She kissed him, then sat back and lighted another cigarette.
“Let’s start packing,” Frelaine said. “I want—”
“Wait,” Janet interrupted. “You haven’t asked if I love you.”
“What?”
She was still smiling, and the cigarette lighter was pointed at him. In the bottom of it was a black hole. A hole just large enough for a.38 caliber bullet.
“Don’t kid around,” he objected, getting to his feet.
“I’m not being funny, darling,” she said.
* * *
In a fraction of a second, Frelaine had time to wonder how he could ever have thought she was not much over twenty. Looking at her now —really looking at her—he knew she couldn’t be much less than thirty. Every minute of her strained, tense existence showed on her face.
“I don’t love you, Stanton,” she said very softly, the cigarette lighter poised.