Job Hunt (18 page)

The room looked like he had left it on Friday morning. He had locked away his case of weapons, shoved his bags of disguises back into the blanket box they’d come from, and piled his club clothes on top of the wash basket. But that was as far as he’d gotten after Gareth had driven him home. The makeup bag lay open on the dresser, a stack of handwritten notes he’d made while being briefed by Clive over the phone on the corner beside it. He’d barely been home to change and shower since then, his time spent at the Yard, the hospital, Gareth’s bed, or his new desk.

He crossed the room, steps dragging, and pulled a pillow from the bed. He brought it to his face, and warmth bloomed in his chest as he caught a hint of Gareth’s spicy cologne on the pillowcase.

His life had gone crazy in a handful of days. Right then, he didn’t care that two scared kids trusted him to keep them safe. He didn’t care that he owed favors to people he never wanted to owe favors to again. And he deliberately ignored the fact that Gareth Flynn seemed intent to run his life for him. All he cared about was the spark of warmth in his chest and a faint trace of spice on his pillow.

T
HE
BUZZ
of a text message woke Jack just before seven. He fumbled for his phone and rolled his eyes. Gareth Flynn took mother-henning to stratospheric levels. But he was right, Jack admitted with a sigh. Jack’s bike was still parked at Nancarrow Mining, and accepting a lift from his boss meant not having to hunt up a taxi during rush hour or, heaven forbid, take the train to Waterloo Station.

By the time Gareth arrived, Jack was showered and dressed and working on his second mug of coffee.

“I’m older than five, you know,” he greeted as he opened the door.

“Sometimes I wonder about that.”

The little half smile on Gareth’s face made Jack’s insides clench. It just wasn’t fair how the man affected him, even when he said things Jack wanted to slap him for.

“I have coffee,” he offered and held the door wide.

“Of course you do.”

Gareth Flynn looked good standing in Jack’s kitchen. Actually, no. In a closely tailored charcoal suit that emphasized that perfect
V
he had going on, the man looked like a walking wet dream. His amber shirt brought out the gold in his eyes, and the top two shirt buttons, left undone, bared the hollow of Gareth’s throat. Formal and casual combined like this should have looked jarring, but Gareth made it work. Jack couldn’t take his eyes off the man and only just kept his hands to himself.

“Lisa said that last night was a washout too,” Gareth commented as he took the brimming mug Jack offered.

“That surveillance gig was always a long shot.” Jack placed his tablet on top of his laptop case and went looking for his phone and keys. “We called it early,” he said as he returned, loving the way Gareth leaned against the fridge as if he belonged there.

“When did you get home?”

“Threeish. And before you start: I did sleep. I feel fine. I’m going to get breakfast, and then I’ll help Frazer trace those leaks.”

Gareth’s eyebrows shot up. He stepped away from the fridge, set his mug down, and got right in Jack’s space. “I love it when you get all snarly,” he said and wrapped a palm around Jack’s nape.

Jack melted at the touch. Gareth bossing him around when it wasn’t needed was an issue. Gareth this close to him was fine. More than fine.

“So you’re being bossy just to wind me up?” He was pleased about how steady he sounded.

“I’m not bossy.”

“And I’m not six.”

“I’m so glad we got that settled.” The spark of warmth in Gareth’s eyes lit an answering fire in Jack’s chest. They tasted the coffee on each other’s lips, the exploration oddly gentle and slow.

“You have excellent taste in coffee,” Gareth purred when he drew away.

“You just want—”

“Oh yeah, I want.”

Their second kiss was much less careful. Gareth’s hands came up to frame Jack’s face and hold him still. Jack let his eyes slip closed and concentrated on feeling: the brush of warm, calloused fingers on his cheekbones, the tug on his hair, the slip and slide of lips and tongue, the heat slowly rising in his gut. Jack wasn’t a passive lover, but right then—after a long, stressful weekend and with only four hours of sleep to his name—he was happy to relax and let Gareth kiss him senseless.

“God, I could eat you right now.”

The deep growl sent a shiver through Jack’s frame. He wanted that, wanted Gareth’s hands on his skin, Gareth’s lips on his. He brought his hands up, and as his fingers closed over smooth, brushed wool and the edge of linen cuffs, a tiny sane corner of his mind reminded him that it was Tuesday morning. And that he was standing in his kitchen, getting ready to head off to work.

