Love is a Stranger E-Book

John Wiltshire

• Herausgeber: Decent Fellows Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

FINALIST IN THE SOVAS (Society of Voice Arts and Sciences) Audiobook Award 2021 - Thriller Category. Ex-SAS soldier Ben Rider falls in love with his enigmatic married boss Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen, but Nikolas is living a lie. A lie so profound that when the shadows are lifted, Ben realises he's in love with a very dangerous stranger. Ben has to choose between Nikolas and safety, but sometimes danger comes in a very seductive package.

Leseprobe

Inhaltsverzeichnis

Prologue

Chapter One

Six Months Earlier

Chapter Two

One Month Later

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

You have reached your destination.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

LOVE IS A STRANGER

MORE HEAT THAN THE SUN #1

JOHN WILTSHIRE

WWW.DECENTFELLOWSPRESS.COM

Copyright © 2021-2023 Decent Fellows Press

Second Edition

ISBN: 9783757950040

All rights reserved worldwide. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the Author, except for the purposes of reviews. The reviewer may quote brief passages for the review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

The characters and events described in this book are fictional. Any resemblance between characters and any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Love is a Stranger, Copyright © 2021-2023 Decent Fellows Press

Cover Art Design by Isobel Starling

To my fans

who seem to love Nik and Ben as much as I do

Pound for pound the human body puts out more heat than the sun.

Prologue

Ben Rider woke to the debilitating knowledge that there was someone else in the bedroom with him. He lay very still in his sleeping bag, listening to the silence of the abandoned house. The dog, Radulf, was vibrating with warning on his legs. Neither of them knew the man standing in the shadows, nor did they doubt his identity. He was, after all, the man Ben had been sleeping with for over four years and living with for the last six months: his partner. You got to know someone pretty well that way, in the roll and tumble of desire—or you were supposed to. Ben had realised two days ago he knew nothing at all about this man—not even his real name. Everything Ben had been told, everything he’d come to believe, had been based upon a lie. He had once accused the man of being nothing more than a shadow dance; a figure of masks, illusions, and transitory alliances. He’d thought he’d broken through the layers that protected this enigmatic man’s existence: diplomat, titled aristocrat. He’d thought the man had opened up and accepted him into his life. After all, Ben had allowed him into his body. It was all a sham, and Ben was hollow with the depth of the betrayal.

Six months. How had it all gone so wrong?

* * *

PART I

Chapter One

Six Months Earlier

Ben Rider crested the ridge, pushing, feeling strong, his legs aching slightly from the hard pace he’d been setting. Satisfied with his time, he stopped and bent, hands on his knees, breathing evenly. He’d done this run every morning since returning from Iraq and his times were gradually improving, the stress and inactivity of his last op finally worked out by the punishing regime. Straightening, he turned and began the easier jog downhill, hard on the knees but not even testing his breathing.

He glanced once more at his watch. Just over an hour gone—he should be home in less than forty minutes. He grinned as he ran, planning all the ways he could wake Nate, all the interesting ways he could warm down—they could warm up. Nate’s tempting, sleep-pliant body played in Ben’s mind, distracting him from the pain in his right knee where a steel toecap had once tried to end his running days. The sensation of sinking into the accommodating form took Ben’s mind off the nagging stitch from the still healing bullet wound in his side. He wasn’t even thinking about his cracked molar, which he couldn’t blame on the job but on dumb luck and possibly first-class food on British Airways. He was feeling a hot shower pounding on his naked skin and hearing the rasp of Nate’s stubble against his as they kissed under the water. He was revelling in the luxury of downtime after a successful mission, riding high on the thought of spending a whole day with Nate. Nate was willing to give Ben a whole day when others in his life were not. But he refused to think about the other man in his life. It made him too angry. He made him too angry.

He smelt the smoke first but thought only of the pleasure of autumn and the evocative aroma of burning wood that heralded the beginning of November and bonfire season. He didn’t hear the siren until he’d emerged from the forest and had begun the last, short stretch along the local B-road that looped around and led to the cottage. The ambulance screamed past as he stood pressed into the hedgerow. It was only then a faint tingle of anxiety made itself felt in the base of his spine. He began to run again, picking up the pace from his usual warm down on this stretch of the road. Now he could hear more sounds—hard to identify—possibly shouting but almost drowned out by roaring. And then he saw the flames. He’d never seen a house fire before and hadn’t realised flames could reach so high, be so all consuming.

No, not a house fire—a cottage fire. His cottage. He ran through the gate. It was a scene of chaos: fire engines; the ambulance, lights still blinking blue but sirens off; men everywhere shouting; and the flames coming out from every window consuming the thatch. Someone grabbed his arm, but he hit out automatically, sending the paramedic to the ground, and ran on toward the door. The heat beat him back. He began screaming Nate’s name, running back to the ambulance, realising he would be there not in the burning building—but it was empty. He whirled around, saw the downed medic and hauled him up, shouting in his face. And then he saw the figure being handed out of the bedroom window from a man in breathing equipment to another on a ladder. He felt another hand on his arm, a squeeze. He shook it off and went forward. Thank God, Nate was still asleep. But how could someone sleep through this? He wanted to shake him and wake him up; not even to make love to him as he’d been planning, but just so the guy could go on with his life, the simple one he’d enjoyed.

