“What?” He lifted his mouth a fraction.
“Your timing is terrible,” her words puffed beneath his nose. “Reed’s coming back.”
Kitt drew away slightly and took his hand from her hair. He reached behind her, poked the centre button-lock on the doorknob, and every scrap of tenderness fell away.
Eyes locked on his, she tugged the cloth of his fitted boxers, fabric slipping down his arse and growing erection while his impatient, overeager fingers pushed and pulled and jerked until her dress parted. His pants dropped to his ankles. He grasped the waistband of her blue tights and ridiculously sensible, waist-high cotton knickers, shoving the combined elastic and cloth down with his right hand, as his left slid between her thighs.
His fingers slipped into hot and slick and wet, and he gasped, laughed at himself, and watched delight widen her eyes.
“I thought about what your stubby little fingerlings might feel like.” Mae smiled and bit her bottom lip as his shortened fingers moved.
His breath caught. “Did you?”
“Yes.”
Kitt watched her. He loved watching her pleasure build. She pushed forward, scooting their combined weight from the door twisting sideways, trying to walk him backwards to the bed, where the curious dog eyed them, but her gait was hindered by his hands and the tights around her knees. His fingers dislodged, they half-tripped sideways over the towel full of ice cubes and found the chair beside the door. She back fell onto the cushion and Kitt went to his knees. He yanked her knickers and tights, leaving them to trail from one foot like a streamer, grasped her legs and dragged her forward, down the seat. He pushed her knees apart and, without pause, grace, or dignity, thrust into her as their mouths came together.
Mae wrapped a calf around his battered middle and Kitt grunted at the pain that streaked up his spine before it was replaced by grunts of hedonistic carnality. Her breaths, short and sharp, were a counter-melody to his low, animal groans and rapid, unrestrained thrusts. He leaned over her and she sucked on his tongue, fingers in his hair, fingers in his beard. He plunged deep, deeper, and she drew him as close as she could, their rhythm quick-quick-quick until she arched up slightly, altering the friction. She went still for a split second and cried out into his open mouth before he made the same sound of release and clutched her to his chest. Then they melted into the chair, Kitt boneless upon her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, out of breath, which he preferred to blame on the high-altitude location, rather than the fact he’d sprinted in what was essentially a sexual one-hundred-metre race. “I wanted to take my time.”
“Did you...hear me...telling you to slow down?” she said, as breathless as he was, and her fingers tickled around the back of his neck.
“No.”
“That’s because...” she swallowed, “...I didn’t.”
“I wanted to take my time. Time is so precious. You are precious,” he said, cheek resting on her breast.
She gave a soft laugh.
“You think my declaration is trite, or is it that you love mocking me?”
“Maybe I do. Maybe I’m cynical and I don’t need that sort of reassurance, or perhaps I do find it trite. Perhaps it’s experience, perhaps I know time is precious and life is short, and life is precious and time is short. Perhaps, I’ll take what I can get, when I can get it. I realise that now.”
“Did this realisation happen after last night’s unfinished business?”
“We will always have unfinished business, Kitt.”
“I like it so much better when you call me Hamish.” He kissed her exposed nipple.
“Would you miss calling me Mrs Valentine?”
“You’ll always be my Valentine.”
“You’re getting very good at the corny lines.” She laughed and his knees began to sting from rubbing the patterned rug beneath them. He shifted and the weight of Mae’s leg upon his back began to make his bruising flare with pain. He lifted his head. “Mae, your leg, could you move it, please.”
Her calf slid away. “Stay,” she said, her tone authoritative.
“As much as I’d like to, I need the ice, and my knees are on fire.”
“I didn’t mean you, I meant Felix.”
Kitt glanced over a shoulder. “He watched us the entire time, didn’t he?”
“I have no idea, I was rather occupied by you and...”
“And what?” Kitt lifted his weight from her torso, leaving her sprawled inelegantly in the chair, legs akimbo with a full view of the little Southern Cross freckle constellation inside her left thigh, knickers-tights around an ankle, dress spread open, bra shoved up just below her throat. She looked positively glorious—and serious. “Oh, that face. What’s on your mind?”
“What if we’ve gone about this wrong?”
