Not My Spook

Chapter 1-2

I opened the microwave, and as I’d half suspected, there sat my coffee cup. Smiling wryly, I dumped its contents into the sink, rinsed it, and put it in the top rack of the dishwasher.

As I closed it, I realized I was grasping at any excuse to interrupt my thoughts. I’d never lost my temper because a colleague had met with a near miss, and I’d certainly never been jealous.

Why now? Why this man?

Just then my doorbell chimed. I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and went to the door, pausing to peer through the peephole before opening it. No, I wasn’t expecting anyone except Mark, but it wouldn’t pay to grow careless.

Of course it was Mark standing there, and my breath caught at the sight of him, the lines at the corners of his eyes and bracketing his mouth deeply etched. I opened the door, and the weariness was wiped from his face, quickly replaced with his patented manic grin.

I could understand why Major Drum was uneasy whenever he came into contact with Mark Vincent.

“Come in before you frighten the neighbors, Mark. You look like death warmed over.”

His grin morphed into a scowl, but it took an effort. What had gone on with him today? Certainly it was upsetting to learn one’s home had been blown up, but his weariness seemed out of proportion to that.

But then someone had died in that explosion. Again I wondered if it had been a lover. I’d seen the way he’d curled his lip when regarding the deceased, but that didn’t mean that at some point in time there couldn’t have been warmer feelings between them.

“Go on into the kitchen; I’m sure you know where it is.”

He took a step forward, paused and looked down at his feet, then removed his shoes and socks, which were obviously soaked through. For a moment he seemed uncertain as to what to do with his socks, but then he stuffed them into the pocket of his suit jacket.

That was…considerate of him. I reached for the duffel he carried. “I’ll take your bag up to the guest bedroom.”

“Jesus, Mann.” He wouldn’t let it go. “We’re adversaries. Don’t treat me like a f*****g guest.”

“Shut the f**k up,” I snapped. “I have no intention of getting some kind of vicarious thrill by searching through your clothes, so give me your f*****g bag, go in the kitchen, and eat your goddamned sandwich. And for God’s sake, call me Quinn!”

Of course I was stunned by my verbal assault on him, but I didn’t know who was more surprised when he released his grip on his bag.

It was extremely lightweight. He’d said something about keeping a spare set of clothes in his office, but how much was in there?

I turned on my heel and went up to the second floor, left the duffel beside the bed in the guestroom, and then stopped in my own room to retrieve a pair of heavy woolen socks that I hoped would fit him. I returned to the kitchen in time to see a grimace darken his face as he took a sip of tea.

“Mark, you drink that tea with milk.”

“What?”

“Unless you’ve developed a taste for it straight?” One could drink it plain, and just because I preferred it with milk…. I felt myself flush. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have presumed—”

“Don’t go all insecure on me, Quinn.”

“I’m not—” I had a reputation for being cool and unflappable. The Ice Man, I was called, although the younger officers who referred to me in that manner were unaware I knew of this. How was it that Mark Vincent of all people could so easily slip under that façade? “Drink it however you want.”

“How do you drink it?”

I looked down my nose at him, easy for a change since he was sitting down. “I prefer it with milk.”

“Okay, fine. Have you got any?”

I was sure he knew the contents of my refrigerator as well as I did, but of course, as of this morning, I’d had no milk. I handed him the socks and went to retrieve the milk.

“What’s up with the socks?”

“Your feet will get cold.”

The expression that flashed across his face was gone in an instant, but it gave me pause. Hadn’t he had anyone in his life who cared about his wellbeing?

I thought briefly of the file I had on him. According to it, actually, no. He was estranged from his mother and hadn’t been in contact with his father’s family, or any of the men who’d entered into his life when he was a child for periods of time brief and not so brief.

How sad. He must have been hurt to cut off all ties to them.

And I knew he’d hate it with a passion if he could read my thoughts.

He took the milk, added a splash to his tea, then set the bottle aside.

“Is your sandwich to your taste?” I asked for want of a better thing to say.

“Yeah. It’s fine.”

“You haven’t taken a bite yet.”

He did so, probably larger than he’d intended, but it kept that mouth of his busy.

I turned and put the milk away.

* * * *

He stepped into the bedroom to which I’d led him and gazed around. Was he annoyed that I hadn’t shown him to my room? Dammit, I couldn’t see his expression.

“This is fine, Quinn. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, Mark.” I pointed out the attached bathroom, then told him, “I’ve set the coffeemaker to go off automatically at 6:30, in case you need to leave early.”

“You call that early? Jesus, you spooks are soft.”

Why was he trying to get a rise out of me? I didn’t respond, and he blew out a breath.