Ben had seen enough bodies in his life to recognise the difference between sleep and death. It wasn’t much, when all was said and done, but enough. Enough to ruin the lives of those left behind, those who still had to sleep and wake every day and go on living.

He didn’t watch them load Nate into the ambulance and tear out with an unnecessary siren. Instead, he sat on the dry stonewall at the front of the cottage and watched it all burn.

It was the start of bonfire season, after all.

* * *

Chapter Two

One Month Later

Ben followed the doorman into his suite and slipped him the requisite gratuity before dismissing him. He didn’t want or need his bag unpacked. He wasn’t planning on staying long. When the door was closed, he went to the floor-to-ceiling windows and stared unseeing at the impressive view of London. He didn’t check his watch, even though Mikkelsen was late. He was the boss, it was his prerogative to be so.

When Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen finally arrived, he was over two hours late. If his tardiness bothered him, he hid it well. Ben suspected this perpetual air of disinterested nonchalance was largely an act, but then as the head of a Black Ops department within Britain’s Intelligence Agency, Sir Nikolas was probably required to play many roles. Ben often reflected that anyone making the acquaintance of this tall, handsome, impeccably dressed Dane would probably take him for a banker—perhaps an art critic. After their first meeting, untangling Sir Nikolas’s often incomprehensible accent, hearing his formal use of learnt English, Ben had been surprised to discover that his new boss was a member of the British Royal Family—married, in fact, to a cousin of the queen. Lady Philipa had once been a very popular “IT” girl and ex-nanny of the current heir. Ben had heard malicious rumours within the department that Sir Nikolas’s meteoric rise in the British Intelligence Agency—an institution not fond of giving its plumb jobs to foreigners—was entirely due to these impressive connections. Ben was sure Sir Nikolas was well aware what his detractors said about him. He was just as positive that Sir Nikolas didn’t care. Sometimes, disinterested nonchalance was an act played too well.

But Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen wasn’t the only one who could take on roles. Ben was just as capable of feigning disinterest as his boss. Ben knew very well he hadn’t been recruited from Special Forces into the world of Black Ops because he was the perfect grey man, the operative who could work unnoticed in any situation—anything but. He was always noticed. At six foot four with wide-set green eyes and high cheekbones, the department used Ben’s beauty as a sort of double bluff. Who would ever suspect such a pretty boy? Distracted by the charming, beautiful exterior, the skill and quiet self-possession beneath were often overlooked.

Ben now watched Sir Nikolas enter the hotel room and casually brush his longish blond hair off his forehead. He knew this gesture was supposed to disarm his anger at having endured such a long wait. But he wasn’t in the mood to be manipulated, and kept his masks firmly in place. Therefore, when Sir Nikolas offered a neutral,

“I was sorry to hear about the fire, Benjamin,” Ben merely replied equally dispassionately,

“Thank you, sir.”

“How are you?”

At that, Ben went to the bar to pour them both a drink, despite it being ten a.m. As he handed his boss the whisky, Ben said evenly,

“I’m fine,” then added with the barest detectable edge, “Have our forensics people had a chance to study the fire reports?”

Sir Nikolas took a swallow of the perfect malt. “There is no evidence it was anything other than accidental.” Ben held him in a cold, green-eyed gaze. Sir Nikolas sighed.

“I agree the timing is suspicious. But Allouni is still in his embassy in Baghdad. We have had people on him twenty-four-seven. However, his brother Usama came through Heathrow on a diplomatic ticket three days before the fire. We cannot verify his movements after he reported into the embassy on the thirtieth of October. But, Benjamin, it was a two-hundred-year-old cottage. The balance of probability is that it was faulty wiring, just as the reports said.”

“With all due respect, sir, fuck the balance of probability. I shot Allouni’s son—that’s the actual probability.”

“There is no way he could know that, Benjamin. The op was good.”

“Bollocks, sir. We were compromised from the start. It was him. He sent his fucking brother or some other minion, but it was him, and I’m going to make him pay.”

Sir Nikolas took both glasses to the bar and topped them up. “I am going to pretend I did not hear that.” He caught Ben’s eye and held it. “I have another job for you. If you are up for it.”

Ben gave him a bitter smile. “Have you been reading Psychology 101? Hint I’m below par and I’m supposed to rise to the challenge?”

“Did it work? Benjamin, I wrote Psychology 101. But I do not need psychology with you. Or maybe I do now? Are you still in the game?” He handed Ben the newly refilled glass. Ben turned away then gave an abrupt nod.

