by Ruth Owen
In your dreams, Doctor. She wasn’t about to discuss what had transpired, with him or anyone else on God’s green earth. Hell, she intended to do her best to forget it! She glanced up ahead of her, noting that the laboratory’s door—and freedom—were less than ten yards away. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“We’ll talk about it now, Ms. Polanski.”
He stepped directly in front of her, effectively cutting off her escape route. Firm hands grasped her shoulders, barely preventing her from running into him for the second time that day. Only this time there were two distinct differences.
The first was that he wasn’t wearing his lab coat. Like her, he was still dressed in the simulator’s “immersion” suit, and the dark, form-fitting material carved the planes and angles of his body with the precision of a sculpture’s chisel. She saw the ridged muscles of his chest, the understated strength of his lean hips and powerful legs. With a shock, she realized that his voluminous lab coat had concealed the classic lines of a body so perfect, it would have put Michelangelo’s David to shame. The man was muscle and sinew from head to toe. No wonder he’d beaten the orc.
The second difference was her point of view. The downward direction of her gaze afforded her a first-class look at a part of his anatomy that gave a whole new meaning to the word perfection. The black bodysuit left little of his form to her imagination, and at the moment her imagination was working overtime. Strong fingers capturing her waist, holding her against him as they moved in unison to the rhythm of their beating hearts.…
Her head shot up. Her gaze collided with his, and registered the presence of something undefinable moving in the depths of his silver eyes. But the look was gone before she could identify it, his glittering metallic sharpness back in place. She swallowed, suddenly feeling as if she were the orc, facing down the tempered steel of his blade. “Please,” she said weakly. “I’m tired. Can’t we do this tomorrow?”
Her voice pleaded for mercy. His eyes gave her none. He studied her with the same fascination she’d seen him use to examine logarithmic equations, absorbing the difficult problems into himself until they had no choice but to yield up their secrets. Unfortunately, she wasn’t an equation, and the bold intensity of his gaze robbed the air from her lungs and made her personal parts ache with almost unbearable longing. Custer had more chance of surviving Little Big Horn than she did of surviving that look. She tried to back away, physically retreating from the onslaught of his piercing gaze. His hands held her fast.
“Please,” she begged. “Let me go.”
At that moment Felix rushed toward them, a ream of computer paper trailing behind him. “Dr. Sinclair,” he cried enthusiastically, “I think I’ve figured out how to get rid of the orc!”
Distracted, the doctor glanced toward Parker. His grip slacked almost imperceptibly, but it was enough for Jill to slip out of his grasp and sprint out of the room. She was halfway down the hall before she turned around to see if he’d followed her, and experienced a crazy jumble of relief and disappointment when she discovered he hadn’t.
Well, what did you expect? A mad dash after you and a confession of undying devotion? You’re a guinea pig to him, Polanski. Handle it.
And as she continued down the corridor, that’s exactly what she did. She dealt with her difficult emotions as she’d handled them since she was a child, stuffing them deep into the empty corners of her soul, finding more than enough room. It was just her tough luck that she had to displace a few rainbows to do it.
“He kissed you?” Marsha asked in open-mouthed surprise. “The hunk kissed you?”
“Dr. Sinclair kissed me,” Jill replied sternly. She raised her elbow and shoved an unruly stand of hair off her forehead, then continued to chop the salad tomatoes into needlessly small pieces. “But it wasn’t a real kiss. It happened while we were in the simulator.”
Marsha gave a snort of disbelief. “Honey, let me set you straight,” she said as she dumped another handful of mushrooms into the salad. “Lip lock is lip lock, whether it happens here, there, or on the moon. It’s the action that matters, not the location. So,” she asked slyly, “how was it?”
Jill was spared from answering by the unexpected arrival of Kevin, who blew through the kitchen door like a brawny, red-haired hurricane. “Hey, you guys have been in here forever. Want some help?”
