May. 8th, 2017

yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)
 Count Kuryakin

By YumYumPM@


Published in Kuryakin File 28

Continued in ‘The Better Lover’
In the Alexander the Greater Affair episode Tracy Alexander asks Illya if he's Count Kuryakin

(Reminiscent of The When in Roma Affair, Napoleon once again misplaces a vital piece of information,

and it's Count Kuryakin to the rescue)


Paris-late evening


On the surface, the mission should have been simple enough.  Ridiculously easy in fact, even without his partner there to help him.  A reward for suffering through several nerve-racking assignments, as Alexander Waverly had worded it.  Hah!  It wasn’t turning out that way.  He had the document ready to deliver, and the bad guys were nipping at his heels.  Sounds of heavy footsteps on the cobbled pathway behind him faded as Napoleon paused in an alley to catch his breath.  He wasn’t as young as he used to be and to top it off, his partner wasn’t around to back him up.  After a moment, he straightened his tie and adjusted the fit of his jacket then made one last check to make sure the coast was clear.  All he needed now was to find someplace to lie low for awhile before getting back into the game. 


Fortune smiled upon him and the infamous Solo’s luck was intact.  Rounding the corner, he saw her.   She was young and lovely, and he couldn’t help the smug smile that flitted across his face.  Her blonde hair shining under the streetlights, making her standout from the crowd that surrounded her.  All he had to do was make her acquaintance.  Illya would not have approved, Napoleon smiled, that thought alone making the idea seem the perfect solution.  But with Napoleon and a woman involved, nothing is ever simple.


The next morning he’d woken up in a hotel room…alone … with a monumental headache brought on by the bottle of champagne they had shared.  On the bright side, there had been no obstacles in his path.  No foreign powers to deal with.  No Thrush agents to avoid, and alas, no information to pass on.  Somehow, during the brief interlude, Napoleon had managed to misplace the information as well as several articles of clothing, his tie, one sock and strangely enough, his underwear.  In spite of all that, he wasn’t worried.  All that needed to be done was to locate and charm back the intelligence that she wasn’t even aware that she had.  Simple, right?  Wrong. 




Feeling rumpled and untidy, Napoleon sat at the communication console in the Paris office.  He pinched the bridge of his nose, not looking forward to reporting his failure to Alexander Waverly.  With reluctance, he flicked on the switch.  Immediately the screen lit up showing the craggy features of Mr. Waverly,  Behind him in the background he spotted his partner, Illya Kuryakin, looking all too fresh and well rested as he sorted through papers spread out before him on the familiar round conference table.    


“Well, Mr. Solo.  Your report.”


“Ummm.  There’s been a slight problem.”  Napoleon looked away, wanting to avoid the disapproval he knew Waverly’s face would show.  A sudden rude noise caused him to glance up in time to see Illya’s head snap upward and the slight smirk on his lips, quickly suppressed.  Napoleon shifted uncomfortably in his seat as a twinge of irritation flowed through him.


“Hummph.  Exactly what do you call…‘slight’?  Waverly leaned back in his chair, waiting expectantly.  Something about the way he said it gave Napoleon the sinking feeling that Waverly already knew what his report would be.


 “Well, sir, it was like this…”


When Napoleon finished giving his edited report, Waverly sat, staring into space and strummed his fingers on the computer console in an uncharacteristic manner.  “And you have no idea who the young lady is?”


Napoleon shrugged.  In his opinion, she had been the means to an end and he had not wanted to take it, as enjoyable as it had been, any further than that.

Waverly’s secretary came into view.  She glanced up at the screen and Napoleon winked at her as she passed her boss a folder with the embossed seal of the U.N.C.L.E.  After glancing through the folder, Waverly turned his back to the communication center.  “Mr. Kuryakin, perhaps it would be best if you joined Mr. Solo and took charge of sorting out this mess.”


Napoleon straightened up with surprise and a slight bit of resentment.  He was momentarily distracted by the fact that Waverly felt he needed the help and the thought rankled.  Normally he didn’t mind having the Russian’s help, but he was number one of Section Two and perfectly capable of finding a missing document…again.  When his attention returned Waverly was gone and the taciturn Russian was looking at him.


“So…what really happened?”


“Don’t you have an office of your own to work in?” Napoleon snapped. “I just reported what happened.”


Illya snorted his disbelief.  “Let me reword this...what actually happened”


Napoleon was a tad indignant that his partner could read him so well.  Wishing that Illya would drop it and knowing he wouldn’t, Napoleon tilted the chair back as far as it would go and closed his eyes as he reluctantly called up all the details that he’d omitted while Illya took notes.


