The bar on Tsetse Street was filthy. Major Eberbach sat gingerly on a cracked bench and hoped he looked like a tourist. God knew, there were enough of them in Seoul just now, though most had the sense to stay out of Tsetse Street.

The man beside him on the bench finished his filthy drink, got up, and left, much to the Major’s relief. He disliked Turks on principle, and disliked Turks who didn’t wash whether there were principles or not. The manila packet he’d brought had gone with the Turk. Good riddance. He hated these stupid, trivial courier assignments that always seemed to take him into some disreputable area of whatever disgusting city NATO Intelligence had sent him to lately. Duty was duty, but some duties were cleaner than others. Klaus felt strongly that both courier duty and Turks stank. He wondered if this bar actually sold liquor a person might want to drink.

A shadow blocked the dusty light in the doorway, and Klaus let his peripheral vision pick up the newcomer. A Westerner, probably too dumb to stay in the tourist-thick areas of the city, which were relatively safe. The tall, fair-haired figure took a step into the room, out of the dazzle of sunlight.

Klaus did not move, though he would have liked to leap up and hit something, nor did he let any expression cross his face. His mind produced a string of childish German curses, mostly about animals. There was no escape from this close-sided little room, whether design or awful chance brought Eroica to cross his path even here, half a world away from civilization.

"Hul-lo," said the Earl of Gloria, melodically. He sounded delighted, and not particularly surprised. "May I join you, Major?" He headed for the bare spot on the filthy bench, recently vacated by the Turk, without waiting for an answer.

At least the Earl wasn’t a Turk. He smelled of roses and brandy and nothing whatever to do with Turkish-Balkan politics, or even Korean bars, which was amazing under the circumstances.

"Let me buy you a drink," said the Earl, and ran a languid hand through his incredible mass of hair—yellow as gold and quite ridiculous. His ruffled lawn shirt and foppishly-cut pants were equally ridiculous. The Koreans in the place had already gone back to their drinks, but Klaus was willing to bet they’d remember the Earl, and the incident, and therefore him. Lousy job all around. This was supposed to be a covert assignment, wasn’t it? And Earl Dorian Red-fucking-Gloria had to come and mess it up with one of his English whims.

The Earl was saying something to the proprietor in what sounded like terrible Korean. Klaus hoped so, and was sourly pleased when the Korean shook his head. The Earl smiled like English sunlight and repeated himself.

Shaking his head again, the Korean reached for a bottle, uncapped it, and poured some pale gray liquid into two tiny porcelain bowls. He placed them before the Earl and retreated, still shaking his head.

"Have one, Major," said the easy, incongruous, English voice, and one of the foul-smelling little bowls was pushed to touch his fingertips. The Earl picked up the other. "Skoal," he said, even more incongruously, grinned, and tossed it back.

Just to show him that no German would back down from an English pansy, Klaus picked up the bowl—cool even in the summer heat and aromatic even in the fetid bar—pronounced an ironic "Prosit," and swallowed the contents, also in one gulp.

It took two layers of skin off the back of his throat. Klaus let the tears well up and subside, swallowed carefully on an aftertaste of flyspecked bamboo splinters. "I hope you’re enjoying yourself."

"Oh, yes," said the Earl, still grinning. "It’s good to see you, Major." He waved at the barkeep, flourishing a sheaf of currency, and added something in broken Korean. The man impassively lifted the same bottle from the shelf and refilled their bowls.

"I can’t say the same," growled Klaus, ignoring the renewed offering.

"Drink up and tell me how you like it," ordered the Earl, and drank from his bowl, his air of languid pleasure unimpaired as the liquid went down.

Klaus drank. The stuff took two more layers off his throat, and he forced a smile. "Very good, for washwater."

"You’re in a nice mood this afternoon. Are you off duty?" The Earl played with his empty bowl, seemingly unaffected by the contents. Eberbach could feel heat glowing in his stomach already.

"Yes." His duty for today had ended when the Turk walked away with the manila-wrapped packet.

"Then come with me." It was an invitation, seconded by a flutter of eyelashes.

The Major discounted the flutter, with which the infuriating Earl accompanied every third statement, including instructions to his accountant. "Going to steal something, Eroica?"

"I had something in mind."

The hot Korean afternoon was buzzingly silent, world distant. Klaus said, "And you’re asking me along," with neither belief nor disbelief.

