Silver Bells Read online

  “This is going to make Medical the most festive department in the entire WBIS.” Max was pleased with the results and was glad Smitty had persuaded him to decorate.

  Smitty came up behind Max, wrapped his arms around him, and nuzzled a path up the side of his neck. “It will. Foreign Affairs is going to be seriously pissed off.”

  “It’s Christmas, Smitty,” Max chided, leaning back and enjoying the sensual feel of it. Foreign Affairs was Charles’s department, and although Smitty was smart enough not to say anything bad about Charles in Max’s presence, Max knew there was no love lost between the medical examiner and the special agent, not that Max had revealed the way Charles had treated him before they’d parted ways. Smitty was astute enough to read between the lines, and Max waiting for him with a couple of brown grocery bags filled with his belongings was a dead giveaway, as M. Vincent liked to say, that things had not been going well. “Be kind.”

  “Sure, babe.”

  Max also knew Smitty worried that one day Charles would realize what he’d lost when he’d let Max walk out the door, and that the next time he asked Max to leave Smitty for him, Max would. Max was no fool, though, and it wasn’t going to happen.

  “Come on.” Smitty slung his arm around Max’s shoulders. “Let’s get your overcoat and go home.” They walked to Max’s office. “I’ll even make dinner for you.”

  “Smitty, you don’t cook.”

  “No, but I dial a mean telephone to order takeout. How does a pepperoni and artichoke hearts pizza sound?”

  “It sounds perfect, mon cher.” Max wanted to cringe. He’d always called Charles that, and he didn’t want Smitty to ever think he was in any way comparable to Max’s onetime lover. They entered the office, and the sight distracted Max so that he smiled. “Thank you, Smitty.”

  “For what?”

  He gestured around his office, at the tiny Christmas tree Smitty had insisted they place on Max’s desk, at the crèche and all the decorations. It was cheery and brightened the room.

  “Mmm.” Smitty shoved the door closed with his foot, wheeled Max around, and pressed him up against the door.

  “Smitty?”

  “I don’t want to wait to get you home.”

  “Bon, d’accord. What did you have in mind?”

  “Don’t move.” Smitty twined his fingers with Max’s and raised their hands to shoulder height.

  Max tipped back his head and let Smitty take his mouth in a voracious kiss. After long minutes, Smitty trailed his lips up to Max’s eyes and kissed them closed.

  “Je t’aime, mon amour,” Max whispered.

  Smitty raised his head. “Seriously? You…” His voice cracked. “…You love me?”

  Max smiled. “Seriously.”

  “Well, Merry Christmas to me!”

  Chapter 2

  Charles Browne stared at the door to the doctors’ lounge as it swung shut. Goddammit. Max had literally thrown him out of the infirmary. Who’d have thought the little French doctor could be so relentless?

  Charles thought back a year and a half ago, to the fiasco with Prinzip, the antiterrorist organization that might as well have been run by terrorists itself. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. All he’d wanted was to see Paris when he wasn’t on the job, so he’d gone there for a long-delayed vacation and had wound up being kidnapped, along with operatives from just about every intelligence agency on the planet, including three other agents from the WBIS.

  That goon Gaston had dumped him in Max’s matchbox of a clinic after he’d worked Charles over. Charles’s ribs were sore, his nose dripped a steady stream of blood, and his eyes were swollen to slits, but he could still see the fascination in Max’s gaze.

  Even though Charles considered himself straight, he’d worked at the WBIS long enough to know he could work with that attraction, use it to help him get out of this situation. A hole was a hole, a mouth was a mouth, and Max’s mouth looked like it could do absolutely amazing things.

  So okay, surviving had wound up costing him his little finger, but fuck it, he still had nine other good fingers.

  Clever Max had blown him, demonstrating exactly what that mouth of his could do, and while Charles tried to regain some semblance of awareness, Max had jabbed him with a needle—he shuddered. God, he hated needles—then injected a local anesthetic into his hand and proceeded to amputate that finger.

  Shades of Hansel and Gretel.

