Her smile was coy, teasing…surely a woman who wasn’t a hooker wouldn’t smile like that at a guy who was checking her out? ‘One hundred six dol...ars,’ she said in a business-like tone, holding out her hand. ‘You…um, you said one hundred.’ But he was already reaching for his wallet. ‘Tax,’ she said. Just the one word. He pulled out the money, idly wondering whether this meant it wasn’t a brothel. Don’t illegal houses of prostitution avoid paying taxes? Then again, maybe they just paid taxes on the. She would often sit in the kitchen of an evening and watch him cook; delighting in his boyish charm and his easy smile, laughing at his appalling English, admiring his physique and casting long, self indulgent glances at his ass. They would dine out on the garden porch or on the balcony overlooking the bay while amorous geckos courted in the circle of light cast upon the white wall. Much later, after having extinguished the light and banished the geckos, they would sit together in one of the. More

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