John Creasey Jarvis
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A KISS ON DEMAND
SHE was young and she was lovely, and she gazed upon the Toff. Both were content, judging from their expressions. For if the Toff—occasionally known as the Hon. Richard Rollison with his habitat in Mayfair, W.i—had passed the first bloom of youth, he was still on the right side of forty, and as gallant and as gay as most people half his age. "Roily," said Agatha Bell, "isn't it divine?"
"In the colloquial meaning of the word, I couldn't agree with you more," murmured the Toff. "Let us count our blessings. You start." She had that kind of blue in her eyes which the sun and the sky give to the sea near Naples, and is sometimes captured by makers of beautiful china. Neither the sun nor the makers of china could match the gleam which appeared suddenly; a kind of mischief born out of high spirits. "I'm here," she said, "with you."
He did not smile, blink, wink or otherwise change his expression. His eyes were grey, some would say steely, exactly right for a man with dark hair in which the grey flecks were almost unbelievable; for the truth is that he had a young face. "Sunning ourselves on the banks of the Thames," he said, "the river rippling by, a punt within reach, cushions for our heads. Your turn." "We've had a wonderful lunch," Agatha said, almost dreamily. "Raspberries and cream. Do you know, I think I prefer raspberries to strawberries. Such a lot of cream, too, it can't be good for my figure." He glanced at her waist.
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