"Have I made myself clear, Mr. Solo!"
The gruff voice was thick with annoyance and it had me holding the communicator away from my ear in self defense. I saw Illya out of the corner of my eye, not quite hiding that little smile of his as he moved quietly around the hotel room, gathering up his clothes and packing them in his battered suitcase.
I recrossed my legs, hunching forward to lean on my knee.
"Ah, yes, sir, perfectly clear. We're on our way to Paris now. Solo out."
The bed dipped as Illya sat down beside me. "It could have been worse, you know. He could have pulled us off the mission completely and sent us some place awful—like Calcutta. Or Fresno." He shuddered delicately.
I replaced the cap on the communicator and tucked it into my jacket pocket. Turning to him, I frowned.
"Well, I don't think he's that mad." I waved a finger under his nose. "But next time, you call him and tell him we failed. I don't think he's very happy with me so maybe he'll take it better from you."
Blue eyes widened at me with alarm. "I hardly think that's my strength, Napoleon. You have all the charm—I'm just the muscle." He moved off towards the bathroom, leaving me to puzzle over his last remark.
I rose and followed him, leaning against the bathroom doorjamb and watching as he packed his shaving kit with quick, economical movements. In the mirror's reflection, I could see that same little smile playing around his mouth.
"You can be charming," I said conversationally.
His eyes met mine in the mirror. The little grin was gone. "Some of us have to work at it. You, on the other hand, don't even need to try. I could give you a list of examples but I imagine you remember them quite clearly. This last encounter of yours being a case in point."
It was not a compliment and I began to feel irrationally defensive. It was almost as if he were trying to bait me over something that was as necessary to our profession as the guns we carried.
I cleared my throat, wondering where this strange conversation would lead. "Well, it was in the line of duty."
"Helps when they are beautiful, does it not?" He pushed past me, back into the hotel room.
I laughed a little, straightening my tie as I followed him. "It does indeed. Beautiful and willing, you can't ask for more than that."
He fastened his suitcase with a swift downward thrust of his thumbs, then straightened to look at me, his little smirk making a return.
"No, I don't suppose you can."
Illya's remarks came back to me during the flight to Paris and I wondered why they bothered me so much. As far as I could tell, we both flirted with the stewardess with an equal lack of success despite our two distinctive approaches. Then again, she did retain his hand a little longer than necessary when we disembarked, but I was used to that. How many times have I seen women give him a double take, their eyes roving over him with ill-concealed lust? I've lost count. Not that I couldn't figure out why—the fair hair, blue eyes and cool demeanor were a lethal combination. His seeming indifference to his own charms made him even more desirable, something I think he did on purpose. Although with Illya, you never knew exactly what he was thinking.
Our strange little conversation faded from my mind as we corrected the mistakes we'd made in Lisbon. A few days hard work and the mission was completed, but these days I hardly ever felt the satisfaction that used to bring me. Now it was just a matter of getting the job done and moving on to the next crisis—and there was always one waiting. I wouldn't admit to being tired, exactly—more like numb. But the job still had its privileges, and one of them was free time in the City of Light. I lined up a date with Cécile from the local office, but I found I wasn't really looking forward to it that much. I was tired and disappointed that things hadn't gone smoothly. Still, it was Paris, and Cécile was enthusiastic. Illya always seemed to disappear when we had time off in this particular city; I kept meaning to ask him if Paris felt more like home for him than New York but just had never gotten around to it.
Perhaps I should have listened to my instinct. Cécile was a little too enthusiastic—as I learned to my embarrassment in the cab on the way to dinner—and I found myself making an excuse to end the evening early. Cécile tried to pout and then pet her way back into my good graces, but I left her with a chaste kiss on her doorstep and directed the cab back to the hotel.
It was still early when my cab pulled up near the front of the Hôtel des Chevaliers, our usual habitat when we stayed in Paris. The streets were slick from an early fall shower and a thick mist hung in the air, veiling the tops of the buildings of the ancient arrondissement. As I waited for the cab to draw even with the doorman, I spotted a familiar figure exit the hotel and turn up the street.
I craned my neck to watch as Illya threaded his way through the traffic towards the Place des Vosges. My curiosity a little piqued, I tossed an appropriate amount of francs at the cabby and hopped out, determined to follow my partner and find out what took him out into the night.
When I reached the corner of the park, Illya was almost a block in front of me. He was casually dressed in slacks and sport coat, blending in with the rest of the people that strolled along the sidewalk. I thought about calling out but didn't, intrigued by the subtle air of mystery that clung to him as he continued his journey. This was no random, evening walk for some rarified Parisian air; there was a purpose to his unhurried stride.
If I were to be totally honest with myself, I'd have to admit it was really my own longstanding fascination with Illya that had me following him. He was my partner of many years, and a friend for most of those years, and yet there was still a hell of a lot I didn't know about him.
I knew perfectly well that my fascination was dangerous, but that kind of danger never bothered me. After all, the hardest conquest was always the sweetest. But Illya Kuryakin wasn't a conquest; he was a highly trained agent, my equal in every way but rank, a hard man of intelligence and discipline, possessing an arid—even morbid—sense of humor. Over time, our styles had merged and now years later, we practically read each other's minds.
Even when off duty, we had a connection between us that was surprising, at least to me. Not generally one for male companionship when there were so many other agreeable pursuits, I still found myself spending a lot of free time with the Russian, going so far as to take an occasional vacation with him if our schedules allowed. Unfortunately, those vacations never turned out to be exactly restful but I always enjoyed our time together. He never returned the favor by inviting me—but he never turned me down when I asked, either.
And yet—there were sides to Illya that I saw only rarely. Certainly his past was a closed book; I knew his professional history as well as my own, but any personal background he kept closely guarded. Over the years I collected the small revelations that he let go in unguarded moments, learning little things that served to piece together my private picture of him.
Unfortunately, those glimpses only served to make Illya more of a puzzle than ever—and more of a temptation as well, especially to someone of my admittedly sensual nature. I ignored that temptation in favor of maintaining the relationship we had, but I knew myself well enough that a little encouragement from Illya could change everything in a heartbeat. Sometimes I imagined I saw a smile that was softer than usual, or a look of concern quickly covered by cool indifference.
Perversely, when those little instances happened I found myself running in the opposite direction out of a well-developed sense of self-preservation. If I sometimes ached to feel the strands of his hair against my palm or to coax that slim, well-muscled body to nestle into the curve of mine, it was something I kept buried very deep inside. But keeping a rein on physical desire was one thing—it was much more difficult to ignore the fact that I cared for him—a lot more than a man in my profession should. Knowing that—knowing myself—I stuck to my practice of many years and kept a safe and comradely distance.
And yet for all my good intentions, I was following Illya into a misty Paris night.
Illya knew the city better than I did; I had no idea where he was going, other than he was headed in the general direction of the river. I felt a little foolish, tailing my own partner through the dark streets, and yet something compelled me forward until I finally lengthened my stride to catch up with him.
I was perhaps half a block away when he stepped off the curb and crossed to the other side of the street, stopping in front of a wrought iron gate set between two buildings. Illya had lifted the latch and slipped through before I could cross the street, so by the time I reached the gate he had disappeared. I lifted my hand to the latch and then paused, deciding to bring this foolishness to an end and head back to the hotel.
"Napoleon? Are you just going to stand there? Why don't you come inside?"
The soft words, spoken with dry amusement, froze my hand in mid air. Then I relaxed, chuckling a little. Illya stepped out the shadow of the building and threaded his fingers through the ornate iron scrolling. I shrugged, glancing up and down the deserted street.
"When did you catch on?"
I couldn't see his expression in the dark, but there was no reproof in his voice as he answered.
"Not until the end, actually. I thought I saw you earlier, but I wasn't sure it was you until you crossed the street."
"Ah, yes," I said ruefully, tucking my hands in my pockets. "My mistake."
I could hear the smile in his voice. "Not if you wanted to get caught."
The truth of that statement caught me off guard, so I covered with another question. "Well, do you mind telling me where we are?"
"Certainly. We are at number 16 Rue de Turenne. Now I have a question for you—what happened to the beautiful and willing Cécile?"
I scuffed at a pebble, feigning disappointment. "Ah yes, well, Cécile and I decided to make it an early evening."
The continued good humor in his voice was unmistakable, enhanced by the fact that I couldn't see his face clearly. "That usually means a very late return to your hotel room. However, I must say I'm glad. Come on."
He stepped back, pulling the gate with him as he let me into the courtyard.
He moved in front of me and I followed him down a narrow brick walkway. Although the only light came from a streetlamp, I had the impression of a well-tended city garden as Illya led me around flower beds and small benches, the loamy smell of damp earth tickling my nose.
"So what are we doing at number 16 Rue de Turenne?"
"We are visiting my good friend Theo," Illya replied, pausing in front of a door set back in the side of one of the buildings that towered over us.
