A Higher Flame: Assured Elites, #2

By Parker Avrile

A celebrity matchmaking service pairs a lonely billionaire with a playboy actor. Are they nuts?

"Just be nice, and don't break his heart too fast. Wait until after the Oscars."

Bad boy Trent has been nominated for Best Actor, and now the rising star needs to clean up his act. A steady man at his side will make him seem more authentic to the Academy voters.

"There are so many ways this could blow up into you screwing up and having fun."

Ben isn't quite sure why Gran volunteered him for a blind date with a Hollywood actor. The spotlight is for other billionaires. Ben chooses to be alone in the shadows.

Assured Elites never fails to put together the dreamiest matches. Will Trent and Ben break their perfect record?

A Higher Flame is a steamy gay romance novel that features a bashful billionaire, a secret beach, and a bad boy who needs to clean up his act. Always a guaranteed happy ending, and absolutely no cheating or cliffhangers.

Each novel in the Assured Elites series deals with a different couple. Feel free to start anywhere and to read them in any order.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paris April Press
• Release date: Jan 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386130277

Parker Avrile

Like Kyle, I ran away to Vegas. Now I'm running from it. 

Book preview

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.

To get an exclusive free spicy scene written specifically as a thank-you for my fans, visit the official Parker Avrile website at:

http://wp.me/p8llkN-30

Prologue

♥♥♥

The cruelty-free, ivory -free netsuke shop was the most mysterious shop on a street of mysterious shops. At the moment, the most affordable piece on display was an iris agate carved in the shape of Jonah in the belly of the whale. There was no price tag. If you needed to ask, you didn't have the ninety-three thousand dollars required to take it home. But it cost nothing to admire the flash of colors in a stone named for the ancient Greek goddess of the rainbow.

A bell tinkled a polite tinkle as someone walked through the front door. The winter day beyond was crisp and bright, the best kind of day to explore curious little shops in the complicated streets of Manhattan. Many people were intimidated by the expensive hush of the netsuke gallery. They took a step or two inside, glanced around, and then retreated.

The newest visitor wasn't intimidated, and she wouldn't retreat.

Mrs. Anderson. A tall man in his early thirties stepped forward. His sculpted cheekbones wouldn't have looked out of place in a magazine spread for a fine cologne.

Indeed. Her tone was dry, a little skeptical. She didn't speak the man's name. Perhaps she wasn't sure exactly what it was.

So many businesses promise the sun, moon, and stars to wealthy women, especially if they're older. At a distance, with the sun at her back to throw her face in shadow, Mrs. Anderson might be mistaken for a youthful fifty, but they both knew it was a long time since she'd celebrated that milestone. We have the technology to smooth the skin around the eyes, but removing every little line in the neck remains mostly beyond us.

Her expensive eyes studied the man from head to foot. It was the first time they'd met in person.

I am so pleased you have decided to visit. May I offer you something to drink? Sparkling water? Perhaps... He lowered his mellifluous voice to a conspiratorial whisper. A glass of champagne?

The tall man was good at what he did. And one of the things he did was arrange for the spread of certain whispers to certain ears― the ears of those who were ready to hear.

Oh, honey, a friend might say. You need to go into the city. Assured Elites is the only service for anybody who's anybody. It's the only place a genuine elite can be confident of meeting an equal match. Everybody's carefully vetted to weed out the poseurs and the fakers.

No pretenders to the Russian throne, another friend would say. No fake Rockefellers.

She listened, and she came, but she didn't intend to be played for a fool. With an irritable shrug, she brushed off the offer of liquid refreshment. This man knew perfectly well that her champagne cellar in Connecticut held one of the best collections of bottles outside France itself.

Do you or do you not have a suitable match for my grandson? she asked.

He nodded a brisk nod, a recognition of her desire to move forward. You present us with an unusual challenge, Mrs. A. We would normally prefer the request to come from the prospective match himself.

My grandson is so lonely he is beyond lonely. He doesn't even recognize that he's lonely.

