Date: Mon, 15 Dec 2008 09:57:05 -0500
From: Tinnean <tinneantoo@embarqmail.com>
Subject: Mann of My Dreams 9: Champagne and Tall Tales

Notes: Again, this is Vincent's POV. Please keep in mind that he is not the
most politically correct of men. DGSE is Direction Generale de la Securite
Exterieure - French Secret Service. There really was a story called The
Strange Case of the Iron Dog, although I've taken considerable liberties
with it. However, the very last line of that story is exactly as I've
written it. I really have no idea what the wind sounds like coming off the
Hudson, but it seemed to work for the story. Thanks to Wolfsbride for her
help, to Tim Mead for reading this over, and as always to Gail for the
beta. One story, no sex. *g*


Champagne and Tall Tales
By Tinnean

Okay, so the prey hadn't exactly jumped to take the bait.

//The fucking ball's in your court, Mann. Make your move, goddammit!//

The ball just lay there. Son of a bitch didn't do anything. No emails, no
phone calls, no midnight visits. Well, that was more my MO than his,
anyway.

All was quiet on the Quinton Mann front.

//Wasn't he supposed to make a move by now, smart guy?// that fucking
little voice in the back of my mind sneered.

//I'm lulling him into a false sense of security,// I informed it.

//Right, hot shot! Try telling that to Drum! That's a line *he'd* have no
trouble buying!// It was becoming more vociferous as time passed.

I growled under my breath.

//What was that? I didn't quite catch it.//

//Go to fucking hell!//

//You say that a lot, don't you? And you might want to stop grinding your
teeth,// the little bastard suggested smugly.

When the fuck had I lost control?

//Did you ever have it, tough guy? You've become so besotted with that CIA
spook, you're lucky you can find your ass with two hands and a road map!
Look at you! Passing up a perfectly good opportunity to plant bugs in
Mann's townhouse. Aren't you ashamed?//

It did have a point. I could have planted bugs, but I hadn't. Why?

//Because you don't want to know if he brings a woman home with him?//

//What Mann does in his downtime isn't my concern!//

//Sure it isn't. And neither is that French boy he lost his virginity
to. So, what are you going to do about it?//

//Virginity, once lost, cannot be regained,// I responded loftily.

//Ass. You know very well I'm talking about the fact that Mann hasn't made
a move yet.//

I could pay a trip to Langley and see what was going on, I mused. I had my
ways, and the sheep would never even know there was a wolf in their midst.

The mold for the appliances I had in mind had been made originally when I'd
needed to disguise myself in order to get to an asshole colonel who was
about to sell out the WBIS. Add a little to the nose here, shave a little
off the chin there, top it off with a straw-colored wig and pale blue
contacts, and I would look like Dwayne J. Lester, who pushed a broom in
Langley.

I'd built his character carefully and inserted it into the CIA's databanks,
and every two weeks a modest check was deposited into an account under his
name. If anyone looked into his background, they would learn that he'd
barely made it out of high school - he wasn't the sharpest tool in the
shed, with an IQ about par with a bunch of broccoli. As for his employment
records, they would show that Dwayne was capable of working for the
maintenance department emptying trashcans, but that was about as far as
he'd ever go. His last position, before he'd been hired by the CIA, had
been in a healthcare facility in the private sector, in a janitorial
capacity, but that job had become redundant when the laboratory had been
acquired by another.

//So what are you waiting for? Get those appliances cooking!//

Making a move like that now wasn't smart. What purpose would it serve?

//I got it. The lulling him thing. Right?//

With a growl, I stuffed Jiminy Cricket into a mental closet and slammed the
door on it. I'd wait until at least the end of the week. Just in case Mann
decided to get off his very fine butt and do something about me.

Not that I was going to let him do anything to me. I was the one who was
the doer.

Meanwhile, there was work.

****

I'd finally had some spare time and was going through the intelligence the
late, unlamented Michael Shaw had passed to the CIA. I wasn't happy that it
was all about me - there was even mention of that incident some years back
when I'd been assigned to take out the Scarlet Chamber's Archbishop and
only failed because Sperling felt the need to stick his goddammed nose into
my operation, causing me to lose a good team - but since it was, and since
I had dealt with it, I didn't feel it was necessary to inform my immediate
superior about the leak. Especially when my immediate superior was the head
of the WBIS and really didn't need to be bothered about something as
mundane as this.

My intercom came to life. "Mr. Vincent," my secretary said, her voice
terse. "I have Mr. Wallace's secretary on line one."

"Thank you, Ms. Parker." I picked up the phone. "Yes?"

"Mr. Wallace wants to see you in his office. Right away."

"I'll be right up."

"That's one of the many things Mr. Wallace appreciates about you,
Mr. Vincent. The fact that when you say you'll do something, you invariably
do."

"Uh... thanks." But I was talking to the dial tone.

Well, I didn't have time to wonder what the fuck that was about. I saved
and closed the program, and this time, I slid the disk into my
pocket. Aside from the usual firewalls, all the files in my computer were
password protected. I also made sure all the drawers in my desk were
locked, not that that had helped much when Shaw had decided to do his
version of I Spy.

I paused at my secretary's desk. "Ms. Parker, remain in this office until I
return." I wasn't taking any more chances.

Her eyebrow raised, but she didn't question my order. "Yes, sir."

"Thanks." Okay, all bases were covered.

I strolled down the hallway, then glanced casually around, making sure the
area was secure before I opened the door to the stairwell and trotted up to
14, the floor that contained Admin. Once there, I ran a quick hand over my
hair and gave my jacket a tug, then headed down the long hall to
Mr. Wallace's office.

Ms. DiBlasi, his secretary, was an older woman who was as married to the
job as any of us. She thumbed the intercom. "Mr. Vincent is here."

What the fuck? This was the second time she'd referred to me as 'Mr.' The
honorific was usually reserved for senior directors.

"Send him in." The Boss' voice came over the intercom, deep and sepulchral.

Ms. DiBlasi nodded at me before returning to her computer. I walked to The
Boss' door and opened it.

He looked up from the thick hard copy file that was on his desk. It was
impossible to read the expression in his eyes, which were screened by the
glare reflected off the lenses of the glasses he wore.

I wasn't about to say anything stupid, like, 'You sent for me, sir?' He'd
sent for me, that was why I was here. The question was, *why* had he sent
for me?

"If you'll take a seat, Mr. Vincent?"

I crossed the plush carpet and sat down across from him.

"Your file." He nodded toward the document.

Fuck. I'd known, from the moment I'd been recruited, shortly before my
hitch in the army had been completed, that if I survived I would face this
day. Not many WBIS agents lived to worry about it. The attrition rate was
exceptionally high.

I just hadn't expected it this soon.

Once I had my ass in that chair I didn't move again. I didn't fidget,
didn't cross and uncross my legs, kept my gaze directed at him, and made
fucking sure nothing of what I was feeling was reflected on my face.

