A Perfect Stranger
Terry McLaughlin

For Mom, a fellow tour survivor

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER ONE

SYDNEY GORDON stared at the engagement ring glittering in the candlelight and wondered what to say. What to do.

What to feel.

One thing she shouldn’t be feeling was panic. No woman in her right mind would have this lung-squeezing, temple-throbbing reaction to a proposal from sweet, stable, handsome Henry Barlow, an attorney with a beautiful new home, a solid investment portfolio and an excellent chance of earning a partnership with a law firm in Truckee, California, before the end of the year.

Which meant she must be going crazy.

Even now the proof was bubbling through her, right along with the champagne in her nearly empty flute—those same fizzy, self-destructive impulses that had driven her from one disaster to another after her father had died four years ago and left her an unexpected insurance benefit and the means to go down in well-financed flames. Dropping out of her postgrad work in Education to dabble in Theater Arts. Leaping into an affair with an actor and dashing off to a regional Shakespeare festival. Playing an infamous seductress onstage and getting her heart stomped to pieces behind the scenes. Adding several more strands of gray to her mother’s carefully coiffed hair. Getting duped, dumped, ditched, disillusioned and nearly disowned, though not necessarily in that order.

“Do you like it?” asked Henry.

“The ring?” Sydney gulped the rest of her champagne and gave him a brilliant smile. “It’s beautiful. Absolutely perfect.”

Henry would never disillusion her. Just look how carefully he’d staged this moment: the sunset view of Lake Tahoe from the restaurant window, the champagne tilting in an ice bucket, the jazz trio playing his sentimental request.

And that fabulous ring—the one-carat emerald-cut diamond with four baguettes set in a platinum band. She knew all this because Henry had just finished explaining it in great detail, along with a brief lecture on the importance of cut, clarity and something else she’d forgotten already.

She bit her lip, trying to remember. No good. Whatever he’d said, it was gone now.

“I’d like you to wear it while you’re gone,” he said.

“Gone?” She blinked. “Oh—the tour. Um…”

He reached for her hand, his grip as warm and steady as always. She hoped hers wouldn’t seem clammy and limp by comparison.

“I’m going to miss you,” he said.

“I’ll only be in Europe a couple of weeks.”

Two weeks—not much time to erase any lingering unease over those minor glitches during her substitute teaching stint and replace them with the image of an organized, responsible educator. Two weeks to chaperone a group of high school students on an early-summer tour through England and France, to make an excellent impression on the North Sierra school administration and secure that full-time position in the English department. To make a success of herself, at last.

Henry gave her fingers a gentle squeeze, and she realized she’d been drifting. She smiled again and reminded herself to be grateful she’d found a man like this, a man who cared enough to arrange every detail of this romantic setting. A man who would help her smother her impulses to be…well, impulsive.

There certainly was nothing impulsive about Henry. Witness his smooth wind-up: a minor adjustment of his stylish silk tie, that perfectly confident smile as he refilled her flute with champagne. Henry was so…so…

Perfect.

Not that perfection was a problem. Her mother, for instance, approved of Henry and reminded Sydney of that fact repeatedly—when she wasn’t reminding Sydney of her rapidly approaching thirtieth birthday. Lately her mother was fixated on the concept that Sydney’s birthday, Henry’s suitability and the state of matrimony were in some sort of cosmic alignment.

Poor Meredith Gordon. Sydney’s mother had spent most of her adult life bandaging the family financial situation after each of her husband’s inventions and subsequent development schemes had drained away most of their savings. She probably viewed Henry as the perfect match for a daughter who seemed to display a tendency to follow her father’s eccentric, erratic example.

No, the problem wasn’t Henry’s perfection. The problem was that Henry was…well, that he…the thing was, Henry was so…

Persistent.

That was it: he was persistent. And lately his persistence about setting a wedding date had been scraping at her ambivalence like fingernails on a chalkboard. She glanced down at the fingers of the hand Henry wasn’t holding as they drummed on the linen, and she curled them into a silent, polite fist.

However, Henry’s persistence could be considered an admirable quality, even one point in his favor. She snatched up her wine to take another sip, relieved to have found something to stick in Henry’s plus column.

Point two: timing. Henry’s was excellent. Look how cleverly he’d timed this proposal for the evening before she left on the tour. And it was sweet of him to give her this ring to wear so she’d think of him while she was thousands of miles away.

Now, if she could just round up a few more items for her Reasons To Marry Henry list before he finished his lecture—er, his proposal…

The proposal. Oh, dear. Drifting again. She’d almost missed his pitch: perfectly beautiful words spilling from perfectly bowed lips above a perfectly square jaw. She smiled so hard, appreciating him so much that one of her eyes began to twitch.

They’d discussed marriage before, but never with anything approaching this degree of formality. Of finality.

Of inevitability.

And it was inevitable that she’d say yes, of course. Marrying Henry made perfect sense. They complemented each other surprisingly well—a perfect match, in so many ways.

The spasm in her eyelid intensified, and she hoped Henry couldn’t see it and guess at the panic-driven insanity bubbling up inside her.

No, no, she told herself as she struggled with her ambivalence. No, no, she thought as she held her breath to strangle a particularly sneaky and senseless impulse, right up until the moment she opened her mouth and, riding a gust of pent-up air, out popped the one word neither of them wanted to hear: “No.”

“No?”

“No! I mean…not no.” Sydney jabbed a finger against the corner of her eye and tried to shovel her way out of the muck of her latest impulse. “What I mean is…”

Henry gave her hand a comforting pat before withdrawing his. “That’s okay. You don’t have to tell me what you mean.”

“I don’t?”

“We both know what we want,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”

“You’re right.” She sighed with relief. Henry was nearly always right.

He snapped the lid over the ring and slid the little velvet box back into his pocket. “This will be here waiting for you when you get back,” he said with a reassuring smile. “Just like me.”

Sydney drained her second glass of champagne, coating one layer of fizziness with another.

At least the twitch was gone.

NICK MARTELLI leaned one shoulder against a limestone building in the Bloomsbury area of London and peered around the corner. A block away, an airport shuttle bus lumbered and shuddered to a stop in front of his hotel.

Using his crackerjack skills of observation, ace investigator Jack Brogan committed to memory every detail of the scene with one brief glance: the limousine gliding to a stop at the casino’s entrance, the telltale bulge of a semiautomatic pistol in the doorman’s uniform jacket, the silhouette of a gun barrel emerging from the inky gash of the nearby alleyway—

Nick narrowed his eyes as he considered which fictional character might be aiming the second gun and winced. He lifted a hand and gently tested a bruised and puffy cheekbone, a memento of his first—and last—stakeout with a private detective. There were safer, easier methods of researching story ideas for his novel-in-progress.

Methods like this trip to Europe.

He glanced at his watch. It was later than he’d realized—his brother had probably come in on an earlier shuttle and checked into the hotel. Joe was escorting half a dozen Philly high school students on a Tour of Two Cities, and Nick had offered to come along for the ride. Hanging out with Joe was one of his favorite things to do, and they hadn’t shared an adventure for years.

He slipped his hands into his pockets and headed toward the hotel entrance, stopping at the corner to wait for a chance to cross. The shuttle driver stepped down, opened a compartment and unloaded luggage for the teenage tourists and tired-looking adults who streamed from the bus to collect it.

A few minutes later, one oversize case remained unclaimed on the sidewalk. The driver frowned at it, and then pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stepped behind the bus for a smoke.

The traffic signal changed, and the whooshing packs of taxis paused before him, but Nick stood staring at that case.

Jack recognized the driver who’d exited the midnight-black vehicle: a double agent he’d shadowed in Trieste, a man who’d snapped the neck of a friend at the order of a traitor, a man who would undoubtedly kill again without remorse. No passerby would have noticed the subtle signal that passed between the two men near the entrance, but Jack possessed an uncanny ability to detect the slightest subterfuge.

The agent opened the limo’s rear door to extend a white-gloved hand to the vehicle’s lone occupant. One long, slim, shapely leg ending in a stiletto heel slowly lowered to the curb, a siren-red sequined dress sliding tantalizingly up a shapely thigh. The mouthwatering thigh was attached to a drop-dead gorgeous blonde—

Make that a drop-dead gorgeous redhead.

No, a blonde.

Nick puckered his split lip and produced another wince instead of the soft whistle he’d intended. He hoped the drop-dead gorgeous strawberry-blonde who’d stumbled off the shuttle was a member of the Two Cities tour group.

She paused to shift the strap of a bulky purse higher on her shoulder and then whacked it against the side of the bus as she turned to retrieve a carry-on case on the step behind her. The bag caught on the shuttle’s door, and she gave it a sharp tug. No use—stuck tight.

A frazzled female in need of assistance. An attractive female with ringless fingers. An opportunity for a casual introduction, which might be followed by any number of casual developments.

