Date: Sat, 23 May 2009 15:02:25 -0400 (EDT)
From: Tinnean <tinneantoo@embarqmail.com>
Subject: Mann of My Dreams 15: Change Upon Change

Notes: Quinn's POV. The title comes from the poem by Elizabeth Barrett
Browning. My thanks to Tim Mead and Jim for their invaluable help, and as
always, to Gail.

Change Upon Change
By Tinnean

I leaned up on my elbow, staring at the man asleep in my bed, and pondered
what had brought us to this point in time.

I had heard of Mark Vincent; who in the intelligence community hadn't?

But I'd never come into contact with him, for while the FBI, the NSA, and
the CIA worked together on occasion, the WBIS was never involved with the
more mainstream agencies.

After all, WBIS agents didn't have the reputation for being the most stable
of operatives, and to hear Major Jonathan Drum, II tell it, Mark Vincent
was the most unstable of them all.

So it wasn't surprising that before the incident with Bruchner's cyclotron,
when I'd managed to get that nonpolluting, renewable energy source away
from Vincent, we hadn't crossed paths.

That changed in the Wyman Bros. Warehouse. As I'd breathed through the pain
of a bullet wound inflicted by a rogue Company man, Vincent had stood
staring down at me in that warehouse. I'd managed to get that nonpolluting,
renewable energy source away from him, and he'd smiled, a slightly
perplexed look in his eyes, and said, "You do good work, Mann."

I'd shown him just how good I could be when I went down on him in the men's
room of Raphael's on his birthday and made him moan as he climaxed.

Several weeks later he'd returned the favor, cuffing me to my bed and
blowing me as I'd never been blown. His mouth had been hot and wet and
unbelievably skillful.

We were playing mind games, each time raising the stakes, trying to one-up
the other, and when I learned of his promotion, I went to his apartment
with a bottle of champagne.

I kissed him that night for the first time. Or perhaps he'd kissed me.

Clich้d as it might have been, there was an almost electrical shock –
tingles shooting up my legs and down through my torso, and they all
converged in my cock.

He fucked me that night for the first time, his cock a hard, blunt
intrusion that forced me to acknowledge his possession. And it was good.

I would perspire and grow hard just from the thought. There had been
nothing in the file I'd compiled on him that even hinted he could make love
like that to a man.

I'd had any number of relationships in my life. Because of my occupation,
because I never knew when I would be called on to leave the country, or how
long I would be gone, the physical aspect rarely lasted very long, but when
I parted company with my lovers, it was always on good terms, and I prided
myself on the fact that whenever I ran into a former lover, she did not
turn tail and run in the opposite direction.

The same held true for the occasional male lover, although they were so
few, and so far in the past, that when we did meet again, it was difficult
to remember if this man had been a lover or simply an acquaintance.

However, prior to Mark, I had never asked anyone to move in with me, not
even Susan Burkhart, whom I'd considered marrying.

And that was what I had to think about.

****

The manager of Mark Vincent's apartment complex was either very brave or
very stupid. He had informed Mark, after his apartment had been blown up,
that he had thirty days to find a new place of residence.

I convinced my lover of two things: it really wasn't in his best interest
to kill the man, and more importantly, to stay with me in my townhouse. It
would be strictly temporary, I assured him. Just until he could find
someplace new.

He had agreed, taking the bedroom that was down the hall from mine. And I
assured myself that was the perfect arrangement, the only logical one, he
in his bed, me in mine. I was still assuring myself of this as I knocked on
his door, let myself in, and spent the night in his bed, over him, under
him, plastered against him having hot, sweaty sex.

The next afternoon, Mark and I would be going to view an exhibit at the
National Gallery. I returned from my ride with Mother and told him I'd join
him downstairs as soon as I'd showered.

I had just finished adjusting the spray when the shower door opened. "Mark,
what... ?"

He grinned at me, his eyes hot, and the next thing I knew, he was on his
knees before me, swallowing my cock to the root.

For the longest time, he kept me hovering on the cusp, so that when I
finally climaxed, my knees buckled, and I found myself sinking to the floor
of the shower stall, to be impaled on Mark's clever fingers. I was too
bemused to take note when the water stopped pouring over us, when his
fingers were replaced by his cock, to even wonder when and how he'd managed
to roll on a condom. All I could do was hold onto him as he drove into me
again and again.

I was unable to come again so soon, but if anyone could have fucked another
orgasm out of me, Mark was the man who would have done it.

All in all, he made my prostate very happy.

My lovers were polite, well-bred, waiting for me to make the first
move. Since I also was polite and well-bred, I did so only when I felt that
move would be welcome.

Until Mark Vincent followed me into the shower and fucked me senseless, I'd
never realized how wearing that could be.

****

From the museum, we went to Raphael's, the Italian restaurant where I'd
bought Mark dinner on his birthday.

I still grew aroused at the thought of how I had followed him into the
men's room and fellated him that first time, an act that was completely out
of character for a man like me.

We finished dinner, and I found myself cutting a glance toward the
restrooms at the rear of the restaurant. "Care to check out the men's room,
Mark?"

"You don't need me to hold your hand if you have to take a leak."

"This is true, but won't you indulge me? I have such fond memories of it."

"You like living dangerously, don't you, Quinn?"

This from a man who was notorious in the intelligence community for the
risks he'd been willing to take for his agency, and for his phenomenal luck
in never being caught? I murmured as much to him.

"Luck has nothing to do with it! I'm the best!"

Yes, he was. "Are you sure I couldn't interest you in a visit to the... "

"You're impatient tonight, baby. I like that in you." His tongue touched
his upper lip.

Unfortunately, this particular Sunday night at Raphael's was too busy to
dally.

Mark paid the bill, giving me a hard stare until he realized I had no
intention of battling him for it.

I had something else in mind. I sauntered out of the restaurant ahead of
him, my hands in my trouser pockets. It was a casual attitude I never
exhibited in public, since not only did it caused my suit jacket to rise
up, but it also drew the material of my trousers tight across my ass.

This time, however, knowing his eyes were on my ass, almost able to feel
the heat of his gaze...

He growled softly in my ear, so close behind me no one could see his palm
ghosting over the seat of my trousers, and I grinned at him over my
shoulder.

There was no one to see as he crowded me back against the Lexus, running
his teeth over the side of my throat and murmuring what he was going to do
to me once we got home.

Once we got home...

I drove us to Alexandria in record time.

****

Now here I was, leaning on my elbow, watching Mark as he slept. He was
lying on his front, his left leg bent, and I was tempted to run my
fingertips along the length of his spine, to the dip of his lower back,
down to the shadowed crevice that separated his buttocks.

According to the file I had compiled on him, Mark Vincent never let anyone
get close, not even his partner, the sole time he'd had one. He appeared to
be estranged not only from his family, but from anyone he might have known
before he was recruited by the WBIS.

As for romances, there had never been any. The WBIS had a list of ladies
who were very beautiful, very talented, very accommodating, and of course,
very well compensated. On rare occasions – surprising in how extremely
rare those occasions were – he'd been known to visit them.

He was a man who clearly preferred to be in control of himself at all
times. He would have made the perfect zealot, denying his body's urges
until the time when he decided he would allow it.

What he didn't do was relationships, or even affairs. However I might feel
about it, I knew that one day, probably sooner than I'd have preferred, he
would walk out of my life.

After all, nothing lasted forever.

But I was going to make damn sure he remembered me.

I moved his leg a bit further out of my way and began kneading his
buttocks. They were firm and resilient, and I leaned forward and took a
small patch of skin between my lips, sucking carefully – I didn't want
to wake him just yet.

When I was satisfied with the results, knowing it would last for a few
days, and also knowing he would be unaware of its presence, I moved lower,
parting his cheeks, and found his puckered opening unerringly with my
tongue.

Whether asleep or awake, he shivered and thrust back against me.

Oh, yes, he was going to remember me.

****

I stared at the message on my desk at Langley, able to read it through the
clear plastic into which Syd had placed it.

//That's Robert Sperling's body in the morgue, and not Vincent's. I don't
know why the WBIS is keeping it under wraps, but that's how it's playing
out. This is the last time you'll hear from me. Odds are Vincent will
become Director of Interior Affairs now, and nothing is worth crossing
him. There's one more job I have to do for the WBIS, and then I'm out of
there.//

So that was who it was – Sperling. I'd been so distracted at the embassy
ball, first by Mark, and then by execrable Senator Wexler, that I hadn't
even noticed Sperling wasn't there.

