Chapter 1

“This,” Sam said bitterly, “is the last time I’m letting you decide where we go.”

There was no answer, but seeing as Sam was talking to his actualprick, rather than the merely figurative one he’d just stormed away from, he hadn’t really expected one.

Heaving a sigh, Sam finished having his leak and zipped up.

“Do you talk to all your body parts, or is that one, ah, particularly favoured?” a teasing voice asked.

“Shit!” Startled, Sam took an involuntary step back, promptly tripped over a tree root and sat down heavily on the damp earth. “Fuck!”

A stranger stepped forward with silent grace and offered Sam a hand, his lips quirking up in amusement. The cold light of the full moon showed a slender figure with bright blond hair and a mischievous, boyish face. The sort of bloke Sam would have liked to meet in better-lit surroundings, and preferably while he himself was looking a bit less of a total klutz.

The group from the pub who’d dragged Sam along with them to the old house—it’ll be a laugh, yeah, spooky old house at Halloween—had brought gas lamps and candles, the mains having been disconnected decades ago, but the light that spilled out from the tall bay windows didn’t reach this far down the garden. In the circumstances that was probably just as well. Sam supposed he should be grateful that at least he’d finished peeing before he’d fallen on his arse in front of the man.

“You know, your language really is most extraordinarily foul,” the pale stranger said, his floppy fringe almost totally obscuring his eyes as he leaned forward.

Sam took the hand and let himself be pulled up. The stranger’s grip was surprisingly strong, given the softness of his skin and the delicacy of his bones. “Thanks,” Sam said wryly. “You always sneak up on blokes having a piss, or am I just particularly favoured?”

The smile he received in response fair took Sam’s breath away. “Well, I try not to make a habit of it. James Forrester, by the way.”

His clothes were a bit odd, Sam thought. Old-fashioned: baggy trousers, a billowy shirt and honest-to-God bracesholding his trousers up. Had he come here from a 1980s theme night?

Sam realized he was still grasping that cool, fine-boned hand and let go a little self-consciously. “Right. I’m Sam. Sam Wisdom, and before you ask, no, I don’t manage to live up to the name.” He grimaced. “Tonight certainly proved that.”

“Oh?” James hesitated. “You know, I couldn’t help but notice that you seemed to be, ah…”

“Lurking in the undergrowth in the pitch bloody dark so none of those tossers in there can find me?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quitethat way, but yes.”

Sam sighed and leaned back against a tree trunk, remembering to check first that it wasn’t the one he’d just been pissing against. “I had a bit of a disagreement with one of the blokes I came with, and it ended up with me walking out before I decked the bastard. Thought I’d try ringing for a taxi or something, but my phone’s dead. Getting into the spirit of Halloween, I suppose.”

An odd look passed over James’s face, as if he hadn’t quite understood what Sam had said and it was worrying him, somehow. Then he seemed to pull himself together. “So you’re stuck out here? What a bore.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quitethat way, but, er, yeah. Don’t suppose you could give me a lift back to the nearest town?”

Again, that odd look. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m without any means of transport.”

“Shite. Could I use your phone, then?”

There was a pause. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there either. Sorry.”

“S’pose I’ll have to go back inside and borrow someone else’s,” Sam said with resignation. “Still, no hurry.” He grinned and reached into the pocket of his leather jacket, pulling out a half-bottle of Stolichnaya vodka. “Not ‘til this runs out, anyway.” Sam took a swig, wiped the neck on his sleeve and held the bottle out.

James looked startled but accepted it all the same. “Vodka? I don’t usually drink it neat. Or from the bottle, for that matter.”

“Well, if I’d known I’d have company I’d have half-inched some tonic and a couple of glasses.”

James looked blank for a moment, then his face cleared. “Oh, rhyming slang. Pinched. I suppose I have heard it before.” He grinned. “Although not usually in polite company.”

Sam returned his grin. “You were after polite company, were you? Right, I’d better bugger off, then.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. I should be reduced to trying to hold a conversation with the squirrels, and I suspect they all went to bed hours ago.” James took a respectable swig from the vodka bottle and handed it back. As he did so, their fingers brushed, and his eyes met Sam’s with a hint of a challenge—or a promise. “Besides, the present company is far more to my taste.”

“So who are you here with?” Sam asked, trying to sound casual. “No offence, but you don’t seem the sort to hang around with any of those wankers in there.”

James gave him a quizzical look. “I’m not entirely sure what possible offence I might take from a statement like that. Or do you suppose my ears too delicate for your delightfully descriptive turns of phrase?”

“Well, you do look a bit delicate,” Sam teased. “Quite pretty, really.” He held his breath, hoping he hadn’t judged this wrong.