Perfect in My Sight (2 page)

CHAPTER
2

Most six-year-old boys might have entered a room with a boisterous shout and a slide
to his knees, particularly in the case of this room, which was situated at the rear
end of a long, wide corridor with bare wood floors, floors that were buffed to a brilliant,
blinding shine. His son entered quietly with a smile that shone more brightly than
any wood floors could possibly. His steps were cautious and yet unerring, his bearing
straight and dignified.

Pride filled him.

“Daddy?”

Peter Holland swallowed the knot that rose in his throat.

Christopher couldn’t know that his father’s eyes had been trained upon him from his
first glimpse of movement at the far end of the long hall. Even before Christopher
had spoken, Peter’s attention had been fully riveted on his only son. It pained him
that Christopher might scent his presence, hear his every movement even, but his son
could never perceive the stillness of a loving stare.

“Here, son,” he said, and his voice wavered a bit. Christopher’s smile brightened.
“I knew that, Daddy,” he boasted, and spoiled the prideful boyish response with a
statement that sounded entirely too mature. “I can smell your port.”

Peter chuckled, but his gaze fell to the glass that remained ever before him upon
his desk, never touched, never acknowledged, except by his child who couldn’t possibly
understand its meaning. He turned away from it, his gaze returning to Christopher,
but the sweet scent of the liquid lingered. He closed his eyes and took the scent
into his lungs... a soft, sweet burn upon the air.

But how much of the burn was remembered and how much was real?

Did his son smell it the same way?

Would he describe it as such when he had never felt the sweet, numbing heat slide
down his throat?

“Are you working, Daddy? Am I botherin’ you?”

“Never,” Peter answered without hesitation. “Come in, son.”

His steps were less cautious now, as Peter had never placed obstacles between his
desk and his door. By design, the room was almost sterile in its decor, as was the
rest of the house. And yet Chris did not run into his arms as Peter craved. His son
had never done so. There seemed to be imaginary walls between Christopher’s black
world and the universe beyond, barriers that barred far more than color and light.
It was as though his blindness robbed him of confidence, as well.

But this moment, Christopher’s expression was eager, and something more. “I can’t
wait, Daddy! May I stay?”

To listen to the interview, he meant. “Christopher,” Peter protested.

“I’ll be quiet, Daddy. I promise! I promise!”

Peter had never a doubt. His son’s deportment had never been anything less than upright.
Christ, he was an old man at the ripe age of six.

“It’s not that,” Peter said. “I just can’t imagine why you’d wish to. We don’t even
know if this will be the one, Christopher.” Neither was he certain he wished his son
to hear some of the answers the applicants gave. They angered him enough with their
lack of regard for his son’s condition.

Then again, admittedly, much of what angered Peter failed even to register with his
patient young son. Certainly Christopher was wise beyond his years, but perhaps, as
a father, he was a bit overprotective.

“If you wish,” he relented.

Christopher beamed. “Where may I sit, Daddy?”

“How about in my lap?”

“No!” Christopher declared at once, and halted in his step. He crossed his arms with
stubborn little- boy pride, and exclaimed, “They’ll think I’m a baby.”

Peter chuckled at his son’s alarmed expression. “Impossible, sport. You forgot to
be a baby altogether. Everyone knows that.”

And it was true.

His son was brilliant, his mind unparalleled in its thirst for knowledge. Peter had
rarely seen such a grasp of the English language in a child so young, nor had he ever
witnessed such a profound sense of logic. Were Christopher not blind, Peter would
have labeled his mind photographic. Even from as early as the age of three, Christopher
had been able to recite a tale, word for word, after the first time it was read to
him. Christopher had graduated from his crib to a mountaintop, from his baby squeals
to the gentle words of a sage. Peter had no reason to believe he should wait before
introducing him to Braille.

“How about you sit at my desk,” Peter suggested, “and I’ll sit upon the divan?”

Apparently that satisfied him, because Christopher came forward once more and Peter
opened his arms to embrace his son. “I think I’ll just sneak myself a hug,” he said
playfully, and Christopher squealed with embarrassed delight as Peter lifted him onto
his lap.

“Who’s coming today?” his son demanded to know.

“Someone better than yesterday, I hope.”

Yesterday’s applicant had come near to leaving with a bloodied nose when he’d dared
suggest that Christopher wear dark spectacles in his presence always. The man was
uncomfortable with the stare. Without warning, Peter had launched from his seat and
the man had leapt from his own, taking his leave at once. He’d been quite fortunate.
Had Peter set hands upon him, he might not have walked out the door at all.

