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The hotel lobby is all sterile marble and corporate efficiency — beige walls, generic abstract art, the kind of soulless luxury that could exist in any major city. But it’s blessedly warm, heated air rushing over him as the glass doors slide shut behind him, and Irving is grateful enough for the reprieve from London’s bitter cold that he doesn’t mind.
Irving opens the door to his room and immediately notices the ice bucket with champagne in it that he did not order, two flutes next to it.
‘Please tell me this isn’t going on my bill,’ he says to the room, his tone perfectly conversational as he shrugs off his jacket. ‘Boërl & Kroff is a little out of my price range.’
‘You didn’t have to blow up all those bunkers to get my attention, you know,’ comes the response. Burt Goodman steps into his frame of vision, and Irving’s breath catches despite himself. The bastard looks exactly as devastating as Irving remembers — those razor-sharp cheekbones, pale eyes that dance with perpetual mischief, his whole body moving with the kind of languorous grace that suggests he’s never doubted his place at the top of the food chain. ‘You could’ve just called. I did give you my number.’
‘I didn't think you’d be answering calls from washed-up desk jockeys.’ He leans casually against the doorframe, but his posture remains alert, coiled.
‘Washed-up?’ Goodman’s eyebrows rise as he approaches, champagne bottle in hand. ‘The man who just destroyed my entire Romanian operation? I do hope that’s not how you see yourself. Even if I did give you a head start.’
‘Your info was so vague that it barely registers as help,’ Irving counters.
‘That’s because I knew only you could figure it out. Pays to have faith.’ Goodman pops the cork with ease.
Irving can’t help but bark out a laugh. ‘Faith! That’s rich, coming from you. I find myself short of that commodity lately.’
Goodman’s eyes practically twinkle with delight as he pours, like Irving has just offered him the most delicious piece of gossip. ‘Oh, do tell. Has our resident boy scout finally started questioning his beloved superiors? How rebellious of you.’
‘Learning you’re disposable to your employers does that to a person.’ Irving accepts the flute, their fingers brushing.
‘And yet you continue to do their bidding,’ Goodman observes, but Irving thinks he hears a bit of actual curiosity.
‘It’s still worth doing. And destroying your arms cache bought me enough goodwill to get off the shitlist. So I owe you one.’
‘And you say I’m not philanthropic. You’re welcome.’ Goodman holds out his flute, and Irving hesitates for just a beat before meeting it with his own.
Irving takes a sip of champagne, complex and effervescent on his tongue, before holding Goodman’s gaze. ‘So have you come to collect on your debt?’
Goodman affects a look of disappointment. ‘How pedestrian. I like to think of it more as an investment. Can’t have the most intriguing man I’ve met in years disposed of so carelessly by those blind to your talents.’
‘I shudder to think what returns you expect from me after losing a whole operation for my sake.’
‘Who says I lost anything?’ Goodman smirks, a little too self-satisfied for Irving’s taste. ‘Your little fireworks display led to a much more lucrative opportunity elsewhere. I should be thanking you. How naturally you take to field work. They never should’ve chained you to a desk.’
Irving studies him over the rim of his glass, calculating. ‘I don’t particularly appreciate being used.’
‘Let’s be precise with our terminology,’ Goodman moves closer, voice dropping to that low register that makes Irving’s heartbeat stutter. ‘You say used like you didn’t enjoy every second of it. The planning, the execution, the thrill of being back where you belong …’ His gaze travels slowly down Irving’s body and back up. ‘Tell me you didn’t feel more alive than you have in years.’
‘You were counting on me to feel that way. Made it easy for you to let me do your dirty work while you positioned yourself for something bigger.’ Irving drains his flute in one go.
‘Smart boy.’ Goodman refills Irving’s glass. His eyes narrow slightly, reassessing. ‘Perhaps too smart. Makes me wonder … for all I know, you orchestrated this whole chain of events. That there’s some angle to my new deal that benefits you in a way I just haven’t seen yet.’
A small smile plays at Irving’s lips. ‘Now that would be something, wouldn’t it? A desk jockey outmaneuvering the legendary Burt Goodman.’
‘It would be impressive,’ Goodman admits, eyes glittering with something between admiration and wariness. ‘What’s your game?’
Irving shrugs nonchalantly. ‘I’m just a guy trying to do the right thing.’
‘The right thing,’ Goodman repeats mockingly. ‘That coup in Nicaragua, was that the right thing? How about arming four different factions in the Congo? At least I’m honest about what I am. Your agency just does it with flags and committees and the illusion of moral authority.’
Irving’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t back down. ‘You have no cause, no country, no loyalty to anything except the highest bidder.’
If the accusations hit their mark, Goodman doesn’t show it. Instead his smile turns predatory as he regards Irving with renewed interest. ‘Such righteous indignation. And yet despite all your scruples …’ he tilts his head, curious, questioning. ‘Here you are. In London. When you have no official reason to be here. So tell me, Irving — why did you really come?’
‘A man can’t take some time off and visit the British Museum? There were some Picasso prints I was very interested in seeing.’
‘Of course.’ Goodman’s voice is deceptively mild. ‘Pure chance that you’re staying three blocks from where you know I conduct business.’ He reaches out to straighten Irving’s collar with deliberate intimacy. ‘Did you choose this particular hotel for the thread count, or were you hoping I’d come knocking?’
‘You're awfully sure of yourself.’
Goodman shifts closer, his breath ghosting across Irving’s ear. ‘I’m sure that you’ve been thinking about Rome every night since.’
Irving’s pulse pounds traitorously fast. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’
‘Flatter myself?’ Goodman’s smile widens as he pulls back. ‘If anything, I’m flattering you. Because I could have let my people handle the London business. But here I am, chasing after some boy scout pencil pusher. Remarkably foolish of me, isn’t it? So why don’t you save us both the pretense and tell me — did you want me to find you?’
