“What are you going to do with it,” Peter had asked the stunning little brunette as she stood at the cooler case, handling each small package of the costly product, clearly uncertain which to buy.
“I-I want to have it with a fine old red Bordeaux tonight,” she said brightly, hardly looking intently at Peter, sizing him up.
“Well, perhaps I can assist,” Peter had said, smiling and visualizing the woman in the situation that she was in fact, now in, pinned irrevocably to the stone wall in his deepest cellar, gagged and plugged, kept alive and in good condition by basic sustenance liquids and unable to even wrinkle her cute pug nose.
“I think I want this one,” Phoebe had said, holding up a €45, three-ounce package of soft, brown paste.
“May I suggest this one?” Peter said, picking out a