Two-thirds the way through he opened one eye to find Illya leaning over the console.  “You want intimate details?” he asked his eyes alight with devilish delight, knowing full well that that was the last thing Illya wanted.


“I think I have enough information, thank you.  See you in Paris.”  Illya said testily, before flicking the switch with finality.


When the connection broke, Napoleon smiled, in a much better frame of mind then when this interview had started.




Napoleon had gathered a few of the Paris Office’s Section II agents in anticipation of Illya’s arrival.  Jacque Bouche, his partner Yvette Sonnier, a red-haired pixie, and Paul Garnier, the U.N.C.L.E.’s newest member.


“What is Messieurs Kuryakin like?”  The youngest member of the group asked.  “Iz he as difficult to work with as they say?”


Napoleon and Jacque exchanged glances.  The menacing reputation that his partner had managed to pick up over the years was a source of constant amusement to Napoleon. 


“It has been awhile since I’ve work with him…”  Jacque shrugged haphazardly.  “But I would suggest that you not make him angry.  It would be best to stay away from his bad side.”


Paul paled.


Jacque turned away to hide his smile.


Napoleon decided it was time to change the topic.  “Let’s get back to the subject at hand.”


Bien, Napoleon', where do you suggest we start?”  Jacque asked, not really paying attention to the door of the office as it swished opened.


“Finding out her name would be a nice,” Yvette threw out with a flirtatious glance Napoleon’s way.


“Tut tut, my friend, it is so unlike you to not, at the very least, have gotten her name?” Jacque Bouche teased.  His partner, Yvette, giggled.


The loudness of folder slapped down on the table in front of them caught everyone’s attention. 


“Her name is Nicole Jordance,” a softly spoken voice stated.


Heads turned.   Everyone’s reaction a tad different toward the slender, blond-haired man, attired in a dark turtleneck underneath a gray jacket, his blue eyes hidden behind tinted glasses.


Jacque jumped up, both hands outstretched in greeting.  Bonjour! Comment allez vous, mon ami?”


Je suis très bien, JacqueIt is good to see you again,” Illya responded, a broad grin spread across his face, as he took the hands extended and let the older man pull him into a hug along with the traditional greeting of a kiss on each cheek. 


Yvette looked on enviously.  She compared the two agents from the New York office; to her eyes, both men were handsome in completely different ways.  Napoleon, the darker of the two, had a devilish handsomeness about him that led you and everyone else to believe he could charm any woman he wanted.  Illya, the blond haired one appeared much younger, in spite of there being an age difference of only a year or two.  It might have been his boyish good looks, though from his reputation, he could stare at you with those incredible blue eyes that could scare the pants off you when he wanted.  Of the two, Illya Kuryakin was considered the more intimidating.  From what she had heard, they were the best the United Network had. The Dynamic Duo, deadly and dashing.


“While you are here we must go to the…”


“Is it still there?”  The two talked over each other in their enthusiasm leaving the others to wonder about what.


Napoleon curled his lip in annoyance.  It was bad enough that Illya was there to bail him out; he had to steal his thunder by knowing their target’s name. When they were alone he intended to find out how.  He cleared his throat in order to get his partner’s attention.  “Umm, Illya?  Can we get back to business?  You can do the mutual admiration thing later.”


Illya smiled sheepishly as he slid into an empty chair.


Pardon, Napoleon.  It has been much too long since we’ve seen each other.” Jacque bowed to Napoleon before turning back to Illya.  “May I introduce my associates?   Yvette Sonnier, my partner, and Paul Garnier, our bright new star and recent graduate from Survival School.”  


Paul looked on incredulously.  Was this the same Kuryakin that he’d been told so much about?  The fearsome Russian?  He looked about as intimidating as a teddy bear.


Illya nodded to each in turn.  “Okay, bring me up to…speed?  So what is it you have got so far?”


“Not much,” Napoleon admitted.


 “All we have so far is a description.  Blue, blue eyes, and blonde hair.”  Jacque contributed, having returned to his seat. 


All eyes, except for Napoleon’s, turned to his partner.  Illya Kuryakin calmly took off the dark glasses that covered his blue eyes and ran a hand through his thick blond mane.  Illya’s expression grew serious as he leaned forward.  “We have a name, now we need to find out more about her.  Jacque, you have connections.   See what you can find out.”


Jacque nodded his acceptance.  “Come along, mes enfants.  We have much work to do.”


