A Hotter Fire: Assured Elites, #3

A Note to Readers

THIS BOOK IS A WORK of fiction and any resemblance to anyone, any time, or any place is not intended and is merely coincidental. The cover model appears for illustration purposes only and has no relationship to any events in this story. Brief mentions of real persons, places, or products are used fictitiously and in accordance with fair use. All trademarks remain the properties of their owners. Some locations have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. If you want a map of New York, ask Google.

To get a free gay romance ebook offered specifically as a thank-you for my fans, visit the official Parker Avrile website at:

https://wp.me/p8llkN-5t

Prologue

A TALL MAN IN WRAPAROUND dark glasses paused outside the entrance to Manhattan's only ivory-free, cruelty-free netsuke shop. A brisk March wind unlooped his Burberry scarf from his neck, but his quick hands snatched it back at the last possible moment. He had the look of a man dressed by a costume director― an actor or a model, perhaps. His vintage aviator's jacket might have once been worn by the pilot of a 1930s-era biplane.

The quick hands were a musician's hands with a musician's long fingers. A piano player, perhaps? But no. Perhaps it was the guitar. The calluses on the palms and fingertips could be explained by long hours of practice with a stringed instrument.

Despite the wind, the tall man hesitated outside the shop's window. The current piece on display was an intricate pigeon-blood agate carved into the shape of six entwined puppies squabbling over a bone. A tiny red dot on a white card informed the musician the piece had already been sold. The price, of course, went unmentioned. If you have to ask, you can't afford it.

He lifted his hand as if to caress the precious gem and instead touched window pane as transparent as the finest diamond. Hidden alarms were surely concealed in the reinforced glass, but they were invisible even to the keenest eye. The wind, a determined kleptomaniac, tugged again at the Burberry scarf.

Inside, a broad-shouldered man in his early thirties stood behind an ebony counter, his handsome face free of the slightest flutter of impatience. If the musician entered the shop, it would be one kind of day. If he didn't, it would be another kind of day. The man inside seemed comfortable with waiting to find out.

The man outside adjusted the knot in his scarf one last time before he pushed the door open. A polite bell tinkled to announce his arrival. Taking two steps inside, he paused again to remove his wraparound glasses for a better look. Turning in a slow semi-circle, he blinked in amazement at the well-lit shelves of carefully curated carvings. White jade, moonstone chalcedony, rainbow moonstone. No ivory, never ivory. Every carving there was cut and polished from a fine gemstone.

The musician himself might have been an interesting subject for a cameo— good cheekbones, a defined brow, a well-shaped jaw. He looked younger without the goggle-like glasses, thanks to rose-petal skin kissed pink at the cheeks and ears by the flirtatious March wind. Twenty-one to twenty-three, no older.

Men that age, even wealthy men, were seldom in the market for netsuke.

How may I help you, sir? asked the man behind the counter.

I'm looking for... The musician flushed, the pink in his face deepening into red. You know what I'm looking for.

You're Mikel Ponder.

What if I said I was his evil twin?

You would still be Mikel Ponder. A third man emerged from the back of the shop. He too was broad-shouldered and thirtyish, with striking eyes that seemed to peer into the musician's soul. Follow me, and I'll be happy to assist you.

Ponder glanced back at the front door. He was the only customer in the shop, and there was no sign that anyone else would be entering anytime soon. Still, his expensive scarf was coming undone again, and he couldn't resist fiddling with the knot. A nervous habit, perhaps. It's hard enough to explain yourself to one stranger, much less two.

He lifted his chin, a small signal of his determination. I don't know if I want to go into a back room. Maybe you both need to hear this.

Maybe we do. The third man seemed unperturbed by Ponder's indecision. But you'll start by talking to me. He turned and walked through the back door, not looking to see if Ponder followed.

They both knew he would.

Backstage at most netsuke shops involved a warren of secret galleries. Depending on the nature of the shop, those hidden galleries might contain erotic carvings or even pieces shaped from ivory of doubtful provenance. In this shop, the erotica was displayed in the front gallery as boldly as any other art— and, of course, anything ivory was banned from the premises.

Ergo, this back room was something different from the norm. Ponder felt as if he'd gone behind the scenes of a smaller Wall Street hedge fund rather than an art gallery. The utilitarian desks were long and sturdy, but they were scratched gray metal rather than burnished wood. Multiple computers communicated wirelessly with multiple monitors driving inscrutable programs that required them to flash mysterious numbers and characters in a rainbow of colors. None of these numbers, characters, or colors made the slightest degree of sense whatsoever to Mikel Ponder.

