The Wish Read online

  Despite his sorrow at his uncle’s passing, Paul smiled, fondly recalling the two men who were like fathers to him, filling the void created when his own father died in a senseless mugging when Paul was a boy. The example they’d set would be hard to follow. Still, he hoped someday he, too, would have a loving, enduring relationship like theirs. He promised himself, and his uncle, not to settle for anything less.

  Those generous-to-a-fault men would have spoiled him if he’d let them, but all Paul wanted was their time and their love. He neither needed nor wanted their money. He’d financed his education with money from his father’s life insurance policy, and during college and after graduation he’d worked hard to save for the down payment on his store, once more refusing to accept handouts from the wealthy couple when they’d offered. Instead, he’d purchased an older building in need of repairs and lovingly refurbished the relic with his own hands—his proudest achievement.

  He’d never be rich and didn’t want to be. Even without the uncles’ help, he lived comfortably, managing to tuck away a little for a rainy day. Unlike that fool Alex Martin, he thought bitterly. The worthless asshole had never done an honest day’s work in his life and greedily accepted anything and everything offered, acting entitled to the money and never acknowledging Alfred and Byron’s generosity for the gift it was. The ungrateful bastard repaid the kindness by never setting foot in his uncle’s house, except to ask for a new car or a new condo, or some equally expensive status symbol. Why, Alfred’s nephew never once, to Paul’s knowledge, even called to ask about Byron’s health in the months the poor man had been sick. Small wonder that in twenty-six years, Paul hadn’t met the man, and he’d been content not to. It mystified him that both his uncle and Alfred truly adored the slacker, and the unconditional love extended beyond mere familial obligation. They turned a blind eye to Alex’s faults or excused them with a chuckled, “Oh, that’s Alex being Alex.”

  Paul stared out over the hazy skyline, huge, fluffy snowflakes starting to fall, making him pull the homemade quilt tighter around his slender frame. Yes, he’d make his way back to Los Angeles and support the man who meant the world to him, and woe be to the spoiled Alex Martin if the bastard chose to show his arrogant face!

  3

  WHEN the announcement came for first class, Alex boarded the plane and was already seated and sipping a feeble excuse for a gin and tonic by the time the poor schlubs began migrating toward coach. With any luck, he’d catch a brief nap once airborne, something he desperately needed after his late night.

  Thinking back to the one-nighter he’d picked up at the club, he couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of disappointment. Even while insinuating himself between the obvious couple, he’d held out the hope that they’d merely laugh at his interruption and continue with each other or even confront him in righteous indignation for daring to intrude. It hadn’t happened. Instead, one had recognized Alex and taken the bait, prompting his lover to retaliate. No matter how many times he used the same tired old ploy, it always ended the same way. Was anyone in a committed relationship anymore?

  Closing his eyes, Alex contemplated the answer to his question. Uncle Alfred and Byron had had such a relationship. Alex seriously doubted anyone ever stood a chance of coming between those two. He wondered what would happen now. Would his uncle be able to move on and find someone new, or was he destined to mourn for the rest of his days?

  Making a quick decision, Alex decided to stay for a while, spend time with the man who’d filled the father figure role in his life, and attempt to help ease the pain Alfred certainly must be feeling. Yes, he’d play consoler, and once convinced his uncle would be okay, he’d get back to his life. It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks, right? At the very least, he owed an extended visit to the beautiful men of Los Angeles, to sample what the city offered. Satisfied with his plan, he smiled and relaxed into his seat, falling asleep before the plane left the ground.

  THE hastily packed car idled in gridlock, on a slow approach to the choking haze encircling Los Angeles. Paul loved his visits, but only because of his uncles and Alfred and not the city itself, which he hated. He loved clean air and the great outdoors—things not found in the city. One more reason he hadn’t objected when his mother moved them back to Bishop, California, following his father’s brutal murder. Plus, hearing his mother go on about how his poor father would still be alive if he hadn’t followed his brothers to the big city had further influenced Paul’s decision of where to live.

