3
It was one of those mornings Colby loved best in
London— that rare October day when miraculously
it was cursed with neither the Automobile Show nor
rain. Pale lemon sunlight slanted in on the carpet at
the other end of the room where her window
overlooked the traffic on the Thames. A breakfast
cart draped with a white cloth was parked near an
armchair, on it a silver coffee pot and a covered
chafing dish.
“Please sit down,” she said, indicating another
armchair near the writing desk. The dark hair was
rumpled, and she wore no make-up except a touch of
lipstick. Her uniform of the day, at least up to this
point, seemed to consist of nylon briefs, bra, a sheer
peignoir that wasn’t even very carefully belted, and
one fur-trimmed mule. In her left hand was a plate
containing the herring, or what was left of it. She sat
down crosswise in the armchair with a flash of long
bare legs, kicked off the other mule, and stretched
like a cat. She grinned at Colby. “A little stiff after
that workout yesterday. How about a kipper?”
“No, thanks,” he said.
“Coffee?”
