The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder, #2)

by Josh Lanyon

He felt incredibly, embarrassingly hurt. And foolish—which hurt even more than the ice-cold realization that Sam had never had any intention of pursuing their…whatever the hell it was.

So why did he feel so…empty? Hollow. Bereft. Now there was a good old-timey word to explain feeling like the world had kicked you in the guts.

Nothing like the combo of rugged masculinity and top notch tailoring to weaken your resolve.

Even more devastating was the way Kennedy’s blue eyes seemed to light for a moment as though the unexpected sight of Jason gave him pleasure—before his expression returned to its usual impassivity. I’ll be remembering what it feels like to touch you this way every time I see you tomorrow.

But casual dress or no, he looked like the guy in charge. Of everything. Everywhere.

Kennedy might be a lousy boyfriend, but he sure as hell was a loyal friend.

Kennedy said quietly, fiercely, “Because I can’t do my job the way I need to do it if I’m distracted by you.”

“But here I am.” Kennedy was acerbic. “Which is why it had to stop. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. All the time. Wondering how you were, what you were doing, worrying if you were being careful, if you were still struggling.”

“The best part of my day—any day—were the nights I got to talk to you for a couple of hours on the phone.” He looked almost bewildered at the revelation. “I started feeling like I wanted time off, started thinking maybe I shouldn’t take so many chances, like I should start planning for the future.” “There’s nothing wrong with planning for the future.” “I’m not talking picking retirement investments. I wanted time with you, plain and simple. I was looking forward to that too much.” Once again he seemed angry as he concluded, “I can’t feel like that and still do my job the way I need to do it.”

Married to murder. Fan-fucking-tastic. Jason hadn’t missed that our life comment.

And even after the last forty-five minutes of bitter reflection and self-recrimination, Jason’s foolish heart still jumped around in his chest like an eager puppy when his master walked in the door. It was maddening.

“Did you really tell O’Neill you wouldn’t break out of that crypt because the window was so valuable?” Jason sat up. “Hell, yes. That window is Tiffany glass. It’s probably worth a quarter of a million dollars. It’s irreplaceable.” Kennedy shook his head as though he thought Jason was a nut, but what he said was, “You’re irreplaceable.”

Kennedy eyed him for a long moment. He set his glass down. “The problem is, I don’t want whoever. I want you. All the time.”

“We can call it what it is,” Sam said. “It’s not the word I’m afraid of. I love you. I’ve known for sure since Christmas when I couldn’t stop myself from calling.” He said self-mockingly, “I just had to hear your voice.”

Instead, he said lightly, “Maybe you should wait until I propose before you start planning how you’re going to leave me standing at the altar.”

“We’ve still got—” Jason broke off to peer at the clock. “Hours till the next goodbye.” They kissed. “See?” Jason murmured. “That didn’t hurt so much, did it?” “Not yet,” Sam said quietly. “It will.”

Jason looked down, and Sam’s eyes were open. So blue. Bluer than the St. Lawrence. Bluer than the sky. Bluer than once-in-a-blue-moon. He frowned at Jason and then a funny smile crossed his face. “Don’t I know you?” Sam whispered. Jason bent down, and Daisy murmured, “Oh my. You will by the end of that kiss.”

“I know. I kept meaning to give it back to you, but…” Jason was smiling, but puzzled. “But what?” Sam hesitated. Said quietly, “I figured if I hung onto it, I’d always have an excuse to see you.”