A Perfect Stranger. Terry McLaughlin
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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