Love in the Shadows

by Dylan Madrid

  Too late. I think I already have.

  “I can’t wait to see it,” he said.

  “You have done good work here,” said Luca. He smiled again. “My sister says you could become an agent someday if you would like.”

  Quintin gave him a look of disbelief. “I think I’ll stick with journalism for now,” he said. “It’s a much safer job.”

  “You have much courage. This I know about you is true.”

  “I’ve never thought of myself as brave,” said Quintin. “I always thought I was boring and way too shy.”

  Luca lay back on the bed, adjusting a pile of pillows beneath his head. “Come,” he said, patting the empty space beside him. “I have waited to hold you.”

  Quintin crawled next to him. Soon, Luca’s arms were around him. They were spooned together, listening to the creaks made by the old house.

  “Regina thinks this house is haunted,” he told Luca. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “Yes,” Luca replied. “And I think she is right. This is a very old house. I am certain many people have died here.”

  “Including Everett Bremington,” said Quintin. “I thought I was here to help bring his killer to justice. How can I do that if I leave?”

  “You cannot stay, Quintin. No one will be here to protect you. My sister, my mother, and my grandmother have already been given another assignment.”

  “Where did they go?”

  For a moment, Quintin thought Luca was going to laugh. “To a convent in Germany.”

  Quintin couldn’t help but smile at the thought. “They got sent to a nunnery?”

  “Yes. They are undercover. They have become nuns.”

  “They must have done something bad. That sounds like punishment.”

  “Yes, I think you are correct,” Luca said. “All three of them like to…disagree…with our superiors.”

  “I’d pay good money to see Arianna in a nun’s habit. She’s probably so miserable.”

  “This is why you must go in the morning. They are not here. No one can watch you.”

  “I understand,” he said. “And I will leave. But know that when I do, Regina Bremington will most likely get away with murder. I have no proof, but I’m sure you’re right. She’s the one behind the assassination of her husband.”

  “It is really not her we are after,” Luca explained.

  This new information took Quintin by surprise. “Oh?”

  “It is Grayson Miller we want,” he said. “Once he became a rogue agent, it was our assignment to find him.”

  Quintin asked the obvious question. “Where is he?”

  “We do not know,” Luca said. “But another agent will find him now. We are finished. My family. But I know…he will pay for his crimes.”

  “And what about Regina?” he asked. “We let her win?”

  Luca kissed Quintin’s cheek and said, “If only there was another way.”

  *

  Meet me in the rose garden.

  That’s what was written on the note. The handwriting was very neat and easy to read. There was something sensual about it.

  Quintin had awakened to find that not only was Luca gone, but someone had slipped a piece of paper underneath the door of the guest room.

  He’d pulled himself up and out of the most comfortable bed he’d ever slept in and made his way to the door. He leaned down and picked up the paper, focusing on each letter of each word.

  Maybe Regina wants to get started early. Maybe she has more stories to tell.

  There was no sign of Luca. All that was left of him were memories Quintin now had of their incredible night together, of the hours they’d spent making love and dreaming about their future together.

  Still, as happy as Luca made him, there was a sliver of hesitation that kept Quintin’s true feelings at bay. He had yet to fully admit to Luca just how intense his emotions were where the Italian secret agent was concerned. He couldn’t bring himself to completely open up and share the contents of his fragile heart.

  Quintin took a hot shower in the adjoining guest bathroom, which was at least three times the size of the one in his flat. He wrapped a plush towel around his naked body and patted himself dry. He could still feel Luca on his skin. His mouth. His hands. His incredible cock. A permanent impression had been made.

  He found a pair of boxers, socks, and jeans and a navy-blue polo in one of the drawers of the bureau. The jeans were a little big, but they would do.

  He made his way downstairs and through half a dozen hallways until he reached a set of French doors. They were already open, letting a cool morning breeze drift into the house. He could already smell the roses before he stepped outside.

  He shielded his eyes with the edge of his hand. The sun felt unusually bright. He waited a few seconds for his eyes to adjust before he proceeded.

  He followed a stone pathway down to the picturesque garden. At its entrance, beneath a rose-covered arbor, sat Reed Ashton at a wrought-iron café table, looking as handsome as ever in a gray suit, Italian leather shoes, a white button-up oxford, and a red tie. His mouth bloomed into a gorgeous smile the very second he saw Quintin approaching.

  “The invitation?” Quintin said. “It was from you?”

  Reed’s hope dimmed a little. “I can’t tell by the look on your face if I should be honest and say yes or lie and tell you I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  The table was set and included a pitcher of mimosas, a vase of fresh-cut roses, and a delicious-looking breakfast complete with bowls of strawberries topped with puffs of cream.

  “This is very nice,” Quintin told him. Relief washed over Reed’s face. “But what’s the occasion?”

  “Sit down,” Reed said. “And I’ll tell you.”

  Quintin complied. The air was sweet and heavy with the intoxicating scent of roses. The morning sun splashed across their bodies in thin layers of gold. There was a symphony in the background, composed by birds greeting the day with their melodic chirps.

