She’d never gotten to touch Mac 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. Julia’s palms receiving a jillion little jolts of electricity as she rubbed them along his beard.

Nothing in her limited experience had ever made her so aware of a man.

In last night’s 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, he’d said.

Well, she was certainly thinking of him as a man….

In the Blink of an Eye
Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

MacKinley Taylor—His brilliant mind and legendary control can’t help him see. But they might help him see the truth.

Julia Dalton—How far will she go to help a childhood hero? She’s willing to risk her life—but does she dare risk her heart?

Jeff Ringlein—Mac’s protégé. Just who was he afraid of?

Melanie Ringlein—How much does a public servant’s pension pay, anyway?

Inspector Joe Niederhaus—An Internal Affairs investigator due to receive his gold watch. He plans to get his man one last time. Even if it’s the wrong one.

Inspector Eli Masterson—Joe’s partner. This Internal Affairs man has learned from the best. But who is receiving the benefit of his inside information?

Wade Osterman—A uniformed police officer with a bad habit of betting on the games.

Arnie Sanchez—Missing evidence would get his case dismissed.

Martha Taylor—Meddling mother #1. Is this matchmaker in over her head, trying to rescue her second son?

Barbara Dalton—Meddling mother #2. She is only trying to help her daughter.

Mitch Taylor—There’s a cover-up going on in his precinct. Is the traitor’s identity closer to home than he realizes?

For Scott and Ryne

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Prologue

Mac Taylor adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose and studied the slim band of light beneath the door to the Fourth Precinct Crime Lab. He glanced at his watch to check the time again. 1:13 a.m. A shuffle of movement drew his focus back to the door at the end of the hallway opposite his office.

“I thought I was the one married to my job.” Who would be in the lab at this hour? As sure and even as his footsteps down the deserted corridor, his mind clicked with possibilities.

Custodian? No. They weren’t allowed in the lab itself. Thief? In a police building with officers on duty twenty-four hours a day just one floor down? Not likely. Technician? The Fourth was a satellite unit that kept regular office hours. Only the main lab south of town stayed open around the clock.

With the possibilities systematically rejected, only one option remained. Trouble.

Tucking the manila envelope with the technical data he carried under his arm, he turned the knob and opened the door, identifying the intruder before he allowed himself to be heard.

“Jeff?”

His quiet voice startled the ponytailed chemist in the white lab coat. Jeff Ringlein hunched his compact shoulders over the stainless-steel counter, righting the instrument tray he’d hit with his elbow.

“Mac.” His hands stilled their work, but he didn’t turn around. “You’re here late.”

“So are you.” Mac strolled over to the center table, his long legs giving him an easy stride that belied the eagle-sharp observation of eyes that missed nothing.

A Bunsen burner on steady heat. An assortment of liquids in beakers. An open evidence bag, its label written in his own illegible scrawl. One of the perks of working as a forensic pathologist for the Kansas City Police Department was that he could delegate routine tests to a staff lab tech, and concentrate on assessing the crime scene and piecing together the entire case.

He didn’t recall this particular assignment.

“You on to something interesting?” he asked. Jeff had been right out of college when he started at the lab. Though technically proficient, he lacked the instincts to make his investigative work anything more than routine. His eagerness to please, though, had ingratiated him to his co-workers and earned a bit of indulgent patience from Mac.

So his rushed, toneless answer sounded perfectly normal. “I’m running a dye test.”

Mac eyed the twist of threads lying inside the bag, then surveyed the counter once more.

No microscope. How did he expect to ID the sample without one?

Mac leaned his hip against the table, banking his inquisitive nature in an effort to put Jeff at ease. “I don’t think the criminals will overrun the city if we knock off and get a few hours of sleep now and then.”

Jeff finally turned, but his dark-eyed gaze never quite met Mac’s. “What are you doing here?”

Fair question. “I’m testifying at Ned Prosky’s hearing later this morning. I wanted to double-check my facts.”

“He’s the alleged hit man?”

“Yeah. If I can put him at the scene of the crime, we can at least nail him for accessory. Dwight Powers is going after him as the trigger man, though.”

Jeff’s chin sank to his chest at the mention of the assistant district attorney’s name. He returned to his work. “Powers is pretty ruthless. Think you’ll win the case?”

Mac shrugged. He loved the immutable laws of science, the simplicity of seeing facts in black and white. But he accepted that most of the world evaluated things in shades of gray. “I just interpret the data. The rest is up to Dwight and the jury.”

“Yeah, well, good luck.”

“Thanks.” Mac shifted his weight onto both feet and fished in the pocket of his jeans for his keys. “Look. Whatever I gave you to do can wait until morning. Knock off and go home.”

“I will. As soon as I get this cleaned up. Good night.”

The anxious farewell pricked Mac’s curiosity even more than the incomplete experiment setup. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.” Jeff opened the cabinet above his workstation and lifted the box where samples were stored. Maybe he’d screwed up a test earlier, and was here to rerun it without the teasing of his fellow technicians. Mac’s prying wouldn’t help get the guy home to his wife any faster.

Mac squeezed the envelope in his hand. His company tonight would be printouts of DNA strands and microfibers. Jeff had a flesh-and-blood woman waiting for him. He couldn’t blame the guy for being impatient.

“Be careful, then.” He headed out the door, his curiosity unappeased, but his confidence in his staff intact.

That’s when the smell hit him. The sharp sting of mismatched chemicals stung his nose and made his eyes water. “Jeff, what are you…?”

Startled by Mac’s reappearance, Jeff lurched. A beaker flew from his hand and shattered on the countertop. “Leave me alone!”

When he spun around to confront Mac, his elbow hit the Bunsen burner and toppled it.

“Kill the flame!” Mac ordered. His report flew into the air as he snatched the fire extinguisher by the door and dashed across the room.

“Just let me do my job.” Jeff’s hand curled into a fist. He cocked his arm back to take a swing at Mac. Mac ducked, but avoiding the flying fist wasn’t necessary. Jeff froze, halfway through the roundhouse punch, and stared at the wisps of flame consuming the sleeve of his white lab coat. “Oh my God—”

“Move!” Mac pulled the trigger and doused Jeff’s arm with the suffocating foam. “Get out of here!” He nodded over his shoulder and turned the extinguisher on the counter. “What the hell…?”

Mac shoved his fingers beneath his glasses to wipe the burning film clouding his eyes, and looked at the counter a second time to be sure his vision wasn’t playing tricks on him. An assortment of plastic evidence bags floated in a pool of clear amber liquid inside the metal tray. “It’s all contaminated.”

Destroying evidence.

Incompetence? Or sabotage?

Acting on instincts ingrained more deeply than self-preservation, Mac reached for the bags. Hair, filaments, cloth, fingernails and more—he rescued them from the toxic pool and tossed them aside.

He saved two, five, six bags before the sharp thwack at the base of his skull knocked him, belly first, onto the counter. An explosion of fireworks shot through his brain. He staggered to his feet and turned to see the missing microscope—raised high in Jeff’s fist, ready to strike again.

Mac reached behind him for the first available weapon to defend himself against the unexpected attack. His fingers touched the metal tray. He gripped it in his fist and slung it straight at Jeff’s face.

