p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-Napoleon isn't sure if the relatively generous thirty-six hours of freedom before reporting for duty again is thanks to Director McCone, or if Sanders was simply left out of the loop during this stateside mission. It's an unimportant detail, though. He gets a message to both Gaby and Illya, saying that they need to have a priority meeting, and sets the time and place.
"What's so urgent?" Gaby asks. Her wide sunglasses hide her eyes, and her careful movements broadcast hangover recovery: something else to factor into his strategy.
"Let's wait until-ah, here he is." Solo watches Peril finish walking to where they're standing: on a street corner next to a cafe that caters to the beach-going crowd. The man is still wearing his work clothes from this trip-quite literally all buttoned up in an American business suit. He looks stiflingly overdressed in the warm weather. Perfect for his plans, thinks Solo.
"I'm assuming you both have a day or two before you have to leave," Napoleon says.
Gaby and Illya look at each other-a communication with meaning that Solo isn't privy to-and then back at him.
"Yes," answers Illya, his tone shading from neutral to suspicious in one short syllable.
"I thought we could all unwind and have a saucer rematch on the beach. It would be a fun way to celebrate another successful mission."
Gaby lets out a tiny snort. "I don't know why you call it successful."
"Well, we're all still alive, and the hotel rooms are intact, too." He grins toothily at Peril, pushing the smugness of it way past subtle into obnoxious. Illya bristles, just as Solo anticipated. "Besides, I took your Frisbee disk point system and made a beach version of it, which is exactly what we need."
Illya and Gaby exchange another look. Apparently Gaby gets tagged as designated refuser-of-fun, which works out as Solo hoped. "I don't feel like playing in the sand just now," she says, adjusting the sunglasses to a higher angle.
He waits until he feels certain she must be looking at him, and raises his eyebrows. "Scared to lose this time?"
Gaby scoffs but doesn't relent yet, so he pulls out the next weapon in his arsenal. "The winner gets a bottle of the finest rum made in the region."
"I don't like rum," says Gaby.
"Rum is too sweet," Illya concurs.
"Well then, why don't you choose the prize." He aims for chivalrous in his tone instead of petty annoyance, with mixed results.
Gaby stands still, handbag draped over her shoulder: a chic woman with a hidden hangover, out on the town. "Fine," she finally says. "You owe me good whiskey when you lose again. Something expensive."
Before he can accept, she adds, "Something you buy instead of steal."
"I'll consider my honor duly maligned," he tells her. He considers adding a caveat that she isn't allowed to drink it in one sitting, but then remembers his ingracious plan for an immodest win. No need to worry about how she'll drink his expensive alcohol without properly appreciating it this time.
He turns to Illya. "What do you say, Peril. Are you in?" The question is meaningless. Once Gaby accepted, there was no doubt that Illya would stay too. The man nods once, looking alarmingly determined.
"I have everything you two need right here," he tells them, handing each of them a small paper bag. "Now go change in the cabins and I'll meet you at the beach-" he gestures, "Over there."
His own swim trunks double as shorts for the moment, along with a lightweight linen button-front shirt that he'll continue to wear until they step onto the beach. Now he just has to wait for Gaby and Illya to deploy the main weapons in his arsenal.
Nothing too obvious, of course: the swim trunks he found for Illya would be a decent length on his own frame, but he has the excuse of trying to fit a six foot five inch giant. The bikini is almost identical to what Ursula Andress wore in last year's Bond movie. Teller is built along more slender lines than the Swedish actress, but he has no doubt that Peril will find her beguiling anyway.
Gaby has a cover-up in her bag, but putting a top in Illya's bag would have been counter-productive. He doesn't want to risk Peril keeping a shirt on for the entire game.
Too bad he couldn't have arranged for this to happen earlier in the day; applying sunscreen would have been a nice starter. He'll just have to count on the rest to keep the two of them distracted.
Gaby emerges first, still wearing the dark glasses. Her ponytail drapes down her left shoulder, across the knot of the aubergine-colored sarong that grazes the tops of her thighs. She walks across the street to stand next him as he waits, her dancer's legs adding grace in spite of the hangover, and doesn't say a word. The sunglasses make it impossible to tell what she's looking at or thinking, and it sets him just a bit on edge.
In their acquaintance she's never been a chatterbox, but unlike Illya, she's usually decent with the expected social niceties, the occasional moment of small talk. Tamping down the moment of nerves, he smiles brightly at her.
The silence lingers while Illya finishes changing. That's when the doubt starts to set in. Napoleon spent so much time preparing the Frisbee course, practicing throws, getting the clothes, but executing the plan-this is where the human factor comes in. Maybe he didn't think all of this through well enough, Solo decides.
Peril is easy, at least when it comes to Gaby. His feelings for her run too close to the surface. Gaby, though-what she feels is a mystery. Attraction to the giant didn't sway her from throwing Illya to the dogs in Rome when her mission demanded it.
Too much is riding on the allure of Soviet beefcake, thinks Solo.
Staring at the changing room cabins, a feeling of dread slices through the earlier giddy effervescence of plotting. How could he have thought that he could beat a machine like Illya anyway, even if he did succeed at distracting him? The man trains in two different kinds of martial arts, and he actually likes to jog.
Maybe Solo shouldn't be doing this anyway. They can just throw around a plastic saucer and he can let his partners' infatuation, or whatever it is, run its course without interference.
