A PERFECT RENDEZVOUS

What's In a Name?

Seated together on the sofa, with their legs stretched out, their feet propped side by side on the coffee table and a cream knitted afghan stretched over them, Harry gazed out the glass wall across the room. He was deliciously exhausted from their day outdoors, a hearty meal, and Zayn's thorough lovemaking on the sofa. Even now, when the lovemaking was long over and Zayn was lost in thought, gazing into the fireplace, Harry noticed he kept his arm around him, holding Harry close to his side, Harry's head on his shoulder, as if he very much enjoyed having Harry close and touching him. Harry liked that, but at the moment his mind was on his "snowman" just beyond the glass wall. With the living room lights dimmed to a mellow glow and the fire in the fireplace reduced to orange cinders, he could just make out the looming, shadowy form of it. Zayn was incredibly creative and imaginative, he thought with a smile, which shouldn't have been surprising, given his film career. But even so, a snowman ought to look like a snowman, not a leering mutant dinosaur.

"What are you thinking about?" Zayn asked, his lips brushing a soft kiss on the top of Harry's hair.

Harry tipped his chin up to see Zayn's face and grinned. "Your snowman. Didn't anyone ever tell you a snowman is supposed to be jolly?"

"That," Zayn corrected, looking proud and boyish as he studied it through the window, "is a snow monster."

"It looks like something Stephen King would dream up. What kind of depraved childhood did you have, anyway?" Harry teased.

"Depraved," Zayn confirmed, smiling and tightening his arm around Harry's waist. He could not seem to get enough of Harry, in bed or out of it, and that was an unprecedented experience for him. Harry fit the curve of his arm as if he were made for him; in bed, he was a temptress, an angel, and a courtesan. Harry could drive him to unparalleled heights of passion with a sound, a look, a touch. Out of bed, he was funny, fascinating, stubborn, witty, and intelligent. Harry could anger him with a word and then disarm him with a smile. He was artlessly sophisticated, devoid of pretension, and filled with so much life and love that he mesmerized Zayn at times, like when he talked about his students. Zayn had kidnapped him, and in return, Harry had saved his life. Zayn was supposed to be the wily, hardened convict, and yet Harry had been clever enough and brave enough to escape right out from under his nose. Then he had turned around and willingly surrendered his virginity to Zayn with a poignant sweetness that made him ache whenever he thought about it. He was humbled in the face of Harry's courage, gentleness, and generosity.

He was nine years older and a thousand times harder than Harry, and yet something about him softened Zayn and made him like being soft, both of which were new experiences for him. Before he went to prison, he'd been accused by women of being everything from distant and unapproachable to cold and ruthless. Several women had told him he was like a machine, and one of them had carried the analogy to a definition: She said he turned on for sex and then turned off for everything else except his work. During one of their frequent arguments, Rachel had told him he could charm a snake and he was just as cold as one.

On the other hand, he'd never known a woman in his adult life, including Rachel, whose primary interest wasn't in her own career and what he could do for it. When you added that to all the other phonies and sycophants, he'd had to endure from the time he arrived in Hollywood, it wasn't particularly surprising that he'd become cynical, disillusioned, and callous. No, Zayn thought, that wasn't true. The truth was he'd already been that way before he got to Los Angeles—callous and cold enough to be able to turn his back on his old life, his family, and even his own name when he was only eighteen. Enough to banish it all from his mind and never, ever look back or discuss it with anyone—not the studio publicity office who complained at having to "invent" a whole background for him when he made his first film, not his lovers, and not his wife. His former name, his family, and his past were dead facts that he'd buried permanently and irrevocably seventeen years ago.