Miller shook off his razor in the water-filled sink, sending an army of tiny hairs marching across the surface. “Out.”
Danny rolled his eyes. “You going to see Rachel?”
“None of your fucking business,” Miller snapped. Paused. “Why do you think I’m meeting Rachel?”
“Because you’re shaving.” Danny shrugged. “And it’s Sunday, so I doubt you’re going to your office.” He came farther into the bathroom, made himself comfortable perched on the edge of the double sink nearest the door. “How’d you meet her anyway? I’m guessing it wasn’t on a straight tequila night down in Mexico.”
Miller took his eyes off his task, stared at Danny. “Before I was assigned here I was in Minneapolis,” he said finally. “She’s a legal secretary and I met her when I went to her boss’s office for a debriefing.”
“So she came with you when you were transferred?” Danny asked, rolling Miller’s can of shaving cream between his palms.
“Yeah.”
“Special Agent Sutton, living in sin,” Danny mused. “Not what I’d picture from someone so… law-abiding.”
Miller snatched away the shaving cream. “We don’t live together. She has her own place.”
“Those your rules or hers?”
“It was a mutual decision.” Miller pulled the plug on the sink, the drain swallowing the sudsy water with a strangled gurgle. Miller moved his body in a wide arc around Danny’s dangling feet and legs, grabbing a white hand towel from the rack on the wall. He swiped the towel across his cheeks. “I’ve got to get going.”
Not so fast, Sutton. Danny reached out a hand, grazing Miller’s jaw. “You missed a spot.” Miller stiffened up, not moving away but his muscles gone rigid, eyes locked on Danny’s. Danny ran his finger gently across Miller’s smooth, warm skin. Shit, he feels good. Danny held up one finger capped with white foam. “Got it.”
Miller kept his gaze on Danny’s, his eyes registering a flash of heat, anger following close on its heels, ending with that steely control that reminded Danny of a fortress nearly impossible to breach. But oh, so damn worth it when you finally do. Miller threw his towel into the sink, plucked his white T-shirt from the back of the toilet, and pulled it on with vicious stabs of his arms.
“So, Rachel likes you clean shaven?” Danny asked, turning on the tap to wash his finger. No response. “I think you look better stubbly, myself.”
Miller didn’t stop to put on his sweater, balling it up in his fist as he moved to leave. Danny hopped off the sink, blocking his exit. They stood in the narrow doorway, not enough room for either one to get by without brushing their bodies together. Miller’s eyes were like silver bullets. He knows what I’m doing. And he’d like to kill me for it. Danny held up his hands, twisting his body out of the way.
“After you,” he said with a grin.
IT SHOULD have felt better to hold Rachel in his arms. They hadn’t seen each other in almost a week. Between work and then his sudden call to duty with Danny, their time together had shrunk to nothing. But here he stood, Rachel’s thin arms wrapped around his neck, and he couldn’t get Danny Butler out of his head.
What was that asshole trying to pull in the bathroom? Should have punched that smirk off his face.
“I’m so glad to see you, sweetheart,” Rachel sighed into his neck. “Do you know when you’re going to be able to come home?”
“No,” Miller said, pulling back to look at her open, loving face. “It might be a while.”
Rachel’s face folded in, a troubled crease appearing between her brows. “Is it dangerous, Miller?”
Of course it’s dangerous. I’m in the FBI. “Don’t worry. I’m careful.” He wondered if this was the same lie all agents told their families, the lie that helped everyone close their eyes at night and sleep in self-imposed ignorance.
Rachel turned toward her small, galley-style kitchen, straightening the magazines on her coffee table as she passed. “Do you want some lunch? I’ve got chicken salad.”
Safe, predictable, good-hearted Rachel. Who always wore pearls and a ponytail, whose hair smelled of green apples, and who, after all this time and all this waiting, still looked at Miller with starlight in her eyes. Miller felt a pang of guilt; he didn’t know if the favor of starlit eyes had ever been returned.
He touched your face. And you liked it. Miller took two long steps to Rachel, grabbed her pink sweater with desperate hands, pushed her backward onto the couch, and fell on top of her with a frantic body.