The day before that he’d interviewed an older woman who had never had the first contact
with Braille but had cared for her blind mother until her death. The poor woman seemed
to have missed the point entirely. If he’d wished to hire an escort for Christopher,
he’d have done so long ago. Christopher didn’t need a bloody chaperon. He had Peter
and he had his aunt for that. What he needed was to begin to learn to manage his own
affairs—and the first step toward that end was to instill in him a sense of confidence
that he could accomplish anything he set out to do. Matters of intellect did not seem
to intimidate his son, so the next order of business was to empower Christopher with
the tools he would need to achieve his goals.

Blindness was a disadvantage certainly, but not an insurmountable obstacle. Peter
refused to see it as such.

His son would succeed despite it. Peter intended to make certain.

“What’s his name, Daddy?”

“Not him, son. Her.” He lifted his brows, though not for Christopher’s sake. It was
something he had great reservations about, to be quite honest. He hadn’t wished to
grant yesterday’s interview with the old woman either, but he never left a stone unturned—not
that he was opposed to hiring a woman, but most were simply not so well lettered.
“Her name is Sarah...” He leaned forward to peer over his son’s shoulder at the file
upon his desk. “Sarah Hopkins. But you should call her Miss Hopkins.”

“All right,” his son replied.

The tinny sound of a distant bell rang, and the echo of footsteps pursued it into
the foyer, heavy but distinct footfalls upon solid wood. A knock upon the door at
the far end of the hall followed and then the door was opened, the caller greeted.

Because their visitor had been expected, Gunther escorted their guest in without announcement.

Peter stood, with his son in his arms, and peered down the hall to find not one, but
two women being escorted down the corridor to his office.

He lifted a brow at the sight of them.

“We are being invaded,” he joked to his son. And then whispered, “There are two of
them.”

His son giggled while Peter settled him at his desk.

“What do they look like?”

Peter understood the question. “Not too awful scary.”

His son covered his ears and whispered, “She sounds like Aunt Ruth!”

Peter watched as they entered the room. The taller of the two overshadowed the other.
Boisterous in her demeanor, she prattled on to Gunther, who dutifully ignored her
snippy tone and answered her questions with a yes madame, no madame.

“She rather does at that,” Peter agreed.

Though he couldn’t quite hear their discourse, he thought her rather confident in
her bearing, a positive trait in one who would teach, and an indication to Peter that
she knew her position and was well at ease with her abilities. The other woman, he
could not see entirely, as the boisterous one managed to shield her from his view.
He moved forward to greet them.

She—they—were hardly what he had expected.

Both were lovely, and some bit younger than he had imagined. The boisterous one appeared
to be in her early forties, he surmised, while the other couldn’t be more than thirty.

“Mel Frank,” said the boisterous one, extending her hand in greeting.

Peter stepped forward to accept it, and was about to bring it to his lips for a gentlemanly
peck, but she wrapped her fingers about his hand and, with the grip of a deadly boa
constrictor, shook it fiercely.

Her boldness took him aback so that he failed at first to note the name.

Mel Frank.

She looked him squarely in the face, and with her piercing blue eyes staring back
at him, the realization struck him first that she was not blind.

She was not his applicant.

His attention turned at once to the woman who stood behind her. He blinked then, and
entirely dismissed Mel Frank.

He forgot, even, to breathe.

Good God, she wasn’t just lovely.

She was damned well beautiful.

With delicate brows that arched over dark spectacles and a princess nose, she exuded
a sort of little-girl charm. Auburn strands escaped her otherwise neat coiffure, and
framed her face with gentle highlights that contrasted with her rich dark hair. But
it was her lips that caught his attention, and held it—full lips that seemed formed
to suit a man’s pleasures. Not those of a child at all.

Did she know how to use them? The thought stirred his loins.

“Mr. Holland,” Mrs. Frank said, drawing his attention once more. “May I introduce
to you my employer, Miss Sarah Hopkins.”

Miss Hopkins stepped forward, and Peter held his breath. His heart began to hammer.

“How do you do?” she replied at once, and extended her hand, as Mel had done. Only
her gesture wasn’t nearly as bold. He was so stunned by the sight of her that his
hand remained at his side.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so instantly taken with a woman.

Breaking free of his stupor, he took her hand but refrained from kissing it, merely
shook it. He had the indication from both women’s demeanors that a gentleman’s kiss
would be an entirely unwelcome gesture. Though Sarah’s manner was not nearly as forward
as Mrs. Frank’s, her carriage was filled with the same haughty defiance, despite her
obvious handicap; she couldn’t see him.

Peter’s first thought was that he wished she would remove her dark spectacles so he
could see the color of her eyes. The mischievous shape of her brows intrigued him
and he found himself peeking down over the rim of her spectacles, trying to get a
glimpse. And then his focus shifted to the spectacles.

