by Tinnean
“Even on the day he was born, Vincent wasn’t innocent! And if he could be put away for a thousand years, that still wouldn’t be long enough!”
“Are you out of your mind?” I’d kill Drum before I let him do that to Mark.
“I am not—” He glared at me. “Are you worried about losing your job? You don’t have to.” His expression shifted to not only smug but sanctimonious as well. “I have friends in this administration. They’ll make sure you come out of this smelling like a rose.”
“Yes?” It was a good thing I was seeing Mark later; I had to inform him about this. I drew on my years of experience as the Ice Man, sat back in my chair, and crossed my legs, giving Drum an ironic smile. “And why would I do this for you?”
“Why wouldn’t you? I’m not the only man in DC—in this country!—who has a beef with him. Vincent’s been a thorn in your side as well as mine!”
“My side?”
“Well, the CIA’s, and that’s the same thing.”
How had he come to assume that? “I’ll have to give it some thought.”
“I knew you’d see it my way!” His expression became almost zealot-like. “You had dinner with him once—I remember now. Why?”
I gave him a bored look. “Seriously, Drum? You expect me to reveal all my secrets?”
“Right. Yeah.” He sounded disgruntled. “Goddamned spook. Okay, do this however you want—just make sure you keep me in the loop!”
Before I could inform him that I hadn’t agreed to anything, there was a tap on the door to his office.
“Come,” he said smoothly.
The door opened, and Lieutenant Colonel Abigail Francis entered. “Jon, are you—”
Drum and I both rose to our feet—him because she outranked him and me because that was simply what a gentleman would do.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had a meeting.”
“Well, it’s hardly important,” Drum said. “It’s just Mann.” He grinned to show he wasn’t serious. “You know Quinton Mann, don’t you?”
I crossed to shake her hand. She was a very attractive woman, even more so in her Marine uniform.
“Yes, we’ve run into each other a number of times. How are you, Quinton?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Abigail. And you?”
Her smile was serene. “Fine.”
I gave her a slow smile in return. “I must say you’re looking very tanned.”
“Jon and I just returned from an assignment in Australia.”
“I hope it went well?”
“Yes. Beyond that I really can’t talk about it.”
“In that case, I wouldn’t think of inquiring further.”
“You’re such a gentleman, Quinton. Are you seeing anyone now? I was sorry to hear you and Susan are no longer together.”
“Our interests diverged.”
“It’s sad when that happens.”
“Still, it’s better to learn of it sooner rather than later.”
“Very true.”
I had hoped, since Susan and I both worked for the government, that we might have interests in common. I’d thought I could settle for friendship and liking. And to tell the truth, I was feeling the urge to marry and perhaps start a family.
Unfortunately, I realized fairly quickly that such a tepid emotion wouldn’t work for me—I might as well remain single.
I’d seen what my parents had, and for a few short months when I was fifteen I’d been certain I’d had it myself, that Armand Bauchet, my first lover, had been my “one.” Our relationship had disintegrated after his father discovered we were much more than friends.
I’d been devastated, and although I’d eventually recovered, no one over the years had led me to question my belief that I’d lost my “one.” Especially not Susan.
However, she had been excited by the prospect of dating a CIA officer who actually was involved in espionage, but between my cool nature and the fact I could be sent out of the country at a moment’s notice—not to mention the fact I never spoke of my assignments—that excitement quickly faded. She’d have been willing to marry me in spite of all the ticks in the con box, for the cachet of the Sebring name, which came from my mother’s side of the family.
It wasn’t enough for me, though, so I’d used the opportunity of an assignment that took me out of the country for a few weeks to break up with her.
And shortly after I’d returned, I’d… met Mark.
Unaware of where my thoughts had wandered to, Abigail murmured, “I understand she’s engaged to Richard Custiss.”
