free hosting   image hosting   hosting reseller   online album   e-shop   famous people

DISCLAIMERS: The characters Xena and Gabrielle belong to MCA/Universal. No copyright infringement is intended. However, Xena and Gabrielle will not be gracing us with their presence tonight - yes, this is an Über piece. The characters that appear here are mine, devil-spawn of my own imagination. Please let me know if you decide to borrow them for any purpose. This story as it stands is also mine, so please don't reproduce on any site without my permission, or in the absence of these disclaimers. Thank you.

VIOLENCE: Aplenty, bordering on gratuitous. This story is NC-17 rated, and is suitable for mature audiences only. Please do not proceed with the story if this is offensive to you.

SEXUAL CONTENT: Yes please. In fact, the disclaimer for 'VIOLENCE' applies very well here to anything on two legs that moves. I'll try and make it tasteful, but may not always succeed. If you find this material offensive please do not proceed with the story. Consider yourself warned.

ACHTUNG! This story is a swarthy cocktail of intrigue, melodrama, satirical comedy and angst-ridden action that can't make up its mind whether or not it is meant to be funny, sarcastic or serious. It is advised to take this with a grain of salt. A tall vodka martini would be preferable. And if you had the Miles Davis soundtrack to the 1957 Louis Malle film "Ascenseur pour l'echafaud" (after which this story is named), you'd have the atmosphere down pat.

DEDICATION: This is deeply inspired by every stereotype from James Bond, Emma Peel, Lara Croft, the Mission Impossible series and Alfred Hitchcock's 'To Catch a Thief' to countless other films, good and bad, that I have ever seen in my life. It is a satire, parody, tribute - and is humbly dedicated to those who have created such unapologetically fun and fantastically unbelievable pieces of art.

There will be parts in this story where you will no doubt think "Boy, this sounds familiar...", and I would wholeheartedly agree. Moments of shameless corniness and unapologetically-written groan-inducing one-liners will feature hard and fast in this story. Being a tribute of sorts, much of what I write will be very much in keeping with the style of the original writers. There is, however, a fine line between homage and plagiarism, so if I have unknowingly failed to give due credit for something you really feel is leafed straight from someone elses' work, please send me a note and I will try and rectify the situation right away. There is no profit to be made from this, only bucketloads of fun. Well, at least for me.

Many, many thanks go to Dancer; it would only have been half a story without you. Your ideas have been mindblowing, witty, and at times downright disturbing. But all were much appreciated *VBEG*. Thanks, mate. Acknowledgements also go to my dear OGF, who was so lovely in indulging me this digression, and is (I swear) the greatest beta reader one could ever hope for.

Final word - this is a fictional story, not a discourse on whether or not I condone the actions or thoughts of some of my characters. Just in case anyone thought otherwise.

Without further ado; suspend your disbelief, set your cliches to 'stun', and let's get ready to rumble...

Prologue - Monte Carlo, Monaco.

Local Time 0037 hours, 2337 GMT.

The room was dark save for the moonlight filtering in through an open window, weakly illuminating patches of gold inlay and lushly opulent Louis XIV decor along the walls. There was no sound, no breeze from the warm Mediterranean air. Only absolute stillness.

Beep.

A tiny, red light awoke from a corner previously cast in darkness, and a shadow rose from its invisible depths. It took a quick glance at its wristwatch then glided across the room, moving in and out of view until all that could be detected was a soft click as a door opened, then closed.

The broad hallway lead off into an indeterminable distance, flanked by a succession of identical, ornately painted doors. The figure in black prowled silently, skirting close to the darkened walls before slipping around a corner. It melted easily from shadow to shadow, flickering along the corridor until it reached the service elevator. With gloved hands, the dark form forced the metal doors apart just enough to slip through.

Easy as pie. Straightening, the dark shade hefted its shoulders and stepped confidently into the elevator.

Only there was no elevator.

The unrelenting silence of the hallway was nudged by a whispered rush of breath, the figure disappearing abruptly into the yawning pitch-blackness of the lift shaft. The corridor was now deathly empty, and there was no discernible sign of life or movement.

Save the heavy metal doors being slowly, soundlessly pushed closed.

The casino was a riot of precious metals and stones clamouring for attention with the heavy haze of conversation and the skip of metal balls against roulette wheels. The enormous room burgeoned with currency exchange the cumulative value of which equalled the GDP of small countries, and it was for a piece of this holy grail that people gathered in droves, decked out in such finery as to confer to this single space the largest population of mink and sable outside of Siberia.

So it was that a remarkably beautiful woman entered the room without inciting much attention, or even remote curiosity. Her confidently casual steps led her weaving through the crowds, the elegantly simple black dress clinging hypnotically to her curves. Her blonde hair fell in a luxuriant cascade down her back, framing tanned shoulders that bore sharply defined muscles. It was a body that was not easily ignored, but in this time and place the woman was particularly grateful for the competing distractions.

Continuing her slow journey, she leisurely meandered amongst the gamblers with a faint smile touching her lips, even though her starkly-pale eyes were focused on the magnificent entry-way that was inching ever closer. Her imposing height allowed her to look past the sea of humanity that was pressing into the slithering material of her dress and her skin, an unpleasant sensation that she tried to ignore, along with her pulse which was beating a little too fast for her own liking.

Stepping through the double doors, she handed a slip of paper to an attendant, and began waiting patiently in the Rococo-style foyer. She idly admired the cherubic fancies spun from the brush of a long-dead artist, whose style seemed intent on painstakingly emulating the frivolous tastes of eighteenth century Parisian gentry. Not quite on par with her more stoic tendencies, the woman suppressed a pained sigh even as she saw the man return with her stole, smiling graciously as he helped it around her shoulders, then allowed herself to be ushered outside into the balmy, Monte Carlo night.

The woman found her car already hailed for her; the silver Jaguar XK120 convertible waiting with its door open and engine purring. Handing the valet a crisply folded bill, she slid into the smooth leather seats and eased the car out of the driveway, ignoring the pain that shot from the rope burns in her palms when she deftly maneouvred the steering wheel.

Up close and personal with elevator cables. We won't be trying that trick again.

Monte Carlo was jumping with nightlife as the car sped along the streets, the woman smiling with a touch of indulgence as whistles and cheers came and fluttered by from the party-goers littering the footpath. This was a tiny city, an alcove in tax-free paradise for those with untold expendible wealth, so it came with little surprise that drunken party-goers were the norm at this time of night, pleasantly stoned from their designer beers and other gourmet consumables.

