The Administration Series (156 page)

"A bit. When they were arguing about the drugs, she said something in Greek and he told her to use English."

"How about when they were fucking?"

He waited patiently while she thought it over, giving her all the time she wanted. "They might've been," she said finally. "A few words. I was trying not to listen too hard."

"Interesting."

"If you like women trying to win awards for bad acting."

"No, interesting that she'd know it. That he'd be angry with her for using it. There were a lot of people speaking Greek in that restaurant."

She hadn't looked at it like that. "That doesn't really mean anything, though, does it?"

"Well, you couldn't get a waiver on the strength of it, no. But it's an idea. Karteris runs the section, for all practical purposes. If there's any one person who could cut arrest rates to favour resisters, it's him."

"But . . . Karteris?" She tried to think of a tactful way of phrasing it. "I mean, he's a para. I can't imagine him being a resister any more than I could you."

He looked at her sharply. "Reminds you of me, does he?"

"I hadn't really thought about it." He was watching her with the penetrating, assessing gaze that won him so many confessions. It compelled some kind of reply. "I only met him the one evening. I mean . . . a bit, I suppose."

"A bit. You suppose. Hm." He picked the bread up again and started buttering it. "Get some fresh coffee, would you?"

Toreth had already unpacked, dumping his clothes into a drawer and throwing his toilet bag into the bathroom, which had taken him a total of forty-five seconds. Warrick, of course, was dragging his own unpacking out to ridiculous lengths.

Standing in the sunlit bedroom of the expensive villa, watching Warrick unfolding and refolding clothes, Toreth wondered again why he hadn't ended the surveillance. He'd called the agency, meaning to do it. He had told them that Warrick would be out of New London for the weekend, and not to bother trying to keep tabs on him for that time. Somehow, however, when Uche had asked whether he wanted the surveillance to resume on Monday, he'd said yes.

Why? It was stupid, really. He'd trusted Warrick with Marian, with his career — with his life, for fuck's sake.

Not over this, though. Not over Carnac. Carnac was too fucking slippery.

As Toreth had half expected, Warrick hadn't brought any gear — no doubt he'd been too worried about security searching his case at one of the airports. Not that they needed gear to have fun. However, Toreth did catch sight of a package wrapped in gold paper nestled in the bottom layer of Warrick's case. Too small to be anything more than a gag, or narrow cuffs, or maybe a cock ring, but still promising.

"What's that?" Toreth asked.

"A present," Warrick said blandly as he set it on the bedside table.

"What kind of present?"

"A secret, for now." He smiled as he turned away — anticipatory, probably pleased that Toreth had asked. "But I think you'll like it."

"From the Shop?"

"That would be telling."

Unpacking done, Warrick led the way back into the main room. The villa had only a handful of rooms, but they were huge and beautifully furnished — spotless white walls, well-cushioned sofas, thick rugs, polished wooden floors to match the wooden beams. Of more immediate interest was an extensive collection of bottles on the sideboard.

He poured drinks while Warrick disappeared through another door. Then Toreth strolled over to sit on one of the deep window ledges and looked round the living room. It was larger than some flats he'd been in — hell, the screen on the entertainment centre was practically larger than his own place.

Generous, expensive, tasteful and so exactly Warrick's idea of a perfect weekend. However, something nagged at Toreth. It took him a minute to pin it down — the silence.

Or rather, not silence, but an absence of familiar noises. The boat trip out to the small island had taken less than an hour, but there was no trace of the sounds of the city. The sea hissed on the beach below the villa, and something insectile chirped in the fragrant bushes, but that was all natural. Gulls calling, wind in the leaves of the olive trees — it made him feel oddly exposed. When the rattle of a boat engine rose in the distance, it was almost a relief.

He was listening to it fade away when Warrick reappeared through a doorway to his left.

"What do you think?" Warrick asked.

"Middle of fucking nowhere. No bars, nowhere to eat."

