Devil May Care

her skin. She turned her face up to his. She was only a few inches away.
    ‘Just here,’ said Bond, pointing to the scar on his cheek.
    ‘You poor boy,’ said Scarlett, and now, in her narrowing eyes, Bond saw for the first time since Rome a different, more feline expression.
    She dabbed the cotton wool on the scar, then lightly kissed it.
    ‘Is that better?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Bond, through gritted teeth.
    ‘And here,’ she said, touching a mark on his neck with her other hand. She kissed the place, lightly.
    ‘And here,’ said Bond, pointing to his lower lip.
    ‘Yes, my poor darling, of course. Just here.’
    As Scarlett’s lips lightly touched his, Bond held her hips firmly and forced her mouth open with his tongue. As she drew her head back, he moved one hand up to the back of her neck and pulled her mouth, roughly, on to his. This time, her tongue did not hesitate but went eagerly to meet his while he ran his hands up and down over her hips. He felt her arms lock behind his neck as she kissed him hungrily.
    Eventually, Bond moved back his head. ‘And now, Scarlett,’ he said, ‘I think I should like to see the proof that you are who you say you are.’
    Flushed and breathless, Scarlett lifted the hem of her black skirt over the honey-coloured stocking so he could see the skin between the top of the stretched nylon and the pink cotton pants. There was no mark.
    Bond smiled. ‘Flawless,’ he said. He gripped her handwhere it was, kissed her hair and whispered into her ear, ‘But who would have thought a banker would have pink underwear?’ He was also smiling at the memory of how Poppy, the supposed Bohemian, had demurely lowered the waistband of her skirt with a practical sense of the quickest way to show him, while the elder sister, the purportedly sensible one, had lifted her skirt in her passionate hurry.
    He touched the blemish-free skin of her thigh with his fingertips, then leaned forward and kissed it.
    ‘Soft,’ he said. ‘As well as flawless.’
    He felt Scarlett’s hands running through his still-damp hair as he kissed her thigh again.
    Then he stood up and wrapped his arms round her. ‘You can take that skirt off now, if you like,’ he said.
    Scarlett did as he suggested, then removed her jacket and blouse as well. As she sat on the edge of the bed in her underwear, Bond stepped towards her and loosened the knotted towel at his waist. As he did so, there came a knock at the door.
    ‘Hello, hello. Mr James. Is Hamid. I have good trouser for you.’
    ‘Exactly what I need at the moment,’ said Bond, grabbing the towel.
    He looked at Scarlett’s flushed, expectant face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
    She inhaled tightly, as though she found it hard to breathe. Then she nodded briefly and picked up her clothes from the floor.
    ‘It’s work,’ said Bond.
    ‘Or destiny,’ said Scarlett, with a sigh.
    ∗
    They ate in the hotel dining room, and Bond invited Hamid to join them.
    ‘I presume you didn’t have time for the caviar this afternoon,’ said Bond.
    ‘No, Mr James. I wait for you.’
    ‘All right, let’s see what they can do.’
    Bond was wearing a casual white shirt and some navy cotton trousers. They were a little loose at the waist, but the outfit was surprisingly tasteful, he thought, by comparison with what most men in Noshahr appeared to be wearing.
    Scarlett had had time to go out and buy herself a light dress from a tourist shop. Although she complained that it was cut for a Persian grandmother, the pale blue went oddly well with her dark brown eyes. She had reserved herself a room along the corridor from Bond’s.
    The caviar was brought in a casket, whose lid was taken off to reveal an inner glass bowl set on ice. Hamid’s eyes were bulging as he scooped out a large helping on to his plate and started to lever it into his mouth, using a piece of flatbread as a trowel. To Bond’s dismay, he drank Coca-Cola with it. Bond had switched to whisky, and Scarlett, since the hotel had no other wine, drank champagne.
    Over the course of dinner, Bond explained to Scarlett what he’d done in Tehran and described the ship-plane he had discovered in the hangar. ‘If I can get some pictures of it,’ he said, ‘we’ll wire them back to London.’
    ‘It sounds most peculiar,’ said Scarlett. ‘Like something from science fiction.’
    ‘It’s real enough,’ said Bond. ‘I suspect it’s of Soviet manufacture. But what intrigues me is precisely what it does. And