The Boss went back to thumbing through the pages before him, frowning on
one occasion, smiling on another. "I remember this case," he murmured,
tapping the page. "You did a good job on it. Nothing less than I expected,
of course." Finally he set it aside and met my eyes. "You've been with us
for quite a few years now, Mr. Vincent. I've watched you hone your skills,
and it's been a pleasure. Each mission, each operation you've been
assigned, I've seen you stretch your boundaries. You are indeed a forensic
artist, and your presence in the field will be missed."

I kept my breathing slow and even while my insides felt as if they were
turning to water, and decided to play dumb. "Excuse me, sir? If you're not
dissatisfied with my work... "

"Hardly dissatisfied, Mr. Vincent." He pushed his chair back and rose to
his feet, pacing around that huge desk and coming to stand before me. He
leaned back against it and crossed his arms over his chest. "It's a matter
of age. WBIS policy, as you well know, is to retire active agents from the
field at the age of thirty-five." He held up a hand as if to forestall any
arguments, not that I was about to give him one. Apparently Shaw's fucking
with my file had led to a more thorough inspection of it, fucking
bastard. Altering official data could lead to my cancellation. "I managed
to stretch things, because of your very impressive record, but even I can
only do so much. I'm quite aware of your real age, you know."

"I see." Yeah, this was it. I was going to bite the big one. Sweat started
beading at my hairline. There was that knife I carried in my pocket. Would
I have time to use it?

Fuck it, I didn't *want* to use it. I liked The Boss, had liked working for
him, but if it came to a question of my life or his...

How long would I survive, I wondered idly? Long enough to get out of the
building?

If I made it out of the building, if I made it to the small bank where I
kept passports and enough cash stashed in a safety deposit box to get me on
a flight out of the country...

There were too many fucking 'ifs'. I began to gather myself together to
make my move.

"Yes, I'm quite aware that on your next birthday you will turn
thirty-seven."

Unobtrusively, I relaxed my muscles. He didn't know I was actually forty. I
still faced being a pencil-pusher, riding a desk. But maybe... I decided to
see how this hand played out. "May I ask what my options are, sir?"

"Option, singular, Mr. Vincent. I'm assigning you to work in Interior
Affairs as Mr. Sperling's deputy director. Bob needs someone to take up
some of his workload. He has become - " The Boss didn't look happy.

Yeah, I knew what Sperling had become - the same thing he'd always been: a
fucking waste of space.

Interior Affairs was the worst-run department in the WBIS. It dealt with
anything going on within the forty-eight contiguous states, as well as
Alaska, Hawaii, and territories and possessions, and had the highest
attrition rate of any in the WBIS, mostly because agents who had any
experience managed to find ways not to work for him.

He was wary of me, and even though he would be my titular superior, he'd
fucking give me a wide berth.

"I accept." Of course I accepted. Taking that position in Interior Affairs
would seriously diminish my playing field, but not as much as a desk job in
another department. Short of resigning, it looked like this was the only
option I had. And it would really burn Sperling's butt.

I didn't want him dead, not yet.

"I'm pleased. You're one of our best - "

I raised an eyebrow, and The Boss' lips stretched in a tight smile.

"Very well. You are our best. I'll expect to see Interior Affairs turned
around in short order."

"I appreciate your confidence in me, sir."

"I knew you would. Now, you'll be moving to your new office, which I would
prefer to remain on 7. I never approved of Mr. Sperling's decision to have
his office on another floor. Department heads should remain accessible to
their people - "

"Not a problem, sir." I'd heard more than one of his people complaining
that he was never around when they needed him. Mostly he was on some golf
course, supposedly to make connections.

That might have been so, but good men had died because he was trying to
shoot a hole under par.

"However, I try to interfere with my directors as little as possible."

"Yes, sir. May I ask how he feels about me joining his team?" There'd been
no love lost between us, and The Boss was aware of that. What he wasn't
aware of was that I'd had Sperling in my sights for a long time and was
just biding my time. Sperling had gotten away with just a verbal reprimand
after that incident some years ago.

"I run the WBIS, Mr. Vincent. How he feels about your presence is
immaterial. At any rate, he'll be taking a brief leave of absence. That's
all you need to know."

"Yes, sir," I agreed mildly. Did he really think it wouldn't take me long
to learn what he had in mind for the Director of Interior Affairs?

"You'll be given a free rein to bring the department up to what I know it
can be." The Boss extended his hand, and I rose to accept it. My palm was
dry. "You've more than lived up to the promise I always saw in you, Mark."

"Thank you, sir. That means a great deal to me." It did, but I was
regretting the fact that I would no longer be out in the field. I didn't
bother asking him if there was any way he could bend the rules further. As
he'd said, he'd kept me in the field longer than any other agent. It was
just longer than he actually thought.

"I wouldn't get too comfortable with the desk job just yet. You'll need to
train someone to replace you."

"Of course, sir. Did you have someone in mind, or shall I - "

"I've had my eye on a young agent who seems likely. With the right kind of
cultivation, he just might fill your shoes."

Not fucking likely, but I simply smiled and said nothing.

He returned my smile, a shark's grin, as he informed me who my replacement
was to be. "William Matheson. Do you know him?"

I kept my face blank, but it was a struggle. "No, sir. He doesn't work out
of my floor. Although I believe I saw him briefly at Michael Shaw's
funeral."

Matheson hadn't been involved in Shaw's plans to take my corner office, not
that I was able to discover, at any rate. It was a little ironic that he
would succeed where Shaw had failed, but then, Matheson was a field agent,
not a desk jockey like his friend.

The life of a WBIS agent could be precarious at best, I mused, especially
in Interior Affairs. If Matheson revealed the least suspicion that Shaw had
not died accidentally, then The Boss would be looking for someone else to
replace me amazingly quickly.

"A very sad occasion," Mr. Wallace was saying, unaware that I had been
following my own train of thought. "I could never understand experimenting
with such a deadly form of self-gratification!"

"He was very young, sir," I murmured, "and apparently not very
experienced."

The Boss snorted. "Well, he paid the price for it. And my opinion of that
affair goes no further than this office, Mark."

"That went without saying, sir," I said dryly.

"In that case, I apologize." He dismissed the late Shaw, returned to his
chair, and settled himself in it. "You will receive a raise retroactive to
the beginning of the month."

The figure he named had me blinking. I already made much more than enough
to cover my living expenses, and since I had no one except myself to spend
it on, I had an extremely healthy bank balance, as well as T-bills
accumulating interest in another safety deposit box. And in a numbered
offshore account was what I liked to call my F.Y. fund, slated for the time
when I'd need to make a fast getaway. There was also the tiny island off
Costa Rica that I was gradually paying off. Twelve more years, and it would
be mine.

"Congratulations, Mark. Not many agents make it to this level. Now, I
believe you'll find that Agent Matheson will be waiting to discuss his
change in status in your former office. Good luck and good afternoon."

He offered me his hand a final time, and I shook it, murmuring thanks, then
turned and left his office.

Ms. DiBlasi looked up from her computer screen and gave me a cool
smile. "May I be the next to offer you congratulations on your new
position, Mr. Vincent?"

"Uh... thank you." I was taken aback, both by her words and her smile. I'd
always thought she didn't care for any WBIS agents, seeing them as
interruptions to The Boss' precious schedule.

