The Professionals Circuit Archive - Tea for Two	Tea for Two

 

by Alexandra

  
 *Chapter One*

Doyle rubbed his hands together briskly. Then he made fists and blew on
them, and his breath made white puffs which floated away into nothingness.


"Feeling the cold, 4.5?" 

Cowley sounded remarkably cheerful for a man whose office heater had
broken down during London's worst winter in fifty- three years. He's
probably been warming himself with scotch, Doyle decided, heartily wishing
he'd done the same. "A bit, sir," he replied. 

"3.7?" Cowley glanced at the man in the chair beside Doyle's, who sat
there completely composed and attentive, displaying no signs that he was
in the least affected by the freezing temperature. 

"I'm fine, sir." 

Doyle looked at his partner and frowned. Of course Bodie was fine. He also
resembled an arctic explorer. Doyle was positive Bodie was wearing three
or four assorted shirts and sweaters beneath his down-padded parka, not to
mention the wool scarf, cap, gloves, and heavy boots he had on. Shivering,
Doyle wished for the hundredth time that he hadn't put off his winter
clothes shopping until every shop in the entire country had sold out of
thermal underwear and parkas. He crossed his arms over his chest, huddling
deeper into his threadbare peacoat. 

"Here, have a look at these." Cowley leaned across his desk to hand over
two file folders. Doyle reluctantly stopped hugging himself and grabbed
one. 

"This is what we have on the group of IRA sympathizers who are probably
responsible for the recent armory theft." 

Bodie glanced up from his folder. "Thought Robbins and Stuart were on
that." 

Cowley nodded. "They were. I've pulled them. You're on it now." He flipped
through a pile of papers on his desk. "We believe this group has hidden
the stolen arms in Oxford. The people you are reading about belong to a
political group which meets regularly at a certain Oxford bookshop." 

"Red and Black Books," Doyle said, pleased that he'd found the appropriate
spot in the mass of papers, despite fumbling through them with numb
fingers. 

"Aye. This shop specializes in subjects of, shall we say, a leftward
slant." 

Doyle let out a low whistle. "Owned by Richard Lumley. Isn't he the
commune nut who inherited pots of money?" 

"Yeah," Bodie put in. "I saw a Sunday supplement on him a couple months
back. Where Are They Now, that sort of thing. A right nutter." He smiled
and shook his head. "The poor bloke never left the Sixties behind." 

"Indeed." Cowley handed over two more files. "You'll need this information
on him as well. Richard Lumley is technically an earl but refuses to use
titles. He inherited a large estate and a great deal of money in 1966, at
the young age of twenty- four. He turned the estate into a commune, where
the inhabitants grew organic food and practiced 'free love.' Lumley also
ran an alternative press there." 

Bodie smirked. "Hasn't changed much, far as I could tell from the
article." 

Doyle decided it was time to show off his own knowledge. "He makes a lot
of money off herbal teas now," he said brightly. 

Bodie turned to favor him with a scornful expression. "Drink 'em a lot, do
you?" 

"Yeah." Doyle glared back. "They're good." 

Cowley cleared his throat, and both agents immediately returned their
attention to the matter at hand. 

"As I understand it," Cowley said, "Lumley grows only herbs now on his
farm, herbs used in the production of Lumley's Long Life teas. The commune
disbanded in '77, though there is at least one person from those days
still living at the estate. Mr. Lumley continues to preach left-wing
idealism through his press, and sells his publications through the
bookshop." Cowley paused and shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable.
"He is also President of the Sexual Tolerance League, which is dedicated
to establishing legal 'rights' for homosexual relationships." 

Bodie's eyes widened. "He's queer?" 

Cowley cleared his throat again. "I believe the current term is now
'gay'." 

Doyle frowned, suddenly suspicious. "What exactly are we supposed to do?" 

"You are both going to Oxford." Cowley turned to Bodie. "You, Bodie, are a
free-lance journalist. You will interview Lumley and as many of the
ex-commune members as you can locate. We strongly suspect the stolen arms
have been concealed somewhere on Lumley's estate." 

"Thought he was one of those love, peace, and understanding nuts," Bodie
said. 

"He is. Or so he claims. But he doesn't control the political group.
That's where you come in, Doyle." 

"Me, sir? You want me to join this group?" Doyle shuffled through his
files. "What're they called...oh, yeah. The AFS. Anti-Fascist Society." He
looked up. "Not very original, is it?" 

Cowley ignored the remark. "It would be extremely difficult to infiltrate
such a small group. Especially one which, as Stuart discovered, thoroughly
screens potential members." 

Bodie grinned. "Got caught out, did he?" 

"No, Bodie, he did not. That is, they didn't find out he was CI5." Cowley
frowned. "They did, however, discover his subscription to *Majesty*." 

Doyle stifled a laugh. "Shoulda seen Stuart during the royal wedding, sir.
Took one of those two-inch portable tellys with him everywhere. Bought a
whole set of Charles and Di mugs- -" 

"Aye, that's enough of that, 4.5." 

Doyle nodded, though he couldn't quite keep the smile off his face. 

"We aren't going to try getting someone inside the AFS again," Cowley went
on. "Instead, we are going to get someone inside Lumley's bookshop." 

Doyle raised his eyebrows. "Me, sir?" 

"Red and Black Books has posted an opening for temporary Christmas help."
Cowley handed him a newspaper. "They want someone who's knowledgeable
about leftwing politics and literature. You're well read on the topic, as
it *is* part of your job." 

Doyle, who had liked the idea of escaping London for a spell, found his
enthusiasm dwindling as he read the newspaper advertisement. "Yeah, I
suppose so. But what's this other stuff?" He read from the paper. "'Should
also be familiar with a variety of alternative subjects'?" 

Cowley searched his pile of papers, then handed over a bookshop catalog.
"According to this, the store stocks a wide range of books of an esoteric
nature. Witchcraft, paganism, astrology, that sort of nonsense. Ah, and
herbal tea remedies-- I'm sure you can handle that part." 

Doyle rolled his eyes. He carefully avoided looking at Bodie, knowing full
well his partner was sniggering. "But why should they hire me?" 

"I've had an old friend of ours give the shop manager a ring, with a
glowing, personal recommendation for you." Cowley smiled, and Doyle didn't
like the smile one bit. "Fellow named Pellin." 

Bodie laughed. Doyle turned to glare at him. 

"The Gay Youth bloke?" Bodie grinned at Cowley. 

"He happens to be a good friend of Lumley's." Cowley gave Bodie an
admonishing stare, then turned his attention back to Doyle. "It should
give you a decided edge. Along with your last name, that reddish hair of
yours, and those green eyes." 

"Huh?" Doyle was still trying to recover from the Pellin information. 

"They prefer hiring Irish employees," Cowley explained. "You're close
enough. Tell them your grandfather came from Ireland." 

"He did." 

"Then that should do nicely." 

Doyle sighed. This jaunt to the country was growing less enticing by the
minute. If he had to put up with one more sarky comment from Bodie, he'd
wrap that damn scarf around his neck so tight he'd be seeing Christmas
lights long before dark. Doyle risked another look at his partner, who had
his nose buried in a file. Trust him to pretend to be interested just to
make points with the Cow. 

Bodie suddenly whistled, and whipped a photo from the file. "You bastard,"
he said to Doyle in a less than kind tone. 

Doyle feigned a hurt expression. "What'd I do?" 

"That's the shop manager, mate." Bodie gave the picture over. 

Doyle studied the stunning, red-haired, and very buxom young lady's photo,
and the information printed beneath. "Colleen Dunbar." He smiled. He felt
much, much better. "And she's unmarried. Good." 

Bodie calmly smiled back. "You happy now? Glad you're getting first crack
at her, are you?" He leaned towards Doyle and whispered loudly, "Better
tell her that Pellin's just a friend, hadn't you?" 

Doyle blanched as the implication hit. "I don't have to pretend I'm gay to
land this bloody job, do I, sir?" 

"That shouldn't be necessary, Doyle." 

Doyle sank back in his chair, letting out a long sigh. He returned to his
study of Colleen Dunbar's charms. 

"Here, give it over." Bodie reached across to snatch the photo back.
"After all, I might need to interview Ms. Dunbar, isn't that right, sir?" 

"Unfortunately, yes. She helps run Lumley's press." 

Doyle scowled at Bodie, then reluctantly turned his attention to Cowley
and more mundane details. "Will we have contact on this assignment?" 

Cowley nodded. "Yes. You and Bodie can work together openly. Your story,
Doyle, is that you've grown tired of London and wish to relocate to a
smaller community. Bodie will be an old mate of yours who lives and works
in Oxford. We've arranged for a flat to be let there in Bodie's name. He's
offered you a place to stay until you get work." 

"What?" Bodie gaped. "We have to *share*? Is it a two- bedroom flat?" 

"What would a bachelor need with two bedrooms, Bodie?" Cowley had a
satisfied smile. 

Bodie sighed. "So much for Colleen Dunbar." He cocked an eyebrow at Doyle.
"You're getting the sofa, mate." 

"So kind of you." Doyle inwardly cursed the vagaries of the CI5 budget.
Plenty of bachelors had two-bedroom flats--the Cow had simply gone the
cheap route. "How long is this going to last?" he asked. 

"Until you find out what the AFS is up to, and where those stolen weapons
are. You have a job interview scheduled for tomorrow morning at ten. And
you, Bodie, will be interviewing Richard Lumley at that time." He cast a
searching look at Bodie. "I take it you can do a halfway competent job of
passing as a journalist?" 

"Yes, sir," Bodie replied, not sounding at all confident. 

Cowley handed Bodie a piece of paper. "This is your new address. Report in
to me when you have something worth reporting, and not before." He began
putting his files in order, obviously dismissing them. 

"Yes, sir," Doyle muttered. He gathered his pile of information and hugged
it to his chest as he got up, in a hurry to get somewhere warm. 

In the hallway, Bodie immediately accosted him. "This is all your fault." 

"How do you reckon?" 

Bodie tweaked one of Doyle's curls. "You and your Irish grandfather." 

Doyle batted the hand away. "Don't give me that. Anyway, you're
half-Irish." He grinned. "You're just upset 'cause I'll have first go at
the delectable Colleen." 

"Never fear," Bodie replied confidently. "I shan't be far behind you. And
after you've thoroughly repulsed the young lady- -" He gave Doyle a
disapproving once-over. "--I shall step in to provide the more attractive
alternative." 

"Yeah." Doyle smiled. "And then you can dine her, wine her, and bring her
back home." He paused. "To *our* place." He chucked Bodie's chin. "Right,
ducky?" He dashed off down the corridor. 

"You--" Bodie chased after him. They bounded down the stairs and across
the car park, Doyle deftly avoiding Bodie's lunges, until they collapsed
against Doyle's car, laughing. 

Doyle felt cheered, and warmer. "Bit of a lark this, really," he said,
more optimistic again about the job. "Week or two in Oxford, nobody
shootin' at us--well, probably nobody. You know what these groups are
like." He dug his keys from his pocket. 

"Yeah, all talk, no action," Bodie agreed as they clambered into the car.
"Spend all their time arguing over who takes out the trash in a classless
society. Bunch of idealistic, over- educated, insulated prats, that's what
we're up against." 

Doyle grinned. "You'll get along great with Lumley, I can tell." 

"I *can* be polite if I really work at it, you know. Well, at least for an
hour or so." 

"Could've fooled me." Doyle ducked the light punch Bodie aimed at his
shoulder. "Now, now, is that any way for me best mate to behave?" Doyle
turned the motor on, and drove out of the car park, halting at the exit.
"You reckon we should head up there tonight? Wouldn't want to miss me
interview." 

"Yeah," Bodie sighed, "guess we'd better." He rubbed his hands together.
"Quick pint first?" 

Doyle smiled. "Anytime." He turned the car in the direction of the nearest
pub. 

******

*Chapter Two*

As he pulled to a halt on the long, curving drive, Bodie wondered how many
years of scrimping and saving on his CI5 salary it would take before he
could afford a place even one-tenth the size of Richard Lumley's mansion.
He studied the Rolls sitting there, and the chauffeur who was busy waxing
it to a pristine shine, and slowly climbed out of his well-worn Capri. He
decided being an ex-hippie commune leader wasn't such a bad thing after
all. 

Lumley's mansion stretched out forever in a basic T shape, all three
stories of it. Bodie didn't know one architectural period from another,
but the place looked similar to ones he'd seen gracing the covers of his
last girlfriend's towering pile of Regency romance novels. Well-kept,
too--even the lawns and hedges looked neatly manicured. It was all vaguely
disappointing. Bodie had expected a thoroughly run-down place overgrown
with flowers and bushes gone mad, with perhaps a leftover psychedelic
paint job on the mansion's facade and a few battered, bumper-stickered,
day-glo Volkswagen vans in the drive. Well, he thought as he rang the bell
on the large oak door, there's still time. Haven't seen the inside yet. 

Expecting a servant to answer, Bodie was mildly surprised when Lumley
opened the door. At least, the man in the doorway looked exactly like the
tall, silvery-blond, leanly aristocratic fellow in Lumley's most recent
file photo, down to the lackadaisical, lopsided grin. He wore a
plum-colored velvet jacket over black silk shirt and wine-colored slacks,
and he sported a diamond earring. Bodie barely got his hand out and
managed to make it through "Hello, I'm--" when Lumley grabbed the hand,
shook it vigorously, and blurted, "The reporter! Yes, yes. Come in, man.
Brody, isn't it? Lovely day. Hope you found the place all right. Traffic
not bad, was it? This way, this way." 

Lumley took off down the hall, but Bodie came to an abrupt stop in the
large, semi-circular entranceway. Oh, yeah, the interior was different,
all right. The entrance walls were covered with a mural of life-size nude
figures, cavorting hordes of copulating flesh which stretched up to the
twenty- foot ceiling. Bodie stared at the multitude of forms--men with
men, women with women, even a few men with women--an orgy of nakedness and
sex acts so complex he had to turn his head sideways to figure out what
exactly was going on. His eyes widened at the size of the cocks on
display. Surely they were way out of proportion to the bodies? Nobody was
*that* big. 

"There you are!" Lumley strode up to him. "Good, isn't it? Quite an
amazing piece of work, really. Took months and months. Come along, then,
dear boy." He took off again down the hall. 

Bodie slowly followed, and stopped dead in the hallway. The entire length
of it was flanked by sculptures and oil paintings- - all of men doing
varied and acrobatic things with each other. "It's obscene," Bodie
muttered, then drew close to one for a better look. 

"Gotten lost again, Mr. Brady? Can't have that, now, can we?" Lumley
tugged at his jacket sleeve. "Would you like a tour of the house? Lovely
work, isn't it? It's all Geoffrey's, you know. He's done everything in the
place--very talented. Very enthusiastic. Did you see the staircase?" 

Bodie glanced over at the object in question. The newel posts were carved
into giant penises. *Think tolerant thoughts*, he reminded himself.
*You're supposed to be a journalist doing a sympathetic write-up on
Lumley. Pretend you like it*. "Um, yes, it's quite amazing. And my name is
Bodie, actually." 

"Yes, of course it is. Come along, I'll show you the library." 

This time Bodie was determined to keep his concentration firmly on
following Lumley. They walked down to the first door off the right, which
opened into a book-lined room. Bodie found it more calming. No sculptures,
no paintings, simply books. Then he stumbled into two huge stacks of
glossy magazines with photos of naked men splashed across the covers. As
he straightened the piles, he glanced at the titles. *Blow Job*, *Stud*,
*Hot Shots* He stopped looking at the titles and went over to the more
sedate appearing bookcases. The first spine he encountered read *Whipping
Boys of Waterloo Station*. 

"I have the finest collection of gay erotica in Western Europe," Lumley
said. "Did you bring a tape recorder?" 

Bodie blinked. "What? Oh, yeah." *Calm down*, he ordered himself fiercely.
*Control, composure, professionalism. It's just a bloody job.* He set his
bag down and dug the small recorder out, and tried to focus on the file
information he'd studied. "The fellow you mentioned--that would be
Geoffrey Evans?" 

"Hm?" Lumley had wandered over to a huge writing desk, where he idly
flipped through a stack of papers. "Geoffrey? Yes, that's right. The
artist. He lives here. I'm sure you'll meet him, he's always about. He's
my companion, of course. I'm sure he'll like you. I thought we *paid* the
plumbing bill." 

Bodie sighed and flicked on the voice-activated machine. "We can start the
interview now if you're ready, Mr. Lumley." 

Lumley tossed the bill aside and looked up, grinning. "Oh, do call me
Richard. Everyone does. Come along, let me show you the kitchen. Susan is
making some fresh applesauce. I'm sure you'd enjoy some. Very healthy.
Susan lives here too, you know. Been here since the old days, takes care
of the animals, helps with the farm. You do want to see the herb beds,
don't you? Only a few winter things growing now, can't really see
anything, but it's where the commune used to be, and that's what you're
here for, isn't it? Bit of Sixties nostalgia, is it, Mr., um, what's your
given name?" 

"Just Bodie is fine." He followed Lumley out and down the hall to a
massive kitchen, bigger than his own flat. A stocky, vaguely forty-ish
woman with waist-length gray hair stood over a bubbling pot which smelled
strongly of apples. 

"Susie!" Lumley sounded pleased, but noticeably kept his distance from the
woman. "This is our reporter, come to talk about the good old days." He
took one nervous step towards the stove. "Is it ready yet?" 

"It is *not*." She turned a dour face towards Bodie. "The good old days?
Hmpf. Load of whiners, that's what we had here. All ran back to their
homes first time the crops failed. Couldn't give up their tellys and their
central heating in the name of the revolution, no, not them. Bunch of wet,
would-be do- gooders with no fucking balls--" 

Bodie cleared his throat. "You lived on the commune?" 

"*I* was one of the *first* And *I'm* still here." She turned back to her
pot. "Load of bleeding-heart rich-kid twits--" 

"I'd like to talk to you more some time, Miss, um--" 

"Solidarity." 

"Right. Whatever you want to talk about, that's fine--" 

"That's my *name*, you idiot. *Ms*. Susan Solidarity." 

Bodie struggled to maintain his bland expression. *Think liberal thoughts.
Or better yet, ask a noncontroversial question.* "Mr. Lum--I mean,
Richard, tells me you keep animals?" 

She glowered at him. "I do not *keep* them. They live here." 

Bodie gritted his teeth. No wonder Lumley was standing off in the far
corner. Bracing himself for another round of abuse, Bodie prepared to ask
Ms. Solidarity which sorts of animals chose to live on the estate. But the
question was at least partially answered by the sound of deep, excited
barking. 

"Let me show you the rest of the house!" Lumley suddenly shouted.
"Quickly!" He scurried towards the kitchen door, but it was too late.
Three Irish wolfhounds crashed through the outer door, sending it thudding
into the wall. One made straight for Lumley, snarling, while the other two
cornered Bodie against the worktop. With tails wagging and tongues
drooling, they leaped up to plant huge, muddy paws on his shoulders and
slobbered his face. 

"Down!" Lumley yelled, "Get back!" 

Susan calmly lifted the lid of her pot and stirred the contents, humming. 

Bodie shoved the tape recorder between his face and the massive tongues.
The dogs immediately developed an intense desire to clean his hands for
him. 

"Try inching your way towards the door," Lumley hissed. 

*Think kind thoughts*, Bodie told himself. *Animals are our friends*.
"Stop licking me, you stupid buggers!" he shouted. 

Susan stopped humming. She raised one menacing eyebrow and an
applesauce-coated spoon at Bodie. "There's no need to be rude to the poor
creatures, *Mr*. Bodie. They are only behaving in their natural way." 

Bodie was relieved to find that the Irish wolfhounds' natural way also
involved a keen interest in spoons, for the instant it was out of the pot,
all three beasts galloped towards the stove and made for Susan's
up-stretched arm. Bodie didn't waste a moment. He bounded for the door,
colliding with Lumley in his escape. They stumbled together into the
hallway, and as Lumley reached to close the door, Bodie caught a glimpse
of three huge dogs happily fighting over the spoon while a scowling Susan
Solidarity rubbed at her arm. 

"*Phew*." Lumley got the door firmly shut, and leaned against it. "Damn
dogs." He frowned. "I mean, of course I love all animals. They're such
innocent creatures, and mankind has done nothing but abuse them for
centuries. But for some reason *those* particular animals simply do not
like me." 

"They liked me," Bodie replied. He wiped at his face with his jacket
sleeve, and checked to make sure the recorder was still working. 

"I'm so sorry about that, dear boy. Would you like a wash?" 

After the decor he'd been exposed to so far, Bodie was not eager to
discover what the Lumley mansion bathrooms might contain. "No, no, I'm
fine." 

"Good, good. Lovely animals, wolfhounds, really. Just a tad enthusiastic.
This way." He bounded off towards the main entrance. "Let me show you the
upper floors. That's where the press is. You do want to see the press,
don't you? Started it back in the commune days, we did. You know,
somewhere in the house is an entire room stuffed with memorabilia from the
commune, but I've no idea where it's got to. Anyway, you'll want to see
what we're doing now, won't you? Of course you will. We're printing lots
of pamphlets on world peace and government abuses and war and Ireland and
women's rights and free speech and free love--" 

Lumley rattled on, and Bodie nodded. They reached the sweeping staircase,
and Bodie automatically put his hand on the newel post before stepping up.
Belatedly remembering what it was carved into, he glanced down to find his
hand gripping a detailed cock head. 

Lumley smiled. "Delightful, aren't they? Geoffrey is very keen on realism
in art." He took off up the stairs. 

Bodie quickly removed his hand, wondered idly what exactly one would put a
prick that large *into*, decided he must be going ever so slightly mad,
cursed Cowley, and followed Lumley. 

******

They viewed the press, and Bodie actually managed to get in a few
pertinent questions about Lumley's political acquaintances, not that he
got any sensible answers. Then they went on to a tour of Geoffrey's
studio, which Bodie could have lived without, the only good part being the
fact that Geoffrey wasn't there. Afterwards they made a rambling outdoor
foray, covering dormant rosebush beds, dried-up, leaf- strewn fountains,
and the scraggly winter herb farm. They perused the outside of the
summerhouse, which Lumley claimed was "extra special," but as it was
locked and he had no idea where the key was, it was left for another
visit. 

The tour ended back at the house, where Lumley headed him towards the wine
cellar. "You look a tad fraught, my boy," he added. "Would you care for a
taste? It's a truly superb collection, been in the family for simply ages.
I'm sure we can find something suitable. This way." 

They reached the musty, dark depths of the cellar, lit by two low-watt
bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Rows of bottles stretched along the length
of the room for a good twenty feet. 

"Got a lovely Bordeaux somewhere down here--just tried it out the other
night, I'm sure you'll like it--ah, yes, here it is." Lumley pulled a
bottle from its nesting place. "Now, there are glasses down here
somewhere." He wandered off. 

Bodie leaned against the cool brick wall facing the rows and rows of
bottles. This was a waste of time. He needed to talk to Lumley's friends,
not Lumley. The scatterbrained fool wouldn't recognize a terrorist if one
walked up and handed him a pipe bomb. 

Lumley returned, clinking two glasses together. "Found a corkscrew, too.
Very handy." He deftly uncorked the bottle and poured out the wine. 

"Thanks." Bodie sipped at the red liquid. "Mmm. Quite good." 

"I don't drink that much, of course, but it would be such a shame not to
make use of this. And I do like to have it for entertaining my friends." 

Bodie leaped at the opening. "I'd love to talk with some of your friends,
especially ones from the old days. To get a fuller picture, you see." 

"Yes, I've been thinking about that." 

Bodie nearly choked on his drink at the concept of Lumley thinking. He did
hope the fellow hadn't strained his gray matter too hard. "Hm?" 

"Well, you want to interview my friends, and no doubt you wish to do so as
quickly and conveniently as possible, yes? Yes, of course you do. Then you
should simply come out here for the house party I'm having over the long
Christmas weekend. There will be quite a few people coming whom I'm
certain you'd be interested in, and I know they'll all be delighted to
talk about the old days. Simple, isn't it? Do say you'll be my guest, Mr.
Brody." 

"It's Bo--ah, hell, it doesn't matter. Are you sure I won't be putting you
out?" 

"Nonsense, dear boy. I absolutely adore having lots of houseguests about.
It'll be great fun. Do say you'll come." Lumley smiled and winked. "And do
bring along any special friend you might have, too." 

Bodie frowned. "Well, I don't really--" 

"Oh, come, come, say yes and worry over the details later." 

Bodie had no intention of turning the idiot down; Cowley would never
forgive him. He simply hadn't wished to appear too eager. He shrugged.
"Yeah, okay. It does seem like a good idea. Thank you." 

"You're quite welcome. Anything I can do to help you out, you let me
know." 

Bodie whirled at the sound of movement, automatically tensing. He relaxed
when Lumley called out. 

"Geoffrey! What are you doing back there?" 

Out of the shadows of the cellar appeared a man in his late thirties, with
a stocky, muscular build, and straight dark hair brushed back off his
forehead. He wore jeans and a blue work shirt. As he strode up to them, he
gave Lumley a warm smile. "I was merely looking for something." He held up
a bottle. "And I found it. Didn't mean to disturb you." He turned to
Bodie. "Is this our journalist?" 

"Bodie." Bodie offered a hand, and Geoffrey gave it a firm shake. 

"I've invited Mr. Bodie to join the house party," Lumley said. 

"Yes, I heard." 

Bodie wondered if Geoffrey Evans made a habit of listening in on Lumley's
conversations. 

"You know," Geoffrey said, turning to Lumley, "you were planning to see
the agency today about the extra household help for the party. Perhaps
you'd best be going--you know it always takes a long time to screen the
files for suitable people." 

"Yes, yes, you're so right, and I do need to see to that personally." He
gave Bodie an exasperated sigh. "Sometimes they send people who simply
aren't happy working here." 

*Can't imagine why*, Bodie thought. "Don't let me keep you, then." 

"Oh, but I did want to give you some of my tea to take with you--" 

Geoffrey was already ushering Lumley towards the stairs. "I'll have it put
in his car, all right? And I'll see Mr. Bodie out. No need to worry." He
gave Lumley a light pat on the back. After Lumley had vanished upstairs,
Geoffrey came back to where Bodie waited, and gave him a long, piercing
look. "Writing an article, are you?" 

"No, a book, actually." 

"On what?" 

"The history of twentieth-century British communes." Bodie felt distinctly
uncomfortable under Geoffrey's penetrating, dark- eyed gaze. "You were
here then, weren't you?" 

"Briefly. I met Richard a year before the commune broke apart. There are
people who will tell you it broke up *because* of me." 

"And why would they say that?" 

"Perhaps because I was honest about my feelings. And I felt that most of
them were nothing but leeches, taking advantage of Richard's generous
nature. I don't like it when people take advantage of him, Mr. Bodie." 

"Yes." Bodie smiled sweetly. "I can see that would be a bad idea." He was
happier now that he'd figured out Geoffrey's angle; the man was simply
protecting Lumley. "He *is* very generous, isn't he?" 

"Indeed. It's a miracle he isn't penniless." 

Bodie was quite sure that Geoffrey kept a close eye on Lumley's
purse-strings. "Doesn't he make a good income off his teas?" 

"Yes. It makes up for the money he sinks into that press of his, and the
bookshop. But they make him happy, and that's what counts." 

Bodie nodded. He drank down the last of his wine. "And is that what makes
you happy? Seeing that he's happy?" 

Geoffrey quirked an eyebrow. "Is that part of your interview?" 

"No. I'm just curious. It's in my nature." 

"I see. Well, I think you'll find that I'm quite curious myself, Mr.
Bodie. Here, let me take that." He took the wine glass and set it aside.
"Let's get you that tea now, shall we?" He waved Bodie towards the stairs.


******

As he was leaving the mansion, Bodie noticed, for the first time, that the
entire Lumley drive was done in the shape of a giant penis. 

******

Cowley knew how to cut corners, all right. Third-floor flat, no lift,
whole thing looked as if it'd been thrown together out of cardboard by the
village idiot. Bodie heaved a sigh of relief as he dropped the huge box of
Lumley's Long-Life Teas onto the rickety kitchen table, then waited to see
if the table would fall apart. It held. 

"Forty pounds of herbal tea." Bodie shook his head. Why couldn't Lumley
have given him a present of Bordeaux? He needed *something* to relax with
after a morning of Lumley and his Mansion of Giant Pricks. Food wouldn't
be a bad idea. He glanced at the counter, where a bowl of bananas perched.
No. That wouldn't do. Bodie opened the fridge. A bag of sausages lay on
the top rack, cucumbers on the middle. He slammed the door shut. 

A little lie-down, that's what he really needed. Bodie went into the
living room for a brief rest on the sofa. Keeping one's eyes closed was
really the best way to handle the living room- -it was difficult to look
for very long at the muddy-brown shag carpeting, which Bodie was certain
hadn't originally been that color, nor were the blue-and-orange flowered,
peeling wallpaper and bright red, cracked, fake-leather sofa inspiring.
The windows were so thin he could see frost on the inside of the panes,
and the drapes looked as if they'd been made from worn, stained
tablecloths. 

He couldn't get the steam heater to work. *Cheap CI5 flat*. Bodie tapped
idly at the pipes for a minute, then gave up and went along to the
bedroom, whose decor failed to match anything else in the place, with its
faded, creaky wood floor and green wall paint of a shade Bodie had never
seen outside of hospitals and public toilets. At least the heater in there
came on fine, though with a good deal of clanking and hissing. He took off
his shoes and jacket and lay down on the bed, taking a few deep, calming
breaths. No more thinking about Lumley's mansion, no more encounters with
bananas, sausages, or cucumbers. One more phallic object and he would lose
it. 

It wasn't Lumley's shrine to manhood that made him a bit tense. Someone
who got easily flustered at unusual environments wouldn't last long in
CI5. No, the thing that caused his edginess was what that phallic house
made him think about. 

Doyle. 

Bodie closed his eyes. How long had he been having *those* thoughts about
his partner? Three, four months now? He'd caught himself eyeing that slim
arse with a sudden intensity, not to mention the tight pull of Doyle's
jeans across his crotch, or the brief, tantalizing glimpses of chest
hair.... He didn't know why he wanted Doyle. But he did. 

He'd firmly buried the feelings, kept the errant thoughts at bay, and
continued playing his role of CI5's top womanizer. He thought he'd done a
good job, and he kept telling himself it was merely a passing phase, that
it would go away in time. 

Then he'd suddenly been inundated by images of naked male flesh against
male flesh, cocks jutting everywhere he looked, visions of rippling
torsos, well-muscled thighs, strength meeting hardness...and he thought of
Doyle. Bodie shuddered as a tingle of arousal shot through his groin.
Shit. Maybe it was time for a shower. 

The sound of a key turning in the front door made him groan. Bloody hell.
Doyle. Bodie heard the front door open, accompanied by cheerful whistling.
Great. Not only was Doyle back, he was in a good mood. 

Bodie struggled to his feet and steeled his nerves as he walked slowly to
the bedroom door. He was *not* going to let this nonsense get to him. He
valued his sense of self-control very highly, and he was damn well going
to maintain it. Bodie flung the door open. And got a bottle of champagne
thrust towards his face. 

"Oi, I got me a job!" Doyle shouted. 

Bodie reeled back. "What?" 

Doyle stood in the hallway, staring at him. "I said, I got the job--you
okay, mate?" He lowered the champagne bottle. 

"I'm fine." Bodie pointed at the offending object. "What's that in aid
of?" 

"Just want to celebrate, that's all. You *sure* you're all right?" Doyle
started into the room. 

"Yeah, I'm *fine*." Bodie forestalled Doyle's entrance by pushing past him
and on down the hall. He strode into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.


Doyle ambled up behind him and set the bottle on the counter with a
distinct *thud*. Hands on hips, he stared at Bodie's coffee-making
efforts. "Don't know what you'd want that for when I went to the trouble
to get champagne." 

"I'm a little tired, that's all." Bodie turned to give him a reassuring
smile, took one look at the tilt of Doyle's hips and the tightly stretched
jeans fabric and instantly turned his smile into a frown. "Why the big
production? I thought the bookshop job was set up." 

"Mostly, but you can never be sure. Didn't know you needed a good excuse
to drink." Doyle yanked a kitchen cloth off a wall hook, nearly pulling
the hook with it, and set to work on the bottle. A minute later the sound
of the stopper going made a loud *pop*. Doyle grabbed a nearby mug and
filled it. 

Bodie gave up on the coffee. He snatched up a glass and held it out. 

Doyle grinned and poured champagne into the glass. "Cheers." He clinked
his mug against it. Then he nodded at the table. "What's in the box?" 

"Your Christmas present." 

"Very funny." Doyle pried open the lid. "Ah. Had a good time at Lumley's,
did you?" 

"Sort of." 

"Hey, I like this kind--the Five Spice Special--and there's loads of it in
here. You don't need any of this, do you?" 

"Told you," Bodie said, "it's your present. Can't help it if you opened it
early. What'd you get for me this year?" 

"Half a bottle of champagne," Doyle replied. 

Bodie smiled. "Sorry about being touchy earlier. Had a wearing morning.
Good thing about the bookshop. Did you have a good time with Colleen
Dunbar?" 

"She was okay," Doyle answered vaguely. 

"Ah ha. Didn't she take to your charming ways?" 

"Didn't really have time to find out," Doyle muttered. "She spent twenty
minutes on the interview, hired me on the spot, and put me to work." 

"It's a rough life." Bodie grinned, trying to envision Doyle the Bookshop
Clerk. "What'd she make you do, then?" 

"Had to memorize the stock." Doyle rubbed at his neck. "Got a crick from
turning me head sideways to read the bloody titles. Do you know how many
different books have been written about the power of pyramids?" 

Bodie dutifully shook his head. 

"Too damn many. Big sellers, though, Colleen told me. Outdoes Chairman
Mao's little red book by ten to one." 

Remembering what Geoffrey had said about the shop not being profitable,
Bodie asked, "Is that why they branched out? Politics not making enough
money?" 

"Yeah. Colleen didn't sound terribly happy about it, either. She'd much
rather see nothing but leftwing propaganda. But it was losing money." 

"That's what Geoffrey Evans told me, too." 

"He's behind the change," Doyle replied. "That's what Colleen said. Or to
put it her way, 'it's all the fault of that damn lover of his'. She
doesn't mince words. Anyway, he made them stock the astrology stuff, and
the UFO books, witchcraft, paganism, tarot cards, you name it--started
around two years ago, and it's working. They might even make a profit this
year." 

"Makes sense. I'll tell you one thing--Evans is very keen on watching
after Lumley's interests. 'Course, somebody ought to, 'cause Lumley is
busy living in Cloud-Cuckoo-Land." 

"Oh, yeah?" Doyle picked up the champagne bottle and headed towards the
living room. "Not busy harboring terrorists, then, is he?" 

Bodie followed, joining him on the sofa. "Not bloody likely." 

"What about Evans?" 

"Don't know. Doesn't seem political. The only political one there was a
commune hold-out named Susan Solidarity, if you can believe that." 

"I do. She's in the files somewhere." Doyle poured more champagne. "Most
of 'em changed their names when they moved to the commune. 'Course, most
of 'em changed 'em back again." 

"Yeah." Bodie gulped down his champagne, hoping the alcohol would warm him
up. "So you have to go off to work early tomorrow, do you?" 

Doyle sighed. "Nine o'clock." He gave Bodie a suspicious look. "What are
*you* going to be up to?" 

"Thought I'd pop round to the local newspaper, have a look through their
files, see if Lumley or his friends turn up. And in the afternoon, I'll
see about interviewing Ms. Dunbar. In the meantime, what are we doing
about supper?" 

"There's a pub two blocks down that looks all right." Doyle stood and
crossed to the heater. "Why is it so cold in here?" 

"'Cause that thing doesn't work." 

"What?" Doyle tapped at the pipes. "What's wrong with it?" 

"How should I know? The one in the bedroom works just fine." 

"Good." Doyle sat down again. "'Cause there's no way I'm sleepin' out here
tonight." 

Bodie paled. The last thing he needed right now was to share a bed with
Doyle. "It's not that bad. Use some extra covers." 

Doyle turned wide eyes on him. "It's bloody well freezin' out here, mate."


"Yeah, well, the bed's a bit small--" 

"Is not. What's the matter with you?" 

"Nothing." Bodie was wrong about the last thing he needed. The last thing
he needed was a suspicious Doyle. "Just didn't think you'd want to put up
with me snoring." 

"I'll put up with a herd of ruddy elephants snoring if it means I get to
be warm." 

"Yeah, okay." Bodie shivered; it *was* freezing in there. "Supper? We can
always finish the champagne later." 

"Good idea." Doyle set his mug down, stood, and stretched, displaying more
of his lithe muscles than Bodie cared to think about, and he tried very
hard not to be affected by it. Doyle relaxed, put his hands on his hips,
and looked at him patiently. "You comin', or what?" 

Bodie gritted his teeth. It was going to be a long night. 

******

As it turned out, Bodie survived, though barely. When they climbed into
bed that night, he scrunched over to the edge as far as he could get and
turned his back to Doyle, who began snoring thirty seconds after his head
hit the pillow. 

Bodie lay there fitfully, unable to sleep, until he finally gave up his
grip on the bed edge and rolled onto his back. Some time later, as he
drifted in and out of a light doze, Bodie felt Doyle shift, and then
suddenly Doyle rolled towards him, arms and legs flinging about randomly.
An arm flopped across Bodie's chest, a leg nudged against his. Doyle began
making the strangest damn noises Bodie had ever heard--a series of weird
little whimpers and odd groans. Bodie gently dislodged the arm, all the
while wishing he could draw Doyle even closer, and knowing that he
couldn't. He wondered what on earth had gotten into him to make him feel
so physically affectionate towards someone who flopped about in bed like a
crazed octopus. At last Doyle gave out a tiny moan and rolled back onto
his side, leaving Bodie in relative peace. For a while. 

Three more times during the night Doyle did his octopus imitation, and
each time a drowsy Bodie carefully moved the offending limbs off his body.


Bodie survived. But he never did get much sleep. 

******

*Chapter Three*

"And here's your change, sir. Thank you for shopping at Red and Black
Books. Happy Christmas." Doyle's smile lasted until the customer was out
the door, then he let out a long- suffering sigh. When would these fools
leave him alone? 

He was the only one there. Colleen had stepped out for lunch and her
office was beckoning to him. He wanted to snoop so badly, but all these
bloody people kept coming into the bookshop, wanting to buy books, for
chrissakes. 

Three more customers idled about the shelves. There was no way he could
get into the office now. Doyle resigned himself to doing it some other
time, and put the fake smile back on his face as yet another holiday
shopper entered. 

Bet Bodie wasn't having such a taxing day. Lazy sod had been snoring away
when Doyle had risen at seven-thirty. And he'd been snoring away when
Doyle left an hour later. Could still be sleeping for all he knew. Why did
Bodie get all the luck on this assignment? Wasn't fair. 

"Do you have the latest Castaneda?" A customer broke into Doyle's reverie.


"Yes, ma'am." Doyle led her to the proper aisle. "Down at the bottom
there." 

"Oh, dear me. What's he doing next to Lobsang Rampa? I don't think that's
terribly appropriate. Rampa should be in the Asian Religion section, young
man." 

"Sorry. I'll have a word with the manager, shall I?" 

"Well, I think you should. This place has always been disorganized. Edgar
Cayce in the UFO books, witchcraft lumped in with paganism, vampires and
werewolves in the ghost section and zombies in a completely different
place. It's a disgrace." 

Doyle nodded. "Yes, I expect you're right." He made his escape, returning
gratefully to the cash register. He supposed it could be worse. Bodie
could walk in at any moment, for instance. After all, he had said he
wanted to interview Colleen. The sneaky bastard didn't really *want* to
interview her, of course. The sneaky bastard wanted to make a move on her.
Well, Doyle would have to see about that. If he could manage to make a
move first, that might hamper Bodie's plans ever so slightly. 

He waited patiently for his boss to return from lunch. Not long after she
did, his opportunity arose. The other temporary help person, a young woman
named Katherine, arrived for her part-time afternoon shift. Doyle happily
turned over the cash register to her and went along to Colleen's office. 

"Come in, come in." She sat with her feet up on her desk, dressed in jeans
and a soft, flowing, white silk blouse, her long red hair cascading over
her shoulders. "Close the door, Ray. What is it?" 

"Well, I had a complaint today," he began as he glanced round the room,
searching for something against which he could lounge. The filing cabinet
was too far away, and the only other furniture was a tea trolley and a
long padded bench. He made do with putting his hands on his hips and
tilting them. 

Colleen looked up from the papers she'd been perusing. She smiled. "Don't
see how anyone could complain about you." 

*That was quick.* "It wasn't me, exactly. Was the way the books are
arranged." 

"Oh, that." She swung her legs off the desk, put the papers down, and
stood. "Would you like some tea?" She crossed to the trolley and poured
out two cups. 

"Yes, please. It's been a long morning." 

"Sugar? Milk?" 

"Just sugar." 

She handed him a cup, then sat on the bench, patting it. "Sit down. Much
more comfortable." 

"Thanks." He relaxed on the bench beside her. This was going well. Poor
Bodie didn't stand a chance. He sipped at the hot, sweet liquid. "Um,
that's good. Not drinking Lumley's Long- Life Teas, I see." 

"Can't stand the stuff." As she drank, she gazed up at him through long
lashes. "You know what I'd really like to talk about, Ray?" She smiled and
let her hand drop casually onto his thigh. 

Doyle smiled back. She was his for the taking, all right. "No. What do you
want to talk about?" 

Colleen gazed lovingly at him. "The oppression of the lower class." 

"What?" Doyle nearly dropped his teacup. 

"The lower classes are being systematically abused by the people who
control our school systems," Colleen replied. She gave Doyle's thigh a
light squeeze. "And something has to be *done* about it. Don't you agree?"


"Well, I suppose so." Doyle gulped down more tea. "But I'm not sure what
you mean." 

Colleen set her cup down and snuggled close to him, her thigh solidly
against his. "Beatrix Potter," she purred. 

Doyle wondered how he could go about dumping this madwoman on Bodie. "Me
mum used to read Beatrix Potter books to me," he replied cautiously. 

"And I'll bet it made you feel *bad*, didn't it?" Her voice dropped to a
sultry whisper. "All those middle-class bunnies in their nice,
comfortable, middle-class homes with their nice middle-class furniture and
their nice, clean, middle-class clothes--how did you feel when you looked
around at your poor, shabby, lower-class surroundings, and your poor,
threadbare clothes? *Inferior*, that's how." She leaned in closer to put
her hand on Doyle's chest, sliding it beneath the shirt fabric where he'd
left it unbuttoned. "School libraries should ban all such works," she
breathed huskily. "It's a *crime* to force those feelings on poor,
innocent children. Don't you agree? I could tell when I first set eyes on
you that you were the kind of man who would *understand* the class
struggle." She found a nipple and pinched it. "And I find that *very*
sexy." 

Doyle held onto his teacup for dear life. He had second thoughts about
dumping Colleen on Bodie. Even Bodie didn't deserve *this* The question
was, how was *he* going to get out of her clutches? There had to be a way.
Cowley hadn't said anything about having to sleep with this nutter. And
dammit, he had fond memories of Beatrix Potter. 

He had to put a permanent halt to her advances *now*. There was no telling
where it would lead otherwise. Three-hour post-coital diatribes on the
evils of Enid Blyton? Doyle shivered. Christ, how was he going to put her
off without making her angry? After all, she was his employer, and Cowley
would kill him if he messed up the op by rejecting a lunatic female. 

"You're so attractive." Colleen nibbled his ear. "At first, when we got
the reference from Pellin, I thought you might be gay, but then I saw you,
and I knew that--" 

"I *am* gay!" Doyle clutched desperately at the straw. He scooted away
from her down the bench. 

She straightened, frowning. "Come now, you must at least be bi." 

"No," Doyle protested. "Not at all." He inched further along the bench. 

"Well." She crossed her arms. "I'm not sure I believe you. Maybe you just
don't *like* me." 

This was going from bad to horribly awful. The last thing Doyle needed was
to lose his job on his first day. "No, really, I do like you. But I *am*
gay." 

"Have you got a boyfriend, then?" 

"Yeah." Doyle smiled. He'd thought of a way to save Bodie from her as
well. "That's why I moved up from London. He lives here. We got tired of
commuting. Here, I've got a picture." He set down his cup and dug out his
billfold. A year ago, at the CI5 Christmas party, McCabe had gone round
snapping candid shots, and had got one of a very drunken Bodie with his
arm draped around the shoulders of a very tipsy Doyle, and they looked
quite happy together. Doyle had talked McCabe out of it, intending to use
it somehow someday to embarrass his partner, and had stuffed it in his
billfold and forgotten it. Until now. He took it out and showed it to
Colleen. "That's him. Bodie. He's a journalist. Handsome bloke, isn't he?"


Colleen sniffed. "If you like the type." 

"Oh, I do." Doyle took his photo back and tucked it away. "We've been
together six years now." 

"Well, I'm sure I'm very happy for you," Colleen said briskly. She stood
and collected the teacups. "You'd best get back to work." 

"At the register again?" Doyle didn't relish an afternoon of demanding
customers. 

"No, Katherine can handle that. I'll show you the stock room. We've got
plenty of mail orders that need filling. It should keep you busy." 

"Good." Doyle followed her out of the office and into the back of the
shop, glad that he wouldn't have to wish a happy Christmas to anyone else
that day, and more than pleased, for once in his life, to have
successfully escaped romance. 

******

Bodie whistled as he entered Red and Black Books. He was looking forward
to teasing Doyle about his new position. Then he saw the girl behind the
register and stopped whistling. Where the hell was Doyle? Larking about,
no doubt. Lazy sod. Bodie ambled about the shop, checking the aisles. No
luck. Well, fine. The teasing could always wait. Meanwhile, he wanted to
have a go at Colleen Dunbar. Maybe a bit of harmless bird-chasing would
take his mind off the attractions of that partner of his. 

