Spy Swap, Part 4 (Special Agent to Hot Spy Girl TG) (Patreon)

Can you tell that I really, really like James Bond movies?

A Commission for Al

Finn Langston is the best of the best, a dashingly handsome secret agent who always saves the world and always gets the girl. But when he is called upon by The Agency to infiltrate the private island of Sebastian Whitlock, a devious playboy industrialist who may be angling for world domination, Finn meets his greatest challenge yet: being turned into a raven-haired spy beauty to seduce Whitlock, and find out what he is planning. But the new and beautiful Fiona may find her cover going far, far deeper than she could have imagined . . .

First Part

Previous Part

Part 4: Thunder Ball Gown

Her contact, appropriately enough, was at a ball for the rich, wealthy, and influential in the Artemia Grande, a luxurious hotel with an immense hall booked out for exactly these kinds of shoulder-rubbing events. Fiona’s own room was resplendent, but the enjoyment of its various room services and pleasures was diminished by the fact that instead of gearing up in a fine tuxedo, she was instead wearing a dark blue ball gown with a noticeable slit up one leg and a tight pull around her delectable waist. Her shoulders were left entirely bare, an unusual feeling, and the straps such as they were hung loosely over her upper arms. In fact, her impressive bust was doing a lot of extra work holding up the bodice, though she had been assured it would not fall down.

I always said that the attractiveness of a given woman’s outfit is directly proportional to how much it looks like it’s going to fall off. I just never expected to be the one providing evidence to that theory.

Still, as attractive as she was, the dress wasn’t too showy, and she did manage to look classy as hell. Something about the long dark blue gloves sold it. More than that, if trouble started, the skirt gave her legs plenty of movement, and its longer hem was designed to be easily torn off. On her thigh she had her new Beretta, and in her purse her other gadgets. She also had her pearl necklace, though things would be going very wrong indeed if she used that.

“Time to get this show on the road,” she told her reflection. She had just finished her makeup, and despite her frustration at her present situation, there was no denying the flush of cool pride she felt at having flawlessly applied her dark red lipstick, her dark eyeshadow, and her foundation. Even her eyelashes were artfully done.

You do good work, Amanda. Too good, I fear.

She raised a perfect eyebrow, observing her facial expressions in the mirror.

“Oh, I think I can still do debonair. You still have it Finn, even if you’re Fiona right now.”

She took her purse, put on her heels, and headed for the elevator. The party was waiting, and so was her contact.

And Sebastian Whitlock.

***

Rich and powerful people everywhere, that was the new woman’s impression. She’d been at many of these events, but not ever had so many men smiling at her, or looking at her chest. She kept her face cool and confident, but just as with Amanda’s training, she made sure to smile confidently at the men as well.

“Remember, you must act as if you are used to this, but also above it,” she’d said. “Enticing, but out of reach. Sebastian will be intrigued.”

She followed the advice, and it wasn’t nearly so bad as Agent One had imagined. It wasn’t altogether different from being a man among beautiful women (like that wonderful week in India when infiltrating Khan’s private palace with its own harem). During those times, women looked to him with clear attraction, and though he’d never say it aloud, it was quite the ego boost for Agent One. Here, it was the same. Only the genders were inverted.

Not all the genders, actually. I see a few women with intrigue. I don’t blame them.

She moved, mindful of her heels, searching for her contact. It didn’t take her too long: at the edge of the ballroom, where numerous individuals were mingling, there was one individual who was far more private. He was tall, with light brunette hair and handsome features, if slightly nerdy. Indeed, he wore glasses and his grey suit, while crisp, didn’t seem to quite suit him. Most importantly of all, he had cufflinks with green gems in them, and he occasionally raised a pair of opera glasses to inspect the magnificent sight of the dancers on the floor and the architecture of the roof above. 

That matches the description of what he’d have, though part of me expected a woman. At least he’s cute.

She froze, losing her balance for a moment. A man nearby caught her.

“Watch it!” he said. 

“Th-thank you,” she muttered, before smiling. “Haven’t been in heels in too long!”

“Well, you look lovely in them!”

She nodded thanks, then continued to her target.

Whatever that thought was, I’m going to kill R for allowing this change. The word ‘cute’ and ‘man’ don’t belong in this mind together, no matter my body.

