Date: Sun, 17 Aug 2008 20:40:24 -0400
From: Tinnean <tinneantoo@embarqmail.com>
Subject: Mann of My Dreams 7: Charmed, Charmed Life

Notes: ~~~ indicates a flashback. Needless to say, there is no Beau
Brummel's in Georgetown, and if it should happen that there is, this isn't
the one. *g* This is from Mann's POV. Thanks to Wolfsbride, to Tim Mead,
and as always, to Gail for all their help.

Charmed, Charmed Life
Part 1/1

When I finally awoke, it was not as I usually did, immediately and at full
alert, but instead slowly, resurfacing to consciousness in fits and starts.

In spite of the foggy condition of my brain, I knew that I'd been in Paris
the day before, and now I was back at home in Alexandria.

I'd been able to catch a ride on a private jet owned by one of the world's
wealthiest men. That particular billionaire was a friend of my uncle,
Jefferson Sebring, and even though he wasn't a very good poker player, he
insisted we while away the hours over the Atlantic playing 5-card stud. If
we'd been playing for anything other than peppermints, I'd have owned
controlling shares in one of his companies.

Once I'd arrived at home, though, I'd been overwhelmed by inexplicable
exhaustion - granted I couldn't sleep on transatlantic flights, but I
usually had no problem dealing with it. Last night I had barely managed to
drag myself up the stairs to my bedroom, shower, and crawl into bed before
I'd fallen into a deep sleep.

It hadn't been dreamless, however. I'd been having arousing dreams for the
past few weeks, but this one had been so realistic I could almost smell
Mark Vincent's aftershave on my pillow.

It had also been different from the usual run of dreams. Not that Vincent
had been in it - I was getting used to having him inhabit my dreams - but
in this one I'd been cuffed to my bed. I'd been helpless, at his mercy, and
he'd sucked me to an earth-shattering orgasm...

I shot up in bed, and a headache blindsided me, threatening to puree my
brains. Where had that come from? I had a good head for alcohol, and I
avoided drugs. I breathed through the pain. After a few moments, it began
to subside, and I was able to study the room.

There seemed to be something on my desk, unusual because I always cleared
it off after each time I used it, but other than that, I couldn't see
anything that would cause me to think it had been anything other than an
extremely realistic dream.

However, the side of my neck was sore, and as I rubbed the spot, I
cautiously took stock of the other parts of my body, which were letting me
know things weren't quite as they should be.

My lip throbbed in time to my heartbeat, but that was the result of the
Frenchman de Becque's assault on my mouth the day before.

My wrists were reddened.

My nipples felt chafed, and the sheet was smooth over my naked cock.

Naked?

I always slept in pajamas, and even if I'd been forced to spend the night
in Paris, I would have slept in my shorts and undershirt. It wasn't that I
was a prude; I could, if the need arose, go to bed naked.

But I was at home. There hadn't been any need.

I stared down at myself, stunned. My pajama top hung open, the buttons all
neatly removed and stacked on the nightstand. Beside them was a gouge in
the wood, something most probably caused by a knife.

So. Not a dream! Vincent had actually been in my bedroom. He'd actually had
me cuffed to my bed. And that talented mouth of his...

I shook my head, then wished I hadn't as the pounding started again. I
separated the two sides of my top and finally saw why my nipples felt
sore. They looked as if someone - Vincent - had paid a good deal of
attention to them.

They were also pebble-hard in response to that memory, and my cock was
quivering as well.

I pushed the bedcovers further down and groaned as I found large,
hand-sized bruises around my hips.

Had Vincent fucked me?

He had said something... I blew out a relieved breath. Yes, he'd promised
me he wouldn't, and somehow, in spite of who he was, I believed him. I had
no doubt he could lie like a rug if he thought there was a necessity for
it, but for some odd reason, in this instance, I had the feeling he'd kept
his word.

But it wasn't something I took on blind faith. As I categorized my various
aches, the deep internal one of having been well-fucked wasn't one of
them. Granted it had been many years, but it wasn't something I was likely
to forget.

Vincent had also promised he would have me. //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.//

My mouth went dry at the memory of the dark velvet heat in his voice. I
swallowed, but it didn't do much good. My mouth was still dry. What would
that be like?

It had been a long time since I'd been fucked. It wasn't that Armand hadn't
done a thorough job in introducing me to the act of anal lovemaking; he'd
been gentle and patient, more so than any seventeen year old should be, but
then he'd loved me, so it only made sense. And while I'd been more than
willing to suck or fuck or mutually masturbate my few male partners over
the years, my ass had been off limits to them, belonging, as I felt, to my
one true love, as maudlin as that might sound.

