For Your Eyes Only

by Rebecca York

  He found her hand, folded her fingers around his and brought them to his lips. “It wasn’t easy to stop.” Even now, simply touching her was doing things to his equilibrium.

  She gently stroked his lips, sending shivers over his skin. “You’re a good man, Ben.”

  That was his cue to tell her the rest of what he’d started to say last night. He swallowed hard, but couldn’t get the words out. If she knew him a little better, knew how he really felt, the rest of it wouldn’t matter so much, he told himself.

  She moved a little closer and lowered her head to his shoulder. They sat like that for several minutes.

  “So if you won’t take me to bed, will you let me fix dinner?” she finally asked. “I mean, if you haven’t eaten.”

  “I haven’t.”

  She gave a little laugh. “I guess I’m not much of a seductress.”

  “Oh, yes you are. But all I’m going to take is dinner.”

  “Then how do vegetable quesadillas sound?”

  “Wonderful.”

  She stood, and he followed her into the kitchen. Lord, he’d come out here so mad he couldn’t see straight. Now she was cooking for him, as if everything was settled between them.

  “Can I help?”

  “Maybe. For now, just sit down and keep me company.”

  He was curious about how she managed things like cooking. So he relaxed into a pressed back wooden chair and watched as she opened a pantry door. Inside he saw rows of jars and cans, all neatly fixed with braille labels. Stooping, she took out onions from a bin on the floor. Then she brought baby carrots, sweet red pepper, and a jar of salsa from the refrigerator.

  She washed the vegetables and assembled them on a large baking sheet with sides. He saw it acted like a tray, keeping everything within reach as she cut the vegetables on a board and felt around for any stray pieces. Then she carefully transferred them to a skillet. “Could you bring the olive oil? It’s in the pantry. On the left. At eye level,” she said.

  He brought the oil, and she slowly poured a little into a small measuring cup, using her finger to check the amount. The oil went into the skillet.

  After stirring the vegetables for several moments, she cleared her throat “So how did you know I was in the chat room Friday night?” she asked in a tone that he knew was supposed to be conversational, but he heard the edge of tension below the casual words.

  “I have special tracking software supplied by the company.”

  “The guy I was talking to—Fred—knew I lived in Baltimore,” she said suddenly, a little catch in her voice.

  He sat up straighter. He hadn’t read the end of the conversation. “Did you provide that information to the new members’ list?”

  “No.”

  “Then it looks like Fred is accessing protected system files.”

  “Oh—”

  “I’ll check his account when I get home.”

  “I, uh, have some other names and numbers, too. Especially someone named Oliver from the literature bulletin board. He was having an argument with some other people, and Marianne was backing him up.”

  “Okay,” he answered, trying to sound half-appreciative.

  She turned her back to him, concentrating on the food. Then she spooned out a piece of onion and tasted it. “Not quite done.”

  He wasn’t going to let her off the hook until he got the answer he wanted. “Do you understand why it was dangerous to go in there?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And you won’t do it again.”

  “Yes. Could we drop it now?”

  “Jenny—”

  “Ben, please. You’ve made me realize I was in over my head. Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  A bell rang to announce the oven was preheated. “The flour tortillas and the grated cheddar are on the middle right in the refrigerator.”

  While the tortillas warmed in the oven, she cleaned up the work area, carefully feeling along the counter surface to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. It was all an impressive demonstration of her abilities, and he felt a surge of pride that took him by surprise.

  The timer rang, and she swiftly assembled the quesedillas.

  A few minutes later, they were sitting down to eat.

  “You’re a good cook,” he said after his second bite.

  “It’s an easy meal. Maybe next time I’ll dazzle you with my beef burgundy.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “I only do it for special occasions.”

  He wolfed down half of one quesadilla.

  “How did you learn to cook?”

  “I always liked it. When I was little, my grandma let me help her in the kitchen. I started off putting spices into canned soup and graduated to my own concoctions—and some of her old-favorite recipes. Then, after the accident, I had to learn new techniques. I was at a rehabilitation center for the blind for six months.”

  “Your grandmother? You lived with her?”

  “My parents were killed in a boating accident.”

  “I didn’t know that. How old were you?”

  “Eight.”

  “That must have been…bad.”

  “It was. But Gran gave me the love and stability I needed.”

  He was about to ask another question when she asked one of her own. “How did you become a cop?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’d like to hear it”

  He took another bite before answering. “Well, I guess it goes back to when I was a teenager. I didn’t feel very good about myself. I was too concerned with what other people would think. So I tried to conform.”

  “Like me,” she murmured.

  “It’s probably a common condition.”

  “What didn’t you like about yourself?”

  “I wasn’t very strong. Or athletic. And I wasn’t able to buck the crowd. Before my senior year, I decided to mold myself into someone I liked better. I started jogging and working out with weights, and changed my body.” He laughed. “Stronger, better, faster. At first I was tempted to pick fights with guys who had pushed me around. Then I realized that what I really wanted to do was help people.”

