The Damsel in This Dress (9 page)

He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. A scowl crossed his features, making him look dangerous, a man to be reckoned with.

“That’s what I
want
to do,” he continued, “but I can’t. What you’re going through, well, I don’t want to add any stress to your life, so I promised myself I wouldn’t kiss you again until this whole mess gets straightened out. Besides, my presence in your life now is more official, and I can’t cross that line even though I knew you on a personal level before any of this happened.

“But I need to know about your sexual history, only because it might give me a clue to who is doing this to you. I’m a professional. I’ve done this hundreds of times. I
can
and
will
remain detached, no matter what you reveal to me. All right?”

He had painted a mental picture that Betsy was having a difficult time expunging. She and Soldier, naked. Him on top of her, kissing her, sliding his tongue over her skin. His fingers rubbing her between her legs—

She felt her breasts tighten and her nipples peak and ache. If she unbuttoned her blouse right now, he could soothe that ache with his tongue and his hands. Little nibbles with his teeth—

“Betsy?”

She swallowed. He thought she was completely innocent, untried, chaste. Small-town girl saving it for marriage. Unglamorous spinster more interested in her career than finding a man.

In the blink of an eye her lust for Soldier metamorphosed into anger at him. Fury at his arrogance. Resentment of his assumptions.

Plus the fact that he was right. Mostly.

So he could remain detached, hmm? Her pulse quickened. She’d show him detached.

“All right,” she said. He nodded, satisfied they were going to get on with it at last, certain of what he would hear. His fingers were poised over the keyboard as she began to speak.

“My first time, I was fourteen—”

“What!” he yelped. “Uh,
sorry. Sorry.
I would have thought, I mean, you don’t seem very . . . fourteen?”

Har. So much for professional detachment, she mused. Betsy slowly walked back to the table. She let a dreamy look come into her eyes as she sat in the chair. Placing her elbows on the table, she cradled her chin in her hands and tilted her lips into a sweet, satisfied smile.

“Oh, it was . . .
wonder
ful. He was much older, of course.”

“How much older?”

“Mr. Sumpter was my ninth grade teacher. He must have been about forty.”

Soldier’s typing became little staccato jabs, as though he were trying to squash a flea that kept hopping around the keyboard.

“Did the son of a bitch know what he was doing was illegal, not to mention as immoral as hell?”

“Oh, we didn’t care. We were too much in love.”

Soldier typed, but said nothing. Betsy noticed a flush creep onto his cheekbones that hadn’t been there a minute ago.

“Things were fine until his dumb ol’ wife found out.” She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “She hit him a few hundred times with a flyswatter. He had little square spots on his face for the longest while.”

He sighed. “Go on.”

“Well, in high school, to start with, there were Jimmy Jenkins, Frankie Gordon, Stewart Pritchett, and the Archibald twins.”

Soldier’s fingers froze. “All at once?”

“Oh, no, silly! Well, except for the Archibald twins, of course.” She giggled. Inanely.

Across from her, Soldier pounded on the keyboard, the table shaking with each furious stroke. “Okay, so what about
after
high school?”

Betsy laughed, a light, carefree laugh. “Oh, no, that was just in the tenth grade! Let’s see, in the eleventh grade there was—oh gosh, I can’t remember all their names. The drugs really did a number on my memory.”

“Drugs! Drugs, Betsy?
Drugs?
” He stared at her open-mouthed, his fingers splayed on the keyboard. A sound emitted from the computer, warning him he was striking too many keys at once.

She smiled benignly. “Hey, like, let the good times roll. Party hearty.”

He stared at her, then said flatly, “Fourteen. Sex. Drugs.”

“Well, when you put it
that
way. With my father institutionalized, we didn’t have a lot of money.”

“Mm-hmm. Your father was institutionalized.”

The smile faded from Betsy’s lips and she felt her throat tighten.

“Daddy was a wonderful man, but he and my mother didn’t get along very well. She divorced him. The night the papers were finalized, he was so depressed he got really drunk. He got into a fight with some guys. They beat him up so badly, he nearly died.”

She stopped for a second to gather her second wind. “He . . . he had brain damage and it changed his personality. He has what’s termed mild paranoid schizophrenia. He thinks everybody’s out to get him.”

“Like, the Nazis or something?”

“No. The Republicans. Doctors have had him in and out of hospitals over the years. Mostly in.”

Soldier didn’t type that into the computer. He just sat and stared at her for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

Shaking her head, she returned her mind to the task at hand.

“We didn’t have a lot of money, so I traded sex for school supplies.” She gave Soldier an exaggerated wink. “I had all the pens, pencils, typing paper, art supplies . . . why, I had the best oil pastels in the school.”

“Oil pastels.”

“Yes.”

Arching a brow, he said lightly, “Who’d you sleep with to get those?”