After all, it was well known within the family that Sebrings loved once. I
was half Sebring, and having grown up with this knowledge, I wasn't
inclined to mock it.

My mother had lost my father in '78 and in all the years that followed
hadn't looked at another man. Two of my uncles had both been unlucky: Tony,
the oldest, had never married, his fiancee having called off the wedding at
the last minute, and Bryan, the youngest, was divorced. I hadn't cared much
for Aunt Johanna and her two children from an earlier marriage, who'd
treated my uncle poorly. I'd always thought he was well out of it, but of
course I hadn't said anything. If she had been his love, it simply wouldn't
have been kind.

Oddly enough, it was Jefferson, the middle brother who'd left a string of
broken hearts, both male and female, in his wake, who according to Mother
had always sworn he'd never settle down, who'd been the most fortunate. He
and his partner, Ludovic Rivenhall, had been together for almost
twenty-five years.

I thought wistfully of Armand and that idyllic summer in the French
countryside. He'd even loved me on horseback once...

~~~

"Why are we going riding at night, Armand?" It was almost midnight, and
everyone on his father's estate was asleep. He hadn't even given me time to
change out of my pajamas.

He grinned at me, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "You'll see. Come,
mon ange."

I flushed, pleased with the pet names he called me when no one was around
to hear, but still not quite comfortable with them. "Will we be seen?" We'd
been very careful to give the impression we were nothing more than
friends. I wasn't certain how Mother would react to the knowledge that I
loved another boy, but one thing I knew for sure: Armand's parents would be
very unhappy that their heir was in love not only with a boy, but an
American boy.

"Non. I know of a place where we may love one another in peace."

My cock twitched, and a heated flush mounted my cheeks. "But... "

He kissed me silent, then left me outside his gelding's stall. "'Allo,
Cricnoir.  Comment ca va, mon vieux?" He patted the gray's neck. "Get his
saddle, if you please?"

I hurried to the tack room, and by the time I returned, Armand had hooked a
lead to Cricnoir's halter and led him out of his box stall. I lingered,
watching his lithe movements as he tossed the saddle onto the horse's back
and made quick work of securing the girth.

"I'll just get Mademoiselle saddled and... "

"Non, Quinton." His accent curled the syllables of my name into an almost
palpable caress against my skin, and I shivered. "Cold? I'll warm you up,"
he promised as he swung into the saddle and reached down a hand. "Tonight
we will ride together." He took his left foot from the stirrup and bent his
leg back. "Up, mon coeur."

"All right." I had no objection to riding double, pressing myself up
against his back and letting him feel how aroused I was by him. I put my
toe in the stirrup.

"Non," he said again, stopping me. "I want you facing me." He patted the
saddle in front of him, and then his thighs. "Up."

Intrigued and curious at what he might have in mind, I placed my right foot
into the stirrup and carefully swung my left leg over Cricnoir's neck. The
horse stamped a hoof and flicked his tail, but other than that didn't seem
too discommoded by my unusual form of mounting.

"Un moment."

"Armand, what... "

He tilted his head back to laugh up at me, and ran his palms up my inner
thighs to my crotch, trailing his fingertips over the rapidly swelling
bulge. I moaned and leaned down to kiss him. He allowed it, which pleased
me, since it wasn't an act he preferred or encouraged.

Finally he drew back, and I settled onto the pommel of the saddle.

"Now what, Armand?"

"Now we ride for a short time. I know a place."

"How?" I brushed aside the lock of hair that was forever falling into my
eyes. "Should I be jealous?"

He looked delighted and hugged me. "Mais non! But this is my home, and I
know every inch of it. Trust me, mon cher."

I could feel his minute movements in the saddle as he tapped the gelding's
sides with his heels, then guided him with his knees and the subtle
shifting of his weight. His hands buried in my hair rather than holding the
reins, he was too busy nuzzling the side of my neck, and I... I was so lost
in the feelings he roused in me that we could have traveled to the ends of
the earth and I wouldn't have noticed.

Finally the gelding came to a halt. "Are we there?" I murmured against his
ear, my eyes still closed. "I'll get down." My toe searched for the
stirrup, and I rose and shifted my weight preparatory to dismounting.

"Un moment."

"Pardon?"

Once again he ran his palms up over my inner thighs, this time to the fly
front of my pajamas. There was a tug, snaps popped, and then there was the
sound of tearing, loud in the quiet of the place, as the entire front of
the pants parted, and then the balmy night air caressed my naked cock and
balls.

"Naughty, naughty!" His happy laugh rang out.

"What do you mean?" Uncertain whether to take him seriously or not, I
started to protest. "Who wears underwear... "

He tugged up my pajama top and pressed a kiss to my navel, distracting me
further when he licked the curve between my ribs. "Remove this."

Without bothering with the buttons, I yanked it up over my head and tossed
it away. It could be found the next day or never, I didn't care.

Armand seized a nipple between his lips, having already learned how
sensitive they were, and I collapsed against him, whimper after gasp after
moan spilling past my lips.

As aroused as I was, I didn't even start as slicked fingers entered
me. "Yes!" I tried to lower myself onto them, to take them deeper into my
back passage.

"Doucement, mon chou. Did I not promise you an experience you will never
forget?" He pulled me onto his lap, and my slippers dropped off my feet, to
lie wherever it was they might have fallen, completely forgotten under the
onslaught of other sensations - the warmth of his calloused palms under my
ass, separating the cheeks and lifting me up, the feel of the flared, blunt
tip of his cock probing my puckered opening, his rigid length finally
slipping past the tight ring of muscle to lodge deep inside me.

"Now! Allez-y, Cricnoir!"

The horse broke into an easy, rocking gait that caused me to first rise and
then drop, and in each direction, my lover's cock brushed against my sweet
spot. All I could do was hold on and shudder as my first orgasm tore
through me.

