For Your Eyes Only

by Rebecca York

  He shrugged automatically, then realized it wouldn’t get him very far. If he was going to spend much time with her, he’d have to learn a whole new set of responses. “I don’t know.”

  “She let me talk about Marianne this morning. It helped.”

  “Good.”

  The elevator stopped on the second floor, and a woman got on. Jenny stopped talking, and he gathered she saved personal conversations until she could be sure who was listening. She didn’t speak again until they were sitting inside his car.

  After fastening her seat belt, she sighed. “Erin didn’t need to tell you how to act with me.”

  “She didn’t,” he answered automatically, yet he wasn’t sure it was true.

  “Only because I came back when I did.”

  She cocked her head toward him. “I think sometimes people assume I’m more—fragile—than I really am. I’m tougher than you think.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said gruffly.

  For the rest of the ride she sat with her hands folded in her lap, and as he pulled into a parking space down the block from the restaurant, Ben wondered if dinner was a mistake. Once inside, he was even more unsure. He remembered the place as small and cozy. Now he saw it as small and cramped. The aisles were narrow, and Jenny moved slowly as she followed the woman from the front podium to a table against the wall. When she pulled out her chair, she bumped into one at the table behind her.

  “Maybe I should have picked another place,” he murmured.

  “No. I’m fine,” she assured him, seating herself and propping her cane out of the way.

  The waitress hesitated as she approached the little table, then set two menus between the cutlery. Moments later, a busboy filled their water glasses. When the attendant’s footsteps had departed, Jenny tapped the menu. “I bet this isn’t in braille.”

  “You’re right. I’ll read it to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Opening his own menu, he leaned forward across the small table to read to her. The leading edge of the large folder struck Jenny’s glass, knocking it off the table.

  His exasperated expletive was punctuated by Jenny’s leap backward as some of the water splashed on her.

  “Sorry! As you may have guessed, I knocked over your glass. Let me—”

  Before he could finish, the waitress came scurrying back, a stack of napkins in her hand. Kneeling, she began to blot at the wet patch on the carpet. “It’s perfectly all right,” she murmured to Jenny. “Nothing to worry about.” But her annoyed expression didn’t match her soothing words.

  “I was the one who spilled the water,” Ben informed her.

  She gave him a doubtful nod and went back to her task.

  “There you are, hon. Good as new,” she said to Jenny when she’d finished blotting the rug. “So don’t you worry about it.”

  “I said I was the one who spilled the water,” Ben insisted sharply.

  “Uh-huh,” the woman agreed with a decided lack of sincerity before departing.

  “She didn’t believe you, did she?” Jenny asked.

  “I don’t think so.” Ben tried to control his anger.

  Jenny surprised him with a tiny giggle that turned into a genuine laugh. He surprised himself by joining her.

  “Your face lights up when you laugh,” he said.

  “And your laugh has a nice timbre. Full. Rich.”

  “Nobody ever told me that before.”

  “I’m an expert,” she allowed. “But if somebody across the room spills his soup, she’ll probably assume I did it.”

  “You’re taking it extremely well.”

  “I try not to let nonsense like that bother me—especially at the end of a long day.”

  Very long, he thought. Yet Jenny had made him forget about the frustrations. “I suppose you get a lot of similar garbage.” It was a personal question, but she seemed to be opening up with him. And he wanted more.

  “It comes with the territory. You were probably a uniformed police officer. I’ll bet people made assumptions when you walked into a restaurant in your blue uniform.”

  “Yeah, that either I was getting a free meal, or I’d come to arrest somebody.”

  “So, did you walk around with a chip on your shoulder?”

  “No. But I knew I wasn’t going to be in a uniform forever.” As soon as he’d said it, he wished he hadn’t.

  She was silent for several moments. “And I’m serving a life sentence.”

  “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “It’s okay. It means you’re comfortable enough with me not to censor your comments.”

  Sometimes, he thought.

  She felt around the table, checking the position of the cutlery, plates and glasses. Her hand came back to the fork, and he watched her stroke the cool metal, running her fingers over the raised design as if touching it gave her pleasure. “My life has…changed because I’m blind.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It doesn’t make as much difference as you think,” she said, her fingers still caressing the fork handle. He couldn’t take his eyes off those fingers, imagining them caressing his skin with the same delicate care.

  He cleared his throat. “It would to most people.”

  “Well, mainly it’s inconvenient. Some things take me a little longer—like weeding my garden, because I have to do it by touch. And there are other things I can’t do by myself. Like read a menu. But that’s not a tragedy. Unless you can’t read. Then we’d both be in trouble.”

  This time he was the one who laughed. Lord, Jenny Larkin was something else.

  Her fingers went back to the cutlery, playing with the spoon, tracing the shape of the bowl, then the handle—and back again. Probably she used touch to calm her nerves. Did they need calming now? Did she know that practically every gesture was a turn-on to the man across the table? That would make her nervous, all right. Like in the car when she’d played with one of the candy papers, he remembered. He’d watched her fingers then and he watched now, drinking his fill of her with secret pleasure.

  She broke the silence. “Since you’ve been here before, just tell me what’s good, and we won’t have to worry about spilling any more water.”

