"We've given you our money. Why don't you let us go?" Mark reasoned.
"We're afraid maybe the girl is hiding more money somewhere. Or maybe her jewels. You got anything inside that tight sweater, girlie-girl?"
"N-no." She hated the way her voice showed her fear. Why hadn't she studied martial arts instead of basketball? She fantasized about throwing the men around like a heroine in a cheap movie.
"Had to think about it, didn't you. I'm going to have to take a look now. Why don't you pull up that sweater over your head? Nice and easy now."
"I think you'd better do what they tell you," Mark said. "Very slowly."
She couldn't believe he was saying that. Being blind didn't have to make him a coward. He could at least put up a pretense of a fight.
"No," she shouted.
"Listen to your boyfriend," the leader told her, his voice a low hiss. "Blind or not, right now, he's seeing reality a lot better than you are."
"Please, Amy," Mark repeated.
Reluctantly, she did what she was told, wishing she'd worn something a little more substantial under her sweater. The little lace job had made a lot of sense when she came up with the plan to meet up with Mark. Now a bunch of creeps were getting an eyeful.
"Hey, nice," one of their assailants said.
"Yeah. Let's take a closer look. I think maybe she is hiding something there."
The leader reached for her. Just before his hand reached her skin, Mark grabbed it, pulled, then swept the man's feet from under him and dropped all of his weight on the falling attacker.
It all happened so fast, Amy could only stare with her mouth hanging open.
"The blind guy broke my freakin' ribs," the man gasped. "Get him."
Mark was back on his feet before the man finished speaking, then cut off the chatter with a kick to the fallen man's face. The man covered his face and rolled over. He, at least, looked out of the fight.
Mark whirled around, holding his cane in front of him like a fencer's foil.
"Don't worry about that little stick thing," one of the attackers told the other. He pulled a piece of pipe from under his jacket.
"He's got some sort of club," Amy warned. She pulled her sweater back into place so she could help.
"Right."
She couldn't have been more wrong about Mark being a coward. She remembered how cold, dangerous, and controlling Mark had looked when she'd first seen him. Compared to now, he could have been a teddy bear. If he were facing only one opponent, she had no doubt who the winner would be. Club or no, blind or no, Mark looked to be the best man out there tonight.
Unfortunately, there were two of them left. While one distracted him, the other would take him out.
Only not if she could help it.
"Run," he told her. "There's a gas station at the corner. Call the police. They'll pick you up."
"And leave you here? Not a chance."
The man with the pipe took a swing at Mark's cane, knocking it aside like the thin piece of plastic it was. He stepped forward.
Amy screamed and balled up her fists.
"Quiet," Mark shushed her. "I can't hear with your noise." He pushed her behind him, his touch gentle despite the dangerous look in his eyes.
The man with the club signaled to his comrade to attack with him. Mark stepped toward them, walking into their trap.
"The second one's about ten feet to your right," Amy called softly. "The one with the pipe is right in front of you. The guy you landed on is still on the ground."
"I know," Mark answered. "Please be quiet. I'm trying to listen."
So much for the trap and her help. She checked to see what the man Mark had hurt was doing, but he wasn't going anywhere. She scooped her purse and Mark's wallet from his grasp. She'd throw them down in the sewer before she let these thugs have the money now.
The club-man took another swing at Mark's cane, apparently trying to knock it from his hand.
Mark nonchalantly brushed the weapon aside, then slid his cane down the length of the pipe, ending with a sharp smack as it collided with the man's fingers.
With an angry cry, the man dropped the pipe.
"Hey guy," the fallen man shouted, "I could use a little help here."
One of the men punched at Mark drawing a gasp from him. Before the assailant could withdraw, Mark caught the fist and twisted the man's arm, ending in a sharp pop. At the same time, he lifted a knee to his attacker's groin, then scraped his heel down the man's knee and calf.
Another one down.
Unfortunately, the third man seemed familiar with some sort of martial art. As Mark was turning to face him, he pulled his leg back, gave some sort of a weird shout, and kicked.
The man Mark had just finished with was shouting out in his pain and Mark's hearing must have gotten confused because the kick appeared to take him completely by surprise.
It spun him around and he hit the ground hard.
The man who'd kicked him sidled toward Mark, cautious despite the fact that Mark remained on his back, unmoving.
Amy picked up a broken hunk of concrete and threw it at the man but he merely ducked and let it fly over his head.
When he stood only a foot from Mark, he pulled back one leg as if getting ready to kick a field goal.
At the last possible moment, Mark rolled away and to his feet, and, grasping the fallen leader’s arm, picked him up, and threw him at the last thug, who was rising to his knees.
The two collapsed in a tangle.
"Let's get out of here," Mark gasped.
Amy grabbed his hand and the two ran back toward her car.
When they had sprinted a block, she slowed down and looked behind. The men had untangled themselves, but were checking on their comrade rather than coming after them.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"I think so. Are they following us?"
"No."
"Good." He gasped as he talked. "I know you'd like to hurry but I think I'd be better if I could just walk."
