by Tinnean
Although some very damaging intelligence about him had been passed on to my uncles, the fact that DCI Holmes liked to dress in women’s lingerie hadn’t become common knowledge. However, and in spite of my uncles’ assurances to the contrary, the possibility of there being additional copies of the videotape of him cavorting with a high-priced call girl who had since been brutally murdered loomed over his head. He never knew from one day to the next if or when the sword of Damocles would drop.
So, no, I had nothing to wish for regarding the former director of counterintelligence.
As for Senator Wexler himself, he’d be taken care of in due time.
The one thing I wanted now was time with my lover. Any time with Mark would be worthwhile.
Just then, my cell phone chirruped, signaling the arrival of a text message.
“Excuse me a moment.” I took it from my pocket—after that incident last fall, I kept it on my person no matter where I was. A quick glance at the message, Meet me tomorrow at Raphael’s at 6:00.
Odd. That was neither our usual day nor our usual time.
The phone chirruped again, and another message came through. Free up the next couple of weeks, okay? I grinned and put the phone away, drew in another deep breath, and blew out the candle.
Not that I needed to make that wish now. It was coming true.
“Hey, Quinn.” DB sidled up to me. “That was from your lady, wasn’t it?”
I made the first slice and then let Janet take over cutting the cake. “Have a piece of cake, David.”
Syd laughed and handed me a slim, flat box, and then she, Lyn, and Janet each kissed my cheek.
“Happy birthday, Quinn,” they chorused.
I unwrapped the box. “Oh, my.” It was a Montblanc LeGrand Meisterstück Platinum fountain pen, and my name was engraved on the cap. “Thank you!”
One of the younger officers gave me a reserved smile. “And here’s the ink that goes with it.”
“Thank you.” I filled the barrel of the pen, capped it and tucked it into an inner pocket, and then accepted the slice of cake with “Qu” on it. “Thank you all, very, very much.”
XIX
GREGOR opened the door to Mother’s house. “Happy birthday, Quinn.” He looked beyond my shoulder suspiciously. “Where’s Vincent? I was sure he’d be following you like Mary’s lamb.”
I stifled laughter at that image of my lover. “Something came up.” I entered the house and removed my overcoat.
“Yeah, I’ll bet. In pants or a skirt?” He closed and locked the door before taking my coat to hang up.
“Excuse me?”
“Geez, Quinn, he’s WBIS. You can’t trust him!”
“But I do, Gregor.”
He scowled at me. “You’re too trusting. He could be cheating on you!”
“I doubt that. Tell me something. Other than his being WBIS, what is there about him that leads you to think he would do something like that to me?”
“What?”
“Suppose he left the WBIS. Would you still be inclined to distrust him?”
“A leopard doesn’t change its spots.”
“Gregor—”
“It’s human nature,” he asserted stubbornly.
“My father was human. So is my mother.”
“No! They’d never betray each other! But Vincent…. There’s no saying he’s not using you.”
“Perhaps not, but I don’t believe he would. He might break up with me”—or try to—“but he wouldn’t see someone behind my back. Gregor, can’t you trust me to know what I’m doing? Look, if I’m wrong, you can say ‘I told you so,’ and you can kick me in the ass while you’re doing it.”
He shook his head. “Did I ever tell you ‘I told you so’ about that French kid?”
“Armand.” I was still a little raw about the years I’d wasted over him.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
I held up my hand to stop whatever else Gregor was going to say, but he ignored it.
“You thought you knew what you were doing with him too.” He blew out a breath. “Never mind. Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes.”
“What are we having?”
“We’re starting with a salad of orange, walnut, Gorgonzola, and mixed greens with a fresh citrus vinaigrette, followed by roast leg of lamb with rosemary, early morning oven-roasted new potatoes, and for dessert, white chocolate raspberry cheesecake.”
One of my favorite meals. And I knew there would be candles on the cheesecake. “You’re a chef beyond compare, Gregor!”
“Don’t try buttering me up. I still think you’re making a big mistake. Your mother’s in her office. Why don’t you go say hello. I’ll call when dinner’s on the table.”
I smiled and squeezed his shoulder, then wandered down the hallway and around to the small office that Mother used.
I stood in the doorway, observing her. She sat behind her desk, her spine straight. Her hair had always been a very pale blonde. When had it turned white, and how was it that I hadn’t noticed?
She was looking down now, and I knew when she glanced up, the corners of her eyes would crinkle in a warm smile. The faint scritch scritch scritch of her fountain pen as it flowed smoothly across her pale green stationery was just barely audible over the music that came from the concealed speakers, “Violets for Your Furs.”
It was from the Shirley Horn CD I’d given Mother for Christmas one year. She had a fondness for that song, and now she was humming along under her breath.
Although she used a computer for any number of things, including keeping track of the various functions her charities sponsored, she preferred to correspond with her friends via handwritten letters.
“Good evening, Mother.”
“Quinton!” And there was that smile. She set down her fountain pen and rose carefully.
The fingers of my left hand curled into a fist. She was much better and no longer needed the cane, but she still tended to be cautious.
I relaxed my fingers. Mark had promised we’d deal with Wexler, and as long as I knew that, I could wait.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” I leaned forward and kissed her cheek.