“Hmm? Oh, so I’ve heard.” Occasionally I’d run into him at Langley. He worked in Financial Management, which meant he was home every evening for dinner, and that had to please Susan very much, as well as the rumor that Custiss was descended, in a roundabout way, from Martha Washington. It was possible even given the spelling of his last name. I recalled a story I’d once read about a tiny lizard who was certain he was descended from dinosaurs. If those beliefs made the lizard—and Susan—happy, who was I to reveal the unlikelihood of both?
“Are you sorry she broke up with you, Quinton?” Abigail arched an eyebrow at me.
“Good God, no!” I wasn’t about to correct her assumption that Susan was the one who’d walked away. That was one of the conditions necessary in order to extricate myself from that situation.
Abigail patted my shoulder and turned to Drum, who’d been fidgeting during our conversation. “Since this isn’t an important meeting, Jon, are you ready to leave? I made reservations at Raphael’s, and we don’t want to lose them.” She’d made the reservations? Did Drum prefer Abigail to wear the pants in their relationship? “Quinton, would you care to join us?”
“That’s very kind of you…” Unseen by Abigail, Drum was vehemently shaking his head. “… but I have plans for dinner.”
“What a shame,” Drum said, although it was obvious to me he really didn’t think so.
“Yes.”
“Perhaps another time, Quinton?”
I simply smiled at her. Having dinner with her would be pleasant—she was an intelligent conversationalist—but Drum’s inclusion would give me a headache. “And I’d better be on my way.”
“Don’t forget what we talked about!”
“I’m hardly likely to do that, Major. Good evening, Abigail.” I raised her hand to my lips and kissed it, and she blushed. “Drum.”
He growled something and slammed the door shut after me.
Chapter 3
Once in the Jaguar I’d purchased to replace the Lexus wrecked in the “accident” that had hospitalized Mother, I checked my phone. Mark had left a message. “I’m still at work, and I have no idea how late I’ll be. I’m sorry, I’ll have to cancel.”
He sounded disappointed, and I shouldn’t have been pleased, but I was.
Well, he could cancel dinner, but he still had to eat, and I had to see him. I knew he had no use for Drum and looked on him with utter scorn, but it was imperative Mark learned about Drum’s plans for him.
In addition, I wanted to see him. What we had together meant a great deal to me—frankly, none of the women I’d dated had given me what Mark could, and I found myself craving the touch of his fingers on my skin, the brush of his lips on my mouth, the feel of his cock in my hand, against my abdomen, in my ass.
I called Raphael’s, cancelled our reservation, and ordered our dinner to go instead.
“We do not usually do this, but for such good patrons as you and your friend, it will be our pleasure. What would you prefer, signore?” Giovanni, the maître d’, asked.
We’d sampled just about everything Raphael’s had to offer, and it had all been wonderful. “I’ll trust your judgment.”
“Grazie! And salad and breadsticks, sì?”
“Sì.” Raphael’s breadsticks were soft, thick, and about six inches long, and it always surprised me that Mark never made a suggestive remark about them. He just ate them with gusto, when we weren’t dueling with them. I c
ouldn’t help grinning as I remembered the time he’d actually sent my breadstick sailing across the room and we’d been chided by the waiter. Speaking of which, I didn’t want to duel Mark for the salad, so, “Would you let me have two Caesar salads and two vinaigrette?”
“Of a certainty! I will see the dressing is on the side.”
“Excellent.” This way the croutons in the Caesar salad wouldn’t become soggy.
“We shall have this ready in an hour.”
“Thank you, Giovanni. I’ll see you then.”
Since I had the time, I’d stop at home to shower and change and pick a bottle of wine—Mark had a decent selection in his wine cooler, but I wanted a vintage he hadn’t tried before.
After washing off the stresses of the day, I dressed in black trousers, a white button-down shirt, and a cream-colored V-neck sweater, then stepped into a pair of loafers, turned off the light, and returned to the first floor. I paused in the doorway to my dining room. On the table were the spring flowers Mother had given me when I’d had dinner at Great Falls earlier in the week. They were in full bloom now and wouldn’t last beyond the weekend, and I decided to bring them with me. I knew Mark enjoyed the colors and scents, although he’d be the first to deny it.
