The Damsel in This Dress

by Marianne Stillings

  “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.

  Okay, she thought, now it’s time to panic. Running for the phone, she was about to call for hotel security when she heard a short, weak yap. It sounded as though it was coming from inside the room, but there was simply nowhere for the dog to be. She’d checked the closet. In fact, she’d looked everywhere, except . . .

  Dropping the phone onto the bed, Betsy rushed to the minifridge. The enormous Seattle Metro phone book had somehow fallen from the nightstand and lay against the front. Shoving the book aside, Betsy pulled the door open.

  Two huge brown eyes, desperate and terrified, met hers. He was curled in as tight a ball as he could get, his golden fur damp from the cold.

  “Pids! Oh my God! How did you get in the refrigerator?”

  Reaching inside, she scooped him up and into her arms. He was shaking so hard, she was having a difficult time holding on to him. She grabbed the lavender knitted throw she’d brought from home and wrapped him in it, keeping his body next to hers to warm him as quickly as possible.

  She thought of running some hot water in the bathroom sink and dunking him in it, but after what he’d just been through, that might give him a little doggie heart attack, so she just held him close and kept talking to him.

  “Oh, Pids. I’m so sorry. It’ll be all right, sweetie. Mommy’s here. Mommy’s right here.” Well actually, Mommy was thousands of miles away, but her own insides were pained at what had happened. She felt her latent maternal instincts kick in, and even though she wasn’t Piddle’s biggest fan, she never would have wished something like this on the poor creature.

  A man’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Knock knock. Anybody home?”

  Betsy’s head jerked up. A large silhouette filled the threshold, broad shoulders, long legs. He was the last man she had ever expected to see darkening her doorway.

  McKennitt gave her a mock frown. “I feel it necessary to warn you, ma’am,” he said in what she figured was his best law enforcement voice, “that a lady in a hotel room all by herself really should keep her door closed and locked.”

  Betsy narrowed her eyes. “Thanks for the tip, Officer Friendly. You can close it on your way out.”

  He placed both his large hands over the area of his heart. “Madam, you wound me.” As he stepped into the room, he said, “May I come in?”

  “I’m busy right now. Perhaps another time, like, say, July thirty-second. I’ll pencil you in.” She pulled the trembling throw closer to her bosom and sent Soldier a no-nonsense glare.

  Soldier eyed the small coverlet in her arms and lifted a brow. “Cute. Did you bring your blankie with you all the way from Port Henry?”

  “Some detective you are,” Besty snapped. “There’s a dog in here. A terrified, half-frozen dog.” Just then, Piddle began emitting a howl that sounded like a hyperactive squeaky toy.

  Soldier eyed the lavender bundle. “I guess we can rule out Labrador retriever.”

  He moved into the room, closing the door behind him, then shoved his hands in his pockets. Strolling casually toward Betsy, he s
aid, “If I can guess what kind of dog it is, do I win a prize?”

  “Go away. I have enough on my mind without you showing up to gloat about the humiliation you heaped on me today.”

  “You humiliated me when you wrote that you hated my books.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  “First of all,” she said, taking in the intense color of his eyes, “you weren’t humiliated. You were just mad.”

  He thrust out his lower lip and tilted his head as though considering her words. “You’re right,” he said. “I was mad. And then I met you in person and I’m not mad anymore.”

  Betsy huffed. “Yeah? Well, you sure couldn’t prove it by me, the way you acted in the workshop this morning.”

  Soldier pulled the writing desk chair toward him and straddled it. “Oh come on, Miss Betsy Tremaine from Port Henry, Washington. Loosen up a little. I was hoping you’d have dinner with me. We can discuss our collaboration.”

  Betsy’s eyebrows lifted nearly to her hairline. “That wasn’t a collaboration. It was an abomination, and you know it. I wouldn’t be caught dead with you after what happened today. In fact, I was considering leaving the conference.”

  Soldier scowled. “Just because of that stupid writing exercise?”

  She shook her head. “Well, at first maybe. But then I got back to my room and discovered Piddle.”

  His brows shot up. “Somebody peed in your room?”

  Abruptly, the Chihuahua’s head popped up through the folds of the blanket. He looked around and blinked a few times, his long lashes sweeping up and down. Then, like a groundhog in February, he dove back inside the blanket and shoved his head under Betsy’s arm.

  “That was Piddle,” she said. “I’m doggie-sitting while my mother’s in Paris.”

  Soldier stared at the bundle in her arms, then began to laugh. Betsy watched him with a mixture of fury and hunger. Not only did he have a great laugh, he was the perfect male specimen: tall, dark, handsome, smart, and sexy. And he wanted to take her out to dinner, the bastard.

  If she was halfway truthful with herself, she would have to admit that the hunger she felt right now had nothing to do with steak and baked potatoes.

  He was still laughing when she interrupted him. “I need to take him home, to the vet. Now. Today.”

  Soldier wiped his eyes. His dark lashes were damp and spiked from his tears of laughter. “Why? Is he sick or something?”

  “No. It’s just that, well, when I got back from the workshop, I found him inside the refrigerator. He was terribly cold and frightened. If I hadn’t returned when I did, he might have suffocated or died from exposure.”

  Subtly, Soldier’s demeanor changed. He glanced at the minifridge. “I have one of those in my room, too,” he said. “You must have left the door open when you went out.”

  “No, I didn’t. I haven’t opened the thing at all since I’ve been here.”

  He stood and walked to the small unit, its door still sitting open. Pushing it closed, he reopened it and looked inside. Settling down on one knee, he examined the rubber rim around the door’s frame.

