FOR HER EYES ONLY

by Tori Carrington

  Letting rip a string of hardly used curses, Jake pulled to the shoulder of the road just on the other side of the on ramp, then flicked on his hazards. With his gaze glued to the rearview mirror, he slid the top button of his shirt open, heaving his tie to cover it.

  Before Michelle had made her move, he'd kept a close eye on the road signs. This particular exit had no rest facilities, and the next exit was twenty-two miles down the highway. Michelle would soon realize she had no choice but to get back onto the turnpike.

  At least he hoped she'd realize that.

  After five long minutes with no sign of the battered Ford, he jerked the car into reverse. Traffic was sparse, and he ignored the honking of horns from what little there was. He finally backed up far enough to exit, then raced toward the tollgate. The guard remembered Michelle—probably no other cars had exited since hers—and said he thought she'd gone east. Jake paid the toll then headed in that direction as well, scouring the dark farmland surrounding him. Nothing. No lights. Nobody driving. Nothing but a long, lonely stretch of two-lane road.

  He drove for exactly three miles then stopped. He'd been had. It was as simple as that. He suspected that the instant she saw him turn off, she'd doubled back and was already well down the turnpike by now.

  Then again, what she could be looking for could be here somewhere.

  Trusting his first instinct, he turned around. He could only hope he was right.

  On the turnpike fifteen minutes later, he saw that he was. He pulled onto the shoulder then cruised to a stop behind Michelle's disabled Ford. The back left tire was flat. He climbed from the car and buttoned his jacket, careful of passing traffic as he made his way toward the driver's side.

  No Michelle.

  He leaned inside the open window. She'd left the keys inside. He used them to unlock the trunk. Why wasn't he surprised that there was no spare? A tractor and semitrailer roared on by, the resulting gust of air plastering his suit to his body. He stared down the road after the truck. Just then, it began to rain.

  * * *

  Michelle climbed down from the monster-size truck cab then slammed the door. There was a loud grinding of gears, then the trucker rolled slowly away from her, leaving her standing at the side of the road in the rain.

  She shivered. It wasn't that she was unaccustomed to male attention. But the way the trucker had come on to her made her want to scratch something—that is, if she'd had any nails left with which to scratch. In France, men—no matter how old or attractive—at least hinted at the promise of or openly boasted of an ability to satisfy a woman. This guy had been moderately handsome, but he'd made it sound as if she'd owed him one. As though even if she wouldn't enjoy a sexual liaison with him, he didn't care one way or another, just so long as he could cop a feel.

  Completely unlike Jake, who would probably never come on to a woman unless he were sure his attention was welcome.

  She turned toward the lights on the other side of the tollbooth not too far away.

  At least this exit included life of some sort. The one she'd pulled off in the hopes of losing Jake had been completely dead. She spared a glance behind her, half expecting to see the dark Caprice bearing down on her. Hiking her backpack a little higher on her shoulders, she headed in the direction of the tollbooth. She hoped they could direct her to a bus station or even a nearby train station, any place where she could curl up on a chair out of the elements, then continue on in her trip toward Ohio.

  She hadn't counted on that flat tire. Then again, she hadn't counted on much of what had happened to her during her trip. She'd known when she'd bought the car that it didn't have a spare. It's how she'd gotten the dealer to go down thirty dollars on the price. She'd figured she'd gotten the better part of the deal, since the spare had been as bad as the rest of the tires. But even that would have been better than what she had now, which was nothing.

  Headbeams illuminated her from behind. She stepped farther onto the shoulder as she walked. The way her luck was running, someone would hit her from behind, and she'd be stuck in an American hospital for the next month or so. Or, worse yet, in a cast up to her neck on the next plane to Paris. She stepped up to the tollbooth. A woman in her forties eyed her critically. "Pedestrians aren't allowed on the turnpike."

  "My car, it broke down—"

  The attendant leaned forward and frowned. "I can't understand your accent, miss. Pass that by me again."

  Michelle grimaced. "Is there a bus or a train station nearby?"

  The woman apparently understood her. She leaned back and crossed her arms. "Nope. The nearest bus station is about twenty-two miles east, at the last exit."

  Merde. She'd have to be careful, or the next thing she knew, she'd be arrested for loitering outside the tollbooth. "I don't suppose there's a cab service here?"

  "Excuse me?"

  Michelle shook her head. "Nothing. Thanks for your help."

  * * *

  Jake flashed his high beams, then passed another eighteen-wheeler. He glanced at the truck cab. Michelle could have been in any one of the dozen or so such vehicles he'd seen in the past five minutes. Or in one of the cars, which easily doubled that number.

  "What are you doing, McCoy?" he muttered to himself.

  He gripped then released the steering wheel. His reasons for following her in the first place were shaky at best. And now that she had lost him … well, there was very little point in continuing without more information or an official reason for doing so. And since he had neither, he'd be better off turning tail and starting on the long road for home.