A chuckle bubbled up his throat. “Strange, that.”

“What is?” Gareth drew back far enough to send a confused scowl Jack’s way.

“I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my time,” Jack confided while he stepped out of Gareth’s hold and around the table to grab his laptop case. “But I’ve never kissed a guy wearing a suit before.”

“How’s it compare?”

“It’s hot.”

“Wanna make sure you got that right?”

Jack smiled. When Gareth was like this, stuff was so easy. “We could experiment with different suits,” he suggested. “Come on, boss, rush hour beckons.”

Gareth grumbled, but he followed Jack out.

“Call the cafeteria, and ask them to send up breakfast for three,” Gareth told him once they were on the road. “Frazer forgets to eat almost as often as you do, so I can feed you both while you brief me.”

Jack complied, only just not rolling his eyes.

T
UESDAY
PASSED
faster than a lightning strike, with little time for Jack to focus on anything but work. He’d been speaking to a very apologetic Clive Baxter late in the afternoon, when he’d suddenly remembered his plans for a trip to Clapham.

Jack’s phone rang just as he stepped from the train onto the crowded platform. Negotiating the zoo that was Clapham Junction during early evening rush hour, he pulled it out and answered it without checking the caller ID.

“Where did you disappear to?”

“Hi, boss.” He smiled at the grumpy tone in Gareth’s voice. “What’s up?”

“You left.”

“Hm.” Jack fished in his jacket pocket for the ticket to make it through the turnstile.

“Jack.”

“Yes, sorry. What?”

“I was asking you where you are.”

“Clapham,” Jack answered carelessly. “Running errands.”

“You said you wanted to go to the hospital. I thought we’d have dinner after.”

“I’ve been to the hospital,” Jack said. “And you didn’t mention dinner.”

“No, I know. Any idea when you’ll be back?”

“Not really, no. So, I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”

Silence at the other end of the line. Jack was out of the station and a ways down the road when Gareth finally answered. “Jack, what are you up to?”

“Just… talking to people.”

“That’s what phones are for.”

“If I wanna read about it in the
Sun
tomorrow morning,” Jack scoffed. “Privacy, Flynn. Ever heard of it?”

“Fine.” The man wasn’t happy, couldn’t hide his growl, but he recognized a lost battle when he faced one. “Don’t get into trouble.”

“As if.” Jack grinned wide as he ended the call and continued on his way. Sending Frazer—tired, disgruntled, and with a very cute pout—to do the end-of-day briefing had been a stroke of genius on his part. The Scot didn’t mind being fussed over, having grown up part of a huge family with a mum and elder sisters that were, allegedly, champion fusspots. After hearing that, Jack had sacrificed him to facilitate his getaway without a hint of regret.

Getting away had been vital. It was scary how much Jack wanted Gareth Flynn. He felt vulnerable, and that never worked out well. Better to put some distance between them. Tomorrow Gareth would be tied up with the monthly operations review, Frazer would work with Jack on plugging the leaks, and in the afternoon Jack was due to meet with Raf Gallant at Scotland Yard. It was good to be busy. And out from under Gareth’s scrutiny.

T
IME
STOOD
still in Clapham. At least in the small corner of Clapham that Rio Palmer called home. The black Citroen DS was parked in the driveway, roof up to protect the red leather interior from the forecast rain. It had been this very car that had drawn Jack to the house with the bright red door seventeen years ago. That and the vintage Triumph motorcycle parked beside it. He hadn’t known then that Rio was an odd dichotomy, a lover of vintage vehicles and collector of old vinyl records whose house was brimming with the latest high-tech electronics and who owned a computer system that cost more than the whole house and everything in it.

The doorbell still played Santana’s “She’s Not There” as Jack leaned against it, letting him know that Rio was home and not off somewhere on assignment. Just as always whole minutes passed before Rio answered the door, barefoot and with his shirt open, the mahogany dreadlocks drifting like a cape around his shoulders.

“Jack!” The grin was wide and inviting.

“Got a minute?”

“Sure, come in. What brings you?”

“I… may need a favor.”