The traffic rolled to an idling halt again, and Nick’s lips twitched in a half grin as he stepped from the curb. His own powers of observation weren’t too shabby, either.

SYDNEY SUCKED in a deep breath and tried again to pry her carry-on from the shuttle door. Her feet ached and her stomach growled, the hair that had sprung from its clip was either tickling the sides of her face or plastered to her forehead, and she suspected her deodorant had quit on the job somewhere over the Atlantic. Not that she wanted to check too closely.

Someone tapped her back, and she glanced over her shoulder at a shocking mess of a face, battered features twisting in some distorted, devilish version of a grin. Whatever the terrifying stranger said to her was drowned out in the blare of a passing car’s horn, and all she could manage was a tiny squeak and a confused nod as she scrambled to process what was happening.

A mugging.

He reached past her to grip her case and unhook it from the door. She grabbed for the dangling zipper tag and yanked hard, trying to snatch it away. A tactical error. Toiletries and lingerie geysered up and rained down over the pavement of Tottenham Court Road.

He loomed over her intimate apparel, his shaggy black hair waving around his five-o’clock—no, forty-eight-hour shadow, the startling white of his crooked grin slashing through a deeply tanned complexion, and his dark eyes glinting with whatever muggers’ eyes glinted with.

He certainly was a good-looking criminal specimen. But he was also eyeing the lacy pink bra draped over the curb. That made him either greedy, or a pervert, or both.

A greedy pervert with a slightly swollen purpled eye and a nasty gash in his upper lip. Someone had recently given him some trouble. And at that moment she was jet-lagged and caffeine-charged enough to want to give him some more, especially when he reached for her underwire with the front clasp.

“No!” she shouted as she leaped into action to rescue her bra. The strap on her shoulder slipped, and her hefty tote swung in an accidental but impressive arc. A thick London street guide, electronic organizer, tour paperwork, collapsible umbrella, camera, bottled water and the latest Dick Francis mystery novel connected with his jaw. It all made a satisfying thwack. He grunted and staggered, and then slipped on her black half slip and went down, hard.

“Help! Thief!” she yelled.

“Hey! Ms. Gordon!” Two of her students raced down the steps at the entrance of the Edwardian Hotel. The teenage boys skidded to a stop and stared, wide-eyed, at the stranger. “This is so, like, whoa, you know?” said Zack.

Sydney knelt to cram her bra back into the wreck of her carry-on. “I hit him with my purse.”

“Cool!” said Matt. He pulled a video camera from his fanny pack. “Hit him again.”

He aimed the camera at Sydney and then panned toward the lingerie littering the street. “Whoa. Edit.”

Zack reached for the slip but snatched back his hand. “Hey, Ms. Gordon, I’d like to help you out here, but I don’t think we should be touching this stuff, you know? Sort of messes with the student-teacher relationship.”

The thief dabbed blood from his lip as the camera angled down for a close-up. “Get that thing out of my face,” he growled.

Sydney froze at the sound of his gruff American accent. She peered more closely at the handsome man she’d knocked to the ground—a man who was making no effort to flee the scene of his foiled crime. Levi’s jeans, Nike shoes, Philly Cheese Steak T-shirt. And a scowl registering annoyance rather than guilt.

Oh, dear. Maybe she’d overreacted, she considered with a familiar sinking feeling. Maybe he was a gentleman trying to assist her with her luggage. Not a thief.

Not a mugger.

Oh. My. God. Her cheeks torched up like road flares, and she stifled a mortified groan. I’m the mugger.

Her victim squinted at her through his swollen eye. “These kids belong to you?”

She nodded and swallowed a big gulp of guilt. “My students. Matt, Zack, this is…I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

She knew she should also introduce herself, but she wasn’t sure of the proper etiquette following assault and battery. Should the introductions come before the apology, or after? Right now would be a handy time to grovel, since she was already on her knees. “I’m so, so—”

“‘Help, thief’ works for me.” He stood and slapped gutter grime off his jeans. “That’s Mr. Thief to you,” he told the boys.

“I’m Sydney. Sydney Gordon. And I’m so, so sorry about the misunderstanding.” She got to her feet and made a grab for her Bugs Bunny nightshirt, but he beat her to it. “Thanks,” she said, “but I can finish this myself.”

“Now I know why chivalry is dead. Women like you keep knocking it on its ass.” He shook out the nightshirt and stared at Bugs. “I was only trying to help you with your luggage.”

“I just figured that out. And I really am terribly sorry.” She retrieved the shirt and stuffed it into her case with shaky hands, averting her eyes and wishing she could stuff herself down the nearest sewer grate.

Before she could offer another apology, a balding, rumpled version of Mr. Thief stepped through the hotel entrance and ambled down the steps to join them. He stopped behind the boys and watched her knight in shining shiner pluck her butterfly print panties from the bus fender.

“You’re losing your touch, Nick,” said the stranger. “You don’t usually have to work this hard to get your hands on a woman’s panties.”

“She thought I was a thief.” He ran a hand through his thick hair and chuffed out an exasperated-sounding breath. “Do I look like a freakin’ thug?”

The newcomer studied the bruised face with a frown before shoving a wide hand at Sydney. “Hi. Joe Martelli. The criminal’s brother.”

His brother. She took his hand and pasted on a faint smile. “Sydney Gordon. How do you do?”

“I’m doing okay.” He frowned at Nick. “Where have you been? The desk clerk said you checked in hours ago. And what happened to your eye?”

“I walked into a door.”

“What about the lip?”

Nick flicked a glance at Sydney. “It was a double door.”

Time for another abject apology. “Nick, I—”

He cut her off with the wave of a hand and glanced at the boys. “Looks like Ms. Gordon has her stuff about ready to go now. Can you guys help her carry it in from here?”

Matt shoved his camera back into his fanny pack and slipped his fingers through the handle of her big suitcase. “Yeah. It’s cool.”

“Thank you, Matt,” said Sydney before turning to face the Martellis. “It was nice meeting you. Both of you.”

Joe grinned. “You, too.”

“Yeah.” Nick’s grin widened but ended on a wince. “Nice.”

Sydney winced, too, and then turned to flee the scene of her crime.

CHAPTER TWO

TWO DAYS SINCE botching her response to Henry’s proposal, two hours after jolting into Heathrow, two steps from escaping the crowded shuttle, and she’d decked the first person she’d met in London. As a chaperone, she was setting a lousy example for her students.

But why waste daylight hours wallowing in the latest disaster? There were bound to be plenty of sleepless nights ahead for instant replays of her most embarrassing moments. Right now she should be cataloging her impressions of London as she followed Matt and Zack through the hotel entrance: clipped boxwood in planters, beveled glass in leaded panes, Etonian accents and hints of lemon oil and lavender in the air. She paused to absorb the English atmosphere through her pores.

I’m here, she thought for the umpteenth time since the jet had skidded onto European soil, and the thrill shivered through her, quicksilver and ice. I’m really here.

Sydney took a deep breath and brushed at the sticky bangs on her forehead. Time to get her act together. She had to ace this chaperoning gig. Her recent stint as a long-term sub hadn’t provided her with many chances to showcase her talents for thorough preparation and making the most of every educational possibility.

Talents she’d be working her tail off developing during the next two weeks.

“Syd!” Gracie Drew, fellow faculty member and tour roommate, waved to her from the reception counter. Gracie’s fuchsia-and-lime Hawaiian-print shirt glowed like a neon abstract in the crowd of teens and chaperones. “Hey, Syd. What took you so long?”

“You don’t want to know.” She pulled the strap of her weighty tote from her shoulder with a sigh. “But I’m here now. And ready to collapse in our room.”

“Better keep the meltdown to a minimum,” said Gracie, handing her a room key. “Heard we’ve got a meeting with the tour director in the Palladian Lounge in twenty minutes.”

Matt and Zack dumped Sydney’s luggage at her feet and turned to melt into the crowd.

“Hold it, fellas,” she said in her official chaperone voice. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Zack shrugged. “I dunno.”

“How about your room?” Gracie pulled a stick of Juicy Fruit from its foil pack and folded it into her mouth. “Ms. Gordon and I’ll come around to check on things in a while.”

The boys headed toward the elevator, and Sydney sighed and shoved wavy bangs from her eyes. “Hope we can get everyone fed and settled early tonight. The tour company packed the itinerary pretty full tomorrow.”

“Guess they figure they’re going to cram some culture into these kids or die trying. Good thing they’re giving us a couple of free afternoons to—hey.”

Gracie smiled and beckoned to someone behind Sydney. “Here’s another teacher I want you to meet. Great guy. You’ll love him. From Philadelphia. Came in with one of the groups on the earlier shuttle. Joe, come and meet Sydney.”

Sydney figured it was pointless to hope that Gracie’s acquaintance wasn’t the same Joe who had already seen her underwear. She gritted her teeth to keep a smile in place and turned to find both Martellis staring at her, hands tucked into pockets and wearing matching slouches.

