by Helena Maeve
“So when you said I’ll be safe here,” Manuel drawled, “what you meant was, I will never, ever escape…correct?”
He didn’t expect Cole to dignify that with a response. He wasn’t disappointed.
Cole breezed past him on his way into the house, like a realtor surveying disappointing property. “Someone is supposed to be waiting for us.” His shoes made clacking sounds on the uneven terracotta tile.
Manuel’s new handlers were nowhere to be seen. He watched as Cole peered behind doors and checked the upper landing, all to no avail. Somewhere in the tortuous middle management of the SIS bureaucratic machine, someone had screwed up.
“You could let me watch myself,” Manuel suggested, as he stretched out on a sunken loveseat in the living room. Clumps of burgundy velvet peeled away from the upholstery to cling to his trousers. He picked them off one by one and flung them at the frayed carpet.
Cole fixed him with a glare. He was already dialing home, presumably to rain fire and brimstone on whichever underling had the misfortune to pick up.
“Or he could stay,” Manuel added, jerking a thumb to their luggage-laden companion.
The driver had been quiet when they’d left London and he was quiet now, ears pinking to hear Manuel allude to him. Was everyone at Section sixteen these days or was Manuel simply getting old?
It was Cole who answered. “Don’t be stupid. You’d have him wrapped around your little finger in an hour.”
“I’ll have you know I got along very well with Arthur.”
Arthur, who was now dead, probably didn’t serve as the best example. But his death had nothing to do with Manuel. Unless it did…
“Yes,” Cole muttered, “precisely.” He turned his back on Manuel as soon as the call connected.
“The suitcase should go upstairs,” Manuel told their lanky, brunet driver. “Pick a room with a view.” It surprised him to see the young man nod and move to comply.
Was this part of the new regulations? Had Cole decided to keep Manuel’s status under wraps as a precaution?
He tipped his head back against the couch, considering.
Cole had taken his long-distance shouting match to the kitchen, but the door was just slightly ajar. His voice carried.
“He needs round-the-clock supervision,” he hissed into the phone. “I know… I know that, Knightly, but I can’t put everything on hold because—” Cole rubbed his brow with two fingers. “Twelve hours is an inconvenience. I wouldn’t call it a critical delay, but— What do you mean? If there’s new information, it’s crucial that I… Oh, is that how’s going to be? Who decided I don’t have clearance?”
The driver trooped down the stairs with a noisy tread.
“Anything else, sir?” He had a face fit for a Roman coin and his mouth slanted handsomely to one side when he smiled. A spot on the nose was his only blemish.
A burst capillary, Manuel guessed. Or a scar. He spent a meditative second wondering what kind of implement could bestow such a perfect mark. An electrical wire? A pair of pliers? A needle, perhaps.
The only way to be absolutely certain was trial and error. He doubted Cole would allow him.
“What’s your name?”
“Jennings.”
Manuel performed a double take. “Is your father in the business, too?” It wasn’t uncommon. Theoretically, the service didn’t stoop to nepotism. Practically, there was something to be said for recruiting within the family.
The youth seemed slightly bemused. He coked an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”
“He’s nosy, that’s why.” Cole slotted his phone into his inner pocket. “You’re dismissed, Nate. Report back to London, if there’s anyone left. I’m told they haven’t all packed up for the weekend, but you never know…”
“Yes, sir.”
Manuel was not sorry to see him go. Nate Jennings was a handsome specimen, but something in his eyes spelled trouble—and not of the kind he’d enjoyed when he was ten years younger. He let his gaze linger on the young agent out of habit more than interest.
Only when the door was shut did he glance back to Cole. “Don’t tell me you’ve been saddled with babysitting me.”
It was almost too good to be true.
“Just for the next twelve hours,” he confirmed grimly, “until we can find someone who won’t be driven to beating you within an inch of your life.”
The allusion stabbed, but Manuel had weathered worse hurt. He treated Cole to a wide smile, brimming with pleasure that once would have been genuine.