The woman maintained her calm, vague smile until she reached the quiet sobriety of Residentia, when it disappeared quickly to be replaced by a steely, determined expression, her blue eyes paled to a cold hardness. Glancing quickly in the mirror, she made certain of her solitude before she took in a deep breath.

And ripped the glorious blonde hair from her scalp, freeing her midnight tresses from its confines and allowing it to whip behind her in the rush of air. Revelling in the sensation, she eased the engine up another gear, knowing that there was only one thing missing that would make this a perfect, Monegasque night. The thing that should happen any time now.

Off in the distance, the muted roar of an explosion was heard, followed by the glittering overtones of shattering glass and twisting steel.

The woman smiled, her arctic eyes gleaming as they reflected in the rear-view mirror, watching the flickering orange fire play just below the dark horizon.

Another day, another dollar.

She drove her foot into the accelerator and threw the engine into overdrive, revelling in its delicious responsiveness as the Jaguar hurtled beyond the city limits, tail lights streaking off into the darkness.

Two days later.

International Business Publications Ltd., Fleet Street, London W1.

1315 GMT.

A newspaper slapped angrily onto the table.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Elegant fingers picked up the paper, and blue eyes calmly perused the headlines. Bomb devastates Palace on Casino gala charity night.

Her voice was dry, with a twist of vermouth. "Certainly a bonus at least."

"I'm considering giving you a frontal lobotomy! I didn't send you over there to tear a crater in a seventeenth century palace, Lane!" The neat, compactly furious man paced about his large, bunker-like office with his moustache bristling, the cigar in his fingers trailing smoky tendrils behind his tight, explosive gesticulations.

Mildly impatient, the woman nonetheless drawled easily in her clipped London accent. "Oh come on, Harold - surely you didn't expect me to call for a removalist?"

"There could have been anything in there! Mortar shells, grenades, a nuclear warhead - "

"There were 7 boxes of 10 AK-47s, 12 with 20 M16-A2s each and no nuclear warheads." She smiled pointedly at the man across the table with the last item, and began ticking the items off on her long-fingered hands. "The explosion was directed out towards the garden, not the casino. I picked a wall that wasn't plastered with artwork of incalculable value, no one was hurt, the weapons crates were neutralised, and I got the information you wanted." She reached into her gunmetal-grey tailored jacket and produced a roll of microfilm, throwing it carelessly on the table before continuing on with the same casual air.

"Besides, the palace was scheduled for a major refurbishment within the month. If you ask me, the timing couldn't be better." The dark woman concluded neatly with a brisk sip from her scotch.

"No one asked you anything." The wiry, soot-grey haired man snapped ungraciously, reaching for the tiny cylinder and tipping out its contents, examining it with well-disguised interest. "What you have done was highly uncalled for, and probably gave Schiffer a rather convenient wake-up call. There is no doubt that he knows people are on to him now."

"People have been on to him for years, Harold. It wouldn't exactly be a revelation."

A thin stream of pungent smoke blew from his nostrils, and, leaning foward, Harold stubbed out the remains of his cigar. "You may be right - but in any event, this cannot go unpunished. Regardless of your success now, or those in the past, I simply cannot ignore the enormity of incursions you have heaped up on your record. You have taken too many liberties with my orders, Lane, and this was your last chance."

He straightened, trying to inject some authority into his bearing. "You leave me no choice but to suspend you from your duties for a month. Effective today."

Pause. The sleek woman seemed unaffected, re-crossing her legs with business-like confidence. "What's Jim been up to lately?"

A pause, tight with the restraint borne by those long-suffering. Name-dropping won't get you anywhere, Carter Lane. "I wouldn't tell you what the Prime Minister has 'been up to lately', even if it were any of your business. Now - if I could have your equipment, please."

Carter challenged her superior with a steady, unwavering glance before acquiescing, looking away. Sighing with genuine disappointment, the dark-haired woman reached inside her jacket again, pulling out an innocuous-looking collection of identity cards, pens, a cigarette case and a polished silver lighter.

And a needle-sharp contraption from one sleeve, a slim, tubular dart gun from the other, three knives from above her hemline and one from her back, and her customised stainless steel finish Walther PPK. The final item was placed on the desk with lingering reluctance.

"And the holster."

A perfect eyebrow rose in a sinuous question mark. "Would you care to reconsider that?"

"Now, Carter."

There was a tiny, tiny smile on the agent's lips. "Very well." She stood up and began to unbutton her jacket, watching as the chief of operations' eyes began to bug out when he realised that there was very little else under that item of clothing.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

Haven't I always delivered, Harold? "You wanted. I'm fetching."

Harold forced a derisive snort through his nose, quickly recovering some composure about him. As bloody impudent as ever, I see. That never changes. One of these days, Lane - not even your precious Jim can save you. He shook his head and looked away with frustrated disgust. "Keep it. You can drop it in tomorrow."

"Good." The agent's voice was laden with amusement as she re-buttoned her suit. Crouching lightly, she picked up her briefcase and made for the door, good-naturedly calling over her shoulder as she stood poised in the doorway. "Keep in touch, Harold."

The slight man's moustache twitched with annoyance. "Don't call us. We'll call you."

"Oh, I know you will." Her lips curved into a mysterious smile, and the tall, raven-haired agent left the room.

Hotel de Paris, Monte Carlo, Monaco.

Local Time 1500 hours, 1400 GMT.

"Status report?"

An ascetic, studious-looking falstaff sat behind a massive desk of polished teak, his ice-blue eyes demanding his question sharply from behind fine, brass-wire glasses.

"All the debris has been accounted for, Mr Schiffer. The entire stock is irreparably damaged."

"Verdammt." The ugly word fell with easy familiarity from his lips. Gnawing on a knuckle, the white-blond man frowned lightly. "Any traces of him?"

"None. Whoever did this is more experienced than anyone we have dealt with before. We can't determine his mode of entry, type of explosives used... nothing. The heat-sensitive cameras didn't pick up anything before the explosion, and the guards posted around the grounds claimed that there was nothing unusual at all that night."

Jens Schiffer drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, the prolonged expression of frustration magnified in the quiet of his ornate study. He's either very good, or has very good equipment... either way, there is a lot of money behind this. Which means... He looked up, his eyes still glittering with the remnants of a cold anger. "Run a search on the database. Get me the personnel lists of the top twenty corporations that hire out for this type of job, and mobilse Sector Three - have them dispose of anyone deemed suspicous."

A brief nod. "And the exchange?"

"Still goes as planned. Transfer the stock from Palermo and have it delivered here by 6pm tonight."

