A Perfect Stranger

Gracie snorted. “Faint praise if ever I heard it.”

“And punctual.” Sydney watched white-jacketed waiters ferrying dinner plates from the kitchen. Henry would never keep her waiting and wondering.

Here was one of those fresh perspectives she’d been hoping for. Compared to Nick Martelli, Henry looked absolutely…

Perfect.

Adolescent voices and the shuffle of oversize feet echoed from around the corner. Sydney sagged with relief. “Here come the boys.”

“Well, well, well.” Gracie waved the latecomers toward the dining room. “Have a few tales to tell?”

“The best, Mrs. Drew.” Zack grinned. “We were in a riot.”

Sydney gasped. “A riot?”

“A rally, not a riot,” Eric said. “Nick took us over to watch some sheiks demonstrating.”

“Sikhs,” corrected Matt. “Sikh separatists, at the Indian embassy.

“But first we stopped for drinks in a pub,” added Eric.

“What?” A big, fat, dull butcher’s knife.

“We only had sodas. Nick had that brown stuff.”

“Ale,” Zack added. “It was gross.”

Sydney’s eyes narrowed. “And how do you know that?”

“He let us each have a taste.” Zack cast an uneasy glance at the others. “Nick says it’s important to experience other cultures.”

“I’ll have to ask Mr. Martelli all about it,” she ground out. “He certainly has some interesting ideas about educational tours.”

“I’ll tell you all about our afternoon, Ms. Gordon,” rumbled a familiar voice from just behind her shoulder. “And even toss in an apology or two, if you’ll join me for dinner.”

She turned to face Nick Martelli. He gazed down at her, his deep-set eyes glittering like obsidian. Impudently they surveyed the scooped neckline of her chambray dress.

Sydney clenched her toes inside her sandals, miffed at the frank appraisal of his gaze and the automatic tingle of her reaction. Then she straightened her backbone and lifted her chin. She refused to become just another serving of mush. “Welcome back, Mr. Martelli. I wasn’t sure you were going to make it.”

“Nick. The only ‘Mr. Martelli’ here is my brother.” He slipped a broad palm around her arm. “Now, how about dinner?”

“Oh, but I—Mrs. Drew and I—”

“Go ahead,” said Gracie with a wave. “The boys can fill me in.”

Nick’s fingers closed to form a polite manacle.

Neatly trapped. With her control of the situation slipping, Sydney gritted her teeth in what she hoped would pass for a smile. “All right, then. I wouldn’t want to cause any trouble.”

“No 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.”