Excerpt from High Time To Kill by Raymond Benson, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The Governor sat. He looked worried. "But who's behind them? Where are they based?"

"We don't know," Bond said. "Despite all the intelligence we've gathered on them thus far, SIS have no clues as to who they are or where they make their home."

The Governor swallowed. "What should I do?"

"I can see you already have extra protection around the house. That's good for a start."

The Governor nodded. "There are so many guards around here, I can't keep track of them all."

"I'll alert Interpol and see if the letters can be traced. It's a difficult thing, though. Tomorrow I'll make a report to London and see what we can do about surveillance. It's highly likely that you're being watched. Your phones may even be tapped."

"Good Lord."

"The local police know nothing about this?"

"No."

"I wouldn't involve them just yet. The Union have an uncanny ability to infiltrate law enforcement organizations. Tomorrow let's go to Government House and file an official report. I'm glad you told me about this. We have orders to gather as much information about the Union as we can."

"Thank you, James. I knew I could count on you." He stood up, but the blood had drained from his face. He was clearly frightened. "I think we should rejoin the party."

"Try not to worry," Bond said.

They left the study and went back outside. Helena was sitting on a stone bench alone, gazing across the gardens at the house. She gave Bond a warm smile.

"Working, James? I thought we were on holiday," she said when he joined her.

"We are. Just giving a little professional advice," he said.

"Really, James, a Japanese woman or a flight hostess?"

Bond laughed. "Don't believe everything you hear."

Dinner was a magnificent feast consisting of traditional conch chowder, peas 'n' rice, Bahamian lobster, Dover sole fillets simmered in white wine, cream, and mustard sauce and topped with shrimp, and pineapple spring rolls with rum crème anglaise for dessert. Helena was in heaven and Bond enjoyed watching her eat. She savored each bite, squeezing out the juices with her cheeks and tongue before chewing and swallowing. She had one of the most sensual mouths Bond had ever kissed.

Afterward they retired to the gardens to enjoy the star-filled night sky along with several other couples. Some of the men were smoking the cigars that one of the servants had passed around. To get away from the crowd, Bond and Helena walked along a dimly lit path that circled the garden and ran around the perimeter of the grounds.

Helena sighed heavily and said, "I don't want to go back to London."

"All good things come to an end," Bond replied.

"Does that mean us, James?"

"Of course not," he said, "unless you would prefer that. I don't want to lose the best assistant I've ever had."

"Do you mean that?"

"Look, Helena, you're a wonderful girl, but you should know me by now. Entanglements can get messy, and I don't like them. I think while we're in London we need to tone it down. Being the sensible girl you are, I know that you'll agree."

They found themselves at the far end of the expansive lawn, some fifty yards from the house. A ten-foot-high stone fence separated the grounds from the street. They stood beside a toolshed and held each other.

"You're right, James," she said. "It's just that sometimes I dream of a different sort of life. One that borders on the edge of fantasy. My sister in America seems to live a fairy tale existence. She has a husband who adores her and two lovely children, and they live in an area of southern California where the weather is always perfect. She's always so incredibly happy when I speak to her that I get a little jealous." She smiled and took his arm. "But you're right, James. Let's not get morose. I want to enjoy every last minute of our time here."

This excerpt reprinted from HIGH TIME TO KILL by Raymond Benson by permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright (c) 1999 by Ian Fleming (Glidrose) Publications Ltd. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.