CHAPTER ELEVEN
Molly Mortmain stared incredulously at her husband, then at Francis Saltiel, and finally at the bearded sheikh, who was regarding her now with gloating interest, lifting his binoculars to fix on her exquisite face. She wore a red satin cocktail dress, with a wide V-cut at the bodice, exposing the upper curves and a tempting portion of the valley of her high-perched titties. The frock hugged lusciously rounded yet lithe hips, caressed the long gracefully rounded thighs; smoke-hued nylons caressed her sleek, high-set calves. As she saw the eyes of all fix on her, she uttered a cry.
"Jimmy! This really isn't very funny, you know, and it's not in very good taste."
"It's in perfect taste, Molly. You're my wife, and I'm your husband. I want you to get up and take off all you