I should have noticed. I scrubbed my face, the short amount of sleep I'd
got over the weekend beginning to catch up with me.

"How did you get this, Syd?"

"It was in my handbag, and I have no idea how it got there, Quinn. It
wasn't when I put my wallet and cell phone in my bag before I left for work
this morning. But there it was when I went to put my car keys away."

"And I can assume this mole wasn't one of your connections?"

"No. David might know." She met my eyes and clarified, "Cooper. But... "

I pressed the intercom. "Janet, would you ask DB to come to my office?"

"Yes, sir."

In a matter of minutes he'd joined us. "Hi Quinn. What's up?" He saw Syd
sitting there and gave a slow grin. "Syd."

"David."

"Take a look at this. Syd found it in her handbag."

"Some clown got close enough to you to - "

She flashed him a look, and he shut up.

He cleared his throat, then took the message from me and studied it. "It
has to be Travers. Talk about your loose cannon."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." He shrugged and put the plastic bag back on my desk. "Well, as sure
as I can be without having been in the same room with him as he wrote
this."

"Let's see if we can pull any prints from it." I pushed it toward Syd, and
she rose and picked it up.

"I'm on top of it."

DB murmured something to her, but Janet buzzed me on my intercom, and I
didn't catch it.

"Yes, Janet?"

"I have Major Drum on line 1 for you."

I swallowed a groan. "Thank you."

DB rolled his eyes, then ushered Syd out of my office, his palm on the
small of her back.

"Yes, Major, what can I do for you?"

****

After making short shrift of Drum's demand – hadn't the man ever learned
he could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar? – I filed my
reports both to my director and to Undersecretary Sinclair, then spent the
remainder of the day catching up.

I'd intended to take advantage of the fact that Mondays were usually quiet
at Langley to leave early, but it seemed one thing after another kept
cropping up, and so it wasn't until after 6 before I was able to shut down
my computer.

Mother had often taken me antiquing with her, even before my father had
died, and I had learned the best places to go for eighteenth century
thimbles, for fin du si่cle time pieces, for statues of bronze or marble,
terra-cotta, teak or monkey wood, even sandstone.

I drove to Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown, where Horatio Primm, who dealt
in hard-to-find items, had his antique shop. It was elegant and
uncluttered, and I knew from previous visits that the scent of the pipe
tobacco he favored would fill the rooms, along with the underlying odor of
the furniture polish he used on the shelves that held the beautiful,
unique, and extremely costly items of which his inventory consisted.

The bell jingled merrily as I opened the door. I also knew that he stayed
open a bit later on Monday evenings, which proved fortunate for me.

"May I help you?" Mr. Primm, a diminutive, dapper man of indeterminate
years, appeared from the back of the shop. "Oh, my, my! Quinton Mann, as I
live and breathe! This is a delight. It's been a long time. And how is your
lovely mother?" He'd been discreetly infatuated with her for as long as I'd
known him, which was almost thirty years now.

"Quite well, thank you, Mr. Primm. And how are you?" We spent the next few
minutes exchanging polite small talk before getting down to business.

"What can I help you find today?"

"I'm looking for a statue of a dog. Bronze, I think." Ceramic didn't seem
to last around a man like Mark Vincent. "A life-size Rottweiler. I want him
on his feet, ears and tail cocked, jaws slightly parted. Will that be
possible, do you think? Or do I need to have it commissioned?"

"Hmmm. Interesting conundrum." He peered at me over his wire-rimmed glasses
and tugged thoughtfully at the neat Van Dyke that covered his chin. "A
Rottweiler is a little unusual for a woman." I didn't respond to that. "You
know a bronze that size is going to be costly."

"Yes, I imagine it would." It didn't matter. Mark had tried to be blas้
about the destruction of Sam, but I'd seen the way he'd looked at it when
he told me the story.

"How soon would you need it?"

"There's no real rush. It's for a housewarming gift, and my friend hasn't
even started looking for a new home yet."

"Let me look into this. I'll speak to my sources and see if they have
anything available, and I'll be in touch."

"Thanks, Mr. Primm. You have my home phone number. Leave a message any
time." We shook hands, and I left, feeling pleased with myself.

The feeling stayed until I got home.

The house stood there, silent as always. The lights, timed to go on at
twilight, were casting their soft yellow glow over the entryway. Mark's car
wasn't parked at the curb, but I assumed he was getting dinner and would
arrive home shortly.

'I'll pick up some take out,' he had promised this morning before he'd left
for work. 'What do you feel like?'

'Surprise me,' I'd told him. I was looking forward to seeing what he would
bring home. I already knew he had a weakness for General Tso's Chicken. I
wondered how adventurous he'd get for dinner.

I went up to my bedroom to shower and change into something
more... comfortable.

I noticed the small square of note paper on my pillow as soon as I entered
my room, and for one brief, glorious, stupid minute, I thought Mark had
left me a love note. I went toward it eagerly and picked it up, then stared
down at the words in confusion.

//Sorry about dinner.// Had he had to work late? In that case, why not just
leave a message on my machine? I read the rest of it, not that there was
much. //I'll be in touch.//

What did that mean, 'I'll be in touch?' And then I saw the house key that
was also on my pillow.

Cold crept into my gut. Was this his way of telling me he was no longer
interested in what we had, in us?

I hurried down the hall to his room, where once again the bed had been
stripped. The closet and dresser were empty

I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. He was gone? But why...

No. I would not let him throw away what we had so easily.

Still... If *he* wanted out of our relationship... I couldn't make him
stay. How could I? I'd never tried to hold on to anyone who wanted out of
an affair. I was a mature, reasonable adult, after all.

However, at the very least, he did owe me an explanation. I went back to my
bedroom, picked up the bedside phone, and speed dialed his cell phone
number.

"Vincent." He sounded impatient.

"Where the fuck are you?" I snarled, thinking at the same time that he'd
better damn well know it was me.

"Fall River." According to his records, Mark had been born in
Massachusetts. His response was so reflexive, without a pause to think,
that I had no doubt of its truthfulness. My anger began to subside. But
then he said, "I left a note... "

And my anger was back with a vengeance. "Oh, yes. That," I sneered. "What
the fuck was that supposed to represent? 'Sorry about dinner. I'll be in
touch.'"

"I had to... "

I didn't give him a chance to explain. "And why did you leave the key?"
That was what hurt. I could have rationalized that note, and even his
denuded bed, but not the presence of the house key he'd left behind. If
something was wrong, why hadn't he been willing to tell me to my face?

"C'mon, Quinn. You didn't expect it to last forever."

Not forever, of course not, but it wasn't even a week! I expected it to
last longer than Five. Fucking. Days!

"I mean, c'mon," he was saying almost desperately, "you're CIA; I'm
WBIS... "

I couldn't remember the last time I'd been so furious. I was the son of
Portia and Nigel Mann. I had grown up learning to keep my emotions under
strict control. It had never been a problem, not until I learned a certain
senior WBIS agent was keeping a file on me, and then became involved with
him.

Mark Vincent was the only person who could make me lose my temper. Even
Jonathan Drum II, with his continuous demands for assistance whether it was
in the country's best interests or not, never made me see red as easily as
my lover could.

Anger boiled and sizzled through my veins, but I kept my tone flat and
unemotional. "Mark, fuck you and the horse you rode in on."

Then I spoiled it by slamming down the phone.

Well, that was mature and reasonable.

I walked toward the door, balling up the note and stuffing it in my pocket.

To top it off, I was still hungry. Perhaps there would be some leftovers in
my refrigerator.

The light in the fridge revealed its bare state. I picked up the cordless
phone and speed dialed another number. There was one person I knew I could
count on, who would be there, no matter what.

"Hello, Mother? Would you mind if I came over?"

****

Gregor answered the door. "Good evening, Quinn. Your mother is in the small
parlor."

"Thanks, Gregor."

He studied me carefully. "Are you all right?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know. You just look a little – "

I shook my head. "I'm fine. Thanks for asking though."

"If you need anything... No, well, okay. Just remember I'm here for you."

"I know, Gregor. Thank you." How could I tell him that for a short period
of time I'd been involved with a WBIS agent? Gregor had run up against them
a time or two back in his FBI heydays, and had nothing good to say about
any of them.

