Chapter 31

Since he'd been a night-person throughout his whole life, it surprised him enormously to find that he actually enjoyed the sensations of morning in the South; the silken caress against his bare skin of warm air flowing in from the open window; the salt scent on the breath of the morning wind blending with the aroma of espresso rising from the automatic Mr. Coffee machine in the kitchen and wafting up the spiral staircase; the satiny drift of 1200 thread-count sheets against his body - the ones he'd sent McClaren to buy on their first day in the cottage when he'd taken one horrified look at the muslin monstrosities that the absentee landlord had left behind for their use. Only, for some reason, this morning, the Egyptian cotton felt slightly roughened, a bit gritty, and it took him a few moments to figure out why.

Sand, he remembered suddenly. Sand that had clung to his skin as he'd half-walked and been half-carried from the beach to the house, up the stairs and finally to the big four-poster bed, so totally engrossed in the figure pressed against him and around him and under and over him that they had moved as seamlessly as one body. If not exactly as one mind.

He opened his eyes after lying there for a while, luxuriating in the softness of scents and sounds and sensations, and remembered.

"And finally, how about the fact that I spend every hour of every day knowing that if I slip up, if I let myself get too close, too caught up in the enigma that's Brian Kinney, then I'll never be the same again? That I'll never be completely free of you. I'll never find anything that could make me forget . . . this."

He closed his eyes and let himself be swept into vivid, almost tactile memory - the vision of a beautiful, taut body hovering above him and slowly lowering itself, the exquisite sensation of being engulfed in tight, wet, incredible heat as his cock was swallowed by that hungry darkness, even as his mouth was being claimed and explored; the slick slide of skin on skin and the rapturous growth of pressure in his balls as he pushed higher and higher into ecstasy, the two of them moving as one, forgetting everything beyond the sweet thrill of joining until, at the very last moment, with sanity teetering on the edge of annihilation, he felt himself explode into a burst of white-hot brilliance and fall into oblivion.

Shit! When had his life - his former perfectly simple life - become so fucking complicated?

He was still lying there, staring out into the morning's liquid sunlight toward the surf breaking against the rocks at the base of the headland, when a warm body slid into the bed behind him, and he was momentarily dizzied by the rich, mouth-watering fragrance of his regular morning addiction.

"You're not asleep, so stop pretending." McClaren's voice was always slightly rough in the early morning - a fact he blamed primarily on Brian, for encouraging his renewed interest in cigarettes. "Here's your customary fix, to fend off the ravages of caffeine withdrawal, and you're due at the clinic in an hour. Better drink up and get your ass in gear."

Brian shifted onto his back, and stared up into an almost expressionless face with veiled blue eyes - veiled in an obvious attempt to re-establish and maintain a cool distance. The attempt would have been extremely effective, except for the bruised swelling of those perfect lips and the livid bite mark under the jaw-line. And the fact that the eyes, for all their coolness, were irresistibly drawn to the mouth just inches away, with lips that were equally swollen and open just enough to allow a glimpse of a wet, pink tongue.

"Where's your boss, McFed?" Brian asked, seeing no point in avoiding the subject that was hanging over their heads like an albatross.

"Downstairs, mainlining her own particular brand of caffeine addiction - and don't call me that."

Hazel eyes closed briefly, before opening again to focus on hard, steady blue. "You tell her we fucked?"

The ghost of a smile, suppressed almost quickly enough to avoid notice. Almost. "She spent the night in the guestroom." The reply was flagrantly tongue-in-cheek as a glance swept around the bedroom, noting a broken lamp and a clutter of articles strewn across the gleaming hardwood floor - a half-empty bottle of Beam, a lube container, an IPOD, a crystal paperweight, an alarm clock, a couple of hardcover books. "I'm pretty sure she was able to figure it out on her own."

There was no way to ignore the gleam of satisfaction that flared in those changeable eyes. "Sorry."

For a moment, there was a heavy silence between them. Then it was swept away before a burst of easy laughter. "No, you're not. You're just hoping she was embarrassed by having to listen to the performance."

Brian grinned. "And was she?"

"She didn't say. But I doubt it. She doesn't embarrass easily."

Brian pushed up to a sitting position and helped himself to a big gulp of the steaming espresso that McClaren had learned - acting out of sheer desperation - to prepare so perfectly, in order to silence Brian's constant grumbling.

"Do you?" Brian asked finally, looking up to meet McClaren's gaze.

"No."

"You sure? It doesn't bother you that your boss was front-row center for our little fuck-fest?"

Blue eyes sparked with warmth. "I wouldn't exactly call it 'little', and I've never tried to hide the fact that I'm queer, Brian," he said easily. "She knew it from the get-go."

"And she accepted it? Never tried to convert you?"

The agent stood up abruptly. "You know better than that. There's no way to convert a . . ."

"Yeah. I know that. I'm just trying to find out if she does."

"Why? Why does it matter if she understands the true nature of fags around the world?" The smile was back in his voice, even if it never touched his mouth or his eyes.

Brian's gaze was steady as he regarded his most recent trick - choosing that term deliberately, in order to keep everything in its proper perspective - with raised eyebrows. "You call it 'victimology'," he replied with a hard gleam in his eyes. "I call it something else. I call it 'psycho-babble' - and intrusive. And I've never had much time or patience for it, so, before I allow this woman to go digging around in my head, I mean to know who I'm dealing with. Got it?"

McClaren sat back down on the bed and regarded Brian in silence, his eyes exploring every inch of his companion's face. "What do you think happened last night, Brian?" He asked finally. "Do you think the fact that we fucked is going to change how I see you, how I treat you? The fact that I let you fuck me . . ." He paused then and couldn't quite contain a bittersweet smile, "three times and then some - or anything else we did to or for each other - doesn't change who I am, or who you are, or how I look at you. I'm here with you for one reason, to keep you safe. To make sure that the motherfuckers who did this to you don't get another shot at completing the job, and to stand between you and anyone who might try to harm you. And that, believe it or not, includes the person who has the legal right to order me around. I'm professionally obligated to do whatever she tells me to do. And I will. Unless I think it wouldn't be in your best interest. If that happens, then I'll do what my conscience dictates. I'm supposed to protect you, and that's what I'm going to do, no matter what anybody says or thinks."

It was Brian's turn to study the eyes regarding him so steadily and try to read what was reflected in them. "So what are you saying? You're not swearing undying love and fealty and all that shit are you?"

McClaren grinned. "I can't think of a better way to send you streaking out into the wilderness with your Calvins flapping around your knees than to declare 'undying love and fealty'. You think I haven't figured out that Brian Kinney doesn't do 'love' or 'boyfriends' or 'happily ever after'?" Then something in his eyes shifted, and the grin settled into a rueful little smile. "With one exception, of course."

Brian stirred then, his expression hardening as he shifted to turn away.

"Don't get your thong in a twist," the FBI agent continued. "Your secret's safe with me."

"You think you know me, but you don't." It was clipped and hard and brutal and unequivocal.

McClaren's smile did not waver. "Okay." But the look in his eyes said otherwise.

He turned and moved toward the door to leave Brian to his morning ablutions, including a shower that the FBI agent would have enjoyed sharing, but he was pretty sure that Alexandra Corey's liberal mindset - or patience - would not extend to waiting for the two of them to take care of twin morning erections, with emphatic vocal accompaniment, under a cascade of hot water.

"Hey, McFed," Brian called, in a casual tone that made his question sound like an afterthought. "We gonna fuck again?"

McClaren went very still for the space of a heartbeat. Then he turned and moved back to the bedside where he stood for a second staring down into Brian's eyes, before leaning forward to claim that perfect mouth in a searing kiss. "What do you think?" he whispered.

Brian smiled. "I think," he murmured, "that your original plan was to stay the hell away from me, to avoid complications."

McClaren regarded him for a silent, almost awkward moment, before he broke into soft laughter. "You're so full of shit," he said finally. Then he sat down again, and took his time to consider his choice of words. "Think of it this way. Suppose you were on death row, scheduled to face a firing squad at dawn. And you had your choice of spending your last night on earth on your knees, praying for forgiveness for your sins and making your peace with God. Or . . ."

Intrigued despite himself, Brian prompted, "Or?"

"Or you could spend those same hours fucking the hottest guy in the world. Which would you choose?"

It was Brian's turn to laugh. "You're asking me that question? You really don't know me at all, do you?"

McClaren shrugged. "Even though you knew it would be your last chance to save your soul from eternal damnation?"

The laughter was still there in hazel eyes. "Even though."

The kiss this time was quick and hard and over too soon. "Exactly," McClaren whispered as he pulled away and made his exit, leaving Brian to ponder whether or not he should be pleased at being compared to "the hottest guy in the world" or insulted to be equated with "eternal damnation".


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There was something decadent about southern coffee, thought Alexandra Corey, as she settled into a plushly-cushioned wicker chair on the shaded section of the deck. Something intoxicating enough to make a grown woman feel like curling up in a spot of sunshine and purring like a Cheshire cat.

Though what was in her cup was espresso rather than more pedestrian coffee, the effect was the same. It reminded her of the dark roast, honey-rich liquid ambrosia that Emmett Honeycutt had served her at the end of that sublime meal in Brian Kinney's office. She closed her eyes for a moment, fantasizing about the culinary masterpieces she had enjoyed that day and realizing she really hadn't enjoyed a good meal since.

Her stay in Washington had been a bitch, in spite of giving her the rare opportunity to spend a few nights (very short nights) in the luxury of her own home. Unexpected difficulties arising from her previous case had necessitated her extended stay in the capital, and she had had no choice but to await the final outcome of the trial as she had been called to appear for re-questioning by both the prosecutor and a judiciary panel.

The only positive aspect of the interim was that it had all ended well, with the criminal convicted and sentenced to a lengthy stay in federal prison - the perfect culmination of a long, grueling investigation.