“Hi, Sydney,” said Joe. “Small world, isn’t it?”

“And this must be Nick.” Gracie took his hand and gave it a quick, hard pump as she stared at his face. “Looks like you ran into some trouble.”

“Not me,” said Nick. “I ran away as fast as I could.”

“Smart move.” She smiled. “I’m Gracie Drew, North Sierra High. That’s near Tahoe, on the California side.”

“Glad to meet you, Gracie.”

Nick cocked his head to one side and stared at Sydney for several long, loaded moments. “Hello, Sydney.”

Her smile stretched to the snapping point.

“Well…” Joe rocked back on his heels. “Looks like we’re all going to be spending lots and lots of time together. One big, happy family. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m looking forward to it.”

“May I help you carry your things to your room?” Nick asked Sydney.

“Thank you, but it’s really not necessary.”

“Oh, but I insist,” he said. “It’s the chivalrous thing to do.”

He grabbed her suitcase handles and headed toward the elevator, snaking through the crush as she followed in his wake. He stopped and pushed the button, and then leaned down to murmur in her ear. “Maybe we could meet for dinner tonight. I could dump your plate in your lap, and you could toss my drink in my face. For old times’ sake.”

“Sounds delightful.” She ignored the way the throaty rumble of his voice seemed to vibrate along her spine. “Maybe some other time.”

“Okay,” said Nick. “‘Some other time’ works for me.” And then he flashed his subtle, crooked smile, and his dark eyes glinted with something that may not have been muggerish but assaulted Sydney’s nervous system all the same.

Oh, dear.

NICK EDGED HIS WAY through scattered clumps of tourists at noon two days later, aiming for the rim of St. James Park facing the gates of Buckingham Palace. He wasn’t looking for a different perspective on the Changing of the Guard; he was looking for a patch of grass suitable for a nap. He selected an empty space, stretched out on his back, linked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

A guard officer shouted a fresh set of commands, and the band struck up another rousing number. Horses’ shoes clopped along the pavement in counterpoint to clicking cameras. British sunshine bathed his beaten face and soothed his fading bruises with politely reserved warmth.

What an idiot he’d been to volunteer for that stakeout. Instead of gaining a first-person perspective on surveillance techniques, he’d proved he had no talent for investigation and served himself up as a punching bag for a frustrated philanderer.

He’d thought these weeks in Europe would be a less painful source of story ideas, but once again he’d been driving on the wrong side of the brain. Here he was, helping his brother ride herd on a handful of culture-stunned teens, researching nothing more dangerous than some setting details, and he’d gotten clobbered by a paranoid with a mugger phobia.

Make that a very attractive paranoid mugger-phobic.

The willowy blonde settled a bloodred nail over one of the buttons on her cell phone and pressed it a split second longer than necessary. Jack knew at once she’d sent a message to the network. He watched her tuck a hank of her long, wavy hair behind one delicate ear and drop the phone into her shiny black leather purse, an innocent-looking courier’s bag filled with the codes for—

A soft-shelled shoe nudged Nick’s ribs, and Joe’s voice floated down to him. “Aren’t you worried someone might step on you?”

Nick slitted one eye open and watched his brother stuff the last of a shrimp-and-egg sandwich snagged from a corner grocery into his mouth. Joe’s breeding showed: he was obviously the disheveled descendant of some barbarian horde that had laid waste to the countryside.

Nick settled his head back more comfortably into his hands. “You’re the only ‘someone’ I know who could be that clumsy,” he said.

“Not the only one.”

“Ah, yes.” Nick grinned. “Ms. Sydney Gordon. Shiva, The Destroyer.”

“Poor kid.” Joe wadded the paper wrapper and crammed it into a litter-loaded pants pocket. “That pamphlet display was an accident waiting to happen. Probably wasn’t attached to the wall right or something.”

“Yeah. Got to watch out for that steel-bolts-and-stone combo.” Nick shut his eyes. “And just think of the hundreds of early-morning commuters she saved from getting mangled in a faulty turnstile.”

“Those little tube ticket slots are kind of tricky.”

Nick snorted and crossed one ankle over the other. One more mystery to unravel: Why was that California teacher wound so tight? She spent every waking moment fussing over the tour, the time, the transportation, the weather, her kids and, for all he knew, this week’s market levels of imported Danish herring. It was enough to make a guy wonder if ulcers could be contagious.

On the other hand, something about her was sparking story ideas so fast he could barely jot them down before they shimmied and morphed into others. She was definitely…stimulating.

The band shifted tempo and the guards’ boots stomped to a new processional beat. Joe poked again with his sports shoe. “Don’t you want to watch?”

“I did watch. Can’t see much more than the backs of tourists and the tops of those furry black hats.”

“Did you see Edward anywhere?”

“First plaid umbrella on the right.” Nick’s lips twitched at the thought of their GQ tour director. “Moving out fast, now that he’s off the clock. Probably headed to the tour guide pit stop to get the circulation pumped back into his arm. I don’t see how he can hold that thing up in the air all day.”

“Stiff upper arm, old chap,” said Joe in some kind of accent that might have been John Wayne channeling Henry Higgins.

“That’s lip.”

“Huh?”

“Lip,” said Nick. “Stiff upper lip.”

“Speaking of upper lips…”

Nick groaned. “Not again.”

“Was it a bar brawl?” asked Joe. “You could tell me if you got beat up in a bar brawl, right? Especially the details.”

“It wasn’t a bar brawl.”

“You’d tell me if it was, though, right?”

“Yeah, I’d tell you.”

“So…it wasn’t a bar brawl.”

Nick opened one eye and stared at his brother. “It wasn’t a bar brawl.”

“Okay,” said Joe with a shrug, looking disappointed. “Just asking.”

Another limo eased by, ferrying another overdressed group out of an ornate palace gate. The crowd of tourists began to thin as the festivities dragged past the half hour mark.

“Where are we taking the kids after this?” Joe asked. “We’re on our own for lunch and sightseeing this afternoon.”

“You’re the one with the itinerary and the responsibilities.” Nick sat up and dangled his wrists over his knees. “I’m just along for the ride.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true,” said Nick. “Your job. Your students. I’m not the one with the teaching credential.”

“But you’re the scheduling whiz.”

“Not anymore.”

No more bidding anxiety, no more site hassles, no more delivery migraines, no more deadline insomnia. No more specialty contracting business, now that he’d shut it down for the yearly hiatus. And no more weekly hassles with his house renovation cable television series, now that he’d passed most of the hosting duties to an assistant and assigned himself a consulting spot. Life was too short to live it in a state of perpetual stress, especially when he had enough money in the bank to take a nice, long break.

He had an eye for the possibilities in a project and a knack for building, the skills to pull a project together and an ease before the camera that played well on the small screen. But he had other talents to develop, other dreams to pursue.

Becoming a bestselling novelist, for instance. He wanted more than anything to see his name on something other than short pieces in pulp magazines.

“I’m retired,” he reminded Joe. “And staying that way.”

“You say that every year.” Joe shifted his backpack over his shoulder and wiped his hands on his pants. “Guess I could go ask Sydney what she’s planning. I think she’s still over there, next to the fat lady’s foot.”

Only Joe could dismiss the statue of Queen Victoria, Empress of All She Surveyed—including the elegant stretch of The Mall—as “the fat lady.”

Nick stood and scanned the tourists clumped around the base of the Victoria Memorial, looking for another statuesque lady—one with long, reddish-gold hair tucked up under a silly straw hat. “Good idea,” he said. “She’s probably got the tour schedule tattooed on her wrist, underneath a watch that tells the time in ten foreign capitals and the research headquarters in Antarctica.”

“She’s not that bad.”

“You’re right,” said Nick. “She’s worse.”

“She just likes to be organized. At least she’s paying attention.”

“She takes notes on Edward’s jokes, for cryin’ out loud.”

“Admit it,” said Joe. “You’re attracted to her.”

Nick spied the lady in question and shrugged at the obvious: willowy build, interesting curves, Nicole Kidman coloring. He wished it were as easy to shrug off the less obvious something about her that kept registering on his radar, but that was a much tougher trick. “What’s not to be attracted to?”

“Ha,” said Joe. “I knew it.”

While they watched, something that looked like a city map and a fistful of tube tickets spilled out of Sydney’s oversize tote and fluttered to the pavement. She didn’t seem to notice.

“Damn,” said Nick.

CHAPTER THREE

NICK STARED AT Sydney’s things littering the ground, and he knew he should go over there and help her out. But he froze in place, letting his overwhelming urge toward chivalry duke it out with an eerie sense of déjà vu—not to mention the instinct for self-preservation.

“Better go pick that stuff up,” said Joe as he hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder. “She might not realize she dropped it.”

“No way,” said Nick. “If I kneel near her feet, she’ll think I’m trying to look up her skirt, and she’ll flatten me with that weapon of mass destruction she carries over her shoulder. I don’t want another concussion.”

