"Oh," she murmured into the phone, snapping her eyes shut for a moment.
"Hello? Can I help you?" the phone voice repeated.
She placed the phone back on its cradle and breathed a fatigued sigh. She would have to make no decision now. He had decided for her. And it was the right decision. Clutching her robe tightly around her, she got to her feet and went to the closed door. All at once she halted, remembering that she had not showered or even brushed her hair. But her greatest negligence during her temporary invalidation was that she had even let her hands go unconditioned. And ungloved. She leaned closer to the drawn curtains.
"Jean-Pierre?"
"Greta. Yes." The shadow of his head leaned closer, just inches away. "Open the door."
"Jean-Pierre. I can't. I look just awful," she said. "You can't see me like this. I've been so upset. In bed for two days."
"Greta," he crooned softly. "You did not call me yesterday. Nor today. I have been waiting, but could wait no longer. I thought Matthew may have come home early, so I sat nearby and watched for a while. I know he is not here. Let me in, Greta."
The thought of Jean-Pierre sitting in his bedroom, or just outside the gate, watching for signs of Matthew being home made her feel suddenly roguish and sexy. Desired.
"Jean-Pierre, it's been so awful staying here. I wanted to come see you, but I could not bring myself to do it."
"I am here. I brought you something. Now let me in," he commanded, his voice much louder.