  “Clark Kent,” she murmured.

  “Well, not exactly. I went to the U. of M. and took criminology. Then I applied to the Baltimore police force.”

  “Why Baltimore?”

  “It’s where the action is. More of a challenge than the suburbs.”

  “How long have you been on the force?”

  “Eight years.”

  “Do you like it?”

  Again, he took another bite of dinner before answering. “I used to be pretty idealistic. More and more, I get the feeling we’re losing the battle.”

  “But you keep at it. Like the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike.”

  He laughed. “It’s not just me. I work with a bunch of dedicated guys.”

  “You were married,” she said suddenly. “What happened?”

  “Lots of things. We were wrong for each other, so I started focusing too much on my job.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m different now,” he said quickly. “The job is important. But I keep it in perspective.” He pushed back his chair, partly because he didn’t like the turn the conversation had taken. He’d picked Brenna for her looks. Then he’d been disappointed when she hadn’t lived up to his expectations. “It’s getting late. I don’t really want to leave, but I should let you get to bed.”

  Standing, he carried his plate and glass to the sink. She followed with hers.

  “Let me help you with the dishes.”

  “Most things can be rinsed and put in the dishwasher.” She pulled the door open, then leaned to turn on the water. Because she didn’t know he’d raised his arm, her breast brushed against him. It was like a jolt of electricity sizzling through him.

  He’d been careful not to touch her since they’d left the living room. Now he couldn’t stop himself. She made a little sound as he p
ulled her toward him. Then his lips lowered and his mouth found hers again. He wanted to kiss her hard. He tried to keep it gentle. But it quickly deepened to passion as he angled his mouth one way and then the other.

  They were both trembling when he lifted his head.

  “I shouldn’t have—”

  She gave him a little smile. “I didn’t exactly protest.”

  “Remember why we can’t let this get out of hand,” he warned, his voice gravelly.

  “I’m trying. But, Ben, I’ve never felt this way before.”

  “What way?”

  “So hot and shivery and needing—”

  “Ah, damn.”

  “It’s not that way for you?” she asked, lowering her head.

  He stroked his thumb across her reddened lips. “It’s exactly that way for me.”

  “Then—”

  “Let me do the right thing. Okay?” he asked in a gritty voice.

  She gave a long, reluctant sigh. “If you’ll promise to come prepared next time.”

  “Ah, sweetheart.” He could barely breathe.

  She managed a strained laugh. “Now that I’ve got your attention, I was going to ask you a favor.”

  “What?”

  “There’s supposed to be a spotlight out back, but the woman who takes me shopping says it went out. I got a new bulb, but I haven’t put it in.”

  “Are you worried about intruders?”

  She hesitated. “I’d feel better with the light on.”

  He studied the tense lines of her face. She wasn’t telling him everything, but he wasn’t going to swing into another interrogation—yet. “I can do that, sure.”

  Her tone became brisk. “You’ll need the step stool and a bulb. They’re in the pantry.”

  He looked out the window. “I’ll get the flashlight from my car. It’s kind of dark out there.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have one—in case someone needs it. The kind you plug into a wall outlet.”

  “Great.” After gathering the necessary equipment, he headed for the back door. Before getting to work, he moved the light in an arc on the ground—and stopped abruptly to examine something that shouldn’t have been there at all.

  Chapter Ten

  Ben was outside longer than she expected, and she waited tensely for his verdict. She hadn’t been telling the whole truth when she asked him to fix the light. But she hadn’t wanted to sound paranoid, either. Hadn’t wanted to voice her vague fear that someone was watching her.

  As she listened to him working on the light, she stroked her fingers against the edge of the countertop.

  He was finished. But instead of coming inside, he moved away from the house, and she felt tension pool in her middle.

  His footsteps were heavy as he came back across the porch. Something was wrong. She knew from his walk. No, she’d known all along. “Is the light working?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” She waited.

  “Tell me why you were worried about somebody being out there,” he demanded.

  She gulped. “I—I thought I smelled cigarette smoke a couple of times when I went out. But it was very faint. Maybe I was mistaken.”

  “You weren’t mistaken,” he said sharply. “There was a cigarette butt on the ground near the back steps. And I found some farther away—in the woods. Somebody has been staking out your house.”

  She felt for the edge of the counter and pressed her fingers against the hard surface. She hadn’t wanted to believe it. Yet he was right. She’d already suspected.

  “The one near the door is dry. Since it rained this morning, it has to be from later than that. I don’t suppose you remember anything else. Any noises outside?” The question was low, urgent, insistent.

  She tried to remember anything specific but could come up with nothing. “No,” she whispered. “That’s why I convinced myself I was making it up.”

  “The ones under the trees are wet.”

  “Oh,” was all she could manage.

  “I found footprints, too,” he informed her tensely.

  “What kind?”

  “Running shoes. They lead away toward a spot where I think a car was parked. Somebody has been here off and on for several days.”

