Men of London 02 - Sight and Sinners (2 page)

“You do know those things are going to kill you, right?” Leslie’s voice was disapproving.

Taylor shrugged. “Something will one day. We never know when it’s going to hit.” Even to his own ears, his voice was bitter. Lately Taylor had been so taken over by his psychic abilities that his tiredness and the constant drain on his energies was beginning to defeat him. It was why he’d started smoking again after two years of abstinence. He had no idea why he was so in tune with the dead and the dying lately, but it seemed he was on high alert, that all the psychic karma in the fucking universe was raining down on his head.

Leslie’s beautiful face darkened. “Stop it. I know you’ve had some really tough nights recently, but you need to suck it up. Something out there”—he waved a pale, long-fingered hand—“is going on with someone you know and that’s why you’re all tuning-forky.”

Taylor took another drag of his cigarette and blew a lazy smoke ring in the air. It wafted toward Leslie. Taylor flapped it away in a panic.

“I have no idea who it can be though. Yes, I need to be pretty aware of someone before it affects me like this but everyone I know—small circle though that may be—is fit and healthy and I haven’t got a clue who’s in trouble.”

He sucked the last bit of life out of his cigarette then stabbed it into the ashtray on the table. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, his weariness soaking into his body.

Leslie regarded him thoughtfully. “How long has it been since you had any?”

Taylor opened one eye to look at his friend. “Are you talking anal sex, blow jobs, frotting, hand jobs, rimming …be more specific, Leslie.” His tone was amused.

Leslie bounced on the bed, his eyes wide and his hands flapping in true Leslie style. “I mean, if you’d had a one-night stand, or a back-alley quickie…” He pursed his lips in that adorable pouty way he had and Taylor was entranced at the sight. “And I mean a back alley behind a building, not your back alley…although that works as well. Maybe it might be one of those guys you’re feeling?”

Taylor had to admit the thought had crossed his mind. What he hadn’t wanted to admit was that a casual encounter could affect him this way, as that would mean his abilities were more vulnerable now. He needed significant emotional closeness to pick up on the vibrations and emotions of a person, or something or someone affecting that person. But if what Leslie was suggesting was true, it meant that last night’s frantic blow job behind the music store with Georgie, the quick, messy sex last week in the toilet stall of a club down the road, and the urgent mutual hand job in a car two weeks ago might all be related to what he now felt. And Taylor wasn’t sure he could cope with that amount of mental and emotional stress.

He drew back the covers to his bed. “I’m too tired to think about it now. Come on, get in,” he murmured. “I could do with someone beside me tonight.” Not for the first time he wondered why he and Leslie had never taken their nightly cuddles and comforts any further. Sure, they’d shared a couple of hot kisses and jerked each other off once or twice, but neither of them had any inclination to pursue a real relationship. They were simply good friends. Leslie slid into the bed beside Taylor, the silk of his pyjamas a sensual touch against Taylor’s bare back, his body warmth welcome. He pulled the covers over them as Leslie snuggled in behind him.

“Watch what you do with that thing,” Taylor muttered. “I don’t know where it’s been.”

Leslie chuckled softly. “And I’m not going to tell you,” he retorted. “Suffice it to say lately it hasn’t seen much action, so honestly? I can’t promise I won’t ravish you while you sleep.”

“Well, slip it in quietly,” Taylor said sleepily as his eyes shut. “And make sure you stick a sleeve on it before you do. I don’t want to get pregnant.”

Leslie’s sweet laugh echoed in his ears as he fell asleep.

Chapter 2

Draven Samuels swore loudly and threw the mug he was holding across the room. It flew through the air like a cricket ball to a batsman and came to a stop when it hit the wall. Dark fluid spun out of it like an explosion of crap from a baby and the mug shattered into shards, which spiralled down to the floor. Draven watched the mayhem he’d caused as his hands clenched at his sides and his lips curled.

