Section I, Next Section
This time, Cupid is armed and REALLY dangerous...I mean it!
*Contrary to the title's implications, the story does not occur in space. She's just THAT good.*Agent Cottontail, tall, blonde, and very lethal, had lived a happy life of twenty-eight years, with very little that annoyed her, save for the first 18 years.*induced by my imaginations of Grosse Pointe Blank, a movie that I have heard entirely too little about and will probably watch after finishing this story and misrepresenting everyone grossly.*
And she would go to hell and kiss the devil's foot (though some claimed she already had) before going back into that again.
Toweling herself off, she wrapped a brightly colored sarong around her slender waist, and put on her Hepburn-esque sunglasses. She strolled across the pool area to the café, catching the eye of many a man, and took a seat in the shade of the large sun umbrella, across the lacquered table from a suspicious-looking but uncommonly handsome man in all black. (It's a spy story, so most of the people have to be uncommonly gorgeous and beautiful...just following rules.)
The man was out of place in his surroundings. The black stood out of the colorful and glitzy Acapulco resort garishly, letting the attention of the casual observer focus momentarily on the meeting.
Cottontail swigged out of her bottle of Perrier, and scoffed the attentions of the curious eyes that rested on the meeting. Why try to hide it? Only people who had secrets actually looked secretive.
"Well?" the man's folded hands across the table were clenched tightly in agitation. Apparently, he'd heard the rumors of Cottontail's skills...she smirked inwardly. Did he think she'd cut off his hands like she did to the man in Calcutta? Did he think that she'd manage to get him stranded in a jungle like she did to a partner a year ago in Africa? Did he think she'd blatantly pull out a pistol and shoot him like she had done to others, many times in her career?
She laughed richly, making him jump. Amusement twisted her lips into a smile that scared the courier. "Tell your boss to take his deal and shove it up his--"
He interrupted, trying to gain ground, which dismally failed, as his voice trailed off near the end of his speech. "You forget, Ms. Cottontail, my boss has gotten you out of many situations, the most recent being the fiasco in Turkey, which took a while..."
Ah, she sighed back in her lounge chair, remembering her latest, involving being caught in the hotel room that she was about to bomb, with the corpse of the man she'd just killed, quite creatively, with a nail file and a low-profile perfume laced with a poison she'd developed an immunity for, but he, unfortunately, had not. It was a novice mistake, and she'd berated herself a whole ten seconds before gathering her wits and alibis. The dumb blonde mistress testimony worked like a charm, as it usually did. She sat back, relaxed and pulled her sunglasses down her nose, reveling her electric blue eyes. The man reached for the gun hidden in his jacket, nervously trying to gain courage. She smirked. "Budapest was my own doing. I was getting out on my own. They had nothing on me..."
"The legal proceedings..." he swallowed, and persisted.
She checked her well-manicured nails. "Your boss only hastened the inevitable. I knew Interpol was after me. I had everything under control."
"My boss..." he croaked.
They got stupider and stupider. She hissed to make him coil into that nervous spring position of his, and kept the amusement, this time, hidden. "I have no obligations to your boss."
"Ms. Cottontail, I would at least listen to the deal..."
"I would not care for it. There is no way I will go to Highbury," Cottontail simply stated. "I hate suburbs. Believe me, there are no military secrets, no fascinating people, and the only incriminating evidence I would uncover would be what the social cats have on each other..."
"We are not after intelligence this time, Ms. Cottontail."
Agent Cottontail paused in lifting the bottle to her lips. If not intelligence... "I only kill people I don't like..." she narrowed her eyes on him, caressing the bottle in the manner that made him nervous.
The courier swallowed again, breathed deeply, and proceeded to speak slowly. She only killed people she didn't like. He certainly hoped she liked him. Please don't let me die. Please don't let me die. "It isn't an assassination. Not really..."
"What are the goods?" she asked, leaning forward against the table, hands gripped on the edges.
"Stolen diamonds. Please don't shoot! I beg of you!" he yelled, covering his eyes.
Silence. He counted to ten, and then opened his eyes, and counted to ten on his fingers. They were all there. The spy who sat across from him, though, was gone. He sighed in relief, and got up to leave.
Well it was a shame, he concluded. But he could not help it. Agent Cottontail was not one of those people one could strong-arm or blackmail. She had no ties, as she did not pledge her loyalties to anyone; her services were offered to the highest bidder, and she never questioned logic as she stole or killed. And of course, she was fickle; she could easily turn, kill her partner, and make off with the take, selling it to an even higher bidder. She worked for herself, and did what she wanted. Period. Such a woman, the courier concluded, was too scary to deal with.
As he was about to leave the café, though, a waiter approached him. "Sir, you dropped this."
"I didn't drop anything..." he persisted.
"Take it." The waiter gritted through his teeth. He saw the leggy blonde, and he was sure the man wanted what he was to give him.
The courier took the napkin the waiter held to him, and looked it over.
You're on.
Her weakness. Oh, Emma Woodhouse loved diamonds. The 40% take was enough to have her biting, and the extra half mil clinched it (an intergalactic spy must get her income somehow). A week later, she drove her new strawberry red Porsche convertible (her blue Jag had become identifiable, and she was left to find another really cool foreign car to drive) into the over-done town of Highbury, Michigan, for her ten-year high school reunion.
Highbury. Where the expensive designer perfumes covered the scents of the professionally positioned flowers on the well-manicured lawns. She snidely smirked, and proceeded to drive the same familiar path to the house on Portington Hill. Hartfield's gates opened widely in welcome, and she zipped up the long windy drive to the manor.
Getting out of the car, she took in her surroundings. No, she concluded, nothing changed. She opened the trunk, got out her two semi-large suitcases, and one bag. Going to the doors, she rang the bell, and checked her watch. Her mother would just be finishing Days. Her father would be hiding in the library.
She let the maid take her things, and wandered to the family room where she expected to see her mother. She was not there. She checked the library, and found a remarkable lack of her father. She entered the marble and rose quartz foyer once more, and went up the elegantly pink open staircase. Wandering to her room, where the maid unpacked her belongings, she asked, "Miss Covington, where are my parents?"
"At the Knightleys'. And I was told to inform you that your presence there is expected this afternoon as well."
Emma sighed, of course. Convington left (good riddance) and Emma looked around her room. She noted with satisfaction and slight disappointment that nothing had been replaced or moved.
There were no trophies. No awards. No posters. No decorations. It was stark white, the way she liked it in high school. Her bed was a comfortable and beautiful four-poster, but, to her mother's disgust, she had chosen colors and plaids that did not match.
