Tom sat at the table next to his heater, wearing a pair of silk-fleeced drawers and a hole-ridden flannel shirt halfway buttoned. He might not have cared about flashy suits, but he did like his underwear to feel good cupped against him. As for the shirt, he'd thrown on his old favorite. The fabric had worn so thin in places, a few spots had frayed. A rag rug might have gotten better use out of the flannel, but Tom figured it needed a little more breaking in before somebody else stepped on it.

With bare feet tucked on the chair spindle beneath him, he drank coffee while reading the current issue of American Hunter's Journal.

Mulling over the possibilities, Tom scratched his fingertips across the stubble roughing his jaw. What kind of greenhorn would rub himself with cow shit? Not to mention, any fool could go to a pasture and pick up patties for free.

Now, chasing deers while they were they were doing the dicky-diddle was a whole different story. Could be this deer pee would sell for him. The concept was imaginative enough to attract a customer's attention.

As he made a mental note to order a dozen bottles, a knock sounded on the door. Shay usually came by about now to share a cup of coffee.

"Door's open," Tom called, thumbing through the journal, his gaze skimming the article heading on carbine kicks.

The knock repeated. One, two, three. Delicate-like, yet pressing. Barkly let go with a choppy snore from his sleeping spot by the bureau. The hound lay sprawled out on a bearskin rug.

Tom caught the bottom of the curtain and pulled the faded cotton away from the window. From his place at the table, he couldn't see who stood on the landing.

Rising, he went to the door and opened it.

Give him a thousand guesses, and he would never have gotten one right. "Jesus . . ."

Edwina Huntington—put together in uncompromising fashion, from the top of her nutty hat—this one had a wide wreath of abundant foliage—to the toes of her shoes—these with big black bows on them.

He'd known she would find him and tell him about the paint, but he'd never figured she'd come to his apartment. Once again, her actions didn't add up to the external image.

"Miss Huntington," he remarked in a mock surprised tone.

She said nothing. Her mouth had gone agape. Her pupils were dilated and her eyes were wide. She gazed at him for quite a long time—something he didn't mind once he saw what she was looking at.

His half-open shirt revealed his chest covered with crisp brown hair. Though he didn't go around sizing himself up, he thought he was pretty muscular and broad in the shoulders. She obviously found something interesting about the body she was gawking at.

Lowering her eyes a fraction, her gaze fell on his drawers. Their cut fit him fairly snugly. Though the crotch area half-obscured by the hem of his shirt, what part of him did show was obviously defined.

A stain of red in her cheeks heightened her color. The depths of her bright eyes sent strong sexual suggestions to his brain, ones that probably would have keeled her over if she could read his mind. It amazed him that someone as socially restricted as her could have such an affect on him. He knew better than to fall in lust with her type. But somewhere in those almond-shaped eyes, he could almost see a different woman. And she didn't have a shy demeanor.

Not helping matters, he appreciated her perfectly shaped breasts and trim waistline outlined by the tightly fitted bodice. With his examining gaze, he reversed the tables. She balked.

"Mr. Wolcott," she murmured, her eyes darting to his face. "Mr. Wolcott. I . . . that is . . . you . . ."

With her trying to avoid staring at the more intimate parts of his body, he felt the heat pour out of the room. Irritated with himself for letting the situation play out of hand, he complained, "The cold air is coming in. Step inside so I can close the door."

She peered at him as if instead he'd just said, Take off those clothes so I can ravish you. "No, I couldn't."

"Then I'll come outside."

"No! You can't. Somebody might see us talking up here."

"Then come in."

"But—"

With a swift motion, he caught her by the elbow and reeled her in like a catfish before she could protest. The door slammed her gasp, leaving it outside on the landing. Barkly opened one eye, barked once, then ignored them.

"Mr. Wolcott, this is highly improper," Edwina squeaked, keeping her back as close to the door as humanly possibly without going through the wood.

"I'd say your coming here is more so." He padded to the table to retrieve his coffee cup for a sip. Feigning censure, he declared, "Miss Huntington, I'm shocked. A woman of your untarnished reputation coming to a man's apartment. I thought you had better sense."

A spark of pique lit her eyes; her chin tilted in a way that could only be called saucy. Difficult as it might have been to bring around, he had gotten the other Edwina Huntington to show her face. This woman had spunk and verve. He found her a lot more amusing than the closed-up version. "Well, I wouldn't have had to come if the confounded police had been in their office."

His brow arched with the appropriate concern. "What about the police?"

"Well, my goodness, gracious me—never in my born days . . ." A perfumed hankie was brought out from the cuff of her sleeve and lifted to her nose. After a few dabs, she stuck the handkerchief back; then she checked the row of buttons on her gloves.

The refinement had slipped neatly back into place. He grew disappointed.

"What about the police?" he repeated.

"I went to report a vandalized property—our building. It's been seized upon by ruffians."

"What did they do?"

"Why, they've defaced your side with red paint."

"No."

"Yes!"

"Bastards."

"Mr. Wolcott, please guard yourself against uttering such vulgarisms in my company." Her outrage let him know on distinct terms his profanity had affronted her feminine ears.

"Unlike you, Miss Huntington, I habitually use vulgarisms when the moment is appropriate. And I'd say this is a pretty appropriate moment." He set his coffee cup back on the table. "Some lowdown bastards just left their red signature on my half of the building."

"I understand your upset, Mr. Wolcott. Truly. Why, if it had been my side— which fortunately it wasn't—I'd be very distressed. That's why I went to the police to report the incident in the hopes the culprits were still close at hand and could be apprehended. Posthaste." Edwina took a step from the door. "But the arms of the law have seen fit to take up other arms."

"What are you getting at?"

"They've had the gall to close up and go quail hunting."

Tom found it increasingly difficult to keep a straight face. "Quail hunting, you say?"

"Yes!"

"Bastards."

"Yes!" Her soft lips twitched, then she bit the bottom one. "I mean .. ."

"You are forgiven, Miss Huntington. This is a desperate situation." He put his hand out to her, laying it on the small of her back and steering her toward the door. "I'm going to have to ask you to wait outside while I get dressed. Then we'll go over to the building together and see what can be done."

The door opened, and Edwina tripped over the threshold to stand on the landing. Facing her, he couldn't resist saying, "Red? They used red?"

"Vermillion," she replied, seriousness etched into the furrows of her forehead. He shook his head, as if thoroughly disgusted. "I'll be ready in a minute."

Once the door had been clicked into place, Tom stifled the laughter roaring up his throat. --© 1997

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