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Morgan detected genuine self-reproach in his voice this time and was instantly stung by pangs of guilt. She hadn’t really cared about all the insults he’d heaped on her—and, as for the bad language, she knew seven-year-olds who could have taught him a thing or two. She couldn’t even fuel her indignation at his sexual presumption, since it seemed that he hadn’t meant to make a pass at all.
‘Of course I don’t care about this afternoon,’ she said, and impulsively, without giving herself time to think about it, she put one hand behind his neck to pull his head forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
This time the shock ran through her mouth and the tips of her fingers. She stepped back in confusion, as if he could actually tell what she felt—but surely she wasn’t that transparent?—and said hastily, trying to cover up with a joke, ‘Anyway I suppose it’s a compliment in a way. I mean, you did say I should sell my body in Hollywood. But perhaps you say that to all the girls.’
‘Only if they’ve got the figure for it,’ he said instantly. She’d already worked out that flirting came as naturally to him as breathing, but in spite of his smile there was a look in his eyes which she didn’t like—the keen, probing look of someone confronting a problem that did not make sense. ‘It’s sweet of you to put my mind at rest, Morgan,’ he said in the slow, drawling voice which was used to such devastating effect on Firing Line. ‘And I’m naturally glad to hear I haven’t mortally wounded you. But if you didn’t mind about this afternoon, why the hell have you been avoiding me?’
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