Title: Alternative Menu
By: Firefox
Pairing: Mac/Danny
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Mac Taylor is at a loose end in the middle of the desert and looking for a good meal, but finds so much more.

***

Mac Taylor was hot, tired and hungry. The air conditioning in the rental car was on the fritz, and had been for the last hundred miles or so, he was either being blasted by an icy wind, or being assaulted by what felt like a Turkish Bath coming out of the vents.

Not for the first time, he wondered what the hell he was doing out here, in the middle of nowhere, going nowhere, for no reason he could work out with any accuracy.

The wide, wild scenery of Nevada stretched away, seemingly endless, in every direction he could see, right to the horizon.

He didn't even like the desert. He was a city boy and, clichéd though it was, the t-shirts and badges really did apply to him, he really did love New York. Or he had. Once. Perhaps he still did, somewhere underneath all the other feelings that seemed to have smothered any love he felt for anything any more. He wasn't even sure that they were 'feelings', these whatever-the-heck they were that seemed to have invaded his heart, his soul and his mind. He was tired all the time, yet sleep was a rare luxury. He couldn't concentrate on anything for more than an hour or two at a time – a condition not desirable in a senior New York detective. He had never really been the life and soul of the party type, but had always thought he was blessed with a reasonable sense of humour. That too, seemed to have deserted him, along with any capacity he had ever had for enjoyment. Once a keen runner and baseball player, he no longer had the energy or the will to enjoy those things any more.

If he applied some logical thought to his state of mind, he could trace the origin of his malaise back, with almost pinpoint accuracy, to a single day. September 11th 2001. That monumental day of recent history when the world had changed for ever. There could scarcely be a person on the planet that had not been affected by those events, but for Mac the effect had been deep, personal and permanent. That was the day he had lost Claire. The day his life had deviated, swung wildly off course and into uncharted territory, and he had been steadily heading along that rutted, uneven track ever since.

The numbness of grief and loss was a soothing anaesthetic in the early days, gradually receding to a dull ache that never went away. He buried himself in his police work, long, long hours of methodical processing. Science was something he knew. Something he could trust. Forensics didn't lie, evidence didn't change its mind. He could push the fear and the loneliness to the back of his brain and, for most of the time, overwhelm it by sheer force of will and work.

He supposed his Marine Corps experience had helped, although he had scarcely been aware of it at the time. The discipline and order of Corps life had always suited him, he was a neat-freak by nature, the Marines had simply nurtured and approved it. He had loved the camaraderie and brotherhood of the Marines, the loyalty and like-mindedness of those he served with. Semper Fidelis was more than a motto to Mac Taylor. It was his raison-d'etre.

That was why Claire had been such a surprise. She was pretty, but not beautiful in the conventional sense. Small framed, round in all the right places, brown haired and brown eyed, with a gentle, easy laugh and a nature to match. She worked hard, loved her home and him, and asked no more of him than she knew he was prepared to give. He had been astonished at just how much he loved her. He would have cheerfully given up his life for her, even though he was the one with the dangerous job. How dangerous could being an accounts analyst in a merchant bank be, for heaven's sake? Hardly frontline duty.

But, as Mac knew only too well, front lines can change. Invisible lines on a map - one day in a country half way around the world, the next in the heart of the city he called home. Along with so many millions of others, he had watched in disbelief as the unbelievable events of that day had unfolded. His Claire, sitting at her desk the same as she had done every day for the last three years, was suddenly and fatally on the front line, and Mac Taylor's life would never be the same again.

The reserves of strength and fortitude he had built up through his life had actually served him for longer than he might have expected following Claire's death. He had carried on working hard, helped and supported by a thoroughly professional and loyal team, but his senior position had led to the inevitable clashes with even more senior figures in the police force, the higher echelons of which, in New York at least, were more about politics than they were about duty. Mac had no time for politics. Diplomacy was not something he enjoyed or was good at. He found it distasteful, against his nature and an affront to the thousands of hardworking men and women who put their lives on the line every day on the New York streets.

The horse-trading and favour-currying that was so much a part of the city's lifeblood at senior levels, left him with a bitter after taste and a deep sense of dissatisfaction which, eventually, he could not deny any longer.

Dispirited, disillusioned and with his reserves of strength depleted, he eventually opted for early retirement, the tipping point reached when the new Assistant Commissioner tried to tell him that withholding police pay for budgetary reasons was a valid action for the city to take.

Mac had rented out his small apartment, stowed his possessions in a lockup, packed his bags and driven south, with some vague notion of seeing parts of the country he had yet to experience. He had actually visited more countries of the world than he had states of the union, he had realised with surprise. Perhaps now was the time to rectify that situation.

That had all been three months ago.

Almost 12 weeks on, and he was in Nevada, hot, tired and hungry.

A clapboard roadhouse, fetchingly named 'The Last Resort' in green and blue neon, was fast approaching, and he pulled off the road and into the parking lot, almost deserted save for the almost inevitable sparse scattering of dusty pick-ups and rusting old bangers.

The Nevada air almost robbed him of his breath as he stepped out of the car. It was hot as Hades out here, airless and baking. He made for the shade of the building, where at least he hoped it might be cooler.

The interior was considerably cooler than outside, but not the air-conditioned comfort he had been hoping for. It still felt airless and uncomfortable, but at least there was shade, and the prospect of a cold drink.

The place was bigger than it looked from the outside, but the exact details were difficult to make out, coming from the bright sunlight outside into the gloom of the interior. He could see a long bar top, with several stools in front, tables and chairs, a pool table and a small, currently empty, stage at the rear of the building.

"What'll ya have?" The barman, a huge individual with a bald head and several earrings in each ear, smiled without showing any emotion whatsoever at him.

"Coke. Diet. Thanks." The barman placed a paper coaster on the counter, followed by Mac's drink in a large glass, mercifully containing a lot of ice.

Mac sipped the Coke, unobtrusively taking in his surroundings as he walked to a nearby table and sat down. There were more customers than he had realised at first – two men, who looked like locals, were eating at a table at the back, two more were playing pool and three others were seated at the long bar. There was a waitress wiping another table at the back, and two overdressed young women sitting at the far end of the bar who may as well have sported signs saying 'hooker' over their heads. Mac hid a wry smile. Even out here in fly-speck Nevada there were hookers. Mac felt sorry for them. At least the girls in Manhattan had a fairly steady income. Out here it must be damned near impossible to make a living. What the hell did they do for customers in this dump?

That question was answered when one of the girls slid off her stool and sashayed up to his table, her stiletto heels clacking on the wooden floor like a woodpecker.

"Hi. I'm Canda."

Mac said nothing.

She slid into the chair opposite him, and Mac realised that she was much younger than she looked – no more than eighteen or nineteen tops, with a thin, foxy little face, way too much makeup and inexpertly dyed hair. She was little more than a kid, he thought with a flash of sympathy, thinking of all the runaways he had seen in New York, some of them on Sid's autopsy table. She was painfully thin, her tiny, bony wrists jangling with cheap bangles, her collarbones sticking out like salt cellars. The black Wonderbra she wore was doing its best, but she didn't really have much for the garment to work with, despite the very low cut white t-shirt, and the overall effect was more pathetic than erotic, like a twelve year old stuffing tissues in her bra.

Mac felt suddenly, terribly old.

"Wanna buy me a drink?" she asked with a big smile, which did not reach her green eyes.

"I'll buy you a Coke."

She pulled a face. "I meant a proper drink."

"That is a proper drink."

She sighed. "I'd rather have a vodka tonic."

"And I'd rather have a house in Bermuda and an account in the Caymans, but we can't all have what we'd rather." Mac suddenly thought that he sounded ludicrously like her father rather than a prospective client, but as he had no intention of being either, he ploughed on regardless. "What's the food like here?" he asked, picking up the menu card.

She pulled another face. "Great," she said, rolling her eyes in the direction of the barman, who Mac could see was watching her.

"Then I'll buy us lunch."

She grinned, finally accepting that Mac was a lost cause, trick-wise, but at least she would get a free lunch out of it. Who said there was no such thing?

"What's good?" He asked her.

She shrugged. "Omelette's okay," she leaned over the table, "if you want my advice, stay away from the cheeseburgers and the Russian salad."

Mac ordered two omelettes with fries and a chef's salad, and was glad his hopes hadn't been raised to any great level when the waitress almost threw two plates on the table, containing the most unappetising looking food Mac had seen in a long time.

Canda tucked into her omelette with relish, and, Mac realised with a flash of concern, real hunger.

