The Damsel in This Dress (28 page)

S
oldier stood at the living room window, hands on his hips, a scowl on his face. A day had passed and it was night again. A day and a night, and no Carla Denato.

He wanted to believe she’d moved on, but the hairs on the back of his neck were still standing at attention, warning him he couldn’t relax just yet.

Ryan Finlay’s funeral was tomorrow morning. If Denato was smart, she’d stay the hell away. But Carla Denato wasn’t smart, she was nuts, unpredictable, and an opportunist. Soldier knew he had to be ready for anything.

He tugged the curtain back into place across the window then closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on his thoughts, trying to find a way to sort them all out. This would all be over very soon and life would return to normal. He’d go home to Seattle, bury himself in work, and try like crazy to stop thinking about Betsy.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he leaned against the doorjamb and sighed. He’d known her less than two weeks, but that had been enough for him to realize that she was the most real, down-to-earth, perfect life’s partner for him he could ever hope to find.

It wasn’t just the sex, either. Making love with Betsy was an explosive almost ethereal experience, the kind of intimacy he believed was the result of being with the
right
woman. Sex was sex, but making love with a woman who belonged with you on so many levels, that was special. Too special to let go.

Let Betsy go? Could he?

Okay. Let’s say I do let her go. And she meets some guy. And they hit it off and he asks her to mar—

No. No, no, no. No other man. He didn’t even want to think of Betsy sleeping with another man, living with him, bearing his children. No. That just didn’t work.

He felt his heart do a happy little flip as he began to absorb just what this meant. Yeah. Love. As hard as he’d tried to avoid it, he’d fallen ass end over teakettle in love with the prickly, witty, charming, totally delightful Ms. Tremaine.

And if the soft look she got in her eyes whenever he came near her was any indication, she’d fallen for him, too.

“S-Soldier?”

He shifted his stance to see Betsy’s father approaching him from the kitchen.

With a smile left over from his mini epiphany, Soldier said, “Douglas. What can I do for you?”

Douglas Tremaine shuffled over and sat in one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. Soldier dropped into the other one.

Douglas was clean-shaven, his hair neatly combed. He wore a pair of jeans and a faded University of Washington sweatshirt. At nearly sixty, he was still a good-looking man. Soldier could see the resemblance to his daughter in the high cheekbones, the arch of a brow, the line of the jaw.

The older man’s gaze shifted from the hands he held in his lap up to Soldier, then down again.

“Is there something I can do for you, sir?” Soldier asked.

He nodded. “Betsy’s upstairs. I w-wanted to talk to you when, you know, when she couldn’t hear.”

Soldier leaned forward, making eye contact with him. “Okay.”

Douglas let out a long breath then returned Soldier’s steady gaze. “I’m Betsy’s father,” he began, sitting a little taller in the chair. Soldier waited a few seconds for the man to gather his thoughts and words. “I’m Betsy’s f-father,” he repeated, “so—so I needed to talk to you, you know, about your intentions.”

“My intentions?” Soldier said tonelessly. “
Oh.
My
intentions.
”

For a moment he was caught off guard. Did fathers do that anymore? he wondered, then swallowed a grin. Sure they did, when the father was the stalwart Douglas Tremaine and the daughter happened to be the tastiest morsel in town.

“Yes.” Douglas’s gray eyes narrowed. “Your intentions. Th-They are honorable, I trust?”

Honorable? Soldier had always thought himself an honorable sort; not perfect, but aware of his flaws and fairly willing to work on them. Well, to a certain point anyway.

“Mr. Tremaine,” he said, the unaccountable need for formality punctuating his discomfort. Why in the hell did he suddenly feel like some pimply-faced teenager, nervous and shy? Douglas Tremaine had to know that he and Betsy had been sleeping together, a fact that probably didn’t set all that well with the man.

For a split second Soldier saw himself somewhere down the line, oldish, grayish, pressing some hormonal son of a bitch about his intentions toward his own daughter. He bit down on a rueful smile.

He coughed. “Well, Betsy and I haven’t really discussed—”

“You know,” Douglas interrupted, “I haven’t been a very good fa-father.” His words were slow in coming, as though he had to pull them up from a long way away. “I haven’t really had much of a chance to be one, as you know. I w-want to fix that.” He looked beseechingly into Soldier’s eyes. “Fathers don’t ask much about intentions anymore.” He sighed. “I just w-want to make sure that she doesn’t get hurt. I hurt her plenty when they sent me away. I don’t want that to happen to h-her again.”

Soldier let the guilt he felt slide through him, chill him to the bone like winter fog. He’d been sleeping with Betsy, enjoying her body, her nurturing nature, but he’d not made any kind of commitment to her. He had feelings for her, yet hadn’t had the courage to speak them.
It must have been the wind.
Betsy was not the kind of woman an honorable man should string along.

“I know my daughter,” Douglas Tremaine offered with an affectionate grin. “When she loves, it’s as plain as the nose on your face. Sh-She loves you, Soldier.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“And she deserves to be l-loved in return. And honored. And treated with respect.”

“I know that, too.”

Soldier swallowed, then let his gaze rest on the spent embers in the fireplace. Betsy deserved the best a man had to offer. How could he tell her father that his own best might not be good enough?

Somewhere in the pit of his stomach something tightened and squeezed until he felt sick. The image of Marc Franco spun its way into his mind. He’d failed Marc and he’d let that failure affect everything. If he died today after having fucked up so badly, he thought, it would be his only legacy.

Or he could pick up his sorry ass and his remorse and put the past where it belonged.

