by Tinnean
“Oh, what? Like I couldn’t have just said no?”
“You could have said ‘no’. Why didn’t you?”
“Do you think you’re so irresistible, Mann?”
“I don’t. But I think you do.”
They were similar to the words I’d said to him after that debacle with Prinzip. I looked out the window and pretended I hadn’t heard that.
Back in May, Quinn had been kidnapped by a lunatic who wanted to recreate the antiterrorist organization he’d started back in the seventies but lost control of. Richard, the nutjob, decided by “recruiting” experienced operatives—from the CIA, the Mossad, MI6, Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, others from France, Italy, Germany—he’d get the project off the ground faster. The CIA would have left Quinn to die in that fucking warehouse in Paris. Not fucking likely. I’d gone in and rescued his ass.
“Ah, look. We’re home.” Quinn’s words brought me back to the present. He was insufferably cheerful.
“I’m home. You still have to drive back to Alexandria.”
“I know, but not until I make sure you’re all right.”
He found a parking space half a block from my place, and we got out and walked back. Well, he walked. I limped. That damned ibuprofen had barely taken the edge off my aches. I should have doubled up on the amount I’d taken. Tripled it.
He was carrying the brown bag, and I wondered briefly what was in it. Leftovers from lunch, maybe? It had been really good, and I wouldn’t mind snacking on shrimp Creole.
I let us into the building, and we began to climb the stairs up to my apartment on the attic floor.
“Mr. Vincent, are you all right?”
That just took the fucking cake. I paused on the third floor landing to glower at my agent. Matheson stood there with a plastic garbage bag in each hand. When I’d introduced him to the rent boys who owned this building earlier in the spring, the last thing I’d expected was for him to develop a relationship with one of them and wind up moving in with him.
“I’m peachy keen, Matheson.”
“Yes, sir, of course. My mistake.” He took in Quinn’s presence beside me, and his expression became blank. I knew he had to have recognized him from that night in the morgue when we’d found him and another CIA officer trying to determine if that was my body on the slab. “Excuse me.” He stepped around us and continued down the stairs.
Quinn met my eyes. He didn’t ask if this was going to be a problem, and I didn’t tell him that if it was, it was my problem.
“Come on. You need a hot bath.”
“Yeah. That sounds good.”
We continued up to the attic floor and down the corridor. I unlocked the series of deadbolts that secured my front door and let us into my apartment.
“Get undressed. I’ll start the tub.” He’d been in my apartment often enough to know where everything was. “I’ve got something that will ease the soreness out of your muscles. Mother gave it to me before we left. Epsom salts.”
“Fuck. How’d she know I’d be so sore?” I took the bag he handed me and examined the contents while he removed his riding jacket and hung it over a chair, but I became more interested in watching as he rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt.
“Mothers are like that, Mark.”
I shrugged. Couldn’t prove it by me.
Quinn took back the bag, ran his lips over the side of my neck, and went into the bathroom. In a matter of seconds, I heard the water running.
I stripped off my shirt and let it lie where I dropped it, and undid my fly, but when I attempted to toe off my shoes, I realized it wasn’t going to be that easy. I was still wearing the boots Quinn had given me.
“What’s wrong, babe?” he asked as I limped into the bathroom.
“Remind me to shoot myself the next time I let you talk me into going horseback riding.” I lowered the lid on the john and sat down gingerly.
“Mark, you handled Blue really well!”
“Yeah, and that’s supposed to make me feel good? You’re not limping.”
“Do you know how long I’ve been riding?”
“Since you were three.” Although that wasn’t to say he hadn’t been on a horse before then; his mother or one of his uncles, or even his grandfather, crusty old bastard that he’d been, had had him up in the saddle in front of them almost from the day he’d been born.
Quinn paused in the act of pouring the Epsom salts into the water.
“Oh, was that a rhetorical question?”
“I know that wasn’t in my dossier, but somehow I’m not surprised you had no trouble coming up with that tidbit.”
I also had no trouble learning the name of his first pony. Maybe one day I’d get him to tell me why he’d named it Darling.
Quinn finished shaking the granules into the tub, crumpled the bag, and tossed it into the wastebasket. He ran his fingers along the curve of my ear. “Sit back. I’ll give you a hand with those boots.” He straddled my leg and took the heel in both hands. “Okay, push.”
The material of his jodhpurs stretched taut over the curve of his ass, and I swallowed, letting go of my irritation, and reached out to caress the firm muscles.
“You’re supposed to place your other foot on my ass and push.” He grinned at me over his shoulder.
“That would be an abuse of a fine ass.” But I leaned back and did as he told me, and he freed my left foot and then my right, and pulled off my socks as well.
“Now strip and get in the tub. We can order in—”
“Not necessary. I’ve got some frozen dinners in the freezer.” I stood and pushed my jeans and shorts down, trying to conceal my discomfort.
“All right. Lean on me, would you?” He waited until I did, then got my clothes off me. “I’ll put a couple in the oven. When you’re done, we’ll eat, I’ll give you a massage—I had a feeling this might come in handy—” He took a tube of something from his pocket and waggled it before me. “And then I’ll have to leave.”