A slight smile graced Illya’s face as the others left the room and he turned back to Napoleon.  “What?” he asked, not that he had to.  Reading Napoleon was much too easy.  Napoleon obviously wanted to know how he knew Jacque.  “We worked together under Harry Belden.”


“Ah.”  Napoleon nodded.  He tapped the folder that Illya had dropped on the table.  “How did you find out the girls name.”


“Simple.”  Illya shrugged.  “I went to the hotel and asked.” 


Shaking his head Napoleon rose from his chair, why was it he’d never thought of that.  “Look, it could be awhile before they come up with something.  Want to go get something to eat?”


Illya’s face lit up.  “I know just the place.” 




“Don’t sulk, Illya.”


“But, they used to make the best Coq au vin,” Illya complained.


“It wasn’t that bad.”


 The restaurant they had stopped at had been just where Illya remembered, but the food and service had not lived up to Illya’s expectation.  By the time they got back to the Paris Office Jacque along with Section IV had worked miracles.  They now knew a little more about Nicole Jordance, with more information coming in.  Nicole, it seemed, was a model and globe-trotter and along the way she somehow managed to meet a lot of interesting and important people.  Her picture and antics appeared in the news fairly regularly.  One would have thought that she would not be too difficult to locate.  Except that, now that they needed to talk with her, she seemed to have dropped out of sight.  Even Section IV’s valiant efforts were unsuccessful.


Napoleon shook his head.  The two agents were now ensconced in a quiet room with a very large table. There they sorted through a very large pile of photos. Photo’s of Nicole.  There were quite a lot of them and she never seemed to look the same in any of them.  Hair color ranged from blonde, brunet, auburn, even pink.  Likewise her eyes were different shades of blue, green, hazel, brown, and in one shot completely white.  How were they ever going to locate her? 


“You like puzzles, Illya,”


“True.  But there is a difference between a puzzle and an enigma.”


“We need something draw her out,” Napoleon Solo muttered to himself.  She was obviously drawn to celebrities judging by the ones with whom she managed to get herself photographed.


The two agents requested a list of events and resorted to sorting through the vast amount of information searching for the perfect venue that would tempt the aloof maiden out.  Illya Kuryakin drew a slip of paper from the pile that covered the desk.  Passing the article over to his partner, he suggested, “The Cannes’s Film Festival?”


“Maybe.  Maybe,” Napoleon murmured as he read over the fact sheet.  “There must be a couple of hundred parties being held.” 


Soon the rustle of paper was the only sound in the room while they sorted through the extensive lists provided. 


“There are several parties here that might catch her attention.  It’s going to take a lot of man power to cover them all,” Napoleon groaned.  “I think we need something more.”


“A party so spectacular that she will not be able to resist,” Illya responded enthusiastically.  He stood up and gathered a half-dozen of the sheets together.  “I have an idea.” 


Napoleon quirked a brow questioningly, but Illya just smiled as he headed to the door.  When he reached it, he turned back.  “There just might be one problem.”             


“Only one?”


Illya’s eyes brimmed with mischief. “Oui. Coming up with a good reason why they should invite you.” 


The door slid shut in front of him just seconds before a hurled binder slammed up against it. 


In a shorter time than Napoleon thought possible, everything was arranged.  How Illya, with the help of U.N.C.L.E.’s travel section, had managed to arrange it all Napoleon couldn’t even guess.  He and Illya were ensconced in one of the top hotels in Cannes.  In his hand was an invitation to what was reportedly the event of the season hosted by none other than Princess Grace of Monaco.  The invitation list had been finalized months ago with only the best people receiving invitations.


Setting aside his invitation, Napoleon turned to where his tuxedo was hanging.  Adjusting the fold of the lapel, brushing imaginary lint from the shoulders, Napoleon tensed up as he heard the door behind him open.  He relaxed when a quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that it was his partner entering.


Carefully shutting the door to their suite, Illya called out, “Section III has confirmed Miss Jordance’s presence in Cannes.”


Napoleon nodded, relieved to hear the news.  He frowned as he returned to examining his tux; there had always been the chance that Nicole would not respond to the invitation.  “I just hope she shows.”


With a careless shrug, Illya tossed the folder he carried on a nearby bed.  “How could she not.  Would you refuse an invitation from the crowned Princess of Monaco?”


Napoleon agreed.  “This assignment’s as good as in the bag.”


“What makes you think you are her type?” 


Napoleon ignored the jibe and jerked his head toward a garment bag that hung from the closet door.  “By the way, your outfit is over there.”


Biting back a smug smile, Napoleon pretended not to show interest as Illya unzipped the black bag, revealing the waiters’ outfit inside and waited. 