The flying steel knocked him back a step. But the corrosive liquid that splattered across his face proved even more effective. The microscope crashed to the floor as Jeff doubled over, clutching at his face and screaming in pain.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Slightly breathless from the combination of poisonous fumes and the blow to the head, Mac staggered over to Jeff and turned him toward the door and fresh air. “Let’s get out of here.”

“You can’t know.” Jeff wheezed through the stinging pain. “He’ll hurt Melanie.”

“Who?” Mac recognized the name of Jeff’s wife, but the plea made no sense.

“I have to do my job.” Jeff shoved Mac into the wall and swayed back to the counter.

Mac followed a step behind.

A step too late.

Jeff hit a switch, pulled a lighter from his pocket, and click…

The gas from the Bunsen exploded into a fireball.

The toxic air ignited, consumed Jeff in its fiery claws. The names on the plastic bags shrivelled and died as they melted into a puddle. Like relentless, grasping hands, the flames reached out for their next victim.

Mac backpedaled his feet and tried to retreat.

But the shockwave tossed him across the room and slammed him into the wall. The impact of shattered glass and scorching metal pierced his skin like gunfire.

Those immutable laws of science followed their true nature, and plunged Mac into oblivion.

Chapter One

Six Weeks Later

“What have you gotten me into this time?”

Julia Dalton paused at the threshold of the sturdy rock house and held her breath. Literally.

Nestled among two-story relics from the 1920s, the high ceilings and oak floors spoke of the leftover charm of this once-wealthy neighborhood near the Kansas City Museum. But this sweet little cottage just northeast of the Market area where she grew up had lost something over the years. What time and urban fatigue hadn’t done to the house, an interior tornado bent on destruction had.

Her mother, Barbara, followed a step behind. “Oh, my. What’s that smell?” Her scrunched-up nose brought an unexpected grin to Julia’s freckled face.

The faint pungency of formaldehyde hung in the air. “The sewer’s not backed up, is it?” asked Julia.

She lifted her foot over the crumpled doormat and led the way into the living room. Her mother’s best friend, Martha Taylor, closed the door and joined them. “No. Everything in the house works fine.” She shrugged her shoulders, clearly embarrassed by the mess, but ready with an explanation. “My oldest son, Brett, bought this place to fix up and resell. He’s just getting started on the remodeling, but the plumbing is fine. It’s the current tenant—”

“Martha.” The clear snap of her mother’s voice captured Julia’s attention as well. She caught the unsubtle message flashed from hazel eyes to blue.

Martha, taller, and a tad thinner, shook her head. “She’s bound to notice.”

Julia knew the dynamic duo was up to something, but she could never be sure where her mother’s good intentions might lead, much less when she was in cahoots with her lifelong pal since kindergarten.

She’d been home only a few days, but the urgency the two older women had used to get her out of the house that morning made her wonder if she had already overstayed her welcome.

“Anyone want to offer an explanation yet?” she asked. “You said you needed a nurse, not a housekeeper.”

Martha perked up at Julia’s comment. “As a professional health-care worker, do you think living like this presents a health risk?”

“Not if you’re a cockroach or a rat looking to make a new home.”

Julia stacked the magazines strewn across the couch and set them on the end table. She checked the dark stain on the seat cushion beneath for dryness before plopping her backpack that served as both purse and overnight bag on the empty spot.

Then she folded her arms across the front of her denim jacket and switched roles from daughter to authority figure. “So who’s going to fess up? You told me to pack a bag and my credentials because you had an emergency at home. But we didn’t walk across the street to your condo, Martha. We drove here. What’s going on?”

Though humor had always been her first best line of defense, she hadn’t managed the night shift of one of Chicago’s toughest emergency rooms without learning how to throw around a little intimidation. She knew how to draw up all five feet, six inches of her blocky figure into a not-to-be-messed-with show of force.

Unfortunately, she’d learned the trick from her mother. Barbara mimicked her daughter’s stance. “Don’t get mad at Martha. I agreed with her totally on this. I thought it was a good idea.”

“I’m not mad. I just want to know—” A solid thump from the back of the house rattled the chandelier above her head. Julia jumped in her boots. But other than a quick catch of her breath, she didn’t let her mother see how the unexpected sound unnerved her. A sense of impending dread pulsed through her at the uneven tread of heavy footsteps advancing toward them.

“Who’s the patient, Martha?” These women were not given to lying. But they might fudge a little bit if they believed it would help someone they loved. “Mom?” she prompted.

“Ma?!”

She knew that voice. Years ago she’d memorized the quiet authority, the distinct pitch of it. The deep tone had a raspy, strident ring to it now. But she’d know that voice anywhere.

Once, it had saved her life.

Today, it could destroy her.

“I’m not ready for this.”

Shreds of panic plummeted to her toes, robbing her of conscious thought and reliable self-assurance. She snatched her bag and flung it over her shoulder. Her mother hadn’t known then. She didn’t know now. Julia had never told a soul. Her humiliation ran too deep. The futility of her feelings was a raw, vulnerable wound, barely shielded now after all that had happened in Chicago.

She had to go. She had to…

“Ma, you there?”

She froze in her tracks when she came face-to-face with the man braced in the archway where the living and dining rooms joined.

Mac Taylor.

As tall and lean as she remembered. The broad shoulders and endless stretch of legs beneath the gray sweatshirt and faded jeans were the same. The long, dextrous fingers still fascinated her. But the lack of meat on his angular frame gave him a hard edge. And the tight slice of his mouth across the golden scrub of a beard indicated he was angry.

She’d never seen him angry before.

“Ma?”

“I’m here, son.” The fatigue in Martha’s voice distracted Julia’s attention for a moment. Like her own mother, Martha would be in her early sixties. But the heartbreak that suddenly creased her face made her seem years older.

“Who’s with you?” Julia turned back at Mac’s demand.

Time and injury hadn’t been kind to her childhood hero. His sandy blond hair had lost its burnished lustre. All trace of curl had been cut away, leaving it a short, spiky length. Jagged streaks of newly healed, baby-pink skin branched out over his left cheek and across his forehead in an intricate web of fresh scars.

But it was his eyes that held her captive.

Beneath the cut that bisected his eyebrow, a tiny white blemish blotted the symmetry of pupil and iris in his left eye. And the right looked through her, past her, without seeing her.

He was blind.

Those cool chips of granite, once silver behind the gold of his glasses, that she’d fantasized about through her teenage years, were blind.

Her fears scattered as shock rendered her silent. Her lips worked to mouth the question, Why?

“Ma? Who’s with you?” he repeated.

Tears of sorrow, and maybe even pity for all he had lost, stung her eyes.

Martha shrugged off her son’s harsh tone. “Barbara Dalton.”

He tipped his face up, sniffing the air with an almost feral focus. “Who else?”

Julia blinked back the moisture in her own eyes, sensing sympathy would not be appreciated. “It’s Jules, Mac. Julia Dalton.”

“Son of a bitch.” His face flushed with emotion, and he whipped around. His shoulder banged into the archway, knocking a picture crooked on the wall. A string of succinct, damning curses accompanied him as he stormed back through the house.

“MacKinley Taylor!” Martha dashed through the archway, scolding after him. “She’s a nurse, son, she can help—” A door slammed, cutting her off, leaving Julia and her mother standing in shocked silence.

