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The left side of his mouth rose. “On a plane bound for New York.” At her puzzled expression, he added, “I was planning to fly back today.”
“Why did you change your mind?”
“I decided I was being rash.”
“So you missed your flight and offered assistance to a perfect stranger instead,” she replied dryly. Talk about rash...and flattering. Just wait until she told Becky that. Her friend was going to hyperventilate. As it was, Darcie’s breathing was a little uneven.
“A stranded stranger,” Nick corrected. His smile was full-blown this time and very effective. “One who is also very beautiful.”
Her heart fluttered and she blinked. “Oh.”
“You are blushing.”
“I, um...” She waved a hand, not certain how to reply.
“Surely, you have been told before that you are beautiful?”
“Of course I have.” She rolled her eyes. “All the time, in fact. We’re talking daily. It gets old.”
The truth was no, at least not in the past several years. Tad wasn’t one for compliments. Even during the courtship phase of their relationship, pretty words had been few and far between. After he’d slid an engagement ring on her finger? Forget about it.
“You know how I feel about you, Darcie. That should be enough.”
Maybe it should have been. But it wasn’t. Every now and then, especially when she was PMSing and feeling bloated and unattractive, a compliment would have been nice.
And then there was his mother. Evil Evelyn, as Becky had dubbed her. The older woman was quick with thinly veiled digs about Darcie’s appearance, including her good “birthing hips.”
“You are beautiful,” Nick said again. “And your blush only makes you more so.”
This time, Darcie accepted the compliment with what she hoped was a gracious smile. Beautiful. Why not? Wasn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder? And what a beholder.
Nick opened the car door for her before heading around to the driver’s side. It was another small courtesy that made her feel like she’d stepped into some sort of fairy tale.
“Shall I put up the top?”
“No,” she told him. “Leave it down. I can use the fresh air after all those hours in a stuffy airplane.”
And, okay, in her fairy tale, a ride in a Porsche convertible only added to the romance.
He was seated behind the wheel now. “Even if it means tangled hair?” He reached over and coiled the end of one lock around his index finger. If he wound it any tighter, she would be forced to lean closer to him.
While their gazes held, she blindly plumbed the depths of her oversized purse until her fingers encountered an elastic band. Pulling it out with the same verve a magician uses to produce a white rabbit, she announced, “I believe I have a solution for that.”
Nick eyed the elastic band a moment before uncoiling the lock, and she hastily tugged her hair into a ponytail.
“Very clever, but you missed some.”
This time, he made contact with more than her hair. His fingertips were warm against her cheek as they corralled the wayward strands and tucked them behind her ear. The gesture might have been construed as friendly if not for the gleam in his dark eyes or the Richter-scale-worthy effect it had on her pulse.
A car horn blasted behind them. Its driver yelled something in Greek. Nick yelled something back in the same language, but his tone was more circumspect than annoyed, and his expression could only be described as pleased.
To Darcie, he said, “People are in too much of a hurry. I prefer to take things slowly. Rushing is no good.”
With that, he turned the key in the car’s ignition. The Porsche’s powerful engine growled to life and they were off.
Nick wasn’t familiar with the hotel listed on her itinerary, but he plugged the address to The Santor into his cell phone and downloaded directions as he merged into traffic.
“It should take about forty minutes to get there,” he said as they left the airport behind.
Darcie settled back in her seat, determined to take in the sights along the way. Not only was this her first time in Greece, but it was also her first trip abroad. Indeed, other than a couple of weekend jaunts to Toronto with Becky, she’d never been outside the United States. Despite the passing scenery, however, she remained almost painfully aware of the man seated next to her, and her gaze kept returning to his profile. God, he was handsome and he’d made it plain that their attraction was mutual. This might not be a fling exactly, but it was awfully damned flattering to have such a good-looking man paying attention to her.
When he turned and caught her staring, she blurted out, “Were you always so buff? I mean, a car buff. Were you always a car buff?”
“Car buff?”