Joe glanced at Nick’s black eye with a frown. “Another one?”

“Aren’t those some of your girls mixed in with the California group?” asked Nick, hoping to distract him. “Go grab ’em. I’ll round up the boys.”

Joe caught his arm before he could make an escape. “Don’t forget, you promised you’d share lunch duty this afternoon.”

“Yeah.” Nick shoved his hands into his pockets and shot a wry grin at his brother. In theory, this trip was supposed to be a chance to escape the extended Martelli clan and spend some rare one-on-one time with Joe. In practice, it came with forty-two fellow tour members attached at the hip. “I did.”

They crossed to the island when the traffic slowed, and Nick helped Joe herd his scattered students toward the statue’s base. Gracie’s construction-cone-orange shirt was as easy to spot as Edward’s umbrella.

“Greetings, Martellis,” she said with a smile that quirked up around the wad of gum in her cheek. “Looks like we’re the last of the group. The Albuquerque and Chicago folks already left for the London Eye.”

“We were just discussing our plans for this afternoon,” said Sydney.

“Figures,” said Nick. He ignored the slitted look she shot him and pointed behind her. “You dropped something. Again.”

She treated him to one of her nose-in-the-air looks before she bent to collect her things. God, she was cute when she was annoyed. Maybe that’s why he kept poking at her. Immature, maybe, but a fellow had to play to his strengths.

“Where are you going?” asked Joe.

“We were getting ready to flip a coin,” said Gracie. “Heads, Harrods. Tails, anywhere else.”

“Heard there are some great food stalls at Harrods,” said Joe.

Nick sighed and shook his head.

Sydney stood and wedged her papers back into her purse. “Maybe we should think of something a little more educational.”

“Educational?” Gracie chewed over the suggestion with a frown.

“Exactly.” Sydney fussed with the strap on her shoulder. “There are plenty of museums—”

“And we’re gonna see ’em all,” said one of the North Sierra boys. He scowled and scuffed his toe against a marble step.

Museums. Shopping. Not exactly the typical male teen’s plan for a sunny afternoon in a foreign country.

Nick turned to Sydney with his most ingratiating smile, the one he’d perfected for dealing with rabid materials suppliers. “You know,” he said, “there’s a museum right down the street from Harrods.”

“Yes.” Her brows drew together above a suspicious frown. “The Victoria and Albert.”

“What about lunch?” asked Joe. “Those food stalls sounded pretty good.”

Nick kept his eyes locked on Sydney’s. “Maybe we can work out a deal here.”

“What kind of a deal?” asked Gracie.

“You and Joe and Sydney can take the shoppers to Harrods. And the food stalls,” he added with a pointed glance at his brother. “I’ll take the ‘anywhere else’ crowd.”

“To the museum?” Sydney asked.

“Yeah,” said Nick, “we’ll head that way.”

She produced one of the guidebooks she seemed to have sewn into the lining of her clothes and checked the Victoria and Albert’s admission policies and closing times, food service and rest rooms, gift shop and special displays. She noted tube lines and transfers, currency exchange opportunities, the location of the American embassy, the nearest medical facility and the precise time Nick was to return to the hotel with the students. She handed him a card with her cell phone number and jotted his on the back of another.

He let her lecture break over him like a wave and tried to figure out what was sucking at him in the undertow. Maybe it was the way her feathery eyebrows puckered in concentration, or the way one slightly crooked front tooth gnawed at her plump lower lip. Maybe it was the scent of peachy shampoo and warm woman tickling his nose. Whatever it was, it made him wonder whether she was wearing those tiny butterfly panties.

Gracie cut the lecture short, deputized him as an official chaperone and led Sydney, Joe and their students off toward Birdcage Walk. Nick struck out across the square in the other direction. The three North Sierra boys who’d decided to take their chances with him jogged to catch up.

“Are we really going to some dumb museum?” one of them asked.

“No,” said Nick.

“I thought you told Ms. Gordon that’s where we were going.”

“I told her we’d head that way.” He grinned at the boys. “I didn’t say we’d go inside.”

SYDNEY PACED the wide, fanlit entry to the dining room of the Edwardian Hotel that evening, staging a murder. She pictured the set design and costuming, imagined the sound effects and lighting. The blast of a pistol—no, the flash of a knife. “Yes,” she muttered. “A knife.”

She flicked her wrist and frowned at her watch. Two minutes since she’d last called Nick Martelli’s cell phone and listened to his gruff voice tell her to leave a message. Five minutes until the dinner scheduled for the tour group. An hour past the time Nick had promised to return with her students.

“A big, fat butcher knife,” she muttered.

The cheery bing from the nearby elevator heralded Gracie’s arrival. She’d traded her tire-tread touring sandals for evening footwear: sequined flip-flops. “Are they back yet?” she asked.

Sydney shook her head. “Haven’t seen them down here.”

“Nick’ll bring them back any minute, safe and sound.”

“But they were supposed to check in over an hour ago.” She snuck another useless glance at her watch. “And we’re leaving for the theater shortly after dinner. What if something awful happened?”

“You know what, Syd?” Gracie gave Sydney’s cheek a motherly pat. “You worry too much. In between chaperoning duties, you should find some space to appreciate this experience yourself, don’t you think?”

“You’re right.” She took a deep breath and battled back another queasy ripple of panic. “And everything so far has been wonderful. I still can’t believe I’m finally here.”

“Me, neither,” said Gracie. “Not after I saw your packing lists.”

Sydney shifted to let a few members of the tour group pass into the dining room. “Organization is important.”

“Important, yes. A religion, no.”

“You’re right. I guess I should loosen up.” A bit. Organization was a handy tool for maintaining control—not to mention a method for keeping impulses in check. “I just want to make sure that everything goes as smoothly as possible,” she said.

Gracie slipped the neon-pink Princess Diana bag from her shoulder and fiddled with the strap buckle. “I still don’t know why you think you need this chaperoning gig to clinch that full-time teaching spot. You already did a bang-up job as a long-term sub.”

Sydney winced at the term bang-up. It brought back images of the fiasco of a spring play her drama class had unleashed on the public—exploding props, disintegrating scenery. “Thanks. But I—”

“Things’ll go the way they’re going to go, with or without you micromanaging the details.”

“You’re right.” Sydney sighed. “Sorry.”

“I haven’t lost a student yet on one of these Europe jaunts. They’re probably just having an adventure and lost track of the time. Nick’ll take care of them.” Gracie’s face went soft and dreamy. “That man’s one in a million. And the kids love him.”

“Nick, Nick, Nick.” Sydney rolled her eyes. “What is it about that guy that turns everyone to mush?”

“Incredible charm? A great sense of humor?” Gracie tugged the purse strap through the buckle. “And the rear view isn’t too shabby, either.”

“Gracie!”

“Hey, just because I’m married and closing in on middle age doesn’t mean I’m blind. And I’m not the only one indulging in figure appreciation. It’s obvious that Nick admires yours.”

Sydney ignored the tiny buzz of feminine satisfaction and reminded herself to be offended. “Just how obvious?”

“Enough to be flattered. Not enough to duck behind the nearest potted palm.” Gracie lifted the shortened purse strap over her shoulder. “Climb out of the greenery, girl. Give the guy a little encouragement.”

“Even if I wanted to flirt back—and I definitely don’t,” said Sydney, “this isn’t the time or the place. I don’t think indulging in a flirtation would set a very good example for the students.”

“Hmm. Thirty hormonal teens spying on every move. I can see where that might put a damper on things.” Gracie frowned. “Speaking of romantic challenges, Mr. Nine Lives called a few minutes ago.”

“Henry?”

Yes, Sydney reminded herself, Henry. The man who should have been the number one reason to dive into the greenery and avoid mush-inducing Nick Martelli. The fact that Henry hadn’t been the number one consideration was turning out to be problem number two. “Henry called here?”

“Yeah, he did. He sounded pretty disappointed he’d missed you, too. And he asked me to give you a message. I’d rather not, if you don’t mind, since I’m about to sit down to dinner and I don’t want to spoil my appetite.”

“Sorry,” said Sydney with an apologetic smile. “He’s just being sweet.”

“Sweet enough to make my teeth ache.” Gracie shook her head. “What’s up with that guy, anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“Any man who keeps hinting about marriage the way he does should either cough up a ring or cut you loose to find someone else who will.”

Sydney shifted uncomfortably. “He did.”

“He cut you loose?”

“He proposed.”

Gracie’s gaze cut to Sydney’s left hand. “I don’t see a ring.”

“That’s because I didn’t take it.” Sydney lifted her ringless left hand and made a show of checking the time. “Nick is now officially late.”

Gracie clamped her hand over Sydney’s watch and shoved her arm back to her side. “What was wrong with the ring?”

“Nothing.”

“Then what’s wrong with him? Besides the obvious.”

