“Maybe another time. Quinn’s got nothing in
his fridge, and since he isn’t up to getting any shopping done,
I’ll stock up for him.”
Gregor snorted, and Mark turned his scowl on
him.
“Y’ know, Novotny, I didn’t see you busting
your ass trying to get Quinn home.”
“Why you—”
“Enough, gentlemen. Mark, go shopping. I’ll
see Quinton gets safely home.”
“Fine. Just don’t keep him on his feet too
long.”
I was touched by Mark’s concern.
Quinton rested a hand on his arm. “Thank
you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” But he covered my son’s hand
with his own. “I’ll see you later. Just make sure you don’t get
kidnapped again. I need my beauty sleep.”
“Of course.” But in spite of how abrasive
Mark sounded, Quinton was smiling, and it wasn’t a polite, social
smile but one that was heartfelt.
“Babe.” The word was very soft. Mark turned
to me. “Mrs. Mann. Novotny.” And he stalked out of the
terminal.
“The man’s a—” Gregor bit off the epithet
he’d been about to use, flushing slightly and cutting a glance my
way. “How can you let him touch you? The thought turns my
stomach.”
“It doesn’t turn mine,” Quinton said, as
softly as Mark’s single spoken word.
Gregor was too irritated to have heard. “And
how is he going to get the groceries into your house? I sure as
h-heck have no intention of rushing you home, Quinn!”
“Don’t worry about Mark, Gregor. He’ll
manage.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. He’ll probably
pick the lock, set off the alarm, and wind up getting
arrested.”
I patted Gregor’s shoulder, startled when
Quinton began to choke. “Sweetheart?”
He cleared his throat. “Sorry, Mother.
Something was caught in my throat.”
“Mmm.” I wondered which he found more
amusing—the idea of Mark Vincent breaking into his home or getting
arrested for that act. “Let’s go. Your uncles are waiting to see
you.”
* * * *
Quinton was safely home, and we’d all spent
some time with him. He didn’t want to talk about what had happened,
but it was easy to see how much the ordeal had taken out of him.
After ascertaining he truly was in one piece and seeing him settled
on the couch in his living room, I waved everyone out.
“Do you have everything you need,
sweetheart?” A glass of Perrier and a bottle of ibuprofen were on
an end table.
“Yes, Mother. Mark will take care of
anything else.”
“Call if there’s anything he’s
forgotten.”
“I don’t think that’s likely, but I promise
I will.”
“See that you do.” I studied his eyes.
“Mother, I really am all right. And you
don’t need to wait until Mark comes home.”
Was he aware he’d referred to his home as
Mark’s? “I don’t—”
“What’s up with this?” Gregor asked, holding
up a photo of what looked like a young Ingrid Bergman.
“Mark thought I deserved someone better than
JessicaTheDumbBlonde.”
Gregor ground his teeth. Some years earlier,
Quinton had returned home from Europe with a photograph of a blonde
woman, who, while extremely beautiful, had an extremely vapid
expression. “In case anyone asks why I’m not married, I can use her
as an excuse.” And although he’d smiled, there had been a touch of
sadness in his eyes.
Music suddenly began playing—Quinton’s cell
phone. “That’s Mark.”
“‘Such a Night’?” Gregor looked unhappy
about it.
“I like Elvis Presley,” my son said
simply.
I couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. He had
chosen an Elvis Presley tune for the WBIS agent?
Gregor actually growled, and Quinton gave an
apologetic smile. “May I?”
I nodded, and he flipped open his phone.
“Hi.” He listened a moment, then nodded.
“Okay. I’ll see you in about ten minutes.” He hung up. “You can go,
Mother. I’ll be fine.”
“All right.” I stroked his cheek—the one
that wasn’t bruised—and then kissed it. He was so tired and
pale.
“Take it easy, okay?” Gregor squeezed his
shoulder, then took my arm and ushered me out the door, pausing to
make sure it was locked behind us. “We’re going to have a tribe to
feed.”
I laughed, as I had no doubt was his
intention. “Do we have enough, or should we stop?”
“We’re good, thank God. The last thing I
need is to run into Vincent. Let’s go. I want to get cracking.”
