by Rebecca York
“I wish I could say the same,” he answered, and had the satisfaction of hearing her make a small, strangled sound. “I don’t need you to feel sorry for me,” he added. “Just find my cane for me. I dropped it when some boys pushed me in here. It’s probably over by the door. Forget the glasses. I’m pretty sure I stepped on them.”
He heard her move across the tent, waited for the span of heartbeats while she searched the ground. Then she was back, and he felt the handle of the cane touch his wrist.
“Thank you,” he said, wrapping his fist around the hard plastic. “I won’t bother you again. My father was quite agitated when I left him in the hospital. I’d like him to die in peace, so perhaps you could ask Milo Vasilli to call me. I’m living here in town now.” Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out one of his business cards and tossed it in the direction of the table.
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked rapidly out of the tent, then stood in the damp night air, breathing hard, as if he’d just run the hundred-yard dash.
Inside, he’d had the sensation of being shut away with Alessandra—just the two of them. Now the sounds and smells of the carnival washed over him once more. Was Alessandra standing in there, watching him? Or had she turned away?
His insides knotted, and he ordered himself to put her out of his mind. Deliberately he considered how to get back to the parking lot. He’d turned right when he walked down the midway. Now he turned left, making his way as quickly as possible toward the entrance, feeling the crowd part like the Red Sea before his white cane.
He discovered quickly that Henry Beaver hadn’t waited for him. Probably people had emerged from the carnival wanting a ride—and Henry had obliged them. Then again, maybe he’d gone down to the Blue Heron bar. That was one of the problems with depending on Henry. The old coot was several shades less than reliable. And a bad driver, to boot, judging from the squeal of breaks he heard from the other vehicles as they tooled around town.
Wyatt pulled out his cell phone. It was set up to work mainly on voice commands so he wouldn’t have to use the keyboard. But when he pressed the “on” button, the instrument said “low battery,” then switched off.
Crap. He’d forgotten to charge the damn thing again.
He walked back to the midway. There were still plenty of people around him, but which of them would know where to find a phone in this unfamiliar environment?
He could hear a barker working one of the booths—the ring toss he gathered from the guy’s spiel.
“Try your luck. Win one of these fabulous prizes. You sir—win a giant teddy bear for the little lady.”
In his mind, he pictured the barker. Probably in his twenties or thirties. A sincere smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
As he listened, the “little lady” squealed her approval. Wyatt waited while the sucker made the toss. He gathered from the ensuing disappointed noises that the effort had been a failure.
In the lull that followed, he stepped up to the booth.
“Try your luck—” The guy stopped abruptly. No doubt he’d seen the white cane.
Wyatt fixed his empty gaze on the man. “Can you direct me to a public phone?”
There was a half-second pause. “Past the next couple of booths. Turn right.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Absolutely,” the barker snapped. “I just had to think where they’d put it when we set up.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Right, Wyatt thought. The next couple of booths. Using his sense of light and dark, he detected their shapes, moved past them. His hearing had always been good, and the crowd was thinning out now. The people around him were less a mass of sounds, the individual voices more distinct. He’d make it to the phone with no problem.
______
For long moments, Alessandra stood as though turned to stone. Wyatt Boudreaux! He was here. She’d touched him. Held him in her arms, in fact, when he’d started to fall. Now she couldn’t catch her breath. She was too shocked. Too confused.
Wyatt Boudreaux. Blind. But not bowed. Changed. Bitter. Angry. Yet when she had held his hand, she had felt all the old emotions below the surface, emotions she hadn’t been able to deal with five years ago and certainly couldn’t deal with now. Despite everything, he still wanted her, and that was almost too much to bear.
Her loyalty was to her family. To Sabina. To Carlo. To the Romany band who had nurtured her since she was a little girl. People who stood together and protected their own.
Wyatt had lied to her. Well, not in so many words. But he’d known his father was the detective who had worked to convict Carlo. And he hadn’t mentioned that little fact to her. She’d told herself she hated him. She’d tried to convince herself it was true. But as soon as she’d seen him tonight, she’d felt the old sparks leap between them.
She lowered her head into her hands, using her strong will to banish his image from her consciousness. But it refused to fade, and as she pictured him, the hairs on the back of her neck stirred.
Danger. He was in danger. She felt it all the way to the marrow of her bones.
“Wyatt!” Without considering her actions, she dashed out of the tent and started running up the midway.
______
Wyatt turned into the side lane the guy had told him to take. Several paces along, he wondered if the barker had steered him wrong. He was alone now, outside the main traffic area of the carnival. A girl giggled, her high-pitched voice flitting past him, and he felt the tap of fingers on his arm.
“Who’s there?”
The only answer was another childish laugh. What was she doing out so late, all by herself?
Then her presence was gone, and he wondered if he’d dreamed her. He stopped worrying about the girl when he heard heavier footsteps dogging his path. Somebody was following him. Not a kid. A full-grown man, judging from the tread.
One thing he hadn’t lost with his eyesight was his cop’s instincts. Somebody was very purposefully trailing the blind man, probably with the intent of robbing him.
