She flushed—and damn prettily, Larry Woolford decided. She could be an attractive item if it wasn't for obviously getting her kicks out of being individualistic.
Larry said suddenly, “Look, promise like a good girl not to make us conspicuous and I'll take you to the Swank Room for dinner tonight.”
“Is that where all the bright young men currently have to be seen once or twice a week?” she snapped back at him. “Get lost, Larry. Being a healthy, normal woman I'm interested in men, but not necessarily in walking status-symbols.”
It was his turn to flush, and, he decided wryly, he probably didn't do it as prettily as she did.
On his way to his office, he wondered why the Boss kept her on. Classically, a secretary-receptionist should have every pore in place, but in her time LaVerne Polk must have caused more than one bureaucratic eyebrow to raise. Efficiency was probably the answer; the Boss couldn't afford to let her go.
Larry Woolford's office wasn't much more than a cubicle. He sat down at the desk and banged a drawer or two open and closed. He liked the work, liked the department, but theoretically he still had several days of vacation and hated to get back into routine.
Had he known it, this was hardly going to be routine.
He flicked the phone finally and asked for an outline. He dialed three numbers before getting his subject. The phone screen remained blank.
“Hans?” he said. “Lawrence Woolford.”
The Teutonic accent was heavy, the voice bluff. “Ah, Larry! you need some assistance to make your vacation? Perhaps a sinister, exotic young lady, complete with long cigarette holder?”