“Interesting party,” she said to the man who was her contact. “I rather think last year’s had more flare.”

“Ah, but you stand corrected,” he said in a smooth, lightly-accented voice. “Last year’s was a bore. There was no flare to be found.”

“Not even the woman in the red dress who gained the crowd’s attention?”
 “Far better the blue, in times such as these.”

She nodded, and so did he. The exchange of codes was complete, and now they knew they could trust one another. He extended a hand.

“I’m Adrian,” he said. “Adrian Spiros.”

“Langston,” she replied. “Fiona Langston.”

He took her hand and, despite her training with Amanda training her to expect a kiss, he actually shook it. Her surprise must have been clear, because he gave a sheepish look.

“I thought it best to go for the humble handshake, given your . . . condition.”

Her shoulders sagged. Shit.

“Ah, so you’ve been informed of . . . that.”
 “Sorry, I assumed you knew. I can still hardly believe it. They weren’t pulling my leg, were they? You used to be man?”
 “I still like to imagine I am, when my new feminised brain isn’t getting in the way. They have a . . . device, back at the Agency. As you can say, it worked wonders.”

He adjusted his glasses, looking at her. “I’ll say.”

“Well, as women all the world over have evolved to say: my eyes are up here, Mister Spiros.”

“Sorry. Well, I imagine it must be a strange situation.”

“You have no bloody idea. It’s taking a lot of effort not to track down the bar right now.”

“Still, you’ve done well. I never would have believed you used to be a ‘Finn’ if I weren’t told. You move and dress just like a woman, and talk like one too.”

“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment,” she said, snatching a drink from a passing tray. “So, where’s our target?”

He handed her the opera glasses. She’d seen their design before. Mostly used at the actual opera, but at a ball like this it seemed pretentious enough to fit with the theme. 

“Up there, on the second story by the gallery. He’s mingling with several politicians of the conservative party, including our ex-prime minister.”

“You’re a local?”

“I have dual American-Greek citizenship, but I love the warmer months here.”

“Hmm. Ah, I see him.”

He was bigger than the pictures made him seem, towering over the other individuals in the group. His well-trimmed goatee was styled appropriately, and that single scar was present. Indeed, he appeared every part the powerful capitalist, magnate, and alpha male. At least, when Finn wasn’t in the room. Fiona looked down at her chest.

Well, I doubt I’ll be provided a counterpoint this time.

“Any major moves yet?”

“My listening devices have caught nothing more than the usual wheeling and dealing.”

“Listening devices?”

“On the ex-minister’s bodyguard. The lap dog stays close, but lacks finesse.”

She smirked. “Well done.”

“Thank you.”

“Now keep your eyes up.”

“I am.”

“I can feel them on my backside, so get off it. Has he mentioned anything about ‘Damocles’ yet?”

“Nothing. I’ve read the brief four times. I would have mentioned it if he did.”

“Hmm. But he’s talking to a power broker.”

“Former power broker. Former leader. It’s odd; Alexander there lost office in a landslide, and won’t be coming back to power anytime soon.”

She creased her eyebrows. “Unless he has help. Tell me, does this ex-prime minister have any sex scandals? Problems with women?”

Adrian laughed. “I’m surprised you don’t know; the stories are beyond libertine! Rumours abound of porn stars, starlets, private harems, the works.”

Then that’s what it’s about.

“Whitlock is a great womaniser,” she said. “It’s why I’m here as a woman, after our female agents were burned. And if he’s making friends with similar views and attitudes, then perhaps he’s already at a stage where Damocles is near-functional. It implies he already has an idea of who he wants in charge for a new world order.”

“That could be a stretch.”

“Consider it a feminine instinct,” she quipped. “I’m heading up there.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I need to make an impression. We need me on Arcadia, his private island. So time to make an impression. Do you think I won’t, looking like I do?”

Adrian looked over her again, and this time she let him.

Hmm, he really is cute. That’s frustrating. It seems this body goes both ways. Best not to think about it.

“I rather think you’ll make quite the splash,” he admitted.

“Then listen in, while I make contact. And if you can get that Greek pervert cornered, see if you can get anything from him.”

“Um, how would I do that?”

She gave him a look. Irritating that this man was taller than her. “You’re a field agent, right?”

