Mourning Glory
By
The morning was a glorious one, an autumn rarity in San Francisco, and MacGyver was fully aware of that the moment he stepped out on the balcony to look out over the Bay. Soft white clouds scudded across the sky, and the deep blue of the Pacific Ocean below caught and reflected the sunlight in quick sparkles. He leaned on the rail and sighed, even as the breeze ruffled his long hair.
A day like this, and business still beckoned him; turning he eyed the folders on the glass table and frowned. A gull's cry sounded sweet in the morning air; the grey and white bird soared by, earning a smile from a mouth that rarely did. He glanced once again at the folders then came to a decision. Scooping them up, he dropped them into the attaché case and locked it, then reached for a special, untraceable cell phone. A quick series of jabs and the number began to ring.
"Mmmmmmmmorning?" came the sleepy greeting. He pictured her tousled, her eyes shut and he smiled again as he leaned his back against the railing.
"Not interrupting your beauty sleep am I, Tyro?" he purred. She gave a soft sigh and he could tell she was struggling to sit up.
"I'm currently out of rotation, MacGyver, and I intend on staying in my bed for the next three weeks--"
"--What a perfectly timed coincidence--I was planning the same thing--" he growled playfully, sipping his coffee, but before she could actually say anything further he continued.
"Come join me in San Francisco, Rose--I have matters to discuss with you over dinner. Let me indulge your weakness for abalone and champagne--"
"Matters to discuss?" he could hear the curiosity in her voice, and he glanced out over the water again, breathing in the salt air.
"Oh yes--things of serious nature. Make sure you lose your tails and meet me at the city's most famous bird sanctuary by three."
"I'm not coming."
"Yes you will."
"I won't."
"I *want* you, and you *will*," he told her in a husky tone before hanging up. His body tingled with old memories and new anticipation, and for the third time that morning, Mac smiled.
*** *** ***
He stood waiting in the yard below, a lean blond figure in a long coat of grey suede over a black turtleneck and jeans. Rose felt her breath catch in her throat when he turned to look at her, his dark sunglasses hiding his eyes. She cautiously stepped down, the edges of her green velour coat snapping in the wind.
The brisk breeze whistled through the exercise yard at Alcatraz, and even though the sun was out, it was chilly. She looked up at his lightly bearded face, his white teeth dazzling her.
"Walk with me," came his command. Rose fell into step with him, the two of them slowly crossing the yard. The filmy black scarf she wore fluttered around her face and she stuffed her hands deep in her pockets.
"We'll be killed if we're caught together," she reminded him. He gave one clear nod, and let a family of Asian tourists cross in front of them before speaking.
"Oh yes--the Trust's rule number three: except for the period of training, fraternization among members is to be strictly limited to joint assignments only, infractions immediately punishable by death. Now why is that, Tyro?"
"To prevent a coup, of course--the fastest way to topple the head of HIT is by overthrowing him, and that can only be accomplished by conspiracy. If there are no opportunities for conspiracy, the status quo remains," she recited. Mac nodded thoughtfully, staring out over the cement wall and chain link fence towards the water.
"Another possible reason?" MacGyver probed gently. Rose frowned, thinking for a moment.
"To keep the members from developing personal relationships that might interfere with their assignments, I suppose. Loyalties, jealousies, misplaced emotions could impede the completion of a contract."
"Excellent," he replied distantly. Rose said nothing for a moment, watching his face as they began to climb the steps up to the grass area by the Warden's house. Rose struggled to keep up with his long stride.
"What is your *point*, MacGyver?"
"Always so direct, so pragmatic--and impatient--" He replied, turning back towards the main building. They passed a park ranger who was leading a group through the doorways, reciting the history of Alcatraz in a slightly bored tone. Mac strode down the long hall of D block, to the solitary confinement cells. He glanced at her, then yanked one of the sliding doors open and stepped inside. It was tiny, with a low ceiling and thick cement walls; Mac dropped his head and beckoned to her. Shuddering, Rose reluctantly followed him in.
"Shut the door."
"No!" came her unnerved protest; he reached behind her to yank on the heavy solid steel door, swinging it closed, trapping them in the dark. Rose began to hyperventilate and rock back and forth moaning, but MacGyver dropped his arms around her tightly, pulling her up against him in a hard squeeze that drove her panic down to manageable levels.
