Silver Bells

Chapter 1-2

In addition to other things that had occurred today, Granger had burst through the doors into Medical. He wore a long-sleeved winter white knit midi dress with a V-neckline and a curved hem. In the normal course of events, Max would appreciate Granger’s elegant appearance, but just then Granger was the epitome of harried.

“There you are!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for you all over.”

“Yes, here I am, Monsieur Granger.” Max sighed. “I’ve been here all day.”

“Huh? Oh…” Granger muttered something about Frenchmen and waved that aside.

“What can I do for you?”

“It’s Arianne. I need you to examine her. She’s been having contractions—”

The very pregnant woman stepped around Granger. “I told you they were merely Braxton-Hicks.”

“There was no need for worry,” Max said to Granger. The false labor contractions usually started in the third trimester, preparing the body for the real thing. “You should be aware of that.”

Granger frowned first at Max and then at Ms. DiNois. “That’s what Patti said, and twenty minutes later she was popping out our little girl.”

Fortunately, that hadn’t occurred here at the WBIS. While Max was skilled in most branches of medicine, obstetrics wasn’t precisely his forte.

“What are you doing here anyway?” Max asked the woman standing before him. “I understood you’ve been on leave for the past month.”

Granger glowered at Ms. DiNois. “That’s what I want to know. I left her home, snug in bed, and the next thing…I find her here at work.”

She went to him and rested her palm against his cheek. “I was restless and wanted to get out for a bit. Patti’s been coming in to the WBIS a couple of days a week, and I thought it would be nice for Gabriella to see where her mama works.”

“You should have called me instead of driving yourself,” Granger said in a sulky tone.

Max had to turn away to hide a grin. It would be a relief for everyone when this baby was born. He had no doubt Granger was an excellent father to his little girl, would be an excellent father to the baby as yet to be born, but in the meantime, he was driving everyone here at the WBIS insane with his hovering over the two women who were in his life—who were his life.

“Besides, isn’t it too cold to take Gabriella out?”

“I bundled her up.”

“And before you ask,” Granger told Max, “we left her with Patti.”

Max was tempted to roll his eyes at that. He noted the way Ms. DiNois kneaded her lower back and worried his lower lip instead. “Perhaps I had best examine you, Ms. DiNois, if only to calm down Granger.”

She turned to Max. “I’m sorry, Dr. Futé. It really isn’t—oh, very well.” She surrendered gracefully.

He pointed toward an exam room Housekeeping had finished putting back in order after the last of the agents he’d treated had been discharged.

As Ms. DiNois had assured her distracted partner, the contractions were simply signs of false labor.

Granger looked disgruntled. “Don’t tell me you told me so.”

“I won’t,” she agreed, then giggled. “But I did.”

“You make me crazy,” Granger groused.

Max helped Ms. DiNois off the exam table. “If you’re concerned, I’d suggest you see your obstetrician.” He refrained from telling Granger this wasn’t his area of expertise, but he was certain of his diagnosis.

“I have, and she said everything is right on track for this baby to be born on Christmas.”

“Ah, that’s nice.” Max smiled.

“No, it’s not,” Granger snapped, startling Max out of fond memories of the Christmases he’d spent with his grand-mère in Paris. “The poor kid will get rooked out of presents.”

“Then we’ll just have to make it up to him or her.” Ms. DiNois kissed the corner of Granger’s mouth. “Now, let’s go get Gabriella.” She smiled at Max. “She needs to get home for her nap.”

“Okay.” Granger ran a hand through his hair. “But I’m driving you home.”

“Yes, Gabe.” The smile she gave him was soft and loving, and at one time, Max would have regretted he had no one to smile at him that way, but not any longer.

Now he had Smitty—Avery Schmidt, the WBIS’s medical examiner, and Max’s lover.

Max escorted Granger and Ms. DiNois to the door and waved them on their way.

Max smothered a yawn and went into the doctor’s lounge. Things like that didn’t usually happen at the WBIS. For the most part, the agents would come in with some sort of wound, bullet or knife or—if they were careless while fencing with M. Bélanger—a sword.

