He kissed her lips, saying gruffly, “You’re not the lucky type, angel. You look so damned alluring in black I’m not going to give you an opportunity to wear it.” He settled a limp felt firmly on his red hair and strode down the hall.

Neat black lettering on the opaque glass upper portion of the door said: Arnold Thrip-Realty Investments-Enter.

Michael Shayne turned the knob and went in. An impressive outer office met his eye. A third of the large room was railed off as a waiting sector, complete with a thick rug, chromium and red-leather chairs, shining ash trays accurately spaced.

Beyond the polished mahogany railing three girl typists presented their backs to him, heads bowed over clacking machines. At his left an up-and-coming blonde was speaking into a rubber mouthpiece suspended from her neck; she frowned and made a notation on a pad, then favored Shayne with an aloof but interested glance.

Shayne lifted shaggy red brows and let the door close softly behind him. Two long-legged strides took him across the deep carpet to the railing. He dragged off his hat and asked, “Is Mr. Thrip in?”

The blonde did a quick job of sizing him up. Rough tweeds hung loosely on a body that was too lean for his wide shoulders. Sunlight from open, west windows made a flame of his hair. His features were rugged with prominent cheekbones and deep hollows. A too-wide mouth and humorous lights in his deep-set gray eyes belied the severity of his square jaw. He was not a typical Thrip client, but then you never could tell in Miami.

She poked a crimson-tipped finger at a button in the small desk in front of her and asked briskly, “The name, please.”

“Shayne. Mr. Thrip is expecting me.” The blonde nipped the button over and nodded to Shayne. “You’re to go right in.” She inclined her head toward a closed door marked: Private. He nodded and went into Arnold Thrip’s inner office.