~~~

Whether it was because his mount had been trained to that particular gait
as Armand claimed, or just a fortuitous happenstance, but I'd had multiple
orgasms that night. I'd been unable to sit comfortably for the next two
days, but I'd counted that as nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

As usual, the memories of that summer, and of that night in particular, had
me rampantly erect and aching. I lay back down, licked my palm, and took my
cock in my hand.

****

By the time I caught my breath, I was completely awake. I stretched and
grabbed a handful of tissues to clean myself off, then glanced over at my
alarm clock to ascertain the time. I blinked and dug the heels of my hands
into my eyes, but that didn't alter the time - it was still a quarter to
two. I hadn't had the opportunity, thanks to a certain WBIS agent, as well
as whatever it was he'd injected into me, to set my alarm.

I'd need to call Mother and apologize for being unable to keep our
engagement to go riding. Unless I was away, we met every Sunday at the
stables of the country club just outside Great Falls. She wouldn't be too
concerned that I hadn't shown up - too often I was given assignments out of
the country, or at the very least, out of DC. She would only take me to
task that I hadn't called in advance to inform her of it, since that was
only good manners.

I looked down at my pajama top. Failing to call her had not been Robert
Lynx's fault, paranoid son of a bitch that he was, but Vincent's. I sighed,
then swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood.

Heat flooded my cheeks. Knowing I was naked from the waist down and
*seeing* I was naked from the waist down were two entirely different
things. Folded across the foot of my bed were my pajama bottoms.

I picked them up and examined them ruefully. The front, with its faux fly,
was sliced through to the waist. This had been one of my favorite pairs of
pajamas too. Vincent definitely owed me.

My attention was again drawn to my desk. I knew I had left nothing on it; I
never did. I drew closer to it, and my jaw dropped as I examined the items
- a pair of handcuffs, a handkerchief, and a note that read: 'Thanks for an
entertaining night. M.'

Entertaining? *Entertaining*? The headache that had receded to almost
nothing returned, and I growled under my breath and only stopped myself
from crumpling it by sheer will. Instead, I set it aside carefully.

There was no key for the cuffs, and the handkerchief, while dry, was
slightly stiff. I raised it to my nose and sniffed, then ground my teeth as
I recognized the musky odor that lingered. The son of a bitch had jerked
off into it!

I considered the events of the night before. Mark Vincent wanted me enough
to circumvent my security system, incapacitate me, cuff me to my bed and
give me the best blowjob of my life, and then on top of that, he'd jerked
off.

My cock twitched, and I stared down at it, appalled. "You do not find that
arousing!"

I'd have to see about learning where he lived and paying him a visit. After
all, what was sauce for the goose...

A glance at my clock radio reminded me it wasn't getting any earlier. The
phone call to Mother had waited this long, it could wait a bit longer. I
needed a shower first.

****

The tepid shower washed away most of the jetlag and whatever aftereffects
of the drug he'd put into the water - he'd said something about that bottle
of Evian from which I'd drunk; I'd take it with me to work tomorrow and
have its contents analyzed.

After swallowing a couple of aspirin, I felt better than I usually did
after a transatlantic flight. I wrapped a towel around my hips and studied
my face in the mirror dispassionately. I actually looked rested. Getting
blown by Vincent was better than any sleep aid I'd ever used, on those rare
occasions when I'd had to fall back on them.

The spot where he had injected me was a little red, and I ran my fingertips
over it. By tomorrow morning it would be barely noticeable, if not
completely gone.