Granger, though—he had never come to Max injured, not even for a twisted ankle caused by those ridiculous five-inch heels he wore when he was on the job. The first time Max had seen him, Granger had been dressed in a green silk gown that actually made him look like he had breasts. He did make a very pretty woman.

Max turned on the radio and listened with pleasure as Christmas music filled the lounge—Michael Bublé singing about silver bells ringing in the city. If it were earlier in the season, he’d put on a CD of classical music, simply to avoid the madness that was the holiday season in the United States. Now, with Christmas just a few weeks away, it was more apropos, and he could enjoy it.

He smiled, poured himself a cup of coffee, and made himself comfortable in one of the overstuffed armchairs scattered around the room. On a small table beside it was a medical journal in French. Smitty had subscribed to it for him when he’d overheard Max bemoaning the fact that he missed his native language.

Smitty—Avery—was a kind man.

Max had been working for the WBIS for almost a year and a half and had been Smitty’s lover for most of that time. He’d been there ever since Mark Vincent had brought him to the United States in the late spring of 2002 and somehow managed to see his license to practice medicine was reinstated. It had been revoked because he’d participated in a physician-assisted suicide. How could he have refused when his grand-mère had been in such agony and had begged so desperately for his help?

Practicing medicine had been his life. He’d wanted that from the time he was a child and had bandaged the knee of the boy who lived next door, who’d chanced to be Max’s first same-s*x crush.

Richard, the man who’d run Prinzip, an antiterrorist organization that “recruited” its members—read kidnapped—from other intelligence agencies rather than training up its own, had known Max would fall into his palm like a ripe plum. When Richard inquired as to whether Max might be interested in joining him in his glorious vision, Max agreed, and not simply because he would once again be practicing medicine. His family had thrown him out not only for aiding grand-mère, but also for being gay. With no one to care about him, no job, and no place to live, he’d had nowhere else to go.

He’d realized too late how he’d been manipulated, and had mitigated what he’d been forced to do to the best of his ability without winding up dead.

Max had first come into contact with Charles Browne, Foreign Affairs special agent of the WBIS, when Charles had been taken by Prinzip while vacationing in Paris. In spite of himself, Max had been intrigued by Charles’s looks, and although he’d had to sacrifice Charles’s little finger, Max had kept him alive at the risk of his own life.

Because Max had craved love so desperately, he’d persuaded himself this man would be the love of his life.

He’d been so wrong…

Before he lost himself brooding about the past, the door to the doctor’s lounge opened, and Smitty strolled in, carrying a large box.

“Bonjour, bien-aimé,” Smitty said, and in spite of himself, Max cringed at his pronunciation. Smitty leaned down and brushed his lips over Max’s, and suddenly Max didn’t mind so much how his lover mangled Max’s native tongue.

“Bonjour, amoureux.”

“Wait, that’s a new one. What’s it mean?”

“Sweetheart.”

“Ah. I like it.” He gazed around the room. “Where’s Paget?”

M. Vincent had decided Max needed an assistant and had had M. Wallace bring in another doctor, this one a woman who intimidated most of the agents she came into contact with. She was only supposed to stay six months or so, but then the flu season hit them, and M. Wallace asked her to return.

“She’s off today, doing her Christmas shopping, I believe.”

“Great!” And Smitty kissed Max again, this time more thoroughly.

Max cupped Smitty’s cheek. At first he’d agreed to move in with Smitty because having someone love him made a nice change from how he’d been treated by Charles Browne. Smitty didn’t ask for much beyond a kiss and a smile, and permission to come apart in Max’s arms in bed.

Max smiled to himself. His lover was a wild beast in bed. Everyone assumed Smitty was a top, and because Max was so much shorter and slighter in build, that he was the bottom. When Smitty realized just how toppy—his word—Max was, he’d practically rolled over and begged to have his belly rubbed.

Before Max knew it, he’d found himself head over heels in love with the medical examiner those same everyones had labeled a horndog. He hadn’t told Smitty—he’d never said the words to anyone. He was a Frenchman, was supposed to be the sort of man who said “I love you” easily because he didn’t mean it. Only that wasn’t who he was, and now, when he’d finally found the man he’d searched for but hadn’t believed he’d ever have in his life, he couldn’t say the words.