“Why must I always be the help?  I can charm the girl just as well as you can.”


It was then that Napoleon made his mistake.  He laughed. 


The zipper went back up with a loud jerk and Illya glared at his partner.   Before Napoleon could apologize, he moved across the room, slamming the door loudly behind him.


The ballroom glistened, the crystals from chandeliers shone brightly down on the well-dressed and bejeweled people that mingled in groups.  Waiters weaved their way through the crowds with trays of hors d’Oeuvres and Champagne.  Napoleon grabbed a glass as it was offered and stood in a corner where he could watch the door.  He glanced irritably down at his watch.  Illya was late


Something made him look toward the entrance and there she was.  The light caught her honey-color hair swept up off her elaborately made-up face.  Her green eyes, matching her low-cut cocktail dress, glistened as she handed over her invitation.  He watched as Nichole was quickly surrounded by a group of young men, most of whom she blew off within the first five minutes.   Straightening his tie, he put a smile on his face and headed confidently her way. 


“Hello there.”


Her eyes traveled up and down his tailor-made tuxedo and showed no sign of recognition.


“Do I know you?” was her bored response.


He faltered, his smile dimming.  This was not the reception he’d expected.


Then she brightened.  “Ah, yes.  Paris.  The man from the street.  Magnifico!”  she purred, surging closer.


Napoleon beamed.  Things were beginning to look up, when a sudden hush descended across the room.  Napoleon’s, as well as Miss Jordance’s, attention was caught by it and they automatically turned toward the entrance. 


The crowd parted revealing a gentleman; his perfectly styled blond hair brushed back off his forehead, shimmered under the multitude of lights that lit the room.  Even from across the room Napoleon couldn’t help but admire the faultless cut of his tuxedo which spoke of exquisite taste, and his shirt, not the usual white of everyone else, but a sophisticated tone-on-tone stripe in bold black.  His lack of a tie, showed a distinct disregard for men who wore them with their formal clothing. 


Familiar blue eyes caught his and Napoleon’s jaw almost dropped as he realized the man was none other than his partner.  A soft smile graced Illya’s face as he strode confidently through the opening made by the other guests and handed over an invitation to the royal announcer.   


 All was quiet as “Count Kuryakin” was announced loud enough for everyone to hear.


Napoleon was stunned when his partner reached their host and hostess, to be greeted warmly by both, kissing cheeks continental style.  Princess Grace looped her arm through Illya’s then led him around the room, introducing him to the major players. 


Nicole’s eye’s glittered cat-like as she watched, all the while pretending as if she wasn’t.  Napoleon frowned.  Finally, the pair stood before them.  Illya clicked his heels and bent from the waist; bowing over Nicole’s extended hand.  He turned slightly in Napoleon’s direction, acknowledging his presence, and nodded.


 “Napoleon,” he murmured politely before allowing the Princess to pull him along to introduce him to yet another group of guests.


“You know him?”  Nicole pulled close to Napoleon to ask.


“I thought I did,” he muttered, more to himself then in response to her question.  His eyes narrowed as he followed Illya’s progress around the room.  More unsettling was knowing that Nicole was also following his partner’s moves as well.


Illya looked perfectly at ease with all the glamorous people around him.  For some reason that annoyed him.  Mentally shaking himself, he set his mind once more on the mission all the while wondering what Illya was playing at.


Music had been playing softly in the background, when suddenly the tempo changed.  Prince Ranier was leading his Princess to the dance floor.  Illya was escorting a slender brunette.


“Shall we dance?” Nicole asked eagerly.  Much too eagerly for Napoleon’s frame of mind, but if there was one thing he was confident in was his dancing ability. 


His arm went around her and he pulled her close.  Getting back the information he’d lost was within his grasp.  He whispered sweet nothings into her ears, but she didn’t seem to be listening.

There was one other problem…Nicole seemed intent on leading. 


The music finally stopped and as they clapped their appreciation, Napoleon was surprised to find them standing next to Illya and his partner.  He was startled when Nicole suddenly pushed between them.


“Count?”  she purred, her arms raised expectantly as another song filled the air. 


Napoleon watched flabbergast as Illya willing drew Nicole to him and danced away.  Before he could respond there was a tap at his shoulder and he turned downward at a much bejeweled matronly lady.  She fluttered her eyelashes flirtatiously at him.   Napoleon glanced Illya’s way, wanting nothing more than to go after Nicole, but his ingrained courtesy got the best of him and he reluctantly took the lady in his arm.  No sooner had they finished dancing, when another well-dressed matron took her place. 


