Not My Spook!

by Tinnean

  Of course I was stunned by my verbal assault on him, but I didn’t know who was more surprised when he released his grip on his bag.

  It was extremely lightweight. He’d said something about keeping a spare set of clothes in his office, but how much was in there?

  I turned on my heel and went up to the second floor, left the duffel beside the bed in the guest room, and then stopped in my own room to retrieve a pair of heavy woolen socks that I hoped would fit him. I returned to the kitchen in time to see a grimace darken his face as he took a sip of tea.

  “Mark, you drink that tea with milk.”

  “What?”

  “Unless you’ve developed a taste for it straight?” It could be drunk plain, and just because I preferred it with milk…. I felt myself flush. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have presumed—”

  “Don’t go all insecure on me, Quinn.”

  “I’m not—” I had a reputation for being cool and unflappable. The Ice Man, I was called, although the younger officers who referred to me in that manner were unaware I knew of this. How was it that Mark Vincent, of all people, could so easily slip under that façade? “Drink it however you want.”

  “How do you drink it?”

  I looked down my nose at him, easy for a change, since he was sitting down. “I prefer it with milk.”

  “Okay, fine. Have you got any?”

  I was sure he knew the contents of my refrigerator as well as I did, but of course, as of this morning, I’d had no milk. I handed him the socks and went to retrieve the milk.

  “What’s up with the socks?”

  “Your feet will get cold.”

  The expression that flashed across his face was gone in an instant, but it gave me pause. Hadn’t he had anyone in his life who cared about his well-being?

  I thought briefly of the file I had on him. According to it, actually, no. He was estranged from his mother and hadn’t been in contact with his father’s family, or any of the men who’d entered into his life when he was a child for periods of time brief and not so brief.

  How sad. He must have been hurt to cut off all ties to them.

  And I knew he’d hate it with a passion if he could read my thoughts.

  “Is your sandwich to your taste?” I asked for want of a better thing to say.

  “Yeah. It’s fine.”

  “You haven’t taken a bite yet.”

  He did so, probably larger than he’d intended, but it kept that mouth of his busy.

  I turned and put the milk away.

  III

  HE STEPPED into the bedroom to which I’d led him and gazed around. Was he annoyed that I hadn’t shown him to my room? Dammit, I couldn’t see his expression.

  “This is fine, Quinn. Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it, Mark.” I pointed out the attached bathroom, then told him, “I’ve set the coffeemaker to go off automatically at six thirty, in case you need to leave early.”

  “You call that early? Jesus, you spooks are soft.”

  Why was he trying to get a rise out of me? I didn’t respond, and he blew out a breath.

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “I—I have to go back downstairs to lock up the house, so I’ll say good night now.” I waited for a second to see if he had anything else to say.

  Nothing. It was as if the night before had never happened, as if he hadn’t driven me to heights of unbelievable passion, given me unimaginable pleasure. Well, if that was the way he wanted things….

  I gave him a curt nod, said, “Good night,” and left the room.

  “Yeah. ’Night, Mann.” He lounged in the doorway, and I could feel his eyes on me as I walked further and further away.

  That was it? Not even an apology, even if it was nothing more than, Sorry for the inconvenience, for interrupting your dinner, for scaring the shit out of you, Quinn?

  I found myself wheeling around and returning to him. He was about five inches taller than me and outweighed me by at least twenty pounds, so it was obvious I was not thinking too clearly when I seized the lapels of his jacket and tried to shake him.

  “Mark,” I growled, “if you ever pull a stunt like that again….”

  “Yeah?”

  I half expected him to tear my hands off him and fling me away, and I braced myself for it. Instead, he covered my hands with his, pressing them against his chest.

  “Let’s just say I won’t be happy about it!” I could feel his heart beneath my palms. I curled my fingers as if to capture the steady beating.

  “You won’t—”

  He was alive.

  I kissed him, deep and hard, trying to imprint myself on his mouth. The taste of copper on my tongue made me realize just how hurtful that kiss was. I’d never hurt any of my partners with a kiss.

  I dropped my hands and stepped back from him, furious now not only with him but with myself. “Goddamn you, Mark. I thought you were dead! Do you know why your sandwich had no crusts? I cut them off. I took a butcher knife, for God’s sake, and fucking chopped those crusts off, because otherwise I would have been tempted to run it through your black WBIS heart!”

  His eyes were hooded, and I wanted to hit him. Instead, I turned away once more, and this time succeeded in walking away from him.

  By the time I finished securing my home and returned to the second floor, my temper under control once more, Mark was nowhere to be seen.

  I sighed and went to my room.

  IV

  MARK VINCENT was just down the hall from my bedroom.

  How would he react if I knocked on his door, posed myself against the frame, and told him I’d come up to see him?

  He’d probably laugh his ass off at my Mae West impersonation. I’d never been much good at impersonations.

  Aside from that, he was my guest. It wouldn’t be correct to approach him in my home.

  However, there was nothing to stop him from approaching me. I put on the silk pajamas he’d bought for me and went to bed, leaving my door ajar on the off chance he might grow restless and want a glass of milk or a game of chess or to talk about what had happened or…

  Me?