“Miller,” Rachel gasped as he drove her down into the cushions. “Miller, what are you doing?”
Miller smiled, hoping like hell it didn’t look as pained as it felt. “Undressing you.” Rachel’s lip gloss tasted sweet and tacky against his lips, her body too pliant beneath him.
Rachel laughed, the sound short and embarrassed. “Let’s go in the bedroom.” She wiggled out from under his weight, pulling him by the hand. “Come on.”
They collapsed onto her fluffy white bedspread in a tangled heap. She yelped a little when he yanked her ponytail loose to release her hair to his grasping hands.
“I didn’t shower this morning,” she panted.
“I don’t care,” he whispered.
Rachel sat up, her sweater hiked above her breasts to reveal a lacy pink bra. “Just… just let me hop in real quick, okay? I’ll be right back.”
Miller turned over on his back, pressing his thumbs against his closed eyes as Rachel’s weight lifted off the bed. He suddenly wished he’d gone anyplace but here.
DANNY HEARD the muffled sound of the apartment door opening and closing. He glanced at his watch, the face glowing silver in the moonlight. Seven o’clock. He craned his neck to look back through the gauzy curtains at a tall shadow etched against the wall.
“Danny?” the shadow called. “Danny?”
“I’m on the balcony.”
Miller poked his head through the open sliding glass door. “What the hell are you doing out here? Someone could see you!”
Danny smiled and took a swig of newly opened bourbon before answering. “It’s pitch-dark, Miller, if you haven’t noticed. And I turned off all the lights inside. Nobody can see shit. Come on out.” Danny pointed to the empty deck chair next to his, ducking down slightly as though hiding from enemy fire. “But if you’re worried, I can run inside for my camouflage paint.”
“Shut up, asshole,” Miller grumbled, pulling the deck chair away from the railing with a screech of metal against wood.
Danny laughed. “We’re making progress, I see. I’m ‘asshole’ now instead of ‘Danny’.”
Miller grunted, zipping up his jacket.
“Here.” Danny passed him the bottle of bourbon. Miller held it between his hands, contemplating it, before he raised it to his lips and took a deep swallow. He leaned over to pass it back and Danny caught the scent of woman on his skin. Danny grabbed the bottle, his throat tightening as he turned away to inhale the fresh breeze blowing from the west. Knowing in your head what Miller has been doing the last few hours and actually smelling sex on him… turns out those are two different things, aren’t they, Danny?
Miller rested his elbows on his knees and gave Danny a sideways glance. “Your friend Griffin Gentry has a record,” he said slowly. “I ran his plates.”
“Kudos on the detective work.” Danny cradled the bottle between his knees while he lit a cigarette behind his cupped hand, setting the pack and his lighter on the small table in front of him so Miller could reach them if he wanted.
“Aggravated assault,” Miller continued. “He was your cellmate at Leavenworth.”
“Right again.” Danny took a gulp of bourbon. “Is there a point to this?”
“We’re picking him up tonight. We’re taking him out of circulation for the time being. He’s a loose end, Danny, and I shouldn’t have to tell you that Madrigal’s made a career out of finding loose ends.”
Danny sat up straight. “You don’t have any grounds for arresting Gri
ff.”
“We’re not arresting him. But he can’t be anyplace where Hinestroza can reach him. It’s too big a risk for him and for us.” Miller paused. “Is there anybody else Hinestroza can use against you? Someone besides Griffin or Amanda? Another friend… or lover?” Miller stumbled over the word. “Anyone?”
“No,” Danny said. “I travel light. After Amanda, I swore I wasn’t going to bring anybody else into this life and I’ve kept my word.”
Miller reached out his hand for the bottle. “What really happened between you two?”
Danny leaned back, resting his feet on the balcony railing. “I thought you knew everything about me, Sutton.”
“I do.”
Danny waited until Miller met his eyes. “Then you should already know I like men. That’s what happened to Amanda and me. I’m gay, Miller.” There it was, finally out in the open, what they’d both been dancing around since the moment they’d met.
