Confessions of an Obsessive Amateur Costumer

By Kara Abbington

2008 has been a terrific year for Celia Brisbane.  She has her job, her cat, her Star Wars costuming hobby, and plenty of sci-fi fantasy conventions to attend in her spare time.  She’s puzzled, however, when she begins receiving death threats.  Celia hires close protection officer Dennis Carson and heads out to F-Con, unaware that her mild-mannered bodyguard may be anything but that beneath his calm exterior.  Between her growing attraction to Dennis, the mad-cap antics of her friends, and an inept assassin, Celia will never think of F-Con, or her life, the same way again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kara Abbington
• Release date: Dec 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519950659

Book preview

Chapter One

Celia’s confession #1:  No costume is finished.  Ever.  I should have seen this one coming back when I was sixteen and spent a year learning belly dancing for my Halloween costume.

*****

2008:

It was ridiculous to think that someone wanted to kill her.

Celia Brisbane stomped a foot in frustration.  She edited manuscripts for a living, for crying out loud!  Dry, boring textbooks at that!  It wasn’t as though she had a job involving such things as spies and computer chips holding sordid secrets.  No one had any reason to want to try to kill her, much less begin such a process.

Yet, there she was in her boss’s office, being informed that death threats were unacceptable.  It made her coworkers nervous.  Couldn't she possibly hire someone to investigate this mess?  Taking her full three weeks of accumulated vacation might be a good idea as well.  Celia allowed that perhaps an investigation was in order and, as she happened to like living, she decided to contact her friend Paul.

He was her best friend’s cousin’s husband and owned a private security company that catered to the mega-rich.  If nothing else, she was sure he could give her advice on what to do.  Paul always had advice.  Usually it was unsolicited.

They met in his favorite tavern after work, a place that could easily win an award for worst dive in the city.  The tables were a mismatched hodgepodge of whatever the owners had found at the nearest flea market for cheap and topped with old metal coffee cans that held the condiments for the fried feasts served up from the kitchen.  She could smell the grease in the air. 

Celia grimaced, but an informal meeting was better than paying big bucks for an official one only to be told he couldn’t help her.  She picked her way through a room crowded with tables and tried not to think about the sticky spots on the floor as she made her way to the bar.  Over the worst Vodka Collins she‘d ever had in her life, she explained the problem.

Paul nodded and thought about it before saying, I see.  Do you have any idea who might be after you?

Not a clue.  She sipped her drink more from boredom than a desire to finish it.  There was a weird aftertaste to it.  My job is boring, as is my personal life.  The only exciting thing I do is make costumes for myself and go to conventions.  I don’t even have any disgruntled ex-boyfriends hanging around.  Most of them had found her convention and costume addiction slightly off-putting.  One had even accused her of having lost touch with reality.  Of course, that might have had something to do with her Star Wars themed sewing room and the life-sized cut-outs of Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He thought a moment, eyes narrowing and lips pursing.  Finally, he slapped a hand on the bar.  Okay.  Here’s what we’ll do.  I’ve got a man free right now; he just finished a job.  He’ll watch you for a couple weeks.  With him on the job, you’ll be safe as kittens.

Celia waited for more information.  Paul, however, seemed content to nurse his whiskey and stare into space.  Name, info?  Anything else, Paul?

His glance slid her way, mild amusement glittering there.  Dennis Carson.  He’ll have identification with him.  Nine tomorrow morning.  He’ll need you to stay home so he can get your house taken care of.

So soon?  She had a million more questions and couldn’t quite get them organized enough in her mind to ask them.

Paul quoted a figure for fourteen days that raised her brows.  He smiled.  That’s with a ‘good friend’ discount.  I’ll leave things pretty much in his court, but I promise the final bill won’t go over that figure.  I’ll eat any costs above.

Celia frowned, suspicion growing.  What was he up to?  Paul didn’t eat costs, he charged for them—gleefully, while rubbing his hands and cackling.  Is this around the clock?

Yup.  Dennis will watch your body twenty-four seven until the cause of the threats is determined and dealt with.  He smirked.  He’s good at his job, Celia.  Dennis is just what you need.

If she’d had the excess energy, she might have wondered on the devious turn to his expression.  As it was, she merely went home and collapsed into bed.

Celia was awake the next morning at six-thirty, spent over an hour staring into space and nursing a cup of coffee that kept going cold on her, and was half dressed when Dennis Carson arrived at eight-thirty.  She tossed on the rest of her clothes and opened the door.