Several moments later, Martha returned. The strain on her face aged her even more. “I’m afraid I brought you here under false pretenses.” She rolled her gaze heavenward and clenched her mouth in an effort to stem her tears. “Of all my children, that one was never a bit of trouble. Never once gave me cause for concern. And now, when he does need me, he won’t let me help.”

“He needs bandages on those eyes.” The practical professional inside her kicked in. But decades-old friendship softened her scold to a gentle reprimand. “The damage to that tissue is recent enough that it could still breed infection. At the very least he should wear dark glasses. The light must be killing him.”

Martha went to the picture on the wall and straightened it. “I almost think he enjoys it. The pain, I mean.”

With an instinctive empathy, Julia knelt down to retrieve the wadded newspaper pages from beneath the coffee table. “Why would he punish himself that way?”

“I think he feels responsible for the accident.”

Julia straightened, hating her natural curiosity and abundant concern. Why couldn’t she just let things go? “What happened?”

Martha’s back seemed to creak with the effort of bending down and picking up a pillow that was half a room away from the chair to which it belonged. “There was an explosion at the lab where he worked. He suffered chemical burns, shrapnel wounds.” The hopelessness in Martha’s voice tore at Julia’s heart. Then her voice brightened a bit with a shallow smile. “There’s a chance the blindness isn’t permanent. He nearly lost one eye. It’s damaged beyond repair. But his right eye can be retested once he’s healed. He may be eligible for a lens transplant. If the eye’s strong enough. But he’s so stubborn. He’s so…defeated.”

Julia shoved the newspapers into the trash can beside the desk, turning away from her mother who was hurrying to Martha and sweeping her into a comforting hug. She tried to remain clinical. “Transplant operations are fairly common, and generally quite successful. Partial or complete sight is restored, and the postoperative healing process isn’t too traumatic.”

“Don’t quote me facts.” Unfocused anger replaced the quaver of tears in Martha’s voice. “The success of the operation makes no difference if he won’t take care of himself! Look how he lives. Half the time he hides out in his room behind a locked door. He crashes around this house without regard for his safety, and has a temper tantrum whenever someone tries to help. He’s chased off three nurses already.” The anger receded behind a plea from the heart of a desperate mother. “You’re my final hope. Please. As a favor for old times’ sake?”

Julia clutched the straps of her black leather pack and squeezed until her knuckles turned white. She eyed her mother, whose arm draped in support and protection around Martha’s shoulders. Why hadn’t her mother done the same for her?

She choked back the traitorous thought. She hadn’t told her mother about Chicago. About that humiliating morning in Anthony’s office. She’d simply shown up on her parents’ doorstep last Saturday morning, a welcome, though unexplained, surprise. She’d resigned from her job at the hospital, closed up her apartment and headed for home. She needed time to think. Time to heal. Time to be safe.

She shook her head and, palm raised as though warding off the threat of danger, backed toward the door. “I can’t handle a serious case right now. I’m sorry Mac’s in trouble. I’m sorry for your whole family. But I can’t do this.”

Julia spun around and shot out the front door into the crisp autumn air, anxious to escape the pressure, the disappointment, the guilt. Halfway down the front walk to her car, she heard the door shut behind her.

“I didn’t raise a quitter.”

Julia halted at the sound of her mother’s voice. On a deep breath, she turned and pleaded with those eyes, part gold, part green, just like her own. “Someone else can help Mac. There must be hundreds, thousands, of qualified nurses in the Kansas City area. Reliable, tough—”

“I’m not talking about Mac.”

A bit of the concern she’d seen etched in Martha’s face now lined her mother’s. “What do you mean?”

Barbara closed the distance between mother and daughter. Physically, and emotionally. “I’ve never seen my little girl tuck her tail between her legs and run home to hide before.”

Julia held her tongue, not knowing what to say. She’d tried to be cheerful, talk of good times, help around the house. But she could see now that she hadn’t fooled her mother for one instant. “I’m sorry if I worried you. I didn’t mean to.”

Barbara smiled. “I’m a mom. Even after thirty years, it goes with the territory.” She reached out and brushed one of the short curls that crowned Julia’s head off her face. “I don’t know what happened to you in Chicago, but I’m sorry it hurt you. You are always welcome at home, and I am always ready to listen, if you decide you need to talk. But, in the meantime, I think you should do something. Keep busy, don’t just brood.”

Julia clasped her mother’s hand and squeezed it tight. “I love you for your concern, but I don’t think this is the right thing for me to do.” She looked up to the house, seeing it as a distant symbol of lost hope and shattered dreams. “He needs so much. And I don’t just mean nursing care. I don’t think I have it in me to give him enough of anything right now.”

The answering silence brought Julia’s attention back to her mother’s face. Those hazel eyes looked sad in the grim expression Barbara wore. “Martha Taylor has been my friend longer than you’ve been alive. You and her son Cole were classmates and good friends for many years. That family’s in desperate trouble now.” Julia sighed right along with her mother. “I won’t insist on anything that would put you or your feelings in danger. I just want you to remember that, sometimes, giving is what enables us to move beyond the fear or sorrow, and allows us to find a way to heal ourselves.”

Julia rolled her eyes heavenward, seeking the strength that seemed to have abandoned her. Growing up hadn’t been easy for her mother. But that life experience had given her a wisdom and insight that had surprised her daughter more than once. Maybe she did know something about healing the spirit, about mending a shattered self-image, about piecing together the will to move forward with her life. She looked at her mother, wanting to believe in that wisdom.

“I don’t remember you being this philosophical, Mom.”

“I don’t remember seeing you in this much pain.”

Julia considered the importance of family and friendship, of loyalty and love. She weighed the value of her actions in Chicago and what they had revealed about her true character. Her instincts had failed her, and she’d been too stubborn to listen to common sense. She had fallen short of her parents’ expectations of her, far short of her own expectations for herself.

Maybe she owed them a bit of penance until she could figure out how to make things right again.

If only she wasn’t so afraid of making things worse.

But Barbara Dalton hadn’t raised a quitter.

“All right.” She stepped forward and wrapped up her mom in a hug. The tight embrace around her own shoulders might be the only strength she’d have to sustain her through this. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours. We’ll see how it goes. But you and Martha need to be looking for a backup plan.”

She felt the tension in her mother relax. “Thank you, Jule.”

Embarrassed by the simple gratitude, Julia separated and trudged up to the door. “Twenty-four hours,” she reminded her.

To do a favor for an old family friend?

Or to survive a sentence from hell?

MAC WAITED A GOOD ten minutes after his mother’s goodbye before leaving the sanctuary-slash-prison of his bedroom. At least he thought it was ten minutes. His internal clock seemed to have gone haywire in the same instant the toxic flames and lacerations scarred his throat and tore the sight from his eyes.

Ten minutes. Five. Twenty.

What did time matter to a man who served no useful purpose?

The dull ache behind his left eye was a constant reminder of all he had lost. And no amount of scientific or medical training could bring back the competency of a man who had lived by his senses, his powers of observation, his ability to see something once and identify its attributes. He was a man of science, a man of thought and reason. He’d never worried about how to get from point A to point B. How to find the toilet across the hall. How to pick out socks that wouldn’t clash with his jeans.

He’d never thought about living without his sight.

Mac swung his bare feet off the edge of the bed and slipped into the beaten loafers that had become his uniform of late. He inhaled a deep, fortifying breath and stood, steadying himself by grabbing on to the headboard. He waited for the waves of dizziness to pass, knowing damn well these vertigo attacks were a result of panic and disorientation, and had no bona fide physical cause.

