Page 58 of Out of Control

“I would not recommend it,” the woman answered, low. “The gendarmes, they have undercover men everywhere these days. If you made such a fuss, they would swarm upon you like ants and arrest you immediately.”

Drago pulled a face and said something derogatory about police that Spencer didn’t entirely catch. But the woman laughed. “The police sit in the café at the corner drinking coffee all day. They think they blend in—” She snorted. “Cochons.” She turned her head and made a spitting sound.

The word forpigwas apparently a universal insult for law-enforcement types.

Drago rolled his eyes. “You’ve been most helpful, dear madam. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” He lifted her hand and planted a kiss on her knuckles. She simpered as they turned and left.

“I gather we’re heading away from the café where the police are staked out?” Spencer muttered.

“Or we can go in there, have a cup of joe, and spot the coppers. That way we’ll know their faces.”

“Bold.”

“Unexpected,” Drago countered. “Disarming.”

“Fair.”

They sat at a table near the back of the small café, and it took Spencer about five seconds to pick out the police. In a sea of dusky-skinned locals, they were too pale and too well-dressed for this neighborhood. Not to mention their gazes roved constantly, scanning the intersection outside.

“Jeez. Am I that obvious when I go into the Middle East?” Spencer asked.

“Yes, but you know how not to be conspicuous. Those two idiots might as well have signs over their heads advertising that they’re cops.”

“Thanks, I think.”

Drago grinned. “It was a compliment. Most American soldiers walk around like they’ve got pokers up their asses, acting like they own the place when they walk in. They keep their hair hideously short and self-righteousness practically drips off of them.”

“Aww, we’re not that bad.”

Drago arched a sardonic eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe some soldiers are like that. But SEALs aren’t.”

“Of course they aren’t. You guys are taught to blend in.”

“That and they pound the ego out of you pretty good in BUD/S,” Spencer added.

“There you go. You’re not so bad a guy.” He added slyly, “Most of the time.”

“You weren’t complaining back in Berlin when you climbed on my lap,” Spencer muttered.

Drago reached across the table and laid his hand on top of Spencer’s.

Spencer jolted, barely stopping himself from jerking his hand out from under Dray’s. Public displays of affection were strictly forbidden by any military member in uniform, and he was deeply conditioned not to touch anyone, in public or otherwise. It was a slippery slope he’d avoided completely for the past decade.

Drago murmured, “Middle Eastern men are able to casually touch other men without fainting of homophobia.”

Fortunately Drago lifted his hand away to signal the waitress for another round of espressos, and Spencer let out the breath he’d been half holding, waiting for the sky to fall. Huh. No lightning had struck him.

Still. It was a lousy idea to get into public displays of affection with Drago. He knew just how distracting the man was… and already felt himself getting sucked down into that delicious, dangerous vortex.

“How long are we going to sit here drinking coffee?” he asked in a low voice.

“Until the cops leave. I don’t want them to see us canvassing the neighborhood.”

“We could be here all day,” he replied in no small alarm.

“You got anywhere else to be?” Drago asked alertly.