“That’s what I’d heard, but I wasn’t sure….” Miller’s voice drifted away, eyes following close behind.
“Why? Because I don’t skip down the street and wear eyeliner?” Danny mocked.
“No!” Miller protested, strongly enough that Danny knew he’d struck close to the truth. “Just, with you having been married—”
“Lots of gay men get married, Miller. It doesn’t make them straight.”
“I guess that’s true enough,” Miller admitted, his voice noncommittal. “But why’d you marry her in the first place?”
Danny blew out a shaky breath. He knew his reasons for marrying Amanda would never be good enough to balance out the hurt he’d caused. “I was lonely. I hadn’t faced up to the fact I was gay yet, not completely. But after Amanda I made a promise to myself that I’d never deny it again.” He looked at Miller. “Speaking of tying the eternal knot, why haven’t you and Rachel taken the plunge?”
Miller shrugged, fingers fiddling with the bourbon bottle’s label. “Time’s just never been right. I was transferred, then she was looking for a job down here, and my work never slows down.”
“You realize how lame that sounds, don’t you?”
Miller surprised him by laughing, though most of the humor was missing. “There just doesn’t seem to be any hurry.”
If that isn’t a damning indictment… poor fucking Rachel. “Well, Miller,” he drawled around his cigarette, “seems you have a problem with moving too slow and I have one with moving too fast.”
His observation hung between them, as heavy and loaded with intent as a blanket of storm clouds. He could feel Miller watching him and he rolled his head in Miller’s direction, but those smoke-colored eyes proved impossible to read in the inky air.
“Here,” Danny whispered, holding out the bourbon again. Miller took it from his grasp, his long fingers running smooth across Danny’s as, for that single moment, he accepted what was being offered.
MILLER KNEW it was past midnight from the angle of the moonlight sliding through the cracks in his blinds to spread chill shadows across his skin. His body was tired, but his mind was restless, refusing to allow him the safe harbor of sleep.
He considered getting up to watch TV, maybe make a sandwich and check out the Late Show. Or he could read. He had a paperback in his suitcase he’d been trying to get through for the last three months. And God knew he had 302 reports of his conversations with Danny that needed typing, his laptop sitting neglected on top of his dresser. Or….
Miller closed his eyes, conjuring up visions of Rachel from earlier today. Her milky-white skin always looked so pure and untouched. Her smell, flowery and clean when she’d come out of the shower. He drew his knees up a little, moved his thighs apart. His fingertips whispered over the sheet. He remembered how soft she was, her small breasts carrying an unexpected weight in his hands, her nipples pale pink under his tongue.
He lifted the sheet away, running a palm underneath the waistband of his boxers, easing them down. He tried to conjure up a picture of Rachel writhing beneath him, crying out, but the image wouldn’t form. Instead, he saw a man’s hand, sneaking forward to run smooth against his jaw, the touch of that single finger sending white-hot sparks cascading into his belly like a Roman candle exploding beneath his skin.
I’ll bet Danny is loud in bed. He probably moans, and whispers, and groans out his pleasure.
Miller’s hand froze, his eyes flying open in the dark. What the hell was he doing? Thinking about Danny when his hand was on his dick—the dick that was getting harder with every vision of that thick, black hair, that full mouth, the poised-to-strike snake rippling across that chiseled back. Shit.
Miller drew in a steadying breath and forced his mind blank. He could do this; he could do this without thinking of Danny. He ran his palms up the inside of his thighs, fingers twining through the coarse hair, hand fisting around his hardness, stroking slowly, his thumb brushing the tip to make use of the wetness already leaking down.
He squeezed his eyes shut, gripped the sheet hard with his unoccupied hand, teeth grinding together violently. He opened his mind just a crack—allowed himself to think about women he’d known, women he’d had, women he’d wanted.
But when Miller came, hips bucking up off the bed in a violent shudder, it was with Danny’s face behind his eyelids and Danny’s name against his lips.
DAMN, IF Atwood could see him now. Danny “always been a fuck up, always will be” Butler, in a two-thousand-dollar monkey suit, sipping expensive champagne. Granted, the tuxedo was on loan and Danny’s everyday life was more McDonald’s than filet mignon, but still, not bad… not bad at all.
