For Your Eyes Only Read online

  Praise for 43 Right Street

  FACE TO FACE

  “Harlequin’s first lady of suspense…a marvelous storyteller, Ms. York cleverly develops an intricate plotted romance to challenge our imaginations and warm our hearts.”

  PRINCE OF TIME

  “Get ready for the time of your life…. Breathtaking excitement and exotic romance…in the most thrilling 43 Light Street adventure yet!"*

  TILL DEATH US DO PART

  “Readers will delight in every page.”†

  TANGLED VOWS

  “A bravura performance by one of the best writers ever of quality romantic suspense.”*

  MIDNIGHT KISS

  “A sizzling, seductive tale of dark mystery and brooding passion.”*

  WHAT CHILD IS THIS?

  “Chilling suspense and snowballing excitement from a master of intrigue.”*

  *Melinda Helfer, Romantic Times

  †Debbie Richardson, Romantic Times

  Dear Reader,

  LIGHT STREET heroines and heroes become very real to us. We suffer along with them when they’re in danger or under emotional stress, and we feel an enormous sense of satisfaction when they claim the happiness they deserve. But sometimes there’s a character who means even more to us, like Jenny Larkin in For Your Eyes Only. Although she’s blind, Jenny is a fiercely independent woman who embraces challenges few would accept. She thinks she has her life mapped out until she meets police detective Ben Brisco. Evil forces conspire to separate her from Ben forever, and before the two of them are free to love each other, she must dig deep inside herself for reserves of strength even she didn’t know she possessed.

  For Your Eyes Only is the fourteenth book in the LIGHT STREET series. If you missed number thirteen, it was Face to Face, a longer single-title Harlequin release, which you can still order from the Reader Service. Next in the series is Father and Child, in which we pick up the story of Zeke Chambers, whom we introduced in Prince of Time. Zeke discovers that he has a daughter he didn’t know existed. Unfortunately, she’s being held hostage by an angry old man determined to destroy Zeke and everything he holds dear. In order to save her life, Zeke needs a wife—fast. Elizabeth Egan can’t refuse his request to help him save his daughter, yet she knows in her heart that only emotional anguish can come from a marriage of convenience to a man she secretly loves. We hope you’ll join us in October for this special story.

  All our best,

  Rebecca York

  a.k.a. Ruth Glick and Eileen Buckholtz

  For Your Eyes Only

  Rebecca York

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Jenny Larkin—She felt responsible for her friend’s murder, and vowed to find the killer even if it put her own life in danger.

  Detective Ben Brisco—He wanted to keep Jenny safe but needed her help to catch a psychopath.

  Arnold Heizer—Women with secrets were his obsession.

  Duke Wakefield—He wanted to make his ex-wife pay.

  Marianne Blaisdell—The date she’d made on-line was a deadly mistake.

  L J. Smith—He scored his hits on the banking industry with an elite guerrilla warfare unit that pillaged and ran.

  Jessie James—He was a man of many disguises, who liked women—dead.

  Erin Stone—She didn’t want to see her friend get hurt.

  Denton Kane—He wanted Brisco out of the picture.

  FOR YOUR EYES ONLY

  Prologue

  He felt the excitement in his blood. In his bones. In his fingertips where they lightly caressed the computer keyboard as he waited for the modem to make the connection.

  Got ya!

  Today was the day. He knew it with the instinct of an avid hunter who has finally run his quarry to ground.

  With barely controlled excitement, he typed in the bogus membership number and password he’d acquired. Marianne was already online, waiting for the man she thought of as Oliver.

  He’d given the pseudonym a good deal of thought It came from his broad reading background. This time the book was that piece of romantic claptrap, Love Story, about a young husband named Oliver. He was devoted, sensitive, sweet and understanding. Nobody named Oliver could be a murderer.

  Marianne responded to his log-on with an immediate greeting.

  “Hi,” he typed. “I’ve been counting the hours until I could get back to you.”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  He picked up on the hint immediately. Women liked it when you commiserated. “Bad day at work?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He had to sit through a five-minute recitation of how her boss had given her a report to complete that shouldn’t have been her job. But he was ready with the right sympathetic responses.

  “Poor baby. Why don’t you unwind with me over dinner?” he typed.

  There was a short pause before she responded. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “We’ve never met.”

  He came back with a reassuring answer. “We’re not going to meet until you break down and let me into your life.”

  “I know.”

  “We’ve been friends for two months now.” A long time to wait for gratification. “You’ve told me so much about yourself. And I think you know me pretty well.”

  “As well as you can know someone over a computer network,” she hedged.

  “I’d like to take the next step.”

  “What if—I mean—what if you’re disappointed?”

  So that was it. She wasn’t worried about him. She was worried about what he’d think about her when they finally met. Sweet anticipation swelled in his chest. He was glad he was typing instead of speaking, because he knew he couldn’t keep his voice steady. “I know I’m not going to be disappointed,” he soothed. “I already know you so well. Your sense of humor. Your intelligence.” He stopped there because he didn’t want to lay it on too thick.

