Date: Mon, 31 Mar 2008 14:38:36 -0400
From: Tinnean <tinneantoo@embarqmail.com>
Subject: Mann of My Dreams 6: The Gentleman and the Rogue

Notes: ~~~ indicates a flashback. Keep in mind the year is still 2002. DVD
players hadn't become quite so common. *g* Thanks, as always, to Gail for
the encouragement and the beta.


The Gentleman and the Rogue
Part 1/1

Traffic on the Beltway as I drove back to the building that housed the WBIS
was surprisingly light. It was a good thing, because I was so distracted by
my confrontation with Quinton Mann that I wasn't paying as much attention
to road conditions as I should have been.

How the *fuck* had Mann figured I was the one who'd interviewed his mother
under the guise of being an old school friend of his?

~~~

It was to commemorate the class of '83 I told his mother when I called to
set up the interview.

"You're doing this more than a year in advance?"

"Yes. We want to do it properly."

"And you said your name was Harriman Patterson?"

"Yes, Mrs. Mann." What sane parent named his kid 'Harriman'? Unless he
wanted the kid to learn how to kick ass early? "Although everyone back at
Exeter knew me as Skip."

"Very well. I'll see you on the 15th, at, shall we say, 3?"

"Perfect!" I said in a bouncy tone. "Thanks so much, Mrs. Mann! I'll look
forward to seeing you then!"

Mann was out of the country, and he'd be out of the country for the next
couple of weeks, so I wasn't worried about his mother getting too chatty on
one of their regular Sunday rides.

I knew Novotny would do a search on me. On Skip Patterson, that was. Mann
wouldn't let anyone get near his mother without one. He was a spook clear
through, son of Nigel Mann, who even the WBIS held in some regard. I also
knew I'd have no problems coming up clean. Patterson had gone into banking
as soon as he'd graduated from Yale, so his life was fairly banal and the
file on him mundane.

As for appearance, when I turned up on Old Lady Mann's doorstep, my ears
would be tacked back, and the prosthetics I'd apply to my face, jaw, and
chin would alter my features enough that no one except an artist or someone
versed in anatomy would ever recognize me as anyone other than Skip
Patterson.

I even had a backup plan if she picked up on the fact that I was five
inches taller than the real Patterson. I'd just tell her I'd had a sudden
growth spurt that summer after graduating from Philips Exeter. She'd
believe me. She was a woman, and she was blonde, just like my old lady.

****

On the appointed date and time, I arrived in Great Falls and rang the
doorbell. Novotny answered the door, checked my ID, and then led me toward
the back of the house.

"Mrs. Mann is waiting in the sitting room."

I was tempted to say, 'Groovy!' but of course I didn't.

"Mrs. Mann, Quinton's friend, Harriman Patterson."

"How do you do, Harriman?"

It took me a second to remember that was Patterson's name. I was tempted to
ask her to call me Skip, even though that was almost as bad. I murmured
something innocuous in return, all the while studying her surreptitiously.

She was a little woman, about 5'4" - well, compared to my 6'3" that was
little - and she was wearing a tweed skirt suit of soft pinks, blues, and
grays. Around her neck was a blue silk scarf. Her eyes had been listed as
hazel in the documents I'd accessed, but right then the blue in that scarf
turned them a cool blue.

"I'm sorry," she murmured when she saw my camera. "I don't permit pictures
of my home."

Novotny scowled. "I'll need to examine that. Sorry, but that's Mr. Mann's
policy." His expression was stony.

"Sure. No problem at all." I handed him my camera.

I hadn't intended to take pictures anyway. It was just a prop, to
facilitate my pose as someone who was doing an interview, but Novotny was
unaware of that. He all but dismantled it, even pulling out the 'smart
card' to study it before finally indicating to Mrs. Mann that it was
nothing more than the ordinary digital it appeared to be.

Oh, I *could* have brought the camera that was a prototype of something R&D
at the WBIS had come up with only recently, and which hadn't become general
knowledge in the intelligence community as yet. That camera was something
Mission: Impossible would have creamed its pants for. Not only did it take
clear, sharp pictures that were almost 3-dimensional, but if I'd wanted to
incapacitate everyone in Mrs. Mann's beautiful Tudor home, all I'd need to
do was alter the setting slightly and squeeze the corners in a certain
pattern. Another setting, which could be triggered by remote control, and
they would be dead.

But why would I do something like that? Total overkill in this situation,
and so I'd admired it but left it with its daddy back at the WBIS.

Novotny handed back the camera, his expression more relaxed now, and went
to stand behind Mrs. Mann.

"I thought we would use this room," Mrs. Mann said, bringing my attention
back to her. "I keep the photo albums here."

"Certainly." I gave her my most charming smile - just because I had no
reason to do 'charming' often didn't mean I couldn't do. "Nice room."

To my surprise, I found I wasn't just saying that in my persona of Skip
Patterson. Although there was a feminine feel to it, soft, muted colors,
floor to ceiling window treatments hanging over sheers at the picture
window that looked out onto a landscaped backyard, a comfortable seating
arrangement, it wasn't fussy. A fire was burning in the fireplace. Hanging
above it was a formal portrait of Mrs. Mann. She sat in a Queen Anne chair,
her legs folded decorously to one side. Beside her stood an older version
of her son, his hand on her shoulder, while one of hers rested on top of
his.

"Thank you. I find it comforting."

"Oh?"

She smiled and shook her head, gesturing toward the large, plush sofa. "If
you'll take a seat?"

"After you, ma'am."

"Your mother taught you excellent manners."

It was my turn to smile and shake my head. My mother had taught me how to
betray a good man, how to drink until she puked up her guts, but things
like manners? No, that had been left to the men she'd brought home, who
treated me better than she ever had.

Funny that a woman like her could attract such good men.

But Mrs. Mann meant Skip Patterson's mother. "Thank you."

The sofa's placement took advantage of the thin winter sunlight, and she
reached for a leather-bound album that was on the elegantly carved wood
coffee table.

"You said when you phoned that you were interested in learning about
Quinton as a boy."

"Yes. Every alumnus article focuses on the man the student has become. I
thought I'd pitch the idea of the road he took to become that man."
Covering my ass, because that article would never be published. Well, it
was never going to be written, except for the notes I logged in my
computer.

"Interesting premise," Novotny said, reminding me he was still there. For
protection? Jesus, what did he think I was going to do? Molest her?

I didn't molest women. didn't even have sex with them very often. They were
too fragile - well, except for one - and couldn't take the kind of handling
I preferred. Not that I liked it especially rough, but who needed the
whining and tears if buttons got ripped off, pantyhose got shredded, or
clothes got torn?

"Thanks." I grinned at him over my shoulder. "I try not to do the
expected." And he'd never know how true that was.

"So you're going to write about the time you and he went skinny-dipping?"

"Uh... " We had? Or rather, *they* had?

The hair at the base of my skull suddenly felt damp.

It wasn't the thought of Mann swimming in the buff that was hot, I assured
myself. Any guy who'd done it would remember the feel of the cool water
against his skin, flowing over his cock and balls. That was what had me
scrambling to collect my thoughts. Only that.

"I hadn't planned on it, Mr. Novotny." I put as much boyish ruefulness in
my voice as I dared. I didn't want to come across as an idiot. "I mean, we
were just kids at the time." I was safe saying that, since Mann had met
Patterson when he'd started Philips Exeter, and even if that skinny-dipping
episode hadn't happened until almost graduation, a man of thirty-seven
would look back and see the eighteen-year-old he had been as a kid. I
glanced cautiously at his mother, surprised to find she was smiling.

"Oh, I'm quite aware of that incident. Of course I would never tell my son
that." She chuckled and opened the album. "I'm taking you at your word. Our
first photo as a family. My brother Bryan took this picture." She was in a
hospital bed, cradling a dozing infant wrapped in a blue blanket. Seated on
the bed next to her, his arms around the two of them, was the man in the
portrait, probably about ten or so years younger. "And this was taken the
day we brought Quinton home from the hospital."

A gold Studebaker was at the curb, and they were at the middle of a walk
leading away from it. The man again had his arm around Mrs. Mann. I took
