Текст книги "Snowball in Hell"

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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Chapter Seven

The soothing squeak and creak of a rocker worked its way into his consciousness. He listened to it for a while, lulled by feelings the homely sound beguiled, feelings of safety and peace and well-being.

After a bit he realized that he was awake and that he felt better. His head was no longer killing him, his gut had settled, he was relaxed and warm. He sighed his relief, and the rocker abruptly stopped rocking. Floorboards vibrated underfoot, he opened his eyes, and someone was bending over him. Nathan shot upright, dislodging the hand alighting on his brow, and just missing a collision with Lt. Spain.

«Jesus,» Spain said. «If you ever need a job you could probably find work as a jack-in-the-box.»

«Sorry. You … surprised me.» He subsided back against the stack of pillows. He wasn't usually this jumpy, but he could hardly tell Spain that it was mostly due to his presence.

«You surprised me too,» Spain said. «And you keep surprising me.» He sat down on the foot of the shiny pink bedspread and studied Nathan.

Nathan didn't know what to make of that. Spain looked at him with an open directness that he found bewildering. If he moved his foot beneath the blankets he could brush Spain's thigh. His heart sped up at the thought. He was painfully conscious of everything about the other man: his solid muscled warmth, the way Spain smelled of soap and Old Spice, the fine clear texture of his skin, and eyelashes as long

and black as a girl's. Nathan liked everything about him. Too much. He searched around for something safe to say. «What happened to Lawdie and Hammer?»

«Hammer? Dewey Hammer?» Spain's mouth curved. «Well, that makes sense. He usually runs with Vince Lawdie. Haven't seen Hammer, but we've got Lawdie on assault and kidnapping.» His smile widened into that grin that Nathan liked so much. «We're hoping you're going to be able to substantiate those charges. We were sort of going by your general appearance in the woods, and Lawdie's reaction when we carried you into the lodge.»

«You bet,» Nathan said. «I'll be happy to press charges. Those assholes cold cocked me last night. I guess it was last night.» He looked past Spain to the sweeps of dotted Swiss framing the windows-and the darkness beyond. «Is it night now?» he asked, astonished.

Spain nodded.

«What are we still doing here?»

«Mostly waiting for you to wake up.» Spain didn't seem upset about it, but Nathan couldn't figure it out.

«You all sat around here the entire day waiting for me to wake up?»

For the first time, Spain's man-to-man gaze sheered. «Not all of us. I sent Jonesy and the others back to town this morning with Lawdie. You know who Lawdie works for?»

«I've seen him before. Sid Szabo?»

«Same thing. Nora Noonan. He works at the Las Palmas Club. From what we can make out, their orders were to hold you up here long enough for Pearl to slip.»

With a sinking feeling, Nathan asked, «Did your men pick Pearl up in Los Angeles?»

«Either they missed her or she didn't get off the train.»

Nathan put a careful hand to his head.

«I know,» Spain said grimly, watching him.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Spain said, «You and me will have to take the train back. The day after tomorrow.»

Noonan's thugs must have really conked him because he just couldn't seem to connect the dots. «The day after tomorrow?»

«Tonight's Christmas Eve.»

Nathan let that sink in for a moment. Christmas Eve? Then he protested, «I don't understand. Why would you-?»

Spain's eyes met Nathan's once more, but there was something funny in his expression. «We didn't want to move you. The doctor said you needed complete rest and quiet.»

«The hell with that.» And then, slowly, «You could have just left me on my own.»

«I didn't want to.»

Nathan couldn't seem to tear his gaze away; he wondered if he was still asleep, dreaming maybe. Or maybe what Spain was saying was that Nathan was in custody; that he didn't trust him to come back to Los Angeles on his own.

Or-was Spain setting a trap for him? His heart jerked.

Was there a remote chance that Spain intended what he seemed to be saying with those honey-brown eyes?

«I don't understand,» Nathan said at last, huskily, terrified that even this much was giving himself away.

Spain reached over and covered Nathan's hand with the warm strength of his own. «I'm hoping you do,» he said.

And after a shocked moment, Nathan turned his hand, intertwining his fingers with Spain. He was almost afraid to look at Spain's face, but when he did, Spain looked as naked and vulnerable as he felt.

He closed his eyes savoring the hard, callused strength of Spain's grip. «What about…» With his thumb he traced the gold band on Spain's left hand.

«My wife died last year. Cancer. Not long after I was discharged.» Spain said huskily, «Can I tell you about myself?»

Nathan opened his eyes, nodded.

