The Damsel in This Dress

by Marianne Stillings

  Soldier narrowed his gaze. “He didn’t happen to shout the killer’s name into the receiver when he was talking to his wife, did he?”

  Winslow’s grin was bleak. “Sorry.”

  “You find the weapon?”

  “Yeah. Thirty-eight. Looks like it’s been wiped clean. Registered owner, one Ryan Finlay.”

  Soldier’s head snapped up. “He was shot with his own gun?”

  “Kept it in his desk—”

  “Ryan? Ryan! Let me see him. I want to see him now!” The woman’s shrill pleas filled the air. Soldier turned to see Betsy holding an older woman’s arms, trying to keep her from coming into the office.

  Winslow sighed. “Damn. That would be the wife. How in the hell did she get in here?”

  As Soldier and Winslow moved quickly to the two women, Betsy gently pulled Mrs. Finlay into her arms.

  “Shh, Amy,” she coaxed. “Why don’t you come sit here with me.” The sobbing woman collapsed against Betsy’s shoulder and let herself be led to a chair where she cried uncontrollably into a fistful of tissues.

  Winslow bent over Amy Finlay. “Ma’am? I’m Officer Winslow and this is Detective McKennitt from the Seattle PD. He needs to ask you some questions, okay?”

  She shook her head and continued to cry. Betsy put her arms around Amy Finlay, who dabbed at her tears with more tissue.

  “Amy, listen,” Betsy said. “This is the worst possible time for you, I know. But the sooner you can answer the detective’s questions, the sooner they can find whoever did this. Can you do that, Amy? For Ryan?”

  Mrs. Finlay straightened a little and blew her nose. Lifting her chin, she looked at Soldier, her eyes red and swollen and vacant. He’d seen that look so many times before, and he hated it. Grief and loss and empty eyes. It twisted his guts into knots every time.

  “Ma’am,” he said as he crouched before her. “I’m profoundly sorry for your loss. But I do need to ask you some questions.”

  Amy Finlay nodded.

  “Tell me exactly what your husband said to you on the phone. I need to know what he said, and what you heard in the background. Words, a voice, a door swinging open. Whatever you can remember.”

  She swallowed. “I . . . I called him so I’d know when to put the roast in the oven. I like to have dinner ready for Ryan right when he gets home.”

  “What time did you call him?”

  “Um, a little before six. He . . . we were talking, then his voice changed. He seemed agitated all of a sudden.”

  “What did you hear?”

  She sniffed, then blew her nose again. “His door has a glass window in it that always rattles. I heard the glass door rattle. Somebody must have opened it. But whether it was to enter or exit, I couldn’t tell.”

  Soldier glanced at Ryan Finlay’s door. “What did your husband say then?”

  “He told me to wait a minute, that he had some unfinished business. He set the phone down. I heard it make that little thump kind of sound when it touched the desk, you know?”

  “Go on.”

  “He must have gotten up from his desk because I heard his chair make a squeak and his voice sounded farther away. He was yelling, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. It was like he was calling after someone. Then I heard footsteps, running kind of, back to the desk. And breathing. Panting like. At first I thought it was Ryan, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “Why do you say that, Mrs. Finlay?”

  “Well, because Ryan stomps and this was more like a skitter.”

  “You’re doing fine. You’re doing great. What else?” Soldier prompted.

  Amy Finlay sighed and relaxed against the back of the chair. Soldier exchanged glances with Betsy. Her worried eyes were filled with compassion . . . and fear.

  “I heard a sort of tussle,” Amy continued. “Then Ryan picked up the phone again. He started to say something to me, but in the middle he yelled, ‘No! Give me that!’ That’s when I heard the shots. I didn’t hear anything after that, because I was screaming. I’m sorry,” she cried. “I should have stayed calm and listened, shouldn’t I? If I’d stayed calm and listened, maybe I would have heard something. I did it all wrong, didn’t I? If only—”

  “Oh, Amy.” Betsy put her arm around the sobbing woman. “You did fine, you did fine. You did everything you could.”