Blind, she was blind.

He was ashamed to admit that the notion left him slightly unnerved. His gaze fell
once more to her lips, not quite able to meet her eyes, despite that she couldn’t
spy his.

And yet, to his stupefaction, and despite her disadvantage, for the first time in
so long, surrounded by such disparate female company, Peter found himself at a loss
for words.

“Do come in,” he managed, still not quite able to tear his gaze from her lovely lips.

Slightly pouty.

Unpainted.

They looked so soft... he longed to brush a finger across them. Like the velvet blush
of a rose petal... they begged to be touched.

Hardly by design, he held her hand a bit longer than was appropriate.

CHAPTER
3

Her hands were trembling.

Sarah prayed he wouldn
’
t notice.

Confound it all, this wasn
’
t going to work.

Good Lord! This, of course, was the man who had turned her cousin
’
s heart. Of course he would be beautiful. For him, Mary had cast away all her values.
For him, she had thrown away her life!

Sarah tried to remember as she stared into his eyes—deep blue, and piercing in a way
she
’
d never experienced before. In that instant she was grateful her own eyes were shielded,
for she doubted she could have hidden the thoughts that were going through her mind.

There was something slightly wi
cked in the way he gazed at her
... something slightly thrilling about the wa
y his eyes lowered to her mouth
... lingered there.

It gave her a delicious but unwelcome shiver.

Resisting the urge to turn away, she reminded herself that a blind woman could not
be cowed by what she could not see. And she tried to appear oblivious, tried to appear
blissfully unaware of his lips, which parted once more to speak.
Sensual lips that pro
mised a lover’s gentle kisses...

Another shiver raced down her spine.

She closed her eyes.

He was Mary
’
s murderer, she reminded herself
—
a heartless wretch.

“
My son, Christopher,
”
he said, introducing the boy who sat behind the desk with a wave of his hand—a gesture
she wasn
’
t supposed to see.

She could
scarcely
hide her gasp of surprise at his introduction.

How could she have failed to notice the very face she most wished to see?

Swallowing the lump that rose in her throat, she resisted the urge to turn to him
fully, to drink in the sight of Christopher Holland with her eyes. So long she
’
d waited for this moment! She tried to focus on Mel
’
s advice, and instead tilted her head toward the sound of his voice when he spoke,
seeing him first through the sound of his little-boy voice.

“
Hello,
”
the boy
said quietly, and the single word was the sweetest greeting Sarah had ever heard.
It was the dulcet voice of a six-year-old angel.

Peter Holland
’
s brows lifted.
“
Forgive me,
”
he said,
“
I certainly didn
’
t intend to startle you with his presence, but...
you see
...
my son wishes to personally
...
er
... conduct this interview.
”

He smiled a devastating smile that Sarah wasn
’
t supposed to react to. Because she wasn
’
t supposed to
see
it. A reflex, she was quite certain. He probably couldn
’
t help himself, she thought sourly. He was
very likely
quite used to stealing hearts and charming young women to death.

And still her heart quickened its pace.

“
Have you objections to his presence?
”

Sarah resisted the urge to turn and stare at her cousin
’
s child.
“
Not at all!
”
she replied, a
nd tried not to sound overeager
.
“
He
’
s the one I most need to impress, is he not?
”

Peter chuckled at her question.
“H
e is at that,
”
he agreed, and seemed to relax a bit in his stance. He turned to his son.
“
Ready, sport?
”

“
Yes, sir,
”
the boy replied.

In the meek sound of his voice, there was little evidence of his tempestuous mother,
and the realization filled Sarah with grief.

And yet, she determined, how could there be anything of Mary in him at all when Mary
had had so little influence upon his life?

“
Very well,
”
Peter continued, dismissing his butler with a nod. He turned to Mel, motioning toward
the facing chair.
“
My apologies,
”
he said,
“
but as you see, I
’
ve only the one. I was expecting Miss Hopkins alone, I
’
m afraid—though I should have anticipated perhaps. If you will see her to her seat,
you are welcome to the divan yourself.
”
And with that he dismissed Mel and sat on the
corner
of his desk.

Mel, bless her heart, suddenly took a servile role, quite unlike their entrance, which
was anything but deferential and caused Sarah to wince. Taking Sarah gently by the
arm, she led her to the chair as though Sarah were indeed unable to find the black
leather monstrosity on her own. Sarah did her part to appear awkward though not entirely
helpless—she couldn
’
t quite manage helpless.

Mel bent to whisper in her ear.
“
Eyes closed,
”
she demanded.