«Feeling this way isn't anything new for me, but … loving Rachel made it easy to ignore.» His smile was wry. «Well, maybe not easy, but … I really loved her. We met when we were in high school. I guess she-I guess that's what made the difference.»

«That would do it,» Nathan said carefully. «You never-?»

«I did. In the service. That's when I realized there were guys just like me. Regular guys, not queers.»

Nathan said softly, «They're queers. We're all queers. You think it makes a difference-«

«I do, yeah.»

Staring at Spain's earnest expression, Nathan felt an unaccountable desire to cry. And that was funny because if you didn't cry when the Nazis shot you, really what was there left to cry about? Unless it was because they hadn't managed to kill you.

He said, «It doesn't make any difference. If you give into it-give into what you're feeling-you're just as vulnerable as someone like me.»

Spain's fingers tightened around Nathan's. «That's not what I meant. I don't mean you.»

«You do. Even if you don't know you do.» But he squeezed Spain back, taking the simple comfort offered by holding hands. He had never held hands with anyone, man or woman.

Spain said, «The Arlen kid was blackmailing you?»

Unexpectedly, Nathan smiled. «I'd have had to pay him in blue stamp rations. No, it happened pretty much the way I told you, except when we left the club that night Arlen said that if I didn't pay up he was going to my paper. He'd been hinting around for a bit, and I'd been dodging it, but when he left the club he gave me an ultimatum. I punched him. Knocked him down. Then I walked away. The next time I saw him was at the tar pits.»

«How did the kid know about you?»

Nathan didn't look away. «I'm not always as careful as I should be. Since I came home-it's hard. There's not as much to distract me.» Spain's face gave nothing away, but Nathan knew how he must see it. Facing disgrace and jail-or maybe a nut house-it wasn't hard to believe that Nathan might kill to protect himself. Not hard at all, considering how warped and desperate he must be to do the things that Arlen had seen him do.

He waited for Spain to pull away, withdraw, but he didn't. He kept holding Nathan's hand as he asked, «So the Arlen kid tried to shake you down before?»

«I ran into him a couple of times, but he never hinted he knew anything until a week or so before the Las Palmas Club.» Because he hadn't known anything until the night Nathan ran into him at the Biltmore. After that-but he wasn't going to tell Spain that. Wasn't prepared to admit that much.

«How do you figure Pearl Jarvis fits in?» Spain asked.

«I think she knows who killed Phil-unless she killed him herself.»

«You have anything to base that on?»

Nathan hesitated. «She's running scared. She's either afraid of being arrested or she thinks she's next on the killer's list.»

«And why would she be next? Do you think they were having an affair?»

«I think so. But that wouldn't mark her for murder. Unless the killer is Claire Arlen, in which case I think she'd have started with Pearl. No, I think Pearl was Arlen's business partner. I think she used her connections at the club to find out stuff about people that Arlen could then use to blackmail them.»

Spain nodded, as though this confirmed his own thoughts. «I think you're right about the blackmail angle. I know of at least three people in this case who had secrets that some might consider worth committing murder over.»

«Carl Winters and the faked antiquities,» Doyle said. «Nora Noonan and the Denver murder trial.»

Spain's surprise was evident, and Nathan shrugged. «Most secrets aren't as secret as people think.»

His own included, he admitted with painful honestly.

«One interesting thing, though. I followed Pearl from Sid Szabo's place. Admittedly, I'm no expert, but I think if he's willing to shield her from the cops during a murder investigation, he must care about her. I can't tell about her. I never paid a lot of attention to either of them.»

«She could have more than one beau.»

«Yeah.» Nathan shifted against the pillows. «Look, Lieutenant, I know how it looks for me, but I didn't kill him.»

Spain's eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. «You think we'd be sitting here talking if I thought you did?» He looked down at Nathan's hand in his own, looked up, and said, «My name is Mathew.»

Mathew pulled rank and persuaded the sour-faced manageress to send up a late supper on a tray. The doctor hotel guest came by while they waited, and he examined Nathan again, pronouncing himself satisfied with his progress and recommending another day in bed, which Nathan brushed off firmly.

The cheerful maid from the night of Nathan's arrival brought a couple of extra blankets and a heavy purple bathrobe that had, she informed them, belonged to the late Mr. Hubbard.

«From Mr. Hubbard's cupboard?» Nathan asked, and she giggled, peeking briefly at him sitting up bare-chested in the bed. She set the blankets on the rocker, and Mathew took the robe, handing it to Nathan.

