Page 63

Quinn glanced over at the nearly soundlesssqueakof floorboards. “I was just about to call you.” He wore jeans and a brown pullover sweater with a zip collar, and looked like he’d also had a shave and shower. If so, it must have been downstairs. Or maybe stealth grooming was also in his bag of tricks.

“I can’t believe I slept so late.” Andy joined Quinn at the stove. He put his arm around Quinn’s waist, gave him a quick hug. “Thank you for last night.”

Quinn smiled into his eyes, kissed him lightly. “Thank you for hearing me out.”

Just that little brush of Quinn’s lips on Andy’s sent a zing down his spine, which he firmly ignored. He let go of Quinn and moved away. “Anything I can do to help?”

It didn’t look like it. Quinn already had the table set, right down to the butter dish and jug of maple syrup.

“You can pour yourself a cup of coffee.”

Andy poured himself black coffee, and wandered to the window to gaze out at the wilderness of the back “yard.” Quinn’s renovation had not moved beyond the house itself. Through the snow and dark tree trunks he could just make out the dirty white of the ramshackle cottage Quinn had moved into following his grandmother’s passing.

He hadn’t realized until last night how really terrible that time must have been for Quinn.

At random, Andy said, “I want to get to the district court first thing to file that restraining order.”

Quinn made some absent reply, dropped the final pancake onto the stack, and turned off the range. He carried the pan of sausages to the table, transferred a couple of links onto each of their plates, and returned the pan to the range. He carried the pancakes over and sat down at the table.

Andy joined him. “This looks great. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

Quinn said gravely, “Cooking a breakfast that I’m also going to eat ranks low on most going-to-a-lot-of-trouble comparison charts.”

“Somewhere between mowing the neighbor’s lawn and overthrowing a South American government?”

Quinn winked, and took a swallow of his coffee.

“What kind of background report is Chief Millard going to get from the FBI?” Andy cautiously drizzled syrup onto his pancakes.

Quinn’s green eyes crinkled with private amusement. “He’ll receive a long and exhaustively detailed report on an exemplary low-level government official recently retired from the Agency for International Development.”

“Is there actually an Agency for International Development?”

“Oh yes. Certainly.”

“Whydidyou retire?”

“For real or on paper?”

“For real.” Andy took a bite of pancake, which turned out to be blueberry. Better yet, the syrup was butter pecan.

“I was burned out.” Quinn shrugged. “And I’d zero interest into moving into, er, upper management.” The smile had left his eyes.

“What will you do now?”

“In the short term? Work on this house. There’s a lot to do.” And clearly plenty of money with which to do it. Must be nice.

But then, it was clear Quinn had paid a steep price for that generous retirement fund.

Andy nodded thoughtfully, took another bite. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had pancakes, let alone the last time someone had cooked him breakfast.

Quinn mused, “Maybe I’ll go into the private investigator business. That ought to wind Millard up.”

Andy smiled, but privately he thought that was a terrible idea. Not because Quinn wouldn’t be a good PI—he’d probably be great at that—but because deliberately “winding Millard up” was like waving a red cape at a bull. Why the hell would Quinn want to live and work in a constant state of conflict?

Granted, no one bothered by the idea of conflict signed up for the CIA.

Quinn said lightly, “Or maybe I’ll start an art theft recovery business.”