Meet a Dark Stranger

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Have a good time, ducky,” Cass shouted, hugging me.

  “I will.”

  “And work!”

  I nodded, smiling at both of them. Eddie put his arm around her shoulders and they waved as I boarded the train. It was only much, much later, as the train roared noisily through the night and I was snugly ensconced in my compartment, that I remembered the horoscope. The first part of it had come true. I was making a sudden journey. I smiled wryly in the blue-gray semidarkness, amused by the coincidence.

  2

  It was almost seven thirty, and we were due to reach Abbotstown at eight but, knowing my brother, I thought it wise to have breakfast on the train. I felt like death after a night spent tossing and turning on the narrow berth, and as the train clattered and shook I stood in front of the mirror above the sink in my compartment, looking for signs of damage. My usually rich chestnut hair would need a vigorous brushing, but the violet-blue eyes looked bright enough, if still a bit sleepy.

  Wanting to look my best for Ian and the children, I was wearing a new summer dress of white batiste, sprigged with blue and lilac flowers. The bodice was a bit low for daytime and the waist snug, but it was an extremely feminine garment, showing off a figure I was proud of. I was of the old school that believed a woman should look like a woman.

  The train rattled around a bend, and I had to grab hold of the sink to keep from falling. Picking up my purse, I left the compartment and made my way toward the dining coach, lurching frequently from side to side. The romance of train travel, I thought bitterly, stumbling against the door of the WC. It flew open and an irate matron in hair curlers and mothy flannel bathrobe shot me a venomous glance, informing me that I’d have to wait my turn. She slammed the door hatefully as I backed away and, too sleepy to be amused, I continued on down the aisle. The dining coach was empty except for one man in a corner, hidden behind the morning newspaper, and another wearing a trench coat. He watched me with narrowed eyes as I entered, his thin lips curling upward as I passed. All too familiar with the seedy Don Juan-type who thought any woman traveling alone was easy prey, I took a table as far away from him as possible.

  Not many people having breakfast this morning, I thought, studying the menu—and when I saw the list of prices I understood why. Well, coffee and toast wouldn’t break me. When the waiter in his creased white jacket came to my table, yawning sleepily, I gave him my order and turned to look out at the misty green and gray English countryside just touched with the first pale yellow rays of morning sunlight. I saw low gray stone walls and cows huddled together under shady trees and rolling dark green hills silhouetted against a mottled gray sky. Absorbed, I didn’t hear footsteps approaching, but suddenly I was aware of someone standing beside my table. I looked up to see a pair of black eyes under drooping lids and a thin mouth curling in a hopefully seductive smile.

  Damn! I thought.

  “Hi, baby,” he said in a rasping voice.

  “Go away,” I said wearily.

  “Aw, come on, don’t be unfriendly. Don’t-ya want a little company?”

  “No.”

  “Couldn’t take my eyes off you, baby. What a swell looker, I said to myself. Bet she’d like someone to chat with while she has her coffee. You look sensational in that sexy dress, but I reckon you’d look sensational in anything. Let me buy your breakfast, doll.”

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  He continued to smile, not at all discouraged. In his early thirties, he was of medium height, with broad shoulders and a rather stocky build. His pale, not unattractive face was already beginning to show signs of dissipation. His magnetism was decidedly shopworn, his dialogue right out of a 1940s gangster movie. So was the trench coat. Did he think he was on the Orient Express?

  “Larson’s the name,” he said. “George Larson, but my friends call me Georgie. What’s your name, doll?”

  I sighed and gave him a withering look. I wasn’t worried, knowing full well I could handle him, but it was bothersome to encounter his likes before I’d even had my first cup of coffee. In a polite, extremely firm voice I suggested that he go to hell. Larson seemed to find that amusing. He chuckled, pulled out the chair across from mine, and sat down. No doubt his unusual persistence scored well with the ladies. He had that smirking, aggressive confidence such success breeds, but if he thought he was about to score again he had picked the wrong bored girl.