"Afternoon." He strode up to the register and flashed a big smile at the
girl there. "Can you tell me if Ms. Dunbar is in? I'd like to see her
about a possible interview for a book I'm writing." 

"Yes, she should be in her office." She led Bodie to the closed door and
knocked. It opened to reveal a tall young woman with long red hair, as
pretty as her file photo. As Bodie introduced himself, he concentrated on
his chat-up techniques, including the warm, disarming smile, steady eye
contact, and softer, respectful tone of voice. 

She waved him into her office and shut the door, offering him a bench
seat. "Would you like a cup of tea?" 

"Yes, please." He turned down milk and sugar. 

"You're Ray's--" there was a pause, "--friend?" 

"Yeah, that's right." What the hell had Doyle been telling her? And why?
Bodie took the cup as she joined him on the bench. 

"He said you were a journalist, but he didn't say you wanted to interview
*me*. What's it all about?" 

"I'm doing a book on communes," Bodie replied. He casually leaned back,
splaying his thighs. "Been researching Richard Lumley." 

"Ah. But I was never part of the commune--too young." 

"Yes, I know. Part of the book will be a 'where are they now' chapter, and
I'd like to put in something about Lumley's press. He still puts out
pamphlets and sells them through the shop, doesn't he?" 

"Quite a lot of them, yes. But he could tell you a lot more about that
than I could." 

Bodie shifted close to her and gave her a long, penetrating look. "Don't
you help with the press?" 

"Not really. Sometimes I work on page layouts and design, nothing special.
I certainly don't write anything." 

She was definitely keeping her distance, and maintaining a cool demeanor.
Bodie searched for something else to ask her, anything. "Can you tell me
what else Lumley gets up to these days?" 

Her lips formed a little pout. "Well, he stops by the shop from time to
time, and he spends quite a lot of time working on fund raisers and other
events for the Sexual Tolerance League." 

Bodie batted his long eyelashes at her. He wanted a little sexual
tolerance, and he wanted it right about now. "How fascinating. I'd love to
talk with you more about all this, though it would be nice if we could do
so somewhere more...elegant. Perhaps I could talk you into dinner?" He
leaned in closer to turn his most sensual gaze on her. 

"I beg your pardon?" She arched an eyebrow. 

"Fine restaurant," Bodie persevered, "a good bottle of wine,
candlelight--I'll bet your hair looks lovely in the candlelight." 

She stood abruptly. "I think you can leave now, Mr. Bodie. And I've a good
mind to tell Ray what you've been doing." 

Bodie blinked. "Just a bit of harmless fun--" 

"Fun? You were trying to chat me up!" 

"Well, yeah." No point in denying it. But what was she getting so upset
about? 

"Of all the rude--you just get out of here! That's no way to treat Ray.
He's such a lovely man. How dare you try to cheat on him like this!" 

"*What*?" Bodie dropped his tea cup, and the liquid streamed across the
carpet. He jumped up. "I'm sorry--" 

"Sorry, hell. Just *get out*!" She opened the door. "*Now*!" 

Bodie dashed out of the office, and the door slammed shut behind him. He
stood numbly in the corridor. What the *hell*? Cheating on Doyle?
*Cheating* on him? Bodie shook his head. There was only one way to clear
up the confusion. He stalked back to the cash register to demand Doyle's
whereabouts. 

"I think he's in the stockroom," the girl told him. 

"Right. And where's that?" 

"At the far end of the corridor. But customers aren't allowed-- " 

Bodie was long gone. He stormed down to the door at the end of the
corridor, ignored the *Employees Only* sign, and pushed it open. Doyle
stood at a work table, surrounded by shelves of books and towering boxes.
He was busy stuffing books in boxes, ticking off titles on an order form,
and barely glanced up at Bodie's entrance. "'ello," he said casually.
"What're you doin' back here?" 

"I'm looking for an answer." Bodie planted himself on the opposite side of
the table, hands on top, leaning menacingly towards his partner. "I've
just had a little talk with your boss." 

"Oh, yeah?" Doyle didn't look up from his work. "You doing your
interview?" 

"Among other things." Bodie slapped at the order form in Doyle's hands.
"Will you bloody well look at me?" 

Doyle looked up. "What the hell's up with you?" 

"Either your boss is one strange lady, or there's something you haven't
told me, sunshine, 'cause I just got thrown out of her office, and I want
to know *why*, and I want to know *now*." He poked at the books for
emphasis, knocking the top two off the pile. 

"Oi, watch it, mate." Doyle crossed his arms and glared back at Bodie.
"What did you do to her?" 

"*Nothing*! Only tried a little chat up. Nothing threatening, that's for
sure." 

"Oh." Doyle suddenly paled, and he shifted a bit from foot to foot. "Think
I need to go take a leak--" He started towards the door. 

"Hold it." Bodie put a world of threat into the two words. 

Doyle halted. He gave Bodie a weak smile. "She's a bit weird, Colleen is."


"So are you. Keep talking." 

"Well," Doyle let out a long sigh. "Well, she's got some very odd notions
of foreplay, you see." He scratched his head. "I tried it on with her
earlier today." 

Bodie tapped his foot. "I'm still listening. This better be good, Doyle." 

Doyle inched closer to the door. "She kept going on about the class
struggle, Bodie. All about middle-class people ruining lower-class kids in
school. She wouldn't shut up. And she kept coming on to me the whole time.
It was 'orrible." 

"Really? Make me believe it." 

"It *was*, I swear. I couldn't take it. Didn't want to have anything to do
with her. She's nuts. You wouldn't want to go out with her. It would be
criminal to let you--" 

"Couldn't let me decide for myself, could you?" Bodie advanced on him.
"What the hell did you tell her?" 

Doyle made another move towards the door. Bodie blocked his way.
"Nothing," Doyle muttered. "Just that I wasn't, um, available." 

"And why is that, Ray?" Bodie backed Doyle up against a tall shelf
overflowing with books. "Why aren't you available, hm? Already got
someone, is that right? But you didn't tell her you had a *girlfriend*,
did you?" 

"Not exactly, no." Doyle gulped. "She happened to mention Pellin, and I
thought, well, it wouldn't do any harm to get out of it by pretending to
be, um, you know--" 

"*You told her we're lovers!*" 

"Yeah." Doyle nodded. "Sorry." 

Bodie put his hands over his eyes, gritted his teeth, and counted slowly
to ten. When he lowered his hands, he saw Doyle staring at him, face
flushed, eyes wide, biting his lower lip. The books on the shelf behind
him were teetering precariously. "Sorry," Bodie repeated. "You're sorry."
Of all the stupid lies Doyle could have come up with, why did it have to
be that one? "You realize she'll probably tell Lumley?" 

"So? He won't mind." 

"I bloody well know that!" Bodie jabbed at Doyle's shoulder. "You realize
he's invited me to his Christmas house party? You realize he wants me to
bring along a guest? Well, now he'll expect me to bring *you*! As my
'special' friend!" 

"Sorry." Doyle tried to move away from the shelf. 

"Where do you think you're going?" 

"I'm trying not to get me head bashed by books!" Doyle shoved past Bodie
and strode back to the work table. "I was only doing you a favor, anyway,
so stop getting hot and bothered." 

"A favor?" Bodie followed, stopping a couple of feet away, hands on hips.
"You were doing me a favor by telling everybody I'm queer?" 

"I didn't mean to. It just popped out. Got desperate--I'm telling you,
she's a right nutter. And what's wrong with me going to Lumley's party,
anyway? We're *supposed* to be investigating his friends--why not do it
together?" 

"Because they'll all think that we're...that you and I are...well, you
know." Bodie fumbled, unable to talk about the wretched mess, especially
as sex with Doyle had been on his mind so much of late. Of all the idiotic
situations. "Why'd you tell her it was me, anyway? You could've made
somebody up." 

"You were handy," Doyle replied. He grinned. 

"Oh, very funny." Bodie shook his head. "You're going to suffer for this,
Doyle. Believe me." He turned and stormed out of the room without looking
back. 

******

Doyle counted out the last of the one-pound notes and jotted the number
down. Then he used the calculator to add everything up, comparing the
total to the one on the register receipt. "Fifty pence short." 

"Do it again," Colleen said. 

It was a little after half past five and the shop was closed. Katherine
had left and Doyle was back at the register, where Colleen was showing him
how to balance the till. He'd started the laborious process of counting
the coins all over again when the phone rang. 

"Red and Black Books. I'm afraid we're closed--" 

"It's me." Bodie's voice sounded distinctly chilly. 

"Oh. You still pissed off?" 

"I've had the repair man in to the flat," Bodie said in brisk, clipped
tones, "to fix the living room heater. *You* can sleep on the sofa
tonight." He rang off. 

"Same to you, mate," Doyle muttered as he slammed down the receiver. 

"That was Bodie, wasn't it?" 

Doyle felt a slight flush in his cheeks. "Yeah." He concentrated on
counting coins. 

"I don't know what you see in him," Colleen went on. "He's a brute." 

"What? No, Bodie's all right. It's only that--" Doyle paused. He might
have known he'd have to embellish the lie once it was started. "You see,
this is the first time we've tried living together, and we're having a few
rough patches, that's all." He'd lost track of the count, and had to start
over. 

"Are you sure he's not taking you for granted? He seems so casual towards
you." 

Doyle shrugged. "I know he enjoys flirting with everyone he meets. Doesn't
mean anything." He gave her a quick smile. "Don't worry. I can handle
Bodie." 

"If you ask me," she replied, "you deserve better." She crossed over to
the shop's bulletin board, took a business card down, and handed it to
him. "Here, I want you to have this. Just in case. They're very good, and
they're quite open- minded." 

Doyle looked at the card. *BREMIS AND KNORR, Sexual Counselors*, with a
phone number and address. "Um, thanks." He put the card in his jacket
pocket and started his count of the coins for the third time. 

******

Bodie rose grumpily to switch the TV channel. It was a black and white TV,
and it was ancient. It made an odd hissing noise. The picture squeezed
people into short, pudgy figures and the entire thing went into a
flickering wave pattern every three minutes, except during adverts, when
it was absolutely clear. The TV was, however, an improvement on the
stereo, which didn't work at all. 

"Bloody Cowley." Bodie returned to the hard, lumpy sofa and his Chinese
take-away dinner. He was actually managing to enjoy the soggy chicken chow
mein when he heard a key turn in the front door, and automatically
stiffened. 

Doyle strolled into the living room carrying a Chinese take- away bag in
one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other. "Hi." He sat at the other
end of the sofa. "See we had the same idea about dinner." He held up the
bottle. "I got this for afters." 

Bodie studiously maintained a dignified silence. 

"You find out anything at the newspaper office?" Doyle asked as he dug
into his food. 

"Nope." 

They ate quietly for a few minutes, except for the hissing of the
television set. 

"I didn't find out anything at the shop today," Doyle ventured. "I think
Cowley's got the wrong end of the stick on this one." 

Bodie munched thoughtfully on his noodles and kept his gaze riveted to the
flickering images on the TV. He thought it was possibly a soccer match he
was watching, though it could be lawn bowling. On the other hand, neither
sport seemed like the sort of thing one would air in December. He
squinted. It wasn't soccer. It wasn't lawn bowling, either. It was
*Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer*. 

"There was a notice on the shop bulletin board about the Anti- Fascist
Society," Doyle persevered. "Said the December meeting was cancelled
'cause of the holidays. Lot of good that does us. There *were* a couple of
contact names on the notice. One of 'em was your Ms. Solidarity." 

Bodie nodded. "It's in her file." The picture and sound suddenly cleared
up--advert time. 

"The other name was David Northbrook." 

"Um-hm." Bodie had got to the fortune cookie. He broke it open and read
the slip inside. YOUR HEART IS IN THE RIGHT PLACE. Terrific. It wasn't his
heart he was particularly worried about, though. 

"You gonna talk to me, or are you gonna sit there and sulk all night?" 

Bodie raised an eyebrow. "I am not sulking." 

"You're doing a damn good imitation," Doyle replied. "And why are you
watching a gardening program?" 

"I'm not." Bodie stared at the TV, which had gone all wavy again. "It's
*Rudolph*." 

"It's gardening." 

"Is not. Look, that's an elf there--" 

"That's a turnip." Doyle leaned forward. "I think. And that bloke was
talking about winter roots--" 

"Was not. He was singing about someone's tooth. I've seen this one before.
The elf wants to be a dentist." 

"You're having me on." 

"Am not." 

"Definitely a turnip," Doyle insisted. 

Bodie stood up and switched the channel. "There," he said as he sat down,
"*All Creatures Great and Small, the Christmas Special*. It's listed in
the *Radio Times*." 

They sat in silence while Doyle finished his meal. He picked up his
fortune cookie, cracked it open, and looked at the fortune. 

"What's it say?" Bodie leaned over. 

"Oh, are you talkin' to me now?" 

"Just give it here." Bodie snatched the paper. YOUR HEART IS IN THE RIGHT
PLACE. "Great." He tossed it on the coffee table. 

Doyle got up to retrieve two glasses from the kitchen. He returned to the
sofa and poured out the scotch, handing a glass to Bodie. Bodie took it,
drank one small sip, and then fixed his attention on the short, pudgy
figures on the screen. 

Doyle gulped down a good portion of his drink. He turned to give Bodie a
long look. "So," he said, "when are you going to tell me why you've been
so moody lately?" 

"What?" Bodie stared at him. 

"I'm not talking about today," Doyle went on. "I'm talking about the past
couple of months. Or didn't you think I noticed?" 

With a great effort, Bodie managed to keep his expression blank. *Bloody
hell*. "Noticed what?" he said casually. 

"Don't give me that. You've been edgy as hell, and you know it. You've
been giving me weird looks, and then turning away fast when I catch you at
it. You don't come by on our days off anymore, but on the job you act as
if nothing's different. You keep getting up and leaving the room when
we're writing reports together, you smile at me one minute and frown the
next, you leap ten bloody feet if I touch you. Something's wrong, mate,
and I'm gonna get an explanation, and I'm going to get it *soon*." 

Bodie swallowed a large portion of his scotch. How much did Doyle suspect?
And how the hell should he handle it? Obviously, the chilly, distant bit
would only make Doyle angrier. He had to make amends, and quick. 

"Sorry," he said softly. "Don't know what's gotten into me lately.
Honest." 

"It's not some bird, is it?" 

Bodie frowned. "Eh?" 

"A bird," Doyle repeated. "You haven't gone and gotten *serious* about
some bird, have you?" 

Bodie thought Doyle looked genuinely disturbed by the idea. "No. It's not
that." He shrugged. "Whatever it is, it'll sort itself out." 

"Hope so," Doyle murmured. He stared into his glass. "You got awful pissed
off at me today." 

"Well, how'd you *expect* me to react?" 

Doyle finished off his drink and refilled his glass. "You could've been a
bit more understanding." 

"Understanding? You tell everybody we're a couple of poofters and you want
me to be understanding?" 

"Did not. Only told Colleen. Yeah, she'll probably clue Lumley in, but
where's the harm in that? I've been thinking about all this, and I think
it's a good idea I came up with." 

"Oh, you do, do you? How do you reckon that?" 

"Like you said before, Lumley will expect us both at the house party now,
and that means two of us to do the investigating instead of one. And
Lumley's friends will probably trust us a hell of a lot more if they see
us as a gay couple instead of just a snooping reporter and his friend.
Besides, nobody knows us up here, so who bloody well cares what they
think? It's just a big joke, Bodie, you know that." 

It wasn't a joke, though, not to him. Bodie sighed. It would no doubt be
best to treat it that way, though--a lark, something to tease each other
about. Sulking just got on Doyle's nerves, and protesting too much would
make him suspicious. Joking around would lighten things up, keep them both
in a relaxed frame of mind. Yeah, that was the way to handle it, all
right. Lighten up. Laugh about the whole mess. 

"Yeah, I suppose you're right." Bodie reached for the bottle of scotch and
topped off his glass. He grinned at Doyle. "Can I call you 'ducky' next
time I come round the bookshop?" 

Doyle smiled. "Yeah. Do it while Colleen's there. Maybe she won't think
you're a brute any more." 

"Did she say that?" 

"Um-hm. Thinks I deserve better. But I told her I could handle you." 

Bodie rolled his eyes. "That'll be the day." 

"You're not still mad at me, are you?" Doyle cast him a wistful look. 

"Nah." Bodie gave Doyle's shoulder a light punch. "Never can stay angry
with you." 

"Good." 

They watched the rest of the Christmas special in companionable silence.
At least, they tried to watch it. When Bodie determined that the credits
were rolling across the screen, he got up and turned the set off. "So," he
said, sitting back down a little closer to Doyle, "what exactly did
Colleen say that got up your nose? I mean, you've had to seduce left- wing
nutters before. It's all in the line of duty, you know." 

"Yeah, I know. But she was so determined about it. She wants to ban
Beatrix Potter!" 

Bodie sputtered as a sip of scotch went down the wrong way. "That *is*
insane. Why?" 

"The animal families are too middle-class. Makes the lower- class kids
feel inferior." Doyle shivered. "Made me flesh crawl, she did. And she was
serious. S'pose she's gonna be at the party?" 

Bodie nodded glumly. "I'd lay odds on it. Don't think we need to worry
about the IRA, mate. We're gonna have our hands full with the bunny-hater
and her pals." 

"Wonderful." 

"Who's this David Northbrook chap?" Bodie asked. "The bloke on the AFS
notice--" 

"Oh, him. He's one of Lumley's pamphlet writers. Hang on--I snagged one at
the shop today." Doyle had slung his coat over the sofa back earlier, and
he reached over to rifle the pockets. "Here it is. 'On the Evils of
Property Ownership.' Can't see why Lumley would publish this. Hasn't given
*his* property to the poor, has he?" 

"Not unless you count Susan Solidarity and the Wolfhound Three," Bodie
replied. "At least, I don't think they're paying rent." He took the
pamphlet and skimmed through its pages. " 'Violence is a direct result of
property ownership,' " he read aloud. "Somebody ought to tell Cowley." He
skimmed further along. " 'Mankind's troubles will end the day the fences
come down. It is in man's best interest to dwell not in separate houses,
but in large, communal buildings, where people can learn to cooperate
rather than compete, to share and share alike.' Hmpf." Bodie threw the
pamphlet aside. "Load of rubbish. Don't want to share. Want my privacy,
thank you very much." 

"Well, you'd better get used to sharing with me," Doyle replied
cheerfully. "Don't think Lumley will put us in separate rooms, do you,
sweetheart?" 

Bodie narrowed his eyes. "Don't call me that." 

"I'm deeply hurt. What shall I call you, then? Sunshine?" 

"No." Bodie set his glass down and tried to look menacing, while
simultaneously trying not to burst out laughing. The pent-up tension of
the day was definitely getting to him, and there were only two ways to
deal with it--anger or laughter. Fortunately, laughter was winning. *Keep
it light* he reminded himself, *make it a joke. Relax*. 

Doyle set his own drink down, and looked deeply into Bodie's eyes. In an
overly serious tone, he whispered huskily, "How 'bout your favorite--how
'bout if I call you 'ducky'?" 

"You like breathing, don't you?" 

"'Bubbles'?" 

Bodie lunged for him. They wrestled about on the sofa, grappling
harmlessly. Doyle's laugh was infectious, and soon they were both
chuckling madly as they rolled and twisted, nearly falling off, jostling
each other relentlessly until, exhausted, they collapsed against the
cushions, heads lolled back, arms and legs spread wide, gasping, trying to
catch their breaths. 

"Feel better?" Doyle said. 

"Yeah." Bodie reached over to ruffle Doyle's hair. "Thanks, Goldilocks." 

"There you go. Perfectly good nickname. You can call me that at Lumley's.
They won't know." 

"Won't know what?" 

"That you call me that anyway." 

Bodie frowned as a sudden chill tingled along his spine. It was true--he'd
been calling Doyle affectionate nicknames for years. What the hell did
*that* mean? He didn't want to think about it. 

"You okay?" 

"Hm? Oh, yeah, I'm fine." Bodie furiously concentrated on changing the
subject. "I was thinking about Lumley's place. I've never been stuck in a
house full of liberals before. What the hell am I supposed to talk to them
about? How do I break the ice--discuss the differences between revolvers
and pistols? Should I tell them how many ways there are to kill a man with
your bare hands?" 

"Ah, it won't be so bad," Doyle replied. "You'll think of something." 

"No," Bodie shook his head, "it's gonna be awful. I mean, once I get the
commune question out of the way, what then? I bet they're all a load of
bleedin' intellectuals. They'll want to chat about art, and classical
music, and foreign films." 

"Yeah, you're right. You better tread carefully there." Doyle waggled a
cautionary finger at him. "Don't bring up books. You might've read
something that'll insult 'em. Like *Peter Rabbit*." 

"Oh, God," Bodie groaned. "It's gonna be 'orrible." 

"We'll survive." 

"Optimist. Wait'll you get a look at Lumley's mansion." 

Doyle looked puzzled. "Why?" 

"I'm going to let it be a surprise." 

"Oh, ta very much." Doyle stretched his arms over his head. "You know,
this sofa is lumpy." 

"Is it?" 

"And it's too short." 

"Looks fine to me." 

"Then you sleep on it," Doyle said. 

"I've got a perfectly good bed to sleep in," Bodie replied. 

"So you have. A nice, big bed. Without lumps." 

"You snore." 

"Me? What about you?" 

"That's different," Bodie said with what he thought was impeccable logic,
"I don't have to listen to *my* snoring." 

"Ah, come on. I have to work tomorrow--I need me rest. Not like some lazy
sods." 

Bodie did his best to look affronted. "I'm doing my bit. Might even need
to drive into Town tomorrow. Thought I'd check out the galleries where
Geoffrey Evans shows his work, see what they think of him." 

"I'm sure it'll be very taxing." 

"I'm sure it will." 

"But nowhere near as hard as flogging books," Doyle said. "Takes an alert,
well-rested mind and body, that does." 

"You toss and turn all bloody night," Bodie replied. 

"Do not." 

"Do too." Bodie jabbed a finger at Doyle's shoulder. "*And* you make
peculiar noises when you're dreaming." 

"I don't." Doyle's brow furrowed. "Like what?" 

Bodie derived great joy from imitating the whimpers and moans he'd heard
last night, and watching Doyle's eyes widen as he did so. "Like that,"
Bodie said when he'd finished his recital. "Just what were you dreaming
about, hm?" 

"Can't remember." 

"How convenient." 

"You sure you're not making all that up?" Doyle gave him a suspicious
look. 

"Scout's honor." 

"You never were." 

"Yeah, well, it's the thought that counts," Bodie said. 

"No," Doyle replied, "it's the bed that counts. And that's where I'm
sleeping tonight." 

*Don't protest too much*, Bodie thought reluctantly. *Make it a joke.*
"Whatever you say, sweetheart." He chucked Doyle under the chin, and
resigned himself to another fitful night. 

******

*Chapter Four*

"There you are, Mr. Brody! *So* glad you could come. And Mr., um, Mr.--" 

"Doyle. Ray Doyle." 

"Yes, of course. Come in, come in!" 

Doyle gaped at the entranceway murals. So that's what Bodie was on about.
Mounds of naked flesh towered around him, writhing in frenzied antics.
Must have taken ages to paint all those convoluted bodies. 

"Ray?" 

"Oh, sorry." Doyle followed Bodie and Lumley into the main hallway. He
stopped to stare at the sculptures lining it. 

"Georgie will take your bags," Lumley said, ringing a bell pull. "George!
Where are you, dear boy? Ah, there you are. Be a good lad and take Mr.
Brody and Mr., um--" 

"Doyle," Bodie prompted. 

"Yes, yes, that's right. Be a good lad and take these gentlemen's bags up
and show them their room--first floor, west wing, first on the right. And
do come down to the drawing room once you're settled, dear chaps--we're
having a little tea, and I'm sure everyone is dying to meet you. We've got
a lovely big tree up in there and everyone is helping to decorate...well,
everyone except the pagans--they've gone out to the garden to make some
sort of circular stone thing--you're not pagans, are you?" 

"Don't think so," Bodie replied. 

"Well, that's all right, then. Rather cold out in the garden. Do go on
up--we're having a lovely buffet luncheon later, and don't worry about
dressing--we're terribly informal around here. I must dash. I'm so glad
you could come." 

Doyle watched Lumley hurry off towards an open doorway, from which the
sounds of merriment echoed. As he reached the threshold, a stocky,
dark-haired man stepped out of the room and planted a kiss on Lumley's
lips before they turned to enter the room, arm in arm. 

"Ray?" 

"Sorry." Doyle followed Bodie and the servant to the staircase, pausing to
look at the newel posts. "Did Evans do all this decoration?" 

"Yeah. Seems to have a one-track mind, doesn't he?" 

"And then some." Doyle went up the wide steps, eyes darting everywhere,
searching for the next piece of phallic decor. At the top of the stairs
they turned down a hallway lined with oil paintings which left little to
the imagination. Doyle braced himself at the door to their room. Would it,
too, be decorated in Early Modern Penis? 

George swung the thick door open, dropped their bags just inside, and
hurried away. Doyle walked cautiously inside, Bodie close behind. 

"Looks fairly normal," Bodie said. He picked up his bag and dropped it on
the queen-size bed. "No nude paintings on the walls." He unzipped the bag,
pulled open the drawer of a chest beside the bed, and tossed his clothes
in. It was a pity they couldn't bring their guns on this assignment; he
always felt vaguely naked without one. 

"The bed posts aren't carved into giant cocks, either," Doyle replied.
"What other surprises has this place got?" 

"The library is full of porn." Bodie crossed to the windows and opened the
drapes. "Hey, we've got a view of the gardens." 

"Yeah? Are the pagans out there?" Doyle joined him. In the grounds below,
two women and a man pranced about in a circle, holding hands. 

Bodie cracked the window. "They're chanting. Sounds like a foreign
language." 

"Druid, no doubt." Doyle chuckled softly. "Couldn't make it to Stonehenge
this year." 

"Think they're secretly planning to blow up Parliament?" Bodie asked. 

"Absolutely. All terrorist gangs masquerade as druids these days. Haven't
you been keeping up? Nobody ever suspects 'em, you see. Can travel
anywhere inconspicuously." 

Bodie smiled as he shut the window and closed the drapes. "Can't believe
we're getting paid for this lark." 

"Quiet." Doyle put a finger to his lips. "Cowley's got big ears." 

"Too right." 

Doyle set about unpacking his bag. "This is definitely an improvement on
the flat. Bet they'll feed us well. And it beats working, too." He'd spent
an entire week at the bookshop, getting nowhere, until Christmas Eve
finally rolled around, the shop closed up, and the house party started.
Three days of being catered to in a mansion--the party wouldn't end until
after Boxing Day--Doyle figured he could handle a bit of luxury now and
then. 

"Will you look at this." Bodie opened an inside door. "We've got our own
bathroom." 

Doyle came over to check it out. Toilet, washbasin, tub--all to
themselves. And all in flaming pink. "Nice. More or less." 

"Just close your eyes while you're in there." 

Doyle retrieved his shaving kit and set it on the basin counter. "What do
you reckon Lumley meant by 'informal'?" 

"Means wear whatever you're wearing," Bodie said. 

Doyle looked down at his shirt, blue jeans, and trainers. Then he looked
at Bodie's good white shirt, tie, slacks and jacket. "You sure?" 

"There are pagans dancing on the lawn," Bodie replied. "I really don't
think anyone here cares who we are or what we look like. You could go
starkers and they wouldn't mind." 

"Yeah." Doyle grinned. "Maybe Evans would want to paint me-- what do you
think?" 

"Would you want your private parts splattered all over the walls?" 

Doyle grimaced. "Put like that--not exactly, no." 

"Shall we go down for tea and crumpets?" Bodie said in a posh tone. 

"Crumpet?" 

Bodie shook a finger at him. "You stay away from the crumpet, Raymond.
You're supposed to be *mine*." 

"Oh, yeah." Doyle let out a sigh. "Almost forgot about that." 

"Well, *I* didn't," Bodie replied with a trace of menace. 

"I *said* I was sorry ages ago." Doyle paled as a thought struck. "You
don't think they'll expect us to be--you know, demonstrative--in front of
everybody, do you? I mean, did you see the way Lumley and Evans acted?
Everybody in the drawing room must have seen them. Are we gonna have to
hold hands?" He studied Bodie's lips, wondering if he'd have to kiss him.
Shouldn't be all that horrible, he thought. They were nice- enough looking
lips. And it wasn't as if he didn't like Bodie...Doyle checked his
thoughts. This damn assignment was starting to get to him in peculiar
ways. 

"What are you staring at?" 

"Hm?" Doyle shook his head. "Oh, nothing. What do you reckon we should do,
then? Play it by ear? Do as the natives do and follow Lumley and Evans'
lead?" 

"S'pose so." Bodie looked distinctly nervous. "I think I can hold your
hand without falling down laughing." 

"What about a kiss?" Doyle pressed. 

"Why don't we wait and see what happens?" 

"'Cause if they're so informal that they're all over each other down
there, and we decide to not look suspicious and at least act a little like
a gay couple, it *will* look suspicious if we start fumbling all over the
place, won't it?" 

Bodie's face had gone positively white. "Are you suggesting we practice or
something?" 

Doyle nodded. "Why not? Can't hurt." He smiled. "What's wrong--not up to
it?" 

"It's not that." 

Bodie was trembling, and for some reason, his nervousness excited Doyle.
It was as if he had found a new hold over his cool, controlled partner.
And all because Bodie was skittish about physical contact. That was odd,
considering how much he enjoyed giving Doyle friendly touches and pats. Of
course, a kiss was decidedly different, but still--he was Bodie's best
mate, it shouldn't matter that much. They should be able to handle any
situation together. 

"Then what is it?" Doyle asked, moving in close. "What are you worried
about? I don't bite, you know. Come on, it's just an undercover role.
Gotta make it look good, right?" He touched a finger to Bodie's lips, and
felt a galvanic shock as Bodie leaped backwards. "Coward," Doyle said in a
friendly tone. He closed in again, backing Bodie up against the wall.
"You're gonna blow the op if you keep acting like that." 

Bodie gulped. "You really think we'll have to act that...well, friendly in
front of the others?" 

"We should at least be comfortable around each other." Doyle was enjoying
Bodie's discomfiture tremendously. Imagine hard-as- nails Bodie walking on
tiptoes around *anything*--it didn't seem possible. But Doyle had
certainly found a button to push. And he liked pushing it. "How about one
quick kiss, just to loosen up? Hm?" He advanced, took hold of Bodie's
shoulders, and leaned in for a chaste peck on the closed mouth before
Bodie could pull away. "There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" It had barely
been a brushing of lips, but Bodie looked dazed and flushed. Now, *that*
was interesting. Curious about Bodie's responses, Doyle decided to push
further. "Wouldn't fool anybody, of course," he said. "So let's try a real
kiss." He pulled Bodie close and kissed him, pressing forcefully against
Bodie's lips until they opened for him, and then he was sucking
energetically, tongue probing boldly into Bodie's mouth. Suddenly he felt
Bodie's arms around his waist, then they moved to stroke his back and
Doyle felt a warm tingling up his spine. He gasped and pulled away,
staring at Bodie, who stood there with his eyes shut, mouth open,
breathing raggedly. 

Bodie's eyes flew open and he spun away from the wall, striding to the
center of the room, where he leaned against the bedpost, his back to
Doyle. 

*Christ*. Doyle, shaken, studied the slumped line of Bodie's back,
wondering what the hell had happened. His own words of the past week
suddenly came back to him. *Why have you been so edgy lately? You don't
come round anymore, you leave the room, you jump when I touch you.* He
thought of the varied reactions Bodie had to this whole gay couple ploy--
first he was angry, then joking, and now this incredible nervousness. And
then there had been his attempts to keep Doyle from sharing a bed. 

"Bodie?" 

"I'm not talking about it." Bodie's back straightened. 

"Talk about *what*?" Doyle couldn't say it, couldn't even fathom the idea
that Bodie might be attracted to him. 

"Nothing." Bodie turned to face him, expressionless. He patted down his
shirt and jacket. "We'd better get down there." 

Doyle decided to let it lie. For now. "Right. Then let's go." He moved
past Bodie to the door. 

******

"I read one of your pamphlets the other day," Doyle said as he sipped his
tea. He'd been approached by David Northbrook, who turned out to be a
short, pudgy, bald man in his early fifties. "It was all about how owning
property leads to violence. Very interesting." 

"Oh, why, yes, thank you," Northbrook replied in a high- pitched, nasal
voice. "I'm engaged in writing a book now, as a matter of fact." 

"So's he." Doyle nodded across the room at Bodie, who sat on the arm of a
plush sofa chatting to, of all people, Colleen Dunbar. "On British
communes." 

"Really? I must go and have a word with him sometime. The thing of it is,
I lived on the commune here, as a matter of fact. For five years. We had
such a communal spirit then, such a glorious sense of sharing. Don't you
think people should *share* more, Mr. Doyle?" 

"Ray." Doyle continued staring at Bodie, who was laughing loudly. Yeah,
some people should share more, all right--they could start by telling
their best mates how they truly felt. He frowned as Colleen laughed back,
and patted Bodie's thigh. What the hell were they talking about? 

"Oh, why, yes, and please *do* call me David." 

Doyle felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned his attention back to
Northbrook, who was smiling at him in a positively lecherous fashion.
Doyle shrugged, dislodging Northbrook's hand. "Need a refill," he said,
holding up his teacup. "Nice meeting you." He made his escape to the table
in front of the room's French windows. An array of teapots sat on colorful
trivets, cosseted by tea cosies. Each had a placard showing which variety
of Lumley's long-life brews one could choose. He picked Golden Harvest
Herbal and filled his cup. In the center of the table lay a tray piled
with biscuits and tea cakes. Doyle ignored them, not wanting to spoil his
lunch. He leaned against the table, sipped his tea, and took a long look
at the house party guests. 

He and Bodie had been introduced all around when they'd first come in;
Doyle now put his CI5 training for faces and names to the test. The pagans
had come in from the cold. All three of them sat on a settee in the corner
farthest from the Christmas tree, where no one else dared venture near
them. The two women were sisters, forty-ish and rail thin, with matching
blonde hair done up in fancy braids intertwined with flowers. Must have
cost a bit to buy daisies in December. They wore long flower-print dresses
which didn't quite match the heavy boots they'd been wearing out in the
garden and still had on. Emily and something else with an E. Doyle
frowned. He couldn't be losing his touch already. He stared at his tea.
Maybe Lumley had spiked it with herbs of a different color. Doyle looked
back over at the pagan clan. Esther, that was it. Emily and Esther
Moonglow. Doyle smiled at the recollection of Bodie's expression when they
were introduced earlier. The contortions he'd gone through to keep from
cracking up when Lumley announced the women's surname had been classic. 

The man with them was named Rupert Flax, and he was as rotund as the
Moonglow sisters were slim. He wore a purple track suit which clashed
hideously with his bright orange ponytail. Doyle had no clue what the
exact relationship was among the three, and he wasn't sure he wanted to
know. 

In the center of the room, Richard and Geoffrey stood over a box of
decorations, debating which colored balls went best with pink tinsel. At
the Christmas tree a married couple, Graham and Julia Hunt, were busy
hanging sundry ornaments. They were odd, Doyle thought, in this particular
company. The Hunts both wore very expensive suits, and Julia sported pearl
earrings and necklace. Both had short, dark brown hair and even their
long, patrician features were similar. Doyle edged along the table to
catch their conversation. 

"No, darling, do put that somewhere else." Julia Hunt gently tapped her
husband's wrist. "It looks positively hideous beside the little drummer
boy." 

"Does it? Oh, sorry. What do you think of this spot over here, my dear?"
Graham Hunt held the reindeer ornament close to a mostly empty branch. 

"Yes, that's quite suitable. Oh, gracious, look at this angel. It simply
won't do at all. *We* never allow plastic ornaments on *our* tree." 

"No doubt purchased at one of those charitable events Richard is forever
attending." Graham wrinkled his nose. He leaned close to Julia and
whispered fiercely, just loud enough for Doyle to overhear, "He never
really left the Sixties' idealism behind, poor fellow." 

Julia nodded. "It's sad, isn't it, how some people never move on. But at
least he managed to keep his money. It's the others- -" She turned to cast
a disparaging glance towards the pagans. "--the ones who never learned
that having money is the way to change things, who are truly pitiable,
don't you agree, darling?" 

"Yes, quite true. What do you think of this sleigh?" 

"A bit quaint, isn't it? Don't we have something very like it on our tree,
only all in solid gold? So much better than--" Julia sniffed. "--well,
than whatever that is made of." 

Doyle sidled away again. He'd heard enough. He remembered what he'd read
of the Hunts from the CI5 file. They'd met each other at Lumley's commune
and left shortly after to become highly successful real estate developers.
They had a nine-year-old daughter named Victoria, who no doubt had been
left at home with the nanny to prevent exposure to the Phallic Palace. The
Hunts consistently voted Conservative and never gave a dime to charity. 

Bodie's laugh broke into Doyle's thoughts again. He decided it was time to
investigate Bodie's new-found amiability with Colleen. Doyle ambled over
to the sofa, flashed a big grin at Bodie, then nodded at the empty spot
beside Colleen. "Is this seat taken?" 

"Not at all." She patted the sofa. "Sit down. We were just talking about
you." 

Doyle sat down, fixing Bodie, who still perched on the sofa arm, with a
steely look. "All good, I'm sure." 

Colleen let out a soft laugh. "Bodie was telling me about the time you
locked yourself out of your flat with only your underpants on, in January,
in the middle of the night. I never knew you led such an exciting life." 

*Neither did I*, Doyle thought. What other fabrications had Bodie come up
with? "He's a good storyteller, isn't he?" 

"Oh, he's wonderful." She gave Bodie a wink. "And he's much nicer than I
first thought." She leaned close to Doyle and said softly, "I think he
must be very fond of you. You're all he talks about." 

"Is that so?" Doyle smiled sweetly at Bodie, whose own smiling expression
seemed ever so slightly strained. "What else did he tell you?" 

"Well, I don't know if I should repeat certain parts." 

"Go on," Doyle urged, looking not at her but at his partner, "*I* don't
keep any secrets from Bodie." 

"All right, then," Colleen said, "is it really true that you once got
drunk in Soho and had a rose tattooed on your rear end?" 

Doyle's eyes went wide. "You bastard!" 

Bodie burst out laughing. 

Colleen looked from one to the other, then focused on Bodie. "You've been
having me on." 

"Only a bit." Bodie shrugged, then grinned. "It's not on his bum." 

"I'll get you for this, mate." 

"Ah, don't be like that." Bodie looked to Colleen for support. "We were
just having some fun, right?" 

"Absolutely." Colleen patted Doyle's thigh. "No harm done. Please say
you're not angry with him, Ray." 

Doyle opened his mouth to protest, saw the triumphant look on Bodie's
face, and shut it again. No, he wasn't getting off that easy. Retribution
was in order, but not in the manner Bodie might be expecting. Doyle
recalled the power he'd held over Bodie back in the bedroom, and how
simple it was for him to make Bodie squirm. There would be no angry words,
no recriminations-- quite the opposite. And Bodie would be helpless,
unable to do a thing about it. 

Doyle rose, set his teacup on the coffee table, and closed in on a
suddenly nervous-looking Bodie. "You're right," he said to Colleen, "no
harm done." He laid his hand on Bodie's thigh, which twitched in response.
Bodie's eyes had narrowed. "And I'm not mad. See, his sense of humor is
one of the things I love most about him." Doyle leaned in to rest his head
briefly against Bodie's shoulder, and wrapped his arms around his waist
for a tight squeeze. Feeling the tremors running through Bodie, he hugged
him even tighter. Then he lifted his head to plant a kiss on Bodie's cheek
before releasing him. Giving one last pat to Bodie's thigh, Doyle returned
to the sofa. He gazed up at Bodie with the sweetest, most innocent
expression he could manage, pleased beyond words to see the strained look
on his partner's face. 

"Good," Colleen said. "I find it sad that so few relationships work out
these days." 

Doyle replied with a noncommittal grunt. 

Bodie, having regained his composure, nodded towards Richard and Geoffrey,
who were happily hanging red and green ball ornaments with abandon. "They
seem to be doing all right. Been together six years, haven't they?" 

"Nearly seven. Yes, they do get on well." 

"What about them?" Doyle nodded at the Hunts. 

"I wouldn't know," Colleen replied. "I never see them except at these
parties. Richard always invites everyone who was at the commune, but very
few show up. And those two only come so they can gossip about all the
others." 

"Do you know of anyone else who's coming?" Doyle asked. 

"Paul will no doubt turn up. He's Richard's nephew--his sister's son. I
think he's only nineteen or twenty. The sister married a charming actor
who never made any money, and Paul has never forgiven her for it. He can't
stand Richard but shows up to all the parties to sponge off him. He really
wants very much to be rich. Luckily, Geoffrey is quite practiced at
warding off leeches." 

"Is that all the guests?" Bodie asked. 

Colleen shrugged. "Anyone else who was coming would have been here by
now." 

"S'pose I'd better make my rounds, then." 

"Eh?" Doyle raised an eyebrow at Bodie. 

"Need to find out if any of them want to be interviewed," Bodie replied.
"You know, about the 'good old days'." 

"Oh, yeah, your book." Doyle smiled. "Start with David Northbrook--he's
quite keen on politics." 

"Is he?" 

"Absolutely. Fascinating man." Doyle looked over at the balding, pudgy
Northbrook. "I'm sure you'll get on famously." 

Bodie cast him a suspicious glance, then shrugged and stood up. "I'll see
you later." 

Doyle sat back and relaxed, ready to enjoy watching Bodie deal with
Northbrook. But his serenity was disturbed by Colleen. 

"Ray." She laid a hand on his knee. "Can we talk about more serious
matters?" 

He swallowed a large gulp of tea. "Such as?" 

"Have you ever heard of the POCS?" 

Doyle felt a tingle of excitement--could this finally be it? A clue to the
terrorist gang? Their first real evidence? He shook his head, but leaned
forward, looking interested. 

"It stands for Protect Our Children Society," she replied earnestly. "The
group which is striving to remove classist books from the school
libraries. I know you're interested in the class struggle, Ray, and I'm
hoping you'll join us. We're meeting in early January to discuss the books
of Enid Blyton- -" 

Doyle sank back and let her rattle on, defeated again. And, in trying to
appear at least vaguely attentive to Colleen's verbal assault, he failed
to pay attention to Bodie and Northbrook, missing out on all the fun. 

******

It took Bodie all of five minutes to figure out why Doyle had foisted him
onto David Northbrook. The man couldn't keep his hands to himself, and
Bodie only got him to cease and desist by forcefully aiming the heel of
his shoe into Northbrook's shin. Another ten minutes of awkward
conversation told Bodie all he needed to know, that Northbrook had but two
topics on his mind-- the evils of property, and sex. So Bodie excused
himself and made his way over to the pagan corner. 

"How nice of you to join us." The Moonglow sisters spoke in unison. They
shifted over on the settee. 

"So kind." Bodie scrunched down between them, then smiled at Rupert Flax,
who gave him a glowering look in return. 

"Geoffrey has told us all about you," one of the sisters said. Bodie
believed it was Emily, though it was hard to tell. 

"How thoughtful of him," he replied. 

"He says you're going to write wonderful things about the commune we lived
on," Esther added. 

"Well," Bodie said carefully, "naturally I'll try to tell the truth." 

"The commune was a delightful place," Emily said. "We found *Rupert* at
the commune." 

Bodie smiled and nodded, then glanced over at Flax. He scowled back. Bodie
turned back to Emily. "I'd like to talk to you about that sometime, if you
don't mind." 

"We'd adore that," she replied. 

Bodie wondered if either of them ever referred to herself in the singular.
He cleared his throat. "I'm also doing a sort of 'where are they now'
chapter--you know, to follow the commune members into the present, find
out what they're doing, how they've changed--" 

"Oh, *we* haven't changed," Esther said. "Not much, anyway. Have we?" 

"No." Emily dutifully shook her head. "We're quite, quite the same as
ever. We just don't live here anymore, that's all." 

"What do you do now?" 

"We run a natural foods restaurant here in Oxford, in the market. Perhaps
you've been there--the Brown Rice Cafe?" 

"I'm afraid I haven't had a chance to eat there yet," Bodie replied,
making a mental note to avoid it at all costs. 

"Rupert is our chef," Esther said. "When we found him at the commune, he
was making the most delightful herb salads you could ever put into your
mouth." 

"We bake the muffins and bread," Emily put in, "with all *natural*
ingredients." 

"You *must* come and eat there. We make a lovely wheatgrass juice." 

Bodie made an effort to stop his lips from pursing. "Yes," he said slowly.
"I must do that." 

"And bring your friend, too." 

"I'll do that." Bodie smiled benignly at the Moonglow sisters. "It's been
delightful, but I must get back to Ray now. He never knows what to do or
say without me, you see." 

Esther and Emily simultaneously turned their heads towards the sofa where
Doyle sat, looking totally uncomfortable with Colleen. 

"Yes," Emily nodded, and her sister nodded with her. "We can see that.
You'd best run along, then. We've thoroughly enjoyed meeting you, Mr.
Bodie." 

"Thanks." Bodie stood, giving Rupert Flax one last chance. "Nice meeting
you all." 

Rupert Flax curled his upper lip and made an unpleasant snarling sound. 

Bodie bolted. 

******

*Chapter Five*

"This place is full of lunatics," Bodie said. 