Of course. I fully understand. If you will step into the back, my partner will talk to you about the match we've found for your grandson. I think you will be pleased. Knowing damn well her first reaction wouldn't be delight, he swallowed a smile. To the untrained eye, the Assured Elites pairing would look like a mismatch. But he was confident in their analysis. These two men, so different on the outside, were a perfect fit on the inside.

Soulmates, the computer might have said, if computers were allowed to use words like, soulmate. So, yes, she'd be pleased and delighted in the end― if she trusted Assured Elites enough to go forward with the match.

As if on cue― actually, there was no as if about it, because Assured Elites was a precision operation― a second thirtysomething man, equally handsome, emerged from a door nobody heard glide open.

Mrs. A. The partner took the woman's arm, a gesture that could have been clumsy, a reminder of her age, but he did it so gracefully that it became a courtesy. Your son's match is a striking individual of great talent. He can hold his own in the highest levels of society. Southern honey sugared his every word, an accent he'd worked to soften but not to eliminate. Elite clients liked the touch of sugar.

She pretended to blush. My grandson...

He stepped back in a show of studying her face. You must have been a child bride. You don't look anywhere near old enough to have a 28-year old grandson.

Now I know you're flattering me, sir. Born in Texas, she fell into the game as naturally as he did. They walked through the door to the back room together. An hour later, she left through the VIP exit to find her limo already waiting outside the door.

Assured Elites was a precision operation indeed. Everything was timed right down to the minute.

It was late afternoon, and the brief winter day was already fading into twilight. One partner locked the front entrance, while the second man thumbed through the multiple glossy photographs they'd had printed especially for Mrs. Anderson. Her generation wasn't fond of studying photos on a screen. They liked to handle shiny, heavy paper that communicated the importance of their subject. Easily done in this case, for the subject was an A-list actor with a name found on this year's shortlist of Academy Award nominees. His people could supply endless photos in every possible pose and costume. Not just head shots but action shots as well.

Are we sure about this? one of them asked. Twenty-eight has always expressed a wish to remain in the shadows. The unknown billionaire. Twenty-eight was the grandson.

You can't argue with the analysis, said the other. They seem to be a near-perfect match, although they would never find each other if left to their own devices.

Twenty-eight and twenty-three don't always know what they need.

Even when it's obvious to everybody else.

Twenty-three was the beauty in the glossy photographs. Like many actors, he wasn't exceptionally tall― five foot eleven. It was the face that grabbed you, dear God, the face and the shaggy brown hair that framed the face. He could have been an angel in a painting from the Renaissance era with those large eyes emphasized by striking brows and diamond-cut cheekbones.

Except no angel ever had a pair of pouty lips quite like that. The way that sinful mouth photographed was the secret to the rising actor's Hollywood career. His lower lip knew when to tremble in a way that invited you first to nip and then to bite.

The rest of the package was tasty, too, no doubt about it. But every twink in West Hollywood had a tight lifted butt, nice long legs, and toned abs. That was the bare minimum to get a lousy one-line speaking part.

It was the face that lifted him above the common herd. The face that made him famous.

He's got a few issues.

Sure, he does. And so does the grandson have a few issues.

I go back and forth trying to decide if they can overcome their issues.

The two partners looked at each other.

The analysis shows these two are the best possible match for each other. If they can't make it together, they're condemned to a lifetime of loneliness.

The partners wrapped their long arms around each other's waist. The two of them once knew loneliness that felt endless. No more.

That can't happen. We can't let that happen.

It's entirely up to them what happens. All we can do is give them the opportunity to find happiness. It's up to them to reach out their hands and take it.

If only everyone could be as happy as we are.

They can. If they want it bad enough.

Kisses then. Hugs. There's nothing like operating a celebrity matchmaking service to remind you how lucky you are to have the perfect match. A mouth that fits your mouth. A tongue that knows where to dart and tease.

I love you so much. It was impossible to know who started speaking first, for they were so in tune they spoke the same words at the same moment.

Many celebrities came to Assured Elites as a last resort, already convinced that happiness was impossible and love was a lie. They'd given up all hope of finding a suitable match, much less an ideal one. Perhaps, as in the case of the grandson and the actor, they'd never held out any such hope at all. They operated on the assumption that loneliness was their forever fate.

