Читать книгу Man Behind The Voice - Lisa Bingham - Страница 14

Eleanor’s irritation fizzled out, and she felt her cheeks grow hot when she realized that her visitor was a man. One with a voice that was rich as molasses.

Her head tilted and she stood for several seconds, absorbing what she could from senses that had grown keener since her accident but still could not reassure her as much as a quick visual study had once done.

“You were sent by the university?” she asked.

“I’m the reader.”

No. This would never do.

Eleanor folded her arms over her stomach, holding a protective hand to the spot where even the baby kicked in alarm—telling body language, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. She’d been expecting a woman. The university had always sent women in the past—Eleanor herself had made such a request. She didn’t want to open herself up to the complications inherent in inviting a man into her life. In her experience, men were…well, different. They had odd expectation levels. They tended to be brusque, unemotional, impatient and didactic. She didn’t want that kind of baggage in a reader.

“There must be some mistake, Mr….”

“You can call me Jack.”

She didn’t want to call him anything. She didn’t want him in her house, reading in that low, lazy, drawling sort of voice—a voice that sounded strangely familiar….

No. She wanted someone of her own sex, someone who would be decidedly safer.

Safer?

“Jack, then,” she said grudgingly. She really would have preferred knowing his last name. There was something more professional about firing a person by using last names. “There must have been some mistake. I can assure you I—”

“No mistake.”

He shifted, and Eleanor started when the action brought with it a whiff of a clean, woodsy cologne. The delicate hairs on her arms stood on end. She felt the warmth of his body and knew that he must be standing close. Very close.

“Mr….”

“Call me Jack,” he said again.

Sighing, she stepped out of the way, knowing that she would have to consult with the university about changing readers. Until then she needed to make the best of the situation.

“Come on in, Jack.”

She felt him brush past her, and her skin tingled from the brief contact.

“The books are on the couch. Have a seat.”

The old settee creaked comfortably as he settled onto the cushions.

Eleanor made her way to the overstuffed chair opposite. She could thank her mother for decorating the apartment. While Eleanor had been in rehabilitation, Regina had seen to it that Eleanor’s things were moved out of Roger’s condo. Originally, Regina had insisted that Eleanor move in with her, since Regina and Eleanor’s father were divorced. But Eleanor had been adamant about maintaining at least some part of her independence, so Regina had contacted her godmothers, obtained this apartment—the same one she’d rented during her college years—and had arranged Eleanor’s belongings with a minimum of clutter.

“You were going to tell me your ground rules.”

The velvety tones brought Eleanor back to the present with a jolt.

“If we continue to work together—”

“If?”

Eleanor sighed. Already, she sensed Jack was an “interrupter.” She hated people who wouldn’t let her finish her sentences.

“If we continue to work together, I will expect you to be prompt and adaptable to changes in my schedule. I will also expect you to have a rudimentary pronunciation of the names and subjects involved.”

What she didn’t tell him was that she wasn’t really considering him for the position.

“Fine.”

“If I am satisfied with the relationship, there is a possibility that I may ask you to help with some other reading work. Should that prove to be the case, I will pay you an hourly wage in accordance with the current rate.”

“That’s not necessary. I volunteered for the position.”

Eleanor tamped down the frustration she felt at being the recipient of such charity. She couldn’t help thinking that there were other people far more deserving or needy of volunteer services. She had her family or her landladies to help her. Even Brian and Babs were willing to read when things were slow.

But not three sets of text books.

She sighed. No. She doubted there was anyone on the face of the earth who would willingly read three art history books.

“Mr.—”

“Jack. Jack MacAllister. But I wish you’d call me Jack.”

Why was she having such a hard time using his first name? Why did it seem overly familiar?

“I don’t suppose that you have an artistic background?” she asked wearily.

“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

The unexpected answer caused her head to tilt.

“Really? In what area?”

“Film.”

It wasn’t exactly what she needed for the current project, but Eleanor supposed that even a student of cinema would be required to take courses in basic composition.

“What do you do, Jack?” she asked.

“When?”

Her lips twitched at the purposely obtuse answer. She caught the hint of teasing in his tone.

“When you’re not reading for strange blind women.”

“I’m on vacation.”

“From what.”

“Working.”

“Oh, really?” she said drolly. “And what might that be?”

“I jump off things.”

The statement was so startling that Eleanor could find no immediate response.

“Beg pardon?”

“I jump off things. I’m a stuntman.”

“Locally?”

“I…freelance a lot.”

She frowned. “You’re serious? Can a person make a living doing something like that?”

“You’d be surprised.”

Deciding he was teasing her again, she dropped the line of questioning.

“Why have you volunteered to be my reader, Jack?”

“I needed something to do.”

“So you got out of bed one morning and said to yourself, ‘Hey, let’s find a blind lady with a lot of big books.”’

“Something like that.”

“There are other ways to relieve boredom.”

“That’s probably true, but I chose this as my diversion of choice.”

“Other than your studies, you mean?”

He didn’t answer and she took his silence as an affirmative remark, knowing that if he had nodded, she would have missed the gesture. She wished that she could see the tilt of his body. She missed being able to interpret subtle, body-language cues she had grown so accustomed to using to her advantage when meeting someone new.

“Why should I keep you as my reader, Jack?”

Eleanor was not normally so blunt, but there was something about this man, about the way he sounded so self-assured, so almost…arrogant, that made her think the shocking lack of manners would help her to measure him more fully.

She felt, rather than heard, the way he leaned forward. She could almost picture what he must look like, tall, lean, propping his elbows on his knees. He was probably broodingly dark or elegantly blond. Something to match that voice. That incredible voice.

“You should keep me, because you need my help.”

“I would think that particular point was obvious, Jack. But why do I need you?”

The moment the question had been uttered, she found herself wishing she hadn’t been so bold. A curious silence had begun to flood the room in ever-widening ripples. One that was somehow invigorating and frightening at the same time. She had never encountered such a sensation before, an aura of energy that began to infuse her body so completely that she found her mouth growing dry and her breathing shallow.

“You need what I can give you.”

She waited, praying he would elaborate and set her fears at ease before her mind began to insinuate all sorts of subtle shadings to that remark.

“You need my insight. My passion.”

“Passion?” she could barely force the words from her throat.

“My passion for the subject.”

“Oh, yes.” She cleared her throat, to relieve it of the husky quality it had adopted. “But I thought you said your specialty was film.”