He perched on the marble-topped coffee table, looking down at Doyle, who
lay stretched out on the sofa. The tea party was over and everyone else
had gone up to see the latest works in Geoffrey's studio. Doyle had begged
off, claiming a headache. Bodie, who'd seen the studio recently anyway,
had given Doyle a malicious grin, then told Geoffrey in a concerned tone
that he "couldn't possibly leave dear Ray all alone." Geoffrey had given
him an approving nod, while Doyle merely scowled. "I mean, I'm beginning
to think there never was a commune here," he added. "It was really a
sanitorium." 

Doyle gazed up at him, one arm flung over his forehead. "Be fair. We
haven't met the nephew yet." 

"Bet you twenty quid he's crazier than the rest of 'em." 

"You're on," Doyle replied. 

Bodie studied Doyle's knitted eyebrows. "Do you really have a headache?" 

"Yeah. Courtesy of Colleen. She went on at me again." 

"Pity. She never tried to talk to *me* about banning books. She must have
a soft spot for you." 

"Terrific." 

Bodie watched Doyle adjust his head on a small pillow. He wished he knew
what he was thinking. Doyle had obviously caught on to *something*
earlier, in the bedroom, after that incredible kiss. But precisely what
had he made of it? And more important, how would he react if he knew the
truth? No, he couldn't let Doyle know the truth. There was no need, not
when he wasn't exactly sure what the truth was himself. There were plenty
of ways to cleverly conceal how he felt, provided Doyle fell for them.
First, though, he needed to know what his partner was thinking without
bringing up that damn kiss himself. Maybe he could start with a lesser
kiss--perhaps the one Doyle had planted on his cheek at the party. Bodie
picked up his lukewarm cup of tea and took a sip. "So," he said casually,
"did you have fun teasing me in front of Colleen?" 

"You deserved it," Doyle replied. "I do *not* have a tattoo on my bum." 

No, Bodie thought wistfully, wouldn't want to mar a perfect surface.
"True. Caught me a bit by surprise, though, hugging me like that." 

"And giving you a kiss." Doyle narrowed his eyes at Bodie. "Or were you
trying to forget that?" 

Bodie considered it a perfect opening. "'Course not. Why would I do that?"


"Oh, I don't know why you'd want to forget one of my kisses," Doyle
replied sarkily. "Seem to get you pretty excited, don't they?" 

"Nah, not at all," Bodie said breezily, as if it meant nothing to him. 

"No? What about up in the room? I didn't imagine that flush on your
cheeks, mate. And you were shaking hard enough to knock down a wall or
two." 

"Was not." 

Doyle's eyes opened wide and his brow furrowed as he wagged an angry
finger at Bodie. "Don't try denying it." He scooted up to a sitting
position, crossed his arms, and took a deep breath. "You're my best
mate--why can't you just tell me what's going on in that head of yours?" 

"Because there isn't anything going on." Bodie tried to stay flippant, but
it was difficult with an angry Ray Doyle glaring at him. "So what if I got
a bit flustered upstairs? It's not every day my *best mate* sticks his
tongue in my mouth." 

"Wasn't only that." 

Confused, Bodie said, "What do you mean?" 

"I mean there's more to it. There's the way you've been acting edgy these
past few months, the way you jump whenever I get anywhere near you, then
this damn op and the way you tried to keep me from sharing the bed, and
you nearly killed me with a bookshelf when you found out I'd told Colleen
we were lovers, and then you act real damn strange about that kiss and
then say you don't want to talk about it afterwards, and if I didn't know
any better, I'd think you were having peculiar thoughts about me, *mate*."
He sank back against the pillow, out of breath. 

Bodie sat paralyzed, staring at a harmless spot a foot above Doyle's head.
It wasn't the reaction he'd wanted. Why the hell couldn't Doyle have
simply accepted his flippant lie and let it rest? Brush it off as another
joke, smile and forget it, go on with being good friends as before, and
nothing more. Why did he have to push it, make it worse? Bodie took a
calming breath, found his legs again, and got up. He crossed to the tea
table and refilled the cup. Dammit, did Doyle honestly *want* him to
confess his attraction? Did he like the idea, for chrissakes? No, that
wasn't possible--he knew Doyle, he wouldn't like it. At least, he thought
he knew Doyle. But then, he'd thought he'd known himself pretty well, too.


When he turned around to face the sofa, Bodie said simply, "What do you
want, Ray?" 

Doyle had brought his legs up and now sat cross-legged, staring at him
intensely. "Not much. Only the truth." 

"And what if you don't like it?" Bodie found it hard to look back at him. 

"Won't know how I feel about it 'til I hear it, will I?" 

Bodie drank the tea down in one long gulp and set the cup aside. He leaned
back against the table, supporting himself with his arms. He felt a
tremendous yearning to erase everything that had happened in the past few
months, to pretend his world had magically changed and that the
uncontrollable ache of desire he felt whenever Doyle was near would
dissolve into nothingness. But reality refused to budge. 

Doyle continued to stare at him. "Bodie?" 

"The truth," Bodie replied slowly, each word hurting more than the last,
"is that yes, I've been feeling...attracted to you. I don't know why, and
I don't know what to do. I can't seem to stop thinking about what it would
be like to--" He broke off, unable to go on. He pressed his palms hard
against the tabletop to stop the trembling. 

Doyle stayed put on the sofa. Bodie was grateful, not for the first time,
for Doyle's intuitive sense of what he needed, and at this moment, Bodie
needed to keep a physical distance. Though now that the truth was out, he
didn't want to be alone, either. He knew they needed to talk. 

"You ever felt that way before?" Doyle's question broke the silence. "I
mean, about other blokes?" 

"No." Bodie honestly shook his head, then, on some defensive impulse,
asked, "Have you?" 

Doyle hesitated just long enough. 

Bodie's eyebrows shot up. "Ray?" 

Doyle shrugged. "Not really. Well, once, maybe--nah, that was different." 

"Why?" Bodie pounced on the revelation. "When was it? Where?" 

"Art school," Doyle replied calmly. "Sometimes we got male models, and
there was this one fellow--I swear everybody in the whole class was after
him." He paused. "We had these parties, all the students would go. He was
a student, too--most of the models were. So he came to the parties, and
well, we used to get a bit wild back then. We were only experimenting,
having some fun. Didn't mean anything." 

Bodie tried to picture Doyle at a wild art student party-- maybe even an
orgy, just like the murals on the entrance way walls. He shivered. "No?" 

Doyle shook his head. "Don't think so. Just a phase I went through." 

"Could be what it is for me, too, don't you think?" Bodie struggled to
sound reasonable, despite the churning of his insides. Doyle was taking it
far too calmly. Surely the fireworks were due any minute. "A passing
phase. I'll get over it." 

"Is that why you've run through more birds in the past two months than
I've had in the past year? Were they supposed to help you get through this
phase of yours? Doesn't seem to have worked, has it?" 

"I'll get through it," Bodie insisted. "Being on this bloody op, in this
damn house, hasn't helped any, you know." 

"Reckon it wouldn't." A flicker of a smile crossed Doyle's features, then
he sobered again. "I don't know what to say, Bodie. Don't know what to
think. Doesn't make much sense. Why me? Why now?" 

Bodie studied a spot between his feet. "You're not the only one who's
confused." He hesitated, unused to expressing sentiment. "I do know that
I've never felt as close to anyone as I do to you." He looked up. "Don't
want that to change." 

"It won't," Doyle said softly. 

"You sure?" 

Doyle nodded. "I'm sure." 

Bodie wanted to believe it. He did believe Doyle was sincere, but that was
now, and things had a way of changing whether one wanted them to or not. 

"Bodie?" Doyle's smile was reassuring. "What do you want to do? We could
call Cowley, tell him the op's a bust--" 

"No." Bodie shook his head firmly. "I'm not blowing an op simply because
I've developed a temporary quirk." 

"Is that what it is?" 

"Yeah." Bodie had nearly convinced himself that was true. "Shouldn't have
even told you." He straightened. "I'm going for a walk. Alone." He strode
across the room, stopping at the doorway to glance at the sofa. A puzzled
and lost-looking Doyle stared back. Bodie let out a heavy sigh. "I'm not
running away. I just need some time to myself. All right?" 

After a lengthy pause, Doyle nodded. 

******

He didn't know whether to be glad or not that his suspicions had been
confirmed. In theory, Doyle believed it was always best to get one's
feelings out in the open. In practice, it definitely could cause
complications. So Bodie felt physically attracted to him. Well, it
wouldn't be the first time a bloke had expressed such interest, though it
was the first time his best mate had done so. 

He cared for Bodie a great deal. He might even say he loved him, as a
friend. It wasn't something Doyle consciously thought about--it was simply
there. Bodie was a major part of his life, very possibly the most
important part of his life. Obviously Bodie felt the same way, but Doyle
had been surprised to hear him come out and say it. *Never felt as close
to anyone*--it wasn't like his self-contained partner to get so emotional.
Though he *had* heard it before. Doyle remembered a time, a bit over a
year ago, when he'd been lying in a hospital bed, barely alive, flitting
in and out of consciousness. Bodie was there, holding his hand, talking
softly to him. Every time Doyle woke up, Bodie was there. And one morning,
after a rough, feverish night, Doyle awoke to see Bodie leaning over him,
red-eyed, unshaved, his shirt wrinkled, looking half-asleep. The moment
Doyle's wakeful state registered, Bodie instantly brightened, squeezed
Doyle's hand, and said in a parched whisper, "Had me worried there for a
while, sunshine. Can't lose you, you know. Would hurt too much." He
brushed back damp curls and lightly kissed Doyle's forehead. Then he
slumped in his chair, head nodding, and thirty seconds later Bodie's
snores filled the room. Doyle wondered, for a long time after, if Bodie
even remembered that moment. Neither of them had ever mentioned it since. 

Maybe that was when it had started, subconsciously, anyway. Bodie had been
so protective of him during the following months, more than usual, and
enough that they had argued over it. And he'd spent even more time in
Doyle's company than before, like a shadow, to the point where Doyle
sometimes felt spooked if he turned around and Bodie *wasn't* there. He'd
got so used to it that Bodie's increasing reluctance to be with him during
the past couple of months had stood out glaringly in contrast. 

Doyle uncrossed his legs and stretched. Sitting here brooding over the
mysterious workings of Bodie's mind made him tired. He needed to stop
worrying it for a while, occupy his mind with something totally
irrelevant. He stood and gazed about the room. Nothing there to distract
him. There were the other guests. He could go join them. But he'd had his
fill of that lot this morning, and would have to put up with them again at
lunch. No, he wanted peace and quiet, maybe something to read would do the
trick. Doyle wandered out and down the hall to the library, shutting the
door behind him. He sat in an overstuffed armchair, leaned back, and idly
picked up a book from a nearby table. 

******

Bodie got his anorak and muffler from their room, then bounded downstairs
and out the kitchen's back door. The crisp coldness of the outside air
invigorated him. Heading off along a path through the rose garden, Bodie
walked without a destination but with definite purpose--to release the
stress of a very grueling morning. 

Frost crunched beneath his boots. He paused at the end of the gardens to
gaze upwards. Dark, looming clouds were rolling in. Bodie decided he
didn't care if a blizzard engulfed all of Oxford--he needed a walk. So he
kept going, heading out to the herb farm a quarter-mile off. 

Bodie paced around the scraggly herb beds for half an hour, back and
forth, up and down, trying hard not to think about anything at all,
without succeeding. Doyle's query kept popping into his head unbidden.
*Why me? Why now?* Damn good questions. He wished he could come up with a
damn good answer. 

Why Doyle...well, hell, Bodie quizzed himself, letting the answers take
whatever reckless course they would, why *not* Doyle? Because he was a
bloke, for one thing. So? So, well, so Doyle was also the closest friend
he'd ever had, and probably ever would have, and shouldn't the person you
fall for be a friend? What did he mean, fall for? Had he fallen or was he
merely temporarily intrigued? Bodie stumbled over a tree root and stopped
to take in his surroundings. He'd gone past the last herb bed and nearly
ended up in the woods bordering the estate. He turned back and stomped
around the farm some more, keeping half an eye on the dark gray cloud
bank. 

Why now...hell, he didn't know. Maybe because he'd already gone through
all the warm, willing birds in London and been left wanting--well, okay,
that wasn't fair. Maybe he'd only been through three quarters of them.
Could still be the girl of his dreams out there, waiting for him, ready to
make his life complete. Except that it did feel complete, whenever Doyle
was around. The irritable, moody, overly concerned, feisty, goddamn
lovable bastard had gotten to him. Bodie kicked a large rock off the path.
Dammit, it wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to care
this much. Look after number one first, that had always been the way of
things. He didn't need to worry about himself and somebody else as well.
Took far too much effort. 

So what did that mean? He should never let anyone in close, ever? For his
whole life? Suddenly that prospect looked to him as bleak as the
surrounding landscape, cold and empty. But to love another man--no,
scratch that--to *want* another man--he wasn't ready to call it anything
else yet--surely that was a half-baked cure for loneliness. But then, he'd
not exactly led the sanest of lives so far. 

Bodie stopped again. He'd come back to the beginning of the farm and the
edge of the gardens. Up ahead stood the desolate- looking summerhouse, and
beyond it rose the mansion. What was Doyle doing right now? Having a good
laugh? No, he wouldn't do that. Worry himself sick over it, that was more
likely. Would no doubt psychoanalyze Bodie more thoroughly than any CI5
shrink could. Great. Probably be Twenty Questions Time again when he
returned. 

He had just started his way through the gardens when Bodie heard someone
whistle. He saw a plump, gray-haired figure in the distance, near the
kitchen door. Good old Susan Solidarity. She whistled again, a tremendous
piercing sound. *Oh, shit.* She was calling those damn dogs. 

Bodie whirled about, searching for signs of the beasts. Three huge shapes
came bursting out of the woods beyond the herb beds, running at breakneck
speed for the mansion. And between the farm and the mansion there was a
clear route. Straight through the garden where Bodie stood. 

He had no desire to be mauled by three wolfhounds, even if it was a
friendly mauling. Bodie frantically sought for a haven, spotted the
summerhouse, and made haste for its encircling porch. As he reached the
stone pillars enclosing it and leaped up the few steps, he heard a
continuous barrage of barking draw close. He tried the door. It was
locked. He heard the heavy panting of large, excited dogs, and dashed
round looking for entry at the building's windows. They were all boarded
over. A loud thumping told him the beasts had gained the porch. There was
another set of steps on the back side and he bounded down them, but not
quickly enough. Huge paws landed on the middle of his back, knocking him
flat. Bodie stayed rock still, face downward on the ground, hands covering
his exposed head, and tried to play dead. A massive tongue slobbered over
his fingers and it was all he could do to hold steady. Then a third sharp
whistle sounded, and the Wolfhound Three took off for the mansion, leaving
him in relative peace. 

Cursing, Bodie sat up, wiping his hands on his jacket. As he stumbled to
his feet, something shiny caught his eye. He bent to pick the familiar
cylindrical object up. 

A lark, that's what this assignment had been so far. A waste of time, a
wrong turn. Except when a nine-millimeter cartridge turned up on the
grounds. 

Bodie pocketed it and headed towards the mansion. As he reached the safety
of the main entrance, it began to snow. 

******

It took him a good twenty minutes to track Doyle down to the library.
Bodie found him scrunched in an armchair, snoring, an open book on his
lap. Sitting on the chair's footstool, Bodie reached over to pick up the
book and started reading the page it was turned to. 

*Trevor wrapped his powerful, wrestler's arms around Dirk's sleek,
sun-tanned waist and gripped his firm buttocks.* 

Bodie's eyes widened as he read further. What on earth was Doyle doing
reading this? Well, he wasn't reading it--looked as if the description of
two men having sex had gone and put Doyle right to sleep. Bodie closed the
book as Doyle stirred and stretched, rubbing his eyes. He blinked, then
smiled at Bodie and sat up straighter, shaking his head and running his
hands through long auburn curls. 

"It's snowing," Bodie announced. 

"Yeah? White Christmas and all that?" Doyle leaned over towards the window
a few feet from the chair and pulled the drape aside. "Wow." Big, fat
flakes poured down, virtually blotting out all else. "We could get stuck
out here past Boxing Day if that keeps up." 

"What?" Bodie feigned shock. "It's only a mile into town. Forgot to bring
your snowshoes, did you?" 

"Very funny." Doyle let go the curtain. 

Bodie dropped the book onto Doyle's lap. "Doing a bit of research?" he
asked pleasantly. 

"Hm? Oh, that." Doyle laid it on the table. "First thing I happened to
pick up, that's all." He grinned. "It's a little weak on plot." 

"I'll bet. How's the headache?" 

"Gone. Probably come back after another round of Colleen at lunch." Doyle
checked his watch. "We've got a two-hour reprieve 'til then. What do you
reckon we should do?" 

"I think a bit of actual sleuthing is in order." Bodie retrieved the
cartridge from his pocket and handed it over. "Going out for a walk proved
quite productive." 

Doyle rolled it between his fingers. "Nine mil. Very careless. Where'd you
find it?" 

"In back of the summerhouse. Door's locked, windows are boarded up." Bodie
decided to leave out the details of his encounter with the wolfhounds. 

"Perfect storage place for stolen arms," Doyle said. "Who'd look for
anything in a summerhouse in mid-winter?" He handed the cartridge back.
"So who has keys?" 

"Lumley gave me a tour of the grounds when I interviewed him," Bodie
replied, re-pocketing the evidence. "He was going to show me the
summerhouse, but he didn't have the keys with him. I remember he said the
place was 'special'. Knowing his tastes, that no doubt means it has more
phallic art inside." 

"Evans would surely have a key as well. Maybe Susan, too." 

"Oh, she's at the top of my list," Bodie said, smiling. "After all, those
dogs of hers are *Irish* wolfhounds." 

"Come on. Tell me who's really on your list." 

Bodie considered the roster of lunatics in the house. "Northbrook would be
on top. He's actively political, and anti- status quo." 

"Colleen's political," Doyle pointed out. 

"She's too busy hammering Beatrix Potter's bunnies. Where's she going to
find time to fit in the IRA?" 

Doyle shrugged. "Maybe. Could be a smoke screen. She makes a point of
rattling on to everybody she meets about banning harmless books, and then
nobody takes her seriously." 

"And nobody investigates her beyond the surface. I take your point." 

"We can eliminate Lumley, right?" Doyle asked. 

"Yeah. I don't think he's putting on an act. He's a genuine, lifetime
member of the Space Cadet Corps." 

"Geoffrey Evans?" 

"Haven't noticed anything political about him," Bodie said. "Other than
being secretary and treasurer of the Sexual Tolerance League. What did you
make of the Hunts?" 

Doyle wrinkled his nose. "They're too stuck-up to be terrorists. How 'bout
the Moonglow sisters?" 

"They're too weird to be terrorists. Rupert Flax, however, is an unknown
quantity. Did you try talking to him?" 

Doyle nodded. "He growled at me." 

"Me, too." Bodie stood and paced in front of the floor-to- ceiling
bookshelves. "So what do we have?" He ticked off suspects on his fingers.
"David Northbrook, pamphlet writer who hates property ownership. Colleen
Dunbar, who's Irish and may be covering up her true political aims. Susan
Solidarity, who never left the Sixties. Flax is a wild card. Evans looks
clean but he does have access to the summerhouse, as does Susan. Lumley's
right out of it, and the Hunts and the Moonglows are damned unlikely
candidates. Not exactly a promising line-up." 

"There's still the nephew," Doyle replied. "If he shows up." 

"Yeah." Bodie stopped pacing, halting in front of the window. He peered
outside. The land was blanketed by snow as far as he could see, which
wasn't very far through the heavy flakes cascading down. 

"First thing we need to find out," Doyle said, "is where the key to the
summerhouse is normally kept." 

"Right. And then we need to keep a close eye on our top suspects to see if
any of them head out that way when they think that nobody's looking."
Bodie turned to face Doyle. "Who do you fancy following?" 

"Anyone but Colleen." 

Bodie smiled. "You can have Northbrook, then." 

"Oh, no, I'm not trailing after *him*." 

"Now, now, it'll be all right. He *likes* you." 

Doyle slumped in the chair. "It's gotta be him or Colleen, doesn't it?" 

"Fair's fair, Ray. I'll spy on Colleen if you take The Lecher." 

"It's not fair." 

"Is too. We've got to divide 'em up somehow." 

Doyle suddenly brightened. "Right. So I'll take Northbrook and Rupert Flax
and you can have Colleen *and* Susan." 

"Hang on a minute." Bodie tried to come up with a more palatable
arrangement. "How 'bout if I add Evans and Flax and you take on Susan?" 

Doyle resolutely shook his head. "Nope. I'm taking Flax, and I'll take
Evans, too. You can have Susan and the nephew, if he turns up." 

Bodie sighed. He supposed he'd have to make the sacrifice, or risk being
ragged about it for the rest of the op. "Okay, okay. That covers our top
suspects. Shouldn't be too difficult to keep track of them." 

"What's everybody doing right now?" Doyle asked, rising from the chair. 

"I saw Evans on my way in earlier," Bodie replied. "He said we were all on
our own until the luncheon, so your guess is as good as mine." 

Doyle crossed to the window and looked out again at the snow. "My guess,"
he said, "is that everybody is standing about staring out windows."

******

*Chapter Six*

Doyle leaned dejectedly against the wall of the first floor landing. Yes,
it had been a good idea to follow the suspects and watch for any signs of
underhanded activity. But none of the suspects were cooperating. 

Northbrook was in the press room talking to Lumley about his new book
proposal, while Geoffrey Evans hovered in the background. Doyle hadn't
been able to find Rupert Flax anywhere and had been ready to give up on
the prime suspects and follow the Hunts instead, until he saw them go into
their room and shut the door. So that was that. There simply wasn't anyone
about doing anything remotely suspicious. 

Doyle shoved himself off the wall, turned to start downstairs, and nearly
knocked down Bodie, who was coming up. He grabbed Bodie's arm to keep him
balanced. Then they both sat down on the top step. "Hey," Doyle said, "is
it all right if I follow *you* for a bit?" 

"What?" Bodie raised his eyebrows. 

"Can't find anybody else to spy on. How are you doing?" 

Bodie sighed. "No luck. Ms. Solidarity is in the kitchen with the
temporary help getting the luncheon ready. I did spot a large keyring
there, with about twenty keys on it, hanging by the back door right above
the heads of three very large and very hairy animals." 

"You don't like dogs, do you?" Doyle asked. 

"Those aren't dogs," Bodie replied. "Those are *beasts*." 

Doyle smiled. "Wasn't gonna say anything earlier, but I did notice some
gray hairs on your jacket when you came in from your walk. Been having
some close encounters with those beasts?" 

Bodie looked away, coughing lightly. Then he shrugged. "They like me." 

"Ha. I'll bet." Doyle nudged Bodie's shoulder until Bodie turned back
towards him. "So Susan's not up to anything suspicious. What about
Colleen?" 

"She's in a room next to the library with the Moonglow sisters. Looked
like they were telling her fortune with a pack of cards." 

"Tarot?" 

"Don't know. Couldn't get that close. I gave up. Where's your lot?" 

Doyle told him. "Can't find Flax, though. He could be in his room. The
door's shut." 

"Reckon we better get bundled up and go outside then," Bodie said. "Take a
closer look at the summerhouse before it's completely buried in snow." 

Doyle thought about his threadbare peacoat and his total lack of gloves.
"Do we have to?" 

"All in the line of duty," Bodie replied briskly, standing up. "Come on,
let's get a move on." 

"I'm movin', I'm movin'." Doyle reluctantly got to his feet and trailed
down the corridor after Bodie. 

******

Everything was white. 

Bodie walked slowly. He was fairly certain where the summerhouse stood,
but it would be easy to miss, being built from white marble. Three inches
of snow already covered the ground and the tremendous downpour of flakes
fell so thickly he couldn't see more than a few feet. 

"It's incredible," Doyle murmured, close beside him. "Never seen anything
like it before." 

"Me neither. Not too many people have, if it's the worst winter in fifty
years." 

"Fifty-three." 

"Whatever." Bodie trod onwards, searching for the darker squares where the
summerhouse windows were boarded up. At least they should stand out in all
this white. It was an eerily quiet place, the outdoors in snowfall. Bodie
didn't like it. 

When he finally found the summerhouse, it was only because he nearly
collided with a pillar. The boarded windows weren't visible until he
climbed the steps and, with a roof above his head, at last had a clear
view free of snowflakes. Doyle stomped up after him, brushing snow from
his coat. 

"Let's have a look," Bodie said. "You go that way, okay? Meet you at the
back side." He started off in the opposite direction, going slowly,
stooping to scan the floor of the circular porch. The search didn't take
long--any evidence would have shown up easily against the white marble. He
met Doyle at the rear of the building. 

"Nothing," Doyle said. "Didn't really think we'd find the odd
semiautomatic or pound of gelignite lying about, though." He had his arms
wrapped tightly around his chest. "Can we go in now? It's freezing." 

Bodie took a closer look at his shivering partner. "Why the hell didn't
you put something on your head? Or at least wear a muffler? Have you got
any gloves on?" He yanked one of Doyle's arms free to find a cold hand.
"Are you nuts?" 

Doyle jerked his arm back and tucked it round his chest again. "Haven't
got any," he said, teeth chattering. 

"No gloves?" 

Doyle shook his head. A flurry of droplets went flying, from the snow that
had melted in his hair. 

Bodie sighed. "No muffler?" 

"Nope." Doyle sniffed, rubbing his reddened nose. 

"I gave you one last Christmas. What happened to it?" 

"Got blood splattered on it last month." Doyle stared at a spot between
his feet. "Couldn't get it out," he mumbled. "Had to throw it away." He
looked up. "Sorry." 

Bodie shook his head. "You're an idiot." He pulled Doyle close and wrapped
his arms around him, hugging him tightly. "Why didn't you say something
before?" 

"Forgot." Doyle didn't resist the embrace. 

"You know, some people might have gone out and bought a *new* muffler,"
Bodie said. Doyle was still shivering, so Bodie unzipped his anorak and
pulled Doyle's arms inside around his waist. He took off his own muffler
and wound it around Doyle's neck. 

"Don't have to do that--" Doyle tried to pry loose. 

Bodie held him firmly. "I've got my head covered, that's enough." His wool
pullover cap fit snugly and was quite warm. He finished tucking the ends
of the muffler inside the neck opening of Doyle's worn-looking coat. "So
shut up and get comfy." 

"We should just go back to the--" Doyle halted abruptly. 

Bodie started to ask what was up when he heard the tread of a heavy
footstep. 

"Sounds like it's on the porch," Doyle whispered. 

There was another step, then the rattling of the summerhouse's front door.
After a pause, the heavy tread started up again, one, two, three steps and
another halt. 

"We better stay put," Bodie said into Doyle's ear. "Try to look like we're
not doing anything suspicious." He didn't want to ruin the casual intimacy
of their embrace, didn't want to push anything, but he had no choice. He
put his hand to Doyle's chin and turned his face close. "Give us a kiss,
okay?" 

"You really think whoever's there is gonna believe we came out in a
blizzard just for a quick snog?" 

Bodie shrugged. "I've heard there are people who consider snow quite
romantic." 

"Yeah. And they're all Eskimos." 

The footsteps started again, drawing nearer. 

"Sorry," Bodie muttered, cupping Doyle's face in both hands. "Honest." He
touched his lips to Doyle's, brushing lightly against them. Doyle's lips
parted and Bodie worked at them more hungrily until Doyle's mouth opened
fully, allowing him in. Bodie was too caught up in the sensation of warmth
and arousal to wonder at Doyle's response. He couldn't resist slipping a
hand under Doyle's coat, running it along Doyle's back, briefly massaging
the taut muscles before laying his hand against Doyle's lower back and
using it to press Doyle even closer as the kiss continued. He felt Doyle
momentarily sag against him, then abruptly pull away at the sound of rapid
footsteps. 

Bodie broke the kiss in time to catch a glimpse of a retreating figure, a
bulky form with a tell-tale orange ponytail. He listened as Flax thumped
down the front stairs, then the footsteps faded. "Wonder what he was doing
out here." 

"Don't know." Doyle pulled completely away and wrapped his arms around his
chest. "I'm going in." He took off so quickly it was all Bodie could do to
keep his dark coat in sight as he hurried after. 

*Hell*. Bodie cursed himself for overdoing the kiss. Wasn't like Doyle to
run away, though, not at all. A flippant remark or angry retort would have
been more likely, so why in the world had Doyle bolted? If he spent all
his life at it, Bodie thought ruefully as he trudged through the snow, he
would never understand the mind of Ray Doyle. 

He lost sight of the dark coat. Bodie shouted Doyle's name and broke into
a jog. 

******

Doyle had never felt so confused before. 

As he neared the main house he quickened his pace, though he could hear
Bodie calling his name. He didn't want to talk to Bodie yet. Doyle hurried
inside and dashed back to the library, shutting the door behind him. He
leaned against it, panting. He shook the snow from his hair and brushed it
from his coat and muffler--Bodie's muffler. Doyle frowned. He'd never
known Bodie to be quite this affectionate before, and he didn't really
understand it. Pure physical attraction he could comprehend, but this
other side of Bodie, the one he'd rarely seen, was more disturbing. 

But maybe he was overreacting. Surely Bodie had simply wanted to keep him
warm with that close embrace, nothing more than a gesture born of
friendship. And the kiss had been strictly pragmatic, necessary to allay
suspicion. So why had Doyle enjoyed every second of Bodie's touch, even
wanted more.... 

Doyle shook his head again. This op was slowly driving him over the edge,
that's all. Soon as they got out of here and back to London everything
would return to normal. 

Doyle jumped as a loud knock sounded at the door. Damn. He wasn't ready to
face his partner yet; he still felt far too confused. He ran to the window
near the armchair he'd sat in earlier, sliding behind the heavy,
floor-length drapes. As the library door opened, he concentrated fiercely
on being absolutely quiet. 

"Are you sure he came in here?" Bodie's voice, coming closer. And he
wasn't alone. 

"Well, I was at the other end of the hall." It was Evans. "But you checked
the rest of the rooms." 

"Don't suppose it matters that much." Bodie's voice was very near, and
then Doyle heard the creak of the armchair as a large body sank into it.
"He'll turn up eventually." There was a long sigh. 

After a moment, Doyle heard Geoffrey's voice--it sounded as if he were
right by Bodie, probably on the footstool. "Are you all right?" he asked. 

"Yeah," Bodie replied. "No. I don't know." 

"You can talk to me if you want to. I mean, Richard and I have had our ups
and downs--" 

"No, it's not like that." There was a lengthy silence. Doyle could
practically hear Bodie's mental gears going, no doubt trying to find a way
to discuss his and Doyle's "relationship" without letting on that they
didn't have one. 

At last Bodie went on. "You see, we've been friends--good friends--a long
time. Years. But the rest of it, that's all happened fairly recently. And
sometimes I don't know how I truly feel about Ray." 

Well, Doyle thought from the sanctuary of the drapes, that was honest
enough. 

"I think I understand," Evans replied. "Richard and I were friends before
we became lovers. Maybe not as long, only a year or so. But I remember how
we used to worry about things changing between us. He thought I'd become
too possessive, I thought he took me too much for granted. All those
things take time and patience to work out." 

"Yeah, I suppose. But sometimes...sometimes I think it's just sex--" 

There was a soft laugh from Evans. "No, it's not. Anybody can see you two
have a lot more going between you than that." 

"What?" A note of genuine surprise entered Bodie's voice. "What do you
mean?" 

"Well, it's obvious. The way you look at each other, the way you watch
each other when there are other people about. Those smiles you two are
always giving each other, the way you touch--it's very sweet, if you don't
mind my saying so." 

With a great effort Doyle managed not to laugh. He imagined Bodie minded a
great deal about any action of his being called sweet. He would have given
anything to see Bodie's face. 

All he got, though, was a discreet cough from the direction of the
armchair. "Didn't realize it was so apparent." 

"Oh, yes. You two belong together. I can see that." 

"You really think so?" Bodie sounded strained. 

"Absolutely." 

There was another long pause. Then Bodie said, "He's moody, temperamental,
aggravating, over-emotional, overly critical--" He went on, numbering
Doyle's faults down to his inability to return things he'd borrowed. Doyle
went through a variety of facial contortions, trying to keep from reaching
through the drapes to throttle him. 

"Now, now," Evans said when Bodie finally finished. "He must have *some*
good points." 

"Oh, I reckon he has a few. Pity I can't think what they are right now." 

There came another soft laugh from Evans. "Come on, it's not that bad, is
it?" 

Bodie answered with a chuckle. "No. I only wanted to let off a bit of
steam. Thanks." 

"Anytime. I mean that. I'll see you at lunch." 

Doyle listened to Evans' retreating footsteps, and then the opening and
shutting of the library door. He wondered how long Bodie was planning to
sit there. He desperately needed to take a leak. 

"You can come out now," Bodie said. 

Doyle gasped. He pushed the drapes aside to find Bodie looking directly at
him. "You bastard." But he couldn't help smiling. "Can't think of any of
my good points, eh? Did you know I was there all along?" 

"Nah. Figured it out pretty quick, though. You really ought to change out
of those wet clothes." Bodie glanced down. 

Following his gaze, Doyle saw the little pool of water that had formed
around his feet and spread out a few inches from the cover of the drapes.
"Snow," he muttered. "I don't think I like snow." 

"Gave you away all right, along with the larger puddle by the door. What
you need," Bodie said as he stood up, "is a long hot soak in the tub, a
drink, and some warm, dry clothes." 

"Thanks, but I did have that figured out already." 

"Go on, then. I'll be up in a while." 

Doyle started to ask why Bodie was telling him to go after his effort to
catch him up, but decided to leave it and take the temporary reprieve. He
left the library and went up to their room, immediately stripping off all
of his thoroughly wet, cold clothing. The bathroom had only a tub, no
shower. He made use of the toilet, then sat on it while the steaming water
filled up. Then he slipped into the luxuriously hot bath, instantly
feeling ten times more human than he had a mere quarter hour ago. 

There were times when he wished his brain came with an on- off switch. One
which would enable him not to think about anything at all short of total
unconsciousness, to simply drift in a peaceful, non-stressful state, free
of any worries, not bothered by unwanted thoughts or persistent questions,
to let go completely, if only for a little while. Yes, he had his various
methods of distracting himself from the pressures of the moment, but he
rarely succeeded in keeping them fully at bay. Always, no matter what
mental games he played, they would be lurking in a corner of his mind,
waiting to come leaping to the forefront again. It simply wasn't possible
to shut everything down, not naturally anyway. And even in sleep, there
were always dreams. 

The bath felt good, and it was relaxing, and Doyle tried his damnedest to
drift off into a calmer place, but he didn't succeed. Thoughts of Bodie
insisted on intruding. Bodie wanting him sexually, Bodie giving him warmth
and affection as if it were going out of style, Bodie chasing after him
one minute and letting him go the next. How much of the extra affection
and teasing was part of the role Bodie had been forced to play here, and
how much was real? Why did he claim the attraction was only a "passing
phase" one moment, then kiss him passionately so soon after? Maybe
somebody really *had* spiked the tea. 

Twenty minutes later Doyle climbed out of the tub, no clearer about his or
Bodie's feeling about anything. But at least he was warmed up and his hair
was clean. 

He put on the green bathrobe hanging on the back of the door and grabbed a
towel to dry his hair. He heard the bedroom door open and shut, followed
by the sound of Bodie whistling "Deck the Halls," off-key. 

Still patting his hair, Doyle opened the bathroom door and peered out.
Bodie sat on the edge of the bed with two steaming mugs. "Perfect timing,"
he said, holding one out. 

Doyle emerged, sniffing. "Hot cocoa?" He took the mug. 

"Geoffrey whipped 'em up for me. And kindly added a wee drop of Bailey's.
It's not bad." He sipped at his own drink. 

"Um. Not at all," Doyle replied as he drank the hot, sweet liquid. He sat
on the room's only chair, facing Bodie. "Did he know I was there all
along, too? In the library?" 

"Evans? No, I don't think so." 

"Thought he must have done," Doyle said, "the way he went on about us. You
know, all that nonsense about the way we look at each other." 

"Is it?" Bodie asked. 

"What?" 

"Nonsense." 

"'Course it is." 

"Why?" 

Doyle didn't care much for the insistent questioning, especially since it
forced him to think things through more thoroughly. "Well, you know, it's
not what he thinks it is. I mean, even if we *do* act that way, it doesn't
mean anything. Except that we're partners and best mates. You know that." 

"Yeah," Bodie agreed. "I know that." 

Doyle continued dabbing at his hair and taking occasional sips of his
spiked cocoa. He waited, unwilling to initiate any conversation. 

After a while Bodie said, "Don't know about you, but I've moved Rupert
Flax to the top of my suspects list." 

"Depends on what's inside that summerhouse. Maybe there's something
besides stolen arms, something no natural foods chef can be without." 

"Oh, you mean there's a special type of moss growing on the walls inside,
and he wants it to make juice from?" 

"You never know with this lot," Doyle said. "Anything's possible." 

"True. Especially with someone who doesn't even talk. Was there anything
in Flax's file about his not being able to speak?" 

Doyle shook his head. "I reckon he just doesn't like people. Except Esther
and Emily." 

Bodie finished off the contents of his mug and set it on the nightstand.
"Guess we'd better do a bit of B & E." 

"You want me to go back out in that mess?" Doyle shivered at the very
thought. 

"Not right away. Maybe we can manage it after the luncheon. Shouldn't be
too hard. No one can see us from the house if it's still snowing, and
you're good at picking locks." 

Doyle frowned. "I am when I've got the tools with me." 

"Oh. Can't you rig something up?" 

"Haven't got any hairpins with me, sorry." Doyle shrugged. "One of us will
have to lift the keyring from the kitchen." He knew perfectly well he
would be the one to do it; not only was he better at stealing things, he
wasn't worried about the presence of wolfhounds, either. 

"I'll do any necessary distracting," Bodie offered. "And you can nick the
keys." 

"Right," Doyle replied in a resigned tone. He tossed the towel he'd been
using on his hair aside and focused on drinking his hot cocoa. 

"So," Bodie said, giving him an anxious look, "why'd you take off like
that?" 

Doyle had been wondering when Bodie would get around to the summerhouse
embrace. Having told Bodie earlier that all he wanted was a bit of
honesty, Doyle realized he could hardly respond with less. "I'm not sure,"
he replied. "It took me by surprise."

"What--me hugging you, or the kiss?" 

"The hugging part." Doyle spoke his confused thoughts aloud. "I mean, you
were so distant the past couple of months, and then finally you told me
why, and then suddenly it's as if you're making up for it all at once." 

Bodie studied the fingernails of his left hand, his face strained. "Yeah,
maybe. I did want everything to be the way it was before--when we were
easy with each other." 

"It will be. But not instant-aneously." 

"Sorry." Bodie looked genuinely remorseful. "Didn't mean to overdo it. And
then when Flax came along, well, couldn't help that part." 

He looked so stricken that Doyle felt compelled to say something,
anything, to make him feel better. "You're good at it, you know," he
blurted out, immediately regretting the admission. 

Bodie's eyes widened. "Kissing?" 

Doyle flushed and buried his face in his mug. When he glanced over again,
Bodie had a sly smile, though Doyle could have sworn he had a slight blush
as well. 

"You're not bad at it yourself," Bodie replied. 

"Not bad? What do you mean, not bad? I'm damn good at it--" Doyle broke
off, his indignation succumbing to acute embarrassment--just what had
Bodie felt during that kiss? Had he become aware of Doyle's response--the
fact that he'd been enjoying it? He scrunched down in the chair,
concentrating fiercely on the dregs of the cocoa. Perhaps there was a
limit to being honest. After all, it had been nothing more than a sheer
sexual response. He hadn't had sex for a couple of weeks now and was
feeling randy as hell. Doyle, being more than familiar with his body's
needs, was well aware that he was capable of losing control much more
easily than he sometimes liked. He shook his head, as if to clear it of
unwanted thoughts. For chrissakes, he ought to be able to control himself
around *Bodie*. 

"Ray?" 

Doyle started at the gentle voice. "What?" 

"Are you all right?" 

"'Course I'm all right." There was absolutely nothing left in the mug, and
Doyle gave up pretending to drink from it. "Think I'll find some dry
clothes to put on." *And I'd rather you didn't stick around to watch*, he
added mentally, giving Bodie a pointed look. 

Bodie took the hint. He stood and stretched. "I'll go see if I can find
someone doing something suspicious, then, shall I?" 

"Good luck." Doyle flashed a reassuring smile. 

"Thanks. I'll need it." Bodie strode out of the room. 

******

*Chapter Seven*

Bodie studied the bowl with its suspicious brown contents. "What is it?"
he asked Geoffrey, who stood beside him at the buffet table. 

"Goose liver pate," Geoffrey replied cheerfully. "Delightful stuff." 

Bodie's entire face crinkled. He hated liver in any way, shape, or form.
"And that?" He nodded at a bowl of white and green gunk. 

"Oh, that's spinach dip. Very tasty." 

Bodie eyed the biscuits he'd already put on his plate. Perhaps he could
eat them plain. Didn't anyone believe in cheese anymore? He moved on to a
relatively safe looking pasta salad and dug in. 

"Be sure to try the ox tongue, too," Geoffrey advised. 

The spoon Bodie was ladling his salad with poised in mid-air. "It's not
hidden in the salad, is it?" 

Geoffrey grinned. "Oh, no. The only thing hidden in there is escargot." 

Bodie caught the twinkle in Geoffrey's eye. "You're doing this to me on
purpose, aren't you?" 

"Couldn't resist. Sorry." 

"And there are no snails in here?" 

"Not unless Susan has suddenly acquired a sense of humor. No ox tongue,
either. That *is* liver pate, though. And it *is* delicious." 

"Thanks, I think I'll pass on it." Bodie finished spooning out his salad
and moved on along the table, very carefully filling up his plate. 

The buffet table ran along one wall of the formal dining room. Once their
plates were filled, the guests took seats at the main dining table in the
room's center. Bodie found a place between Colleen and Lumley, directly
across from Doyle, who had a scowling Rupert Flax to one side and an empty
seat on the other. Esther and Emily sat to the left of Rupert and the
Hunts had positioned themselves to Lumley's right. Geoffrey chose the spot
at the head of the table and Susan and Northbrook took root towards the
other end. 

Bodie had taken his first bite of pasta salad, and survived, when a
newcomer suddenly made an appearance in the dining room. The young man's
entrance caused Lumley to leap from his chair to greet him. "Paul! I'm so
glad you could make it! Wonderful timing, my boy--we've only just started.
Everyone, this is Paul Stuart, my nephew." 

Lumley introduced the guests all round. "My sister's son. Doesn't he look
wonderful? Came up from London especially for the party, didn't you? Was
it a lovely trip? No trouble getting through all that snow? Well, of
course not, you've got that American army jeep thing still, haven't you,
can get through anything, however you managed to find something like that
I shall never understand, but anyway, this is the luncheon buffet, do take
whatever you want, we're *so* glad you could join us--" His voice trailed
off as he walked Paul over to the buffet table to fill his plate. 

A few minutes later they returned to the main table, and Paul took the
vacant seat beside Doyle. He had the same fair hair as Lumley, and the
same light blue eyes. Bodie figured him to be nineteen or twenty, and the
patrician features of the family were softened by youth. But there the
resemblance ended. Paul's hair was quite short and neatly trimmed, his
eyes were alert, and most amazing of all, he wore a well-tailored, dark
blue suit and tie. 

Bodie watched Paul closely as the young man gazed at the guests. His eyes
narrowed ever so slightly at each face until he got to the Hunts, at whom
he smiled and nodded. Then the narrow-eyed look returned until he got to
Bodie. For some reason his face brightened. "Hello. I don't believe we've
met before." He spoke softly, with careful enunciation. 

"No, I'm not one of the usual guests," Bodie replied. "Richard was kind
enough to invite me. I'm a journalist, and I'm working on a book about the
Sixties." 

"Ah, yes, the infamous commune. I was born there. Don't remember it,
though. My mother left when I was two. One of the few sensible things
she's done in her life." 

Bodie stared at him, then gave a noncommittal shrug. 

Paul turned his attention to his uncle. "I see your press is still going
strong." 

"Oh, yes, yes." Lumley had a mouthful of croissant. "Like to get a
pamphlet out once a month," he mumbled. 

"I ran across one the other day. Can't recall the title, but the topic was
our current prime minister." 

"Ah, that was mine." David Northbrook joined in from the far end of the
table. "What did you think?" 

"I found it far too critical and one-sided. Mrs. Thatcher is doing a
splendid job." 

While Northbrook spluttered, Bodie raised his eyebrows. How in the world
had the Lumley family managed to produce a Conservative? 

"Maggie Thatcher is ruining this country!" Northbrook finally found his
voice. "Privatize this, privatize that--before long, the underprivileged
will have nowhere to turn, and big business will be running the country--"


"Nonsense," Paul calmly replied. "Mrs. Thatcher is merely providing
opportunities for those who have initiative." 

"I quite agree," Graham Hunt put in. 

"You would." Northbrook turned his anger onto the Hunts. "You're making
plenty of money by tearing down perfectly good, low-income housing and
putting up overpriced prettified blocks of flats for the wine-bar set that
no working- class people can afford." 

"Well, I never," Julia Hunt sniffed. 

"Ignore him, my dear," Graham replied, pointedly turning his head away
from Northbrook. 

"No one is getting opportunities except the rich," Northbrook continued,
undaunted. 

"No, not only the rich," Paul said. "Opportunities exist for those who
have the intelligence and imagination to make the new political climate
work for them. One can hardly feel sorry for those who are too ignorant or
too lazy to better themselves. The only class of people *I* feel sorry for
are the workers who have been displaced by all these foreigners we've let
into the country over the years. But that's an entirely different matter.
My point is, our prime minister has the right ideas. It's only people who
have become too used to having the government give them continual handouts
who are complaining." 

