Boston Avant-Garde 6: Chiaroscuro (22 page)

She pulled away and took a seat on the end of the bed. Drawing her knees up, she stretched his T-shirt over them and rested her chin on top.

“You keep doing that to my T-shirts, and I’m going to need to go shopping,” Owen teased, leaning in and resting his hand on the newel post.

She gave him an arch look. “Or you could just save them until you get fat enough to fill them out.”

“You’re going to give me a complex, and I’ll turn into one of those nuts who goes to the gym six days a week to lift weights.” Heaven save him from the mere possibility of becoming that shallow—or fat, for that matter.

“You don’t work out?”

He was distracted from their conversation by the enticing view of her rounded bottom as she rocked backward on the bed. “I’d rather do my people-watching at the mall. If I wanted to listen to that type of noise, I’d just stay at work.”

“You’re in awfully good shape for a guy who doesn’t work out.”

He almost missed the tonal shading in her voice that told him she was about to ask him something pointed and probably uncomfortable. “Spit it out. What do you want to know?”

Her expression went from casual to determined. “Where did you get all those scars?”

“Fighting.” Owen wondered if this would be the moment she decided to turn tail and run. Between Lars’s ridiculous date with Isabel and now this, Owen wouldn’t have blamed her one bit. “My half brother, Jason, started running a fight club before I’d graduated from high school. He ran a betting operation on the side.”

Her mouth quite literally fell open. “You said his schemes usually wound up with you getting your ass kicked. I didn’t think you meant that literally.”

“Next time, ask.”

“We’re a fucked-up bunch, you know that?” Mattie sighed and flopped onto her back. “And I’m still not okay with Lars going on a
date
with Isabel.”

Owen knew she was right. They were a fucked-up bunch. But when she layered enough sarcasm onto the words “date” and “Isabel” to put his and Lars’s cynicism to shame, he knew that they were meant to be together.

Chapter Eighteen

Lars couldn’t shake the sense of uneasiness from his heart. He nodded his way through a lunch meeting with two Aasen International execs but couldn’t have said what they discussed.

He lounged in the desk chair and stared out the window at the Boston skyline. Afternoon sunlight glanced off the churning water in the bay, promising an unseasonably beautiful fall afternoon should he deign to go outside and enjoy it.

An image of Mattie’s tiny house in the woods came to mind. He could picture her outside in her garden, digging in the rich brown soil. His mind painted in a little girl with a mop of dark curls crouched down beside her. The little one was a startling combination of Mattie’s brilliant eyes and Owen’s coppery skin.

Lars waited for the shot of bittersweet agony in his gut, but it never came. Instead, he imagined himself and Owen playing an impromptu game of football with a pair of boys. No matter how he envisioned the kids, Lars felt the same all-consuming love for them that he did for Mattie, and for Owen.

Love is a four-letter word.

Mattie had said
love
to him once. Lars was intelligent enough to know that deep down he longed to hear her say it again. He wanted to know she felt that way about him, the same way he knew she was beginning to feel about Owen.

“Lars?” His mother stepped into the office unannounced, yanking him away from his musings. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Just lost in thought.” Lars forced himself to smile as though he had no cares in the world. He was getting damn sick of wearing that mask.

Caroline Aasen’s expression looked like the cat’s that got the cream. “I’m hoping that dreamy-eyed look is because you’re excited to spend time with Isabel again.”

Any remaining positive vibes from his daydream sailed right out the window. “About that, Mother.” Lars racked his brain for the right words and came up blank. “I’m not sure that Isabel and I suit.”

“Nonsense. I have it on good authority that the two of you are perfect for each other.” Caroline’s domineering tone set him off like nothing else could have.

“Authority.” Lars threw himself back in the chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “Would that authority happen to go by the name Cade Sorenson?”

“How was I supposed to know it was somewhat illegal for me to hire an investigator to dig into the private life of an Interpol agent?” She waved it off as though that type of thing happened every day.

It was all too much—the date with Isabel, his mother’s hopes for a family, and the Interpol case sitting on his desk that would drag him halfway across the world from the two people he loved more than life. It was just too much.

