She looked at him with a straight, unwinking gaze. Her mouth quivered, then shut tight, lips compressed. The flush that had tinged her creamy skin faded into a pallor on which tiny freckles stood out across the bridge of her nose in pin-points of tan. She tried to withdraw her hand. Rod's grip tightened.
"No," he said. "You can't get away."
"Don't be silly," she whispered. "I hate sentimental men."
"Am I?"
"Well, you're manifesting symptoms."
The color came back to her face with a rush.
"Perhaps you're right."
Rod's fingers relaxed. The words that hovered on the tip of his tongue failed of utterance. Sentimental. It was like cold water on him. He had rather prided himself on his freedom from sentimental episodes.
"Yes, perhaps you're right," he repeated. "I'd have been asking you to marry me in another breath. I have a mind to propose formally, just to see how ruthlessly you would turn me down."
"The ruthless turn-down would come from another source—not from me," she answered somberly.