Chapter One

Viggo rolled slowly onto his side, still in that drowsy half-awake state when time is suspended and rough reality has gossamer edges. The fine linen of the bedclothes was cool despite the sensuous heat that had lately been kindled there. As he rose to one elbow, Viggo luxuriated in the sensation of expensive fabric sliding over his skin.

Despite the early hour, the pearly glow of a false dawn lent a dream-like radiance to everyday objects as Viggo looked across the bedroom to the casement window. The green-black, lace-topped row of towering evergreens bordered a pewter sky into which the last stars were melting. The long rolling lawns were silvery with dew spangled spider webs as the pale curtain of mists lifted from the dark mirror of the lake.

A cool breeze touched Viggo's face bringing with it the scent of water, dark earth and the sharpness of pine, stirring his senses and bidding him rejoice in the new day. Surely this was Paradise on earth. And sleeping beside him was the proof.

Viggo's gaze dropped from the open window to the angel that graced his bed. Orlando slept on, oblivious to his lover's adoring scrutiny, dark hair tangled on the snowy pillow, sculpted features soft with sleep. Amazing, miraculous even that he should be here and Viggo was keenly aware of the fact.

Orlando Jonathan Blanchard Bloom was heir to the vast fortune his shrewd forebears had amassed two hundred years ago in the importing of spice. Among other holdings, the empire now included a large shipping company and several elegant resorts. The room Viggo currently occupied was in one such grand retreat for the very wealthy and upper class folk of the northeastern United States.

Viggo didn't belong in this playground of high society, anymore than Orlando belonged in Viggo's arms. They were here together simply because nothing could keep them apart. It had been so since the day they met two months ago.

April, nineteen twelve. La Belle Epoque. The rumblings of the First World War were distant thunder on the horizon. The elite of Europe still mingled amicably whatever their nationality might be. Most of them were cousins, after all. And a lot of them had tacitly acknowledged the unpleasantness in the Old Country by vacationing in the Americas.

Among the froth of the offspring of Europe's cream was Orlando Bloom, a young man with the power to invite his friends to a five star resort at his expense. Viggo had met this exquisite, entitled creature as he was being turned out of this cottage to make room for one of Orlando's aristocratic companions.

Since Viggo had scraped together the money for the cabin by doing without for a year, he was more than slightly put out at being told he must change accommodations. Viggo was a student of the art of photography and had specifically requested this particular site on a secluded shore of the large lake.

It was Viggo's desire to capture images of the wild swans that came here to mate and nest. He was somewhat loudly and colorfully informing the hotel's representative of this fact when Orlando had arrived on the scene.

Tall and imperially slim, dressed in the height of Edwardian foppish attire, glossy curls framing his sweet face, Orlando had smiled cheerfully and blithely offered his hand to the photographer. After being introduced and apprised of the difficulty, the young man had dismissed the employee and spoken to Viggo man to man.

"You must think me deucedly high-handed, but I did not know the cottage was already occupied," Orlando said in his soft accent. "Pray do not stir another step, sir. Allow me to help you return your luggage to your rooms."

Immediately embarrassed by his tantrum, Viggo shook his head, sandy bangs falling over his eyes. "No, I couldn't possibly let you carry my bags," Viggo said.

Orlando smiled in delight. "What is that accent, sir? I am persuaded that you are from West of the Mississippi."

"A fact I can't seem to hide," Viggo said ruefully.

"And you should not," Orlando said. "It is natural and very charming. If you will not accept my help, I will leave you in peace and join my friends."

"I hope they will not be too disappointed."

"It is nothing that a snifter of brandy will not cure, Mr. Mortensen, I assure you. I do hope you enjoy your stay at Sylvan Lake Lodge."

Orlando had held out his hand again, though etiquette did not demand it. This time Viggo took the young man's hand and returned the pressure of his grip. Time stretched like a drop of honey suspended on the lip of a jar and then Orlando pulled his hand back.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir," Orlando said, though he made no move to leave.

"The pleasure is mine," Viggo replied.

"I really must go," Orlando said, casting a glance up the slope of the lawn to the gingerbread façade of the three-story main building. "I wonder though if I might be allowed to see your work at some time, Mr. Mortensen."

"That would be easily arranged," Viggo said. "I hope you are not a critic."

