It's been a couple of months since the Rome affair, and after a few more near-kisses, Illya's convinced he and Gaby are the victims of some great cosmic joke. He tries to convince himself that maybe it's for the best, maddening though it may be – surely they're better off having a cordial, professional relationship... but in truth, it's a rationale he'd rather not subscribe to if he can help it.
Contemplative frustration swirls about in his head as they pull up a winding drive to the Chesterfield estate, garden party clearly in full swing. He extricates himself from the car and stretches as the breeze carries a soft melody and the promise of refreshments.
He opens Gaby's door and offers his hand. "Wife," he says, deliberately emphasizing the word. She takes his hand and nods, a twinkle of amusement in her eye and a slight smile to match. The hem of her colorful, floral dress brushes just above her knees, swishing as she steps out of the car and rights herself.
Then it's time for the facade, and he takes her arm and loops it through his as they make their way to find their targets.
He's not entirely thrilled about this social event, but so long as there aren't any incidents akin to his initial encounter with Gaby's uncle, he'll be fine. They're here to begin their investigation of the Chesterfield Corporation and its founders, but for all intents and purposes, Illya and Gaby are Mr. and Mrs. Nazarov, married entrepreneurs who have landed a healthy inheritance they're looking to invest. Waverly supplied necessary documents, backgrounds have been mapped out, and everything seems to be in order, so Illya feels confident as they strike up warm conversation with the elderly Mr. and Mrs. Chesterfield... until they prod the one topic Illya and Gaby never prepare for as much as they should:
"How did you meet?"
Illya pauses as he begins to mentally construct a plausible, colorful lie, but Gaby swoops in and fields Mrs. Chesterfield's questions flawlessly as the old woman continues to probe their faux marriage. Gaby plays the part perfectly and has proved to be quite good at lying on the fly in situations like these – a very fortunate asset, Illya thinks – but he notices that Mr. Chesterfield is staring fixedly at her, smiling far too widely, far too often. If the man were fifty years younger, Illya would be more concerned; regardless, he can't help but edge himself closer to Gaby in a subconsciously possessive manner. She doesn't seem to mind.
"How long have you been married?" Mrs. Chesterfield finally asks, draining her champagne flute. Illya observes her unsteady footing and wonders exactly how much she's had to drink this afternoon, but he's shaken from his curiosity as he realizes Gaby hasn't answered the question. For a moment he wonders if she's waiting on him, but before he can utter a word, she's leaning in close and stroking his arm.
"The wedding was last month. Isn't that right, darling?" Gaby looks up at him expectantly, and Illya smiles.
"Yes, darling." He lets his arm slip around her waist, noting that Mr. Chesterfield looks far from pleased. Conversely, Mrs. Chesterfield gushes nostalgically over how *adorable* newlyweds are, how she remembers the feeling, and after promises of future contact and one last glare toward Illya from Mr. Chesterfield, the couple move on to other guests and leave Illya and Gaby to themselves.
"We're newlyweds?" Illya asks as Gaby links her arm with his. She shrugs.
"Mrs. Chesterfield is an elderly married woman who's obviously not sober, so I thought something romantic might appeal to her." Illya nods, impressed by Gaby's perceptiveness, as he allows himself to follow her lead. She directs them away from the party as they stroll into the gardens, paths lined with manicured shrubberies and gorgeous flowers that rival the print on Gaby's dress. There's a comfortable silence between them as they wander, but Illya's mind gravitates toward work and concerns regarding Napoleon's success. The Chesterfield's daughter is notoriously shy, after all, and it would undoubtedly take more than Napoleon's usual charm to crack her shell.
"I think Mr. Chesterfield fancied me," Gaby says nonchalantly, pulling Illya from his thoughts, and he realizes that they've stopped short of a precipice extending over the beautiful sprawling vineyard below.
He collects himself, frowning slightly as her statement registers. "I noticed," he mutters. She turns her head to look at him, a hint of a smile gracing her face. Perhaps it's the jealousy, or maybe it's simply the presently intoxicating company, but something compels him to unlink their arms and slide his hand across Gaby's back, gently guiding her body to face him as he lowers his head. "We'll need to make sure he understands you're uninterested." She raises her head, poised to retort, but instead draws her hands to rest on his chest, gently grasping his lapels in anticipation.
Illya leans down until his nose is barely touching her cheek, a breath away from kissing her. He hesitates for a moment, waiting for the inevitable interruption, until reason gets the best of him and he decides he won't give it the chance. He closes his eyes and dips down until their lips meet, a gentle touch that quickly escalates into eager, purposeful reciprocation. He feels her grip tighten slightly as she pulls him closer, and his other arm gently wraps around her, hand splayed across her back. Her lips are so soft, and he swears he's on the cusp of sensory overload, but he loves it and oh is he desperate for more... yet the small part of his brain still rooted in reality reminds him to keep it chaste while they're here – hell, they probably shouldn't be doing this. Not when it's technically unnecessary for their mission, not when he suddenly hears approaching footsteps...
"Afternoon, comrades," Napoleon calls in greeting, and Gaby and Illya fly apart, blinking away their stupor. "Party's winding down, in case you hadn't noticed." Napoleon nods toward the distant veranda and smiles knowingly at his fellow agents. "Unfortunately, I didn't get far with the daughter, but I've acquired tickets for a gala the Chesterfields will be attending day after tomorrow. You can continue to make nice with Mr. and Mrs. Chesterfield and keep them busy while I... get to know their daughter."
Illya fights the urge to roll his eyes, and with a salutation and nod goodbye, Napoleon's gone as quickly as he came. Hesitant and admittedly speechless, Illya chances a look at Gaby. She catches his eye and smiles shyly, much to his relief, before closing the gap between them and taking his hand. His fingers brush against her ring – the ring he gave her back in Rome – and he smiles and tightly laces her fingers with his.
He's not extremely experienced when it comes to galas, but he suspects that he and Gaby could find a way to enjoy it. They are newlyweds, after all.