I hesitated, feeling strangely deflated. Whoever Theo was, I'd never heard of him.
"Illya, look. I'm obviously intruding—"
A firm hand on my arm stilled me.
"Not at all, Napoleon. Please. Stay."
My eyes searched out his and I regretted the darkness that still kept his expression from me. "All right, if you're sure."
His hand fell away. "Quite sure."
I saw a flash of fair skin as his hand came up and pressed a button next to the door. We waited a moment, then were rewarded by the electronic buzz that indicated that the lock was open. Illya grabbed the handle and pushed through the door.
"Trusting soul," I remarked idly as we entered the tiny foyer that ended in a flight of stairs.
He paused, one foot on the first riser. "Not at all. See?" He pointed to a small camera tucked under the wainscoting. "We've been under surveillance since the street."
"Hmm," I murmured approvingly. My curiosity was rising with each step as he led me up three flights of stairs and into a hallway. The place had an air of tired grandeur, from the threadbare but once expensive carpeting in the hallway to the rococo mirror that graced the wall at the end of the corridor. Elaborate brass wall sconces, once gas but now clumsily wired for electricity, lined the hallway and gave off a fitful light.
We passed several doors until stopping in front of one painted a deep, cabernet red. Illya raised his hand to knock but before he could, the door was flung open and there stood a tall, elderly woman. She was dressed in swaths of brightly colored shawls over a severely cut black dress, with masses of white hair piled on top of her head and anchored with a jeweled comb. She must have been exquisite once, her patrician bone structure evident behind lined and tautly stretched skin and brought into sharp relief by expertly applied makeup.
"Illyusha!" she cried, stepping forward. One gnarled hand clutched a beautifully carved wooden cane, the other stretched forward to clasp Illya's shoulder and draw him close.
My jaw dropped, as much from the odd name as the wide smile Illya gave the woman in return before leaning forward to be kissed on both cheeks.
"I'm sorry I'm a little late," he replied, his smile fading but blue eyes still bright with affection as he regarded the woman. "But look—I've finally brought Napoleon."
My eyebrows shot up but I recovered enough to extend my hand. It was ignored as I was pulled in by that claw-like hand to have whispery, continental kisses brush the air over my cheeks. When the old woman pulled back, Illya performed the introductions.
"Madame Theodosia Martine, may I present my partner Napoleon Solo. Napoleon, my dear friend Theodosia."
This time when she extended her hand I kissed it, smiling into dark eyes that looked back with more than a hint of speculation in them.
"Enchanté," I murmured.
"So, you are the oh so famous Napoleon! Dieu, you are handsome, non?" She looked me up and down, then shrugged her thin shoulders before shooing is into a small parlor. "Come in, come in, both of you. Please, make yourselves comfortable. Illyusha, you are too naughty, not telling me you were bringing Napoleon! Come, please, be comfortable while I check on the cassoulet and open the wine. Oh, Marie! She is so brokenhearted she could not stay to see you, Illyusha!"
She disappeared through an archway with a swirl of spicy perfume and I took the opportunity to stroll around the small room. My shoes sank into a thick rug of reds and browns, its colors echoed in the cloth that draped the round table in the center of the room. Candles were scattered on flat surfaces, supplementing the soft light coming from lamps draped in rose colored silk. Over in a corner sat a hi-fi set on top of a small black and white monitor showing a closed circuit view of the street before switching to the picture of the foyer.
It was a space of layers and texture, from the cream flocked wallpaper to the heavy damask draperies framing the floor-to-ceiling windows; utterly French and utterly charming. The room was warm but not stuffy; a light breeze came through one open window. I stepped closer to the casement to look down into the square below, the view diffuse and muted by the persistent mist.
I turned back, watching as Illya cleared a stack of books off of an occasional chair and dragged it over to the table where two places were set. He seemed perfectly at home, moving to a sideboard and unerringly finding another set of flatware. I felt awkward, like I'd walked into the wrong apartment but no one had noticed yet.
I was pulling at my bottom lip, trying to decide which excuse I'd use to make my exit, when Illya glanced over at me and stepped to my side. "What's wrong, Napoleon?" he asked quietly. "It's not like you to be so reticent in company."
I smiled and waved a hand, indicating the intimate setting. "This is obviously a tradition for you and Madame Martine. I still can't help but feel as though I'm intruding." I eyed him with amusement and reached into my breast pocket for my handkerchief.
"You've, uh, got a little—" I pointed to his cheeks where two matching smears of coral decorated his skin.
He took the proffered handkerchief with a nod of thanks. The lipstick came off easily but the friction managed to leave his pale skin looking as rosy and fresh-scrubbed as a milkmaid's.
I shook my head when he tried to return it and watched him slip it into his pants pocket.
"Better?" he asked with a twitch of his lips.
I put a finger underneath his chin and tilted my head from side to side, taking a close look. He withstood my teasing consideration stoically, raising an eyebrow when I nodded approvingly.
"Better."
"So come, sit down and eat with us."
I leaned in close. "Well, to tell you the truth, I don't think your Madame likes me," I whispered, remembering the dismissive shrug.
Illya shook his head. "Theo has been after me for years to bring you to meet her. If you were to leave now, she'd be very disappointed." He smiled but didn't meet my gaze, instead looking over my shoulder and out into the night. "Please stay."
I didn't know what to say. There was a tone in his voice that I rarely ever heard. Almost resigned, as if my leaving was an expected disappointment. Whatever it was, I didn't like hearing it now, and I decided that if staying would make him happy, then stay I would.
"All right," I said, clapping and rubbing my hands together, "then what's for dinner?"
A tinkling laugh preceded Madame Martine's return to the room. "Good, I so admire a man with a healthy appetite." She held an open bottle of wine in her hands and another glass, the crook of her cane resting in the bend of her elbow. I moved to her and she handed them both to me with a wink before disappearing again. I looked up to see Illya watching me approvingly and I smiled back, my breath catching just a bit. He looked so relaxed, so content—I couldn't recall the last time I'd seen such a combination in his expression. It took years off of him, years I hadn't noticed accumulating. I know I saw those same years in the mirror every morning—the silver threading the dark hair at my temples, the crows feet that remained after the laughter faded.
But Illya always looked the same to me, year in and year out. The hair had changed lengths many times, worn shorter now but still that irresistible color. If asked the question, I'd say I preferred it shorter, like when we'd first been partnered; it suited him better, somehow. Around his mid thirties he'd added muscle, leaving him still lean but stronger than men who outweighed him by fifty pounds. The blue eyes were as clear and direct as the day I'd met him, giving away only what he wanted to, letting so little slip past.
Watching him rummage for another cloth napkin, I reminded myself once again that we were both closer to forty than thirty now, with automatic retirement from the field just a few years away. Neither of us were concerned about our futures; should we live that long, we were well aware that we were both too valuable to be wasted. The world was changing faster than anyone could keep up, new discoveries every day putting science at the forefront of the war against T.H.R.U.S.H. All anyone would have to see is Illya's eyes light up at the sight of a new computer and know he was itching to be a part of that revolution. As for me, after much consideration I'd decided to accept the offer to take over Section One, first spending at least a year in training with Waverly before he'd actually step down. Our lives had been planned for us—with our cooperation, of course. There was one inevitable by-product of that future—my partnership with Illya Kuryakin would be severed.
Even the thought of that, in a murky time I might not live to see, was enough to cause an ache in my chest. As usual, when my mind led me to this melancholy line of thought, I gave a brief thought to finding a different path. Staying in the field wasn't really an option; that was a young man's game out of necessity. Leaving U.N.C.L.E. was a viable alternative, and yet I knew I'd never do it because deep inside, I'd always known I was a man to make a difference—and the world needed men like me.
What I needed was irrelevant.
What Illya wanted wasn't my business. He did each job as he'd done the thousands preceding it, with efficiency and a sort of good-natured ruthlessness. He never spoke longingly of wife and family, never evinced a desire to return to his troubled homeland. As far as I knew, there was no one special in his life, though he dated when the spirit moved him. His choice of partner was fairly eclectic, so I'd guess you could say efficiency and good-natured ruthlessness applied to his social life as well.
To be perfectly honest, I'd never felt threatened by any relationship he had outside of business. I'd been in love a few times over the years, only to have those affairs end badly. Mara came instantly to mind; I'd loved her, of that I was sure, but when it came right down to it, it wasn't enough. But Illya, who'd taken me to some tawdry club in Sydney and gotten me drunk the day after I'd told Mara goodbye, never seemed to fall victim to the tender trap. I'd never seen him mope over a broken love affair or pine for someone from afar. It was a vulnerability he just didn't seem to possess and I think I always pitied him a little for that lack.
So he was still my Illya, but only for a few more years, until our relationship turned almost entirely professional. After that, our private time would be relegated to expensive dinners together while we reminisced over old times. It was a comforting thought for me and I clung to it when the darkness of a lonely future got hold of me. This way, I could maintain the friendly distance I'd worked so hard to acquire and yet still remain in contact to the only person in the world I truly cared about.