"Shhhhhhhh--" he whispered, giving her a moment. His bearded mouth pressed against her delicate ear, and he spoke again.
"We've been screwed, Rose. All the money we earned from the Van de Roche assignment is being held by HIT and is to be paid out in yearly increments, not a lump sum. Nikolai is betting that we won't live long enough to collect the majority of it in the next twenty years."
"W-w-what?" Astonished, Rose gripped the lapels of his coat. Mac sighed.
"He doesn't dare renege on the fee, but he's changed the terms of payment to insure that no single member of HIT becomes too powerful. I should have seen it coming, but my greed blinded me."
"That bastard!" came her angry moan. "He can't *do* that!"
"He already has," Mac replied with cold fury. "But his time in power is coming to an end, *very* shortly."
They heard footsteps approaching, and the nervous chatter of vacationers muffled outside. Mac turned his face, the whiskers of his beard lightly scratching Rose's cheek until the corner of his mouth was pressed to hers. He spoke softly.
"Nikolai bears no grudge against you, but he will never advance you as long as I'm alive--that's the price of being my protégé. If I should fail, take the promotion as soon as it's offered--"
"MacGyver--" she hissed, but before they could say anything further, the door began to open. Swiftly Rose pressed her open lips to his in a kiss, soft and deeply sweet. He responded with a low grateful moan, his warm tongue caressing hers for a few delicious seconds as a shaft of light spilled across them. They broke apart to face the smiles of strangers peering in. Rose blushed prettily.
"Oh honey! I *told* you we'd get caught!" she chided Mac, leading him out by the hand as the tourists giggled. They turned towards the dining hall, still hand in hand.
"I want in," she hissed.
"No."
"It's my money too--"
"You're too inexperienced and too--"
"Too what?" Rose glanced up at his profile as they studied the menu sign and dodged out of the lens of someone's video camera. She caught his bearded chin in her free hand.
"Too--?" she repeated. He stared at her with fathomless eyes before growling,
"Too distracting."
Rose looked at him in fury.
"Too distracting--so why in hell did you have me risk my life to fly up here at a moment's notice--to tell me *that*?"
"Maybe this condemned man simply wanted a last meal--" he taunted. Rose shook her head and looked down at their joined hands, fingers interlocked for a long moment.
"Maybe this condemned man is too afraid of leaving unfinished business before he dies--" came her insightful reply. Mac glared at her, shoulders stiffening; Rose felt his grip suddenly tighten to a painful level, squeezing her fingers. She refused to cry out, even as her knuckles creaked under his agonizing strength. He bent her small hand back; she buckled, went down on one knee, but kept her watering eyes locked on his. For a few seconds more he held her there looking down at her, and then sighed heavily.
"Do *exactly* as I say and we might live through this--and not another word, Tyro, not *one*, or I'll send you back in an urn."
She smiled at him through her wet lashes.
*** *** ***
"Have you ever heard of Mourning Glory?" he asked as they stood on the deck of the ferry heading back to Fisherman's Wharf. Rose leaned against him, nodding.
"Beckett mentioned it once--some sort of exclusive club, isn't it?"
"More than you know, Tyro. The Gloriano family established Mourning Glory back at the turn of the century as a private organization catering to . . . very specialized tastes."
"Hmmmmm--how specialized?"
"Nothing is forbidden, Rose, " he chuckled coldly, "*Nothing*. Membership is limited to eight hundred patrons worldwide, and the waiting list can run for decades. Nikolai's father signed up his son the year he was born, and his membership finally came through two months ago."
Rose pondered this for a moment as she looked at the late afternoon sun. The deck rocked under their feet, and she shifted to better catch her balance.
"You want to catch him there--" she guessed.
Mac nodded, the sea breeze whipping his long hair around.
"How?"
"A current affiliate owes me a blood favor that I've called in. Tonight we'll go in under his authorization and hunt for Nikolai."
"But, but--" A thousand questions and concerns crossed her mind; her dilemma amused Mac, who smiled down at her.
"Listen and learn, little one--I am *never* without a plan," came his reassurance. "We need to shop--Stormy Leather, the Crypt, Gothica--tell me, how do you feel about platinum handcuffs?"
