The Roman Gambit Pt. 03

My faithful friend had to be chucked onto hers by the stable boy. He was staring mesmerized at Mel's tightly clad ass as he pushed her onto her mount. Sitting on her pony Mel looked perfectly in scale to me on my full-size horse.

We walked our way up to the point where we always talk. Mel and I told my mother about our adventures on our last mission, leaving out details like the attempt to drug us in Paris, the Bratva, and the fight in the parking structure. Mother would worry if she heard things like that.

I told her a little about John and how he had walked miles through the dark and the rain of the mountains to help us. I told her that he was every girl's dream of a handsome swashbuckler. I left off the part about his being two different people because that was what I wanted to talk to her about.

*****

Hilley picked Mel up in her Range Rover. It was a beautiful car, with all of the appointments of a living room, soft leather seats, exquisite sound and even thick carpeting. The ride up was spent trying to convince Hilley to take some of the money that the Organization had paid them.

Mel had called Sir Alex immediately upon seeing her new bank balance to find out why such an inconceivable figure had showed up in her account. He said, "The treasure you restored is of incalculable value to Western culture. The amount that we gave you is a small sum compared to what the Organization was paid to recover it. So please enjoy it with our compliments, my dear little friend."

Mel didn't know what to do when he hung up. She could not imagine spending that much money in her entire life. She thought that maybe she might buy some matching furniture for her house and do a little restoration, just to bring it up to the same standard as Hilley's place. She also thought that perhaps her sister Sarai would like to move in with her.

Mel wanted Hilley to take her share. But her friend absolutely refused. Mel made a mental note to buy Hilley something nice anyhow, like maybe a Bentley, or a handsome male butler. But Mel mainly wanted to know what the situation was with John.

Mel was a romantic at heart and she knew that her friend was truly in love with a man who was her equal in every way. The news about the dual identity was a little disturbing but Mel had been treated much worse by men who she didn't even like.

Mel was loyal to Hilley to a fault. Still, the huge gap in their upbringing sometimes prevented Hilley from realizing how limited Mel's life had actually been. That included horses. The three of them poked their way along. Mel was pretty sure they were doing that because they were afraid that she would fall off of her horse, which was a decided possibility.

Mel was holding onto the saddle and trying to grip the beast with her thighs. But she kept bouncing up and down and that was making her tits flop in ways that threatened to spring one of them loose and beat her to death.

The big dog was running back and forth with them. Mel got the impression that it was used to running with Mrs. Larson when she went out on her daily gallop. It was as if he demanded the honor of protecting Hilley's mom. Maybe he actually WAS a former French soldier of fortune.

They finally came to a place of transcendent beauty. It was high summer in Buckinghamshire and the scene that was laid out in front of them was as peaceful and pleasing as a Gainsborough painting. It was the reason why the English are so proud of their countryside. Mrs. Larson turned to Hilley and said, "Okay daughter, I want the whole story from the top and don't leave anything out." The look on her face was one of the greatest love and womanly knowledge.

*****

Mother wanted the whole story. So, I told her about John, how handsome and powerful he was, yet kind and gentle. I told her about how I had fallen in love with him during our adventure and that he seemed to have reciprocated that love. Then I told her about the dinner.

Mel had never heard that part and so she was hanging on my every word. I said, "He was not who I thought he was. I thought he was English and perhaps an academic because of his accent. In retrospect I should have known better. Because he is an exceptional physical specimen and you really don't get that way except through the military."

Mother said, "I agree that you jumped to conclusions, although I have known Special Forces friends of your dad who are Cambridge and Oxford Dons now."

I said, "If he was a SEAL, I would be happy. But my John was a Special Forces operator in the RUSSIAN military. In fact, he isn't English. He was born and grew up in St Petersburg. To top it off he was KGB/FSB before he made his money with the Russian Oligarchy."

My mother appeared as stricken as I must have looked when I first heard that. Mel nearly fell off her pony. She said, "WHAT? RUSSIAN!! I thought he was English. He sounds English. I guess that explains why he was reading that magazine with the strange lettering on it when we first ran into him."

