Fic: Succession, Chapter 8/31 (La Femme Nikita)
Title: Succession
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
Chapter Eight
The sky was a rich twilight blue, streaked with pink tinged clouds. Standing on the stonework of the villa's patio, Charles watched the distant colors deepen. A red glow traversed along the horizon and spread across the ocean, as a breeze floated up the hill slope through the olive trees. He sipped his drink, the ice rattling in his glass, and allowed the cool evening air to caress his face.
As the sky darkened further, lights began to shine in the village houses down the hillside. They looked cheerful, welcoming, cozy -- but completely out of reach, their occupants oblivious to his watchful presence above. With a sudden touch of melancholy, he began to wonder who lived inside. Their lives, he imagined, were slower, simpler, more complete than his -- attuned to the rhythms of the sea and family life, to traditions older than written history. Or were they restless, dissatisfied, wanting what they didn't have? Excitement, urbanity, material wealth: perhaps they longed for those things the same way he yearned for something permanent, something solid beneath the haze of illusions that surrounded him.
There was no answer to his question. There never would be.
He turned back toward the villa, pretending to listen to the conversation taking place around him. Instead, however, he watched the faces of his companions -- each one wearing a mask, as did he. Each one playing a role, assuming a character -- and yet, despite this, unable to hide themselves completely.
Demetrios, their target, played the jovial playboy -- a carefree man of the world who 'just happened' to be renting the villa next to theirs. In his Italian designer clothing, its spotless white fabric a stark contrast to the darkness of his curling hair, he laughed and joked about trivialities, as if his universe revolved around yachts and gambling excursions. But there were faint lines around his mouth: traces of harshness, of a hidden cruelty that underlay his surface smoothness.
Paul, standing several feet away from the rest of them, leaned absentmindedly against the patio balcony, a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and a frown creasing his forehead. With his hair streaked silver to simulate middle age, his role was the harried executive, unable to set aside workplace concerns even in such a beautiful setting, reduced to seeking respite in alcoholic oblivion. Charles, however, knew better -- could see the poised alertness even in his slumped posture, a native self-confidence and sense of purpose that no amount of acting could truly hide.
As for Madeline, she stood provocatively close to Demetrios, laughing when he laughed, smiling when he smiled, touching his arm, his shoulder, his hand. Her hair was overstyled, her face overmade, her outfit overpriced -- the uniform of a woman who believed that happiness could be found in the gleam of a credit card. But through the studied superficiality and aggressive flirtatiousness of her adopted persona, something else shone through. Intelligence. Independence. Fearlessness.
No, no one's mask was ever truly complete. No one could hide who he or she was, no matter how great the effort. What, Charles wondered, could they see in him?
Another question with no answer. He was asking himself entirely too many of those. He took another swallow of his drink and tried to banish such thoughts from his mind, forcing himself to focus on the conversation, on setting the bait for their target. That, after all, was why he was there.
Madeline laughed, tossing her head back, and placed her hand on Demetrios's arm. "We're so lucky to have someone so charming staying in the villa next door," she cooed, her voice silken and beguiling. "And someone who knows the island so well! Promise me you'll show us all the secret hideaways that only the locals know about."
Demetrios swirled his drink in his glass and smiled, flashing a row of perfect white teeth. "Consider me at your service. I'd be delighted to show such a beautiful lady the sights." He then looked over at Paul, who seemed only to be half listening. "And her husband, too, of course."
Paul took a long drag on his cigarette, exhaled, and stared moodily at the trail of smoke.
Looking uncomfortable, Demetrios turned to Charles. "And you, uh," he faltered, then smiled politely. "What was the name again?"
"Geoffrey."
"Geoffrey. Have you been to Greece before?"
"Several times. I travel a great deal." He paused. "On business."
"I see."
He felt Demetrios examining him. In response, he tensed involuntarily, straightening his shoulders.
"How long have you known the Pierces?" Demetrios's voice was casual, but there was a focused gleam in his eyes.
"Geoffrey's my financial advisor," interjected Paul, slurring his speech a little. "And my attorney. He's completely indispensable."
"Your financial advisor and attorney?" Demetrios laughed. "That's a dangerous combination. I hope you trust him. He could be robbing you blind."
Charles stiffened, this time deliberately, giving Demetrios a hard look. He felt Madeline move closer to him; she wrapped her arm around his waist and hugged him before turning to Demetrios with a broad smile.
"Geoffrey's so clever, you never know!" She looked back at Charles and arched an eyebrow, lowering her voice teasingly. "He could be stealing all sorts of things."
