Page 42 of Undercover Star
Matisse had a concert tour to prepare.
Most likely, they'd never cross paths again.
They were so different, not just in the work they did, but also in the way they regarded the world. Josh had seen this right after the gala, when Matisse had still been blinkered to the truth, when he'd thought they could make something of the attraction between them. He knew better now. Ending it here with good memories between them was the most sensible thing to do.
It made no sense that it should hurt so fucking much.
––––––––
MATISSE STAYED ON THEbeach until Josh called him inside for lunch. He'd had a field day with the contents of the freezer and had made bangers and mash with green beans and delicious gravy. They ate in silence, and Matisse had to force himself not to flinch every time Josh touched him.
He wanted to wrap himself around Josh, wind his fingers into the dark curls, and hold on for dear life. He didn't. He couldn't ever go there, because it wouldn't be fair.
Josh had his own life. He'd never have chosen to associate with someone like Matisse if his case, or his boss, hadn't thrown them together. Matisse couldn't drag him into the madness that was his own life, where he had to hide more than he could reveal.
It wouldn't be fair.
They cleared up, put the house to sleep, and made their way to the beach, where theDachaigh, his home away from home, bobbed at her mooring. The sea was calm, the tide was in, and the trip back to Kirkcudbright took barely any time at all. Before Matisse knew it they were in the car and heading south.
They stopped twice for petrol, bathrooms, and water, and Matisse kept his playlist running so they wouldn't have to talk. Unlike their journey north, Josh didn't sleep. He sat, spun into his own thoughts, and watched the scenery, as disinclined to converse as Matisse was.
They had just joined the M40 when Josh sat up straight. He rested his palm lightly on Matisse's thigh, and Matisse felt his gaze like a brand. He expected directions or a goodbye. Maybe a thank you. He didn't expect what came out of Josh's mouth.
"I'd love to keep seeing you when we're back home. Would you... be up for that?"
Chapter Thirteen
"You're looking a lotbetter." Tim Montgomery made the comment during their bi-weekly progress meeting. May had segued into June, the year's longest day had been and gone, and all around them people planned holidays, picnics, and days out. Josh had passed much of the information he'd gleaned from Robert Dunderry, their captured jewellery thief, to the Italian police. The Roman detectives had reopened the investigation into Paul's murder, and the case dealing with the theft of artworks from the Vatican. One of the Italian investigators had been with them for a week, and now the man had returned home, Josh hoped to spend more time with Matisse than they'd recently scraped together. All in all, life was better than it had been in a while, and of course Montgomery wasn't slow to notice.
"It's relief," Josh admitted. "Relief that we made progress, that things are moving again. Relief that we're closer to solving Paul's murder." All the way through his career, teachers, mentors, and superiors had cautioned him against letting cases become personal. Until he'd been told of Paul's death, he'd never quite understood the warning. Taking a case personal skewed his perceptions. It skewed his decision-making, too, but there, at least, he had Montgomery to watch out for him. "I'm grateful you had my back, especially this last year. Having nothing substantial to go on and having to wait for them to make their move was...." He chuckled a little ruefully at the expression on Montgomery's face. "Definitely relief, sir."
"And a certain star has nothing at all to do with it? I heard you were acting bodyguard last night at the premiere. And that you had the crowd drooling as much as Matisse."
"Not even remotely funny, sir," Josh shot back. He had accompanied Matisse to a film premiere, even if it meant letting Lynn dictate his wardrobe choices so the two of them looked good together. He had no idea why she had to choose the most uncomfortable clothes anyone could imagine, but seeing the heat in Matisse's eyes when he looked him over made it worthwhile. For a few minutes, anyhow.
Matisse had been tired, wound up, and—by the end of the evening—in a spectacularly foul mood. Josh had dropped him off at home and then made himself scarce, pleading an early morning appointment. It never did any good trying to coax Matisse from the sullens. Not when his lover was buried to his eyebrows in rehearsals and was handling all manner of last-minute tech troubles at the same time.