  Quintin stared at Reed from across the table. He had such an irresistible quality about him. Sure, he took his job very seriously and always maintained a professional manner, but there was a boyish playfulness that made him charming and even cute.

  He’ll make someone a very happy husband one day.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” he said.

  “I’m starving, actually. I forgot to eat dinner last night. I was up late…working.”

  “I left around midnight. I saw the light in the study was still on. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “You should have,” Quintin said, although he wasn’t sure why.

  Am I flirting with Reed Ashton? Again? What’s wrong with me? He has a strange effect on me.

  “I feel like I need to come up with an excuse of some sorts…to see you,” said Reed.

  He looks really serious. I hope he’s not about to tell me he’s dying or something awful like that.

  “You mean like following me all the way to Belgium?” Quintin said with a smile.

  “I didn’t exactly follow you,” said Reed. “I found you.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did.”

  I need to stop. I’m acting like I’m crazy about the guy. Why don’t we just skip breakfast and make out?

  “Are you?” Reed asked. The question sounded and felt loaded.

  “Yes, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to spend time here in the beautiful house,” said Quintin. “Or have this amazing breakfast with you.”

  Their eyes met. Quintin could not deny the fact that Reed Ashton was a very attractive man. And there was definitely a connection between them.

  But I have Luca. He’s waiting for me in Manarola.

  “Today is sort of a celebration,” said Reed.

  “Is it your birthday?” Quintin asked.

  Reed shook his head. He looked away, toward the rose garden. “No. I’m leaving,” he said. There was a tinge of sadness in his voice. “My reassignment came through from Washingto
n. I’m getting on a plane this afternoon.”

  Quintin felt a light round of panic fill his body. This was a good-bye he’d known was coming but was not prepared for—or had even given much thought to. In the back of his mind, he thought Reed Ashton would always be around. Even though they’d only known each other for less than a week, Quintin already felt he shared a bond with Reed.

  I wonder if he feels the same way. He must. Otherwise, why would he put together such a wonderful breakfast for the two of us? A lot of work went into this.

  “You’re going back to America?” Quintin asked.

  “No,” he replied. “I’m heading to Barcelona. I’m already packed.”

  “For how long?”

  “At least a year,” said Reed. “Probably longer.”

  “Will you be working with the U.S. ambassador in Spain?”

  “No. I have a new position at the embassy there,” he explained. “It’s a promotion. I wasn’t expecting it. Especially after what happened to Mr. Bremington.”

  “That wasn’t your fault,” said Quintin.

  “Yes, it was,” Reed said. “My entire security team was in place to protect him. Even with all of us here, someone still managed to break through and get to him. I will never forgive myself for that. He died because I didn’t do my job.”

  “This is a new beginning for you, Reed. Leave all of this behind.”

  “I plan to. Most of it,” he said. He lowered his eyes, unable to look at Quintin. “But not you. I can’t.”

  The realization of what the moment was became clear to Quintin. Reed Ashton wasn’t saying good-bye, he was opening up his heart and sharing his feelings with Quintin. He was giving Quintin a choice. The invitation he’d slipped under the guest room door wasn’t just to breakfast: it was to join him in his new journey to Barcelona. To join him in life.

  “What?” Quintin heard himself say.

  “I feel corny for you telling you this…”

  Give him an out. Don’t lead him on. Even if he is beautiful.

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t,” Quintin offered.

  “I have to,” Reed insisted. “I’m already leaving London with enough regrets. I don’t want another one.”

  Reed surprised both of them by reaching across the table and taking Quintin’s hand into his.

  “I have a feeling I know what you’re going to say,” Quintin told him.

  Reed looked deep into Quintin’s eyes and said, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

  As if he’d touched something that was too hot, Quintin pulled his hand back. Immediately, rejection flashed across Reed’s face. All signs of hope vanished.

  I’ve just crushed him. I can’t do this. He deserves better.

  “Those weren’t the words I was expecting to hear,” Quintin said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize.”

  “Why?” Reed asked. “Because you feel the same way? Or because you don’t and you feel sorry for me? Have I made everything between us awkward now?”

  Quintin’s body tensed. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just tell me how you feel,” said Reed. “Please.”

  “I wish it were that simple,” said Quintin.

  “I can’t help thinking about you…about us…what a life together can mean for us…in Barcelona,” Reed said. “Two Americans finding their way, learning the language, ducking into a café to escape the rain, strolling through museums…falling in love.”

  The words surprised Quintin even though they belonged to him. “I’ve met someone.”

  Reed looked defeated. “The man from Belgium?”

  “Yes,” Quintin said with a slight nod. “Only he’s not from Belgium. He’s from Italy.”

  Reed reached for his mimosa. He took a sip, licked his lips, and said, “I can’t compete with that.”

  “There is no competition,” Quintin told him. “I think you are wonderful. And in a different time and place…”

  “You’re just trying to be nice. Trying to let me down easy.”

  “I didn’t know you felt this way.”

  “Neither did I,” said Reed. “Until they told me I was leaving. And then it hit me. I think I’ve known all along. You’re smart. Adorable. Sexy. Why wouldn’t I fall for you?”