  “The unit is sitting level, so I don’t understand how it could have closed on its own. And I don’t see any scratches to indicate the dog somehow got it open.” He ran his fingers across the inside edge of the door. “The magnet that keeps it closed isn’t that strong. No matter how he got in or how the door somehow closed on him, he should have been able to push it open and get out.”

  Betsy sat on the bed, the blanket and the dog still bundled in her arms. She stared at Soldier for a moment, trying to remember something. Glancing around the room, she spotted the phone book. “Oh! He couldn’t push it open because the phone book had fallen—”

  She stopped. Now that she’d had time to think about it, she realized something about the phone book wasn’t right.

  Soldier’s sharp eyes narrowed on her. “What?”

  Betsy shook her head in denial. It must have just been an accident. The maid knocked it over, or it was on the edge and just fell. It couldn’t really be that . . .

  “When I left, the telephone book was on the desk, not on the nightstand.” Her voice trembled. She battled for control as she spoke the horrible words out loud. “Somebody must have put Piddle in the refrigerator and stuck the phone book in front of the door to make sure he couldn’t get out.”

  Soldier stood and walked toward Betsy, but her eyes remained glued on the phone book sitting innocently on the mauve and gray carpet. Slowly, he sat down beside her, his weight dipping the mattress, subtly easing her body toward his.

  “Why would anybody put your dog in the refrigerator, Betsy? Who could have done this?”

  She lifted her chin and looked up at him. His brows were knit in concern, and he seemed angry for some reason. His cool eyes searched hers as if he could find some answers there. Betsy’s throat felt tight, like she had a rock lodged in her breathing passage. She swallowed around it.

  True terror hit her like a bullet to the heart. “He must have followed me here,” she blurted. “It’s the only explanation! The phone calls. I didn’t tell Winslow about the phone calls. They came before. I didn’t think anything of them. And then there came the note that night you sent me the e-mail. And the weird stuff at work! I didn’t tell him about that either. I thought it didn’t really mean anything. I . . . I was hoping it didn’t mean anything. I even thought it might be you, when I saw you, because you were staring at me. And you were so attractive and everything, and I didn’t think that you were interested in me, you know like, just for me. And then you told me you had seen my picture, and I was terrified. But you didn’t know who I was, not until you read my name tag, so it wasn’t you after all. But—But if he followed me, and if he did this to my mother’s dog—”

  “Betsy,” Soldier interrupted sharply. “Calm yourself. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

  She’d been babbling. The man must think her a complete moron. But the impact of what was happening to her, what was really happening to her, was almost more than her rational mind could bear.

  Betsy pinched her eyes tightly closed and took a deep breath. After a moment she lifted her face to Soldier and let her eyes search his.

  Desperately pushing down the well of anger and fear rising from the pit of her stomach, she whispered, “This can’t be happening. I don’t accept this. I don’t believe this. I am not, not, not being stalked!”

  Soldier moved closer. Gently taking her by the shoulders, he turned her body toward his. “Betsy.” His voice was calm yet commanding. She looked into his face and wanted to speak, but instead closed her eyes and pressed her lips tightly together.

  She felt Soldier’s fingers trail from her shoulder up to cup her cheek softly in his warm palm. Through her haze of hysteria she heard his voice.

  “Who is not stalking you, Betsy? What note?” She raised her lashes to see Soldier looking deeply into her eyes. “Tell me everything.”

  Chapter 4

  Soldier hadn’t meant to touch her, but she looked so vulnerable and alone that he had reached for her without thinking. And now he was thinking about how he could pull his hand away without missing the silky feel of her skin too much.

  In her arms, the blanket twitched, the tiny dog still shivering and terrified from his Nordic ordeal. Every so often he would whimper or let out a muffled yelp, but so far he’d kept his head down and his body as close to Betsy’s breasts as he could get.

  Lucky mutt.

  Soldier put his lusty thoughts aside as Betsy told him about the note stuck under the dog’s collar, the police officer instructing her on taking precautions, and how she had come back to her room only to find her dog imprisoned in the refrigerator.

  “I’m probably just being paranoid,” she said through a half laugh. “I mean, I’m nobody special. Why would somebody stalk me? This is all just coincidence, right?”

  Her mouth formed the words, but her true feelings were plain to see in
her big, beautiful hazel eyes. She didn’t want to believe she was in danger, but she was smart enough to realize that denying it wouldn’t make it go away.

  I’m nobody special, she’d said. Wrong, he thought. She was more special than she could possibly know.

  Reaching behind him, Soldier retrieved the phone and picked up the receiver.

  “Wh-Who are you calling?”

  “Hotel security,” he said as he punched the O button.

  “Oh. Thanks. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I don’t seem to be thinking straight.”

  He could see that she was scared, and she had every right to be. Stalking was nothing to be taken lightly, and even though she had been aware and taken precautions, the guy still managed to get near her. Too near.

  Betsy Tremaine was the typical stalking victim. She was attractive and she was nice. Approachable. Attainable. Not so beautiful that a guy felt he didn’t stand a chance, but pretty enough to capture someone’s imagination to the point of obsession.

  Obsession was one thing, but this guy had put her dog in the refrigerator. An aggressive act, one that might have ended with the dog’s death. Did he mean it as a lesson to her? Had he meant to frighten her, make her feel vulnerable, as though he could get to her anytime he wanted?

  Probably.

  As he waited to be connected, Soldier let his gaze slide all over Betsy Tremaine. She’d removed her hat, allowing him a view of her shiny blond hair. It was thick and streaked with honey and sunshine. The shorter cut framed her face. She was still wearing the outfit from this morning, and the little diamond drops in her lobes reflected the afternoon light as she moved her head. Clutching that blanket to her breasts the way she was, she looked like a pretty young woman holding her baby, and Soldier immediately got a picture in his head that he wasn’t sure he wanted.