Nathan eyed the blankets and said nothing, but when the door closed behind the maid, Mathew said, «Don't worry.

Nobody's going to think anything about this. I'm supposed to keep an eye on you according to the doctor.»

«I'm not worried.» He wasn't, but he thought Matt had an unrealistic idea about the way people's minds worked-which was funny for a cop.

Nathan stood up, feeling a little dizzy, and shrugged into the robe. Mr. Hubbard had been a bit shorter and a lot wider. The robe felt soft and smelled new, and perhaps this explained the tight, pinched face of the hotel manageress.

He walked carefully to the window, resting his hands on the sash, staring down at the moonlit landscape. The frost on the ground shimmered with the eerie glow of the salt flats south of the Dorsale mountain range.

They were playing Christmas carols on a phonograph downstairs, the music faint through the wooden floorboards. «I'll Be Home for Christmas.» And he was. Sort of.

«He said you appeared to be suffering from a state of severe nervous tension.» There was a smile in Mathew's voice. «He saw you racing around outside the hotel on Thursday night. I think that's what decided him.»

Nathan chuckled. «Did he happen to see me get clobbered?»

«He missed that installment of your adventures.» Mathew's arms slipped around Nathan's torso, warm through the robe. He held him tentatively, and Nathan knew that he could move away, and Mathew would immediately release him, and everything would end here. But it wasn't in him-not even for Mathew's sake. Instead, he reached up and pulled down the window shade, turning in Mathew's arms.

Mathew was a couple of inches taller; Nathan had to look up into his eyes, and Mathew was smiling-mostly with his eyes.

«The lamp will silhouette us,» Nathan warned gently.

He saw Mathew's eyes flicker with recognition.

«Let's eat,» he said casually, and he let go of Nathan, but then he rested an unexpectedly possessive hand on the small of his back as they moved over to the little table by the wall.

They ate and talked, mostly about the war-their experiences were so different it was almost as though they'd been in two separate wars-and then, inevitably they returned to the subject of Phil Arlen's murder.

Mathew told him that Nathan was Jonesy's candidate for Public Enemy Number One, and although Nathan laughed, secretly it filled him with dread. His life couldn't take much close examination, and he knew only too well the attention that would come his way if he became a prime suspect in the Arlen case.

«Who's your favorite candidate?» he asked Mathew.

«I haven't completely ruled out the possibility that Arlen was kidnapped.»

«Anything's possible.» Nathan was being polite, and he could tell from Mathew's grin that Mathew knew it.

«If it wasn't a kidnapping, I think Robert Arlen has a pretty strong motive. From everything I've heard, he's worked his tail off for the old man's approval, and spent almost his entire life taking the back seat to Philip-who, by all accounts, isn't fit to black his boots.»

«That's true as far as it goes,» Nathan said, «but Bob's not the kind of guy who would murder his kid brother. Not even if he didn't like the kid much.»

«Is it true the old man forced Philip to marry Claire Winters?»

«Pretty much. Clay Winters was Benedict Arlen's partner in some early business ventures. The Arlens were Claire's god parents, so I think Arlen was trying to kill two birds with one stone: take care of Claire and get Phil on the right track. Claire's been in love with Phil since she was a school girl, don't ask me why.»

«What about Robert Arlen? Did the old man arrange his marriage too?»

«No.» Nathan smiled at the idea. «No, that was a love match. They're crazy about each other. Ronnie was a navy nurse. She nursed Bob back to health after he cracked his plane up, and they fell in love. I think the old man threatened to disown Bob for a while, but for once Bob stood up to him, and Arlen backed down.»

«What's Veronica's background?»

«I don't think it's anything scandalous. Her family comes from some chicken scratch town in Texas. Poor but honest stock.» Nathan's smile was mocking. «One of her grandfathers was supposed to be an old west gunfighter. In fact, that's probably why Arlen finally acquiesced to the marriage. He's a nut about the old west.»

«I noticed.» Mathew said slowly, «You were probably too busy tracking Pearl across the state to notice, but we've found the murder weapon.» He told Nathan about the

Derringer Rider found in Carl Winters' bookstore, and the fact that everyone-including Nathan-had apparently had opportunity to plant the gun there.

«And the gun is definitely from Arlen's collection?»

«No doubt about it. The last time Arlen examined the collection was a month ago, so he wasn't able to narrow down for us when it disappeared or who might have had access to it.»

«Maybe he didn't want to narrow it down.»

Mathew gave him a funny look but didn't say anything.

