Heart's Price (MxM)

Chapter 12

Thaddeus Barker's 'house' puts Thorne's mansion to shame, at least as far as size is concerned. When it comes to style, on the other hand, there's no comparison.

Barker's 'estate' seems to have been built on the premise that the primary function of wealth is to be flaunted, and that the best way to achieve this is to buy the biggest and shiniest of everything one can afford.

Julian had driven us here in his old vintage Beetle, and it looks almost comically out of place among the luxury vehicles parked in front of the sweeping, perfectly manicured lawns. Almost as out of place as I feel.

My fleeting satisfaction with my appearance has long vanished—departed like a rare bird that flits back into the forest's heart, not to be seen again. 

Julian, by contrast, looks stunning. Wearing a tailored suit that accentuates his narrow waist and slender form, he's a picture of elegance and radiates an almost inhuman allure. I can't tell if he's turning up the fae charm on purpose, or if it's just the clothes and the atmosphere, but the effect is devastating.

I'm not jealous. Quite the opposite, in fact.

As eyes are drawn to everything from his silky brown hair, to his jewel-bright eyes, to the little glimpse of smooth, cream-colored skin at the base of his throat, I become basically invisible—a shadow at his side—which is perfectly fine by me.

Barker himself greets us at the door, offering us a warm handshake and a shark-like smile.

He's not what I expected.

I'd been imagining an old man, wearing tweed and trending towards corpulence; instead, he's only a few years older than me—late thirties at the most—and athletic, with thick, cinnamon-colored hair styled in a slick, back-swept wave, a sun-burnished face (I wouldn't be at all surprised if he owned a yacht or several) and clear, glacial-blue eyes. His face is handsome in a conceited, country-club kind of way, and he looks like he wandered from the pages of F. Scott Fitzgerald.

His attention passes over me without really settling—a brief grasp of strong, square-tipped fingers, a flash of too-perfect teeth—and then lands on Julian like a cat catching sight of a mouse.

"Well, hello gorgeous," he says, lifting Julian's hand to his lips for a mock kiss. "I don't believe we've met, and I do believe I'd remember if we had."

Julian returns his smile, though there's definitely a grimace of distaste underneath.

"Mr. Barker," he says, withdrawing his hand. "We spoke on the phone. I'm Julian Hart, and this is my associate, Noah Hunter."

"Ah! Hunter & Hart—the investigators—of course!"

Suddenly much more businesslike, he ushers us inside and through the crowds of well-dressed men and women gathered in the grandly spacious rooms within.

Julian makes no attempt to correct Barker's assumption that I am the Hunter of Hunter & Hart, and I take his lead and remain mostly silent as Barker shows us through his grotesquely oversized and over-decorated house.

Very quickly, I come to realize that the place is basically just an extension of Barker's ego, and that he'd happily bore us to death recounting his triumphs at various auctions and art shows if we let him. He stays close to Julian, I notice, focusing most of his attention on him, and keeping a hand on his arm or his back—once or twice coming dangerously near to crossing a line.

It's fortunate for him, I reflect, that I'm not the Hunter he thinks I am, after all, or he'd likely be short a limb by now.

Finally, after a series of increasingly less subtle hints, Julian succeeds in getting him to show us what we're here for.