Man Behind The Voice

She was making her way to the bathroom to attempt a bit of blush and eye shadow when the doorbell rang.

“Blast it all,” she muttered under her breath. Why hadn’t the university at least called to see if this evening would be convenient for such an activity? The last thing Eleanor wanted that night was hours of listening to some gum-popping, barely out-of-high-school teenager stumbling her way through an art history tome.

The doorbell rang again, then was followed by a sharp rap on the panels.

“Coming,” she called out impatiently. If first impressions were worth anything, Eleanor was ready to send the woman packing. After all, this was Eleanor’s home. She shouldn’t be summoned to the door as if she were some sort of inconvenience to this girl’s valuable time.

Piqued, Eleanor threw the door open. “Listen, I realize that you’re new at this, but if the two of us are going to work together, there are a few ground rules you’ll need to follow.”

“Fine.”

The voice wasn’t that of a woman. It was very dark, very low.

And very male.

Chapter Four

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.