Noiselessly a section below the dash slid back to reveal a chilling bottle of champagne and two glasses. “I usually keep a gun in there.’ He smiled into her light brown eyes. “But, as this is rather special..
“What on earth am I going to do with you, James?”
“Drink to my evaluation.” He had filled the two glasses, toasted her and took a sip from his, then put it back on the console, leaned forward and whispered, “Let’s make it a really thorough evaluation.” She gave a sigh, part despair and part desire as she lifted her head to receive his mouth on her own.
In the distance, the principality of Monaco shimmered in the afternoon heat, the harbour lined with several million dollars worth of yachts.
He noticed the distinctive yellow Ferrari as soon as he pulled the Aston Martin into the Casino’s parking area.
He was not even thinking about the race on the Grand Corniche, for Bond’s mind was on Caroline. Were those really tears he detected in her eyes as she held him close on saying goodbye at Nice airport?
He hoped that she was not going to be a clinging vine.
That was the trouble with some women, even in these days of liberation and equality. You still got clingers now and again, and one like Caroline would be awkward because she obviously had the ear of the recently appointed M. As far as Bond was concerned, the new M was not the greatest news of the year - even though the media had made a huge fuss. Bond was not a great fan of the media either, particularly now that the Secret Intelligence Service appeared to have ditched the word secret.
Then he saw the Ferrari and thought the night’s gambling might just be made a shade more amusing.
At the entrance to the Salles Pn’vees the blue jewled and immaculate duty manager acknowledged Bond by name, suggesting that the real action this evening was at the banquet out va - the baccarat table. Certainly there was a small knot of people watching the game, and Bond saw that the centre of attention was the attractive dark-haired young woman who had cheated death with him on the Grand Corniche that afternoon.
She wore a simple black dress and a diamond choker at her neck.
The diamonds could well be real, and she certainly looked like the proverbial million dollars. As she glanced up, he saw that the gypsy look he had caught from the glimpses of her in the car came from the jet black eyes and the smoothness of her hair which had a depth of texture to it that reminded him of a bolt of sheer silk. High cheek bones, a strong nose and a wide mouth made her very desirable.
She had just won, for he heard the croupier call out “Sept a’ Ia banque.” He slid a very large number of plaques and chips across to the woman who indicated that she wanted them added to her considerable pile already on the table.
The little Japanese man sitting next to her shook his head and in good, very audible, English said that this was too rich for him. The croupier swept around the players to find someone to bet against her.
Four men and one other woman who had obviously been playing, refused which was not surprising as there must have been well over 100,000 on the table.
At the last moment Bond softly said, “Banco. Coming out from behind the crowd, he took an empty chair facing her and matched the large bet.
The girl acknowledged his nod and slipped two cards from the sabot - as the croupiers thought of what mere mortals always called the shoe - dealing them towards him.
He picked them up and glanced at them. Not brilliant: a red two and a black five. Looking across at her he smiled. “It seems that we share the same passions. Well, three of them anyway — -” shaking his head to refuse a third card.
Her voice was soft with a slight accent which made him frown as he tried to place it.
“I count two passions only. Motoring and baccarat.” He gestured, showing no surprise as she turned over her cards - an ace and a seven.
A natural eight.
“Huite a Ia banque,’ intoned the croupier, and Bond felt the tension in the cluster of people who watched the game.
Baccarat, he thought, was about the only card game where no skill was needed, and fortunes were won or lost on the turn of a card.
Bond tossed his cards onto the table and watched as the croupier scooped up his bet.
“I hope your third is where your real talent lies.” Her voice mocked him.
“Oh, I hope I can rise to any challenge.” His smile had turned cynical and the croupier started to push his plaques and chips towards the young woman.
She shook her head. “Double.”
“Suivi.” Bond redoubled the enormous bet and the croupier looked towards the head croupier sitting on the high chair behind him. Even he glanced towards the duty manager who gave a scarcely perceptible nod to indicate that his credit was good.
The woman’s smile turned to one of interest He could see the thought deep in her black eyes - is this man for real or is he just a fool? She nodded and dealt the cards.
Glancing at his cards, Bond asked for a third card.
She looked at him for a long moment, trying to make a decision.
Then she turned over her cards. A five and a queen, as she dealt Bond a face up six.
“Cinq,’ the croupier snapped, and Bond turned up two pictures: a king and a jack.
“Six.” The croupier switched to English -“The bank loses,’ as he gathered up the pile of markers and slid them towards Bond.
The woman gave a small shrug, as though losing was an occupational hazard. She rose to leave the table, once more nodding towards Bond.
“Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“It’s the way to live life. Enjoy everything.” This time his meaning was quite plain. Why not enjoy some of it with me? She did not look back as she walked away.
Her stride reminded him of a cat - a soft and purposeful unhurried tread.
Bond took two of the larger plaques, denoting high figures in French francs, and tossed them to the croupier, as is the custom. He also indicated that he wanted the head croupier to see to his winnings, then he sauntered out into that area of the casino which used to be called the Kitchen - because the games were strictly downmarket money and is now a pleasant bar area.
He caught up with the woman as she headed towards an empty table.
“And is that the way you live life? Enjoying every moment?” he asked.
She turned to see who had spoken, and there was the hint of a frown on her face. “Ah, yes. But I usually manage to leave while I’m ahead.’ “So do I, but I’ve never completely mastered the trick.
He signalled to a passing waiter. “A vodka martini for me.
Shaken not stirred, and for you?”
“Oh, the same. I prefer the vodka, though the experts say this is not correct.
“Experts are not always correct.
The waiter acknowledged the order, asking her~how she would like her martini.
“Straight up, with a twist Then, as the waiter moved away.
“Thank you, Mr.?”
“The name’s Bond. James Bond.” She reached across the table and shook his hand. “Xenia Onatopp.”
“Onatopp?”
“Onatopp.’ She nodded.
“And the accent. Do I detect Georgian’?”
“Very good, Mr. Bond.
You’re a veritable Professor Higgins.” In the back of his mind an alarm went off, for the accent was pure Muscovite. She had learned her English in Moscow where she had been born and bred. Learned it at school or, more likely, from the old KGB.
She was silent until the waiter served their drinks. Then, “You have been to Russia, Mr. Bond?”
“Not for a while. But I used to visit.
Usually flying visits.