by Ruth Owen
“But Einstein—”
“Einstein will have to wait. I’m not risking my equipment—or your life—by pushing you too hard.”
“I don’t need to be coddled,” she snapped.
Very much like my turtle. “I never imagined you did. I remember how you fired off that barrage of stones at the orc. No one with an arm like yours needs to be coddled.”
She smiled. It was a hesitant, ungainly grin that lasted less than a second, yet it managed to set his heart tumbling in his chest. Something very close to sympathy tugged at his heart. “Why don’t you want to talk about what happened in the simulator?” he asked again.
For a moment she didn’t answer. Then she sighed, a sound as soft and forlorn as a night breeze. “I don’t want to end up as a footnote in some musty science journal, or as a point of illustration in your lecture notes. What happened to me in the simulator was very—special. Reducing it to a series of test results seems … I don’t know, like killing the golden goose.”
Sinclair wanted to tell her she was being foolish, but he couldn’t get the words out. As a scientist he’d killed more than his share of golden geese. Taking things apart to see what made them tick was his business, even if that meant gutting them of their beauty and mystery as well. The discipline had bled over into his personal life. He recalled how often Samantha had accused him of practicing it in their marriage. What she hadn’t accepted was that their “golden” union had been nothing more than dross from the beginning.
His smile turned brittle. “My wife used to say golden goose was my favorite meal.”
Jillian came to an abrupt standstill. “You’re married?”
“Was married,” Ian amended, still walking. “It ended a year ago, but I suppose old habits are hard to break.”
“I’m sorry,” Jill said as she caught up with him.
I’m sorry. He’d heard those two words a hundred times, and had learned to hate them. During their marriage, pretty, petulant Samantha had prefaced almost all her sentences with it, especially when she was asking for forgiveness, or money. He’d indulged her in both for far too long. Now, of course, she didn’t bother. She just had her lawyer send his lawyer another demand.
Intellectually he knew Jillian had meant to be kind, and that she couldn’t possibly know the loathsome memories associated with those particular words. Nevertheless he spoke to her with more harshness than he intended. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I was raised by my grandfather as an only child. Being alone suits me. Besides, it gives me more time to spend on my—”
It took him a moment to realize she was no longer walking beside him. Turning around, he saw she’d stopped in her tracks.
“We’re here,” she said simply, nodding toward the modest town house that fronted the beach.
It was just the sort of place he expected her to live in. A floodlight illuminated the back of the house, showing its cheerful cornflower-blue siding and neat white trim, and the window boxes stuffed with colorful flowers. The condominium’s small back deck was all but enveloped by a jungle of houseplants, and a set of wind chimes picked merry, tuneless notes from the night breeze. The town house looked crazy, chaotic, and welcoming in a way no home of his ever had. He turned his gaze toward the ocean’s darkness, feeling as if he’d been robbed of something he couldn’t begin to name. “Well then, good night, Miss Polanski. I’ll call you tomor—”
“You can stay.”
Sinclair spun back so quickly, he almost lost his balance on the loose sand. “What?”
“For coffee, I mean.” She shifted from foot to foot, nearly losing balance herself. “It was kind of you to walk me home. I just wanted to … oh, hell, it was a stupid idea. Forget it.”
Without waiting for his answer, she started up the slope of the beach to her condominium. Shoulders back, chin tilted toward the stars, she reminded him of another woman, a fairy princess with a slipping gold circlet, pelting a ferocious beast with ineffectual stones. Warning voices cautioned him not to accept her offer, that her cheery little house might hold greater dangers than any ferocious orc. Yet before he knew it, he was beside her, shortening his stride to match hers. “Coffee is fine, but I would prefer a cup of tea. Earl Grey, if you have it.”
“I think I can find a bag.” She smiled again, the tentative grin that had such an arresting effect on his heart. Once more the warning voices sounded, telling him that he was veering from his meticulously charted course and heading straight for unmapped waters. He shrugged off his misgivings, reminding himself that he was a respected scientist who lived a strict, disciplined, and completely satisfactory life. He was no callow youth to be ruled by the hormonal urges of his body.
And Ms. Polanski, the voices added, was no box turtle.
“Tell me, Ms. Polanski,” Sinclair said as he studied the Save the Whales poster hanging over her living room couch, “are there any causes you don’t support?”
