Читать книгу A Perfect Stranger - Terry McLaughlin - Страница 7

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.