited you to step

outside with her and admire the wallflowers.”

Orlando blushed at the remembrance. Jonty knew he really did hate talking to women and this one

had been rather too persistent.

Orlando looked across at his friend and noticed the small, exquisite gold crucifix around his neck.

“May I?” He reached over and began to finger it gently. “This is a lovely piece of workmanship. Do you wear it often?”

“Always.” Jonty smiled. “My grandmother bought it for me when I came up to Bride’s as a student.

I’ve worn it every day that I’ve been at the college, now and before.”

Orlando kept rubbing the delicate gold chain until his fingers must have grown numb and sought for

softer contact. Letting the necklace go, he tentatively traced the line of Jonty’s collarbone. “This is a lovely piece of workmanship, too. And this.” His hand worked its way down his friend’s chest, toying with the hairs that were sparsely scattered along the way.

The road back to bestsellerdom can be deadly.

Somebody Killed His Editor

© 2009 Josh Lanyon

Holmes & Moriarity, Book 1

Thanks to an elderly spinster sleuth and her ingenious cat, Christopher Holmes has enjoyed a

celebrated career as a bestselling mystery writer. Until now. Sales are down and his new editor is allergic to geriatric gumshoes.

On the advice of his agent, he reinvents his fortyish, frumpy, recently dumped self into the sleek, sexy image of a literary lion, and heads for a Northern California writers conference to try and resurrect his career. A career nearly as dead as the body he stumbles over in the woods.

In a weirdly déjà vu replay of one of his own novels, he finds himself stranded in an isolated lodge

full of frightened women—and not a lawman in sight. Except for J.X. Moriarity, former cop and bestselling novelist. The man with whom he shared a one-night stand—okay, maybe three—long ago. The man who

wants to arrest him for murder.

A ruthless, stalking killer, or a hot, handsome ex-lover. Which poses the greater danger? It’s

elementary, my dear Holmes!

Warning:
This book contains a washed-out bridge, an isolated hunting lodge, desperate writers,
guilty secrets, a killer on the loose, and one very hot ex-cop who wants his former lover in handcuffs—for
all the wrong reasons!

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Somebody Killed His Editor:

Someone was howling—a thin, breathless cry that was, in fact, more breath than cry.

Me.

Far from splitting the night, my bleat barely carried three feet, so I had no trouble hearing my

attacker’s exasperated,
“What. The. Fuck?”

I knew that voice.

I bit off the rest of my screech and sat up, wincing as pain shot up my spine. I was sitting in a puddle, ice-cold water soaking through my trousers. The last time I remembered being decked had been a

playground rumble at Our Holy Mother. I’d been thirteen. My bounce had been better back then. Now I felt like I’d wrenched every muscle in my already worn-out body. And my back…I’d be lucky if I wasn’t

crippled for a month. I wiped the mud off my face.

“I am
so
going to sue your ass,” I spluttered.

“Well, what the
hell
are you doing out here?” J.X. demanded.

No apology seemed forthcoming. Also, I couldn’t help noticing, neither was help from the lodge.

Were we too far away to be heard? Not a happy thought.

“What do you think I’m doing? I’m going to my cabin.”

“Crawling on your hands and knees?”

“I wasn’t
on
my hands and knees till you knocked me down.”

“You sure as hell were skulking in the bushes.”

“I heard something—you—and I was making sure it was safe.”

He continued to stare down at me. I wished I could see his face. His motionless outline caused my

scalp to prickle. Then he reached down a hand.

His hand was warm on my chilled one. Again I was aware of his wiry strength. He wasn’t much taller

than me, but he was in a hell of a lot better shape. He pulled me to my feet and dropped my hand.

“What are
you
doing out here?” I asked, uneasily rubbing the twinging small of my back.

“Grabbing a log for my fireplace.” He reached past me and picked up a nice stout sawed-off limb.

“It’s going to be a cold night.” He picked up another log. “Here’s one for you.”

“Thanks.” I stepped out of range, trying not to be too obvious about it. Not that I didn’t appreciate the gesture, but there was something unconvincing in his manner. What had he been looking for out here?

J.X. still held out the log. I took it gingerly.

“I’ll see you to your cabin.”

I followed him down the dirt path that cut across the open field toward the cabins. The sodden clouds had parted and a lackluster moon gilded everything in unnatural light. In the absence of the rain and wind, the stillness seemed uncanny.

Mostly to fill the uncomfortable silence between myself and J.X., I said, “There’s something eerie

about the stillness.”

“It’s the eye of the storm.”

“You mean there’s more rain on the way?”

“Oh yeah. We’re a couple of hours away from another downpour.”

“Great.”

“Which is your cabin?”

“That one—with the lights on.”

He said sharply, “Did you leave the light on?”

“Yes.” I cast a quick glance at his silvered profile. “Why? You don’t really think I’m in any danger, do you?”

“No.”

“You could try to sound a little more convincing.”

What he sounded was irritable. “You had to go around telling everyone Peaches had been murdered,

didn’t you?”

“That’s it.” I stopped walking. The glassware rattled to a halt with me. “We need to have this out here and now.” I was talking to his back. “
Hey
.”

He kept walking. I had to trot to catch up—which irritated me further.

“Listen,” I said, “I did not tell anyone
anything.
Peaches was everybody’s candidate for unnatural selection. From the minute I said I found her in the woods, people were speculating about how she died.”

“And you encouraged their speculation.”

“I didn’t. I didn’t say anything one way or the other. I didn’t
know
anything one way or the other. I still don’t.”

J.X. stopped walking. His voice was low. “We both know she was killed.”

I swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”

He nodded.

“Did you tell the sheriffs?”

“Yep.”

He started walking again. After a few seconds of thought, I tagged after.

As we reached my cabin, he asked, “You want me to take a look inside?”

I hesitated. If he was a homicidal maniac, this was his big chance. No one had seen us walk out here

together. Certainly no one had responded to my shouts.

On the other hand, what if the homicidal maniac was hiding under my bed? I didn’t feel up to dealing

with it on my own.

I unlocked the door and pushed it open. The first sight to meet our gaze was my brand-new silk

jockstrap lying on the floor next to the bed. Scarlet silk. I mean…

“I had no idea,” J.X. murmured.