The Damsel in This Dress by Marianne Stillings

only thing over which she had any kind of control.
    “I just want to go home. I’m not being stalked. I . . . I just want to go home and have everything be normal again.”
    There, she’d said it. Calmly, rationally, concisely. She would return to Port Henry and life would go on as it had before. To think she was being stalked was ridiculous. In a few months she would look back and have a huge laugh at how silly she’d been.
    Soldier had changed his clothes and was now wearing jeans and a long-sleeve black T-shirt. She tried not to stare, but looking at him made her feel good. He seemed so self-assured, comfortable in his own skin, and so nice to look at, she was having trouble concentrating. At her remarks, he’d pushed himself away from the table and crossed his arms over his chest. Betsy had never been in the presence of a man so wholly sexy that she had trouble focusing on the matter at hand. She forced herself not to sigh.
    Just who was she kidding, anyway? A man like Soldier McKennitt would never give a plain little nobody like her the time of day. The thought made her feel depressed, and she suddenly felt like crying. Uh-oh, here they came. The tears.
    Fear, intimidation, loss of control, sexual attraction, possible rejection . . . all churned together in her mind, and she knew she was very close to losing it.
    Her eyes stinging, Betsy tried to look away, but Soldier had seen. He leaned forward and cupped his hands around hers, still wrapped around the mug.
    “What you’re feeling is normal, Betsy. It’s a common human reaction to a situation like this. First, you’re certain it’s all a mistake. Then, you start to feel it’s true. But your mind begins working overtime on it and you convince yourself you’re being silly. You vacillate until the next encounter, and even then you have trouble believing it’s happening. Nobody likes to believe they are the victim of a stalker.”
    “I’m not being stalked.”
    “The evidence is there, Betsy. Sure, there’s no physical proof yet, but I feel you’re in danger . . . and you feel it, too.”
    “No. A stupid note, that’s all. Nothing else has happened.”
    “Something else did happen. Somebody put your dog in the—”
    Betsy pulled her hands away. “No. I can’t accept that. Piddle s-somehow got himself into the refrigerator. I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m sure it’s just . . . it was just . . .”
    Just what? She didn’t have a good explanation, but she was damn sure she wasn’t being stalked.
    With a heavy sigh, she stood, lifting the sleeping dog into her arms. “I’m tired. I want to go to bed now. You’ll have to leave.” She refused to meet Soldier’s eyes.
    He stood and placed his hands on her shoulders. “All right. We can do this in the morning, after you’ve rested.” His tone seemed resigned. She knew he didn’t want to let her go to sleep now; he wanted to do the damn interview. But she had another plan in mind, a plan that didn’t include detectives or interviews or hotel security guards or nonexistent stalkers.
    Soldier knew it just as sure as he knew his own name: she was going to bolt.
    It had been a long day, and he felt dead on his feet, but as long as Betsy Tremaine had that “I’m outta here” look in her eyes, he had to stay awake and alert. Glancing at his watch, the dim hallway light revealed it was nearing three o’clock in the morning. Any minute now.
    As predicted, he heard the knob turn, the hinge creak, felt the little suck of air as the door swung open.
    He’d positioned himself in a chair in the hallway, his legs stretched out before him, his arms crossed over his chest. The door opened a little more, and slowly she poked her head out. She looked to the left and opened the door a bit more. She looked to the right, directly into Soldier’s eyes.
    The shock that registered on her face was well worth his having stayed up half the night waiting for her to make a break for it.
    He’d known the