  Sighing in frustration, he flipped through his collection of compact disks in search of something calming to help shake off painful remembrances best left in the past. Locating a CD he’d forgotten, a leftover from a former lover, he inserted the disk into the player of his older-model Ford, smiling as the familiar strains of a classical guitar filled the car. Jordan had excellent taste in music. What a pity he hadn’t had the same goals in life, or the morals, Paul did. The lack of moral fiber eventually ended their relationship. Regardless of Jordan’s lack of fidelity, Paul had truly loved the man, and the betrayal hurt deeply. The bitter memories didn’t stop him from enjoying the CD, for he cherished the reminder of happier times. Besides, his uncle and Alfred loved it.

  Thanks to his Uncle Byron and the man’s de facto spouse, Paul knew what kind of relationship he wanted, even if he’d failed miserably thus far in creating one. He was realist enough to know he might never find the life partner he longed for, and dreamer enough not to quit looking. He was just taking a “temporary hiatus.” A long temporary hiatus. Uncle Byron had been twenty-four when he’d found the one destined to share his life; at the time, Alfred had been forty-six. Paul sincerely hoped it wouldn’t take him twenty more years—too long a time to be lonely.

  By the time the third music track ended, traffic began moving again, albeit slowly: another reason he hadn’t moved back to the city when his uncles begged him to. He also maintained a staunch belief that whatever he achieved in life he’d do on his own, and sweethearts that they were, the two benevolent men wouldn’t have been able to keep themselves from meddling. He’d even warned them long ago to stop fixing him up with rich, eligible men and allow things to happen naturally, being a firm believer in fate.

  When he finally pulled into the gated drive of the house he considered a second home, Paul was exhausted. A few sleepless nights while forced to stay in Bishop and arrange for the management of his store—before taking an extended leave of absence—didn’t help matters. Tired and unfocused, the last thing he needed was entering the gates in the back of Alfred’s black Escalade and pulling to a stop before the front entrance—the man he’d spent much of his life avoiding.

  With suspicious eyes, Paul watched the tall blond unfold long legs and stand beside the vehicle, scanning the surroundings like a master surveying his territory before settling a sky-blue gaze on his observer. Paul supposed the man meant the gesture to appear accidental, and anyone else might have believed that.

  Thanks to his uncle and Alfred, Paul’s exposure to Hollywood types left him able to recognize the calculating, assessing perusal for what it surely was: he was being measured, and he hoped the arrogant beast liked the view, because an eyeful was all the asshole would ever get. Enough pictures lay scattered around the house for Paul to identify Alexander Martin in the flesh. Even if there weren’t, the stranger bore an unmistakable resemblance to Alfred.

  While pretending to ignore the new arrival, Paul couldn’t help noticing the man was just as good-looking, and probably every bit as arrogant, as he’d imagined. He forced his eyes away, listening in on instructions to the driver of the Escalade, Isaac, about luggage, as if Alex wasn’t capable of carrying his bags for himself with his gym-rat body.

  Eyes carefully averted, Paul removed his own bag from the trunk of his car, not wanting to bother the staff with something easily handled by himself. Resolve holding until the man’s back turned, Paul gave in to his curiosity and scrutinized the well-built body belonging to one of the last liv
ing members of a prestigious “old money” family, and the heir to Alfred’s substantial fortune.

  Born five years before Paul, pictures didn’t do justice to the flesh-and-blood man. Alex stood at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a firm, nicely rounded backside, well displayed in tailored pants. Paul definitely understood how such a man acquired the reputation of a heartbreaker. Blessed with the killer combination of looks and money, Alex Martin would be a hit in the club back in Bishop. Although Paul received numerous offers during his infrequent visits, he usually left the club alone. He suspected the gorgeous Alex wouldn’t be as picky.

  Paul reminded himself that Alex Martin was a waste and a loser, holding firmly to his belief that money didn’t make a man a good person—the opposite holding true in many cases. Judging from the gossip he’d heard over the years, Alex was far from a good man, even if Alfred and Uncle Byron casually discounted his transgressions. All the man was good for, in Paul’s eyes, was holding out a hand and living the good life, with nary a thought for anyone else.

