Chapter 2

MILLIONS OF WORDS, DOZENS OF SONGS, COUNTless paintings have been executed to honor Paris in the Spring. Too little, however, has been said about another exceptional season: Paris in the Autumn. Paris in October and November, Paris in the waning months of another year. Paris gloomy, mist-drenched, melancholy, virtually deserted by the armies of tourists that inundate it during those spring and summer months. The real Paris.

The Montmarte, topped by Sacre Coeur, gray and dank in those days of November, its cobblestones glistening with the shining reminder of a recent rain. The trees of Tuileries Gardens sere and bare against a leaden sky. The brilliance of a sunny October day in Place de la Concorde, its monuments glistening against a crystalline blue sky, the columns of Church de la Madeleine stark white against the backdrop of a million rust-colored rooftops and chimney pots.

The grounds of Palais de Chaillot, a perfect walk, the littered walks along the Seine, Notre Dame, dour and glowering against a threatening sky. The first snow of winter as viewed from atop the Butte, melting almost as fast as it falls, giving the city stretched out below all the majesty and sweep of a vast ocean.

Walk these foggy streets at night, resist the constant whimper of the cruising harlots, desert the crisp air for the redolent warmth of one of Paris' neighborhood cafes. This is the aficionado's Paris, the Paris of unknown moods, scents, encounters and insights.

This is Paris in the Fall.

This is the Paris to which Joanna and Mayo Kinsolving came this October 10, the Paris which they were, at that same moment that Mme. Jeanne Polanche was wallowing in appalling grief and shame aboard the Carcassonne express, acclimatizing themselves to.

In an elegant hotel called Palais Royale, located just off Champs Elysee. Which hotel they'd checked into just this evening, returning from dinner now, both weary from the day's exertions and excitements, preparing to retire early. At noon that day they'd been in New York, having flown in from Peoria, Illinois, a matter of another few hours. To Joanna, overseas for the first time in her life, the rapidity with which they'd moved from plateau to plateau of worldly sophistication had been too much; she was plainly dazzled.

Now, undoing her bolero jacket, loosening her hair, she slumped onto the bed, smiled sleepily. "I just can't believe it," she sighed. "To think, that less than twelve hours ago we were back home in Peoria."

At which Mayo scowled, flung his jacket at a chair more viciously than he should have. "You say that once more," he growled, "and I'm gonna give you one behind the ear."

Joanna smiled in a cowed manner. "I'm sorry, dear. I didn't know I was irritating you. It's just so new, so exciting for me. After all, this is the first time you've ever brought me along on one of your business trips."

"It may be the last time, too, if you keep this kind of dumb chatter up. Grow up, will you? Modern times, honey."

Joanna looked up, mild apprehension in her eyes. Why did he get so heated up about such a little thing? All I said was. She shivered. But then it was nothing new; lately he'd jumped on her for almost anything. "Although why you brought me along this time I'll never know. You don't act like you're happy about your decision."

"I'm happy," he gritted, fighting for patience. "And you damned well know why I brought you along. You've been a wonderful wife these past four years. This is our vacation from monotony, a sort of second honeymoon. I owe you that much and more."

The way her husband avoided her eyes told Joanna reams more about his reasons for bringing her along on this three-week business trip than his words did. There was desperation in his tone, a last-ditch finality. If things didn't work out right between them this time-

Joanna didn't finish the thought. Instead she shivered lightly, evidence of a deeper fear living within her. "You don't owe me anything, dear," she said. "I'd hoped that there was more than that to this trip."

"There you go again," he glowered. "Twisting things. Damn, honey, you know what I mean. I'm not one of your poets, I'm a plain-talking businessman." He turned his back on her. "Lord, you've got me thinking in circles now. Let's sack in. Big day tomorrow. We meet the French nabobs, start doing the spadework for this big deal."

"I know, darling."

He turned, regarded her sternly. "Do you, Joanna? Really understand, I mean? If we sell this plant to this Frenchman, we're in, we'll be on easy street. You think we've got things good now ? You've got no idea of what we'll have when this foreign branch is established. Two-hundred grand a year at least. With stock options. That'll sure make my present fifty look like peanuts."

The beautiful, petite blonde, a female of some 28 years, sighed heavily, looked down at her finely formed and manicured hands. "Is that the only basis you can equate life on? On a mere dollars and cents basis? Isn't anything else important to you, Mayo?"

