Graham looked at the other man. He seemed perfectly at ease with himself; the candlelight made his dark skin gleam. Shaking his head at his own romanticism, Graham wondered at this man, this foreigner.
He’d been perfectly honest when he told Trent he’d watched him and wanted him. In the last weeks he found honesty cleansing—if he was to go to his grave a young man, he wanted to do so with as few falsehoods as possible.
The Club had been abuzz with rumors about the Turk since his arrival, yet Malik Trent had done naught to answer any of their many questions. Though he knew little of Trent, Graham couldn’t help but…hope. A dangerous emotion that, but nonetheless hope did stir within him.
Could this man help?
Studying him through hooded eyes, Graham wondered. He wanted Trent, and it was obvious Trent wanted him as well. But could he trust the Turk?
“I would appreciate your help,” he began, almost surprised at the admission. “However, I don’t wish to see you entangled in this unsavory business.”
“Explain the business to me,” Trent interrupted before Graham could continue.
Loosening his cravat, which he hadn’t tied properly anyway, Graham slowly nodded. No one had actually offered to help. Then again, he hadn’t exactly shouted throughout the Club the reasons for his suddenly licentious behavior in a group filled with lustful abandonment.
He stalked to the sideboard and poured a drink. Whisky, not wine, filled his goblet, but Graham didn’t care and knocked it back like a tavern whore.
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