"You're welcome." She dismissed me, turning back to her work.

I took my time returning to my former office. I really didn't want to be a
desk jockey; I much preferred being out in the field, but Sperling had
found plenty of excuses to meddle in operations that had nothing to do with
Interior Affairs. I thought grimly of the team I'd lost due to his
incompetence some years back. Being head - being the second in line to
being head - of my own department, I had no doubt I'd find reasons to keep
my hand in.

Ms. Parker was keying something into a field on her computer screen. "Oh,
Mr. Vincent, I heard the good news. Congratulations, sir. I contacted the
supply room, and had the boxes you'll need to empty your desk delivered. I
know you'll want to do that yourself." Her facade was politely interested,
but she had been my secretary for the last ten years, and I could read
her. She was going to miss working with me.

"Thank you, Ms. Parker. Make sure you have enough boxes for your
things. You're with me."

A smile bloomed on her face. "Yes, sir! Thank you!" She knew how I liked
things done, and besides, she was dating someone from Justice, someone who
had a tendency to babble after he'd gotten his rocks off, and Ms. Parker
always shared the information she gathered. She was WBIS to the core. Too
bad she was a woman. She would have made a good agent.

"Has Matheson arrived yet?"

"Yes, sir. He's waiting for you." Her smile became mischievous, an
expression I'd never seen on her face, and I was intrigued. I waited to
hear what she had to say. "I told him not to touch anything."

I had to grin myself. "What did he say to that?"

She deepened her voice. "'Do you think I'm nuts?'"

"Sounds like he might have some smarts. See about getting someone from the
typing pool for him. No need assigning someone permanently until we find
out how he does."

"Yes, sir!" She hurried to obey me, and I went into my office.

Matheson was standing before the window. "Nice view, isn't it?"

His face was flushed when he turned toward me, but he rapidly paled. What
was going on behind that all-American boy next-door facade?

"Mr. Vincent," he said, his voice sounding cool. However, his eyes
skittered off mine, and he shifted from one foot to another.

Had he found out I was behind his late friend's demise?

I picked up the receiver of my telephone and placed a call to Maintenance,
keeping my eyes on him the entire time. "This is Vincent on 7. I need my
hard drive moved to my new office. Yes, that's on 7 also. Yes,
immediately. Thanks." I propped a hip against a corner of my... No, this
was no longer my desk, my office. Not that it really mattered. I'd never
been in it much until lately. Lately... I sighed. "Looks like we're going
to be working together fairly closely, Matheson."

"Yes, sir." He was a good looking young man, but I never screwed around
with a fellow agent. It didn't pay. I'd learned that lesson with my
partner, who'd gone and gotten himself killed.

Besides, I was already involved in... something.

And shit, how the fuck had that happened?

"Mr. Vincent... "

"You were friends with Michael Shaw, weren't you?"

"Since we were in the sixth grade, sir. He was my best friend. That is to
say, he'd been my best friend, up until our junior year in college. Then
he... " His eyes became cloudy, and after a moment, he shook his
head. "After we transferred to DC - "

"That's right. You were hired at the same time."

"Yes. That surprised me, since it never occurred to me he'd... Well, that's
neither here nor there. We transferred here, and he got in with a bad
crowd. Not that I'm trying to excuse him, you understand. After that... "
He shrugged helplessly. "After that we kind of drifted apart."

"Were you lovers?" I didn't care, and it was WBIS policy not to interfere,
but I was interested in hearing what he had to say.

"No, sir. We... During college we fooled around a little, but... I swear to
you I don't... I'm not... "

"Look, Matheson. As long as an agent's sexual orientation doesn't get *me*
killed, he could hump sheep for all I care."

He gave a surprised snort of laughter. "That's a relief to know. But just
to set the record straight, my taste doesn't run to sheep, sir."

"Good. So what was the story with Shaw?" I waited to see if he would tell
me the truth.

"Michael was attracted to power. That was how he got involved with... " He
stopped short.

"Yeah?" I cocked an eyebrow at him and started assembling a box.

"Mr. Vincent, let me be frank with you. Rumor had it that Michael was
feeding information about you to the CIA. If he did something like that - "

"*If*?"

"Then it was true?" He covered his eyes for a minute, shaking his
head. "Oh, Michael, you stupid, *stupid* fool!"

"And yet you say he was your best friend."

"Look, Mr. Vincent, he got involved in that only because someone he
respected and looked up to encouraged him to. He was always looking for a
father figure."

"I met Shaw's father at his funeral."

"Oh, yes. I remember seeing you there with Mr. Wallace." He sighed and
shook his head again. "Poor Mr. Shaw. He tried his best, but Michael never
believed he loved him."

That was such a crock of shit that it could just possibly be true. "So
Sperling had no trouble convincing him that selling me out was the surefire
way to get my office?"

If he'd been pale before, now he was sheet-white. "How did you know it
was... "

"Let me tell you something, Matheson. I'm the best."

"Ye-yes, sir." Was he going to pass out? Well, if he did, he could just lie
there on the floor.

I waited a couple of minutes to see what would happen, but when nothing
did, I said, "Listen, I've got to pack. Get some boxes from
Supply. Ms. Parker's seeing about a secretary for you until you can select
one on your own. Oh, and don't forget to either have your computer
transferred with you, or requisition a new one. I'll give you the rest of
today to get yourself settled in here. Tomorrow morning I'll expect you in
my office."

"Yes, sir." He lingered at the door.

"Was there something else, Matheson?"

"I promise not to screw up. You are the best, and it will be an honor to be
taught by you." His color had returned, but now he turned a dull red and
swallowed. "I... I'm not sucking up, sir." The door closed before I could
respond to that.

Well, we'd just have to see if he screwed up or not, wouldn't we?

I pulled my key ring out of my pocket. As I was about to unlock my desk, a
tiny silver key caught the light and reflected it for just a moment. The
key to the cuffs I'd left in Mann's bedroom. I rubbed my left wrist, the
discomfort as phantom as the marks left behind.

I packed up everything and transported it to the other end of the seventh
floor, to my new office. Sunlight streamed through the windows. The view
wasn't that spectacular, just a wall of windows from across the street, but
the space was larger.

Against one wall was a box. I went over to it and read the label. Robert
Sperling, DIA.

What the fuck was Sperling's stuff doing here in my office? And who the
fuck had given instructions that it be delivered today?

Nothing - *nothing* - was done without a reason in the WBIS.

Sperling was a pencil pusher who'd never been out in the field except for
that one time. In spite of that verbal reprimand, by playing it safe and
kissing the right ass, he'd managed to keep his position. Had he been
hoping to get the final requirement necessary to get in line for The Boss'
job?

I wondered what he thought of my promotion. That promotion put me in the
same line, not that Mr. Wallace was ready to retire any time soon.

Rifling through the box revealed that the asshole never threw anything out,
including take-out menus and office memos from ten years ago. I was skeeved
just touching them, but it was necessary.

