Silver Bells

by Tinnean

  “This is looking very good.” She replaced the bandage with a new one.

  “So I can go home?”

  “Yes. You know the drill, I’m sure.”

  Keep the bandage dry, change it daily, any rise in temperature, call her.

  “Do I…uh…do I need to come back? To have the stitches removed?” He wanted to feel her breath on his ass again.

  “No, I used dissolvable sutures.”

  Well, that was something. “Okay, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” She removed her gloves.

  “How long have you been here? I mean…Dr. Goddard used to run Medical. And now Dr. Futé.”

  “I heard about Goddard.” And it sounded like she didn’t care for what she’d heard. “I’m here temporarily.”

  Charles waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. Well, he’d been at the Washington Bureau of Intelligence and Security long enough to get the point—everyone had secrets. He changed the subject.

  “Do I get the good drugs?”

  “For a wound like this? Ibuprofen or naproxen will work fine.”

  Wasn’t that special? You’d think he could at least get the good stuff.

  “Wait!” It had just dawned on him. “How do I get home?”

  “According to Mr. Vincent, your car is in the parking lot.”

  “My keys?”

  “In the drawer of the nightstand, along with your wallet. And lube and condoms.”

  Not blushing, he ordered himself. He was a fucking special agent.

  She had the nerve to look amused. “It’s been interesting treating you, Mr. Browne. I hope I won’t see you here again.” She walked out.

  “And I hope I don’t see you again either,” he muttered.

  She poked her head back in. “You know you do.” The door shut behind her, and this time he was pretty certain she was gone.

  He chuckled and shook his head. That was the WBIS for you. The people who worked there seemed to have super hearing and eyes in the back of their head.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and hissed when his stitched-up ass cheek came into contact with the surface of the mattress. He waited until the discomfort faded, then eased to his feet, and limped to the chair where someone had placed the spare clothes the WBIS made available to its agents when necessary.

  It took some angling to get his legs into the shorts and then the trousers without falling on his ass or his face. His socks were still on, and his shoes were tucked neatly next to the nightstand. All he had to do was step into them. He got the shirt on and buttoned, tucked it into the trousers, and did up the fly.

  Okay, he was set to leave. He smoothed back his hair—Goddammit! He’d inadvertently tugged at the bandage on his head again.

  All he wanted was to get the fuck out of here. He grabbed up his wallet, keys, and…personal items. He started to stride toward the door, but came to an abrupt halt.

  Motherfucking ouch.

  He moderated his steps and made his way out of the building and to his car.

  Chapter 4

  Two weeks later, he’d been able to dispense with the ibuprofen, the sutures had dissolved, and he was going out of his mind with boredom.

  When the phone rang, he didn’t wait for the answering machine to pick up. Even if it was telemarketers, it would be a break in the monotony of watching game shows, talk shows, and soap operas.

  “Browne,” he said.

  “You don’t have the excuse of being at death’s door this time, Browne.” It was Stanley, his director at Foreign Affairs. What was happening? His boss never called him at home. “Get your ass in here. We’ve got a shitload of paperwork that needs to be brought up to date and a dearth of people to do it.”

  “Yes, sir.” He hated paperwork, but it was better than sitting at home, staring at four walls. “I’ll be right in.”

  And since he was going to be at the WBIS, maybe he’d stop in Medical and see if Dr. Paget was around.

  * * * *

  She wasn’t, but Max was. “What did you want, Charles?”

  Shit. The last thing he wanted was for the Frenchman to know he was interested in the new doctor in the house. Not that he thought Max would throw a spanner in the works, but…trust came hard to a WBIS agent, and Charles didn’t want to press his luck.

  “When are you coming back to me?” He heard the words come out of his mouth and wanted to kick himself in the ass. It was like a train wreck, though: he just couldn’t seem to shut up. “Schmidt’s going to dump you, you know. That’s the kind of player he is.”