He patted my shoulder and turned to climb the stairs to his own apartment
on the third floor, where he'd watch CNN no doubt, until it was time to
lock up the house for the night.

 I went to the room at the back of the house. Classical music played on the
sound system.

Mother was leafing through a photo album. She smiled up at me, and after
I'd leaned over and kissed her cheek, gestured toward a tray that held my
dinner; a bowl of soup, a plate of sliced bread slathered with butter and
caviar, and a bottle of Perrier.

I walked over to it and inhaled appreciatively. "Crab-tomato bisque soup
and Gregor's Russian black bread." I remembered as a young boy sitting in
the kitchen with him while Alyona, his sister, made us that very same
meal. "Definitely comfort food. Thank you, Mother."

"You're very welcome, sweetheart. You sounded in need of comforting." She
went back to looking at the photos, and I sat down and began to
eat. Neither of us said anything for a short time, allowing the soothing
music to fill the silence.

Finally, I put down the soup spoon and ran a hand through my hair, coming
to the decision I had somehow known all along I would make. "I don't know
what to do, Mother."

She set the album aside, folded her hands on her lap, and waited.

"I've been seeing someone since February, and we'd just taken our... our
involvement to a physical level."

Again she said nothing, simply watched me.

"It wasn't a one night stand." Although not by much. I counted the nights
since I'd gone to Mark's apartment with a bottle of Pol Roger to celebrate
his promotion. No, not by much at all.

"I'm relieved."

"Don't be. It's over." I laughed mirthlessly. "I came home from work
tonight and found what was basically a 'Dear Quinton' letter on my pillow."

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry. But you were involved enough to give
this... this person a key to your house? You've never done that, to my
knowledge."

"No, I haven't." Although not having the key hadn't prevented Vincent from
entering my townhouse at will. "It certainly wasn't the smartest thing I've
ever done, and I can't imagine what possessed me to give hi- to give out my
key this time." I'd nearly slipped, and I could feel the tell-tale color in
my cheeks.

"Could it be because this time more than your head is involved?"

"Please, Mother. I've already had my one love. It wasn't... There wasn't a
happy ending."

She frowned at me. "What makes you so certain that person was your one
love?"

"I just knew, Mother." My expression had to be pained. I hadn't given a
thought to Armand while I'd been writhing under Mark Vincent.

"Very well, I won't argue it with you. However, if your new lover was aware
you couldn't love with a whole heart... "

"That didn't weigh into things. Anyone can tell you that Mar... that this
person is not the best bet for a long-term relationship." I picked up the
spoon and went back to my soup.

"But you were willing to try." She cocked her head, waiting until I
responded.

"I suppose." I cringed at how adolescent that sounded.

"This is the room where I spoke with 'Skip Patterson,' did I ever tell you
that, Quinton?" she murmured casually.

I made a noncommittal sound, wondering at her words. It wasn't Skip
Patterson who had interviewed my mother, it had been Mark Vincent. She knew
that. *I* had been the one to tell her. "He was fascinated by this picture
of you." She turned the album so I could see the photo on the page, a
snapshot taken while Jack Be Nimble and I were in mid-jump at the Hampton
Classic. That was the year after the United States had boycotted the Summer
Olympics, and taking the blue that August day had gone a long way to easing
that disappointment.

Mark had been fascinated by that picture? I studied it carefully, but all I
saw was a gangly youth, all elbows and sharp angles. "I fail to see
anything that would interest... " a man of my lover's - my *former* lover's
personality. "... anyone."

"Your intensity, Quinton. Your unwavering concentration. Even someone
unfamiliar with the sport could see you throwing your heart over that fence
for Jack Be Nimble to follow."

"Be that as it may, Mark Vincent is a man. What he felt... *thought*," I
hastily corrected, "about me would only matter on a professional level."

Mother sighed and shook her head. "Sweetheart, I've known since the summer
we spent in the French wine country when you were fifteen that you... " She
paused as if seeking a delicate way to phrase it. "... enjoy masculine
companionship from time to time."

"Excuse me?" I froze, barely able to hold onto the soup spoon. Gently, I
put it down.

"I have no problem with that, sweetheart." She smiled, her warm, accepting,
'You're my son, and I love you no matter what' smile, and I felt much
better.

"Uncle Jefferson and Ludo." They'd been together for the last twenty-five
years.

She gazed into space for a moment, her expression wistful. When she looked
at me again, all trace of it was smoothed away. She hesitated a moment,
then nodded. "Your Uncle Jefferson. And... others. Of course, after the
inception of the AIDS pandemic I worried, but I trusted your innate good
sense not to take foolish risks."

"I'm always careful, Mother." I saw no need to tell her that after Armand,
I'd never gone without a condom again.

"Now, if I may offer a word of advice? If it were I who was being
unceremoniously dumped, I would go after Mark Vincent – I'm correct in
assuming it's Mark Vincent about whom we're speaking? – and demand he
tell me what possessed him to react in such an asinine manner. You're a
Mann, Quinton, but you're also a Sebring. If anyone is going to do the
breaking up, it will be you!"

I leaned over and kissed her cheek. "You know something, Mother? You never
fail to amaze me!"

"Thank you. Finish your dinner before it grows cold."

I was suddenly famished. "I think I will." I picked up a slice of bread and
bit into it, savoring the combined salty taste of the caviar and butter,
determining what my next step would be.

Vincent was in Fall River. I was going to find out what he was doing there,
fly up to find him, and then...

Well, I'd decide what to do when I got there.

****

Mark Vincent didn't need to brag about how good he was – he simply
stated he was the best, and his success rate spoke for itself.

But I was good, too. I wouldn't have made deputy director of Operational
Targeting in the CIA if I hadn't been an extremely competent officer.

Using my own methods, I tracked Mark to Proven House, a bed and breakfast
on Cape Cod. Of course, he wasn't using his own name; I learned that as
well.

"Mr. Wells is your friend?" The pleasant woman behind the desk smiled up at
me. "What a lovely coincidence!"

I filled out the registration card and returned her smile. "Yes, isn't it?"

"He's staying just down the hall from you in the St. Andrew." People were
only too willing to talk, if given half a chance. "I believe my husband
told me he's gone out for a short while, but he should be back in time for
dinner, which is served at 7:30." She handed me the key.

I took it and went up to the second floor, glancing toward the rear of the
house where Mark's room was situated.

My room, the Harpooner, was small, with an attached bath. I dropped my
carry-on in a corner, and from habit I took the time to examine the room.

An armoire served in place of a closet, and the bathroom had a shower stall
instead of a tub.

A single window looked out over the street that ran in front of Proven
house, letting in the last of the afternoon light. Another wall had a
fireplace with a simple oak mantle.

I contemplated the double bed. It wouldn't be much of a problem for me, but
a man of Mark's height might be a little uncomfortable in that bed...

Good god, what was I thinking? The man had walked out on me, and I was
considering having him back in my bed?

Banishing from my mind the image of him lounging across my bed, hands
stacked behind his head, that wicked smile on his face, I cracked my
knuckles. It was time to let Vincent discover just how good I was.

I removed a slim leather case from my suit jacket and selected a lock pick,
then went into the hall.

There was no one there, although I could hear soft sounds coming from the
suite at the far end of the hall. According to Mrs. Proven, the couple
staying in the King George were honeymooners. I doubted they'd even come up
for air long enough to realize anyone else was sharing Proven House with
them.

I studied Mark's door carefully. The locks on the doors of this bed and
breakfast were old, and I couldn't see an agent of his caliber, who'd armed
the locks of his front door with explosives as a deterrent, trusting them
to keep anyone out. He'd have something that would be unobtrusive, that
would let him know that someone had entered.

Sure enough, an inch or so above the floor, I found a fine thread of what
was most likely chewing gum stretched from the door to the frame. There was
no way I could enter Mark's room without breaking it and revealing my
presence, and if I tried entering through a window, the neighbors would be
sure to see.

The last thing I wanted to do was explain to the Chatham police what,
exactly, I was doing.

Of course I could wait until dinner and surprise him then, but what would
be the fun in that?

I snapped the gum with my finger, then went to work on the lock. It only
took a few seconds before a very satisfying snick signified its
surrender. I let myself in, making sure the door was locked behind me, and
then glanced around the room, which was a good deal larger than mine.

In place of a closet was an alcove, and hanging there was the same suit
he'd been wearing yesterday morning when he'd left my townhouse. I turned
away from it.