I said, "He was educated here. He has a PhD from Oxford in Economics and he spent his last six years with the FSB in London. That's why he sounds so English. He never specifically lied to me. But he also didn't tell me that he wasn't the person who I so obviously thought he was."

My mother cut to the heart of the matter, "Why do you think he did that?"

I said, "He first appeared in my life exactly three days ago in the middle of the night in the rain on a mountain in southeastern Germany. We were involved in a dangerous situation from that point on, until we flew back here. That's why Sir Alex sent him in the first place."

I added, "I could understand that there was no time to get into life histories during the action. But we flew back two hours from Prague, and he spent the rest of the day with me before dinner. That was when he should have mentioned something."

I said bitterly, "His name isn't even John Smith. It is Ivan Kovalyov. He changed it when he allegedly made a total break with his old life. He could have mentioned THAT to me too." Then the realization hit me. If he'd told me his real name, he would have had to explain everything. I muttered, "Maybe he didn't think it was the right time to do that either."

My mother said with a glint in her eye, "Was there anything that happened during that period that might have distracted both of you?" I said in my best kittenish manner, "Nothing I can think of except for the two hours of exceptional lovemaking just before dinner."

Mel said salaciously, "Details!! I need details!!"

My mother said, "So what specifically is the problem my daughter."

I said, "I don't trust him. He is nowhere near the man I thought he was, and he waited too long to tell me who he actually was. I cannot give myself to a man I can't trust. You told me that yourself on the boat the summer we met Daddy."

My mother got that wise look that she gets when she is assembling pieces in her head. Then she said, "Does it bother you that he is much older than you are?"

I said, "A little."

She said, "Does it bother you that he is Russian, not English?"

I said, "Some; I have nothing against Russians. But he has clearly had different cultural experiences than I've had."

My mother said, "Yet he has adapted an English persona, and even a name, and you say that he lives in Provence? That indicates that he has an extensive world view, not limited to a single culture. That is a sign of intelligence and sophistication."

She added, "Remember that we are both Americans and yet you haven't been in that Country since you enrolled at Imperial. Do you consider yourself an American girl?"

I said, "I am proud of my American citizenship. But I cannot tell you which culture I identify with, American, English. I guess I am both of those things."

Mel chimed in with, "I'm a proud Cockney and dedicated supporter of the Tottenham Hotspurs, but I can't imagine living in Stepney again."

Mother laughed and said, "My point exactly. This man is a true citizen of the world. My guess is that he made the name change as a declaration of that reality."

She also said musingly, "He might also be trying to put some of the ghosts from his past to rest. Your father has some issues from HIS military service that I have never wanted to ask him about. For a sensitive man, combat is something that exacts a personal price."

I said, "Perhaps the issue isn't so much trust then as it is caution. He is an extremely complex man with a number of facets that are warning flags, like our age difference and the twists and turns of his life. Is he a soldier, or a Russian spy, the KGB was pretty narrow minded and brutal you know, or is he one of the opportunists who made their fortune when the USSR fell apart?"

I said sadly, "If he is any of those things than I don't think I am interested in him. He seemed like the kindest, gentlest and most sympathetic man I had ever met except for my Daddy. THAT was what I fell in love with. But NOW I don't know who he really is."

My mother smiled and said, "So it comes back to knowing him. I was lucky with your father. His life was totally different from mine. He wasn't wealthy. The day that we first made love, I had the most satisfying feeling of fulfillment. That was because I KNEW in that moment what my role was to ensure that he had someone who would give him unquestioned devotion."

She added brightly, "You were with me the night we found each other again. And from that time on it has been as if all of my anxieties disappeared. That was because I knew that we had each other, and we would deal with whatever challenges we faced together."

Mel looked like she was going to cry. She said, "That is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. I find men hard to relate to, except through sex of course. But I know that if I DO find one it will be a true partnership of equals; that is a very special thing. And your ability to forge a lifelong relationship with Mr. Larson, also explains why you are such a wise woman."

