"Bang. You're dead."

The soft voice brought Blake's attention up from the paper he was reading as he walked into his bedroom. Startled, he stared at the black-clad stranger who stood before him, arms crossed, head cocked, dark eyes impassive. "Who the hell are you?"

With the perfect aplomb one might have expected had the man been in his own home instead of Blake's bedroom, the intruder responded, "I might have been your assassin. You obviously do not believe you are vulnerable."

Something clicked, particularly when Blake saw the shoulder holster and gun. "Security. You're from that security agency they hired."

"Fortunately for you." The man moved toward the double windows that led out onto a balcony and the fine vista of the City for which Blake paid a great deal on his lease. Turning back towards Blake, he said, "You'll have to move out of here for a start."

Blake laughed. "Not a chance. It's absurd to think that my life is at risk. That vehicle simply didn't see me step out from the verge." Briefly, he shivered, recalling the near-miss. Still, Blake was positive it had not been an attempt to murder him. The fact that he'd announced a breakthrough two days before was coincidence.

The stranger blinked. "Fine." He looked past Blake, who only now realized there was someone behind him. "Call and tell them we don't want the job, Vila. The target has a death wish."

Somehow annoyed beyond reason, Blake reached out to grab the fellow's arm as he sauntered past, but the stranger easily evaded him, pivoting to stand close enough that Blake could smell the soap the man used. Unwilling to back off a step or two, Blake straightened his spine to emphasize the inch or so in height he had over this arrogant...person and growled right back at him: "Do you always come on this strong with your clients?"

The intruder smiled, a mere baring of teeth, and when he spoke his voice was devoid of emotion. "You are not the client. Her Majesty's Government is the client. You are merely the target we were asked to protect. And I am not paid to be polite."

Obscurely and suddenly amused, Blake suppressed a grin. "Fortunate, since you're probably incapable."

Something like amusement flickered across the intruder's aristocratic face, but in response he only blinked, a saurian coldness veiling his eyes. "Probably," he said. "Good-bye, Blake." In the very act of turning away, the nameless man seemed to catch sight of something over Blake's shoulder. "Get down!" With shocking speed, Blake found himself on the floor. Somewhere, glass shattered. There was a muffled curse and Blake felt the man fall atop him, then heard gunfire. The stranger, voice oddly attenuated, hissed, "Vila, tell Tarrant. Roof opposite. Meet you at the estate. Go!"

The room seemed to spin about as his protector rolled Blake over twice and into the next room, arms right around him, before releasing him to sit up. "Stay right here." Obedient, Blake remained where he was, staring at the stranger, who now seemed to be bleeding rather freely at the left shoulder, though he ignored it and pulled a pocket phone from a pouch at his hip. He punched in a number and said, "Three minutes, side entry," then closed the phone. Replacing it in its pouch, he put his gun away, then started to get up. Seeing the already pale face go a bit grey, Blake surged upward to steady the man, started to take the good arm across his shoulders, but found himself pushed away. "No. Might need my gun. Stay behind me."

Deciding he'd ask questions later, Blake followed the man into the stairwell and out the side door, where he climbed into a limousine under cover of the portico. As the vehicle sped away from his apartment building, he watched as a fair-haired woman cut away the sweater at the stranger's left shoulder and exposed the wound, beginning treatment even as the man muttered into the flip-phone again.

The smoked window between the driver's seat and the rear compartment descended and a pretty black woman flashed them a smile, "Sorry, Avon," she said. "Nobody there. Not even a bullet casing."

"I'm not surprised. Tell Tarrant to meet us at the estate. CI5 can take over for him." Putting his head back against the seat, Blake's rescuer sighed and closed his eyes.

The black woman nodded, flipped down a microphone attached to the headset she wore and returned her attention to the road as they sped through the darkness.

Putting her things back in the portable medical kit, the blonde woman said, "Clean, through and through, Avon. You were lucky. Pain med?"

"Not in the car. Wait." The man opened his eyes, stared at Blake, "You were the lucky one. Changed your mind about us?"

Still shaken, Blake found himself nodding, "I suppose so. Thank you."

Apparently satisfied, the man closed his eyes again, "Tell Vila to tell them we'll take the case." The blonde flipped a microphone down before her mouth from a headset Blake hadn't been aware she was wearing, and murmured into it for several minutes.

"What about my work? What about the symposium in San Francisco?" Blake asked.

When the man didn't answer, the blonde woman reached over and touched the great artery in Avon's neck, nodded to herself, murmured into her headset for a moment, then looked at Blake, "You can discuss it with Avon, but normally we don't permit public speaking. It violates our contract."

Blake bit his lip, tempted to get out of the car right here and now. He was going to that symposium. More than just his own life was at stake. Surely he could make this Avon see that.

"And here is your laboratory." Avon ushered the bemused doctor into the room, flipped on the lights, and watched him react to a near duplicate of his own setup at the hospital. Vila popped up from beneath a cabinet, blinked at them, and grinned. "Just installing your fax modem, doctor. It's on a scrambler, like all our others. If you need faxes in, tell me from who, and I'll arrange to download the scrambler code to their modem." When Blake looked blank, the agent laughed. "Never mind. If someone wants to send you a fax, call me, all right? I'll deal with the security part of it."

"Thank you," the doctor said. Vila beamed, then stopped beside Avon, who seemed unable to keep his eyes off their charge. "Are you going to let him go to San Francisco?"

"It's a stupid idea," Avon replied.

Blake stood up from a computer station and turned to face them. "I heard that. If I can't go to San Francisco, I might as well walk out of here right now. I've got to give that speech myself. No one but me understands exactly what I mean, and I have to be there to answer questions."

"It's dangerous," Avon said, eyes narrow, moving to close the space between them, as if he would use his physical mass to intimidate Blake into agreement.

Blake, suddenly aware of the smell of shampoo and soap, resisted the urge to back up a step, and the subsequent urge to ignore the fact that Vila was still in the room and shut Avon up by kissing him senseless. He folded his arms when Avon came closer, though what he was defending against was debatable. He wasn't even listening to the man's words; he was watching those luscious lips form them, and reading those coffee-colored eyes, bright with anger, wondering what they'd look like glazed with passion. I am losing my mind, he thought, and grinned, even as he shook his head. "Sorry," he said. "I'm going, with you or without you. You can hardly hold me prisoner."