Maid service would be in tomorrow afternoon, and not only did they see to
the housekeeping, but they also sent out the laundry. Since I used tissues
when I jerked off, which I then flushed down the toilet, the handkerchief
Vincent had left behind might give rise to questions even if they were
unvoiced. I rinsed it out and draped it over the heated towel bar. Once it
was dry, I'd toss it in the hamper.

I went back into my bedroom and placed Vincent's other mementos in the
middle drawer of the desk and locked it, then began laying out the clothes
I would wear - black corduroy trousers, a gray knit pullover, black silk
socks, and of course underwear.

Once that was done, I reached for the telephone and dialed the number of
the Tudor house in Great Falls where I'd grown up.

After four rings, the answering machine picked up, and Gregor Novotny's
voice growled, "Mann residence. Leave a message."

"Obviously I've missed you. I'll try your cell phone, Gregor."

I dialed again, and this time I got an actual voice. "Novotny."

"Gregor, I'm... "

"Quinn. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. I wanted to apologize for not letting Mother know I wouldn't be
able to go riding today."

"What are you talking about?"

"Excuse me?"

"You called a few hours ago and left a message on the answering machine."

"I did?"

"Of course you did! You said you'd had a rough couple of days and begged
off going riding, that you were going to crash for the rest of the
day. Although when you started using terms like 'crashed'... "

"I said that, Gregor?" Abruptly I remembered Vincent saying something about
making a phone call for me. I thought he was just being Vincent and
taunting me.

"Of course you... Quinn, are you all right?"

"I'm just a bit tired. I was in Paris yesterday - "

"Ah. Got it. Jetlag. That explains why your voice sounded odd. Also
explains why you'd call when you knew we'd be at church instead of waiting
twenty minutes for us to get home."

"I apologize for that." I didn't think it would be a good idea to let
Gregor know it was Vincent who'd called. It would lead to questions as to
*why* Vincent would do such a thing, and that was strictly between the two
of us. "I didn't want to keep Mother waiting. Please let her know that I'm
recovered now."

"Hold on a second. She's right here. I'll put her on."

"Quinton?"

"Good afternoon, Mother."

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?"

"I'm still a little jetlagged, but other that that, I'm fine. I apologize
again for missing our ride."

"I understand completely. You're very like your father in that; he was
never able to tolerate long flights either, although neither your uncles
nor I have ever had a problem with them."

"Father wasn't?" I didn't remember that.

"I'm surprised your uncle never told you. It pleased him no end that there
was one thing Nigel Mann did not do well."

"Well, Uncle Tony never liked Father very much, did he?"

"So he claimed." Amusement was in Mother's voice. "He always felt your
father took me away from my true calling."

"Breaking codes?"

"Yes. Your grandfather felt the same way. He insisted your father do
something to make me continue working at the NSA when I decided to get
out. Of course your father wouldn't. He was the most supportive man I've
ever known."

I smiled. I couldn't imagine anyone making my mother do anything she didn't
want to do. "I've always wondered. Did you ever regret leaving the
intelligence community behind?"

"No. It was never the same after we became involved in what was
euphemistically called 'Mr. McNamara's War.' And then after Jack was
assassinated... No, sweetheart." She changed the subject. "I have that
charity affair I told you about this afternoon, and I won't be home until
early evening, but would you care to join me for dinner?"

"I'd love to, Mother, but I'm afraid I won't be able to." As much as I
prided myself on my ability to cultivate a poker face, she was still able
to read me, and I was reluctant to face her so soon after the previous
evening's debacle. "May I take a rain check?"

"Of course, sweetheart. Is it too much to hope you might have a date? I
believe the last woman you mentioned was Susan Burkhart."

"No, I don't have a date, and Susan and I stopped seeing each other shortly
after Thanksgiving."

"Oh, Quinton, I'm sorry."

"It's quite all right, and better to find out before the fact."

Susan had wanted me to meet her family, and while I'd been agreeable,
thinking perhaps it was time I settled down, a matter concerning national
security had come up and caused me to cancel at the last minute. She'd been
livid, and called me a number of things, not the least of which was 'an
inconsiderate, self-centered jerk.' In fairness to her, she thought I was
merely an assistant to an undersecretary at State, and so her reaction was
reasonable. However, it hadn't boded well for other times when I'd be
called away.

"She wasn't the one, then." Mother sighed. "I rather thought not."

"Why do you say that?" I'd known I hadn't loved Susan, but I was fond of
her.

"Just a feeling I had." Thankfully, she changed the subject. "You know, you
really didn't sound yourself earlier. You've been working much too
hard. Why don't you give some serious consideration to relaxing today?"

"I will. I promise." She knew me very well. At least three weekends out of
four would find me spending a good deal of time at Langley.

"Gregor is pulling up at the restaurant, so I'll say goodbye now."

