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  “I am a menace.” Zane tried to make a threatening face and Sebastian burst out laughing.

  Etienne’s eyebrows sailed up, and that was when it dawned on Sebastian that he hadn’t felt this good, or laughed like that, in a long time.

  “Eat, you two,” Sebastian declared. “I’m calling my bank and arranging to go in before they open to make a deposit.”

  “I have a safe deposit box at my bank,” Zane declared. “And I’d rather keep the plates there.”

  Sebastian leaned back, staring speculatively at him. Now why would he want to put the plates in his own bank? Why did he want to retain control of the plates? “Mind if I ask why?”

  “They’re my responsibility. They were put in my luggage. I’m happy to give you all the access codes to the box, but I’m not foisting my problems off on you.”

  Sebastian shrugged. “You didn’t foist anything on me. The Wild Cards asked me to meet you at JFK and track those plates.”

  “Who are these Wild Card people, anyway?”

  “London-based security firm. They do all kinds of personal protection and solve problems for clients with enough money to pay to make problems go away.”

  “How do you know them?”

  “I worked for them right after I got out of the British Army. I saved every penny I made with them so I would have enough to move to America and buy my first real estate property. Good company. Great employer.”

  “But you don’t work for them now?” Zane followed up.

  “Haven’t in a while. I’m just doing a favor for an old friend to handle this… whatever this is.”

  “It’s definitely a problem,” Zane responded. “I wish I had the cash to throw money at this one and make it go away.”

  “Hang in there, Zane. We’ll get rid of these Erebus guys for you.”

  They traded smiles over the orange juice, and it was so damned romantic he could hardly stand it.

  It was barely 9:00 a.m. when the three of them headed out. Etienne took point, and Sebastian hovered protectively next to Zane. They hustled him and the plates down into the parking garage and quickly into the town car.

  It took about an hour at the bank to sign all the paperwork, show identification, get escorted into a small armored room, and wait for Zane’s safe deposit box to be delivered pneumatically.

  Long enough for Sebastian to wonder why a self-described broke high-fashion model had his own safe deposit box in a city where they were notoriously expensive to maintain. Suspicious, Sebastian peeked into the box when it arrived. He spied an old watch, a few men’s rings—including a wedding band and a class ring of some kind—and several small flat cases. “What’s in those?” he asked.

  “My grandfather’s medals from World War II. He willed them to me along with this deposit box, which is paid for in perpetuity, and the other stuff in it.”

  “What are the papers?” It was none of Sebastian’s business, but he never had been great at controlling his curiosity.

  “I don’t really know. Old bonds.”

  “Treasury bonds or private bonds?” Sebastian asked with interest.

  Zane shrugged. “I was twenty when Gramp died. He was the only member of my family speaking to me at the time. I was in Paris when he died, and it took me over a year to get back to New York to take possession of this box of stuff. I was busy modeling and never got around to investigating the bonds. The bank said they’re not valuable.”

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Nah.”

  He unfolded the old, delicate papers. Indeed, most of the papers were corporate bonds that didn’t look worth much. But one piece of paper caught his eye. “This looks like a deed of some kind. Here in New York. Do you know the property?”

  “No.”

  “Want me to look it up for you?” Sebastian offered.

  “Sure.”

  Sebastian typed the address and deed number into his cell phone and tucked the deed back into the deposit box. Zane put the plates inside and sent the box back to the vault.

  They emerged into bright morning sunshine, and Zane sighed with relief. “I’m not gonna lie. That feels good.”

  “Glad to have those plates off your chest?”

  “Literally off my body? Yes.”

  “The Erebus guys are still going to make a run at you to get them back,” Sebastian warned. “Don’t let down your guard yet.”

  “I’m counting on you and Etienne. I would be less than useless if I had to defend myself from a violent attack.”

  “Never fear. I’ve got your back.”

  “Too bad you don’t have my backside,” Zane muttered under his breath.

