Tory followed him, longingly watching the tender way his hands ran over the mare, caressing her polished shoulder and her sleek veined legs. His face haunted her dreams. “Go on, Des,” screamed Fen, bucketing over the fences like a runaway Ferrari. They had pulled Malise and Jake to shreds, had a good bitch about Sir William and Lady Dorothy and were in a mood of great mutual self-congratulation about having found one another.
”He went back to the caravan and had another couple of stiff whiskies and then went on the prowl. ”He glanced across the room to where Fen was talking to the Italian Minister of the Arts, who was about three times her age. Get me to a fucking hospital at once and get it put back. After ten minutes, Tory gave the rest of the beef out in second helpings, knowing Jake wouldn’t want any more.
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