The Damsel in This Dress Read Free

a featherless, bonsai ostrich hiding his head in the sand.
    It was then she saw what was bothering him.
    She reached out and warily touched the piece of paper tucked tightly under his collar. Pulling it out, she absently set Piddle on the floor and unfolded the paper.
     
HEY DIDDLE-DIDDLE,
I COULD HAVE NAILED PIDDLE
BUT I DIDN’T DO SUCH
’CAUSE I LOVE YOU SO MUCH
OR DO I?
    Betsy’s heart skipped a beat while her breath caught in her throat. She lay the paper on the kitchen counter, and fumbling for a chair, sat down and stared at the scrap.
    Her gaze moved warily to the back door. Should she open it to see who was out there?
    Immediately her common sense shouted, Hell no! What a stupid idea!
    The more she stared at the paper, the faster her heart raced. A lonely woman in a lonely house living a lonely life should be thrilled that somebody loved her. Except it was plain he didn’t love her.
    Quite the contrary.
    Officer Sam Winslow looked like a million bucks: tall, an all-American type with brown eyes, dark blond hair, a cleft in his chin, the works. Betsy held Piddle close to her chest as Officer Winslow completed his paperwork.
    He grinned. Straight, white, perfect teeth. Inwardly, Betsy sighed with longing. It was a pleasure just to look at the man.
    “Now, Ms. Tremaine—” he began.
    “That’s Miss ,” she corrected, trying not to appear too obvious.
    “Ah, yes, then Miss Tremaine . You’re certain, ma’am, that you have no idea who could have written this note?” The note in question now resided in a small plastic evidence bag he held in his large clean hand.
    Betsy shook her head. “No, sir.”
    Winslow grinned again. “You don’t have to call me sir.”
    “You called me ma’am.”
    “Yes,” he said through a sheepish grin. How charming. “We’re supposed to do that. As a courtesy. Ma’am.” He grinned again as he tossed the evidence bag into his leather case. Betsy slid a glance to his left hand as he snapped the lock shut.
    No wedding ring. Should she tell him now that she wanted to have his baby, or should she wait until she knew him better?
    She wiped the silly grin off her face before he turned back to her. All he would see now was a serious young woman of medium height, with a plain face but rather good complexion, hazel eyes, short, chunky-cut blond hair, shoulders that were too square, a bust just a tad too full, a slim waist, and her grandmother’s thighs.
    Like a mental ticker tape, her mother’s sad-but-true appraisal of her deficiencies ran yet again through her head.
    You’ve got an hourglass figure, dear. Men hate hourglass figures. Look at movies and TV if you don’t believe me. Sleek and toned, lots of muscle, small breasts, long legs, trim hips. You do have good teeth, though.
    Good teeth? Who did her mother think she was, Trigger?
    Officer Winslow stood. Betsy rose, too, subtly pulling her pink sweater down over her hips. She’d changed back into her jeans and a top after phoning the police, and now wished she’d stayed in her nightgown. At least it covered her body, including those damned hips, from neck to toe.
    “It looks like our guys have finished in your backyard,” he said. “I’ll get in touch with you if anything turns up on the note. I doubt we’ll find any prints on it besides yours, but you never know.”
    “You never know. Right.” Betsy smiled. She absently wound a short curl around her finger then let it go and shoved her hand into her pocket when she realized she had come very close to being coy. “Do you think I’m in danger, Officer Winslow?”
    The lawman stopped in the doorway. His shoulders were so broad, she couldn’t see past him to the street. He looked . . . heroic. Or was it just that she was . . . desperate.
    “Read the literature I left for you. It’ll give you some tips on keeping yourself safe. Also,” he said, granting her another perfect smile, “we’ll increase the neighborhood patrols for a while. Oftentimes, a visible