A Perfect Stranger. Terry McLaughlin
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“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