Jill had seen Kevin helping in the kitchen, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. He was one of Sheffield Industries’ most experienced computer hardware engineers, but he didn’t know a Cuisinart from a spatula. Anyway, she suspected his unexpected appearance had more to do with Marsha’s presence than with his desire to help. Ten minutes appeared to be the limit on how long he could stand to have his lady love out of his sight.
“We’ll be out in a minute, snoochems,” Marsha assured him. Apparently satisfied, Kevin lumbered out of the room.
“Snoochems?” Jill said, staring at her friend in amused disbelief.
“Hey, guys love it,” Marsha answered in self-defense. “And know what? Kevin told me there’s about four guys in the other room who would love it if you called one of them snoochems.”
“Get real,” Jill replied, all too conscious of her less-than-devastating looks. With her short brown hair and brown eyes, she thought she was about as scintillating as the wheat fields surrounding the Nebraska town where she’d been raised. She looked at Marsha’s exotic Latin looks with a twinge of envy. “They should stamp MIDWESTERN FARM GIRL on my forehead and turn me out in mass production.”
“You always underestimate yourself,” Marsha complained. “I’ll bet Dr. Doom would love it if you called him snoochems.”
“You’d lose big-time,” Jill promised as much to herself as her friend. “Besides, Sinclair is the kind of guy who likes women’s minds. Preferably when they’re in small glass jars soaking in formaldehyde.”
“Now you’re underestimating your doctor,” Marsha said as she hoisted the sizable salad bowl.
“He’s not my doctor,” Jill argued, scooping up the tomatoes and dumping them into Marsha’s bowl. “Anyway, you’d better get that out to snoochems before he and his buddies start to eat the furniture. I’ll wait for the pizza.”
“Thanks,” Marsha replied as she opened her eyes wide in humorous fear for her furniture. She headed for the door, but turned back just as she reached it. “You know, Jillie, you really do underestimate yourself. Someday that’s going to get you in trouble.”
You’re wrong, Jill answered silently as her friend left the kitchen. The trouble she’d gotten into had come from overestimating herself, from forgetting who she was. Or what she was. She still remembered the snickers, the hissing whispers from the other students as the secret of her parentage rippled through the senior prom crowd. One remark—one spiteful remark—and a night that should have been a shining dream shattered into a nightmare ruin. She’d been on the stage when it happened, being crowned prom queen of Middleton County High School. She could still recall the dwindling voices, the halfhearted applause, the way even her best friends couldn’t manage to meet her eyes. She stood in the bright spotlight in a stainless white dress, and she’d never felt dirtier in her life.
She’d prayed God would strike her dead on the spot so she wouldn’t have to face the condemnation, disappointment, and especially the pity of the friends she’d given her heart to. But God hadn’t heard her … any more than he’d heard her that afternoon as she walked away from the simulator.
She leaned against the refrigerator and pressed her hands to the aching tightness between her breasts, wondering if it was possible to die from embarrassment. A scholarship to MIT had allowed her to escape the first time. A job at Sheffield Industries had allowed her to escape the second time, when she’d developed that ridiculously one-sided crush on the handsome doctor. But she doubted she’d get that lucky a third time. Tomorrow she’d have to face Sinclair and discuss their kiss—a kiss she’d enjoyed a whole lot more than she cared to admit. He’d log her private, pre
cious emotions in his test data, using her like a human guinea pig. Maybe she should have left him to that orc after all.
A knock sounded on the back door. Great, at least I can drown my sorrows in pepperoni. She grabbed her purse and started to dig through it for her wallet, which was down at the bottom as usual. Grumbling fiercely, she opened the back door, her head still bent as she pursued her contrary billfold. “I’ll have your money in a minute. Just put it on the table.”
“I’d be happy to, Ms. Polanski, if you’d tell me what it you’re referring to.”
Jill’s purse thumped to the floor. Her eyes shot up, meeting the glittering gaze of Dr. Ian Sinclair—scientist, orc slayer, and the man who’d done more damage to her self-respect than anyone since high school.
And the bastard was smiling.
