For Your Eyes Only

by Rebecca York

  She sat very still, mouth so dry she couldn’t swallow. He was studying her, probably pleased she was cowering in her chair. She could feel his gaze moving over her flesh. It was like hundreds of insects crawling across her skin.

  She wanted to scream because he could see her and she couldn’t see him. Or maybe her blindness was actually an advantage, she told herself. Maybe the terror would be worse if she knew what he looked like.

  When the wait became unbearable, she asked another question. “What do you want?”

  Only the sound of his rapid breathing—and the blood pounding in her ears—broke the silence. Perhaps when he’d come down the hall, he hadn’t known she was blind. He must know it now, must be making plans accordingly.

  “What have you done to Detective Brisco?”

  Silence. Thick smothering silence that almost drove her to the brink of madness.

  Then, suddenly, he moved like a predator making his strike. The footsteps advanced toward her, confident, rapid. With them came the sweat and the cigarette smoke.

  A rough hand clamped onto her arm, pulling her out of the chair. She had no time to think about finesse or a plan of attack. No time to do more than wield the screwdriver and pray that she hit something. She felt the blade tear through fabric and then flesh as she heard a cry of surprise and pain.

  The assailant fell back. “Bitch!” he spat out

  Jenny followed the sound and sprang at him, landing on his body, and scoring a second hit on what felt like his face.

  This time he screamed, and she felt a surge of satisfaction.

  She swung again, but he threw her roughly off. She hit the wall, gasping for breath, and he scrambled away from her. Before she had time to fill her lungs with air, he was running. Sagging against the wall, panting, she clutched the screwdriver in a death grip.

  Every muscle tense, she listened to the sound of footsteps retreating down the hall. When the front door opened, cautious relief flooded through her. Had she really driven him away?

  Tears spilled from her eyes and slid down her cheeks. She waited, expecting that he’d change his mind and come back—twice as angry and twice as determined. But as the seconds ticked by, the likelihood of another attack grew fainter. He’d probably thought she’d be an easy mark, and she’d startled him with her show of force. Pushing herself up, she ran a shaky hand through her hair, then wiped away her tears.

  Still clutching the screwdriver in one fist, she made her shaky way back to the desk and found the slender cane she’d propped against the wall. As she headed in the direction of Marianne’s room, the familiar rhythm of swinging the cane in front of her brought back a measure of calm.

  “Brisco?” she called as she hurried down the hall.

  No answer.

  “Brisco?” she tried again as she stepped through the doorway and moved slowly into the room.

  She gasped as she encountered something bulky in the middle of the floor. Sinking to her knees, she reached out and touched Brisco’s shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t answer as she continued to call his name.

  “Brisco, say something,” she begged. “Talk to me.”

  When he didn’t respond, she felt for his chest and pressed her palm flat. At the steady beat of his heart, she let out the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

  Telling him over and over that he was going to be all right, she ran her hands carefully over his body. She could detect no injury to his arms or chest or neck. His skin felt warm but not hot, his chest rose and fell as he breathed, and his heartbeat remained steady. With fingers that shook slightly, she touched his face. She’d wanted to know what he looked like, she thought almost hysterically, as she traced her fingers over his high cheekbones, jutting nose, and full lips, but not like this. Not with him lying unconscious on the floor.

  Trying to stay calm, she skimmed his closed eyelids, brushing his long lashes, then found his short, almost blunt cut hair. On the back of his head she discovered a lump as large as a hen’s egg. It was sticky. Now that she’d found the wound, she smelled the blood.

  “Brisco?” she tried again.

  He didn’t move or speak.

  Every protective instinct urged her to stay and keep watch over him, yet in this case, she knew instinct was dead wrong. She had to get help.

  Finding her cane again, she stood and checked her watch, then she hurried down the hall again. It was only a short distance from Marianne’s front door to the uneven brick walk of the neighbor on the immediate right, yet it felt like miles. An elderly woman lived there, Jenny remembered. A Mrs. Clayborn.

  She tripped on a loose brick and had to slow her steps as she proceeded up the walk. Finally, she made it to the front porch.

  “Who’s there?” a quavery voice asked in response to the third chime of the doorbell.

  “Mrs. Clayborn? It’s Jenny Larkin. I’m a friend of Marianne’s. We met a few months ago.”

  “Marianne was murdered. Didn’t you hear about that?”

  “I know about Marianne. Please, I need your help,” she repeated.

  “I don’t remember you. Go away.”

  “I’m the blind woman!” Jenny cried out in frustration.

  “Oh yes. I remember now. Such a pity when you’re so pretty.”

  Jenny ground her teeth. Pity was the last thing she wanted from anyone, yet she kept her cool. Speaking rapidly and persuasively, she got Mrs. Clayborn to pull aside the curtains and look out while she explained about the attack. Finally the door swung open, and the old lady showed her where to find the phone. As she dialed 911, she could feel Mrs. Clayborn fluttering nervously about

  Quickly she gave the address and a brief description of what had happened. “Hurry,” she begged before hanging up.

  “I’m sorry I wouldn’t let you in. But with the murder and all…” her hostess apologized.