"Well said," Graham commented. "She's doing a fine job in very trying
times." 

"She's doing a fine job for the rich and powerful," Colleen replied. 

"And how would you know?" Julia Hunt said icily. 

An extremely uncomfortable silence fell over the entire table. At last
Geoffrey cleared his throat and said, "Perhaps we could discuss something
a tad less controversial?" 

"Yes, yes, good idea," Lumley leapt in. "Have I told you all about the
special Christmas game we'll be having this evening? Do it every year,
quite the tradition now, loads of fun. We call it the Gift Guessing
Game--rather silly, I suppose, but it *is* a house party and you simply
must all join in. Don't you think so, Geoffrey? Of course you do. And
you're so good at explaining things, would you be so kind?" 

Geoffrey leaned over and patted Richard's arm. "Of course. It'll be fun,
I'm sure." He addressed the table at large. "It's really a very simple
game. Everyone draws another guest's name from a hat. Then you get to find
a gift for that person from among the household objects. The idea is to
find something amusing or embarrassing, but it can't be larger than a
bread box. Anything else is fine. Don't worry, we've already removed
objects we don't want wandering about. Once you find the gift, you have to
hide it in your person's room without being seen. The drawing will be held
at five this afternoon, and you have until the evening party to accomplish
your task. The second part of the game, of course, is to find the gift
that your person hid in your room, and try to figure out who the person
is. At the party, which starts at eight, you bring your gift with you and
everyone gets to hand their gift to the person they think is behind it. If
it's wrong, the person hands it back. Those who guess correctly get to sit
down, and we continue until it's all sorted out, and the last person to
get theirs right has to play Santa and hand out the real presents that are
under the tree, while wearing a silly-looking red hat." 

"Oh, that sounds delightful," Emily Moonglow said. "We think it'll be fun,
don't we?" 

Esther nodded. "We played it last year, and someone gave us one of those
frozen dinners." She giggled. "They're *so* absurd, you know. Not what
you'd find at the Brown Rice Cafe." 

"I got a nightie." Colleen blushed at the memory. "A bit racy, really.
I've always wondered where the person got it from." 

"Wasn't mine," Geoffrey replied. 

A ripple of laughter went round the table, easing the tension. "Well, I'm
up for it if everyone else is," Graham Hunt said. "What's a house party
without a few good games, eh?" 

Bodie looked over at Doyle, caught his attention, and rolled his eyes at
him, hoping no one else noticed. Doyle grinned back at him. Games, indeed,
Bodie thought. What a load of nonsense. 

"One more thing," Geoffrey put in. "The rules are, you have to leave your
bedroom door ajar from the time the game starts until the time of the
party, so that everyone has a fair chance to plant their object. If you
have any valuables you're worried about, not that anyone here is a
suspicious character, mind you, but just for your peace of mind, do please
give them to me or Richard before the game starts and we'll keep them
safely locked away." 

Bodie suddenly had second thoughts about the stupidity of traditional
Christmas house-party games. For three hours every room in the house would
be open for inspection, and no one would think twice of someone sneaking
about in the guest's rooms. He broke into a big smile. If this wasn't the
perfect opportunity to search through the various suspects' belongings, he
didn't know what was. Feeling ten times better about the day ahead of him,
Bodie returned to his meal, picking up a miniature sandwich so tiny he
couldn't tell what was in it. Bravely, he bit into the thing. 

It was filled with liver sausage. 

******

As the luncheon wound down, the guests, having gone to the buffet table a
final time to nibble, stood about chatting in twos and threes. Bodie edged
his way over to Doyle and succeeded in extracting him from the clutches of
Colleen. "I think it's time we went for a little walk outdoors," he
whispered. 

"Have you thought of a clever way to steal the summerhouse key?" Doyle
asked. "Something a bit more detailed than 'I'll distract whoever's there
while you grab 'em'?" 

"And what's wrong with that? It's a perfectly good plan." 

"Yeah, well, I've been thinkin' it over," Doyle said. "And no matter which
way I think about it, it always ends up the same. I have to get past three
enormous dogs, and you don't. It's not that I've got anything against
dogs. I like dogs. But three of them at once--" 

Bodie grinned. "Gettin' cold feet, are you?" 

"It's not my feet I'm worried about. It's my hands. I rather fancy them
the way they are--with all the fingers intact." 

Bodie pondered the problem. Distracting the kitchen help should be simple,
but how to distract the Beasts? He reached over to the table and snatched
three of the tiny liver sausage sandwiches and wrapped them in a napkin.
"Here, put these in your pock--" He looked at Doyle's form-fitting jeans
and shirt. "Never mind." He slipped the sandwiches into his jacket pocket.
"I'll hand 'em to you when we go into the kitchen, and you can toss 'em
somewhere for the beasts." 

"Yeah, okay." There was enough enthusiasm in Doyle's voice to inspire a
slug. 

"Look," Bodie said, "we might as well get this over with. Who knows when
we'll have a better chance? That idiotic game starts in a couple hours and
we'll be tied up indoors the rest of the day. This is the best shot we've
got at getting into the summerhouse while no one else is out there--" 

His speech was interrupted by a loud clap from Lumley that caught
everyone's attention. "We've got a tremendously fun idea," Lumley said,
nodding at the Moonglow sisters standing nearby. "Emily and Esther have
suggested we take advantage of this wonderful winter weather and have a
snow sculpture contest." He rubbed his hands together. "We've got a couple
hours before the guessing game starts, so let's all go outside and enjoy
ourselves!" 

"You want us to make snowmen?" Julia Hunt asked. 

"Oh, no," Emily put in. "No snowmen. That's much too simple. We want
*artistic* snow sculptures. We want you to free yourselves from your
childhood constraints and go wild with passion and creativity--" 

"What's the prize?" Paul said. 

"Ah, yes, of course there will be prizes," Lumley replied. "I shall do the
judging. First place winner will get to choose any bottle of wine he or
she wants from my wine cellar." 

"You can count me in, then," Graham Hunt piped up. His wife glowered at
him. 

"Second place may choose any book from my library." 

David Northbrook perked up at that one. "I'm up for it." 

"And third place gets a jar of Susan's homemade applesauce." 

Rupert Flax growled. 

"Right then, let's all bundle up and get started, shall we? There's plenty
of space out back between the house and the gardens. It will be
wonderfully good exercise, a bit of fresh air, I'm sure we'll all have
lots of laughs. Come on, let's go!" 

Bodie watched the guests trail out of the dining room. "Great," he
muttered. "So much for breaking into the summerhouse. Don't exactly fancy
doing it in front of an audience." 

"Cheer up," Doyle replied. "Think how good all this will look in our
report when we get back to HQ. 'Spent the afternoon making snowmen.'
Cowley's gonna love that." 

"We'll have to disguise it," Bodie said. "Make it sound like some sort of
technical exercise, camouflage it with a few big words." 

Doyle concentrated. "'We spent the afternoon...testing the, um, structural
properties of...I mean, inherent in, um--'" 

"'In compacted, frozen water'," Bodie finished. 

"Right." Doyle smiled. "'Course, he might want to know *why* we were doing
such a peculiar thing." 

"That is a point. Have to work on it." 

"It's gonna be the weirdest report I've ever written, I can tell you right
now," Doyle said. 

"We can leave a few things out," Bodie replied, suddenly serious. 

"Yeah?" Doyle headed out after the others, and Bodie followed. "S'pose
we'll have to," Doyle added as they climbed the stairs to their room.
"Wonder what Cowley'd say if we told him we'd been snoggin' in the snow." 

As they entered the room, Bodie said, "He'd just reach for his scotch." 

"You reckon we should try giving him a ring?" Doyle crossed to a chair
near the heater, where he'd left his coat and Bodie's muffler to dry. 

"Nah." Bodie shook his head. "Let him suffer. Serve him right for sticking
us with that wretched flat. Besides, we can't trust the house phones
here--anyone could listen in." 

"Too true." Doyle put his coat on and wrapped Bodie's muffler round his
neck. "Don't suppose you've got an extra pair of gloves?" 

Bodie sighed as he tossed his suit jacket and tie on the bed and pulled on
his anorak. "You can probably borrow some from Lumley. Do we really have
to do this? I've never made anything out of snow before." 

"Not even as a kid?" 

"No." Bodie refused to elaborate. "I'm not making anything on my own.
We'll work as a team." 

"Fine by me. What do you think we should build?" Doyle grinned. "How about
a snow wolfhound?" 

"Let's not push our artistic talents, hm? Think of something simple."
Bodie thought back to his tour of the wine cellar that first day he'd come
to this place. Rows and rows of the finest wines in the world, some no
doubt collectors' items. To be able to pick any one of them he wanted....
"Lumley's the judge, so let's pick an object he'll really go nuts over." 

"That's easy," Doyle said. "We just make a giant prick." 

Bodie's eyes widened, then he burst out laughing as he realized how
perfect it was. "Yes!" 

"No!" Doyle protested. "I was joking!" 

"Too bad," Bodie said. "You're helping me make a snow cock, and that's all
there is to it. That is one fine wine cellar, mate." He pulled on his
gloves. "And," he added with the merest hint of menace, "this is one
structural test of frozen water which is *not* going into our report." 

******

Bodie kicked at the snow in disgust. His cock was drooping. "Damn," he
muttered as he circled the leaning tower of penis that he and Doyle had
spent the last hour constructing. "This is hopeless. It isn't going to
stay erect." 

"The balls are good and solid," Doyle replied, studying the large white
mounds at the base of their sculpture. He gazed up at the rest of their
work. "But it isn't strong enough to support something that, well, that
tall. Maybe we need to trim it a bit." 

"After all the trouble I went to getting the head just right?" 

"Isn't gonna matter if it keels over." Doyle stepped back as the snow
shifted and the cock tilted ever more precariously. "Maybe we should start
over. Do it lying flat on the ground, sort of stretched out." 

"Too easy," Bodie said. "Be more impressive if it's upright. What we need
it something to shore it up with. Some kind of solid core to build
around." 

"Can we take a break first? My arms are killing me." 

"Yeah. Let's take a look at our competition, shall we?" 

The layer of snow covering the grounds was more than a foot thick; the
flakes continued to fall, though lightly. Bodie and Doyle tromped through
the snow to survey the efforts of the other guests. The Moonglow sisters
and Flax were putting the final touches on a large log-like object. 

"It's a loaf of cracked wheat bread," Emily explained. "Rupert is going to
make an apple to sit beside it, and we're going to work on some goat
cheese." 

"Great," Doyle said with something less than honesty. 

They moved on to observe the Hunts, who were being aided by Paul Stuart in
the building of a lumpish mass with a large middle and two smaller ends. 

"Rolls Royce," Graham announced confidently. "Having a spot of trouble
with the details, but we'll get there." 

Doyle, who thought it looked much closer to a Volkswagen, merely nodded. 

"We've got this thing sewn up," Bodie said as they moved along. Northbrook
and Evans were busy making not a snowman, but a bulky snow-woman. They
were putting large, unattractive features on her. 

"Maggie Thatcher," Geoffrey told them. "We're going to make her look truly
hideous." 

"You've got a good start," Doyle replied. 

"Definitely hideous," Bodie said as they moved out of earshot. "Told you,
we've got this wrapped up. No problem. All we have to do is get it to
stand up straight and we're home free. Nobody's doing anything as original
as ours. Nobody is-- " He broke off as the last sculpture came into view. 

Susan and Colleen were making a wolfhound. A very realistic wolfhound.
"Damn," Bodie muttered. 

"Told you we should've done one of those dogs," Doyle said as he circled
the sculpture. Colleen was using a butter knife to carve long, wavy
strands of wolfhound hair in the packed snow. 

"Very nice," Doyle told her morosely. 

"Thank you." She knelt by the huge snow dog's rear end. "We did consider
doing something phallic instead, but we decided that would be too obvious
a ploy, as well, of course, as being terribly juvenile." She looked up.
"What are you making?" 

"A mess," Doyle replied. He grabbed Bodie's arm and hauled him back to
their wobbly construction. "Got it sewn up, have we?" He nodded at the
sagging cock. "Looks more like a banana." He made a circuit of their
sculpture, checking it over with a critical, artistic eye. "Look at these
balls. The left side is smaller than the right." 

"Maybe I was aiming for realism," Bodie replied. "Not everyone is
perfectly proportioned, you know." 

"Realism?" Doyle snorted. "This thing is six feet tall. And if you're
aiming for realism, then where's the pubic hair, eh?" He headed towards
the rose garden to scour for twigs. "We'll have to make do with some dried
brush," he called back. 

When he returned with his bundle of twigs and branches, Doyle found Bodie
perched on nearby marble bench, pouting. The top half of the snow penis
had finally given up its attempt at erection and had fallen off. Doyle
dumped his load at the base of the balls. "Never mind. We'll start over.
Got plenty of time." 

"Still need something to support it," Bodie replied. 

"Hello, there." Geoffrey had walked over to survey their work. "I think I
see what you're trying for here. Having some trouble though, aren't you?" 

"You're the expert on phallic sculpture," Bodie said. "Any suggestions? We
were thinking it needed an internal support." 

"Ah, yes. You'd need something hard, of course, and the right shape, and
it would have to be fairly cold and smooth." He gazed around the grounds,
and he paused at the summerhouse, snapping his fingers. "Of course! You
need one of Richard's lingams." 

Doyle blinked. "We need a what?" 

"A lingam. Richard collects them. They're sacred Hindu stones--they're all
phallic shaped. He's got some rather large ones--I think the tallest is a
good four feet. The collection is kept in the summerhouse. Hang on, I'll
get the key." He loped off towards the mansion. 

Doyle sank onto the marble bench beside Bodie. "Well, you know what I
always say. Never use ingenuity or brute strength when a simple invitation
will do." 

"Damn," Bodie muttered. "I was looking forward to breaking in there." 

"Yeah. B & E *is* your forte, isn't it?" Doyle smiled at him. 

Bodie raised an affronted eyebrow. "And I suppose you're better?" 

"Nah." Doyle shrugged. "I'm better at breaking *out* of places than into
'em." 

Geoffrey returned with the keyring. He led them off to the summerhouse and
opened the door. Inside stood concentric circles of phallic stones of all
sizes, each anchored in its own stone base. Doyle counted five circles,
each with a foot or so of space between it and the next. In the very
center stood a pair of lingams which were at least four feet high. The
walls were hung with Indian-style paintings depicting various sexual
positions. There were incense burners sitting on all the window sills. 

Doyle pretended to make a careful tour of the stones, making appropriately
admiring comments. In actuality, he was examining the floor, searching for
signs of recent disturbance or any other evidence that something here was
amiss. On the opposite side of the room, Bodie was doing the same. 

"Impressive," Doyle said when he'd made his way to the center and stood in
front of the room's matched showpieces. "We can't really use one of these,
can we? Aren't they valuable?" 

"No, actually, the small ones are the valuable ones. The larger ones are
all fakes." He nodded at one of the monsters. "Let's get it out of here,
shall we?" 

The stone was damn heavy. Doyle and Geoffrey maneuvered it through the
circles, each hefting an end, while Bodie carried the base. They emerged
from the circles and stopped for a breather, setting the lingam down.
Doyle looked up at the doorway to see Paul Stuart standing there. 

"Need any help?" the young man asked. 

"We'll manage." Doyle and Geoffrey lifted the stone again and headed
outside as Paul stepped out of the way. "How's the Rolls Royce?" Doyle
said. 

Paul fell into step alongside them. "I'm afraid there's some disagreement
on the relative sizes of the front and rear wind screens. Graham and Julia
have gone off to the garage to make comparisons. I got bored and came to
see what everyone else is doing." 

They halted next to what was left of Bodie and Doyle's sculpture, and
Doyle and Geoffrey set the lingam down. 

"What's it supposed to be?" Paul asked. 

Doyle studied the lopsided white mounds and the collapsed cock. "It's a
sundae," he replied. "Two scoops of ice cream and a half-eaten banana." He
grinned at Bodie. "Right?" 

Bodie just rolled his eyes. 

******

*Chapter Eight*

Second place. Bodie sighed as he lay back on the bed. *Bloody hell*. All
that work re-doing the damn sculpture, getting it perfect even down to the
stupid pubic hair, and Lumley had gone and awarded first prize for the
wolfhound. It wasn't fair. Lumley didn't even like the stupid dogs.
Probably just trying to keep Ms. Solidarity in a pleasant mood--didn't
have anything to do with artistic merit. Second place. Damn. Bodie didn't
need a bloody book from the finest gay porn collection in Europe. He
needed a bottle of wine. Correction--by the time they finished this op,
he'd need a vat or two of wine. 

Something suddenly pricked at the back of Bodie's mind. He sat up and
looked slowly about the bedroom. Doyle's coat and his muffler were where
Doyle had thrown them before going down to the library to pick out their
prize. His anorak, gloves, and cap lay neatly on the armchair. His tie lay
on the bed pillow...and his suit jacket was nowhere to be seen. 

He knew he'd thrown it on the bed before going outside earlier. Bodie got
up and made a thorough search--wardrobe, chest of drawers, bathroom,
underneath the bed. Nothing. The jacket was gone. 

They must have left the door ajar before going outside earlier. Neither he
nor Doyle had brought anything valuable with them, and they weren't
exactly expecting Lumley's guests to ransack anyone's room, but obviously
somebody had. 

Or something. Bodie groaned as he remembered what he had left in the
jacket pocket. Liver sausage sandwiches. And a wolfhound, like any hunting
dog, would have a very keen sense of smell. 

Bodie bolted down the hall and the stairs towards the kitchen. He'd
brought that suit, the most expensive one he owned, to impress people with
his Serious Journalist persona. It was worth half a month's pay. 

Caution overtook him as he approached the kitchen door. He slowly pushed
it open, peering around the edge. It looked empty of humans, at least. He
stepped inside and was greeted by a deep growl. Across the room, the
largest of the Wolfhound Three sat by the back door, the jacket between
its huge paws, the pocket firmly gripped by very large teeth, guarding it
from the other two, who hovered out of biting range. 

Bodie glanced around for a weapon. On the kitchen counter lay a rolling
pin. Knowing those Beasts, it would probably no more than stun them, he
rationalized as he picked it up. "Here, pooch," he coaxed as he crept
forward, "give us the jacket. Come on, be a good dog and drop it." The dog
snarled, fangs bared, and it stood up, the jacket clenched between the
vicious teeth. The other two dogs circled warily. 

Bodie was close enough now to see the drool stains all down the front of
the jacket. The sight did not make him happy. He shifted the heavy wooden
rolling pin out of sight behind his back and took a few more steps
forward. "Good doggie. Give me the jacket--" 

The beast backed itself up against the door, tail down, head lowered,
hackles raised. The growling increased in intensity. Bodie took a deep
breath. One of the sleeves trailed on the floor. If he could reach down
and grab it and yank hard while threatening the dog with the rolling pin,
maybe the damn dog would let go. He slowly brought the pin from behind his
back, holding it down to one side. Bodie had no intention of hitting the
beast. He simply wanted to present a barrier other than his arm. Getting a
good grip on the handle, he raised the rolling pin ever so slightly while
taking another step closer. The dog growled. Saliva dropped from its lips
onto the jacket. 

Half a month's pay. Bodie bent down, his hand snaking out towards the
sleeve end. His face was three feet from a mouthful of sharp teeth. "Good
doggie," he whispered, raising the rolling pin a bit higher. He got his
hand on the sleeve and gripped the cloth tightly. With a satisfied sense
of impending victory, he balanced himself, ready to straighten, ready to
tug with all his might, ready to put a rolling pin between himself and
wolfhound jaws. And then Susan Solidarity walked out of the pantry ten
feet away. 

Bodie looked at her. She looked back. Her gaze fell on the rolling pin.
The gaze turned into a solid glare. Bodie gulped. He had a clear choice.
Get his jacket back more or less intact and be savaged by Susan, or let
the dog savage his jacket and be left in peace. Bodie looked at the
snarling jaws of the wolfhound. He looked at the baleful stare of Susan
Solidarity. No contest. Sighing, he lowered the rolling pin. On the off
chance the dog was merely overacting, he gave the jacket sleeve one
experimental tug anyway, standing up and leaping back as he did so, out of
bite range. The beast shook its head violently, ripped the sleeve out of
Bodie's grasp, and bounded for a corner of the kitchen, where it calmly
lay down to continue its shredding of the pocket. Bodie stayed where he
was, studying the one sleeve button in his hand, the only souvenir from
his life-and-death struggle. He sighed again, gave Susan a little smile,
carefully placed the rolling pin back on the counter, and made his
retreat. 

Bodie returned to the bedroom to wait for Doyle. He sank onto the bed, put
his hands over his eyes, and muttered to himself about the unfairness of
life in general and this assignment in particular, and was still muttering
darkly when Doyle strolled in a few minutes later. Bodie didn't bother
looking up. 

"Oi. What's the matter?" Doyle sat beside him. 

Reluctantly, Bodie explained. When he lowered his hands to look at Doyle,
he got a smirk in response. "It isn't funny, you know." 

"Depends on whose jacket it is, doesn't it?" Doyle shook his head, a
tolerant smile on his lips. 

"I really hate those dogs," Bodie said. His one consolation was the fact
that he would no longer need to impress anyone with his suited,
professional journalist look. The only other outfit he'd brought was a
casual slacks-and-pullover-sweater affair. "Oh, well. It's my fate to be
abused by the Beasts." 

"You must've been a dog catcher in a former life," Doyle said. "They can
sense it." 

"That would be a good theory if I believed in that sort of thing." Bodie
turned his attention to the book in Doyle's hands. "So what did you
choose?" He grabbed the large paperback Doyle had brought from the
library. On the cover were two well-muscled, well-tanned, very blond young
men in swimming trunks, arm in arm. 

"It's the one I was reading when I fell asleep," Doyle replied. 

"*Lifeguard Lust*? There were five thousand books in there and you picked
*Lifeguard Lust*? Are you mad? There might've been something valuable in
that library." 

"But nothing as amusing." Doyle snatched the book back and waved it in the
air. "Imagine that this book somehow makes its way surreptitiously into
the CI5 rest room and gets left in plain view of anyone entering. Now
imagine that it's inscribed, 'To Darling Murph, many thanks for the night
of a lifetime.'" 

Bodie gazed at Doyle with a new-found admiration. "Anybody ever tell you
you're downright devious?" 

"Yeah." Doyle stood and tossed the book on the bed. "You have. Many times.
Come on, it's nearly time for the name drawing." 

"Oh, damn." Bodie had almost forgotten the gift-giving game. He rose and
headed for the bathroom. "I need a shower first. Too much sweating in the
snow." 

"Which reminds me," Doyle said as he followed, stopping in the open
bathroom door to lean against the frame. "What'd you think of the
summerhouse?" 

"Not terribly interesting." Bodie stared at the bathtub with annoyance.
"There's no shower." 

"Very observant." 

Bodie frowned at him. Then he shrugged and turned on the taps, adjusting
the temperature. If Doyle was actually going to stand there and talk to
him the whole time, a bath would be better anyway, as it was somewhat more
concealing. Very aware of his partner's continued presence, Bodie slowly
stripped off his clothes as the tub filled with steaming water. 

"I didn't notice any signs of disturbance," Doyle went on. "Or any signs
of hidden weapons." 

"Me neither." Bodie lowered himself into the hot bath, letting out a deep
sigh of relaxation. He rested his head on the rear edge and simply lay
there, soaking up the heat. 

"Did you think it was odd the way Paul turned up to see what we were
doing?" 

Bodie closed his eyes. "You mean," he murmured, "he could be involved, and
wanted to make sure we didn't find anything?" 

"Right. Doesn't seem likely though, does it?" 

"Nah. The guy seems more likely to start a Margaret Thatcher fan club. If
he hasn't already." Bodie wriggled his toes. He opened his eyes to look
for a flannel. "Hand me one of those, will you?" He nodded towards the
towel rack near the door. 

Doyle brought the flannel over, then sat on the toilet seat. "Want your
back scrubbed?" 

"I can manage, thank you." Bodie sat up to wash himself. "What are you
doing in here, anyway?" 

"Nothing. Just wanted to talk about the case. Why? Am I bothering you?" 

"No," Bodie said quickly. "Not at all." He glanced over at Doyle, who sat
with his thighs spread wide, straddling the toilet seat. Doyle's crotch,
in its tightly sheathed denim, was right at Bodie's eye level. Bodie
studiously returned to his washing, scrubbing diligently between his toes.
"Why should you be bothering me?" 

"Oh, I only wondered." Doyle sounded hesitant. "From what you said
earlier, maybe you don't want to be this, um, cozy with each other." 

Bodie pursed his lips as an unpleasant thought struck. Did Doyle *want* to
get a reaction? It would be just like the teasing sod to actually enjoy
trying to get a response from him. For whatever devious little reasons,
Doyle was testing him. Fine. He wanted a reaction--maybe he'd get one. But
probably not what he was looking for. Bodie decided that no matter what
Doyle did or said, he would remain calm, casual, and in control. "Don't be
ridiculous," he replied smoothly. "I like being cozy." He gave Doyle a
warm smile, then left off his foot washing to rub his back, stretching as
much as he could to reach all of it. 

Doyle abruptly stood and headed for the door. 

"Hang on," Bodie called, "where are you going?" 

"Feel a bit sweaty, too." Doyle paused in the doorway. "Thought I'd put a
clean shirt on." 

"Come back here a second," Bodie said, determined to test his theory on
Doyle's behavior a bit further. "There's a spot I can't quite reach." He
held out the flannel. 

Doyle bit his lower lip. "Thought you didn't need any help." 

"Changed my mind." Bodie turned a little, exposing more of his back to
Doyle, an open dare. *If he was teasing me earlier*, Bodie thought
confidently, *then I've neatly turned the tables on him*. 

"Yeah, all right." There was a new note of challenge in Doyle's tone. He
walked over to the tub, perched on the edge, and took the flannel, dipping
it in the water before rubbing it gently over Bodie's back. "How's that,
then?" 

"Perfect," Bodie replied. The smooth, sure touch sent a tingling through
him. As the circular motion of Doyle's hand moved increasingly downward,
Bodie suddenly felt a surge of adrenalin. The touch was more sensual than
he might have liked. Dammit, Doyle was still trying to provoke him. Retain
control, he told himself fiercely. Then Doyle rubbed the cloth across his
lower back and a jolt of arousal shot through Bodie's groin. *Hell*. He
drew his legs up and wrapped his arms around them. *Don't let him know
he's getting to you* he ordered himself. *Be cool.* He swallowed and said,
"As long you're there, you might as well give me a quick massage. My neck
and shoulders are killing me." 

The roving hands stopped. "What are you doing, Bodie?" 

*Uh-oh*. Was Doyle calling him on it? "Nothing." Bodie rested his chin on
his knees. "Told you. My neck hurts." 

"Yeah, I'll bet." Despite the words, Doyle tossed the flannel aside and
began kneading Bodie's neck and shoulders, stroking firmly. "You're doing
this to me on purpose, aren't you?" 

"Doing what?" Bodie asked cautiously. God, Doyle's hands felt good. 

"You're teasing me." 

"Am not. Ah--" Doyle had found a knot and was working hard on it. "'Sides,
you started it." 

"*Me*?" Doyle jabbed his thumb at the knot and Bodie let out a yelp. "I
wasn't doing anything." 

"No?" Bodie took a series of deep breaths as Doyle continued his vigorous
stroking. "Watching me get into the bath, asking if I wanted a back
scrub...asking if you were bothering me...practically sticking your crotch
in my face...ow!" Bodie twisted away as Doyle jammed into another knot.
"Watch it!" 

"Sorry." Doyle grinned at him. 

"You bastard." Bodie splashed some water Doyle's way, scoring a hit on the
side of his face. 

"No fair." Doyle wiped the water off. "You've got all the ammunition." 

"Then behave yourself." Bodie turned his back towards him again. 

"Couldn't help it." Doyle resumed the massage, much gentler this time.
"You annoy the hell out of me sometimes." 

"It's mutual." Bodie relaxed again, letting the soothing hands ease the
tension in his muscles. "Honesty, Ray, remember? You want to tell me
what's going on in that head of yours?" 

"Don't know," Doyle replied softly, all challenge and teasing gone. The
massage turned into a caress as his fingers slowly drifted over Bodie's
back. "Something happened earlier, at the summerhouse." He paused. "I
mean, the first time. In the snowstorm." 

Bodie shivered. "You mean when I kissed you?" 

There was a lengthy silence. Doyle's hands eventually came to rest on
Bodie's shoulders. "I'm not sure what's going on," Doyle said. "Sometimes
I want to be as near to you as I can get, and sometimes I want to run as
far away as I can. Don't know what I want, don't know what you
want...don't know how I feel anymore." He hesitated again. "Guess I'm
playing games 'cause I don't know how else to handle it." 

Curious, Bodie turned his head to gaze up at Doyle. "What happened?" he
asked, focusing on Doyle's first statement. "What happened when I kissed
you?" 

Doyle rose and crossed to the door. He pulled a towelling robe off the
rack and held it out. "Come on, you've been in there long enough." 

Bodie released the drain and obediently climbed out of the tub, allowing
Doyle to wrap the soft robe around him. As Doyle started to pull away,
Bodie grasped his wrists and held him. He stared intently at Doyle's face
and was startled to see something in Doyle's wide eyes that he rarely saw.
Fear. "What happened?" he repeated. 

"I liked it," Doyle said simply. Then he jerked his wrists free and shook
his head. "I don't know what I'm saying." He turned towards the door
again. 

Bodie grabbed him by the shoulders. "Ray--" 

"Let me go." Doyle shrugged free and bolted into the bedroom, Bodie right
on his heels. He crossed to the wardrobe, yanked it open, and tugged a
shirt from its hanger. Bodie, shaken by this unexpected development,
stared helplessly as Doyle stripped off his shirt and hurriedly pulled on
the new one. He *liked* it.... Bodie's earlier determination that this was
all a passing phase slowly dissolved. The more he looked at Doyle,
standing there with his shirt half- buttoned, soft whorls of hair down the
taut chest, a brownish- pink nipple peeking through, the more Bodie knew
just how much he wanted him. And how much he needed him, and how he
wouldn't be able to rest now that he knew it was possible. 

Doyle's tantalizing chest disappeared as he finished buttoning the shirt.
"Get dressed," he ordered. "We have to go down for the name-drawing." 

Bodie silently crossed to the chest of drawers to retrieve his pullover
sweater and his other pair of slacks. He grabbed clean underpants and
socks, then went to sit on the bed to towel himself dry before quickly
putting his clothes on. He didn't look at Doyle until he slipped into his
shoes and stood up, ready to go. "Okay. Let's get down there." He went to
the door and held it open, gesturing for Doyle to go on ahead. Doyle
started to, then halted, half in and half out of the room, turning to
stare at Bodie. Bodie waited, one hand on the doorknob, his face mere
inches from Doyle's. He saw Doyle's intensely puzzled eyes, and his
slightly parted lips. "What do you want, Ray?" he said, responding with a
openly sensual expression. "Do you want me to kiss you again?" 

"Yes...no." Doyle shook his head. "I don't know." 

Bodie glanced down at the slight swell of Doyle's crotch. Probably it was
nothing more than his partner's overactive libido getting out of control.
He wasn't ready to deal with a randy Doyle who was simply feeling sexually
experimental as well as totally confused. When Doyle truly wanted him as
much as he wanted Doyle, then something would happen, but not before. He
changed his expression to one of utter blandness and said, "Well, when you
figure it out, be sure to tell me, okay?" Then he shoved past, pushing
Doyle off the threshold, shut the door, and walked on down the hall. 

******

*Chapter Nine*

Doyle stared at the name he'd drawn. Paul Stuart. Terrific. What sort of
silly gift was he supposed to find for Lumley's nephew? The only thing he
really knew about Paul was that he admired the prime minister. It wasn't a
lot to go on. 

He sat on the drawing-room settee and watched the others pull their names.
Lumley had bowed out of the game to make an even number of people. Doyle
watched Bodie draw his slip of paper, saw him frown as he read it. Then
Bodie came over to slump down beside him on the settee. 

"Who'd you get?" Doyle asked. 

Bodie crumpled the paper. "Supposed to be a secret." 

"Ah, come on. I'll tell you mine. I got the nephew." 

"Then you've got it easy, mate. Just give him a bunch of Northbrook's
pamphlets." 

"Too obvious," Doyle replied, feeling that, in the spirit of the game, he
ought to make a more challenging choice. "Don't know much about him,
though." 

"Ask Lumley. He's sitting out, that makes him a neutral party." 

"Good idea. Think I'll do that." Doyle, slightly cheered, jostled Bodie's
arm. "Come on, tell me who you got. It's not me, is it?" 

"No." Bodie handed the paper over. 

Doyle smoothed it out. He suppressed a guffaw as he read the name on
it--Susan Solidarity. "Oh, that's rich. Maybe you can find a muzzle or
three to give her." 

"Shut up." Bodie snatched the paper back and stuffed it in his trouser
pocket. "You gotta help me with this." 

"No, I don't. You're on your own, mate." 

"Oh, ta very much." Bodie gave him a hurt look. 

Relenting a bit, Doyle said, "Ask Colleen. She knows Susan pretty well." 

"That's true." Bodie looked somewhat happier. 

Everyone had drawn their names. Lumley, standing in the center of the
room, clapped his hands. "Now remember, you can use any object in the
house that's smaller than a bread box. These are gag gifts, so you won't
be keeping them, unless of course you truly want to, I suppose. I've put
wrapping paper in everyone's room--do wrap the gift, put the person's name
on it, and hide it in their room. And remember to leave your doors open.
No one gets to open their gift until we meet back here at eight for the
party and the guessing game. Naturally, most of you brought real presents
to give each other, and we'll hand those out right after. Now, to make
this as exciting as possible we've added a couple of interesting resources
to further your clandestine activities. First, we've placed a number of
man-sized, leafy plants along the guest wing corridor for hiding behind.
And second, I've put torches in your rooms as well as a map of all the
secret passageways in the west wing." 

Bodie's ears pricked up. "Secret passages?" 

"Oh, my, yes," Lumley replied, clapping his hands gleefully. "The house is
positively riddled with the things. The original builders were quite mad
about them. They're truly wonderful, though I must warn all of you that
most of them are a tad musty. Now, then, let's all have some fun!" 

"Hmpf," Bodie muttered. "Fun." 

"Cheer up," Doyle replied. "Could be worse. You could've gotten Northbrook
the Lecher. Or Rupert Flax. Or one of the Hunts."

"Or you." 

It was Doyle's turn to look hurt. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

Doyle swore he saw a flicker of pain cross Bodie's face. But then Bodie
shrugged nonchalantly and said, "Nothing. Just never know what to get
you." 

"Yeah?" Doyle looked over at the Christmas tree in the corner, where a
pile of brightly-wrapped packages sat, gifts for the real present-giving.
He had snuck the gift he'd bought earlier in the week for Bodie underneath
the tree, and he was certain Bodie had done the same. "Didn't you get me
anything good this year?" 

Bodie smiled. "Got you a muffler." 

Doyle caught the twinkle in his eye. "Liar." 

"Yeah, well, you'll have to wait 'til this evening to find out what I got
you, won't you?" 

"Okay. Have it your way." Doyle stood up. "Think I'll go chat with Lumley
about Paul." 

"Hang on. Let's divvy up the rooms first." 

Doyle turned to look down at him. "Hm?" 

"The guest rooms," Bodie said patiently. "They'll all have their doors
wide open for the next three hours. Might be a good idea to search them."
His eyes widened. "Don't tell me you hadn't thought about doing that?" 

"Of course I did." In truth, Doyle had had too many other things on his
mind recently to give the case his full attention. But he was hardly going
to let Bodie know it. "It's simple," he said with an air of confidence he
didn't entirely feel, "you take all the rooms on one side of the hallway
and I'll take the ones on the other." 

Bodie rubbed a hand across his chin. "I'll take the ones on the same side
as our room, all right?" 

"All right." 

"What about Richard and Geoffrey's room? It's on the ground floor." 

"You can take it," Doyle offered. 

"Thanks." 

"Anytime. What about those secret passageways? You want to check 'em out?"


"Not while everyone else is in them," Bodie replied. "We'll do it later." 

"Okay." Doyle checked his watch. It had just gone five. "Why don't we meet
in our room at seven, see how things are going." 

"Fine." 

"Good." 

For some reason, Doyle kept standing there, staring down at Bodie, unable
to move. Ever since leaving the bedroom, he'd wanted desperately to clear
things up between them, but he didn't know where to start, or how. Bodie
gazed back up at him with a puzzled yet tolerant expression, and Doyle
felt a sudden ache inside. They were on such tricky ground--every word,
every act, every look could possibly harm the friendship they had. The
last thing he wanted was to lose anything through carelessness, or to
destroy anything from his own confusion. He could hurt Bodie so easily.
And that knowledge caused the ache within. 

"Ray?" Bodie's voice was low and soft. "Try focusing on the op, okay? It
makes thing easier." 

"Sorry." Doyle took a calming breath. "But this is important." 

"I know. We'll sort it out. I know you're confused right now, and it's my
fault." Bodie reached out to grasp Doyle's hand, squeezing it gently. "I'm
too fond of you for my own good. Or yours." 

"Don't say that. Isn't anybody's fault." Doyle, oddly touched by the
impulsive gesture, squeezed his fingers in return, then circled his thumb
across the back of Bodie's hand. He moved to sit on the arm of the settee,
keeping Bodie's hand in his, turned to face him. "Used to think I knew
myself pretty well," he said carefully. "Thought I knew what I wanted in
life. And what I needed. Thought I had it, too. A job I liked, good
friends, comfortable place to live, and a new bird every few weeks." He
paused. "Sounds too simple, doesn't it?" 

"But that's the way life is," Bodie replied, tightening his grip on
Doyle's hand, "if you never think about the future." 

"Don't like to think about it," Doyle said. "Used to take it for granted
that you'd always be a part of it. And now I just don't know, and it
scares me." He bit his lip, trying to hold back his emotions. "Dammit,
Bodie, I told you this wouldn't change our friendship--" A sense of
helplessness seized him. "I don't want to ruin everything." 

"You do realize," Bodie said, attempting a lighter tone, "that there are
other people in this room?" 

"Don't care." Nonetheless, Doyle glanced around the drawing room. "None of
'em are paying any attention to us." He took another deep breath,
determined to go on with this until his world made some sense again. "I
don't know what to do. I feel as if everything is fine between us one
minute, and then the next, everything is going wrong. I don't even know
how to act around you anymore. To hell with knowing what I want-- maybe I
just need to know what *you* want." 

A tremor ran through Doyle as he saw the wave of desire cross Bodie's
face. "I want to go to bed with you," Bodie said. 

Doyle caught his breath, then let it out slowly. "Thought it was only a
passing phase." 

"Well, it isn't passing fast enough," Bodie replied sharply. "Listen, Ray,
I don't want to ruin anything, either. But I can't lie to you or myself
any longer. I want you." He stood and pulled Doyle up to face him, mere
inches apart. Doyle, mesmerized, stayed absolutely still as Bodie cupped a
hand round his cheek and leaned in to kiss him. 

Doyle found it impossible to resist the touch, opening his mouth to Bodie,
allowing the probing tongue to explore every surface and tasting Bodie in
return, reveling in the sudden closeness. And then Bodie pulled back,
leaving him bereft. Doyle quickly turned to kiss Bodie's palm as Bodie
withdrew his hand from Doyle's cheek. 

"Dammit," Doyle whispered, "don't do this to me." He wanted more, he
didn't want to let Bodie go, and yet he was afraid of what it would mean
to hold on. 

"Don't do what?" Bodie asked. "Be your friend? Be your lover?" He brushed
a finger across Doyle's lips. "Because that's what I want. And I want to
be completely clear about that. No more confusion--at least, not for me." 

"That's just great," Doyle said, still flushed and flustered from the
kiss. "And what about me, then? What the hell am I supposed to do?" 

"You," Bodie replied calmly, "are supposed to go talk to Lumley about a
gift, and I am supposed to talk to Colleen. I'll see you at seven." He
released Doyle's hand and started to move away, then stopped to turn back.
"And in the meantime, consider thinking about the future once in a while."


Doyle stared after him as Bodie moved swiftly across the room to catch up
Colleen, who was heading out. The two of them left together. 

The future? Hell. Doyle shook his head. What, precisely, did Bodie mean by
that? The immediate future? Something beyond that? No, he couldn't
possibly mean anything like that. There was only one obvious and immediate
future possibility--going to bed with Bodie, having sex with him. Judging
by his body's responses so far, Doyle knew it could happen, sensed that it
*would* happen. He shivered. The way Bodie kissed him was electrifying. To
have more--to lose himself in the sheer sensuality and strength of Bodie's
touch, to touch him completely--it could be incredible sex. But surely it
couldn't be anything more. No, that wasn't Bodie's style. He didn't
commit, he didn't form relationships. All he ever wanted was the
experience. Easy-going, carefree Bodie, that was how he had always been.
And that's how it would be- -an experience, a one-time thing, get the
physical longing out of his system and that would be the end of it. 

Which was fine with Doyle. He had no intention of going beyond one
experimental night, not with Bodie. It simply wasn't possible for Bodie to
have meant a future together, not *that* way. A future as friends, yes.
They'd have some fun here, end all the wondering by simply doing it, then
finish the assignment and go home to London, where they would surely
resume the familiar old patterns. That was the only future that made
sense. 

Doyle sighed. He shook his head again, not wanting to think about any of
it anymore, not now. Reminding himself that he was supposed to be working,
he headed across the room towards Lumley. 

******

Six towering, thick-leaved potted plants stood ranged along the corridor
walls, three for each side, providing excellent cover for proper skulking.


Doyle appreciated Lumley's thoughtfulness as he stood behind a plant,
waiting for the coast to clear. He'd chosen the hallway for his mission on
the theory that everyone else would be tempted to try the hidden passages,
and thus he wouldn't run as great a risk of bumping into someone. But he'd
only made it halfway to his target--Paul Stuart's room-- when he'd heard
voices and had to duck behind the concealing foliage. The voices belonged
to Northbrook and Colleen, and it was soon obvious that Colleen had caught
Northbrook in her room. Doyle clutched the gift he'd just finished
wrapping up for Stuart, pretended to be a statue, and listened to the
conversation. 

"No, you're wrong," Northbrook was saying. "I went into your room in
error. I'm not your person, honest." 

"Nonsense," Colleen replied. "I caught you red-handed. You hid this box in
there." 

"I didn't. It was already in there." 

"Come now, David. I can always tell when you're lying. Your nose wrinkles
up and your pull on your left earlobe. I saw you doing the same thing at
last month's meeting, when Tyler was quizzing you." 

"I wasn't lying then, either!" Northbrook's high-pitched voice grew
insistent. "That was merely creative phrasing. Tyler has no right to
question our tactics." 

"*Your* tactics, David. Not *our* tactics." 

"Oh, yes, that's a fine way to put it. Always changing your tune, you are.
What's the matter, haven't you got the stomach for it? You never used to
be squeamish about a little blood." 

"Then maybe I have changed. Those kinds of attacks don't work. They only
serve to turn people against us." 

"And sometimes they wake people up!" 

"Forget it, David. I'm not going to get you to understand, so why go on
about it--" 

The voices faded as the two moved off down the hallway and down the
stairs. It was a conversation which would definitely need following up.
Can't handle a little blood? What had Northbrook meant by that? Clearly
they were talking about a meeting of the Anti-Fascist Society, but what,
precisely, were these tactics Northbrook seemed so fond of? 

Well, it would have to wait. Right now Doyle had a mission to complete. He
poked his head round the plant. All clear. Quickly scurrying past the
plant and along the wall, he safely slid into Stuart's room. Now, where to
put the stupid present. Doyle didn't feel like sticking around long, so he
chose the simplest hiding spot--the wardrobe. The gift was a tin of
fruitcake. Lumley had told him about a particularly embarrassing moment
from Paul's childhood which involved a few rude but honest comments on a
favorite aunt's traditional Christmas fruitcake, and promised that such a
present would bring a flush to his nephew's cheeks. Then he'd helped Doyle
find some of the stuff buried in the back of the pantry. 

Relieved to have got the most difficult part of the game out of the way,
Doyle opened the wardrobe and shoved the wrapped-up tin in the back.
Stuart's room was on his designated side of the hall, so he went ahead and
made a quick search of the wardrobe's contents. Nothing but clothes-- a
few expensive shirts, good pair of shoes, and a heavy overcoat. There were
no suits, and Doyle wondered if Stuart had put all his money into the
elegant navy blue one he'd been wearing today. Perhaps the young man
wanted to impress everyone with how well he was doing, and perhaps it was
really a front. 

Doyle checked the pockets of the coat and found a set of car keys, an
ordinance map of the area, a Swiss Army knife, and a standard-issue RAF
wristwatch. Doyle put everything back in the pockets. It didn't surprise
him that Stuart had an interest in things military; it seemed to fit his
love of Conservative politics and his American Army Jeep-driving image. An
odd young man. 

There was nothing of interest in the rest of the room. Satisfied, Doyle
peered through the open doorway. The hallway was empty. Unless, of course,
someone was hiding behind one of the plants. Deciding to ignore the
possibility, Doyle worked his way down the hallway to continue his search
of the rooms. 

******

Bodie entered their bedroom at precisely seven o'clock to find Doyle
sitting cross-legged on the bed with his nose buried in *Lifeguard Lust*. 

Doyle slammed the book shut at the sight of Bodie. "'ello. Has it gone
seven already?" He glanced at his watch. 

Suppressing a strong urge to leap on his partner right there and then,
Bodie composed his thoughts, walked quite deliberately to the armchair,
and sat down. "Time flies," he said. He spied two Christmas packages on
the bed pillow beside Doyle. "Are those our pressies?" 

