FIC: Hijink (DWP, Miranda/Andy, Get Smart 99/Max) 4/?
Title: Hijink 4/?
Author: Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada / Get Smart Movie (Cross-over)
Pairing: Miranda/Andy, 99/Max, 99/Miranda
Spoilers: Both movies
Archiving: ralst is welcome to it.
Rating: PG-13 for violence
Summary: Worlds collide when Agent 99 and Maxwell Smart chase Rogue Agent 23 to a charity auction, and discover the inspiration for Agent 99's new face: Andy. Now, a case of mistaken identity has Andrea kidnapped, Max befuddled, and Miranda Priestly pissed off.
Notes: Happy Labor Day!
--
CHAPTERS
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen
--
Chapter Four: Attack of the Show
This was simply unacceptable.
What should have been a dull but quick appearance at a regular Irv-mandated public affair had turned into something out of an Inspector Clouseau film.
Andrea, who should not have even BEEN at this disastrous affair, was currently in the clutches of a madman. Emily with all her panics and hysterics had finally proven to be completely useless and had gotten herself kidnapped not once, but twice, and now Miranda Priestly had been forced to run. Miranda did not run. It was not in her nature. Particularly not in her ridiculously expensive shoes. Nor was it in her nature to be dragged like a… rioter, or to have bullets whizzing by her, flaking her with chipping plaster when they plowed into walls inches from her fleeing form.
And the big solution to being in a crowded ballroom on the run from men with guns, according to her genius secret agent who bore Andrea's likeness, was to tango?
This would simply … NOT DO.
Already, the Woman Who Was Not Andrea had grabbed hold of her wrist (and no one ever touched Miranda Priestly without permission, except perhaps Andrea herself), intently eyeing the wooded platform in the ballroom in front of the orchestra, reserved for the guests intending to dance.
"Tango!?" The sharp outburst, tumbling out of Miranda's mouth with such reckless abandon, was indicative of just how far out-of-control this entire situation had become. "Are you out of your mind?"
"What?" The woman was breathless, dark eyes darting over the crowd; focus not on her, but rather on the security guards that were most assuredly making their way in their direction. "Do you not know how?"
The question was so ludicrous Miranda was struck speechless for a full second. "Of course I know how!" she spat, unable to help herself. "But if you think that I'm going to take a dance floor with another woman-"
"Aren't you sleeping with another woman?"
Though she would never admit it, Miranda's ears tinted pink. Straightening her shoulders, she glanced at the crowd surrounding them, several casting wondering glances at Miranda and The Woman Who Was Not Andrea, and the intimate picture they created. "That's hardly common knowledge, is it?"
"Miranda!"
Of course, it would be her useless assistant Beth, looking glassy-eyed and glaring heatedly at the Agent Who Was Not Andrea, shredding the napkin in her hands to bits.
"Beth, leave us immediately."
"Roy has been waiting outside for twenty minutes. They're threatening to have him towed!" The girl looked desperately close to bursting into tears. Miranda rolled her eyes in frustration.
"Now is not the time-"
"What's she doing here?!" Beth squeaked, eyes narrowed at 99. "Isn't that Andrea Sachs? Is she stalking you? Do you want me to have her removed?"
"Beth, get a hold of yourself."
"Miranda, you said that you-"
"Good god, they follow you like puppies, don't they?" The Woman Who Was Not Andrea seemed as openly aggravated as she did, eyes scouting the guards that appeared to weave ever closer.
Miranda exhaled sharply through her nose, determined to end this.
"Beth, have you gone quite deaf?"
Blinking, Beth flushed. "No, Miranda."
"Than I fail to understand why you can't follow a simple order."
"But you said-"
A pale hand flashed out, and grabbed hold of Beth's wrist so quickly the girl actually squeaked. The agent's look was anything but sympathetic. "Beth, tell Roy to have the car out in front and we will be out in five minutes. Do your job."
"But Emily-"
"Emily failed to do her job, so I kidnapped her, gagged her, and locked her in a closet." Andrea's look-alike's eyes glittered furiously. "I have no qualms about doing the same to you."
Beth knew better than to look to Miranda for help. The napkin in her hand was now nothing but scattered bits of confetti. "Yes, Andy."
"Get going."
"Yes, Andy."
"Good." 'Andrea's threats had apparently frightened the girl into a catatonic state. The dreadful assistant only gaped.
Miranda exhaled and arched an eyebrow.
That did it. Teetering on her heels, Beth turned immediately and pushed her way through the crowd, fleeing to save her life and her limousine.
"Do you have any idea what kind of public figure I am?" she snapped, the minute the girl was gone. The grip on her wrist tightened, and the force behind it caused an unhitched gasp at the sudden pain. The swell of anger was instantaneous. "Let go of me."
But the agent only stepped forward, invading her space, uncaring of the eyes that were now openly staring as one hand reached up and smoothed up her chin, eyes locked on hers intensely.
Despite the fact that she knew better, Miranda felt her body respond instantly to the phantom façade of Andrea, which was nothing short of embarrassing.
"Listen, Ms. Priestly," she heard, as the hand wrapped against her neck and pulled her in, creating the appearance of an intimate whispered conversation. Lips brushed delicately against the shell of her ear. "Right now the only reason we are still alive is because everyone is looking at us. As long as you are the center of attention, Agent 23's men can only watch. So you either dance with me right now and come out of your closet or we get caught, and Andrea doesn’t live long enough to give you hell for it. And I'm sorry if this isn't good for your image, Ms. Priestly, but I'm not going to let Max die just because you have a reputation to uphold!"