“Nothing,” said Sydney with an exasperated sigh. She couldn’t understand Gracie’s disapproval. Henry had never been anything but flawlessy polite to all her friends. “There’s nothing wrong with him.”

And these days in Europe would help emphasize that fact. Absence made the heart grow fonder, after all. She was certain she’d gain a fresh perspective on the situation and renew her appreciation for all of his wonderful qualities. He was perfect husband material, after all. “He’s not what you think. He’s…”

She paused, waiting for inspiration. It didn’t strike. “He’s a very nice man.”

Gracie snorted. “Faint praise if ever I heard it.”

“And punctual.” Sydney watched white-jacketed waiters ferrying dinner plates from the kitchen. Henry would never keep her waiting and wondering.

Here was one of those fresh perspectives she’d been hoping for. Compared to Nick Martelli, Henry looked absolutely…

Perfect.

Adolescent voices and the shuffle of oversize feet echoed from around the corner. Sydney sagged with relief. “Here come the boys.”

“Well, well, well.” Gracie waved the latecomers toward the dining room. “Have a few tales to tell?”

“The best, Mrs. Drew.” Zack grinned. “We were in a riot.”

Sydney gasped. “A riot?”

“A rally, not a riot,” Eric said. “Nick took us over to watch some sheiks demonstrating.”

“Sikhs,” corrected Matt. “Sikh separatists, at the Indian embassy.

“But first we stopped for drinks in a pub,” added Eric.

“What?” A big, fat, dull butcher’s knife.

“We only had sodas. Nick had that brown stuff.”

“Ale,” Zack added. “It was gross.”

Sydney’s eyes narrowed. “And how do you know that?”

“He let us each have a taste.” Zack cast an uneasy glance at the others. “Nick says it’s important to experience other cultures.”

“I’ll have to ask Mr. Martelli all about it,” she ground out. “He certainly has some interesting ideas about educational tours.”

“I’ll tell you all about our afternoon, Ms. Gordon,” rumbled a familiar voice from just behind her shoulder. “And even toss in an apology or two, if you’ll join me for dinner.”

She turned to face Nick Martelli. He gazed down at her, his deep-set eyes glittering like obsidian. Impudently they surveyed the scooped neckline of her chambray dress.

Sydney clenched her toes inside her sandals, miffed at the frank appraisal of his gaze and the automatic tingle of her reaction. Then she straightened her backbone and lifted her chin. She refused to become just another serving of mush. “Welcome back, Mr. Martelli. I wasn’t sure you were going to make it.”

“Nick. The only ‘Mr. Martelli’ here is my brother.” He slipped a broad palm around her arm. “Now, how about dinner?”

“Oh, but I—Mrs. Drew and I—”

“Go ahead,” said Gracie with a wave. “The boys can fill me in.”

Nick’s fingers closed to form a polite manacle.

Neatly trapped. With her control of the situation slipping, Sydney gritted her teeth in what she hoped would pass for a smile. “All right, then. I wouldn’t want to cause any trouble.”

“No trouble, Ms. Gordon.” Nick’s grin spread in a dazzlingly innocent smile. “No trouble at all.”

CHAPTER FOUR

NICK WASN’T QUITE sure why he’d blurted out that dinner invitation. Must have been the challenge in Syd’s snotty tone and mulish expression—or the temptation of her plump, pouty lower lip. Nearly made a guy want to keep her on edge and ready to nibble. And the escort move had given him an excuse to get his hands on her. One hand, anyway—on a soft, slender female arm.

Which was as far as he was likely to get. Apparently Ms. Gordon had a boyfriend. Nothing serious, according to the student spies he’d pumped for information this afternoon, but Syd’s type rarely viewed a relationship with an eligible male as anything other than serious.

And that was too damn bad.

With a cunning, lightning-fast move—a move that came second nature to an expert in the martial arts—Jack pinned her to the wall. Her icy expression melted into a dangerously seductive pout and her hot breath scorched his lips. Her breasts heaved from the exertion of her useless battle against him, pressing against the onyx studs of his crisply starched shirt.

He led her toward the noisiest table in the room, where Joe sprawled at one end, calmly cramming a dinner roll into his mouth while his jostling students rattled the tableware and nearly overturned the water pitcher.

“You’re back,” said Joe as Nick pulled out a chair for Sydney. “There is a God.”

“Would’ve been back sooner,” said Nick, taking the seat next to hers, “but we were detained by the police.”

Joe spared him a brief glance. “What happened this time?”

“This time?” The frost in Sydney’s tone threatened to freeze-dry the pot roast on their plates.

“We witnessed a fender-bender,” said Nick with a shrug. “The bobby on the scene probably could’ve done his job without our help, but you know how kids eat that stuff up. I let them take their time, enjoy their little moment of glory.”

He filled Syd’s water goblet and smoothly changed the subject. “Your students tell me you’re an actress.”

“Not really.” One of her eyelids fluttered in what looked suspiciously like a nervous tic. “At least, not lately. Not professionally, anyway.”

“But isn’t that what you teach?” Nick asked. He motioned for a waiter to bring another bread basket. “Drama?”

“I’m not really a teacher, either,” she said, dropping the aristocratic pose to shift in her chair. “Not regular full-time, anyway. I was subbing. Drama in the afternoon. Mornings, a few English classes.”

“And now you’re doing this tour.” Joe scooped up some mashed potato. “Not much time left for acting.”

“Don’t you miss it?” asked Nick. He stretched one arm along the back of her chair as he leaned in close to snag the saucer of butter pats. “The passion, the glamour? The applause?”

She flinched as his thumb brushed the back of her dress, and he dropped his arm. “Um, yes. And no.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I still act occasionally. With a local community group.” She poked at her salad. “But the jobs behind the scenes interest me more than any role I’ve played.”

“What jobs?” asked Nick. “Why are they more interesting?”

“Nick.” Joe shot him a warning frown. “Pass the salt. Please.”

Nick shoved the shaker across the table and turned to face Sydney. There was something there—a troubling something that shadowed her blue eyes. Something mysterious. Something interesting. Something…“How did you get into acting?” he asked. “Did you study drama in college?”

Something shoe-like nudged his shin. “Please pass the pepper,” said Joe. He took the container and set it next to the salt with a determined clunk. “Ignore the third degree, Ms. Gordon. It’s a bad habit.”

“I’m a writer,” said Nick.

“He’s a pest,” said Joe.

Syd smiled uncertainly and forked up a bit of limp lettuce. When she shot a stealthy glance in Nick’s direction from beneath her red-gold lashes, another story angle teased and tickled through him, and he realized the reason for this inconvenient fascination.

She was a muse.

His muse, anyway. For the next several days.

SYDNEY LEANED against her hotel room chair after dinner and wrapped her fingers around the phone cord with a smile.

“Miss me?” asked Henry.

“Yes.” It was so reassuring to hear Henry’s steady voice, and to tell him what he wanted to hear, and to really mean it. If only life could always be this uncomplicated. “Yes, I do. In fact, I was thinking exactly how much I miss you, right before dinner.”

“How’s the food over there? As bad as they say?”

Her smile dissolved. “It’s not that bad.”

Henry didn’t appreciate foreign cuisines—not that this evening’s roast beef, potatoes and peas qualified as exotic. Still, he always managed to don a patient smile and gamely taste all her spicy, impulsive culinary experiments. The fact that he was such a good sport about it made it easier, somehow, for her to sacrifice the exciting foods she loved and prepare the basics he preferred.

She glanced at her watch and stood. “I’d better go. I haven’t finished dressing yet, and Gracie’s waiting for me in the lounge.”

“All right.” He paused. “I love you, you know.”

“I know.” She just hadn’t figured out what to do about it yet. Marriage was such a monumentally frightening commitment that even her normal impulsive responses—weaklings that they were—had flown the coop.

But this wasn’t the moment to reflect on the situation. And far too many moments had passed as she’d sucked in a breath and prepared to make the expected and logical response. “I love you, too.”

“Sydney?”

She winced. Her hesitation hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Got to run, Henry. Bye.”

She slipped the receiver back into its spot and reached over her shoulder to nab the elusive zipper pull in the back of her dress. No luck. The navy knit sheath was a favorite, but the fastener had been designed for a yoga fanatic. She twisted toward the mirror to improve her aim and relaxed her shoulder joint to gain a fraction of an inch. This time, she caught the zipper—and immediately snagged it in her hair.

“No. This is not happening.” She angled her head to check the damage in the mirror and winced at the tug on her nape. The dress gapped above her shoulder blades, and a hunk of her hair kinked up in a rollercoaster loop.

One of her students quietly rapped at the door—maybe one of the girls, who could fix the problem. Sydney scrunched her neck, tugged at the front of her dress and pulled the doorknob. “Boy, am I glad—”

Nick Martelli lounged in her hotel room doorway. His gaze swept from her blushing face to her bare toes. “The feeling’s mutual,” he said.

