That blonde hair cascading down either side of her innocently sultry face, like falling locks of entwined sunshine. That smile, shy only to the point of inviting the first move. Those eyes that don't look away or blink but simply draw you inward and deeper with a steady, beckoning regard. Break the gaze and scan her body. Christ, she's let her blouse fall open. It's impossible not to stare at that tit. It's full, rounded, swelling, heavy as with the milk of nirvana. Gawk for a while, then look back up. London-born, British-bred Lisa Faulkner is pleased at your attention. She does not play games. The promise extended in the purse of her lips is no tease. She is a consuming object of affection in The Lover (1992), and she is not there by accident.