Carla’s plans were rapidly unraveling and she didn’t like it one bit. Okay, okay, she told herself. She was nothing if not flexible. She’d just have to be a little more creative.
She briefly considered leaving town, bagging the whole plan, but she had worked too hard for too long to back out now. Betsy deserved to be ruined, and ruined she would be.
Well, there was no use going back to Betsy’s house tonight, not with all those damned people there. What was called for now was a little diversion. Cause a disruption at point A so you could do your business at point B.
She would be patient; it would come to her. She was, after all, a very patient woman. Had she not waited for years to kill her stupid lech of a father and suffered her controlling mother’s ravings until she had locked them both in the house and burned it to the ground? And Kristee? Well, it was only a matter of time before she knew she’d be forced to rid herself of her flaky sister.
She was invincible and they were fools. Murder was so easy, and she’d always gotten away clean. This time would be no different.
Chapter 20
A search of the area had turned up nothing. Carla Denato must have vanished into thin air. Just to be on the safe side, a patrol car arrived shortly after dinner to serve as escort home for Loretta and her adoring entourage, just in case Carla had targeted anybody else for fun and games tonight. As usual, Betsy’s mother flirted outrageously with the shy young officer until his cheeks reddened and he practically gushed.
As Betsy stood at the front window, watching the cars drive off, she heard her father’s voice behind her.
“I’m g-going to bed now,” he said quietly. “Good night, punkin.”
Betsy moved to the bottom of the stairs, where her father stood and gave him a warm hug. He kissed her on the forehead. “I love you, s-sweetheart,” he said.
“You know, Daddy,” she whispered, “you seem perfectly normal to me. Just as normal and as darling as ever.”
He laughed. “I’m not cr-crazy, you know. That wasn’t the problem. It was just that there were all those W-Watergate prosecutors. I kept seeing James Dean following me.”
“That was John Dean, Daddy, and he wasn’t following you. Besides, you’re safe now here with me.”
He grinned and nodded and gave her a wink, then climbed the stairs and closed his bedroom door.
“Betsy.” Soldier’s voice. Behind her. Soft, caressing, filled with understanding. “When your parents divorced, you chose to stay with your mother and not your father. Why?”
She shrugged. “As the saying goes, it seemed like a good idea at the time.” Turning to him, she laughed and said, “I thought she needed me. Isn’t that silly? I thought one day, she’d wake up and look at me and decide she loved me terrifically, and that she needed me to make her life complete.” Rolling her eyes, she said, “I . . . was an idiot.”
Soldier slid his arms around her, pulling her close, encouraging her to let him help dissipate her ages-old anguish.
“It’s not your fault, you know,” he murmured against her hair. “Only Loretta can change Loretta. And here’s a news flash . . . it ain’t gonna happen.”
“I know that now,” she confessed. “When I was little, I used to think it was me. I mean, she was so beautiful. She was the most beautiful of all the moms, and all the kids envied me. But they didn’t know how distant she could be.” She swallowed. “I didn’t even realize it myself until I got older. I’d always thought it was just . . . me. That I’d done something wrong. Displeased her in some way.” She swallowed again. “So, I never let anybody get very close. I couldn’t risk the rejection. It just hurt too damn much.”
“Honey, listen, I—”
“You don’t let people close, either,” she interrupted before he could confess the words that would stab her to the core. Searching his eyes, she said, “Tell me about Marc.”
Soldier was sure she must have felt his heart trip over itself, but she only kept her steady gaze on him, waiting for his answer.
“I’ve already told you—”
“No you haven’t,” she interrupted again. “You told me what happened, but you didn’t tell me about the man who was your friend, the man who died, or what it’s done to your insides. That’s what I want to hear.”
He blinked and looked away. “I don’t think I want to talk about this.”
She tightened her arms around his neck. “I think you do. I think you need to.”
Soldier pulled her a little closer, held on a little tighter, as though she was the only thing keeping him from sinking under the surface and never coming up again.