It had been a difficult, terribly busy couple of weeks, and she spent a few more minutes gazing out into the almost painful clarity of the morning, regretting the fact that she had not been able to get here sooner, as she'd intended. But there was, ultimately, no point in indulging regrets, for all the delays had proved worthwhile in the end, even if she had not been able to conclude her study of Brian Kinney as quickly as she'd hoped, and thus had made no headway in understanding the motivation of the individuals who were behind his attack - beyond the obvious, of course. As she knew perfectly well, the clues for divining and defining the deep, intrinsic motives for crimes of this nature were almost always found in the character or philosophy of the victim, rather than in the profiles of the criminals themselves. Nevertheless, the investigation was proceeding at a good pace. They were not yet coming to the end of the tunnel, but there was, finally, light ahead.

She was pretty sure Kinney would provide the final impetus needed to find their way completely out of the darkness.

The profiler sat back, savoring another sip of near-perfect caffeine, and took advantage of the unexpected moments of peace and quiet, interrupted only by the murmur of voices and occasional footsteps upstairs, to go through her notes; real notes - the kind one recorded with a ballpoint pen on a steno pad; the kind that would not be lost forever into the cybernetic ether of nothingness in the event of an electronic failure of whatever device one trusted to preserve such information.

She smiled. Yes, she did have a laptop, which was sitting now in its pristine leather case on a lovely wicker table in her bedroom. She also had a PDA, which was - she thought - still tucked away in the pocket of her Armani jacket. And all the information that was recorded in this stack of note-filled tablets was also stored in those electronic files, archived and tabbed and organized in such a way to enable instant linking to any database she might need, and to provide for the instant transfer of information, with the push of a single button. But, to enhance her own mental processes, she preferred documents that she could pick up and examine and doodle on or highlight or underscore or illustrate to her heart's content - documentation she could hold in her hand and peruse at her leisure.

She knew it pretty much marked her as a dinosaur, but it was a method which had worked for her for decades, and she saw no logic in trying to change it now.

For example, at this particular moment she was studying the report submitted by her journalistic undercover operative - a gifted young woman who had been a member of her team for almost eight years, but who still managed - with only a little cosmetic enhancement - to look like a college student, a feature that opened a lot of doors for her and allowed her to infiltrate in a wide variety of settings that might have proven impenetrable for other agents. For example, with a bit of FBI background prep, Priscilla Young had been easily, almost instantly, transformed into Paula Harte, a journalism major at Duquesne University, interning at a major television studio as part of her graduate degree program. The young woman was so accomplished in her ability to blend in and carve out a comfortable niche for herself that she had become an invaluable part of Corey's team over the years. It was, in fact, just this type of assignment - when she could put on the persona of an up-and-coming young professional - she enjoyed most. And, in this case, when she had been briefed on the details of the crime and - even more pertinently - on the identity and character of the victim, she was really in her element.

The report was detailed and very interesting.

Alex knew - as did every member of her team - it was almost always a mistake to sort individuals into categories, and to pre-assign personalities to them, based on biased expectations. Such a practice was the mark of a rank amateur. And yet, sometimes it was almost unavoidable, taking preliminary information and circumstances into account. Times like now. In looking over the notes jotted down by Paula/Priscilla, Corey decided that John Vincent Fincher was turning out to be exactly what she and most of her team had expected, a pompous, unprincipled ass.

Alex had been something of a fixture in the FBI hierarchy for many years, and, as such, she had been in position to enjoy a nodding acquaintance with a number of members of the White House Press Corps, including prizewinners like Michael Abramowitz of the Washington Post and Doug Mills of the New York Times, and had once spent an entire evening sharing a few pitchers of Margaritas and some sharp political repartee with Ann Compton, Martha Raddatz, Jake Tapper, and Charles Gibson, all members of the ABC staff. She had even, on one occasion, been privileged to meet and share a few moments conversing with Walter Kronkite. So Alex Corey knew a thing or two about recognizing the crème de la crème of the fourth estate. Which meant she was equally capable of recognizing the dregs at the bottom of the barrel.

John Vincent Fincher, she thought, was just about as far removed from the elite of journalism's upper echelon as it was possible to be. Instead of the acumen, perseverance, and unwavering honesty that were necessary to the practice of journalistic integrity, Fincher had ridden a combination of family money, surgically enhanced good looks, and rampant opportunism to a position of power within the Pittsburgh press pantheon - a position he had used to aid in his mission to co-opt traditional conservatism and pervert it to defend and promote his own personal crusade of homophobia and elitism.

He was currently involved in efforts to revive Proposition 14 and expose the infamous but always ephemeral, never fully defined "Homosexual Agenda".

And, as an egotist of the first order, there was nothing the man enjoyed more than the attention - the more fawning, the better - of a bright, pretty, talented young woman. Like Paula Harte, who knew exactly how to play the role that would encourage him to take her into his confidence.

It had taken the undercover agent less than a week to find out what Fincher knew and where he was sending the information he had gathered, and Corey smiled as she recalled the young woman's remark that it was always nice to be lucky enough to be eavesdropping at exactly the right moment so that ass-kissing could be kept to a minimum, especially in the case of such a vile, depraved, repulsive ass. Being completely familiar with Priscilla's skills, Corey doubted that luck had anything to do with it, but she completely understood the sentiment.

The wiretap on his private line - and a bit of discreet surveillance to monitor the transfer of the confidential files he had obtained from Peabody and identify the recipient - had done the rest.

In the end, it had been determined that he was only a minor player in the overall scheme of things, no more than an avid fan of any kind of gay-bashing, eager to show off his network of contacts to his equally bigoted friends and associates, but, in the final analysis, completely ignorant of any deeper purpose for the data he was passing on; a fool and a homophobe, but a fool who was all mouth and no action. Of course, it was probable that he wouldn't have cared, even if he'd figured out that the people who were milking him for information had darker purposes than he'd originally believed, but bigotry and Nazi beliefs, no matter how heinous, were not grounds for indictment.

He would, however, be complicit enough in the plot against Kinney to be threatened with accessory charges and forced to provide information and testimony about his co-conspirators, when the time was right. Corey found that thought extremely comforting. Exposing hypocrisy at its highest levels was one of the incidental perks of the job.

On the other hand, one of the hardest parts of any in-depth investigation was the waiting - the necessary time which had to be spent in setting up precise operations and following the leads they generated and gathering the proof required in order to proceed. That was the stage at which the Kinney case stood now, and there was little she could do to hurry things along. In point of fact, hurrying was almost always a huge mistake in such a delicate operation.

Right now, she could only wait and allow her gifted, dedicated colleagues to do what they did best: find and process the evidence needed to pursue justice for those responsible for such a horrible crime.

She shuffled through a few more files, organizing her thoughts and jotting down pertinent data. Getting ready for what she had come to think of as "The Confrontation" - capitalization intended. Sub-titled "Facing Brian Kinney". She did not expect it to be easy, and she knew she had best be thoroughly grounded, for Kinney would undoubtedly prove to be as difficult and demanding as she'd been led to expect.

And rightfully so. It rather surprised her that she was ready to concede that notion, but it was unavoidably true that he had every right to demand that she be as open and frank and forthcoming with him as she was asking him to be with her. That was true with almost every victim of a crime like this one, but it was equally true that most victims were too confused or too frightened or too intimidated to stand up and demand a quid pro quo. It was dead certain, however, that such would not be the case with Brian Kinney. If he chose to cooperate at all, it would be under his own terms.

She knew she needed to be well prepared, well rested, and very, very calm when it was time to face him, and she also knew she would give him the information he required - rules or no rules.

He had a right to know the truth so he could decide what steps needed to be taken to enable him to get on with his life; he also had a right to know about all the threads of this investigation which appeared to be converging on one particular focus - a posh, highbrow, elite establishment known only as The Club.

And finally, he had a right to know the names of the individuals who were members of that elite fraternity, although she was pretty sure that the identities would come as no surprise to him. She thought it was safe to assume there weren't many things that would surprise Kinney.

It was, of course, completely against agency regulations for her to allow him to see the evidence that had been gathered so far, or to share her conclusions with him, but she had broken rules before, when she'd believed it was the right thing to do. And this time, it was definitely the right thing. Besides, she also believed there was an excellent chance his insights would be helpful in determining how to bring the case to a successful conclusion.

She had come to realize, in the course of her investigation, that the man was brilliant.

She sighed and sipped and spent a moment studying the portrait of Brian Kinney that was a part of her basic file on the man - Kinney before the attack. Kinney - wearing a sardonic smile that was reflected perfectly in night-dark eyes.

He was also incredibly beautiful.

Shit!

"Ah-ha!" said a warm voice from behind her. "I thought you were above such prurience, Fearless Leader."

Chris McClaren flopped down into the lounge chair beside her and grinned. "Good to know you're still human enough to appreciate the view."

She stared at him with narrowed eyes. "That particular view could probably re-animate a recently-deceased corpse. As you know very well."

The faintest blush touched his cheeks. "Yeah. Well . . ."

She lifted one hand and favored him with a small smile. "I wasn't asking for a confirmation, or an explanation."

"Good," he replied, "because I wasn't going to give you one."

She nodded, and the subject was dropped, except for a tiny twinkle in her eyes that let him realize she was not - quite - as disinterested as she pretended, and would have been delighted to hear all the lovely details. But she would not ask for them. Instead, she would simply use her imagination.

She reached out and laid her hand on the thick file that contained all the information from the investigation. "How much have you told him?" she asked.

He did not look at her, choosing instead to allow his eyes to sweep the beach for any signs of intrusion. "Only what he needed to hear, to make sure he understood that this wasn't random. That he was a specific target. He didn't take much convincing."

She nodded. "He knew it before you told him."

