“Beg pardon?”
“I jump off things. I’m a stuntman.”
“Locally?”
“I…freelance a lot.”
She frowned. “You’re serious? Can a person make a living doing something like that?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Deciding he was teasing her again, she dropped the line of questioning.
“Why have you volunteered to be my reader, Jack?”
“I needed something to do.”
“So you got out of bed one morning and said to yourself, ‘Hey, let’s find a blind lady with a lot of big books.”’
“Something like that.”
“There are other ways to relieve boredom.”
“That’s probably true, but I chose this as my diversion of choice.”
“Other than your studies, you mean?”
He didn’t answer and she took his silence as an affirmative remark, knowing that if he had nodded, she would have missed the gesture. She wished that she could see the tilt of his body. She missed being able to interpret subtle, body-language cues she had grown so accustomed to using to her advantage when meeting someone new.
“Why should I keep you as my reader, Jack?”
Eleanor was not normally so blunt, but there was something about this man, about the way he sounded so self-assured, so almost…arrogant, that made her think the shocking lack of manners would help her to measure him more fully.
She felt, rather than heard, the way he leaned forward. She could almost picture what he must look like, tall, lean, propping his elbows on his knees. He was probably broodingly dark or elegantly blond. Something to match that voice. That incredible voice.
“You should keep me, because you need my help.”
“I would think that particular point was obvious, Jack. But why do I need you?”
The moment the question had been uttered, she found herself wishing she hadn’t been so bold. A curious silence had begun to flood the room in ever-widening ripples. One that was somehow invigorating and frightening at the same time. She had never encountered such a sensation before, an aura of energy that began to infuse her body so completely that she found her mouth growing dry and her breathing shallow.
“You need what I can give you.”
She waited, praying he would elaborate and set her fears at ease before her mind began to insinuate all sorts of subtle shadings to that remark.
“You need my insight. My passion.”
“Passion?” she could barely force the words from her throat.
“My passion for the subject.”
“Oh, yes.” She cleared her throat, to relieve it of the husky quality it had adopted. “But I thought you said your specialty was film.”
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