Kitt straightened. The splendid, pain-killing endorphins of sex faded and his battered body began to ache again. He winced. “I’m sorry. I know that wasn’t the most comfortable position. I’m paying for it now, bu—”
“No, no, I mean, what if we’re thinking of this in the wrong way. Downstairs, Taittinger opened a bottle of Bordeaux, 1945 Domaine de la Romanee-Conti Grand Cru. I hadn’t noticed the wine he’d chosen before we left and ran into Derek.”
“How utterly romantic of you to bring up Derek and Taittinger’s wine.”
“You need to run, or eat, or vomit to be able to think clearly after a traumatic event. It appears I need a good shag.”
“Despite the duration, it was rather good, wasn’t it?” He chuckled and picked up the hand towel. “Right then, about the wine.”
Mae sat up. “The Conti was one of the wines in the barn cellar. It started me wondering why Taittinger was so convinced that you were going to steal the wine for Judith.”
“The soulless wine merchant, rat-sending ex-girlfriend in Florida.”
“Yes. Her. Why would Taittinger think she wanted to take his wine as some sort of reward for being philanthropic when he said he was storing the wine for others? I wouldn’t call storing wine for wealthy friends philanthropic, would you?”
“Where are you going with this? Do you think the wine is fake after all?”
“No. it’s all real. There’s more prestige in owning rare wine than there is in drinking rare wine. Taittinger’s not storing those bottles for others. They’re all his. Bryce told me there wasn’t a money trail to follow. I think that’s because no money is changing hands. Taittinger’s fee for the artefacts is wine.”
Chapter 17
A lack of sleep and no breakfast stung Kitt more than the bitter cold and thickly falling snow. Mae parked Reed’s hired Ford between a Mercedes sedan and battered old American pickup truck across the street from Ruby K’s, a bagel café. It was early, still dark, but the establishment was open, a few patrons inside, none of them Bryce.
“You’ve been in that place before?” Kitt said from the back seat, watching through a veil of white flakes for his colleague to arrive.
“Mm-hm.”
“Where’s the lavatory?”
She gave a puffy little laugh. “Didn’t you think to do that before we left Taittinger’s place?”
His gaze was flat and ruthless. “Where’s the lav, Mrs Valentine? Is it still in the back?”
“Yes. Where is your sense of humour this morning?”
“We spent the night documenting items in the barn cellar. Then I got a thimbleful of sleep because Reed cuddles like a needy, frightened child, and he snores too.”
“You could have slept with me on the sofa.”
“There was barely enough room on the sofa for you and the dog. Why didn’t you sleep in the bed and let Reed take the sofa?”
Mae crossed her arms. “I’m practical. Neither Reed nor you would fit on that sofa. You refused to let me sleep in my quarters and I wasn’t keen on sharing a bed with three boys.”
“Three boys?”
“Felix.”
“The darling little dog isn’t yours.”
“What a f
oul mood you’re in, Kitt, and you’re not even hungover.” Her head tipped to one side. “Are you jealous of Felix?”
“Yes. He slept curled behind your knees while I had a snoring Australian wrapped around me.” He looked at the café again. “Bryce will go to the back, near the lav.”
“How do you know?”
“Humourless intelligence officers, even the Moneypenny types like Bryce, are trained to be aware of their surroundings and know their exit routes. It’s basic safety. You choose a position where you can see all the exits. There’s often an exit close to the lav.”
“It’s all about checking your six and keeping your back to the wall, right?”
“Checking your six. Chloral hydrate. Just how many spy thrillers have you watched, Mae?”
“Enough to know Jason Bourne is a far better spy than James Bond and you. You don’t see Bourne getting cheesed off because he didn’t have coffee and scrambled eggs for his breakfast.”
“Oh, you make me want to be a better spy.” Kitt watched Bryce walk into the snow-filled car park. “You think missing breakfast is why I’m cheesed off?”
“I know that’s why you’re cheesed off. I’m beginning to suspect you went into intelligence work because you needed some way to work out the murderous rage you feel when you don’t have a good breakfast.”
“I am quite calm.”
“You are detached and yet, under all that cool detachment simmers murderous rage.”
“Perhaps.” Kitt watched Bryce cross the lot, enter the café, and shake off snow from his coat.
