Where the Heart Chooses Page 23

  “Why don’t you and Mr. Vincent stay and enjoy the ball, Quinton? I called Gregor, and he should be arriving to pick me up shortly. Mr. Vincent. It was nice seeing you again.”

  “Mrs. Mann. It was nice meeting you. For the first time.” He’d consistently refused to acknowledge he’d interviewed me as Harriman Patterson.

  I smiled at him and turned to Quinton. “Walk me to the cloakroom, sweetheart.”

  “What are you up to, Mother?” he asked in an undertone as we walked down to the lobby floor. “And please don’t answer a question with a question.”

  “Very well.” I wasn’t going to tell him about the search I’d instigated with a “dead” woman. Quinton was an adult and would be unhappy if he thought I didn’t give him credit for being able to take care of himself. “I was intrigued by what little Gregor was able to discover regarding Mark Vincent.”

  “Mark is WBIS to the core. You know the reputation their agents have.” He retrieved my lynx coat and held it while I slid my arms into the sleeves.

  “Yes, but I don’t think he would endanger you.”

  He drew on a poker face that would have made his father proud. “I don’t understand what you’re driving at. Why would I worry about being endangered by Mark Vincent?”

  I smiled. Although I was willing to withhold judgment for the moment, if Mark Vincent hurt my son the way Armand Bauchet had, I’d do more than cancel a wine shipment.

  At that moment, Gregor arrived. “Mrs. Mann?”

  “Thank you for coming, Gregor. I’m sorry to call you out on your night off.”

  “I was just at my club, and believe me, chauffeuring you is more fun than sitting around with a bunch of old fu-men, listening to their arteries harden.” He glanced around, making sure it was safe—once FBI, always FBI—and scowled when he saw Mark Vincent. “It looks like Wayne Center will need to be fumigated. What’s he doing here?”

  “He’s representing the WBIS.”

  “Has anyone turned up dead?”

  “He’s been on his best behavior,” Quinton murmured.

  “And how would you know what his best behavior is, Quinn?”

  A slight flush mounted Quinton’s cheeks, but he brushed the hair out of his eyes and grinned. “Well, as you noted, Gregor, no one is dead, not even the ubiquitous Senator Wexler.”

  “Jesus, don’t tell me that dirtbag was here!” An indication of Gregor’s ire—he hadn’t thought to censor his language. “It looks like the Center really will need to be fumigated.”

  “For rodents? Yes. He was annoying Mother, as usual.”

  I didn’t bother looking around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. Quinton wouldn’t have said something like that without making sure himself.

  Vincent approached us, curling his lip at Gregor’s sneer. But when he turned his gaze on Quinton, his expression became almost hungry.

  Hmm. I thought of that flush. Knowing how Sebrings were, I wanted to tell my son to be careful. Knowing how Manns were, I wanted to tell him to throw caution to the winds.

  Instead, I kissed his cheek, nodded at Vincent, and took Gregor’s arm. A glance over my shoulder showed my son and the WBIS agent standing side by side.

  * * * *

  Chapter 29

  “I’m telling you, Portia, I don’t think it was a good idea leaving Quinn back there.” We were on the road, heading for Great Falls.

  “Did you want to carry him off?” I met his eyes in the rearview mirror—no matter how much I objected, he wouldn’t allow me to sit beside him.

  “You know that isn’t what I meant. Quinn’s a grown man, and he can take care of himself. But Vincent is a loose cannon, and the only way I’d trust him is if he were six feet under, with a stake through his black heart.”

  “As you say, Quinton is a grown man.”

  “Well, I’m keeping an eye on Vincent.”

  “Yes, Gregor.”

  * * * *

  Once we arrived home, he offered to make a pot of tea.

  “That isn’t necessary.”

  “It will only take a minute. You…uh…you won’t mind if I don’t stay to drink it with you?” He was blushing.

  “Of course not.” Had I taken him away from a date? “I’m just grateful that you were able to drive me home tonight.”

