The Damsel in This Dress (3 page)

Right. Like she knew how to use a gun. She’d end up shooting herself or Piddle . . . hmm. Piddle. Naw. Her mother would never forgive her.

After a few minutes Betsy realized her vision was getting a little hazy. A decidedly warm feeling infused her entire body. She felt relaxed. More than relaxed. She grinned to herself and twirled the chair around a couple of times, holding her drink in the air as though toasting some unseen visitor. Downing another large gulp, she giggled into the tumbler.

This is cool, she thought ten minutes later as she held the empty glass in her hand. Nothing like getting shit-faced when you were being stalked and could be murdered at any moment.

The trill of musical notes caught her attention. She glanced at the computer. Uh-oh. Another note from J. Soldier. Taking a steadying breath, Betsy absently wondered what the J stood for and why the old guy preferred to go by his middle name. She wasn’t sure she cared enough at the moment to find out.

Ms. Betsy:

Granted, yours is only one opinion, but because it is so divergent from the sentiments expressed by others, my curiosity is piqued and I thought I’d give it another try.

What is it about my books you don’t like, exactly? I’m an adult and a professional. I can handle criticism.

If you’d take a moment to enlighten me, I’d appreciate it.

Thanks,
JSMc

So he couldn’t let it rest, huh? Betsy thought as her eyes tried to focus on the screen. So he can handle criticism, can he? Well, be careful what you wish for, Detective Mr. J. Something McKennitt. You just might
get
it.

Her fingers lightly tickled the keyboard as she considered her reply.

She sucked on her lower lip. Then she sucked on her upper lip, which was not nearly as easy to do. Finally, she giggled and blew her bangs out of her eyes, then got down to business.

“Okay, Detective Mr. J. Soldier McKennitt Person,” she mumbled to the computer screen. “You want enlightenment? You got it.”

Detective JSMc, sir (I learned that from the police today):

Pfffft! That’s right. Pfffft! That’s my reply. Why don’t I like your books? Pfffft!

Not to put too fine a point on it, the writing is about as polished as my kitchen floor (which really isn’t very polished, thus the comparison, but you’d have to see my kitchen floor to understand what I mean). Your plots are about as believable as Santa Claus, which whom I used to believe in him but life is nothing if not occasionally disappointing. So sue me.

Your characters are bland. Bland, bland, bland. No life. The dead ones have more life than the live ones have who have no life. And they’re stupid. The live ones. They act irrationally.

I’ve read my share of mystery novels and crime thingies, and, given the facts you give, your conclusions are faulty. I find I do not buy them, sir! I would characterize your style, such as it is, as cold, impersonal, vulgar, and graph-ick!

My sincerest apologies if I have in any way hurt your feelings. I’m really a very nice person, but I’ve had a rough day. Somebody says they love me except they don’t and I’m frightened.

And then I got your message and I just feel it’s important to tell the truth. I’ve always been that way. People don’t always want to hear the truth and sometimes it serves no one, but I don’t know any other way. My father taught me that honesty is the best policy, but he’s been out of my reach for years now, so he won’t ever say that to me again, even though I can still hear his lovely voice in my heart.

Continued success on your writing career. I meant to tell you what a jerk I think you are for accosting me with your e-mail and demands for explanations, but now that I think about it, I just can’t do it. I mean, I do think you’re a jerk, but I’m just not going to say it.

Empyreanly yours, Betsy Tremaine

Soldier looked up from the screen and blinked at his brother, who was laughing so hard he was drooling.

When Soldier spoke, his voice was low and solemn, filled with awe at what he had just read.

“Drunk,” he said. “She must be blitzed on her butt.” He shook his head. “I’ve read letters from Ka- zakhstani crack addicts that made more sense than this.”

Taylor laughed harder as he read the e-mail again. “I think you should frame it,” he howled. “Hang it right next to the picture we drew of her.” He wiped the tears from his eyes. “God, this is a classic, Jackson. Maybe you can blackmail her with it.”

Soldier shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know whether to put out a hit on her or give her a hug. The woman is in worse shape than I thought.”

Taylor pulled up a chair. “Go for the hit. I’ll do it if you want.”

“Very funny.”