But that was still a few years away, so just for tonight, in the beguiling light of a Paris apartment and in the company of someone he obviously loved, Illya was all mine.
Minutes later, we were gathered around the table, Mme Martine serving a lamb casserole while I poured a plummy pinot noir. Illya had shucked his jacket and was looking perfectly at ease in a dark green turtleneck and black leather shoulder holster. I thought about removing my jacket but where I was raised, that was a definite no-no. Already feeling that I'd come up short in Mme Martine's eyes, I left it on.
"So, madame," I began as I spread sweet butter on a thick slab of bread, "I'm ready to hear how you came to know my disreputable partner here."
"Non, please, Theodosia," she said with a wave of her hand. "We are all friends here, yes? Ah, so you want to know how I met my Illyusha. Very simple. You see, I used to work for a certain organization as a recruitment officer."
That surprised me. "Recruitment officer? For U.N.C.L.E.? Pardon my ignorance, but I'm pretty familiar with U.N.C.L.E. personnel. I'd certainly remember you," I added with a smile.
Theodosia inclined her head at my gentle flattery. She and Illya shared an amused glance and I was surprised at the little stab of envy I felt at their camaraderie.
I swirled my glass, working air into the wine. "Hmm. I sense a story."
"Well, you see, Theodosia is truthful in that she tried to recruit me. Only you are correct—it wasn't for U.N.C.L.E."
My eyebrows rose in surprise. "Don't tell me—T.H.R.U.S.H.?"
They shared another smile, Illya's cheeks turning slightly pink in the candlelight. "Well, yes and no," he murmured, turning his attention to the very fine meal in front of him.
I turned to Theodosia. "All right, since his appetite seems to have taken precedence at the moment, why don't you tell me the story."
She picked up her wine glass and leaned back in her chair, tossing an affectionate glance at Illya who was steadfastly searching for the bottom of his bowl. "You see, I saw this handsome young man one day at a small club I was visiting with my dear husband Eduard. Oh, he was a sight, my Illyusha. Half drunk on cheap vodka, ignoring the other émigrés and snarling at the garçons. So beautiful."
A snort from across the table earned him a tolerant frown before Theodosia turned back to me. "My Eduard immediately knew he would be perfect for his masterpiece. We found out where Illya lived and approached him the next day. Mon Dieu, he was so bleary-eyed and how do you say? Hung over? Oui, hung over."
I dared a glance at my partner, who now looked like a man resigned to his fate. He met my gaze over the rim of his wineglass, then rolled his eyes and drank deeply.
"We need more wine," he declared, and rose to head into the kitchen.
Theodosia leaned closer to me. "Poor boy, I do embarrass him so."
I leaned in as well. "Why?" I whispered. "What did he say when you asked him to join T.H.R.U.S.H.?"
She threw her head back and laughed. "No, no, Napoleon, you misunderstand. I only asked him to join T.H.R.U.S.H. after Illyusha refused Eduard's initial offer."
A loud clanking in the kitchen interrupted us. "Theodosia, I can't find any more of that pinot. Do you have more?"
"Yes, yes, in the garde-manger. I have another bottle resting there. Oh, and bring the sauterne as well, s'il vous plaît." She winked at me. "Take your time," she called out gaily. "I haven't told him the truly embarrassing part yet."
A muffled moan was our only reply.
"Go on," I urged.
"Do you know who my Eduard was?"
I shook my head. "No, I'm sorry, I don't. Should I?"
"Oh, I believe not. You see, he was a mildly talented sculptor. Some of works can be seen in the more bourgeois areas of Paris—minor officials and the like. Ah, but he took one look at Illya and wanted to immortalize him. When he offered, Illya refused. But I hadn't made my recruitment quota that month, so when Illyusha declined to be sculpted, I tried to get him to join our happy little T.H.R.U.S.H. family."
Illya poked his head through the doorway. "Is she done yet?" he asked hopefully.
"Not quite, my love," she replied with a wide smile. "Have you found the wine?"
Illya held up one bottle. "The pinot. Not the sauterne."
Theodosia frowned. "That is odd. Look again."
Heaving a sigh, Illya disappeared and I turned back to Theodosia eagerly. "All right, now. Obviously, Illya went on to work for U.N.C.L.E. What happened to Eduard?"
"Ah, my beautiful Eduard. He was already ill by then, you know. Not long afterward, he passed on, never having completed his chef-d'oeuvre. He was sculpting the Greek pantheon and my work for T.H.R.U.S.H. simply supported us."
I suppressed a growing grin. "Let me guess. He wanted Illya to pose as Apollo."
Theodosia glanced at me, then closed her eyes and smiled dreamily. "Oh, no. He was to be Ganymede."
I choked around a mouthful of lamb, only vaguely registering another groan from the kitchen. "Ganymede?" I spluttered.
"Oui. Eduard was searching for his Zeus when he died." She opened her eyes and fixed me with a pair of flirting dark eyes. "I was his Hera, of course."
"Oh, of course," I replied staunchly.
"You know, I was never sure," she continued musingly, "if it was the whole idea of posing or just posing in the nude that made Illyusha decline."
I stared at her, speechless, torn between the humor of the statement and the reaction of my body that the vision brought to mind. I was saved by Illya's return, still bearing only the one bottle.
"Is she done now?" he asked, his wryly amused gaze swinging between my wide smile and Theodosia's heavy-lidded look of amusement.
"Oui," she said simply, raising her hand as he passed her chair. He took it and gave it a gentle squeeze before he set the opened bottle on the table.
"No sauterne, though," he said as he sat down, reaching for the ladle and spooning more cassoulet into his bowl. It wasn't until he lifted a spoonful to his lips that he looked at me, a challenge in his eyes.
Teasing him was the farthest thing from my mind. Instead, I tilted my wineglass in his direction as a silent toast, enjoying his little frown of confusion.
"So," I turned to my hostess, "are you still a T.H.R.U.S.H. agent? Should I worry about truth serum in the wine?"
She laughed lightly and patted me on the arm. "Non, I retired after I lost my dear husband. T.H.R.U.S.H. pays me a small pension and I occasionally give them a trifle of information that Illya is good enough to let slip now and then."
I raised an eyebrow. "Really," I said slowly, not at all concerned.
Illya wiped his lips on his napkin and nodded, reaching for his wine. "Nothing important, of course, so don't look at me that way. It's all cleared beforehand and it allows Theodosia to keep her income just in case anyone in the T.H.R.U.S.H. accounting department looks at the payroll. And, should that fall through, U.N.C.L.E. is also providing her with a modest stipend for any, er, intelligence she may happen across that we find useful."
"You see, Napoleon?" Theodosia said with a flourish of her jeweled hand. "I am a double spy!"
I laughed with her, surreptitiously watching Illya across the table. He was smiling easily, surveying the table. His eyes lit up when they landed on the last piece of bread.
Theodosia watched him indulgently, leaning her head on her hand. "Ah, such an appetite. Illya could always—zut! Where is that sauterne? We must have it with the pears. They are finally affordable and they deserve a good wine. Excuse me, I will find it."
She rose and hurried away. I leaned forward and placed my elbows on the table, linking my hands and resting my chin on them. Before I could take a breath to speak, Illya cut me off.
"Not a word, Napoleon." Stern blue eyes cut at me as he took a bite of his bread. I watched as he chewed and swallowed, then washed it down with more wine.
"I was simply wondering—" I started, trying unsuccessfully to mask the laughter in my voice.
"You heard me," he warned, extending one finger from the glass and pointing it at me. He bit his lower lip to keep from smiling and I caught my breath. There was warmth and affection in his eyes, and something more, something intimate and welcoming. It was a look that I'd seen from him before, but until this night I think I'd never recognized—or let myself recognize—what it might mean.
Oh no you don't, I thought, filled with a strange and sudden panic. Don't do this to me. We can't do this now. I'm so close to accepting a life without you by my side. Don't you see?
I've got it all planned.
Then I saw an answering emotion dawn his eyes, quickly overcome with bewilderment as he looked away, and it was as if some threshold had been crossed. I watched in dismay as Illya's expression faded to blandness as he started toying with a butter knife. I was searching for something to say when Theodosia rejoined us, her cane thumping into the thick carpet with an irritated rhythm.
"Illya, you must go out and get our wine."
He looked up in surprise. "Now? But it's nearly midnight!"
"Oui, now. I have called Vicente—you remember Vicente, non? And he has a bottle for us. Come, you must go right away."
Illya stood up reluctantly. "But Theodosia, surely we can do without—"
"Non! I insist. I must have my noble rot. Here, take your jacket." She handed him his coat and tried to usher him to the door. When he looked back at me for support, I wiggled my fingers at him in farewell.
