The Damsel in This Dress (13 page)

He slammed the phone down and blew out a breath. He needed a good night’s sleep, but what he was going to get was a giggling mass of sexuality and a hyperactive Chihuahua with a squeaky toy.

Well, hell, this was the best Saturday night he’d had since Louie the Pimp had gotten his ding-dong stuck in the phone booth down on Third and he’d had to pry him loose or risk losing his best snitch.

While Soldier went to open the door for Mrs. Fionorelli, Betsy got up and turned on the TV. When the maid placed the dog on the floor, he made a beeline for Betsy. Squeals and kisses and hugs filled the air behind him as Soldier gave the gracious maid a tip and a smile, and thanked her for her kindness in watching the mini-Rin Tin Tin.

As he locked the door behind Mrs. Fionorelli, he stood for a moment, simply watching the woman he was to spend a platonic night with.

Betsy set the dog on the floor and raised her eyes to Soldier’s. Slowly, and with great deliberation, she began to remove her sweater.

S
oldier froze. His eyes watered. His heart thundered. Betsy lowered her lashes as she squirmed out of the soft knit, letting it fall onto the bed behind her.

He swallowed, telling himself to look away, to stop her somehow, but he knew that if he touched her, he’d be lost.

His gazed lowered to her breasts. They were round and firm, her skin flawless. The thin lace of her bra skimmed the tops of each breast. Without hardly trying at all, he could make out the pink tips of her nipples.

Soldier’s groin tightened as desire tugged at every nerve in his body.

Ah, hell . . .

In three strides he was across the room, lifting her into his arms, gathering her to his chest. She slid her hands to the nape of his neck and let her fingers play with his hair. Stroking the tight cords of his neck, her feathery touch nearly drove him insane. His erection pressed against his jeans, making him yearn to rub himself against her.

Betsy wriggled closer, so close he could feel the points of her nipples pushing against his chest through the fabric of his shirt. She raised her face to him, her lips slightly parted. He took them.

His kiss was hard, desperate, carnal. Her tongue flicked against his, sparking his desire for her into a wildfire of lust. He slid his hands up her naked waist. Her breasts filled his palms with their warmth and weight. He rubbed his thumbs over her lace-covered nipples until she moaned and rolled her hips against his groin.

God, but he loved touching a woman. And this woman, this particular woman, had curves so tantalizing, he’d wanted to touch her like this from the first moment he’d seen her.

Betsy pushed back from him a little, breaking the kiss. With dreamy eyes, she smiled up at him. “Will you please make love to me?”

She was so sweet, even in her present condition, her question had been tentative, uncertain, shy. Never a siren, but a seductress all the same.

He’d never wanted to make love to a woman so badly in his entire life. But he couldn’t do it.

Tilting her chin up with the tip of his finger, he placed a soft kiss on her lips. “No, honey.”

Her eyes widened. Her lips trembled. “I see.” She lowered her head as her cheeks flushed in obvious embarrassment.

“No, Betsy, you don’t see. I can’t take advantage of you like this. I couldn’t live with myself if I did, and, tomorrow, when you’re sober again, you’d hate me for doing it.”

His assurances didn’t matter. He’d rejected her, and that was all she’d heard. Talk about damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

He left her for a moment to pull the bedcovers down. “Why don’t you put your nightgown on and try to get some sleep. You’re already working the drugs out of your system. Sleep’s the best thing for you. You may feel a little cranky tomorrow.”

Turning to him, she smiled again, her eyes moist, her lips still trembling. “Thank you,” she whispered, and he felt his heart swell in response.

She could get to a man. Son of a bitch. If he weren’t very, very careful, she could get to him, and he was
not
the marrying kind. He would not be the one to give her babies with blue, blue eyes.

As she picked up her nightgown from the bed, Piddle trotted stiffly along at her heels. Entering the bathroom, she closed the door behind her.

For a few minutes there was the rush of tap water, followed by silence. Quietly, then, came the crying. Gentle sobs, soft sniffs, the sounds of a woman coping with hurt.

Soldier fought going to her, pushing open the door, lifting her against him and taking her to bed. He wanted her so damned much, he ached from it. But he didn’t move a muscle.

