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

raised her knee and slammed it into André’s crotch, immobilizing him. He squeaked in pain, like the wimpy, girly mouse he was, before collapsing to the floor of the car. Reaching into her handbag, Amanda pulled out a 9mm Glock and shot the bastard right through the heart.
“The bullet missed André’s heart and hit the seat behind him. Jumping to his feet, he yanked the weapon from Amanda’s weak little fist and turned the gun on her. ‘Pfffft I say! Your kitchen floor is unpolished, you don’t believe in Santa Claus, and you are bland! Bland, bland, bland!’ Squeezing the trigger, he put a bullet right between her eyes, not in the seat behind her. She was dead. Dead, dead, dead. A doctor traveling in the next car confirmed it.
“André was immediately arrested by the doctor’s wife, who was an undercover policewoman. André the rat was convicted of murder in the first, and sentenced to be drawn and quartered. His lawyer appealed, saying that was cruel and unusual punishment, but there was such a public outcry at the senseless murder of the lovely and wonderful Miss Jones that the judge ordered André be strung up by his ba—”
    *  *  *
     
    Bordon halted. All over the room, eyes were huge, mouths were frozen mid-gape. Nobody moved.
    “Well . . .” Bordon wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. “My. Okay then. Uh, as you can see, uh, yes. Well, it’s lunchtime. Class, uh, dismissed.”
    Oh, the horror. The humiliation. She would have to leave the conference.
    Betsy sat on the edge of the queen-sized bed, her feet apart, her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands, her self-esteem about three floors down.
    Oh, the shame. He had made certain they all knew her name before Bordon innocently read that travesty out loud. She loved mystery stories and crime novels, which was the whole reason she’d used her limited vacation time to attend the conference. It wasn’t fair that one arrogant ass could spoil it all for her.
    Thanks to him, for the remainder of the conference she would probably be greeted with odd looks and curious stares. Word would certainly get around, him being handsome and famous and everything. Great . As if she wasn’t insecure enough.
    But leave the conference because of him? No, she would stay.
    But she was certain to run into Soldier McKennitt again, and she hadn’t the foggiest idea what she’d even say to him. Just the thought of seeing him once more made her insides churn. Okay, she would leave the damn conference.
    But on the other hand, there were still three days left, featuring some really important writers whose lectures she wanted to hear. There were also some good workshops coming up on journalism and editing. All right, all right, enough buts. She would stay at the damn conference.
    Pushing her hair out of her eyes, Betsy lifted her head. “Pids?” To get her mind off her dilemma, she decided, she’d take the Mongrel across the street to the park for a little R&R. He hadn’t rushed to greet her when she returned to her room ten minutes ago, but then, Piddle never rushed to do anything anymore. Betsy’s mother had warned her that the dog’s hearing wasn’t what it used to be. He was probably asleep under the bed and hadn’t heard her come in.
    Lifting the lacy bed skirt, she gave a quick look. No dog. The hotel room just wasn’t that big. An oak dresser and mirror faced the bed and nightstand, a TV sat atop a minifridge, and a writing desk and chair stood in the corner. The muted plaid drapes were pulled across the single window.
    After a quick check in the bathroom, she was more confused than ever, and a little worried. Where in the hell was that damn dog? Had the maid left the door open? Betsy had given special instructions to the desk to take care that the dog not get out. She wondered if the geriatric Chihuahua had somehow managed to creep past the maid in an insane bid for freedom. If so, he could be anywhere. Her mother would just die if anything happened