Tender Stranger. Diana Palmer

       Chapter One

      The 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

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