"Yes."

"And have you reviewed all the latest data?"

"Yes."

She paused then, and sighed as she looked up to follow the flight of a tern as it swooped down toward a rough patch of sea grass. "How do you think he'll take it when he finds out the identities of the club members?"

He turned to look at her, and there was no mistaking the hard gleam of anger in his eyes. "I think he'll be surprised that it took us so long to figure it out."

She smiled. "Only, it didn't, did it? Not really."

"No," he admitted, "but I couldn't very well tell him that, now could I? But I'm pretty sure he knew anyway. You're going to find out PDQ that it's really hard to slip something by him. He's very perceptive."

Her smile became a grin. "A smart little fucker, then?"

"Oh, yeah." A gentle huff of laughter.

Corey turned then to study his face, not quite comfortable with something she wasn't sure she was hearing. "Have I made a huge mistake here?" she asked finally. "Are you . . ."

"No."

"Then how do you know what I was . . ."

"Drop it!" No uncertainty in his voice now, and no regrets either. "Whatever happens, this is where I should be - doing something I was meant to do."

She considered her response for a moment, before offering him a bright smile. "Not going all mystic on me, are you?"

To her surprise, he did not smile in return. Instead, there was something troubling in his eyes, something that reinforced her own uncertainties. "I don't know if I can make you understand it," he said slowly. "It's hard to grasp, even for me. For someone who's never experienced any of the things he's endured, I'm not sure it's possible."

"Try me," she said softly. "Maybe I'll surprise you."

He took a moment to compose his thoughts. "Brian Kinney," he said finally, "has never let himself need anyone. Never. Can you imagine how much strength that took? Even when he was a kid, he only relied on himself. You can probably figure out how that can happen to a kid - what kind of family he must have had, and what he must have endured at their hands. But in the end, he survived it, because he was stronger than they were. Because he refused to let anyone destroy him or force him to pretend to be something he's not. But because of that - and everything that came after - he's never been able or willing to let down his guard and let anyone in. He's never been able to give his trust completely."

She thought about the things she'd learned during her interview with Brian's sister, and knew that McClaren's assessment was perfectly accurate.

He smiled when he saw the look of understanding in her eyes. "Except once, but that's not something that's mine to talk about. That's his very personal business and not a subject we should discuss. But the thing is - right now - he needs someone, and he doesn't know how to let himself need someone. Because he's never been there before. He needs someone who can stand at his side, can understand all the things he won't let himself say, can see him as he really is and not as some romantic fantasy figure, and still step up to watch his back if the need arises. That's what he needs, and that's what he doesn't know how to accept and can't ask for. He needs someone who can do that for him - to be there for him, to laugh with and fight with and fuck with - to do whatever he needs and not require him to define it or spell it out or even mention it."

He paused to light a cigarette, giving up on his earlier resolution to wait for a mid-morning break. "And that's what nobody else can give him. That's why I'm here."

"And when it's over?" she asked. "When it's time to walk away?"

He shrugged and blew out a perfect smoke-ring. "Then we walk away. Both a little older and a little wiser, maybe, but unbroken."

She looked for a moment as if she wanted to argue, but she didn't. "And the other things?" she asked. "How will he respond to the problems in his own house?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "He's spent his whole life dealing with homophobic pricks who hate him for what he is, and he's dealt with it and defied them all. But the possibility of being betrayed, by someone close to him, I don't know what that might do to him."

"So you haven't told him that?"

"No. Because I'm not sure how he'll take it, and because our information is still sketchy. We could be wrong. It might just be a stupid fuck-up."

She nodded. "It might. But what if it's not?"

He took a deep breath. "Then somebody is a dead man walking, figuratively speaking. Brian doesn't deal well with betrayal, and he's not much into forgiveness."

"Not very Christian then."

McClaren burst out laughing. "I keep forgetting that you haven't really had a chance to get to know him yet."

She patted the file again. "But I know . . ."

"No. You don't. You may know the facts and the history and all the trivial details, but you don't know Brian Kinney. Not yet. And when you do, you'll understand exactly what I mean."

Again, she looked like she wanted to argue, but she didn't. She trusted McClaren, as she'd trusted only a very few young associates in her time, and if he thought she still had much to learn about the enigmatic Brian Kinney, he was probably right.

"Sooo," she said softly, drawing the word out to give her a chance to choose her words carefully, "how would you estimate my chances of convincing him to submit to hypnosis?"

He, on the other hand, required no time at all to come up with an answer. "Slim to none," he laughed, "and that's probably too generous by half."

"Chris, he really needs . . ."

His lifted hand was enough to convince her not to waste her breath. "Hey, it's not me that needs convincing. It's him, and I gotta tell you that I can't think of a single reason why he'd agree to let you do this."

Her eyes were suddenly narrow and hard. "Doesn't he have any interest in catching whoever did this to him?"

He flexed his shoulders, in an attempt to work out a bit of soreness that probably had more to do with the previous night's extracurricular activities than any job-related muscle strain. "Tell you what, Alex. When all this is over, I'd be willing to bet the farm that he will find out who's responsible, whether we succeed in our efforts or not, although I don't think he gives a shit about proof that might stand up in a court of law. One way or another, the people who did this are going to be held accountable. But let's face it; law and order types haven't exactly distinguished themselves in standing up against homophobia, and he doesn't know you. Do you really expect him to just give you carte blanch to go poking around in his head?"

She considered his words for a moment, before offering up a little smile that conceded his point. "Still, there are things that he needs to know, that he has a right to know, but I'm loathe to lay it all out for him until I've had a chance to try to jog his memory. And putting him under is the surest way to do that. If we provide the details now, before I can probe his memory, there's a chance of contaminating his recollections with bits and pieces of what we tell him, and that could compromise everything."

"So what's your point?" he asked, his tone suggesting that he was still not sure he agreed with her, but he was willing to go along - for a while.

"Just be careful how much you tell him concerning the primary investigation," she said finally, "although I have an idea that you should clue him in on our suspicions of what's going on - in-house, so to speak - because he's probably going to find out sooner rather than later anyway. Because of the circumstances, we felt that we had to tell Mathis, who, in turn, felt compelled to tell Whitney, who . . ."

"Is not going to hesitate to tell Brian. When?"

"Probably some time this morning. Mathis was just waiting for the final confirmation from our SEC sources before he takes the whole thing to Ms. Whitney. I don't know exactly how she'll react but . . ."

"She'll react like the pit bull she is. Cynthia has one fundamental loyalty, and that's her only concern. Nothing is going to persuade her to hide this from him."

"In that case, you'd better . . ."

But he was already getting to his feet. "You're right. I've got to drive him to the clinic anyway, so we'll have some uninterrupted time for me to tell him, and a semi-controlled environment where he won't be able to mount a classic Kinney queen-out and break whatever he can lay his hands on."

"Except you," she hastened to point out.

"Except me," he agreed with a grin, "but I'm tougher than I look."

He turned to go into the house then, before pausing and looking back over his shoulder. "Trina will be here soon. She's our in-house version of Paula Deen, and, just in case he's not in the mood to be coddled or mollified or coaxed out of his snit, ask her to make his favorites. She'll know what they are. Just in case."

Corey smiled. The idea that big, brawny, buff and beautiful bad-ass Chris McClaren might be just a tiny bit intimidated by the idea of dealing with an irate, stone-cold furious
Brian Kinney was food for thought - and amusement - and, just maybe, a nuance of alarm.

Exactly who and what were they all dealing with?

She was not the least bit frightened. She had never been frightened of a crime victim in her life, and she wasn't about to start now.

She frowned, and stared out to sea with a steely glare, determined to maintain her aplomb. She wasn't intimidated. She wasn't worried. She wasn't the least bit nervous.

She absolutely wasn't. And the tiny little fluttering in her stomach was undoubtedly due to a bit of left-over jet lag or the fact that she hadn't been eating well of late. It couldn't possibly have anything to do with apprehension over her upcoming interview.

It couldn't.

Could it?

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Ted had been working with computers since early adolescence. He'd learned how to navigate a Lotus spreadsheet and edit a WordPerfect document before he'd learned to balance on a skateboard, and manipulating financial data, via his new MacBook Pro, which had replaced his PowerBook G4, was so second-nature to him by this time that it was almost intuitive. He didn't even have to think about how to do what needed doing; he just did it.

And yet he sometimes thought he might have been an accountant - or a scribe perhaps - in some past life. If, of course, he believed in past lives, which he didn't. Only he could not deny that there was some tiny part of him that had a weakness for the crispness, the visceral experience of words and numbers written on a page, columns of figures entered into a ledger. It was not efficient; it was not a productive use of one's time. It was just satisfying.

Thus, once he had completed all his data entry, accessing the accounts and initiating the actions necessary to implement the decisions he'd made in exercising his management of Brian's liquid assets, he removed his Montblanc ballpoint pen - a Christmas gift from his boss - from its special niche in his desk drawer and opened the ledger he'd retrieved earlier from the safe in Brian's office. Brian, of course, did not share Ted's appreciation for these artifacts from a simpler, more refined era; he had observed, on more than one occasion, that it was nothing more than a petty conceit, not to mention a waste of time, to duplicate manually what had already been done via computer.

But he didn't actually interfere, and Ted thought, sometimes, that the man who signed his paycheck might understand more than he let on; he did, after all, have a rather profound appreciation for elegance and artistic concepts.

And this, thought the accountant, as he opened the ledger, his hand smoothing over the dark crimson leather of its cover, was art, in its own way.

The book opened easily under his fingers, and he stared down at the column of figures with a certain degree of smug satisfaction, knowing that this, too, was art, in another way. He had done very well for Brian, overseeing his investments with all his considerable knowledge of market trends and fiscal protocols. In the years since he'd taken over the supervision of Brian's wealth, he had experienced occasional setbacks when he'd been forced to record small losses, but recovery had always been swift and decisive, and he had never had to explain or justify a single losing quarter.

