“Did work bring you to London?”

“No, my work is portable. I’m a writer.”

“What sort of writing?” he asked.

“Fiction, mostly short stories for literary magazines,” she replied, “but I’ve started a novel.”

“A major undertaking,” he said, nodding sagely.

They continued that way for a few minutes. “Why don’t we adjourn to the dining room for a bit of supper?” he suggested.

“That would be very nice,” she replied.

He got them a table and menus, and they ordered.

“But enough about me,” she said. “What work do you do?”

“I’m recently retired from the Royal Marines,” he said. “As a brigadier general.”

“That’s impressive,” she replied. “Were you a commando?”

“In my extreme youth,” he replied. “My penultimate assignment was commanding the training academy for one of the intelligence services.”

“Which one? I get them confused.”

“MI-6, foreign intelligence.”

“So, you were training spies?”

“I was.”

“What did you teach them?”

“Everything from basic tradecraft to personal combat. It’s a very vigorous course.”

“How fascinating! You said that was your ‘penultimate assignment.’ What was your ultimate?”

“Deputy director of the service,” he replied, in a mock whisper.

“That must have been fascinating!”

“It was rather dull, if the truth be known, after all the action of my earlier years. Most of which I can’t talk about, of course.”

“Were you a spy?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

She laughed as if she’d never heard the stale joke before.

They had another drink before dinner, then he ordered a fine claret with their food. By the time they got to the port, the brigadier was flying high, and Jennifer seemed to be as well.

“Where is your flat?” he asked.

“Just up the mews,” she said. “Only a few steps away. Would you like to stop in for a nightcap?”

“I’d like that very much.” He waved for the bill and paid, then they left.

There had been a little rain, and the cobblestones were shiny in the lamplight. She led them to a small mews house and unlocked the front door.

He looked around. There was handsome furniture and good pictures. “This is quite elegant,” he said.

“A friend owns the leasehold,” she said. “I rent from him.” She went to the small fireplace and lit the gas flame. “Cognac?”

“Perfect,” he said.

She poured them both a drink and settled onto the small Chesterfield sofa before the fireplace, patting the seat next to her. “Come, sit.”

He joined her, and they sat thigh to thigh. She turned toward him, brushing his arm with an ample breast.

“That felt good,” he said.

She gave out a low laugh. “I’m glad you think so.”

He turned his head, and her face was right there. She kissed him, then withdrew an inch. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s too soon.”