“I’m mainly a techie, actually. I only passed a field test by the skin of my teeth.”

She sighed. “Just do your best, and take this speaker. It will communicate into my earring if there’s trouble. Now go.”

***

Fiona knew she was doing something right when Sebastian looked her way as she passed down the hall, turned back to the former Greek prime minister, but then turned back again. He couldn’t help himself, and she couldn’t blame him: she was swaying her hips from side to side and letting her prominent chest show. More than that, she gave a look of raw, confident interest his way, before stepping straight past him, past his female bodyguard who gave her the stink eye, and then continued to the outside promenade to look over the city. She placed her hands on the smooth railing, made sure she was leaning over far enough to present a pleasing but tasteful profile from behind, and then waited. She smirked as she heard footsteps approaching.

Got you.

“I must say, to see a woman of such beauty here in Athens would invite discussion that its patron goddess has returned.”

She turned her head, letting her hair fall delicately to one side.

“And how do you know I’m not her?” she said, turning her lip up cheekily.

“Indeed,” Sebastian said, his voice low and cultivated. “I should step carefully, lest I invite a powerful wrath upon myself. And so I must ask with a degree of worship if I may stand beside you and talk a while.”

“You may,” she said, gesturing for him to join her.

He did so, stepping slowly, his eyes glancing over every perfect contour of her body, pausing as he looked at the slope of her breasts. She could feel his gaze, and she wondered if this was how it felt to be one of the many women he had once looked at similarly. It was akin to being a piece of meat, though there was also an element of power to it, if she could be successful in manipulating him.

“I’m Sebastian Whitlock,” he said, extending a hand.

She let him take it and kiss it. Not the most usual mode of meeting; she was usually the one doing the kissing. 

And he’s looking at my breasts again, the sly dog. 

“I know who you are, Mr Whitlock,” she said, keeping her voice just a little demure, but also a little on the femme fatale side. “You are the billionaire shipping magnate. You own entire islands.”

“Just the one island, actually,” he replied, chuckling. “But perhaps I should make it a collection. It’s called Arcadia.”

“A perfect land. Like a utopia. Only . . . reactionary, yes?”

“Not reactionary,” he said, “just traditional. It is my place for thinking on better times. But I didn’t get your name, Mrs?”

She smirked, leaning back up so that he could take in the swell of her breasts.

I really wish I wasn’t so damn good at this.

“Come now, Mr Whitlock, that’s an old schoolboy’s trick. There is no ring on my finger.”

He bowed in a faux apology. “I prostrate myself before you, Athena. Sometimes a man must be a schoolboy again, in the presence of such a fine woman.”

“Oh, you are quick. My name is Alexandra,” she said. “Alexandra Goodchest.”

A secret identity that Miss Honey would never stop laughing at. I don’t care that he’s my boss, I’m going to kill A for signing off on it.

Sebastian grinned, clearly enjoying the appropriateness of her name.

“It is excellent to meet you, Alexandra. What bring you to Athens, other than this party?”

“And the fine company of a magnate? I’ve used your makeups before, Mr Whitlock-”

“Please, call me Sebastian.”

“Very well, Sebastian. I’ve used your products. They are most enchanting. I’m using your lipstick right now. As for why I am here, that is entirely cultural. My wealth is hardly comparable to your own, but I am something of a socialite, and Athens is nothing if not a city of religious, cultural, and historical intrigue. And, of course, wonderful parties.”

The man grinned. The calculated persona she had been given was indeed Alexandra Goodchest, a woman of great intellect but no political or business affiliations. She was officially an heiress, but one whose exploits involved the patronage of numerous arts collections, technological innovations, environmental concerns, and so forth. Her academic history was one of brilliance, and it was clear that her current jaunt across the globe was as much for intellectual nourishment as it was for the finer things in life.

“You are not wrong,” Sebastian said, shifting slightly closer. He was a very big man, almost bear-like beside her. It was almost intimidating. “This is a wonderful party, but I assure you it is not the party, Alexandra.”

“Oh?” she asked, circling her finger around the wine glass. “This isn’t one of the debauched Dionysian parties of the ultra, mega elite is it?”

He smirked through his fine black goatee. “Not exactly debauched, but certainly . . . hidden. Niche. One that I personally oversee on Arcadia, alongside many other figures who have come to interest me.”

