Disclaimer: I don't own James Bond and I didn't make him up etc

A/N: This is a collaboration with caillte (read her stuff, it's excellent)

I had never seen a beautiful man until I met James Bond. Where to begin. He was a man of so many attributes, and when I say that I don't mean just physically. He could look you in the eye and see your inner soul. I met him while riding the Chunnel to Great Britain. It was no accident, by any means, it had all been arranged, down to every detail. I hadn't quite realized that it would be as easy as it was, until I was in his apartment in his bed. It had been my mission to first seduce him and then afterwards, while he slept, I was to procure some very important papers. These papers, if signed and released to the correct personages in the British government could potentially lead to a third world war and the abduction of David Bowie, who was the secret chief of state of Andorra.

I realize the question that might possibly be running through your mind is: where the hell is Andorra and what brings David Bowie into it? Well, if you look at a political map of Europe, Andorra is a tiny dot of a country situated between Spain and France. Population: 70,549. It has no publicized military, just the same as its government is seemingly headed by two princes: one the president of France, the other the bishop of Seo de Urgel of Spain. However, within the small confines of a co-op the secret government thrives. There, terrorists infiltrated the co-op and kept a bomb powerful enough to blow up Russia. The secret chief of state was not aware of this threat. The terrorists hoped to oust him through their connections with the British government.

This is where James Bond comes into play. One of the most renowned and…sensual agents (as I found out) he was privy to the most important information in the British government.

Cut to James's bachelor pad. He lay asleep, spent, sprawled on the bed as I peeled off the sheets and crept over to his briefcase. I was about to touch it when I heard a low voice murmur, "You might not want to touch that, love." He didn't even know my name. Not that I would have given him my birth name even if he had asked. I wasn't stupid enough to announce myself with my given name.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought it was mine, it's dark in here. Oh, and my name is Mitzi, by the way." I gave a short giggle, keeping in character, and returned to bed.

He rubbed my shoulder and gave me an unconvinced looked. "Darling, Mitzi is not a French name." He must have assumed I was French.

"My mother was American, and my father was French and in the military. We moved around often. I lived in Russia, Britain, Portugal…" He cut me off.

"A girl of many guises?" He seemed rather amused, buying it for now.

"You could say that."

"Alright, Mitzi, go back to sleep." I mentally cringed at that name. How I hated to see such a beautiful man think of me as so vapid and not to question it, but I had long since adjusted to the sensation.

Monaco. Such a harmless name for a lethal country. When it comes down to it, I suppose it must be the cause of all these problems. You see, Monaco itself had no usable land. With a population of little more than 30,000 and only urban land, it didn't have much space to become a world power. However, what it did have was ambition. The terrorists that infiltrated the co-op in Andorra were from Monaco. The secret secretary of state of Andorra was from Monaco. Lastly, and most importantly, David Bowie's wardrobe coordinator was from Monaco. As you can see, they had their claws deep into the secret government. And as such, Andorra became merely a helpless pawn in their quest for power. One can see why these papers were so important.

Once Monaco announced its presence in Andorra, it would continue to Portugal, then Spain, then France. Europe one day, the world the next.

However, not everyone was happy with this planned chain of events. Hence, James Bond and his briefcase with the oh-so-important papers. He was meant to protect them from opposing factions.

The next day at breakfast in a very nice restaurant he sat, eating a plate of scrambled eggs and sipping occasionally at a glass of water. He looked at me and said, "So, Mitzi, what do you do for a living?"

I swallowed a bite of grapefruit and replied, innocently, "I'm a stewardess."

He studied my face and motioned his fork at me. "You're not telling me something, Mitzi. I don't think that's really your name, and I don't think you're really a stewardess. I also don't think you're as stupid as you pretend. "

I gave him a flimsy smile. "Oh, James, you caught me. I'm not really a stewardess. I'm really an undercover spy." I said the last bit facetiously. "Of course I'm not a spy, James. I'm really just a boring old travel agent. I can get you a good rate on your next trip though. You could take me, and we'd get a group discount, plus bonuses." I winked at him.

A small grin flashed across his face. "Alright," he said. By this time we had both finished our breakfasts and he flagged down our waiter to ask for the check.

The next few minutes were silent, and as we left I said seriously, "My name's SAM." What I didn't tell him of course that SAM was code for Secret Agent M.

He blinked and then grinned. "Well Sam, I must say that's a better name than Mitzi. I suppose girl of many guises is truer than I thought." He laughed, and I tried to laugh too, thinking only that he had no idea.

"So, do you care to share anything more about yourself? Your real self," he said, flashing me a reckless smile.

So maybe my disguise wasn't as well disguised as I had hoped, he still didn't know anything of use about me. "I live in Paris, alone, since my boyfriend of seven years, Jacques, became too much of a liability."

"Oh?"

"I kicked him out of my apartment after my work became too absorbing. I traveled much of the time and once I came home to another man in our bed. I didn't need random people in my apartment, going through my papers," he gave me a look, "and screwing my boyfriend."

"Alright, but that doesn't explain the misinformation. Care to say anything about that?"

I thought quickly, who was required (besides spies) to change their name at a moment's notice. "This needs to be kept off the record, but I'm part of the French Witness Protection Program. I witnessed a murder two and a half years ago, and I have to change names and professions at a whim. Really, I do no work, the FWPP pays for my living. At least, until the murderer is found." Did it sound too unbelievable? If it did, it was too late anyway, I had my cover story. James didn't look too skeptical.

"Oh I think I heard about that murder. Was it the one that took place in the cafe on Rue de Bretagne?"

I did a mental doubletake. "I'm not allowed to talk about it. I'm sure you can understand why." He nodded. "So, can you tell me anything about yourself?"

James turned to me and drawled, "I am an accountant. I do the taxes for people with Swiss bank accounts." He winked at me. "But really my darling I shan't bore you with tales of my desk job, as dull as it is."

There, we both had our carefully placed alternate lives. However, what would happen next would shatter both of them.