  Sebastian wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to hear that, so he didn’t respond. But he would like to take possession of the man’s backside too. Aloud, he said, “Now we have to figure out how to let the bad guys know you don’t have the plates anymore and that they’ll have to deal with me from here on out.”

  “Maybe we can text them with the burner phone,” Zane suggested.

  “It looked set up so they can’t be traced through it, which means you probably won’t be able to contact them directly.”

  “You could rent a digital billboard in Times Square and put up a message that you’ve got the plates now,” Zane teased.

  “Great idea. I’ll get right on that.” They traded grins, and Sebastian felt like a million bucks. How long had it been since he’d had someone he could joke around with like this? Etienne was a loyal friend, but playfulness was not one of his driver’s main qualities.

  In a jovial mood, they returned to the hotel. Etienne left them, heading for a big truck across the parking garage while they headed for the elevator.

  “Stand back a bit while I clear the suite, okay? It’s just a precaution.”

  Zane nodded and struck a sexy pose against the wall beside the door. The man could turn his body into living art in the blink of an eye. No wonder he was one of the top fashion models in the business.

  Sebastian opened the door to the suite—

  —and stopped cold. The place was trashed. As in utterly destroyed. Cushions were ripped open, drawers on the floor, furniture knocked over, the paintings torn off the walls.

  “Get back,” he ordered Zane. “Run. Into the elevator. Fast.”

  “Why?”

  “Go,” he bit out, shoving Zane down the hall.

  “My portfolio—”

  “Leave it. I’ll buy you a new one.”

  “You can’t! Those photos took years to collect—”

  “If whoever trashed the place is still in there, they’ll kill us both.”

  “Oh.”

  They sprinted down the corridor, and he jammed the elevator button. The doors didn’t open immediately, which meant it had already left. Damn! He grabbed Zane’s arm and yanked him into the fire escape stairwell. When Zane opened his mouth to speak, Sebastian pressed an urgent finger to his lips for silence.

  Sebastian went first, running downward at top speed, and to his credit, Zane kept up pretty damned well. They burst out of the bottom of the stairs into the parking garage, and Sebastian raced to the town car. He used the keyless entry number pad to open the doors and ordered, “Get in the back and stay low. Buckle your seat belt but lie down.”

  He found the spare key taped under the dashboard, backed out of the parking spot, and left the garage as fast as he could without squealing the tires and attracting undue attention. They turned out into the street, and he accelerated hard.

  “Ow!” Zane complained. “Can I sit up now?”

  “No! Stay down.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Someone was in our room. The suite was ransacked, and I wasn’t about to stick around and see if the bastards were still in there.”

  “Oh.” A pause. “Crap.”

  Sebastian concentrated on driving and watching the rearview mirror for a tail. He ran through multiple lights turning red and turned left in front of oncoming traffic, c
utting it close enough to get honked at a half-dozen times, before he was convinced they weren’t being followed. Now to get off the road and take Zane someplace safe.

  He guided the car toward the Upper East Side.

  He pulled into another underground parking garage, this time entering a code on a keypad beside a wrought iron security gate to gain entry. Once parked, he got out and opened the back door for Zane, who looked disheveled after getting thrown around the back seat of the car for the past hour. Sebastian held a hand out to him.

  Zane took it, and Sebastian steadied him as he climbed out of the vehicle.

  “You okay?” Sebastian asked quietly.

  “Not really. I have to admit I’m a little rattled. Where are we?”

  “Someplace safe.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Sebastian smiled reassuringly at him. “Yeah. I am. C’mon. You’re gonna like this place.”

  They climbed into an elevator that took both a key and Sebastian’s palm print to operate. It whisked them up forty floors to the penthouse. They walked down a short hallway. Sebastian waved at the security camera, then used a retinal scanner and a lengthy number sequence to open the locks on a steel door.

  He opened it and ushered Zane inside. After gesturing for him to stay put, Sebastian cleared the entire apartment, checking under beds, behind doors, and in all the closets and cabinets that could possibly hide a human being.