“So, you do feel murderous rage?” Mae turned and looked in the backseat.
Kitt smiled sweetly, his eyes colder than blistering nitrogen. “My love, I could snap a neck.”
“I’ll get you a coffee in the café and pretend it’s mine. I’ll also pretend you didn’t say that bit about snapping my neck.”
“I said I could snap a neck, not your neck.”
“Yes, but you looked right at me when you said it.” Her eyes flicked to the black, low-crowned rabbit felt thing on his head. “Are you really going to wear that stupid hat?”
“Yes. It keeps my cold heart and cold blood warm.”
Mae twisted, opened the door, and got out, paused for a moment and exhaled. She pulled something from the middle of her handbag and tossed it on the backseat. “It might be time to further your education.” She shut the door and headed across the street.
Kitt watched her go into the café and adjusted the volume of the device in his left ear, glancing at a book she’d tossed on the seat beside him. It was a dog-eared romance novel, Flowers from the Storm.
He’d read it before.
BRYCE’S MOMENT OF SURPRISE lasted only a heartbeat or two. The Welshman swiped a hand over his chin and shook his head. “Kitty.”
“Bryce.” Kitt smiled.
“Nice hat.”
“Palms down,” he said.
Bryce flattened his hands on the table. “You broke protocol.”
“Thank you. Yes, I broke protocol. Here, I know how much you like the sickly-sweet ones.” Kitt set an iced drink on the round table-top. He pulled out the wooden chair beside Bryce, placed the cowboy hat on the other seat, and took a moment to run a cautious hand over his colleague’s chest, ribs, and pockets. When he found nothing, Kitt sat. “Mae, coffee, please,” he said.
Mae pushed her black ceramic cup of coffee across the table to Kitt. “One of you is a better liar than the other.” She glanced at Kitt, at the iced coffee he’d ordered, and back at Bryce. She didn’t want to believe Reed’s supposition that Kitt’s colleague, Kitt’s friend, had betrayed him. Bryce still looked like a superhero in disguise, but was it possible he was a villain? “I need to reconsider the sort of men I whose company I keep. Why did you lie to me, Sergeant?”
“I’m sorry, Mae. Like you, I thought he was dead, until you showed me the postcards you left behind.” Bryce unzipped a side pocket on his khaki green jacket. “I was a little surprised when I saw your postcards, Kitty, but it seems Mrs Valentine isn’t very sentimental and I have to say that truly astounded me.” Bryce slipped a hand into the flat, square pocket. He withdrew an item and placed it on the table.
Kitt recognised the yellow postcard with the two fried eggs holding hands he’d sent to Mae. Inexplicably affronted when he had no right to be, Kitt slid his eyes to Mae. “You kept so little of Caspar. It makes me wonder what I’ll find missing when I get home.”
Mae bit her top lip for a moment. “You can replace clothes and such.”
“You gave away my postcards and my clothes?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t need to keep postcards or clothes as a reminder of you. You haunted me well enough without them.”
“How long did you keep Caspar’s clothes before you gave them away?”
Mae’s mouth flattened and she inhaled. “You are not Caspar.”
“No, I bloody well am not Caspar. You got rid of his things, except his ring and a photo of him in a silver frame.”
“I don’t wear his ring anymore and have no pictures of you.”
“No, but you had postcards from me. You could have kept one of those in a silver frame.”
Mae nodded, her smile treacly. “I’m unreasonably angry about you faking your own death and you’re pissed off about my not keeping bleedin’ postcards. Yes, that’s comparable.”
“I didn’t fake my death,” he said softly.
“I am not hallucinating your presence. I may have before, but not now.”
Bryce gave a small laugh. “She has a point, Kitty. This looks very bad for you, professionally and personally. In fact, I’d say you’re fucked.”
Head down, eyes bright and cold looking up through his lashes, Kitt set his gaze on Bryce and smiled, rather demonically, Mae decided. “Don’t you think he does the death stare well?” she said.
Bryce didn’t laugh again. Kitt’s expression didn’t waver.
“Oh, not this testosterone showdown shite again,” Mae muttered.
“Yes, Bryce, I broke protocol. It leads me to ask what that means for me now.”