He’d never talked about his most deeply held feelings for his late partner, not even to Taylor.
“Marc,” he began, surprised at the roughness of his voice. “I loved the guy. He was a good man. He was a good husband, a terrific father, a great cop. My blunder, my miscalculation, my misjudgment took all of that away.”
“No. A bad guy took all that away and—”
“Marc died in my arms,” he said in a rush. “He . . . he was in a garbage dump, covered in newspapers and potato peels and all kinds of crap, bleeding. I was alone. It was hard to climb in and pull him out without hurting him any more than he already was.”
Soldier had never confessed that aloud before. His throat hurt from the effort, but once he had begun, it seemed important to tell her everything.
“I hauled him over the side and onto the grass. It had rained and everything was damp, sticky. I sat in the mud and held him, like you’d hold a baby, you know? I could hear the sirens coming closer, but he was hurt so bad . . . I knew, I mean, I was so afraid that . . .”
“Being afraid doesn’t come naturally to you, does it?”
He shook his head. “No. No. It doesn’t.”
“Maybe that’s why it was so shocking. So many awful things must have been going through your head.”
He nodded and tightened his embrace, letting her warmth seep through to his cold, cold bones. Without even trying, she filled in all the hollow spaces, lightened all the shadows, healed all the wounds.
“What happened then?” she whispered.
“I called his name and he opened his eyes, stared up at me. His fingers curled around my wrist, hard, so hard. For a long time I thought it was because he blamed me and he was angry, but now I’m not so sure.”
“What do you think it really was?”
“I think it was Marc, trying to hang on to life. Like, if he held on tight enough, it wouldn’t slip away, out of his grasp.” The images in his head were painful to endure, but he watched the scene unfold again, watched his friend die, again.
“He died just as the paramedics pulled up. He was there, and then he was just gone. Thirty-eight years on the planet, a snap of the fingers, and he’s gone.”
Soldier was silent for a moment, gathering his composure, trying to save Betsy from knowing how deeply he felt his failure and how much it affected their relationship. But she had to know the truth, so she’d stop looking at him with such hope and love in her eyes.
“I swore I’d never get that close to anybody ever again,” he bit out. “I’d never set anybody else up for failure, my failure. And I’d never leave a wife and kids behind like that.”
He looked down into her eyes. Get it? I’m talking to you, Betsy. I’m saving you. Saving you from me.
If she saw the message in his eyes, she ignored it. How typical of her.
“Do you think if Marc had it to do over again, he’d never marry, never have kids?”
“He adored his family,” Soldier rasped, his voice thick with emotion. “They made his life complete. He talked about them all the time.”
“And his wife, would she have given up the years she had with him if she’d known it was going to end badly?”
“I can’t answer that. Nobody can answer that.”
“I can,” she said, smiling up into his eyes. “Maybe someday you’ll let me.”
It was nearly eleven o’cloc
k when Claire greeted Soldier with a wry, weary smile on her face, and a black bag clutched in her hand.
“Sorry I’m so late. Rough night. How’s he doing?” she said as she stepped across the threshold. “Have you managed to keep him quiet, or has he gone running after more criminals?”
“Nope. I promised him that if he was a real good boy, you’d give him a sponge bath when you got here.”
“Is he in bed?”
“No, he’s sitting in the bathtub with a bar of soap in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other.”
When she laughed, Soldier said, “Listen, I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up on the phone. I was really worried and I let it get the best of me.”
“Oh, gosh,” she gushed, “I’ve heard much worse from women in labor, and men passing kidney stones. Don’t give it another thought.” She glanced about the room. “Has Betsy gone up to bed?”
“Yeah, but I can go get her.”
“Heavens no. She needs rest. I won’t be long anyway.”
Soldier opened his brother’s bedroom door, to find him lying on his back, deep in sleep.
“Tell you what,” Claire said. “You go ahead and go to bed. You look just as tired as I feel. I’ll check him over, and when I’m done, I’ll let myself out.”
