Bluer Than Velvet

скачать книгу бесплатно


Sam Zachary spoke the exact words, at that exact moment, in the same frustrated tone of voice. A quick little grin telegraphed across his lips before he stiffened them again.

“I really do need some help,” Laura said quietly, looking down while she traced a beaded daisy on her handbag, not daring to look at him because she didn’t know whether or not she was going to dissolve into tears again. For someone who had barely shed a tear in the past decade, she was certainly making up for it now.

“I know,” he answered just as quietly. “That’s why I’m taking you someplace where you’ll be safe.”

Safe. That was all she wanted to be just then. Safe from rotten Artie Hammerman.

Laura tilted her head back and closed her eyes, one of which had begun to throb painfully. Maybe it was all her fault. Maybe if she hadn’t accepted Artie’s first, surprising gift, none of this would have happened. But nobody had given her flowers since her senior prom, and suddenly, three weeks ago, there was her landlord’s bullnecked, muscle-bound son, dressed in a checked suit with foot wide lapels and a tie as wide as the Mississippi River, angling a huge box of long-stemmed, deep red American Beauties through the front door of her shop.

“Oh, Artie,” she’d exclaimed. “For me? They’re beautiful. But why?”

Her next mistake was accepting his dopey shrug and big gooey smile as a satisfactory answer.

Then came the candy. She didn’t even know they made heart-shaped boxes that big! Or bottles of Chanel No. 5 that were so enormous they had to be picked up with two hands.

After the perfume arrived, she got nervous and put in a call to the Hammer himself. But Art Hammerman, Sr., had brushed off her concerns about his son.

“Don’t worry about it,” he’d told her in that Don Corleone voice of his. “Indulge the kid.”

But then the car came. A white convertible with red leather seats and the biggest red bow that Laura had ever seen. That had been early this morning, just before Artie knelt before her and opened the little hinged purple box with the big diamond ring nestled inside it.

Then, when she told him he had to take it back, Artie had pushed her, then pulled her, then finally punched her, all the while bellowing “If I can’t have you, Laura, then nobody else can, either.”

Well, nobody else wanted her. But that wasn’t exactly the point. And nobody, by God, had ever hit her. Ever.

“What’d I do wrong?” she muttered now, dragging her fingers through her hair. “I really, really don’t deserve this.”

“People rarely do, Miss McNeal.”

She’d almost forgotten that Zachary, S. U. was sitting barely two feet away, his eyes safely glued to the road, his hands at a steady ten and two on the wheel. “Excuse me?”

“I said people rarely get what they deserve. Good, bad or indifferent.”

Great, Laura thought. He was a philosopher, too.

“Well, they should,” she answered irritably.

They were crossing the two-lane Tri-County Bridge just then. The river glittered below in the summer sun. Laura looked back. The steel-and-glass towers of the city were diminishing fast. Ahead of them, on both sides of the ribbon of road, stretched green fields, broken only by an occasional farmhouse and a dull red barn.

It suddenly occurred to Laura that it might be prudent to ask Sam Zachary just where he was taking her. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. What if she had escaped rotten Artie Hammerman only to be abducted by a guy who sat in a crummy little office just waiting for innocent victims to come along? What if the S really stood for Serial, as in killer?

Laura swallowed hard. Then the U was obviously for Uh-oh.

She glanced to her left. Sam Zachary didn’t look like a sociopath or a menace to society. He didn’t even look dangerous. He looked…well…sincere. Even sweet. All this despite the fact that he also looked strong as an ox.

His thigh muscles bunched just under the faded denim of his jeans. His navy polo shirt curved across a barrel of a chest and the short sleeves showed off his tanned, muscular arms. The sweetness, though, was in the little upward curve of his mouth and the deep crinkles at the outer corners of his eyes. Actually, he was a very good-looking man.

But so was Ted Bundy.

“Do you have a license or anything?” she asked, breaking their silence.

Those lips tilted up a little bit more. “Good time to ask.” He shifted in the seat, stretching out a long left leg, and produced a worn leather wallet from his back pocket.

“Here,” he said, tossing it onto her lap.