A dark bulky shape loomed to his right. A tent, he hoped, as he felt along the edge and detected coarse fabric. He was about to duck inside when he felt an arm catch him around the neck.
Acting instinctively, he dropped the cane, shot his elbow back into soft abdominal tissue.
As the mugger grunted, Wyatt went into a crouch, then flipped the assailant over his shoulders and heard him land heavily on the ground.
A curse sprang to the man’s lips, a low and dangerous sound, as he climbed slowly to his feet, breathing hard.
Good, Wyatt had done some damage.
Staying limber, he waited for the attacker to make his move, hoping the blind man had the advantage of darkness.
There was a blur of sound, a rush of movement in the humid air. Wyatt ducked away, felt a heavy body hurtle past him at the same time that hot pain sliced along his ribs, and he knew he’d been cut. The bastard had a knife.
He crouched, making himself a smaller target, waiting for the next move—wishing he could see the man. The mugger was right-handed. He’d go for Wyatt’s left side again.
All his concentration was on fending off the next attack and getting in a solid blow of his own—until he heard running feet, heard a woman shouting. “Help! Somebody help!”
______
Alessandra rushed down the dark passageway between the tents—a back alley, used by the carnival folk, not the public. In the dim light she could see two men struggling on the ground. She couldn’t see their faces, but she knew without doubt that one was Wyatt.
“Help!” she screamed again, this time in Romany, the language that everyone in the carnival knew and would respond to.
One of the men on the ground wrenched himself away and staggered off into the darkness.
She saw Wyatt sagging back against the side of a tent, heard his ragged breathing.
In response to her call, the narrow passage had filled with people.
“Get back. Give
him air,” Alessandra ordered. Then, “Oh, Lord, you’re bleeding,” she gasped as she saw the dark stain spreading across his shirt.
“I’m fine.”
“Sure. Fine.” As she tugged his shirt from the waistband of his slacks, she couldn’t hold back a small sound of protest.
“How bad?” he asked.
“It’s not deep. I can’t see it very well. I need better light. Can you walk?”
“Of course,” he replied, pushing himself to his feet, then swaying unsteadily.
She was instantly at his side, supporting his weight.
“He’s an outsider. Send him to the emergency room,” someone shouted.
“He was hurt in our camp. I’ll take care of him,” she answered. The response was automatic. Wyatt was hurt, and it was her fault. She had sent him away—into danger.
There were more arguments from her friends and relatives as she steered the injured man through the crowd.
She felt him struggle against her, knew he wanted to walk completely under his own power, but she kept him close.
Milo loomed in her path, blocking the way. “He doesn’t belong here,” he growled.
She raised defiant eyes to him. He owned the carnival. He could insist that Wyatt leave, but he stepped aside as she advanced.
The crowd thinned as she approached her trailer. Glancing at Wyatt, she saw that his eyes were squeezed tightly closed.
“We’re here,” she said, her voice low and soft.
“Where?”
“At my trailer.” Her trailer. Her home. Like the caravans her people had once used. Only updated—with many of the modern conveniences Americans took for granted.
She’d never brought him here before. Never. Even though she’d known he’d wanted desperately to come inside and hold her in his arms, devour her with kisses.
Now she struggled to keep her voice steady as she said, “It’s two steps up.”
Inside, she led him down the short hall to her living area. She’d left an empty china teacup and saucer on the carved wooden table by the window. The newspaper on the floor, and a basket of laundry to be folded. Now she thought she should have cleaned up—until she remembered that he couldn’t see the disorder.
Her daybed was on the far side of the room, opposite the love seat. She led him there.
“Where are you taking me?”
“My bed,” she managed, her throat thick.
“I’ll get blood on your spread.”
“No, I’ve got a towel,” she answered, grabbing one from the laundry basket and pressing it against his side. He was injured. No threat to her. Yet he seemed to fill the small room. Her room. Her personal space.
He reached down, felt the spread, stroking his fingers over the silky fabric.
“Lie down,” she said, hearing the thickness in her own voice.
Awkwardly, he lowered himself to the horizontal surface, lying with his eyes closed and his hands pressed flat against the spread.
A man in her bed. Lord, he looked primal. Sexual.
Then she sternly reminded herself why he was here.
“I’ll be right back,” she murmured, and hurried to the tiny supply closet, where she got out antiseptic and bandages.
After filling a bowl with hot water, she eased down beside him. She rolled up his shirt and gently dabbed at the wound.
“How bad?”
“It’s long but it’s not deep,” she said. “You must have dodged aside.”
She cleaned the area, then spread on antiseptic. When he gasped, she went instantly still.
“What? What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”
“I…saw the wound,” he said in a shaky voice.
“You imagined it? From my description?”
“I saw it!”
“But…”
“I’m blind. Seeing is impossible. Except for dark and light. But I saw. I think I saw what you were seeing. I think it’s because you’re touching me. It happened before, in your fortune-teller’s tent. When you caught me and then again when you were holding my hand.”
She shook her head. What he was telling her was impossible. And yet, among her people, she’d heard of such things happening between a man and a woman who had formed a connection.