"On my way." The man standing before the desk straightened and left the room, leaving his employer to dwell in his own brooding silence.

Three days pass.

Somewhere off the Sporades Islands, Greece.

Local Time 1345 hours, 1145 GMT

A solitary yacht was anchored in the unending blueness of the Aegean, a tiny white speck lost in the blinding glare of the crystal waters. The mistral breeze tickled the waves as they lapped against the hull, as lazily as the barely-covered woman lying prone in the bleach-brilliant sunlight, who was now groaning with some evident satisfaction.

"Mmm. Screw it in just a little harder, please."

There was the sound of shifting, then the hiss of a long, drawn out breath.

"Ooh, very good. Harder now - oh yes..."

Pop!

There was no hiding the dark-haired woman's pleasure as she wholeheartedly praised the elderly gentleman sprawled prostrate beside her. "Oh well done, Neville. You see? All it takes is a little effort."

"Good to know I've still got the touch, Carter dear." The man smiled slightly as he re-settled himself beside her, and poured out two glasses from the recalcitrant bottle of champagne. "I suppose, being of this excellent vintage, it would be expected to be a bit Prima Donna before the opening."

"What's the occasion?" She grinned, reclining her somewhat scantily-clad body bonelessly on the deckchair as she took a tentative sip from her glass, which was interrupted by yet another low, tonsil-tickling rumble of pure pleasure. "Oohh. This is truly divine."

"I'm glad you like it. It's not every day you come to visit, you know." He smiled gingerly, seating himself somewhat more gallantly beside her. "It's about time they gave you a holiday."

"Well, it's not exactly a holiday. More of an - " The leanly tanned woman half-smiled in thought. "Enforced extended leave."

"Oh dear." The older man's voice held more amusement than commiseration. "What have you done now?"

"Heard about the casino in Monaco?"

There was a pause as the information sunk in, then a brief, indulgent chuckle. "I should have thought as much. Although it's not like you to be quite so - unsubtle, Carter."

"Yes, but sometimes it's so much more fun to make an impression."

"My dear, surely you can do that quite easily without having to blow up a building."

The woman gave him a dazzlingly white smile, her face almost glowing with genuine pleasure.  "Neville, you are the perfect English gentleman - all words and no substance."

"Yes - I remember your last tirade on the shortcomings of the English male. Something about having pond water for blood?"

"Exactly." She shifted, sighing with contentment as she lifted the glass to her lips. "There are perks to working in international relations."

He laughed at the euphemism. "Carter, even an old recluse like me knows about your version of diplomacy."

"If it gets the job done, why not make the most of it?" She shrugged with a non-committal air, balancing the champagne class on her knee as she straightened the fine straps of her slate-grey bikini top.

Neville looked at her quietly, marvelling at how young his normally poised and sophisticated friend looked in that moment. It was a glimpse into a past that had been left behind too long ago; the sullen delinquent with the perpetual devil-may-care attitude in her slouch, the darkness that followed her like the hair that fell into her pale eyes.

He shook his head, knowing what lay beyond the bravado, but deciding not to pursue it. "Sometimes I really feel the generation gap with you."

"It's got nothing to do with that, Neville. It's about grasping every opportunity: taking life by the horns and riding it hard until you either get thrown off or it drops from exhaustion."

"Or you."

"Oh no, my friend - They do the exhausting." Blue eyes looked at him with teasing amusement. "I simply find another bull to ride."

Neville grimaced at the imagery. "Something like 'Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die'?"

The agent nodded, speaking with an uncharacteristic softness in her voice. "Close enough."

An uncomfortable pause came - the sounds of the lapping waves growing insistent as the silence held, then suddenly passed. Carter took a quick sip from her flute, straightening as she grinned wryly at her friend. "If I knew that that was going to be the tone of our afternoon conversation, Neville, I would have picked Majorca for my holiday destination."

"May I point out, my dear, that you were the one that started it."

"I know. Shame on you for taking advantage of my lapse." She drawled, glaring at him with a pointed smile. "God knows I'd never willingly make a habit of being sombre."

Neville looked at her once-again nonchalant expression, smiling a smile he did not really feel. Oh, Carter... always running away from affairs of the heart. It was times like these - times when he had rare glimpses past the woman's debonair facade - that he feared he had trained her too thoroughly, too well.

Much too well. He sighed. "It's only because you're idling. I think you're bored."

"Bored? I'm in the middle of the Greek Islands on my first holiday in three years. Why should I be bored?"

Neville was about to retort when a slight cough to the side interrupted them.

"Telephone for you, ma'am." The butler waited politely with a handset, immaculate in his formal attire despite the heat. The mistress of the yacht sat up, thanking him as she received the phone.

"Yes?"

"Lane. Something's come up."

Harold... Her aegean eyes rolled for her companion's benefit, who nodded knowingly. Her voice had an edge to it. "Oh, really? And what exactly do you plan to do about it?"

"This isn't the time for games. The Prime Minister has ordered that you to report Home right away."

"Why, you mean Jim asked me to come back to London after all?" She smirked, knowing full well the expression translated clearly over the phone.

Harold appeared to ignore her comment. "I expect you back within 48 hours for the full briefing - there's an embassy plane waiting for you at the airport in Athens. Winchester out." The line went dead.

Carter allowed her attentions to linger on the handset for a moment longer then sighed, her tanned chest rising and falling with some dramatic flair.

Neville provided his sentiments quietly. "Just when we were having so much fun..."

"I know. Damn these satellite phones." She gave the handset a look of disgust, though there was no hiding the new-found anticipation that tickled at the edges of her cool composure. She looked over at her friend with an inviting curve of her lips. "Fancy coming along for the ride?"

"As much as the offer is attractive, I have no plans to come out of retirement any time before death, Carter." He smiled gently. "I can't even open a champagne bottle without help from a corkscrew."

"Sacreligious." She gasped wryly. "It was so much more fun with you around, you know. Harold has a very poor sense of humour."

"He simply prefers to abide by the rules. If I may remind you, I was never that gracious with you whenever you came blundering through my laboratory."

Carter grinned broadly, her eyes gleaming with wicked intent. "But I know those fingers can still work their magic..."

Neville couldn't help but laugh at the somewhat dangerous leer, though with a hint of nervousness. It was times like these that he was grateful for the friendship that shielded the full brunt of his ex-protegee's charms. "And here I thought you enjoyed my company for my witty mind and sparkling repartee..." He got to his feet, offering his hand to the reclining woman. "Yes, I have a box of toys waiting for you back at the house. I'll have it on your boat when you drop me off."

