Mark Ashton enjoyed the finer things. He had chosen his two-story penthouse in London's Back Bay with care and deliberation, then had hired the top decorator in the city to outfit it for him. Status and style were high priorities. Having them without having to make any real effort was another.
He just could not see how a man could be comfortable without these basic essential elements.
The rooms in his penthouse reflected what he thought of as exquisite classic taste—from the silk moire walls, the Oriental carpets, to the gleaming oak furniture. He had chosen, or his decorator had, to the rich fabrics in neutral tones with a few splashes of bold colors artfully and carefully arranged.
The modern art, which meant absolutely nothing to him, was, he had been told, a strikingly outstanding c