He didn’t dare.

*  *  *

Betsy didn’t dare move. Her head pounded, her eyes were swollen shut. Her nose was stuffed. She’d been crying, but she couldn’t quite remember why.

All night long she’d had hot, erotic dreams of Soldier, naked and twisted together with her amidst tumbled sheets.

She tried to sit up, but groaned and flopped back down again on the disordered bedding. Her nightgown clung to her damp body and her hair fell into her eyes. Her breasts ached, and she didn’t even want to think about what she was feeling between her legs.

Lust. Flaming, insane, pulse-pounding lust, that’s what it was, and there was no denying it.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

Betsy’s eyes flew open. She turned her head. Soldier. Next to her, grinning at her, his arms sliding around her body. She searched her memory. Did they? Had she? Had he?

In a terrible rush, the evening came back to her. She’d tried to seduce him!

Oh, yes, and he had turned her down, flat.

Dear God. What had she done? How could she ever look him in the eye again? He must think her a pathetic, lonely, homely . . . slut.

“Um,” she murmured. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Where I’m going to lock the door and stay all day long.

“Betsy.” Her name on his lips sounded so perfect. They were in bed together. He was holding her in his arms. He spoke her name softly. But it was not real. It was all a cruel joke. The tears she’d shed last night were nothing compared to the deluge she planned on shedding today. As soon as she could get into the goddamned bathroom!

“Betsy. Look at me.”

“No. Bathroom,” she mumbled against her pillow.

His fingers slid under her chin. Lifting her face out of the depths of the pillow, he said, “Nothing happened last night, but not because I didn’t want it to. I did. You cannot begin to imagine how much I did. I couldn’t do that to you, not under the circumstances.”

“Okay,” she said, her eyes still pinched tightly closed. “Now may I please go?”

He released her and she scurried off the bed, gathering her underwear and clothing as she shuffled across the room, Piddle dancing at her heels.

She looked in the mirror. She groaned. Her face after a crying jag was not a glamorous thing to behold. Her cheeks were red and her eyes swollen nearly shut. Her nose felt like it had cement in it, no air going in, no air going out. Her lips were chapped.

She’d had sex with exactly one guy in her whole life, and it just hadn’t been all that great. She knew it could be so much better. She also knew that Solider McKennitt could prove her theory to within an inch of her life.

But he’d turned her down. Oh, he had been a gentleman about it, but still . . .

After she’d brushed her teeth, showered, and washed her hair, she felt a bit cheerier. When she made a window in the fog on the mirror, her hazy reflection told her she looked better, but her eyes were still swollen. Damn. Why couldn’t she have been born beautiful, vivacious, stunning under any circumstances, gorgeous and hot and desirable. . . .

Why couldn’t she be more like her mother?

After pulling on jeans and a white sweater with a lace collar, she combed her hair. When she exited the bathroom, Soldier was on the phone.

Something was very wrong.

His jaw was set against the grind of his teeth. He was scowling, his features tight. His gaze slid to her, and he gestured for her to sit down.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “No, that’s probably not a good idea. I’m on my way.”

When he hung up, he ran splayed fingers through his hair and hissed out a breath through clenched teeth. “Shit.”

“What?” Betsy held her breath.

Soldier’s voice was rough, angry. “I have bad news, honey.” He searched her eyes as though to see if she was prepared. She said nothing, but waited in grim anticipation.

“They found Kristee Spangler this morning in the park across the street. Dead. Single blow to the head.”

Betsy gasped; she couldn’t help it. Kristee Spangler had been murdered? Somebody she had spoken to only hours before had been
murdered?
She was too stunned to speak.

“I have to leave,” he continued, “but before I do, why don’t I make you some coffee?”

“N-No,” she muttered, her voice a thin, dry wisp of a sound. “No, I’ll make the coffee. You’re a cop. You probably make lousy coffee.”

He tried for a grin, but she could tell it was halfhearted. “Guilty on both counts,” he said. “You’ll be okay while I’m gone. Just keep the door locked and don’t go anywhere. I’ll let Lemsky know you’re here alone so he can keep an eye out.”