Rose wore a skintight latex mini-dress in hot pink that clung to every curve on her like a second skin. It had a high neckline offset by the two zippers that raced from each collarbone over the slopes of her breasts to meet at the navel. Currently the zippers were half-open with the little silver pull-tabs just above the straining swell of her full chest, winking in the light. Her hair was down and loose, the dark auburn curls spilling over her back. Black fishnet thigh highs and pink pumps with four-inch heels completed the outfit. As she turned to look to the left, Mac saw the other side of the outfit and drew in a sharp painful breath. There was no back to the dress, just a tight ladder of tiny silver chains that linked across all the way down. Rose's lovely back, spine and bottom were clearly, nakedly visible through the links.
"Will this do?" she asked in a low wicked tone, fully aware of the effect she was having on MacGyver. He gave a slow mesmerized nod.
"If it was red . . . I doubt you would make it to the doorway, Tyro--" was his only comment. She licked her shiny pink lips when she looked at him.
Tall, imposing and hostile, Mac wore a coal black leather cattleman's duster complete with shoulder cape, the sleeves pushed up on his forearms. It swung open as he walked to reveal a black ribbed turtleneck sweater over black leather pants. The boots were polished Italian leather with silver heels and made sharp sounds on the tiled floor as he moved forward. A Rolex with heavy silver links loosely circled one strong wrist, and a diamond stud glittered in his left earlobe. He wore a pair of square glasses with smoked lenses to hide his eyes, and black fingerless gloves on his elegant hands, which were holding a black cowboy hat decorated with silver conches.
"Good enough to beat, or eat--" she giggled. He shook his head impatiently.
"Be serious. Here--" He handed her a black velvet choker with a small cameo of a silver dagger on it. When she put it on, she realized it matched the tiny lapel pin on his duster and her eyebrows went up.
"I am the master, you are the slave," he explained with a careless wave of his gloved hand. "My word is law, my orders are to be obeyed instantly and perfectly. Any questions?"
"Several, but I don't think they'll make any difference," she sulked for a moment. "I suppose I have no say in anything tonight?"
"You might . . ." he replied loftily, "But once we're inside, I expect perfect obedience, Rose--we will have only once chance, and I refuse to have you ruin it by drawing undue attention because of your recalcitrant attitude. Play the game, Tyro, or go home."
The menace in his voice matched his dark eyes; Rose swallowed hard and nodded.
"Good. Tonight you are my little Puss. Come, the limo is waiting--"
"Good evening sir, and welcome to Mourning Glory--" The doorman spoke in reverential tones. He nodded at the lapel pin on MacGyver's coat, and held the door for both of them as they stepped inside the building. Once inside the foyer, Mac and Rose looked around. To the left was a hatcheck room manned by a topless girl in a leather skirt.
She waited.
Rose waited.
Mac waited.
Rose finally realized that *she* was expected to remove Mac's cowboy hat and muffler, and jumped quickly to do so, biting her lips at her faux pas. Mac allowed himself to be unwrapped, not even looking at Rose while she handed her coat and his effects to the hatcheck girl and received the ticket.
"Puss--" he purred over one shoulder, Rose brought herself back to his left side, trying to ignore her sudden desire to kick him in the shins. He crossed the anteroom to the glass and bronze Art Nouveau double doors on the far side and waited. Rose came forward and tugged on one of the heavy doors. It didn't move.
"Master--" She muttered sulkily. Mac shot out a hand and gripped her chin, forcing her to look up at him. Behind the smoky lenses, she saw a flare of impatience. Immediately she dropped her eyes to avoid the rebuke that would be coming.
"I am sorry."
"Look over there."
With his hand, he forced her head to the right. She bit back a gasp.
There was a little, well-lit alcove next to the double doors. Above it, a scrolled sign announced: I HAVE BEEN DISOBEDIENT. PLEASE REPRIMAND ME. In the alcove itself, a gagged, naked girl in high heels was bent in half, her wrists cuffed to her ankles with gleaming silver shackles. A wooden paddle hung on a hook under the sign.
Mac slowly walked over and picked up the paddle.
He handed it to Rose.
She hesitated, looking at him; he nodded.
Rose bit her lip, and swung the paddle at the girl's rump. It was a good hard strike and made the girl grunt in pain against her gag. Flinching, Rose dropped the paddle, which clattered on the tiled floor.