  “Nigel would have…” His lower lip quivered, and then he stiffened it. “He wouldn’t have expected any less.”

  “Thank you.”

  After he’d left, I took my cup of tea into Nigel’s study. I felt the need to be close to him, to take the taste of Senator Wexler from my mouth.

  My cell phone rang, and while I didn’t recognize the number, I was familiar with the city code.

  I removed the pearl stud from my ear. “Hello?”

  “Portia.”

  “Folana. You’re well?”

  “Yes. And you?”

  “Yes. You have more news?” I knew she wouldn’t be offended by the shortness of my query.

  “I discovered something more about the man you wanted me to investigate. Even before you asked this of me, I was aware of what happened in South America. Portia…there was a more recent incident in Ho Chi Minh City. Park Jung-su had been invited there.”

  “Hmm.” I knew North Korea expected the intelligence community to believe Park was a low-ranking member of the Third Building, its secret service, but what was he doing in Vietnam?

  As if to answer my question, Folana said, “A joint meeting was being held between the North Koreans, the Vietnamese, and the Russians, and once that was completed, the plan was for Park to ‘visit’ Moscow.” She went on to reveal the events in detail, and I couldn’t suppress a laugh.

  “And Naryshkin truly wept?” The SRV—at one time KGB but now Foreign Intelligence Service—agent had been assigned the task of escorting Park to Moscow. Park’s body had been found in the Mekong River. Because of that, things had gotten tense between all three governments for a time, but especially between the Russians and the North Koreans. Of course the general public was unaware.

  “Yes. Shortly thereafter he defected himself.”

  “Ah. I’d heard about that and wondered.”

  “Sidorov was not pleased.”

  “I can imagine. He always did expect the best from his people.” Idly I wondered if he’d ever retire. “Did you learn anything else?”

  “Two more things. The man we’re discussing—there was an explosion in his apartment two evenings ago. Obviously he was unhurt.”

  “Obviously.”

  “There was a fatality—a rather senior director of the WBIS. Apparently he did not like this person, and from what I could discover, the feeling was mutual.”

  “Were you able to learn what that was about?”

  “An operation that failed.”

  “Hmm. And how does this involve my son?”

  “The explosion left the agent without a place to stay.”

  “I’m assuming you’re telling me this because it’s relevant.”

  “Yes.” She gave me the address of where Mark Vincent was now residing.

  I was silent for a moment, and then started to ask, “You’re aware…?”

  “I’m aware.”

  It was Quinton’s townhouse.

  “You said two things?”

  “Yes. He’s had sexual encounters with both men and women, but his leaning is toward men.”

  Generally, that wasn’t safe in this business, but the WBIS believed its agents’ private lives were just that, and that equation was taken off the table from the moment they were recruited.

  “According to him, allowing oneself to be labeled is ‘for wusses.’”

  “Amusing.”

  “Shall I do anything further?”

  “No. Quinton is my son.” To my knowledge, it had been a long time since he’d last been involved with another man. And Vincent was intriguing. “This is for me to deal with.”

  “You will be careful, won’t you? The man is dangerous.”
>
  “That’s what Gregor keeps telling me. But, Folana—”

  “I know. You, also, can be dangerous.”

  “Oi, Duchess!” came a shout from the background.

  “Yes, Bart?”

  “Tell Queenie I sends me regards!”

  She gave a little laugh. “Bart says—”

  “I heard. Give him my regards as well. How did the cooking lessons come along?” I knew she’d been very pleased with the sword cane Bryan had sent.

  She chuckled. “Now he can burn water in French and Italian.”

  I laughed myself.

  “If I learn of anything more, I’ll contact you.”

  “All right, thank you.”

  We hung up without saying good-bye.

  So Mark Vincent was bisexual, or possibly gay. And he was living with Quinton. I took the pins from my hair and stepped out of my shoes.

  I wouldn’t have objected if it had been Harriman Patterson who was fascinated with my son. Knowing that it was a WBIS agent…

  I sat down in Nigel’s big recliner and gave it serious thought.

