Man Behind The Voice

One-Eye lapsed into silence for a moment, then said, “So is this meeting an accident?”

Jack glared at him. “You picked the restaurant.”

The man chewed thoughtfully. “That’s right. I did.”

One-Eye’s suspicions appeared to have been allayed, but Jack wished his own could be so easily put to rest. The fact that Eleanor had come here, to a table mere feet away from his own, was enough to make a pragmatist believe in the powers of Fate.

“The accident was months ago,” One-eye remarked after a moment of silence. “What made you start worrying about her again?”

Jack shrugged. “I guess the rollover in Washington reminded me of her. I’ve been thinking about her ever since.”

Thinking?

Obsessing would be a better term. Ever since her image had begun to haunt him, he’d been unable to concentrate on anything else.

“She seems to be getting along well,” One-Eye observed.

“Yes. She does.”

Tearing his attention away from the woman, Jack forced himself to eat. He even managed to carry on a normal conversation with One-Eye until the two elderly women led Eleanor out the French doors to the lobby beyond, then left her there. Alone. Jack watched as they went to the desk and began conversing with the manager, leaving Eleanor standing near the tufted armchairs.

One-Eye lapsed into silence—an unusual event for him, especially when his belly was full and the coffee was rich and black.

“Why don’t you go talk to her?”

Jack jumped as if One-Eye had touched him with a cattle prod. “What?”

“Go talk to her.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think I should.”

“Why not?” One-Eye’s grin was lazy. “Hell’s bells, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so antsy.”

Jack scowled at the man, then realized One-Eye was right. He hadn’t tasted any of his food, even though he’d eaten his fill. All of his energies had been directed toward Eleanor Rappaport.

What would it hurt to talk to her?

Jack stood from the table and made his way through the French doors. With each step he damned himself for feeling a need to make contact with the woman. After all, she’d been the one to come to this restaurant. She’d been the one to inspire this confrontation.

What did he plan to say to her, anyway? Hi, this is Jack MacAllister? Remember me? I’m the one who held you that night you lost your sight? I know it was an accident, but you probably hate me still because it was my truck that struck your car. Nevertheless, I’d like to…

What? What would he like to say or do for this woman?

Jack halted a few feet away from her, inwardly cursing. This whole situation was insane. There was no casual way to force an introduction. He couldn’t approach her out of the blue.

Then, as if his doubts had been heard by some unseen force, he watched disbelievingly as the silk scarf she’d draped over one shoulder caught a gust of air from the front door and fluttered to the floor.

“Damn.”

He heard her curse under her breath and grinned. My, my, my. Perhaps she wasn’t as prim and proper as she appeared to be in her high-buttoned dress and lacy collar.

Picking up the scarf, Jack did his best to ignore the waft of perfume that twined around his senses.

“I believe this is yours,” he said to Eleanor.

She didn’t start, so he supposed she must have heard his approach.

“Thank you.”

She held her hand out, and he laid the scarf there, resisting the urge to stroke it over her palm to see if her skin was as sensitive as it looked.

“My pleasure.”

Her head cocked to one side. “I was with a pair of older women and—”

“They’re still at the manager’s desk. Would you like me to call them over?”

“No. That won’t be necessary. I merely thought they would be done with their negotiations by now.”

“Negotiations?”

“My landladies are belly dancing enthusiasts. They would like to schedule the banquet room for an upcoming workshop.”

Jack shot a glance at the two women who stood by the desk. “Belly dancing?”

Her lips twitched with open amusement. “It’s only one of many pastimes they have. They also indulge in social dancing, anthropology and yoga. They even belong to a gun club.”

He whistled softly, liking the way that Eleanor’s features had brightened with humor. “That sounds interesting.”

She shrugged, and the gesture caused the silky fabric of her dress to move against her shoulders. Idly, he wondered what Eleanor Rappaport would do if he touched her there. Just once. Just long enough to assure himself that she was real.

But then his eyes shifted, and he absorbed the folds of fabric draped over her rounded stomach.

She’s real, his inner voice assured him wryly. She’s real and she’s off-limits.

So why didn’t the reminder of her condition dissuade him from looking at her? He could feel a faint heat seeping into his arm where she stood closest to him. The hint of perfume that had clung to her scarf also clung to her hair. Her skin.

Jack opened his mouth to say something more, something to give him a reason to linger near her for a moment longer. But when he heard the elderly women making their goodbyes to the manager, he knew it was time to go. He’d decided he didn’t want Eleanor’s landladies to see him with their charge. Why such a thing would matter, he didn’t know. But he needed this moment, this meeting, to be between him and Eleanor, no one else.

“Will you be all right here alone?” He paused, then couldn’t resist adding, “Perhaps I should wait until your husband returns.”

He knew full well that there had been no male accompanying the women, but he had to know for sure.

Eleanor’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “There is no husband,” she said patting her stomach gently. “And I’ll be fine. Thank you. My companions seem to be coming back.”

“Then I’ll be on my way.”

He touched her then. He couldn’t help it. He had to lay his hand over her shoulder and squeeze ever so slightly.