Pierre Dupont had a reputation for being duplicitous--amongst other traits--yet there was no denying his obvious talent. At a time when adventuring had fallen into disfavor and was ridiculed as a rich man's hobby, he had climbed his way to the top to capture the hearts and minds of fans all over the world, his fame so great that it was eclipsed by only one other, a certain woman of English persuasion. So it came as little surprise when Ms. Jacqueline Natla presented him with an opportunity any man would have killed for.
He had hesitated, but only briefly. He was a Dupont, a man of action, not a thief and coward. But he was also a Frenchman, a proud one at that, and while there was still breath in his lungs he would never admit he was second to any woman, especially one who was proudly and defiantly British.
And so here he sat, on a crumbling stone walkway at the top of a dank chamber full of fountains and statues and sharp pointed edges somewhere deep beneath the earth. Poseidon, the entrance had read. Disgusting was more like it.
Pierre finished his candy bar and tossed the wrapper over the edge of the walkway. Moments later came a splash much too large to have been caused by anything but another person, a fact confirmed when he heard heavy boots scuff against ancient stone. He waited several seconds, then crawled out from behind his cover to take a look.
It was definitely her, as if anyone else could have made it this far, but she looked different from what he remembered. Her dark-brown hair was braided into a long ponytail that reached her slender waist, and her voluptuous figure was poured into tight brown shorts and a light-blue sleeveless top that left her looking sleek and sexy. She licked her pouty lips and looked around, obviously enjoying herself despite the bone-chilling swim it took to reach this room. Satisfied, she stepped back and threw a glance at Pierre.
He stifled a surprised gasp and slid away from the edge. She couldn't see him from such a distance, but he wasn't about to chance it. Not today. Certainly not with her.
A flash of steel caught his attention, and he looked up in time to see a three-pronged grapple wrap itself around a twisted metal beam. The attached nylon cord was tugged to secure it in place, then he heard a grunt as she began the long climb up. Pierre hurried back to his hiding place and quickly set up his camera. It would record for an hour, more than enough time to provide the evidence he would need to secure his next payment.
It took several minutes for the exotic beauty to negotiate her way to the top--swinging, climbing, running across walls--but she finally made it, and pulled herself onto the beam with the grace of a lifelong gymnast. She gathered up her grapple, adjusted her belt, then jumped and somersaulted through the air. Pierre watched, his eyes bulging, as she hit the walkway in a roll.
She came to her feet with unequaled elegance, her piercing bluish green eyes locked on the glowing key that rested atop a crumbling marble pedestal. There was only one problem: a large gate stood between it and her. She stepped up and gave the ancient bars a tug, but they refused to budge.
"Bugger," she said, the charming posh accent sending a chill up Pierre's spine. She slid her backpack off and crouched down to rifle through it, her shorts rising to give him a nice tease. She had a very impressive tan.
Pierre drew his gun and stepped into the open. She heard his footsteps and tensed, then dropped her pack and slowly stood up.
"Lara Croft," Pierre said. "What a pleasant surprise." Her hand began to drift. "No, chere, do not try it. Unpleasant though it may be, I will not hesitate to shoot."
She exhaled theatrically and raised her hands into the air. "You've gotten better, Pierre. You should be proud."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Lara. I am a man of action, not of words."
She turned to face him and glanced briefly at his gun. "Yes, I can see that."
Pierre sighed. "Lara, Lara, Lara. What am I to do with you? I have warned you so many times already, yet you refuse to heed my advice."
"I'm just awful that way. Blame daddy."
"This no joking matter, Lara. I spared you before; I will not spare you again."
Her eyes smoldered. "You're took kind."
"Yes. Perhaps I am too kind." Pierre glanced at her chest, at the wet shirt clinging to her heaving breasts. "I see now that a woman like you will respond to only one thing: force."
"Don't make me laugh, Pierre."
Pebbles crunched beneath her boots as she shifted her feet. Pierre looked down at her long legs, glistening in the light, and said: "Mon chere, you are about to regret those words."
He motioned to her backpack. "Kick it over."
Lara narrowed her eyes--no doubt she had several precious treasures tucked away inside--but took one look at his face, and his gun, and decided it was safer to do as she was told.
"Not to me," he said. "Over the side."
She hesitated, then turned and nudged it over. If seemed to fall forever, and she flinched when it finally splashed at the bottom of the chamber.
"Now the pistols, Lara. Two fingers only."
She stared at him while she unlatched her pistols and slowly lifted them from their holsters. If looks could kill, Pierre thought. He waited until she held them over the abyss, then gave her a sharp nod. She grimaced and let them drop.
"Very good," he said. "Now your clothes. Begin with the shirt."
"Fuck you," Lara said. "I'm not taking off a thing--"
Pierre aimed at her belly. She stared at the gun, chest heaving, eyes locked on the barrel.
"All right, Pierre. No need to go off half-cocked."
She lifted her shirt, glaring hard enough to melt glass, and pulled it over her head. Pierre smacked his lips. She had the flattest belly he had ever seen.
"And the bra," he said.
Lara threw her shirt down and quickly pulled off the matching sports bra. Pierre could only stare. Without the extra support her breasts seemed even larger, the nipples brown and hard.
"Color me impressed, mademoiselle, most impressed. Now you may remove the rest of your outfit. But leave the boots. I like the boots."
Lara shook her head in disbelief. She unbuckled her belt and unfastened the leather straps around her thighs. The entire rig fell to the ground with a clatter. Then she undid her shorts and pushed them down her legs. As Pierre suspected, she was not wearing panties.
He smiled. Unlike other British celebrities, she had yet to adopt the barbaric American custom of shaving her pussy bald. "I see that despite your reputation you still groom yourself like a Lady."
