Pillow Talk
Holiday Interludes 2
Marie-Nicole Ryan
Published by Ryandale Publishing at Smashwords
Copyright 2008 Mary Varble
Discover other titles at by Marie-Nicole Ryan at Smashwords
Mistletoe and Mario: Holiday Interludes 1
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Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
Stranded in Nash-vile…alone on New Year’s Eve…in a freaking snowstorm. Is there a worse way to spend the night?
Dear Reader,
If you enjoyed meeting fun-loving Alex MacGregor, the younger FBI agent, in Holding Her Own, I hope you’ll enjoy this interlude with him and a damsel in much distress.
No one should have to spend New Year’s Eve all alone. Now really!
Happy Holidays,
Marie-Nicole Ryan
Chapter One
Stranded in Music City on New Year’s Eve? Make no mistake about it—it sucked. While Alex guzzled two cups of brew and waited for his flight out of Nashville International Airport, a freakish-for-Nashville winter snow storm—Canadian Clipper the weather guy called it—dumped a foot of the miserable white stuff.
All flights cancelled. All hotels full…except for this one dump where he’d finally found a room.
Granted his experience in the city was limited to the last six hours—three hours in the airport and the three hellish hours it took for the cabbie to drive from the airport to a low-rent motel on Murfreesboro Road. The room smelled of stale cigarettes and illicit sex. Limited experience or not—Nash-vile still sucked.
Sucked a big one, indeed.
Don’t get him started on Tennessee drivers. Hadn’t any of them ever seen snow before? Didn’t drive like it the way they barreled around in their SUVs—at top speed no less. The roadsides were already littered with vehicles that skidded off the road.
Now to top off possibly the worst day in recent memory, the people in the next room were celebrating the end of the year by fucking their brains out. The headboard banging was incessant, and judging by the woman’s unwavering crescendo, it might end soon.
Not soon enough.
He snatched the remote from the scarred bedside table and hit the power button. A quick channel surf. Nothing but basic cable. Geez, a dump like this should have some porn, at the very least.
Of course all he had to do was listen to the couple next door, and he could have as many vicarious thrills a guy could want. Take matters in hand, so-to-speak.
If the airport hadn’t misplaced one of his bags, he could’ve listened to his iPod and drowned out the noise.
Here he was, late for his next assignment at Chicago’s local field office, sitting on a bedspread more than likely permeated with an unimaginable assortment of body fluids. Good thing he didn’t have Luminal or a black light. Whole damned room would probably fluoresce.
Oh, hell. Couldn’t hurt him, could it? If he didn’t know for sure…
A door slammed. This time on the opposite side.
Great. Now he could have sexual Olympics in stereo.
Fun and games for all.
Except for one lonely FBI agent. Hell, he should have loser tattooed on his forehead. What not-half-bad looking dude in his late twenties spent New Year’s Eve alone?
He waited, listening for the new arrivals to go at it.
No, think about something else.
Wonder what Jake and Kate were doing tonight? Probably all warm and cozy in front of the fire in their townhouse in Georgetown. She should be about ready to pop their baby out any time now.
Looking forward to being the godfather, yes, he was.
They were one lucky couple. The life of an FBI agent didn’t always lend itself to happy marriages. But if any couple could make it work, Jake and Kate LeFevre could.
***
Bette slammed the door, locked, it and slid the flimsy latch and chain into place.
And looked around.
What a dump. A faded bedspread covered the bed. The carpet underfoot was as green and crunchy as Astro Turf. Glued to concrete. No cushion. The motel chain must’ve purchased it at an everything-must-go sale about five years before she was born.
Someone had been over generous with eau de Lysol. Maybe that was a good thing. Or maybe it was to hide the smell of something really, really bad.
She tossed her overnight bag onto the bed. She’d barely managed to get away with a change of clothes and undies. Fled out the back door just in time before Rod came storming through the front.
Luckily she’d seen this night coming and had already packed her bag a week ago and hid some traveling money in the liner.
As soon as the roads were cleared, Music City would see her backside. She’d run as far as the money could take her. Get a job. Anything would do, then move on again before he could find her. Eventually he’d give up.
She shivered and tiptoed over to the heating unit under the window and turned up the thermostat.
Nothing but cold air. And next to the heater, the carpet squished. She bent down and looked at the bottom of the HVAC unit. A small, but steady, steam of cold water was leaking from underneath.
Great. Just freaking great.
Shivering from the cold or maybe from the adrenaline rush following her successful escape, she called the motel office.
“Sorry, Miss Smithson. Can’t get any one to come round until first thing day after t’morrow. It’s a holiday, or didn’t you know?”
“But it’s dripping. I can’t stay in this room. It’s cold and wet. Don’t you understand?”
“Don’t change the facts. You got the last room, lady. It’s that ’un or nothin’.”
She thanked him for nothing. Damn. Better change into her pjs and get under the God-she-hoped-it was-clean bedspread. With all the moisture, there was bound to be mold growing up to the ceiling by morning.
She opened her bag and ran her hands through scraps of material.
What?
No.
Her pjs and change of clothes were cut to shreds. Even her white granny panties.
Wait. The money. The money.
Noooo!
Instead of money in the liner, she found a handwritten note.
“Dream on, bitch. See how far you get on this.”
A wail ripped from her throat. Her shoulders shook and she broke into sobs. Hiccups wracked her body whenever she tried to catch her breath.
Then came the banging on the door.
Oh no. Had he found her already? Bile rose in the back of her throat. What had the bastard done: fitted her car with some kind of homing device? Wouldn’t put it past him.
Cautiously she edged over to the window and peered through the tattered draperies. Actually draperies was too fine a word for the limp, cheap polyester fabric hanging there. She heaved a sigh of relief. It wasn’t scumbag Rod. But it was someone. One of his PI pals maybe?
“W-who is it?” Her heart beat fast as the wings of a baby bird about to leave the nest for the first time. Not a great simile, but she was definitely a bird in flight, even if it wasn’t for the first time.
“I’m in the room next door. Heard you crying. Everything okay in there?”
She opened the door a crack, but kept the brass chain engaged, just in case sneaky-ass Rod had put someone up to knocking on her door while he stood back ready to pounce.
All she saw was a tall, blond guy with a concerned expression on his very handsome face.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
Ma’am. He actually called her “ma’am”. His tone was kind as he stared down at her. And he was very, very hot. As in Josh Duhamel hot.
“N-no—I mean, yes, I’m okay.”
“But I heard you crying. Can I help?”
She tried to sniff back the tears, but wasn’t entirely successful. “I’m cold and they won’t fix the heat. Water’s leaking all over the place. And I have the last room…” She snubbed back the tears. “’Cause it’s a holiday and they don’t have any more. And my bag—he cut up my clothes and stole my money.”