Based on characters played by MS and LC in "Cassidy" and "Codename: Wildgeese," respectively

Charlie was walking out of his life, and she was taking Cassidy's records with her. He could almost hear his father saying, "You've botched it, Jay. Haven't you learned anything from me? Anything at all?"

Griffin turned away, not wanting to watch her leave.

He went back to the airport bar and had another drink and another cigarette. Nothing seemed any clearer, of course. He knew that Charlie hated him for who he was, while he hated what she had done. Irreconcilable differences. Perhaps his father would have understood after all.

Two hours later, the limo took him home to the Melville estate high in Victoria Park, overlooking the harbour.

The new houseservant, Kee, bowed a welcome and told him Robin Wesley was waiting for him in the study.

"Wesley can wait. I'll see him later." He went up to his room and took off his suit. He had a shower that did nothing to refresh him and changed into a baggy white linen shirt and slacks.

When he came downstairs, he avoided the study. He poured himself a brandy and took it out to the terrace. Twilight was settling over Hong Kong and lights were beginning to dust the harbour and the crowded mass of buildings of Kowloon. The late spring air was heavy. The summer would be hotter than usual.

"Mister Griffin, sir, Mr. Wesley is still waiting for you in the study."

Griffin turned to look at the nervous young face of his servant. "I know. I'll see him when I'm ready. You can tell him that if you like."

Kee swallowed noticeably and bowed. Griffin wondered if the boy was remembering the untimely death of his predecessor. "Never mind. I'll see him now. Here."

The Oriental seemed openly relieved, answering quickly. "Yes, sir, very good, sir," and hurried off.

Griffin sipped at his brandy and frowned into the distance. He didn't want to deal with Wesley, but his father had effectively taken that choice from him.

"So, did you get Cassidy's records from the girl?"

The smooth voice instantly set his nerves on edge. He placed his snifter on the wide railing and slowly met Robin Wesley's basilisk stare.

"No."

"Did you offer her enough?"

Griffin's jaw tightened. "Yes. She didn't want it."

Wesley just raked him up and down once, slowly, then nodded. "Your father thought you'd appeal to her. Ah, well." He walked over to the railing and leaned back against it casually, one hand brushing an unseen wrinkle from his silk tie. He cocked his head and gave Griffin an eyecorner glance. "She could be killed," he said softly.

The brandy glass tipped, crashing to the terrace floor. "What did you say?"

Wesley noted the broken glass with the lift of an eyebrow. "She could have a fatal accident. Happens to people all the time."

Glass crunched under Griffin's shoes as he closed the space between them. His finger stabbed the air in front of Wesley's face. "If anything happens to Charlie, you're a dead man. Understand, Wesley?"

Robin only shrugged, his full lips curling slightly. "So, you did fall for her. Your father was worried about that."

Griffin took a step back, exhaling. He felt suddenly as if he had been angry for a long, long time and one more thing, just one more, and he would lose control. At least it was Wesley pushing him to the edge; there wouldn't be any remorse to worry about.

Apart from everything else, he detested knowing how much his father had confided in the man.

"I meant what I said," he intoned.

"Don't worry. There's no point in getting rid of her now. Wouldn't gain up a thing. Cassidy's records are beyond our reach." The veiled blue eyes gazed over his shoulder.

Kee stood silently in the doorway, a dustpan and whiskbroom in his hands. He bowed towards Griffin and gestured questioningly at the shards of glass.

Before he could say anything, Wesley spoke again. "I brought some contracts that require your signature and there are a number of other pressing business matters that we need to discuss. The paperwork is in the study. Shall we?" He walked back into the house without waiting for a reply.

A few seconds stretched by before Griffin managed to nod to Kee and force his legs to move. "Please bring me another brandy when you finish cleaning up. Bring it into the study."

The study, unlike the rest of his father's house, was ultramodern and spare, lacking the profusion of costly paintings and antiques typical of the other rooms. There was nothing decorating the pale, blue-gray walls. There were no bookshelves or file cabinets to be seen. No conventional desk, just a huge marble-topped table supported by shiny black steel legs. A long, dark leather couch stood against one blank wall. On the opposite side of the room, the lights of Hong Kong could be seen faintly through the thick smoked-glass picture window. Special track lighting picked out the corners and pooled around the only ornaments in the room; two matching porcelain vases, decorated with five-clawed dragons that dated back to the Cheng Te reign of the Ming dynasty. They were splendid, if incongruous, additions to the otherwise stark furnishings. Even in this deliberately functional room, if was as if his father could not quite bear to be without something to satisfy his love of art and beauty.

Wesley was throwing his suit jacket on the sofa and loosening his tie. His attache case lay on the marble table beside the console phone and small FAX machine. He walked over to the table and began keying in the combination to the locks on his case as he sat down in the imposing chair.

There was something not quite right about Robin Wesley. Griffin has sensed it from the beginning, but couldn't seem to put his vague uneasiness into words. He knew his father attributed it to jealous resentment on Griffin's part, but that wasn't true. At least, not entirely.

"You're in my chair."

Wesley looked up at him without expression. He flipped open the attache and pushed it to the end of the table. "Yes, of course. My apologies," he said, with a politeness that was almost irritating. With a slight, deferential nod, he stood and moved to one side.

"How long is this going to take?" Griffin asked as he seated himself.

Wesley removed several thick file folders and legal documents before he answered. "Shouldn't take more than a few hours."

"Hours?!"

"These contracts can't wait and I think it would be prudent for you to understand what they're about, don't you?"

They eyed each other silently until Wesley finally spoke again. "Your father's will was very specific."

Griffin could feel the color rising in his cheeks at the reminder. He picked up the gold Mont Blanc pen from its place on the phone console and began tapping it against the marble top. "Get on with it then."

Kee delivered his brandy and, aside from several phone calls that Wesley had been expecting, they were not interrupted.

Over three hours later, Griffin rubbed at his eyes and ran a hand nervously through his thick hair. "These deals will sell off over 15% of Melville International."

Arms resting along the back of the sofa, Wesley waved a hand in the air. "I told you, we have no option." He let out a sigh. "All right, here are the unvarnished facts, no doubletalk: we've got serious problems with the Burmese operations. Khun Sa's refineries have been hit one after the other. Seems the WNA's been receiving some very reliable tip-offs on their locations and they've been blowing them up. Of course, it could be the Karen National Union, or maybe a new alliance altogether. Even Khun Sa's not sure who's responsible. In any case, for once, he seems to be on the defensive and, naturally, that's hurting M.I.'s profits. He's one of our major clients, after all."

Griffin stared at him blankly.

Wesley frowned in return, started to speak again, then paused. "You do know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

"Who's Khun Sa?"

It was Wesley's turn to stare. "You're joking."

"Just tell me."

The surprise on Wesley's face turned to pensiveness. Griffin waited, wondering if the man would answer his question or not.

Index finger tapping lightly at his upper lip, Wesley seemed to be gathering his thoughts. He sat up straight and looked at Griffin. "Khun Sa controls most of the heroin traffic out of the Golden Triangle. He describes himself as the leader of one of the nationalist movements in Burma, but he's really the biggest opium warlord in Asia. He cut a deal with Rangoon; they give him free rein along the border in exchange for protection from some of the other factions trying to topple the government, such as it is. He also had the Laotian government in his back-pocket, or maybe wallet would be a better word. He's built most of his opium refineries in northern Laos and he's had no interference, until about a year ago. The WNA, the Wa National Army, is another self-styled 'independence movement,' but they're really vying for a piece of Khun Sa's pie. They've been battling for years. They've recently allied themselves with Taik Aun, the leader of the Burmese Communist Party and now they're strong enough to control some of the key opium areas. The situation is very unstable."

"Communists?"

Wesley gave him an indulgent smile. "It does make the ideology a little murky, doesn't it? But then, most of the heroin-refining chemicals come straight out of mainland China. Maybe they feel if the stuff goes to capitalist swine, it doesn't count. Business is business, I guess. Especially nowadays, when the heroin market's booming." He laughed softly, then sound tinged with unexpected bitterness. "With all the attention on cocaine and crack, the damn narcs don't realize that the international heroin market is going to skyrocket. Demand is doubling. The crack junkies are using it more and more, 'speedballing' to smooth out and stretch their highs. Very utilitarian, heroin. You can smoke it, you know. It's getting very trendy, in fact, especially with all the worry about contaminated needles and such. They call it, 'chasing the dragon.' Colorful, don't you think? Almost makes becoming an addict sound like an adventure."

Griffin wondered what kind of reaction Wesley expected from him. He squared his shoulders and picked up one of the legal briefs scattered across the table and stared blindly at the print. "Selling off that much M.I. means we can't go through with the Geneva deal. We'll have to pull out of the merger." He glanced up in time to meet Wesley's penetrating look.

"Yes, of course, if that's your first concern. We won't have enough collateral to swing the deal."

"My father wanted that merger to go through."

Wesley stood and strolled over to the window. "Why do you think he was so intent on getting hold of Cassidy's papers? He knew there was trouble with Khun Sa. A lot of investments are involved. The damage could be significant. If we'd been able to acquire Cassidy's records, then it wouldn't have mattered. They were worth close to $400 million to M.I. Now, as it is, you should consider liquidating more assets. Play it safe while you can."

"Marius Melville never played it safe."

"You're not your father."

Griffin rose from his chair and crossed the room to Wesley. "You think it's my fault we didn't get those papers from Charlie."

"If you had made better use of your cock and kept your emotions out of it, maybe it would have turned out differently. Seems your track record's much better with men."

Griffin backhanded Wesley hard across the mouth.

The taller man staggered from the unexpected blow, but almost immediately his body seemed to coil, muscles bunching to retaliate.

Griffin could see the effort at control playing across the other man's face and reveled at it. It galled him to realize he couldn't even fire the arrogant bastard.

A dot of blood appeared on Wesley's upper lip and he dabbed at it with his fingertips, staring down at the red stain. The tension seemed to ebb from him as he drew a deep breath and released it.

"A courier will arrive for the contracts tomorrow," he began, his voice remarkably level. "Our attorneys need them as soon as possible. We can't afford to waste too much time." He calmly reached over and picked up his jacket. "I'll be staying here indefinitely."

"I don't want you in this house."

"There's a Board meeting in Central on Friday. Do you think you can handle it alone? Do you even know what's on the agenda? I'm beginning to see how little you know, or care, about your father's business."

"Conrad or DiSalvo can fly in from London and brief me."

Wesley shook his head and grinned, blood spotting his lip again. "I'm Operations Director for Melville International. They get their information and their orders from me. That's how your father wanted it. And you're going to learn the business from me because that's also how your father wanted it."

Griffin buried his clenched fists in his trouser pockets.

"Kee took my bag to one of the guest rooms. I'll see you in the morning." With that, Wesley turned and walked away. At the door, he paused and called back over his shoulder, "Sign the contracts, Jay."

Later that night, in his bedroom, Griffin set up his laptop and ran one of the diskettes he'd retrieved from his father's wallsafe. With great care, he studied the detailed personnel file on Robin Wesley.

He already knew the basics facts about the man: his connection with the late and powerful William Brenner, a business associate of his father's, his background as a highly-paid mercenary; his expertise with computers; his wide-ranging contacts in both the underworld and the world of international finance.

The combination of facts was strange enough, but it still didn't pin down the out-of-sync feeling Griffin had about the man.

After an hour of staring at the computer screen and discovering more about Robin Wesley than he comfortably wanted to know, Griffin gave up and settled back against the pillows with a sigh of frustration. The information confused rather than enlightened him.

Wesley was anything but a saint, but he wasn't any dirtier than most of the company's top circle of employees. He was undeniably ruthless, ambitious, and smart. The very traits Marius Melville most admired.

"You've got your mother's looks and style, Jay, but there's a little of me in you. At times I find it hard to believe you're my son..."

The occasion surrounding the memory blurred, but the words taunted him still because Griffin knew in his heart that his father loved him.

Yet Robin Wesley was the kind of son Marius Melville wanted.

Griffin tried to sleep but his mind kept playing back images of Charlie, images of his father. They were both gone from his life, but he felt their presence as strongly as if they were in the same room. Feelings that were too close to hatred, too close to love, battered at him.

By the time the dawnlight seeped into his room, he managed to drift into a doze, but even his sleep was troubled, and he dreamed of Charlie fading away, her body dissolving in pieces as he tried to touch her.

A noise woke him, the sound of his door opening and closing. When he blinked into awareness, he saw Robin Wesley standing by the bed staring down at him.

The man was already dressed in snug gray slacks and pullover. The close-fitting material emphasized Wesley's athletic build. There was no softness to him. As Griffin tried to sit up, Wesley reached out and lifted the quilt. The blue eyes traveled presumptuously over his body before Griffin could yank the quilt back into place.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Wesley only shrugged. "Just wondered if you still slept in the nude." Then he touched a fingertip to Griffin's left earlobe, just below the small gold stud. "Not quite nude. I like it, but I think a diamond would suit you better."

"Get the hell out of here."

Wesley sauntered to the door. "It's almost ten. Shall I have Kee bring you some breakfast or will you have it on the terrace?"

"You have a bloody hell of a nerve."

"Does that mean you don't want breakfast?"

"It means don't bother getting comfortable. I'm going to get rid of you as soon as I can."

Wesley smiled. "I'll be through with you long before you reach that point."

The cryptic remark hung in the air between them as Wesley made his exit.

Showered and shaved, Griffin headed for the terrace and was irritated to find Wesley still sipping his morning coffee and admiring the harbour view.

"Lovely morning, isn't it?" offered the other man.

The sun poured out of a pale, silk blue sky and drenched the terrace with warmth. Across the water, the crowded skyscrapers of Hong Kong threw off the light like giant beveled mirrors.

Griffin seated himself across the table and tossed his cigarette case and lighter beside his serviette.

Kee brought a fresh pot of coffee and a silver tray of hot, golden croissants, butter and jam. "Cooks asks what you wish for breakfast, Mister Griffin?"

Griffin waved the question away. "This is fine. Just bring me some orange juice."

"You should have an omelette. Mine was delicious."

Griffin finally acknowledged Wesley's presence with a passing glance. "That will be all, Kee." He poured himself a steaming cup of coffee and drank it silently. Nibbling on a croissant, he paused as he noticed the jam server. Spooning a little on his croissant, he said aloud, "I must remember to have Kee buy some fresh strawberries for dessert tonight."

"I'm allergic to strawberries."

Griffin smiled coolly and looked into Wesley's eyes. "Yes, I know."

"Ah. Let me guess. You've been reading my dossier? I'm sure your father was thorough. Interesting, was it?"

"Not really," he lied. "Wasn't much more than I expected from someone like you."

Wesley's cup settled into it saucer with a particularly loud clink. "All right, let's set some ground rules here and now." He leaned forward and folded his arms on the table. "You don't like me. Okay. I don't especially like you either. In fact, I think you're a spoiled, irresponsible, inconsiderate little prick."

It was Griffin's turn to sit up in his chair, anger rising dangerously.

"It doesn't matter what we think of each other," Wesley continued, "Your father very cleverly arranged for me to make a great deal of money and for you to learn to take over what he started and not fuck it up. That means we have to put up with each other for maybe as long as a year. Not a happy prospect. I'm all for cutting the time down to the shortest possible period. That means you're going to have to pay attention to what I tell you and learn the goddamn business. No more acting the globe-trotting playboy, no more sun and fun and screwing around."

"You're right, I can't stand you," cut in Griffin. "Who are you to call me names? You're a fuckin' mercenary. You wheedled your way into my father's organization and floated to the top like scum."

To Griffin's surprise, Wesley laughed. "Interesting metaphor. And just what do you think Melville International is all about? Do you think your father made the money you've been spending so enjoyably all your life by selling rosaries? M.I. launders money. Big, big money from big, big crooks: drug kingpins like Khun Sa who are looking for 'legitimate' investments, and bent politicians draining slush funds into their private portfolios, and underworld crime bosses looking for 'respectable' covers. You know what it's all about, but you just never wanted to examine it because that would mean you'd have to acknowledge Marius Melville's own illustrious journey to the top, eh?"

Griffin was on his feet. "Don't you say anything about my father, you bastard!"

"Grow up, Jay."

"And don't call me Jay. Only my father called me that."

Wesley shook his head. "You really have been running away from the truth your whole bloody life, haven't you? And your father let you. Well, you're old enough to know better. Time to take the blinders off, sonny boy. If you're going to take over M.I., you better see it for what it is. No more hiding behind the tidy, luxury hotel business. It's time you really got your hands dirty. Or is the prospect too ugly for you to handle?" Puzzlement flashed across the handsome face. "You can always bow out, you know. It's your father's business, it doesn't have to be yours, too."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Doesn't matter a damn to me. If you take over, I'm through. If you sell out, I'm still through; I can't buy M.I. and I wouldn't want it anyway."

"Yeh, I bet. Well, you needn't worry about it because I have no intention of letting it go. I'm Marius Melville's son and I'll prove it, to you and anyone else. I'm not naive. I know the kind of people he had to deal with to get where he wanted, but there are a lot of others who owe everything they have to my father. He didn't have to bother, but he kept dozens of small businesses alive when they would have gone under otherwise. He made them succeed and got nothing out of it except the pleasure of watching them make it. That was Marius Melville, too."

Something like disappointment flickered in Wesley's eyes, but it was gone too quickly for Griffin to be sure.

"Blood money is blood money, even if it pays for orphanages."

"You sound peculiarly moral for a mercenary."

"I'm only stating a fact."

"It doesn't seem to be stopping you from taking his money."

"I'm not a fool. I have no illusions."

"Maybe you should stop using yourself as a standard for judging everyone else's behavior. Human beings aren't as easily categorized as you seem to think. You don't know what my father went through, the kind of odds he fought all his life; he started with nothing, no help from anyone. He gave you everything you have today, or has that slipped your mind?"

"I'd say we're an odd couple to be debating Good and Evil."

Griffin sat down again and lit a cigarette. "Yeh, it's too early in the day to discuss ethics."

"More like too late."

"Save your cryptic comments for the fortune tellers."

"Sorry." Wesley drank off his coffee. "Do we have a truce?"

"Apologize first."

"Again? For what?"

"For calling me a prick and all the rest of it."

"You accept insincere apologies?"

"I'd like to see you grovel."

"You never have and you never will."

Griffin blew a smoke ring and watched it disappear. "Well, then, I guess we'll get nothing done at all today."

They stared at each other for a full minute before Wesley sighed, a tiny smile stealing over his mouth. "I'm sorry you're such a selfish prick and all the rest of it. Now, can we try and get some work done? The courier should be here soon to pick up the contracts and we should review a few of the details before he arrives." Then he rested his chin in his palm, his smile widening to shine in his eyes. It made him look entirely different.

The shock of it stopped Griffin's brusque reply. The smile made Wesley look disturbingly human. Worse still, it reminded Griffin too sharply of the night they met.

He stubbed out his cigarette, giving himself a moment to recover. "Okay, let's cut out the crap." He gazed out at the harbour. "I signed the contracts last night, but I'm not happy about the Portman Textile sell. What about the holding company? We're still liable whatever we do..."

He launched into the few objections he could find in the mass of legalese that they had gone through the day before, effectively ending their strangely provocative conversation.

It was almost four a.m. Griffin sat up in bed and flicked the sheets aside. Three sleepless nights in a row. It seemed as if his brain was on overload, his thoughts stampeding one over the other.

The scope and complexity of his father's organization was a revelation to him. Robin Wesley had been right: Griffin hadn't truly known the extent of his father's business empire or what was required to keep it.

He wasn't sure he could manage it, even with Wesley's help. It was a world within a world, light covering dark, where both worlds had to be run with precise coordination and attention, each necessary for the other's profitable existence. There were few morals where vast sums of money were concerned. Scrape deep enough below the veneer of any multi-million dollar enterprise and you'd discover morality running a poor second to greed. The headlines proved the truth of that over and over again. His father had merely learned and played the rules of the game, more effectively than most. Even Charlie had come to understand what it took to survive and succeed in their world. She set his father up because she feared that Marius Melville would kill her, as she believed he had arranged for the death of Alice Woo. And then she turned her back and walked away. Griffin understood. Whether he agreed or not, protested or not, didn't matter. That was the way of their world. He was his father's son. He doubted that Charlie would ever be able to truly cut the ties to her father, no matter how far she ran away. She was more like her father, and his, than she would ever admit. Perhaps that's why Griffin couldn't help but love her a little still, despite everything. They were kindred spirits. They shared the same kind of legacy. And there was no way out.

When it came to ruling the Melville empire, it boiled down to the simple fact that it staggered him. The last few days had taught him that he would have to exist solely for M.I. and allow it to swallow him whole to manage half as well as his father. And even that might not be enough.

Wesley, on the other hand, thrived on the business. After three days of watching the man work at close range, Griffin grudgingly realized why his father had entrusted him with so much responsibility. Whether he was mapping out a complicated investment tactic, going over financial statements with Zurich and Hong Kong bankers, juggling deadline priorities, or handling the thousand and one other daily details of an international operation, Wesley was confident and cool, always anticipating the countermove. It came easily to him. As it had to Marius Melville.

A light breeze from the windows drew Griffin out of bed. He shrugged into a short silk robe and walked out to the balcony. It was a little chilly but windless as he looked up at the stars, pinpointing the Pleiades twinkling dimly overhead in the clear, night sky.

He was about to go back inside when his eye caught a movement below. A figure was hurrying towards the gate. As it approached the security lights near the entry, Griffin was surprised to recognize Kee. The young Asian was holding a small packet in one hand. Within moments, he had opened and shut the gate behind him, melting swiftly into the darkness beyond the grounds.

Puzzled and curious, Griffin watched for a few more seconds then went back inside, making his way quietly down the stairs. As he approached the entryhall, he spotted Robin Wesley. Dressed only in pajama bottoms and slippers, he was carefully closing the front door and setting the electronic sensors.

"What's going on?"

Wesley whirled round to face him, his startled expression rapidly changing into a blank mask.

"What are you doing up at this hour?"

Griffin snorted at the question. "I could ask you the same thing. And why was Kee sneaking away from the house?"

Wesley glanced back at the door. "He was running an errand for me."

"In the middle of the night?'

"It's business."

Griffin crossed the room and stood in front of the man, flipping on the lights as he approached. "You tell me what this is all about right now."

Wesley seemed to hesitate for a moment. "I've received information that someone in Hong Kong has put out a contract on you."

"What?!"

"I think it may be Albert Woo. I'm checking out a source that can confirm it. Unfortunately, he'll only deal with a Chinese. He also insisted on meeting in the middle of the night. So, I sent Kee."

Stunned, Griffin asked the first question that popped into his head. "Why Kee?"

"Why not? He's our employee and he's perfectly capable of taking care of himself."

Griffin frowned in disbelief.

"Don't be misled by Kee's obsequious manner. He was carefully selected for his job."

"As a houseboy?"

"Among other things. We could hardly take chances after what happened to your father, now could we?" Wesley shivered and started walking towards the stairs.

"Where the fuckin' hell do you think you're going?! I want to know what's going on!"

Wesley looked back over his shoulder. "It's cold, I'm getting a robe." He continued up the stairs.

Griffin brushed shaky fingers through his hair and followed after him.

At the door to Wesley's room, he paused. "What else have you been keeping from me?"

Wesley turned to him, his robe in one hand. He tossed it back on the bed. "I didn't tell you because there was no point in it; you've enough to think about at the moment, especially with the Board meeting day after tomorrow. In any case, I don't have all the facts yet. I would have told you when the time came."

"Why should I believe anything you say?"

"There's five million pounds waiting for me if I see this little venture through. I'm certainly not about to forfeit it by letting someone kill off my fatted calf. That's just not good business."

The detached, almost icy, reply cut unexpectedly deep. Griffin stared down blindly at his bare feet. In that instant, he felt more isolated, and empty, than he could ever remember.

The touch of a hand on his shoulder made him start. He looked into the shadowy blue eyes that loomed larger as Wesley's face neared his. Emotionally off-balance and vulnerable, he couldn't move as he felt the warm mouth close over his lips. Wesley's arms encircled his waist and pulled him tight.

At first, Griffin felt like shoving the man way, but the sensation of being held was too fine to resist. He needed just that -- to be embraced and wanted by someone, anyone. He wanted Charlie to love him, but Charlie was gone. He wanted his father to hold him and be proud of him, but his father was gone, too. In a very different, yet immutable ways, they rejected him forever, leaving him not even the thinnest thread of hope.

Wesley was pulling the silk tie off his robe, snaking his hands inside to rub the planes of his back while his mouth continued to caress him.

"Everything will be all right, Jay," Robin was murmuring, against his lips. "God, you feel wonderful. Everything will be all right. I promise, promise..."

The warmth of Wesley's body was intoxicating in its comfort. Griffin opened his mouth, inviting the other's tongue to slip inside. Mindless, he wasn't aware of the moment when the robe dropped from his shoulders, or of being led to the wide double bed, or of falling into the thick down pillows and quilt. All he recognized was the feel of Wesley's hard muscles, the strength, and the overpowering need to mold himself to that human heat.

Hands skimmed over his face, tangled in his hair as Robin fitted their bodies together. Griffin played with Wesley's thick dark hair in turn, raking through the heavy softness as he licked an ear, biting the lobe tenderly.

They moved easily together, fingers searching out pleasure spots. Griffin whimpered as his balls were massaged, a blunt fingernail teasing the underside of his erection, and he bucked upward, clutching at Robin's buttocks, kneading them with hungry hands.

Wesley's body blanketed him like a living shield. They squirmed over each other, trailing wet kisses until they were positioned head to groin. Griffin drank in Robin's scent, the musky maleness of pre-ejaculate awakening a deep, undeniable yearning inside him. He rubbed his cheek against the hard shaft and cried out uncontrollably as Robin's mouth captured his penis, tongue laving the pulsing veins. Eyes misting with pleasure, he sighed and kissed Robin's cock, finally sucking it deep into his throat...

Arousal shivering through him, he spread his legs wide as a slick finger pressed against he ring of his anus, pushing slowly, slowly inside, commanding his senses as it began moving in rhythm with the mouth on his cock.

It was so good, so terribly good. Teardrops slipped through his lashes as he felt every inch of his body come alive to the rough excitement of male sex. He'd deprived himself too long. When, at last, Robin's sweet-salt cum filled his mouth, he swallowed eagerly, like a man dying of thirst. Then the finger inside him probed deeper, triggering his own climax. He stiffened and came, melting with the heat of orgasm, wanting nothing more than for the feeling to burn him away.