"There you go again. Don't knock it, baby. Money makes the world go round. You wouldn't have silk on your duff at this moment if it wasn't for the money I earn. You wouldn't have your own car, minks, jewels, the whole bit...."

Joanna shrugged. They'd traveled this road so many times before. And always-the same old dead end. "Skip it, Mayo. But when you start talking like that I feel almost negotiable, like something you brought along to make an impression, not because...."

"Not because what?"

"I said forget it. I thought you said something about going to bed early." She rose, ran the zippers at the waist of her exclusive nylon print, reached for the zipper down the back. Then, with a quick flip, the dress was going over her head. She walked to her closet to hang it up, aware that Mayo's eyes were on her body every step she took.

Talk, she raged inwardly. Why can't we ever talk? Why do we always run up against this same brick wall? There wouldn't be any need for this trip, for these halfhearted reconciliation attempts, if we could just discuss things on a sane, reasonable adult level. God, if he just didn't treat me like some kid, like a China doll!

She flung her slip over her head, dropped it on the closet floor. She took a deep breath, jacked her shoulders back, brought her breasts to full, piquant thrust. She collapsed one knee, stood in hoyden pose. Slowly she turned, gave him a head-on view of her large, high breasts, of her lightly girdled hips, an incendiary vision all in red nylon, dark hosiery, black pumps.

Lust flared in his eyes. "Baby," he choked as if in actual pain, "you are a sight. Satan in high heels. Wow, but you make the coffee perc!"

"Mayo," she chided half-heartedly, "is that any way to talk? After all, I'm not one of your street girls." While inwardly she wished Mayo would say even more inflaming things to her, actually treat her like a tart. She wished he'd give her that supreme gift, that knowledge that she held him in the palm of her hand, that she could make him wild and mindlessly brutal with need for her.

She amended the thought. I wish I could make him howl with desire. The way all those other women do. If just once he'd let me down off this damned pedestal of mine. I wish I could play devil instead of saint for a while. I'd tease and taunt him, I'd make him beg for me. And when I finally gave in-I'd give him a workout that would make him forget his after hours floozies once and for all.

I'd show him I'm a flesh-and-blood woman too. A steaming package of female merchandise.

"Forgive me, baby," Mayo said now, his six-foot bulk seemingly shrinking before the mild criticism. "It's just that sometimes, when you walk around like that ... I get all wild and crazy inside. I want to act bad. You've got an exciting body. Your legs, those big boobs-breasts, I mean. On such a little girl as you are...."

Say boobs, darling, Joanna pleaded silently, call them anything you want. Treat me like your other girls, lay me, go over me like the real man I know you are. Please, please-I want you that way, what ever made you think I didn't?

"It's all right, Mayo," she said. "I ... I guess I shouldn't display myself like this. like some sort of cheap hussy." She turned away slowly, her pert, beautifully proportioned buttocks gleaming captivatingly in their red nylon bindings, her legs a rhapsody of exciting symmetry. "A woman gets what she deserves."

"I ... think I'll get cleaned up. You feel ... ah ... up to things tonight? You aren't too tired or anything?"

Joanna purposely forced her eyes downward. "If ... if that's what you want, darling. You only have to tell me ... make your wants known...."

"You make it sound like some sort of duty or something."

"I don't mean to. You know I enjoy you, angel. When you ... really ... want me."

"I feel like some sort of animal For wanting you."

"Never feel like that, Mayo. After all, I'm your wife. If you need me ... Just let me know."

He turned suddenly, his face harsh. "I just wish once ... you'd let me know." With that he charged into the bathroom, left the challenge hanging

And suddenly Joanna wanted to scream at he top of her lungs. Let you know? she wailed. What happened that time I did let you know? That time I crawled all over you? How did you react?

She cringed to remember the disgusted look that had formed on Mayo's face, his terse words of disapproval. His wife wouldn't act like that-like a seasoned call girl. That had been the only time he'd ever mentioned his distaste, that he'd indicated his-likes and dislikes in bed. She'd conformed from that day on, had been the modest, demure wife ever since. If that was the image he chose to preserve-

The mirthless smile froze in place as Joanna undressed. She surveyed herself in the closet door mirror, inspected her trim, taut body, raised her breasts with her own hands, delighted in the golden down at the slope of her lower body. Angel? Hardly. She was a frustrated wanton, a woman who needed her man as badly as he needed her.