"I couldn’t do it without you."

Klaus didn’t bother to register his outrage at the sheer effrontery of the man. It only encouraged Eroica. Meanwhile, a third serving of the gray liquor appeared in front of him. He glared at it, instead.

"Don’t stop now," said the Earl, lifting his bowl. A faint scent of roses still hung around him.

Klaus continued to glare at the drink for a moment, then seized it and let it sear its way to his stomach. He blinked as the room wavered. "Then let’s go."

A hand steadied his elbow on the way out of the bar. Klaus shook it off.

Tsetse Street was hot and dirty, and also wavered around the edges. They were whisked away and into the cleaner tourist quarter as soon as they reached the Earl’s open car. Seoul was hot this afternoon; Klaus felt it even in civilian clothes.

"I hope," he said, as the car wove through steaming traffic, "you don’t think you can disrupt the Arts Festival." His cover assignment in Seoul was providing security for a T’ang figurine lent the Koreans by a very nervous and possessive French government. The bit of pottery wasn’t much bigger than an automatic, but a thousand times as valuable. To the French. Trust the French to make a fuss over a clay horse.

"I wouldn’t dream of it, Major." Klaus didn’t trust that tone of voice from Eroica. "I had something very different… much more interesting… in mind."

Through the heat and haze, Klaus sensed danger. "What?" he demanded, turning to face the Earl.

"Not in the middle of the street," said the other equably, smile unimpaired. "Unless you want to go back?"

It was very hot. "Of course not!" Klaus snapped. "I just hope your target is cooler than this." He had to make a conscious effort to refrain from loosening his tie.

"I think that can be arranged." The car continued its detour around the Festival and Games paraphernalia until it reached a substantial-looking hotel. The Palace of Seoul Hotel. Eberbach’s hotel. And, obviously, the Earl’s.

Nonplused but not precisely alarmed—at least the hotel was air-conditioned—Klaus let himself be taken inside, trailed by the Earl’s chauffeur and an unspecified flunky. The two attendants dropped out somewhere between the lobby and a lavish suite which was not his room. Confused, and irritated at not knowing why, Klaus rounded on the Earl. "Now what?! Why are we here?"

"Sit down, Major, make yourself comfortable. We were going to discuss a little adventure of our own. Since you seemed interested."

Klaus sat. "Oh, yes?" He thought he was interested. He recalled mentally chucking NATO and Turks and screwball courier assignments into some hell that was probably the antechamber to Seoul at the Summer Games, which was why he’d followed Eroica. He wondered if it had been a bad plan. Eroica, or Earl Dorian, was now sitting beside him and the odor of roses was stronger than ever.

The Major arranged himself in an unyielding posture. "Is this another of your indecent propositions?" His head was clearing, just slightly.

"Yes."

The stared at each other across several inches of crystal-clear, electrically-charged space. Klaus wondered why he hadn’t yet dismembered some part of the Earl of Gloria’s revoltingly available body. And why he shouldn’t.

"Give me one reason," he growled, "that I shouldn’t get up and walk out." He had no trouble holding the Earl’s eyes in their staring contest. Too late, he realized it was a bad tactic: the Earl had no reason to break the gaze. Klaus had never met anyone with more aplomb, as long as he got…

The Earl leaned in, smoothly, and kissed him full on the mouth.

…what he wanted.

"You—" Klaus began, hotly.

"—pervert," finished the Earl. "Yes, I know. You asked for a reason." He sat back and surveyed the stunned Eberbach, who was not, yet, getting up or walking out. "Good enough?"

"You pervert." Klaus could not think of a sufficiently abusive line of argument. Mere insults would not do.

"Yes?"

"Never do that again!"

The Earl drew back and sat with slightly less than his usual grace, staring at the pattern on the upholstery. At least he wasn’t looking at Klaus any longer.

Presently he said, "You’re still here."

Klaus, who had spent the last few minutes noticing that same fact and seething, had no answer. Except that if he left, the Earl would only renew this ridiculous campaign again, probably in some less convenient time and place.

"Perhaps you wish you hadn’t said that quite as you did," ventured the Earl.

"I wish you hadn’t done that!"

There was a faint sparkle back in the blue eyes. "Why not?"

"Mein… I think it’s obvious."

