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The Hobsons Choice Affair Chapter 36
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Disclaimer
This is a work of amature fiction, no contravention of copyright is intended and no profit is made from this endeavour.
"Yes I would work with him but I doubt if he would be interested in giving
up his playboy image."
Waverly harrumphed. "Well find out. He left his address and an invitation
to dinner for you." He said as he handed him a card.
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Illya took the card. The name 'Napoleon Solo' stood out in plain black type
followed by his address '221 5th, New York, New York'. Underneath was
written in broad hand "8pm, black tie'. Illya turned the card over and saw
a single word on the other side 'please'. Looking up at Mr. Waverly he
asked, "Is this an order, Sir?"
"Does it have to be?"
An memory surfaced in Illya's mind "I would not have to be *ordered* to
seduce you."
"Mr. Kuryakin?"
Illya glanced up sharply, "Sir?"
"*Do* I have to order you to have dinner with Mr. Solo?"
In spite of Illya's best efforts to keep his expression neutral, a smile lit
up his face. "No Sir, you do not need to order me."
"Hmmph, well don't just stand about then. I believe that Mr. Del Floria has
a tuxedo in your size. You can pick it up on your way out."
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The tuxedo wasn't the only thing that Illya picked up. Mr. Del Floria
insisted that he take a blue shirt rather than his usual white one. "It was
delivered by mistake," he had said, "And it's just your size."
As Illya brushed his hair, he had to admit that the color looked good on
him...made his eyes seem even bluer. For some reason his hands were shaking
so much that it took him three attempts to tie his bow tie properly. He
told himself that it was just delayed reaction from the events of the past
few days...and it had nothing to do with how much he was looking forward to
this dinner with Napoleon. Why he hadn't anticipated a dinner date this
much since...since his last dinner with Angelique. A wave of mixed
emotions, anger, and not a little guilt swept over him and he clung to the
rickety dresser for support. Since her death...or rather, her *supposed*
death, he had cut himself off from such frivolities as dates and romance.
There was no place for such things in the live of an agent, none at all. It
was too dangerous, both for him and his prospective partners. Better to
remain isolated...to keep ones heart guarded against such pain.
Illya stared at himself in the mirror for a long time. The sensible course
of action would be to call Napoleon and make some sort of excuse to cancel
dinner. An experienced agent like he was, should have no trouble coming up
with a plausible alibi. Exhaustion from the recent mission, a sudden crisis
at Headquarters...there possibilities were endless. Yes, that was what he
should do...stay well away from Napoleon and his beguiling eyes and
charismatic smile...it was the sensible thing to do, for both their sakes.
Somebody else could contact Solo and sound him out about joining UNCLE.
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Napoleon looked at his watch, and felt a pang of disappointment. It was
only a quarter after eight. There were plenty of reasons why Illya hadn't
shown up yet. Bad traffic, a call from Headquarters...maybe he'd even
fallen asleep at his home. He had certainly been through enough in the past
few days to make that a plausible reason for his tardiness. "Or of course,
there is the obvious reason," said Napoleon to himself as he slumped
dejectedly in an armchair. "Maybe he just doesn't want to see me again."
The thought made him even more despondent. He looked at his watch again and
sighed. The takeout dinner that he had ordered was currently drying out in
the oven. Napoleon resolved to give Illya another fifteen minutes and then
allow it to cool. The thought of eating alone, somehow didn't appeal to
him.
And then the doorbell rang. Napoleon almost tripped over the carpet, so
eager was he to get to the door. When he finally reached it, he took a deep
breath and ran his hand through his hair to make sure it was tidy. Heart
thumping with anticipation, he opened the door.
To his delight and relief, Illya was standing there, a bottle held awkwardly
in one hand.
In the split second that followed, the first thought that crossed Napoleon's
mind was the old joke, "Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just glad
to see me?" The second thought that crossed his mind was that knowing
Illya, it was most likely a gun. The third thought that crossed his mind
was that Illya kept his gun in a shoulder holster and *not* in his pocket.
And the fourth and final thought that was the one that put the smile on
Napoleon's face was "My God, he's beautiful."
Illya was captivated by Napoleon's smile. So much so that he stood there
motionless for a few seconds before recovering his wits. "Well, aren't you
going to invite me in?" he asked, a little more brusquely than he had
intended. He was still in two minds about whether he should have come or
not. Granted, Mr. Waverly had not *ordered* him to have dinner with
Napoleon, but he still would not have been impressed had Illya backed out at
the last minute. But even the thought of being in Mr. Waverly's 'bad books'
had not made up Illya's mind to go. No, it had been the thought of
disappointing Napoleon by his failure to attend.
And so he had grabbed a bottle of Vodka from his freezer, jumped in his car
and made a mad dash across the city, leaving a trail of angry motorists and
blaring horns in his wake in order not to be *too* late for dinner.
"What?" asked Napoleon, still distracted. His fingers were itching to
straighten Illya's bow tie, and maybe brush up against his cheek as they did
so. With an effort, he pulled himself together. "Oh yes...dinner...come
in..."
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Napoleon could have been eating sawdust for all the impression that the meal
left on him. He was content to watch the way the candlelight was reflected
in Illya's eyes...the way his jaw worked rhythmically as he devoured his
food...the sound of his voice as he spoke enthusiastically of his jazz
collection.
"This is of course highly classified information, you understand," said
Illya, before taking a mouthful of Vodka.
"Classified, yes," said Napoleon, not really listening to the words, but
only to the accent.
"Yes," said Illya, with a suddenly evil grin. "If you tell *anybody* that I
own so many jazz records, I shall be forced to 'punish' you."
Napoleon pulled himself together and joined in with Illya's laughter.
The sound of the doorbell interrupted them. Illya's smile faded and he
asked Napoleon quietly. "Are you expecting anyone?"
Napoleon shook his head. "The doorman should have buzzed me. I told him I
didn't want to be disturbed..." His voice trailed off as Illya glanced
sharply at him.
"You said you didn't want to be disturbed?"
Napoleon shrugged uncomfortably, but was relieved to see a smile flicker
across Illya's lips before his expression changed back to his usual
professional demeanor. "Well unless your doorman has been lax in his
duties, I think we can assume that this might not be just a casual caller."
Even as he spoke, he had drawn his gun and clicked the safety off. "On the
other hand, it could just be a very over-eager salesman."
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