He luxuriated. This was smoking as portrayed by tobacco company commercials—not the shallow, disappointing experience commonly known to smokers everywhere. He had often wondered why the leaf which smelled so beguiling before it was lit, or when someone nearby was smoking, promising sensual delights and heart’s ease, never yielded anything more than virtually tasteless smoke.

They promise you “a long cool smoke to soothe a troubled world,” Connor thought, and this is it. He took the cigar from his mouth and examined the band. It was of unembellished gold and bore a single ornate P.

“I might have known,” he announced to the empty room. He looked around through a filigree of smoke, wondering if everything in the room was different from the norm, superior, better than the best. Perhaps the ultra-rich scorned to use anything that was available to the man in the street or advertised on television or…

“Philip!” Angela stood in the doorway, pale of face, shocked and angry. “What are you doing here?”

“Enjoying the best cigar I’ve ever had.” Connor got to his feet, smiling. “I presume you keep them for the benefit of guests—I mean, a cigar is hardly your style.”

“Where’s Gilbert?” she snapped. “You’re leaving right now.”

“Not a chance.”

“That’s what you think.” Angela turned with an angry flail of blonde hair and cerise skirts.

Connor realized he had to find inspiration and get in fast. “It’s too late, Angela. I’ve smoked your cigar; I lit it with your lighter; I have checked the time with your clock; and I’ve watched your television.”

He had been hoping for a noticeable reaction and was not disappointed—Angela burst into tears. “You bastard! You had no right!”