The Administration Series (72 page)

"Explained what?"

"That you —" Then she looked at him squarely, anger overcoming the embarrassment. "You
know
what. I'm not saying it simply to amuse you."

"That's not why I asked." Calm and reasonable. "I just want to be sure that you understand that he's all right. That you know what's going on between us."

"I don't
want
to know!" she snapped.

Oh, but she did. He could see the curiosity hidden deep behind the surface emotions. Maybe this was a way through her defences. Somewhere along the line his playful interest had turned serious; the insane impracticality of trying this here didn't matter. He wanted her.

"You thought I was beating him up, didn't you?" A little touch of hurt at the assumption.

Her anger drained away as she looked down briefly. "Yes. I . . . I don't know if you can — well, maybe you can understand how it looked." She looked back. "I
am
sorry."

"It's a game, Dillian. We both play it. I don't make him do anything he doesn't want to — as if I could." He smiled, drawing a small smile from her in response. "And it's only when we fuck."

She blinked at the word, but she was listening. Of course she was. Warrick would never tell her. If she wanted to know, she'd have to get it from him. He savoured the thought for a moment, then continued.

"In fact, it's not even all the time then. But the rest of the time I don't order him around, I
don't
beat him up. I've never hurt him, and I never will."

His calm, even tone was pulling her further into the conversation despite herself. The flush had retreated from everywhere except her lips and cheekbones, and suddenly he wanted to ask her, Did you hear us fucking last night? Did it turn you on?

"You believe me, don't you?" he asked.

She didn't answer.

"No? Why not?"

"Maybe because it's too much like . . . taking your work home."

"It's
nothing
at
all
like my work," he said with a coldness that wasn't entirely manufactured.

"But you
hit
him," she blurted out, caught off-balance by his reaction.

"Not too hard."

"Hard enough to bruise."

"Sometimes. And then it's still not too hard, because it's what he wants. But that's not what it's about." Remembering Warrick the first time they'd fucked, he said, "Give me your hands."

"What? No!"

"Come on." He smiled. "Just a small demonstration. No bruises, I promise."

He waited out a long moment of silence, before curiosity won out and she offered her hands diffidently.

"All right. Now close your eyes."

A last look, still mistrustful, before her dark lashes swept closed.

He circled her wrists with his hands, bringing them together. He didn't hold her tightly, but it was secure enough.

"Now. Pull away."

She frowned slightly, eyes still closed. "What?"

"Try to take your hands away from me."

She twisted her hands, tentatively at first, then more strongly, her frown turning to concentration. He held her easily until she gave up.

"There. No bruises. And that's all it takes, sometimes."

He lowered his voice, leaned closer, and she didn't back away. "It's not about pain, it's about giving up control to someone else. Everything beyond that is frills and fun. It couldn't work unless he trusted me. Can you see that?"

She opened her eyes and nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, I think so."

"He can walk away from it any time. I won't try to stop him." Easy to say, because Warrick would never leave. "But as long as he
does
want it, I'm staying."

This time she didn't say anything, but she nodded again and smiled slightly, acknowledging his point. Warrick's smile.

Utterly and literally irresistible. He let go of one wrist and put his hand on her waist, leaning down to kiss her. And straight away, he knew he'd fucked it up. He got only the briefest contact of beautifully soft lips, a tantalising taste of her breath, before she jerked away, her eyes blazing.

He didn't try to duck the slap, because that was a good way to catch a fingernail in the eye. Besides, standing there and taking it created a better impression.

"You . . ." She looked at her hand, as if she couldn't believe the reflex. "No one has
ever
made me do that before." Angry with herself more than with him.

"I'm sorry," he said evenly. "I thought you wanted me to."

"How can I put this?" Dillian pursed her lips thoughtfully. "If every other man in the solar system developed hideous boils over their entire body, I'd still have sex with every last one of them before I'd even
think
about you."

