"Might I trouble you for a refill, mon petit chou," Angelique said, raising her coffee cup, "that is, if it doesn't offend your Soviet sensibilities."
Holding the coffee pot, Illya's eyes narrowed as he turned to her. It took every ounce of self-control to not bring the pot crashing down on her meticulously coiffed head.
"Napoleon, he is glowering at me again," she said as Illya poured coffee into her cup. She crossed her legs, swinging one toreador trousered leg.
"Don't scowl, Illya, it's rude. And while you're up, I'd like some coffee, too. Thanks." Napoleon was enjoying this far too much. It seemed unbelievable that the man who had risked his own life carrying a wounded Illya to safety more than once could also be amused by that tart's mocking comments.
It was the afternoon of the third day of Illya's abuse at the hands of the venomous serpent of a woman. They'd been stuck in a safe house guarding Angelique who had given them valuable information on THRUSH's planned deployment of contaminants into the water sources for several cities.
Angelique had given them the details, not out of altruism, but more likely as some kind of scheme to better her position. Angelique hadn't an altruistic bone in her body. U.N.C.L.E. had agreed to keep her safe until the action was complete and those who might retaliate against her were out of commission.
At least that was one of the reasons. Angelique was completely capable of pulling a double cross and selling out U.N.C.L.E. before the operation could be accomplished, so the partner's secondary assignment was making sure she didn't communicate with the outside world. It would be another few days before they could escape this two-bedroom ranch style nightmare.
Illya poured himself some coffee and took a seat at the table. There was entirely too much idle time on this assignment. Inactivity had always been difficult for him but with the added stressor of Angelique, it was excruciating.
He opened a physics periodical and bent over it. Angelique took advantage of his inattention to run her fingers through his hair. His shoulders stiffened and he fought the urge to slap her hand away. "So silky," she sighed. "So pretty. Almost as pretty as mine."
"My color is natural," he said, raising his eyes to again glower at her. "Can you say the same?"
"You really are the most unpleasant little man. I don't know how Napoleon tolerates your attitude," she said. "I'm going to my room for a little rest. Let me know when dinner is ready."
"We will be sure to do that," Napoleon said with a smile.
The two partners had handled all of the household tasks, splitting the cooking and cleaning. Angelique, the houseguest from hell, lifted not any of her prettily manicured fingers. She left detritus in her wake like a careless toddler. Thank god, they did not have to share a bathroom with her. Illya felt pity for the cleaning person who would have to deal with whatever rat's nest Angelique would leave behind.
After the bedroom door closed behind her, Napoleon said, "You shouldn't let her get to you, my friend. She enjoys it far too much."
"The woman paws at me like a bear with a bag of sweets," Illya grumbled, raking his hands through his hair. "I do not understand how you can stand her, much less make love to that black widow spider. If she devours you after sex, do not complain to me."
"It might just be worth the risk," Napoleon replied with a chuckle.
"What is Angelique's angle, do you think? Acting as an informant is a dangerous move." Illya put his empty coffee cup in the sink.
"A calculated risk? I suspect she's angling to move up a few rungs on the THRUSH ladder. We remove her superiors, and she takes advantage of the vacuum that results. I'm sure she has covered her tracks well, leaving U.N.C.L.E. to kill or capture anyone who might threaten her."
"That sounds diabolically accurate," Illya said as he went into the living room and gathered up the cups, plates and glasses left behind by his nemesis. He carried them into the kitchen to wash them.
As far as Illya knew, Napoleon hadn't gone further than a bit of innuendo and flattery with Angelique. The partners shared a room, and a life of danger had left Illya with a habit of sleeping lightly. Napoleon was quite scrupulous about doing his job and kept his liaisons to off duty time. But close proximity to a willing sexual partner must have been a real challenge.
This was not the partners' first assignment as the protection detail in a safe house. They'd guarded politicians, foreign dignitaries and scientists, including one Nobel Prize winner. None of them had been as obnoxious as the inaccurately named Angelique.
Napoleon was an accomplished cook, so he handled dinner each night. The crew that maintained the safe house had laid in provisions to feed them for days. The food was fresh, plentiful and varied, but Angelique did not feel the selection was elegant enough for her rarified taste. For dinner that night, Napoleon had roasted a beef ribeye, filling the house with an appetizing scent. Illya was sure she would complain that it was not Chateaubriand.
Angelique presented herself in a red chiffon dress with a plunging neckline. "I see I'm the only one who dressed for dinner," she said from the doorway. Both men were dressed in trousers and shirts, a turtleneck in Illya's case.