  There was a small lake on my grandfather’s property in western Maryland, and once my father had taken me fishing there. He was not a skilled fisherman, and I wasn’t much better, but it was one of the rare times we were able to spend an entire day together. The words he spoke imbued me with his sense of honor.

  As we walked back to the manor house late that afternoon, sunburned and sweaty, his arm around my shoulders, he told me that it was never easy doing the right thing.

  That night I realized more than ever how true that was.

  V

  IN SPITE of everything, I fell asleep almost immediately, and since I knew that if he’d come to me during the night, there was no possible way I would sleep through another earth-shattering experience, when I awoke the next morning, still in my pajamas and without the pleasurable ache in my ass, I knew he’d done no such thing.

  VI

  IT WAS the sound of Mark walking quietly past my door that woke me. If I’d kept the door closed, as I usually did, I doubt I would have known.

  A glance at the clock radio on my nightstand told me it was 5:00 a.m. Did he consider getting up at this hour a poke in the eye to the CIA, or did he always rise so early? I threw back the covers, paid a quick visit to the bathroom not only to relieve myself, but to do something about morning breath, and then I hurried down to the kitchen.

  Mark was sitting in the breakfast nook, gazing off into space. He was concentrating on something so hard I was almost tempted to sniff the air to see if something was burning.

  “Morning, Mark.” I went to the cupboard and got a cup. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Sure.” His eyes ran over my body, which tightened involuntarily, and his eyebrow rose when he realized I was wearing the pajamas he’d given me. The temperature was comfortable in the house, and I hadn’t felt the need to put on my robe. Or perhaps I just hadn’t wan
ted to. Let him see what he’d passed up by not coming to my room last night. “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

  “No. I had to get up anyway. And no, Mark, I have no intention of telling you why.” I was lying through my teeth. There was nowhere I had to go, other than State, where I’d just be pushing papers again today.

  For a second, I wondered why my schedule had been altered. Had Edward Holmes, DCI of Threat Analysis, been behind it? He had nothing to do with Operational Targeting, but lately he’d been getting more and more involved with my department.

  I pushed that consideration from my mind for the time being when I realized Mark was staring at the pajamas. Ah. I’d gotten his attention. “Like the way the pajamas look, Mark? You have good taste. How’d you guess my size? Or did you go rummaging in my drawers?”

  “What do you think, Mann?”

  What did I think? I had no clue. He could have made a lucky guess, but he could just as easily have examined my clothing to see what size I wore. After all, I had no idea how long he’d been in my house the night he’d cuffed me to my bed and….

  He ran his eyes over the pajamas once again in an almost palpable caress, and I felt my cock stir even more. I turned away in hopes it would conceal my arousal. Was he regretting he hadn’t wandered down the hall last night?

  Good.

  “Never mind, I’m sorry I asked. Anyway, thank you again.” I took the container of half-and-half from the fridge, poured a dollop into my cup, then took the spoon beside Mark’s cup and stirred it.

  “I thought you took coffee with cream.” His mouth tightened, and he picked up his cup.

  Why would he think that? “If that’s all that’s available.” I raised my cup to my lips and sipped my coffee.

  “Huh. I need another cup.” Mark rose and helped himself.

  I put the half-and-half back into the fridge, not bothering to offer it to him; I knew he took it black.

  From the way he appeared to be savoring it, I thought it was safe to assume he was enjoying this brew. I only purchased enough beans for a week at a time and ground them before each use, so the coffee was always fresh.

  Something else I had learned from my father.

  “I think it would be a good idea for you to stay here until something can be done about your apartment. You’re not going to be stubborn about this, are you? There’s a perfectly good guest room available here.” I knew he was going to object, so I continued blandly, “And you can always tell the ubiquitous Mr. Wallace that you’re staying here in hopes of getting Company secrets out of me.” Trevor Wallace, who ran the WBIS and who was referred to as The Boss—one could almost hear the capitals—within that organization, seemed to be the only man Mark respected.

  “Looks like you’ve got all the angles covered.”

  “That’s why I was made deputy director.” I almost expected him to make some snide comment about that, but instead he surprised me.

  “Why don’t I give you a call later? We could go out to dinner.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t—”

  “Right. Forget about it. I’ve got to go!”

  “I wish you’d let me finish,” I complained. From the expression on his face, I’d gathered he’d surprised himself as well as me with that unexpected invitation to dine out. “I have something on the calendar for this evening.” I’d promised Mother a month or so ago that I’d accompany her to the State-sponsored reception and ball for the ambassador of Bosnia and Herzegovina. “And I can’t get out of it, but I’d like to take a rain check, if I may?”

  “Sure.” He shrugged, rinsed his cup and put it in the dishwasher, and headed for the door.

  “Mark.” I followed him. I needed to disarm the security system if the entire neighborhood wasn’t to be awakened by it. “Don’t forget your overcoat.” I opened the closet door, took it out, and handed it to him. “According to the weatherman, it’s going to be another cool morning.”