  “I understand,” Jenny flung over her shoulder before turning her attention to the rough walkway.

  When she gained the sidewalk, she felt her watch. Eleven minutes. Anything could have happened. But at least she’d summoned help.

  As soon as she stepped back into Marianne’s living room, she heard Brisco groan. When she rushed to the spot where she thought she’d left him, he was gone. Panic seized her. She swept her arm across the floor in a wide arc and finally collided with his shoulder.

  “Watch out! My damn head hurts.” The unexpected words startled her.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  This time she touched him softly, gently. His body quivered, but he didn’t protest. He was sitting against the wall, his knees pulled against his chest. And he was breathing hard, as if moving a few feet from where he’d lain had been a tremendous effort.

  “How do you feel?” she asked, knowing that it must not be good. Should she keep him talking? It had been years since she’d had a first-aid course, and she struggled to recall what had been said about head injury.

  “Dammit, Brenna, how many times have I told you not to leave your exercise equipment all over the floor,” he grated.

  “What?”

  “Your damn equipment.”

  Apparently he didn’t know what had happened or even who she was. “Brisco, It’s okay. It’s Jenny,” she murmured as she soothed her hand across his shoulder.

  He cursed and grabbed her wrist hard. “Take your paws off me.”

  She tried to jerk away, but he held her with painful strength.

  “Brenna? What are you doing here?” he asked as if she hadn’t spoken.

  “Jenny. It’s Jenny,” she repeated her name.

  He flung her hand down and kept talking. “Are you trying to kill me? Or just make me mad enough to leave?”

  His grating voice made her flinch, but she didn’t move away. He was confused. He thought this was a different place and she was someone else. He was angry. And as much as she hated to admit it, he was also dangerous.

  The safest thing would be to back off, yet she couldn’t retre
at. Probably Brenna was his ex-wife. Or maybe he’d lived with somebody. It seemed she wasn’t his favorite person.

  After taking a deep breath, she spoke soothingly. “Brisco…Ben. It’s not Brenna. It’s Jenny. Remember, we came here to work on Marianne’s computer?” She said it several times, hoping for a response. “You couldn’t use it, so you asked me to help you. We had dinner first”

  There was only silence, except for the sound of air wheezing in and out of his lungs.

  Then, “Jenny?”

  “Yes,” she said on a sigh. They were making progress.

  Was it all right to touch him now, or would that set him off again, she wondered. It was taking a chance, but gingerly she touched his arm. This time he didn’t flinch or push her away.

  Encouraged, she inched a little closer. “It’s Jenny Larkin,” she repeated, pressing her hand over his.

  “Wh-what happened?” he asked.

  “We were working with the computer. We heard something, and you went to investigate. Then I heard a scuffle.” She hesitated for a moment, then skipped her own encounter with the intruder. Probably it would upset him, and she wanted to keep him calm. “When I got here, you were on the floor unconscious.”

  He swore.

  “He hit you on the head with something. I’m sorry you were alone when you came to, but I’d gone to get help.”

  “I’m…fine!” he growled, his shaky voice and uneven breathing belying the assurance.

  “You’re going to be okay. I called an ambulance.”

  “You didn’t need to do that.”

  “You’re not thinking straight. Your head is bleeding.” God, he probably had a concussion. Or worse. When he tried to stand up, she pressed down on his shoulder. “Stay put”

  He ignored her. Acting instinctively, she scooted a little closer, wrapped her arms around him, and held him tight. That did the trick, because he stopped resisting her. She felt him sigh as he settled back against the wall.

  “You need to stay quiet,” she whispered.

  “I know what I need,” he growled. To her surprise, he gathered her closer.

  “Brisco?”

  At that moment, everything altered. His hold on her changed as his head tipped and his lips touched hers.

  There was no hesitation on his part. His lips settled, took fuller possession. She should pull back, she told herself. She was the one who claimed to be thinking straight. Yet she was powerless to draw away from this man who had stirred up a maelstrom of emotions within her. In the short time they’d spent together, he’d affected her so powerfully that there was no comparison to any other experience in her life.

  She wanted—

  No, that wasn’t important. He needed. She knew by the way his lips moved urgently over hers, by the way his hands were pressed to her back and the way his body strained toward hers. And she let herself be wrapped in that need.

  Then his lips parted, and the intoxicating taste of him drove any remnants of thought from her mind. It didn’t matter why he’d taken her in his arms. She was here, and this was where she wanted to be.

  As if they had a will of their own, her hands slid up his back and across his shoulders. If she couldn’t see him, she was tuned to him in every other way. The feel of his skin against her cheek—rough where his beard had grown during the day, soft along the line of his hair. The smell of him—not simply the faint remnants of after-shave lotion, but the indefinable scent that was his alone. The touch of his strong hands–tender and gentle as they moved over her back and shoulders.

  She marveled at the current that seemed to flow between them, starting at the contact point of their mouths and radiating throughout her body.

  Her hands moved restlessly over his face, his shoulders, his arms, touching skin, then well-honed muscles under annoying layers of fabric.