* * * *
“Well, this was a wasted trip,” Tony groused
as he accepted the platter of Cornish game hens from Gregor.
“Thank you so much,” I said wryly.
“Sorry, Portia.” He stabbed a game hen and
shook it loose onto his plate. “But…”
“It was hardly wasted, big brother,” Bryan
said. “We got to see our nephew.”
“Yes, but you know that wasn’t what I meant.
We could have stayed home for all the good we did.”
“Yes, we could have, but then you would have
worried that we weren’t supporting Portia.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“It ended well, Tony, and that’s the most
important thing.”
“You’re right. But it’s the busiest time for
you, little brother. The season finale of
CIA
is this
week!”
“The episode has been in the can for three
months.”
“Yes, but—”
“More potatoes, Portia?” Bryan grinned at
Tony and offered me the serving dish.
“Yes, please.” It was a pleasure to see the
oldest and the youngest of my brothers so easy in each other’s
company.
“We really didn’t mean to foist ourselves on
you, Portia,” Ludovic murmured.
“Of course we did, Ludo!” Jefferson’s
expression was shocked, but knowing him, I was aware he wasn’t in
the least. “That’s what sisters are for, to feed us during times of
crisis.”
“Now, if I
did
feed you,” I told him,
“that truly would be a crisis! Just be thankful Gregor is such a
good cook.”
“In that case, we really didn’t mean to
foist ourselves on
you
, Gregor.”
“It’s a pleasure to cook for more than just
Portia and me, Ludo.”
While Gregor and the others continued
talking, I turned to my youngest brother. “Bryan, I have a favor to
ask of you.”
“Whatever you want, little sister.”
“I need a pristine copy of
Hondo
in
DVD format.”
“It’s not available.”
“I’m aware of that.” I smiled at him. “You
have connections, though. You’ll get one for me, won’t you?” I’d
also have to see about acquiring a top-of-the-line DVD player to go
with it. Something along the lines of the one I’d gotten Quinton
for Christmas.
Bryan reached across the table and rested
his hand on mine. “That was Nigel’s favorite movie.”
“Yes.” I didn’t tell him that was why I
wanted it. From what Quinton had told me about the bronze statue he
intended to give Mark as a housewarming gift, it also meant a great
deal to the WBIS agent.
“I’ll see about it as soon as I get back to
L.A.”
I turned my hand over and clasped his.
“Thank you.” Then I turned to our oldest brother. “So tell me,
Tony. How did Cara Mia feel about you leaving L.A. so
precipitously?’’
“She understood, Portia.” Well, since she
married someone who’d spent his entire adult life in the
intelligence community, it was imperative that she did. “I called
her to let her know we have Quinn safely back, and she’s very
relieved. She sends her best, by the way. She would have come with
us, but Sunday had a dance recital. That little lady really has
twinkle toes!”
“I’m sorry you had to miss it.”
“Cara Mia filmed it. I gave her a camcorder
for her birthday.”
“Will she be all right?” Her ex-husband
hadn’t taken it well when she’d divorced him, and now he appeared
to be stalking her, which wasn’t intelligent on his part.
“A friend of ours is keeping an eye on
her.”
“Do you think Vincent might be interested in
going after the—ow!” Gregor flinched and sent a reproachful glare
at Tony, who must have kicked him under the table. “I wasn’t going
to call the son of a bitch a son of a bitch!” He blushed bright
red.
My brothers groaned, Ludovic threw back his
head and laughed, and I swallowed a smile.
“So tell me.” I concentrated on slicing the
butter-basted potatoes on my plate into bite-sized pieces. “Will
you be able to stay for a visit now that we can relax and enjoy it,
or do you need to hurry home?”
* * * *
Later that evening, Folana called me back.
“I regret I wasn’t here to take your call. Bart got himself
kidnapped. “
“Did he really? There seems to have been a
good deal of that going around.”
“That doesn’t alter the fact that he’s
mortified. He was taken in by a pair of brown eyes.” But by the
time she’d arrived to rescue him, the incident had apparently been
dealt with. “I’m hoping we can have a few days of peace and quiet
before…”
They took up another assignment?
“Yes, peace and quiet would be nice.”
* * * *
A week or so after he returned home, Quinton
retrieved the crate with the statue he had ordered for Mark.
