Keeping Company (3 page)

She slung her purse over her shoulder and climbed out of the car, but when she turned to start her hike, the resolve washed out of her on a sigh of defeat. The lights of the little town winked a good two miles in the distance—a marathon-length walk in three-inch glittering silver spike heels.

Leaning against the roof of the car, she ran a hand back through her dark hair. As promised, the fifty-dollar, precision-cut, chin-length style fell
back into place with artless simplicity. She stared out at the ocean that rippled like liquid ebony beneath the night sky. The wind howled. Below the cliff the surf pounded against the shore.

Brother, this is eerie
, she thought, her skin crawling beneath the thin fabric of her dress. Her imagination turned again to movies. She was no expert on B-grade horror flicks—Jayne was the critic—but wasn’t this the part where the escaped lunatic came wandering out of the fog?

He could think of any number of things he would rather be doing. Spending the evening with his children, going over the monthly report for his business, having gum surgery.

“Snap out of it,” Dylan Harrison ordered himself as he slowed the Bronco, shifting down for a hairpin curve.

Ordinarily he would have been the life of the party. Especially when the party had a science fiction theme. He was, after all, something of an expert on the genre. But tonight was different. Tonight he turned forty.

He’d never been one to worry about age. Depression over this particular birthday had sort of snuck up on him. It wasn’t so much that he minded being forty years old. It was that his friends minded his being forty years old—and unmarried.

He cringed at the thought of what lay ahead for him at the party. Who would Jayne try to fix him up with this time? The platinum blonde who designed dangerous-looking sheet-metal jewelry and secretly admitted to being a druid priestess? Or would it be the man-crazy Babbette, proprietor of the local hypnosis and suntanning parlor?

It really was good to have such caring friends, Dylan thought sincerely. Jayne’s matchmaking efforts stemmed from a genuine concern. He only wished his caring friends would realize that he was perfectly happy. He liked his life the way it was—uncomplicated—and he liked himself the way he was—unambitious, unmarried.

In fact, it was because he wanted his life uncomplicated that he was unambitious and unmarried. He’d taken his taste of the yuppie lifestyle. He’d given his all to his job as an investment
counselor, devoted himself to acquiring the material trappings of the upwardly mobile. He and Veronica had had it all—a Volvo, a PC, a CD, a Cuisinart, a coffee bean grinder, Southwestern decor. Now Veronica had all those things, and Dylan had what mattered to him—his children and his sanity.

In Anastasia he was free to be himself. No matter how offbeat he chose to be, his friends here liked him just fine. And he treasured them. If only they’d stop trying to marry him off.

He steered the Bronco around another curve in the road, and suddenly there she was. She was a vision. She was perfection. Holy Hannah, it was Andora in the flesh! Princess Andora of the Zanatares, Star Commander of the Seventh Galaxy Fleet, dream lover of every male this side of the Milky Way.

Dylan’s heart thumped in his chest as he guided his Bronco off the highway and onto the shoulder. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as he pulled in behind the BMW. Apparently the princess had expensive taste even when visiting Earth, he thought with a wry smile. That was the one thing that had
always bothered him about Andora—she was a materialist.

The headlights illuminated her in an aura of amber light. She was lovely—no, breathtaking, he amended, his gaze lingering on the long,
long
legs encased in dark fishnet stockings. Her uniform was impeccable—short enough to make a man hyperventilate, but impeccable nevertheless. And it appeared to be absolutely authentic. He wondered where she had come by it. He was always on the lookout for genuine finds to add to his extensive collection of science fiction memorabilia, and he had never run across a Princess Andora costume that even came close to this one. Of course, having that world-class body in the uniform probably added considerably to its authenticity.

The dress was made of a metallic-silver fabric—especially handwoven for the princess by the albino Nymphads of Lydon’s moon desert, according to Andora’s creator, H.M.W. Wilmott. It bared the woman’s regal shoulders, displayed to perfection her high, full breasts, hugged her slender waist and womanly hips, and ended in a flounced skirt
at the very top of her—Dylan sighed again—long,
long
legs.

The princess smiled at him as he climbed down out of the truck. Her lush mouth lifted wryly, kicking up a little higher on the right. Her features were elegant, almost patrician. The comic-book character of Andora had been Dylan’s image of an ideal woman since he’d read his first issue during puberty. This real-life woman was the personification of that image. A man couldn’t ask for a better fortieth-birthday present, he decided. She was a dream come true—a science fiction aficionado with the gams of a goddess.