"Au revoir," I added cheerfully.
"You're a lot of help," he muttered. He tried one more time. "Theo, it's raining out there—"
"Nonsense," she said brusquely, then picked up Illya's half-eaten slice of bread and stuffed it in his mouth. "Some spy you are, mon ami, afraid of a little water. Go now—Napoleon and I shall become better acquainted."
His eyes widened in alarm as he glanced at me over his shoulder but he left; apparently I'd finally met the one woman in the world he couldn't refuse.
I pushed away my empty bowl and settled back in my chair as Theodosia sat beside me.
"Bon," she sighed, "this will be better. Vicente lives very close. It should not take above half an hour." She reached for her water glass, knocking a spoon onto the floor.
"I'll get it." I leaned over and scooped it up.
As I straightened, I jerked back in surprise. The tip of Theodosia's cane lay against my neck, a wickedly thin blade extending from its base to caress my jugular vein. I froze instantly, looking into dark eyes that watched me coldly.
"So," she hissed, "you are the one who breaks my Illyusha's heart."
The blade pressed infinitely closer and I swallowed very carefully. There wasn't any room to maneuver as I pressed back into the chair. Her words, as much as the quicksilver change in her behavior, had me completely off guard. Still clutching the spoon, I raised my hands slowly and ventured a small smile.
"Theodosia, believe me, I'm not—" I stopped when I felt the steel edge begin to bite into my skin.
"Do not underestimate an old woman, Napoleon. I would as soon slit your throat as look at you." Her hand relaxed slightly, giving me a little breathing room. "But," she continued, "my Illyusha loves you, and therefore I will restrain myself. For now."
The cane fell away and I replaced the spoon on the table, then ran a finger inside my collar to loosen it. "Madame, I don't know what you're talking about. Illya is my partner, nothing more."
"Yes, I am well aware of that fact," she answered calmly. The anger faded from her dark eyes as she fell silent, regarding me closely.
"Then I'm not sure why you think I'm—hurting him that way."
She rolled her eyes. "Men," she muttered with a shake of her head. "How can you be so blind, Napoleon? How can you not see what is right in front of your face?"
I thought back to just a few minutes ago, when my eyes had met Illya's across the table. I wasn't ready to admit that I wasn't as ignorant as she thought. But even knowing how close Theodosia and Illya were, I felt protective of whatever had passed between us and decided to keep silent.
There was a slight pause as Theodosia watched me, then seemed to reach a decision.
"I want to show you something." She rose slowly and moved over to the carved sideboard. She delved into one of the drawers and pulled out a small box made of creased, pearl colored leather. Dropping it onto my palm, she sat down with a soft grunt, her colorful clothing floating into place around her.
"Go on, open it."
I pried the little box open, revealing a plain gold wedding band. Pulling it out and sliding it past the first knuckle my left index finger, I looked at it closely, noticing small pits and irregularities embedded in the gold. I glanced back at Theodosia, a question in my eyes.
"Even though Illya declined our offers, we did become fast friends after that, I think in part because Illya had nothing in common with the other students or even other émigrés. As Eduard became more frail, Illya would help him in his studio and they became quite close. When Eduard passed on, I decided to give something of his to this young man that had come to mean so much to us both."
We shared a smile as I pulled the ring off and curled my fingers around it where it nestled in my palm.
"After Eduard died, I was quite, quite lost," she continued wistfully. "Despite our philosophical differences on how to run the world, Illya was a loyal friend. He and Marie were all I had to keep me going, at times."
"Marie?"
"Oui, Marie, my niece. She cooks for me, takes me to the market, things of that sort. But she has her own family, of course. Over the years since then, Illya has visited me when he can, or sent me postcards from around the world. He has been the son Eduard and I always wanted." I looked away as her eyes misted over. She dabbed at them with her napkin and gave me a tremulous smile.
She cleared her throat. "Now, about that ring. I gave it to Illya the night before he left for England. He was so young, so terribly lonely—I wanted to give him a reminder that someone cared for him. I was quite shocked when he sent it back to me a only a few years ago."
Our glances met. "So this is the ring Illya used to wear?" At her nod, I looked at it again, continuing in a hushed tone, mostly to myself. "He told me it was a family heirloom. When I asked him why he'd stopped wearing it, he said it had been lost on a mission." I looked up. "Why did he send it back to you?"
Theodosia held out her hand for the ring. As I dropped it into her palm, she gave a small, brittle laugh.
"Oh, he sent a note with it. He said he felt that his chosen profession would never lead him to the kind of love I shared with my beloved Eduard." She slid the ring onto her finger and held it up to the light. "I know my Illyusha. He wants no part of such disappointment and has decided to hide his heart."
I watched as she replaced the ring in the box and set it on the table. Against my will, I found my mind imagining my partner, young and vulnerable, his only friend an elderly T.H.R.U.S.H. agent with a heart of gold. It would have been clichéd if we had been discussing anyone other than Illya.
"Napoleon?"
"I'm sorry—yes?"
"You were frowning."
"I—was just thinking about what you said. About Illya's—about breaking Illya's heart."
"Oui?"
"You still haven't told me why you think I could do that."
"Ah, of course. Most assuredly, the way he smiles at you, whether you see him or not. Much can be seen in that smile for someone who knows him well. And when Illyusha visits me, he talks about you. Not what you do, of course, he's very discreet. But I can tell how he feels. Sometimes, such as after the two of you went to some horribly cold place, he smiled as he talked, even though it seemed you both ended up in the hospital, if I recall correctly. Other times, as when you had some sickness and could not remember anything?" She shook her head. "He'd never been so distant."
"Distant?"
"He told me you had met a woman you could love. He told me he was happy for you. I knew he was lying but what could I do?" She shrugged. "He has his pride, you know."
"I know," I answered quietly. A comfortable silence fell between us, until Theodosia spoke again.
"So Napoleon, what happened to this woman of your dreams?"
I paused before answering, trying to order my thoughts. My feelings toward Mara had long faded away, but I could still feel the residual heartache.
"We parted," I said with a small smile, "as lovers often do."
She patted my hand and I had to laugh a little. A few minutes ago she had held a knife to my throat and now she was comforting me over a long dead love affair.
"So you see," she continued, "I know my Illya. And I know that he loves you."
"Love is a relative term, Theodosia. There's loyalty, trust, camaraderie—any of these things could mean love."
She narrowed her eyes at me and I shifted nervously as her hand tightened on her cane. "Bah! You can get the same thing from a neutered poodle!" Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, non," she whispered, her eyes wide. "Have I made a fool of myself? You do not believe that men can love like this, is that it?"
I rose from my chair and went to stand by the window, shoving my hands deep into my pockets. The moist night air blew across my warm cheeks and I briefly closed my eyes to savor the sensation before turning back to the room. Theodosia was watching me impassively, her cane held between her knees with both hands.
"Yes, I believe they can," I said quietly.
"But not for you?" she asked carefully.
I shook my head. "That's not what I said."
"I am confused, then. Do you not find Illya attractive?"
I sat down again and reached for my wineglass, taking a sip before answering. If I admitted that much, then how much more would it take to admit everything?
I glanced at Theodosia, who looked back compassionately. I felt a strange kinship with her now—even as I realized she was deftly leading me down a path of her own devising. There was comfort in verbalizing long held emotions, in letting myself feel them completely for the first time. The unbreakable restraint I'd held on myself was beginning to dissolve.
"Yes. I find him very attractive. Actually, I—I find him much more than that."
"Then why are you not lovers?" There was honest bewilderment in her voice.
"Well," I stuttered, "because I had no idea Illya wanted me—wanted us that way."
The cane began moving in my direction.
"Are you saying that if you knew, you would have taken him to your bed?"
The heat in my cheeks grew. "Well, I don't know. I—"
"Mon Dieu," she cried, flinging up her hand in disgust. "You find him attractive, you understand that love can exist between two such as you—do not tell me you do not know how to make love to a man!"
I stared at her, not knowing whether to wish Illya would return or not. This was the most unbelievable conversation I'd ever had in my life.
The head of the cane nudged my knee.
"Napoleon?" Theodosia asked sharply. "Did you hear my question?"
I focused on her once again, really seeing her for the first time. Her penciled brows were drawn together in what I first thought was annoyance, but on closer review I saw that it was concern. Her love for Illya shone in her dark eyes, and my embarrassment faded away.
It would seem that Theodosia and I had something in common.
"Yes," I said simply. "I do know how."
Her eyes narrowed as she regarded me. I returned her gaze calmly, letting her read anything and everything into my response.
Finally, she nodded and gave the floor a couple of raps with her cane. "D'accord," she said approvingly. "Otherwise I should be very, very disappointed."
I cleared my throat, deciding right then that disappointing Theodosia Martine was not something I planned to do any time soon.
I divided the last of the wine between us. "My question to you is, what made you think I feel anything for Illya beyond the bonds of partnership?"