And now . . .

He carefully took pen in hand to record his latest transactions, the transfer of a substantial percentage of the funds previously invested in various venues into one holding account from which a final transfer was even now in process; a stroke of genius that would transform Brian Kinney from a moderately wealthy business owner to a very rich man - a distinction which Brian would surely appreciate and reward, once he had a chance to come to his senses and figure out where his true loyalties should lie.

Ted did not hesitate as he made the entries, even feeling a small rush as he entered the last of them.

Two million dollars, plus.

The actual final figure would be close to two and a quarter million, factoring in the amount which Ted had managed to pull together for himself and a friend. That thought did give him a bit of pause. Not that he was worried about any possibility of not being able to retrieve his or his friend's share of the investment. For the most part, Brian never even looked at the details of his financial portfolio, except for rare, seemingly random moments when he'd decide to delve into it, just to check on what was going on. But he rarely bothered, almost never questioned, and seemed content to allow Ted to do what Ted did best.

Handle the money.

Although - he paused briefly as his mind sifted through random memories - there had been times when Brian had posed some questions which seemed to indicate a greater awareness of financial market conditions than one might have expected him to possess, and Ted was reminded that it was almost always a mistake to assume that Brian was ignorant about things. Brian might not be current about the latest events in the world of finance, but he was seldom actually ignorant about anything, and assuming otherwise would be a foolish risk.

When Brian asked questions, a smart individual made sure to be able to provide pertinent answers.

But this - he paused and sat back in his chair, his eyes drifting out toward the parking lot where a fitful wind was creating a miniature maelstrom of dead leaves and debris - this was different from anything he'd ever done. This would mark his greatest achievement in the field of fiscal management and should buy him a place in the forefront of the elite group of Brian Kinney's friends. And if it also made him - and his friend - rich in the process, he was sure Brian wouldn't mind.

Except, of course, that the 'friend' in question was Melanie Marcus, and he had to admit that he wasn't entirely sure how Brian would handle that bit of information. But Ted was nothing if not gifted in rationalization. Melanie might not be Brian's favorite person, but she was a parent figure to Gus, so he should ultimately be glad that Ted had allowed her to become a part of their little investment clique.

Of course, she had only managed to come up with $40,000.00, but that sum - tripled or quadrupled or whatever the ultimate pay-off might turn out to be - would benefit her little family unit, including Brian's son, so he should be pleased with the end result.

But none of that was critical to this moment. He would handle Brian when the time came, and trust that the man's delight in the huge profits he would rake in would compensate for any annoyance over being kept out of the loop. Besides, it was undeniably true that he was being kept in the dark through his own fault; Ted obviously could not tell him about what he was doing when he was not allowed any contact with his employer, except as filtered through Cynthia Whitney.

Ted very carefully ignored the fact that he could have easily mentioned it to Cynthia, and asked her to obtain Brian's agreement to his arrangements. But he wouldn't do that, because, if he did, he would have to reveal the details of his plan, a disclosure he was not yet willing to make. He wanted this to happen discreetly, under the auspices of his oversight, so he would be able to present it to Brian as a fait accompli - a master stroke accomplished through his own financial genius.

To make absolutely sure that Brian Kinney would never undervalue him again.

He smiled as he remembered his last conversation with Marshall Hargrave. It had been brief, as the Wall Street baron had been on his way to catch a plane to Singapore, for a broker's conference, but there had been no denying that the man had been delighted with Ted's news.

"I knew you were too smart to pass up an opportunity like this," Hargrave had observed. "Look, just give me your email, and I'll have my secretary send you the routing information for the funds transfer. And . . ." He paused for a fraction of a second, and Ted thought he heard a quiver in his voice when he resumed speaking. But on later reflection, he was sure he'd been mistaken. Probably just a rough spot in the road as the limo sped toward the airport. "And congratulations, Ted. This will be a day you'll never forget, the day when you took your first steps into the stratospheric level of high finance."

They had chatted for a few more minutes then, and Hargrave had invited him to bring a friend and come up to the financier's home in the Hamptons for Memorial Day week-end or to drop in for a visit at his Park Avenue penthouse the next time he was in New York, before ending the call by reminding Ted that time was critical so he should not dawdle in taking care of the details.

He had not dawdled, and now he was just one confirmation away from completing the most profitable and daring and amazing venture of his life.

With Brian's money, of course, which meant, he conceded, it wasn't really his venture, but he consoled himself by remembering it was his hand on the wheel, his expertise that had gained access to the opportunity, and his actions that would see it through to the finish.

And Brian would, from this day forward, owe him a debt he could probably never hope to repay.

The stratospheric level of high finance.

He was pretty sure he could get used to living in such rarefied atmosphere.

A quick, perfunctory knock at the door announced the arrival of his lunch date, and he greeted Melanie with a raised eyebrow and a smile that barely avoided haughtiness. They had decided to treat themselves to Monterey Bay Fish Grotto for lunch as a private celebration of their confidential joint venture - an expensive indulgence, no doubt, but befitting the auspicious nature of the occasion. Melanie's expression mirrored his own, with just a slightly elevated degree of smugness.

While it was undeniably true that Brian had succeeded in cutting them out of his life, for the present, this action would firmly and permanently re-establish their right to expect a place of honor at his table.

Not that Melanie really wanted a place at his table - honored or otherwise; Ted was pretty sure she actually wanted nothing more than to be as far away from Brian Kinney as possible. But she could hardly deny herself the satisfaction of knowing that he would be forced to acknowledge her right to be included in his inner circle, even when she chose to reject it.

Walking away from him and forcing Lindsey to choose to do the same would bring her as much satisfaction as any financial benefits she might gain from their little arrangement.

It was all there in her eyes as she took a seat in front of his desk. "So," she said brightly, "are we all set?"

"Absolutely. The final transaction will be completed tomorrow, when the transfer is confirmed from Brian's primary account. And the rest, as they say, will be history."

"And how long," she asked, "before we see results?"

Again, the smug smile. "Probably not long at all. Possibly a few days. At most, a matter of weeks, although you need to remember - like I told you before - although the indicators may waver a bit from time to time, the overall trend will certainly be positive. But it may take a few months to see anything substantial. Dealing in blue chip investments and preferred stocks requires a certain level of patience."

"I know," she replied with a sigh. "It's just that I can't wait to show Lindsey what we've achieved. She's always believed that it's Brian who is . . ."

"The genius?" he offered, when she couldn't quite find the right words. "The boy wonder? The Sugar Daddy with bottomless pockets?"

She nodded and tried, without a lot of success, to suppress a venal note of satisfaction in her voice. "All of the above. I mean I know he's supposed to be your friend, Teddie, although I choose to reserve judgment on that, but you have no idea how hard it is to live with someone who's supposed to love you and believe in you but spends all her time raving to our son about how wonderful and successful and talented his daddy is. Sometimes, I think I'll go ballistic and slap the shit out of her if she ever says his name again."

Ted's eyes were suddenly very wide, and there was no concealing his shocked response to the degree of venom in her voice.

"Not that I'd ever really do that," she hastened to add, apparently realizing she'd said more than she'd intended.

Quickly, she stood and moved to a group of display boards arranged on a ledge in front of the office's single window - bright, vivid drawings etched in almost-neon hues against a glossy black background. "What are these?" she asked, not really caring, but looking for a means to change the subject. "They're very eye-catching."

Ted grinned. "Glad you think so. I had Gabriel - our new intern in the art department - draw them up, according to my specifications, as part of a proposal for a new promotion for the Schickel concert hall. Of course, I'm no ad man - like Brian - but I think they're very stylish and seductive. Just the kind of thing that would entice an opera-lover to buy season's tickets."

Melanie smiled. She was always in favor of anything that would undercut the mighty Kinney, and prove to the world that his success and accomplishments were just a fluke, a matter of blind luck, having nothing to do with skill or talent or intellect.

"Very good, Teddie. You doing the presentation yourself?"

He nodded, and a certain furtiveness in his eyes told her there was more to this story than he was telling, but she didn't press the issue. Mostly because she didn't really care.

He took a deep breath, still slightly bothered by her comments about Lindsey, but he decided to let it go, assuming that he'd simply misunderstood her meaning. "Okay," he said, closing the ledger before him and getting to his feet. "Let's just put this away in Brian's safe, and we'll go enjoy our little celebration."

He did not notice at first that Melanie had gone very still, hardly even daring to breathe. "Brian's safe?"

"Yeah." Still oblivious, he moved toward the door. "It's in his office. Come on, and . . ."

It was then that he noticed the predatory gleam in her eyes, and understood what it meant  and knew what he had to do. "Mel," he said softly, "I don't know what you're thinking, but there's no way I can give you access to . . ."

"But, Ted," she said, suddenly very calm and reasonable and infused with wide-eyed innocence, "what he chooses to conceal there - in his private safe - might have a major impact on my son's well-being. Surely, you can see . . ."

"But I . . ."

She smiled then and tucked her arm though his. "Maybe," she suggested, "we go in to put this ledger away, and you get distracted. Maybe you remember a phone call you need to make, or you feel a sudden call of nature, or . . ."

Her little litany continued - soft and persuasive - as they walked out of the room.

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She was still talking when they walked through the door into Brian's office, but fell silent quickly when they discovered it was not as unoccupied as they'd expected.

It had been weeks now since Brian had actually been in his office, and the suite had been maintained immaculately in the interim, so it should have been impossible to detect even the faintest trace of his aftershave lingering in the air. But there was no denying that the fragrance was there - a soft nuance of Chanel Allure, as elegant and distinctive as the man who frequently wore it.