“That’s okay,” he replied. “I should stay and make sure—”
“Get the hell to bed and leave me in peace.” Taylor’s voice was raspy, sleepy, as he raised himself up on his elbows. “The lady can stay. You,” he jutted his unshaven chin at Soldier, “beat it.”
“All right. You got it, half-wit.” Soldier turned to her. “Call me if you need anything. There’s a patrol car on the corner keeping a close watch on the house, so if—”
“Anything the lady needs,” Taylor mumbled, “I can provide. Now get lost.”
“Mind if I turn on the light?” Claire asked once Soldier was out of the room. “Moonlight may become you, but it’s damned hard to diagnose by.” She set her medical bag on the small table next to Taylor’s bed, then snapped on the bedside lamp.
Even though she’d seen his body before, seeing it again in an intimate setting made her heart flutter. He was obviously naked under that blanket, so she focused her efforts on the task at hand, and not on his excellent male form.
“Deep breaths,” she said as she pressed the stethoscope to his bare chest.
Instead of looking around the room like most patients did when being examined, he looked straight at her. “Will I live?” he said.
“I’m almost sure of it, Detective.”
“I’m off duty. You should call me Taylor.”
“Well, I’m on duty, Detective.”
Flicking on her penlight, she said, “Focus on the corner of the ceiling over there.”
He did, and she examined his pupils.
“Any dizziness or nausea? Have you felt faint, other than when you were running down a criminal against your doctor’s orders?”
He lay back down again, his broad shoulders smooth and muscular in the muted light of the small lamp. Taylor McKennitt was a very sexy man.
“We still on for dinner tomorrow night, Doc?”
As she packed up her medical bag, she chewed on her bottom lip. “Yes. But we’ll have to go someplace quiet, and you’ll have to behave.” Turning back to him, she said, “I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at six and take you to the quietest place in Port Henry.”
He grinned. “Oh yeah? Where’s that?”
Snapping her bag closed, she said, “My house.”
His eyes grew wide as interest flared to life in their depths. “You can cook?”
“I can cook.”
“Wow,” he said, arching a dark brow. “You’re beautiful, you’re single, you’re a doctor, and you can cook? Will you marry me and make my mother the happiest woman on earth?”
She smiled and said, “I’ll let myself out. Get some rest, hotshot. See you tomorrow at six.”
Soldier went into his room and began getting ready for bed. Tugging off his shirt, he tossed it on the bed and unbuckled his belt.
Tomorrow, he would institute an area-wide search for Denato. She was still around, he could feel it in his bones. Her plans had been wrecked and she was sure to blame Betsy. While most perps would cut their losses and run, stalkers who had murdered and gotten away with it were an arrogant lot. He was sure that Carla Denato wouldn’t leave until she tried to finish what she’d begun.
And it was his job, his vow, to make sure she didn’t.
He was so deep in his thoughts, he was barely aware that the connecting bathroom door between his room and Betsy’s had inched open.
“Hey, Soldier. New in town?”
He turned at the low, sexy little remark. “It’s, ‘Hey, sailor,’ and I’ve heard it bef—”
Soldier’s words backed up in his throat, his mouth went dry, and his eyes came very near to popping out of his head. He’d never come so close to puckering up for a wolf whistle in his life.
Betsy stood in the threshold, every sweet, plump, curvy inch of her, in a dress so hot his eyelashes felt singed.
“My mother brought this from Paris,” she said, her cheeks flushing as she said the words. “Now be honest. Do you like it?”
Like it? Hell, he liked it so much, if he tried to speak, he’d bite off his tongue.
The dress was a simple black velvet number. It had no frills, nothing about it to test a man’s will, but the way it clung to Betsy’s body from creamy cleavage to mid-calf was a sin.
The off-the-shoulder bodice fitted over her breasts, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Whatever she had, it showed—from soft cleavage, to tight nipples, to the undercurve of each breast, to her cinched-in waist and the sweet camber of her hips. It covered everything, but could in no way be considered demure.