"Don't tempt me," Avon cracked back. He had to turn away, and then caught the look on Vila's face. Damn, was he that obvious? His scowl darkened, and Vila beat a retreat. Avon's skin prickled when Blake came up behind him, almost touching. The impulse to lean back against the bulk of the man was nearly overwhelming. Instead, he growled, "Excuse me. This is getting us nowhere. I do have work to do." He wasn't really surprised when Blake followed him, still arguing, his voice set in a reasonable register, but undertoned with irritation.

~~~

This was going to be...interesting, Vila thought. He grinned, sending six more cryptic faxes to contacts in various countries. Unless he was vastly mistaken, their Avon was very much attracted to this Blake. Vila hadn't seem him like this in years. Not since...the grin faded. On the other hand, if something went wrong, and they couldn't keep Blake alive, Vila wasn't sure how many pieces of Avon there might be left to pick up.

"Why so grim, Vila?" Tarrant wandered into the communications room and flopped into a chair, propping his booted feet on Vila's desk.

With a shrug, Vila avoided the question. "How's his nibs?"

Smiling hugely, Tarrant asked, "Which one? They've been bellowing at one another like a couple of bull elephants for most of the morning. Sound like they've been married ten years."

"Is Blake gay?"

Tarrant dropped his feet to the floor, rolled his chair to a terminal and punched up a file. "Can't say. Nothing in the file on sexual preferences or significant others. Which probably means he is. Are you telling me Avon's gay?" he added.

"I wouldn't be stupid enough to tell anyone anything about Avon. If you're smart, you won't either."

Soolin came in with some papers which she shoved into a shredder. Having heard the last comment, she nodded. "Are you, Tarrant? Smart?"

Coming in on Soolin's heels, Dayna said, "He works for Avon, doesn't he?"

"Hey," Tarrant protested, turning off the computer terminal, "I'm a partner, just like the rest of you. I work with Avon."

Vila chortled, grabbed an incoming fax and stood up, "Tell him that." He left the room, grinning again. Best job he'd ever had.

Exhausted, Avon put the heels of his hands over his eyes, then glanced at his watch. No wonder. Experimentally rolling his injured shoulder, he winced, then decided he could wait a bit longer. First he'd talk with Blake about the trip. Against his better judgment, he had agreed to take the physician/scientist to San Francisco, protect him while he was there and return him to Great Britain alive. He was risking not only Blake's life, he knew, but Scorpio's reputation in the business. He really ought to have consulted the others, but if they didn't like it, he had no doubt they'd let him know immediately. Or sooner.

Punching in the encryption code, Avon then switched off his computer system and exited his workroom. Striding down the underground corridor, he noted that the lights in the lab prepared for Blake's use were still on. He turned in there and opened his mouth to speak but quickly realized the man was asleep in his chair. Coming to a halt behind him, Avon glanced at the molecular model on the screen and shrugged his good shoulder. Meant less than nothing to him. Not his area. He put a hand on Blake's shoulder and shook him slightly, "Blake?"

The curly head came up, the scientist blinking at him with a sleepy smile, "Hm?"

An unexpected and unwanted jolt of desire curled in Avon's belly, shocking the breath from his lungs. The habit of many years was all that prevented him from bending down to claim that inviting mouth, "It's two in the morning."

Scrubbing his face, Blake yawned hugely, then stood up. "No wonder I fell asleep." His stomach growled audibly. When Avon chuckled, Blake went a bit pink. "Sorry."

"For being hungry?" Avon tried to suppress a grin. "You're more neurotic than Vila. Come on, we'll raid the kitchen."

Without ascending the elevator to the house proper, they made their way to the kitchen on this level of what amounted to a secured base, where Avon rummaged in the refrigerator and eventually produced a cold salad and turkey sandwiches for each of them. Blake tucked in right away. "Anything to drink?" Avon offered.

"No thanks. You go ahead."

"I never drink when I'm on a job," Avon answered. "Ice water?"

"Fine."

They ate in silence for a while, then Blake asked, "How did you get into security work, Avon?"

"Long, boring story." Abruptly feeling the need for movement, Avon went to the refrigerator and returned with a bowl of chilled fruit. He waited before answering, studying the rind of an orange he held as if it might contain the secret of creation. This man was getting too close, too fast. It was dangerous. Still, "Army, SAS, that sort of thing. I'm not fit for anything else, really." Putting down the orange without peeling it, he resumed his place and raised his eyes to meet Blake's. "How'd you end up doing AIDS research?"

Blake's eyes darkened, "I was unfortunate enough to lose someone. I started looking into it, since I already had a background in viral research, and got a couple of bright ideas. You know how it is, one thing led to another."

Conversation languished, partly, Avon thought, because Blake was so tired, and partly because Avon was tongue-tied. Amused with himself, he sternly refused to stare at the man while he ate.

"Are you married, Avon?"

The question startled him, and Avon felt himself go very still. He took a drink of water, then glanced up at the other man. "No. Why?"

Now, why would Blake blush? The massive shoulders hunched, the honey-brown eyes still firmly on his plate, Blake muttered, "Just curious." The following silence was awkward, Avon thought, though he did nothing to change the mood. Why should he? He was here to keep the man alive, not to make him comfortable. He was aware, however, when Blake began to think about something else, because the larger man's body relaxed, his movements became more fluid, and his head came up. "Avon, why would anyone want to kill me? I mean, I'm not anybody, really. That's what I don't understand."

With a harsh bark of laughter, Avon said, "Oh, at a guess I'd say any number of pharmaceutical companies making a fortune off AZT and a few other drugs that are currently in massive use by the afflicted would have an interest in seeing any promising line of research stopped. Then there are the righteous fuzzybrains of the world, who believe that since AIDS is a judgment from God, it should be allowed to kill whomever it kills. Until one of their own wives or children contract the illness, that is. Then there are personal enemies. Got any?"

It seemed to be Blake's turn to laugh, bitterness edging out humor in the rich baritone. "Only a man who is a hermit or without opinions can have no enemies, Avon."

What a pontifical tone of voice, the security agent thought. It was irritating. Too bad it wasn't irritating enough to turn him off to the man's attractiveness. Shaking his head in annoyance at his own capricious hormones, Avon pushed back his chair. Taking his dishes to the sink and proceeding immediately to wash them, he was somewhat surprised when Blake joined him, rummaging about for a cloth to dry the dinnerware. "Well, I've arranged a private jet for the flight to San Francisco, Blake. And you won't be staying at the hotel. It's simply indefensible. I still think you ought to consider delivering your address via satellite."

Blake shook his head. "Sorry, Avon. It's too important. I understand your reservations about it, but some things are more important than whether or not I see the sun rise."

"You're a naive fool, Blake."

The scientist took it in good part. "And you are a cynic." Seeing that Avon had finished, Blake handed over the dish cloth so he could dry his hands, then seemed to stare at them for a long time. Avon found he was self-conscious while he folded the dishcloth over the faucet, then clasped his hands behind himself. Forcing a tone that was about two light years more civil than he was feeling, the security specialist nodded, "Well, that's it for me. Good night."

"Perhaps I'll turn in as well," Blake said, following him out the door and toward the lift. "How's your shoulder?"

"Fine," Avon snapped.

When Blake stopped walking, Avon kept on a few steps before realizing the other man had halted. He stopped, reluctant to turn. Stiffening his spine, he said coolly, "Look, Blake, I'm paid to keep you alive. If you need a friend as well, we'll bring someone in."

The frigid response shocked him. "Are you homophobic, Avon?"

That brought him around, having trouble keeping his face blank. Allowing one eyebrow to rise, he asked, "What brought that on?"

"Are you?" Blake persisted, visibly offended. "Because if you are, I think we'd better call this whole thing a wash and get someone else for security. I cannot abide bigots."

He had to smile. "Do you jump through hoops as quickly as you jump to conclusions, Blake?"

Furious, Blake stepped nearer, trying to intimidate with his size, which further amused Avon. "Then what was that about my needing a friend? Are you actually offering to pimp for me?"

For a couple of seconds Avon couldn't comprehend what the hell the man was on about, so intrigued was he by the curiously spicy scent and warm nearness of him. When that fact hit him, he forced a coolness he didn't feel, folded his arms and studied the tile pattern in the floor. "I apologize," Avon said sincerely. "That was uncalled for." Amused nearly to the point of laughter by the irony of it all, he raised his eyes to see Blake's now-puzzled expression and allowed himself to smile. "As for the rest of it...there may be a less homophobic person on the planet, but I doubt it. Now if you will excuse me, I'm rather tired."

"Just a minute!" Blake reached out and grabbed Avon's shoulder, which sent a lance of pain throughout his body and drove Avon to his knees.

When Avon went down, gripping his left arm with his right hand, Blake thought he might faint himself. Without wondering why he suddenly had tears in his eyes, Blake knelt beside his protector. "God, I'm sorry, Avon. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"They never do," Avon hissed, then managed to stand, with Blake's assistance. "Just don't touch me."

Unreasonably stung, Blake retorted, "Don't be stupid. I am a physician. The least I can do is see that I haven't re-damaged the wound."

Pale, the security man returned his glare with interest, "The least you can do, Blake, is leave me the hell alone!"

"Gladly!" Turning abruptly away, the scientist retreated to his lab, waiting until he heard Avon activate the elevator. He wondered whether he ought to send Soolin to check on Avon's injury, then realized he had no idea how to summon anyone. Now that seemed stupid. What if he needed help? With a defeated shrug, Blake turned off the lab lights and made his way to his room. Pity, really. Avon was outrageously gorgeous. Too bad he was such a boor.

Just before he would have climbed into the huge four-poster bed, someone tapped rather peremptorily on his door. Hastily pulling on a robe, Blake called, "Come in."

It was the black woman, Dayna. Blake hadn't seen her since their arrival at the estate. She was dressed rather casually, in jeans and ragged oversized sweatshirt, but appeared to be wide awake. She also appeared to be furious. "You are very lucky he didn't break both your arms, you know."

"Excuse me?" Blake felt torn between offense and amusement.

"I was watching on the monitor," she explained. "I'd been looking for Avon and switched to that corridor monitor just as you grabbed him."

"Sorry," Blake muttered, feeling himself go red. "He just -- gets under my skin."

"Yes, well, next time it happens, try to remember he can break you with one hand, all right? It'll be hard enough on him if we lose you some other way. If he does you himself, he'll be a basket case."

"Is he all right?" Blake queried, hoping he didn't sound as worried as he felt.

Her sullen admission that he was fine was immediately followed by her "Good night."

"Just a minute, please," Blake called, following her to the door. When she stopped, he said, "I find it hard to believe you came in here at this hour to berate me for giving your boss a hard time."

"He's a friend and my partner, not my boss," she said vehemently.

Raising both hands, Blake backed up a step. "Pardon me."

"I owe him," she continued, her chin coming up. "It bothers me when people don't know how easily hurt he is and assume that cold exterior extends all the way to his heart."

"Doesn't it?" Blake nearly winced at the arrogance of his own tone, but it was already too late.

"Only with enemies. Do yourself a favor. Don't be one." And with that she was gone.

Blake removed the robe and crawled into the huge bed after drawing the curtains. He meant to sleep late if he could. Easily hurt, indeed, he thought, grinning. Well, he certainly had that young lady fooled.

Avon finally took a painkiller, mostly to get rid of Dayna, who'd happened to catch the little comedy in the corridor belowstairs. Really, the child was a pest sometimes. They all were. Still, he needed them and they were a good team. Trying to find a comfortable position in bed while waiting for the painkiller to work, Avon recalled his overreaction to Blake's simple question earlier. It might have led to a more serious incident if Avon had reacted instinctively to being unexpectedly grabbed.

Even in the darkness, he felt his face flame. Christ, he ought to take himself out of the loop on this one. No matter how he intellectualized it, the fact was his body reacted to the man's presence unmistakably. The first time he'd seen Blake, walking unaware toward him, eyes on the papers in his hands, Avon had felt his sex stir, and familiarity, although it appeared to be successfully breeding contempt of the man's character, seemed to be having the very opposite effect on Avon's hormones. Turning his mind to the preparations for the trip to the States, Avon tried not to think of the electric thrill which had run up his spine when he had awakened Blake earlier and seen that sleepy smile. It had been all he could do not to lean down and kiss the man breathless. That would have been edifying for whomever had been watching at the time. Not to mention confusing for Blake.

His phone rang. Biting back a groan, he reached for it, "Avon."

It was Soolin's voice. "Better get down here, Avon. Tarrant just brought Vila in half dead."

Without another word, he hung up the phone and rolled out to get dressed, locking down his emotions. Arriving in the medical bay at a dead run, Avon caught himself just in time to keep from toppling Blake, who was frantically working over a bloody Vila Restal, while Tarrant looked on, white-faced, ignoring whatever Dayna was doing to the back of his head. "Report," Avon snapped.

His voice, shaking at first, firmed up while Tarrant spoke. "Whoever did this is very good, Avon. Neither of us saw it coming. We were doing a last walkaround and an interior inspection of the jet when I heard Vila shout something. By the time I got there, the bad guy was gone and Vila was like that. At least I thought he was gone. But when I bent over to check Vila, someone hit me and that was all until I woke up and hauled back here as fast as possible."

Avon nodded, biting his lower lip, restraining the impulse to demand a report from Blake as well. Presently the physician stepped back from the table and said, "He'll be fine. Knife wound, but it missed most everything important." He glanced at Soolin. "Got any broad spectrum antibiotics? And do you know when he last had a tetanus shot?"

With a suppressed sigh of relief, Avon moved to the other side of the bed while Soolin went to get the requested items. He unconsciously picked up one of Vila's hands. The fingers suddenly squeezed his own and the man started up, but Avon pressed him back, grating, "Be still, Vila. You're safe."