"Now, now. Not so quick." She grabbed his arm and pulled him back down to the deck. "Harold said 48 hours. It only takes a day to sail back to Athens, six hours to fly to London, and 45 minutes by car from the airport to Home. Which leaves plenty of time for you, my dear Neville, to stay for dinner."

"Well, with an invitation like that, how can anyone refuse?" He grinned, and poured out another glass of champagne for the both of them.

Skopelos Island, The Sporades, Greece.

Local Time 1900 hours, 1700 GMT.

Neville Ward's retirement home was a white-washed mud-and-concrete monolith that was perched high in the wooded Wagnerian mountains of Skopelos, the island of 300 monasteries in western Sporades. The hills plunged into secluded golden-sanded bays and eased into undulating valleys strewn with olive groves, hugging the clustered villages and sleepy settlements dotted the dramatic landscape.

The basement of Neville's home was perhaps just as dramatic, if less picturesque; the final, lingering reminder of his past life with the British Secret Service. Vaulted and starkly illuminated by rows of fluorescent lamps, the room bore the oppressive presence of near-overwhelming clutter. Long wooden workbenches sat in a neat parade, laden with assortments of junk and gadgets in various stages of recognisability and completion. Extension cords ran across the concrete floor in a half-drunken spider's web, providing treacherous ground for the two pairs of feet that roamed amongst the technological carnage.

"I ask again - you gave up field work for this?" Carter neatly sidestepped a half-stripped M-16, its bowels exposed to reveal a complex system of wires and electronic enhancements.

"You may laugh now, my dear, but I enjoyed crawling through mud and dodging gunfire in my youth. I simply prefer to keep my hide in the sunset years."

"Keeping your hide?" The statuesque spy glanced at a rather well-used chainsaw propped up in dangerous slumber against a battered, but intact bullet vest. "This place can do more damage than a Cambodian mine field."

Neville glanced at her object of interest. "Oh - that. I'd been working on a polymer that goes one-up on kevlar. I intend on marketing it as 'Nevlar - the new generation in protection.'"

Carter stifled a chortle, and rolled her eyes. "You need to work on your jingle. That kind of protection sounds like it would be available over-the-counter at the local pharmacy."

"Well, it is a very versatile polymer, after all. Should I manage to extend its uses, I'll be sure to send you a box."

"Ouch." The dark woman winced, then laughed. "Score one for you."

"Thank you. Really though - I think I've got the composition of the polymer right, except it's bloody-tough trying to sew through that stuff." He smiled deprecatingly, then led the tall woman to the head of a bench.

"Sewing? Why, Neville - I had no idea you were into pret a porter." Long fingers smoothed along a table-edge to caress neat stack of cleanly-ironed fabric lying on the bench.

"Be careful with those - " He reached out and pushed her hands away from the shirt. "The point of interest is in the buttons, not the shirt." He grabbed a slab of metal and laid it on the table. "These little dames on the shirtsleeves are my pride and joy. Each one works as a laser cutter, capable of intensely concentrating an emitted laser beam to the power of 1000 watts." He held it up to the block and pressed into the indent on the button, directing the stream of red light as it melted into the iron.

Carter's brows lifted in unspoken surprise.

"It melts anything up to titanium at a point-blank range, but the energy source only lasts fifteen seconds. Just make sure you point them away from your wrist." He patted a neatly folded pile of shirts, handing them over to her. "I certainly hope you haven't grown since your last measurements, Carter."

The dark woman smiled, and watched as his hands drifted to a revolver, albeit more solid that ones she was familar with. "I don't think this is going to fit into my holster, Neville."

"This is a piton gun, my dear. The three-pronged grapple is designed to penetrate most solid materials when fired at high velocity, and is attached to a high grade metal wire that is designed to bear your weight. The trigger here fires the grapple, and the switch engages the motor which retracts the cable."

Carter picked it up, turning it over in her hands as she squinted up at the cavernous, concrete ceiling. With a calculating smile, she aimed for a spot high about her head.

"Give me that -" Neville snatched it out of her hands, giving her a withering look as he placed it out of arm's reach. "I'd rather you didn't punch holes in my house, thank you."

He shifted to another bench, which was elaborately set up with a projector screen. Weathered hands pointed to a neatly compact cylindrical lighter. "This is an upgrade of the service issue lighter. Essentially, it works the same way - when attached to its companion cigarette case, it will provide a field of view with up to x100 magnifcation. But while I've left the lens system within the case pretty much alone, I've rewired the circuits in the barrel of the lighter to provide infra-red and night vision capabilities."

"Goodness." Was that astonishment, or did it bear a hint of sarcasm?

"There are two buttons on the side of the barrel. This one here - " He indicated the lower one, demonstrating the image projected via a fibre-optic feed, "activates the different modes depending which way you push it: up for nightvision, down for infrared, and the neutral position for normal. Twisting the barrel clockwise and counterclockwise will increase and decrease the magnification respectively." Accordingly, the projected image zoomed in and outward.

"What about this button?" Carter reached out for the remaining button, not quite seeing the horror on Neville's face as she did so.

"Carter, no!"

But her fingers had already pressed into the small indentation, and suddenly the projected image fizzled and fractured into static. Blue eyes widened a moment, then full lips pressed together in a fair approximation of an apolegetic smirk. "Oops."

Neville touched the molten remains of his camera with dismay, then directed her a withering look. "That button, Carter, activates the lighter function."

The woman's mouth parted, expressing a somewhat exaggerated oh. The grin that followed, however, indicated very little actual remorse.

"Some things never change..." Neville continued to scold as he disposed of his ruined cable, his normally dry voice now clipped with a slightly sardonic tartness. "Though it is more for display than any practical feature, the butane-powered flame should be poweful enough to ignite conventional cigarettes or cigars, and the odd fibre optic cable as you have so admirably demonstrated."

Sighing away the remnants of his exasperation, the ex-agent worked his way to another part of the bench. He lifted a pair of finely crafted hairpins with a highly lacquered finish, their slender length tapering off to rather dangerous-looking points.

"Speaking as we were of fibre optics, this decorative item reminiscent of the style seen in the Qing dynasty comprises of a reconnaisance camera designed to work with its twin and the lighter. The fine tip of this one here contains a lens which will sweep out an arc of 15 degrees, while the other attaches its thicker base to the lighter, functioning as an antenna for the display unit."

He proceeded to demonstrate, handing the compact metal lighter to his audience. "In times of emergency, the reinforced steel tips should withstand whatever damage you would care to inflict at the time, though I would avoid a direct thrust into bone. I trust you are much more familiar with the ornamental uses of these items than I am."

