by Tinnean
“Well?” Tony demanded.
I repeated the information Mark had given me.
“We’re coming with you.”
“Fine.”
* * * *
For all their insistence on accompanying me to the airport, once we got there, things changed.
“We’re going to wait in Harry’s Tap Room, Portia.”
“Why?”
“We…uh…we thought you might like a little time alone with Quinn.”
“Well…thank you.” I was taken aback by that. Usually Tony and Jefferson had no problem interfering in my personal life, although Bryan, possibly because of what had gone on in his marriage, tended to be more circumspect about it. At that moment, none of them, with the exception of Ludovic, who simply shrugged and smiled ruefully, could meet my eyes, and it occurred to me that they were riddled with guilt for encouraging Quinton to follow in their footsteps, in his father’s footsteps. “Thank you.”
“I’m going with you, Portia.”
“Certainly, Gregor.” I didn’t ask what he thought could happen to me in this airport. He was my bodyguard, and staying with me was part of his job. And he’d want to see Quinton.
We waited outside the Air France gate, and as the number of passengers deplaning dwindled, I began to grow worried. Quinton should have appeared by now.
And then he did, and I realized why he had waited until the other passengers had left, no doubt the same reason why he had probably boarded before them in Paris.
His face was bruised and had a grayish cast. His left eye was no longer black, but it was fading to a sickly greenish-yellow. He seemed to be favoring his right side, and he looked gaunt, as if he’d lost a good deal of weight, but perhaps that was because the suit he was wearing wasn’t the best fit. Had it been bought off the rack?
And I chided myself for such a silly notion at a time like this.
Mark Vincent was at his side, and if it had been any other man, I would have said he was hovering.
Quinton stopped before me and gave me a tired smile. “Hello, Mother. It’s good to see you.”
I embraced him carefully, afraid I might hurt him. “It’s good to see you too, Quinton.” I stepped back, letting Gregor greet him, and turned my attention to the man beside my son. “Thank you. You promised to bring him back to me, and you have.”
“Did you expect anything less?” He grinned, smug and cocky, but I could see beyond that to the anger and the stress. “I am the best, y’ know.”
“Yes, you are.” I added coldly, “I hope the men responsible for this have paid for it.”
His grin vanished, and he scowled at Quinton. “Yeah. They’re dead.”
Hearing Mark’s words, my son glanced over his shoulder and brushed the hair back off his forehead, inadvertently revealing another bruise at his temple. He returned to stand beside Mark and leaned against him. “I took care of them.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Well, I’m not. That was my job! They beat the crap out of him, and he—what?” he demanded in irritation. Quinton was frowning at him.
“I’m not a damsel in distress, Mark.”
“Think I don’t know that?” He sounded furious, but the expression in his eyes was pure worry. “But—” He shut up, and I realized my son must have sent him a silent command. “Uh…yeah.”
“Your uncles are here, Quinton. Mark, they’ll want to thank you.”
“Maybe another time. Quinn’s got nothing in his fridge, and since he isn’t up to getting any shopping done, I’ll stock up for him.”
Gregor snorted, and Mark turned his scowl on him.
“Y’ know, Novotny, I didn’t see you busting your ass trying to get Quinn home.”
“Why you—”
“Enough, gentlemen. Mark, go shopping. I’ll see Quinton gets safely home.”
“Fine. Just don’t keep him on his feet too long.”
I was touched by Mark’s concern.
Quinton rested a hand on his arm. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” But he covered my son’s hand with his own. “I’ll see you later. Just make sure you don’t get kidnapped again. I need my beauty sleep.”
“Of course.” But in spite of how abrasive Mark sounded, Quinton was smiling, and it wasn’t a polite, social smile but one that was heartfelt.
“Babe.” The word was very soft. Mark turned to me. “Mrs. Mann. Novotny.” And he stalked out of the terminal.
“The man’s a—” Gregor bit off the epithet he’d been about to use, flushing slightly and cutting a glance my way. “How can you let him touch you? The thought turns my stomach.”