And then I came across a memo from six years earlier. It was from the desk
of Anson Davies, Director of PR. 'I don't think this is a good idea,
Bob. V. is a wild card who's always run his own operations. I know you need
the field experience, but something less hazardous might be a better idea,
although you're right, taking down the Archbishop will give you a serious
lead over any competition you might have. If you decide to go ahead with
this particular operation, make sure to keep your head down. I don't want
to have to do damage control in Prague.'

I crushed the paper in my fist and swore.

Six years ago. I'd been 'thisclose' to taking down the man known as the
Archbishop, and then Sperling had poked his nose into my operation. As a
result, the Archbishop had slipped through my fingers and half my team had
wound up on medical leave. The other half had wound up dead, including one
who'd suicided.

Granted Claude wasn't WBIS - he was on loan to us from DGSE, who had him on
loan from... another agency, but I'd worked with him before. He was a good
man; I'd have gotten him back. One of the reasons why I had no problem
recruiting for my missions was because no one got left behind. *No one.*

Why the fuck hadn't he waited?

It didn't take me long to find out why: he'd thought we were abandoning him
to the Archbishop's mercies. Because Sperling panicked.

The Boss had refused my request to come home, knowing I'd head directly for
the man involved and would kill him in spite of his position in the WBIS.

'You need some time to regroup, Vincent. Take it.'

You didn't say 'no' to The Boss, not if you had half a brain. I'd taken the
time.

When I'd got back, I learned that Sperling was out of town, ostensibly to
firm up a Huntingdon contract with a certain senator from the Midwest. I
settled in to wait - the cold revenge thing.

Claude. Viscovich. Bianchi. Gone. Countless others as well, because the
Archbishop - stupid fucking name for a man to decide to call himself - had
continued on his merry fucking way. It had taken me another two years
before I cornered the sick son of a bitch and took him out with extreme
prejudice.

Now, I had that memo in hand, and in spite of my best efforts, my temper
unraveled. I kicked the box before shoving it into the closet and locking
it in. Time enough to go through the rest of this shit in the morning.

Right then I needed to work off the fury that was crawling under my skin. I
headed for the gym up on 12.

As it turned out, I could have made a wiser choice.

****

American Movie Classics was running a swashbuckler marathon, and I settled
in to watch. Captain Blood had finished, and Basil Rathbone, this time
portraying Guy of Gisbourne, was dueling with Robin Hood. The best
swordsman in Hollywood, and they insisted on making him lose once again to
a pretty-boy athlete.

I sat on the couch in my boxers and tee shirt and tipped the single bottle
of Sam Adams I allowed myself to my lips. The angle of my gaze landed on
the case hanging on the wall above my TV, containing a sword that was
tarnished, the edge dull and marred with nicks. It was only by chance that
I had come across that blade, the exact same one the swordsman was using on
screen, and I'd almost had to go out as a rentboy myself to pay for it.

I pressed the bandage on my left shoulder. Dueling with the fencing master
the WBIS provided to teach its recruits balance and grace, as well as the
occasional physical therapy, had not been one of my more brilliant notions,
especially when I was so pissed off. The button on Miles' sword had been
dislodged under a flurry of strokes by my own blade. When he'd done the
balestra, that hop followed by a lunge, he'd slid under my guard and tagged
me.

"That isn't like you, Vincent." He'd frowned. "Go down to Medical and have
that looked at."

I didn't bother arguing with him, just saluted, handed him my blade, guard
first, and headed for the stairs.

I ran into one of the support staff. "Congratulations, Mr. Vincent," he
started to say, and then he saw the bloodstained handkerchief I was holding
to my shoulder and turned pale. "Um... "

"Yeah. Thanks."

The doctor had murmured, "I'm surprised to see you here, Vincent," and had
cleaned and stitched the site.

The gash wasn't that deep, but it still throbbed; the shot he'd given me
had worn off and the Tylenol I had taken twenty minutes before hadn't
kicked in yet.

The final, climactic duel between Guy and Robin was being fought on the
stone staircase when my doorbell rang, and I jumped and choked on a
mouthful of beer, for a second not recognizing the sound.

Seven years, and I'd never had a visitor.

I set down the beer, muted the sound on the TV, and padded into the bedroom
to get my Glock.

Whoever was at the door was leaning on the buzzer now. I cocked my weapon
and peered through the peephole, and felt my mouth go dry. Mann?

How the fuck... Yeah, of course, he'd probably gotten my address from the
information that prick Mikey Shaw had passed to the CIA, but what the fuck
was he doing here?

"Don't keep me waiting out in the hall, Vincent! I'm sure you can see I'm
unarmed!" He held his hands up, and what he was carrying looked like a
bottle of wine. That didn't mean it couldn't be used as a weapon.

Torn, I shifted the gun to my left hand and unlocked the door with my
right. I didn't want to take my eyes off him, but I needed to see what I
was doing with the bolts or I'd blow us both to kingdom come.

I allowed the door to open, and Mann strolled past me as if he were
slumming. "All right, I've let you in. Mind telling me to what I owe the
honor?" I sneered as I shut the door.

He smiled and let his eyes run over me, taking in my Glock, which I made no
effort to hide, and handed me the bottle - champagne? He'd come calling
with a bottle of champagne?

His low wolf whistle drew my attention to his lips, and I was reminded of
the line in To Have and Have Not, 'You know how to whistle, don't you,
Steve? You put your lips together and blow.' Blow...

"Nice legs, Vincent."

That snapped me out of whatever it was I'd fallen into. How could I have
forgotten I wasn't dressed for company? I shoved the bottle back into his
hands and scowled at him. "Hold this. I've got to lock the door." I blocked
his view of what I was doing, then turned to face him again. "Now... "

He raised his eyes. He had been staring at my ass. I forgot what I'd been
going to say.

"'Now,' Mark?"

"Huh? Oh." I raised my arm to run a hand through my hair, forced myself not
to wince as the stitches pulled, and glared at him. "I'm getting dressed
and then you're telling me what the fuck you're doing here."

"You're dressed enough for me. Besides, you've seen me in less." His eyes
were almost green. My mouth went dry. Drier. "After all, the last time we
were together you cut up a pair of my favorite pajamas. By the way, thanks
for the new ones. The size is perfect, and they're very... comfortable."
His expression was bland, but that look in his eyes was sheer devilment.

Fucking CIA. Didn't they teach their spooks to obey instructions?
Deliberately, I ignored the information he'd taken such relish in
imparting, instead curling my lip at him before stalking to my bedroom. I
wasn't about to leave him alone in my apartment for any longer than I had
to. I grabbed a pair of gray sweatpants from my dresser and leaned against
the wall as I got my legs into them, then yanked a green sweatshirt over my
head, wincing a bit as the stitches in my shoulder pulled once again.

I sprinted down the hall to the wide-open area that comprised both my
living and dining area, slowing only before I could be seen, and then
sauntered casually in.

"I put the champagne in your refrigerator." Mann was on his haunches,
running his hands over the statue of the Rottweiler that stood guard in a
corner. It was ceramic, but heavy and solid for all that. "Nice pet, Mark,"
he said ironically.

"When I'm on assignment, I never know when I'll be back. Wouldn't be fair
to a live animal." And if I never made it back, I'd leave my pet an
orphan. I wasn't about to do that. "That's Sam."