"There's no need for melodramatic statements," she managed, but the frank summation of what they were in the middle of brought with it a needed reality check. It was, however, a bitter pill to swallow. The Woman Who Was Not Andrea, however, seemed to take that as acquiescence, and nodded shortly.
"Let's go," she snapped, and before Miranda could quite recover, pasted on a seductive expression that mimicked Andrea's bedroom eyes so perfectly Miranda gasped in surprise. With moves so graceful they were effortlessly lithe, the agent stepped back, fingers linking loosely with hers. Eyes connected intensely, and suddenly the secret agent who was not Andrea was leading her effortlessly through the parting crowd.
--
What were the odds?
A classic case of mistaken identity and it still managed to work in his favor. Mostly.
Dwayne Johnson (aka Agent 23) had apparently stolen someone else's good fortune.
It wouldn't surprise him. He stole a lot of things.
At the moment he had stolen a rookie secret agent, drugged an unconscious woman who looked exactly like his ex-girlfriend, and somehow ended up with a hysterical redhead he didn't quite want, but couldn't be bothered to kill yet.
There were other things to worry about than the bulging eyes and black streaks trailing their way down her blotched, slender face.
"You're making a huge mistake," said the woman named Emily, sitting stiffly in the corner of the van, legs splayed out in front of her. "No one crosses Miranda Priestly and gets away with it."
With a grunt of effort, he shoved unconscious Max at Emily's feet, ignoring her squeal in response. "Wrong, Princess," he answered with a wink and a smile. "No one crosses me. Keep your mouth shut, you may get out of this alive."
The pretty eyes flared in anger. "If you really think that you can get away with this-"
In warning, he lifted up a roll of duck tape. Obediently, the mouth slammed shut. He grinned. "Good girl."
Tossing the duck tape aside, he leaned forward and unwrapped the second figure, allowing the blacked out woman room to breathe.
Andrea Sachs was a very pretty woman, an exact replica of Agent 99, at least superficially. Now, tracing the soft skin with his fingertips, examining every inch of the unconscious face, he discovered he still had trouble catching the differences, subtle as they were.
Not that anyone could blame him. His 99 had been blonde and olive skinned, not the pale-faced, brunette younger-looking incarnation that had returned after the plastic surgery.
This one was softer around the edges, from the graceful fall of her bangs and the rounder shape of her hips. She had none of 99's hardness, which was a nice surprise to be honest. 99 had been a beautiful woman in any incarnation, but her mean right hook and her habit of punching people in the face had always been a turn off.
Even so, he had been prepared to take her with him. Maybe it was the bittersweet romantic in him, but he had actually entertained the thought that maybe, just maybe, they could have found a way to make it work. Had she passed the test. Had she chosen to stay with him, even with a blown cover, and hadn't changed her entire face, chosen the job, chosen ANOTHER MAN over him.
Max was now openly snoring, drool pooling on the floor of the van, muttering something in his sleep about calories and skipping meals.
This was 99's dream man.
The very thought revolted him, and he forced himself to breathe, calming himself long enough to finger the strong jawline of Andrea Sachs.
"Oh, would you stop pawing her?!" The sharp outburst forced his attention away from Andrea and back on the other woman, who looked infuriated on Andrea's behalf.
"Friend of yours?"
That resulted in an affronted sniff. "Hardly," muttered the other woman, and squirmed, obviously trying to find a more comfortable way to sit with both her legs and her arms bound. "The woman is a menace."
"Is she now?"
"She makes a mess of everything she does. She comes into an office with an innocent smile, and then takes your trips to Paris out from under you. She abandoned Miranda Priestly-and she's not even THAT pretty!" Emily was now actively sweating, and blew hard at the red bangs that flew into her face. "However," she began, British accent making the enunciation even more pronounced, flushing at the bemused expression on his face. "That does not give you license to man-handle her, demented psycho that you may be."
The smile that had drifted onto his features fell instantly. "I'm not a psycho, I'm a sociopath. There is a difference."
"Oh, I should care, because?"
"Because one doesn't care whether you live or die, and the other would peel off your skin just listen to you scream," he answered with a growl. The color once again drained from Emily's face, leaving behind the freckles and the large, jeweled eyes, which grew rounder at the insinuation.
"You can't kill me," she announced hotly, looking terrified and inconvenienced at the same time.
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, really. The Milan shoot is an absolute mess and unless I work all today tomorrow to fix it, Giselle will be wearing Pez containers instead of Tacori."
He blinked, knocked into confusion by the odd statement. Emily, posture board stiff, nodded immediately, tears dried and eyes flashing furiously.
She was actually sincere.
The sound of an agonized moan, thankfully, ripped him away from trying to wrap his head around the inner workings of one of Miranda Priestly's yes-girls.
He had Max-y. He had Andrea Sachs. But he had come for the original recipe, not the knock off. Max and 99 had a lot coming to them, but they were going to be together when it happened.
It would have been easier to take them both now, true, but no sense in getting caught up in what should-have-been.
The key to being a good agent was the ability to roll with the unexpected, and he had already done the hard part. He had Max.
Now, all he had to do was leave a trail of breadcrumbs and 99 would follow like the loyal bitch she was.
Then they would finish this.
"Did you hear me? I absolutely must not die today!"
"Because your magazine depends on it?"
