That surprised a laugh out of her. “No. I’m not quite that spooky. Mr. Didier, I am not your enemy. Our mutual friend would not have put us together if I were.”
She had a point. He nodded, acknowledging that.
“The official position of my office is that you and your people do not actually exist, and anything you and your people may or may not be involved in does not exist, and therefore no investigations can actually be opened into that which does not exist.”
“Officially,” he said again.
“Officially or unofficially. We’re in a political purge year, Mr. Didier. The books are open for audit and the consciences are clear. Next year?” She made a “who knows” gesture with her hands. “Next year may be a different story. But for now, this is entirely off the books.”
“And what is this, off the books?”
“Curiosity. And an offer.”
Sergei had been approached with offers before. The Silence had made an offer to him, not so long ago: bring Wren in as a freelance agent, in exchange for protection from the Council. In the end, the Council had turned out to be a much lesser threat than the Silence itself.
The desire was there to tell Agent Chang to take a flying leap off a short pier, Danny or no. Desire was clubbed with common sense, and stuck in a corner for the moment. “An offer of what?”
Agent Chang kept her poker face on. “I don’t know. Yet. But I suspect that we can work something out. As we go along.” She turned to look at him, her height allowing them to be eye to eye. “I’m curious by nature. That’s why I ended up where I did, doing what I do. Very little is known, even unofficially about your…people. The people who do know are not talking. Being able to join that fraternity of knowledge is something I want, very badly. Badly enough to spend two years of my life on it, Mr. Didier. Two years of using my agency’s computers and off-hours footwork, just to track down a name to go with the rumors. And even then, it took more time to be able to do anything with that name.”
“That doesn’t say much for your investigational skills.” He meant the barb to sting.
“I’ve been a little busy,” she said, properly stung. “This has been a side search. My agency does not merely sit on its thumbs watching radar screens and closed-circuit televisions all day.”
“Rebuke taken. But you did finally track me down. Now what?”
“As I said. Curiosity. Perhaps the possibility of mutual aid: when, as and if needed. Our mutual friend agreed this would be a good time to offer that.”
She seemed to be under the impression that he, Sergei, was a Talent. That amused him, but he thought it better not to correct the misapprehension. Not yet, anyway.
“Originally I meant to contact you simply to exchange business cards, if you will. In the past week, however, my contacts have turned up a new whisper. Someone else is looking at the…unusual communities in this city. Not for you, or Ms. Valere, but something that might be associated with you—or you with it.”
“And you thought to warn us? How nice.” Damn. They were all connected, then. That ulcer absolutely had his name on it.
She stopped, turned and glared at him. “I am not a fool, or a little girl to be patted on the head and dismissed, Didier.” Her voice had gone cold, and her expression could have given P.B. frostbite. “If you didn’t already know that something was up, you would be much less efficient than I expected, and a sore disappointment to me.”
She started walking again, this time faster. He had to stretch his legs slightly to keep up.
“I came today to offer my assistance. Should you so desire it.” She shrugged. “If you don’t…I walk away, having gotten what I wanted—verification, and a contact with someone who is—how shall we put this?”
“Bluntly usually works.”
“Bluntly then. A contact with individuals who have proven to be significant players in a game I’m interested in.”
“If I say no, you actually walk away, no strings attached?” He was deeply dubious.
“Oh, for the love of God. I’m not the bad guy here. I’m not even a player—yet. Right now all I want is to know what the game pieces are, and how they can be moved. In case I ever have a reason to join the game.”
“Unofficially.”
“Or otherwise. I am a government agent. If you know something that can aid me in my sworn duty, I won’t not ask. I am presuming that a warrant might inconvenience your day-to-day activities but not disrupt…whatever else it is that you do.”
The government could kill his gallery, and she knew it. Especially now that he had broadened into non-American artists and imported works. But no, he didn’t think long-term she could do anything to hurt Wren. It would make Margot, Wren’s mother, furious, though.
Given otherwise even odds, he’d back Margot Eliza-beta Valere over Agent Chang. No hesitation.
But…the back-scratching could go both ways, too. Danny, damn him, had been right.
Sergei had to sell his decision a few hours later. “Your mother could take her. In a fair fight, anyway. I’m not sure FBI agents play fair.”
“Neither does my mom, when she’s pissed,” Wren said. They were sitting at the back table at Marianna’s, the chalkboard menu of specials off to one side, ignored. There had been a time they ate here so often the waitress knew their quirks individually. It had been a while; when they came in tonight, they didn’t recognize the waiter, a young, slightly hyperactive Latino man who seemed to be wearing uncomfortable shoes.
Time passed. Things changed, even in your own backyard. Wren was depressed just thinking about it. She hoped that Callie had gone on to better-tipping venues.
The waiter came back, and hovered. They had been talking too long.
“I’ll have the veal piccatta,” she told him. “And a glass of the rioja.”