Feeling slightly guilty, Mac pushed the wilted lettuce and overcooked eggs around his plate, then put his fork down with a sigh.

"You not eatin' that?" Canda asked around a mouthful of eggs.

Mac shook his head. "I honestly think I'd rather stay hungry than eat overcooked eggs and week-old salad."

Canda reached across the table and swapped her now almost empty plate for his full one. "Can I?" she said suddenly, glancing up at his face from under her false eyelashes, looking ridiculously young. He nodded. "Sure. Knock yourself out." She attacked the second helping with almost as much vigour as the first.

"You not hungry?" she said at last, wiping her mouth on a serviette.

"Oh yes, but not for that...." He indicated the plates with a nod, "that scarcely qualifies as food!"

"You wanna order something else?"

"No, I don't think I'll risk it, thanks."

She put her head on one side and tried to look seductive. "Anything else you feel like?"

He almost laughed. "Yeah – a really good steak au poivre, some vegetables that haven't been boiled out of existence, and a nice bottle of wine – preferably sauvignon, but I'll settle for anything older than 6 years."

"You know about food, yeah?"

Mac nodded. "Yeah."

Food had been his comfort over the last few, lonely, work-filled years. He was a good cook who enjoyed experiencing new tastes and trying out new recipes. What had started as a way of filling the endless empty hours of off-duty time had developed into a hobby, then a passion. He would trawl the markets in New York, trying out new mushroom recipes, or searching for special Italian cheeses. He would talk to deli owners and butchers, asking their advice about how to make fresh pasta or genuine coq au vin. Cooking was something akin to science, he had decided. If you got the exact ingredients, and combined them exactly as prescribed, you could be delighted with the results. If you experimented, you occasionally got a nice surprise.

"I can make ya feel better than a fancy steak will honey," Canda offered, apparently oblivious to her ineffectual technique.

Mac shook his head. "I doubt that very much," he said with a laugh.

She looked at him, hard, as if she were trying to work something out. "You bat for the other side?" She asked at last, as if this were the only possible explanation for Mac finding her completely resistable.

Mac laughed again. "Only if they are serving good food."

She leaned across the table, beckoning him towards her with a finger. "I heard about this place..." she said conspiratorially, "... out in the valley. Real weird, but apparently they do great food... gotta French chef or somethin'."

"What do you mean, 'real weird'?" Mac asked, intrigued despite himself.

"Some sort of club – way expensive and real high class. Real high security before they let you in. No women allowed. None. C'n you imagine? How much fun for the guys must that be?" She looked incredulous. "Seems they got everythin' – real classy restaurant, pool, gym, horses – the whole caboodle, but it's real hush-hush – like secret or somethin'." She lowered her voice even more. "Bein' out there, in the middle of nowhere in the desert, I reckon it's some government research place... for astronauts or test pilots or somethin'."

Quite why astronauts would need a good restaurant or horse riding Mac had no idea, but the whole thing sounded mildly interesting, if only to see if he could find the place and if the food was as good as a French chef might suggest it could be.

"What's it called?"

She thought for a moment. "Somethin' vineyard, I think. Somethin' like the CV vineyard? Not sure..."

"And how do I find it?"

"You gotta go out into the desert, past Wellspring Junction, and look for the hidden sign."

Why anyone would want to make a sign to somewhere, then hide it, defeated Mac as much as the restaurant and horses had done, but his curiosity was now well and truly piqued. He paid for the food and drinks, gave Canda $20 for entertaining him and because he felt sorry for her, and headed out to his car. She came tottering after him across the parking lot. "Hey!" She shouted, "I just remembered something else!"

"What's that?"

"This friend of mine – who told me about this place? She had this crazy idea.... She thought it might be a brothel." Canda suddenly stopped and burst out laughing. "I just realised how crazy that is! I mean, it can't be a brothel, can it, if they don't let no women in!"

Mac agreed that indeed, it could not, and the research station was beginning to look more likely. He climbed into his car and started the engine. Mercifully, the air con was on its Ice Station Zebra cycle, and freezing air rushed out of the vents.

Canda leaned in the open window. "Hope you get your steak on poorve," she said with a grin.

Mac hoped so too.

_________________________________

Fortunately, the landscape was pretty featureless when it came to signage, but Mac was sure he must have missed it, assuming it was ever there in the first place, this secret sign of Canda's, as over two hours and more miles than he wanted to think about had passed since he started looking. He shook his head and almost laughed. Mac Taylor, experienced detective, taking the word of a teenage hooker in a roadhouse? He was definitely losing his mind.

He pulled over to the roadside, and opened up his map of the area. There were not too many roads to choose from. He would just have to keep going until he got to Vegas. At least he stood a chance of getting a good meal and a place to stay there.

He put the car back into drive and pulled back out onto the roadway. That was when he saw it. A small metallic sign, close to the ground, mounted on two metal poles. CDCV and an arrow, pointing to a dirt track.

"Well, I'll be...."

Mac turned off the road.

Once out of sight of the main highway, the dirt track changed back into a well surfaced road that disappeared over a small rise. He followed it, eventually cresting another rise before he saw it. A large collection of buildings, white walled and grey-roofed, in the centre of what looked like a green oasis in a shallow bowl of the desert floor. The driveway led under an archway, flanked on either side by small lodges, obviously a gatehouse.

The gatehouse was the epitome of well designed high security – double 'airlock' sets of gates, the ones nearest him open, the others closed. You drove in and waited for the security checks. He couldn't actually see any armed guards or security personnel – he couldn't actually see anyone at all, but he had the distinct impression that his arrival would not have gone unnoticed.

Thoroughly intrigued, Mac drove in and stopped. The gates he had just passed through swished shut behind him. He was now in the 'airlock'.

A small sign mounted on the second set of gates read: "Welcome. Please exit your vehicle and enter the waiting room."

Mac did as instructed, almost waiting for the uniformed Marine or soldier to appear and throw him out. This had to be a government establishment, surely? The waiting room was small, containing nothing more than a large marble counter, a chair and drinking fountain, and a large window, divided by a stone pillar.

"Welcome to the Casa Del Corazon Sir, how can I help you?" The voice, apparently from nowhere, almost made Mac jump.

Not for the first time, his military and police training stood him in good stead. "I've heard remarkable things about your establishment, and was hoping to have a meal in your restaurant," he said steadily, trying to look around without moving his head.

"Of course Sir, if you wouldn't mind looking into the camera, please?"

Mac took a step forwards, and faced the camera lens mounted in the stone pillar. The camera lens that he had completely missed on entering the room.

"Thank you Sir." The voice again. Friendly and even toned, there was no hint of anything amiss. "We will need some photo ID, please. A driving licence, passport, or most forms of photo identification are acceptable. Please remove it from any cover it may be in and place it face down on the scanner, which you will see in the counter in front of you."

Lifting the steel lid, Mac placed his driving licence obediently on the scanner. A few seconds later he heard the buzz of the machine in action. "Thank you," the voice said politely. "Please retrieve your ID and wait either in here, or return to your vehicle. We will try not to keep you waiting too long, Sir. Once the interior gates open, please proceed to the visitor parking area, which you will find to the left of the fountain."

Mac didn't know whether to be more surprised than impressed. This was high level security, of that there could be no question – but why? He found himself deeply intrigued as to what might be on the other side of those gates. If he could find a reasonable steak au poivre, he might move here permanently.

It took a little under 10 minutes, but the gates duly swung open, and Mac drove on. The fountain was a grand affair, surrounded by a turning circle, with the promised visitor parking area clearly marked. Climbing out of the car he looked around. He was surrounded by a stunning building, decidedly French in architecture and design, the front façade studded by an overly large, open front door. Mac strode inside, into a tasteful marble and cream room, small but deliciously cool after the heat outside, despite the fact that it would be less than an hour until sunset. The Nevada climate was unforgiving, even this late in the afternoon.

"Good afternoon Mr Taylor. My name is Jack." The young man stood behind a tasteful, obviously expensive, curved wooden desk in the centre of the room. "May I get you a drink?"

Mac shook his head. This was getting more interesting by the moment. Jack smiled, a straight, white, even smile that lit up his eyes as well as the rest of his face. "You said you wanted to visit the club?"

"Yes," Mac said, deciding he would play this by ear until he had found his feet in this situation. "I am particularly interested in your restaurant."

"I'm sure you will not be disappointed Mr Taylor," Jack said warmly. "As this is your first visit here, there are a few formalities we need to dispense with first, however."

"Of course," Mac said, nodding.

