The Tin Man

by Nina Mason

  * * * *

  While Buchanan showered, Thea went into the kitchen to rustle up something to eat. If she was this hungry, he must be, too. She put the kettle on for tea and hunted around, finding some eggs and butter that were still fresh in an old-fashioned icebox, and half a loaf of homemade bread in a hinged wooden box on the counter.

  She wondered briefly how he liked his eggs, but shrugged it off. He didn’t seem like the type to be fussy about such things. And, even if he was, he was probably hungry enough to eat anything she put in front of him and, if he had any brains, would show the proper gratitude.

  As she put the pan on the stove, she felt a stab of shame for having kissed him. What had come over her? She wasn’t normally so bold with her affections. Was it an adrenaline rush brought on by the gunfight? She had read that violence sometimes triggered sexual arousal. Was he feeling it, too? Was that why he kissed her back? And he definitely had. She wasn’t mistaken about that. Although, apparently, she was mistaken in her belief that he was warming to her.

  Only if you want it to mean something.

  The coldness of his words still chilled her. Shrugging them off, she returned to her breakfast preparations, breaking several eggs into a bowl and whisking them with a fork. When the pan was hot, she threw in some butter, pushed it around with the fork until it sizzled, and then poured in the mixture. As she scrambled, she listened to the thundering shower, trying very hard not to think about him standing there under the hot spray with water streaming down his naked body.

  Trying, but failing miserably.

  The shower shut off just as the eggs were done. She divided them onto two plates, buttered the toast, and poured the tea. She wished there was some milk—she liked a little milk in her tea and suspected that he, being a Brit, took milk in his as well. But, short of getting it from the source, which she wasn’t about to do, they’d have to do without.

  “Get it while it’s hot,” she called out toward the bedroom.

  He appeared a moment later, again wearing only his pants.

  “Ah, Thea,” he said, pausing in the doorway to savor the smell. “What a doll you are. I could eat a horse.”

  “I hope you’ll settle for eggs and toast,” she said with a flickering smile, gesturing toward the table where she’d set the food.

  He didn’t seem particularly cagey or resentful, she noted with relief, as they both sat and dug in. While they ate, she told him about her conversation with Riley Witherspoon and the trips she and her grandfather used to make to Independence Hall when she was a girl.

  “Have you ever been there?” she asked, shoveling in a forkful of egg. “My grandfather was totally enamored with the place.”

  “No,” he replied, piling a clump of eggs onto his toast, “but I’m eager to see it.”

  She sipped her tea. “What do you suppose the curator wants to tell me?”

  “I can’t begin to guess,” he said, toast poised for a bite. “Let’s just pray your granddad’s still alive, eh?”

  The possibility that he might not be pressed on her heart. When her father left, her grandfather had stepped in to fill his shoes. And now, with her mother gone, he was all she had left. If she lost him, too, she’d have no family. The thought was more than she could bear. Setting her fork on the plate with a clink, she took her last gulp of tea before rising from the table. Collecting her dishes, she carried them to the sink.

  “Would you mind washing up while I grab a quick shower?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “It’s the least I could do,” he replied, sounding almost cheerful, “after you made breakfast. And thanks again for that. It really hit the spot.”

  “You’re welcome,” she told him, striding toward the doorway. “And I won’t be long.”

  * * * *

  Buchanan cleared and rinsed his dishes. Under the sink, he found a bottle of amber dishwashing liquid, squirted some into the sink, filled it with water, and piled the dishes into the suds. While they soaked, he went into the living room and lit a cigarette. He could hear Thea in the bedroom, moving around.

  Now they at least had a lead on her grandfather’s whereabouts. Or, rather, the promise of a lead. He was pretty sure this Witherspoon character hadn’t invited her to Philadelphia just so he could drop the bomb that the old man was dead. That much he could have relayed over the phone. No, he must know something. Something important.