Since his conversation with Betsy, since he’d emptied his fears and regrets into her hands, he’d had a clearer picture of things. He realized that Marc had forgiven him, if Marc had even blamed him, just as he would have forgiven Marc had the situation been reversed. Since his partner’s death, he had wallowed in grief and self-pity, not really knowing what else to do or how to put it all behind him. Or why he even should.

Then this lovely woman had entered his life and given him a reason to look to the future, to what he could accomplish instead of what he had lost.

Clearing his throat, Soldier looked the older man in the eye. “Mr. Tremaine, I have only known Betsy a couple of weeks, but with her, a couple of minutes is enough to get hooked. I have to confess, I’m hopelessly in love with your daughter.”

Soldier made a snorting laugh and rubbed his jaw with his knuckles. “It’s true,” he said, more to himself than to Douglas. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”

Lowering his head, he blew out a nervous laugh.

My God, did I just say that out loud?

He laughed again, suddenly feeling ten tons lighter. “I’m not sure if that’s what you were hoping to hear,” he said. “But that’s how it is.”

The two men stood and clasped hands in a hearty handshake.

“You are a good man, sir,” Douglas said through a beaming smile. “A v-very good man.”

“You’ve checked everybody?”

The uniformed officer nodded in response to Soldier’s question. “Yes, sir. No guns, no knives, not so much as a crochet hook. Everybody’s clean.”

“You’ve seen the sketch? You know what Denato looks like?”

“As well as I know my own face, sir.”

The first part of Ryan Finlay’s funeral service had gone off without a hitch. Now, the crowd of a hundred or so people mingled about the large room, waiting for the limos to be brought up for the procession to the cemetery.

Soldier scanned the area. Around the mourning room, heavy drapes had been drawn across the tall windows in deference to the bereaved and their tears. Candelabra had been lit and set on occasional tables, adding to the serene and stately atmosphere. Red and white carnations, pink roses, and yellow chrysanthemums in arrangements large and small added subtle fragrance to the gathering, while in the background organ music played in dulcet tones.

An array of deeply cushioned chairs and sofas offered mourners the chance to either chat quietly together or simply sit in tranquil contemplation. Men in dark suits escorted women in dark suits. There were some children, but not many. Mostly, people stood about in hushed conversation, shocked that someone they knew and cared for had been taken from them so brutally.

“Lot of people,” Soldier commented to the officer at the door as he examined the sea of faces in the dimly lit room.

“Yeah, I don’t like it either, sir. Too easy for something bad to go down.”

Go down?
And what was with the green-tinted shades? Winslow had sent a uniform who definitely watched too much TV.

He thanked the officer, then moved to the small cluster of people where Betsy stood talking to Taylor and Claire and members of the newspaper’s staff.

He recognized Holly Miller, her wild hair subdued in a clip, her lips painted the color of chocolate pudding. Amazingly, she was dressed in a conservative skirt and sweater. Rita Barton stood with her arms crossed, as though without constant vigilance, an emotion might find its way to her stony face, giving the impression of caring. Young Dave Hannigan looked at a loss and out of place in his too small brown suit, which made his size even more noticeable. His eyes were red and swollen as he gripped Soldier’s hand in sincere greeting.

Soldier didn’t think Carla was dumb enough to try anything here, but just in case, in addition to the officer at the door, there was Taylor plus two others in uniform.

But his money was on the graveside service. Veteran’s Memorial Park covered several acres, was landscaped with clusters of trees and shrubs, and abutted forest land. An easy place to hide, and to escape from. Soldier already had several men in position at the park, scanning the grounds and checking for intruders.

Now, as he perused the room, Betsy looked up and their eyes locked. She lifted her chin and sent him a brave smile.

Soldier and Douglas had agreed that until this whole thing was over, he would wait to ask Betsy to marry him. He wanted his proposal to be separate and special, something positive in contrast to the pain and sorrow she’d had to endure.

Besides, it might take a bit of convincing, since she really hadn’t known him all that long. Even so, she wouldn’t turn him down, would she? She would surely recognize they were meant to be together, wouldn’t she?

Man, love was sure hard on the old nervous system.

Now that he’d reached his decision, it was all he could do to keep from tucking her into his embrace and telling her he loved her, then springing a marriage proposal on her. She’d probably give him some feisty, sarcastic remark in response, but he didn’t care. As long as she said yes.

He scanned the room again. The service itself had been quick. Finlay’s widow was pretty broken up afterward. She had already been escorted out to the limousine to spend some quiet time with her children before going on to the cemetery.

Even though things were going smoothly, the back of Soldier’s neck was still prickling. Damn, he hated when that happened. Something was wrong; something felt out of place. He just couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He looked up at the officer at the door. Something about . . .

Just then a dog began to bark and whine. Now, who in the hell would bring a dog to a fune—

Oh, he reminded himself. Of course.

He turned toward the door where Loretta and Piddle were just making their entrance. The mutt was going postal, barking, snarling, whining, trying to wiggle free of Loretta’s arms.

The officer at the door had stiffened, apparently not knowing whether to shoot the dog or put a muzzle on it.

Loretta swept across the threshold and into the room, the lunatic Chihuahua still going nuts in her arms.

“Pids! Shhh! Calm down! Mommy will make everything all right!” She was doing her damnedest to quiet the mutt, but to no avail.

Behind Loretta a commotion arose; a woman screamed, and the officer at the door fired a shot. All hell broke loose.

Through the crowd, Soldier saw the officer whirl and run outside. A second explosion sounded as the cop fired again.

People continued to scream as they ran for cover. Soldier glanced frantically around for Betsy. She and Claire were huddled in a corner with Dave Hannigan standing protectively over them. Taylor was already in motion, his gun drawn as he limped toward the door.