In the Blink of an Eye

by Julie Miller

  “Shh.” Mac sought out the source of the reprimand turned apology. His fingers fumbled across her chin, then settled over her open mouth, cutting off a startled breath. “I need a set of eyes.”

  Julia pulled his hand away but latched on to it with that gentle authority he was learning to admire. The sudden hush in her voice told him she had picked up on his suspicion. “What’s wrong?”

  “Someone’s in the kitchen.”

  “You’re sure? Maybe it’s mice in the woodwork. You haven’t exactly been living up to code—” The shuffling he’d heard became the definite click of a cabinet door. Julia’s fingers jerked around his, as if she’d heard the sound, too. “I guess that rules out mice.” She braced her free hand against his chest for balance and stretched up on tiptoe to whisper right into his ear. “Should I call someone? My cell phone’s in my bag in my room.”

  Mac shook his head and stepped away from her searing fingertips. It was hard enough to keep his speculations logical without the unexpected distraction of even her most innocent touch. “I don’t want to look like an idiot if there’s no one there.” Mitch’s vague warning about watching his back made him cautious. But he couldn’t imagine what anyone hoped to find in his kitchen. “Let’s check it out first.”

  “Okay.” Dropping back to her feet, she pushed against his hand and moved him back a step. “I’ll go look.”

  “No.” He grabbed her shoulder as she scooted past him. “You don’t go. We go.” He couldn’t provide much protection for her if there was an intruder, but he’d be damned if he’d let a woman go face a danger alone he wasn’t willing to face himself. “I just need you to get a glimpse of who or what it is. Then we’ll come back and phone it in if we need to.”

  “Okay.”

  Her shoulder rolled beneath his hand, and he realized she was steeling herself for whatever confrontation lay ahead. Don’t worry. I’m right behind you, he wanted to say. But, somehow, that seemed like little comfort coming from him.

  Mac slipped his hand down the soft cotton of her sleeve and wrapped his fingers through the crook of her elbow. “Let’s go.”

  Angling himself behind her so that her shoulder butted against his, they stepped off together—both barefoot, and both blessedly silent as she led him through the dining room and around the corner into the living room. He found her easy to follow, not just because she kept her steps slow and evenly paced, but because they fit together so well. It was as if his arm—from the notch of his elbow to the pillow of his shoulder—was a perfect cradle to hold her arm from elbow to shoulder.

  The sounds in the kitchen switched to a quiet shuffle, interrupted by the stealthy slide of a drawer and the rasp of metal dragging against…damn. The sound stopped before he could identify it. Someone was searching. But for what? Mac shut his eyes and tried to think.

  Like a magician, he concentrated on conjuring an image of his kitchen and its contents inside his head. Dark wood cabinets. White appliances. Shadowy, faceless strangers.

  He shook his head, silently damning his handicap. Once, he would have looked at a situation, assessed his options immediately and taken action.

  Now he had to rely on Julia for the basic facts. He was useless. Damn, damn useless. It was easier to give her the lead and simply follow.

  When she stopped, he stopped. He anticipated it in the movement of her arm and sent up a thankful prayer that he hadn’t plowed into her or anything else and alerted the intruder to their presence. When she turned slightly, he stepped back with her. In one fluid movement she had them both backed against the wall just outside the kitchen.

  He tore his mind away from the half-formed image of the kitchen and the intruder’s intent, and focused on the woman standing at his side. He sensed her hesitation. The rallying of courage, the weighing of options.

  God, she was a trooper. She’d put up with his foul mood all day, cleaned his mess, aroused his body like a lusty adolescent’s—and now he was asking her to put herself in potential danger on his behalf.

  And what had he done to repay her? Nothing. Nada. Not a damn thing. Not even a simple thank you.

  Maybe he wasn’t completely useless.

  Thirty-seven years of being raised a Taylor wound its way into his conscience. Somewhere between the guilt and concern and simmering frustration that plagued him, a bit of the old Mac Taylor showed himself. He slid his fingers along the smooth warmth of Julia’s forearm and found her hand folded into a quaking fist. He wrapped his fingers around hers and squeezed.