"Sam? You named him?" Mann's grin turned sharp. Did he think he'd
discovered something about me, something that I would have preferred to
keep hidden? "Named for Sam Spade?"

"Let's make this brief, okay?" I purposely didn't answer his question. I
shouldn't have said anything about the statue. It was named for John
Wayne's dog in Hondo, a nasty-tempered brute who didn't like anyone and
only traveled with Hondo because they were going in the same direction. My
kind of mutt. "I want you out of my apartment."

Mann laughed softly. "Ah, but we don't always get what we want, do we,
Mark?" He straightened and unbuttoned his overcoat.

I had never seen him casually dressed before. Pajamas didn't count. There
was casual, and then there was casual.

He was wearing charcoal gray slacks and an off-white turtleneck
sweater. Damn, he looked fine!

And jesus, what was wrong with me?

He handed me his coat, and I went to the closet, fumbling for the door and
never taking my eyes off his. What was he up to?

"You do like to keep a number of pets, don't you?" He was staring into the
closet, a grin of pure amusement tugging at his lips.

"Huh?" I spun around, expecting to see... I didn't know what, but all that
was in there was the fake dog I'd taken with me on my stroll to Mann's
house more than a week before and had chucked into the closet after I'd got
home.

"Do I want to know why you keep a Shi Tzu on a leash in your closet?"

Was that what it was? "No." I hung up his coat, slammed the door, and found
my eyes drawn to the snug fit of the sweater he wore. Now that I thought of
it, he always seemed to wear neutral colors. Maybe I should have bought him
pajamas that would have brought out the color of his eyes. Since they were
hazel, like mine, I knew what he wore could change the color. I'd have a
lover who had green eyes, blue eyes, gray eyes... And where the fuck was my
mind going? Mann wasn't my lover, would never be my lover! "What do *you*
want, Mann?"

"'Quinn', Mark, or 'Quinton', if you prefer. Didn't we enact this scenario
once before? A couple of glasses, if that wouldn't be too much trouble?"

"Why?"

"I thought we could have the champagne."

"Why?"

"I understand congratulations are in order, Mark," he said
patiently. "You've received a promotion."

I grunted and turned toward the kitchen. Gossip spread faster than a plague
in the intelligence community, and I wasn't stupid enough to think that by
getting rid of one mole, I'd plugged all the leaks in the WBIS.

Mann followed me and leaned against the island counter while I stretched to
reach one of the upper cabinets where I kept the glasses and took down a
pair. The rentboys had given me the set when I'd moved in.  No one had ever
given me a housewarming gift before, and I'd been taken aback and hadn't
known what to say.

'Just say thanks, Vince.' And Pretty Boy had leaned forward and kissed me
lightly on the lips. Sweetcheeks had scowled but kept his mouth shut.

I peered into the glasses, and blew to dislodge the coating of dust. It
didn't work, and I couldn't help thinking of Mann's spotless home. "Sorry."

"What's a little spit between friends?" He watched with interest as I ran
the glasses under the faucet, then pushed off from the counter. "When you
put them back, you might want to store them upside down."

While I grabbed a paper towel to dry them off, he took the champagne from
the fridge, removed the foil that covered the wire wrap confining the cork,
and undid the wrap. There was a muted pop, and I licked my lips in
anticipation. I loved champagne, loved how it made me feel, although I
seldom allowed myself to have any, because of how it made me feel. And
because my old lady abused alcohol. No way was I going down the road she
traveled.

But one glass... It wouldn't hurt.

I held the glasses out for Mann to pour some in, but when I tried to take
mine away he persisted on filling it almost to the brim. "*When*,
goddammit, Mann, *when*!"

He chuckled softly and set the bottle back on the counter. "This is too
good a vintage to let go to waste, Mark. We're going to finish this
tonight!" He tapped his glass against mine, and the glasses chimed
sweetly. "All the best in your new position and your new office, Deputy
Director of Interior Affairs Vincent."

The rim of the glass concealed my unease. He even knew what my promotion
entailed?

"I'm not in the mood to tell you anything about it, Mann, so don't think
getting me drunk will work." I let him see my grin, "Too much champagne
doesn't make me talkative," then deliberately took another, deeper,
swallow.

"Whatever you say, Mark. Are we going to stand in your kitchen until we
finish this bottle?"

I should have insisted on that, I *knew* I should have, but... Mann was
here in my apartment, we were sharing a bottle of champagne, and I was
already starting to feel a little mellow.

"You can join me on the couch and watch some of the swashbuckler marathon
with me." Jesus, where the fuck were my brains? I glared down at my cock,
where they'd obviously taken up residence. "But when the champagne is
finished, you go!" I added grudgingly.

"Certainly. I wouldn't want to wear out my welcome." The damned spook was
laughing at me!

"You're so full of it, Mann! Come on." I deliberately left the bottle on
the counter, but Mann picked it up and brought it with him. He placed it on
the coffee table in front of the couch.

"Interesting." He selected one of the humongous coffee table books that
were stacked at an end, the one about art in the Louvre. "You never struck
me as having an inclination toward the old masters."

I shrugged. "Impressed?"

"As a matter of fact, I am."

"Then it served its purpose." Let Mann think it was merely a prop. I wasn't
about to tell him that the book had been a gift from Mr. Wallace my first
Christmas in the WBIS. I thought it was an odd gift at the time, but I'd
been flattered the head of the WBIS had given it to me. I'd enjoyed the
paintings and other artwork displayed in its pages, and afterward had found
time to explore some of the art museums in the DC area. I'd even visited
the Louvre a few times when I'd been in Paris.

"This is one of my favorites." The book had fallen open to the plate of
Rodin's Caryatid Who Has Fallen Under Her Stone, and he ran gentle fingers
over it. One of my old lady's men, the same one who'd taught me to fence,
had explained it to me.

I slid down on my spine and rested my feet on the coffee table. Mann sat
upright for a moment, then looked around.

"What?"

"A coaster?"

"Sorry." I just had the one, which I'd taken from a hotel bar. Well, no
visitors, so what was the point in having a whole set of 'em?

He shook his head, handed me his glass, and unlaced his shoes and removed
them. He was wearing gray argyle socks with a lighter gray outlining the
black diamonds. "That's better."

Yeah, it was. He swung his feet up onto the coffee table and wiggled his
toes, settled himself comfortably beside me, and took his glass back.

I sipped the champagne and focused my attention on the television. The
Adventures of Robin Hood had finished and The Mark of Zorro had
started. This time Tyrone Power was going to duel with Basil Rathbone. I
picked up the remote, about to restore the sound, but before I could, Mann
spoke. "Mark."

"Hmm?"

"Why does Sam have a rag in his mouth?"

I glanced fondly at the statue. "That's not a rag. That's a trophy of
battle."

"A trophy?" he repeated. "You want to explain that?"

I shrugged and took another swallow of the champagne. He reached for the
bottle and topped off my glass.

"Thanks." I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, seeing the events play
out behind my eyelids, just the way they had been described to me. "My
uncle used to tell me this story."

