Best Laid Plans Read online

  “Excuse me?”

  “That… Babe. You’re interested in her. Don’t deny it!

  “Miz Babe is a nice woman, but you’re my girlfriend. I love you.”

  “Just not enough to marry me. Well, forget I said anything. And while you’re at it, forget about us. We’re through.” She turned and stormed out of the room, which had grown silent.

  Mopp felt cold. He’d thought Jan was the one. If she was serious about breaking up with him, how would he go on without her?

  “I’d better go talk to her,” he said to no one in particular.

  But when he got to her bedroom door, it was locked, and no matter how many times he tapped on it, she refused to answer.

  Well, happy New Year to me.

  Part 3 – Best Laid Plans

  Chapter 1

  AFTER BREAKING UP with his longtime partner, Josh Cooper had moved to Savannah, where, for a ridiculously affordable price, he’d found a house with a beautiful waterfront view and a wraparound verandah. It had a red tin roof, twin gables, and two fireplaces, an amazing living room, and a gourmet, eat-in kitchen. Originally there had been five bedrooms and two and a half bathrooms, but with a little work—okay, a lot of work—two of the bedrooms on the ground floor were combined to form one huge master with an en suite.

  The house was large for just one man, even if he was as big a man as Josh, but between the view and the adjacent two-car garage that was a perfect space for him to park his Harley and work on it, he was a happy man.

  Well, as happy as he could be without having someone to share the king-size bed in the master with.

  ***

  JOSH STARED AFTER the young man with the tousled brown curls as he hurried out of the living room to try to make amends with his girlfriend. Those curls had earned him the nickname Ragg Mopp.

  Josh wondered what they’d feel like under his fingertips…

  God, he was such a sucker for punishment. He’d finally gotten over Tom Weber, who’d been his best friend from the day they’d first met almost thirty-five years ago—long before Tom had ever met Jack Jackson and hopelessly lost his heart to him—and what did he do? He went and fell in love with a straight boy.

  Not that Josh had ever told anyone. Tom would have given him a smack upside the head, and Jackson would have sneered at him and called him a dirty old man, and they’d have had every right to.

  Ragg Mopp’s girlfriend suspected, and she’d warned him off, telling him Mopp’s family would disown him if they thought he was gay.

  “You’re right,” Josh had said, remembering how his own parents had thrown him out. He’d been fourteen, and if Tom’s grandfather hadn’t taken him in, he’d have wound up just one more boy selling himself on the street. “It’s difficult when a young gay man doesn’t have the support of his family, so it is good that Ragg Mopp isn’t gay.”

  He recalled the day he’d first seen Mopp, not that he’d ever forget it.

  Tom and Jackson were having one of their weekly barbecue and pool parties, and Tom had issued a standing invitation for him to come over any time after work. Josh had showered and changed into a pair of low-riding jeans, a pale blue T-shirt, and motorcycle boots. Then he slid on his helmet and tugged on his riding gloves—safety above all else. He closed and locked the door behind him and jogged to where the Harley was waiting in the drive. He threw a leg over it, got it started, and headed for the ranch.

  Barbecues at the ranch tended to draw a lot of friends and coworkers, and the driveway and curb were crowded with vehicles. Once he’d arrived, it hadn’t taken too long to find a parking space for his bike—he was able to wedge it between an SUV and a convertible. He propped his helmet on the Harley, put the gloves in a saddlebag, and let himself into the huge backyard.

  Jackson didn’t have much in the way of cooking skills, but he made wicked ribs. Josh helped himself to some, as well as a couple of hotdogs and a hamburger, then piled coleslaw and corn on the cob on to his plate. This would do him for dinner.

  Tad and Miss Becca had a ton of friends over, and most of them were in the pool or playing volleyball. Jackson’s employees were older, in their late twenties to early thirties, and even a few in their forties. They’d brought wives or girlfriends, and when they weren’t eating, they were dancing to the music that came out of the sound system Tom and Rush had set up or playing cards.

