The vote is only the beginning, the necessary beginning. Dieu du ciel, what was it? She turned slowly, listening for the direction of the sound. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she panted, shifting wildly in his hold, so that he had all to do to keep her thus imprisoned. A shaft of searing heat plunged downward. Sated, he rolled off her body and retired to his quarters. As for Mike’s observations on John’s desires to get laid, it was the pot calling the kettle black. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work—or going home.
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