It was very subtle, barely detectable, but it always hit Ted like a gut punch, forcing him to pause to catch his breath as he stepped over the threshold.

As it happened on this particular occasion, he realized immediately that he should not have been able to smell it at all, since it was almost lost beneath another distinctive aroma - cinnamon and brown sugar and apple butter. Mouth-watering. Irresistible.

Auntie Em's caramel-apple kolaches. The fragrance was unmistakable, as was the individual who was arranging them on a silver tray while deep in conversation with other occupants of the room. Emmett, decked out head-to-toe in coppery silk and suede, did not notice the new arrivals as he chatted on about a new recipe for puff pastry with brie and lobster cream he had developed for the reception he was planning for Sidney Bloom's new abstract exhibition.

Across the room, Danny Boyle was dressed in blue jeans and black leather, carefully arranged with one hip hiked up on a ledge against the big rear window, a gleaming, cobalt blue Fender guitar braced against his chest, with the placement of his hands suggesting that he was picking out a tune on the instrument, and his head cocked as if listening for the perfect pitch, eyes squinted against the spiral of smoke drifting up from a cigarette burning in a nearby ashtray. He appeared to be listening to Emmett's rambling, although his responses were limited to occasional grins and soft laughter, as he snuck an occasional bite of one of Emmett's delectable pastries.

A few feet away, Justin Taylor was standing at an easel, licking a drip of apple butter from his lip as his gaze flicked between the canvas he was working on and the young bodyguard with guitar in hand. He was wearing a faded gray sweatshirt that had seen far better days, which was now even worse for wear due to a big swath of burnt umber oil paint smeared across one shoulder and down one threadbare sleeve. There was also a streak of Prussian blue smudged on his temple, blending into the hair falling over his left ear as he leaned forward to stroke a brush dripping with a blend of burnt sienna and cadmium yellow across the canvas.

Justin was talking too, but not to either Boyle or Emmett. Instead, he was speaking to a fourth man, someone that Ted did not recognize. An elderly man with a shock of white hair, nibbling delicately at his own kolache, and standing behind the artist, looking over his shoulder with his eyebrows raised in a quizzical stare.

Justin was grinning. "What's the matter, mon amis? You look puzzled."

The older man gave a little half-shrug, half-nod - a gesture that was curiously gaelic. "I recognize the guitar, cher," he replied, "and the jacket and the jeans, but the face . . . the face is . . ."

"Not here," Justin volunteered. "Danny is just providing the lines of light and shadow against the fabrics and the general configuration. But he's not the subject. Not really."

"Ahhh, I see," said Cedric Lasseigne. "So this is how I'll get my first look at the infamous Brian Kinney."

Justin grinned, but it was Emmett who answered. "Infamous, huh? A perfect description for the man who lives by my motto even better than I do. Even if it did take me a lifetime to figure it out."

Lasseigne turned to regard Emmett with a sardonic smile that confirmed how much he liked Justin's nelly-bottom friend. "And what would that motto be?"

Emmett's laughter was warm and infectious. "Fuck 'em all! I've spent my whole life trying to live it, but I don't think anybody ever did it quite as well - or as stylishly - as Brian."

Ted and Melanie exchanged confused glances.

"What's going on in here?" Ted demanded sharply, as he moved to Brian's desk, to access the sensor which would deactivate the security lock of the wall safe. Until the attack, only Brian himself and Cynthia had been programmed into the system to be allowed to open the safe, but common sense had dictated that someone else should be added to the protocols when Brian had been hospitalized. It had only made sense, thought Ted, that he be added to that elite list since he was the person who controlled the company's finances. In point of fact, he'd thought - although he'd refrained from saying it - he should have been on the list from the beginning. Instead of Cynthia.

"Justin," he continued, moving toward the door to Brian's private bathroom in order to be able to access the safe securely - away from prying eyes, "you - of all people - should know how Brian feels about his office. He wouldn't like you using it like this. He wouldn't approve."

Once more, it was Emmett who was first to respond. "Wouldn't approve of what, Teddie?" he asked, obviously confused. "Of Justin using his office? Justin?" His tone as he finished speaking suggested that he doubted Ted's sanity.

"If I recall correctly," Ted called out, as he placed the ledger into the safe, "and I can assure you that I do, Brian was pretty specific in his wishes about Justin getting out of his life. And I'm pretty sure that would include his office."

But if Ted was expecting wounded silence or petulance from Justin, he was in for a big surprise. The blond grinned as Ted stepped back through the doorway. "Yep. That just about sums it up perfectly."

"Look, Justin," said Melanie, obviously trying to summon up a sympathetic expression. "It's no secret that I'm not a big Brian Kinney fan, but if he did say he didn't want you here . . ."

The grin grew wider. "That's pretty much exactly what he said."

She made no attempt to conceal the confusion flaring in her eyes. "Then what . . . why . . . what are you . . ."

"Ever articulate, Mellie," observed Emmett, "but I should think it would be pretty obvious. We're ignoring his wishes." Then he paused, and the smile that touched his lips was winsome, and impossible to interpret. "Or, to be totally precise, we're ignoring what he said he wanted."

Ted moved closer to Justin - close enough to be able to study the canvas he was working on - and recognize the subject. "I don't get it," he said. "Why on earth would you want to paint here? It's an office - not a studio."

Justin continued to work on capturing the image of a distinctive, cowry-shell bracelet on a strong bare arm. "Because it has perfect light. Because it feels right, and because it's easier to feel close to him - like he left something of himself here."

The accountant smirked. "If you want to find someplace where he left something of himself, you should go to Babylon's back room."

The silence that fell over the group at that moment was heavy and thick with words unspoken, as everyone turned to stare at the accountant, all of them wondering why on earth he would have offered such a petty, vindictive comment. Even Melanie looked slightly taken aback, and Emmett appeared momentarily devastated, so devastated he could not - quite - manage to keep his opinion to himself.

"Jesus!" It was just a whisper, but it conveyed volumes of distress - and contempt.

"Does Cynthia know about this?" Ted's dark eyes were now hard and gleaming with anger, as he managed to ignore the look on Emmett's face.

"Of course, she does," said Justin, deliberately avoiding meeting the accountant's gaze, because he was pretty sure that, if he did, he'd be unable to resist an urge to spit in the man's face. "How do you think we got in here?"

Ted stood by the desk and let his gaze sweep around the elegant room, noting all the classic little touches that marked it as Brian's private domain, a place which should be sacrosanct, a place, said a little voice in side him, where - no matter what - he would never be welcome to trespass.

"So this is how she looks after his interests?" he said slowly. "By disobeying his orders, and doing exactly as she pleases."

Justin took a deep breath then, as the distress caused by Ted's malicious words gave way before a primal urge to protect the woman who was Brian's primary defender. "Come on, Ted," he said, barely managing to remain calm. "You can't possibly think that she would abuse her privileges, that she would take advantage of Brian's trust and . . ."

"It appears to me," said the accountant in a clipped, bitter tone, "that she's doing exactly that. He made his wishes clear, and it's not up to her to pick and choose which she can obey and which she can ignore, and I'm going to make sure she knows it, and - when the time comes - that he knows it as well."

Emmett, abruptly, had had enough and was quick to step in. "Teddie, what the fuck are you doing? You can't possibly be ser . . ."

But Kinnetik's CFO was far beyond any willingness to listen. "We'll just see about this," he snapped.

When Ted and Melanie had stormed out of the room, the silence they left behind them was thick and awkward - the kind of awkwardness that results when no one can figure out what to say - until Cedric Lasseigne cleared his throat, and regarded Justin with a lopsided smile.

"What was that?" he asked, deliberately exaggerating the sweet honeyed richness of his southern drawl. "Seussical the Musical, starring Diva 1 and Diva 2?"

Justin smiled, grateful for the older man's attempt to ease the tension lingering in the wake of Ted's little queen-out, but the smile did not quite reach his eyes. Until Emmett stepped up and wrapped his arm around Justin's waist and murmured something in his ear. Then he grabbed the paintbrush from Justin's hand and daubed a big spot on the artist's chin, provoking the laughter he was looking for.

But there was no denying that the easy camaraderie which had existed in the office just moments earlier was no longer quite so easy or effortless, and Justin's motions were no longer quite so fluid, just as his eyes were no longer quite so bright.

Cedric Lasseigne watched his younger companions as they tried to shake off the effects of the accountant's toxic words, and made himself a little promise.

He didn't know what Ted Schmidt's problem was - yet. But, sooner or later, he would find out, and one day, when the moment was right, he would see that the man paid for his thoughtlessness and his deliberate, petty malice.

Cedric was not the kind of person who believed in or sought vengeance. But he did believe - passionately - in justice, and, somewhere along the way, in the days since he'd gotten to know young Justin, he had come to suspect that Brian Kinney shared that passion.

He didn't know why he believed that, but he really, really hoped he was right, because he was almost certain the infamous Mr. Kinney would be a world-class champion in making sure guilty parties always had to accept the consequences of their actions.


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It should be warmer by now, she thought. Winter should have released its death-grip on the city, and things should be greening up.

And, in truth, that was probably the case in outlying areas and inside city parks and residential neighborhoods and down by the river, but here, on Liberty Avenue, it was still pretty bleak, and the sound of the wind whistling around the corners of the building still raised goosebumps on her arms, as she stared out into a blustery morning where the sunlight seemed to be filtered through multiple layers of water vapor.

Or maybe it was what she'd just been told that was responsible for her shivering.

"How could he do this?" she asked finally, her voice trembling, almost breaking. "How could he?"

Lance Mathis sat stiffly erect, his hands clasped tight against the arms of his chair, and the look on his face seemed to vacillate between his desire to stand up and go to her to offer some kind of comfort and the urge to strike out, to hit something in order to release an almost overwhelming surge of rage. In the end, though, he did neither. He simply attempted to provide an answer for her question.