  “I don’t want to get nasty, Mr. Larson,” I said sweetly, “but I assure you I’m capable of it. If you don’t leave at once I’ll—”

  “Call the conductor? You don’t wanna do that, doll. Loosen up. Enjoy yourself. I’m quite a guy once you get to know me. You and me are going to be real good—”

  He broke off, startled, as a large, strong hand dropped on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. Twisting around, he looked up at the man who had appeared so suddenly, abandoning his newspaper to come to my rescue. Very tall, at least six foot two, he had a lean athletic build, shown off to advantage by an exquisitely tailored navy blue suit. With his long, unruly black hair, dark complexion and lazy blue eyes he looked like an amiable pirate who could, if necessary, display a streak of bloodthirsty savagery.

  “I think you’d better scram,” he drawled.

  Larson’s eyes grew dark, and two bright spots of color appeared on his broad, flat cheeks. Heaving his enormous shoulders, he stood up very slowly, his hands balled into tight fists. Unperturbed, the stranger observed him with a nonchalant, slightly amused manner that made Larson all the more livid.

  “You better scram, buddy,” he said, his guttural voice threatening. “This ain’t no affair of—”

  “I’m making it my affair.”

  “If you think I’m gonna—”

  “Incidently, I have a black belt in judo. Care to try me?”

  The words were spoken lightly, in a warm, friendly manner, but they carried undeniable authority. Totally relaxed, his stance quite casual, the man arched one dark brow and waited, a faint smile on his wide pink lips. Glowering, Larson sized him up, noting the lean, muscular frame, noting the quiet, silken menace that seemed to reside just beneath the surface, far more intimidating than any amount of bluster. Those cool, startlingly blue eyes met his own with perfect equanimity. A long moment passed, fraught with tension. Then Larson muttered something under his breath and left, moving on out of the coach. The stranger watched him leave and, when the door slammed, gave his head a slight shake and slipped into the chair Larson had just vacated.

  “Amazing the types they let roam around loose,” he remarked affably, as though he’d known me for years. “You all right?”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “No?”

  “I could have handled him without any interference.”

  “Oh? Do you know judo, too?”

  “Of course not,” I snapped, “but—”

  “Didn’t think so,” he replied. He looked up as the waiter returned with my toast, coffee and a pot of jam. “Bring another cup, will you, old chap? I’m joining the lady.”

  The waiter nodded sleepily and shuffled away. I stared at the stranger with mounting indignation. I hadn’t asked him to interfere, and I certainly hadn’t asked him to join me. He was exceedingly presumptuous, as bad as Larson in his own way.

  “Brent’s the name,” he said. “Stephen Brent, but my friends call me Steve.”

  “I suppose you think you’re being clever?”

  “Rather. What is your name, by the way?”

  “My name is Jane Martin, and—”

  “Lovely name, that.”

  “—and I would like to be alone.”

  “Indeed? Frightfully sorry about that, but I’d better stick around in case your friend Larson comes back. You don’t mind, not really.”

  “If you think I’m going to—”

  “Stop sounding like a hysterical virgin.”

  “Mister Brent—”

  My cheeks burned. My eyes were snapping. If there hadn’t be
en a table between us I would have slapped him. I started to get up and take my tray to another table but, as there was no one else in the coach, that would only have made matters worse. Stephen Brent watched me with amused eyes and, when the waiter brought his cup, poured coffee for both of us.

  “White or black?” he inquired.

  “Black,” I said crisply.

  “You’re an amazingly lovely girl,” he remarked casually, “but I suppose you’ve heard that ad nauseam. Do you model—or are you in show business?”

  “Neither. I write children’s books.”

  One of those dark arched brows lifted in surprise. “Children’s books? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I don’t see—”

  “It seems such a waste. I thought an author of children’s books would be thin and scrawny, with spectacles and old brown tweeds. That dress now.… It’s extremely provocative. You’re obviously wearing it for some man. Am I right?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “And he’s going to meet you at the station. You’re very much in love with him, and—”

  “He is going to meet me at the station,” I said wearily, “and I love him very much.”