  “Yes,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

  She craved more, but there was no need to tell him. As if obeying an unspoken plea, he deepened the melding of his mouth with hers, She hadn’t dared contemplate how much she wanted this. It felt so completely right. So good. As natural as breathing, yet as exciting as skydiving.

  He turned her body toward his, to fit more firmly against him. She felt enveloped, cocooned, lost to sensation that rapidly built beyond her imagining.

  “Ben,” she whispered, hardly able to cope with the emotions surging through her. They were too new, too abandoned.

  “Lord, Jenny,” he murmured, “you don’t know how much I’ve wanted—”

  His hands cupped her breasts. It wasn’t a subtle caress. His fingers kneaded, stroked, then found her hardened nipples. She gave a small sigh that might have started as a protest but ended in pleasure.

  Somewhere deep in her brain, she knew she had to stop him. The blow to his head had stripped away his normal inhibitions, but she still had control. However, control was a subtle illusion. Heat shot through her body. Her strangled moan was answered by a rumble in his chest as he coaxed a stronger response from her, and then stronger still.

  His mouth came back to hers, urgent, insistent.

  She made little sounds in her throat as his tongue stroked the insides of her lips, then delved farther like a hummingbird gathering nectar.

  She was melting in his arms.

  Then, somewhere outside the little world that included only the two of them, a noise intruded. A loud wailing noise. A siren.

  As abruptly as the frantic encounter had begun, it came to a halt.

  Brisco lifted his head.

  “The ambulance,” she gasped as she pushed herself a few inches away from him and leaned against the wall, her heart pounding, her body hot and shaky. Moments later, two sets of feet thumped into the room. As someone set down a heavy case or box, she pulled her knees against her chest and hugged them tight, lowering her head so that her face was hidden. She might look strange, but it was better than feeling so terribly exposed.

  “We have a report of a head injury,” a voice announced.

  “Him,” she somehow managed, pointing toward Brisco.

  “You okay, lady?”

  “Yes.” She heard the speaker kneel beside Brisco.

  “How’d you get hit?” the questioner repeated.

  Brisco cleared his throat. “I’m police detective Ben Brisco,” he said without answering the question.

  In a strange, detached way Jenny marveled at his ability to sound so coherent when her own mind was still reeling. One moment they’d been intimately entwined in each other’s arms, the next Brisco was giving his name and rank like a trained soldier.

  “How’d you get hit?”

  “An assailant was hiding in the house,” he snapped.

  “He didn’t harm you, miss?” another man asked Jenny.

  “No.” She dared to raise her head a fraction. “Who are you?”

  “Paramedics. I’m Casey.”

  “Tenley,” another voice chimed in.

  Casey sounded as if he was speaking over his shoulder. Tenley was the one beside Brisco. In the spot where she’d been. She could hear Casey getting out equipment. Then metal clanked against metal and clothing rustled, and she assumed they were checking Brisco over. Rising, she realized she didn’t have a clue where she’d left her cane. Rather than scrabble around on the floor for it or interrupt the medical examination, she decided to get gracefully out of the way and sit in the overstuffed chair she remembered in the corner. But she bumped against the end of the bed on her way, and in her haste to stop calling attention to herself, she didn’t discover the pile of newspapers on the chair cushion until she’d sat on them. Red-faced, she got up again so she could deposit them on the floor. So much for grace and charm.

  There was a moment of silence before anyone spoke. “I, uh, guess you didn’t see what happened, did you, miss?” the one named Tenley said.

  “No.” Brilliant deduction. He’d seen her flounder around the room, all right. They were busy, she guessed, because they didn’t address her again. “H
ow is he?” she finally asked.

  “Blood pressure’s a little low. Heart rate is stable But the head injury is going to need some stitches and tests. We’re taking him to Mount Olive.”

  “Hell,” Brisco muttered.

  More footsteps came into the room, quick and purposeful. “Ben,” a deep voice said. “What hit you?”

  “Pete. What are you doing here?”

  “I heard the call coming over the radio and recognized the address. I’m Detective Diangelo,” he added for the benefit of the others in the room. “Brisco’s partner.”

  Jenny flushed as she imagined that he could somehow figure out what had been going on.

  There was a hurried conversation between Brisco and Diangelo. Mostly, it was pitched too low for her to hear, but she gathered Brisco was filling in the newcomer. She didn’t catch much besides her name and “blind” and “computer.”

  It took all her willpower to keep from interrupting. If there was anything she hated, it was people talking around her as if she wasn’t there. But in this case, perhaps it was justified. Diangelo needed to know the facts.

  Wheels squeaked on the floor. Then Jenny heard sounds she couldn’t identify. Not knowing what was going on became intolerable. “Someone tell me what’s happening,” she demanded.

  “They’re putting Ben on a stretcher and taking him to the hospital,” Diangelo said. “He’s going quietly,” he added in a firm voice, and Jenny suspected he might be advising the patient.

  “Ben,” she called out, her voice rising and thinning.

  He didn’t answer. No one did. And she knew she was alone in the room.

  “Ben,” she whispered again, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. She wanted to go with him, to stay with him until she was sure he was going to be all right. But she knew he wouldn’t welcome her fluttering about, especially in front of his colleague.