Forever

by Tinnean

  “You’re serious?”

  “Mark, I’m always serious.”

  Like he was always cold? But I didn’t challenge him. He wanted to go away with me.

  “What do you think?”

  “Were we going anywhere in particular?”

  His eyes lit up, the green they got sometimes. Had he thought I’d say “no”?

  “How does Key West sound to you? They have an easy attitude toward same-sex couples. No one would bother us.”

  No one would bother us anyway. I grinned. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

  “Good. I’ll make the—Dammit. I’ll be away.”

  “I can make reservations. I know how to use a phone, you know.”

  He teased my ear. “I never doubted that. Taylor House is good. Mother and I used to go there during winter recess. Mention my name.”

  “Okay. Listen. Be careful, okay?” Where the fuck had that come from? “Uh… I don’t want to have to come after your ass again.”

  “Of course. Worrywart.” He kissed me. “But just so you know, my ass and I appreciate it. I’ll call you when I get back.”

  “Call me when you get home.”

  “Didn’t I just say that?”

  “Tonight. When you get home tonight.” He was more tired than I’d seen him since the days after that Prinzip bullshit.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Humor me, okay?” I pulled him back for a last kiss and then watched as he went toward the stairs.

  Twenty minutes later, he called, and after telling him to have a safe trip, I went to bed.

  III

  IT HAD been a busy week—The Boss had signed me up with a local golf pro, and after spending time with her, I tended to head straight for the gym and a session with M. Bélanger, the fencing master.

  But now it was Friday again. If Quinn were in town, we’d go to Raphael’s, but for the past week he’d been in the Far East on a job. According to the information I’d found, he wasn’t scheduled to return for another three days. Which was bullshit, but that was the CIA for you.

  I’d just returned to my office from harassing Gershom, who ran Security like a lady with a paper ass, and I was in the middle of entering some data into my computer when my cell phone rang.

  “Vincent.”

  “Hi. It’s me.” Quinn. And from the clarity of the call, he was back in town.

  “Hello, me.” I shouldn’t take this call here, but fuck it. My cock was more interested than it had been in seven days. I shifted in my chair.

  “I’m just calling to make sure we’re on for dinner tonight.”

  “It’s Friday, isn’t it? I’ll see you at Raphael’s at eight. Want me to make the reservations?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind? I’ve got so much paperwork to catch up on.” He sounded tired, but I wasn’t about to tell him how to do his job.

  “Sure thing.”

  “Thanks. And speaking of reservations….”

  “I called Taylor House. We’re booked for a week from Sunday. I also booked a flight out of National down to Key West.”

  “You do good work, Vincent.”

  “You’re not just finding that out, are you?”

  He laughed.

  “Okay, I’ll see you about eight tonight?”

  “About eight, then. Bye, babe.”

  “Bye.” I ran my palm over the front of my trousers. “He’s home!” I cleared my throat. “I mean, we’re gonna get laid tonight!”

  Raphael’s had this new thing where you could make your reservations online, which was convenient since they didn’t open until five thirty, so I went to their website and did that before getting back to work.

  IV

  SHORTLY before noon, my office phone rang. “Vincent.”

  “My office.” It was The Boss.

  “I’m on my way, sir.”

  Over a lunch of greens—Mr. Wallace had been instructed by his doctor that he needed more raw, leafy vegetables in his diet—we discussed Senator Franklin, who was working for us, and Senator Wexler, who was working against us.

  Finally, Mr. Wallace said, “The ball at the Bahsrani Embassy is a week from tomorrow. Senator Wexler is guaranteed to be there.”

  “I’ll do my best to see he doesn’t have a good time.”

  “I knew I could depend on you, Mark.” He poked at his salad and then sighed and pushed it aside. “Now why don’t you go get yourself something more substantial to eat?”

  “Thank you, sir.” I’d been starved, so I hadn’t had a problem finishing it. Come to think of it, I was still hungry. I tossed the Styrofoam bowl into the trash and went down to the cafeteria for a roast beef sandwich.

  It was about one thirty when I returned to my office.

  My secretary handed me a stack of phone messages.

  “Thank you so much, Ms. Parker.”

  “You’re so welcome.” She looked happy. The spook she’d been dating at the request of the WBIS had been transferred to Turkmenistan, and now she was at liberty to date whoever she chose.

  I scowled at the Post-its in my hand. “Hold my calls until I get this lot cleared up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It took less time than I’d anticipated. A certain tone in my voice must have convinced everyone who had wanted a callback that it wasn’t really as necessary as they’d first thought.

  I was about to get back to work when my cell phone rang again.

  “Vincent.”

  “Mr. Vincent, this is Jacques, from Putting on the Ritz. The adjustments to your tuxedo have been completed.”

  “That was fast.” I needed a new tux for the Bahsrani Embassy ball. The exclusive men’s shop was renowned for getting its patrons their tuxedoes in record time. Of course, they charged for it.

  “But of course!” He sounded affronted that I could doubt my tux would be ready on time. “I am calling to set up an appointment for you to make sure it fits perfectly”—I had no doubt it would—“and pick it up.”

