Lovers and Liars Trilogy Read Free Page B

coil through the valley below as the light paled to the silver of spring evenings.
    Now that house was sold and his mother was dead. It was years since the coming of spring had brought him any sense of hope or renewal.
    Nostalgia was weak. He slammed the door on it. From below, his daughter called to him. Shouldering his cases, Pascal turned and ran down the stairs.

Chapter 2
JOHNNY APPLEYARD
    T HE BUILDING JOHNNY APPLEYARD lived in lay on the southwest corner of Gramercy Park. It was tall, turreted, gothic. Julio Severas, the ICD courier for that area of New York, arrived there shortly before ten A.M. It was a clear, cold day, and had snowed during the night. The sidewalk outside Appleyard’s building was well swept; Julio paused to admire the building’s massive portico, its gleaming marble steps. Julio liked his job—it gave him the opportunity to see how the other half lived. He looked around him with interest as he entered the lobby: dark paneling, a stained-glass window—weird, he thought, like some kind of church.
    The porter, a Greek, showed no inclination to talk. He escorted Julio into an elevator—more paneling, a little leather-covered seat. The elevator was hand operated. Julio stared in astonishment as the porter hauled expertly on a rope. There was the sound of machinery, of counterweights. With a surprising efficiency, the elevator glided up.
    “Some system,” Julio said. “No electrics, right?”
    The porter pointed to a brightly polished brass plate. It said OTIS ELEVATORS 1908. “Original,” he said. “Hand operated. One hundred percent reliable. The only one in New York.”
    “Regular antique, huh?” said Julio, and stored this piece of information away for his wife. She, too, was fascinated by details of how the rich chose to live. “Expensive building, I guess. Exclusive,” he ventured to say, as the Greek brought them to a halt.
    The Greek gave him a look of contempt. He ushered him out onto polished parquet, facing a tall mahogany door. He rang the bell and stood there with Julio, shoulder to shoulder. From behind the door came the roar of rock music.
    Julio sighed and tried again. “You get a lot of celebrities here, maybe? Rock stars? Actors? Art-world types?”
    The porter gave him a withering look. “Listen,” he said. “I told you downstairs already. Mr. Appleyard, he’s not here. No reply, okay? Now, you want to leave that package with me?”
    “No,” said Julio, getting his own back. “I don’t.”
    The porter lifted his hand to try the bell again, but before he could ring, the door suddenly opened. A strong scent of rose bath oil eddied out. An exquisite girl stood in the doorway, swathed from shoulder to ankle in a white terry bathrobe. When she saw the two men, her face fell.
    “Oh. I thought it was Johnny…” she began in a low, husky voice. The rest of the sentence trailed away.
    Julio blinked. He looked more closely and realized his mistake. Not a young woman, a young man: a young man with clear olive skin, hyacinth-blue eyes, and long, thick, waving blond hair. The hair brushed his shoulders; one damp tendril clung to the damp skin of his throat. He was wearing a gold earring in his right earlobe, and a narrow gold bracelet on his right wrist He was about twenty years old, tall, slender, and devastating. Only the pitch of his voice declared his sex. If Julio had encountered him elsewhere, just passed him by on the sidewalk, he’d never have guessed. Jesus; Julio felt himself blushing. He averted his gaze and stared hard at the boy’s bare feet.
    “Parcel for Mr. Appleyard,” the Greek announced in an insolent tone. He jerked a thumb at Julio. “I told him already. He’s out, right? Haven’t seen him in days.”
    The remark sounded oddly like a jibe. The boy blushed. Looking up, Julio saw he was fighting back tears.
    “He’s out now ,” he replied in a defensive way. “But I expect him back real soon. This afternoon, maybe later this morning…” He