her word that the baby she held was her son. He was so bundled up against
the February cold that not even the tip of his nose was showing. She could
have been holding a monkey.

"Was there ever a baby as welcomed as he?" Her face was filled with love,
and I felt a twinge. Certainly not me.

Behind them was a very young Novotny, his face barely visible above the
gifts that filled his arms. "Alyona must have taken this picture," he said,
then clarified, "My sister. She was the Manns' housekeeper, and since our
parents were deceased, they graciously allowed her to bring me along with
her."

"As if we would do anything but. You were indispensable, Gregor. You still
are." She smiled at him and he blushed, which startled me. Was there
something going on between them, or had there been?

I felt like HUAC: have you now, or have you ever, been in a relationship
with this woman?

It wasn't unfeasible. There were maybe ten years between them, an age gap
that meant nothing today.

Maybe I'd look into that.

She turned pages, and I saw pictures of Mann as he was baptized, as he took
his first step, his first bite of solid food. His expression was outraged,
and I couldn't prevent a laugh.

"I take it he didn't care for solids?"

"He was a fussy eater. Of course he's outgrown that."

There was even a platinum blond curl.

"From his first haircut. It broke my heart to cut that beautiful hair, but
it was time. He was getting too old for ringlets. And of course, as he grew
older, his hair darkened."

"Were you disappointed it didn't stay blond?" I tried to picture Mann as
fair as his mother but couldn't.

"No. His father had dark hair, as you've seen, and it was just one more
welcome reminder of him." She looked wistful, then gave herself a brisk
shake and turned another page. "This is Darling, Quinton's first pony."

Darling? What the fuck kind of name was that for a horse? Pony? Whatever.

"My father gave her to Quinton for his third birthday."

"Quinn's been riding that long?"

"Longer, actually. My brothers - especially Bryan - would take him up in
front of them whenever we all happened to be at the Manor at the same time,
and that was even before he could walk."

"Your husband didn't ride?"

"Oh, no. Nigel was a city boy through and through."

"What's this one?" Caught in the act of taking a water jump, it showed a
very young Mann crouched low over his horse's neck. The horse looked as if
it could have been flying on invisible wings, its legs tucked up close to
its body, its mane and tail a rippling banner.

And since when had I gotten so poetic?

"Ah. That was taken in August of '81 at the Hampton Classic. Jack Be
Nimble."

"Excuse me?"

"The roan gelding he's riding. Quinton named him Jack Be Nimble. Surely he
mentioned Jack? He was very fond of that horse."

I let the corner of my mouth crook in a smile. "Teenaged boys aren't likely
to talk about horses, Mrs. Mann. Not to each other."

That surprised a snort of laughter from Novotny.

Mrs. Mann gave a little laugh herself. "Yes, I imagine you're right,
Harriman. It was a perfect ride." Her smile was filled with pride.

"I'm not surprised." Mann would have settled for nothing less.

//And if I'd been waiting in the stable when he returned from accepting the
blue ribbon for that ride, I'd have tumbled him into the nearest empty
stall, stripped off his jodhpurs, and fucked him senseless.//

Startled at that thought - where the fuck had it come from? And then
uneasily, since when had I even considered a CIA spook fuckable? - I
shifted as discreetly as I could.

"I... uh... I won't ask if I can borrow that picture for my article, but
would you mind if I took a snapshot of it?"

"Not at all."

I snapped a photo, and then another one, just in case the first didn't come
out.

"Jack is the horse he would have ridden in the 1980 Olympics, if
circumstances had permitted."

Circumstances. Like the Communists invading Afghanistan and the US getting
hardnosed about it and pulling out of the Games. About as guaranteed to
change anything as the same action was in Vatican Roulette.

"Damn Commies!" Novotny growled. "Spoiling it for everyone!"

Yeah. I would have given him an approving grin, but Patterson was supposed
to be apolitical. Novotny was staring down at the picture anyway, and
wouldn't have noticed.

"We'd all planned on going over to root him on, even my sister, although
she'd sworn never to go back. He'd have made us proud."

"He must have been disappointed," I murmured. I knew I had been. No one had
been more surprised than I was when my commanding officer told me I had
made the fencing team that would represent my country. I was kind of
disappointed now too, knowing I had missed meeting Quinton Mann before all
the intelligence bullshit got between us.

"Yes, he was, very much," Mrs. Mann said. "That was why I scheduled a trip
to France and told Quinton that as he was the man of the family - his
father had been gone a little more than two years at the time - it was time
he learned how to buy his own wine. He made some friends." She exchanged
glances with Novotny and smiled faintly. "They managed to take his mind
off... missed opportunities, shall we say? and he was in a much better
frame of mind when he left for home."

My ears pricked up at that. It had to be a girl. I couldn't see getting all
excited over buying a bottle of wine, but maybe it was more than that. I
made a mental note to look into it.

"Of course he was able to participate in the pentathlon in the '88
Olympics, but the Hungarians were just better than we and took the gold."

"And I'll bet that really burned his butt!" I felt heat climb my
cheeks. Graduates of prep schools did not use such expressions in the
presence of their friends' mothers. How could I have gotten so relaxed with
her that I'd drop my guard? "Sh... I beg your pardon Mrs. Mann. That was -
"

"His precise reaction, Harriman." Her eyes were warm with amusement. "I'm
glad he has you for a friend! You know him so very well."

"Yes, ma'am." I smiled, but inside I felt uneasy. She wasn't anything like
I'd been expecting, which surprised me. I didn't like surprises.

"You'll take tea with me, won't you?"

I never touched the stuff. My old lady used to drink tea, when she was
sober enough to remember how to boil water.

I looked into Mrs. Mann's eyes, saw her son reflected back at me, and heard
myself saying, "Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

"Gregor, we'll have tea in here, if you don't mind. And some cucumber
sandwiches and biscuits too." He nodded and left the room. "I picked up the
habit when I spent some time in England in the 50s. It was something
Quinton's father and I would do, on those afternoons when we were able to
get away from the Capital." She reached for another album and opened it.

On the first page was a candid photo; Nigel Mann, a foot braced on a rail
fence and his arms folded on the top, looked over his shoulder and smiled
at the camera.

If anyone had ever smiled at me like that... No, that was dumb. No one had
and no one ever would.

Mrs. Mann touched gentle fingers to that smile. "I miss him very much."

I looked up in surprise. She sounded so sad. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Mann. He's
been gone a long time, though." My old lady had barely waited for the door
to close behind my father that last time before she'd had someone else in
to warm her sheets.

"Yes. Twenty-four years and fourteen days. I stopped counting the hours and
minutes years ago." Had her lower lip trembled?

I stared down at the picture of her husband, who looked so much like her
son, and pretended I didn't notice.

Before long, Novotny was wheeling in one of those trays with tiny little
cups on them. They were so delicate-looking I was almost afraid to pick one
up, positive it would snap in my grasp.

"This is Earl Grey. It has rather a flowery scent, don't you think?"

I took a sip, keeping my expression blank through sheer will. As I'd
suspected, the tea was god awful. Manfully, I swallowed it down.

"Oh, but... "

"Yes?" I'd have growled it, but I was a professional, and I remembered in
time I was supposed to be that mild-mannered *friend* of her son's.

She took a plate of cucumber sandwiches and offered it to me. "Have one,
Harriman. It's a recipe I brought home with me from England."

At least they took the taste of the tea out of my mouth.

****

Once I got back to my apartment, I removed the smart card from my camera,
inserted it into my computer, and printed out the picture of Mann taking
that water jump. The horse really did look as if it was about to sprout
wings.

I ran a finger over Mann's ass, which was raised up off the saddle, almost
feeling the firm, muscular contours, then after jotting down the date and
occasion on the back of the picture, folded it and absently put it away.

I'd learned a good deal about Mann. Now I'd begin to look into the summer
he'd spent in French wine country.