  “You don’t have to do this. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “I’d feel better if I had a baseball bat.” He smiled at her brave sarcasm. At least, that’s what it felt like the rusty muscles around his mouth were doing. And then he heard a thump that erased the brief smile. A crunching noise reverberated in some dark recess on the other side of the wall. Mac craned his neck to identify the new sounds. The tug at his arm pulled his focus back to Julia. “What is it?”

  “I think he’s eating.”

  “Eating?” Julia’s entire body stiffened. “What kind…? Her muscles bunched wherever he touched her, ready to spring into action. “Oh, no.”

  Before Mac could piece together the meaning of her response, she’d marched off into the kitchen. He reached out for her, but caught nothing but air. “Jules!”

  “Wade Osterman! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Even Mac snapped to attention at the crisp command in Julia’s voice. He heard a flurry of activity and a bass-deep curse. Then a heartbeat of silence pounded in Mac’s darkness before Julia continued. “You scared me to death. I thought someone had broken in.”

  “I was hungry and you’re a good cook.” The police officer’s voice was muffled, as if he had food still stuffed in his mouth.

  “Skip the flattery, Wade. You’re supposed to be guarding us, not sneaking around the house.” Mac flattened his palm against the wall and followed it to the kitchen archway.

  “I found the back door open when I was making my rounds. I checked it out. Nothing’s been disturbed. I’m watching things.”

  Mac joined the conversation. “Not very well.”

  The hushed rasp of his stern pronouncement echoed through the room. He stayed near the door, out of the light that so tortured his eyes. From the responding creak of leather, which he supposed was a holster or utility belt, the officer with the full mouth was standing straighter and taking notice of Mac.

  He heard the gulping sound of too big a bite going down a man’s gullet. “It’s after midnight. I didn’t realize anybody was still up. I was trying to be quiet.”

  Mac matched what he assumed was the guard’s defensive stance. He hadn’t drawn his gun, or Julia would have reacted. Instead, he could tell she’d taken a step back toward him, judging by the proximity of that familiar sunshine scent.

  From the angle of his voice, he guessed Wade to be a good three to four inches taller than he was. But the big man was unsure of himself, facing off against Mac and Julia. He didn’t know what to make of being caught with his hand literally in the cupboard like this.

  Mac’s chest expanded with a calming breath.

  Not so useless, after all.

  It was ridiculous to think he had any kind of advantage here. But he felt it, anyway. Maybe it was the rank he’d once carried, that would put him above a street officer like Osterman. Or maybe it was the edgy shifting from foot to foot that Mac could hear in the other man’s soft-soled shoes.

  “You came in the back door, you say?”

  “Yeah. I’ve been walking the perimeter every half hour. I thought you’d be asleep. You really ought to do a better job about locking up.”

  So Osterman had come up the back porch and through the hallway—when? While Mac was sulking in his room? While he was in the bathroom with Julia?

  How had he heard him in the kitchen, but not walking through the house?

  Suddenly the tension in the room shifted, and Wade’s voice brightened. “Was I interrupting
something?”

  Mac recognized the abrupt, wink-wink apology of one man to another. With his concentration focused on finding the source of the sounds in the kitchen, he had forgotten he was dressed in nothing but jeans and briefs. While Julia wore…

  Mac muttered a damning curse and his pulse quickened with a protective beat. Julia’s luscious figure was covered with nothing more than that old soft T-shirt and pajama pants. And Wade was probably taking in an unfair eyeful.

  “What we were—”

  “No, of course not.” Julia’s vehement denial bounced off his ego and plunged the room into an awkward silence.

  “Hey!” An instant after Wade’s protest, Mac heard the light switch. He guessed she had turned it off out of consideration for his sensitive eyes, but wondered if she, too, had suddenly become aware of how much Wade could see.