"I'm listening."

This had nothing to do with me now, with the man I'd become, and it should
be safe enough to talk about. Besides, it was just an obscure little story,
a tall tale, really.

"There was a man who decided that living in the city was too dangerous, so
he moved his wife and little girl to an estate whose backyard was the
Hudson River."

"Oh, this takes place in New York?"

"Yeah." I smiled, able to hear again my father's brother talking about the
currents of the river near Bear Mountain. "The little girl had those fat,
blonde, sausage curls, and blue, blue eyes. She looked like one of those
child stars of the 30s, you get the picture?"

"Yes, I see, Mark." There was laughter in his voice, but I pretended not to
notice.

"Well, one day, this beat-up old mongrel wandered into the yard. The mother
nearly had a heart attack, certain it was going to eat her baby, but the
little girl fell in love with the dog, and begged and pleaded to keep him,
and the dad allowed it.

"Good thing. The kid was curious. Too curious for her own good, and when
she was bending over to examine something near the riverbank, she tumbled
in and was swept away. The mother stood there, screaming and wringing her
hands."

"You don't have much use for women, do you, Mark?"

"Sure I do." I turned my head to glare at him. "I fuck 'em, don't I? Hey,
my glass is almost empty. Pour me some more, will you?" I waited until he
replaced the bottle before I continued. "Anyway, there was the mom, crying
and being generally useless. And that big old dog that she'd wanted to get
rid of came tearing across the back lawn and *flung* himself into the
river. He swam out, got a grip on the little girl's blouse collar and
dragged her to the shore."

"What was the dog's name, Mark?"

"Hmm? Oh, she called him... Well, never mind, it isn't germane to the
story." Let him think the mutt's name was Sam if he wanted. Uncle Steve had
never mentioned a name. "Anyway, the mayor of the town was running for
re-election, and he needed something to make him look good. This was
custom-made for him. His people set up a ceremony to give the dog an award
for rescuing the kid. So the mutt got this medal hung around his neck, and
the mayor got a nice write-up in the local newspaper. Still lost the
election, though."

"Now you're just making that up!"

"The whole story is made up, Quinn. You want to let me finish?"

He pretended to scowl at me, but there was laughter in his eyes. I took
that as his agreement.

"So. Time passed. The dog died, of old age," I hastened to assure him, "and
they buried him in the backyard, with this iron statue over his grave, and
something like 'Faithful and Beloved', or some sentimental shit like that
engraved on the base."

"Mark... "

"Not finished, Mann. You want to hear the end of this? If you're bored, the
champagne's almost done, and you can always leave." I wondered if he'd
stay. The champagne was having its usual effect on me - I really wanted to
fuck him. I'd promised I would, hadn't I? This would be as good a time as
any, and...

"It sounded like it was finished." He frowned at me and showed me his
glass, which was still half full. How many times had he refilled my glass,
and had he refilled his own at the same time? It wasn't like me not to
notice. "The dog is dead, for fuck's sake!"

Profanity? Was the suave Mr. Mann a trifle... smashed? The corner of my
mouth curved up in a grin. "Is he?"

"Excuse me?"

I tipped my head back and studied the ceiling, letting him think I was lost
in the memories of the story. What I was really lost in was Quinton Mann
sitting next to me. His scent - the scent that had been on the pullover I'd
worn - seemed to wrap itself around me. Surreptitiously I inhaled
deeply. *What* was it that he wore? I inhaled again. I couldn't remember
reacting so strongly to someone else's scent like that before.

After a few minutes, he asked softly, "Have you fallen asleep, Mark? That
wasn't my intention."

"Champagne doesn't put me to sleep, baby." I continued the story. "Well,
the little girl grew up and moved back to the city, where she met and
married an asshole. The creep beat her, I imagine, although Uncle Steve was
never clear about that point. So she left him, and returned to the house on
the river. Did I mention her parents had died and left it to her?"

"No." Mann was smiling at me, a smile that went straight to my cock.

"Sorry. They did." I propped my foot up on the edge of the coffee table,
hoping that raising my leg would disguise how hard I'd become. God knew
those damned sweats didn't. "So there she was, in this big, rambling house,
all by herself. She wasn't afraid to be alone in it, because it was her
childhood home, and aside from almost drowning in the Hudson, nothing bad
had ever happened to her there. That's a really stupid attitude to take,
isn't it, Quinn?"

"Yes, Mark, but it's just a story." He got to his feet. "And if the heroine
didn't do anything stupid, the story wouldn't progress, would it?"

"Hey, where're you going?"

"You've finished your champagne."

"Yeah? So?"

He held up his glass, which was also empty, took mine, and went to the
kitchen. When he returned, he sat down on the sofa beside me. "Now, you
were saying?"

I edged closer to him and slid my arm around his shoulder. "You smell
good." I nuzzled the spot just above his collar, and licked the skin. He
jumped. Nice to know I still had it. I started to pet his thigh. He shifted
and spread his legs, his cock making a nice bulge beneath his fly. "Sooo,
the woman was all alone in this house, and a bad storm blew in. Just before
the power went off... "

"Oh, the power went off?" Quinn asked a little hoarsely, his hand doing
some exploring of its own, shaping my cock through the soft material of my
sweatpants.

"Don't tell me you doubted that?! And stop interrupting me!" But I didn't
slap his hand away, instead laid my hand over his and pressed
down. "Anyway, just before the power went off, there was an announcement on
the TV. A vicious criminal had escaped from a local prison. Did I mention
there was a prison for the criminally insane nearby?"

Quinn gave a huff of laughter. I liked the sound. It was sexy. "No, you
didn't, Mark." He angled his head, as if wanting me to taste more of his
throat. "Mmm. You seem to have left out a few things."

"'S your fault, pouring all that champagne into me." I was distracted by
his thumb rubbing over the head of my cock through my sweats. That indirect
contact felt so fucking good. "Uh... Where was I?"

"It was a dark and stormy night... "

I smiled, remembering how Uncle Steve told me the story. "Yeah. Well, there
was the woman in this big, dark house, and somewhere outside its walls was
the boogeyman. She found her daddy's gun and went to bed. In the middle of
the night she was awakened by the sound of breaking glass, and a horrific
scream. 'It's just a tree that was toppled by the wind,' she tried to
reassure herself. 'And everyone knows the wind coming off the Hudson sounds
like a soul in torment.' But there was still that criminal running around
loose. She knew she should go downstairs to assess the damage, but she was
suddenly afraid. She was also afraid to fall back to sleep, so she sat up
the rest of the night. She had the gun resting on her knees, and she kept
it pointed at her bedroom door."

"Which she'd had the good sense to lock, just in case?" The heel of his
hand was massaging my cock now, and I knew if I looked down, I'd see a
circle of pre come on my gray sweats.

"Just in case," I agreed, my turn to be hoarse. I moved the turtleneck
aside and licked his neck some more, long swipes over his adam's apple to
the hinge of his jaw, and I'd have sworn he purred.

"Should... " He made an incoherent sound of pleasure. "Should your uncle
have been telling a story like this to a little kid?"

"Sure, why not?"

