“OH HECK NO!” WARWICKE’S face was a mix of horror and hilarity.
The man standing on Fabiana’s doorstep had shoulder-length black hair, slicked back into a shiny fall from his unlined forehead. His eyebrows looked like thick, black caterpillars on his caramel colored face, and the mustache drooping like a movie star’s shawl over his lips reminded Warwicke of Groucho Marx. The humor-filled eyes peering out from under the caterpillars were brown.
The man was dressed like a street punk, with the crotch of his baggy jeans hanging down around his knees and an oversized shirt falling, untucked over his narrow hips. He had a beautiful, scantily-clad woman clinging to one arm. She had straight black hair, creamy brown skin, large blue eyes, and was wearing two tiny wisps of spandex and had the bi
