Devil May Care - Sebastian Faulks [52]
‘Perhaps.’
‘But how was she, James? Did she seem all
right?’
‘I don’t know how she usually seems. I spent most of the time thinking it was you, but somehow not quite. It was . . .’
‘I know, I know. Did she say which one of us was older?’
‘Yes. And she showed me a way of telling you apart.’
‘What – she actually showed you?’ Scarlett looked amazed. ‘Here?’ She pointed to the top of her left thigh.
‘Yes. We were in a park. She’s a wild child.’
‘And do you want me to show you, too? To prove I’m not her?’
Bond smiled. ‘No. I don’t think that’ll be necessary. There’s something very Scarlett about you. You’re Mrs Larissa Rossi from Rome, all right.’ He said nothing of the distinctive darkness of her eyes.
‘Good. Now I’m going to get some iodine and bathe those cuts.’
Scarlett made for the door.
‘And when you come back,’ said Bond, ‘perhaps you’d like to tell me exactly what a Parisian banker is doing in a Caspian resort in the middle of July.’
‘It’s a deal,’ said Scarlett, closing the door behind her.
Bond finished his glass of champagne and poured another. He couldn’t deny that he was pleased to see Scarlett, but he would have to be firm with her. He couldn’t be distracted at this stage of the proceedings by concern for a woman’s safety.
Some ten minutes later, Scarlett returned with a brown medicine bottle and some cotton wool. ‘I think this is the right stuff,’ she said. ‘My Farsi isn’t up to much.’
‘Unlike Poppy’s. At least, she can do the script.’
‘Well, she’s had a chance to learn, poor girl. Now, keep still.’
Bond looked out over the sea while Scarlett gently dabbed the cuts on his back.
‘You’re supposed to yelp in pain,’ she said. ‘ That’s what they do in westerns.’
‘It doesn’t hurt that much,’ said Bond.
‘Perhaps it’s not an antiseptic at all. Perhaps it’s a placebo. And I noticed you had some cuts on your chest as well.’
Scarlett came round and stood in front of Bond, and as she leaned over him, he saw her shining, clean hair up close and smelled a discreet lily-of-the-valley scent. Despite what must have been a rigorous journey, she seemed as fresh as though she had just stepped from the bathroom.
She stopped, and her hesitation suggested she felt his eyes on 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 hand where 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