“…it was in a movie. Maybe there’s something in one of the closets upstairs that might be a little bit less, um…”
“Vintage?” she suggested, the twinkle returning to her eyes.
“That, too.” Sam stepped away from the sink, blaming the current spike in his temperature on all that humidity from the hot rinse water. “Come on. Let’s have a look.”
Sam leaned against the wall outside his mother’s bedroom, listening to the distinctive sounds of a woman dressing and undressing, to the slide of hangers across a metal rod, the slithering of fabrics over skin, the puttings on and the peelings off, the snapping of snaps and the long glide of zippers opening and closing.
When he’d suggested that Laura might find something to wear in his late mother’s closet, he hadn’t expected her search to take so long, much less to take on the proportions of a Broadway production number. He needed to get back to the city to set up his surveillance.
“Are you about done in there?” he asked through the crack in the door.
“Just about,” Laura called out, her voice slightly muffled by what sounded like crisp taffeta. “How long ago did you say your mother passed away?”
“Last year.” He heard more rustling, more zipping or unzipping before she spoke again.
“White Shoulders,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“Her fragrance. She wore White Shoulders, didn’t she?”
Did she? Sam didn’t have a clue, and he said so just as Laura suddenly appeared in the doorway.
“Some detective you are,” she said, coming out into the hall while adjusting the shoulders and the neckline of her dress, which, to Sam’s amazement, just happened to be the same, skimpy blue velvet getup she’d been wearing all day.
“I thought you were going to change,” he said. “What happened? Didn’t anything fit?”
“Just about everything fit.”
“Well, what then?”
She was quiet a moment, standing with her hands on her hips and staring down at the floor. Then she sighed and gave a small shrug. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, Sam, when I tell you. Promise me you won’t, okay?”
“The wrong idea? About what?” he snapped.
“Don’t be so angry.”
“I’m not angry,” he said, sounding more baffled now than angry. “I’ve just been hanging out here listening to you try on enough outfits to clothe the female population of a small city. And then, after all that, you come out in…” He stabbed a finger at her dress. “…in this.”
“This,” she said, jutting her chin into his face, “doesn’t smell like White Shoulders.”
“So?”
“So?” Her volume increased to match, if not drown out, his. “So, if it’s all right with you, Sam Zachary, I just didn’t want to smell like your mother.”
She flounced past him to stomp down the stairs, as much as anyone could stomp in stiletto heels, leaving Sam standing there shaking his head and wondering why it made any difference who she smelled like when he had no intention of getting close enough to tell.
And even if he did get close enough, say, to kiss her, there was no way he was ever going to confuse Laura McNeal with his mother.
Chapter 3
It was good to be back in the city, Laura thought. Well, sort of. If you didn’t mind climbing six flights of smelly, littered stairs in a dark abandoned building, then camping out on a scratchy army blanket flung out on a hot, tarred roof where shards of broken liquor bottles glittered in the summer moonlight.
She wasn’t complaining, though. Not out loud, anyway. Not even when her heels had stuck fast and deep in soft tar bubbles and Sam Zachary had to pick her up and carry her across the roof and then go back to retrieve her captured shoes. She didn’t complain aloud even when the army blanket beneath her began to feel as if it was deliberately clawing at the backs of her thighs and calves. Not even when she decided she was about to die of thirst.
Eyeing the big canvas bag that Sam had brought with him and parked on a corner of the blanket, she asked, “You don’t happen to have a can of soda or a water bottle in there, do you?”
He was sitting beside her as he had been for the past hour or so, knees drawn up, arms looped casually over them, and his gaze trained permanently on the cement maze of the parking garage next door. “Sorry.”
Laura made a dry little noise deep in her throat, then ran her fingers through the damp locks of her hair, wondering vaguely if she might be able to lick some of that moisture from her hands. “It must be ninety degrees up here,” she said, hoping he’d take the not-so-subtle hint.
“Probably.”
“Definitely.” Laura shifted on the blanket, letting it take a bite out of her right thigh now that it had pretty much chewed up her left.
Now, too late, she wished that she had changed into one of Sam’s mother’s outfits, regardless of their ingrained fragrance. Maybe the light blue pincord suit with its boxy jacket and long A-line skirt. Or maybe the navy piqué dress with the delicate lace collar. Both had fit her perfectly.
But, while she was trying on the garments, Laura had come to the conclusion that his mother’s lingering scent would only make Sam sad, and she had decided that she’d rather keep looking inappropriate, if not bizarre, than cause this man a single moment of heartache. He had such a nice smile. Well, when he wasn’t frowning.
She glanced over at him. In the moonlight his expression seemed neutral at the moment, neither happy nor sad. Just patient. As patient as a stone. He reminded her of the Sphinx, which reminded her of the desert, which reminded her of just how thirsty she was.
“I’d kill for a big, tall glass of iced tea,” she said, trying not to whine, but following up her words with a pathetic little moan she couldn’t suppress. “I guess you just forgot to bring anything to drink, huh?”
“I didn’t forget,” he said, still staring at the garage.
Laura immediately perked up. “Oh. You brought something, then?”
“No.”
“But you said…”
“I said I didn’t forget.” His gaze cut toward her briefly before returning to the garage where the suspects’ cars, a big silver boat of a Cadillac and a spiffy little red Toyota, were parked affectionately side by side. The vehicles hadn’t moved, Laura noted glumly. Nor had the garage. Nor Sam.
What a crummy, boring occupation. She was seriously beginning to wonder if she’d made a mistake choosing Zachary, S. U. to protect her. In spite of his incredibly muscular build and sensational tan, he didn’t strike her as a man of action exactly, or as all that smart and well prepared. If he had known they’d be spending half the night on a red-hot rooftop,