"Yes, being a police officer you will be more than familiar with that concept," Jack grinned, "please take a seat, this will not take long."

Mac listened with mounting disbelief as Jack explained that any charges made to his credit card here would appear on his statement under the simple heading of 'CDCV' and that any investigation from anyone else, even the IRS, would be directed to the vineyard. He handed Mac an expensive folio, containing, he explained, the terms and conditions of the club, price lists, rules of the establishment and the facilities and services available.

"Today's menu is also in there, Mr Taylor, although we can always accommodate specific dietary requirements if need be. Please acquaint yourself with the contents of the folder, then complete and sign the form at the back. Thank you."

Mac read the contents with interest. Way to go Canda! He thought as he read. She had been right all along. It was expensive, but if the menu was any indication of the standards of the place, then cost would be an irrelevance. Canda's friend was, it appeared, also correct. This was definitely a very high class, very exclusive, all male brothel. Mac was well aware that 'traditional' brothels were legal in most of Nevada, but he doubted all male ones were. Oh it was carefully marketed and operated as a club, which indeed it seemed to be, offering a variety of diversions, not all of them by any means illegal – gymnasium, sauna, pool, restaurant – the list was long and varied, but it was definitely a 'house of ill repute'.

Mac signed the form and stood up to hand it back to Jack, who checked the form and smiled at him. "Thank you. You have been accepted for a one-day visit, Mr Taylor." He handed Mac a white plastic card, the same size and shape as a normal credit card, with the club logo of a bunch of grapes and vine leaves in the shape of a heart, overprinted with 'CDCV' in gold, and printed with a number, along with the normal magnetic strip. "This is your membership card, Sir. It can be used for everything inside the club. Simply hand it to the member of staff attending you at the time for the charge to be registered. It's valid for 24 hours. Only myself, the financial director, the owner and senior security can ever link your name to this card. We treat our members privacy very seriously. " He indicated a set of large double doors. "Once you enter the club Mr Taylor, you can opt to be whomever you choose to be. You can invent a name for yourself, or simply use your number, or any other number you wish."

Mac grinned. "That won't be necessary, Mr...?"

"Just Jack. As you wish, Sir." Jack smiled again. "I'm sure you are aware Mr Taylor, that you can have a member of staff assigned to you for the duration of your stay, if you so desire?"

"No thanks. I really just want a good meal and a good place to stay."

"Of course, Sir. If you would like to go through to the bar, I'll have your bags taken up to your room. The restaurant is open all day, but the dinner service begins at 7pm. If you require anything in the meantime, please call room service, or ask any member of staff. Have a pleasant stay Mr Taylor."

"Thank you, Jack. I'll do my best." Mac pushed open the double doors and headed for the bar. As soon as he was out of earshot, Jack picked up the house phone behind the desk and punched in a number.

"Danny? No, it's not a client. Well, it is, but not the usual. I think we may be able to work a little of the Casa Del Corazon magic...."


______________________________________

Mac felt almost human again. His room was large, air conditioned by some magic process that appeared to be completely silent, resplendent in a cream and navy colour scheme, and appeared to have every facility known to the hotel trade – a large en-suite, complete with jacuzzi tub and massage shower, the best stocked toiletries basket Mac had ever seen in any hotel, ever, tv, stereo, dvd, internet connection (laptops on request, apparently), magazines – the whole nine yards. He had taken a long, hot soak, wrapped himself in one of the enormous navy bathrobes – 100% Egyptian cotton – and relaxed for a whole hour and a half before dressing and venturing down to the bar and the much-anticipated restaurant.

The barman smiled at him as he approached. "What can I get you, Sir?"

"Beer. Cold. Do you have German?"

"Yes Sir. We have German, English, French, Belgian, Mediterranean, American, Canadian and probably most of the rest of the atlas, too!"

"In that case, I will have a cold German beer, please."

The coaster appeared on the bar top, followed swiftly by a large, trumpet shaped beer glass, covered in condensation and full of golden, light beer. Mac took a grateful mouthful. It was indeed, German beer. Round one to the Casa Del Corazon, he thought.


___________________________________________

Danny stood, towel wrapped around his waist, hair still damp-spiked from the shower, surveying the rows of hangers in his closet. He really didn't know what to go for with this one. Jack had been his usual, thorough self, sending info up to Danny's laptop about this latest client-that-wasn't-actually-a-client (well, not *yet* anyway), but Danny was still not sure what image he wanted to create.

Jack's ability to read people was bordering on spooky, but more than once Danny had been grateful for Jack's abilities and insight, and now trusted him absolutely. If Jack said Danny was the right staffer for Mac Taylor, Danny would bet every cent he had ever earned that Jack was right.

According to Jack, Mac Taylor was a widower who lost his wife on 9/11, an ex- New York cop and an ex-Marine. Neat, thorough, with a scientific brain, a strong sense of duty and right and wrong, probably with a lot of hang-ups and repressed as all get out. Danny grinned. Sounded delicious. Not too many years ago he would have done everything in his power to avoid someone like Mac Taylor, now he was wondering what kind of image he needed to project in order to seduce him! The irony of it. Both New Yorkers, but from opposite ends of the city spectrum. Could be interesting. Could be a disaster. Could be utterly delicious.

Danny scanned the rows of neatly arranged clothes. He had everything in there. He could be anything from a street urchin upwards - a rent boy, a surfer dude, geek, hayseed, cowboy, business executive – you name it – right up to a secret-agent James-Bond-type, designer suited and sophisticated.

He thought again about the profile Jack had sent up. "What would turn your head Mr ex-Marine?" he mused. Danny thought back to a time when he would have had the choice of, at most, two pairs of jeans and one clean shirt to wear 'to work' and just how many times he had needed to rely on his wits and his abilities to get enough money to survive. It wasn't like that any more, thank goodness. Now the clothes were simply part of the act, part of the illusion, but Danny was still Danny, smart-mouthed Italian/Jewish/Irish mongrel from the Bronx.

Danny Messer could do this without any help from clothes, he decided, and made up his mind exactly what to wear.

Less than 10 minutes later, he buzzed the kitchen from his room. "Franky?" he grinned at the telephone, knowing how much that particular nickname irritated the hell out of Francois Mercier, the Casa Del Corazon's celebrated French chef, "I may need to play waiter for a few minutes tonight – has Jack already been onto you?" Like he really needed to ask. Jack would have covered all the bases, without missing a single detail. Hell, you didn't get to be a Supreme without good reason, much as all three of them hated the nickname, or pretended that they did. Secretly, Danny suspected, they didn't hate it at all, or the status it afforded.

Francois confirmed, with a long-suffering sigh, that Jack had, indeed, told him that Danny might need to be in and out of the kitchen for a while this evening and that despite the not inconsiderable inconvenience, he would, of course, do whatever was required to assist Jack and the Casa Del Corazon in every way.

"Franky, you are a diamond," Danny smiled, replacing the receiver.


____________________________

Enjoying his drink, Mac looked around the bar. There were several men seated at the tables, some reading newspapers or magazines, some talking, some typing on laptop keyboards. Whilst there was nothing overt, Mac was trying to work out which were guests and which staff. It was harder than he had anticipated.

The tall, rangy guy with lots of dark wavy hair and a ready smile, who was seated at a table by the window accompanied by a Mediterranean-looking guy in a very expensive Italian suit looked like he could be 'staff', but Mac wasn't by any means certain. The guy sitting drinking at the bar with the incredible smile, genuine bronze tan and attentive manner, who Mac had heard the barman refer to as 'Tony' also seemed a possible. This was no ordinary place, that was for sure. Not one desperate or disparate rent-boy to be seen. Everyone seemed relaxed, casual and calm, and everyone was far, far too good looking. Mac felt like the country hick wandering into the Rainbow Room in Manhattan. Way out of his depth. He had expected to feel odd, being in a place like this with no females present, but it actually felt good. There was a familiar camaraderie to being in an all-male environment that reminded him, in a peculiar way, of his days in the Marines. All the same. All together. It was relaxing and weirdly reassuring.

"Mr Taylor? Your table is ready, Sir."

Mac turned to locate the voice, and found himself face to face with a young man with the widest smile Mac had seen in a long time. Tall, slim bordering on thin, with an angular face, short cropped blonde hair that framed his face in a series of uneven but appealing spikes, huge blue eyes, blinking behind Italian frameless glasses. He looked friendly and, yes, nice.

Mac smiled. "Thanks...?"

"Danny."

"Thanks Danny."

The smile widened even more. "My pleasure Mr Taylor. Please follow me and I'll show you to your table."