A door off to the side opened into the private bath, much more lavish than
the one connected to my room. The vanity's countertop was granite, as was
the tub's surround. As for the tub itself, it was actually large enough to
accommodate two.

I allowed myself a moment or two to indulge the fantasy of being in that
tub with Mark, before continuing to explore the room.

There was a fireplace against an inner wall, its mantle also oak, and a
switch to the side to turn on the gas jets that would ignite it. In front
of it was a plush rug. Once again my mind was filled with images of Mark
and me wrapped around each other in a wanton sprawl on it.

Why torment myself with visions like that, when Mark had made it obvious he
no longer saw us that way? I sighed and set them aside.

Live plants throughout the room added a splash of welcome green, and near
the window, a vase of bright yellow daffodils and tulips, and a spray of
forsythia let it be known that spring was upon us.

I turned my attention to the queen-size bed, with its pale ivory
comforter. The mattress was soft and high above the floor. I couldn't
resist testing it, so I toed off my shoes and made myself comfortable.

I remembered the picture Mark had taken of himself in my bed, one hand
cuffed above his head, and the other cupped over his erection, and my cock
grew hard.

What was it about that man?

It would be so easy to jerk off in his bed, to reach for my zipper, free my
cock and stroke it, all the while remembering what it was like when Mark
did the stroking...

Abruptly the door burst open, and thoughts of sex vanished, the unexpected
sound having me on instant alert, adrenaline flooding my system. I was up
in a crouch, my revolver drawn and aimed, my forefinger ready to squeeze
the trigger.

The barrel of Mark's Beretta was in turn aimed at my head. His mouth was
tight and grim. I imagined mine was a reflection of his.

Son of a bitch. I knew he wouldn't have missed the broken thread of gum;
flinging the door open would have been his way of startling whoever was in
his room. Well, he had succeeded. My heart was thudding, and sweat beaded
at my hairline.

"Jesus, Mann, who do you think you are, fucking Dirty Harry?" He lowered
his gun.

I snapped back, "Do you have any idea how close I came to blowing your
fucking head off?" I reholstered my weapon.

"That'll be the fucking day! What are you doing here, anyway? How did you -
"

"Do you really expect me to tell you how I knew you were staying on Cape
Cod, under the name of Joseph Wells?" No, I could see he didn't, as much as
he might want to know. "By the way, remind me never to get on your wrong
side."

"Huh?"

"I learned Sperling's dead. His was the body in the morgue."

"I don't know where people get this idea that I had anything to do with
that shit's death." He had the gall to look annoyed.

"Well, it's a well-known fact you didn't like him."

"I don't like a lot of people, Mann. Doesn't mean I go around killing
them."

Perhaps. "But he did die in your apartment."

"I wasn't there." Of course he wasn't.

I ran my eyes over him, suddenly distracted.

I'd never seen him in jeans, and he looked so damned good. The cuffs were
rolled up, leaving his calves bare. The skin was pale, dusted with hair
that clung damply. Didn't he ever go out in the sun? I pictured him on a
blanket at one of the secluded beaches of Provincetown, soaking up rays,
bare-assed, his head pillowed on his arms, and my mouth went dry and my
trousers were too snug. I refused to allow myself to shift. That would make
him aware of my arousal, and wouldn't he gloat over that? Quinton Mann, the
man with ice water in his veins, hot for him.

And then I noticed that he was limping and had a makeshift bandage around
his foot, and I forgot my arousal. "What did you do to your foot, Mark?"

"It's nothing," he dismissed. "Just a scratch."

"Yes? Well, that 'scratch' is leaving bloody footprints all over the rug!"
I put the pieces together: bare feet, damp legs – he must have picked up
the cut on the beach.

He stared down at the floor, and then behind him at the trail he'd
left. "Fuck!"

"Get in the bathroom, and let me take a look at that." He opened his mouth,
and I felt my temper slipping out of control. With an effort, I restrained
it. Why was everything with him such a big production? "And don't argue
with me, or I'll... "

"Yeah? You'll do what, Quinn?" he taunted. It was as if he wanted to see
how I would react to his pushing.

I pushed back. Literally. I turned him around and planted my palm in the
middle of his back and pushed. "Move it, tough guy."

Instead of the argument I was expecting, he actually obeyed me. He hobbled
into the bathroom, lowered the lid of the commode, and sat down heavily.

"Untie that sock, Mark." I started the water running in the sink, took off
my jacket, and rolled up the sleeves of my shirt, then soaked a washcloth
and wrung it out.

"You... uh... " His eyes were on my ass, and my cock twitched. "You mind
telling me what you are doing here, Quinn?"

//Coming after you, you pain in the ass!// I scowled at him, pretending I
hadn't seen, and picked up his foot, running the washcloth over his
injury. "This doesn't look good, Mark. I think you might need
stitches. Maybe we should get you to an emergency room." 'We'? As much as I
might want there to be, there wasn't any 'we' any more. What *was* I
thinking?

"No. It isn't necessary. It's not that bad. Give me that." Was he rattled?
He grabbed the washcloth out of my hand. "You're too gentle. The blood will
get out any sand that's left, and just to be on the safe side, fill the
tub; I'll soak the rest of it out."

There was blood on my hands, his blood. Although I'd been shot at any
number of times in the years I'd been in the CIA, I'd only been hit the
once, in that warehouse on the Patapsco River in the matter of Bruchner's
cyclotron, but Mark... I had felt his scars under my fingertips, seen them,
although I'd said nothing.

Had there ever been anyone who said something about them?

"Fuck! Listen, Mann, you don't have to worry, I'm clean... "

For a moment I stared at him in mute surprise, then snarled, "You're an
asshole, you know that, Vincent? Do you think I'm worried about that?"

"Why not? I would be."

"I have a copy of your last physical." And the ones before that, going back
three years. "I wouldn't have taken a chance and rimmed you otherwise, much
as I may have wanted to."

He sat there looking stunned, and my temper began to slip its leash once
again.

"Did you honestly think I'd do something like that just because of your
beaux yeux?"

"Quinn! That's French!" The son of a bitch had the nerve to tease me?

"Who the fuck do you think you are? Gomez Addams?" I surged to my feet and
dragged him up off the commode, tempted to shake him. I remembered how
futile that had been when he'd stood in my hallway after the explosion in
his apartment, so instead, my hands tightened on his sweater, and I yanked
him against me and locked lips with him.

I was in control of that kiss, that situation, until he reached between us
and found how hard I was. He shaped the length of my cock with one hand
while his mouth feasted off mine. His other hand ran over my back, down
past my waist to the crevice of my ass, the touch so light that if I hadn't
been sensitized to it, I might not have felt it at all.

He pulled me closer, and his hips began to rock gently.

I ground my cock against his groin. I spread my legs for better balance,
and he raised his knee and lightly rubbed the vee of my crotch. The
tantalizing friction caused me to moan into his mouth, and he shivered and
echoed the needy sound back into mine.

I wanted him. I could feel how much he wanted me. And then I remembered his
injury, and I backed away from him, more reluctant than I wanted him to
know.

"Quinn?" There was a dazed look in his eyes.

"*Not* the best time! Soak your foot, Mark."

He sat on the tub surround and put his foot in the water, which distorted
the shape of his toes and turned the red oozing out to pink.

"Do you have any bandages?" I asked briskly. If he wasn't going to let me
run him to the emergency room, we'd need something to keep him from
bleeding all over the place.

"There's some first-aid stuff in my shaving kit. Hand me a towel, would
you?" He seemed satisfied with the condition of the cuts. He licked his
lips and watched me from under his lashes. I waited for him to say
something about that kiss, but instead he said, "Want to tell me now what
you're doing here?"

We were going to do this the hard way. Fine. I gritted my teeth. "What we
have between us is too good to be tossed aside on a whim."

He frowned. He wasn't expecting me to challenge him?

"Why did you run, Mark?"

"What are you talking about? I didn't run anywhere." Who was he trying to
kid? He had done an outstanding imitation of Jesse Owens! "I had to go to a
funeral."

"Your mother." I was mortified. I should have offered my condolences
immediately, but I'd gotten... distracted. "I'm sorry."

"No need to be," he said carelessly, turning away to rifle through the
contents of his first-aid kit. "The old- Her liver finally gave up the
ghost."

"By the time I found out about it, it was too late to send flowers. I did
send a contribution to a local chapter of AA in her name."