  Finally he came back to Zane. “We’re alone in here. You’re safe.”

  Zane walked forward, down wide, shallow steps into the sunken living room. A floor-to-ceiling wall of windows overlooked the East River, and another wall of windows looked out at Manhattan’s skyline. The panoramic view never failed to impress Sebastian, and it seemed to have the same effect on Zane.

  “It’s like we’re on top of the world.”

  “Just on top of a building.”

  “The penthouse?”

  “Yup. And there are no sight lines from any surrounding buildings to see in here, which means no one can take a pot shot at you either.”

  Zane let out a deep breath. “Am I correct in assuming that you live here?”

  “Why do you assume that?”

  “This place is just like you. Spare. Classy. Sleek. Lots of hard angles and contrasting textures. Modern as hell.”

  Sebastian glanced around the condo. His interior designer had decorated the place, and he’d always been deeply comfortable here, but he’d never stopped to consider that it might be because this place was a reflection of him as a person.

  The colors were muted, creams and grays with a touch of blue. Lots of glass and brushed nickel. Highly polished cream marble floors. Thick flokati rugs gave textural contrast and were deep and plush underfoot. “I’ll take that as a compliment. And yes, this is where I live when I’m in New York.”

  Zane frowned. “But it’s not your home?”

  Home? What was that? He merely slept somewhere and kept his stuff somewhere. That didn’t make anyplace a home, though, he supposed. He shrugged.

  Zane wasn’t satisfied, apparently, because he pressed, “Where do you spend most of your time?”

  “Here, I guess. I’ve got a place in Switzerland where I ski, and I’ve got a funky little beach house in the Florida Keys when I need to unwind and stare at my toes for a while.”

  “So this is your home.”

  Sebastian answered slowly, “The last place I called home was a one-bedroom flat in the worst slum in London. I slept on the couch in the living room while my mother got stoned in the bedroom every night and I listened to her puke her guts up every morning. I guess I’ve never been much into the whole concept of home after that.”

  “Dark stuff, dude.” Zane tilted his head. “Do you need to hug it out?”

  Sebastian swore at him luridly in a thick, East London burr.

  Zane laughed. “I’ll take that as a no.”

  Sebastian watched Zane cautiously as he gave himself a tour of the open-concept space. A short hallway led to the bedrooms, but otherwise the place was mostly without walls. On one of the few walls, however, hung an eight-foot-tall painting, alabaster with splatters in all the muted colors of the condo. His decorator had called it the inspiration piece. It had cost a bloody fortune. But he did like the colors.

  He glanced back cautiously at Zane. Did he like the place? Hate its lack of softness? Hate its intense masculinity and industrial vibe?

  Lord, he felt vulnerable letting someone see into his private life like this. Even if he had had his dick firmly planted down said person’s throat not too long ago and was plotting how to get his dick there again at the first possible moment.

  This was a mistake. He’d never let anybody inside his inner sanctum like this. This was his private space. His refuge from the world, or, as his interior designer had called it, his ivory tower of isolation.

  Even if he were inclined to let someone into this part of his life, it wouldn’t be a high-strung high-fashion model who blithely ignored all of his instructions and cautions and seemed determined to deal with the counterfeiters on his own.

  If Zane were just an airhead, Sebastian could put down the maverick behavior to naïveté, or even good old-fashioned stupidity. But behind that pretty face hid a quick mind and plenty of common sense. Why had Zane gone to that meeting alone? As much as Sebastian didn’t want to admit it to himself, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see the answer.

  Assuming Zane wasn’t in league with Erebus—and Sebastian was inclined to believe the man based on the genuinely blank look he’d given Sebastian when he’d dropped the name last night—Zane must really want the money the counterfeiters had dangled as bait to gain his cooperation. And apparently Zane had no problem aiding and abetting international criminals for the right price. Which set Sebastian’s teeth on edge. Erebus was not just a crime ring. It was a bunch of bad, bad people.