"Exactly!"
"You really over-estimate yourself, don't you? Don't answer that!" he answered, before she unleashed some God-awful tirade. "And keep your mouth shut, or I kill you. End of story. Shut up. Jerry," he snapped, slamming the van door closed, ignoring the huffy snort from the redhead he had collected. "Where are they?" Silence. Sucking in a lungful of air through his nostrils, Dwayne Johnson willed himself to keep his patience. It was difficult. He had spent too much time planning, too much time waiting, to leave this all to a pair of stupid guards he picked up for a cheap rate. "Jerry!"
"Sorry, Mr. Johnson," the idiot finally stuttered back.
"Do you have them?"
"Not exactly, sir. They're in the ballroom."
Safety in numbers. Dwayne couldn't help a smile. 99 had always been a smart girl. "So what are they doing?"
A long pause, and then he heard it. "They're um... dancing the tango."
--
Inhale. Exhale, and then follow the music.
The seductive smile was small, subtle, and the woman only had eyes for Miranda Priestly. One slender palm smoothed possessively along the surprisingly slender back of the imposing Editor-in-Chief, and dark lids fluttered with appreciation.
The reaction was enough to cause a small smile, before 99 leaned in, knee moving in between Miranda's legs, other hand clasping Miranda's, bringing her into a tight, intimate hold.
The room had gone quiet, their audience shocked and startled, because this was Miranda Priestly and her ex-assistant Andrea Sachs. Eyeballs would be glued to them. Then the whispers would start, and no one would be capable of thinking of nothing else.
They would get a show.
Behind the crystal eyes, Miranda Priestly looked simultaneously terrified and furious, and the look was appealing. The older woman was not a classic beauty, her features were too strong for that, but there was no lacking her charisma or her subtle sexiness.
99 had been an agent for a long time. Seduction was common in her line of work, and among the dozens of men she had lured into her clutches with her sexuality; there had been a few women. She understood, as she let her eyes nakedly appreciate the soft curves of Miranda Priestly, what it was about the other woman that had her doppelganger entranced.
Tongue darting out to moisten the line of her lips, she kept her movements slow, calculating, as her cheek brushed against the soft skin of Miranda's jaw. "Just follow my lead," was her only statement, released in a hot breathless sigh. Miranda shuddered, and even under the circumstances, 99 could not help the satisfied smile.
This may have very well been the only circumstance under which Miranda would have assented to follow anyone in anything.
The bass drum snapped, and in reaction, she flexed her muscles, pushing with her left hand and smoothing back with her right, hips pressing forward between Miranda's legs. The step back was immediate.
A little stiff, but workable. With a soft, encouraging smile, 99 tightened her hold on Miranda's waist, guiding her easily into a simple twist that spun off her hip and allowed the other woman to extend a smooth leg, curve it around her thigh.
Good. Smooth, careful. Keeping her muscles tight, 99 let Miranda hold on to her, kept her hand clutched in hers as she shifted Miranda's weight in her hands, and allowed the woman to keep twisting. Arm now wrapped tight around her waist, she broke her hold long enough to reach up with soft fingers, and trail her free hand, fingers outstretched, over Miranda's face.
Miranda's fingers clenched, catching strands of brunette hair in 99's nape. 99 smiled. Good.
With a practiced ease, 99 once again shifted the weight, and Miranda followed in the other direction, straightening up, and stepping backwards in a glide across the floor.
Eyes darting away from Miranda's for a moment, she caught sight of the security guards, edging the staring crowd. One looked a little slack jawed.
When the music swelled, 99 reached forward, turning Miranda so she was now behind her, and grabbed her waist in unforgiving possession, slamming her hard; ass into groin. Miranda's head fell back against her shoulder.
"This is ridiculous," 99 heard, mumbled against her neck before she gripped Miranda's hips and once again forced a turn, leaving them slanted together, foreheads tilting against each other. "The object is to escape, not give a pornographic exhibition."
Mouth pulling into a reluctant smile, 99 once again fanned her fingers against Miranda's cheek, and stepped back on her heel, bringing Miranda with her, allowing the other woman to spring a sharp kick between her thighs.
Torso leaning forward, 99 slid her forearm around Miranda's waist and tilted her back, allowing her free hand to smooth down between the cleavage presented to her as Miranda's head tipped back.
"Don't tell me this is turning you on."
Fingernails dug hard into her arms. Had they been any sharper, they would have drawn blood.
Snapping Miranda up, she once again manipulated her hold on her waist, and walked her across the floor.
They were now the only ones dancing. The center of attention.
Twisting the older woman in her arms, she now held her back against her, walking her gently toward the edge of the dance floor.
"Listen to me," she began quietly, as dark eyes blazed into hers intensely. "When the music stops, we're going to make our way to the entrance on the side. Do you see it?"
She executed a sharp left, allowing Miranda to see her intended exit route. "Yes."
"Good," she responded hoarsely, and twisted Miranda once again, clasping her hand over Miranda's neck and drawing her in for a searing kiss on the lips.
--
Jerry Machoval felt the blood drain from his brain straight down to his groin.
The collective gasp of the scandalized crowd around him only made it worse.
"Jerry? What's going on?"
Swallowing hard, he furtively placed his hands over his belt, and tried to adjust himself. A woman beside him offered a disgusted huff. Flushing, he coughed, and shrugged.
The woman rolled her eyes and turned away, muttering, "Pervert."
