Chapter Text
It was just a small painting, but Napoleon was learning that the smallest jobs were often the most difficult.
He didn't usually do contract work; it could be messy and was usually risky. He much prefered to wait for an opportunity to present itself and then take advantage. His circle of black market contacts had grown to the point where he could easily off load not only art and antiquities but jewelry and more unusual items, and the Continental lifestyle he had built himself after the war generally provided him with many easy targets. Once you were in, and were being invited to hunting weekends in the Cotswolds and beach parties in Capri, there were generally plenty of opportunities for the light-fingered and quick-witted.
It was February now though, and Napoleon was bored. Even his beloved England was too dreary in the winter, but he had failed to get invited on holiday anywhere warm. Instead, he ended up renting a small flat in Paris, trying to keep warm while eating pastries and drinking too much coffee. What was charming and light during the fall had become damp and bleak after the holidays ended. Worse than the weather was the lack of good company and he was forced to rely on his own more than he preferred.
Which was how he ended up with one of his newer contracts introducing him to a man with a ludicrous pseudonym. He wanted nothing but a tiny painting, just a quick study supposedly painted by an impressionist master. Said painting was part of a large collection owned by a businessman who made a fortune on bricks and the equipment that makes bricks. It made sense; bricks were needed after the war and this man, Monsieur Arnault Sartre, was smart enough to plan for that. It left him with a lot of disposable income to spend on art, although Napoleon had to wonder if a brick salesman really had the soul to appreciate such things.
When he started to research the job, it didn’t seem all that messy or risky. Sartre had a daughter who had just jilted a fiancé; he also had a penchant for throwing lavish parties, even in the middle of winter. It made him just Solo’s type of gentleman.
The daughter was not exactly Solo’s easiest mark. She wasn’t much for the discothequés and he had to eventually leverage a favor--a friend of a friend to make an introduction at a not-that-accidental run-in at one of her favorite luncheon spots.
“Michelle, my dear, have you met my good friend Napoleon?” Marcel-something-or-other managed to get them an invitation to eat lunch together, even if Michelle’s friend Nadine had a gimlet eye for both of them.
“I have not had the pleasure,” Michelle smiled.
“The pleasure is all mine.” Napoleon simpered, just a little, as he kissed her hand. She giggled, but Nadine refused to take his hand, so he turned to have a word with the waiter while the conversation continued.
“Marcel, where have you been the last few weeks while I’ve been trying to keep dear Michelle distracted?”
“Holiday, you know. Morocco. It was terribly boring. I regret going now that I know you girls were in need of company.”
“I’m sure someone else picked up the slack in your absence. I can’t imagine any man not wanting to spend time with such charming ladies,” Napoleon said, capturing Michelle’s eyes with his own.
“We’ve only just met; how do have any opinion on us whatsoever?” Nadine asked, quite uncharitably.
“Are you saying you aren’t charming?” Napoleon didn’t even look at Nadine, his eyes still on Michelle, who giggled. Oh, this was easy. “Maybe I should send the champagne back, if that’s the case,” he said as the waiter returned to the table, bottle in hand. “I’d hate to waste it; it’s rather a nice bottle.”
Michelle was quite happy to drink the champagne with her lunch, and perfectly pleased to be invited to dinner, even if he suspected she didn’t quite appreciate the quality of the restaurant he took her to. Over dinner, he tried to get her to tell him why exactly her engagement had floundered but managed nothing more than getting her pleasantly tipsy. She even agreed to accompany to him to his favorite hotel bar, a discreet place with a lot of booths tucked into corners.
That was where his luck ran out, it seemed. After a few kisses in his usual booth, she sighed and pushed his hand off her knee.
“I don’t want you to think me rude; I have quite enjoyed myself. I’m afraid that I’m about to ruin the rest of the evening though.”
“And how could you possibly do that? It’s been so delightful.” He recognized the signs; she was about to tell him about how meaningful her virtue was.
After a lengthy story that involved an audience with the Pope and explained why her fiancé gave up on her eventually, she finished with “...and so while you’re quite handsome, I’m sure you’re disappointed in all this, and I won’t be upset if you take me home directly.” Napoleon gave a little sigh and a shake of his head, looking deep into her eyes and thinking while she was pleasant enough, he wasn’t too disappointed to miss bedding such a plain and skinny girl--as long as this didn’t interfere with his target.
