I slid cautiously out of bed and reached for the negligee lying crumpled on the floor. Goose bumps popped out all over me in a spontaneous explosion; I discarded the charming but chilly chiffon ruffles and made a beeline for the closet and my comfortable old furry bathrobe.

Caesar trailed me downstairs, whuffling appreciatively and licking my heels. By the time the coffee was ready, he had finished his breakfast—two gulps and a single comprehensive lick. I shoved him out the back door, fixed a tray, and carried it upstairs.

John was sitting up in bed, hands behind his head. He greeted me with a sweet smile. “Excellent service. I must come here more often.”

“And no hotel bill,” I said, putting the tray on the table. “Not that you ever pay them anyway.”

“Didn’t I ever reimburse you for that time in Paris?”

“No, you did not.”

“A slight oversight.” He stretched sideways, reaching for a cup.

The movement sent muscles sliding smoothly under his tanned skin; I wondered whether the tan had been acquired in a health spa or under a tropical sun. I didn’t bother asking.

John would have considered Freddy’s protuberant pectorals not only vulgar in the extreme, but also inefficient. His own body was above all else efficient-looking, as if he had deliberately designed it to do what he expected of it with the minimum of effort. It had a certain aesthetic appeal, however, at least to someone who prefers the lean grace of early classical Greek sculptures such as the Discobolus to the muscle-bound athletes of the later Hellenistic period. I had never mentioned my aesthetic tastes to John, since he was vain enough already.

Catching my eye, he pulled the blanket up to his chin. I laughed. “Surely modesty, at this stage in our relationship…”

“Cold, not modesty. Are you going to stand there like a statue of virtue all morning? ‘’Tis true, ’tis day; what though it be? O wilt thou therefore rise from me?’”

I sat down on the edge of the bed. That was a mistake. Or, to look at it another way, that was exactly the right move.

Caesar was howling plaintively in the garden and the patches of sunlight had moved farther when I stirred. “I’ve got to let that damned dog in. The neighbors will complain.”

“Never mind the neighbors. Or the dog.” “He remembered you.”

“Of course. I’m unforgettable.”

“In some ways,” I agreed. “We have to talk about the gold, John. Are you in?”

“Not at the moment, but if you’ll give me a little time—”

“I despise crude sexual double-entendres,” I said crossly. “You used to quote Shakespeare. Last night all I got was Humphrey Bogart.”

“There were occasional bits of Shakespeare. Even a smidgen of John Donne.”

“Oh, really? ‘License my roving hands, and let them go’?”

“I’ve always considered that one of Donne’s less-inspired passages. No, I believe, among other things, I remarked that ‘Love’s mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.’”