They all laughed; Charles made sure his sounded forced.
Madeline's expression grew more serious. "But Ted and I have both known him for years. In fact, he introduced the two of us. Didn't you, Geoffrey?"
Charles nodded. "Right. That ski trip in Vail." He smiled wanly. "Who would have thought I'd be such a good matchmaker?"
Madeline smiled again and patted his arm, her hand lingering. "You're good at so many things." She chuckled. "Multitalented, in fact."
They shared a long look. Out of the corner of his eye, Charles noticed Demetrios's expression grow intrigued.
Hearing a noise at the doorway to the patio, Charles turned to see that the cook had appeared.
"Dinner is ready."
"Oh, lovely," said Madeline, moving to head inside. "I'm starved."
Charles allowed the corner of his mouth to twist up. "Annette, you always have an appetite."
***
A warm rectangle of light shone through the open door onto the patio; outside it, in the darkness, Madeline had been sitting for a half hour. She could hear the voices of the three men inside -- while the words were inaudible, the tone was steady, almost soothing. She had disappeared after their meal, ostensibly for fresh air, but in reality to allow the business discussions to begin. The fresh air, however, had turned out to be surprisingly pleasant; she breathed in slowly, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes.
"The view might be better if you had your eyes open."
The deep bass of Demetrios's voice startled her awake. She opened her eyes to see him standing in the doorway, holding two glasses. He strolled toward her as she rose hastily to her feet.
"There was no need to get up. I didn't mean to disturb you."
"No, you didn't," she said, trying to gather her thoughts. She hadn't expected to have time alone with him so soon: the after-dinner conversation was intended as time for the men to cement their new relationship. Her time was later -- or it was supposed to have been.
But then profiles could always be accelerated.
She walked away from the chair and accepted the glass he offered. She took a sip, allowing the liqueur's cloying sweetness to fill her mouth. A fitting drink for the occasion, she thought.
"Aren't you supposed to be inside with the other men, talking about important things?" She lifted an eyebrow in sarcastic emphasis.
He scowled. In the dim light, his thin features appeared sharp and severe. "They started smoking cigars. I hate cigars. So I excused myself." He looked at her thoughtfully. "Besides, it's completely rude to leave you alone like this. I don't want you to think that the men of my country are boors."
"Oh, quite the contrary. Why, if you're any indication, I'm beginning to think quite highly of them."
They stood in silence for a few moments, tasting their drinks in unison. Then he looked her up and down with what seemed to be amused interest.
"He's a bit old for you."
She smiled in mock innocence. "Ted, you mean?"
A wicked expression filled his face. "Either one of them."
She laughed, but said nothing in response.
He shrugged. "You like mature men. There's nothing wrong with that."
"Let me put it this way. There's nothing more attractive than a mature portfolio." Her smile widened.
"How delightfully mercenary." He lifted his drink in a toast. "A woman after my own heart."
She raised her own drink, and they clinked their glasses together.
He took a step closer, brushing his arm against hers. The scent of his aftershave washed over her -- masculine, but soft and exotic.
He leaned in toward her, his mouth near her ear. His breath was warm. "It's a wonderful coincidence that we happened to be renting villas next to each other."
She rolled her eyes. "The pretense isn't necessary, you know."
He stepped back again, making a valiant effort to appear surprised. "Pretense?"
"This isn't a coincidence at all. I know that."
He frowned.
"I know all about my husband's business. And I know why we're really here."
"Do you?" This time, it was genuine surprise that filled his face. "He tells you that?"
"No. Geoffrey does." She smirked. "Geoffrey tells me everything."
"He didn't strike me as the talkative sort."
"Oh, but I can be so very persuasive," she said, reaching over to run a finger lightly along his chest.
She laughed softly, in the back of her throat. He laughed in return, but without any confidence, clearly affected.
"Actually," she continued, "Geoffrey knows more about the business -- or at least the part of the business that concerns you -- than Ted does. Geoffrey takes care of everything -- procurement, payment, delivery. Ted's much too busy playing golf with 'important people', if you know what I mean."
They shared a long look. Demetrios took a quick swallow of his drink.
"It sounds like you appreciate Geoffrey a great deal."
She smiled slyly. "As Ted said, he's completely indispensable."
"And is he really -- how did you phrase it -- multitalented?"
"About many things, yes." She reached for his chest again; she placed her palm against it and felt the warmth through his shirt. "But not everything."
A slow smile lit his face. "Oh, that's too bad."