FOUR
“Wh-what are you doing here?” Jill stammered.
“I was invited,” Sinclair replied simply, his infuriating smile deepening. In one smooth movement he reached down and retrieved her purse, handing it to her as gallantly as if he were delivering a nosegay. “Don’t you remember, Ms. Polanski?”
Jill clutched her bulky purse to her chest like a shield. She remembered all right—that, and a great deal more. Though he was dressed casually, in black jeans and a loose midnight-blue shirt that emphasized his dark, brooding face, she couldn’t help remembering the way he’d looked in a suit of shining armor. Memories came flooding back with devastating force. She recalled the strength of his arms, the gentle seduction of his hands, the impossible rightness of the way their bodies moved together, his heat, his taste …
“I remember,” she said, her words sounding more like a croak than the forceful statement she’d hoped for. “But you hardly ever come to parties.”
He fixed her with his silver gaze. “I came to this one,” he said softly, “because I wanted to see you.”
“Oh,” she said weakly, her purse again dropping to the floor. Her leaden arms had lost the strength to hold anything. Horribly she realized her knees weren’t far behind. He came because he wanted to see me.…
“I wanted to see you,” he continued as he again bent down to collect her fallen purse, “because you left the lab before we had a chance to discuss and log what happened in the simulator.”
Discuss and log … He’d come here to add her to his test results. The man didn’t even have the decency to wait until the next day! Furious, Jill spun around and stalked across the kitchen, heading for the living room door. But before she reached it, Marsha entered from the other side with Kevin in tow.
“Jill, somebody rang the front doorbell but they left before—Dr. Sinclair!”
Any hope Jill might have cherished about Marsha’s support died as she watched her friend catch sight of the handsome scientist. With a coquettish toss of her hair and a thousand-watt smile, Marsha went straight into flirt mode.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” she said, ushering Sinclair into the kitchen. “By the way, sorry about that nickname crack I made earlier. No offense meant.”
“None taken, Miss Valdez. In fact,” he added with the ghost of a smile, “I found it eminently appropriate.”
Good God, he’s got a sense of humor, Jill thought in distress. “Dr. Sinclair won’t be staying long,” she said hurriedly. “He just needs some information about our experience in his simulator and—”
“The virtual reality simulator?” Kevin exclaimed, his eyes growing big as saucers. “You’re that Sinclair?”
Ian gave a low chuckle. “Dr. Doom in the flesh,” he assured the goggle-eyed engineer.
After that, things got complicated. Kevin, and most of the rest of his engineering department, appeared to be card-carrying members of the Dr. Ian Sinclair fan club. Once they entered the living room, Marsha’s party guests swamped the scientist with a barrage of technical questions and a wave of unabashed admiration. Jill expected the doctor to be annoyed by the attention, but to her surprise he handled the group with ease. He even—unbelievably—appeared to be enjoying himself.
He gave every question his full attention, and answered every compliment with an apparently sincere thank-you. His earnestness was as compelling as his knowledge. By the end of the evening he had everyone in the room eating out of his hand. Everyone, that is, except Jill.
She sat in a distant corner, munching cold pizza, feeling very confused. She’d known Dr. Sinclair for months, and he’d never displayed one tenth of the animation he was exhibiting tonight. She didn’t get it. Ice cubes had more warmth than the Ian Sinclair she knew. She wondered if he had a twin brother, a personable man who’d temporarily taken the place of the enigmatic scientist. Or maybe it was just she who brought out his cold and unfeeling side.
But he’d kissed her …
No, he hadn’t, she reminded herself sternly. He’d kissed a woman in cyberspace, a projection, a phantom. He’d never held her in his arms, never thrilled her with his touch, never consumed her with the seductive glory of his caress. Worse, he wanted to dissect the non-event for his research notes, reducing her tumultuous feelings to a series of passionless test results. Well, maybe he could fool the others into thinking he was a decent, caring human being, but she knew better. And if he thought she was going to bear her soul to him like some well-trained lab rat, he had another think com—
“Ms. Polanski? Are you all right?”