Lars shot out of the chair as though he’d been catapulted. “I’m bisexual. Did you know that?”

She blanched as though he’d struck her. To his everlasting shame, Lars gained a modicum of satisfaction in that.

Caroline Aasen recovered quickly. “Well, there’s nothing particularly
wrong
with that, dear. I suppose once you and Isabel marry, you’d have to discuss it with her.” His mother looked thoughtful. “It’s probably no different than a man keeping a mistress.”

She really thought he’d cheat on Isabel if they married. Although Lars had to admit he might consider it if he found himself leg-shackled to a woman he didn’t care about. Except Lars fully intended to be faithful to whomever he settled down with. Cheating was the worst sort of crime to bring into a relationship.

His gut clenched hard as he recalled Mattie’s red-rimmed eyes. She’d railed at him for his decision to take Isabel to the Hampshire House reception
because
of that crime. What kind of lackwit was he?

Owen tried to tell me.

His mother was still talking, though he couldn’t have said what she was nattering about. Pressure built inside his chest until he couldn’t hold it in any longer. “I can’t father any children, Mother. I’m sterile.” There was dead silence in the wake of the words he’d hoped he’d never have to say out loud.

“What did you say?” She drew back, her body trembling beneath her pastel pink suit.

“I’m sorry.” He took her hand. It was cold against his. “I got testicular cancer. The surgery left me unable to—”

She yanked her hand away. “Lars Alexander Aasen, this isn’t a joking matter.”

“Which is why I’m not joking about it.”

“When?” she demanded.

“Not long after Dad got sick.” Lars had never regretted his decision to keep his condition secret more than he did right then. “I didn’t want to worry you more than you already were. I had it taken care of right there in London. No fuss.”

“Well.” She briskly patted his cheek. “There are fertility clinics for this sort of thing.”

Denial, Mother
. He had to bite back a trite comment about rivers in Egypt that would’ve made things worse than they already were.

“I ordered a bouquet of flowers for Isabel.” Mother gathered up her purse and dug for a tissue. She blotted her right eye. “The florist will deliver them to the house before you leave. Please don’t forget them. Isabel is quite fond of lilies.”

“Mother—”

She didn’t give him another chance to add anything else. Lars knew he’d pushed her far beyond her limits. It was a start, but he wished he’d managed to get the rest of it out.

I can’t be with Isabel, Mother. I’m in love with somebody else, two somebodies in fact. A woman named Mattie with a smile to rival the sun, and a man named Owen who would go get me the moon if I asked him to.

He pulled out his phone and sent Mattie a quick text that said simply,
“I’m sorry.”

When ten minutes had passed and he hadn’t gotten a response, he tried Owen’s phone. Another ten minutes later, Lars started to get a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Where the hell were they?

* * * *

Owen rested the huge canvas he was carrying on his foot when his phone began buzzing insistently in his pocket. He’d been happy to help Mattie with the list of chores she wanted done at the gallery. It felt good to be busy even if it meant contorting himself into awkward as hell positions while trying to hang the offered pieces at what Mattie assured him was the perfect angle.

The number on the phone display was unfamiliar. Expecting Jason or even Meecham himself, Owen answered the call. “Yeah?”

“Owen Bloodmoon, I know I taught you better manners than that. What on earth has gotten into you in the last fifteen years?”

Owen’s shoulder hit the wall as he struggled to remain vertical. Shock didn’t cover the emotions roiling in his belly at the sound of his grandmother’s voice. The apology came automatically. “I-I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Quite all right. I’m sure you were anticipating someone unpleasant.” Grandmother hesitated briefly. “Your no-good brother, perhaps?”

“Jason had better be on his best behavior,” Owen spat. “He promised me he would be. We had a…”

Grandmother picked up where Owen left off, her tone gentle. “A deal?”

A wave of longing hit Owen hard. He’d managed to dial back the intensity of his feelings over the years, but they’d never go away. He craved the feel of her calloused fingers brushing his cheek. He wanted the warmth of her hugs and the way she made it seem as if everything was going to work out.