"It didn't give you nightmares?"

"Nope." I grinned at him, and he narrowed his eyes.

"Are you sure all this has something to do with Sam having a rag in his
mouth?" Was he trying to show me he was still in control of himself, that I
wasn't driving him to distraction?

"Y'know what? I'm not gonna tell you the end now. You've finished your
champagne. Go home!" I pulled my arm away and tried to stand up, but he had
his fingers wrapped around my wrist, the same wrist that I'd cuffed to his
bed, and with a slight tug he had me sitting back down on the couch.

"Tease. I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you." He leaned toward me
and ran his hand over my hair, and then around to cup my chin. "Tell me the
rest of the story, Mark."

"All right, baby," I said agreeably, nuzzling into his touch. "The next
morning the sheriff came knocking on her door. Seems they'd tracked the
escaped prisoner to her backyard and found him lying in the ruins of the
French doors that led into her living room. Several fucking *big* shards of
glass had cut into him, but that wasn't why he was dead. The sheriff
apologized, said they'd need to impound her dog, because what killed the
criminal was a severed jugular and a crushed windpipe, the results of
savage animal bites.

"'I don't have a dog, Sheriff,' she told him.

"'Hmmm,' said the sheriff. The county coroner's men loaded the body in the
meat wagon, noticing that there were defensive wounds on the nut-job's
hands and that his prison uniform was ripped up pretty good. In fact, a
large square had been torn off and was missing. The sheriff sent his men to
get some sheets of plywood to board up the broken doors. They had to pass
the grave of the dog."

"And... ?"

"Wait for it!"

"Mark!"

"Okay, okay." I drew in a deep breath and intoned solemnly, "'There,
clutched in the jaws of the iron dog was... '"

"A rag!" Quinn sounded affronted, and I couldn't help laughing.

"All right, baby, if you insist: a rag. God, I loved that story!"

"How old were you when you first heard it?"

"Jesus, it was before my father left that last time, so I must have
been... " I stopped laughing and snatched my hand back. What the fuck was I
doing? This was a fucking CIA spook on my couch, not a date! I lurched to
my feet, and Mann didn't try to stop me this time. "I want you to leave
now, Mann."

He was on his feet as well, his face so close to mine I could count
individual eyelashes. "You may want a lot of things, Vincent, but me
leaving isn't one of them!" His fingers feathered over my ears, tracing the
sworls and curves. His eyes grazed over my face.

"No, it isn't," I snapped, the effects of the champagne fizzing wildly
through my veins. My hands buried in his hair, I held his head still and
rubbed my lips against his roughly. He opened with a groan.

The thought of kissing him had been lurking in the back of my mind for too
long, popping up at odd moments to blindside me, but I had no intention of
plundering his mouth. I wanted my kisses to be something he never forgot. I
wanted... I wanted to spend the rest of the night feeding off that mouth of
his.

I licked his lips, dropped butterfly kisses over them, nibbled at the
corners, stroked my nose against his, fluttered my eyelids so my lashes
brushed over his cheek.

And then his hands were fisted in my hair, he turned my head, and plunged
his tongue into my mouth, and I was sucking on it as if I could never get
enough of it.

But there were other things I wanted to do with that clever mouth of his. I
pulled back a bit, licked his lips and brushed mine back and forth over
them again, then sucked his lower lip into my mouth and let him feel my
teeth on it. He gave a little gasp, and his hips jerked.

"I'm going to fuck you, Mann," I whispered in his ear, biting down on his
lobe and worrying it.

He was panting, trying to thrust against me. His hands reached behind me,
tracing the crack of my ass, squeezing my cheeks, encouraging me to go
wild. I fumbled with his belt buckle, pausing to give him a firm rub over
the heated flesh under my palm.

"Like that, baby?" I had the button undone and his fly unzipped, and I slid
my hand past it, groaning and nearly coming when my fingers closed around
the hot, hard length of him. I wanted to be inside his tight ass, and I
wasn't even thinking that once I had fucked Quinton Mann, I'd have him out
of my head once and for all.

Mann didn't say anything, but the sounds he was making spoke for him. The
hard clutch of his hands on my body were more eloquent than mere words.

He wanted me as much as I wanted him.

I walked him backwards down the hallway to my bedroom, growling in his ear
what I was going to do to him and how much he was going to like it, while I
explored the planes of his torso through his sweater, keeping him off
balance enough to get him on my bed.

Mann might be a little looped, but if I took the time to undress him
completely, he'd probably come to his senses and take his ass out of
here. I'd settle for getting his trousers and shorts off his legs, and that
sweater - and dammit, he was wearing an undershirt too. Why the fuck did he
have on so many fucking clothes? I pushed the sweater and undershirt up out
of my way so I could get at his nipples. I wasn't likely to forget how
responsive they were. Jesus, I'd had him begging just from licking them.

The backs of his knees hit the bed and we both went down. My weight kept
him pinned to the bed, but he didn't seem too interested in fighting me
off. While I was wrestling with his trousers, Mann was yanking my sweats
and boxers down off my hips and trying to get my sweatshirt over my head,
with no luck. I rolled us to the side where the nightstand was, and fumbled
with the drawer, scrabbling for lubricant and condoms.

I had no time for finesse. His trousers and shorts were down his legs, and
I planted a foot in the vee of the crotch and shoved them off.

And then I had the lube on my fingers and my fingers in his ass, and he
grunted, but I couldn't believe how readily he accepted them. His cock was
pointing due north, and pre come glistened all over the tip. He raised his
hips, his knees bent, offering me whatever I wanted to take, pleading
incoherently, words that made no sense but showed me how much he needed
what I was going to do to him.

I managed to roll the condom on, shuddering with my own need to be buried
in his hot, tight ass. I smeared a coat of lubricant over me, pushed his
knees back and apart, and positioned my cock at his hole. I eased into him,
and his eyes darkened as his pupils expanded. My weight was balanced on my
hands, and I undulated my hips, driving my cock all the way into him.

Quinn groaned as I found his prostate, and I swooped down to swallow the
sound, rocking against him. He arched up and yanked at his sweater. "Mark,
please!" he begged, and I nudged the sweater further out of my way,
desperate myself to get at his nipples. I locked my fingers with his. Our
groins and our hands were together as I dragged my tongue over those
pebble-hard bits of flesh. He tasted of sweat and desire and something that
was indefinably Quinton Mann. I liked that taste in my mouth, as much as
I'd liked the taste of his come.

His cock was trapped between our bodies, and each movement of my groin
stroked the turgid flesh. I pushed him higher and higher, and I had no
choice but to go there with him myself. This had been too long in coming.

He got his hands free and wound his fingers in my hair, pulling my mouth
off his torso and up to his mouth. His kisses were... Fucking hell! Hot,
ravenous! I felt as if he wanted to eat me alive!

I didn't want his nipples to feel neglected, though. I angled my body so
that I wasn't lying full length on him, and got a hand on his nipples, to
roll and tug them. Hitching gasps spilled into my mouth. One particularly
firm squeeze, and that did it for him. He tore his mouth away and whimpered
as his hot semen spurted onto his abdomen.