~~~

Blake washed his hands, then ran them through his curls, watching Avon hover over his injured man until he caught Dayna staring at him. Roused, he looked away and wrote something on a notepad for Soolin regarding the pain medication. Listening to the conversation around him, he heard Tarrant growl, "That's going to leave us a man short in the States, I suppose."

Blake was startled when Avon quietly spoke from directly behind him, "Thank you for seeing to Vila. He's been with me for a long time."

Blake shrugged, "Just doing my job, Avon." He didn't turn, lest Avon see from the expression on his face that it wasn't Vila he was concerned about.

"So was he. Unfortunately, Tarrant is right. It's going to leave us short in the States, which means I'll have to..."

Grinning, almost giddy with fatigue and fear, Blake asked, "Keep me on a shorter leash?"

"Something like that," Avon said, then moved toward Tarrant. "Are you all right?"

"Fine." Tarrant grinned, then winced as he rubbed at the bump on the back of his head.

Dayna teased, "Got him at his strongest point, fortunately."

The young man snarled in mock rage and lunged for her, then caught himself dizzily, Avon steadying him upright with an irritated scowl, "Go to bed before you fall down."

Soolin said, "I'll stay with Vila for tonight. Tomorrow we can get someone from CI5 to come in."

"Good idea," Avon admitted, looked about as if he were suddenly unsure of his next move, then abruptly picked up a phone and dialed something, punched in several strings of numbers and hung up. Catching Blake's eyes on him, he said, "I have just automated security for the estate. This way, no one has to man the control room tonight, and we can all get some rest."

"What about the trip? Still on?"

Avon smiled grimly. "Yes. Of course I'll have to lease a new jet in the morning. Can't trust our saboteur wasn't there long enough to do some damage."

"Lease a new jet? Isn't that extravagant?"

"Only if survival is extravagant. Good night, Blake."

The physician took another look at Vila, assured himself the man was not in danger, then returned to his own room. It was quite some time before he fell asleep.

Sioban didn't look at the man beside her in the Volvo. If she did, she'd probably kill him. Eyes firmly on the road she asked, in an artificially pleasant tone, "Why didn't they kill them? Two members of the team, and they let them live."

Travis shrugged, watching the Irishwoman's golden eyes flick over the road, down to the dash, up to the mirror, watched the way her knuckles went white on the steering wheel as he answered, "They're bombers, Malloy, not killers. And since you refused to allow me to accompany them inside..." He raised his hands, suppressing a smile when her lips thinned and she seemed unconsciously to put her foot down harder on the gas. At this rate, they'd either get stopped for speeding or go off the road at some particularly sharp turn.

He was impressed when in less than five minutes, she had herself under control again, her speed dropped below the limit, and her hands relaxed on the wheel. As if thinking aloud, she said, "Avon won't be stupid enough to take that plane now. He doesn't know that we haven't done something to it. That means we'll have to go to San Francisco and kill Blake there."

Travis stretched, smiling. "San Francisco. I've always wanted to go there. Have you ever been there before?"

The woman raked him with a contemptuous glance. "I don't give a damn where it happens. It's only a job."

The hired killer's smile faded. She was full of it. This was more than a job to her. He knew that, the way she stayed in his pocket all the time. Studying the woman's heart-shaped face in the darkened windshield, he caught her eye, then turned to look out his side window. She was a loose canon; he'd heard that about her. She tended to kill people who failed. But, damn, the money was good. If he pulled this off, he could probably retire to Switzerland. Besides, he grinned at his reflection, he didn't intend to fail.

