Paul A. Myers

Sandrine opened her eyes to the soft gray light of early dawn. Recollections of sensual pleasure seemed to caress her body, bringing a smile to her lips. She lay back in the pillow and listened to the breathing of Philippe beside her. She lingered in the memory of the previous night, a memory that was like a warm and tender embrace, an evening of small intimate harmonies. As it should be.

A beautiful white silk scarf was around her neck, tucked below the fur collar. Her lips were well painted into a bright red cupid__ bow. Cute as hell I always told myself, with a tinge of regret. She had a steady girlfriend.

She murmured, __ love the imagery of Sappho, the warm summer air across the velvety darkness, the lover between love__ thighs._ She stayed quiet a moment. __ut it takes a man__ kiss to put the fire to the metaphor.

Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed him sweetly on the lips, __ promise you a love affair with a sun-bathed Austrian princess beyond anything you imagine__n love, in beauty, in intensity. A love that will power you to the end of our time together. You are going to be a fortunate man, Geoffrey Ashbrook.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another woman sitting over in a wing chair, a pleasantly attractive lady wearing the tasteful clothes of a senior redactrice, or senior civil servant, the stylish black skirt, the dark stockings, the black pumps, and the starched white linen blouse of her caste. The dark hair was swept up in a chignon, elegant and functional, dark eyes glistened as she smiled at him in a professional manner. He could see that she was a woman who met men in a highly assured way__erene, and expert at creating a proper distance.