  “Suppose my taste is different from yours?”

  “I hope I’ve got a veto. I won’t let you order me squid with octopus-ink pasta.”

  “Not a chance.”

  He scanned the selections, then leaned back and stretched out his legs under the table. His foot hit hers, and she jumped. He cleared his throat and moved back a little. “I like the grilled veal chop or any of the pasta.”

  “Do they have stuffed shells?”

  “Yes.”

  He signaled for the waitress—letting Jenny give her own order and selecting the veal chop for himself.

  “What about a glass of wine?” she suggested when the waitress asked if they wanted anything else. “No—you’re probably on duty,”

  “Technically, I’m off for the evening. So—”

  “Then I’d like a glass of Chianti.”

  “Excellent idea.” Ben ordered the same.

  The wine came a few minutes later, and they sat sipping and talking. Jenny probably didn’t drink much, he decided, because her face was a little flushed, and a small smile played around her lips. He liked the effect.

  “So, what are you thinking?” he murmured.

  She took another sip of wine. “It’s strange, but I feel as if I’ve known you for a long time. I’ve felt that way all along, actually.”

  Suddenly he went from relaxed to alert. “What do you mean?” he asked carefully. Had she finally remembered where they’d met before?

  Her next words took the edge off his anxiety. “Maybe that you’re easy to talk to. Or that I’m having a good time.”

  “So am I.”

  She turned her wineglass in her hand. “I guess I forgot for a minute why we’re having dinner.”

  “I think I wanted to forget,” he confessed.


  “Oh?”

  “My life has been kind of regimented lately. Not quite all work and no play, but close.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “I’ll end up talking about my divorce and I’d rather relax and enjoy the evening.”

  “Until we go over to Marianne’s.”

  “Yeah.”

  He knew the dose of reality had been deliberate on her part. A way to shatter the closeness enfolding them. He should thank her. Instead, he couldn’t help feeling a bit resentful. After their food arrived, they concentrated on the meal. Then Jenny declined both coffee and dessert.

  When he started to pay the bill, she pulled out her wallet. “Let me get my share.”

  “Remember, I told you I can put it on my expense account.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m not in the habit of lying,” he shot back before he realized what he’d said.

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “I’m sorry.” He knew he was overreacting because of the omission in his introduction that morning. For a split second he considered telling her they really had met before, a long time ago when she could still see. But then he pictured her getting angry and flouncing out of the restaurant And he really did need her help with the Randolph computer. So he kept his mouth shut for the time being. Later, he’d set things straight.

  JENNY COULD FEEL the silence hanging heavy around her and told herself to relax as she stood just inside the livingroom doorway of Marianne’s house.

  She heard Brisco snap on the light and walk into the living room. He walked forward on the balls of his feet— with a springy step that would normally have sounded pleasing. When she didn’t follow, he said, “I guess it makes you feel uncomfortable to be here.”

  “Yes,” she answered, wondering if he could read the stress on her face. Marianne was dead. She would never talk with her, laugh with her again. Coming here brought that home as nothing else had. Sucking in a deep breath, she caught the unpleasant edge of a new odor hanging in the air. Cigarette smoke.

  She sniffed the acrid scent more sharply. “Someone’s been in the house. Someone besides Marianne,” she added, her voice rising as she spoke her friend’s name.

  “I was here earlier.” His hand gently cupped her shoulder.

  She knew he meant the gesture to be calming. Although she wanted to lean against him, she kept her body rigid.

  “Somebody who smokes,” she clarified.

  “It was Diangelo—the guy who’s working the case with me.”

  “When was he here?”

  “This morning.”

  “This morning,” she repeated slowly, wondering if her nose was really that sensitive.

  “Why don’t you show me how to use the computer?” he asked.

  “Okay,” she answered automatically. The house felt like a trap. And she’d walked into it. But maybe it wasn’t simply because her friend had been murdered. She was nervous about being alone with Ben Brisco, because she was attracted to him. Because they’d gotten too chummy in the restaurant too quickly. What was it about him that made her respond in such unfamiliar ways? She wasn’t sure how deeply she wanted to examine the emotions all twisted up inside her as she made her way to the bedroom where Marianne had a combination guest room and home office.

  She was so unsure of herself—of what had begun happening at dinner. The feeling of intimacy had been disturbing, so she’d deliberately shattered it—and spent the rest of the meal feeling disappointed. Now she wanted to dazzle Brisco with her ability to unlock the secrets of the computer Randolph was developing.

  She could hear him right behind her as she sat down in the desk chair and booted up the machine. Feeling over the surface of the desk, she located the headset and put it on. Luckily it fit her pretty well, since she and Marianne were close to the same size.

  “What’s that?” Brisco asked.

  “Part of the controls.”

  “No wonder I had problems,” he muttered, his voice only inches away from her ear. She wished he wouldn’t stand so close, while at the same time she knew she’d be disappointed if he backed off.

  He moved behind her, leaning over her shoulder, still near enough that she could sense his body heat and feel his breath on the side of her face. Was he trying to see what she was doing—or did he find the proximity as stimulating as she did?