“Danny.” A strong hand closed over Danny’s shoulder, claw-like in its boniness. “You enjoying yourself?”
Danny smiled, the happy “I-live-to-kiss-your-ass” smile. “Having a great time, Mr. Hinestroza.”
“Good, good.” Hinestroza plucked a fresh flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. “Where’s Amanda?”
“She couldn’t make it.” Danny paused. “We’re having some marriage trouble, actually.”
Hinestroza frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that, Danny. I hope your personal situation with Amanda won’t make our continued use of her services a problem.”
“No. She’s still on board for now,” Danny said carefully, not wanting to commit Amanda to anything long-term, but not wanting her to be seen as disposable, either.
Hinestroza pointed with his champagne flute toward the couple being photographed under a loggia of red roses. “My Lily, doesn’t she make a lovely bride?”
Shit… how to play this one? Too enthusiastic and he’d be looking at a broken kneecap for perving on Hinestroza’s daughter. Too nonchalant and it’d be a busted jaw for insulting her beauty. “She does, Mr. Hinestroza. You should be very proud.”
Double clap on the back letting Danny know he’d answered just right. Call me fucking Goldilocks, Danny thought with an internal grimace. But part of him felt a sense of accomplishment, happy to have won Hinestroza’s approval even for something as silly as a comment about his pretty daughter. The odd combination of fear and loyalty that Hinestroza always produced churned in Danny’s blood. It would be so much easier if Danny could simply hate him.
“Monday morning, it’s back to business,” Hinestroza reminded him with a wink, moving off into the crowd.
“Sure thing,” Danny called after him, waiting until Hinestroza disappeared to down the rest of his champagne in one long swallow.
Danny climbed the stone stairs leading to the overhanging veranda; no way to get close to the tables of food with people standing three deep in line. He could just make out the tip of a winged ice sculpture, unable to discern if it was swan or angel. From the edge of the veranda the ocean was visible, the endless blue fading to tattered pink on the edges as the sun dipped below the horizon. Much to his surprise, Danny had discovered a soft spot for the ocean, the sound, the smell, the vastness. All leading him to the certainty that his life—and every shitty, destined-to-
burn-in-hell choice he’d made—didn’t matter much in the end. The notion was comforting in some perverse way.
Hinestroza and his wife, Maria, had joined their youngest daughter and her new husband under the roses. Hinestroza smiled widely, no trace of cruelty today, as the photographer positioned the family this way and that for picture after picture.
“Papa, Papa,” Hinestroza’s granddaughter called, weaving between guests to reach her grandfather. She laughed as Hinestroza lifted her easily and tossed her three-year-old weight toward the sky.
Danny watched as she patted Hinestroza’s scarred cheeks, whispering into his ear, one finger twirling through his black hair that was just this year showing its first signs of gray. She was not afraid. She didn’t know fear in her grandfather’s arms, had no concept of the agony he caused. To her, Roberto Hinestroza would always be a good man—the man who let her dance on his feet at her aunt Lily’s wedding, who sneaked her extra pieces of cake when her mother wasn’t looking, who believed she could do no wrong.
Danny turned away, his eye snagged by the man standing near the set of French doors, a sly grin easing out from around his upturned glass when he spied Danny.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Danny,” Madrigal said, slinking over to where Danny stood, the grin replaced by an amused, indulgent little smile.
“Juan.”
“Classy party.”
“Yes.”
“Must be nice to be sprung,” Madrigal commented. “I’ve heard Leavenworth is no picnic.”
Danny shrugged. “I survived.” He scanned the crowd for anyone he recognized, anyone who could provide an excuse for his departure.
“You know who I was thinking about the other day?” Madrigal asked, his voice casual but his eyes gleaming eerie, golden fire—anticipating the pleasure of inflicting pain.
Don’t say it, Danny thought frantically. Don’t you dare say his fucking name to me. I’ll kill you. I’ll rip your throat out with my bare hands, I’ll—
Dreamspinner Press Year Three Greatest Hits Page 49