Sarah closed them at once. And suddenly it was all she could do not to run screaming
from the room. All that kept her focused and calm was t
he strength of her purpose…
and the little boy sitting not more than five feet from her.

Christopher was the reason she was here, she reminded herself.

Opening her eyes, she sat facing the enormous desk, trying not to weep with joy at
the sight of the six-year-old child seated behind the hulking piece of furniture,
his little face barely visible above the papers stacked there. She tried to keep a
blank expression. And yet she dared not look away, dared not twitch a brow at the
sight of him. She could
scarcely
keep her hands from trembling as she sat inspecting her cousin
’
s child for the first time, her emotions in melee.

Her uncle would have been over
joyed to see him this moment.

He looked so like Mary, with his tawny hair and his upturned little nose. It saddened
Sarah that her uncle had not lived to set eyes upon his only grandson—her sweet uncle
who had sworn his two girls were all that any papa should need. She could almost hear
him speak the words as though he were standing over her shoulder, and the sensation
choked her breath away.

“If I recall correctly
...
”

Peter Holland, too, had been gazing at his son, and shifted his attention suddenly,
crossing his arms as he turned to assess her. Sarah spied him from the
corner
of her eye, but dared not acknowledge his renewed regard. She continued to stare
at the desk, at Christopher, repressing her emotions.

“
Your
resume
states you studied at the Institution Nationale des Jeunes Aveugles in Paris? Quite
a feat
for someone so young, much less
...
”

“A blind woman?”
she finished for him, recognizing the tone and wholly offended by it. She lifted
her chin, tilting her head, though kept her calm, taking Christopher
’
s presence into consideration,
and
recalling her purpose. It wouldn
’
t suit to begin railing over the iniquities of male supremacy, though it galled her
nevertheless.
“
You need not finish, Mr. Holland,
”
she told him.
“
I hear it in your tone. Do you not believe a woman capable of academics?
”

“
I did not say that, Miss Hopkins.
”

Sarah was certain she hea
rd amusement in his voice now—a
note that only further provoked her.
“
It is
Miss
Hopkins, is it not?
”

“
Yes, it is, Mr. Holland. And you need not have said a thing, sir. Pardon my speaking
so plainly, but I am blind, not deaf, nor am I stupid.
”

He had the audacity to chuckle at that.
“
No, you are not, I see
quite clearly
.
”

Sarah didn
’
t quite appreciate his good humor.
“
My apologies once again,
”
he offered, and managed to sound sincere, despite the laughter that tinged his voice.

“
In any case,
”
Sarah continued, bolstered now by a renewed sense of injustice for the plight of
her gender,
“I
did not study Braille at the Institute. You misunderstood my letter of credits. My
late tutor was a retired professor there.
”

“
I see,
”
he said.
“
And how long have you been using the Braille code, may I ask?
”

“
Five years,
”
Sarah lied, prepared for his question. She was well rehearsed.
“
Long enough to lament the fact that there is too little published as yet.
”

“
Yes, I tend to agree,
”
he said.
“
But I shall remedy that for my son
’
s sake, I assure you.
”

Sarah swallowed and forced her reply.
“
He is quite a fortunate child to have such a caring father.
”
The praise sat like acid within her belly, burning with her anger.

He glanced at Mel. Sarah refrained. She didn
’
t dare look at Mel, didn
’
t dare give herself away.

“
And in what capacity does
Mrs. Frank
serve you?
”
he asked her then.

“
She is both my friend and my aid. She sometimes assists with instructions, as well.
”
A greater understatement, Sarah had never uttered. Mel
’
s knowledge of the Modified Braille code and her work with the sightless would be
the key to effecting this plan. Though Sarah had anticipated havin
g to teach Christopher someday—hoped to at least—she
only knew the minimal. Without Mel, she
’
d never have been able to complete this ruse.

He seemed to be studying her.
“
I have but a few more questions, if you might indulge me.
”

Sarah braced herself.
“
Certainly.
”

He lifted up her resume
, scanning it.

Sarah
’
s gut turned as he read over her lies.
“
Your credentials are excellent. I
’
ve no reason to doubt them, but it
is
essential I understand your commi
tment
...
”

He sounded all the world like a loving, caring father, but Sarah knew better.
“
Of course,
”
she replied.

“
Why Braille? Why not the New York Point System?
”

“
Well,
”
she began,
“
I must confess my resume is a bit misleading as it stands.
”
She took a deep breath—it was more than a bit misleading!
“
Braille is in fact the system I was primarily taught, but I am also familiar with
the New York Point System. My preference, however, is a rather new code, the Modified
Braille.
”

His brows lifted.
“
Modified Braille? I
’
m afraid I am not familiar with that one.
”