Cele had chosen the bar to meet up in, but she hadn't arrived when Warrick reached it. Not surprising, given her usual timekeeping. He checked the name of the bar again, just to be sure, then bought them both a drink and sat down at a vacant small table for two.
He scanned the bar idly. A little too loud and dark for his tastes, and surprisingly busy for the relatively early hour. Lots of corporates in working suits who obviously hadn't made it home yet. Many of them looked settled in, making groups and couples on the low chairs around the edges of the room.
He was, he realised, virtually the only man there alone. He caught the occasional glance in his direction, amusement and pity mingling. Of course: a single man plus two drinks equalled stood up. He checked his watch. Cele was already ten minutes late. He waited until he couldn't bear the feeling of self-consciousness, then he picked up both drinks and moved back to the bar.
At least there, he was one of a crowd. He squeezed past a blonde woman in a tight black dress and took an empty stool at the very end of the bar, beside a smartly-suited man talking business to a much younger woman. She was making a half-hearted attempt to feign interest, which seemed to be good enough for her companion, who sounded to be something to do with software marketing.
Warrick listened to the conversation with half his attention, which was all it took to bore him, too. Should he call Cele? No doubt she'd be on her way. Beyond the couple, the woman in the black dress was hunting through a tiny, overflowing handbag, muttering under her breath. Someone called Ian would be in trouble if she ever found her comm.
He should call. If Cele was going to be a while, at least he could get rid of the second drink. He should have known better than to buy it, Warrick thought as he searched his inside jacket pocket for his own comm. The day Cele was on time —
Over the noise of the bar, a woman said angrily, "Watch what you're doing!"
Warrick turned, but the woman in the black dress wasn't talking to him. She had her back to him, her shoulders set angrily as she looked up at a blond man.
Toreth.
Instinctively, Warrick looked away, leaning on the bar, hand against his face. Occupied with a case was now definitely a lie. He glanced sideways, using the dull salesman as cover. The woman had stepped back from the bar, where one of the staff was mopping up a spilled drink.
Toreth smiled at her apologetically, going from disinterest to full charm in an instant. "Terribly sorry about that. Please let me get you another."
"Oh. No, it's okay." Now she sounded flustered. She ducked her head slightly and her hand came up, hovered uncertainly, then tucked a few strands of her short-bobbed hair behind her ear. "No harm done."
"Glad to hear it." Toreth's smile warmed a few degrees. "I've seen you before, haven't I?"
"It's the first time I've been here."
"Oh? Somewhere else then." His confidence didn't waver. "I'm sure I remember you. You've cut your hair — it used to be much longer. It looks good like that."
Her posture relaxed. "Thanks."
Toreth stepped back a little and looked her up and down. A flush crept round her neck.
"Did I spill anything on you?" he asked.
"I — " The woman ran her hand over the front of her dress. "Yes, a bit."
"My name's Marc. I'll give you my number. Get in touch when you've had it cleaned, and I'll pay for it."
Warrick studied Toreth more closely as he transferred his details. Not really interested in her, he decided. Maybe she was too obviously willing.
He felt oddly triumphant when Toreth's smile cooled and he turned away to hand his credit card to the barman. As he waited, Warrick saw the woman's shoulders tense once or twice. Then, after Toreth picked up two drinks and walked away, she muttered, "Why the hell didn't you
say
something?"
The question so perfectly mirrored Warrick's own thoughts that he almost said, "I don't know."
His next thought was that he'd somehow — impossibly — been mistaken. It couldn't have been Toreth. But when he turned to watch the man cross the room, there was no more doubt than there had been when he saw the picture. Every movement was Toreth, his body unmistakable.
Should he follow him? Warrick had almost decided yes, when he saw Toreth stop next to a corner booth occupied by a dark-haired man and place the drinks on the table. Toreth squeezed onto the bench and immediately took his comm earpiece out of his pocket. Warrick watched, trying not to stare too openly; the other man was a little taller than Toreth and almost as heavily built, and Warrick didn't like the idea of inadvertently starting a fight.
After a brief conversation Toreth put the earpiece away, then returned to his companion.