Cole’s aggravation seemed to flourish in direct proportion. “They’ve left us a full pantry,” he reported, clearly struggling to keep it together, “so at least you won’t starve—”
“Excellent. Then I fully expect you to cook me supper,” Manuel said, sitting back and lacing his fingers behind his head.
“They’ve also left us a hefty supply of rat poison. Don’t tempt me.”
Empty threats struck that part of Manuel that should have been inured to Cole’s forked tongue by now.
“You cruel, cruel man… I thought you liked to cook.”
“You’ve never heard of a cover?”
“I see. And the bubble baths?”
A muscle twitched in Cole’s jaw, charming to the trained eye.
“Well, I’m going to shower off the shrapnel,” Manuel announced primly. It took more effort than was elegant to climb to his feet, stitches pulling and bruises smarting when he moved. The tender ache in his palms was just the cherry on the awful sundae. “Ah, would you?” He held out his manacled wrists.
Cole glowered.
“Shall I get on my knees and ask nicely?” Manuel suggested. He’d done it before, though not since the SIS welcomed him into their warm arms.
A blow job was a blow job was a blow job.
Cole knew better than most that he had a talented tongue.
It was almost disappointing to see him wrench a key from his pocket. Manuel committed its location to memory while Cole stripped the cuffs from his wrists. They’d been tightly locked, but no so tight that they’d added fresh weals to the abraded skin.
“Thank you. I’ll leave dinner is in your capable hands.”
“I’m not cooking your food, you tosser.”
Manuel made a mocking sound of acquiescence. The creak of the steps drowned out the answering slur.
* * * *
Twenty years earlier
It wasn’t always warm in Havana. Sleeping with a cover-hogger taught a twenty-five-year-old Manuel as much. Two nights into drifting off in Cole’s bed after an athletic bout of sex, he woke to cold feet and shivers rippling up and down his thighs. He frowned at the lump of pale Englishman beside him, top sheet and blanket snarled around his skinny form.
Cole’s breaths were speedy, shallow gusts. A frown knotted his eyebrows together as though his dreams required extra concentration.
Over his shoulder, Manuel glimpsed the handsome brass-and-jade alarm clock on the mantel. Cole’s stipend was generous indeed if he could afford a room with a view at the prestigious Santa Isabel hotel, but so many of its features seemed unnecessary. The mantelpiece was one of them. The unmoving fan above the bed was another.
Manuel suppressed a shiver. He had to get up, find his clothes. He had a strict policy of not spending the night with his conquests—if only because mornings were such an awkward experience. If he could spare them, why not?
It had nothing to do with seeing his partners blanch at the sight of him still in their room, their bed, memories of the night before gradually trickling back. Cole had been too groggy to observe the tradition yesterday. And two days ago. But that moment was coming.
Manuel peeled himself from his study and rose up onto his elbows. For such a ritzy hotel, the mattress should have been quiet beneath him. There was no excuse for squeaky bed springs. Manuel winced, freezing in his tracks, but it was no use.
Cole’s frown deepened, his lashes fluttering open.
“What—”
>
“Everything’s fine,” Manuel promised. “Go back to sleep.”
A born contrarian, Cole peered up at him. “Where’re you going?”
It should have been criminal for anyone to look both adorable and fearsome at the same time.
“Bathroom.”
“Oh.” Cole’s features softened. “Okay.”
The lie dogged Manuel’s steps until the door closed, white neon streaming down onto his naked body. He met his own eyes in the mirror and scowled. If he waited long enough, Cole would fall back asleep. He had to be tired after their last romp.
Manuel could be quiet. He could grab his clothes, dress and extricate himself from a potentially unpleasant situation with Cole being none the wiser.
There was no one back at his apartment to steal the covers or ask him where he went. He could go about his business in peace.
He counted to thirty before he flushed the toilet and let himself step back into the bedroom.