  With her arm still around the older woman’s shoulders, Betsy looked up and stared into Soldier’s eyes. Those lovely hazel eyes, so expressive, locked with his. He could see the compassion there, and something else, something deeper, something he didn’t dare put a name to.

  Her soft lips curved into a sympathetic smile and she said, “It all right, Amy. You did everything you could. You could not know this would happen. Nobody could have anticipated this. Nobody. You must not blame yourself. It is not your fault.” She shook her head, her gaze still locked with his. “It’s not your fault.”

  She continued staring intently into Soldier’s eyes, but said nothing else, and never looked away. His emotions were frayed, his heart ravaged by guilt, and here was Betsy, throwing him a lifeline. Absolving him, freeing him.

  Here he’d thought all along he was saving her, and it was she who was saving him.

  Chapter 17

  Betsy lay her throbbing skull against the headrest on the passenger side of her car while Soldier drove her home. The streets were empty, quiet, the air outside damp from the fog that had settled on the town. Soldier had turned the heater on full blast, yet Betsy could not find warmth.

  Was Ryan really dead? Really and truly? Her exhausted brain felt chock full of conflicting thoughts and emotions. She was sad for Amy Finlay, now a widow, parted forever from the man she had loved and lived with for over twenty years. How would Amy cope? How would she move on with her life after such a tragedy?

  But it wasn’t just Amy’s pain that affected her. Betsy hurt for herself, for the loss of a man she had known and liked for five years.

  Yes, she had felt fear when Kristee Spangler had been murdered. And she’d felt guilty when Taylor had been hurt. But with Ryan it was different. She wasn’t frightened and she felt no guilt. She was angry. Totally, thoroughly, magnificently pissed. Her blood boiled just beneath the surface. It wouldn’t take much to push her over the edge to unbridled fury.

  Sometime during the many hours it took to process the crime scene, Winslow had dispatched an officer to watch Betsy’s house. Now, as Soldier walked her to her back door, he waved off the police car parked at the curb. At least there wouldn’t be any surprises waiting inside for them tonight.

  “Do you have your house keys?” Soldier said, his tired voice a soft rasp.

  She nodded, then dug around in her purse. Handing them over, he cupped her tangle of keys in his palm. Closing his fingers over them, he enclosed her hand as well.

  “Be careful,” she said with a smirk. “One of those is the key to my heart.”

  By the light of the street lamp brushing against her back door, she watched Soldier arch a brow. His mouth tilted in a half smile. Dangling the key chain in front of his eyes, he said, “Which one is it? I don’t see one with little lambies or unicorns or cupids on it.”

  “No.” She moved toward him, wanting his heat, imploring his touch, craving whatever he would allow her to take from him this night. “I stopped believing in myths and fairy tales a long time ago.”

  He inched closer until she felt the warmth from his body envelop her own. Lowering his head, he brushed her lips with his open mouth. “I don’t believe you,” he whispered. His eyes glittered in the dark; his lids seemed heavy. “It’s been a rough night, and maybe the fairy tales are on the back shelf at the moment.” He licked her bottom lip. “But you’re not the kind of woman who gives up on fairy tales. Ever.” He licked her upper lip, nipped it with his teeth.

  “You’re not a fairy-tale kind of guy at all,” she breathed. “So what does it for you?”

  He kissed her. Against her mouth, he said, “Fires in the fireplace o
n snowy nights, hot jazz and cold beer, classic movies and classic moves.” He kissed her again, turning her and pushing her against the back door.

  Immediately, his hands were inside her jacket and under her sweater. She felt his fingers sliding up her rib cage, brushing the bottoms of her breasts. He hesitated.

  “Yes . . .” She softly hissed the word against his lips. “Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop . . .”

  Instantly, his warm hands moved higher, rubbing the tips of her nipples with his thumbs. His kisses became more urgent, deeper. He slid his hands around to her back and unfastened her bra.

  Pushing it up and out of the way, his palms came around to cup her naked flesh, stroking, softly pinching, driving her crazy.

  She slipped her arms around his shoulders, pressing herself as close to him as she could get. Lifting up on her toes, she rolled her hips against his groin until they both pulled away, panting.

  “Where are the damn keys?” he choked.