She withdrew her hand and took another drink, savoring it as she looked into his eyes.
"Do you know anything about my husband's company?" she asked, steering the conversation toward the final setup.
"Some." He frowned, seemingly puzzled by the shift in topic.
"Did you know it's privately held?"
He shrugged. "So?"
"It's a bit old-fashioned. Maybe even foolish financially. But there's a lot less scrutiny that way. It makes it easier to do business with people like you."
"Mm hmm." He nodded, but looked slightly bored.
"But there's another advantage, too."
"Yes?"
"Ted owns a majority of the shares. It really is his company. Which means that if, God forbid, anything ever happened to him, it would be mine."
For a moment, he said nothing, his ability to speak lost in apparent shock. Then, slowly, a look of admiration filled his face, and he began to chuckle softly. "And are you expecting something to happen to him?"
"Oh, goodness, no." Her voice was rich with unspoken meaning. "But you never know, do you?"
He smiled. "No, you don't."
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a business card.
"Here's my private number in Athens," he said, handing her the card. "If anything ever happens to Ted, you give me a call."
***
Paul leaned against the pillows, hands folded under his head, as he waited alone in the bedroom. He shifted positions, rustling his legs against the starched sheets, and then settled back again. The lamp on the bedside table cast a soft light across the room; he let his gaze roam idly, taking in the stylish furniture, the harmonious colors, the tasteful artwork -- and then abruptly rolled over. None of it could hold his attention. He was never good at waiting -- his mind, restless, always wandered elsewhere.
Madeline had been outside with Demetrios far longer than Paul had expected. This was, he reminded himself, an excellent sign. However, not knowing what was going on was a form of agony. It had taken all of his self-control to refrain from eavesdropping. At first, he had tried to distract himself by conversing with Charles -- until he realized that, unable under the circumstances to discuss their work, he had nothing to say to the man. So he pleaded fatigue and wandered off to bed, where he tossed, and turned, and tossed again.
He would have given anything to have been able to watch Madeline toy with Demetrios. She raised manipulation to the level of art, rendered deceit into something refined. Observing her in action was like witnessing a leopard stalking an unwary gazelle -- she moved with a concentrated energy, poised for just the right moment to spring and tear the throat out of her prey. It was an elegant deadliness, graceful in its single-minded ruthlessness. Thinking of it, Paul smiled to himself. Demetrios didn't stand a chance.
He relaxed in relief when the door finally opened and she walked into the bedroom. Her face was flushed from the night air; her movements, as she closed the door and crossed the room, were quick and decisive. That, Paul knew, was another excellent sign -- her faint aura of excitement a clue that the chase had commenced.
She threw him a look: a look that he knew very well, that signaled that there was much to be said, but no safe way to say it. This room -- like all the others in the villa -- had been bugged by Demetrios -- a fact they had confirmed immediately upon their arrival. Nevertheless, there were subtler means of communication: code words, stock phrases that they relied upon in situations such as this.
"Did you have a pleasant evening?" he asked. He used an accusatory tone for the benefit of their observers, but they both knew what he really meant: did you make progress with him?
"Very," she said curtly.
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. He had expected a simple 'yes', or a more ambiguous 'I suppose' -- but her unequivocal answer meant only one thing: they were on an accelerated schedule. It was time, then, to take the next step -- to begin the next act of the play they were performing.
She turned away from him and began to undress, unbuttoning her blouse and removing it, draping it over the back of a chair. As she unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it, he rose from the bed and approached her from behind. He slid his hands along her shoulders and began to nuzzle her neck, pressing his lips against her skin with a series of moist kisses. She pulled away and whirled around to glare at him in feigned disgust.
"You're drunk," she said coldly.
He gave a scornful laugh. "And you're not?"
They stared at each other for a several moments.
"Could you have been any more blatant in the way you threw yourself at him?" His voice nearly shook in bitter intensity.
"At least he seemed to appreciate me. Unlike a certain man who ignored me all night. Why shouldn't I have spent time with him?"
He seized her by the wrist and flung her onto the bed. "You're my wife, damn it. It's time you remembered that."
As he looked down at her -- half-dressed, long hair strewn haphazardly across the bedspread, framing her face with its dark curls -- he almost forgot the point of their exercise. She gazed up at him, and spark of mischief flashed through her eyes, but then it disappeared into an expression of brittle coldness.
She began to laugh, her tone mocking. "Oh, please. What are you going to do? Ravish me? We both know you're not up to it." She smirked. "Especially after you've been drinking."