On the desk, a collection of old neglected post-its stuck persistently to the desk, and a single framed picture smiled back at her, which she took up, smirked, and put back down on the desk.
Best be dressed right, she went to the closet, looking at her newly unpacked clothes (newly bought: an Intergalactic spy has to have a large versatile wardrobe, and has to keep refreshing it, as she must keep up with the times). Now, what would one wear to a visit? More accurately, what would a prodigal reformed socialite wear to a midday weekday late September gathering at a classy home of people who were full of themselves? Pursing her full soft pink lips, she posed in contemplation. Best not launch the intelligent aura first. Smooth, creamy, elegant, and perhaps a mite independent would be enough. The yellow Liz Claiborne was too matronly, and the Laura Ashley...not sexy enough. There was only one solution; she'd go Italian.
Three hours after Emma Woodhouse arrived in her home, she walked up the steps of Donwell manor in a small short red thing, with a chic jacket, her hair stylishly wrapped in a crimson scarf, and her lips pursed in an adequate amused sultry smile.
The maid who showed her in looked after her admiringly. If she were ever as rich as a Woodhouse, she'd look just like that...after a lot of plastic surgery...
She elegantly swept into the airy home of Ida and Patrick Knightley, and scoffed at the charming timelessness to the home.
"Emma? Darling is that you?"
She could recognize her mother's Midwest "a" from a mile away. Letting her lips quirk prettily, she infused some enthusiasm into her voice. "Mother!"
She approached the sundeck, trying to make her steps eager. Stepping outside, she embraced her mother, but not too tightly as the Lane Bryant would wrinkle, and did not kiss her mother's cheek, as her lipstick would ruin the make up.
"Emma?" a baffled woman uttered the name.
Emma turned and saw her sister. And Isabella seemed genuinely happy to see her. Surprised, Emma allowed herself to be caught in a tight embrace, and quelled her instinct to execute some tae kwon do that would have landed her sister in a crumpled mess on the floor (Intergalactic spies are good at tae kwon do, and Agent Cottontail was certainly not an exception).
Isabella Knightley stepped back. "Look at you..."
"Yes, look at me..." she said in the same tone, rolling her eyes.
Isabella's presence elucidated some matters; the only things that ever took Gail Woodhouse from her soaps were sales and very important and demanding guests.
Isabella Knightley nee Woodhouse was both important, for the rarity of her visits home, and demanding, for her upbringing taught her no less. But she smiled very pleasantly now, and Emma almost believed she was welcome here, even if it meant taking the attention off Isabella's health and Isabella's newly born son.
Isabella's other child, a terror of about three years old, was currently destroying her Grandmother Knightley's collection of daffodils, and Grandmother Knightley was blissfully ignorant of the happenings, as she was busy trying to recognize the young girl who left Highbury years ago in the woman who now stood smiling pleasantly at everybody.
"I am so glad you have come home, Emma darling. Papa is out golfing with all the Knightley men, and their round should finish soon so that he may see you. You were always the apple of his eye..."
Now that was a lie, and everyone knew it. But Emma allowed a congenial smile and lied through her teeth as well. (Intergalactic spies are good at lying too...) "I missed him too."
"Oh, and look, there he is now!"
The sound of very expensive transmissions being cut off reached Emma's well trained ear, and she pretended a large glittering smile as her father came through the house to the nook, that had a set of glass doors that led to the deck.
"Is that my girl?"
"Yes it is!" she said.
"Let me have a look at you..." Larry inspected his daughter, hiding his surprise that she actually met his approval. He kissed her cheek, surprised there was no powdery blush on it to mar.
"Oh Larry, she's gorgeous!" Patrick complimented his friend. "Now come on, Emma...let's have a hug."
"She has traces of her mother in her..." Lawrence Woodhouse said proudly back to Patrick Knightley.
"You remember your brother-in-law John..."
"Ah yes, hello John," she smiled to the still very healthy and handsome John Knightley. The Knightley men were always handsome.
He gave her a courteous careless acknowledgment, and went to greet his wife with a kiss on the cheek. Emma was impressed; really, they appeared to be in love still!
She took an arm of each of the older men, and escorted them out to the backyard, where they joined their wives with courteous kisses. Emma was about to sit down when her instincts told her another person stood behind her at the door to the deck.
"Emma! You're home." The voice managed to lodge in her thoughts, making her shift uncomfortably as she turned to the speaker, who arrived after his brother and father.
"Still as observant as ever. How do you do it?" she asked, offering her hand to his kiss.
"You know Emma..." Ida Knightley said, taking a sip from her colorful and fancy alcoholic drink. "You really should have married George all those years ago."
"Yes!" her mother confirmed. "You jaunt all over the world, and so does George!"
Emma smiled, teeth gritted, and turned to George Knightley, tall, tan, and (of course) brutally hot, (as most love interests of spies should be). He stood casually in his dark khaki pants and white button down, sleeves rolled back revealing his toned forearms. His brown hair, weaved with brilliant sun-kissed gold, was sexily mussed, as if he had been driving with the top down on a very expensive car (Intergalactic spies noticed and supposed...) The very stylish and intelligent glasses did not take away anything from his penetrating brilliant lush green stare. "That's nice, but I jaunt alone," she met his gaze squarely, unaffected.
teenage nostalgia, very bitter in nature, but don't worry, it goes away soon
The Highbury High Highlights was an over-expensive edition of memories treasured by precious few. Pages and pages of colorful photographs, silly and stupid faces in various stages of insecurity did not interest her.
Senior Eeks Woodhouse threw the book aside and looked to Harmony Smith. "And what was I supposed to get out of that?"
Harmony Smith cringed. Well what else was she to expect from Eeks? She sighed, dismissing Eeks's cringe, or perhaps acknowledging it with a very triumphant and determined smile.
Goody Goodies... Eeks Woodhouse slumped back in her seat.
Harmony Smith, head of the Yearbook staff, chronic overachiever, and pre-pre-med, was an active member of the community service group. With nut brown eyes, and nut-brown hair, and of course her Abercrombie clothes, she was accepted in all circles.
Emma Woodhouse of the goth raven black hair (dyed) and pumpkin orange eyes (colored contacts), strived to be as useless and unaspiring as she could. An embarrassment to her family, her presence at most events, familial or community, was hardly ever requested. Eeks, as she was more widely known, did not care.
