Look into My Eyes Read online

  Look into My Eyes

  Glenda Sanders

  Dear Reader,

  Books often begin when a writer asks herself the question, “What if?” But while working on Look into My Eyes, the question in my mind was a little different. For me, the catchphrase from the movie Speed fits this story better. Not “What if” but “What would you do?”

  As I wrote Look into My Eyes, I frequently asked myself that question: What would you do? What would you do if you were attracted to a man with no name, no past, no future—a man who was drawn to you as strongly as you were drawn to him, but who could make you no promises?

  For me, the fantasy was believing that a woman could love strongly enough, that she could take her lover’s essential goodness on faith. Face it, wouldn’t we all like to believe that we could find that level of strength and nobility within ourselves?

  The heroine of this book, Holly Bennett, finds that strength.

  I enjoyed living this fantasy through Holly. I hope you do, too.

  Happy fantasizing!

  Glenda Sanders

  Contents

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  1

  HE WAS STARING at her again.

  Holly swallowed the lump of disquiet that had formed in her throat and forced her attention back to the picture book she was holding up. She read aloud: “‘Who will help me grind my wheat?’ asked the Little Red Hen.”

  She panned the sea of four-year-old faces gathered round her. “And what do you think the dog said?”

  “Not I!” responded a chorus of young voices.

  “And what do you think the cat said?” Holly asked.

  She glanced down the aisle between collected short stories and single-title general fiction, where the new shelving assistant was putting books away. As though he’d sensed her eyes on him, he looked up and met her gaze with a bold intensity that made her feel, somehow, exposed. But as the children cried out rowdily, his gaze widened to include them, and he smiled in amusement at their antics.

  The smile softened his features, making him seem less brooding...and more charming. Involuntarily, Holly’s mouth twitched into an answering smile. Realizing it, she deliberately took her eyes from his face. She wasn’t about to encourage him. Being handsome as the devil did not excuse bad manners. His stares were unsettling, and he was too...virile.

  Glancing at the book to compose herself, she asked the children, “And what do you think the rat said?”

  “Not I!” they shouted.

  “You guys have heard this story before,” she teased, turning the page and hoping they wouldn’t notice how distracted she was by the man watching her from the stacks.

  His name was Craig.

  “‘And who will help me make a dough?’ said the Little Red Hen,” she read.

  It was only a name. Only a combination of letters. Only a coincidence that his name was the same as—

  “‘Not I,’ said the dog.”

  She couldn’t go through life avoiding men named Craig. Avoiding men who weren’t named Craig. Avoiding men who weren’t Craig.

  “‘Not I,’ said the cat.”

  He looked nothing like the other Craig. Her Craig. This Craig was taller. Leaner. Less rugged. More handsome.

  He was still staring. Holly took a deep breath as she turned the page. “‘I’d be delighted to help,’ said the rat,” she improvised.

  “No!” First one child, then others, protested.

  Holly feigned confusion. “What’s the matter?”

  “That’s not what the rat’s supposed to say,” answered a precocious little girl in denim coveralls. A dozen heads nodded in agreement.

  “Then what does the rat say?”

  “Not I!” the children shouted.

  Holly glanced apprehensively at the stacks, but the shelving assistant was gone.

  She’d overreacted, she decided. He probably hadn’t been staring at her, at least not in the way her vivid imagination had interpreted his attention. He’d probably just noticed the commotion and been curious about what was going on. She suspected that he’d never worked in a library before and, like many people, had expected a library to be quiet and tomblike.

  Story Hour with a dozen four-year-olds was seldom quiet, as the youngsters assembled around her, waiting with squirmy impatience for her to turn the page and continue reading, demonstrated.

  She did not give the shelving assistant another thought as she finished the story, but as she told the children goodbye and collected hugs from the ones who attended Story Hour regularly, she happened to glance in the direction of the stacks and discovered him one aisle over from the one he’d been working earlier.

  He was staring again.

  She snubbed him, pointedly turning her back to field a question from a mother who’d come to collect one of the toddlers.

  * * *

  “WE SHOULD HAVE INVITED the Mystery Man to lunch,” Sarah said.

  Holly paused with her fork midway between her plate and her mouth. “The new shelving assistant? Why?”

  “Why?” Meryl said, with a hoot of laughter. “Do you mean aside from the fact that he’s male and gorgeous?” A divorcée in her mid-forties, Meryl was not shy about her appreciation of the opposite sex.

  “It’s been so long since Holly went out with a man, she’s forgotten what it’s all about,” Sarah said.

  The teasing barb cut deeply. “That’s unfair,” Holly said. “You know why—”

  Holly observed the concerned looks that passed between her two closest friends and fellow librarians. God, but she was sick of those looks, of the admonitions to put the past behind her, of the sympathetic clucks and pep talks.

  After a strained silence, Sarah spoke. “Enough is enough, Holly. It’s time—”

  “To let go? To get on with my life?” Holly finished for her.

  “You can’t go on—”

  Holly sighed like a balloon deflating. “Sunday would have been my first anniversary.”