“You gonna respond?”

Soldier widened his eyes. “What in God’s name would I say? ‘I’m sorry you’re a lunatic? Perhaps a little therapy would be in order here?’ ”

Pressing the print key, Soldier watched as the laser jet rolled out a copy of the e-mail. He picked up the paper and folded it together with the picture Taylor had drawn. Shoving them in his pocket, he sighed. “Well, my life may be crap, but I’m a lot better off than Betsy Tremaine. Not only is she ugly,” he smirked, thinking of his brother’s artistic rendition, “but she’s nuttier than a Snicker’s bar.”

However, even as he said the words, he felt uneasy. He sure didn’t agree with her reviews, but they had at least been well-written and coherent. Her e-mail had been okay, too. Something must be wrong. Perhaps she was just getting up there in years. Undoubtedly, she was a spinster and lived alone. Probably had a dozen cats, or some yappy little dog. The fact that she’d mentioned the police and that she was frightened bothered him, even if she’d been drunk or crazy at the time.

Soldier didn’t know the woman, yet he felt a sense of connection with her. She didn’t like his books and had said so. No crime in that, except it had pissed him off. He knew the male ego had the tensile strength of a wet Kleenex, but he’d always thought he possessed a stronger sense of self than to let some little old lady from Nowheresville upset his apple cart.

Abruptly, the thought that had been subtly nagging at Soldier for weeks pushed itself to the forefront. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he rested a hip on the kitchen doorjamb.

“What do you think, Taylor. Should I go back to work full-time?”

In the meaningful silence that followed, Soldier stepped away from the threshold and sauntered over to where his brother was constructing a towering sandwich. “Make me one of those, will you?”

Crunching on a dill pickle, Taylor nodded and pulled out a second plate. “Why are you asking my opinion?” he said. “You never ask my opinion. You’re the big brother. You know everything.” He took another bite of pickle and sent Soldier a grin.

“Just because I know everything, doesn’t mean I know
every
thing. So, should I go back out on the street?”

Both McKennitt sons had inherited their father’s intensely blue eyes, eyes that appeared to sear directly to the bone. Taylor leveled those eyes now on Soldier.

“You’ve been sitting on your ass long enough,” he said, working on Soldier’s sandwich. “That thing with Marc sucked, but it wasn’t your fault and it’s time you got over it. You’re a cop. So, get it together and go be one.”

“I failed Marc,” Soldier all but growled. “I made an error in judgment that cost him his life. Now his widow and kids are paying for my blunder.”

He felt his stomach knot. Marc’s death had been a horrible blow. They’d been partners for four years and he’d grown to love the guy like a brother. When Soldier had realized he’d been fed false information, and that he’d sent Marc right into the trap, he’d broken every speed law on the books trying to get to his partner in time. But it had been too late.

Soldier had found Marc’s torn body thrown in a trash bin. He’d pulled him out of the garbage and called for help. But by the time the paramedics had gotten there, it was over. Marc had died in his arms, his wife’s name on his lips, his fingers gripped around Soldier’s wrist.

Whether Marc’s death grip was a demonstration of trust or hatred remained an unanswered question that haunted Soldier’s dreams.

From day one, cops knew the score. You could take a hit any time. But this was different. This had been his fault. Marc had been careful, it had been he who’d screwed up, and his partner had paid the price.

Soldier had tracked and collared the killer, but it wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t bring his friend back, soothe his widow at night, feed his kids. Regret was a useless demon, but it had eaten away at his conscience for months, weakening his confidence, making him fear the same thing might happen to his next partner. To the next man who trusted him with his life.

And it was what kept him from looking for a wife, from making a family with some nice woman. It could all be gone so fast.

“So,” Taylor interrupted Soldier’s thoughts, pushing the plate and completed sandwich toward his brother. “You’re thinking, how can I ever trust myself again? What if I screw up again and somebody else gets killed?”

Soldier hitched in a tight breath. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Hey, I’m a cop, too. Remember?”

“Yeah, but you’ve never—”

“No, I’ve never. Not yet, anyway. But we all know the risks. All we can do is our best, Jackson.” He took another bite of his sandwich and stared into Soldier’s eyes.