His voice didn't sound good. That kick must have hurt him more than he wanted to let on. Still, he had accomplished the incredible defeating three sighted opponents, all of whom were even bigger than he. Blind or not, Mark was a dangerous man.
She opened his door and sprinted back around to the driver's side. Right now, she didn't want to be further from him than she could reach. Especially not in this neighborhood.
She floored the accelerator and tore out of there as quickly as she could. After what they'd just been thorough, she wouldn't mind getting a speeding ticket. At least they'd see a cop.
"I wonder if we should check into a motel," Mark said.
Had he gone crazy? She might find him attractive, in fact, she found him incredibly sexy. Still, doing something cheap like checking into a motel didn't leap to her mind as a reasonable next move after what had just happened.
"I've heard that an urge to procreate is a natural response to a battle," Amy said cautiously. "Don't you think we should get home, though?"
His face was a study of confusion. "What the--oh."
He started to laugh but cut off the expression with a pained look. "You misunderstand me. I just think we shouldn't go home because those punks can get our addresses from our wallets. In their circles, getting beat up by a blind guy doesn't compel respect. They might get reinforcements and seek revenge."
She'd forgotten that Mark hadn't seen her scoop up their valuables.
"Actually, I picked up your wallet and my purse."
"What?"
"That first guy who attacked you still had your wallet and my purse in his hand, and I figured we needed them more than he did."
"That was good thinking."
His praise made her feel bubbly, as if she'd been sipping on expensive champagne all night. "So do you want to try someplace else for dinner?"
"You know, I'm not really feeling that well. Maybe you should just drop me off at my place."
She pulled over to the side of
the road and stopped, then flipped on the dome light. Mark's skin had taken on a faint greenish tinge. He certainly didn't look healthy.
"That's crap," she told him. "I'm not going to drop you off and let you suffer in male solitude. I want to get a look at where that jerk kicked you. Besides, you owe me a dinner."
****
Mark led Amy into his house doing his best to hide the pain that accompanied every motion he made. Unfortunately, he misjudged the living room rug and stumbled.
The sudden movement tore at his bruised kidneys and he gasped involuntarily.
Amy was all over him like a mother hen over a chick.
"Lie down on the couch and let me take a look at you."
"I'm all right, really."
"I've got a lot of experience in sports injuries," Amy told him. "Not that getting attacked is much of a sport. Still, that kick could be serious. Let's have a look at it."
Mark wanted to argue with her but found he didn't have the strength. He let her lead him to the couch and collapsed into its soft leather.
"Take off your shirt," she instructed.
"I'm not sure this is a good idea."
"Don't worry, I'm not going to attack you and I don't think I'm in any danger from you."
Despite the hurt, she misjudged him on that. He would gladly accept double the pain to take her in his arms and hold her. Of course if he did that, he knew she would run screaming from his house. After what had just happened outside the restaurant, he wasn't going to let her outside this late at night without some protection.
He unbuttoned his shirt carefully and undid the cuffs. The shirt was garbage after what it had gone through. If she wanted more, he'd cut the damned thing off. It would just hurt too much to take it off.
"Oh, my."
He'd dreamed of hearing her say words to that effect. Of course, in his dreams she said them after passionate lovemaking. The tone wasn't quite right, either.
"I'll live."
"If you say so." She didn't sound convinced. The bruises must have looked as bad as they felt. "Do you have any medical supplies?"
"It's just a bruise. It doesn't need anything besides, maybe, some ice."
"There's a lot of blood here for a bruise. I need something to clean it off."
"I thought that slob might be wearing steel toed boots." Not a brilliant answer but all he could come up with. "Medical supplies are to the right of the stove, upper shelf. There should be alcohol, Neosporin, some gauze bandages, and aspirin."
"Do you have a headache?" Her concern level cranked up another notch.
"I don't have one, I'm being one. The aspirin is for you."
"Don't sell yourself short, Mark. I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't want to."
She returned a minute later with whatever supplies she had decided on.
"This is going to hurt," she warned him.
As if that would be a change. "I'm ready."
Sure enough, the alcohol-drenched rag she wiped him made him feel on fire.
He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from jerking when she touched him. All he needed was for her to accidentally dig her nail into his side.
"Um, Mark." She sounded like she'd been following a one-way street and hit a dead end.
"Yeah?"
"The cut goes lower. You're going to have to unfasten your jeans."
Talk about being careful what he wished for. Here he'd spent the past weeks dreaming about Amy unfastening his pants and running her soft hands all over his body. This hadn't been exactly how he'd visualized it, though. "Maybe I'd better do this first-aid myself."
"I already told you I'm not going to attack you."
To him, her voice lacked even the morsel of conviction it had held last time she had said it.
"Whatever you say, Ms. Nightingale." He unbuttoned the jeans and started on the zipper.
Her hands caught at his. "You are wearing, well, something under your jeans, aren't you?"
It hurt to laugh. He couldn't help himself.
"Stop it, you're starting to bleed again."
He bit his tongue and forced himself to stop. "Don't worry, I'm perfectly decent," he told her. He unzipped his jeans.