He was tall, over six feet, with dark blond hair and a face she recognized.  Celia blinked.  Wow, he looked just like—

Celia Brisbane?

The voice was all wrong though, deeper and with a hint of southern drawl.  Her mind conjured up images of Jedi knights sipping mint juleps after they sparred.  Yeah?

I’m Dennis Carson.  You should be expecting me.  He held out an I.D. and wiggled it at her.  Take it, look at it.  Make sure I’m who I say I am.

Obligingly, she studied it.  According to it, he was thirty-three years of age, six feet two inches, one hundred ninety three pounds, and had green eyes.  Her glance flicked up.  His eyes looked more bluish than green to her, but then, didn’t everyone lie a little on their driver’s license?  The DMV still had her weight as one hundred ten pounds and she hadn’t weighed that in a good decade.  Really, it wasn’t like anyone checked those things.  She handed the I.D. back.  You’re early.  Paul said nine.

I’ve a lot to set up.  Did a drive-by last night after Paul called me and knew I’d need extra time.  By the way, you really should close your curtains at night.  Anyone could see in, if they were so inclined.  Not to mention, you should turn on your outside lights to deter burglars.

Then she noticed the two big duffel bags at his feet and the flashy white sports car in her driveway.  Did being a bodyguard pay that well?  Celia stood aside and held the door as he began to unload the car, sniffing appreciatively at a rather appealing aftershave whenever he passed her.  Are you moving in, she asked as boxes and bags piled up in her living room.

He frowned at her.  I’ll get started.

Yeah, you do that.  She spent four hours drinking coffee and wasting time online, listening to her bodyguard move about the house.  Briefly, she wondered if Dennis Carson planned on going to the convention with her.  He must be since she was leaving in two days.  Smiling, she fired off an email to one of her friends.  Cary wasn’t going to believe this.  Celia hit the send button just as the power went out.  Hey, she yelled.  You could’ve warned me!

Sorry, came Dennis’ voice from the basement.  Be back up in a few minutes.

Celia grew bored soon after and found herself trailing Dennis around the house and watching him work.  He obviously knew what he was doing with those gadgets he was setting up. 

He looked up and over at her.  What?

What what?

You’re staring.  His glance did a turn around her sewing room, lingering on the cut-outs, posters and dress forms, the project board, then returning to the cut-out of Anakin Skywalker.  Resignation crossed his handsome features and Celia’s inner imp couldn’t resist asking the question she knew he’d known was inevitable once he’d seen this room.

Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like—

Don’t say it.  He shook his head, finished with the gadget, and stood.  Ever since those last two of the prequels came out, I’ve been mistaken for that guy.  In the grocery store, at dinner, on the street.  You’d think enough time has gone by, but no.  Nothing against him, you understand.  I’m sure he’s perfectly nice, but really, it’s only a passing resemblance.

Celia crossed her arms and nodded.  Uh-huh.  Sure.  Allow me to point you to my poster and a mirror.  It’s not passing, Mr. Carson.  It’s freakish, like an identical twins separated at birth kind of thing.

It’s passing, he insisted, and you can call me Dennis.

Is not.

Is too.

Freakish, she assured him.

Dennis scowled.  Passing.

Celia shook her head and tried to remember where she’d put her new camera.  She’d take a picture, put it up on Photobucket and LiveJournal and let her friends convince the guy.  Not to mention she needed the camera for her trip anyway.

I need to finish this, he informed her, picking up an empty box and leaving the room.

The outfit on the nearest dress form caught Celia’s eye and she was quickly distracted from the search for her camera.  What had she been doing when she’d beaded this?  It looked horrible.  Soon, she was happily re-beading.

*****

Paul had assigned him to a flake.  One look at her house told Dennis that.  She was overdosing on Star Wars and he wondered why none of her friends had done an intervention or something.  Or maybe, he thought, her friends are just as bad.  Seriously though, how many life-sized cut-outs of those two characters could there be?

Dennis sighed.  At least her house was normal.  Normal he could deal with.  Flake city....  That was another story.  How was he going to get through the next fourteen days?  He imagined her forcing him to watch those movies with her while she pointed out over and over how close the resemblance was.

He knew he looked like the guy.  He wished he didn’t.  Dennis kept reminding himself that it would all blow over.  At least, he hoped it would, but enough time had gone by that he didn’t think it was going to.

