The knock again, more loudly now.
She looked outside. The silhouette crouched.
"Woodside Police emergency services. Can I help you?"
"Greta?" His raspy French accent from the terrace.
"Oh," she murmured into the phone, snapping her eyes shut for a
moment.
"Hello? Can I help you?" the phone voice repeated.
She placed the phone back on its cradle and breathed a fatigued
sigh. She would have to make no decision now. He had decided for
her. And it was the right decision. Clutching her robe tightly
around her, she got to her feet and went to the closed door. All
at once she halted, remembering that she had not showered or even
brushed her hair. But her greatest negligence during her
temporary invalidation was that she had even let her hands go
unconditioned. And ungloved. She leaned closer to the drawn
curtains.
"Jean-Pierre?"
"Greta. Yes." The shadow of his head leaned closer, just inches
away. "Open the door."
"Jean-Pierre. I can't. I look just awful," she said. "You can't
see me like this. I've been so upset. In bed for two days."
"Greta," he crooned softly. "You did not call me yesterday. Nor
today. I have been waiting, but could wait no longer. I thought
Matthew may have come home early, so I sat nearby and watched for
a while. I know he is not here. Let me in, Greta."
The thought of Jean-Pierre sitting in his bedroom, or just
outside the gate, watching for signs of Matthew being home made
her feel suddenly roguish and sexy.
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