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 sh