"Until next Sunday."

"Of course. Unless I hear otherwise, I'll expect to see you at our usual
time. Oh, and Gregor says please do something he wouldn't do."

I thought of what I'd done... or rather, what had been done to me the night
before, and couldn't help laughing, albeit ruefully. "Tell him I'll
try. Goodbye, Mother. I love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart. Goodbye."

****

I went back into the bathroom to shave, giving some thought to Mother's
words. After the past few days, I did need to relax.

One of the cafes at the Smithsonian was hosting a wine tasting, and
preceding it would be a talk given by Nico Verdi, the sommelier at
Raphael's. I'd bought the ticket, but hadn't been sure if I'd go.

Now I thought I would. Maybe I'd find something interesting to add to my
wine cellar.

As soon as I was dressed, I went downstairs, intent on having a cup of
coffee and reading the Post.

"What the... ?" I came to an abrupt halt in the music room. The photograph
on the occasional table was lying facedown.

The only other person to have been in my townhouse was Vincent. Why had he
turned down the photo of JessicaTheDumbBlonde, so named because of her
insipid expression?

'Who's the mystery woman, Mann?' Drum had asked after he'd tracked me down
to my townhouse, once again to demand my help. 'Does she have a sister?'

I'd just smiled. Who she was was a mystery to me as well. I'd found her in
an obscure gallery in Prague. She'd struck me as perfect for what I had in
mind - a buffer against unwanted inquiries into my unattached state - and
I'd had her shipped home.

Unable to find a reasonable explanation for any of Vincent's actions, I set
the photo upright and made sure it was in its proper position. Then I went
into the kitchen, set a pot of coffee to brewing, and retrieved the
newspaper outside my front door.

It was when I went to the refrigerator to get some cream for my coffee that
I realized the bottle of Evian was gone, and I couldn't help a reluctant
smile. Vincent must have removed it when he left in the early hours of the
morning.

One horse to him.

****

The next morning I drove to Langley in a fairly settled frame of
mind. Vincent might have been one jump ahead of me, but that had been
solely due to my being jetlagged. I was no longer jetlagged, and he was
going to learn that as with Mother Nature, it wasn't wise to fool with a
Mann.

My mood, such as it was, quickly became sour. I arrived at work to find
Hazelton was out of the office and Edward Holmes, the director of
Counterintelligence Threat Analysis, had assigned me a mountain of
paperwork one of his junior officers had left in a shambles.

Added to that, I'd taken a few minutes to contact our head of internal
security and asked him to have someone take a look at my alarm system at
home. "One of my neighbors complained about it going off."

"I'll send out a man to look into it."

A couple of hours later, he called me. "Callahan just reported back,
Mann. Your alarm system is in top notch condition."

"Really."

"Yes. Maybe the neighbor got the direction confused."

"Possibly." I tugged on my lower lip. "And... there wasn't anything to
indicate it had been tampered with?"

"No!" That seemed to surprise him. "Did you think it might have been?"

"I suppose not. I just wondered if something like that might have set it
off."

"Well, as I said, Callahan found nothing wrong."

"I'm sorry you had to send someone out to check on what was apparently an
error."

"Not a problem. That's part of our job. Got to keep our people safe."

"And you and your people do an excellent job. Thanks very much."

"You're welcome. Call any time."

"I will." I shouldn't have to. We hung up.

How in *hell* had Vincent managed to get past one of the best systems in
the country?

My intercom buzzed. "Yes?" I growled.

"Agent Cooper is here, Mr. Mann," Janet Watson, my personal assistant at
Langley, said.

"Which one?" It was generally amusing having two Coopers in the Company -
not only DB, but Syd as well, watching as outsiders tried to figure out
their relationship. Spouses? Siblings? They were neither, but they both got
wicked enjoyment in keeping everyone guessing.

However, I wasn't in the mood to be amused, and Janet, who had been my
personal assistant for the last ten years, was aware of that. Her tone was
dry when she said, "David Brendan."

"DB? Why?"

My door opened and DB strolled in. "Why don't you let me answer that,
Quinn?"

"Thanks, Janet." I took my finger off the switch and scowled at my friend's
cheerful face. "What are you so happy about, David?"

The corner of his mouth kicked up in a grin. "Whoa! The only time you call
me David is when you've got your shorts in a twist! Who's been after you,
Quinn? That asshole, Drum?"

Major Jonathan Drum II seemed to feel that because we'd worked together a
few times, he could call on me whenever he was in a bind. I didn't mind
helping him out once in a while, and had even joined him for a drink after
one or two occasions, but that didn't make us best friends, and pulling him
out of hot water was not my main ambition in life.