“My dear. The pleasure of your company is enough to keep me around for a good long while. I will confess that I hope you’ll eventually let me show you the joys of some of the… more minor sins?” At this he squeezed her hip and leaned in to whisper, “I would like to see you enjoy yourself, even if it’s at my... expense. But until then, I hope you will still do me the honor of seeing me again--maybe tomorrow?” His remarks had the desired effect, and after a few more minutes of slow, gentle kisses, they exited the bar.
They spent the next few weeks frequenting nice (but not that nice) restaurants where people she knew would see her, taking long walks, and necking like teenagers. It really wasn’t that much effort to get an invitation to Monsieur Sartre’s next party, where he was planning on unveiling a new addition to his collection--a much larger and more significant work than the piece he had taken a commission to retrieve. It was perfect.
On the night in question, Napoleon showed up precisely on time, looking good in his tuxedo and ready to party. Of course, showing up on time meant he was actually early and there were only a few older aunties and such--and his date. Michelle greeted him joyfully, and he set to the mission of getting her drunk, hoping to make her pass out around the time the party reached it’s height--when he planned to make his move.
Until then, it was quite dull, and he ended up trapped in the receiving line, his Miss Sartre essentially putting him on display for her friends. He played his part to a T, flirting lightly with everyone but doting on Michelle, who appreciated the attention. It was all a blur--except for a woman who commented on his accent and how similar it was to her husband’s, who was the U.S. Ambassador to Belgium. Oriane and Henry Wallace made an odd pair, his American accent slowing his passable Parisian French even as he mimicked the more clipped vowels common locally. Against Oriane’s very Belgian French that almost caressed each vowel, it gave the impression of two people speaking at cross purposes. Napoleon made the effort to charm her and make a good impression on the man while he was at it.
When the line finally ended, he danced Michelle around the floor until she got quite dizzy, and he got her yet more champagne while they strolled through the halls displaying her father’s artwork. It made it easy to note the position of his target, down a long hall from the work that inspired the evening. He expected this would be it and he could soon lay her on a couch and get to his real business. Instead, he was surprised when she ended up pressing him into a small washroom and locking the door.
“I’ve been thinking--about those minor sins. I would hate for my confession to get boring, after all,” she whispered, pressing him against the sink and rolling her hips into him.
Never let it be said that Napoleon Solo left a lady wanting once he had offered his services. He spun them around and popped her up to sit on the edge of the sink, moving in between her legs. She gave a little surprised cry and swayed a bit but pulled him into her, hands grasping his shoulders. His lips went to her neck as one hand went to the small of her back and the other to her ankle. He ran his fingers up along her nylons, under her voluminous skirt, to play along the top where her garters were fastened. She moaned encouragingly as his lips drifted down to her décolletage and his fingers began to stroke the soft skin above the edge of the nylon stockings. She bent her head to capture his lips inelegantly while she pushed his hand up to run along the edge of her panties. He wasted no time in sliding his fingers under them and along her slick folds, to rub the small nub that made her rock her hips into his hand. It wasn’t long after he slid questing fingers inside her that she dropped her head to his shoulder, pressing the whole length of her body against his. He crooked his fingers and pressed his thumb in slow circles and smiled to himself as she clenched around his hand. He kept going until her hips rocked to a stop and she relaxed against him. He wrapped his arms around her as she snuggled into neck.
He was wondering exactly how many minor sins she might like to try as her breathing slowed. He had things to do but running off wasn’t very chivalrous--he realized her breathing had slowed quite dramatically. She had passed right out, slumped against him. Maybe he had been too generous with the champagne, if she went out that quickly. Moving slowly, he moved his hands under her bottom to lift her slight body against him. She made no sound as he lowered her into the tub of the washroom and sat her in it with her cheek against the edge. He was a little worried he had overdone it, but she was breathing and in a position where she was unlikely to choke if she ended up vomiting.
He left her there, after washing his hands and closing the door tightly behind him. He’d check on her again--after he had the painting.
As he rounded the corner of the small hall where his target had hung, he was greeted with something he hadn’t expected: a blank spot on the wall where it had been. In the corner of his eye he saw a swish of peach silk, and as he followed he saw a small, wrapped rectangular package being tucked under a skirt. He followed, at a careful distance, and caught view of her face as she rounded a corner. It was the Belgian Ambassador’s wife. He lost view of her completely when they reached the ballroom, where he was accosted by Nadine.