“Mr. Gruber, the art teacher.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Don’t you want to hear about college?”

He looked into her eyes and smiled like a predator who had just cornered his prey. “You hungry? Thirsty?” he said casually.

“No thanks.”

“Okay then. Let’s move on to college. Did you ever do it with the Archibald twins again?”

“The . . . oh, the
Archibald
twins. Oh yes. Boy, talk about double your pleasure, double your fun!”

He leaned forward, capturing her eyes with his cool stare. His gaze narrowed on her. “So, tell me, Betsy. How does it work? With twins. Who does what?”

Betsy’s heart stopped. He wanted
details
? The pervert! “A lady never tells.”

He leaned closer. “C’mon,” he whispered, his voice husky, as though he’d just gotten out of bed. “Did they get naked first? Did they undress you . . . slowly . . . while you squirmed and teased them on the bed? Did one of them lick your nipples and pull your panties down so he could slide his fingers inside you while the other one kissed you and nibbled your body? Did they lay you down, gently push your legs apart and bite the insides of your thighs? Up, and up, and up, until one of them could slide into you with his tongue? How many times did you come, Betsy? How did—”

“I don’t remember!” Her voice was both a shout and a high-pitched squeak, a hysterical mouse caught in a trap. “None of your business! How dare you . . . you . . .” Her heart was jumping all over the place and her cheeks felt hot. Her palms were sweating and her mouth had gone completely dry. “You have no business—”

Soldier leaned closer and slipped his warm hand around to the nape of her neck. Gently pulling her closer, he put his mouth to hers.

His lips were firm but his kiss was soft. So sweet. He tasted good. Betsy sighed into his mouth, and he slid his tongue in to caress hers. Oh wow. Could he ever kiss.

They rose from the table at the same time, coming together, arms locked around each other in a full body embrace. Betsy whimpered, just a little, and Soldier pulled back, his eyes half closed and dreamy with lust.

“We can’t do this. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . .” His breath bellowed from his chest and she could feel his erection jabbing her through his jeans. Placing her palms against his chest, Betsy stepped back, out of Soldier’s embrace.

She lowered her head and tried to force her breathing to return to normal, but it was difficult.

Finally, Soldier seemed to compose himself.

“How much of what you just told me is true?”

She cleared her throat. “Um, the part about my father. Except it happened much later, when I was eigh-teen. And, Jimmy Jenkins was . . . well . . . I did . . . I mean
we
did, but it wasn’t in high school. It was in my junior year of college. I made up the rest.”

“Why?”

Betsy shuffled her feet and twisted her fingers together. “Because you made me mad when you said you could remain detached. I wanted to prove that you couldn’t.”

She looked up at him, distress churning away at her insides. “You couldn’t, could you?”

He shook his head, a bemused look crossing his face. “No,” he said through a harsh laugh. “I couldn’t. Congratulations, Ms. Tremaine. You’ve destroyed my professional objectivity.”

Soldier thrust his hands in his pockets and pursed his lips. “We’ll take this up later,” he growled. “We’re not done with this. Not by a long shot, sweetheart.”

Was that a threat? Betsy wondered. Or a promise?

I
t was nearing lunchtime, and Soldier was starving. Lemsky provided Mrs. Fionorelli as dog-sitter so Soldier could take Betsy down to eat and attend the afternoon and evening classes without worrying if somebody was going to make a second attempt on the Chihuahua’s life. A couple of Lemsky’s people were keeping an eye out for any suspicious behavior, but at a conference filled with mystery writers and their fans, spotting the odd bit of behavior might prove tough.

Soldier sent Taylor as much information as he could based on what Betsy had told him. Taylor was a good cop and a sharp detective, and Soldier was certain if there was anything on any of the people she had named, his brother would dig it up.

As the elevator door opened, Soldier slipped a glance at the woman on his arm. She was nervous, but refused to stay stuck in her hotel room. He figured that as long as he was near her and keeping a watchful eye, she should be okay. Stalkers usually didn’t make their moves—if they were going to make one—in such a public forum.

There were always exceptions, which was why his Colt Detective Special .38 was securely in its harness, under his jacket, snug against his body.

Not for the first time, Soldier wondered why this guy was stalking Betsy. Generally, it was obsessive love or a feeling of betrayal that set stalkers on a particular woman’s trail. Then, somewhere along the line, preoccupation turned into hate. Hate evolved into aggression and often physical harm.

Betsy had probably not done anything to garner such anger from this guy, but that wasn’t important. It was his
perception
of betrayal that was. She could have done anything, from taking a parking space he thought was his, to buying the last orange on the cart, to not supporting him in a political campaign or dancing with somebody else at a party. Stalkers were nuts and their reasoning was nuts and their actions were nuts.

