Power Play

“It’s going to be a long hour,” she muttered.

The traveling salesman type, wearing faded blue track pants that said Dancer across the butt, a red soccer jersey with a bleach stain on the chest and his bare feet stuck into sneakers, suddenly bellowed, while indicating his new outfit, “Would you buy insurance from this man?”

His comment broke the ice and as they all laughed, the bedbug refugees began trading stories and lamenting the bad clothing, bonding over the disaster.

By five to seven, Emily was in the shopping center parking lot, as close as she could get to the Wal-Mart entrance. The minute the doors were unlocked, she put her head down and ran for the entrance. Once inside, she headed straight for the women’s clothing section.

She found a simple black skirt and flipped through a rack of silky tank tops, almost weeping when she thought of the suitcase of her good clothes that was currently at the local dry cleaner’s mercy.

Naturally, the underwear was in a different area of the store, but she found the intimate apparel at last and was flipping through the bras when a voice said, “Can I help you with anything?”

“No, thanks,” she said, not raising her head, hoping desperately the woman with the vaguely familiar voice would move on.

She felt the warm air stirring around her, almost as though the woman’s breath was surrounding her as she stood rooted to the spot.

“Emily Saunders, is that you?”

Oh, crap. Her worst nightmare had just been realized. She raised her head and thought that in a list of the top ten people she would have wanted to avoid at this moment, Ramona Hilcock would have made the top three.

“Ramona!” she cried with false delight.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” the woman said, looking her up and down with barely disguised revulsion.

Ramona had been a friend of her younger cousin Leanne’s in high school. Emily remembered her as a gossip and president of the sewing club. She still sewed, and Emily was willing to bet, from the way the woman eyed her outfit as though storing every detail, still gossiped.

“You here for Leanne’s wedding?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Oh, good. I’m getting off shift early today, to attend the lunch. Of course, I only work here part-time so I can pay for the boys’ music and golf lessons. And it gets me out of the house.” Her gaze strayed to Emily’s outfit once more. “How about you? I think your mom said you have your own business? Things going okay?”

“Yes. Fine.”

She could tell Ramona about the bedbugs, which would explain the lost and found bin wardrobe, but then news would spread faster than an Internet rumor and she’d be staying on some distant relative’s couch by tonight. So she kept her mouth shut.

“You’re a masseuse, Leanne said.” Ramona uttered the word masseuse in a tone that suggested it was synonymous with rub and tug.

“Massage therapist,” Emily corrected. “I run a wellness clinic.” Before Ramona could say another word, she said, “Is there a place I can try these on?”

“Sure. Follow me.”

Thankfully, she retreated into the change room where she found everything fit. She paid and was released from Ramona’s clutches—until lunch.

Her clothes might not be up to her usual fashion standard, but they were bright and clean and, apart from the Wal-Mart, the local mall had an accessories store and a midrange shoe store. Necessity might be the mother of invention, but it wasn’t the mother of fashion. Still, she’d done her best, dressing up the black skirt with a bright scarf belt and hoping some cheap and cheerful costume jewelry would add enough pizzazz to the turquoise tank top.

And it was always nice to stock up on new bras and underwear at a good price, she reminded herself as she headed off to eat lunch and construct paper roses.

JONAH BETTS SLAMMED THE PUCK into the net, watching that baby fly home as if it had a homing device. The punch of puck against black net, the lighting up of the goal light were right up there with sex for truly sublime experiences.

He threw his gloved hand in the air, and his buddies skated over to congratulate him, their blades sawing the ice.

The Old-Timers Hockey League playoff week was one of the highlights of his year. He’d always had more than his share of energy and nothing challenged him more than hockey. He liked the scrape of steel blades on ice, the speed, the male camaraderie, the teamwork.

When the guys bashed him on the helmet, threw themselves at him, he laughed. So it was an exhibition game. Who cared? Tomorrow they’d be playing for real. And, as team captain of the defending champions, he planned to kick some ass.

After a pizza dinner and a couple of beers to celebrate the victory of the Portland Paters over the Georgetown Geezers he hauled his gym bag to his truck, tossed it into the back and headed back to his hotel. Bedbug Lodge. He didn’t think he’d been bitten and wondered idly how the two women who’d woken him so spectacularly at five this morning were doing now.

Since his gym bag had been in the truck, he hadn’t had to give it up to the fumigators. But he couldn’t leave it there tonight, not since he’d used the contents. He needed to take out his skate liners and let them dry, keep his equipment warm. He’d made a quick stop on the way to the rink to pick up some sweats, a new pair of jeans, a couple of T-shirts and socks and underwear, so he was all set. Good as new. He hoisted his bag over his shoulder, grabbed his stick and hiked inside.

“How’s it going?” he said to one of the two harried front desk clerks.

He got a pathetically grateful smile. “It’s been a busy day. Thank you for your patience, sir.” The reply suggested to him that everybody hadn’t been as easy to deal with.

“So long as you’ve got a bed for me, I’m easy. Jonah Betts.”

“Even our computers have been overloaded today. But I managed to get you a room.” She glanced up. “Number 318. It’s the last one, I’m afraid. We don’t normally rent it out, and I’ve been instructed to comp the room.” She sighed, and he suspected she’d done a lot of that in the past twelve hours or so. “We are very sorry.”

“Not your fault.” He took his key, picked up his bag. Then turned back. “Why don’t you rent it out?”

“There’s a small leak in the ceiling, sir. But otherwise the room is very comfortable. Two beds, ensuite.”

“So long as there’s one bed and a TV, I’m good.”

She laughed, in relief, he thought. “Oh, yes. TV. Movies. Everything.”

He nodded acceptance. “Have a good one.”

He hoped there was a fridge in room 318 to keep his beer cold. He should have asked. He followed the clerk’s directions to the third floor and strolled along the corridor to the last door.

He opened it with his key card and walked inside.

A woman screamed.

His day had started this way. He really didn’t need the bookend.

He dropped his bag with a thunk and regarded the woman who was doing the screaming. Well, more like a cry of alarm. She’d stopped pretty fast and was glaring at him instead.

It was the woman from this morning. The cute one from across the hall. She wore pajamas so new they still had the creases from the package. Blue and manly looking, which only accentuated her woman’s body.

He noticed a mane of sleek brown, big dark eyes and a mouth made to whisper dirty secrets.

“Hi,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I think you’ve got the wrong room.”

He looked down at his key card. Of course, it had no number, but the little folder did. “Weird that the key worked. I’m in room 318.” He checked the number on the door. Yep, 318.

She shook her head. “Not possible. I’m in 318.”