Despite knowing that her words were for Demetrios's benefit, he felt a rush of cold fury at the withering disdain in her delivery. For a few seconds, there was nothing he wanted to do more than fall on top of her and wipe that smug look off her face -- all night, preferably. However, that was most definitely not part of the profile. So he took a deep breath and looked down at her contemptuously.
"I don't think the problem is me. After all, you're not twenty years old anymore. In fact, I've been thinking that it's about time to get a new model of trophy wife anyway. Something younger." He smirked back, matching her earlier expression. "Something blonder."
She got up from the bed and walked over to stand next to him, fixing him with a deadly glare. "You wouldn't dare," she hissed. "I'd take you for everything you own."
He folded his arms over his chest. "Need I remind you of that little document you signed? What was that called?" He chuckled. "Oh, yes. A prenup." His smile turned chilly. "One more performance like this evening, my dear, and you're out on the street."
He walked back around the bed and slid back in, settling in comfortably, as she stared at him with an outraged expression.
"You know, this is turning out to be a pleasant evening for me, too." He smiled triumphantly. "Sleep well, Annette. I know I will."
He reached over and switched off the bedside light, leaving her in darkness.
***
The faint sound of the door creaking open woke him. For a moment, forgetting where he was, Charles's first thought was to reach for his gun. He quickly stifled that instinct and lay still, blinking when the light turned on overhead.
Madeline stood in the doorway, dressed in silk pajamas and a matching robe, her hand on the light switch. The sharp look she gave him commanded him into silence; she closed the door carefully, and then crossed the room to sit at the foot of the bed.
The mission profile had wide parameters, and Charles had prepared himself for almost anything. However, her visit to him -- here, now -- was puzzling. No doubt it had something to do with her conversation with Demetrios after dinner, wherever that had led. But there was no point in speculating. All he could do was play his role and let her take things from there.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and smiled warmly. "This is a pleasant surprise. But don't you think we should be more discreet?"
She threw him a glacial look. "Don't get excited. I'm not here to fuck you, if that's what you were thinking."
He winced, taken aback. Role or no role, it was distasteful hearing her speak so crudely -- it was so far divorced from her normal demeanor that he found it extremely disconcerting.
Her expression seethed with anger. "Ted just threatened to divorce me," she announced, her speech hard and clipped. "You have to do something."
Interesting. Things were moving much more rapidly than he had anticipated. But at least he knew now where this conversation was heading.
"Oh, Annette," he groaned, trying to sound exasperated. "He's done that before. He'll never go through with it."
"I don't care." She crossed her arms. "It's time. I'm sick of your always finding reasons to wait. I want it taken care of when we get back home."
"But--" he started.
"No," she interrupted, unfolding her arms again and leaning forward in emphasis. "You promised me, Geoffrey. You told me you knew people who could do it. Are you going back on that now?"
The look on her face -- dark with sheer bloodthirsty rage -- was so convincing that Charles almost shivered with a momentary chill.
"Of course not," he said, his voice soothing, with just a tinge of defensiveness thrown in. "It's just that everything has to be set up first. I have to get control of all of the accounts -- and it hasn't exactly been easy convincing him to give me the contact information for his buyers. It's taken years."
"Yes, years!" she spat. "That's exactly the problem. Six years, to be exact -- six years of my having to live with the son-of-a-bitch while you twiddled your thumbs. Do you know how long it took me to get contact information for a buyer? Hmm?"
"I don't know, Annette," he said slowly, sarcastically, "how long?"
"One fucking night!" she hissed, flinging a business card at him.
He picked up the card and read it in amazement. Genuine amazement. One night. Demetrios was apparently more gullible than they thought. Or perhaps Madeline was a better seductress than he'd realized.
"Sometimes I wonder if you know what the hell you're doing," she said, shaking her head in disgust.
"My God, this is his private number," he exclaimed. "We could bypass Ted altogether."
"No shit."
"And Demetrios is the biggest player there is. We wouldn't even need to deal with any of the other distributors. A contract with him would mean more money than we'd know what to do with."
"More money than you'd know what to do with," she corrected icily.
He took a deep breath. "All right. I can fix his accounts so that it looks like he has a lot of gambling debts. When he turns up dead, the police will blame it on that."
"Good." Her expression hardened. "And tell those people you know to torture him a little first. I want him to suffer."
He raised his eyebrows. "Isn't that a bit vindictive, dear?"
She stood from the bed and looked down at him coldly. "That's for every time he put his hands on me the past six years."
************
To go on to Chapter 9, click here.
