Dead Run (Dangerous Ground 4) Read online

  Taylor chuckled, and Will smiled back. Everything was okay. They just needed a little time to regain their footing.

  Everything was fine.

  * * * * *

  Back at the apartment Will told himself to go slowly, but Taylor’s body was so warm, so welcoming, he pushed right inside, Taylor taking him easily despite the fact that it had been so long.

  An unhappy thought occurred to Will, but he dismissed it. If Taylor was fooling around, he’d say so. There was no one more direct than Taylor. Will remembered some of the late-night phone conversations they’d had where Taylor had described in colorful detail what he was doing to himself, the naughty toys he was using. Will had figured at least part of it was braggadocio or Taylor simply teasing him, but he should have known better than anyone that Taylor had a wild streak. Will’s comfortable assumption that the more exotic stuff was all safely in the past was apparently wrong — the real shock was that he found himself unbearably turned on by the idea of Taylor really wearing anal beads and butt plugs on his days off as he swore he had in preparation for this holiday.

  Crazy, beautiful little freak.

  Taylor arched back, and Will lifted his head to nuzzle Taylor’s chest, suckling on the tiny point of a flat masculine nipple. Taylor made a small, desperate sound, and Will smiled. Something about that, about having Will’s hot mouth on his nipples, made Taylor crazy. He could practically get off on that alone. Sexuality was such a weird thing.

  Will smiled as he gently teethed the tiny point. Taylor’s man titties. One of his more endearing kinks. Taylor whimpered.

  “Good?” Will murmured, feeling Taylor’s heartbeat thundering against his face. The best, if Taylor’s responses were anything to go by.

  Taylor nodded, without the breath to answer.

  Will chuckled, licking and teasing until Taylor was squirming on top of him, his breathing deepening to gasps.

  “Wait. I’m going to lose it.”

  Will obligingly waited, relaxing back into the pillows and bedding. “Eleven months is too long.” He gave a little teasing rock of his hips, and Taylor cried out, shuddering.

  “Damn it, Will.”

  “Sorry.” He wasn’t, of course. It was beautiful to see Taylor like this, racked and helpless, beautiful to know he could do this to him. Sometimes all that sexual experience of Taylor’s was a little daunting. Comforting to know he did have a little control.

  “I want it to last.”

  Will nodded gravely, but his sense of humor was getting the better of him — that and the fact that he was enjoying his moment of power. Anyway, it was asking a lot to expect him to hold motionless for long while he was buried to his balls in Taylor’s taut, perfect ass.

  “Anytime, MacAllister.”

  “Will you just —” Taylor moaned as Will hefted his hips, his thighs rubbing against damp skin and soft hair and that stretched and molten center of heat.

  Now that had been a mistake because it just felt too good to stop, especially when Taylor pushed instinctively back. Will’s tenuous control unraveled, and he began to thrust, hard and fast, pounding into Taylor. He could hear Taylor’s soft cries as from a great distance, and the naked, helpless sounds goaded him on. There was no one who could strip control from him like Taylor — even when Taylor was the one with his legs spread and his ass split like a peach ripe for plundering.

  This was probably more like a rutting heat than making love, but sometimes that was the thing you needed. Something plain and uncomplicated.

  He rose up and bit Taylor’s shoulder because he couldn’t help himself, and Taylor made one of those acquiescent noises. Those wordless sounds really got to Will, melted away the remnants of his control — the shreds of his control more like it. He thrust again and again, his body responding to those subtle, knowing movements from Taylor, and then Taylor was coming, uncorked and shooting white foam like a shaken bottle of champagne. His climax set off a chain reaction in Will, and Will pumped it right into him, wanting Taylor wet and soaked with his spunk. Primitive stuff, probably, but Taylor never seemed to mind.

  Spent with his own coming, he slumped on Will’s chest. Will wrapped an arm around him and finished his own performance with a final twitchy spurt or two.

  Taylor’s back rose and fell more slowly. He expelled a long, long, contented sigh. Will kissed his damp face.