"Thanks."

"Was it... Was it because I fucked you?"

"Shit. I *know* I had iodine in here!"

I sighed. He was going to ignore the elephant in the room. "This?" I had
removed the brown bottle when I'd been searching for something to protect
the wounds. "Sit down, Mark."

He sat. I wished I could find a way to make him obey me so readily all the
time.

And I found I couldn't ignore the elephant.  "I thought you enjoyed it." I
certainly had.

"I did. That's why... " But he didn't continue, and I was left without a
clue as to where he would have gone with that.

"I thought if we were – " I sighed once more. "I just thought it would
be enjoyable to switch from time to time."

"Well... Well... "

"Why not give it some thought?" I crouched down in front of him and touched
the iodine to the two cuts, my hand steady even through his almost
inaudible hiss of discomfort, then took the butterfly bandages that he had
taken from his first-aid kit. "You know, Mark – hold the edges together
please." My brain was rapidly considering and discarding various ways of
dealing with my recalcitrant lover, finally deciding on light. I would keep
it light, if it killed me. "... if you carried a sewing kit, you could
stitch this up yourself."

It just might kill me. His groin was close enough so I could smell the musk
of his arousal. If I leaned forward just a little bit I'd be able to mouth
the bulge through the material of his jeans.

"What do you think, I'm fucking Rambo?" He raised my face, and I grinned at
him, hoping to disguise my own arousal. "Goddamn it, are you teasing me
again?"

"It's always nice to be appreciated."

He dragged me against him, and this time it was his mouth that took mine.

The kiss was hungry, as hungry as the one I'd initiated, and my response to
it was anything but gentlemanly. I buried my fingers in his hair and
pressed myself against him, against the vee of his thighs.

His arms tightened around me, one hand possessively on my ass, and I
shivered.

By the time we broke apart we were both breathing heavily. If teasing him
would get me kissed like that again, I could spend my life –

I could do it over and over again.

He let me go and sat back, and I let him put some distance between us. I
didn't want him to spook and run again.

He was hard, though, the evidence right in front of me, and in spite of how
much I wanted to lean forward and run a fingertip over it, I didn't.

I finished putting the last bandage on, then sat back on my heels. "I'm
done." Mark stood up and began removing his sweater with jerky
movements. "Your foot - "

"Fuck my foot!"

"Kinky!"

"Very funny, Hedley Lamarr." He began to strip.

I couldn't help laughing. "No one ever gets my impressions!"

"Well, I... "

I never knew what he was going to say, because his face suddenly darkened,
and he began to swear.

"Oh, *fuck*! Of all the motherfucking, cocksucking... " He banged the tiled
wall, and I winced in sympathy.

This was a side of Mark I had never seen, that I doubted anyone had ever
seen. "Mark!" I rose to my feet. "What's wrong?"

"No supplies," he told me morosely.

"Pardon me?" I bit my lips to prevent my laughter from bursting out.

"You heard me, Mann." He scowled mightily at me, but I could see that it
was himself with whom he was unhappy. "I didn't bring anything with me. No
condoms, no lube... " For a second I thought he was going to start beating
the wall again.

"So, you didn't plan on fucking someone while you were away." An inordinate
sense of satisfaction rippled through me.

"Quinn, I was going to bury my old lady! Contrary to what some people might
believe – " I knew he was referring to Major Drum. He was not a favorite
of either of us. " - I do not get turned on by funerals!"

Perhaps not, but Mark Vincent was a man who prided himself on always being
ready for the inevitable. He carried a first-aid kit stocked with items
most people never saw outside an emergency room, and yet he'd left DC
without even a condom in his wallet, something every teenaged boy in
America made sure he never left home without. True, there were pharmacies
on every street corner, and buying a rubber wasn't a big deal. But...

He hadn't come to Cape Cod prepared in case he got lucky. I could live with
that.

"Well, if I remember correctly, there's some lotion on the vanity. And... "
I took a condom out of my wallet and waggled it gently before him.

He would have taken it from me.

"Uh, uh, uh, Mark."

I touched his ear and fantasized about nipping the lobe, taking it into my
mouth, sucking on it, then threw caution to the winds and did it, to find
he liked it as much as I did. His ears were almost as sensitive as my
nipples.

I leaned my cheek against his and gave a pleased sigh. This was nice.

What had we been talking about? Condoms, yes, condoms. I drew in a deep
breath. "I brought it; *I* wear it! We can go out to a drugstore after
dinner and buy more, if you'd like."

He grinned and resumed stripping. "We have an hour and a half until
dinner. Get naked, Quinn!"

I wasn't surprised. Even when he bottomed, Mark Vincent topped.

****

"C'mon, Mann!" Mark was on his back on the bed. My fingers, coated with the
lotion, were busy slicking and opening him. "Hurry it... *Ah*!"

"Going fast enough for you, tough guy?" I'd found his prostate.

"Again!" he groaned and arched into my touch. His cock was hard against his
belly, drops of pre come beading the tip. I reached for my own
cock. "No. That's mine."

At his possessive words, a flush of heat swept from my hairline down to my
groin, and my cock became even more engorged. I eased my fingers out of him
to get more lotion on them, needing to get three fingers into him. Before I
could, he somehow dragged me around, and I found myself straddling his
chest, my cock inches from his mouth.

"How the fuck did you do that, Mark?" I gasped, nonplussed by the rapidity
with which he took control.

He didn't answer, too busy arranging my hips so he could suck my cock into
the wet heat of his mouth. I balanced my weight on my knees and leaned
forward. The fingers of my left hand curved around his thigh, and I cupped
his balls out of the way, giving them a lick before I slid the fingers of
my right hand back inside him. Mark's cock was within reach of my mouth,
quivering, the head a deep red, and I swallowed it hungrily.

Mark slipped a finger past the mouthful of cock I had, and I whimpered as
he rubbed his finger over my tongue, and then quickly withdrew it.

Suddenly that moistened fingertip was circling around and across and
dipping slightly into my anus. The unexpected sensation caused me to jerk,
and his other hand smoothed over a buttock, petting me. It tightened, held
me in place, and I gave a full body shudder.

We both groaned around the hot flesh we worked with lips and tongue. The
muscles in Mark's ass clenched on my fingers as I stroked that small gland
inside him, and he thrust up shallowly into my mouth.

He released me to pant, "Qu - Quinn, is this your... Oh, *fuck* that feels
good! ... your way of pun - punishing me for leaving?"

I was as breathless as he was. "If I wanted to - to punish you, Mark, I'd
be - I'd be sliding into you, and once... oh, once I was inside, I wouldn't
move! I'd make you wait!" I eased my fingers out of him, somehow managed to
roll on the condom and coat it with more of the lotion, then swing myself
around so I was between his legs. His hands gripped my shoulders, and I
knew there would be bruises there in the morning. "I'd be doing this!"

I pushed his thighs back and apart, lined my cock up with his hole, and
pushed. There was an instant of resistance, and I looked into his eyes,
dark with passion. He relaxed, and then I slid past the ring of muscle and
was buried balls-deep in the snug, velvety grip of his passage.

I held still, trapping his cock between our bodies, letting the wiry hair
that covered our groins tease it with each shuddering breath we took.

"Quinn! Jesus fucking god! Move, goddamn you!"

"Oh, no, Mark. Not unless you promise to talk to me before you cut and run
the next time." I licked the side of his neck and moved just enough to
nudge his prostate, and he shivered.

"And if I... if I don't promise?"

The pain of his refusal blindsided me, and I closed my eyes against it. Of
course he wouldn't promise. What made me think I could coerce any kind of
pledge from Mark Vincent? My erection began to deflate.

"Nothing, Mark. But I wish... " I shook my head. "Nothing."

His inner muscles tightened around my cock. "Quinn." His palm cradled my
jaw, and his thumb brushed over my cheekbone. I raised my eyelids,
surprised by the tenderness of the gesture. "Your eyes look almost green
right now, did you know that?" he said softly, and he caressed my cheek
again. "I won't cut and run next time. Not that I did anything like that
this time. I had to leave DC to come here for a funeral."

"Sure, Mark." I felt almost giddy. "If that's your story, you stick to it."

His eyes glittered, and the next thing I knew, he had one of my nipples
between his thumb and forefinger, twisting, squeezing, pinching... Oh,
*fuck*! He knew how sensitive...

Once more fully engorged, I threw back my head and howled.