Sioban shook her head. Travis was a fool. Like most men in his profession, he tended to underestimate his opponents. It wasn't going to be that easy. Shaking off the disappointment, she considered ways to get floor plans of the hotel where the symposium was being held. Her research suggested Blake would insist on delivering his speech in person. She would take him just afterwards, right under Avon's patrician nose. She smiled, glad when she noticed that it made Travis uneasy. In fact, it might be...entertaining to re-enact her last encounter with Avon. She would even let him live to regret his failure...for a while. She laughed out loud, ignoring the way her companion shuddered at the sound.

~~~

Ostensibly staring out the window at the bright play of sunlight on scattered clouds outside the jet, Blake was actually watching Avon's reflection in the window. He seemed to be unable to do anything else coherently when the man was around. His fingers itched to touch that smooth skin, to cause some expression other than blank concentration to appear on that aristocratically reserved face.

Turning to face Avon directly, he said, "May I ask a stupid question?"

Avon looked up from the papers in his lap and regarded Blake with what he hoped was a noncommittal expression, "You may ask."

"Why don't you wear a headset like the rest of the team? I've noticed you always carry a flip-phone instead."

Suppressing a grin, Avon said, "I tried them, but they give me a migraine. I'm not willing to trade the pain for the convenience. And Blake, the only stupid question is the one you don't ask."

Amber eyes lit with humor, then returned to The Times. Avon forced his own eyes back to his papers. What would he think, Avon wondered, if I asked him to join the mile high club? Vila's exaggerated groan caught his attention and he jumped up to cross the cabin. "How are you keeping, Vila?"

"Could use another drink, Avon." Avon sternly refused to grin at the pouty, wheedling tone. Vila's eyes were wide with assumed innocence.

Scowling, the security man took the glass from a drooping hand, "You're enjoying this far too much to be really ill, you know."

"Why, Avon! I was stabbed!"

"And I was shot, only five days before that," Avon answered, withholding sympathy. "But I'm serving as your general dogsbody for some reason I can't fathom."

"Know your place, that's what it is." The smug tone was a bit much, Avon thought.

Avon raised the glass as if to smash Vila's face with it. The smaller man gave a shriek and retreated under his blanket. Glancing up as he moved toward the bar, Avon caught a look on Blake's face that stopped him cold. He's jealous! My God, he's actually jealous of the attention I'm giving Vila. Isn't that fascinating! His next reaction was so violent he was forced to don his habitual cloak of ice and retreat to the flight deck.

Hope, after all these years? Hope that someone might care for him again, someone with whom he could share his life, triggered a kind of fear he was unable to deal with. He'd rather face a professional killer than leave himself open to that kind of loss again. Terror packed into a tight, prickly ball in his belly, he sat down in the navigator's station behind Tarrant, pulled a fax off the machine and read it with absent noncomprehension. "Avon, what's the matter?"

That was Dayna. Why did she always monitor his emotional condition like this? It drove him stark mad. He shrugged his good shoulder. "Just concerned. I'm not certain this isn't a serious mistake." In the privacy of his own thoughts, he admitted he'd already made his worst mistake in years. Too late. He'd just have to get through it somehow.

"What happened?" Blake asked, shocked when Avon abruptly placed Vila's glass on the bar and left the aircraft cabin, his movements speaking eloquently of rigid control.

Vila, who after all these years was pretty good at reading Avon, shrugged. "He's odd. What can I tell you?"

The physician put down his newspaper and crossed the cabin to sit on a stool pulled up beside the couch where the injured agent lay, noting his color and respiration, taking his pulse without really paying much attention. "Avon told me you've been together for a long time," he prompted.

Vila considered his options, discarded most of them as likely to get him fired, then said cautiously, "That's true enough."

"Do you think he dislikes me as strongly as it seems?" Vila didn't think he'd ever before seen such misery openly displayed on a grown man's face.

Dislikes you? Vila thought. Just the opposite I'd say, and that's the problem. Instead of saying that, he drawled, "Well, Avon doesn't like to get too close to people he's trying to protect. Suppose you and he became great chums and then he let something happen to you?"

Blake was silent for a while, chewing on his index finger in a manner that Vila had seen him do before. At last he said, "I take it Avon's lost someone before, to whom he was close?"

"Haven't we all?" Suddenly, Vila wished the man would go away. It was hard not to tell him the whole story. Vila was convinced the two men were perfect for one another, but Avon would skin him alive if he were caught playing matchmaker.

Settling a light coverlet over Vila after checking his wound, Blake stood up. "Looks very good. You should be up and about by tomorrow or the next day." He smiled. "You keep his confidences well, Vila. People usually talk to me."

"I like my job," Vila responded, and closed his eyes, effectively putting an end to the issue.

Returning to his seat, Blake looked out the window at the carpet of clouds below the plane. It was heartachingly beautiful; looking almost as if you could get out and walk straight to paradise. Maybe, he thought, I'm misinterpreting what I thought I saw, just for a moment. In any case, it probably isn't a good idea. I hardly like him. But wanting him hasn't seemed to change that. Leaning back, he closed his eyes. Why wasn't anything ever simple? Suddenly he wanted to weep. Ridiculous. He must be more tired than he thought.

"It's to be a surprise, you see," the man with the eyepatch explained to the events coordinator. "No one has done more for AIDS research in England, and we just want to recognize that fact in the world forum. This is the perfect opportunity for that."

"I don't know," Mr. Madden said, "but I've got six separate faxes from his security company demanding details of everything that's planned for that day. They promise to pull him out the moment anything unexpected happens. Apparently someone's been trying to kill Dr. Blake, if you can believe that."

"I understand," the man said. "I'd be happy to coordinate with them if you'll tell me where they're staying."

"I'm afraid I have no idea. I just know they're not booked in the hotel." Madden watched something very like rage flash in Blake's old friend's single eye, before he grinned and shook his head.

"Well, never mind. I'm sure I can catch up with them at some point day after tomorrow and work it out. Can you at least tell me the name of the security company? Perhaps I can get one of them on the phone."

"Scorpio it's called. Run by a fellow named Avon."

Madden's guest stood up and put out a hand. "Very good. Thank you, Mr. Madden. Good luck on your convention, and I'll see you around and about."

"You're very welcome, Dr. Travis. If there is any other way I can assist you, please don't hesitate to call."

Blake could hear Avon's frigid anger from the second floor. Pulling on a sweater, he cat-footed down the stairs and peered into the dining area which had magically transformed itself into an operations center overnight. What was the man on about now, he wondered.

Shirtless, seated at the table with a cup nearby, his good shoulder lifted to hold the phone to his ear, Avon was strengthening his injured shoulder muscles by raising and lowering a barbell while he snarled into the phone. Ignoring the tirade, Vila was busily investigating what appeared to be floor plans of some place or other. Momentarily suspended in time and space by the sight of hard muscle moving under ivory skin, the scientist stared, fists clenched against an almost overwhelming need to touch, to soothe the angry red scar left by a bullet meant for him. Putting down the weight, Avon snarled, "Well, you've been warned, Madden. If anything happens due to your negligence, Her Majesty's Government will prosecute you personally, to the fullest extent of the law!" In stark contrast to the savagery of his voice, he cradled the phone gently, turned to Vila, and asked calmly, "Where are the backstage blueprints?"

It's just a job for him, Blake reminded himself. He's made that very clear. Moving into the kitchen, Blake found Tarrant cooking, which somehow surprised him.

"You're not only a pilot, you can cook as well? I'm impressed, Tarrant."

The young man grimaced, dishing up an omelette, "Self-defense, doctor. The women cry sexism if we don't take turns. Besides," he added sotto voce, "they can't cook worth a damn. Even Avon's a better cook than Soolin and Dayna, and he has about as much interest in food as that chair does."

After pouring a glass of milk, Blake accepted a warm plate and sat down at the kitchen table instead of invading Avon's office space. "Where are the women?" he asked.

Tarrant laughed. "They've already eaten, if you can call the picking they do eating. Believe it or not, they're cutting firewood. I'm told it gets cold at night here, even though it's summer. I heard Vila planning a marshmallow roast for this evening. Somehow I can't picture Avon roasting marshmallows."

"Been with the company long, have you?"

Finishing another omelette, Tarrant grinned knowingly. "Fishing, are you?"

Rather stiffly, because he was embarrassed, Blake said, "Well, I am depending on you lot to keep me alive."

Turning serious, the younger man sat down with his own plate and a cup of black coffee. "Two years, I think. I ran into Avon in Madagascar at a time when I was at loose ends. I was impressed with what I saw of the organization and bought in when I got back to London."

"You're partners, then."

"Right. All of us. Except Vila, who says he wants to be able to quit when he feels like it. He is the only permanent salaried employee. We hire temporary help for big jobs if we can't get local authorities we're satisfied with."

"Interesting group," Blake observed. "You interact almost like a family."

Tarrant hooted. "Don't let Avon hear you say that. He'd rather be related to a toad than to the likes of me."

"You are a toad, Tarrant," Avon said smoothly, bringing his cup in to re-fill it. There wasn't any real sting in the comment, Blake noted. He carefully did not study the shirtless man who joined them at the table. "Blake, someone named Travis was looking for you at the hotel. Do you know a Doctor Travis?"

Blake shrugged, "No, I don't think so. One meets so many people, I suppose it's possible..."

"This one told the hotel people he was an old friend of yours."

"He lied. I have no old friends." He heard the bleak finality of his tone, but it was the truth, and he let it stand. Forcing a smile, he said, "That's why I work so hard. Perhaps one day some of my new friends will live to be old friends." Leaving the rest of his meal, he got up and left the room. Exiting the front door, he admired the view from the deck. On the edge of a hill, the house was fronted by a path down to a narrow road on the other side of which was a river. Ferns and redwood trees grew in profusion. Blake had never seen such trees before. They seemed to have a fragrance uniquely their own. The air was crisp and clean, the sunlight dancing on the river. Somewhere, he could hear children laughing.

"Blake." Avon's voice was gentle, as the physician had never before heard it. Nor had he heard Avon come outside. Blinking back tears, Blake felt a strong hand close atop his shoulder. "Do you have to give this speech yourself?"