~~~

I pulled into the parking lot that served the building that housed the
WBIS, startled that I'd already arrived and still with no clue as to what
had given me away.

And then it occurred to me: nothing. Mann was fishing. He'd taken a lucky
guess. All I needed to do was deny, deny, deny.

Grinning, I got out of the car and went to work.

****

I was in my office, completing a report that tied in with the sad demise of
Michael Shaw. It was the weekend, but that didn't mean anything. More often
than not I worked weekends.

Some rather surprising intelligence had come to light the day after Shaw's
death, and it had been decided to bury the facts about the case with
him. Seemed the little cocksucker really had been sucking someone's
cock. Mr. Wallace had been pissed, to say the least, to learn one of his
senior directors had promised the young agent a promotion in return for
sexual favors.

Of course, I was as shocked as everyone else when I learned that Robert
Sperling, head of Interior Affairs, was the senior director involved.

Sperling kept denying it, but that was SOP for a WBIS agent, and no one
really believed him.

No one asked me for my opinion, because they all knew there was no love
lost between us. Some of them even knew why.

It had been Davies, in PR, who'd come up with the idea of a home
break-in. "It will spare the WBIS from embarrassment - can you imagine what
the CIA would say about it? - and Shaw's family from the shock of how he
actually did die. Bob, did you know... "

Sperling turned first red, then white, growled something unintelligible,
and stormed out, looking as if he had that proverbial poker up his ass.

With a final keystroke, I sent the report to the printer and began to tie
up some loose ends on another assignment.

The instant messenger service of my Internet provider sounded, John Wayne
as Hondo telling his dog Sam to, "Quit blocking the door!" I toggled into
that screen and saw that I was being invited to view a webcam.

If Ms. Parker had been in the outer office, my door would have been as good
as locked; no one got past my secretary.

However, it was late afternoon on a Saturday, and even though this floor of
the WBIS was virtually deserted, I made sure the door was locked. After
that near-debacle with Michael Shaw, I wasn't about to take the chance of
someone paying me an unanticipated visit.

I returned to my desk, turned on the device that would transform all
incoming information to gibberish to anyone trying to eavesdrop, then
clicked on acceptance. While I waited for the small box to appear, I
activated my own webcam and slipped on a set of earphones.

"Bonjour, Scaramouche," I heard in my ear.