  Josh finished eating and tossed his garbage in the trash. He wished he could go in the pool, but he wouldn’t. There was no way he’d reveal the scars on his back and sides, courtesy of the bastard he’d thought he deserved because the one man he loved didn’t love him back.

  He was doing better, though, no longer mooning over Tom like a lovesick fool. On the rare occasions he went clubbing, he made sure to hook up with someone who didn’t want anything more than what he was willing to give.

  As he drained the last of his beer and then let the empty bottle dangle from his fingers, he unobtrusively eyed the pool. He’d been trying not to drool over all the pretty boys, when the prettiest one of all climbed out of the pool, dripping wet. He whipped a mop of unruly curls out of his face, and Josh moaned, “Momma, buy me that!”

  “Billy Bob’s straight, buddy,” Tom told him as he handed Josh another beer and then took a sip of his Coke.

  “Billy Bob? You mean Mopp?” He remembered meeting him a few weeks ago. Josh was mowing the lawn as a favor to Tom, when Mopp had shown up to move into the bunkhouse. Josh hadn’t had his shirt on, and he’d been so stressed about the possibility of anyone seeing his scars that he’d barely paid any attention to the young man. Now he wondered how he could have missed those good looks. “Well,” he shrugged and grinned. “Can’t blame a guy for looking.” He hoped Tom would let it go.

  “No, but I don’t want to see either of you hurt.”

  “You honestly think I’d do something to hurt him?”

  “No. He’s a good kid, but he’s got no idea which end is up. You’ll keep what I’m about to tell you between us?”

  Josh paused in the act of tipping the bottle of beer to his lips, surprised by how serious Tom was. “Of course.”

  “Okay, then. I’m pretty sure Billy Bob is a virgin.” He looked at Josh as if he was afraid he’d just rung the dinner bell.

  And truthfully, Josh’s cock got so hard at those words he’d have liked nothing better than to take that boy to bed and show him which end was up. However, Mopp was at least twenty years younger, Josh didn’t toy with innocents, and it hurt that Tom felt he had to warn him away. “Thanks, Tom. I’ll make sure I keep my distance.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that, Josh.”

  “How did you mean it?” He’d loved Tom Weber at one time as much more than a friend, but he’d reluctantly come to realize Tom only saw him as a friend. To think Tom thought of him as a perv…

  “Like I said, I don’t want to see either of you hurt.”

  “Why don’t you let me worry about it?”

  Tom sighed, but before he could say anything else, Jackson sauntered up. “See anything you like, Cooper?” He slung a casual arm around Tom’s shoulders, staking his claim.

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Huh?”

  One of the reasons Josh didn’t like Jackson had to do with his bisexuality. Before Jackson and Tom had gotten together—and Josh had no intention of asking how that came about—Jackson had been married three times and God alone knew how many women on the side he’d had.

  Why couldn’t Tom have loved him instead of Jackson? That would have made everything so damned simple.

  And then January Stephens sashayed over to Mopp and curled her fingers around his biceps. Well, that’ll be all she wrote, Josh thought. Even if Mopp was bisexual, he wouldn’t be able to see past the glamour of the company accountant, who also happened to be Miss Becca’s friend. It was a real shame. Josh had seen her go thro
ugh boyfriends like they were Kleenex.

  He tossed his half-empty bottle into the trash can they were using for recycling, turned on his heel, and stalked out.

  ***

  AS HE’D PROMISED Tom, Josh kept his distance, but it seemed he just couldn’t catch a break. Every time he turned around, there was Mopp, smiling at him, trying to strike up a conversation, even sitting next to him on movie nights and offering to share his popcorn with him. Mindful of Tom’s warning, Josh would leave the room as soon as he could without appearing rude.

  He thought things were going okay until the evening a couple of months later when Mopp approached him.

  “Mr. Cooper, have I done something to offend you?”

  “No.”

  Tom came up. “Josh.”

  And Josh said, “I was just on my way out.”