  Of all the things she’d endured today, Mac was determined that embarrassment not be one of them. He walked toward Julia’s scent and found himself behind her. He put his hands up and cupped her strong shoulders. Without a clear sense of direction, he didn’t know if he was hiding her from Wade’s view or simply offering his support.

  But one thing was clear. He could feel the chill of her skin through her shirt. Answering a vague alarm inside his head, he automatically began to rub her shoulders, offering his heat, his strength—whatever she’d been robbed of at that moment.

  But apparently his touch was not what she needed. Or wanted. She slipped away, and the next moment he could hear her at the sink, running water, busying herself cleaning up a few dishes.

  Wade had followed her movements, too. “That was good pie, ma’am. I hope it’s okay that I polished it off.”

  “Sure.”

  Mac pinpointed the source of Wade’s voice, and turned to face the sound. “I don’t mind if you eat the food, Osterman. But next time you come in, announce yourself. There’s no sense giving Ms. Dalton a fright.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. I’ll just, uh, take this last bit with me.” The water continued to run and Julia continued to work, oblivious to Wade’s apology or Mac’s defense.

  Her sudden silence was a stark contrast to the woman who had barked orders at Wade only moments ago. What was it about conversations taking a personal turn that made her withdraw like that? With too many thoughts to analyze, Mac opted for the one he had the best chance of understanding. He turned to Osterman. “I’ll walk you out.”

  “You can do that?”

  Mac bristled at the officer’s surprise, but didn’t respond. “Let me hold your arm.”

  Reluctantly, Wade let him grab on and led him into the living room. Mac used the opportunity to learn the dimensions of their ravenous bodyguard. He discovered Osterman was right-handed since there was no gun on his left side. He wasn’t sure why he wanted that information, but the time it took to find it out gave Julia a moment to recover from whatever had made her blood run cold like that.

  Seven steps from the kitchen Wade stopped. The chain lock rattled and the dead bolt slid into the open position with an authoritative thunk. “Can you lock up behind me?”

  Mac nodded as the door opened and a brisk breeze from the damp autumn night cooled his naked torso. “You’re on duty until eight in the morning?”

  “I get a replacement at noon.”

  Mac had been a scientist and a cop. The natural instinct to press for answers until his curiosity was satisfied kept him asking questions. “What did Captain Taylor tell you about this assignment?”

  The breeze diverted, hitting Mac in the arm now. Wade must be blocking the doorway. “The captain?” Hesitation gurgled in Wade’s throat. Was he searching his memory for Mitch’s orders?

  “Captain Taylor did tell you why you were here, right?”

  “Right.” Wade sucked in an audible breath. “He said I should watch the house. Said maybe the explosion at the lab wasn’t an accident. That somebody might be gunning for you, too.”

  “So you’re here to protect me, not keep an eye on me.”

  Mac got the impression that subterfuge wasn’t easy for this big tank of a man. He had less trust of Osterman’s next answer. “That’s right. Look. I’m sorry if I over-stepped my bounds and all. It’s just, I haven’t had homecookin’ in a long while. Not since my divorce. It was hard to resist. You’re not going to report me for leaving my post, are you?”

  “Not this time.” Mac braced his hands on his hips and trained his unfocused gaze on the words from Wade’s throat. “Just keep in mind what I said about announcing yourself. And report anything you see to me, all right?”

  “Yes, sir.” The breeze swirled around him as Wade hesitated in the open doorway. “You’ll, uh, smooth things out with Ms. Dalton, right?”

  The boyish plea in that incongruously deep voice almost made Mac laugh. But giving in to humor might shatter the illusion of authority he’d established with the uniformed officer. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thanks. Good night.”

  “Good night, Osterman.”

  The last of the cool air was cut off when the door closed. Mac searched until he found the dead bolt, then pulled the door open again. He wrapped his fingers around the outside edge and ran his fingertips along the keyhole itself. A set of eyes couldn’t give him a clearer impression. The brass felt smooth and cold. And solid and unblemished as the day his brother Brett had installed it.

  No sign of forced entry.