“Interested in cars,” she clarified, relieved that her slip of the tongue hadn’t made it past the language barrier.
He nodded. “My uncle raced them for a time, and the summer I turned sixteen, I traveled with him on the European Grand Prix circuit.”
“That sounds exciting.”
Nick smiled in agreement. “It was. Very.”
“Did you ever race?”
“I considered it at one point, but no.” He shrugged. “Ultimately, I was more interested in the cars—that is to say their overall design—than how fast they could travel on a closed course. So, when I was eighteen, I bought a 1957 Porsche Speedster I found advertised in the newspaper.”
“Wow. Nice first car.” Hers had been her grandmother’s ancient sedan. It was the size of a small country and guzzled fuel like a college student guzzles coffee while studying for final exams. Darcie had happily traded up to the decade-old compact she still owned.
Nick was chuckling. “Not really. It needed a lot of work, which is why I could afford it. I spent the entire summer tracking down all of the parts to rebuild its engine.” His smile was both nostalgic and proud.
“And you were hooked,” she guessed.
She’d felt that way the first time she’d composed an article for her high school’s newspaper. Three paragraphs on changes to the lunch menu and she’d known what she wanted to be when she grew up. Now, eight years after earning a degree in journalism, she could barely claim to be a journalist.
Nick was saying, “Hooked. Yes, I was. Especially after I decided to sell the Speedster at auction in Kalamai two summers later. Collectors came not only from all over Greece, but from other parts of Europe to bid on it. I loved the excitement. So, I used the money from the sale to buy another car, fix it up and auction it off. Later, I decided I did not want to go to the auctions, I wanted to run them. So, that is what I do.”
She heard satisfaction in his tone. Pride. How long had it been since she’d felt either of those emotions when it came to her own job? How long had it been since she’d dreamed of bigger and better things for herself when it came to her career? Her life? Settling. Darcie had done so damned much of it.
“Did you come to Greece on business then?” she asked.
Nick shook his head and some of his dark hair fell across his forehead. It lent an air of recklessness to his already pulse-pounding good looks.
“Not this time. I came for a family wedding.”
Wedding. Even spoken with Nick’s gorgeous accent, the word brought Darcie up short, reminding her as it did of her recent close call with “I do.” How different her life might be right now if a week ago she hadn’t finally found the courage to act on what her heart—and, well, Becky—had been telling her for so long. Tad wasn’t the right man for her.
“Yet you were going to leave today.”
“I would have been back. The ceremony does not take place until the Saturday after next.”
His response had her blinking in surprise. “That’s more than two weeks away, and you’re already here?”
“It is expected,” he replied.
Darcie detected a slight edge to his tone and thought she understood its source. She knew all about family expectations. She had three sisters, two older, one younger, all of them happily married and busily procreating as if the survival of the human race depended on them. Meanwhile, Darcie had passed the big three-oh mark in the spring and the only thing that remained of her eagerly anticipated nuptials was the stack of gifts that would have to be returned when she got back.
A groan escaped. At Nick’s quizzical glance, she said, “I feel your pain. My family can be, well, difficult to please at times. So, who’s getting married?”
“My brother Pieter.”
“I take it he lives here.”
“Yes. As does my entire family.”
Yet Nick made his home in a city across the Atlantic. Interesting. “No apron strings for you,” she murmured.
“Apron strings?”
“Nothing. Are you and your brother close?”
“We used to be closer.”
At that, his lips flattened into a grim line, leaving her with the distinct impression there was much more to the story. Still, she kept her curiosity in check and changed the subject. They engaged in polite small talk until they arrived at their destination. Even before she saw the hotel, she knew it would be a dive. The oath that slipped from Nick’s lips told her as much.
Luxury accommodations? Right. The squat, two-story building looked like it should have a date with a wrecking ball, despite the sign out front printed in Greek and English that announced it was Under Renovation. It was more rickety than some of the country’s ancient ruins. Glancing around, Darcie realized The Santor wasn’t located in the best of neighborhoods, either. As hungry as she was, she didn’t think she would be comfortable hoofing up the block to the restaurant she spied there. At the moment, two men were loitering out front, smoking cigarettes and passing a liquor bottle back and forth.
