The Damsel in This Dress by Marianne Stillings Read Free Book Online

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