This, of course, was part of the plan. Danny Messer was in no doubt whatsoever about the effect he had in the right pair of jeans, and these black Armanis were, undoubtedly, unquestionably, the *right* pair of jeans. Best viewed from behind, which was precisely where Mac Taylor was at this moment.

Danny had thought on more than one occasion that these jeans cost more than his first three cars added together, but some things were worth it, and these jeans definitely fell into that category. Sadly, at that precise moment, the effect was completely lost on Mac, who was gazing around at the décor of the Casa Del Corazon's restaurant.

There are some rooms that seem to have that magic mix of space, light and decoration that makes them more than the sum of their parts, Mac thought, and this room was definitely one of them. Long, narrow windows, through which late afternoon light flooded through thin cream voiles, overlooked the gardens on one side and the vineyard on the other, giving the room an appearance of being almost outside, yet still airy and cool. The ceiling was not overly high, adding to the sense of intimacy, and the restaurant tables were not crowded together, but separated by adeptly arranged greenery or architecture. The theme was very much Art Deco, lots of sharp angles and geometric designs, and the colour scheme was a very tasteful, very masculine, gold, black and white.

Danny piloted Mac to a small table by a window overlooking the vineyards, which gave the impression of being in a corner, even though it wasn't. Mac seated himself in the leather club chair and smiled at his 'host'.

"Have you had a chance to peruse the menu yet, Mr Taylor? Or would you like some more time? May I get you a drink?" Danny asked in his best, attentive, waiter-of-the-month voice, even though the days when he had waited table were a very long time ago, and never in a place with a tenth of the Casa Del Corazon's class.

Mac gave a small, crafty, grin, not lost on Danny. "I would like to start with some grilled asparagus as an entrée, followed by steak au poivre, blue, with a salad and no potatoes or dressing, and finish with a lemon soufflé," Mac said carefully, trying to look as if he had just thought of that particular choice, rather than spending over two hours deciding what particularly difficult test he was going to give the chef here, just to see if he was as good as he should be.

Danny didn't miss a beat. "Yes Sir," he responded with a smile, "and to drink?"

Mac gestured at the vineyards outside the window. "Do you have anything produced on site? What grapes do you grow here?"

"The vineyard is not really large enough to be commercially viable, but we do have our own wines available for guests. In the main the vineyards are Zinfandel and Sauvignon grapes, and we produce a blend, plus a pure Zinfandel, but the soil is really too sandy to achieve their full potential."

Mac was impressed, and Danny was relieved.

Danny Messer's love of food meant that he could nearly always be found in the kitchen, pestering Francois for French pastries or fresh bread, and in turn Francois had taught him a lot about food and wine. In the beginning, Francois had taken pity on this young man he viewed almost as an urchin, with his strange haircut and painfully thin frame, and had made it his solemn duty to fatten this skinny street kid up a little. Now, this same skinny street kid from the Bronx knew as much, if not more, about the wines the vineyard produced, than most of the other staffers put together, and could make the French pastries and fresh bread himself if needs be, but had still not gained more than 5 pounds since moving in here.

Mac's grin changed to one of anticipation. "I'll try some of your own Zinfandel, please."

Danny nodded. "Comin' right up... Sir."

Danny took the order in through the carefully hidden swing door into the kitchen, where Francois was, as usual, only partially visible behind steaming pans and shining appliances.

The elderly Frenchman, as small, brown and round as a chestnut, but a chestnut with a particularly finely groomed moustache, peered through the steam at his favourite staffer and own special project. Why did this young man eat like a horse yet still look like a greyhound?

"Franky?" Danny said, "You want this straight away?"

"Oui. Wait a moment...." Francois took the order from Danny's hand and surveyed it, his frown rapidly turning into a broad, white smile.

"Oh, he is clever, your guest," Francois grinned, waving a finger at Danny, then tapping the order with it, "he knows food. I think he is maybe, a cook." Francois laughed. "He wants to test our kitchen. These are easy dishes to make, and even easier to make badly...." He thought for a moment, then tapped the order again. "I shall make these myself! We will see, Daniel, if we can pass your guest's test for us... no?"

"I think you could pass any test an ex-New York cop might set for us," Danny said with an even wider grin, "most of them can only tell the difference between doughnuts and bagels."

Francois placed a hand on Danny's shoulder and looked at him from under arched brows. "Listen to me Daniel... I tell you, this man knows food. I think maybe this man loves food too... a little like you, no?"

"A little like me yes." Danny agreed.

Carefully wrapping the wine bottle in a napkin, exactly the way Francois had spent an entire morning teaching him how to do, Danny took the bottle to Mac's table and uncorked the bottle in front of him, before pouring a little in a glass for Mac to test.

Mac raised the glass to his lips and took a small, experimental sip. He could not hide the expression of surprise that registered in his eyes. The Zinfandel was light, exactly the right temperature and smooth as silk. Round two to the Casa Del Corazon, Mac smiled, they knew their wine as well as their beer.

Danny grinned at Mac's obviously pleased expression. "Satisfactory, Mr Taylor?"

"Very. And can we drop the 'Mr Taylor?' I'm Mac."

"Of course... Mac."

"Too sandy nothing," Mac said after another sip, "this is equally as good as some of the Zinfandel's I've had from California."

"That's good to know... Mac. Personally, I like the Sauvignon – the Zinfandel's a little light for me. I like my grapes with a bit more..." he gave Mac a swift up and down glance, "...muscle."

To Mac's astonishment, he felt his heart miss a beat.

Danny didn't labour the point, even though he knew he had made it. He simply filled up Mac's glass, placed the bottle on the table, and retreated to the kitchen. Let him stew a little, Danny thought. Get him thinking.

Mac was flustered, a very unusual occurrence for someone as cool as he usually was. It hadn't been altogether unexpected, he decided – especially considering where he actually *was*, but his reaction had been a complete surprise. He tried to remember the last time someone, anyone, had made a pass at him, and found he couldn't. Was he flattered? Maybe, a little. Even considering where he was, and, without naming names, *what* Danny was, it was not a bad feeling. Why did it feel different from Canda's rather inept attempts to do the same thing earlier? Because it *was* different, Mac decided. He had the distinct impression that everyone here was motivated by something other than money. Canda couldn't have cared less about her clients, as long as they paid her and didn't harm her, this place was a whole other world entirely. No 'cheap tricks' here, Mac thought, glancing around at the profusion of designer clothing, expensive jewellery, gourmet food and tasteful surroundings. Compared to Canda and the roadhouse, this place was fantasyland. Which, Mac decided, was probably where his imagination was currently residing. Danny was *staff* here, for goodness sake – he was no more interested in Mac than Mac had been in Canda.

So why did it feel different? Why was he suddenly wondering if he, super-cool Mac Taylor, was, in point of fact, interested in something other than the food?

His musing was interrupted by Danny's reappearance, this time carrying a plate. Approaching Mac from behind his right shoulder, he leaned over and placed the plate neatly and precisely in front of Mac, making sure to lean in just a *little* closer than was required.

Danny smelled wonderful. Mac swallowed. He may not be interested, but his body definitely had other ideas. His pulse rate increased uncomfortably.

"Asparagus...fresh, grilled," Danny said without a trace of emotion, "Chef cooked them himself, so I would be delighted if you were to find something wrong with them." The smile returned, accompanied by a large wink.

Mac looked at the five neatly trimmed, bright green asparagus spears, criss-crossed with charcoal marks from the grill, sitting precisely in the centre of the gold-edged white plate, topped with a small pat of almost-melted yellow butter.

"Go on... I dare you," Danny leaned in and whispered in Mac's left ear.

A disturbing shiver ran its way down Mac's spine.

Danny retreated, leaving Mac to eat his entrée in peace, although Mac felt anything but peaceful.

The asparagus was as Mac had hoped it would be – perfect. Shaking his head slightly, he tried to concentrate on the food, which, he told himself sternly, was the reason he had come here in the first place.

Danny, from his vantage point behind the kitchen door, was watching Mac through the one-way glass panel, still grinning.

Dear God, Jack was good at this. As ever with a new 'guest', especially one that had specified he was interested in things other than a staffer, Danny could have taken one look at Mac and decided that they were not a good match, or that the idea was a lost cause. That would have been that. He could have waited table, maybe collected a tip, gone back to his room and forgotten the whole thing. No harm, no foul.