Dylan raised his left arm in a proper Zanatarian salute. “Greetings, Princess Andora!” he said, assuming she would be suitably impressed by his vast knowledge of the character she had chosen to portray. “All hail supreme ruler of the Zanatares!”

Alaina’s face froze, and her smile died a pitiful death. “Oh, my Lord,” she mumbled, pressing an icy-cold hand to her racing heart. “He
is
a lunatic.”

It was a shame, really, she thought as she stared at the man walking toward her. He was handsome,
very
handsome, though she admitted
the light was bad. It hardly seemed right for such good looks to be wasted on a maniac. Tall and rangy, he had a long, lean face with a bold nose and a square chin. The wind raked through his wavy, dark hair, then he clamped a wide-brimmed hat on his head, tilting it to a jaunty angle over his right eye.

He was dressed very strangely. But then Alaina supposed lunatics weren’t given accounts at the better men’s stores even in California. He wore knee-high boots and baggy pants, and what could only be described as a frock coat with a waistcoat beneath it, and a white shirt with question marks embroidered on the points of the collar. His neck was wrapped with an amazingly long, knitted scarf, the ends of which hung well past his knees.

“Has Volton accompanied you, my lady, or are you without escort on this planet?” he asked in a smooth, resonant baritone voice.

“I’m going to die a cheap, horror-movie death,” Alaina mumbled, stunned by the prospect and more than a little miffed. It wasn’t at all the end she would have pictured for herself.

Well, she decided, squaring her shoulders, she would go with dignity, and she would damn well know who her killer was—provided he would tell her. It wasn’t as if she could demand the information at gunpoint. The most dangerous weapon she had with her was her tongue. It had cut opposing attorneys to ribbons in the courtroom, but she doubted it would have much of an impact on a lunatic.

“Who are you?” she demanded in her coolest, haughtiest tone.

“Precisely.” Dylan grinned and nodded. She’d recognized him right off. The woman knew her stuff.

Alaina’s elegant eyebrows pulled together in annoyed confusion. “Precisely what?”

“Who.”

“Who?”

“Yes.” He dug a hand into the pocket of his coat and produced a small white bag, which he offered to Alaina. “Jelly Baby?”

Cautiously, she peered into the bag. They may have looked like ordinary, everyday jelly beans, but they were undoubtedly drugged. Scowling,
she planted her hands on her hips. “You scum. This stuff is destroying the fabric of American society, and you couldn’t care less.”

Dylan looked in the bag as if its contents might have undergone some evil metamorphosis. Nope. They were just jelly beans. He gave the princess a quizzical look. “You think jelly beans are destroying the fabric of American society? Wow. You must have been raised by a pack of dentists.”

Alaina narrowed her eyes and blatantly ignored his inane prattle. No simpleminded psychotic was going to get the better of her! “You may think you’re going to kill me, but I’m not going to make it easy for you!”

“Time Lords have nothing against the Zanatares,” Dylan said, extremely puzzled. She should have known that. “Why would I want to kill you?”

Alaina’s control slipped a notch as her temper rose. She flapped her arms at her sides in an exasperated shrug. “Because you’re a lunatic!”

Dylan’s straight brows shot up in surprise. He must have missed an episode of Andora’s exploits somewhere along the line. “I am?”

Alaina huffed indignantly, not appreciating the fact that he would question her judgment on this matter. “It seems obvious to me!”

Dylan rubbed his chin. He was fairly certain she was wrong—genre-wise. Personally, he cultivated an unorthodox image, but no one had ever called him a lunatic except Veronica. Maybe this lovely princess was a bit unbalanced—a good bet if she was a friend of Jayne’s—but she had fire and spunk … and long,
long
legs. And when she huffed and puffed like that, her breasts did the most amazing kind of synchronized dance and her metallic bodice shimmered in the harsh glow of the headlights.

“Well, just look at you.” She made an impatient gesture of annoyed disgust. “You’re dressed like—like—a pimp from another planet! And sane people don’t go around spouting crazy nonsense about princesses and Time Lords, trying to give people drugs and—”

“Crazy nonsense?”

