A Gentleman Never Tells
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.
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’.