"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.