"Yes!" Turning on the smaller man, Blake tried not to shout. "Do you have any idea what it's like to lose everyone you've ever loved? And to something as horrible as AIDS? It's worth any price to beat that. Even my life."

Avon glanced away from Blake's anger, the dark eyes considering the far forest. "I do know what it's like, Blake. But if I'm to keep you alive to beat this disease, you must give me your word that once we leave here, you will obey absolutely any order given to you instantly and without question. You can argue about it later, but not when we tell you to do something. An order is an order, whether it's shouted or spoken casually. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Blake said, wishing he dared ask how Avon supposed he knew what it was like. Far too moved by the sympathy, not to mention the hand on his shoulder, he walked away from the security man's touch and sat down in a wicker fan-backed chair. "I also realize that if someone is willing to sacrifice their own life, there isn't going to be any way to stop them. So if something does go wrong, I'd appreciate it if you'd get my notes to Dr. Marcus Lindsay at the London AIDS Institute."

"Of course," Avon said.

The intense tone of Avon's voice caused Blake to turn about to catch the man's expression. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw a fierce fire in the dark eyes at odds with the soft set of Avon's lips, almost as if Avon were rejecting the very idea that something would go wrong. But then, Avon's eyes blinked, cleared of any expression, and he nodded politely, "Excuse me. It's rather chilly out here."

Forcing himself not to watch Avon retreat, Blake gave a heavy sigh.

Internally, Avon was a wreck. He was pleased that it didn't show. Straightening the hated tie, he stepped back to check that the bulge of the gun didn't show, and was once more glad he'd paid extra for the special tailoring. He might not look like one of the doctors, indeed, he might look like just what he was, but at least he looked like a successful one. Please, God, he thought. Shrugging into the burberry, he omitted a hat, remembering reading somewhere that they were no longer de rigueur for San Francisco, and wished he'd had his hair cut before they'd come across the pond. It was dead certain to be windy, and his hair would drive him crazy blowing in his eyes. Too late now.

Running his hands across his pockets and a secret compartment or two, he satisfied himself that he was as ready as he could reasonably be, and exited his room. Downstairs, the others had already gone ahead, leaving Blake on his own in the ops room, handsome in his own dark suit, buried in the text of his speech, as he usually was when Avon saw him, unless he was busy with his research. One hand continuously raked back through the riotous curls. Avon had to restrain the urge to capture that hand and kiss the palm. He wondered briefly if he'd lost his mind. "Ready?"

The big doctor jumped, startled by his silent entrance, Avon supposed, then went slightly pink with embarrassment. Blake pushed back from the table and stacked the sheets of paper neatly together, then folded them into a file and put it in his briefcase. Blake tried to smile as he put on his coat, "I'll be glad when it's over."

"As will I. Shall we?"

Avon ushered his charge out the door, locked it carefully, then barely refrained from taking the man's elbow to escort him down the steep, winding path to the road below, where a red jaguar had been left for their use. "We're driving in," Blake observed.

"There's plenty of time," Avon assured him.

"Nice car."

"Um." The last thing Avon wanted was a nice, friendly chat with Blake. Why didn't he just shut up?

"Where are the others?" Blake asked, obviously undeterred by Avon's reticence.

"Gone ahead of us. There are three other cars just like this one making their way to the hotel by different routes. We've hired local talent of your approximate build and coloring to enhance the charade."

From the side of his eye, Avon saw Blake biting his lip as they roared out of the sheltered valley onto a two-lane road. His driving? Avon wondered, or the prospect of being a target?

"I might die today," Blake said tonelessly, startling Avon after half an hour of silence.

"Not if I can help it," the agent said. He glanced at his passenger with some curiosity. "You don't seem terribly afraid," he remarked.

Turning in the seat to look head-on at him, Blake chewed his thumb for a minute or two, then shook his head. "No, I'm not afraid, particularly. I'm just wondering if I'm willing to let it happen without having told you."

Chilled, Avon's voice turned harsh. "Told me what? How irritating I am? I'll take it as read." He refused to be distracted, keeping his eyes moving. No one seemed to be following them, which was good. The car was running well and the weather was cooperating; he'd been afraid it might rain. Don't say it, he thought. Please don't say it. I can't bear it.

Softly, almost below audible level, Blake said, "Told you that I could easily fall in love with you."

A bubble of emotion formed in Avon's chest and expanded, pressing the breath out of his body, threatening his control of the car, and he pulled off at the next turnout and switched off the key. Without taking his eyes off the darkening vista ahead, he gripped the wheel and tried to still the trembling in his limbs.

Too late for me, he admitted in the privacy of his mind. too late. But I can make you hate me instead. Vicious when vulnerable, he snarled, "I'll protect you regardless, Blake. You don't have to play that game with me."

The sudden drawing of breath sounded like pain, and Avon had to look at his companion, who seemed pale in the failing light. Hunched over as though he'd been hit in the solar plexus, Blake fisted his hands between his knees. He muttered something that sounded like, "Bastard."

Avon tried to force himself to say something else, but the risk was too great. Once Avon started treating Blake in accordance with the way he really felt about him, he'd never be able to let him go again. It wouldn't be fair to a man with so much to offer, Avon excused himself. Blake should have someone less damaged than I am, he told himself. Less likely to leave him wounded and unhappy permanently, instead of just for the next half hour.

Avon started the car and resumed their journey, forcing his mind away from the injury he'd done to the man beside him. It would have been kinder to strike him, the agent knew. He felt his face color, and hoping Blake wasn't looking at him, stole a glance in that direction. He was relieved to see the man staring out his own side of the car.

Sioban resisted the urge to yank the weapon out of Travis' hands. Really, he was almost more trouble than he was worth. When he released and replaced the 9mm's magazine yet again, she snapped, "Go for a walk, please, or settle down."

The single dark eye regarded her languid pose, "What if it doesn't work?"

"Of course it will work." Stupid male. "He's been my chief study for some years now. He will freeze, you will shoot, and we will run. It's simple."

The hired gunman shoved his pistol into its holster. Knotting his fingers together, he stared at them. "How do you know," he persisted.

For a moment, the tawny-eyed terrorist seriously considered killing the man. No, she still needed him. For the time being. Leaning forward, she cupped his hands in her own. When his eye came up to study her expression, she smiled. "Some time ago, in a similar situation, he stood firm. I killed the hostage. Oh, he'll freeze. You may depend upon it."

Slowly, Travis grinned, "That's what this is really about, isn't it? It's Avon. You don't give a tinker's toss about the famous doctor."

Sioban's only answer was to lean back in her chair and look away.

Never one to know when to shut up, apparently, Travis asked, "What did Avon do to earn your enmity?"

Rising, the Irishwoman strolled to the window, stared out at Justin Herman Plaza below. Her eyes strayed to an incoming ferry and followed its path to the dock. After a while, she said, "He sent my Billy to Long Kesh." The hiss of breath behind her told her the gunman recognized the infamous prison's name.

"Are you going to kill him as well?"

Facing her accomplice, Sioban smiled brilliantly, "Oh, no. Nor must you. I am not feeling particularly merciful, you see."

Seeing Travis shudder, she turned aside again. Men were such infants. Only women truly knew how to make war.

Now, Avon thought. It will happen at any moment, if at all. He'd had this feeling before, and it was never wrong. It was a sort of metallic resonance, almost a "taste" right in the middle of his forehead. Flicking down the microphone on the hated headset, he murmured, "Keep alert, it's coming down now." Waiting only long enough for the applause to crest, the security agent took a firm grip on Blake's arm, "Let's go."

Standing his ground, the doctor objected. "Just a minute, Avon. I want..."

"I don't give a damn what you want. Move!"

Coming along at last, Blake shrugged an apology at his bemused host and allowed himself to be hustled backstage and thence along a corridor that smelled of roast chicken and cleaning fluid.

The instant before it opened, Avon knew the trap was behind the door. Without time for niceties, he felled Blake with a sharp elbow to the solar plexus and a sweeping, booted foot and took up a two-handed stance, snarling into the headset, "Staff exit. Now!"

First he saw the young man -- sweating with terror, his airway nearly blocked by the arm across his windpipe. Next he noted the gun at the hostage's ear, pressed there with such strength, blood was running down his cheek. The universe slowed around him as he saw the one-eyed man peering over the youngster's shoulder, and then he saw -- her. "Sioban." He made the name a curse.

Smiling, she said, "Trade?"

Feeling his wits unravel as the sense of deja vu hit like a bomb, Avon nevertheless smiled and pulled the trigger. Shot in the leg, the hostage dropped, screaming. Encumbered, the one-eyed gunman hesitated. He was next, shot through the good eye. By that time, of course, she was gone. Deafened by the roar of his own gunfire in the small space, Avon turned toward Blake, to find him staring with horror at the wounded hostage. The white-faced doctor's eyes next moved to consider Avon. Knowing he still wore his killing grin, he wasn't surprised when Blake lunged to his feet and pushed past him, growling, "You cold-blooded bastard! Get out of my way, out of my sight," hissing directly into his face, "and out of my life!"

Stepping over the dead assassin, Avon crouched in the entryway and peered around the corner, unconsciously still smiling while he said, "Sioban Malloy, Soolin, coming your way. Trail her if you can, kill her if you can't."

Vila appeared, breathless, took in the scene, and crouched beside him. "Are you all right, Avon?"

"Get away from me."

Taking in Avon's countenance at a glance, Vila disappeared. When Dayna arrived and asked the same question, he stood up, refused to turn around to inspect the damaged hostage, and said, "You drive Blake to the airfield. I'll see you on the plane."

"But Avon, what about--"

"Just do it, Dayna!" He walked away, not much caring if his personal nemesis had lingered to take a shot at him.

Blake ranted for ten minutes once they had loaded into the limousine for the journey to the airstrip. None of the Scorpio employees said a word until he stopped. Dayna, her face thunderous, put up the divider to shut him out. Since Tarrant was in front with the black woman, that left Soolin and Vila to listen to his grievance. He was about to go on when Vila said, "Shut up, Blake."

Turning on the smaller man, the doctor gaped, "What did you say?"

"I said shut up!" Pink, the security agent continued, "You don't have the slightest idea what happened back there."

