Ace-High Royal Flush Page 2

  “I like Liverwurst.”

  I’d affronted him. I swallowed a grin, then shook my head sadly, put the Liverwurst sandwich back, and found one that contained black forest ham and American cheese. I slathered it with hot mustard.

  “Richard may be queer, but he’s not a clown,” I said around a bite of my sandwich, catching the mustard before it could drip onto my tie. “Actually, he’s quite charming.” In a stiff-backed kind of way. “I might give him a call later and see if he’d be interested in a nightcap.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “No need to worry about me, big brother.” I patted his cheek. “I always do.”

  He ground his teeth together, picked up the Liverwurst sandwich, and took a savage bite.

  * * * *

  I called my director before I called Richard.

  “I spoke to Mr. Sebring earlier,” Hazelton told me. He wasn’t referring to either of my brothers. “Of course you can have the time off to visit your sister.”

  I wasn’t surprised Father would do that. It drove Tony wild when the old man interfered with his department, but I’d learned to shrug it off.

  “And if you can learn anything about Folana Fournaise, this department would appreciate it.”

  “Whatever I can do for the Company, Steve.”

  “When will you leave?”

  “I’ll book the 7:25 flight out of Friendship tomorrow morning.” It was the first I could get.

  “All right. I’ll let you go. I imagine you want to make an early night of it.”

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing out loud. “I’ll stay in touch.”

  “Good. Good night, Jefferson.”

  “‘Night, Steve.”

  Once I hung up, the laugh slipped out. I’d been working under Steve Hazelton for the past four years, but he still had no idea I liked to play as hard as I worked. Of course he didn’t know I was gay either. If that information came to light, I’d be out of a job and most likely in jail. I loved my country, but God help me, the people who ran her were idiots.

  I pressed the hook, and when I got a dial tone, I dialed Richard’s number.

  “Hello, angel eyes,” I cooed. “Are you up for a drink?”

  * * * *

  “Can you stay, Jeff?” Richard asked as I rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up.

  “I’m afraid not.” I went to the chair where I’d left my clothes folded in a tidy pile and began putting them on.

  “Your boss is a slave driver. You ought to quit. My company would take you on in a shot.”

  In a shot? I bit back a laugh. He had no idea what I did. None of my lovers ever did.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I like what I do.”

  “So do I.” He worked for an advertising firm, and with all due respect to ad men, I couldn’t picture a more boring job than sitting behind a desk day in and day out. “But you’d never see me letting my asshole of a boss control my private life.”

  I leaned over and patted his ass. “My boss is a good guy. I don’t mind.”

  “Well, I do. And frankly, Jefferson, if this is the way you’re going to treat me, then I think we need some time apart to assess our relationship.” That sounded like something his psychiatrist might say.

  Oh, yes, Richard saw a headshrinker. Not that he really needed to, but it was what everyone was doing that year.

  “All right.” I’d been waiting for this. My affairs started out hot and heavy, but in weeks—months if my partner knew how to use his cock or his mouth—it would be over. Richard had actually lasted longer than most, but then I’d been out of the country for long stretches at a time. I’d found ways to amuse myself overseas, and I assumed Richard had as well here at home.

  “What?”

  “I said all right.”

  “I fucking heard what you said!” he almost screamed.

  “Don’t get upset, angel eyes. We’ve had a good time, a good run. If you want to call it quits—”

  “Goddamn you, Jefferson Sebring. You’re nothing but a cock tease.”

  “Hardly, Richard. Have I ever said no to you?”

  “But afterward you can’t wait to get out of my bed.”

  Was that what this was about? I observed him, standing three feet away from me, stark naked, his chest heaving in obvious outrage. “If you wanted to cuddle, all you had to do was say something. I’m not a mind reader, you know.”

  “You—” He swung wildly, and I caught his fist with ease.

  “You don’t want to do that.” I waited a minute, then released his hand.

  He clenched his fingers into a fist, his breath coming in jerky puffs. “Get out.”