  “Charles, Avery is a good man. You will not malign him in any way.” Max had never spoken to him in such a curt tone, and he didn’t know whether to be annoyed or turned on.

  “Fine, but remember what I said.” He got out of there and took the elevator up to the ninth floor, where Foreign Affairs agents had their offices.

  The stack of papers in his inbox was daunting, and for a minute he wished he’d stayed home—this was turning out to be a shitty day—but the thought of his empty apartment, which still smelled like an emergency room, pushed that thought out of his mind immediately.

  It was replaced—involuntarily, he assured himself—by the image of Dr. Paget. What was her first name? How old was she? What were her hobbies? Was she…involved with anyone?

  Before he could stop himself, he’d hacked into the Human Resources database and pulled up her file. Her name was Marietta Ginevra Paget, she was thirty-four, she’d be with the WBIS for about three more months, with the option to continue there, she enjoyed fanfiction—what the fuck was fanfiction?—and she was uninvolved with anyone just then.

  Very interesting.

  If she didn’t work for the WBIS…for a moment he fantasized about Dr. Paget, about taking her to bed. She’d be a lamb, submitting to his every whim, just as Max had.

  He shook his head. He’d been able to get away with living with Max because their…relationship, for want of a better word, had begun before Vincent asked The Boss to hire Max. If anyone learned Charles had looked into Dr. Paget’s file for purely personal reasons, his reputation would pretty much be up shit creek. He exited out of the HR files and set to work on the first of the reports.

  God, this was almost as boring as the TV shows he’d watched. Who’d have thought typing up the reports of missions could be so mundane, especially when the actual missions themselves had been heart-poundingly exciting?

  After about a dozen, he got so bored he began surfing the Net for something to distract him. Not porn, not at work, because he wasn’t stupid, no matter what some of his fellow agents might think.

  He remembered Dr. Paget’s preference in reading material and found a website that contained fanfiction. It looked like it might be interesting, so he opened the site, clicked on a story that was supposed to be based on an old movie according to the blurb, and began to read.

  It was his nose mostly, I think. Straight. Patrician. Elegant.

  The first time I saw him, and saw that nose, I fell.

  I was working as a professor at the time. Strangely enough, so was he, although our jobs were nowhere near the same.

  He was a guest lecturer at City College of the City of New York, while I…well, I was tickling the ivories in the parlor of a bawdy house on 118th Street.

  That was when Charles realized it was about two men falling in love. Dr. Paget read stuff like that?

  He chewed his lower lip. Did he really want to read this? Well, maybe just a few more paragraphs…

  In spite of himself, he was drawn into the story, which took place in the early part of the twentieth century and covered events shortly before World War II.

  Charles clenched his fists. The one with the elegant nose sounded like a prick, nothing more than a pretty boy. He walked out on the piano player, just took off one day, breaking his heart.

  Charles knew stuff like that happened in women’s books, but this, between two men…

  The sound of wood connecting wi
th his desk caused him to jump, and he raised his eyes to see the Director of Foreign Affairs standing there, braced on his good leg. His cane, the source of the explosive sound, was lying across his desk.

  Charles surreptitiously clicked on the tab that would take him to the report he should have been working on.

  “What are you doing?” Stanley demanded.

  “Uh…working on…uh…Sheppard’s report.”

  “Sheppard’s report is on my desk.” Uh oh. Stanley wasn’t in a good mood.

  “I meant Donnelly’s,” Charles corrected hastily. For a second, he thought flames were going to shoot out of Stanley’s ears. What could he be pissed about? Charles was decent at hacking, so it couldn’t have been that. Maybe the director’s missing leg was playing havoc with phantom pain? Charles knew it did from time to time. Afterward, Stanley always apologized. That was one of the reasons turnover in Foreign Affairs was so light, unlike other departments. Stanley’s agents tended to leave because they’d bought the farm.