When he opened his eyes sometime later, he felt very tired, and safe. He fitted a leg between Robin's and tucked his arm around the strong, smooth chest. The smell of sex surrounded them. He nestled his face into Wesley's shoulder, pleased when the other man curled against him in response. A dreamless sleep settled easily over him.

He opened his eyes to a room bright with sunshine and found himself alone in Wesley's bed.

As the events of the night flooded into consciousness, Griffin groaned and flung an arm across his face. How could he have been so incredibly stupid? He never intended to have sex with Robin ever again and yet all it took was a moment of weakness and he was wrapping his legs around the man like a long lost lover, clinging to him as if his life depended on it.

"Damn. Fucking damn," he cursed aloud. And why had Wesley let it happen? Made it happen? Men were not Wesley's style, for the most part. Unless it was business. Good business. Wesley was using him, of course, but to what end? A roll in the hay wasn't going to gain him any more of Melville International than he already had. Griffin wasn't that stupid.

Suddenly, he remembered a detail from the night before, and spotted his crumpled robe lying on the floor in the middle of the room. He squeezed his eyes shut at the images that rushed back into his mind.

"Well, hello. I was beginning to think you'd sleep all day away."

The subject of his troubled thoughts was standing in the doorway, coffee mug in his hand and a smile on his movie-star-handsome face.

Griffin struggled for calm. He couldn't afford to lose his temper with this man. "What time is it?"

"It's almost noon." Wesley walked over to the bed and offered his mug. "Would you like some coffee? I just poured it. No sugar though."

The intimacy of the gesture enraged Griffin but he forced himself to take the mug and sip it wordlessly.

"Kee can bring you something to eat if you like."

Griffin met the other man's gaze with as much non-expression as he could muster. "Is he back? What happened?"

"Nothing. The contact never showed. Kee waited until dawn."

Griffin took another swallow of the coffee, not sure if he believed any of it, and asked the question he had failed to ask before. "What was Kee carrying last night? It looked like a small package."

Wesley hesitated a moment, then smiled. "You have good eyesight. It was an envelope with 1,000 pounds in small bills. Payment for the information."

It sounded reasonable enough, but lies often seemed more believable than truth; they were usually what people preferred to hear. "What happens now?"

Wesley took the mug from his hand, sipped at it, and gave it back. "Kee will check around. Meantime, I think it would be best for you to stay close to the house. I've hired some extra guards; they're already on duty."

"I can take care of myself. Don't run my life for me."

"I'm only taking sensible precautions."

Griffin set the mug on the nightstand. "This whole thing could be a hoax. Am I supposed to hide for the rest of my life?"

"I'm only talking about a few days. The Board meeting takes place tomorrow. We'll have to go over the agenda today and prepare the final reports. Kee will check with one his contacts in the Woo organization. We'll pin it down and deal with it."

"And since when does Kee work for you?"

"He works for Melville International."

Griffin pulled up his knees and clasped his arms around them. "And who is Melville International?"

"It's the business your father created. The one he wanted you to inherit and take over." All at once, Wesley reached out and stroked the nape of Griffin's neck with the back of his fingers.

Griffin looked up, a catch in his throat. "What do you want from me?" he asked, unable to stop himself.

"I'd like to help you, if I can."

"By having sex with me?"

Wesley's hand dropped away. "No."

"Then why last night?"

"Would you believe me if I said, because you were irresistible?"

"Bullshit."

Wesley chuckled, the sound rich and a little dirty. "You underestimate yourself, Jay. You have a little-boy-lost quality that is absolutely unnerving." His face grew serious. "I acted on impulse. It's unusual for me."

"That doesn't tell me why."

"I told you. You don't believe me."

Griffin jerked the quilt to one side and stepped out of bed. Ignoring his nudity, he walked to the bathroom door.

"Aren't you going to take your robe," called Wesley as he went over and picked it up, offering it with an outstretched hand.

Griffin glanced at the crumpled silk, then into Wesley's eyes. "Put it in your trophy case," he said, and left the room.

He stayed away from Wesley for the rest of the afternoon, closeting himself in his father's music room and using the time to check with his staff at the hotels he managed. Melville International owned several five-star hotels around the world and it was the only part of his father's empire that Griffin felt certain he had the skill and the interest to manage. Though Marius Melville considered the running of the hotels as a minor job best left to others, he had indulged his son. For Griffin, it was a kind of independence, a way of proving his worth, even if it was only to himself. There were also a few occasions when Griffin's hotel background actually served his father's purposes as well. With Charlie Cassidy, for one.

"I want Cassidy's records. You meet his daughter. Get close to her. Do whatever it takes to make her trust you. Don't let me down, Jay."

But he had let him down.

Griffin finished the last of his calls and scribbled some notes for the promotion campaign on the Acapulco resort and the renovations at their London property. He would have to talk with the architect to make sure the changes were correct before work began.

He was reaching for the phone when he remembered it was still barely dawn in Britain. Then he heard the knock on the door.

He couldn't avoid Wesley indefinitely. In that instant, he decided how he was going to play it. "Come in."

Wesley walked into the room and closed the door behind him. "I've given you more than three hours to pout. I think that's sufficient. I'm not putting up with any more of this. Unless you want to make a complete fool of yourself in front of the Board tomorrow, we better get some work done."

Griffin shut his notebook and put away his pen. He rose from his chair, hands stuffed casually into his pale green cotton trousers. "All right, Robin."

A wary glint in his eye, Wesley took a cautious step forward. "What, no arguments?"

Griffin just shook his head and smiled. "I get moody sometimes. Drive people crazy. You'll just have to get used to it, I'm afraid. I'll try not to be difficult."

Wesley raised an eyebrow, but turned towards the door. "The papers are in the study."

"Lead on."

As Wesley walked ahead, he glanced back over his shoulder, grinning slightly. "Should I look for a broken pod about your size hidden away someplace?"

"What?"

But Wesley only chuckled and continued in the direction of the study.

The Board meeting was an important one. Griffin did his best to listen and absorb all the facts and figures Wesley gave him. Since his father's death, several of the members had expressed their misgivings about the organization's stability. Dissension was growing, along with doubts about Griffin's ability to carry on the business.

While the Board had little power in terms of managing the company's activities, Marius Melville had made sure of that, it was essential to M.I.'s 'legitimacy'. Each member was an influential and well-known individual within the business and social community, with impeccable credentials, and far removed from M.I.'s less than legal ventures.

The Board was a necessary and valuable front.

"Where did you get these figures?" Griffin asked as he reviewed a column on one of the financial statements.

"Juggled a bit. Don't worry, they fit the books. The public set." Wesley leaned back in his chair and gazed towards the large picture window. It was already dark outside, the weather suddenly changing. Thunder rumbled across the hills and the sky was gashed with zigzags of silver lightning. "One thing I hate about Hong Kong. Rains so damn much in the Spring. Humid, too."

Griffin set the reports aside and stared at Wesley's profile out of the corner of his eye. The man was undeniably attractive, like a dashing hero from a classic fairytale, the knight with a magical sword in one hand and a beautiful princess in the other.

"Never judge a book by its cover," Griffin murmured.

Wesley swiveled back to him. "Hmm? Did you say something?"

"I was, um, thinking about having something to eat. Are you hungry?"

Another, louder clap of thunder filled the room, followed by a silver-white streak of lightning. Almost immediately, the sky opened up, the rain pouring down in noisy sheets.

Wesley glanced at the window. "I suppose we can finish after dinner. I am hungry, at that."

"Fine. I'll tell Kee." Griffin rose from his chair.

"Are we having strawberries for dessert?" asked Wesley, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

Griffin pretended to consider the idea. "Hmm, while the suggestion has merit, no, I don't think so. Not tonight." He started for the kitchen, just catching the end of Wesley's throwaway comment, something about 'finding the pod'.

They dined on water chestnut soup, sizzling black bean chicken, wild mushrooms in oyster sauce, and rice. Though he would have dearly loved enjoyed several glasses of wine, Griffin confined himself to jasmine tea, noting the approval in Robin's eyes.

"We can celebrate after the Board meeting," Wesley had quipped.

Griffin wondered exactly what kind of 'celebration' the other man had in mind, but thought it better not to ask.

Steamed honey-plum pears and small lotus cakes finished the meal as they drank the last of the tea, each man silently watching the rain cascade against the floorlength windows of the dining room.

"I like the rain," Griffin said finally. "I like the rhythm of it against the house and on the roof. It's peaceful somehow. I sleep better when it rains."

Wesley's fingers played idly with his serviette. "You slept very well last night."

The words brought a sudden tension into the room, and a different kind of electricity sparked in the air between them.

"I left my cigarettes in the study. We may as well finish that dividend report." He didn't chance a look at Robin as he pushed himself away from the table. "If I have to face the Board and maybe a pack of assassins, I'll need all the rest I can get. Frankly, I'm not sure which group would be worse."

He heard Robin move towards him and felt a firm hand mold and tighten around his bicep, just as the phone began to ring in the hall. A moment later, Kee called to them from the doorway.

"Mr. Wesley, you have a telephone call from Manila. A man named Fletcher. He says it is very important."

Robin let go of him immediately. "I'll take it in the music room."

The tone in Wesley's voice made Griffin turn and look into the other man's face. The remoteness he saw there startled him. "Who's Fletcher?"

Wesley was already walking to the door and he answered without pausing. "He's an American investor, interested in a possible trade investment. I've been putting him off, but he's very tenacious. I better speak to him."

"Why haven't you mentioned him before?"

"I haven't told you a lot of things... yet."

Griffin stood alone in the room. He felt a sense of relief at the interruption, even though it reminded him all too keenly of how little control he had over the company's operations.

And that made him angry. He waited another minute, then headed for the music room.

The door was closed. He didn't bother to knock.

"The time isn't right. No. I'll let you know. As long as it takes--"

Wesley stopped talking as Griffin walked up to him and pressed the speaker button on the phone console.

"--remember your objectives, that's all. We don't need to drag this out, Robin -- Robin?"

The man's voice was gravelly and robust.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fletcher. James Griffin just came in. I haven't had the opportunity to introduce the two of you."

"Grif... ah, Melville Junior." A deep, warm laugh rumbled through the phone line. "Sounds like you have the speaker on?"

"Yes."

"Well, ah, Mr. Griffin? This is a pleasure. Russell Fletcher here. Please call me Russ."

"How do you do, Mr. Fletcher," Griffin answered tersely. "What shouldn't we 'drag out'?"

There was another short burst of laughter. "Well, sir, I'm glad you asked. I've been waiting on Robin to respond to my proposal for quite a while now. It's got 'profit' written all over it, yessiree. Not just for myself and my business partners, mind you, but for Melville International as well. Now, if you have some time, I could bend your ear about it right this minute--"

"Mr. Fletcher," cut in Wesley. "I'm afraid it just isn't convenient. Mr. Griffin and I have a board meeting tomorrow morning and--"

"Okay, okay, I get the picture. Well, now, perhaps we can arrange to meet and talk about it. What do you say, Mr. Griffin. You know, I really admired your father. He was a helluva man. Knew his way around a deal, all right. Oh, I--uh, allow me to offer my deepest condolences. Terrible tragedy, terrible loss."

Thank you, Mr. Fletcher. Did you send us a written proposal?"

"Why, I sure did. Robin's got it. Doesn't have all the details though. Just enough to whet the appetite, if you know what I mean. Say, may I call you Jim?"

"No."

There was a moment's pause before Fletcher burst into another bellow of laughter. "Ah, you Melvilles, you sure are something. All right, Mr. Griffin. I'm at your disposal. Why don't you look over the proposal and give me a call. I'd really love to sit down with the both of you and get the show rolling, if you know what I mean. I'll be here in Manila for at least another two weeks. You've got my number, don't you, Robin?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, now I expect you to use it. Time's money, you know."

"I'll call as soon as I can," replied Wesley. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Mr. Griffin. I look forward to meeting you real soon."

"Goodbye, Mr. Fletcher." Griffin pushed the cut off button on the phone and turned to Wesley. "I'd like to see that proposal."

"Why? There are dozens more. There's nothing particularly special about his. In fact, it doesn't look all that advantageous. Not to mention that Fletcher is a bit of a jackass."

"I intend to get to the others, too. Let's just start with Fletcher, shall we?"

"Are you upset?"

"I thought you wanted me to plunge right into this business. I'm trying to show some interest. Anything wrong with that?"

Wesley shook his head. "Then we better start with the Board meeting. I'll have the London office fax over Fletcher's proposal tomorrow. Is that satisfactory?"

"Fine."

"Let's go over those stock reports. It's getting late."

They spent the remainder of the evening in the study, reviewing the agenda, going over the reports and data. They discussed all the possible questions the Board members could present them, and all the answers they could give.

Griffin felt as prepared as he could ever be by the time Wesley called it a night.

"You'd better get as much sleep as you can. Big day tomorrow." Wesley's tone was solicitous, but rather distant, without a hint of sexual interest.

"How do you think the Board will react to me?"

"I think we can ward off any serious attempts at mutiny for the moment." Wesley smiled. "They might even be impressed."

"My father wrapped them around his finger without even trying."

"Marius Melville was one of a kind. Maybe one's enough."

Griffin frowned at the remark, but Wesley was already walking away.

"Goodnight, Jay. Bright and early tomorrow." Wesley glanced back at the windows. "Hope this damn weather improves."

Griffin gathered his notes and turned off his computer.

He headed towards his bedroom, but suddenly found himself changing direction.

The storm was growing worse, the sound of thunder almost overhead. Griffin walked along the hallway, his footsteps slowing as he approached the north wing of the house. He swallowed hard as he turned down the corridor, feeling suddenly compelled to move towards the room at the end. He hadn't come near it since he arrived. His palms felt moist as he approached the doorway. The lights were off.

A flash of lightning lit up the large window, outlining the sleek telescope that stood on its tripod, pointing up at the night sky.

A clap of thunder vibrated through the empty space, making Griffin jump. He reached for the lightswitch, then stopped. He knew that part of the shiny hardwood floor had been replaced where the blood had seeped through and couldn't be removed. His father's leather chair was gone, too, stained and ripped by the hacking knives of his killers.

He stared through the shadows at the spot where he knew the chair had stood. Lightning illuminated the room again and he walked slowly forward. His chest tightened and his throat felt dry. He opened his mouth to breathe. He didn't notice the thunder that followed.

The polished wood floor gleamed in the flashes of stormlight.

Griffin raised his hands out in front of him, and the room swirled like smoke as his mind rushed backwards through the years...

He stood, a boy of eight, arms held out as his father stooped to lift him up high and hug him tight.

"Jay, look at me, son. You've been crying again, haven't you?"

The little boy hid his face against his father's shoulder.

"You've cried enough, Jay. It won't bring your mother back. She wouldn't want you to carry on so, for godssake. No more crying now, you hear me?"

The boy sniffed, struggling to hold back his tears, but they rolled down his small cheeks, soaking his father's shirt. He was lowered gently to the floor and led by the hand to the telescope near the window.

"C'mon, dry your eyes. Here, blow into my handkerchief. That's a good lad. Use the stepstool and look through the lens. You can see Jupiter tonight."

"Is mummy in the stars?"

"In the stars?"

"Mummy told me that's where we go when we die, up into the stars."

His father just looked at him with a strained expression. "Would you like her to be?"

"Yes. She wouldn't be gone completely away."

His father patted his head and gazed up into the sky. "Then that's where she is."

They stood together by the telescope until the boy's crying stopped and his eyes could focus on the bright points of light, his father stroking his hair gently.

"Is heaven up there, in the stars, where mummy is?"

His father stared out the window, distracted, quoting words the little boy would not understand for many years.

'I sent my soul through the Invisible
some letter of the After-life to spell,
and by and by my Soul returned to me,
and answered "I Myself and Heav'n and Hell."'

The little boy felt his father's strong hand brush the thick waves of his hair, and he would remember the small, rare closeness, longing for it often in the years ahead.

"I have a lot of work to do, son. I'll be traveling a great deal from now on, until the company's where I want it to be."

"Can I come with you?" asked the boy quickly.

"No, Jay. You must go to school. Study hard and make me proud of you. I'm sending you to England when term begins. The best schools for you from now on. Nothing but the best."

"But I don't want to leave here, or you. Please--"

"You'll be with me during your holidays, and we'll have plenty of time later on."

The little boy's eyes began to fill again and he bit down on his lip to stop its trembling.

"It has to be that way, Jay. You'll be going to school with the children of very influential and powerful people. You'll understand how important that is one day. I'm registering you under your mother's name. You'll be James Griffin from now on."

"W-why?"

"It's for your own good. You'll be safer, and it'll come in handy in other ways."

"What do you mean, daddy?"

His father turned away and looked back at the night sky. "Just trust me, Jay. I'm building a special world for us. Remember what I'm telling you -- if you want something, you have to go out and take it. You can't wait for luck, or fate, or god, or people's kindness. You'll always be waiting if you do. I'm tired of waiting." He waved his hand at the room around them. "This is nothing. I'll build a grand house here, soon. I'll make all the dreams come true. Everything I promised your mother. You'll see. It's just the beginning..."

Griffin blinked back into the present to the drilling sound of the rain. He walked over to the telescope. It was a different one, of course, much more elaborate and expensive. Like the house. Everything had changed except, in a way, Griffin's own feelings. He felt not too unlike the little boy of eight -- uncertain and lost.

He wondered why being in this room did not upset him more. He had expected it to, but it only seemed to bring back old memories. The emotional reality of his father's murder remained detached from him, a fact he couldn't quite 'touch.' He couldn't place his father's death anywhere inside him.

The big window was blurred with rain, the storm churning the sky. He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. It was after midnight.

The Board meeting was scheduled to run most of the day. Griffin skipped breakfast, settling for several cups of coffee while Wesley indulged in eggs, sausage, juice and buttered toast as he skimmed the latest London Times. Griffin wished he felt as relaxed and assured as Wesley looked.

As he fidgeted with the buttons on his dark blue double-breasted suitjacket, he felt Wesley eyeing him.

"If we're lucky, we can bore them into an early adjournment," Wesley told him. "Once we start on the statistical reports, that should do it. The first couple of hours will be the worst. They'll be looking you over, making up their minds about whether or not you know what you're doing. After today, we'll only meet with them once or twice a year, strictly pro forma."

"Assuming M.I. survives the year."

Wesley shrugged as he spread a spoonful of orange marmalade on his wedge of toast. "The books look quite respectable. The Board members will be delighted, the ones who can understand a balance sheet, that is. The others will float along with the rest."

"I'm thinking about the real set of books."

"We'll buy enough time today to deal with that." Wesley crunched his toast, dismissing the subject. "What would you like to do this evening?"

Griffin looked at him questioningly.

"I thought we might see a film. I believe your father owns a enviable 35mm library and we may as well put the screening room to some use. Perhaps there's something new you'd like to see. We could order a print and have it delivered this afternoon. I'm afraid I'm not up on the current--"

"Is that your idea of a celebration?"

"I thought a good dinner, a film, and a couple of bottles from the wine cellar would be a nice way to unwind."

"Jumping the gun a little, aren't you? The meeting could be a disaster."

"I don't think so. Between the two of us, there won't be any problem. They'll be sufficiently impressed. I had my doubts at first, but now I think you can handle it."

"What you're really saying is that you think you can handle me."

Wesley leaned forward on an elbow, chin propped in his palm. "Do I detect the end of the Docile Era?"

Griffin knew his own insecurities were getting the better of him. "I'm not the docile type."

"Yes, I know. You've been frighteningly cooperative. I was wondering how long you could stand it."

"Damn it, I'm just--"

"Scared?"

"No. Nervous. That's understandable, isn't it? Doesn't anything ever make you nervous? Even you must have experienced a moment or two of anxiety at some point in you damn life."

"Quite a few, in fact."

"Well then, get off my back."

"We're not going to have a row, are we? The timing would be lousy."

Griffin bit back his reply. Wesley was right. He couldn't afford to lose his head now. They had to present a united front. As strange and ironic as it seemed to Griffin, he had to acknowledge the fact that, as far as the Board was considered, Wesley was his only ally. "I wish I had time for a run. I'm too jumpy."

"You'll be all right once the meeting starts." Wesley finished his coffee and rose from his chair. "The limo's waiting. Your bodyguards will ride with us."

"I don't think that's necessary."

"Well, I do. Please don't argue about this, Jay."

"I thought you were checking out Albert Woo's people."

"I am. Haven't confirmed anything one way or the other, so let's just play it safe for the moment."

"What are the Board members going to say if they see me flanked by a pair of heavies?"

"Don't worry, they'll be discreet and keep out of the way. In any case, it's not so unusual. Your father usually had at least one bodyguard with him whenever he went out."

"For all the good it did him. They walked right in here and killed him, in his own home."

"That's not going to happen to you." Wesley faced him, his brow furrowing. "You haven't said very much about your father's death. I'm not saying I expected you to advertise your grief, that's nobody's business but your own, but I thought you might've been angrier about it, angry at Albert Woo or Charlie Cassidy."

"Angry enough to retaliate in kind, you mean?"

Wesley gazed through the windows at the softly falling rain. "Your father would have."

"No, I don't think so." Griffin waved away Wesley's skeptical smirk. "My father was a hard man, but he knew when enough was enough. It wouldn't gain us anything to start a blood war with Albert Woo. That's why I can't believe Woo has anything to do with that so-called death threat you're talking about. He's had his revenge; my father for his daughter. As for Charlie..." His voice trailed away as he saw her face again in his mind's eye. He wasn't ready to talk about her, certainly not to Robin Wesley. He hadn't even wanted to sort out that web of feelings for himself. "There's been enough killing," he said with finality. "Let's go."

It rained all day. M.I.'s penthouse offices were located in Central, Hong Kong's high-rise business district, and offered a panoramic view of the city and Kowloon harbour. For Griffin, looking out at the wet gray sky was an often a welcome relief to the proceedings within the Board Room.

He could feel all the members assessing him silently as he opened the meeting and presented the general status reports. And then the questions began. Whenever he sensed himself faltering, Wesley would step in and smoothly cover for him.

By mid-afternoon, he thought most of the Board were convinced of the company's general stability, even if they weren't overly confident of Griffin's ability to step into his father's shoes. At least they seemed willing to let him try. He would have called the day a lukewarm success if it hadn't been for Wesley's shockingly unexpected announcement.

The meeting was adjourned at 4:30. After the last handshake and the last Board member was ushered to their waiting car, Griffin slumped into his chair at the conference table. He head was throbbing abominably. He hoped it was only a headache, but he knew with a sinking spirit that it was turning into something worse. He remembered the signs all too well. Even so, he stubbornly reached for his cigarette case and lit one up. After a few deep drags, he felt the beginnings of a vague nausea. He stubbed out the cigarette and glared at Wesley, who was standing at the other end of the long table, collecting scattered papers into his briefcase.

They were finally alone in the room.

"You son of a bitch. What do you mean by making an announcement like that about a consolidation and 'reorganization' of the company? How dare you?!"

Wesley looked up at him slowly. "Friedlander and VanEyck were on the verge of handing in their resignations. I had to come up with something. We can't afford to lose those two; they have too much credibility in all the right circles. They're the most prestigious members on the Board. They're also the only ones who could see through our smokescreen. The books look damn good, but they know there has to be a shakeup to keep them that way in the next fiscal year. Consolidation is a good tactic, tried and true in our circumstances, and they know it. If I didn't say something to that effect, they would've lost faith completely, and then the rest of the Board would been in an uproar."

"You fucking bastard. You knew this would happen all along. You knew I couldn't challenge you about this or they'd realize I didn't know anything about it!" A band of pain was tightening around his skull, squeezing his brain into a hot, pounding mass. He felt cold, but he knew that beads of sweat were breaking out along his forehead. The building fire behind his eyeballs made him squint. "You're setting me up, I know it, but I'm not going to let you get away with it, I -- swear -- it..." Suddenly, he felt as if he was going to be sick. He slouched forward, head down on the table, hands cradling the sides of his face. He didn't hear Wesley move to stand beside him.

"What's the matter?"

"Get away from me!" The effort to yell made tiny explosions go off in his temples. He batted Wesley's hand away where it touched his shoulder.

"C'mon, lie down on the sofa." Arms tried to lift him from the chair.

"No--" He covered his mouth as he felt the bile rising, unable to say another word.

"Stop being so fucking difficult."

The intensity of the pain in his head shook him. The only other time it had happened to him, it hadn't been as alarmingly quick or severe in its onslaught.

He hardly noticed when Wesley made him stand and then half-carried him to the wide soft at the side of the room. He was lowered to the cushions, his eyes shut against the steel hammers battering into his skull. The light in the room seemed to pierce his eyelids like needles.

The room darkened abruptly and he turned his head into the cushions. He hated having Wesley see him in this condition. He didn't want to talk, or move or think. He just wanted the world to go away and leave him in peace...

After an interminable length of time, it seemed that he could open his eyes without acute discomfort. The crushing pain in his head was easing.

It was very dark, the drapes drawn across the large windows. A cool, moist cloth caressed his forehead and he felt himself, finally, dozing.

When he woke, he felt as if he might even be able to function as a human being again. The absence of pain was blissful. He wondered what time it was and realized his throat was dry, his mouth like cotton.

A shadow detached itself from the rest of the room and moved towards him. "Would you like a glass of water?"

Wesley placed a full glass in his hands and helped him to a sitting position. Griffin drank the water quickly and tried to ignore the presence of the other man. He noticed that his tie was undone, along with the first two buttons of his shirt. His shoes were neatly placed on the floor next to the sofa.

He finished drinking the water and returned the glass to Wesley with a grimace.

"Do you get these attacks often?" Wesley asked.

Griffin just shook his head carefully.

"I worked with a man years ago who suffered from migraines. Nasty stuff. He never knew when one would hit him. In his line of work, it was definitely a liability. He had to quit."

Griffin looked up at the drawn curtains, then at Wesley. "It's not migraine." He felt compelled to explain at the sight of the doubtful expression. "I've only had it once before, long time ago. The doctors checked me out. Didn't know what it was, but it's not migraine."

"Still some stress-related thing though, isn't it?"

Not inclined to fuel Wesley's speculations, Griffin glanced as the drapes again. "What time is it?"