Previous Chapters
Part One
Part Two
Chapter One
Chapter Seven
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
Chapter Eight
The sky was a rich twilight blue, streaked with pink tinged clouds. Standing on the stonework of the villa's patio, Charles watched the distant colors deepen. A red glow traversed along the horizon and spread across the ocean, as a breeze floated up the hill slope through the olive trees. He sipped his drink, the ice rattling in his glass, and allowed the cool evening air to caress his face.
As the sky darkened further, lights began to shine in the village houses down the hillside. They looked cheerful, welcoming, cozy -- but completely out of reach, their occupants oblivious to his watchful presence above. With a sudden touch of melancholy, he began to wonder who lived inside. Their lives, he imagined, were slower, simpler, more complete than his -- attuned to the rhythms of the sea and family life, to traditions older than written history. Or were they restless, dissatisfied, wanting what they didn't have? Excitement, urbanity, material wealth: perhaps they longed for those things the same way he yearned for something permanent, something solid beneath the haze of illusions that surrounded him.
There was no answer to his question. There never would be.
He turned back toward the villa, pretending to listen to the conversation taking place around him. Instead, however, he watched the faces of his companions -- each one wearing a mask, as did he. Each one playing a role, assuming a character -- and yet, despite this, unable to hide themselves completely.
Demetrios, their target, played the jovial playboy -- a carefree man of the world who 'just happened' to be renting the villa next to theirs. In his Italian designer clothing, its spotless white fabric a stark contrast to the darkness of his curling hair, he laughed and joked about trivialities, as if his universe revolved around yachts and gambling excursions. But there were faint lines around his mouth: traces of harshness, of a hidden cruelty that underlay his surface smoothness.
Paul, standing several feet away from the rest of them, leaned absentmindedly against the patio balcony, a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and a frown creasing his forehead. With his hair streaked silver to simulate middle age, his role was the harried executive, unable to set aside workplace concerns even in such a beautiful setting, reduced to seeking respite in alcoholic oblivion. Charles, however, knew better -- could see the poised alertness even in his slumped posture, a native self-confidence and sense of purpose that no amount of acting could truly hide.
As for Madeline, she stood provocatively close to Demetrios, laughing when he laughed, smiling when he smiled, touching his arm, his shoulder, his hand. Her hair was overstyled, her face overmade, her outfit overpriced -- the uniform of a woman who believed that happiness could be found in the gleam of a credit card. But through the studied superficiality and aggressive flirtatiousness of her adopted persona, something else shone through. Intelligence. Independence. Fearlessness.
No, no one's mask was ever truly complete. No one could hide who he or she was, no matter how great the effort. What, Charles wondered, could they see in him?
Another question with no answer. He was asking himself entirely too many of those. He took another swallow of his drink and tried to banish such thoughts from his mind, forcing himself to focus on the conversation, on setting the bait for their target. That, after all, was why he was there.
Madeline laughed, tossing her head back, and placed her hand on Demetrios's arm. "We're so lucky to have someone so charming staying in the villa next door," she cooed, her voice silken and beguiling. "And someone who knows the island so well! Promise me you'll show us all the secret hideaways that only the locals know about."
Demetrios swirled his drink in his glass and smiled, flashing a row of perfect white teeth. "Consider me at your service. I'd be delighted to show such a beautiful lady the sights." He then looked over at Paul, who seemed only to be half listening. "And her husband, too, of course."
Paul took a long drag on his cigarette, exhaled, and stared moodily at the trail of smoke.
Looking uncomfortable, Demetrios turned to Charles. "And you, uh," he faltered, then smiled politely. "What was the name again?"
"Geoffrey."
"Geoffrey. Have you been to Greece before?"
"Several times. I travel a great deal." He paused. "On business."
"I see."
He felt Demetrios examining him. In response, he tensed involuntarily, straightening his shoulders.
"How long have you known the Pierces?" Demetrios's voice was casual, but there was a focused gleam in his eyes.
"Geoffrey's my financial advisor," interjected Paul, slurring his speech a little. "And my attorney. He's completely indispensable."
"Your financial advisor and attorney?" Demetrios laughed. "That's a dangerous combination. I hope you trust him. He could be robbing you blind."
Charles stiffened, this time deliberately, giving Demetrios a hard look. He felt Madeline move closer to him; she wrapped her arm around his waist and hugged him before turning to Demetrios with a broad smile.
"Geoffrey's so clever, you never know!" She looked back at Charles and arched an eyebrow, lowering her voice teasingly. "He could be stealing all sorts of things."
