A Perfect Stranger (7 page)

She looked equally startled as he said it and only stared at him, wondering what he had meant and who he was. He seemed to think he knew her, and for a terrified instant she wondered if it was someone who had long ago seen her photograph somewhere or read of her in the press. Perhaps he was even a member of the press, and for a long moment she had the urge to turn and run away. But on the plane she would be his prisoner for hours. Anxious, she began to back away from him, her eyes wide and frightened, her handbag clutched beneath her arm. She was going to find the stewardess and insist that this time she had to be moved to first class. Or perhaps it was not too late for them to deplane her. She could make the next flight to New York. I' no' . She murmured softly as she turned away, but before she could take one step from him, she felt his hand on her arm. He had seen the terror in her eyes and was horrified at what he'd done.

No, don't.

She turned to face him then, not quite sure she did it. All her instincts were still telling her to flee. Who are you?

Alex Hale. I just' it's that ' He smiled gently at her, pained at what he saw in the beautiful woman's eyes. They were eyes filled with sorrow and terror. Perhaps injured too, but that he did not know yet. All he knew was that he didn't want her to run away, not again. I saw you buy that in the airport. He glanced toward the book that still lay on her seat, and to Raphaella it was a non sequitur that made no sense at all. And I I saw you once on the steps, at Broderick and Broadway about a week ago. You were How could he tell her now that she had been crying? It would only make her run from him again. But his words seemed to jar her, and she looked at him long and hard this time. She seemed to be remembering, and slowly a faint blush overtook her face.

I She nodded and looked away. Perhaps he was not a paparazzo. Perhaps he was only a madman or a fool. But she didn't want to travel five hours sitting beside him, wondering why he had held her arm or said My God, it's you. But while she stared at him, immobile, wondering, as his eyes held her tightly, standing where she was, the final announcement to take their seats came over the loudspeaker in the airplane, and he moved slowly around her, to clear the way for her to her seat.

Why don't you sit down? He stood, looking very strong and tall and handsome, and as though unable to escape him, she silently walked past him and took her seat. She had put the hat in the overhead rack before Alex had found his seat, and now her hair shone like black silk as she bowed her head and turned away. She seemed to be looking out the window, so Alex said nothing further to her and sat down in his own seat, leaving a vacant seat between them.

He felt his heart hammering inside him. She was as beautiful as he had at first thought the night he saw her sitting on the steps, surrounded by the cloud of lynx, her haunting black eyes looking up toward him and the rivers of tears pouring silently down her face. This was the same woman sitting only inches away from him, and every fiber of his being wanted to reach out to her, to touch her, to take her in his arms. It was madness and he knew it. She was a perfect stranger. And then he smiled to himself. The words were apt. She seemed perfect in every way. As he gazed at her neck, her hands, the way she sat, all he could see was her perfection, and when he saw her profile for an instant, he could not tear his eyes away from her face. And then, aware of how uncomfortable it made her, he suddenly grabbed the two files and stared into them blindly, hoping to make her think that he had forgotten his fascination with her and had turned his mind to something else. It wasn't until after takeoff that he saw her glance toward him, and from the corner of his eye he saw her stare at him long and hard.

Unable to play the game any longer then, he turned toward her, his eyes gentle on her, his smile hesitant but warm. I'm sorry if I frightened you before. It's just' I don't usually do things like this. The smile broadened, but she didn't smile in return. I I don't know how to explain it. For a moment he felt like a true crazy trying to explain it all to her as she sat there staring, with no expression on her face other than the look in her eyes that had so touched him when he had first seen it. When I saw you that night on the steps, when you he decided to go ahead and say it when you were crying, I felt so helpless when you looked up at me, and then you disappeared. Just like that. You just vanished. And for days it bothered me. I keep thinking of the way you looked, with the tears running down your face. As he spoke to her he thought he saw something soften in her eyes, but there was no trace of anything different in her face. He smiled again and shrugged softly. Maybe I just can't resist damsels in distress. But you've bothered me all this week. And this morning there you were. I was watching some woman buy a book while I called my office. He grinned at the familiar book jacket, without telling her just how familiar it was. And then I realized it was you. It was crazy, like something in a movie. For a week I'm haunted by a vision of you, as you sit crying on the stairs, and then suddenly there you are, looking just as beautiful.

