A PERFECT RENDEZVOUS

Waiting in the Wings...

The keys to the Blazer were on the dresser when Harry got out of bed at dawn the next morning, and the house was eerily still. The agony of last night had receded to a dull numbness, and he pulled on clothes without any particular awareness of what he was doing. All he wanted to do was get out of here and never look back, never think back. Forget everything. All his attention was focused on that, on forgetting that he had ever met Zayn and been foolish enough to love him. He never wanted to love anyone again if it meant being this vulnerable. He got his empty nylon duffel bag out of the closet, dumped his toiletries into it, zipped it closed, and picked it up.

At the bedroom door, he paused, looking around the room to make sure he'd left nothing behind him, then he turned off the lights. Quietly, he twisted the doorknob and stepped out into the darkened living room, then he stopped short, his heart slamming in shock and dread. In the watery grey light of early dawn, he could see Zayn silhouetted at the windows across the room, his back to Harry, his left hand shoved into his pants pocket. Jerking his gaze away, Harry turned and started silently down the hall, but before he took the second step, Zayn said without turning: "The list of everyone who was on the set the day of the murder is on the coffee table."

Ignoring the sudden knot in his chest at the realization Zayn had conceded after all, he forced himself to keep walking down the hall, past the closet.

"Don't go," Zayn called hoarsely. "Please."

Harry's heart twisted at the harsh desperation in his voice, but his own ravaged pride screamed that only a fool without pride or sense would let him near after last night, and Harry kept walking. He reached for the knob on the back door and Zayn's voice came from somewhere closer behind him, raw with emotion. "Harry—please don't!"

His hand refused to turn the knob, his shoulders began to shake with silent sobs, and Harry leaned his forehead against the door, tears streaking down his face, the duffel bag sliding from his hand. He wept with shame for his lack of will and with fear for a love that he couldn't control. And even as he wept for himself, he let Zayn turn him into his arms and pull him against his chest.

"I'm sorry," Zayn whispered fiercely, helplessly trying to comfort him, his hands rushing over Harry's shoulders and back, clenching Harry to him. "Please forgive me. Please."

"How could you do that to me last night!" he sobbed. "How could you!"

Swallowing, Zayn turned Harry's wet face up to his because it seemed to him that he didn't deserve the protection of anonymity when he admitted, "I did it because you called me a murderer and a coward and I couldn't stand it—not from you. And I did it because I'm a heartless bastard, exactly as you said."

"You're right, you are!" Harry choked, "and the horrible part of it is that I love you anyway!"

Zayn pulled Harry back into his arms and fought down the words he knew Harry wanted to hear, the words he felt. Instead, he crushed Harry to him, kissing his forehead and his cheek, then he rested his jaw against Harry's fragrant hair, letting his words bathe him in their sweetness. At thirty-five, he had finally discovered how it felt to be loved for no reason except for himself ... to be loved when he had neither wealth nor fame nor even respectability to offer as an attraction ... to be loved unconditionally by a man of extraordinary courage and loyalty. He knew it now, just as surely as he knew that if he told Harry how he felt about him, those same qualities would make Harry wait for him for years after he disappeared. Even so, he couldn't let Harry's sweet avowal pass without comment, and so Zayn rubbed his cheek against his hair and tenderly spoke another truth: "I don't deserve it, sweetheart."

"I know you don't," Harry joked tearily, refusing to be crushed that Zayn hadn't said he loved him, too. Harry had heard the aching emotion in his voice just now and the torment when he thought Harry was leaving. Harry had felt the reflexive tightening of his arms and the increased pounding of his heart against his own face when Harry had told him. It was enough for Harry. It had to be. He closed his eyes as Zayn's hand slid under the hair at his nape, his long fingers stroking sensually, but when he spoke, he sounded incredibly weary. "Would you consider going back to bed with me for a few hours and postponing our discussion about the murder until I've had some sleep? I've been awake all night."

Harry nodded and walked with him into a room he'd never expected to see again.

Zayn fell asleep with his arms wrapped around Harry and his cheek against his chest.

Unable to sleep himself, Harry watched his face, his fingers toying with the soft hair at Zayn's temple. Sleep didn't soften his rugged features, Harry noticed, probably because he found no real peace, even then. His brows were dark and thick, and so were his eyelashes, he suddenly noticed—spiky lashes so dark they looked black. Harry shifted a little to make him more comfortable, but his arms tightened instantly—to prevent him from leaving, no doubt. The unconsciously possessive gesture made Harry smile because it was so unnecessary. Harry had no intention of slipping away.

Years before, he'd come across a quotation from Shakespeare that life was a stage on which each man must play his part. Ever since he graduated from college, he'd felt as if he was standing just off the stage where his own life was supposed to take place, waiting in the wings, waiting for someone to give him a cue that it was time to step on that stage and do whatever he was meant to do. Harry drew in a shaky breath, smiling a little tearily, because he'd finally gotten his cue. Now he knew what he had been waiting for all these years, why he had been created, and who he had been meant for. Despite all his diligent efforts to remake himself into a model of propriety, when it came to falling in love, he'd reverted to form and fallen in love with a man; who was a renegade, a black sheep; a daring, cynical, tough social outcast who in some ways reminded him of the boys he'd known on the Chicago streets. Harry loved him with a fierce protectiveness that made him feel strong and wise and maternal; Harry loved him with a desperation that made him feel helpless and fragile and under his control.

And he loved all those feelings, every single nerve-racking one.

The future was an uncharted path filled with danger and censure. Harry felt utterly at peace and in perfect harmony with the entire universe.

Laying his hand against Zayn's face, Harry cradled him protectively close to his heart and touched his lips to Zayn's dark hair. "I love you," he whispered.