Bimbo Eyes

By Downing Street

The nerve of that man! The pure, unadulterated gall. Carol paced back and forth in the back office, seething. How dare he tell her how to dress! “No more pants in the office please, Ms Dexler,” he said, in that annoyingly proper voice. So bloody self-righteous. “I do not consider pants to be appropriate office attire for a professional woman. Skirts only, please, from now on.” Carol threw back her long black hair and made a face. Skirts only? Forgodsake, which millennium did he thinks this was? She almost never wore skirts. Outside of the office she lived in blue jeans. Was she supposed to abandon a closet-full of pants for some patronizing, outmoded dress code? Carol had almost told him off right then and there. She didn’t like the man, or this job, very much. “Office Administrator” for a psychologist sounded impressive, but Carol knew she was just a glorified receptionist. So she got to manage the files. Big deal. She should have told him where to put it.
There was something in the way he looked at her when he spoke. Dr. Rapport was an imposing figure. His square, movie-star face had the deepest, darkest eyes she had ever seen. When he scowled at her, his black brows frowned over those eyes, as if they had been scorched by the fire that smouldered inside them. She found herself looking directly into his eyes when he did that, drawn downward into their unplumbable depths.


Fortsetzung siehe: Bimbo Eyes