“I wasn’t expecting…I mean, you’re not…” Cool air danced over a bit of bra strap exposed in the tangled mess in back, and goose bumps—and other bumps—popped out in inconvenient places.

Why did this man always have to catch her at a disadvantage? So far he’d seen her deranged, clumsy, obsessive and uptight—and now this. And to make matters worse, he seemed to find it all very amusing.

“That’s okay, teach,” he said with one of his wry grins. “No explanations necessary. That’s my assignment. I came to deliver another apology, and a peace offering.”

“Another apology?” She hadn’t collected the first one. Somehow he’d managed to wiggle his way over and under anything incriminating, in spite of all the traps she’d set for him during dinner. “Now what did you do?”

“Nothing naughty since dessert, I swear.”

She clung to the door, wondering how to get rid of him. She had no intention of engaging in a conversation with Nick Martelli, not when she looked like a cross-dressing Quasimodo. And not in her hotel room, not after she’d forbidden her students to entertain members of the opposite sex in theirs.

He held up two soft drink cans. “May I come in?”

“Gracie isn’t here, and—”

“Good. I only brought two.” He brushed past her in one lithe move and crossed the room to set the cans on a table. She couldn’t help admiring his long-legged saunter or the way his shoulders filled out his leather bomber jacket. And she couldn’t ignore the disconcerting tightness in her stomach, or the heat that seeped through her. That’s all I need, she thought. A physical attraction to the playboy of Student Tours International. The man is pure trouble.

She opened the door as far as she could and then pressed her back against it, her arms crossed like a shield as he approached.

“Glasses?” he asked.

“Thank you for the gesture, and for the soda, but I really don’t have time for this right now. I need to finish getting ready, so if you’ll excuse me, I—”

“Looks like I got here just in time.” He gently tugged her away from the door, and then he nimbly, neatly untangled her hair and closed her zipper. “That mess looked a little hard to reach,” he said as he turned her to face him.

She gazed into eyes as dark as night and framed by smile-crimped lines at the corners, one of them daubed a sickly green beneath a thick, straight brow. He was standing too close, and his hands were too warm on her arms, and his leather and soap scent was too tantalizing for her peace of mind.

The door slipped shut behind them.

“You look completely ready to me,” he murmured. “In fact, I can’t imagine what you could possibly improve on.”

He ran long, lean fingers through her curls, casually combing one forward over her shoulder. Her pulse hammered, too hard, too fast. She needed to get things back under control.

Control. She took a deep breath—and realized how quickly she’d fallen under the spell of his practiced moves and smooth lines. “Thanks for the help,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You certainly seem to know your way around women’s zippers.”

His hands dropped to his sides. “Sisters.”

“Pardon me?”

“Sisters. Just Joe and me holding out against hordes of ’em.”

He wandered about her room, snagging a crumpled towel from the floor and folding it neatly over the back of a chair. “I got lots of practice. Buttons, laces, skate keys—I’m a pro.” He sorted through the clutter on the dresser, picked up her cologne and sniffed.

“Oh,” she said. His casual tour of her personal items was playing havoc with her nervous system, just as his dinner interrogation—and the keen focus of those dark eyes—had played havoc with her appetite. All those questions had seemed intensely personal, not mildly conversational.

She cleared her throat. “Didn’t I hear you mention an apology?”

“Yes, you did.” He set the bottle down, and his cocky grin snapped back into place. “I should have checked with you first before skipping the museum. I’m sorry for that, and for getting back so late.”

“Thank you for…” She frowned. “For understanding.”

“Does that mean I’m forgiven?” He slipped his hands into his pockets and scuffed a shoe against the carpet, with no attempt to disguise the fact that he knew he was overplaying the boyish chagrin bit.

She sighed. “Yes, you’re forgiven.”

“Good.” He stepped closer. “Then you’ll consider having dinner with me again tomorrow night?”

She stepped back. “We’re on a tour. We’ll have dinner together every night.”

“What I had in mind was something a little more intimate. Just the two of us.” He closed the gap between them and toyed with her hair again. “Joe said he’d baby-sit your kids for you.”

“Shouldn’t you have checked with me first?” She batted his hand aside, setting her temper loose to bubble to the surface. Right now, anger seemed a good way to keep him at a safe distance.

He threw up his hands. “What do I have to do to stay out of trouble with you?”

“What makes you think I want you to do anything at all?”

“Look, Sydney,” he said as he paced the room, “we’re going to be living in each other’s pockets for another week and a half. Sharing the same dining rooms and hotels, the same buses, boats and tours. It would certainly make things more relaxed—more enjoyable—to know that I was on good terms with all the adults in this group.”

“All the adults? Are you planning a series of intimate dinners for two?” She marched to the dresser and grabbed a comb to tug through her hair. “Oh, except for Joe, of course. He’ll be doing all the babysitting.”

She watched in the mirror as Nick rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the floor. Slowly his eyes lifted. She could observe their progress, feel their touch, as they traveled over the curves outlined by the drape of her dress.

His gaze met hers in the glass. “You know,” he murmured, “it’s awfully hard to argue with a woman who looks the way you do right now.”

Her stomach did a quick jackknife on its way to her knees. She dropped the comb, wincing as it clattered across the dresser’s surface. In her hurry to grab it, she knocked over the little bottle of scent and scattered her faux sapphire earrings.

Smooth move, Gordon.

In the mirror, she watched that familiar, wry amusement flicker in Nick’s eyes before they darkened and smoldered. Dang, he could do a great smolder. Things were definitely heating up in here. She held her breath, afraid of fanning a stray flame.

He shifted his stance. “Time to start from scratch.”

“Okay.” She turned and exhaled, smoothing her hands over her dress. Saved from spontaneous combustion—for the time being. “Good idea.”

He stalked to the door. “As I recall, I entered, peace offering in hand—the finest light beverage I could find in the neighborhood.” He strolled to the table, improvising the little scene. “I even helped you with your zipper—more of that chivalry stuff.”

He paused for her reaction. When she rolled her eyes, he shot her a lopsided grin.

“I made a heartfelt apology, which you accepted,” he reminded her. “Encouraged by my apparent success at smoothing things between us, I asked you out to dinner.”

He slumped, the image of dejection, onto the foot of Gracie’s bed. “I can’t tell if I’m making any progress here, but at least you’re listening.” He glanced up. “You are listening, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” She stifled a smile. “Go on.”

“I must really be slipping.” He shook his head. “Usually when I ask a woman out to dinner and add a little flattery, she at least considers, instead of looking for ulterior motives.” He shot her a dangerous look. “The ulterior motives part is supposed to come after dinner.”

“Nick, I already—”

“Let me finish.” He held up a hand. “I’ve tried flattery. I’ve tried the Boy Scout good deed approach. I’ve used up about a month’s worth of charm. I’m running out of ideas here, Sydney.” He focused on the floor. “Maybe a play for pity will work. I’ll throw myself at Gracie’s feet and beg her to intercede on my behalf.”

“You’d probably have a better chance with her, anyway. For some God-knows-why reason, she likes you.”

Nick’s head snapped up, his smile dazzling. “You two have been talking about me, huh?”

Sydney laughed, charmed in spite of her resolve against it, and pointed to the door. “Out.”

He rose and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You’re not still mad at me?”

“No.”

“Friends?”

“Let’s stick with friendly acquaintances for now,” she said, opening the door for him.

He strolled through it and turned to face her. “Dinner?”

“Not that friendly.” She shut him out, leaned back against the door and stared at the two sodas sitting side by side on the table across the room. There was no mistaking the mush-like quality in the sag of her spine.

CHAPTER FIVE

HARLEY MAXWELL arrived home from her day job dealing blackjack along Lake Tahoe’s north shore to find trouble in her usual parking spot and more of it across the street, sprawled on Norma and Syd’s front porch. Much more of it. Six feet, three inches of it, to be exact. Trouble in a three-piece navy-blue suit, striped navy-blue tie and serious navy-blue eyes.

She yanked the steering wheel of her tin-can car hard left and tickled the clutch through the familiar cough-and-shudder routine. Her car tried to roll over and play dead, but she stomped on the brakes before it could shimmy off the steep edge of the road. Big mistake. The little engine that usually could up and died.

She climbed out and slammed the compact’s door, hard, so it would stick. Had to stay on top of things, show that car who was boss. It might not last long enough to get her to Vegas, once she’d saved enough to make her move, but she was counting on it to get her to her second job that night. Tomorrow she’d have a heart-to-heart with the carburetor. Maybe threaten it with a tune-up from Dusty, the oversize mechanic with the sledgehammer hands and the scary-looking tools. It wasn’t much of a threat, really. Dusty was a pushover for down-on-their-luck autos and Harley’s apple tarts.

She took a deep breath and prepared to deal with the man lounging near the stairway leading to Syd’s attic apartment: Henry Barlow, the oversize attorney with the manicured nails and the nifty leather briefcase. It wasn’t going to be easy; Henry wasn’t a pushover for anything she could think of. It would take a hell of a lot more than an apple tart to ease her way around him.

