My God, Brandon! I curse you and all your ancestors, those narrow-faced earls with piercing eyes, whose portraits you so lovingly hang in the corridors of your law office! Damn all those kings who begot you, a creature of noble pride and foreign beauty! Burn, burn in hell, demon!
Such were the thoughts racing through Gregory Collahan's mind as he absent-mindedly looked up from the figures he had been poring over for hours and froze with his mouth half-open, despite all restraint and manly reserve.
The sight before him struck so profoundly that Gregory, exhausted from the laborious work that had dragged late into the night, simply stared at Lord McKinley, unable to tear his eyes away. And the burgundy bathrobe with a collar, as befitted a nobleman at this hour, was not what unsettled him. Neat rimless spectacles glittered on Brandon's alabaster nose. This new, unfamiliar detail in his appearance burned Collahan with a new tide of desire.
Gregory finally pulled himself together, his upturned face regained its usual composure, and his eyes dropped back to the notebook as if nothing special had happened. He was a terrific actor when circumstances demanded it.
"Mylord, I did not expect to see you so late," he said quietly and indifferently.
"Are you still here?" Brandon's almost impassive tone was slightly tinged with patronization. "I just need your signature."
The lord approached and placed a document on top of the papers on the desk. Gregory stared for a moment at his slender hand, which moved so confidently and precisely, as if Brandon had been trained in it since childhood, and thought how convenient it must be to have a spacious two-story mansion on a street corner, with an office on the first floor and private quarters above. Parallel to this thought, Collahan finished a closing line of the application and looked up at McKinley in surprise a second time.
"When I offered to help with rationalization, I had no intention of taking on a permanent role as your economist," Gregory explained calmly. "This work will only take me a few days."
"Don't be absurd. If you can cut purchasing costs by a full quarter in half a day, I have no reason to keep you as a driver."
"It was just a one-time observation."
"And now you're sitting here reviewing all our invoices from the past year, and I see that your figure is twelve hundred less than what's in the column. You're economist, aren't you? What the hell were you doing chauffeuring, Gregory? Good night," he said on a single note.
Collahan watched as the hem of the robe swept open with a sudden movement, and the red cloth flowed through the air like a cloak behind Brandon's majestic stride. He lowered his gaze to the sheet again and signed it leisurely.
How long ago had it begun? Probably that night when they had driven back from Howard Street, after the failed co-owners' meeting where McKinley had realized his firm teetered on the brink. In the rearview mirror, his face expressed for the first time a deep emotion seeping behind the marble mask, and Gregory realized, he had inadvertently let himself into young Brandon's closed world. Over the year of their frequent trips together, Collahan had learned to read his master by the elusive change in facial muscles, and had become more and more immersed in an intoxicating sense of loyalty, compassion, and respect. That's what he called it. It was improper for a man to marvel at someone, much less admit a longing to care, come to the rescue, do any little thing if it would ease the lord's burden of responsibility or simply cheer him up.
Collahan was the kind of man who knew his place. He had a degree in economics, but did not cherish vain hopes and remembered his humble origins. Day after day he donned his chauffeur's uniform, drove a black BMW to the main entrance, and opened the door for the lord. He addressed McKinley exclusively with the prefix "Mylord," in keeping with the old traditions, even if they had outlived their usefulness nowadays. Gregory preferred to stay out of other people's business, and even when he heard professional and personal conversations, he was careful to forget them. An unnoticeable blank wall, which is only part of the background, but on which you can always lean when needed — that was how one could describe thirty-five-year-old Gregory Collahan.
Two months after that meeting, McKinley had managed to get things more or less into order, but the lord still worried about their position in the market. A stickler for humanity, he paid all his subordinates well and on time, never cutting corners on supplies, rest, or morale. Gregory wondered if there was any way he could help Brandon save money on this. What if no one had really studied the market, looking for the right value for money, taking care of the budget? So he looked at those papers to which access was permitted, spent a couple of evenings at the computer, made a dozen phone calls, and provided Brandon with a new procurement list that offered substantial savings without sacrificing quality. After that, he was allowed to look at the rest of the accounts as well.
He gave himself to the work with all his passion. It wasn't hard. Collahan had no other interests besides Lord McKinley, and his entire evening and weekend life had become a dull routine of waiting for their next encounters. Gregory remembered the first time he had mentally called the lord by his name, and since then, in moments of the most emotional outbursts or waves of agonizing attraction, he found some relief in muttering the sounds to himself: Brandon. In the glossary of meanings, it said: prince. That's what he was. Unspoken, noble, ambitious, stern. At twenty-six, Lord McKinley had the character and poise of a grown man, a paradox that also drew Gregory's attention.
Collahan finished his final total, closed the notebook and rubbed his red eyes. Now — a short break for coffee, and then — he would have to check everything properly from beginning to end. Somewhere in the back of his mind he hoped in vain that the lord might come down to see him again. What a curiously serious expression those spectacles gave to his face! Gregory caught himself in a strange combination of joy at noticing this change and adding a new Brandon to his private gallery, and jealousy, because this new Brandon did not belong to him.
He covered his face, condemned because of a criminal thought. What had been happening to him for all these months? Would it never end, never go away?