“Fucking stupid bastard,” he growled. He paced around the room resembling a tawny cougar ready to spring. Lithe, taut and infinitely dangerous. He ran a hand through his hair and swore again.

“Fucker. I can’t believe he did this to me.” His gut churned with pangs of guilt at thinking about what might be the reason for his recall. But if it was what he thought, it honestly hadn’t been a big deal in his eyes—certainly not enough to be kicked off this case.

He picked up the piece of paper currently residing innocently on the kitchen table and tore it in two with one vicious action. Then he did it again and let the pieces flutter to the floor. He kicked the pieces and then stomped on them for good measure. He’d printed the email purely so he could abuse it. When his temper tantrum was spent and he had his breathing under control, Draven whirled around to pick up his mobile. He jabbed numbers into the phone as if it was being punished then narrowed his eyes as he waited for the person on the other side to pick up.

“Clay Mortimer here.” The drawled tones of the man on the other side only inflamed Draven more. He felt his face go puce and he looked at his phone as if were a mortal enemy before raising it to his ear again. He went onto the offensive in his usual Draven way.

“You traitorous sack of shit. How the fuck could you do this to me, you arsehole?”

“Ah, Draven.” The voice sounded amused and Draven bit his bottom lip to keep from spitting at the phone in fury. “I thought I’d be hearing from you. Got my email, did you?”

“You took me off the damn case, Clay. You’re recalling me to London and letting that simpering twat Jeremy Flaherty take over from me. This was my case, and I should be the one to finish it.”

Draven glared out across the waters of the Adriatic, the crystal blue sea no panacea at the moment to his anger. The city of Dubrovnik had been his home now for nearly a month, and the case he was working on for Mortimer Investigations on the outskirts of London was almost over. It had been a difficult decision to leave his younger brother Jude behind in the hospital for any length of time but it wasn’t as if he’d know Draven was gone anyway. Draven was on tenterhooks every time his phone rang, thinking it might be news about Jude’s condition. For better or worse, he wasn’t sure which news he dreaded the most.

That thought didn’t make him feel better and the sinking, hollow feeling in his stomach hadn’t dissipated. Draven had hoped his anger would feel more righteous than it was. He’d tried to rationalise it, but the truth was he had fucked up. Badly. And now he was paying the price.

“You have to let me finish this one, Clay. I am so close to getting the bastard who stole the blueprints; I just need another week. I can do this, I promise. The fact Ian is involved…”

Clay’s cool voice interrupted his ramblings. “That would be Ian Ramsey, our informant? The man you’ve been sleeping with and who now threatens to compromise this whole case that we’ve been working on for over six months?”

Draven growled again. “I haven’t been sleeping with him. I’ve been fucking him. There’s a difference. We’re just bed buddies.” He tried once again to rationalise it. “And it was only three times. It’s not like I’m going to ask the guy to marry me and bear my children, for Christ’s sake.”

“As entertaining as the idea of you in a suit swearing fidelity and allegiance to one man is, Draven, the fact remains that this man, this informant, is a delicate asset and not one I need compromised in any way. If the powers that be in government found out you two had a relationship, purely carnal or not, it would undermine this agency’s credibility, and no one, I repeat, no one, fucks with the credibility of my agency.” Clay’s voice was hardened steel and even Draven baulked. “Am I making myself quite clear?”

Draven scowled and mouthed “Fuck you” at his phone.

And fuck you, Ian, you miserable, smarmy little git for being so damn fuckable.

The irony of that inner thought didn’t escape Draven and he snarled quietly.

“Ahh, you’re still there then? I recognise that rather nasty sound. There are return air tickets to London downstairs at the reception desk. You leave tomorrow. Jeremy will arrive tonight and you can debrief him.” Clay’s voice was dry. “And by debrief him, Draven, I mean update him on the case, not yank his pants down and stick your dick in him like you did with Ian. Although I have to say, I’m not sure Jeremy swings your way so it would be one helluva surprise to him if you did.”

To add fuel to Draven’s fury, Clay Mortimer snorted in amusement.