"Not to me, Major. You’ll have to make it very clear. Remember, I’m in love with you. I liked it a great deal. I’d like to do it again. And more. And you haven’t taken any action to stop me."

Klaus blazed an incandescent glare at him.

"Yet," added the Earl softly.

Klaus sighed in what he hoped was pure fury. "Eroica." He turned to focus more closely on the other man. "No, Dorian. Let us settle this."

Under his angry gaze, the Earl smiled, aplomb back in place. "Yes."

"Don’t…" he said finally.

His companion edged closer and picked up a hand that lay stiffly beside his stiffly-held body. "Yes," said the Earl. Klaus let it rest, passive, between the two warm hands that held it. He felt frozen, staring now into space, not looking as Dorian pressed his hand slowly. The only heat in his body came from that hand. "Don’t what?" came a whisper, after a long time.

Klaus had no answer. A long, smooth arm laid itself around his shoulders, and warmth pressed up against his side. Klaus felt himself falling, which was odd since he was still sitting bolt upright, frozen in place.

His tie was being loosened, and a hand combed gently through his hair, fingertips rubbing at the back of his neck. He didn’t move. The fingertips slid back up into his scalp. He closed his eyes.

"You’re breathing, Major. I know you’re alive." He didn’t move.

"I’d like to kiss you again." The hand was combing through his hair again. It was…it felt… Klaus only shuddered and said nothing. "Very much," said Eroica’s voice. The warmth at his side shifted, and curls brushed his cheek as a weight came to rest on his shoulder. "Want to stay like this all night? I would, if that’s all you’ll do. I will." Dorian settled himself firmly around Klaus, relaxed, warm…

It was not at all easy to open his eyes, or move. It would have been impossible to speak, in any language. Klaus flexed his free hand, to make sure it was still there, then lifted it carefully, not changing position, and put it on the head that nestled on his shoulder. He stroked the soft curls, tentatively.

"Mmm," said Dorian, pushing up into the motion. The hair was warm. The head was warm. His stroking hand, cold until now, was becoming warm. Dorian turned his head and kissed the hand; his lips were warm.

By some odd metamorphosis, Klaus was no longer sitting up. His arms were around Dorian, and he was warm and lightheaded and shaking uncontrollably, and he was very, very aroused. The warmth pulsed in his groin, aching.

No, he thought. He shifted, trying to ease it.

"Ahh," said the English voice. There was an arm around him, urging him to stand. Wordlessly, it guided him across the room and into another, dimmed by closed blinds, and cool. Wordlessly two arms slid around him and another body pressed against him, rubbing irresistibly. Hands began to undress him, considerate of his aching need, wasting no time in their smooth motion.

"Dorian," he finally said, as the deft hands worked on his shirt buttons.

"Mmm?"

He put out his own hands and caught the lithe body, tall as himself. He could not, after all, quite manage to kiss that wide, ready mouth, so he looked the Earl in the eyes and waited.

It took only a moment. Dorian kissed him, easily and softly, and drew back with an expression Klaus could not interpret. It was not triumph or mockery. Then the mobile features shifted to an uncomplicated, lustful happiness as Dorian’s hands slid downward again, sure and knowing.

If Klaus was uncertain then, Dorian was not. The hands and body guided him to certainties of desire and release, held him, coaxed him to respond in kind, all without words.

Lying amid rumpled silk sheeting in Dorian’s rose-scented bedroom, Klaus realized that he no longer felt hot or cold. He wasn’t angry. He was sure there was something very wrong in all this. Somewhere. He remembered the preceding hour perfectly, without gaps or fuzziness. He hadn’t been influenced by anything but Dorian.

Whatever he felt now, it was different. Peaceful. He hoped it was temporary.

He didn’t understand it, so he reached for the pack of cigarettes that lay on the night-table in the muted late-afternoon glow.

Just now, while Dorian was silent, he couldn’t regret it; so he smoked.

Dorian caressed his leg through the sheet. Klaus, intent on his second cigarette, scowled at him without malice. "So once isn’t enough for you, Dorian."

"‘Dorian’…I like that from you. Better than ‘pervert.’"

"I’m trying not to think about that." Klaus lit his third cigarette and set the lighter back on the night-table. He inhaled deeply and blew out a stream of smoke.

"I like that brand…you taste of it, you know."