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Mopp said, sounding deeply saddened. “I must have done something. I don’t know what it was, but I apologize.”

  “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

  “But every time we’re in the same room, you walk away. You don’t do that to Tad or Rush or Miss Becca.”

  Tom groaned.

  “Satisfied, buddy?” Josh asked.

  “I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “Yes, you should have.”

  “I’m sorry. Billy Bob, I owe you an apology as well,” Tom said.

  “Excuse me?” The poor boy looked confused.

  “You know Josh here is gay, right?”

  “Almost everyone at the ranch is gay, JT. What difference does that make? Unless… Do you think I’m one of those… those homophobes, Mr. Cooper?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then… I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “You’re a very good-looking young man, Mopp. Tom was afraid I wouldn’t be able to control myself around you.”

  “Geez, passive-aggressive much, Cooper?” Tom complained.

  “I calls ’em like I sees ’em, old man.”

  “Hey, I’m only two years older than you.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “I… I’d really like you to be my friend, Mr. Cooper.” Mopp had never given Josh puppy dog eyes before.

  “Mopp—” Josh felt himself wavering.

  “That is, if you have no objections?”

  “Tom?”

  His friend threw up his hands. “I should have kept my big mouth shut to begin with,” he said again. “No, no objections.” He leaned close enough to whisper in Josh’s ear, “Just don’t do anything stupid like fall in love with him.”

  “No, Poppa.”

  Tom snorted and walked away.

  Of course Tom’s words were too late. Josh was already in love with the boy. But he’d seen the way Mopp looked at January Stephens—to everyone’s surprise, they were still a couple—and he told himself that having Mopp’s friendship was an excellent thing.

  “Thank you, Mopp. I’d be pleased”—more than pleased—“to call you my friend.”

  “Awesome! I was hoping you’d say that. Here.” Mopp handed him a bottle of beer.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Mopp grinned broadly and tapped his bottle against Josh’s. “Cheers.”

  “So… now what?”

  “Tad and Rush picked out a movie for us to watch.”

  “Do I want to know which one?” The last had been The Mexican, and there had been groans and popcorn thrown at the TV screen when a gay character bit the big one, and not in a fun way.

  “Flesh Gordon,” Mopp said, giving a little bounce.

  “Oh, in that case…” They’d seen the soft-core porn take-off of the Flash Gordon serials before, and it would be a fun way to spend the evening.

  “Really?” Tom rolled his eyes at Josh.

  Mopp obviously didn’t notice. “Great!” He bounced again, grabbed Josh’s arm, and tugged. “We can sit on the loveseat!”

  Josh purposely avoided looking at Tom. All they were going to do was watch a movie.

  Chapter 2

  ERIC JAMESON GLANCED at his wristwatch. He’d have to hurry; this job had already gotten underway, and he’d need to make sure it was going according to plan.

  His boss, Edward Holmes, who was director of Counterintelligence Threat Analysis at the CIA, had sent for him earlier with a new assignment.

  Most people assumed Eric was simply Holmes’s personal private assistant, but he was more than just an errand boy. He took care of situations… and people… who had become inconvenient.

  That was how he’d first met Delilah Carson, who was nothing more than a local DC hooker, even if she called herself an escort. Holmes had gotten himself into a nasty jam—couldn’t the man keep his kinks in his own fucking bedroom? No, he’d had to hire a whore and a couple of rent boys, and then dress himself up in a ridiculous red wig and frilly pink undergarments.

  Jesus. If it wasn’t one fucking thing, it was another.

  Eric slowed as he approached the security gates of Aspen Reach, an exclusive condominium enclave in Alexandria. He reached up to where the remote was clipped on the visor—of course he’d kept a spare—and pressed the button that would unlock the gates and cause them to swing open.

  He wasn’t the poetic sort, the kind who’d wax eloquent over the graceful, elegant swing of wrought iron security gates; he was a pragmatic man, and that was pure bullshit.