Only when his shadowed world stopped spinning did he move. Three steps from the bed to the dresser. He trailed his fingertips along the scarred oak top, sticking a moment where the old varnish had pooled, sliding past the spot where there was no varnish at all. His hand hit a smooth, hard object and glass clinked against glass.

Tempting defeat, he turned his hand, lifted the glass to his nose and sniffed. Nothing. Plain water. Maybe the other…

His stomach rumbled in protest at the lone leftover doughnut he had scrounged for breakfast. Despite his abysmal welcome, he hoped against hope that his mother had left a sandwich for him to eat. Restoring the clutter on his dresser, he reached for the door.

Two steps more across the hall to the bathroom. He followed the wall until he hit the dining room. Then he was in no-man’s-land as he buffeted from chair to wall to sideboard. When he stubbed his toe on the break in the carpet beneath the archway, he knew he’d reached the living room.

He clutched at the molding that framed the arch and paused to get his bearings. He needed to learn the number of steps into the kitchen, or move the bookshelves and recliner so he could simply follow the perimeter of the wall without breaking his foot, his face, or any of those knick-knacks his mother had entrusted to him over the years.

As if thoughts of his mother triggered the response, guilt reared its ugly head. He’d never realized how much temper simmered inside him. He’d always prided himself on maintaining an even emotional keel. But since the explosion, he’d learned he could be a beast. Reactive. Out-of-control. And his mother, meddling saint who had raised six boys and one girl under her roof, didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of his sour moods. Once he had some food in his stomach, he’d call home and apologize.

And make Ma promise not to spring any more surprises on him.

Feeling even that small bit of mastery over his life once more, Mac extended his arms as feelers and braved the booby-trapped path to the kitchen.

One step. Two steps. He butted his shin against the recliner and stopped, rotating his arm like a compass needle in his search for the clear path. His outstretched fingers hit the floor lamp and knocked it at a tilt. He caught it and straightened the shade, experiencing a silly little rush of triumph that he hadn’t destroyed it. With a trace of positive energy whispering through him for a change, he moved with more confidence, stepping to the left to avoid the obstacle.

He plowed into something warm and soft and solid, with two hands that latched on to his wrist and elbow to catch him from recoiling backward.

“Mac?”

He wrenched his arm away from the firm grip and smacked the lamp with his fist, sending it crashing to the floor.

Jules.

“I thought I told you to leave.” The condemnation in his scarred voice sounded harsh, even to his own ears.

“You never got around to that. You were rude to your mother, and then you stormed out.”

The teasing retort came from below, and he realized she had squatted down to pick up the lamp. “Bent, but not broken.” Her voice sounded nearer. Had she stood? “No wonder it looks like a demolition derby in here. Didn’t you get a cane to walk with?”

“I don’t need a cane.”

“Right.” Her clear, low-pitched voice danced with a smug humor. “It would be easier to just rent a bulldozer and trash the whole place in one fell swoop, instead of wrecking one little corner at a time.”

A flood of indignation surged through him. How dare she joke at his expense! Did she have any idea how embarrassing it was to flounder around his own home like a fish out of water? He couldn’t even hold a decent argument with her, not knowing whether he was talking to her face or her belly button.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Helping out a friend.”

Right in front of him. Mac turned his scarred visage on her. “I didn’t ask you to come.”

“I was talking about your mother. She needed my help.”

Ouch. An appropriate comeback escaped him. Jules had been one of the neighborhood kids. Hanging out at his dad’s shop or in the rooms upstairs they called home. Of all those adolescent interlopers who interrupted his work and study time, she had been…which one? He thought his way through the maze of comings and goings that had been a part of their everyday lives back on Market Street.

It had been useless to try to concentrate on his books when Cole and his buddies descended upon them. They’d gather around the kitchen table and raid the fridge and play cards, or perch in the living room to watch sitcoms on TV. Accepted as one of the guys, Jules had always been at the center of their laughter.

Her sassy wit hadn’t dulled over the years.

Mac wondered if anything else about her remained the same.

But he filed away his curiosity to return to later. A more pressing question needed to be answered as a fist of concern gripped his heart. “Is Ma holding up okay?”

A faint rustling sound answered him. “If dark circles under her eyes and new wrinkles beside her mouth are normal, then, yes, I’d say she’s doing fine.” That tart voice was a shade more distant. She’d moved.

“I owe her an apology.”

“Probably.” The gentle agreement nicked at his conscience. He owed Jules an apology, too. But she never gave him a chance to organize those thoughts. “If you take half a step to the left, your path is clear to the kitchen.” Like a beacon, her concise directions called to him from a distance. She must have gone into the kitchen herself.

Not yet trusting that the edge of a rug or leg of a chair wouldn’t leap into his path, Mac stood rooted to the spot.

In an effort to form an image of what she looked like now, he tried again to picture the Jules he’d once known. Having graduated in Cole’s class, she’d be seven years his junior. “Braces. Freckles.” He tapped the memories out loud. He’d watched a couple of coed league games one summer to support his brother. “You played second base. Killer arm. Shag hitter, always made contact with the ball.”

He could remember details of a fifteen-year-old softball season, but couldn’t remember the layout of his own house. Frustration made his damaged voice tight. “So what have you been doing all this time, playing for the majors?”

Her voice returned to the living room. “Nah, I got cut last week. Right after the braces came off.” The husky music of her laughter defused the tension that had paralyzed him. “You coming?”

He heard the rustling sound again. Then the clank of pots from the broiler pan beneath the oven. She’d abandoned him once more.

A trace of scent lingered in the air. Something crisp and fresh, like autumn air and sunshine. With arms outstretched, he followed that scent into the kitchen. Just as she had promised, there’d been nothing in his path to stumble over.

But his victory was short-lived. When his feet hit the smooth linoleum, shards of pain shot through his eyes. He reeled back a step, squinting against the bright overhead light. He shielded his eyes with his hand and cursed. The remnants of torn and burned tissue contracted at the glare, an autonomic response of organs that still did everything they were supposed to do—except see.

“Sorry. I’m a nurse. I should know better.” Julia’s hasty apology registered the same time that crisp sunshine smell floated past him. He heard the tiny click of the light switch, then the gentle rasp of cotton on cotton coming toward him and circling around him. Mac dipped his head to follow the faint rustling sound. It had to be Jules herself.

He tried to anchor himself to her scent, pinpoint her heat. Though finely tuned to compensate for his blindness, he had yet to master control of his other senses. Julia’s proximity was a bombardment of sensation—warmth and scent and sound.

And touch.

Strong, supple fingers pulled his hand from his eyes and Mac froze. “I read the write-up from your doctor.”

She gently probed the tender new skin at his cheek, temple and brow. “He prescribed bandages on your eyes until the end of the week.” In his mind, the inspection of her fingertips was a timid caress against sensitized skin, a stark contrast to the confident strength with which she still held his hand. “If you wore them the way you’re supposed to, the light wouldn’t aggravate your condition.”

His condition? He was a crippled-up cop. A cop who should have seen the accident coming. Who should have seen a lot of things before he ever lost his sight.