"No, I haven't been to the Pentagon in weeks." I swore under my
breath. Were the remnants of jetlag still clouding my thinking?  It would
have been better if DB thought Drum was the one who was making me crazy. I
didn't want anyone to know that Mark Vincent had gotten to me, in more ways
than one. "Never mind about me; what's gotten into you? You're rarely this
cheerful on a Monday morning."

His grin turned wolfish, and I relaxed. Diversion successful. "It's not
what's gotten into me; it's who I'm gonna get into!"

"Tell me it isn't another civilian! The last thing you need is someone like
that blonde who rumbaed all over your heart last year!"

A frown creased his forehead. "How could she throw me over for an
accountant, Quinn? An accountant, for chrissake!"

"You know as well as I do that anyone not in the intelligence community
assumes that when you make a date with her, you'll at least be in the same
country to keep it."

"Well, I am! Most of the time. It's not like I'm in the field like you."

"No." I sighed. It was easier dating someone who knew the score, who
accepted that we could be called away at a moment's notice. Even those who,
like DB, weren't in the field could be called in when an operation was in
danger of going south. "Well, good luck. You've got my phone number if you
need to cry on someone's shoulder."

"Yeah. Thanks, Quinn. You're a good friend."

I picked up a pen and began fiddling with it, tapping it against my desk
blotter. "As your good friend, I know that you didn't come to gloat over
your good fortune. What did you want to see me about?"

Immediately he became serious. "It looks like Scarlet Chamber is
reactivating."

"Well, isn't that an interesting tidbit?" I pulled up the file we had on
the terrorist organization, something from the WBIS' databanks that Michael
Shaw had passed to DB because mention was made of an operation run
by... "Mark Vincent?!"

Jesus, every time I turned around, there he was, involved up to his ass!

Unexpectedly, I found myself thinking of the firm muscles of his ass, which
were very caressable, as I'd discovered that evening in February, when
I'd...

*Dammit*! I shifted in my chair and forced myself to stop thinking of his
ass.

Enough was enough. "All this stuff that Shaw let you have." I cleared my
throat. "Did he also happen to give you Vincent's home address?"

"Yep. That was one of the first things he sent over," DB said absently,
studying the file. "It's in that attachment I sent you with the report on
the Division."

"Thanks," I responded casually; I didn't want my friend to know how
important this was to me.

"Jesus, this guy is a real psychopath, isn't he?"

"He strikes you that way? Granted his methods are unorthodox, but... "

"Are you kidding? Did you read what he had done to one of his mistresses?"

"Vincent had a mistress?"

"Who's talking about Vincent?"

"I thought we were."

"Geez, Quinn, are you still jetlagged? Get with the program, buddy! I'm
talking about the Archbishop!" He tapped the screen, which showed the
profile of the man who ran Scarlet Chamber.

Of course. "Sorry. You're right. I am still jetlagged."

"Speaking of which, how did that trip to Paris turn out?"

"It was a total waste of time. Tactics had me driven all over the city in
an effort to conceal the Division's whereabouts."

"How did he explain de Becque having your personal files hacked into?"

"He didn't. He left that up to de Becque."

"You got to meet de Becque?"

"Don't sound so impressed."

"Are you kidding? He's one of the deadliest operatives in Europe! Of course
I'm impressed!"

I gave him a disgruntled look. "You've got to be kidding!"

"Yeah. You're so easy, Quinn."

"Not amusing, David."

"Okay, okay, I'll be good!" This date had him giddy as a schoolboy. I hoped
she - whoever 'she' was - was good to him. "So what did Vincent have to do
with it?"

"Nothing."

"C'mon, Quinn, pull my other leg."

"I'm serious. De Becque gave me a cock-and-bull story about wanting to make
sure Vincent wasn't being targeted by the CIA... "

"What? Why would we do something like that?"

"Possibly they've confused us with Major Drum?" I shrugged. "Who knows? The
way the minds of the Division's operatives work is as much a mystery as the
WBIS'."

"This is true."

"So the whole trip was a waste of my time and energy. Now what about the
Archbishop?"

As I'd hoped, that distracted him, and the subject of the Division, de
Becque, and Vincent was dropped.

****

It turned out to be a hellaciously long day, and it was well after eight by
the time I finally left Langley.

Fortunately, traffic was light, since I made the twenty-three minute drive
home almost on autopilot.

Using the remote opener, I parked my Lexus in the garage, got out, and as
the door went down, carefully observed the surrounding areas of light and
shadow. It seemed safe enough.

Then again, it had seemed safe enough when I'd returned the other night
from Paris.

After a last, quick look around, I jogged across the front lawn and let
myself into my townhouse, then reset the alarm. No matter how tired or
distracted I was, I never neglected to do that. Only then would I turn to
drop the remote and my keys into the wicker basket on the hall table beside
the door.

