The Partridges and Thrush, a highly volatile combination. "A reunion I would prefer not to attend," Illya said. He should be in the process of alerting London HQ, not in bed indulging in a thrust and parry with a female agent, a fact Napoleon would be quick to point out when he reviewed the eventual report. His partner would deliberately misconstrue the evening's events, smug grin in place. Every frown, every rolled eye, every exasperated sigh he had aimed at Napoleon would come back to haunt him.
Illya flipped over and pushed himself onto his knees. His head swam. The room lurched. A heartbeat thumped rapidly in his ear. It was not his own.
"Easy does it, tigronok."
"Pardon me," he said, lifting his head from Faustina's chest.
He dragged his uncooperative body to the headboard, the tight velvet pants, ones of her choosing, conspiring against him. Each pull of his muscles tugged at the bandage and the raw skin underneath. No one watching his ungainly progress would believe him a cat burglar of some repute. The one watching at the moment jerked her arms impatiently. "Stop that," he growled. "You will tighten them further."
The brass spindle anchoring her bonds was just beyond his grasp. He stretched over her, and her face disappeared beneath his chest. He did not bother to beg her pardon again.
"There's a button in my eye."
"Then I advise you not to open it." The heavily-starched shirt rasped against his chest as she shifted her face. He was not going to ask who had accomplished his change in wardrobe. What the ear did not hear, the heart could not grieve.
The spindle held fast to the wooden rails. He worked at the knot, the process of its unraveling clear in his mind. His beringed fingers felt clumsy and slow to respond. Beneath him, Faustina seethed with restlessness, likely casting aspersions on him continent by continent. "Stop thinking so loudly." At last, he disentangled the final twist of cord. Her shoulders sagged, and her groan of relief resonated against his sternum.
Illya rolled to the side and lay half-propped against the headboard. Faustina, presenting her bound wrists to him, snapped, "No wonder Partridge keeps slipping through your fingers."
Feeling the tremor in her hands, the frosty retort melted off his lips unspoken. Brazen remained an apt term but not in the way he would have applied it earlier. Anxiety fueled her flashing eyes and scalding tongue. She had a right to be concerned. They both did.
"Mr. Waverly will not be amused if it happens again," he admitted, applying himself to the more elaborate knot. "So Edith Partridge was behind this all along. Marsden would get her Latner, and Latner would get her Emory. Only now she offers me instead."
Her arms stiffened. "There is no conceit in my being of more interest to Thrush," he added quickly. "They are unlikely to have heard of you."
"True," she conceded. "The name Faustina Pemberley won't ring any bells."
A flick of his gaze caught her mouth flexed into its wry curve. "Although, in certain circles, it is likely to raise alarm," he said.
"Or raise hackles."
The knot seemed to require three hands to undo. He took a loose end of cord between his teeth and tugged, his lips brushing her palm. "Or raise...never mind."
"Raise Cain?"
Her face was a study of innocence, an expression, he decided, she applied as easily as she did a beauty mask. "Never. Mind."
"Spoilsport."
The knot came undone. As he pulled the cords from her wrists, she said, "Edith declared that knot inescapable."
"Luckily for you, I am highly dexterous." His quirked brows dared her to respond.
"So is Edith." She sat up, a spark of delight in her dishwater eyes, and began to work on his bonds. "She's going to double-cross Thrush. There's an island kingdom waiting for dear Emory, and we're its newest subjects."
"Chyort. We need to call Headquarters. I presume my communicator is gone."
"It wasn't in your jacket."
He watched Faustina's hands pluck at his restraints. So she had been the one to undress him. Relief was swept away by the disconcerting vision of her fingers releasing each button one by one, the varnished nails grazing a path down his skin. "That is getting us nowhere."
"Then stop glowering at me, and tell me what you want me to do."
A dangerous request. "Loosen that left piece, just there. No, your left. Now use your teeth. Wait, I will do it," he said, as her mouth neared his hands. Her widened eyes met his. "You bite."
He caught the cord in his teeth and spoke around it. "Pull the loop. The rest should be obvious."
"Easy for you to say."
He exhaled in satisfaction as his bonds loosened. He shook them from his wrists and hunched over to free his ankles. "It will have to be the window then. Between these cords and the bedsheets, we might have enough."
"There's another way," she said, working to untie herself.
Illya glanced at the door. "My claims of vainglory were sarcastic. When my file closes, I want it marked Pensioner, not H1." He cast aside a sense of déjà vu with a shake of his head. "I need you."
She grasped the piece of cord he indicated. "I meant the secret door."
"Hah. It is never that simple." He undid the knot with her assistance and moved to reciprocate.
"Of course, a responsible manager would have sealed it up…"
He barely heard her. She awaited his help, unaware or unconcerned that her dress had slipped down her steepled legs. Beldon had said there was not a shy bone in her body, a practical quality for a field agent. He himself could not be accused of an overdeveloped sense of modesty, as many UNCLE Medical personnel would attest. And he was no callow youth to get a cheap thrill from the site of a woman's undergarments. So he would ignore them—the sheer blue stockings that gave way to silken skin, the black lace garters that disappeared beneath the iridescent hem—and focus on untying her.
"But let's hope in this case he cut corners," she finished, pulling off the cords.
Illya sat back and looked in her face. She was serious. "What are you talking about?"
"Shhh." She pressed a finger to his lips and pointed. Two narrow shadows broke the arc of light that streamed under the door. Someone stood on the other side.
Faustina dropped her hand and gestured to the wall beside the door. Understanding her meaning, Illya slid from the bed. He picked up the chair and carefully wedged it under the door handle.
He turned back to find her tugging at the wardrobe. She waved him over. "Help me move this," she breathed.
He looked at her incredulously. "Is it not customary to go through it?"
She ignored him and continued to pull the heavy cabinet away from the wall. It tipped toward her. Illya quickly righted it. He pantomimed some directions, and they shifted one side a few feet so the wardrobe spanned the room's corner.
They shimmied along the wall into the space behind. There was the door, just as she had said, a twin to the suite's entrance. For once it was going to be that easy. He had met a girl, an infuriating, exhilarating girl, and the girl had a door. But it was never that easy.
He could think of only a few purposes for a practically soundproof room with a clandestine entrance. "Which MP will be resigning this time?" he said icily.
"None." She grasped the handle and leaned back, letting her weight pull the door more tightly into the frame. With her other hand, she turned the deadbolt.
"Oh, I see. There was no impropriety in your relationship."
She looked at him over her shoulder with self-mocking amusement. "True, in this case, though it couldn't be said of all of them."
She pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness. Light flickered on. Her hand reappeared, a crooked finger beckoning him to follow.
It was all too convenient. Was she trustworthy? If she were working with Thrush or the Partridges, effecting this escape would be counter-productive…unless she were playing an even deeper game.
Emory Partridge's baritone, muffled but recognizable, reached Illya's ears. Pocketing his doubts, he crossed the threshold and shut the door behind them.