Sigrid turned back to his photograph and idly wondered what type of woman he did prefer. Silver hair notwithstanding, she rather doubted if there had been a lessening of his vitality in that particular area any more than in his art. Those hands, for instance… sturdy, square-shaped workman's hands, powerful enough to shape and mold yet capable of delicacy and precision. Of gentle, lyrical touch…
Sigrid sat bolt upright and slammed the folder shut, her cheeks suddenly stained by a blush more crimson than her exotic robe. Oscar Nauman was old enough to be her father!
Dismayed at herself, she went into the kitchen to make a cup of hot chocolate; and while the milk heated, she spilled the little squares of red paper onto her white counter top and began sorting the tones. The milk boiled over, was turned off and grew cold as she struggled with the problem of arranging the squares in nine equal steps. The girl student had been right: twelve steps were rather easy. But nine evaded her.
She poured the curdled milk down the drain and washed the pan, then switched off all the lights and went to bed.
And found herself right back at square one, wondering if Oscar Nauman slept alone tonight.
What the devil had got into her?
She buried her head under a pillow, blocked out every undisciplined thought and put herself firmly to sleep by a concentrated listing of all fifty states in alphabetical order.
12
ALTHOUGH not a morning person, Sigrid usually awoke before her alarm went off, so when a ringing penetrated her sleep next morning, her first response as she fumbled for the cutoff button was a drowsy surprise that she'd overslept.
The ringing continued. Was cataloged as doorbell, not clock.
Sigrid groped for her robe and stumbled bare-footed through her apartment to the door, then after a startled glance through the peephole, undid the latch.
Upon her threshold stood Oscar Nauman, indecently wide awake and as bright as the dawn sunlight edging in through her east windows. Thick white hair still damp from his morning shower, freshly shaven and smelling of good German cologne, he wore dark chinos and pale blue turtleneck shirt; he also looked disgustingly like a man who's just played two vigorous sets of tennis or jogged five miles. Sigrid's first impulse was to close the door again and go back to bed.
"Do you know what time it is?" she asked crossly.
He consulted a thin gold watch. "Five-thirty-eight. I assume you have to be at work by seven, so that leaves us an hour for a nice leisurely breakfast." He waved a small grocery bag. "I brought jam and eggs for a strawberry omelet."
The idea of eggs that early in the morning-to say nothing of eggs with jam on them-was so repulsive that Sigrid stepped back involuntarily.
Nauman interpreted that as an invitation and breezed past her toward the kitchen. Sigrid followed, protesting, "I don't have to check in till eight, and I never eat breakfast."
"That I can believe," he said, rummaging in her refrigerator. He'd never seen one so bare in a woman's kitchen. The top shelf held orange juice, a pound can of coffee and a quart of milk that would be sour by tomorrow. There were a couple of cheeses, a stick of butter, a loaf of whole-wheat bread, peanut butter, mayonnaise, three brown bananas and a head of wilted lettuce turning brown at the stalk. Nothing more.
Incredulously he opened cupboard doors and found a toaster, two saucepans, one skillet, a half-dozen cans of soup, cocoa mix, three cans of tuna and a box of crackers. Salt, pepper and sugar completed her staples.
"Soup's all you ever cook?"
"And grilled cheese. That's a balanced enough meal. I suppose you fix yourself a four course dinner every night?"
"What happens when someone drops in for a meal?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"No one with any manners 'drops in,'" Sigrid said acidly. "They wait for an invitation, and then I take them to a proper restaurant." She picked up a percolator from the counter behind him, rinsed it and filled it with cold water, then measured coffee into the basket. Morning sunlight caught the shiny beads and mirrors of her robe so that with every movement of her slender arms and hands, tiny rainbows of prismed sunlight flashed and coruscated on the surfaces all around her.
Nauman was enchanted. His artist's eyes moved from the fugitive, darting colors to their source, then widened as he really saw her: narrow feet bare on the tile floor, the boy-slim body made graceful by the clinging red robe, the tilt of her head that sent long dark hair swinging as she plugged in the percolator.
In an exuberance of delight at the picture she made, he turned her to him, lifted her chin with his strong fingers and placed an impromptu kiss on her startled lips.
He'd meant nothing more serious than his usual homage to unexpected beauty; but as she tried to pull away, something made him tighten his hold and kiss her again. She wrenched herself from his arms, gray eyes blazing with anger as she searched for the cutting insult.
"You- You must be at least sixty!"
"Which still makes me thirty years younger than you!" he retorted. The thought made him grin unrepentantly. "Never kissed an older woman before, but it's experience worth repeating."
She glared at him, speechless as he moved toward her purposefully, then fled from the sunlit kitchen, taking all the rainbows with her. A moment later and her bedroom door banged shut. Thoughtfully Nauman broke eggs into a bowl and began beating them with a fork.
She doesn't know she's a woman, he decided at last, and found that the thought both disturbed and intrigued him.
Sigrid leaned against her closed door and drew a deep steadying breath as the clink of metal upon glass reached her ears. Mind and reason warred with unfamiliar, muddled emotions as she stripped and headed for her bath. She turned the shower on full, and jets of water streamed down upon her body until the convulsive turmoil was sluiced away and her equanimity was almost restored. Then the bathroom door opened, and she heard Nauman's voice above the water.
"Your coffee, Lieutenant."
"Will you get the hell out of here?" she cried angrily.
He was gone when she turned off the water and peered around the curtain, but she snapped the door bolt anyhow before toweling herself dry.
The coffee that he'd left on the lavatory was more welcome than she wanted to admit, and she took a big swallow, then tackled her damp hair. A few minutes sufficed to plait it into a thick braid and secure it at the nape of her neck, and usually she didn't bother to wipe off the steam-fogged mirror. Today she polished it clear and examined herself closely to make sure every hair was pinned in place. She noticed that her cheeks were flushed an unaccustomed pink and splashed cold water on them until the color subsided.
Another prudent look from the doorway revealed that her bedroom was also empty, so Sigrid crossed the fern green carpet to her open closet. Normally she would have worn the next dark pantsuit in line, a dull gray with another white silk shirt like yesterday's; but nothing was normal this morning, and she flipped past it, finding nothing in her closet to fit her unsettled mood until she reached the far end of the rack where she kept what she called her Carolina wardrobe.
From time out of mind all Lattimore females (if one could believe her grandmother) had been captivating fillies who left a trail of broken hearts behind them on their single-minded trek to the altar. All had made brilliant matches to the most eligible bachelors of their seasons, and it was bad taste for Sigrid to remark on the ones that had ended in divorce. After all, what sort of marriage did she expect to make? Such an unfeminine career, police work. Interesting, no doubt, but didn't one have to guard against becoming coarsened? Thus, Grandmother Lattimore.