  The trusting-voice angel on the other side of his skeptical mind argued back, Who are you to judge somebody else for being willing to do anything for money? You remember what it’s like to have nothing and be so desperate you’d sell your soul for a few quid.

  Yes, he knew exactly how much poverty sucked. He got how financial insecurity weighed on a person. Hell, he remembered what it was like to go hungry. To have nowhere to sleep. It made a person do things they wouldn’t otherwise do. It was hard to believe a successful model like Zane was dead broke, but that was apparently the case. Why else would he have gone to that meeting in the alley and risked his life for the sake of a payday?

  Sebastian would gladly offer the guy money—or a job if Zane was too proud to take a handout—but he got the distinct impression Zane wouldn’t agree to either option. He was nothing if not stubbornly independent.

  Which Sebastian could respect. He’d dragged himself up and out of the gutter by sheer force of will and damned hard work. Zane obviously had the hard work angle wired. He’d risen to the top of an insanely cutthroat field that routinely ate its young, from what Sebastian had heard of the fashion world.

  Hell, he was no lily-pure idealist himself. Real estate could be a rough-and-tumble business, and he occasionally had to pass a little cash under a table to grease the wheels. But he made a point of always paying his workers decently and on time. He paid fair prices for the buildings he bought, he always worked to and above the building codes, and he made damned sure his building managers were pleasant, helpful, and kind to his tenants. Ethics mattered to him. A lot.

  But what about Zane? Was his attempt to play ball with the counterfeiters mere financial desperation or something deeper? Something fundamentally amoral in his character? As hot as the guy might be, a lack of core ethics was a deal breaker for Sebastian.

  Zane made no secret of having used drugs heavily for a few years, but he also made no secret of having cleaned up his act. Sebastian could respect that. And even though Zane had lied and concealed having the burner phone, he’d come clean readily enough last night when Sebas
tian asked him to tell everything he knew. Honestly, he got the impression Zane wasn’t a natural liar.

  Dammit. He’d been an idiot to let last night’s hot encounter happen. It muddied the waters between them, and it definitely muddied his judgment. He could hardly see Zane for the lust blinding him.

  Did he dare trust his judgment at all where Zane was concerned?

  The hell of it was he didn’t know the answer to that one.

  Zane paused in front of the splatter painting. “Nice drop cloth.”

  Sebastian snorted. “That’s the most expensive drop cloth in the recorded history of drop cloths.”

  “Actually, it makes me think of a snowstorm at my grandparents’ house upstate, after Christmas, when deep winter has set in. It gives me the shivers, but I’m safe and warm in this room while the storm’s outside.”

  “You get all that from a bunch of paint splatters?” Sebastian asked.

  Zane grinned at him. “That’s how art works. It evokes emotions and memories. Same with fashion, done well. It’s art. It evokes feelings in those who wear it and those who see it.”

  “Huh. I never thought of clothing as art. To me, clothes are mainly a remedy for nakedness.”

  Zane groaned. “Have you never seen a Dior original? A Valentino suit perfectly tailored?”

  “Umm, no. I don’t think so.”

  “Oh Lord. I have my work cut out with you. You’re missing the finest pleasures in life, my dude.”

  Sebastian opened his mouth to make a snappy retort, but a cell phone vibrated in the deep silence, and Zane jumped about a foot in the air. Under his Italian tan, his face went ghostly pale.

  “What’s wrong?” Sebastian asked quickly.

  “That’s the burner phone ringing,” Zane whispered in panic, as if whoever was on the other end could hear him. “What do I do?”

  Chapter Eleven

  ZANE PULLED out the burner phone and stared at it in horror. Did he dare take the call? Surely the guy at the other end knew by now that the currency plates hadn’t been in the briefcase he handed over.

  Sebastian said, “Answer it. Demand payment before you’ll deliver the plates. Make sure the counterfeiter knows the plates are in a safe place now, and not in your personal possession.”