  “Is he handsome?”

  “He’s gorgeous.”

  “Rich?”

  “Merely well-to-do.”

  “He’s probably not your type, though.”

  “He happens to be my brother.”

  “Your brother? I say, that’s quite a relief. You had me worried for a minute. Your brother sounds positively ripping. Then there’s no other man in the picture?”

  “That’s none of your business!”

  “There’s not, then. Good.”

  “Pardon me. I’m leaving.”

  “No you won’t. No woman has ever deliberately left when the main topic of conversation was herself. You know, Jane, your attitude is rather bewildering. I play the gallant hero, I rescue a damsel in distress, and what do I get? Thanks? No. I get an icy stare and snippy replies to my friendly overtures. It’s most discouraging. According to all the laws of romantic fiction this should be the beginning of a rich, rewarding—”

  “Oh, come off it,” I said.

  “Don’t you believe in romance?”

  “Not at seven forty in the morning!”

  Stephen Brent smiled. However reluctantly, I had to admit that it was an absolutely enchanting smile. Still indignant, I resigned myself to his company. Better to endure it than to cause another scene. He was cheeky and presumptuous, far too sure of himself, but he wasn’t likely to attempt seduction here in the dining coach and, besides, we’d be in Abbotstown in twenty minutes or so. Completely at ease, he took a piece of toast from the plate and began to spread it with jam.

  “That’s my toast,” I said testily. “There are only two pieces.”

  “You don’t need two. You’ve got to think of that figure.”

  “I’ve never met a man so—so—”

  “Disarming?” he suggested.

  “Insufferable!”

  “Drink your coffee like a good girl. How far are you going?”

  “I’ve had just about enough—”

  “I was referring to your destination,” he said smoothly.

  I felt a blush coloring my cheeks, and that infuriated me. He smiled again, his blue eyes full of amusement, and I found it difficult to maintain my dignity.

  “Lord,” I said. “All I wanted was a cup of coffee.”

  “You’ve got it,” he pointed out.

  I studied the man sitting across from me. Although not handsome in the traditional sense, he was, I had to admit, unusually attractive. His mouth was much too wide, a Belmondo mouth, I thought, and his nose was a bit crooked, as though it had been broken at one time. Strangely enough, these flaws added to his attractiveness instead of detracting. I had first likened him to an amiable pirate, and that impression remained. He was suave, and he had a lazy grace and nonchalant manner, yet there was great virility and a sense of abundant strength and energy casually suppressed.

  “Intrigued?” he inquired.

  “Not one bit.”

  “I must be slipping,” he confessed. “Usually I have no trouble whatsoever.”

  “You expected me to melt thankfully into your strong protective arms?”

  “Well, perhaps not immediately, but I did expect a bit more response. You don’t look cold.”

  “If that’s a challenge, it’s wasted breath.”

  I sipped the rich, aromatic coffee, ignoring him. If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. He devoured the jam and toast, finished one cup of coffee and poured another.

  “Aren’t you going to eat the other piece?” he inquired.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Well, in that case—”

  He picked up the knife and began to spread the toast with jam. “I’ve already eaten, actually,” he said chattily, “had eggs, kippers, the whole works, but I have a voracious appetite in the morning.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “I was talking about food,” he teased.

  “I’m not amused, Mister Brent.”

  “No? I can be very amusing, I assure you. I can be a most engaging fellow, in fact, if given half a chance.”

  “Oh, why don’t you shut up!”

  He chuckled again, thoroughly delighted. I glanced out the window, watching the lovely woodlands and completely ignoring Stephen Brent.

  “We’re almost in Abbotstown,” I said, taking a final sip of coffee. “I must get back to my compartment.”

  The waiter had left the bill on the table. I took out my purse.

  “Let me pay,” he protested.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “That’s absurd. After all, I ate the toast.”

  I put fifty pence on top of the bill and stood up. Stephen Brent shook his head, swallowed the remains of his coffee and climbed gracefully to his feet.

