She stared up at him with exasperation. “Mr. Banks, you write down the make and model of the printer and you ask for them at the store. You’ll need a color one and a black ink one. In fact, you can take the print cartridges themselves and show them to the salesperson.”

He stared at the printer, cocking his head. “And how do you get them out of there?” he asked heavily.

“It opens, somewhere.”

“I could open it,” he muttered, with his hand on his .45 automatic.

“You’ll hurt its feelings and then it will shut down,” she cautioned.

“Oh, come on!”

“Machines have feelings,” she said, bending over to look for the switch that opened the cartridge port. “I tell my computer all the time how sweet and useful it is, and it never breaks down.” She found the catch. “And I never threaten to shoot it,” she added with an accusing glance.

“That doesn’t mean much when you can’t even shoot a gun, Clancey,” he returned.

“I can shoot a .38,” she said absently while she coaxed the cartridges out of the printer.

He frowned. He was watching her. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. The sweatshirt was loose, but the jeans were nicely fitting, and she had long legs and a very curvy bottom. He caught himself staring and immediately averted his eyes when she stood up. She had the cartridges in her hand.

“Oh darn, they’re leaking,” she groaned. She went to get some paper towels off the roll she kept in the bathroom, while he stood and did math in his head to unlock his rigid body. He couldn’t imagine why Clancey aroused him. He was self-conscious and a little inhibited. She was Brenda’s age, much too young for him. If he’d been thinking along those lines, which he assured himself he wasn’t.

He relaxed, finally, as she returned with the cartridges wrapped in paper towels in a plastic bag she’d found.

“Where did you learn to shoot a gun?” he asked curiously.

“My grandfather taught me about big guys, but Cal taught me how to shoot a pistol,” she said. “He took me out to the firing range and let me practice.” She winced. “It made my hands so sore. He said I had to learn to fire with either hand, like the FBI teaches you.”

He scowled. “Why did he teach you?”