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

He’d opened it with polite interest, and then caught his breath. “Mark!” And his voice was just as gruff as mine had been as he thanked me.


Portia Mann’s card had an image of a house, the sort only seen in paintings or on the rich side of town. Its windows were lit with a warm, yellow glow, pristine snow covered its gabled roof, smoke from numerous chimneys curled up into the night sky, and people were gathered on the veranda that encircled the first floor. She’d signed it, in her elegant handwriting, With warmest regards, Portia.


And then there was Quinn’s card. It was another one that hadn’t come in the mail. I’d found it in my suit pocket the previous Monday, after I’d spent the weekend with him. It was a snowy forest scene, trees decorated with glittering snowflakes. Moonlight, the only source of illumination, spilled down upon it. I’d opened it, and there had been no cute phrase, no trite sentiments, simply, Yours, Quinn.


Chapter 85