“One or two,” Jillian acknowledged with a slight smile. She set the tea tray down on the coffee table and glanced around the room, noting the wildlife photographs and the framed certificates of achievement she’d earned from the Sierra Club. The room was stuffed with memorabilia of battles she’d fought for those who could not fight for themselves. She was proud of every inch of it, but she could see where it might be overwhelming to someone who wasn’t expecting it. She picked up the manatee-shaped mug from the tray and handed it to the doctor. “Some of my friends think I go a little overboard with my conservation efforts.”
“If more people went overboard, our planet would be a better place in which to live.” He lifted his mug to take a sip, but paused as he noticed its unusual shape. Sinclair glanced back at her, arching his dark brow in wry amusement. “Then again, your friends may have a point.”
Jill laughed, a warm, bright sound that held almost as much surprise as humor. She’d invited Sinclair in on an impulse, reacting instinctively to the edge of desolation she’d heard in his voice when he’d mentioned his divorce. But now that he was here, she found herself enjoying his company. She hadn’t expected him to be so interested in her conservation efforts. She appreciated his intelligent questions and his insightful remarks. But she was honest enough with herself to admit those weren’t the only things she enjoyed.
By anyone’s standards, Dr. Sinclair was an incredibly handsome man. Whatever she felt about him personally, he was one great-looking hunk of humanity, and she saw nothing wrong with a little surreptitious perusal. She settled on the couch and picked up her panda-shaped mug, taking a long, un-hurried sip as she watched him move around the eclectic jumble of her living room. Lord, the guy even strolled sexily.…
“Bloody hell!”
Jill straightened up so quickly she almost spilled her tea. For an embarrassing moment she thought he’d caught her ogling him. Then she realized that his ire was focused not on her, but at the fat and fluffy black Persian cat at his feet. Jillie couldn’t suppress a delighted chuckle. “Ah. I see you’ve met Merlin, my refugee from the humane society.”
Ian glared at the creature. “He doesn’t look like a refugee. In fact, he looks bloody pleased with himself. I could have broken my neck.”
Merlin glared right back at the doctor, his leisurely waving tail indicating that he couldn’t have cared less.
Jill watched the stalemate with profound enjoyment. She’d never seen Dr. Sinclair so perplexed before—even the bloodthirsty orc hadn’t ruffled his trademark reserve the way her stubborn little cat had. Dr. Doom meets his match, she thought, smiling broadly. She was tempted to leave them there all night, but, as her grandparents would say, that wouldn’t be the Christian thing to do. Besides, she owed the doctor a rescue.
She got up, walked over to the stubborn pair, and scooped up the fluffy assailant. “Merlin, you’re a devil,” she scolded as she scratched the cat’s chin. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I should have warned you that Merlin rules the roost around here.”
“I don’t think he likes me,” Ian remark
ed sullenly.
“That’s just because he doesn’t know you,” Jill replied, strangely reluctant to let the doctor believe he’d been snubbed. “Just scratch him under the chin like this, and he’ll be your friend forever.”
Ian frowned suspiciously. Nevertheless, he reached out and gave the cat’s chin a tentative scratch. It was an amateur effort, but Merlin didn’t seem to mind. His great golden eyes drifted shut, and he began to purr with a vengeance.
“You see, he does like you,” Jill said as she glanced up at the doctor. “He just needed to know that—”
Her words died on her tongue. Ian was grinning at the cat—a wide, lopsided grin that shone with boyish pleasure. It was the first honest smile she’d ever seen on his face, and it hit her with the force of a sucker punch. Careful, Jill, you’ve been fooled by him before. Remember, you’re his experiment. He thinks of you as a guinea pig, or a lab rat. Don’t get fooled again.
Bending down, she deposited the mollified Merlin on the carpet and walked stiffly back to the couch. “You wanted to discuss the simulator,” she reminded him as she sat down. “Ask away.”
Ian gave the cat a final pat, then walked over to sit on the opposite end of the couch. His frown returned. “You do seem tired, Ms. Polanski. If you’d rather, we can discuss this tomorrow.”
“We’ll discuss it now,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her. “I want to get this over with.”
A wry smile pulled at the corners of Sinclair’s mouth. “You know, I get the distinct impression you’d rather face an orc than talk about what happened in the simulator today.” He rested his elbow on the back of the couch and propped his chin on his fist, studying her with undivided interest. “Why is that?”
