Man Behind The Voice. Lisa Bingham
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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.
A bolt of white-hot energy shot through his body. It took all the will he could muster to tear himself away and walk resolutely into the dining room.
Chapter Three
“Do you mind telling me why we’re in such a hurry to get out of Denver?” One-Eye asked as he dropped his duffel bag on the floor and planted his hands on his hips.
“We’re not in a rush,” Jack reassured him. “I just want to catch the first flight this morning, that’s all.”
One-Eye snorted. “There’s another one leaving in three hours. Why wake us both at the crack of dawn?”
Jack didn’t bother to answer the man. After a restless night, haunted by dreams of Eleanor Rappaport, he was in no mood to humor anyone. He wanted to be rid of Denver as soon as possible.
“If you were to ask me,” One-Eye continued without urging, “I’d say your recent concussion must have rattled some of your marbles. You’re as jumpy as a one-armed man in a boxing ring. You ought to relax, see the sights. We could take in a tour of the Mint or one of the local resorts. There’s baseball, or…”
Barely listening to One-Eye’s monologue, Jack packed his belongings into a canvas bag and called the airline to confirm their tickets. Then, after ushering One-Eye from the room, he allowed the older man to drive to the airport, all the while enduring his chatter about the sights they would miss.
Once at the airport Jack paid for the car with his credit card, casting glances at the bold digital clock that ticked off the minutes to his flight. He and One-Eye would have to hurry.
Spurred by his thoughts, Jack rushed to the waiting shuttle bus. “Come on, One-Eye, or we’ll miss our plane.”
“Coming!” One-Eye grumbled, clearly loath to hurry any more than he had already.
Once the bus had dropped them off at the terminal, Jack checked the overhead monitors, then loped in the direction of the underground train, which would take them to the proper boarding gate. With each jarring step, his head pounded more fiercely, and his chest grew tight with something akin to guilt.
But why should he feel guilty? He’d come to Denver, seen Eleanor Rappaport and reassured himself that she was dealing with her blindness. What more could anyone demand of him? He wasn’t indebted to her in any way. The accident all those months ago had been just that…an accident. Even Eleanor Rappaport’s mother had insisted as much, according to the news report Jack had seen the morning after the incident. No charges had ever been filed against any of the people involved, no lawsuits begun.
So he shouldn’t feel anything but relief in escaping Colorado.
As he emerged onto concourse B, Jack heard their flight being announced and breathed a sigh of relief. He and One-Eye had arrived in time to board, but were late enough that Jack wouldn’t have to sit in the terminal and ponder the strange events that had brought him to this place. Within hours he would be in Los Angeles, back in his apartment, back in his normal routine.
Jack dodged around the other travelers, taking the escalator steps two at a time, while One-Eye trotted after him like a devoted puppy.
As soon as they arrived in Los Angeles, Jack would arrange