A Perfect Stranger

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?”