Page 17 of Open Season

“That’s it. You should do this regularly, at least every six months.”

“You’re good at this.”

“I’ve had to do it a lot since we got the virtual library,” she said wryly.

He sat down beside her; too close, of course. She inched her chair away. “You know your way around computers.”

“Not really. I know how to do this, but I had to learn. I can find my way around on the Web, I can hook up a system and load programs, but I’m not a computer geek or anything.”

“City hall isn’t even on-line. Water bills and payroll are computerized, but that’s it.”

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as he watched the screen, as if he could hurry the process.

“The police department is, though, isn’t it? Aren’t you hooked up with all those police networks?”

He grunted. “Yeah. One line, one computer.” He looked disgusted.

“Hillsboro is a small town,” she pointed out. “The budget isn’t very big. On the other hand, our crime rate is low.” She paused, suddenly unsure. “Isn’t it?”

“Low enough. There hasn’t been a murder in the city limits since I’ve been here. We have the usual burglaries and assaults, drunk driving, domestic troubles.”

She would have loved to ask him who was having domestic trouble, but bit her tongue. He just might tell her, and then she’d tell her mother and Aunt Jo, and feel bad about gossiping.

Had he moved closer? She hadn’t seen him do so, but she could feel his body heat, and smell him. What was it about men that made them smell different from women? Testosterone? More body hair? It wasn’t an unpleasant smell; in fact, it was tantalizing. But it was different, as if he were an alien species. And he was definitely too darn close.

She had had enough. “You’re crowding me,” she pointed out, very politely.

Without moving, he glanced down; their chairs were separated by at least an inch. “I’m not touching you,” he said just as politely.

“I didn’t say you were touching me; I said you’re too close.”

He rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh, but hitched his chair another inch away. “Is this some other weird southern rule?”

“You’re in law enforcement; you’re supposed to have studied body language. Isn’t that how you intimidate suspects, by invading their personal space?”

“No, I generally use a nine millimeter for intimidation purposes. Not much chance of missing the signal that way.”

Oh, and wasn’t that macho? He was such a typical man, bragging about the size of his weapon. She barely refrained from rolling her eyes, but he’d just done that and she didn’t want to be a copycat.

A typical man . . . The conversation last night with her mother and Aunt Jo echoed in her mind, and a thought tickled her, but she pushed it away. No, she didn’t want to get into that kind of discussion with him. She just wanted his browser to finish upgrading so he would go away—

“Do you know what color mauve is?” she blurted, the words leaping from her tongue before she could stop them.

The effect on him was almost electric. He jerked back, eyeing her as if she had suddenly sprouted fangs and tentacles. “What makes you ask?” he said warily.

“I just want to know.” She paused. “Well, do you?”

“What makes you think I’d know?”

“I don’t. I’m just asking.”

“It sounds like one of those tests women use to find out if a man’s gay or not. Why don’t you just ask, if you’re interested?”

“I’m not,” she said, appalled that he might think she was. “It’s just that someone else—never mind.” She was blushing. She knew she was; her face felt hot. She stared very hard at the computer screen, trying to will the thing to go faster.

He scrubbed a rough hand over his short hair. “Pink,” he mumbled.

“What?”

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