  The pipes rumbled as the shower came on. He tried not to picture her in there, stark naked under the spray, tried not to think about how good it felt last night to kiss her, to feel his libido rallying again. Was it her or the adrenaline? Did it matter? He’d lain awake half the night with a bloody hard-on, wanting to go to her, wishing he could take back the stupid thing he’d said.

  Even now, he could feel her mouth on his—warm, wet, and wanting; could feel the velvety fullness of her breasts in his hand, the nub of her nipple swelling against his thumb. Was her other nub swelling as well? He imagined the feel of it in his mouth, the taste and smell of her female tang as he suckled her to orgasm. The ache of longing pulsed through his pelvis, urging his cock to rouse.

  Flicking his spent cigarette into the fireplace, he went back to the dishes. As he washed, he found himself thinking about Helene. She was attractive, smart, and sexy as hell—not unlike Thea in lots of ways, come to think of it. When they made love, though, he’d lie there afterward, not basking in the afterglow, but burning with the desire to escape.

  Lately, things had gotten worse. Now, he had trouble getting started. He couldn’t deny that he felt nothing for her beyond friendship, but that never stopped him before. What the devil was wrong all of a sudden? Did it have something to do with his PTSD? He’d read that it could cause depression. And that depression, in turn, could cause performance problems. Was that what it was about? And yet, last night, he’d felt like his old randy self again.

  Maybe his mum was right when she said he would feel differently when he met the right woman. His heart palpitated violently. Oh, bloody hell. Was The Ball Buster Miss Right? He listened to the shower, imagining her standing there naked, water cascading off her nipples and the beard between her legs. He felt lust—no question—but also something else. Admiration? Affection? Both?

  Bloody hell. Had he finally met the right woman? All these years he’d been afraid the whole notion might be a fairy tale—or that he lacked the capacity for love, even in his younger days. Back before Baghdad.

  A picture of Carol Brody, his first girlfriend, came into his mind. She was pretty and blonde with a pert nose, nice tits, and china-blue eyes. On Friday nights, he’d take her to the pictures, sit with her in the back row, cock aching with frustration, and cop a “feely.” Afterward, they’d steal into the private garden behind her house and snog until his bollocks were as blue as her eyes.

  “Do you want me to die?” he’d ask, breathing hard.

  Desperate to earn his White Pin—what the lads back in Edinburgh called losing their virginity—he could lay it on thick.

  “Of course I don’t,” she’d insist. “I love you, Alex.”

  “If you mean that,” he’d reply, “you’d give yourself to me.”

  “Och, well,” she’d say with a winsome smile. “Maybe I will one of these days—if you promise to make an honest woman of me.”

  As tempted as he was to lie, he couldn’t bring himself to deceive her. He knew in his heart, even then, that he wasn’t the marrying kind. He yearned for a life of freedom, excitement, and adventure. Like James Bond or John Steed. He wanted to pop Carol’s cherry in the worst way, but not if it meant getting saddled with a nagging wife and a brood of snot-nosed weans.

  Not that Carol was ever a nag. In fact, now that he thought back on it, she’d always been perfectly lovely to him. Until he got caught stealing cars, that was. Then, she’d have nothing more to do with him.

  The memory triggered another. In his mind, he was with Kenny again, joyriding with the lads out to the airport, passing around a joint a
nd a bottle, getting pulled over by the police, scared shitless about what their da might do, especially if he’d been drinking.

  The scene in the living room came back then. His da standing there in his wife-beater t-shirt, stripping off his belt. His mum in the doorway, weeping into her hankie. Him standing there beside Kenny, their backs to their old man, shaking with fear, knowing what was coming.

  “What in the name of God’s arse were ye thinking lads?” their da railed. “D’ye ken that they might have put you in prison? D’ye ken what they’d do to a pair of bonny lads such as yourselves up in Stenhouse? Young meat, they’d call you.” He snapped the belt, making the boys cringe in fear. “Now drop your kecks and grab those ankles. The both of you. And thank your lucky stars it’s naught but a whipping your sorry arses will be getting this night.”