No one could be an odder mix. Her grades, with no thanks to her impertinence in class, were a mixture of the best and the worst. Most of her graduation requirements were taken care of within points of passing. And then her obscure classes, mostly independent study in nature as she never got along with anyone else, were accomplished with diligence and innovation. She inspired two types of reactions in her teachers: complete and utter disgust, or fanatical admiration. It was more often the first.
But to make the combination odder, it was rumored that Eeks was actually involved with George Knightley, a very respectable member of the class that graduated four years ago.
But that was only a myth. No one would actually believe it. The rumor was probably a product of the marriage between Emma's older sister, Isabella (last year's prom queen) to George's brother John (last year's golf team captain...golf was big in their school).
But Eeks's involvement with him was also backed up by observations: their walking together, dinners in relatively expensive and fancy restaurants, and certainly by the observation of George's frequent visits back to Highbury, despite his going to college in England. (He went to Cambridge.)
Rumors of this relationship were, of course, wrong. She was not just going out with George Knightley: she was engaged to him.
"How have you been darling?" He put his arm around her shoulders as they took a walk after yet another uneventful dinner with her parents.
Emma allowed him to kiss her cheek, and smiled back with as much glitter as she could muster. If only she could begin to repay him for all the support he'd given her. Without George, Emma would have been, well, nothing.
Smiling at her with that beautiful perfect smile of his, he felt her shoulders relax, and her step fall into time with his.
"You sound more like a Brit every time I see you..." she mused.
He laughed, and affectionately drew her closer to him. His fingers entwined with hers, and she deliberately relaxed her arm, which had shot stiff the minute he'd taken her hand. "I love your humor. I love you. I love everything about you..." he uttered fervently.
She looked stunning. Her mother had overridden her complaints, and had her dye her hair back to its natural shade of ditz gold, as she derisively called it. Her shock blue eyes were no longer hidden in contacts. He loved her now, but he loved her as she was before, and he'd love her still if she chose to look any other way...because everything about her amazed and stunned him.
"Not much to love," she observed wryly.
He frowned. "Are you actually believing the stuff they feed you in school, Emma? I thought we talked about that..."
"I am full of spirit and potential," she recited mindlessly, teasing him with her sarcastic expression.
"You are special."
"Special means odd."
"And I wouldn't love you any other way..." he said, as he kissed her.
No response. Sometimes, it frustrated him how she never kissed him back. But surely, he would woo her eventually. Once they were with each other more, instead of these rare visits once or twice a term. When they had more time to themselves, she'd see. Only one more month, and she'd graduate, and they'd be married. And after that, life would begin for the both of them.
The church was festooned with a variety of elaborately arranged flowers. The string quartet played elegant and typical elevator music. Emma would have made some snide remark about it right now, if she were here...George mused.
George Knightley smiled in welcome to his guests. He turned to his brother, revealing his nervousness only to him.
The bride was fifteen minutes late, and according to her mother, had not been seen since last evening.
He closed his eyes, and uttered the plea quietly. Please, Emma, please...
She never came to the wedding.
Of course, no one could be more wrong and disillusioned. But if Gail Woodhouse wanted to shape a nice sheltered existence for her youngest daughter, more power to her; the truth would have startled her into shiver shock.
Emma allowed a bemused smile to touch her lips, and wittily responded when asked to.
But still shifted somewhat uncomfortably.
George Knightley's eyes never fell from her, and she almost wished she didn't wear something quite so revealing; the autumn breeze was doing numbers with her spine!
Withstanding the gloriously gourmet dinner with her parents and the Knightleys, she took the pokes at her previous character and allusions to Eeks in stride, with a smile, and gave assurance that Eeks was a thing of her past, and that she had certainly learned that the way up in the world was through being who other people wanted you to be.
The sparkle of the new crystal chandelier tonight did indeed find a rival in the happy lighted expression of Emma Woodhouse's eyes, and the silverware did not seem to possess the polish that Emma had attained in her years away from home.
Her parents watched in delighted astonishment as she proceeded to stun them, and the entire dining room, into obsequious submission.
The only person who did not seem to follow into the parade of quiet and hidden oohs and ahhs was George Knightley, who watched her without pleasure or displeasure, with neither interest nor disinterest. So Emma did with him what she did with any person who did not pay her the attention she deserved; she ignored him.
But the pointed remarks by the parents on the union that never was grated on that resolution. It was hard to ignore when their parents were so obviously pushing them towards each other.
"George," Ida Knightley glittered at her son, as they all sat in the living room after dinner, sipping expensive designer coffee. "I don't know how you knew she'd be this beautiful...but you were always such a smart boy..."
George cleared his throat, sitting up in the loveseat that their families had marooned them to. "Well, I confess when..." he cleared his throat again, and took a sip of coffee. "I confess that when Emma and I were engaged, I did not think much about the future, or how she'd look then."
"Did you see that sparkle of beauty in her, that would blossom into this?" Gail sighed happily.
"No," he sipped his coffee again. "I was crazy about her ankles," he commented, drolly.
That had even Emma turning to him with puzzlement in her eyes. He turned on those eyes, and allowed his own eyes one intimate, soul-shaking stroke, and turned to face his family.
Emma cleared her throat, quieting off the quickening of her heartbeat, the shallow breaths. Her ankles?
Isabella laughed. "George, do behave."
"I was in over my head the first time I saw those ankles..." he reminisced.
She did not know whether or not she was to take him seriously. She remained silent.
At this time, one of the parents could have teased Emma into saying what she had seen in George, but while they were rather lacking in true intelligence, they did not lack social grace and tact. If a woman chose to...er...well it was her choice, and she must have had good reasons. Very good reasons, for who would ever turn down George Knightley?
"You know, George never married..." Ida said, conspiratorially. "I think he was waiting for you to come back, Emma darling. As much as he loves those ankles I'm sure there were quite a few other things about you that he missed..." she sighed romantically.
Emma knew her mother would interject with some analogy that would involve likening them to some couple that was simply meant to be in some soap opera, so she was quite relieved when Isabella changed the topic to the new house she and John were thinking of purchasing in Bloomfield Hills (the family was growing after all, and they needed a bigger home than the one they had in Highbury).
Emma continued to sparkle, but warily wished to cover her ankles, as she knew they were the subjects of scrutiny now. In the bone-colored sandals, they were dainty and feminine, and she did not doubt for a second that they were beautifully arranged and molded, but she still self-consciously recoiled.