"Pick it up and replace it, Puss," Mac's voice came out in a silky whisper. With nerveless fingers, Rose did. He turned back to the double doors, pausing. For a moment, she shivered as studied him: so tall, so imposing behind his glasses--
She scurried to the door, and adrenaline gave her the strength to tug it open.
"Pray that it won't be *you* in the alcove next time--" came his hiss. Mac sailed through first with his slave following in his wake.
The main salon of Mourning Glory was a huge room, with four supporting pillars framing a skylight above. Underfoot was a parquet floor of polished wood with inlays of green marble forming patterns of Philodendron leaves. Enormous potted ferns hung in baskets from the pillars, and on the opposite side of the room, a six-foot tall fireplace of black and red marble housed a cheery blaze.
Scattered about the room were deep club chairs and ottomans upholstered, some in rich ruby leather and some in green and black brocade. Thick oriental carpets under the chairs protected the floor from scratches. Against the right wall stood a bar of mahogany carved with intricate Art Nouveau designs. Set flush against the left wall, a grand staircase with a green and black balustrade rose from under the floor and up to a second story.
Mac and Rose stood for a moment, taking it all in; MacGyver sighed, but Rose couldn't tell if it was in envy or frustration. Nikolai was nowhere in sight.
"I'll find a seat, you get the drinks," he directed, glancing around. Rose pursed her mouth aware of stares on her body, of sighs and whispers around the room.
"What do you want? Beer? Wine? Imported water?"
"Actually--" he glanced down at her and his lazy smile made her stomach flip flop, "An ice cold martini would be perfect--Fetch, Puss."
"Grrrr," she strode off towards the bar, leaving him to admire her decidedly sexy walk-- Mac drifted out of that thought and went to find a chair. He nodded at people who nodded at him in that familiar don't-know-you-but-acknowledge-you fashion. The room wasn't crowded--only thirty or so were here, not counting the attending slaves. He studied the room carefully, noting everything within his line of vision.
Some of the slaves were dressed traditionally, in gauzy harem outfits. Others wore sarongs, loincloths or short togas. A few were in truly extraordinary wear: Mac spotted a meter maid, a Girl Scout, a punk rocker and a nun in the latter group. He casually strode to the left side of the fireplace, finding an empty pair of chairs facing each other. Perfect. If he took the left one, he had a clear view of the front door and the staircase. Mac sat down and settled in, relaxing into the soft chair.
It was good to be the king.
Rose found herself at the bar waiting behind a small black woman with beautiful hip length dreadlocks. The woman also had on an Egyptian shenti and an elaborate gold collar with the eye of Horus on it.
"Oooooohhhhhhh, Is your master as hot as he looks, honey?" The black woman turned and softly demanded. Rose blinked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your master--the one with the specs and dangerous smile? Is he looking for a second slave tonight?"
"Uh--"
"'Cause I would dearly love to ditch the old dictator I'm here with. All *he* does is rant about trade embargos and feel me up a little when he's had a few."
"Oh. Uh--" was all Rose could managed to get out. The other woman gave her a wistful smile and shrugged.
"One on one tonight, huh? Lucky girl. Well, if he gets in the mood for a different set of pyramids, come find me. We'll probably be up in the Voyeurs Hall." She picked up the silver tray with the whiskey sour on it and glided away.
"Right." Rose called out after her. The bartender a tall cadaverous man with a green eyeshade and long black hair scowled impatiently at her.
"What will your Master have?"
"A martini."
"Maraschino cherry or green olive?Russian vermouth or Finnish? Chilled glass or ice? Bitters?" he demanded, even as he began to pull the ingredients together. Rose lifted her chin a little.
"Cherry, Russian vermouth, ice, bitters, and a *linen* napkin--" the bartender smiled. Within a minute he'd mixed it, handing it over to Rose with a small nod. She took it and sauntered back into the main salon, keeping her eyes down as she crossed the room and knelt before Mac, handing him the drink. He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes dark and brilliant.
"Ahhhh," he sighed after the first chilled sip. "I could get *used* to this, Puss--"
She shot him a look before scooting to rest on her knees to the side of his chair, and the look was enough to make his dimples deepen.
"Temper, temper--"
"--And I do have one--where is Nikolai?" came her impatient mutter. MacGyver dropped a hand on her head; stroking her the way one would a pet. She accepted it in an absent-minded way as he spoke softly.