As the evening progressed, Napoleon grew more and more annoyed.  Elderly women of all shapes and sizes seemed to make it their mission in life to entertain him.  He tried to keep his eye on the couple but it didn’t work.  Sometime later, the two simply…vanished.


Frustrated he returned to the hotel where he tried to get in touch with Illya on his communicator and received no response.  Just as he gave up and was preparing for bed, he heard a key turning in the lock.  Napoleon scrambled to get his gun just as the door opened.


Illya yawned, ignoring the fact that a gun was pointed at him and tossed a manila envelope at Napoleon while slipping out of his tuxedo jacket, letting it fall carelessly to the floor.


“How did you manage it?”  Napoleon asked, having slipped the safety back on and tossed the gun down.  Rummaging through the envelope, he came across his missing tie, sock, and BVD’s, not to mention the important information. 


Illya sat wearily on the edge of his bed, slipping his shoes off.  “You know a gentleman never tells.”


Napoleon twitched his nose, too busy redressing to answer, since it was his first priority to complete his ill-fated mission and deliver the information.  He adjusted his jacket around his shoulders, patted his pocket one last time just to make sure he had everything.  There were a few questions he wanted answered before he left, like what exactly was Illya’s relationship with the Prince and Princess of Monaco and what was it with this ‘Count’ business.  Count Kuryakin indeed!   He also wanted to know exactly what lengths Illya had gone to in order to get the information back.


When Napoleon turned from the door intent on getting answers, it became obvious that he was not going to any.  Lying on his back, still clothed, Illya snored.  It appeared that ‘The Count’ was out for the count.







yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)
 The Better Lover


A Gentleman Never Tells

By YumYumPM

Written for Eyes Only 2009

Companion Piece to ‘Count Kuryakin’

(Who is the better lover?  Napoleon or Illya?  Exactly what did Illya have to do to get back lost information?  A gentleman never tells.)


The sun shone brightly through the window, blinding him, and he covered his face with his arm.  Noise, coming from the bathroom, let him know his partner was up and about his business.  Sometime during the early morning hours someone had divested him of his tuxedo and replaced it with his favorite flannel pajamas.  He laid his head back on his pillow and went back to sleep…or tried to.

The sound of rolling wheels and an overly cheery “It’s about time you got up” didn’t help.  He tried to ignore it until the whiff of fresh coffee filtered the air in front of him. Not just any coffee, but coffee fixed just the way he liked it. 

“What time is it?” he croaked as he took the cup offered.

Napoleon moved over to the cart and was rearranging the plates on a table near the French-doors that opened onto the balcony.  “Almost two… in the afternoon.”

Reluctantly Illya got up and sat down at the table, where a great many of his favorite dishes sat, knowing full well the questions that would soon be flying his way.

The day before, he had been seething with anger as he slammed the door of the hotel room in the heart of Cannes that he shared with his partner.  After all his hard work to bring this project about, to have his part end up posing as a waiter was intolerable.  Illya couldn’t decide if he was more irritated by Napoleon’s smug arrogance that he was incapable of romancing someone, or if he was just plain tired.   After all, he wouldn’t have had to come to France at all if Napoleon hadn’t managed to misplace a certain piece of information that had been his assignment.  When he’d reported in, only then had Waverly stressed the important need to get the information back.  From the look of things, Illya was certain that Napoleon had been unaware of just how important the information was.  How many times had Waverly sent them out on what supposedly were milk-runs only to find that he had misrepresented those assignments to his agents?

The flight to Paris had been long, and the stewardesses, for some unknown reason, kept stopping by to see if he needed anything, disrupting his sleep.  Illya had known from the beginning that Napoleon had purposely left out something during the video conference when he’d reported in from the Paris Office.  He was certain that Waverly knew it too, but had decided to overlook it at the time, ordering Illya to Paris to help find the missing information. 

Immediately upon his arrival, making use of additional information that Napoleon had provided, he not only found out the name of Napoleon’s mysterious woman, but met with the Paris team.

He had not been surprised to find an old friend, from the time he had been stationed in Europe, in charge of the Paris contingent.  Jacque Bouché was a top Section Two agent; he also a talent for ferreting out information.  Jacque had introduced him to his partner, Yvette Sonnier, a petite redhead.   Her short haircut gave her an elfin-like appearance, which in all probability worked in her favor on assignments.  The third member of the team was Michael Garnier, fresh out of Survival School, an unknown quantity; however, he must be fairly competent for Jacque to work with him.

