The Damsel in This Dress Read online

  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.”

  Chapter 2

  Enchantment 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.

  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 as
k 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.