littered his scalp and eyebrows like dandruff.
She giggled. He glowered back.
“Well, Royce, you do look a little funny. Like a snake shedding its skin.”
Yeah, a snake. He went back to the edge of the bed, and she tenderly applied petroleum jelly to his face.
“You’ve just been working too hard, Mr. R.”
Royce flexed his blistered hand through the shaft of morning sunlight streaming in through his office window.
“I just want to put last night behind me,” he told Tony over the phone.
“I understand. I’ll call the DA’s office. It shouldn’t be a big deal.”
“I just…well. Just want it over. I guess I have been working too hard.”
“Maybe you and Les should get away for awhile.”
“Bad time. The holidays. Home and hearth and all that.”
“Well, if you decide to, Craig can stay with us for a few days.”
“We talking about the same Craig?”
“Cut him some slack, Royce. His only crime is being eight years old.”
“And coming from a broken home.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call your situation a broken home.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence—and the offer. I mean it.”
“Sure.”
“And one more thing, Tony.”
“What’s that?”
“You got to keep me out of trouble.”
Tony chuckled. “I’ll do my best, bud.”
When Royce put down the phone he saw Brenda come into his office and close the door behind her.
“Whew,” she said, waving her hand like a fan.
“Problem?”
“Some women don’t understand the subtleties of wearing perfume.”
Royce nervously eyeballed his desk calendar. It would be like him, in his present mood, to forget an appointment. But the calendar was blank this morning.
Brenda arched a judgmental eyebrow.
“A Ms. Monica Pleshette to see you. Said she had a ten o’clock.”
Royce scowled. “I don’t know any Monica Pleshette. At least I don’t think I do.” Suddenly he felt exhausted.
“Apparently a referral from Gary Ames at Carrollton Banks. Shall I see if I can get him for you? Find what this is about?”
He rubbed his eyes. “I guess you better.” Then it struck him.
Her!
“No, show her in.”
Royce smelled the woman’s presence a good thirty seconds before her arrival in his office. Standing, he summoned all his psychological strength to present an image of crisp charm and professional competence.
“Monica Pleshette,” she said, sweeping into the room and extending the slender fingers of her right hand. Her sharp, enameled nails poked his right palm.
“Royce McCulloch,” he said, shaking her hand. He gestured her to the chair across from his desk. “Please.”
She sat down, crossing shapely, black-stockinged legs with a whoosh whoosh sound of silk. The way her startlingly blue eyes now gazed at him made him tilt his chair back slightly. His chin dropped and he made brief eye contact with her rather ample bosom, where a cream-colored silk blouse, unbuttoned alluringly low, had parted to afford a tease of nude brassiere cups and fat curves of snowy white, freckled cleavage. His eyes recognized the female pulchritude as familiar territory.
“Yes,” he said lamely, clearing the frog from his throat. Smiling lamely, he made his eyes stay on her face. Already her perfume had quite overpowered his tiny office with its cloying heat.
She beamed. “Congratulations.”
“Congratulations?”
“Looks like you’ve managed to get some sun. I wish I could. I feel so cold lately. Brrrr.” She briskly rubbed her hands together.
He touched his face. “Oh, this? Just a run in with an old furnace, I’m afraid.”
She frowned. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“No,” he assured her. He offered her coffee, which she declined.
Awkward silence followed. The woman’s presence was making him increasingly uneasy. Not only attractive, she exuded “class,” which showed in her grooming. Her auburn hair was stylishly coifed, lustrous, but with a hint of the untamed in the presence of an electrifying cockscomb that often
She giggled. He glowered back.
“Well, Royce, you do look a little funny. Like a snake shedding its skin.”
Yeah, a snake. He went back to the edge of the bed, and she tenderly applied petroleum jelly to his face.
“You’ve just been working too hard, Mr. R.”
Royce flexed his blistered hand through the shaft of morning sunlight streaming in through his office window.
“I just want to put last night behind me,” he told Tony over the phone.
“I understand. I’ll call the DA’s office. It shouldn’t be a big deal.”
“I just…well. Just want it over. I guess I have been working too hard.”
“Maybe you and Les should get away for awhile.”
“Bad time. The holidays. Home and hearth and all that.”
“Well, if you decide to, Craig can stay with us for a few days.”
“We talking about the same Craig?”
“Cut him some slack, Royce. His only crime is being eight years old.”
“And coming from a broken home.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call your situation a broken home.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence—and the offer. I mean it.”
“Sure.”
“And one more thing, Tony.”
“What’s that?”
“You got to keep me out of trouble.”
Tony chuckled. “I’ll do my best, bud.”
When Royce put down the phone he saw Brenda come into his office and close the door behind her.
“Whew,” she said, waving her hand like a fan.
“Problem?”
“Some women don’t understand the subtleties of wearing perfume.”
Royce nervously eyeballed his desk calendar. It would be like him, in his present mood, to forget an appointment. But the calendar was blank this morning.
Brenda arched a judgmental eyebrow.
“A Ms. Monica Pleshette to see you. Said she had a ten o’clock.”
Royce scowled. “I don’t know any Monica Pleshette. At least I don’t think I do.” Suddenly he felt exhausted.
“Apparently a referral from Gary Ames at Carrollton Banks. Shall I see if I can get him for you? Find what this is about?”
He rubbed his eyes. “I guess you better.” Then it struck him.
Her!
“No, show her in.”
Royce smelled the woman’s presence a good thirty seconds before her arrival in his office. Standing, he summoned all his psychological strength to present an image of crisp charm and professional competence.
“Monica Pleshette,” she said, sweeping into the room and extending the slender fingers of her right hand. Her sharp, enameled nails poked his right palm.
“Royce McCulloch,” he said, shaking her hand. He gestured her to the chair across from his desk. “Please.”
She sat down, crossing shapely, black-stockinged legs with a whoosh whoosh sound of silk. The way her startlingly blue eyes now gazed at him made him tilt his chair back slightly. His chin dropped and he made brief eye contact with her rather ample bosom, where a cream-colored silk blouse, unbuttoned alluringly low, had parted to afford a tease of nude brassiere cups and fat curves of snowy white, freckled cleavage. His eyes recognized the female pulchritude as familiar territory.
“Yes,” he said lamely, clearing the frog from his throat. Smiling lamely, he made his eyes stay on her face. Already her perfume had quite overpowered his tiny office with its cloying heat.
She beamed. “Congratulations.”
“Congratulations?”
“Looks like you’ve managed to get some sun. I wish I could. I feel so cold lately. Brrrr.” She briskly rubbed her hands together.
He touched his face. “Oh, this? Just a run in with an old furnace, I’m afraid.”
She frowned. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“No,” he assured her. He offered her coffee, which she declined.
Awkward silence followed. The woman’s presence was making him increasingly uneasy. Not only attractive, she exuded “class,” which showed in her grooming. Her auburn hair was stylishly coifed, lustrous, but with a hint of the untamed in the presence of an electrifying cockscomb that often
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