She was pretty sure that he was aware his remark would drive the whole room to look at them with curiosity. He kept the sardonic triumphant smile out of his expression, but she sensed it (with a sense that had not spawned from her Intergalactic spy training, but was always there, as if lodged in her heart in some little corner).
"...and now Emma has come for her ten-year reunion, isn't that right darling?" Gail said.
"Ah yes, I've come to show everyone that I managed to stay out of jail and the mental institution," she smiled, rejoining the conversation.
"You didn't get married, did you?" John blurted.
The question suspended itself in the air, and the room held a breath. Finally, the question was asked.
Emma laughed. "Well I'm alone here..."
Isabella focused on gently cradling her baby, but softly rejoined. "We weren't sure if you got married and divorced, or if you were married but chose not to bring him..."
"No, I never got involved with anyone. No time," she simply concluded. "Mrs. Knightley, I must say this is excellent coffee..." she sipped.
Mrs. Knightley gladly seized upon the transition, and babbled on, knowing that no one was really listening to her, but like her, was plotting shoddy ineffective ways to reunite the two who now sat on the loveseat, silent and smiling, listening to her babbles with avid interest.
Hartfield was dark, except for one room.
The occupant of the room paced in her black silk pajamas, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. The legal pad on the desk was outlined with ideas and speculations. One hand held the cell phone to her ear, and the other hand mindlessly fiddled with the picture frame on the desk.
"Well, I want you to make the paste copies quick."
"I don't know if I can get that in so soon, darlin', unless you slip me some extra."
"How much more?" she said, impatiently.
"Another ten thou."
"Look elsewhere for your business." She cut off the connection without uttering silly names. Such lowlifes did not deserve titles.
Looking at the facts laid out before her, she decided that her boss was not very helpful with giving her information about her task.
A courier was to bring a stolen shipment of diamonds into Highbury. Somehow, the courier would make contact with his/her buyer.
She was to take the shipment from the courier before it got to the buyer, and personally deliver it to the boss.
And the best part was, she sarcastically concluded, there were no names.
The boss was testing her. He didn't think she was really that good, did he? Well she'd show him.
The cell phone (very high tech and much ahead of the times, as intergalactic spies have all the neat toys) at her side vibrated. She pressed the button. "Change your mind?"
"Maybe."
"I'll give you another two. That's it." She hung up, sealing the deal.
She sat at the desk, and reached under the legal pad to the paper-thin laptop, (the TOYS) opened it, and placed on her headset.
"Agent Cottontail..." The courier swallowed. Emma almost laughed. Did he think her laser eye beams could go through computer connection systems?
"I don't like to be tested. If he thinks he has to see if I'm good enough for him then I don't think he's good enough for me to bother with. Tell him to give me the names."
"The boss says you should find them out for yourself."
"Well tell your boss that I don't care if I get the diamonds or not. Does he? I want details, or this is no go." She slammed down the laptop.
If she weren't careful, she would break it. While there were some rather nice doozies out there she'd been considering, she was not for the financial dip. (The trials of being a very technologically aware spy...)
She put away her spy materials, and tossed a decoy very trashy romance novel on the bed stand, as well as her glasses, (best keep low profile and not arouse suspicion) and tucked herself in. There was work to do tomorrow; she had to move fast, as the trade, she had been informed, was to take place the next Sunday, leaving her with six more days, not counting the Sunday itself. Tomorrow morning would dawn on her next step; it involved some heavy-duty reconnaissance work in enemy territory.
The classy red Porsche made a fuss in the parking lot of Highbury High very early the next morning when it rudely pulled into the school president's spot (he had not yet arrived). The driver made a bigger fuss.
No one recognized her, but they liked her. She had some really nice clothes, and had quite the walk. It was kind of smooth, but definitely not slinky.
The boys ogled, the girls envied. And the woman in the slim elegant black (intergalactic spies wear black very well) made her way through the bright colors of overpriced teenage fashions.
Walking through the renovated school, she commended the school board on making the building look even more like a prison, and proceeded through the mess, mapping out the school in her mind (intergalactic spy instinct) assessing location, and trying to find the right classroom.
Her boots, statements of fashion as well as being secretive spy tools, measured the lengths she walked, and assessed distances.
Like most elegant spies who are rarely ever wrong, she found the right classroom relatively quickly, and knocked on the door, though the room appeared dark and unoccupied.
Anita Taylor-Weston looked up to the window in her door, from her daily meditation, and smiled in surprise. Throwing open the door, the forty-five-year-old woman looked at one of her favorite pupils, ever. "I did not think high school reunions were your style..." she hugged her tightly.
"Well, some business matters have taken me here...and I guess putting up with some old "friends" for a week won't hurt too much."
The teacher examined her student. "Emma Woodhouse, you look totally different. What have you been up to?"
Emma rolled her eyes. "Everything."
"Well you'll have to be more specific...the last I heard of you, you had run off instead of getting married..." she trailed off.
Why did everyone talk about her running off so softly and carefully? She left him. That was part of her history. It couldn't be spoken of any other way; that was the way it happened. "I ran off...stayed away from jail."
"Anything else?"
"I'll be mysterious, and let you imagine a wonderful and glamorous lifestyle for me."
"Oh, look at you..."
"If someone tells me to look at myself one more time..." Emma rolled her eyes.
"I haven't really seen you in more than ten years, Emma...you didn't even come to the graduation ceremony."
"I had to wash my hair..." she made sarcastic excuses as her teacher turned on the lights of the room, washing the room back into its normal, restrictive and imposing state.
Mrs. Taylor-Weston had done what she could with her surroundings, of course. Beautiful paintings she'd done herself, and her favorite quotes lined the walls, trying to make the atmosphere less intimidating. But, Emma knew, school could not be euphemized and cloaked; it simply had to be unpleasant.
Her favorite teacher stood across from her, her black hair pulled back into sloppy low ponytail, and sweatshirt and jeans making her look comfortably settled in (and very much into the stereotype of) her English teacher career. Did it ever get to her, Emma almost condescendingly wondered. No, probably not. Mrs. Taylor-Weston loved this. She'd always said so, and based on the happy expression in the older woman's liquid silver blue eyes, Emma knew she still did.
"I have to teach. You're welcome to stay..." she invited, but knew that Emma's refusal was imminent. Students, short people, appeared in the room miraculously.
"I came by to ask you to coffee some time. How does later in the week sound?"
"It sounds marvelous, dear. I'll see you after school later this week, then."
"It sounds great, Mrs. Taylor-Weston."
"Anita...please, when a grown adult calls me Mrs. Taylor-Weston like some student, it reminds me that I am a lot older than I am pretending to be..."
