CHAPTER<br >There were two people in the<br >Regency four-poster that<br >swamped the suite overlook-<br >ing the Brighton seafront but<br >only one of them was breath-<br >ing; deeply and evenly， as she<br >sipped fiat Bollinger Brut and<br >decided what to do next.<br > Her name was Susan<br > Street， and she was almost<br > twenty-seven and almost beau-<br > tiful with long dark hair， long<br > pale legs and a short temper.<br > Beside her lay a man who<br > would never see fifty again<br > and who now would never see<br >~Nsixty， either. He had<br > been，<br > until half an hour ago， the<br > editor of the Sunday Best， a<br > tabloid with teeth whose circu-<br > lation was three million and<br > rising. Unfortunately he would<br > never see it reach four million，<br > because his deputy editor<br > Susan Street had just dis-<br > patched him to that big board-<br > room in the sky with a sexual<br > performance of such singular<br > virtuosity that his heart<br > couldn t stand it.<br > His heart， like everything<br ><br >