“Not at all. I was just finishing this letter. I’ve been invited to spend a few weeks in London by Jack, my godmother’s son.”
“Oh?”
“I imagine London is lonely for him, since he’s lost both his parents.”
“Ah, yes.” He periodically came to the States, and his last visit had coincided with Mother’s recuperation. He’d been devastated, although I wasn’t certain if Mother had seen that expression in his eyes. It was wiped clear almost immediately. “Well, enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you, I will. I thought you were still chatting with Gregor.” She stroked my cheek. “Happy birthday, sweetheart!”
“Thank you.” I took her hand and kissed the back of it.
“What a shame Mark couldn’t join us. Perhaps next year.”
I laughed. “That’s exactly what I told him. He looked a little surprised.”
“That you’d still be together?”
“Possibly, but I think more that we would want him. He never had much of a family life.”
“No. Poor man.”
“I don’t think he would appreciate being referred to in that manner.”
“No, but that doesn’t make it any the less true. Parents have so much to answer for. Children are a gift given to us to nurture.”
“I’m sorry, Mother.”
“Good grief, Quinton, whatever for? You were a marvelous child!”
“Well, of course.” I smiled teasingly but then sobered. “What I meant was I’m sorry I won’t be giving you any grandchildren.”
“Perhaps not, but seeing you happy is a fair exchange, I think.” She stroked my cheek again and smiled into my eyes. “And who can say what the future will bring?”
XX
MARK sat across from me at our table in the Italian restaurant that had become our
place and toyed with his water glass. This was a night when he’d refused the wine. I’d seen the regret in his eyes; it was a cabernet he enjoyed, but I knew he would exercise restraint periodically, and I wasn’t going to challenge him over it.
“Did you get everything settled?”
“Yeah.” His expression was closed. “I’m sorry I missed your birthday party. Did Gregor give you grief because I wasn’t there?”
“He made his usual comments, nothing you haven’t heard before. What’s important is that you’re here now.”
“Yeah.” He reached into his suit pocket and withdrew a long, thin case covered in black velvet.
“Happy birthday, baby.”
“Jewelry, Mark? That isn’t your style.”
“Isn’t it?” He looked disgruntled. “Then what is my style?”
“Silk pajamas. Two-hundred-year-old sabers.” I lowered my voice. “Saving my life.”
“Don’t get mushy, okay, Quinn?” he said gruffly. “Just open it.”
I pressed the catch, and the top opened. In it were two airline tickets. “Ahhh.” That explained his request that I take some time off. I met his eyes, smiling. “We’re going to Key West?”
“No. Not this time, anyway. Check out the destination.”
“To the Midwest, Mark?” The city in Senator Wexler’s home state, to be exact. I closed the case and tucked it into my inner pocket.
“Yeah. Everything is planned. Rayner didn’t give you a hard time, did he?”
“No. He’s Rayner, not Holmes.” There had been no problem; Rayner was a decent director, a pleasure after the nightmare of Holmes, and when I’d informed him of what Holmes had done to my cell phone, he’d been willing to bend over backward to make restitution for Holmes’s abuse.
As for Mark, he had so much time due him that the WBIS was looking for any excuse to get him to take it.
I swallowed a small smile. I had ways of knowing things also.
“So this is not only a birthday gift, but a Valentine’s gift as well.” The date on the ticket was for the fourteenth , the next day.
He looked blank for a second and then swore. “Shit. I forgot all about it.”
“Never mind, it isn’t important.” I felt bad about teasing him. “What’s the plan?”
“I’ll explain when we get to my place.”
Cesare, our waiter, approached the table, bearing a plate with a slice of tiramisu on it, a sparkler lighting its way across the restaurant.
Three of the other waiters, plus Giovanni, joined him, and they all grinned broadly and sang “Happy Birthday,” the most amazing rendition I’d ever heard, with gorgeous harmonies.
“Thank you.” Of course I couldn’t blow out the sparkler, but Giovanni took it with a gracious smile. Mark and I were left alone, and I offered him one of the forks they’d brought. “Join me?”
“Sure.” He reached across the table, but instead of taking the fork, he rested his hand on mine and repeated, “Happy birthday, Quinn.”
XXI
SINCE we’d both driven to Raphael’s, I followed Mark back to his condo. In the morning I’d return my car to my home, and we’d go to the airport in his car.
But for now….
Mark went to the windows in his bedroom and drew the plantation shutters, closing out the night.
I stood at the opposite side of the bed, staring down at the objects lying across it, and then up at him.
“Jeans?”
“And a flannel shirt. You’ll need them.”
I dismissed the shirt; I would find something else to wear that would be as suitable. “You bought me jeans.” I picked up the dark blue denim and rubbed the material between my thumb and forefinger.
“It’s no big deal, Mann.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You want to blend, don’t you?” His cheeks were tinged with red, and I had a strong feeling he was using that as an excuse. “I take you to the motel I have in mind, you’re gonna stick out like a sore thumb dressed in Mann casual.”
More intrigued that he’d bought me jeans—that he’d actually remembered the little tale I’d told him last summer—I ignored the snarky remark. “You’re taking me to a motel?”