Sir Nikolas came up behind him. “What are you doing this weekend?” Before Ben had time to form a lie, he continued, “Philipa is having a few friends down at the stately pile. I need an ally. Besides, you know she would love to see you; it has been too long.”

“Does your wife still think I’m something junior in the Ministry of Minerals and Industries?”

Sir Nikolas laughed. “No, I have promoted us both. I am now head of acquisition for the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, and you are my first assistant.” He put his hand lightly on Ben’s shoulder. Ben glanced down.

“What are my new duties?”

Sir Nikolas ran his fingers into the short hair on Ben’s neck. “As my first assistant? Oh, I don’t know…how about you outline your suitability for the job before I decide.”

Ben smiled to himself, turned and took hold of Nikolas’s jacket. Very slowly, he eased it off the broad shoulders and tossed it toward the armchair. He began to undo the elegant silk tie, never letting the other man drop his gaze. When that was off, he let it fall to the floor, daring Nikolas to complain. One by one, he worked the buttons on the tailor-made shirt until it hung open over a smooth, muscled chest. Very deliberately, he took one dark pink nipple and twisted it until it flushed red upon release. At Nikolas’s hissed intake of breath, Ben said coldly,

“I believe I have all the qualifications for this job, sir.”

* * *

By the time they were finished, the whisky buzz had worn off, so Ben climbed naked from the bed and went to top them up one more time. His stomach growled, and he grabbed an apple from the complimentary fruit bowl, tossing another at the man sprawled and replete upon the bed. They lay side by side contentedly munching, washing the fruit down with the alcohol, not needing or wanting to be anywhere else particularly.

“How are you really, Benjamin?”

“How did I just seem?”

“Just because you can still fuck me into a mattress for two hours doesn’t mean your psychological health is good. In fact, many would argue it proves the opposite.”

“What does it say about you then, sir, that you want me to fuck you senseless for two hours?”

“I was not senseless. I felt every moment, trust me, and my stability is not being tested by a psychotic Iraqi with a grudge.”

“So, you do think it was Allouni?”

“I think you think it was, Benjamin, and that concerns me.”

“Do we still have someone on him?”

“Yes.”

When Ben fell silent, Nikolas turned his head to regard him. “Come down for the weekend. We will talk more about this then.”

Ben still didn’t reply but only continued to stare thoughtfully at the ceiling. Nikolas put his apple core on the bedside table and said distinctly,

“My turn.”

* * *

Chapter Three

The stately pile was an Elizabethan manor set in acres of the South Devon countryside with added Victorian wings and an Edwardian stable block, all a harmonious celebration of British architecture and landed wealth over the centuries, nestled in a favourable valley leading down to the river. Ben had been here many times and was greeted by Lady Philipa almost like the son she never had, which naturally made Ben uncomfortable given his relationship with her husband, but which Nikolas himself seemed to find amusing.

Ben never let his unusual relationship with his boss trouble him much. It had begun in this very house the first time he had been invited, following on from his interview after being headhunted from the Regiment. He’d felt himself under intense scrutiny all weekend, aware he was being watched, judged, and weighed in some personal balance of Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen’s own making. He’d assumed it was an assessment of his suitability for the job. By the second night, he wasn’t so sure and had returned the quick, penetrating stares with an equal intensity. By the third day, something had clearly been decided in those brief, held looks; but pressed face first into the billiard table later that night, Ben couldn’t have said exactly how things had gone so quickly from intense looks to the sharing of such violent physical release.

Philipa came to meet him as he crunched his Ducati over the gravel in front of the oaken door. She kissed him on both cheeks, pushing the numerous dogs that habitually surrounded her away from his leathers.

“Darling—get down, Bodger; I’m so sorry. Nik told me. No! Holly,down. Just dreadful. Do come in.”

He followed the wind-blown woman in tweed through the spacious but cold hallway. Nearly Christmas, it was festooned with elaborate and beautiful wreaths and winding, tasteful greenery. It led into the kitchen, which usually acted as the focus for what Lady Philipa termed her intimate country weekends. Nikolas was sitting at the table as Ben entered and didn’t spare him a glance from the paper. Once she’d plied Ben with tea and a plate full of mince pies, Philipa took her small, noisy flock with her to do something that required a flower basket and more shouted admonitions to the dogs. Peace fell on the kitchen. Nikolas looked up for the first time and took a mince pie from Ben’s plate.

“Hello, Benjamin.”

Ben suppressed a smile. He had no idea what the relationship with his boss really was, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let the man know he actually liked him. Like was a safe word, and he was sticking with that. He half turned away from the table, moved his plate further out of reach, and asked stonily, “What’s the job you’ve got for me, sir?”

“All in good time.” After a few moments, watching his wife direct one of the gardeners cutting holly, Nikolas asked, deceptively casually, “So, Benjamin, will you indulge me?”

Ben did laugh at that. Sir Nikolas would never be so inelegant as to mention their more unusual extracurricular activities. Ben knew exactly what his boss wanted and nodded. “Sure, why not?”

