The scent of her Arpège reached my office before she did. The snappy click-click-click of what could only be stiletto heels making contact with the marble floor echoed throughout the hall. I pictured a shapely calf in fishnets.
The door to my office opened and snapped closed and I realized beads of sweat had formed under the brim of my fedora. My curiosity was not the only thing to be aroused. I played nonchalant and didn’t immediately look up while my index fingers did a slow foxtrot across my trusty Underwood.
“One minute. Just gotta finish this up” I said while staring at the paper in my typewriter. She did not respond and I sensed her walking to the other side of the room to look out the window. This gave me the opportunity to size up my unannounced visitor. I kept pecking away at the keys, pretending to be typing, while taking in the view.
Just as I thought, this dame was some looker; she could have been Lana Turner’s twin! My eyes traveled down to her shoes. Small feet nestled in black open-toed heels. A trim ankle leading up to a gorgeous pair of gams in black fishnets. A pencil-straight skirt of grey wool hugged a shapely rear, heightening my currently aroused state. A wide belt around her black jacket was cinched tightly, accentuating her tiny waist. She wore black leather gloves giving her an edgy, almost dangerous look in contrast to the graceful form of her long porcelain neck. Her profile was elegant: a regal chin, a delicate nose, high cheekbones. Her hair was her crowning glory – light blonde with a few pins holding the top in place while the bottom fell loosely around her shoulders.
I imagined what it would be like to remove the pins from her hair and run my fingers through those golden locks. I wanted to hold her face in my hands and kiss her mouth, her chin, her neck. I sat back in my chair and pushed my hat high on my forehead. I was a million miles away.
When she turned to face me, it was only then that I realized I had stopped typing. I wondered how long she knew I had been staring at her. She struck me as the type of dame accustomed to having men stare at her. Slowly she walked to my desk, her eyes never leaving mine. I removed my hat and gingerly placed it over my crotch. She glanced at my hat, gave a small throaty chuckle, then looked at me with hooded eyes, her burgundy-colored lips slightly parted.
She ran her finger seductively around the top of the crystal whiskey decanter on my desk. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asked with a voice like blue velvet. I motioned for her to help herself and she poured a drink. She took a sip and slowly began to open her purse. I instinctively pressed my arm against my Colt .45; it was secure in the shoulder holster under my left arm. To my relief, she withdrew a silver cigarette case; it would have been a shame if I had to end the night abruptly. She selected a Pall Mall and held it to her lips.
“Light me” was all she said. I reached up, lit her cigarette, then lit one for myself. We smoked in silence for a minute, then she spoke again.
“We need to have a talk, Mr. Logan, a very discreet discussion about my husband and his secretary. Are you interested?”
“Oh, yes. I’m very interested. Let’s talk over a couple of thick steaks and a bottle of bourbon.”
She took a long drag on her cigarette. “I know the perfect place, Mr. Logan. Follow me.” She turned and headed for the door, her body swaying like an unhurried wave lapping the shore.
“Baby, I’d follow you into the jaws of hell” I thought to myself as I grabbed my hat and switched off the light.
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