By CLARE LONDON by NOVELS

snapped back.
    Suddenly there was that flash of uncertainty again. This time he was the one to hesitate, his free hand lifting from his side, reaching for me. His breath was warm on my cheek, and I thought he’d try to grab me. But instead, he ran his fingertips along my jaw and then to my ear. He touched me as if he were blind, trying to gauge the shape of my face. His breathing was faster than before.
    “Max?” He said just my name, his voice low and softly questioning.
    Hell. Before I could even think about replying, he leaned even closer and put his mouth on mine. I found myself sucking on his tongue, hot and needy. He had his answer. I was sure people were staring at us as they passed on the pavement, but I didn’t care. I gripped his arms and pressed as close to him as the contours of my body allowed.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the bouncers move uneasily. Behind them, something—or someone—else stirred. A shadow passed across the side of the building, like someone had dodged back out of sight. You know that feeling, when you don’t see something clearly enough to know what it is, but your sixth sense alerts you to trouble? The hairs on the back of my neck sprang up like I was a guard dog and I’d heard a key in an unseen but forbidden lock. Was it another security man? Just one of the partygoers?
    A group of young men pushed past us with a wolf whistle or two, on their way to the club entrance. Distracted, I pulled away from Seve.
    And I got in the car.
    WE DIDN’T go anywhere special—no exclusive party, no discreet bar, no guided tour of where Seve lived or played. But at least he never took me to that bleak, windy lay-by I’d imagined. Instead, we drove for fifteen minutes or so in silence toward Hove, where we pulled into the tree-lined car park of a small guest house. Seve switched off the lights and turned to me.
    “You mean you were listening when those guys outside the club said get a room?” I quipped.
    Seve didn’t answer. He reached to the dashboard and pressed an unidentified button. With barely a jolt, the back of my seat started to recline. After the initial surprise, I released my seat belt and lay back, savoring the luxurious leather upholstery underneath me as it moved. The doors were a snug fit, and no noise intruded from outside the car. On the roof, I could hear the first patter of raindrops, as forecast. I hated the rain, though I wasn’t sure that justified driving to some unfamiliar place with Seve just as a way to stay dry. There was no movement anywhere else in the car park. The trees shaded us from the guest house itself, and I guessed every sane person had left their car long before now and gone into the warm, comfy rooms.
    “You forgot to make a booking?” Another of my feeble jokes, but I felt aggrieved. “Or you need a couple of quid toward the cost?”
    “It’s not that.”
    I felt vulnerable, flat on my back on a car seat that was larger and comfier than some beds I’d slept in. And Seve looming over me from his side of the car. “I don’t understand you at all.”
    To my surprise, he didn’t come straight back with a snappy protest. Instead, he gazed at me, the reflection from a nearby security lamp in the car park flickering in his pupils. “Then we’re well matched. I don’t understand you either.”
    I laughed. It was a loud sound in the claustrophobia of the car, in conflict with our stilted breathing. “I thought you’d had plenty of experience with guys.”
    “I’m not talking about guys,” he said. “I don’t understand you.”
    “Maybe you should have stuck with the boy band.”
    “Boy band?” He frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?” Then his eyes widened with anger. “Those fucking journalists. I tell them to keep away, but they keep calling. I have no time for their stupid gossip magazines.”
    “You’re obviously news.” I shrugged. A new business venture in Brighton’s clubland, a franchise with links to other