Bluer Than Velvet. Mary Mcbride

People who loved each other could be the very worst of enemies.

      “So you’re not trying to get away from an angry husband, then, I guess.”

      “No.”

      Sam sighed. He felt more like a dentist pulling teeth than a P.I. eliciting details from a client. “Who, then?”

      “A man.”

      He stared out at the yard a moment, courting patience, taking a break from the sight of her lovely legs. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific, Miss, uh, Laura,” he finally said, “if you want me to help you with this situation.”

      “A man who wants to marry me even though he barely knows me.”

      Okay. So she wasn’t running away from her pimp. That still didn’t mean she wasn’t a hooker. One of her johns got emotionally involved no doubt. Somehow that didn’t surprise Sam. Laura McNeal was a beautiful woman. She had a face like an angel and a body custom-designed for sin. His own body, as a matter of fact, was acutely aware of hers at the moment. He took a swig from the soda can in the hope of cooling off.

      “This man,” he said. “He’s a john, I assume.”

      “No,” she answered, after a quick, confused blink. “He’s an Artie.”

      Then it was Sam’s turn to blink. “Excuse me?”

      She kicked off one shoe, then the other, and tucked about six miles of slender leg beneath her. “The man who hit me, the one who wants to marry me, is named Artie.”

      “I meant, is he one of your customers?”

      She shook her head, frowning. “No. Artie’s never…” Then her velvety blue eyes sparked with sudden comprehension. “That kind of john!” she exclaimed. “You think I’m a…a prostitute?”

      “Well, I… You know.” He gestured to her minuscule dress and the discarded shoes. “The clothes and all.”

      The swing started to rock back and forth with her laughter. “Oh, Sam. That is so funny. You thought I was a prostitute!”

      He glowered now, feeling foolish, not to mention pretty inept in the deductive reasoning department, and nearly shouted, “Well, why the hell else would you wear a getup like that?”

      “Because I own a vintage clothing store, that’s why.”

      Sam thought she might have ended with “you idiot” but he wasn’t sure because, laughing as hard as she was, Laura could hardly get the words out clearly.

      “This…” She touched the skimpy skirt of the dress. “…is because I was trying on some new merchandise when Artie showed up this morning. Then, after he hit me, I was out of there. I didn’t take time to change.”

      “That was smart,” he said, hoping the praise would make her forget that he’d insulted her.

      “Not smart so much as scared. Especially when he said, ‘If I can’t have you, then nobody else will, either.”’

      Sam didn’t like the sound of that one bit, but he didn’t want to frighten this woman more than she already was. “And you think he means it?”

      “I know he means it.” She touched her bruised eye, wincing slightly. “Oh, boy, does he mean it.”

      “Artie what? What’s this creep’s last name?”

      For an instant, she looked blank. Then her lips compressed and her gaze cut away from his for the briefest moment before coming back. “Jones,” she said. “The creep’s name is Artie Jones.”

      Sam nodded and murmured, “Okay,” then took a long and thoughtful sip of his cola, all the while wondering why this woman felt compelled to lie to him—and badly, too—about her assailant’s name. And if that was a lie, he wondered just how much else about Laura McNeal he should allow himself to believe.

      Chapter 2

      Oh, good one, Laura!

      Jones! She felt like smacking the heel of her hand to her forehead. If she intended to make up a different surname for Artie, couldn’t she at least have come up with something a little bit more original? Jones! She might as well have said Smith. The only thing the fake name had going for it was that she’d probably be able to remember it if Sam Zachary asked her again.

      He probably would, too. She was sure of that. The private investigator had gone a little thin-lipped and slit-eyed when she’d answered his question, but there was no way on earth she was going to tell him the truth when the mere mention of the name Hammerman tended to make people sweat and develop uncontrollable tics. Even people as big as Sam Zachary.

      For every one of his reputable businesses, Art “the Hammer” Hammerman probably had two or three disreputable ones. He was a landlord whose buildings often inexplicably burned down. He was a land developer whose notion of eminent domain included threats, poisoning family pets, and if necessary a well-aimed rifle shot through a kitchen window. A labor leader who had an endless supply of thugs to do his bidding and just enough cops and judges so he never got caught, or if caught, he certainly never went to jail.

      But worst of all right now in Laura’s view, the Hammer had a son who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

      She was following Sam into the house now after he’d told her it would be a good idea if she stayed here at least for a day or two until he could come up with a more suitable plan. That had sounded reasonable to Laura. She was even relaxing a bit, having come to the conclusion that if Sam had intended to assault and rape her, the man had already had ample opportunity and hadn’t made even a remotely devious or lecherous move. At least none that she was aware of.

      Anyway, she wanted to stay.

      The inside of the house turned out to be even more inviting than the exterior. The ancient hardwood floors had been lovingly cared for. So had the lace curtains at the windows, although they did look as if they could use a quick little dip in some bleach. There was a Victorian sofa with a carved mahogany back and fabulous claw feet, which was heaped with at least a dozen plump tapestry and needlepoint pillows into which Laura could’ve done an immediate swan dive.

      Everywhere she looked were wonderful knickknacks and gewgaws and bits of kitsch. They sat on shelves, on crocheted doilies atop tables, on the antique what-not in the corner. Paperweights and porcelain figures. Vases and glass animals and Kewpie dolls. They marched across the mantel and formed chorus lines on all the windowsills. It was a collector’s paradise.

      “I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Laura heard herself saying. “Look at all this magnificent stuff!”

      Sam, with one foot already on the bottom step of a staircase, came to a standstill, then slowly turned to face her. “What? All this junk?”

      “It’s not junk,” she said, almost indignantly. “What a marvelous place. It’s like living in…”

      He snorted, interrupting her. “Secondhand Charlie’s Garage and Used Furniture Outlet.”

      Laura shook her head. “No.” Her voice sounded disembodied, almost dreamy, even to her. “No, it’s like living in my Nana’s house. It’s perfect.”

      “Perfect,” he muttered. “You’re kidding, right?”

      She shook her head again. “It’s wonderful, Sam. How long have you lived here?”

      “All my life.”

      Edging back one sheer lacy curtain, Laura lifted a small white pot of violets from the sill and inspected its five, no, six deep purple blooms. She had a sudden vision of her grandmother’s fingers, stiff with arthritis and freckled with age, poking into the soil below the dark, velvety leaves of African violets. She could almost hear Nana’s chirpy voice. Don’t let their little feet dry out, Laura, honey.

      Only then did she notice that there was moisture in the