  “Crazy,” Taylor muttered.

  “Look who’s talking.” Will kissed him again.

  His cock softened and he withdrew, gathering Taylor closer still. The moonlight streaming through the sheer draperies revealed Taylor smiling, boneless and peaceful in Will's embrace. The most dangerous man Will knew rested sweetly in his arms, trusting him with his love as he trusted Will to guard his life. It was beyond precious. Life, love, was made up of fragile moments like these. Fragile as Paris moonlight.

  * * * * *

  Will woke to the scent of fresh coffee and the jangle of the telephone.

  The phone stopped as sharply as it had started, and he heard Taylor’s quiet voice downstairs.

  For a few seconds Will gave in to the simple pleasure of that. Of just…that. Taylor in the next room answering his phone.

  Yeah, it was the simple things. Will smiled wryly at himself. Apparently he was one of them. But after the horrific dreams he’d had the night before — dreams of Taylor dead or dying, where in the best-case scenario he had only been missing a couple of limbs — the normalcy felt blessed. Not that Will considered himself religious, but he knew about counting your blessings.

  Taylor’s voice stopped and the TV went on, the sound drifting up the staircase. Will could hear the excited voice of a newscaster.

  “Le potentiel pour le désastre est énorme…”

  What the hell?

  Will was groping for underwear or pajama bottoms or bathrobe or any damned thing when Taylor appeared in the bedroom doorway. He wore jeans and nothing else. His hair was a little longer than he usually wore it. It curled slightly at the back of his neck. His eyes were as green as Paris in the springtime.

  “You better come downstairs and take a look at this, Brandt.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Taylor didn’t answer, already on his way back down to the ground floor. Will found his jeans, yanked them on, and ran downstairs.

  Taylor was perched on the arm of the sofa, scowling at the television set. Will stared at the TV. A female reporter in a white trench coat was speaking rapidly into her microphone as she turned from the camera to point. The Eiffel Tower stood in the background.

  His written French was not great, but after a year of immersion, Will could make out the simple ribbon of information at the bottom of the screen. Eiffel Tower evacuated in bomb scare.

  Taylor’s grim voice confirmed his own thought. “We’ve got trouble.”

  Chapter Five

  “What the hell?” Will wiped his eyes and peered blearily at the TV screen.

  “You’re being recalled to duty.” Taylor handed him a cup of coffee. “And so am I.”

  Will looked up sharply. “You’re flying back to the States?”

  Taylor shook his head. “I’ve been requisitioned by your RSO. Someone notified the media who then notified the police that a bomb had been planted in the Eiffel Tower.”

  “So? It’s not the first time that’s happened. Why would we be recalled to duty?” Will took a noisy sip of coffee before adding, “Especially you.”

  “Because of the group claiming responsibility.”

  “Which is?”

  “Finistère.”

  Will looked blank.

  “Finistère,” Taylor repeated.

  “Gesundheit.”

  Taylor swallowed his impatience. Nice to know Will hung on his every word. “The violent offshoot of the FLB.”

  “The FLB?”

  “Jesus, Will. Were you so busy enjoying your boys’ night out with Bradley you didn’t pay attention to a damn thing I said?”

  Will lowered his c
offee cup so fast some of the liquid splashed onto the pale hook rug. “What the hell are you yelling at me for? And what the hell does that mean? Boys’ night out? If you think something happened, why don’t you ask?”

  Given how fast Will shot back, he must have been waiting for the question. The truth was, Taylor didn’t have to ask. He knew damn well Will wouldn’t fool around — and if he did, he’d have relieved his guilty conscience within twenty minutes of Taylor’s plane touching down. Will wouldn’t fool around. He wasn’t built like that. Which didn’t mean that Taylor didn’t find the idea of Will and David Bradley sitting around till the wee hours, smoking cigars and drinking brandy — or doing whatever the fuck it was they did — annoying as hell. But he hadn’t intended to admit it.

  So he sidestepped. “The Front de libération de la Bretagne.”