My mother smiled demurely and said, "That's very kind of you Mel. But that forging process was interrupted by twelve years of unnecessary pain. It's what makes our marriage so strong."

Mel looked confused. I said, "I'll fill you in later. It's very romantic. But the fact is that Alex and Cassie are not my Daddy's children." Mel looked even more intrigued. She didn't know the story. But she was sensitive enough to not "go there" right now.

My mother continued with. "Building a true relationship takes work, time, intelligence, sensitivity and a commitment to making it work. We had our trials. But we never lost sight of what both of us wanted."

Then she turned to me and said, "Do you want to try to build something with this man?"

I said, "Yes, I think so. Nobody has ever connected with me at so many levels. He is intelligent like William, strong and commanding like Kelley and he is kind, gentle and loving like my Daddy."

Then the horrible thought struck me, and I said with panic, "Oh my God, he is old enough to BE my father, am I having daddy issues?"

My mother nearly fell off her horse laughing. She said, "I don't see any implications that you are marrying Daddy. You need a man that old. People like you and Mel are ageless anyhow." Mel was nodding vigorously.

I said, "So what would you advise - oh wisest of women?" There was nothing but respect in my voice, no sarcasm.

She said, "You have some time off before your next assignment and the area around Avignon is beautiful in high summer. Perhaps you and your friend can continue to develop your interest in viniculture?"

*****

It was a beautiful sunny day on Smith's little estate near Chateauneuf. He had a half square kilometer of vines in the prime growing area north of town and he worked that acreage like the Provencal farmer he was determined to become.

The Chateau and accompanying small winery was a classic 18th Century complex that Smith had bought and restored to a level of comfort and functional efficiency that made him almost feel guilty. Then he thought about all of the things he had to sacrifice in order to make the money it took to surround himself with this luxury and his guilt diminished to nothing. He had earned what he had.

He sat on his fieldstone patio under his extensive vine shaded pergola and savored the "first fruits" of this year's Grenache. The wine was still young. But it promised a rich spiciness in its maturity.

He chewed and swallowed with satisfaction. It was earthy with a hint of Provencal garrigue and a leathery finish. Of all the things he had done in his life, this was by far the most rewarding and he was the happiest and most content he had ever been. He could sit peacefully in the hot sun of Provence for the rest of his life.

The dark cloud that passed across his devilishly handsome face was caused by a woman who was young enough to be his daughter. He could not shake thoughts of Hilley Larson. She was easily the most strikingly beautiful woman he had ever known. But that was such a small part of her appeal, that he dismissed thoughts of her beauty as not being worthy of what she really was. What he couldn't forget, was the woman's bright shining soul and the way she made him feel when they were together.

In a mere three days they had built a deep bond of fundamental human companionship that was ageless and sexless. They had kidded with each other like old comrades laughed, joked and even wrestled playfully with each other, like he did with his best male friends. THEN when it came time for serious work, he sensed a level of intelligence, focus and perspective that rivaled his own razor-sharp mind. The woman was quick to grasp ideas, analytical and perfectly reasonable and logical in all of her thinking and her life philosophies were deep and profound.

Of course, she could also fight like a Viking berserker, field strip a Sig Saur and she had the courage of the most steadfast of his Spetsnaz buddies. But none of those buddies had her incredible body and her deep passion. And none of his buddies had spent their life becoming as culturally sophisticated as Hilley Larson was. He had wanted to tell her that he was not who he seemed to be. He even felt like he had given her adequate hints. But in his mind, there was no point in getting into details until they had the clear space to work them through.

He was going to do that as soon as they got back from dinner. It was just unfortunate that things happened the way they had. If Russia had not chosen to grant him its highest medal, he could have broken the news to Hilley that night. Smith knew beyond the slightest doubt that he loved Hilley Larson. But he also knew that it was her very strength of spirit that forced him to stay away from her now. She would have to come back to him. Nevertheless, the sense of loss that he felt as he sat there on his patio was profound.

He was about to get up from his comfortable wooden seat, to go get some cheese to accompany the wine. Then, a familiar voice said in bantering tones, "I hear that this Chateau gives wine tours. Would you like a customer?"

