A Match Made in Hell

by Terri Garey

  "More?" Evan arched a brow. "Greedy little guts, aren't you?"

  "I cheated on Joe."

  "What? Tell me you did no such thing!" Evan crushed the silk scarf he was holding against his chest, clearly worried I had. "Joe adores you!"

  I opened my mouth to explain, but Evan wasn't done.

  "It was that blond himbo at the Vortex, wasn't it? I saw the looks shooting between you two."

  I shook my head, partly to clear a tickle of pleasure at the memory. "Only in my mind, Evan, not in person. I haven't slept with anyone else."

  Evan made an impatient noise.

  I rushed to finish my little confession. "But I was thinking about the guy at the Vortex while Joe and I were… you know."

  "Oh, so what? You were thinking about another man while you were making hot monkey love with your smokin' hot doctor." Evan let his opinion be known with an exasperated wave of the scarf. "What's the big deal?" He adjusted Jean's mink collar, muttering, "You just about gave me a heart attack. For heaven's sake, why didn't you just say you'd been fantasizing about some guy instead of making it seem like you'd done something nasty?"

  I reached out to snatch the scarf, belting it around Jean's waist. "Because it's been bothering me. I didn't expect it." I thought about what I was trying to say, and the words were out before I knew it. "I love Joe."

  Evan's irritation vanished. "I knew it."

  "You think you know everything."

  "I do know everything."

  "Yeah? Well, you love Butch." I had a pretty strong hunch I was right, though Evan hadn't officially said so. His boyfriends didn't usually stick around this long.

  He smiled at me sideways, still fiddling with Jean's outfit. "Yeah, I love the big brute, but I knew that before you did." He gave the corduroy skirt a final twitch, looking smug. "'Cause I know everything."

  My intended comeback was interrupted by the jingle of the front bell. We both glanced toward the door, and there was the guy from the Vortex, coming in to scan the racks.

  "Well, speak of the Devil," Evan murmured.

  A tingle went down my spine—lust, guilt, or surprise, I wasn't sure. Despite my feelings for Joe, I couldn't deny the blond guy was hot.

  Even hotter than I remembered.

  And he was here, in my store.

  He hadn't noticed us in the window yet, or else he was doing a good job pretending he hadn't. I watched as he went straight to the winter coats and started flipping through the racks. A pin-striped trench coat caught his eye and he pulled it out, then put it back, moving on to a navy blue peacoat with jet buttons.

  I had to admire his taste. Either coat would've looked good on him, but the peacoat had more personality.

  "I'll take care of him," Evan said under his breath. "You finish up here."

  "Oh, no, you don't." I'd had enough of the overprotective stuff. I was a big girl, and just because I found a guy attractive didn't mean I had to act on it. "I can handle him."

  Evan shrugged and went back to window dressing. "Exactly what I'm afraid of."

  I ignored Mr. Know-It-All and stepped out of the window alcove, heading for Mr. Eye Candy. He was wearing a bright yellow shirt today, under an old leather bomber with sheepskin lining. His jeans were low on the hips, faded at the pockets and crotch.

  "Can I help you find something?"

  He turned, and his eyes widened. I couldn't help but be glad I'd worn my cutest new find—a candy pink sweater, real angora. Fuzzy pink looked great with gray-black camouflage pants and my favorite Lucchese cowgirl boots, if I did say so myself.

  "I need a new jacket…" he began. There was that killer smile again, and those cheekbones. "Hey, do I know you?"

  He was older around the eyes than I'd first thought, but it didn't hurt his looks one bit. Those tiny crinkles gave him a jaded, worldly-wise expression… very intriguing.

  "You're the girl from the other night, aren't you?" His smile got bigger. "The Black Magic woman."

  He seemed so pleased to see me that I couldn't help but smile back.

  "The Milton man," I said.

  "Wow." He looked me up and down, totally unashamed to be checking me out so openly. "You're even more gorgeous in daylight."

  I'd never seen eyes that color blue on a man before. A Siamese kitten, once, but not a guy. His blond hair was still spiky, but not as stiffly sculpted as he'd worn it at the Vortex. He wore a silver chain around his neck.

  "Thank you." I kept my voice neutral, well aware of Evan's eyes burning into my back. "Looking for some vintage?"