"I saw what happened back there, Vila! Your boss shot a man in cold blood. Two men! One of them is dead, you know, and the other won't be walking on his own any time soon."

"Bollocks!" Vila continued pinking up until he was actually scarlet. "Avon just faced his worst nightmare and didn't drop the bloody ball. That's the only reason you're still alive, mister." Wondering what he'd missed, Blake demanded an explanation.

Soolin cautioned, "He won't thank you for telling."

Vila shrugged. "So, he can fire me, can't he?" To Blake, he said, "About eight years ago, in an identical situation, Avon hesitated long enough to attempt to negotiate with that madwoman. She killed the hostage anyway. The young man Avon shot today looked very much like him. Eight years ago, the boy's name was Jordan, and he was Avon's lover."

Blake felt as if he'd been hit in the chest. He barely heard Vila's conclusion, "So you see, he saved your life in spite of that woman's second attempt to destroy him."

So confused he could not place one logical thought behind another, Blake stared into space for long moments. His words to Avon echoed in his mind. He whispered, "I told him to get out of my sight, and out of my life."

Vila caught his attention again by gripping his forearm painfully. "Listen, Blake, if you'd like to retract that wish, you'd better catch him on the plane home. If we get that far and you haven't spoken to him, you'll never see him again."

Blake looked to Soolin, who shrugged and looked away. Coolly, she said, "It's of no consequence to me, but I think Vila's right. He'll go to ground somewhere until he feels he can function again. The rest of us will keep you alive while the contract is in force."

Blake put his face in his hands. "Maybe it's best to just...forget it."

Vila leaned in so he could whisper, "Don't be a fool, Blake. He's half in love with you. If you want him, don't give up."

Shaking his head, the doctor mumbled, "He'll never forgive me."

Visibly irritated, Soolin snapped, "Certainly not if you don't apologize. Christ, you're like a couple of adolescents. Grow up!" She shifted to the rear seat of the limousine and turned on the radio.

Trapped by sweat-soaked, twisted bedclothes, Avon came up from a nightmare gulping for air. Several terrifying moments passed before the sound and feel of the engines reminded him he was closed in his private stateroom on the jet, heading home.

He turned on the light, stumbled to the tiny bathroom and sponged himself off, then changed the bedsheets. Chilled to the bone, he put on an old, soft pair of cords and a thick sweater, then flung himself into a chair by the window. Nothing to see. Black above, and black below. And certainly black within, he thought. He could almost hear Jordan's voice: "Self-pity, love? A waste of time. Get on with it and off the pity-pot." Forcing himself to move, he unlocked the door and, carefully not looking at anyone, moved toward the small galley and made a pot of tea. All had the good sense not to speak to him. He was just placing his tea tray on the table beside his bed when his door, unlocked because he'd had his hands full, opened and closed behind him. Without looking he knew it was Blake. He could smell the man's aftershave. "Get out of here."

"Not until I've said what I came to say."

Ruthlessly quelling the tendency of his hands to shake, Avon poured himself a cup and seated himself on the side of the bed. Donning his most arctic manner, he refused to look at Blake, "Very well, say it and then get out."

"I apologize. I didn't understand, and I overreacted." Even without seeing his face, Avon could imagine the sorrow in those gentle eyes. He hardened his heart.

"Apology accepted. Good-bye." Taking the cup in both of his hands, Avon willed the heat into his body. It wasn't working. And Blake wasn't leaving.

"Tell me about Jordan."

He nearly dropped the cup. When he looked up at Blake, something about his expression made the doctor lurch back, but he didn't turn and go. Setting the tea aside, Avon stood up. "Vila just lost his job." He smiled.

"Soolin says we're acting like a couple of adolescents. I'm beginning to agree with her."

"Get out of here, Blake. Jordan is none of your business. Nothing about me is your business."

"That's where you're wrong." Daring, Blake took a step nearer, which put him within arm's length in the tiny cabin.

For the first time, Avon realized how pale the other man looked. As if he were actually afraid. Or in some considerable pain. Distracted from his own concerns, his tone unconsciously dropped its acid when he asked, "Are you all right? I hit you pretty hard."

Visibly confused, Blake echoed, "Hit me? Oh. You mean...no, I'm not hurt. It's you that's hurting, and it distresses me to a degree you obviously find intrusive. I would apologize, but it's too late for me, Avon. I've already fallen for you. You're going to have to really hurt me now to be rid of me."

Avon stared, not sure what was happening to him. Instinctively recoiling from what felt much like a trap, he loaded his voice with arrogant contempt: "Come now, doctor, we've had this particular discussion before, haven't we?"

"Tell me about Jordan," Blake persisted.

"You wouldn't understand." Or maybe you would, he thought, but I'm afraid to let you in. It startled him to realize his own cowardice, but he only allowed Blake to see his professionally blank, uninformative face -- if anything, he must appear threatening, he supposed.

Blake regarded him silently for several heartbeats, then seemed somehow to grow smaller, his stance admitting defeat. One large hand came up in an aborted gesture, then he shrugged and turned around. Hand on the latch, Blake said quietly, "I'm sorry. I won't inflict myself on you again."

Just as the knob turned, Avon reached past Blake and place a palm flat against the door, holding it shut. "Wait. If you're serious...." Avon's heart was racing, part of his mind warning him that he was risking much, much more than he had a right to.

Slowly turning, Blake did not speak, only letting all he felt show in his face.

Inches away, Avon swallowed hard. "The boy in San Francisco might have been Jordan's twin. She meant for me to hesitate -- to freeze, because of the memory. She would have killed you, and him, and left me alive. Are you listening, Blake? I couldn't let her do that. If I'd lost you too, I couldn't have..." His voice disappeared. Locked in remembered terror and grief, Avon fought to control himself.

"Me...too?" The rich baritone was small and innocent, edged with newborn hope.

A moan tore out of Avon's aching chest. "Damn you. I can resist your pomposity and quick temper. If you'd stayed angry with me, I could have let you go."

"I don't want to be let go." The tone suggested what he did want, and it required all Avon's will power not to simply take the man, right there, against the door.

On a knife-edge of hysteria, Avon smiled. "Remember the night I woke you in your lab?" A silent nod from Blake. "I very nearly kissed you."

"I wish you had done," Blake's deep voice rumbled.

Avon could no more hurt Blake than he could step out of the plane and fly on his own. Strangely, the way the doctor was looking at him bled away all his fear and left only the need to touch. To hold and to be held. Still... "I'm not into casual relationships, Blake," Avon warned. "If you get involved with me, you'll find me jealous and possessive."

Trying somewhat unsuccessfully to smile, Blake attempted to joke, "'Til death do us part?"

One step, and he was pressed against the larger man's body. Raising his hand, he stopped Blake's mouth with his fingers. "Don't speak of death."

"All right," the agreement came a bit breathlessly, as Avon felt the other man's arms come up around him lightly, as if he were still unsure it would be acceptable.

Trailing his fingers across Blake's lips, he moved his hand down to place the palm directly over the great artery in the column of his neck, beginning to smile when he felt the rapid acceleration of the pulse pounding there. At long, long last, he permitted himself to touch that riot of curls, twining the fingers of his other hand in their silk and using the grip to bring Blake's head closer for their first kiss.

I don't believe this, Blake thought. Was it really this simple all along? And then he couldn't really think anymore, because the heat of Avon's tongue in his mouth set him afire as he had not been for years. Trying to control his own pace, wanting only to savor this first time, he groaned aloud and gave it up as impossible when a simple pivot and gentle shove sent him sprawling backwards to the bed and he rather lost track of where his own flesh ended and Avon's began. Fabric stretched and tore as they frantically disrobed one another, seemingly unable to get close enough quickly enough. Too soon, he came almost painfully, moaning into the other man's mouth.

Lying in a sticky, rumpled heap, Blake gasped air into starved lungs, inordinately pleased to see that Avon had been as eager as he, and as out of control. "Have you been tested?" The delighted sound of laughter startled him. Slightly offended, he asked, "Why is that funny?"

Stretching, apparently content, Avon responded, "I find it somehow reassuring that romance is not the foremost of your characteristics."

Sitting up, not looking at his new lover, Blake growled, "There is nothing romantic about AIDS."

Soft with regret, Avon's face appeared as he lay his head in Blake's lap. "Forgive me. I seem to have a positive gift for hurting you."

Mesmerized by those compelling eyes, Blake jerked himself back to reality with no small effort. "Have you?"

"Yes, I've been tested. It's a government requirement for known homosexuals who carry expensive contracts with Her Majesty. I am not carrying the virus. I was never promiscuous, and since I detest venereal disease, I had always used condoms before Jordan, who was a virgin when we met."

Something unclenched in Blake's chest. He smoothed back the fine, dark hair, traced the curve of the jaw. "Aren't you going to ask me?"

"No." A slight smile. "You see, I'm afraid that I trust you. You'd never deliberately endanger me."

To cover the strength of his emotion, Blake shifted Avon until they lay side by side on the tiny bed. One soft kiss later, he said, "You terrify me, you know."

"How so?" The smile that went with the question warmed Blake's heart.

Gasping at the sensation as Avon's hand trailed down from his breastbone to his belly, then lower still, he managed, "Absolute trust can be a terrible burden."

"Get used to it."

"Ah, God!" Blake grabbed the straying wrist and stilled the inquisitive hand. "Wait. Let me tell you."

Putting his hands behind his head, Avon gave a wicked grin. "So tell me."

"I was twenty-seven before I admitted to myself that I was gay. I was married, had a son."

He was silent for so long that Avon prompted, "Past tense?"

Expelling a ragged breath, Blake nodded. "Anna was horrified when I told her. Repulsed, actually. She took Aaron and went away. She divorced me in the States. I never saw them again."

Another long silence. "Blake? You don't have to do this."

"I want to." Staring at the ceiling, he went on, "My only male lover was an older man. He was gentle and very good to me. He always insisted on safe sex because he feared he had the virus. As it happens, he did. He died in my arms five years ago." Before he could stop himself, he rushed out with the rest. "Last year, I learned that Anna had committed suicide. It seems Aaron had been in an automobile accident in France. The blood they gave him carried the virus. It killed him very quickly."

When he realized Avon had embraced him, was gently rocking him, he raised his head and saw sorrow written large in dark eyes. "Regret is a part of life, Roj. You mustn't let it become an obsession."