"It's a quarter past ten."

"What?!"

"You were asleep for over three hours. I thought about calling a doctor--"

"No, I'm all right now." Griffin stood up slowly and looked down at his open shirt and shoeless feet. "I don't like your touching me when I'm asleep." He took a few steps to the end of the sofa and sat down to put on his shoes. "And you're not 'reorganizing' shit in the company, you understand me?"

"I was just making you more comfortable. And as for the other, I was only telling them what they wanted to hear. Doesn't mean anything."

"VanEyck wants a detailed report on the changes as soon as possible. So does Friedlander. And you just stood there, nodding like a puppet. What the hell are you going to give them?"

"We'll make something up."

"God, it's getting worse by the second."

"Your father would do exactly the same thing, without a qualm. It's the nature of the business, particularly our kind of business. I wouldn't even bother trying to placate VanEyck and Friedlander if it wasn't so important for the company to maintain its public image right now. We have to reassure a lot of investors, legitimate and otherwise, that M.I. can continue to operate profitably without Marius Melville. That means keeping the Board intact. When we've worked out the Burmese problem and the other shaky spots, then we can tell the Board to go to hell. We just need to buy some time. That's all."

"Is the limo downstairs?" Griffin started towards the door.

"Have you been listening to me?"

"Seems that's all I've been doing lately." Griffin just wanted to get back to the house, get out of his suit, and sink into a hot tub. It was the path of least resistance. If he thought about the day's events, he was afraid he'd get upset all over again. The 'headache' was too vivid in his mind. He hadn't believed it could happen again. The first one was so many years ago. He gritted his teeth, trying to ward off the memory, but in a splitsecond, inevitably, it swept him up, and he was reliving it all over again...

"What happened at school?"

Griffin shifted from foot to foot. "Inappropriate conduct. Breaking set hours."

"And what, exactly, does that mean?" His father's voice held that heavy, monotone quality that always made him tense.

"They found Toller in my room."

"Toller?"

"Toller de Vries. He's an upperclassman, a friend of mine." Griffin hesitated, his father's stare boring into him. A low throbbing pain had begun at the base of his skull shortly before his meeting with his father had begun and it seemed to be getting worse. "He was kissing me."

He heard the pen drop from his father's hand onto the desktop. "Were you in bed with him?"

"No. We were already dressed. Toller was leaving." He rubbed at the back of his neck.

"Meaning you were undressed before?" His father's voice was very quiet, but every word seemed to boom in Griffin's ears.

"Yes."

"How did the school authorities find out?"

"I--I don't know. Toller thinks one of the boys on my floor reported us. Maybe someone who held a grudge or something."

"Who?"

"I don't know." The ache at the back of his head seemed to be spreading through his temples to his eyes, making him squint. "Can we talk about this later? I've an awful headache."

"No, we're going to discuss it right now." His father rose from his chair and walked to the front of the desk to where Griffin stood. "This de Vries boy, is he a known pervert?"

Griffin peered up at his father. "What?"

Marius Melville sighed impatiently. "Does he have a reputation as a queer?"

The pain in his skull was intensifying and it was beginning to frighten him. "Dad, I really want to lie down. My head--"

"Answer my question, Jay."

Griffin swallowed. "No. Nothing like that--"

"Do you have a reputation?"

"Wh-what?"

"Do the other schoolboys think you're a faggot? Do they talk about you?"

Griffin rubbed his hand over his eyes. He wasn't sure what hurt more, the physical pain or his father's questions. "N-no."

"Are you telling me the truth? A boy with your kind of looks--"

"I am telling you the truth! No! What does it matter anyway?! Who cares?" He started to move towards the armchair. "Dad, I think I'm going to be ill."

"Then we both feel about the same, don't we? This de Vries boy, was that the first time you've been with him?"

Griffin sank gratefully into the chair and covered his face with his hands. "I feel sick. I think I need a doctor."

"Don't try to fake with me, Jay. Just answer my question. How long have you been sleeping with this boy?"

"I'm not faking." He was beginning to feel nauseous.

"Answer me."

He had to pause and remember through the haze of pain. "We've been together a few times, that's all."

"Damn!"

The sudden volume of his father's voice made him wince.

"I won't have a pervert for a son, do you understand me?"

"He's my friend, a good friend. We're not hurting anybody!" Despite the pain, Griffin was angry.

"You little fool. Being a homo is not going to help you in this world. Certainly not in the circles I want you to travel in. Goddammit, what's wrong with you? Do you think I like hearing something like this from you? Do you think I've built all this just for myself? It's for you, too, but you want to kick it in my face, don't you?"

"I wasn't--"

"Shuttup." His father paced across the room, stopping only after several minutes had passed, as though he needed the time to calm himself. "Well, that's all finished. Understand? Damn English prep schools. Full of faggots. They expect boys to fall into bed with one another. They consider it a phase, for godssakes. You've only been reprimanded, in any case. Just a phase, yes. It's lucky they didn't see the two of you in bed together. That would have been impossible. As it is, this won't keep you out of Cambridge. No permanent damage done, nothing that can't be dealt with."

His father seemed to be thinking out loud rather than talking to him. Griffin only wished he would stop and let him go to his room.

"I'll fix it."

Marius Melville's tone was ominous. Griffin rubbed his fingertips along his temples. His skin was clammy. He felt as if he was going to shrink and fade away.

"You're going to be careful about who you associate with from now on. I'll make sure of that. Believe me, it's for your own good. Maybe it's my fault. I should have paid more attention. Should've realized what it could be like for you. I've been so damn busy, I haven't had the time. Maybe if I'd kept a closer eye... I don't know. If only you weren't so--"

His father stopped abruptly and a moment later, Griffin felt a warm square hand under his chin, lifting his head gently. He couldn't seem to open his eyes. He didn't want to talk. The hand let go of him and he heard his father's footsteps cross to the door. The sound of every step pounded against his temples.

"Lin, call Dr. San. Tell him to come over here right away. James had been taken ill. Go on, be quick about it!"

The headache continued for several hours. By the following day, all the symptoms had disappeared and Griffin was back to normal. His father called in one specialist after another and they gave him one test after another until Griffin refused to hold still for any more. In the end, all the doctors could determine for sure was that there was no neurological problem. Relieved, his father balked at the further suggestion of a psychological analysis. "My son is not weak or crazy. He doesn't need a goddamn psychiatrist." Griffin remembered thinking that his father would've been less upset at the news of a brain tumor than the prospect of a mental disorder or perhaps, worse still, the confirmation of a sexual aberration in his son.

When he returned to school several week later, he discovered that Toller had transferred and would not be returning.

"Jay, do you want to rest a bit longer? Jay?"

"Griffin snapped back to the present, and found himself staring into Wesley's curious blue eyes.

"I'm fine." He looked away and started walking.

Toller. He hadn't thought about the boy in years. Old guilts rose like mist around him. Griffin had tried to call the de Vries house after the incident. He was told that Toller would not speak to him. Miserable and angry, Griffin asked his father if he had arranged Toller's transfer. His father insisted he knew nothing about it, though he made it clear that he was very pleased that the boy was gone from his son's life.

"I'll fix it." Griffin remembered his father's voice and knew deep down inside that his father hadn't told him the truth. And, in that moment, Griffin realized that it would always be better not to know. It was the first time in his young life that he truly understood the irreconcilability of being Marius Melville's son and of also being himself.

He never tried to contact Toller again.

By the time the limo delivered them to the front door, Griffin felt exhausted, the strain of past remembrances pressing him down like a physical weight, adding to the stress from the Board meeting and his strange headache. He ignored Kee's solicitous inquiries and went upstairs to run a hot bath and change out of his clothes.

He was just about to get into the tub when he heard the knock on his open bathroom door.

"Kee's just told me that he was able to meet his contact today."

Wesley wasn't wearing his jacket and tie, and he was holding a glass of wine in his hand. "He's found out that the original tip-off came from Albert Woo." When Griffin made no response to this announcement, Wesley frowned and took a step into the room, settling himself in the small chair beside the vanity. "Don't you understand what that means? Someone tried to pay one of Woo's boys to take you out; Woo doesn't want to be blamed for any attempts on you. Obviously you were right; he's had his revenge and he just wants to get on with his business. But that also means that there's someone out there who wants you dead and we haven't a clue who it might be. If they can't get one of Woo's people to take the contract, they'll get someone else. There are plenty of triads willing to take on a job, even a hit on Marius Melville's son, it the money was big enough."

Griffin had no energy left for a discussion of murder threats, real or otherwise, or of which Hong Kong underworld gang would be greedy enough to take it on. "I thought your tastes didn't run to watching men bathing." He kept his robe on, hoping Wesley would take the hint and leave.

"Don't you even care that someone might be trying to kill you?"

"Right now I just want to have my bath in a little peace and quiet."

Wesley took a swallow of his wine but remained where he was.

Fuck you then, thought Griffin, and immediately winced at his own mental phrasing. He threw off his robe and sank into the tub.

The water was just hot enough and exquisite, the scent of spice from the bath crystals rising in the steam. He closed his eyes and determinedly imagined he was floating in a warm Mediterranean sea, the blazing sun playing over his flesh. He was alone and he was no one, without ties, without obligations. There was no Melville empire, no Robin Wesley, no Charlie Cassidy, no Toller de Vries. No memories at all. He lapped the steamy water lazily over his chest and open thighs, enjoying the faint, spicy fragrance of hibiscus and rosehips that filled his nostrils. He rubbed a nipple languidly and sighed. Undulating slowly in the big tub, he created little waves that washed over his body and pretended he was a sleek sea creature moving lightly through its own private, solitary ocean. He turned over and dipped into the water, letting it cover his face and hair before he pushed himself up and rested his cheek against the cool white porcelain rim. Eyes still closed, he rippled his body again, making the heated water slide up and across his exposed buttocks in eddies of pleasant sensation. The hot water and slick hardness of the tub felt good against his genitals and he wriggled to heighten the feeling.

In some faraway portion of his brain, he thought he heard Wesley talking, but he paid no attention, too content in his fantasy world. The sound dwindled away.

He sputtered up for air, coughing water from his nose and mouth and realized he must've dozed off. The bathwater was barely lukewarm as he flipped over and sat up, noticing his pruning fingertips.

Then he remembered Wesley. Glancing at the now empty chair, he thought perhaps he might've imagined the man's appearance earlier.

But Wesley's wine glass lay tipped on its side near the dressing table.

Scrubbing a soapy flannel quickly over his skin, Griffin finished his bath. He wrapped himself in a fluffy white robe and walked back into the bedroom to sit on the edge of the big four-poster. He felt completely relaxed for the first time in days. If he could keep his demons at bay, perhaps he would even be able to get a full night's sleep again.

The rain had begun again, gently but steadily, the sound a soothing rhythm against the window panes.

Griffin fell back on the thick goosedown quilt and unbelted his robe.

The cooler air of the room brushed against his moist, bath-warmed skin. A little mindless sex. That's what he needed. A slow, thorough release and he would sleep sweetly.

H didn't need anyone for his pleasure. It was better, in fact, not to think of anyone.

A strange kaleidoscope of images played rapidly through his mind: Charlie's fine blond hair sweeping his shoulder; a hard, brown cock pressing against his belly; Mei, his lovely Eurasian whore, her small hands rubbing her tender breasts; Toller's knowing, teasing tongue licking his throat...

He pushed the images aside as he lifted himself to lie in the middle of the bed, shrugging off the robe. He gazed down at his half-erect penis and spread his legs apart.

"That's right, get hard for me," he whispered to the dark, rosy cockhead. His hands skimmed along the edge of his pubic hair, scraping the tight brown curls with his fingernails as he rocked lightly against the crisp, cotton coverlet. He moved his arse in sensuous little circles and bent his knees. He let his hands massage caressingly over his thighs and up across his chest and taut nipples, deliberately avoiding contact with his genitals, drawing out his erotic torment.

His penis rose like a column, pulsing. "Want me to touch you, don't you?" He smiled down at himself as his breathing grew ragged. He was proud of his penis; it was bigger than average without seeming disproportionate, slender rather than thick.

His mouth opened in an 'oh' of excitement and his head rolled back into the soft, soft pillows. Slowly, his fingertips kneaded the firm flesh around his bobbing erection. The image of anonymous mouths hovering over his cock, lips saliva-slicked and eager, made him groan.

Too aroused to deny himself any longer, he reached out and fumbled for the small bottle of lotion on the bedside table.

With a trembling hand, he dribbled a small amount of the lubricant over the tip of his cock, making it twitch at the contact. The lotion oozed in tiny, glistening trails down the hard shaft.

He watched with glazing eyes as a drop of pre-cum pooled along his slit, mingling with the cool cream, and the dreamed of the disembodied mouths slowly lowering onto his cock, each taking its turn, sucking him, their tongues flicking round and round the tip and tracing the throbbing veins.

Gasping, he gripped his erection and began to pump. His other hand cradled his balls, feeling them crawl and tighten as he continued to play with himself. His fingers became slippery with the lotion, easing and heightening his masturbation.

He threw his head back again and moaned as he felt his climax nearing. His buttocks clenched and he lifted and then ground himself into the sheets. His cock was rock-hard and satin slick as he pumped faster and faster. As the heat inside of him built to exploding, he thought of Charlie's pale, blue eyes. His breath caught and his heart was thundering. Suddenly, the pale eyes changed, grew darker and darker to a midnight blue, the lashes now thick, long and black.

"N-no!" The word was a cry, but his body spasmed helplessly with orgasm, cum spilling over his hands and belly.

Then next morning, he woke to a tap on his door and Kee's voice calling his name.

"Come in." He pushed himself up against the pillows and settled the quilt around himself.

"Sir, I'm sorry to disturb you but you have a call from Sydney, a Mister Shrader from the Marquess Hotel. He says it is an urgent matter."

Griffin glanced at the phone on the writing desk where a light on the multi-button set was blinking silently. "Yes, all right, will you bring me some coffee, please?"

Kee nodded and left. Griffin talked with the executive manager at the Marquess, assuring the man that he hadn't forgotten about the labour negotiations and that he would call him later that day after he reviewed the union demands. As he was ending the conversation, he noticed another button light up on the phone console and then begin to blink.

Kee returned with the coffee tray and announced that Mr. Conrad was calling from London to arrange a meeting with and Robin Wesley the following day.

"Have Wesley talk to him." Griffin cinched the white robe tighter around his waist and poured himself a coffee from the silver pot.

"Mr. Wesley hasn't returned yet and Mr. Conrad must confirm his flight arrangements."

Cup halfway to his lips, Griffin stopped. "What to you mean, Wesley hasn't returned yet?" He glanced at the clock. It was barely 9:00 a.m. "When did he leave this morning?"

The servant looked momentarily surprised. "He left last night, sir."

"Last night? When, what time?"

"Sir, Mr. Conrad is still--"

"Let him wait. When did Wesley leave?"

"Shortly after he went to speak with you."

Griffin remembered the overturned wine glass. "Where did he go?" He wondered at his own curiosity. After all, he really didn't care what Wesley did, apart from M.I.'s concerns.

Kee's apparent hesitation at answering the question only managed to irritate him. "Well?" he prompted, placing his coffee back on the tray with a clatter.

"I do not--"

"Don't even bother saying you don't know. He's too damn compulsive not to let someone know his whereabouts. I think you'd be the logical choice." Griffin moved closer to the servant, his body language showing his growing impatience.

"He went to Kowloon to visit a... woman friend."

Oddly enough, the answer didn't lessen his annoyance. He ground his jaws together. "I see. Well, he should be crawling back here soon enough, I suspect." He found he needed to take a deep breath as he turned to glance at the blinking light on the phone. "I'll talk with Conrad. Tell Cook I'll have eggs benedict for breakfast. And melon." As he reached for the receiver, he added, "Kee, make sure we have fresh strawberries, too. Lots of them."

His brief conversation with Conrad did little to restore his humour. It seemed that the situation in Burma was growing worse for the company by the hour. Some further hard decisions were necessary.

After breakfast, Griffin changed into a sleeveless, blood-red teeshirt and white jeans and spent the morning in the study, making business calls and reading operations reports.

"Sir, you asked me to inform you of Mr. Wesley's arrival." Kee's almond eyes watched him from the doorway with a touch of wariness. "He's just gone to his room."

Griffin glanced at his Rolex. It was half past noon. "Thank you, Kee. That will be all."

He continued to work until Wesley walked into the study some twenty minutes later.

"Kee tells me that Conrad called earlier. Anything serious?"

Griffin finished reading the FAX in his hand before looking up through his lashes. In his casual khaki slacks and thin, black v-neck pullover, Wesley seemed much younger. His pale skin had a glow to it and he looked very... satisfied.

"He'll be here tomorrow afternoon, around three." Griffin picked up another FAX from the small pile by his elbow. "He said the cash flow problem is getting critical on the Burma deals. He has some new reports for us and he said they'll require some immediate decisions. He didn't want to go into any details on the phone."

Wesley nodded thoughtfully and moved to stand beside Griffin's chair, leaning forward to look over his should. "What have you been doing this morning?" It seemed that Wesley was not inclined to mention where he spent the night and Griffin was damned if he was going to show enough interest to ask.

"Odds and ends." He tapped a folder laying on the desk. "Fletcher's proposal," he said. "Seems quite attractive. Doesn't even require any capital up front on our end. I'm surprised you didn't pursue it. I've invited him here for a meeting at the end of the week."

"You invited Fletcher here?"

"Yes."

"I wish you had checked with me first, Jay."

Griffin sat back and picked up his cigarette from the ashtray. He took a drag and exhaled slowly, tilting his head to glance at Wesley. A smoke ring rose daintily and twisted to nothingness. "I don't have to check with you about anything."

Wesley sighed heavenward and stepped round to the back of the chair, his arms reaching out to rest on Griffin's shoulders. Pressure applied as Griffin tried to get up. "Your muscles are tight," Wesley explained, "You've been sitting in the same position too long." Fingers began kneading the area around his neck. The thought suddenly occurred to him that Wesley could easily choke him to death. Or, he could try to make love to him. At the moment, both possibilities were equally unappealing, or so he told himself.

"Relax," crooned Wesley. "I just want to ease the knots a bit."

Griffin decided to allow the contact. The massaging fingers were efficiently relieving the ache in his upper back and neck. It was the least Wesley could do for him since he was the major cause of Griffin's tension in the first place.

But when the touch turned to a slow, silken rubbing, the strong fingers moving upward to rake possessively through the hair at the nape of his neck, making his skin tingle, he pulled away and stood up, turning, almost toppling the chair and forcing Wesley to jump back.

Wesley was staring at his chest, dark blue eyes finally trailing down to his crotch.

He looked down at himself, noticing the firm points of his nipples clearly outlined through the thin, red cloth, and knowing the tight, white jeans only emphasized his partial erection.

"I want to know more about our arrangements with Khun Sa. I want to know exactly how much money we've handled for him and the accounts breakdown."

Wesley seemed bemused by his statement. "Are you sure you don't want to take care of that first," he said, nodding towards the bulge at Griffin's groin.

"Don't flatter yourself, I can get a hard-on from looking at a good steak dinner." He flicked the ash off his cigarette and took another puff. "Do you think you can manage to do a little work today?"

Wesley smiled. "I like your sense of irony. Yes, I think I can manage in a moment or two."

Stealing a glimpse at the region below Wesley's belt, Griffin noticed a definite swelling at his crotch. Horny bastard, as if whoring all night wasn't enough for him. But an unaccountable sliver of satisfaction curled through him all the same. His own body calming, he kept the irritation in his voice as he pressed a button on the console of his desk.

"Kee, have Cook prepare some sandwiches and tea for me. Roast beef will do. And a green salad, oil and vinegar dressing. I'll have it on the terrace in fifteen minutes." He looked back at Wesley. "I'll expect you to have a proper background report on our Burmese dealings by the time I finish my meal." With that, he walked out of the room. A few seconds later, he heard the sound of Wesley's rich chuckle drifting after him.

When he returned, as requested and without comment, Wesley handed him a written summary of M.I.'s transactions with Khun Sa. The amounts of money involved were much greater than Griffin anticipated. He looked over the list of names, figures and dates again. "Khun Sa's not mentioned anywhere."

"Naturally."

"All these Zurich accounts are active?"

"Yes."

"Did we set up Transoceanic Freight Systems?"

"Your father's own idea. He even worked out a way of writing off some of the operating expenses. Transporting medical supplies free for Project World Humanitarian Relief. First aid and China White, all in the same shipment. Khun Sa thought your father was most ingenious. In fact, Marius came up with quite a few charity fronts that M.I. uses for tax purposes. Would you like to know some of--"

"No." Griffin tossed the paper aside, his hand shaking slightly. "I'll read the rest later."

"Yes. You do that." But Wesley's voice was mild.

They worked through the afternoon. A stenographer from M.I.'s offices in Central arrived to assist with the correspondence that couldn't be expedited with a conference call.

Griffin followed up on various hotel matters, concentrating on every problem with an almost desperate intensity, and pushed the Khun Sa report as far back in his mind as he could.

"The world will still be here tomorrow, even if you can't smooth out every detail at the Marquess today, you know," remarked Wesley at one point.

How could Griffin explain why those hotel problems that Wesley considered inconsequential were so important to him? They were straightforward and controllable. They diverted his attention and let him focus his energy on something that didn't raise question after question in his mind.

It seemed that Wesley was going out of his way to make his father look like some kind of conscienceless villain. It didn't make sense. First of all, it wasn't true and, secondly, Wesley had to realize he was tainting himself with the same brush. After all, he was his father's right-hand man, the head of M.I. operations.

The answer was simple, he decided. He was reading too much into the information the other man was giving him, letting it disturb him when it shouldn't. Wesley didn't seem bothered by any of it. He was just giving him the facts about that end of the business. Yes, that was it. It was Griffin's problem. He wasn't as strong as his father. He had to learn to take it all in stride, stop being so damn affected by every new piece of information. He hadn't been living in a vacuum all his life. His father never tried to hide what he did from him. Griffin had known for years that the company handled drug money. So, now he was learning exactly how it was done. That was all. It was a matter of perspective. They were running a business and providing a service. That was all. There were plenty of people in the world doing a lot worse.

Whatever Marius Melville did, he had had to do.

By the end of the day, Griffin was feeling restless and claustrophobic. He needed to get out of the house. Away from everything. He needed something else to occupy his mind. A few hours escape. Maybe he was being a coward. He didn't care.

The stenographer was gone and Wesley was finishing up one last call. Griffin took Kee aside and told him he would be going out for the evening.

The Asian seemed a little surprise, but bowed an acknowledgment. "I will tell your bodyguards, sir."

"No, no bodyguards. I'm going out alone."

"But, Mister Griffin, I understood that the bodyguards are to accompany you at all times when you leave the house."

He caught Kee's surreptitious glance at Wesley who was just hanging up the telephone and walking towards them.

"Well, you were misinformed," replied Griffin.

"What's going on?"

Griffin held up a hand as Kee was about to answer. "That's all, Kee. Please tell Cook." He turned to Wesley. "Nothing's going on. I'm having dinner out, that's all."

Wesley glanced towards the departing Asian. "Your bodyguards?"

"Can keep you company," finished Griffin with a snap of impatience. "Don't wait up for me." He hurried off towards the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

As he changed into loose, gray rawsilk slacks and jacket and long-sleeved lavender teeshirt, he heard a knock on his door. It swung open and Wesley strolled in, hands in his trouser pockets.

"Nice outfit. Armani?"

Griffin looked down at himself as he sat on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes. "Don't bother with the chitchat. I'm going out and you can't stop me."

"I wouldn't dream of it. Where are you going, if I may ask?"

"I don't know. Jockey Club, maybe."

"Ah, a night at the races."

"I like their restaurant."

"May I join you?"

"No."

"Going anywhere else after that?"

Griffin stood up and walked to the large mirror, picking up a bottle of cologne from the dressing table. "Maybe."

"I'd like to know."

"Why?"

"In case of an emergency, I'll know where to contact you." Wesley smiled with a shrug. "You're the head of an international company, you know. Things can happen at any hour."

"I'll probably spend the evening with Mei."

"The lovely Mei. Excellent choice."

His father had suggested the exclusive courtesan to him a few years ago, to 'encourage' his heterosexual impulses. There was more insistence than suggestion in the proposal, but when Griffin saw the woman, he found that, for once, he had little reluctance to accede to his father's wishes. He wasn't surprised that Wesley knew about her. He was sullenly resigned to the fact that the man was privy to a great deal of information about him.

A sudden wild thought made him examine the knowing expression on Wesley's face. "You weren't with her last night, were you?"

Wesley looked down at the polished wood floor for a moment before meeting Griffin's tight-lipped stare. "We're old friends," he said.

The cologne bottle smashed against the wall less that two feet from Wesley's head and the room filled with the cool, spicy scent of "Polo".

"Goddamn you!" Griffin whirled and headed out the door.

"Jay, wait!"

He was halfway down the corridor when he felt arms close around him from behind. He struggled to throw them off as he was dragged to the wall and pinned. "You fucker, let go of me!" he shouted.

A firmly muscled thigh insinuated itself between his legs, forcing them apart. His wrists were held immobile above his head. Wesley crushed the full length of his body against him, their faces almost touching.

"Listen to me, I said we were friends; I didn't say I was with her last night."

Griffin considered spitting in the insolent face, but in the next breath, Robin's mouth was clamping over his in a kiss that was savage and bruising. The air seemed to be sucked from his lungs as the hard body ground against him. He felt Wesley's burgeoning erection rubbing against his crotch.

He tore his mouth away, averting his face as he found his breath again. "Don't you have enough whores taking care of you already? Or are you a full-fledged faggot now?"

His head was snapped back as he was jerked away from the wall. In one swift movement, Wesley twisted his arm behind his back in an iron grip and pushed him into the empty bedroom across the hall. The door slammed shut as he was thrown, face down, on the bed.

"You know all the right buttons to push, don't you?" Wesley accused as he advanced on the bed. "Well, if I'm a faggot, I owe it all to you."

Griffin scrambled off the mattress readying himself for a no-rules brawl. If Wesley was going to try and rape him, Griffin would make sure he was bloody with the effort.

But Wesley stopped a few feet away from him, visibly regaining he composure, fists balled at his sides.

"You're running away, again," he said. "If you find out something you don't like, or you think you won't like, you run."