When they'd finished eating, they moved over to the bed and lay down side by side, facing each other, studying each other.

Nathan smiled faintly. He thought Mathew had no idea what to do next. He rested his hand against Mathew's face, stroked his bristling jaw. He wanted to kiss him-his belly felt like it was swarming with butterflies at the very thought, but he figured that would be going way too far for Mathew, so he contented himself, brushing his thumb over his full bottom lip.

Mathew caught his hand, held it, and leaned forward, kissing Nathan's mouth-soft full lips pressing warmly, firmly against Nathan's-and Nathan realized that maybe he was the one unprepared for this, unready for this. He was shaking when Mathew raised his head.

«You're freezing,» Mathew said. «Let's get under the covers.» They sat up, scrambling out of their clothes, pulling back the sheets and blankets, snuggling down into the warmth, rolling quite naturally into each other's arms.

Matt touched the little silver cross Nathan wore about his neck.

«Do you always wear this?»

Nathan nodded.

Mathew's fingertips brushed the chain and Nathan's skin and collar bones. All at once he seemed peculiarly gentle. «We've got all night,» he whispered. «Why don't you sleep for a while?» He settled Nathan more closely against him, cushioning his body with his own, offering his shoulder as a rest for Nathan's head.

Suddenly Nathan was so tired he could hardly think straight. The temptation of doing just that, of giving into the forbidden pleasure of sleeping in another man's arms-this man's arms-giving up control, permitting himself to trust for just a little while. He let his body relax against Mathew's, closed his eyes.

The light was off when he woke much later, the music downstairs was silent, but he could feel that Mathew was awake, feel his erection probing his belly. His own dick was painfully hard, balls aching-what the hell dreams had he been having?

He pushed his hips forward, relieved when Mathew immediately thrust back. They began to rub against each other, skin on skin, the soft pelt of Mathew's chest hair brushing his own chest, teasing his nipples, rough but somehow sweet, Mathew's hands smoothed up and down his spine, and he was whispering hot things into Nathan's ear. Quiet, but not quiet enough-not nearly afraid enough-not

realizing how the squeak of bedsprings, the creak of headboard could give them away.

Nathan knew. He bit his lip hard to keep from making any sounds, all the while wishing he could understand those words breathed against his ear.

Mathew came first, Nathan felt that slick hot spill on his belly, and he wriggled frantically, writhing, panting, gritting his jaw to keep from crying out when Mathew's hand closed around his dick, pumping him. Like he knew Nathan needed this. Not quite the right angle, not quite the right grip, but just the touch was enough to bring him off.

Afterwards they held each other while their hearts calmed and their breathing evened out.

It was dangerous to feel this happy, but Nathan wouldn't have traded a moment of it.

* * * *

Matt's experience with sex-this kind of sex-was limited. Oh, he'd had plenty of experience with lovemaking, and that was probably why. He had loved Rachel very much. Yet in some bittersweet way this strange encounter with Nathan Doyle in a remote ski lodge was as momentous as any happening Matt had known-up to and including being born.

In a way it was like being born. Like oxygen when your lungs were burning for air, or cold water when you were dying of thirst.

The rushed and harried encounters of marine barracks and showers, the stolen moments in the dry grasses and steamy jungle of Guadalcanal had nothing to do with this, had no

reality against the feel of Nathan's wiry warmth strength resting peacefully in his arms. He'd never known anyone like Nathan, and he'd known-lived and nearly died-with a lot of guys. Great guys.

He didn't kid himself that this meant anything much to Nathan, and he hoped he was enough of a realist not to let it mean too much to himself-they weren't starting a romance, for Chrissake-but he was glad that there were still many more hours of darkness, and that they would be staying over tomorrow-and tomorrow night.

Nathan shifted in his sleep, a slight restless movement, and Matt ducked his head, whispering something silly, tightening his grip. Nathan stilled, his breath light and surprisingly sweet against Matt's shoulder.

Nathan was exhausted. Well, he'd had a rough couple of days, and he was the type who lived on his nerves. This breathing space was probably just what he needed. Maybe what Matt needed too-a little distance. From Jonesy, from the press, from Tara Renee, from Police Chief Horrall, from everyone and everything.

Toward dawn Nathan woke and they fucked again, slowly, savoring it. And this time Matt was conscious, painfully and pleasurably conscious, of all the ways Nathan Doyle was different from the last person Mathew had made love to: the broad shoulders and hard planes of his chest instead of delicate neck and pillowy breasts; the jut of his bony, narrow hips and the sleek aggression of his cock instead of the soft reception and safe passageway of rounded belly and silky

thighs; the roughness of his strong jaw, the bluntness of masculine features instead of fragile bones and feminine face.