  If he hadn’t had to distract the whore, he’d never have bought this condo for her. It had run a cool half a million dollars, and to avoid any connection with either him or Holmes, he’d had to put the title in her name.

  But he’d needed to get her out of the business and away from her colleagues. They were the biggest problem—he could easily have seen to it she had an accident, but the whores—male and female—who she lived with were known by too many people, some of them high up in the government.

  He’d steered Peter Lapin, Senator Wexler’s aide, into her path. Lapin was enthralled by her… expertise, and the stupid bitch had actually fallen in love with him and expected him to marry her.

  Eric had gracefully bowed out before Lapin realized he was out of his depth.

  No one knew of Eric’s involvement, he’d made sure of that.

  The thing was… who to blame the whore’s death on?

  The scientist, Bruchner, would have been ideal, but someone—he had the feeling it was Mark Vincent—had already gotten to him.

  Wexler still needed Lapin, and while Eric would get rid of the aide if push came to shove, it hadn’t reached that point yet.

  He knew Wexler aspired to the presidency, and Holmes planned to ride his coattails into power. He was looking at the vice presidency, a position one heartbeat away from the whole enchilada, although he was certain no one was aware of his deepest plans.

  Eric was going along also. Money, power, women—a little blackmail on the side… He’d have it all.

  The gates finished swinging open, and he drove through and turned in the direction of the building that held Delilah’s condo. Another glance at his watch told him the job should have been completed by now.

  Who’d have fucking thought….

  Winston Churchill had once said Russia was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.

  That was what this situation was turning out to be. Jeanette Van Orden, an ordinary, unimportant woman, had possession of the… prize. She knew the whore. She also knew Bruchner and Dr. Pandora Gautier. It was going to take finesse to get this situation under any kind of control.

  Dr. Gautier was the one woman Eric was leery of. She might be a socialite who had more money than God, but the “doctor” in front of her name wasn’t honorary or something she’d bought—her IQ was off the charts, and she’d earned her degrees in genetics and gene manip
ulation. That was why she not only funded BIMOS, the Biederman Institute of Meteorological and Oceanographic Studies, as had her family, Biederman in the aforementioned institute, since the 1930s, but she ran it as well.

  How the fuck had a dimwit like the whore gotten involved with the institute? Well, he’d find that out soon enough.

  He parked in the guest spot, then jogged to the building and used his swipe card—something else he’d kept—to let himself in. The lobby was empty, which was a good thing. He was known here, as much as he’d tried to avoid being seen, and it wouldn’t be a good thing if he was spotted this evening of all times.

  Eric crossed to the elevators and stabbed at the call button. Goddamned thing always took forever.

  Irritated, he was about to head for the stairs when the elevator finally arrived. He got in and pressed the button for three.

  ***

  ERIC LET HIMSELF into the whore’s condo. It was as pink as ever, and it was quiet, which was disconcerting. Usually she had the television on, or some sort of music playing in the background. He tugged on a pair of latex gloves, then walked down the hallway, through the living room, and into the master bedroom.

  “Jesus!”

  The whore was tied to the bed, blood flowing from numerous cuts and stab wounds, and a gag stuffed in her mouth. She was still alive. Deuce, the man he’d given this job to, had better have gotten the information they needed, because it didn’t look like she was going to last much longer.

  He tugged the gag free.

  “Eric!” His name was not much more than a whisper on her lips. “He… he’s in the bathroom. Help me, please!”

  “What did she tell you?” he asked over his shoulder.

  Deuce came out of the bathroom drying his hands. “Nothing.”

  “Goddammit.” Eric sat down on the bed and made himself comfortable. “Delilah. You’re hurt badly. Tell me what I need to know, and I’ll get you to a doctor.”

  “You’re behind this?” she hissed. “You bastard!”

  He shrugged, but he was getting annoyed. She was just a woman who made a living selling her body, and she shouldn’t have put two and two together so quickly. What she should have done was started revealing every shred of information as soon as Deuce showed her the knife, before he even made the first cut.