They led Nikolas’s horses out of the magnificently appointed stables. In most everything else he did, Nikolas retained his enigmatic, impeccable elegance, the facade no one was allowed to penetrate—but not in this. On a horse, he became something else, something dangerous. He became primitive. He was at one with the animal in a way an English aristocrat could never be. Ben felt menace, something truly fierce in the Norseman when they rode together. They negotiated the grounds down to where the gardens met tidal river estuary. It was low tide and the mud flats were exposed. The track was slippery, with a deep, primal smell of mud, salt, and seaweed. They rode carefully, the horses’ hooves picking between the rocks. Then they came to the beach, just wet sand now at the low tide. Nikolas turned around in his saddle, his face animated. “Race?”

Ben wondered how this beautiful man could bear to live his life hidden behind the facades he showed to the world. This was the Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen he was allowed rare glimpses of. After all, it wasn’t easy for a man to keep all his pretences in place when covered in another man’s sweat and come. When Nikolas was deep inside Ben’s body, he was a very different man. Here, on a freezing beach in December, that man of passion and fire emerged once more. Ben laughed, the wind catching the rare sound and whipping it away out to sea.

“What do you win when I inevitably lose?”

Nikolas laughed too and nudged his horse closer, their thighs touching.

“I am a generous host, Benjamin. You can choose your own forfeit.” His thick Danish accent tangled the words. Ben felt the same frisson of excitement at the base of his spine that he’d felt during their very first meeting, a handshake across a desk and a simple greeting,

“Mr Rider. Thank you for coming.” Nikolas had thanked him for coming in more imaginative ways since then.

Ben made as if to answer Nikolas’s question now, slyly turning towards their proposed route. Then with a kick, he was off. He needed every advantage. The wind made his eyes water, froze his ears. He could ride, but he rode like a man on a horse. Nikolas Mikkelsen didn’t. He was the horse and the pounding surf; he was the wind whipped around their heads, the smell of salt and earthly pleasures. He caught Ben easily, stayed with him and toyed with him as they approached the cliffs that rose to the headland. As they negotiated the tidal pools, he pulled ahead and around the newly exposed section of beach into the cove that was only accessible at low tide. Their finish marker was always an imaginary line between the millstone and the camel, two distinctly shaped rocks Ben had renamed “the arsehole” and “the stiffy.” Nikolas beat him by several lengths, as he always did. He pulled up in the surf, wheeling, his horse dancing to the beat of the waves. Ben reigned in beside him. “Bastard.”

Nikolas turned his horse so they were side by side facing each other. “So, my winnings?”

Later, he couldn’t say if it had been the excitement of the race or the strange numbness of grief he’d felt since the fire, but Ben suddenly decided he wanted something more than he was usually allowed with this man. He hesitated for a moment then glanced needlessly around the empty December beach. They had the entire windswept, freezing place to themselves. Without thinking it through too much further, he leant forward and kissed the other man’s cold lips. Then he sat back to gauge his boss’s reaction, because for all the things they had done together, they’d never once kissed. They’d rarely bothered with a handjob, never a blowjob, never used these first steps to slowly work up to the wild and abandoned sex they’d fallen into that first weekend. They’d gone from a look to fucking, no quarter asked for or given. Ben couldn’t explain it, and as they never talked about what they were doing, he’d never asked either. So this kiss on a cold beach with horses stamping and turning and twisting beneath them was very different. Nikolas pulled back from the kiss and eyed him coolly, his detachment instantly in place.

“Who was the body in the fire, Benjamin?”

Ben’s head reared back, and his horse, sensing his agitation, backed off too quickly. Ben had to grab the saddle to keep his balance, and he eased the horse out of the water and up toward the rocks. When he felt the wind lessen, he slid off the animal, walking her around, calming her—calming himself. Nikolas joined him, dismounting and finding a treat in his pocket for his horse, patting her nose and talking softly to her in his native language.

Finally, Ben replied, “Nathan. He was called Nathan. He was a carpenter. He was putting new windows into the cottage for me.”

“Had he been there long?”

“No. Why do you ask this now?” He saw Nikolas’s expression for a fleeting moment before the other could hide it. “You already knew all about him. Of course you did.”

They began to walk their horses back toward the headland separating the two beaches at high tide. “I was curious when you would tell me, though.”

“No, you weren’t. Jesus. Is this about the job or is this about us? You think his death has something to do with…It was just a kiss. People kiss. Normal people kiss.”

“You think you are not normal?”

“I think you’re not normal! With all due respect. Sir.”

Nikolas laughed. “So, you think I will become a substitute Nathan for you?”

