afternoon.
Now, in the early summer of 1995, Bond detested the crowds, the traffic and the obvious growth of pollution, not only in the air, but also in the sea itself. There was trouble in what used to be paradise.
At this moment, however, he had risen above it all as he swung the old Aston Martin DB5 into a hairpin bend on the Grand Corniche, the highest of those roads which run parallel to the coast, in the foothills of the Alpes Maritimes. Up on this snake of a road which is perched on the cliff-like outcrop and sometimes even lances through tunnels blasted into the rock itself, you were removed from the snarl of traffic and crowds, yet afforded magnificent views of the sea and coastline.
He had almost forgotten what a joy it was to drive the Aston Martin which handled like the thoroughbred it was.
Just as much of a thoroughbred as the beautiful Caroline who sat beside him.
Caroline had not struck him as a girl who frightened easily, but he could feel her nervousness as he accelerated along the straight.
When she spoke it was in the cultured accent of a young woman who had been brought up in an atmosphere of relative privilege and had never felt guilty about it.
“James, do we really have to go quite so fast?” She glanced at him and then turned her attention quickly back to the road, for a large truck was rounding the bend taking up more of the Aston Martin’s road than it should.
Bond shifted down to third, and eased the car over so that the two vehicles passed safely with around an inch between them.
“Speed, my dear Caroline, is one of the few true aphrodisiacs left to mankind.” He gave her a wicked smile, the cruel mouth lifting in pleasure while his startlingly ice blue eyes twinkled.
Caroline swallowed. “I prefer soft lights, music and champagne,’ she said bluntly.
“That’s good as well.”
“James, I like a spirited drive as well as the next girl, but..
“Well, what’ve we got here?” His head turned as a bright yellow Ferrari 355 pulled alongside, its driver glancing across with a mocking smile.
The driver had a dark gypsy look about her, and the smile held a hint of challenge that Bond could not ignore as the Ferrari eased ahead of him.
“Who the blazes is that?” Caroline’s hand came up, touching Bond’s arm for a second. It could have been the start of a proprietary gesture, but she pulled the hand back, asking the question again.
“Haven’t a clue.” Bond did not even look at her. “But from here she has good lines, and she’s certainly shaking her tail at us.” He gently accelerated, bringing the car to within a few feet of the Ferrari, following her exact line as she increased speed on another sharp bend, forcing Bond to shift down and tap the brakes, losing a little distance, which he made up quickly on the straight stretch of road ahead. This time he pulled out, piled on the power and shot past the Italian car.
“James, stop this. You’re “Flirting with death?” He tapped the brakes again as they came to another long treacherous bend.
“You’re flirting with something,’ she began, then gasped as the Ferrari shot ahead, its driver not even turning her head, her eyes totally concentrating on the road.
Bond shifted down, floored the accelerator and then shifted up, now close behind the Ferrari. The girl driving the car in front swung out, in a desperate attempt to block the Aston Martin, but Bond, seeing his chance, pulled out and roared past, the edge of the road to his left barely a foot away from a long drop over the rocks.
“James, I said stop this,’ Caroline’s voice cracked with a note of command.
“Only a bit of fun. Where else could you get this kind of thrill, mixed with beautiful scenery and gorgeous weather?”
“James. I was sent out here to do your five-year evaluation. Do you want my report to M.
..” She cut off with an intake of breath as the Ferrari came alongside in an attempt to pass, but Bond was blocking her off, matching speed for speed as the two cars hurtled towards a long right hand bend.
He saw the flashing lights and heard the honking horn of the tour bus a fraction of a second before the Ferrari’s driver. For what seemed like a moment suspended in time, the big bus loomed huge in the Ferrari’s path.
Bond mouthed an expletive, pumping the brakes and shifting down, slowing the Aston Martin safely and just allowing the Ferrari to cross his nose with only a whisper between the car and the bus. “Ladies first” He tried to make it sound amusing, failing miserably.
“Stop this car!” Caroline snapped. “I mean it, James.
Stop this car at once!”
“Whatever you say, Ma’am.” The car slewed straight across the road, burning rubber as it came to a halt sideways on at a tourist overlook. “No problem, Caroline. I have no problem with female authority, and I hope you’ll put that in my evaluation.” His hand moved to the console, one finger flicking a switch.
Noiselessly a section below the dash slid back to reveal a chilling bottle of champagne and two glasses. “I usually keep a gun in there.’ He smiled into her light brown eyes. “But, as this is rather special..
“What on earth am I going to do with you, James?”
“Drink to my evaluation.” He had filled the two glasses, toasted her and took a sip from his, then put it back on the console, leaned forward and whispered, “Let’s make it a really thorough evaluation.” She gave a sigh, part despair and part desire as she lifted her head to receive his mouth on her own.
In the distance, the principality of Monaco shimmered in the afternoon heat, the harbour lined with several million dollars worth of yachts.
He noticed the distinctive yellow Ferrari as soon as he pulled the Aston Martin into the Casino’s parking area.
He was not even thinking about the race on the Grand Corniche, for Bond’s mind was on Caroline. Were those really tears he detected in her eyes as she held him close on saying goodbye at Nice airport?
He hoped that she was not going to be a clinging vine.
That was the trouble with some women, even in these days of liberation and equality. You still got clingers now and again, and one like Caroline would be awkward because she obviously had the ear of the recently appointed M. As far as Bond was concerned, the new M was not the greatest news of the year - even though the media had made a huge fuss. Bond was not a great fan of the media either, particularly now that the Secret Intelligence Service appeared to have ditched the word secret.
Then he saw the Ferrari and thought the night’s gambling might just be made a shade more amusing.
At the entrance to the Salles Pn’vees the blue jewled and immaculate duty manager acknowledged Bond by name, suggesting that the real action this evening was at the banquet out va - the baccarat table. Certainly there was a small knot of people watching the game, and Bond saw that the centre of attention was the attractive dark- haired young woman who had cheated death with him on the Grand Corniche that afternoon.
She wore a simple black dress and a diamond choker at her neck.
The diamonds could well be real, and she certainly looked like the proverbial million dollars. As she glanced up, he saw that the gypsy look he had caught from the glimpses of her in the car came from the jet black eyes and the smoothness of her hair which had a depth of texture to it that reminded him of a bolt of sheer silk. High cheek bones, a strong nose and a wide mouth made her very desirable.
She had just won, for he heard the croupier call out “Sept a’ Ia banque.” He slid a very large number of plaques and chips across to the woman who indicated that she wanted them added to her considerable pile already on the table.
The little Japanese man sitting next to her shook his head and in good, very audible, English said that this was too rich for him. The croupier swept around the players to find someone to bet against her.
Four men and one other woman who had obviously been playing, refused which was not surprising as there must have been well over ?100,000 on the table.
At the last moment Bond softly said, “Banco. Coming out from behind the crowd, he took an empty chair facing her and matched the large bet.
The girl acknowledged his nod and slipped two cards from the sabot - as the croupiers thought of what mere mortals always called the shoe - dealing them towards him.
He picked them up and glanced at them. Not brilliant: a red two and a black five. Looking across at her he