“You’re not staying over, Quinn?”
He paused at the door. “I didn’t think to pack my overnighter, and I’m sure you’re aware that Rayner is out on medical leave and Holmes has called an early meeting for tomorrow. I’ll need to be on the road by six in order to get to Langley in time for it.”
That was only a twenty-five minute drive. Why the fuck was he leaving so early? However, if he didn’t want to tell me, he didn’t have to.
I’d find out on my own.
“Right. Damn,” I said as if I had no intention of finding out what Holmes was up to. He’d never cared much for Quinn, but after that bullshit with Prinzip, Holmes had gotten a real bug up his ass about him.
Well, if Quinn wanted to leave early, he could. He was a big boy.
And besides, The Boss had scheduled an 8:00 a.m. meeting, something to do with Interior Affairs. It had been about six months since that shit Sperling had broken into my apartment and gotten himself blown up. As deputy director, I’d become his acting replacement, but it was just a matter of time before The Boss moved one of the other senior directors into Sperling’s spot. I wasn’t thrilled about having one of those assholes running my department, but I didn’t think it would take long for me to get the point across to whoever it was that if they stayed in their office and stayed out of my way, we’d all be happy.
I stepped into the tub and eased down into the steaming water with a groan as the heat began to relax my muscles. “You could have stayed if you left a change of clothes here, y’know.”
“You never gave me any indication that you wanted me to do that.” He walked out of the bathroom.
I stared at the empty doorway. I never had, had I?
When I’d moved back into this apartment, I’d left some of my things at his town house. Why hadn’t I asked him to do the same? I closed my eyes and gave it some serious thought.
VII
I WAS on my stomach, as boneless as a mass of Jell-O. Quinn, who’d never undressed, was seated on the ba
cks of my thighs, flexing his palms on my ass. The liniment he’d used had a pine scent, and my bedroom smelled like a Christmas tree.
“I think that should do it, babe.” He dropped a kiss on the back of my neck and got off me.
“Thanks, Quinn. You’ve got magic fingers, you know that?” I opened an eye and watched as he wiped his palms on a tissue, then rolled down his sleeves and fastened the cuffs. “Fuck. I have to get up and lock the door behind you.”
“That’s the price one pays for paranoia.” He opened a drawer, took out a pair of shorts, and handed them to me.
“That’s the price one pays to stay alive.” I eased them on and stood up, relieved to find most of the soreness gone.
“I was kidding, Mark.”
“Right. I knew that.” I grinned to show I was kidding him back, but his eyes told me I hadn’t convinced him. I followed him out of the bedroom.
“Give me a call when you know what your schedule is like.” He draped his jacket over his arm, waited for me to unfasten all the locks, and then reached for the doorknob.
“Quinn.” I tipped up his chin and kissed him. His mouth softened under mine, and he cupped the base of my skull, pulling my head down to deepen the kiss. We were both breathing heavily when we finally came up for air. “I’ll free up the weekend if I can.”
“Good.”
“Mann.” He raised an eyebrow. “Drive carefully.”
“I always do.” He smiled and walked out.
I closed the door and snapped the locks in sequence.
VIII
I RAN into Matheson as I was on my way up to Mr. Wallace’s office. I was stiff because I’d ridden a horse for the first time; I had no doubt he was stiff because he was the one who had been ridden the night before.
“Matheson.” I crooked my finger, and he followed me into the stairwell.
“Mr. Vincent.”
“Do I need to talk to you about last night?”
“No, sir.” He licked his lips. “May I say something, Mr. Vincent? You’ve been working for the WBIS longer than any active agent. I’m not about to second-guess your actions.”
“Good.” I turned and started up the stairs. He was shaping up to be a good special agent, and I really didn’t want to kill him.
Still, it might be a good idea to make more of an effort to find another place. That apartment was only supposed to be temporary anyway.
And when I moved into my new home, I’d tell Quinn it was time for him to keep some of his things there, so he’d still be able to spend the night with me, even if he had an early meeting the next morning.
I exited the stairwell, not even breathing hard—Epsom salts really worked wonders—and walked down the corridor that housed the administrative offices of the WBIS.
The harpy who guarded The Boss’s sanctum peered at me over her glasses, then nodded toward a tray that held a number of coffee mugs and some Danish.
“The others should be arriving shortly.”
“Thank you.” This was going to be one long fucking meeting. I picked up a mug and a blueberry Danish, tapped lightly on the door, and entered.
“Mr. Vincent.”
“Mr. Wallace.”
“I’m glad you’re early. I want to fill you in on a small problem before the others get here.” He spoke rapidly and succinctly, and my fingers clenched. I stared down at the pastry—now a fruit-filled mess in my hand. The Boss’s lips twitched, more a sour expression of agreement with my reaction than of actual pleasure.
I put my coffee down, dropped what was left of the Danish into the wastebasket, and used a napkin to clean my palm. “I’ll—”
“Delegate. Yes?”
“Of course. I was about to say I’ll put Matheson on it.”
“Excellent. I’m pleased with him, Mr. Vincent. He’s developing into a quite competent replacement for you.” The intercom on his desk buzzed, and he depressed one of the buttons. “Yes?”
