Chapter 4

Emma backed up against the brick wall of the cage like a cornered animal. But secretly, she wanted the maximum maneuvering room should her captor be foolish enough to come inside to confront her. A wry grin crept across her face as the man with the black moustache entered the cage and locked the door behind him, boldly displaying the key to her.

"I have orders not to kill you," he said with a sinister smile. "But that doesn't mean I can't teach you a lesson."

He charged at her, and Emma stood perfectly still, waiting until he was within range to unleash two wicked karate chops. The man effortlessly shrugged them aside, and bulled directly into her body, slamming her against the brick wall. She felt the breath get knocked out of her as the man stepped back to gloat in his success.

While still pretending to be out of breath, Emma sprang at him, punching with a closed fist at the soft spot near his stomach. But he had steeled his abdominal muscles, and the area she made contact with was unyielding and undisturbed. She danced back out of range just in time to duck a hammerfist blow that would have surely sent her into unconsciousness. Why did I leave the Beretta back in the hotel room? she thought. She hurled the electric fan at his head; he easily batted it away.

Trying to maintain her distance from his powerful punches, Emma did a dazzling spin kick, swinging her foot around in a high arc to land solidly on the side of his head. Perhaps his stunned state explained why he foolishly tried to match her move for move, unleashing a high kick aimed directly at her face.

With lightning reflexes, Emma dodged to the side and grabbed his ankle, holding it suspended near her left shoulder. The man then realized that he had stupidly left himself vulnerable, with his left foot on the ground and his right foot five feet in the air, his legs spread wide and his groin defenseless.

Emma saw the opening, and before he could thrust his hands below his waist to cover himself, she fired a devastating snap kick directly into the junction between his legs. He let out a whimpering groan and his body went limp for a second, and Emma knew that her counter-attack had temporarily taken all the fight out of him. She released his ankle and he slid helplessly to the floor, dropping the key as he pressed his hands between his thighs. Just in case he was faking, Emma pulled the key away with her toe to a safe distance before snatching it up.

As she headed for the door of the cage, she looked down at the man's face. Suddenly, the black hair and moustache were familiar. It was the KGB man from Tokyo, the one who had been trying to stop Marina's defection. Emma sprinted out of the cage, hearing the door lock behind her as she kicked it close.

The man was up and staggering towards the cage door, one hand still cupping his hopelessly pain-racked yaitsa. He thrust his other hand through the bars just inches away from Emma's face. She danced playfully out of his reach to the opposite brick wall. Her eyes lit up at what she encountered there.

A large canvas hose was coiled around a water valve, probably used for washing down larger animals. She spun the handle and was delighted to see it balloon with the pressure.

"Remember me?" she smiled innocently. She aimed the nozzle at him.

The force of the water caused him to him retreat to the opposite bars as she let the stream play over his body. Emma couldn't help but laugh girlishly at the delicious irony of it all.

A few moments later, Emma spun the handle back to shut off the water. The spluttering KGB man roared angrily and ran back to rattle the bars of the cage door. She dangled the key in front of him, just inches out of his grasp.

"Lesson learned," she teased.

-oOo-

Steed carefully examined the inside wall of the vat. There was a wooden access door that must have been securely bolted from the outside. He quickly removed his bowler and placed his fist just inside the metal crown. After a few fierce punches aimed directly at the center of the door, he heard the wood creak and give. After a few more punches, he realized that it would take fifteen minutes or more to break through the door; the speed of the descending press indicated he had less than three.

Several small holes were located on the wall of the teak vat near the floor where liquid could drain out. Steed got down on his hands and knees and peered through one. Off to one side, he could see the control box for the press. He moved over a few holes until he found one directly in line with the hydraulic hose, only a foot away.

Steed gave his umbrella handle a twist, and pulled free a two-foot long sword blade. It was so thin that it might be too flexible. He poked the blade through the hole and started sawing at the hydraulic line. The hose kept dancing away from the flexing blade; but within a minute, the blade started to bite in, and he achieved a small trickle of pink fluid. The sight cheered him on, and he doubled his efforts.

It soon became clear that the press was no longer descending any closer, but Steed kept sawing away at the hose until it was completely severed. He still had a foot of headroom on his hands and knees when the machine became completely inoperable. Now safely out of danger, he set back to work on the access door with the steel crown of his bowler. His original estimate wasn't far off; he broke through in twelve minutes.

