Page 27 of Undercover Star
Matisse stood politely, and the two men shook hands. Then there were water glasses to fill, menus to peruse, and food selections to be made, and Matisse's heart had time to settle into a steadier beat. He still didn't have a clue what he was doing, but at least he could do it with composure.
"You're thinking of joining the Met, Mr. Vervein?"
Matisse chuckled. "That'd go down well."
"Because of your fans, you mean?"
"Because I'd be a liability. Didn't Josh tell you it's my fault the thief got away? No, of course he didn't. But that's what happened."
Montgomery didn't show any sign of surprise beyond a single raised brow. "Can you tell me your version of events? Why do you think you're at fault?"
"Josh made me wear a wire and earphones, so we could communicate. I'm used to earphones. I'm used to getting stage directions through them, if something needs changing on the fly. I just never talk back. So, when I saw the thief I forgot that I could." Matisse reached for his glass. The ice had melted, but the water was still cool enough to soothe his throat. "Josh was keeping watch on the ground floor, and he didn't find out the thief was there until I said something in surprise. Then I tried to slow the man down to give Josh time to catch up with us. He pulled a knife, and Josh stepped between us."
"You know you're not to blame. Right? I asked for your help, but you're not a police officer. You've never been trained to do what you were faced with, and it was wrong of us to put you in that situation."
It was the same argument Josh had used when he had apologised. Maybe it was a lesson all police officers were taught. Something they all felt strongly about. If he looked at it this way, Josh's goodbye was... logical.
And it still fucking hurt.
"Josh told me you'd had an argument." Montgomery's voice drew him from his thoughts. "I take it he called you out for your error."
Josh had, at first. But that wasn't what their fight had been about. Not really. "I objected to him taking a knife for me when I'd been the one to rile the thief," he said evenly. "You may be unhappy you asked for my help when I'm a civilian, but I'm not a sheep or a toddler who's told what to do. I listened to you and Iagreedto help, which means I take responsibility for my actions."
"You deliberately provoked the thief?"
"I did my best to delay him. He found it provoking." Where the sudden smile came from, Matisse had no idea. He let it curl his lips and got an answering smile in return. "At least we learned he's from Greenock."
"I wondered what new lead Josh was talking about. How did you know?"
"'S where I was born," Matisse answered, letting the familiar accent off its leash. "My family moved to Castle Douglas when I was ten." A fresh start after the accident. New friends and new memories. Plenty of new music.
"Do you still know your way around up there?"
"Sure. Family's still there, and I have friends."
"Then you might just be the man he needs. Have you spoken to him recently?"
"I sent a text and I tried to call, but his phone doesn't answer."
"Ah. Let me fix that for you." Montgomery reached for a napkin, pulled a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, and wrote down a different mobile number. "Use this number. I got the impression he might be glad for a word from you."
––––––––
JOSH HADN'T EXPECTEDto ever hear from Matisse again. Not after the way he'd taken advantage of him. Or lied to him. It hadn't stopped Matisse from invading his mind at all hours of the day or night, whether Josh buried himself in work or tried to sleep.
A myriad of little things reminded him of Matisse: a splotch of deep blue, the exact shade of Matisse's eyes, a flash of long blond hair, tied back, a limo gliding to a stop at a traffic light, music, even someone moving with a similar grace, or the sight of artistically ripped jeans in a shop window.
It was maddening and infuriating and... utterly unexpected. It left him feeling as if he balanced along a narrow ledge, rushing to finish something he'd left undone while in danger of tripping at any moment.
Knowing he didn't deserve a second chance at whatever he'd thrown away didn't mean that he didn't want one. When he was totally honest with himself—at 2.33 a.m., when his brain was fuzzy with exhaustion, when his eyes burned and his heart ached—he could admit that he wanted to see Matisse again. He wanted to cook for him and talk over dinner, and, yes, he wanted to lay Matisse down on that ridiculously huge bed of his and kiss him until they both ran out of air.
Call me if I can help in any way.
The text arrived when Josh had talked himself out of any and all expectations. Rather than hit the delete key, as he rightly should, he stared at the few words for far too long before he returned a briefThank you. His mother had, after all, taught him manners.
Any other lies you want to tell yourself? Jerk.His mind sounded suspiciously like Matisse at that point, but Josh didn't care. Neither did he deny that he found it easier to concentrate than he had before Matisse's text had arrived. That the crushing weight on his chest had lifted a little, as if those few words had thrown him a lifeline.
Not that Josh was planning to reach for that lifeline. He already owed Matisse for his help. And while Matisse had offered more of the same, Josh wasn't going to drag him deeper into his mess. He would catch up with Matisse when he'd solved his case.