She twirled and the skirt flared a bit, showing the backs of her knees and part of her creamy thighs. The back was laced together from her shoulder blades down to the curve of her spine just above her . . . oh God.
On her feet, she wore black strappy heels.
He stood and stared at her, too paralyzed with desire to even speak.
“I think it’s kind of tight,” she said with a scrunched-up nose. “What do you think?”
It would have been nice if he could actually have formed a coherent sentence, but a few dry, choppy letters were the best he could do.
“T-T . . . I . . . uh . . .”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she said, apparently oblivious to his speech impediment. “Maybe I can let it out a little at the hips.” She wriggled them for emphasis.
“H-H . . . I . . . uh . . .”
She giggled and her breasts jiggled a tiny bit. Oh, Christ.
“I know exactly what you mean,” she said, as though he had actually made an intelligible comment. “And the neckline’s scooped too low for me. I feel almost completely exposed.” She leaned forward a little. “See? Just a couple more inches and I’d spill like Hoover Dam.”
“Sp-Sp . . . Hoo . . . Hoo . . .”
“You sound like Woodsy Owl. That’s cute.” She smiled at him, her deep dimples capturing him once more, the sparkle in her eyes shining for him. Had he ever met a more ingenuous, intriguing, incredible woman in his life?
“Betsy,” he choked. Moving toward her, he tried to find some words, any words, he could actually speak without stumbling over. “Betsy, I—”
“Oh, you’re right,” she sighed. “I never would have guessed you’d have such a great fashion sense. You’re absolutely right. The dress is totally wrong for me. It’s so tight, I can’t even wear a bra or any undies—”
Was she naive or was this some kind of tantalizing little game she was playing? Soldier didn’t care.
Lowering his head, he took her mouth. His own mouth open, he fed on her kisses, using his tongue to lap up the honey of her lips.
His fingers dug into the firm, bare flesh of her arms, and she stepped
into his kiss, into his embrace, into his forevermore.
Soldier let his hands slide down her back. Cupping the globes of her bottom in his fingers, he pulled her up against his erection. Through the velvet nap of her dress, he felt her heat, and it sent his blood to boiling.
In his mind, he could see under her dress, see her naked breasts, her pink nipples. In his hands, her bottom wriggled, driving him totally nuts.
No panties. She was not wearing panties, only this little black dress that looked like it had been spray-painted on.
She moaned, her lips parted, he thrust in, rubbing his tongue against hers until they were both panting. She tasted sweet and tart and hot. His body was nothing but sensation, his fingers, his mouth, his skin.
He kissed her hard, wanting to devour her. Her neck arched back, and he broke the kiss to trail nibbles down her throat. His hands slipped around to cup her generous breasts, and she sighed, a lovely, soft, thoroughly sexy sound.
Soldier moved her back toward the bedroom wall. When he felt her press against it, he reached for the hem of her dress and hiked it up to her knees, thighs, hips, waist, exposing her to him.
Quickly, he moved his hand to the softness between her legs, sliding one finger into the cleavage. She choked his name, wrapped her arms around his neck and her leg around his thigh.
He kissed her again, long, slow, deep, soul kisses as he unbuttoned his fly, freeing himself. He pressed into her, then plunged into her.
She squealed softly, murmuring his name until he took her mouth again.
Rolling his hips, he pushed in as far as he could go. Reaching behind her, he grabbed at the laces until they came undone and he could slide the dress down, revealing her breasts. He kissed her, slanted his thumb across one taut nipple, rolled his hips against her. Inside her tightness, he felt himself pulse in time with his thundering heartbeat.
Breaking the kiss, he groaned and lowered his damp brow to the curve of her bare shoulder.
“Betsy,” he breathed. “God, what you do to me. You’re so good . . . never so good before . . . not ever . . .”
“So,” she teased softly, “you don’t think my dress is too tight?”
The Damsel in This Dress Page 25