The thought of him getting in a huff over a bouquet of flowers—over anything, actually—was amusing. A man of my lover’s caliber didn’t generally get in a huff.
Chuckling, I brought the vase and flowers into the kitchen, then went down the hall that led to my wine cellar, where I chose a merlot that would complement whatever Giovanni selected for us.
In the kitchen once again, I took the flowers from the vase and wrapped the stems in newspaper before emptying the vase of water and leaving it upside down in the sink to drain. I retrieved my jacket, and was about to gather up the flowers and the wine, when at the last minute, I decided to take my laptop as well. If Mark should have to go in to work at some point this weekend, I’d distract myself with research for an idea I’d been amusing myself with: I’d write a book about a couple of spies.
There was just enough room for everything in the space behind the front seat of the Jaguar. With everything placed tidily, I got in and drove back to DC.
I parked at the curb half a block away from Raphael’s and strolled to the entrance, which was sedate and refined, as befitted the elegant Italian restaurant. It had opened early in 2001, and while I’d heard of it, I hadn’t had the opportunity to try it until DB gave me a Raphael’s gift certificate for Christmas that year. He’d hoped I would take Susan, but since I’d been about to break up with her, I invited Mother and Gregor instead. I’d been extremely pleased with the quality of the food and when I’d decided I was going to fuck with a certain WBIS agent’s mind, taking him there for dinner on his birthday seemed an ideal way to reveal I was aware he’d pretended to be Skip Patterson, an old schoolmate of mine, in order to interview my mother.
Although he wouldn’t admit it, I’d learned Mark had never been there prior to his birthday dinner, and now I was pleased I’d been the one to introduce him to it.
“Signore!” Giovanni smiled at me. “One moment, please.” He snapped his fingers, and Cesare, the young man who always waited on us when Mark and I dined here, came bustling up.
“Sì, maestro? Ah, signore. I’m so sorry you won’t be dining with us tonight, but…” he leaned close and whispered, “… I have chosen something primo excellent for you, my favorite diners.”
Before I could thank him, he hurried to the kitchen.
Giovanni sighed. “He is very enthusiastic, no?”
“He’s very enthusiastic, yes.” I grinned and handed him my credit card. By the time the transaction had been rung up and I’d signed the restaurant’s copy of the check, Cesare was back with a large shopping bag.
“You will enjoy,” he said, “and you will tell me how much you enjoy when you come in again.”
“It certainly smells delicious.” A party of four entered, and Giovanni excused himself and went to greet them.
“I must go also,” the waiter said. “Good night, signore.”
“Thank you, Cesare. Good night.” I walked out into the cool March night.
Mark had given me a spare remote for the gate that secured his complex, and I pressed the button and waited while it swung open with a graceful motion.
Along with a garage, he’d been given an additional parking spot for his guests. I wasn’t so conceited to think I was the only one to visit him, but I considered that spot mine.
I parked there, got out, tucked the wine under my left arm, then slung the strap of my laptop case over my shoulder. I took the flowers in one hand, the bag from Raphael’s in the other, and shut the Jaguar’s door with a bump of my hip. It would lock automatically within three seconds.
The walk to Mark’s building didn’t take long, but once I got there, I had to juggle the items I held in order to get out the swipe card to unlock the door.
The lobby was empty, and I crossed to the elevators. While I knew my lover preferred to use the stairs, I felt that was taking precautions to the extreme, especially when I had my hands full.
The doors opened before I could touch the button, which was convenient, since my burdens were becoming awkward to hold. Inside the elevator was a young couple I recognized as living on Mark’s floor—I ran into them on occasion. Mark liked to refer to them as DINKS—double income, no kids.
They’d always struck me as being a restrained couple, but just then she was leaning up against the wall, her jeans open, and he knelt at her feet brushing kisses over her naked abdomen.