  I stepped into my shoes, caught up my suit jacket, and gave him a brief salute.

  As I walked out of his bedroom and toward his front door, I heard him shuffling behind me.

  “I could have loved you, you bastard.”

  He could have? I paused and stared at him over my shoulder. “I’m sorry, angel eyes.” It was too late now. “I hope you find someone who can love you the way you deserve.” I let myself out, hearing a thud as something came into contact with the door. What had he thrown at it?

  Well, it was hardly important.

  I’d stop for a drink at the bar a few blocks away from my apartment, and then I’d go home, pack, and hit the hay. Tomorrow would come soon enough.

  Chapter 2

  Tony insisted Portia be kept in the dark about my arrival in London, which I didn’t think was a smart move, but he was the older brother.

  It was unwieldy as well. I sent the information to Tony, and he saw Portia got it.

  I made a point of keeping our little sister in my sights, careful that she didn’t see me.

  For the most part she went around with a group of young British men and women, riding, paying visits, shopping, dining, and going dancing every night. It was easy to see they liked her, and the feeling appeared to be mutual.

  One of the young men seemed to…hover. He was pretty, with ash-brown hair and slate-gray eyes, and although he stuttered as well, Portia didn’t seem to mind—not the hovering or the stuttering. It struck me as odd, since, in spite of what Father thought, my sister was an independent woman. I wondered if this Ludovic Rivenhall—his name sounded like a character from a historical romance—was a potential brother-in-law or just a playmate.

  I dismissed him. Until I learned which way the wind blew, I’d let Portia do as she chose.

  There was a couple though…While they weren’t part of the crowd my sister traveled with, they always seemed to turn up in her vicinity.

  I knew from the photographs Bryan had managed to get to me at Friendship International before my flight departed that this was Folana Fournaise—the woman Portia had written about—and her perpetual companion, Bart Freeman. As I’d told my father and brothers, she was supposed to be the ward of one Sir Joseph Bowne, and while she was pretty enough—tall, with ink-black hair she tended to wear in a French braid—it was the craggy-faced blond who never seemed to leave her side who drew my eye.

  At first I thought Bart Freeman was the Fournaise woman’s lover, which was a disappointment. Usually I chose more polished lovers, but this man, with his rough edges, intrigued me.

  I learned soon enough that he was more her right-hand man. And while he was discreet, I had no trouble determining he was queer, something I discovered when I tailed him while he tailed an MI6 agent named James Trevalyan, a green-eyed redhead.

  Freeman had a weakness for redheads? For the first time I was pleased with my coloring—red hair, green eyes…My entire family were blue-eyed blonds, and I’d grown up feeling like the proverbial Christmas decoration.

  Well, Freeman might want Trevalyan, but it was obvious Trevalyan, who was a baron’s son, was more interested in the ladies he squired around town.

  Instead, Freeman was going to get me.

  * * * *

  It all fell neatly into place on the night Lady Creighton’s ball for Port
ia took place.

  Freeman escorted Folana Fournaise up the steps to the front door of the huge town house. He murmured something in her ear, then drew back after a servant answered the door, glanced at her invitation, and ushered her in.

  I timed my stroll down the sidewalk so that I was before the town house just as Freeman came down the steps, causing him to bump into me.

  “Sorry, mate.”

  “Not at all,” I assured him as he was about to go on his way. “It was completely my fault.”

  “You’re American.” He paused, looking intrigued, and I knew it wouldn’t take much for me to have him.

  “I am.”

  “You’re a redhead.”

  “I am,” I repeated, giving him the sexiest smile in my repertoire. I’d positioned myself beneath a streetlight so the beams would bring out the rich red of my hair.

  “Care for a drink?” He touched his upper lip with the tip of his tongue, and this time I let the corner of my mouth quirk up in a grin.

  “I’d love one.” I held out my hand. “Jefferson Blackburn.” I used my mother’s maiden name. I didn’t know how clever this man was, but it wouldn’t take much to connect two Americans in London with the last name Sebring.

