by Helena Maeve
He’d been abducted and released, and assailed by tall tales without Claudia’s instinctive bullshit-o-meter to set him straight.
Once he’d parked outside the hotel, the thought of sitting in the car and waiting out the rain settled over him like a blanket. Ulysses dismissed it. He needed a shower after that reckless, foolish affair with Robin. The sooner he erased the tight grip of his fingers from memory, the better.
With a deep breath, he jerked the door open and dashed from the car, taking the steps to the hotel door two by two. The Ford locked at the press of a button, headlights flashing once.
Inside it was warm and dry, the hotel lobby blessedly empty. Ulysses shook off the rain from his trench coat and scraped a hand through his damp hair.
“Mr. Leach?” The voice was so soft that Ulysses nearly missed it.
He whirled around, expecting to see Robin, ready to give him a piece of his mind when he did. No such luck.
“Mr. Leach, if we could have a word.”
Ulysses frowned at the waspish figure in the undertaker suit. “Are you with the hotel?”
“Not quite.” The stranger spoke perfect French, conspicuous in the utter absence of any accent. He gestured to a room just off the lobby, where Ulysses had enjoyed that morning’s scant spread of a continental breakfast.
His temper already short, Ulysses bristled. “Look, I don’t know you and I have nothing to—” His retort died in his throat.
A pistol pointed at his sternum could have that effect.
“Please, Mr. Leach. We would prefer not to use force.”
We? It took Ulysses a moment to make out the other two men. They were lounging on rickety wooden chairs, shrouded in the shadows of the breakfast room. Reinforcements.
Ulysses’ gun-toting friend jerked the muzzle of the pistol.
“If this is a shakedown, you have the wrong man. I don’t have any cash on me.”
“We know who you are, Mr. Leach.” The restaurant door clicked shut in their wake. “And we suspect the feeling is mutual.”
Ulysses flexed his hands against his sides. Damn Robin. He was two for two.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re working on a story,” said one of the sitting men. He wore an off-the-rack black suit jacket with a burgundy tie as faded as the chairs in the Marcel Carné theater. A silver pin held it in place. He looked like someone’s idea of a fifties’ mobster, down to the slicked-back hair and the unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“Yes, well. Nobody’s perfect.”
The stranger with the gun jabbed him lightly between the shoulder blades. “It would not be prudent to prevaricate, Mr. Leach. You don’t want us for an enemy.”
“I don’t know who you are. I haven’t seen any badges. If you’re with Interpol…”
It was a stab in the dark, as far from the suspicions bubbling at the back of his mind as Ulysses could get. Visions of blood-stained floorboards flashed behind his eyes. A summary execution in a deserted place.
A vanished corpse.
“We’re not,” said the sitting man. “What do you know about Sam Isbell?”
Ulysses was relieved to say, with complete sincerity, “Not a bloody thing.”
“That’s interesting. You two seemed awfully close earlier this evening.”
The third man reached into his suit jacket. Ulysses thought his heart was about to shatter through the cage of his ribs. It didn’t slow one iota when a mobile was thrust under his nose, a still of himself and Robin brandished on the screen.
In the snapshot, they were standing as close as lovers against the wall of the pub. Shadows mercifully concealed the details of their embrace.
“Would you like to reconsider your answer?” asked the man with the gun.
“That’s not… I didn’t know his name.”
“And yet.”
Innards tied up in knots, Ulysses scoffed. “Is it a crime to shag someone without asking for their life’s story? I don’t know the bloke, I have no desire to know him. Whatever you want with him, it’s not my problem.” He made to turn, but the gun stopped him short. The safety clicked off. A bead of sweat ran down Ulysses’ nape to soak into the collar of his shirt. “You don’t want to do that.”
“Indeed I do not. But men drown all the time in this part of the country. It would be a shame if you were to be found on the beach tomorrow morning, wouldn’t it?”
“Mm,” said the sitting man. “Your ex-wife doesn’t need that grief, does she?”
