Golden Dancer by Tara Lain Read Free Book Online Page B

divine, it could have been dessert, a soak in his own Jacuzzi tub, and a night’s sleep entirely by himself. He was not completely delighted by that last bit, but he had slept like the dead.
    Light filtered around the blackout curtains, shielding the wall of glass that looked directly out on the sand. The man certainly knew how to live. Since their first encounter at the music center, Trelain had, of course, gone online and discovered that he was being courted by one of America’s richest men. Not Gates or Buffet rich, Terrebone insisted, but certainly top one hundred. Such was his “dabbling” in software.
    After swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Trelain tugged his fingers through the tangled mane that hung around his shoulders. What time was it? He looked around the big room, still shadowed from the dark curtains. Spare, modern furniture formed a simple backdrop for spectacular abstract paintings. They’d be amazing in the light. On the bedside table, he saw a clock. As he reached out to grab it, it tipped, and the face lit up, showing eight thirty-seven a.m., then went dark again. Trelain batted it like a cat at a ball of yarn. Again it lit. Charming. And it was nice not to have a bright clock light shining in your face while you slept.
    He stretched again, feeling the aches and bruises of every grand jeté, arabesque, and lift. No big deal, as the Yanks said; it went with the territory. He reached down and rubbed the leg muscles still slightly sore from the injury. Fuck! He was flooded with memories. He remembered walking into the rehearsal room and seeing Mac sitting at that table dressed like a street urchin, with that lovely face and wonderful curly mass of hair, just as unruly as his spirit. Mac laughing at dinner in a pair of tight black slacks that made him uncomfortable and drove Trelain crazy in completely different ways. Mac’s long cock bursting out of those pants into Trelain’s waiting hands. Double fuck.
    He pushed off the bed and walked toward the bathroom, his cock at half-mast just from the memories. Chyort. Bleeding lot of good those memories did him.
    After a shower, shave, and shampoo, Trelain wrapped himself in a blue silk robe and returned to the bedroom. Interesting that Daniel had put him in a room with a dressing table, clearly a space designed for a woman. He smiled. Since he operated on girl-time while dressing, why not take full advantage of this amenity? He retrieved his toiletries case from the bathroom sink and placed it ceremoniously on the beautiful Japanese-modern table. He lifted the mirror from the smooth, polished maple top.
    He stared at his image, turning his head to get a better view from all angles. At least he didn’t look as tired as he had yesterday morning. This little interlude was just what he needed.
    Long wet strands of hair lay over his shoulder, and he ran his fingers through the tangles, arranging them a little before trying the comb. Ouch.
    There was a soft rap on the door. Um, maybe breakfast? Or maybe his host come calling. He had to admit to a little shiver at that idea. He looked over his shoulder. “Come in.”
    The silver head appeared around the door. “Are you decent?”
    Trelain smiled. “Almost never.”
    The big man walked into the room. “Very promising.” He settled on the edge of the unmade bed. “You slept in. I think you were very tired.”
    Trelain leaned back in the pretty, feminine, armless chair. “Yes. I didn’t realize how much I needed a good night’s sleep. When I’m performing, I often seem to practice grand jetés in my head all night.”
    “The attention you give your art shows in everything you do, cavalier.” He stood and walked up beside Trelain, reaching out to finger some of the wet golden strands. “May I help with your hair?”
    “Help?”
    Daniel went to a side chair and pulled it over beside Trelain. “Yes, let me dry your hair for you, okay?”
    Hm. Trelain didn’t like being fussed with much. Fussed