Curtis spluttered. “We could both be arrested!”
“Better than dead. Don’t panic, for heaven’s sake. We were playing cock in cover in the library, we had no idea they would photograph that interlude, therefore we don’t know what they’re up to, therefore it was a false alarm. We’re out of the woods, as long as you don’t raise anyone’s suspicions by having a conniption now.” He gave Curtis a slanted, not quite real smile. “No need to thank me.”
Curtis couldn’t believe he’d said that. “And what if they use the photographs? Hand them to the police?” Christ almighty. Five minutes of da Silva’s mouth and he was looking at two years for gross indecency.
“They’re blackmailers, you idiot, they don’t call the police. I have to get the films back, that’s all.” Da Silva sounded infuriatingly unruffled. “Calm down. This is trivial.”
“Trivial? You might not care about being caught in some ghastly compromising situation—”
Da Silva’s face tightened. “I care less about that than about being caught with my hands in our host’s till. Which, let me remind you, was what you brought on us when you blundered straight through that wire.”
“I know that, damn it!”
“Keep your voice down,” da Silva hissed. “And have you a better idea of how I could have deflected suspicion away from your stupidity, before you rant at me for sullying your inviolate body with my dirty ways?”
Curtis was sure he hadn’t said that, and didn’t much appreciate da Silva putting words in his mouth, but he was in no state to conduct an argument on two flanks. “Well, how the hell are we better off now?”
“We haven’t been knocked on the head and buried under the redwoods?”
“I might as bloody well be!” Curtis had to fight to keep his voice to a whisper. “You might be used to posing for filthy photographs—”
“Yes, poor you, it must have been awful.” Da Silva’s low tone rang with icy fury. “You’re a martyr to your country. You underrate your skills at dissembling, though, I could have sworn you were able to endure the disgusting business without too much agony.” He gave Curtis a vicious fake smile. “After all, you came.”
That was just bloody rude, and Curtis found himself retorting, “You made me come!”
Even as he realised how childish that sounded, da Silva was on his feet. “Well, I beg your pardon for imposing myself on you. Next time you may pick your own locks, solve your own problems, and suck your own cock. Good night, Mr. Curtis.”
He stalked out. Curtis stared after him.
After a few moments sitting on the bed, looking at nothing, he readied himself for sleep with automatic movements. He tried not to look into the mirror, not to think, not to hear any noises from across the hall—of course there weren’t any, this was da Silva.
He turned off the light and lay in bed, looking at the dark.
He’d had to do it, of course. There was no question about what they had found, or the Armstrongs’ ruthlessness in keeping their secrets. Armstrong’s men had been watching, suspicious. He—they—had had to do something. Curtis wouldn’t have thought of da Silva’s solution in a hundred years, but since he hadn’t come up with an alternative then or now, he could hardly complain.
He couldn’t pretend it had been a hardship, of course. Granted, he’d enjoyed it, but who wouldn’t? Any man would have felt the same pleasure, he was sure of that. Anyone would have come under those astonishing ministrations, that tight, hot throat, the exploring tongue. Especially a man who had been bereft of companionship for so long. A fellow had needs, and da Silva certainly knew how to satisfy them.
He was sure da Silva had taken pleasure in sucking him too. Those sounds he’d made, the purr in his throat, the little moan… Did that change things? Make it, well, queer?
Surely not. It could make no difference to Curtis whether da Silva had enjoyed the act or not. And the fellow might be a pansy but he seemed a decent sort of chap at heart, underneath the mannerisms and the hard, prickly shell. Curtis wouldn’t have wanted him to find the act disgusting.
It would have been a great deal worse if da Silva wasn’t a queer sort, now he considered it. What then? What if Curtis had had to kneel in front of da Silva, to take him in his mouth…
His mind was wandering. He needed to sleep.
He’d had too many disturbed nights here to stay wakeful for long, and the years of campaigning had taught him to empty his mind, no matter his daylight concerns. As he drifted off, the one thought that stayed with him wasn’t the cabinet’s contents, or the later events. It was that caressing, intimate rub of da Silva’s face against his leather glove.
Chapter Six