  Max had assured him presenting that finger to Richard, the madman who ran Prinzip, would convince him Charles was dead. It sounded hinky, and Charles had no clue why Max thought that might be so, but Max was more familiar with the workings of Prinzip and its administrator, so Charles didn’t have much choice other than to go along with him.

  As it turned out, Richard wasn’t the only one who had seen it and assumed the worst. So had Trevor Wallace, the man in charge of the WBIS.

  Charles hadn’t expected Vincent to show up. He hadn’t expected Vincent to be so grateful for Futé’s aid in keeping Charles alive that Vincent would offer him a green card and a job at the WBIS.

  Max had to go and call him mon cher in front of Vincent, and Charles tried to persuade the senior special agent that Max called everyone that. He had a feeling he hadn’t succeeded.

  In spite of doing what he did for the WBIS, Charles wanted everyone to think of him as a good guy, so he offered Max a room in his apartment. He hadn’t precisely meant his room, but that was how it worked out—that amazing mouth.

  Although if Charles hadn’t felt he owed the little French doctor, he’d never have invited Max to move in with him.

  * * * *

  One of the things that pissed off Charles was how Max got to go to work, while Charles had to remain at home. He worked out of Foreign Affairs, but for some reason he’d been turfed to Interior Affairs, and that son of a bitch Vincent wouldn’t give him the go ahead to return to work. Something about dehydration and being malnourished and having that damned pinky finger amputated.

  Stanley, director of Foreign Affairs, wouldn’t even let him come in to do paperwork. Not that he could blame his boss. Using the computer wasn’t his forte. So he had no choice but to stay home.

  Well, if he had to put up with all that bullshit, so would Mark Vincent. So Charles began his campaign of calling every other day, demanding to know when he could return to the WBIS.

  Only it didn’t exactly work out. Each request was turned down, and the results were Vincent got pissed, Charles got pissed, and no one was a happy camper.

  * * * *

  After another fruitless call to the WBIS, Charles placed the phone down in its cradle—the phone company hated like hell when he threw their equipment against the wall, and the management company was even more unhappy about the gouge it tended to leave in the sheetrock—and he kicked the console table, which really wasn’t a smart idea, considering he wasn’t wearing shoes. He hopped on one foot, favoring his injured toe and swearing.

  “Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas, mon cher?”

  He glared at Max. He’d tell him what was wrong. “Vincent still won’t give me the okay to come back to work.”

  “Do you wish for me to speak with him?” That Max thought he could sway a senior special agent like Vincent aggravated the hell out of Charles, mostly because everyone in the WBIS knew Mark Vincent bent for no one.

  “It won’t do any good. Vincent will let me come back when he’s good and ready.” Charles had come to that reluctant conclusion. “I don’t know how the fuck I wound up in his department. I’ve always been in Foreign Affairs.”

  “What’s brought on this—?” Max cut short his words. Was he going to call it a temper tantrum? A childish temper tantrum?

  “Go fuck yourself, Max.” That was how Charles reacted when he felt he was being attacked. He struck back as hard as he could, and if it was below the belt, he didn’t fucking care. “You’re only living here because I owe you.”

  He’d hurt Max, he could tell by the way hi
s champagne-colored eyes darkened, but that wasn’t Charles’s problem.

  “You needn’t be grateful any longer.” There was a thread of pain in Max’s voice.

  What was that supposed to mean? Before he could ask, Max left the room, defeat in the set of his shoulders.

  Well, fuck it. And fuck Max. Charles gave him a roof over his head, a warm bed, and someone who fucked him on a regular basis. Wasn’t that enough?

  Charles didn’t fucking care. He stormed out of the room and down the hall to his study. Once there, he began pacing the dark-paneled room. This was such bullshit. Well, he wasn’t going to hang around twiddling his thumbs. He found his shoes and put them on, swearing when the pain in his toe reminded him of his stupid action earlier.

  He gritted his teeth, grabbed up his keys, and headed for the front door.