Soldier liked being with his brother. He and Taylor had always been close, but never so much as lately, since Soldier had lost his partner and Taylor had lost his faith in women.

At thirty-three, Soldier had never been married, let alone divorced, so he didn’t know how this was all supposed to work. Having watched Taylor go through hell because of that faithless slut, Soldier was glad that years ago he’d sworn he’d never get married. But he’d been there for Taylor, no matter what it took, no matter how long it took. And Taylor had been there for him when Marc was killed.

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Taylor said, “When are you leaving for the conference?”

Soldier looked up from his own sandwich and glanced over at the wall calendar, an obvious freebie from Joe’s 24-Hour Towing Service. “Uh, Thursday. I’m not scheduled to speak until Saturday night.”

“I’ll lay you odds that Old Lady Tremaine will be there.”

Soldier popped the last bit of his sandwich into his mouth, chucked his plate into the sink and wiped his hands on a paper towel. “Nah. Too much excitement for an old broa— I mean, a lady with such fragile sensibilities.”

“
Fragile sensibilities?
You’ve been watching PBS again, haven’t you?” Taylor accused. “It would be funny, though, don’t you think,” he chided, “if you met her face-to-face? Like, what if she’s young and beautiful and you fall for her?”

Soldier laughed and patted his jeans pocket where he’d shoved the drawing and her obtuse e-mail message.

“Fall for
her
?” he chuckled, squinting at his brother over the top of the fresh beer he’d just opened. “Taylor, if I ever met Elizabeth Tremaine, the last thing in the world I would do is fall for her.”

E
nchantment struck him like a doubled fist. His pulse raced, his mouth went dry. If somebody asked his name right then, his tongue would have been too thick to form the words.

Soldier knew he was staring, but he couldn’t stop. There was something about her that held him in thrall, but he couldn’t have put words to his feelings even if that fist was circling around for another blow.

He swallowed and stared. He fiddled with his pen and stared. He scratched his chin and stared. He felt like he had the first time he’d had sex. Real sex with a real girl, not some wet dream. He felt . . . anticipation. Sweet and strong and elemental.

Whoever she was, every inch of her was made for every inch of him.

She wasn’t beautiful in the classic sense, and she wasn’t exactly thin, either. And she didn’t look like the kind of woman a man dated or just messed around with. She looked like the kind of woman a man married.

That should have caused an alarm bell to ring loudly in his head, and the fact that it didn’t took him by surprise.

Soldier liked a woman who looked like a woman. A lady with full breasts and real hips and curves that made his hands ache and his nether parts stand up and take notice. And this lady had it all.

The Northwest Crime and Punishment Writer’s Conference was always a popular event, so he’d anticipated that the Evergreen Ballroom at Seattle’s Crowne Plaza Hotel would be packed like a sardine can, and had come down from his room a little early to get a good seat. He’d just relaxed into his chair when he looked across the room as
she
entered through the ballroom’s double doors.

The cop in him had immediately kicked in. Female Caucasian. Between twenty-five and thirty. About five and a half feet. Blond hair. Eye color unknown: too far away to tell. No visible scars or marks. No weapon. Creamy skin, rosy cheeks, plump, kissable mouth. When she smiled, she had deep dimples in both cheeks.
Damn!

She was dressed in a soft, kind of cashmere looking peach-colored sweater and a long floral-print skirt. The fabric of both the sweater and skirt hugged her curves, tempting a man to run his hands over her hips and down over her bottom. On her head, she wore a summery straw hat encircled by pastel satin ribbons and delicate pink flowers. She looked feminine and . . . well, nice. She looked like a real nice woman he’d like to get to know.

And take to bed.

Just looking at her, his heart raced and he felt like that damned bunny rabbit in
Bambi
, the one that got all twitterpated.

He doubled his fist. A thirty-three-year-old Seattle detective did
not
get twitterpated. Except that he was.

As she moved between the closely set chairs, she smiled at each person she passed, flashing those dimples, making Soldier nearly overheat. Every man she left in her wake grinned after her, their eyes following the sway of her skirt. She, however, seemed completely oblivious.

He frowned at a couple of the men, but they were paying no attention to him.