Oh, he had no problem with meaningless love words or endearments or even je vous aime, but saying je t’aime…that just wouldn’t pass his lips.

“What’s this?” Max asked instead, gesturing toward the box.

“Hold on a sec.” Smitty hurried out, and returned almost immediately, hauling an artificial Christmas tree behind him. “Ta da!” It had a stand, and he set it aside.

Max couldn’t help laughing. “Where will we put this?”

“I thought here, in the lounge.”

“But Smitty, this tree is bare.”

“Not for long. Remember you asked why I’d bought all those decorations and ornaments the day after Christmas last year?” Avery picked up the box he’d brought in first and put it on the loveseat beside Max’s armchair.

“Oui.” Max had learned the year before that his lover was a huge advocate of the holiday, and he had so many boxes of tinsel garlands, ornaments, and lights that Max couldn’t understand why Smitty had purchased more.

“Oui,” Smitty repeated, gazing at Max with affection in his eyes. “I love when you speak French. It’s so hot.”

“Smitty.”

“Right, the decorations. I wasn’t usually around the WBIS at Christmas, but I could see how depressed you were about the season, so I thought this year we’d go all out.” He patted the box. “Well, here you go. Decorations for the department.”

“That’s so kind of you.” Max rose and opened the box. “Oh!” Artificial pine garlands, boxes of icicle lights, silver bells, and a foot-tall Christmas tree, as well as all manner of ornaments.

“I got tinsel for that and miniature ornaments. Even a tiny tree-topper and a crèche. Now. Don’t I get a kiss for being such a thoughtful boyfriend?”

“Of course.” Max smiled up at him and went up onto his tiptoes. He’d always enjoyed kissing, but it had been his misfortune that he’d rarely found a lover willing to indulge him until Smitty. Now Smitty cajoled him into making out, as he put it, at the least excuse.

Max more than enjoyed it. He reveled in it.

This time, however, Smitty rested his hands on Max’s shoulders and held him at a distance. “You’re looking tired, sweetheart.”

“I feel tired. Charles was here.”

Smitty narrowed his eyes. “What did that bastard want?”

“To get the okay to return to work?” He hoped Smitty would find that amusing, since it was something of a running joke at the WBIS. After they’d arrived in Washington from Paris, Browne kept insisting he was fit to resume work. Max, as his doctor, was required to give permission for this, and he’d refused. Browne simply hadn’t been well enough. Sometimes he wondered whether Charles would have treated him better if Max had surrendered and authorized his return to the field.

“Are you telling me he had the flu?”

“Actually, no.”

“Well, that would have been stupid, especially considering the WBIS offers free shots.”

“Charles has a phobia about needles.” Max recalled how he’d had to fellate Charles before he could inject a local anesthetic in order to remove Charles’s little finger. Charles had insisted he was willing to take his chances with the two men who were Richard’s enforcers. Max wouldn’t agree to it. He’d known how truly cruel those men could be. “At any rate, he was under Dr. Paget’s care, since she was the one who’d stitched up his wound last spring.”

“In that case, he should have seen her.” Smitty scowled. “What did he want with you?”

“What he usually wants—to know when I’m going to…dump you, is how he phrases it—and go back to him.”

“And you said…?”

“I said he’d had his chance, that he’d made it more than obvious the only use he had for me was in bed, and that I had no intention of dumping you.” Max raised his hand and cradled Smitty’s cheek once again. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be the one doing the dumping, mon ami, because I have no intention of walking away from you.”

Smitty swooped down on him, and Max squeaked, startled, until Smitty pulled him into a bruising kiss. Then he melted under the lips that gave him such pleasure.

No, he would never leave Smitty. But he wondered: had he been mistaken by the relief he’d thought he’d seen in Charles’s green eyes? Those eyes were the feature that had drawn him into a disastrous love affair.

Whatever it was, he hoped Charles had finally gotten the message that Max was not now and never would be willing to return to him.