Jack, however, knew potential when he saw it and was almost *too* good at playing pairs with staffers and new guests. He had known that Mac Taylor would prove irresistible to Danny. Not physically, although Mac was no slouch in that department – fit, well dressed, with beautiful grey eyes – but it was more than that. There was an air about him, what Jack referred to as the 'dark and tortured angel type'. A sadness that seemed to surround him. He was the restrained type, that was for sure. All that Marine bullshit, followed by all that NYPD bullshit, had to be tough on a guy, never mind losing your wife in the middle of it all. That had to weigh heavy on your soul, however tough you were. No wonder he looked a little weighed down by life. All that repressed emotion, all that frustration, all that angst.

The opportunity to do something to relieve that burden almost made Danny salivate. Delicious.

He'd spotted the little shimmer that scurried through Mac when he'd whispered in his ear. Oh, Mac thought he'd covered it, but Danny was a pro at this, he could read the signs easy as ABC.

And if *that* got you going Mr ex-Marine, just you wait until dessert, Danny thought.

If things went the way Danny had planned, Mac Taylor would never regret turning at the sign at the desert. Thanks mostly to Jack of course.

God damn him to eternal hell, the cocky bastard.

As if on cue, a voice startled Danny out of his reverie. "Attending to our voyeuristic tendencies *again* are we Danny?" Jack appeared from somewhere at the back of the kitchen, carrying a large mug of what Danny knew would be the best Columbian coffee the CDC had to offer. Danny pulled a face. Jack peered through the glass at the object of Danny's concentration. "Poor guy," Jack said, with genuine feeling. He turned to Danny and grinned. "Irresistible though... no?"

Danny stuck out his tongue. Jack just laughed. "Be good," Jack said with a fake frown, then raised his eyebrows, "be *very* good, Messer."

Danny took a small, equally fake, bow. "Always."

"Absolutely perfect pair, you two are." Jack was quite serious. "Knew it the second I saw him." He nodded at Danny and disappeared through the door.

Cocky bastard. Cocky, clever, bastard.

Francois materialised at Danny's elbow, in that unnerving way he always seemed to have when Danny was doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing.

"Daniel? Vite! Go! You are in the way! And your guest's main course will be ready in two minutes!"

Danny did as he was told, re-entering the restaurant and heading for Mac's table. This time he didn't cheat, he made sure Mac could see him walking towards him. Didn't want to scare him too much. Not yet, anyway.

"Oh dear," Danny said, eyeing the empty plate in front of Mac, "they were actually edible, then?"

Mac smiled. "They were absolutely delicious."

You kinda qualify in those stakes, too, Mr ex-Marine, Danny thought. "What a shame. Chef's ego will remain as over inflated as ever, then."

"With good reason."

"I'll be sure not to tell him that." Danny picked up the empty plate. "Your main course will only be a moment."

"No rush," Mac said, looking around the restaurant, "I'm enjoying the view."

Danny gave Mac another up and down glance, "Me too."

This time there was no mistaking it. The shiver travelled down Mac's arms and his hands shook.

Danny ignored it. "I'll bring your main course out directly," he said quietly, withdrawing back to the kitchen.

Francois was almost hovering inside the door. "Excellente!" he cried, seeing the empty plate. "Your guest – he liked, yes?"

"Yes Franky – as if you expected anything else."

"Do not mock, Daniel." He grinned. I take my work very seriously – just the same way you do."

"Now who's mocking?"

Francois shrugged. "I go to get the main course. You wait here. Do not move!"

Danny waited, albeit not very patiently. Francois reappeared, carrying a large plate with a shining silver cover. "Go! Go! Now!" He shooed Danny out of the door.

Danny uncovered the dish in front of Mac with a practised flourish, revealing a decorously arranged plate of sliced steak au poivre, accompanied by a small crescent-shaped arrangement of green salad. The sauce Danny provided in separate small, white china sauce boat.

"I'll leave you to enjoy your meal."

Mac Taylor loved steak au poivre almost as much as he loved New York, with one very large difference. There was only one New York, and there were a million different chefs all thinking they could make this classic French dish. In truth, 99.9% of them couldn't, and Mac felt sometimes as if his search for the elusive point one per cent was rather like the Grail quest, impossible to accomplish. He looked down at the quarter-inch slices of steak, served blue, exactly as he had requested, each covered with a slim crust of crushed peppercorns. It looked perfect. He took an appreciative sniff of the sauce. Brandy, champagne, a faint hint of cream. It smelled perfect. He carefully poured the sauce over the beef slices and picked up his knife and fork.

Sight and smell were satisfied. Now to try and mollify that most difficult of Mac Taylor's senses – his taste.

Danny had often thought that eating, if performed correctly, was one of the most seductive acts human beings could perform, and he was thoroughly enjoying Mac's performance. Jack had been right of course, Danny *was* being voyeuristic, but as Mac was oblivious Danny saw no reason to feel guilty. He was, quite obviously, enjoying his meal. If Franky was right, and the order had been some kind of test, Danny had the impression that the CDC restaurant had probably passed it with flying colours.

"'E is liking it, no?" Francois appeared at Danny's shoulder, peeking out through the glass.

"Looks like it, Franky."

"Excellente. Food is the most important thing in life."

"Only a Frenchman would say that."

"Only an American would doubt it!" Francois said with feeling, "Still – what can you expect from nation whose only contribution to world cuisine is the 'amburger?"

"You're forgetting fried chicken and Twinkies."

Francois shrugged. "Ze defence rests..."

"Snob," Danny laughed.

"Urchin," Francois retaliated.

"How's the soufflé? We mustn't fail at the last hurdle."

Francois looked affronted. "It will be ready when Mr Taylor has finished his steak and had five minutes to digest. Go and see if he will require coffee with the lemon soufflé, sil vous plait – the tastes compliment one another."

"Yes Sir!" Danny saluted.

That was it, Mac decided, putting his knife and fork down carefully on his plate, now empty apart from a tiny smear of sauce that he couldn't actually eat unless he upended the plate and licked it, which seemed far to coarse an action for such a fine restaurant, although he had been tempted. That was definitely *it*. He was, officially and unmistakably, in heaven. Anyone who could make steak au poivre like that had to be an angel or in league with Lucifer and Mac didn't much care which.

"Well?" Danny appeared in front of him, looking slightly questioning, but also slightly confident.

Mac smiled. "Quite simply, the best I have ever eaten."

Danny bowed. "I'll be sure not to tell Chef that, either."

"Seriously, your Chef knows his way around food – I have never eaten steak au poivre anywhere that tasted as good as that."

"He's a traditional French chef, so a traditional French dish wasn't really that much of a challenge for him," Danny smiled.

Mac shook his head. "On the contrary. I've tried that dish in dozens of restaurants cooked by dozens of nationalities of chefs, more than one of them French, and never had one of anywhere near that quality."

"Now that I am definitely not going to tell him! He already has an ego the size of the Eiffel Tower, any bigger and we won't get him to cook anything any more."

"That would be a pity."

"Well, apart from your lemon soufflé of course, which will be with you shortly. Chef would like to know if you require coffee with your dessert as, apparently, the tastes compliment one another perfectly."

Mac nodded. "That would be great, thanks."

"It will be with you shortly. Glad you enjoyed your meal."

Mac's smile was totally genuine. "I did. I really, really did."

Francois was hovering, if a small, round Frenchman could actually ever be said to hover, just inside the door, carrying a small tray containing a ridiculously risen lemon soufflé in a white ramekin dish, and a cafetiere of coffee. He almost snatched the empty plate out of Danny's hands.

"Go! Now! Zis will not wait! Vite! Vite!"

Danny placed the small dessert plate, with its prize, before Mac with a wide smile. "Ta-da!" he grinned. "And eat it fast or Chef will have a seizure – apparently soufflé is not a patient dish."

Mac looked at the golden brown soufflé as Danny poured coffee into a small cup. His heart thumped once too often and he swallowed. If he didn't do this now he would never do it. Perhaps it would be wiser never to do it. He did it anyway.

"Care to join me? For coffee? Or a glass of wine?" There. He had said it. He could almost feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Danny smiled. "I'd love to, thank you. Now... Eat!" Danny settled himself in the chair opposite Mac and poured himself a small glass of wine.

The soufflé was small but light, rich and delicious, exactly as Mac had anticipated. He had finished it in only a few mouthfuls, but enjoyed every one.

"Wonderful," he said with a sigh, settling back into his chair, "an absolutely first class meal."

"More coffee?" Danny asked, leaning forward to pick up the cafetiere.

Mac shook his head. "No thanks. It's great coffee, but too much caffeine will keep me up all night."

"Can't have that," Danny looked into Mac's eyes and said quietly, "that's my job."