"I have seen daguerreotypes, stereopticons and photographs," Orlando said, "but I am hardly an expert."

"If you have an interest, I would be honored to show you how a photograph is made."

"That would be most pleasant," Orlando answered. "May I call upon you again, sir?"

"At your convenience, Mr. Bloom," Viggo said.

Their eyes met and there was more they would say if the rules of society did not seal their lips. Both had felt the jolt of excitement when their flesh touched, though neither could acknowledge it by so much as a wink.

"Until then," Orlando turned and reluctantly walked back to the company of the bright young things that he traveled with.

Orlando's circle was uniformly young, attractive, witty and staggeringly wealthy. They had no cares beyond those they fabricated and those that came with having relatives. Like a migrating flock of vividly plumaged birds, they descended on one chic locale after another in their endless rounds of parties, charity balls and sporting events.

Lately, Orlando had begun to feel like an outsider, alone in a familiar crowd of pretty, sharp, expensively dressed folk just like him. But only on the outside.

Orlando didn't notice when it happened, but he was somehow no longer one of them. He was different inside. And something about Mr. Viggo Mortensen told Orlando that the photographer was an outsider, too.

Orlando hoped that Mr. Mortensen was different in the same way that Orlando was, but it would be difficult to find out. Even if Mr. Mortensen were inclined to less conventional pursuits, he would not readily admit it. However, the warmth Orlando had seen in the other man's eyes gave the young aristocrat hope. Hope that this handsome, kind, shy man was interested in frolicking with him.

A senior at Orlando's boarding school had introduced him to sex. The older boy had begun the year dominating Orlando, but finished the term as the new boy's adoring protector. Having found that he enjoyed sensual play, innocent Orlando was quickly apprised of just how frowned upon such activities were. Particularly when brought into the light of day.

A spot of *bottomy* in the dormitories might be winked at, but boys holding hands in the hallowed halls of Academia was a matter for discipline. Orlando accepted his caning as befitted the great grandson of the Captain Bloom that had burned his ship and gone down with it rather than turn it over to pirates. Never speaking a word of remorse, or apology, Orlando stood perfectly still as the headmaster delivered the strokes of the limber cane.

Orlando walked from the office with his head high having learned a valuable lesson. From that time on, he lived a double life. In public, he was a dutiful son, an exemplary scholar and a perfect young gentleman. In private, he lusted after his own sex and when it could be accomplished discreetly, he satisfied his forbidden desires.

Christian, Orlando's first lover had told him that what they did together was between them, and that he should never do it with anyone else after Christian graduated. Orlando listened gravely, kissed Christian goodbye and did as he pleased. Perhaps it was a sin, society certainly deemed it so, but Orlando could not stop.

The winsome young man found many willing partners. An Irish groom called Colin with a wicked grin and a taste for whiskey had taught Orlando the pleasures of making love in the out of doors. A Spanish nobleman called Count Antonio had opened Orlando's eyes to how much he did not know about giving and receiving physical pleasure. Ralph, the husband of his mother's best friend had taught him the arts of deception and misdirection that had served him so well.

Orlando was twenty now and set to take his place in society. His would be a position of wealth, importance and influence. He would take a suitable bride and produce heirs for the Bloom dynasty. He would hide what he really was from everyone, including his wife. He had accepted this long ago.

Recently, though, Orlando's sense of dissatisfaction had been growing. As he waved to young Lord Cillian, latest in Orlando's long list of lovers, the young man was suddenly weary of it all. The thought of changing into his evening clothes made him feel inexpressibly tired. However, he must be present for cocktails. Even though it they were halfway through the first decade of the new century, etiquette ruled with an iron fist in a white kid glove.

*There had to be something more to life. *

"Shit!" Sean yelled down the hall. "Viggo's hurt! He's barely breathing! Somebody call an ambulance! Shit! Viggo! Viggo!"

Sean abruptly remembered the cell phone in his pocket and whipped it out. Stabbing at the nine and one keys, Sean listened impatiently while he tried to find Viggo's pulse. An operator came on the line and Sean explained his situation and where he was. The woman assured him that an emergency vehicle was being dispatched and informed him that there was a first aid station in the auditorium.