“And where is Michelle? I’ve been looking everywhere for her!” The woman had not warmed up to him. He pretended to be glad to see her.
“I’m afraid she’s quite overdone it. Maybe you could help me get her to bed?” He led her back to the bathroom where Michelle lay, still snoring, in the bath. He carried her to her room, Nadine tutting the entire way. He left them there, confident Michelle would be safe under Nadine’s watchful eye.
Back in the ballroom, he searched out the Oriane and found her alone at one of the bars, her husband deep in conversation with a group of men across the room. As he made his way over, Napoleon was so focused he almost missed the hand off. She slid the small package out, through what was clearly a special slit in her skirt, and passed it to the young man who was collecting the garbage from behind the bar. She did it without looking, seemingly deep in conversation with the bartender. Napoleon hesitated. The boy taking out the trash would be easy to overpower; he might make a scene in the kitchen but the faux pas--and getting barred from Sartre estate, if it came to it--would probably be worth the commission. Looking at Oriane, he decided to let it go. He was more interested in learning why an Ambassador’s wife would be stealing than his commission. Even though it had seemed straightforward, this job had indeed gotten messy, although he suspected it had nothing to do with the job and everything to do with the client.
He tried to smile charmingly as he took the place next to her at the bar, but he knew it came out more of a smirk, the result of knowing something only one other person in the room knows. It had the desired effect though, and she stiffened slightly as he sat, suspecting she’d been seen.
“What are we drinking?” he asked, eyeing her martini glass, filled with an opaque orangy-brown.
“The bartender called it a gin and sin,” she replied.
“That sounds like a good time indeed,” he said, and ordered one for himself. He caught a little eye roll from her, although she still looked a little on edge. Right. This was a lady who moved in powerful circles, not a plain virgin who would blush at any little innuendo. Unfortunately he could not quite hide his grimace as he sipped the drink, which was too sweet and quite citrusy, overpowering some of the more subtle flavors of the gin. Oriane caught his expression and gave a little chuckle.
“Well, you might have warned me the sin involved was ruining a nice gin,” he grumbled, taking a bigger swig and trying not to taste it as he swallowed it down.
“You didn’t ask me if I liked it,” she pointed out. “Besides, the bad things help us appreciate the good more. And taking recommendations from strangers is a good way to size them up. Our bartender,” she nodded at the man, now at the other end of the bar, pouring a couple whiskeys, “has a very stereotypical opinion of women. I bet he’s dreadful in bed.” This surprised a laugh out of Napoleon.
“Do you size up all the men you meet for affairs or just bartenders?” he asked before he could help himself.
“I evaluate everyone I meet on how entertaining they are likely to be,” she said, “in any manner. He’s probably terrible at poker too, folding on bad hands too often, so everyone can tell when he has a good one.”
“Oh, well, do give me a chance to reassure you that I can be quite entertaining, in any manner you like,” he said.
“Very well, although you already have a strike against you, given your taste in company. Where is dear Michelle, anyway?”
“The champagne went to her head, poor dear. She’s having a lie-down. But I actually keep quite a wide variety of company. In fact, I do believe we have someone in common,” he paused, and she raised an eyebrow. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but you’re here tonight partially on consideration of a Monsieur Reynard, yes?” Something flashed in her eyes, dismay perhaps. Then a slow smile lit her face, and she finally lost the tension from her upper body.
“The fool double-booked the job, yes? I appreciate you telling me. He wants this more than I realized, and I’ll be sure to renegotiate the final settlement with that in mind. I’m sorry your obvious investment came to naught, particular since everyone knows that those who date Michelle come not.” The crude turn of phrase startled him into laughter, drawing attention to them even in the loud ballroom--but he could not regret it.
“It will teach me to beware of men who think themselves so clever they name themselves ‘fox’. If you mean that though, I’m quite sure you can make it up to me.”
“I could do that,” she said slowly. “But it probably won’t be in the manner you’d prefer. Although never say never--I am in need of a husband.”
“I was under the impression you had one,” Napoleon said. “But I’d be delighted to be of service.”
“I’ll have to save the details for later,” she said. “If we were to meet tomorrow to discuss it, where should that be?” He gave the matter a moment’s thought, since this was clearly a test. The cafe he named must have been a sufficient recommendation, as she asked him to meet her there for a late lunch.