"Rubbish. Call a boat, we could be back in the city before it got dark. And there's all mod cons here, plenty of food and a beautiful kitchen. And — " he paused and smiled, " — no one around to hear anything."

Toreth snorted. "Doesn't usually bother you."

"Oh, it bothers me." Another pause, another smile. "I just can't help it, that's all. Come and look at this."

Rather to Toreth's surprise, Warrick didn't want to show off the kitchen but instead took him through to a courtyard at the back of the villa. Tall white walls screened it on three sides — from whose eyes Toreth couldn't imagine — and a woven roof provided a shaded area for a table and chairs. The fourth side was open to an olive grove, with glimpses of the sea beyond. Sunk in the centre of the courtyard floor was a deep tub, sunlight making prisms of the fine droplets above the bubbling surface.

Maybe this wasn't such a bad place after all.

"Want to try it?" Without waiting for an answer, Warrick began to strip.

"Sure. Want a drink?"

"Mm. Please."

By the time he returned, Warrick was already in the water up to his neck, eyes closed, head back against a folded towel, and looking both blissful and eminently fuckable.

After setting the glasses on the rim, Toreth undressed and slipped in. A seat ran around the side of the tub and he settled onto it opposite Warrick, wriggling until he found some suitably entertaining bubbles. He reached out with his foot, stroking up Warrick's thigh, nudging his cock gently. Not uninterested, despite the warm water.

Not surprising, as it was eleven days since they'd done anything. Five days since Toreth had done anything with anyone at all. The memory flowed back of the night with Paul, the disconcerting walls of his flat muted in the shivering light of a startling number of candles. Champagne, and expensive smells in complex layers. Soap, shampoo, conditioner, moisturiser, a spicy scent, and underneath it all the warming musk of male skin. Lying on the bed, enjoying the smooth slide of fingers inside him and listening to Paul's unexpectedly filthy pillow talk.

Uncomplicated fun. He could have a whole weekend's worth of that here, if he could just forget Carnac.

Toreth relaxed into the embrace of the water, letting the swirling bubbles carry away the tension, the doubts.

"Well?" Warrick asked after a while, eyes still closed. "What do you think?"

"I think . . . I'd like you to fuck me."

"Mm. I could probably manage that."

Toreth was about to suggest they change venues to the bed when Warrick sat up and said, "Wait there."

Dripping water, Warrick climbed out and disappeared — into the bedroom by the sound of his wet, bare feet on the boards. He returned after a minute with a tube.

"Warrick, that won't — "

"Oh, yes it will." He splashed back into the water and flourished the tube. "Guaranteed waterproof lubricant."

"You're joking."

"Not at all. I read the brochure, and I thought we ought to be prepared."

Toreth slid off the seat, keeping low in the water, and moved towards him. "Fucking Boy Scout."

Warrick laughed, reached forwards, and ducked him.

If he'd been expecting it he wouldn't have panicked. He flailed out and his fist connected hard with something before he broke up from under the surface, gasping for air. He lost his footing, slipped, and disappeared under again, the rush of water in his mouth sweeping away the last shreds of control.

That was the last thing he remembered until he heard Warrick's voice, urgent and insistent.

"Toreth? Toreth — listen to me. You're fine."

Where the hell was he?

He opened his eyes to find himself half out of the tub, the floor a few inches away from his nose, and his knuckles white as he gripped the rush mat. Bubbles still swirled around the lower half of his body and he heaved himself out. He struggled up onto to his hands and knees and stayed there, coughing up the last of the water. Its chemical tang mixed in his mouth with the bitterness of stomach acid.

Warrick crouched beside him, hand outstretched but not touching him. "Are you all right?"

Humiliation set his cheeks burning.

"Shut the fuck up." He staggered to his feet. "Don't say a fucking thing."

He grabbed for a towel, missed, and stumbled out of the courtyard anyway, just wanting to get away from the water. He made it as far as the living room before his legs started shaking and he collapsed onto the sofa, still coughing.

