The Damsel in This Dress (5 page)

A look of sheer panic crossed her face. She squeaked and tried to pull her hand away, but he held on tightly, incarcerating her fingers between his palms.

“I believe we have corresponded recently, ma’am.” He grinned, and knew it was his most evil. “Most people call me Soldier, except for my brother, who calls me Jack. Of course, you could call me ‘
Detritus
,’ but that sounds more like a cruel Roman emperor bent on vengeance, don’t you think?”

O
h . . . my . . . God.
Save for those three words, Betsy’s mind went blank.

J. Soldier McKennitt, face-to-face, here and now, and he was her partner for the writing exercise. And he was gorgeous and he was sexy and he was young and his eyes, his eyes . . .

Oh . . . my . . . God.

All she could think of was that wretched e-mail she’d sent him the night she’d had too much to drink. She’d read it over the next day through bleary and aching eyes. She’d never been a drinker, and that night had convinced her she never would be.

McKennitt must think her a complete idiot.

Taking a deep breath, she managed to tug her hand from his. He had nice hands. So warm and strong. She was simply too stupid to live. . . .

“Detective McKennitt, about that last e-mail—”

Before she could continue, he interrupted. “Yes,
about
that e-mail. You know, Bessie, there are several good alcohol rehabilitation centers—”

“No! No no no! I’m not an alc—I mean, I don’t normally . . . I mean, I was just having a bad—” She stopped. “My name isn’t Bessie,” she said calmly. “My father named his car Bessie.”

He smiled, but this time it did not crinkle his eyes in the same affable manner it had when they’d first met. No, he was out for blood now. Hers.

“Never mind,” he said, his tone flat. “We need to get this exercise written or this whole workshop will have been a waste of time. Don’t you think?” His eyes bored into hers. “I repeat, don’t you think, Bossie?”

“And my name isn’t Bossie, either. Bossie is a cow—”

He lifted a brow. His earlier friendliness and interest had suddenly changed into arrogance and control. Fine. They’d do the damned exercise, then she’d spend the remainder of the conference avoiding him like the plague.

Soldier McKennitt settled back into his chair and appeared to concentrate on the instructions.

“The information sheet says we’re supposed to make up a story about a man and a woman who have just met on a train.” He set the paper aside. “Since it’s ladies first, you write the initial paragraph. I’ll write the second, and so on.”

“Fine.” She scribbled a couple of sentences, then handed him her paper. He scanned it, then wrote some sentences of his own. With a smug look on his face, he returned it to her.

Gazing at what he’d written, Betsy straightened her spine then glared at him. She quickly wrote her sentences and passed the paper back to him.

She watched as his gaze moved across the lines. He shot her a look, then grimaced. In his left hand, his pen moved swiftly as he completed the next paragraph, then practically threw the paper back in her lap.

She grabbed it, read it, then gasped. With furious motions, her pen flew across the page, her writing less legible as she neared the end. Just as she dotted her last
i
, he grabbed the paper from her lap. His mouth was a thin line and his eyes were cold as he thought for a second, then began to write.

Tossing her the paper, he crossed his arms, a look of smug satisfaction tilting his mouth.

Betsy read his words, then puckered her lips as though she were sucking on a lemon. “Huh,” she huffed, then began to write.

“Okay, time’s up.” Chester Bordon had taken the podium and stood smiling at them. “I trust you all had fun, and learned something while you were at it.”

A general buzz of agreement filled the small room as people nodded and laughed.

Leaving the podium, he strolled down the aisle and stopped at Betsy’s row. Smiling at her, he held out his hand. “May I, Ms.—” He leaned forward to see her name tag. “—Ms. Tremaine. May I have your paper, please?”

Betsy smashed the paper against her bosom. She shook her head violently, but before she could grind out,
Over my dead body,
Soldier McKennitt pried the paper from between her fingers. With a grin that could only be described as satanic, he handed it to Bordon.

“No need to be shy, my dear,” the writer assured her. “These things are never perfect and are just in fun, after all.”

Betsy turned to glare at Soldier, only to find him glaring at her, a sadistic gleam in his eye. She lowered her lashes and slid as far down into her chair as she possibly could, preparing herself for the humiliation to come.

Back at the podium, Bordon cleared his throat. “I should tell you all that we have quite a celebrity in our midst.” He raised a hand and indicated Mr. Dreamboat. “Would you mind standing, Soldier?”

Soldier rose from his chair and nodded to the curious crowd.

“Let me introduce J. Soldier McKennitt, Seattle detective and author of the Crimes of the Northwest series of books.”

Oohs
and
ahhs
and light applause surrounded them, while Betsy could only sit there awaiting her doom. Just as she opened her eyes, Soldier grabbed her elbow and jerked her to her feet. A sea of faces turned toward her, all smiling, all curious.

Soldier put his arm around her waist and tugged her close, as though they had a relationship, as though they liked each other, as though they were lovers.

“Thanks, Chester. Allow me to introduce another celebrity, Ms. Elizabeth Tremaine, editor of the
Port Henry Ledger
, and renowned literary . . . crit-ick.”

If the audience hadn’t heard the sarcasm in his voice, they were all deaf, but they smiled weakly and nodded, clueless as to who she was.
Thank God for that,
was all she could think.

As they took their seats, Bordon held her and Soldier’s epistle from hell in front of him. “I’d like to read this to you now. With two such exemplary members of the writing community participating in this exercise, you should get an idea of how one person can influence another and how that influence can elevate a story and send it off into unanticipated reaches, possibly making it better, fresher.”

Betsy pinched her eyes closed.
Better. Fresher. Saints preserve us.

Bordon cleared his throat and began to read.