"I will find the cure," Blake insisted.

"I believe you will." Avon began his tantalizing exploration once more. "In the meanwhile, it's very nice to know that you can fuck me. You do want to, don't you?"

"Christ, what a tease!" Grabbing the inquisitive hand again, he rumbled, "If that's what you want, Kerr, you'd better go a bit more carefully. I won't last long if you keep that up."

Avon chuckled, "You keep 'that' up. I'll get the lube."

Blake roared with laughter, until Avon returned from the lavatory and otherwise occupied him for the remainder of the flight home.

Sioban wouldn't have put it past Avon to plant the stories in the newspapers about the death of the hostage and the cashiering of the head of the security company who had allowed it. Once she found his local through her informants, therefore, she personally watched him off and on for three days. As had been reported, he appeared in the pub the moment it opened, sat in a rear corner and rebuffed anyone who came near while he drank enough to sink a ship and never seemed to show the effects. Except, she noted now, he hadn't shaved for a couple of days, an extraordinary lapse for him, and his burgundy-colored sweater looked less than fresh. From time to time, one of the local girls would try to join him. If he even noticed, he would shake his head and turn moodily away toward the wall until the woman left him alone. As the day wore on, his militarily erect posture slumped, and she could see the pain in his eyes from across the room.

It was a pleasure to watch Avon suffer. So much so, that she'd probably been watching him longer than she'd had to, pretending it was to make certain she wasn't being set up. Her own short, black hair concealed by an auburn wig and her eyes tinted almost black by contacts, she abandoned her own table near closing time, ignoring the admiring glances she won from the other bar patrons and joined the solitary drunk in the corner. Automatically, he turned away. Producing her small weapon from its thigh holster under cover of the table, she pushed it almost gently against his ribs and breathed in his ear, "Get up and come outside, Avon, or I'll kill you where you sit."

He froze for a moment, and then, evidently attempting to sober up enough to deal with her, turned his head. She smiled sweetly. "You cost me the rest of my fee, my dear. I have to kill you now, to repair my reputation. You do understand."

She swayed back slightly, reacting to his alcohol-rich breath when he spoke, "Am I supposed to care where I die?"

Shoving the gun into his side with more force, she hissed, "Don't make me do it here, Avon. I'll gut shoot you. Cooperate, and I'll make it quick."

He blinked slowly, then nodded. "Very well. No sense frightening the civilians."

"I knew you'd be sensible. Back door, please." She had enough respect for his ability, drunk or not, to keep sufficient distance between them as they proceeded to the rear to prevent any attempt to disarm her. Outside, the alleyway was illuminated only by a low-wattage bulb beside the rear door. She ordered him to put his hands high on the wall and back away from it, feet widespread.

Following instructions, he asked, "Why bother? Can't bear to shoot me face to face?"

Laughing, she replied, "Perhaps. After all, we've been through so much together, haven't we?"

She heard him mumble something under his breath, but before she could tell him to speak up, felt a sharp sting at her throat. Unconsciously reaching up to swat the responsible insect, she barely had time to realize she'd been hit by a dart before she was falling.

Blake stayed away, troubled by the morality, or lack thereof, of kidnapping and drugging the Irishwoman, but he did see Avon's point. The two of them would never be able to relax until they knew who was behind what the Americans would have termed a "contract" on Blake. The doctor only saw her briefly before she was turned over to CI5, to assure himself she wasn't badly damaged by drugs that had been known to cause some severe side effects. Afterwards, he sat in on the planning meeting held over dinner.

Vila was grinning. "I love it. Poetic justice."

Blake was scowling. Avon sighed. "All right. Say it and get it over with, Blake."

"It's wrong."

"So is what he's trying to do to you and your work. He's lining his pockets at the expense of other people's lives."

"But...it strikes at what is probably his worst fear. That seems --"

"Blake, I don't need your approval to do this. It isn't unlawful to do what I'm proposing to do. You may find it repugnant, or" and here he smiled, "immoral, but I suspect the two of us have different priorities in that area which are never going to agree."

The physician sighed and rubbed his face, looked around the table at the others, none of whom seemed inclined to take his side. Struck suddenly by their acceptance of him into their "family," and the utter lack of discomfort they displayed at the knowledge he was their business partner's lover, he smiled and shook his head. They would protect him, he suddenly realized, whether he liked it or not. The others because of Avon, as much as because of their contract, and Avon because...because he loved him. Throat aching, Blake blinked rapidly and took a rather large drink of his wine. Contriving to spill the drink on himself, he was able to leave the table and hide himself away to deal with his emotions. Although he half expected to be followed, Avon didn't come. Not then, and not that night at all.

Blake paced the corridors of the building, tried to settle down to read something, even tried to work on his research, but nothing helped. He should have gone along. What if something went wrong? They were skating very close to the edge of illegality in this, and if anything happened...what if the man were the type to defend his property with guns? What if something happened to Avon?

He shook his head, forced himself to disrobe and climbed into bed. Nothing would happen to Avon. Avon was the best. Besides, if anything did happen to Avon, Blake would...he shocked himself by thinking that he would personally kill Carnall.

It was nearly dawn before he heard the hollow sound of the underground garage doors closing and realized they'd gone to carry out their plan immediately after he'd left them.

By the wan light of sunrise, Blake saw his lover enter the room. "You look exhausted. Is it over?"

Pulling off his windbreaker, Avon rolled his shoulders as though they ached and shed his shoulder holster. Placing the former on the back of a chair and hanging the latter over the bedpost, he nodded. "Yes." He sat heavily down and put his face in his hands.

Scooting over to wrap his arms around Avon, Blake pressed a kiss against the stubbled cheek. "What happened?"

"He died."

Jolted, the doctor sat up on the edge of the bed. Half-angry, he demanded, "Why? I thought you said..."

Raising tormented eyes to meet Blake's, the pale agent said, "I was stupid, Roj. I thought if we injected him with sterile water and told him it was the AIDS virus, he'd put his entire fortune at your disposal for research. At the very least, he should have taken steps to make certain nothing ever happened to you." The dark gaze unfocused, staring beyond Blake and into an infinity of pain. "He wasn't old. How could I know he'd have a massive heart attack? We called the ambulance, did all we could, but...." His voice trailed away.

Blake remembered the man -- he'd only met him twice, but David Carnall was unforgettable. Tall and blonde, he was charming, smooth and intelligent. And richer than Midas. Blake shook his head in wonder. "He was always on the Board at he hospital, and the AIDS Institute. He was always first in line to contribute to research. Did he give you any idea at all as to why he wouldn't want us to succeed?"

After pulling off his boots, Avon collapsed backward onto the bed. "Think about it for a moment."

Lying on his side beside his weary love, Blake propped himself up on one elbow. "What? He gave every evidence of being in the forefront of those who want a cure to be found as quickly as possible."

Eyes closed, one arm flung over his head, the other resting across his abdomen, Avon grimaced. "Think, Blake. He was never married. He almost became a priest. He was a member of Opus Dei. He was violently opposed to legislation guaranteeing fair treatment for homosexuals, purportedly because there were already sufficient laws in force to cover the issues the same as for any other minority."

"Are you saying Carnall hated homosexuals because he was one and couldn't deal with it?"

"On the other hand, a lot of his money came from his family's interests in a large drug company that produces AZT. Also...your Anna was a distant cousin of his." Suddenly, Avon launched himself from the bed and strode to the window, where he stared out, hands braced on either side, his form starkly outlined by the increasing light. "Just forget it," he snarled. "It's all moot now, isn't it?"

After some little time while he digested the fact that it had probably been personal after all, Blake realized Avon was still in agony. "What is it? You never so much as flinched when you killed that gunman in San Francisco. Why is this different?"

His body so rigid Blake fancied he could see the tension thrumming through it, Avon rasped out his words as if they were edged with razors. "He wept, Roj. He told me he was afraid, begged me to help him. It was like...abusing a child."

Blake found tears welling in his eyes. He joined Avon at the window and cuddled up to him from behind. "And you held him while he died, didn't you?" Avon didn't answer, except to shrug a shoulder. "You are the most remarkable person."

Avon shuddered, and Blake didn't think it was because he'd plastered himself against the smaller man's back. "Oh yes," came the harsh whisper. "The angel of death."

Furious, Blake straightened and forcibly turned Avon about to face him. Hands clamped down on the taut shoulders, he rapped, "Stop that at once. You would have let him live. You said it yourself. How could you have known he would have a heart attack? What was he -- thirty-eight? Perhaps even less. He was a vigorous athlete. A mountain climber as I recall. And when he began to die, you didn't back away from him -- you helped him, as much as one human can help another in that situation. He didn't die alone."

All pupil, the dark eyes looked blind. "No." The whisper was brightly brittle. "He took a piece of me with him. There isn't much of me left, Blake. Perhaps you should get away while you can. Find someone who..."

Well, that was the utter outside of enough. Putting a hand over that sculpted mouth, Blake was alarmed at how chilled the flesh felt beneath his fingers. "Shut up and listen! I won't have this morbid nonsense from you, do you understand me? I love you, and intend to spend the rest of my life trying to make you understand that, starting right now. You're on the verge of a collapse, so we'll begin by getting you into bed and warm."

"Fool," Avon muttered, but he didn't resist Blake's forced march back to the bed. He didn't fight it when Blake undressed him, gathered him up as if he were a child and held him against his own broad chest, stroking his hair.

After pulling the covers up over both of them, Blake rested his chin on Avon's head, willing the other man to warmth and relaxation. After the almost convulsive shivers had subsided, he said, "I'm taking you on a honeymoon. Where would you like to go?"

"I'm comfortable right here."

Disconcerted, Blake asked, "You don't want to go away?"

Avon turned his head and licked Blake's right nipple. "You decide. I trust you, remember?"

Blake's heart swelled, but he maintained a light tone. "The Italian Riviera is very nice."

"Fine. We'll go tomorrow. Right now, however..."

"Hm? Ah, God!"

"Thought you might like that."

"Shut up, Avon. Just shut up and love me."

"Endlessly."