The blood drained from Ulysses’ face. He’d been threatened before—perks of the job—but never so softly, so politely. He didn’t doubt for a second that these thugs meant what they said.
He thought of John Doe, disappearing overnight from the Gatinau morgue. He thought of Robin and his cohorts, hiding in a crumbling house from a menace they didn’t dare name.
His throat worked, vocal cords snagging on a plea. No, that wouldn’t work here.
“What do you want?” Ulysses choked out.
The man standing behind him exhaled. “Do sit.”
There was no question of disobeying this time. Ulysses’ rubbery knees threatened to give out anyway.
* * * *
Hands shaking around the glass of cognac, Ulysses slanted a glance to the door of the pub. He’d been here an hour and still there was no sign of Robin. Odds were high that he’d already skipped town with volatile Jules and taciturn Manuel. Part of Ulysses prayed for it.
The rest wondered what was in store for him if he couldn’t deliver Robin to the SIS. He had his suspicions.
The house perched on the white cliffs above Criel-sur-Mer had been dark when Ulysses swung by. It remained stubbornly dark throughout the morning, as Ulysses wasted his time hoping to catch a glimpse of Robin.
When asked, the landlady shook her head and made as though she didn’t know whom he meant.
It was a familiar refrain. No one in Normandy seemed to know much about anything, or want to talk to journalists.
First John Doe, now Robin…
Ulysses guzzled another sip of cognac. Disappearing acts were all the rage here.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Third time that evening. He thought of answering, but it was probably Claudia, checking in. He didn’t want to see her name flash across the screen, a reminder of all that he had to lose.
He dreaded the temptation of blurting everything out to her and involving her in his mess.
The men at the hotel had made no secret of their willingness to use force should Ulysses fail to deliver. He looked down at his hand, the bruise on his wrist dark from where he’d been pinned face down to a table. The detergent perfume of the white tablecloth lingered in his lungs, along with the tight clutch of dread.
“Another drink?” the bartender asked, ripping Ulysses from his pity party.
He shook his head.
“Ah, have another. Cognac makes the world rosy, don’t you know?”
“No, really…” Ulysses scowled, but it was a lost battle.
Not when the world is this sodding surreal.
The bartender slid another glass onto a coaster and pushed it toward him. “On the house, Monsieur.”
Beneath the snifter, the coaster lay wrong side up. On its back, in black ink, someone had scribbled, Restroom. Now. R.
Adrenaline jounced in Ulysses’ veins like a cork in water. He glanced up, but the bartender had already moved on, quick to turn his back on what he must have assumed was some nefarious business.
Ulysses strove for nonchalance as he climbed to his feet. Heart in his throat, he left the cognac behind but took the coaster with him. It was no good leaving evidence behind where it could incriminate him.
The restrooms lay at the rear of the pub. He eased open the door to the men’s as gently as he could manage. The hinges still creaked.
Neon flickered overhead, like something out a slasher film. Ulysses startled when a hand landed on his sho
ulder and spun him around hastily.
Robin materialized into view in jeans and a black shirt. He pressed a finger to his lips, silencing the gasp Ulysses didn’t have the breath to let out.
You shouldn’t be here. They’re watching.
Throat tight, Ulysses drew his phone out of his jacket. Bugged, he mouthed mournfully. Robin likely knew it already.
Sure enough, he eased the mobile out of Ulysses’ hand and secreted it behind a radiator. His eyebrows climbed up his brow in silent interrogation.
Ulysses shook his head. No, he wasn’t wearing a wire. He suspected that was because his minders thought he might end up naked at some point. Revulsion roiled in his gut. Before it could get the better of him, Robin hooked a hand around his elbow and tugged him toward the back exit of the pub.
Forbearance deserted Ulysses as soon as he saw the dark sedan. He wrenched his arm free.
“What the bloody hell is this?”
“Desperate measures. You weren’t taking my calls.”