-oOo-

Emma returned to the hotel, but Steed was nowhere to be found. Probably still spitting into buckets down at the winery, she thought. Her mouth wrinkled into a wry grin as she looked at the risqué outfit hanging on the back of the chair. She quickly slipped out of her leathers and donned the satin panties, velvet skirt, and see-through top.

She attached her garter holster to her thigh, fondly wishing Steed had been there to adjust it, just like he had that morning. Then she loaded up the Beretta and slipped it smoothly into its nesting place. After one last look in the mirror, she tiptoed down the two flights of stairs and stealthily slipped past the manager. She could only imagine what his reaction would be if he saw her dressed like this. Once in the street, she quickly strolled over to the promenade in the Bois, where she no longer looked out of place at all.

A young pixie-like girl was strutting down the avenue dressed in a lace halter and a pink satin miniskirt. Her jet-black hair was cut in a short bob, and she wore high-heeled leather boots that reached up past her knees. She stopped to stare at Emma's torso through the translucent fabric of the camisole.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Emma."

"Mine is Mimi." She nodded approvingly. "You should do well here, Emma. You have perfect breasts."

"Er—thank you," Emma answered awkwardly, resisting the urge to cover her chest in embarrassment. "Is there someone in charge here?"

Mimi arched her eyebrow. "Do you mean, is there a souteneur that owns all the girls here? Yes."

"I'd like to meet him," Emma declared.

"No, you wouldn't. But you will have to meet him anyway, if you want to work in the Bois."

"I'm new in town," Emma said, adjusting the slit in her skirt to cover the Beretta more surely.

Mimi laughed. "I figured that out myself. But our souteneur is new in town, as well. He just arrived here two weeks ago. Now, he is taking over everything."

"What does he look like?"

"Very dark hair. And his eyes—they are whitish-blue. Like ice."

Emma lapsed into melancholy as she briefly thought of Peter. "Is he handsome?"

"Many women would think so. But I can see that he is cruel. His name is Pierre LaTour."

Their conversation was briefly interrupted as a young man walked by, looking to be barely eighteen years of age. He stopped to ogle Emma's camisole. While Mimi wasn't looking, Emma bared her teeth and narrowed her eyes menacingly at the prospective customer. He hurried along. Emma turned back to Mimi. She had seen it after all.

"You have what we call a 'beaucoup de tempérament', Emma."

"Does LaTour come around here often?"

"No, mam'selle. He has, how do you say—lackeys—to do such things."

"Then how can I meet this souteneur?"

"He can usually be found at a nightclub that he has taken charge of. It is called La Chatte Ronronne. Just a few blocks west of the Bois."

"Are women allowed into this nightclub?" Emma innocently asked.

"Mais oui! Most of us girls work a shift several nights a week at La Chatte. Pierre tells us it is a good way to meet high-class customers." Mimi conspiratorially touched her hand to Emma's arm and moved closer. "If you want a job there, just stop by and ask, wearing what you have on now. They will not refuse your lovely pink fleurs."

Emma self-consciously covered her chest at the assertion. Mimi merely laughed and continued on her way.

Two hours later, which seemed much longer due to her discomfiture, Emma had learned no more. All of the other ladies steered well clear of her, some casting jealous glances as they walked by. Emma was forced to frighten off all of her prospective male customers; their eagerness was such that none of them looked as if they could carry on a conversation with her without requiring physical restraint.

Emma took comfort in the warm steel of the Beretta tucked against her thigh as she headed back to the hotel. She was confident of her hand-to-hand abilities, but if an opponent was armed, or there were several of them, the Jetfire would help even the odds.

She had stopped by the nightclub on her way back. There, a matronly woman with a stern expression had explained all of the rules that the waitresses were expected to follow, and handed her a bag containing the ridiculous costume that they were all expected to wear.

When she crept back into the hotel room, Beretta at the ready, the overactive radiator was generating its usual sauna. The room was absolutely sweltering. Steed was sprawled on the bed asleep, shirtless. Lazy bones, she thought. I wonder if his trap was as difficult as mine. She briefly considered waking him just for spite, but she felt shy about appearing before him in the sheer nylon camisole with her bare breasts so prominently on display.