Napoleon, in spite of appearing disgruntled, looked a lot better than the last time Illya had seen him.  As it was Illya had accomplished more than Napoleon had so far, and Napoleon did not like being upstaged.  In true Solo fashion, Napoleon had graciously offered to buy him lunch.  While it was true he’d gotten a meal out of it, Illya had ended up paying for it in more ways then one. 

The rest of the day had been occupied with the two of them going over information that Jacque’s team had accumulated and coming up with a way to get back what Napoleon had lost.  By the time he’d left the room and entered the elevator the beginnings of a plan had already coalesced in his brain.  There was an evil grin on his face as he pushed the down button.

In the meantime, while he had been busy setting up this little escapade, Napoleon had time to take out Jacque’s lovely partner Yvette and manage to get a little sleep too.

After their relocation to Cannes, setting the stage to bring Napoleon’s tryst out into the open, and finding himself relegated to the part of a waiter, Illya’s next stop was at a bank of phones where he made a long overdue phone call, then he stopped in the suite of rooms that had been set aside for Jacque’s team and commandeered the services of Jacque’s partner.  Once he explained what he needed, the gleam in her green eyes let him know she was more than willing to assist.   Hours later he had found himself attired in, considering the short amount of time, a tuxedo that would put Napoleon’s to shame.  His hair, styled off the face rather than hanging over his forehead, changed his look.  Last, but not least, in his pocket was a special invitation for the event of the season.


Illya pulled up in his borrowed Morgan Roadster and handed the keys over to the young French agent, Paul. 


“Do try not to strip the gears,” he murmured. 


Jacque, acting the part of doorman, held the hotel door open for him, muttered underneath his breath.  “Our target arrived ten minutes ago.”


Nodding acknowledgement, Illya stepped through the door and heading toward the Grande Ballroom.  Steps led down to the dance floor and Illya paused at the top, his eyes scanning and locating his partner without seeming to, before making his entrance.  The room quieted as he started downward, his presence caused the crowd on the stairway to part in his wake.  Handing over his invitation, he was aware of all eyes turned his way as he stopped at attention, bowed deeply to His Royal Highness, Prince Rainier, and his bride.


“Count Kuryakin.”


The announcement was heard clearly around the room.  Managing to hide his smug smile, Illya let himself be engulfed in an embrace by the beautiful Princess.  Before U.N.C.L.E. and Napoleon he had managed to become involved as an unwilling go-between with the Prince and the young film starlet, Grace Kelly.  It was she who had dubbed him Count Kuryakin, in jest.  It was a title he had not used again until years later, during The Alexander the Greater Affair, when he and Napoleon had crashed Alexander’s party and Tracey Alexander had asked him if he was not by chance Count Kuryakin.  Without thinking he’d responded, “Yes.”


Princess Grace smiled and led him from one group to another.  Illya kept an eye on Napoleon, while seeming not to.   It appeared that he had already made the acquaintance of their target, Nicole Jordan.  Napoleon arrogantly thought he could do a better job of charming the information back…well it was time that Illya showed just what he was capable of accomplishing.


Upon their arrival to where Napoleon and Nicole stood, Illya had the impression that Napoleon was surprised to see him not wearing the waiter’s uniform.   He clicked his heels, politely bowed over Miss Jordan’s outstretched hand, then nodded to Napoleon before he turned away and proceeded to ignore them.


Just as he expected, Nicole’s interest was piqued.  Napoleon may have had the first dance with her, but Illya soon found her in his arms.  As he danced with her he endeavored to maintain the fine line between indifference and snobbery.  A quick glance showed that Napoleon had found himself preoccupied, little knowing that Illya had enlisted her Royal Highness in providing him with dance partners that were sure to irk him.


They danced well together and she seemed to love hearing his accent, which he purposely thickened.  His suggestion that they go somewhere more…private made slipping away almost too easy.  Once inside the Morgan Roadster, she leaned close to him, not an easy thing to do with a stick shift between them.  As they drove alongside the waterfront, she ran her hand up and down the inside of his thigh and whispered in his ear.  “Pull over.”


Illya kept his composure, but he couldn’t help but wonder what her angle was.  His plan called for escorting her home, searching for the lost information, and making a quick exit.   Oh, well, plans often changed in mid-play and he was nothing if not innovative.  He pulled over to a secluded stretch of beach, perhaps he could start by searching her.  He reached for her, only to have her pull away.  The next thing he knew she was out the door.


Moonlight filtered on the deserted beach.  Nicole stepped in front of the car headlights and twirled, letting the wind catch her skirt.  He watched through the windshield as she reached behind and unzipped her dress letting it slip down her slender body before dropping to the sandy beach.


