In the Blink of an Eye

A new emotion worked its way into Mac’s brain. Regret. He didn’t want her close to him, didn’t want to need her the way he apparently did. But he’d felt strengthened when she was at his side. He felt like something was missing when she walked away.

Before he could fully analyze those new and discomforting thoughts, Mitch laughed. “Jules? You mean Julia Dalton? That tomboy across the street who ran around with Cole? I guess they all grow up, don’t they?”

“Yeah.” Though most of what Mac remembered about Jules were her skills as a second baseman, he’d learned a lot about the grown-up version of the girl next door in the past few hours. Julia Dalton had matured into a sweet-smelling woman. And the way his nerve endings sat up and took notice of her sharp wit and shrewd tongue breathed energy and sunshine into his dark, gloomy world.

Not that he was ready to deal with energy and sunshine yet.

His body heated with the memory of her figure imprinting into his. His imagination hadn’t pictured anything close to a tomboy then.

His face and body had been diced and burned and sewn back together, while she’d matured into a soft-skinned woman, with strong shoulders and rounded hips, and eyes…

What color eyes did she have, anyway?

And why did it matter?

He had no better chance of solving that mystery than he had of making sense of Jeff Ringlein’s death.

“They grow up, all right.” He ended the trip down memory lane. “Thanks, Mitch.”

“I’ll keep in touch.”

Mac pressed several buttons before he disconnected the phone and could lay it on the desk. Some nagging bit of information, buried in the dark recesses of his mind tried to make itself known, but failed to make sense. He’d seen Julia’s eyes before. He’d seen them, but he couldn’t remember them.

He added that to the list of mysteries a blind man could never solve.

OFFICER WADE OSTERMAN ate more than enough to fill his six-foot, six-inch frame. He weighed in at a bulky two hundred eighty, only fifteen pounds under his playing weight, as Julia had learned while sharing dinner with the uniformed policeman. He’d played semi-pro football. Defensive lineman.

On his third helping of mashed potatoes, she found out he could have played in the pros if his knees had held up. “And my wife had stayed with me,” he added. It was more a philosophical remark than an expression of remorse. “She was always my best cheerleader, even when she wasn’t wearing that cute little skirt.”

Julia wondered if his confession needed some kind of response. Did she express sorrow over his dissolved marriage? Ask if he’d had his knees scoped? Since she didn’t know what to make of the big, blustery charmer, she ended up simply asking, “Do you have room in there for dessert?”

She’d finished her pork chop, green beans and potatoes a while back, but had remained at the kitchen table to keep Wade company.

And to wait for Mac to make an appearance.

She’d given her mother a very specific list of groceries to bring to the house, hoping to lure Mac out of his room with the comforting scents of home cooking. But the enticement had failed. He’d gone without anything to eat all day, unless he had something stashed in his bedroom.

Hell. Something could be rotting in that room, and no one would smell it because of the assortment of chemicals he kept on his dresser.

What was that all about, anyway?

“I smelled that pie when I came in this afternoon. I can hardly wait. Usually, on a job like this, I get stuck with takeout.” Wade had been on duty for only four hours, but already he’d made himself at home. “You got ice cream to go with that?”

“Sure.”

Julia cleared the dishes and took the ice cream out of the freezer to soften up. She couldn’t help but look through the archway that led into the rest of the house. She’d stuck to her professional guns today, refusing to take any food to Mac. But his suffering pulled at her personal heartstrings.

He needed medical attention, food and liquids. But first she’d hoped he could work through the chips of guilt and self-pity and anger that burdened his shoulders. A patient had little chance of healing if he didn’t make the effort to heal himself.

“Who do you think is gonna win the World Series this year?” Wade interrupted her thoughts. Normally, she loved discussing sports. But tonight she had to force an interest in the topic.

“Braves, probably.” She repeated a line she’d heard her father say more than once. “Good pitching beats good hitting.”

“You think they can take the Yankees? I got half a paycheck riding on New York. I got a tip that says they’re making a trade for another left-hander in their pitching lineup. That’d make them a sure thing.”