  Duffel in hand, Paul bustled down the walk leading to the rear entrance of the house, closer to his room. As he’d done for most of his life, he pretended to ignore Alex Martin’s existence even while hoping the presence of three large suitcases didn’t mean the bastard intended to stay long.

  THE shadow that had in life been Byron Sinclair would have sighed if still capable of breath. Focus as he might, the best he accomplished was a mere trembling of the picture frames. About to give up his futile endeavors, Bernard’s timely arrival inspired a new plan.

  Although the normally logical butler kept any personal interests carefully hidden, Byron knew Bernard held a keen fascination for the paranormal, and hoped to use his influence to prod the man into accomplishing his goals for him. Positioning himself behind the fastidious servant, he shouted, “Bernard? Bernard!” only to be frustrated when the man didn’t hear him. He usually got a response before the name was out of his mouth the first time! The ostrich feather duster never faltered, brushing back and forth over the leather desktop as Bernard bent to the task of cleaning Alfred’s already spotless office.

  “Please, Bernard! This is important!” Byron implored.

  He was about to give up hope when a blue-veined hand tentatively rose and wiped at an ear, as though brushing away an annoying fly. Encouraged, Byron focused every bit of his energy into communication, pouring out his intentions and praying for a response. “Bernard, this is what I need you to do….”

  His efforts finally paid off. The butler straightened, features scrunched into a puzzled frown as he studied his employer’s desk. “Now, what’re those doing here?” he muttered, removing two of the three photos sitting on the surface, leaving only the picture of Paul. He placed the other two on the mantel above the fireplace.

  Task accomplished, the unnoticed shadow pumped its fist in the air in triumph and hastily fled the room, anxious to see his nephew who, although Paul didn’t know it yet, had just come home.

  FEELING a bit disoriented, Bernard left the ground-floor office, quickly forgetting his confusion when he spotted Paul standing in the hallway.

  “Bernard!” the young man exclaimed, dropping an overloaded bag to the floor and then gripping him in an enthusiastic hug.

  Bernard returned the heartfelt greeting, gasping when the intense embrace knocked the wind from him. “Hello, Paul. How wonderful to see you! How was the drive down?”

  He stepped back and attempted to take the duffel out of habit, only to be stopped by a firm hand on his arm. “I can get my own bag, thanks,” Paul said, slinging the loaded duffel over his shoulder. “Traffic was a bear, as always. It’s good to be back.” The bright smile disappeared, the happy expression turning grave. “Tell me, how’s Alfred holding up? I know this is a terrible blow. We both thought Uncle Byron was getting better.”

  “He’s holding up, though I fear he’s still in denial. Come, let’s get you settled into your room, and then I’ll take you to see him.” Leading the way to the sweeping staircase that led to the upper floors, Bernard paused on the first step, suddenly forgetting his destination. Why in heaven’s name was he taking Paul to the green room? He turned to the man at his side, who wore an equally puzzled expression, and bowed his head in embarrassment. “I’m afraid the mind is the first thing to go,” he muttered. “Of course you’ll want your usual room across from Byr… I mean, across from Alfred’s.”

  Paul clapped him on the shoulder affectionately. “That’s okay, Bernard. I can find my room by myself.” He jokingly added, “Unless you’ve moved it while I was away.”

  Bernard shook his head and smiled weakly at the attempted humor. “No, we haven’t moved it. Although….” He struggled to remember what he’d been about to say. When the thought didn’t return, he settled for, “How wonderful to have you back where you belong.”

  “Thank you,” Paul replied, turning down the east wing hallway to the room he’d stayed in, whenever visiting, since boyhood. Bernard watched him go, wondering why an extra shadow trailed behind him.

  THE spirit of Byron Sinclair celebrated another little victory. Alfred meant well by his direct approach of putting the two men close together. However, experience and careful observation had taught Byron that standoffish Alex resented intrusions and intruders, effectively nipping any matchmaking plans in the bud.

