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“Let me assure you, Melinda Summersby, as your guide to London, you won’t leave for Omaha without experiencing all the city has to offer...”
He had delivered on both his promises—both the spoken one and the one in his kiss. By day, he showed her everything that made London charming, unique and memorable. They toured the Tower, rode double-decker buses, marveled over an exhibit of Queen Victoria’s clothing, cried over Romeo and Juliet at the reconstructed Globe Theatre. The changing of the guard, the tolling of Big Ben, the swarming pigeons at Trafalgar Square.
London by day was a magical adventure.
London by night was every woman’s fantasy of how she should be introduced to the ways of love.
Ash became her first lover and, she had been certain at the time, would be her only lover. He was tender and passionate, considerate and thrilling. He taught her everything only guessed at or dreamed of by a girl raised in convents. Ash Thorndyke was the man she’d been hoping for all her life.
When he left her at Mrs. Wentwhistle’s on their fourteenth night, she perched on her knees and watched from the dormer window as he headed for the tube. She loved his loose, easy walk. She loved everything about him.
“I love you,” she whispered to his retreating figure.
The need to tell him so was becoming an impatient ache. But she knew she couldn’t tell him how she felt until she told him the truth about herself. She made up her mind as he turned the corner. She would tell him tomorrow. Then there would be nothing in the way of their love.
Except that he didn’t come the next day.
When she phoned his hotel, he was gone. Checked out. Only then did she realize she knew nothing about him, not the town he was from, not the name of his family business. Nothing.
Except that he was not the man she’d believed him to be.
He was, instead, a rogue. The kind of man who could cavalierly seduce an innocent woman and walk away with no explanation.
Her heart was broken. Bereft, she was almost grateful when her father’s men found her a day later.
On the hard floor of the van, Melina tried not to dwell on the way she’d felt when they made love, on the way she’d trusted him, on the way he’d betrayed her. What irony that he should be her rescuer.
Rescuer he might be, but he was no hero. He’d proven that and she would do well to remember it.
But she would find a hero. America was full of them. Yes, somewhere in this country she would find the perfect all-American town, and the perfect all-American hero to help raise the baby she now carried. A father for her baby.
And no matter what the biological facts were, Ash Thorndyke would not be that man.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE TWO MEN with military-issue haircuts and nondescript charcoal-gray suits arrived at the rendezvous point forty-five minutes early.
“Thorndyke must be good,” said the one who was built like a prizefighter gone to pot. “Not a peep of a problem at the party.”
“He’s good all right.” That from the one who looked like a college professor, thin and bespectacled. “Oughta be. Runs in the blood.”
“Yeah. What’s his old man in for, anyway?”
The professor studied the tips of his shoes, which were marred by pinpoint specks of dirt. “Counterfeiting. Ran a big real estate flimflam in Chicago, the whole thing backed by play money. Very slick. Hell, the whole family oughta be locked up. They’ve handled more hot ice than the first guys to climb the North Pole.”
“Didn’t nobody climb the North Pole, dumb ass.”
“Yeah, well, you catch my drift.”
They waited, each contemplating how he would spend the money he would receive when the Somerset woman was handed over to the guys at the Tokyo airport. They didn’t know what would happen to her then and it really didn’t matter. They didn’t even know the identity of the nutcase who wanted something to hold over Somerset’s head.
“You still planning to invest your take?” The professor glanced at his watch.
“Gotta plan for retirement.” The boxer tossed a cigarette butt onto the ground and tamped it out with his shoe.
“A waste of good dough, I say. What’s the likelihood either one of us’ll make it to a ripe old age?”
“Like spending it on some bimbo’s a wise use of resources?”
“She ain’t a bimbo,” the professor said, his carefully correct speech falling away as easily as the shine on his shoes. “She’s classy. A dancer.”
The boxer’s chuckle was gravelly. “Yeah, at Tony G’s in the Bronx. Some class.”
“Listen, pal—”
“Aw, never mind. You spend your way, I’ll spend mine. We’re gonna have too much to squabble over.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
At the appointed time, Thorndyke didn’t show. Not a huge cause for alarm. Traffic could account for that.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty. Still a no-show.
The professor and his pal exchanged uneasy glances. Neither of them relished the idea of explaining why they didn’t have the woman.
They waited two hours. The professor had used up every profanity he knew and his pal had smoked every cigarette in the pack in his pocket.
The professor spit out one more string of words that his mother would have slapped him silly for using. “He ain’t coming, is he?”
“I think that’s a safe bet.”
“We gotta find him.”
“The hell with him. We gotta find the girl.”
“Then we gotta find him. ’Cause you’re gonna ruin that pretty face of his.”
“That’s right, professor.”
ASH AWOKE the next morning to find the van empty except for her discarded evening gown and the ravaged shopping bags.
He leaped up, head still groggy, eyes gritty, and stumbled out of the van. She’d been helpless enough in London; how could she survive on a busy California highway with unknown enemies on her trail?
She could be dead already, for God’s sake.
He saw her sitting on the rocky cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, legs hugged to her chest, chin on her knees. Wind off the water played with her hair, tossing it around her shoulders. The sun was already high. She wore the funny sunglasses he’d stolen for her, but her feet were bare and the hat dangled from the tips of the fingers curled around her legs.
She looked like a magazine ad for the Eccentric Traveler.
At that moment, he would have followed her anywhere. She was more appealing than he remembered, more of a woman, sensuous without trying. And he was so glad to see her, he could have scooped her into his arms and covered her face in grateful kisses.
