FOR HER EYES ONLY Page 2

  "Your job?"

  "Yes." He didn't offer more. It was suddenly important to him that she not know he was with the INS. He was drawn to her openness. Her teasing smile. And he suspected that if she knew what he did for a living, she'd close all that off to him. He didn't want that to happen. Not yet, anyway.

  He was relieved when she turned her attention toward the sugar decanter. She straightened it, then the napkin holder behind it, her gaze scanning the café's interior. "I once wanted to open a café."

  His brow rose again, but for a completely different reason. "Oh, not here. In Paris. Until Papa pointed out that the last thing Paris needed was another coffee shop." That smile again. She tucked her mass of unruly hair behind her right ear. Jake was inordinately fascinated with the move and found himself wondering if her hair was as soft as it looked. And pondered how it would feel trailing a path across the sensitive skin of his abdomen. "So I switched my plans to a restaurant."

  Her laugh caught him unaware. What was funny about that?

  "You know. If Paris doesn't needed another café, it needs another restaurant even less?"

  "Oh." He cleared his throat again, then blurted. "You seemed distracted."

  She squinted at him slightly, as if not understanding

  "When we bumped into each other earlier."

  The light in her eyes diminished. "Yes. I was distracted."

  She took another pull from her cup, and he looked at his own. He wasn't sure what it held. Was afraid to find out. "Any particular reason?"

  He noticed then that she bit her nails. They were too short, barely crescents on her fingers. Unpainted. "Yes. There is a reason. Tomorrow, I'm told, I must leave your country full of swindling private detectives and bloodsucking purse snatchers. Go back home."

  He held his gaze steady on her. Just as he suspected.

  She gestured with her hands. "They, those people don't care that I need to stay here. That I need to find my daughter. They tell me they can't help me. They can't grant me an…"

  "Extension." He finished her sentence.

  She squinted at him again, making him wonder if she normally wore glasses. He scanned her features, imagining her with all that unruly hair pulled into a smooth twist—

  "Yes, an extension."

  "So you can find your daughter."

  Her hands stilled on her cup. "Yes. Her father, or the man who calls himself her father when he didn't want any involvement in her life before now, came to Paris two months ago and … took her. Brought her here."

  "Your husband?"

  She shook her head. "No. He and I, we had a brief—how do you say it?—relationship. No, no, an affair. You use the same word, yes? Five years ago. He was an American living in Paris, I was a waitress. Lili was the result."

  Jake stared at her. Not so much shocked by what she'd said, but shocked that she was saying what she was as easily as she was. And that he found it impossible to tug his gaze away from her animated face. She was a single mother who'd had her child out of wedlock. And she was foreign. Not that he had anything against foreigners. At one time or another, all Anglo-Americans had been foreigners to this land. But in his job as agent for the Immigration and Naturalization Service, the word foreigner took on a whole new meaning.

  Not knowing what to say in the situation, he asked, "So your daughter's four?"

  She briefly closed her eyes, her long, dark lashes casting shadows against her pale skin. She murmured several sentences in French. The thick, nasal sound wound around him in a way he wasn't sure he liked. It made him feel … lustful. He found himself wishing he knew the language so he could understand what she'd said, though he was sure it had nothing to do with his increasingly uncomfortable state. "Yes. She will be four this Saturday … five days from today." She stared at the tabletop, but he doubted she saw it. "I should have never given Gerald a copy of her birth certificate when she was born. I'd wanted to include him, yes? Instead, he used it to get her an American passport and take her away from me."

  She looked so helpless at that moment. Much as she had in the parking lot when he'd returned her purse. He was filled with an inexplicable, urgent need to pull her into his arms. To smooth her curly hair. Tell her everything would be all right.

  On the heels of that sensation followed a physical pull that left him feeling as if he'd downed a pitcher of beer in a single sitting.

  The reaction was so completely alien to him, he wasn't sure how to respond. No one had ever stirred such a complete physical response in him. He had stopped paying attention to the countless hard-luck stories he heard on a daily basis about six years ago. Stopped counting the number of illegals he'd taken to the airport and put on the next plane out. Why Michelle Lambert's sketchy situation should affect him so baffled him.

