The Damsel in This Dress (4 page)

The man simply oozed charm. If she couldn’t find a pen, she’d prick her finger and he could use her blood.

With the speed of a bullet train, a feminine fist bearing a blue pen appeared out of nowhere, screeching to a halt in front of the man’s surprised face.

Betsy peeked around him to see the woman sitting to his right smiling hugely. “I heard you ask for a pen,” she gushed. “I’m just loaded with pens. You can certainly borrow one. I have so many more. I always come prepared to these things with tons and tons of pens. And paper. Do you need some paper? Because I have just tons and tons of paper—”

“No,” he said, smiling at her. “But thanks. Actually, I think I might have one right here in my pocket.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pen.

The young woman was about Betsy’s age, had strawberry blonde hair and pretty brown eyes. Her name tag proclaimed her to be Kristee Spangler from Lompoc, California.

Kristee Spangler smiled up at the handsome stranger so hard, Betsy thought the woman’s teeth would break. He grinned politely back at her and she practically went orgasmic.

He turned to Betsy once again. “Thanks anyway. For checking for a pen,” he said in a low voice. His smile was warm, and the blue of his eyes sparkled like pools of tropical rainwater.

She nearly whimpered. Was it possible she was dreaming? He looked like a movie star and he was talking to
her
? Perhaps there was a camera hidden somewhere and any minute a bald man with a microphone would humiliate her with the truth and everybody in TV-land would laugh at her naiveté. She started to turn away from him when he extended his right hand.

“I should probably introduce myself,” he said. “My name’s—”

“Is this on?” The workshop monitor interrupted the stranger’s promising introduction by tapping on the microphone, which blasted the audience with the shrill screech of electronic feedback. Everybody covered their ears and winced.

The host smiled, shrugged, adjusted the microphone, and apologized. Finally, he called the workshop to order and presented Chester F. Bordon to the waiting crowd. The distinguished-looking, gray-haired mystery writer stepped up to the microphone and began his lecture, but Betsy knew she might as well have had cotton in her ears. Her eyes were on Bordon, but her nerves were tuned to the man sitting next to her.

Her name tag was on her left shoulder, while Mr. Dreamboat’s tag was on his right. She couldn’t see it without facing him, and that, she was not about to do.

Defiantly flinging all her attention to the speaker, she straightened her spine and tried hard to focus.

It was obvious that Chester Bordon was enthused about his subject as he detailed how the workshop would proceed. The first half, he would lecture on writing technique; the second half would be devoted to a simple exercise.

“I want you to choose a partner, preferably a stranger. Make a friend. Who knows,” he chuckled, “the stranger sitting next to you may be your perfect soul mate. Your life’s partner, the man or woman of your dreams.”

Individuals in the group slid glances at the people around them and everyone smiled and tried to suppress nervous giggles. Betsy continued to stare straight ahead, until she felt a gentle jab. Her neighbor was nudging her with his elbow!

Turning her head as slightly as possible in his direction, her gaze drifted unwillingly to his mouth.
Mmmm.

Be my partner?
he asked silently. Lifting his brows in inquiry, he gave her an encouraging nod.

Betsy glanced desperately to her left just as the woman seated there sneezed, then coughed, then sneezed again. Taking out a huge handkerchief, she proceeded to blow her nose with the passion of a foghorn eliciting a small craft warning.

Bordon was still detailing the instructions. “One person will go first and write a paragraph on a topic I’ll give you. Keep the paragraphs to two or three sentences. Then, the partner will compose the next paragraph based on what the first person wrote. Trade back and forth in that manner until I call time. When we’re done, I’ll read one of them so you can see how ideas can play off each other. You may find your story going in a direction you never dreamed possible, but which is much more interesting for the element of a second person’s perspective.”

A tingle of excitement skittered up Betsy’s spine. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to concentrate enough to actually compose an entire paragraph, let alone several. Not with her nerves and emotions in such a state.

The speaker proceeded to elaborate on the importance of accurate research in fiction, but for her, what had been a much anticipated lecture suddenly turned into a countdown to the partnership exercise.

Betsy suppressed a groan. Glaring at Chester Bordon, she wondered if the damned man couldn’t talk any faster. All she could think about was that when he was done speaking, she would be partners with the totally hot guy sitting next to her.

Her mind spun and her stomach flipped. She was a nervous wreck by the time the famed mystery writer finally wound things up and asked for questions.

No questions!
she wanted to yell.
Just everybody sit quietly and let’s move on to the partnership exercise. Okay?

She resisted the urge to tap her toe nervously while several people asked their questions. Bordon took his time answering them. How nice. How thorough. How very professional of him.
Next!

In a few minutes the questions and answers came to an end.
Finally!
But just as she turned to her partner, he stood.

“I’ll be right back,” he assured her. “I’m going to speak to Chester for a sec. Don’t go ’way . . . partner.” Stepping through the crowd, he strode toward the podium.

Oh yes, he was tall. Dressed in that black suede jacket, open-collared white shirt, and faded blue jeans and boots, he looked like he’d just stepped off a men’s magazine cover. And his butt! Betsy nearly swooned. Shoulders to die for and a butt to match.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Kristee Spangler gazing at him in open admiration as his athletic body twisted this way and that through the clusters of people. Across the chasm created by his empty chair, she flattened her mouth into an angry line and sent Betsy a narrow-eyed glare. In obvious fury that she hadn’t gotten to partner with the man who sat between them, she rigidly turned away from Betsy to speak to the elderly lady to her right.

Paper and pen at the ready, Betsy waited with deceptive calm while her new partner approached the renowned writer standing at the podium. The two men shook hands as though they were old friends, and chatted for a few moments. Betsy still couldn’t get a clear view of his name tag. It looked like it said Something McSomething, but then his lapel flopped over it, obscuring his name from view.