She reached for her glass, nodding her thanks. "Oh, really, Napoleon, must I keep reminding you that I am not the blind one here? I would never have spoken had I not suspected you felt the same. Think about it. Here you are, spending your evening in Paris not with a beautiful woman but an old woman—and your partner. Did you know you wear your heart in those pretty eyes of yours, Napoleon? Oh, yes, you make love to Illyusha from across the room with those eyes."
"I'll have to watch that in the future," I replied faintly, wondering if what she said was true.
She gave a soft snort of laughter. "Don't bother. After all these years, no doubt Illya cannot see what is right in front of him, either. To think, the fate of the world often rests in the hands of two such woefully ignorant men." She tsked mournfully but gave me a brilliant smile.
"We do our best," I answered, saluting her with my glass.
Her smile faded. "Well, Napoleon? Will you or won't you?"
I didn't bother to pretend I misunderstood her. Tonight, all my smug assumptions about the future and about Illya had been shattered. But maybe, just maybe, I could replace those assumptions with something infinitely better.
A future with Illya.
"I'd like to try," I answered truthfully, and felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders. Theodosia rewarded me with another dazzling smile and touched her glass to mine.
I relaxed into the chair and rubbed a hand over my face, only to find the tip of cane once again pressing against my Adam's apple. Thankfully, this time without the lethal tip.
"Hurt him and I will cut out your heart," she whispered. Then the cane once more dropped to the floor. "Make him happy, and I will love you like a son."
I reached forward and claimed her free hand, bringing it to my lips with a smile. "Thank you, Theodosia. I promise I'll do my very best."
She pulled her hand away with a coquettish flutter of her lashes. "Ah, you are a devil, Napoleon. A charming devil, but a devil nonetheless. Of course, your greatest challenge lay ahead. Illyusha will not—"
She was interrupted by a loud buzz. We both turned to the monitor which was showing an overhead view of Illya standing at the entrance to the building, a bottle clutched in his hand.
"Let him in, oui? The button is by the door."
I rose and found the button, then resumed my seat. By the time Illya made his way through the door I'd left open, Theodosia and I were laughing like old friends. He stopped at the threshold and surveyed us with a suspicious eye, his hair darkened with moisture and little beads of water clinging to his shoulders.
"Ah, merci!" Theodosia rose and took the bottle from his hand. "Come, come, sit down while I get this open. No, wait, you are wet! Get yourself a towel from the washroom. Napoleon, you open this while I prepare the fruit."
Illya disappeared through an arched doorway as a bottle was thrust into my hands. Looking around for the corkscrew, I heard Theodosia's cry of "Ici!" just in time to catch one being tossed from the kitchen.
The wine opened and breathing on the table, I took another turn around the room, admiring the relics of a well-lived life. I couldn't help but contrast it with the glossy, high rise apartment that waited for me in New York. Jacques Brel had been replaced with Miles Davis on the turntable, playing just low enough to add one more layer to this incredible, unforgettable evening. The wine, the food, the music, the scents and rhythms of the night had seduced me, making me believe that impossible, wonderful things could still happen.
Illya came back with a towel draped over his head, looking glum.
"I don't like being wet," he complained, rubbing his head with such vigor that small droplets of water sprayed everywhere. "I hope this wine is worth it."
I pulled out one of the chairs. "Sit down and let me do that. You're making a mess."
Wordlessly, he sat down and I stepped behind him, taking the towel and beginning a brisk massage with the towel. I'd done this for him before when he'd been unable to, most notably after he'd burned his hands after our adventure in the Casbah. I told myself this meant nothing more than it did back then, but soon my fingertips were replaced with my palms as I began to deliberately caress the head now bowed in front of me. Illya was quiet as I performed this suddenly intimate act, and I began to wonder if he'd been seduced by the night's magic as well.
Finally, my hands stilled, cupping his head through the towel as if in benediction. Just before I removed them, Theodosia came through the door and our eyes met. In hers, I saw approval and a little sadness, as if she knew that the special service she had performed for Illya over the years was no longer going to be needed. I hope she saw in mine the reaffirmation of the promise I had so recently made. A small nod told me she had seen exactly that.
The moment was broken when Illya reached up and yanked the towel off, then raked his fingers through his hair to get it back into some kind of order. Theodosia sat the plate of poached pairs on the table, then directed me to gather another set of wine glasses from the sideboard for the sauterne. I'm not a fan of the sweeter wines, but like everything else on this night, it was perfect.
Illya and I remained for another hour or so, deciding to wait until we heard the patter of rain on the windows diminish a little. The candles were sputtering and the music had long stopped when we reluctantly rose to go.
"Theodosia," I murmured at the door, taking her hand in both of mine, "this has been one of finest evenings I can remember. Thank you for sharing it with me."
A gnarled hand came up to stroke my cheek. "You are most welcome, Napoleon. You must be sure and visit me when you and my Illyusha are next in Paris."
I winked at her. "Oh, I'll drag him along," I replied, then stepped aside to make room for Illya. He soundlessly gathered her in his arms and they held on for a moment before he pulled back. She kept her hands on his shoulders and smiled up into his eyes.
"Adieu, my Illyusha. Be well, and—" she gave him a little shake, "relax a little, eh? Don't be so difficult all of the time!"
He grinned and kissed her cheek, then gathered her hands and gave them a squeeze. "I'll try, Theodosia, but I make no promises." He shot a glance at me. "One of us has to be serious and I don't believe Napoleon is quite up to the task."
He turned back to her, growing somber as he gazed into her eyes. "I don't know when we'll return, but you remember how to reach me if you need to."
She tossed me a look of tolerant amusement as she opened the door and shooed us out. "Oui, oui. Go on and now and leave an old woman to her rest. Au revoir, mes enfants."
The rain had again receded to a thick mist as we silently made our way back to the street. The city was quieter and much darker than we'd arrived, and under other circumstances my mind would have been occupied with thoughts of ambush. Tonight, however, I was concentrating on other, more pleasurable imaginings.
The man next to me strode confidently through the darkened thoroughfares until we reached the corner of the Place des Vosges. He stopped at the base of a streetlamp and turned to me, crooking his eyebrow.
"It will be faster if we cut through the square but I warn you, it is illegal at this time of night."
I shrugged and glanced up at the sky. "Probably a good idea. Looks like it could let loose again any minute." I looked back at him and we shared a smile. "I'm feeling particularly lucky this evening. Let's see if we can avoid the gendarmes."
He nodded. "Let's go."
We moved diagonally through the park along the paths of ancient lime trees, their tops sheathed in mist. I'd never been through this park—around it many times, but never through it—so when we reached the statue of Louis XIII, I paused to take a look. When Illya noticed I'd stopped, he returned to my side and followed my gaze upwards.
"You know, this is his second statue," he said, grasping the metal spikes that decorated the gate surrounding it.
I shot him a sidelong glance. "Really? What happened to the first one?"
His mouth quirked. "Melted down in the Revolution. This one," he jerked a thumb at the huge figure on horseback, "is made of marble. Very enduring."
"Rather like us, wouldn't you say?" I shifted my gaze from his profile back to the statue. "Enduring."
He shrugged. "Enduring. Simply another way to say growing old."
"Oh, I don't know," I replied. "I prefer the comparison to a bottle of fine—"
"Napoleon," he broke in swiftly. "Whatever Theodosia said to you, don't believe her. She's an old woman, she likes to see things where they don't exist."
"Really?" I said conversationally. "She seemed remarkably acute, to my way of thinking. What makes you say that?"
He walked to the corner of the iron gate, then turned to face me. "I saw the box. I know what it represented to her and what she thinks it represents to me. I do not share her sentimental attachment to the ring."
I could have kicked myself; in my mind's eye, I pictured the box tucked next to the rim of my plate. That was careless of me; on the other hand, Theodosia may have been very much aware of its placement.
Illya started to turn away but stopped when I quickly caught up and laid my hand on his arm. "Illya," I said softly, afraid he was going to bolt. The mist was thickening into a heavy drizzle but I didn't want us to reach the sanctuary of the hotel. I knew if we did, the moment would be lost.
Illya turned back towards me, his face carefully blank. "Yes?" he replied neutrally.
He was trying so hard to not give anything away and it was that very neutrality that convinced me, but I found that I didn't need much. Twenty years of trusting my instincts told me that I needed to lead us down this path or we'd never find the happiness that was so unexpectedly so close at hand.
I slid my hand down the damp cloth of his jacket until three of my fingers rested in the cup of his hand, mingling with the rain.
"What if I want it to be true?"
He brought his eyes to mine, blinking away the moisture that had gathered on the tips of his lashes. "You don't," he said flatly, but his gaze didn't waver.
I smiled, tasting the rain as it ran into the corners of my mouth. "Would I be standing out here in the rain in the middle of the night with you if I didn't?"