Ben groaned. “No. Christ. Look, forget it, yeah? I…You won the fucking race. You always win, okay? I thought…” They were in the shelter of the cliff now, wind worn and hollowed into shallow caves all along the lower edge. “I just wanted…”

Nikolas’s hand suddenly cupped him around the back of the neck and pulled him close, his lips landing on Ben’s, silencing him. Their lips were cold, skin cold, but Nikolas’s leather gloves were soft on Ben’s face as they tested and tasted the kiss. The same height, they were a natural fit. They pulled apart, a rare smile on both their faces, and then they kissed again, this time with lips eagerly opening, tongues exploring. Ben thought his tongue had already discovered the most intimate places on his boss’s body, but he was wrong; this was something very different. Neither of them could kiss like this and keep up pretence or habitual detachment.

It was only Ben’s horse rearing and snorting that alerted them to the presence of others on the beach. They heard a yapping and saw two dogs come racing around the headland, chasing seagulls, barking joyously. They eased apart and remounted, walking their horses slowly, side by side. Ben couldn’t think of a thing to say, and he was fairly sure Nikolas was equally stumped. There was a lot to process. On the wind-blown promise of something better, something almost tangible and real, things had suddenly changed between them. They clearly both sensed it, and it silenced their front of easy familiarity. Ben felt a knot of sick tension in his belly. He’d rather things stayed as they were than lose Nikolas entirely. He knew very well who held all the power in this strange relationship—and it wasn’t him. Finally, Nikolas laughed ruefully and ran his fingers through his hair in a gesture so familiar that Ben knew things would be okay between them. He hadn’t ruined anything. He glanced at Nikolas to find the look returned. He shook his head fondly.

“I’m sorry I blew up about Nate, sir. I guess I feel guilty because I pulled him into my life and it got him killed.”

“Did you intend for that to happen?”

“No! Of course not.”

“Then I see no cause for you to feel guilty. Sad, yes. But sadness always passes.”

Ben watched his boss’s lowered eyes as he spoke. He was tempted to ask when Nikolas’s sadness would pass but knew the question wouldn’t be tolerated. Instead, he announced cheekily, emboldened by the kiss, “Last one back buys lunch!”

He was a length ahead when they reached the stable, but then he’d been allowed to win. Who was indulging whom in this little victory, Ben wouldn’t have cared to say. They dismounted, and Nikolas handed the reins to a stable boy, fishing in his pocket for a last treat for Ben’s horse and murmuring something to her in the wild language of his conquering forebears.

* * *

Chapter Four

They walked side by side back to the house, and Ben saw that Philipa’s other guests had arrived. The lower rooms would now be noisy with people, bags, dogs, and assorted accoutrements for a pre-Christmas weekend in the country. Nikolas gave Ben a nudge, and they went around the back of the house to the offices from which a private staircase rose to the upper floors. He followed Ben to the large bedroom in the original Elizabethan part of the house, which was almost called Ben’s Room, so frequently had he stayed there. Low mullioned windows let in a weak winter sun that only penetrated the room for an hour or so each day at this time of year, the gloom not helped by the thick ivy growing over this ancient part of the house. Ben went to the window, leaning on the sill, peering out.

“Have I ever mentioned that I love this house?”

Nikolas smiled. “Once or twice. I will send you the upkeep bills if you would like. Were you adequately insured?”

Ben nodded. “I think I could afford one of your dogs’ kennels now.”

Nikolas came closer, standing behind him.

“I’d give you preferable rates, Benjamin, you know that.” Ben turned. The frisson of anticipation surged back, but for the first time ever it wasn’t for rough sex. He wanted Nikolas to kiss him again. He wanted Nikolas to initiate another kiss, to admit his need—to admit finally that this, what they had, was more than sex. He could see the hesitation. Unbelievably, he could see confusion in Nikolas’s eyes. He wondered if this secretive man had ever been confused about anything in his life. That he was the one confusing his boss only added to Ben’s mounting excitement. Finally, some decision seemed to have been reached in the impenetrable brown eyes. Nikolas put out a hand and snagged Ben’s sleeve. With his other hand, he cupped Ben’s face, brushing his thumb over the prominent cheekbone.

“So…luncheon?” He flashed a swift grin and turned away, walking to the door.

Ben groaned. “You sod.”

Nikolas went out onto the landing.

“Do take your time to shower and change. There is plenty of hot water.” He turned with an inscrutable look. “Unless you need a cold one, of course.”

* * *

Ben wouldn’t have dared call the meal lunch. It deserved the name luncheon: twelve people around a Georgian table in the huge dining room, servants hovering as the guests helped themselves to a sumptuous buffet laid around a beautifully decorated fifteen-foot Christmas tree. A fire crackled in the original fireplace, the mantel decorated with yet more greenery. Ben recognised most of the other guests from his many weekends staying with the Mikkelsens. Truth be told, they all looked alike to him: wealthy, entitled, landed. As he was none of these, he preserved his dignity by wrapping an air of silent mystery around himself, eating anything offered him as it was all free, and entertaining himself by watching his boss dissemble, charm, and seduce. He had a lot to learn from Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen. A space opened up next to him, and Lady Philipa slid into it, her plate unfashionably heaped with good things. “So, darling, do tell me that you’ll join us this afternoon.”