This time she smiled in answer, he was sweet and he seemed very young; in a funny way he suddenly reminded her of her brother, who had been in love every other week when he was fifteen. And then you disappeared again, he went on despairingly. I hung up the phone and you had vanished into thin air. She didn't want to tell him that she had stepped into a private office and was taken by several secluded corridors to the plane. But he looked puzzled for a moment. I didn't even see you board the plane. And then he lowered his voice conspiratorially. Tell me the truth, are you magic? He looked like an overgrown child and she couldn't surpress a grin.

Her eyes began to dance as she looked at him, no longer angry, no longer afraid. He was a little mad, a little young, and a lot romantic, and she could sense that he didn't wish her any harm. He was just sweet, and somewhat foolish. And now she nodded to him with a small smile. Yes, I am.

Aha! I thought so. A magic lady. That's terrific. He sat back in his seat with a broad smile and she smiled back. It was an amusing game. And no harm could come to her, after all she was on the plane. He was a stranger, and she would never see him again. The stewardesses would whisk her away almost instantly when the plane reached New York and she would be safe again, in familiar hands. But just this once it was amusing to play this game with a stranger. And she did remember him now from the night when she had been so desperately lonely and had fled the house and sat, crying, on the long stone steps that led down the hillside. She had looked up and seen him, and before he could approach her, she had fled through the garden roof. But as she thought of it she noticed that Alex was smiling at her again. Is it difficult being a magic lady?

Sometimes. He thought he heard an accent as he listened but he wasn't sure. And then, lulled by the safety of the game, he decided to ask her.

Are you an American magic lady?

Still smiling at him in return, she shook her head. No, I'm not. Although she had married John Henry, she had remained a citizen of both France and Spain. She didn't see what harm could come of talking to Alex, who seemed to be staring at the collection of rings on both her hands. She knew what he was wondering, and knew also that he would have a hard time finding out what he wanted to know.

Suddenly she didn't want to tell him, didn't want to be Mrs. John Henry Phillips, just for a while. For a little while she wanted to be just Raphaella, a very young girl.

You haven't told me where you're from, Magic Lady. His gaze tore itself away from her hands. He had decided that whoever she was, she was successful, and he had been relieved not to find a solid band of gold on her left hand. He had decided for some reason that she probably had a wealthy father and maybe her old man had been giving her a hard time, maybe that was why she had been crying on the steps when he first saw her. Or maybe she was divorced. But the truth of it was that he didn't even care. All he cared about were her hands, her eyes, her smile, and the power he felt drawing him to her. He had felt it even at a distance, and it made him want to reach out to her again. And now he was much closer, but he knew he couldn't touch her. All he could do was play the game.

But she smiled at him openly now. For an instant they had become almost friends. I'm from France.

Are you? Do you still live there?

She shook her head in answer, suddenly more sober. No, I live in San Francisco.

I thought so.

Did you? She looked up at him in surprise and amusement. How did you know? There was something very innocent about her as she said it. And yet at the same time her eyes were wise. Her way of speaking to him suggested that she had not been much exposed to the big bad world. Do I look like a San Franciscan?

No, you don't. But I just had a feeling that you live here. Do you like it?

She nodded slowly, but the bottomless sadness had come back to her eyes. Talking to her was like sailing a boat through difficult waters, he was never quite sure when he was about to run aground or when he was safe and could sail free. I like it. I don't see very much of San Francisco anymore.

Don't you? He was afraid to ask a serious question , like why she didn't see much anymore. What do you do instead? His voice was so soft that it caressed her, and she turned to him with the largest eyes he'd ever seen.