“It doesn’t turn mine,” Quinton said, as softly as Mark’s single spoken word.
Gregor was too irritated to have heard. “And how is he going to get the groceries into your house? I sure as h-heck have no intention of rushing you home, Quinn!”
“Don’t worry about Mark, Gregor. He’ll manage.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. He’ll probably pick the lock, set off the alarm, and wind up getting arrested.”
I patted Gregor’s shoulder, startled when Quinton began to choke. “Sweetheart?”
He cleared his throat. “Sorry, Mother. Something was caught in my throat.”
“Mmm.” I wondered which he found more amusing—the idea of Mark Vincent breaking into his home or getting arrested for that act. “Let’s go. Your uncles are waiting to see you.”
* * * *
Quinton was safely home, and we’d all spent some time with him. He didn’t want to talk about what had happened, but it was easy to see how much the ordeal had taken out of him. After ascertaining he truly was in one piece and seeing him settled on the couch in his living room, I waved everyone out.
“Do you have everything you need, sweetheart?” A glass of Perrier and a bottle of ibuprofen were on an end table.
“Yes, Mother. Mark will take care of anything else.”
“Call if there’s anything he’s forgotten.”
“I don’t think that’s likely, but I promise I will.”
“See that you do.” I studied his eyes.
“Mother, I really am all right. And you don’t need to wait until Mark comes home.”
Was he aware he’d referred to his home as Mark’s? “I don’t—”
“What’s up with this?” Gregor asked, holding up a photo of what looked like a young Ingrid Bergman.
“Mark thought I deserved someone better than JessicaTheDumbBlonde.”
Gregor ground his teeth. Some years earlier, Quinton had returned home from Europe with a photograph of a blonde woman, who, while extremely beautiful, had an extremely vapid expression. “In case anyone asks why I’m not married, I can use her as an excuse.” And although he’d smiled, there had been a touch of sadness in his eyes.
Music suddenly began playing—Quinton’s cell phone. “That’s Mark.”
“‘Such a Night’?” Gregor looked unhappy about it.
“I like Elvis Presley,” my son said simply.
I couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. He had chosen an Elvis Presley tune for the WBIS agent?
Gregor actually growled, and Quinton gave an apologetic smile. “May I?”
I nodded, and he flipped open his phone.
“Hi.” He listened a moment, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll see you in about ten minutes.” He hung up. “You can go, Mother. I’ll be fine.”
“All right.” I stroked his cheek—the one that wasn’t bruised—and then kissed it. He was so tired and pale.
“Take it easy, okay?” Gregor squeezed his shoulder, then took my arm and ushered me out the door, pausing to make sure it was locked behind us. “We’re going to have a tribe to feed.”
I laughed, as I had no doubt was his intention. “Do we have enough, or should we stop?”
“We’re good, thank God. The last thing I need is to run into Vincent. Let’s go. I want to get cracking.”
* * * *
“Well
, this was a wasted trip,” Tony groused as he accepted the platter of Cornish game hens from Gregor.
“Thank you so much,” I said wryly.
“Sorry, Portia.” He stabbed a game hen and shook it loose onto his plate. “But…”
“It was hardly wasted, big brother,” Bryan said. “We got to see our nephew.”
“Yes, but you know that wasn’t what I meant. We could have stayed home for all the good we did.”
“Yes, we could have, but then you would have worried that we weren’t supporting Portia.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“It ended well, Tony, and that’s the most important thing.”
“You’re right. But it’s the busiest time for you, little brother. The season finale of CIA is this week!”
“The episode has been in the can for three months.”
“Yes, but—”
“More potatoes, Portia?” Bryan grinned at Tony and offered me the serving dish.
“Yes, please.” It was a pleasure to see the oldest and the youngest of my brothers so easy in each other’s company.
“We really didn’t mean to foist ourselves on you, Portia,” Ludovic murmured.