Mac snatched her hand from his face, putting an end to the unwelcome examination. “My condition is called blindness. I can’t see your hand in front of my face. I can’t see you. I can’t see a damn thing!”

Their fingers twined together as he shook his fist to make his point. “You can push and poke and prod all you want, but I’m still a blind man.”

Unknowingly, he clung to her while he spoke. Long enough to detect the uniquely feminine combination of soft calluses inside her palm, and even softer skin on the back of her hand. Long enough to note the blunt, functional fingernails at the tips of lithe, lineal fingers.

Long enough to feel the fine tremors trembling within his grasp.

Was that Jules’s shocked reaction to his spare, unadorned words? Or the remnants of his own anger running its course?

But almost as if she sensed the instant he began to analyze the subtle movement, she freed herself. “You’re a man, Mac. Pure and simple. A man who happens to be blind. Millions of people live with that handicap every day and lead full, productive lives—”

“Spare me the inspirational speech.”

He’d heard the same lecture from his doctors, the police psychologist, his parents—even his big brother. He should be grateful he was alive. Hopeful he had a 50-50 chance of regaining sight in one eye.

But a friend was dead.

His career was finished.

His life had flashed before his sightless eyes.

He didn’t need some freckle-faced Florence Nightingale doing the neighborly thing for old times’ sake. He needed to be alone to figure out where he’d made his mistake, and devise a plan to make everything right again.

“Go home, Julia.”

There. He’d made himself perfectly clear.

He turned toward the open doorway. He hoped.

“I found a pair of sunglasses with the price tag still on them.” She started talking again without comment or argument, as if his succinct command had been an invitation to make herself at home.

Mac halted his grand exit. With his fingertips, he reached out and verified that he had found the door. The worn contours of sculpted oak reassured him. He wasn’t the one disoriented this time.

The clang of metal on metal and the suction pop of the refrigerator door opening behind him indicated she was preparing a meal. He ignored the sudden anticipation that wet his mouth and rumbled in his stomach, and concentrated on her words. “Somebody’s trying to take care of you. At least the glasses would protect your eyes from the light, if not from infection.”

The glasses had been a gift from his youngest brother, Josh. Along with some lame advice about making him look cool, and turning him into a babe magnet.

Such questionable laws of nature no longer applied to him.

“You don’t have to be here, you know.”

The racket behind him stilled, followed by a long, controlled whisper of air. “Yes, I do. For twenty-four hours.”

Twenty-four hours? What was that about?

He heard the rustling noise again. Julia was moving.

Wrapping his fingers around the doorjamb for balance, he tipped his ear toward the intriguing sound. In his mind he pictured a pair of legs, dressed in soft, snug denim, the thighs gently touching with each step.

He closed his eyes unnecessarily and envisioned her as a fifteen-year-old. She’d had a stocky, muscular build, perfect for snagging grounders and blocking base paths. He wondered what she looked like now. If she’d filled out in the right places over the years. If those muscles had turned into curves. If those long legs he heard brushing together were rounded or straight. Or…good God, what the hell was he thinking?

This was a fine time for his intellectual curiosity to rear its head. He wanted to get rid of her, not study her like some unidentified lab specimen.

Then the import behind her odd pronouncement registered through his instinct to analyze and identify. “If you don’t want to be here, then why are you?” he asked.

The pungent odor of gas catching flame told him she had gone back to the stove. “Your mother was worried about you. My mother was worried about me. Their solution was to put the two of us together.”

“They’re not matchmaking, are they?” His older brother Brett had recently married, and Martha Taylor seemed to have developed a fever now to find mates for all her brood. For Mac, her timing couldn’t be worse.

Julia laughed. “Are you kidding? Have you seen me lately?”

Her self-deprecating joke turned full circle in the dead air that followed. He knew the instant that her gaze searched his back in apology. Mac straightened. Six feet, three inches of stiff back ought to finally get rid of her.

“Can’t say as I have.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” An immediate flurry of activity covered the silence. “I’m fixing an omelette for a late breakfast. It’ll take just a few minutes. Have a seat, the chair is two steps to your left. I’ll get some coffee going, too.”

Hell. Her attempts to distract him from her apology pricked his defenses. He’d rather do battle with her than endure her pity. He already carried enough of his own to choke on.

He ignored the pangs in his stomach and the curiosity of his mind, and tramped back into the living room. He hit the trash can and kicked it aside, not giving a damn about the mess he’d inevitably made.

That enticing whisper of denim followed quickly behind him. “You don’t have to like this,” said Jules. “But we should make the best of it.”

“Fine. You make the best of it. I’m going to my room.”

“Dammit, Mac, be reasonable.” She snatched his sleeve and tugged him around. Half a turn, maybe. Or was it all the way around? He squeezed his eyes shut against the dizzying confusion. As if the complete darkness was somehow more comforting than the shadowy nothingness of his vision.

“You look like hell. You need a shave and clean clothes. This scruffy look never was you.” A second hand grasped his chin and tilted his face to one side. “At least let me bandage your eyes. We can’t risk infection.”

He jerked his chin free of her soft, firm touch. “I can risk anything I damn well please.”

“What about breakfast? I didn’t see any dirty dishes. Have you eaten at all today? What about fresh air? Sunshine? Do you ever get outside?”

The woman was relentless. “Too many damn questions!” He twisted his arm from her grip and swatted the air, clearing the space around him, and hopefully scaring some sense into her. “Just leave me alone.”

Mac headed for the dining room, intending to leave Nurse Jules and her annoying determination behind him. On his second step he banged his shin against the coffee table and let out a stream of curses that would have made his mother grab the soap and wash out his mouth.

He spun around, planning to skirt the table. His knees butted into the sofa. He took a half turn to the right, ignoring a flare of panic, and ran into the overturned trash can.

Just like that internal clock, the compass inside him had gone haywire.

Mac choked back a frisson of fear that erupted within.

Lost in a spinning world. Trapped among the unknown terrors of his own home.

Imprisoned by his handicap.

For a man who had relied on cool, concise thinking his entire life, this continual buffeting of emotion played havoc with his sense of reason. Guilt. Fear. Anger. They were all his enemies now.

And for the first time in his life, he could think of no way to fight back.

Chapter Two

“With a cane you could tap your surroundings and find the way out.” Julia’s calm suggestion made a mockery of Mac’s own common sense.

“Shut up.”

He could control this. He could figure a way out of the maze of his own living room.

The rustle of sound barely registered as he concentrated on getting his bearings. He detected her unique scent, coming from behind him now, an instant before her hand latched onto his.

For an unthinking moment, he folded his fingers around hers, clinging to her sure grip, anchoring himself in the spinning disorientation of darkness. For all his crude words and rude behavior, he was grateful for the un-deserved patience in the gesture.

“This way.”

Her gentle voice beckoned and he followed. He allowed himself to be led a few steps, until he was free of the embarrassing hazards of his own home. He stopped when she stopped, but she tugged on his hand and pulled him forward another step.

His remaining senses buzzed into full alert as she guided his hand to the crook of her elbow. A practical gesture, he supposed. But the skin on the back of his hand and wrist bristled with acute awareness after brushing against the bountiful softness of what had to be a breast. In contrast, her strong shoulder nudged against his chest as she positioned herself to guide him. About chin height, he estimated, judging how she measured up against him. Maybe a shade taller.