  “Oh, God!” Sarah said, tossing a desperate look at Meryl. “We didn’t realize—”

  “It’s all right,” Holly said, but the expressions on her friends’ faces told her they were unconvinced. She drew in a fortifying breath. “In fact, I have an announcement to make.”

  She sensed her friends’ curiousity as she paused for dramatic effect. Finally, she said, “I donated my wedding dress to a charity auction.”

  “It’s about time,” Meryl said. “You didn’t need to see that dress every time you opened the closet. It wasn’t healthy.”

  “It’s a relief to have it out of the house,” Holly admitted. “Besides, it was a beautiful dress. Someone should get some good out of it.” Wedding dress. Size eight. Custom ordered. Ivory satin and lace with seed pearl accent. Never worn.

  Meryl lifted her soft-drink glass. “To your first step!”

  “Hear, hear!” Sarah agreed, raising her glass, as well. “It’s about time!”

  Holly acknowledged the toast with a nod. It was comforting to have the support and approval of her friends; what she’d done had not been easy.

  She’d known, when Craig was killed in the line of duty, that she’d never wear the dress. She’d bought it to wear at Craig’s side, and wearing it for any other man was unthinkable. But there had been a brutal finality in watching the volunteer carry the garment bag from her apartment. She’d been forced to accept, in her heart as well as in her head, that she would never see it again. That she would never stand next to Craig wearing it. That she would never become Craig’s wi
fe. That the future they’d planned together had died along with the groom.

  “I packed up Craig’s clothes, too.”

  She said it casually, as though folding his garments had not shredded her heart into little pieces, and seeing his shirts and jeans had not awakened memories so sweet and intense that she’d cried herself to sleep for two nights in a row. As though touching the fabrics that had clothed his flesh had not made her recall and yearn for the tender caresses and heated embraces they’d shared.

  “You still had Craig’s clothes?” Sarah asked, appalled.

  “Not hanging in the front of the closet or anything. In drawers.”

  “I hope you got them out of your apartment,” Meryl said.

  “Close,” Holly said. “They’re in two plastic bags in the storage room.”

  Except for his shoes—the tattered joggers he’d worn for his daily run along the beach. Those, she’d packed, then plucked from the top of the bag at the last minute, unable to seal them away. They were in her closet now, far enough back on the shelf that she couldn’t see them readily, yet close enough that she could be comforted by the knowledge that they were there.

  “You should take them somewhere,” Meryl said.

  “I’m planning to take them to a homeless shelter,” Holly said. “I just ran out of time this weekend.” She took a sip of cola. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “We could talk about the Mystery Man,” Sarah suggested hopefully.

  “Works for me!” Meryl said.

  “I don’t see what’s so mysterious about a shelving assistant,” Holly said.

  Meryl scowled in exasperation. “When was the last time you saw a shelving assistant who looked like he walked straight off the cover of GQ?”

  Holly shrugged. “There’s no rule that shelving assistants have to be nerds. He’s probably a student.”

  “He’s too old to be a student,” Sarah said. “Unless he’s working on a Ph.D.”

  “Possible,” Meryl said thoughtfully. “He’s quiet, but when he says something, it’s not ‘Duh.’”

  “I don’t think he’s a student,” Sarah said. “He told Maggie he’d work as many hours as she needed him. With no schedule restrictions. If he were a student, he’d have to mold his hours around classes.”

  “Maybe he’s writing a thesis,” Meryl said.

  “Maybe he saw a crime and now he’s in the witness protection program,” Sarah said.

  “Maybe he committed a crime and he’s in hiding,” Holly suggested mockingly. “The witness protection program! You two have spent too much time in the mystery section. They list county jobs at the unemployment office, you know. He probably just needed a job and took the first thing that came up. And who wouldn’t need extra hours with what they pay shelving assistants? He may have a mortgage hanging over his head.”

  “Not unless he owns that old Victorian house on the corner of Third and Maple,” Sarah said.

  “Third and Maple?”

  “The one that’s divided into five little apartments,” Meryl said. “That’s where he lives. He walks to work.”

  “He doesn’t have a car,” Sarah said.

  “See why we call him the Mystery Man?” Meryl asked.

  “Because he doesn’t have a car?” Holly countered.

  “Guys like him usually drive vintage sports cars or BMWs,” Sarah said.

  “Especially the ones who live on a shelving assistant’s pay,” Holly replied ironicly.

  “I can’t believe you’re not curious about him,” Meryl said. “He’s only the sexiest man to ever work for the library system.”

  “He’s curious about her,” Sarah said smugly.

  “What do you mean?” Holly asked with an edge of alarm.

  Sarah looked at Meryl and lifted her eyebrows. “The woman’s totally oblivious.” She turned to Holly. “He looks at you like you’re the main course at Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “It’s that obvious?” Holly asked.

  “You have noticed,” Sarah said. “Yes, it’s that obvious!”

  “He has the hots for you, toots!” Meryl said.

  “I was hoping maybe he looked at everyone that way.”

  “Don’t we wish!” Sarah said.

  “Oh, we do. We surely do,” Meryl agreed.

  “So?” Sarah asked, addressing Holly after a brief silence.