It was an effort to raise his eyebrows in cool disdain, and Klaus knew he was blushing to the waist.

"And once is never enough." Dorian laughed up at him, sprawled in carefree abandon and not a little immodesty over two-thirds of the huge bed.

"What if it is for me?" inquired Klaus.

Dorian bounced playfully. "I doubt it, you sturdy bundle of wire ropes, you. I’ll bet…"

Klaus tapped ash into a cut-crystal ashtray. "And you’d be right." He had no intention of yielding to Dorian’s habitual extravagance in some areas. "But I have other priorities as well."

"What could be more important than love?"

He closed his eyes in irritation. "You mean fucking?"

"I mean love," said Dorian, sitting up, and his mouth was sculpted in uncompromising firmness. "I haven’t spent years chasing you all over the globe, stealing anything NATO wanted, and driving my people to distraction, just for a piece of ass. I wanted you, and I mean you, Major Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach. Although," he allowed a sidelong glance to soften his expression, "the ass is quite as nice as the rest of you."

Klaus felt himself blush again and lit a fourth cigarette. "I don’t propose to discuss it."

"How about doing it?"

"Soon," said Klaus, watching smoke wreathe upwards. "You are childishly enthusiastic."

For a moment Dorian’s face clouded; then he leaned toward Klaus with a smile that was not so much sly as knowing. "Childish, lover?" He took the cigarette from Klaus’s lips and kissed him. "Childish…?"

"Heedless, then." Klaus caught a hand that was poised to dive beneath the sheet. "Is one night enough for you, or will you want more?"

He observed with pleasure that Dorian could be shocked. And that he recovered quickly. "You aren’t humoring me, Klaus. I know better than that." His voice was level. "Don’t pretend to be humoring me."

"You want honesty, Eroica?" Klaus shrugged. "I haven’t noticed that consistency was your strong point."

The blue eyes became suspiciously brighter, but the voice remained level. "Except with you. Maybe you’ve noticed me now and then, as you work."

"You were hard to miss. Very well, Dorian. Could you give up something because I ask you to?"

"What?"

Orange sunset light filtered through the blinds. "This childish stealing of yours. Half the time you don’t even keep the booty. It can’t be so important to you."

"I keep the beauty, always. The object may go, but the beauty remains. Beauty is always important."

"I thought love was always important."

Dorian favored him with a sublime smile. "You are right. And right again. If you ask it, I can give you anything."

"No more raids on the Louvre? No stealing anything from the Arts Festival?" Klaus persisted. He dared not name the T’ang figurine he was responsible for. He dared not give Eroica ideas that could only lead to a nasty France-Korean incident with inevitable Soviet implications.

"For you instead? I promise." Dorian snuggled closer to Klaus, distractingly.

That had been too easy, but it did not seem necessary, just at the moment, to think about it, or pick up another cigarette, or do anything but pay heed to Dorian’s seductive hands in the soothing, wordless evening silence.

Some time later, as he lit his fifth cigarette in the dark, Klaus wondered about the promise. Eroica, give up the limelight? Eroica, leave his dedicated career of thievery—could one call it a lifework?—for any one person? For how long?

Dorian, sleeping beside him in a tumble of golden curls, gave no answer.

* * * * *

Waking in Dorian’s bed was considerably stranger than going to sleep there, lulled as he had been by relaxation deeper than anger, by pleasure he could not acknowledge but which had happened, nevertheless.

Klaus woke, as always, a precise hour before he went on duty. At his first move, Dorian stirred. "Leaving so soon?"

"I’m on duty at the Arts Hall." There were others who might wish to steal a French horse and embarrass the Korean authorities.

Impossibly healthy blue eyes blinked up at him in the morning light. "I hoped you were here just for me," Dorian complained softly, without heat.

"What you hope means nothing to NATO." Klaus supposed that what NATO hoped still meant something to him. He had absolutely no idea what his Chief would say about Dorian. He wasn’t at all sure what he thought about Dorian.

"Will you be off your duty at 6 o’clock?"

"Yes."

"Meet me at the Tsetse Street drinking house?" The eyes closed again.

"If I can." Klaus didn’t think about it as he strode out, toward his own less palatial room in the hotel. He felt nothing, nothing different…except that he was no longer perpetually annoyed with Eroica.