  Because men like you and Luca have never even noticed my existence before.

  “Honestly, I had no idea,” he said.

  Reed leaned in closer. “Would’ve it made a difference if I told you sooner, Quintin?”

  He nodded and reached for his glass. “Yes.”

  *

  Fiona sounded unusually frantic when Quintin answered his cell. “Hello?”

  “Quintin? Oh, thank God. Where are you?”

  “At this very moment I am standing in a guest room in the Bremington estate, packing up my computer bag so I can go home. Why? Is it Thursday? Are we having dinner tonight?”

  “Darling, I think you need to get out of there,” she said. “Away from Regina Bremington.”

  “Fiona, what’s going on?” he asked.

  “That detective that you told me about…the one who was investigating the ambassador’s murder…”

  “Mallory Evans?”

  “I just saw it on the telly. She’s gone missing.”

  “What do you mean missing?”

  “No one has seen her since yesterday afternoon,” Fiona explained. “It’s all over the news. It won’t be long before the police search the place. You should go before they get there.”

  “Maybe she took some time off,” he said, trying to convince them both. “Maybe she needed a holiday.”

  Then Quintin remembered the phone conversation he’d had the night before. The last thing Mallory had said to him on the phone was she would be heading to the Bremington estate first thing in the morning. With an arrest warrant.

  It was already past noon.

  “Did they release any details?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Fiona answered. “They said she’s the lead detective in the case. They showed her picture. There was a telephone number to call if anyone finds her.”

  Instinctively Quintin walked to the shrouded windows in the room. He pulled back one of the heavy, dark-green drapes. Down below was the circular driveway and the gorgeous water fountain with the cherub statue. In the near distance—just on the edge of the roundabout—was a white Mercedes Benz parked beneath a cluster of pines. It seemed an odd place for a car to be, as if someone had made a lame attempt to keep it out of view.

  Or hide it.

  “Did they say anything about her car?” he said into the phone, his journalism skills kicking in full force.

  “Yes,” Fiona said. “They haven’t been able to find it. But they’re looking.”

  “Do you remember what kind of car it was?”

  “No,” she said, “I don’t.”

  He looked at the car again. And he knew.

  “What about the color? Do you remember that?” he asked, pressing the cell hard against his ear.

  And then the answer came.

  “White,” she said. “I remember…they said she was driving a white car, a Mercedes maybe.”

  “Fiona, call the police,” he instructed. “Tell them I think Mallory Evans is here, somewhere in this house.”

  “Promise me you’ll get out of there,” she said. “Please, Quintin. You’re my only friend in this crazy world.”

  He was firm. “Call them,” he said. “I think I’m in trouble. I think I need help.”

  He ended his call with Fiona and slid his phone into the back pocket of his borrowed jeans.

  He opened the door and stepped out into the long corridor. He stood still for a moment, just listening.

  Silence.

  The house felt strangely empty.

  Abandoned.

  There’s no one here except me and the ghosts.

  He moved down the hall and reached the top of the grand staircase.

  Maybe Reed is still h
ere. God, I hope so.

  Quintin cleared his throat. “Reed?” he called, but his voice wasn’t strong enough. He tried again, louder. “Reed?”

  There was no answer. No movement. No sound.

  He’s probably on his way to the airport. He’ll be in Barcelona by dinner. I could be dead by then.

  Quintin knew he had to get out of the house, just as Fiona had urged. The question was how? Arianna was the one always in charge of calling the limo driver who took Quintin back and forth between the estate and his flat. But Arianna was countries away in a convent in Germany with Olivia and Louisa.

  I’m all alone in this place. I have no way out. No way back to London.

  A thought entered Quintin’s mind. If Mallory Evans was somewhere in the house, maybe she could help. She was a cop, after all.

  He hurried down the stairs, almost tripping over his own feet when he reached the third-to-the-last step.

  Once he reached the ground floor, he realized he had no idea where to begin looking for the missing detective.

  And where in the hell is Regina?

  Quintin hoped Fiona followed through and notified the authorities. If she had, they would be arriving momentarily. They would help him get back home. And then he could be on his way to his new life with Luca in Italy.

  I’m going to marry into a family of spies. Hell, maybe I’ll prove Arianna right and become one myself.

  He wandered through the house, lost and dazed, until he found himself standing in the middle of the kitchen. Like everything else in the house, the room was large and centuries old. The appliances were modern, but the stone walls reeked of untold history.

  “Hello?” he said, just to fill the empty, quiet space around him with the sound of his own voice.

  Of course no one answered him. Not that he was expecting anyone to.

  Then he heard a sound. It was a banging of sorts—like a loud knock.

  There it is again. I hear it.

  He looked down at his feet, at the shiny kitchen floor. The sound was coming from below.

  But how? There must be another room beneath me.

  Quintin searched the kitchen far and wide until he spotted a frayed area rug in the farthest corner from where he stood. He rushed to it, kneeled down, and pushed the rug aside.

  The brass handle of a wooden cellar door gleamed back at him.