“Seventeen months.” Akin thought for a moment. “No, eighteen now.” “Very, very intelligent,” Tate said, echoing Iriarte. “Shall we buy you, Akin?” “Yes, but …” “But?” “They want a woman.” Tate laughed. “Of course they do. We might even find them one. Men aren’t the only ones who get itchy feet. But, Jesus, four men! She’d better have another itchy part or two.” “What?” “Nothing, little one. Why do you want us to buy you?”