He tried to pull his hand away but I tightened those three fingers, holding him with just the strength of that touch.
"I've always thought you were a little bit mad, you know," he replied with a hint of his usual humor.
"Only when it suits me," I answered, stepping just a little bit closer. "Besides, I don't seem to be alone in my madness, do I?"
My fingers slid over his until our slick palms cradled each other, warming the cool moisture trapped between them.
"Tell me what you want," he said softly, a dangerous undertone to his voice. "Make yourself very clear."
"I thought that it was evident," I replied, just as quietly, taking another step until my lapel brushed against his shoulder.
"Not so simple, Napoleon, not for me. I can very easily leave you here."
One look in his eyes and I knew he was telling the truth. A single misstep on my part and he would be gone. He shifted away from me and rubbed his free hand over his face to clear off the quickening rain.
"All right, but I want to try something first."
"Try something?" he echoed suspiciously.
"Yes," I whispered, the fingertips of my free hand brushing across his damp cheek with just enough pressure to get him to turn his face towards me again.
His breath was warm on my cheek. I leaned in slowly, giving him every chance to break away. I was just about to kiss him when Illya ducked his head and pressed his lips against mine, moving his mouth with a sure touch. I was so startled I began to pull away, only to be stopped by the suddenly firm hold on my hand.
Rain-cooled lips traveled over mine, gently exploring as he angled his mouth more securely. My lips parted with a sigh, my hand going to his neck to pull him closer. Rain was beginning to run down our faces in steady rivulets, slicking our skin where our cheeks brushed. He tasted of pears and sweet wine and the soft Parisian rain.
I had shut my eyes at the first touch, giving myself over to the sensation of that most amazing kiss. Illya's lips were gently demanding as they teased and caressed. When the tip of his tongue brushed my top lip, I pulled my hand from his to grab his shoulders, trying to deepen the connection. Before I could, he stepped back and wrapped his hand once again around a wrought iron spike. When I tried to touch him, he held up his hand and closed his eyes wearily.
Taking a deep breath, I brushed at the damp hair now clinging to my forehead.
"I can't give you what you want, Napoleon," he said emotionlessly.
I blinked in confusion. Not a minute ago, his mouth was moving over mine with a skill that still had me breathless.
"You don't know what I want," I murmured.
"What? Is it a vow of undying love? Is that what you want from me?"
"Well, that would be nice for a start." I smiled, inviting him to share the sweetness of the moment.
He pulled away. "Stop it. I'm your partner. I deserve better than this."
With horrifying clarity, I realized I was handling this all wrong. Illya thought I was flirting with him, treating him like a new conquest now that Theodosia had spilled the beans, so to speak. I watched in dismay as he raised a hand to brush at the moisture gathered on his mouth, his expression stony.
"You're absolutely right," I said slowly. "So much better. I'm sor—"
He held up his hand. "Enough. I don't want to hear your platitudes. I'm returning to the hotel." He glanced at me, angry and resigned. "Whatever it is that has brought you to this—this folly—will be gone by morning. I'd rather not be there to see it. Goodnight."
He turned and stalked off into the mist, step firm and head straight.
I turned away and let my head drop back, hands on my hips. My throat tightened with the knowledge of the damage I'd just done and I swallowed thickly, looking up into the dark gray sky.
If Theodosia could have seen the mess I'd just made, she would've made shish kebob out of me—and rightly so.
I started walking back towards the hotel, deep in thought and my mood as dark as the soggy October sky. Aside from my mishandling of the situation, I was genuinely sorry that I'd caused Illya pain over this. What I had hoped to be an auspicious beginning just might be the sad ending I'd envisioned after all.
The rain began to fall harder as I reached the sanctuary of the hotel. Illya was nowhere in sight but I knew his room number. With a wave at the sleepy desk clerk, I stepped into the elevator and punched his floor number. That done, I had a chance to get a good look at myself in the polished surface of the elevator wall. My pocket comb took care of the worst of the damage but I needed a towel.
That gave me an idea.
I got off on Illya's floor and headed for the first door marked linge. A few minutes later, I rapped lightly on his door.
"Oui?" I wasn't surprised when the door didn't open but I'd recognize that surly voice anywhere.
"Service des chambres," I answered.
I was rewarded by the sound of the chain being released and the door opening a few inches.
"I did not ask for room service." The reply in clipped English told me he knew exactly was on the other side. I took the towel I was holding and dangled it on the tip of my finger.
"Thought you might need an extra towel, since it seems you've spent the evening in various stages of—er—dampness."
The door opened enough for a pale hand to slip out and snatch the towel from my hand.
"Unless the Bastille has been stormed by T.H.R.U.S.H. agents dressed in pink tutus and singing La Traviata, you have nothing to say that I want to hear."
I smiled, noticing with a surge of hope that the door hadn't closed.
"As—enthralling—as that idea is, no, I can't promise something so exciting. What I did want to discuss was our current inability to communicate."
The door didn't move.
"I perceive no problem. I understand you perfectly."
"Ah, well, forgive me if I beg to differ. If we'd been on the same page in Lisbon, we wouldn't have lost the microfilm to Le Faucon."
The door opened a few more inches, but there was still no sign of Illya.
"Are you saying that our professional relationship isn't what it should be?"
I reminded myself to step carefully; the goal was to have that door opened, not slammed in my face. "Do you think we've been on our game lately?"
When in doubt, go on the attack. The door opened enough for one leery blue eye to peer out at me.
"We didn't do very well in Lisbon," he said carefully.
"No, we didn't. Furthermore, I think our communication skills have been deteriorating over the past few months and it's mostly your fault."
The door swung wide open and I was faced with one highly indignant Russian.
"My fault! Napoleon, that is nonsense and you—"
"Nightcap? Love one." I pushed past him and into the hotel room, wandering all the way to the windows before I turned around.
Maybe forcing a midnight chat wasn't such a good idea after all.
Illya had followed me into the room and now stood paused at the edge of the bed, hands on his hips and looking highly annoyed. He'd removed his shoes, socks and sweater, leaving his white undershirt still tucked into his pants. His blond hair, gleaming in the light of the bedside lamp, was tousled and still damp around the edges.
He was incredibly desirable—and angry as a hornet.
"Napoleon," he hissed. "that was beneath you. This could've waited until tomorrow, or even until we reached New York."
I shrugged out of my jacket and tossed it aside, then began unknotting my tie. "I'm not sleepy. Neither are you, by the look of things. " I waved my hand to indicate the still made bed.
He crossed his arms over his chest. "Completely beside the point."
I left the ends of my tie around my neck and unfastened the top two buttons of my shirt. "All right, I grant you that." I smiled at him. "But now that I'm here, let's have that drink."
I let my smile fade while I held his gaze, letting him see past my playfulness to the seriousness that lay beyond. He stared back, no doubt weighing the idea of tossing me out on my ear versus letting me have my way.
I let out a relieved breath when he let his hands fall to the side and walked over to the minibar. "I'd say we've both had quite enough already," he said as he opened the door and pulled out a little airline size bottle of Dewars, followed by one of Ikon.
I tossed my tie onto a handy chair. "Wine with dinner? Hardly. A nightcap is just what we need."
As he cracked open the small bottles, I went to grab two of the glasses that sat next to the ice bucket. A quick glance showed me that Illya had been his usual efficient self, ordering a full bucket even though he knew he would probably have no use for it.
Unless he'd been anticipating my arrival after all. That thought caused a little shiver to dance up my spine as I turned to him with the ice-filled glasses in my hands.
"Expecting company?" I asked, nodding towards the bucket.
He never paused in his actions, just smiled enigmatically as he filled the glasses, then tossed the bottles away before reaching for the vodka.
We clinked the glasses wordlessly and took a sip. Illya winced at the still-warm alcohol, then moved past me to stand by the window. He'd opened it before I showed up, letting that same soft breeze that had cooled my cheeks at Theodosia's lift the hair away from his face. The brief camaraderie was fading as he shut me out, gazing over the city and sipping idly at his drink.
I tossed off the whisky, hardly noticing the burn as it trickled down my throat. Maybe I was a little drunk, or just flying high on the fleeting taste of passion that I'd had from Illya earlier. Regardless, I couldn't leave things between us as they were in the park.
Setting down the glass, I moved to the bedside lamp and turned it down to its lowest setting. He didn't move from his stance as I walked towards him except to stiffen in expectation.
When I reached him, I plucked the glass from his hand and set it down on the nearest surface without looking. My focus was entirely on my partner and the fact that the next few minutes could define the rest of my life.
"I'm sorry about what happened earlier," I said quietly.
He jerked his head a little, as if surprised at my choice of subject.
"Forget it," he replied tersely, his eyes fixed firmly on the Paris skyline.
"I can't," I replied without regret. "I doubt I'll forget anything about this night."
"You should," he said softly. "Forget all of it."
I grasped his shoulder and swung him towards me. "Look at me, Illya."