"In all fairness, Cynthia, I believe he was manipulated into it - that he really thought he was doing a good thing, the right thing. And I'm told, by my sources, that it would have been very difficult for him to figure out what was going on, under the surface."

"Difficult," she echoed, turned quickly to study his face, "but not impossible."

"No," he admitted, "but he was . . ."

"Manipulated," she interrupted. "You already said that."

He nodded. "It's understandable," he observed, "when you're victimized by people who've made it their business to learn all your weaknesses, and to play on old acquaintances."

She walked back around her desk and sat down, clasping her hands in front of her. "And I'm supposed to . . . what? Just give him a pass? Accept that . . ."

"No. Of course not." He was quiet for a moment, noting the icy glint in her eyes. "Just to satisfy my curiosity, what do you want to do to him?"

She did not hesitate. "I want to castrate him, and carve him into mincemeat."

Mathis sighed. "Somehow, I thought that you liked Ted."

She closed her eyes briefly, and took a deep breath. "So did I. But there's no excuse for this. And I want to make him pay for what he's done to Brian. For betraying his trust and . . ."

Mathis raised his hands in a placating gesture. "But that's the one thing you absolutely can not do. At least, not yet."

"But why? Why should we . . ."

"If you let him know we're on to him, it could tip off the ones who set this in motion. And we can't afford to let that happen. Not yet. And besides, what's done is done. He's already made his move, so he can't do any more damage. We'll make sure of that."

"Jesus Christ!" she sighed. "Two million dollars. Jesus Christ!"

"I know," he said softly. "Not exactly chump change, is it?"

"He had to know what kind of damage this could do to Brian," she observed, still staring out into the morning, looking, perhaps, for some bright spot on which to focus. "He had to realize that losing that kind of money might ruin him. That he might never be able to recover from it. Especially . . ."

"Especially what?"

When she moved back to her desk to take her seat, he was stunned by the cold determination in her eyes. "Especially if there's more to it. This little scheme was directed at Brian, personally, but it wouldn't be enough, by itself, to put him down and keep him down. Let's face it; he's got a bit of Phoenix in him. He's proved it more than once. So there had to be more. Right?"

Lance Mathis didn't really want to smile; he was a little afraid of how she would react if he did. But he couldn't - quite - suppress it.

"What?" she snapped.

The smile stretched to a grin. "The longer I know him, the smarter he gets."

The raw anger in deep blue eyes was suddenly swept away before shadows of confusion. "Who? And what are you . . ."

"Kinney. And the reason is simple. Because he knew exactly who to put in charge while he's out of action."

Big, blue eyes got bigger for a moment; then she smiled. "Trying to score brownie points, Mr. Mathis?" she asked finally.

"No. Just trying to get you to smile. It's all going to be OK in the end. It really is."

She looked once more at the printed document he had handed her when he'd first entered her office. "How?" she said softly. "How will he ever . . . "

He leaned forward and grasped her hands tightly. "He's Brian-Fucking-Kinney. That's how."

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and extracted her hands from his, but gently, with a tender smile that expressed her gratitude for his concern. "All right then. Tell me about the rest."

He nodded. "I'll give you our best guess, but we don't really have anything definite to go on. The only thing out of the ordinary - operationally speaking - is that Schmidt pulled one of the new interns and had him prepare some very colorful, semi-theatrical posters - very derivative stuff, according to the kid. He called it 'Toulouse-Lautrec lite', whatever the fuck that means. But it was something no one else seemed to know anything about, and, when he asked Ted if he should run it by Marcus or Andrew, the answer was a fast and resounding 'no'. Along with a look that could have killed, again according to the kid."

She sat back and steepled her hands in front of her face. "A new campaign then. Something he wants to keep to himself."

He frowned. "You want to know what I think is going on?" he asked after a moment of silence. "What I think he's really doing?"

"By all means."

He took a deep breath. "I think it's all part of the personality disorder he's had to deal with all his life, and this . . . this is just the last straw. This is ultimately too much for him to cope with."

"Go on," she said, her tone indicating that she was willing to listen, even if the hard gleam in her eyes was saying something else.

"Ted has spent his whole life being the guy left sitting on the bench, when everyone else has been chosen to play on a team. He's the perpetual water boy, or bat boy, or score keeper, or equipment manager. The guy who is never going to score the winning goal or throw the winning touchdown. And he knows it, But something inside him can't quite accept it. So he tells himself it's all just a matter of bad luck, that if he just had the breaks - if he just had Brian's looks or intelligence or grace, or Justin's talent, or Emmett's self-confidence, or your skills, and cojones - that it would all work for him. So what does he do? He bides his time and waits for his chance, his one big break. His opportunity of a lifetime, to be the big hero."

He paused then and reached out to tap his finger on the document that disclosed how Ted had maneuvered Brian's funds. "That's what this is. His run for the gold. His only chance to show that he's a star, that he's a champion too. That he's worthy of Brian's trust and more than that. That Brian should treasure him, appreciate him. Be grateful to him."

She looked up then, hearing a strange note in his voice that gave rise to a bizarre question. "Love him?"

"In a way," he answered. "Although not as in romantic, happily-ever-after love. Not that he wouldn't accept it if it was offered, but I'm pretty sure he's not quite that delusional. But in a 'he ain't heavy, he's my brother' kind of way. Maybe."

She frowned, and lowered her chin to brace against her clasped hands. Then she sighed. "That's really sad," she said finally. "And desperate."

"Especially when you realize he's probably done the one thing that will make sure Brian never trusts him again."

She nodded. "At any rate, we have to make sure he doesn't commit Kinnetik to anything. Since he's already shown himself to be the weak link in the company, they'll almost certainly target him again. Whatever this secret new campaign might be, we've got to suss it out and shut it down. And make absolutely sure that no contracts are signed or negotiated. Although - if push comes to shove - Ted doesn't have the authority to enter into contracts on behalf of the company."

"Who does?" Mathis asked quickly.

"You're looking at her," she answered. "Under ordinary circumstances, Brian is the only one, but, for the moment, it's me. So . . ."

He nodded and got to his feet and was in the process of reaching for the document on the desk when the door banged open and Ted Schmidt came rushing into the room.

Mathis opened his mouth to demand an explanation for the intrusion, but subsided without speaking when he noticed Cynthia, with a masterful bit of deliberately casual slight-of-hand, slipping the tell-tale print-out into her desk drawer.

"Cynthia, what were you thinking?" demanded the accountant. "Brian is not going to be pleased with having his orders ignored. You should know better.  If he knew what's going on, he'd be furious. Which, I suppose, is sufficient reason for you to make sure no one else gets a chance to talk to him, even though it makes no sense that you can reach him, and I can't."

Cynthia blinked. Slowly. Apparently debating which comment to address, and settling finally on a generic response. "Why?"

"Why?" Ted was almost sputtering, as Melanie followed him in and settled against the door-frame, her smile just slightly reminiscent of a Cheshire cat. "Do you realize that Justin is using Brian's office - to paint?"

"Yes. I do."

It was Ted's turn to stop and blink. "You do."

"I do," she repeated. "I take it that you object?"

His eyes were suddenly very dark and narrowed. "The point is certainly not whether or not I object. It's not my office. But neither is it yours, and you have an obligation to run this company and take care of this business in a way Brian would approve, so . . ."

"And that," she said slowly, rising to her feet in one graceful surge, "is exactly what I'm doing. You, of course, are free to disagree or disapprove. But, since I'm the only one who is authorized to speak for Brian - or to him - you're just going to have to accept my judgment. Until he returns, of course. When you'll be free to lodge whatever complaints you choose."

Mathis noted the throbbing of a vein in Ted's throat as his face flushed an ugly, deep red. The accountant remained silent for several moments, and the security chief was pretty sure it was because he couldn't summon up either the breath or the courage to express what he wanted to say.

Finally, he turned away, and started to walk out of the office.

"There is, however, one more thing," said Cynthia, her voice both deadly soft and icily polite. "Listen to me, Ted. Are you listening?"

He went very still, and it was obvious that he realized she was deliberately invoking a tactic created - almost patented - by Brian Kinney.

"I'm listening," he managed to reply, barely.

"If you ever come bursting into my office and speak to me in this fashion again," she said very deliberately, "then Brian is going to hear about it, and we'll let him decide which of us he chooses to listen to. Are we clear on that?"

He hesitated before nodding, and the succession of expressions that crossed his face said he wanted to argue, wanted to defy her and throw her challenge back in her face. But ultimately, he couldn't, because he wasn't - quite - sure enough to take that chance.

But it was immediately obvious Cynthia had no such reservations, and she would not be content with a non-verbal response.

She moved around the desk quickly, stepping directly into Ted's space, and Mathis was forced to look away from the confrontation for fear that he would burst into laughter at the sight of this man, who - though not particularly large, was still much too robust to qualify for twink-status - fighting off an urge to cringe away from the petite blonde. "I repeat," she said softly, each word spoken with the clarity of a razor-sharp blade. "Are - we - clear?"

He licked his lips, and it was obvious that his mouth had gone painfully dry. "Crystal," he finally managed to whisper.

For a moment, he thought she might demand something louder and more emphatic, but she finally nodded and stepped back.

Ted turned away then and realized that Melanie had been watching the entire exchange, and, although it was gone almost before it registered, he instantly recognized the bright gleam  in her eyes. He made a conscious choice to interpret it as speculation, although a tiny little voice deep in his mind suggested it looked more like contempt.

He turned his gaze toward the window, and spent a moment fighting to regain his composure.

He would not forget this day; he made that promise to himself. Somebody was going to pay for treating him like some insignificant little pisser. He would make sure of that, no matter how long it took.

When he hurried out of the office, his pace increasing with every step, and then out of the building, with Melanie at his heels, it was obvious that he couldn't get away fast enough.

