Phyllis blinked to clear her vision, but the train was already entering the dark tunnel.

It might have been her imagination, but she could have sworn that the aroma of burning leaves accompanied the wanderings of her mind.

“Hello, hooligan.”

“Hi there, bubble bum.” When she had heard his key in the lock, she stood up and moved to the centre of the room to show off her new dress. He greeted her, running his hand down the well of her back and over the exercised cheeks of her backside.

“The best,” he said, “the best.”

“The dress?”

“That too,” he smirked, kissing her flat on the lips.

“You’re in a good mood. Had a result, have we?”

Nicholas grinned. “We have.”

She sniffed at the shadow on his upper lip.

“Hmm, a redhead?” she enquired.

“Gosh, you’re good.” He gripped her shoulders and straightened his arms, appreciating her at a distance before confessing. “Strawberry blonde, actually.”

“Come on, then.” He kissed her again and let his head drop onto her shoulders, inhaling the darkly odorous tuberose.

“What?” he asked, deftly appreciating both her cheeks with the palms of his hands.

What he particularly appreciated about his wife’s bottom was that, no matter how many hours she pumped away on her Stairmaster, the thin top layer—the subcutaneous tissue—remained spongy. The combination of iron-hard muscle and sapid skin never failed to rouse him.

“What?” he murmured again into her ear, running the edge of his serrated tongue over the single white diamond earclip. “Why don’t you wear your pearls tonight? I love you in pearls.”

“Can’t—already put perfume on.”

“Pity.”

“Come on, you rat, give me the scoop—share her with me.”

Nick gazed out through the deep open windows onto the street. One side of Tregunter Road was in shadow, and the early evening breeze sent the fragrance of privet into the room.

His wife spoke again. “Come on, we have plenty of time. I only dressed early because I wanted your seal of approval on my little black dress.”

“It is little.”

“I know—such a slut.”

“That’s true, but with the best of taste. I’m already feeling sorry for fellow guests ce soir.”

“Don’t keep changing the subject. You’re like an eel. Tell me about your scene.”

“Have I time for a bath? I didn’t shower.”

“Plenty of time—we’re not expected till eight. You know what Fleur’s like—champagne and a game before vittles. Now, come on.”

“I’ll tell you if you run me a bath.”

“Okay.”

“In your room, with your favourite oil.”

“You’re such a queen.”

“I know. Is it a deal?”

“Deal.”

Miranda poured him a drink from the cocktail shaker and gave it to him. She walked upstairs, Nick following, alternately sipping his drink and trying to sink his teeth into her buttock. She opened the faucets of an old cast-iron tub that she’d updated by having it silver-plated, and tipped a few beads of carnation oil into the water as she watched him undress. He appeared to have plenty of strength left in him.