Toreth blinked, then grinned. "But you'd get round to me in the end? That's nice to know."

She studied him, and her voice hardened. "You don't care, do you? What about Keir? Do you care at all about
him
?"

The ice in her question stabbed right through him, because in the fun of the chase, he'd genuinely, utterly forgotten what Warrick would do if he knew. He'd talked about him, and he'd been nothing more that a tool to get to her. Surely she couldn't say anything? How would it look, if she explained what had happened between them?

'Luckily, I trust
her
.'

Warrick would believe her, obviously — believe whatever she told him. Fuck, if she said anything, Warrick would . . .

He found he couldn't even think about it. Now where was his confidence that Warrick would never walk away?

"Don't tell him, Dillian, please. I —" I forgot about him? No, the truth sounded too ridiculous, so he settled for abject begging. "Please. I was stupid, I'm sorry. I got . . . carried away. Please don't tell him." Dignity was a small price to pay for getting out of this.

A long, agonising pause followed, and he knew she was really thinking about it. She might say no.

When she finally spoke, her tone was still so cold that he was sure she would refuse. "What goes on between you and Keir is your business. What goes on between you and
me
is mine. You will never,
ever
do that again."

She paused. "But I'm giving you
one
chance." Even relenting, her voice was like diamond. "If you try it again, I
will
tell him, believe me."

He looked into her pale, angry, beautiful face. With the reprieve offered, he found himself still not wanting to give up the idea of having her, but willing to let it go back into the realm of pure fantasy because he did believe her.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "And I'm sorry. I didn't —"

She put her hand up. "Don't bother. Don't apologise, don't pretend. Just don't do it again."

Could have gone a lot worse. He took a deep breath and nodded, keeping the smile of relief firmly off his face. "Never again. Promise."

She studied his face for a moment, then shook her head and turned back to the sink. He wondered whether to stay or go, but in the end he picked the tea towel up again and continued drying. Not surprisingly, she didn't seem to be in the mood for conversation, so he passed the rest of the time imagining fucking her over the sink in a slippery mess of washing-up foam.

They left the next morning. Kate, Valeria and Dillian came out to say goodbye, and Warrick was disappointed, but not entirely surprised, to see that Dillian's attitude towards Toreth appeared to have cooled again. Tarin hadn't appeared, but that was no surprise, either. The holiday hardly qualified as a great success, but he supposed that it could have gone worse. The expression on Toreth's face when Valeria demanded a goodbye kiss was almost worth the trip by itself.

In the car, he sat, time passing, waiting with something between impatience and unbearable anticipation. The leather belt was coiled in his pocket, the buckle digging into his hip. By unspoken agreement, the present had lain, unused, the previous evening. It was something that needed time and concentration to be enjoyed. Here, or not until they got back to the flat? He couldn't even remember whose flat they were going to. Toreth's, he thought.

Toreth sat opposite him, reading something, occasionally humming. Once or twice he checked his watch. To keep up appearances, Warrick read too, or at least looked at the screen and turned pages occasionally. Was Toreth doing the same?

Sometimes he did wonder whether Toreth got as much out of this as he did. Some of it he knew Toreth enjoyed. Hearing that Warrick wanted him, how much he wanted him — usually desperately, by that point in the proceedings — was something he never seemed to tire of. Making him wait for it, sometimes longer than he could bear. And the fucking — he didn't seem to mind that too much, either. If Toreth didn't get off on his part in the scenes, then presumably he wouldn't still be around. Happy coincidence of compatibility.

Finally Toreth touched the controls and the car windows darkened. "Give me the belt."

Mouth suddenly dry, all he could manage was to sit and do nothing.

Toreth leaned closer, took the screen out of his hands and turned it off. "I know you've got it with you. You couldn't put it down."

"Not here."

"Give it to me."

He handed the belt over and watched as Toreth ran the length through his hands.

"Strip."

