Publisher's Synopsis
Eleven years my senior, Lyla was a Southern belle, married and divorced three, four, maybe five times, red glossy lipstick, big round saucer-shaped brown eyes, clear pale skin, thick shoulder-length flamenco brown hair, plu-perfect Michelangelo painted breasts. The Black Madonna. Old Spanish with Spanish eyes. Scot or Scots-Irish, too. Think Hedy Lamarr or Natalie Wood but even more voluptuous and with a southern accent or Ava Gardner in the early days, in The Killers most likely, legs crossed, leaned back, strapless gown, blood and fire in one being, all we know of heaven, all we need know of . . .
