Terry McLaughlin - A Perfect Stranger

Joe sighed. “Like I said, you’ve lost your touch.”

Nick wasn’t sure he wanted to risk the muse for the woman. But there was a chance—a small, risk-filled, tempting challenge of a chance—that he could have his muse and the woman, too. For the next few days, anyway. Which meant that the boyfriend wasn’t an issue. Anything that happened here in Europe would be short-term and G-rated. Fling lite.

And he wouldn’t have to put up with any more of Joe’s nagging looks.

He cocked his head to one side. “Romance, huh?”

Joe nodded. “Candy and flowers.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little obvious? A little overdone?”

“And you’ve been having so much success with…?”

“I’ve been busy,” said Nick. “And don’t give me that look.”

“Hmm.” Joe rubbed his chin with a thoughtful look, which wasn’t much of an improvement. “There should probably be a kiss. A good one. Women go for that kind of stuff.”

“Tongue?”

“Didn’t I say a good one?”

Joe opened the door, and they headed into the hall. “One last thing,” he said as he hit the button for the elevator. “I like her, Nick. Hurt her, and I’ll sic Connie on you.”

“You can’t bring Connie in on a dare,” said Nick. “That’s not playing fair. Besides, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it for the right reasons.”

“And those would be…?”

Nick shifted his pack with a shrug. “I’m working on it.”

SYDNEY SEARCHED for a spot to rest and savor the silence of Stonehenge. Beyond the massive stones, sheep grazed in the silvery sage of the wind-rippled grass. Across the road, smoke drifted from the concession stands. Some of her students, rapidly bored with history’s mysteries, queued up for pastries and soft drinks.

She kicked off her sandals and settled cross-legged near the heel stone, smoothing her dress over her knees. The sun’s warmth was a welcome caress, and she shifted to let it warm her face. Ah, relaxation at last. She’d been so tense for so many days in a row she thought she might never unwind.

A shadow moved over her—Joe, trying to make an adjustment to his camera strap with one hand while balancing a muffin with the other.

“Here,” she said, reaching for the camera. “Let me see that.” She quickly coaxed the twisted loop through a tiny plastic catch and handed it back. A lopsided Martelli grin was her reward.

“A woman of many talents,” he said.

“One, anyway.”

“More than one, I’m sure.” He dropped to sit beside her, the camera swinging wildly and his long legs sprawling. The safety of the muffin, however, was never in doubt. “I’ve never met an actress before.”

“Hmm.” She swept breeze-tossed curls from her forehead and searched for a way to change the topic. “What about you? Any hidden talents?”

“Nope. What you see is what you get. But Nick’s got loads of it.” His mouth twisted in an uneven frown. “He just needs to figure out how to put it to good use.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind. Family sore spot.”

“I have to admit,” said Sydney, “he strikes me as the black sheep type.”

“Martellis don’t mess around with that wussy black sheep stuff. We either kill ’em or disown ’em.”

“Sounds pretty harsh.”

“Natural selection at work. National Geographic did a Christmas special the year Massimo stabbed Vito with the turkey baster.”

She smiled. “Telling stories must be another Martelli tradition.”

“Nick was the one with the wildest imagination. Got him out of a lot of scrapes. Got me into a few.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Just look at him over there.” Joe jerked his head toward the buses parked near the concessions stands. Nick moved among a group of Japanese tourists, his crooked smile flashing.

He’d rolled back the sleeves of his shirt, and his dark, sinewy forearms were a striking contrast against the white fabric. A puff of wind ruffled his hair, rearranging the thick layers and tossing a few locks onto his forehead. Even from a distance, she could appreciate his craggy good looks.

She could, but she wouldn’t. She’d concentrate on appreciating Henry. Henry was much more handsome than Nick. His features were more classic, his expressions more open and easygoing. There was nothing dark or intense about him.

Not that Henry was bland or boring.

She turned to Joe. “What’s he doing?”

“Research. It’s a kind of a hobby with him. Everywhere he goes, he talks to people. Collects them, sort of. Asks what they do for a living, how they do it.” Joe stretched out on the grass, his hands a pillow for the back of his head, and closed his eyes. “Anything he collects could end up in one of his stories.”

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