"Got it in one." Doyle picked up the smaller package and tossed it across.
"Found that under the bed." 

Bodie caught it with one hand. There was a piece of plain white paper
taped to the front with "Mr. Bodie" written in an unadorned style. He
shook the gift. "Doesn't weigh a thing. Feels as if there's nothing
inside. Don't suppose you saw anyone going into our room while you were
sneaking about the hallway?" 

"Nope." 

"Me neither." Bodie turned the package every which way, tried to feel
through the paper, but all it did was make empty squishing sounds. He
shrugged and gave up. "What'd you get?" 

Doyle picked up the larger package. "Feels like a book." 

"Ah. The companion to *Lifeguard Lust*, no doubt." Bodie grinned. "Make
interesting reading, does it?" 

"Yeah, well, it's not like there's anything else to read around here,"
Doyle protested. "Other than a pile of Northbrook's pamphlets on the
virtues of socialism." 

"Good old David." Bodie had searched Northbrook's room earlier. "You know
what I found on his nightstand?" 

"*Das Kapital*?" 

Bodie shook his head. 

"Mao's little red book?" 

"Wrong again." 

Doyle squinched up his eyes and rubbed his chin. "*101 Ways to Make Money
Without Being a Capitalist Pig*?" 

"Close," Bodie replied. "But a bit more amusing." 

"Okay, I give up. What was it?" 

"*The Complete Works of Beatrix Potter*." 

"You're joking." 

Bodie shook his head. "I swear on my mother's grave." 

"She's still alive," Doyle pointed out. 

"Well, I would if I could." 

"Uh-huh, I'll bet." Doyle uncurled from his cross-legged position,
stretching out his limbs. "That could explain why David and Colleen don't
get on." 

"Don't they?" 

Doyle told him about the conversation he'd overheard in the hallway. "How
much you want to bet he hasn't taken her anti- library book campaign
seriously, and she's getting back at him by trying to block his
suggestions to the AFS?" 

"Could be," Bodie said. "Wonder what he meant by the reference to blood?
Nobody's ever traced any violent acts to the AFS so far." 

"We'll have to find out." Doyle drew his legs up and clasped his arms
around them. "Did you find anything interesting in anyone else's room?" 

"Yeah. Julia Hunt has a vibrator. And Susan Solidarity has a tattered
banner from a 1969 antiwar march over her bed." Bodie opted not to mention
what he'd found in Richard and Geoffrey's room--a large supply of K-Y
jelly--nor the fact that he'd nicked a tube. "What did you find?" 

"Rupert Flax and the Moonglows have adjoining rooms," Doyle replied. 

Bodie nodded. "Bet he's doin' both of 'em." 

"Shocking, isn't it?" Doyle grinned. 

"Sort of depends," Bodie said thoughtfully, "on whether he's doin' 'em one
at a time, or together." 

"'Fraid I didn't catch 'em in the act," Doyle said with an air of regret.
"So I couldn't tell you." 

"Pity." Bodie briefly imagined the three pagans in bed together, and
shuddered. 

"I *can* tell you that Rupert has a previously unsuspected bent for things
poetic." 

"Is that right? Secretly penning poems in his spare time, is he?" 

"One poem," Doyle said. "I found an enormous manuscript in his room,
must've been three hundred pages. It was all one long work. Called 'Ode to
Priapus'. From what I could figure out, it's one giant orgy in rhyming
couplets." 

"Priapus, eh? As in priapismic?" Bodie felt quite familiar with the term,
having looked it up once after being teased by Doyle. "Might explain his
attempt to get into the summerhouse. Maybe he needed some inspiration." 

"Or is simply obsessed with things phallic," Doyle replied. 

"He's nothing more than a randy old goat," Bodie decided. What he couldn't
understand was what any woman, even a Moonglow, would see in an
overweight, nonverbal, orange- haired natural foods chef. "Wonder if
there's something in brown rice?" 

"Nah," Doyle said. "I heard it was wheat germ." 

Curious, Bodie asked, "Who told you that?" 

"This bird named Lydia." Doyle sighed. "She had this terrific body." He
paused. "But she kept trying to get me to eat plain yogurt all the time,
with wheat germ sprinkled on it." He wrinkled his nose. "You ever tried
plain yogurt? It's disgusting. And she put wheat germ on everything I ate.
She even brought a little jar of it to restaurants to sprinkle on the
food." He shook his head. "Oh, well." 

"Did it work?" Bodie asked. 

"What?" 

Ever patient, Bodie said, "The wheat germ. Did it--you know- -make you
randier--" 

"Oh, that." Doyle let out another little sigh. "Nope, not that I noticed."
Then he raised an eyebrow at Bodie. "Not that I *need* anything like
that." 

"No." Bodie narrowed his eyes and shifted to a softer, sensuous tone. "You
certainly don't need any help in that department." 

"Stuff it, Bodie." 

*I'd love to*, Bodie thought before checking himself. *Calm down. There's
plenty of time. Wait 'til he's ready, for chrissakes.* He cleared his
throat and sat up a bit more in the chair. "So what else did you find?" 

"Hm? Oh, nothing else of interest in the pagans' rooms. Or in Colleen's.
Paul Stuart has some military paraphernalia." He described the contents of
Stuart's coat pockets. 

"If he's into the military, he's into weapons," Bodie said. 

"Yeah. I didn't find a gun in his room, but he probably wouldn't leave one
lying around. If he does like guns, then this estate would be a good place
to do some target shooting." 

"If Lumley allowed it," Bodie replied. "Are you thinking that cartridge
was Paul's? That he came out here at some point to practice shooting, and
got careless with his ammunition?" 

Doyle shrugged. "Could be. It doesn't necessarily come from the stolen
arms." 

"No," Bodie agreed, not that he cared for the idea. If they were
completely wrong about the arms even being on the estate, then Cowley
would not be pleased. "What did you get him, anyway?" 

"Paul? A fruitcake. Lumley promised he wouldn't like it. What'd you get
Susan?" 

Bodie hesitated. "You don't really want to know, do you?" 

Doyle merely raised two incredulous eyebrows. 

"Yeah, okay." Bodie cleared his throat again. "Remember Colleen said
someone gave her a sexy nightie last year? Well, she ended up getting to
keep it, though she claims she didn't really want to. Anyway, she brought
it with her this year in the hope that she could embarrass somebody else
with it, but the person she got wasn't appropriate. So she loaned it to
me." 

Bodie couldn't recall when he'd last seen Doyle's eyes get so wide. "You
gave Susan Solidarity a sexy nightie?" 

"It's perfect," Bodie replied, feeling defensive. "I'm the last person
she'll suspect." 

"Or the first, for having such incredibly poor taste." 

"Poor taste? Me?" 

"Wouldn't be the first time," Doyle said. 

"Thanks a bunch, mate. I'll have you know Colleen thought of it. She
thinks it's a terrific idea." 

"Exactly," Doyle said triumphantly. "Think about it. You're taking advice
in matters of taste from someone who believes that Peter Rabbit is a crime
against humanity." 

"Oh." Bodie's certainty of the rightness of the gift abruptly dissolved.
"Put like that, I see your point. Damn." 

"Too late to get it back, I suppose?" 

Bodie nodded glumly. "Saw Susan going into her room right before I came
here." He slumped in the chair, resigned. "Doesn't matter. It's not as if
it will seriously alter our relationship. She already hates me." 

"That's true. Got on her bad side from the very beginning, didn't you?" 

"Yeah." Bodie thought back to his initial encounter with *Ms*. Solidarity.
"It was distaste at first sight." 

They lapsed into silence. Then, out of nowhere, Bodie's stomach let go
with a tremendous rumble. 

"Don't worry," Doyle said, "I'm sure they'll feed us at the party." 

"Hope I can hold out that long." 

Doyle smiled sweetly. "I know where there's some fruitcake." 

"I'll hold out," Bodie replied. 

******

*Chapter Ten*

When Bodie entered the drawing room at eight o'clock, he made straight for
the food-laden table which stood beside the Christmas tree. Doyle trailed
behind, putting a few items on his plate while Bodie loaded his with
massive portions of everything in sight. 

"Watch it," he whispered as Bodie's hand hovered over a plateful of
sandwiches, "might be liver sausage in those." 

Bodie leaned in close to sniff them. "Tuna fish." He grabbed a handful and
moved on. 

Doyle finished with his selection and turned around to see Colleen
beckoning to him. He went to join her on the sofa. 

"Is that alcoholic?" Doyle nodded at the punchbowl sitting on the coffee
table. 

"Champagne and orange juice," Colleen replied. 

"Good." Doyle ladled a good portion into a glass and sipped it. "I need
this." 

A look of concern crossed her face. "Aren't you enjoying the house party?"


"Oh, the house party's fine." Doyle nibbled at the food on his plate
between large sips of champagne. "I've just had a lot of things on my mind
lately. You know, having to change my whole life to move up here, trying
to find work." He looked over to the settee, where Bodie had taken a seat
next to David Northbrook. "And finding out a few things about someone I
thought I knew pretty well." 

Colleen gave his knee a light pat. "He's treating you all right, isn't
he?" 

"Yeah," Doyle replied. He thought about the abundance of affection and
concern Bodie had shown him that day. "More than all right." He gave
Colleen a reassuring look. "It's me. Sometimes I feel confused about what
I really want." 

"Doesn't everyone?" she said. 

"Oh," he replied innocently, "you mean I'm not alone?" 

She made a *tsk-tsking* sound. "Now, don't tease, Ray. You do realize that
you do that whenever you want to get out of a serious conversation, don't
you?" 

Doyle blinked, surprised at her astuteness. "Well, maybe I'm not a very
serious person--" 

"Yes, you are," she said firmly. 

He stared into his champagne glass, then took a large swallow. 

"I'll tell you what helps me," Colleen went on. 

"Helps you what?" Doyle looked at her, curious. 

"In figuring out what I truly want. Whenever I'm faced with a big
decision, or some kind of potential risk, I always try to imagine myself
ten years in the future, looking back on the moment of choice. Then I ask
myself if I'm looking back with satisfaction, or with regret." 

Doyle gazed absently at his feet. There was that damn future again. "And
does that work?" 

"Well, I haven't had any regrets so far." 

"Must be working then." 

"Yes," she said simply. 

Picking idly at his food, Doyle looked over at Bodie again. What would it
be like to lie beside him, naked and aroused? Doyle had been having
second, third, and fourth thoughts about sex with Bodie. Now he wondered
yet again as he thought over what Colleen had suggested. He tried to
imagine himself ten years from now, not terribly happy with the idea. He'd
be in his forties, probably retired from active duty. Would he still be
with CI5 in some other capacity? Doyle had trouble visualizing what he'd
be doing otherwise. Frowning, he tried to see the other aspects of his
life. Would he be living alone? Would Bodie still be coming by for regular
pub crawls? And the most important question--would he be looking back at
this night wondering what it would have been like to go to bed with his
best mate, or would he look back and know the answer? 

Doyle finished his drink, then picked up the punch bowl ladle and filled
the glass again. He did want to know what it would be like. But he was
damn well going to fortify himself first. 

"Ray?" 

"Hm?" He brought his attention back to Colleen. 

"You mentioned looking for work. I wanted to talk to you about that. Have
you found anything permanent yet?" 

He shook his head. 

"Well," she said, "I know it's not much, but I could use you at the
bookshop a while longer. Katherine's going on holiday for a fortnight, and
there's an important conference in early January I'd like to go to. Do you
think you could handle things on your own for a few days while I'm away?" 

"'Course I can." He hated to get her hopes up by committing to it, but he
had to keep his cover going. He doubted they would be in Oxford past New
Year's. If they didn't find any sign of the arms soon, Cowley would pull
them back to London. 

"Good," Colleen replied. "I might even have some work after I get back. We
do inventory in mid-January." 

Trying to sound genuinely interested rather than nosy, Doyle said, "What
sort of conference is it?" 

"Oh, I'm not actually attending. It's the big Labor Party meeting in
Blackpool. There will be a number of very influential MPs there. I'd like
to try talking to a few of them about the Protect Our Children Society." 

"Ah. I see." Doyle knew about the Labor meeting. It had been one of many
items mentioned at a general CI5 briefing earlier that month. A tip had
come through about a group of right- wing extremists possibly disrupting
the proceedings. If it wasn't one group of nutters they were chasing
after, it was another. Things would never change. 

Doyle picked at his food while keeping up a flow of mindless chatter with
Colleen about children's books. The rest of the guests and their hosts had
by now arrived, and the next half hour was spent in eating, drinking, and
idle conversation. Doyle had finished his second glass of punch by the
time Lumley called for everyone's attention. 

"Has everyone got the gift they received?" he asked. 

Doyle glanced down at the present he'd set on the coffee table. He hoped
whatever it was wasn't too obscene. 

"Good, good," Lumley went on after getting nods from everyone. "We'll open
them one at a time, going around the room. Who'd like to start? Geoffrey,
be a sport and get things off and running." 

Geoffrey dutifully unwrapped his gift, producing a long, cylindrical
object. "'Super Deluxe Personal Massager'," he read off the handle. "Hm. I
think I could make some use of this." 

"That's not mine, is it?" Lumley peered intently at it. 

"No, no, different brand. Wonder where it came from?" 

Doyle looked over at Julia Hunt, and saw her blushing. 

"Most amusing," Lumley said. "Who's next--Esther?" 

Esther Moonglow ripped off the wrapping paper to reveal a cassette.
"'All-Time Favorite Christmas Carols'." She smiled. "That *is* a silly
thing to give a pagan." 

Julia and Graham Hunt were sitting next to Esther. They opened their gifts
simultaneously. 

"Oh, a box of chocolates," Julia cried with delight. "How simply
scrumptious." She turned adoring eyes on her husband. "You must have been
my person. Weren't you, darling?" 

"Clever girl," Graham replied. He held up the bottle of massage oil he'd
been given. "And you must have been mine." 

"Of course I was, dear." They gave each other a peck on the cheek. 

Doyle tried to keep the look of nausea off his face. 

Colleen went next. She carefully removed the gift wrap from around a small
carton, then opened the box to pull out a cup and saucer. "Dear me." She
held up the cup for all to see. It was decorated with illustrations from
Beatrix Potter. "I think I know who gave me this." She cast a suspicious
glare at Northbrook. 

It was Doyle's turn. He slowly tore open his package. It was a book, all
right. As he looked at the cover, he felt a flush creep up his face. 

"Don't be shy," Lumley said. "Do tell us the title." 

Reluctantly, Doyle read it off. "'The Joys of Anal Sex.'" He heard a snort
of laughter from Bodie's direction and scowled at him. 

"That's the best one we've had so far," Lumley pronounced. "Who's
next--Emily, do open yours." 

Emily's gift turned out to be a Christmas tree ornament depicting the baby
Jesus, at which she wrinkled her pagan nose. 

Then Rupert tore into his present, revealing another book-- *How To Cook
for Beginners*. He growled at it. 

Paul unveiled the fruitcake. He blushed briefly, then gave his uncle a
look. "I'm never going to live that incident down, am I?" 

"It's all in good fun, Paul," Lumley replied. "All in good fun." 

Then it was time for Susan to unwrap hers. Doyle grinned at Bodie's
discomfiture as she gasped at the contents. "Well, I never," she said as
she turned the nightie this way and that. "This is disgraceful. I mean,
it's so...so...*personal*." 

Lumley repeated his injunction that it was all good fun. Susan gave the
nightie a look of utter distaste and tucked it back in its wrapping. 

Northbrook was next in line. His gift was a bottle of hair oil. 

Doyle watched the frown form on the bald man's face. Then Northbrook
gallantly switched to a forced smile and said, "Yes, yes, that's quite
amusing." He gave Paul Stuart a suspicious look. 

That left Bodie. Doyle leaned forward as Bodie opened the small package.
He fervently hoped it was more embarrassing than his own. 

Bodie held up his gift--a clear plastic packet with something inside which
Doyle couldn't make out from across the room. "What is it?" he asked. 

"Condoms," Bodie replied. Doyle detected a faint blush. "Special
King-Size," Bodie continued, "with a French tickler." Then he looked at
Lumley and smiled. "Mind if I keep these?" 

"Oh, by all means. We have lots more where those came from." 

"Thanks." Bodie looked directly at Doyle and grinned. 

Doyle felt the flush return to his face. *Bastard*, he thought. But
somehow he couldn't help but grin back. 

"Well, that's everyone," Lumley said cheerfully. "Now for the guessing
part. You all need to stand up. Come on, everybody up. That's it, good,
good. Now, on the count of ten, you must hand your gift to the person you
think gave it to you. If you're correct, you get to sit down. If you're
wrong, the person gives the gift back to you and you have to try again.
Last person standing loses. Ready?" 

Lumley slowly counted to ten while Doyle stared at *The Joys of Anal Sex*,
wondering who on earth gave it to him. By the count of eight, he'd
narrowed it down to Colleen or Geoffrey, and on ten, he turned to hand the
book to Colleen. She handed it back. "Sorry." 

On the next round he tried Geoffrey, who immediately confessed. Elated,
Doyle sat down, pleased to see Bodie still standing, looking utterly
bewildered. And he was still looking bewildered after everyone else had
figured their person out. "Shit," he muttered. 

"I'm afraid you lose," Lumley announced. "Who was Mr. Bodie's gift giver?"


Rupert Flax raised his hand. 

Doyle burst out laughing at his partner's shocked expression. 

"That means," Lumley went on, "that you have to hand out the real
presents." He crossed to a side table to pick up a large red and white
Santa hat. "And you have to wear this." He started over to Bodie, who
fixed him with a smoldering glare. 

"Come on, Bodie," Doyle called out. "Be fair." 

Bodie turned the glare in his direction. Then he stomped over to the
coffee table, filled up a glass from the punch bowl, and gulped the
contents down in one long, noisy swallow. He strode back to Lumley,
snatched the hat, and stuck it on his head. "Okay, I'm ready." 

Doyle decided it was time for his third glass of champagne. 

******

As Doyle fingered the soft, thick wool of the blue-green muffler, he said,
"You knew all along, you bastard." He smiled fondly at Bodie, who now sat
on the sofa beside him, his present-giving duties finished, the silly
Santa hat discarded. 

"Can't think what you mean," Bodie replied. 

"The muffler you gave me last year," Doyle said. "You knew all along that
I had to throw it away, didn't you?" 

"Yeah," Bodie admitted. "Wanted to keep you guessing, though." 

"Well, you did." Doyle rubbed the plush material against his cheek, then
wrapped the muffler around his neck, luxuriating in its warmth. "It's
perfect. Thanks." He put his arm around Bodie's shoulders and hugged him.
"Go on. Open yours." 

"Okay." Bodie eagerly shredded the paper of his gift. He pulled out a pair
of black leather gloves. Checking them over, he said admiringly, "How'd
you know?" 

"Spotted you eyeing 'em in a shop window earlier this month," Doyle
replied. "And I noticed your current pair are getting worn." 

"They are indeed." Bodie brought the gloves to his nose and inhaled
deeply. "Ah...there's nothing like the smell of new leather." He pulled
the gloves on and flexed his fingers. 

"Didn't know you'd get so excited," Doyle said. 

"Ah, Raymond, my son," Bodie murmured, cupping Doyle's face in a
leather-clad hand, "did I neglect to tell you about my little fetish?" 

"Don't tease. I've had enough shocks for one holiday." Doyle pushed
Bodie's hand away, though the pungent aroma of leather lingered. 

"All right," Bodie said reluctantly. He tugged the gloves off. "It is good
stuff, though." 

Doyle sniffed the air, admitting to himself that it was an enticing aroma,
but unwilling to pursue that line of thought any further. His life was far
too complicated already. 

"Best Christmas present I got this year," Bodie said. He hugged Doyle
back. "'Course, it's the only present I got this year." 

"What? No bottle of scotch from Cowley?" 

"That's never a present," Bodie replied. "That's a bribe." 

"Yeah, you're right." Doyle leaned forward to grab his champagne glass
from the table, then leaned back again, his arm still draped around
Bodie's shoulders, head lolling gently against his. He felt warm and
comfortable and affectionate. 

Bodie's hand dropped onto his thigh, squeezing it lightly. "Can't stay
like this all night, you know." 

"Why not?" Doyle replied muzzily. "Feels nice." 

"Because we're not here to feel nice," Bodie reminded him. "We're here to
mingle. We need to talk more with these idiots. Try to steer the
conversation into politics, see if anybody goes over the top on anything
interesting." 

Doyle only half-listened. "Don't want to mingle. Want to drink more
champagne." 

"Oh, yeah? And how's that going to be listed in our report? 'Tested the
structural properties inherent in fermented grapes'?" 

Sighing, Doyle lifted his head a bit and turned to look Bodie in the eye.
"All I want is a little alcohol to set the proper mood." 

"The proper mood for what?" Bodie replied. 

Doyle found himself being held by an intense gaze, and felt a lurch of
fear in his stomach. He couldn't bring himself to say the truth. He
removed his arm from Bodie's shoulders. "I'll let you know," he said,
leaning forward, arms resting on knees, the champagne glass twirling
between his fingers. 

"Well, I wish you would." Bodie stood, picking up his own glass and
refilling it. "I'm going to mingle. I'll see you later." He moved off. 

Doyle brought his glass to his lips and chugged the liquid down. 

******

*Chapter Eleven*

Bodie was drunk. Not truly sloshed, but very pleasantly tipsy. He leaned
against the frame of the french windows, champagne glass in hand, not
really looking at anyone or anything. He'd spent four hours chatting with
the assorted nutters that Lumley called friends, doing his best to get
people to talk about something interesting, especially anything political,
and getting nowhere. The Hunts were hopeless--they had nothing to discuss
other than their various friends' deficiencies. Colleen was on another
anti-bunny rampage, Geoffrey had only his latest gallery showing on his
mind, and Northbrook kept making intoxicated attempts to feel Bodie up. 

Lumley, of course, didn't have a clue about anything. The Moonglows were
willing to natter endlessly about the virtues of organic eating and the
joys of the pagan lifestyle, while Rupert Flax made his usual growling
noises. Susan refused to talk to him at all, merely glowering at him from
a safe distance. Paul had a few things to say about how unfair the Labor
party was to all good, upstanding, right-minded British subjects, which
failed to captivate Bodie in any way. 

He was tired of them all. The room felt stuffy, the company stifling, and
his stomach was a tad too full. Bodie wondered how cold it was outside. He
could do with some fresh air. Why not simply quietly slip outside and
escape for a while? As he scanned the room he noticed, with a sense of
mild exasperation, that Doyle had managed to successfully leave the party
without attracting attention. Even *he* hadn't seen Doyle depart, the
sneaky sod. That decided him. If Doyle couldn't be bothered to put up with
Lumley's guests any longer, then neither could he. 

Bodie made his move, gently clicking the latch of the French windows open
and slipping through onto the patio beyond. As he wandered towards a huge
evergreen planted between patio and lawn, the cold, crisp air fully
registered, and he was hit by a sudden, urgent need to pee. 

Snow two feet deep glistened before him. Furrowing his brow in
concentration, Bodie unzipped his trousers and set about writing his name
on the natural canvas provided. 

Steam hissed up off the snow. He only made it to the bottom of the "B"
before running out of ammunition. *Shouldn't have made it so big*, Bodie
decided. Tucking himself back in and zipping up, he paused in his return
to the house as he heard an odd *whooshing* sound. 

The peculiar noise came from the other side of the evergreen. Bodie slowly
edged round its snow-laded branches. There, in a previously pristine bank
of whiteness, lay Doyle, flat on his back, moving his arms briskly up and
down. 

Bodie moved to stand at Doyle's feet. He put his hands on his hips and
glared down at the soggy figure. No coat, no hat, nothing but jeans,
cotton shirt, and the brand new muffler. "What the hell're you doin'?" 

Doyle's arms stopped flapping. "I'm makin' a snow angel, of course." He
hiccuped. 

Letting loose a long-suffering sigh, Bodie bent forward to grab Doyle's
wrists and pull him up. Doyle tottered, knocking Bodie backwards into the
evergreen. Lumps of snow cascaded onto their heads. 

"Shit," Bodie muttered. He regained his balance, then yanked Doyle onto
the patio, where he set about brushing them both off. "Thought you didn't
like this stuff." 

"Only when it's cold." Doyle grinned. "And I'm warm now." 

"I'll bet you are. How much of that champagne did you drink, anyway?" 

Doyle shrugged. "Not that much." He weaved a bit as Bodie turned him round
to brush off his back. 

Bodie steadied him. "You're soaking. You'll catch a cold, and then I'll
catch it, and we'll both be miserable. I'm warning you right now, no
matter what, I am *not* sharing a bed with a runny nose." 

"'s not running--" 

"It bloody well will be if you don't get inside." Bodie pushed him across
the porch to the French windows. 

Doyle came to an abrupt halt, causing Bodie, who was directly behind him,
to trip on his heels. They staggered about, clutching each other as they
tried to avoid crashing into the glass. Bodie managed to steer Doyle away,
and they sagged together against the nearby wall. "*Now* what?" he shouted
into Doyle's face, not caring if anyone inside could hear. 

"You didn't give me a chance to look at my angel," Doyle replied
petulantly. He hiccuped again, shoved Bodie aside, and lurched over to the
snow bank to stare down at his handiwork. 

Bodie reluctantly followed. The snow angel was a pathetic mess, its wings
so crooked it looked more like a snow butterfly that had just been smashed
by an errant schoolboy. "It's lovely," Bodie remarked. "Can we go in now?"


"What's that s'posed to be?" Doyle pointed at the wobbly trench lines in
the snow beside the evergreen. 

"It's a 'B'. It's as far as I got." Bodie tugged at Doyle's arm. "C'mon.
I've had enough fun for one Christmas Eve." 

"Yeah?" Doyle stared intently at his wristwatch. "It's only midnight." He
looked at Bodie and smiled. "Hey, it's tomorrow. Happy Christmas!" He gave
Bodie a tremendous hug, nearly knocking him off balance again. Then he
sagged against Bodie's shoulder, arms draped around his neck, murmuring,
"Sorry. Me legs are going." 

Doyle's warm breath tickled Bodie's cheek. Bodie got an arm around Doyle's
waist to support him. He gently led the way once again towards the house,
this time making it to the French windows and safely through them to the
drawing room, where he propped Doyle against the back of an armchair.
"Okay, Ray, what next? One minute you want to be the life of the party,
and the next you're passing out. Can you make up your mind what you want
to do?" 

"Wanna lie down," Doyle murmured. 

"In something other than snow?" 

"Bedroom." 

"What an original idea," Bodie replied. "Lying down on a bed. Fancy that."


Doyle gave him a glassy-eyed stare. "You're gonna come with me, aren't
you?" 

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." Bodie got Doyle's arm around his
shoulder again and his own arm round his waist and propelled him out of
the drawing room towards the stairs. 

******

Bodie unceremoniously deposited Doyle on the bed. Then he made an
about-face and left the bedroom to hike downstairs to the kitchen, where
he pinched a pot of coffee and two mugs. 

Upon his return, he found Doyle sitting on the middle of the bed, tugging
ineffectually at his snow-sodden muffler. Bodie ignored him; he set the
mugs down and poured out the coffee. He still felt pleasantly tipsy, but
in control of the situation. 

Doyle got the muffler undone at last and flung it towards the heater. He
missed. The muffler plopped wetly on the rug. 

"Now is that any way to treat your pressie?" Bodie said sternly. He yanked
his shoes and socks off and sat on the bed, holding out a steaming mug to
Doyle. 

"Don't want that." Doyle pushed it away. 

"Yes, you do. Come on, drink up." Bodie forced the mug into Doyle's hands.
Then he took up his own coffee and drank it. 

"I'm not thirsty," Doyle said, but he put the mug to his lips and gulped
the coffee down. When he finished, he thrust the mug at Bodie, who put
both his and Doyle's on the bedside table. 

"You still have your shoes on," Bodie observed. "Not to mention the rest
of your clothing, which happens to be a bit damp." He plucked at the back
of Doyle's shirt where it clung to the skin. "See?" 

"Um-hm," Doyle murmured. "Don't care." Nonetheless, he kicked his trainers
off and then peeled away his socks, flinging them with abandon across the
room. They landed on the armchair. 

Bodie smiled. He felt relaxed, happy, and quite calm. With the sure
knowledge of a practiced seducer, he was prepared to wait for the proper
moment to execute his designs. The excitement was yet to come. "Now the
shirt, Ray." He shifted closer to help Doyle unbutton it, and felt
something hard under his hip. "What's this?" He left off his intended
undressing of Doyle to pick up the object. "Ah." It was *Lifeguard Lust*.
"Inspirational reading. Hm." Idly flipping through the pages, he found an
appropriate scene and read aloud in a low, sensual tone. 

"'Trevor's pulse quickened as Dirk breathed hotly down his neck, then
reached around to rip the shirt from Trevor's well- muscled chest. Dirk
ran his strong, athletic hands eagerly down the smooth, warm, receptive
flesh.'" Bodie smiled wickedly at Doyle. "That sounds like fun, doesn't
it?" 

Doyle snatched the book from his hands. "'Receptive flesh'? What the hell
does that mean?" He studied the page in question. 

"Oh, you know," Bodie replied, smoothly moving behind Doyle,
"tingling...excited...willing." He blew a soft breath into the curls lying
on Doyle's neck, briefly parting them to reveal the skin beneath. Then he
gently touched Doyle's shoulders, slowly moving his hands down and around
to the top button of his shirt. He blew another puff into the curls, much
closer, nuzzling the soft hair with his nose. "Like this." He undid the
button and slid his hand inside, caressing Doyle's flesh, circling his
fingers through the whispery chest hair. 

Doyle looked up from the book, twisting his head to search out Bodie's
face. "And then what happens?" he asked, a slight tremor in his voice. 

"Wild, incredible, passionate sex," Bodie replied huskily. As he undid the
next button and the next, his hand roamed ever downward towards Doyle's
trembling abdomen. He stilled his hand, holding it there. He looked at
Doyle with utter openness and longing, and asked softly, "Yes?" 

Doyle held his gaze, uncertainty slowly fading. Then he nodded. "Yes." He
tossed the book aside. "Don't need a manual, either." He reached inside
his shirt to clasp Bodie's hand, moving it, encouraging a steady stroking.
Then he let go to tug the shirt from his jeans and shrug it off. He
twisted, trying to get at Bodie's sweater. 

Bodie left off his stroking to allow Doyle to pull the sweater over his
head. Doyle held the bunched-up sweater between them for a moment, then
set it aside. He lay a hesitant palm on Bodie's chest and Bodie shivered.
"Your hand's cold." 

"Sorry." Doyle pulled his hand away. 

"It's all right." Bodie took both Doyle's hands in his to warm them. "Bet
the rest of you needs warming up as well." He let go to press Doyle to
him, wrapping his arms around him, rubbing Doyle's smooth back. Doyle
nestled his head in the crook of Bodie's neck, then turned to kiss Bodie's
cheek. 

"Um," Bodie murmured. "Much better." He turned to kiss Doyle on the lips,
lightly, then pulled away. The heat of arousal flared within him, and he
shifted his position so he could unzip his trousers. 

"Let me." Doyle undid the button and slid the zip down. 

"Ah--" Bodie revelled in the touch as Doyle slowly worked the trousers
along. He wriggled and twisted his hips to ease the process. Doyle
succeeded in wresting the trousers down and off. He ran his hand along
Bodie's bare thigh up to his hip, then tugged at the waistband of his
skimpy blue pants. 

"No fair." Bodie brushed him away. "You've still got your jeans on. Wanna
see those sexy legs." 

Doyle laughed. "You sure you're seducing the right person?" 

"Yeah." Bodie reached for the zip. "I hope so." He undid Doyle's jeans and
yanked at them without making much progress. "How do you get in and out
these things?" 

"Pliers." Doyle lifted his hips. 

"Thought so." Bodie finally managed to pull the recalcitrant denim off and
cast the jeans to the floor. "That's better." Only one more article of
clothing to go. He looked at Doyle's pants. "Ducks?" Doyle's hunter-green
briefs were decorated with flying mallards. 

"They were on sale," Doyle replied. 

Bodie sighed. His ardor had waned a bit. Time to get serious about this
again. He stretched out to lie next to Doyle, on his side, close but not
touching. Sliding his fingers under the waistband of Doyle's briefs, he
ran his hand around Doyle's slim belly, along his hip, and on to palm the
taut buttocks. Then he hooked his thumb around the top edge of the pants
and tugged the material down. 

As he worked them along, Doyle reciprocated, pulling gently at Bodie's
briefs. They twisted and turned, moving together to free themselves of the
last barrier to total nakedness. Released from the restraining cloth,
Bodie drew Doyle into his arms, on fire once more, desperate to touch and
to stroke, eager to know every plane, every hollow, every smooth and rough
surface of Doyle's body. Doyle's hands roamed over his chest and shoulders
in return, tentative at first, then stronger, surer, moving downward to
stroke Bodie's hips and thighs. Bodie moaned softly as their cocks brushed
each other, hard, urgent. "Want you," he said, his voice a harsh whisper.
"Need you." He sought out Doyle's mouth and their lips met in a hot,
panting kiss. Then Bodie moved on to suck and nip at Doyle's neck, to lap
at his throat, urged on by Doyle's sighs of pleasure. He kissed the hollow
of Doyle's neck, then blew light, warm breaths across his chest, creating
tiny ripples in the whorls of hair. 

"Ah...more," Doyle murmured. He hooked his leg around Bodie's and rubbed
his entire body against his. 

Inflamed by the contact, Bodie ground his hips against Doyle's. Then he
bent his head to touch his tongue to the tip of Doyle's cock, reaching his
hand down to cup the tight sac beneath. As Bodie caressed Doyle's balls,
Doyle groaned, hips bucking, hands gripping Bodie's shoulders, urging him
on. Bodie took Doyle's cock in his mouth, sucking rhythmically, fiercely
intent on Doyle's satisfaction. Doyle plunged into him and Bodie briefly
pulled back, then, at the sound of Doyle's moan of deprivation, he opened
to him again, giving his mouth fully, indulging in the taste and feel of
Doyle's engorged cock. Doyle's thrusts became frantic, his fingers
convulsively clenching Bodie's shoulders, his body surging against him. A
reverberating throb of need pulsed within Bodie as he sucked harder,
fevered with a passionate desire to possess the flesh beside him, around
him, within him. And then Doyle came, shuddering into him, and Bodie
swallowed the warm fluid, drawing in all of it he could get, licking the
last drops from the tip when Doyle was spent. 

They drew apart, Doyle lying on his back in a satiated sprawl. Bodie,
tensely aware of his own needs now, propped himself on one elbow to lean
over Doyle, his other arm across Doyle's chest, one leg across Doyle's
thigh, his demanding erection pressing into Doyle's abdomen. He leaned
down to kiss Doyle. 

"Mmm," Doyle murmured, his eyes half-closed. 

"Ray--" Bodie nibbled at an earlobe. "Need you--" He was close to the
edge--it wouldn't take much to send him over. But he needed contact. 

Doyle's hand reached for him, wrapping around Bodie's straining cock,
pumping the rigid flesh. Letting out a deep moan, Bodie pushed against the
pressure of Doyle's hand, his body rubbing against Doyle's, wanting more,
knowing it couldn't last. He was there, he was coming, and with a half-
gasp, half-cry, he shuddered and jerked, spurting over Doyle's fingers
until he felt emptied, simultaneously transported and desolated by
release. 

He collapsed on top of Doyle, drained. A few moments later he felt Doyle's
hand on his back, gently massaging it. Bodie shifted halfway off him,
their legs still entwined, his arm flung over Doyle's chest, his head
resting on Doyle's shoulder. Doyle continued stroking his back, the
movement steadily slowing, growing more languid with each touch until
Doyle's hand stilled. Bodie lazily stretched his arms and legs, then
settled again. "Incredible," he muttered, planting a kiss on Doyle's neck
before laying his head back on his shoulder. 

"Um-hm," Doyle replied sleepily. 

"Have to try it again sometime." 

There was no response. Bodie glanced up to see Doyle's closed eyes, and he
listened to the deep, even breathing, and sighed. 

******

Bodie woke up with a new urge to pee. He should have known. Champagne
always affected him that way, worse than any other kind of alcohol.
Raising his head, he checked the clock on the bedside table. Its glowing
dial told him it was three a.m. 

With a soft groan, he shifted himself, careful not to wake Doyle, slowly
lifting his arms and legs and rolling over until he could get off the bed
with minimal effort. Satisfied that Doyle hadn't noticed a thing and was
still sleeping soundly, Bodie padded into the bathroom to tend to his
business. 

Emerging a minute later, he groggily became aware, for the first time that
night, of the moonlight pouring through the windows. He walked over to
pull the drapes but didn't, pausing instead to gaze out at the sky. He
couldn't remember when he had ever seen it so clear before, so black. The
full moon appeared impossibly bright in contrast, a luminous globe in a
sea of darkness. 

On the wide expanse of the grounds below, a frosty crust had formed on the
deep mantle of snow, and it glimmered with a million diamonds of reflected
light, until the whiteness met the shadows of the woods far in the
distance and was swallowed up. 

Bodie stared down at the gardens, at the dark shapes of the hedges looming
above the snow, and the barren branches of the rosebushes pricking
through. The summerhouse came just within view, isolated, its marble walls
and pillars standing cold and silent. 

As Bodie started to turn away, something flickered near the corner of his
eye--a shadow, or the ghost of a shadow. Or was he merely imagining
mysteries in the mysterious winter landscape? 

He rubbed his eyes and stared at the summerhouse. Nothing. Feeling
extraordinarily tired, he continued the vigil another ten minutes,
struggling to keep his eyes on the spot. Nothing there at all. No point in
chasing after ghosts in the dead of a winter night. Bodie gave up and,
having forgotten his original intention of shutting the drapes, turned
around and looked at the bed. Doyle lay stretched out on top of the
covers, neither one of them having bothered to pull them up. The moonlight
streamed across the bed, giving an ethereal, sculptural whiteness to
Doyle's body. As he looked at the still, pale form, Bodie momentarily
froze, waiting, watching, listening...then he saw the smooth rise and fall
of Doyle's chest, heard the susurration of breath, and he relaxed. He
shook his head. Christ, what had he been thinking? 

He crossed to the bed and carefully climbed onto it to lie beside Doyle,
propped on one elbow, staring at the quiet figure. He touched a hand to
Doyle's chest and traced the long, jagged scar there, wishing he could
erase all the painful memories it engendered. Then he lay his arm across
Doyle's waist and settled in, his head on Doyle's pillow, as close as he
could get without disturbing him. 

Bodie lay there, simply watching Doyle, and he knew that he loved him. 

******

*Chapter Twelve*

Though Bodie eventually fell asleep, it wasn't for long. But the next time
he woke, it wasn't because of his bladder. He woke because of the
high-pitched screaming. 

Both he and Doyle bolted upright and rolled instantly off the bed,
instinctively going for cover before realizing they were in no danger. The
screams, which emanated from the corridor, had subsided to loud sobs, and
a man's voice could now be heard. 

Bodie went into the bathroom to grab two robes; they threw them on and
rushed out. In the dimly lit hallway, Graham Hunt held his hysterical
wife, handing her his handkerchief while making soothing sounds. Other
doors opened all along the corridor and the other guests emerged to hover
near the Hunts. 

"It's nothing," Graham said as Bodie and Doyle came up to the couple.
"She's had a fright, that's all." 

"What sort of fright?" Bodie asked, directing the question at Julia and
ignoring Graham. 

She pulled away from her husband to look at Bodie, slowly taking in Doyle
and the rest of the guests. "It was *horrid*," she moaned, dabbing the
kerchief at her eyes. 

"Yes?" Bodie prompted. 

"You don't have to tell them anything, darling--" Graham stopped when
Lumley bounded up, Geoffrey close behind. 

"Oh, my, dear, dear me, what in the world is going on here? Are you all
right? Come now, there's no need to cry, you're perfectly safe here." 

"Someone *touched* me!" Julia cried. 

"Oh, no, no, we can't have that," Lumley said, stepping close to pat her
on the arm, despite a scowl from Graham. 

"What do you mean, someone touched you?" Doyle asked. "Where?" 

"On my shoulder--" 

"No," Doyle said patiently, "I mean, where were you when this happened?" 

She sniffed loudly. "I got mixed up." She paused to look at her husband,
who gave a resigned nod. 

"Yes, yes," he muttered, "might as well give them the story." He glared at
Bodie. "They won't go away without it, it seems." 

"We're concerned," Bodie replied. "That's all." He cast Julia a warm
smile. "Go on, Mrs. Hunt. What happened?" 

"I got mixed up," she repeated, calming a bit. "Because I was so sleepy, I
suppose--I couldn't get any sleep, you see, the bed is too firm and I
never sleep well in strange places. So I went down to the kitchen to get
some hot cocoa." She suddenly glanced about in confusion. "Oh, Graham,
I've gone and dropped my cocoa!" 

"It's all right, my dear. I'll get you some more." 

"Thank you, darling." She gazed at him lovingly. 

Bodie cleared his throat. "Mrs. Hunt?" 

"Hm? Yes?" 

"After you got the cocoa, what then?" 

"Oh." She shivered, clutching Graham's arm tightly. "I came back up the
stairs, and I got to the top, and I was so tired--I thought I was back
home for a moment, and turned the wrong way. And then I couldn't find the
right door, and then--oh, Graham! It was horrid! It *touched* me!" 

Sighing, Bodie waited for her to calm down again. 

Lumley scratched his head. "You went into the other wing? Why, the east
wing hasn't been used in decades. Everything's all shut up." 

"*Someone* brushed past my shoulder," Julia insisted. 

"Too tall to be one of the wolfhounds?" Doyle asked. 

"It wasn't a dog! It was a person!" 

"Male or female?" Bodie said. 

She shook her head. "I don't know. It was so dark, and I ran--I just
wanted to get away from there!" 

"Can you remember anything else at all? Height? Build? Hair color?" 

Graham glowered at Bodie. "Leave her alone." 

"I'm trying to find out what happened." 

"Well, find out some other way! I hate journalists--always trying to
sensationalize everything." Graham put his arms on Julia's shoulders to
guide her into their room. "Come along, dear. You've had enough." The door
shut firmly behind them. 

"Goodness," Lumley said. "I never heard such rubbish." He looked at
Geoffrey, who was standing near Doyle. "We simply don't use the east wing
anymore. Can't think why anyone would be wandering about down there. I
mean, naturally we have our odd ghost or two, every decent mansion does,
you know. But I can't say as I've ever actually seen one. Have you,
Geoffrey?" 

"No, never." 

"Well, there you are, then. Most curious." 

"Perhaps we could take a quick look?" Doyle suggested. 

"Electricity is shut off in that wing," Geoffrey replied. "But I can get
some torches." He took off towards the stairs. 

The other guests continued hovering in the hallway, whispering among
themselves. Bodie belatedly realized he hadn't checked to see who was
there, or when they had appeared. He cursed himself for getting slack on
the job. A careful scan confirmed that everyone else was present, but
concentrate as he might, he couldn't recall which guests had come out
right away and who had turned up later. 

Geoffrey returned with two torches, and it was decided that he and Doyle
would make the check of the east wing corridor. As they headed off, Susan
came up to Bodie and Lumley. 

"It could be one of the temporary staff," she said. "One of them might be
trying to search our rooms for valuables." 

"But they all came with such impeccable references," Lumley replied. "And
they were all from the agency, and my word, they charge an enormous fee." 

"Naturally they do," Susan said. "But do you think the poor workers see
much of that money? No, of course they don't! It goes to line the
managers' pockets. They're as exploited as any other unskilled,
underprivileged, lower-class peon and I wouldn't blame them one bit for--"


"Susan, dear," Lumley interrupted, "they were only day help. They've all
gone home for the night." 

Susan looked momentarily perplexed, then quickly rallied. "I know that.
But one of them could have returned and broken in." 

"The alarms would have sounded," Lumley pointed out. 

"Hmpf." Susan crossed her arms. "Some people know how to get past alarm
systems." She turned to glare at Bodie. "What do *you* think happened?" 

Bodie smiled. "I think Julia Hunt is simply possessed of an overactive
imagination. It was probably nothing more than a combination of cobwebs
and a tired mind." 

"Oh, I see," she replied. "I suppose next you'll say it was a 'female'
thing. Tell me, Mr. Bodie, if a *man* had run out of that corridor yelling
that he'd been touched by someone, would you still blame it on an
overactive imagination?" 

Bodie rolled his eyes. 

"Well?" 

"Susan, my dear," Lumley put in, "I'm sure Mr. Bodie didn't mean anything
of the sort." 

*Oh, yes, he did*, Bodie thought. Aloud, he opted for appeasement and
said, "Absolutely not. A mere slip of the tongue." He grinned. 

"Hmpf." 

Doyle and Geoffrey soon returned, with little to report. "All the doors
are locked," Geoffrey said. "No sign of an intruder. Everything's as it
should be." 

"Found this." Doyle held up an empty mug. "And there's cocoa spilled on
the carpet, about a third of the way in." 

"We should search the rest of the house," Bodie said. 

"Richard and I can do that." Geoffrey took the torch back from Doyle. "But
if any strangers had been anywhere inside, the dogs would have gone mad
with barking." 

"That's quite true," Susan said. "They're natural watchdogs." She favored
Bodie with a suspicious glower. "I think I'll bring them upstairs to keep
an eye on things." 

"Splendid idea," Lumley replied. 

Bodie groaned. 

