[ Mark has many weaknesses. One of them is beautiful women. His only salvation is that Gwen isn't really his type - his type tends to be smiling and bright-eyed and feminine and frilly and cute and big-breasted - but even so, as she walks into his office, elegant and gorgeous, he can't help but feel like he's already at a disadvantage. He should have had someone else negotiate this, he thinks. It's not fair.
Mark's taste generally runs to a modern nouveau-riche sort of tackiness: everything in his office is expensive chrome and mahogany and brushed steel, like James Bond made into a room. Mark himself is likewise: he's a tiny man, well below five feet, grossly obese, and yet the suit that his bulk is tucked into sort of works for him. If you pour enough money into something, it'll be decent, even if you don't really have taste yourself, and so his surroundings are decent, and he's decent. In spite of everything.
He reaches out to take her hand. His palm is soft. ]
no subject
Mark's taste generally runs to a modern nouveau-riche sort of tackiness: everything in his office is expensive chrome and mahogany and brushed steel, like James Bond made into a room. Mark himself is likewise: he's a tiny man, well below five feet, grossly obese, and yet the suit that his bulk is tucked into sort of works for him. If you pour enough money into something, it'll be decent, even if you don't really have taste yourself, and so his surroundings are decent, and he's decent. In spite of everything.
He reaches out to take her hand. His palm is soft. ]
Lord Mark Vorkosigan.