As he drove, she looked at his shirt. Today it was white cotton and frayed a little at the collar. But it gleamed bright in the sunlight against the ochre-colored skin of his neck. Above it, his hair was neatly clipped to bristle at the back and sides, curving over the bones of his skull which disappeared under a jet black mop on the top, a little like an Eton crop. Ellen peeked over his shoulder at the traffic ahead of them and caught a whiff of something delicious; it was the clean, tangy smell of warm skin. She stared at the side of his neck and, quite unexpectedly, got a vivid flash: an image of pressing her lips to it.