  “I thought you had them.”

  “Lost ’em. Maybe they’re here,” he said quietly, sliding his open palm down her stomach, and down and down. She stopped breathing.

  “Nope, not there,” he said. “Maybe here?” He reached around to cup her bottom. She moaned.

  Placing her open palm against his zipper, her fingers measured his length and she murmured, “I thought I saw you drop them in here.” She heard his sharp intake of breath. “Well, something’s in there,” she teased. “But I don’t think it’ll open this door.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he growled.

  He quickly produced the chain from his pocket, jammed the key in the lock and shoved the door open. Pulling Betsy inside, he slammed the door, locked it, and yanked off his jacket, letting it fall to the kitchen floor.

  Reaching for her, Soldier pulled Betsy close, wrapping his arms around her. He was breathing hard. She could feel his heartbeat slamming against her chest as she snuggled into him.

  “I need to know now,” he panted, “if you want to do this. I don’t want to hurt you, but you should know, I can’t make you any promises.” He reached under her chin, lifting her face to his, and searched her eyes.

  “I want you, Betsy. I want to make love to you all night. But I can’t offer you—”

  She placed her fingertips against his mouth. “I know,” she whispered. “I need this. I need you. Now. Tonight. No promises. No strings. Just us.”

  He lowered his head and kissed her again. The time for talking was over. Carefully, he helped her remove her jacket, then lifted her into his arms.

  They made it as far as the living room, where it was warm and comfortable. He kissed her again, touching her in places she never knew she liked being touched.

  Layer by layer, their clothes slipped off their heated bodies and onto the carpet. When at last they were both naked, he pushed her gently down on the sofa and raised her arms over her head. Her breasts were lifted, exposed, bare. The nipples were taut and incredibly sensitive. He lowered his mouth and took full advantage, and she thought she would die from the sheer pleasure of it.

  “Oh, yes,” she breathed. She arched her back and whimpered, and when he slid his wet finger between her legs, she almost came right then and there.

  Nibbling, suckling, kissing each tender inch of her flesh, he drove her passion on and on, and she fell all the way in love, down to her toes in love, down to the marrow of her bones in love with Soldier McKennitt.

  His skin was smooth, his muscles tight and strong, and she adored the feel of her fingers and palms sliding over him.

  She lay back on the velvety fabric of the sofa and lifted one leg over the back. She heard him tear open a packet and a few seconds later felt him settle between her thighs.

  It had been a very long time, but when he slid inside her, it was glorious. He kissed her mouth and moved his hips against her, nudging that one special spot again and again. Building the tension, the need.

  “Soldier,” she whispered, her voice soft and high and distant. “Oh, my . . .”

  He kissed her deeply as he moved, angling his body to make sure he rubbed against her with each long thrust.

  She couldn’t breathe, had to pull away from his kiss. Lifting her hips from the sofa in rhythm with his, she felt her pleasure mount until she was ready to beg him for release.

  He arched over her, licked her nipples, biting them, sending shards of electric heat directly to where his flesh thrust into hers. Nothing else mattered, nothing else touched her. Just him. Just Soldier, the man she loved.

  Her muscles tightened and she stilled. He slid against her, shoving her over the brink. She climaxed, softly gasping as her hips squirmed and wiggled against him, prolonging the intensity, the pleasure, the absolute delight.

  “Oh, God . . .” she breathed. “Oh, Soldier . . .”

  He smiled down at her, his lids heavy, his forehead damp with perspiration.

  “All right,” he said with hushed enthusiasm while she lay panting beneath him. With a grin, he murmured, “My turn.”

  He moved again, shoving himself harder, deeper. He bent his body to hers, gently taking the side of her neck in his mouth. His body stiffened for a second, his shaft poised just at her opening. His lungs bellowing, he waited. When he could wait no longer, he groaned, shoved into her, and completely lost control. His climax seemed to shake him, and he panted in rhythm with the wild thrust of his hips.

  His sweat-slicked body stilled over hers as they both recovered. They touched, belly to belly, and she felt the heavy intake of his breathing as it slowly returned to normal.