He stood, considering.

Out of the wind, it was hot, or, at least, he imagined it was hot. Though he understood he should delay no longer, he bought a few more seconds of thinking by unknotting his troublesome scarf and unzipping his aviator's jacket. It can be difficult to get the words out when you're asking for your heart's desire.

Finally, he nodded. All right. So I think you know exactly why I'm here. I want to arrange for a match through Assured Elites. I'm an Elite, and I want to meet another Elite.

His opponent― for, at the moment, there was no other way to think of this man than as an opponent― swallowed a smile of frank amusement. This is an art gallery, Mr. Ponder.

Are we really going to do this dance? This gallery is a front for a matchmaking service for celebrities. Everybody knows it.

Do they? What does everybody know, I wonder?

Was this a test? Was it possible that this man intended to turn Ponder away? No. It couldn't be. He was at the top of his profession, one of the highest-earning pop singers under twenty-five. If anyone qualified for an Assured Elites match, it was Mikel Ponder. He began to speak faster, although it made him sound younger even in his own ears. You matched Trenton Rome with a billionaire. Nobody else could have done that.

Oscar-nominated actor Trent Rome was indeed engaged to be married to reclusive billionaire Bennett Anderson. The two young men in their matching engagement rings had been the toast of the post-Oscar after-parties.

We do not discuss other clients. We do not deny or confirm.

You're the fucking CIA. You admit nothing, you confirm nothing, but somehow everybody knows everything anyway.

We hardly experience as many leaks as the CIA, dear sir. Absolute discretion is our highest priority.

The man from behind the ebony counter must have closed the front end of the shop, because he walked in at that exact moment. You're twenty-three, and you've never had a serious relationship. Why do you think you qualify for a matchmaking service? There's every argument to be made that you're still too young.

Ponder's eyes flashed. I'm not asking for a marriage contract. I just want a date with the guy. He's been my crush my whole life. Just one fucking date. That's all I'm asking. You guys can arrange it, so don't horseshit me that you can't.

No name had been mentioned. And yet Ponder sensed they already knew who he was talking about. He would never have been allowed to cross the threshold if they didn't already know all about him.

That, too, was something everybody in Manhattan knew about Assured Elites. If they didn't want to do business with you, if you hadn't passed their top-secret screening process, somehow you never found your way inside their shop in the first place.

The two partners exchanged glances, and one of them nodded the tiniest of invisible nods. It was a yes. They had a match for Mikel Ponder.

The other said, A crush is not necessarily the best man for your situation.

They were calm. Ponder, even knowing he'd been accepted as their newest client, felt frantic. I don't care what it costs. Money is no object. You know who I am. You know I have the money. Whatever it takes, I have it.

It takes more than money, one of them said.

Some matches can't be bought at any price, said the other.

Money can buy one fucking date with Jer John. At last, the name had been torn from Ponder's lips. Or he felt as if it had been torn. His feelings for the famous artist weren't something he shared easily.

Both of the older men folded their arms over their broad chests.

That isn't how it works.

We tell you who your perfect match is. You don't tell us.

Ponder was so close. He couldn't leave without getting what he came for. He wanted to remain as calm and as expressionless as his opponents, but he couldn't. "Well, I am telling you. I'm paying you. I'm the customer, and you're the service, and the customer is always right."

There was a thud of silence. The partners exchanged glances. Had he pushed too hard? Ponder was tall and graceful, but his was a reedlike grace. The two of them could easily toss him out right now. The alley awaited with its graffitied brick walls and blowing trash.

Ponder took a deep breath to steady his voice. He'd made a mistake, but surely it wasn't a fatal mistake. Arrogance was the great curse of any man who found success too early. The owners of something styling itself as Assured Elites would know how to overlook arrogance, for it came with the territory when you served the rich and famous.

Start again, he told himself. Remain calm. You can persuade them. You're here, aren't you? That's ninety percent of the game.

Jer John just broke up with his boyfriend. I know for a fact he came to you guys looking for a replacement. That's factual information that everybody knows.

Two unblinking faces free of expression. Two pairs of folded arms across broad chests. The silence was either unnerving or encouraging. Ponder wasn't certain which.