"They really need Christ," muttered a chubby man in a suit, stuffing a handful of crackers into his mouth.
"Jerry!"
The name, shouted into his earpiece, caused a startled wince. Shaking the ringing out of his head, he sucked in a lungful of air to clear his dizzy senses and licked his dry lips.
"Uh... They're... kissing, sir."
A quiet pause, then a low chuckle, which terrified him. "God," he heard Mr. Johnson breathe. "She's good. She's really good. I'm surprised she talked the great Priestly into it."
"Now they're pulling out of it," he added under his breath, pushing carefully against the fat man and his crackers and weaving through the crowd as Agent 99 melded with Ms. Priestly into the crowd, fingers tangled with the older woman. "They're heading for the east exit. There's virtually no traffic there. We can take them."
Another pause, and that made him uneasy. If there was something he had learned very quickly about his new boss, it was that the man was rarely patient.
"So you're going to follow them."
"Yes sir."
"Okay, you do that," he heard, but he could have sworn it sounded patronized and exasperated. "Instead of standing here talking to me about it."
"Yessir."
"And Jerry?"
"Yessir."
"Get your dick under control."
He flushed, and grabbed hold of a glass of wine from a passing wine, pressing the cool glass against his temple. "Yessir."
"And under no circumstances tell them that we're going to be at 500 Miraposa Drive in Scarsdale."
The statement was oddly out of place. "Sir?"
"You do not tell them that I'm taking Max-y here to 500 Miraposa Drive in Scarsdale. That's 500 Miraposa Drive. In Scarsdale. Did you hear me?"
"Yes sir," he wheezed, bewildered.
"Repeat that back to me."
"Sir?"
"Repeat back to me what you are absolutely not supposed to say."
"Um..." He took a gulp of wine, and waves his hand to Matthew, who was already veering toward the exit. "I'm not supposed to tell them that you'll be at 500 Miraposa Drive in Scarsdale sir."
"That's right. No matter what Agent 99 does to you."
"No matter what Agent - she'll do stuff to me?"
"If she catches you? Oh sure. She's well versed in torture. I taught her myself." Mr. Johnson sounded very proud about that. "She'll probably stick something sharp under your fingernails, really dig it up there." Jerry's erection immediately deflated like a balloon. He took another gulp of wine, shouldering past a sputtering young man wheezing about never realizing 'what a piece of hot ass Miranda Priestly' was. "But you won't break, will you?"
"No, sir. Even if she sticks spikes up my fingernails."
"Oh! You know what I liked to do? I used to like to take some floss, and wrap it around my guy's neck, and just choke them right up until just before they lost consciousness, then bring them back. And then when they finally felt they could breathe? I'd do it all over again."
"She'd do that?" he couldn't help but squeak.
"Well, no... she's not as strong as I am."
Nearing the door, he nearly collapsed against it in relief.
"Chances are she'll probably just tie it around your penis."
Oh, God.
"But even if she does that, you're not to tell her that I'm taking her boyfriend to 500 Miraposa Drive in Scarsdale." Jerry saw spots behind his eyes. He was now sweating profusely. "Jerry?"
"Yessir," he wheezed.
"Not even if she does that thing she likes to do where she takes a nail trimmer and slices off your nipples!"
"Oh, God."
"What was that?"
"Nothing," he stammered, heart now pounding viciously in his chest.
"That's my boy. Go get 'er."
He downed the rest of the wine and fumbled for his gun. "Right," he finally breathed, all conviction gone. "Sure."
Gun clutched in his hand, he opened the door to the hallway.
Nothing.
"Sir... I don't know where Matthew is."
"She probably got him. He's probably dead. She's like a cobra." Jerry teetered, legs locking in frozen submission underneath him. Breathing hard, he willed himself to move. "Oh well, Jerry. I'm going to head out. Remember, under no circumstances are you to tell her that we're going to 500 Mariposa Drive in Scarsdale. Nice knowing you."
"Sir-"
The line clicked, and there was nothing.
"Crap."
Terror now invaded him, and as he tried to keep the gun steady, he discovered his hand was now shaking so badly he could barely keep a hold of it.
The hallway had a door on the right. The closet. The closet where the Emily had been gagged. Bound.
Oh God.
He inched forward, pausing to wipe the sweat from his eyes.
Nails under his fingers. Floss around his dick. His nipples getting cut off-
Oh man. He loved his nipples.
Ten feet now. Getting closer.
Maybe they had just left. Maybe he had just lost them. Maybe Agent 99 was having sex with Miranda Priestly right now. That would be nice.
A thump. A distinctive thump. And a muffled yelp.
He froze. The tremors now became erratic shakes.
"Matthew?" he called carefully. Nothing. Of course nothing. Because Matthew was having his dick sawed off by dental floss!
Two feet now.
He stumbled. When the door burst open, he screamed, hands flailing up as a pale hand reached out, grasped his tie, and yanked him into stifling darkness.
He was slammed hard into the wall, and there was paint thinner and a broom and oh GOD - who put a RAKE in here? She'd kill him with that!
And there she was, disarming him and throwing a punch across his jaw that left him dazed, the cold muzzle of a gun pressed into his windpipe, choking him.
"Where did they go?" she whispered, and there was murder in her eyes.
He couldn't take it. The panic welled up inside him and spilled over like into hysteria.