I cleared my throat and murmured, “Good evening.”
She looked up, blushed, and smiled, her expression radiant, but she made no effort to push her husband away. “Hi!”
Her husband turned his head, smiling also, but he kept his cheek pressed against her. “Forgive us, please. I know we’re not behaving properly, but we’ve just learned we’re pregnant!”
“Congratulations!”
“Thank you. We never thought…” Her eyes were sheened with tears.
“I take it you’re going out to celebrate?”
“Yes. We’re going to the Rib Shack. I’ve had a craving for their cheesy fries all day.”
“Ask for April. She’s a wonderful server.”
“We’ve had her before, and you’re right—she’s wonderful.” She tugged on her husband’s shoulders. He rose to his feet, smoothed his hand over her abdomen a final time, and then zipped up her jeans. “That smells yummy!” She peered at the logo on the bag. “Oh, is that from Raphael’s? I’ve heard their food is excellent.”
“It is.”
“My supervisor at work was mentioning it just the other day. Maybe one weekend, sweets?” She turned to her spouse.
“Sounds good to me.”
“In that case, you’ll need reservations,” I advised them.
“Thanks. We’ll make sure we have them. It was nice talking to you, but we’d better get going.”
“Have a good evening.”
“You too.”
“And congratulations again.”
Their smiles were glowing. I stepped into the elevator, touched the button for Three, and nodded and held up the bag in a final farewell. The doors closed and the elevator rose.
None of the other occupants on Mark’s floor had children. How was he going to react to this? And might I be able to use it to encourage him to move in with me, perhaps on a permanent basis?
The elevator reached the third floor and came to a smooth stop. The doors opened once again, and I walked down the corridor to Mark’s corner condo.
I had to put down the wine and the food while I fished the ring of keys he’d given me from my pocket, and then I unlocked the door, picked up the wine and our dinner, and let myself in.
Lights in the foyer, kitchen, and living room glowed dimly—he had them programmed to go on automatically at dusk—and it saved me from having to go through the rooms, fumbli
ng to turn on the lights.
I placed the flowers, wine, my laptop, and the shopping bag on the table in the breakfast nook, then went to the foyer to hang up my jacket in the closet.
While I took out a hanger and draped my jacket on it, I considered the message Mark had left me. He’d tried for an insouciant, nonchalant tone, but I knew him well enough to discern the underlying stress in his tone. Something—or someone—had seriously aggravated him.
I hung up my jacket and returned to the breakfast nook.
We didn’t often use the dining room, but it would be nice to have dinner in a more formal setting rather than here in the nook.
I took the bag from Raphael’s and the wine and brought them into the kitchen. The containers holding the salads and the dressings went into the refrigerator and the wine into the cooler. I stole a taste of our entrée, pork with gnocchi and fennel, and closed my eyes in pleasure. Cesare had made an excellent choice. I put it into the warming drawer, along with Raphael’s unparalleled breadsticks.
With that done, I filled a vase with water, arranged the flowers in it, and brought it into the dining room, where I put it in the center of the table. I took a couple of placemats from the buffet, put one at the head of the table and one to the right of it, and set out the fine china Mother had given Mark for his birthday, along with glassware and silverware.
It was just after nine, and I had no idea when Mark would be back, but I could keep myself busy. I knew from the day before the meager contents of his refrigerator, and a glance through the pantry had revealed more of the same.
He really had let his supplies run low. I found a pad and a pen and began making a list, and once I finished, I fastened it to the refrigerator door with a magnet from Hell in the Cayman Islands. When had Mark been there?
It might be a fun experience to cruise with him—would he be willing to walk the Dunns River Falls in Jamaica with me? Or we could go to St. Thomas. There was a little jeweler’s shop on the main street of Charlotte Amalie. Father had taken me there one year so I could purchase citrine earrings for Mother. If Mark and I went before the end of May, perhaps I could find a little something for him. I knew his birthstone was the same as mine…the amethyst. Perhaps I’d look into a tie clip.