Damn Ventrue.Her friend had a fur blanket hanging from her alcove, but she’d given Beatrice permission to walk in whenever she wanted, even if the b...anket was pulled across to cover the hideaway. So Beatrice walked in.“Jennifer, we—damn it.”Of course. Of fucking course. The Nosferatu was too busy running scenarios about Garry and the Invictus through her head to be paying attention. She’d thought all the moans were coming from Othello and his girl, not Jennifer; which was pretty damn stupid of. Masters was happy to have been included as a trophy in thispantheon of the famous spy's fetishistic pleasures, along with theinevitable Mont Blanc pen, the 30-year old single malt and of course, theAston Martin. Now the beautiful blonde lover with something extra.So it was that the crystalline clarity of Miles Davis' 'Kind Of Blue'echoed like a ghost around the small plateau on which the discreetly grey2012 marque DBX was parked.The dank overhanging cloud of the past few days had largely. More

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