My cock liked the idea. Yes, this was serious business, but I couldn’t help being aroused by the thought of us in some anonymous motel that had vibrating beds and porn on the TV. I licked my lips.
That would be a wonderful Valentine’s gift. “Will I wait in the car while you register us? Mr. and Mr. Smith?”
“Or Jones. Does that….” He studied my eyes. “That turns you on!” The skin on his cheekbones darkened again, seemed to tighten. “Who’d have thought?”
“What? That a Mann might be interested in a… a….”
“Dirty weekend? C’mere.” He pulled me into his arms. “When we get done with this, I’m taking you to Vegas, baby.”
“I’ve been to Vegas.”
“Yeah?” He scowled down at me, clearly not pleased.
“On business.” I leaned into him and nipped his earlobe, then licked away the tiny hurt. “Never with a lover.”
“Right, yeah, the Berengar case.” Of course he knew. “You did good work on that.”
“Thank you.” I smiled to myself and nipped his earlobe again. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“Vegas? Good.” He palmed my ass, then patted it and released me. “I’ve run these through the washer a couple of times already, but a couple times more won’t hurt. We need to get the new out of them.”
XXII
THE next day we boarded a flight to Senator Wexler’s home state.
I’d brought a carry-on onboard, which contained the jeans, a pullover sweater instead of the flannel shirt, and well-worn hiking boots I’d change into once we landed, as well as a sheepskin-lined denim jacket that Mark had also bought me on the grounds it would help me “blend.” A blond wig was packed also. Curly but not too long, it would alter my looks enough that even DB wouldn’t have recognized me.
Mark had checked a larger suitcase, which had been already packed and in the trunk when he came to pick me up. “It’s got everything we’ll need,” he’d told me, although he didn’t tell me what it was he thought we would need.
We sat side by side in business class, two businessmen who were working diligently on their PDAs.
Although if anyone cared to look, they’d see that while I read the Washington Post on my PDA, Mark was playing Monopoly Slots on his.
Once our flight landed, I found a handicapped restroom while Mark went to baggage claim. I locked myself in, stripped out of my suit, and changed into the jeans—they were soft now, and a slightly lighter blue—and the fisherman-knit sweater I’d worn when I brought him the congratulatory bottle of champagne that fateful night eleven months before, when he’d made love to me for the first time.
Mark certainly knew how to use his cock, and while I’d never considered myself a bottom, I’d found I didn’t mind taking that position with him.
My cock began to swell. I rubbed a palm over the fly of my jeans and licked my lips, then reached in, gave the base of my cock a firm squeeze, and set aside thoughts of sex. There were other matters that needed to be handled, and right now, my cock wasn’t one of them.
I fitted the blond wig on my head, making sure no brown strands were visible, and glanced at my reflection in the mirror. I’d worried about my brows, which were darker than this wig, but Mark had assured me there were plenty of blonds with dark eyebrows. When I’d demanded he name one, he’d looked smug and said, “Draco Malfoy.” I’d had no choice but to laugh and concede him the point.
Satisfied my new coloring wouldn’t draw undue attention, I stepped into the boots, laced them up, and hung the jacket on the hook behind the door. Then I began folding the clothes I’d changed out of.
Fortunately, the carry-on was expandable and I managed to fit overcoat, suit, shirt, and shoes into it.
With everything packed away, I relieved myself, washed
my hands, draped the jacket over my arm, and caught up the grip of the carry-on.
When I exited the restroom, I spotted Mark strolling down the concourse, the large suitcase following behind him like a dog on its leash. He ran his eyes over me, and his mouth curled in a grin, but he didn’t say a word.
I walked past him, knowing he was about to enter the restroom I’d just left. There was no time to indulge in a sexual fantasy in which I turned around, followed him back into the restroom, and locked the door again; in which I’d undo the jeans he’d bought for me, let them drop, smiling at his surprise that I’d gone commando, and turn and lean against the wall while he fucked me.
Once this was over, though….
There was a Starbucks where the terminals formed a T with the main concourse of the airport, and I studied the menu board. I was tempted to order an iced caramel Frappuccino, but I could see snow mounded at the curbs through the windows, and I settled on a caramel macchiato.
I was seated at a small table that looked out over the runways when I realized I was no longer alone. I raised my gaze.
“You’ve got froth on your upper lip.” A blue-eyed brunet stood in front of me, a cup of Starbucks in his hand. He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, a brown leather jacket hanging casually over his arm.
“Thanks for letting me know.” I picked up a napkin I’d placed on the small table.
“I could do that for you.” His eyes were hot, predatory.
“Another time, perhaps?” My cock twitched.
“Sure. Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.” Not a stranger. This was Mark; the blue of his contacts couldn’t disguise the expression I’d come to recognize.
He drew out a chair and sat down, his legs sprawled comfortably. “We’ve missed the rush. No help for that. More flights will be landing in about half an hour. Everybody travels on the Presidents’ Day Weekend. That makes it easier for us. As soon as those passengers start deplaning, we’ll head for the car rentals.” He saw the way I was regarding him, and he gave me a look. “How would you do it?”