Matt liked his strength and his silent intensity; he liked the way Nathan held his gaze while their dicks scraped and stroked in enjoyable friction. Liked the way Nathan's thin, hard fingers dug into the muscles of Matt's arms. And especially he liked the way Nathan woke up randy and ready, just like himself. No coaxing, no sweet talking necessary. Nathan wanted it every bit as much as Matt.

Sensation rolled through him like a tidal wave, leaving him shaken and gasping. He didn't realize he'd cried out until Nathan moved, covering his mouth. «Shhh…»

He opened his eyes, staring into Nathan's, and after a dizzy moment Nathan began to laugh, very softly. And Matt laughed too, tasting Nathan's palm clamped against his lips.

«Merry Christmas,» Nathan said softly, taking his hand away.

«Merry Christmas,» Matt told him.

* * * *

They had breakfast in their room, the window wide open and the crackling December air clearing out the smell of sex.

Nathan's suit had been brushed and pressed, his shirt and underwear laundered. The late Mr. Hubbard graciously supplied socks. Nathan dressed while Matt stared out the window at the pine trees and distant snowy mountains. He wanted to watch Nathan. He thought his body was beautiful, but he realized Nathan was self-conscious when he stared at him too long.

After breakfast they went for a walk in the woods, not touching beyond the occasional brush of arms or shoulders, but together nonetheless.

«Why do you suppose the kidnappers scheduled things the way they did?» Nathan asked when they stopped to rest on a fallen log. A meadow lark sang in the chilly sunshine. A lone bee zipped past Matt's ear like a miniature Jap Zero.

He answered, «They had to wait until the banks were open on Monday.»

«But why was there such a long delay before contacting the Arlens? And then why was there such a long delay between when the ransom was paid and Phil was supposed to be released?»

«Well, that last might have been because they wanted to make sure the police hadn't been notified-assuming the intention from the start wasn't to murder young Arlen.»

Nathan shook his head. «It still doesn't make sense to me. It's like … they needed time.»

«Well, they would, wouldn't they? What's unusual about that?»

«Why'd they wait so long to let the family know he'd been kidnapped?»

Matt knew the answer to that one. «So they'd have no doubt that he really was missing. Apparently Arlen spent more than an occasional night away from home.»

Nathan looked unconvinced. «It seems to me that each stage of the kidnapping was spaced so that there was plenty of time in-between for the kidnappers to work on some plan they had.»

Matt examined Nathan's serious face. He enjoyed watching him, and he enjoyed listening to him. Liked the way his brain worked, liked the easy back and forth between them, liked him. Liked him a lot. Maybe too much. Maybe. But he'd never had this before, this effortless give and take of equals, not having to guard what he said, not having to sweeten it or soften it because Nathan wasn't someone frightened by the truth-any truth. He said, «Okay, if he wasn't kidnapped, what happened to him? The coroner says he wasn't killed until Monday night. So the kidnapping wasn't faked to cover a murder.»

«Maybe not to cover a murder,» Nathan agreed. «But it could have been faked.»

Mathew stared. «You think Arlen faked his own kidnapping?»

Nathan continued to gaze out over the meadow. His cheek creased in a faint smile. «It'd be nice to talk to Pearl Jarvis, wouldn't it?»

They were following a trail up one of the hillsides when Matt noticed Nathan had gotten very quiet. He looked over at him, and he was pale, his jaw very tight. One arm was unobtrusively clamped against his side. Matt put his hand on his arm, and said, «Let's stop a minute.»

Nathan slid out from under his touch, and Matt said, «There's no one around. Relax.»

He was surprised when Nathan bit out, «You seem to be taking this very much in stride.» He eased himself down on a flat-topped rock, breathing heavily.

Matt dropped down beside him. «Would you be happier if I wasn't?»

«I'd feel like-hell. Skip it.»

«What?»

Nathan didn't reply, leaning forward, resting his forehead in his hands, breathing fast and shallowly.

«Okay?»

Nathan ignored him.

It was hard not to put his arm around those thin shoulders. «Look,» he said. «This is new to me. I guess I have a lot to learn, but one thing I have learned is … it's not what I expected. What I was afraid of. You're not-you're what I used to hope-« It was too difficult to put into words. Too embarrassing. He cut that off. «I wasn't raised by Jesuits or anything, but I don't think God makes mistakes.»