Jillian opened her eyes and looked up into the molten silver eyes of the courageous knight who’d saved her from the orc. She reminded herself the knight wasn’t real, and neither was the counterfeit concern in his gaze. “I’m fine,” she stated sharply. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I have no idea, but you’ve been holding that piece of pizza in front of you a full minute.” He leaned closer, smiling gently. “We were beginning to worry.”
“Worry?” Jill repeated, caught off guard by the soft humor in his expression. She’d always thought of Sinclair as a hard man—whether as a steel-skinned scientist or an armor-garbed knight. Softness didn’t figure into her image of him. Yet, as she looked at him for once without anger, she noticed the small laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, and the way his mouth turned up when it was hovering toward a smile. She knew from her experience in the simulator what it felt like to kiss him, but she suddenly found herself wondering what it would be like to laugh with him.
Right, Jill. Yet another emotion he can dissect.
She glanced away from the doctor, her gaze seeking out Marsha. “I’m a little tired. I … think I’ll just go on home.”
“I’ll drive you,” Sinclair decided, apparently not caring that she was no longer looking at him.
“It’s not necessary. I live only a few blocks up the beach. I’ll just walk.”
“Then I’ll walk with you,” he said as he extracted the half-eaten pizza from her hands.
The brief touch of his fingers, firm, warm, and decidedly unmetallic, made her realize how close she was to letting herself feel something more than infatuation for this man. Walking alone with him on a deserted beach wasn’t even close to being a wise choice, yet she found her protests weakening. “Well, if you really want to …”
“I most certainly do,” he stated as he helped her to her feet. “It will give us a chance to discuss what happened today in the simulator.”
The few blocks to Jillian Polanski’s house were some of the longest Ian had ever traveled in his life. They walked along the beach in the North Miami suburb, listening to the hush of the night waves and the intermittent blare of a far-off channel horn. The night was warm, even balmy, despite its mid-winter calendar date. Yet Ian felt a definite chill in the air—a chill radiating from the woman who walked beside him.
“We’re almost at my house, Doctor,” she said curtly. “Ask your questions. What do you want to know?”
He glanced at her, noticing her bent head and hunched shoulders. The woman was definitely on the defensive. She reminded him of a box turtle he’d had as a boy, a cautious creature that
was forever disappearing into its shell. Every time the animal retreated, Ian felt as if he’d done something wrong, as if he’d failed it in some inexplicable way.
If Miss Polanski had a shell, he doubted he’d ever see her face. Dammit, why was she so wary of him? “What I’d like to know,” he said honestly, “is why you are so dead set against discussing what happened in the simulator. Dr. Miller never minded.”
“Well, Dr. Miller didn’t … I mean, you never … look, I don’t see why you need my input anyway. You were there—why don’t you just write down your experiences?”
“Because that’s what they are—my experiences. It’s important that I know your experiences too. I’d like to know what you thought and felt.”
“Why?”
The simple question hit him broadside. His step faltered, though he told himself he’d tripped on a piece of driftwood. “Because we’re scientists, Ms. Polanski. Because we’re pioneers in the field of virtual reality, and it’s our duty to log our results so others will be able to build on our work and avoid our mistakes. Perhaps our experiences will help save the life of another scientist. Surely you agree with that.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I do. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize anyone’s safety. You’re right, Dr. Sinclair.”
She spoke his name dully, as if all the life had been sapped right out of her. Unbidden, his mind called up an image from their time in the simulator, when she’d knelt beside him in her provocative travesty of a dress, saying his name. Ian. Simulator or no simulator, his body still reacted to the sweet, enticing memory.
He turned his head toward her, noting that she’d sunk her fists into her jeans pockets, hunching her shoulders again in a posture so guarded, it put his box turtle to shame. Darkness curled around her, making her look small and vulnerable, and achingly young.
“We’re not going into the simulator tomorrow,” he said suddenly. “It’s been a hard day and we could both use some rest.”