Mostly, they were just bothersome, but sometimes they could be a genuine threat. And every instinct Soldier had screamed at him that Betsy was in imminent and extreme danger. He couldn’t ignore it, and the need he felt to personally shield her from harm was unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

Somehow, in the short time he’d known Betsy Tremaine, she had become important to him, important in a way he was trying hard not to think about at the moment.

As they walked into the dining room, he glanced down at her. She turned her head at that moment and gave him a shy smile. She was so defenseless, he thought, with her naive heart and friendly eyes. Every male dominant protector of females gene he had was fully armed and ready. He knew it was primitive, and if he told her about it, she’d probably bop him on the head with something.

An image of Marc’s grieving young wife forced its way into Soldier’s head, but he shoved it back. He wouldn’t let Betsy down as he had his dead partner. Even if it killed him, he would never make that mistake again.

Studying the room, and all the people in it, he said, “You want to sit by the fountain?”

“If it’s okay, I’d rather sit by the window.”

“Oh. Sure. Would you like me to get you some coffee?”

“Actually, I think I’d rather have an iced tea.”

Pulling out a chair at one of the large round tables, he said, “That chowder smells great.” A couple of the other people at the table nodded their agreement.

“I was thinking of going for the salad,” she replied.

Scooting into his own chair, he opened his white linen napkin and set it on his lap. Placing his fists on the table, he narrowed his gaze on her. He watched her for a second, then said in a challenging voice, “I like steak. Rare.”

Her head came up. She eyed him suspiciously. So, it was going to be like this, was it? He could see the wheels turning in her brain.

Finally, she said breezily, “Rare, red meat is bad for you. I’ll probably have the baked fish.”

The other six people at the table said nothing, but turned their faces in quiet expectation. The gauntlet had obviously been flung at his feet.

Mentally, he picked it up.

Pouring himself a glass of water from the frosty pitcher on the table, he declared, “I’m a conservative.”

“Figures,” she huffed, crossing her arms and meeting his steady gaze with her own. “Liberal, as my father before me.” Her hazel eyes were bright with challenge. She raised her chin a notch and waited for the next volley.

He poured water into her glass. “Plastic.”

The crowd shifted their attention to Betsy. Twelve eyes blinked in rapt anticipation.

She arched a brow. “Paper.”

“I sleep naked.”

“Flannel.”

“SUV.”

“VW.”

He growled. “Winter vacation. Snow.”

“Summer. Beach.” Her eyes were ablaze with energy and he wanted to laugh out loud.

Soldier thought for a moment. “Over easy.”

Oooooh,
said the crowd.

“Scrambled,” she replied.

Ahhhh.

“Innies.”

“Outies.”

“Baked.”

“Mashed.”

“Boxers.”

“Briefs.”

“Christmas Eve.”

“Christmas morning.”

“Red M&Ms.”

“Green,” she proclaimed.

He leaned close and whispered theatrically into her soft pink ear. “I like to be on top.”

Everyone at the table gasped. There was a clatter of silverware as they all dropped their utensils in anticipation of her response. Gleaming with triumph, Soldier’s eyes narrowed on Betsy.

His grin was one of conquest. He had her this time. If she said “Bottom,” it would be the same as agreeing with him, for if he was on top, she would be under him and that would work out just fine. If she said
she
liked to be on top, it would also be agreeing with him, leaving him the clear winner, any way you stacked it.

She took a sip of her water and set the glass down. Pursing her lips, she lifted her face to his. The coup de grace was on the tip of her tongue, and he could see it. She had him.

Betsy opened her mouth to speak, but as she did so, the elderly woman on Soldier’s right put her hand on his arm and patted it gently.

“So, dear,” she said sweetly. “How long have you two lovebirds been married?”

After lunch, Soldier escorted Betsy to a series of classes, the last one before dinner, focusing on fingerprinting techniques. The presenter, forensics expert John Abbott, was a member of the Seattle police force, a man well-qualified in criminal science, and an old friend of Soldier’s. He was also an unrepentant womanizer whose specialty was ditzy blondes.

With a single, sweeping glance, Soldier could see that the tall, sandy-haired SOB had already charmed the ladies in the class with his brilliant smile.

“Fingerprinting is successful as a tool in identifying someone,” Abbott began, “because the undersides of our fingers, palms, and feet have ridges and valleys.” He lifted his open hand to the audience and traced his palm with his finger. “These elements form patterns of lines, some of which are continuous or stop, others that divide, and a few that make formations that look like pockets or dots. The patterns are divided into four basic groups: arches, whorls, loops, and composites. In all the years fingerprinting has been used to identify people, and with all the millions of fingerprints on file, to date, no two have ever been found to be alike, not even in identical twins.”

Sitting next to Soldier, Besty concentrated on taking notes. Her head was bent to her task, giving him a chance to simply be with her, enjoy her light, feminine scent, the shine of her hair, the straight line of her spine.