Nikolas turned from the woman next to him and said calmly, “You know Benjamin and I never hunt. And we have work to do.”

“Oh, tosh, you can’t let him bully you like this, Ben. You don’t come here to work.”

Ben kept his eyes lowered. “I’m sorry, but if Sir Nikolas needs me…”

Nikolas flashed a smile at his wife but turned a meaningful look on Ben. “You have made yourself invaluable to me, Benjamin.”

Ben kept his eyes on his plate and gulped some more wine.

* * *

Going shooting apparently required a huge amount of barking and shouting, so it was with some relief that Ben finally heard the door to the gunroom slam, a few final raised voices, one yelp, and then silence. He was in the billiard room, lazily knocking balls round by hand. He heard the door open and turned. That was all it took—the sight of Nikolas walking towards him. All his pent-up need broke free, blindsiding him with desire. It didn’t help to have the edge of the table under his butt. That table evoked a lot of memories. Nikolas came closer, running his hand over the polished edge, seeming lost in thought. Ben closed his eyes with anticipation.

“What do you know about badgers, Benjamin?”

Okay…“I’m sorry?”

Nikolas chuckled at his expression. “They are small, and black and—”

“I fucking know what they are. I mean…sir. Sorry, but I—”

“Why do you always call me sir?”

“Why do you always call me Benjamin?”

“Touché. But,” he ran his fingers through the short hair at the back of Ben’s head, “you can call me Nikolas, you know. Especially when I come inside you. That would be appropriate, do you not think?”

Ben swallowed. “Then call me Ben.”

Nikolas laughed. “You would have to put a gun to my head first, I abhor nicknames. Besides, I like Benjamin. It is very you.”

“No, it’s not. It’s some poncy public school boy my mother wanted me to be.”

“But not the hard tearaway who joined the army at sixteen and passed Selection the first time he tried it?”

“No, not him. He’s Ben.”

“Maybe I like public school boys.” He unbuttoned Ben’s shirt.

“Then you’ve got your pick out there, sir. Why waste the afternoon in here with me, and did you really start this off by asking me what I know about badgers?”

“Hmm. I think I did. I believe you have distracted me though.” Nikolas stroked briefly over the bullet wound, now just a scar on Ben’s ribs. Then he bent his face closer and totally unexpectedly nipped at the warm skin.

“Ow! Jesus!” Ben widened his eyes in disbelief at the visible bite mark around his nipple. “That hurt!”

“Good.” Nikolas did it again to the other one. Ben’s head went back, his knuckles gripping the table until they went white.

He felt his belt being undone and strong hands slide in under his waistband to cup his cheeks. Nik pressed against him, need evident, their cocks connecting and rubbing, creating delicious anticipation. “Turn around, Benjamin.”

Ben did, his hardness now pressing into the edge of the solid table. Nikolas eased Ben’s jeans down just enough, and then all Ben felt was dry friction until it wasn’t painful at all, until it was good and then great—and then the long, slow build up to the very best. Nikolas slid a hand up under Ben’s shirt, spreading his fingers over Ben’s back, holding him down. The other hand gripped Ben’s hip determinedly as he rode the hard muscular figure. If Ben thought about Nikolas riding his horse, primal and ferocious, it only added to the great wrongness of the whole scene. They didn’t say much; they never did. When it was like this, this was all they needed. Ben suddenly grunted, “I’m gonna come…”

Nikolas leaned over his back, thrusting harder. “Do not mark my expensive table.”

“What? Fuck!” He put his hand down and caught his release awkwardly, wiping it on his jeans in disgust as Nikolas came inside him, swearing something in his own language, draping boneless and drained over Ben’s back. Then he straightened and slapped Ben hard on the backside as he pulled out.

“Good boy. Now…badgers.”

Ben sank to his knees. “Oh, God. You’re insane.”

Nikolas came to his side, tucked away and immaculate as always. “I’ve been called that before.” He offered Ben a hand and uncharacteristically assisted in tucking him in and making him presentable. Then he caught Ben’s gaze and added thoughtfully, “You make me mad this day.”

“Huh?”

Nikolas flushed slightly, high on his cheekbones, an even more uncharacteristic gesture than the helpfulness. “My English has failed me.”

“I’ve made you mad today? How? Why?”

Nikolas pouted. “You do not say mad then. Let me think.” He laughed at himself. “Insane was right all along, Benjamin. Today, I am a little insane for you. I—” He caught Ben’s chin in a tight grip. “Because I want to do this.” He leant in and kissed him. It was a hard, savage taking without thought, until it wasn’t—until it became soft and seeking and very, very good. Then he drew away to gauge Ben’s reaction.

Ben pulled him back, so close Nikolas would be able to feel Ben’s breath on his lips.

