Free Country Mouse by Amy Lane Page B

would really just like to eat something, anything, that didn’t involve much waiting. When he suggested McDonald’s, Malcolm acted like it was some sort of crime, and instead dragged him to the Japanese place, where they actually managed to score a pile of food in under ten minutes. They also did a ginger and white chocolate cheesecake, which, Malcolm insisted, was the best thing on their menu. Even though he hadn’t tasted the other seventy or so items, Owen agreed readily. It seemed he was ready to trust Malcolm on a lot of things, something that probably would have surprised almost anyone else. But Owen had been raised to trust his instincts—to close his eyes in a holy place and allow himself to be guided. So far, this man didn’t seem to be steering him wrong.
    “Okay,” Malcolm said after some internal deliberation that Owen figured involved scales and an abacus, since it dragged on so long. “That’s a solid half day’s work in terms of tourism. Buckingham Palace is just down the road, too. If you ask me, it’s an ugly old box and inside it’s as tasteless as any place I’ve ever been, but we can do it.”
    “I didn’t ask you,” Owen said, and then leaned over and kissed Malcolm soundly on the cheek, in spite of the people flowing around them at the restaurant. “And thank you for taking me anyway.”
    When they came to the front of the palace, the wall opened to a large wrought-iron fence, and policemen in dark blue were guarding the single entrance. Lots of tourists were taking pictures in front of the fence, and Malcolm pulled out his phone and shot a couple of Owen.
    “I’ll email them to you, no problem.”
    Was that Malcolm’s “really clever” way to score his email address? Sounded like it, right? Excellent.
    “Here,” Owen said, giving Malcolm his phone. “Put in your digits, and I’ll put in mine.”
    Malcolm nodded and they sat down at the monument in front of the palace for a minute, entering in phone numbers and email addresses and such, and then Owen said, “Here. Let me take one of you. That way your picture will flash up when you call me.”
    “I’m going to be calling you a lot?” Malcolm’s voice was funny, like he couldn’t decide if he was being sarcastic or begging.
    “Well you’ll have to,” Owen said gently. This was a commitment of sorts, wasn’t it? In a no-strings-attached one-night stand? “You’ll return my calls, right?”
    Malcolm nodded eagerly. “Absolutely.”
    “Then you’ll be calling me a lot.”
    The smile Malcolm gave was almost winsome, and very brilliant. Owen looked at it and swallowed. How much was that going to suck, seeing that face pop up on his phone and knowing its owner was half a world away?
    Something about his silence must have reached Malcolm, because he said, “Here, let me look. That’s not a bad picture.”
    “Did you doubt it?” Owen laughed, but his voice was still a little off and he knew it.
    Malcolm shrugged, but he looked pleased. “You had enough of the tourist gig, then? Ready to go collect your clothes and make some plans for the night?”
    Owen looked around and realized the shadows were lengthening and the sun had escaped the veil of low clouds to reach, chill and orange, across the horizon. It was time to start thinking about the night. “Why not?” he asked, determined to have an amazing night with the man who had made him smile and taken time out of what was, apparently, a hellaciously busy life to play tour guide. “What did you have in mind?”
    “Could have a really nice dinner—you wouldn’t be allowed to look at the prices, though, okay? Or go clubbing, or grab some takeaway and go back to mine. Have plenty of great sex, you know, the usual.” Malcolm delivered the last part with a completely straight face, which meant he was being either sarcastic or ironic—or protecting his feelings.
    “You really want to take me out to dinner, don’t you?”
    Malcolm hesitated. “I want to dress you up