Mark Vincent has risen from senior special agent to Director of Interior Affairs in the WBIS. Lately, life has been sweet for him -- in addition to his promotion, he's found a partner in Quinton Mann, who can almost match his ability in the intelligence field, in spite of the fact Quinn's CIA. Mark has also found a condo in Alexandria with the help of Portia Mann, Quinn's mother, and it's closer to Quinn's town house than Mark's present apartment. Sweetest of all, Mark plans to take Quinn to his island in the Caribbean for the holidays.<br><br>Quinn's glad he has the holiday with Mark to look forward to -- something is going on at Langley, and he feels he's being kept out of the loop. To make matters even worse, useless missions and sleepless nights filled with nightmares are leaving him exhausted. But then his mother's life if threatened, and Quinn discovers the accident that resulted in her hospitalization was no accident. The obsessively self-absorbed Senator Wexler is involved, and while Quinn considers himself a civilized man, now he's out for blood.<br><br>Up until this point, Mark has stayed out of Quinn's CIA business. But hurting Quinn and those he loves isn't a smart move, and Mark has every intention of seeing Wexler pays. Quinn demands to come along, and while Mark isn't happy, he finally agrees, and they set out together to deal with the senator. There's just one catch: this will be the first time Quinn sees Mark at his deadly best, and Mark isn't sure how his lover will react.

Forever

Quinn threw his mother up into her saddle and then swung up onto his horse. Poetry in motion, and if we’d been alone, I’d have dragged him into the stable, found an empty stall, and fucked his brains out.


“Just don’t kick Blue,” Quinn was saying, and I shook myself out of the pleasurable reverie of him bent over a hay bale.


“Sure.” How difficult could following such simple instructions be? I mounted the horse the groom was holding for me.


But Blue reacted every time my heels brushed against his sides and continually broke into a trot that had me bouncing in the saddle, rattling my teeth.


I’d warned that fucking flea-bitten, sway-backed, hay-burning refugee from a glue factory that I had a gun and had no problem using it if he made me look bad in front of my lover. Obviously, he hadn’t taken my warning seriously.


I studied Quinn’s posture in the saddle and copied it. I’d shoot the nag later.


Chapter 6