I know, I know, you can't deny or confirm. You can't share the names of your clients. You don't have to talk but, please, please, can't you just listen? I know in my soul JJ's been down here looking for his perfect match. You could put us together with the snap of your fingers. Please. Just one fucking date. It would mean everything to me.

The two partners turned away as if on a hidden signal. The characters on the various monitors began to change into colored pixels in the shape of triangles. Then the pixels too began to flip as the image on the largest central monitor slowly resolved into the photograph of a good-looking man with silver eyes.

He was a similar type to Jer John and around the same age of thirty-eight. His shaggy hair was dark except for a single stripe of silver that somehow put the focus on those striking eyes. A very good-looking man, indeed. A man someone would be happy to find on his arm.

Not to mention his bed.

And yet, and yet...

The silver-eyed man wasn't Jer John. He wasn't. As far as Ponder knew, he wasn't anyone famous at all.

We do have a match for you.

Our analysis shows that you're close to ninety-eight percent compatible. Which is amazing, because nobody's ever come in at ninety-nine.

No, Ponder said. It's JJ or no one. The unknown was enticing, but this wasn't about an attractive hookup. This was about meeting his soulmate at long last.

Couldn't they see that?

Wasn't it their job to see that?

There was another long silence as the three men considered the man on the monitor. Ponder wondered where they were getting this image, for it appeared to be a live stream from a camera set up in some public place. The quality of the light changed as if something red was flashing behind the silver-eyed man, and he turned to look at something— someone?— behind him.

The warble of a siren was recognizable even with the sound turned down.

A hospital, Ponder thought. A hospital and a doctor. I'm an artist. What would I do with a doctor?

You think this guy is my ideal match? He shook his head. I think you need to adjust your equipment.

You came to us.

Because you trust our analysis.

I came to meet Jer John. One date. I'll take it from there.

Jer John is not your match. A relationship between the two of you is doomed.

You can't know that. Ponder gestured impatiently around the room full of computers. It all looked so scientific, and yet... What did his life even mean if he couldn't have JJ? You can't expect me to accept that on your say-so.

We don't expect you to accept anything. The partner's voice was gentle. We are simply telling you the truth about your future. The better to prepare you for the inevitable.

What are you, witches? You don't know anything about my future. You can't.

The two older men exchanged one of those looks. Ponder couldn't read most of them, but he could guess what they were telling each other this time. It was the business of Assured Elites to provide happy endings for their celebrity clients. You couldn't do that if you couldn't read the future.

We are willing to help you.

But...

Their words were, as always, as choreographed as a modern dance.

You do it our way or not at all.

We will arrange the date with Jer John. If you still want it.

But...

It won't happen until you arrange to meet with the man who will be your true match.

The comparison, we feel, will be most illuminating.

Chapter One

Curt

A GOOD DIRECTOR DOESN'T handle a genius by fobbing him off to the human resources department. Drewson Vickers, longtime head administrator of Montangel Hospital, was a good director. I was the genius— at the moment, a genius who throbbed with exhaustion down to the marrow of his bones. When Drew intercepted me in the lobby, I understood instantly why he was there. I didn't have to like what he was going to say, but I had a pretty good idea of what it would be.

Can we do this later? I asked.

There are rules. This hospital can't take responsibility for a surgeon who has been on his feet in the operating theater for thirty-seven consecutive hours. Which meant, hell no. Which meant, we're doing this now.

Repressing a sigh, I allowed myself to be ushered into his office.

Humor him. Remain calm.

I couldn't betray the smallest sign of impatience, although I yearned to get home to my all-organic mattress with its soft-as-silk Egyptian cotton sheets. The thought of that mattress floating like a cloud beneath my sleeping body pulled at me the way drug addiction pulled at some of my patients.

Drew pushed a button to summon a blonde woman who clutched two paper cups in her manicured hands. I'd forgotten her name, so I merely nodded my thanks. A surgeon's hands never shake, but I did make a point of wrapping both hands around the cup.

You definitely need the caffeine, he said.

I sipped. The macchiato with a whisper of turbinado sugar didn't come from the hospital's cafeteria. The blonde must have fetched it herself from my favorite coffee shop. Drew and I had come to know each other well over the three years I'd been a staff surgeon with Montangel, but I hadn't realized he knew exactly how I liked my coffee.

Thirty-seven hours. I wished he hadn't mentioned the number. Macchiato or no macchiato, my eyelids sagged.

We've talked about this. His voice seemed to come from far away.

"Hell, Drew. I've been trying to follow the rules. You know how hard I've been trying. I