Carter wound her hair up into a loose knot and sharply impaled both pins in place. She gave Neville a smile.

The elderly gentleman stood back, appraising critically. "Charming. Now - this next item I'm sure you are familiar with." He indicated a mannikin, with proportions approximating that of the well-endowed agent, clad neck to toe in a figure-hugging black catsuit of a matte, expansile fabric.

Carter nodded, her mind returning to the dark, greasy lift-shaft in Monte Carlo. "The prototype worked very well. It's a pity it couldn't be retired in a more dignified manner."

"The material was designed to deteriorate once peeled off the skin. I simply saved you the trouble of cleaning after yourself." He lifted a sleeve, feeling the texture of the fabric between his fingertips. "I have refined the fibres to enhance the infra-red refractile capabilities, and the thermoregulatory layer is improved - it has the capacity to absorb 95% of your body heat and dissipate it through here - " He lifted the thickened segment of material that covered the soles of her feet. "You will be virtually undetectable."

"My feet will also be hotter than a Turkish sweathouse."

"All the better for you to think quickly on them, my dear." He handed her a slim tube of lipstick. "The packaging for the outfit has also been revised."

The agent lifted a doubting eyebrow. "Does it come with a vacuum cleaner?"

"It has more than enough stretch even for you." He moved further across the room, to a sheltered enclosure. "Now - for the whizz bang tomfoolery you seem to be so keen on. I suggest you pay attention, Carter."

Blue eyes looked up at him innocently, replaced the lipstick on the counter and stood beside him.

"There are 12 cigarettes in your cigarette case - Six have gold bands at the filter, and are your regular herbal faux cigarettes." He pulled a face, his disdain for the substitutes obvious. "The three with the red band at the filter delivers an explosion equivalent to a class four grenade within an area of three feet. The three with the blue band are homing devices with a range of three miles. Both may be activated by bending the shaft of the cigarette through an angle of at least ninety degrees."

"How long is the fuse?"

"You have five seconds for the explosives, and 24 hours for the tracking instruments. Your wristwatch will trace the signals." He extracted a blue and red-banded cigarette and walked up to a reinforced, five-inch thick steel box in the enclosure, depositing both within. "Take a look on your watch, and tell me what you see."

"I see a red blinking dot."

"Excellent." He returned to his place beside her. "In addition, the bombs may be detonated by your wristwatch once it is engaged by pressing it firmly to any surface, thereby indenting its cartridge. If you please, Carter."

Carter obliged, pressing a button on the rim of her watchface firmly. Blue eyes widened slightly as the silvery box exploded in a terse, but violent fireball, sending splintered shards of metal throughout the enclosure. She threw a grin at her friend. "Well. Wasn't that fun."

"Look at your watch again, Carter."

She complied, dark brows inching up her forehead as she did so - the red blinking dot remained, though somewhat displaced from its original position.

"Yes. I'm rather proud of that, myself." He smiled smugly, reaching into his pocket and extracting a cigarette. He lit it with aplomb, inhaling deeply with an evident air of satisfaction. "Now, were there any questions?"

"Yes. Isn't that a red band on the filter?"

The cigarette was snatched from his lips and thrown into the enclosure, seconds before another explosion rocked the quiet Grecian afternoon.

International Business Publications Ltd., Fleet Street, London W1.

1425 hours GMT.

The dark Bentley rolled to an stately stop beside the curb and the back passenger door opened slowly, revealing a pair of tanned legs alighting on the footpath.

Carter leaned into the front window, speaking with her driver quickly as she retrieved her briefcase. "If you could drive my bags over to the house, Alfred should be there waiting to take care of it. I shall be done in an hour."

Closing the door firmly shut, the dark-haired agent straightened to full height, her elegantly heeled shoes adding to her already imposing frame. She smoothed out her sombre Armani suit, feeling decidedly overdressed as the memory of Grecian afternoons lingered warm on her skin. I was hoping I wouldn't have to see this place for a few more days yet. Her mind sighed as she briskly climbed the steps leading to the modest headquarters of International Business Publications Ltd.

The lobby was small but neatly furnished with a modern touch, housed in a restored Georgian building along Fleet street. Carter's shoes tapped loudly against the pinewood floor as she swept up to the reception desk, smiling easily at the primly starched secretary working at the computer, who now looked up over her severe wire-rimmed glasses.

"Ah, Good morning, Ms. Lane. I trust you had a relaxing holiday?"

"Much too short, Ms. Letham. But thank you for asking." She grinned, bantering easily as she casually placed her palm on a plain black glassy panel. There was a faint click, and the agent nodded briefly to the recetionist before moving on towards the lifts.

Stepping inside, she placed her palm against another panel and, with her other hand, pressed the floor buttons in a peculiar sequence. Smiling at the chime ringing in a comforting G major, she settled the briefcase beside her and folded her arms, watching as the elevator doors closed and the lift begin to move backwards.

The bunker office of Harold Winchester, the head of British Intelligence's secret branch was bustling with activity. Outfitted in the typical style as befits an old-world English gentleman, the rich wooden panelling and stately carpets of forest green stood in surprising harmony with the numerous visual displays dominating one wall of his windowless domain. They flickered continually with information, relaying messages from the Communications branch down the corridor, MI6 and embassies from across the globe.

The director's chair faced away from her as Carter sauntered into the room, the dark-grained leather swivelling to meet her as her footsteps heralded her presence.

"Come in, Lane. Sit down." He gestured towards the empty chair before his desk, watching as the tall figure elegantly folded herself into a poised, but relaxed position. Long legs crossed unhurriedly, revealing an extra few inches of caramel-tan skin.

"Okay, Harold. What's going on?"

"We have received word that Schiffer has been attempting to search for you. It seems that there is quite a substantial reward for the live capture of the 'Casino Bomber'."

"How nice. I'm flattered."

"Don't be. Until the reward offer has your name on it, I wouldn't go preening my feathers, Lane." He blew a stream of smoke from his nostrils, partly obscruing his face in an amorphous haze. "What he has also done, and of direct concern to us, is that he has raised his security levels. It seems that he has run a purge in his ranks, and one of our operatives has fallen victim. Agent Feldane has been out of communication for 50 hours now, and we fear that if she was discovered, it would lead Schiffer to us."

Carter reflected his sentiments dryly. "And it would be a terrible scandal for the government."

