James Blond, British Secret Service agent SA-Seven, slowly turned the door handle and gently eased open the door to the girl's apartment. His current assignment successfully completed, it was time for a little extra-curricular activity before returning to England and Paramount Holdings, the property development company based in London which covertly served as a front for MI6. If nothing else it would help to clear from his mind the unpleasant business he'd had to carry out earlier that evening. Killing someone never came easy to Blond, even though he had killed many times before; and even when the villain he had been ordered to dispatch was scum like Morientes, an evil parasite who made his living off the suffering of others.

The Mexican had been a drug baron and therefore in Blond's eyes the very lowest scum; the world would be a happier place without the drugs. True, it was also a happier place with them, much happier, especially if the drug in question was a few grams of top quality Colombian up your nose. However Blond, no stranger to the occasional line himself, knew as well as anyone that the effect of drugs was ephemeral, that the euphoria a drug brought with it would very quickly be surpassed many times over by the dark depression that inevitably followed.

And the drugs that Morientes dealt were not merely cocaine, a substance that could be kept under control. It was something harder and much more dangerous. Heroin. The big H. Well now the Mexican was in the big H in the sky, if you believed in that sort of thing, or more probably the big H below, and good riddance to him.

He had first seen the girl in the cocktail bar of the Sandals in which he'd been staying. She had been in the company of a man, a suitor judging by the close attention he paid her. It hadn't stopped her returning Blond's smile on the couple of occasions he had managed to catch her eye, however. He had followed the couple at a safe distance when they left and had thanked his lucky stars when the man dropped her off at the apartment block. Now, some five minutes later, he was entering her apartment.

The girl was drop dead gorgeous. No other words to describe her. On seeing her again Blond, being Blond, immediately began to wonder what she would be like in bed. Passive? Active? A talker? A screamer? He had made love to them all, and many times over. Well it wouldn't be long before he found out; he was sure to bed the girl, it was a cast iron certainty, he always did.

Blond would have been lying if he had tried to claim he didn't enjoy the company of women. Yet he invariably treated them casually. Indeed there were some people who would claim, not without some justification, that he treated women as nothing more nor less than a sort of de-luxe willy warmer. But they would be wrong. Like most men of derring-do Blond really loved women. However he only ever made love to women who were ravishingly beautiful. Anything less and he just wasn't interested. Why settle for a Ford Focus when you can drive a Ferrari? Why eat beefburgers when you can dine on the finest Aberdeen Angus steak?

Still at the doorway Blond took in the room with a practised eye. It was quite obviously the apartment of a woman, but without being in the least 'girlie'. He certainly didn't envisage having to kick any cuddly toys off the bed when it came to having his way with the girl; that much was for certain. Bridget Jones she wasn't.

The large main room had quite obviously been designed by a decorator who knew his stuff, the money expended on the decor being self-evident; bright, clean lines, tasteful soft furnishings, unfussy furniture; Scandinavian by the look of it, but definitely a quantum leap up market from IKEA.

He noticed a Harry Potter book on a black glass-topped occasional table. From the doorway he couldn't make out the title, but guessed at 'Harry Potter and the Load of Old Bollocks'. As it was highly unlikely the girl was old enough to have a child of reading age it told him that in all probability she was reading the book herself. Blond smiled; excellent, he didn't like his lady friends to be too intelligent.

The girl became aware of him and gave a start, the involuntary hand going to her mouth too late to muffle a surprised little gasp.

Blond tipped an imaginary hat, bowed slightly from the neck and smiled. "Good evening."

"You!"

Though he had startled her the girl's voice was completely unafraid. Blond liked that - although he preferred his lady friends to be on the dimmer side of smart he did admire confidence in a woman, and this wonderful example of the species obviously had it in abundance.

The girl went on. "You were in the cocktail bar at Sandals."

Blond nodded. He closed the door behind him. "Allow me to introduce myself." He made his way over to her.     "My name is James Blond." He reached out and took one of her hands in his. It was soft, velvety, the feel of lightly tanned skin, even though her skin was lily white. He fondled it for an instant, not wanting to let it go, before asking: "And you are, beautiful lady?"