"500 MIRAPOSA DRIVE!" he barked, squirming, hands up. "They went to 500 MIRAPOSA DRIVE! PLEASE DON'T CUT MY DICK OFF!"
end chapter
Author: Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada / Get Smart Movie (Cross-over)
Pairing: Miranda/Andy, 99/Max, 99/Miranda
Spoilers: Both movies
Archiving: ralst is welcome to it.
Rating: PG-13 for violence
Summary: Worlds collide when Agent 99 and Maxwell Smart chase Rogue Agent 23 to a charity auction, and discover the inspiration for Agent 99's new face: Andy. Now, a case of mistaken identity has Andrea kidnapped, Max befuddled, and Miranda Priestly pissed off.
Notes: Happy Labor Day!
--
CHAPTERS
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen
--
Chapter Four: Attack of the Show
This was simply unacceptable.
What should have been a dull but quick appearance at a regular Irv-mandated public affair had turned into something out of an Inspector Clouseau film.
Andrea, who should not have even BEEN at this disastrous affair, was currently in the clutches of a madman. Emily with all her panics and hysterics had finally proven to be completely useless and had gotten herself kidnapped not once, but twice, and now Miranda Priestly had been forced to run. Miranda did not run. It was not in her nature. Particularly not in her ridiculously expensive shoes. Nor was it in her nature to be dragged like a… rioter, or to have bullets whizzing by her, flaking her with chipping plaster when they plowed into walls inches from her fleeing form.
And the big solution to being in a crowded ballroom on the run from men with guns, according to her genius secret agent who bore Andrea's likeness, was to tango?
This would simply … NOT DO.
Already, the Woman Who Was Not Andrea had grabbed hold of her wrist (and no one ever touched Miranda Priestly without permission, except perhaps Andrea herself), intently eyeing the wooded platform in the ballroom in front of the orchestra, reserved for the guests intending to dance.
"Tango!?" The sharp outburst, tumbling out of Miranda's mouth with such reckless abandon, was indicative of just how far out-of-control this entire situation had become. "Are you out of your mind?"
"What?" The woman was breathless, dark eyes darting over the crowd; focus not on her, but rather on the security guards that were most assuredly making their way in their direction. "Do you not know how?"
The question was so ludicrous Miranda was struck speechless for a full second. "Of course I know how!" she spat, unable to help herself. "But if you think that I'm going to take a dance floor with another woman-"
"Aren't you sleeping with another woman?"
Though she would never admit it, Miranda's ears tinted pink. Straightening her shoulders, she glanced at the crowd surrounding them, several casting wondering glances at Miranda and The Woman Who Was Not Andrea, and the intimate picture they created. "That's hardly common knowledge, is it?"
"Miranda!"
Of course, it would be her useless assistant Beth, looking glassy-eyed and glaring heatedly at the Agent Who Was Not Andrea, shredding the napkin in her hands to bits.
"Beth, leave us immediately."
"Roy has been waiting outside for twenty minutes. They're threatening to have him towed!" The girl looked desperately close to bursting into tears. Miranda rolled her eyes in frustration.
"Now is not the time-"
"What's she doing here?!" Beth squeaked, eyes narrowed at 99. "Isn't that Andrea Sachs? Is she stalking you? Do you want me to have her removed?"
"Beth, get a hold of yourself."
"Miranda, you said that you-"
"Good god, they follow you like puppies, don't they?" The Woman Who Was Not Andrea seemed as openly aggravated as she did, eyes scouting the guards that appeared to weave ever closer.
Miranda exhaled sharply through her nose, determined to end this.
"Beth, have you gone quite deaf?"
Blinking, Beth flushed. "No, Miranda."
"Than I fail to understand why you can't follow a simple order."
"But you said-"
A pale hand flashed out, and grabbed hold of Beth's wrist so quickly the girl actually squeaked. The agent's look was anything but sympathetic. "Beth, tell Roy to have the car out in front and we will be out in five minutes. Do your job."
"But Emily-"
"Emily failed to do her job, so I kidnapped her, gagged her, and locked her in a closet." Andrea's look-alike's eyes glittered furiously. "I have no qualms about doing the same to you."
Beth knew better than to look to Miranda for help. The napkin in her hand was now nothing but scattered bits of confetti. "Yes, Andy."
"Get going."
"Yes, Andy."
"Good." 'Andrea's threats had apparently frightened the girl into a catatonic state. The dreadful assistant only gaped.
Miranda exhaled and arched an eyebrow.
That did it. Teetering on her heels, Beth turned immediately and pushed her way through the crowd, fleeing to save her life and her limousine.
"Do you have any idea what kind of public figure I am?" she snapped, the minute the girl was gone. The grip on her wrist tightened, and the force behind it caused an unhitched gasp at the sudden pain. The swell of anger was instantaneous. "Let go of me."
But the agent only stepped forward, invading her space, uncaring of the eyes that were now openly staring as one hand reached up and smoothed up her chin, eyes locked on hers intensely.
Despite the fact that she knew better, Miranda felt her body respond instantly to the phantom façade of Andrea, which was nothing short of embarrassing.
"Listen, Ms. Priestly," she heard, as the hand wrapped against her neck and pulled her in, creating the appearance of an intimate whispered conversation. Lips brushed delicately against the shell of her ear. "Right now the only reason we are still alive is because everyone is looking at us. As long as you are the center of attention, Agent 23's men can only watch. So you either dance with me right now and come out of your closet or we get caught, and Andrea doesn’t live long enough to give you hell for it. And I'm sorry if this isn't good for your image, Ms. Priestly, but I'm not going to let Max die just because you have a reputation to uphold!"