“Okay. Wanna sit down?”

Jack looked around the familiar room with a smile. “Thanks.”

He sank into the soft sofa cushions, remembering the last time he’d been here. They’d spent four days tracing a drugs shipment halfway around the world, living off pizza and beer, working their way through Rio’s extensive music collection, and napping where they sat. They’d kept the heavy drapes shut against the light of day and had lived in a cave of their own devising, where time passed differently from the rest of the world. It had been a fun few days. And a job well done.

Today, Rio’s living room looked merely civilized, and the heavy green velvet drape covered the doorway to Rio’s inner sanctum.

“They tol’ me you quit,” Rio said as he sat down and handed Jack a bottle of Coke.

“That particular madhouse, yes.” Jack nodded.

“Bored?”

“That too.”

Rio still knew him well enough to stop digging after a mere moment or two. “So wha’ favor do you need?” he asked and took the chair opposite.

“I may need to get two boys off the grid.”

“Since when’s tha’ an issue for you?”

“I already owe a favor,” Jack said gruffly. “I don’t want to offer more ammunition.”

“Tell me about it.”

So Jack explained about Clive Baxter’s call, Ricky’s death, the favors he now owed, and the two boys in the hospital. Rio listened attentively, his eyes never leaving Jack.

“Nico lost his sister when they were sent to separate children’s homes after their mother died. If there’s even a hint of social services planning to separate the two boys….”

“I hear you,” Rio said softly.

“Yeah.” Jack grinned suddenly. “But will you help?”

Rio didn’t flinch, and his gaze was steady on Jack’s. “Always. You know tha’.”

“H
E
’
S
EXCEPTIONAL
,”
Alexandra Marston’s soft voice came from the curtained doorway as Rio returned to the room after seeing Jack out. He carried a china tea service and set the tray on the low table by the sofa.

“Always has been. Come sit an’ ask your questions,” he invited, taking one armchair and leaning forward to pour tea.

“Do you think he knew I was here?”

“He knew someone was.”

“Then I’m surprised he spoke so freely.”

Rio’s smile was wide as he handed Alex her cup. “I don’ believe you,” he said. “An’ Jack only told me what was already public knowledge.”

“Jack trusted you to warn him off if there was need.”

“So he did.”

They drank their tea in silence for a while. Alexandra’s gaze was turned inward, and Rio took the opportunity to study her more closely. Time was being kind to her. Her dark bob was shot through with auburn highlights, and there were but a few small laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. Serene and calm, she had changed from the ardent young spitfire she’d been when they’d first worked together. Alexandra Marston had set out wanting to save the world. Time had taught her to save people.

“I wish I’d been here when Jack decided to quit the service,” Rio admitted after a time, and his regret was genuine. For all his knowledge and convictions, Jack without a touchstone was a scary proposition, and Rio still felt guilty about that. “I might have been able to stop him.”

“I’ve seen the notes of the last case he worked,” Alexandra replied quietly. “I’m not sure anyone could have stopped him. I was glad when he applied to Nancarrow Mining. The company needs his help and….”

“You think you can bring him back in.”

“Maybe not that,” she conceded. “But I’m hoping to keep him close and cooperative.”

Rio considered that. Alex Marston had earned her spurs as a profiler, quickly garnering a reputation as one of the best in the business. But the woman was far more than just a skilled psychologist. Maybe that was why she had found it easier to leave the service without completely cutting her ties.

“So why come to me? Lookin’ at that stack”—Rio waved a hand toward the thick folder Alex had brought with her—“you know everythin’ there is to know about Jack Horwood.”

Alexandra’s response was a very delicate snort. “If we were talking about anyone
but
Jack Horwood, I’d agree, but this is the blandest, most information-free personnel file I’ve ever come across. I’m amazed he left his shoe size for me to find.”

“Hm.” Rio stretched, uncomfortable under her scrutiny but trying to make it look as if he was merely working the kinks from his neck. He knew Alex and what she could do. It shouldn’t affect him like it did. “Jack’s never been one for sharin’, and I’ll not betray his confidence,” he said eventually.

Alex nodded. “I’m grateful for anything that will help me understand him so I can be there when he needs it. I promise not to push beyond what you’re ready to tell me.”