With her earlier hysteria threatening to return, she muttered, “Rufus really wasn’t so bad.”
Nick’s brows drew together. “Your cat?”
“No longer. I was thinking good riddance after what he did to my favorite silk dress. But now...” She shrugged.
“Has anyone ever told you that the story of your life is very confusing?”
“Only all the time.”
“I’ll walk you in and see you settled.”
No protest passed Darcie lips. Since it would have been token at best, she didn’t see the point. No way did she want to go inside that death trap by herself.
“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”
Nick retrieved her sorry-looking bag and they made their way to the entrance on a makeshift walkway of cardboard that had been placed over mud puddles. On either side of the door were potted palm trees whose fronds were coated with thick, grayish construction dust.
Nick held open one of the grimy glass doors. “After you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She took a halting step inside and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. Once they did, she wished they hadn’t. The lobby was filled with an assortment of power tools and building supplies, and every last inch of the place was as dust-coated as the palms outside. Her apprehension kicked into high gear as she imagined the condition the rooms would be in.
As if sensing her hesitation, Nick placed a hand on the small of her back and propelled her toward the reception desk. A woman stood behind it. Darcie pegged her to be about forty-five and a chain smoker. A lit cigarette dangled from her lips and a second one burned merrily in the ashtray on the countertop. The woman squinted at them through the haze created by both dust and smoke.
“Good afternoon.” The greeting was offered in Greek as she set the cigarette in the ashtray.
“Good afternoon,” Nick replied. His gaze flicked to her name badge and he added, “Pesha. How are you today?”
He said this in English, which Pesha apparently understood and could speak, because she switched to English as well.
“I am much better now.” Her smile was flirtatious and made it clear why. Darcie couldn’t fault the woman for that. Nick had certainly brightened her day. “How can I help you?”
“My friend has a reservation.”
“Friend.” Her smile widened and she exhaled. Residual wisps of smoke curled out from the woman’s nostrils. Not terribly attractive, but they did distract one from the tar stains on her teeth. “What is the name?”
“Darcie Hayes,” Nick said.
There was no computer to consult, only a thick, leather-bound book through which Pesha began flipping. Finally, she glanced up.
“Sorry. I have no one by that name registered here this week.”
“Um, what about for a Darcie Franklin.” It would have been her married name. She avoided meeting Nick’s questioning gaze.
More page flipping ensued before Pesha shook her head. “Oxi. I cannot find that name among my guests, either.”
“There must be some mistake. The tour package was booked months ago and paid in full.”
“Tour package?” Pesha said slowly. “Which tour package might that be?”
“A multicity, sightseeing excursion that was booked through Zeus Tours.”
“Stavros!”
The woman spat out the name with enough force to turn the two benign syllables into the vilest of curses. But she wasn’t done. She continued in Greek, gesturing wildly the entire time. Darcie was left with no choice but to grit her teeth and listen. By the time Pesha switched to English again, she had worked up a good head of steam.
“That man owes me for the last three tour groups that stayed here. I have told him, no more! I have been turning his customers away all day.”
She selected one of the cigarettes from the ashtray and took a long, lung-blackening drag.
“Um, when you say no more,” Darcie began.
“I will not honor any more of his bookings unless he pays me in advance.” Pesha stamped out the cigarette for emphasis.
“I can understand your annoyance with Stavros.” Darcie was pretty annoyed with the man herself. “But I paid in full for a room at The Santor.”
Sure, the accommodations were crap, but it was the principle of the matter. They were crap for which Tad’s credit card already had been hit.
Pesha picked up the second cigarette and inhaled deeply before blowing out a stream of smoke that shot past Darcie’s left shoulder. Even so, wisps of it lingered and stung her nose.