“Of course we did, Ludo!” Jefferson’s expression was shocked, but knowing him, I was aware he wasn’t in the least. “That’s what sisters are for, to feed us during times of crisis.”
“Now, if I did feed you,” I told him, “that truly would be a crisis! Just be thankful Gregor is such a good cook.”
“In that case, we really didn’t mean to foist ourselves on you, Gregor.”
“It’s a pleasure to cook for more than just Portia and me, Ludo.”
While Gregor and the others continued talking, I turned to my youngest brother. “Bryan, I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Whatever you want, little sister.”
“I need a pristine copy of Hondo in DVD format.”
“It’s not available.”
“I’m aware of that.” I smiled at him. “You have connections, though. You’ll get one for me, won’t you?” I’d also have to see about acquiring a top-of-the-line DVD player to go with it. Something along the lines of the one I’d gotten Quinton for Christmas.
Bryan reached across the table and rested his hand on mine. “That was Nigel’s favorite movie.”
“Yes.” I didn’t tell him that was why I wanted it. From what Quinton had told me about the bronze statue he intended to give Mark as a housewarming gift, it also meant a great deal to the WBIS agent.
“I’ll see about it as soon as I get back to L.A.”
I turned my hand over and clasped his. “Thank you.” Then I turned to our oldest brother. “So tell me, Tony. How did Cara Mia feel about you leaving L.A. so precipitously?’’
“She understood, Portia.” Well, since she married someone who’d spent his entire adult life in the intelligence community, it was imperative that she did. “I called her to let her know we have Quinn safely back, and she’s very relieved. She sends her best, by the way. She would have come with us, but Sunday had a dance recital. That little lady really has twinkle toes!”
“I’m sorry you had to miss it.”
“Cara Mia filmed it. I gave her a camcorder for her birthday.”
“Will she be all right?” Her ex-husband hadn’t taken it well when she’d divorced him, and now he appeared to be stalking her, which wasn’t intelligent on his part.
“A friend of ours is keeping an eye on her.”
“Do you think Vincent might be interested in going after the—ow!” Gregor flinched and sent a reproachful glare at Tony, who must have kicked him under the table. “I wasn’t going to call the son of a bitch a son of a bitch!” He blushed bright red.
My brothers groaned, Ludovic threw back his head and laughed, and I swallowed a smile.
“So tell me.” I concentrated on slicing the butter-basted potatoes on my plate into bite-sized pieces. “Will you be able to stay for a visit now that we can relax and enjoy it, or do you need to hurry home?”
* * * *
Later that evening, Folana called me back. “I regret I wasn’t here to take your call. Bart got himself kidnapped. “
“Did he really? There seems to have been a good deal of that going around.”
“That doesn’t alter the fact that he’s mortified. He was taken in by a pair of brown eyes.” But by the time she’d arrived to rescue him, the incident had apparently been dealt with. “I’m hoping we can have a few days of peace and quiet before…”
They took up another assignment?
“Yes, peace and quiet would be nice.”
* * * *
A week or so after he returned home, Quinton retrieved the crate with the statue he had ordered for Mark.
“Did it get the reaction you were hoping for, sweetheart?” I asked during our Sunday ride.
“Oh, yes.” A faint blush rose in his cheeks, but he smiled broadly. “Yes, it did. By the way, he was blown away by Hondo, as well as the DVD player. He said to pass on his verbal thanks and to let you know he’ll send you a thank you note.”
It arrived in the middle of the week. Gregor treated it as if it might be contaminated, but it was quite nice. Mark had a neat, precise script. Mother would have been impressed.
* * * *
Chapter 34
June was always a difficult month, filled with joy because it was the month of our wedding anniversary, filled with sorrow because we would never have another one.
Although Nigel and I would occasionally have a small, private celebration on January 20, the date we had been married for the first time.