"That's right, baby." He pulled my head down with one hand while the other
continued to torment my nipples, and he nuzzled my lips with his. "Wail for
me. I want to hear how I make you feel."

This time he made me shiver. "Son of a bitch!" I gasped.

Mark tensed. His eyes stared into mine, and he only relaxed when he
realized I wasn't using that as an epithet.

"You're going to make me come!" I began to swear, words I had first learned
hanging around a stable.

Beneath me, my lover's body shook with laughter. "Oh, my, Mr. Mann. Does
your mama know you use language like that?" He reached between us and
squeezed the nerve at the base of my cock, and I sighed in relief as the
clawing need abated.

"Bastard," I groused. "Leave my nipples alone, or it will be all over but
the shouting."

His body shook harder. "Are you going to shout for me now too, baby?"

"Mark... " I nipped his chin in warning. "If Mrs. Proven hears me – "

"Who gives a fuck? We'll never see her again." He ran his fingers through
my hair, kneading my scalp. "Don't sweat the small stuff, baby. Haven't you
learned that by now?"

"Well, I suppose we could always blame it on that newlywed couple staying
here... "

Suddenly his hands tightened in my hair, and he was bringing my mouth to
his and ravaging it. I didn't know what I'd said to cause that reaction,
but I had no objection to it.

I remembered his words to me, forever ago, it seemed.

//You need to be kissed long, and often, and by someone who knows how.//

I sighed into his mouth. Mark certainly knew how.

He freed my lips, and lipped and nipped the curve of my throat, working a
patch of skin.

"Damn it, Mark, you're going to mark me!" My complaint was half-hearted.

"That's the idea, baby. Now why don't you get busy and make- fuck me?"

"Finally. Something smart coming out of that mouth of yours."

"You know you love what I do with my mouth." He locked his ankles behind my
back, taking me deeper. Braced on my arms, I undulated my hips, driving my
cock against his prostate, and groaned hoarsely. The sound he made in
response was indescribable, gasping, desperate, demanding, and it made me
wild. "Quinn, goddammit! Please!"

And that made me even wilder.

"All right, Mark." I began a steady, driving movement, one that was
guaranteed to bring us to a fulfilling climax. "All right."

****

I made the arrangements, and after buying a pair of jeans, jogging shoes,
and a lightweight jacket for me – as I'd suspected, Mark was a big
proponent of Sears, and he broke speed limits getting us there and back in
time – we went whale watching. Mark complained when a whale breached,
and he got a noseful of fish breath. Since it was a three hour trip, the
boat returning shortly after 1:30, we had the afternoon to while away.

We whiled it away in bed.

I made the arrangements, and we went fishing in the tide rips. Mark was
smugly pleased when he landed more striped bass than I did. That was a half
day trip, and we had a similar problem in the afternoon.

We spent those hours in bed as well.

I made the arrangements, and in a sixty hour period, I had never fucked or
been fucked so much. I had to keep shifting in my seat on the flight home,
and Mark was walking with a noticeable limp.

"I'm sorry," I murmured as we walked to the long-term parking lot. "I was
too rough... "

"Baby, on your worst day you couldn't be too rough." I thought he was going
to say something more, but instead a little smile curled his lips.

"Mark." I swallowed, and he raised an eyebrow. "It... uh... it doesn't look
good at the Company if someone from the WBIS keeps bypassing my security
system as if it were child's play." I reached into my pocket and withdrew a
keyring. A pewter whale with Plymouth Harbor inscribed on one side dangled
from it. "Hold onto this longer than you did last time, okay?"

He took it in his hand and stared down at the single key it held, and his
fingers closed convulsively on it. High color was in his cheeks. He nodded
abruptly and put the keyring in his pocket. "Come on," he said gruffly. "I
have work to do, even if you don't."

We got in the car, and he switched on the ignition.

I watched his hands on the steering wheel as he drove out of the airport
and headed for the 395 and home, remembering how they'd felt on my body.

I knew that after he dropped me off at my townhouse he'd go directly to
WBIS headquarters and play catch-up for the rest of the day. I'd be doing
the same thing at Langley.

"I expect that dinner you promised me, Mark," I told him as I gathered our
bags and got out of the car.

"When...?" His eyes narrowed, and I could see in them when he remembered.

I touched my forefinger to the lock of hair that was always falling into my
eyes, and turned and walked to my front door. By the time I let myself in,
he had driven away.

The message light on my machine was flashing. I dropped the two bags I was
carrying to the floor and hit the button to play the new messages.

"Quinton, I do hope you're having a pleasant time on Cape Cod." Trust
Mother to discover where I had gone. "It's so lovely this time of year. I
won't expect you for our ride Sunday unless I hear otherwise. I rather
imagine you'll have other things to do. Enjoy yourself, sweetheart."

That call had been made the same day I'd left for Cape Cod. I'd have to let
her know I'd be able to keep our riding engagement. I stared into space,
thinking about my mother, thinking about the kind of mother Mark had had.

I wondered if Mark knew how to ride.

I shook my head. If he'd panicked and run simply because he'd enjoyed being
with me so much on Sunday, the idea of joining Mother and me on our ride
would no doubt freak him out. He would deny it, of course, but I wasn't
going to chance it at this point.

I listened as the next message played.

"Quinton, this is Horatio Primm. I believe I've found exactly what you had
in mind. The statue is a beauty, if I say so myself. Please let me know
when you'll be interested in seeing it."

He'd managed that very quickly. The call had been yesterday. I picked up
the phone to return his call. "Mr. Primm? Quinton Mann."

"Ah, Quinton. I'm delighted to hear from you." He described the statue and
named a price, which was nowhere near what I'd been willing to pay. "My
contact found it at an estate sale in New York."

"It sounds exactly what I had in mind. I'd like to stop by in about an
hour." His shop wasn't on the way to Langley, but I knew the detour would
be worth it. "I'll make arrangements to have it delivered to Mother's
address. My friend is very... curious, shall we say?"

"Ladies!" the little man laughed. "Bless their inquisitive little hearts!"
My reply was deliberately vague. "I'll see you later this morning
then. Good-bye."

I hung up and listened to the third message. "Mann, pick up, goddamn it!"
It was Drum. "This is *important*! *Fuck*! You're never around when I need
you!"

This was the second call from him in two weeks. Now what was that all
about? Dealing with Drum was the last thing I needed, but I might as well
get it over with. I called his office. "This is Quinton Mann. Is Major Drum
there?"

"Good morning, Mr. Mann. No, sir, he's away from his desk at the moment."

"Is there a problem that requires CIA assistance?"

"Not to my knowledge, Mr. Mann."

"All right. Please let the Major know I returned his call. Thank you." I
hung up. If Drum had a problem that needed to be dealt with that urgently,
he could get in touch with me. I'd help him or not, depending on my own
work load.

Which looked as if it was going to be heavy. All the other messages were
from the Company.

****

It was late when I returned from Langley that evening. I'd hoped to make it
home earlier, but I'd gotten involved with something that had come up while
I was away. I discussed it with Bramwell Rayner, my Director, and would
have had Sydney Cooper look into it further, but she was on vacation. I
sent Greg Evans, another officer, with orders he was to report back to me,
personally.

It had been a long day, and I was feeling every hour of it. I steered my
car into the street where I lived. Mark's car was at the curb, and suddenly
I wasn't feeling quite so exhausted. I parked the Lexus in the garage,
crossed the patch of grass that was my front lawn, and let myself into the
house.

The odor of grilled steaks filled the first floor, and I followed my nose
to the dining room. The chandelier had been dimmed, the candelabrum in the
center of the table was lit, and two place settings were facing each
other. The silverware had been in my father's family, and Mother had given
it to me when I moved into my first place. An embossed M was stamped into
the handle of each piece. There were salads and a platter of roasted
vegetables. Mark walked in with two plates.

"What do we have here?" My mouth was watering.

"Twenty-ounce Porterhouse steaks and Asiago-Parmesan mashed potatoes,
Quinn. From B. Smith's." His look was bland.

"But they don't do take-out!"

Mark just smiled, and I was willing to bet he knew someone there who owed
him a favor.  "Go wash your hands, baby." Damn. I was starting to like
hearing him call me 'baby'. "Dinner's ready."

I used the first floor washroom, then hurried back. Mark was pouring two
glasses of Pinot Noir.

"Have you been rummaging through my wine cellar?"