  The last thing he expected to see was Max standing there with two grocery bags on the floor at his feet, and he came to an abrupt halt.

  “What…are you taking out the trash? Garbage day isn’t until Monday.”

  “No.”

  “Then what are you doing? Where are you going?” Usually at this time of night, Max was in the kitchen preparing their dinner. He was a damn good cook, Charles would say that for him.

  “I think it for the best if I move out.”

  “What? Why?” Charles knew he should be relieved the decision had been taken out of his hands, but he was suddenly ambivalent.

  “You’ve said the only reason you let me stay here is because you feel obligated. Let me tell you something, Charles—I’m no man’s obligation.”

  “But—”

  The doorbell rang, and Max opened the door to reveal that son of a bitch Avery Schmidt, the WBIS’s occasional medical examiner, standing there.

  “What are you doing here?” Charles demanded.

  “Max needs a ride. I’ve come to drive him wherever he needs to go.” Schmidt picked up the bags.

  “Adieu, Charles.” And just like that, Max walked out.

  Charles stared after them, his jaw sagging. How could Max leave just like that? He was supposed to be in love with Charles. I mean, sure, he’s never said I love you, but don’t actions speak louder than words?

  Well, if he thought Charles would come running after him, he could just fucking think twice. Charles Browne ran after no man.

  But dammit, the apartment was quiet…

  That didn’t matter, he assured himself. He’d been about to go out for a drink anyway. And maybe while he was at it, he’d pick up a woman who’d blow him or let him fuck her…Or a man. He might be straight, but he was easy.

  He checked his pockets. Lube, just in case, condoms, wallet…The keys were still in his hand.

  Okay, he was out of there.

  * * * *

  Although he wasn’t supposed to, from time to time, Charles would slip into the WBIS, strictly to visit with colleagues. Nothing like rubbing salt in the wound. If he happened to see Max from a distance, he made a point of pretending he didn’t. If Max wanted to sleep in the doctors’ dorm, that was no skin off Charles’s teeth.

  No one said anything to him about Schmidt, not that Charles cared one way or the other. Schmidt’s reputation preceded him, and Charles knew how fastidious Max was.

  And then Charles dismissed Max completely—Vincent finally gave him the go-ahead to get back to work.

  So okay, it was in the States rather than in Europe or the Middle East, but still, he was back on the job.

  * * * *

  He stared down at the rat-tailed comb in his hand. It was covered in blood. A weapon didn’t have to be made of metal.

  This was a four-stall men’s room, and he selected the stall nearest to the door. Everyone knew that was the one least likely to be used if others were free. He propped the body on the toilet and tipped the head so it rested on the shoulder. This way the blood wouldn’t start dripping on the floor until after he was long gone. Finally, he closed and locked the stall door, then shimmied out from under it. Eventually someone would become curious and get a custodian to open it, but until then, it would stay closed, keeping its secret.

  He rinsed the plastic in one of the sinks that lined the opposite wall, snapped off the handle, and dropped the comb end in the trash. The handle would be disposed of in another trash bin, in another building, and the two would never be connected. He wiped the basin with a handful of paper towels and flushed one in each of the other toilets so there wouldn’t be a problem with them backing up.

  Why cause unnecessary work for an overburdened janitorial staff?

  Charles stripped off the latex gloves he’d been wearing to avoid leaving fingerprints behind, stuffed them in a pocket, and changed out of his blood-spattered clothes, which he then packed into the briefcase that added to his impersonation of a businessman stopping to visit the men’s room. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror to be certain his hair didn’t look disheveled, then gave the restroom one last cursory inspection. Everything appeared to be in order.

  He left, making sure the door was firmly closed behind him. As he walked down the corridor, a maintenance man passed by trundling a trash cart. There was something about him that seemed familiar, the shape of his head, maybe, or his ears, but Charles couldn’t stop to investigate.

  He showed the security guard his doctored ID, walked through the metal detector, and left the building.

  Whistling between his teeth, he went to the nondescript car that he’d leased for this job under an assumed name, got behind the wheel, and drove away. Eventually he’d arrive at the WBIS, where one of the men in Security would dispose of the briefcase and its contents.

