“Publishers are like lemmings auctioning six figure sums,” she said, as his eye peered into the gap of her yellow frilly blouse.  Figures had been firmly stipulated. “Perrier or Champagne?” She tends to say sweetheart. “Do you fancy my red ruby ring? How about these crocodile shoes?” He looks into her dark eyes but can’t see her pupils, as thick mascara hangs from her lashes.  She blinks slowly, calculating. A tongue so eloquent, almost dreamy, while waving her hands here and there.  “I’ve been wine-tasting in Northern Europe,” she says as he sits waiting on her thinking: “Is this woman going to give me this contract to sign, or what?


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