  “Oliver, there’s something I haven’t told you. Something that might make a difference.”

  “We’ve come so far. You can trust me with the rest,” he coaxed.

  She answered quickly, getting it over with. “I have a vision problem. I’m not blind. But I do need to wear very thick glasses. And I use a special computer that reads to me.”

  A feeling of power gathered in his body like warm, sweet honey. This was it. The knowledge that made the relationship work for him. She had told him her secret. “Do you seriously think that would make any difference to me?”

  “I was afraid it would.”

  He pretended to be hurt. “Marianne, I thought you trusted me.”

  “I do. And I feel so relieved.”

  “Meet me tonight. There’s this little bar and restaurant in Fells Point that I bet you’ll love. We’ll start with drinks—then dinner. And the band is wonderful. It’s a good place to unwind.”

  “All right”

  He gave her the address, and they chatted for a few more minutes. When he disconnected, he sat rubbing his hands together, squeezing them harder and harder—anticipating the feel of his fingers digging into the smooth skin of her throat.

  Chapter One

  The timer on the exercise bike beeped, signaling the end of her forty-minute workout. Jenny Lark in swiped back a strand of honey-brown hair that had plastered itself to her forehead and slowed her pace, giving herself a couple of minutes to cool down. As her long legs continued to pedal in time to a Beatles oldie, she laced her hands behind her neck and stretched. She felt wonderful, exhilarated by the energy boost

  Converting this spare bedroom into an exercise room had been one of her better ideas. It was one of the first steps in her plan to arrange her life exactly the way she wanted it. Like moving back to this gr
eat old house where she’d lived with Gran when she was a kid. Some of her friends had argued that it was dangerous for someone like her to live alone on an isolated old farm. She’d be better off selling the property and using the money to buy a nice, convenient condo. But she didn’t need more money. She needed freedom and autonomy. And this old farmhouse was the perfect retreat—a place where she could kick back and relax without trying to live up to anyone’s expectations.

  Before she started on the weight machine, she turned off the tape deck and switched to a talk-radio station. The newscaster was reciting yesterday’s basketball scores as she straddled the bench and began to do lat pulls. The next news item made her fingers freeze around the rubber grips at the ends of the handlebars.

  “To repeat our top story, the body of a woman in her mid-thirties was found early this morning behind a vacant row house in West Baltimore. She had been strangled. Police are withholding her identity pending notification of next of kin.”

  The perspiration clinging to Jenny’s skin turned icy. She listened for more information, but there was nothing else— nothing specific to indicate it might be Marianne Blaisdell.

  “It’s not her,” Jenny whispered. “It can’t be her.”

  Yet she kept remembering the way her friend had sounded last night when she’d called from a bar. She’d been much too giddy and reckless, bursting with the news that she was finally getting together with her computer pen pal. Bars weren’t Marianne’s scene. Neither were blind dates.

  “This guy—how much do you know about him?” Jenny had asked gently.

  “He’s sweet and sensitive.”

  “That could be an act.”

  “Why are you suddenly so cynical? You’re the one who encouraged me to meet new people.”

  Jenny sighed. “I know. But it sounds like you’ve made a snap decision. At least promise me that you won’t go anywhere with him. Not in his car or anything.”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” her friend said sharply before hanging up.

  There had been nothing more Jenny could do last night.

  Now, unclenching her hands, she ordered herself not to panic. She’d gotten used to taking life as it came, not making unwarranted assumptions. Still, her movements were jerky as she climbed off the bench. She was so off her stride that she bumped into the wall phone in the corner of the room before she realized she’d reached it.

  “Klutz,” she muttered under her breath as she rubbed the sore spot on her upper arm. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she punched in Marianne’s number. When nobody picked up on the first two rings, her chest tightened and she slid her back down the wall until she was sitting with her shoulders pressed against the cool plaster and her damp legs sticking to the exercise mat. Three rings… four…six. With each passing second, it became harder to breathe. And the clogged feeling in her chest only increased when the answering machine kicked in.

  She waited through the familiar upbeat greeting before leaving a message. “This is Jenny. I’m still at home, but call me at work in case you’re in the shower or something.” She might have added that she wanted to hear how her friend’s date had gone. But she couldn’t force out more than her office number.

  For a long time after hanging up, Jenny sat huddled on the exercise mat, replaying last night’s conversation in her head. Finally, with a sigh, she roused herself. She couldn’t sit here forever, her van pool would be waiting.

  This time when she crossed the room and made her way down the hall, she was careful to pay attention to her surroundings—the familiar worn floorboards under her feet that curved gently down in the middle, the banister that marked the top of the stairs. In the bathroom, she shucked off her damp clothes and stepped into the shower. The hot spray pounding against her body made her feel better so that by the time she began to blow-dry her hair, she’d almost convinced herself there would be a message from Marianne waiting at work.