The lady must have felt his stare, for at that moment she looked up. Their gazes locked. Her eyes widened and she blinked. Those plush lips formed a small O. Then her cheeks flushed and her lips became a shy grin as she modestly lowered her lashes.

Soldier was halfway out of his chair when a voice boomed over the loudspeaker.

“Good afternoon, everyone. Please take your seats, and we’ll get this show on the road.”

As the conference was called to order, all Soldier could do was sit down and wait. When he looked back at the woman, she was focused on the note pad in which she had begun to write. Disappointment pierced his chest.

Suddenly, the conference didn’t interest him in the least, but getting near that woman did.

The first things Betsy noticed about the spacious ballroom were the elegant windows at the far end. Light spilled into the cavernous expanse, lending it a cheery quality, helped no doubt by the mauve-and-cream-striped wallpaper. Crystal chandeliers dangled like clusters of brilliant stalactites from the ceiling, creating miniature rainbows that danced up and down the walls.

Around her, people were settling in. Chairs scraped against the hardwood floor. Writers from all over the country were in attendance, chatting in small groups or in couples.

Amidst the hubbub, her world collapsed into a small soundproof bubble. She was aware of only one thing, one man.

She’d caught him staring at her, and for a moment wondered if she knew him, but quickly realized that if she’d ever met this man, she would surely remember. Nobody had ever looked at her like that before. It certainly couldn’t be that he found her attrac—

The stalker. He could be the
stalker
. The pamphlets Officer Winslow had given her explained that over a million ordinary citizens were stalked every year, and that sometimes the stalker simply fixated on a complete stranger. It was possible she was being stalked by someone she had never actually met, and this man could be the one.

The back of her neck prickled and she tried to focus on something else, anything else.

It didn’t work. She fought down the panic rising from her stomach.
Remain calm,
she instructed herself. If he was the one, she’d know it soon enough, but in the meantime she’d just concentrate on the conference. They were in public. What could possibly happen?

But she wanted to cry out in frustration. Even if that stranger—that man sitting innocently across the room—was not the stalker, her own thoughts, her own mind, had begun to stalk her. Until the mystery was solved or simply went away, she would wonder about every new acquaintance, every casual glance, every seemingly innocuous overture.

Of course, there was always the possibility she wasn’t being stalked, she reminded herself. After all, a single note attached to a dog’s collar did not a stalking victim make. Did it?

Denial.
According to the literature Winslow had provided, she was in a classic state of denial. Well, until and unless something else happened to convince her she was indeed being pursued, she would be cautious but not neurotic. If she could just stop thinking about it, she might be able to relax.

She cleared her mind and turned her attention to the podium.

As the first speaker was introduced, Betsy applauded politely while sliding a clandestine glance at the man across the room. He was so good-looking, she found it difficult to direct her gaze anywhere else, but she didn’t dare get caught staring. She didn’t want to invite unwanted attention, especially considering her predicament.

The speaker was Dr. Stanley Durant, a former New York City coroner. He was holding everyone spellbound with his tales of unusual cases he’d recently had published. Across the room, her admirer appeared engrossed in the doctor’s every word. Good. Now she could look her fill without being caught.

Even though he was seated, she knew he was tall. His shoulders were broad, filling out the black suede jacket he wore to perfection. His short-cropped hair was sable dark and held a hint of curl. His clean-shaven jaw was square, his cheeks hollow, accentuating high cheekbones. As she watched, he laughed at something the speaker said, revealing straight white teeth and a killer smile.

Still grinning, he turned his head and looked straight at her.
Busted.

Betsy felt her face sting with heat, and she hurriedly looked away. Blinking rapidly while digging through her purse, she committed his incredible eyes to memory.

They were laser blue with thickly fringed lashes. That fierce gaze had pierced through her skull and right into her mind. Certainly he’d been able to read her thoughts. He must know that she found him incredibly attractive.

Betsy didn’t dare look in his direction again for fear he’d catch her eyeing him. Even now, she could feel his perusal as though he were actually running his fingers lightly over her skin.

Her heart began to flutter. Was he attracted to her or was it something else?
Could
he be the man stalking her? Had he followed her to the conference? Should she call hotel security, or wait and see if he tried to approach her?