  No, dealing with temperaments like Paul’s and Alex’s required subtlety and finesse. Byron had years of practice at both.

  4

  “WILL that be all, sir?” The driver deposited Alex’s belongings in the blue room, his admiring gaze clearly conveying hopes that the answer might be no.

  Alfred employed Isaac as a groundskeeper, handyman, and, when the occasion warranted it, driver. While Alex knew some of his peers might think it low class to seduce the help, Isaac’s ebony skin and wanton willingness had tempted him before, and he’d succumbed. Who could blame him? Isaac obsessed about his body, and worked hard on his appearance. The efforts paid off spectacularly.

  Alex actually preferred men with a slighter build, but for a casual fuck, his only prerequisites were “attractive” and “exciting.” The bulging muscles and shoulder-length dreadlocks also served to set Isaac apart from dime-a-dozen club boys. He was near Alex’s age, too, and mature enough to understand that one fuck did not a commitment make. Sadly, regardless of his exoticism and availability, Alex had had him—and simply wasn’t interested anymore. Besides, someone new lurked in the house to provide a worthy distraction if things worked in Alex’s favor, and they usually did.

  After dismissing the disappointed servant, Alex left his room in search of his uncle. He’d been afraid to visit during the last few months of Byron’s illness, though he’d called frequently, hoping they’d understand his absences didn’t indicate a lack of caring. Caring was never the problem. He loved Alfred and Byron both wholeheartedly. The problem lay in Alex’s massive case of cowardice.

  Too late now to turn back the clock and own up to his responsibilities in regards to Byron, but better late than never with Alfred. Alex was here now and would do his best to assist his uncle through this time of sorrow. Regardless of the numerous times Alfred had repeated the sentiment, Alex wasn’t entirely convinced of the old man’s sincerity when he said, “I’m fine.”

  Midway down the marble staircase, Alex stopped in his tracks, spotting his aged uncle, eyes closed and smiling broadly, embracing the attractive stranger who’d caught his attention outside. A vague sense of familiarity swept over him, but where he’d seen the man before he couldn’t say. Boy-next-door handsome as opposed to drop-dead gorgeous, despite his small stature the newcomer possessed a casual elegance one didn’t soon forget—not to mention a killer ass.

  With narrowed eyes, Alex watched the two kiss each other on the cheek, and when Alfred wrapped an arm around slim shoulders and led the way down the hall, it appeared more a fatherly gesture than the affection of a lover. Still, due to his uncle’s strict upbring
ing, even with Alfred’s longtime love, public displays of affection were kept to a minimum. And they’d shared a genuine love, which no one could deny. However, Byron had been ill for an awfully long time before he died, and having been over twenty years younger proved age differences weren’t a problem for Alfred.

  Could Alfred have already found a replacement for the man who, at this exact moment, lay in a casket at the funeral parlor? Even without proof, the possibility disappointed Alex. The older couple presented a shining example of men in a monogamous, committed relationship. To discover he’d been mistaken about the depth of what they’d shared—well, it nearly toppled Alex’s idols from their pedestals.

  For a moment he considered retreating to his room and waiting until the stranger left, but immediately discarded the idea. This was his uncle’s house, and no interloper was going to come in and take Byron’s place easily. About to follow the pair down the hall, he heard the snick of a closing door, followed by retreating footsteps. Perhaps Uncle Alfred was alone now and he could get some answers.

  His soft knock on the office door was answered by the familiar gruff baritone of his mother’s only sibling, bidding him to come in. The smile lighting the still handsome face of his uncle as he entered did Alex’s heart good. No matter what happened in life, Uncle Alfred remained a constant, someone to depend on. When Alfred struggled unsteadily to his feet, icy fear clutched Alex’s heart. Gone was the robust gentleman of memory who could take on the world single-handedly, replaced by a frail, silver-haired senior in the waning years of life.

  “Uncle, are you not well?” Alex asked in genuine concern. Though he stood to inherit more money than any one man might need in a lifetime upon Alfred’s death, he had no wish for that to happen anytime soon.