Mr. College-Prep-School-Dimple-In-The-Chin-Not-Lenny-Fucking-Bradshaw stared at her with those big soft eyes. She batted her eyelashes at him—it still hurt—and said, “Hi, Lenny. Come on inside.”

He hesitated only a couple of seconds, giving her exposed legs a wide glance. She locked all three deadbolts behind him, making sure he got a good view of her butt.

“Uh, Velvet, I didn’t know you’d be—”

“No, of course you didn’t. I told you about Robby, didn’t I? You must have come by to see her, not me.” She kept smiling. “Have a seat.”

He did, perching uneasily in the magenta chair. She offered coffee. He refused. She sucked on what was left in her cup—cool, getting cold—and watched him watch her. Little prick. Lying little sonofabitch.

“When’s my story coming out?” she asked. He shrugged.

“Editors. You know.”

“Uh-huh. So, what’d you want to talk to Robby about?”

“What you told me. The man she saw.” He took his eyes off her thighs long enough to give the apartment a quick glance. “So, is she here? Can I talk to her?”

“Gosh, Lenny, I’m real sorry but she’s out. Working. So, how’s the newspaper business?” She crossed her legs, slowly. He swallowed hard.

“Good. Since I’m here, do you, um, have anything you want to tell me? Anything new?”

“Cash,” she said. He dug in a pocket and laid a hundred on the coffee table. “Keep coming.”

He stopped at two hundred, and not even uncrossing her legs could make him go to three. She sat up, grabbed the money, and stuffed it in her panties.

“Sorry you had to skip the table dance, but I’ll make it worth your time.” She gave him a wicked toothy grin and made sure she could make it to the kitchen and Robby’s knife rack before she said, “You want more information, read about it in the papers.”

Lenny’s college-boy face smoothed out. The dimple looked like a special effect.

Funny how fast those eyes could cool off.

“Pardon?” he said softly. She put both feet flat on the floor and leaned forward, ready to run. “I’m, sorry, I don’t understand.”

“No? How about this one—I lost your number, Lenny or whatever-your-name-is. So I called the Big D Gazette. You don’t look anything like Lenny Bradshaw.”

She expected some babble of lies and apology, but he just sat there, watching her, quiet. She didn’t like the calculating look on his face. There wasn’t any more of the college boy; this guy looked old now, older than she did, fine lines of wrinkles around his eyes that she guessed didn’t come from smiling.

“But, hey, whatever, no skin off my nose—” she continued.

“What did you tell him?”

“Who?”

“Bradshaw. At the Big D Gazette.”