Griffin's mouth dropped open. "Just because I won't happily let you fuck me through the floor--"

"No. That's my mistake. I shouldn't have lost control like that. You're turning into my Achilles heel. No, I'm talking abut who you are." He took a step back. "You never finished reading that report oh Khun Sa today, did you?"

"What? What's that have to do with--"

"You didn't like what I told you, did you? You don't want to know what really makes Melville International tick. It's been an abstraction to you all your life and that's how you've dealt with it. It bothers you too much to look at it up close, to know the flesh-and-blood specifics, exactly how it's done, to hear what your father did to--"

"Shuttup!"

Wesley shook his head slowly. "So you run and bury yourself in the hotel crap where everything's neat and clean. But the money that bought those fancy hotels came from people like Khun Sa. Drug money. That's what built Melville International and keeps it going. And you don't even know the half of it yet."

Griffin measured the distance to the door. Unfortunately, he didn't think he could reach it before Wesley.

"That's right, run. If you can't put it out of your mind with a few problems at the Marquess, try drinking, gambling, screwing it away. Anything to keep daddy on his pedestal."

Griffin wanted to hurt Wesley and he searched his memory for worlds that could cut deep enough. "And what kind of man are you? You've sold your conscience to the highest bidder all your life. Where were you when your son died? Halfway round the world, perhaps? You let your own son become an addict because you were too busy to spare the time for him. Because you didn't give a damn about him! It doesn't seem to disturb you very much to handle Khun Sa's money or anyone else's. The only person that ever mattered to you is Robin Wesley. At least I knew my father loved me."

The color drained from Wesley's face. It seemed as though he was actually trembling. His eyes focused on nothing as he turned and began to walk away. "Do whatever you want," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"Aren't you even going to deny it?" Griffin was shocked at how well his words had wounded.

Wesley paused as he opened the door. "Why should I? It's true."

As he watched Robin leave, Griffin felt a surge of guilt and anger warring inside him. It served Wesley right, he told himself, denying the guilt. The man had his skeletons-in-the-closet just like everyone else. He wasn't perfect. He needed to be reminded of that fact. Maybe now they could both stop tearing at each other.

But the bitter aftertaste of their confrontation stayed with him as he left the house and sped his Ferrari down the winding roads of Victoria Peak.

He barely stayed a half hour at the Jockey Club, finding he had no taste for either the food or the horse racing. Instead, he called Mei and told her he was on his way over.

She lived in a small house in a quiet, tasteful suburb of Kowloon populated by businessmen and wealthy merchants. It was a very ordinary looking house hidden from the street by a tall wooden gate and an old, ivy-covered brick wall.

"You must give me more notice next time, James," she said as he let him in. "I had made other arrangements."

"Fuck him." He marched into the elegant parlour and started to pour himself a brandy.

"Not this evening, I'm afraid, my darling."

He gulped a swallow, regretting it immediately as it fired down his throat. He sat down on the wide sofa and looked up at her.

She was beautiful. The daughter of a Russian diplomat and a Chinese prostitute, she had that mixture of ethnic features that was striking in its elusiveness. She spoke perfect English, adding to her aura of mystery.

"Why didn't you tell me you've gone to bed with Robin Wesley?"

She brushed a dark brown wave of hair from her forehead and sat down beside him, unruffled and serene. "That would be indiscreet."

"I thought we were friends."

She smiled gently at him and tapped his lips with her fingertips. "I care very much for you, James, but I am a businesswoman, not a gossip. Keeping confidences in an important part of my job."

"You didn't talk about me to him?"

"No."

He threw his head back against the sofa and gazed up at the ceiling. The lighting was soft and low, giving the room a rose-coloured warmth. "I wish it didn't bother me so much, but it does."

"I've known Robin for many years, long before I met you. Does that help?"

"Not really."

He felt her move closer and take the brandy glass from his hand, placing it on the coffee table. "You're upset. What has happened?"

He turned into her arms and buried his face against her shoulder. The airy, floral scent of expensive perfume clung to her skin. Her small, manicured hands rubbed his back soothingly.

Mei was a very good listener. Perhaps it was a necessary skill of all first-class courtesans, but there was a look in her eyes whenever he spoke of something that troubled him that transcended mere politeness. She was involved in his words, his feelings; she was genuinely interested in what he said. And she never judged him. To Griffin, that often meant much more than her considerable expertise in bed.

He found himself saying the most incredible things to her.

"I made him fuck me the first night I met him," he told her, his lips against the soft, white skin of her neck. He pulled back suddenly, surprised at himself and needing to see her reaction, wanting a response.

She held still in his arms. Again, there was no judgment in her dark, vaguely slanted eyes, only a hint of curiosity. "Do you regret that now?"

He looked down at the intricate stitching on the bodice of her burgundy silk dressing gown. "I regretted it that night. I just wanted to prove something."

"And did you?"

"Yes, but it was a mistake." He wondered why on earth he was bringing the subject up. He hadn't been thinking about it specifically. It just seemed to pop into his head and out of his mouth like an unplanned confession.

Robin Wesley was ruining his life.

He felt Mei gathering him close as they sat back against the comfortable sofa. She brushed his temple with a kiss. "Was it such a terrible mistake?"

He realized he couldn't push the memory back into its dark corner again. Perhaps if he told Mei about it, it would lose its power.

"My father kept mentioning him all the time," he began. "'Robin's becoming a real asset,' 'Robin can negotiate the deal,' 'Robin can set up the contracts.' I kept hearing his name over and over. I'd never seen my father so impressed with anyone before. And he stopped trying to coax me into taking over more of the business. At first, I was relieved that he wasn't pressuring me."

Griffin broke away from her and reached for the brandy snifter, sipping at it absently. "Wesley was traveling on business of us most of the time and his base was in London. He'd been working for my father for over a year before I even met him. And then I didn't tell him who I was."

Like a snapshot coming into focus, the night of the charity ball came alive again in his mind...

The Black and White Ball was one of the social events of the season in Hong Kong. For Melville International, it was a public relations dream. The cost of sponsoring the charity gala to benefit cancer research was recouped easily in positive publicity for the company. The guest list was international and impressive, and Marius Melville made sure that M.I.'s top executives were well-represented.

Griffin looked into the mirror and straightened his satin bowtie. His white tuxedo was atypically cut to a natural line, emphasizing his slender build. He smiled to himself at the almost bridal effect of the outfit, right down to his snow-white rosebud boutonniere. There was a certain bizarre humour in it. Tonight would be important in more ways than one.

"I must leave for the hotel now, Jay, and I'll expect to see you there in no later than an hour."

He turned to meet his father's scrutinizing gaze. "Couldn't you have worn something a bit of conventional?" the older man asked.

"I was assured that this is very chic. It was in Ungaro's latest Paris collection. It's a black and white ball. At least I stayed within the colour limitations."

"I suppose I should be grateful for that, but couldn't you have gotten yourself a haircut?"

Griffin glanced at his hair in the mirror. It reached well below his collar in the back. It wasn't in style, but he liked it. He even liked the premature gray that liberally sprinkled his sideburns and temples. It threw people off. "I'll have it cut short tomorrow."

Melville sighed tolerantly. His father was in a mellow mood. "I'd like to introduce you to a few of our clients tonight. They should know who you are. After all, one day, you'll be taking over M.I. Not too soon, I hope, but one day."

Griffin's smile faded. "I know I haven't been as involved as you would have liked, dad, and I'm sorry. It's just that--"

His father held up a hand. "Let's not get into all that now. It'll just ruin both our evenings. Besides, Robin will be here tonight and I want you two to finally meet."

A tiny knife twisted and jabbed in the pit of Griffin's stomach. "Ah, yes, the great Robin Wesley." He walked over to a sidetable and picked up his lit cigarette. "I can hardly wait."

"Don't be a fool, Jay." Melville's tone was sharp. "You can learn plenty from Robin. He more than proves his worth to M.I. every day. He's done a lot for the company in a very short time."

"Not to mention what a paragon of machismo he is," added Griffin sarcastically, unable to stop himself.

"There's nothing wrong with that, as far as I'm concerned," returned his father acidly, but then his voice softened. "Don't resent him, Jay. You know I would much rather you were in his place. I need a good right arm in the business and until you decide to become serious about your responsibilities, I have no choice but to rely on someone else. Robin has surpassed all my expectations." A small smile grew over his father's face. "He reminds me of myself when I was his age, actually." In the next instant, the smile was gone. "I have to be going, the car is waiting. I'll see you later. Please don't be late."

Griffin watched his father stride out of the room. He took a last puff of his cigarette and stubbed it out with more force than necessary. Robin Wesley. He supposed he should be grateful that his father had refrained from anecdotes on the man's sexual achievements as well. Always with women, of course. It seemed that his father was as proud of Wesley's blatant heterosexuality as he was of the man's business talents.

"Well, we'll just see what kind of man you really are, Wesley," whispered Griffin to the closed door. "We'll see."

Griffin walked into the Grand Ballroom of the Regency Tower forty-five minutes later. The enormous room encompassed the entire penthouse floor of the 54-story hotel.

Movement and music and light blended together in a kind of glittering black and white blur. The elegantly fashionable guests milled about, drinks in hand, their undercurrent of conversation punctuated with ripples of laughter as they moved between the white orchid-bedecked tables. A large orchestra was playing old '40's standards at the far end of the ballroom where couples were dancing on the shiny black and white checked floor. French crystal chandeliers hung like elaborate webs of frozen teardrops from the tall, molded ceiling, casting a flattering glow over the room.

There were easily 400 guests already. Griffin picked up a fluted glass of champagne from a passing silver tray. The skinny young waiter paused, giving him a sweet smile and a fast survey. "May I show you to a table, sir? They're filling up very quickly, but I'm sure I could find a very nice one for you." The young man actually batted his lashes and Griffin noticed the barest touch of mascara above the hazel eyes.

Slightly bemused, Griffin returned the smile but shook his head. "Um, no thanks, I think I'll just mix for a while."

"Well, if there's anything else I can do for you, sir," called the waiter as he started to walk away. "My name is Victor," he added with a lisp and a wink. "And I'm here to serve."

Griffin laughed, saluting the waiter with his glass. "The champagne will do for the moment, Victor." He turned his back on the young man's sigh and began making his way through the crowd.

As he scanned the guests, his grin disappeared. Suddenly, he wasn't sure he could recognize Wesley on sight. The description from one of his father's couriers wasn't all that distinctive. There were bound to be dozens of dark-haired, blue-eyed, handsome men at an affair of this size. He could hardly sneak up on each one to check for a crooked eyebrow and a tiny scar near the right temple.

A Marilyn Monroe-type with diamonds in her hair and a strapless, black satin dress smiled at him provocatively, her tongue darting out of crimson lips. Griffin watched as an older man took a firm hold of her elbow and led her, laughing, towards the dance floor.

It was going to be an interesting ball.

He looked for his father. If Wesley had already arrived, he would probably be with him.

A minute later he spotted Edgar Conrad, one of M.I.'s top managers. He drank a little of his champagne has he made his way towards him.

"Hello, Edgar."

Hook-nosed, paunchy and balding, Conrad made up to his homeliness with a soft-spoken demeanor and friendly manner. "Why, James, you look terrific, my boy. It's been, what, almost a year since I saw you last." Griffin's hand was taken in a vigorous shake. "How are you? How is the hotel business treating you?"

"Fine, just fine. You're looking well yourself. Have you seen my father?"

Conrad gazed over his shoulder at the growing swell of people. "My god, what a crowd. I've lost count of the millionaires. Oh, uh, yes, Marius was with the Consul General a few moments ago. He's absolutely delighted with the turnout. It's smashing, isn't it?"

"Yes, wonderful. Is Robin Wesley here?"

"Why, yes, I was talking with him and your father a little earlier. Of course, Marius kept being interrupted every two seconds by one bigwig or another. He gave us our marching orders, though: circulate, circulate and talk up M.I. at every opportunity." Conrad chuckled and snapped up a salmon appetizer from a passing tray.

"Can you point him out to me?"

Conrad's small brown eyes rounded at him. "Haven't you met him yet? Well, let me see, I should introduce you if I can just--" He craned his head to look toward the long balcony.

"No, Edgar. I'd rather introduce myself, if you don't mind."

The older man shrugged amenably as he continued to search the milling guests. "If you like, but--ah, there he is, over there, by that beautiful woman in the white chiffon dress with the black sequined bodice. They're near the doorway to the balcony. Lord, what a crowd. Can you see her? There, she's touching his bowtie." Conrad chuckled again. "Leave it to Robin, the beauties swarm around him like bees to honey. There's another lovely in white lace walking up to him now."

Griffin moved to one side to try and see through the knot of guests. "Thanks, Edgar, I'll talk to you later."

"Uh, well, are you sure you wouldn't rather I--"

The rest of Conrad's words were swallowed up by the party as Griffin moved off into a chattering group of guests. He eased his way unobtrusively closer to the balcony area, catching clear sight of the chestnut-haired socialite.

And then he saw him. Broad shoulders and a perfectly proportioned body encased in a traditional black tuxedo. Not too tall but seeming so. Porcelain pale, clear skin and a smile that devastated even at a distance. His hair was thick and dark with a bit of a wave, combed back to reveal a slight widow's peak. His eyelashes had to be long and lush from the dark frame they made of his eyes. And those eyes had to be a very dark blue because they seemed almost black from where Griffin stood, though there was a definite sparkle to them as Wesley inclined his head politely to catch a phrase. One eyebrow was indeed crooked, adding a rakish touch to the classic features. Over and above the obvious male beauty of the man, Griffin sensed an alluring aura of confidence and sexual power about him. It was in the way he stood and moved and carried himself.

Somewhere in Griffin's head, the red lights flashed, but the brakes failed.

PART 2

His secret, adolescent wet dream had come to life and was talking and smiling and scratching his nose less than thirty feet away.

Griffin blinked back the stunned sensation rooting him to the floor. If it was anyone but Robin Wesley, he would have thrown himself at the man shamelessly. But then, that was precisely what he had intended to do with Wesley. The fact that he looked almost exactly like his deepest, hottest fantasy should make it that much easier.

It didn't.

He never expected to really be attracted to him.

Someone bumped into Griffin from behind, and he turned with a muttered apology. He glanced back towards the balcony. Wesley was busy conversing with the two attractive women as a couple of banker-types joined them. He shook their hands and said something funny that made the little group burst out laughing.

Griffin was getting an erection just from looking at him. His heart was beating faster and his palms were moist. He was behaving like a spotty-faced fourteen year-old paging through his first nudie magazine. Lust at first sight. Oh, he'd been turned on by men, and women, before, just by looking at them. But never like this.

The fates could be cruel, he decided, not knowing whether to laugh or cry or jerk off under one of the elegant little tables. Stop thinking with your fucking crotch. He took a deep breath and moved away. He had to remember his objective. He was supposed to prove that Wesley wasn't perfect.

But what if his father was right? What if Wesley was indeed a heterosexual paragon on top of everything else? An Invincible Straight? The thought had an immediate, sobering effect. What he was trying to pull off was crazy. If Wesley sneered in his face, assuming Griffin managed to get close enough to him to begin with, he wouldn't have enough self-respect left to fill a thimble, and he'd had no one to blame but himself.

A wry smile inched across his face. He was insecure about many things, but his ability to get a man into his bed wasn't one of them. At least, it hadn't been up to now. And, dammit, he was going to prove to his father that the bastard wasn't all he claimed to be. He couldn't be. Couldn't.

The band was playing "Mood Indigo" and more couples were dancing. He looked at Wesley again. God, the man was gorgeous. He shoved the thought aside, but the hot flutter stayed in his groin.

Could he hate and man and still be ball-tight attracted to him? Yes.

Griffin's scheme might be outrageous, but he had made the effort to map out some necessary details. While the Regency was not an M.I. property, he was familiar with the hotel's physical layout. He also knew that Wesley was booked into a VIP suite one floor below and, presumably Wesley could conveniently take a few hours sleep before he flew back to London tomorrow.

His resolve regained, Griffin spent the next hour and a half circulating unobtrusively, and anonymously, avoiding his father and keeping a distant eye on Wesley's movements. He finally met up with a somewhat strained Edgar Conrad near the sumptuous buffet tables.

"For godssakes, James, there you are! Your father has been looking for you. He wants you to meet a couple of our new clients. Where have you been?!" Conrad was holding a small gold-edged plate of cold stuffed lobster tails and a little pile of marinated mushrooms. He gestured with a nod to a spot somewhere over his right shoulder. "He thinks you haven't even arrived." The furrows deepened over Conrad's eyebrows. "He's a trifle upset with you, James. You better hustle yourself over there now."

Griffin smiled pleasantly and looked at the ice swans filled with beluga caviar. There was a platter of quails' eggs in a champagne coloured sauce and dishes of mousse de crevettes, paper thin slices of filet de veau in port jelly, crisp brown squabs, and a mouth-watering assortment of salads and appetizers and what seemed like an endlessly long dessert table. Efficient waiters were replenishing the dishes before they were barely touched. "I think I'll try the truffle pate."

"James, did you hear me? Your father expected to see you over an hour ago."

"I'll just grab a plate and rush right over. Will that suit you, Edgar?"

"It's not me you have to suit." Conrad shook his head helplessly and speared a mushroom with his fork, but the relief was clear in his face. "Well, did you chat with Wesley?"

"Um, actually, I was waylaid by a countess," he lied, smoothing pate on a small round of fresh french bread. "I'll talk with him after I see father." He dotted his pate with some endive salad and a slice of the filet. "So, are you having fun, Edgar?"

"This thing is going to be endless. I'm exhausted already." Conrad gave him a wan smile as he turned to greet yet another Very Important Person.

Griffin took a quick detour to make sure that Wesley was securely occupied with the president of the First Hong Kong Trust, the head of the cancer relief fund, and the tenacious chestnut haired beauty before making his way across the ballroom to his father's table.

He knew his father was angry even though he smiled and stood at his son's approach. "Jay, I was wondering where you were." Melville turned and gestured to a swarthy, middle-aged man and an older woman with a tiara in her silver hair. "I'd like you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Kanzakis. This is my son, James." The woman inclined her head regally and extended her arm and Griffin took it politely and kissed a spot of skin above a heavy, pear-shaped emerald ring.

They all chatted inconsequentially as the other guests stopped by the table to exchange greeting with his father. Griffin made an effort at charm, winning several genuine smiles from the older woman.

"Would you excuse us for a moment?" his father said as he took Griffin's arm and stood.

"His father's grip was hard as he was steered through the crowd towards one of the marble-arched doorways. Two of his father's bodyguards were standing to one side, watching the guests come and go, and they formed an instant buffer around them.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"I've been here for two hours--"

His father's jaw tensed. "You knew I wanted to introduce you to some people."

"I'm sorry. I just got caught up in one conversation after another. I was going to--"

"You exasperate me, Jay."

"Well, I came over, didn't I? I think they were quite impressed with me, especially Mrs. Kanzakis."

Melville puffed out a breath. "They don't matter. They're just old money, not even our clients."

"Oh. I'm sorry. Who is you wanted--" Griffin gazed out at the glittering assemblage.

"That's not the point." Melville paused, his voice lowering as he nodded a greeting to a passing trio of guests.

Griffin opened his mouth to speak, but his father shook his head, his expression saying 'don't bother.'

"Have you seen Robin? I talked to him about an hour ago. I wanted to introduce the two of you then, if you had only deigned to appear on time."

"He's huddling with the president of the First Hong Kong Trust," replied Griffin evasively.

His father's eyes brightened and he grinned. "That Robin's a quick one. I just mentioned that we needed to work with Kwan on the Pacific Rim contract and he's not wasting any time. He looked at Griffin pointedly. "He's impressive, isn't he?"

Irritation prickled through Griffin at his father's tone. He could almost hear the unspoken, 'if only you were like him.' "Oh, yeh, he's definitely impressive.

Melville's gaze sharpened. "What did you two have to say to each other?"

"Well, he was surrounded by beautiful women and bankers constantly so there wasn't much opportunity for meaningful conversation."

Several people were gesturing to Melville to come over and join them. He gave them a brief wave. "Those are the brokers from the Sydney cartel. I want you to meet them." He patted Griffin on the shoulder. "Tonight is hectic. I may be tied up, but I hope you and Robin and I can find some time to talk later. I want the two of you to get along."

Griffin lightly fingered the white rosebud on his lapel. "I'll give it my best effort, dad."

For the next hour, he dutifully handled his introduction to the special contacts his father wanted him to make. He made sure he looked interested, commented as intelligently as he could at all the right moments, and kept his boredom from showing.

His luck grew. The chance at a major agreement with a Southeast Asian conglomerate seemed to rise out of thin air during a conversation that bounced between bond yields, favorite winter resorts, and the latest foreign films.

Griffin recognized the glow in his father's eyes. "The best deals are made outside the office," his father was fond of saying. And Marius Melville knew how to seize the moment.

"We can go over the details and sign the papers tonight, at my office. In fact, we could drive over there right now, what do you say?"

As the small group of power brokers proceeded to the exit, Griffin whispered to his father, "I think I better stay and circulate."

The intense look on Melville's face showed that he was already working out percentages and specifics on the deal. "Yes, that's probably best. I wish Robin could be in on this, but I don't want to take him away from the party. It might take hours to negotiate the numbers and there are too many other people here that he should meet." His father drew in a triumphant breath. "I know I can get them to sign tonight. It's fantastic." The older man smiled absently at him and left him with a pat on the back.

Bloody Robin. Griffin picked up his second glass of champagne as he watched his father's entourage leave the ballroom. He was sick of Perrier and desperate for a cigarette. A charity event for cancer research was not exactly the best place to light up, though the restrooms were probably choked with the smoke of the rich and famous.

There were close to eight hundred people in the ballroom. The dance floor was full as the orchestra began a medley of Cole Porter tunes. Griffin edged his way through clusters of guests, meeting up with several M.I. executives. He couldn't spot Wesley.

Deflecting a proposition from the wife of the British cultural attache, and the husband of a Vanderbilt cousin, he headed towards the balcony doors where he'd seen Wesley earlier.

After several minutes, he caught sight of the chestnut haired socialite. She was sitting quietly at a table of talkative jetsetters, sipping her drink with a trapped look, her eyes glancing about as if she was vainly looking for someone.

Griffin smiled to himself and began the hunt in earnest. The gala was in full swing and would continue to the wee hours. The word had been passed that Marius Melville was off deal-making and M.I. staff was to maintain its 'presence' at the ball. Most of the execs would have been in attendance for at least four hours already. He didn't think that any of them would dare leave before the bulk of the guests were gone and all the proper elbows had been well rubbed.

It took him almost a half hour to locate Wesley on the opposite side of the huge room. Taking care to remain out of sight himself, Griffin watched the other man. Again, Wesley was standing near some balcony doors. He was talking to several people, one of whom Griffin recognized as the publisher of Hong Kong's largest daily. Wesley was nodding attentively, but Griffin thought his smile seemed a little forced and he was eyeing the balcony furtively. Probably hoping to escape from the maddening crowd, Griffin mused hopefully. It seemed that Wesley would be stuck in that spot for a while yet.

The hot flutter was back in his groin as Griffin moved away and went to the men's room. He used the facilities, had a smoke, fended off a pass, and checked his appearance in the mirror. He didn't know what he was wishing for as he gazed at his wide-eyed reflection and straightened his bowtie. He just wanted and the feeling was ticking inside him like a time bomb.

The orchestra was beginning a polished version of "Sentimental Journey" as he walked back into the ballroom.

The little group had scattered and Wesley was no where in sight. Nerves suddenly tingling, Griffin ignored several invitations to conversation and made his way out to the balcony.

The spacious balcony ran the full circumference of the penthouse and was artfully decorated with large potted palms and florentine marble benches. The outer walls of the building allowed for many secluded nooks and alcoves.

His eyes adjusting to the much dimmer light, Griffin noticed that there were quite a few guests taking a breath of the soft night air. He strained to make out the shadows in the recesses as he strolled by. He was about to pass an alcove partially hidden by several palms when something, a sixth sense perhaps, made him stop.

It was Robin Wesley. He was leaning back against the building, face staring out at the clear, night stars. A long, slim, unlit cheroot dangled from his lips. His arms were folded casually across his chest. And he was alone.

Griffin felt the adrenaline pumping through him as though he had found himself at the very edge of a cliff with no where to go and his feet slipping, but the feeling held more excitement than fear. With a deep breath, he walked silently towards Wesley. As he moved, he reached into his pocket and drew out his gold lighter. Wesley didn't notice his approach; he seemed lost in the stars. Griffin hoped his hand wouldn't shake as he slowly raised his arm and flicked on the flame.

The small circle of amber light illuminated their faces. Wesley's long lashes cast little shadows as he blinked back from his faraway place at the sound of the metallic click and pushed himself away from the wall, tiny diamond studs glinting on his snow white shirt. Head turning, he stared right into Griffin's eyes.

The moment was one that Griffin would never quite understand, having never experienced another like it. The ballroom, the people, the sounds of music and voices, everything around him seemed to recede into a darkness that absorbed them completely, with only the little flame in his hand and the man in front of him remaining in the universe. It felt like discovering someone he'd known for a long, long time but had, impossibly, never met. It went far beyond the sense of facing a fantasy come to life. The peculiar sense of deja vu was laden with an attraction so deep that it was enthralling, well beyond the sexual heat he'd felt earlier, though that was certainly a part of it, too. The feeling made him want to run, but he couldn't seem to make his legs move.

The moment didn't pass as even extraordinary moments do by their very nature, with the tick of the clock. Instead, it seeped into Griffin's existence and marked his life, though he didn't realize it at the time.

Yet it could have ended there, if Wesley's reaction hadn't seemed much like his own. Griffin wondered if his own expression reflected that same split-second of astonishment, that same consuming fascination.

The flame danced, finally drawing Wesley's gaze down to the light. He took the cheroot from his lips, holding it away at his side. He started to speak, but the sound seemed rough and he cleared his throat softly.

"I don't smoke anymore. I, uh, just placate myself by pretending to, every now and then." His voice was warm as honey, the tone apologetic and a little shy.

Griffin smiled, the flame still flickering in his hand, the glow moving over their faces. Wesley smiled back, his gaze now taking in Griffin's appearance from head to toe. When their eyes met again, he looked almost embarrassed, as though he felt he shouldn't have stared.