"The night is young, and undoubtedly the agents handling our surveillance have reported back to HIT. Nikolai is probably running late, but he'll be here. Have patience."
"Easy for you to say--you're not the one half-naked on the floor--"
"Not this time--" he sipped the martini again, fishing the cherry out just as someone moved to settle in the chair on the other side of him at the fireplace.
"I hope you don't mind--" came the soft murmur. "These old arthritic legs can't take much walking these days--"
Mac looked up at the gentleman taking a seat in the chair opposite of him with interest. The man was small and fussy, with too much cologne and a smug look in his eyes. His slave was much more impressive. She was over six feet tall, with a magnificently sculpted body of ebony muscle barely covered in a thin green loincloth. For several minutes no one spoke. Finally,
"I'm Senor Sanchez, and this is my Hester--" he bragged, crossing his legs. Hester gave Rose a defiant stare before turning her gaze to Mac. Her expression shifted to definite interest, and Rose gritted her teeth reflexively.
"Lovely," MacGyver murmured politely, "An outstanding creature--"
Hester preened, flexing a bicep. Rose sniffed and turned her face up to Mac, trying not to growl.
"--Although Puss here has her own deadly charms as well," came the careless response as he fed her the cherry from his martini. Senor Sanchez leaned forward, revealing his bad teeth in an interested smile.
"I cannot believe that--so small and delicate a creature--Hester would break her in half at the slightest provocation!"
"I doubt it," came Mac's dry and slightly bored response as he sipped his martini again. Senor Sanchez was eyeing Rose in a speculative fashion.
"Perhaps the matter would be best settled by a little bout? The Voyeur's Hall has an arena free, and it would be most amusing . . ." he trailed off, a deliberate challenge in his voice. Mac glanced down at Rose, pursing his chiseled lips thoughtfully. He stroked her cheek with a knuckle.
"And the wager?"
"I have a
collection of emeralds from
"Ah--that against my Renoir I suppose," MacGyver carelessly sighed. "I do believe it can be arranged."
The other man nodded, beaming, the greed in his eyes obvious. He looked at his watch, and then got out of the chair; Hester towered over him, waiting.
"I will register the match with the house and make arrangements. We will meet you in twenty minutes then, at the Voyeur's Hall. May the best pet win."
"Rose will--" Mac assured him flatly, watching him go. Once he had left, Rose took the empty martini glass and set it down on the carpet beside her.
"Mac--" came her dubious whisper. He patted his strong thighs invitingly.
"Come here--" he ordered. She climbed into his lap cautiously, breathing in the mingled scents of warm leather and his aftershave. Rose shivered, but not from fear; MacGyver looked over his dark glasses, locking his gaze on hers.
"He was spoiling for a match--had I refused he would have found another way to pit you against his She-Hulk," he nuzzled her ear and let his warm hands toy with her shoulders. Rose pursed her pink mouth.
"She's big, but I can take her--" came her thoughtful self-assessment. "And there *are* emeralds at stake--"
"I'll have them made into a lovely collar for *you*--" he added playfully. Rose's eye glinted dangerously, but Mac shifted a hand from her shoulder to toy with one of the zipper tabs straining at her chest. He tugged it lower and Rose drew in a breath.
"Maaaaaac--" came her hiss as the tiny zipper growled to reveal the full creamy heft of her left breast, pink nipple erect.
"We are being watched, Puss--be a good girl and submit--" Mac murmured in a low, serious tone. Rose fought the urge to look around, and closed her eyes instead as she felt the soft brush of his beard against her chest, the nip of his teeth against her ruckered flesh. Involuntarily she moaned, shifting as her body reacted. Mac laughed, the sound muffled against her bare breast.
"Someone *likes* being watched . . ." he accused huskily. Rose's lips quivered as she managed to whisper back,
"Stop, Mac--I can't take much of this . . ."
Slowly, he drew back, blowing lightly over the wet nipple, making her shiver once more, then reluctantly tugged the zipper up again, barely able to enclose her once more in the latex.