  "Have you visited the States before?" he asked quietly.

  Normally he might not have noticed the slight coloring of her skin, but he'd been staring at her so much, any variation was noticeable. He wished he knew exactly what it meant. "Yes … I visited the west coast years ago. Vacation."

  He grimaced. "So you're going home tomorrow?"

  A waitress approached their table. "Can I get you two something else? A warm-up, maybe? The elephant ears are fresh."

  Michelle waved her away. "No, thank you. I don't wish for anything more." She looked at him. "You've been far too generous already."

  "Please," he said.

  "No. No, thank you." She gathered her purse and got up. "I really must be going now."

  Jake rose so quickly, he nearly knocked the table over. All he knew was a sudden, overwhelming urge to stop her from leaving. He curved his fingers around her arm. The heat that swept through him and pooled in his groin was instantaneous.

  She gazed into his face, clearly puzzled. Then her expression changed. Her pupils widened, nearly taking over the tawny brown of her irises. The open sensuality he saw in the coloring of her cheeks, the softening of her mouth, made looking anywhere else impossible.

  She slowly leaned forward, tilted her head and pressed her mouth firmly against his. Jake couldn't have acted more surprised had someone zapped him with a live wire, but he'd be damned if he could pull away. She tasted of chocolate and coffee. Smelled of fresh air and open interest. He wasn't sure, but he could have sworn he felt the quick flick of her tongue over his bottom lip before she pulled away.

  He stood dumbfounded. Had that really happened? Had she just kissed him? His almost painful erection told him she had. And that he wanted her to do it again.

  "Why … what did you do that for?" He barely recognized the low, gravelly voice as belonging to him.

  She glanced quickly away, then gave a slight shrug. "Just curious."

  "About what?"

  Her gaze slid to his face, and she smiled. "Curious as to whether your lips felt as good as they looked."

  She began to move away again, and he let her. Near the door, she turned toward him. "By the way, they do."

  She stepped through the door.

  Jake stood for a long moment watching her, an ache the size of Virginia in the pit of his stomach.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  He decided to blame it on all the time he had on his hands. Jake stood waiting for the elevator to reach the second floor, only belatedly thinking he should have taken the stairs. And thinking of the prospect of having time on his hands. He'd passed his most pressing cases to fellow agent Edgar Mollens. His desk was clean even of dust. The only thing that stretched before him was five days trekking through the Blue Ridge Mountains with David.

  He cringed. He'd be the first to admit that spending the night in a tent wasn't exactly his idea of a good time. In his mind, roughing it was being stuck in a hotel room without CNN. But even his reluctance to snap on his new backpack and tie his new boots wasn't to blame for his unusual interest in a certain provocative Michelle Lambert.

  Then there was her kiss.

  He forced the thought from his m
ind even though his body immediately responded.

  At any rate, it was better that his chances of seeing her again were zip to nil. She'd never answered his question, but he was certain she'd be heading to France tomorrow. The elevator doors opened, and he stepped out. What he couldn't help wondering was when she was due to fly out.

  Bypassing the administrative offices where he usually left any papers, he walked through the jam-packed waiting area in Room 200, vaguely aware of a number being called and an elderly woman likely of European descent using her cane to rise from her chair. He strode down the long hall leading to his office. His interest in Michelle should have been equivalent to his interest in the European woman. Less, even, because Michelle violated at least ten of his appearance rules.

  Yet his mind kept venturing to her. The way she ran the small pad of her thumb across the rim of her cup while she spoke. Sat slightly leaning to the right, her legs crossed. Looked as if she could see inside him, appearing candidly interested in what was there.

  Jake stopped outside an immigration information officer's cubicle and waited for the officer to finish with a young man presumably of South American descent. The kid finally left holding a sheaf of papers that likely reflected the details of his life thus far.