  * * * *

  The next morning dawned beautifully. The trees were starting to leaf out, and a hint of spring was in the air.

  After church, I dressed in riding togs, and Gregor drove me out to the country club. It was a perfect day for a ride, and I would be meeting Quinton there.

  Although I rode every Sunday, I enjoyed it most when he was at my side and we could take the horses out on the trail together.

  I’d never had the opportunity to ride with my husband, since that was the one activity Nigel had never mastered, much to his father’s displeasure. Nigel was adept at so many things that I’d often wondered if his lack of skill in this arena was because he knew it would throw a spanner in his father’s plans for him.

  I was relieved when Mr. Mann showed no interest in becoming acquainted with his grandson, although puzzled by it; my own father, who was not the warmest of men, doted on my little boy.

  “My father isn’t particularly fond of children,” Nigel informed me when I brought up the subject. “But once Quinton reaches his adolescence, he’ll become very interested, wanting to mold him into the perfect bureaucratic drone. Portia.” He cradled my cheek in his palm. “If anything should happen to me, promise me you won’t allow him any say in our son’s future, no matter what the path Quinton chooses.”

  “Darling, nothing is going to happen to you, but I promise you.” I turned my head and kissed his palm. “He won’t be allowed to influence Quinton in any way.”

  It never proved to be a concern. By the time I did lose Nigel, his father had been dead for more than ten years.

  * * * *

  Quinton arrived a little late, for which he apologized. He tossed me up into the saddle, and once Ken McIlvoy brought out Quinton’s gray, he mounted with just a hint of stiffness.

  “Pulled muscle,” he explained with a faint blush.

  He was his usual contained self, but a mother knows her son. Something…or someone…had made him happy.

  To see him like this—it pleased me very, very much.

  * * * *

  One of the things I’d learned from my mother after I retired from deciphering codes was to select a day during the week that was for me alone, and for no reason in particular, I had chosen Monday. The rest of the week was for things that were expected of Portia Mann, the committee meetings and fund raisers, charities and luncheons, but on Mondays I practiced savate in the morning, spent the early part of the afternoon on the firing range, and then a few hours in the library with a retired professor, learning Farsi.

  As for Gregor, he would accompany me, practicing when I practiced, shooting when I shot. Once he’d vetted the professor, he spent those hours at the library perusing forensic journals. Always he was with me.

  He looked at me thoughtfully when we returned home that day. “You’re looking tired. Although having to spend Saturday evening in the same proximity as Mark Vincent—”

  “Frankly, I found him interesting. He doesn’t care very much for Wexler.” The truth was it was his interaction with my son that I thought was interesting.

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better about him? Jesus, Portia!” Gregor’s pained expression disappeared as he blushed scarlet. “I mean…I mean…”

  It never failed to amuse me, how protective the men in my life were, even down to the language they used in my presence, no matter how inoffensive.

  I opened my eyes wide, and Gregor tripped over his tongue in an effort to explain, to apologize, losing track, I hoped, of the conversation.

  If I told him I was becoming impatient with Senator Wexler’s behavior, he’d lose patience himself, perhaps to the point of doing something about it and putting himself in jeopardy. And if I told him I was concerned over my son’s private life, he’d be concerned as well, although he’d try to hide it by scoffing and telling me Quinton was an adult who could look after himself.

  “So if it isn’t Vincent—”

  I should have known. Gregor could be like a bulldog.

  “Actually,” I smiled at him, “I’m finding Farsi a bit more difficult than I’d anticipated.”

  He raised an eyebrow and snorted. “Y’ know, if you didn’t want to give me a straight answer, you could have just told me to mind my own business, Portia.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “I’d never say anything so rude.”

  “Hah. I’m going to make some dinner for you. How about crab-tomato bisque? And I baked a loaf of black bread.”

  “That sounds heavenly, Gregor.”