"What's up, Spy Boy? We got problems?"

The grainy image on my friend from the Division filled the viewer. He was
smiling, but almost in stop motion his smile faded and a frown appeared.

"It would seem so, cher homme. A very interesting gentleman paid us a
visit."

"Oh?" I asked cautiously.

"A deputy director of the CIA, no less."

I had a sinking feeling in my gut. "Fuck."

"Oui, that is the word I would be inclined to use. Quinton Mann knows you
were here in Paris, and that you met with me."

"How the fuck did he find out about that?"

Again as if in stop motion, he shrugged. "Has the leak in your company been
plugged?" Then he laughed softly. It was impossible to tell how well the
camera caught my look of disgust, but Pierre de Becque knew me well enough
to realize his question was foolish. Of course the leak had been
plugged. "Et bien, mon ami." He tugged thoughtfully on his lower lip. "Et
bien," he repeated, as if coming to a decision. "I must tell you, I am
afraid this is my fault." He held up a hand to prevent me from saying
anything, not that I would have. I was dumbfounded. "I was worried about
you, mon cher Mark, and I asked Finnegan to look into this Quinton Mann of
yours."

"Dammit, Pete, what's wrong with you? I'm a big boy. I can take care of
myself." And then his last words hit me. "What do you mean, 'of mine'? Mann
isn't mine!"

"Bien sur. I misspoke. It must have been some other man whose picture you
carry in your wallet." He grinned, his expression like a naughty boy, but
he sobered quickly. "I can't tell you how sorry I am to have caused you
this trouble, Mark. Finnegan was certain he hadn't left a trail, but
apparently... "

I scrubbed a hand over my face. I knew enough of Finnegan to know he was
the best the Division had, becoming head of com when he was only
twenty. Were they that good at Langley? "Okay, don't worry about it." If
the shit hit the fan, I'd deal with it. So the C fucking I fucking A found
out the cold op was a friend of mine. So what. I was allowed to have
friends, wasn't I?

"Je suis desole. You shouldn't be in this position because of me."

"Well, I appreciate the thought, even though it wasn't
necessary. What... uh... what did you find out?"

"His father was CIA."

"Is that all?" I knew that.

"Finnegan didn't have time to get much more. However, he did manage to
learn that Mann's mother was NSA. I know what little regard you have for
the weaker sex, but... "

"Yeah, she's something, isn't she?" I could have been knocked over with a
feather when I learned how good she was. Not a glorified secretary. As it
turned out, she'd run rings around the big boys, cracking Russian ciphers
during the Cold War.

"So is this Quinton Mann something." Pete's grin was back in full
force. "He is most attractive, n'est pas? I would have considered taking
him to my bed!"

I almost choked. "But you didn't."

"No, cher homme. Believe me, I was tempted."

"But you did nothing." It was a statement.

"Did I not just say that." His tone had become acerbic. "You know I do not
poach."

I narrowed my eyes. "Unless Tactics orders you to."

"This is true, but right now, Tactics is so infatuated with Cockburn, I do
not think it even crosses his mind to keep his eye on the main chance."

Cockburn was the computer geek who'd been after Finnegan's job almost from
the time he'd first been recruited by the Division. He was a cute boy but a
devious little bastard from what I recalled, having heard tales about him.

"Yeah, well, just see that the situation remains the same. I'd hate to have
to show up in the Division some day and hurt him, Pete." I was silent for a
moment, then couldn't prevent myself asking, "So. What did Mann want?"

"What you might imagine - why the Division was interested in him, if
perhaps the Division was interested in you."

I didn't need to ask if Pete had given Mann any information. The Division's
operatives were almost as close-mouthed as the WBIS'.

Pete's look became pensive. "He needs to... mmm... loosen up, mon
ami. Perhaps you should look into doing that."

"Huh?"

"He is very cool, very controlled, which is a pity. Life is too
short. Mark, he has a very sweet mouth."

"And how would you know that?" I growled. I knew how sweet Mann's mouth was
- my cock had been buried in it, for fuck's sake!

He laughed but didn't answer my question. "It would have been very
enjoyable, fucking it, fucking him. It's too bad that I prefer to bottom,
eh, cher homme?"

I ignored the fact that Pete was a dedicated bottom. "You *kissed* Mann?"
Fuck. *I* hadn't even kissed him. But now that he put that thought in my
mind...

Someone spoke to Pete from out of eye range. "We gotta get goin',
Pierre. Tactics is about havin' kittens!"

"Un moment, Reuben." Pete turned back to me and said musingly, "Your
M. Mann missed his flight, you know. Tactics had Guiliani drive him all
over Paris to confuse him. He was not pleased. However, he has managed to
find an alternate means of making his way home." He named a man who was
known for the buildings he built and the women he married, who seemed to
get younger and skinnier with each succeeding one.

How the fuck did Mann know him?

"De Becque, are you talking to that damned American again? He's gonna get
you killed! Now move your ass, will you?"

Pete sighed. "I must go. Mon ami, one final thing. Be careful what you are
about. This Quinton Mann has warned me off you."

"What?"

"Oui. I believe his words were along the lines of, 'You *don't* come, de
Becque. Not with me. Not with Vincent!' Interessant, n'est-ce pas?"

"Thanks for the intel, Pete." Was Mann being proprietary? I licked my lips
and shifted in my seat. I was harder than I'd ever been while I was at
work.

"C'est rien. Bon chance, Mark. It will be *very* interesting, I think, to
see which of you will win this game you are playing. 'voir, cher homme."

"Au 'voir, Pete." The screen faded to black, but I really wasn't paying
attention. So. Qu - Mann had gone to Paris. The fact that I had been in the
city of lights recently had to be a coincidence. He probably had business
in Europe, officers he needed to contact. And no doubt he was pissed
because Finnegan had managed to hack into his files - a really dumb move,
unworthy of him. I wondered how Pete had coerced him into doing that.

Maybe Finnegan had a soft spot for him? Although last I'd heard, Finnegan
and Guiliani were shaking up together. I'd need to look into that. After
all, turnabout was only fair play.

Now, what time had that Lear jet flown out of CDG? I cracked my knuckles
and attacked the keyboard. It didn't take me long to find out.