It was almost an effort to display his usual temper to the subordinates in the Arts Hall security office. Iron Klaus had a reputation to maintain, so Major Eberbach maintained it. The display hall sensor system was in perfect order. Gut. The day guards had all checked in. Gut. The art pieces were accounted for by Mr. B’s own eyes this very hour. Das ist in Ordnung, Herr B. B, a Frenchman, swallowed a reply that would have sent him to Alaska for months.

The man at the signals desk began rustling papers without permission. "What is it, Mr. A?"

"Message incomplete, sir." Mr. A went on scribbling without a break as the information came through his earphones. He didn’t look happy.

The Major read the transcript over his shoulder, word by word. "Disturbance in the main display hall…" Hell, another security alert, first action of the day. "…No items touched in the outer room…" Nuisance raid or sensor malfunction? "…Stationary guards found sleeping…" Ice weighted Klaus’s stomach. It was too familiar. "…high-security displays show tampering, T’ang horse missing… Calling card left in its place…"

Abruptly his bad temper wasn’t an act. "B," he said, voice freezing, eyes blazing, "Mobilize the outside guards. Now! Eroica has the T’ang!"

Mr. A had an open line to the Korean liaison ready for him. "Briefed already, sir."

Klaus seized the receiver. "Get after Eroica!" he barked into it. "Helicopter with English markings is the most probable vehicle, but don’t discount anything. He’d do anything!"

The receiver spat something terse at him about possible damage during capture.

The shock calmed him. "No, none, treat him like fresh eggs. The figurine is breakable and very valuable. And NATO wants him in one piece, do you hear me?"

Klaus hung up on the gibbering reply and punched buttons on the telephone himself. To the Palace Hotel…to Dorian’s suite… The phone rang unanswered.

Dorian, I believed you. Almost. You faithless, lying bastard! You…you pervert… The Major dashed to join Mr. B’s team, running after them to the display gallery where the T’ang horse had been, surrounded by the best security in Seoul.

The nondescript figurine precious to both the Korean Cultural Affairs Department and to one larcenous English peer with a soul as shallow as sunlight—had gone. The usual mocking note from Eroica lay on the velvet display stand, weighted to fool pressure sensors. How the switch had been accomplished through a locked, monitored case, no one knew. The guards were sound in gas-drugged sleep, the soporific introduced when the air-conditioning system had been turned on for the day. Clever, beautiful, harmless, and a completely vile trick.

"Damn you, Eroica!" Damn you, Dorian! He couldn’t have said the Christian name aloud, even if the Arts Hall staff, and his own subordinates, weren’t clustered well within earshot. Klaus had not expected a great deal from the spoiled Earl, but, yes, something. Something to acknowledge his worthless promise. But, what would a spoiled child know about promises and loyalty?

Klaus pulled his mind away from the thought and began giving orders.

Perhaps not surprisingly, neither Eroica nor any of his team were to be found in Seoul. Nor did Dorian meet Klaus in the Tsetse Street drinking house at 6 o’clock.

At nine, with the sun gone down, Klaus dismissed the team that had accompanied him to Tsetse Street, left a backup team around the odd little native bar under Mr. C’s supervision, and went back to the Palace of Seoul.

Dorian had not checked out. Oversight or deliberate message? The hotel management was confident of the Earl of Gloria’s return, though no one would give Eberbach, even at his most menacing, an answer as to when or how. Either he was losing his touch, or they really didn’t know. Klaus retired to the hotel bar to brood.

Loyalty, he reflected into a shot glass full of German whiskey, was a wonderful thing. When you could get it.

He’d chosen his table carefully in the clean, Western-style bar. He could see the door; casual drinkers couldn’t see him in the comfortable gloom. In essence, if not in distance, it was a long way from Tsetse Street.

There were no exotic clay bottles here, full of quaint native aphrodisiacs. Klaus smoked, and left his drink untouched, and brooded. It must have been a vile, sneaking, Oriental trick of an aphrodisiac, if it had led to a night with Dorian.

If so, it hadn’t worn off yet. Klaus remembered the whole of the night with vivid, inextinguishable longing, shame for the longing, and relief at the shame. Dorian’s words, and Dorian’s silences, haunted him. Damn you, Dorian. Why should I have believed you?

No answer occurred to him. He glared at the shot glass, and after a moment, seized it and knocked back the whiskey. He ordered another and lit a cigarette.