  What had he been thinking? Or, more accurately, which body part had he let do the thinking for him? He grimaced. He'd never done anything so irresponsible in his life. When he was younger, he'd opted out of stealing candy bars from Obernauer's general store while Marc was busy stuffing his pockets full. Not because he was afraid he'd get caught, but because it was just plain wrong. Later, when Connor had surprised him with a stripper on his twentieth birthday, he'd handed her money rather than slip it in her G-string, and had kept his gaze carefully focused on a point just past her toned, undulating waist.

  Why, of all times, he'd chosen now to let his hormones get the better of him, he didn't know. Especially since Michelle was nowhere near the type of woman he was usually interested in.

  It stood to reason that that's exactly the reason he did find her so intriguing. But that didn't help him any now.

  He slowed down to exit the turnpike so he could head in the other direction when the muffled chirping of his cell phone caught his attention. He reached over and fished it from a box of Kleenex in his glove compartment. He didn't recognize the number spotlighted in the display. Pulling onto the shoulder of the exit ramp, he clicked it on.

  "Jake? It's Michelle."

  He didn't need to be told that. Just her saying his name made his pants a little tighter. He closed his eyes and exhaled silently. It was weird, this physical reaction to her call. More acute than the first time he'd given his number out and the girl had called him.

  Michelle told him where she was, then paused before saying, "Can you come get me?"

  He knew how very much it must have taken her to call him. He also knew he shouldn't be feeling half the relief he was, either.

  He glanced through the windshield at the tollbooth just ahead. He made out Michelle's silhouette instantly. She was leaning against the side of the booth, the toe of one platform shoe on top of the other as she plugged her opposite ear.

  "I'll be right there," he said, then flicked off the phone.

  Within moments, he was pushing open the passenger's door and paying the toll.

  "That was quick," the guard said, openly interested.

  He didn't answer her. He was more interested in Michelle as she climbed into the car and quietly closed the door. He pulled from the booth.

  An air of defeat seemed to cling to her damp shoulders. Her sensual mouth was stoically unmoving, offering no babbling commentary on what the
past half hour had held for her. She looked like a woman who had faced one too many disasters for one day and was ready to pack it in. He remembered who she was, who he was, and realized that the moment she'd called him, she'd done just that. She'd given in.

  He fought a fierce urge to reach out and touch her. Pull her closer to his side.

  "You about ready for that bite?" he asked instead.

  She slowly turned to look at him. "Bite?" she repeated. "Oh, yes, food."

  "I don't know about you, but I could eat a horse."

  Michelle smiled. "Gerald used to say that all the time. Used to drive me nuts. Especially in the beginning, when I didn't know he didn't mean it literally. But why would anyone want to even joke about eating a horse? I mean, yes, I get the whole size thing…" She let the words drift off, her gaze traveling the length of him, then back again. The color in her cheeks made her eyes seem to sparkle.

  He smiled at the reemergence of her chattiness, then wondered why the mention of size had caused her to look him over so thoroughly. "Gerald, your … ex-boyfriend?" He caught himself before he said ex-husband.

  "Lover," she said, avoiding his gaze and crossing her arms. "And sorry, I don't frequent restaurants that serve equine animals."

  "I'm afraid it's not an invitation."

  Michelle closed her eyes, then looked at him. "Is it past midnight already?"

  He nodded once.

  "Then I'm suddenly very hungry. Ravenous, even. But I think I'll leave any horse they might be serving for you."

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  Michelle welcomed the vibrating hum of the hair dryer as she fluffed her freshly washed hair with her fingers. Her limbs felt rubbery. Her shoulders unbearably heavy. The long, hot shower had helped. So had dinner beforehand. At least what little she'd been able to make herself eat of the traditional American fare of meat loaf and mashed potatoes, the only selections available this late to her and Jake at the greasy spoon next to the motel. Even the tall, quiet INS agent who sat outside the bathroom door had appeared to lose his appetite as they sat across from each other. A pregnant silence had filled the air between them like so many unsaid, useless words. Unsaid and useless because Michelle knew that no matter what happened, Jake would be taking her to D.C. in the morning and putting her on the first flight to Paris.

  She switched off the dryer and stared at the warm plastic in her hands. The steady drone of rain outside the slatted windows made it sound as though someone were taking a shower in the bathtub behind her.

  She would be returning to France. Without Lili.

  The thought that she might never see her daughter again caused a tightness in her chest that made it nearly impossible to breathe. What was she going to do without Lili crawling into her bed on rainy nights like this one, complaining about her inability to sleep, though she usually dropped right off once she'd curled her warm little body against Michelle's?

  She supposed her life would come to resemble what the past eight weeks had held for her. Emptiness.

  She caught a glimpse of her haunted eyes in the mirror, then reached out to wipe a small circle of steam from the surface.

  A sound from the bedroom caught her attention. She realized Jake McCoy must have switched off the television. The tinny sound of voices was gone.

  Jake McCoy.

  Instantly, the tension in her chest unwound and snaked lower. She wasn't sure what it was about this man that affected her so. It could be his awkward way around her. His solicitous grin. The way he blushed—actually blushed!—when he found out they would have to share the one room left at the motel and when she caught him looking at her breasts. Or when she curiously eyed certain parts of him. Whatever it was, the attraction she felt for him was strong enough to, if not fill the hole left by Lili's absence, at least distract her from it a bit.

