"You must have been rather sure that I would come!" Inge von Tresmarck called from the door.
He turned to look at her.
"The last thing I expected you to do was come," he said, truthfully.
"But you are glad to see me?"
"Delighted," he lied.
She walked to the bed and sat down on it. She laid her hand on the maga-zines.
"You really didn't expect me, did you?"
"No. What about your husband?"
"I don't think we have to worry about him," Inge said. "Not this afternoon, anyway. They went right in Werner's study and closed the door."
"They may have already opened the door and are wondering where you are."
"I'm shopping," she said. "Where else would I be?"
"Your husband looked at me strangely at the airport."
"Werner looks that way at every good-looking young man," she said.
There was a knock at the door.
"Oh, you were expecting someone," Inge said petulantly. "Not me. But someone''
"That's probably my beer."
"Your beer?"
"I ordered beer."
"Well, let him in, and order champagne," she said. "I don't drink beer. Don't you remember?"
She stood up and walked to the bathroom.
"Come!" Peter ordered.
A waiter entered carrying three bottles of beer in an ice-filled silver cooler.
"I've changed my mind," Peter said. "What I really need is a bottle of champagne. Is that going to cause any problem?"
"No, Se¤or," the waiter said, and walked to the desk, taking from it a leather-bound wine list. He opened it and handed it to Peter.
Over the waiter's shoulder, Peter could see Inge in the bathroom. Smiling naughtily, she was working her skirt down over her hips.
He didn't recognize one name among the twenty different champagnes on the list. He ordered by price, selecting one twice as expensive as the cheapest listed, but considerably cheaper than the most expensive.
Inge ducked behind the bathroom door a split second before the waiter turned to leave. When she heard the door close, she reappeared, now naked, posing in the door with her hand on her hip.
He felt a stirring in his groin.
She is a good-looking woman. And it is apparently true that a stiff prick has no conscience.
"Please tell me you don't think I'm fat," she said.