  As the memory faded, he let out a sigh and reached for a towel. Drying the dishes, he listened to the shower. What if he were to go in there and tell her he wanted to finish what they started last night, that he’d been wrong, that laying with her would mean something? Tossing the towel on the counter, he started to the door, but stopped himself. What was he thinking? Even if he was sure of his feelings for her—which he bloody well wasn’t—he was still technically involved with Helene.

  Right, well. Perhaps involved was too strong a word to describe what existed between him and his landlady, but it still didn’t make it right to start something with Thea until he was free and clear. Then again, maybe he should just go for it. He honestly didn’t think Helene would give a rat’s arse. They had, after all, agreed to a “no strings” policy. And yet. And yet. Hadn’t he learned from painful experience that women often said “no strings” while trying to get their hooks in? Bit by bit, they’d spin a web until a man found himself wrapped in a suffocating cocoon. Och, no. Better to play it safe. Better to make a clean break before pursuing anything new.

  Besides, he was still extremely uncertain about his feelings. What if he slept with Thea, then changed his mind? Did he want to be that guy? Oh, bloody hell. His head was starting to spin. What in the name of the wee man was wrong with him? Someone wanted him dead, the only man who might know the reason was missing, and what was he doing? Drying the bloody dishes whilst obsessing about a woman!

  James Bond and John Steed never wasted time on this kind of emotional bollocks—unless, of course, the woman was a gorgeous threat like Pussy Galore. Or, in Steele’s case, Emma Peele. And who could blame him there? Mrs. Peele was beautiful, brilliant, fearless, and a master of disguise and the martial arts. What man in his right mind wouldn’t meditate on her virtues?

  Shaking his head, he put the dishes in the cupboard and laid the towel over the sink to dry. He’d better get on with it. He still needed the tools to get the Mustang started, though he could probably make do with a pocketknife and pliers. He also could use a pair of gloves—to avoid burning himself if the wires sparked.

  First, though, he needed to finish getting dressed. He limped into the bedroom, hoping to get it done before she got out of the shower, not realizing until he rounded the doorway that the water was no longer running. He pulled up, but too late. She was leaning over the bed, going through her bag—wearing only a bra and panties.

  Black lace. Holy fuck.

  His jaw dropped as his gaze swept over her form. God, but she was a vision. Just as he started to shrink away, she saw him. A blush scorched his cheeks. He started to stammer some sort of apology, but couldn’t spit out the words. To his surprise, she made no effort to cover herself.

  “Like what you see?” she said, turning like a runway model to give him a better view.

  Did he ever. Her breasts were bulging out of the bra like two scoops of mocha ice cream. He licked his lips, too tongue-tied to answer. He could feel the blood in his head rushing south. He wanted to look away, but couldn’t seem to remember how.

  She dropped the bag on the floor, got on the bed, and laid back like a sacred offering. The sweet fire of longing blazed in his groin.

  “I’m all yours, Tiger,” she said throatily, batting her eyelashes. “What are you waiting for?”

  He took a step forward, aching for her, then stopped. If he fucked her now, like this, there was no going back. That he wanted her, rather desperately, he couldn’t deny. But he was way too old to let his wee head make this kind of decision. Could he honestly say he cared enough to get involved?

  And what about Helene?

  “Jesus, Thea,” he croaked, stepping back. “I’d like to, really I would, but….”

  Her eyes flashed as she sat bolt upright. Her hands flew up to cover her breasts. “You’re turning me down? Seriously?”

  “I want to. I do. Believe me,” he said, fumbling for words. “It’s just that—”

  She bounced off the bed, swept up her bag, and stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door so hard the whole room shook.

  Swallowing hard, feeling like a useless bag of shite, he went in and finished dressing as quickly as he could before returning to the kitchen. He didn’t blame her for being upset. He would be upset, too, if their positions were reversed. It was humiliating to offer yourself to someone only to be rejected. Not that he was rejecting her. Far from it, in fact. But she didn’t know that, did she? And he didn’t want to say or do anything until he was more certain of his feelings. One way or the other.