Emma grinned in reply. As she exited, she gave a final wave to her former teacher, and turned to face the now almost-empty and rather small hall. The tardy bell rang. She laughed. How quaint. A tardy bell.
Everything in the school was so...quaint. Adorable.
Except for the sight that now met her eyes. The humor left her mouth and thinned it into a line of tension.
Across the hall, leaning against the lockers, very much out of place in his tall and elegant glory, was George Knightley.
"George."
"And you are Emma. Good, we still know each other," he sarcastically replied.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, hand at her slender hip, taking an unconsciously sexy pose across the hall from him. (Intergalactic spies are always sexy, consciously or unconsciously so...)
"I was sent by Isabella to track you down."
"You're good at tracking people, then, because I would not have guessed I'd be here," she started to walk.
He fell into step beside her.
"Why are you really here, George?" she asked, exasperatedly.
"To charm you out of your wits. My mother shoved me out the door this morning after a mysterious phone call, made very early this morning by a certain mother in the Woodhouse household."
"I must say you are doing a horrible job of charming me, George Knightley. I remember your being a lot more dashing and certainly more witty."
"Perhaps I was," he said, taking her arms, spinning her to face him suddenly. "I was not aware those charms had actually worked."
Emma swallowed, and pulled out of his grasp, denying the need to scratch the trembly shivery itch. "I did not say that their effects were those that you desired. I was simply making an observation."
"And are you such a good observer, Emma Woodhouse? I was not aware that you were good at anything," he laughed, almost bitterly.
That almost hurt. "You were never so rude. Be careful, George, your bruised ego is showing," she replied calmly. "You're very bitter."
"Yes, but I also know that I am still undeniably very much in love with you. And you, believe it or not, shall be very much in love with me."
"With those words? Oh George, I'm swooning, I really am."
George's expression was dark and determined. She was impressed. But she was also on a schedule, and did not feel like catering to tantrums. "I'd lot to stay and quarrel with you more, but I really must be going."
"I'll go with you."
"I don't think so. This is personal business."
"And you are personal business, especially my personal business," he said, lacing their hands, as they both smiled to the school security.
"Not anymore," she pulled her hand away before the tingling could start to testify a crack in her indifference to him.
"You decided you didn't want me. But I haven't yet decided that I don't want you, so until I decide, shut up."
Emma rolled her eyes. "Charming..." They exited the building, and Emma turned to him. "I'm sure we're having a marvelous time, but I have things to do. I'll see you later."
"Not really, my mother sent me here to hunt you down; you are wanted for brunch at the Club. After all, it's been such a long while since she's seen her lovely daughter."
Curses for parents. Would he leave her alone? She had a job to do. "Not long enough," she went to the car, and as she was about to unlock the door of her convertible, she noted, perhaps with an almost imperceptible sharp intake of breath, that there were a dozen red roses in the driver's seat. She looked up.
He did not even turn around to see her reaction, but she knew that he had left them, and he knew that she knew.
But that also meant that he had gotten past the high-class security system of the car. She'd put the top up...and beyond that, the system was not easily breached (As intergalactic spies always have VERY classy security systems.) She hid her mortified surprise, slid in, and tossed the flowers into the other front seat, with slightly less aggressiveness than she wanted to convey; the flowers really did look sweet.
But the security! She needed to know how he got into the car. Would he be an interference with the job? She watched his relaxed stride to his own car, a silver Mercedes, and speculated. She'd need to watch him.
A quick stop home ensured the safe transfer of the roses from the tissue paper to an appropriately expensive and prettily cut vase. Knowing that the sophisticated black was a little too harsh and out of place for a place such as the Highbury Country Club, she decided to traipse into her pastel collection once more, albeit reluctantly (intergalactic spies hate wearing pastels).
Now, as she entered the club, she remembered that she'd never entered the building in her life. And she now remembered why.
Expensive flowers ornamented the walkway, and she felt every eye in the brunch room focus on her.
Her sister, mother, and Ida Knightley were seated across the nicely decorated room, strategically positioned in the corner, where they could inspect and comment on all the ladies in the room.
But that meant that Emma had to walk through the room to get to the table, leaving her up to the inspection by the whole group, which was probably also another reason for the ladies' choosing that table.
So Emma played her part. Head up. Plastic smile. Stylish, elegant stride. And finally, as a final "screw you" gesture to the ladies of the club, an air that exuded superiority one could never dare question.
That was all she needed to get more than enough acceptance of the other women, and garner the admiration of her mother and sister.
"Good morning, Emma darling."
"Hello mother, Isabella, Mrs. Knightley," she kissed each on the cheek, and let the waiter pull out her chair and seat her.
"And how was the school?" Isabella asked conversationally.
"Still there. What a pity."
Ida found the response amazingly amusing, because she did not stop laughing for a full three minutes. "Emma, you were always such a wit."
Emma smiled politely. (Intergalactic spies are good at being charming, but Emma Woodhouse would probably lie on a bed of hot coals before she let herself be entirely pleasant to Highbury society.)
"And how did you find George?" Gail Woodhouse asked of her daughter, with a wink at Ida Knightley, who could not contain her giggle.
"He found me," Emma answered frankly.
Ida laughed once more. Emma lifted her brow.
"I mean, is he as charming as he once was?" her mother asked of her.
"No, not really."
"Don't be too harsh on him, Emma. I hope you still allow him to whisk you away to the benefit at the DIA..."
"DIA?" Emma asked. "Detroit Institute of Arts? I am sorry, but I have no idea what you are talking about."
"Oh, silly George, he was probably so nervous that the benefit slipped his mind entirely!" Ida giggled.
"I am sure." Emma selected a croissant from the array of elegantly arranged semi-delicious food at the center of the table.
Ida continued, "George is the curator of the Tate Museum in London. He is very important in the art world, you can only imagine. Well, the DIA is hosting a benefit as a fund-raiser. George announced his intention of going, and asking you to go with him, last night after you all had left."
Emma concentrated on savoring the light flaky texture of the croissant, hoping her disinterest did not show too obviously. "Oh?"
"So?" her mother asked, expectantly.
"Well, it remains to be seen whether or not he would like my company, and I have not yet been given any inclination of that. Beyond that, I have not yet been informed of the date, so I can neither accept nor deny this invitation, if it really could be considered one."
"Believe me, he said he intended to..." Ida said, confusedly. "Strange, but I only suppose he was still overwhelmed by your beauty..."