Sergei nodded approvingly at her choice of wines, and she felt the urge to kick him. She hadn’t been drinking Ripple when they met, after all. All right, she had been under legal drinking age when they met. But she wasn’t Galatea, he wasn’t Pygmalion, and he could keep his damned approval to himself Even as she got cranky, Wren recognized that she was overreacting. It had been a long day: the workout at the gym had left her feeling achy rather than invigorated, Karl had left a note for her saying that the debt was paid off except for his having to listen to an afternoon’s worth of wild fish stories, and he’d get her for that, and every attempt to find a place to practice her break-ins had been too crowded to really consider, if only for the risk of tripping over someone. And now, when she’d hoped to be pleasantly wiped out and smug in victory she was instead being told that they had a new player in the game and her partner wasn’t even sure what the damn game was.
And Callie wasn’t here to snark at them.
The food had better still be good, was all she was thinking.
“I’ll have the New York strip with tamarind, and a glass of the same,” he told the waiter. “And could we have some more bread, please? Thank you.”
The bread, at least, was still good. Wren allowed herself one more stick, refusing Sergei’s offer of the tiny pot of garlic butter, the memory of the gym still fresh in her mind.
“And she wants to meet with us.”
“That was strongly implied. She’s curious. She wants to be counted among the Players in her office, and she thinks that knowing us will get her there. Or at least be a building block to where she wants to be.”
“You’re the one with all the people skills. What’s your take? Is she playing straight with us?”
“No.” He didn’t hesitate on that. “But whatever game she’s playing, she’s treating us like teammates. Right now, anyway.”
Wren waited, chewing on the bread, but he left it at that.
So. This was in her lap, then.
“Danny thought she’d be useful to us, otherwise he would never have given her our contact info, prank or no prank. And you think her information is solid.” If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have told her about the meet
ing.
Or maybe he would have; things had changed in the past few years, a lot of it at her insistence. Something like this, she’d have been pissed if he didn’t tell her. And he knew that.
“I think she believes that it is. But someone might be playing her playing us.”
“You’re just so appallingly cynical,” she told him.
“Very sexy.”
He just smiled at her, and she felt an answering smirk rise up. For a moment, just a moment in these familiar surroundings it was light and easy and the only stress was trying to keep one step ahead of her monthly payments and dodging her mother’s attempts to match-make with a nice boy from home.
Then the moment faded, and she was back in today’s reality again.
“What do you think?” she asked him, pointing what was left of her bread at him like a baton.
“I think it’s a risk. And I’m not sure if we can take on any more risks right now.”
“Okay. Point taken.” They were treading into deep water with P.B.’s job, and maybe not the best time to be juggling new uncertainties, when they were still recovering, and so much else was on the personal plate. But…“Not every new ally is dangerous. Sometimes they’re just annoying.” He raised his pale brown eyes to her in query and she shrugged. “And sometimes they’re damned useful. If not now, then later.”
“That was the gist of her offer, as well. That we might be useful to her later.”
“You normally appreciate that kind of long-term thinking,” she said.
Their wine came and the conversation paused until the waiter went back to hover over the other couple in the tiny restaurant, who still hadn’t decided what they wanted for dinner.
“Normally yes. But I prefer it be us who think forward, and everyone else be short-term and shortsighted.”
“You don’t like her?” Wren frowned. “So you don’t think I should meet with her?”
He was primed to agree, to say that he thought that Wren should keep her distance; that any government agent who wanted to know a Talent personally had an ulterior motive he didn’t like.
Then he had a sudden flick of a switch and was thinking less like a business manager and more like a partner. If he said no, and Wren ever did meet Agent Chang, her first thought would be to wonder if that woman’s looks had anything to do with his desire to keep them apart.
It didn’t. It really didn’t. But convincing Wren of that after the fact…he might as well just slice himself open now and save the time later.
“Yeah actually. I think you should meet. I’d like your take on her, before we dismiss anything out of hand.”
The food came then and the conversation was put aside in favor of eating. The food was as good as previous visits, and for a while the only noises were those of satisfied diners, interrupted occasionally by the waiter coming around to offer to refill their glasses.
“I think I’m tipsy,” Wren said, after they’d agreed to a glass of port instead of dessert. “I haven’t drunk this much since…New Year’s, I think. Mister Didier, are you trying to get me drunk to take advantage of me?”
“The thought never once crossed my mind,” he protested, all innocence. “Since when do I need to get you drunk?”
She looked at him with a sparkle that hadn’t been in her eye for a very long time, and Sergei almost broke his fingers getting his credit card out of his wallet to pay for the meal.
Her breath was scented with red wine and coffee, and her skin smelled like baby powder. They were only a few blocks from Wren’s apartment and they held hands the entire way, strolling in the crisp night air like new-lyweds, or a third-date couple. On the third landing Sergei threw caution—and common sense—to the wind and picked Wren up in a gentle fireman’s carry, taking the rest of the steps two at a time.
“Oh, God, Sergei, crazy man, what are you doing?” she squealed, which made the effort worth it.
He was panting so hard when he reached her landing, he had a moment’s fear he was about to have a heart attack. Idiot macho ego.
She took pity on him, and as they came to her front door, current snapped the locks open and invisible hands pulled the door open.
He hadn’t known she could do that. Then again, he hadn’t known she couldn’t, either. He didn’t much care. His mind was on other things right then.