  He grunted.

  “Here.” I held out a piece of paper with the name and phone number of a company that was excellent when it came to restoring homes that had been damaged by fire or water or as the result of a crime. “Call this number. This is a service I’ve used. They’re quite good, and they’ll see your apartment is habitable by the middle of the week. Of course, I’ve never had my home blown up.” I wasn’t certain if he’d accept my aid, and I wasn’t really surprised when he refused to take the piece of paper. Disappointed, but not surprised. “Goddamned paranoid son of a bitch!”

  “Quinn.”

  I spared him a brief glance, intent on showing him that he could do as he chose; it was immaterial to me.

  He was holding his hand out. He was holding his hand out!

  Very pleased, even though I hadn’t expected his capitulation, I gave him the paper.

  “Thanks.” He was staring at my mouth, and for a second the wild hope that he planned to kiss me swept over me. “I’ll see you later.” He walked out the door, and I sighed in disappointment.

  But still, he’d wanted to take me to dinner.

  I gave myself a shake, pushed that from my mind, and turned my attention to other things.

  The suit he was wearing, for instance. It was lightweight and wrinkle-proof, the best kind for unexpected trips out of the country, but it was a cheap suit at best, probably purchased at some chain store, and I knew he had others in his apartment that were more suitable for his new position as Deputy Director of Interior Affairs.

  I picked up my phone and called my secretary at State. “Bette, it’s Quinton Mann. I won’t be in today. I’ve cleared off my desk, and I’m taking a personal day.”

  “Oh, but….”

  “But what?”

  “There’s a stack of files on your desk.” She sounded uneasy.

  “Then of course I’ll be in. Later.”

  “Yes, sir.” And now she sounded relieved. “I’ll see you then, Mr. Mann.”

  “Yes. Good-bye, Bette.” I’d no sooner hung up than the phone rang again. “Mann.”

  “You were supposed to call me last night.”

  “Sorry, DB.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s a good thing I—”

  “Listen,” I said, interrupting him without compunction. I was a big boy, after all, and had been taking care of myself for years. “I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Sure, Quinn.” He’d picked up on the note in my voice and immediately became serious. “What’s up?”

  “I’m working at State today.”

  “There’s nothing surprising in that. You told me the other day you’d be at State for the rest of the week.”

  “Yes, but all I wound up doing yesterday was paperwork that should have been assigned to any assistant to the undersecretary.”

  “That’s bureaucracy for you.”

  That was true, but I ignored it. “I had my desk cleared off—”

  “Well, yeah!”

  I swallowed a smile, appreciating his confidence in my capability. “—and with no sign of anything more, only to learn there are more files waiting for me.”

  “Hmm. You want me to look into this?”

  “If you don’t mind?” I didn’t really think anything out of the ordinary was going on—sometimes extra paperwork was nothing more than extra paperwork—but it would keep him from bombarding me with questions as to why I had failed to call him as I’d promised.

  “I’ll get on it as soon as I get to Langley. I’ll… uh… I’ll be leaving early this afternoon, though.”

  “Oh?”

  “My ladies contacted me. I’m taking them out to dinner,” he informed me smugly.

  “They’re actually consenting to be seen in public with you? My, my!”

  “Consent my ass, it was their idea! And don’t bother asking where, Quinn, because that’s on a strictly need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know!”

  “I was just going to comment on what very brave ladies they are.”

  “You were?” He sounded suspicious, and I
couldn’t help chuckling.

  “I wouldn’t have time to track you down anyway. I’m attending that reception and ball tonight.”

  “That’s right, I remember hearing some mention of it. I understand the WBIS is going to have someone there.”

  “It will be Sperling.” It always was.

  “Yeah. And he’ll be busy sucking down martinis and stuffing his face. Listen, I’d better get going. I’ll put out some feelers and see what I can learn. I’ll call you—”

  “Not on my State line. If something is going on, I don’t want anyone aware that I’m questioning things.”

  “Paranoid much, buddy?”

  Why was he all of a sudden calling me buddy? “You have my cell number, don’t you? Contact me on that.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you whether I pick up on anything or not. Talk to you later.”

  “Thanks, DB. Bye.” I wandered into the living room, in the mood for a little Dinah Washington. I put her Mad About The Boy CD on the stereo system and set one particular cut on repeat. The lady did have a smooth voice.

  Whistling along with “What a Difference a Day Makes,” I climbed the stairs to my bedroom.

  What did he think of the vivid color I had selected to make up his bed? The blues and greens I’d seen in his linen closet had been conservative….

  The thought suddenly occurred to me that I had no idea what color sheets he’d had on his bed the night we’d made love. Not that the choice had been very varied: blue or green, and both fairly pastel.

  Among others, I preferred rich jewel tones: sapphire, ruby, emerald, and for Mark, I’d selected a burgundy set. What had he thought of them?

  Unable to resist, I decided to take a quick peek into the room I had given him.

  The bed was neatly made. It was only when I breathed a sigh of relief that I realized I’d unconsciously been expecting to find the sheets stripped off and stuffed into a pillowcase.