“That’s not insane, that is absolutely perfect…” He practically ate Nikolas’s face with his urgent kiss. He was desperate for this—this affirmation, this level of attention. It was sick, and he hated himself for being so weak, but when Nikolas wanted to share the intimacy of kissing with him, it made Ben feel real. It was pathetic to have his existence validated in this way, but that was how it was. Nikolas finally pulled away, wiping his mouth, running his fingers through his hair. He batted away Ben’s attempt to seize him once more.

“No, you must shower and change, and then I will tell you a story about badgers.” He laughed at Ben’s expression. “Come, I will indulge my insanity and watch you shower.”

“Err…no, you fucking won’t. Sir.”

“My house, my rules.”

Nikolas leant against the counter in the bathroom, playing idly with Ben’s razor while Ben stood under the shower. He’d made a feeble show of protesting this was kinky and weird, but secretly he was pleased and incredibly turned on knowing he was being watched and enjoyed. As he came out, Nikolas handed him a towel. Ben didn’t take it but stood, arms wide, an expectant look on his face. Nikolas huffed but began to dry him off obediently. “I have to do this for the dogs.”

“I hope you don’t do that to them. I think it’s illegal.”

Nikolas flicked his eyebrow in a quizzical look then caught Ben’s cock once more, giving it light strokes with his hand. “No, I do not. I am not English. I prefer my lovers on two legs.”

“Lovers? That’s not what we’d call us where I come from.”

“On that pseudo-council estate you claim to have grown up on?”

“Hey, no impinging my birthright. Nothing fake about the Monkweir estate. Trust me. And don’t stop.”

“Do not give me orders, Benjamin.”

“Yeah? I don’t notice you complaining at being ordered around when we’re horizontal.”

“Well, we are vertical now, so remember your place.”

Ben leant close to his ear. “Okay. Don’t stop, please, sir.”

Nikolas smiled. “Much better.” He continued to ease Ben’s cock through his fist, his other hand drying Ben’s dark locks with the towel. Ben put his hand down and rested his fingers lightly on his boss’s wrist, his eyes closed, head tipped back, spine melting, legs weak as the glorious sensation of orgasm washed over him once more. This time, his spill fell harmlessly to the floor. Nikolas dropped the towel over it.

“Thank God for house staff,” he commented dryly. “Now, get dressed and join me in my study.”

* * *

Chapter Five

There was a crackling fire and a glass of whisky waiting for Ben when he arrived downstairs. He threw himself into a leather armchair, took an appreciative swallow, and murmured ironically, “I’d so much rather be slogging around in mud, chasing foxes.”

“I believe it is pheasant this afternoon, but I wholeheartedly agree.”

“I’d have thought you’d go for the hunting thing, sir. Another layer of cover.”

Nikolas regarded him thoughtfully. “You think my life is camouflage?”

Ben held the stare. “Sir, I think everything you do from the moment you wake up to the moment you let yourself sleep is nothing more than a shadow dance.”

“I am not sure whether to be horrified or flattered. And what am I apparently covering up?”

“The day you let us all see that is the day I reckon it all comes tumbling down, and I like this house. I like coming here.” He hesitated then added, “Occasionally, I almost like you.”

Nikolas smiled and took a long sip of his own drink. “And that must be my cue to tell you all about badgers. Are you sitting comfortably?”

Ben felt more asleep than comfortable. He’d left London before dawn, ridden to Devon, been horseback riding, eaten a huge lunch (with copious amounts of wine), had sex (twice), and was now sitting by a warm fire (with more alcohol). Nikolas kicked his ankle.

“What is the biggest threat to your—our—national identity, Benjamin?”

“Britain’s Got Talent?”

“Don’t be facetious, child.”

“I don’t know, sir. Al-Queda, I guess.”

“Wrong. It may surprise you, but foreign-born terrorists are not a huge threat to us.”

“Well, they aren’t foreign born now, are they?”

“True, but the highest number of terrorist incidents this year was committed by those very much British, the so-called animal rights activists.”

“Oh, God, you have got to be bloody kidding. A bunch of nose-ringed, filthy haired eco warriors in anoraks. You cannot be serious.”

“Unfortunately, I am. We have had a change of administration recently, as you know. Our previous masters saw the horns of the devil growing out of organisations like the BNP. Now they are seen growing out of anything that threatens the countryside. I also have had pressure put on me from…other areas.”

Ben followed his neutral look out of the mullioned window to the hillside rising behind the house: Lady Philipa. “Ah.”

“Exactly. Now, a senior member of the cabinet has been threatened. He is a neighbouring landowner. The threat is being taken seriously enough to increase his Met protection, and his status has been raised from amber to critical.”

“Why? Is he putting windmills on his land? Letting them run a new bypass through? Hah, the new Heathrow runway in deepest, darkest Devon?”

“No, he is the first landowner in England to allow badger culling on his land. They are starting to trap and shoot them this month. A dead badger was sent to his offices in Westminster. I think the implication is clear.”

“I hope it died naturally in the paws of its loved ones.”