"Neither can I--" he agreed, his voice slightly unsteady. "Take Hester out, and the emeralds are yours. Perhaps Nikolai will be among the spectators. Come, let's go find the Hall--"
*** *** ***
The battle was over within minutes, much to the shock of Senor Sanchez and the relative disappointment of the spectators in the gallery above the Voyeur's hall. Once the referee blew the silver whistle, Hester charged; Rose deftly dodged her and gave her a kick to the rump that send her crashing to the ground. Swiftly Rose jumped on her opponent's back and reached strong hands on either side of Hester's head. A hard snapping yank to the right, and the larger woman twitched once before her lifeless body slumped to the floor. Rose climbed off of her, breathing hard, pale amid the cheering. Senor Sanchez was in a state of disbelief and anger; he rocked back and forth, eyes wide in shock.
"No no, the wrong one died! Hester is a prime fighter, a champion!"
"Hester was a bully and a sadist, Gerardo. It's high time *someone* defeated her--" a voice gleefully called from the gallery. Senor Sanchez snarled.
"I demand satisfaction! This killer must be punished!"
This protest was met with hoots and cries of derision from almost everyone; Mac searched the crowd and recognized a senator, a noted philanthropist and an Oscar winning actress. Further in the back, he thought he recognized Nikolai, but it was difficult to tell.
"By the rules of Mourning Glory, Senor Sanchez has the right to punish for the loss of his slave," came the verdict of the referee, who waved at Rose to come over to him. She did, looking up at Mac. He nodded back, his eyes unreadable behind this smoked lenses.
"Choice of punishment--thirty lashes or thirty minutes in the coffin," came the referee's voice. Rose twitched at the mention of a coffin, and Mac walked down to the floor with an arrogant lazy stride, reaching her and the referee within a few moments. The referee made a deferential bow to Mac. Above, the viewers began to disperse, the festivities over.
"Sir, which option would you prefer?"
"Tell me about the lashes--" he stalled, motioning for Rose to drop to her knees at his side. She did, trembling slightly.
"The lashing is done with a thin birch rod, freshly peeled. You can either do it yourself, or have someone on staff handle it. The coffin is more effective punishment if you intend on using your slave for any other sport this evening," came the calm reply. Mac looked down at Rose, his expression a mix of concern and frustration. Rose swallowed hard and managed a tiny whisper.
"Please, *not* in a box--I, I . . ." she couldn't finish. Mac cupped her face with his two hands and spoke back, urgently.
"Thirty minutes, Tyro, thirty minutes--barely the time it takes to paint your nails--Sanchez will pay for it with more than emeralds, I *promise* you--"
She looked at him and hitched a little sob in her lovely throat; in that tiny moment Mac was suddenly aware of her intimate trust, unlike any he'd known before. He rubbed her lower lip with his thumb, waiting until she was calmer. Rose sucked in a deep breath.
"Okay . . . the coffin . . ." came her frightened whisper. Mac turned to the referee and nodded curtly, letting the man lead Rose away. He felt a tiny flare of fear enveloped by a hard hot wave of anger.
Senor Sanchez was still smug as he made his way towards the bathroom. Mac followed at a distance, unhurried. With a final glance at the room behind him, Mac entered the restroom thirty seconds after the other man.
Luck was with him; the two of them were alone in the salon. Senor Sanchez was rinsing his hands in one of the solid silver sinks and making clucking noises. Mac moved over and turned on a faucet himself.
"A pity about Hester--" he offered conversationally. Senor Sanchez gave a bitter shrug.
"It was bound to happen I suppose. At least I still have the emeralds."
"I think not--I *won* the wager, Senor Sanchez--" Mac reminded him silkily. The other man scowled, reaching for a towel.
"The bet is off--you won by unfair means--"
Moving faster than a striking snake, MacGyver grabbed the back of the man's head and shoved it forward, slamming Senor Sanchez's face against the rim of the sink with a definite cracking sound. A bright gush of blood splashed out into the silver basin.
Mac noted the extreme upward angle of the broken nose and shattered forehead with a tinge of professional pride, pausing for a second as the last whistling breath escaped the dying man. He let him fall to the floor between the sinks and reached for the soap. Deftly he pressed it into the sole of Senor Sanchez's shoe and dropped it nearby, then splashed a little water on the floor for good measure.
Mac left, gliding out of the salon and heading out again, cool and unruffled, first to collect his winnings and then to make his way to the dungeons.