Here was the most tragic irony of all. Here was explanation-total and unarguable-for her being in Paris with Mayo. For while Mayo denied her her female birthright, that right to be a total, sensual being-a woman-he chased everything in skirts at the office, at his golf club. Invariably he chose girls Joanna knew were asbestos-pants items from the word go. It was torment for her to lie waiting for Mayo to come home those nights when he was with his chippies, for her to envision them receiving the all-out love she-his wife-was denied.

Now Joanna chose a frilly, almost transparent nightie, let it drift down over her body. Her hands caressed her thighs through the filmy material and she shivered. Talk about sexed-up cases! Talk about mixed-up couples!

She knew full well that this trip to Paris was her last chance. The final shakedown cruise. If something didn't happen to change them during these upcoming weeks. She knew Mayo would eventually want out, she'd lose him for good. And if that happened what was there left to live for?

For, despite all Mayo's inadequacies, his warped Puritan streak, his preoccupation with money and its accompanying success, his inability to communicate in the tender yet passionate way she desperately yearned after, Joanna still loved her husband, she forgave his wanderings, she lived for the day when he'd tire of his hot-pants chippies, return to her, be a real husband to her again.

Now she drifted to the already opened bed. Grateful for the pill, she lay on the crisp sheets, arranged her body in a sultry, tempting pose. Bringing up one knee, she assessed the provocative business in the mirror, knew grudging pleasure at the siren vision in pink nylon reflected there.

But what, her thoughts ran as she waited for Mayo to finish in the bathroom, did she expect from Paris? How did she think that being here, alone with her husband for an extended period, would help? Surely he'd find Parisian girls those hours when they were apart, he supposedly engaged in "business". Perhaps even the reportedly beautiful wife of M. De Fonseca, the woman she was expected to make up to, become a second "sister" to during their stay.

There'd be plenty of opportunity for casual pickups in

Paris. Secretaries, receptionists-the same operating procedure most likely existed here as it did in the U.S. Failing here, there were always the Paris whores. God knew she'd recognized enough of them, leaning in inviting poses in practically every dark doorway on every Paris street they'd driven through on their way in from the airport. She knew Mayo wasn't above such in an emergency.

And yet, knowing this, she fought to summon up anger. How can I go on loving Mayo ? How can I go on hoping against hope? Fool, she lashed. Simpering, addled fool!

How could Paris cure an already malignant situation? What could she hope to find here to save her sinking marriage? Except, perhaps, a lover for herself. That she didn't want; it was a prospect she didn't even remotely entertain. Besides, how would an eye-for-an-eye help reunite her and Mayo as real husband and wife?

She sighed resignedly, decided to adopt a wait-and-see policy. Maybe something-Lord knows what-would happen. Some unexpected rebirth, some crisis, some undreamed-of adventure. Which was, after all, the only thing she had left. That minute glimmer of hope. Perhaps a catalyst would be overturned in Paris, perhaps a regenerative-

Her thoughts were abruptly shattered. As Mayo strode back from the bathroom, wearing only his pajama bottoms. "Wow," he said in a choked tone, "talk about tempting pictures! Baby, that item is the most. You might as well be draped in cellophane. I can see every muscle, every beautiful curve."

"Please, darling," Joanna lapsed into the saintly role he expected. Even while she ached to be otherwise, while she yearned to leap up, strip away the gown, go to Mayo, peel his pajama trousers, inaugurate a slow, wanton tease right in the middle of that room. "You're embarrassing me. Don't spoil things."

Her flesh screamed. Why? she wailed. Why can't I have some of that claw-the-walls love he gives to his fly-by-night tramps? Why must I, his wife, be denied?

"Sorry, honey," he smiled sheepishly. "I'm just a man. And you know how men are...."

No, she wanted to retort, I don't know how men are It's been so long since I had a real man. But she said no such thing. Instead she fell back, whispered, "I understand, Mayo. Turn out the lights, come to bed now."

Still he stood, his face strained, a feral glow of lust in his eyes. He gazed down on her body with an expression of awe, like a small boy approaching the untouchable object of his long-suppressed dreams. It was a look that made Joanna want to scream.