  Stanley drew in a breath and restrained his irritation. “I’ve got a job for you in Paris.” He shoved a handful of papers toward him. “See my secretary for your tickets, and don’t get yourself kidnapped while you’re there this time.”

  That wasn’t my fault! Charles opened his mouth to say just that, but then he flipped through the pages and realized what Stanley was saying. He’d be liaising with Pierre de Becque, a top operative for the Division. He could go out on a mission.

  “Yes, sir. I’m on my way.” He shut down his computer without closing out the various windows he’d had open and bounded to his feet, which caused the not-quite-healed wound on his ass to twinge. Dammit, he hated being injured.

  He made an effort not to hobble to his closet—he didn’t want Stanley to get the impression he couldn’t do the job—and he stooped to grab up his duffel.

  One of the things active agents of the WBIS had picked up from Vincent was to always have a duffel bag in their office, packed and ready to go.

  “Thanks very much.” He grinned over his shoulder and strode out of his office as best he could with his sore ass while Stanley glared after him. Then he stopped at Ms. Miller’s desk to get his tickets and headed for the elevator.

  * * * *

  For the next few months, Charles hopped from one operation to another. As a result, both anniversaries, which he’d thought were so important, passed without notice.

  Each time he returned to debrief, he’d sneak down to Medical, and most of the time his luck held, and he came across Dr. Paget and not Max.

  “Let me take you to dinner,” he suggested the first time. “I’m healed, and you’re not my physician any longer, so there can’t be any conflict of interest.”

  One of the good things about working for the WBIS was the agency’s policy regarding employees having relationships—there were no objections to it—most likely because until recently, all agents had been male, and the directors had felt it wasn’t something to worry about.

  She tilted her head. “You do realize buying me dinner doesn’t guarantee I’ll let you take me to bed, don’t you?”

  Charles wasn’t used to the women he dated taking that attitude with him, but in spite of that—or maybe because of it—he was intrigued.

  “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll pick you up at your place at seven.”

  “No, I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”

  “All right,” he said again. He didn’t want to screw this up. “Raphael’s at seven?”

  “Splendid. I’ve heard excellent things about that restaurant.”

  “So have I. It’s Vincent’s favorite place.”

  “Hmm.”

  For a second he wondered if she was going to back out, but she smiled. “If you’re going to buy me dinner, you may as well call me Ginevra.”

  “Not Marietta?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Should I wonder how you know my first name?”

  He coughed lightly, and she gave him a cool grin.

  “Never mind. I’ll see you then.”

  * * * *

  Charles had never been to Raphael’s before, although he had heard about it. It was fancy—read expensive—and before Ginevra, there hadn’t been anyone in his life he’d wanted to take there, not even Max.

  The food was unlike anything he’d ever had. They shared an appetizer of caprese flatbread, then she dined on shrimp mezzaluna, while he’d ordered a shrimp and scallops dish. Their meal ended with tiramisu and cappuccino.

  And she was right. He didn’t get into her pants, but in this instance, he didn’t piss and moan about having blue balls.

  “Thank you for a lovely dinner,” Ginevra said primly as he walked her to her car, a Lincoln, unlike the Dodges everyone else in the WBIS drove.

  “Thanks for agreeing to have dinner with me.”

  He did kiss her, although she turned her face at the last minute and the kiss landed on her cheek. It was soft, and the light scent she wore wafted into his nostrils, almost making him dizzy with arousal.

  He wasn’t going to let her avoidance of his kiss stop him, however. He smiled warmly into her eyes. “I have to leave on a mission tomorrow, but when I come back, maybe you’ll have dinner with me again?”

  “Maybe I will.”

  He watched as she drove off, fantasizing about sliding a hand over the shapely curves of her calf and thigh, pushing up the skirt she wore, and rubbing his thumb over the crotch of her panties. Hopefully it would be damp with her own arousal. He’d slip a finger past the silky material, stroke her soft folds, then find her clit and tease it with her own moisture—

  A sound behind him had him whirling around, his SIG Sauer drawn.