  I checked my PDA. This evening was marked with a notation that simply read, dinner. I was surprised to see Saturday and Sunday X’d out, and I frowned at it. I’d be spending those days with Quinn, but I didn’t remember doing that—I must have been on automatic. Well, at least I hadn’t done something nauseating like drawing hearts in them. I’d meet Quinn at Raphael’s, we would go back to his town house in Alexandria, and as soon as he had some rest, we’d fuck the whole weekend to make up for the last seven days.

  “I have some free time Monday evening.”

  “How would seven suit?”

  “That should be fine.”

  “We will see you then, sir.”

  I made a note in my PDA, said good-bye, and hung up. Work was always waiting, and so I got back to it.

  V

  I WAS about to save the last of the data I had entered when my cell phone rang again. I wasn’t usually so popular.

  A glance at the screen told me it was Portia Mann. Shit. I couldn’t take this call at work.

  “May I call you back?”

  There was a moment of silence. “Of course.”

  “Thanks.”

  I disconnected, saved the data and logged out, and reached for my jacket.

  “Ms. Parker,” I said as I closed my office door, “I have to step out for a few minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I jogged down to the first floor, crossed the lobby, and exited the building. My car was a couple of aisles away, and I went to it and made myself comfortable. Odds were no one would be out here this time of day. And if they were…. Well, no one was nosy enough to question me.

  I took out my phone and dialed Mrs. Mann’s number. “It’s Vincent, Mrs. Mann. I’m sorry I had to—”

  “That’s quite all right, Mark. I understand, I assure you.” She knew I’d been involved with her son for some time, and she didn’t seem to have a problem with it, in spite of the fact that not only were we two men, but he was CIA and I was WBIS.

  “How a
re you?”

  “I’m well, thank you. And you?” She was too much of a lady to bring up the fact that the last time she had seen me was when we’d gone horseback riding, and I’d wound up so sore I could barely sit. She’d given Quinn Epsom salts, and he’d poured them into a hot bath for me. That had gone a long way toward easing my aches.

  “Never better, ma’am.”

  “I’m very glad to hear that.” She laughed softly, and I couldn’t prevent myself from grinning. Portia Mann was a classy lady, one who I didn’t mind observing the conventions with.

  “I’m assuming Quinn gave you my number.”

  “I have my own ways of learning things, Mark.”

  Of course. Portia Mann had once broken Russian codes for the Venona Project.

  “Should I be alarmed?”

  “Not as long as you don’t hurt my son.”

  Mann was the only person I’d ever met who came close to being my equal. I wouldn’t toss a… friendship like that away.

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. Mann?”

  “Quinton told me you’re in the market for a new home.”

  “That’s right.” I’d been thinking of a condominium this time. My last apartment had been blown up, and the management had given me thirty days to vacate. The rent boys who owned the building I’d previously lived in had told me my former apartment was available, and so I’d salvaged what I could and moved back, a strictly temporary arrangement.

  Matheson, the agent I was training to replace me in the field, was living in the apartment below. He’d seen Quinn come home with me that Sunday a couple of weeks ago, and while he’d assured me he’d keep his mouth shut, I knew it could become dangerous.

  I didn’t want another apartment, and as for buying a house, there was too much work entailed: the lawn would need mowing, the shrubs pruning, the roof maintained, and if we should get snow, the walks and driveway would need to be shoveled. It would be easier to buy a condo and let them worry about the general upkeep.

  I’d seen a shit load of condos, and I was starting to get impatient. I didn’t need the same wide-open floor plan as I’d had when I’d been in the field, but I did want my bedroom away from the other rooms. So far I hadn’t found anything to my liking. Either the rooms were so small that even a family of midgets would be overcrowded or the commute to DC was a bitch.

  The going rate for the condos I’d looked at was almost half a mil. I could have afforded that easily by shifting some funds from my offshore Fuck You account, but why pay for it in cash when with a mortgage I could write off the interest on my income tax?

  Of course I paid income tax. Not even the WBIS would fuck with the IRS.

  “It has come to my knowledge,” Mrs. Mann murmured, “that a condominium is available in Aspen Reach.”

  “Aspen Reach?” I could never understand why builders would give their communities such cutesy names.

  “Yes, it’s in Alexandria.”

  That sounded promising. After all, why spend a large portion of the weekend driving to and from where Quinn lived when I could be spending it in his bed?

  “It’s a small, gated community.”

  “Just gates? Or a guard as well?”

  “Just gates.” That didn’t sound promising. If security guards knew what they were doing, they made it difficult for any unwanted visitors to get in. “The residents can access the gate with a remote.”

  That sounded even less promising. Anyone with the smarts could wire a remote and let themselves in. Even someone from the CIA could do it.

  “There are security cameras at the entrance. What was that, Mark?”

  I coughed. “Nothing, ma’am.” I had muttered that the idea of those security cameras made me feel all warm and safe.

  “Yes.” There was laughter in that one word. I had a feeling she didn’t believe me. “There are seven three-story buildings. It also has a number of amenities—a jogging path, an Olympic-size pool, lighted tennis courts, a clubhouse with its own theater and restaurant. From what I’ve been told, it’s quite lovely, Mark.”

