Z had always been the Major's favorite. Respectful. Conscientious. A decent German boy.

Which was why it came as such a shock to him the night when they were monitoring the bugs in an enemy agent's home and Z took advantage of the privacy to kiss him.

Klaus was too stunned to stop the man. But for a full minute afterwards he forgot that he was a six-foot-two trained killer and plastered himself against the nearest wall, his eyes wide in incredulity.

"I thought you were a decent German boy!" he managed to say at last.

Z shrugged. "I don't know why everybody always thinks that."

That night Dorian didn't even take his catsuit off before sitting down to go over their haul.

"An American stockbroker offered us a quarter of a million for this one," he said, unrolling a painting attributed to Alma-Tadema. He hadn't expected to spend his first year out of Oxford hawking things to the world's nouveau riche, but he wouldn't let Castle Gloria go to his father's creditors, not if he had to empty the Louvre to prevent it.

"I know of someone who'll give us nearly twice that," Dorian's new accountant stated flatly, not looking up from the ledger on which he was scribbling rapidly.

Dorian studied the man. He had given his name only as "James"; Dorian still wasn't sure if it was his first or last name. For his new staff he required illicit skills and flexible morals, but being pretty and gay also helped. Jamesie met every one of these qualifications, and the manor probably would have been foreclosed already if not for his financial talents.

It might be just as well to go the extra mile to secure his loyalty, Dorian mused, sauntering to his accountant's side and caressing the young man's shoulder. James looked up, startled, his curling dark hair falling over one eye as usual (the brown one this time).

Besides, Dorian thought right before planting a kiss on the little miser's upturned face, he is awfully pretty.