  Pauline turned toward her computer, putting her back to him. "Good thing you're so tall, Jake, or else nobody would know you were there."

  Jake entered the office. "What do you got on a Lambert, Michelle?"

  Pauline entered the name in her computer. "French. Point of entry, Dulles. Extension denied." She swiveled slowly toward him. "Why?"

  "Who handled the case?"

  "Brad. You didn't answer my question."

  "Thanks." Jake stepped out of the cubicle and headed to one down the hall.

  "Jake McCoy, one of these days I'm going to cut off your special privileges. Then where will you be?" Pauline called after him.

  He grinned.

  Brad Worthy was between cases. Jake repeated his request for information on Michelle. Information that either hadn't yet been or wouldn't be entered into the computer.

  Brad leaned back in his chair and tossed his pen to the desktop. "The Frenchwoman? Quite a looker, that one, eh?"

  "I hadn't noticed."

  "Yeah. You wouldn't." He shuffled through the files on his desk. "Extension denied."

  "What else you got?"

  Brad stared at him from under lowered brows. "What's the interest?"

  Jake suddenly felt uneasy. He had a hard time explaining that one to himself. Maybe if he knew she was heading out, leaving for France, he'd be able to get her out of his head. "Indulge me."

  "Okay." He opened the file and scanned the contents. "Lambert, Michelle. Twenty-eight years of age. Chef. Came in on a B2 tourist visa, though it's noted she tried to get a special travel visa. Claims her three-year-old daughter, Elizabeth aka Lili, was kidnapped by her biological father and brought to the States two months ago."

  Jake digested the information. Chef. A transient profession. If she chose to violate the terms of her visa and stay in the country, she could find a way to stay indefinitely. "Why was her request for an extension denied?"

  Brad sat back again. "She lied on her initial application about her criminal past. Information we didn't have when she came in but we since got."

  Jake frowned as he recalled her vulnerability when her purse had been stolen. "Kid stuff?"

  "Not this one." Brad shook his head. "Her visa's up at midnight tonight. But I can already tell you she's going to defy."

  "How do you know that?"

  Brad grinned. "Because she told me so. Let's see, how did she put it? That if I wouldn't give her the time she needed to find her daughter, she'd take it. Yeah, that's it. If she wasn't such a looker, I'd have had her detained on the spot." His grin widened. "Anyway, I'm planning to pass her file on to Edgar in the morning."

  "Edgar?" Jake repeated. What could she have possibly done to warrant high-profile attention? He and Edgar Mollens took on the high-risk cases. Suspected terrorists. Drug runners. Russian Mafia. Sweatshop owners. What could Lambert, Michelle, possibly have done to earn the same regard?

  And would her file have been passed to him if he wasn't officially on vacation?

  He was about to ask for specifics on the conviction when Brad's phone rang. "Hang on a minute." He swiveled his chair away to speak to the caller. "Brad Worthy." Jake inconspicuously turned Michelle's file in his direction. The Four Pines Motel. He noted the address.

  Jake's cell phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. He slipped it out and stepped closer to the door. "McCoy."

  "How about that? There's a McCoy here, too."

  Jake grimaced at the sound of his youngest brother's voice. "What is it?"

  David chuckled. "You know, one of these days you're going to have to work on those phone manners, Jake. Then again, your entire demeanor could use a little work. Something I'm hoping to start on first thing in the morning."

  "Are you at the house?"

  "Yep. Thought I'd hang around until you got here."

  "Listen, I can't find my INS ID. Have you seen it around there?"

  "Can't say as I have. Boy, you must be feeling awfully naked. Anyway, I don't think you're going to need it where we're going, unless there are some illegal aliens hiding out in a cave or two."

  "Right." Jake watched Worthy hang up the phone. "I'll call you back."

  "Jake, don't you dare—"

  Jake pressed the disconnect button and slid the phone into his pocket. Brad had closed Michelle's file and was motioning a new applicant to enter. That was it. Just like that, Brad had drawn their conversation to a halt. No more information. To press the matter would not only put him at a disadvantage, it would make his unusual interest in the sexy Frenchwoman even more obvious than it already was.