The scent he had detected earlier and identified as her own pooled at nose level. It was her hair, he deduced. Her shampoo, to be more precise. Nothing perfumy. Clean, but not antiseptic. Fresh. Sassy. Just like…

Mac snatched his hand away and stepped back, shocked to realize he’d been analyzing Jules in a way that had nothing to do with science, and everything to do with the primal way a man checked out a woman.

As if he had any business checking her out.

As if she’d have any interest in being checked out by a scarred-up waste of a man like him.

“I don’t need you to be my guide dog.” His raspy voice, already ruined by the toxic fire that had destroyed his lab and killed a friend, sounded harsh in the monstrous quiet of the house.

He expected her to pack her things and run. The other nurses had refused to put up with his churlish behavior. He wanted to be alone right now. He needed his solitude.

But he’d met his match when it came to bullheaded determination.

Jules had somehow moved behind him. She touched his shoulders and turned him slightly. But she released him before he could justify any protest. “The archway’s about five steps directly in front of you.” Could he trust her guidance? He took two tentative steps, then three more. Her crisp, no-nonsense voice remained behind him. “The wall’s just to your right now. Put your hand out and use it to guide you.”

Mac reached out. The wall was there, just as she’d said. Hiding his tentative sigh of relief, he made his way through the dining room without bumping so much as a shinbone. His pulse quickened in anticipation as he entered the hallway. Close to escaping her, or close to reaching his sanctuary, he couldn’t tell. He simply knew she wouldn’t have to see him, and he wouldn’t have to deal with not seeing her. He wouldn’t have to deal with anyone or anything if he could just reach the relative security of his room.

His fingers curled around the doorjamb. An overwhelming sense of relief rushed through him, making him light-headed. He ducked inside and turned to shut the door.

“What’s with the mad scientist routine?”

Startled by her voice, he spun toward the curious question.

He heard the clunk of glass on wood, and knew she was inspecting the beakers on his dresser. “Pew! Formaldehyde isn’t exactly standard air freshener.”

“Get out of here.” He defended his makeshift lab with a hollow whisper.

She’d snuck past him somehow. Hell. How easy was it to sneak past a blind man?

Anger swelled inside him, quickly replacing the embarrassment of being caught and questioned like a little kid. He felt the same need to defend his ideas and actions as he had the day his mother caught him trashing her kitchen to perform a series of experiments as an eleven-year-old. That same indulgent curiosity, blended with a gentle reprimand, colored Julia’s voice.

“I’m guessing hydrochloric acid on this one. Alcohol.” She went down the line, correctly naming the contents of each beaker. “What are you trying do here?”

He reached for that voice. He hit her neck first, idly noting the cropped wisps of curls that indicated how short she wore her hair. His fingers glided down a swanlike arch of neck and he cursed himself for noticing anything about her at all.

Damning the fact that he could be distracted by something so unattainable as the discovery of a pretty woman, he slid his hand down to her shoulder and turned her. He clamped his fingers around her so she couldn’t escape.

“Ow!”

Despite her squirming struggles, he found the other shoulder and pushed her into the hallway. Her hands flattened against his chest and resisted, but he had superior strength and momentum on his side. He backed her up until she hit the wall.

“Get the hell out and stay out,” he ordered.

But now momentum worked against him. He cursed the law of science that carried him forward into Julia’s body. For the briefest of instants, his thighs and torso crushed into hers, giving him a fleeting impression of muscles and curves and soft spots that gave way beneath his harder body.

“Damn, damn, damn!” He jerked away from the contact and staggered back to his room, escaping the subversive distraction of discovering the tomboy-next-door from his youth had matured into a full-figured woman.

So much for intimidation. Even the ability to hold a decent argument with her frustrated him.

Breathing hard, from emotion as much as exertion, he closed the door behind him. He leaned his shoulder into the aging wood, absorbing the brunt of her furious knocks until his fingers could find the lock and turn it.

“I don’t do room service! If you want to eat, you come to the kitchen.” Mac stood where he was, savoring his victory. Let her fuss and fume. He wouldn’t have another thing to do with her.

The doorbell rang, a distant call from the outside world that made him realize he hadn’t really escaped at all.

“You want me to get that? Or should I throw them out on their backside, too?”

“Give it up, Jules.” He pushed away from the door, feeling trapped in the place where he’d sought freedom only moments ago.

“I don’t give up on people, Mac.”

Mac laughed at her vehement promise. It was a sick sound, raspy and unnatural. She’d learn soon enough about lost causes.

Six weeks ago he’d learned the hard way.

I DON’T GIVE UP on people, Mac.

Julia listened to her words echo off the closed door and backed away. She clutched her arms across her middle, nearly doubling over at the hypocrisy of what she’d shouted.

I don’t know who the hell you think you are. There’s nothing between us. We had our fun. Now be an adult and move on.

The harsh, horrible words rang fresh and true inside her head, spreading salt on an age-old wound that refused to heal.

Well, maybe she’d given up on just one person.

The doorbell rang a second time, forcing her to leave the downward spiral of self-recriminations and put on a pleasant facade to greet the outside world. Still charged from the fury of doing battle with Mac, and drained by the unexpected memory of the mistake she’d made in Chicago, she wiped her damp palms on her jeans. She took a deep, steadying breath and headed for the front door, practicing different versions of a smile along the way.

She opted for a polite but distant grin. Securing the chain on the door first, she opened it a few inches and looked out at the two men in suits and ties on the front step. “Yes?”

The older one, with snowy white hair and a bulbous nose that indicated a fondness for alcohol, pulled a thick, chewy cigar from his mouth and answered. “KCPD, ma’am. I’m Sergeant Joe Niederhaus, Internal Affairs. This is my partner, Eli Masterson.”

Two decades younger and packing muscle where his partner packed fat, the dark-haired detective tipped his head in greeting. “Ma’am.”

Julia clamped down on a genuine urge to smile. These two were a real life send-up of the Dragnet-duo her father loved to watch in reruns on TV. “What can I do for you?”

Sergeant Niederhaus took charge of the visit. “We’re here to see Mac Taylor. He’s an officer in the Crime Scene Investigation unit. Is he in?”

Did they expect a blind man to be off on an afternoon drive? Her amusement at their plain, polite talk faded with a nagging sense of unease. What sort of questions did cops ask other cops? What sort of answers did they expect to get from Mac?

“Could I see your badges, please?”

Detective Masterson reached inside his jacket, revealing the curve of the black leather holster strapped across his shoulders. Seeing the firepower he carried shouldn’t have fueled her suspicions. She’d seen cops with guns before, both uniformed officers and detectives. Plenty of them showed up to question victims and suspects in the ER. Two had even shown up as patients during her tenure there.

Maybe it was just the lingering tension of spending time with Mac that made her so jumpy. She quickly read the pertinent facts about Eli Masterson and nodded her thanks. Sergeant Niederhaus tapped his cigar ashes out on the stoop, ignoring her request.

But with Julia’s staunch refusal to open the door any farther, and Eli’s questioning glance, he reached inside the rotund silhouette of his jacket and pulled out his badge.

Satisfied that the two had official business to conduct, Julia stepped back to unchain the door. She nodded toward the sergeant’s thick stogie. “I’ll ask you to put that out before you come in.”