“No,” she whispered, her gaze on the bright paisley shapes of the spread.
“Yellow and green swirly things,” he said thickly. “With some little designs of red and blue.”
She couldn’t hold back a gasp. He’d never seen her home—her bed. Yet he’d just told her what the spread looked like. At least as a man might describe it.
Her gaze shot to his face. His eyes were closed again, but his breathing had quickened.
He didn’t say any more about seeing through her eyes, didn’t press the point, and she was grateful for that. Maybe it only happened when his eyes were open. He seemed to keep them closed much of the time. She was half-afraid to touch him now, but she forced herself to tape gauze over the wound.
He lay absolutely still while she tended to him.
“Thank you,” he said when she had finished.
“You were hurt. I couldn’t leave you hurt.”
“Anyone else out there would have.”
“No,” she answered automatically, thinking that he probably spoke the truth. “Why were you there?” she asked. “That wasn’t a public area.”
“I was looking for a phone. Maybe I lost my way. Or maybe the barker near the entrance deliberately sent me down there.”
“Which barker?” she asked quickly.
“The one at the ring toss. I can’t give you much description. From his voice, I’d say he was in his twenties or thirties.”
“Tony. He’s thirty-two,” she said aloud. She was thinking Tony might have remembered Wyatt from before, and he might have wished him ill. Had Tony been the one who’d attacked him? She’d have to do some investigating.
“Don’t get yourself into trouble because of me,” he said sharply, giving her the eerie feeling that he’d read her mind.
“I won’t,” she answered, hoping he believed her. She didn’t like the way his eyes narrowed, but when he spoke, it was to change the subject.
“Anyway, I’m lucky you came along. Lucky you interrupted before he fileted me.”
Not luck, she thought. She had known he was in trouble. Yet she didn’t mention that.
“Well, it’s not deep,” she said again, lamely.
“Yes.” As he spoke, he reached up, his hand steady, and she thought he must be judging the distance by the sound of her voice. Slowly he clasped his palm around the back of her head and brought her mouth down toward his.
She could have resisted, should have resisted. But resistance was beyond her. Her lips touched down softly on his, the kiss sweet and at the same time edged with a passion she struggled to contain.
______
Wyatt knew in some part of his mind that Alessandra had brought him into her home only because he was injured. But he was less aware of the wound than of the bed on which he lay.
Alessandra’s bed.
It was all he could do to keep himself from pulling her down to lie beside him so that he could show her just how much he had missed her.
She sighed his name, sighed the syllables into his mouth. And in that moment he knew she had missed him as much as he had missed her.
He lay there with his eyes closed. The hand that had clasped her head stroked over her back. The other palm stayed flat on the bed—lest he raise it to cup her breast.
He wanted to touch her—to engage all his remaining senses. He wanted to see her. She was touching him, and he had seen before when she touched him. But only through her eyes. He wouldn’t see her. So he kept his eyes closed, thinking he shouldn’t be doing this at all. Yet he simply couldn’t help himself.
A knock at the door made her bolt up and away from him, as if they’d been doing something wrong—when nothing in the past two years had felt so right.
He heard the rustle of her clo
thing, felt her climb swiftly off the bed and dart down the short hallway. “Who is it?”
“Andrei,” a gruff voice answered.
Ah, Andrei Sobatka. Another cousin. A handsome devil, a real ladies’ man, if Wyatt remembered correctly. Doubtless he was coming to make sure that nothing funny was going on in here. Too late!
He heard the door open.
“I brought his cane.”
“Thank you.”
“We should call a cab and send him home. Sabina agrees with me. She says it’s not proper to have him here. She says you must send him away.”
Sabina. Her sister. Very similar in looks, as he recalled. He remembered her as seeming sad and defeated. Apparently she’d become more assertive. Like Alessandra.
“I’ll take him home when he’s better,” Alessandra said.
“Don’t you think you’ve done enough for him?”
“He was hurt by one of us.”
“You don’t know that! It could have been somebody from town planning to rob him.”
He heard her wait a beat, wondering if she was going to mention Tony, the guy who had sent him astray. But all she said was, “He needs to rest.” Her voice was firm. So was the sound of the door closing.
She stayed at the far end of the hallway, and bitter disappointment flooded through him. She had stood up for him, but what was he expecting now? That she’d take up where they’d left off? Sure. With a blind man. A blind man she hated because she thought his father had worked overtime to convict her cousin of murder. Still, when her lips had touched his, he hadn’t felt hatred in her kiss. He had tasted sweetness, desire, a connection between them. And he wanted more.
He heard her slow footsteps returning and directed his nonexistent gaze to the spot where he thought she was standing. His mouth was suddenly dry, but he managed to get the words out that he’d planned.
“You’re sure Carlo’s innocent. Well, maybe I can help you prove it—one way or the other.”
“How?”
Wyatt heard hope in her voice, also doubt. Maybe mistrust. He couldn’t fault her for that.
“When my father retired he took some of his old files with him.”
“Doesn’t his work belong to the police department?” she shot back.
