Terry McLaughlin - A Perfect Stranger

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 on my behalf.”

“You’d probably have a better chance with her, anyway. For some God-knows-why reason, she likes you.”

Nick’s head snapped up, his smile dazzling. “You two have been talking about me, huh?”

Sydney laughed, charmed in spite of her resolve against it, and pointed to the door. “Out.”

He rose and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You’re not still mad at me?”

“No.”

“Friends?”

“Let’s stick with friendly acquaintances for now,” she said, opening the door for him.

He strolled through it and turned to face her. “Dinner?”

“Not that friendly.” She shut him out, leaned back against the door and stared at the two sodas sitting side by side on the table across the room. There was no mistaking the mush-like quality in the sag of her spine.

HARLEY MAXWELL arrived home from her day job dealing blackjack along Lake Tahoe’s north shore to find trouble in her usual parking spot and more of it across the street, sprawled on Norma and Syd’s front porch. Much more of it. Six feet, three inches of it, to be exact. Trouble in a three-piece navy-blue suit, striped navy-blue tie and serious navy-blue eyes.

She yanked the steering wheel of her tin-can car hard left and tickled the clutch through the familiar cough-and-shudder routine. Her car tried to roll over and play dead, but she stomped on the brakes before it could shimmy off the steep edge of the road. Big mistake. The little engine that usually could up and died.

She climbed out and slammed the compact’s door, hard, so it would stick. Had to stay on top of things, show that car who was boss. It might not last long enough to get her to Vegas, once she’d saved enough to make her move, but she was counting on it to get her to her second job that night. Tomorrow she’d have a heart-to-heart with the carburetor. Maybe threaten it with a tune-up from Dusty, the oversize mechanic with the sledgehammer hands and the scary-looking tools. It wasn’t much of a threat, really. Dusty was a pushover for down-on-their-luck autos and Harley’s apple tarts.

She took a deep breath and prepared to deal with the man lounging near the stairway leading to Syd’s attic apartment: Henry Barlow, the oversize attorney with the manicured nails and the nifty leather briefcase. It wasn’t going to be easy; Henry wasn’t a pushover for anything she could think of. It would take a hell of a lot more than an apple tart to ease her way around him.