Not My Spook

Chapter 1-5

“You’re not putting anything on me. I’ll be your white knight.”

“Thank you. Now, let’s talk of something else. You’re looking very well. As a matter of fact, even better than when you’d been seeing Susan. I think that was a wise move on your part, breaking up with her.”

“Oh…er…thank you, Mother.” I didn’t offer her the polite lie Susan had insisted on, that Susan had been the one to call a halt to our seeing one another; Mother was too astute to accept that. What concerned me was both she and DB had noticed a change within days of me going to bed with a certain WBIS agent. I put the car in gear and began the drive to the Convention Center, searching for another topic. “Mark Vincent was promoted to deputy director.” I wanted to bang my head on the steering wheel. What had possessed me to bring up my—Mark’s name?

“Really? I imagine he’s not too pleased with that, especially if it means he’ll no longer be in the field.”

“How do you know that, Mother?”

“I did a little research into the WBIS. And you needn’t worry. I was careful.” She patted my knee, and changed the subject. “Your uncle’s been thinking of getting a horse for Ludovic.”

I couldn’t help the snort of laughter. “But Ludo doesn’t ride.”

“Can’t ride is more like it. The poor man looked absolutely terrified when he was forced to accompany me to Hyde Park when I was staying with my godmother in London.”

“Forced by whom?”

“MI5. Of course that was before I met your father.”

Yes, Mother had had quite a fascinating life before I’d come along. For that matter, so had all the members on both sides of my family.

“Frankly, I think Uncle Jeff would be better off getting Ludo a Lamborghini.”

“Well, Ludovic does love his Aston Martin. And you know your uncle.”

The remainder of the ride was spent in discussing the various breeds he was considering for his lover.

* * * *

The reception was much like all the receptions to which I’d gone from the time I’d been in my teens and Mother had deemed me mature enough not only to accompany her, but to endure the sometime boredom.

The food was mediocre at best, so I’d simply have a bite here and there, enough to absorb the occasional glass of scotch I’d consume.

Mother shook her head. “I don’t know whether I should inform Allison about this debacle or if silence on the matter would be kindest thing. I’ve never seen her so…so besotted.”

I was glad I wasn’t in the position of either having to tell someone their significant other was incompetent at his job, or in being besotted with…anyone.

“Portia!” A woman who worked on one of Mother’s charities came bustling up. “This food is such a disappointment! I know you were considering using this caterer for the affair we’re planning for the homeless shelter, but really….” She paused for a breath, then gave me a sultry glance. “Hello, Quinton.”

“Mrs. Davis. You’re looking lovely.”

“Dear boy!” She fluffed her hair and batted her eyelashes.

“It sounds as if the orchestra has finished tuning up, so if you’ll excuse me, ladies? Mrs. Davis, I hope you’ll save me a dance?” Although I wasn’t here in an official capacity, a good many of the people attending knew I worked at State; I’d have to do my duty. “Mother, may I have the first foxtrot?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

“Such a dear boy!” I heard Mrs. Davis murmur as I headed toward the ballroom.

* * * *

I danced with ambassadors’ wives and daughters, and in at least two cases, mistresses. The mistresses especially attempted to lure me into a dalliance, and I couldn’t help questioning the reasoning behind that. In the course of my work with the Company, there had been women who’d tried to draw me into their beds solely because I was the Ice Man, but here, as far as anyone knew, I was simply Quinton Mann, assistant to Undersecretary Sinclair at State.

“Would you care for a drink, Mother?” I escorted her from the dance floor as the orchestra struck up a merengue.

“Yes, please. I need something to fortify myself after—Oh, good grief! He’s heading this way again!” While she was too much a lady to cause a scene, it was easy to see Mother was fast losing patience.

“He,” of course, was Wexler. In spite of our hopes, he’d already been here when we’d arrived, and Mother and I had both been less than thrilled to see him.

“I believe a strategic retreat might be in order, Mother.”

“Yes, although if I continue going to the ladies’ lounge, people are going to assume I have a problem.”

I chuckled. “I’ll cover your back.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll meet you at the bar,” she called over her shoulder, and I walked toward the senator to intercept him.

“Good evening, Senator Wexler.”

“Oh, er…Mann. I thought I saw your mother just now. I was hoping to ask her to waltz with me.”

“They’re playing a merengue—”

“I don’t mind keeping her company until they play a waltz.”

“—and as you can see, she’s not here. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No.” He frowned and looked around. “Ah. There’s my aide. I need to have a word with him.” He gave a curt nod and marched away.

A pity dueling wasn’t in fashion. I’d participated in the ‘88 Olympics, in the Pentathlon, and was a good fencer. For a moment I mused on crossing épées with him.

I shook myself out of the pleasurable reverie of running him through and went to the bar to order drinks for Mother and myself.

The bartender placed my scotch before me and began to gather the ingredients for her Manhattan. I leaned back against the bar and gazed around the room.