Mac almost dropped his cup. He didn't, not quite, it clattered into the saucer, but he had to concentrate really hard to return it to the table without breaking it.

To Mac's surprise, Danny didn't laugh or make a joke. He simply leaned forwards, rested his elbows on the table and said softly; "I would really, really like to spend the night with you Mac. You don't have to say yes if you don't want to, but I know I would enjoy it, and I'm pretty sure that you would too. So, shall we decide now? If you say no, I'll simply get up and leave and that will be that. No harm done. I'm hoping you won't say no, though, I'm hoping you'll say yes because I think you might want this as much as I do."

Mac's throat felt constricted, as if something was tightening its grip on his windpipe. All he had to do was nod or shake his head. A simple, easy action, yet he found himself unable to move.

"I..." That was good. That was a word. Not a very big one, admittedly, but a word nevertheless.

Danny waited patiently across the table, his expression calm and impossible to read. Mac had a fleeting thought that he was grateful he had never faced Danny across the interrogation room, he was far too good at hiding his feelings.

"I... never..." Better. Two words. Not exactly coherent yet, but an improvement.

Danny looked thoughtful. "Is this about money? Because if it is, I'll happily make you a 'pro bono' case," he grinned good naturedly. "Look Mac, I know this wasn't 'on the menu' when you came in here tonight. I know you came to the Casa Del Corazon looking for something, even if you don't know exactly what it is..."

Mac was shaking his head. "No, no. It isn't about money." Mac was getting angry. With himself more than Danny. Not being able to communicate was frustrating, especially when he had the feeling he might be spoiling something before it had ever had the chance to get good.

Danny's eyes suddenly widened a little. "Is it that you haven't been with a guy before? Because if that's it, that's no problem either. This is a place for you to relax, to enjoy, to maybe try out something you haven't tried before, in a safe place," he smiled gently at Mac's confused features, "I'm a nice guy Mac... honestly. Trust me. I won't let you down."

Mac sighed, and took a huge breath. "No Danny, it isn't that, either. It's just... this was so unexpected, so...," he looked away, trying to compose his thoughts, "I came here for a good meal, and because I was curious. I don't think I was expecting to... to... want to experience it quite as much as I have found myself wanting to. Does that make sense? Any kind of sense?"

Danny nodded. "Oh yeah, a lot more than you realise." He gestured around with one hand. "This place is unique and special. The people that come here all come here for their own reasons, but it has its own magic here...," he grinned, "and it has its very own magician..."

Mack looked confused.

"Jack." Danny looked at Mac from under his eyelashes, and Mac's face suddenly changed as the penny dropped.

"Jack? This? You and me... this? This was Jack? Jack's idea?"

Danny nodded. "If it makes you feel any better, he's never wrong. Never. It's spooky as all get out, but it's real. If he chose you for me, and me for you, he'll be right. I promise you."

Mac shook his head. Somehow, that made the whole thing seem more plausible, less unlikely, less spontaneous. Better. Somehow. Mac ignored the tiny voice at the back of his mind that was telling him he could blame this all on someone else, now.

Danny put his head on one side. "So..." He let the word hang in the air between them.

Mac felt as if he were balanced on the edge of something. If he jumped, there was no telling what might be waiting.... If he stepped back, he would never know.

Oh God, Danny thought, this is all going to have to my fault. Again. Jack sure knew how to pick 'em. Sometimes Danny thought he did it on purpose, made him work twice as hard for his money. What money? He asked himself. In the whole time he had worked here, he had never, ever, given out a freebie. Whatever it was that this uptight ex-Marine, ex-cop had, it had Danny wanting it like a kid in a sweetshop.

He stood up. "I could say 'your place or mine', but believe me, yours is better – you get housekeeping," he said with a smile. "C'mon Mac – if you don't, you'll never know if I was running off at the mouth or if..." He arched his eyebrows.

Mac laughed. This skinny, sassy, smart-mouth had charm, that was for sure. And charm was something that had been missing from Mac Taylor's life for a long, long time. He stood up. "Never was one for uncertainties." If you're going to lie Mac, he thought, lie with conviction. He had never been more uncertain of anything in his life.

They left the restaurant and climbed the staircase. Mac felt ridiculously conspicuous, as if everyone were looking at him, as if everyone knew what he was doing. Then he thought about and a small laugh escaped him. Of course they did! They knew because they were all here for the same reason, and all doing exactly the same thing. A trained observer, he found the people here fascinating. A couple stood at the top of the stairs, the same handsome young man he had heard called 'Tony' was in conversation with an older, grey haired, very smart man, dressed in slacks and a polo shirt. Something about his whole demeanour screamed 'Marine' at Mac.

Tony nodded at them over the grey-haired man's shoulder. "Danny, Sir," he greeted them both. The grey haired guy turned around, smiling and nodded in greeting, his eyes colliding with Mac's.

"Evening Tony, Jethro," Danny said with a casual wave. Mac had almost stopped walking. Jethro was looking at him, and the question was as clear as if he had spoken it aloud. There must be something about the Marines. It left you with an almost uncanny radar, seemingly tuned in to every other Marine.
Jethro gave an easy, charming smile as Mac walked past. "Semper Fi," he whispered quietly.

Mac grinned in response. "Always."

Danny shook his head. "Marines.... place is overrun with 'em."

By the time they reached Mac's door, which Danny opened with the aid of what looked like a black credit card inserted into a slot Mac hadn't even noticed, Mac was feeling a little light headed and more than a little nervous. Danny seem oblivious or politely diplomatic, ignoring what Mac felt must be obvious signs of his tension.

Danny pottered around the room, adjusting the lighting to a very soft, muted glow, rearranging the pillows and opening the voiles to the dark blue desert night sky. Mac's room overlooked the pool area, and a hazy blue light illuminated the window.

Mac stood, palms sweating, pulse racing, feeling more than a little ridiculous, in the centre of the room.

Danny beckoned him with one finger and a smile. A huge indrawn breath and Mac stepped forward.


________________________________________


"Easy," Danny smiled, stretching out one hand and placing it on Mac's shoulder. "No rush."

It's been a long time, too long, since anyone has touched Mac. Oh, there have been the handshakes, the comforting or congratulatory hugs, even the odd dance with a woman, once even a bad waltz at a fundraiser with the Commissioner's wife, but no *touching*. Danny's hand travelled slowly from Mac's shoulder, upwards to his jaw line with no apparent haste. Mac hadn't realised it, but he was holding his breath. His heart pounded uncomfortably in his ribs, his chest hurt.

Danny leaned in, lips touching between Mac's ear and shirt collar. "Breathe," he whispered.

Concentrate, Mac told himself. Concentrate. But Danny's fingers, Danny's long, agile, musician's fingers, kept distracting him. They have already loosened the top buttons of Mac's shirt and are now tracing delicate, intricate patterns around his neck.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, Mac realised that he was very much the non-responsive half of this pair. His hands hung useless at his sides, he couldn't remember what to do with them.

Don't panic, he told himself. He flexed his fingers, finally gathering enough wit to reach out and place his hands on Danny's shoulders. There are the fingers again, at the back of his neck now, curling in his hairline, sending a shiver straight down his spine. He blinked, trying to focus. The first thing he saw was the top button of Danny's shirt. Concentrate Taylor. You can do this. His fingers shook as he tried to unfasten the button, hampered by Danny's fingers on his skin, Danny's lips on his neck, Danny's scent in his nostrils, Danny's arms around him. They were touching, but only from the waist up, not near enough to actually do any damage, Mac realised through fuddled senses. He couldn't move the damned button. It's as if he had forgotten what to do and how to do it. A sharp sigh escaped him.

Danny withdrew a little, concern registering across his face. "Mac?" He put his head on one side. "You wanna call this off?" His hands gripped Mac's shoulders. "Look at me," he said, bending a little to look Mac in the eye. "This is your call – all of it. You decide you don't want this, we stop, now."

Mac shook his head.

"You wanna slow down a little?" Danny's smile was genuine, not facetious. "I can be a bit full on sometimes..."

Mac shook his head again.

Danny's brow creased. "Mac, you gotta help me a little here... I'll do whatever you want, however you want it," he ignored the shiver he clearly saw in Mac's hands, "but you gotta give me a hint about what it is..."

Mac took a step back and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. "It's been a long time Danny..."

God, isn't that the truth? Since Claire's death Mac has spent only one night with another woman, a well-meaning, desperately sympathetic friend-of-a-friend of Claire's, who had taken him to bed out of sympathy. His side of the bargain had been grief-driven and alcohol-fuelled, and the result had been an unmitigated disaster for both of them. That had been.... Over six years ago.