Greedy, Cole had curled into the portion of the mattress he’d just vacated. He was asleep again, as predicted. But the covers had slipped off, baring long lines of pale, naked flesh to Manuel’s gaze.
A tender knot twisted in his chest. His cock stirred with half-hearted interest. If this was as simple as lust, Manuel would have headed off already.
The creak of the bedsprings still rang in his ears twenty years after the fact, shocking in its clarity. As scalding water pounded his naked body, he still remembered Cole pressing against his front that night, content to use Manuel to keep out the cold.
He didn’t even feign surprise at finding Manuel still in the bed come morning.
Pity it had all been a lie.
Chapter Five
Dinner was not on the table by the time Manuel padded downstairs in loose sleep pants and a faded T-shirt. Both were Section-issued. Both were shapeless and scratchy, more hospital scrubs than pajamas. He couldn’t complain. At least it’s not a hairshirt… The alternative was forced nudity—something Manuel had endured in Cuba, where it was hot and clammy on a good day and bare skin was bearable, but would find incomparably unpleasant here.
The cold January rains had started up again after a brief lull during their journey north.
Fat, icy droplets pelted the windows and drenched the unkempt shrubbery outside. From his vantage point at the foot of the stairs, Manuel had a clear line of sight through the kitchen window and out into the wilderness beyond. There was no sycamore, no tall hedge to bridle the view. On a sunny day, he supposed he could see for miles from the top of the hill.
He thought of the Cottage perched high on the coast, far removed from nearby villages. He didn’t miss it—not quite—but he did wish it hadn’t been reduced to rubble on his behalf.
If it was on his behalf. Cole’s quarrel with the other spook seemed to imply it.
Cole had been wrong before.
“There’s tea,” he said, from the living room. A cigarette smoldered between his fingers, the lit end glowing crimson.
“How kind.”
Needling his jailers for the hell of it was just about the only distraction Manuel had left, but thirst got the better of him. He plucked a chipped porcelain cup from the kitchen rack and filled it, scenting the lukewarm bergamot long before he touched his lips to the rim of the mug.
Cole tapped his cigarette against the edge of a silver tray. “Tea is about all there is. TV is broken. They don’t have Internet…and the 3G coverage is spotty if you stand just inside the terrace door.”
“I’ll keep that in mind should I want to power my gadgets,” Manuel sniped.
Cole blew out a stream of smoke, a dragon staring down a puny mortal. “Touchy.”
“Appalled,” Manuel corrected. “I see you’ve resorted to reading.”
The Magus lay spread open on the dining table, spine cracked and yellowed pages fluttering beneath the touch of Cole’s fingers. Manuel couldn’t help notice that he was already about halfway through.
He hadn’t realized his shower had taken so long.
“I’ve started it five times since I was thirteen,” Cole explained, unprompted. “Never got to the end.”
“May I?” Manuel gestured to the chair beside his. There were five to choose from, three of them squeezed against the corner made by the kitchen wall and the gusty French windows.
At the Cottage, the dining area had been entirely separate from the common room. Once a day, the detainees all ate together around the mahogany table in a grotesque parody of family tea. It might have been a privilege, were it not for their handlers looking on and reporting back if Silas refused to eat, if Manuel tried to filch a dessert fork.
Cole flicked the hand that held the cigarette in a vague, lackadaisical gesture. Do what you want. I don’t care.
Manuel sat.
Smoke rose in delicate tendrils between them, filling the air with the rich, evocative scent of old haunts, old mistakes. Between one heartbeat and the next, the dour 1950s wallpaper of the living room morphed into whitewashed colonnades and peeling paint.
Tea morphed into the burn of dark coffee on his tongue. An air of guajira rang in his ear.
There were no sunken love seats, no mismatched armchairs in sight. The moth-bitten carpet converted to mosaic tile beneath the laced wingtips and kitten heels of dancers liberated from convention by one too many drinks.