With a final nod to Chester Bordon, her new partner turned back to her. He smiled as his gaze met hers. Then his focus drifted to her name tag. He stopped, blinked, glared into her eyes as though she’d just slapped him, and cut his gaze back to her name tag.

For a moment he did nothing. Then his blue, blue eyes narrowed on her. Betsy’s heart beat once, twice. She watched as a huge grin split his face and he began to laugh.

She glanced down at her name tag. Was it upside down? Had somebody written “Total Loser” on it when she wasn’t looking?
betsy tremaine, port henry, washington
. Nothing funny about that.

Despite her partner’s odd behavior, deep inside, where all her fears were kept in a tight little bundle, Betsy felt a bit of calm infuse itself into her nervous system, and the bundle eased a bit. From his genuine reaction, it was obvious he hadn’t known who she was until that very moment. There was no disguising his surprise at seeing her name.

He was not the one stalking her.

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

Well,
that
sure was good news.

Now all she could do was sit and wait while he made his way through the crowd back to her. Her fear of him having vanished, she now felt a little piqued at what so obviously was some kind of inside joke. She stiffened her spine and put on her haughtiest face.

No matter what his explanation for laughing at her, it couldn’t be good enough to excuse him from being so rude.

Well, if that didn’t beat all, Soldier thought. Taylor had been right. “Old Lady” Tremaine was young and pretty, and he had come very near to falling for her like a ton of bricks.

Very nearly.

Betsy Tremaine. The name fit her like a glove.
Damn
, she was cute.

He quickly shoved that thought aside as he remembered her scathing reviews of his books. All those nasty words she’d used to describe his work flashed across his memory and he felt his good humor slide right down the toilet.

So this was the uppity Ms. Tremaine, hm? Well well well. Perhaps it was time to give the lady an object lesson in humility.

As he approached her, his heart gave a glad jump and he fought down a grin. He was going to enjoy this. In the blink of an eye, the initial attraction he’d felt for her burgeoned into something else, something he liked even better: acute sexual expectation. Mm-hmm, he thought. This was going to be good.

Soldier liked smart, feisty women, and verbal sparring only added to their intrigue. Now he’d get a chance to find out what this woman was made of, how her mind worked, and just how far she was willing to go in a battle of wits.

Besides, women who were smart and feisty during verbal intercourse were usually just as smart and feisty during the other kind.

Soldier’s blood was all but humming as he turned his back to her for a moment and quickly pulled off his name tag. He wasn’t going to reel her in just yet; he wanted to play her for a while.

Sliding into his seat, he took her hand as if to shake it in greeting. “So,” he said nodding toward her name tag. “You’re E.C. Tremaine.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Yes,” she said. In his palm, her hand felt small and warm and tense.

“You don’t look anything like your picture.” He gave her his best Cheshire cat grin.

“My p-picture?” She seemed a little disconcerted by that. Perhaps more than the situation warranted. In fact, she looked alarmed.

He set that thought aside as his mind went to the sketch Taylor had drawn. No spiky orange hair, no beady black eyes, no wart, no scar. And her tah-tahs were most definitely not shrunken prunes. Although, he didn’t think he’d mind nibbling on them if he got the chance.

“I don’t mean I’ve seen your photograph,” he said, holding her hand captive. She looked relieved, but wary. “It’s more that my brother is an artist of sorts, quite famous in his own way.”

“An artist? Would I have heard of him?”

“Oh no. He works with the police a lot. Draws those renderings you see in the papers, you know, from witness’s descriptions.”

“Oh. Criminals. He draws criminals. And, you say he drew a picture of me?” She actually looked frightened. When she tried to withdraw her hand, he didn’t let go.

Ms. Tremaine seemed more confused by the minute. Wide-eyed and innocent, she looked so soft and sweet. . . .
But hang on a minute
, he told himself.
This
was the woman who hated his books and wrote heinous reviews and aberrant e-mails.

He scooted a little closer, preparing to swoop in for the kill, when she raised her face to look up at him. The sarcastic words died on his lips.

Elizabeth Tremaine’s driver’s license probably stated her eye color as hazel. But hazel didn’t begin to cover it. Her eyes were like shards of colored glass, green and gold and aquamarine. Those intelligent eyes were large and thickly fringed with dark lashes. Something he couldn’t name shone from them, and Soldier felt his heart poised to dive into their depths, and drown there.

Delicate brows arched in expectation. Her soft lips parted as though she were about to speak. Or be kissed.

“Sketch a picture of you?” Soldier gave himself a mental shake. “Uh, yes he did. He’s a devout reader of the
Port Henry Ledger
. As am I.”

Her brows snapped together and she blinked. Disbelief was written all over her face. She was probably lousy at poker, her every thought and emotion plain for all to see. He suddenly found himself wondering what her face would look like when she came. When her back was arched and her lips parted as she softly gasped his name . . .

“You. Read . . . the—” she stuttered. “You read the
Ledger
?” Never taking her eyes from his, she shook her head from side to side, as though in denial. When she pulled her hand away this time, he let it go. “What did you say your name was?”

Soldier smiled. The moment had arrived on a sleigh with little golden bells ringing with glee. Payback. It was going to be a pleasure.

“I neglected to introduce myself earlier, didn’t I?” It wasn’t a question, and his quiet voice must have alerted her, for she gave him a guarded smile.

Taking her hand in his once again, he gave it a warm shake of greeting. “Then allow me to remedy that right now. My name is McKennitt. Jackson . . . Soldier . . . McKennitt.”