"Pisa. Pisa Vass."

Blond smiled. "Pisa Vass. The name suits you."

Reluctantly he let go of the girl's hand and stepped back, the better to take in her appearance. He took his time about it. Her face, with its high cheekbones, wide-set eyes and the sort of full, red lips that could drive a man insane, was the sort of face that would always be beautiful. Of Eastern European extraction Blond guessed, with something of the Orient in there, Thai or Malayan possibly, which gave her features a distinctly exotic look. She was wearing a white silk shirt, tied at the waist, its neckline low and inviting, revealing just enough cleavage to get a man interested. Her black skirt, satisfyingly short, showed off her long legs to their best advantage. He wondered what she was wearing underneath. Nothing up top would be his guess - and he was usually right in these matters - and probably a G-string below, black, definitely black. Already Blond felt a stirring in his loins. Finally, after drinking richly from the vision before him he said: "When I first saw you I thought you were beautiful, Pisa, but close up you are beyond beauty."

She smiled, accepting the compliment without any sign of embarrassment, as if accustomed to such tributes to her beauty. She went to the expensive-looking bamboo and marble cocktail bar. Following her with his eyes Blond noticed over her shoulder that the door to the bedroom was open; a king-size silk-clad bed, mercifully clear of cuddly toys, beckoned invitingly. Mercifully because on one occasion, on the insistence of his lover, he'd had to share her bed with half the cast of The Muppets. Not surprisingly he found that being watched by Kermit and Miss Piggy whilst performing the act of love to be such a disconcerting experience that at one point he almost lost his erection.

Now Pisa turned to him, refreshed her smile and said: "A drink, Mr Blond?"

"If it isn't too much trouble."

"I'm having a gin and tonic."

"I will take a dry Martini."

Pisa Vass poured the drinks and turned to Blond. "And, James Blond, as is the case with your fictitious nea r namesake James Bond, would you like it shaken?"

"Yes, but let's have a drink first," said Blond, mindful of his boss's wishes with regard to his coming out with witty lines whenever and wherever possible, good sense yielding to his inherent sense of duty.

He could see from Pisa's quick smile that the quip was not lost on her, but she merely nodded and handed him the drink. "Your dry Martini, Mr Blond."

He took the cool glass and looked straight into the eyes of the object of his affection."Please, all my lovers call me James."
    Pisa Vass returned his look, unblinkingly. "But I have never been your lover, Mr Blond."
    She turned from him as if to walk away, but before she could he caught her lightly by the shoulders and applied just enough pressure to persuade her to turn to face him. "A state of affairs I am now going to take the greatest pleasure in rectifying," he said, permitting his hands to slide down her arms to encircle her slender waist. He"nodded towards the bedroom. "Come, my lovely Pisa Vass."
    "No." She pushed him away, not at all violently, but firmly enough to make it clear she meant what she said.
    Blond was surprised to say the least. He raised a puzzled eyebrow. "No?"
    "I can't."     I'm having my period."
    "Having your period?"
    "Yes. Sorry."
    He was completely baffled. "But....I mean you can't be.the girls I meet are never having their period."
    "Well I'm having mine," said Pisa, simply.
    Blond simply couldn't credit it; for he was speaking the gospel truth. Just like the James Bond of book and film fame not once in his entire career had he encountered a girl who happened to be having her period when he came a calling; that sort of thing just didn't happen to famous secret agents.
    The girl smiled pleasantly. "I could manage a hand job?"

Blond recoiled, visibly horrified at the suggestion. "A hand job?"

She made to pick up his glass. "Then let me at least freshen your Martini."

But Blond was in no mood to have his Martini freshened. A diplomatic exit was called for; to depart the girl's apartment now before he became even more disoriented, before he lost the plot completely. So without even considering a witty parting shot before making his exit, but with a final look of utter disbelief at the lovely Pisa Vass, he turned and left, perplexed, dismayed, shamefaced, embarrassed, all of those things. A minute later he stepped out of the apartment block and into the cold night air. It had started raining, making the evening almost as unwelcoming as Pisa Vass had been.





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