I leaned back in my chair, folded my hands behind my head, and contemplated
the view out my window. Six hours before they landed at Dulles, which would
make it sometime after midnight Eastern time, and then another three
quarters of an hour for him to get home. It was the weekend, and State
offices were shut down. As for Langley, even Mann, almost as much a
workaholic as I was, wasn't likely to go in at that time of night.

This would be a good time to pay a visit to Quinton Mann's townhouse.

****

After a quick trip down to R&D to pick up some supplies, I went home to
shower and shave and change into a pair of black jeans and a black
turtleneck sweater.

The bomber jacket I selected wouldn't draw second glances in the area of
Alexandria I was targeting. A charcoal gray, it had the expensive, stylish
look that said its owner was more comfortable in a boardroom than in a
cockpit, but it had deep inner pockets that held a pressure syringe, the
antidote to what was in the bottle of water I carried, and a sedative.

A pair of handcuffs in their case was clipped to a belt loop concealed by
the jacket.

I left my car parked at the Alexandria Station and walked to Mann's
neighborhood.

To blend in with the feel of suburbia, I had a fake dog on a leash, one of
those things you could pick up at a tacky gift shop anywhere. The evening
was dark enough that I would pass for a Yuppie taking his dog for a walk,
and only very close examination would reveal that the mutt was a fake.

I walked briskly, pausing every once in a while as if to let the dog sniff
a fire hydrant or an interesting tree. Finally I was at the beginning of
Mann's driveway. I'd always wondered what those expensive homes in
Alexandria looked like from the inside, and now I was going to get to see.

"C'mon, dog. Want to visit Uncle Quinn?" I laughed softly and strolled to
Mann's front door. No one was watching. I stashed the dog behind some
shrubs near the door, reached for the slim case that contained a set of
lock picks most professionals would sell their souls for, and set to work.

"Is this what the CIA considers security?" I muttered to myself as I
disabled the alarm system. It might have stopped your run-of-the-mill
crook, or maybe someone from the CIA, but as far as I was concerned, it was
child's play.

I let myself in and caught my breath.

Why was I so surprised at the subdued elegance of Mann's home? Of course
he'd know what looked good in a room. His mother's house was beautiful, and
he'd grown up amidst all that.

I unzipped my jacket, pulled out a pair of surgical gloves, and set out to
see how a spook lived.

The kitchen was a nice room, with stainless steel appliances, a center
island, and lots of storage space. I put the bottle of water I'd brought
with me - Evian, because that's what it seemed spooks preferred - into the
side-by-side fridge and continued exploring.

A half bath was down the hall from it, and further down, what I thought was
a pantry but was actually a temperature-controlled room that served as a
wine cellar. The racks were filled with bottles of wine.

I backtracked through the kitchen to a dining room that, while small, was
large enough for a table that sat eight and a sideboard.

This was not how a spook lived; this was how a wealthy man lived.

Through the dining room to a large, airy room. Grand salon, great room,
gathering room, I didn't know what the fuck it was called. Before I had
escaped to boarding school, I'd lived with my old lady and the series of
men I'd called 'uncle' in an apartment that would have fit in a corner of
this room. We didn't even have a living room.

I pushed those thoughts out of my mind.

I trailed my fingers over the silky black finish of the baby grand piano,
and wondered if Mann preferred classical music, or if, maybe like me, he
leaned toward the blues. I'd toyed with playing a jazz sax for a while when
I was younger, but gave it up because I just hadn't had the time to give it
the concentration it deserved.

On an occasional table was a framed headshot, obviously done by a
professional, of a blonde in a lush brown gown that elegantly showed off
her shoulders and bosom. I grinned into the vapid expression in her green
eyes. The photo had to be a plant. Mann would never date such a blatantly
dumb woman.

Then I frowned, considering the kind of women he would date. It hadn't
taken me long to discover that while Quinton Mann might be bisexual - fuck
it, he'd sucked me off in the men's room of Raphael's, hadn't he? - he
dated clever, brilliant, gorgeous women. It had been forever since he'd
been involved with a man.

Had that boy he'd given himself to in France all those years ago ruined it
for him? Boys could be callous and unthinking, and Armand Bauchet wouldn't
have known what a good thing he'd had.

Now, if it had been I who'd taken Mann to bed that very first time...

Or maybe he was the kind of man who compartmentalized? 'I'll do this for
work' - 'this' being sucking or fucking a guy, and I didn't like that
thought one bit - 'but *this* I do for me, for pleasure' - meaning being
with a woman. And I liked that thought even less.

I turned the photo face down, and wandered through to Mann's living
room. An in-home theater system took up an entire wall. In the center was a
large screen TV. What looked to be ornamental woodcarvings on each side of
the television turned out to be drawers that slid out, containing shelves
for videotapes in both VHS and DVD formats.

Damn. He had a DVD player? I still hadn't found the time to research the
best model.

The titles were interesting, and they were all prerecorded. 'The Desperate
Hours,' 'High Sierra,' 'The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.'

Why buy them, when you could tape them off premium cable stations?

He seemed to favor post war Japanese directors and... hold on! 'I am
Curious, Yellow?'  Why, Quinton Mann, you naughty boy!

Chuckling softly, I squatted to examine the lowest shelf, which held series
that had been shown on Masterpiece Theatre. 'I, Claudius,' 'Brother
Cadfael,' 'All Creatures Great and Small.'

I left his video collection and thumbed through his CDs, which were
alphabetized, first according to artist and then according to title. I
laughed; I kept mine in the same kind of order.

I strolled over to the bookshelves that had been built into one wall. They
were all hard cover, mostly legal thrillers, but there was everything
written by Stephen King and the entire set of James Bond. I selected one at
random and turned to the flyleaf. 'Thanks for everything, Nigel. Your ideas
got me this book deal! All my best - Ian'

Nigel Mann had known Ian Fleming? Well, fuck me!

I thought of the three-shelf bookcase in my own apartment, and the books
that were in there that I rarely had time to read, and I turned away.