As the dispatcher finished speaking, a security guard slid to a stop beside Sean. The uniformed man assessed the crisis and spoke crisply into his radio. Two minutes later, the facility's on call medic was examining Viggo. In less than fifteen, the EMTs had arrived and taken over. They had no better luck at reviving the stricken man.

"How is he?" Sean asked the entertainment complex's young doctor.

"He's alive, but in a coma state. At the moment, he's breathing on his own, but if he worsens he could end up on life support."

"Worsens? What makes you think he'll worsen if you don't know what's wrong with him?"

The medical man shrank back before the big Brit's anger. "He seems to be slipping farther into the coma," the doctor said. "We just don't know why."

Sean Bean, sometime actor, longtime best friend and Viggo's unofficial bodyguard, ran a hand through his shaggy red-gold hair and reminded himself to chill out.

"Sorry," Sean apologized. "I'm just worried."

The doctor nodded his understanding. "You should go get your car if you want to follow them to the hospital."

"Thanks," Sean said. "Hey. Is it a good hospital?"

"One of the best. They'll take good care of your boss. I've still got this deceased senior citizen to deal with. You sure your friend didn't know him?"

Sean was already trotting away, his Doc Martens clocking loudly on the linoleum. Taking out his phone, he called Angelina.

"Jolie House of Whack," a female voice said in his ear.

"Hey, Anj. What? Oh … Kate. Shit. Is Angelina there? Shit. You need to get a message to her. Something's happened to Viggo. He's on his way to the hospital in an ambulance right now. Shut up and let me finish. No, I don't know what's wrong. Here are the directions; you'd better shut up and grab a pen 'cause I'm starting right now."

Sean gave directions to the girlfriend of Viggo's business partner and ex-wife. As soon as he was sure the little airhead had the necessary information, Sean severed the connection. He didn't actively dislike Kate Bosworth, but he had no use for her.

In typical oblivious fashion, Kate showed up at the hospital with Angelina wearing clothing appropriate for a disco owned by Barbie. Sean took Angelina by the arm and pulled her away down the hall with a look to Kate that stopped the young woman in her tracks. The doll-faced blonde plopped into a waiting room chair and picked up a magazine as Sean drew Angelina into the coffee bar.

"Jesus, Anj, couldn't you find a sitter?" Sean asked as he put two cups down on a table.

"Let's focus, Sean," Angelina said. "Who gives a crap about my girlfriend's level of maturity right now? How is Viggo?"

Sean scrubbed his stubbled face with his palms. "It's not good, Anj," he said.

Angelina reached across the table to touch Sean's forearm in sympathy. "I'm sorry," she said. "God knows you love him more than I ever did. I know this is really hard on you."

"Thanks," Sean said. "Sorry about being a bastard."

"But you're such a magnificent one," she said. "Do the doctors know what's wrong with Vig? Or is it the usual crap shoot with the white coats frowning a lot and ordering more tests?"

"More tests," Sean said wearily.

"What happened? I didn't think you were expecting any trouble."

"We weren't. I guess I let my guard down because we're so close to home and it was an older crowd tonight. Why didn't I walk him to the door?"

"What?"

"I found him on the floor by the exit. He was supposed to walk down the hall and out the emergency exit to the van. It's weird. Like he was struck by lightning or something."

"I'd like to see him," she said.

Sean pushed his coffee away untouched. "Come on," he said. "I've got a sort of in with a nurse in ICU."

Angelina smiled up at the handsome man. "I don't doubt it," she said.

Her smile was nowhere in sight as she gazed on her ex-husband in the midst of a battery of blinking, softly beeping machinery. He looked like some sort of high tech pharaoh waiting for the cyber priests to wrap him for eternity.

A shiver ran though Angelina. Though she and Viggo had married for convenience, she would always love him. It was impossible to know him without feeling strongly about him. Now she realized that she cared even more than she'd thought.

With all her heart, Angelina prayed for Viggo to get better. Beside her, she could almost feel the intensity with which Sean mirrored her wish. On his articulated bed, Viggo moved slightly and his lips curved in a sweet smile.

Viggo smiled as Orlando turned toward him in his sleep with a soft snore. The boy's lips moved soundlessly, and Viggo knew that his angel dreamed. Winding a dark curl around his forefinger, Viggo lost himself in the memory of the first awkward, magical time he and Orlando were together like this.

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