We skulk around at first, unsure what international drug-smugglers, KGB officers, or wayward housekeepers may be lurking about. But our curiosity and a delicious feeling of felonious wrong-doing embolden us. We peer into the first window we see.

Through the wooden slats on the other side of the glass we see cooling red tiled floors and creamy white walls. On those walls are paintings of the easy beauty that is Jamaica. The living room furnishings are not refined and delicately British. Rather, they are wide and enveloping arm chairs of soft-looking light brown leather. On the coffee table is a bouquet of freshly cut tropical flowers and the entire room has the inviting look of a man who enjoys pleasing his guests and himself in costly but relaxed comfort. This surprises me, since I would have imagined Ian Fleming to be a member of the British Class System and its "wannabe" landed aristocrats, a man who must surely live vicariously through the ever suave lifestyle of his main character, James Bond. Judging by his warm home and lovely grounds, though, I am deciding he is an author, not a Hefner-esque hipster.

We are peering through the bedroom windows at the romantic bed draped in mosquito net and I'm getting caught up in some Hefner-esque ideas of my own. That's when she catches us. Not a scantily clad, Mongolian sex kitten, but Magdalena, the heretofore feared Jamaican housekeeper. She asks if we are the guests she's expecting. Our razor sharp minds are flicking quickly through myriad false identities in order to give her the most subtly concocted and intricately laid out deception. My clever companion, quick in the ways of mendacity has chosen wisely and I bow to his cunning as I hear his retort: "Um, we are…uh, tourists from California and we are really big fans of Ian Fleming and just wanted to come and see where he lived." Hmm, quick-thinking, plausible, almost dangerous in its far-fetchedness. Luckily, she buys it and shows us inside.

We now discover that since Ian's death the house has been sold to a wealthy hotelier (CC Note: Chris Blackwell), who rents it out to other wealthy pals at prices that seem reasonable when you are wandering around on the premises with Magdalena, pretending to be a couple of yuppie loverbird vactioners from California . . .