"In any event, to let this happen would be inexcusable. The government simply cannot afford any controversies at present. But this operation is much too important to close - it seems that Schiffer has his hands dirtier than we originally thought."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Feldane's last communication from Schiffer's HQ tells us that aside from trading in military weapons, he has been slowly gathering materials for the manufacture of weapons of mass destruction. He plans to make these available for sale to a certain clientele, his marketing focusing on countries without nuclear capabiliy and terrorist organisations who will no doubt find his products useful."

"So. Battle weapons are small game to him now."

"So it would seem. Because of the sheer import of this case, I want you on it right away. Your best opportunity is the weekend retreat that Schiffer has planned for his prospective clients, due to be held in two weeks on his cruiser. I want you there." His hands tapped a large dossier and brown envelope on his desk. "Here is all the information we have on Schiffer, his holdings and his known operatives, including Feldane's most recent transmission. I trust you'll study these carefully and dispose of them appropriately. A copy of this will be available on the laptop included in your field kit."

Carter nodded, reaching out a hand and leafing idly through the hefty volume, eyes scanning the information.

"I've already ordered our field operatives to perform the necesary measures to secure your identity. However, you will have to execute the final arrangements yourself." Harold directed a pointed, significant look at her, watching for any reaction on the woman's passively neutral face. Seeing her nod briefly with understanding, he continued onward with his briefing. "His name is Leonard McGuigan, affiliated with Newton Corporations, a multinational company with vast interests spanning oil, mining, investment banking and international exports and trade."

The agent's eyebrows raised at the last point. "Interesting."

"Exactly. You will take his position, voicing their interests involving the distribution and marketing of their product. I'm sure you will perform your task most admirably." He pushed the brown paper envelope across the table. "Your equipment, along with your new papers and documents, are in here. Seeing as the situation is so tentative at the moment, we have had to refine our avenues of communications. Your phone has been modified with an upgraded, internal scrambler that changes its distortion patterns every three seconds. That is the best the tech unit can provide at this time - the rest of your equipment is standard service issue."

Standard service issue. Goddamn - if it weren't for Neville... Carter suppressed a sigh. "Anything else?"

"No, that is all." He was about to make a motion to dismiss her, but halted his gesture. "Actually, to come to think of it, there is something else. Do you recall the theft of the Princess Royal's jewels a few months ago?"

Carter stifled an internal chortle - a very private joke - then nodded, a suspicious eyebrow arching as she pre-empted his request.

"Rumours have been circulating that Schiffer has somehow managed to attain them. Seeing as the Princess' twenty-first birthday is coming up in a few weeks time, I think the diamonds would make a fine present from the Secret Service."

"Very fine indeed." I'm sure it'd be finer yet if I delivered it personally... A somewhat sly smirk crept across her lips, matched by an unmistakeable gleam in those brilliantly cobalt eyes.

Harold knew that look. His cigar dipped a little as his mouth went slack, before it became drawn into a thin line of disgust. "For goodness sakes, Lane -"

"Now now, Harold - surely you cannot expect anything less from her royal highness' most faithful servant." She gave a cursory bow, watching her commander's expression turn to stupefaction with some amusement. Without further word, she turned with consummate grace and left the room.

He took a deep, shuddering draw from his cigar, willing the nicotine to calm his nerves. So those rumours were true...

A cruel sparkle of delighted laughter filtered from the corridor, then faded.

Three Days Later.

New York Presbyterian Hospital, East 68th Street, New York City.

Local Time 1642 hours, 2142 GMT.

A dark-haired woman in powder-blue surgical scrubs mingled with the stream of hospital personnel, eyes glancing at the directory boards with covert ease as she rounded one of many corners until she caught sight of the elevators at the end of the corridor. Seeing the lift doors begin to close, she lengthened her strides to an easy run and jammed her body into the packed lift, flashing an apologetic smile at one particularly attractive, but disgruntled woman with whom she was most intimately opposed.

"Please excuse me," She glanced appreciatively at the slim woman, her eyes travelling down to the card at her waist. "Dr. Jamieson." Extricating herself from the doctor's body, she smiled again before stepping away politely, only touching the doctor again once more as she brushed against her, reaching for her floor button on the console.

The elevator slowed to a stop and the doors slid open with a hiss. Feeling the push of people against her, the woman stepped out of the lift, allowing the crowd past her.

"Goodbye, Dr. Jamieson. It was lovely running into you." She nodded decorously at the doctor, smiling at the imperceptible turn of her head over her shoulder as she disappeared down the corridor. The tall woman stepped back into the now-empty lift, chuckling as she tossed the passcard jingling into the air and catching it with deft fingers.

Position: Unknown.

2150 GMT

It was so bright, so bright...

Even with her eyes closed, Georgia Feldane could hardly bear the transluminescent red as the light burned past her eyelids. Her arms ached from being bound behind the chair for so long, and her buttocks were sore from sitting for an unknown eternity on this god-forsaken chair, in this god-forsaken basement.

"Ms. Feldane, I suggest you tell us who you are working for."

The voice boomed from the brilliant emptiness once more. It was such a deceptively-gentle voice, yet it had hounded her so relentlessly for these past hours, taunting her growing discomfort with its steady, unwavering timbre.

Her throat was dry, but damn it if they were going to find out. "Never."

"You understand  that your lack of cooperation only serves to prolong your incarceration."

"Threaten me all you like, Tarlington. You will never get what you are after."

There was a brief pause - the only sign that indicated to her that her interrogator was ruffled in the slightest. Oh yes. I too have some cards up my sleeve.

The voice spoke slowly, deliberately. "And what am I after, pray tell?"

"A pat on the back from Schiffer - or a gold star, a rubber-stamp - anything to get you in his good books. I know about you, Tarlington. You think you've kept tabs on me, but I've kept tabs on you, too. I know what you're after, and you can't get it without me."

Another silence, punctuated by light, measured footsteps. As they approached, a thin corner of the blinding light was partially eclipsed by an approaching shadow.

The voice asked again - demanded, even. It was the first sign of anger Feldane had heard in all these hours. "Were you involved in the security breach as detailed by Sector Three on your capture?"

The agent kept her lips sealed into a tight, thin line, her face holding resolute in a brave, but ineffectual show of defiance.

"I am offering you the final chance, Ms. Feldane. Who ordered the attack on the Monte Carlo exchange?" The voice drew closer, and the dark outline of her captor's shadow was almost looming too near.

Braving the intense illumination, she looked up into her interrogator and spat into the silhouette. It stiffened for a moment, then even the air seemed to freeze as the figure wiped the spittle away with slow contempt.