She stilled a moment and waited for her heart to do that odd flippy thing it did whenever she saw him. She had no idea why the sight of the terminally repressed businessman with an undertaker’s fashion sense and a constipated outlook on life could make her heart stutter. Maybe her heart needed a tune-up, too.

Henry sure looked like he could use one. Someone had mussed his hair and loosened his tie. Not too much, or she might not have recognized him, though the sedate silver sedan parked in front of her house was a pretty big clue. The mussing couldn’t be Henry’s doing. He never mussed—er, messed up. Especially not his appearance. Razor-sharp, that was his personal style. Every tie knotted, every crease pressed, every hair perfectly—and predictably—in place.

She ambled across the narrow, rutted mountain road. “Hey, Hank, what’s up?”

“How many times do I have to tell you my name’s not Hank?” He struggled upright. “It’s Henry.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She dropped her canvas tote on the step below his feet. “Several hundred more, at least. It’s not that I forget your name, you know. It’s just that ‘Henry’ doesn’t go down as smooth as ‘Hank.’”

“That’s ridiculous.” He belched, and a whiff of whiskey-soaked misery floated her way. “Henry is meluf…meliful…it’s poetic. Hank is a truck driver in North Dakota.”

Hank Barlow drunk? In the middle of the afternoon? What was the world coming to? “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Checking to see if Norma needs any…” He waved a long-fingered hand in the air. “Anything. While Sydney’s gone.”

Anyone who knew Norma, Syd’s retired landlady who lived in the ground level of the Victorian-era house, knew she could take care of herself. Hank’s reason for being here was as flimsy as his hold on his dignity.

He dribbled an expensive single malt into the faceted crystal glass in his hand and took a loud, slurping sip.

“For cryin’ out loud.” Harley shook her head. “Ditch the Waterford and put the booze in the bag. You’re embarrassing me here.”

He stared at the glass. “I rang Norma’s doorbell to ask about Sydney’s plants, but she didn’t answer.”

“Today’s Wednesday. Norma’s bridge group meets on Wednesdays.” She settled beside him on the sun-warmed porch. “Why don’t you come over to my place? I can fix you some coffee while you wait for her. We can have a nice talk. About what’s bothering you, for instance.”

A jay swooped past with an annoyed squawk to fill the empty spot where Hank’s response belonged.

“Syd playing hard to get again?” asked Harley.

“It’s only a temporary setback. I’ll talk to her and straighten this out when she gets back.” He stared into his glass. “I have to marry her. It’s an investment in the future.”

Harley frowned. “That’s one way of putting it, I guess.”

“There are a number of important factors to consider. And I’ve considered them all, very carefully. It’s the logical thing to do.”

Harley noticed he hadn’t mentioned love. But she’d try to be supportive. He was a nice guy, even if he was a little stiff. “Being logical is important in a relationship, I suppose.”

“It’s good to have someone understand. You’re a nice woman, Harley.” He tossed back the last drops of whiskey in his glass and set it on the step. “Except when you call me Hank.”

“And you’re a nice man, Hank.” She patted him on the knee. There were some nice, lean muscles under those sharply pleated slacks. Who’d have guessed?

There was a nice, steady heart beating beneath that neatly pressed jacket, too. Hank Barlow was one of the nicest men she’d ever met. That wasn’t saying much, because most of the men she’d met were jerks. Even so, Hank wasn’t the kind of guy who deserved to get dumped just when he was closing the deal on getting Syd to the altar.

But Syd was a nice woman, too, and she didn’t deserve to be shackled to a guy she didn’t really love.

Why couldn’t life just work out sometimes? And why did Harley have to get stuck in the middle of this mess?

“Come on, big guy.” She reached out a hand, waited for Hank to take it, and then struggled to get him to his feet. “Let’s go.”

Hank belched again and mumbled an apology. “I don’t usually do things like this.”

“I kind of figured.”

“I’m usually more shir—more circumzz—”

“Circumspect?” Harley shook her head. It was a pretty sad state of affairs when a man’s drinking vocabulary sounded like something from a public affairs network.

“Circumspect,” he said. “It means—”

“I know what it means, Hank.”

He wobbled a bit and glanced down at her. “You don’t look like the kind of woman who would know what that means.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What kind of woman do I look like?”

“I can’t say.” He frowned. “I wouldn’t want to insult you.”

“Any more than you already have, you mean.”

“I do?” He swayed a bit, and she shoved him upright. “I did?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You don’t like me very much, do you?”

She took him by the arm and led him down the porch steps. “I like you fine.”

“Meredith likes me,” he mumbled to himself, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Sydney’s mother. That’s the kind of woman who finds me attractive. Middle-aged battle-axes.”

He stumbled over some loose gravel, and Harley slipped an arm around his waist. He leaned against her, big and solid and warm. “I’ve been hitting on the wrong demographic,” he said. “Young women in singles bars or on the slopes. From now on, I’m looking for my dates at bingo parlors.”

“It’s not as bad as all that, is it?”

“Just about.” He stopped and lifted his hands to her shoulders. “Do you find me attractive?”

Oh, God, yes. She sighed and shook her head. “I don’t think I should answer that question.”

“See? That proves my point.” He closed his eyes, wobbled a bit and leaned his forehead against hers. “You’re not an elderly battle-ax.”

Her heart was flipping and flopping so fast she thought she’d pass out, right there on the street. “No, I’m not,” she whispered.

“You smell good.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You don’t.”

“It’s the whiskey.”

She closed her eyes. “I know.”

“Harley?”

“Hmm?”

“This is probably the whiskey, too,” he said, and then his mouth pressed against hers.

She froze for a moment, while his lips skimmed a teasing line along hers and his hands drifted down to settle at her waist. She tried—she really tried—to remember that Hank was feeling a little unsteady, that technically he was still Syd’s boyfriend and that they were standing in the middle of the street where the neighbors could watch the show. But then his tongue swept inside her mouth, and he pulled her tight against him, and a moan rumbled up from his chest, and she was lost in the delicious, delightful surprise of his kiss.

The surprise had nothing to do with the fact that she’d never imagined this kiss could happen. A girl was entitled to her fantasies, after all. No, the surprise was that there was nothing repressed, or sedate, or stiff, or predictable, or nice about this kiss. This kiss was the opposite of nice. It was a take-no-prisoners assault, a seductive and sensual plummet into something dark and deep.

Her heart flipped and flopped one last time, and then it fell into Hank’s oversize hands with a thud.

NICK’S FINGERS danced over his laptop’s keyboard the morning after the play as he roughed out a scene for his mystery novel. The clack of the keys was faint competition for the whoosh and whir of the traffic noise rising like vapor from the rain-moistened pavement below. He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled the aroma of early-morning London wafting through his open hotel window. Cooking oil and diesel fuel blended in a cheap scent: Big City.

He clicked the save command and slumped in the chair to read through his draft. Jack Brogan, the star of most of his stories, was moving up in the world, and London would make a classy background for his latest exploits. This could be the start of an entire European series, a project that would require plenty of research. Writing books set in exotic locales could be an exhausting business, but if someone had to do it, it might as well be Nick Martelli.

His thoughts drifted again to the uptight teacher from California. A major mystery there, and his own sleuthing hadn’t yet revealed what it was about her—other than her looks and her attitude—that was striking sparks.

Story sparks, among other kinds. He was starting to believe his own theory about her being some kind of muse. And thinking about her the way he usually did—with his cranial blood supply taking a trip south—wasn’t the proper way to think about a muse.

Not that he was aware of proper behavior when it came to muses. But he’d bet seducing them wasn’t on the program.

Behind him, Joe groaned again, struggling toward complete consciousness. Nick stalked across the room and yanked the pillow out from under his brother’s head. “Rise and shine, Mr. Martelli. Breakfast in thirty minutes.”

Joe rolled with a yawn and swiped a hand over his morning stubble. “Maybe I’ll grow a beard this week.”

Joe’s wife would kill him if he came home scraggly, and she’d probably have Nick tortured as an accomplice. Connie Martelli was one scary lady.

He chucked the pillow at Joe’s head. “Over our dead bodies, and I mean that literally. Shave. Shower. Dress.”

Joe closed his eyes and groaned. “God, what a nag.”

“Just making sure you don’t get homesick,” Nick drawled. “And pick up your stuff before we leave. You’ll lose something if you don’t keep things picked up.”

“Yes, hon.”

Joe staggered into the bathroom, and a moment later Nick heard one of the sounds of his youth: his brother whistling tunelessly over the tap water.

He reached across the table to snag the tour itinerary. Today’s highlights: Stonehenge and Salisbury, followed by another free afternoon. Nick wondered what Joe had planned for his students after lunch. Most likely a pit stop to keep them going until tea time, with a few educational tidbits tucked haphazardly between the snacks.