"Must be," Emma smiled, baring her teeth.
"Well, I am sure Emma can go," Gail looked to her daughter. "I do not think she had anything else planned this week, other than the reunion."
She really wanted to say no. "I'm sure I can, but whether or not I will..."
"Good! It's settled!" Ida nodded, hearing only the first part of Emma's response with that selective hearing so many men accuse women of having.
Emma frowned.
Isabella smothered an amused chuckle, and Emma met her sister's eyes warily. Her older sister had never seemed particularly interesting to her, but the dangerously whimsy and genuinely amused sparkle allowed Emma to entirely drop the whole George and DIA matter, and take up a speculation on her sister.
"Excuse me, but I just had to ask. Emma?"
Emma turned her gaze from her sister to the young woman who now stood at the table, in a somewhat hesitant stance. Oh come on, Cottontail, it wouldn't kill you to try to be nice to a stranger. You don't know her long enough to be disgusted yet... She smiled pleasantly, trying to hide her irritation.
"I thought it was you. I'd recognize that sneer anywhere! Hello Mrs. Knightley, Mrs. Woodhouse, Isabella."
The older women smiled politely, and Isabella flashed a grin.
Intrigued, Emma looked at the woman again, this time with more interest. She wore jeans, and a burgundy sweater. The woman's blatant disregard for the fashion probation she was probably being put on made Emma like her.
"You don't recognize me..." the woman laughed. "I'd expect as much, as you probably forgot most of high school," she said with a sardonic grin. "Harmony Smith," she held out her hand.
Harmony Smith. The little insecure thing from high school? Really? "Really?"
Harmony gave a smirk of her own. "You never accepted anything I said at face value, did you, Emma?"
Emma smiled. Really. A genuine lighted smile. "You're kidding me. Harmony?"
The other ladies at the table had at this time assessed the woman's fashion sense and therefore dismissed her, save Isabella, who, Emma noted, observed with hidden interest. Harmony came around the table, and Emma stood to face her.
And found herself being unexpectedly hugged. She stiffened, and again quelled her tae kwon do instincts.
"It's so good to see you again, Emma."
And because Harmony had not called her "darling" once yet, Emma decided she was genuinely glad to see Harmony as well. "Well, it's been a while, but I came back."
"And what a surprise...don't tell me you actually want to be at the reunion?" Harmony asked, teasingly.
"Actually, well, I'm just getting back to my roots, and I don't mean my blond ones," Emma replied wryly.
Harmony noticed that though the table had politely dismissed her, the room had not, and shifted her gaze back on Emma. "There are spies everywhere..." she teased.
Emma's eyes almost widened, and instinctively she did a quick check in her peripheral vision. Her assessment confirmed her belief; the sea green ensemble did not complement the sallow complexion of the woman who sat a table away (Intergalactic spies have wonderful fashion taste), and there were no spies in the room (Intergalactic spies have the uncanny ability to identify other spies).
"I was actually on my way out; meeting with the in-law..." Harmony rolled her eyes. "But I definitely want to talk to you...you have a lot of explaining to do! I want to know what you've done with all your years! I always thought that you were going to have the most interesting life. I'll call later, and maybe we can do something?"
"That would be delightful," she said, and after saying the words, she realized that she meant it.
"Great. You're in the directory?"
"I think so."
"See you," Harmony flitted away.
Emma sat back down at her table, and found that the conversation now focused on Ida's qualms on getting a new poodle. However, the topic immediately dropped, and Ida took up the subject of the latest guest at the table. "I did not know you knew Harmony Smith...she graduated with you, isn't that right?"
"Well, had I attended graduation, yes. We were acquaintances in high school." Emma responded, finally finding a topic that interested her.
"Harmony's such a smart girl...despite her background..." her mother said.
"Is she married? She mentioned an in-law..." Emma disregarded the blatant condescension in her mother's remark.
"Well, in-law to be. Harmony is sweet, and very motivated, and I'm so glad she's decided to come back to Highbury," Isabella took the edge off of Gail's remark, blushing embarrassedly. "You know, Emma, she was valedictorian of your class?"
Surprised, Emma tried to place intelligence and understanding into the insecure goody-goody ditz that used to bother her at lunch. (Harsh, yes, but Intergalactic spies are never known to be less than honestly, brutally perceptive). Class valedictorian? "I did not know that..."
"Yes, she had admission at Harvard and Yale, and would have gone, but, well, she had two other siblings, and her brother was graduating a year after her. The Smiths, well, they were pushing her to go, and follow her dreams; they were so proud of her, but Harmony, she couldn't do it to them."
"Didn't she have any scholarships?"
"Well, the University of Michigan gave her a full ride, and you know that you can't really turn down that much money, at a pretty decent university. Sure, it isn't Harvard, but it's still a really good place."
Still interested, Emma allowed herself to ask her sister another question, "Does she regret it?"
Isabella was silent. But Gail Woodhouse, bored with conversation that revolved around a woman she did not know, decided to add her own opinion. "Really why would she regret it? She stays by home, and gets a good education. But I don't understand why it's even necessary; she's going to marry Elton Daniels, and the Daniels have more than enough money..."
"She might want to do something other than spend her days at home, Mother..." Emma said.
"Well, Isabella does, and I think that whatever is good enough for my daughter is good enough for a Smith. Smith! Her father cleans my pool!"
Emma's eyes flashed dangerously, but she decided to keep her reply to herself. However, Isabella did not let the remark go unnoticed. "I write, Mother, and John and I agreed that it was better for the family to work at home; that way, I could take care of the kids, and continue with my career."
Emma turned back to her sister and hid her surprise. Isabella had run off to Wellesley College after graduating high school, and Emma had always thought it was a yuppie statement of her ridiculous loyalties to John, who was going to Harvard. But really? Isabella wanting to get away from Highbury society? That was ludicrous.
She sipped her orange juice contemplatively, however.
Agent Cottontail normally never worked in the afternoon; there were often too many people around to allot clandestine activities. (Intergalactic spies sleep during the day, and work at night.)
But the house had been emptied; Isabella had returned home, and Gail had gone with Ida to the tennis courts at the Club after brunch, to scoff at the ladies there. Her father was out golfing once more with the Knightley men, and Emma immediately gave the help the day off when she got back from the Club; they deserved it, if they had to put up with the charms of Gail Woodhouse, day in and day out.
She was contemplating tracing and using her connections to find her mysterious boss himself, and showing him just what she thought of him and his tests of her ability, when the doorbell rang.