Something about Goodman demanding honesty makes Irving want to laugh out loud at the sheer audacity of it. For the first time since Rome, Irving realizes he might actually have some leverage here — Goodman wants this just as much as he does. The admission has cost him something, and Irving knows how to exploit weakness when he sees it.
‘Where’s the fun in certainty?’ Irving sets his flute down before stepping back into Goodman’s space. ‘Why don’t we skip the interrogation and do something far more worth your precious time.’
Goodman’s eyes darken with interest. ‘And what did you have in mind?’
Instead of answering immediately, Irving leans in close enough that he can smell that familiar cologne. His hand comes up slowly, fingers tracing the line of Goodman’s jaw before sliding down to rest against his throat. His palm spans the width of Goodman's neck, and if he squeezes just so, he could crush his windpipe with the slightest pressure.
But instead, Irving’s thumb traces maddeningly gentle circles over Goodman’s racing pulse, feeling the rapid thrum of life beneath his fingertips. The touch is a reminder of just how easily Irving could end this — and they both know it. He watches with twisted satisfaction as Goodman’s pupils dilate, not with fear but with unmistakable arousal, the man’s usual composure cracking under the intoxicating weight of such vulnerability.
Goodman’s breath comes shorter now, and Irving can feel the slight buck of his throat against his palm as he swallows hard.
‘You already know,’ Irving murmurs, his thumb now brushing along the hollow of Goodman’s throat where his shirt collar lies open, exploring the sensitive skin there with the same precision he’d use to find a pressure point.
‘Careful,’ Goodman breathes out. His own hands slide up Irving’s arms, fingers following the corded muscle beneath his sleeves before wrapping around his wrists — not to break free, but to remind Irving that he’s just as capable of violence. ‘I might start thinking you actually want to keep me around.’
‘Only if you don’t drug me this time, Goodman.’
‘Burt, surely, especially now that I’ve had your —’
Irving’s fingers tighten around his throat for just a moment; not much, but enough to cut off whatever pithy comment he was about to make. Then, Irving slides his hand around the back of his neck, pulls Burt into a fierce, hungry kiss, and suddenly, neither of them has anything clever to say anymore.
The best way to capture a predator, Irving has learned in his long years of service, is not to defend yourself from him. Instead, you seduce him. Make him think he’s the one choosing you.
But somewhere between the cafe in Rome and here, now, with Burt making the most delicious noises under him, he’s lost track of who’s hunting whom.
Irving wakes to gray light filtering through the hotel curtains and the sound of Burt moving quietly around the room, dressing for the day. His thoughts drift through the fog of too much champagne and too little sleep, his body settling into awareness with a pleasant soreness as he sits up and leans against the headboard.
‘Leaving so soon?’ he asks. The sheet pools at his waist, and he doesn’t miss the way Burt’s eyes track the movement with appreciation.
Burt pauses in buttoning his shirt, unashamedly letting his gaze linger. ‘Early meeting.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d tell me with whom.’
‘I’m not about to offer information for free.’
Irving laughs. ‘It was worth a shot.’
Burt moves to the bedside, now fully dressed and looking every inch the respectable businessman while Irving remains wantonly undressed in rumpled sheets. ‘But you can have this. I’ll be in Prague next month. The Four Seasons, if you find yourself needing another vacation.’
‘I don’t think that’s included in my per diem.’
‘Maybe you need a new job.’
‘I’m not about to join your outfit, if that’s what you’re implying.’
‘Of course not. I would never. Because you’re so principled and upstanding and —’
Irving pulls him down by his tie and his mouth finds Burt’s before he can say another word.
Eventually, they break apart, both breathing harder than they’d like to admit. For a moment they just look at each other, and Irving’s gaze drops to the mouth that’s issued God knows how many kill orders and still manages to be the most tempting thing Irving’s ever tasted.
It should disturb him more than it does, this hunger for a man whose hands are stained with so much blood.
Then again, Irving’s own hands aren’t exactly clean either.
‘As delightful as this has been, I must get going,’ Burt says as he gets up and heads for the door.
‘What's the rush?’ Irving settles back against the headboard, letting the sheet slip even lower on his hips. ‘Gherbi will be cancelling your meeting.’
As if on cue, Burt’s phone buzzes, and as he reads the message, his eyes sparkle with intrigue. He looks back at Irving, begrudgingly admiring. ‘Should I ask how you arranged that?’
‘Probably not.’ Irving stretches against the pillows, enjoying the way Burt’s gaze hungrily traces every line of exposed skin. ‘I’d hate to lose my competitive advantage.’
‘You've been busy.’
‘So have you. The entire floor is empty — and the one above. And below. That can’t have been cheap, even for you.’ Irving’s smile is all teeth. ‘How long have you known I’d be here?’
‘As long as you’ve been planning Gherbi’s inconvenience, I imagine.’ Burt runs a hand through his hair with mild annoyance. ‘You’ve set me back at least a week.’
‘I have no doubt you’ll improvise something diabolical to make up for it.’
Burt moves back toward him, no longer in such a hurry. ‘It’s been a long time since someone managed to surprise me. I find it … stimulating.’
‘Good. Because I plan to keep doing it.’
‘It appears my morning just freed up.’ He sits on the edge of the bed next to Irving, looking at him with something that might almost be fondness.
Irving is under no illusions. The moment they both leave this room, he and Goodman will return to being adversaries, trying to stay one step ahead of the other. There’ll be new intelligence to gather and new plans to thwart. But right now, as Burt loosens his tie and moves towards him with barely disguised want, Irving reflects that after decades of making the mission his only priority, he’s damn well earned the right to a little indulgence.