They all laughed; Charles made sure his sounded forced.
Madeline's expression grew more serious. "But Ted and I have both known him for years. In fact, he introduced the two of us. Didn't you, Geoffrey?"
Charles nodded. "Right. That ski trip in Vail." He smiled wanly. "Who would have thought I'd be such a good matchmaker?"
Madeline smiled again and patted his arm, her hand lingering. "You're good at so many things." She chuckled. "Multitalented, in fact."
They shared a long look. Out of the corner of his eye, Charles noticed Demetrios's expression grow intrigued.
Hearing a noise at the doorway to the patio, Charles turned to see that the cook had appeared.
"Dinner is ready."
"Oh, lovely," said Madeline, moving to head inside. "I'm starved."
Charles allowed the corner of his mouth to twist up. "Annette, you always have an appetite."
***
A warm rectangle of light shone through the open door onto the patio; outside it, in the darkness, Madeline had been sitting for a half hour. She could hear the voices of the three men inside -- while the words were inaudible, the tone was steady, almost soothing. She had disappeared after their meal, ostensibly for fresh air, but in reality to allow the business discussions to begin. The fresh air, however, had turned out to be surprisingly pleasant; she breathed in slowly, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes.
"The view might be better if you had your eyes open."
The deep bass of Demetrios's voice startled her awake. She opened her eyes to see him standing in the doorway, holding two glasses. He strolled toward her as she rose hastily to her feet.
"There was no need to get up. I didn't mean to disturb you."
"No, you didn't," she said, trying to gather her thoughts. She hadn't expected to have time alone with him so soon: the after-dinner conversation was intended as time for the men to cement their new relationship. Her time was later -- or it was supposed to have been.
But then profiles could always be accelerated.
She walked away from the chair and accepted the glass he offered. She took a sip, allowing the liqueur's cloying sweetness to fill her mouth. A fitting drink for the occasion, she thought.
"Aren't you supposed to be inside with the other men, talking about important things?" She lifted an eyebrow in sarcastic emphasis.
He scowled. In the dim light, his thin features appeared sharp and severe. "They started smoking cigars. I hate cigars. So I excused myself." He looked at her thoughtfully. "Besides, it's completely rude to leave you alone like this. I don't want you to think that the men of my country are boors."
"Oh, quite the contrary. Why, if you're any indication, I'm beginning to think quite highly of them."
They stood in silence for a few moments, tasting their drinks in unison. Then he looked her up and down with what seemed to be amused interest.
"He's a bit old for you."
She smiled in mock innocence. "Ted, you mean?"
A wicked expression filled his face. "Either one of them."
She laughed, but said nothing in response.
He shrugged. "You like mature men. There's nothing wrong with that."
"Let me put it this way. There's nothing more attractive than a mature portfolio." Her smile widened.
"How delightfully mercenary." He lifted his drink in a toast. "A woman after my own heart."
She raised her own drink, and they clinked their glasses together.
He took a step closer, brushing his arm against hers. The scent of his aftershave washed over her -- masculine, but soft and exotic.
He leaned in toward her, his mouth near her ear. His breath was warm. "It's a wonderful coincidence that we happened to be renting villas next to each other."
She rolled her eyes. "The pretense isn't necessary, you know."
He stepped back again, making a valiant effort to appear surprised. "Pretense?"
"This isn't a coincidence at all. I know that."
He frowned.
"I know all about my husband's business. And I know why we're really here."
"Do you?" This time, it was genuine surprise that filled his face. "He tells you that?"
"No. Geoffrey does." She smirked. "Geoffrey tells me everything."
"He didn't strike me as the talkative sort."
"Oh, but I can be so very persuasive," she said, reaching over to run a finger lightly along his chest.
She laughed softly, in the back of her throat. He laughed in return, but without any confidence, clearly affected.
"Actually," she continued, "Geoffrey knows more about the business -- or at least the part of the business that concerns you -- than Ted does. Geoffrey takes care of everything -- procurement, payment, delivery. Ted's much too busy playing golf with 'important people', if you know what I mean."
They shared a long look. Demetrios took a quick swallow of his drink.
"It sounds like you appreciate Geoffrey a great deal."
She smiled slyly. "As Ted said, he's completely indispensable."
"And is he really -- how did you phrase it -- multitalented?"
"About many things, yes." She reached for his chest again; she placed her palm against it and felt the warmth through his shirt. "But not everything."
A slow smile lit his face. "Oh, that's too bad."
She withdrew her hand and took another drink, savoring it as she looked into his eyes.