Three cigarettes later, a shadow paused beside his table. "Klaus."

It was Dorian’s voice. With an odd tone, not quite confident. For once. Klaus squinted up through smoke at the riotous curls and a trim black jumpsuit with an effeminate paisley scarf at the throat.

"Don’t scowl at my clothes like that, Klaus. I am what I am." Dorian smiled. "Beautiful."

Klaus felt rising irritation. It was so…so Dorian.

"I’ve a present for you." A rustle and brush of cloth on the table, further rustle of the Earl sitting down opposite him. Klaus refused to look anywhere but at his drink, ignoring even the cigarette burning down in a well-filled ashtray. "Please look at it," said Dorian, subdued.

Eroica was never subdued. Klaus glanced up at him, and his gaze caught on a nondescript tan figurine of a horse and rider. Not much larger than an automatic but a thousand times as valuable to some powers. The T’ang. His breath hissed out at the sheer gall of it. "Dorian…" he got out, in low-voiced, absolute fury.

While he choked on his next words, Dorian leaned forward and placed a finger over his lips. Speechless with rage, Klaus glared at him.

Blue English eyes widened a little in dismay and the Earl’s hand dropped. Before Klaus could find a voice, he spoke softly: "In my absence last night, my people followed the instructions I had given them earlier." There was a hint of mischief in his sigh. "To the letter."

"I see."

Dorian flicked a finger at the horse. "Indeed, as you see. I did not wish to involve them in our…affairs, so I followed them to retrieve the T’ang myself. For you."

"Why?" Klaus’s eyes drilled into Dorian’s.

"Need you ask?" Golden lashes veiled the shining blue for an instant. "I told you I wouldn’t steal anything from the Arts Festival."

"So you did." Klaus reached for the ashtray, stubbed out the smoldering cigarette butt, and lit a fresh one. A waiter materialized and took Dorian’s order for brandy. Dorian fidgeted with his scarf until the brandy arrived.

"Is that all?" asked Klaus. In all their tempestuous meetings, he could not recall Dorian ever looking abashed.

"The chase into Manchuria, escaping from the Korean police—"

"I hope you didn’t violate Soviet airspace."

"—of course not, Major." Dorian paused. "It was exciting. Very exciting."

Klaus thought about that. "So?"

"It was more beautiful than the statuette. I loved it." He waved his glass in a manner designed to slop brandy up and down the sides and spread the smell, then took an elegant swallow.

Klaus watched this performance, motionless behind his still-full shot glass. "And?"

"I would do a great deal for your sake, Klaus. I will avoid embarrassing you and your superiors. I will cooperate with NATO. But I do not believe I can ever not be…reckless…about this." He set down the glass and ran fingertips delicately over smooth, pale-brown porcelain. "Beautiful."

"If you say so." To Klaus it was a rather blocky and inexact figurine of a horse and rider. Of importance to two major governments and a capricious art lover called Eroica. He sighed.

"You love the excitement. Yes, I understand."

"I love you."

"No change, Dorian?" He stubbed out the cigarette.

"Still the same."

A shuddering memory of the previous night passed over Klaus. He did not acknowledge it in any way he could prevent—meaning that it should have been totally invisible—but Dorian’s eyes focused on him, thoughtful. When had this indiscreet Englishman ever been thoughtful?

"Must I get you drunk again, Klaus?"

"What was that stuff?"

Dorian smiled, eyes dancing. "I can’t pronounce it properly. But I could steal a bottle and be back in thirty minutes."

Klaus sighed. "I’m sure you could. It won’t be necessary." He downed his whiskey. "Thank you for returning the T’ang. You make, as ever, the grand gesture." He picked up the figure carefully in deference to its international and monetary value. "Let me return this to the Arts Hall, Eroica."

"And then?" The waiter re-materialized and presented a check. Dorian seized it before Klaus could, scribbled his name, and handed it back.

"Your Mr. James will scold you for that."

"No. He handles my business affairs. But you…"

"I’ll be back when I’ve fulfilled my duties."

"Tonight?" The blue eyes were laughing. At him.

Klaus gave the hard smile that terrorized subordinates from A to Z. Dorian merely smiled back, with equal steel.

"As soon as possible, Eroica." He strode out.

Dorian watched him leave. "What I like, I get," he whispered. "You beauty. And I think you know it."

END