"Our faux pas," Napoleon said. "We didn't pack dinner jackets."
Napoleon had roasted potatoes along with the beef. Green beans almondine completed the meal on the table.
Dinner passed with only minimal comments from Angelique. They drank a very nice cabernet with their meal. Illya and Napoleon kept their intake modest, but Angelique had no work restrictions and had considerably more than the men. Her cheeks were quite pink, and her conversation more lubricated than usual.
Illya wondered if she was hoping Napoleon would visit her bedroom that night. She was a highly sexed woman, and it must have been frustrating for her to be in close proximity to a regular lover without a resulting tryst. She certainly seemed to be attempting to entice him.
"Cheri, where was the most unusual place we've been together?" she asked Napoleon over dessert.
Napoleon nearly choked on his coffee. "I'm assuming you don't mean together in the same city."
"You know what I mean, darling" she purred, running a finger along the back of his hand.
Illya fought a smile as he devoted himself to his rather large slice of cheesecake.
"I suppose in the elevator at the Palmer House in Chicago." Napoleon laughed, remembering.
"You were so impatient, cheri," she said. "What on earth did that couple think when the elevator got to the 20th floor and the door opened?"
"That poor woman screamed and then fainted."
"She was probably jealous. Her escort looked like a fumbler. Darling, do you remember the catamaran on San Juan Bay?"
"Vividly," Napoleon replied. "You insisted on making love on the back deck. I thought we were going to slide off into the bay."
Illya toyed with the idea of escaping this awkward trip down a carnal memory lane. Angelique would probably see it as a victory, driving him out of the room. She had always implied that he was a cold fish, a sad sexless creature.
"Remember the rainy night in Toronto when we ducked into that movie theater and went up to the balcony?" Napoleon said. "There was a noisy war movie with John Wayne playing. Luckily it masked our sounds."
"That wasn't me," Angelique said, frostily, downing the last of the wine in her glass.
And suddenly, Illya thought, the conversation had become interesting again. He very much hoped that Napoleon had done that on purpose.
"That was inexcusable. I apologize, my sweet." Napoleon said.
"You remembered the rain and John Wayne, but you couldn't remember who you screwed in the balcony?" She crossed her arms and glared at him.
"Undoubtedly I was imagining you as I made love to whoever she was," Napoleon said. "But turnabout, as they say, is fair play. Why don't you torture me with the most unusual place where you made love to someone other than me?"
An evil little smile played over Angelique's lips. "Maybe I will, mon amour. Let me think," she said, making love to a bite of cheesecake. "Ah yes. In the gentleman's fitting room at Saks Fifth Avenue. Your turn," she purred.
"Hot air balloon over Vermont." Napoleon extended his open palm to Angelique.
She licked her lips, rather like a cat who had tipped over a cream pitcher. "In the stacks of the New York Public Library."
"Back to me, I see," Napoleon said. "On Edgar Allan Poe's grave, one foggy night in Baltimore. What can I say? The young lady was a Poe fan. You're up."
It seemed as if the two contestants in the contest for the most debauched had forgotten he was still present. Illya may have been a captive audience to this insane game of "can you top this," but he was also mesmerized by the competition.
"Hmmmm,. Oh dear, this one is quite wicked." Angelique actually blushed, which Illya would not have thought possible. "In a church confessional."
"With a priest?" Napoleon gasped.
"A lady must keep some details to herself," she said, demurely.
Illya snorted, drawing her attention.
"Oh Napoleon, we have been rude, completely ignoring Illya," Angelique said. "Though I can't imagine our little eunuque has anything to offer on the subject."
"Angelique." Napoleon said sharply. "That's out of line and I won't tolerate it."
Angelique's gaze dropped, and it appeared that she might have realized she'd gone too far.
"Don't worry, Napoleon," Illya said. "I expect nothing less from Angelique. She can only be who she is. But actually, I do have an entry for this contest." He waited a beat for dramatic emphasis. "On the stage of the Moulin Rouge in Paris."
Both Napoleon and Angelique sat at the table with their mouths open as Illya rose from his chair. "Good night," he said with a stiff bow.
They didn't need to know that it had been with a Sorbonne classmate who worked as a coat check girl and that it had been five in the morning when the theater was closed, and the cleaning crew had gone home.
Some evenings, Illya would hang around the cloak room with Delphine, who was bright and pretty. His college rooms were poorly heated, and the cloak room was warm. One night Delphine confessed a torrid fantasy to be made love to onstage. Really, what could he have done, but satisfy that desire within her. A delightful memory. He smiled as he sauntered off to bed.