Tender Stranger
Autor
Diana Palmer
Leituras
15,3K
Capítulos
11
She'd met Eric Van Meer entirely by chance during an unforgettable vacation in Mexico, and with reckless abandon, she'd agreed to marry the mysterious blond stranger. Dani St. Clair, prim southern bookseller, had experienced a passion that exceeded even those in her cherished romantic novels — until a hijacked plane and a daring rescue by Eric revealed his true nature and dangerous work. He said he needed freedom, yet he'd married her. He said he hated women, yet he tenderly conquered her heart. Was it possible to meet a soldier of fortune on the battleground of passion and win the war of love?
Chapter One
The seat was much too low for his tall frame; he had barely enough room without the paraphernalia his companion was shifting in her own seat. He gave her a short glare through deep brown eyes. She flushed, her gaze dropping to her lap as she tucked her huge purse on the other side of her and struggled with her seat belt.
He sighed, watching her. A spinster, he thought unkindly. From her flyaway brown hair to the eyes under those wire-rimmed glasses, from her bulky white sweater down to her long gray skirt and sensible gray shoes, she was definitely someone’s unclaimed treasure. He turned his eyes back to the too-narrow aisle. Damn budget airlines, he thought furiously. If he hadn’t missed the flight he’d booked, he wouldn’t be trying to fit into this sardine can of a seat. Next to Miss Frump here.
He didn’t like women. Never less than now, when he was forced to endure this particular woman’s company for several hundred miles from San Antonio down to Veracruz, Mexico. He glanced sideways again irritably. She was shifting books now. Books, for God’s sake! Didn’t she know what the baggage hold was for?
“You should have reserved a seat for them,” he muttered, glaring at a stack of what was obviously romance novels.
She swallowed, a little intimidated as her eyes swept over a muscular physique, blond hair and a face that looked positively hostile. He had nice hands, though. Very lean and tanned and strong-looking. Scars on the back of one of them…
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, avoiding his eyes. “I’ve just come from a romance writer’s autographing in San Antonio. These—these are autographed copies I’m taking back for friends after my Mexican holiday, and I was afraid to trust them to the luggage compartment.”
“Priceless gems?” he asked humorlessly, giving them a speaking glare as she tucked the sackful under her seat.
“To some people, yes,” she acknowledged. Her face tautened and she didn’t look at him again. She cast nervous glances out the window while the airplane began to hum and the flight crew began once more the tedious demonstration of the safety equipment. He sighed impatiently and folded his arms across his broad chest, over the rumpled khaki shirt he wore. He leaned his head back, staring blankly at the stewardess. She was a beauty, but he wasn’t interested. He hadn’t been interested in women for quite a few years, except to satisfy an infrequent need. He laughed shortly, glancing at the prim little woman next to him. He wondered if she knew anything about those infrequent needs, and decided that she didn’t. She looked as chaste as a nun, with her nervous eyes and hands. She had nice hands, though, he thought, pursing his lips as he studied them. Long fingers, very graceful, and no polish. They were the hands of a lady.
It irritated him that he’d noticed that. He glared harder at her.
That caught her attention. It was one thing to be impatiently tolerated, but she didn’t like that superior glare. She turned and glared back at him. Something danced briefly in his dark eyes before he turned them back to the stewardess.
So she had fire, he thought. That was unexpected in a prim little nun. He wondered if she was a librarian. Yes, that would explain her fascination with books. And love stories…probably she was starving for a little love of her own. His eyes darkened. Stupid men, he thought, to overlook a feisty little thing like that just because of the glitter and paint that drew them to her more liberated counterparts.
There was murmuring coming from beside him. His sensitive ears caught a few feverish words: “Hail Mary, full of grace…”
It couldn’t be! He turned, his eyes wide and stunned. Was she a nun?
She caught him looking at her and bit her lip self-consciously. “Habit,” she breathed. “My best friend was Catholic. She taught me the rosary and we always recited it together when we flew. Personally,” she whispered, wide-eyed, “I don’t think there’s anyone up there in the cockpit flying this thing!”
His eyebrows levered up. “You don’t?”