  "You work here?"

  "No. I own the store." I couldn't help the note of pride in my voice. Like my outfit, the store was nothing to be ashamed of. "With my partner, Evan." A nod of my head to Mr. Nosy Pants, who flashed us both a fake smile and pretended like he wasn't listening to every word that was said.

  "Oh yes, your partner and protector." Blondie raised his voice so Evan could hear him clearly. "Loved the dress."

  How he recognized Evan out of drag was beyond me. Probably the overprotective vibe in the air.

  I stifled a laugh at Evan's unimpressed sniff.

  That killer grin was aimed at me again as the guy added, "I can't believe I was lucky enough to run into you again. I mean, what are the odds?"

  He wasn't fooling anybody. "Let me guess," I said.

  "You just happened to be walking down Moreland and saw this store. You decided you were in dire need of a vintage peacoat, and ducked inside." I crossed my arms over my chest, enjoying the feel of angora. "Imagine your surprise when you find the girl you were hitting on at the Vortex Halloween night."

  "Was I hitting on you?" He looked so innocent it was comical. "I had no idea."

  "You know I have a boyfriend. I can sell you a coat, but that's all I've got to offer… the rest is taken."

  He heaved a sigh. "Okay, I get it." The grin reappeared. "Can't blame a guy for tryin'."

  I laughed. "What's your name, Blondie?"

  "Sam," he said. "Sammy, to my friends." He should charge admission for that grin. "Of which I hope you'll be one." He raised his hands in mock defense and added, "Platonically, of course."

  "Sammy." I don't know why, but I'd expected something more provocative, like Spike, or Sting. "My name's Nicki." I hadn't forgotten how he'd known my name at the Vortex, and made a mental note to find out who'd told him.

  "Evan here," Mr. Stick Your Nose Where It Doesn't Belong spoke up from the window alcove. "Evan Owenby."

  "Charmed." Sammy acknowledged Evan with a brief glance, then caught my hand and lifted it to his lips. It was a courtly gesture—very old-fashioned and very unexpected.

  "I'm sure," muttered Evan.

  "Nice to meet you, Nicki," Sammy said, pressing a quick kiss to my knuckles.

  I shot Evan a dirty look, letting my hand linger. Sammy's fingers were firm and his lips were warm. He touched me with the tip of his tongue; it felt like the brush of hot coals. My eyes were drawn to the heavy silver ankh around his neck. An ankh—the ancient Egyptian symbol of life.

  "What time did you say Joe was stopping by, Nicki?" Evan's nagging was getting old.

  "I didn't." I pulled my hand free, keeping my voice light. I turned toward Evan, letting him see the warning in my eyes. He knew me well enough not to ignore it, I hoped. "Don't you have something to do in the back?"

  Faced with a direct hint, he had no choice but to take it or come off as an ass. His chin went up, and so did his high horse, which meant he might not be speaking to me for a while. "Well," was all he said before he disappeared into the back room.

  It was okay. I'd make it up to him by buying lunch.

  "Sorry about that. Evan can be overprotective."

  Sammy had been watching the byplay. Now he said, "You seem like a girl who knows how to handle herself. No reason to be afraid of a guy like me."

  "That's right. No reason." I flashed Sammy a smile and turned to the winter coats. "I had some heart trouble earlier this year. Evan's been actin
g like my mother ever since." Actually, my mom would've been much worse, overprotectively speaking. She'd probably still have me tucked up in bed, watching soap operas and eating homemade stew, even though the heart defect was benign.

  I missed her so much. All this talk about Peaches left me missing Emily Styx even more.

  "Ah. So he does this with everybody." Sammy rubbed the back of his neck. "Here I thought he was worried you wouldn't be able to resist me." He quirked an eyebrow, looking both sexy as hell and extremely hopeful.

  "You're pretty cocky for a guy who's already been turned down twice." I pulled out an aviator jacket, brown leather with quilted lining, and held it up against his chest. Without asking his opinion, I put it back and reached for one with epaulets. "How's that 'Charming Billy' thing working for ya? I take it most girls fall into your arms when you turn it on, hm?"

  Sammy laughed. "True," The twinkle in his eye urged me to join in the joke. "I don't usually have to work this hard. Billy Idol is, after all, a rock-'n'-roll god."

