you’re undecided, I suggest the Mayfair Stoned Crabs with melted butter. They are bloody good.” He rose. “Excuse me.” Lizbeth watched as he approached the other man in the blue suit. She saw him hand the man his cigarette lighter. The waiter approached. “May I take your order?” She kept her eyes on Bond as she gave the waiter their order and was relieved that Bond didn’t linger in conversation but returned to their table in a timely manner. Bond noticed Lizbeth had finished her drink. “Another?” “I couldn’t.” “But you could. Who will judge you?” Bond raised his hand to call the waiter. “Are you feeling well? You look a bit uncomfortable.” “Excuse me.” Lizzie fluffed her short bangs with her fingers. “Lost in thought. Things I’d rather not remember.” Lizbeth steered the conversation away from anything related to her past until the waiter brought their drinks and their food. “Well, then,” Bond said. “Tonight is for finding some cheer. Let’s enjoy the night with conviction.” Lizbeth jumped. That word again. I’ve heard it too many times. “Perhaps another drink is just what you need. You seem on edge.” Lizbeth forced a smile. “Odd, ‘old-fashioned' defined the root of my unhappiness before my parents … well, before. Now, an Old Fashioned may be just the thing to set me free.” “That seems like an apt verdict,” Bond said. They raised their glasses in a second toast. “And if necessary, we’ll order a third until complete contentment has you
under arrest.” Lizbeth nearly dropped her glass onto her dinner plate. “I wish you would choose your words more carefully.” “I do apologize. Have I said something wrong?” James Bond noticed that the man in the blue suit had passed the cigarette lighter to the songstress, who had just left the stage. That was his cue. “Miss Borden—” “Lizbeth, please.” “Lizbeth, I do apologize, but I must excuse myself one more time. Please, go right ahead and begin your dinner. I’ll only be a moment. Our last interruption, I assure you. When I return, my full attention will be on you. I will be here for your eyes only.” He placed his napkin on the table. “Pardon me.” “Of course.” Lizbeth peeked over her shoulder. Her gaze followed him. She gasped when she saw him approach the vivacious woman with long, red hair who had just stepped away from the stage. She’s just the type. Moonraker. Man-stealer. Whore. Lizbeth imagined leaving before he returned. She imagined staying and giving him a stern word or two about his rude behavior. She imagined worse. Lizbeth’s whole being boiled with rage as she watched Bond follow the redhead through a shadowed door behind the stage, and she lost all awareness of the moment. As minutes ticked by, she couldn’t imagine what was keeping him. Her mind filled with assumptions, accusations, angry retaliation. The waiter’s approach brought her back to the moment. “Is everything to your liking?” Only then did she realize she had been
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gripping a knife tightly and had cut a small section of the table cloth to shreds. “Yes, thank you.” She loosened her grip on the knife and looked down. When she saw what she had done, she rested her hand atop the damage. “Very well. Enjoy your meal.” Her shoulders eased when he left. He didn’t notice. Lizbeth slid her plate over the torn cloth. Why does that happen? I have not had one of those spells since … She glanced toward the stage and saw a disheveled James Bond exiting that door, the redheaded woman nowhere to be seen. She wondered why Bond hesitated, leaning against a wall before returning to her, but his appearance was more curious. As he started toward their table, he smoothed his hair, straightened his sleeves, adjusted his collar. Lizbeth had no way of knowing that Bond had been ambushed in that back room and had thwarted an attempt on his life. The songstress merely lured Bond to his attackers, who were armed with rope waiting to bind and choke him. Lizbeth only knew James Bond left her at the table sitting alone for quite some time, feeling conspicuous and embarrassed and wondering if he was going to return at all. Ignoring the stares of other diners, ignoring the waiter’s pity, she had to camouflage her humiliation. The weight of being stared at and whispered about by other diners brought back horrible memories, and she did not intend to deal with public scrutiny and gossip a second time. Her blood boiled. She reached into her drawstring purse and found the small vial of prussic acid she always carried. Lizbeth eyed the