"Quinn! I'm cut to the quick!" He spoiled the effect by grinning, the kind
of grin that sent shivers up my spine.

My trousers were suddenly snug, a condition that was becoming all too
frequent, and I quickly sat down. I wasn't sure I wanted Mark to know the
effect he had on me.

Mark's smile widened. "The wine steward at B. Smith's highly recommended
this vintage. What do you think of it?" He sliced into his steak, which was
so rare I almost expected it to moo, but waited until I sipped the wine and
gave it my approval.

"He was right. This wine compliments the steak very well."

"Good thing. Otherwise I'd have had to go back and cancel him." He raised
his eyebrow at my frown. "Only kidding, Quinn."

"Of course you were." I cut my steak and found it was broiled exactly the
way I preferred it – medium rare. I put a bite in my mouth, chewed
thoughtfully. "Hmmm." I put down my fork and knife and touched my napkin to
my lips.

"Is something wrong, Quinn?"

"Actually, a dinner this good, from B. Smith's: I was thinking you're going
to get lucky tonight."

His eyes were very bright. "My thoughts exactly!"

****

Testament, my gray gelding, cantered along the tanbark trail. I settled
deeper into the saddle, enjoying the sensual feel of him between my legs.

"Quinton!"

"Oh, sorry, Mother. What were you saying?"

"You were a million miles away. Where were you?" Mother would have had
every right to be annoyed. Our Sunday morning rides were *our* time
together. I was relieved to see that she wasn't annoyed, simply curious.

"Lost in thought, Mother," I obfuscated. I was actually awash in a sea of
voluptuous, almost tactile memories of how I had spent the night before
with my lover. I'd been surprised to find I liked having the WBIS agent
running tame in my house. I'd been even more surprised to find that I liked
having his cock up my ass. However, the numerous times we'd made love
resulted in me being less than comfortable.

"Mark Vincent has been staying with you for almost a month now, hasn't he?"

I fought the urge to tug at my collar. "Yes. He has an apartment lined up,
but it needs some work, and until it's done... "

"As long as he isn't taking advantage of your hospitality."

"Not in the least, Mother." It was my body he'd taken advantage of, and I'd
enjoyed every minute of it. Not that that was something I could confess to
my mother.

"Why don't we curtail our ride for today? It's unseasonably warm for this
time of May, and I believe I could do with a cool drink."

I shifted in my saddle. Testament's ears flickered back and forth, waiting
for the signal of which direction we were to take. "That sounds like an
excellent idea." We turned our horses around and cantered back toward the
stable.

"You know I never interfere with your life, sweetheart, but if you ever
need to talk, I'm here. And if you feel you can't talk to me, there's
always Gregor, as well as your uncles."

"I know, Mother." We dismounted and turned the reins over to the groom who
cared for Testament and Pyrrhic Victory, Mother's bay mare, and we strolled
to the clubhouse.

The hostess smiled and led us to our usual table, and a waiter hurried
over. "Your usual, Mrs. Mann? Mr. Mann?"

"Yes, please, Alexander. Thank you." She settled herself in her seat and
carefully removed her riding gloves. She chatted desultorily of her various
charities, of the possibility of Victory favoring her off hind leg, of me
having dinner with her one evening soon. Alexander brought her grapefruit
juice on the rocks and my Perrier with a twist of lime, and then left us
alone.

Mother took a sip of her juice, blotted her lips neatly with her napkin,
and looked into my eyes. "I'm well aware you would never permit work to
infringe on our time together, that you would consider it the worst of poor
taste. Am I wrong in assuming this concerns that statue of a dog you had
delivered to my house?"

I squeezed the lime into my designer water. "No."

"Did you get it for Mark Vincent?"

I raised the frosted glass to my lips. A single swallow, and then I placed
the glass in the exact center of its coaster. I crossed my right leg over
my left knee. She sipped more of her juice, waiting me out, and I
laughed. "Yes, Mother. It's for Mark. He had a very similar statue, only it
was ceramic. When his apartment was destroyed in that explosion, so was the
statue. He called it Sam."

"'Sam'? After Sam Spade?"

"You'd think, but he said not. I can't think of any other, though, that
would appeal to him."

For a long moment she looked thoughtful, and then the corner of her mouth
quirked up in a grin. "Did you know your father was an avid Louis L'Amour
fan? He actually met him a few times."

"Really?" I'd known he had been acquainted with Ian Fleming, so I shouldn't
have been surprised that he'd known other authors.

"Yes. He enjoyed all of L'Amour's westerns, but he loved Hondo
best. There's an autographed copy that Louis sent him somewhere in your
father's study." Which was exactly the way it had been the last time he'd
been in it, shortly before he'd left on that final, fatal assignment to the
Middle East. "Whenever he felt he needed a breather, that was the book he
chose." Her expression softened as it always did when she spoke of the man
to whom she had been married, who had been her one love.

"That's very interesting to know, Mother, but I fail to see what that has
to do with Mark's statue."

"Hondo's dog was 'remote and dangerous,' to quote the author." She fell
silent as I digested that information.

"So, Hondo's *dog* was Sam?"

She smiled proudly, pleased that I had made the connection so quickly, then
offered, "He kept everyone at a distance, you know. Even the man to whom he
was closest."

I paused with my glass to my lips. "Is that supposed to be Freudian,
Mother?

She leaned forward to pat my cheek. "You're so quick on the uptake,
sweetheart."

I couldn't help laughing ruefully. "You are amazing."

"Of course I am. That's a mother's job! If you've finished your Perrier, we
should be on our way. Gregor has promised a delightful luncheon."

I hurried around the small table and pulled out her chair for her. She took
my arm, and I escorted her to my car.

****

"I've got an apartment lined up," Mark assured me once again as we showered
the residue of the previous night's passion from our bodies. "It just needs
some work."

I swallowed my smile. It must need a *lot* of work, since it was the middle
of May, and he'd been living with me for almost six weeks.

"No problem, Mark."

The corner of his mouth kicked up in a pleased grin, which he quickly
erased. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

He gave me a sharp look, but I just raised an eyebrow.

"You sure I'm not putting you out?"

"I'm sure. Believe me, Mark, you'd be the first to know." Truthfully, I
wasn't looking forward to the day he moved out, but I wasn't going to tell
him that. He hadn't shown any signs of getting skittish and bolting again,
but I was wary that he would. "It's Friday."

"Not like you to state the obvious, Mann."

"I was just wondering if you'd like to have dinner at Raphael's tonight." I
turned off the water, opened the door, and stepped out, taking a couple of
towels from the warming bar and handing one to him.

"Yeah." He ran the towel over his hair. "As long as I'm in town... yeah."

****

Things were growing tense at Langley. Over the last several weeks, a number
of young men and women had failed to get in touch with their contacts. At
this point in their careers they wouldn't be given anything remotely
dangerous to handle. The more mundane assignments would help them hone
their skills.

Now, two more of our officers were missing, and none of our usual contacts
could come up with anything solid as to who was taking them, or why. It was
as if one moment they were traveling to a meeting in Zurich, or Paris, or
Prague, and the next they had vanished off the face of the earth, leaving
no trace behind.

To add to that, Bram Rayner, Director of Operational Targeting, would be
away indefinitely, having been called out to the California offices, and
Edward Holmes had stepped into his position.

It was an ill-kept secret that Holmes aspired to the position of Director
of the CIA.

"Mr. Mann."

"Yes, Janet?"

"Director Holmes is on line one."

"Thank you." I picked up my phone and pressed one. "Yes, sir?"

"I'd like to see you in my office at your earliest convenience, Mann." What
DCI Holmes meant was immediately.

"I'm on my way." This had to be about the officers who were missing. It had
been impossible to learn of their whereabouts, and I hoped we had finally
caught a break. I headed out of my office, pausing at my secretary's
desk. "I'll be with DCI Holmes until further notice, Janet."

"I'll hold all your calls, and see about rearranging your two o'clock
meeting. I think the 4:30 one can be rescheduled for later this week." She
knew as well as I did that meetings helmed by this DCI tended to run very
long.

"Excellent, Janet. You're a gem. Oh, and if Evans comes in, tell him I need
his report as soon as it's humanly possible."

I strode toward the elevator.

"Quinn, hold it for me, would you?"

"DB. I haven't seen you around lately."

"I took some vacation time, Quinn. Had to give the old johnson time to
regroup if I want to keep my ladies happy."