“I don’t recall giving you my number,” Ulysses snarled. Why that should stand in the way of a former spy, he didn’t know. He couldn’t claim to be thinking straight. The likelihood of Robin digging up his information was far from the strangest thing to have happened to him lately. “What do you think you’re doing coming here?”
“Keep your voice down.” Robin gritted out.
“My voice… I’ve got the sodding goon squad telling me they’ll finish me unless I help them find you! They’re tracking my phone—”
Robin stepped closer. “Which agency?”
“What?” The alley stank with the putrid scent of rotting vegetables and spilled liquor. Ulysses wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know. Ours, I think…” He didn’t know names, he didn’t have specifics.
“Ours,” Robin echoed. His gaze dipped to Ulysses’ mouth. “You’re sure?”
“I didn’t hear a Russian accent, if that’s what you’re asking…”
Robin nodded. “Good. Get in the car.”
“I can’t run—”
“I’m not asking you to, but you need to sit down, get a grip. Then go back out there and do exactly as I tell you.”
That was one refrain Ulysses was beginning to tire of, but he let Robin bully him into the back of the black sedan with little protest. It didn’t seem as confining without a hood over his face, but he didn’t relish the muffled sound of rain on the windows, or the heat of Robin’s thigh against his.
“Left your mates home this time?” he quipped nervously.
“You’re not a very good listener,” Robin shot back, sliding in beside him. “I told you. They’re not my friends.” With the doors closed, the world narrowed to the two of them in the cramped back seat.
“Whatever they are… Whoever you all are.” Ulysses dropped his head against the backrest. “I’m not—this doesn’t concern me. I should never have come here.”
“Lost your appetite for danger?” Mockery fled Robin’s voice swiftly. He sounded almost apologetic when he added, “I did warn you to drop it.”
“They know we were together.”
“Ah.” Robin glanced out of the window. “I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s their business to know. What did they promise you?”
Ulysses tried to stare ahead, to keep his gaze from slanting down to the curve of Robin’s shoulders, the pale arch of his neck. He’d spent the better part of his adulthood trying to bury deep the proclivities he’d given into in his youth.
Men like Robin were the reason it was so bloody difficult.
“They told me all about you,” he replied, sidestepping the question. “Word has it you’re something of a dodgy character.”
The slow twist of Robin’s head gave Ulysses plenty of time to look away. He didn’t. Their eyes met.
“And yet here you are… Unconvinced?”
“Curious,” Ulysses corrected. “Sam is a lovely name. Why change it?”
A shadow flickered across Robin’s face. It was just enough to whet Ulysses’ appetite.
“Is it true, about Rome?”
“Which part?” Robin deflected.
The part where a CIA agent was murdered in his home, the death made to look like a suicide. Ulysses pressed on, past the great weight of fatigue weighing on his shoulders, the dread that threatened to buckle his knees. “What about Moscow?” Suspicious drowning, the body wrapped in plastic after being tortured to death.
“Red city, too many tourists?”
At the end of his tether, Ulysses grabbed him by the collar. “Listen to me, you little shit—”
The world pitched violently as Robin slammed him back into the seat and pinned him with an elbow across his throat.
Ulysses wheezed, the breath knocked out of his lungs.
“No, you listen. You wanted answers and now you have them. Like it or not, the people you’re working for don’t tolerate loose ends. They’ll use you however they can and discard you when they’re done.” Robin leaned in close, his breath gusting hot on Ulysses’ cheek. “I’ve done terrible things on their orders. Now they’re making a case against me because I stepped out of line.”
Ulysses squirmed. He tried to shove Robin off, but a hundred fifty pounds of lithe muscle were still better suited to hand-to-hand than Ulysses’ desk-bound self. “Is that what happened…with John Doe?”
“No.”
“You killed him.”
A muscle twitched in Robin’s jaw. “If you think that, what’re you doing here?”
“Rock and a hard place. I had no choice.”