  HE CRUISED DOWN Marianne Blaisdell’s street, studying the working-class neighborhood with its rows of wood-framed boxes wedged onto small lots. Many houses needed a paint job, and some yards were cluttered with junked cars and overgrown weeds. Turning the corner, he drove a few blocks closer to the avenue, as if he might be going to the little coffee shop on the corner. Instead, after parking the car, he headed in the other direction. He was still wearing the uniform from last night, a meter reader, complete with one of those hand-held computers. Pulling his cap low on his head, he snaked his way through the network of alleys to reach her house.

  After pulling on a pair of surgical gloves, he slipped a key into the back door lock. He looked around the tiny kitchen with its old appliances, chipped tile floor and beige walls. Somehow, he’d pictured her living in a more upscale setting. For a second, another dilapidated kitchen scene swam in his vision: Meema bending over him with that angry look in her eyes and a thin leather belt in her hands. He didn’t need to be reminded of that. Not here, not now, when he had work to do. But he couldn’t stop the rush of remembered pain. Seven years old. His first fight. Blood dripping from his nose and one eye swelling painfully shut where Willy Dumbrauski had slugged him. He’d come running home, hoping for comfort. Instead, he’d gotten ten lashings for “acting like a little punk.” It hadn’t been his fault. But Meema wouldn’t listen. She’d always hated him. He’d learned to hate her back. And hate the terrible secret she forced him to keep. He despised women with secrets. But he’d found a way to get even with women like that. Like Marianne.

  With the iron will he’d learned to exercise as a little kid, he forced the memory to the back of his mind and concentrated on the present. Hate was replaced by a flow of warmth. A little thrill zinged up his spine as he thought about being in Marianne’s house after what they’d shared.

  Her PC was in the corner of one of the bedrooms. This baby wasn’t some economy model. It was a custom processor with a set of peripherals that would make any hacker salivate. What the heck was he dealing with?

  He felt around the side and flipped the On switch. With a beep, the machine booted and then ran some program that took over the system and locked up the keyboard. No matter what he typed, nothing happened. God, he hated it when things didn’t work.

  He found a thick manual tucked beside the machine, but instead of words it was filled with a series of little dots. Braille, he figured, since she’d told him she was going blind. The dots began to dance in his vision. Red anger boiled up inside him, and he slammed his fist against the computer. The pain in his knuckles helped ground him— helped calm his emotions so he could think this through logically.

  Finally it came to him. The system must be triggered by a remote control. The attachments. The key was in the attachments.

  Some sort of virtual reality device. Maybe voice activated. He’d seen prototypes at the COMDEX show in Las Vegas last year. They’d been featured with high-tech video games. But the same technology might be used to aid a person with a visual impairment. Someone like Marianne.

  After finding the infrared remote signal that unlocked the keyboard, he reached for the helmet with the built-in microphone sitting on the desk. He couldn’t quite get it on, but he could pull it over his face enough to use it. Rapidly he ran through the file system, looking for the messages that might link him to Marianne.

  He glanced at his watch. He’d been here half an hour. The police had already found the body, thanks to an old lady with insomnia who’d been peeking through her dirty curtains. He’d seen her jump back when he looked up and scanned the windows across from the vacant house. He’d considered going after her, but he knew she could call 911 before he got there. And there was no way she could identify him. Not in this uniform—with his cap pulled down over his face. Even the car was okay. He’d stolen it for the occasion. But he had to assume the police would be here soon. Quickly, he tried to delete the World Connect files, but the system wanted voice verification.

  With a trick he’d learned during his freelance hacker days, he managed to
overwrite the directory. Hopefully, he’d done enough damage to destroy access to the file system.

  After turning off the computer, he grabbed the reference manual, and made for the back door. The book wouldn’t do him a damn bit of good. He couldn’t read braille. But neither could the police, if they didn’t have it.

  BEN BRISCO’S HAND closed around the coffee mug on the back of his desk. The hand was like his shoulders, wide and rock-solid. He wasn’t a tall man. But he was weel-muscled and fit, and charged with a kind of waiting tension that could translate thought into instant action. The body went with a square face that reinforced the tough-guy image. Brenna, his ex-wife, had told him his best features were his high cheekbones and his chocolate-brown eyes. He suspected that to some women, the eyes gave away an involuntary sensitivity he’d rather keep hidden.

  Standing and stretching, he headed for the coffeepot in the corner of the squad room located on the sixth floor of police headquarters. He had a talent for crime solving. But lately he’d been wondering if it was time to get out of homicide, out of police work entirely, like his friend Mike Lancer, who was doing fine as a P.I. Or he could get into one of the low-key units—Larceny or Fraud, where he wouldn’t find himself matching wits with the young drug dealers and gang members who regularly snuffed out each other’s young lives. When you put one in the joint, another popped up to take his place.