Joe walked back into the room, rubbing a towel over his thinning hair. “How’s the research going? Is Jack Brogan going to tie up the loose ends in London, or is he going to chase the bad guys all over Europe?”

“Haven’t decided that yet.”

Joe upended his suitcase over his bed, dumping his clothes in a heap. “I’ll bet the girl this time has long orangey hair, big green eyes and legs like a ballerina’s.”

“Her eyes are blue.” Nick closed the laptop. “And what are you getting at?”

“Nothing. I’m just afraid I’m going to trip over your tongue every time Syd walks by.”

“Take it back.”

Joe pulled a wrinkled shirt over his head. “Or what?”

“Or I won’t stick your wallet back in your knapsack the next time it falls out.”

“Speaking of which…” Joe pawed through the clothing heap. “Have you seen my khaki shorts?”

Nick twisted in the chair, tugged Joe’s shorts from under a Tower of London souvenir bag and tossed them in his direction. “Are your students ready for Mr. Hairy Legs?”

“I’m not even a blip on the radar.” Joe stumbled into his shorts. “There are other students here, Nick. Fascinating others, of both sexes. From high schools in exotic places like Albuquerque and Tahoe. I’m surprised you’re still sitting next to me on the bus, what with all those pheromones in the air. Especially the California ones.”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” Nick sighed. “I get it. Connie’s on your back again. ‘Poor Nicky, all alone with his broken heart. Find him a woman or sleep on the sofa.’”

“It’s nothing like that.”

Nick stared at him.

“Okay, maybe a little.” Joe knelt and reached under his bed for his shoes. “You like her, don’t you?”

“Connie? I’m nuts about her. I’ll be sorry until the day I die that you saw her first.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Syd. Sydney Gordon. One of the best-looking single women I’ve seen in a long time. And not just your basic beautiful, but fresh, in that gotta-take-a-second-look kind of way.” He waved a shoe for emphasis. “Am I right?”

“So dogs don’t howl when she walks by,” Nick said. “So what?”

“She’s intelligent and creative, too.”

“Is there a point to this?” Nick glanced at his watch. “And are we going to get to it before they stop serving breakfast?”

“The point is, you’re thirty-six, and you haven’t been in a serious relationship for years.” Joe sat to pull on his shoes. “It’s time to think about your future, Nick. Being everyone’s favorite uncle is a dead-end job. You won’t be happy if you end up alone. It’s time to find someone you can take home to meet Mom.”

“And you think Sydney would meet Mom’s approval?”

“Definitely.” Joe smiled over his shoulder. “Which spells trouble for you.”

“No trouble. ’Cause I’m not looking.”

“Don’t lie to me, Nick. I’ll have to hurt you.”

“So I peeked a couple of times.” He shrugged. “Big deal.”

“I’m just looking out for you, little brother.” Joe finished dressing and stood. “And looking for a little entertainment while I’m at it. Thing is, even if you put your biggest moves on Syd, she wouldn’t give you the time of day.”

Nick snorted. “She already knows the time of day in every zone corresponding to the major world capitals. But I suppose this is your subtle way of saying I’ve lost my touch?”

“Which brings me to point number two,” said Joe. “You’ve lost your touch. You’ve forgotten how to court a woman. I’m not talking about tossing out some line—I’m talking about making an effort to—” He grunted as he pulled on the second shoe. “You know, do the whole romance thing.”

“There’s not a woman alive who could give me any kind of trouble for any length of time.” Nick winced. “Except Connie. She could make my life hell for all eternity.”

“I thought you were nuts about her.”

“That’s the official line. Off the record, she drives me crazy.”

“Connie might drive you crazy,” said Joe, “but a woman like Syd could bring you to your knees.”

Nick grabbed his backpack and slung it over his shoulder.

“Begging for mercy.” Joe stood and clasped his hands to his chest. “‘Marry me, please, and put me out of my misery.’”

“It’ll never happen.”

“Okay, then.” Joe sucked in his gut and put on his serious face. “I dare you. I dare you to romance Sydney Gordon.”

“A dare?” Nick rolled his eyes. “Last time I looked, I had a driver’s license, selective service registration—you know, all that grown up stuff. I don’t do dares anymore.”

“I double dare you.”

Nick wasn’t sure he wanted to mess with the muse mojo. “I hear she has a boyfriend. Which would make taking that dare double dumb.”

“I heard it’s iffy,” said Joe.

“But long-term.”

“Which means the guy’s a little slow on the uptake.”

Nick shook his head. “I’m not making a move on someone else’s woman.”

“Admirable,” said Joe, “but stupid.”

“Why her?”

Joe didn’t answer. He just gave Nick The Look. The older brother look. The wiser, more wordly, I-want-what’s-best-for-you look.

“I’ve already asked for a date,” said Nick. “Twice. Been turned down. Twice.”

Joe sighed. “Like I said, you’ve lost your touch.”

Nick wasn’t sure he wanted to risk the muse for the woman. But there was a chance—a small, risk-filled, tempting challenge of a chance—that he could have his muse and the woman, too. For the next few days, anyway. Which meant that the boyfriend wasn’t an issue. Anything that happened here in Europe would be short-term and G-rated. Fling lite.

And he wouldn’t have to put up with any more of Joe’s nagging looks.

He cocked his head to one side. “Romance, huh?”

Joe nodded. “Candy and flowers.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little obvious? A little overdone?”

“And you’ve been having so much success with…?”

“I’ve been busy,” said Nick. “And don’t give me that look.”

“Hmm.” Joe rubbed his chin with a thoughtful look, which wasn’t much of an improvement. “There should probably be a kiss. A good one. Women go for that kind of stuff.”

“Tongue?”

“Didn’t I say a good one?”

Joe opened the door, and they headed into the hall. “One last thing,” he said as he hit the button for the elevator. “I like her, Nick. Hurt her, and I’ll sic Connie on you.”

“You can’t bring Connie in on a dare,” said Nick. “That’s not playing fair. Besides, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it for the right reasons.”

“And those would be…?”

Nick shifted his pack with a shrug. “I’m working on it.”

CHAPTER SIX

SYDNEY SEARCHED for a spot to rest and savor the silence of Stonehenge. Beyond the massive stones, sheep grazed in the silvery sage of the wind-rippled grass. Across the road, smoke drifted from the concession stands. Some of her students, rapidly bored with history’s mysteries, queued up for pastries and soft drinks.

She kicked off her sandals and settled cross-legged near the heel stone, smoothing her dress over her knees. The sun’s warmth was a welcome caress, and she shifted to let it warm her face. Ah, relaxation at last. She’d been so tense for so many days in a row she thought she might never unwind.

A shadow moved over her—Joe, trying to make an adjustment to his camera strap with one hand while balancing a muffin with the other.

“Here,” she said, reaching for the camera. “Let me see that.” She quickly coaxed the twisted loop through a tiny plastic catch and handed it back. A lopsided Martelli grin was her reward.

“A woman of many talents,” he said.

“One, anyway.”

“More than one, I’m sure.” He dropped to sit beside her, the camera swinging wildly and his long legs sprawling. The safety of the muffin, however, was never in doubt. “I’ve never met an actress before.”

“Hmm.” She swept breeze-tossed curls from her forehead and searched for a way to change the topic. “What about you? Any hidden talents?”

“Nope. What you see is what you get. But Nick’s got loads of it.” His mouth twisted in an uneven frown. “He just needs to figure out how to put it to good use.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind. Family sore spot.”

“I have to admit,” said Sydney, “he strikes me as the black sheep type.”

“Martellis don’t mess around with that wussy black sheep stuff. We either kill ’em or disown ’em.”

“Sounds pretty harsh.”

“Natural selection at work. National Geographic did a Christmas special the year Massimo stabbed Vito with the turkey baster.”

She smiled. “Telling stories must be another Martelli tradition.”

“Nick was the one with the wildest imagination. Got him out of a lot of scrapes. Got me into a few.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Just look at him over there.” Joe jerked his head toward the buses parked near the concessions stands. Nick moved among a group of Japanese tourists, his crooked smile flashing.

He’d rolled back the sleeves of his shirt, and his dark, sinewy forearms were a striking contrast against the white fabric. A puff of wind ruffled his hair, rearranging the thick layers and tossing a few locks onto his forehead. Even from a distance, she could appreciate his craggy good looks.

She could, but she wouldn’t. She’d concentrate on appreciating Henry. Henry was much more handsome than Nick. His features were more classic, his expressions more open and easygoing. There was nothing dark or intense about him.

Not that Henry was bland or boring.

She turned to Joe. “What’s he doing?”

“Research. It’s a kind of a hobby with him. Everywhere he goes, he talks to people. Collects them, sort of. Asks what they do for a living, how they do it.” Joe stretched out on the grass, his hands a pillow for the back of his head, and closed his eyes. “Anything he collects could end up in one of his stories.”

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