Mac hadn't been with another man since his days in the Marines, even longer ago than Claire. Once he had met and married Claire, those encounters had become part of his past – his former life. His life in the Marines. Claire was entirely separate and entirely unconnected to them – or at least, that's what he had told himself.

He was never unfaithful to Claire. Hell, he hadn't been unfaithful to her memory, either – yet.

Danny smiled at him. "Don't sweat it," he said cheerfully. "It's like riding a bike, part brain, part muscle memory."

Mac smiled back. "It's the brain part that's causing the problem at the minute."

"Then we'll slow down a bit, and wait for it to catch us up." Danny reached up to the top button of his white shirt. "I think you were aiming for this, yeah?"

Mac nodded.

"Then that's the first thing I can help you out with." Danny undid the buttons one at a time, cuffs as well, Mac noticed, then pulled the shirt out of his waistband, sitting down beside Mac. "Wanna help me with the last bit?"

Mac, still smiling, slid the shirt off Danny's shoulders as he leaned in for their first proper kiss.

Danny is as enthusiastic as he is attractive was Mac's next coherent thought, as Danny's tongue did amazing things to the roof of Mac's mouth, their lips sealed together, and somehow Mac's arms remembered what to do without his conscious effort – one firmly around Danny's waist, the other around his neck, Mac's fingers combing through his hair.

"Better," Danny breathed as they broke for air, his fingers busily unfastening Mac's shirt with practiced ease, "much, much better."

Once Mac's shirt has joined Danny's, half on the bed, half on the floor, Danny's hands really went to work – light, teasing strokes up Mac's arms, down his spine, across the back of his neck. A touch of lips here, a lightning flash of tongue there, and Mac suddenly felt like his nerves were firing into life. Danny took an earlobe between his teeth and pulled Mac towards him and around, and somehow they ended up lengthwise across the bed. A hard but gentle thrust of his hips shifted their bodies into full contact – chests, waists, groins, thighs. Mac uttered a noise, somewhere between a moan and a whisper, and Danny realised just how hard Mac has become in the few minutes this has all taken. Somewhere, instinct and desire have overtaken fear and repression. Danny undid the belt at Mac's waist, the metal buckle instantly hot in his hands, seeking and finding the button and zip of Mac's jeans.

Mac found himself mirroring Danny's actions, his hands suddenly developing – or maybe it's remembering – the ability to function.

Mac was amazed and more than a little surprised to discover that Danny is as hard as he is, the telltale bulge in Danny's underwear easily as big as his own. As if he's reading Mac's thoughts, Danny whispered, "don't look so surprised – you have any idea just how hot you are, Mr Ex-Marine?"

To Danny's delight, Mac actually blushed. Danny grinned, his smile white in the muted light of the room. "Let's get a little more comfortable, shall we?"

By the time Mac has shed his jeans, Danny was sitting against a mound of pillows piled against the headboard. He patted the bed between his thighs. "Come on up here."

Mac settled himself, his back against Danny's chest, his head pillowed on Danny's left shoulder. "It's been so long since anyone...touched me."

Danny hugged him. "Now that's something I know I can help with," he whispered in Mac's ear, "I'm a huge fan of touching." Danny's fingers demonstrated, brushing up Mac's arms, massaging his shoulders. "Close your eyes and relax, and I'll show you."

It was no idle boast, Mac decided, his skin shivering and twitching under Danny's fingers, Danny's hands. By the time Danny finally moved across his chest, casually circling Mac's hardened nipples, Mac was finding it hard to breathe.

A long, slow breath in his ear. "Easy Mac – easy. Relax – this is fun, y'know?" Danny's hands slid downwards, easing under the waistband of Mac's boxers. Mac gasped, his heart hammering. "Just keep your eyes closed, and take it easy," Danny whispered. "When I get these off, I can really touch you." Mac moaned aloud then, the feeling of Danny's hands sliding the boxers over his hips and down his thighs making him arch into the touch. "That's it," Danny encouraged, "Now you're getting it..." Danny slid them as far as he could reach, just south of Mac's knees, then his hands were between Mac's thighs, easing them apart, fingers tracing up Mac's inner thighs, making the muscles twitch.

"What do you like Mac?" Danny asked softly in his ear. "I can do whatever you want, however you like it."

Mac moaned again. As long as Danny didn't stop touching him, nothing else mattered.

"I can make you come like this..." Danny's hand circled Mac's erection, a gentle tug wrenching another moan, "or..," Danny's tongue slid into his ear, a quick flick, then gone again, "I can use my mouth for something other than talking, y'know..." A soft chuckle accompanied the whisper. "Or..." Danny lifted his hips, gently easing Mac off the bed, "we can go for the whole nine yards. You can top if you want, or I can... it's all up to you."

Mac couldn't think anymore, never mind speak. He was so hard he felt like he could hammer nails with his dick, his blood pressure rocketing, his heart pounding in his chest. All he knows is that his body hasn't reacted like this for as long as he can remember, and he doesn't want it to stop. Ever.

Danny prides himself on being able to read his clients. He's already worked out that no way is Mac going to last out for full blown sex, it's been too long for him and his body is already screaming for release. Danny made a decision – he will decide for Mac. This time. Next time, because Danny has already decided that there is definitely going to be a next time, he's going to spread Mac out on this bed, and do exactly what Mac is going to be screaming for him to do. But that will have to wait.

"I think..." Danny whispered in Mac's ear, "that seeing as you love food so much...", he wrapped his arms around Mac and eased him, part lift, part roll, from between his legs to alongside him, "I think I ought to find out what you taste like." Mac's answering shudder and moan make Danny's decision for him.

Mac was flat on his back, head supported by pillows, as Danny slid over, across and down, spreading Mac's legs further apart and settling between them, watching Mac's chest rise and fall as he battles for oxygen to supply his racing blood. Mac's eyes opened suddenly, and he looked down, just in time to make eye contact and see Danny smile. "I think you are gonna be delicious," Danny said, and Mac's eyes close again as Danny's mouth takes him in, the whole length of him.

Mac almost screamed then, his fingers scrabbling for something to grip onto to stop himself coming right there, grasping and twisting in the bedclothes. Danny's mouth was so hot, and so wet, and as if that wasn't enough, his teeth and tongue and the suction he's applying were turning Mac's brain to mush. Hold on, he told himself through his pounding pulse. Hold on for a while. Please. This is so damned good. Hold on. Hold on. His body wasn't listening though, his hips rising and falling, thrusting into Danny's mouth, wanting more, arching into Danny's touch.

Danny's hands were massaging Mac's inner thighs, holding them apart whilst his mouth worked its magic. He's as good with his mouth as he is with his fingers; the thought surfaced somewhere in Mac's mind.

Danny sucked a little harder, his tongue and teeth holding Mac in exactly the right place inside that hot, wet, mouth and Mac realised he couldn't hold it. A strangled cry escaped him as his muscles began to spasm, but Danny was more than ready for him, holding him down and, at precisely the right moment, taking Mac's entire length down almost into his throat.

Mac shouted then. It's not really a shout, more of a scream, as he felt his spine tighten, his balls contract and his brain melt. Danny took it all, holding Mac and sucking, extending the orgasm for as long as possible – so long that Mac couldn't believe he was still coming – he felt like it was never going to end.

Finally, what felt like a long time later, Mac realised he couldn't remember the last time he took a breath, and inhaled – a huge drawing in of air. His eyes closed, fireworks exploding behind them, and his heart was still pounding fit to burst in his ribs. He couldn't actually move, all his limbs, all his muscles, felt like they were made of cotton wool.

When he finally managed to align his senses, his eyes opened and Danny's head was alongside his on the pillows, smiling. "Okay?"

Mac couldn't speak yet, only nod.

"Need anything? Shower? Steak? Four mile run?"

Mac smiled then. "Sleep."


"Easy," Danny grinned, turning Mac's unresisting body on its side and spooning up behind him, "that one's real easy, Mr ex-Marine." The words were soft in Mac's ear, and he closed his eyes, his heart rate gradually slowing. He felt... sated. Relaxed. He couldn't remember the last time he felt relaxed. He couldn't remember the last time he had an orgasm, either, now he was thinking about it.

Suddenly, his eyes flew open. Danny felt the instant tension. "What? What's wrong?"

Mac's head turn towards him. "What about you?"

Danny frowned. "What? Whaddya mean?"

"Well... I mean, I... you... that is, I..."