I read. A great deal. She smiled at him then and shrugged, as though embarrassed. Blushing faintly, she looked away and then back at him to ask a question. And you? She felt very brave, asking something so personal of this strange man.

I'm an attorney.

She nodded quietly and smiled. She had liked his answer. She had always found the law intriguing, and somehow it seemed a suitable occupation for this man. She had guessed that he was around her own age. In truth he was six years older than she. Do you like it?

Very much. And you? What do you do, Magic Lady, other than read?

For a moment, with a touch of irony, she was going to tell him that she was a nurse. But that seemed an unwonted cruelty to John Henry, so she said nothing for a moment and only shook her head. Nothing. She looked up at Alex frankly. Nothing at all.

He wondered again what her story was, what her life was like, what she did all day long, and why she had been crying that night. Suddenly it bothered him more than ever. Do you travel a great deal?

Now and then. Just for a few days. She looked down at her hands, her eyes fixing on the large gold and diamond knot on her left hand.

Are you going back to France now? He had assumed Paris, and was, of course, right. But she shook her head.

New York. I only go back to Paris once a year, in the summer.

He nodded slowly and smiled. It's a beautiful city. I spent six months there once and I loved it.

Did you? Raphaella looked pleased. Do you speak French, then?

Not really. The broad boyish grin returned. Certainly not as well as you speak English. She laughed softly then and fingered the book she had bought at the airport. Alex noticed it with a twinkle in his eye. Do you read a lot of her?

Who?

Charlotte Brandon.

Raphaella nodded. I love her. I've read every book she ever wrote. And then she glanced at him apologetically. I know, it's not very serious reading, but it's a wonderful escape. I open her books and I am instantly absorbed into the world she describes. I think that kind of reading seems silly to a man, but it she couldn't tell him that the books had saved her sanity over the last seven years, he would think she was crazy it's just very enjoyable.

He smiled more deeply. I know, I've read her too.

Have you? Raphaella looked at him in nothing less than amazement. Charlotte Brandon's books did not seem like the sort of thing a man would read. John Henry certainly never would have. Or her father. They read books of nonfiction, about economics, or world wars. Do you like them?

Very much. And then he decided to play with her for a little longer. I've read them all.

Really? Her huge eyes widened further. To her it seemed an odd thing for an attorney to do. And then she smiled at him again and held the book toward him. Have you read this one? It's the new one. Maybe she had found a friend after all.

He nodded as he glanced at the book. I think it's her best. You'll like it. It's more serious than some of her others. More thoughtful. She deals very heavily with death, it isn't just a pretty story. She's saying a great deal. He knew that his mother had written it the previous year, before she'd had some fairly important surgery, and she had been afraid it would be her last book. She had tried to say something important with it, and she had. Alex's face was more serious as he looked at Raphaella. This one means a lot to her.

Raphaella looked at him strangely. How do you know? Have you met her?

There was a moment's pause as the broad smile returned to his face, and he leaned over and whispered to Raphaella, She's my mom. But this time Raphaella laughed at him; the sound was that of a silvery bell and it pleased his ears. No, really, she is.

You know, for a lawyer you're really very silly.

Silly? He tried to look outraged. I'm serious. Charlotte Brandon is my mother.

And the President of the United States is my father.

Congratulations. He held out a hand to shake hers and she slid her cool hand gently into his and they shook firmly. By the way, I'm Alex Hale.

You see! she said, laughing again. Your name isn't Brandon!

That's her maiden name. She is Charlotte Brandon Hale.

Absolutely. Raphaella couldn't stop laughing now as she stared at him and laughed more. Do you always tell stories like this?

Only to total strangers. By the way, Magic Lady, what's your name? He knew it was a little pushy, but he desperately wanted to know who she was. He wanted to lose their mutual anonymity. He wanted to know who she was, where she lived, where he could find her, so if she disappeared again into thin air, he'd be able to track her down.

But she hesitated in answer to his question, only for an instant, and then she smiled. Raphaella.