Man Behind The Voice

The thump of the doors roused her from her stupor, and she descended the steep steps, feeling carefully with her toe before stepping onto the curb. Once safe and sound, she hit the bicycle bell with her thumb, a signal to Burt Mescalero that he could drive on.

Behind her, the engine grumbled and whined, and a fine spray of water splashed the backs of her legs. Then she was alone.

Eleanor arched her neck to relieve it of the kink the muscles had developed after an hour huddled at the cramped food counter of The Flick Theatre, an establishment near old Larimer Square that was devoted to playing classic movies in their original, wide-screen format.

“Damn those gumdrops,” she said to herself, referring to a case of candies that had fallen down the back stairs, spilling cellophane-wrapped packages all over the storeroom floor. Eleanor had spent a half hour on her hands and knees picking them up. If not for that small disaster, she would have been home on one of Burt’s earlier runs. But…c’est la vie, as her mother would say. Everything happened for a reason.

Absolutely everything.

A sharp gust of cold air swirled around her ankles, and she huddled even tighter into the shelter of her coat. It was cold this evening. Too cold for the beginning of May, she decided, as she took three precise steps to the center of the sidewalk, turned right and began to count.

One, two, three, four…

She tapped her cane on the wet pavement ahead of her, seeking out the obstacles her eyes couldn’t see. Not clearly, anyhow. Sometimes she experienced hazy patches of gray or muted blotches of light. But for the most part her world was one of darkness. An inescapable darkness that would be her constant companion at least until the baby was born. And then…

She didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to think about the corneal transplant surgery her ophthalmologist had proposed, not knowing whether such an operation would allow her to see as she once had or leave her fumbling in a world of light and shadows.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…

Everyone she knew said Eleanor had adjusted beautifully—her doctor, her mother, her co-workers. But Eleanor wasn’t so certain. Oh, she could find her way around town, perform her duties at work and live on her own. But sometimes, on nights like these, when she was angry and tired and out of sorts, she couldn’t help thinking that she was a poor sport in God’s little game of life. Perhaps if she hadn’t relied so heavily upon her sight as an artist, she might not have regarded the loss with such bitterness. She might have been able to “suffer with elegance” as her sister Blythe had once advised her to do.

As it happened, she couldn’t seem to resign herself to the fact that her identity had been shattered the moment her head had collided with the window frame of her car. The change in fortunes bothered the hell out of her, burning at the pit of her stomach whenever she allowed herself to think about it.

She’d been a good artist, dammit.

She’d been asked to have a show at the National Gallery.

And a partial return of her sight would never allow her to retain the finesse she’d once mastered.

Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight…

Eleanor Rappaport’s boot heels rapped sharply against the pavement—and for a moment she thought she heard an accompanying set of footsteps behind her. Automatically she quickened her pace. It annoyed her how some people felt that her being blind was the same as being incompetent. She didn’t want help crossing the street, she didn’t want anyone leading her home like a stray puppy. She could do it herself.

But as she quickened her step, the sounds behind her increased their speed, echoing her own pace. Thinking whoever was behind her wanted to pass, she stopped and turned.

The noises stopped, as well.

The anger that had been building in her all day raged even hotter. She hated being made to appear a fool, almost as much as she hated being made to appear helpless.

“Who’s there?” she called out.

No answer. Only the sputter of the rain gurgling down a nearby gutter.

Eleanor squinted, blinking against the moisture dripping from her hair, down her face, off her dark glasses, hoping to catch a shadow, a shape. But the light was too poor to allow her even the haziest of images.

Shivering, she began to walk again, crossing the quiet street, moving as quickly as she could. She didn’t have the patience for such pranks. It was time she arrived home, out of the rain.

But after only a few steps she realized she’d lost count.

Damn.

Damn, damn, damn.

Ringing the bell on her cane, she lifted her head calling out, “Minnie! Maude!”

As she waited for a response from her landladies, who were elderly, unmarried and avid game-show fanatics, a tightness closed around her throat and she paused, swallowing hard. For a moment the frustration closed in on her like a shroud. The same frustration that had dogged her since that night when she’d been pulled from the mangled wreckage of her car. While waiting for an ambulance, she’d focused on a stranger’s face. The red glow of flares had flickered over dark hair and even darker eyes. Then the colors had grown dim and died completely away, leaving her grasping at the hand of a stranger as she was plunged into nothingness.

Stop it! She didn’t want to remember that night. Not tonight.

Ringing the bell more stridently than before, Eleanor shouted, “Minnie—”

“Here, dear,” a sweet, old voice interrupted, providing Eleanor with the bearings she needed.

Minnie.

Since Eleanor’s grandmother had lived in this neighborhood before she’d died, Minnie and Maude Vanderbilt had been her dearest friends. They’d even been godmothers to Eleanor’s mother, and Eleanor had known them both as a child. She pictured Minnie as she’d been then. Short and plump with cotton-candy hair rinsed a pale shade of yellow. She was the perfect foil for her older sister, Maude, who was tall and reed thin and wore an array of different-colored wigs.

