"I'm glad your mother let you come here, Steve."

"Me too. Me too, Melissa."

She wanted to tell him how much she hungered for him but decided against it. She wanted to tell the youth how she yearned, how she craved, how desperate she was to have any kind of a relationship with him. Also, she wanted to tell the boy how good-looking he was, how pleasant his face, how clean-cut he was, and how she loved his manners. He was so calm, so gentle, and oh-so-observant, so terribly conscious of what went on around him. Unlike many others.

She slid her chair back. "Well," she smiled, looking around, catching the waiter's eye as she placed a ten-franc note under the empty beer glass, "shall we, Steve?"

He nodded. She took his hand first, then put her arm through his. He could feel the curve of her left breast pressing his side. When their eyes met as they walked through the cafe and out onto the sidewalk, the exchange was vibrant.

Across the road, Maurice started up the big limousine. The mighty engine purred with power. Shifting into gear, he glided the vehicle over to the sidewalk, his eyes caressing Mrs. Staunton's body, who seemed terribly excited as she held onto the boy's arm.

Having parked, Maurice leaped out of the car, came around the front, opened the rear door and bowed.

"Good evening."

"Good evening," said Mrs. Staunton.

"Hi," said Stephenson.

In the back of the car, Melissa pressed the button that automatically raised the shadowed glass partition separating the chauffeur's seat from the rear of the spacious limousine. This impressed Steve. He grinned.

"He can't hear us, either," said Melissa, squeezing his arm, snuggling next to him.

"And he really can't see?" asked Steve.

"No."

"This is all just too fabulous," he said.

Melissa crossed her legs. As she did, her skirt crawled up her legs and his eyes fell. He could see the tops of her stockings, and the sharp contrast between her milky white thighs and the darker tint of the expensive, sheer fabric.