“Amanda Jones hated flying, which was why she’d decided to take the train home to her high school reunion instead of booking a flight. Amanda relaxed into her seat and turned her attention to the landscape speeding by outside her window. At least this gave her some time alone to think about André and their future together.”

Bordon smiled at Betsy. “Was that your paragraph, Ms. Tremaine?” he asked.

She nodded mutely.

“Good start. And now for Detective McKennitt’s responding paragraph.” He returned his attention to the paper.

“André was a jerk. With a rap sheet a mile long, he was a bad boy from the wrong side of town. Maybe that’s what attracted her to him, for in spite of the fact that he was trash, rubbish, junk, dross, baloney, and claptrap, she wanted him. Couldn’t get enough of him. The man was sex on a stick.”

Bordon paused a moment and adjusted his glasses. “My,” he said, his voice too loud and too cheery. “This
is
unexpected.”

Betsy sank lower into her chair.

“But sex wasn’t enough for Amanda. She was a very nice woman who always treated people with fairness and respect. After all, just because a man was tall, athletic, and sexy, didn’t mean anything if he was a talentless hack devoid of all taste or literary acumen.

“Suddenly, a stranger approached her. He was huge, empyrean even, and mean-looking, and it was obvious, even to a virginal dimwit like Amanda, that he was engorged with desire. His lustful gaze took in her bounteous breasts and he licked his lips in eager anticipation. The seat next to hers was empty and he was eyeing it, and her, like he was a starving man about to sit down to a hearty meal.

“Before he could make a move, however, Amanda smiled sweetly and said, ‘Sorry, this seat’s taken.’ He nodded politely and moved on down the aisle and out the door into the next car, never to return.

“Just then, the door at the other end of the car slammed open. ‘André!’ Amanda squealed. ‘How did you . . . when did you . . . ’ Her limited vocabulary spent on those few words, Amanda simply shut up and let André approach. He grabbed her and pulled her to him. His mouth came down on hers and she gasped, thrilled by his touch. ‘You’re mine!’ he growled. ‘Don’t ever try to leave me again!’

“Amanda raised her knee and slammed it into André’s crotch, immobilizing him. He squeaked in pain, like the wimpy, girly mouse he was, before collapsing to the floor of the car. Reaching into her handbag, Amanda pulled out a 9mm Glock and shot the bastard right through the heart.

“The bullet missed André’s heart and hit the seat behind him. Jumping to his feet, he yanked the weapon from Amanda’s weak little fist and turned the gun on her. ‘Pfffft I say! Your kitchen floor is unpolished, you don’t believe in Santa Claus, and you are bland! Bland, bland, bland!’ Squeezing the trigger, he put a bullet right between her eyes, not in the seat behind her. She was dead. Dead, dead, dead. A doctor traveling in the next car confirmed it.

“André was immediately arrested by the doctor’s wife, who was an undercover policewoman. André the rat was convicted of murder in the first, and sentenced to be drawn and quartered. His lawyer appealed, saying that was cruel and unusual punishment, but there was such a public outcry at the senseless murder of the lovely and wonderful Miss Jones that the judge ordered André be strung up by his ba—”

*  *  *

Bordon halted. All over the room, eyes were huge, mouths were frozen mid-gape. Nobody moved.

“Well . . .” Bordon wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. “My. Okay then. Uh, as you can see, uh, yes. Well, it’s lunchtime. Class, uh, dismissed.”

Oh, the horror. The humiliation. She would have to leave the conference.

Betsy sat on the edge of the queen-sized bed, her feet apart, her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands, her self-esteem about three floors down.

Oh, the shame.
He
had made certain they all knew her name before Bordon innocently read that travesty out loud. She loved mystery stories and crime novels, which was the whole reason she’d used her limited vacation time to attend the conference. It wasn’t fair that one arrogant ass could spoil it all for her.

Thanks to him, for the remainder of the conference she would probably be greeted with odd looks and curious stares. Word would certainly get around, him being handsome and famous and everything.
Great
. As if she wasn’t insecure enough.

But leave the conference because of him? No, she would stay.

But she was certain to run into Soldier McKennitt again, and she hadn’t the foggiest idea what she’d even say to him. Just the thought of seeing him once more made her insides churn. Okay, she would leave the damn conference.

But on the other hand, there were still three days left, featuring some really important writers whose lectures she wanted to hear. There were also some good workshops coming up on journalism and editing. All right, all right, enough buts. She would
stay
at the damn conference.

Pushing her hair out of her eyes, Betsy lifted her head. “Pids?” To get her mind off her dilemma, she decided, she’d take the Mongrel across the street to the park for a little R&R. He hadn’t rushed to greet her when she returned to her room ten minutes ago, but then, Piddle never rushed to do anything anymore. Betsy’s mother had warned her that the dog’s hearing wasn’t what it used to be. He was probably asleep under the bed and hadn’t heard her come in.

Lifting the lacy bed skirt, she gave a quick look. No dog. The hotel room just wasn’t that big. An oak dresser and mirror faced the bed and nightstand, a TV sat atop a minifridge, and a writing desk and chair stood in the corner. The muted plaid drapes were pulled across the single window.

After a quick check in the bathroom, she was more confused than ever, and a little worried. Where in the hell was that damn dog? Had the maid left the door open? Betsy had given special instructions to the desk to take care that the dog not get out. She wondered if the geriatric Chihuahua had somehow managed to creep past the maid in an insane bid for freedom. If so, he could be anywhere. Her mother would just die if anything happened to that stupid dog.

Running to the door, Betsy yanked it open and peered down the hall, to the left, to the right, and back again. No dog, and nothing to indicate a dog had ever been there.