  She pressed her lips together to keep from asking him what he looked like. She wanted to find out if he was anything like the picture she’d formed in her mind as they’d sat across the table at dinner. He was intense. That went with dark hair. And dark eyes. He had a firm chin line. A lower lip fuller than the upper… It took an act of will to stop herself from contemplating his lips.

  She made a small sound.

  “Jenny?”

  “The machine’s slow,” she muttered, wondering if he believed her.

  While she waited for it to finish booting, she silently waxed philosophical. She’d told him blindness was a nuisance. That was true. But sometimes it was frustrating, even maddening, that things sighted people took for granted were beyond her reach.

  She had friends who’d been blind from birth. They didn’t wonder what things looked like because they’d always functioned by relying on their other senses. She’d been sighted until she was eighteen, and it was different for her. Sometimes it was an advantage, because if she had a visual description of something, she could see it in her mind. But you couldn’t go around asking people to describe themselves.

  The machine beeped twice, signaling that it was ready to receive commands, and she snapped to the task at hand—dazzling Brisco. No, make that helping him find the person who had killed her friend.

  When she spoke into the microphone, the machine began to give her a list of directories.

  It took a moment to get the machine to recognize her voice. After that, it was like using the equipment she had at home. With a turn of her head, she put the voice output in fast mode so she could cover the territory more quickly.

  Behind her, Brisco gave a frustrated sigh. “Can you put information on the screen so I can see it” he asked.

  “Sorry.” Deftly, she provided a visual display.

  “Thanks. This is like being a visitor on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise.”

  “No. Voyager,” she quipped. “Captain Janeway at your service.”

  It was a good beginning, but things didn’t go so smoothly after that. Although she was able to get a list of directories, when she tried to access the files, the machine drew a blank. Frustrated, she tried again.

  “What’s wrong?” Brisco asked.

  “Something odd. I’m not finding her files. Let me try something else.” She went to another section of the disk. “Here’s the list of phone numbers for her modem. So you can see which online service she’s using.”

  “World Connect,” Brisco said. “Can you bring it up?”

  “Probably not without her password. But I’ll try.” She attempted to make the connection, but the computer wouldn’t put through the call.

  “Just a minute.” She heard Brisco pick up the phone receiver. “The line’s dead.”

  “It is?” She took off the headset, and laid it on the desk. “Was it working this afternoon?”

  “I didn’t check. I assumed—”

  Jenny reached to grab his arm. “Shh—” she hissed.

  “What?” Brisco whispered.

  “I heard something. Maybe a floorboard squeaking…in Marianne’s bedroom.”

  “Sit tight.” He took several steps toward the door. Then he was making his way quietly down the hall. Jenny waited with mounting tension, listening intently. It was hard to simply sit and do nothing. The silence lengthened. Then she heard a muffled noise that could have been a blow. It was followed by a grunt and the sound of something hitting the floor. Something about the size and weight of a man’s body.

  God, someone was in the house, all right And either Brisco had decked him, or it was
the other way around.

  She gripped the arms of the chair, straining all her senses for more information.

  Moments later footsteps returned along the hall. The hair on the back of her neck bristled. It wasn’t Brisco. Not unless he’d totally changed the way he walked.

  Chapter Five

  Could she be mistaken?

  “Brisco?” she called out. In the next second, she was sorry she hadn’t kept her mouth shut.

  Time seemed to slow as she waited for an answer to her question. No one replied. In the ominous silence, she shrank down in her chair, wishing she could disappear entirely. She pictured herself crouching behind a mass of clothes in the closet. But she wasn’t even sure where to find the closet. Heavy footsteps thumped closer, faster. It sounded like a man walking on his heels rather than the balls of his feet. Either that or a pretty hefty woman. Someone who had surprised Brisco and—

  Her heart gave a painful lurch. She couldn’t sit here waiting for the same thing to happen to her. Spinning the chair toward the desk, she reached for the phone to call 911, before she remembered Brisco had told her the line was dead.

  She was on her own. Fear swelled inside her, closing her throat, threatening to cut off all rational thought. Yet she knew in some tiny corner of her mind that she couldn’t fall apart. She had to save herself—and Brisco—if he was badly hurt and needed medical attention.

  The footsteps drummed in her brain. How long did she have?

  Sliding open the middle desk drawer, she scrabbled for some sort of weapon. The best she could do was a long screwdriver. With a quick, furtive motion, she concealed it in the folds of her skirt.

  The footsteps stopped. In the doorway, she judged. Someone was standing there looking at her, breathing hard, deliberately blocking her escape. Hoping her face showed no emotion, she turned toward the presence in the doorway. “Who’s there?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. It was high and reedy.

  No one answered, and never before had her blindness brought such numbing terror.

  She could hear the man who was watching her shifting from one foot to the other. And she could smell him—acrid sweat and cigarette smoke. Somehow her numb mind continued to function, continued to draw conclusions. She’d smelled him the minute they’d stepped in the front door— because it wasn’t a leftover odor. He’d been here all along. He’d come to the house for something and he’d finally gotten tired of waiting for them to leave. Either he’d messed up and made a noise. Or he’d done it deliberately— to lure Brisco down the hall and attack him.