"There's no need for melodramatic statements," she managed, but the frank summation of what they were in the middle of brought with it a needed reality check. It was, however, a bitter pill to swallow. The Woman Who Was Not Andrea, however, seemed to take that as acquiescence, and nodded shortly.
"Let's go," she snapped, and before Miranda could quite recover, pasted on a seductive expression that mimicked Andrea's bedroom eyes so perfectly Miranda gasped in surprise. With moves so graceful they were effortlessly lithe, the agent stepped back, fingers linking loosely with hers. Eyes connected intensely, and suddenly the secret agent who was not Andrea was leading her effortlessly through the parting crowd.
--
What were the odds?
A classic case of mistaken identity and it still managed to work in his favor. Mostly.
Dwayne Johnson (aka Agent 23) had apparently stolen someone else's good fortune.
It wouldn't surprise him. He stole a lot of things.
At the moment he had stolen a rookie secret agent, drugged an unconscious woman who looked exactly like his ex-girlfriend, and somehow ended up with a hysterical redhead he didn't quite want, but couldn't be bothered to kill yet.
There were other things to worry about than the bulging eyes and black streaks trailing their way down her blotched, slender face.
"You're making a huge mistake," said the woman named Emily, sitting stiffly in the corner of the van, legs splayed out in front of her. "No one crosses Miranda Priestly and gets away with it."
With a grunt of effort, he shoved unconscious Max at Emily's feet, ignoring her squeal in response. "Wrong, Princess," he answered with a wink and a smile. "No one crosses me. Keep your mouth shut, you may get out of this alive."
The pretty eyes flared in anger. "If you really think that you can get away with this-"
In warning, he lifted up a roll of duck tape. Obediently, the mouth slammed shut. He grinned. "Good girl."
Tossing the duck tape aside, he leaned forward and unwrapped the second figure, allowing the blacked out woman room to breathe.
Andrea Sachs was a very pretty woman, an exact replica of Agent 99, at least superficially. Now, tracing the soft skin with his fingertips, examining every inch of the unconscious face, he discovered he still had trouble catching the differences, subtle as they were.
Not that anyone could blame him. His 99 had been blonde and olive skinned, not the pale-faced, brunette younger-looking incarnation that had returned after the plastic surgery.
This one was softer around the edges, from the graceful fall of her bangs and the rounder shape of her hips. She had none of 99's hardness, which was a nice surprise to be honest. 99 had been a beautiful woman in any incarnation, but her mean right hook and her habit of punching people in the face had always been a turn off.
Even so, he had been prepared to take her with him. Maybe it was the bittersweet romantic in him, but he had actually entertained the thought that maybe, just maybe, they could have found a way to make it work. Had she passed the test. Had she chosen to stay with him, even with a blown cover, and hadn't changed her entire face, chosen the job, chosen ANOTHER MAN over him.
Max was now openly snoring, drool pooling on the floor of the van, muttering something in his sleep about calories and skipping meals.
This was 99's dream man.
The very thought revolted him, and he forced himself to breathe, calming himself long enough to finger the strong jawline of Andrea Sachs.
"Oh, would you stop pawing her?!" The sharp outburst forced his attention away from Andrea and back on the other woman, who looked infuriated on Andrea's behalf.
"Friend of yours?"
That resulted in an affronted sniff. "Hardly," muttered the other woman, and squirmed, obviously trying to find a more comfortable way to sit with both her legs and her arms bound. "The woman is a menace."
"Is she now?"
"She makes a mess of everything she does. She comes into an office with an innocent smile, and then takes your trips to Paris out from under you. She abandoned Miranda Priestly-and she's not even THAT pretty!" Emily was now actively sweating, and blew hard at the red bangs that flew into her face. "However," she began, British accent making the enunciation even more pronounced, flushing at the bemused expression on his face. "That does not give you license to man-handle her, demented psycho that you may be."
The smile that had drifted onto his features fell instantly. "I'm not a psycho, I'm a sociopath. There is a difference."
"Oh, I should care, because?"
"Because one doesn't care whether you live or die, and the other would peel off your skin just listen to you scream," he answered with a growl. The color once again drained from Emily's face, leaving behind the freckles and the large, jeweled eyes, which grew rounder at the insinuation.
"You can't kill me," she announced hotly, looking terrified and inconvenienced at the same time.
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, really. The Milan shoot is an absolute mess and unless I work all today tomorrow to fix it, Giselle will be wearing Pez containers instead of Tacori."
He blinked, knocked into confusion by the odd statement. Emily, posture board stiff, nodded immediately, tears dried and eyes flashing furiously.
She was actually sincere.
The sound of an agonized moan, thankfully, ripped him away from trying to wrap his head around the inner workings of one of Miranda Priestly's yes-girls.
He had Max-y. He had Andrea Sachs. But he had come for the original recipe, not the knock off. Max and 99 had a lot coming to them, but they were going to be together when it happened.
It would have been easier to take them both now, true, but no sense in getting caught up in what should-have-been.
The key to being a good agent was the ability to roll with the unexpected, and he had already done the hard part. He had Max.
Now, all he had to do was leave a trail of breadcrumbs and 99 would follow like the loyal bitch she was.
Then they would finish this.
"Did you hear me? I absolutely must not die today!"
"Because your magazine depends on it?"
"Exactly!"
