Authors: Diana Palmer
Tender Stranger
TENDER STRANGER
New York Times
and
USA TODAY
Bestselling Author
Diana Palmer
To J.A. with thanks.
Dear Reader,
I really can’t express how flattered I am and also how grateful I am to Harlequin Books for releasing this collection of my published works. It came as a great surprise. I never think of myself as writing books that are collectible. In fact, there are days when I forget that writing is work at all. What I do for a living is so much fun that it never seems like a job. And since I reside in a small community, and my daily life is confined to such mundane things as feeding the wild birds and looking after my herb patch in the backyard, I feel rather unconnected from what many would think of as a glamorous profession.
But when I read my email, or when I get letters from readers, or when I go on signing trips to bookstores to meet all of you, I feel truly blessed. Over the past thirty years, I have made lasting friendships with many of you. And quite frankly, most of you are like part of my family. You can’t imagine how much you enrich my life. Thank you so much.
I also need to extend thanks to my family (my husband, James, son, Blayne, daughter-in-law, Christina, and granddaughter, Selena Marie), to my best friend, Ann, to my readers, booksellers and the wonderful people at Harlequin Books—from my editor of many years, Tara, to all the other fine and talented people who make up our publishing house. Thanks to all of you for making this job and my private life so worth living.
Thank you for this tribute, Harlequin, and for putting up with me for thirty long years! Love to all of you.
Diana Palmer
Table of Contents
Chapter One
T
he 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.