Gaby startles him from his crisis of confidence with a quick intake of breath. He refocuses and spots Illya striding toward them. The man is either angry or-well, odds are that he's angry. He found a white tee-shirt somewhere-did he steal it? wonders Solo-and it's beautifully snug, outlining a broad expanse of chest and strong arms.
Below the burgundy swim trunks Peril's long, long legs are nicely muscled, especially those thighs. He's a Michelangelo sculpture in cool marble to contrast with Gaby's warm gold.
It takes Solo a moment to remember to check on Gaby; she still hasn't spoken. From the angle of her sunglasses it looks like she's staring at those legs. Good choice. Solo's fizz of excitement returns. Game on.
He deliberately turns his back on his male competition and offers an arm to Gaby. "Shall we?" After a dazed moment she turns around and puts her right hand in the crook of his elbow.
Peril catches up to them in quick strides. Napoleon long ago lost susceptibility to hostilities from other men in contests over women; good thing, too, otherwise he would be melting under the angry glare that beams at him over Gaby's head.
They walk on the sand to the course he set up earlier: a series of poles made from tubing he bought at the hardware store. And then it's game on, or rather, game explained.
"The concept is simple," he tells them. "Hit the poles with the Frisbee disk. Shorter poles are worth more points; taller poles are worth fewer points."
They're both staring at him as he narrates the rules: the uncooperative competition that he desperately wants to beat, just because.
"This may prove advantageous to Miss Teller, but we'll allow the lady to keep that privilege," Solo concludes, all magnanimous generosity.
Her expression tightens at his words. "You know I'm not actually short."
Illya makes the kind of comment Solo was hoping for. "Not short, no. But not tall either." He radiates a subtle smugness, and Gaby takes umbrage to it.
"I'm above average height for women in most European countries," she announces, "Including Germany."
"You're the perfect height for a lovely woman," Napoleon says, all bland gallantry to annoy Illya.
He doesn't know how it went wrong. The strategy is working brilliantly on Illya; the third round was when Gaby shed her sarong, and Illya hasn't been the same since. It's not just superspy James Bond who's charmed by a woman in a white bikini.
The crowd gathering to watch the spectacle helps in that regard; quite a few in the audience audibly or visibly appreciate the body Gaby honed by years of dance lessons, which has led to Illya carrying her sarong from one launch point to the next, just in case she gets a chill during their sunlit match.
Unfortunately Gaby seems capable of both appreciating the Russian beefcake on display and launching the Frisbee disk with perfect accuracy.
Napoleon slings the Frisbee and hits the mid-length pole. It grazes the pole; not as direct a hit as Gaby's earlier shot, but that doesn't matter for the point system, so he's satisfied. He waits for Illya to retrieve the disk, but Gaby is in some kind of whispered conversation with the man at the moment.
Someone from the crowd sends the Frisbee spinning back to Napoleon. He catches it and hollers over the noise of the wind and waves, "It's every man and woman for themselves! No plotting!"
Gaby looks mildly offended, while Illya just looks grim. He stalks over to the launch point for this round, grabs the Frisbee from Solo, and misses his shot. Again.
Satisfying, but it's not enough for Solo to have a chance at winning rather than just not losing.
They move to the next designated launch point, where Gaby has yet another perfect throw, this time against the wind.
Illya finally takes off his tee-shirt. The man has fewer scars than Napoleon might have guessed. His broad chest doesn't have the ultra-defined bulging muscles of some of the weightlifter types hanging out at the beach, but Napoleon appreciates the lean sculpted functionality of muscles honed by years of martial arts, watching as Illya retrieves the Frisbee again.
"Your shot," says Gaby, as Illya hands him the Frisbee.
He misses this time. Damn that wind coming off the water.
Gaby makes a perfect shot yet again and then does a few quick stretches, her toned legs on gorgeous display, and that's when Solo realizes that he's been had. And it's his own fault.
He may have decided not to screw his partners-or at least be a graceful loser as they chose not to screw him-but that didn't mean his subconscious mind was ready to ignore the plenteous pulchritude on display in front of him.
Gaby's point lead is almost unbeatable by now.
At least he can console himself with winning against the Red Peril, who looks surprisingly cheerful now for a man who's losing at a competitive sport. Cheerful for Illya reveals itself as not breaking things and an almost smile, which is a good look on that usually dour handsome face.
Gaby isn't a gracious winner, but she is very funny, even if it's mostly at his expense. Both literally and figuratively.
Illya stays for the festivities as well, a looming figure hovering nearby as Gaby and Solo have drinks at the beachside bar, and then as they walk to the nearest liquor store. Gaby has insisted on witnessing the purchase of the prize-winning bottle, to keep him honest.
She's probably right to do so, but he doesn't really mind.
Bottle triumphantly in hand, Gaby excuses herself to go back to her hotel to sleep. Napoleon assumes it's code for consume a good portion of the bottle.
Illya says he'll share a taxi with her, because his hotel is only a mile farther, and something about the look on Illya's face reveals a bit too much. The penny drops.
At some point Gaby figured out Solo's scheme. She took his own strategy and beat him with it. Her stretches right before his throw, the tee-shirt Kuryakin took off right before another throw-she plotted it all on that beach.
He hopes they enjoy their victory drinks together. Dammit.