"You really over-estimate yourself, don't you? Don't answer that!" he answered, before she unleashed some God-awful tirade. "And keep your mouth shut, or I kill you. End of story. Shut up. Jerry," he snapped, slamming the van door closed, ignoring the huffy snort from the redhead he had collected. "Where are they?" Silence. Sucking in a lungful of air through his nostrils, Dwayne Johnson willed himself to keep his patience. It was difficult. He had spent too much time planning, too much time waiting, to leave this all to a pair of stupid guards he picked up for a cheap rate. "Jerry!"
"Sorry, Mr. Johnson," the idiot finally stuttered back.
"Do you have them?"
"Not exactly, sir. They're in the ballroom."
Safety in numbers. Dwayne couldn't help a smile. 99 had always been a smart girl. "So what are they doing?"
A long pause, and then he heard it. "They're um... dancing the tango."
--
Inhale. Exhale, and then follow the music.
The seductive smile was small, subtle, and the woman only had eyes for Miranda Priestly. One slender palm smoothed possessively along the surprisingly slender back of the imposing Editor-in-Chief, and dark lids fluttered with appreciation.
The reaction was enough to cause a small smile, before 99 leaned in, knee moving in between Miranda's legs, other hand clasping Miranda's, bringing her into a tight, intimate hold.
The room had gone quiet, their audience shocked and startled, because this was Miranda Priestly and her ex-assistant Andrea Sachs. Eyeballs would be glued to them. Then the whispers would start, and no one would be capable of thinking of nothing else.
They would get a show.
Behind the crystal eyes, Miranda Priestly looked simultaneously terrified and furious, and the look was appealing. The older woman was not a classic beauty, her features were too strong for that, but there was no lacking her charisma or her subtle sexiness.
99 had been an agent for a long time. Seduction was common in her line of work, and among the dozens of men she had lured into her clutches with her sexuality; there had been a few women. She understood, as she let her eyes nakedly appreciate the soft curves of Miranda Priestly, what it was about the other woman that had her doppelganger entranced.
Tongue darting out to moisten the line of her lips, she kept her movements slow, calculating, as her cheek brushed against the soft skin of Miranda's jaw. "Just follow my lead," was her only statement, released in a hot breathless sigh. Miranda shuddered, and even under the circumstances, 99 could not help the satisfied smile.
This may have very well been the only circumstance under which Miranda would have assented to follow anyone in anything.
The bass drum snapped, and in reaction, she flexed her muscles, pushing with her left hand and smoothing back with her right, hips pressing forward between Miranda's legs. The step back was immediate.
A little stiff, but workable. With a soft, encouraging smile, 99 tightened her hold on Miranda's waist, guiding her easily into a simple twist that spun off her hip and allowed the other woman to extend a smooth leg, curve it around her thigh.
Good. Smooth, careful. Keeping her muscles tight, 99 let Miranda hold on to her, kept her hand clutched in hers as she shifted Miranda's weight in her hands, and allowed the woman to keep twisting. Arm now wrapped tight around her waist, she broke her hold long enough to reach up with soft fingers, and trail her free hand, fingers outstretched, over Miranda's face.
Miranda's fingers clenched, catching strands of brunette hair in 99's nape. 99 smiled. Good.
With a practiced ease, 99 once again shifted the weight, and Miranda followed in the other direction, straightening up, and stepping backwards in a glide across the floor.
Eyes darting away from Miranda's for a moment, she caught sight of the security guards, edging the staring crowd. One looked a little slack jawed.
When the music swelled, 99 reached forward, turning Miranda so she was now behind her, and grabbed her waist in unforgiving possession, slamming her hard; ass into groin. Miranda's head fell back against her shoulder.
"This is ridiculous," 99 heard, mumbled against her neck before she gripped Miranda's hips and once again forced a turn, leaving them slanted together, foreheads tilting against each other. "The object is to escape, not give a pornographic exhibition."
Mouth pulling into a reluctant smile, 99 once again fanned her fingers against Miranda's cheek, and stepped back on her heel, bringing Miranda with her, allowing the other woman to spring a sharp kick between her thighs.
Torso leaning forward, 99 slid her forearm around Miranda's waist and tilted her back, allowing her free hand to smooth down between the cleavage presented to her as Miranda's head tipped back.
"Don't tell me this is turning you on."
Fingernails dug hard into her arms. Had they been any sharper, they would have drawn blood.
Snapping Miranda up, she once again manipulated her hold on her waist, and walked her across the floor.
They were now the only ones dancing. The center of attention.
Twisting the older woman in her arms, she now held her back against her, walking her gently toward the edge of the dance floor.
"Listen to me," she began quietly, as dark eyes blazed into hers intensely. "When the music stops, we're going to make our way to the entrance on the side. Do you see it?"
She executed a sharp left, allowing Miranda to see her intended exit route. "Yes."
"Good," she responded hoarsely, and twisted Miranda once again, clasping her hand over Miranda's neck and drawing her in for a searing kiss on the lips.
--
Jerry Machoval felt the blood drain from his brain straight down to his groin.
The collective gasp of the scandalized crowd around him only made it worse.
"Jerry? What's going on?"
Swallowing hard, he furtively placed his hands over his belt, and tried to adjust himself. A woman beside him offered a disgusted huff. Flushing, he coughed, and shrugged.
The woman rolled her eyes and turned away, muttering, "Pervert."
"They really need Christ," muttered a chubby man in a suit, stuffing a handful of crackers into his mouth.