As was her way, his grandmother didn’t pull her punches. “Something evil has its sights set on you and yours. Whatever you plan to do in order to shut it down, you need to hurry up before the spirits get stirred up good and proper.”

He pushed his emotions into the background and focused on the present. If Grandmother had reached out to him, things were much more serious than he’d thought. “How? I don’t know how to neutralize an altar like that one.”

“These power-hungry idiots don’t respect the old magic like the Wiccans used to,” Grandmother muttered. “Nature is a balance of opposites. If the altar is created with evil intentions, you must balance it with good. The opposite of death is birth, the creation of life. You already have the symmetry of the number three at your disposal. Use your imagination.”

He was trying, but his imagination was stuck on the idea that his grandmother might actually be suggesting he and Lars needed to have sex with Mattie in that burned-out place in the woods. While intriguing, it also sounded like lunacy.

“I’m not crazy, boy,” Grandmother said drily. “And you tell that woman of yours that I’m making a coverlet for her new bed.”

“New bed?” Owen was almost afraid to ask.

“Well, she certainly can’t keep the one she has when there are three of you sharing it.” The smile in her voice warmed Owen’s soul. “Once this is over, you’d better bring both of them down to meet me. It’s high time we put the past in the past and let the ghosts be.”

He almost couldn’t find the words. “I will.”

With the wall at his back and the giant canvas still braced against his boot, Owen exhaled slowly and tried to center himself. His grandmother had always
known
things in a way she claimed her ancestors had known them. Owen had never been sure he believed in magic, but he’d seen far too many things not to believe there was power out there that belonged to a place outside human understanding. If his grandmother said it was time to act, it was. There was no doubt evil was stalking them. He just wasn’t sure how to start fighting it off.

* * * *

As silly as it seemed to have Owen tagging along when she went to work, Mattie was enjoying the extra time spent with him. His calming presence made the day fly by.

With her phone, she snapped a quick pic of a wall hung with paintings featuring Salem’s most famous historic buildings. It would be a perfect addition to the gallery’s blog. Owen had already helped her hang several canvases she’d never have been able to handle by herself. Now he was swapping out lightbulbs in the storage room. There were most definitely some added bonuses to having him around.

A bell above the door announced the arrival of a potential customer. Mattie turned to greet the newcomer fumbling with her smartphone and trying to put it away. Her welcoming smile froze on her face as she took in the ragtag threesome that had just entered the gallery. Her phone slipped through her suddenly numb fingers and clattered to the floor with a noise that didn’t bode well for the thing’s electronic integrity.

“Can I—help you?” she stammered. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if they were lost.

The leader sneered. “Well, that’s convenient. Now I don’t even have to bother taking your phone away to keep you from calling for help.”

She digested the malice in the man’s eyes and felt the first pangs of real panic. His features suggested some sort of ambiguous racial heritage. The other two looked vaguely Irish and African-American. Neither struck her as the type to be on the hunt for decent artwork. Trouble was another story.

“You must be Matilda.” The leader flashed her a smile that struck her as oddly familiar.

Having returned from his lightbulb mission, Owen materialized by her side. “Never expected to find you in a gallery, Jason. And to think I’d assumed all these years you were a cultural void.”

His brother. The dangerous-looking character standing in her gallery was Owen’s older half brother. Mattie instantly saw the minor resemblance but also understood why Jason would be jealous of Owen’s appearance.

Owen was absolutely stunning with his exotic complexion, strong bone structure, and noble features. Jason was a mockery of the same gene pool with a weak chin, pale skin marked by what was likely an adolescent bout with acne, and dishwater-blond hair.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jason demanded. “I told you the gig wasn’t until Halloween night. Did you change your mind about the fight?”

Mattie’s brain was spinning. She understood the gist of their conversation as it applied to what Owen had shared with her and Lars the other night. It still begged the question as to what karmic coincidence had Jason harassing her under the orders of a man like Hyde.

“I think the more important question is why are
you
here, Jason?” Owen’s deadly tone brooked no argument.