“Right. Just what you want in a receptionist,” Tony said. Miss Rutabaga?
“Looking at what they publish, can’t say I blame her.” Hansen grimaced.
“Right-wingers?” BT had assumed a casual slump against a gritty wall, but his eyes, sparking with excitement, gave him away.
“Every kind of wingers,” Hansen said dryly. “Right, left, North, South, and cross dimensional.”
“Oh.” BT smiled. “Crazy.”
Understatement plus. Tony turned back to Junior. There’d been something in his voice about the receptionist.
“Ms. Tortorich is interesting, is she?”
Junior flushed rapidly and with plenty of color. “She’s…well…” He made an hourglass in the air, the universal sign of a well-built woman.
“I see.” Tony arched a brow at Hansen.
Hansen shot Tony a look. “Not as dumb as she acts.”
If it were anyone bu
