He was prevented from seeing anything else as he was dragged through the conservatory, out to the large grounds at the back and through the gate that separated them from next door.
“Jesus, fella. Ease off will ye?” Fletcher said, attempting to loosen his arm. “And tell me what the feck is going on? I thought we were just talking.”
“Talking time is over. Now is the time to choose your side.”
“My side?” Fletcher was hauled up the decking steps toward the glass bi-folding doors of the conservatory to whoever’s house it was.
Diego wrangled his enormous set of keys that he seemed to produce out of nowhere and unlocked the doors to slide them open, all the while his phone belted out Donna Summer’s ‘It’s Raining Men’. He answered it in a quick flick of the wrist.
“Si. I’m handling it. Situation changed… si, si.” He elbowed Fletcher in the back.
Fletcher tripped over the step into the vacant house. All lights were off, no noises, nothing to suggest anyone was there. He slammed closed the sliding doors. Fletcher flinched at how that felt like a prison.
“Si, sir. I can do that. I have a plan.” He smiled at Fletcher, then hung up the phone. “My boss is so crazy mad, y’know?”
“Same,” Fletcher said with a condescending smile. “What are we doing here?”
Diego flicked on the lights to illuminate a large kitchen-diner. He then pottered around, switching sockets on and checked in the huge fridge. He hummed, the tune from his ring tone now bouncing off the walls in his Italian accent.
“We need to have a talk.” Diego turned, facing him. “You’ve got yourself mixed up in something and it would be a shame if you were to be dragged any further. I think you’ve seen our capabilities.”
Fletcher drew eyebrows in. This didn’t sound good.
“We can get to more than just horny boyfriends.” Diego winked.
So it was him. He had trapped Heston. Regardless, though, he clearly hadn’t needed much coercing. Fletcher knew that much at least. It didn’t mean it didn’t stab him through the heart and scratch his skin like a rusty cheese grater. Trouble was, he’d been expecting it for a while. Not like this. But he’d always had one eye facing away.
“Why?” was all Fletcher could ask. Above and beyond anything, he had no idea what they had wanted to achieve from shining a light on his boyfriend’s indiscretions.
Diego shrugged. “You deserve better.”
“Do you mean you?”
Diego popped out his bottom lip and twisted from side to side like bashful Disney princess. “Maybe.”
Fletcher looked away, trying not to grimace. He couldn’t believe that a mere forty-eight hours ago, he’d been flattered that this man—this tall, broad, dark and handsome Italian man—had shown a passing interest.
Now he hated him. And he wasn’t sure why.
“Could I use a bathroom?” He needed a breather. And to retch down the bowl. Or to make a plan in his head. A bit of mindfulness would get him back on track and not think about how his boyfriend’s impious cock had been used as leverage in a suspected murder case featuring the subject of his latest writing project.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what an absolute fecking mess.
“Of course.” Diego waved a hand. “The main bathroom is at the top of the stairs. I’ll pour us a drink and when you return you can tell me where Jackson Young is. He and I have some unfinished business.”
“Is that all you want from me?”
“No. But that’s a start. That will prove you’re on our side.”
“Who’s ‘our’?”
Diego grinned. “Team Kris. We’re getting T-shirts made.”
Fletcher staggered on unsteady legs through the kitchen to the hallway where the sweeping staircase greeted him like Jack’s beanstalk. It wasn’t an escape. And it didn’t feel like one with every foot treading on each step upwards. A shiver ran down his spine. There was something familiar about this house. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it felt wrong. This wasn’t Diego’s, despite the man’s familiarity with the surroundings or the fact that he had the keys.
The wrenching in his gut worsened as he peered over the banister. Two doors located to his left were wide open, revealing separate adjoining bedrooms. Fletcher sucked in a breath as he recognised the four-poster bed, the netting ripped and hanging on a thread. He’d seen that before.
In the photos he’d tried to avoid in DI Grimsby’s file.
Fuck no.
He needed to heave. Launching for the bathroom in front of him, the pounding in his head drowned out any rational thoughts. He yanked open the door and the light from within pierced his eyes as a cloud of steam distorted his vision. Behind the frosted glass of the shower, a figure twisted, water slamming down over smooth, pale skin.
Blue eyes widened as they met with his own. The water turned off and a hand wiped the condensation from the glass. “Fletcher?” Jackson Young stared at him, dumbstruck.
Fletcher froze.
Except for his gaze that seemed to drop, feeding on the sight of Jackson’s wet and naked body behind grooves of opaque glass. His heart leapt into his throat, thumping at double speed.
“Fletcher? What the fuck—?” Jackson slid open the shower door and there he was, standing in front of him in all his pale-skinned, ridged-muscled, sharp-edged, fair-haired, dark-nippled, glory.
Fletcher couldn’t speak. He gasped, his ears ringing from the sound of his own thrashing heart and his prickling skin. He stared, gaze roaming down and down until—
Shite. He ripped his gaze away.
Jackson grabbed a towel, dragged it over his face and hair before wrapping it around his waist. “Now who’s the stalker?” he said, a glint in his eye and not a hint of embarrassment.
Fletcher opened his mouth. He wanted to say something. Anything. Trouble was, he’d run out of words. Something that wasn’t all that common for him when he was in front of a keyboard or with a pen in his hand. But here, in this moment, he’d lost the ability to find even the simplest of syllables. All he had was a surge of blood rushing to his groin that sparked up with vehement fury.
“Fletcher!” Jackson stepped forward. Droplets of water trickled over his shoulders, down to his chest to melt into the confines of fair hair, as he reached out to squeeze Fletcher’s arm and no doubt shake him from his stupor.
But he dug trembling fingertips into Fletcher’s flesh when an Italian accent wafted up the stairs.
“Ciao, Fletcher? Did you get lost up there?”
Jackson tensed, eyes bulging. “Are you—?”
What was it Diego had said? That this was his time to choose sides… Whose side was he on?
Slapping his hand over Jackson’s lips, Fletcher shushed him then mouthed a frantic, “Hide.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
One Moment
The bathroom door slammed behind Fletcher’s swift exit.
Jackson flinched.
Then he let out the breath of air ballooned in his lungs, steaming the mirror that had just cleared from the open door. He waited. And listened to muffled voices down his stairway. One of them was distinctly Irish. The other powerfully Italian.