“Did it get the reaction you were hoping
for, sweetheart?” I asked during our Sunday ride.
“Oh, yes.” A faint blush rose in his cheeks,
but he smiled broadly. “Yes, it did. By the way, he was blown away
by
Hondo
, as well as the DVD player. He said to pass on his
verbal thanks and to let you know he’ll send you a thank you
note.”
It arrived in the middle of the week. Gregor
treated it as if it might be contaminated, but it was quite nice.
Mark had a neat, precise script. Mother would have been
impressed.
* * * *
June was always a difficult month, filled
with joy because it was the month of our wedding anniversary,
filled with sorrow because we would never have another one.
Although Nigel and I would occasionally have
a small, private celebration on January 20, the date we had been
married for the first time.
I stood before the half-round jewelry
armoire that had belonged to Great-grandmother Blackburn—Mother had
bequeathed the cherry wood piece to me when I’d returned from
London after I’d been presented at Court. I opened the swing door
on the left and took out the rope of flawlessly matched black
pearls Nigel had given me on our last anniversary before his
death.
“
Oh, darling, it’s gorgeous!”
“
It’s going to look even more gorgeous
against your skin!” He took me in his arms, kissed the hinge of my
jaw, and whispered in my ear, “Remove your clothes,
Portia!”
A flare of heat rushed through me, and with
languid movements I shed each article of clothing.
“
Now take down your hair.” Color was high
on his cheekbones, and a fine tremor ran through him. Again I
marveled at all the foolish people who couldn’t see past his cold
exterior to the volcanic heat that lay hidden beneath.
He took the pearls and knotted the rope
loosely around my waist, letting the ends trail down past my navel
to my thighs.
“
Do you trust me, darling?”
I cupped his cheeks in my palms. “With my
life…” …my heart, my soul…
“
Turn around.”
I did as he bid, facing the large mirror
above the double dresser that took up most of a wall in our
bedroom, and watched, my breath hitching as he reached around to
trace the pearls. Elegant, competent hands settled on my hips,
holding me steady, and I shivered at the feel of his trousers
against my bare legs. I moved aside the hair that swung freely down
my back, and he brushed soft, warm kisses from the base of my
skull, across my shoulder, and down past the crook of my elbow to
nip my wrist.
He took the time to probe the space between
my fingers with his tongue, and then his mouth was once more on my
shoulder. His lips and tongue traced the line of my spine,
lingering at the small of my back, at the small, heart-shaped
beauty mark, which, before him, I’d never realized was there.
The zip of him undoing his trousers was the
only sound in the room, other than our harsh breaths. He slid into
me, and I trembled in his embrace.
“
I’ll love you forever, Portia. Until the
end of my life and beyond!”
I shook myself out of my reverie, smiled
wistfully, and put the pearls away.
It was the twenty-fourth of June, and if
Nigel had lived, we would have been married forty years.
* * * *
I was wandering through the
Small French
Paintings
exhibit in the National Gallery when I ran into
someone I knew studying Monet’s
Ships Riding on the Seine at
Rouen
.
“Mark! What a pleasure to see you here.”
“Mrs. Mann.” He grinned at me and shrugged.
“Quinn’s out of town, and I had nothing better to do. Where’s
Novotny?”
“He’s just over there.”
“He’s not going to be happy seeing you talk
to me.”
“I am my own woman, you know.”
“I know. But I can understand him wanting to
keep you safe. Would you join me?”
“I’d be delighted.” I slid my hand into the
arm he offered, and as we strolled through the galleries, he
pointed out a Cezanne he particularly liked. “How did you become
interested in this period?”
“I was given a book one Christmas some years
ago. Unfortunately, it was ruined when my apartment exploded and
D.C.’s finest got a little too enthusiastic with their fire
hoses.”
“Ah.” I remembered Folana telling me about
that.
“That’s all you have to say about it?”
“Yes. Unless you’d care to tell me how it is
that you can so casually mention your home being destroyed by an
explosion.”
He stared at me for a moment, a lopsided
grin on his face. “I may as well tell you—just so you know Quinn is
safe when he visits me. I have about six locks on my front door,
and if they aren’t unlocked in the correct sequence—which I change
periodically—the door goes boom.”