A Perfect Stranger. Terry McLaughlin
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what did you do?”
“Nothing naughty since dessert, I swear.”
She clung to the door, wondering how to get rid of him. She had no intention of engaging in a conversation with Nick Martelli, not when she looked like a cross-dressing Quasimodo. And not in her hotel room, not after she’d forbidden her students to entertain members of the opposite sex in theirs.
He held up two soft drink cans. “May I come in?”
“Gracie isn’t here, and—”
“Good. I only brought two.” He brushed past her in one lithe move and crossed the room to set the cans on a table. She couldn’t help admiring his long-legged saunter or the way his shoulders filled out his leather bomber jacket. And she couldn’t ignore the disconcerting tightness in her stomach, or the heat that seeped through her. That’s all I need, she thought. A physical attraction to the playboy of Student Tours International. The man is pure trouble.
She opened the door as far as she could and then pressed her back against it, her arms crossed like a shield as he approached.
“Glasses?” he asked.
“Thank you for the gesture, and for the soda, but I really don’t have time for this right now. I need to finish getting ready, so if you’ll excuse me, I—”
“Looks like I got here just in time.” He gently tugged her away from the door, and then he nimbly, neatly untangled her hair and closed her zipper. “That mess looked a little hard to reach,” he said as he turned her to face him.
She gazed into eyes as dark as night and framed by smile-crimped lines at the corners, one of them daubed a sickly green beneath a thick, straight brow. He was standing too close, and his hands were too warm on her arms, and his leather and soap scent was too tantalizing for her peace of mind.
The door slipped shut behind them.
“You look completely ready to me,” he murmured. “In fact, I can’t imagine what you could possibly improve on.”
He ran long, lean fingers through her curls, casually combing one forward over her shoulder. Her pulse hammered, too hard, too fast. She needed to get things back under control.
Control. She took a deep breath—and realized how quickly she’d fallen under the spell of his practiced moves and smooth lines. “Thanks for the help,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You certainly seem to know your way around women’s zippers.”
His hands dropped to his sides. “Sisters.”
“Pardon me?”
“Sisters. Just Joe and me holding out against hordes of ’em.”
He wandered about her room, snagging a crumpled towel from the floor and folding it neatly over the back of a chair. “I got lots of practice. Buttons, laces, skate keys—I’m a pro.” He sorted through the clutter on the dresser, picked up her cologne and sniffed.
“Oh,” she said. His casual tour of her personal items was playing havoc with her nervous system, just as his dinner interrogation—and the keen focus of those dark eyes—had played havoc with her appetite. All those questions had seemed intensely personal, not mildly conversational.
She cleared her throat. “Didn’t I hear you mention an apology?”
“Yes, you did.” He set the bottle down, and his cocky grin snapped back into place. “I should have checked with you first before skipping the museum. I’m sorry for that, and for getting back so late.”
“Thank you for…” She frowned. “For understanding.”
“Does that mean I’m forgiven?” He slipped his hands into his pockets and scuffed a shoe against the carpet, with no attempt to disguise the fact that he knew he was overplaying the boyish chagrin bit.
She sighed. “Yes, you’re forgiven.”
“Good.” He stepped closer. “Then you’ll consider having dinner with me again tomorrow night?”
She stepped back. “We’re on a tour. We’ll have dinner together every night.”
“What I had in mind was something a little more intimate. Just the two of us.” He closed the gap between them and toyed with her hair again. “Joe said he’d baby-sit your kids for you.”
“Shouldn’t you have checked with me first?” She batted his hand aside, setting her temper loose to bubble to the surface. Right now, anger seemed a good way to keep him at a safe distance.
He threw up his hands. “What do I have to do to stay out of trouble with you?”
“What makes you think I want you to do anything at all?”
“Look, Sydney,” he said as he paced the room, “we’re going to be living in each other’s pockets for another week and a half. Sharing the same dining rooms and hotels, the same buses, boats and tours. It would certainly make things more relaxed—more enjoyable—to know that I was on good terms with all the adults in this group.”
“All the adults? Are you planning a series of intimate dinners for two?” She marched to the dresser and grabbed a comb to tug through her hair. “Oh, except for Joe, of course. He’ll be doing all the babysitting.”
She watched in the mirror as Nick rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the floor. Slowly his eyes lifted. She could observe their progress, feel their touch, as they traveled over the curves outlined by the drape of her dress.
His gaze met hers in the glass. “You know,” he murmured, “it’s awfully hard to argue with a woman who looks the way you do right now.”
Her stomach did a quick jackknife on its way to her knees. She dropped the comb, wincing as it clattered across the dresser’s surface. In her hurry to grab it, she knocked over the little bottle of scent and scattered her faux sapphire earrings.
Smooth move, Gordon.
In the mirror, she watched that familiar, wry amusement flicker in Nick’s eyes before they darkened and smoldered. Dang, he could do a great smolder. Things were definitely heating up in here. She held her breath, afraid of fanning a stray flame.
He shifted his stance. “Time to start from scratch.”
“Okay.” She turned and exhaled, smoothing her hands over her dress. Saved from spontaneous combustion—for the time being. “Good idea.”
He stalked to the door. “As I recall, I entered, peace offering in hand—the finest light beverage I could find in the neighborhood.” He strolled to the table, improvising the little scene. “I even helped you with your zipper—more of that chivalry stuff.”
He paused for her reaction. When she rolled her eyes, he shot her a lopsided grin.
“I made a heartfelt apology, which you accepted,” he reminded her. “Encouraged by my apparent success at smoothing things between us, I asked you out to dinner.”
He slumped, the image of dejection, onto the foot of Gracie’s bed. “I can’t tell if I’m making any progress here, but at least you’re listening.” He glanced up. “You are listening, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” She stifled a smile. “Go on.”
“I must really be slipping.” He shook his head. “Usually when I ask a woman out to dinner and add a little flattery, she at least considers, instead of looking for ulterior motives.” He shot her a dangerous look. “The ulterior motives part is supposed to come after dinner.”
“Nick, I already—”
“Let me finish.” He held up a hand. “I’ve tried flattery. I’ve tried the Boy Scout good deed approach. I’ve used up about a month’s worth of charm. I’m running out of ideas here, Sydney.” He focused on the floor. “Maybe a play for pity will work. I’ll throw myself at Gracie’s feet and beg her to intercede