He took a moment to remember that this maddening woman was the one who’d first stirred in him the notion of going straight, of settling down and leading a normal life. The whisper of that idea had sent him scurrying for cover. He’d thought that if he ran away from the irresistibly charming American student, the crazy notion would leave him. Instead, the idea had taken hold, kept shaking him to the roots of his hair. And all the time, she’d been deceiving him.
What a joke. The con man conned.
“Do you suppose you could steal me some makeup today?” she said without turning, without moving, without any other indication that she’d been aware of his presence.
“We’re not going to steal anything else today.” His voice was still jagged with unfinished sleep.
“We’re not? How boring. I was growing fond of a life of crime.”
She was thoroughly aggravating.
“We’re not keeping these cars,” he said pointedly. “We’re borrowing them.”
“That’s right. And my jeans? My sunglasses?”
“We’ll let your daddy pay them back.”
She stood in one fluid motion, unfolding with the lazy ease of a cat. Unbidden came the image of the way she moved beneath him, effortless, liquid, like no other woman he’d known. He hadn’t been able to forget her. He hadn’t wanted anyone since.
“I’m never going to see my father again,” she said with quiet intensity.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
She strode across the rocks as deftly as a bird on a ledge and faced him defiantly. “I’m not going back there. If that’s your plan, we can part ways right now.”
“I’m not letting you go off on your own.” And why not? he wondered. Wouldn’t that be the simplest thing? The sanest thing?
“You’re not letting me?” He saw her emotions rising, saw her dark eyes go stormy with rage. “Mr. Thorndyke, you’ve got nothing to say about it!”
“You’re in danger. Someone hired me to kidnap you. You think they’re going to let you waltz around the country without—”
“I’m not in danger! And you don’t—What did you say?”
“I said someone hired me to kidnap you.”
She cocked her head to one side—as charmingly as a 1940s screen starlet—and stared at him. “Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Now she tossed her head in another classic starlet move. This time the fiery vixen. She couldn’t have done it any better if she’d been personally trained by Bette Davis. “So when do you deliver the goods?”
Ash realized his heart was thumping, his fingertips aching with the urge to sift through her soft, thick hair. He remembered the feel of it with stark clarity. “I...” What had she said? Oh, yeah. Delivering the goods. “I’m not. I... I realized... I thought it was for your own good. That’s the only reason I was in on it.”
“Well, I can certainly understand why you’d think that.”
“They said it was your father’s idea. To keep a closer eye on you.” He thought her gaze hardened at that. “Then I overheard the plan and realized you were in danger. Possibly.” He hesitated. This wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted to say to anybody, but it had to be said. “Your father wouldn’t... You just said you don’t want to go back to him. Is there a reason? Would he harm you?”
“That’s so ridiculous it doesn’t even deserve an answer.”
“You’re positive?”
She stalked off, leaving him staring for the moment at the spit and roar of the ocean. His heart raced out of control. He was on the rising edge of an adrenaline surge, the kind that he always rode through one of his capers.
He went after her.
She sat in the open side door of the van, putting on the little canvas shoes he’d brought her. They were red with big yellow silk ribbon, which she’d tied into a remarkable bow.
“You have impeccable taste,” she said, holding up one narrow foot, pointing the toe and striking a pose. She had the legs of a dancer, muscular and taut.
She also had the nerves of the best burglars in the business. He’d just informed her that her life was in danger and that her father might be behind the plan to get rid of her, and she was striking poses and taking playful jabs at his taste. Amazing.
“I used to think I had good taste,” he said. “Sometimes I wonder, princess. Come on. Let’s get another car. We’re too close to home to hang on to this one much longer.”
“And breakfast? I woke up this morning with a hankering—that’s an Americanism, isn’t if—for ham and eggs. With pancakes and syrup. And maybe toast and grape jelly.”
They ditched the van in a wooded area just past a collection of shops, then walked back there for breakfast. Ash ordered a bagel. Melina ordered everything she’d mentioned earlier, along with a large orange juice. She probably weighed all of a hundred and five pounds. Yet she’d outeaten him the night before and now again this morning. She’d done the same thing in London. She ate the same way she soaked up life, like a starving person invited to a banquet.
Why was this happening to him? he wondered. He’d managed, using every bit of willpower he possessed, to walk away from her once. Could he manage it again?
“We need a plan,” he said. That’s it. Focus on logic, on reason. “If you’re sure we can trust him, I suggest we call your father and—”
“Please.” She held up her hand to stop him. “I’d really rather not walk out on my food.”
“Why won’t you at least—”
“Besides, I have a plan.”
“I can hardly wait.”
She smiled. Her lips were sticky with maple syrup. She licked them with obvious relish. The tip of her tongue caught his eye and sent his pulse galloping.
“You’re not paying attention,” she said.
He tried to forget about her sweet lips, her teasing tongue. “Yes, I am.”
She grunted her disbelief. “I was saying I want us to tour the countryside.”
“Tour the—Melina, people want to kidnap you.”
“My father has been telling me that all my life. Maybe it’s even true. But I don’t care.” She dunked a forkful of pancake in syrup, drowning it. “I want to see Hollywood—the big sign, you know. And the desert. Las Vegas—maybe I could be a showgirl, do you think? I’m thin and I have long legs.”
“You’re five-two. You don’t have long legs.” He really didn’t need a conversation about her legs. He remembered them too well as it was.
“I don’t?” She popped the bite of pancake into her mouth and glanced down at her legs. “I always thought I did. Maybe it was being around Mother Aloysius. She was very short, I suppose. Under five feet I always felt statuesque around Mother Aloy-sius.”
“Well, you aren’t. You’re petite. You’re no match for the kind of men who—”