  With a reluctant wave, Jake left.

  "Hey, you're welcome, McCoy."

  * * *

  Michelle had no idea why her extension request had been denied. If she had, maybe she could have done something to fight it. But the best she could come up with was that stupid situation she'd gotten herself into in San Francisco so long ago. Though why that brief period in her life meant anything to the American government, she couldn't begin to fathom.

  She plucked her nylons and panties from the shower curtain rod, then stuffed them into her backpack on the double bed. She was blind to the crummy state of the room. The cigarette-burned carpet. The torn bedspread. The stained bathtub. Not because she'd been there long, but because in the course of the past six weeks she'd seen virtually identical rooms across the country. Truth be told, she'd lived in her share of such tacky places in Paris when she'd first struck out on her own. In Kansas, at least the rooms had smelled better but North Carolina had to be the worst simply because of the bug population and the strong metallic smell of the well water.

  The low-rent rooms were all she could fit into her budget. Actually, she'd have found they tested her budget if she'd sat down to think about it. The money she'd been saving to open her own place in Paris's Left Bank couldn't have run out faster had someone stuck a vacuum hose in her handbag and flipped the switch. And gone also was the additional money her father had wired to her two weeks ago. Of course, she hadn't expected her search to be so long, America so very large.

  The mattress sagged pitifully as she sat on the side and tugged on her shoes. At least she'd finally gotten a decent latte, thanks to tasty Jake McCoy. In fact, she was thankful to him for much. If not for his quick reaction, she'd be sitting here with even less than she was now.

  She absently rubbed her palm along her bare leg. And why had he reacted the way he had? In Paris, she'd had her purse snatched no less than two times, a third thwarted because she'd been determined, the thief careless. She'd been surrounded by people both times, but no one had lifted a finger to help. But Jake…

  She sighed gustily, remembering her impulsive kiss and the masculine taste of him on her lips.

&nbs
p; She wasn't certain which interested her more: the fact that she was thinking of someone other than Lili for the first time in so long, or that the someone on her mind was a man.

  She pushed from the bed and smoothed the creases she'd made. Her mother had once told her, a year or so before she died, when Michelle was ten, that men were the one thing women could never live without. Michelle hadn't believed her. She'd forgotten the advice when she'd met Gerald Evans at the Jardin des Tuileries one rainy morning. He'd offered her his umbrella. She'd given him her heart, then, nine months later, a daughter.

  She smiled wryly. Awfully high price to pay to keep a little rain off one's head. But she'd never looked back. Gerald had left Paris shortly after Lili was born. And Michelle and her daughter had forged a life of their own. A wildly variable life she loved. A laughter-filled life—shattered when Gerald had popped up two months ago.

  She intended to get that life back.

  A leisurely walk in the park with his daughter, he'd told Michelle. That's all he wanted. He was only in town overnight. Could she please allow him a brief time alone with Lili?

  She had. And had regretted the decision ever since.

  She rifled through her purse, extracting a sheet of paper. After leaving Jake McCoy at the café, she'd paid a visit to the private detective's office. Contrary to the information his secretary had given her that morning, John Bollatin had been in.

  And ten minutes later she'd left shaking with anger and clutching the address in her hand.

  Canton, Ohio.

  In a dusty corner of her mind, she remembered Gerald saying something about growing up in the Midwest. She had assumed it was Kansas. Going by the map, it should have been. And Bollatin had told her the same. But the address she held was in the northeastern corner of Ohio. An address for Gerald's parents.

  She took out the billfold holding her money from her purse. She sighed at the pitiful amount, then slid it back in. She supposed she could call her father again, plead with him to send her more. But by now Jacqueline had learned about his sending her the other money and would have convinced him that sending more would be irresponsible. After all, they had three additional children to think about. It was an argument that had worked especially well on her father through out Michelle's teenage years. And she had no doubt it was even more effective now, seeing as two of their children were still attending university.