She wore blue jeans and a sage green sweater with pink rosebuds embroidered around the neckline. Her bangs were pulled back a bit and fastened with small, glittering clips, and the diamond drop earrings she wore sparkled with brilliance whenever she moved her head. Very sexy.

He felt his heart give a thump, and he wondered at how little it would take to fall in love with her.

“. . . don’t you agree, Detective McKennitt?”

At the sound of his name, Soldier snapped his head up to catch John Abbott’s mocking smile. Everyone in class had turned to look expectantly at him. “Sorry, John,” he said. “Your voice is so mesmerizing, I sort of drifted off. Did you ask me a question?”

John Abbott’s grin broadened as he slid his glance to Betsy, then back to Soldier. “Yes. I asked whether you agreed that DNA testing has revolutionized criminal investigations.”

“Sure, yes, of course.”
Duh
. “DNA testing has recently solved some cold cases that would probably have gone unsolved otherwise. With DNA, we can literally go back hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of years to solve not only crimes, but prove ancestral connections, such as the one involving Thomas Jefferson.”

Just what was John driving at by soliciting his opinion? Soldier wondered. Then he realized that of all the women in the room, John had set his sights on Besty.
Try again, dickhead
, he thought, sending this message to John with narrowed eyes and a flat mouth.

Ignoring Soldier’s warning, John smiled and continued with his presentation, turning his intense gaze on Betsy at every opportunity.

This one’s mine,
Soldier thought.
Get your own woman, Abbott.
But it was undoubtedly because John sensed Betsy was with him that he had focused on her. John Abbott was a man who enjoyed a challenge, and charming Betsy away from him probably seemed an enticing entertainment to him.

An uneasy feeling pinched Soldier’s chest. Would she go? Would she find Abbott attractive and prefer Abbott to him? It bothered him to think that she might.

Soldier had never had to work very hard to get women; they seemed to like him well enough. He’d had a few steady girlfriends over the years, but as soon as it came time to make some kind of commitment, he’d backed out. He knew there was nothing wrong with the women—it was him. He’d decided years ago, when he became a cop, that he would never marry, and that was that.

His dad was a cop, and even though his parents had a good, solid marriage, as a boy, Soldier had seen his mother cringe and bite her lip every time the phone rang when his dad was on duty. He’d catch her staring at the phone just before she picked it up, with that look of caution on her face.
Is this the phone call?
she must have wondered.
Is this the one that says, sorry, Mrs. McKennitt, but your husband . . .

It had never happened for the McKennitts, but it had happened to Marc Franco’s wife, and Soldier had never been so glad he’d decided to stay single as on the day of his partner’s funeral. The day when Marc’s widow had looked over at him across the abyss of her dead husband’s grave and stared at him, her weary accusation had been plain to see in her red-rimmed eyes.

Marc’s death aside, Soldier had never wanted a woman in his life on a permanent basis. Then he’d met Betsy.

Now, he wasn’t certain about any of that anymore.

And if John Abbott
did
lure her away? So what? Did he care?

Shooting a quick glance at the woman sitting next to him, he thought,
Yeah, dammit.
Yeah, he’d care a whole helluva lot.

For the remainder of the hour, Soldier sat there, glum and irritated, and feeling unsure of himself for the first time in a very long time.

As the hour wound to a close, John Abbott wrapped up his lecture. “Any questions?” he said as he scanned the room. Although several hands were raised, he ignored them.

Indicating Betsy, whose hand was not raised, he said, “How about you, miss? Is there anything about fingerprint techniques that you’re just dying to know?”

“Oh,” Betsy softly gasped, obviously uncomfortable with being singled out. “Well, yes, I guess there are a couple of things.”

Her full lips curved in a shy smile as she flipped through the pages of notes she’d taken during the lecture. Soldier couldn’t help but notice her neat handwriting and how she’d taken down nearly every word John had said. He looked on with disgust as Abbott bent forward over the podium, giving her his undivided attention.

“Um,” she cleared her throat. “Earlier you said that since 1972 fingerprints have been compared and retrieved via computer, and by 1989 they could be sent back and forth on-line. You also said that a computer scans and digitally encodes prints into a geometric pattern according to their ridge endings and branchings, and in less than a second the computer can compare a set of ten prints against a half million. At the end of the process, it comes up with a list of prints that closely match the questioned prints. Then the technicians make the final determination, which involves a point-by-point visual comparison. In addition to fingerprints, you said, there are also palm and footprints, and even ear and faceprints.” She paused and smiled again. “My question is, what with DNA testing and advanced fingerprinting, computer analysis, blood splatter techniques, databases, and instant transfer of information, is it possible that someday crime will be a thing of the past, since nobody will be able to get away with it?”