“Emma, my life is very strange. I told you about when I was a kid, the orphanage...”
She kissed his cheek and put an arm around him.
“I got out of there when I was thirteen, ran away, and lived on the street. I made it all the way to America on stealth, wits, and stealing. I thought I was winning, but all I was doing was amassing numbers in a bank balance.”
Emma held him closer. “Did you hurt a lot of people, Simon?”
“I robbed a lot of people. Stole money, diamonds, art, time, emotion, trust. And I was good at it. I am good at it. But...” His voice trailed off.
“Why, Simon Templar,” chided Dr. Emma Russell, “I believe you’re having an attack of ethics.”
He smiled. He hadn’t felt this open, this free, since his childhood.
“There’s an expression I heard once that I paid no attention to,” acknowledged Templar. “It went like this: Your resentments will kill you. I was about the most resentful guy on the planet — almost fifty million dollars in the bank and I only felt alive when I was stealing something, trying to get back what was stolen from me — and that, of course, is... stupid... insane... nutsy-coo-coo.”
He suddenly rolled over on top of her and kissed her firmly and loudly on the nose.
“Hey, Mr. Wet Kisser!” She laughed, but couldn’t help arching beneath him as if they were lovers.
“My name is not Mr. Wet Kisser,” he insisted playfully. “The name is Templar, Simon Templar — the hero of a thousand adventures.”
“How’s this for an adventure, Mr. Templar?”
She kissed him with compelling passion.
At length, when they came up for air, he offered his commentary.
“A thousand adventures like that and I’ll be the world’s weakest swashbuckler.”
She propped herself up on her elbows. “Unbuckle your swash,” she intoned wickedly, “the adventure has yet to begin.”
“Why Dr. Ruthell,” lisped a compliant Templar seductively, “You thertainly are ecthiting.”
“Yeth,” she agreed.
“Sounds to me like there’s something wrong with your tongue.”
She convinced him otherwise, and they savored the evening together.
During a pause from their more animated moments of interaction. Templar rested his head against her chest. He heard the sound of her heart, listened to her breathing, and touched her gently.
“I wonder if George Sanders started like this,” murmured the Saint.
Emma chuckled. “Very suave, that Mr. Sanders,” agreed Emma. “He was married to both Zsa Zsa Gabor and her sister.”
“Not at the same time, of course.”
“Certainly not,” Emma said it with a dollop of high-society intonation.
“Sanders and I have a lot in common,” remarked Templar cryptically.
“Were you also married to Zsa Zsa? If so, I want all the details,” purred Emma in her best Gaborian accent. “After all, Zsa Zsa is considered the embodiment of all things good in bed.”
“I’d like to see her prove that in a court of law,” said Templar, and they both paused to visualize the presentation of evidence before he continued. “George Sanders and I both have fake names, we were both ripped off by Russian gangsters, and we both got out of Russia in the nick of time — my departure being more recent than his, of course.”
“You pulling my leg?”
“My pleasure, darling. But no, this is ironic fact. He was born in St. Petersburg. His father was the bastard son of Prince von Oldenburg and one of the czar’s sisters. The day George left Russia for school in England was the same day Lenin entered. They actually saw each other at the Finlandia train station when Stalin, Trotsky, and the rest of those Russian gangsters came to meet him.”
“Stalin came to meet George Sanders?” Emma was teasing.
Templar sighed in feigned exasperation.
“Lenin eventually confiscated all of George’s family’s money and killed most of his relatives. George never got over it, but he went on to become suave, debonair, famous, and then...”
Emma knew, and her heart skipped a beat.
“His resentments killed him,” Templar said. “He committed suicide.”
“And?” Emma prompted him to continue.
“And that’s where the resemblance ends,” said Templar as he pulled her over on top of him, “because I’m done with Russian gangsters, fresh out of resentments, finished with revenge, and madly in love with the brilliant Dr. Emma Russell.”
They kissed several more times with unabated gusto.
Later, prior to drifting off to sleep in each other’s arms, they spoke softly.
“How did you know all that stuff about George Sanders?”
“If I find something, or someone, of interest, I find out everything I can. I have an insatiable mind.”
“So that’s what you call it,” remarked Emma pleasantly.
He smiled in the darkness.
“I do love to read,” said Templar. “And I noticed the eclectic collection of books in your apartment. What was that one...? ‘The best beloved of all things in my sight is justice.’ ”
“Ah. The Hidden Words of Baha’u’llah. One of my favorites.”
“That was the only one I read — I was busy casing the joint, as I recall.”
“There is one quote in there that reminds me of you, Mr. Templar. I know this one by heart... almost, maybe.” Emma cleared her throat before recitation.
“ ‘Thou art even as a finely tempered sword concealed in the darkness of its sheath and its value hidden from the artificer’s knowledge.’ ” Her voice was soothing, melodic. “ ‘Wherefore come forth from the sheath of self and desire that thy worth may be made resplendent and manifest unto all the world.’ ”
“If I manifest myself too much, Teal will resplendently arrest me and drag me to a police station in Pimlico, or worse yet, Westminster — members of Parliament get taken there.”
He may have been joking, but there was something about his intonation that made Emma uneasy. She nestled closer.
“After your Russian heroics, do you really worry about getting arrested?”
Templar was silent for a moment before responding.
“There’s something you must understand,” he said seriously. “They’ll never stop hunting me. Never. On every continent there are cops who won’t quit till I’m caught. I can never stop running.”
Emma immediately understood what he was trying to say, and she would not have it.
“I can run, too!” She was ardent, almost pleading. “You saw me run in Moscow. I ran and I ran and my heart didn’t fail...”
Templar took the precious woman in his arms, and felt her tremble against him.
“Your work counts for too much, Emma. If I didn’t love you, I’d let you come with me.”
She fought back tears, clinging to him as if her life depended on it.
“Then what’re we doing here? Everything was so wonderful, finally. You and I, like this... I thought...” Her warm tears were wet on Templar’s shoulder.
“Why did you ask me to meet you here, for a one-night stand? To break my heart?” She knew the answer was neither.
He stroked her cheek tenderly, lovingly.
“So I could return what I took from you... and to hear you tell me that you loved me too, no matter what.”
Emma held him tightly.
“I do love you,” said Emma, and it was as much an entreaty at it was a confession. “I love you, I love you.”
“... Simon...”
“I love you, Simon.”
“Miracle number three,” sighed the Saint.