“It had been beheaded, and the head of a doll had been pushed into the body. The doll belonged to the minister’s seven-year-old daughter.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.”

“So, where do I come in?”

“How do you feel about getting a nose ring, Benjamin?”

* * *

Fortunately for Ben, he didn’t have to endure any body piercing that evening. But he did have six in-depth profiles to study and learn. Special Branch had files on all the animal rights activists in the country. In the absence of a homeland security act, however, there was nothing they could actually do with this intelligence, until they had evidence a crime had been committed. Protest was still allowed in Britain. Free speech was almost still allowed. So, where Special Branch was hamstrung, the department and men like Ben came in. He spent the remainder of the afternoon and most of the evening studying the files. He barely noticed when one of the staff came in to stoke the fire. He took a plate of food in the same distracted manner; it was only when Nikolas returned to the study dressed in elegant black tie that he looked up.

Nikolas perched on the side of Ben’s chair and draped his arm across the back. Ben huffed. “You’re drunk.”

Nikolas said calmly, “I am never drunk, Benjamin, you know that.”

“Yeah. This’ll be fun…”

“Stop being insubordinate and tell me what you have found. ” He began to run his fingers through the short hair at the base of Ben’s skull. Ben allowed himself to lean back into the touch then waved a hand at the files.

“The protesters aren’t the way in. They’re local and well known to each other. Sean Mafferty and his little brother Seamus, ties to the IRA a decade ago, came over to the UK when peace ruined their criminal lifestyles. They recruit more genuine activists, like, here…Julie Arthur: public school, daddy issues, wannabe model, had a problem with wearing fur and her comments on that brought her to the attention of the Maffertys. I thought she’d be a good way in…” Nikolas snatched the photograph from his hand and made some comment in his own language, which hardly needed to be translated. “But she’s got a girlfriend. Calls herself Peace. Apparently they’re quite an item, and they don’t swing both ways. So, no good there for me.”

“I would trust you to charm any lesbian to bed, Benjamin.” The fingers were now stroking Ben’s cheekbone.

“Yes, and I’ve already told you you’re drunk. So, that leaves this one, Professor Tim Watson—works at one of those new so-called universities, in something called the Department of Ethics and Contemporary Religion.”

Nikolas snorted. “That sounds like something we would use as a cover. This is Benjamin Rider, he is in charge of my ethical stance.”

Ben suppressed a chuckle and didn’t comment. A thumb had now started stroking delightfully along his collarbone. “He’s a Trotskyite, of course, kind of comes with the job. Helped organise the Countryside Alliance’s local marches.”

“My wife went on those, and I do not believe she could be described as a Trotskyite.”

“Watson was arrested as a teenager in 1996, protesting against the Newbury bypass. He organised Stop the Cull in 2012 by threatening the same tunnelling techniques he’d used at Newbury on some Crown estates where culling was due to start—that little stunt probably got him his tenure in the job. But, more to the point for us in terms of the direct threat to the minister, he organised the student union boycott of the Head of the Centre for Stem Cell Biology when she came to open a new biology research facility, and she was sent this.” He held up a photo for Nikolas to see of a teddy bear drawn with autopsy lines and cut open from neck to groin.

“Her childhood bear. Not proof positive, but it’s interesting. He’s associated with the Maffertys and been photographed by Special Branch meeting with them—and Julie Arthur and Peace—at the pub. Although, to be fair, there were other people there and it appears to have just been a social occasion. But I believe he’s the most likely to have sent the threat to the minister.”

“Is he going to be your way in? Are you going to fuck him?” Nikolas’s hand moved up to Ben’s throat, and he gave it a disturbingly hard squeeze. Ben batted it away.

“He’s got a beard, so no. Anyway, look, I think this is my way in.” He pulled out the bottom file. “The cull is being organised by DEFRA. And they’re mainly employing—”

Nik laughed and interrupted, “Ex-forces marksmen.”

Ben nodded, smiling too. “Yeah, I go in as what I actually am for once. Mafferty sees me as the enemy to start with, but I go to the local pub, perhaps get into an argument, let them sway me. Then I join their cause. Nothing as rabid as a new convert to anything, is there? I confirm it’s Beardy doing in the dolls and bears and take him out of the equation.”

“You would have no issue with the killing?”

“Are you serious? Have you seen that beard?”

“I meant the badgers, Benjamin.”

“Oh. You know, you’re seriously weird for a pretend English aristocrat. You might want to work on that cover of yours a bit, sir.”

“Go to bed, evil child. I will read over the files and let you know what I think in the morning.”

“When would you want me in place? The first training course begins Monday.”

“Training course? To kill a badger? You are not being serious?”

Ben held up another file. “Use of a Rifle. Use of a Shotgun. Site Choice. Baiting Techniques. Something called Dispatch, which I reckon is a euphemism for killing the poor creatures. Use of Night Vision Equipment.

---ENDE DER LESEPROBE---