Diana Palmer Collected 1-6. Diana Palmer

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