Then someone whispered a name in an ear ready to listen― a name and a rumor.

The name was Assured Elites, matchmaker to the stars.

The rumor said they were the service responsible for matching up AngelDoll― singer/songwriter Drew Angelson and TV star Traven Randall, one of the world's biggest young gay power couples.

AngelDoll never confirmed in public that they'd found each other through Assured Elites. Like any intelligent celebrity couple, they understood the value of mystery. When asked, they smiled enigmatic smiles and said, No comment.

And yet, somehow, everyone who needed to know did know. The AngelDoll match was a love match, not a business merger. The love there was real. Maybe, if you qualified to be an Assured Elites client, you could find the real thing too. Why be lonely? Why wait? In the words of Drew's latest hit, It's time to get puppy together.

Everybody wanted that. No matter how rich and famous you were, your life was nothing without love.

Twenty-three thought he liked being a lone wolf cruising the party. Twenty-eight knew he didn't. Neither of them knew where to go to change their status from Single to Taken.

So often, gossip about matchmaking services is exchanged between women first― often between mature women with a keen awareness of the challenges young couples face in finding true love. The rich and famous confront daunting odds against finding their true match, for they are surrounded by gold-diggers who would use them as mere stepping stones.

The right women heard the right whispers.

Soon, two young men would find their happiness. Assured Elites would make it happen. The mood of the partners shifted from doubt to confidence. They always matched the perfect pair. Always.

They'll find their way. A partner began to nibble along the line of a sexy jaw, and the other partner nibbled back.

Just like we did.

Nibbles became kisses.

Chapter One

Trent

So there I was in the club the night after the morning after the night before.

Dalton Maynerd seemed like a fun idea at the time. He called himself a model, but he was most famous for being one of those grab-ass groupies who tried to sleep with a new celebrity every night. I don't know that there are as many A-list celebrities in the world as nights in the year, so sometimes he'd slide down and fuck the B-list. Hell, even the D-list. The Z-list. If he wasn't so pretty and so willing to put a rubber on it, nobody would touch him with a ten-foot pole.

I'm the A-list, by the way. Not bragging, just stating the facts. My new movie was generating Oscar buzz, and I needed to be seen around Hollywood pretty much every night to keep my face fresh in the minds of the Academy voters. Dalton's turn with me came the night of the dinosaur rocker's record release party. Our hookup was nothing any deeper or more meaningful than that.

Actor dates model. Paul, my publicist, didn't seem to approve. A cliché.

We're not dating. It's one hookup. I can't be the only guy in Hollywood who didn't tag the horny new model in town. Besides, he photographs well in a tuxedo. What more can you ask for from a piece of arm candy?

He's using you.

Sure, and I'm using him too. We're using each other. It'll be fun.

So the record release party, where the dinosaur rocker played four or five songs before a DJ took over. So the red backdrop where Dalton and I posed together for the paparazzi. So the free champagne on silver trays and the one-bite snacks you ate standing up. The whole time we circulated around the ballroom, Dalton kept talking up the great view he heard I had from the rear glass wall of my house― his not-so-subtle way of inviting himself home.

So, yeah, the night was always going to end with the two of us fucking around in front of that long glass wall. Dalton, like a lot of other guys, got a thrill from getting naked and nasty in front of the endless lights of the city of angels. Why crush his fantasy by telling him it was special reflective glass that let us see out but didn't let anybody see in? We were having fun and getting some healthy exercise. That's all it was and all it needed to be.

The only glitch came in the morning. A guy like Dalton should know the hookup code, and the first rule of hookups is a good hookup shouldn't still be there when you wake up. Even before I blinked my bleary eyes open around eleven in the morning, I could feel an unexpectedly large warm lump curled against my back. Uh oh. I nudged back with my foot a few times, not kicking, you understand, just nudging him to wake up and take the clue-train. He responded by snuggling up even closer. Either he was really that deeply asleep or he was pretending to be.

Way too early for me to deal. Mumbling something random about going out for chocolate doughnuts, I pulled on my clothes and did a scram with no intention of returning before dark.

That gave him an abundance of time to clear out.

We're one and done, man. Same as all