«No?» From behind his hands, Nathan's voice was bitter. «What about two-headed calves? What about Siamese twins? You think homosexuality is some kind of deliberate flaw in the design?»

«What?»

«Skip it.»

Neither of them spoke for a time. A hawk sailed through the blue silence and vanished-along with the lark song. The wind whispered through the pines around them.

At last Nathan said, «I went to a doctor-in London. I wanted help. Wanted to stop feeling like this. Wanted to be normal.» He raised his head and his eyes met Matt's. «I thought I wanted it more than anything.»

«What happened?»

Nathan's smile was wry. «He said he could help me. I would have to go into a hospital-be committed, actually. They would give me electroshocks and cold baths and eventually I'd get better. But it would probably take years.»

Matt could feel the hair on the top of his head prickling. «What-did you agree?»

«I did. But then I chickened out.» Nathan's grin was sheepish. «I'd used a false name, but I was terrified he'd find me and lock me up. Luckily we were mobilized a couple of weeks later. I wasn't nearly as frightened of Jerry as I was of the witchdoctor.»

«An asylum would be about right,» Matt said. «Christ, you need a keeper, Doyle.»

«It'd be nice,» Nathan said. He looked away, but there was something in his funny, almost wistful smile that caught at Mathew's heart.

* * * *

When they got back to the lodge they had a drink in the hotel bar with the other guests-there were only a handful, and most of them had been coming to the lodge to celebrate Christmas for years. They were a pleasant enough bunch.

Matt excused himself after a while and commandeered Mrs. Hubbard's office to make a few phone calls.

Nathan finished his drink, made small talk with some of the other guests, and then they all went to eat Christmas dinner served in the dining room. Several tables had been pushed together and covered with red tablecloths. There were

candles in polished brass holders and a basket of holly with bright red berries for a centerpiece.

Matt joined them about the time they were all finishing up their soup. He sat across from Nathan in the wide square of tables. Nathan tried hard not to watch Matt too much, but when he wasn't watching Matt he could feel Matt looking at him.

The food was as good as anything before the war: real turkey, stuffing with chestnuts, mashed potatoes and gravy. The yams, corn, green beans, and pumpkin for the pie probably came from the hotel victory garden, but Nathan couldn't imagine how they'd managed to come up with the rest of the feast. Hoarded ration books? Black market? He ate more in one go than he could remember consuming in years.

Listening to the others talking about the war, for the first time he was aware of being grateful that he was home and safe-that Matt had made it home safely. And the next time he looked across the linen and candles and met Matt's eyes, he didn't look away, he smiled-and Matt smiled back.

After Christmas dinner they managed to avoid being press-ganged into playing cards, and went upstairs where Matt gave him the bad news that there was still no sign of Pearl. «There's been one development though.»

Nathan was resting on the bed. He felt ready to explode from eating too much, but he raised an inquiring head.

«We searched Phil Arlen's apartment and found a wad of five-hundred dollar bills in Claire Arlen's purse.»

Nathan dropped his head back on the pillow. He didn't say what he was thinking-that he thought it was a hell of thing

the cops were searching women's purses, that none of them had a right to privacy these days.

«She says she doesn't know how the money got there,» Matt added.

«Does the money match the ransom money serial numbers?»

«They're checking on that now.» And then Matt strolled over to the bed, sat down and stretched out beside Nathan. He yawned widely. «Since we're stuck…»

Nathan shook his head, rose, and went to prop a chair beneath the room door.

Matt was already sleeping by the time he got back to the bed.

They napped for a couple of long, peaceful hours, and when they woke they had turkey sandwiches and drinks in the bar with the other guests. They made small talk, sang a few carols when everyone had finally had enough to drink, and then at last it was late enough to retire upstairs, lock the door and turn down the lights. They crawled in between the sheets as though they had been cuddling up together every night for years. For a time they just lay there, breathing quietly, acquainting themselves.

Matt's fingertips brushed the scars on Nathan's side where the bullets had hit him, and Nathan's skin twitched a little. It was Matt's gentleness that he felt in his nerves and bones and blood, although it was nice to be touched, caressed.

«How the hell did you survive this?»

«Just unlucky, I guess.»

He was kidding-he thought he was-but Matt raised his head. Nathan couldn't read his expression in the darkness, but he heard his tone. «There are about a hundred thousand guys who'd have given anything to trade places with you.»

Doyle grimaced. «I know.»

But Matt couldn't let it go. «You know how rare it is to survive getting hit by machine gun fire?»