  “Been told by who? Whom?” I didn’t need a home that was lovely; I needed one that was functional. And secure.

  “Francesca Dashwood. She’s the Realtor. She’s also the….” The pause was almost minute. “… sister-in-law of a friend of mine. Allison and I were in the same society at Wellesley, Tau Zeta Epsilon.”

  Society. Right. That was kind of like a sorority, but not. “And you trust this Dashwood woman enough that I won’t be taken to the cleaners?”

  “No. I don’t know her, Mark. Allison told me that Ms. Dashwood is offering the condominium. She asked if I’d send some business her way. I’d like to help Allison if I can. The price isn’t unreasonable.”

  Mrs. Mann was a good woman; nevertheless, I’d do a little investigating. That minute pause.

  “How much is it?”

  She named a figure, and she was right—for that type of community in Virginia, it wasn’t at all unreasonable. In fact….

  “Y’know, Mrs. Mann, there’s usually a reason if something sounds too good to be true.”

  “One might say so. Apparently something the prospective buyers learned has made them unwilling to go ahead with the deal.”

  “Do we know why?”

  “I’m sure Ms. Dashwood will be more than willing to tell us.” There was cool certainty in her voice.

  “‘Us’?”

  “I’d like to see this condo myself. I haven’t been house-hunting since Quinton was looking for his town house. And I must confess, this has me intrigued.”

  “Don’t tell me. It just so happens that you’re here in the Capital.”

  “Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I am. I needed a final fitting for the gown I’ll be wearing to the Bahsrani Embassy ball, and I’m at Madame Rosa’s, my dressmaker.”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t going to argue with her. “What can you tell me about the condo?”

  “It’s a third-floor corner unit, approximately three thousand square feet.”

  “Nice size.”

  “Yes. Two bedrooms, two and a half baths. The master bath has a Jacuzzi and a separate shower. Living room, formal dining room, and an office/den. The kitchen has an island that’s perfect for a prep area as well as a breakfast bar. There’s a fireplace in the living room. Actually, it’s two-sided. The other side is in the master suite.” She paused a beat, then hit me with what was the clincher for me. “It’s about a ten-minute drive to Quinton’s town house.”

  “And during rush hour?”

  “The same.”

  “I have to admit you’ve got me interested.”

  “I thought you might be.”

  “Does it come with a garage, or just a parking space?”

  “Oh, there are garages. The parking spaces are for guests. If you’re free, Ms. Dashwood has said she’ll meet us outside the gates of Aspen Reach in three-quarters of an hour. Gregor is here as well, and he can drive us if you’d like.”

  “I’d rather drive, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Mann. Does he have to come with us?”

  “Not at all.” She was laughing. “But he’s my ride home.”

  “I can drive you to Great Falls.”

  “Mark, it’s Friday.”

  “That’s right.” What was she getting at?

  “You have dinner with Quinton on Friday.”

  I scowled at the phone, unsure whether I should knock Quinn on his ass for telling his mother about that or jump his bones for being okay enough with us that he told his mother about that.

  “That’s not a problem.” I’d call him and reschedule.

  “Oh?” For a single word, it packed one hell of a chill.

  “Mrs. Mann, Quinn would have my—He wouldn’t be happy if I drove you back to DC and then made you drive all the way back home.”

  “It’s only a half-hour drive.”

  “Yeah, but you know, we’re talking rush hour by the time we get done looking at this place. It’ll be easier if I dri
ve you home.”

  “I’m not a wilting violet, I’ll have you know.”

  “No, ma’am. But if it comes to a choice between Quinn being pissed at me or you being pissed at me, I’ll have to go with you,” I said apologetically.

  “I see. Very well. If you’d rather spend your time with me… I’ll give you directions to my dressmaker.”

  I let her, even though I knew it would only take a minute for me to pull them up on the computer. “I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes, ma’am.”

  “Very good, Mark. By the way?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please stop calling me ‘ma’am’.”

  I laughed, and we hung up.

  Okay, I had about ten minutes before I left to meet Mrs. Mann. I’d call Raphael’s—someone would be there now—and cancel the reservations, then set a program running that would search out intel on the condo in Aspen Reach. When the search was completed, the information would be downloaded to my PDA.

  First things first, though. I called Quinn.

  His voice mail picked up, and I left a brief message. “I can’t make it tonight. Sorry.”

  He’d know it was me.

  Next I spoke to the host at Raphael’s and rescheduled for the following week, and finally I called my secretary. It felt a little odd calling from the parking lot, but it would be even odder to go back to my office, only to turn around and leave.

  “Ms. Parker, I’ll be out for the rest of the afternoon.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll reschedule anything that comes up, for next week.”

  “Thanks. Have a nice weekend.”

  “I will. And I hope you do too, sir.”

  Actually, I was going to have a fantastic weekend!

  VI

  THE wrought iron gates that were supposed to keep outsiders out of Aspen Reach were set in stone walls that were eight feet high. I still would have felt happier if there had been a guard at those gates.

  After the Realtor got us past them, we followed her to the clubhouse and parked beside her convertible. She waited for us to approach her car, and then slid out of the front seat.