The last of Warrick's shock vanished, flushed away by anger. Bastard. Out on the prowl and lying about it, which was the irritating part. Irrationally irritating, at that.
Warrick knew perfectly well that Toreth slept around. Toreth knew that he knew and also that he didn't like to hear about it. So 'I'm out', or, 'I don't feel like coming round tonight' adequately covered the whole situation. Or, indeed, 'I'm busy at work'. They'd fixed on this long ago as the best compromise that didn't involve a visit to a re-education centre for a fundamental reconstruction of Toreth's libido.
Tonight, however, the lie infuriated Warrick and, while he surreptitiously studied the pair, he tried to work out why. One casual partner more or less was nothing, and although it always annoyed him to meet them, it didn't usually rankle this badly. It was the previous Saturday that made the difference, he realised suddenly. They had set a game in progress; they had made an agreement that Toreth would wait, and Toreth had broken it.
After a minute or two, Warrick shook his head. He had no intention of waiting here until Toreth took his conquest elsewhere. That was, if he didn't simply conclude business here in the toilets. He should go home and try to forget about the experience. Unless — oh, God. Cele was due any minute. Putting up with Toreth's idiosyncrasies was one thing, having his behaviour witnessed by a friend was another.
Warrick paused, hand in his pocket. Cele. Cele had arranged the meeting. Cele, who had seen Toreth recently. Not that he imagined for a moment that Cele would knowingly participate in a scheme to humiliate him, but Toreth certainly wouldn't be above setting her up too, if the idea amused him.
Or . . . or this
was
the game, still, and Toreth had no intention of leaving with the stranger. A pick-up scenario, which was something that Cele would help arrange with great enthusiasm.
Then Toreth turned his head and looked across the bar, straight at him. He held Warrick's startled gaze for a few seconds, then smiled vaguely, as if to a stranger who'd made eye contact, before he looked away.
Warrick was still trying to decide what he believed, when his comm chimed.
"It's me," Cele said when he answered it.
"Is there a problem?"
"Yes. I'm afraid I can't make it. Something's come up. Are you there already?" Before he could answer, she carried on. "Of course you are. Mr Punctual. Now you see the advantages of being late. If you were me, you'd still be at home and you'd have saved yourself a trip."
Added to Toreth's call a few minutes ago, this went beyond the realms of coincidence. However, asking Cele would ruin the game. "Don't worry about it. We'll get together some other time."
As he pocketed the comm, a group vacated a small table, and Warrick moved quickly to claim it. This gave a better view: Toreth's face clearly visible, but the other man's back towards Warrick. Now he could watch as obviously as he liked. It shouldn't take long to decide what kind of game Toreth was playing, and whether Warrick wanted to take part.
Toreth's reactions were perfect, and highly promising. It apparently took him a few minutes to notice Warrick watching, and then a few minutes more of casual glances in Warrick's direction to decide what to do about it. Then he spent another couple in close conversation with his well-built companion before they both stood up. The man clapped Toreth on the shoulder and left the bar without a single glance in Warrick's direction. Toreth watched him go, then picked up his drink and strolled over.
Warrick watched him approach, wondering what to say. Better to let Toreth have the opening line.
Toreth leaned on the fluted black pillar by the table, and his white shirt tightened over his stomach. He looked down at Warrick, direct and utterly self-possessed, and said, "I saw you looking at me. Did you want something?"
Warrick paused to catch his breath, then said, "You reminded me of someone."
"Yeah? Who?"
"I'm not sure." He edged round the semicircle of bench. "Join me, and maybe it'll come back."
Toreth sat down, then held his hand out, awkward in the close space. "I'm Marc."
"Keir Warrick." There was a short pause, then he said, "Can I ask you a question?"
"Go ahead."
"I was at the bar when you went to buy a drink."
Toreth nodded. "I noticed you."
Noticed, not saw. "The woman you spoke to — had you really seen her before?"
"No."
"So how did you know she'd had her hair cut?"