~~~

Avon meant to treat Blake to the best sexual experience of his life, so touched was he by the man's unfailing faith in him, so moved by the enfolding warmth of what Avon could not doubt was love in its best, most lifegiving form. He found himself, instead, swept away, Blake's soft hands, so unlike his own callused ones, soothing the tension from his back and neck, then proceeding to treasure every part of him. Blake's breath on his loins caused him to surge upward even before the hot cavern of Blake's mouth opened to take him in and cherish his sex.

Time and again, Blake took him to the edge of orgasm, then abandoned his weeping member to crawl up his body and drown him with kisses, decorating his shoulders with bites and kisses, murmuring the most ridiculous things about how beautiful he was. He surrendered to sensation, stunned into a sort of erotic daze, uncaring that he reacted to every caress with gasp or whimper or unbridled cry, almost without strength to hold on to the body that swarmed over him, then, at long last, filled him, completed and healed him, thrusting him over the precipice into the no-time, no-place of perfect union. Weeping with pleasure and gratitude, Avon curled against his lover's side, head on his shoulder, enduring the soft laughter as Blake wiped his tears away, as he would never have done with anyone before. Blake wasn't laughing at him. Blake was loving him. Blake was making him whole. Holding onto that thought, as he held on to Blake, one arm thrown possessively across the smooth, muscled chest, he allowed himself to fall asleep.

=30=