That same minimizing process occurred with Mayo--. And she wondered how a powerful brute of a man like him, a handsome, virile man who'd tumbled more than his share of women in his lifetime, could cower, hesitate like that. Her eyes swept to his craggy, hard face, to his tawny mane of hair. She knew how he could be when he was closing a business deal-tough, aggressive, ruthless. His features were gaunt, irresistible in a Kirk Douglas sort of way; she could well understand why doxies melted, lay down without a whimper when he stared hard at them.

Why be different with me, darling? She raged anew. I don't want to be revered, I don't want to be sanctified. I want to be loved, I want to be made to scream and growl and moan with passion. I want to be treated like a woman, not a delicate toy.

But their love was like always. He came to her in the darkness, his pajama trousers already stripped away. He kissed her in that perfunctory way, whispered a few hurried "I love you's," rattled off some self-conscious "You're so beautiful's, you're so desirable's". Then almost as if he was performing an obligatory chore, as if he might be caught defiling the temple before he finished, he was raising her nightgown, fumbling with her body in that unmanly, timid way of his.

And where Joanna wished that some French ideas might invade him, ignite a sensual contagion, where she wished he'd torment her nipples, that he'd become bold and naughty with her lower body, there was, instead, only that swift passage of his fingers and lips, that respectful kissing and caressing.

She burned inside, her body tingled maddeningly as his lips closed on her nipples, as his tongue darted and swirled. She longed to raise her hands, hold his head to that delectable beachhead, to prolong these fantastic sensations. But no. Joanna remembered her most recent lapses, how a steel door had seemingly slammed down between them when she'd forgotten herself. Mayo Kinsolving's wife must be above such voluptuary weaknesses, she must be aloof, pure, chaste. Above all she mustn't act like those other women-those instant lays-he used on the side.

Had there ever been a more sick philosophy of married love? Joanna whimpered now, the fires of lust licking at her entrails, making her want to squirm and writhe, go more than halfway to welcome his touch, his hot, stinging lips.

Why, why, why-she called silently as Mayo became restless at her breasts. Coming as close to invitation as she dared, she let her legs slowly slide open as his free hand careened on her velvety, flat tummy. She adjusted her shoulders, shyly offered her other breast. The longer she could coax him to remain-

The better were her chances of achieving that final victory herself. And even though she had to choke back her moans of passion, even though she had to force her body into abnormal quiescence-

Half a loaf-she thought, the erotic pain almost intolerable by now.

But Mayo's drive, even at 35, was still strong, he could be forestalled only so long. And as his need quickened, made him breathe raspingly, he tired of even these transient adorations. "I'm sorry, darling," he muttered, "but I need you now. I can't wait. I want you so badly. It's seemed such a long time since...."

It had seemed a long time. Over a week now. As gently as possible Joanna moved her body, tried to coax him to play a little longer. But he was determined. And as he forced her legs she feigned the reluctance she knew he liked. "Already ... darling ... ? "

She said no more. Only sighed softly as he moved to her, took her quickly yet gently. She fought to conceal her delight at his presence, her everlasting amazement at his monumental endowments. Lightly she let her hands skitter over his hard, smooth back. And where she wanted to dig her nails into his flesh, where she wanted to erupt beneath him, twine her legs, groan and sigh-

She remained passive, became a mere plaything, mere foil of his lust. "I'm sorry, sorry ... '" his voice husked once. "I wish I didn't have to be like this...."

"It's all right, honey," she breathed, "it's all right. We're married, we love each other."

"But just because we're married ... that doesn't give me the right to defile you, to...."

"You're not defiling me. This is the married state. If you need me, want me ... I'm grateful that you turn to me...."

But Mayo didn't hear. Adrift now in the insensate throes of his passion, he rocked his body in wordless, savage frenzy. And despite herself Joanna's hands became firmer on his back, she couldn't help but squeeze her arms tighter on his back. She felt the slow trajectory of sensation climb, she began to breathe more rapidly.

Please, please-she thought. Wait for me this time, darling. Wait, waitI need you so badly tonight. Darling, my darling-

She wanted to scream, she wanted to push and strike Mayo, she wanted to revile him, call him every filthy name under the sun when that unmistakable lurch and throb happened, and she knew that she'd been cheated again. Yet even through that anger she still wanted to swivel and rock her body, seize that last ember of passion, fan it back to roaring flame.

She did neither. Calling upon an unbelievable forbearance, she made her limbs freeze, she subjugated her tremors of desire, she made her breathing even out.

