“I won’t. Right away.” Her voice held a sensuous lilt.
Shayne hung up, shaking his red head slowly. Women! He marveled. By God, they were wonderful. Talk about resiliency! Here was a dame, whose estranged husband and current lover had both died violent deaths, practically in her arms within the space of twelve hours, making a fast date with a new man whom she had encountered by accident.
Picking up the two glasses in one hand and the cognac bottle in the other, he carried them to the kitchenette where he squeezed a cupful of lemon juice and poured it into a cocktail shaker. He then added an equal amount of Cointreau and two cups of cognac, filled the shaker almost to the top with ice cubes, screwed the lid on, and went back to the living-room shaking it lazily.
He set the shaker on the desk, got two champagne glasses to place beside it, frowned at the arrangement of chairs, and moved his own a little. He then pushed another comfortable chair so that Nora Carrol’s knees would be practically touching his when they were seated. He turned on a floor lamp with indirect lighting, switched off the bright desk lamp, and was giving the sidecars a few extra shakes when he heard high heels coming up the hall. He went to the door and opened it.
Nora Carrol was bareheaded and wore a blue traveling-suit, simple in style, that revealed her curves. Her brown hair was brushed back from her flushed face, and she looked older than when he first saw her. Her dark eyes met his steadily and her lips parted in a diffident smile.
Shayne knew he could kiss her if he wished. This fleeting moment was the one in which the tone of their meeting would be established.
He put out one hand and touched her lightly between the shoulder blades, and a faint pressure brought her a step forward and into the curve of his arm. Her lips were cool and only slightly parted, but she made no attempt to withdraw them from the insistent and increasing pressure of his. She lifted her right hand and trailed finger tips across his cheek.
He released her then, and she stepped away from the circle of his arm at once, lowering her lashes, and saying with sharply indrawn breath, “I didn’t mean that. I don’t know what you’ll think of me.”
Shayne grinned and closed the door. “Exactly what I was thinking before you came,” he assured her. “That you’re pretty damned terrific.” He took her arm and led her to the chair facing his, unscrewed the cap from the frosted shaker, and poured the champagne glasses full. He handed one to her and held the other high. “Here’s to the wrong key,” he said buoyantly, “may you use it often.”
Her color deepened slightly, but she drank to the toast.