The door closed behind them, the locks snicking shut one by one, and he carried her down the hallway to the dark green warmth of her bedroom, not bothering to turn on the lamp.
He fell onto the bed first, bringing her down on top of him, and even as they hit the mattress she was squirming free, her hands reaching for his shirt, flicking open the buttons one by one.
“Careful, Zhenchenka, that’s a good work shirt.”
“I’ll be gentle,” she promised, and he grunted, his own fingers sliding under her top, fingers stroking the warm flesh there, feeling the male satisfaction when she had to stop what she was doing to deal with the shudder that ran down her spine at his touch. A good shudder, deep and thick, and he knew without even looking at her face that her eyes were heavy-lidded, her head tilted back slightly, her lips curled in the tiniest of smirks.
Blood surged into his cock, and the weight of his clothing against his skin was suddenly too much. But first, Wren.
She was wearing basic cotton; he had dated women who brought him to his knees with silk and lace, and she did it with a cotton knit sweater and a practical cotton bra, and he was thankful, actually, because he could toss them on the floor without worrying too much about what shape they were in come morning.
And then his hands were on her skin and he wasn’t thinking about any kind of clothing at all. Her body was supple and smooth above him; he could feel the muscle moving beneath the flesh, but there was enough flesh to pad out her hips and ribs pleasingly, and her breasts, thank all the stars in the universe for her breasts he thought, as close to a prayer as he normally got. He cupped their weight in his hand, the nipples hard against his palms.
She got herself out of her pants while he was otherwise occupied, and straddled him wearing only a wisp of panties. Cotton again, maybe, but they were barely there as she stroked his crotch with her own, riding him like a pony, a tease of what was to come.
His shirt was finally open, but it was too much effort to shrug out of it, when it was so much more important to get the hell out of his pants.
Her hands were at his belt, opening his fly, urging his hips up so she could tug the pants down, taking his underwear with it. Only to discover, with a snort of laughter that he was still wearing his dress shoes.
He tried to kick them off, but they were well-made, with good laces, and stayed put on his feet.
She turned, leaving his hands bereft, to deal with the laces, and his hands were presented with a new object of fascination: her rounded cheeks.
“Slap me and regret it,” she warned, without even looking back, and he restrained himself to merely caressing them. There was a cool breath on his toes, and the sound of shoes dropping to the floor, and he pulled the cotton panties off her and pulled her back onto him with such speed that she let out a little squeak of surprise.
Her ass brushed his erection, and then she wiggled a little, opening her thighs for him. He groaned with pleasure at the sensation, and with his hands on her hips, carefully guided them both home.
“You’re…”
“Shh.”
Thankfully, she shushed, spreading herself wider on his lap, and he was able to slide into her with relative ease, only a little awkwardness trying to find her entrance. God, she was tight, as though it had been months instead of weeks since they’d had any kind of physical contact. He went hilt-deep, her weight solidly on him, and he rocked forward, drawing a groan out of her that was sweeter than honey.
They were normally face-to-face lovers, finding comfort in open eyes and whispers, tasting and touching. But this position felt right deep inside her, Wren’s knees drawn up, her controlling the pace while he held on f
or the ride, letting go and falling into her, all over again….
They came together, her startled yell and immediate collapse backward matching his own explosive “whoof” and reactionary melting of muscles that had been so tense up until then.
They lay there both supine on the bed, covered in sweat, until she started to giggle.
“Get off me, woman,” he commanded. “You’re dripping.”
“Whose fault is that?” she asked, but obediently rolled off him, and he could breathe again, already missing her weight on him.
“Nice,” she said, her voice already soft and drowsy. “Very nice.”
She was like a guy in that; sex always made her sleepy. He’d take offense, if it didn’t match his own preferences perfectly. They could talk in the morning. He gathered her up next to him, sweaty skin sticking to sweaty skin. She curled against his side and before he could even think to ask if she wanted to get under the blanket, they were both asleep.
fourteen
Wren woke up with a grin on her face. Not a smile, not a smirk, a full-wattage, canary-feathered expression of satisfaction that made her jaw hurt. It took her a while to figure out why.
Bed, check. Her own bed. Warm and cozy. Nice, but not grin-worthy, exactly. She had slept in, judging from the sunlight managing to get through her dark green drapes; again, nice but nothing of real impact. Achy legs and abs—some of that from the gym workout yesterday but more from the workout last night. That was grin-worthy, oh, yes, but it felt as if more was behind it, somehow.
So. Sex. With Sergei. Nice sex. Very nice sex, in fact. The thought warmed up the already-comfortable temperature in the bedroom slightly, better than any furnace could. For the first time in—she didn’t want to think about how long since they had done more than cautious mutual hand-and-mouth-play, actually. So, nice. Made nicer by the fact that it had happened not when she wasn’t so tired she could barely stir current, but when she was rested and alert. All right, maybe “alert” wasn’t the right word. But even better than that, in fact: it had happened when she was slightly drunk from the wine at dinner. A drunk—or even tipsy—Talent typically had less control over impulse-reactions. It should have been a recipe for disaster. Instead, there had been no overflow of current, no loss of control. No need to ground in Sergei, because even with more flowing in and around her core, she had been able to control it all.
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