"I'm sorry," Mayo breathed a last time. Then moved away from her quickly, almost as if she was contaminated.

Within minutes he was asleep.

And Joanna lay staring into the darkness, cursing this wretched impasse that existed between them.

While at that same moment, in the exclusive Faubourg-St. Germaine district of Paris, in the bedroom of their elite town house, M. and Mme. Roul De Fonseca, were concluding an equally enlightening conversation. M. De Fonseca sitting naked on the edge of the bed, Mme. De Fonseca-equally naked-standing before him, her back to him, purring and arching herself as he kneaded and stroked her ebullient derriere.

"Chert," the lithe-bodied, 45-ish female squealed. "Oh, you're driving me wild. Mmmmm ... more, much more. Touch me like that again. Oh! That's like electric needles going through me."

"Really?" he chuckled. "And this, pet?"

"Oh!" Aimee De Fonseca shrilled, jerking away suddenly. "Roul, you naughty boy! Such a thing to do."

His hands reattached themselves to those gleaming, pink mounds, fondled them softly. "I notice you came right back, angel. Or are you a little devil? Roul's little devil?"

"Devil tonight, darling. Mmmmm, mmm ... Your touch is magnificent. Oooh! Yes, yes...."

Gradually he pulled her closer. And when he began to kiss her spine halfway up her back, when he pressured her with his lips, the dark-haired woman, her hair hanging free, her nipples crinkled and hard, alert sentries atop luscious, firm conoids of desire, lent herself eagerly to this new variation. She leaned forward slightly, waggled her buttocks at him, murmured more ecstatically to herself.

His lips progressed downward. And when they reached that so sensitive area of her lower back, when they meandered between those delectable dimples, swirled in that shallow concavity, she all but jumped out of her skin. "Darling, darling," she choked, "that's glorious, simply glorious. Don't stop, never stop."

But eventually Roul De Fonseca did stop. An expert at inflaming a woman, he knew that his wife was ripe, she would soon be at fever pitch. And any hesitation thereafter-

That would be like cooking a souffle a second too long.

Now he turned her, admired her trim, if somewhat opulent figure from the front. His fingers drifted over that creamy body with precise skill, dove and slid and captured and manhandled her erogenous accessories unashamedly. All of which Aimee De Fonseca wantonly, openly enjoyed. Then, when he pulled her even closer between his knees, when he raised his lips to those pouting, crinkled nipples:

"These people, darling," Aimee hissed and squirmed, "these Americans we're meeting tomorrow. The Kinsolvings, you said? How are they? I mean, are they liberal or are they stuffy?" She made a wry face despite her obvious enjoyment of her husband's attentions. "If they're anything like those last we entertained ... the Cor-wins ... the saints deliver us."

Roul paused here and there in his labors, answered in halting sequence. "I have no idea, love. They are younger . . .that I do know ... in their thirties if I remember correctly. He is very important in the concrete line ... he can make millionaires of us ... we must be very careful with him ... court him and his insipid wife ... with all the skill at our disposal."

Aimee giggled bawdily. "Skill? If you court the ingenue ninny like this, the contract is signed, sealed and delivered already. Oh, Roul, baby. Good, good ... " She brought up her hands, gathered her breasts, arranged the nipples so they were tight together. "Like this now, tnon amoureux," she hissed. "You know how much I love this."

Roul complied eagerly. Which made Aimee arch her back, quiver with delight. "Perhaps," he mumbled, "I'll get to that too. You know what a pushover-these American women-are-for the continental approach. It's like they've never had a man before. Those American husbands. Barbarians, all of them-they have no idea of the needs of-their women...."

Aimee's hands came behind her husband's head, they cradled and pressured it to that exquisite double torment.

"The men?" she sniffed. "The women are just as bad. They are all prissy and proper, afraid to live. They have ice in their veins instead of blood. Thirty, you say?"

"I'm not sure. He's thirty-five. I think the wife ... Joanna ... is in her late twenties."

"Better and better. Train her while she's still young."

"Aren't you infringing on my territory? I thought you were going to concentrate on Monsieur Kinsolving. Madame is mine."

"I think we can work from both ends, darling." She stiffened. "Oooh, you are getting anxious, aren't you? But we will convert the American couple, won't we?"