“Dammit, lady—” His face reddened as he caught himself. He could cuss loud enough to alert the entire neighborhood, if he wanted. Julia had certain rules around her patients. And certain personal tastes. She simply expected him to cooperate. Once the cigar hit the step and was ground out beneath his shoe, she closed the door and released the chain. Then she stepped back to usher the two men inside.

“I don’t mean to be unfriendly,” she explained, “but I’ve lived the past several years on my own in Chicago. You can never be too careful about who you invite in.”

Detective Masterson smiled in approval. “It pays to be smart, ma’am.”

“Is Taylor here? We have to ask him some questions.” Clearly, Niederhaus was from the old school. Maybe he didn’t approve of single career women or small talk. Maybe he simply didn’t like to be kept waiting.

Julia had dealt with all kinds of curmudgeons in her line of work. This old fart might be lacking in the charm department, but he deserved her patience and respect until he proved otherwise.

“Sorry about the mess. I was hired just this morning and haven’t had a chance to clean up yet. Feel free to push something aside and have a seat.”

“Thanks.” It was Eli who answered.

But as she crossed through the dining room en route to Mac’s locked door, she noticed that neither officer chose to sit.

That unnerved feeling crept along her spine again. Not for the first time that morning, she wished she was home, locked in her own room with her books and the mementoes from her childhood. Locked up in the past where she didn’t have to deal with men and their egos and all the games they liked to play.

Fearing the volume of Mac’s scarred voice would reach their guests in the living room, Julia gritted her teeth and knocked quietly on the old oak door.

“Mac, there are two police officers here to see you.”

“Nice try.” His tortured rasp reached no farther than her own ears. “Leave me alone.”

She glanced down the hallway and offered an embarrassed smile to the two officers whose watchful gaze she could feel, even at this distance.

She knocked again. “It’s Joe Niederhaus and Eli Masterson from Internal Affairs. They need to speak to you.”

She rested her ear against the wood and listened for sounds of activity on the other side. She heard the creak of a mattress. But was he getting into bed or out?

When another minute of silence answered her, she assumed he’d gone to bed and dismissed her. Her disappointment hissed out on a breath of air. Great. Now she’d have to come up with some excuse to get the detectives out of the house. Something like, Mac’s on his pity pot right now and won’t come out. Or, the professor’s in the middle of an experiment, and doesn’t want any company until hell freezes over.

She jumped at the unexpected click of the lock. Her breath came in shallow, sporadic gasps as the door opened a slit and Mac’s blank gaze glowered into the hallway.

“If you’re lying to me…”

The accusation hurt. If only. If she was a better liar, she could have saved herself a lot of pain over the years. “I’m not. It’s one of my shortcomings.”

His eyes swiveled from side to side, as if searching. But for what? “Is that supposed to mean something?”

She looked up into his face and shrugged, behaving as if he could see her reaction. Acting as if the expression on her face could tell him all about how much believing in lies had cost her.

But he couldn’t really see her. Nobody could see inside to the insecurities of a lifetime. She covered the awkward moment as she always did. By turning it into a joke.

“It means your company’s waiting in the living room. It’s a hazard area, so we don’t want to leave them there for long.”

His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, as if the effort to figure her out made him weary.

“Internal Affairs?” he asked.

Julia nodded, then realized the foolishness of the gesture. She gave the verbal answer he needed. “Yes.”

The door opened wider. She watched in curious fascination as his long, eloquent fingers reached out through the doorway. She stepped aside when she realized he was coming on out, but didn’t move quickly enough to avoid the graze of his fingers across her cheek in an unintended caress.

Mac snatched his hand away as if he’d been burned. “Sorry.”

“No problem.” She failed to keep the catch from her voice. But at least she could spare herself the embarrassment of him seeing how the pink blotches of self-consciousness heating her face clashed with the honey-tan freckles that covered her skin.

For years, she’d fantasized about Mac Taylor touching her in a personal way. They’d collided more than once today, but she knew his hand skimming her breast or cheek meant nothing.

Whenever a man touched her, it meant nothing.

“We’d better get out there.” He nodded at the reminder. Julia swallowed what was left of her battered pride and made doubly sure to get out of his way as he marched Frankenstein-like across the hall.

When his hand hit the wall, he turned. Trailing the fingers of his right hand along the panelling, he reached out with his left, moving it back and forth in the uneven sway of a broken pendulum. Julia followed a step behind, chomping down on the urge to take his arm and guide him safely out to his guests.

“You really should have the rugs removed,” she admonished, when he stumbled on the dining room carpet. “Streamline the arrangement of furniture so you don’t have as many turns in your pathway.”

Mac stopped midstride and turned his face over his shoulder as if he could peer at her. “Drop the fix-it-up routine, okay?”

“I’m surprised the other nurses didn’t make those recommendations.” He turned so that his body faced her, and opened his mouth for another terse remark. But Julia cut him off. “I’ll bet they did. You’re just too pigheaded to let anybody try to help.”

“If you’re trying to goad me—”

“Officer Taylor?”

Mac stilled at the question from behind him. Julia’s combative energy whooshed out at the transformation on Mac’s face. Even sightless, even scarred and stiff, his features changed from defensive to startled to suddenly wary.

“Mac?” One golden brow dipped at the corner. She wondered what thoughts crossed that clever mind of his. “Mac?” she repeated.

Remembering their last encounter, when Mac reached out, she backed up. “No.”

Responding to body heat or instinct or pure luck, he clamped his hands around her shoulders and kept her in place. A fourth expression altered the contours of his face. The man was tucking away his pride.

Curious, yet disheartened at the same time, Julia held still as he trailed his fingers down the sleeve of her cotton sweater to the crook of her elbow. He held on and circled around her. She realized his intent when he aligned himself behind her left shoulder.

“Take me to the living room.”

Considering his aversion to any kind of help from her thus far, this display of trust surprised her. “You sure?”

“Internal Affairs never pays a social visit. I’d better find out what they want and send them on their way.”

“That sounds comforting.” With a shade of sarcasm coloring her voice, she covered her hand with his. She held off reminding him how his less than pleasant demeanor had been more than enough to chase away several people. These two cops shouldn’t be a problem. She led him on a straight path down through the dining room, without once allowing him to bump into anything.

The two detectives exchanged curious glances as they entered the living room.

“Recliner or sofa?” she asked, ready to forge a path to either seat.

Mac straightened behind her, standing almost a head taller than she, as if he could sense the surprised scrutiny of Niederhaus and Masterson. “I’ll stand. You boys never see a blind man before?”

Niederhaus seemed genuinely surprised to see the extent of Mac’s handicap. “We heard you were in the explosion that killed Jeff Ringlein.”

Mac’s grip tightened around her arm, betraying a tension that put her on guard. Was he about to bolt? Should she get rid of these two men?

But Mac patted her hand, and sounded perfectly at ease when he answered. “I was there, all right. What can I do for you?”

Amazed at the transition from hotheaded patient to cool-under-pressure cop, Julia disengaged herself from Mac. “Would you gentlemen like some coffee?”

Eli Masterson smiled and dismissed her at the same time. “Thank you. Black, please.”

“Yeah. Me, too,” said his partner.

Fine. Man talk. With her skin still tingling where Mac had held her, she could use some time to herself in the kitchen to regroup. She only hoped Mac was up to an interrogation. She couldn’t tell what the sudden change in his behavior meant. Was this a cover? Or was the Mac she’d known from the old days in the neighborhood finally showing himself?