A glance at my watch told me Mann's flight was about an hour out of
Dulles. I had plenty of time before I set the stage for the next act in our
little play. I went upstairs to see what his bedroom looked like.

Maybe I'd even play Goldilocks.

****

It was well past midnight when I heard a cab pull into his drive. Good
thing I'd re-armed his security system. He let himself in and automatically
punched in the code that reset it once the door had been closed again.

Even though it was less than thirty-six hours since I'd last seen him, the
difference was unbelievable. His face was almost grey with fatigue and his
eyes were heavy. I wondered if he had the same problem as I did about
sleeping on transatlantic flights.

He smothered a yawn and hung up his overcoat in the closet.

He went into the kitchen and took out the bottle of Evian I'd put
there. //Mann, Mann, Mann. I'm disappointed in you. Or are you so
exhausted, you don't remember you didn't have that in your fridge when you
left?//

He gulped down about half before he set it on the island with a
sigh. "Food," he muttered to himself, and took a step toward the fridge. He
stopped abruptly, gave his head a shake, then staggered, and I took a step
toward him. I didn't want him to bash his brains on a corner of the
island. He caught himself at the last minute. "No. Bed." He turned and made
his way to the stairs that led to the upper level.

I waited until I heard the shower running before I followed him up the
stairs. In his physical state the amount of the drug he'd ingested could
have him incapacitated within fifteen minutes. I didn't want him drowning
in the shower any more than I wanted him falling in his kitchen. I had
plans for him.

The bedroom was empty when I got there, the soft glow from a bedside lamp
lighting it. Floor to ceiling curtains the same shade and material as the
comforter, a deep maroon velour, hung from the windows. A dresser was
against one wall and an armoire against another, with his bed against a
third. It wouldn't have mattered if his king size bed hadn't had a spindle
headboard for me to cuff his hands to. There was also a chair at the desk
between the windows, which would have worked fine.

There were nightstands on either side of the bed, but his alarm clock was
on the left side. Mann slept on the same side of the bed as I did? If he
was going to sleep with me, he'd just have to learn to adapt.

And where the fuck had that thought come from? This wasn't something that
was going to happen on a regular basis!

//But don't you wish it would?//

Before I could tell that fucking voice to shut the fuck up, Mann emerged
from the bathroom, his eyes heavy-lidded, drying himself off
lethargically. He never saw me in the shadows. He dropped the towel, and I
almost came right then, seeing him naked for the first time.

Jesus, he was beautiful! His chest was sculpted, a faint treasure train
leading between his pecs down past his navel, pointing the way to
his... Oh, jesus. His cock. It was flaccid, pale against the bed of dark
curls, but even at rest it was something to behold.

He turned to fold back the comforter, and I nearly moaned.

His back was smooth, the line of his legs was long and clean, and his
ass... He bent to pick up the towel and toss it aside, and I shuddered and
closed my eyes. All I wanted was to tackle him to the bed and bury myself
between those firm, tempting cheeks.

By the time I opened my eyes again, he was buttoning the top of a pair of
pajamas, patterned swirls of gold on a black background. He must have kept
them under his pillow. Trust Mann to be one of the handful of American
males who wore pajamas. Why couldn't he have slept in his shorts, or better
still out of them?

And that goddamned hank of hair falling across his forehead and into his
eyes. I remembered how his hair had felt under my hands that night at
Raphael's, thick and soft, and I wanted to stroke it aside. I tightened my
fingers so I would do no such fuck-all stupid thing.

He got into bed and was out before I could count to ten, the comforter
still folded at the foot of the bed.

The drugged water had done its job nicely, and he slipped into REM state,
sprawled out like the Naked Maja, that painting of the Duchess of Alba by
Goya. A vision to behold.

I licked my lips, trying to get my breathing under control, so hard I
ached. If I didn't want it to be touch and go as to who came first, I'd
need to do something about that. I reached into my jeans and gave myself a
hard squeeze.

When I was sure I wouldn't do anything juvenile, I placed the syringe with
the antidote on the nightstand, place the vial I'd need later beside it,
and shed my jacket, leaving it over a chair.

I pulled out my knife and pressed the release. The blade flashed in the
lamplight, sharp and deadly. I ran it up through the waistband of his
pajama bottoms, and it cut through the soft material as if it was
butter. His cock sprang free, fully erect. Drops of pre come were beaded at
the tip.

//Who's in your head, Mann? Who's giving you a hard on?//

I wanted to taste him, but there were other things that needed to be done
first. I climbed on the bed and straddled his hips. With an easy motion of
my wrist, I sliced off each button of his pajama top, and the two sides
fell open, leaving his chest bare.

He moaned and reached over his head to grasp the spindle headboard, his
chest arching into the caress of my knife. He clutched the spindles
tighter, shivering and whimpering as I stroked the flat of the blade across
his nipples. Something else I wanted my mouth on. But I could wait. I was
very good at waiting.

My knife had done its job. I flipped it so it landed blade first in the
nightstand. It quivered, much as Man was doing beneath me.

I fished the handcuffs out of their case and snapped one around his left
wrist. It only took a second to thread it through the headboard and manacle
his other wrist.

Now he was mine!

I brushed my lips over first one nipple, and then the other. They tightened
with just that light touch. //Sensitive there, are we, Mann?// He moaned
steadily, rocking his hips against me, his cock rubbing along my inseam.

It wasn't easy to ignore the needy sounds he was making. I wanted to
swallow them, but I had no intention of kissing him when he was lost in a
dream. When I kissed Quinton Mann, he would damn well know who was making
love to his mouth. I dragged my tongue over a nipple, then closed my lips
around it, pressed it up to the roof of my mouth, and suckled it.

"Mark! No! I'm going to come!"

Me? He was thinking of me? I laughed, feeling like that kid in the movie
about the boat that sank. "Not yet, baby." I reached down and squeezed the
base of his cock, forestalling his need to come. But he was still more
asleep than awake, and when I had him, I wanted him knowing whose mouth he
came in. I groped for the syringe and pressed it against his neck.

The antidote did its job perfectly, and I knew the exact moment he came out
of the dream and realized that this was for real. His eyes snapped open,
and he stiffened beneath me, all trace of the drug's action gone.