  “I know what the FLB is,” Will snapped back. He might even have been telling the truth. He looked irritated enough. “That wasn’t an actual question. Or if it was, the question was, are you shitting me? Why the hell would the Breton Liberation Front resurface now?”

  Taylor opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Will added, “Nothing happened with David.”

  I know that. At least that was what Taylor intended to say. But somehow the words that came out were, “Not because he didn’t want it to.”

  Will’s face tightened. “What am I supposed to say to that? Nothing. Happened. Nothing will ever happen. It doesn’t matter what he wants. You and I are together.”

  Why had he started this? Why had he let those stupid, stupid words fly out of his big, flapping mouth? Now that he’d gone this far, he didn’t know how to stop. Taylor said curtly, “What do you want?”

  “What do you mean, what do I want? I just said —”

  Knowing he was being a fool, knowing he was being unfair, hot-faced but stubborn, Taylor persisted. He just couldn’t seem to stop even though all his instincts were telling him to shut the hell up. “You said it didn’t matter what David wanted because we’re together. You didn’t say what you wanted.”

  Will stared at him with utter disbelief. “Am I really supposed to answer that? What do you think I want? I want you.” He added bitterly, “Who wouldn’t want you? Seeing you’re so sweet-tempered and understanding.”

  Taylor turned sharply and went to look out the window at butterflies dancing over the garden. He could feel Will’s fierce gaze boring a hole between his shoulder blades. He reached absently to squeeze the back of his neck; the muscles were rigid with tension. He needed to apologize, but more importantly he needed to explain why he was being such a jerk. The problem was, Taylor wasn’t sure he could explain. The problem was him, not Will. He knew that. They both knew that.

  He was still trying to think what to say when Will said neutrally, “So I guess this proves that you really did see Yanni or whatever his name is at LAX?”

  Relieved, Taylor turned. “It would be one hell of a coincidence that he just happened to be trying to get on a plane for Paris the same week his old gang suddenly reemerges and decides to blow up the Eiffel Tower.”

  “True.”

  “Yeah, so anyway, your boss wants me to check in.”

  Will’s grin was tentative. “Sort of like old times.”

  Taylor dredged up an answering smile. “Sort of.”

  The awkwardness was fading as they slipped back into their familiar working roles. The moment to apologize was also passing, but on the whole Taylor thought it might be best to let it go, to just pretend the last five minutes had never happened. He’d been in the wrong. Will hadn’t deserved that treatment. Never again. Taylor made a vow to himself. Never again would he treat Will like that. From now on his insecurities were his own problem. His alone.

  He said, “You want the shower first and I’ll go grab coffee and croissants next door?”

  “You go ahead,” Will replied. “I’ve got breakfast under control.”

  Taylor nodded and headed for the stairs.

  * * * * *

  The American Embassy was located at 2 avenue Gabriel, centrally positioned between the Champs-Élysées and Châtelet, a major station of the Paris Métro, on the city’s right bank. They drove, but Will was right. The embassy was close enough to Châtelet that they could have walked.

  From the outside, the embassy looked like any other official building in Paris. An elegant four stories of creamy stone and black wrought iron bars over bulletproof windows.

  Inside the chancery, it looked like every other American embassy Taylor had been in — maybe with better art. Once they cleared the gates guarded by marines, they passed through a gracious entryway with a grand staircase of marble leading to the formal reception area which then led into the nicely appointed ambassador’s office. Will and Taylor did not go to the ambassador’s office, however.

  They continued up through standard-issue embassy office-building-bland decor. The carpets were crimson, the walls off-white beige. Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and other Founding Fathers looked benignly down on them from their gilt frames on various landings.

  Paris was America’s first diplomatic mission, and her first envoys had included Franklin, Jefferson, John Adams, and James Madison. No question that as DSS postings went, Paris was a very cool gig and Will had been lucky to get it. Taylor was proud of him. Not so crazy about the transatlantic commute, but yeah, he was proud of Will and had been since Will had been offered the posting. And if he hadn’t made that clear, he needed to do that.