Damn, she hated this! He was the sexiest man she had ever seen, but he could also be the most dangerous.

Betsy pretended to make some notes while Dr. Durant completed his remarks. The audience applauded as the master of ceremonies approached the microphone. Tapping on the metal bulb, he cleared his throat.

“Now it’s time to move on to the various workshops we have planned for you. It’s first come, first served, so if you want a good seat in the workshop of your choice, it would be a good idea to get going.” He laughed good-naturedly and gestured toward the doors at either side of the large room. “Have fun, everyone. We’ll see you all back here at noon for lunch.”

With that, the crowd rose from their seats and began grabbing jackets from chair backs, adjusting skirts, referring to the crumpled programs in their fists, and packing up pens and papers in binders or briefcases. The noise of conversation mixed congenially with the shuffle of footsteps as people headed off toward the various lectures and workshops planned for that morning.

Betsy scanned her program. She wanted to sit in on the “Writing Is a Journey” workshop, so she picked up her things and moved toward the double doors to her left. A tilt of her head, and her hat brim concealed her eyes. Surreptitiously, she scanned the room looking for
him,
but he had disappeared.

Her heart constricted. She raised her chin and looked about more carefully. He was gone, all right. Well, that was either really good or really bad. Of course, the room was crowded; he might just be mingling.

Before she could think about it further, she forced herself to head out the door, her new mantra keeping time with her footsteps.
I am not being stalked. I am not being stalked. I am not . . .

The workshop was in the Sequoia Room, just down the long carpeted hallway and to the right. The small room was already packed when she got there, and only a few seats remained near the door.

Betsy scurried to one of the empty chairs and sat down. As she bent to set her bag on the gray and white carpet at her feet, someone took the empty chair on her right. Whomever it was sure smelled good, soapy, clean, and very masculine.

Her head came up. Her spine straightened. Her heart slammed against her rib cage in a wild jungle rhythm. Without even looking, she knew.

The heat from his big body drifted around her, snaring her, mingling with her own warmth, pulling her in like a powerful tractor beam. She was still partially turned away, but she could already feel his pyrotechnic blue gaze on her.

She tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone bone dry. Lifting her chin, she calmly faced forward. As she clasped her hands tightly in her lap, she was certain she looked to the casual observer as though she were waiting respectfully for the wisdom of the ages to be revealed.

She probably looked more like a hypnosis subject, she thought, eyes wide and unblinking, staring straight ahead, her expression a total blank. But she couldn’t risk looking at
him.
He sat too close and was simply too overpowering. If she turned her head the slightest bit to the right, she’d meet his eyes, and that was just too damn close for comfort.

If he were her stalker, he couldn’t possibly do anything in this room full of people, could he? But what if he was just a regular guy trying to get her attention? Then all her agonizing would have been in vain, so she might just as well relax and enjoy the rest of the conference.

I am not being stalked. I am not being stalked . . .

Whatever. She had to form a plan. When the lecture was over, she’d rise quickly and hurry out the door. She’d go straight to the front desk and demand—

“. . . a pen? Excuse me. Do you have a pen I could borrow? I seem to have misplaced mine.”

Betsy froze. His voice was deep, melodic, meltingly sexy. A man who was stalking her wouldn’t ask for a pen, would he?

Taking a deep breath, she turned to him, but did not meet his eyes. She met his nose, which was long and thin, with a small scar across the top. Dropping her gaze a bit, she met his mouth. Oh my. Such a mouth. Wide and curved and smiling at her. Her heart skipped another beat, or two. Or three or four. She was beginning to lose count. Soon her heart would have skipped too many beats, and she would die.

Even sitting, he was much taller than she. Nodding her head and mumbling something incoherent, she dove for her bag and pulled out a bright green crayon. How in the hell did that get in there?

He surveyed the crayon and gave her an exaggerated frown. “ ‘
Screamin’ green
’?” he said. “Sorry, but I’m a ‘
raw sienna
’ man myself.”

“Oh, uh, no,” she stumbled. “You see, my neighbor’s grandson—”

“Leave it to kids,” he interrupted. “Well, you might want to hang on to that one. We may get to color our place mats at lunch.” His beautiful mouth widened into a grin.