Lance Mathis, after watching the rapid retreat, turned back to study Cynthia's face and immediately recognized a tiny spark of triumph in her eyes.

"That was probably a mistake," he observed.

"I know." She didn't seem to have any interest in defending her actions.

"He could make trouble."

"Undoubtedly."

Then he grinned. "Felt good though, didn't it?"

"Not good enough."

"You probably should have tried to resist the urge?"

Her face was suddenly very cold. "Little fucker got off easy. I'd like to throw him into a wood chipper. But if you think I was tough, wait til Brian gets through with him."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The clinic visit had not gone well.

Turnage, as usual, had been high-handed and arrogant, and Brian, as usual, had responded to the surgeon's hubris with sarcasm and disdain, and they had wound up in a snipe-fest of olympic proportions. Then, after learning that the physical therapist who had originally been scheduled to handle his treatment had been sidelined by a freak hit-and-run accident, Brian had been forced to submit to the ministrations of the clinic's staff therapist, one Dulcinea (and yes, that really was her name) McCoy, a native Australian Brian had christened 'Matilda the Hun', due to a demeanor like a storm trooper. The woman was (probably) very proficient in her professional duties, but her people skills were virtually non-existent, and, by the end of the session, it was painfully obvious that this particular therapist and this particular patient were as incompatible as it was possible for two human beings to be.

Thus, by the time McClaren followed Brian back to their car, walking his accustomed fine line of trying to watch over the man without actually appearing to watch over him, it was uncertain who was more relieved that the visit was over - the FBI agent, the patient, or the clinic staff.

McClaren would later realize he should have expected things to go from bad to worse.

On the trip back to the cottage as he'd related the latest news, he hadn't been sure what to expect, but he was sure that this wasn't it.

Brian's eyes had gone as dark as burnt coffee. Darker. Filled with thick, almost black shadows. And his jaw was clinched tight, so tight it looked painful.

But, so far, he had said nothing.

"Brian?"

McClaren's eyes darted from the road ahead - the narrow curving road which had to be navigated with great care if he wanted to avoid sending the BMW plowing into a dune or a patch of sea grass or a sandy crevasse - to the man at his side.

Brian had been studying his face with a degree of skepticism as he'd recited the tale of Ted Schmidt's financial exploits. He'd even laughed once or twice.

Until the FBI agent had said the magic words.

Two - million - dollars.

That seemed to have done it - gotten through the façade of nonchalance and pierced the armor of invincibility.

He had expected fury, and in that, he'd not been disappointed. There was definitely anger flashing in the depths of those hazel eyes, anger that was well on its way to becoming a towering, relentless rage.

That thought might have induced a smile, when he remembered that Brian had actually been the inspiration for a comic book hero bearing that very name. Only . . . the anger, as intense as it was, seemed to be on the verge of being submerged beneath another feeling - a feeling McClaren found himself curiously reluctant to identify.

Brian Kinney was furious, but he was also deeply, terribly wounded, and determined to keep it to himself. He was relishing the anger, trying to encourage it, to let it leap and flourish and engulf him, so he wouldn't have to acknowledge the other feeling, the one he didn't know how to handle.

"Brian, I . . ."

"Stop the car!"

"What? Why?" McClaren heard the note of desperation in his companion's voice, and wondered if he was feeling ill, or if he was in pain, or if . . . whatever.

"Just stop!" It was spoken in a tone of voice that brooked no argument.

McClaren pulled over, and the sedan had barely come to a halt when Brian opened the door and almost leapt out onto the sandy roadside, managing - somehow - to extract the single crutch from its place beside his seat and propel himself away from the car, all in one semi-fluid motion. Quite an accomplishment, thought McClaren as he hastened to follow, for a man whose motor capabilities were, for the moment, severely compromised.

Driven more by a burst of conflicted emotions than by physical energy, Brian managed to navigate through a narrow succession of dunes and depressions, emerging at last on a crescent-shaped stretch of beach that was pocked with tidal pools and bordered by a jumble of dark stone.

McClaren had caught up with his charge quickly enough, but the look he got when he reached out a hand to offer support was enough to make him back off fast. Despite the fact that he was in obvious pain and struggling for balance, Brian was in no mood to accept any assistance.

When he reached the dark, jagged wall of stone that ran perpendicular to the water's edge, he flopped down on its surface with no nuance of his usual grace, neither knowing nor caring that one sharp edge had ripped a four-inch hole in the knee of his $300.00 designer jeans and a gash in the skin beneath it. It was left to McClaren to notice and, swearing under his breath, pull a handkerchief from his pocket to clean the wound and staunch the blood-flow.

"Goddammit, Brian!" he muttered, as he tried to wipe away the dark sediment left by the scum on the stone's surface. "If you get fucking gangrene, I'm the one that's gonna have to explain to Turnage and my boss. Just . . ."

"Shut up." It was barely a whisper.

"Don't tell me . . ."

"Just shut up, and leave me alone."

McClaren opened his mouth, ready to indulge a little emotional venting of his own, when he looked up from his task, and saw . . .

He looked away quickly, drawing a deep shaky breath, and electing to believe that he had been mistaken. There had been no tears in those hazel eyes - certainly not over something as mundane as money. Although, he had to admit, two million dollars was, perhaps, beyond the limits of "mundane".

"Brian," he said softly, after several moments of silence, "what can I . . ."

"It must be hard for you," said Brian, his eyes trained on a scrap of sail, tacking against the wind, just skimming the horizon. "With everything you see in the course of your job, it must be hard."

McClaren dabbed once more at the cut on Brian's knee, before shifting to find a seat nearby. "What? What must be hard?"

"Trusting people."

The FBI agent picked up a splinter of driftwood and began to doodle in the wet sand - a quarter moon, a shamrock, a leaf. "Sometimes," he answered finally. "Depends on the person, and the circumstances." He raised his head then, to peer deeply into Brian's eyes, but, if he was hoping for a flash of insight, he was disappointed. The hazel depths had gone opaque again, obscured with shadow.

"What about you?" he asked, sensing that Brian might - if he was very lucky and very careful and held his mouth in just the right way - reveal a tiny fragment of elementary truth.

But not yet. "I don't."

"You don't what?"

"Trust people."

McClaren thought about that for a moment before voicing another question.

"Never?"

A pause, brief but telling. "Almost."

"But once in a while."

A soft sound, almost a sigh. "Almost never."

"Because?"

For a while, he thought Brian would not answer at all, and when he did, it still wasn't much of an answer. "Too much risk."

McClaren nodded. "If you say something like that, it usually means you have trusted somebody, and you got burned."

Brian said nothing, shifting his attention to the sudden, graceful leap of a dolphin out beyond the breakers, a thing of beauty and grace, the complete antithesis of the darkness that seemed to surround him now. And once more, his eyes were suspiciously bright.

"Brian," McClaren tried again, "I know it's a shitload of money, but . . ."

Those perfect lips curved into a slightly mocking smile. "You think it's about the money, McFed?" He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pair of Serengeti sunglasses, elegant and sleek and almost as perfect as the perfect face they fit on. "Haven't you figured it out yet? I can always make more money."

At that point, McClaren tried to meet his gaze, and realized that the donning of the sunglasses had been deliberate, to render those perfectly beautiful eyes unreadable.

"Who?" he asked. "You're not just talking about some weasel of an accountant who screwed you over. That's obvious. So who did you trust that . . ."

Brian managed to get to his feet with some degree of agility, using the crutch to brace himself. Then he started back toward the car.

"Who?" McClaren called after him, suddenly realizing it was not just an idle question, that he really wanted to know the answer.

"Nobody," came the answer. "Not any more. And not ever again."


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The storm had been raging for more than an hour, and there was still no sign it would abate any time soon. Lightning sizzled and trailed brilliant fingertips across the night sky as the wind howled and huffed like a wild thing, and the roar of thunder shook the foundations of the cottage, although the sound was almost lost beneath the relentless growl of the surf.

And through it all, Brian Kinney had remained almost motionless, stretched out on a deck chair beneath the shelter of the covered deck, an acoustic guitar braced against his body as his hands flexed over frets and strings. The deliberate movements of his fingers indicated that he was playing a specific melody, but the sound was so soft it was lost beneath the howl of the storm.

On the third day of their stay, exercising a compulsion to know everything there was to know about the place they were staying, McClaren had unearthed the guitar, old-fashioned and faded, shoved deep into a high shelf in a utility closet, its case thick with spider webs, but the instrument inside was mostly intact, except for a couple of broken strings, easily replaced. Brian had been instantly intrigued.

He continued his deliberate stroking of the guitar, but his eyes remained riveted on the pyrotechnics exploding across the canvas of the night.

Watching. Just watching. Saying nothing.

It was a continuation of the silence which had enveloped him through most of the day, and Chris McClaren had become more and more uneasy as the hours had gone by.

Cynthia had called, as expected, just as they'd arrived back from their trip to the clinic, and Brian had spent almost an hour sequestered in his room, listening to what she had to tell him and sharing his thoughts with her. The FBI agent had no doubt that the two of them had been considering how to respond to Ted Schmidt's treachery, and, perhaps, trying to understand the motives behind it, but he had no idea what they might have decided. Brian had been stone-faced and mute when he'd emerged from the room, but McClaren was dead certain that he would not want to be in the accountant's shoes when all this was over.

When. He found himself reluctantly considering whether or not he should use a different word. Not 'when', but 'if'. But no, he would not let himself believe that the monsters who'd done this to Kinney could triumph in the end. The investigation was in progress, and the individuals who were currently in position to administer the coup de grace - the final stroke to complete the process - were highly skilled and well trained, and once they had completed their mission, there would be only one final component needed to achieve the goal everyone desired.

Justice.

Only he wasn't entirely sure the one piece of the puzzle that would complete the picture would ever fall into place.