Griffin clicked the lighter off and let the dimness close around them. All at once, they were back at the charity ball, with the noise of the guests walking past, the hum of voices wafting in through the balcony doors, the strains of "Moonlight Serenade" from the bandstand, the tinkling of glasses.

There was less than three feet of space between them. Wesley held out his hand. "I'm--"

"Don't tell me," interrupted Griffin quickly. "Please don't tell me." He smiled at the sudden, curious frown on Wesley's face. "Everyone who's Anyone is here tonight. People are scrambling to meet as many important names as they can. They never remember the people, just the names, so they can impress someone else with them at the next Social Event of the Season. I'd like to know you, not your name."

Wesley pondered that for a moment, his head cocking to one side. "Sounds like a lot of bull."

Griffin threw his head back and laughed. The atmosphere changed, like a snap of the fingers, became earthy and solid. It was a level Griffin could deal with, one that brought him back to his objectives. "All right. Are you as bored as I am with this thing?" he asked, with a nod towards the ballroom.

"Not really. I just needed to get away for a few minutes."

"Are you staying in the hotel?"

Wesley straightened a little. "Yes," he answered, a hint of caution in his voice.

Griffin just waited, gauging the new note of wariness. The next few seconds would be critical. He wasn't sure what Wesley would do. He wasn't sure if he even had a chance. It would be so easy to say the wrong thing since anything he could say would be necessarily be both true and false.

He took one step closer. Wesley was even more beautifully masculine up close. "I've watched you this evening. I couldn't help it. I'd like to be with you for a little while."

Wesley's mouth opened as the words registered. He looked him up and down again with an expression that seemed to say he wasn't sure he believed in Griffin's very existence. He seemed like someone gently awakened from a dream, and uncertain of his wakefulness.

"I... I'm not sure I understand. Are you trying--"

"Your suite number, what is it?" Griffin asked, although he already knew it.

Wesley hesitated for a beat. "5304."

"There's an emergency exit over there. We wouldn't even have to go through the ballroom." He gave Wesley a deceptively calm smile, turned, and began walking towards it.

With those few steps, he took his biggest gamble. He was gambling that the magic of that first moment would hold. He walked slowly but deliberately, straining for the sound of footsteps behind him, his heart thudding quickly in his chest.

The handle on the door of the emergency stairs was cold to his touch as he turned it slowly. The harsh, inside light sliced out into the balcony. He walked into the gray, metal stairwell and headed down the one flight to the 53rd floor.

The silence in the stairwell almost unnerved him. The solid concrete walls completely cut off the sounds of the gala. As he reached the door to the 53rd floor, he heard nothing... no one behind him.

He'll follow me. He has to. I saw it in his eyes. I'm sure I saw it. As he opened the door into the deserted hotel hallway, he thought he heard a sound on the stairs. He was too nervous to look. Instead he let the door close softly behind him. Suite 5304 was only two doors away along the corridor. His shoes sunk into the plush emerald green carpeting as he stopped in front of the door and waited. He gazed at the shiny brass plate on the door. 5304, The Ambassador Suite, the polished metal announced.

He counted the seconds off in his head.

The emergency door swung open slowly. He heard the sound with a tightening in his throat. A few moment later, he felt Wesley's presence close behind him.

"Your card key," Griffin said, holding up his hand, without turning. He thought his nerves would crack as he stood there silently, waiting again. Finally, he felt the smooth rectangular shape slip into his fingers. He inserted the computer-coded card into its special slot and pushed open the door.

He took a few steps into the suite before he turned. The brocade drapes on the floor-to-ceiling windows in the lounge were not closed, permitting the night lights of the city to faintly illuminate the room with a kind of silver-gray lustre. Robin Wesley walked in behind him and shut the door. He moved no farther, watching Griffin with unblinking eyes. The diamond studs on his shirt threw off tiny sparkpoints with each breath.

Griffin moved towards him as though he was being drawn by some invisible chain. There was nothing else he could have possibly done. When they were face to face, he reached out, one hand sliding up a black satin lapel of Wesley's tuxedo, the other molding against the nape of his neck, ruffling the soft jet hair along the collar. It brushed like silk through his fingers.

He turned his face up and Wesley's mouth pressed slowly against his lips. Curious, then sweet, then deep. The kiss radiated through every molecule in his body. It fired every nerve until he felt the sensation would literally lift him off the floor.

The strangest part was that he sensed Wesley's body with such utter clarity as well, as if he were in the other man's skin. The wild hammer of his heartbeat, the singing vibration of each muscle, the rush of air through his lungs; it felt as though their responses had linked and blended instantly.

And it was only a kiss.

They pulled away from each other at the same time, with the same reluctance and amazement.

Griffin swallowed and glanced behind him until he saw the door to the bedroom. He took Wesley's hands in his and led him into the other room.

The curtains were drawn and he turned on the brass reading light by the kingsized bed. A small, golden pool of light filtered over the pillows. The bed had already been turned down by the maid and a little bottle of Napoleon brandy with a single glass was set on a silver tray on the nighttable, compliments of the hotel management. An arrangement of fresh flowers stood on the other nighttable on the opposite side of the bed. Griffin noted the details absently has he pulled off his white jacket and threw it over an armchair.

Wesley was staring at his face with that same look of disbelief he had earlier, as though he couldn't quite believe Griffin was really standing in front of him. Then he reached out and touched the silver clasp that joined one of Griffin's white braces to the waistband of his trousers and slowly, very slowly, his fingers grasped it and followed it up. Griffin felt the back of Wesley's fingers through the thin linen of his shirt as the hand brushed over his chest and nipple and the plane of his shoulder. At the top of his shoulder, the hand paused. And then, inch by slow inch, Wesley pulled the brace off. It dangled near his elbow as Wesley's fingers moved to his satin bowtie, undoing it with a quick tug on one corner.

In the next moment, they were kissing again. Their clothes fell away in a blur, and the feel of Wesley's naked body made Griffin's penis harden to iron. They tumbled into the bed, their hands fondling and their mouths locked tightly together.

Griffin moaned as Wesley rolled on top of him, trailing kisses over his skin. The small corner of his brain that could still function beyond his clouding desire wondered at how perfectly their bodies fit each other, unlike anyone else he'd ever been with before. Made for each other. And then another thought, cold and complacent, flashed through his mind -- how easy. How easy it had been to get into Wesley's bed. His father's unassailable heterosexual paragon. How easy.

It never occurred to Griffin that his father could have been wrong.

He sighed as Wesley's tongue licked along the length of his neck while one palm rubbed hard across his nipples, making them tighten and peak. In his turn, he cupped Wesley's buttocks, squeezing the firm mounds before he let his hands roam over the smooth back and broad shoulders, feeling the muscles ripple under his fingers.

"I want to suck your cock," he said, whispering breathlessly.

Wesley groaned, his erection twitching against Griffin's belly.

With a gentle push, he positioned Wesley on his back and quickly knelt between his thighs. His deep blue eyes were glazed and hungry, following Griffin's every movement. His cock was a long thick column, veins finely etched and pulsing, the slit wet with pre-cum. Griffin raked his fingers through the lush pubic hair, grasping the base firmly. His free hand played with the heavy balls as he bent down and sucked the head into his mouth. He worked his tongue around and around, feeling the hard flesh strain and jump against his lips. The cock felt so good in his mouth. He couldn't get enough. He laved every inch until Wesley cried out with pleasure. Fingers tangled in his hair, caressed the sides of his face as he brought Wesley to the brink.

And then he pulled away.

"Please, no!" Wesley's voice was hoarse, his body shifting restlessly. "Please, don't stop."

"I want your cock inside me. I need it." They were both breathing very fast, bodies sweat-slicked. Griffin's erection ached, his balls curled tight, but he knew he had to have more. He scrambled to the edge of the bed and groped for his tuxedo jacket on the floor, taking something from one of the pockets.

"I don't think I can -- can't hold back," Wesley was saying, his fists clenching the sheets. "I'll -- I'll hurt you--"

"No, it'll be good, the best." Griffin tore open the small packet and took out the condom. It was glistening wet with lubricant. His fingers slipped a little as he rolled the shiny, latex sheath down over Wesley's penis.

"Come on," Griffin urged as he lay face down on the bed and lifted to his knees, spreading his legs open. "Fuck me, I need you to fuck me. Be rough, take me hard, I don't care." He felt Wesley shifting on the bed, moving up behind him. "I want your cock in me. Put it in me." He ran his lubricant-oiled fingers over his anus, circling the ring of muscle teasingly, wantonly offering himself.

He heard a moan and then his fingers were shoved away as Wesley's hands gripped his buttocks, kneading and spreading the cheeks, exposing him even more. He felt Wesley's erection jab against his opening. A moment later, he gritted his teeth as the head of the thick cock pushed into him. It hurt, stretching him too quickly, but he knew Wesley wouldn't -- couldn't -- go slow. He bit down on his lip to keep from crying out. He took several long breaths, trying to keep himself relaxed. It would be all right once Wesley was completely inside him. The cock thrust deeply, the force pushing him into the pillows as Wesley took control of his body. At first, he thought he wouldn't be able to stand it; the insistent pressure was agonizing.

"My -- god -- incredible--" Wesley gasped ecstatically. "You feel so tight."

The lubricated sheath eased Wesley's entry, Griffin's pain and discomfort gradually fading as the stroking cock began rubbing against his prostate. The contact sent piercing arrows of sensation through him. He let his weight rest on his knees and shoulders as he reached for his shaft and began to pump it in rhythm with Wesley's thrusts.

It was everything he wanted, his hottest dream become reality. He was with the most desirable man he'd ever seen, and that man desired him. It was right for him, to be taken by this man. No matter what his father said. No matter what the world said. He felt complete. But it was Robin Wesley. Robin Wesley. Why didn't it seem to matter any more? Why did it still feel so right?

HE sensed Wesley's climax nearing. His thrusts were powerful and deep and fast, his groans of pleasure heightened. They were both so close.

"C'mon, that's it, lover," Griffin cried as his anal muscles squeezed their invader. "You're so deep... feels so good--" "Harder, yeh, harder, Robin, now. Now!"

Wesley spasmed against him, their bodies rocking as he came. Seconds later, Griffin felt his own orgasm ripping through him, his whole body shaking as his semen spilled over his hand and belly. He was pressed into the mattress as Wesley's weight fell across his back.

The room was silent except for the sounds of their rapid breathing. Soon, that quieted, too. Wesley's softened cock slipped from his body, and he rolled away to lie beside him.

Griffin felt boneless and dreamy, satisfied. He turned to Wesley and raised himself on an elbow, bent down and kissed him with gentle thoroughness before falling back into the pillows with a blissful sigh.

"How did you know my name?"

Griffin was floating, half asleep. Suddenly, Wesley's tone hit him, even before the words made sense to his brain. A cold spot of fear brought him to chilling, clear awareness.

Oh god, no.

"How did you know my name?" The voice was slicing, a razor's edge.

Griffin struggled for some kind of answer, some kind of lie, but he hesitated too long. The mattress dipped as Wesley got out of bed and walked into the bathroom. He heard the sounds of water running and the toilet flushing. When Wesley returned, he was carrying a small towel, casually wiping his genitals. He stopped next to the bed and looked down at him.

"You're a hustler, aren't you? This was a set-up from the beginning, wasn't it? If you expect me to pay, you're very much mistaken." His face was carved in ice. "I'm sure you've fucked more than enough marks tonight. You obviously know how to work a room. 'Ballrooms' a specialty for yours, no doubt."

Stunned, Griffin could only shake his head dumbly. Wesley was already picking up his clothes, pulling on his pants.

"I don't know who you conned to get you into the gala, but you're through, do you hear me, you fucking little whore."

With each ugly word, a glacial anger was seeping into Griffin.

"To think I let myself be fooled. You seemed... like a dream. I actually believed--" Bitter unhappiness flickered over Wesley's face as he stopped himself, his mouth tightening into a thin line.

But Griffin wasn't listening any more. He sat up against the carved mahogany headboard, legs spread, knees bent and heels digging into the white sheets. "I'm not a whore," he said, with ominous softness.

Wesley's gaze raked him dispassionately, pausing at the glistening trails of semen across his groin. "Funny, you certainly look like one. I'm sure you haven't worn a stitch of clothing in bed since you entered puberty."

"I always sleep in the nude, yes." His anger was a solid wall of ice now. He was finally seeing the real Robin Wesley.

"I just bet you do. Well, now you can get dressed and get back out on the streets where you belong." He picked up a diamond stud off the carpet and snapped it into place on his shirt, his manner dismissive.

"Really? And here I was trying so hard to improve your lot in life, Mister Wesley."

The blue eyes narrowed with sudden apprehension.

"I know how much success means to you, you see. And the quicker the better, too. What better way to climb to the top than to marry the rich boss's daughter. Ah, but unfortunately, your boss has no daughter." Griffin smiled savagely. "But that's all right because now you can say you've fucked the boss's son."

Wesley's eyes grew wide in a frozen stare, his mouth opening silently.

"Allow me to introduce myself," Griffin continued, his fingers idly gliding through the semen on his belly. "James Griffin Melville. At your service."

Silence fell like a shroud. Slowly, the shock on Wesley's face turned to non-expression, all emotion wiped away. "Jay," he whispered.

"My father's nickname for me."

"Why this game? Why?"

"The Great Robin Wesley. Wizard of finance, Master of the corporate boardroom and the backroom deal. And, of course, Womanizer par excellence. The ideal of manhood. Certainly, my father's ideal." Griffin sank down into the pillows. The movement reminded him of the soreness between his buttocks. Regret was beginning to crush out his anger, leaving him hollow, but he fought the feeling. "I've proved that's not all true, haven't I? My father should find it very illuminating."

"You don't even know me."

"I know you too well."

"No. No, you don't. You know Marius Melville's opinion of me." Before he looked away, Wesley's eyes betrayed a vulnerability that Griffin refused to acknowledge. "This is all about hurting your father."

"No! I want him to see who and what you really are!"

Wesley picked up his jacket and absently brushed it off. "You don't have any reason to be jealous, Jay. I'm not your rival. Whatever else you father might be, as much as he can, he loves you."

Perplexed and disturbed by the reply, Griffin shook his head. "Don't you dare patronize me! I wouldn't hurt my father. You're not who you pretend to be."

Wesley gave him a quick, sharp look, then walked over to a lamp and turned it on, filling the room with light. "Think very carefully about what you're doing. If you think that finding out that you seduced me is going to somehow win his admiration or make him grateful, then you're a fool."

"You're afraid. You just want to protect yourself."

"Your father wouldn't care if I fucked my way through the Royal Navy as long as I could handle the business and deliver what he wants. He'll be disappointed, but it won't be in me."

"No. He shouldn't trust you."

To Griffin's surprise, Wesley smiled. "You're very beautiful. I hope we can make love again."

Aghast at the twist in the conversation, Griffin found a host of conflicting emotions rising within him. Pride and indignation won. "You're insane if you think I'd ever let you touch me after this."

Wesley's eyes lowered, their depths veiled by long lashes. "Was it such a big sacrifice, being with me?" he asked softly.

"I wanted to prove something and I did. I can stomach anything, to prove a point. No matter how detestable." He couldn't bring himself to look at Wesley as he said it, certain the lie would show in his face.

When he glanced up at last, Wesley was walking towards the sitting room and the door beyond. He turned, his expression closed once more. "I'm going back to the gala," he said.

Some perverse need drove Griffin to call out. "I'll talk to my father about this."

"That's your choice." His voice was flat and spiritless. "I'm sorry... for all of it."

The final look that passed between them tore at Griffin's heart. He watched Wesley leave with a sense of a dream slipping away.

Afterwards, he lay still on the bed for a long time, his eyes squeezed shut against the light, a feeling of regret and loss overtaking him...

He opened his eyes to the peach coloured ceiling of Mei's sitting room. His head was resting against the plump cushions of her sofa, her hand holding his.

"And did you tell your father?" she asked.

He swallowed hard. "No. I never told him." He stood up and moved to the mantle where a line of small jade animals took up residence. He picked up a beautifully carved turtle and cradled the cold, smooth figurine in his palm before putting it back. He wondered how much he had actually said to Mei and how much had just been the memory playing back in his mind. "It didn't seem to matter any more." Griffin sighed. "My father arranged for all of us to meet on several occasions, but I made sure I was 'busy' or out of town. Finally, he insisted and we met, 'officially,' at a business conference. It was like the Ice Age. My father didn't push the issue after that. He thought I was being unreasonable and resentful of Wesley. There was enough truth in it that I didn't argue the point."

"But Robin is staying with you now."

"Yes, ironically enough, my father got his way after all." He started pacing the room, his fists shoved into his pockets. He could feel Mei watching him silently. "I think I'd better go."

Mei rose from the sofa and walked over to him. She put her arms around him and hugged him gently. "You are welcome to stay, as always, James. Have you eaten? I can fix a little supper, or we can play a game of chess, or we can make love, or we can do nothing at all." She brushed his hair back with her slender fingers and smiled. "I don't like to see you so unhappy."

He drank in the perfume of her hair, tipped her face up to his and kissed her. Then he kissed her again. He broke away abruptly, feeling miserable. "I've made enough of a mess of everything already. I feel like I'm losing control and I don't know how to get it back." He bit down on his lip. "Did you know Wesley's wife?"

She looked surprised for a moment. "No. They were divorced soon after their marriage. Robin was very young, no more than nineteen, I believe. He and I did not meet until several years later."

"Did you know about his son?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did you know how he died? Did Wesley ever talk to you about that?"

She hesitated, considering her answer. "He talked about it, a little, yes."

"You won't tell me what he said, will you?"

"It's not my place to tell you. Why are you asking me these questions, James?"

Griffin looked away. "I... we had an argument tonight. I said some things about his son." He turned back and caught the frown on her face. "I read my father's personnel file on Wesley. It mentioned his son's overdose." He began to pace again. "He didn't react the way I expected."

"Facts can be very unrevealing. Robin loved his son very much, that much I can tell you. The rest you must learn from him."

"We're not exactly on the best of terms, Mei."

"Perhaps you should decide how you really feel about him."

Her comment inexplicably irritated him. "I want him out of my life, that's how I feel about him," he snapped.

"Then why are you so interested in his background?"

"I want to know how to deal with him."

She looked at him for a moment. "I see." Her brown eyes had a penetrating quality that made him uncomfortable, as though she was seeing something in him that he wasn't aware of.

When he left Mei's house, he wasn't sure if he wanted to go home. He didn't think he was ready for another confrontation with Wesley. Edgar Conrad would be arriving the following afternoon and there would be enough problems to handle. He walked towards his Ferrari, deep in thought. The street was deserted, pools of light gathering around the old lampposts. There were many trees along the street, their branches casting deeper shadows. He was almost at his car before he noticed the difference.

The Ferrari was listing, both tyres on the pavement side flat, the rubber clearly slashed. He hurried around to the driver's side, his throat tightening as he saw that the door was ajar. He distinctly remembered locking it when he arrived. Hairs prickling at the back of his neck, he opened it slowly, triggering the interior lights.

"My god," he whispered. The entire driver's seat, steering wheel and gear lever were covered in blood. He knew by the smell and the colour that it wasn't red paint. It looked like someone had taken a bucket and poured it over the cream-coloured leather. Blood was dripping everywhere. He pulled back, his hand accidentally touching the top of the seat. He slammed the door shut and glanced quickly up and down the street. He couldn't see anyone, but the shadows now seemed ominous and threatening. He ran back to Mei's and pounded on the door.

"James, what is it? What's happened?" she asked as she let him in.

He closed the door, turning the bolt lock and attaching the safety chain.

She gasped, staring at his hand. "Are you hurt?"

He looked down and saw the blood smearing his fingers. He kept his voice steady with effort. "Someone vandalized my car. Slashed the tyres and poured blood..." His voice trailed away.

Her face had grown even paler. "I'll call the police." She was already reaching for the phone when he stopped her.

"No, Mei, no. I'll, uh, I'll call Wesley."

"I don't understand. I think the police--"

"No," he told her firmly, taking up the receiver himself. "The company's suffering from enough bad publicity as it is. Look, we can take care of it ourselves, really." He hoped some measure of conviction came through in his words because he certainly didn't feel very confident. Mei gazed at him doubtfully but made no further objections.

He dialed the number and heard Kee's voice after the first ring. "It's Griffin. I want to talk to Wesley."

A few moments later, Wesley answered the phone. "Jay?"

He told him what happened to the Ferrari.

"Where are you?" Wesley's voice was even and businesslike.

"At Mei's."

"Stay there. Be careful. I'll be right over."

Griffin listened to the line clicking off and slowly hung up the phone. He turned to Mei and tried to reassure her with as much of a smile as he could muster. "I think I better wash my hands," he said.

Less than an hour later, Wesley arrived, accompanied by one of the new bodyguards. Nodding a quick greeting to Mei, he walked over to Griffin. He started to reach out, then stopped himself.

"Are you all right?" he asked, tucking his hands into the pockets of his short, suede jacket.

Griffin looked into the blue eyes and felt an indefinable tug of emotion somewhere inside him. "Yes."

"Josef is outside checking your car now. He brought spare tyres. He'll take it to one of the special garages in town and see to the upholstery."

Josef had seen enough rough sights in his twenty-odd years of employment as chauffeur/bodyguard to Marius Melville that Griffin was sure the man would not be the least bit fazed. He only wished he could say the same for himself.

"The blood... what kind is it?" Griffin asked with reluctance.

"Pig's blood probably, something like that. We'll have it analyzed." Wesley moved a half-step closer. "Don't worry, I'm sure it's not... human."

Griffin ran a hand through his hair. "Who would do such a thing? Why? Someone must have been following me all night!"

"Did you call the police?"

"No."

"Good. They wouldn't be of any help. The company can do without this kind of publicity." Wesley turned towards the bodyguard. "Karl, check the street again, and tell Simon to bring the limo up to the house. We'll be leaving in a few minutes. Make sure that Simon lets Josef know what's happening."

"Are you sure it wouldn't be better to call the police?"

Mei's question drew Wesley's attention and he walked over to her, taking one of her hands in his. "This isn't a simple street vandal we're dealing with, Mei. It's a rather... complicated situation."

Griffin could hear Wesley's reassuring tone as he talked with her, but their voices faded from his consciousness as his mind turned inward, propelling him into rapid, flashing images of blood and leather, torn and wet with blood. A white sheet turning red. A lifeless hand, not quite covered by the damp cloth, deeply cut and bloodstained. The hand wearing his father's ring. Blood pooling on a shiny wood floor, surrounding his father's favourite chair. A body covered with a death's sheet, turning crimson.

"Dad... dad..." He felt cold, a strange icy feeling that fanned out from his chest, reaching out to his fingertips. He started to shiver. "Dad..."

A hand clasped his shoulder. Someone called out his name. Yet all he could see was the sudden reality of death, spreading in thick, red streaks over black leather and his father's mutilated body lying on the wood floor, the color of his life soaking through the white sheet that covered him.

He covered his face, shaking his head, the images burning into his mind. "Nononono..." The word was a chant, his voice quivering with emotion.

Arms circled him and he reached out blindly, clutching at the solid warmth, burying his face against a broad shoulder. The feel of suede brushed his cheek and Robin's voice was close to his ear, low and soothing. "It's all right, Jay. Let's go home now. I won't leave you alone. It's all right."

The steady voice broke through to him, pulling him back from the nightmarish images. Slowly, he became aware of the room again, with its gentle peach-coloured walls and vases of flowers, and Mei, and... Wesley. He realized he was clinging to Robin and that he didn't want to let go, but if he didn't, he knew it would be admitting too much. "I... I don't know why I -- I'm sorry. Tired, I'm so tired." He pushed himself away, stepping back. He couldn't look at either of them. His legs felt like lead but he forced himself to walk towards the door.

"Take care of him, Robin," he heard Mei call, a sweet knowing in her voice. Even as she spoke, he felt Wesley walking up beside him, standing close.

They sat in opposite ends of the back seat of the limo, in silence, Griffin staring at the grey-tinted glass that separated the chauffeur's area from the rear section. He wanted a smoke but couldn't find the energy to draw his cigarette case and lighter from his pocket. So he just sat and stared. It wasn't a short ride, the road often winding and steep as they made their way up to Victoria and his father's house. It seemed like it would be midnight forever.

It wasn't until Wesley reached out and placed a folded white handkerchief into his clenched fist that he realized he was crying. He touched his face and felt the wetness rolling down his cheeks. He tried to blink the tears away, but he couldn't seem to stop them coming.

He curled away and leaned into the corner against the window, shielding his eyes with the handkerchief, feeling infinitesimally better with the small concealment.

"Jay, we're here."

His eyes felt swollen and hot, his nose stuffed. He sat up and winced at his cramped muscles. The white handkerchief was damp in his hand. He stole a glance at Wesley, who was no more than a silhouette in the dimness, but Griffin could sense the man was watching him. Wesley probably thought he was some sort of hysteric. For once, Griffin could hardly blame him.

"I haven't cried like that in years," Griffin told him quietly, trying to explain, at least, the obvious.

"There's nothing wrong in crying for your father. It's long overdue, I'd say," Wesley replied, surprising him. "We'll go inside whenever you're ready."

"What if I want to be alone?"

"Then I'll leave." Wesley shifted towards the door handle.

"No, don't go." He twisted the ends of the handkerchief between his fingers. "I want to apologize for what I said about you and your son. I was angry and thoughtless."

A few seconds passed and then Wesley seemed to nod slightly in acceptance. "It isn't enough to love a child," he said, and Griffin could hear the sigh in his voice. "You should be there when they need you; I was a lousy father."

Appreciating Wesley's rare openness and understanding better than he thought he could, Griffin felt an unexpected empathy. "That doesn't mean he didn't love you, or that you weren't important to him."

Wesley said nothing to that and both men were quiet.

As he sat watching the still silhouette of the man beside him, Griffin finally acknowledged Robin Wesley as a human being. Not as the fanciful dream lover or the conniving interloper or the cold-blooded fortune hunter, but as an individual with complex feelings and needs and vulnerabilities. That realization, and its implications, were more than he wanted to cope with in his current state of mind.

"I think I'm ready to go inside now," he said.

Griffin went into the house while Wesley stopped to talk with the bodyguards and give them further instructions. Kee greeted him at the door and dutifully inquired if there was anything he needed.

"I'm just going up to bed," Griffin answered. "It's been a long day."

