‘Leonardo again,’ he growled. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it. But, be like a son to her. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort.
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