She noticed his undershirt was neatly folded again in its usual position over the back of the chair. Meant for her, perhaps? Emma slipped off the camisole and slipped on the undershirt, once again letting its comforting smell wash over her. The shirt bore a delicate odor of grapes. She smirked. Steed had probably spent all day sipping rare vintages and conversing with bespectacled winemasters.

Emma pulled down her burgundy velvet skirt and kicked it away with a bare foot. She was so tired when she crawled into bed next to Steed, she forgot that she wasn't wearing any slip, only the pink satin panties that he had picked out for her earlier that day.

-oOo-

Emma awoke, shivering. The steam heat seemed to have given out, and it was now ice-cold in the room. Only one part of her body felt warm. She looked downward to discover the reason.

Steed now spooned her in bed, fast asleep. His arm rested on her waist, and his right hand was plunged shamelessly between her thighs. The palm of his hand was incredibly warm against her most intimate place, separated only by the thin fabric of her panties.

Steed stirred in his sleep and his hand gently squeezed her; she nearly bit her lower lip from the pleasant sensation. His fingertips gave a light caress before settling back into stillness. A moan nearly escaped Emma's lips. This must be how he was used to sleeping with Rita. She thrilled at the thought that it might have been meant just for her, but it was probably just force of habit.

Peter had been a dutiful husband, but afterwards, he always retired to his side of the bed. She wasn't used to sleeping in such close proximity to a man, and certainly wasn't used to having the flower of her womanhood held in such a way. She carefully eased her thighs apart another inch, and to her delight, Steed reaffirmed his grip. This time, she couldn't help giving a contented sigh.

Emma delicately reached down so as not to disturb Steed, and tugged the blanket up over them against the chill. Then, slowly, she moved her hand down until it covered his.

-oOo-

When she woke up in the morning, her head was resting on Steed's chest again. The two of them must have shifted sleeping positions during the night; but she was positive she remembered waking to an intense erotic contact. Hadn't she? Perhaps it had only been a dream. Steed stirred beneath her, and she moved away quickly, not wanting to be found clinging to him.

Steed smiled. "Good morning, Mrs. Peel. How was your trap yesterday?"

"I was only in it for a little while," she answered breezily.

"I knew you had been captured," Steed remarked, thinking about the pocket watch he had seen at the winery.

"And I knew they had you," she smirked, thinking about the bowler. "But I figured you wouldn't stay trapped. You're made from a rare vintage, Steed."

"The reverse was almost true," he said with a grin. "I imagine you easily escaped from the zoo."

"I know you're not supposed to tease the animals," Emma confessed. "But there was this water hose... and an old acquaintance."

Steed lifted an eyebrow. "Our KGB friends from Tokyo were there?"

"One of them was, the one with the moustache."

"That figures. The man that tried to kill me may have been The Ladja himself."

"Oh, Steed! Did you recognize him?"

Steed shook his head. "I didn't recognize his voice. If he used to work for the Ministry, I never met him."

"What about his face?"

"He was wearing a mask with a chessboard on it," Steed answered wryly.

"The Ladja seems to have no shortage of ego," she commented, sliding out of bed. Steed followed her over to the writing desk, where her clothes were draped on the chair.

"Did you find out anything on the street last night?" he asked.

Emma blushed as she remembered her nocturnal excursion in the transparent camisole. Involuntarily, her nipples hardened in Steed's undershirt, and she moved her arms up to hide them. But Steed was only looking at her eyes.

"The girls say there's a new 'Mr. Big' in town," she announced. "His name's Pierre LaTour."

Steed's eyes widened. "They call him La Tour?"

"Yes. Does that mean anything?"

"'The Tower'," Steed nodded. "It's the French word for 'Rook'."

"The Ladja," she said resolutely.

"It's a fair bet," he responded. "Where can we find this LaTour?"

"He runs a nightclub. I dropped in and they're going to let me work tonight, as a trial."

"Excellent; I'll stop by this evening. At least you'll get one good tip."

"It's a place called La Chatte Ronronne," she explained.

Steed grinned. "The Purring Pussy?"

Emma turned around to face him. She had donned two small furry ears, which peeked above her dark auburn hair.

He smiled broadly. "You get to wear a costume! And how about the purr?"

She let out a low and sexy trill. Steed's eyes twinkled.

"I'm afraid I'm fresh out of catnip," he said. "Would you settle for a saucer of milk?"

-oOo-