"I-accept them-as a personal--challenge. If we can't reform them-they are beyond help." He snickered thickly. "But discreet, mon chert, non? There is the matter of the concrete plant installations. That comes first, our pleasures second."

"I'll be the soul of discretion, darling. We'll have such fun with those two innocents. They'll remember Paris as long as they live." A quick, rasping sigh escaped her. "Oh, soon, Roul. You're driving me wild."

But Roul wasn't finished with his love overtures as yet. His hands went around his wife, they fondled and caressed her luxuriant bottom with determined purpose. While his lips and tongue continued to tantalize her nipples. And when Aimee was quivering like a tightly drawn bow. He deserted the voluptuous cones of her breasts, he half turned her, let his head slide downward. To the cunning bowl of her belly.

An attention Mme. De Fonseca savored rapturously. Her body drew into further arc, her legs adjusted to accommodate him. And when his back was bent into almost a taut arch-

"Lover, lover ... " she sighed viscously, "that's marvelous, simply marvelous. Soon, soon, I can't stand any more ... Please, Roul, please...."

In the darkness they groped for each other, came famishedly together. Aimee's breasts bored and seared her husband's chest. While he, possessed of a unique forerunner of his own, ground himself to her, conferred mutual excitement.

But then, as Roul finally attempted to move over his wife, she forestalled him. "No, darling. My treat tonight. At least to start. You know how much I love that."

He chuckled. "Of course, my little vixen. Any way you like. You are all worked up tonight, aren't you?"

"I think the prospect of the Americans has got to me. I am looking forward to meeting them."

Roul fondled his wife in a particularly sensitive zone, made her squirm with delight. "I think you're looking forward to more than meeting them."

"Perhaps I am at that. Oooh, Roul. Stop that now. Let me have you...."

With a practiced motion she flung a knee over her husband's abdomen, straddled him. Breathing sibilantly, she slid down, inch by inch. Then when she felt that obstruction-

Her legs flexed, she rose. Her hands went in reconnaissance. Now they piloted. A thick, long sigh sounded as she slowly relaxed her legs.

Her sigh was matched by Roul's. "Cherri, cherri," he groaned. "The things you can do with that...."

"Years of practice," she slurred. "Beneath the tutelage of an expert teacher."

"Tutelage," he repeated. "A imagine term indeed."

"Don't be vulgar, baby."

There was more vulgar talk then. As Aimee's passion peaked, as she squirmed and plunged herself above her husband, adjusted pitch and angle, made her sensations fantastic beyond belief. And even as she extorted her initial deliverance: "Can you wait, precious?" she choked. "While I take one more? That one was so wonderful. Oh, you monster, you miraculous monster...."

"Perhaps there are other things we can try. Later. When you've finished. Before I...."

"Never mind those things. Later perhaps. But for now, be still. Let me concentrate."

Her body moved faster. And still faster. Her pagan chant, her praise of his maleness became even more frenzied. Her cries of deliverance choked, cracked, seared her throat.

And afterward-

"You now, Roul. Take your pleasure."

"By all means, my pet." He returned to Aimee, was excited almost beyond endurance by her wanton welcome, by the things her fingers did to him before she admitted him to her torrid embrace. He was made proud by the way she sighed when he took her, by the way she squirmed for total sensation, by the way her arms locked around his back, the way her heels drummed, spurred him on.

But the real pride came as he labored over her, in that so enjoyable work of love-as she performed miracles with her most secret self, made him almost howl with agony. And in the process managed to seize at least four more glories for herself.

Then, when his own release finally slammed him. Aimee went wild, moved her precision-machined body like a virago gone amok, she achieved still another stunning victory, one that ran abreast of his, demolished her at the same time his demolished him.

They screamed and embraced and encouraged and locked in that eternal knot simultaneously. They rocketed to the moon together, plummeted back to earth together.

Somewhere along the line Roul dozed-he was 48, after all-was awakened by some very unique attentions on the part of his wife. He was surprised to find that he was still pinning her to the bed, that she was squirming beneath him, manually regenerating him. But not really manually.

"Quel sauvage," he groaned, "are you never satisfied?"

"Please, beloved. I need you again. I was thinking about the Americans. I got all excited. Again, please?"

"Perhaps you have ways to revitalize an old man?"

She giggled. "I have ways. Many ways. Shall I begin ? "

"By all means, my dear, by all means." Shortly muffled groans broke from him as the little primitive began to work in true earnest.