“My lands, you’re soaked to the skin, child. Maude’s not home right now, but I could fix you a cup of tea. Jeopardy! is about to start, and you can watch it with me as you dry out.”

Eleanor made her way toward the voice, but it was only when she encountered the rough, peeling paint of a picket fence that the tension building inside her breast eased.

Had someone really been following her? Dogging her steps? The hairs at her nape prickled in warning, but there were no sounds to substantiate the suspicion. Nothing that the rain didn’t completely obscure.

As soon as her toe touched the bottom step to the brownstone’s stoop, she asked, “Minnie, is there anyone behind me on the sidewalk?” Her voice much weaker than she would have wished.

If Minnie thought the request was odd, she didn’t say so. Eleanor caught the scent of geraniums as Minnie leaned forward. “No, dear. There’s no one there. Let’s get you inside.”

When Minnie offered her elbow, Eleanor took it, stepping into the vestibule of the old building and shaking the rain from her coat.

Even so, she knew she hadn’t imagined anything.

Someone had been out there.

Someone had followed her home.

“How about that tea?” Minnie asked.

Still shaken, Eleanor headed for the stairs. “Thanks, Minnie, but I think I’ll head up to my own apartment. After the day I’ve had, I’m ready for a long soak in the tub.”

“Very well. You call if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

But even as she climbed the steps, Eleanor couldn’t push away the feeling that she was being watched.

Chapter Two

Jack MacAllister remained in the shadow of a doorway directly across the street, mere yards from where he had first encountered Eleanor Rappaport.

Less than twenty-four hours had elapsed since Jack had decided to see Eleanor. To his surprise, she’d been easy enough to find. A search of the Internet had resulted in his learning she resided in Denver, and a look at the Yellow Pages had revealed an E. Rappaport. After silently debating with himself, Jack had made a quick call…

The moment he’d heard her voice, he’d felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach. He’d become suddenly tongue-tied—and feeling like an adolescent fool, he’d hung up without saying a word.

Eleanor Rappaport.

His head was pounding, but this time the sensation had nothing to do with a concussion and everything to do with stunned disbelief. He had seen this woman only once before, at the scene of a horrible accident. He had been there to help drag her from her car, he had cradled her head in his lap as he’d waited for the emergency teams to arrive.

He’d been there to watch the light grow dim in her eyes.

Jack’s knees became weak, and he sank onto the top step of the small, family owned grocery store. Bowing his head, he took huge gulps of rain-soaked air in an effort to calm his erratic thoughts. Wave upon wave, the nightmares he’d been experiencing for months inundated his senses, but that was nothing compared to what he had just seen in the flesh. The living embodiment of his dreams.

Growling to himself, Jack stood, striding into the rain and into the night. Whatever internal need had dragged him to Denver had been satisfied, and now he was leaving. For good. He’d seen Eleanor Rappaport. She was still blind, but apparently coping.

And pregnant. Very, very pregnant. Why hadn’t he known she was pregnant?

A strange, twisting sensation gripped his chest. The accident had occurred six months earlier, so she couldn’t have been too far along when she’d lost her sight.

Jack wrenched his thoughts back into line. Eleanor Rappaport’s pregnancy was none of his business.

“What’s up?” One-Eye asked from the passenger seat of the too-small rental car.

“Nothing.”

“Is that the girl?”

“Yeah.” His brief reply discouraged any more questions. “I’m ready to head to L.A. now.”

“You what?” One-Eye blurted. “But we just got here. We’ve checked into a hotel, laid out our dainties—”

“We’re going home, One-Eye,” Jack said sternly.

One-Eye shrugged and settled back in his seat. “Fine. If you don’t want to tell me what brought you all the way to Denver—”

Jack remained silent.

“You know that Rappaport woman is nothing but a stranger.” One-Eye grimaced. “’Course, you weren’t looking at her like a stranger.”

Jack shot the older man a scathing look, but his irritation bounced off the man’s weathered hide.

One-Eye still looked perplexed at the reason for their impromptu visit to Denver, so Jack offered what he hoped would sound like a logical explanation. “I’ve been thinking about her lately. I wanted to make sure she was doing all right.”

“Uh-huh.” But it was clear that One-Eye thought Jack was leaving something out.

“Now that I’ve had a chance to see her, I’m ready to go home. Do you have any objections?”

One-Eye shook his head. “That’s fine by me. But why can’t we have a steak and a good night’s sleep before we get back on another plane?”

Jack opened his mouth to insist that they leave Denver. Now. But seeing One-Eye’s hopeful expression, he relented.

“Fine. I’ll book us on a flight tomorrow morning.”

One-Eye grinned. “Now you’re talking! Let’s find us a place to eat.”

“COME ALONG, DEAR. We won’t take no for an answer.”

Eleanor grimaced, realizing that what Maude said was true. Once Minnie and Maude got an idea in their heads, they would move Heaven and Earth to get their own way.

