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they weren’t liking what they saw.
    I said, “I work out of San Francisco, not in it. Lately I’ve been in the hot country.” I waited for him to toss another challenge.
    He didn’t. He merely looked past me at Toby, turned on his heel and marched himself out of sight. I said, “What’s with him?”
    “He’s been on the go since seven o’clock this morning,” she said. “He’s tired.”
    “He sounded more suspicious than tired,” I said.
    Her lips tightened. “The door’s open,” she said in a whisper. Her tone suggested that I was the next thing to an idiot.
    She rose abruptly. “I’ll introduce you to the others.”
    I said, “You had something more to say to me?”
    “Later,” she said. “And please be careful when we’re together.”
    She was more nervous than the setup warranted, it seemed to me. Her door might be open, but the other doors in the hall were closed. And it was empty. The racket from the machines behind the glass wall was enough to drown out our words five feet from where we stood.
    I just said, “Lead me to the slaughter.”
    “What is that supposed to mean?”
    She was the kind of person that made me want to shock her, to take some of the tight, disapproving expression from her face. I said, “I hear the boss lady has terrific knees.”
    She said with cold savagery, “Bonita is terrific all over. Ask any able-bodied male in Ramiera.”
    I didn’t answer that one. Bitchiness is one thing I can’t match. Like most men, I just pull back into my shell when it’s thrown at me.
    I followed Toby Jessup down the hall to the door with the gold leaf on the frosted glass panel. She knocked briefly. A voice that was cool and brisk, yet somehow warm and exciting at the same time, said, “It’s unlocked.”
    Toby opened the door. I looked over her head. A woman was framed in the entrance to another office. She wasn’t just standing. There was too much regality to her for that. I didn’t think she was the type who would just stand or sit or lie down—or do any of the things we commoners do.
    I began to understand Toby Jessup’s bitchiness. I could feel the impact of Bonita Jessup before she ever lifted her head and touched me with her eyes. And once she did that, I was gone. In orbit, far, far out.
    I remembered to close my mouth as Toby Jessup said formally, “Mrs. Jessup, this is Mr. Brogan.” She went through her routine.
    Bonita Jessup detached herself from the doorway and floated toward me. She was as tall as the redhead, but she wasn’t quite so streamlined. She was what old-fashioned novels
called
a full-blown woman.
    She was a brunette. Her eyes were dark and sooty behind cheek-brushing lashes. Her nose was high-bridged, almost Spanish in its arrogance. Her mouth had all the languorous warmth of a tropical night.
    She wore her dark hair in a soft bun at the nape of her neck. She had poured her figure into a white suit that on any other woman would have looked ridiculous. But on her it was the right thing. When she moved, I saw that she didn’t have to bind herself into a foundation to make the suit look good. What moved under the jacket and skirt was all uninhibited Bonita.
    She said in that cool-warm voice, “I hope you can help us with our problem, Mr. Brogan.” She put out a hand. I took it.
    I had a brief moment of dreaming of all the problems I would like to help her with. Then I came back to reality and said that I hoped so too.
    She gave her hand a tug. I opened my fingers and let it float away from me. I couldn’t remember regretting the loss of anything quite so much.
    She said, “Did you plan an itinerary for Mr. Brogan, Toby?”
    “I wasn’t expecting him until tomorrow,” Toby said.
    I could feel the antagonism between them. It wasn’t the same type Toby and Rod Gorman shared. That had had a male versus female touch to it; this was pure female on both sides.
    Bonita said, “In that case, why don’t I brief Mr. Brogan tonight? You can plan to take