  He looked pleased, as he always did when I complimented his cooking. “Now, dinner is going to take a while. Why don’t you take a bubble bath and relax? I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

  “Thank you. What would I do without you?”

  “That’s something you don’t have to worry about.” He shooed me out of the room.

  Once in the master bathroom, I sprinkled a handful of violet-scented bath beads into the steaming water and sank gratefully into the tub.

  I leaned my head back against a bath pillow, closed my eyes, and breathed a sigh of relief as the tension eased out of my muscles.

  No, barring an act of God, doing without Gregor really was one thing I’d never have to worry about.

  * * * *

  Gregor had surpassed himself, not that I was surprised, and fortunately, while we dined, the subject of Mark Vincent wasn’t brought up again.

  Afterward, we sat together, going over the week’s schedule. “Tomorrow’s meeting has been rescheduled for April 1.” It was for a fundraising committee for the 2004 Presidential election, and word had it another senator from Massachusetts planned to run. “Elizabeth Wexler’s youngest daughter is about to give birth, and of course she wants to be there.”

  “Another Wexler brat? That’s a real April Fool’s joke on the world.”

  “Now, Gregor…” Although it was hardly their fault they had Richard and Elizabeth Wexler as parents, he did have a point. Unfortunately, the seven girls all resembled their father, and so did each of their children. If I wanted to be cruel, I could have said that while Richard Wexler was a tolerably good-looking man, those looks did not translate well to his daughters. However, I wasn’t inclined to be cruel to such drab, spiritless young women. They had more than enough in their lives with which to deal.

  “That’s going to give you a free slot of time around noon. Did you want to call the D.C. Branch of the Alumnae of Tidewater and see if they could use an extra body?”

  “That’s a—”

  The phone rang, and he picked it up. “Mann residence. Oh, hi, Quinn! Yeah, sure thing. Just a second.” He placed a hand over the mouthpiece. “Something’s up. He doesn’t sound good.” He handed me the phone.

  “Good evening, sweetheart.”

  “Mother? Would you mind if I came over?”

  My heart gave a painful lurch. Gregor was right. Quinton sounded desolate,
so different from the happy man of yesterday. “Not at all, sweetheart!”

  “I…I haven’t had dinner yet. I’ll grab a bite out before I—”

  “No. We’ll have something ready for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t be absurd. This is what mothers are for. Now then, when may we expect you?”

  “In about half an hour.”

  “Drive carefully.”

  “Aren’t I always careful?” There was brittle mockery in his voice.

  “Quinton, I will not be happy if you wreck your car.”

  “No, Mother. I’ll see you shortly.” He hung up, and I pressed the “end” button and handed the phone to Gregor.

  “What’s wrong, Portia?”

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out. Quinton will be here in about thirty minutes. Is there anything left of dinner? We’ll need to feed him.”

  “I’m on it.” He hurried out of the room, muttering, “I’ll bet this is all Vincent’s fault!”

  I would have smiled at that, but I was too concerned about my son. And I’d need to conceal that. After all, as Gregor was only too fond of reiterating, Quinton was an adult; the last thing he would need was a mother fussing over him.

  I put away the papers Gregor and I had been perusing and began to pace the room. Quinton had been in excellent spirits yesterday. What had occurred between then and now to change that?

  Gregor paged me over the intercom. “I’ve put together a tray for him, Portia. I thought water might be a better idea than wine. Where do you want it?”

  “Bring it to the small parlor.” I went there and put a Borodin CD in the player. Hopefully it would soothe my son.

  “Good choice of music,” Gregor said as he put the tray down. “I always liked Kismet.” His smile was strained. “I saw him pull up to the curb. I’ll go get the door.”

  “Yes, thank you.” And since the last thing I wanted was for my son to realize that I was indeed worried, I selected a photo album at random, sat down, and began to turn the pages, not really seeing the images on them.

  After a few minutes, Quinton entered the room. There was a slight flush on his cheeks. Had Gregor questioned him?