  “So what?” Holly asked.

  “What are you going to do about him?”

  Holly shrugged. “If he keeps staring at me, I’ll have to talk to him.”

  “Talk to him?” Sarah’s disappointment was evident.

  “It’s inappropriate,” Holly said. “There’s no reason I should be uncomfortable at work.”

  “Uncomfortable?”

  “That’s the way I feel when he stares at me.”

  “It’s time a guy made you squirm a little,” Meryl said.

  “Not at work.”

  “There’s no rule about library employees...you know,” Sarah said.

  “I have no intention of you knowing with someone I have to work with. Especially—”

  “I think the lady doth protest too much,” Meryl told Sarah.

  Grinning, Sarah nodded. “You’re right. He’s getting to her.”

  “Why don’t you give the guy a break and smile at him?” Meryl said.

  After a pause, Holly snapped, “I couldn’t go out with a man named Craig, all right?”

  Sarah and Meryl exchanged horrified looks. For several seconds, no one spoke, but, finally, Sarah broke through the awkward silence by asking, “In that case, can we have him after you break his heart?”

  Holly welcomed Sarah’s infusion of humor into the tense discussion. Much to her relief, the topic of the new shelving assistant became lost in the confusion of dividing the luncheon tab and computing tips.

  * * *

  HOLLY’S PROBLEM with the shelving assistant was not so easily dispatched at work that day, when she discovered him staring at her again, this time from the biography stacks. He smiled sheepishly when she looked up from the paperwork she was doing at her desk, but he didn’t try to pretend he hadn’t been watching her. Holly decided to stare him down. Perhaps if she embarrassed him, he’d realize that she didn’t appreciate his attention and become discouraged.

  But he was not as easily discouraged as she’d hoped. Throughout the afternoon and evening, they replayed the same scenario, he staring, she staring back defiantly until he returned to his work. Then, an hour before closing, he entered the U-shaped preschool reading area where Holly was working.

  “You look like you could use some help,” he said.

  Seated on the floor with picture books scattered all around her, Holly could hardly deny that she did. It was the first chance in several days she’d had to devote close attention to the section, and the shelves were in total disarray. “Yes,” she said reluctantly. “I guess I could.”

  He shook his head as he surveyed the chaos. “I’m not sure I know where to begin.”

  Oddly, at close range, he appeared younger than from a distance. His hair curled haphazardly over his forehead with just a suggestion of rebellion. And though he was well over six feet tall and looked twelve feet high from Holly’s vantage point on the floor, he didn’t seem menacing in the least. He seemed...almost boyish, and genuinely perplexed by the mess left behind by the preschoolers.

  His earnestness was endearing. Holly found it difficult to associate this man with the one who’d been gawking at her from the stacks. “It does look as though a tornado’s gone through here sometimes,” Holly said. “But if we can get kids to love books at an early age—”

  “You’ll have them Booked for Life,” he said, quoting the slogan posted throughout the children’s library area.

  “That’s the theory,” she said.

  A brief silence followed. Holly became aware of his gaze, not lewd by any standard, but inarguably male. Stiffening, she said authoritatively, “Each section of shelving is marked with
a letter or letters. The books are arranged alphabetically by title.”

  “Disregarding the articles ‘a,’ ‘an’ and ‘the,’” he said drolly.

  Holly’s eyes narrowed as she looked at his face. She had a niggling suspicion that he was mocking her. “Yes,” she said firmly. “Disregarding the articles.”

  Picking up an armload of books, she instructed, over her shoulder, “I started with the A’s. You can start with X-Y-Z and work backward. Pull any books that don’t belong in the section you’re working in and put them in the right section when you get to it.”

  “X-Y-Z it is,” he said, with the same droll tone he’d used earlier.

  The shuffle of footsteps, followed by the methodical clapping of book against book, told Holly that he’d found the shelf and begun sorting. She resumed her own work with renewed vigor.

  Eventually, working from opposite ends, they both reached the shelves that formed the bottom of the U. He nodded amiably as he turned the corner, walking on his knees and pushing ahead of him the stack of misplaced books he’d culled from the sections he’d gone through. Holly returned the nod and went back to sorting, wondering why she hadn’t told him to start with the M’s and work to X-Y-Z so that they would not be moving inexorably closer together.

  Pausing between sections to rub a kink out of her shoulder, she inadvertently looked in the direction of the shelving assistant and discovered him staring at her yet again. As disconcerting as his scrutiny had been from across the room, it was even more so at close range. From across the room, she had not been able to discern that his eyes were a deep, midnight blue.

  Flustered, she snapped, “Is there a problem?”

  He did not answer her immediately. Instead, he regarded her thoughtfully, as though he might find a suitable answer to her question on her face. Like Holly, he was sitting on the floor, and he draped his arm across his knee, letting his hand dangle. His fingers were long and slim.

  Like his body, Holly thought. Long and slim and elegant. Give him a taut English accent and a black tuxedo and he could play James Bond.

  “You’ve probably noticed me looking at you,” he said at last.

  She answered with a tight nod and lowered her gaze to the spines of the books she’d just straightened.