Attractions by LaBelleMonteuse Blaise can see her sitting out of the corner of her eye. Her hair is in a casual tumble that Blaise, with a fellow woman's eye, recognises as an elaborate creation, a work of art, a counterfeit. She knows she is being watched. Still. Blaise cannot quite stand to take her eyes away from the hair, the hand that tap languid on the surface of the desk with pale fingernails, the her soft cheek that idles on the other hand's palm. When she moves, Blaise is quite unprepared. She wants, desperately, to follow, watch every motion of the hips. Instead, she looks away.