"Is that why you look all worn out?" I laughed quietly. It was always the
quiet ones. Who would have thought DB of all people would be part of a
m้nage a trois? "Are you ever going to tell me who they are?" All I knew
was that they worked for the Company.

"I'll make a deal with you, Quinn. As soon as you tell me who's put the
smile on your face, I'll consider it." He'd tried to discover who I was
taking to bed on a regular basis, unsuccessfully, and he would dangle the
lure of revealing the identity of the women he was sleeping with before my
nose at least once a week, in hopes that I'd crack.

"Mmm, I don't think so, DB." There was no way in hell I could tell him that
not only was my lover a man, but that he was Mark Vincent, the most
notorious member of the WBIS. I noticed the stack of printouts in his
hand. "Where are you headed?"

"Holmes' office. You too?" He was suddenly serious. "This thing in Europe
is getting nasty. We've lost five agents over there."

"Have any of the other agencies lost people?"

"Yeah. Mossad, the KGB, MI6. Shit, pick an agency, and the odds are they've
had people go missing." He handed me a top sheet. "Even the WBIS has agents
who've disappeared."

Mark hadn't said anything about that to me, but then, I hadn't brought up
the subject either. We didn't discuss business at home.

I scanned the page. The names were unfamiliar. I said as much to DB.

"Yeah. Each one of them was recruited within the last couple of years. And
look at this." He handed me a page. "I intercepted this message for Rice
Burroughs."

"Don't tell me. Another one of our newer recruits."

"You've got it. The message was encrypted, and I ran it through that
program I'd created. It looks authentic enough, and an inexperienced
officer would have no cause to think otherwise. He'd go to the assigned
meeting."

"Do we know where it was scheduled to be?"

"We do." DB didn't look happy. "Burroughs was instructed to go to a
specific location on the outskirts of Paris to meet with someone from this
organization. Prinzip."

"Hmm. I don't believe I've come across that name before."

"Would have been something if you had. It's only come on the grid in the
last few days."

We stepped out of the elevator together and walked down the corridor side
by side, the thick carpeting muffling our footsteps. Holmes' secretary was
carrying a tray with four steaming mugs of coffee, and she was fumbling
with the doorknob to his office. I opened the door for her, and she smiled
her thanks.

I wondered who else DCI Holmes would have in on this meeting.

"Mann. Cooper. You know General Kirkpatrick?"

I nodded. He was Drum's superior. What was he doing here?

"Have a cup of coffee and get comfortable. We appear to have a joint
problem, and this is going to take a while."

****

'A while.' That was an understatement. It was a couple of hours before
Holmes and Kirkpatrick stood, signaling the conclusion of the meeting. It
had only seemed like an eternity.

"I'll expect you to track down Major Drum, Mann. I can't afford to lose a
member of my staff."

"Of course not, General," I agreed sourly. Not only were five of our agents
missing, but so was Jonathon Drum II. "I'll do my best."

The General raised his eyebrow. "See that you do," he said in that cool,
commanding voice of his. Apparently he felt the CIA owed him.

DB and I were finally able to leave the office.

"Phew, I don't envy you, Quinn. That's going to be one bitch of an
assignment."

"If I don't find Drum, Kirkpatrick will keep after me until I do." I
scowled at my friend. "Trust Drum to get himself into trouble like this!" I
thought of the message that had been on my machine when I'd returned from
Cape Cod with Mark Vincent.

//Mann, pick up, goddamn it! This is *important*! *Fuck*! You're never
around when I need you!//

I'd told myself if it was that urgent, Drum would get in touch with me
again.

Only he hadn't. He'd applied for emergency leave, been denied, and had gone
to Europe anyway, determined to learn the whereabouts of his half-brother,
Kirill Aleksandrov, who had apparently vanished while returning to his unit
in the Russian army stationed in Chechnya.

Drum's father, a highly decorated officer, had become a POW during the Viet
Nam War. He'd been taken to one of the satellite Soviet countries, managed
to escape with the aid of a resistance group, and got word back to the
States that he was alive. Before a mission could be launched to get him
out, he'd vanished.

Years later, after the Cold War had ended, Drum learned he had a
half-brother, traveled to Europe, and had somehow met him.

Drum had always struck me as shallow, and to realize now that he was
willing to risk his life and his career to help young Aleksandrov – None
knew better than I the importance of family, and for the first time I felt
a measure of empathy toward the Major.

I turned to DB "It's a good thing I keep an overnight bag packed and ready
to go in my office."

"If anything new comes up, I'll forward the information to your PDA."

"Thanks, DB. I'll see you around."

"Um, Quinn? Want me to pass a message on to your lady? Tell her that you'll
be out of the country for a while?" His expression was so innocent. "I
wouldn't mind, you know."

"Anything for a friend?" I laughed and clapped a hand lightly to his
shoulder. "It isn't going to work, DB. I'm not about to tell you who I'm
seeing, not unless you're prepared for a little quid pro quo?" I paused at
the door to my office. "Listen. If you see Syd... " Evans was a decent
officer, but Syd was better. "No, never mind. Odds are I'll see her before
you do."

"Uh... yeah. Right. See you, Quinn." He hurried down the corridor, and I
wondered briefly at the color that had swept over his cheeks, then shrugged
it off and went into my office.

"Janet... " "The Director's secretary just called to let me know you have
to go out of the country." She spoke at the same time I did, and I felt
like Colonel Blake to Janet's Radar O'Reilly. "I'll cancel all your
appointments until further notice." "Cancel all my appointments." "Do you
want me to call Mrs. Mann, or will you?" "Call Mother for me, if you don't
mind."

Janet smiled and reached for her phone. A pearl beyond price. I had no
qualms leaving the office in her care.

There was one other phone call that needed to be made, but I would make
that call myself.

I retrieved my overnighter from the closet in my inner office, wrapped the
shoulder holster around my Smith and Wesson, and slid it into an inside
pocket. I hesitated for a moment. There was a concealed drawer in the
bottom right side of my desk. I opened it and removed a small, sub-compact
.45 pistol and the holster that strapped to my ankle. Its weight would be
comforting, an insurance policy. Then I put on my suit jacket and left.

****

The boarding pass waiting at the Air France ticket counter was under the
name Rice Burroughs, the actual agent I was purporting to be. I took it
from the smiling airline representative and went into the business class
lounge. It didn't take long to find a spot that was relatively deserted. I
took out my cell phone and hit the number to speed dial my lover's cell
phone. He picked up on the first ring. "Vincent."

"Hi." I leaned against a pillar, keeping an eye on the few passengers who
were waiting for the flight to start boarding.

"Hi, yourself." No question that he recognized my voice. I liked knowing
that. "What's up? We still on for tonight?"

"No. That's why I'm calling. I have to go out of town, and I'll be away for
a few days." I couldn't resist asking, "Will you miss me?"

"Hell, no!" The vehemence in those two words took me by surprise. "I have
to move my stuff out of your place anyway. This will be as good a time as
any to get it done."

Mark had ordered the furniture for his new place more than a month ago, but
he'd placed it in storage, telling me any number of times the apartment
needed more refurbishing before he'd even consider moving. I had rather
hoped that was simply an excuse, that he enjoyed staying in my home as much
as I enjoyed having him there. Could I have been that wrong?

"Does... does that mean it's over between us?" I asked cautiously.

His response was an immediate and emphatic, "It's over when I say it's
over, Quinn!"

I released the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. We weren't back
to surnames. "Yes? All right, Mark." I cleared my throat. "I'll be looking
forward to seeing your new place. I have a housewarming gift for you. And
don't go looking for it."

"As if I'd do something like that!" He had the nerve to sound insulted, and
I couldn't help laughing.

"Of course! I don't know who I was thinking of. It must have been some
other WBIS agent who kept breaking into my house! But just so you don't
wear yourself out, I gave it to Mother to keep for me."

"Spoilsport."

"That's me." Was I actually relieved enough to be flirting with him?

Over the P.A. system came the announcement, "Air France flight 024 with
nonstop service to Paris will begin boarding... "

"That's my flight; I have to go. Get some help moving. I don't want you to
hurt yourself. I should be home by the weekend, Monday the latest, and I
have some serious plans for you."

"I'll see you in a few days."

//Yes, you will.// I turned off the phone before I could say something
stupid, picked up my overnight case, and walked to the gate.


~End