conference area. A line snaked around it. At the table, a heavily bejeweled woman handed out name tags and goody bags.
My first thought was Mary Kay Convention. Only there was a shocking lack of makeup and pink. However, what the women lacked in makeup, they made up for with a profusion of jewelry dangling off earlobes, looping around necks and waists, and cuffing wrists in coordinated sets.
Beside me, Van hesitated before stepping out of the elevator. Probably overwhelmed by so much estrogen. I thought he mumbled, “Holy shit.”
Before we could move, we were accosted by one of them.
“Cindi Lou Jewelry. Cayla Smith, regional director.” A tall, brunette woman about my age approached me and extended her hand. Her gaze flicked between Van and me as she obviously tried to make out our relationship.
“R,” I said, shaking her hand, thinking how great code names were. I made it a habit never to give out complete personal info to strangers. Like full names. Maybe I was a bit of a worry freak. But so be it.
Cayla’s eyes held the hint of a question, but her smile didn’t waver. She was too busy appraising me, taking in my battle gear garb and distinct absence of accessories.
“Nice to meet you, R. And this is?” She was looking at Van. Well, in my opinion it was hard not to look at Van, not if you appreciated masculine eye candy. So I forgave her. “This is V.”
“You’re not here for our convention, are you?” She was talking to me but still looking at Van.
“No,” I said, trying to draw her attention back to me. “I suppose my lack of jewelry gave me away?”
She laughed. “You could say.” Her gaze ran over my garb. “Military?”
“Vacation.”
She didn’t have to voice her thoughts. As she twirled her long, loopy ribbon and bead necklace around her fingers, you could see the wheels turning. What kind of a vacation required camo and combat boots? I had the feeling she thought we were some kind of paramilitary freaks. Or maybe white supremacists who’d escaped from the wilds of Idaho for a vacation in the big city. But the real question was written on her face—how in the world was she going to sell jewelry to GI Jane? Would GI Joe buy it for me?
“We have a very nice line of military-inspired jewelry,” Cayla said, undaunted, a hint to Van in her voice. She produced her card from her oversized purse and handed it to me. “Are you staying in the hotel?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Great! We’re having a benefit show tomorrow night that’s open to the public. Free admittance. We’ll be showcasing our new fall line. Half the proceeds benefit breast cancer research. Be sure to pop by. And if you’d like to take a look at our selection before the show, stop by my room, six twenty-two.”
Maybe it was just me, but I thought she put in a big hint to Van there.
Then it struck me—622!
Curses! She was staying in my old room, the matchbook-haunted one. Which didn’t bode well on two fronts—one, it was right across the hall from me. I recognized the light of rising to a challenge in her saleswoman eyes. I’d just become her next project. Or maybe Van had. Or both of us. Anyway, she was sure to find out where I “lived.” And two—I suddenly had a horrible vision of Ket breaking in in the dark and mistaking her for me. Not that she looked like me, but she fit my basic description. Huddled under the covers with her brown hair peeking out, she’d pass for yours truly.
One of the sickest things about being a stalking victim is the guilt you feel for always putting others in danger. It makes for a lonely world.
I tried not to look too shaken and assumed my woman-to-woman-word-of-advice tone. “You shouldn’t be giving out your room number or answering your door for strangers, or even hotel staff.”
She looked skeptical and like I was probably a jealous hag over Van.
“Let me guess— Oprah tip? You just saw a show on safety for women travelers?”
Poor Oprah! She always gets the
My first thought was Mary Kay Convention. Only there was a shocking lack of makeup and pink. However, what the women lacked in makeup, they made up for with a profusion of jewelry dangling off earlobes, looping around necks and waists, and cuffing wrists in coordinated sets.
Beside me, Van hesitated before stepping out of the elevator. Probably overwhelmed by so much estrogen. I thought he mumbled, “Holy shit.”
Before we could move, we were accosted by one of them.
“Cindi Lou Jewelry. Cayla Smith, regional director.” A tall, brunette woman about my age approached me and extended her hand. Her gaze flicked between Van and me as she obviously tried to make out our relationship.
“R,” I said, shaking her hand, thinking how great code names were. I made it a habit never to give out complete personal info to strangers. Like full names. Maybe I was a bit of a worry freak. But so be it.
Cayla’s eyes held the hint of a question, but her smile didn’t waver. She was too busy appraising me, taking in my battle gear garb and distinct absence of accessories.
“Nice to meet you, R. And this is?” She was looking at Van. Well, in my opinion it was hard not to look at Van, not if you appreciated masculine eye candy. So I forgave her. “This is V.”
“You’re not here for our convention, are you?” She was talking to me but still looking at Van.
“No,” I said, trying to draw her attention back to me. “I suppose my lack of jewelry gave me away?”
She laughed. “You could say.” Her gaze ran over my garb. “Military?”
“Vacation.”
She didn’t have to voice her thoughts. As she twirled her long, loopy ribbon and bead necklace around her fingers, you could see the wheels turning. What kind of a vacation required camo and combat boots? I had the feeling she thought we were some kind of paramilitary freaks. Or maybe white supremacists who’d escaped from the wilds of Idaho for a vacation in the big city. But the real question was written on her face—how in the world was she going to sell jewelry to GI Jane? Would GI Joe buy it for me?
“We have a very nice line of military-inspired jewelry,” Cayla said, undaunted, a hint to Van in her voice. She produced her card from her oversized purse and handed it to me. “Are you staying in the hotel?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Great! We’re having a benefit show tomorrow night that’s open to the public. Free admittance. We’ll be showcasing our new fall line. Half the proceeds benefit breast cancer research. Be sure to pop by. And if you’d like to take a look at our selection before the show, stop by my room, six twenty-two.”
Maybe it was just me, but I thought she put in a big hint to Van there.
Then it struck me—622!
Curses! She was staying in my old room, the matchbook-haunted one. Which didn’t bode well on two fronts—one, it was right across the hall from me. I recognized the light of rising to a challenge in her saleswoman eyes. I’d just become her next project. Or maybe Van had. Or both of us. Anyway, she was sure to find out where I “lived.” And two—I suddenly had a horrible vision of Ket breaking in in the dark and mistaking her for me. Not that she looked like me, but she fit my basic description. Huddled under the covers with her brown hair peeking out, she’d pass for yours truly.
One of the sickest things about being a stalking victim is the guilt you feel for always putting others in danger. It makes for a lonely world.
I tried not to look too shaken and assumed my woman-to-woman-word-of-advice tone. “You shouldn’t be giving out your room number or answering your door for strangers, or even hotel staff.”
She looked skeptical and like I was probably a jealous hag over Van.
“Let me guess— Oprah tip? You just saw a show on safety for women travelers?”
Poor Oprah! She always gets the
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