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 ar
tist 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.”
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?”
Chapter 3
Oh . . . 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 cele
brity, 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.
The Damsel in This Dress Page 4