  “Bart Freeman.” He shook my hand, then pulled a watch from his pocket and studied the time. “I’m at a loose end for a few hours.”

  “Interesting. As it happens, so am I.”

  “I know a small pub near Fleet Street, the Pear and the Chestnut. It…uh…it’s a couple of streets from my flat. Or am I being too bold?”

  “You keep talking, angel eyes. I’ll let you know if you get too bold.”

  “Brilliant. Shall we?” He stepped to the curb and whistled up a cab. Once we were comfortably seated inside, he gave the driver the address.

  Only as it turned out, we went straight to his flat, didn’t pass go—although in a manner of speaking we left go at the starting line—didn’t even pause for that drink.

  His flat was extremely tiny, but along with a bathroom, living room, and kitchenette, it also contained two bedrooms. I stood in the living room and gazed from one door to the other.

  He nodded toward the farthest and began loosening his tie. “That’s my flat mate’s. Mine’s the other one.”

  “Lead on, MacDuff.”

  “Eh? I told you my name is—”

  I slid my palm around his neck and pulled him close enough to kiss. “I know what your name is, Freeman.” I brushed my lips over his, but he didn’t respond. Well, some men preferred not to kiss. It was a shame, because I loved it, and it had been quite some time since I’d found a partner who would indulge me. Even Richard thought it was too effeminate. “Suppose you show me what your bedroom looks like?”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” He grabbed my hand and dragged me along after him, an entire four steps. “What do you prefer, mate?”

  I let my gaze drop down to his fly, then glanced up and into his eyes and licked my lips.

  “What are we waiting for?” He dropped his trousers, revealing he hadn’t bothered to wear shorts. His cock was uncircumcised and looked to be a nice mouthful.

  When I said as much, he actually blushed. Oh, we were going to have a very good time.

  Lazily, I removed my clothes and dropped to my knees before him. Precome was already beading where the tip of his cock had begun peeking from his foreskin.

  What had possessed my parents to have all their sons circumcised?

  I breathed on his cock, and he gave a massive shudder. Then I slipped my tongue under his foreskin, which was clean. That was accommodating of him. Had he done that in hopes his obsession would give him a tumble? Well, it was Trevalyan’s loss and my gain.

  Bart braced his hands on my shoulders. “Nice, mate.”

  “Thanks. It’s my pleasure.”

  He slid his palms up to my hair, wound his fingers through the red locks, and urged my head toward his cock. I took the hint and began swallowing him down.

  “Shite! You’ve a mouth on you!”

  I hummed in agreement. Later I could tell him I’d had nothing but compliments regarding my technique.

  I worked a finger in my mouth, stroked his cock while I got my finger wet, then removed it and went about preparing his hole for a minor invasion.

  He yelped, spread his legs as far apart as he could get them, and held on. As soon as I found his hot spot, I varied my touches between tentative and teasing to firm and emphatic. It didn’t take long for him to climax, and I had to admit that made me proud. Of course I could have drawn it out, but I wanted to see how long it would take me to push him over the edge.

  I’d give him another chance with me later. Right then, I swallowed, and kept swallowing. He tasted good.

  He collapsed backward onto the bed, which was fortunately right there—otherwise he’d have landed on his ass—and struggled to catch his breath. When he finally did, he angled up and stared into my eyes, his own eyes almost crossed from the force of his orgasm, and a series of words spilled from his mouth. I was interested to note they were Moroccan.

  Finally, he said, “Come on, mate. Get your arse up here.”

  I rose to my feet, and he hummed in appreciation.

  “Smooth move.”

  “Thank you. How—”

  He reached out to touch my cock, which was hard and dripping with precome. “You’re cut.”

  “Beg pardon? Oh, you mean circumcised. Yes. Is this a problem?”

  “Beg pardon,” he repeated and chuckled softly to himself. “I love toffs.”

  “I’m hardly a toff.”

