Chapter 2

Quinn didn’t mention if the CIA gave him a hard time over taking those days off, but the WBIS’s HR had been overjoyed. Anything to make inroads into the vast amount of vacation, sick time, and personal time I had banked.

as for our gimpiness, I didn’t know if anyone asked him about his limp at work—something else he didn’t mention to me—but no one at the WBIS brought up the subject.

A couple of massages took care of it. I sat back in my chair, propped my feet up on the corner of my desk, and folded my hands behind my head.

The man did have magic fingers.

~*~

WHEN FRIDAY EVENING rolled around, we changed into business casual and drove to DC to have dinner at Raphael’s, which we’d missed the week before. Since having a predictable routine could get you killed, I always made sure I took different routes to the Italian restaurant that had become our place since the first time Quinn had taken me there for my birthday the year before.

Quinn never questioned me about the different routes, or how I’d drive my Dodge for a few weeks, have us switch to his Jag, and then go back to the Dodge the following week.

“I’ll drive tonight,” he said this time.

“Okay.” The additional parking spot I’d been given when I moved into Aspen Reach was actually closer to my building than the garage where I kept the Dodge. “Want to get me up to the condo fast when we get home?”

He reached over and tugged my ear. If anyone else had done that, they’d have been dog meat, but this was Quinn. And dammit, how was it I found that a turn-on, especially when it was accompanied by that slow, sexy grin of his?

It was a warm June evening, and we walked to the Jag. Quinn pressed the button on his key fob that unlocked the doors. As soon as we were buckled up, he started the engine.

The radio was tuned to a station that featured a segment playing the oldies from the British Invasion of the ’60s. A singer and his band warbled about everyone telling the guy the object of his affection was made for him.

I had a sudden flashback to 1965 and my old lady bouncing around the room, singing it. I didn’t remember much about that time, maybe because the contrast between it and the years that followed was too stark. I didn’t want to remember now.

Quinn must have caught my expression from the corner of his eye, because he cleared his throat. “Gregor.” The corner of his mouth tilted up, and he hummed a bit of the melody. “He was a boy of the ’60s.”

“Huh.”

“Are you all right, Mark?”

“Yeah.”

He reached across and squeezed my knee. “You can change the station if you like.”

“No.” I wouldn’t let the past control me. I looked out the passenger window. “This is fine.”

“You are going to talk to me about what’s bothering you.” Not a question.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

He didn’t respond to that.

“Okay, fine. My old lady used to sing along with this.” And bounce and wave her arms and legs, just like the lead singer of that group. I hadn’t thought of that in forever.

Quinn still didn’t say anything, and I gave a huff.

“It was when she still remembered I was her son and not a punching bag.”

“Oh, Mark. I’m so sorry.”

“No need to be. It’s in the past. It can’t affect the present.”

“Do you really think so?” This time he rubbed my leg.

“You’re not a shrink, Mann. Let it go.”

Frankly, I was surprised when he did. “We’re here.” He pulled into the parking lot behind the restaurant and turned off the engine. “Shall we?”

I released my seat belt and got out of the car, and we walked around to the front of the building.

The line was already out the door, and Giovanni, the ma?tre’d, had one of his hostesses taking names and giving out those electronic buzzer things, but that didn’t concern me. I ushered Quinn in, getting some dirty looks, but I gave them a look of my own, and they backed off.

Damn straight they backed off. Screw with us, would they?

Giovanni smiled broadly, welcomed us, and led us to our table in an alcove that gave us privacy while allowing me to keep an eye on the people around us.

Hey—you could never be too careful.

Cesare, our waiter, placed a couple of frosted glasses of ice water before us and stood ready to take the order for our appetizers. I was surprised Quinn didn’t request the oil poached shrimp and squid he seemed to prefer. “The cold antipasto platter for two, please.” He turned to me. “Let’s keep it light tonight?”

“Sure. Get that started, Cesare. We’ll order our entrees after you bring it out.”

“Sì, signore.”

Nico, the sommelier, suggested a new wine Quinn was intrigued enough to try, and after Quinn had sampled it, he nodded for Nico to pour a glass for each of us. He left the bottle in a wine bucket beside Quinn and went off to serve another patron.