That was when I spotted Mark standing beside the entrance. I didn’t even stop to wonder what he was doing here. All I thought was He’s here! and then, You will not smile at him. You will not smile at him. You will not—

As soon as his eyes met mine, I raised my drink to him in a silent toast. Yes. Very cool. Very controlled. Very Mann.

But then I smiled.

He walked across the room with the lithe grace of a big cat. “Mann.”

“Vincent.” Of course we would need to address each other by our surnames. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

“The Manhattan you ordered, sir.” The bartender placed it at my elbow.

“Thank you.” I gave him a tip.

“I might say the same,” Mark growled. He was obviously irritated about something. Had his day been as trying as mine?

“Would you like a drink, sir?”

“Club soda with a twist of lime, and I want you to open a new bottle for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

I’d heard that request before, for a new bottle to be opened, but the way Mark looked distracted me.

“Nice looking tux, Mark.”

“You think?” He was surprised? Some men wore their clothes, and some were worn by them. It was easy to see into which category Mark Vincent fell. His long body carried off the simple elegance of this tux, an Oscar de la Renta, if I wasn’t mistaken. It suited him much better than the Fumagalli that was hanging in the closet of my guest bedroom.

“Oh, definitely. The jacket emphasizes your shoulders quite nicely, and I like the satin stripe running up your leg. And that cummerbund also goes well with the plain shirtfront you’ve chosen.” I licked my lips, wondering how he would respond if I suggested we check the cloakroom for bugs, and then was shocked at myself for the idea.

“No sh—” He cleared his throat. “Really?”

He had too high an opinion of himself to fish for compliments. Did he seriously doubt it?

Just then I spotted Mother approaching us, and I smiled at her. I brought my gaze back to Mark, startled to discover his face had darkened. He glared at me, wheeled, and turned a frown of displeasure on…someone. What was the matter with him tonight?

“Quinton.”

“Ah, Mother. This is Mark Vincent.”

The frown froze on his face, and a tide of color crept up his cheeks as Mother raised an eyebrow. The color vanished immediately, and he cleared his throat. “Mrs. Mann.” He sent a look my way before smoothing all trace of expression from his face.

And it suddenly occurred to me—Mark had been annoyed because he’d thought I was here with a date. I couldn’t help feeling a sense of smug satisfaction at his reaction to my mother’s appearance, and he must have seen it, but after sending a look my way, his expression became bland.

“I’m honored to finally meet you, ma’am.”

“How kind of you to say so, Mr. Vincent, but I believe we have met before.”

“Are you sure you don’t have me confused with someone else?”

“Mr. Vincent, I am not senile yet.”

I was grinning like the Cheshire Cat, and he scowled at me.

“No, ma’am.” He was essentially backing down from her. The top of her head didn’t even come up to his chin, and her eyes were level with his n****e line….

I swore at myself for being distracted by thoughts of the lightly furred chest that only a couple of nights before had been close enough for me to lick and nuzzle, and dragged my gaze away from it, to fasten on his mouth, which hadn’t kissed mine as often as he’d promised.

I blinked, startled by that thought, and forced my attention back to my mother and my—and Mark.

“I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were,” he was saying to her. “It’s just that in the normal course of events, I wouldn’t come into contact with a lady such as yourself. And I would certainly have remembered you.”

“Give it up, Mark,” I murmured, reluctant to see him so discomfited. “Mother knows you interviewed her as Skip Patterson.” Once I had figured it out, I had told her. She needed to be aware.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mann.” Indubitably that was WBIS policy: when questioned, deny, deny, deny. “Mrs. Mann, it’s nice meeting you. For the first time. If you’ll excuse me, I see someone I need to speak with.”

I couldn’t help laughing softly; the slight stress on “first” was unmistakable. Mark sent a look my way that seemed to promise retribution and my c**k quivered.

Good God, what was happening to me?

He took his drink from the bartender, also left a tip, and stalked away.

You’re not retreating, Mark. You’re merely making—I thought back to my earlier words to Mother and smiled wryly—a strategic retreat.

“Quinton.”

“I’m sorry, Mother. You were saying?”

“I wasn’t saying anything, but I am about to. Are you involved with Mark Vincent?”

“Of course I’m not involved with him, Mother,” I lied barefaced. “He’s WBIS. I’m CIA.” I watched as Mark greeted a distinguished-looking couple. The woman smiled, said something, and then left them to join a group of women. “Is the man with whom he’s speaking Senator Franklin?”

She raised her eyebrow again, but turned to observe the two men. “Hmm. I believe it is.”

He sat on the appropriations committee.

“His wife, Elise, is a charming woman.” Mother said nothing further, although I could tell there was a caveat. She wasn’t given to gossip, but what she didn’t know about what was going on in the Capital wasn’t worth knowing.

However, she wouldn’t discuss it where there was a possibility of her being overheard.

“I’ll call you in the morning?”

“Yes.” Her eyes were on the two men. “Do you know what I find interesting, sweetheart? The fact that he would know Mark Vincent.”