  She cursed at herself in French. Six weeks in America and she was already beginning to overanalyze like an American. What was it with these people that made them question every feeling, every action, as if seeking a deeper meaning that wasn't there? She was used to going with her feelings. If it felt good, she did it. And the prospect of making love with Jake McCoy felt very good indeed. It held all the promise of complete and total escape; at least for a few brief, precious hours—enough to get her through the night and on into the morning, when her situation might not look so dim.

  It would also satisfy the flash of desire she felt whenever he was near. Give her an outlet for the emotional turmoil dogging her. Allow her a physical release she'd forbidden herself for far too long.

  She caught her tiny smile in the mirror, envisioning Jake's reaction when she made her intentions known. Would he run for the door? Or would he surprise her with an equally interested response? Either way, she viewed it as a win-win situation.

  She took body lotion from her handbag and began smoothing it over her skin. Her neck. Her breasts. The balls of her feet. No, she would not by any means be mistaken for a seductress. Her black camisole was pure cotton, and her panties were plain. But she didn't think even straight-shooting Jake McCoy could miss her message when she walked into the bedroom.

  Fastening her attention on her hair, she smoothed it first this way, then that, frowning as strands sprang free like thick, unruly corkscrews. With the help of a little water and one of Lili's rubber bands she found in her purse, she managed to pull it back in what resembled a twist, every wild strand smoothed, tucked and pinned in place.

  Her fingers encircled the doorknob and she hesitated—likely the first time she'd ever hesitated in her life. Why, she couldn't be sure. But in that one moment she knew a fear of rejection she was unfamiliar with.

  Aside from their kiss at the D.C. café, there was no solid proof Jake was attracted to her. Yes, his gaze ignited the most delicious of desires within her. But her reaction could be based on nothing more than her need to escape the gravity of her situation.

  She released a gusty sigh. There she went again. Analyzing everything too much.

  She turned the knob then pulled the door open, standing in the passageway with only one thought in mind…

  * * *

  Jake turned his cell phone over in his palm again and again. He really should call David, or someone at D.C. headquarters. But he couldn't seem to make himself do anything more then listen to the sounds on the other side of the closed bathroom door.

  He'd never been in such close quarters with a woman before. Well, yes, he'd been with a few women, and took some amount of pride in the fact that they numbered more than the fingers of one hand, but he'd never listened to one take a shower before. The images that slipped through his mind were just this side of pornographic and long past carnal. He could practically see the warm water sluicing over Michelle's compact little body. Dampening her hair. Rolling over those soft, soft lips, tempting her tongue out to catch a drop or two. Splashing over her pointed breasts, causing them to swell and the tips to harden. He turned the phone over faster and faster as he inserted an image of himself standing in that shower with her. Bending down to claim her hot, wet mouth—

  The bathroom door opened. Jake lunged for his cell phone, which had jumped from his hand.

  Dear God, help me.

  His gaze slid over her well-shaped frame. From the high-cut panties that gave her legs the appearance of being extremely long. To the camisole that clung to her torso and her breasts in a way his fingers itched to, to the way her hair was slicked back from her face, emphasizing the width and depth of her dark eyes, the fullness of her mouth, the long curve of her neck.

  She couldn't have provoked a more complete physical reaction from him had she walked out in nothing at all.

  He forced himself to stare at the phone in his hands. "I put your pie on the nightstand next to the bed," he forced himself to say.

  She didn't move. He didn't, either. "Thank you."

  He shrugged off her thanks and reached for the remote control. But the blasted thing refused to work.
After a couple of moments spent futilely punching at the buttons, he tossed it onto the round, scarred table.

  "I thought you could sleep in the bed closer to the bathroom," he said.

  "So you could be closer to the door."

  He looked up to catch her smile and felt the irresistible desire to smile back. "Yes."

  She slowly crossed the room to the bed in question and began folding back the hideous bedspread. "I had another thought in mind."

  Stick to her face, McCoy. Stick to her face.

  She propped up the pillows on both sides of the bed. "I thought we might share one bed."

  Jake nearly crushed his cell phone altogether.

  She sat down and pulled her knees close to her chest. Far from the femme fatale her words implied, she acted as though she'd just suggested they engage in a long chat about the change in the weather. "Our being so … close would allow you to keep even a better eye on me."

  Jake cleared his throat. "Um, yes, that it would."

  "You object?"

  He shook his head, then nodded. With a strangled sigh, he slipped his phone into his jacket pocket then pulled the jacket closed. "I find you very … attractive, Michelle. There's no denying that. But it would be…" Unprofessional? Crazy? Decadent? "It would be, um, imprudent for me to entertain ideas of you and I … well, making love."

  He realized he hadn't even considered that this might be some sort of ploy on Michelle's behalf to gain her freedom. In his usually highly suspicious mind, he was notably unwary of her motives. Perhaps it was because of the way she looked at him, as though she was as interested in exploring the sparks that flew between them as he was. Or maybe it was the casual, unaffected way she invited him into bed with her. Either way, he knew, just knew on a deeper level he was hesitant to explore, that her desire to sleep with him was a result of just that—desire.