  They went into the DSS office, and laconic Mornings were exchanged.

  It was easy to see that Will was right at home here, liked and respected by his colleagues. Taylor would have expected nothing less. It was still a little tough realizing exactly how well Will fit in. Initially after Will’s promotion they had kidded themselves that they might eventually work together again, but deep down they’d both known the chances of that were slim to none.

  Anyway they had more important things to worry about now. Terrorism, even when not specifically directed at US citizens, was the number one priority of the Regional Security Office. Will made brief introductions while everyone waited for their boss, RSO Stone, to get out of her meeting with the ambassador. They drank office coffee, every bit as bad in Paris as it was anywhere else, and Taylor answered questions about budget restrictions and cutbacks in the States.

  The Diplomatic Service staff was made up of five diplomatic security special agents, an Engineering Services Office, the Marine Security Guard Detachment, Local Guard Force, the Pass and Identification Section, and the Foreign Service National Investigations Section. It was a pretty good-sized department. They’d had about a quarter that size staff in Haiti.

  Forty-five minutes later, Will’s Regional Security Officer arrived. She was around forty, cool, and pretty as any Hitchcock blonde, with a surprisingly deep voice.

  “Welcome aboard, MacAllister. Sorry to disrupt your vacation plans.” Alice Stone had a firm handshake and a quirky smile.

  “Happy to help however I can, ma’am. But how is a bomb threat at the Eiffel Tower DSS jurisdiction?”

  “Good question.” She accepted a cup of the awful coffee with a nod. “Thanks, Arthur. Helloco came in on a US plane despite the fact that we — you, to be precise, Agent MacAllister — identified him. We could have intercepted him but failed to do so. Surely I don’t need to spell out how embarrassing that is for all of us?” She looked at her team. There was a general clearing of throats and tugging on collars, although no one in that room was responsible.

  Will said, “Then Helloco has been positively ID’d as the bomber?”

  Stone gave her quirky smile. “As a matter of fact, no. As a matter of fact, no bomb has been found yet, although the tower is still being searched by police. However, the French paper Ouest-France received a communiqué claiming to be from Finistère, and we are all in agreement that Helloco’s attempted boarding of a Paris-bound flight in Los Angeles is too much of a coincidence to be overlooked
.”

  Stone didn’t spell out who we were. The Ambassador? The French authorities? The American president? Or her little team of five — now six — special agents?

  The most junior member of the team, a buff, blond boy named Arthur, said, “Ma’am, I’m still not following —”

  “Our primary mission,” Stone cut across, “is to protect our citizens abroad. Finistère is the violently militant wing of the FLB. They are also anti-American, which gives us a vested interest. It’s peak tourist season in the City of Lights, gentlemen. American citizens are everywhere you look. Which means they are everywhere Finistère looks.”

  “What’s our protocol?” Taylor asked. Will shot him an approving look.

  “To start with, we’re going to do what should have been done in Los Angeles and get a positive ID on Helloco. Brandt, when we’re done here, get MacAllister kitted out, then head over to Prefecture of Police. They can’t wait to show him their pretty picture books.”

  Will nodded.

  “MacAllister, I’ve spoken to your AFOD, and you’re on temporary duty with us till further notice. You’ll be comped your lost vacation time.”

  Taylor nodded.

  “Okay. LAPD has provided us with the intel on Yannick Hinault, who may or may not be Yann Helloco. Hinault is sixty-seven and currently lives in Burbank. According to his paperwork, he’s a French national born in Alsace who immigrated to the States — legally — in December of ’72. He married an American citizen, Angelina Duff. She passed away in April of this year. No children, no known next of kin.”

  “That timeline works for our boy,” Taylor said. “If Hinault is Helloco —”

  “Exactly. If. The only visual ID that LAPD was able to provide was driver license and passport photos.” Stone handed off a stack of papers. As the stack circled around to him, Taylor took one and studied the enlarged copy of a driver license photo.