******

"Four in the morning," Doyle complained as he crawled into bed. "What are
people doing mucking about in disused hallways at four in the morning?" He
let out a huge yawn as he wrestled with the bed covers. "Want to be
*under* these this time." He managed to get the sheet, blanket, and duvet
loose from their tightly tucked-in state and slid beneath them, pulling
the top edge of the duvet up to his chin. "Bloody idiots. Don't mind
trying to track down criminals in the afternoon. Don't even mind doing it
in the late morning or early evening. But this four in the morning
nonsense--I'm not putting up with any more of it." He rose briefly to
plump his pillow, then sagged back down. 

Bodie, who had stood near the other side of the bed throughout this
performance, just nodded and smiled, content to listen. He had long known
that a complaining Doyle was a happy Doyle, and the knowledge made it
easier to weather his remonstrances. 

Doyle turned to look at him. "You gonna stand there all night? If you're
not coming back to bed, at least make yourself useful and close the
drapes. That ruddy moon is shining right in me eyes." 

Bodie frowned, remembering how he'd felt about that very same moonlight
only an hour before. "You should see it on the snow," he replied as he
crossed to the windows. "Sparkling like mad everywhere--" 

"Um-hm...just shut the drapes, okay?" 

"Yeah, yeah." Bodie pulled them to, dropping the room into darkness. "That
better?" 

"Um-hm." 

"You're welcome." Bodie made his way to the bed, tripping over their
discarded clothing. He climbed in, snuggling under the warm covers, and
shifted across the wide bed to lie close to Doyle. "Thought I saw
something out there earlier," he said. 

"Hm?" 

Amused by how quickly Doyle had shifted from outrage at the early hour to
sleepy monosyllables, Bodie nudged him sharply with an elbow. 

"Oi, watch it." 

"Awake again, are you?" Bodie asked sweetly. 

"Shut up. Don't wanna be awake." There was a pause. "What do you mean, you
saw something?" 

"Ah, at last I have your attention." 

"*Bodie--*" 

"Yes, I saw something," Bodie said quickly. "Well, maybe I did. It was
around three o'clock, and I was looking out the window--" 

"You what? Why?" 

"Had to get up to pee. Anyway, I was looking at the grounds, and I could
see--" 

"But what were you doing at the window? You said you went to the bog--" 

"Ray, will you just listen?" 

"Yeah, but it doesn't make any sense. You get up, you go pee, you come
back to bed. How's the window get into it?" 

Bodie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he waited, not saying
a word. 

After an awkward silence, Doyle said softly, "Bodie? You going to finish
telling me about it?" 

"Are you going to stop interrogating me?" 

"I only wanted to know--" 

"I got up," Bodie cut in, speaking in short, clipped tones. "I went to the
bathroom. I had a little pee. I came out. I went to look out the
window--*because I bloody well felt like looking out the window*." He
paused, waiting for another interruption, but Doyle wisely remained quiet.
"I looked at the grounds," Bodie went on. "I could see the summerhouse at
the far end. As I was turning away from the window, I thought I saw
something move out there--possibly a shadow across the snow. When I looked
back, I couldn't see anything unusual. I waited there for about ten
minutes, watching, but nothing happened. Then I came back to bed." 

"Um," Doyle replied. 

Bodie waited for more, but it wasn't forthcoming. He took another deep,
calming breath. "Is that all you have to say?" 

"Thought you didn't want me to talk," Doyle said petulantly. 

"No, I don't want you to interrupt. That's different." 

"Bloody-minded, that's what you are." 

"Yeah, well, I've learned from the best, haven't I?" Bodie replied, gently
prodding Doyle. 

"Stop that." 

"Okay." Bodie lay his hand on Doyle's chest instead, caressing him. 

"You feeling randy again or something?" Doyle asked. 

"A bit," Bodie admitted. "What about you?" He let his hand wander lower,
softly stroking Doyle's abdomen. 

"Sorry, mate. I'm so tired right now I couldn't keep me little finger
erect." 

"Pity." Bodie stopped the massage, but left his arm lying across Doyle's
torso. "Bet Dirk and Trevor go at it all night long." 

"Yeah, but I bet Dirk and Trevor don't get interrupted by screaming
women." 

"True." Reluctantly reminded once more of the case, Bodie added, "Wonder
if she really did bump into someone." 

"You think we should take a closer look at the east wing?" 

"Tonight?" Bodie shivered. "No, thanks. Not with the wolfhounds in the
way." 

"Told you," Doyle replied sleepily, "I couldn't get up again if the place
was burning down. We'll do it tomorrow. I mean, later today." 

"Good." Recalling his earlier lapse, Bodie said, "Did you happen to notice
who came out into the corridor, and when?" 

"Well, I wasn't paying as much attention as I should have been, but I
think that Flax, Northbrook, and Stuart all showed up a bit later than the
rest. Still, our room's nearest the landing, so if anyone tried to get
from the east wing back to their room, they would've come right past us." 

"Right." Bodie frowned as something tugged at the back of his mind. Some
important factor, about people sneaking about the corridors. "Shit," he
said, sitting bolt upright. 

"Now what?" Doyle murmured, not moving. 

"Passages." Bodie leaned over to switch on the bedside lamp. 

"Passages?" Doyle repeated, rubbing his eyes. "What are you- -oh, those
passages." 

Bodie rummaged in the nightstand drawer and pulled out the map they'd been
given which outlined the secret passageways. "It only shows the west
wing." He nudged Doyle again. "Don't suppose you want to sit up and take a
look at this?" 

Doyle shook his head, eyes closed. "Why don't you tell me all about it."
He yawned. 

"Lazy sod." Bodie studied the map. "There's one passage running behind
both Stuart and Flax's rooms. It comes out somewhere beyond the stairway
landing--the map ends where the east wing starts. Northbrook's room
doesn't have a passage, but the room next to his, which is empty, does.
Looks like it has a secret staircase leading down to the ground floor,
where Richard and Geoffrey's room is. And there's another passage going
from their room to the drawing room." He set the map aside. "It's not good
enough. We need a map of all the passageways in the whole house." 

"Um-hm." 

"Oh, great--are you falling asleep again?" 

"Tired," Doyle murmured, turning onto his side, his back to Bodie. 

"Yeah, yeah." Bodie was feeling the effects of a long night himself. But
the mystery of the east wing intrigued him. "Wonder if we're on the wrong
track with the summerhouse." 

"Light," Doyle replied. 

"What? Oh, right. Sorry." Bodie flicked off the bedside lamp and settled
down beneath the covers. "*Something* suspicious is going on here in the
house. I thought it was only Julia's imagination, but those passages make
a difference. Someone could have been in the east wing, been startled by
Julia, and dashed into one of the rooms. Then he went along a secret
passageway to his own room and came out into the west wing corridor with
everyone else. Simple. Someone is up to no good. I mean, who would bother
sneaking about just to frighten a snooty upper-class woman like Julia Hunt
for the fun of it?" 

Doyle chuckled. "*I* would." 

"Yeah, I'll bet. Gonna put you at the top of my suspects list." Bodie
rolled onto his side, wrapping his arm around Doyle. "You can go to sleep
now," he whispered into Doyle's ear. 

He didn't get a response. 

******

A sliver of brilliant sunlight made its way through a crack in the drapes
and fell directly on Doyle's face. 

He'd been awake for some time, but had been trying to ignore the
condition. The light was too much, though. He gave up, stretched, and
rolled onto his back, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Bodie lay alongside
him, one arm flung lazily across Doyle's waist, snoring intermittently.
Not a bad night, Doyle decided, despite the lack of sleep. Sex with Bodie
had been every bit as exciting as he'd thought it would be--quite an
enjoyable experiment. It reminded him of his wild art school days when, if
you were at a party and feeling randy, anything went. He hadn't felt that
same sense of sexual recklessness since. Until last night. 

It had been good with Bodie. But that was last night, and now it was
morning, and their little experiment was over. Surely Bodie must have
gotten the urge to see what it was like out of his system, and would be
ready to leave it as a one-time thing. Surely that was what they both
wanted. 

He lay staring at the ceiling a while longer; then Bodie began to stir,
making grumpy waking-up noises while shifting about. Doyle shook his
shoulder. 

Bodie snuffled and rolled onto his back, eyes opening. "Hmm," he muttered.
"Mornin'." 

"Mornin'." 

"Got some sleep, did you?" 

"Yeah. A bit." 

Bodie turned back onto his side, propping his head on his hand to look
down at Doyle. "It was good, wasn't it?" 

"Yeah," Doyle murmured contentedly. "Was fantastic." 

"Yeah. Wanna do it again." 

"Hm?" Coming more fully awake, Doyle blinked and stared up at him. "You
what?" 

Bodie smiled. "Want to make love to you again." 

*Love*? Doyle's brow creased in a puzzled frown. "Make love?" he repeated
tonelessly, aware that something was very, very wrong. 

"Oh, did I forget to tell you I love you? Sorry. I love you. Want to make
love to you." Bodie bent down to kiss him. 

Doyle froze. Then he pushed Bodie away, struggling to sit up. "What the
hell are you saying?" 

Bodie stared at him with a look of utter incomprehension. "I thought...I
mean--" He shook his head. "What's wrong?" 

"You are," Doyle said, shocked by Bodie's admission. "We had one night of
good sex, that's all." 

"That's all?" Bodie repeated numbly. 

"Yeah." Doyle continued staring in disbelief at him, amazed that Bodie
could be so out of touch with reality. "You know, just to get the tension
out of our systems--just to try it--and we did, and that's that--" He
stopped when he saw the pain in Bodie's eyes. 

Bodie abruptly hoisted himself up. He wrenched the covers off, swung his
legs off the bed, and sat on its edge. Then he lowered his head to his
knees, face buried in his hands. "Oh, shit," he muttered. "Oh, shit." 

At a loss for what to do or what to say, Doyle merely sat there, worried
and confused as Bodie's muttered curses filled the air. Then Bodie stood
and stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. *Hell...how
could it have gone so wrong*? 

It wasn't an experiment after all. It wasn't simply a tension- easing bit
of fun. Bodie had damn well gone and fallen in love. 

*Impossible*. Doyle felt like pinching himself to make certain he wasn't
dreaming. Bodie? In love? With *him*? Letting out a pent-up breath, Doyle
tossed back the covers and got up. This was crazy. That had to be the only
explanation. His partner was experiencing a temporary bout of insanity. He
would just have to sort him out. 

He went to the bathroom and tried the knob--locked, of course. He pounded
on it. 

"Leave me *alone*." 

"I have to pee," Doyle demanded, which was quite true. 

After a short while the door flew open and Bodie strode roughly past him
to begin rummaging through the clothes on the floor. 

Doyle silently went into the bathroom and used the toilet. He grabbed a
robe and came out to find that Bodie had nearly done dressing. He stood
and watched him, trying to make sense of the mess they'd made of things.
Bodie looked remote and determined as he finished pulling on his sweater
and reached for his shoes. 

"Talk to me," Doyle said. "Don't just walk out." 

Bodie slipped his shoes on. "I'm going down to breakfast." 

"You haven't even shaved--" 

"That's right. I haven't." Bodie headed for the door. 

"Wait, dammit!" Doyle sprang after him, jerking on Bodie's arm to get him
to turn around. "We can't leave it like this." 

"Why not?" Bodie's voice was cold and controlled. "It's obvious I made a
mistake. I thought last night meant something more than you did, and I was
wrong. And I've made a fool of myself. That's fine--it wouldn't be the
first time. So let's simply pretend that nothing ever happened between us,
all right?" He turned to the door. 

"No, it's not all right!" Doyle couldn't stand the idea that Bodie might
go on like this--cold, distant, shutting him out again. "Nothing's right."


"I'm going to breakfast," Bodie repeated firmly. "I'll see you afterwards
to discuss the case." He opened the door and walked out.

Doyle leaned on the door frame for a moment. Then he slowly closed the
door and stood looking blankly at the bed with its mussed covers, and at
the floor where his clothes were strewn, all reminders of a night of
sex...and nothing more. 

He crossed to the bed and sat down heavily on it. Why hadn't he seen
it--were there signs he had missed? Words he hadn't heard? But he knew
Bodie better than anyone. How could he be misreading him so much of late? 

Christ, he'd *asked* Bodie what he wanted, and Bodie had told him. *I want
to go to bed with you*. Plain and simple. No declarations of love, no
romance. It was purely physical. Why the hell was Bodie trying to turn it
into something it wasn't? 

Doyle thought back over their earlier conversations, trying to figure out
how he'd missed following the turnings of Bodie's mind. When had Bodie
ever mentioned love? As far as Doyle could remember, he hadn't. But there
had been that odd ending to their embrace at the party, when Bodie had
kissed him, and told him what he wanted, and then he'd told him to think
about the future. 

Was that it? Doyle hadn't really known what Bodie had meant by it at the
time. He tried to recall what he'd told Bodie-- something about not
knowing where he'd be in the future, what he'd be doing, who he'd be
hanging out with. 

*Think about the future once in a while.* Had Bodie actually meant a
future relationship? With him? But that was absurd. And who the hell was
Bodie to tell *him* to consider the future--Bodie never thought past the
next payday. 

He shook his head. What the hell had gotten into Bodie, anyway--love?
Relationship? No, Bodie's parting remarks just now had been more sensible.
Bodie *had* made a fool of himself, and the sooner they both forgot about
this nonsense, the better. 

Doyle sighed. How could they put it behind them--how could they ever go
back to the way things had been before? All he wanted was his best friend
back--was that so much to ask? All he wanted was the friend who he could
understand, not this stranger. Where had Bodie the Romantic been keeping
all these years? Or had he missed those signs, too? How long had he failed
to see what was right in front of him? Or had he been seeing only what it
suited him to see? Yeah, his best mate, who he knew better than anyone. Or
didn't know at all. 

Frowning, Doyle thought about the conversation they'd had only a few hours
ago, when he couldn't fathom why Bodie had paid a nocturnal visit to the
window. *Because I bloody well wanted to look out it.* No, that wasn't the
whole truth. Bodie had gone to the window to see the moonlight on the
snow. He'd said something about it later, when Doyle made him close the
drapes. *You should see it sparkling.* That was Bodie the romantic. And it
had slipped right past him. *Just shut the drapes.* Maybe Bodie had been
giving him little clues like that all the time he'd known him. And maybe
he'd ignored them as thoroughly as he'd ignored moonlight and snow. 

My best friend. Yeah. Right. 

Doyle rose and went to the chest of drawers to pull out a clean pair of
briefs, socks, and a fresh shirt. He picked his jeans off the floor and
began to dress. Nothing would be solved by sitting here. Maybe Bodie
thought he could pretend it hadn't happened. Maybe Bodie thought they
shouldn't talk. 

Well, Bodie had another think coming. 

******

*Chapter Thirteen*

Doyle was late for breakfast. 

He slid quietly into his seat, not wanting to create a disturbance. It was
bad enough that the other guests were all there and already eating. At
least they'd left some food for him. He speared two sausages from a
warming plate and grabbed a piece of toast, though he didn't feel much
like eating. As he poured a cup of coffee, he glanced across the table and
saw that Bodie's plate was piled high with food. So Bodie couldn't bother
being upset long enough to even lose his appetite. Terrific. Doyle
attacked his sausage and toast, eating steadily and silently. He didn't
trust himself to speak to Bodie in such a public forum. 

He didn't hear any of the idle talk around him, didn't pay attention to
anything but the food on his plate, adding eggs and potatoes to a second
helping of sausage. If Bodie's appetite could remain unaffected, then so
could his. It wasn't until he'd washed down the last of the meal with
coffee that he bothered looking over at his partner again. And saw that
Bodie had barely touched his food. A tiny lump formed in Doyle's throat as
he guiltily swallowed the last of his coffee. Hell. Bodie was scrunched
down in his chair, having set his fork aside, and was staring morosely at
the table top, looking more miserable than Doyle had ever seen him.
Suppressing an urge to leap over the table and shake the idiot until he
came to his senses, Doyle settled for kicking Bodie's foot. 

Bodie started, sat up a bit, and frowned at Doyle. "What do you want?" he
muttered. 

The breakfast was breaking up--most of the guests had left the table.
"Want to know what your plans are for this morning," Doyle said. 

Bodie rubbed at the stubble on his chin. "Before or after I shave?" he
replied stonily. 

Controlling his temper, Doyle said calmly, "After." 

"I thought we'd have a little chat with our host," Bodie replied. "About
architecture." He pushed his chair out and stood. "But first, my shave.
Why don't you go keep Lumley occupied until I return, okay?" He walked off
without a backward glance. 

Doyle simply sat there, unmoving, the large breakfast he'd eaten settling
solidly and uncomfortably. So it was going to be all business now with
Bodie, was it? Work on the case, keep busy, don't talk about anything
else. Fine. Even if they only discussed the case, at least they'd be
*talking*, which was an improvement on silent stewing. 

Tossing his napkin on the table, Doyle shoved back his chair and got up to
go corner Lumley. 

******

"A little hobby of yours, is it?" Lumley said. "Quite fascinating, the
study of architecture. Yes, indeed." 

"We're both very keen on it," Bodie replied. He had come back downstairs,
now clean-shaven, to join Doyle, whom he'd found chatting with Lumley in a
quiet corner of the drawing room. "Especially in the great houses of--"
Bodie hesitated, suddenly aware he had no idea in which century the Lumley
mansion had been constructed. He waved his hand at the room. "In houses of
this period," he finished lamely. 

"Ah, yes," Lumley said, nodding absently. "It *is* a fine example of
Palladian neoclassicism. Not exactly a Vanbrugh, but still rather
handsome." 

Bodie wished he'd skimmed a book or two on English architecture before
embarking on this plan. He cleared his throat and plunged ahead. "There's
something we're particularly interested in," he said. "Architectural
oddities-- unusual constructions, peculiar designs, hidden rooms and
passages." 

"Ah!" Lumley clapped his hands. "Of course! Naturally you're intrigued by
this house, then. The things are all over the place." 

"Yes," Doyle put in, "you said something about that yesterday, when we did
the guessing game. We got such a thrill out of the passages in the west
wing that we were wondering if we could possibly look at some of the
others." 

"Well, of course you can, dear boy," Lumley replied. "Come along to the
library, I've got more maps in there." 

They followed Lumley into the library, where he began rummaging through
one of the two large desks. As he hauled out a pile of oversized
leather-bound books and rolled-up papers, he said, "You're more than
welcome to look through this mess. I'm afraid we don't have the original
house plans anymore, but there are plenty of copies about. Of course,
later generations insisted on adding on to the damn things, and sometimes
they drew up new plans and sometimes they simply scribbled over the old
ones." He paused to give them both a wink. "You know, Geoffrey says the
passages are terribly Freudian." He smiled and resumed his search. 

"Is it all right for us to go into any of these passages?" Bodie asked. 

"Oh, certainly. Wander about wherever you please. And do take the
keys--there's a bunch in the kitchen you can use, hanging by the back
door. You'll want to be able to get into the rooms in the east wing, and
you might also find the summerhouse of interest. That's where the air raid
shelter is." 

It took an effort for Bodie to keep the look of astonishment off his face.
"Air raid shelter? *Beneath* the summerhouse?" 

"Why, naturally. Father had it built during the war. Everybody had one--it
was simply the thing to do." 

"But why put it way out there?" Doyle asked. 

"Well, you wouldn't want it in the main house, because that would have
presented the largest target for an enemy plane." Lumley looked vacantly
into space, smiling. "I remember how we used to sneak down there when we
were children. Sort of our extra special hiding place. There was plenty of
room, and bits of furniture, and we would have lovely tea parties with our
stuffed teddies. But of course, it's not used for anything now. Rather a
pity, really." 

"I still don't understand," Doyle persisted. "Wouldn't people be exposed
as they were running out to reach the shelter?" 

"No, no, not at all," Lumley replied. "Naturally a tunnel was built as
well, to connect it to the main house. Comes up in the east wing. It's
marked on here somewhere." He shuffled through the growing mass of papers.


The library door suddenly popped open and Geoffrey looked in. "Ah, there
you are." 

Lumley left off his search. "Yes? Do you need me?" 

"I'm afraid so. Susan has a few questions about the dinner." 

Lumley turned to Bodie. "Will you be all right on your own here?" 

"Absolutely." 

"Then I'll leave you to it. Do come find me should you have any questions.
Have fun, you two." He trotted off with Geoffrey. 

"I'll be damned," Doyle said excitedly, picking up the top paper on the
pile. "It *is* the summerhouse. Has to be. The perfect hiding place for
the arms. They're there, all right-- underneath the building." He frowned
at the paper he was holding. "If we can figure out where the damn tunnel
entrances are. This is unreadable." He set the paper down and took up an
ancient leather-bound tome, opening it at random. A tiny cloud of dust
flew up. "Great." He peered at the pages. "Covered with what looks like
tea stains. Where it's not torn." Setting the book down, he looked at the
towering mass of old, crumpled, worn, torn, and decaying material. "It'll
be like a treasure hunt." He rubbed his hands together enthusiastically.
"Come on, let's sort through it." 

Refusing to allow Doyle's enthusiasm to affect him, Bodie solemnly divided
the pile in half. He carried one part of it to the other desk, which was
on the opposite side of the room. He deposited the load, then crisply
announced, "I'll take this half. You can have that half." 

Doyle's shoulders slumped. "Don't you want to go through it together?" 

"This will be quicker." Bodie sat at his desk and buried himself in the
papers, effectively dismissing Doyle. He had no intention of casually
resuming their old working camaraderie, not now. No, he intended to behave
in a cool, professional manner, ignore any overtures of friendship, just
get the job done and get the hell back to London. 

What would happen then, he didn't know. For Doyle to continue as his
partner would be hell. Despite his outward control, inside the pain was
tearing him apart, and he doubted it would get any better. 

*Just a night of good sex, and that's all.* How could Doyle not have felt
what he felt? How could he not have seen where it was leading? He'd shown
Doyle more of himself, given him more tenderness, than he had ever dared
give to anyone before, and Doyle had refused it as if it were nothing but
an amusing aberration. A temporary quirk. Something he simply needed to
"get out of his system." 

Bodie tried to focus on the pile of papers, without much success. He
glanced over at Doyle, who had settled down to work at the other desk,
dully staring at his half of the pile. Bodie instantly looked away again,
not wanting Doyle to see him, not wanting him to think he had any interest
in his activities whatsoever. He had to keep his distance. He couldn't
show any physical or emotional closeness to Doyle--the inevitable
rejection would hurt too much. There was no other choice but to shut Doyle
out, despite the fact that Bodie still loved the bastard. 

Hardening his expression into a blank mask, something at which he had a
lifetime of practice, Bodie picked up a rolled- up plan, spread it out,
and began an intense study of its contents. 

******

Doyle tapped his fingers idly on the desk top. 

*Bastard*. Cold, unfeeling, malicious bastard. He looked at Bodie, then
down at the book he'd opened. It was no good. No matter how he tried, he
couldn't even begin to hate Bodie. But he could be incredibly pissed off
at him, which he was. The bastard wasn't even willing to be sociable about
the case, wouldn't work with him, was, in short, using any excuse he could
to keep him at more than arm's length. 

How long did Bodie think they could continue this way? They *had* to talk,
they had to sort it out, because if they didn't-- 

If they didn't, Doyle realized with a painful lurch in his gut, they
wouldn't be able to work together at all. 

Suddenly feeling more alone than he had in many years, Doyle shut the
book, unable to concentrate on it. He leaned back, sunk low in the chair,
staring vacantly at nothing. It just wasn't any damn good. He couldn't sit
here and let Bodie abandon him like this.

He sat up, leaning forward, hands resting on his knees. "Bodie?" 

Bodie slowly looked up, his face blank. "What?" 

Though he tried, Doyle couldn't keep the strain out of his voice. "I want
to talk." 

"Well, I don't," Bodie snapped, bending his head down to his task again. 

Doyle waited, staring steadily at Bodie, willing him to look up again. But
it didn't happen. "Bodie?" 

Still he refused to look at Doyle, eyes fixed intently on the papers. The
emptiness Doyle felt warred with his anger, and the anger won out. He
slammed his hand on the desktop, startling Bodie into looking over. "I am
*not* letting you shut me out, damn you!" 

Bodie sighed. "Why? What do you want to talk about--how big an idiot I've
been? Or perhaps you had some other topic of conversation in mind?" 

"You could start by talking to me like a mate," Doyle said, "and not some
total stranger." 

"Ah," Bodie interrupted. "That's where the trouble lies. Maybe we don't
know each other very well at all." 

The coldness of the statement hurt Doyle, not least because it brought
into the open the same fears he'd had himself. 

"Think about it," Bodie went on, his tone bitter. "How often have we had
serious conversations? About anything? All we do is kid around with each
other. Keep everything light and on the surface. Don't talk about the
deeper stuff, do we? No, that's too personal, isn't it?" 

Doyle shook his head. "That's not true. We know each other pretty damn
well when the shooting starts--" 

"Oh, great. That's the answer, is it? All we need to do to have a
meaningful chat is to get into a life-or-death situation. Isn't that a bit
inconvenient?" 

"Dammit, you know what I mean." 

"No," Bodie replied. "I don't know what you mean." 

Incensed by Bodie's offhand dismissal of years of trust and closeness,
Doyle said, "All right, fine. Tell me one thing, then. If you don't really
know me, how the hell did you manage to fall in love with me? Hm? *Mate*?"


Bodie didn't answer; he turned away to poke idly at the books and papers. 

"It's a lie," Doyle said, not fearful anymore, simply angry. "We know each
other well enough. You know *me* well enough to know I don't like being
shut out. And that's what you're trying to do. Close yourself off from me,
act as if I'm not even there. Well, it's not going to work." 

"Look, we made a mistake," Bodie replied evenly, not looking up. "A big
one. And I *don't* want to talk about it. Why can't you take a fucking
hint?" 

Doyle sighed and rubbed his eyes. Hell. He'd enjoyed having sex with
Bodie--he didn't want to think of last night as a mistake, didn't want to
remember it that way. Nor was he willing to allow it to destroy their
friendship. Last night he'd thought it was a damn good idea, had believed
it would make things better between them, remove the underlying tension,
get them back to their old, easy ways. Instead it was threatening to ruin
everything they had. And they did have something special, despite Bodie's
remarks. That was simply part of Bodie's attempt to cut him off, his way
of denying any emotion. Bodie was good at that, all right. But Doyle knew
better. The emotions were there, beneath the surface. Bodie still cared
for him--apparently, very deeply. They were still best mates, they had a
special friendship, and no matter what Bodie was saying right now, Doyle
knew he didn't truly mean it. And he knew that no matter what happened,
their friendship wouldn't end. He intended to see to that. 

Doyle studied Bodie's stern, set features and wearily conceded it wouldn't
be an easy task. There would be rough times ahead, more harsh words
spoken, and, knowing his own temper, he'd probably be the first one to
lose it. No, he couldn't take a hint. Well, he could, but that didn't mean
he had to bloody well knuckle under and play Bodie's game by his rules. 

Steeling himself for another assault on his partner, Doyle was interrupted
by the sound of the door opening. It was Lumley. 

"Oh, good, you haven't gone gallivanting about yet," he said. "I quite
forgot to tell you about our little event in the music room, which is
going to start straightaway." 

"Music room?" Doyle asked. 

"Yes, we're going to have a sing-along. It's a Lumley Christmas tradition.
We all gather about the piano and sing Christmas songs. Julia will play
for us. Terribly good fun." 

Bodie glared at him. "You want me to *sing*?" he said darkly. 

Doyle stood. "Lighten up, Bodie." 

"We always have a wonderful time," Lumley insisted, ignoring Bodie's
unpleasantness. "Nobody cares if you're off- key. It's strictly for fun." 

"Can't I be a pagan for a day?" Bodie replied, not giving up. "I'll bet
the Moonglows aren't going." 

"Um, no, actually," Lumley admitted. "They always spend this time baking
organic cookies for the Christmas dinner." 

Bodie looked ill. "Great. I'm really looking forward to that." 

Heading for the door, Doyle turned and cast him a baleful look. "Come on,
you great lug, have some holiday spirit. God knows somebody around here
should." 

"Yeah, yeah." Bodie heaved himself out of his chair and slowly followed
Doyle and Lumley out of the library. 

******

Bodie survived the sing-along, barely. 

Afterwards, however, he and Doyle were not allowed to escape. Everyone had
to stay for a light tea, accompanied by the first test batch of Esther and
Emily's Hearty and Healthy Granola Crisp Cookies. 

Having made sure he was nowhere near Doyle throughout the torture of the
Christmas songs, Bodie continued his evasive maneuvers, taking his tea and
plate of cookies to the corner farthest from his partner. He wound up
sitting beside Paul Stuart on a window seat. 

Bodie was mildly surprised to see that the impeccably attired young man of
the day before had finally gotten more casual, now sporting expensive
slacks, shirt and tie, but without his matching suit jacket. Putting it
down to the inconsistencies of youth, Bodie smiled politely and offered
him a cookie. 

"No, thanks," Stuart declined. "Baked compost would taste better." 

"Um." Bodie nodded his agreement as he risked a minuscule nibble. "I think
I agree." He set the plate aside and concentrated on his tea. He
studiously avoided looking directly across the room, where Doyle had been
waylaid by Colleen. 

"So, how is your book coming along?" Stuart asked. 

"Hm?" It took a moment for Bodie to realize Stuart was referring to the
commune history he was supposedly researching. "Oh, not too badly, I
guess. I'm afraid this lot hasn't been much help." With a strong suspicion
that Stuart didn't particularly care for most of Lumley's guests, he added
conspiratorily, "You know, between you and me, I think they're all a bit,
well, touched." 

"That is absolutely true," Stuart replied delightedly. "Load of nutters.
Mind you, the Hunts are all right." 

"Yes, one can see that," Bodie said. "It's the others. Take Susan, for
instance. She seems rather hostile, or is it only me she dislikes?" 

"No, it's not you. Susan hates everyone. You see, she thinks it should
still be 1969, and we should all act accordingly, and she can't understand
why no one else thinks the same way. Hopeless, really." 

The sneer of disdain on Stuart's face almost made Bodie feel more
sympathetic towards Susan. But not for long. "Then there's Colleen and her
ban-the-Beatrix-bunnies campaign," he went on. 

"Hmpf," Stuart snorted. "There's no excuse for that sort of favoritism, if
you ask me. That's what it amounts to, you know--giving extra attention
and privileges to the lower classes simply because they've allegedly been
'oppressed'. Utter nonsense. They haven't been downtrodden. They've simply
been too ignorant to better themselves. Any *intelligent* person can work
hard and find a way to get out of poverty, but no, that's not good enough.
We have to reward stupidity and laziness by making the poor feel
'special'. It's ridiculous." 

Taken aback by the vehemence of Stuart's outburst, Bodie replied, "I
expect you've been feeling more optimistic about things since Mrs.
Thatcher took office, though." 

"It's true she's doing a lot of good," Stuart said. "But we do need to be
ever vigilant. One should always keep an eye on the opposition." 

"Quite." Wondering if that was why Stuart was here, Bodie glanced round
the room. This load of oddballs hardly seemed to pose a major threat to
the Conservative party. "Do you think Lumley's press has much influence?" 

Stuart shook his head. "Only among the weak-minded. No one with any brains
pays any attention to the swill he pours forth. Especially Northbrook's
garbage. It's laughable." He gave Bodie an inquisitive look. "I do hope,
when you write your book, that you plan to say something about how soundly
these people's socialistic ideals have failed them." 

"I'll certainly consider it," Bodie replied. 

"Good. In that case, I shall look forward to reading it." 

Bodie nodded. He almost wished he could write the thing, just so he could
find something to put in it which would offend this pompous young man. 

He risked a glance in Doyle's direction and saw that he was still
entrapped by Colleen, looking thoroughly bored. Bodie checked the feeling
of commiseration which welled up within him. Doyle didn't need his
sympathy. What Doyle needed was to be left alone--so alone that maybe he'd
realize what a damn good thing he was turning his back on, and just maybe
he'd regret it. 

Bodie sipped his tea and waited patiently for the gathering to break up,
knowing that when he and Doyle got back to the library, it would be time
for round two. 

******

*Chapter Fourteen*

Doyle stared at the worn, wrinkled, stained plan he'd found of the east
wing's ground floor. There were tiny arrows and indecipherable scribbles
all over it, and it had taken him half an hour simply to figure out which
was the top edge of the paper, yet it was the best one he'd found all day.


He'd kept quiet since he and Bodie had returned to the library, hoping to
establish a nice, peaceful lull which would make Bodie relax. Now he was
ready for the next step--trying to talk to him about something other than
last night. Something, anything else would do, as long as it was casual
and noncontroversial. He hoped it would ease the way back to their former
camaraderie. It was worth a try. The icy barrier Bodie had built between
them needed to be chipped away at. 

Doyle cleared his throat and looked over at the other desk. "You know," he
said warmly, "I think we should get extra hazard pay for having to eat
those cookies." 

"Yeah," Bodie replied. "And we could get Cowley to consider stocking 'em
as a weapon, too." 

Brightening at the response, Doyle chuckled and said, "They'd make perfect
ammunition for anti-personnel rocket launchers. Or we could use 'em to
poison our enemies." 

Bodie started to say something, then an odd expression of regret flickered
across his features and he turned away. "Got work to do," he said coldly. 

Feeling utterly let down, Doyle simply stared at him, the hurt washing
through him stronger than any physical pain. So there wasn't even to be
any casual talk, no friendliness at all. Struggling to control his
emotions, Doyle looked back down at the house plan. But he wasn't really
seeing it. 

After another ten useless minutes of gazing blankly at the plan, Doyle
gave up. He couldn't sit here any longer and quietly take Bodie's
rejection. He picked up the keyring he'd collected earlier from the
kitchen and sorted through it for the oversized summerhouse key, working
it free. Shuffling the best of the plans into a pile, he rose and stuffed
them under his arm. "I'm going to the east wing to look it over," he said
sharply, slapping the large key on the desk. "Here's the summerhouse key.
There's no point hanging about in here, and if you don't like it, you know
where you can stick it." He turned and strode for the door. 

"There's no reason to get upset," Bodie's calm voice floated after him. 

That tore it. Spinning on his heel, Doyle marched over to Bodie's desk,
stopping a foot away. "No reason to be upset?" he yelled. "When you've
gone and tossed me out of your life like so much soiled laundry? You can't
say one civil word to me to save your life, you won't come anywhere near
me, it's like I've gone poisonous or something." Bodie kept his head down,
presumably studying one of the plans, which made Doyle even angrier. He
slapped at the papers. "You won't even fucking *look* at me, for
chrissakes!" 

Bodie looked up, his eyes far away, but he didn't say anything, merely
tapped a pencil on the desktop. 

Doyle took a deep breath. "It's like I don't even exist for you any more."
He wanted to shake Bodie, but held back. "What the hell are you doing?" he
said, his voice strained. "It was one night, dammit, just one night of
good sex and then you go and lose it on me. It's not my fault you went
overboard. What the hell do you want from me, anyway? Undying
declarations? True love forever? You want me to give up birds, move in
together? Are you *nuts*?" 

Still Bodie remained grimly silent, and Doyle tore onwards. "Do you have
any idea what that would do to our careers? Have you given any thought to
what it would mean at all? We're mates, dammit, why can't we simply stay
mates and leave the rest of it behind? We tried it, it was fun, and that's
*that*." 

There was a long, long minute in which they merely stared at one another
while Doyle waited for a response. At last Bodie put the pencil down, and
said quietly, "I'm sorry. I love you, and I can't change that." 

Shaken, Doyle took a moment to compose himself. "I happen to love you,
too," he replied, "*as a friend*. Doesn't mean I want to have a
relationship, for chrissakes." 

"Why not?" Bodie replied in a matter-of-fact manner. "You said the sex was
good. You said we were best mates. What else do you *need* in a
relationship?" 

Doyle opened his mouth, couldn't think of a reply, and shut it again. It
had never occurred to him to look at it in quite that way. Good friends,
good sex...and they had more--things like trust, and respect...and love.
It was a good question, and it startled him. What else *did* he need in a
relationship? "I don't know," he replied. "Sanity?" 

A smile touched Bodie's lips and was gone. "Sorry. Afraid I can't
guarantee that. All I can offer you is the best friend and lover you've
ever had." 

Doyle thought of the way Bodie had held him, had touched him, had kissed
him--and for a moment, he wanted to believe him. But then he remembered
Bodie's history of relationships, and slowly shook his head. "For how
long?" he asked. "You don't commit to anyone. I know you." 

"People change," Bodie replied simply. 

"Yeah, they do that, don't they." Doyle looked away, unable to handle the
sadness in Bodie's eyes any longer. "Look," he said, moving away from the
desk, "let's work on this separately for a while, okay?" He referred to
both the job and their own feelings, and he knew Bodie caught his meaning.
"I'll look for the tunnel entrance in the east wing. You can check for the
one in the summerhouse. I'll see you at supper." 

He'd made it to the door before Bodie called out after him. "Ray?" 

Doyle paused with his hand on the knob, looking back. "Yes?" Even from a
distance, he could see the whiteness of Bodie's knuckles as he gripped the
desk edge. 

"I need you," Bodie said softly, his voice catching. 

Unable to find anything more to say, Doyle turned and walked out the door.


******

Though the summerhouse had been ice cold when Bodie first came in, he had
since removed his anorak and muffler, having worked up a sweat from moving
lingams about. 

Working on a theory that one of the phallic stones might trigger the trap
door to the air raid shelter, he had twisted, turned, and toppled some
three dozen of the things, of all sizes and weights. The larger ones were
damn heavy, and he found it impossible to move the largest one at all. Now
he had temporarily given up in favor of a rest break on one of the room's
stone benches. 

He had wanted to ask Lumley where the entrance was, having failed to find
any indication on the various maps and plans. But Lumley was busy helping
with the preparations for the big Christmas dinner, and Bodie didn't want
to talk to him in front of any other guests. He couldn't risk anyone
finding out what he and Doyle were up to. 

So he sat on the cold stone, staring at the jumble he'd made of Lumley's
neat, concentric circles. Where the hell was the damn shelter entrance?
Surely the builders would want it to be obvious. But then again, maybe
not. If they feared an actual invasion at the time, they would have been
as clever as possible about hiding it. And who knew if Lumley had done
anything to disguise it further since then. 

Bodie tried to concentrate--where would *he* put a trap door, and how
would he hide it? He considered the erotic paintings which hung over most
of the wall space. Naturally he had checked behind each one when he'd
first come in, searching for a possible hidden lever. And he'd found
nothing. Could the key to the mystery lie somewhere else in those
decorations? Doubtful, since they surely were a recent addition, probably
put up by Geoffrey. 

What else? He'd lifted each of the intricate incense burners adorning the
stone bench opposite, but they were simply incense burners. He'd checked
out the benches, too, pushing here and there at random in pursuit of a
magical door-opening trigger. He'd gone over the floor, stomping on each
inlaid slab of marble. He'd tested the doors and windows. It didn't leave
much--nothing, in fact, except those damn lingams. 

There was still the big one--the twin of the four-foot monster they had
used for their snow cock, but even thicker and heavier. He'd failed to
turn it. It would certainly be possible to tip it over, but Bodie was
afraid the resulting crash of stone on marble would capture the entire
household's attention. It wouldn't make much sense to hide the trap door
beneath it, if it always took two people or a lot of noise to move it.
Unless you wanted to discourage anyone from going down there. 

Bodie checked his watch--another two hours until the dinner. He decided to
dedicate at least one of those two hours to either a long, hot soak in the
tub or a long drink of whisky, or both. But that still left another hour
to kill, and no good excuses for not spending it in continuing his search.


He wondered if Doyle was having any luck in the east wing. And he couldn't
help wondering what thoughts were bubbling and boiling away in his
partner's convoluted mind. His tactic of cutting Doyle off cold had worked
faster and more effectively than Bodie had dreamed possible. Doyle truly
couldn't handle being abandoned by him. That alone gave him cause for a
guarded hope--that, and the fact that Doyle hadn't punched him out or told
him to go to hell. Obviously he hadn't regretted their night together. He
had simply viewed it a bit differently than Bodie had. 

Well, Bodie thought, perhaps he was being a tad optimistic. Their little
difference of opinion was really a pretty major one. The question to be
decided was, who would be the first to capitulate? If they were to have
any chance at all of going on together, remaining friends and working
together, then something had to give. Either he gave up any hope of being
Doyle's lover and closed his heart up so tightly it might as well be a
steel trap, or...or else Doyle accepted him completely, physical
relationship included. Bodie realized he had no real choice in the matter.
The outcome lay solidly in Doyle's hands. There didn't seem to be much
else he could do or say to influence him. Doyle knew how he felt, and
Doyle surely knew that Bodie didn't *want* to shut him out. But he also
had to know that total withdrawal might be the only way Bodie could deal
with rejection. Not that shutting Doyle out of his life would mean he
could ever get Doyle out of his mind. 

*That* was a problem he didn't want to think about yet. Not if he wanted
to have any chance of remaining useful on this op. 

What the hell was Doyle thinking about right now? 

Bodie shook himself and stood up to stretch. Where was the damn entrance?
That was what he should be focusing on. Yes, people going to the shelter
would enter through the tunnel from the east wing, but there had to be way
for them to get outside at this end. Didn't there? Yes, dammit, there did.
Rubbing his hands together, and trying very hard not think about what
Doyle was doing, Bodie strode back to the circle of lingams to start
moving the damn things about once more. 

******

Doyle was thinking about women. 

He sat on a stool in an empty room in the east wing. It was the third room
he'd searched, without any luck. The plans were no help at all. The first
two rooms had a few pieces of musty, covered-up furniture in them; this
room had nothing except the mustiness. He'd spent an hour slowly
canvassing the walls, tapping away at them, listening for hollow spaces,
pausing whenever he got tired of bending and crouching to check the lower
sections, or of climbing and stretching up and down to check the higher
sections. It was bloody hard work. And whenever he paused, to sit for a
few minutes on the stool, he thought about the pattern of his
relationships. 

Birds. Women. Females. He'd been through an awful lot of them. So many
he'd lost count ages ago. What had they meant to him? Sex. Companionship,
too, though it was always fleeting. They came, they went, nothing ever
happened. Each one lasted what--a few weeks? A few months at most? Had he
ever truly cared about them? Well, yes, there had been a few times when
he'd thought he was in love. And he'd been wrong. 

All his relationships broke up. He liked to believe it had to do with the
job. Called out at all hours, no regular work schedule, dates broken off
left and right--who would put up with that for any length of time? The
unpleasant truth, of course, was that there *were* agents who had steady
girlfriends, even wives, and they made their relationships work the same
way doctors or fire fighters or policemen did. If the tie was strong
enough, a person would put up with anything to be with someone they loved.
It was too easy to blame all his failures on inconvenience. 

So what was it, then? Lack of something deeper, perhaps. He had fun with
his girlfriends, they had a good time, but it was all very casual, very
superficial. He rarely talked about work with any of them, never discussed
life, death, anything truly significant. The most philosophical he ever
got was in debating the ideas in the latest film they'd seen. 

No, none of his relationships lasted because they had nothing substantial
to hold them together. And who was there for him, each and every time he
went through a break-up? 

Bodie. Easy, familiar, and comfortable. 

Doyle couldn't believe he was even thinking these thoughts. It was
ridiculous. Surely someday, somehow, he would meet someone *of the
opposite sex, dammit*, who would understand him as well as Bodie did, who
could talk to him about anything in the world with the same rapport, who
could offer the same kind of friendship and trust, who would need him the
way he needed--

No, no, he couldn't think that. What the hell did it mean--that all he
really wanted was a female version of Bodie? He was certain what his
partner's reaction would be if he casually announced to him, "Oh, by the
way, I've figured out our problem. All you have to do is get a sex-change
operation." Yeah, that would go over well. 

Bodie was Bodie; there couldn't be anyone else like him out there, male or
female. No one would stand for it. 

Except him, of course. Doyle stared at the blank room around him. Empty,
lifeless, nothing left here for anyone. And nothing left for him if Bodie
walked out of his life. A shiver ran down Doyle's spine, which he
instantly attributed to the lack of heat in the room. 

Bodie couldn't just walk out on him...he *couldn't*. They were a team.
They were partners. They had a history together, for chrissakes. You
couldn't simply throw it away like yesterday's newspaper. Bodie couldn't
turn away from him as if none of it meant anything. Why was Bodie letting
him go so easily, why wasn't he fighting harder--did it really hurt so
much that his only response was to shut everything out? It wasn't fair.
Bodie was forcing it all onto his shoulders, forcing him to make all the
moves by his retreat. And Doyle didn't like having that kind of
responsibility. 

He didn't have any answers. There had never been a time before in his life
when he was at such a loss, never a feeling of such overwhelming
helplessness. *What the hell was he supposed to do*? 

Doyle felt an unaccountable trembling in his hands; he stood and paced
about the room to warm up. He couldn't change his whole life and his
attitudes at a moment's notice, couldn't toss out all his assumptions and
beliefs about what a permanent relationship should be just like that.
Surely he and Bodie could work something out, some way of salvaging their
friendship, something that wouldn't turn his world upside- down. Why
couldn't Bodie see how crazy it was to try having a sexual relationship?
Why did he have to go and complicate something that was working just fine
as it was? 

Bloody hell. He couldn't waste time pacing about empty rooms all day.
Having gotten nowhere with his musings, Doyle made one last scan of the
room and prepared to move on to the next. 

******

"Ah...." 

Bodie sighed as he sank up to his neck in hot, steaming water. As the
sweat he'd worked up in the summerhouse washed away, he reached for the
glass of whisky he'd set on the rim of the tub. A few relaxing sips later,
he felt a thousand times better than he had a few minutes earlier, and
quite content. Especially since he had taken the foresight of locking the
bathroom door against potential intruders. 

Raymond Bloody Doyle. Nuisance, irritation, aggravating sod--and the only
person who had ever taken the time and effort to truly get to know him,
rather than the facade he put forth to the world. Of course, Doyle had
probably made at least part of the effort out of self-defense, having been
saddled with a partner from the very top of the CI5 agents' private,
unofficial, Most Undesirable Team-mate List. 

