Fontainebleau Hotel
Miami Beach, Florida
September 1964
Jill's prince had come.
She only knew a few things about him.
The way he charmed her, even if she was startled by his sudden appearance on the balcony of the suite she shared with Mr. Goldfinger.
The cheeky way with which he made her boss stop cheating at gin, finally making him lose to the perpetual self-proclaimed schlemiel Simmons.
The man's stream of witticisms... even the corny ones.
His height. His broad shoulders. His dark features. Probably descended from the Romans when they arrived in the British Isles, or perhaps from refugees of the Spanish Armada. Whatever it was, he had to have heroic, adventurous blood within him.
His name. James.
Jill lay on her stomach, her feet slowly rubbing against each other in the air. She propped her head on her hands and smiled at the man who had rescued her earlier that day. Rescued her from the strange world she had inhabited for several years with Mr. Goldfinger. A world she described very briefly to Michael Corleone over a year before. A world from which he did not whisk her away.
Her mind drifted back to that day, when she met Mr. Corleone. Perhaps she could have gotten him to open his heart completely to her, but it was impossible. He seemed focused too much on business, whatever it was Goldfinger was considering. Had he been hurt too many times? The tragic deaths of his brothers. His wife and children leaving him. Other friends and family passing on...
Mais, qu'importe? That was the past. James had become her present, and would likely be her future. They had already shared a bed that afternoon, bringing forth years of emotions and sensations that she had suppressed for Mr. Goldfinger's sake. Whenever she got around to it, anything she told James about the ways in which she satisfied her employer's proclivities would make no difference.
If he were a warm, kind man, of course.
Considering how he surreptitiously entered Goldfinger's suite, perhaps James was a private investigator who already knew some things about him. Jill had already become concerned about Goldfinger's apparently secretive activities. They remained vague, but she would cooperate in any way she could to help her newly-found prince.
James walked to the kitchen of the hotel suite to which he had taken Jill. Time for something to drink. Perhaps Dom Perignon '53, chilled to the correct temperature. No higher.
"That's just as bad as listening to the Beatles without earmuffs," he opined for good measure.
A few more new things about James. A connoisseur of fine drink. Not keen on whatever the kids were listening to (though he was somewhere in his mid-30s, anyway). Able to get a suite at one of the best hotels in Miami Beach.
With some drink, and with the informalities now out of the way, she could learn even more about the man whom she had begun to like.
More than anyone I've met in a long time. James.
A massive shadow fell on the bed in front of Jill.
Before Jill could react, her scream was muffled by a cloth pressed violently against her mouth and nose. Recognizing the strength of the other hand pressing against her, positioned at the bottom of her spine, she knew that struggle would be futile.
For the few seconds she remained conscious, Jill eyed the wall obscuring the kitchen. As everything faded, she hoped that James would come around the corner.
Throw the bottle, maybe.
She would wake up, and find her prince leaning over her...
His neck and shoulders stiffened in pain, he winced and rolled to his side as consciousness returned.
Staggering as he lifted himself up, he studiously tried avoiding the broken glass of the bottle he dropped when an apparent Judo chop was delieved to the back of his neck. He began to survey the kitchen for any hints about what had happened, walking towards the main room of the suite.
"Jill?" he called.
No answer.
Maybe she did it as a prank, though showing her knowledge of martial arts seemed a hell of way of getting better acquainted.
Pushing the thought out of mind, he a began to notice a strong odour that had filled the suite.
Like paint.
But would they be doing that at night? Only Americans would...
Peering into the dim light of the main room, he noticed Jill lying on the bed. Perhaps she had fallen asleep.
Or...
He flipped the room's main light switch.
During his years with MI6, he had seen many people killed in a number of ways. However, nothing prepared him for the sight of a nude corpse, sparkling brilliantly after having been covered in gold paint. He took a few seconds to take in the reailty of Jill's death, as well as to imagine how exactly it transpired. He also began to contemplate the apparent ruthlessness of the seemingly convivial and jocular man whom he suspected of ordering or committing Jill's murder. Nonetheless, he had to set aside a burgeoning mixture of emotions. Things needed to be done.
Confirm that she is dead.
Contact Felix.
Anticipate M's wrath.
He had gotten quite good at it: No time for tears.
He learned that after Vesper.