  I flicked him an arch glance. "The other night you called him an 'old punk.'"

  "Yep, I did… because that's what he is." Sammy's shoulder brushed mine as he flipped through the rack. Whatever scent he wore should've been illegal—spicy and masculine, but not overwhelming. "And so am I. An old punk."

  "How old are you?" I was curious—I couldn't help it. I dragged out another trench coat and checked the size.

  "Older than I ever expected to be." Sammy smiled when he said it, but didn't meet my eyes. "Die young, leave a good-looking corpse. That's always sounded pretty good to me."

  Not to me. Particularly now that I knew that death wasn't the end. People should enjoy life while they had it—it could be over so quickly.

  The next forty-five minutes proved my point, because the time was gone before I knew it. Sammy decided he needed an entire new outfit to go with the coat, and I was happy to help, knowing my accountant would be happy, too. I'd be lying to myself if I didn't admit it was a lot more fun dressing a good-looking guy instead of a blank-faced mannequin, particularly a guy who was unafraid of fashion. In the end, I'd sold Sammy not only the peacoat, but a pair of studded bellbottoms from the sixties, a red and black cowboy shirt stiff with embroidery, and a black leather belt with a huge buckle. He threw in some cool T-shirts and a pair of crocodile boots I'd been coveting for myself (too big) and a second pair of Levi's. Evan never made a reappearance, though I knew full well he could see us in the security monitors.

  Not that there was anything to see—Sammy was a perfect gentleman. The only titillating thing to happen was when he came out of the dressing room in an unbuttoned shirt, giving me a glimpse of some fabulous abs.

  Evan's bird's-eye view from the camera meant he'd probably gotten a better look than me, damn him.

  Then I was ringing Sammy up at the register, wondering what his reaction would be to the total. Quality vintage isn't cheap. He didn't bat an eyelash, just whipped out a gold AmEx and leaned on the counter while I swiped it and waited for approval.

  "He doesn't have to know." Sammy rested his chin on a hand. "Your boyfriend, I mean."

  I laughed. "Are you kidding? Joe will be thrilled to hear I sold those cowboy boots."

  "That's not what I meant."

  I knew exactly what he meant, but I wasn't gonna play.

  No matter how much I was tempted.

  "The answer's still no, Sammy."

  The swipe machine was ready, so I turned it for his signature. His hand covered mine before I could blink.

  "Am I just imagining something between us?" His voice was low, his fingers warmly persuasive. He wore heavy silver rings, a thumb ring and two others. "I'd like to get to know you better, Nicki." He squeezed my hand, not letting me pull away. "I'd like to make love to you."

  My body throbbed, bringing a surge of guilt along with a surge of juices. What was it about this guy that made him so sexy? The old Nicki would've jumped his bones in a heartbeat, and worried about guilt and explanations later.

  Those blue eyes were incredible, and he smelled like forbidden fruit—juicy, and just within reach. I could stretch out my hand…

  "Joe would never know," Sammy murmured.

  Joe would never know.

  I snatched away my hand and took a step back.

  Sammy straightened, giving me the rueful grin of a thwarted rock-'n'-roll god. "Okay, okay. I get the message. You're a good girl and I'm a bad boy." He sighed. "Problem is, you don't look like a good girl. I'm sorry. I'll keep my hands to myself."

  He signed on the dotted line while I bagged the last of his clothes, which I handed over with a rueful grin of my own.

  "I'm not normally this good," I said, "and I can't deny I find you… attractive." Sammy's eyebrow arched hopefully. I hardened my heart and locked my knees. "But I love my boyfriend. I'm flattered, really. But I wanna give this monogamy thing a try."

  "Damn," he said softly. There was a wicked glint in his eye, of lust and regret and appreciation. "So Satan, whom repulse met ever, and to shameful silence brought, yet gives not o'er though desperate of success."

  I frowned. It was strange how this guy started quoting the classics whenever he got shot down in flames. "Milton, again? English, please."

  Sammy laughed, and I was struck anew by how dangerously gorgeous he was—how sexy… how clever… how cool. Why wasn't this man on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine?

  "It means you can resist the Devil, but he never gives up. It's better to make a bargain with him while you still have a chance."