  He set aside his curiosity for the moment and locked the door. Once he had the chain fastened, he extended his arm and turned. He hit the back of the sofa and used it to orient him in the direction of the kitchen.

  When he bumped the old oak molding framing the archway into the kitchen, he shifted into the opening. Julia was still busy at the sink. Washing dishes, from the lemony smell of things.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t lie to me. I’m at enough of a disadvantage as it is.” He lifted his arms and shuffled, Frankenstein-like, across the kitchen. “Osterman said something that bothered you. Your body temperature dropped a good five degrees.”

  The surprise in her voice was clear as she faced him. “You could tell that?”

  At least she didn’t deny her reaction. Her wet, soapy fingers latched on to his elbow and guided him to the counter beside her before quickly releasing him.

  “I’m discovering I can tell a lot about what’s going on around me if I put my mind to it. What was wrong?”

  A moment passed before she answered. “He said the door was open. But I swear I locked them both. I double-checked them before I turned in. It’s a habit from living alone in Chicago.”

  A smart one, in his opinion. And one that made him all the more suspicious of their so-called bodyguard. He reached for her elbow, soap suds and all. “Take me to the back door. Now.”

  He was quickly getting used to the subtle sway of her body moving in synchronous step with his. Twenty-four hours ago he’d been stumbling around his house, cursing anything that jumped into his path. Now, with Julia at his side, those hazards fell by the wayside. He could move. He could think. He could act.

  As he suspected, the door to the back porch was bolted tight.

  Julia tried to rationalize Wade’s entry into the house. “That proves nothing. It would be simple enough to lock it behind him once he was in. Should I check for broken windows?”

  “No, we would have heard that. Examine the lock again. Are there scratch marks around the keyhole itself?”

  “You mean like it’d been picked?”

  “Yes.”

  He waited. “I don’t see anything.”

  Forget solving Jeff Ringlein’s death. Mac couldn’t even solve this simple problem. Yet.

  Out of instinct, he started to pace. Two steps and a solid wall cut short that avenue. In a flash of frustrated anger, he turned on Jules. “Did you give Osterman a key?”

  “No. I don’t have one. Your mother let me in.”

  What w
as going on here?

  “Then how the hell did he get inside my house?”

  JULIA ROLLED UP the sleeves of her olive green canvas shirt before pulling the toaster down from the cabinet beside the fridge. A ham and cheese omelette bubbled in the frying pan on the stove and the coffee was ready to be poured.

  Though she hadn’t gotten to bed until nearly 2 a.m., sleep had been an elusive thing. But Wade’s mysterious midnight visit had been the least of her concerns.

  I’m thinking of you as a woman.

  She’d only been doing her job, helping out a patient who needed her assistance. But, in all honesty, she hadn’t been entirely professional about helping Mac with his toilette. She’d never gotten to touch him like that before.

  She’d never touched any man like that.

  She never thought she could.

  Fingertips tracing the angles and dipping into the contours of his rugged face. Her palms receiving a jillion little jolts of electricity as she rubbed them along his beard.

  Not even Dr. Anthony Cardello’s six-month seduction had made her so aware of a man. Anthony had been her last hope. Her last hurrah.

  Her biggest mistake.

  Last night, she’d almost set herself on a similar collision course with doomsday.

  In those brief, charged moments with Mac, something inside her had awakened. All her schoolgirl dreams of what it might be like to be truly intimate with a man had escaped the little Pandora’s box she kept tightly locked deep inside her heart. That little locked box had saved her from humiliation more times than she cared to remember.

  I’m thinking of you as a woman.

  She’d been thinking of Mac as a man.

  She’d known it had been wrong to stare at the lean angles and planes of Mac’s bare chest. She’d marveled at the healing power of pink scarred skin. The damage from the burns he’d suffered reached down like an angry claw from his right shoulder. But the talons of marred skin faded into healthy flesh tones and a golden mat of hair that nestled between his pectoral muscles and thinned into a long line running down to the snap of his jeans.