  “You make very sexy sounds when you come,” he panted softly against her neck. “I like it. Goddamn, I really, really like it.”

  “Th-Thank you,” she choked. Her throat constricted and her eyes burned. “Th-Thank you,” she repeated, her voice thick with tears. “I . . . I . . . you . . .”

  Soldier lifted his head and stared worriedly into her eyes. Cupping her cheek in his palm, he whispered, “Betsy? Oh, Betsy, honey. It’s okay. Go ahead. Let it all go.”

  Just as he pulled her closer, the dam burst. She began to sob, her body wracked by uncontrollable spasms. The tears on her cheeks felt hot, but she couldn’t do anything to stop them.

  There in Soldier’s arms, she wept as though her heart were breaking.

  He pulled a quilt from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around them both, snug and tight. She burrowed into his embrace and let the desolation she had been trying to deny for days and days, and maybe even years and years, spill out of her heart, out of her very soul, and into his safekeeping.

  Soldier held Betsy in his arms, watching as pearly moonlight brushed softly across her cheek, the tip of her nose, her siren’s mouth.

  She was the sweetest woman he’d ever known. Her tender heart, sharp wit, honesty, the very essence of her had gotten to him despite his best efforts to keep her at arm’s length. It was getting more and more difficult to keep his feelings from pushing to the surface.

  He told himself he could not allow himself to fall in love. He didn’t need it, didn’t want it, and sure as shit didn’t deserve it.

  She made a little mewling sound in her sleep and burrowed closer to him, skin-to-skin, heart-to-heart.

  Ah, Betsy. What in the hell are you doing to me?

  Her golden hair lay shimmering softly against the curve of her cheek. Twisting a silken strand around his finger, he idly let it fall into his palm. Somehow, her sweetness made her even more desirable, sexier than he could have imagined.

  But she was so much more. Tonight, as she had comforted Amy Finlay, she had understood without him having said anything that he’d felt responsible for Finlay’s death. And she’d absolved him.

  When this was all over, and he had the son of a bitch responsible for this whole mess, how on earth was he ever going to let Betsy go? How could he let such a woman just walk out of his life?

  She stirred in his arms, and he felt her leg slide over his as she move
d closer. Man, he was in heaven.

  Without opening her eyes, she whispered, “See Betsy. Betsy is satisfied. The Detective is good.”

  Soldier lowered his head and nibbled on her ear. “Look, look, look.” He laughed softly. “Look at the Detective. He is ready to go again.”

  Against his chest, Betsy giggled. “Oh, oh, oh. Betsy is—”

  Soldier slid his fingers between her legs and rubbed her in a languid rhythm.

  “Oh, oh, oh,” she said on an intake of breath. “Oh, oh . . . my. Oh yes, oh yes . . .”

  Soldier pushed the quilt away and settled between her parted legs while still stroking, building the heat in her once more.

  Her back arched and her breasts jiggled a bit as he put himself to her. He bent his head to take the very tip of one nipple in his teeth.

  She gasped his name. Her hips rolled against his. Mindless of everything except the feel of her flesh tight around his penis, he pushed into her.

  “Betsy,” he breathed. “You’re so beautiful. God, you’re so damned beautiful.”

  Soldier lifted her arms above her head and intertwined his fingers with hers. He lay stretched on top of her, wanting to feel as much of her against him as he could. Her body was soft, the points of her nipples against his chest hard. He took her mouth just as she came, and he came with her, and it was a glory and a revelation.

  A tap at the front door woke Soldier from a heavy sleep. In the predawn light, he could make out the hands on the grandfather clock standing sentry across the room. Five-thirty.

  The tapping became louder, more urgent, rousing Betsy from sleep as well.

  Pulling the quilt tightly around her, she whispered, “Somebody’s at the door? Now?”

  “You stay here. I’ll check it out.”

  Rising from the sofa, he pulled on his jeans as Betsy quickly dressed. Glancing about, he located his shoulder holster laying in a heap by the coffee table.

  He pulled his weapon and moved silently across the room. The tapping turned into a definite knocking. Edging aside the lace curtain that covered the oval glass on the front door, he simultaneously flipped on the porch light.