“Let’s go skinny dipping.”  Standing there wearing nothing but her shoes, she beckoned, kicking off her heels and running toward the water, splashing through it until she got deep enough to dive.


He sat behind the wheel, his mind spinning.  Could he have underestimated her innocence, could she be aware of his intent?  Impossible, still he hadn’t gotten where he was in this business by dismissing the possibility.  He’d bet on the fact that his use of a title would catch her attention.  He assumed she was used to men with titles courting her, that taking no notice of her would intrigue her.  He was fairly certain of what his partner would do if he were in this position.  


He glanced up.  The moonlight cast a glow on the water and she was doing her best to entice him into joining her.  Her beautifully coiffure hair hung down wet, framing her heart-shaped face and strikingly alluring eyes. Already his perfectly fit trousers were proving too tight. 


Her purse lay where she’d left it and a quick search proved the item he wanted wasn’t there.  He already knew she wasn’t carrying it on her body and it wasn’t in her apartment in Paris.  Opening the door on his side of the car, he stepped out and slipped off his tuxedo jacket.  Keeping his eyes on her, he began a slow and subtle strip tease.


Hidden as he was behind the reflection of the headlights and the low door, Illya wasn’t sure just how much she could see.  When he lowered his trousers and boxers, her look changed to that of lust, leaving the distinct impression that her eye-sight was quite good even in the dark.  She turned, looking wickedly over her shoulder and dove back underneath the waves.


Illya shut the car door and started after her.  His first plunge into the cold water shocked his lower extremity into shrinking.   Ignoring the temperature, it took only a few powerful strokes to bring him to her location.  She rose up from the depth of the water and wrapped her arms around him, her mouth claiming his instantly.  His cock filled again.  He planted his feet firmly on the sandy bottom, letting the water rise to his chest area; he was certain that hanging onto his neck as she was her feet didn’t touch the sandy bottom.    She leaned back, pulling him down with her and they continued their kiss under the water.  Lack of breath finally forced them to come up for fresh air. 


“I love your hair better this way,” she cooed, running her fingers through his wet hair, pushing his bangs out of his eyes.  “You remind me of the singing group…the Beatles.”


The salt water had washed most of the greasepaint off her face, making her features appear younger.  Her figure was stunning and he was, after all, a red-blooded male and no more immune to the charms of a lovely woman than his partner.  He just managed his response better – usually.


Nicole’s long legs wrapped around his hips, and she settled her body, her core coming perilously close to being pierced. Almost.  His hands gripped her butt, lifting her. 


“No.  Not here.  We need…protection,” he whispered in her ear.


A mew of disappointment sounded; slowly her head nodded her agreement.  Her legs loosened their grip on him and she began the swim back to shore.  Once they were close enough to stand, he took her hand and they waded toward the sandy beach, letting the cool breeze wash over their nude bodies.


Reaching the waters’ edge they came together, their mouths devouring each other. 


“I know where we can go to be more comfortable,” she whispered, as his lips moved down her neck to suckle a pert nipple.


Smiling inwardly, Illya moved away and opened the boot of the car, withdrawing a soft blanket to wipe them down.  They dressed quickly and she gave him directions sending them on their way.  Nicole turned toward him and pulled back a string of hair that was blowing in the wind; she tilted her head, resting it on his shoulder. 


During the half hour drive, they talked of inconsequential things.  Illya made up a past to match his friendship with their Royal Highnesses, making promises he knew he wouldn’t keep, while letting her think that he was under her spell.


Hand in hand, Nicole giggled as they ran up the terracotta-colored staircase that curved up the outside of the Villa to the second floor.  They paused on the outside patio long enough for her to retrieve her key, and then Illya, being the gentleman that he was, opened the French doors and stepped aside, letting Nicole enter first.  The room was beautifully appointed.  In fact it had a masculine feel to it that made Illya leery.  He’d felt that way from the moment she’d slid into his arms on the dance floor.  Nicole went to the far side of the room where the bar was situated and prepared drinks. 


“Do you like?” she walked back to him holding out one of the glasses. 


“It’s not exactly what I expected,” he said as he reached past her taking the other glass.  She laughed as she took a sip, and then caught sight of herself in one of the many mirrors that decorated the room. 


Mon dieux, I look a mess,” she shrieked as she finished off her drink in one gulp and started toward one of the closed doors, shedding clothing along the way.   She looked impishly over her shoulder and pointed to another closed door.  “Let me clean up a bit.  The bedroom is there.”


