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convinced himself that he didn t, but on some level he still had feelings for me. Of course
being Stephen he d probably be concerned for a stranger in my position too. I m a field
agent. I know next to nothing useful. Not in the larger scheme of things.
He made an impatient gesture. We both knew that wasn t how it worked.
I suppose I ll go on the dole with the other ex-spies.
Christ Almighty. I don t see anything funny about this!
It occurred to me suddenly what might really be worrying him. I said, There won t be
any trouble, Stephen. I promise you. I ll leave if things look like getting awkward.
I m not worried about the social scandal for God s sake. He looked like he wanted to
say something else but whatever it was, he stopped himself. I ve still got political
connections. I can make a few phone calls if necessary.
On my behalf or his own? I wasn t sure. I said, I don t think it s necessary.
He didn t have an answer.
Anyway, I said turning to leave the room -- because knowing when to walk away is
crucial in successful negotiation, I wanted you to know. I was always coming back. I did
come back.
I hoped he d call to me, but he didn t. I left him staring after me and went upstairs
* * * * *
* * * * *
* * * * *
* * * * *
Someone was in the house.
I opened my eyes staring into the darkness.
The dreams receded to a quiet distance but the conviction remained. Someone was in
the house.
Rolling out of bed, I reached for the Glock and eased the magazine into the frame. I
was across the floor in two steps, back pressed to the wall next to the door. I listened, took a
quick glance around the door frame, and moved into the hall, taking shelter behind the
antique steamer trunk along the wall. The door to Stephen s room was closed.
Good. I wanted him well out of the action. Safe.
I listened. Someone was moving downstairs -- someone was going through papers. I
could hear the faint scrape and rustle&
Slowly, softly, I pulled the slide back on the Glock, chambering a bullet. I rose from my
crouch behind the trunk and moved down the hallway. As I soft-footed toward the head of
the stairs, a rug rose up out of the darkness at my feet -- a rug that turned out to be twenty-
four inches tall, furry, warm and alive. I tripped and went sprawling, my finger instinctively
tightened on the Glock s trigger and I heard the oval mirror on the first landing shatter as a
shot blasted through the night.
Buck began to bark. Stephen s door flew open and the landing light came on as I was
pulling myself to my feet with the help of the banister railing.
Mark? Jesus Christ! What the hell is going on now? He strode down the hallway
toward me -- barefoot, navy pajama bottoms, unarmed -- shocked eyes taking in the
shattered glass, the barking dog, and me.
I think there s someone in the house. I started hobbling down the staircase, and
nearly fell over Buck again as he charged down ahead of me.
That kind of thing just didn t happen in the field. Frankly, nothing like this had
happened to me in a decade worth of field work. I caught myself from tumbling headlong
once again, and then Stephen grabbed my other arm.
What are you trying to do? Where do you think you re going?
I yanked away and, for an incredible third time, nearly fell over the bloody damned
dog galloping back up the stairs. The only thing that saved me from pitching forward that
time was Stephen s hasty grab for my shoulder.
And all at once the adrenaline drained away, leaving me weaving slightly with
bewilderment and fatigue. The dog would not be racing up and down the staircase if
someone was actually in the house. Despite Buck s poor taste in liking me, he actually was a
pretty good watchdog, and belatedly it dawned on me that he would not have slept through
a break-in that was loud enough to wake me.
Steven was staring at me like he suspected I might detonate. He still had my shoulder
in that hard, restraining hold. All at once my various aches and pains -- and a few new ones -
- came rushing back.
Sit down for a second, he ordered, and I did, folding up on the stairs, resting my arms
on my knees and my head on my arms. Stephen loosened the Glock from my hand, and I
didn t even care.
Was I going insane? What the fuck was the matter with me?
The dog s breath was hot on my arms. He snuffled my hair.
Get away, Buck, Stephen said, resting his hand on the back of my neck.
I jumped, then relaxed as he absently probed the knotted muscles with his long, strong
fingers.
I thought someone was in the house, I said, muffled.
Yes, I& er& gathered that. There was no anger in his voice now.
I could hear them going through your papers&
We were both silent, and into the silence came the scrape of fluttering papers. I raised
my head, and Stephen said -- a little guiltily -- I probably left the fans on downstairs. I do
that sometimes. It s moving the newspaper around.
I nodded, pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes. He continued to stroke and knead
my neck.
Sorry about the mirror.
He actually sounded amused as he said, I never liked it anyway. It always emphasized
the bags under my eyes.
Neither of us said anything for a time.
What do you think is the matter with me? I asked. I didn t dare take my hands down,
didn t dare look at him.
I think you re suffering from nervous exhaustion. Maybe traumatic stress, he said
calmly. What do you think is wrong with you?
I thought that over. Could it be something that simple?
I m afraid I m one of those people who can t adjust to& civilian life.
Do you really want to?
I nodded, risked a look at him.
He sounded indulgent, like he was humoring me. Yeah? What would you like to do
with the rest of your life?
I managed to joke, Besides spend it with you?
And he actually smiled back. Besides that.
I don t know. Write a big, bestselling roman á clef based on my brilliant career.
He was quiet for a moment. You talked about teaching. Before.
Before. Two years before when we had been planning to build a life together.
I d like to teach, yeah.
Why don t you think about how you could make that happen? His hand stroked
down my spine and I shivered.
If I had never met the Old Man, if I hadn t allowed myself to be lured away from the
dull safety of academia by the promise of adventure and romance like a right prat in the
Oxford Book of Adventure Stories I d have followed in my great-uncle s footsteps with a
fellowship at some quiet little university. I wouldn t have been shot or stabbed. I wouldn t
have watched a woman immolate herself in a market square or seen children blown to pieces
by a car bomb.
I d never have met Stephen.
Let s get you back in bed, he said, and obediently I rose and climbed back up the
stairs with his help.
* * * * *
* * * * *
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