"Jerry!"
The name, shouted into his earpiece, caused a startled wince. Shaking the ringing out of his head, he sucked in a lungful of air to clear his dizzy senses and licked his dry lips.
"Uh... They're... kissing, sir."
A quiet pause, then a low chuckle, which terrified him. "God," he heard Mr. Johnson breathe. "She's good. She's really good. I'm surprised she talked the great Priestly into it."
"Now they're pulling out of it," he added under his breath, pushing carefully against the fat man and his crackers and weaving through the crowd as Agent 99 melded with Ms. Priestly into the crowd, fingers tangled with the older woman. "They're heading for the east exit. There's virtually no traffic there. We can take them."
Another pause, and that made him uneasy. If there was something he had learned very quickly about his new boss, it was that the man was rarely patient.
"So you're going to follow them."
"Yes sir."
"Okay, you do that," he heard, but he could have sworn it sounded patronized and exasperated. "Instead of standing here talking to me about it."
"Yessir."
"And Jerry?"
"Yessir."
"Get your dick under control."
He flushed, and grabbed hold of a glass of wine from a passing wine, pressing the cool glass against his temple. "Yessir."
"And under no circumstances tell them that we're going to be at 500 Miraposa Drive in Scarsdale."
The statement was oddly out of place. "Sir?"
"You do not tell them that I'm taking Max-y here to 500 Miraposa Drive in Scarsdale. That's 500 Miraposa Drive. In Scarsdale. Did you hear me?"
"Yes sir," he wheezed, bewildered.
"Repeat that back to me."
"Sir?"
"Repeat back to me what you are absolutely not supposed to say."
"Um..." He took a gulp of wine, and waves his hand to Matthew, who was already veering toward the exit. "I'm not supposed to tell them that you'll be at 500 Miraposa Drive in Scarsdale sir."
"That's right. No matter what Agent 99 does to you."
"No matter what Agent - she'll do stuff to me?"
"If she catches you? Oh sure. She's well versed in torture. I taught her myself." Mr. Johnson sounded very proud about that. "She'll probably stick something sharp under your fingernails, really dig it up there." Jerry's erection immediately deflated like a balloon. He took another gulp of wine, shouldering past a sputtering young man wheezing about never realizing 'what a piece of hot ass Miranda Priestly' was. "But you won't break, will you?"
"No, sir. Even if she sticks spikes up my fingernails."
"Oh! You know what I liked to do? I used to like to take some floss, and wrap it around my guy's neck, and just choke them right up until just before they lost consciousness, then bring them back. And then when they finally felt they could breathe? I'd do it all over again."
"She'd do that?" he couldn't help but squeak.
"Well, no... she's not as strong as I am."
Nearing the door, he nearly collapsed against it in relief.
"Chances are she'll probably just tie it around your penis."
Oh, God.
"But even if she does that, you're not to tell her that I'm taking her boyfriend to 500 Miraposa Drive in Scarsdale." Jerry saw spots behind his eyes. He was now sweating profusely. "Jerry?"
"Yessir," he wheezed.
"Not even if she does that thing she likes to do where she takes a nail trimmer and slices off your nipples!"
"Oh, God."
"What was that?"
"Nothing," he stammered, heart now pounding viciously in his chest.
"That's my boy. Go get 'er."
He downed the rest of the wine and fumbled for his gun. "Right," he finally breathed, all conviction gone. "Sure."
Gun clutched in his hand, he opened the door to the hallway.
Nothing.
"Sir... I don't know where Matthew is."
"She probably got him. He's probably dead. She's like a cobra." Jerry teetered, legs locking in frozen submission underneath him. Breathing hard, he willed himself to move. "Oh well, Jerry. I'm going to head out. Remember, under no circumstances are you to tell her that we're going to 500 Mariposa Drive in Scarsdale. Nice knowing you."
"Sir-"
The line clicked, and there was nothing.
"Crap."
Terror now invaded him, and as he tried to keep the gun steady, he discovered his hand was now shaking so badly he could barely keep a hold of it.
The hallway had a door on the right. The closet. The closet where the Emily had been gagged. Bound.
Oh God.
He inched forward, pausing to wipe the sweat from his eyes.
Nails under his fingers. Floss around his dick. His nipples getting cut off-
Oh man. He loved his nipples.
Ten feet now. Getting closer.
Maybe they had just left. Maybe he had just lost them. Maybe Agent 99 was having sex with Miranda Priestly right now. That would be nice.
A thump. A distinctive thump. And a muffled yelp.
He froze. The tremors now became erratic shakes.
"Matthew?" he called carefully. Nothing. Of course nothing. Because Matthew was having his dick sawed off by dental floss!
Two feet now.
He stumbled. When the door burst open, he screamed, hands flailing up as a pale hand reached out, grasped his tie, and yanked him into stifling darkness.
He was slammed hard into the wall, and there was paint thinner and a broom and oh GOD - who put a RAKE in here? She'd kill him with that!
And there she was, disarming him and throwing a punch across his jaw that left him dazed, the cold muzzle of a gun pressed into his windpipe, choking him.
"Where did they go?" she whispered, and there was murder in her eyes.
He couldn't take it. The panic welled up inside him and spilled over like into hysteria.
"500 MIRAPOSA DRIVE!" he barked, squirming, hands up. "They went to 500 MIRAPOSA DRIVE! PLEASE DON'T CUT MY DICK OFF!"
end chapter