"Do you know anything about my husband's company?" she asked, steering the conversation toward the final setup.
"Some." He frowned, seemingly puzzled by the shift in topic.
"Did you know it's privately held?"
He shrugged. "So?"
"It's a bit old-fashioned. Maybe even foolish financially. But there's a lot less scrutiny that way. It makes it easier to do business with people like you."
"Mm hmm." He nodded, but looked slightly bored.
"But there's another advantage, too."
"Yes?"
"Ted owns a majority of the shares. It really is his company. Which means that if, God forbid, anything ever happened to him, it would be mine."
For a moment, he said nothing, his ability to speak lost in apparent shock. Then, slowly, a look of admiration filled his face, and he began to chuckle softly. "And are you expecting something to happen to him?"
"Oh, goodness, no." Her voice was rich with unspoken meaning. "But you never know, do you?"
He smiled. "No, you don't."
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a business card.
"Here's my private number in Athens," he said, handing her the card. "If anything ever happens to Ted, you give me a call."
***
Paul leaned against the pillows, hands folded under his head, as he waited alone in the bedroom. He shifted positions, rustling his legs against the starched sheets, and then settled back again. The lamp on the bedside table cast a soft light across the room; he let his gaze roam idly, taking in the stylish furniture, the harmonious colors, the tasteful artwork -- and then abruptly rolled over. None of it could hold his attention. He was never good at waiting -- his mind, restless, always wandered elsewhere.
Madeline had been outside with Demetrios far longer than Paul had expected. This was, he reminded himself, an excellent sign. However, not knowing what was going on was a form of agony. It had taken all of his self-control to refrain from eavesdropping. At first, he had tried to distract himself by conversing with Charles -- until he realized that, unable under the circumstances to discuss their work, he had nothing to say to the man. So he pleaded fatigue and wandered off to bed, where he tossed, and turned, and tossed again.
He would have given anything to have been able to watch Madeline toy with Demetrios. She raised manipulation to the level of art, rendered deceit into something refined. Observing her in action was like witnessing a leopard stalking an unwary gazelle -- she moved with a concentrated energy, poised for just the right moment to spring and tear the throat out of her prey. It was an elegant deadliness, graceful in its single-minded ruthlessness. Thinking of it, Paul smiled to himself. Demetrios didn't stand a chance.
He relaxed in relief when the door finally opened and she walked into the bedroom. Her face was flushed from the night air; her movements, as she closed the door and crossed the room, were quick and decisive. That, Paul knew, was another excellent sign -- her faint aura of excitement a clue that the chase had commenced.
She threw him a look: a look that he knew very well, that signaled that there was much to be said, but no safe way to say it. This room -- like all the others in the villa -- had been bugged by Demetrios -- a fact they had confirmed immediately upon their arrival. Nevertheless, there were subtler means of communication: code words, stock phrases that they relied upon in situations such as this.
"Did you have a pleasant evening?" he asked. He used an accusatory tone for the benefit of their observers, but they both knew what he really meant: did you make progress with him?
"Very," she said curtly.
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. He had expected a simple 'yes', or a more ambiguous 'I suppose' -- but her unequivocal answer meant only one thing: they were on an accelerated schedule. It was time, then, to take the next step -- to begin the next act of the play they were performing.
She turned away from him and began to undress, unbuttoning her blouse and removing it, draping it over the back of a chair. As she unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it, he rose from the bed and approached her from behind. He slid his hands along her shoulders and began to nuzzle her neck, pressing his lips against her skin with a series of moist kisses. She pulled away and whirled around to glare at him in feigned disgust.
"You're drunk," she said coldly.
He gave a scornful laugh. "And you're not?"
They stared at each other for a several moments.
"Could you have been any more blatant in the way you threw yourself at him?" His voice nearly shook in bitter intensity.
"At least he seemed to appreciate me. Unlike a certain man who ignored me all night. Why shouldn't I have spent time with him?"
He seized her by the wrist and flung her onto the bed. "You're my wife, damn it. It's time you remembered that."
As he looked down at her -- half-dressed, long hair strewn haphazardly across the bedspread, framing her face with its dark curls -- he almost forgot the point of their exercise. She gazed up at him, and spark of mischief flashed through her eyes, but then it disappeared into an expression of brittle coldness.
She began to laugh, her tone mocking. "Oh, please. What are you going to do? Ravish me? We both know you're not up to it." She smirked. "Especially after you've been drinking."