“No, I suppose they wouldn’t give you any… I told you it wasn’t me. But I know who did it. And I know why.” He eased off then, still holding Ulysses pinned but no longer threatening to cut off his air supply. “John Doe was a foot soldier. You’re dealing with the cavalry. It’s who you send when your wet work specialists screw up.”
“Send for what? I don’t—”
“You were in Rome, right?” Robin recalled. “That wasn’t an active agent being bumped off. This started with someone picking off the retirees. What if… God damn it.” He fell back against the backrest, pressing both hands to his face. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
It was foolish and it was thoughtless, but Ulysses couldn’t resist looping a hand around Robin’s wrist. Panic thrummed in his veins like a second heartbeat. He was in too deep, too far over his head.
“Tell me,” he begged. “I’m a dead man either way.”
Hitmen and women were a long way from the Westminster cancans he normally covered.
Robin held his gaze for a long beat, then surged forward. Upholstery creaked beneath them as he pressed Ulysses back with both hands fisted tight in his shirtfront. Their lips met violently, a kiss drowning out the cry of surprise building in Ulysses’ throat. Robin steadied himself with a hand against the window and knee-walked closer and closer, until Ulysses was trapped beneath him, thighs bracketed by jean-clad calves.
It was the most irrational, hazardous-to-his-health thing that he could do. He knew it when he grabbed Robin’s shirt and fumbled open the buttons. He knew it when he tore his mouth away to press a kiss to the freshly exposed patch of skin just above Robin’s sternum.
Robin knotted a hand in his hair, holding him close.
He thought he heard Robin groan, but it might have been thunder rumbling overhead.
Everything about this job was shit, from the dismal weather to the realpolitik Ulysses had stumbled into. Right then, the steadily mounting friction between Robin’s chiseled body and his was the only thing holding him together.
He all but tore open Robin’s zipper in his haste to undress him. There was no room for tugging trousers off in the narrow confines of the back seat, so Ulysses shoved them down his hips and hurriedly reached for Robin’s underwear.
He got his pants down to mid-thigh. Then he stopped.
“What’s the matter?” Robin asked, his voice a whisper in Ulysses’ ear. He pulled back just far enough
to for their eyes to meet.
“You’re… You didn’t say you were…”
Robin’s expression shuttered. “The word you’re looking for is transsexual.”
Ulysses didn’t stop him dismounting. He was still processing.
“I thought you said they told you all about me.” Robin scowled, shimmying back into his clothes with jerky movements.
Evidently they left some things out. Ulysses laid a tentative hand on his knee, expecting to be shoved away. Robin was half wild and quite possibly an international assassin implicated in one if not more espionage-related murders, and yet he stilled beneath Ulysses’ touch.
“They mentioned the no-fly list,” Ulysses pointed out. “And the cover-up in Moscow—”
“CIA’s doing.”
“And Rome?”
Robin let out a shallow breath. “Directorate S… I think.”
His fingers halfway up Robin’s denim-clad thigh, Ulysses froze. “The Russians killed a CIA retiree.”
“And the CIA retaliated. It’s what they do.” Robin met his eyes with an arched eyebrow. “You asked.”
The V of Robin’s splayed legs was a welcome distraction. Ulysses cupped him with a trembling hand. “I owe you one.”
Breath left Robin’s lungs in a rush. “Is that what this is? Payback?”
His voice quaked when Ulysses slid his hand beneath his underwear and jeans, between his folds, seeking out feverish, slick skin. It quivered in that way he knew meant surrender, meant give me more.
Ulysses wasn’t disappointed. He’d been married to a woman before and female anatomy had never been a turn off. Even if these days he’d swung firmly to the other side of the Kinsey scale, he still found delight in the hitch of breath that threaded in and out of Robin’s throat. Whatever strange, soft warmth he felt beneath his hand, he still wasn’t shagging a woman.
“There?” he murmured, flattening the heel of his palm to Robin’s pulsing cunt. “This what you want?”
Robin cupped the back of his neck and pulled him down into a rough kiss. It seemed he wasn’t the sort to beg.