He raised his eyes slowly to mine, his face carefully schooled into the impassive mask he'd used with me on so many occasions, even as recently as tonight.
Like a revelation coming softly to me in a dream, I suddenly saw my way. I smiled and then smiled wider as suspicion showed clearly in his face.
"Ah, Illya, my obstinate friend," I said slowly, "you're going to make this as hard as possible, aren't you?"
He'd stiffened at the endearment but didn't look away. I reached out and caressed his cheek, the tips of my fingers registering the downy beard lightly dusting his face.
"I told you, Napoleon, Theodosia misguided you. She—"
"You have no idea what she said to me while you were gone, you know."
He pulled his head away from my stroking fingertips.
"I can guess. She's always—"
"I'm in love with you," I interrupted. "Hopelessly, irreversibly and completely, I'm afraid. Just thought you should know. Good night, now. See you in the morning."
I turned and gathered up my jacket and headed for the door.
"Napoleon!"
I didn't stop, just gave him the back of my hand in farewell. I was almost even with the bathroom entrance when a glass came hurtling past my head to shatter against the hotel room door. I ducked instinctively, then straightened to watch the liquid drip down the surface.
"Well," I murmured conversationally, "if you really want me to stay, all you had to do was ask."
I was grabbed by the arm and turned around to see Illya, his fist drawn back to punch me. But as soon as our eyes met, the fight went out of him and he dropped both hands, looking confused and lost.
"Why?" he asked hoarsely. "Why are you doing this?"
"I told you why," I replied, moving closer and tossing my jacket aside once again. He stood very still, and I decided to test my luck by setting my hands gingerly on his waist. He shuddered but didn't pull away.
"But why now? After all these years?"
My hands stroked soothingly up his sides. "Is it important?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I know you've been thinking about your retirement from the field and I know how it bothers you. I'm afraid this is your attempt to hold on to your past any way you can."
"Oh, no," I whispered, "you're only half right. I have been thinking about my future but it's not my past I'm trying to hold on to—it's you."
His eyes widened and then softened, and I watched with a dawning sense of wonder as the feelings that he'd held on to so tightly were revealed in his eyes. Needing no further invitation, I inclined my head and pressed my lips undemandingly to his.
There was an instant of hesitation on his part, another brief internal struggle that ended when I enveloped that pouty lower lip into the warm cavern of my mouth. I heard a faint sigh, then strong arms were around me, one sliding across my waist and the other up and around my neck, pulling me closer as his mouth opened under mine.
I braced my legs and deepened the kiss, wanting to taste all of him at once and yet take my time. There was now the faintest hint of vodka mixed with the pears and his tongue was as eager as mine, meeting me touch for touch, allowing my sensuous journey and demanding one of his own in return.
When we finally parted, both of us breathless, I rested my head against his and heard him laugh softly.
"What?" I whispered in his ear, then dropped a little kiss on it.
"Theodosia."
I pulled back and dropped a kiss on his nose. "Lovely woman. Let's forget about her right now and concentrate on more immediate pleasures." I slid one hand up his back, allowing the fabric of his undershirt to ride out of the back of his belt. "For instance, did you know," I continued confidingly, "that you have the most beautiful mouth I've ever seen?"
He frowned and looked over my shoulder. "Don't flatter me, Napoleon."
I grasped his chin and forced him to look at me. "Hey. Listen to me. You know me. You know when I tell the truth and you know when I lie. I don't say these things because I want to get you into bed—I would never do that to you. I say them because they're true and I love you and I think you should just get used to it."
He was speechless. Darkening blue eyes blinked at me in confusion before a sly smile began to break across his features. One slim finger came up to stroke my chin as his eyes became hooded.
"So, you don't want to get me into bed, hmm? This—" his other hand moved from my hip to my lower back "—is just a prelude to a discussion on the latest Parisian fashions?"
My breath caught with the astounding realization that Illya was flirting with me. I had thought my stubborn, intractable Russian was going to be difficult at this juncture and so I'd been prepared to dig in and fight dirty. Instead, he'd neatly turned the tables on me, taking the uncertainty out of the situation by making light of it.
I was having none of that. I grabbed his wrists and brought them up between us. His playful mood evaporated and his eyes narrowed.
"Not so fast," I murmured as he tried half-heartedly to pull away. "I'd much rather discuss hemlines with you than continue this conversation if it means you'll be honest with me. You left me earlier when you thought I wasn't being honest with you so let me remind you I can do the same thing. I love you—and if you're counting, that's the third time I've said that—but unless you start giving me something to go on, I've got a very comfortable bed waiting for me two floors up."
That got his attention. I released his wrists and let my hands drop, stating plainly that the next move was up to him. When none was forthcoming, I shoved my hands in my pockets and smiled ruefully.
"Sorry, my mistake," I said, lowering my eyes before he saw the hurt that was welling up inside of me. Taking a deep breath, I started to turn but was stopped by a hand on my cheek. I looked up to see Illya smiling at me, a breathtaking, beautiful little smile that was overshadowed only by the glow in his eyes.
"I seemed to have picked up the very bad habit of lying to you, Napoleon," he whispered, his hand still warm on my cheek, his thumb lightly stroking my mouth. "You really bring out the worst in me sometimes."
"I—I do?"
"Oh, yes, you most certainly do." His other hand had founds its way to my hip and tugged me closer. I put my hands around his waist again, unsure of the quicksilver change in his mood.
"You see," he continued, lowering his eyes, "my first lie to you concerns Eduard's ring. It was very special to me and I only returned it to Theodosia after I was sure that you would never..."
He faltered and I captured his free hand to give it an encouraging squeeze. He squeezed back but kept his eyes downcast. "I'd never what?" I encouraged.
His lashes swept up and he looked at me and I was stung by the doubt still lingering in his eyes. "Never care."
"Oh, I care," I said managed around the lump in my throat.
"Well, now you tell me," he answered with a little grin before turning serious. "But that was only the first lie. The second is a lie of omission. You see—"
I kissed him. I knew this conversation was important but his mouth so close to mine was more of a temptation than I could bear. Cradling the back of his head, I possessed those warm, sweet lips and moved over them will all my skill until I coaxed a response from them. When his mouth opened against mine, I proceeded to taste him deeply, roughly, as the events of the night began to catch up with me.
"Enough," I said as my teeth worried his bottom lip, "that's enough. Say it to me, Illya. Tell me now."
"Love you," he sighed, touching his mouth to mine. "Always, Napoleon."
Something inside me broke apart at the whispered words. The tightrope I'd been walking since my incredible conversation with Theodosia was suddenly released and I was in freefall. There was only one thing left, something I had never realized I wanted but now couldn't live without.
"Come to bed with me," I ground out as my hands began plucking at his undershirt. "Now."
Nimble fingers began worrying the rest of my shirt buttons loose. "Da." His hot mouth fastened onto the newly revealed throat and I shuddered helplessly as his silky tongue began working my skin.
Grasping his undershirt, I pulled it up and over his head, reluctantly forcing him to straighten up. He looked adorably rumpled—although I'd never describe him that way to his face—but my thoughts scattered when he impatiently dragged the shirt off my shoulders and resumed his exploration of my neck.
I grabbed him by the upper arms and restrained him as I took a step back. My shirt dangled from my arms so I quickly unbuttoned the cuffs and tossed the shirt aside. Bare-chested, Illya watched me with hooded eyes, his hand slowly rising to his belt buckle.
I wrenched off my own undershirt and grabbed his hands before he could reach his fly. "No, let me," I said gently, bending down to press a kiss just above his right nipple. His hands fell away and I explored his beautiful skin with my mouth as my fingers carefully undid his pants. He moaned as the back of my fingers brushed over him, the sound pooling at the base of my spine with liquid heat.
With a woman, undressing her is half the seduction; it was always my belief that a woman liked a man to reveal her himself; it made her feel desirable and special. With Illya, clothes had become a nuisance. I wanted him so badly, wanted to possess him so thoroughly, that I knew finesse wasn't going to work here.
I forced myself to pull back but I framed his face with my hands, resisting the impulse to run my palms over his warm, golden skin. I had to have him now, and all my gentler instincts retreated in the face of that enormous need.
"Please." My voice broke a little on the word. "Too slow."
He wrapped his fingers around my wrists and squeezed them, locking his eyes with mine as he nodded slightly. Understanding flashed in his eyes.
"Yes."
We each turned away to finish undressing. My body was more taut than it had ever been and my hearing was attuned to the sounds of Illya behind me, stripping off his clothes. I concentrated on what I was doing and when I was completely undressed, I started to turn around to face him, eager to feel him filling my arms again.
But he had a surprise for me. Before I could move, strong arms wrapped around my waist and the length of his warm, velvety body pressed against me from behind. Tender, teasing kisses fell on my shoulders as the palms of his hands began playing up and down my chest.