But he *had* made the effort. Bodie thought of their first encounter
fondly, when he'd spent an hour laconically bragging to Doyle about how
tough he was and what a nasty, hard world they were entering together. And
broadly implying that Doyle had better damn well be up to it. He hadn't
exactly been impressed by the scrawny, scruffily dressed, battered-
looking former policeman, and hadn't gone out of his way to disguise his
feelings. Doyle had taken it all in, making mostly inconsequential
comments, until near the end of their pub- room chat. Then he'd set his
glass down on the counter, stood, said quietly but firmly, "I've heard
that talk is cheap. Now I believe it," and walked out. 

Well, he'd had to admit that he'd had it coming, Bodie reflected. He had
judged Doyle before they'd done anything at all as partners, making up his
mind on looks alone. He'd been premature, and he'd been quite mistaken.
They had then gone through training sessions together, everything from the
basics to simulated ops. Doyle had been prepared, hard-working, and damn
good at making fast decisions. But he'd also been quietly moody,
temperamental, and quick to anger when things went wrong. Bodie hadn't
known what to make of his new partner, and their working relationship was
a tense one. They each had a point to prove, and neither was willing to
give away much to the other. 

It wasn't until their first real assignment that things finally began to
click. Supposedly a simple surveillance job, it had flared out of control
when the terrorists in the house they were watching panicked, taking the
family next door hostage. When backup arrived, they moved in, Doyle taking
the back, Bodie the front. Suddenly a woman had screamed as a shot rang
out inside, and they were forced to storm in, ready as they ever were
going to be. Bodie had burst through the front door and dropped into a
crouch, and the first sight that greeted him was Doyle breaking through
the other door. Then one of the terrorists hurtled out of a room, with a
young woman in his grasp and a gun to her head, facing Bodie. Bodie didn't
move at all, and a fraction of a second later Doyle fired, dropping the
man where he stood. Then they silently moved towards the room he'd come
out of, Doyle rapidly and effectively quieting the shaken young woman and
getting her out the way before they plunged into the thick of things--
which turned out to be the least dramatic part of the day. The second
terrorist already lay dead on the floor, shot by the other in a
falling-out. It was all over. 

Afterwards, slowly coming down from the intensity of the abrupt shoot-out,
they had gone to a pub and had a few drinks, and talked. Really talked,
for the first time, about a lot of things, without pretenses or facades or
any bragging. It had been a revelatory evening. They certainly hadn't
opened up completely with each other, but they had made a start. And as
they continued working together, as their reliance on each other and their
mutual respect grew, so the friendship grew. Where they had at first
merely tolerated the differences in their personalities, gradually they
came to enjoy, and eventually to treasure, those differences. They
complemented one another very well. 

Bodie knocked back the rest of his whisky. It had been a long road, from
that first meeting to now. They'd had plenty of good times, and far too
many painful times, but when he looked back, what Bodie remembered most
was that Doyle was there when he needed him. And he didn't want to lose
that. He had spent most of his life alone, in one way or another. It had
never particularly bothered him before, when he hadn't known what he was
missing. Now he had found, without trying, someone he could bear to be
with day in and day out, and more. And he was on the point of being
relegated once again to solitude, only this time he would feel the lack,
and would know its cause. 

Bodie rolled the empty whisky glass between his palms. Then he set it in
the bath, flicking his hand to give it some ripples to travel on, a little
glass island in the water. 

******

*Chapter Fifteen*

Doyle had found a treasure trove. 

It was in the last room along one side of the floor, which he'd determined
to finish before supper. When he'd opened the door, a cloud of dust had
risen off stacks of crates, boxes, and chests of all sizes, filling the
room. At first he thought it would be a simple matter to finish off, since
there was little floor or wall space he could reach between all the junk.
But then he made the mistake of allowing his curiosity to get the better
of him and he pried the lid off one of the crates. 

An hour later he was still pawing through what turned out to be a museum's
worth of memorabilia, all of it from the commune days, going back to the
mid-Sixties. 

He found boxes stuffed with tie-dyed shirts and jackets with mandarin
collars. There was an entire chest crammed with beaded jewelry and a
variety of colorful headbands, and another one full of leather sandals.
There were books-- everything from organic gardening tomes to the
collected works of Jeremy Bentham. In one corner he found a stack of
records, the most popular commune music being that of Donovan. Then there
were the crates jammed with miscellaneous odds and ends: peace symbol belt
buckles, anti- nuclear posters, Indian bedspreads, a variety of pipes,
packets of rolling papers, a bamboo flute and a tambourine, bottles of
patchouli oil, a bag of Runes and a Tarot pack, and at the bottom of one
very dusty box he found a framed photo of Fidel Castro and half a dozen
Maxfield Parrish calendars. 

Near the end of his ransacking, Doyle found a box containing three
oversized books with plain covers. Inside one of them, the front page
stated simply, "Journal: 1966-1970." The next one covered 1970 to 1974,
and the third one went from there to the commune break-up in 1977.
Skimming through the volumes at random, Doyle quickly figured out that
they had been written by Lumley, who had spent most of his time
chronicling the ups and downs of the organic farm and the day-to-day
details of his alternative press. He was about to give up reading from
sheer boredom, when an entry from 1976 caught his eye. 

*Three months ago*, Lumley wrote, *I met the man who has since become the
closest friend I've ever had--Geoffrey Evans. We are quite different, he
and I, and yet whenever we are together some magical combining of
opposites occurs, and we are suddenly attuned to one another perfectly,
and seem to see the world as one instead of two. Such a feeling has never
occurred to me before.* 

Doyle shut the book. He couldn't read something so personal. 

He opened it again and flipped through the remaining pages to see if it
really did tell the story of how the relationship developed from
friendship into love and a sexual partnership. It definitely did. He shut
it again. He really couldn't read it-- surely that would be impolite. Of
course, on the other hand, precisely how would his hosts ever know he'd
seen it? He certainly had no intention of telling them. 

Doyle looked at the journal. He really shouldn't. He had no good reason to
make such a voyeuristic dip into the past, except curiosity. 

After a few seconds, he flung the cover open, found the right page, and
began to read. 

******

"The snow is melting," Julia Hunt announced as she took her place at the
dining table. "Did you notice how much it's warmed up? Rather sad, I
think." 

"Yes," Graham agreed. "But easier to drive in." 

Bodie listened for a bit while Julia proceeded to harangue her husband for
being too pragmatic, but his interest quickly waned. He turned to David
Northbrook, who sat next to him, and engaged him with a query about his
current activities, hoping to draw him out on the Anti-Fascist Society. 

"Ah," Northbrook replied cheerfully, "my next short-term project is to
write a pamphlet on the current immigration laws." 

Bodie nodded politely while Northbrook rattled on. He poked at his salad,
wondering how he could dispose of the sprouts which overflowed the plate.
And this was only the first course of the big Christmas dinner. He eyed
the roll sitting beside his salad with suspicion. It was dark and had
seeds in it. 

Glancing over at Doyle, Bodie was surprised to see him intently studying
Richard and Geoffrey, who were sitting near him. It didn't seem as if
Doyle were saying anything to them; he was simply watching them, catching
every gesture and look between the two men. What the hell was Doyle up to?


"...and provide more opportunities for underprivileged people from other
countries," Northbrook finished. 

"Very interesting," Bodie said automatically, having heard perhaps one
word in three. He felt that his venture to sound Northbrook out was
failing miserably. 

"It would take jobs away from British citizens," Paul Stuart muttered from
down the table. "And bring in hordes of uneducated, poverty-ridden
coloreds." 

Northbrook pointedly ignored him. 

The soup arrived. Bodie managed to talk the servant into taking his barely
touched salad away. He kept the roll, though still uncertain what to do
with it. A whiff of garlic hit his nostrils as he leaned forward to smell
the soup. There were a few unidentifiable chunks of vegetables floating in
the light- colored broth. At least there weren't any sprouts. Feeling
bold, as well as famished, Bodie tasted the stuff and discovered that it
was edible. With a growing sense of culinary courage, he broke off a hunk
of the roll and dipped it in the soup. Finding the result quite pleasant,
Bodie relaxed a bit about what the rest of the meal might entail. He
turned to Northbrook again and said, "Are you working on any other sorts
of political projects these days? I mean, outside of your writing." 

"Well, I do the odd protest now and then," Northbrook replied. "You know,
mostly anti-nuke things, the occasional gay rights rally. And I do fund
raisers for various organizations. Then there's the AFS. I'm sure
Colleen's told you about our efforts to battle fascistic trends here in
England. We're particularly keen on fighting anyone or anything that
promotes intolerance. Perhaps you'd like to read some of our literature?" 

"Yes," Bodie lied, "I'd love to. And maybe I could attend a meeting
sometime?" 

"Oh, I'm afraid they're restricted to members. But I'd be happy to put
forth your name to our membership screening committee." 

"Thanks." Bodie sincerely hoped it wouldn't become necessary to follow
through on this nonsense. "But why do you use such security measures? Have
you had problems?" 

"We feel it's best to err on the side of caution," Northbrook replied.
"I'm sure you realize that there are certain right-wing, fascist
organizations in this country which would love to infiltrate our group.
Especially the various police and secret service agencies. Nothing but a
bunch of underhanded, amoral, vigilante types with no respect for the
rights of private citizens. Well, you're a liberal-minded journalist, you
know what I mean." 

"Absolutely." Bodie tried hard not to smile. "I know exactly how those
secret police gangs operate. They're run by ruthless bastards who would
shoot you as soon as look at you if they thought you were some kind of
terrorist, and the proof can come later. And I'll tell you something else.
They go around planting bugs in people's houses on the flimsiest of
reasons." 

"*Innocent* people's houses," Northbrook agreed enthusiastically. "You are
so right. And as a journalist, it must outrage you that they can do
whatever they please and then hush it up in the press." 

"Ah, the infamous 'D Notice'," Bodie replied amiably. "Drives me up a
wall, that does. Think they can muzzle us every time they violate
someone's rights, in the name of 'national security'." He paused to munch
on his soup-dunked roll. This was fun. He wished Doyle could join in. But
when he looked that way, it was to see his partner still engrossed by
Richard and Geoffrey. Apparently he was talking to them now, as he nodded
attentively at them, hanging on their every word. What *was* Doyle doing? 

"National security, my foot," Northbrook said. "What they ought to be
looking at is their own security. How many spy scandals does it take
before they realize they should spend less time checking into every detail
of the lives of ordinary citizens, and more time checking out their *own*
people? I mean, you have to wonder what sort of person would want to join
an organization like that in the first place. Someone with a desire to mix
with the lowest forms of society--thieves, murderers, drug smugglers, arms
dealers. Someone who likes the idea of hanging out in disreputable pubs
and gambling dens, running about chasing people in dark alleys, using
guns, actually shooting and killing people. You'd have to be some kind of
deviant to *want* to do that sort of job." 

Bodie struggled to contain his laughter throughout the tirade. Deviant--he
liked the sound of that. "Bet they're all psychopaths," he replied,
striving to maintain a serious expression. "You're right to screen your
group. You wouldn't want a load of nutters getting in." 

"Certainly not. I'm so glad you understand. You know," Northbrook leaned
close to Bodie, dropping his voice to a whisper, "one can never be too
careful when it comes to politics. Even here, you have to watch what you
say to certain people." 

"Well, if you mean the Hunts, I can tell they're Conservatives." 

"Yes. It's wise to keep an eye on them. And watch out for Paul, too. I
happen to know that at least two of his friends are in the Army." 

*A capital offense if there ever was one*, Bodie thought. "I'll be
careful," he replied. "Thanks for the tip." 

"Anything for a fellow liberal." Northbrook patted Bodie's arm and smiled.


*Uh-oh*. Bodie wondered if the relentless bastard was going to try it on
with him again. He didn't give up easily. 

"By the way," Northbrook added casually, "you wouldn't happen to be
covering the Labor Party meeting next month? I'm going, of course. Perhaps
I'll run into you there?" 

Yes, he was damn well trying it on again. Bodie started to tell him to
stuff it, but was saved by the timely arrival of the main course, which to
his delight turned out to be a genuine, honest-to-goodness goose and not
molded lentil loaf. And along with it came steaming plates of potatoes,
yams, vegetables, and plenty of wine. Sometimes even left-wing nutters did
things right. 

Bodie rubbed his hands together and prepared to dig in. 

******

"So," Bodie said as he stretched out on the bed, arms behind his head, "I
suppose we should go over what we have on this case so far." He frowned.
"If anything." 

Doyle sprawled in the armchair. They had come up to their room after an
endless series of social activities. After the dinner, which had dragged
on for hours, there were more silly games in the drawing room, including a
round of charades at which they both proved hopeless, followed by the
lighting of a cheery blaze in the fireplace around which everyone gathered
for more Compost Cookies and apple cider. 

It was now late evening. They hadn't had a chance to talk to each other
alone since parting earlier in the day. Doyle hadn't been certain that
Bodie would even bother trying to talk to him again, but he supposed the
case was a safe enough topic. "What we have," he replied tiredly, "is a
lot of questions and no answers. Which will result in one angry Scotsman."


Bodie snorted. "It's Cowley's fault for sending us up here in the first
place." 

"He must've had *something* on this lot." 

"Nah." Bodie shook his head. "He's working on a hunch. All that rot about
'we've received certain information' and so on and so forth--what
'information'? All he's got is some vague report from some unreliable
source saying the arms were taken by left-wing terrorists who *might* be
in league with the IRA. And *maybe* they're connected with the AFS group.
And so here we are. Don't know about you, but I haven't heard anybody so
much as mention anything remotely related to Northern Ireland." 

"No," Doyle agreed, "that's true. Heard a few left-wing rants about other
stuff, though. Still, I don't think Colleen is planning to blow up any
school libraries." 

"Northbrook might blow up something. Who knows what, though. He's got all
sorts of causes." 

"Let's tackle it from another angle," Doyle said. "Forget worrying over
who makes a good suspect. If we can find the arms, they'll lead us to the
right person." He stared up at the ceiling, trying to concentrate.
"Suppose they really are hidden in the shelter beneath the summerhouse.
And suppose the person who hid them there was also the person who startled
Julia Hunt in the east wing. What was he doing there?" 

"He was on his way from the shelter back to his room." Bodie paused. "No,
why use the hallway instead of the secret passages? What's it like in the
east wing, anyway? Did you find anything interesting?" 

Doyle left off his study of the ceiling to look at Bodie. "Didn't find the
tunnel entrance. Did find another staircase, down at the far end. Goes
from the ground floor up to the other two floors." 

Bodie sighed. "Doesn't make sense. What was this fool up to last night?" 

"Let's try it from the beginning." Doyle sat up straighter so he could
lean forward and rest his arms on his thighs. "Our guy has stored the arms
here. He's waiting for something or someone so he can get rid of them, and
meanwhile, they're hidden under the summerhouse. The house party starts.
He's suddenly worried about people hanging about the place, maybe even
going out to the summerhouse, so he's keeping a close eye on things. Could
be that the snow sculpture contest spooked him, or maybe the guessing game
with everybody sneaking around. So he decides it's not safe to leave the
arms where they are." 

"And in the dead of night," Bodie said, "he goes out there to move the
arms--where? Into the east wing? Via the tunnel?" 

"Probably. We know some guests have gone into the summerhouse, or tried
to--like Rupert. And us. I mean, *we* haven't found the bloody air raid
shelter entrance, but maybe some of the others know where it is--the ones
who visit regularly, and the people who live here, of course. Our man
probably wasn't expecting anyone to go out there in winter, though, and
that's why he picked it as a hiding spot. But then he decides the disused
wing is safer--nobody's been hanging around down there. He could lock
everything away in one of the rooms." 

"Our suspect would need to know this house fairly well," Bodie observed.
"And have keys." 

"There's a master key on that keyring I borrowed," Doyle replied. "Opens
up every room in the east wing." 

"Handy. And easy enough to borrow to make a copy." 

"Susan has the best access," Doyle pointed out. "We keep forgetting about
her. She does live here--she must be pretty familiar with the layout." 

"Northbrook comes around here a lot," Bodie said. "For press business. So
does Colleen." 

Doyle nodded. "Yeah. I suppose they'd have opportunities to check the
house over, given Lumley's lack of attention." He frowned, trying to get
back on track. "Let's leave that for later. We'll just go with someone who
knows the house pretty well and has access to the keys, and who wants to
move the arms into the east wing. Right? Right. The tunnel would most
likely come out on the ground floor, so he'd probably hide them in a room
down there, rather than haul them upstairs. I only managed to get through
half of those rooms today, so who knows what's in the others. Anyway,
let's say he finishes the task and he's ready to go back to his own room
in the west wing." 

"And doesn't want to risk going up the main staircase," Bodie said. "So he
goes up the other one you saw, at the far end of the east wing. And walks
along the east wing corridor and bumps into Julia? Why not use the secret
passages to get back to the west wing?" 

"It's four in the morning," Doyle replied. "Why not simply walk down the
corridor? It's unlikely that anyone will be up and about. He just ran into
her out of sheer bad luck." 

"Okay, then if the corridor isn't that risky at four a.m., why is the main
staircase a danger?" 

Doyle pondered that one for a minute. "Because of the dogs," he answered.
"He'd have to go down the main hallway on the ground floor to get to the
central staircase--past the kitchen." 

"Good. I like it." Bodie furrowed his brow. "So he hides the arms, goes up
the far staircase to the guestroom floor, heads off down the corridor. But
then he accidentally runs into Julia Hunt--" 

"--and now he *has* to use the passages to get away, otherwise he'll be
seen by everybody." 

"So he rushes into one of the east wing rooms, using the master key to
unlock it--" 

"--and sneaks along the passage that connects the two wings-- " 

"--and gets back into his own room--" 

"--and quickly comes out again into the corridor with the other guests to
see what all the screaming is about," Doyle finished. 

"We know there's a passage running along there," Bodie said, "behind the
guest rooms on the one side. And we know it has openings into Flax's room
and Stuart's room. But not Northbrook's." 

"It could still be him," Doyle replied. "If he were bold enough, he
could've come out into Paul or Flax's room, hoping they'd already be out
in the corridor--and then he snuck out there himself. Everyone was paying
attention to Julia and wouldn't have noticed which door he came out of." 

"True. And he could be bold enough. He does have a certain tenacity." 

"Thought he was against violence, though," Doyle said. "You know, owning
property leads to violent acts and all that." 

"It's a front," Bodie said confidently. 

"You've got it in for him, haven't you?" Doyle asked, amused. He thought
he knew the cause of Bodie's antipathy to Northbrook. "Been flirtin' with
you again, has he? I noticed he was being friendly with you at supper." 

"Oh, did you?" Bodie's eyebrows lifted. "I'm surprised you noticed
anything--you were so enchanted by our hosts. Just what were you talking
to them about?" 

Doyle pursed his lips, not sure how much he wanted to tell Bodie. Then he
shrugged, opting for honesty. "I asked them how they met," he said,
looking away from Bodie, down at his feet. "Wanted to know how it changed
from friendship to love, and how they knew--" He stopped, feeling
unaccountably embarrassed. 

The ensuing silence from the direction of the bed finally made him look
up. Bodie was simply staring at him, with a puzzled expression. "Doesn't
have anything to do with us," Doyle added quickly. "Was just curious.
Found these journals in the east wing, from the commune days. Lumley kept
them. That's all. Doesn't mean anything." He shut up again, unsure why he
was even rattling on about it. 

There was another lengthy silence. At last Bodie cleared his throat and
said, "And did you find out?" 

"Find out what?" Doyle asked. 

Bodie rolled his eyes. "How they knew when the friendship had changed, you
idiot." 

"Oh, that." Doyle nodded, staring with great concentration at his feet
again. "Yeah. Geoffrey told me that one day he realized that no matter
what happened between them, no matter what they did or said, that he'd
reached a point where he couldn't ever walk away from Richard without
leaving some part of himself behind." It occurred to him that he probably
sounded like a complete fool, repeating such romantic sentiments, even
though he knew Bodie harbored the occasional romantic notion himself. But
Bodie wouldn't come out and *say* things like that. No, his style was more
direct. Just *I want you*, or *I need you*, or *I want to go to bed*.
Yeah, he had a terrific command of the language, all right. Not that Doyle
needed anyone to say things like that to him. Still, the way Geoffrey
spoke about Richard had touched something in him, whether or not he wanted
to admit it. Not that it really had anything to do with him and Bodie. 

"Lumley told me he had memorabilia somewhere," Bodie finally said. "When I
first came out here to talk with him. Was there anything political in the
journals? Or in the other stuff you found?" 

Doyle rubbed his nose with his index finger, glad that Bodie had changed
the subject. "No, nothing except what pamphlets he was printing." He did a
mental inventory of the room's contents, visualizing each box he'd gone
through. "And a couple books by Jeremy Bentham, and a photo of Castro. Oh,
and a few anti-nuke posters. But nothing overt, nothing on how to make
explosives in your kitchen or overthrow the government in your spare
time." 

"Pity." Bodie yawned. "Think I'll take a little nap." 

"A nap? It's getting on to nine," Doyle said, surprised. "Are you planning
to get up again later?" 

"I'm going to spend the night in the east wing. Keeping watch." His tone
was stern. "By myself." 

Doyle felt a pang in his gut. Must be those damn cookies. "Shouldn't we
both go?" 

"And be tripping over each other? No, thanks." The firmness in Bodie's
voice brooked no argument. "I can handle it. *Alone*." 

"Yeah, okay." Doyle gave in. "You want any relief?" 

"Nah. I'll get a couple of hours' sleep, head down there 'bout eleven.
Think I'll take the ground floor. I should be able to hear anyone mucking
about. Don't really expect our man to be out tonight, but you never know."
Bodie closed his eyes. "I'll see you in the morning." 

Doyle watched him for a while, not happy with the abrupt dismissal but
unwilling to push it. Obviously Bodie didn't want to talk about anything
other than the case, and they'd dealt with that. So he'd been consigned
again to the silent treatment. 

Well, he wasn't going to simply sit here. Maybe a little reading would
distract him. Glancing about the room, his eyes fell on *Lifeguard Lust*
lying on the nightstand. Somehow it didn't seem quite the thing he wanted
right now. 

Rising, Doyle stretched his arms. Then he took another look at Bodie's
quiet figure, and decided to leave him to the solitude he apparently
wanted. He headed down to the library. 

******

*Chapter Sixteen*

The uncarpeted east wing floor was not the most comfortable place in the
world. 

Bodie sat with his back against the wall near the far stairway, wishing
he'd brought a pillow for his head. The only things he had brought were a
torch and the master key from the keyring Doyle had borrowed. 

He hadn't gotten any rest during his attempted nap earlier, and now Bodie
felt sleepy, irritable, and foolish. There was only one reason he was
stuck out here, suffering like this, and it had nothing to do with the
case. After all, the odds that the suspect would go traipsing about a
second night were less than slim. So the only real reason for being here
was that he didn't want to spend the night in the same room as Doyle. 

Bodie shifted, trying to get more comfortable. He checked his watch to
find that it was all of 12:05. Terrific. He'd been here one hour. Only
seven or so more to go. This was ridiculous. Why was he punishing himself?
He could simply use the master key, find a room with a bed or something,
and actually get some sleep. No, better not. He'd told Doyle he'd watch
the damn wing all night, so he'd better stay put. Bodie yawned. 

He leaned his head back against the very firm wall and waited for
something interesting to happen. 

******

After an hour or more of tossing and turning about in bed trying every
conceivable position, Doyle finally began to drift off into the drowsy
limbo between wakefulness and slumber, unsure of what was real and what
was half-formed dream. In a lazy, languorous motion, he rolled onto his
side to fling his arm across the warm body lying beside him...and hit
empty air. 

Coming abruptly awake, he patted the other side of the mattress for a few
seconds, seeking the absent form, before remembering that he was quite
alone. 

Doyle sighed and rolled onto his back. He glanced at the lighted bedside
clock. Nearly one a.m. He had stayed in the library until well past eleven
before venturing back up, wanting to be sure Bodie would be gone. And now
that he *was* gone, Doyle found himself missing the idiot. 

*Dammit*. Doyle flung the covers aside, rose, and went to the window. The
moon shone in a clear sky. On the grounds below, only a thin layer of snow
remained. The sculptures had all congealed into large, unrecognizable
lumps. Nothing sparkled--it hadn't gotten cold enough for a frost to form.
As he gazed out at the fading winter landscape, Doyle wished he'd seen
what it had looked like the night before. 

An aching longing hit him hard as he looked at the melting snow, then
turned to stare at the empty bed. He leaned back against the window frame,
clutching the heavy drapes. Why did it have to be all or nothing with
Bodie? Doyle knew, with the ache gnawing within him, that it *would* be
all or nothing. They wouldn't be able to work together, they wouldn't
continue seeing each other as friends, not with this standing between
them. 

And he knew that if he let Bodie go, something of himself would be
irretrievably lost, gone forever. Doyle stopped staring at the bed and
turned to look outside again. Something important had happened last night,
something he might have seen if he'd been looking for it--if he'd *known*
he'd been looking, or known he'd been wanting. There was a barren place
inside him and he hadn't realized how much he needed something there. He
couldn't remember ever feeling the lack before. When he was younger, it
hadn't seemed important, but now--well, now it was important, but he'd
always had Bodie to fill the emptiness. He hadn't known that he needed
anyone quite so much. 

What was he supposed to do, then--love another man? Love his best friend,
the person who loved him? Why was that so difficult? Because it wasn't
what he expected, because it wasn't sane. And yet, exactly when, and
where, and how, in the world he lived in, would he ever find sanity? 

Doyle didn't know all the answers to those questions. He did know that he
didn't want to be alone, and he knew there was only person he wanted to be
with right now. He cared more for Bodie than anyone else in this
screwed-up world, and if that couldn't be the basis of an all-encompassing
relationship, then he didn't know what could. 

Doyle suddenly felt enormously content. Pulling the drapes shut, he dashed
into the bathroom to grab a robe to put on. Then he hurried into the
corridor. Bodie had gone down to the ground floor. The easiest route would
be down the east wing to the staircase at the far end. Doyle sprinted
along the dark corridor, only slowing up as he sensed its end. He felt his
way down the staircase, moving as quickly as he could, and hit the landing
ready to find his partner. 

Except that his partner found him first. Out of the corner of his eye,
Doyle caught a glimpse of movement, and before he could get a single
syllable out, Bodie was on him, tackling him at the knees. Doyle landed
face down, the wind knocked out of him, leaving him incapable of speech.
As he tried to clutch his abdomen, gasping, Bodie grabbed an arm and
twisted it behind his back, then he was roughly turned onto his side and a
bright light hit his eyes. Then he heard a string of muttered curses as
Bodie released his hold. Doyle sat up, panting as he tried to get his
breath back. 

"What the *hell* are you doing?" Bodie hissed. 

Doyle tried to talk and only managed a series of spluttering grunts. 

"You're a great ruddy fool," Bodie went on. "Why are you sneaking about in
the middle of the night? Ow--" There was a pause as Bodie got to his feet,
moaning. "I think I've sprained my back." 

"I...I'm--" Doyle took in great gulps of air. "I'm-" 

"Shut up." 

"No...don't unnerstand--" 

"*Shut up*." Bodie's voice was fierce. "I heard something." 

"Oh." Doyle managed to take a few more deep breaths. Then he heard it,
too--footsteps overhead, moving quickly, and a door shutting. 

"Bloody hell." Bodie took off, bounding up the stairs. 

"No...wait--" Doyle gasped. This was not exactly going the way he wanted.
Lurching to his feet, he followed Bodie. He heard more footsteps above,
running now, and another door slamming. But by the time he reached the
first floor landing it had gone quiet. He moved cautiously along the
corridor, checking doorknobs as he went. There was no sign of either Bodie
or his quarry. 

*Great. Now what*? Doyle went up and down the entire length of the east
wing corridor. Nothing. Had they gone into the west wing, where the guest
rooms were? He peered down that way. Still nothing. Turning back to the
east wing, he had started along it one more time when a door opened and
Bodie came storming out, nearly running him over. Without saying a word,
Bodie stalked off towards the west wing. 

Resigned to at least a bit more unpleasantness, Doyle quietly followed him
back to their bedroom. When the door was shut, Bodie turned on him, his
voice softly menacing. "I lost him," he said, glowering, advancing to
within a foot of Doyle, arms crossed against his chest. "He disappeared
into that room, but by the time I reached it, there was no one inside. He
must've gone into a secret passageway, but I couldn't find the entrance." 

Doyle swallowed. "It was definitely a man, then?" 

"Yeah, as far as I could tell in the dark, from a distance. Now, of
course, if a certain person hadn't come fumbling along, creating enough of
a racket to spook the bastard into running off, then *maybe* I would've
heard him mucking about up there, and *maybe* I could've snuck up on him
quietly, but no, I couldn't have that, could I?" He loomed in even closer,
his face inches from Doyle's. "*What* did you think you were doing?" 

Doyle was relieved to see that, despite the glowering, there was no real
anger in Bodie's expression, merely simple annoyance. "Sorry," he replied.
"Wanted to talk to you." 

"Oh, great." Bodie threw his arms up in exasperation and moved away, to
pace up and down the room. "You wanted to talk. We're in the middle of a
case, it's the dead of night, I'm on surveillance, the suspect is on the
prowl, the trap is all set to be sprung, and you decide, at one o'clock in
the bloody morning, that it would be a grand idea to come storming down to
have a little chat. That's just terrific. That's absolutely brilliant,
mate. How do you think these gems up? Did you take a special class on How
To Annoy the Hell Out of People? You wanted to talk." Bodie halted
mid-stride to cast Doyle a suspicious glare. "What the hell did you want
to talk *about*, for chrissakes?" 

Doyle, having patiently waited for Bodie to wind down, simply smiled and
said, "Does your back still hurt?" 

"What?" The question abruptly stopped Bodie's tirade, and his expression
was puzzled. 

"You said you strained it." Doyle moved close to Bodie, who stood near the
end of the bed. "Does it hurt?" 

"Nah." Bodie frowned. "Well, a little." 

"Right." Doyle nodded towards the bed. "That's my fault, so I'll fix it up
for you. Get undressed and lie down, and I'll give you a massage." 

Bodie blinked. "What the hell are you up to now?" 

Doyle, detecting an ever-so-slightly hopeful note in Bodie's tone, kept
his own voice firm and commanding. "Nothing. Go on, get moving." 

"*Why* do you want to give me a massage?" Bodie insisted, eyes narrowing. 

Doyle gave a nonchalant shrug. "Because you're my best mate, and your back
hurts." 

"Doesn't hurt that much." Nonetheless, Bodie glanced down at the bed with
a clear look of longing. 

His patience sorely tested, Doyle said slowly and carefully, "There's no
point going back out to the east wing tonight, which means you're going to
sleep in here tonight, which means you're going to have to get undressed
and get into bed in any event, so why don't you stop fussing and bloody
well get into the damn bed and you can have a massage as well while you're
lying there, you great--" 

"*Fussing*?" Bodie broke in, sheer outrage replacing all other emotions.
"*Fussing*? I've never fussed in my life!" 

"Well, go on, then." Doyle nodded at the bed again. 

Sighing, Bodie sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his shoes and socks
off. "You've gone round the bend, you 'ave." As he drew the sweater off
over his head, he muttered, "Daft. Crackers. Round the twist." He tossed
the sweater aside and looked up at Doyle. "You never answered my
question." 

"Which question?" Doyle asked innocently, knowing perfectly well. 

A tolerant smile touched Bodie's lips. He rose, walked around to the side
of the bed, and pulled the covers down. "You know," he said as he took his
trousers and briefs off. He climbed onto the bed, lying face down, arms
crossed on the pillow to support his head. "What did you want to talk
about?" He turned his head to one side, resting his cheek on his hands.
"Well?" 

Doyle sat cross-legged on the bed near Bodie's feet, and took in the full
length of Bodie's naked form, smooth and pale and muscular. "Wanted to get
you to come to bed," he replied softly. He picked up Bodie's left foot and
gently rubbed it, using his thumbs to press along the sides. 

"It's my back," Bodie protested, "not my feet--" 

"I'm workin' my way up there." Doyle continued his slow massage, moving on
to Bodie's right foot. 

"Definitely certifiable," Bodie muttered. After a pause, he said, "Why?" 

"Why what?" 

"Stop being difficult," Bodie replied. "No, forget it--that's like asking
you to stop breathing. Ah--" He let out a light moan as Doyle started on
his lower leg, finding tense muscles there. "Oh, yeah...that's good...go
left a bit." 

Doyle worked the stiffness out, then went on to the other leg, stroking
firmly and smoothly, pausing occasionally to knead tight, knotted areas
before moving on. Bodie's moans increased in frequency as Doyle made his
way up to his thighs. 

"Don't you go and think I've forgotten," Bodie murmured. "No more
stalling. Why did you want me to come to bed?" His tone turned suddenly
bitter, and he twisted his head to gaze back at Doyle. "It's not
one-night-stand, part two, is it? Feeling randy again, are you? 'Cause if
that's what it is, you can go to hell." He started to push himself up. 

"Don't want sex," Doyle said quickly. 

"No?" Bodie gave him a confused frown, then sank back onto the pillow.
"Then what?" 

"Already had that last night." Doyle shifted his position, moving up to
sit beside Bodie's hips. He shrugged his bathrobe off, then he laid one
hand on Bodie's lower back and began a lazy, circular motion. "Decided I
wanted to try something different this time." He leaned over to lightly
kiss one of Bodie's shoulder blades. "Want to try making love instead." 

A little gasp escaped Bodie's lips. "Make love--" He twisted onto his side
to clasp Doyle's forearm. "Why now? What changed?" he said in a harsh
whisper, his eyes searching Doyle's face. 

"Couldn't stand not having you around," Doyle replied. "Don't know what to
do without you." He brushed his fingers across Bodie's cheek. 

Bodie suddenly pulled him into an embrace, and Doyle felt the fine tremors
running through Bodie as he clutched him tightly. "Is it really true?"
Bodie asked, his voice shaking. 

"Yeah," Doyle replied, and then, needing to be absolutely fair, he added,
"I think so." 

Bodie thrust him away, though he kept a grip on his shoulders. "You
*think* so? Can't you bloody well make up your mind?" 

"I'm sorry." Doyle wanted more than anything not to hurt Bodie, yet he had
to make everything clear. "All I can promise right now is that I'm willing
to try, and that I do want it to work. I mean, you and me, us, being
together--" He broke off, unsure how to go on. 

"It's called a relationship," Bodie said, maintaining his hard grasp on
Doyle's shoulders. "Is that what you want?" 

Doyle nodded. "I want to try. Dammit, Bodie, it's not easy to change your
life overnight." 

Bodie simply stared at him, his eyes fierce with yearning. "Do you love
me?" 

Momentarily taken aback, Doyle nodded again. "Told you that before.
Thought it was 'cause of you being my best mate, but it's more than that."
He reached up to put his hands on Bodie's arms, rubbing them until Bodie
relaxed his hold and let go of his shoulders. Doyle took one of Bodie's
hands in his and squeezed it. "You remember last year, when I was in
hospital? Every time I woke up, you were there." He hesitated, striving to
get the words right. "There was one night--I'd been restless, feverish,
and it finally broke--and when it did, you said something to me, about how
worried you'd been and how much it would hurt to lose me. And then you
kissed my forehead. Do you remember that?" 

"Of course I do." Bodie looked down at their joined hands. "Didn't think
you did, though. You never mentioned it." 

"Thought it would only embarrass you. Can't think why, now. It's not
foolish to admit you care about someone." 

Bodie looked up. "No. But I don't make a habit of it." 

"I know you don't," Doyle replied. "Guess that's why it feels special when
you do. Rare things are more valuable, aren't they." He let go of Bodie's
hands and ran his finger down the middle of Bodie's chest. "Anyway," he
said, "that's how I felt tonight. That it would hurt too much to lose
you." He pressed his open palm against Bodie's abdomen. "I know I'm asking
a lot of you. I want you to let me try to love you the way you want me to,
and I can't give you any guarantees. If you say no right now, your life
will have a hell of a lot less trouble in it." He waited, motionless,
caught between hope and fear, unsure of anything save the one unalterable
desire, no matter what happened, to be wherever Bodie was. 

After what Doyle would have sworn was an eternity, Bodie smiled, and he
looked happier than Doyle had seen him in a long, long time. He cupped
Doyle's face in his hands and leaned in to kiss him, a light brushing of
lips before pulling back. "Trouble?" he said, his eyes smiling as well, "I
was born to handle trouble. Wouldn't know what to do without it." 

An overwhelming sense of relief flooded Doyle and he grinned, tension
easing. He let his hand drop from Bodie's abdomen onto his cock, giving it
a quick stroke. "Never finished your massage, did we?" 

"You start in there and I won't care about the rest of it," Bodie replied.
"All be over too soon." 

"Yeah, you're right." Doyle took his hand away. "Want to go slow, make it
last." He glanced down at his own mildly aroused organ, a light heat
rising within him. "No rushing," he instructed it, then looked over at
Bodie's groin. "What do you call yours, then?" 

An affronted look passed over Bodie's face. "I beg your pardon?" 

"Oh, come on. You must have a nickname or two for 'im. I mean, I've got
mine." 

"That's *personal*," Bodie replied tersely. 

Doyle raised his eyebrows. "Thought you loved me." 

"I do," Bodie said. "But I have my limits." 

"Ah. Gotta keep at least one little secret from me, do you?" 

"Adds mystery, that does," Bodie insisted. He sank back down onto the bed,
stretched out on his side. "Come on, I've had enough talking. Want a
proper kiss." 

"All right, all right." Doyle stretched out alongside him, their bodies
touching, the heady feel of warm skin against his threatening to overwhelm
him. *Easy*, he told himself forcefully, willing his body to relax. He
wrapped his arms around Bodie and kissed him, lips parted, seeking Bodie's
mouth, tongue running deep within as the contact touched off a fire of
need. He broke away to nip and suck at Bodie's throat, sighing with
pleasure as Bodie's hands roamed over his back and thighs. 

"Want you," Doyle murmured, unable to stem the tide of desire. "Want
to...I want you...." He moved further down, licking at smooth flesh,
finding a nipple to lap his tongue around. Fully aroused now, his cock
hard, he ached with a need to possess. 

Bodie shifted, pushing up on one elbow to reach across Doyle to the
nightstand. "Got something here." He plucked a tube from the drawer.
"Might come in handy." He gave it to Doyle. "You want me, you got me," he
said simply. He rolled onto his stomach. "All right?" 

Doyle stared at the K-Y jelly, a shiver of nervousness returning. Then he
looked at Bodie's calm figure and the trusting face turned towards him.
"Yeah. Fine." 

Bodie drew one leg up a bit, crooking his knee. Doyle ran his hand along
Bodie's spine to the cleft between the buttocks, then dipped in between, a
quick, hesitant exploration. 

"Go on," Bodie said. "Wanna feel you." 

Doyle rubbed the jelly on his cock, smooth and cool and slick. Then, with
more of it on his fingers, he probed at Bodie's buttocks again, sliding
into the opening there with one finger, working at it as Bodie gave a tiny
jerk, giving out little groans, his hands clutching at the pillow. "Okay?"
Doyle asked. 

"More," Bodie muttered thickly, "want more--get in there, do it, Ray--" 

"Raise up a bit," Doyle said. Bodie pushed up onto his knees as Doyle,
behind him, positioned himself between his thighs, placing a hand on
Bodie's back for support. Carefully inserting two fingers, he pushed them
in further, eliciting more moans, which drove him on, exciting and
arousing him, working him up to a frenzy. Doyle withdrew his fingers and
shoved the head of his cock in, sliding his other arm around Bodie's
waist, seeking out Bodie's thick, hard shaft, stroking it firmly as he
pushed his own cock further in, gasping as the tight channel pressed in on
him. Urgent now, all thoughts of taking it slow long fled, Doyle pumped
into Bodie, his cock completely embedded, inflamed by Bodie's demanding
cries for more. He pulled out and thrust back in repeatedly, increasing
the incredible friction as Bodie pushed his hips back, grinding against
him, echoing his own motion, a rhythmical joining of their bodies. And
then Doyle felt the surge of orgasm as he came, sending him up and up to a
fiery height from which he never wanted to fall, an endless passion
savored, yearned for, held onto with all his will, and still lost,
intangible, a fleeting moment of utter fulfillment that could not be
sustained. 

With a final, weak spasm, Doyle withdrew, collapsing onto Bodie's strong
back, his hand loosely encircling Bodie's erect cock. Gradually he became
aware that Bodie was trying to push against the hand, wanting contact.
Doyle gripped him harder, using his other hand to massage Bodie's taut
balls. 

"No," Bodie murmured, strained, "need you...need to see you- -" 

Doyle slid off his back and Bodie rolled over, pulling Doyle to him for a
fervent kiss. "Please," Bodie whispered when they drew apart. "Need you."
He pushed Doyle's head towards his groin. 

With a new-found craving to please Bodie in every way he could, Doyle
avidly sought out his goal. He ran his tongue lightly along the underside
of Bodie's cock, then kissed the tip before taking it into his mouth. As
he eagerly sucked the firm flesh, he worked at Bodie's balls with one
hand, gently kneading and stroking, delighted at Bodie's deep sighs of
pleasure. Then Bodie's hands were grasping him, and his body shuddered
beneath Doyle as he came, warm fluid spurting into Doyle's mouth.
Swallowing rapidly, Doyle pumped him for all he was worth, drawing away at
last as Bodie subsided into a lazy sprawl, with a look of pure
satisfaction on his face. 

"Hm...." Doyle settled his head on Bodie's shoulder, arm draped across his
chest, and nuzzled his neck. "You happy?" 

"Ecstatic." Bodie kissed Doyle's forehead. He wrapped an arm around him,
held him close. "Love you." 

"Good," Doyle replied sleepily, "'cause it's mutual." 

"Say it, then," Bodie pleaded. 

"I love you." There was no hesitation. There was no question in Doyle's
mind about the strength of his emotion, though lingering doubts about
their future together remained. He would simply have to wait and see how
things went--what would happen when they returned home, and what would
happen as they continued being lovers under Cowley's nose. Doyle sighed.
He didn't want to think about that. Cowley wasn't their sole problem.
Their working environment was riddled with sharp-eyed agents trained to
observe, trained to spot things out of the ordinary, and surely some of
them would pick up on the fact that neither he nor Bodie was going out
with women anymore. It was inevitable that questions would arise someday,
but they would deal with it when it happened. In the meantime, all he
wanted to do was make Bodie happy, and all he could do was hope that he
wouldn't screw things up. Aware of his own faults, Doyle didn't want to
let his moodiness, or his temper, or his occasional fickleness, ruin what
they now had. But sometimes he simply couldn't control what he said or
did, even when he was conscious at the time of the effect it had on those
he cared for, even if, at the very moment of speaking, he wanted to hold
the words back. So many times he had mentally kicked himself mere seconds
after yelling a harsh opinion or lashing out with his temper, often not
even believing that he had said what he had, as if his own mind had been
temporarily out of his control. And then he was often too stubborn or too
proud to retract or apologize, and often he felt, with a painful
intensity, that he could never do or say what was needed to make up for
the hurt he had caused, and so he remained silent. 

"You asleep?" Bodie's voice drifted out, rousing him from his reverie. 

"No. Just thinking." Doyle shifted a bit, reaching for the covers. He
nestled back down, drawing the covers snug around them. "Promise me
something, will you?" 

"Anything you want," Bodie said, his breath warm against Doyle's face.
"Except my stereo, that is. I've seen you eyeing it, and you can't have
it." 

Doyle smiled, giving Bodie a soft pat. "Okay. You can keep it." 

Bodie let out a long, drawn-out yawn. "What is it you do want, then?" 

"Promise you'll always give me a second chance." 

"At what?" 

"Well," Doyle replied, "sometimes I say things or do things that I wish I
hadn't." 

"Everybody does," Bodie said. "Mind you, you do have your own special
style, but still--don't worry about it." 

"Can't help it. This is important." 

"I know." Bodie's tone was soothing. "But I've managed to put up with you
so far." 

"That's true," Doyle admitted. "Don't know how you do it sometimes." 

"Infinite patience," Bodie said serenely. 

Doyle laughed. "They should sell stock in it. You'd make a fortune." 

"No doubt." 

They lay quietly for a while, and as he rested in Bodie's arms, warm and
contented, Doyle began to yield to the pull of sleep. Then he felt Bodie
briefly tighten his hold on him, and heard him whisper, "You'll need some,
too." 

Too tired to follow this, Doyle asked, "What?" 

"Patience, of course. I do have my less-than-pleasant moments too, you
know." 

"Hm. I had noticed." 

"Oh, really?" 

"Yeah, really." Doyle yawned, stretching within Bodie's embrace, then he
subsided into a peaceful stillness. For once, for at least a time, his
world felt whole, the empty spaces filled, the puzzles solved. He
struggled to hold onto the feeling, pushing away his deep-rooted sense
that all good things must be transitory, and he refused to let the
contentment of the moment fade. 

******

*Chapter Seventeen*

Bodie woke to the sound of rain battering the windows, with a strong wind
whistling through the cracks. The weather, however, did not concern him at
all. Only one thing mattered to him--the fact that Ray Doyle was lying
quietly asleep in his arms. It was a most amazing and delightful sight to
wake up to, and he hoped there would be many, many more mornings like
this. 

Though he felt a strong desire to stay in bed forever, eventually Bodie
succumbed to the need to stretch dormant muscles. He did so as carefully
as he could, but Doyle stirred nonetheless, sleepily rubbing his eyes.
"Sorry," Bodie said, lightly stroking Doyle's back. 

