Blast from the Past
Page 3
And then she slumped forward and died.
Bond rolled over onto his back and drifted into unconsciousness, just as Cheryl Haven and her team entered into the room.
CHAPTER 6
James Bond gazed out the hospital window, enjoying another bright and sunny Manhattan spring day. His leg would be in a cast for the next few weeks. A pin had to be inserted to reinforce 007's broken fibula. He had no memory of the trip to the emergency room, where he had been for two hours the night before. Bond vaguely recalled the recovery room and a pretty nurse with a pleasant voice. It was now late afternoon of the following day. He had eaten a half-portion of bland, intolerable scrambled eggs, drunk a little tepid orange juice and picked at a cup of runny vanilla yogurt. Much to his surprise, the miserable meal had given him back some energy. He would have liked to stand up and walk around, but he had no crutches yet.
Bond mentally explored his mind and body, taking stock of the powerful instrument that had taken him so many times to the edge of disaster and back. All things considered, he felt good. Much of this, he knew, was due to the euphoria of victory. Seeing Irma Bunt die in front of him had been morbidly satisfying. He felt a closure on a painful epoch in his life, and the relief was exhilarating. The occasional bad dreams about Tracy, Blofeld and Japan would most likely cease now. He thought of James as well -- the boy he never knew, the son he never lived with. James hadn't deserved to die. Bond was aware he needed to grieve, and that it would happen sooner rather than later. He wouldn't allow himself to dwell upon it too long, lest he would start to blame himself. Save it all for another day, he ordered himself. For now, relish the victory. Not only had his son's death been avenged, but he had, he hoped, settled the score regarding Tracy.
"Well, look who's awake!" a woman's voice said, and he knew who it was by the Blackpool accent.
He turned his head from the window and was met by the lovely sight of Cheryl Haven wearing a white, sleeveless T-shirt and a pair of daringly short cutoffs. Her lack of a bra was obvious. Her golden hair glistened in the sunlight streaming in from the window. Her smile was one of the most beautiful things Bond had ever seen.
"Good morning," Bond said. "Er, good afternoon."
"How do you feel?" she asked, pulling up a chair beside the bed. She crossed her long, shapely legs.
"Now that you're here, I feel great," he said.
She reached out and placed her hand on his arm. "I'm glad you're OK. That was quite a night. You're going to have to come to New York more often. I don't get many dates like that." She playfully squeezed his arm.
Bond laughed and then asked, "What have you found out?"
"The wounded man sang the whole story. They entered the country six months ago. We're still checking on how Immigration missed them. All three of those men had been with her for years. They were loyal to the end. They were actually living in that old warehouse. Did you know that it used to be a storage center for Macy's? No one's ever cleaned it out."
"I want to thank you. You saved my life."
She laughed. "Oh, you don't know how many men I've longed to hear say that."
"I can't believe you don't have men lining up to say that," he said, taking her hand in his own.
"Oh, please stop it," she said, but her eyes betrayed that she appreciated the compliment.
"We never had that dinner," he said.
"Are you hungry now?" she asked.
"As a matter of fact, I'm famished," he said, staring into her warm, brown eyes.
Cheryl looked around, stood up and closed the door to the room. Next, she pulled the curtain around the bed, giving them a little privacy. Without saying a word, she pulled off her T-shirt, revealing large, firm breasts. Her nipples were extended and the skin below her neck was flushed. She unsnapped her cutoffs, but kept them on. She climbed onto the bed next to him, carefully avoiding the injured leg.
"If you're hungry, darling," she whispered, lifting her right breast to his mouth, "bon appétit."