She turned, leaning against the railing so that one leg was very visible through the slit in her dress. “Ah, so I intrigue you already, do I? I will warn you, Sebastian, I don’t suffer shallow men. I know how men are.”

“I am anything but shallow. My ambitions reach to the stars. But in truth, any man who looks at you and does not find interest would be blind. And you do intrigue me. At least enough to pull me away from an important meeting. I’d like to get to know you more, if you were willing.”

“I could be persuaded,” she said. “I do admit to liking interesting and ambition men.”

“There are none more interesting than me. Nor any more ambitious.”

Now that was said with fanaticism.

She smiled sweetly, and let the conversation continue. They talked of many things, ranging from Greek classical culture to the exciting trips she had been, to the way he had grown his wealth to their shared love of arthouse European cinema. Many of her interests had been tailor made to gain his investment, and it seemed to be working. The act of seduction was very familiar for her, but instead of taking on the dominant masculine role she simply had to recall her memories of what women were like on the other side of that situation, and imitate them.

Particularly Yasmin Hart. She knew how to wrap me around her finger. Probably how she nearly got me killed in that piranha trap when it turned out she was working for the other side the whole time. Very much worth that night in Vienna, though.

By the time the conversation was drawing to a close, Sebastian Whitlock was very near her, and his minted breath was against her face. He was a man captivated, and it was clear that their turn to politics and world events fascinated him in turn; the profile on him that the Agency had put together was right; he was indeed obsessed with beautiful but intelligent women. And then, finally, as she gazed up at the clock and began to withdraw, the offer she’d expected came.

“Miss Goodchest, I simply must inquire . . .”

“Please, call me Alexandra,” she said demurely, thrusting her chest out just a little, enough to keep him off step. He strained not to look at her bust, and she couldn’t blame him; she would have been the same. Mind, she was struggling not to look at his broad shoulders and impressive square jaw.

Damned mental changes. Got to keep that particular part of my new self compartmentalised.

“Alexandra, then,” Sebastian said smoothly. “I would love to show you more of the pleasures of Greece, particularly its seas and islands. One island in particular. My Arcadia is open to you, and I would adore showing you the great displays of art and science, cuisine and culture that is there, alongside the brilliant views and perfect beaches. It is a true getaway, unspoiled by the corruptions of this modern world, while still retaining all its finer qualities. Please, if you are not busy, I have a boat leaving there in three days hence, and I should like you on it.”

“I think I should like to be on it,” she said. She withdrew a card from her purse and quickly wrote on it before handing it to him. “My number,” she said, handing it over.

He took it gladly, examining her writing. A momentary look appeared on his face, something like brief but meagre disappointment.

Ah, my calligraphy is not exactly feminine.

But it passed, and the billionaire magnate placed it in the breast pocket of his suit jacket carefully, patting it down so as not to lose it.

And now, thanks to the chip inside it, I’ve got your location.

“You’ll call me to arrange this magnificent island trip?”

“Of course,” he said. “It may be a few days. Eventful days, if you are up to it. I promise the best of care and-”

At that very moment, she received a shrill sound in her ear that she just barely managed to cover up as if she were adjusting the earring. It was Adrian.

‘Fiona. Agent One. I need help. I was tailing the former Greek prime minister and now some men are following me. I think they’re - oh shit!’

Shots rang, and Fiona once again had to contain the tension within her. She shifted back from Sebastian offering apologies. 

“I’m afraid I must go, I’m sorry. I promised a few friends I’d make an appearance, and you have enchanted me so greatly I didn’t notice the time!”

He smiled at this, raising a glass. “It is fine. I have calls to make myself, and here comes one now.”

She turned to leave, but not before noticing who the ‘caller’ was; a gentleman with a vicious scar over one eye and a deeply gaunt face. He wore a quasi-military regalia, and his movements were practised despite his older age.

That’s Petyr Offrick, the arms dealer who specialises in rocket weaponry. What on earth is he doing here?

But then the call for aid came from Adrian again, and she had to swear under her breath. There was valuable intel she could have secured, but there were more shots, and she needed to go.

It was a damn good thing she’d slipped one the tracker cards on Spiros as well, because she was about to save him.

Heh. I’m the girl saving the male agent for once. How amusing.

To Be Continued . . .