I'd made him come without touching his cock. I felt pretty damn smug.

But then his inner muscles clamped down, and with two more strokes I was
the one who was exploding in a violent climax, gripped by that tight, hot
passage.

I collapsed onto his slick torso, sweat and come gluing us together, and
lazily licked the side of his neck, working the patch of skin between my
lips and sucking it hard enough to leave a mark.

"Jesus god, you're... one ...hot... fuck, Vincent!" Mann wheezed,
struggling to catch his breath.

"Not... too... shabby... yourself, Mann. I can... get you... top dollar, if
you ever decide you... want to... rent your ass."

Mann didn't take offense, as I had hoped he would. He gave a snort of
laughter. "No... no need to, Mark, I'm... I'm independently wealthy, didn't
you know that?"

"I got that impression... when I was in your house."

Eventually, my cock started to slide out of his body, and he made a soft
sound of loss.

I grabbed for the base so the condom wouldn't spill its contents, then
nuzzled that spot on his neck, wanting to do this again.

Usually I had no trouble getting it up a second time, but usually I hadn't
put away better than half a bottle of champagne. It would take me a little
while to recover. Could I talk him into staying the night?

That thought brought me abruptly back to reality. I flopped over onto my
back, eased the condom off and dropped it over the side of the bed into the
wastebasket that I knew was there, and closed my eyes. Oh, fuck!

If I opened my eyes, I wouldn't be able to take them off him, and he'd see
how much I... "Why don't you grab a shower, and I'll call a cab for
you. You weren't stupid enough to drive here, were you?"

"No, but I was hoping you might want me to spend the night."

//Oh, yes, please!// that little voice begged before I could slam it back
into its mental closet. "I don't do sleepovers, Mann."

He laughed, and I felt the bed shift as he stood up. I risked opening an
eye. His back was to me, and I watched as he pulled the sweater and
undershirt over his head.

My gaze dropped to his ass. Illegal. I groaned to myself and closed my eye
to shut out the temptation. It should definitely be declared illegal.

"Another time, Mark?" His breath was warm on my lips, and this time I
opened both eyes to find him hovering over me.

I wanted to bury my hands in his hair and drag his mouth down for a kiss
that would leave him hungry and desperate. Instead, I gripped the
bedspread, forcing my hands to stay at my sides.

"There are clean towels in the linen closet in the bathroom," I told him
tonelessly, and he disappeared into the bathroom. It was right off my
bedroom, but my apartment was too small for it to be considered a master
bath.

The sound of the shower running drifted into my bedroom, and I pictured
Quinn standing naked under the spray, the light dusting of hair on his
chest plastered down.

//You could join him.//

//I don't think so,// I snarled at that goddammed little voice. And now my
original plan came back to me. *Goddammit*! Pete had *promised* me that one
fuck would cure this obsession.

//But it didn't,// pityingly. //You're fucked, you know that?//

If anyone ever actually spoke to me in that manner, I'd tear his head off
and piss down his neck. As it was, all I could do was agree with myself. I
was seriously fucked.

I reached for the phone and called a local taxi service.

****

Now that the adrenaline had fizzled out of my blood stream, my shoulder
began to ache. I pulled my sweatpants back on but didn't bother with
underwear. As soon as Mann left, I'd take some Tylenol and grab a shower
myself.

//In the shower where he's standing right now, soaping up and rinsing
off. Running his soapy hands all over that fine body of his!// the voice
whispered enticingly as I smoothed out the rumpled bedspread and retrieved
the pillows from where they'd somehow wound up on the floor.

//Shut the fuck up!// I growled at it. Why did I even bother talking to
myself? It never got me anywhere.

"You say something, Mark?"

Wasn't he just in the shower? How the fuck had he managed to finish and
sneak back in here without me being aware? "Uh, no. Listen, Mann, were you
serious about doing this again?"

His hands were busy doing up his trousers, but he glanced at me over his
shoulder. "This?"

Was I out of my fucking mind? "Forget about it, it was just the champagne
talking."

For a second I thought he looked disappointed, but that damned spook smile
distracted me. "I never kid about something like 'this', Mark. Next time
I'd like to do it when we haven't polished off a bottle of champagne. And
don't tell me that's the only way you can get it up for me, because we both
know otherwise. Now, where are my shoes?"

I flushed, remembering just how easily I had gotten it up for him. No, I
wasn't going to think about that now. "Your shoes? Uh, you took them off in
the living room."

"That's right, and then you told me why you have the statue of a dog
standing in the corner."

I had? I thought I'd just told him a dumb tall tale. I followed him down
the hallway. "You want a glass of water before you go? Might help with your
hangover tomorrow morning, Mann."

"No, thanks."

"Okay." I shrugged like it didn't matter a hill of beans to me. Which it
didn't. "It's your head."

While he stepped into his shoes and laced them up, I got his overcoat out
of the closet, sparing a glance at the fake mutt that lay upside down, its
glass eyes staring at the ceiling.

Quinn was studying the sword above my TV, and I touched his shoulder.

"Hmmm? Oh, thanks."

I held the coat, and he slid his arms into it and buttoned it up.

The buzzer sounded, signaling the arrival of his cab. He went to the box
beside the door and pressed the button, "I'll be right down," then released
it. "I never have a champagne hangover, Mark. Isn't that in your file about
me?" He reached for the door knob.

My fingers closed around his wrist, so tight I knew it had to hurt.

"Vincent?"

My grin was sour. "Humor me, okay?" I turned the locks in the correct
order, once again blocking his view. "It spoils the evening if my date
blows up at the end of it."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome, Mann."

His hand cupped my jaw, and his thumb rubbed over my cheekbone. He brought
my mouth down to his and kissed me, and then the door was closing behind
him.

I stood there and stared at the door. It wasn't supposed to be like this; I
was supposed to have that irritating CIA spook out of my system.

I was seriously, seriously fucked. Once was not enough.

//Okay, don't lose your cool, Vincent.// For once that voice sounded
sympathetic.

//What would you fucking suggest that I do?//

//We'll just have to keep doing it until we find out how much is enough!//

Yeah. Okay, yeah. That would work.

Carefully I twisted the locks and turned off the overhead light in the
foyer.

The pain in my shoulder had returned earlier, and now it settled in to a
dull throbbing, and when I touched it, my fingers came away wet. Shit. I
must have pulled the stitches. I went into the bathroom and took the first
aid kit out of the linen closet, then cautiously pulled the sweatshirt and
tee shirt off over my head.

The bandage was stained bright red. I knew the drill - I'd had to do it
enough times in the field. I eased it off, wiped the wound with normal
saline, put some antibiotic ointment on another square of gauze, and
secured it to my shoulder.

Once that was done, I swallowed a couple of Tylenol and picked up my
discarded shirts. The tee shirt I dropped in the hamper, but the
sweatshirt... It smelled of Mann.

I folded it and put it in the bottom drawer of my dresser, next to the
shirt I'd worn the night I'd blown him.

The shower could wait. I took my bathrobe from the hook behind the door and
eased my arms into the sleeves, then belted it and went to watch the rest
of the marathon.


~End~