He could feel me above him, from groin to chest, moving to get into the
best position. My knees were between his thighs, and I spread them, forcing
his legs apart. That made a nice space between them for me, and I thrust
gently, nudging my jeans-covered cock against his.

I saw the drop of blood on his lip. "Cut your lip, baby?" With a flick of
my tongue, I licked it off. "Let me kiss and make it better." Since Pete
had put the thought in my mind, I'd been thinking about kissing Mann. A
lot.

"Goddammit, Vincent, are you out of your fucking mind?" Mann turned his
head to get away from my mouth, and I let him have his little victory. He
tugged experimentally on the cuffs, and wisely chose not to struggle. They
were snug enough to rub his wrists raw if he tried anything strenuous.

"It's my turn now, baby." I leaned closer and nuzzled the spot on his neck
where the syringe had left a tiny bruise.

"What did you do to me?"

"Pressure syringe. It doesn't break the skin, but it does sting a little."

"Why?"

"A little antidote to what I placed in your water. I'm surprised at you,
Quinn. You never listened to Drum when he told you how bad I was."

"Drum's an idiot!"

"You won't get an argument from me about that. I guess that's something
else we have in common." I had to laugh. Most people who came into contact
with the dark-haired, blue-eyed major seemed to worship the ground he
walked on and took his word on anything and everything as gospel. Well, he
was the one who'd first called me a sociopath, when all I was doing was my
job.

Whatever Mann might have had to say to that was lost as I explored the
shell of his ear with the tip of my tongue. I dipped my tongue into his ear
and blew gently, and his breath hitched. Smiling, I ran my mouth over his
cheek. Stubble scraped my lips.

"Oh, you should have shaved, baby. You'll definitely have to come morning!
Want me to set your alarm a little early? I could do that, if you'd like."

"Don't do this, Vincent!" he begged, and I could tell he hated the pleading
sound in his voice. I, on the other hand, loved it.

"Quinn, I'm the best! You can't tell me you don't like what I'm doing to
you! Oh, maybe intellectually you can convince yourself you don't want it,
but your body is begging for it!" I rolled onto my hip and got my fingers
around his cock.

He was breathing so heavily he couldn't put that mouth of his to use and
make a smart retort. Tremors coursed through his body, and abruptly, all I
wanted was my lips around his cock.

I started to move down his body, making sure he felt me. I couldn't resist
tormenting those nipples of his; they just seemed to beg for it.

"Want me to fuck you, baby?" My voice was dark, promising delights that
would leave him melted in a puddle of want and need. His body jerked and
shivered, and he yanked frantically on the cuffs, crying out when they bit
into his wrists. Shit. I wanted him hot, not scared, and I got
worried. "Stop that, Quinn. You're just going to hurt yourself." I trapped
his wrists in one hand to keep him from damaging the skin, grabbed his chin
with my other, and forced him to meet my eyes. "Listen to me! I won't fuck
you. I promise." I lightly slapped his face to make sure I had his
attention "I *promise*!"

"That's supposed to make me feel better?" he spat at me. For the briefest
moment the look in his eyes seemed thoughtful, but I might have imagined
it, because almost immediately it was bitter. "They're not worth any more
than your friend, de Becque's!"

"What are you talking about, Mann?"

"De Becque told me he promised you he wouldn't fuck me."

"Are you saying he lied?"

"Yes, that's what I'm saying, so if you plan on fucking me, you'd better
use plenty of lube, because he left me really sore!" He was absolutely
still under me. Still, and... still hard. He wasn't frightened. He was
trying to up the ante in our mind games.

"Pete fucked you? He really fucked you?" That was Mann, I told myself,
realizing I *had* read his original expression correctly: if he had to go
down, it would be with guns blazing, aiming for my most vulnerable
spot. And he thought betrayal by a friend was that spot.

He was right. I didn't have that many friends. If Pete ever broke his
promise to me, it would have... bothered me. To the point I would view the
friendship as dead.

But I had never exacted such a promise from Pete. If he had gone to bed
with Mann, Mann would have been the one to do the fucking. Since Mann was
unaware of that fact, nothing had gone on between them. Ipso facto.

I started to laugh. "Quinn, I... I *like* you!"

There was a flash of confusion in his eyes, masked quickly, along with the
touch of disgruntlement. "Then you won't fuck me?" His tongue swept out to
moisten his lips.

Still chuckling, I told him, "I had no intention of fucking you tonight,
Quinn."

"I'm glad you've got that much honor." Oh, the look on his face! It was
priceless! He wiped his expression clear, but I knew what I'd seen. He was
disappointed! I was tempted to start laughing again.

"Who said anything about honor?"

"What? You just said... "

"Ah, baby, you really should have paid attention to Drum. Not tonight, but
one night, and in the not too distant future, I'm going to be buried
balls-deep in you, and you're going to love it."

"Oh, really?" As hard as he tried to prevent it, there was a hint of
breathlessness in his voice.

"Yes, really. I'm the best."

"You're a bastard."

"No. My father actually married my old lady."

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing." I'd been called a bastard plenty of times, and it had never
bothered me. Why had I even brought it up?

It wasn't important. Turning Mann into my willing slave was.

I scraped his nipples with my fingernails, and he shook and his hips rocked
up, urgent, gasping sounds spilling from his throat. And then those sounds
stopped, and his movements stopped. What the fuck?

Shivers ran through his body, but other than that, he was motionless. The
man had a will of iron. Did he think this was it, that I would climb off
him, slink away into the night and leave him cuffed to his lonely bed,
aching and unfulfilled?

That would be the day.

I moved down his body until finally his cock - his hard, leaking cock - was
at eye level. My mouth started watering. Nice. Decent girth, good length,
nothing that would get him hired for a porn flick, but then, who would want
something twelve inches long rammed down their throat or up their ass?

I gathered the moisture that was oozing from the slit at the tip on my
thumb and rubbed it in lazy circles. Then I blew on it.

"Jesus christ, Mark! What the fuck are you doing?"

