“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.

“Want a quickie? You don’t seem short on energy.”

“Energy’s not my problem. You know that,” he said, lowering himself into the water and resting his neck on the curve of the rim. “It’s the blue veiner I’m looking for.”

“Don’t say that—it makes you sound like an Australian.”

“Errol Flynn was an Aussie,” said Nick, knowing she admired the actor. Miranda seated herself on the loo.

“Tasmanian, actually,” and twisting her legs, “the numero?”

“Pinned her on the train. Must have been in Brighton overnight. Pretty little thing, worked for British Rail. Cute cockney accent. Mid-twenties, I should think.”

“Single?”

“Married.”

Miranda wrinkled her forehead. “Game, then?”