Kee bowed slightly as was his habit and then uncharacteristically remarked, "I will do what I can to find out who damaged your car tonight."

Halted by the comment, Griffin looked at the Asian and noticed the sharp intelligence in the young man's eyes and the air of comfortable competence. He wondered why he hadn't seen it before and realized that Kee probably hadn't let him.

"Thank you," he said simply.

"Sleep well, Mr. Griffin."

He climbed the stairs to his room. He stopped along the corridor and glanced into the shadows that shrouded the hallway to the north wing of the house. A chill went through him. At the end of that hallway was the room where his father died. Had he stood in it so calmly only a short time ago, recalling old memories?

He knew he would never want to walk into it again.

In his own room, he turned on all the lights and caught sight of his reflection in the dresser mirror. His hair was disheveled, his eyelids puffy, his nose red. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin was ashen. He looked like someone who had just come from a funeral. "That's true enough," he said aloud to himself.

He was physically tired, but his mind was too restless for sleep.

He took a steamy, hot shower and went to bed anyway. He kept the lights on.

An hour went by, and then another. He gathered the down quilt around him and snuggled deeper into the pillows. Everything was so quiet, even the clock on his bedside table. The room seemed very large and cold.

He got out of bed and found a long, thick robe in the closet. He was more weary than he could remember. Pride seemed like a waste of energy in the face of all the other emotions that clawed at him. Moving on instinct, he walked the short distance to Wesley's room. There was no light to be seen under the door and no sound to be heard. It was the middle of the night. Wesley was asleep, of course.

Griffin turned the handle and went in. He padded to the bed and stood there, gazing down uncertainly at the sleeping man. A few moments later, as if sensing his presence, Wesley sat up suddenly. Griffin dropped back, startled by the quick movement.

"Jay? What are you doing here?" Wesley asked him as he leaned over and flipped on a lamp.

"I couldn't sleep." He stared down at his bare feet. "Do you think they'll try and kill me the same way as my father? Is that why they did what they did tonight? To show me?"

There was a long pause before Wesley answered. "Albert Woo is not involved this time. We know that."

"It doesn't matter who it is. They know how my father was killed. It was in all the papers, on the news." He shut his eyes, his voice a whisper. "Blood all over the chair."

Wesley took hold of his hand and pulled him into the bed. "That's not going to happen to you. Understand?"

"Do you care?"

Wesley settled him against the pillows a discreet distance away and tucked the soft blanket around his shoulders. "Yes, I care. And before you ask, it's not just because of the money."

Griffin turned his head on the pillow. "I don't want to be alone tonight."

"You're a puzzle, James Griffin. Every time I think I've worked you out, you up and change on me."

"I could say the same about you." Griffin turned on his side, facing the other man. "Tell me about your son."

Wesley frowned, looking away. "Why?"

"Because I don't want to think about my father's murder, or the business, or about someone trying to kill me. Or even about... us."

"You're still a self-centered, spoiled little bastard." The comment was made as a casual observation, tinged with amusement, devoid of heat or venom.

"Probably. I wouldn't know. I can't seem to judge people very well and I suppose I'm no better at understanding myself. But I'm not asking just for a distraction. You don't have to tell me, but I'm... interested and I'd like to hear about it from you. If it's too painful..."

"He's been dead for over five years," cut in Wesley, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "I don't even think about him for... days, sometimes." He drew in a breath and swallowed. "He started using drugs when he was thirteen. I didn't know. Hell, I was never around. I thought if I put him in the best schools, gave him all the advantages money could buy, well, everything would be fine."

"Sometimes it works out," offered Griffin.

Wesley turned and gave him a flicker of a sad smile. "But it's not nearly enough, is it?"

Griffin chewed on his lip, unable to deny it. It had certainly not been enough for him.

"Some people should never be parents. Most people, probably, if you judge by the state of the world. I was eighteen when Diana and I were married. Not quite twenty when we were divorced. Eric was the only good thing to come out of it, but I wasn't ready to be a father. I couldn't cope with the idea of being responsible for a family." He rubbed his palms against his eyes. "I promised myself that I'd support them as best I could, make as much money as I could so they wouldn't have to worry about anything. Salve to my conscience. I just couldn't give them... me."

"You think it was your fault that he became involved with drugs? What about his mother? Where was she?"

Wesley's jaw tightened. As the seconds ticked by, Griffin thought he wouldn't answer. "We both loved Eric and we both failed him. Seems like a contradiction in terms, but it's true." He clicked off the lamp, drew the blanket around his shoulders and turned on his side. "It's late and we need to get some sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow."

"But--"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore. Get some rest."

There was a question Griffin had to ask. It was glaring and difficult, as much for him to pose as he thought it would be for Wesley to answer. "How could you work for my father after... after what happened to your son? Knowing what my father... did?"

Wesley's whole body seemed to tense up. Again, Griffin thought he wouldn't answer. When the reply came, it was muffled and clipped. "I buried what few morals I had when I buried Eric."

Griffin stared at the dark head on the pillow. He felt as though Wesley had allowed him to see only pieces of the truth, but even they didn't seem to fit easily together. For a moment, he considered going back to his room, but discarded the notion immediately. Instead, he shrugged out of his robe and tossed it to the floor. He shifted closer to Wesley's back until their bodies were almost touching. He leaned forward and brushed a kiss against the nape of Wesley's neck.

Wesley rolled to face him. He put out his hand and cupped the side of Griffin's face, his thumb tracing a line along his lower lip. His eyes glittered like black stones in the darkness. "Be careful, Jay. Don't start what you can't finish."

"I'll remember that in the morning. Just hold me."

"If I hold you, I won't let go."

Griffin closed the gap between them and snuggled against Robin's chest, feeling the muscled body through the thin cotton pajamas. It was a safe and wonderful feeling that melted all the dark, cold places inside him. "I'm not teasing you, but I'm tired. In the morning, you can have me any way you want."

"Any way?" Robin's arms were wrapped around him, slowly stroking the length of his back in warm circles.

Griffin found to his own amazement that his eyelids were heavy and he was beginning to fall asleep, his answer slurring. "Yes, any--"

He floated up through fading dream fragments and woke up to the sight of Wesley's sultry blue eyes. Beyond the tall windows with their French tulle curtains, sunlight weaved through clouds, brightening the room in moving patches.

He was surprised that he wasn't as tired, or as depressed, as he had expected to be. He stretched under the blanket and smiled.

"How do you feel today?" Wesley asked. He was propped up on an elbow, very close.

"Better."

"Do you remember what you told me before you fell asleep?"

"Yes."

Wesley leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. Lingering, their lips touched again and again, a promising caress of flesh.

His heart drumming, Griffin gazed up at the black veil of lashes that hid Robin's eyes, at his cream-white skin, and the full, rose-flushed lips, moist from their kisses. He remembered the pain in Robin's voice, and the evasion.

They should talk. Wall had tumbled down between them in a night, but what did that mean for them today? The sex was easy. Had always been easy. The physical attraction had been there from the first. He could admit it now. And they could make it just that simple, that fundamental. In fact, it would be best. Anything more would demand the kind of emotional honesty and... surrender... that Griffin doubted either of them could give. They were both wounded men. For himself, the hunger went very deep, but so did the fear.

"What do you want?" he asked, slipping his arms around the wide shoulders.

Wesley kissed him again, deep and long, his tongue tracing the underside of his mouth.

The sex was easy.

But Wesley stopped and pulled back, searching Griffin's face as if for a clue to a mystery. Then he sat up, his knees drawn, body half turned away. "I want you to go back to your room."

The taste of Robin wet on his lips, Griffin gaped at the words. "What? I don't understand."

Wesley's head rolled back, eyes closing. "I was so sure I could handle it all. Any possibility. Everything under control." He shook his head slowly. "I can't believe it. I've bloody lost my mind."

Confused, Griffin sat up, his hand reaching to touch the other man's arm when he felt him flinch at the contact. What could have happened in a matter of seconds to change the mood so completely? "Is--is it because I'm a man? It does matter to you after all, doesn't it? You don't want to tarnish that image of yours--"

Wesley's harsh laugh cut him off. "Oh, god, what rubbish. Image? You mean your father's image of me. He saw what he wanted to see. I don't give a damn about that. I never did."

"Then... what is it? Why do you want me to leave?"

Griffin rose to his knees, the blanket falling away. "Don't talk to me like I was some snotty, little kid. Don't give me orders! I give the orders around here, you take them." He balled his fists, reining his anger. "You want us to fight, don't you? I don't know what the hell's come over you, but neither of us is running away this time." He grabbed Robin by the shoulders and shoved him back down to the mattress, levering his weight across the other man's lower body to keep him in place, pinning his arms at his sides.

Taken off guard, Wesley looked at him with a stunned expression and then began pushing and bucking. Griffin held on tenaciously, not giving ground, like a rider on a wild stallion.

"Damn it, Jay, let me up!"

"No! You want me, I can feel it." He rubbed his crotch across Robin's genitals, feeling the hardening bulge through the man's pajamas. "Why are you shutting me out now? All of a sudden?"

With a defeated sigh, Wesley stopped moving and shut his eyes. Griffin bent over and kissed each eyelid, then worked his way down one cheek with a feather touch of lips. Chest to chest, he could feel the beat of Robin's heart.

The blue eyes opened, almost unwillingly, words escaping. "I'm falling in love with you, Jay."

Griffin froze, at first unsure of what he heard, and then disbelieving of it. "Did--did you just say--" He couldn't bring himself to repeat the phrase, but one look at Robin's face told him he hadn't imagined it.

He was hit by the strangest sensation, as if he was suddenly standing in a warm pool of sunshine, alarm bells going off on all sides. He was ecstatic. He was petrified. "Y-you're wrong. It's sex," he countered, wondering how he managed to get the words out past the boulder in his throat. His hands slipped to Wesley's pliant shoulders and he shook them roughly, as if the action could revoke the other man's words.

A curiously wry smile tilted the corner of Wesley's mouth as Griffin stopped shaking him and subsided into a brooding statue, sea green eyes huge and vulnerable. "Yes, I thought that. I hoped that. Christ knows I don't have much experience with loving, and even less luck, but I can tell the difference. It was different from the very beginning, when we met at the charity gala. It was the last thing I wanted or needed, but there you were. All shimmering white, that damn cigarette lighter in your hand, the flame glowing in your eyes. I thought you'd been lifted right out of my dreams. Sex, hell yes, but more, much more. I think that's why I was so angry, when I found out you'd arranged it all. Because I couldn't stop the feeling." His smile faded. "And you're more frightened of it than I am."

"I can't believe you're saying this to me," he said, the astonishment too clear in his voice. Love. Of all the incredible, horrible, ruthlessly beautiful things Robin could have said to him, that was the one thing he couldn't have anticipated. He shifted off the strong thighs and sat on his heels on the far side of the bed. He stared down at his kneecaps, trying to block out the memory of that first night, of that exquisitely special moment when they looked into each other's eyes. "What am I supposed to do now?" he said, more to himself that to Robin.

"If you're smart, you'll get up and go to your room like I said."

"And if I'm not?"

"You'll stay here and let me make love to you."

"And then what?"

"I don't know."

Griffin's head drooped and he poked petulantly at the sheets with a finger. "You bastard, I don't even think we like each other. This is crazy."

Robin laughed again, but this time there was genuine warmth in the sound and his reply was laced with compassion, and a note of hope. "I doubt that sanity ever plays a large role in any love affair. It's all probably a karmic joke to pay us back for transgressions in our past lives."

"I don't believe in any of that crap."

"Neither do I, but it's as plausible as anything else. Look, if people could pick out who they fall in love with in a logical, sensible manner, everyone would be with somebody else."

Griffin looked over at Robin, gazing steadily into the sapphire eyes. "I'm not in love with you." He said it with enough obstinance to almost convince himself.

"Well, that would make things 50% easier all the way around."

Griffin frowned and shook his head. "You sound relieved. Are you glad I don't feel the same way?"

"Like I said, it makes it much easier if it's just my... problem."

Some blind, perverse force egged Griffin on. "Oh, I see. So, I should just ignore it, like a -- a wart or something, and hope it goes away?"

"Your analogy could have been a bit more complimentary, but I guess that's about right."

"And what if I want to have sex with you? Just sex," he emphasized.

There was a knock on the door. "Mr. Wesley, Mr. Conrad is on the telephone from Heathrow, line 3."

Wesley glanced at the phone on the desk across the room. A light on the console blinked red. "I'll take it, Kee, thank you," he called, a trace of relief in his voice.

"Very good, sir," Kee replied. "I will be in the kitchen if you should need me." The door remained closed.

"He knows I'm in bed with you, doesn't he?" Griffin asked, watching Wesley get up and head for the phone.

"Kee has impeccable manners." Wesley pressed the blinking button as he picked up the receiver. "Edgar, what are you still doing at the airport?" He listened for a few minutes. "How long of a delay?" He listened again. "Yes, yes. FAX messages? I haven't checked." HE looked down at the desk, finger tracing back and forth along the edge of the polished mahogany, his face impassive. "When did it happen? The deadlines, yes, I know. I spoke with them yesterday. I didn't need a proxy to make the decision. I am aware of that. We'll work it out when you get here. Well, a few hours won't make any difference now, will it, Edgar?" There was a sudden, tight edge to Wesley's voice. "No. Is that your plane? Yes, don't worry so much, Edgar. Better hurry, we'll see you soon." He hung up the phone with care, smiling a little self-consciously when he turned and met Griffin's stare.

"What is it?" Griffin asked.

"Edgar's plane was delayed by weather. He'll be a couple of hours late."

"And the rest of it? What was that?"

Wesley walked slowly to the bed, his gaze seemingly locked on the Persian rug with its swirling burgundy, emerald and gold threads. "Problems, serious ones. Khun Sa's operation is collapsing. We thought it was trouble from the Wa National Army pushing into Khun Sa's territory and taking over, but apparently there's some sort of elite international drug force involved. There've been a lot of arrests overnight. More warrants have been issued. The word is that they may have uncovered links to M.I. All our distribution points are falling like dominoes. It'll affect other contracts; we won't be able to meet them. But if the authorities have managed to dig up Khun Sa's connection to us, the contracts would be the least of our worries."

The shocks seemed to be coming at him faster than Griffin could react, like a whirlwind tossing him in one emotional direction and then another, without any time to recover from the blows. He felt as though he'd lived through enough in the past few weeks to fill out a very long lifetime. "What are you saying?"

"It might mean the finish for the company."

"What?! But, but you said everything would smooth out. We bought time. The Board, that went all right--"

"I'm talking about the real business, Jay. It doesn't matter if the facade looks good if there's nothing left to hold it up." Wesley closed the distance between them and took hold of his arms. "Listen, I want to set up some accounts for you. In Switzerland. We have to transfer the bonds and the gold. It has to be done today, and you'll have to sign some papers to authorize it."

Griffin twisted away from his. "What the hell are you talking about? I already have accounts here and in Sydney, the trust in London--"

"They're all tied to M.I. No good, too many new laws, not enough loopholes. They'd be easy to confiscate."

"Robin, you're talking as if it was doomsday! Tell m--"

Wesley cupped a hand behind his neck and pulled him forward, other arm circling his waist tightly, lips taking his mouth in a bone-melting kiss. "Just... sex you said. All right, if that's all you'll give me," Robin whispered with an urgent gush of breath. "Let me..." His mouth covered his again, with a possessiveness that stripped Griffin's mind of everything but desire.

They sank down into the sheets, Robin tearing off his pajamas, his cock rising hard against Griffin's thigh. There was a desperate quality to his touch as he blanketed Griffin with his body, pushing his legs apart, pressing sex to sex. At the same time, he nuzzled his face against Griffin's neck and hair with bewildering gentleness, fingers drawing a caressing line from ear to collarbone.

"I wish it could be different. Dead god, I wish it could be different. But I love you, Jay. Love you--"

Griffin felt what little resistance he had melt away. He could feel the love in every movement, every touch. Even if the words had never been said, he would have sensed them. Fleetingly, he thought of Charlie. The memory made him shiver in Robin's arms. Why couldn't she have loved him like this? Because there was too much illusion? Too much deceit? He had felt her need for James Griffin, and her bitter contempt for Marius Melville's son. And that was all that had been between them.

But Robin knew him, knew who and what he was. And Robin loved him.

He basked in the knowledge, soaking up each wave of soft emotion that radiated from Wesley with all the lonely yearning inside him, a yearning that had taken root years ago, in a little boy who was given everything but love.

Griffin felt a feeling blossom inside him and he no longer fought it.

He ran his hands over Robin's back, allowing the tenderness to flow into passion. His tongue danced over his lover's chin and mouth before pushing inside to taste and duel playfully. Wrapping his legs around Robin's waist, he rubbed one heel lightly along the crack between his buttocks. He could feel Robin moan into his mouth. Cocks hard, balls tight, they moved against each other, the friction taking them to the edge.

Griffin could sense they were both close to coming. Hoping to prolong the pleasure and needing to tell Robin something of what was in his heart, he pulled away slightly and murmured as he drank in air. "No -- not just -- sex. Make... make... love."

Robin's smile was beautiful as it blurred into another kiss. Then he wriggled downward over Griffin's body, stroking his nipples into firm nubs with fingers and tongue, massaging every inch of skin with his palms. Griffin fell open to the sensuous assault, splaying his arms and legs, giggling as Robin found ticklish spots on the side of his ribcage and in the soft fold of his inner thigh, gasping as lips suddenly touched his penis.

The problems of the world and of the Melville empire blinked out of existence.

Robin took him into his mouth, laving slow circles over the head of his cock, moving to trace the pulsing veins with his tongue, down to the base of his balls. Warm hands slid under him to cup each trembling globe of flesh, squeezing proprietarily.

"Want -- want to suck you," Griffin managed, between quick breaths.

Their bodies shifted to accommodate one another and Griffin sighed serenely as his lips closed over Robin's cock. It throbbed against his tongue, hard and musky. He raked his fingers over the long, thigh muscles and across the firm, quivering buttocks. He sucked Robin's balls, feeling the moving ovals in their velvet sack, before returning to the thick shaft, pre-cum glistening along the slit.

Just as he felt his own body reaching the brink, his control shattering, Wesley maneuvered to face him, kissing him with bruising force. Their bodies spasmed together, semen splashing hot between their locked groins. They rocked each other in a slowing rhythm, cradling each other as their racing heartbeats returned to normal.

Robin nuzzled him, eyes heavy and cherishing as he moved to lie close beside him. They lay quietly together, gazing at each other, allowing their new feelings to enfold and bind them.

"We have to get up," Wesley said at last, regretfully.

"Let's just stay in bed. I want to feel you cock inside me, like the first time."

Robin buried his face in Griffin's neck, his voice a husky whisper. "Don't torture me, Jay. We have to get up. I want to arrange those accounts for you. We have to do it right away."

Griffin turned and nibbled teasingly on Robin's earlobe, blowing warm breath to mark his trail. As his hand snaked down over the taut belly, Wesley gave a frustrated groan and, with an effort Griffin could see on his face, pushed himself away and scrambled off the bed. "You'd put Mei to shame, do you know that?" he scolded.

Griffin found he could smile at the gentle rebuke and joked, "I trust that means you won't be needing her services in the near future."

"Yes, and you better not need them, either. Or anyone else's." Robin said it with a glint in his eye that belied his casual tone.

"You mean that, don't you?"

Wesley picked up Griffin's robe and placed it on the bed. "I don't have any right to throw conditions at you. Unfortunately, it's a lousy trait in my character." He raised a hand as if to ward off an image. "I can't stand the thought of you with anybody else." His jaw tightened and he glanced away. "I don't share. Not someone I love. You should know that before this goes any further. I couldn't stand it, Jay."

Griffin stared wide-eyed, surprised that the underlying jealousy and possessiveness in the statement did not anger or offend him. The realization dawned that he could easily feel the same way. That he did feel that way already.

He cleared his throat, the self-knowledge weighing on him with more implications about the volatility of their fledgling relationship. "As long as it's not a one-way street, Robin. Don't ever place any demands on me that you won't be willing to carry yourself."

Wesley looked at him and nodded slowly. "Agreed." His lips quirked into a smile. "I want to kiss you." He sighed. "But then we'd never leave this room."

Griffin laughed, eyeing the languid flax and ripple of muscle as Robin dragged himself towards the bathroom. "Would you like me to wash your back?" he asked silkily.

"No! Go back to your room and get dressed before I rape you."

Grinning at the exasperation in Wesley's voice and feeling his own cock stirring at the prospect of sharing a shower and its consequences, Griffin hopped off the bed and threw on his robe. "We can discuss that and other alternatives tonight."

Forty minutes later, Griffin stood in front of the floorlength mirror in his room. He pulled on a pale yellow cashmere sweater and smoothed the soft material over his belt, pushing up the sleeves. His blue jeans were faded and very tight. He was definitely not in a suit and tie mood.

"Not bad," he said to his smirking reflection.

He was happy. Even the prospect of Edgar Conrad and his ominous news descending on them like a dark cloud didn't particularly disturb him. Melville International would survive. Robin would figure something out. The crisis would be averted and then they could turn their attention to each other. If anything was to come of their relationship, they would have to learn to keep their defenses down. And that meant outside the bedroom as well as in... He froze at the thought.

Was he really contemplating a future with Robin Wesley? After all the failures in his life, was there any sense in even making such an assumption?

"None at all," he answered himself aloud. There was, and never had been, any reason why it should feel... right... between the two of them. Robin said as much himself; love was fickle and people were stupid. It was a fatal trap and it seemed they'd both stepped into it.

Yet Griffin wanted, very badly, for it to be real this time. He suspected that, once having taken the step of accepting the feelings between them, if they turned to ashes, this latest failure would surely break him.

He squared his shoulders before the mirror. There was plenty of gloom in the offing where the company was concerned. It was silly to anticipate the worst in the only area of his life that seemed to hold the most hope. He had to concentrate on helping Robin save M.I. from the vultures. The rest would fall into place.

When he went downstairs, Kee informed him that Robin was already in the study. Henry Corday, one of M.I.'s corporate attorneys, along with a stenographer, were on their way from Central at Wesley's request, and Griffin should join them as soon as they arrived.

"They should be here in less than an hour, Mr. Griffin. And Mr. Conrad should be arriving here later this afternoon. Shall I have Cook prepare something for you?"

Griffin glanced towards the study. "Has Mr. Wesley already eaten?"

"He's having coffee and toast, sir. He said he had several long-distance calls to make."

"Well, I'm starving. I'll have, um, waffles and bacon and coffee. And juice, too, grapefruit. Bring it into the study, please."

As he entered the room, he could hear Robin's voice. He could tell that he was talking to one of their Zurich bankers.

"Individual accounts, Dieter. Numbered only. Yes. From M.I.'s portfolio for James Griffin and I'll give you the details on the rest. Yes, I'll FAX the paperwork today and a courier will deliver the originals within 24 hours. As soon as possible. No, it can't wait. If you want that fee, you'll confirm the account today, understood?"

Wesley waved him over. Griffin crossed the room and sank into the leather sofa, smiling a greeting. From his vantage point, Wesley seemed every inch the powerhouse executive, even in his casual, navy blue open-necked shirt and brushed corduroy slacks. There was a compelling confidence and authority in his voice that brooked no argument. It was the aura of iron purpose that his father had always projected, and that Griffin could never quite achieve. He no longer begrudged the skill in Robin. It would be like faulting the sun for being hot. In fact, he found he felt a certain satisfaction and pride in Wesley's abilities. What a difference a night makes, he mused. For good or ill, he realized his heart was now well and truly in command.

"Are you setting up those accounts for me already?" he asked.

"I told Corday to bring over the necessary forms. We'll write up whatever else we need. The stenographer is a notary public. You just have to sign them and we can do the transfers immediately."

"Can't we wait until Edgar gets here? Let's just concentrate on stabilizing the situation for the company, then, if it still looks--"

"No." Robin drummed his fingers on the sheaf of papers in front of him, stopping as he met Griffin's stare. "I want to make sure you're protected."

Griffin hunched forward, hands clasped. "And I think you're jumping the gun. You can fix it, I know you can. My father believed in you, and he was right. I was wrong. I realize that now. You'll pull M.I. out of whatever trouble it's in."

Wesley gazed down at the desk. "I'll do everything I can for you, that's all I can promise." The phone began to ring. "That's probably my New York call." He picked up an handful of reports and offered them to Griffin. "These should fill you in on the contract deadlines we're facing and the amounts involved."

Griffin walked over and took the papers as Wesley answered the telephone. It was ten o'clock at night in New York and from what he could gather of the call, the head of their New York offices was in for a very sleepless night as Wesley rattled off a list of instructions.

His attention turned to the reports and he was so engrossed in them that he didn't even hear Kee enter the room with his breakfast tray. He looked up to see the servant pouring fresh coffee from the silver service. "Cream as usual, Mr. Griffin?"

"Uh, yes, thank you, Kee."

There was something peculiar in the reports. While M.I. had dozens of shipping and construction contracts in effect at any one time, Marius Melville had always been careful to mange the cashflow between them. M.I. brokered deals for many powerful clients and it was, to Griffin's understanding, like juggling a large number of balls in the air; the key was to make sure they weren't all up or down at the same time. His father had known when to press an advantage and when to pull back, even if it meant foregoing a lucrative opportunity. Juggling. And the fallback and the foundation was always the drug money. With that in jeopardy, the situation would still not be at the critical stage if the... juggling was right. It seemed inconceivable to Griffin that his father would have arranged the kind of deadline schedule he was seeing in the reports. They were too close together and tied up too much of the company's assets at one time. Even Griffin could see that.

"Sir?" He glanced up again to note Kee had set up the rolling cart with it's linen tablecloth next to him by the sofa. "Will that be all?"

Griffin nodded and reached for his cup of coffee. He flipped through the pages again. He couldn't remember being aware of many of the client/company names that were listed in the reports.

He sipped at his coffee, and took a bite of his waffle. It was hot and crisp, with just the right touch of melted butter and thick maple syrup, reminding him vaguely of long-ago childhood mornings, but he found he wasn't as hungry as he thought. "Robin?"

Wesley was busy at his computer, the modem light flashing beside him. After a moment, he sat back and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

"Robin?"

The blue eyes gazed at him questioningly.

"I don't remember reading any summaries on some of these contracts." He mentioned a few examples and waited as Robin left the desk and sat down next to him.