  “It’s been pleasant,” he said in a lazy drawl.

  I gave him a curt nod and started to leave.

  “I’ll be seeing you, Jane.”

  “I rather doubt that.”

  “You’re getting off at Abbotstown? So am I. It’s not all that large. We’re bound to run into each other. Of course, if you’d give me your address and phone number it would simplify matters. No sense in leaving it to chance.”

  “Good-bye, Mister Brent.”

  I could hear him chuckling to himself as I left the coach. Infuriating fellow, I told myself. Much too cheeky. Oh well, I thought, stumbling down the corridor, the chances are very slim that I’ll ever see him again. I’ll be with the children and our paths aren’t likely to cross.

  The train pulled into the station just as I reached my compartment, and a few minutes later I was standing on the platform with overnight case in hand, people swarming all around, but my brother was nowhere in sight. Typical. He probably forgot I was coming. Ian was like that.

  Then I saw him, a distracted look on his face as he searched the crowd for me. A rush of warmth and love welled up inside, and I felt guilty for my disloyal thoughts. He was wearing black loafers, dark gray slacks and a rather too-youngish gray-and-black check sports coat. His blue tie was poorly knotted, his brown hair decidedly tousled. I watched, amused, as he continued to search for me, growing more and more irritable as minutes passed. A deep frown creased his brow and his mouth turned down at the corners. Finally, as the last person alighted from the train, he smashed his fist in the palm of his hand, muttered something that was probably profane and, turning to stalk off, saw me standing there near the ticket counter.

  I waved, and Ian rushed through the crowd toward me, shoving a soldier out of his way with considerable roughness.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he cried.

  “Right here, pet, waiting for you.”

  “I thought you hadn’t come. I was ready to commit murder, I don’t mind telling you.”

  Instead, he gave me a hug that almost c
rushed my rib cage, kissed me perfunctorily on the mouth and, heaving an exasperated sigh, grabbed the baggage claim tickets out of my hand. He went off to get my luggage, and I smiled, feeling very proud and possessive. I hadn’t exaggerated when I’d told Stephen Brent that my brother was gorgeous. Ian was devilishly handsome, with the face of a pugilistic choir boy—and three hearty children were no obstacle whatsoever to the women who constantly pursued him. It was, they felt, nothing short of criminal for such a splendid male to remain unattached but, though their wiles were a perpetual menace, Ian had managed to elude them so far. He had been a wonderful husband to Louise and one day, I knew, some other woman was going to be very lucky.

  As I waited for him to return, I saw George Larson hurrying through the crowd in his trench coat, looking vastly upset over something. He grabbed a porter by the arm, said something in an excited voice and waved a baggage claim ticket in the man’s face. They went on off together, stopping at one of the baggage carts and pulling down the suitcases. The platform was still crowded, still noisy, as wheels churned and steam billowed and voices rose. I didn’t catch sight of Stephen Brent, but then I wasn’t looking for him. Ian returned with my two battered brown bags, a martyred expression on his face.

  “What a mob! You ready to go?”

  “No,” I said firmly.

  “Hunh? What the—”

  “Where is my briefcase?”

  “Briefcase? This was all—”

  “It has my manuscript in it,” I said tensely.

  “What does it look like?”

  “Like a briefcase. It’s small and black and—oh, there it is!” I exclaimed. “Over there, on top of that cart.”

  Ian retrieved the briefcase, handed it to me, scowled, and led the way through the station house and onto the parking lot outside. I peered around for the old Chevrolet, but it was nowhere in sight. I could hardly contain my amazement as Ian stopped behind a flighty looking sports car, bright maroon, gleaming with chrome. Opening the trunk, he slung the suitcases inside.

  “What a preposterous car,” I remarked. “Really, Ian, you don’t actually go racketing around in that thing, do you?”

  “What a thing to say,” he retorted, slamming the trunk shut. “It’s a perfectly super car. You wouldn’t believe the mileage I get, and on the open road it’ll go—”