This time, however, I came to an abrupt halt instead.

Between the neatly stacked mail and the phone with its answering machine
that read '0' - no messages - was a rectangular package, wrapped in the
signature paper of Beau Brummel's, an exclusive men's shop on Wisconsin
Avenue in Georgetown, and secured with a gilt ribbon.

It must have been delivered by a private messenger service, and of course
the maid service would have accepted delivery, but who could have sent it?
And why?

I began to get an uneasy feeling in my gut. I removed the small, pale gray
envelope that was wedged under the ribbon, teased open the flap, and
withdrew the note it held.

'Hi, baby. Sorry about ruining your pajamas. They were nice, so soft I
could have... Maybe we won't go there right now. Anyway, this should make
up for it. M.'

Son of a bitch!

I found myself wondering exactly what he 'could have... '

I could almost feel him at my shoulder, urging me to open that beautifully
wrapped box immediately.

Stubbornly, I placed it back on the table. I'd open it in my own good time,
and not one moment before. I stuck the note back under the ribbon, then
removed my overcoat and hung it in the closet.

I was hungry - I'd worked through dinner - and I went into the
kitchen. There should be something in the fridge, again courtesy of maid
service. I'd heat it up in the microwave and make an early night of it. By
tomorrow morning, everything would be back to normal, and then Mark Vincent
would learn what happened when you fucked with the CIA.

I pictured myself bending him over my desk at Langley and pounding into his
ass with deep, hard strokes.

Ruthlessly I banished that image from my mind and opened the
refrigerator. There was a Styrofoam container, the logo of a local deli
across the side, on the second shelf, and I took it out.

A note was taped across the lid. 'Had a feeling you'd want to eat first.'
My fingers tightened on the container. Was I that predictable? 'Keep it
light, baby. You need your rest, and a heavy meal will keep you up all
night. I'd rather be the reason for that. M.'

"Oh, would you?" I asked mockingly. "You're just so fucking considerate!"
Of course I wasn't predictable, I assured myself. That was just Vincent,
trying to fuck with my mind.

But he'd already given me an amazing blowjob. What would he do to keep me
up all night? More images flashed through my mind, this time of him
pounding into me, and my mouth went dry.

'P.S. There's nothing in the soup but soup, in case you were
wondering. *I'm* going to be your natural high.'

I was tempted to dump the container's contents into the sink. Instead, I
drew in a deep breath, took a spoon from the silverware drawer and removed
the lid, giving it a stir. Chicken soup, chunks of chicken, carrots and
celery, and grains of rice.

My stomach was making whimpering sounds, and I was suddenly too hungry to
wonder what mind games Vincent was playing with me. I removed my suit
jacket, rolled up my sleeves and washed my hands, then poured a portion of
the soup into a bowl and put it in the microwave to reheat.

While I was waiting I went into the music room to select a CD. I always
enjoyed listening to music while I ate, and I chose 'The Look of Love,' one
of my favorites of Diana Krall, and loaded it into the CD player.

Before long, the flirty strains of 'Charmed Life' filled the first floor of
my townhouse.

'You know I live a charmed, charmed life, I look out to my left and I look
to my right... '

I was about to return to the kitchen but jolted to a stop once again, that
uncomfortable sensation raising the hairs on the back of my neck back in
full force.

The photograph of JessicaTheDumbBlonde was facedown.

I had assumed that Vincent had had the package and soup delivered while the
maid service was here and that someone on the crew had accepted delivery of
them. Was I wrong? Could Vincent have been in my house again?

I walked over to the photo and set it upright.

The microwave pinged, and I went back to the kitchen. The fragrant steam
tickled my nostrils, and I gave a little hum of pleasure, then set it down
to cool and took a bottle of Perrier...

Perrier. Of course. That was what I usually had stocked. If I hadn't been
so exhausted when I'd returned home from Paris, I wouldn't have overlooked
that salient factor.

Shaking my head, I put the water on the counter and took a fresh lime from
the crisper.

As I poured the sparkling water into a glass of crushed ice, I mulled over
the probability of Vincent holding that picture of
JessicaTheDumbBlonde. Why? And why place it so her face wasn't visible?

Unable to come to a satisfying conclusion, I rinsed the lime and rolled it
on a cutting board, then sliced off a wedge and squeezed it into the
Perrier.

I sat at the butcher-block island in the center of my kitchen and
thoughtfully tasted the soup that Vincent had left for me. It was good.

I'd have to do something as nice for him, now wouldn't I?