It was another long silence before the dangerously gentle voice spoke again.

"Mr. Schiffer will be extremely disappointed with you, Ms. Feldane. Perhaps you should pray that you will live to regret your choice."

Then the presence was gone, leaving the frail spy awash in the unforgiving light, bound to her god-forsaken chair, in her god-forsaken basement.

Medical Records Office - Outpatient department, New York Presbyterian Hospital, New York City.

Local Time 1650 hours, 2150 GMT.

The door beeped loudly as the woman swiped her card into the slot, followed by a satisfying click as the latch opened. Carter looked around - it was almost like a library, except all the books looked the same; Spines upon spines of beige foolscap folders sporting a riot of coloured tabs lining the shelves receeding an indeterminable distance.

Strolling to the bank of computer terminals against the wall, she removed the screen saver and read the screen. Login name. Glancing at her passcard, the woman frowned slightly. And have them keep tabs on the lovely Dr Jamieson's access? I don't think so. She stepped away, examining the shelves with a calculating eye.

"May I help you?"

The tall woman turned and walked towards the counter, replying smoothly in a perfect, Upper Manhattan accent. "Yes. I'm looking for a Leonard Michael McGuigan, M-c-G-U-I-G-A-N, last admitted on the 14th."

"Do you have his Admissions Number?" She did not look up from the screen, extending her hand with an imperious air.

"I'm afraid not." The woman handed her the passcard, watching the secretary steadily as she gave it a cursory glance and handed it back. The frown insinuated itself deeper into the creases of her face as she glared at the screen, fingers tapping against the keyboard in agitated clicks.

Carter waited, calmly meeting the sharp eyes that looked up abruptly, glaring accusingly at her.

Her voice was smooth. "Is there a problem?"

"It would make life a lot easier if you had the Admissions Number. All you doctors - you have no idea how difficult it is, picking up after your mess. Remembering the Admissions Number isn't brain surgery, you know..." The woman scolded, her tone severe as her fingers continued to rattle briskly at her keyboard. "It's here, in section D9. The number is 675 324." She did not appear to have anything more to say.

Smiling with a mental sigh of satisfaction, Carter thanked her politely and followed the signs to the appropriate area, quickly locating the folder.

Hefty file - for a 46 year old. What ails you, Mr. McGuigan? Secure in the maze of neverending shelves, Carter pursed her lips as she opened the file and began to read.

High Blood Pressure, atherosclerosis, cardiac hypertrophy. His patient history was a litany of silent diseases, a sword of Damocles poised on the brink of consigning him to oblivion. Refused PR exam? Oh dear, Mr. McGuigan. It's important to get your prostate checked, you know.

14th July. Patient complained of dull, persistent pain in right inguinal region... lower limb angiogram performed, deep venous thrombus suspect. Warfarin Rx to be commenced ASAP, surgical intervention recommended. Sorting through the file, she lifted the radiographic film from its folder and held it up to the light, her eyes following the glowing trail of what was a right leg vein until it stopped abruptly just as it entered the groin.

Perfect.

Her lips curved in a satisfied smile as she snapped the file shut.

The following night.

Pieroni's, 5th Ave and Broadway, New York City.

Local Time 2150 hours, 0250 GMT.

A well-dressed businessman sat, almost drowned out by the mass of humanity gathered by the bar. It was a Friday evening, end of the working week - the time when the rats come out to play in a torturous cycle, living out their freedom with vodka martinis and hard spirits before nine-to-five claimed them for the grindstone once again.

He was obviously well-to-do. His suit was an understated dark navy Prada creation - a design that was much too young for him, but a fashion oversight he was rich enough to make excusable. A fine dusting of grey about his temples made distinguished what was an otherwise unremarkable face, which was weighted down by a soft pudginess. Despite the slight ungainliness to his figure, he perched on his barstool with a familiar surety that bespoke of many similar Friday evenings; same bar, same stool, same dead-grey eyes that sought out their fantasies in beautifully aloof women as he gripped his drink with sweaty palms.

He noticed her even before she came up to the bar.

It was almost as if he could sense her behind his back, the electricity of her presence inducing a prickling voltage in the very air itself. His skin tingled, the hair on the back of his neck rising with his pulse, his blood pressure. It was almost arousing - a strange feeling considering he had not known true arousal in a long time.

He smelled Tendre Poison, the heady, sharp fragrance causing him to turn around, trying to follow the tantalising parfum - only to meet a pair of cerulean eyes seated two seats away, their piercing blue almost taunting him before they returned smiling to the waiting bartender.

Was she playing with him? Was that an invitation? His feversh mind was almost mad with questions, none of them with simple answers. He watched with seething anticipation as the statuesque woman made small talk with the man deftly mixing her drink, her face and body language alight with the subtle give and take of casual seduction. A dangerous length of leg weaved tantalisingly in and out of view between the folds of her tan overcoat, which was artfully thrown over the crook of her barstool - his fingers itched to push it aside, feeling a sudden insane curiosity strengthening his timid voyeurism into an unsteady boldness. Getting up, he walked uneasily a few paces until he slotted himself beside her, his Benjamin Franklin beating hers to the bartender's hands.

"Please, allow me."

The woman turned her eyes towards him, a faintly surprised smile on her lips. "Thank you, Mr...?"

"Leonard McGuigan." He offered his hand, realising too late that it was stilll damp from his drink and perspiration. But her grip was warm, firm - every sensation within her palm as confident as the steady look she gave him.

"Mr McGuigan. Good to meet you."

"Please, call me Leonard." He wiped his hands on his trousers in a subtle, nervous manner as he decided what to do with the rest of his body, finally deciding to lean casually against the bar. There was a long moment of silence, when she watched him politely, and he struggled inside for words. "So... you come here often?"

"I'm just passing through on business." She turned her body to fully face him as she sipped at her drink, levelling on him the full devastating weight of her attention. Her intent gaze skimmed over the edge of the glass. "You do business here, Leonard?"

The man nodded, and continued to steer their sparse conversation - his voice taut with an underlying tension, while the woman's was liquid in its easy, sensual textures. The man couldn't keep his eyes off her, and she watched him watch her from the corner of her vision while her eyes roamed the room with polite detachment.

She spoke, breaking into his hesitant monologue. "You seem to know your way around here. More than a few people in this bar have waved or smiled over in your direction."

"Well, you know..." He shrugged, trying to twist his flattered grin into a nonchalant smile.

"No, I don't." The woman rested her chin on a crooked finger, her voice smooth as cognac on the rocks with a haughty bite of ice. "Where can I find out more?"