“Do you—”
“I was thinking,” Cole started, nearly at the same time.
Their eyes met. They’d never had perfect timing, so why start now?
Manuel licked his lips. “I’m all ears.” He buried the memories deep.
“If you want to turn on the radio,” Cole offered, “we might be able to catch the evening news.”
“You think I’ve got some burning desire to hear about the footie?” Manuel idly tapped fingers against his mug.
He didn’t need to look at Cole to sense his frustration.
“Suit yourself.”
“Believe me, I have—for the better part of eighteen years.” He allowed himself a sip of tea. Even tepid, it was still good. Cole had a knack for brewing it just dark enough for taste but not so dark that Manuel’s lips puckered with the bitter tang. “Alas, all good things…”
“If that’s what you want to call high treason.”
Manuel scoffed.
“I call it shedding a leash I never chose to wear. But I don’t expect you to know anything about that. How long has it been now, hmm?” Manuel rested his chin on an abraded fist. “Thirty years? Thirty-five?”
“Twenty-four,” Cole retorted through clenched teeth.
After all this time, Manuel could still get to him. It was almost touching. “My mistake. And has it been worth it? Are you as enamored with your country today as you were when Section first recruited you?”
Cole turned another page, albeit a little furiously. “You’re one to question my loyalty.”
“It’s not your loyalty I’m asking about…although I see Section may have competition in that regard, as well,” Manuel countered, nodding to the gold band around Cole’s ring finger.
He deciphered reticence in Cole’s gaze when he flicked his eyes away from The Magus to peer at the discreet affectation on his left hand.
“Is she pretty?” Manuel asked. He told himself he didn’t care.
“She’s in the business.”
“Ah.” Manuel doused that discovery in another swig of tea. “So you married into the family. How’s that working out for you?”
He took no pleasure in the tightening of Cole’s fingers around the ring, much less in seeing him conceal it beneath the table, too late to go unnoticed.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Manuel could imagine the reasoning that went into that call. Their lives didn’t lend themselves to long-lasting relationships. They worked impossible hours. They took insane risks. Someone who understood and lived within the same narrow constraints—someone who was smart and attractive, as well—could
only seem like a godsend. As long as the higher ups approved of the union.
It didn’t take much effort to imagine what had Cole so reluctant to mention his wife.
“Are you—” Manuel asked, unable to stop himself.
“She’s based abroad.”
“That must be difficult,” he said, playing along as diplomatically as he knew how. “I’m sorry.”
Cole shrugged. “It is what it is. Sure you don’t want to turn on the radio?”
Insistence revealed his true motive for asking. The silence was dragging, true, and he probably didn’t relish the burden of making conversation with Manuel. They didn’t have much in common anymore.
The last time they’d talked as free men, they’d been vastly different people.
Manuel clambered slowly to his feet and made his way to the seventies’ wireless bulging out from a too-small side table. It looked incongruous and ancient beside the flat-screen TV, much like Manuel felt around agents like Horne and Jennings, a relic waiting to be put out to pasture.
Which, I suppose, is about to happen. It was simply a matter of time until arrangements could be made. His flight had been postponed, not canceled.
He fiddled with the dials and switches for a long moment, needle jumping over the FM band the way a polygraph would before finally settling on crackly, all-too-faint Nina Simone.
“Leave it,” Cole said, when Manuel’s efforts yielded little more than the faraway cacophony of BBC Radio One.
“Must be the hills,” he mused. The excuse seemed less than necessary when he turned away from the wireless.
Cole sat down, head thrown back while Nina Simone lamented lost love.
“I’ve always liked this song.”
Manuel swallowed hard. “Have you?” He didn’t require confirmation.
Cole’s cigarette had nearly burned down to the filter, but he didn’t seem to notice it. With his eyes closed and one arm slung casually over the chair beside him, he might have been twenty years younger. His frown was gone, spidery lashes fanned low over his pale cheeks. The corner of his lips twitched.