In the end, it would almost certainly come down to Brian Kinney and his willingness - or lack thereof - to confront his demons.

The man was as fearless as a lion; McClaren had no doubt about that. He had seen it proved time after time, even though he'd only known Kinney for a short while. But it was one thing to face the world and defy the odds and refuse to stand down; it was something else entirely to be able to turn inward and confront the dark places in one's own soul, places that would automatically shy away from the light of discovery, in the exercise of a primal instinct for survival.

Even the bravest man would think twice about volunteering for such an ordeal.

Alexandra Corey had attempted, several times during this very long day, to approach Brian, to explain what she was proposing to do and why it had to be done - to appeal to his thirst for retribution and his sense of outrage and his desire for justice.

He'd just looked at her with dark, expressionless eyes.

At that point, she'd tried a change in tactics - attempting to provoke an angry response, to make him mad enough to engage in a shouting match in which he might reveal more than he intended.

The eyes had remained dark and expressionless - almost - although there had been a tiny little spark of amusement in those inky depths, which was just enough to tell her he knew exactly what she was doing.

Score: Kinney, two; the long arm of the law, zero.

Another change of tactic, utilizing the oblique approach: trying to charm him into lowering his guard and allowing her to encroach on his personal space as she led him through a series of innocuous questions.

He had remained uncharmed.

McClaren stood now in the dark entryway, aware that Corey was still sitting at the kitchen table, lingering over a slice of Trina's addictive key-lime pie and another cup of coffee in a day that had already spawned a need for far too many such shots of caffeine.

He wondered if any of them would sleep tonight. Then he wondered if he would sleep tonight, and, if so, where.

He knew better than to assume anything, but this, he decided abruptly, had gone on for far too long already.

With a deep breath, he moved to the steamer trunk-style bar cabinet in the corner of the sitting room and retrieved a half-full fifth of JB and a couple of shot glasses, allowing himself a small smile when he recalled how appalled he'd been when he'd first realized that Brian had no qualms about mixing painkillers and whiskey. He had protested; Brian had laughed at him. And that had been that. He had worried a bit, figuring he would be held accountable if the man he was charged to protect managed to overdose and kill himself in the process, but then he'd realized that Brian Kinney was not a child and did not require a nanny to protect him from himself.

If nothing else, this entire debacle had proven that Kinney was a survivor; if determined homophobes with knives and iron bars couldn't destroy him, it was unlikely that a little mingling of Vicodin and Chivas Regal could pull it off.

He went out onto the deck, closing the French doors behind him, and noting that the floor was slick and wet as the wind was driving occasional spates of rain into the sheltered area, but the space further back, where Brian was sprawled, was cozy enough, and McClaren proceeded to move deeper into the shadows, reflecting as he drew nearer that it should be illegal for anyone to look so hot in simple jeans and wifebeater. There was, however, ultimately no denying the delectable quality of the image; the golden skin contrasted beautifully with the black shirt, and the jeans were tight enough to emphasize the generous package to perfection.

Brian did not acknowledge McClaren's arrival as he dropped into an adjacent deck chair, but hazel eyes did shift toward the clink of glassware, and there might - if the agent used a bit of imagination to embroider something he wasn't sure he'd seen at all - have been a flash of appreciation in the depths of those eyes as he tilted the bottle of Beam and began to pour.

Now that he was close enough, he realized Brian was not quite as totally focused on the storm as he'd seemed, since there was music rising from the IPOD that was braced against his shoulder, and the sound coming from the guitar harmonized perfectly with an instantly-recognizable blues classic.

Crossroads.

Of course. If Brian Kinney was going to play guitar, he was going to do it in sync with the very best.

McClaren listened for a moment before reaching out to set a half-full tumbler within Brian's reach. "You do that well," he said, nodding toward the guitar.

The grin was sardonic to the nth degree, but at least it was a grin rather than the scowl that perfect face had worn all day. "I do most things well," came the response, "or I don't do them at all."

McClaren laughed, relieved to see some spark of that insouciant self-confidence showing itself in the face of everything else that had happened during this very long day.

Clapton was coming to the end of the song, and Brian played and joined in singing the final line. "And I'm standing at the crossroads. Believe I'm sinking down."*

He set the guitar aside and reached for his glass. "This the best you can do?" he asked.

McClaren knew exactly what he was being asked. "My boss - FBI honcho extraordinaire - is sitting at the kitchen table. Sometimes I might be reckless," he explained, "but I'm not suicidal."

Brian's smile was weary but willing. "Pussy boy." He lifted his glass in a mock-toast and drank.

"You didn't eat," McClaren pointed out. "If you like, I'll raid the fridge for you."

"No."

"Brian, you . . ."

"I said no."

"But . . ."

Hazel eyes glinted with impatience. "You can either be a trick or a nursemaid. Not both. So choose."

McClaren moved quickly, so quickly that Brian had no chance to prepare a defense and wound up with a lapful of warm, firm body.

"Easiest choice I ever made."

Brian smirked. "Your 'honcho extraordinaire' is going to freak out if she comes strolling through that door."

"She won't. But if she did, she might want to watch."

"And she's not even a loud-mouthed redhead," Brian retorted with a little laugh, and ignored the puzzled look that formed on the FBI agent's face.

Brian looked up then into warm blue eyes, and his companion quickly claimed his mouth, making no attempt to resist the temptation. They spent a few minutes sampling and tasting, leaving both slightly breathless, and McClaren sat back and took advantage of the continuing flashes of the storm to study the face looking up at him.

"Cynthia okay?" he asked gently.

Quicksilver smile. "Define 'okay'."

The FBI agent thought for a minute. "Maintaining her cool?"

The smile became a chuckle. "If threatening to remove Theodore's balls with a rusty hacksaw counts as cool, then yeah. She's okay."

McClaren stared into eyes too dark to read. "You lied, you know," he said softly.

"About what?"

"About not trusting anyone. You trust Cynthia."

A slow blink said he wanted to deny it, but couldn't. "She's earned it," he admitted finally.

"And Taylor?" McClaren knew he was fighting dirty, but also knew that desperate times called for desperate measures, and the necessity was at hand. "You trusted Taylor."

"Yeah." The laugh this time was bitter. "And look where that got me."

Then it was McClaren taking a moment for a deep breath. "And me. You trust me."

"No, I don't."

"Yes. You do."

Brian looked out into the storm, as if he was looking for answers, for refuge. "No, I . . ."

"Yes. You do."

Hazel eyes turned then and looked directly up into deep shadowy blue. "Okay. I do. You want to know why?"

"Yeah."

"Because it's what you get paid to do. Because it's got nothing to do with your feelings or your heart or any shitty notions about nobility or caring or honor. Because it's your fucking job."

McClaren went very still, and prayed that nothing of what he was feeling would find its way into his eyes, for he was absolutely certain he had never in his life heard anything more tragic, more heartbreaking. "Okay," he said finally. "I'll accept that. But now I need you to accept something for me. To trust me just that much further."

"And what would that be?"

The FBI agent considered his words carefully. "Do you know why I'm here, Brian? Why I've been assigned to protect you? It's not because of what already happened to you. They came after you and took their best shot, and you survived. And yes, it was certainly because they hated you. Not some generic, nameless, any-queer-will-do fag, but you - specifically. But for that very reason, because it was obvious that you were the specific target, it would be logical to assume that they'd know better than to try it again. That they'd realize it would be a huge risk - that forewarned is forearmed - unless there's some mitigating factor that makes the risk worth taking."

The smirk was back. "Mitigating factor? Since when do you like big words, McFed?"

"Will you shut the fuck up and listen to me? I'm trying to make you understand why you're still in danger, and you just . . ."

Brian huffed an impatient sigh. "How fucking stupid do you think I am? I'm still a target because they're afraid I might be able to identify the big boys. Because they can't be sure I didn't notice something, see something that would put names to those shadowy faces." He paused then, and regarded the FBI agent with a smug grin. "How'd I do?"

McClaren rolled his eyes. "You're the most aggravating asshole I've ever known. And you're also exactly right. And that's why . . ."

A bigger sigh. "That's why I have to let your distaff Svengali go scrambling around in my sub-conscience."

The FBI agent frowned, trying to decipher what it was he was not - quite - hearing in the man's voice. "Are they right, Brian? Did you see something, notice something that . . ."

Brian shook his head slightly, as if to shy away from a thought he did not wish to have. "I don't know," he admitted faintly. "Sometimes I think . . . but I really don't know."

McClaren studied his expression, looking for - and finding, for just a moment - a trace of vulnerability. "Okay then," he said finally. "Let's go in and . . ."

"Tomorrow," Brian said quickly. "Sufficient unto this day . . . well, let's just say that I've had enough, for today."

"I thought Brian Kinney never got enough." The comment was accompanied by a quick roguish grin.

Brian smiled and shifted so that his lips were just brushing against the soft skin under McClaren's jaw-line - the perfect angle for nuzzling and licking and sucking and nibbling. "We've got all night to find out."

The FBI agent was immediately aware of the tightening in his groin, and one shift of the leg that was braced against his companion's abdomen confirmed that the very same thing was happening to Brian, causing his jeans to become incredibly full and tight.

He should object. He should insist that the session with Corey take precedence, that it was too important to delay. He should concentrate on his professional responsibilities.

Brian's smile was transformed into soft, sultry laughter, as if he could read every thought, interpret every nuance of reluctance, trace every pulse of desire.

McClaren frowned, not quite able to swallow a quick surge of resentment. He should refuse to be sidetracked. He really should.

But those lips were so tempting and moist, and that skin was so warm and perfect, and the scent of the man was so seductive and intoxicating, and that bulge was so thick and throbbing so intensely, and . . .

Fuck!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

*Crossroads - Robert Johnson

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