"I've waited for you too long, milok," he whispered as his fingertips danced down over my hipbones to slide towards my inner thighs. I could feel his erection throbbing at my lower back as he pushed into me, his fingers everywhere but where I wanted them to be.
"Yes," I sighed, reaching behind me to stroke my hands around his firm thighs, pulling him closer.
"Patience," he whispered in my ear. "I will give you everything, milok." He grasped me gently and I moaned, my head falling back to rest on his shoulder. "And you will give everything to me."
The rough tone of his voice skated along every nerve ending, driving me to turn around and take him in my arms once again. I parted from him reluctantly, retaining possession of one hand as I swept the bedspread out of our way. There was no awkwardness, no clumsiness between us as I urged him down onto the bed. We were in tune, our touches sure and deeply moving. His skin was so giving, endlessly responsive to every touch. We breathed into each other's mouth, each touch of his tongue to mine a unique and thrilling caress.
"God, Illya, my God," I whispered against the soft down of his chest. His hands were tangled in my hair as I traced his ribs with my fingers.
"Sshh. Love now, talk later. Learn to prioritize." He covered my mouth with his palm, blue eyes shining at me with desire and affection even as he lectured me.
I shifted from his side and grasped his knees, nudging his thighs apart to kneel between them, then bracing myself over him carefully. He smiled up at me, his long fingers stroking up my arms and down over my chest. I visited his lips for a kiss, then, holding his gaze, I ran a finger along the underside of his length and listened to his gasp turn to a staccato sigh when I lightly brushed the tip. My fingers came away damp, and I smeared the pearly moisture with my thumb before rubbing it into the skin over my heart. Illya's eyes widened, then shut abruptly and he turned his face into the pillow.
"Napoleon," he breathed, opening his eyes to me again.
I pressed my mouth onto his flat abdomen, smiling when it quivered at the light touch. "I know," I murmured. The delicate skin of his hip was tantalizing and I sucked gently on the point of his hip as my hands caressed down his outer thighs and up over his knees. There was a jagged scar that ran from his left knee to just below the juncture of his pelvis, and I ran my tongue over it tenderly, reveling in the tremors that ran through his body. The clean, heady scent of him surrounded me and the blood in my veins began to surge through me in a thick, hot rush.
A sharp tug on the lock of hair that fell over my forehead brought my attention back to Illya's face.
"Up here with me," he growled in a low voice that brooked no opposition.
I tossed him a feral grin and then crawled up his body, layering kisses across his chest as I went. When I loomed over him, he laid a palm on either side of my face and pulled me down into a fiery, bruising kiss. Then, hooking an elbow around my neck, he swept his leg around mine and rolled us until he was on top of me.
Sweat pearled across his flushed skin, wetting the hair at his temples and searing me where tiny droplets fell on my face. His expression was one of intense concentration as he bore his lower body down against mine until we connected more intimately than I ever could have dreamed. None too gently, he pushed my chin aside and bent to devour my neck and shoulders in sharp, biting kisses that scraped low moans from my throat. My hands crossed furiously over the strong muscles of his back until instinct took over and they slid down to silken skin, fingers digging desperately as I sought to bring him closer to me.
The pressure between us was becoming unendurable. Illya's fingers were tangled in my hair as he continued his assault on my chest, his hips rocking sharply where they met mine. I let go with one hand to grab him behind his head and force his mouth back up to mine, mindless rhythm setting a frantic pace. The incinerating heat caught between us suddenly ignited and I dragged my mouth away from his and sank my teeth into his shoulder, only vaguely realizing that he had done the very same thing to me. Molten liquid erupted over my skin as small, guttural cries filled my ear. Illya arched against me, then pressed down hard, and the feeling of heat and moisture intensified. Then with one last thrust, he collapsed on top of me, his head buried against my shoulder as shudder after shudder wracked us both.
Before our breathing could even begin to even out, I wrapped him in my arms and held him close, murmuring mindless words of love and exultation into his ear. He lay panting against me, his hands clenching my shoulders convulsively. When I shifted him so that we both lay more comfortably, he turned his head so that his lips skimmed over my ear as he quietly returned my vows with heartbreaking candor.
We drifted in a sated fog for a while, then Illya lifted himself away. He paused and closed his eyes when I languidly stroked my hands over his hips, then shared a quick kiss with me before getting up completely. I watched with sleepy curiosity as he stepped into the bathroom, only to smile to myself in understanding when I heard the shower turn on. My amusement vanished in a wash of happy, tired lust as a slender hand appeared through the thickening steam to beckon me with a crooking finger.
Well, as comfortable as I was, I certainly wasn't going to miss this.
Some time later, after so many towels had been callously used and discarded that we had to make another surreptitious raid on the linen room—thank heavens for hotel-supplied robes and U.N.C.L.E. stealth training—we stripped off the soiled blanket and replaced it with one we purloined before drawing back the sheet. Illya clambered into bed, giving me a rather lovely view before I turned off all the lights and joined him.
A new and entirely welcome twist to having Illya in my bed was that it seemed I was just as likely to be the holdee as the holder. He practically yanked me down onto to him, enclosing me inside the circle of his capable arms, so I settled in with a satisfied sigh. There was a comfortable silence, occasionally broken by the sounds of traffic as pre-dawn Paris began to stir.
"Now what?" Illya murmured eventually, tracing circles on my shoulder.
"Now, we go home." I licked his collarbone contentedly, then nestled in closer to him, feeling drowsy and incredibly happy.
"Yes? And then?"
The shadow of doubt in his voice roused me from my sleepy state. I lifted up on one elbow so that I could gaze down into his eyes, even thought the darkness prohibited it. I hurried to reassure him, understanding that we both needed to hear this.
"Then we make plans."
"Plans? What kind of plans?"
"Plans for the future."
"Future?"
"Yes, future, you Russian parrot. Our future, together." I stroked a finger over his cheek. "Now, I know you don't think this was a one time only offer."
He caught my wandering hand and pressed it to his lips. "No, I know you better than that, Napoleon. And I certainly trust you."
I bent down and brushed his mouth with mine. "Good. Now hear this, Illya Nickovetch, I foresee a change in our career goals. Retirement from the field at forty may be mandatory, but early retirement in order to transfer to another department is not unheard of. Frankly, it may take a while and I may reach forty before the arrangements can be made, but there's no reason why we can't, well, nudge things along." I shifted my hips meaningfully, but without much expectation of enthusiasm on anyone's behalf.
Although I couldn't see him, I could easily imagine blue eyes rolling with disdain as a firm hand guided my head back down to his shoulder. "Napoleon, you are incorrigible."
I let out an insulted huff. "I'll have you know, I'm perfectly corrigible and furthermore, you're the one who's, er, corriged me."
"Well, if you're very good, I'll corrige you again in the morning, after we've had some sleep." I felt his hand caress my head lightly before he sank further into the pillows, pulling me with him.
I smiled against his neck and let out a deep, grateful breath. "Great. I love a good corrige before breakfast."
The gentle fingers in my hair stopped their rhythmic stroking. "Before?"
"Yes, before."
"Well, why not after?"
I sighed in affectionate frustration. "Because, my little poached pear, after breakfast, we're going to call on Theo before our plane leaves."
The fingers resumed their hypnotic massage. "Very well." The fingers tightened. "But call me that again, and there will be no more corriging for you, my friend."
"Oh, all right," I whispered, beginning to float into slumber, "if you insist." I yawned widely. "Whatever makes you happy."
I was more than half asleep but I still felt the press of his lips on my forehead as words that I'm sure I wasn't meant to hear were whispered above me.
"Da, Napoleon. That would be you."
A while ago, I was in a writing funk and asked Aithine to give me a challenge.
My little overachiever gave me three.
The challenge for U.N.C.L.E. was this:
Napoleon finally realizes what Illya's little smirks all the time mean (they mean, of course, that Illya's totally in love with Napoleon and is semi-patiently waiting for Napoleon to realize that fact)—and the end of the snippet/story is Illya giving Napoleon a private smirk with Napoleon now knowing exactly what it means (if that makes any sense at all *g*)
It didn't exactly turn out that way—but I think Theo makes up for the fact I didn't adhere perfectly to the idea. (Bien sûr! *vbg* ~A)
Ganymede:
"In Greek legend, the son of King Tros of Troy. Because of his unusual beauty, he was carried off by Zeus disguised as an eagle, and he became cupbearer to the gods."
"There are, however, other versions of the story. One source claims that Zeus acted alone in abducting Ganymede. Either Zeus sent an eagle, or else assumed the form of an eagle himself, to carry the young man off to Olympus (incidentally, this dramatic scene of abduction was a favorite for artists over the centuries). It is said that Zeus immortalized Ganymede by making the handsome youth into the constellation Aquarius. And poetically, the water-carrier Aquarius is accompanied eternally in the night sky by Aquila (the eagle)."
Feedback: email.