A Perfect Stranger. Terry McLaughlin
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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.