He had three rules concerning woman: a) if she won't stay home and neck
on the sofa get rid of her; b) if she will stay home and neck on the
sofa suspect her of matrimonial intentions and get rid of her; c) don't
monkey with her to begin with and avoid the nuisance of bothering with
the first two rules.
He rose to his lanky six feet of height, brushed the unruly red hair
out of his eyes, strode to the door and turned the knob. The door
swung wide. He glanced about briefly, then looked down and saw the girl.
She had, he realized, removed her highheels. Ordinarily the top of her
platinum hair came an inch above his shoulders. Not that he was in the
habit of getting close enough to determine this factor accurately, but
he couldn't help seeing her enter and leave the apartment across the
way from time to time.
"You knocked?" he said bruskly.
Her head was tilted back, her blue eyes wide. "I need a pound of
sugar," she said. "My pneumatic is out of order. Can't get deliveries."
"You mean, you cook?" He stared in awe.
"I'm making a cake," she breathed, inching closer.
He backed out of the doorway and she entered. Without giving him
another glance, she went to the pneumatic, cut in the phone and ordered
a pound of sugar. She turned back to him.
"It shouldn't be a minute. I'll wait--if you don't mind."
He had tried to keep himself from studying her. Despite this, his
eyes told him that her figure was just about perfect and as both a
counteraction and a stimulant to the mounting tension in him, her smile
was surprisingly bright and full. There was little danger of the flavor
of her warpaint confusing a man. She wore little, if any. Her bright
lips and cheeks seemed to need no added color.
"Don't bother to stand," she said considerately. She waited until he
had lowered himself to the couch, then dropped down beside him, a
trifle too close to allow him to put his mind on other things.
"I hope I haven't troubled you." Her hand brushed his.
"Not at all." He drew his hand away.
"From the looks of your side-board," she went on cheerily, "you were
just getting ready to mix a drink. I'm an expert. Shall I mix a couple?"
He resisted the inclination to rise when she did, and deliberately kept
his eyes from following her. He snatched up the paper, rustled it
noisily and tried to concentrate on the headlines.
Two things distracted him. One was the faint scent of perfume and the
other was the chinking of ice and glasses. He put the paper aside,
tried to put his mind on distant things. This soon palled. He was about
to get up and pace the floor when she returned and handed him a cool
glass.
"Thanks," he said and leaned back.
She sat down again, so close that her shoulder brushed his. He
edged over against the arm of the couch, putting an inch of space
between them, glanced sidelong at her, and drank. He rolled his eyes
ceiling-ward, smacked his lips and drank again.
"What did you put in it?"
"About a spoonful of creme de menthe, a couple drops of bitters and
about two ounces of rye. Like it?"
He scowled deliberately, armoring himself against his feelings. "It's
fair--for a woman's mixings. You should have put in more liquor."
"Of course. I'll learn."
"Not from me," he snapped. "I'm a woman-hater."