"Of course. What would you like?"

"Scotch is fine. With a little water."

I went to the liquor cabinet, glad to put some distance between us. My feeling of numb astonishment was fading, giving way to a more sharply defined concept of our confrontation thus far. One thing stood out in my mind, undeniably prominent despite its rather trivial nature. Irrelevant, anyhow. No, it wasn't trivial, not even in such gravely serious circumstances. The woman – my rival, Julia Beresford – was she really that beautiful?

Fussing with the bottles and glassware, I tried to recall her features in detail. High cheekbones. The dusky complexion, darkly amber, remarkably so for someone with hair that color. Blonde. Shimmering shoulder-length golden waves, a natural look. At most, just touched-gray. I her middle thirties, I figured, or maybe even younger. But it was her eyes that stuck in my mind above all else, the green eyes that had showered me with sparks – big and deep and green as glowing emeralds. I was almost afraid to turn around again, afraid of the strange power of those eyes…

CHAPTER THREE

They were still glowing when I brought her the drink, emerald-green eyes, less formidable now somehow, the slanted corners crinkling in apparent amusement. As though she was laughing at me or had found the situation to her liking, perhaps, since she chose that moment to slip off her coat.

Once again, I couldn't help but recognize a wealth of unexpected beauty, even a certain grandeur. Voluptuous. But without a trace of extra fat, as far as I could see, truly a magnificent body. The one advantage of being childless, no doubt. And I could see plenty, too, the big breasts and narrow waist and broad hips, all delineated by her scantily cut dress, a simple black sheath. And the legs, of course, long and perfectly shaped, with slender ankles – impossibly beautiful! I could only stand there and goggle. With a wife like this, why would any man take a mistress?