I stood before the half-round jewelry armoire that had belonged to Great-grandmother Blackburn—Mother had bequeathed the cherry wood piece to me when I’d returned from London after I’d been presented at Court. I opened the swing door on the left and took out the rope of flawlessly matched black pearls Nigel had given me on our last anniversary before his death.
“Oh, darling, it’s gorgeous!”
“It’s going to look even more gorgeous against your skin!” He took me in his arms, kissed the hinge of my jaw, and whispered in my ear, “Remove your clothes, Portia!”
A flare of heat rushed through me, and with languid movements I shed each article of clothing.
“Now take down your hair.” Color was high on his cheekbones, and a fine tremor ran through him. Again I marveled at all the foolish people who couldn’t see past his cold exterior to the volcanic heat that lay hidden beneath.
He took the pearls and knotted the rope loosely around my waist, letting the ends trail down past my navel to my thighs.
“Do you trust me, darling?”
I cupped his cheeks in my palms. “With my life…” …my heart, my soul…
“Turn around.”
I did as he bid, facing the large mirror above the double dresser that took up most of a wall in our bedroom, and watched, my breath hitching as he reached around to trace the pearls. Elegant, competent hands settled on my hips, holding me steady, and I shivered at the feel of his trousers against my bare legs. I moved aside the hair that swung freely down my back, and he brushed soft, warm kisses from the base of my skull, across my shoulder, and down past the crook of my elbow to nip my wrist.
He took the time to probe the space between my fingers with his tongue, and then his mouth was once more on my shoulder. His lips and tongue traced the line of my spine, lingering at the small of my back, at the small, heart-shaped beauty mark, which, before him, I’d never realized was there.
The zip of him undoing his trousers was the only sound in the room, other than our harsh breaths. He slid into me, and I trembled in his embrace.
“I’ll love you forever, Portia. Until the end of my life and beyond!”
I shook myself out of my reverie, smiled wistfully, and put the pearls away.
It was the twenty-fourth of June, and if Nigel had lived, we would have been married forty years.
* * * *
<
br /> Chapter 35
I was wandering through the Small French Paintings exhibit in the National Gallery when I ran into someone I knew studying Monet’s Ships Riding on the Seine at Rouen.
“Mark! What a pleasure to see you here.”
“Mrs. Mann.” He grinned at me and shrugged. “Quinn’s out of town, and I had nothing better to do. Where’s Novotny?”
“He’s just over there.”
“He’s not going to be happy seeing you talk to me.”
“I am my own woman, you know.”
“I know. But I can understand him wanting to keep you safe. Would you join me?”
“I’d be delighted.” I slid my hand into the arm he offered, and as we strolled through the galleries, he pointed out a Cezanne he particularly liked. “How did you become interested in this period?”
“I was given a book one Christmas some years ago. Unfortunately, it was ruined when my apartment exploded and D.C.’s finest got a little too enthusiastic with their fire hoses.”
“Ah.” I remembered Folana telling me about that.
“That’s all you have to say about it?”
“Yes. Unless you’d care to tell me how it is that you can so casually mention your home being destroyed by an explosion.”
He stared at me for a moment, a lopsided grin on his face. “I may as well tell you—just so you know Quinn is safe when he visits me. I have about six locks on my front door, and if they aren’t unlocked in the correct sequence—which I change periodically—the door goes boom.”
“I see.”
“It keeps out the boogeyman.” He changed the subject. “Thank you again for Hondo and the DVD player. Although I have to say I have no clue how you figured that was my favorite movie.”
“Oh?”
He slanted a glance toward me. “Quinn sure as…he didn’t know.”
I patted his arm.
Gregor stalked up to us. “Por-Mrs. Mann, we have to leave if you want to be ready to meet Mr. Sebring and Mr. Rivenhall for dinner.” He glared at Mark.
“Novotny, your face is going to freeze in that expression. I have to get going also. Enjoy your dinner, ma’am.”
“Thank you. But Mark?”
“Ma’am?”
“Please stop calling me ‘ma’am.’”