****

Dinner done and the bowl, glass and spoon rinsed and in the dishwasher, I
went back to the hall table. The mail consisted of catalogs and requests
for charitable donations, nothing that would keep me from seeing what
Vincent had left for me.

I gathered up the package, turned off the CD player, and spared one last
glance for JessicaTheDumbBlonde. Then I went up the stairs to my bedroom.

Placing the box on the bachelor chest, I decided to demonstrate exactly how
much the captain of my fate I was, even if it was only to myself. I
undressed, showered, brushed my teeth, put on a pair of pajamas Mother had
given me last Christmas, charcoal gray in an elegant watered silk.

I liked silk next to my skin, as had my father

Finally, I could delay no longer. I removed the gray envelope and set it
aside, slid a thumbnail under the tape that fastened one end of the
wrapping paper, and tried to ease it open without tearing it. Grimly I
forced myself to take my time, and I succeeded quite well, in due time
freeing the box. I flipped off the top and parted the tissue paper.

They were similar to the pajamas that he'd cut up only in that they were
silk, so fine that I wouldn't have been surprised if they could have passed
through the eye of a needle. Instead of the gold design on a black
background, however, these were black on black pinstripes.

I raised them to my face and rubbed my cheek against them. So soft, so
sensuous. I wanted to make love to them.

A piece of paper fluttered to the floor, and I stooped to retrieve
it. 'Knew you'd want to eat first, baby. I always figured you to be a
believer in delayed gratification! So am I. So don't wear these until I can
take them off you. M.'

God*damn* Mark Vincent! My cock was tenting my pajama pants, and I knew I'd
never get to sleep without jerking off first. And I'd be jerking off with
him in my mind. I growled, folded his gift, and replaced it in the box.

I strode to my bed and was about to fling back the covers when I noticed
their rumpled condition. Something propped on the pillow reflected back the
lamplight. I leaned forward and picked it up.

It was a Polaroid snapshot. Lying on my bed, one hand cuffed to the
headboard, the other resting on the bulge beneath his unzipped fly - oh,
yes, there definitely was a bulge there, and if I looked really hard, I
could just make out the wiry hairs that covered his groin - was the WBIS
agent, a smug grin on his face.

He must have come directly from work. He was wearing a tailored shirt, the
tie casually loosened and a couple of the top buttons undone. His trousers
still had a sharp crease in them, even though my alarm clock, which was
just visible in the frame, read 6:17.

Had he been playing with fire, chancing that I might come home at any time
and catch him in flagrante?

In handcuffs...

I bolted to the desk and fumbled with my keys to find the correct one to
open the center drawer. The cuffs were still there, along with two notes.

Two notes? That wasn't right. I picked them up. One was from the night
before, but the second - That was new.

'Really soft bed you've got here, baby. I'm looking forward to having you
on it. Oh, and by the way - you might want to look into having your
security system upgraded. My arthritic grandmother could have gotten in!
I'd demand a refund myself. M.'

I was gritting my teeth as I shoved the notes into the drawer, slammed it
shut, and locked it. There wasn't a better system. What I had was the very
latest the CIA had to offer.

When I got my hands on Vincent... I pictured myself, with my hands on his
body, and I smiled. He'd have a lot to answer for.

He would expect me to go after him, to retaliate quickly. After all, that
was how the WBIS worked. And I'd been so fucking hot for him the other
night, he'd think I'd never be able to resist him...

And dammit, there was my cock, agreeing whole-heartedly with that.

But I was also the son of Nigel and Portia Mann. Coolness and cunning had
been bred into my bones.

I sat on the edge of the bed and made sure that my alarm was set to go off
at the correct time, then swung my legs up onto the comforter. I pushed up
my pajama top and rubbed my fingertips over a nipple that was already
pebble-hard.

Wouldn't Vincent be pleased to know that? But he wasn't going to know that!

I slid my hand past my waistband. My cock was fully erect, and I ran my
fingertips along its hot length, teasing myself higher. I drew random
patterns around the crown with the pre come that oozed from the slit.

Suddenly I remembered Mark's mouth fitting around me, swallowing me, and my
strokes became rough and fast. Abandoning my nipples, I sucked on a finger,
then used it to probe my hole. That was all it took to trigger an orgasm
almost as good as the one he'd given me.

When I finally caught my breath, I reached for a handful of tissues and
wiped my fingers off, planning my next move.

I had Mark Vincent's address, and I was going to pay him a visit, but not
tomorrow. Not even the next day. But one day very soon.

I had threatened him with death and dismemberment the other night, but I'd
been too glutted with good sex, too sated to mean it.

All right, I wasn't going to kill him - he was a colleague in a manner of
speaking.

But he was going to be in for a surprise.

I got under the covers, rolled to the left side of the bed, and turned off
the light.


~End~