She leaned toward him. “Do you ever see anybody in there?” She nodded toward the cockpit. “The door’s always closed. If there isn’t anything to hide, why do they close the door?”
He began to smile reluctantly. “Perhaps they’re concealing a robot pilot?”
“More likely, they’ve got the pilot roped into his seat and they don’t want us knowing it.” She laughed softly, and it changed her face. With the right cosmetics and a haircut that didn’t leave her soft hair unruly and half wild, she might not be bad-looking.
“You’ve been reading too many of those,” he observed, gesturing toward the sack of books.
“Guilty.” She sighed. “I suppose we need dreams sometimes. They keep reality at bay.”
“Reality is better,” he replied. “It has no illusions to spoil.”
“I’d rather have my illusions.”
He studied her openly. Wide, bow-shaped mouth, straight nose, wide-spaced pale gray eyes, heart-shaped face. She had a stubborn chin, too, and he smiled slowly. “You’re a strange little creature,” he said.
“I’m not little,” she returned. “I’m five feet six.”
He shrugged. “I’m over six feet. To me, you’re little.”
“I won’t argue that,” she said with a shy smile.
He chuckled. “Do you have a name?”
“Danielle. Danielle St. Clair. I own a bookstore in Greenville, South Carolina.”
Yes, that fit her image to a T. “I’m called Dutch,” he returned. “But my name is Eric van Meer.”
“Are you Dutch?” she asked.
He nodded. “My parents were.”
“It must be nice, having parents,” she said with unconscious wistfulness. “I was small when I lost both of mine. I don’t even have a cousin.”
His eyes darkened and he turned his face away. “I hope they serve lunch on this flight,” he remarked, changing the subject with brutal abruptness. “I haven’t had anything since last night.”
“You must be starved!” she exclaimed. She began to dig in her bag as the plane jerked and eased toward the runway. “I have a piece of cake left over from the autograph party. I didn’t have time to eat it. Would you like it?” she asked, and offered him a slice of coconut cake.
He smiled slowly. “No. I’ll wait. But thank you.”
She shrugged. “I don’t really need it. I’m trying to lose about twenty pounds.”
His eyes went over her. She was a little overweight. Not fat, just nicely rounded. He almost told her so. But then he remembered what treacherous creatures women were, and bit back the hasty words. He had concerns of his own, and no time for little spinsters. He leaned back and closed his eyes, shutting her out.
The flight passed uneventfully, but if he’d hoped to walk off the plane in Veracruz and forget about his seatmate, he was doomed to disappointment. When the plane finally rolled to a stop she stepped out into the aisle, juggling her luggage, and the sack containing her books broke into a thousand pieces.
Dutch tried not to laugh at the horrified expression on her face as he gathered the books quickly together and threw them into her seat, then herded her out of the aisle.
“Oh, Lord,” she moaned, looking as if fate and the Almighty were out to get her.
“Most travelers carry a spare bag inside their suitcases,” he said hopefully as the other passengers filed out.
She looked up at him helplessly, all big gray eyes and shy pleading, and for an instant he actually forgot what he was saying. Her complexion was exquisite, he thought. He would have bet that she hardly ever used, or needed to use, beauty creams.
“Spare bag?” she echoed. “Spare bag!” She grinned. “Yes, of course.” She shifted restlessly.
“Well?” he prompted gently.
She pointed to the overhead rack.
“We’ll wait for everyone else to get off,” he said. “Mine’s up there, too; it’s all right. No big deal.”
She brushed back strands of wild hair and looked haunted. “I’m so organized back home,” she muttered. “Not a stick of furniture out of place. But let me get outside the city limits of Greenville and I can’t stick a fork on a plate without help.”
He couldn’t help laughing. “We’ll get you sorted out,” he said. “Where are you booked?”
“Book…oh, the hotel? It’s the Mirador,” she said.
Fate, he thought with a wistful smile. “That’s where my reservation is,” he said.
Her face lit up, and the look in her eyes faintly embarrassed him. She was gazing at him with a mixture of blind trust and hopeful expectation.
“Do you know the hotel? I mean, have you been here before?” she faltered, trying not to pry.