  As an added bonus, he knew he’d find Max in Medical. Vincent had ordered him to have a checkup after the mission was completed, to make sure he was still in decent condition—as if he’d permit himself to be anything other than topnotch. But this was a perfect excuse. It wasn’t his decision: he’d been ordered to contact the doctor.

  For the first time in months, since he’d been snatched off the streets of Paris and found himself a prisoner of Prinzip, he felt like himself. He’d been a beast to Max, and he was sorry about that, but that was how he rolled…how he reacted when he wasn’t able to get out into the field. Max would understand.

  * * * *

  Only as it turned out, Max wasn’t there to understand.

  “Oh, he’s gone home,” one of the medical technicians told him as he checked him over.

  “I thought he was living here in the doctors’ dorm.”

  “Oh no. He lives with Dr. Schmidt.”

  “What?”

  “I said—”

  “I heard what you fucking said.” Charles ground his teeth. All this time, Max had been living with that fucker, Avery Schmidt? What did Schmidt have that Charles didn’t? What could Max see in the bastard? Schmidt was gay, and rumor had it he’d sleep with anything in pants. Charles was willing to bet he’d already cheated on Max.

  Charles might not be the best person to be around when he wasn’t permitted to do his job, but at least he didn’t screw around.

  For a second he had the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, but a glance around showed the infirmary was empty.

  “Want me to check your prostate?” the tech asked, reaching for the box of latex gloves.

  “No, I don’t want you to check my prostate.” Was this guy out of his mind? Charles’s prostate had nothing to do with the job.

  “Okay, Browne. You’re good to go.” The tech’s grin told Charles he’d walked right into that one, and Charles snarled and bared his teeth at him.

  He turned on his heel, stalked out of Medical, and left the WBIS. He stopped at a local liquor store on his way home, bought a bottle of Jack Daniels, and for the first time in years, he got stinking drunk.

  * * * *

  When Charles woke the next morning, he had the hangover from hell. His head pounded, and his stomach promised to make him sorry he’d ever thought Jack Daniels was a frien
d of his.

  He had no choice but to go to work and debrief, though. If he didn’t, the powers that be—read Mark Vincent—would take it as a sign he couldn’t do the job, and he’d be stuck behind a desk. And while he was good at that…okay, decent…it wasn’t his favorite activity.

  As for Max…fuck him. Charles didn’t need him.

  For a moment, Charles considered that. No, he really didn’t need Max.

  He never had.

  Chapter 3

  After a summer of inconsequential missions in the States, Charles was finally transferred back to Foreign Affairs.

  Autumn drifted toward winter, and then the holidays were upon the country.

  As luck would have it, he returned from a South American operation in time for the WBIS Christmas Party. If attendance hadn’t been mandatory, he’d have skipped it.

  He spotted Max as soon as he walked into the cafeteria. Schmidt was at his elbow, and they went to greet Vincent. Charles was too far away to hear their conversation, but he could see Max’s smile as he leaned against the medical examiner. Charles couldn’t remember Max smiling at him like that.

  Matheson’s secretary was standing off to the side, looking…wistful? Yeah, he was pretty sure that was the expression. She was a beautiful woman who resembled a young Ingrid Bergman. Beautiful women shouldn’t look wistful.

  He crossed the room. “Merry Christmas,” he said to her.

  She startled. “Oh! I didn’t see you there, Browne.”

  He scowled. He didn’t mind being addressed by his surname, but how come she called Matheson Mr.? Come to think of it, so did Vincent’s secretary.

  “Merry Christmas,” she added.

  “Do you have plans for the holiday?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “I guess pretty much everyone does.” He’d probably take in a movie and have dinner out at a nice restaurant. “Can I…uh…get you some punch?” Earlier, that glance in Max’s direction had revealed Schmidt, standing at his side, pouring something into the punch bowl, probably vodka. That was a cheery thought. No one would realize the punch had been doctored until it was too late.