I can hear music, something classical by the sound of it, vaguely familiar. I roll onto my back, wincing slightly as my bottom connects with the soft leather. I’m pleasantly sore, aware of my body in a way I don’t recall ever before. I’m still naked but a light quilt has been tossed over me, and I grasp it, snuggling back down. I feel wonderful. Better than wonderful. I feel alive, tingly and deliriously happy. Dan Riche is very good for my sense of well-being. And talking of Dan, where is he? I crane my neck to peer round the room, or as much of it as I can see from here. He’s nowhere in sight. I wriggle into a sitting position and peep over the back of the sofa. He’s at the dining table, a mug of steaming coffee beside him. His smartphone is in his hand and he’s tapping the screen. Catching up with his emails perhaps. Facebook? He glances up, and smiles at me. He’s dazzling, quite stunning. “You’re beautiful.” The words are out before I have an opportunity to censor them.