"Your father secured those shortly before he... died. He was fairly certain we'd, uh, acquire the Cassidy records and I think that's why he took them all on at once. The files are all here on disk. I was concerned about getting you ready for the Board meeting before diving into everything else." Wesley looked towards Marius Melville's marble-topped desk, his voice dropping low. "I thought there'd be more time."

Guilt, woven with a dozen other emotions, jolted through Griffin at the mention of the Cassidy papers. If he could've persuaded Charlie... if he could've controlled his own feelings... if he'd done exactly as his father had wanted... if...

"I'm glad Charlie Cassidy walked out on the deal."

He heard the words and turned his head slowly to look into Robin's face.

"You're living it over again, aren't you? Don't let it eat at you, Jay. It's done. It's the past now." Wesley closed an arm around his shoulders. "If she'd agreed to the terms, you'd both be together. I'm sorry, but I can't regret the loss of that."

"If I could've convinced Charlie to give us the records at the outset, my father would be alive now and the company would be safe," replied Griffin bitterly.

Robin opened his mouth to speak, but the words seemed to fade into a sigh. He leaned over and kissed Griffin lightly. "Let's take care of today, shall we?" he said finally.

The doorbell chimed faintly in the distance.

"That must be Corday." Robin took his mouth again, in a kiss that lingered and tantalized. "I wish you didn't look so bloody gorgeous in those washed-out jeans. Looks you like painted the damn things on."

Effectively breaking through Griffin's gloomy thoughts and garnering the beginnings of a smile, Wesley stood and went to the door of the study.

Grateful for his lover's affection and support, Griffin steadied his own emotions though he wanted nothing more than to take Robin into his arms and shut out the rest of the world. Instead, he poured more coffee into his cup as Corday and the stenographer were ushered into the room.

The next few hours flew by in a flurry of calls to Zurich and London, and the headquarters in Central as piles of paperwork were created, read, amended and re-checked. Griffin thought his fingers would cramp from the number of documents he wound up signing.

By the time Edgar Conrad arrived, Wesley had managed to complete some very intricate transfers of gold and securities into newly created numbered Swiss accounts for Griffin's exclusive use.

"I want you to take these authorizations to Zurich yourself," Wesley told Corday as they parted. "The next plane out, understand?"

"I'll arrange it immediately." Henry Corday locked the papers in his attache and nodded his goodbyes.

On the other side of the study, Edgar Conrad poured himself a brandy.

"Was the flight that bad?" asked Griffin. The normally jocular Conrad was wearing a face as gray as his three-piece pinstripe.

"Frankly, my boy, I didn't notice." He took a healthy swallow of his drink and dabbed at his high forehead with a handkerchief. "I feel like I've aged a decade these past few days. At this rate, I'll reach a century before week's end."

"Is it that grim, Edgar?"

Conrad drank off more of his brandy. "I'm afraid it is, James. Very grim indeed." He looked over at Wesley who was escorting Corday and the stenographer to the door. "Why do you think he's rushing to set up those accounts for you."

Griffin followed the older man's gaze. "What do you mean? He's just being cautious."

Conrad shook his head. "He knows the situation better than any of us, believe me. It does surprise me though." He turned to Griffin. "Rather an enigmatic man, I'd say. I take you two are finally on comfortable speaking terms?"

"We'd have to be, wouldn't we?" replied Griffin with a brief smile.

"At the rate you're dipping into that brandy," began Wesley as he strode back into the room, "you should be completely insensible by nightfall."

Conrad snorted and drank off the remainder. "I doubt I would be so fortunate." He returned the glass to its tray and drew some papers from his travel case. "Did you decipher the FAX messages?"

Griffin watched as the two men seated themselves at the huge desk. He was aware of his father's elaborate security coding system on any 'sensitive' M.I. operations, but it had always seemed a little ridiculous to him. He was only beginning to see how pervasively it was used and just how many 'sensitive' operations there were.

"The last one came a few hours ago. Seong's been arrested but it seems he managed to destroy the books before they got to him. They can't even prove he works for M.I."

"For heaven's sake, Robin, why would they even arrest a man in his position if they didn't have something on him?! And we don't know what they may already come up with in Rangoon." Conrad dabbed at his moist forehead again. "I never thought they'd get as far up as Seong. The man's as careful as anyone I've ever known." He shook his head nervously. "It's all hit like a lightning bolt. I -- I still can't understand how they could have pieced it all together. If they've reached Seong, then..." He paused, glanced at Griffin, and tossed the papers towards Wesley. "DiSalvo has resigned. He's probably halfway to his estate in Rio by now."

Stunned by this latest bit of news, Griffin rose from his seat and walked over to the desk. "Resigned? But he worked with my father from the very beginning. They grew up together."

Edgar looked at him kindly. "I'm sorry, James. Frank said he was too old to fight any more battles. Or face the possibility of a prison term."

"Prison! That's absurd." A dull hollowness spread through Griffin's chest.

Wesley read the top paper and crumpled it in his hand. "DiSalvo is a shrewd man." He turned to Conrad. "What about you, Edgar? Do you see the handwriting on the wall?"

The older man looked thoughtful. "I've been worried about the company for months. You know that. I don't think we can make our commitments. Now, with Seong out of the picture, I think we should consider some contingency plans for ourselves." He met Griffin's troubled gaze. "Marius told me once that there was always a chance he could lose M.I." He snapped his fingers. "Just like that. I remember being shocked when he said it. He was a gambler, your father, a very cunning and masterful one. I realized then that he was enjoying the feeling, the... risk. He wanted to build an empire and he was willing to do whatever it took to succeed on his own terms. The challenge, beating the odds, was as exciting to him as the accomplishment. Perhaps that's why he succeeded so well. I really believe he thrived on the danger." Conrad let out a sigh. "Unfortunately, I do not." He pointed to the other sheets of paper in front of Wesley. "Those are the latest figures. Some of our big clients have already called demanding answers. I just wish I could make sense of it, but frankly, at this point, I think we should liquidate the company, before it's done for us."

Griffin leaned heavily against the desktop, hands gripping the cold marble edge.

Wesley scanned the report and pushed it slowly across to Griffin.

At first the figures on the paper seemed to blur in and out of focus. He felt light-headed. He drew in a deep breath and concentrated on the dates and names and numbers.

It couldn't be possible, he thought. It was all crashing down around them. It was too late to do anything.

"With a few of the subsidiaries, we could instruct the principals to file for bankruptcy," Edgar was saying. "If there's time, we could probably sell most of the hotels. The Westin chain has been interested in European properties..."

Griffin pushed himself away from the desk, straightening.

It couldn't be possible.

"Robin." He said the word as if it held some magical quality that could change what was happening, his expression urging Wesley to refute Conrad's statement and assure them that the figures were wrong.

Wesley bit down on his lip as if it pained him to make the reply. "The company's finished, Jay. We have to accept it."

"No! My father worked all his life to build Melville International. How could it be ruined in a few weeks?! It's just not possible." He began to pace across the room. "There has to be something we can do."

"Once the news of the investigation and the arrests leaks out, out clients will be running for their financial lives, and I'm afraid some of them are unpleasant enough to crush a few of our bones on their way to the exits. We have to try and divest ourselves quickly. You have to face reality, James." Conrad wiped at the persistent sheen of sweat across his forehead.

"Someone's already trying to kill me, so a few more threats would hardly matter," snapped Griffin with an impatient wave. He turned and looked at Wesley again. "Are you telling me you're not going to do anything to save the company?"

Wesley rose from the chair, his palms balanced against the tabletop. "There's nothing I can do. Nothing. But I promise you won't be held accountable for any of it. The authorities won't be able to touch you, no matter what happens."

A look of surprise grew over Edgar's face as he glanced at the two younger men.

"But I am accountable! I'm Marius Melville's son!"

Wesley's voice was implacable. "I've already taken care of it. All we have to do now is get you out of Hong Kong for a while."

Griffin stared at him open-mouthed. He walked over to the tray that held the brandy and Edgar's glass. He picked up the crystal decanter and hurled it at the wall. The balloon glass followed, showering more glass and liquor. He threw the silver tray to the floor and kicked it aside. The small endtable by the sofa was next. He shoved it over, sending the china lamp and small vase of flowers crashing to the floor.

Conrad gasped and jumped up from his seat.

Griffin stalked back to the huge desk in the center of the room and sent the reports sailing into the air with angry sweeps of his arm. Papers floated to the floor around them like giant confetti. He grabbed the phone console and ripped the cable out of its socket before he threw it at the opposite wall where it hit with a resounding crack.

Wesley never moved, only his eyes following Griffin's rampage. "Would you mind leaving us alone for a little while, Edgar?" he asked coolly. "Perhaps you'd like to freshen up or have something to eat," he suggested calmly.

Griffin picked up Conrad's attache and pitched it into the pile of brandy soaked, crystal shards. As he threw the FAX after it, the older man nodded and quickly headed for the door, slamming it shut behind him.

Griffin gazed around the room wildly, then spotted the two Ming dragon vases in the far corner. He walked towards them and as he reached for the first vase, Wesley seized his wrists and spun him around.

"That's enough!" Wesley hauled him back towards the sofa. "Those are beautiful antiques. You're not going to destroy them."

When Griffin struggled and twisted, Wesley let go of one hand and slapped him across the mouth, snapping his head back. The pain radiated across his cheek and jaw. The shock of it stopped him cold. He realized they were standing by the leather sofa as Robin pressed him close, trapping him in his arms in a tight embrace.

"Are you all right now? Are you?" he was asking.

Griffin gulped air. "I -- I don't know if I'm angrier at myself, or you, or the whole fucking world!" he shouted, his voice hoarse with emotion.

"Why? Sorry you can't be a great money launderer like your father? Sorry you couldn't win at all the dirty games like he did?"

His head was buried against Robin's neck and he couldn't see the other man's face. He pulled back, anger blazing through him. "You know that's not what I'm talking about!"

"That's what it comes down to." Wesley ignored the anger, lips brushing against his cheek, soothing the hurt of the slap. "It's time for you to crawl out from under his shadow, Jay. This is your chance."

"Don't you see, I didn't care about his dream. He fought all his life to build Melville International and he wanted me to share it and want it, but I didn't care." Griffin sagged against the embrace. His limbs suddenly felt as though they weighed a ton. "Why do you lo-- care about me?"

Wesley was silent for a minute. "I'm your human moth. You're my flame," he said finally, the faintest note of amusement in his voice.

"That doesn't make any sense."

"It makes perfect sense to me. In any case, it's the best I can do at the moment." He gazed around the room at the wreckage. "I wish you weren't quite so... demonstrative with your temper. Kee will have to bring in another phone and FAX."

"What for? We don't need them anymore." Depression was swiftly edging out his anger. He lay his head tiredly against Robin's shoulder. "I didn't want t-to fail him again," he said softly, a break in his voice. "I-I failed him all my life."

Wesley brushed the back of his head with his hand, fingers gently weaving through his hair. "You shouldn't feel guilty because you can't be like your father. He wasn't worth emulating. Stop trying to hide yourself. You're a better man than he ever was."

"That's not true! Why do you keep saying things like that about him?"

Wesley's hand stilled against his hair. "I'm sorry. Keep you memories, Jay. Perhaps you did see a side of Marius Melville that he wouldn't reveal to anyone else. I just... I just don't think you should let a dead man's expectations rule the rest of your life."

Griffin was silent. He drew his arms around Robin's waist and clung to him. He couldn't conceive of a future, any future. There was only a grey blankness beyond the moment. His father's past had dictated his future. Without it, there was nothing. Instantly, something inside him resisted the desolate conclusion and he shook his head, his sense of touch telling him that what he had now was what mattered. He would have to create the future for himself. Was that so terrible? So... unforgivable?

His arms tightened a fraction, feeling Robin's vitality and strength. The guilt would always be a part of him because his father would always be a part of him. But he wouldn't give it his whole life to consume.

A sudden, chilling fear rose in his mind. "Robin, what's going to happen to you?" He pulled back to look into the blue eyes. "DiSalvo was afraid of going to prison. What could this... investigation do to you?"

"Frank had reason to worry. I think he's been setting up a few deals on his own with one of Khun Sa's competitors and pocketing the profits. With your father gone, he probably felt he could cut himself a larger piece of the pie. I also think he suspected that I was on to him. If everything hadn't blown apart for the company, he would still be on his way out. As it is, he may have more problems than just being associated with Melville International."

It was just another unpleasant revelation to add to all the rest, and one that hardly mattered to Griffin at this stage. "What about you? You've been saying that I'm in the clear, but what about you?"

"I meant it, Jay. They can't incriminate you with any of the drug operations. Your father put the contracts together and handled the money. That's only true, after all. You're just a figurehead at best, like any one of the Board of Directors. That's as much as they'll be able to prove."

"Damn it, Robin, answer me!"

Head cocked to one side, Wesley gazed at him curiously. "Does it matter to you, what happens to me?"

Griffin puffed out a quick breath. "You son of a bitch. You just want to hear me say it, don't you?"

Robin gave him a small, disarming smile and nodded.

Griffin took Wesley's face in his hands and kissed him. He made the kiss deep and unequivocal. They were both trembling a little when they finally broke apart. "I love you, you prick," he said.

A wide grin blossomed over Robin's face.

"Now you better answer my question before I knock those perfect teeth right out of your mouth." Griffin had to wait until Wesley stopped laughing, and then he was hugged and lifted right off his feet. He couldn't keep the smile from lighting his own face at the exuberance of the gesture, and at the joy he was in the blue eyes.

"Everything's ready to crash down on our heads and we're grinning like a couple of idiots." But his rebuke had negligible effect as Robin placed a quick kiss on the tip of his nose.

"Then we may as well savor this moment. Things might be rather... hectic around here for a while." Robin's finger skimmed over his cheekbone, his neck, over his shoulder and down his arm to link their hands. "You've made a royal mess of my life, James Griffin, but right now I don't think I've ever felt happier."

His smile fading, Griffin squeezed the hand in his. "Have I really made a mess of it for you? Will you be in trouble?"

"I'll be fine. I can take care of myself, as you well know."

"But you're Operations Director for M.I. If they can prove a connection between Khun San and the company, then you'll be the one--"

"It'll be a little rough for a while but they won't do anything to me. I'm sure the authorities are more anxious to stop the drug trafficking and win themselves a few political points at home rather than in fighting through endless tons of paper trails to try and nail everyone involved. The media might play up a drug angle as the reason for M.I.'s collapse for a few days because it'll sell better, but it'll all be very vague. Most people will assume that the company fell apart because it couldn't function without Marius Melville. They couldn't know that there was trouble even before he died. With Khun Sa effectively immobilized, the authorities will probably pat themselves on the back and go on to their next crusade."

"What it you're wrong? How can you be so sure? If--"

Robin pressed a finger over his lips, hushing him. "I'm sure." He pulled away and walked to the door. "I want to talk to Kee for a minute and then I better see how Edgar is doing. I think you've sent his blood pressure up a few points with that, um, outburst."

"Poor Edgar, what's going to happen to him?"

Wesley chewed on his lip. "No doubt he's given that a great deal of thought already. He hasn't climbed to where he is without being pretty damn resourceful. He'll be all right." He reached for the door handle. "I think you should leave Hong Kong, at least for a few weeks. I suppose you could go back to Sydney, but it might be best if you went to England."

"Why should I go anywhere? And what about you?"

"Edgar and I will have a lot to do in the next few days. I'll have to contact the Board members and tell them, well, tell them as much of the truth as I need to and, at that point, it'll hit the newspapers. The press will be crawling all over the place. There's no reason for you to have to face all that. We'll put together a press release and that'll be the official statement about the company breakup. If the authorities try to seize the M.I. records, I'll deal with it. The further away you are from it, the safer it'll be for you." Robin gave him a brief smile. "You can stay at my house in Sussex. It's not palatial, but it's comfortable and quiet, and the garden is like a jungle. I like it very much. I think you might, too. It's the closest I've ever come to a place I could call a home. As soon as I can, I'll join you there."

Griffin slowly gazed around the room. "What will happen to... all of this?"

Wesley shrugged. "I don't know it you'll be able to hang on to it, any of it. They'll be plenty of claims filed by investors. That's why I wanted to set up those accounts for you. Anything tied directly to M.I.'s finances is vulnerable now. If the authorities can't get us, they'll certainly try and strip us of every asset we have. At the very least, everything could be tied up in litigation for years."

Griffin only nodded. "And what will happen between you and me?"

"We'll live happily ever after, of course."

Smirking, Griffin walked to the door. He put his arms around Wesley and kissed him, enjoying the way the other man automatically leaned against him. "Then it might be worth the price."

Wesley tightened the embrace for a moment before releasing him. "There's a lot we need to sort out, a lot I have to tell you." He gazed down at the floor, his dark fan of lashes hiding his eyes. "Trust me for a little, Jay. Everything will work out."

A briefest shiver of apprehension traveled up Griffin's spine. It was an odd thing for Robin to say. "If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't be standing here."

"Yes, I know," returned Wesley quickly, his eyes moving up to the door. "I better have Kee bring in another phone and tidy up."

Griffin wanted to reach out and catch hold of Robin as he left, just for the reassuring feel of his arms around him.

It was only then that Griffin truly realized how completely his life had changed in the span of a few hours.

He even thought, perhaps, the shocks were over for him.

PART 3

He didn't see Robin again until much later that night. It was well after two a.m. and he was lying in his bed, staring sleeplessly at the ceiling. The events of the past weeks and hours churned through his thoughts like a whirlpool.

Wesley came into his room without turning on the lights, pausing only to pull off his clothes before climbing into Griffin's bed. "Jay?" he whispered, leaning over him.

"Yes, I'm awake." At his answer, he felt Robin's body press against him and his lips move over his shoulder and neck. It took all Griffin's effort not to give in immediately to the erotic assault. "Have you been working with Edgar all this time?" he managed as the lips nibbled his ear.

"Edgar's still talking with our London office, going over some legal strategies with the lawyers. I couldn't stop thinking about you up here, alone in bed. I don't know how long it will be before we'll have time for each other after today and I couldn't give up being with you tonight."

"I don't want to leave Hong Kong, Robin."

Wesley heaved a sigh and propped himself up on an elbow. "I'd rather you didn't, too, but I really feel it would be for the best and I think you should leave first thing tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes."

Griffin brushed a hand through his hair. "I talked to Kee tonight, while you and Edgar were working in the study. He told me he'd spoken to his contact in the Woo organization. The person told him that one of the local triads was responsible for what happened to the Ferrari. He said the rumour was that the job was contracted by someone in Manila, and that there was nothing more to it than that. Just wrecking my cars, and scaring me out of my wits. I asked Kee to see if he could find out any more about it. There doesn't seem to be any sense to it."

He felt Wesley tense and sit up. He didn't say anything for a minute. "I'm surprised that Kee could get any information at all so quickly."

"This may sound funny, but I think Kee felt sorry for me. I must have looked quite a mess after it happened. I remember him telling me he'd do his best to find out who did it." Griffin gazed into Robin's shadowy profile, at the skin that looked cream pale even in the darkness of the room. He thought a smile flickered over his face.

"Well, it doesn't really matter now. The threat, whatever form it was intended to take, was directed to you as head of Melville International. M.I. will soon cease to exist. No reason for you to be a target anymore."

"I'd still like to know."

Wesley lay back against the pillows and took hold of his shoulder, his thumb slowly rubbing back and forth. "For god's sake, Jay, forget it. I told you, it doesn't matter anymore."

"But--"

Robin didn't let him finish, stopping him with a kiss that plundered his mouth. They both began to tremble, their mutual attraction irresistible, permeating the very air around them.

"I want to fuck you, Jay." The words blew hot and breathless against his lips.

His mouth still burning from the kiss, Griffin felt Robin's hand snake over his chest to his groin, insistent fingers molding around his cock. The hand started to pump him. He moaned at the touch and saw that Robin's eyes were gleaming.

He knew they were crazy, starving for each other, the need driving everything else into the background. "Yes, fuck me. Do it to me now." He bit into the soft flesh that joined neck and shoulder, leaving his brand on Robin's smooth clear skin.

They rolled and grappled on the big bed, a frantic animal edge to their lovemaking, eagerly preparing each other's body, making it a part of their foreplay.

Griffin pushed Wesley flat against the mattress as he sat up and straddled his hips. "This time, you'll feel what I want you to feel." His voice was husky with desire, yet his mind demanded some small measure of control and command.

Robin's mouth was open, tongue licking at his upper lip, eyelids slitted. "Anything... anything, just let me put it in you." His penis was hard and pleading, arching high up from its dark patch of pubic hair.

Griffin rose to his knees, his head falling back bonelessly, fingers stroking over his chest, nipples, down to his crotch and back in a teasing display. He undulated his hips, brushing their straining cocks together. "Say you want me, Robin," he murmured. He could feel the heat from the blue eyes raking his body.

"I want you, god, I want you so much." Wesley reached out to touch his erection, but Griffin pushed the hungry hands away.

"Say you belong to me."

Wesley groaned, his fingers gripping the sheets in frustration.

"Say it."

"I-I belong to you. Everything. Always. Please, Jay, please..."

The words soothed his mind even as his body craved its own special completion. He moved up a little, cupping his buttocks and spreading himself. His fingertips skimmed over the small puckered opening, feeling the slick lubricant that pooled there. The tip of Robin's sex stabbed blindly at his crack, and fire lit his nerves as he reached back and took hold of the hard shaft, guiding it to its goal.

Soft images of their first time rose like silver smoke in his mind. The magic in their touching, the unexpectedly easy recognition of each other's need, the intense beauty of their coupling, the... rightness of it. Griffin felt it all again as his body opened to take Robin inside. At first, the sudden penetration made him wince and he bit down on his lip to stifle a cry. He remembered the pleasure that was waiting and knew it was worth the pain.

Robin tried to lift his hips, wanting to sheath himself completely in the lover's tight, hot tunnel, but Griffin only allowed his cockhead to push through the anal ring, deliberately keeping the pace slow as he adjusted to the throbbing pressure.

"You feel -- good, so -- good... filling me," Griffin gasped as he lowered himself and took more of Robin's cock. He felt Robin's urgent hands playing over his groin, fingernails grazing his balls and sex, then reaching upwards to squeeze and rub his nipples.

With a deep breath, he bore down, just as Robin thrust upward. He threw his head back, unable to stop a cry form escaping as the thick shaft entered him fully. His muscles spasmed around the invader, but he held his position, gulping breaths. Robin gripped his thighs, groaning with pleasure, his hips rocking convulsively into the teal coloured, silk sheets.

Sparks of pain faded as Griffin began feeling the sweet flare of intense sensation deep inside him where the hard cock frictioned against his prostate. He began moving in counterpoint, slowly lifting himself, feeling Robin's prick sliding from his body, almost to the tip, then lowering himself again, anal muscles clenching to swallow the pulsing rod until it pierced his hot center. His cries were now lusty moans and he could hear Robin breathlessly calling his name, muttering heated obscenities. He vaguely wished they had turned on the lights so he could see his lover's face more clearly. Robin's milk-white body was beautiful against the dark silk, his sculpted muscles glistening in a sheen of sweat as they flexed in erotic abandon.

He quickened his movements, matching Robin's long, deep thrusts. He pumped his cock, faster and faster, velvety iron in his fist. The sensations built to explosion and he came with a cry, his orgasm shaking him and spilling in a hot stream over his hands and Robin's chest.

The body beneath him stiffened as Robin gave a final thrust, lifting them both as he climaxed. Griffin worked his muscles, milking the cock pulsing inside him, taking Robin even higher.

They drifted slowly down, drumming hearts finding a normal rhythm, air filling their lungs. Robin's cock slipped softly from his body and he collapsed beside his lover, sated and dreamy.

Robin turned to face him, brushing his mouth with a kiss as he gathered him close. "I love you, Jay. Please believe me. Please."

Exhaustion claiming him, Griffin could only smile weakly, his eyes closing in sleep.

Griffin half-woke a few hours later when Robin broke from his arms and left the bed. He was aware of a dull grey, pre-dawn light filling out the windows. "Wh-what time is it?" he mumbled into the pillows, his hand reaching out for Robin's warmth.

"Barely six. Go back to sleep, love. I didn't mean to wake you."

"D-don't go."

Robin took his hand and kissed the palm, then tucked it under the duvet. "Have to get to work. Edgar's probably been up all night." The dark head bent down close to him. "It was beautiful, Jay. Incredible." Lips touched his brow, his hair. "I want it to be a beginning for us. A new life. Just as soon as we put this damn mess behind us." He moved off, picking up his clothes. "Rest now. Kee will wake you later. I'll make arrangements for your flight."

Griffin felt his eyes growing heavy and he drifted back to sleep. He woke again to a tapping on his door. The bedroom was bright with sunlight. He stretched luxuriously and felt the tender aches in his body. He smiled, remembering the night, one finger tracing his slightly swollen mouth. He turned his face into the pillows beside him, smelling the faint remainder of Robin's aftershave. There was another light tap on the door. He pulled the duvet up to his chest. "Come in."

Kee entered with a tray. "Mr. Wesley said that I wake you, sir."

Griffin yawned, nodding, and glanced at the clock. It was already ten. "I hope that's coffee you're carrying." He sat up straight as Kee settled the breakfast tray across his lap. It held a small pot of coffee, creamer, a warm basket of golden brioche and scones, along with a server of honey and butter. "That's perfect, thank you," he said as he poured himself a cup of the aromatic coffee.

Kee gave his usual, slight bow. "Mr. Wesley and Mr. Conrad have gone into Central for the day. Mr. Wesley asked that I tell you that you have reservations on the one o'clock flight to London. He also asked that I give you this." He reached into his short jacket and pulled out a small buff envelope.

Griffin took it, seeing his name written on the front in Robin's neat, precise handwriting.

"Shall I pack a bag for you, sir?"

Eyes focused on the envelope, Griffin shook his head with a frown. "No, I'll take care of it myself." He heard the door close quietly as Kee left a few moments later. He placed the envelope aside on the tray and drank his coffee. He took a few bites of brioche before tossing it back on his plate.

He was too damn in love with Robin Wesley. With Melville International self-destructing around him, all he could think about was staying close to the man. His responses went beyond the cloud of sexual euphoria that swept him away every time they were together. Everything just seemed so much worse when he was without him. Or else everything didn't seem to matter much at all.

