They could only spare a few minutes to hang on to each other, damp and flushed and muscles trembling in their own tracks. Will kissed the bridge of Taylor’s cheek, and Taylor kissed his jaw, and then they were rolling free of each other, up and running.
Taylor had taken him with gentle, relentless strength, and for the first time Will had stopped struggling against it — mentally, that was — and just enjoyed the fact that Taylor was taking control, driving them. Part of what Will loved about him was that rough and reckless strength. Maybe because he looked like the kind of guy who should be going to art museums and babbling about postmodernism, but he was a hard-nosed, hard-ass cop at heart. Taylor’s tenderness always took him by surprise.
* * * * *
The fourteen-hour time difference between Vietnam and Los Angeles created a slight problem for Taylor. He arrived later at the office than he’d planned. That had been Will’s fault. Will woke up horny and happy. It was just his nature.
Not that Taylor was complaining.
Even without the time difference, there was no way Taylor was going to find time to squeeze in a call during a day spent bargain hunting and babysitting.
Madame Kasambala had decided to hit the garment district, in particular Santee Alley, famous for its bargains and carnival-like atmosphere.
Carnival-like was putting it mildly, and the security nightmare presented by Santee Alley made Taylor homesick for dear old Rodeo Drive, with its snooty shopkeepers and private security.
“I’m going to kill her myself,” Varga muttered as they watched their charge pawing scornfully through piles of knockoff Prada bags.
“I’m thinking homicide, double-suicide pact,” Taylor said.
Varga giggled, surprising him. She had a very endearing giggle.
Slowly but surely they were beginning to figure out how to work together. It wasn’t like with Will; it was never going to be like it was with Will, but it wasn’t the rather-work-for-the-postal-service torture of the first day either.
A major corner seemed to have been turned when Taylor brought Varga a caramel macchiato that morning. Initially she had eyed the coffee as though suspecting poison and had actually said stiffly, awkwardly, “I like to keep things strictly business, MacAllister. I don’t screw around with coworkers.”
Did she honestly think…?! Taylor had done a double take, spluttered, “Relax, Varga. I’m gay.”
Varga had laughed.
Taylor had laughed too, but he said, “Hey, I’m not kidding.”
Her jaw had dropped. “You’re shitting me.”
“No.”
Well, that was the point of GLIFAA, right? Gays and Lesbians in Foreign Affairs Agencies. This wasn’t the bad old days when foreign service employees were fired for “moral weakness.” Not that he and Will went around advertising, but they didn’t hide it either. That had been one of the initial bonds between them when they’d first been partnered.
“I had no idea,” Varga said.
“Why should you? It’s not relevant to the job.”
“But I mean, we’ve worked in the same field office for eighteen months.” She’d thought it over. “Does Brandt know?”
“I think he suspects,” Taylor said gravely.
So whether because he’d won her heart with chain-store coffee or by removing himself from the potential-sexual-predator list, today had been much easier. Which meant he had more time to brood over Will in San Diego with David Bradley.
Not that he was really brooding over Will and Bradley. Will was genetically incapable of cheating, even if Taylor didn’t already know Will loved him. The ongoing problem — for Taylor — was that he was convinced that Will didn’t want to love him. That Will believed loving him was a bad idea. That Will was now focused on all the ways they weren’t compatible instead of all the ways they were: Like that question about where Taylor would live if he had a choice. What was that about?
Whatever it was about, it was depressing as hell.
Taylor hated thinking about this stuff. It wasn’t even like him to worry about things like this. He wasn’t that kind of guy. He had never fretted as to whether his feelings were returned, because previously his feelings were always returned. More than returned. He was the one other guys worried about.
So he was experiencing some kind of karmic romantic backlash, and he probably deserved every miserable minute of it, but it was still unsettling and messing with his focus.
Not that he needed a lot of focus on this detail. If the enemies of Comoros had any brains at all, they’d just leave Madame Kashandcarry to go on spending like there was no tomorrow, and the government would soon be bankrupt and out of business.
It was a long, boring day. They didn’t get back to the office until after six. Varga couldn’t wait to take off. She bade Taylor a quick good night, and he waved her off, sitting down at his desk to have another try at calling the Asian Snake Winery.
He was surprised when he actually got through. Finessing his way through the language barrier was harder, but he finally managed to make himself clear without resorting to calling in local law enforcement — an absolute last resort.
Unfortunately, according to the company’s records, they had not shipped any wine to him. This meant someone else had purchased a bottle and shipped it to Taylor from within the States.
Taylor tried to remember the shipping label and wrapping paper on the box. Nothing distinctive, that he recalled. A plain, sealed cardboard box with a computer-printed label? Had there been a return address? A postmark? He thought not. He’d have surely noticed.
Trash pickup was Tuesday morning, so it was —
No, it wasn’t too late, because he had spent the night at Will’s and not put his trash out for pickup. So somewhere in the trash barrel were the box and label that might or might not offer some clue to the identity of the person who had sent the snake wine.
Taylor was pretty sure the wine had to be connected to the threatening note