He debated joining her, but decided against it.  Illya waited until the shower started before he even tried the door to the other room.  Carefully he pushed it open and stopped short.  He paused a moment and studied the room. The room, like the living area, had a masculine feel to the furnishings, except for the lumpy flowered bedspread, in shades of red, pink, and orange.  A bit garish he thought.


With a shrug, he slipped off his jacket, setting it on the chair by the bed.  There were a few pieces of clothing scattered about, not all of them feminine.  His attention was drawn to several large manila envelopes lying on top of the dresser.  Unable to resist, he started to open one of them and froze as the lump under the bedspread moved.


Illya cursed under his breath. 


“Roger!  You know you’re not supposed to be up here.”  Nicole stood in the doorway, wrapped in nothing but a towel.  “Get out!  Now!”


The lump stretched, and uncovered its head to yawn. 


Illya raised an eyebrow as six feet of strapping man slipped from beneath the sheets.  “Sorry, luv.  I didn’t think you’d mind.  It’s not my fault you wore me out.” He grinned broadly, and then cast a wink toward Illya as he began dressing.


“Oh, no you don’t,” Nicole said as she snatched his BVD’s out of his hands.  “These are mine now.”


Roger just shrugged and pulled a pair of jeans over his naked body, grabbed a shirt and was out the door before Illya could react.


“I see you’ve found my little collection,” she said slyly as she found another envelope, stuffed the briefs in them and tossed it down with the others. 


Illya felt like a thief with his hand in a cookie jar.  It occurred to him that Napoleon’s latest playmate was something of a nymphomaniac.  The envelope in his hand held another pair of briefs, a sock, and a tie that he thought he recognized.  But not the one item he was here to retrieve.  He cocked an eyebrow as he pulled out the tie and draped it around her neck, catching hold of both ends with one hand.


She surged closer, her hands going for his trousers, slowly undoing the button and lowering the zipper.  Pushing the trousers down, she ran a hand over the front of Illya’s boxers, looked him straight in the eye and purred, “Souvenirs, if you please.”


A chuckle escaped him, and, without using his hands he managed to divest himself of his pants, leaving his shoes behind with them.  He dipped his head, capturing her mouth with his as her hands worked to relieve him of his shirt.  Slowly he worked her backwards until the bed caught her behind the knees and she fell.  She scooted to the middle of the bed and he moved to straddle her.


Illya slipped the tie from around her neck and used it to tie one hand to the bedpost.  Spying another tie nearby, he repeated the process to the other hand.  That seemed to excite her.  He loosened the towel, feasting his eyes on her exposed body.  Her hair spread artistically over the pillow, a pleased smile graced her lips, her body posed sexily beneath him.


Teasingly he kissed her softly, eventually using his tongue to part her lips.  Lying to the side of her, his hands brushed over her soft skin.  When he abandoned her lips, she let out a moan of disappointment that soon changed as he kissed his way down her neck, stopping to suckle a pert tit. 


Her body twisted under his, her moans growing turning into growls.  Her thighs spread apart, invitingly.  He shifted his hand to stroke her inner thigh, feeling her wetness. 


“Do it, do it, do it,” she chanted over and over.


“Careful, my sweet, after all we don’t want any accidents now do we?” He moved off the bed to snag his trousers.  He may not have had his gun, but he still had protection.


“That’s not necessary,” she purred.  Her eyes darted to a large black bowl setting on the bedside table.  Illya dropped his pants and reached over her, his body touching hers in all the right places as he gripped the bowl and pulled it onto the bed with them.  Tipping it for a better view, he was a bit surprised to find that the inside was filled with condoms of every size, texture, and color, designed for maximum pleasure according to the labels.  He shifted his fingers through the multitude of wrapped packages and came across one that was a little less flexible then the rest.   It only took one glance for him to realize he’d struck paydirt. 


Having accomplished his mission he knew that he should leave, there was nothing stopping him.  He looked down at the woman spread out wantonly on the bed and reconsidered. 


Discretely tossing the disk down near his trousers, he reached for one of the condoms.  Then giving it a bit more thought he reached for a couple more.


An hour, or was it two, later found a very tired Illya back at the hotel room he and Napoleon shared.   He’d managed to leave a very satisfied and sleepy Nicole without leaving the prerequisite souvenir behind and to recover Napoleon’s missing items as well.  He shrugged off his tuxedo jacket, leaving it where it landed on the floor, after tossing the manila envelope to his partner and flopped down on his bed.  His eyes closed, he had no intention of going with Napoleon to deliver the disk. 


           The door closed as he drifted off to dreamland; he knew that tomorrow Napoleon would undoubtedly pester him with questions, but as the old saying goes ‘a gentleman never tells’. 


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