  Chilled to the bone, Jenny ran her hands up and down her arms.

  “I’m going to spend the night here,” he told her in a tone that assumed no arguments.

  “No.” It appalled her to believe she was in any kind of danger. She’d spent years making this house into a place where she felt entirely comfortable and secure. Now someone was threatening that security. “Ben—”

  He reached for her hand, held it tightly. “Your fingers are icy.”

  “I—”

  “Come on. We might as well sit down.”

  She let him wrap his arm around her and lead her back to the living room. His embrace was like a circle of warmth. When he didn’t follow her onto the couch, she turned her face questioningly toward his.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  She heard him moving around the room, lowering the venetian blinds. Then he switched off the lamp. When he came down beside her, she wanted to burrow against him. But she didn’t, because she preferred him to think she wasn’t in danger of going to pieces.

  He stroked her arm. “This is an isolated location. Anybody could come up that driveway and—” He stopped abruptly and began again. “I’m not leaving you alone until I know it’s safe.”

  “Nobody’s here now.” She was trying to argue past her terror.

  “They could come back. Jenny, is there anyone who would want to hurt you?”

  “I can’t think of anyone. Except—”

  “Who?”

  “Duke Wakefield. Marianne’s husband. He was angry at me for encouraging her to leave him.”

  “All the more reason I’d like to find him,” Ben muttered.

  “Do you think he’d hang around here? Watching me?” she asked in a low voice.

  “I don’t know anything about him—except that he moved out of his apartment. And he didn’t have much to do with the neighbors.” He looked around the room. “I can sleep down here.”

  “I have a guest bedroom.”

  “I’d like to be on the first floor where I can keep an eye on things better.”

  She heard him kick off his shoes. Then there was a rustling sound followed by something metallic hitting the table beside him.

  “What’s that?”

  “My gun. I figure I might as well get comfortable.”

  He pulled her to him, his fingers stroking her shoulder and her hair. He didn’t go any farther. She knew why. They’d been too close to doing something imprudent all evening, and he’d been going to leave. But now he was too worried about her. She listened to his breathing. It was quick and unsteady. All she had to do was turn her head and find his mouth with hers, and she could force the issue that had simmered between them.

  “I’d better go upstairs,” she murmured.

  “That would be smart.” But he didn’t turn her loose. Instead, he pulled her closer. To her surprise, he lay back so that they were stretched full-length on the couch with her half on top of him.

  “What are you doing?” she asked in a breathy voice.

  “Torturing myself.” He finished the sentence with his lips moving over her face and his hands shifting her so that she was draped over him. There was no mistaking his obvious arousal. The imprint of his body seemed to burn into hers, sealing them together with heat.

  She’d never felt this alive, this vital. The blood in her veins had turned to fire as his hand slipped under her shirt and played across her back.

  “Ben—”

  “Shh.” His lips nibbled along her cheek. “Let me tell you what I’m thinking, here, while I can still talk coherently. I’m off early tomorrow, so I can give you a ride home from work. And if you still want to make love with me— we can.”

  She couldn’t hold back a frustrated moan
that came from deep inside her.

  He shifted her to the side so she was no longer on top of him.

  She ducked her head and pressed her cheek against his neck. “Ben, I—In high school when a girl wouldn’t go all the way with a guy, there were other things…. I mean…”

  He gave a long, shuddering sigh. “Is that what you want to do?”

  “If you do.”

  “It’s been a long time since high school—and I didn’t like it much back then. I don’t want to settle for less than the real thing with you, sweetheart.” He cuddled her against him. “But if you want me to make you feel better, I will.”

  Her face heated, partly because she wasn’t sure what he meant. In her experience, it was women who made men feel better, not the other way around. “What about you?” she murmured.

  “I told you what I want. I could say it a lot more explicitly, but I don’t think it would do either of us any good at the moment.”

  She could hear the yearning and frustration in his voice. Tonight she’d learned a lot more about him. And not just physically. He wanted to protect her—every way a man could protect his woman. The realization stunned her, made her longing more acute and more bearable, all at the same time.

  “If you can wait, so can I,” she whispered.

  “Ah, Jenny.”

  She found his hand and knit her fingers with his. “Let me stay here for a while.”

  “I like holding you.”

  She liked being in his arms, even if she couldn’t have what she wanted tonight. She thought she was only resting, that she’d be far too tense to fully relax. But being with him felt so safe that she drifted off to sleep.

  SHE WOKE with a start, disoriented and fearful. The slamming of a door had broken through the barrier of sleep. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. Then she felt the texture of the sheets and the familiar thickness of the pillow beneath her head and knew she was in her own bed. She was wearing the T-shirt and sweatpants of the night before.

  Firm footsteps came up the stairs, and she clutched at the edge of the blanket, waiting. Then he walked into the room, and she knew it was Ben.

  “You’re awake,” he said. “And I see I’ve startled you. I’m sorry. But I didn’t want to call out, in case you were still sleeping. It’s pretty early.”