  He stood at the sink for a moment, waiting for his blood to cool before squatting to open the cupboard. Bingo. There was an old wooden toolbox inside. He pulled it out and rifled noisily through the contents, finding everything he needed. He went back to the bedroom, feeling the need to say something to restore the peace. He didn’t know how far they were from Philadelphia, but he sure as shite didn’t relish making the trip in stony silence. She was, he discovered, still in the bathroom. Apprehensively, he approached and knocked.

  “Look, Thea, I’m sorry,” he said, raising his voice to be heard through the door. “It’s not that I don’t want to. Truly.”

  “Fuck you, Buchanan,” she called back. “You had your chance.”

  He shook his head. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m super. Couldn’t be better.”

  Her tone was spiteful, to say the least.

  “We need to get going,” he reminded her, praying they could put this behind them.

  “Bite me,” she told him. “I’ll be out when I’m damn good and ready.”

  * * * *

  Thea sat on the toilet, hugging her knees to her chest, inwardly beating herself to a pulp. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to cry, scream, or kick herself around the barn. What had she been thinking? It was so pathetic. So humiliating! Now, on top of thinking she was a total bitch, he’d also be thinking she was a total whore. And desperate. A desperate fucking bitch of a whore.

  Not exactly every man’s Venus—or even the tough, self-sufficient image she worked so hard to project.

  Frankly, right now, she mostly wished she was dead—or that she’d taken his advice and gone back to New York while she still had the chance (and her dignity). Now, they were stuck together—at least until they talked to Riley Witherspoon in Philadelphia, which is what any sane person would be focusing on right now. Finding her grandfather, not fucking some guy who clearly wasn’t interested. What the hell was wrong with her? But she knew the answer, didn’t she? And it wasn’t some dissociative disorder or some primal urge triggered by blood and gore.

  She took a deep breath and blew it out.

  What was done was done. There was no erasing the mortifying fact that she had offered herself to him like a bowl of candy and been summarily spurned. Well, maybe not summarily, but spurned. Definitely. And she had the barbs in her heart to prove it.

  On the other hand, hadn’t she seen a glimmer of hunger in his eyes? She shook her head, wanting to scream. Don’t think like that! Don’t hold out hope! It will only lead to more disgrace.

  Disgrace. Now there was a good word. And it perfectly described how she fel
t at this moment. Disgraced. Like the time her mom walked in on her giving her high school boyfriend a blowjob. She was so ashamed, it took weeks before she could look her mother in the eye again. Even now, she couldn’t think about it without feeling the scorch in her heart. She cringed to think what it was going to be like to have to face Buchanan in a few minutes. And not just face him, but also spend hours in a car with him alone.

  Somebody please, kill me now.

  She drew a deep breath and blew it out with vehemence. Okay. Enough wallowing. Time to call lights out on the pity party. Time to pull it together. Head up, shoulders back, chest out. Never let them see you sweat. Hadn’t that always been her motto? Wasn’t that how she’d gotten where she was, despite her tender core?

  If Buchanan didn’t want her, so be it. It was his loss, right?

  She went to the sink, splashed cold water on her face, and ran a brush through her hair before returning it to her bag. She pulled out some clothes and a pair of boots, put them on, and checked her look in the mirror: the fitted long-sleeved t-shirt made her look stacked, the tight denim mini-skirt made her legs look even longer than they already were, and the boots made her look both cool and hot at the same time.

  Oh yeah, she thought, feeling her confidence return, it was definitely his loss.

  Chapter 11

  Zeus licked his lips as his gaze caressed the vintage Aston Martin DB5 before him, every bit as drool-worthy as the genuine article. Just like the original Bondmobile, the museum’s replica was tricked out with deadly gadgets that could be activated with the push of a button: wheel caps that converted to razor-sharp tire slashers, bulletproof shields, an ejector seat, oil jets to grease-up the road behind, and dual machine guns that sprang out of the driving lamps, among other features.

  In 2010, a collector bought the genuine article at auction for $4.6 million, but there was an exact replica on permanent exhibit at the International Spy Museum in Washington, D.C.