Despite knowing that her words were for Demetrios's benefit, he felt a rush of cold fury at the withering disdain in her delivery. For a few seconds, there was nothing he wanted to do more than fall on top of her and wipe that smug look off her face -- all night, preferably. However, that was most definitely not part of the profile. So he took a deep breath and looked down at her contemptuously.
"I don't think the problem is me. After all, you're not twenty years old anymore. In fact, I've been thinking that it's about time to get a new model of trophy wife anyway. Something younger." He smirked back, matching her earlier expression. "Something blonder."
She got up from the bed and walked over to stand next to him, fixing him with a deadly glare. "You wouldn't dare," she hissed. "I'd take you for everything you own."
He folded his arms over his chest. "Need I remind you of that little document you signed? What was that called?" He chuckled. "Oh, yes. A prenup." His smile turned chilly. "One more performance like this evening, my dear, and you're out on the street."
He walked back around the bed and slid back in, settling in comfortably, as she stared at him with an outraged expression.
"You know, this is turning out to be a pleasant evening for me, too." He smiled triumphantly. "Sleep well, Annette. I know I will."
He reached over and switched off the bedside light, leaving her in darkness.
***
The faint sound of the door creaking open woke him. For a moment, forgetting where he was, Charles's first thought was to reach for his gun. He quickly stifled that instinct and lay still, blinking when the light turned on overhead.
Madeline stood in the doorway, dressed in silk pajamas and a matching robe, her hand on the light switch. The sharp look she gave him commanded him into silence; she closed the door carefully, and then crossed the room to sit at the foot of the bed.
The mission profile had wide parameters, and Charles had prepared himself for almost anything. However, her visit to him -- here, now -- was puzzling. No doubt it had something to do with her conversation with Demetrios after dinner, wherever that had led. But there was no point in speculating. All he could do was play his role and let her take things from there.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and smiled warmly. "This is a pleasant surprise. But don't you think we should be more discreet?"
She threw him a glacial look. "Don't get excited. I'm not here to fuck you, if that's what you were thinking."
He winced, taken aback. Role or no role, it was distasteful hearing her speak so crudely -- it was so far divorced from her normal demeanor that he found it extremely disconcerting.
Her expression seethed with anger. "Ted just threatened to divorce me," she announced, her speech hard and clipped. "You have to do something."
Interesting. Things were moving much more rapidly than he had anticipated. But at least he knew now where this conversation was heading.
"Oh, Annette," he groaned, trying to sound exasperated. "He's done that before. He'll never go through with it."
"I don't care." She crossed her arms. "It's time. I'm sick of your always finding reasons to wait. I want it taken care of when we get back home."
"But--" he started.
"No," she interrupted, unfolding her arms again and leaning forward in emphasis. "You promised me, Geoffrey. You told me you knew people who could do it. Are you going back on that now?"
The look on her face -- dark with sheer bloodthirsty rage -- was so convincing that Charles almost shivered with a momentary chill.
"Of course not," he said, his voice soothing, with just a tinge of defensiveness thrown in. "It's just that everything has to be set up first. I have to get control of all of the accounts -- and it hasn't exactly been easy convincing him to give me the contact information for his buyers. It's taken years."
"Yes, years!" she spat. "That's exactly the problem. Six years, to be exact -- six years of my having to live with the son-of-a-bitch while you twiddled your thumbs. Do you know how long it took me to get contact information for a buyer? Hmm?"
"I don't know, Annette," he said slowly, sarcastically, "how long?"
"One fucking night!" she hissed, flinging a business card at him.
He picked up the card and read it in amazement. Genuine amazement. One night. Demetrios was apparently more gullible than they thought. Or perhaps Madeline was a better seductress than he'd realized.
"Sometimes I wonder if you know what the hell you're doing," she said, shaking her head in disgust.
"My God, this is his private number," he exclaimed. "We could bypass Ted altogether."
"No shit."
"And Demetrios is the biggest player there is. We wouldn't even need to deal with any of the other distributors. A contract with him would mean more money than we'd know what to do with."
"More money than you'd know what to do with," she corrected icily.
He took a deep breath. "All right. I can fix his accounts so that it looks like he has a lot of gambling debts. When he turns up dead, the police will blame it on that."
"Good." Her expression hardened. "And tell those people you know to torture him a little first. I want him to suffer."
He raised his eyebrows. "Isn't that a bit vindictive, dear?"
She stood from the bed and looked down at him coldly. "That's for every time he put his hands on me the past six years."
************
To go on to Chapter 9, click here.
Previous Chapters
Part One
Part Two
Chapter One
Chapter Seven
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six