Before she
could say anything, his mouth was on hers. She struggled out of
his grip and fixed her shoulders squarely against the door.
"What is this - what the hell is going on here, Jean-Pierre? I
don't like the way this looks."
He considered her with some amusement, gave her his sexy look.
"What the hell's so funny?" she said. He touched his finger to
her little horseshoe charm and her breath caught and held, and
she felt at once like she wanted to hit him and kiss him.
"You are, Greta. You are overreacting," he said, leaning closer.
He kissed the charm, his breath hot on her throat, then lower.
His touch was distorting whatever semblance of perspective she
had - she was so confused. She shook herself from him and pressed
him back with both fists. "Wait. Stop. Just what do you expect me
to think? One minute that little bitch is sucking tuna fish off
my husband's fingers, the next she's traipsing out your front
door!"
"I don't expect you to think what you're thinking," he said
calmly. Too calm, she was beginning to see, to be guilty.
"But Jean-Pierre," Greta said, still not sure, "why haven't you
told me about her?"
He shrugged. "What is there to tell?" He took her wrists in his
hands. "Do you really think she and I are something?"
"She's very pretty," Greta said. "And very young."
"Not as beautiful as you are to me," he said, kissing away the
creases on her forehead.
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