“Okay, thanks.”

“I—I have to go back downstairs to lock up the house, so I’ll say good night now.” I waited for a second to see if he had anything else to say.

Nothing. It was as if the night before had never happened, as if he hadn’t driven me to heights of unbelievable passion, given me unimaginable pleasure. Well, if that was the way he wanted things….

I gave him a curt nod, “Good night,” and left the room.

“Yeah. ‘Night, Mann.” He lounged in the doorway, and I could feel his eyes on me as I walked farther and farther away.

That was it? Not even an apology, even if it was nothing more than, Sorry for the inconvenience, for interrupting your dinner, for scaring the s**t out of you, Quinn?

I found myself wheeling around and returning to him. He was about five inches taller than me and outweighed me by at least twenty pounds, so it was obvious I was not thinking too clearly when I seized the lapels of his jacket and tried to shake him.

“Mark,” I growled, “if you ever pull a stunt like that again….”

“Yeah?”

I half expected him to tear my hands off him and fling me away, and I braced myself for it. Instead, he covered my hands with his, pressing them against his chest.

“Let’s just say I won’t be happy about it.” I could feel his heart beneath my palms, and I curled my fingers as if to capture the steady beating.

“You won’t—”

He was alive.

I kissed him, deep and hard, trying to imprint myself on his mouth. The taste of copper on my tongue made me realize just how hurtful that kiss was. I’d never hurt any of my partners with a kiss.

I dropped my hands and stood back from him, furious now not only with him but with myself. “Goddamn you, Mark. I thought you were dead! Do you know why your sandwich had no crusts? I cut them off. I took a butcher knife, for God’s sake, and f*****g chopped those crusts off, because otherwise I would have been tempted to run it through your black WBIS heart!”

His eyes were hooded, and I wanted to hit him. Instead, I turned away once more, and this time succeeded in walking away from him.

By the time I finished securing my home and returned to the second floor, my temper under control once more, Mark was nowhere to be seen.

I sighed and went to my room.

* * * *

Mark Vincent was just down the hall from my bedroom.

How would he react if I knocked on his door, posed myself against the frame, and told him I’d come up to see him?

He’d probably laugh his ass off at my Mae West impersonation. I’d never been much good at impersonations.

Aside from that, he was my guest. It wouldn’t be correct to approach him in my home.

However, there was nothing to stop him from approaching me. I put on the silk pajamas he’d bought for me and went to bed, leaving my door ajar on the off-chance he might grow restless and want a glass of milk or a game of chess or to talk about what had happened or…

Me?

There was a small lake on my grandfather’s property in western Maryland, and once my father had taken me fishing there. He was not a skilled fisherman, and I wasn’t much better, but it was one of the rare times we were able to spend an entire day together. The words he spoke imbued me with his sense of honor.

As we walked back to the manor house late that afternoon, sunburned and sweaty, his arm around my shoulders, he told me it was never easy doing the right thing.

That night I realized more than ever how true that was.

* * * *

In spite of everything, I fell asleep almost immediately, and since I knew that if he’d come to me during the night, there was no possible way I would sleep through another earth-shattering experience, when I awoke the next morning, still in my pajamas and without the pleasurable ache in my ass, I knew he’d done no such thing.

* * * *

It was the sound of Mark walking quietly past my door that woke me. If I’d kept the door closed, as I usually did, I doubt I would have known.

A glance at the clock radio on my nightstand told me it was 5:00 a.m. Did he consider getting up at this hour a poke in the eye to the CIA, or did he always rise so early? I threw back the covers, paid a quick visit to the bathroom not only to relieve myself, but to do something about morning breath, and then I hurried down to the kitchen.

Mark was sitting in the breakfast nook, gazing off into space. He was concentrating on something so hard I was almost tempted to sniff the air to see if something was burning.

“Morning, Mark.” I went to the cupboard and got a cup. “Did you sleep well?”

“Sure.” His eyes ran over my body, which tightened involuntarily, and his eyebrow rose when he realized I was wearing the pajamas he’d given me. The temperature was comfortable in the house, and I hadn’t felt the need to put on my robe. Or perhaps I just hadn’t wanted to. Let him see what he’d passed up by not coming to my room last night. “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“No. I had to get up anyway. And no, Mark, I have no intention of telling you why.” I was lying through my teeth. There was nowhere I had to go, other than State, where I’d just be pushing papers again today.

For a second, I wondered why my schedule had been altered. Had Edward Holmes, DCI of Threat Analysis, been behind it? He had nothing to do with Operational Targeting, but lately he’d been getting more and more involved with my department.