In many ways Eleanor was grateful for her landladies’ single-minded determinedness. Such resolve had led them to accompany Regina Rappaport to her daughter’s hospital room after the accident. While Regina had stayed by Eleanor’s bedside, reassuring Eleanor time and again that she hadn’t miscarried, Minnie and Maude had searched for the best specialists in the country. These same doctors had treated Eleanor’s injuries, allowing her to see some light and shadow and had given her hope for future transplant surgery. As Eleanor had begun to recover more fully, Minnie and Maude had been there to comfort her when her fiancé had abruptly called off their two-year engagement. They’d weathered her moods from rage to despair—to the euphoria she’d experienced when her ultrasound had revealed no evident trauma to the baby. Bit by bit, they’d bullied and cajoled her into rejoining the “real world.” The sisters had even offered her their upstairs apartment in Denver so that Eleanor could continue to live on her own and fend for herself. And once the baby was born…well, they had already made plans to be her live-in nannies.

But there were times Eleanor wished Minnie and Maude could be a bit more malleable. Like tonight. After the day she’d had, Eleanor wasn’t in the mood to go out to dinner in a crowded restaurant, eat unfamiliar food, and chit-chat with her mother’s godmothers.

“Go on. Get dressed. There’s a love,” Minnie said with a push at Eleanor’s shoulders.

Rolling her eyes, Eleanor realized it would be much easier to surrender than fight.

“Just grit your teeth and bear it, little one,” she murmured to the tiny life nestled beneath her heart. Then, with a soothing rub of her hand over her stomach to still the sudden flurry of agitated kicks, she plodded to the bedroom.

JACK WAS SURPRISED when One-Eye decided upon an intimate, elegant restaurant located on the ground floor of the Kensington Hotel. The two of them were led to a small room that held only four tables and had been decorated to resemble a Victorian dining hall.

A waiter in a starched white shirt and pleated black trousers, handed them a menu, then went to gather their drinks.

One-Eye clapped his hands together, surveying the list of food. “Hot damn! This is better than any lunch wagon, isn’t it?”

Since both of them had spent most of the last three months eating from catering trucks on the set, Jack had to agree. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to sit down to a meal without having a thousand work details waiting for his attention.

“So what’s your next project?” One-Eye asked.

Jack shrugged. “I’ve got an action film scheduled for the fall, but I’m thinking of taking some time off until then.”

One-Eye nodded sagely. “That sounds like a winning plan. You look like hell.”

Jack grimaced. “Thanks a lot.”

“No, I mean it. You look like a horse that’s been ridden hard and put away without a rubdown—and it’s not just the accident. You’ve been pushing yourself too much these past few years.”

The waiter arrived with their drinks and appetizers, preventing Jack from replying. As he gave his order, he glanced at an oval mirror hanging above a marble fireplace.

Did he really look that bad? Granted, he’d been working hard, lately, but after a couple of weeks, he’d be fine.

“Jack, I know you think I’m pestering you,” One-Eye continued as soon as the waiter had left. “But I’ve been worried about you, boy.”

Everyone was a boy to One-Eye.

“I’ve seen this sort of thing happen before in this business. A man gets himself a reputation for being good at his stunts, he takes every job he can, works long hours, forgets about his own needs.”

“Needs?” Jack echoed, his eyes drawn to a figure swimming into view in the old mirror.

Long, dark hair. Blue eyes.

His gut tensed in reaction, a chill sweeping through his body. Eleanor Rappaport? What was she doing here?

“A man’s got to have a life outside his job,” One-Eye was saying. “Why, I can’t remember the last time I even saw you with a woman. It’s not natural, I tell you. If you ask me, I think you should…”

One-Eye’s advice lapped over Jack like a warm wave, barely registering in his consciousness. Instead, he found himself watching Eleanor Rappaport as she made her way to the table opposite his own.

Sit down, he found himself silently wishing. Sit down there, facing me.

As if she’d heard the words being spoken aloud, she hesitated, then made her way to the far side. A tall woman wearing a raven wig held her chair, then gestured for another elderly woman to do the same. Jack immediately recognized the smaller old woman as being an occupant of the brownstone with the shocking-pink door. Eleanor must live with the pair of women.

Jack watched Eleanor fold her cane, then place it in the bag she’d set on the floor. When she straightened, she looked his way, and he averted his eyes—then mocked himself for such an instinctive reaction. She couldn’t see him. She couldn’t know he was staring at her.

“Are you finished?”

He started when the waiter reached toward his half-eaten salad.

“No. I’m still working on it.”

“Of course.”

The waiter placed a bowl of thick seafood chowder on the table, then retreated.

“She’s a pretty girl,” One-eye commented slyly.

Jack glanced at One-Eye, then away.

“Yes. She is.”

“Isn’t that the same woman you saw earlier?”

Jack forced himself to keep his attention on his plate and eat.

“Yes. That’s her.”

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.

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…”