across his mouth. “Well, now, Sir Alec. Time for you and I to talk a little business.”
Alec Nichols said softly, “I told you two weeks ago I’m working everything out, Mr. Swinton. I need a bit more time.”
A waiter walked over to the table, balancing a high stack of wooden cigar boxes. He skillfully set them down on the table.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Jon Swinton said. He examined the labels on the boxes, whistled in admiration, pulled out several cigars which he put in his breast pocket, then lit one. Neither the waiter nor Sir Alec showed any reaction to this breach of manners. The waiter nodded to Sir Alec, and carried the cigars to another table.
“My employers have been very lenient with you, Sir Alec. Now, I’m afraid, they’ve got impatient.” He picked up the burned match, leaned forward and dropped it into Sir Alec’s glass of wine. “Between you and I, they’re not nice people when they’re upset. You don’t want to get them down on you, you know what I mean?”
“I simply don’t have the money right now.”
Jon Swinton laughed loudly. “Come off it, chum. Your mom was a Roffe, right? You got a hundred-acre farm, a posh town house in Knightsbridge, a Rolls-Royce and a bloody Bentley. You’re not exactly on the dole then, are you?”
Sir Alec looked around, pained, and said quietly, “None of them is a liquid asset. I can’t—”
Swinton winked and said, “I’ll bet that sweet little wife of yours, Vivian, is a liquid asset, eh? She’s got a great pair of Bristols.”
Sir Alec flushed. Vivian’s name on this man’s lips was a sacrilege. Alec thought of Vivian as he had left her that morning, still sweetly asleep. They had separate bedrooms, and one of Alec Nichols’ greatjoys was to go into Vivian’s room for one of his “visits.” Sometimes, when Alec awakened early, he would walk into Vivian’s bedroom while she was asleep and simply stare at her. Awake or asleep, she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She slept in the nude, and her soft, curved body would be half exposed as she curled into the sheets. She was blond, with wide, pale-blue eyes and skin like cream. Vivian had been a minor actress when Sir Alec had first met her at a charity ball. He had been enchanted by her looks, but what had drawn him to her was her easy, outgoing personality. She was twenty years younger than Alec, and filled with a zest for living. Where Alec was shy and introverted, Vivian was gregarious and vivacious. Alec had been unable to get her out of his mind, but it had taken him two weeks to summon up nerve enough to telephone her. To his surprise and delight Vivian had accepted his invitation. Alec had taken her to a play at the Old Vic, and then to dinner at the Mirabelle. Vivian lived in a dreary little basement flat in Notting Hill, and when Alec had brought her home, she had said, “Would you like to come in then?” He had stayed the night, and it had changed his whole life. It was the first time that any woman had been able to bring him to a climax. He had never experienced anything like Vivian. She was velvet tongue and trailing golden hair and moist pulsing demanding depths that Alec explored until he was drained. He could become aroused simply thinking about her.
There was something else. She made him laugh, she made him come alive. She poked fun at Alec because he was shy and a bit stodgy, and he adored it. He was with her as often as Vivian would permitit. When Alec took Vivian to a party, she was always the center of attention. Alec was proud of that, but jealous of the young men gathered around her, and he could not help wondering how many of them she had been to bed with.
On the nights when Vivian could not see him because she had another engagement, Alec was frantic with jealousy. He would drive to her flat and park down the block to see what time she came home, and whom she was with. Alec knew that he was behaving like a fool, and yet he could not help
Alec Nichols said softly, “I told you two weeks ago I’m working everything out, Mr. Swinton. I need a bit more time.”
A waiter walked over to the table, balancing a high stack of wooden cigar boxes. He skillfully set them down on the table.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Jon Swinton said. He examined the labels on the boxes, whistled in admiration, pulled out several cigars which he put in his breast pocket, then lit one. Neither the waiter nor Sir Alec showed any reaction to this breach of manners. The waiter nodded to Sir Alec, and carried the cigars to another table.
“My employers have been very lenient with you, Sir Alec. Now, I’m afraid, they’ve got impatient.” He picked up the burned match, leaned forward and dropped it into Sir Alec’s glass of wine. “Between you and I, they’re not nice people when they’re upset. You don’t want to get them down on you, you know what I mean?”
“I simply don’t have the money right now.”
Jon Swinton laughed loudly. “Come off it, chum. Your mom was a Roffe, right? You got a hundred-acre farm, a posh town house in Knightsbridge, a Rolls-Royce and a bloody Bentley. You’re not exactly on the dole then, are you?”
Sir Alec looked around, pained, and said quietly, “None of them is a liquid asset. I can’t—”
Swinton winked and said, “I’ll bet that sweet little wife of yours, Vivian, is a liquid asset, eh? She’s got a great pair of Bristols.”
Sir Alec flushed. Vivian’s name on this man’s lips was a sacrilege. Alec thought of Vivian as he had left her that morning, still sweetly asleep. They had separate bedrooms, and one of Alec Nichols’ greatjoys was to go into Vivian’s room for one of his “visits.” Sometimes, when Alec awakened early, he would walk into Vivian’s bedroom while she was asleep and simply stare at her. Awake or asleep, she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She slept in the nude, and her soft, curved body would be half exposed as she curled into the sheets. She was blond, with wide, pale-blue eyes and skin like cream. Vivian had been a minor actress when Sir Alec had first met her at a charity ball. He had been enchanted by her looks, but what had drawn him to her was her easy, outgoing personality. She was twenty years younger than Alec, and filled with a zest for living. Where Alec was shy and introverted, Vivian was gregarious and vivacious. Alec had been unable to get her out of his mind, but it had taken him two weeks to summon up nerve enough to telephone her. To his surprise and delight Vivian had accepted his invitation. Alec had taken her to a play at the Old Vic, and then to dinner at the Mirabelle. Vivian lived in a dreary little basement flat in Notting Hill, and when Alec had brought her home, she had said, “Would you like to come in then?” He had stayed the night, and it had changed his whole life. It was the first time that any woman had been able to bring him to a climax. He had never experienced anything like Vivian. She was velvet tongue and trailing golden hair and moist pulsing demanding depths that Alec explored until he was drained. He could become aroused simply thinking about her.
There was something else. She made him laugh, she made him come alive. She poked fun at Alec because he was shy and a bit stodgy, and he adored it. He was with her as often as Vivian would permitit. When Alec took Vivian to a party, she was always the center of attention. Alec was proud of that, but jealous of the young men gathered around her, and he could not help wondering how many of them she had been to bed with.
On the nights when Vivian could not see him because she had another engagement, Alec was frantic with jealousy. He would drive to her flat and park down the block to see what time she came home, and whom she was with. Alec knew that he was behaving like a fool, and yet he could not help
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