He picked up the envelope again and tore it open. A key slipped out from inside the fold of stationary. Robin's Sussex address was written at the top of the note.

I hope you'll use the key, it began. Wait for me there and I'll join you as soon as I can. It was signed with just an "R", but at the bottom there was a postscript. I wanted to tell you what you mean to me, Jay, but I've never needed to use the words before and now they all seem inadequate. Forgive me if I borrow a little from someone who has said it better -- 'I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints -- I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life'.

Griffin read the note again and again. Smiling as he silently recalled the rest of Browning's poem, he looked towards the sunlit windows. He felt the key press into the soft flesh of his palm as he held it tight. Carefully, he put it back in the envelope along with the letter and set it beside him on the bed.

Suddenly, he was ravenous and he finished his brioche in a few quick bites before attacking a scone dripping with honey.

As he poured himself another coffee, he began thinking about what he wanted to pack for the trip.

A little over an hour later, he was showered and dressed, his suitcase open on the bed. He stood before the walk-in closet, deciding what else he would take. The long row of expensive suits and jackets would have to be shipped later perhaps. He glanced at the line of monogrammed silk shirts, the rack of custom-made shoes and ties, the sports outfits, and all the rest. He was a clothes horse and he knew it, but all the trappings didn't seem quite so important anymore. He closed the closet door and looked around the room, seeing the rest of the house in his mind's eye. His father's house, filled with the reflections of his father's dreams, ornaments of money and power. He knew then that he didn't care if he never saw it again. I'm sorry, dad, but I just want to be happy. He snapped the locks shut on the suitcase and left the room.

Josef was waiting for him in the hall. "Are you ready to leave for the airport, sir?"

"Yes." He knew Robin had already spoken to the staff about the situation with the company, sparing him the awkward task. They would all be looked after financially until they could find positions elsewhere in this city of multi-millionaires. Josef was the only one who had been in Marius Melville's service since Griffin was a boy, and he thought of the rides in the classic red Duesenberg, up and down the hills of Victoria, when he was home on school holiday and his father had been too busy at work to spend time with him. Josef had given him his chauffeur's cap to wear, pretending not to see the hurt in the small boy's eyes, telling him silly jokes to distract and amuse him as they sped down the curving roads.

Josef bent to take his bag, but Griffin stopped him with a hand on the chauffeur's shoulder. "That's all right, Josef, I'll carry it," he said, his smile warm. As they walked out to the shiny black limo, Griffin asked him about the old car. "Whatever happened to that red Duesenberg?"

"Gone, Mister James. Your father sold it many years ago to one of his clients who was a collector." The chauffeur opened the door to the Rolls and waited as Griffin tossed his bag inside and climbed in. "It was a fine, old car, that Duesenberg," he remarked with a thoughtful nod.

"Yes, it was," agreed Griffin. "We had some very pleasant rides in it, didn't we, Josef?"

"Yes, sir, that we did."

As the older man started to shut the door, Griffin stopped him for a moment. "Thank you very much, Josef," he said softly.

The chauffeur glanced at him and gave him a brief smile, acknowledging the memories they shared.

The limo had just left the gates of the estate and turned down the winding road when they passed another car, a dark blue Mercedes, heading up towards the house. Griffin took little notice of it, his mind imagining what the next few days and weeks would hold before he and Robin would be together again. His hand slid inside his short, black leather jacket and absently touched the pocket where the envelope and key rested.

How could he have imagined that, in less than fifteen minutes, his entire life would be shattered yet again.

It was only that long before the blue Mercedes bore down of them from behind, its horn blaring insistently. Josef was forced to pull the limo over to the shoulder of the twisting cliff road to avoid an accident. At first, Griffin thought the maniac simply wanted to roar past them on the narrow roadway and was sounding his horn just to be a nuisance. But then the Mercedes pulled to a stop halfway in front of them, effectively blocking them off.

The partition window was open between the driver's seat and the cab of the limo and Griffin could see Josef reaching into the glove compartment to draw out a .45 automatic. At the same time, two men got out of the Mercedes and began walking towards them. Neither was Asian. One of the men was young and heavyset, a bodyguard type. The other was much older, his thinning, wavy hair streaked with gray. As they drew closer, Griffin could see that the older man was smiling, his round, tanned face seemed almost eagerly friendly.

"Hello, there! Hello!" waved the older man. The younger man walked slightly behind him, hands open-palmed and slightly away from his body, as if to show he was not holding a weapon.

"I will see what they want," Josef told him, shoving the .45 in his pocket.

"No. Stay in the car." Griffin opened the door on the other side of the limo and stepped out, keeping the Rolls between himself and the approaching men.

"Sorry for all the dramatics, but I've been trying to meet you for quite some time," said the older man with an expressive shrug as he stopped a few feet away. His voice was gravelly and vaguely familiar, his accent American. "You're Marius Melville's son, of course," he said, the gap in his white teeth showing through his grin.

Griffin said nothing.

"We've already spoken over the phone. I'm Russell Fletcher."

The name clicking in his mind, Griffin relaxed a fraction. "Mr. Fletcher, yes. I, uh, I thought that Mr. Wesley had already contacted you. I'm afraid that we won't be able to pursue your proposal--"

His grin fading, Fletcher nodded. "Yes, I know."

Griffin gave the man a puzzled look.

"I have a number of questions for you about your father's business," continued Fletcher. "And it would definitely be in your best interest to answer them."

"I don't think you understand. The company can't--"

"No, you're the one who doesn't understand," cut in Fletcher. He slowly reached into his jacket and pulled out a card case, flipping it open for Griffin to read.

The photo and documentation identified Russell Fletcher as a special agent for the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency. "I'd like you to come with us, Mr. Griffin. I think it would be much more comfortable for both of us to talk somewhere else than on the side of the road."

Hiding his surprise, Griffin answered quietly. "I wasn't aware that your jurisdiction stretched to the Far East. I have a plane to catch."

"Then it's lucky for me I decided to fly in from Manila and contact you when I did, isn't it. Seems that Robin forgot to tell me you were leaving Hong Kong."

Griffin felt a cold foreboding seep into him. "You've spoken with Mr. Wesley?"

"Robin and I have worked together for several years."

The statement hung in the air like poisonous vapour.

"What do you mean?" asked Griffin, his throat tightening.

Fletcher was watching his expression with small, hawkish eyes. "My government has been working in alliance with several other nations to combat the growing drug problem in our respective countries by targeting major drug traffickers, their supply networks, and their money launderers. A man named Khun Sa and his connection to Melville International has been the, uh, focus of our investigation for a number of years. Robin has been a key member of our team. He's our, uh, 'inside man,' if you will."

"I don't believe you."

"I'd be glad to prove it to you. I have some papers in the car that should convince you. And, of course, you can just ask him yourself. There's no need for him to deny it or to maintain his cover anymore. He's done a brilliant job. We've accomplished what we set out to do. Khun Sa's organization is finished. It's all clean up from here on out. However, there are a number of details about your father's organization that I'd like to discuss with you and your cooperation would be... appreciated. At this point, it's not an official request, but I do have the authority to make one, if necessary. I'm sure you'd prefer to avoid that."

Griffin glanced towards the Mercedes and then into Fletcher's careful blue-gray eyes. He felt numb as he walked around the limo and stopped next to Josef's window. "I'm going to go with Mr. Fletcher," he said with unnerving calm. "Please follow me."

"But, sir--"

"It's all right," Griffin told the chauffeur, though he knew that it was the furthest thing from the truth as he let the other two men lead him to their car.

The numbness helped him get through it.

He was driven to an nondescript office building in Victoria and spent the next two hours in a sterile room containing some chairs and a desk, listening to Fletcher's questions. He listened because there were few that he could answer, nor could he identify most of the photos that he was shown. He didn't think Fletcher believed him, but it didn't really matter.

Among the photos and the small pile of documents were many notes to Fletcher written in Robin's handwriting, tipping him off about the specific set-ups of company accounts, timetables of shipments, lists of Marius Melville's 'private' clients, even a map of what Griffin could only guess was Kung Sa's distribution points.

Fletcher had laughed when Griffin asked if Wesley was a British undercover agent. "Robin is a man of many talents," Fletcher had replied. "I only wish he was working for one of the services. He joined our operation on a strictly voluntary basis, for personal reasons. He worked for William Brenner, you know. Brenner was a friend of your father's, wasn't he? They also shared the same 'business' interests, I believe. Of course, no one could prove anything about Brenner. He might've even become more powerful than your father, if he hadn't been killed." Fletcher had paused and given him another calculating look. "Anyways, Robin was very eager to be part of our taskforce and he's devoted almost three years to this project. He was willing to do whatever was necessary to stop Khun Sa... and your father, regardless of the risks. He's a brave man, even if he does insist on playing the maverick on occasion. I hope I have the chance to work with him again, but I kind of doubt it."

Griffin wasn't sure why Fletcher told him a much as he did. Certainly, he had already seen and heard more than he wanted.

After a while, Fletcher's questions and comments seemed to become little more than a jumble in his mind and he assumed that his own monosyllabic answers finally disinterested the agent enough to end their meeting. Fletcher thanked him with a handshake and a smile that only seemed bizarre to Griffin, and let him go.

The numb feeling remained with him as he walked out of the building and to Josef and the waiting limo. It was as though he had become disembodied, his awareness somewhere off in a distance, looking down at himself and his surroundings.

"Mister James, are you all right?"

He glanced up at the chauffeur's concerned face and he seated himself and closed the car door. "Please drive me home now."

"But, the airport? I'm sure there are other flights to London that--"

"I'm not going to London. Just take me back to my father's house."

Josef must have seen something in his eyes because the chauffeur merely nodded with a worried expression and turned away to begin their drive back to the Melville estate.

He paid no attention to Kee's puzzled look when he returned to the house. He immediately headed for his father's library, shutting and locking the door behind him. Glancing around the room at the floor to ceiling shelves of books, his gaze paused at the rose marble fireplace and the portrait of his mother that hung above it. A beautiful young woman with thick auburn hair and emerald green eyes stared back at him. She wore a gown of palest cream chiffon that seemed to drape around here shoulders like mist. Her smile was soft and ethereal as her face, but he wondered if the sadness he perceived in her eyes was really there or merely a trick of the light. He hardly remembered her. Faint memories of being held and sung to sleep, of smooth pale fingers gentling his brow, the scent of gardenias, a sweet voice that chased away monsters in the dark. She was as much a dream in his mind as in the portrait. Had she lived, would his father's life, and his own, been vastly different?

He looked away and hung his head. The only thing anybody could deal with was the reality around them, the truths that the here and now handed them. What if was a game played by children.

He walked over to his father's antique writing desk and sat down. Tall, narrow windows offered a view of the budding flower garden below, but he just stared up at the hazy blue sky. Numbness still blanketed his feeling like frost. After a while, he opened one of the side drawers and took out a rectangular walnut case. He worked the elaborate latch and drew back the lid. Nestled against the velvet lined interior was his father's Browning Renaissance. Slowly, Griffin picked up the gun and held it in his hands. His father's initials were engraved in silver on the pearl grips and the etched chrome plating on the barrel gleamed against his palm. He looked at it for a long time. With a deep sigh, he reached into the case, took out the ammo clip, and loaded it. He laid it carefully on the ink blotter and picked up the phone, punching the numbers quickly.

"This is James Griffin. I want to talk to Robin Wesley."

A few seconds later, he heard the familiar voice answer. "Jay? Where are you?"

"I'm here at the house."

"What? What happened to your flight? I thought you'd be halfway to London by now."

He could hear the anxious worry in Robin's voice. It stabbed at his numbness, slicing through to the newborn pain. The hurt began eating away at him like acid. He swallowed hard. "I ran into your friend, Russell Fletcher, on my way to the airport. We had a nice, long talk."

For the span of several heartbeats, there was nothing but silence to answer him.

"Oh, god. Jay, please. Let me explain--'

Griffin cut him off. "I want to you to meet me at my father's grave. It shouldn't take you more than an hour to get there. You better be alone." And then he hung up.

He sagged against the chair, pressing a clenched fist to his mouth. It hurt so much just to hear his voice.

The sun was low on the horizon when he finally pushed himself away from the desk and stood. He picked up the gun and tucked it into the pocket of his leather jacket. It was bulky and he covered the bulge with his forearm. He left the house with a determined step and headed for the garage. His Ferrari was still being repaired. It struck him then what Fletcher had said, about flying in from Manila. Manila. Kee had told him the incident with the car had been set up by someone in Manila. Griffin squeezed his eyes shut as a bitter rage mingled with the awful hurt inside him. Had it all been to confuse him, to frighten and distract him? To drive him into Robin's arms? To play him for the complete fool he was?

He waved away Josef's request to drive him and asked instead for the key to his father's Mercedes.

His foot was down hard on the accelerator as the charcoal grey sedan sped eastward on Queen's Road. His fingers were white from his grip on the steering wheel. As he drove through the entrance of the Colonial Cemetery, he became aware of a slight throbbing at his temples. He parked the car on the narrow roadway as close as he could to the area where his father's tomb was located. The setting sun was painting the sky with brilliant streaks of topaz and violet as he made his way through the looming, jagged line of headstones that represented over a century and a half of Hong Kong's settlers.

There was no one else around as he stood before his father's grave. Bending down on one knee, he touched a corner of the black marble slab with his fingertips, his gaze trailing up to the tall, carved headstone that bore his father's name. Fittingly, it would all end here, in this place.

His headache was growing worse, the pain tightening like barbed wire around his skull. Griffin knew what was happening even as he marshaled his will against it. He would hang on until he finished what he had to do.

A few minutes later, he heard footsteps crunching the gravel path, moving towards him. He stood slowly, fighting the dizzying sparks that fired behind his eyelids.

Wesley was standing a few feet away from him. He looked disheveled, his tie loose, shirt buttons undone, his hair mussed and tousled, as if he had run his hands through it repeatedly. In the gilding light of the sunset, he seemed an apparition. Or a dream.

"Jay. I -- I didn't want you to find out like that. I--" The words faded as he met Griffin's eyes. He reached out with a hand as he took another step.

"Don't come any closer," Griffin warned, stopping him. The pain was pounding against his head, his heart. "Were you ever going to tell me?"

Robin bit down on his lip before he answered. "No. Not if I could help it."

"You'd just go on lying. Like you lied to my father from the very beginning. He trusted you more than anyone and you betrayed him. You planned it all, didn't you? So very carefully. All you ever wanted was to destroy him. And me."

Wesley shook his head mutely.

"Liar! You're nothing but a goddam liar!" The shout made his head spin, the pain shooting like burning needles into his temples and through his eyes.

"Jay, are you sick? Is it the migraine again? Please, let me help you."

"I said don't come near me." He reached into his pocket and drew out the gun, pointing it at the middle of Robin's chest. "You took the company apart, a piece at a time, behind my father's back. You and Fletcher. It was nothing but a set-up, a con. Fucking me was just a little extra amusement for you, wasn't it? Or was it just another unpleasant chore in the line of duty?"

"I've never lied about my feeling for you. You have to believe that. Yes, I wanted to stop your father and Khun Sa. I'm not sorry about that, it's true. I owed that much to my son, for failing him. He's buried in this cemetery, too. Men like William Brenner and your father helped to kill him. They're the kind of criminals that never get caught, too high and too powerful to touch. They're worse than any pusher on the street. I realized you weren't like them and I never meant to hurt you, no more than I ever intended to fall in love with you."

Griffin gripped the gun tighter, thumbing the safety off. Pain crushed against his skull and he squinted to ward off the blinding bursts of white heat behind his eyelids. "Hate you for what you've done... hate you," he whispered. His whole body began to tremble.

An instant of horror seized him as he felt himself falling into blackness and he heard the gun go off in his hand.

He opened his eyes and wondered if he was still alive. Then he wondered if he was dreaming. He saw nothing but offwhite blankness with a low light shining on it that came from nowhere. He shut his eyes and opened them again. He realized the terrible pain in his head was gone, but he felt very heavy. A small whirring noise was coming from somewhere to his left. He was lying in a bed with a white blanket pulled up to his neck.

"James? Look at me, James. It's Dr. Chen."

He tried to move his head and felt an ache. There was something taped over his right temple. He focused on the voice while his hand struggled to push down the blanket.

"Slower, James, slower. You've had quite an concussion." His doctor was beside the bed, easing his right arm from out of the folds of the blanket. "How do you feel?"

Griffin thought back. What had happened? What had happened? It was like trying to see through fog. Black marble... his father's grave... the gun cold and hard in his hand... his finger jerking the trigger as he lost consciousness...

He gave a strangled cry as he remembered.

Robin.

Dr. Chen was pushing him gently back against the pillows. "Not so fast. Take it easy. Lie back now. You're just agitating yourself. You'll be fine. You're in the hospital. You'll be fine."

"Robin! Robin!"

Dr. Chen was bending over him, patting his shoulder, but Griffin couldn't ask the question that suddenly terrified him. "Robin," he repeated, his fingers clutching at the doctor's sleeve.

"Mr. Wesley? He's outside. He's been very worried about you. He's been at the hospital all night. I can let you see him, but only for a few minutes. I want you to have some tests as soon as possible."

Nothing was making any sense. "But, the gun? I... I heard it fire."

"Gun? What gun?" asked the doctor with a puzzled frown.

"Wh-what happened? How did I get here?" he managed.

"You had an accident. You fell and hit your head against the mantle last evening. Mr. Wesley brought you to the hospital. He said you were suffering from a migraine when it happened." The physician peered at him closely. "You don't remember?"

Griffin shut his eyes. "Robin." The sound was a tired whisper.

He felt the soothing pat on his shoulder again. "Sister, please ask Mr. Wesley to come in here."

"Yes, doctor," a woman's voice replied from across the room.

When he opened his eyes once more, it was to see Robin standing by the bed, gazing down at him. Dark circles underscored the blue eyes, his skin seemed ashen. He was rumpled, unshaven and exhausted looking.

Hesitantly, Griffin touched Robin's arm, and immediately, two warm hands clasped his securely.

"Jay..."

His sense of relief was so strong that he thought he might faint from it. And then came the confusion and the stirrings of that awful, slicing hurt. "But I... I shot you."

The corners of Wesley's mouth lifted in a ghost of a smile. "Not by a mile, not with the way you were shaking." He glanced quickly towards the door. "Dr. Chen and the sister will be back in a couple of minutes." He took a deep breath, staring intently into Griffin's face. "I'm sorry, Jay, but I had to do what I did. I had to--" His voice faltered and Griffin felt the warm grip tighten for a moment.

"I thought I wanted to... you. I meant to kill you."

"I know."

Griffin turned his head away from the pained blue eyes. "I'm not sure what I feel anymore. I don't know what's right or wrong, true or false. Maybe I never did. Don't know what to believe."

"I don't expect you to trust me. I suppose you have every reason to hate me. But, I do love you, Jay, with all my heart. I want you to get well and for us to be together."

Griffin tried to pull his hand away, Robin reluctantly letting it go. "I have to think. I need time. I have to try and sort it out."

He heard Robin sigh. "Of course. Dr. Chen is a fine physician. I, uh, I've talked to him about your headaches and he wants to give you some scans, neurological tests, although he doesn't expect to find any problem. He told me that he knows some excellent therapists that you could see--"

Griffin looked back at the other man. "I'm not crazy. At least, no more than you've made me."

"Just listen to what Dr. Chen has to say, for your own sake. He said he could refer you to a couple of very good therapists in Sydney. I know you, uh, don't want to go to England now, but I still think you should leave Hong Kong for a while. The reporters are already staking out the house and one was even trying to see you here in the hospital this morning. And then, the clients have started to call, the local authorities--"

"You must be very proud of yourself." Griffin was surprised by the bitterness in his own voice, by the depth and intensity of his warring emotions.

"Not with what it's doing to you," replied Robin softly.

The door swung open and Dr. Chen came back into the room, the nurse following behind him. "I think you should let us take care of him now, Mr. Wesley. Why don't you go home and get some rest yourself. You look like you could use it."

Robin stood where he was, as if he was incapable of moving, his eyes locked on Griffin's face.

"Please go," Griffin told him wearily.

"All right." Robin stepped away from the bed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "If you should need me, you still have the key. I hope--" He stopped, his lips pressing into a thin line. He turned away, nodded to the doctor, and left the room.

---

"Would you like champagne, sir, or a drink perhaps?"

Griffin looked up from his magazine and shook his head. "No, thank you, just a coffee, please."

"Cream and sugar?"

"Yes." He glanced back down at the business section. There was never any mention of Melville International anymore. After eight months, it was ancient history and already forgotten. He put the magazine away and looked through the thick window at the disappearing Mediterranean far below.

"Your coffee, sir." The stewardess filled his china cup, a bright smile on her face. "Can I get you anything else? Another magazine?"

The first class cabin was not quite full and he was happy not to have anyone sitting beside him, but he was getting a little tired of trying to return the solicitous attendant's eternal smile. "No, thanks. Nothing. I'm fine," he replied, relived to see her move away to hover over the couple across the aisle.

Fine. He was fine. After nearly eight months of dissecting his life and every significant feeling he'd ever had with that damn psychiatrist in Sydney, he better be fine. Nervous, insecure, but reasonably fine. He smiled wryly to himself as he rubbed at his forehead. He even got headaches once in a while. Plain, old, garden variety headaches, like anyone else.

He sat back in his seat and reached into his jacket, pulling out a crumpled, old envelope. Carefully removing the letter and unfolding it, he traced the crisscrossing lines of transparent tape with a fingertip and recalled the night, months ago, when he had torn it to shreds and flung the pieces at the trashbin. And then spent the following hour and a half retrieving the tiny bits of paper and taping them all back together. He smiled to himself again, musing that the incident was a fairly good analogy for what had happened to his mind as well.

He picked up the envelop and let the key fall out into his palm. Even in his worst moments of rage and anger, when the only person he thought he hated more than Wesley, or his father, was himself, he still couldn't throw away the key.

Now his greatest fear was that there would be no one on the other side of the door to let him in. Or, worse still, that it would be opened by Robin's girlfriend or lover. It was a possibility that tore at him

He knew he shouldn't have shut himself off from Robin so completely, not taking his calls or accepting his letters, but in the beginning he was too angry, then later, too scared. As the months went by, there were no more calls and no more letters. All he had heard was that Wesley had moved back to England permanently.

So here he was, thirty thousand feet in the air, on his way to London, finally knowing what he wanted out of his life, and afraid to the bone that it was too late.

When he arrived at Heathrow, the winter sky was a dreary, cloud-splotched grey. His breath misted in the air as he got behind the wheel of his hired car and began the drive down to Sussex. The long drive went quickly for him, his anxiety level rising as he neared his goal. Even taking a wrong turn or two on the country lanes didn't delay him very much. It was still afternoon and the skies a less gloomy greyish-white when he found the curvy road that led to Robin's secluded home.

The place was nestled in a grove of laburnum trees and tall, hardy shrubs. Smoke curled from a stone chimney in the high sloping roof. The diamond shaped panes in the windows reflected the winter light in a way that made the lovely old house seem warm and cheery.

Griffin pulled the small car to a stop a little way down the road, out of sight. He should have sent a telegram, he thought nervously, checking himself in the rearview mirror. He brushed his thick hair back from his eyes. Maybe he should have had a haircut; his hair was hard enough to manage when he had it short, but now it fell almost to his shoulders in the back. Too late to do anything about it now, he shrugged. Too late. The thought made him swallow hard. He wrapped the long green wool scarf more firmly around his neck and buttoned his coat. As he stood by the car, the sharp wind chilling his skin and ruffling his hair, he considered getting his suitcase out of the boot. No. He would get it later, with luck.

As he walked up the mossy pathway to the house, he gazed at the peaceful, rolling hills in the distance. It was a beautiful place, even in the leaden cold of winter. A few steps from the door, he reached into his coat pocket and took out the key. Then he looked at the doorbell. Making up his mind, he put the key in the lock. It turned easily enough and he let himself inside.

The house was as attractive indoors as out. He could see the sitting room and the crackling fire in the redstone fireplace from where he stood in the entry hall. Persian carpets covered the hardwood floors. He glimpsed part of an overstuffed dark blue sofa and a table with a chess set and a small pile of books on it. There were several, very fine old landscapes hanging on the walls.

He couldn't see or hear anyone. Taking one last deep breath, he called out. "Robin? Robin, are you here?"

A moment later he heard a door opening slowly at the far end of the hallway. A big calico cat dashed through from what appeared to be the kitchen and paused, giving him an appraising glance before heading up the stairs. When he looked back towards the door, it was wide open and Robin was standing in the archway.

He looked fit and healthy and almost boyish, dressed in a burgundy coloured sweatshirt and snug black jeans. When the man just kept staring at him, Griffin felt his palms getting moist and he brushed the hair out of his eyes self-consciously, holding up the key with his other hand. "You gave this to me, remember?" he said, wondering why, of all possible openings, he would say something so stupid.

Robin still said nothing and seemed frozen to the spot.

"I... I, uh, know I should have called first or something. I thought about sending a telegram, but it seemed--" His voice trailed off and he gazed at the stairs, then at the walls, the furniture, anything but the man at the end of the corridor. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything. I mean, just popping up like this, out of the blue. There's no one with you, is there? I mean--" He stopped again, knowing the was babbling like an idiot. He jammed the key back in his pocket, his nerves igniting his temper, and stared squarely into the wide blue eyes. "Dammit, aren't you going to say anything?!"

Wesley took a few tentative steps towards him. To Griffin, he only seemed more beautiful the closer he came.

"Hello." Robin's face gave no emotion away. But his eyes. There was a dusky light in them, like a fire glowing deep inside and growing stronger. "How are you, Jay?"

"I'm... fine. More or less. How have you been?"

"Oh, I've been fair to miserable."

Griffin bit down on his lip and walked slowly forward. They both stood in the middle of the hallway, less than two feet separating them.

Robin reached out and picked up one end of the long green scarf, running a thumb over the thick wool threads. "You're really here," he said, a hint of wonder in his voice. His eyes were shining.

"I'd like to stay. Would you let me stay? Please?"

Carefully, Robin took hold of both ends of the scarf and began to gently tug them, and Griffin, towards him until the distance disappeared between them and their faces touched and their mouths joined.

The kiss was like a balm, healing his doubts and confirming his hopes. At long last, he had come home.

-- THE END --

January 1991