LUCA
Ifile Finch’s account away in my mind and reassure him with kisses. He falls asleep even before I manage to turn the kisses into something more, but I believe he needs sleep more than sex tonight, and so I do my damnedest not to rouse him while I lie there with a hard cock and a busy brain.
Finch’s mother has always been a touchy subject for him, and I generally try to avoid bringing her up. I avoid bringing up his father, too, for that matter—eitherone of his fathers. But what if the IFF thinks that Finch knows something about his mother—knows somethingfromhis mother—that they don’t? Something that they desperately want to know?
But if Finch doesn’t even know what itisthat he knows…
We need more information.
* * *
The next morning,I rise early, sliding out of the bed as quietly as I can and limp down the hallway to get checked over by Darla. I take my medicine from her like a good little boy. When I creep back into the bedroom, Finch is still so deeply asleep that I don’t want to wake him. He’s had far less sleep than I’ve had recently, if an induced coma counts.
I think it does. It will have to count, because I have a mission today. I can’t crawl back into bed, despite how tempting Finch looks lying there.
Tara is in the yard, reading, legs crossed underneath her in the large basket chair and her brow knit in concentration. She looks up in surprise when I come out into the enclosed space. “Good morning, Luca.”
“Good morning. What is it that you’re—oh,” I say, reading the cover. “The Prince. How are you finding it?”
She gives a rueful smirk. “Hard going, if I’m honest. You recommended Machiavelli to me some time ago, and I realized, when you were due to arrive, that I hadn’t read it.” She smacks the back of one hand lightly with the other.
I sit on the outdoor sofa opposite her. The morning is clear, but the sun is losing its power as the year begins to die. “It wasn’t meant as homework.”
“No, but…” She grins, ducks her head. “I always remember what you said when you recommended it. ‘Learn from the best.’ I figured that included you.”
I tip my face back to the weak morning sunshine. “Learn from my mistakes if you can,” I say. “And don’t get shot. Apart from that, I’m not sure I’m any kind of role model.” She laughs at that, and I laugh with her. “You know, Cicero said that if you had a garden and a library, you had everything you needed.”
“I like that,” she says, still smiling. “I think it’s true.”
But my mood has sobered. “Tara, I need information.”
She regards me with those lovely, large, deep blue eyes. “Yes?”
“I’m wondering if this IFF business has something to do with your mother.”
“With Mom?” She cocks her head, thinking, the same frown she wore when I caught her reading. But for her, unlike Finch, the suggestion has immediate possibilities. “She certainly had her secrets. But what makes you think…?” I repeat the story I heard second-hand from Finch, and as I go through it, Tara leans forward, puts her book aside, and focuses on what I’m saying.
“Do you know more about your mother’s past?” I ask. “Anything that would suggest—”
“I have only my memories. But...” She takes a breath. “Well, there were times when we were young… If she had some ties to the IFF, some of the things I have early memories of, the kind of memories I’d half convinced myself never happened, theywouldmake more sense.”
“Finch said the same, that some things he remembered would be more easily explained.”
She chews her lip, auburn brows pulling together. “I’ll put out some feelers. Over the years, my mother built up a great deal of influence in this city. She could have covered up anything she didn’t want widely known. But there are so many factions in this city thatsomeonemust knowsomething.”
* * *
The weeks drag on,and I just about write-off Tara’s so-called feelers.
Every day I feel a little stronger, but I find myself actually enjoying Finch’s daily sponge-bath-and-suck so much that I even look forward to it. Better him washing me than Darla, after all. And the happy ending is always welcome. At the end of the third week, Darla goes with me to an appointment at a private hospital in town, where they check my progress.
One morning, Finch and I have just finished what has become our regular morning routine—breakfast in bed (because why waste my strength going downstairs when I could anoint his lovely pink nipples with butter along with my croissant), then a slow and careful sponging of my entire body, after which we let our imaginations run wild. Or as wild as they can in a shower while I’m sitting down. He still won’t let me stand for longer than ten minutes at a time, on Darla’s orders.
Now Finch is taking his own shower, while I’m half-dozing again in the bed. A soft knock at the door rouses me, and I command, “Come,” loudly, assuming it must be either the nurse or Carlucci.
I regret the imperious tone when red hair appears through the cracked-open door, followed by Tara’s anxious face. “Hi,” she says.
“Tara! Come in, please.” I push myself to sit up in the bed, and try not to be irritated when she hurries over to help me rearrange the pillows behind my back. I’m much better these days; I don’t even wince when I twist or turn.