Well done, he thought bitterly. Good start to the weekend. Very fucking sexy.

A robe landed on the sofa beside him and he managed to stand up for long enough to pull it on. By the time Warrick returned with a full glass, he had the shivering under some kind of control.

Warrick handed over the drink and turned to go.

"Wait," Toreth said. "It's okay. Sit down."

As Warrick sat, Toreth looked at him properly for the first time and saw the scrape on his cheekbone with the bruise starting to swell up. His own knuckles were beginning to hurt, some indication of how hard he'd hit him.

"Jesus, I'm sorry," Toreth said.

"Don't worry about it." Warrick touched his cheek gingerly. "Makes me appreciate how restrained you are the rest of the time."

"The rest of the time is the game. That was . . . I wasn't thinking."

"I noticed," Warrick said drily.

Silence. Warrick didn't ask, of course. He simply sat there, his expression guarded but his entire body radiating patience and concern. It was, for some reason, infuriating.

Toreth took a deep breath, trying to stifle the anger. He had to say something, so he should make it as quick and matter-of-fact as possible. "Remember when you tried to show me how to do underwater breathing in the sim?"

Warrick frowned. "I . . . yes. You wouldn't do it."

"Yeah." Toreth looked away. "Reason being, back when I was a trainee, the instructors had a little initiation ceremony for the new recruits." He swallowed down the sickness. "Ducking them in a bath. Cuffed. I wasn't very good with water — I never have been. Anyway, the stupid bastards managed to drown me. No heartbeat, emergency resus, the full works. And now I'm
really
not good with water."

There was a brief pause. "But you go swimming," Warrick said.

"Yes, I do. I like it." But sometimes when I dive in, just for a moment . . . "It's not really water itself that's the problem. It's the idea of — " He swallowed again. "Of drowning. The actual process of . . . as long as I'm in control, it's fine. But what happened just now, or being underwater in the sim, or looking at drowned bodies. Or — fuck, I saw them doing it at Justice once."

He looked down, watching the ice starting to shiver in his glass. Perversely, he couldn't resist the urge to push the limits of the fear. "Totally fucking illegal, of course — no waiver, not that I reported it. Took three of them to hold him, with someone else counting seconds while they had him under. Up just long enough for a breath before — " Whiskey and water slopped over the rim, and Warrick removed the glass from his hand.

Toreth licked his fingers slowly. The spirit tasted thin, overwhelmed by the memory of cold, chlorinated water, fresh from the tap. If he concentrated, he could hear the laughter of the interrogation instructors as they demonstrated the effectiveness of their restraint techniques. He'd fought them, and it hadn't made the slightest fucking difference except to how quickly he'd lost the battle not to breathe, not to —

"This is what the nightmares were about?" Warrick asked.

"What?" Startled out of the grim fantasy, Toreth blinked at him.

"Gil Kemp?"

"Oh. Yes. That fucking river. River and the cuffs. Fuck, yes. The bastard couldn't have picked it better if he'd known. I should probably sleep in here tonight."

"Don't be ridiculous," Warrick said firmly. "I didn't arrange a secluded weekend so that you could sleep on the sofa."

"I won't sleep, and I'll only keep you awake." And I'd rather be pathetic on my own, thanks very much.

"You'll sleep if you're tired enough."

It took him a moment to realise what Warrick meant. "No. I'm not in the mood."

Warrick smiled slightly. "You're not in the mood
yet
. Wait here."

He stood up and left, heading for the bedroom. If he'd had anywhere to go, Toreth would have gone too. Staring through the window he could see nothing except blue sea and sky and a single wisp of cloud, impossibly white. Miles and miles of fucking water and the realisation brought back the nausea.

Odd that he hadn't thought about it on the trip over. Well, he was thinking about it now. Much too far to swim if anything had happened to the boat halfway across. Starting to head for the shore, watching it stay stubbornly far away, until the cramps started, pulling him down . . .