Dylan suddenly felt the lightbulb go on above his head, and he gave a shout of laughter that
made the woman before him jump back against her car.

Alaina’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What’s so funny?”

“You don’t know who you are!” he exclaimed between gasps of laughter.

“I’m perfectly well aware of who I am,” she insisted. “I don’t know who
you
are!”

Dylan doubled over in a renewed fit of laughter, knowing she wouldn’t understand why, but unable to control himself.
Who
was exactly who he was—
Dr.
Who, the lead character of the wildly popular British television science fiction series. This gorgeous woman was in Princess Andora’s costume, but it was clear she didn’t know Andora from Adam, and she probably thought Time Lords were a rock group!

It was too funny. No wonder the poor creature thought he was demented! She didn’t know beans about science fiction, while he had assumed she was as big a fan of the genre as he was himself!

Blue eyes wide and wary, Alaina plastered herself back against the side of her car and watched him as tears streamed down his cheeks. His hat
fell off and landed on the gravel in front of his big booted feet as he cackled like—well, like a maniac.

Now was her chance. He was distracted by his own lunacy. If she could just hit him over the head with something or—Mace! She had a can of Mace in her purse! If she could just get it out and if it hadn’t gone flat or something. She’d been carrying it around with her for at least a decade, ever ready to blast the odd rapist or mugger. She tore open her Gucci handbag and began digging through it.

Dylan finally managed to get hold of himself. By now the poor woman had to think he was completely bonkers. It was time to set her straight and let her know he was more or less a regular guy. Once they’d sorted through the misunderstanding, he could offer her a ride to Jayne Jordan’s party. That was obviously what she was dressed for, even though she wasn’t familiar with the character she was playing.

Straightening, he wiped at his eyes, and his gaze focused on the woman before him. She was rummaging through her designer handbag with a
purposeful look on her lovely face. “What are you doing?”

“Never mind,” Alaina mumbled. She pulled out her calfskin wallet, a comb, a pack of cigarettes, and her monogrammed gold lighter, and thrust the lot of it at her assailant. “Hold this,” she commanded.

Dylan grabbed the stuff in a reflex action and watched in fascination as she continued her search. “Looking for something in particular, Princess?”

“Yes. My Mace. Here it is!” she exclaimed triumphantly.

Shouting an expletive, Dylan flung the things Alaina had handed him into the air. Lunging forward, he pinned her flat against the side of the BMW before she could extract the slim canister from her purse.

“Are you crazy?” he asked, his face mere inches from hers. In her stiletto heels, she was very nearly as tall as he was—two inches over six feet. Matched so evenly, their bodies fit together like two halves of a whole, a fact that had a very distracting effect on his brain.

“No,
you
are,” she retorted. “I think we’ve already established that fact.”

“Lady, you’re not making any sense at all,” Dylan complained somewhat absently, conveniently forgetting that he had been speaking what must have seemed to her to be a foreign language up to this point. His quick wit was wandering … all over Andora.

Warmth flashed beneath the surface of his skin as she shifted against him. Nuts or not, Princess Andora had one hell of a body, and strategic parts of it were melting beneath strategic parts of his. His anger evaporated in the heat of sudden desire.

“
I’m
not making sense?” Alaina questioned, her husky alto reduced to little more than a hoarse, indignant whisper.

She should have been terrified, but she wasn’t. She didn’t really feel threatened by him. She felt … something else altogether. A strange wave of confusion rippled through her normally sharp mind as equally strange tingles ran through her body. Under that weird getup this crazy guy had some kind of physique! The thighs that flanked hers were solid muscle. So was the chest that was
pressed to her own, flattening her suddenly sensitive breasts. Her gaze fixed on his mouth, and she wondered dazedly why God would put such sexy lips on a maniac. They were cut just right—not too thick, not too thin—and perfectly arranged on his wide mouth. And they looked firm and kissable.

“No,” Dylan muttered, his eyes magnetically drawn to the beautiful upper slopes of her breasts, which were accommodatingly bared by the neckline of her costume. Who was he to accuse anybody of not making sense? Staring at Princess Andora was unleashing a sensual fog in his own brain that could have put London’s to shame. Still, she was the root of the problem. “You’re not making a bit of sense. What are you, a lawyer?”