Another, longer sigh slipped from him.  Paul would have strange friends.  Shouldn’t he have known when Paul had said she was just what Dennis needed?  Paul was the sort of guy that collected weirdness and this Celia woman certainly rolled about in that category.

Craning his neck around the doorway, he watched her in the sewing room for a moment.  The woman had bras on her mannequin things and clothes displayed on her walls.  Okay, so the ornate beadwork and embroidery on the clothes should be displayed.  She did beautiful work.  He didn’t know how anyone had the patience to do that stuff. 

And she’d explained about the bras.  Apparently, the mannequins were too flat-chested and she’d had to build them up to the right size since she herself wasn’t flat-chested.  She’d said it was normal to do that.  On the outside at least, Celia Brisbane looked normal.  Long wavy brown hair, petite stature, slim frame.  A body’d never know to look at her that she was a stark, raving flake.  Shaking his head, he went back to work.  It took several more hours to get the cameras and system set up to his satisfaction.

Dennis reviewed the ground rules with her—mainly that she make no unnecessary calls and invite no one in—and sat down for a minute to rest.  He’d been working long hours lately and hadn’t been getting the rest he was used to.  He closed his eyes, heard her moving around, and then....

Yeah, I know what you want.  Shameless whore.  One thing and one thing only.

He opened his eyes.

Don’t look at me like that.

The room was considerably darker than he remembered it being.  Who was she talking to?  Twisting his wrist around, he looked at his watch.  Dinnertime?  Crud. 

Yawning, he sat up and shoved aside the blanket that had been placed over him.  He’d slept for nearly two hours.  Dennis felt a deep stab of guilt.  He wasn’t the sort to fall asleep on the job and he’d done just that.  The fact that he was exhausted and had needed that vacation time Paul had pulled was going to work against him.

Dennis folded the blanket and stood to make his way to the kitchen.  Hadn’t he told Celia no visitors?

She kept up the one-sided conversation and when he looked around the corner, he saw no one.  She wasn’t on the phone, either.

Celia?

Oh, hey!  You sleep like the dead, did you know that?  You snore, too.

Who were you talking to?  Before she could answer, a fuzzy white blur streaked over and began to wind itself about his legs, depositing copious amounts of fur on his slacks.  You have a cat.  It was a long-hair, too, depositing so much fur on his slacks that the fabric was beginning to look white.

She snorted.  You hadn’t noticed?  I can see why you’re in such high demand, Mr. ‘I searched the entire house and didn’t notice the litter box and food dishes.’  Your observational skills are next to none.

He slanted an arched brow her way, then leaned over to pet the cat.  It hissed, arched its back, took a swipe at his hand that left bloody stripes and ran off.  Friendly cat, he observed in a dry tone.  He’d noticed both of those things, but as the cat hadn’t appeared, he’d ignored them.

He doesn’t like male strangers too well, Celia said.  Opening a cupboard, she took out a bottle of peroxide, a tube of antibiotic cream, and bandages.  Come here.  She was efficient in patching up the wounds and soon he had neat bandages covering them. 

He was mildly surprised she didn’t use Star Wars bandages.  Was there such a thing?  He didn’t know. 

Celia closed the cupboard and looked at him.  So what kind of things do bodyguards eat, anyway?

I’ll have whatever you’re having, he replied in a distracted tone, reaching out a hand to close the blinds on the lone window.  She really should be more careful.  Anyone could see right into the house.

I’m having seafood crepes.  At his glance, she flushed, and crossed her arms.  I like cooking, okay?  I don’t get a chance to make fancy foods usually, so when I’m on vacation I splurge.

Crepes sound good.  Not that he’d ever tried them.  He had, however, had seafood chimichangas just two days earlier in a tiny local Mexican restaurant.  Didn’t that count?  Both were seafood wrapped in a bread type thing, right?  I’ll go check the doors.  Vaguely, he wondered why she was so defensive over her choice of food or the decision to cook while on vacation.

He saw her roll her eyes before he left the kitchen.  The cat followed him.  Dennis didn’t make the mistake of trying to pet it again.  At the front door, it turned its rear to him and wet his legs before streaking away.  He stared at the wet spot with a frown.  This was going to be a long assignment, wasn’t it?

*****

Dinner had actually gone well, Celia thought.  Dennis was polite and not inclined to talk as he ate.  Nor did he seem to want to talk about himself either before or after dinner.  He rarely smiled and Celia decided he was far too serious.  She made it a goal to get him to smile just once.  He’d have a nice smile if only he’d