Laura breathed a little easier after she opened it and saw not only his driver’s license but a pretty official-looking license from the State Board of Private Investigators. Zachary, Samuel Ulysses was thirty-three, six foot three, and weighed two hundred and fifteen pounds. She already knew he had medium brown hair, although the card failed to mention that it was slightly sun-streaked, and that his brown eyes held an incredible warmth while they crinkled at the corners.

“Satisfied?” he asked, holding out an open hand for the return of his wallet.

Laura closed it and plopped it in his palm. “I guess so.” Relieved was more like it, she thought. “Now I should probably ask where you’re taking me.”

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than he slowed the truck and hit the turn signal. “We’re almost there,” he said, turning the big Blazer left onto a shaded and narrow gravel road.

Laura’s first thought was that this was probably the rural equivalent of a dark, deserted alley, that proverbial place where you never wanted to meet anybody, but before she was able to feel properly hysterical, she found herself quite overwhelmed by the beauty of the scene.

Big trees along both sides of the road formed a green, sun-dappled canopy high overhead, and through the trees to her right Laura could see a pasture brightly carpeted with wildflowers where horses and cows were grazing contentedly. A white wooden fence ran along the edge of the road, and birds—blue ones and red ones and black ones with red-spotted wings—perched atop every other fence post as if they’d been hired by a landscaper for decorating duty.

“This is lovely,” she said, opening the window all the way and sticking her head out to take in a deep breath of the fresh, clean country air. “I haven’t been out here in years. I’m pretty much a city girl.”

She sighed as she edged down the hemline that had crept several inches up her thigh when she leaned out the window, and just for good measure she gave her bodice an upward tug. “You can probably tell.”

“I can tell.” Now he swung the car into another, narrower canopied lane, then put on the brakes in front of one of the most enchanting Victorian houses that Laura had ever seen.

It was two stories of pristine white clapboard and dark green shutters, of spooled archways and gingerbread eaves, all of it nestled into a deep wraparound porch. There was a porch swing with dark green cushions. Oh, and a trellis fairly groaning with bright yellow roses in the sideyard, and not too far from that a wonderful blue gazing ball that mirrored the entire, incredible scene.

“Oh, this is just absolutely gorgeous! I love it!” Laura exclaimed. “What is it? A bed and breakfast?”

“Nope.” Sam Zachary turned off the ignition and plucked out the key. “It’s home,” he said. “Come on.”

Sam went into the kitchen after doing a quick inspection of the rest of the house. The important rooms—the living room, guest room, and both baths—looked fairly decent, much to his relief. It had been a while since he’d had anybody in to clean. Although why he was worrying about Laura Mc-Neal’s first impression of his house was beyond him.

On the drive from the city, he’d pretty well concluded that she was a hooker. She had to be. Nobody else would dress that way in the middle of the day. Nobody else would dress that way period.

He’d left her on the porch swing, happy as a three-year-old, smiling while she pushed the big wooden swing back and forth with the pointed toes of her impossibly high, rhinestone-studded heels. She struck him as unusually carefree for a working girl who was obviously out of work for the duration.

Unless she thought that he…

Sam had just opened the refrigerator door, but now he slammed it shut. He must be nuts, bringing this woman here. It had seemed so obvious, so perfect. An ideal hideout where he could keep a casual watch out for her while carrying on with his own life. What was he thinking?

Shaking his head, he opened the door again and grabbed two cans of diet cola. She was still blissfully swinging when he walked out on the porch. Fine host that he was, he popped the tab on her cola before he handed it to her.

“We need to talk, Miss McNeal. We need to get a few things clear.” He slung a hip up on the porch rail, staring down at her, blatantly ignoring her long shapely legs and world-class ankles. “It is Miss, isn’t it?”

“Why don’t you just call me Laura?”

“Okay, Laura. But that still doesn’t answer my question. Are you single? Married?”

“Single,” she replied, and Sam felt a sudden, inexplicable, almost goofy sense of relief. He immediately relegated it to the fact that he didn’t like working domestic disputes which tended to be ugly if not downright dangerous. 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.