“Browne and Mr. Stanley are here.” Of course she’d accord Stanley, as the director of foreign affairs, that courtesy.
“Send them in, please.”
The door opened, and the two men entered. Browne had been returned to Stanley’s department after he’d finally been cleared for anything more active than desk duty. We were both relieved.
“All right, gentlemen, if you’ll take a seat—”
The intercom buzzed again. “Romero is here.”
The chunky Italian came sauntering in. In one hand was a Styrofoam cup with a plastic lid and in the other was an Egg McMuffin. It was obvious that he’d somehow managed to get them both super-sized.
Mr. Wallace smiled. “Let’s get started.”
IX
THE long fucking meeting finally came to an end.
Romero had drawn some figures on a piece of paper he’d pulled from his pocket, occasionally scratching his jaw with the pencil’s eraser. “Yeah, this’ll do it. I’ll get started on it right away. Catch ya later.” And he was out the door.
Stanley’s grin was positively evil. Losing a leg had done nothing to lessen his ability to appreciate mayhem. “I’ll get my team right on it.” He nodded at Mr. Wallace and headed for the door. “Browne, I want you to run this by that pet sawbones of yours.”
“Uh… Mr. Stanley, it might be better if you have someone else talk to Max. I’m not his favorite person at the moment.”
“Oh, for the love of…. Haven’t you taken him to bed yet, Browne?”
The door closed on Browne’s answer, and The Boss shook his head.
“Browne is a good agent, but he seems unable to keep a handle on his love life. Much like the rest of mankind, I’d wager.”
I murmured something noncommittal. I didn’t have that problem. I took my lover to bed on a regular basis, whether at my place or his, and made damned sure I kept him happy. Of course I wasn’t about to tell that to the man who ran the WBIS.
I prepared to leave.
“Just one second, Mark.”
I got a bad feeling in my gut, but I kept my expression smooth. “Sir?”
He handed me an ivory envelope. I slid my forefinger under the flap and flipped it open. Inside was a vellum card the same color.
You are cordially invited….
Fuck. “Another embassy do?”
“Yes.”
“So, who’s going this time?” As if I didn’t have my suspicions.
“You, of course. You’ll need to keep an eye on Senator Wexler and that rabbity aide of his.”
“Peter Lapin? Yes, sir.” There was no chance of persuading him to send someone else. I could tell by the set of his jaw. “Do you have any objections if I throw a scare into the good senator?”
“I wouldn’t object if you could scare the bastard into a heart attack. And you did not hear me say that.”
“Say what, sir?”
“Yes. Now, as to this ball. You’re going to need a new tuxedo.”
I cleared my throat. “I rented one the last time, sir. I can rent one again.”
“You wouldn’t want them to think you don’t own a tuxedo, would you?”
Like I gave a fuck what the embassy crowd thought. However, “I’ll be representing the WBIS.”
“Precisely. Well, you have three weeks until the ball. I’d suggest you see about selecting a new one and getting any alterations done as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“I think that will be all.”
I turned and started to walk out.
“Oh, Mark.”
“Sir?”
“You might want to take this with you.” He held out the invitation.
I took it from him and left.
X
I TOOK some time during lunch to go to Putting on the Ritz, the formal shop that carried de la Renta tuxedoes and guaranteed to have them ready when they said they’d be ready. The little guy who’d done the alterations the last time I’d been there almost danced a jig because I was buying this time.
&nb
sp; When I returned to my office, I started working on a backlog of paperwork. I intended to take Saturday, the whole day, off.
And if anything unexpected came up, I’d just delegate. To Matheson.
It was late by the time I logged off my computer and shut it down for the night.
My cell phone rang as I was leaving the building. “Vincent.”
“Hi, babe. How are you feeling?”
Quinn. “The Epsom salts helped a lot.” I was a little tired….
“You’ll be over, then?”
“You bet.” I couldn’t picture myself ever that tired.
“Good. I made you that Italian pasta you like.”
“Penne a la vodka?”
“Yes. I’ll see you in about forty-five minutes?”
“How about twenty minutes? Traffic isn’t too bad.”
“Drive carefully.”
“I always do.” I echoed his words of the night before.
He laughed softly. “Bye, babe.”
“Bye.”
As I got into my car, I mused about him calling me “babe.” He’d been doing that quite a bit lately. I liked it.
I looked at the newspaper I’d picked up on my way back from Putting on the Ritz. Maybe Quinn and I could check out the real estate section after dinner.
I switched on the radio, and Johnny Mathis’s voice swelled from the speakers; I realized the song he was singing was the song Quinn had been whistling the morning before.
I put the car in gear and headed for Alexandria.
Yeah, I was coming home.
Be It Ever so Humble
I
IT WAS early October, and although autumn had officially arrived a couple of weeks before, the air was still warm. There was no joy in my corner of Mudville, however: that ball was looming on the horizon. Added to that, Quinn had called to ask if I’d meet him for a drink. As if I’d say no to him. But normally we met for dinner on Friday at Raphael’s, not a Wednesday. “Meet me at Ziggy Redman’s at about seven,” I told him. I intended to look into the sudden change of plans.