"It's okay." Doyle blinked and opened his eyes. "Is it morning?" 

"Hard to tell." Bodie glanced at the rain-streaked window, where the
partly opened drapes revealed a dark gray sky. "Looks to me like a day for
staying indoors, somewhere nice and warm and cozy...like a bed...." 

"Can't." Doyle yawned and stretched his arms. "Got work to do." 

Vaguely disappointed at Doyle's unromantic reference to reality, Bodie
shrugged and said, "Don't have to go off investigating right away, do we?"


"Nah." Rising up on one elbow, Doyle smiled down at him. "Got better
things to do." He kissed Bodie's lips. "What do you think, hm? Sex before
breakfast?" 

Relieved, Bodie nodded. "Before, during, after, whatever you want." 

Doyle tilted his head, considering. "During might be interesting. Wonder
if anyone would say anything? I can hear Lumley now. 'Excuse me, dear
chaps, but I couldn't help noticing that you two are, um, well, you know,
screwing each other through the dining room carpet.'" He grinned. "Polite,
he is. He'd probably offer us some margarine." 

Bodie wrinkled his nose. "'orrible thought. Forget about the 'during' bit.
Let's just try 'before' for now, okay?" 

"You're on." Doyle gave him a shy smile. "You wanna fuck me? It's your
turn, you know." 

"Oh, are we taking turns?" Bodie was amused by the idea. It seemed
appropriate, since they took turns in so many other areas of their
partnership. "You gonna keep track, are you?" 

"Well, I'll 'ave to, won't I? Got a memory like a sieve, you do, when it
comes to takin' turns." 

"Not when it's as important as this, I don't," Bodie replied firmly. "What
did you do with that tube of K-Y, anyway?" He glanced over at the
nightstand, but didn't see it. 

"Gettin' right to the point, are we?" Doyle lay a hand on Bodie's abdomen,
smoothly stroking it in a lazy, circular motion. "C'mon, do it proper and
work up to things a bit slower." 

"Oh, like you did last night, hm?" Bodie had nothing but pleasant memories
of the act, but years of teasing Doyle couldn't be casually tossed aside.
"You gonna teach me the Doyle Method, are you?" 

"You berk." Doyle gave his belly a poke, and Bodie flinched, covering the
area with his hands. "Whatsamatter, not sensitive there, are you?" Doyle
pounced, trying to tickle him, as Bodie furiously batted his jabbing,
grasping hands away. 

"No!" Bodie yelped as Doyle went for a sneak attack, suddenly curving
downward to tickle the back of Bodie's knee. Then he curled up even more
to go for the feet. Bodie kicked his legs about to discourage him, while
wrapping his arms around the wriggling torso, trying to wrestle him off.
In a tangle of bed covers they tossed and thrashed about, legs and arms
flailing and grasping, grappling for advantage, thwarted by the close
confinement, until Doyle let out a surprised cry of triumph, stopped
struggling, and sat up from the wreckage of the covers holding a tube in
his hand. "Aha. Found it." 

Bodie lay back, panting lightly. "'Bout time you did something right." He
pushed himself up, and snatched the K- Y from Doyle. "Can we get serious
now?" 

"Yeah, we can do that." Doyle lay down and started to turn onto his
stomach, but Bodie stopped him, pushing him onto his back again. 

"Want to look at you this time," he explained. Then he began to caress
Doyle's chest. 

"It's gonna be a bit awkward." 

"Oh, we'll manage. Here, let's try this." Bodie snatched up his pillow.
"Lift up." He shoved it under the small of Doyle's back. "That should
help." He moved to kneel between Doyle's open, bent legs, and leaned over
him, trailing kisses down chest and abdomen. Then he planted a few on his
semi-erect cock and the taut sac below. 

"Ah," Doyle gasped. "Do that again." 

"Hm? Which part?" 

"Your face--it was rubbing against my balls--felt fantastic." 

Bodie nuzzled him there with the side of his face, and Doyle wriggled and
moaned, grasping Bodie's head to keep it there. "Yeah...more--" 

It was his beard stubble, Bodie realized. The friction of the short, rough
hairs rubbing against Doyle's sensitive sac was driving him wild. Doyle's
balls tightened and his cock hardened as Bodie continued the special
caress, immensely pleased to have found a new way to excite Doyle,
wondering what other discoveries they would make in their sexual forays. 

Aroused now himself, Bodie lifted his head to run his tongue along Doyle's
cock, then shifted up a bit, pausing to lick Doyle's nipples. When he
looked up, he caught sight of Doyle's expression of pure abandon--head
thrown back, eyes closed, lips lightly parted. Those full, sensuous lips
begged to be kissed, and Bodie did, long and deeply, entranced by the
taste and feel of Doyle's mouth. As he drew away, he lapped up the tiny
beads of sweat which had formed on Doyle's upper lip. "Too warm?" he
murmured. 

"Hot," Doyle replied huskily. "You've got me all hot." His hands found
Bodie's chest and he stroked him up and down. "Come on...do it...get in
me--" 

Bodie balanced on one arm and used his free hand to twist off the tube
cap, and started to squeeze out the gel. But Doyle intercepted, grabbing
it from him to dab some onto his own fingers. Then he reached to rub it on
Bodie's hard cock, the touch tormenting in its potent sensuality. Fighting
to retain control, Bodie took a few deep breaths, revelling in Doyle's
touch but not giving in to total indulgence. He wanted it all, longed to
fully experience every sensation, yet he had to hold something back, wait
for the right moment to lose all restraint. 

Doyle took Bodie's hand and squeezed more gel from the tube, directly onto
Bodie's fingers. Then he lifted his hips and raised his legs, propping
them over Bodie's shoulders. Bodie sought out the opening, stuck a finger
in, tenderly exploring. He pushed in further and Doyle gasped. 

"More?" Bodie breathed, acutely conscious of the ache in his balls. 

"Yeah," Doyle whispered. "Go on." 

Bodie worked two fingers in, felt Doyle clench around them. "Deep
breaths," he said. "Relax." He listened to Doyle's breathing, felt the
loosening of tense muscles. "That's it." He carefully pushed again, went
in deeper, then pulled out and guided the head of his cock inside,
striving to ease into Doyle, attentive to each groan and sigh Doyle gave
out. He balanced his arms on either side of Doyle, and as he drove in
harder he intently watched the struggle on Doyle's face between pain and
pleasure, gauging his thrusts in response. When he pressed into the
deepest recesses of Doyle's body, Doyle let loose with a sheer animal cry
of satisfaction. Bodie felt the urgency rise within him, lost all
restraint, and rammed into the tight heat of Doyle again and again, his
body as close against Doyle's as he could get, touching and rubbing
wherever he could. Dimly conscious of the rhythmic beating of the rain
against the windows, which counterpointed the rhythm of their joining,
Bodie became lost in the storm of sensations, shouting incoherently as
climax overtook him--an annihilating release that threatened to consume
him. It ended far too soon, gradually returning him, unwilling, to an
awareness of reality. 

They had both collapsed; Doyle lay sprawled beneath him, legs
spread-eagled as Bodie lay on top of him, his legs between Doyle's, hips
against hips, chest against chest, cheek touching cheek. Bodie rested
there, only slowly becoming aware of the warm stickiness that had pooled
on Doyle's belly. He raised up enough to see the evidence of Doyle's
orgasm, his flaccid penis lying softly across one thigh. "Ah," Bodie
muttered, "couldn't wait any longer, hm?" 

Doyle weakly shook his head. "Was too much, feeling you inside me--seeing
your face, feeling you against me like that. Couldn't hold it back." 

"I know how that feels, believe me." Bodie shifted down a bit so he could
rest his head on Doyle's chest. "Think we'll need lots more practice at
this." 

"Every chance we get," Doyle replied. 

Bodie lay there, knowing they would need to get up soon, deal with the
ordinariness of dressing, shaving, getting ready for breakfast. He let out
a little sigh, and determined not to move a muscle until the last possible
minute. It was too comfortable here, nestled against Doyle's chest, soft
whorls of hair beneath his cheek. He listened for Doyle's heartbeat, found
it, pressed his ear closer. 

Doyle encircled him in his arms, and blew a warm breath across his
forehead. "Hey," he said, "did you know it's raining something fierce out
there?" 

"Did you just notice that?" Bodie asked, incredulous. 

"Yeah, well, I had other things on my mind." 

"And very interesting things they were, too," Bodie said. He could,
unfortunately, see the clock from his current position. "Gonna have to get
up soon, you know." 

Doyle nodded. "That's okay. There's always tonight, and the next night,
and the next--" 

"And the afternoon, and the next morning, and--" 

"You're insatiable, aren't you?" Doyle broke in. 

Bodie looked at him, saw the twinkle in his eye. "Yeah," he replied. "Are
you going to tell me you're not? Model of restraint, are you?" 

Doyle smiled. "Not exactly. Reckon we're pretty well matched there." 

"Randy bastards, that's us," Bodie agreed happily. "So when do you want to
get up?" 

Doyle glanced over at the clock. "Tomorrow," he replied. 

"Will you settle for half an hour?" Bodie said. 

Doyle ran his tongue around his lips. "A lot can happen in half an hour." 

"Especially," Bodie said, watching Doyle's tongue with interest, "with two
randy, insatiable bastards--" 

Doyle kissed him, and put an effective end to their conversation. 

******

The rain continued to pour down. Bodie stood at the back door of the
kitchen, staring through its tiny window at the gray sheets of water
outside. Why was he doing this? He didn't really have to go out there. 

When they had come down to breakfast, it was so late that most of the food
had been cleared away and the dishes washed up. He and Doyle had only been
able to grab a few slices of toast and some weak coffee. Then everyone had
scattered to do their own thing for a few hours, and they decided to
continue their search for the tunnel. Doyle had announced his intention to
return to the east wing's ground floor, to take up where he'd left off.
Bodie had gone up to get his anorak before heading out to the summerhouse.
But now he found it hard to get past the kitchen door, the weather much
too daunting. 

He didn't really need to go out to the summerhouse. He'd already searched
it as thoroughly as possible, and had no ideas about new approaches.
Perhaps he should go to the east wing and help Doyle instead. Why get
soaking wet for no good reason? 

Suddenly something pressed into his side. Very slowly and very carefully,
Bodie turned his head. Slowly and carefully, he looked down. And saw a
wolfhound snuffling at the pocket of his anorak, tail wagging furiously. 

At least it wasn't snarling. He swore it was the same one that had savaged
his suit jacket. Maybe the damn beast thought he carried liver sausage
sandwiches as a rule. It was certainly expressing a keen interest in the
contents of his pocket, which was liver sausage-free, containing only a
pocket knife and the key to the summerhouse. He held a torch in his right
hand, and contemplated using it to discourage the dog's attentions, but
decided not to tempt fate. Instead, he tried simply to move away. The huge
dog butted its head against him, pinning him right where he was. Resigned,
Bodie felt for the door handle and his only avenue of escape--the great
outdoors. Slowly he opened the door. The beast pricked up its ears.
"Stay!" Bodie commanded. The dog growled. 

As swiftly as he had ever moved in his life, Bodie flung the door open,
rushed outside, and slammed it shut again just in time. Heavy thudding
sounds echoed from the other side as an eight-stone wolfhound leaped at
the door, barking madly. 

A torrent of rain pummeled Bodie as he made a dash for the summerhouse,
slogging through the slush of melted snow, slipping and sliding, cursing,
anxious to reach shelter. But despite being cold, wet, and thoroughly
annoyed, he still skidded to a halt ten feet in front of the marble
building, to stand gaping at it in disbelief. There, embedded in the wall
beneath the porch, for all the world to see, stood a three-by- three foot
wooden door. 

Bodie stared at it, ignoring the huge drops of rain hitting him. It was on
the *outside*. All that time he'd spent shifting stone phalluses about,
all that sweat and mental effort he'd exerted scouring the interior of the
summerhouse, and all the while, the shelter entrance was on the outside of
the damn building. He hadn't seen it before because it had been covered by
a bank of snow. 

Shaking his wet head, Bodie trudged over to the porch and squatted beside
the door. There was a padlock, but the wood was old and soggy. After a few
minutes' work with his pocket knife, he had pried loose enough boards to
be able to open the door. With an adrenalin rush of anticipation, Bodie
opened the door and made his way down a flight of steps until he hit what
felt like a hard-packed earth floor. Only a little of the gray morning
light penetrated the underground chamber; he flicked on his torch. 

The room was lined with thick concrete slabs; a door was set in the center
of one wall. Empty metal shelving lined the other walls. A rickety wooden
table and two chairs stood in the middle of the room. The shelves and
furniture looked as if they had been there since the war, but the three
crates stacked on the floor near the table were most decidedly modern.
Very modern, if the army lettering on the outside was any clue to their
contents. 

Bodie eagerly knelt by a crate and pried the lid off. A neatly piled cache
of nine-millimeter automatics shone in the torch light. Grinning with a
sense of impending victory, he opened the other two crates--ammunition in
one, gelignite in the last. One of the ammo packages was torn open and it
looked as if some was missing--was this where the cartridge he'd found had
come from? The thief might very well have armed himself from this lot. If
they could just figure out who the idiot was, they could clear up this
damn mess and go home. 

Belatedly deciding it would be better not to handle the evidence any
further in case it became necessary to dust for prints, Bodie went to
examine the other door. It had to open onto the tunnel to the main house.
There was a simple handle and Bodie turned it, heard a click, and swung
the door open. The dark passage lay beyond. It looked to be a little over
six feet in height, and perhaps a bit over two feet in width, and he
couldn't see the end of it. Bodie smiled as a mischievous thought struck
him. Doyle would be busy searching the east wing. Why not sneak up on him
via the tunnel, give him a little surprise? 

He padded quietly and slowly along the narrow tunnel towards the main
house. 

******

Doyle, however, was not yet in the east wing. 

He had gone first to the library to look over the plans that had been in
Bodie's half of the pile, and after half an hour of scrounging he'd picked
out the ones most likely to be of use. Then, because his stomach was still
grumbling after his light breakfast, he headed off in search of food. 

In the kitchen he found a small tray of cold scones and a pot of tepid
coffee. As he considered this meager offering, he noticed the wolfhound
which happened to be scrabbling at the back door, whimpering pathetically.
Not sharing Bodie's dislike of the creatures, Doyle crossed to the door.
"You want out?" 

The animal threw itself against the door. 

"You know it's raining out there?" Doyle said. The dog barked eagerly.
"Yeah, yeah, okay." Doyle released the handle and the beast bolted
through, tearing across the grounds as if it knew precisely what it was
after. 

Probably smelled a rabbit, Doyle decided. Shrugging, he returned to the
food problem, finally opting for two scones and a cup of coffee. With the
plans tucked under one arm and his provisions in both hands, he started
for the ground floor of the east wing. 

******

Bodie heard a noise ahead. He flicked off the torch and stood motionless.
Had Doyle already found the other entrance? Another possibility occurred
to him. Their suspect could be on the move again. He quickly considered
his options. He could make his way back to the summerhouse and wait there,
hidden, with a greater advantage of surprise. Or go all the way back to
the house, find Doyle, take the bloke on together. What if the fellow was
armed? On the other hand, what if it was Doyle? He'd look a right prat
retreating from his own partner. But he had no way of telling. Perhaps he
could simply creep a bit closer, just enough to determine who was down
there. 

He moved cautiously a few paces forward, in the darkness, and bumped into
the left side of the passage. Bodie paused, momentarily considered turning
the torch on briefly, decided not to risk it. Up ahead something white
flashed into view and disappeared, something around shirt-size. Doyle had
put on a blue shirt today. This was foolhardy. He should go back. 

Bodie moved forward again instead, shifting away from the left side of the
passage. And promptly hit the other side, the torch held in his right hand
banging the wall with a *clunk*. 

In the next moment, Bodie became aware of two things: an odd, heavy
scrabbling noise rushing up on him from behind, and the reappearance of
the patch of white, this time with a glint of metal. Someone holding a
gun...and something behind him--he had nowhere to go, he was trapped. 

And then, in the split-second before the gun aimed in his direction was
fired, the thing behind him pounced, knocking him flat, the bullet zipping
harmlessly overhead. 

There was a large dog digging at his jacket, a very heavy dog. A dog which
had just saved Bodie's life. As he was re- evaluating the value of
wolfhounds, Bodie suddenly realized his quarry had not fired a second
shot, and had taken off, his footsteps echoing away in the distance. He'd
be heading for the east wing--and Doyle would be there, unprepared. 

Bodie tried to get up, but there was an eight-stone dog on his back. He
struggled, shrugging off his anorak, and tossed it away. The beast went
for it, and Bodie got to his feet, turned on his torch, and ran down the
tunnel. 

******

Doyle stood in the east wing corridor, with his hands full, muttering
darkly to himself. He'd left the master key upstairs in their room. No
doubt he'd need a torch as well. But he was still hungry and thirsty, and
the cup of coffee wasn't getting any warmer. Maybe he should eat the
scones and drink the coffee right here, and then go upstairs. 

As he stood there considering his options, Doyle heard a commotion from
behind the door nearest him. He moved towards it to investigate. The door
flew open and Paul Stuart barrelled into him, sending papers, scones, and
mug flying as both men tumbled to the floor. 

Doyle saw the gun in Stuart's hand. Stuart had landed on top of him, and
Doyle immediately brought his knee up between Stuart's legs and twisted,
levering him off. Then he scrambled to his feet and kicked at Stuart's gut
as Stuart tried to stand, and the man doubled over. But as Doyle moved in
for another blow, Stuart lurched upright and swung round, his fist landing
hard on Doyle's jaw. Doyle staggered back, and Stuart aimed the gun at
him, but didn't fire, his face white. Doyle stood there, rapidly running
possible actions through his mind--but he had few choices with a gun
pointed at his chest. Stuart suddenly moved in close, and Doyle was about
to try a last- ditch attack when Stuart struck first with a swift punch to
Doyle's gut. The force of the blow sent him to his hands and knees,
gasping. Stuart turned and fled down the corridor. 

Bodie burst through the open doorway. He took in the scene in a glance,
then headed for Doyle, but Doyle quickly gave him a thumbs-up okay signal
and jerked his head in the direction Stuart had run. Bodie nodded and took
off. 

Doyle got to his feet and followed, arriving in time to find Bodie
tackling Stuart where the wing met the main hallway. As Bodie sent Stuart
flying to the ground, Doyle moved up to stomp on Stuart's wrist. Stuart
let go of the gun. Doyle snatched up the weapon, then leaned back against
the wall, still catching his breath, but holding the gun steadily on
Stuart as Bodie rolled off him and got up. 

Bodie went to Doyle's side. "You really okay?" He put a hand on his
shoulder. 

"Yeah," Doyle managed. "You?" 

"Yeah. Want me to take the gun?" 

"Nah." Doyle straightened from the wall. "I can manage." 

Stuart was sitting up now, glaring at them. He started to say something,
but at that moment the drawing room door opened and Lumley and Evans came
out. They looked towards the little group, and hurried down the hallway to
join them. 

"What in heaven's name is going on here?" Lumley stared at the gun in
Doyle's hand. "Have you gone quite mad, Mr. Doyle? Do put that hideous
thing away this instant." 

"It's not my hideous thing," Doyle replied, nodding towards Stuart. "It's
his. Just took it away, we did." 

"You ought to tell your nephew," Bodie added, "that it isn't polite to
play with firearms. Or with explosives, either." He looked hard at Stuart.
"Do you want to tell your Uncle Richard what you've been storing in his
house, or shall I?" 

Stuart looked warily from Bodie to Lumley. "It wasn't me!" he cried. "I
only happened upon them!" 

"On what?" Lumley looked more confused than he normally did. "What are you
nattering on about?" 

"Stolen arms," Bodie explained. "There are crates of stolen arms in your
summerhouse, down in the shelter. And he's the one who's been hiding them
there." 

"Good God," Geoffrey muttered. He gave Stuart a dark, suspicious glare. 

"No, you've got it all wrong." Stuart started to rise, but Doyle stepped
towards him, threatening, and Stuart sat back down. "I was simply
exploring the tunnel, and I happened upon them there." 

"Really?" Bodie asked. "And did you simply happen to fire at me as well?" 

"I was scared. I panicked." He looked up at Lumley, pleading. "I swear, I
don't have anything to do with any of this." 

"So it wasn't you who hid the arms," Bodie said, "and it wasn't you trying
to shift them into the east wing last night, or the night before, and it
wasn't you who bumped into Julia Hunt?" 

Stuart shook his head vigorously. "No. Never. I swear. None of that's
true." 

Bodie smiled grimly at him. During this conversation, he'd been looking at
Stuart's white shirt, and thinking about the continued absence of Stuart's
expensive navy suit jacket, which had failed to make an appearance since
the day of Stuart's arrival. He remembered noting it at the tea break
yesterday, but hadn't thought that it was significant. Now he did. He
turned to his partner. "You looked through Paul's wardrobe when you were
planting his gift, didn't you? Did he have any other suits than the navy
one?"

Doyle shook his head. "No. Just the one, and a lot of shirts." 

"Right." He went to Stuart, gripped his upper arm, and hefted him to his
feet. "Come on, we're going for a little walk back to your room." He
marched Stuart down the hall towards the main stairs. Doyle kept close by,
holding the gun on Stuart; Lumley and Evans followed. 

"Must you be so rough?" Lumley protested as Bodie dragged Stuart up the
stairs. "You have no right to treat a member of my own family in such an
aggressive fashion, Mr. Brody." They reached the first floor landing and
headed off to the west wing. "I mean, honestly, this is intolerable. My
nephew claims he is innocent. Surely we should call the police to let them
sort this out. I don't understand it." 

Bodie shoved Stuart into his room, and made him sit in a chair. 

"Just who do you think you are?" Geoffrey joined in with Lumley's protest.


Doyle went to stand near the chair, not taking the gun off Stuart. "We're
CI5," he replied. 

"*What*?" Geoffrey's eyes went wide. Lumley merely blinked and raised his
eyebrows. 

"CI5," Bodie repeated as he opened the wardrobe to begin searching.
"Sorry. I'm afraid we've been here under false pretenses." He didn't see
the jacket on the clothes rod. He dug about at the bottom and pulled out a
suitcase. "We were sent here to investigate an arms theft which we suspect
is tied to a terrorist group." He tossed the suitcase on the bed. "Some
guns, ammunition, and explosives went missing from an armory." He glanced
over at Stuart. "You've got friends in the army, haven't you? Wonder who
they are? I wonder if any of them happen to be attached to the base where
the arms were stolen from, hm? A little inside help, perhaps?" He opened
the case. 

There, folded neatly on top, was the suit jacket. Bodie shook it out and
laid it on the bed. A dark stain marred its front. "I think when we get
the lab boys onto this, they'll find it's composed of cocoa." He glowered
at Stuart, who sank low in the chair. "Wonder how that got there," Bodie
went on coolly, "if you were never sneaking about corridors, bumping into
people in the middle of the night." 

Lumley and Evans turned their attention full on Stuart. "I warned you not
to trust him," Geoffrey said to Richard. "Said that years ago." 

Lumley shook his head sadly. "Tell us what this is all about, Paul. Go
on." 

For a moment, Bodie thought Stuart would continue trying to bluff. But
then the young man broke down, and in a quavering voice said, "It was my
friends--they talked me into it. The whole thing was their idea." 

"Your army friends?" Doyle asked, lowering the gun. 

Stuart nodded glumly. "They're the ones who wanted to use them. A chance
came up to take the arms, but they didn't have a plan right off for using
them, so they asked me to hide them here, until the right moment when
we--I mean, when they could do something. And so I did--I put them in the
summerhouse. I didn't think anyone would go out there in December. But the
house party started, and people kept going out there, and I got scared
they'd be found. So I tried to move them into the empty wing." 

"That was the first night?" Bodie asked. "When you ran into Julia?" 

"Yes." Stuart sat sullenly, clasping and unclasping his hands. "I'd only
got started. There are twelve crates and they're rather heavy. I'd been
working about an hour and had moved four of them over, when the batteries
of my torch went dead. I had more in my room, and I was on my way to get
them when Julia appeared. I panicked and ran into one of the rooms." 

"And went through one of the secret passages back to your own room?" Doyle
asked. 

"That's right. I know them quite well--used to play in them all the time
as a child." He paused, took a few calming breaths, then went on. "The
next night I tried again. I figured running into Julia was a simple fluke
and it was safe enough to have another go. But then I heard someone else
in the east wing. One of you, I suppose." He looked at Doyle accusingly. 

"Both of us, actually," Bodie replied. "So you took off again. But you
still hadn't finished moving all the crates, so you went at it one more
time." 

Stuart let out a long sigh. "I thought no one would bother mucking about
in the east wing in the daytime. I didn't know who you were. Thought you
were simply a curious reporter." 

"Indeed," Lumley put in. "I really think you might at least have told *me*
who you were beforehand." 

Bodie shook his head. "Would you have allowed CI5 agents free access to
your house and your party guests?" 

Lumley pursed his lips. "Well--" 

"No," Geoffrey answered for him. "We would not have allowed it." He
sounded displeased, but the expression of distaste on his face was aimed
solely at Paul Stuart. "But then, we didn't know we had a violent criminal
in our own home, either. I'm glad you've caught him." 

There was one small point which was troubling Bodie. "You know," he said
to Stuart, "I'm impressed by your acting ability. All that pro-Thatcher,
anti-liberal talk really had us looking the other way. Must have been
difficult to insult people like Northbrook when he probably holds similar
political views to yours." 

Stuart frowned. "Northbrook? I can't stand the bastard." 

"Oh, come on, there's no point hiding anything now. In a minute, we're
going to give our boss a ring and he'll be wanting a good, long chat with
you about your Irish friends." 

"Irish?" Stuart gave him an incredulous look, then burst into hysterical
laughter. "Are you mad? Do you honestly think I'm some sort of idiot
left-wing radical? God, what fools!" He laughed again, shaking
uncontrollably. "Oh, my God, I've been caught by utter incompetents...it's
so unfair!" 

Bodie looked at Doyle. Doyle coughed and cleared his throat. "I have a
feeling," Doyle said, "that Cowley *did* have the wrong end of the stick
on this one all along." 

"He's not associated with the IRA," Bodie replied, mentally kicking
himself for his narrow-minded thinking. "He's not a left-wing terrorist at
all." 

"He's a *right-wing* terrorist," Doyle finished. He studied the subdued
young man. "What were your friends planning? Did they ever choose a
target?" 

Stuart hesitated, then answered resignedly, "Yes. We were--I mean, *they*
were going to plant some explosives at the Labor Party meeting next
month." 

"Ah." Bodie finally felt as if all the pieces were coming together. It was
obvious that Stuart was more involved than he cared to admit, but Bodie
was perfectly willing to let Cowley sort it out. He rubbed his hands
together briskly, turning to Lumley. "Could we make a call to London? I'm
afraid Paul will need to go to CI5 headquarters for questioning." 

"Certainly." 

"I have a right to see a solicitor," Stuart interrupted, regaining some of
his composure. 

"I'll send mine along," Lumley replied. 

"In the meantime," Bodie said, "we'll need to lock him up somewhere." 

"There's a fairly comfortable room on the first floor that would do,"
Lumley replied. 

As they prepared to escort Stuart out, they were interrupted by the
arrival of a wolfhound, who was bearing the shredded remnants of Bodie's
anorak in its teeth. The dog deposited the remains in front of Bodie and
wagged its tail. 

"Oh, dear," Lumley said, "is that yours? I'm terribly sorry. Of course
I'll have it replaced." 

"Don't worry," Bodie replied, actually venturing to pat the dog's head.
"As far as I'm concerned, he can tear up my jackets all day long. And," he
said to Doyle, "remind me, before we leave, to buy the biggest dog bone in
Oxford, okay?" He grinned and headed off, leaving an astonished Doyle in
his wake. 

******

*Chapter Eighteen*

"CI5? *CI5*? Well, I never heard of anything so sneaky, underhanded, and
despicable in my life. Of all the unconscionable, devious, and outright
impolite things to do--" 

"Susan, dear." Lumley's voice cut into her tirade. "These two men are
still my guests." 

He had gathered the others into the drawing room and had explained the
basic situation to them. Now Bodie and Doyle found themselves the
recipients of many wide-eyed stares. 

"Hmpf." Susan crossed his arms and glared at Bodie. "You don't even know
if they're using their real names. Bodie and Doyle. Ha. A more ridiculous
pair of fake names I've never heard." 

"William Andrew Philip Bodie, to be precise," Bodie said, smiling. "Send
you a copy of my birth record if you want." He sat on the sofa beside
Doyle, and nodded at his partner. "And this is really and truly Raymond
Doyle. He doesn't have a middle name." 

"Do too," Doyle said. 

Bodie's jaw dropped. "You *what*?" 

"Stopped usin' it when I was sixteen," Doyle continued. "Never put it down
on any papers, so it sort of slowly disappeared." 

Still agog, Bodie managed to find his voice. "Well, what the hell is it?" 

Doyle shook his head. "We all have our little secrets." He smiled sweetly.
"Adds mystery, that does." 

"You're not going to tell me?" 

"No, I'm not going to tell you." 

Bodie smiled in spite of himself, unable to stay annoyed at Doyle when he
had that twinkle in his eye. "You just wait. I'll find out. Must be pretty
embarrassing if you stopped using it." 

"Nah. Didn't care for it, that's all." 

Determined that one day he would solve that little mystery, Bodie shoved
the problem aside for now and returned to their audience. "I know some of
you may feel a bit, well, annoyed by our deception, but it was necessary.
We were after a potentially violent gang, and it turns out we were quite
right in looking here for evidence." He paused. "We may want to ask some
of you a few more questions." 

"You're not even writing a book, are you?" Northbrook asked with
indignation. 

"Well, no." 

"*I'm* not telling you a thing," Northbrook said. "Organizations like the
one you work for are fascist and corrupt. I don't care what Paul was up
to. You have no right to barge into people's private homes and spy on
them." 

"He was going to bomb the Blackpool Labor meeting," Doyle put in. "Weren't
you planning to attend that?" 

Northbrook spluttered. "Well, yes, but, well, that doesn't matter, it's
the *principle* of the thing--" 

"Oh, do be quiet." Colleen's calm voice broke into his speech. She turned
a tolerant gaze onto Doyle, whom she was sitting close to. "I can't say I
always agree with your sort of methods or aims. But putting a halt to
madmen like Paul and his friends is not an act I plan to complain about." 

Doyle leaned towards her, keeping his voice low so that no one else would
hear. "I'm sorry I couldn't let you know the truth." 

"And I'm sorry, too," she whispered back. "I'm losing a very good bookshop
clerk." 

"Thanks." Doyle didn't particularly want to ask her about the AFS, but
this was his best opportunity. "I overheard an argument between you and
David--I didn't mean to," he lied, with the ease of years of practice. "I
was in the corridor, hiding because of the gift-giving game, and there you
were. Will you tell me what it meant? It won't go any farther than this
room, I promise." 

She frowned. "I'm not sure I remember." 

"You were talking tactics. Something about spilling blood." 

"Oh, *that*." She gave a light laugh. "David keeps coming up with these
foolish ideas about getting more attention for our causes. The latest
involved going into the office of our least favorite MP and dumping pig's
blood on his desk. I shot him down on it, because it's complete idiocy."
She paused, looking puzzled. "You didn't suspect *me*, did you?" 

"No." Doyle was pleased to be telling the truth this time. "Not you. Had a
few unkind thoughts about Northbrook, though." 

"I see. And is CI5 going to continue spying on AFS members?" she asked. 

"I don't know. Are you planning to do anything illegal?" 

"Forthright, aren't you." She let out a sigh. "Of course we're not, as
long as *I* have a strong voice in our affairs." 

"Good." Doyle knew they were on opposite sides in many ways, but he found
it hard not to admire her determination, despite the anti-bunny campaign.
"You can't tell me that the idea of someone investigating your group is
news to you." 

"No," she said sadly. "It's not news to me that our government spies on
its own citizens. I really should hate you, and all you stand for. Why did
you have to be so nice? It's not quite fair, is it?" 

"Don't worry," he replied. "You're wrong. I'm not nice at all." 

"No?" She didn't look as if she believed him. 

"Well, maybe once a week, for half an hour or so." Doyle turned away, and
caught the end of a conversation between Bodie and the Hunts, who were
congratulating him on working for such a fine organization. Northbrook had
gone to a corner to sulk, along with Susan, and the Moonglow sisters were
busy chatting to each other while Rupert sat between them, scowling. 

"...and if you ever require our assistance, feel free to call on us,"
Graham finished. He leaned in close and added, "Especially where *this*
lot's concerned." 

Bodie nodded unenthusiastically. "Certainly. Thank you." 

As the Hunts moved off, Bodie turned to Doyle and whispered, "Can we go
home yet?" 

"Soon," Doyle replied. He looked over at the pagans. "Do you think we
should go ask Rupert why he went to the summerhouse, and why he never
speaks?" 

Bodie gave a shudder. "I don't want to know." 

"Yeah, I think you're right. Might disturb him if we force him to say
something. You know how sensitive these poetic types are. Wouldn't want to
upset him so much that he stopped writing 'Ode to Priapus', now, would
we?" 

"Nah," Bodie replied. "Besides, I've decided I prefer him quiet." 

Lumley and Evans came over to the sofa, and Lumley reached to shake their
hands. "I wanted to thank you for stopping Paul," he said. "It's a pity
you're not really a journalist, but all in all, I've quite enjoyed having
you both here, and you *have* averted a possible tragedy for our family,
and I am grateful for that, though I do think it's a shame about the book,
it would be so wonderful to have a history of the commune and all that,
and I *do* apologize for Susan's little outburst." 

"No problem," Bodie said, pleased that they hadn't annoyed Lumley too
much. He'd gotten to like the fellow. "We're used to it." 

"There's one thing I'd like to know," Geoffrey said. 

"What's that?" 

He looked from one to the other of them. "Are you two really lovers?" 

Bodie smiled warmly at Doyle and took his hand. "*That*," he said to
Geoffrey, "is classified information." 

Geoffrey studied each of their faces for a moment, then nodded, and gave
them a wink. "My lips are sealed. Do take care." He and Lumley walked off
towards a far corner, and Colleen joined them, leaving Bodie and Doyle in
solitude on the sofa. 

Doyle squeezed Bodie's hand, and gave him a wistful look. "Won't be able
to do this when we're back in London." 

"Hm?" Bodie put an arm around Doyle's shoulders. "You mean, sit here like
this, being a bit too affectionate in public?" 

"Yeah. Have to keep your hands to yourself, won't you?" 

Bodie shrugged. "We'll survive. It'll make our private encounters all the
more exciting." 

Doyle raised an eyebrow. "You think being frustrated is exciting, do you?"


"Only if it doesn't last *too* long." 

"Oh, yeah?" Doyle slid his free hand up Bodie's thigh towards his crotch.
"And how long is too long?" 

Bodie swallowed. "At the moment, about thirty seconds." 

Smiling, Doyle took his hand away. "You'll have to stay frustrated for a
bit longer than that." 

Bodie looked him up and down, eyes smoldering with love and lust. "You
wait 'til we get somewhere quiet, sunshine." 

"Won't stay quiet long, hm?" Doyle leaned in to kiss him lightly, then
pulled away. "You think we're gonna make it work?" he asked, suddenly
serious. 

"Yeah, we'll make it," Bodie said confidently, squeezing Doyle's hand
again. "When have you ever known me to give up on something I truly
wanted? And when have *you* ever given up? We're both too stubborn and
determined to let go of a good thing. And this isn't just a good
thing--it's the best thing." 

"Is it?" Doyle allowed his lingering doubt out in the open. "Is it really
the best possible thing?" He searched Bodie's face. "I do love you," he
reassured him. "But I can't help wondering about the future." 

Bodie brushed his cheek. "What about it?" 

"Things never stay the same," Doyle said, trying not to be affected so
strongly by Bodie's touch, and failing. 

"I know," Bodie replied softly. "People come into my life, and sometimes I
care too much about them, and then they go out of my life again, sometimes
forever. But that isn't going to happen, not this time." He looked down at
Doyle's hand clasped in his, then back into Doyle's eyes. "This time I'm
going to hold on." 

"You do that." Doyle gripped Bodie's arm. "I told you before, I'm going to
give you trouble, and I meant it. But dammit, Bodie, don't let go too
easily--don't turn away from me too soon--you hear me?" He whispered
fiercely. "You damn well do that--you hold on." 

"I will," Bodie said simply. Then he smiled at him. "You do realize," he
said smoothly, "that there are other people in this room?" 

"Are there?" Doyle smiled back contentedly, and lowered his head to rest
it on Bodie's shoulder. "Pity. Bet they wouldn't like it if we started
screwing each other through the carpet." 

"We were supposed to do that during breakfast," Bodie replied. "Remember?"


"Oh, yeah. Forgot, didn't we?" Doyle gently nuzzled Bodie's neck. "Memory
lapses--that's a sign of old age, that is." 

"You should know," Bodie said. 

Doyle glanced up, relieved to find that love had done nothing to dim
Bodie's talent for getting at him whenever possible. "You're supposed to
respect your elders, you know." 

"Oh, I do," Bodie said. "Every morning, I still respect you--" 

The pinch Doyle gave Bodie's thigh was sharp, quick, and unexpected, and
no one else in the drawing room ever knew exactly why Bodie suddenly
yelped. 

******

"Told you we should have done the washing up before." Bodie handed Doyle a
mug to dry. 

"It's not so bad." Doyle applied a cloth vigorously to the mug Bodie had
just cleaned. "And I don't mind spending one more night here, do you?" 

"Nah. Just complaining for the sake of complaining." Bodie gave him a
freshly scrubbed plate. 

They were back at the Oxford flat Cowley had rented for Bodie. A two-man
technical team had arrived at Lumley's mansion to look over the arms and
the house, accompanied by Murphy, who was there to take Paul Stuart back
to London. He also delivered Cowley's message--that agents 3.7 and 4.5
were to remain in Oxford until the morrow, in case any loose ends needed
tying up, but mainly to make certain the flat was spotless. CI5 wanted its
cleaning deposit back. 

"Cheap bastard, Cowley." Bodie scraped at an egg-encrusted plate, one of
many, many plates in the furnished flat, all of which were dirty. Hadn't
they cleaned anything since they'd arrived? He couldn't remember. "Hell.
It's *baked* on here. Maybe we should hire someone to come in and do this
for us. You got any money?" 

"No," Doyle replied quickly. 

"Come on, it could save us hours." Bodie looked at him meaningfully.
"Hours we could spend doing something else." 

"It's not that bad," Doyle insisted. "Only the washing up, and sweeping,
maybe clean the tub. Won't take long." 

"Optimist." Bodie took a knife to the plate, chipping away at the dried
egg. "Or maybe you're just as cheap as Cowley is." 

Doyle swatted Bodie's bum with the drying towel. "Am not. Told you, I
don't have any money." He stalked off to the living room, returning with
his brown leather jacket, digging in the pockets for his billfold. "Got
three quid in here." He pulled the billfold out for Bodie's inspection. As
he did so, a small piece of paper fluttered out of the pocket. 

"Dropped something." Bodie stooped to pick it up. He looked at the
printing on the business card, his mouth dropping open as he did so. 

"What is it?" Doyle reached for the card, but Bodie kept it out of his
grasp. "Come on, mate, what's got your jaw hanging down?"

Bodie grinned, holding the card so Doyle could read it. 

*BREMIS AND KNORR*, it said, *Sexual Counselors*. 

"There something about you that I don't know?" Bodie teased. "How long you
been going to sex clinics, eh?" He ventured a swift grope of Doyle's
crotch. "Got some surprises for me, have you? Some special little kink or
two you've been savin' up for later?" 

Doyle fended him off with more towel-slapping measures. "Colleen gave it
to me, you berk. After you came storming into the shop that day." 

"Oh, did she?" Bodie gave up on the dish cleaning completely, and began
stalking Doyle towards the corner, trying to grope him between towel
flings. "Thought I was a mean bastard, did she--thought I was treating you
rough, eh?" He made a lightning grab for the towel and got a firm grip on
one end, but Doyle tugged back, and they danced around the kitchen,
striving for control of the dubious weapon, until Doyle ran into the table
and let go to get his balance. 

"Now you're for it," Bodie said, waving the towel aloft in triumph.
"Colleen was right--I'm a fiend. A beast. Especially with a kitchen
cloth." 

Doyle grinned. "Aggressive bastard, aren't you? Never felt so terrified in
me life." He strode towards Bodie and in one quick move snatched the towel
back, dropping it on the table. "Want a kiss, you maniac." 

"Anything you say." Bodie took him in a tight embrace, and took Doyle's
mouth with his. He put all he could into the kiss, pressing his body
against Doyle's, hands moving to Doyle's backside to grind their bodies
together. Releasing him with a gasp, Bodie slipped a hand inside Doyle's
shirt, undoing buttons as he stroked his chest. Doyle had started to
return the favor when the door buzzer sounded. 

"Bloody 'ell." Doyle pulled away. "Who do we know who'd drop in on us
here?" 

"Only half the lunatics in town." Bodie pulled him back into the embrace.
"Let's ignore it, hm?" 

"Might be Murph," Doyle said. "Don't know if he's left yet." 

"Yeah," Bodie replied as he lightly caressed Doyle's chest, "he's come to
borrow *Lifeguard Lust*." 

"Nah, it's not Murphy. It's the Wolfhound Three. Want to collect their
pressie." He nodded towards the mammoth bag of dog bones Bodie had bought
which sat on the table. 

Bodie shook his head. "No. It's Susan. She wants to apologize. She's
realized what an incredibly charismatic man I am, and can't stand to spend
another minute away from me." 

"Ha." Doyle got a hand on Bodie's bum, and squeezed. 

The buzzer sounded again. 

"It's Northbrook," Bodie said through the haze of arousal rising within
him. "Wants us to consider trying a threesome." 

Doyle made a face. 

"Rupert?" Bodie nibbled at Doyle's ear. "Wants to get one last growl in?" 

"It's Esther and Emily," Doyle replied breathlessly. "Got some brown rice
recipes for us to take back home." 

"Whoever it is," Bodie said between kisses along Doyle's throat, "they
should bloody well get a clue and go away." 

At the third ring, however, Bodie gave up. "Come on, let's get it over
with." He straightened his shirt, as did Doyle, and they went to open the
door. 

Richard Lumley stood there, looking faintly abstracted. "Oh, you *are*
here. I'm so glad. I didn't disturb you, did I? So sorry, but I do feel
ever so grateful for what you've done, and I wanted to do something for
the two of you, as words always seem so inadequate." 

"No, no, it's fine," Bodie said. "Besides, we're not allowed to accept
rewards." 

"Ah, but I simply want to give you something, and you don't need to think
of it that way, do you, dear chap? Think of it as an ordinary gift, from
me to you, and nothing has to be said to anyone at all." 

Bodie thought about Lumley's wine cellar, and his generosity, and he
thought about the nutcases he'd had to put up with over the past few days,
and he thought about the snow, and the rain, and the cold, and his mangled
jackets, and he thought about the idea that somewhere, someday, somehow,
there would be justice served in the world, and how it would appear in the
form of the largest cask of the finest, most expensive Bordeaux in all
Europe. He smiled. "Well, when you put it like that--" 

"Splendid!" Lumley reached inside his jacket and produced two envelopes.
"I've got one for each of you." 

Bodie frowned as he took his, with a sinking feeling. Whatever it was, it
wasn't a cask of Bordeaux. He opened the envelope and pulled out an
official-looking, extravagantly written, stamped certificate on thick,
cream-colored paper. As he read the contents, he strove to keep his dismay
from showing. 

*This document*, it read, *certifies that Mr. William Bodie is a
life-long, fully paid-up member of the Lumley Long-Life Herbal Tea Of the
Month Club.* 

He gazed at Lumley, stricken into silence. 

"I can see you are overwhelmed," Lumley said, clapping Bodie on the
shoulder. "It really is *quite* special. From now on, you will both
receive a pound of one of my twelve herbal teas every month for the rest
of your lives. Mr. Murphy was kind enough to provide me with mailing
addresses for you. Such a kind, helpful young man, isn't he?" 

Bodie found his voice. "Oh, yes. We think the world of him." Visions of
*Lifeguard Lust*, with the special inscription for Murphy inside, danced
in his head. "Even got him a gift while we were here." He carefully folded
the certificate and put it back in its envelope. "Thank you." 

"Yes, thank you very much." Doyle actually sounded happy about it. 

"Well, I must run. I'm so glad you like it." 

"Wait a moment." Bodie dashed into the kitchen to grab the dog bone bag,
returning to thrust it into Lumley's arms. "For the wolfhounds." 

"Oh, that's wonderful. Quite kind of you, really." Lumley staggered under
the load as he reached out to shake Bodie's hand. "I do hope we meet again
someday, Mr. Brody." He walked off, weaving down the stairs with the heavy
bag, talking amiably to himself as he went. 

Bodie shut the door. He slowly ambled into the living room to collapse
onto the lumpy sofa. Doyle came to sit beside him. 

"Tea." Bodie took the certificate out again just to be sure. He stared at
the fancy lettering. "Of all the bloody times to get my name right, it's
on here." He looked up forlornly. "If he'd got it wrong, maybe the tea
wouldn't reach me." He let out a long-suffering sigh. "Why couldn't he
have had a Lumley Long-Life Wine of the Month Club?" 

Doyle sat looking at his own certificate. "I *like* Lumley's teas," he
replied. 

"Good. You can drink all of mine, then." Bodie took Doyle's paper and his
own, stuffed them together in one envelope, and laid them on the coffee
table. "Now, then," he said, leaning in close to cup his hands round
Doyle's face, "where were we?" 

"In the kitchen," Doyle said, smiling, but instead of thumping him, Bodie
opted to kiss him instead. 

-- THE END --

   Archive Home