Irritated, she hid her laptop once more, and converted her room to the haven of a visiting fluff before going down the stairs and rudely opening the door after the third ring.
She was very satisfied with the extent of her rudeness when she found George Knightley standing on the sweeping front step, in sharp, fitted tuxedo, eyes as dangerously engaging as ever. "Yes? Overdressed for visiting?"
"Underdressed for our date?" he noted her slimming jeans, the loose T-shirt. (Intergalactic spies program in comfortable clothes.)
"Excuse me, but I was not aware we were going out."
"I don't need to inform you; you owe me. You didn't show up for the wedding," he smartly replied.
"Look, you can charm Gail and Ida all you want, but they're delusional. I won't be strong-armed into-"
"Emma, why aren't you dressed yet?" Gail came up the steps behind George, flushed with exhaustion. Whether it was from a very rousing and invigorating game of tennis, or her distressed and very recklessly speedy drive home to trap her daughter into the date, Emma would never be able to ferret. (And Intergalactic spies are very good at ferreting...)
"I don't know what you're talking about, Mother..."
"We just told you, this morning! George was going to bring you to the Gala at the DIA..."
"Tonight?" Emma asked.
"Yes, and don't say you have other plans, or else I shall be severely disappointed..." she pouted.
"Actually I do..." Emma said belligerently.
"What?"
Emma looked back levelly at her mother. "Yes, Harmony and I have plans," she lied.
"You can't have plans...with Harmony Smith...can't your other friends wait? I heard from some of the ladies that many of your classmates are going to be there tonight. And I'm sure that they're positively dying to see you..." Gail said.
"Besides, Elton would not let Harmony get away with not going; the Daniels donate quite a large sum to the DIA every year. This is their event!" Ida popped up right beside Gail now, having recovered from the drive.
"Now you get upstairs and get dressed. She'll only be about an hour or so, George. Maybe you'll want to pick up John and Isabella first, or just stay here and chat?" Gail suggested.
Emma scowled at the ladies, and opened her mouth to protest.
"I'll be back in half an hour," George said, smoldering at Emma, and left.
Something in her almost flipped at the smolder, but that did not mean she was going to go to the DIA with George Knightley tonight.
She stormed upstairs, letting the ladies believe themselves triumphant, and reentered her room, locking the door, determined not to go out.
That is, until she checked her e-mail.
To: Cottontail@intergalacticspy.net
From: Sender Unspecified
Surprised, Emma frowned. She did not get e-mail from unspecified senders. Her tracking system didn't allow for unspecified senders. She did not program for two years, and pay half a mil in services to find out that senders could still be unspecified.
And the to: line; she did not play around with redirecting services for years to find that anyone could just write to her direct e-mail address.
Narrowing her eyes, she neglected the message momentarily, and cursed as her inquiries into her systems did not reveal any preliminary results. The sender was buried under layers of redirection of his/her own. Frustrated, she then checked her computer for viruses, and the highly developed system did not uncover any and so she opened the message, and decided to read it for any indications of identity.
Subject: no subjectDON'T SEND VIRUSES TO MY COURIER, DAMMIT!
You want names, go tonight.
I am watching you very, very closely. Don't mess this up, and don't play any more games.
She scoffed, and closed the e-mail. Immediately, the computer screen turned bright pink, and Emma looked at it, alarmed. The text was in bright yellow, almost unreadable in the sheer brightness.
Thought you'd never see this color on your computer, huh, Emma? Just sending you a second message: I'm serious. Don't mess it up, or else you'll be wearing stripes...black and white ones...
The use of her name startled, as she never gave that name. Her aliases over the years had spanned from Abigail to Zenia. Never Emma, though.
And the pink, that was painful. And the prospects of stripes, well, it was antiquated, but the use of her name was enough to make her believe that the boss, who was undoubtedly the one who sent the e-mail, would make her life a living hell if she did not go tonight.
And so, Emma Woodhouse had plans that night, with George Knightley.
Five forty-five saw Emma Woodhouse checking her reflection in the mirror as her mother stormed in.
"George is downstairs. Where is Covington?"
"If I had known you wanted Covington to go with him, I wouldn't have given her the afternoon and evening off," Emma positioned the silver and black choker.
"You gave her time off? But what do we pay her for, then?"
"To deal with you when she isn't on vacation," Emma stood, examining her figure in the mirror.
"You know, Emma darling, you're stunning..."
"But..." Emma prompted, as she got a wrap from her closet.
"You'd look a lot more stunning in white..."
"Pulling a little kid along on the train of the dress, with a wealth of flowers in my arms, I'm sure..." Emma rolled her eyes.
"Emma..."
"He waits," she said, walking out the room with a deliberate forced stride.
"You can at least look like you'll enjoy this evening. Try to keep the 'I'd rather wear plaids' look to yourself," her mother whispered urgently.
Emma rolled her eyes. "There is a fate worse than wearing plaids, you know..." she whispered back, and huffed down the hall and down the stairs.
George waited in the foyer, and her entrance sparked a millisecond of sparkle. Really, if he really wanted her to come tonight, he could have at least put more effort into asking her...and he could have at least smiled now. He didn't even give her a compliment.
He handed her a black rose. A single black rose.
"How morbid," Emma handed it to her mother, who grumbled about Covington not being around to put it in water.
Well beyond the romantic phase, and jaded, she took his romantic advances (if they could be called that) in the same way she took others': in stride, and without acknowledgment.
She followed him out silently to the car, the silver Mercedes that really was quite beautiful, and almost made up for his lack of conversation and charm. Her sister was glowing inside the back seat.
George opened the shotgun door for her, and she bent in. "Are you sure you don't want to sit here, John? I'm sure you have longer legs, and this would accommodate you better."
"No, you go ahead."
"I'm so glad you decided to join us, despite all that crap that Mom was giving you..." Isabella said.
"That both our Moms were giving you," John added. "Really, George," he turned to his brother. "Not to say that I didn't miss you, but you and Emma should have spread out your visits; they wouldn't be half so conniving if you weren't here. They're determined to see a wedding before you're both gone..."
George shrugged.
"And isn't he so conversational," Isabella remarked. "George, do try to be pleasant. If only for our sakes."
George turned and smiled politely as he made a sharp right turn out of the subdivision, ramming Isabella into her husband.
"Well put me in polka dots and call me ensemble-y challenged! I think that's Emma Woodhouse! With George Knightley!"