  “Whoa! Easy, dude!” Two couples—young, heterosexual, and obviously civilians—shied away from him. “What’s your problem?”

  He scowled at them, tucked his pistol into his shoulder holster, and stalked toward his car. Damn, that had been a fine fantasy, but he’d have to hold off on imagining things like that until he got home.

  * * * *

  For once, when he arrived at his apartment, the silence and loneliness didn’t get to him. He made certain the doors and windows were buttoned up tight, put away his pistol in its gun safe, readied the coffeemaker for the next morning, and then climbed the stairs to his bedroom, where he stripped off the clothes he’d chosen for his date with Ginevra. Earlier, he’d lain out the suit he’d wear the next day.

  Finally, he padded into the bathroom, pissed, washed his hands, brushed his teeth, and made his way back to bed.

  There was a bottle of lube in the drawer of his nightstand, and he took it out and poured a dollop into his palm. It was cool, but it quickly warmed, and he smeared it over his cock. Then he returned to his fantasy about Ginevra.

  He expected it to feel good. After all, jerking off was always fun. He also expected it to take some time. He jerked off regularly, so he wouldn’t become distracted while he was on the job, but this time, two things surprised him.

  One, how quickly he climaxed. Picturing Ginevra with her lovely legs spread wide while he buried his face between her thighs, imagining her moaning and writhing and threading her fingers in his hair as he licked and nibbled and teased her clit…It had only taken a handful of minutes before come shot out of his cock, so hard that one spurt actually landed on his chin.

  And that was the second thing, how powerful that climax was. He’d had good lovers before—Max, for instance, in spite of the fact he was male, had been…enjoyable—but Charles couldn’t remember coming so fast, so hard, that it had taken a long time for him to come down from the high.

  If this was just the result of his imagination…Oh God, getting Ginevra into bed was going to be fucking amazing!

  Chapter 5

  This is the oddest relationship I’ve ever had, Charles thought as he knotted his tie and then smoothed back his hair. He and Ginevra had been dating for almost seven months, and in that time—nothing. That wasn’t to say Ginevra was a
tease. She just made it clear where she drew the line.

  They’d gone to dinner, to the movies, to plays, dancing, but they’d never gone to bed.

  Charles had hoped to steal second base on occasion, even though he’d never made it to first. That in itself was what was odd, because he’d never been inclined to kiss Max. Well, one of his first and foremost rules was not to kiss men.

  And while he was certain fondling Ginevra’s breasts and caressing her hips and ass would be…magical…he found himself desperate to kiss her, to taste her pouty lips, rub his tongue against hers.

  Well, fingers crossed, tonight might be the night.

  * * * *

  Charles took her to Raphael’s again for dinner. The restaurant was decorated for Christmas, with a twelve foot live blue spruce standing in pride of place in the lobby. Swags of pine garlands draped from the elaborate cornices, and silver bells hung from the perigee of the garlands. In a secluded corner, one of the restaurant’s employees played carols and holiday songs on a keyboard—there was no room for even a baby grand piano—Charles didn’t recall seeing there before.

  They checked their coats, and the maître’d escorted them to a table for two. He left them with menus.

  Ginevra glanced through the items briefly, then gave Charles a cool smile. “I’ll have the tilapia piccata, I think. I’ll keep it light tonight.”

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Of course.”

  His heart gave a thump. Could this be the night? To be on the safe side, Charles ordered a light meal as well.

  * * * *

  Afterward, they decided to skip dessert—well, Ginevra did, and Charles went along with it—and after he paid the check and left a nice tip in honor of the season, they collected their coats and walked out into the crisp night air.

  “Where are you parked?” he asked, checking the street for the familiar Lincoln.

  “I took a cab tonight.”

  “Uh…I’ll call car service for you.” They’d have to return to the restaurant while they waited, but it would give him extra time with her.