The Monuments Men Murders (The Art of Murder 4)

Jason bit his lip, and pumped himself. This was awkward and sweet and funny as hell, but if he laughed, Sam was liable to think Jason was laughing at him, and the fact was, Jason was laughing at himself and the whole situation and the fact that with all its limitations, this relationship meant everything to him.

Sam said, “And I like that you’re trying not to laugh nearly as much as I like your laugh.”

So. Boom! Take that, West. As usual, Sam was two steps ahead.

Jason moaned, providing sound effects, but also because that wild snap, crackle, and pop was starting to zing its way from his balls to his brain while ricocheting down every imaginable detour along the way.

The cell phone lying on the pillow beside his head slid down to his shoulder, so he missed whatever Sam said next. He gave himself a couple more efficient, perfectly timed strokes—imagining himself with Sam tomorrow night—and that viselike hold of fierce tension erupted into exquisite relief.

He gasped, swallowed the rest of the sounds threatening to tear out of him, because his partner, Special Agent J.J. Russell, was in the room next door, and let the release wash through him in shuddery waves of pleasure.

Somewhere from the region of his shoulder blade, Sam said, “And yeah, I do love you, West.”

When Jason had his voice back, he asked, “When does your flight get in?” He knew the answer to that. He just wanted confirmation nothing had changed. He was looking forward to this so much. Too much.

“I should be in the office by noon.”

“Okay. I’ll see you there at some point.”

“Yes, you will. So save the last dance for me.”

Jason grinned into the darkness. On the flickering television screen, David Niven had just managed the ultimate feat of magic by saving his marriage.

“Safe travels,” Jason said. He did not want to hang up. Did not want to sever this tenuous connection.

Sam answered, “Sweet dreams, West.”

* * * * *

“Hey, isn’t that Martinez?” J.J. asked.

They were having breakfast in a restaurant not far from the Holiday Inn while waiting for their complainant, a Dutch investigator specializing in stolen art. The plan was to compare notes before heading out to interview Bert Thompson. Thompson, who ran a dude ranch in the next county, was the nephew of the recently deceased Roy Thompson, prime suspect in the theft of priceless art treasures during the final days of World War II.

“Hm?” Jason looked up from his coffee mug. Another cup and he might feel almost human. Or at least awake. His sleepless nights were catching up to him—although last night there had been a bright side to the insomnia.

He followed J.J.’s gaze to the café’s hostess stand, where a man and woman dressed in that particular brand of budget-conscious business attire that proclaimed law-enforcement officers! waited to be seated.

Jason’s mind was mostly on the upcoming meet with Hans de Haan, their contact. He vaguely remembered being introduced to Special Agent Martinez at the Bozwin resident agency the previous afternoon. She was a petite woman, probably early thirties, with very short dark hair and big brown eyes. Certainly attractive, though not J.J.’s usual type. Typically, Jason’s partner went for statuesque blondes whose life ambition was a full page in Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.

“Is it?”

“Yeah.” J.J. slid out of the booth. “I’ll ask them to join us.”

He didn’t wait for Jason’s reply, leaving the table and going to greet the newcomers.

Jason mentally sighed. Technically, J.J. was still a first office agent. Not probationary, but still pretty green—although he’d had one hell of a first year, even excluding the time partnered with Jason. They’d been paired since February. Four long months. At first, Jason had been sure one of them was going to end the year in jail on homicide charges, but they had eventually settled into a functional and not unfriendly partnership. They were very different personality types, and J.J. believed his talents were wasted by his being shackled to the LA Field Office’s Art Crime Team agent—and Jason wholeheartedly agreed, though for different reasons.

He lifted a hand in greeting when the two agents looked over at the table.

J.J. ushered Martinez and her partner through the crowded dining room. Jason rose. Martinez, smelling of Vera Wang (which Jason’s sister Sophie wore) slid into the empty booth, her partner slid in beside her, and Jason waited so that J.J. could position himself across from his quarry.

The male agent, who introduced himself as SA Travis Petty, looked to Jason to be a bit younger than him, tall, blond, and muscular. He could have commanded his own SI layout.

“Good to meet you, West,” he said. And then, “You were with Sam Kennedy in Massachusetts.”

Jason studied him. “I was.”

Yes, Petty was very good-looking. Blue eyes, square jaw, boyish thatch of springy light hair. As a matter of fact, he looked like a 1950s poster boy for the manly-occupation-of-your-choice.