The ice cold nude

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I always figured blondes, like brunettes, were mostly a sometime thing; while redheads, being invariably skinny, were mostly a no-time thing. One swift glance at this redhead made me realize the sheer stupidity of all generalizations. The tight fit of her demure black silk dress against the arrogant thrust of her high-riding breasts was proof positive. Brother! If she was skinny, I was from outer space yet.

“The name is Boyd,” I confided with an approving grin, “Danny Boyd, from Boyd Enterprises, New York City.” My head turned automatically—a fraction to the left, then a fraction to the right—so she got the full impact of the profile both coming and going. It was the absolute treatment because I figured she deserved it; just one sid^-of the profile alone is mostly more than enough to reduce a healthy bouncing blonde to sobbing tears of frustration.

Somehow it produced no reaction at all from the mag-nificendy built redhead. There was merely a questioning look in her tawny eyes as she returned stare for stare. I guessed she was myopic for sure, and just too damned proud to wear cheaters.

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