He drank nervously from his glass, his fumbling thoughts in a mad whirl as the words intoxicated his senses. "You may find that there is very little of curiosity. Here. In New York." He looked up at her, confused but exhilirated at the veiled ambiguity of her words.

"Try me. I'm sure I can stimulate your interest." Blue eyes burned into his, Leonard McGuigan's face suddenly reddening as he swallowed desperately trying to control his haywire pulse. Where the gaze was electric in its intensity, the woman's smile was almost lilting in a gentle come-hither curl. "Show me around?"

Blinking in a moment's hesitation, he leapt to his feet, grabbing her overcoat and holding it up for her. "May I help you with you coat?"

Carter smiled as she slithered out of her seat. It was going to be a good night.

Central Park West, New York City.

Local Time 2215 hours, 0315 GMT.

The large, modern apartment was quiet, and darkened save a single light illuminating the hallway. As was typical of this part of New York, the apartment was set out in the open-plan style; no walls, with the bar table as easily accessible to the bed as it was to the kitchen sink. There were three walls which were painted with an inoffensive matte white-cream finish, sparsely decorated with pieces of art more known for their expense than their taste. The fourth was a large glass window which looked down on Central Park from its fifteenth-storey elevation, draped by the New York skyline eastward towards the Hudson River.

There was the click of a door being unlocked before the front entrance opened, ushering in a wash of light and two figures. The shorter of the two reached inward and switched the lights on, dimming them down to a suggestively ambient level.

"... As I said, the view from this room is alright, but the old apartment I was staying at - "

The taller woman interrupted him seamlessly. "May I borrow your bathroom?"

"Sure. It's just past that wooden screen there." He pointed to the corner just past the large, rumpled bed. The woman smiled faintly and walked in that direction, disappearing as she shut the door behind her.

Leonard McGuigan made his way to the bar, removing his jacket and tie as he went. He stood before the counter for a long moment, knowing that the darkly mysterious woman was in his home, knowing that his pulse was racing beyond what could be considered safe for his heart trouble. He took a deep breath, stilling his tingling nerves, and raised his voice slightly. "Would you like a drink?" His hands shook a little as he poured himself a double scotch.

"No, thank you."

The voice was closer than he thought. His head jerked up, and his breath quickly caught in his throat.

The woman was arched against the bathroom doorway, wearing nothing but a loosely-buttoned business shirt and a smile. "You don't mind my borrowing one of your shirts, do you?"

"Uh, no." He swallowed his drink in a breathless gulp, his eyes and feet frozen in place.

A throaty, sensuous laugh perforated the room as she slinked towards him, twin chips of ice holding his gaze to his. Step by step, she slipped ever closer to him, shrinking the distance between them with feline patience. The crisp cotton was open to the fine divot of her navel, the sharp incision of dark skin cutting through the white material revealing more than a hint of large, firm breasts and the ripples of abdominal muscles defining the planes of her stomach. The edges of the shirt barely tickled the tops of her thighs.

Carter barely shifted her shoulders, nudging the soft cotton from her shoulders, sliding it down her arms until it fell with a soft whisper onto the ground. Never slacking her pace, she continued in her devastating nakedness, only stopping when she stood within dangerous proximity - close enough for Carter to feel his halting, erratic breath against her lips, the rising heat of his body.

"Let's not pretend to ignore what we're really here for tonight." Her lips parted in a vicious grin before smothering his unsuspecting mouth with a blistering kiss. He melted almost instantly beneath her touch, his knees nearly giving way before his muscles jerked alive as he felt her teeth and nails sink into his skin.

Burning lips and tongue carved her mark into his soft flesh as she insistently pushed him towards the bed, until the somewhat ungainly body caught its knees against the edge. The man fell back heavily, but the dark woman continued her assault on his body with all the feline grace of a predator feeding on its prey. She could feel his hardness press against her as she moved down his body slowly, insidiously, removing his clothes with a whisper-like touch while her mouth ravaged him. All Leonard McGuigan could do was lie back and close his eyes to the tumult of sensations, his mouth hanging open as his gasping breath begged without words. Until her lips hovered tantalisingly above his paifully swollen and angry-purple manhood.

His whole body was rigid, the now-open grey eyes pleading her to engulf him. "Please - "

Carter met his gaze, then breathed on it, lightly.

The body beneath her convulsed, trying futilely to find her waiting mouth, then shivered. "Come on - please..." He did not see the brightly feral grin cross her face - a warning - just before she reared above him and, in one smooth motion, plunged the engorged shaft within her.

The man cried out, his face contorted in a grimace that seemed to freeze in time. Carter remained where she was for a count of five, the muscles within her contracting rhythmically against him as her arctic eyes bore into his face wrenched in the excruciating pleasure. Then, with the gradualness of dark honey, she began to move; long, languid strokes that drew out the pleasure so slowly it became an unfufilled pain that begged for consummation. She bent over and, scraping her nails against the sparsely-furred chest, latched onto his nipple and sucked hard.

The muscles in Leonard McGuigan's neck strained as he groaned almost continuously, feeling the dark woman's heat move around him with increasing pressure. Her mouth open with a throaty laugh, Carter threw her head back with teeth bared and undulated her hips harder, faster - every sinuous movement of her body in apparent ecstacy even though her eyes remained on his face, coldly glittering, calmly watching as the moment before his climax stretched to a syrupy slowness.

She saw his eyes roll back before eyelids closed, the deepening red of his face, his mouth opening to to shout out another profanity in the rush of pleasure. Blind to the blue eyes that darted to the upper crease of his thigh, quickly measuring out the point before a pair of fine fingertips jabbed sharply once.

In that instant he came inside her, his entire body stiffening as he felt the bright burst of pain in his groin before it was drowned out by tides of intense sensation burning his hypersensitive nerves. What he did not feel was a large piece break off from the clot in his femoral vein, the silent embolus travelling in his blood before it stopped abruptly in his lungs.

He could only give one strangled breath as frantic hands left Carter's waist to grope for his neck, trying to tear it apart as his face purpled. His spasmodic movements were then held suspended as his eyes widened in glassy shock, staring into a solemn, unwavering blue stare; his increasingly delirious mind wondering where the woman that had been writhing in pleasure over his lap had gone.

Then even those thoughts ceased, the same glazed stare now looking unseeing right through her.

Holding the unreturned gaze for a moment longer, Carter tore her eyes from his and lifted herself off his still-warm body, her feet falling silently on the carpet as she stalked to the bathroom.

To Page Two

Back to Title Page

Back to Fanfic Page