Shay Sheridan

A postscript to the episode "See Paris and Die."

You may think, Mr. Napoleon Solo, that I'm just another empty-headed girlie who doesn't know her way around the block. You forget: I've been wined and dined by gangsters; I've sung in Paris. I'm an artist and a career girl -- I know what's what.

F'r'instance, you may think whirling me around the dance floor, gazing at me with that sexy smirk will make me believe you're interested in me that way. And you might think you've pulled the wool over my eyes by sticking poor Mr. Kuryakin with Madame. Oh yes, you put on quite a show.

Well, buster, show's over!

I saw how you worried over Illya's cuts and bruises, how your hands lingered in his hair once you saw he was okay. I caught that twinkle in your eye, and the one in his that answered yours.

So whirl me around the dance floor one more time, Napoleon, ply me with champagne, and then go ahead and peel Madame off him and take him to bed. You know you want to, and I won't mind a bit.

This is Paris, after all, and la vie en rose waits, full of possibilities for a rich, talented American chanteuse!

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