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,