Free Blindsided by Tes Hilaire Page A

much as he wished otherwise, he wasn’t here for a social visit. The information John had unearthed opened too many doors and left too many questions unanswered. He needed to test her, judge her reactions. As much as he wanted to believe her desire to contact Garret had been genuine, he couldn’t take any risks. Too many things didn’t align and he’d been too distracted by her blindness, and yes, her beauty, the other day to observe her properly. He wouldn’t make that mistake again today.  
    His eyes trained on her hands. They’d seemed so frail holding the baton she used to find her way with, but he’d been taught just how inaccurate that assessment had been when she’d used it to whip his arm. Elegant and slim, yes…not fragile.  
    She knew how to play that image of fragility up though. Today she wore her hair pulled into an intricate twist atop her head, revealing a slim neck, graceful jaw, and slightly pointed ears with delicate lobes. He shifted his weight back onto his heels, trying to adjust the synthetic denim that suddenly seemed too tight.  
    Observation. I’m here to watch her reactions. Now if he could just convince his little head that observing her didn’t include studying every curve she possessed, he’d be all set.
    “You can stand there all day if you like, Mr. Evans, and I’ll return to what I was doing,” she paused pointedly, “or you can tell me why you’re here.”
    He drew his attention away from the fluttering pulse behind her left ear, blinking to clear the haze that seemed to have enveloped his brain. “Why did you come to my house, Aria?”
    She folded her hands neatly on her desk, one hand clasping the other in a parody of calmness—the fluttering pulse gave her away.
    Tell me the truth, Aria. Prove to me that I can trust you.
    She shook her head. “I don’t think so. That shuttle has left.”
    Of course there was that point…why should she trust him when he’d lied to her?  
    He sighed, stuffing his hands into the jean pockets. “Don’t forgive easily, do you, Aria?”
    One corner of her lip curled up slightly. “Blame my father. He was a firm believer in perfection. And perfection doesn’t believe in the three strikes rule.”
    Perfection. One of his eyebrows winged up. It fit. He didn’t like how well it fit. “And was your mother so harsh?”
    She hesitated before answering, her lips drawn thin—probably realizing she’d given away more information than she wished to. “No, Mom just believed in order. If her world was in order, then she was in control.”
    “Doesn’t sound like a fun childhood.”
    “They were good parents,” she hastily defended them. As much to convince herself as him?
    “I never said they weren’t,” he pointed out.  
    He stepped forward, running his fingers over the chair, pressed the nail of his index finger in. Yup, real leather.  
    “So now that we have that cleared up—”
    “Your mother,” he cut her off, rubbing his hand over the small spot he’d marred. A quick glance showed her confusion. A little twist of guilt tore through his gut at what he was about to do. Though really, she’d done it to herself when she’d walked up and knocked on Garret’s door. The questions he needed answered were how much did she know, how deep was she involved, and how she was involved? If the answer was not much to any of the above, then maybe he could minimize the import of her involvement and thus the damage to her. If not…
    Damn John and his skillful snooping. No, damn Whitesman for giving him the assignment and placing this burden on his shoulders in the first place.  
    “Your mother had a hereditary disease,” he continued at her silence. “One that is passed down to the next generation of children fifty percent of the time. Gerald’s Syndrome. Very painful, very debilitating unless treated. Highly expensive to treat, too, but at least treatment can provide a regular life…for a while.”
    He observed her closely. She