Wade was off on another conversation that required no input from herself. How could the guy be so amiable while discussing divorce and throwing away his money on a bet?

She served his pie and ice cream, biting back the urge to ask if risking half his paycheck had anything to do with his wife leaving him. But Wade was just a casual acquaintance. She had no right to comment on his personal life.

Besides, she had a more important task to accomplish. She dished up another serving in a large bowl, grabbed a spoon, and stiffened her backbone for the upcoming battle. “Excuse me, Wade. I need to check on Mac.”

“S’okay,” he said with a wad of food in his mouth. “It’s seven o’clock. Better check the perimeter again.” He stood, towering over Julia and swallowing up the space in the kitchen. He held up his dish like a starving waif. “S’okay if I take this with me?”

She still wasn’t quite sure what Mitch Taylor wanted to protect Mac from, but she didn’t question the security of having this friendly giant on guard outside the house. “Go ahead.”

She followed Wade to the front door and locked it behind him, then walked to the back of the house. She’d spent the afternoon cleaning, so the path was clear, but she’d need some muscle to move the furniture into an easier layout for Mac to negotiate. Maybe she’d just sent a prime recruit outside with pie and ice cream. That small bit of good fortune carried her all the way to Mac’s locked bedroom door.

The battered oak could be turned into a beautiful piece of wood if it was stripped and refinished. She wondered what it would take to break it down. Maybe Mac’s hard head. But she’d try other means first.

She didn’t bother knocking. No sense giving him the opportunity to be rude. “Mac?” No answer. “Your dinner is cold. I brought dessert. Apple pie and ice cream. Can you smell it?”

“Go away.”

Julia breathed deeply. She knew this wouldn’t be easy. “Your sense of smell should be more acute now.” She passed the bowl along the seam of the door, shamelessly tantalizing him. “It’s still warm. Take a whiff.”

“Acute?!”

A couple of quick footsteps preceded the sound of a skeleton key twisting in the lock. She jumped back when Mac wrenched open the door. His hand shot out. Julia dodged a poke in the jaw, and barely managed to switch the pie from one hand to the other before his searching fingers clamped down on her wrist and dragged her inside.

“Smell these.”

He spun her toward the dresser. Toward the parade of glass beakers. He moved his hand to the back of her neck, pushing her forward, forcing her to inhale the mishmash of toxic vapors. Her sinuses burned. She shook her head, but his grip held fast. “Can you tell which one is flammable? Which one is safe?”

“You’re hurting me.” Her plea fell on deaf ears. His hand tapped across the dresser and picked up a beaker with a surety that made her think he’d done it several times before.

He thrust the glass beneath her nose. “Do you think this is the one that Jeff used to destroy those samples? Is this what blew up in his face? I can’t tell the difference anymore. Can you?”

“Dammit, Mac!” Forgetting any rule about treating the patient with care, Julia defended herself. She shoved the beaker away from her face and twisted within his grasp. The beaker flew into the air and he released her.

Reflex actions made her lunge for the glass to try and save it, but she stumbled over Mac’s foot. Her legs knotted with his when he tried to move away. And then they were falling. The beaker shattered on the floor the same instant Mac hit the bed and she landed on top of him.

Fortunately, he’d taunted her with water. Nothing dangerous. But manhandling her was a crime she would not forgive. Patience be damned. The man was going to eat.

Julia plopped herself on Mac’s stomach, keeping him off balance when he tried to rise to his feet. She scraped the spoon through the bowl, splashing melted ice cream onto his shirt. She aimed for his mouth and hit her target, startling him into swallowing the food. Her victory fired her up for a second try.

But blind or not, Mac proved amazingly quick. He rolled. The bowl and spoon hit him in the face, but he knocked them aside and pinned Julia beneath him. “You want to take advantage of a blind man, Jules? Is that what you want?”

In a heartbeat, the breath rushed out of her and she froze. Long and lean, Mac’s body stretched beyond the length of hers. Their legs tangled together, his hips fitting snugly over hers. His hands had found her shoulders, and the tip of one long thumb branded her across the top curve of her breast. His face hovered mere inches above hers, close enough to feel each fevered breath brush across her cheek.