The talk was faster than a bullet, and Emma ignored it as she conversed with her sister, and kept her arms at her side, refusing to dutifully entwine one with one of his. Isabella and John walked ahead, and stationed themselves by another couple, where they made small talk that did not mean anything to the Knightleys, from Isabella's amused glazed look, and John's similar, devilish smile.
George did not comment, and simply led the way through the crowds, maintaining distance.
"Emma!"
Emma turned and smiled at Harmony, a vision in blue velvet.
"I'm so happy you're here, Emma. The vultures are out tonight..." she winked.
Emma looked around slowly. Sure enough, they lined the walls, claws bared and war in their artificially mirthful eyes.
"Nice place," she said succinctly.
"Oh, I've missed you," she took Emma's arm, and turned to George. "I'm taking away."
Without reply from George, both ladies left his side.
Harmony led Emma to the bar. "Martinis. Both of us," she said. "We'll need them."
"Harmony!"
Harmony turned to the young man with the roguish smile, and glittering brown eyes. Emma thought they looked like cow's eyes.
"Who is this?" The man leered at Emma. So she sarcastically leered back.
Harmony hid an amused grin. "This is Emma Woodhouse...you remember her, don't you?"
"Eeks?" he asked.
Emma scowled at the name. "And who is this?" she dismissed him just as snidely.
"My fiancé, Elton Daniels."
"I am sorry to hear that..." she said to Harmony, and took a sip of her martini. (Intergalactic spies can't drink spring water at a Gala such as this; it would be insupportable.)
Taking the remark as a compliment to him, and not as the sarcastic jibe it was meant to be, Elton took a step nearer. "You look edible..."
"Well, I'm not."
"Spunk! I like that. I'll talk to you later..." he let his finger trace her bare arm from shoulder to wrist.
She did not even acknowledge, but Elton was not deterred. He left the two, and Harmony smiled at Emma, and took her to another corner, where they laughed.
"And why are you marrying him?"
Harmony let her expression wrinkle into seriousness. "Nothing else to do? I guess I could do better, but Emma, this is where the road ends for me. I went to college, did med school, and got my Ph.D. Going out with Elton in high school was logical; every girl wants to be with the most popular guy in the grade, and well, Elton had some potential. He had some nice grades, and being the class president thing helped him a bit."
"But..."
"I don't know. I think he lost momentum. But that's not important to people here; we live in the past here, and my practice can prey on the large bank accounts here. Being his fiancée helps me out. No one wants the pool guy's daughter to treat their trifling colds, but Elton Daniels's wife is an upstanding, beautiful young woman," she said, almost bitterly.
"Why don't you move away?"
"Where to?" Harmony shot back.
"You don't have to stay here, you know. No one told you to..."
"I need to take care of my parents," Harmony replied simply.
"Send them a check."
"Not that simple. Greg went to Europe for a term abroad, and never came back, and Kevin is going to Stanford. My parents can't afford all that. I have to help them out. I can't just take off and take time and money I could be earning establishing something elsewhere."
Emma's brow furrowed. "When's the wedding?"
"I haven't been forced to pick a date, yet. Elton is too busy ogling, and his mother doesn't like me."
"I'm surprised you got engaged in the first place."
"Well, it was the next logical step. His mother told him to grow up. And he's using me as his rebellious step."
"And you're allowing it?"
Harmony threw back the martini. "Why not? I use him."
Bitterness oozed in her actions. Emma sipped her martini contemplatively.
"You were smart, Emma. You got out while you could."
"You couldn't help it. You were trapped," Emma replied before she could think. Sympathies?
"You know Sully Martin?"
Sully Martin. The name sounded familiar, but no, she did not.
"He was class secretary."
Ah yes...Moe.
Emma had named the class officers, three young men who were rather full of themselves, the Stooges. Elton Daniels, the class president, was Larry; Frank Churchill, the class vice president, was Curly, and Sullivan (or Sully to his friends) Martin, class secretary, was Moe. Whether or not they truly fit the Stooges' profiles was not certain; she only imagined they never lived up to the names.
"He graduated number two...salutatorian. Went off to Princeton." Harmony said.
And Emma could tell Harmony envied him. "Any news from him?"
"He's become quite the jerk, from what I hear. Has his parents visit him. Works in corporate America and probably crushes hopes and dreams everyday," Harmony toasted the air. "What else do you expect? The Martins are rich. Sully is their only child."
Emma watched Harmony contemplatively, and then threw back the rest of her martini.
"I'll stop now," Harmony said, putting down her empty martini glass. "You're sick of my tirade."
"At least you're honest," Emma commented.
Harmony looked at Emma, assessed her. "You don't care at all that I spilled my guts out..." she smiled.
"Maybe I do, maybe I don't."
"Emma," Isabella joined the two. "Oh, hi Harmony."
"Good to see you, Isabella."
"Dinner is being served."
"Well, we might as well join them," Harmony smiled brightly, and left first.
Isabella watched her, and turned to Emma, taking her arm. "You have to help her. She says she's fine. That she's perfectly happy. One day, she might look in the mirror and believe that crap that she tells herself."
"Not so close, please. I have to breathe."
"You know, Eeks, you're the prettiest thing I've seen, ever," Elton leered, trying to pull her into his step more.
"Then you haven't seen anything," she backed herself away, keeping her steps to the music and as far away from him as possible.
"Is that an invitation?"
"I hope not."
"Can I cut in?"
She was actually relieved to find herself in George's arms. Her shoulders tingled where he touched her...recoil from Elton's horribly executed Casanova impression, she only concluded. It was a doozy, because her heart was flipping, and her stomach fell into her knees.
George drew her figure close to his, and whispered into her ear, letting his lips just brush against the shell, ever so lightly, setting electric tingles through her brain. "You're glad to see me."
Emma remained silent, and closed her eyes automatically. Regroup. Regroup. He did not press her, and led them into a smooth settled rhythm.
The dance ended after a mind-splitting journey to eternity and back, and Emma stepped away quickly to get a drink. It was all in Elton.
All that harsh sliminess, when juxtaposed with the daring dash...
Well, she could admit physical attraction. It was of course there; she'd be dead if she weren't attracted to a man like George Knightley.
But physical attraction did not make quivery emotions, and therefore, she concluded, that Elton's slime powers were quite powerful.
She smiled at the bartender as he gave her the martini on a napkin, and the smile vanished. "Where did you get this napkin?"
"From the pile, lady..." He had thought that this one had more intelligence. Well, he was wrong.
She scowled at him, and looked back down at the napkin. Smith.
Smith...Harmony Smith was the courier?