  My stomach turned to ice. The last person to urge me to make a deal with the Devil had been Psycho Barbie, and I wasn't fond of the memory.

  He shook his blond head before turning to go. "Ah, women. Why are the good ones always taken?"

  "Are you comparing yourself to the Devil?"

  Sammy paused, one shoulder holding open the shop door. That killer grin had never been more blinding. He winked, and said. "I'm not comparing myself to anyone, sweetheart. If there were any comparisons to be made, I'd be comparing you to your sister. Twins, aren't you?"

  I froze, never having mentioned I even had a sister.

  "Guilt seems to run in your family, doesn't it? Too bad Kelly can't seem to get past that nasty little car accident. Maybe she might be a bit more receptive to a guy who just wants to show her a good time."

  I opened my mouth to ask how he knew Kelly, but he cut me off with a jaunty wave of the hand. "See you around." And he was gone.

  I'm not ashamed to say I now had a serious case of the creeps. I wanted answers, but I didn't want to call him back; it was best if he left, and I didn't want to encourage him. Still, I couldn't help myself—I went to the window to watch him walk away. He got into an old Mustang convertible and drove off down Moreland, his rock-star looks drawing plenty of second glances.

  Who was he?

  Psycho Barbie claimed that "they'd be watching." Was Sammy sent by the Devil to tempt my newfound morals, or was he just a case of incredibly bad timing? And that comment about Kelly—it had almost sounded like a threat. Was I a total paranoid, or just your average nutcase? Who knew?

  I sure as hell didn't.

  "So, do you need to change your panties now?" Evan popped his head into the room. "Or should I break out the bubble bath so you can enjoy the afterglow?"

  I blew out a breath, shaking my head. Anything I might have said was interrupted by the jingle of the bell as the front door opened again.

  "Oh my God, did you meet him?" It was Angela, the performance artist from Findley Square. "What's his name? Is he married?"

  I heard Evan mutter, "Oh, Lord."

  Angela hadn't applied her silver body paint yet. It was almost strange to see her without it. She was tiny and athletic, brown hair in a tight bun.

  "Can you believe a guy like that will be right across the street?"

  "What?" Evan and I spoke at the same time.

  Angela nodded her head. "He bought Indigo, didn'
t you hear?" Clearly pleased by our stunned expressions, Angela kept talking. "Somebody said he's turning it into a music store, vinyls and CDs."

  Indigo was the Jamaican grocery store that used to belong to my friend Caprice. It was the site of some bad mojo, in more ways than one. Caprice had died there, for starters. The touristy little market had been just a cover for Caprice's real line of work—she'd been a powerful "mambo," a voodoo priestess—a fact I unfortunately didn't learn until after she was dead. There was a scary, hidden "voodoo room" in the back of the store.

  "Divinyls, I think he's calling it." Angela was full of information today. Maybe she was the one who'd told Sammy I had a twin sister. "Isn't that a cool name for a music store?"

  The phone rang, and I answered it automatically, though my attention was on the bombshell Angela had just dropped. "Handbags and Gladrags, this is Nicki."

  "Nicki, it's Kelly. I just called Bijou's number in Savannah and spoke to a man named Leonard. He said Bijou's been sick. He invited us to come. In fact, he urged us to come. Bijou was sleeping, but I told Leonard to let her know we were coming."

  "Kelly, I—"

  "She's an old woman, Nicki, and we're all the family she has left. I'll go without you if I need to, but I sure wish you'd go with me." She hesitated, then added, "I'm sorry I was so bitchy to you this morning. I was a little freaked out."

  That made two of us.

  "It's okay," I said. "Don't worry about it." I looked out the window again, staring at the familiar front porch of Indigo, and the steps where Caprice had been murdered.

  Once the scene of a tragedy, those steps were now to be a source of daily unease. Dead people, guilt, weird family obligations—I never meant to look for trouble, yet trouble kept finding me. Why was nothing easy anymore?

  "And whether you believe it or not, I didn't trash the kitchen. I wasn't sleepwalking, either. I think Peaches is trying to communicate with me, and I need to know why."

  "Okay, Kelly." Destiny called, I suppose, and I decided it might be a good idea to take Kelly out of harm's way, at least temporarily. "You win. We'll go to Savannah."