Mary Mcbride - Bluer Than Velvet

Laura said as she traced the rim of her glass with a fingertip. “I thought I had made a big mistake about hiring you. I was even thinking, earlier tonight, about asking you for a refund, and hiring somebody different.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“I know now I didn’t make a mistake. I feel safe with you.”

She wouldn’t have, Sam thought, if she knew the direction in which his mind was tending while his gaze roamed unhindered over her relaxed face and figure. About all that separated him from the thugs he had just taken care of was a willingness to obey the law. That and the fact that they were in a public place. Otherwise…

Otherwise, what, for God’s sake?

Dear Reader,

As the Intimate Moments quarter of our yearlong 20 thanniversary promotion draws to a close, we offer you a month so full of reading excitement, you’ll hardly know where to start. How about with Night Shield, the newest NIGHT TALES title from New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts? As always, Nora delivers characters you’ll never forget and a plot guaranteed to keep you turning the pages. And don’t miss our special NIGHT TALES reissue, also available this month wherever you buy books.

What next? How about Night of No Return, rising star Eileen Wilks’s contribution to our in-line continuity, A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY? This emotional and suspenseful tale will have you on the edge of your seat—and longing for the next book in the series. As an additional treat this month, we offer you an in-line continuation of our extremely popular out-of-series continuity, 36 HOURS. Bestselling author Susan Mallery kicks things off with Cinderella for a Night. You’ll love this book, along with the three Intimate Moments novels—and one stand-alone Christmas anthology—that follow it.

Rounding out the month, we have a new book from Beverly Bird, one of the authors who helped define Intimate Moments in its very first month of publication. She’s joined by Mary McBride and Virginia Kantra, each of whom contributes a top-notch novel to the month.

Next month, look for a special two-in-one volume by Maggie Shayne and Marilyn Pappano, called Who Do You Love? And in November, watch for the debut of our stunning new cover design.

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For my editor

Margaret O’Neill Marbury,

with gratitude and much affection

When it comes to writing romance, Mary McBride is a natural. What else would anyone expect from someone whose parents met on a blind date on Valentine’s Day, and who met her own husband—whose middle name just happens to be Valentine—on February 14, as well?

In addition to her contemporary romances, she has also written eleven historical romances for Harlequin Historicals, most recently Bandera’s Bride, a June 2000 release.

She lives in St. Louis, Missouri, with her husband and two sons. Mary loves to hear from readers. You can write to her c/o P.O. Box 411202, St. Louis, MO 63141.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

“Most people hire a private investigator to find somebody, Miss McNeal. Not the other way around.”

“Well, I’m not most people, Mr. Zachary.”

“Yeah. I can see that.”

What the man could see, Laura McNeal thought as she reversed the upward creep of her hemline and the downward plunge of her bodice, was plenty of cleavage and way too much leg, but she couldn’t help that. There hadn’t been time to change.

What she could see, on the other hand, was a dingy, pea soup-colored room with a scuffed linoleum floor and windows that were so dirty they barely let in more than a ray or two of daylight. Against one wall there was a dented metal filing cabinet. Against the other wall was a calendar with a picture of Rocky and Bullwinkle on top and the wrong month hanging down below.

The place looked more like the Salvation Army furniture annex than an office, and across the big battered desk, slouched a man who didn’t look at all like a tough-as-nails private eye.

Just her luck. She’d been in the market for a German shepherd, rabid if possible, and she’d wound up with a Saint Bernard, instead. She needed Sam Spade, but who did she get? Sam Spoon.

“Mind if I ask how you got my number, Miss McNeal?”

“The phone book,” she said, not adding that out of the dozen or so private investigators listed there, Zachary, S. U. was the very last one she had tried. Her first call that morning had been to Allied Investigators, but when she detailed her immediate problem for the man on the phone, he had made it absolutely clear that his agency didn’t want to be allied with her or her problem.

All the other investigators she had called had been out of their offices, presumably plying their trade, and she had been too desperate to leave a message with a secretary or on an answering machine, too frightened to wait for someone who might or might not return her call.

Then, when she called Zachary, S. U., he answered his own phone. No secretary. That should have set off a little warning bell right then that maybe Zachary, S. U. wasn’t the keenest private eye in town.

Laura remembered wondering what the initials S.U. stood for. Now she came to the unhappy conclusion that they probably stood for Seriously Unqualified. Or Severely Unemployed. Sexual Under-current also came fleetingly to mind, but she immediately dismissed that notion.

“And the shiner?” he asked.

Laura blinked, painfully. “Excuse me?”

“How’d you get the shiner?” He touched a finger to his eye. At the outer corner where the deep, sexy crinkles were. “You know. The black eye.”

She wracked her Suddenly Unprepared brain for an answer that wouldn’t unnerve this last-ditch detective as much as the truth had unnerved the first. If a real investigator didn’t want to have anything to do with her even on the phone, this guy would probably pick her up bodily and throw her out of his office.

“I got it from the man I don’t want to find me so he can do it again,” she said as firmly as she could.

“Did you call the police? File a report?”

Laura just shook her head and tried to look pathetic, even more than she already did, so he wouldn’t ask why she hadn’t called the police. Nobody called the police about Art “the Hammer” Hammerman or his son, Artie, unless they had a particular fondness for black-and-blue or an incredible longing for plastic surgery or—worse—an outright death wish.

“I’d recommend that you do,” he said. “File a report. The sooner the better.”