As they unscrewed the lid of the ornate onyx and silver coffin and Rose came into view, Mac bit back a painful surge. Her eyes were black with ruined makeup, streaks lining her temples where the tears had run. Her lips were puffy and bleeding slightly, the indentations of her teeth evident on them. She had welts along her upper arms where she had scratched herself, and she was shaking convulsively. Mac lifted her out of the coffin himself and looked to the Mourning Glory attendant.
"Lorraine and Sondra will clean her up for you," the man murmured courteously, but Mac impatiently shook his head.
"A suite--I'll take care of her myself," he growled. He followed the attendant to the elevator, still carrying Rose as they went to the third floor. Swiftly a room was secured, and Mac gently took his trembling armload in.
"Run the bath--" he ordered tersely. As the water was running, Mac tenderly peeled Rose out of her dress, stockings and heels, handing them to the waiting attendant.
"Clothing and shoes--something size three, and warm--fur, preferably. Charge it to the Dagger account and if you get it up here within the hour, give yourself a twenty percent tip," he muttered to the assistant, who nodded and hurried out. Mac lifted Rose once more; she refused to meet his eyes as he brought her into the bathroom and set her into the steaming, fragrant water of the round tub.
Mac hurriedly pulled off his own clothes and climbed in as well, pulling Rose to him; she was unresisting and unresponsive, her blue eyes dull with shock. He cradled her, soaking a thick terry washcloth and wiping her face clean.
"You did magnificently, Tyro--worthy of me in every way. The emeralds are yours . . ." came his soft murmur as he slid soap across her shoulders and small back. She stirred slightly as he continued to chatter on, speaking of nonconsequential things in a soothing stream of sound. Gradually Rose began to react, tentatively taking the soap from him and working up lather in her hands. She drew in a shaky breath, and finally spoke, her voice a soft squeak.
"Never, never, never *ever* make me do that again, MacGyver. Even when I'm dead--just cremate me. No boxes, not ever!"
"Shhhhhhhh. I promise, never again--" came his pacifying tone. Rose looked over her wet shoulder at him, eyes blazing. Under her gaze he smiled.
"I saw Nikolai, Rose. He is playing lord of the manor in the main salon, parading a borrowed underage slave around rather shamelessly. He'll be drunk in an hour, and by then we can take him with us without anyone being the wiser," Mac told her as he leaned back against the edge of the tub. Rose turned to face him, the wet suds sliding down her slick body, her expression thoughtful as she studied his lean wet chest.
"An hour, and then--"
"And then a trip on the Bay. But *first*--"
"First?"
One searing look passed between them, a shared moment of intimate recognition that spoke volumes. Mac stood and picked her up, ignoring her squeal of protest. Hefting her to one shoulder, he carefully stepped out of the tub with her, sloshing water everywhere.
"Hey!" she protested as he plunked her wet firm fanny down on the thick bathroom carpet. Mac paid no attention to her protests, and dropped down, casually hooking her knees over his shoulders. He savored the startled look in Rose's eyes; he slid his big hands around her bottom and pulled her forward, lightly pressing his mouth to the wet curly fur between her thighs. Dimly he heard her draw in a noisy breath as his tongue firmly slid up and along the soft slick cleft to flick across the plump bud there.
Rose's flavor delighted him, a sweet tang that intensified his desire. Forcing himself to stay gentle, he slowly kissed and nibbled her tender flesh; Rose sighed urgently, one hand braced behind her, one hand lightly gripping his head. Moments later, Mac growled. The vibration in tandem with his tongue made Rose tighten her grip on his hair; she gave a throaty squeal as tight shudders wracked her small frame
. He stretched out over her. Kissing him, she tasted traces of herself deep in his mouth. His palms hit the carpet on either side of her shoulders: Mac was on top of her now, all his weight bearing down. Around his braced shoulders, her legs tightened. Hot, hard, she felt the huge head of his cock pressing for entrance, then ramming in slickly into the lusciously tight fit of her.
Mac made a guttural sound deep in his throat. Rose stiffened, letting her hands scrabble across his broad back, urging him on with wordless moans as he plunged again more quickly, building into a powerful rhythm. His body plowed into hers, the wetness between them so abundant that they could hear it squelching and sucking with every thrust. Lost in the inferno searing between her thighs, Rose bit back a sobbing moan.
