His earlier misgivings had been misplaced. Within moments of their arrival, she was chatting amiably with Lisa Rogers and Margaret Waverly—who was sharing photos of young children he assumed must be the Waverly's grandchildren. The women shared a laugh then immediately looked at him in a way that left no doubt he'd been the topic of their conversation.
The weather, he mouthed to her which drew a melodic laugh. She rejoined him a few minutes later.
"Dare I ask what you and your new friends found so amusing?"
"Apparently, this Napoleon person bet Lisa fifty dollars you'd show up alone with some ridiculously lame excuse for not having a date—and Mags said you and Napoleon have the worst case of sibling rivalry she's ever seen."
"Mags?"
"Mrs. Waverly, she said I should call her 'Mags'."
"I see."
"The servers are filling the waterglasses—they'll be sitting us down to dinner soon. I'm going to go powder my nose."
"Your nose looks fine."
His attempt at a compliment was rewarded with an exasperated eyeroll, "That's posh speak for 'I'm hittin' the head', boy-o."
"Don't be long."
He watched as she walked away and didn't fail to notice the admiring glances of men as she passed by, feeling an illogical sense of validation that his woman was coveted by others –and a strangely unsettling sense of betrayal as a few men nodded as if they knew her when she passed. He didn't want to think too hard about how she might know them. It was preposterous, of course, she was not 'his' and her attractiveness didn't in any way reflect on who he was. He would be glad when this evening was over.
"Good evening," Napoleon said to no one in particular as he arrived at the table with a tall, willowy blonde on his arm. She didn't seem familiar, though Illya had long ago stopped paying attention to the seemingly endless stream of young lovelies who occupied his partner's free time.
"Carolyn Johnston, this is my business partner, Illya Kuryakin."
"Lovely to meet you, Carolyn," he said.
"And where is your dinner companion this evening, tovarishch?" he asked with a smug smile.
Kuryakin briefly entertained the idea of stringing his partner along with a series of fabricated excuses then pull the rug out from under him when Moira returned, but he saw her making her way back to the table chatting and laughing with several of the young women from the support staff.
"There is an old Ukrainian proverb, my friend: don't count your fifty-dollar chicken until it's hatched."
Napoleon responded with a baffled frown.
"Sorry, sweetheart," Moira said as she planted a light kiss on his cheek. "Girl talk in the powder room." She turned her gaze to Napoleon. "Hmmmm, devastatingly handsome and fashionably late, you must be the partner I've heard so much about. Napoleon?"
"Solo, and I'm disappointed to have heard absolutely nothing about you…Miss?"
"Murtagh, Moira Murtagh."
"Well, I'm delighted to meet you, Miss Murtagh."
"That's gracious of you to say given you've just lost fifty dollars, and it's Moira, please. I suppose you're planning on introducing your companion before the evening's over?"
"Yes," he responded, uncharacteristically flustered. "Carolyn Johnston, this is Moira Murtagh."
"Your dress is absolutely exquisite, Moira," Carolyn said. "Is it a Madame Matilde?"
"Why yes, it is. Illya took me to her shop this afternoon. Between you and me I think he was a bit anxious about me making a good impression on his friends tonight."
"I've seen some of her designs in Vogue. You have excellent taste, Illya."
"Carolyn is a fashion model," Napoleon interjected.
"That's why you look so familiar," Moira said, "I've seen your billboards for Givenchy downtown. It's a pleasure to meet you in person."
"Ladies and gentlemen," a man's voice came over the PA system. If we would all take our seats, dinner service is about to begin. I'd like to ask our honored guest, Vicar General for the Archdiocese of New York Auxiliary Bishop John Mahoney to lead us in a short prayer."
To Illya's dismay Napoleon seated himself next to Moira; his partner was like a dog with a bone and would no doubt spend the evening attempting to inveigle some juicy titbit about Kuryakin's personal life which would, he had no doubt, come back to haunt him later.
"I noticed you signed yourself at the end of the Bishop's prayer," Napoleon said as he passed her a small crystal bowl of salad dressing. "You're a Catholic?"
"I am-sort of a sore subject with himself the godless heathen there," she said as she passed the bowl to Illya. "I've only myself to blame. When Sister Ramona had us praying to Mary for the conversion of the Communists in Russia, I was busy passing notes to my classmates.
"Yourself, now, Napoleon Solo, am I detecting a trace of the retired altar boy about you?"
Napoleon broke into a hearty laugh. "Long retired, but yes, I went to Catholic school growing up. So, how did you two lovebirds meet?"
"We met in Mexico," she said placing her hand on Illya's forearm. "He took me for a helicopter ride as the sun was setting and he held my hand all night." She sighed and fluttered her eyelashes. "It was so romantic—needless to say I was hopelessly smitten."
"Now that Rasputin isn't keeping you in hiding anymore maybe we can all get together?"
"Perhaps—we don't get a lot of free time together so I don't like to make plans. I've been swamped with work and of course I don't have to tell you, Napoleon, how time consuming the importing business can be."
"It's supposed to be a lovely weekend—I was planning on spending a few hours out on my yacht this Sunday. Say, why don't the two of you join me. We could cruise up the coast, get some sun, have some cocktails, maybe find a nice place for dinner?"
"That sounds like fun—I've never actually been on any sort of boat, unless you count the ferry—and of course they don't serve cocktails."
Illya felt a knot tightening in his stomach…hubris, he'd flown too close to the sun believing that he'd get this past Napoleon—but Moira had walked right into his partner's trap.
"Well, he's not going to like me tellin' tales out of school, but your man here gets seasick in the bathtub", she said with a soft laugh, "I can't imagine he'd last five minutes on the actual ocean. Besides, Mags has invited us to brunch Sunday afternoon."
She turned to Illya. "I told her I had to check with you first, of course, and see if you were free Sunday."
"Mags?" Napoleon asked.
"Margaret Waverly," Kuryakin responded.
"The Waverlys? The Waverlys invited you to brunch?"
"Apparently so." The brief flash of envy in Napoleon's eyes brought a fission of pleasure followed by a disquieting feeling Mags Waverly apparently knew him and his partner far better than he would have imagined.
Kuryakin leaned close and whispered into her ear, "And how much would this brunch cost me?"
"Well," she responded, touching her finger to her lips and lowering her voice, "Sunday, we're looking at a time and a half situation—and, of course, carfare."
"Unless I can rob a bank tomorrow, I'll need to take a pass on brunch," he responded. "How did you know about the seasickness?"
"I had myself a bit of a fact-finding mission on the way to the lou with your mates. I asked each of them to tell me one thing about you the others didn't know. Your blood type is B Negative, penicillin makes you, and I quote, 'swell up like a duckbill platypus', you play the French horn, and that even though you served in the Russian Navy you suffer incapacitating bouts of seasickness."
"You got all of that on a trip to the restroom?"
"Yes. Oh, and just in case it comes up in conversation, you sleep in the nude and I just found out you're thinking of surprising me with a cat for my birthday."
"I thought we had established parameters for 'small talk'."
"You have to give something to get something—it's a female bonding thing."
He found himself feeling a begrudging attraction toward her, which, of course was totally inappropriate to their circumstances.
"So, should it come up in conversation, when is this birthday of yours and what sort of cat?"