"Can't you tell, Quinn?" I liked the way he said my name, all desperate and
needy. "I was sure I was doing it right." I took the head of his cock
between my lips and swiped my tongue over the tip, finally tasting him, and
his hips surged up, driving his shaft deeper into my throat. I laughed, and
the vibration had him whimpering and trying to fuck my mouth.

My hands had a hard grip on his hips. I didn't want to leave bruises, but I
was only going to let him move so much. I was the one controlling this
encounter.

I had told the spook who was moaning and writhing under me that I was the
best, and he was about to learn that first hand. While the fingers of one
hand plucked and squeezed his nipples, the fingers of my other hand were
parting his ass cheeks and stroking across his hole, teasing it.

He was getting close. I could tell.

"Please! Please!"

I let him slip from my mouth.

"What's my name?"

"Wha-what?" Mann was almost sobbing in desperation, and his hips jerked
involuntarily, needing the hot suction on his cock. I couldn't help
grinning. He was totally into what I was doing to him.

"It's simple. I want to know that *you* know who's blowing you. So say my
name, baby, and I'll give you an orgasm you'll never forget!"

Was he going to do it? Quinton Mann was a man in control of himself at all
times. I decided to tip the scales a little more in my favor. I pressed a
little more firmly against his hole; I sucked the head of his cock a little
harder.

"Mark!" He surrendered. Sweet.

I slammed my mouth down onto his cock, letting him feel the edges of my
teeth, and he erupted with a cry, pouring himself down my throat. He was
lost in his orgasm, trying to drive his cock deeper in my mouth, my
throat. Maybe it should have bothered me, but it didn't. I was the one
who'd driven him mindless. The gentleman hadn't stood a chance against the
rogue.

He lay under me, his legs trembling, sounding as if he'd never be able to
catch his breath. I swallowed the last spurt of his come, then eased off
him and shifted until we were sharing the pillow.

I propped myself up on an elbow and licked my lips. "You taste good,
Quinn. I knew you would."

He was watching from under his lashes. The expression on his face... I
started to lean in to kiss him, but caught myself at the last minute.

It was time to leave. If I stayed much longer, I'd make a liar of myself
and fuck him right then.

I reached for the syringe. "I'm going to uncuff you, baby, but since I
don't think I'm your most favorite person right now, I'll have to send you
beddy-bye, first." I didn't want him getting nervous; he was CIA, I was
WBIS, and we were both in an occupation where needles could easily spell
death.

I loaded the syringe with the cylinder that held the sedative.

"I hate needles." He closed his eyes, sounding as if he didn't have a
concern in the world, and I had to admire his sang froid.

"I know." I really wanted to stroke the hair back off his forehead. "It's
not a needle, Quinn."

"No?" One eye opened, and he glowered at me. "Then what is it?"

"You really don't expect me to tell you, do you, baby?"

"And stop calling me 'baby'."

I called all my sexual encounters that. This way no one got bent out of
shape if I couldn't remember his - or the occasional her - name. I ran a
finger over his lips. They parted, and warm breath washed over the pad.

I sighed, regretting my promise to him.

"Now pay attention. This will wear off in about half an hour, and you'll
fall into a natural sleep. Why don't you sleep in tomorrow? I'll even call
in for you, if you'd like. You're supposed to be in Langley, right?" I
swallowed a grin. It was Sunday, and he probably wouldn't go in - he had
that standing appointment to ride with his mother - but I thought I'd mess
with his mind.

"Bastard." There was no heat in Quinn's words. He might be a little annoyed
with me right now, but I could tell from the boneless sprawl of his body
that he was also extremely sexually satisfied. "You know I'm going to kill
you, don't you?"

I gave a huff of laughter. "You can try, Quinn." I finally allowed myself
to smooth back that lock of hair, then leaned close to his mouth. "Know
what you need, Mann?"

He peeled open an eye. "I feel sure you're going to tell me, Vincent." His
tone was bored. Damn, I did like him.

I pressed the syringe against his neck. That spot was sure to be sore in
the morning. Oh well. "You need to be kissed. Long, and often, and by
someone who knows how."

His lips parted, and I waited for him to tell me to take a flying fuck,
that he didn't want to hear any fucking opinions of mine. I didn't expect
what did come out of his mouth.

"You have someone in mind, Mark?"

"Me?" But he was asleep, and I was uncertain if he'd heard me.

I unfastened the cuffs, stripped away the ruined pajama bottoms and folded
the top closed over his torso, and pulled the comforter up over his
shoulders.

I should have left right then, but I was still hard. Damn. I wanted to come
in Quinton Mann, but that wasn't going to happen, not tonight, at any rate.

But I could come in Quinton Mann's bedroom. I unbuttoned my jeans and
pulled my cock out. There was no time for finesse. With my eyes on Mann's
face, savoring his taste, which lingered in my mouth, I jerked off fast and
hard. It was only a matter of minutes before I came. I cleaned my hand off
with a handkerchief, then tucked my cock away and got myself in order.

****

It was getting late. Or getting early, depending on how you looked at
it. In a couple of hours dawn would start to lighten the sky behind the
curtains that draped over Mann's bedroom windows.

On the desk between the windows was a note that read, 'Thanks for an
entertaining night. M.' Next to it was the neatly folded, slightly damp
handkerchief, as well as the handcuffs. The key, though, was in my pocket.

I freed my switchblade from the nightstand and slipped it into the same
pocket, then smoothed a finger over the small scar it had left.

Just another little reminder for Mann, if he even noticed it.

I paused. Yeah, he'd notice it.

Grinning, I shrugged on my jacket. The syringe and the empty cartridges
were already in a pocket, and once I went back downstairs, I'd collect the
bottle of Evian as well.

I checked one last time to make sure Mann was all right. His pulse was
steady and his breathing was normal. He looked like goddamned Sleeping
Beauty, lying there. I was no Prince Charming, but I was tempted to kiss
him, just a brush of my lips over his.

Of course I didn't. Who was in control of this situation, me or my cock?

Right. Me.

I paused at the door for one last look, then ran lightly down the stairs,
retrieved the bottle of water, reset his house alarm, and let myself out.

The fake dog was waiting patiently behind the shrubs, its fur damp from the
dew.

"C'mon, dog. Let's go home."


~End~