It was already well into evening and the room continued to buzz.
Vesper Lynd, the most brilliant up-and-comer in Her Majesty's government, sat at the bar and tried not to smile whenever she caught a snippet of surprised conversation. The other guests still couldn't believe how James had risked everything on one hand against a master like Le Chiffre; but then, as the refrain often went, that was an imperialist for you.
Vesper was as English as they came, but even she couldn't take offense at that. She had warned him his ego would get the better of him, and the satisfaction that came with being proven correct couldn't have been sweeter.
She was just about to call over the waiter and ask for something sinful when her clutch began to vibrate.
Vesper sighed. She put her glass down and retrieved her phone, a frown tugging at her sensuous mouth as she read the incoming message. "Bloody hell," she said to herself.
She looked up, blue eyes checking the mirror behind the bar to ensure she wasn't being watched, then put her phone away and quickly finished her drink. She placed a handful of euros on the bar, gave the bartender a friendly wave, and hurried out of the room.
She left the hotel and went directly to the car park at the end of the street.
She moved with purpose, high-heels clicking on the damp walk, and tried not to look at the men and women who stepped aside so she could pass. Their eyes were quite naturally drawn to the plunging neckline of her tight dress, to the large breasts that bounced in time with her hurried steps, but Vesper didn't mind. She was twenty-six years old: she was used to the attention by now.
It was dark inside the car park, almost cavernous.
Vesper took the lift to the top level, where the wealthier patrons stored their vehicles. She walked slowly, wringing her hands nervously, and flinched as her heels clacked on the oil-stained concrete. Meetings of this sort never seemed to end well for her, but she hoped tonight would prove the exception. She had done everything her handler had asked of her, even bringing James to a quick finish: surely that would please the sadistic bastard.
She came to the designated meeting place, only to find an empty space. She reached for her clutch, brow furrowing, only to stop when she remembered she had deleted the message.
The sound of a car door opening caught her attention.
Vesper turned around slowly, and came face to face with the man who had been her handler and tormentor for the past several weeks. Short and middle-aged, he was unremarkable in every way save the dark lens that hid his dead eye, but Vesper knew better than most how deceiving looks could be.
"You came quickly," Gettler said, a disgusting grin stretched across his face. His French was barely tolerable, but it was the only language they had in common. "Thank you."
Vesper folded her arms across her ample chest and bit back a tart reply. This wasn't James bond; she couldn't treat him like she would an equal.
"I take it you've heard by now what happened," she said.
The grin vanished. "Yes, Miss Lynd. I'm afraid I have."
His hand lashed out like a whip.
Vesper stumbled back and bumped into a parked car. She put a hand to her face and scowled in angry surprise.
"You silly girl, Bond is back in the game! And with American CIA money!"
"I didn't know," Vesper said. "I swear I didn't!" She rubbed her cheek. "He was bankrupt; I wouldn't give him the buy-in. Surely you can't--"
Gettler moved closer. Vesper flinched away, memories of what he had done to poor Goodnight as fresh as an open wound.
"This game grows repetitive, Miss Lynd, and my patience wears thin. If you cannot complete such a simple task, then we will find someone who can."
Vesper took a deep breath and forced calm into her voice. "I can do this. I really can. Even if he wins, I can still get the money for you. Please, just give me a little more time."
Gettler put his hands on his hips, looking her up and down while he considered her words. Then he shrugged and grabbed her breast.
Vesper gasped, but caught herself before she could pull away. She had denied him once before, and almost paid for it with her life. She knew better now.
Gettler tugged at the neckline to expose her right breast to the warm night air. "A beautiful dress," he said. "But not enough for a man like James Bond, I think."
He kneaded her milky globe and twisted her pink nipple between his fingers.
"Ah, this is more like it."
