were seated at another table. At one end of the long bar to the left, a white man slouched against the counter, talking with two women perched on stools. An older American-looking couple sat at the other end of the bar.
Leslie frowned. She had expected to find a lone man; so as far as she could tell, Ben wasn’t here.
As she snaked her way among the crowded tables toward the guy tending bar, she caught bits of conversation. The businessmen seemed to be having an intense discussion. Their conversation grew more heated, and as she passed she saw one man trying to convince the angry guy to keep his voice down. The third man stared at her, his expression livid and his gaze eerily disconcerting. Leslie tried to seem uninterested as she continued forward.
The tourists, by contrast, were quite sedate. They talked in low tones and did not acknowledge Leslie or the group arguing at the next table.
The trio at the bar were speaking—or flirting, rather—in French. The man glanced her way as she approached, and his eyes lingered on her with undisguised interest. When he saw he had her attention, he lifted his glass toward her and gave her a nod—as if suggesting that she join the party.
Annoyed, Leslie returned his leer with a glare, much to the satisfaction of the two women, who seemed to realize they were losing his interest. She pointedly dismissed him and turned toward the bartender, who was taking an order from the older couple.
While she waited, Leslie overheard the pretty brunette say something in rapid French. Her tone was unmistakably petulant. Out of the corner of her eye, Leslie saw the guy shrug. He leaned over and pushed aside a strand of hair to whisper something to the second woman, an attractive blonde. She nodded coquettishly and then glanced at Leslie before all three laughed, drawing the attention of the tourists and the businessmen.
Leslie’s cheeks reddened. She tried to appear unaffected as she glanced down at her clothes. She knew she looked wrinkled and shabby. Absently, she reached up to smooth back a strand of hair that had escaped the barrette.
Flustered, she noticed that the man seemed unusually tall and muscular for a Frenchman. Her stereotype was reinforced, however, by his gold-streaked brown hair, which looked like it would reach his wide shoulders if it hadn’t been pulled back into a ponytail. She huffed silently; she had never liked long hair on men.
The women burst into more laughter as he finished a story. Grinning, he reached over and flicked the dangling earring of the blonde, then he took a drink from his glass and turned in Leslie’s direction. His face was deeply tanned, and his leering grin revealed straight white teeth. He was casually dressed in khaki pants and boots, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled past his elbows. His eyes were an odd pale green, closely resembling the color of a Coke bottle. Feeling as if she’d been caught staring, she quickly looked away.
Trying to ignore the group at the bar and the stares of the other patrons, she glanced toward the corner of the room. She was surprised to see a man sitting alone at the table farthest from the door, drinking coffee and reading a book—somehow she had missed him. He wore a navy suit with the gold braid and buttons of a pilot.
Leslie made her way to his table, relieved to escape the obnoxious trio and the attention of the businessman with the creepy stare.
“Excuse me.”
The pilot appeared to be in his forties, with neat, dark hair that was graying at the temples. He glanced up from his book and removed his glasses. “Yes?”
Leslie held out her hand. “I’m Leslie Carpenter. Mama Joe said I should find you and let you know that we’re ready to go.”
The man frowned. “I’m sorry. You must be mistaken. I do not know anyone named Mama Joe.” Although his English was flawless, his accent was European, most likely German.
Leslie glanced at the insignia on the breast of his coat and saw a Lufthansa name pin. Her hand fell to her side and she blushed. “E-excuse me. I—I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else!” She started to back away.
He gave her a nod. “It is no problem.” Replacing his glasses, he returned to his book.
* * *
BEN MURPHY HAD a long-standing practice of observing his surroundings, so he noticed Leslie the moment she entered the bar. Although his attention appeared to be focused on his companions, he was keenly aware of her as she made her way through the room. His initial glance revealed a young woman wearing the rumpled clothes of a traveler. When she approached him, he registered a woman in her late twenties, of average height, with a slender, almost thin, build.
He turned slightly to get a better look and did a double take when he saw her eyes. Despite the dim light, he could tell they were a dark, rich blue, highlighted by heavy lashes and expressive eyebrows. She looked directly at him for only an instant, but he was caught off guard by his reaction. He had an odd feeling of vertigo as his heart rate soared and his vision seemed to narrow in on her face.
Unwilling to dwell on the young woman with the extraordinary eyes, Ben dismissed her. Collecting his thoughts, he returned his attention to his companions while keeping an eye out for Mama Joe and the new nurse. He’d been told few details about the substitute, and idly pictured a woman of about fifty, with graying hair, sturdy legs and a critical disposition.
Maintaining his part of the conversation, Ben discreetly watched as the young woman wandered back toward the bar after a short discussion with the commercial pilot seated in the corner. She pointedly ignored Ben, which he found both irritating and amusing. At a tap on his wrist, he leaned toward his new friends, only to be taken aback by the woman with the blue eyes watching him. Rarely did anything or anyone startle him, but she did. That fact bothered him, mostly because he didn’t understand it. His life depended on his ability to focus. So, when he found himself unbalanced by the eyes of a strange woman, it was unnerving. He couldn’t peg whether unnerving was good or bad, but he didn’t like it.
Ben kept his expression impassive. She couldn’t know that his heart rate had climbed and his head was swimming a little. With considerable effort, he shook off the moment in time to glimpse Mama Joe entering the bar.
“Excuse me, please, Monique. Helene,” he interrupted in flawless French. “Ladies, there is the dear friend I am waiting for. Au revoir.” He paid the tab and gave an apologetic shrug to the two women before walking away.
As Ben approached the older woman standing at the door, he realized Monique’s derogatory comment about rich old cougars was for his benefit. He ignored the insult and smiled at the gray-haired nurse with sincere affection.
He was halfway to the door when he sensed someone following him.
* * *
LESLIE’S PATH TO Mama Joe was suddenly blocked as the Frenchman cut in front of her. Abruptly, he turned toward her. His movement was so quick and unexpected that she couldn’t stop. Her momentum carried her forward, and she inadvertently rammed into his chest.
He was as hard and immovable as a brick wall, and Leslie would have fallen backward if he hadn’t caught her. She was suddenly aware of the large hand that dug painfully into her upper arm. After quickly regaining her balance she discovered that everyone in the room was staring at them.
Mortified, Leslie shook off his hand and took a small step back. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Keeping you from falling on your butt, lady.... And you’re welcome.” His words were low, almost a growl.