From his suitcase, he pulled a shoulder holster, complete with weapon, and strapped it on over his black T-shirt. Betsy swallowed. He looked . . . sexy. Sexy, and terrifying.

Slipping on a black bomber jacket, he moved past her toward the door. With a quick smile, he left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Betsy looked around. The small space seemed so big all of a sudden, so quiet. In the short time she’d known Soldier, she’d gotten used to his presence, his energy, his being a man in her manless world.

She moved toward the sink and began absently fiddling with the coffeepot, trying not to think about where he’d gone, but found everything else had been shoved out of her brain.

Murder.
Kristee Spangler had been murdered. Somehow, her mind just couldn’t accept that reality.

She recalled the distant feeling of familiarity she’d had the first time she saw Kristee with her reddish hair and brown eyes. Her smile had not been a kind one, yet Betsy had felt as though they must have met before. Perhaps at other conferences?

Betsy shook her head. And now the poor woman was dead, and it was all a part of the stalking thing. God, what a nightmare.

As she went through the motions of making coffee, she tried to push down the panic that kept trying to burst to the surface. It was there, deep inside her, urging her to run, to hide, to get as far away as fast as possible.

But where could she go? Without knowing who was responsible for all this, she could turn and run the wrong way, right smack into danger.

“That’s her all right.” Soldier shoved his hands in his pockets and took a deep breath.

The late Kristee Spangler lay facedown in a small pool of thick, black blood. So little bleeding; the blow to her head must have killed her almost instantly.

He addressed Detective Ben Stewart, a short, bald man with bright blue eyes and a keen curiosity. “Any sign of the murder weapon, Ben?”

Stewart shook his head, rubbed his chin. “Medical examiner just got here. We won’t know much until she takes a look. Uniforms are beating the bushes now. Could have been a rock, could have been a baseball bat. Could have been a Vaughan & Bushnell heavy-hitter, double-face sledgehammer with fiberglass handle.”

“Been reading the Sears catalog again?”

“Yeah, we’re remodeling. Guess I’ve got sledgehammers on the brain, no pun intended.”

Soldier gestured in the direction of the dead woman. “How’d you ID her? And how’d you know to call me?”

Ben rubbed his chin again. “No ID. No purse, no nothing. Atherton arrived on scene same time as me, said he recognized her from an incident at the Crowne Plaza last night. Said to call you.” He shrugged. “His wife went into labor, so he had to go. They’re hoping for a boy this time.”

Soldier pulled his coat a little closer around him, hunching his shoulders against a chill blast of wind coming up off the sound. Above him towering trees bent and shivered, their branches swaying against invisible fists of wind.

Several SPD squad cars lined Sixth Avenue, their blue and red lights flashing brightly against the leaden sky. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered near the curb, and uniformed officers were taking statements.

Moving toward the body, he stood over the woman who had sat at his table just last night. She was wearing the same outfit.

The photographer had finished shooting the scene, so Soldier moved closer and crouched beside the body. She was lying prone on the cement walkway as though she’d been struck, flung her arms out in surprise, and fallen in exactly that position to the ground. No muss, no fuss. No footprints around her that he could see. It hadn’t rained so there was no mud. Just a dead woman in a public park in the middle of a huge metropolitan area. Well, he thought on a heavy sigh, maybe the M.E. could find something during autopsy.

He scratched his chin. Why was she killed here? Why not in her room? Perhaps the killer had thought it would make too much noise. Yelling, maybe. People would notice, call Security. He’d be cornered in the room, maybe trapped inside the hotel. And if there was blood on his clothing, people would see it. But in the park, he could make the hit then run in any number of directions. Balanced against the possibility of somebody coming upon them in a public place, Soldier figured there was some logic to that.

Standing, he turned to the uniformed officer nearest him and asked, “Who discovered the body?”

The officer indicated an attractive woman, mid-thirties, slicked-back brown hair, wearing a bright blue jogging outfit and blindingly white designer running shoes. She was chattering to a uniform who was attempting to take her statement.

Soldier walked over, flashed his badge, and introduced himself. With a nod, the young officer excused himself, gave him a look of relief and nearly fled the area.