Free Dead Run by Josh Lanyon Page B

shook his head fiercely, turned and shoved open the shower door. He slammed it shut behind him, and it bounced open again.
    Will reached out and closed the door quietly. He expelled a long breath, closing his eyes and letting the water wash over him.
    When he finally stepped out of the shower, Taylor was shaving. A white bath towel was slung around his hips; his wet hair was slicked neatly back from his face. His eyes slanted to Will, but he said nothing, running the electric razor over his cheek. The angry buzz made it impossible to talk, anyway. Will grabbed his toothbrush and the toothpaste and got very busy filling his mouth with white foam.
    Taylor flicked off the razor and walked out.
    They had themselves back under control by the time they left for the restaurant, falling automatically back into the safety of their working partnership, talking of their case, such as it was, and avoiding anything liable to trigger another of those bewildering clashes.
    And the clashes were bewildering. They’d never argued so much in the entire course of their partnership. Nor after they’d become lovers. Now, when they should have been making every moment count, they couldn’t seem to get through more than a few hours without an explosion.
    They couldn’t afford this, couldn’t afford to waste this time together. Likely neither of them would have a shot at leave for another year.
    On the Métro, Will kept finding himself watching Taylor. Every once in a while Taylor would give him an odd, cool look in return. For the first time Will could remember, he didn’t know what to say to the person he would have said knew and understood him better than anyone else in the world.
    It was a lonely feeling.
    Tara had selected the restaurant. L’Arpège, specializing in vegetarian and seafood dishes, was another very well-known Michelin three-star eatery—although it was probably grounds for an international incident calling it an eatery . It was a small, unassuming building across the road from the Musée Rodin.
    Will held the door for Taylor, and Taylor went in, scanning the packed tables. Apparently disposable income was still alive and well in this part of the world.
    The decor was simple and modern. Etched glass, polished steel, pearwood paneling, a few bold strokes of color and surprising objets d’art like large squash rather than flower arrangements on the tables.
    Tara and James were already seated. Tara waved when she spotted them.
    “Wow. Why so serious?” she asked as Will and Taylor seated themselves. “Is there some kind of national emergency we should know about?”
    Will liked Tara. She was smart, funny, candid, and generally easygoing. Much like her little brother. She was also quite beautiful with long dark hair and those wide, exotic bronze-green eyes she shared with Taylor and the rest of the MacAllister clan.
    Taylor didn’t look at Will. “Our leave has been rescinded.”
    Tara looked from Taylor to Will. “What? They can’t do that!”
    James said, “It’s the American government, hon. They can do anything they want.” James was a nice guy; at least that was Will’s impression. He didn’t know him well, but according to Taylor he was intelligent, capable, ambitious, and openly adored Tara. Will could see that open adoration for himself every time James looked at Tara.
    “Where are the kids?” Taylor asked.
    “The hotel has a babysitting service.”
    Taylor looked disapproving, and Tara rolled her eyes. “You can tell me how to raise my kids once you’ve started raising your own,” she said without heat.
    James cleared his throat, and Tara’s cheeks got a little pink. Taylor changed the subject without missing a beat, bringing Tara up to speed on the man he had chased through the airport in Los Angeles.
    They briefly discussed the case before the waiter arrived, and then there was a lengthy question-and-answer session that Will could have done without. At last they ordered and went back to debating