A Perfect Stranger. Terry McLaughlin
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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?”
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.