Now the hesitation was genuine. Sex was one thing, this was another. The chance the car could be stopped was very small, but real. Toreth gave him a few seconds to think about it, then spoke slowly and deliberately. "Strip, or I'll strip you."

He lowered his eyes and started to undress. He couldn't stand up completely in the space between the seats, but he managed. He could
feel
Toreth watching him, his gaze brushing over his skin like an invisible touch. The sim come to life.

"Now kneel. Close your eyes. Hold out your hands."

He obeyed and offered his wrists, held out together, waiting for the touch of the leather. So, when the belt tightened around his throat he couldn't help opening his eyes in mute surprise.

Toreth laughed and pulled lightly on the strap, fastening the buckle. "You're going to need your hands. Now —" He settled back in the seat, making himself comfortable."Suck me. And do it properly this time. Good and wet, because —" the pull on the belt increased slowly, inexorably pulling him downwards, "— because when I'm ready I'm going to fuck you here, on your knees, until I hear you scream for me, and then when we get to my flat I'm going to chain you to the wall and do it all over again. Understand?"

Warrick barely managed a nod, choked and breathless, neither of which had anything to do with the belt. It didn't matter what Dillian thought, and far, far, less what Tarin or anyone else might think. This made it all worthwhile.

The next day, even though the New Year holiday extended for another day, Toreth went in to work. There was only a skeleton staff at I&I, working on the most pressing cases. Most importantly, there was no Sara and no other source of interruptions.

It took him most of the morning to track the file down. It was as well hidden from casual searches as it could be without deleting it, but someone who knew the system thoroughly, and who had a good idea of what they were looking for, could still find it. Someone had set the storage descriptor to 'deep archive', which should only apply to prisoner record files over fifty years old. As far as he could tell, the classification had been set at the time the file was stored, which disproved his first assumption that Warrick had something to do with it.

The file proved to be short and interestingly uninformative.

Warrick's father had been arrested by Justice on the strength of reports about a network of resisters, obtained through interrogation of prisoners arrested in the process of being smuggled out of Europe. The information connected Leo Warrick to the creation of false shipping records; his company had been named, rather than him in person, but that had been more than enough to justify his arrest.

Reading between the lines, there had been a strong suspicion of his active involvement. Before a confession had been forthcoming, however, he had died under questioning. As far as Toreth could tell, the others arrested at the same time had never been asked directly to implicate him. Kate had been picked up, questioned briefly and gently, and released. No other family members or friends had been brought in.

Details of the death were vague. There was a suggestion of suicide and a brief note about the subsequent internal enquiry reeked of cover-up — the speedy conclusion had been an unexpected adverse drug reaction. The interrogator responsible had been reprimanded but not seriously disciplined.

There were only two realistic possibilities. The first was that there had been a friend within the Administration at work, someone who hadn't been able to prevent the arrest but was still influential enough to shield Leo Warrick's family from the worst consequences of his crimes, at the price of his life.

The second was that the prisoner had made a deal as soon as he'd been brought in, something common enough in a large case like this. He had given up the names the interrogators wanted and in return he had been offered a quick, clean death and safety for his family. If so, the Administration had kept its promises in spades. There had even been an informal apology and substantial compensation paid to Kate. All terribly by the book.

If a deal had been made there might be something on record, although since the main file had been so carefully mislaid that seemed doubtful. The other source of information would be the interrogator who handled the case. Toreth didn't recognise the name, but that didn't mean she hadn't made the transfer over from Justice.

If she hadn't retired or resigned, she could be working somewhere in I&I right now. He briefly considered trying to track her down, but there didn't seem to be much point. He couldn't justify his interest and it didn't matter anyway.

It was ancient history. All that mattered was whether that history could hurt Warrick and, by association, himself. Possibly, if it came to the attention of the wrong people. It was a close enough association to proven resisters to make sponsors and clients nervous, and hence to open Warrick to blackmail if he were the kind of person who would submit to it.