"I'll help you get them off," Amy volunteered. She slid them down his hips, pulled off his loafers, then tugged the jeans the rest of the way off.
Amy gasped, then giggled.
"What?" He was wearing boxers. Hardly the type of attire that should stimulate such a reaction.
"Black silk boxers that say 'heavy equipment inside' hardly constitute decent in my book."
"Oh. I didn't know, I swear." He vaguely remembered a department store saleswoman persuading him to try these boxers, but she hadn't mentioned any message. He'd picked them for the sensation of silk against his skin.
"Of course not. I have to keep reminding myself that you can't see."
Unfortunately, that was something he never had to do. For the rest of his life, he'd have a permanent reminder of his bad night in Bosnia.
She snickered again.
"I can change them if they offend you," he said.
She sobered. "No, you need to lie still."
She peeled down the elastic band of the boxers, inspecting the impression made by the kick.
"The cut doesn't go too much lower, she told him. "Thank goodness. I'll get it cleaned off."
It seemed to take her forever to clean the wound. Even her slightest touch sent shivers up his back.
He knew she was only taking care of a friend, doing what she'd do if he were a teammate on her basketball team or even one of her pets. Still, he couldn't persuade his body that her touch wasn't special.
The harder he willed his mind away from her nearness, from her gentle touch against his nearly naked body, and away from the accidental brush of her breasts, her soft breath against his hypersensitized skin, the harder his reaction got. She had to be aware of the way his excitement pressed the black silk boxers with their suggestive message.
She said she wanted to be friends. His body hadn’t taken that to heart.
****
Amy's hands shook as she fumbled with the gauze bandage, securing it into place with adhesive tape.
Men had no control over their arousal. She knew that. Still, she couldn't help thinking that Mark's excitement might have something to do the way her breasts seemed to brush his body without her willing them to, or with the fact that it had taken her far longer to clean his abrasions than it should have.
When she'd finished, she pulled an afghan from the back of his sofa and draped it over him, hiding as much of his glorious body as she could.
"Do you have anything in your refrigerator?" she asked.
"The usual stuff, I suppose."
"For me, the usual stuff is a bottle of salad dressing and some ketchup," she admitted. "Maybe you can be more specific."
"All right." Mark furled his forehead. "I should have a couple of steaks in the freezer. Also some ice cream. Maybe some leftover lasagna. I haven't been to the store in a couple of days so the vegetables are getting a little low. Still, I've got to have some broccoli. I'm sure there's lettuce since one of my readers picked some up for me. Then I've got canned stuff and crackers and things in the pantry. Oh, there's wine in the wine rack in the den."
Obviously Mark's idea of the ‘usual stuff’ was a lot more comprehensive than hers.
"If I make something, do you think you can eat?"
"To be honest, I'm starving."
"Great. I'll see what I can do. Remember what I said, though about my cooking skills."
And she'd have a few minutes away from him to get her raging hormones under control. Maybe she'd end up giving him food poisoning. At least then she wouldn't have to worry about irrational reactions.
"I'll come and help," Mark offered. He started to struggle to his feet. The bandage around his side reddened. This was not a good idea.
"You'll stay here on the couch or I'll give you another kick. I'll let you know
if I can't find something."
She was running from him. Right now, she didn't see any alternative.
His kitchen was a fantasy. He had an entire set of those expensive European knives her sister had been drooling over for years, and enough food in his refrigerator to keep the two of them fed for a week.
"Finding everything?" he called out from the living room.
"Sit still," she called back. "Everything's under control."
She hadn't had a steak in months, but this hardly seemed like the time to be worried about fat grams. She found a basic cookbook and followed its instructions about throwing a couple of steaks on the broiler and steaming a mixture of the broccoli and yellow squash she found in his vegetable bin. She didn't even need instructions to zap the potatoes in the microwave. The microwave's talking computer stepped her through all the decisions.
She rarely touched alcohol, but the meal seemed to call out for something a little extra. She explored his den, finding that his wine rack consisted of an entire wall covered with dusty wine bottles with fancy French labels and dates that seemed to range between seven and twenty years in the past. She picked the one with the prettiest label.
Finally she carried out plates and wineglasses for the two of them. Mark lay on the couch exactly as she had left him. Perfectly still.
For an instant, she panicked. He had to be alive.
"Mark?" she shouted
He opened his eyes. "Hum?"
"Oh. I thought you were--never mind. I brought dinner."
He sat up on the sofa, the afghan spilling off his upper body and exposing his hard-muscled chest.
"Smells great," he told her. "I forgot I'd bought the squash."
Her nose wasn't sensitive enough to pick up all the different scents. Despite what he'd told her when she'd asked him, it seemed to her that his senses were particularly acute. How else would he have been able to fight against those three creeps?
"I hope I didn't overcook them."
"Don't worry about it. I'm hungry enough that everything is going to taste good no matter what you did to it."
He brushed his hand across the coffee table where she'd set the plates.
For an instant, she couldn't decide what he was trying to do. Then, "Oops. I forgot the silverware."
Blind Date Page 10
