A PERFECT RENDEZVOUS

Hollywood Auditions

When he was finished eating, Zayn settled back against the sofa and propped his ankle on the opposite knee, watching the flames leaping and dancing on the hearth, as he gave his dinner companion a chance to finish his meal without further interruptions from him. He tried to concentrate on the next stage of his journey, but in his state of sated relaxation he was more inclined to dwell on the amazing—and perverse—quirk of fate that had caused Harry Styles to be sitting across from him. Throughout all the long weeks of working out every detail of his escape—throughout the endless nights he'd lain in his cell, dreaming of his first night in this house—not once had he ever imagined that he'd be other than alone. For a thousand reasons, it would have been far better if he were alone, but now that he was here, he couldn't just lock him in a room, bring him food, and pretend he wasn't.

After the last hour in his company, however, Zayn was sorely tempted to do exactly that, because he was forcing him to recognize and reflect on all the things he had missed in his life and the things that were going to be lacking in it for all time. At the end of a week, he'd be on the run again, and where he was going, there'd be no luxurious mountain cabins with cozy fires; there'd be no more poignant conversations about handicapped little boys with prim third-grade teachers who happened to have eyes like an angel and a smile that could melt stone. He couldn't remember ever seeing a man's entire face light up the way his had when he talked about those children! He'd seen ambitious women light up at the possibility of getting an acting role or a piece of jewelry from him; he'd seen the world's finest actresses—on stage and off, in bed and out of it—give thoroughly convincing performances of passionate tenderness and caring, but until tonight, he had never, ever witnessed the real thing.

When he was eighteen years old, sitting in the cab of a semitruck, bound for Los Angeles and almost strangling on tears he refused to shed, he'd vowed never, ever to look back, to wonder how his life might have been "if only things had been different." Yet, now, at the age of thirty-five, when he was hardened beyond recall by the things he'd done and been and seen, he looked at Harry Styles and succumbed to the temptation to wonder. As he lifted the brandy snifter to his lips, he watched a log tumble off the grate in a shower of sparks and wondered what would have happened if he'd met someone like him when he was young. Would he have been able to save him from himself, to teach him to forgive, to soften his heart, to fill up the empty spaces in his life? Would he have been able to give him goals greater and more rewarding than the acquisition of money and power and recognition that had shaped his life? With someone like Harry in his bed, would he have experienced something better, deeper, more profound, more lasting, than the mindless pleasure of an orgasm?

Belatedly, the sheer unlikelihood of his musings hit him, and he marveled at his own folly. Where in the hell would he have ever met someone like Harry Styles? Until he was eighteen, he'd been surrounded by servants and relatives, whose very presence were daily reminders of his social superiority. Back then, the son of a small-town minister, such as Harry, would never have entered his sphere.

No, he wouldn't have met him then, and he damned sure wouldn't have met someone like him in Hollywood. But what if he had, by some quirk of fate, met Harry there? Zayn wondered, frowning with concentration. If he'd somehow survived unscathed in that sea of social depravity, unbridled self-indulgence, and raging ambition that was Hollywood, would he have really noticed him, or would he have been completely eclipsed in his eyes by more glamorous, showy, worldly women? If he'd walked into his office on Beverly Drive and asked him for a screen test, would he have noticed that lovely fine-boned face of his, those incredible eyes, that lithesome figure? Or would he have overlooked all that because he wasn't a woman who was spectacularly beautiful and built like an overfilled hourglass? If he spent an hour in his office talking to him there as he had done tonight, would he have truly appreciated his wit, his intelligence, his unaffected candour? Or would he have hustled him out because he wasn't talking about "the business" nor giving any indication that he'd like to go to bed with him, which would have been his two primary interests.