It took Eric longer than expected to track down Anthony Morgan. For being rich, famous, and utterly recognizable nearly everywhere he went, Morgan was damned hard to pin down. After a searching for a week and traversing four countries, Eric was exhausted and frustrated.
He had finally gotten lucky in Greece, of all places. Morgan was staying at a secluded seaside resort that was renowned for its privacy, but a decent badge could circumvent a large number of privacy restrictions.
Eric climbed the stairs slowly. He was glad to find the place relatively empty. Its seclusion was rivaled only by its cost. As he neared the archway at the top of the landing, Eric felt an unwelcome nervousness. Morgan was a star. He’d been an obnoxious, snobbish jerk when they had attended school together. Eric remembered their school days with a pang of remembered rage. He thought he’d left those memories behind along with his boyhood rivalry.
Now Anthony Morgan was an international star—a race car driver extraordinaire. Once unfettered by the presence of Eric Bryce, Morgan’s star had risen like Halley’s Comet, blazing across the sky. And Eric had joined the Feds, first becoming a cop, and then an agent for the FBI.
Eric stepped onto the veranda silently and paused, observing Morgan before his presence was known. The man was stunning, Eric had to admit. Morgan wore a cool, white linen shirt and trousers of palest grey. He stood half-turned from Eric, leaning against the white marble railing. He held a goblet of clear liquid in one hand, but he seemed to have forgotten it. The chiseled features faced the sea and his expression was pensive, almost sad.
Eric swallowed hard, feeling conflicted. He felt almost guilty for intruding on Morgan’s quiet moment, especially considering the reason behind his visit.
He scowled, wondering at the ridiculous poetic sentiment. Morgan might be a veritable god of Formula One, he might be beautiful beyond human comprehension, but he was still Anthony Morgan, former criminal and complete asshole. That was confirmed when Morgan spoke—a deeper timbre than Eric remembered, but the same blood-boiling drawl.
“If you stand there much longer, Bryce, perhaps you’ll turn into a potted plant and I won’t have to ask why you’re here.”
Eric sighed and walked forward. Morgan turned and gifted him with a look of casual indifference.
“I’m looking for someone,” Eric said.
“You’ve found someone.”
Eric paused for only a moment. He was certain Morgan had not intended the statement to sound suggestive. Eric reached into a pocket of his jacket, realizing as he did so that he was overdressed for the climate. He felt like a secret agent, and a foolish one, at that. He unfolded the paper and handed it to Morgan, who made no move to take it. Eric ground his teeth together and straightened the folds. In the center of the poster was a photo of Samuel Sims, glaring balefully in a manner Eric remembered well.
“A wanted poster?” Morgan asked dryly. “How quaint. And look, there is even a reward. I see the FBI is as penny-pinching as ever. You’ll never find him for that pittance.”
“You know where he is,” Eric insisted.
Morgan shrugged and took a drink from his glass. When he lowered it, his lips shone with the liquid. Eric watched, mesmerized, as Morgan’s pink tongue slid over the droplets slowly. Fuck. Eric mentally shook himself and then added a few imaginary slaps to the head for good measure. Focus, Bryce.
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