Roger thought he should be able to deal with anything. He worked in public relations, after all. He prided himself on facing crises.
“I told you not to move,” the man in the trench coat reiterated. The man’s voice was almost theatrically gruff. Roger might have found this whole thing funny if the man had not been waving such a large gun in Roger’s direction. And he had been waving that gun for an awfully long time. Some crises, Roger reflected, were worse than others.
Perhaps if he worked in public relations out in the business world, rather than in a cloistered university setting, he might be better able to cope with a gun. Still, he didn’t think guns showed up in the world of business public relations either. At least, not very often.
The whole thing had, of course, begun with Delores. Ah, Delores! Just thinking of her slim form and long, blond hair, her full lips, her eyes as blue as the Caribbean, Roger wanted to swoon.
He stopped himself immediately. Swooning, as far as Roger knew, was a form of moving. The man with the gun was not too keen on moving. He had mentioned this to Roger, many times. Could something go on this long and still be considered a crisis?
“Oh, Roger,” Delores had said in her husky voice, as distinctive in its way as the voice of the man with the trench coat. Then Delores had kissed him—the kind of kiss that starts on the lips but somehow manages to work its way down to the toes. “My Roger,” she had said as she tousled his sandy brown hair, and with those words, he had known his fate was sealed. He was “her Roger,” and he knew what happened when Delores really wanted something. After all, if she hadn’t attacked that vending machine, he never would have met her in the first place.