MacGyver rose above her and came, slamming down in hard fast thrusts; she lifted her legs higher, riding the crest of his orgasm. The blistering flood surged into her, spilling in her, on her, over her tender flesh; Rose came again herself, writhing under him as he let his thrusts die away.
Smiling the canary and cream smile of a contented cat, Rose held him for a long time, both of their bodies slowly drying. Gracefully, she slid first one leg and then the other from his shoulders and cradled his weight properly as he kissed her forehead somewhat breathlessly.
"Master . . ." she drawled sweetly.
"Always, Puss--" he chided with a satisfied sigh. Rose reached up and tweaked his nose as a discreet knock sounded on the door. MacGyver rolled off of her reluctantly, reaching for a towel as Rose did the same.
*** *** ***
Nikolai didn't recognize MacGyver and Rose until it was too late; the three of them were already walking arm in arm down the front steps of Mourning Glory, laughing and chatting in the early morning hours when he glanced into the dark eyes of his new found friend and froze. It was too late; the cold press of the knife blade sliced through his coat to reach his ribs, pressing lightly there.
"You--!" came his drunken hiss.
"*Us*--" Mac corrected with a cold smile. Nikolai turned his head to the other side to see Rose flashing a humorless grin at him. He began to struggle, but thought better of it.
"I have bodyguards--"
"Not tonight. You dismissed them--didn't want them knowing about your membership here at Mourning Glory--" Mac reminded him, "--very thoughtful of you."
"Still, there's no need for threats," Nikolai murmured placating as he tried to free himself from the iron grip on his shoulder. Mac nodded.
"Nikolai Ivanovich Rossokoff--what is the point of a threat unless it becomes a reality? Come, we have much to discuss tonight--our ride is waiting . . ."
The moon was high off, but the light it spilled across the Bay was more than enough to see by. Rose sat with the handcuffed Nikolai, huddled deep in her mink, saying nothing to him as the small boat crossed the bay. The heavy stench of gutted fish and sun spoiled meat, mingled with the lost contents of Nikolai's stomach rolled across the deck. He was pale.
Finally the boat stopped. Mac scrambled down from the upper deck, a cold smile on his handsome face. He knelt down by Nikolai and looked him in the eyes.
"Another lovely San Francisco night comes to an end--Rose and I would have enjoyed it so much more if you had seen fit to let us have the money we earned, Nikolai. We aren't unreasonable, really--"
"Yes you were--the other members of the board panicked at the thought of Manfred's book. They never should have offered that much as a fee! *They* were the ones who decided to change the payment, not me!" Nikolai feebly protested. Mac shook his head.
"Not without someone laying out the logical argument. Not without someone to hold the passwords and numbers for the Cayman accounts. I'll tell you what--give me your safe combination, and you can be getting your parking validated by checkout time today."
Nikolai shook his head cagily. "No, MacGyver--I know your mind. You're going to kill me either way, and I'll be damned if I'll make anything easy for you. Go ahead and shoot me, drown me-- Have fun with the combination, you bastard. I would *love* to see how quickly you'll vaporize--"
Bored, Mac straightened up and glanced over at Rose. She was pouring the last reeking bucket over the side, holding her nose playfully.
"We are going to need another bath--" came her unhappy comment. He shrugged, and studied the water carefully. Nikolai drew in a sharp breath.
"Wait--" he yelled, suddenly aware of the situation. Rose gave him a quick sweet smile as Mac yanked him to his feet.
"I would be a terrible host if I didn't mention one of the Bay areas most formidable predators--they'll even eat a son of a bitch like you, Nikolai," With swift jabs, Mac slashed the other man, cutting his cheek, his jaw, his chin with light slashes. Blood began to bubble up. Nikolai screamed.
With a hard push, Mac shoved him overboard, and then stepped over to Rose, pulling her into his arms. Water splashed; something ominous bumped the keel of the boat hard enough to make both of them stagger a moment. They clung to each other for a long time, listening to the dark and lonely sounds of the ocean at night, the clanging of the distant buoys, the surf, and the melancholy wind. Overhead, the tiny sweeping light of Alcatraz passed. Mac pressed his lips to Rose's temple.
"MacGyver . . ." came her soft voice.
"Yes?"
"I--"
"You--?"
"I believe you said something about abalone and champagne?"
END