The Welshman sat back. “I said nothing about your postcards. You could have sent them before you died. There was no point in speculating, not when DNA testing,” he glanced at Mae, “indicated we had your remains. I’m not exactly displeased to see you, Kitty, but you do realise I informed Reed of your demise, just as I informed Mae.”
“M-hm. You know poor, devastated Simon’s thrown himself into work.” Kitt glanced at Mae.
“How did you get into Taittinger’s?”
“Reed. He arranged a meeting with a now dead informant, got us invited to Taittinger’s party. All we need was a bottle of the right wine.”
Bryce sat back, hand still flat on the table. “I see.” He drummed his fingers. “Who’d you use?”
“Somerset and Case Private Capital.”
“Should have guessed by the cowboy hat. That cover’s ancient.”
“Yes. Like you.”
“And my ancient arse is now bent over a table with my trousers down. You see my dilemma.”
Kitt stopped smiling. “One of us being buggered is quite enough. Reed can verify the recent acts of buggery I endured.”
“Who’s buggered you, Kitty?”
“That is what I am trying to establish. I have an idea, but there’s something I want to know first, Sergeant Bryce,” he said.
“Sir.” Bryce lifted an eyebrow.
Kitt looked at Mae. “Why is she sitting here?”
She shook her head. “You know why I’m sitting here.”
“Let’s stop this right now.” Bryce held up a hand. “I can abide duplicity and covert operations gone rogue, but not domestic quarrels.” He lowered his hand. “I had no choice in the matter of where this woman sits.”
“You had orders,” Kitt said through his teeth. “Christ, you were in the room when Llewelyn broached the subject of whether she ‘liked dogs.’ You could have stopped her
from taking the damned job with Taittinger.”
Bryce drummed his fingers again. “She has a mind of her own. And you were dead.”
Mae sat back and crossed her legs and arms. “Thank you, Timothy.”
“Timothy?” Kitt shot a terse look at Mae.
“Jaysus, you are prickly. Drink the damn coffee and I’ll get you another.” She began to rise.
“Don’t you move.”
Mae set her elbows on the edge of the table and leaned forward. “Don’t you bully me.”
Kitt bit his molars together and took a breath. “I apologise for my boorish words and actions. I am very, very tired and I haven’t had breakfast.”
“So that’s where you two are now, the bickering stage.” Bryce exhaled. “I looked after her the best she would allow. The best your circumstance would allow.”
“She’s very angry. And you’ve been looking after her?”
“All this time, as you ordered, Major.”
“And you’re her handler as well?”
Bryce’s nod was slight. “As Llewelyn ordered. Two birds, one stone.”
“I’m not a bird or stone,” Mae mumbled.
“Who’s monitoring?”
“A distant relative.”
Kitt smiled again. “I could kill you, right here.”
Bryce’s eyes flicked to the iced mocha coffee sitting beside his iced-hazelnut-chai-latte-whatever-it-was.
“For feck’s sake,” Mae stabbed a finger on the tabletop. “No one is killing anyone here at this table.”
“Mae,” Kitt said, as if issuing a warning.
“Don’t you look at me like you want to snap my neck.” She pushed her cup toward him. “Drink the damned coffee and get on with it.”
Bryce laughed and shook his head. “Perhaps you’d better explain things.”
Kitt wrapped shortened fingers around the mug and set his eyes on Mae. “I understand duty and so does Bryce. I know what he can risk and what he can’t, and I understand his first duty does not lie with me.” He shifted his attention to Bryce. “Are you put out?”
“No.” Bryce folded his hands together. “I understand. Last year, you told me you had a feeling, an ongoing sense someone in Section SRR had a hand up a skirt. There have been inklings of corruption in several divisions. I know your instincts. Llewelyn has similar instincts. He believes someone has a hand up a skirt in Border Force and SBR. I know you well enough that you think anyone can be gotten to. Even me. Hence the iced mocha you brought me. I’d feel put out by that, but I don’t think you really believe my hand is up anyone’s skirt but Nari’s.” He lifted the mocha-latte and turned the plastic cup. “Flunitrazepam or sodium-pentobarbital?”
Forever in Your Service Page 25