  “You are, mate, for all you’re a Yank. And to answer your question, no, this fine gentleman doesn’t present a problem at all.” He curled his lips in an intrigued grin and tugged lightly.

  I climbed on the bed, straddled his thighs, and spread my knees so far apart my balls brushed against his thighs. The hair that dusted them teased the sensitive skin, and I swallowed a groan.

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve always wanted to try me one of them.” He ran his fingertips around the crown, then leaned forward and followed the path his fingers had taken with his tongue.

  I rested one hand on his shoulder and threaded the fingers of the other in his hair. It was thick and springy, and I allowed myself to be distracted by its texture for a few seconds.

  Before I realized it, Bart had swallowed me down to the root. My cock nudged the back of his throat, but he showed no evidence of discomfort—he didn’t choke or gag. He rubbed his tongue against the big vein on the underside of my cock, and I bit my lip to prevent myself from whimpering. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked, and for a second I thought the sensation would cause my brain to pour out of my ears. My God, he had a clever mouth.

  I closed my eyes and tried to determine the square root of…of pi. I’d never been very good at math, which was why this was a perfect form of distraction.

  He pulled off. “Here, what are you doing then, Blackburn?”

  I opened eyes I knew must have a glazed look to them. “Don’t want to come too soon.”

  “Well, bugger that. If you drove me over the edge in two minutes, I’ll be damned if I let you lag behind.” He resumed going down on me, and I tapped his shoulder. “Now what?” he growled.

  “If I let you get me off so quickly, I’ll expect another round.”

  “You can bounce back that fast?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ain’t you full of yourself?”

  I just grinned down at him and fingered the lobe of his left ear. The ability to go all night long was what got me all the pretty men and which left them inordinately satisfied. In addition, one of my first lovers—an older man I’d met on leave in Paris toward the end of the war—taught me how to have multiple orgasms. That was before he realized how quickly I could become erect after I’d climaxed.

  “If you’ll carry on, Bart?”

  He growled, nipped my hip just above the bayonet scar, and resumed fellating me. Within
a matter of minutes I was pouring my semen down his throat. I had to stiffen my knees so I wouldn’t collapse on top of him.

  I was right—he did have a clever mouth.

  “You taste good, mate.” Bart flopped back onto the bed and patted the spot beside him. The bed wasn’t large—the room’s size precluded anything bigger than a single. I sank down beside him, snug against his side—

  Chapter 3

  “Jefferson Albert Sebring,” Ludo snapped. “Do not tell me you’re thinking of Bart Freeman.”

  I groaned, although not because Ludo had caught me out. What had possessed my mother to saddle me with a middle name like Albert?

  “Just marginally. Weren’t you downstairs having breakfast?”

  “It was too good to enjoy alone, so I brought a tray up for you.”

  “Alone? We have a house filled with your side of the family.”

  “True, but if you’ll recall, last night was New Year’s Eve. They’re all still asleep. And what do you mean, just marginally?”

  “I was actually thinking of how we first met.”

  “When you came to London to explain to MI6 how James Trevalyan managed to get his hand on your weapon?”

  I wasn’t going to tell Ludo that sounded downright salacious. He’d frown at me, and then I’d have no choice but to pinch his chin and kiss him.

  But it hadn’t been funny at the time, and frankly, it broke my heart to this day, thinking of Trevalyan—the same Trevalyan Bart Freeman thought he wanted—who everyone thought of as the epitome of a ladies man but who in actuality was gay. All those years, he’d been in love with Jeremy Waters, the man who shared the house in Chelsea with him.

  It was 1961, and I’d had an assignment in Rome, breaking in a new officer…

  I spotted Trevalyan and Waters tossing coins into a fountain, and it didn’t occur to me that there could be trouble until some pimply-faced kid of an Italian pulled out a gun and shot at Trevalyan. It felt like everything went into slow motion.

  Waters pushed Trevalyan aside, taking the bullet meant for him.