Julia searched the cabinets, locating a tray and three matching mugs while the coffee brewed. With Sergeant Niederhaus’s booming voice, she couldn’t help but hear snatches of conversation from the living room.

“We believe Ringlein may have been involved in something illegal. Did you suspect anything? Is that why you were there that night?”

“Jeff may not have been the most skilled technician, but he was loyal.” Mac’s voice reflected a calm detachment that had been absent from her encounters with him. “I can’t see him being a part of what you’re suggesting.”

Julia tuned out the conversation and looked about for a snack to serve with the coffee. It might be a way to sneak some food into Mac’s stomach and rebuild his strength.

“Did he say anything to you that would indicate he was suicidal?” That sensitive-as-nails question came from Niederhaus.

“He wasn’t suicidal. He was in trouble. He mentioned that someone had threatened his wife.”

“Who?”

Julia put grocery shopping high on her list, right behind cleaning. The only suitable food she found to serve with the coffee was a box of stale doughnuts. The stereotype of serving doughnuts to cops didn’t bother her as much as the crusty shells that had hardened around the sugary confections.

Caught between the choices of serving old doughnuts or making sandwiches, Julia stuck her head into the living room, intending to ask Mac which he preferred. But she pressed her lips together and said nothing. Like the coffee, her temper brewed at what she saw.

Mac had perched on the edge of the recliner while Sergeant Niederhaus pressed him for information from his spot on the couch. Eli Masterson, it seemed, had little interest in the interview. He circled the room on silent feet, his head tilted at an intent angle to lift and study photographs, and thumb his way through the books and CDs behind Mac.

How dare he take advantage of Mac’s handicap by sneaking around like that! Julia cleared her throat and garnered the attention of all three men. But her focus was on Eli. “Don’t you need to have a search warrant?”

“Excuse me?”

Julia’s take-charge voice kicked in. “Can I help you find something?”

He shrugged his shoulders like he’d done nothing wrong. “I was looking for the restroom.”

Behind the bookshelf? Though she didn’t believe his quick response, she pointed him in the right direction. “Down the hall. On your left.”

She watched him to be sure he reached his destination, then glanced back at Mac. Had he even realized Detective Masterson was snooping around the living room?

Just who was under investigation here, anyway?

Joe Niederhaus rolled to his feet, leaving Mac staring at the place where he’d been sitting. “Your deposition claimed Ringlein set fire to the lab himself. Do you think he was trying to eliminate you?”

Mac tipped his head to the sound of Niederhaus’s voice, then stood when he realized his inquisitor had done the same. “What are you getting at?”

The toilet flushed in the back of the house, and Niederhaus shrugged, seeming to lose interest in his questions all of a sudden. He smiled for the first time. “Don’t get in a sweat. Whenever an officer dies, it’s I.A.’s job to check it out. Rule out any criminal activity.”

“You should check into his wife’s safety.”

Eli returned to the living room, his quiet voice approaching Mac from behind. “You believe that claim?”

Startled by the second officer’s approach, Mac turned himself sideways, shifting on the balls of his feet as if he felt penned in by the two men. “It was one of the last things he said.”

“What was the last thing he said?” Niederhaus’s question sounded like a taunt. Judging by the defensive angle of Mac’s shoulders, he heard it the same way, too.

Julia knew little about police investigations, even less about male posturing. But she was an ace when it came to protecting her patients.

She joined Mac in the center of the room, changing the unsettling topic of conversation and giving Mac an ally to face off against the two investigators. She put on her best innocent expression and smiled like a diplomat. “I know it’s early in the day, but I thought I’d see if you wanted sandwiches with your coffee?”

Niederhaus looked at Julia as if really seeing her for the first time. He made a noise that was half laugh, half grunt, and shook his head. “We need to be going.”

A few defensive instincts of her own made Julia turn to keep Detective Masterson in her sights. “It wouldn’t take me a minute,” she offered.

“Thanks, anyway.” Eli crossed the room to join Niederhaus at the door. Side by side in the small living room, the two men formed an opposing front.

But they wore badges. That made them the good guys, right? So why did she feel the need to take a step back toward Mac?

Her shoulder blade bumped against his chest, and she shivered at the unexpected contact. But she didn’t get a chance to move away. Mac’s searching hand tapped first on her arm, then slid up to rest atop her shoulder. His long fingers splayed across her collarbone and down to the V-neckline of her sweater.

Masterson’s gaze zeroed in on the spot. Then he looked at Mac’s face and spoke as if Mac could see him. “Sorry you got hurt. I’m sure this will turn out to be a routine investigation. We appreciate your cooperation.”

“Yeah.” What part of Eli’s words was Niederhaus agreeing with? “Sorry you got hurt, too.”

With a nod of their heads, the two detectives left, closing the door softly behind them. Julia curled her arms around her middle, wondering if her imagination had gotten the better of her. Had she read something into their visit that wasn’t there because she was already such an emotional wreck? She’d discovered she was a pro at misreading men and their intentions.

That’s when her skin started to burn beneath Mac’s hand.

Though the pressure of his hand never increased, what had seemed like an intimate stamp of possession, of protection, at the very least, now weighed down upon her like a confining manacle.

Maybe Mac sensed the change in her from wary to self-conscious. Maybe the involuntary shiver that shook her was enough to repel his touch.

He lifted his hand. The throaty whisper at her ear startled her, yet rooted her in place. “Easy, Jules. Your heart’s racing like a comet. Something wrong?”

She couldn’t help but think of that night, half a lifetime ago, when he whispered to her so gently. The voice was deeper now, more hoarse than it had been back then. But the effect was still the same. The unadorned words comforted her battered soul, and her mind raced with hopeless possibilities.

But she was no foolish teenager anymore. She was smart enough to recognize compassion for what it was. She was smart enough to walk away.

She walked all the way to the front door, where she locked the dead bolt and reattached the chain. “I’m okay,” she reassured him, trying to reassure herself. “I spooked myself somehow. Probably fatigue. It’s been a long couple of weeks for me.”

She turned around to see Mac’s questioning look. A crease formed in the scar tissue beside his eyes as he squinted to focus on something he could not see.

“You are a rotten liar.”

She longed to put a complimentary twist on his words, but could only come up with sarcasm. “Gee, thanks.”

“They spooked me, too.” He stepped out, stumbled through the obstacle course, with a clear destination in mind. Julia went to help him, but he clamped down on her arms when he felt her touch, and gave her a little shake. “Tell me exactly what Masterson was doing.”

The sharp clip in his raspy voice was a welcome relief to the tender touch of a moment ago. She could handle Officer Taylor, crime-scene investigator, a lot more easily than Mac, the hero, who triggered those silly, sentimental feelings from her youth.

“Nosing around. He seemed interested in the stuff on your bookshelves.”

“I have crap on my bookshelves.” He cast her aside with a sense of urgency, an intellectual ferocity that wasn’t directed at her. He headed toward the corner of the room, rammed his hip into the desk and cursed. Julia hurried to his side as he fumbled around the desktop, rearranging the existing mess by creating another.

“Mac, what is it?” This frantic burst of energy worried her more than her suspicions surrounding Niederhaus and Masterson. She captured both of his hands in hers to stop his search. “What’s wrong? What do you need?”

“Where’s the damn phone?”

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