"Easy. Did you see her duck her head, and the way her hand came up? She was used to having long hair, to having to push it out of the way. That kind of habit doesn't last longer than a few weeks once the props change." He smiled slowly, eyes fixed on Warrick. "You can tell a lot from body language. What people want, what they're going to do . . . everything they don't want you to know."
It gave Warrick a delightful feeling of deja vu to sit in a bar and be seduced by Toreth. Or rather, not quite Toreth. There was no one thing that Warrick could point to and say was different, but as they made wary-but-interested strangers' conversation, it was surprisingly easy to remember to call him Marc.
After an utterly fictitious and frighteningly plausible description of his job with a private security consultancy firm, Toreth asked, "You married?"
"No," Warrick said, then couldn't resist adding, "I have a partner. A male partner."
Toreth's eyes narrowed briefly, then he said, "What's he like?"
Warrick considered a string of flattering epithets before he settled on "Jealous."
This time, Toreth's expression didn't flicker. "Yeah? So you'd never — ?"
"Be unfaithful?" The ghost of Girardin hovered nearby. Warrick shook his head firmly. "Never."
Toreth smiled, approving and anticipatory. "Let me get you another drink, Keir."
Warrick had meant to spin the evening out as long as he could — what he'd really wanted was to provoke Toreth into breaking his assumed role.
For some reason, though, the impulse quickly faded. Perhaps it was the days of uncertainty. Perhaps it was the wonderful knowledge that he didn't have to wait until Sunday after all. Perhaps it was the sight of Toreth beside him, casual and relaxed and inexplicably different.
Whatever it was, only half an hour passed before they'd finished the drinks and Toreth stood up.
"Would you like to go somewhere a bit quieter?" he asked.
"Love to." Warrick stood up, too quickly, and the blood rushed to his head, leaving him dizzy.
"Okay?" Toreth asked.
The feeling passed. "Yes, fine."
There was no discussion of where the quieter place might be. Toreth simply led the way to the main hotel lobby. The lift up started with a slight jolt, and Warrick lost his balance. Toreth seemed steady enough. He merely looked at Warrick sidelong and smiled. He was humming, which seemed oddly more tuneful than normal. A side-effect of being Marc, perhaps.
As they stepped out of the lift door, the dizziness came again, and this time it didn't go away. He stumbled, and only Toreth's arm around his waist stopped him from a headlong fall.
"Thanks," Warrick mumbled. "Can't seem to . . . sorry."
They started down the corridor, and Marc — Toreth — didn't let go of him. Warrick shook his head, trying to clear his vision. The colours and angles were all subtly wrong, out of true. There was something strange happening. Something very, very strange, but somehow he didn't care, or couldn't be bothered to worry, and wasn't it Toreth with him? Everything would be all right.
They halted, and then a door clicked opened and closed and only then did he realise he had his eyes shut and he forced them open.
Hotel room. A light brightened, then dimmed, and that made the world swim again. He clung to Marc, welcoming the anchor of his effortless strength. He lowered his heavy head, letting it rest on Marc's shoulder, giving in to the temptation to mouth the taut muscles through his shirt.
"Right, Keir." Marc took him by the chin, gently tilting his head back. Kiss, Warrick thought vaguely, and started to gather his strength to protest, because Toreth wouldn't want him to . . . no, this
was
Toreth and why the hell did everything feel so —
"Let's get you to bed," Marc said, and Warrick nodded gratefully. Sleep. Always better in the morning. Jen used to say that to them, kissing them goodnight.
Then, somehow, he was lying on the bed on his side, naked, head resting on his outflung arm. He tried to lift his head and couldn't, and the wrongness of that finally broke through and roused the first thrill of fear.
Marc stood by the bed, trousers already gone, stripping off his hypnotically white shirt, looking down at him intently.
"What . . . " Warrick licked his numb lips, his tongue thick and clumsy. "What is it? What did you do?"
Marc crouched down and smiled coldly. "Free tip for the future, if you ever get a chance to use it: you should be more careful about accepting drinks from strangers."
Shit. There'd been something in the drink, of course there had been — how could he have been so stupid?
Marc touched his face again, a whisper-soft brush across his cheek, then ran his hand down, over his chest, tracing a line from breastbone to navel to . . .