The Monuments Men Murders (The Art of Murder 4)

“The brass flew in from Salt Lake.”

“Of course.” Sam considered him. “You’re not worried about the shooting review, are you?”

“No. It was a good shoot.”

Sam said dryly, “Even if it wasn’t, it’s pretty rare the Bureau finds an agent at fault.”

No kidding. In 228 shooting incidents ranging from 2011 to the present, the Bureau’s internal review process had only five times found that agents acted improperly in discharging their weapons, and none of those times had been fatalities. Granted, there were very good reasons for that. Unlike a city police force, FBI agents tended to be older, better trained, more experienced, and maybe more to the point, not out there patrolling the streets and responding to in-progress crimes and unpredictable situations. When the Bureau went in, they went in with overwhelming force and a well-thought-out strategy.

“There was no gray area there,” Jason said. “It was fight or die.”

Sam said grimly, “It looked like it to me. And you agree the incident wasn’t connected to your case?”

“Yes. I mean, yes, I agree, and that’s what I believe. There doesn’t seem to be much doubt the shooting wasn’t connected. It’s just really weird and random that we happened to be there today.”

“Lucky for your subject.”

“Yes.”

“Were you able to interview him before hell broke loose?”

“Yes. Sort of. He was uncooperative.” Not for the first time, Jason considered confiding in Sam. Sam knew the bare bones of the case, of course; what he did not know was that Captain Thompson had implicated Jason’s grandfather in his theft of paintings and other items.

If Sam had known, in all likelihood he would have tried to convince Jason to recuse himself. That was certainly what Jason would recommend to another agent in his position.

Sam’s hand arrowed down beneath Jason’s belt, the waistbands of his jeans and boxers. “You’re losing weight, West.”

Jason jumped at that caressing intrusion. He didn’t bother to answer, raising his face to find Sam’s mouth, kissing him.

Sam kissed him back, but he murmured, “I worry about you.”

Jason shook his head. “Don’t. I’m okay—and I’m not here for my biannual weigh-in.”

Sam cocked an eyebrow. “No? What are you here for?”

Jason raised his eyes innocently heavenward as though trying to decide. “My biannual fuc—”

Kennedy laughed, withdrew his hand, and smacked Jason’s ass.

Sam liked to make love with the lights on.

“I like to look at you,” he said simply. “I like to look in your eyes, I like to see your face. You’re very expressive, and that’s…enjoyable.”

Jason made a face—see, very expressive!—and laughed. He had no preferences beyond wanting to have sex with Sam as often as possible. Okay, he could have done without the uninspired floral pairing undoubtedly from the Propac Hospitality Images Collection viewed over Sam’s shoulder. But all he really wanted to look at was Sam anyway.

That soft, almost boyish fall of blond hair across Sam’s forehead—there was so little that was boyish about Sam—the crescent blue-black shadows of eyelashes on his hard, lean cheeks, the way his white teeth bit his lower lip as he thrust into Jason, and that hot, intense light in his blue eyes as he focused, unblinking on Jason’s face.

Sam was usually quiet and intense during sex, but tonight he half groaned heartfelt, broken sentences. “So good…so beautiful…want…you…so…much…”

Jason gasped as the long strokes grew short and fierce, shoving back into it, riding the pleasurable surge and swell of relentless tide.

“Ah…ah…ah…” He was as loud in sex as Sam was usually terse. “Oh God… Oh God… Oh, Sam… Jesus, Sam…that. Oh God, do that again…ahhh…”

Every so often Sam would start laughing and cover Jason’s mouth with his own, but not tonight. Tonight he was honed in and laser intent. Jason knew Sam had been afraid for him and was reacting from some deep, inarticulate well of feeling things he did not want to feel.

He kissed Jason with gentle insistence, parting his lips with his tongue, closing his eyes as though he was drinking in Jason’s every response, every breath.

When he came it was with a long, long groan that seemed almost wrenched out of him, his hands closing on Jason’s with bruising strength as his whole body spasmed, pouring out hot, sweet stickiness in what looked like an almost excruciatingly powerful orgasm.