"Whoa! Slow down a bit Mac, you're not making sense."

Mac breathed in and tried again. He really is completely hopeless at this. "I mean – I feel great, but then I..."

The penny dropped, and Danny grinned again. "I think what you are trying to say is that you got your fuse lit and your bomb exploded, but mine's still fizzling... yeah?"

"Yeah."

Danny shook his head. "No." He gathered Mac against him again. "Go to sleep, and forget about it."

"But..."

"But nothing. It's taken care of."

"How?"

"Are you always this chatty after sex? 'Cos if you are, I'm gonna buy some earplugs. Now get some sleep, because believe me, you are gonna need it."

Mac shook his head, but settled again. Danny grinned into the darkness. No need to tell him about the swift trip to the bathroom whilst Mac was coming down. No need to tell him that he'd gotten Danny a lot closer than most of his clients ever did, either. Danny had had to work damned hard not to make a mess all over his underwear and the sheets, and a couple of sharp tugs was all it had taken to bring him to climax too. Damned fine work, Mr ex-Marine.


_________________________________

It was the birds Mac became aware of first. Birdsong. His eyes opened and for a few seconds he couldn't remember where he was or what the hell was happening, then his memory caught up and he smiled. He glanced at his watch and did a double take. It was after 7am. That meant he'd been asleep for more than six hours. Six hours? Mac hadn't slept for more than 4 hours a night since... Since forever.

He turned over. There was no sign of Danny, save for a dent in the pillow alongside him, but there was the distinct aroma of coffee coming from somewhere. Mac sat up, yawning, as Danny appeared through the door leading out to the small balcony of Mac's room. Mac thought he looked... amazing. He was wearing different clothes – a brilliant white vest and slightly ragged, more-than-slightly-tight, jeans with a thick studded belt. He looked fresh and clean, yet there was something of the street about him. Something just a little dangerous, a little rough-around-the-edges. A little New York streetwise. Something so essentially *Danny* that Mac's heart missed a beat. He's leaning on the doorframe, still grinning.

"Well, hello there."

"Hi."

"Sleep well?"

Mac pulled a face. "You gotta ask? It's after 7!"

"Hey – here you sleep whenever, wherever, for as long as you want." He walked into the room. "You want to order breakfast? I got us some coffee, but..."

When Mac didn't respond, Danny turned around. Mac was staring at him. No, not at him, his gaze was not focused on Danny's face, it was somewhere else. His vest? Danny looks puzzled. "What's up?"

It took a moment for Mac to answer. "You were Tanglewood?"

Oh God, the goddamned tattoo. Danny had forgotten all about it, but of course Mac was a New Yorker, and an ex-cop to boot. Most people who came here had no idea what the intricate design on Danny's right bicep actually was, they thought it was simply that – a pretty pattern, expertly applied in deep green tattoo ink. To an ex-New York cop though, it meant something quite different.

Danny swallowed, hard. Mac had been a *cop* for Christ's sake! Too late now. He nodded. "Yeah."

Mac's face registered surprise. "You left? You left Tanglewood?" Mac knew it was a stupid question. No-one left Tanglewood. Ever. The only way you left that notorious street gang was in a coffin, on your way to the cemetery, or in handcuffs, on your way to Rikers.

Danny's eyes dropped. He sighed, then straightened up and looked Mac directly in the eye. "I escaped – ok?"

"They didn't come after you?"

Danny smiled wryly. "You bet your ass they did! But I... avoided them."

Mac actually looked impressed. "That takes courage."

"Or blind stupidity."

"Why? Why'd you break the code?"

Danny sat down on the edge of the bed beside Mac. "I know what you're thinking – out of the frying pan into the fire. Stupid, wrong side of the tracks streetkid goes from being in a gang to being a rent boy – not exactly a step up, eh?"

Mac shook his head. "You are hardly what I'd call a 'rent boy'," he motioned around the room, "this place ain't exactly the Bronx! But I am curious – in all my time in NYPD I never knew anyone who made it out of Tanglewood and lived to talk about it."

"You're looking at him."

"I repeat – why?"

"Because," Danny tapped his head with his fist, "it finally dawned in my thick skull that there were not too many options for a kid like me inside there. I lost a brother and a cousin in turf wars, and it kinda took the shine off it, y'know? That life... the violence, the death, the murders, the drugs, the street... I couldn't cut it."

"What you did took much more courage than staying."

Danny shrugs. "I was just about as low as a human being can get back there, Mac..."

Mac reached out and placed a finger on Danny's lips, silencing him. "You don't have to tell me."

That's when Danny realised that he *doesn't* have to tell Mac – Mac was NYPD – he's already seen it for himself.

"Good job you didn't know this last night, eh?" Danny smiled, but it didn't quite come off, "at least I got one night..."

Mac looked surprised. "You really think that matters?" He shook his head. "Danny, I don't care where you came from! I don't care about your history. I used to be a Marine, I used to be a cop, now I'm..." He shrugged. "Unemployed, I guess. 'Used to be' gets you nowhere – I found that out for myself."

"So," the grin was back, "I think you're saying that being a hooker beats being unemployed?"

"Being a 'hooker' here sure does!"

Danny's grin turned sly, and he looks at Mac sideways. "And I'm pretty damned good at it...no?"

Mac laughs. "Oh yes. Well, from what I can actually remember of it you are."

"Wanna reminder?"

To Mac's astonishment, his heart missed a beat. Again. He could almost hear his body yelling 'oh yes, yes, please.'

Then his stomach growled and he realised he was hungry. "How about after breakfast?"

Danny's look of pleasure was either 100% genuine, or he was the best damn actor Mac has ever seen. "Really?"

"Oh yes."

"You wanna order room service or go down to the restaurant? Franky does a mean breakfast..."

"If it's anything like his steak au poivre, you may never entice me away from there."

Danny winks. "Oh, I got my methods..."

*You sure have.*

"How about this?" Danny asked with a suggestive wink, "you take a quick shower, we go down for breakfast – I'll even introduce you to Franky if you're really good – then we'll come back up here, and find something to occupy us until we decide how you want to spend the rest of your stay... We could go riding, swimming, work out, sunbathe..."

"The riding and the workout sound like they might have some attractions," Mac said, equally suggestively, then suddenly realised that his sense of humour had returned.

Danny's look was positively lascivious. "You wanna be the horsey, or John Wayne?"

"I'll let you know after breakfast."



_______________________________________


Epilogue

Two months later


"Okay?" Mac asked, putting a plate full of toasted cheese sandwiches down in front of Danny. This wonderful kitchen, all this amazing food, and still Danny's favourite food in the world is toasted cheese sandwiches. Mac despaired of him.

"Fine." Danny assured around a mouthful of sandwich.

That's as much as they ever talk about it. Mac knows what Danny does here, but to him it's just part of what makes Danny who he is, and Mac would never want him to be any different.

Their unwritten rule about not discussing Danny's clients is something that's just developed between them. At first Mac was too embarrassed to ask, and Danny wouldn't tell anyway. Then Mac found, to his astonishment, that he wasn't jealous in the least. He loves Danny for being Danny – Tanglewood, New York streets, musician's hands, magician's mouth – just his Danny.

For his part Danny wants, needs, to keep Mac and the clients separate. Some – most, if he's truthful – are nice enough. Rich, pleasant men who pay him very well to do something he's very good at, but they don't mean anything to him. Only one has ever been different. The one standing in front of him now, in his chef's whites. The one who makes the best damned toasted cheese sandwiches in the entire world. The one who came to the CDC for a meal and never left. The one who Franky actually *invited* into his kitchen, offered a job, and agreed to teach him about fine cuisine.

The only 'pro bono' case Danny ever took on.

Danny sipped his coffee. His special, imported from a single plantation in Puerto Rico coffee; that Mac keeps in a special place, known only to special people.

"I smell special coffee." A voice announced, as the kitchen door swung open and Jack appeared.

"Goddamn it Jack!" Danny sometimes thought that Jack wasn't quite human. His ability to smell coffee as soon as Mac opens the tin was almost as uncanny as his instincts, and they are quite good enough, thank you.

Jack winked broadly and held out his mug to be filled with the brew.

"You are not supposed to be in my kitchen." Mac told him with mock sternness.

Jack tried to look innocent, but settled for devilish. "Oh, I don't think you really mind... I mean, should I choose to, I could blackmail you both pretty effectively..."

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Danny spluttered, almost choking on his sandwich.

Jack picked up his coffee and retreated back through the door. "You forget..." he shouted over his shoulder, "I know which one is John Wayne."




The End.

***