His temper rose again. “You are so fucking funny, you know that, Clay? Fine. I’ll tell all to good old Jeremy when he gets here but he isn’t going to get the job done like I would and you know it. I screwed up with Ian but that doesn’t affect my ability to do my job.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone and for a minute Draven thought he might be given a reprieve. Then he heard a deep sigh.

“Draven, you are one of my best operatives. You’re tough, driven and highly motivated. But you have this self-destructive flaw to screw things up and think with your dick. Ian Ramsey is, as we speak, trying to get a better deal for himself by saying he was sexually harassed by the man who was supposed to be watching and helping him—that would be you, by the way—to get the information we need to prove that Kyle Enterprises is stealing government secrets.” He coughed. “He has video footage of the two of you going at it like weasels. He said you seduced him into sex to keep him sweet and on our side.”

Draven’s jaw dropped and his hands grew clammy.

That fucking handsome, sexy little tosser. He stitched me over. How the fuck did I lose my focus like that? And, weasels? I obviously need to work on my technique.

But he knew. It had been Ian’s charm, his sparkling blue eyes and oh-so kissable mouth, that tight arse and flat abs encased in denim and tight tank tops that had sent the blood rushing to Draven’s groin and led him to bend Ian over the couch, the balcony and the private casino table at the swanky Christo Club.

“Furthermore, I’ve had to eat humble pie and grovel a bit and you know that never goes down well with me. I’ve managed to salvage the situation and made him some promises I’m going to have to keep, but you fucked this one up. He played you, Draven. Like a bloody harp.”

Draven stared blindly out into the falling twilight of the early February evening. He felt cold and more than a little sick to his stomach at the colossal mess-up he’d made because of a piece of arse. He couldn’t justify his lapse in judgement any longer.

“Draven, are you there?”

God, does he actually sound worried about me? Jude, it looks like Clay does have a heart after all.

Draven had been one of Clay’s men for the past six years and he'd been a great support to Draven, especially after the tragedy—the car accident that had killed Draven’s parents and left his little brother in a coma. His boss had picked up a drunken and almost senseless Draven from the bars and pavements with monotonous regularity. However, friendship and compassion notwithstanding, Clay had blood like ice water when it came to business, and now Draven had let him down. A true blue British cock-up, no less.

“Yes, I’m here,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back in London tomorrow and you can haul me over the coals again then.”

Clay’s voice softened. “Draven, you fucked up. It happens. That doesn’t detract from the fact that you’ve had more successes than failures and you’re the best man on my team. Come home and we can find you another assignment.” There was a low chuckle. “Maybe I can find you a woman to work with; then I don’t have to worry about that dick of yours getting into trouble.” He sniggered and Draven growled softly. “Come by the office tomorrow afternoon before you go home. We can talk then. And say hello to Jude for me when you see him. Tell him his Uncle Clay is thinking about him.” His voice was warm with concern and Draven blinked, his throat tight.

The line went dead. Draven laid his phone down on the kitchen table and went to the fridge. He took out a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka and fetched a glass from the cupboard. Then he made his way out to the balcony and sat down to gaze with unseeing eyes across the ocean.

May as well finish the bottle so I don’t waste it now I’m going home.

The fact the bottle was half full had not escaped him. He only hoped that he’d be sober enough to fly home the next morning without puking his guts out into a paper bag.

Chapter 3

Taylor sipped his rum and Coke and sighed as he gazed around the restaurant. Galileo’s was one of his favourite places to eat, mainly because the sous-chef was one of his two best friends here in London. Eddie Tripp had been a housemate until he’d moved out and moved in with his new boyfriend, the owner of Galileo’s. Gideon Kent was an acquired taste: a rather growly, sarcastic individual with a rather tragic incident in his past. Yet in Eddie’s hands the man was putty. Genuinely slippery and completely mouldable goo. Taylor appreciated Eddie’s choice. Gideon was very tasty indeed if you looked past the scowling.