He turned and there she was, standing posed, fifty feet away at the edge of the patio. She was beyond beautiful. She was wearing white shorts and a pink Izod shirt. Her incredible legs were on full display and her big beautiful breasts were doing disturbing things to the front of the shirt. But all he could see were those intelligent and profoundly compelling blue eyes.

He almost dropped his wineglass, which would have been an unforgivable faux-pas for a cool customer like Smith. Instead he said in his most noncommittal voice, "The owner is the only person who gives tours. So, you will have to talk to him."

She said with the same merry glint in her eye, "And where would I find this owner?"

He said, "Right here!" and then he couldn't stand it any longer. He strode across those 50 feet, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her with a passion fueled by two weeks of longing. She opened herself to him, as she always did, totally "there" in the kiss. But instead of holding him to her, as any woman would do, she dangled her arms up behind them as if she was completely surrendering her body to him. It was an incredibly evocative and sexual thing to do.

The kiss lasted far longer than either of them expected. Smith finally broke it and held her away to study her eyes. They told him that she was committed to trying to give him what he wanted and needed, which was her love and companionship. For a change Smith was speechless.

She finally said, still keeping the tone light and ironic, "So are you going to invite a lady in, or are you going to make her stand out in the hot sun all day?"

*****

I could have flown over. But I was in a mood to drive. So, on the day after I had tapped the endless fountain my mother's wisdom, I took the Eurostar to Paris. I hoped that someday I would be half the woman that she is.

In Paris I hired a shiny black Aston Martin Vanquish Volante. I wanted to burn up the AutoRoute down to Avignon and the 560 horsepower of the AM-V12 was what I had in mind. It was a form of a test drive. If I liked the car, I was planning on spending the $300,000 to buy it, since the Lotus really IS a bit inconvenient.

One of the advantages of being rich is that you can afford the occasional speeding ticket. The speed limit on the AutoRoute is eighty miles per hour. Of course, the cars in the left-hand lane ARE being driven by the French. So, I figured I would be safe if I cruised at a-hundred-and-ten. That would get me to Avignon in about three hours.

It was a glorious sunny day and even though I was topping 130 in some stretches the Aston was rock steady. I had the top down and the wind blowing past was ruffling my hair. Still, it is so thick that I can just pat it back into place. The sun was hot and after braving the lovely German weather in the Ore Mountains it was uplifting.

One of the reasons why I drove instead of flew was that I wanted to be mobile. It was quite possible that John might have decided that he could do without me. After all, I had stomped out of the Club without a word of "good-bye" and I had not said anything to him since then. So, maybe I would arrive to find him auditioning my replacement, in which case I would need a car.

My mother, as usual, had fit the picture into its frame. There were a number of unique reasons why John Smith was the only man in the world for me. And I doubted that I would ever find his equivalent in capabilities, world-view and cultural sophistication. But there were also a number of REAL hurdles that we would have to work at in order to make our relationship happen.

I knew what those were, as did John. But I could just sit there and let my reasoning talk me out of trying. So, I chose to take the steps to resolve the problem. That was why I was presently moving down the A7 past Nancy and Orange and turning into the long dusty driveway to his Chateau. His vineyards stretched in rolling hills in every direction. There were workmen out there tending the vines.

The Chateau itself had a large staff. I knocked on the door and it was answered by a motherly looking French woman. I said in French, "I would like to talk to Dr. John Smith. Is he in?"

She said, "Dr. Smith is on the patio, whom should I tell him is calling?"

I said, "I am an old friend and I know that he will want to see me. I will just walk around the building and surprise him."

She looked me over with the studied eye of a French woman and drew all of the necessary conclusions. She said with a Gallic shrug, "The patio is in that direction" and closed the door.

I walked the surprisingly extensive length of the front of the Chateau, turned and along a lane next to the house. There were a number of ancient looking brick buildings that were perfectly restored on my right. I assumed those were the winery itself. Chateauneuf produces some of the finest reds in the world and whatever John had over there was a serious operation.