“Several times,” he confessed. “I come down here once or twice a year when I need to get away.” He glanced around. “Let’s go.”
He got down her suitcase and helped her extricate the spare bag from the case with a wry glance at the neat cotton nightgowns and underwear. She blushed wildly at that careless scrutiny, and he turned his attention to her books, packing them neatly and deftly.
She followed him out of the plane with gratitude shining on her face. She could have kissed him for not making fun of her, for helping her out. Imagine, she thought, a man like that actually doing something for her!
“I’m sorry to have been so much trouble,” she blurted out, almost running to keep up with him as they headed toward customs and immigration. She was searching desperately for her passport, and missed the indulgent smile that softened his hard features momentarily.
“No trouble at all,” he replied. “Got your passport?”
She sighed, holding it up. “Thank God I did something right,” she moaned. “I’ve never even used it before.”
“First time out of the States?” he asked pleasantly as they waited in line.
“First time out, yes,” she confessed. “I just turned twenty-six. I thought I’d better do something adventurous fast, before I ran out of time.”
He frowned. “My God, twenty-six isn’t old,” he said.
“No,” she agreed. “But it isn’t terribly young, either.” She didn’t look at him. Her eyes were quiet and sad, and she was thinking back to all the long years of loneliness.
“Is there a man?” he asked without quite knowing why.
She laughed with a cynicism that actually surprised him, and the wide eyes that looked up into his seemed ancient. “I have no illusions at all about myself,” she said, and moved ahead with her huge purse.
He stared at her straight back with mingled emotions, confusing emotions. Why should it matter to him that she was alone? He shook his head and glanced around him to break the spell. It was none of his business.
Minutes later she was through customs. She almost waited for her tall companion, but she thought that one way or another, she’d caused him enough trouble. The tour company had provided transfers from the airport to the hotel, but a cab seemed much more inviting and less crowded. She managed to hail one, and with her bag of books and suitcase, bustled herself into it.
“Hotel Mirador,” she said.
The cab driver smiled broadly and gunned the engine as he pulled out into the crowded street. Dani, full of new experiences and delightful sensations, tried to look everywhere at once. The Bay of Campeche was blue and delightful, and there were glimpses of palms and sand and many hotels. Veracruz was founded in the early 1500s and looked as many old cities of that period did, its architecture alternating between the days of piracy and the space age. Dani would have loved to dive straight into some sight-seeing, but she was already uncomfortable in the formidable heat, and she knew it would be foolish to rush out without letting her body acclimate itself to its new environment.
As she gazed at the rows of hotels, the driver pulled into one of them, a two-story white building with graceful arches and a profusion of blooming flowers. It had only been a few minutes’ ride from the airport, but the fare was confusing. And a little intimidating. Twenty dollars, just for several miles. But perhaps it was the custom, she thought, and paid him uncomplainingly.
He grinned broadly again, tipped his hat, and left her at the reservation desk.
She gave the clerk her name and waited with bated breath until her reservation was found. Finally, she had a room. Everything would be all right.
The room was nice. It overlooked the city, unfortunately, not the beautiful bay. But she hadn’t expected much for the wonderfully low rates that had come with the package tour. She took off her sweater, amazed that it had felt so comfortable back in the States where it was early spring. It was much too heavy here, where the temperature was blazing hot even with the air-conditioning turned up. She stared out the window at the city. Mexico. It was like a dream come true. She’d scrimped and saved for two years to afford this trip. Even so, she’d had to come during the off-season, which was her busiest time back home. She’d left her friend Harriett Gaynor watching the bookstore in her absence. Go, Harriett had coaxed. Live a little.
She looked at herself in the mirror and grimaced. Live a little, ha! What a pity she hadn’t looked like that gorgeous stewardess on the plane. Perhaps then the blond giant would have given her a second glance, or something besides the reluctant pity she’d read in his dark eyes.
She turned away from her reflection and began to unpack her suitcase. There was no use kidding herself that he’d helped her for any reason other than expediency. He could hardly walk right over her precious books. With a sigh she drew out her blouses and hung them up.