Damn him! His intense, absorbing gaze cut through to her heart, searching out her intimate secrets without exhibiting a trace of emotion himself. A surgeon wielding a scalpel couldn’t have been more masterful—or more cruel. She felt alone and vulnerable, and unexpectedly, horribly aroused. “I didn’t ask to be part of your experiment,” she said quietly. “I volunteered because I wanted to help Einstein—period. I’m not doing this for the sake of science, or to help mankind.”
For a moment he said nothing, but his jaw pulled into a tight line, and his eyes hardened to a hard, metallic sheen. When he did finally speak, it was with chilling, brittle politeness. “Forgive me, Ms. Polanski. I hadn’t realized how much I was presuming on your charitable nature. I’ll—how did you put it?—get this over with as soon as possible.”
He pulled a small pad from his pocket and made a few quick notations. “Normally I’d ask you to chronologically relate your experiences in the simulator, but that would take hours. Suppose we just attempt to recreate the events of the virtual world in the real one? Dr. Miller and I regularly perform this exercise. Once I ran ten miles to replicate the feeling of climbing a virtual mountain. Another time I bungee-jumped off a bridge to—”
“You bungee-jumped?” Jill asked, astonished.
“For the sake of science, yes,” he informed her stuffily. “I’m asking you to do the same. Are you up to it?”
“To go bungee-jumping?”
“No, no. To recreating one of the events you experienced in the simulator.”
Jill shrugged. “I guess so, but I don’t see how. I don’t exactly have a suit of armor stored away in my closet.”
“I was thinking of something a little more prosaic.” He put down his notepad and leaned closer, absorbing her once again with his silver gaze. The corners of his stern mouth twitched up, but there was nothing humorous in his smile. “I’m referring to the kiss, Ms. Polanski. I think we should recreate the kiss.”
FIVE
Jill shot up from the couch and stared at Ian in open-mouthed amazement. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“Not at all,” Ian assured her, wondering how she’d managed to divine humor from his perfectly logical request. Perhaps he hadn’t made himself clear. “Of all the events we experienced in the virtual world, the kiss would be the easiest to replicate. You see—”
“Oh, I see, all right,” she said, propping her hands on her hips. “I invite you in for tea—just tea—and you try to grab some extra dessert.”
“What dessert?” Ian asked, now thoroughly confused. “You never offered me dessert.”
“Damn straight I didn’t,” Jill agreed, her brown eyes wide with fury. “I was wondering why you were so interested in my environmental work. Now I see why. You thought that by buttering me up, and then giving me some song and dance about your simulator, you could cop a quick one. Well, I’m not that kind of woman, Dr. Sinclair.” She bent to the table and snatched up the manatee and panda mugs, gathering them in her arms as if to protect them from his touch. “If you’re so keen on replicating our experience, you can just go and kiss Dr. Miller!”
Her terse remarks about Dr. Miller finally clued Ian in as to what she was thinking—though how she could have reached that conclusion from his sensible suggestion was beyond him. “Ms. Polanski, you can’t actually imagine that I want to kiss you?”
Instead of comforting her, his remark seemed to upset her even more. Without a word she spun around and headed for the kitchen.
Bloody hell, what have I said now? Ian wondered as he rose from the couch and followed her. He stood in the doorway, watching her carefully set the animal mugs in the sink and turn on the water. Unaccountably, he found his gaze straying to her hands, studying their unconsciously graceful movements, and the delicate care she bestowed even on those silly little mugs. It was so like her to treat the small and unimportant things of the world with profound respect. Mugs, manatees, stray cats—they all received her caring attention. But not well-intentioned yet ill-spoken scientists.
He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling as awkward as a teenager. “Ms. Polanski, I’m not good at expressing myself. I never have been. But if I offended you in any way, I’m truly sor—”
“It’s not true.”
For a moment he thought she meant his apology. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not true,” she repeated softly as she continued to wash the mugs. “I don’t know how much you’ve heard about my background, but what you’re thinking about me isn’t true.”
Bent over the sink, he couldn’t see her expression. But the defeated slant of her shoulders told him more than her words ever could. Ian didn’t consider himself a sympathetic man, but the weariness, the isolation in her posture, touched him deeply. He’d spent a good portion of his life alone, and knew how wearing it could be on the spirit. But until that moment he’d never thought of popular, outspoken Jillian as ever feeling lonely or unsure of herself.
“Ms. Polanski,” he answered in a tone as hushed as hers, “the only thing I’m thinking is that I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about. Which appears,” he added with the ghost of a grin, “to be the rule rather than the exception for this evening.”
She glanced back at him, her brown eyes as wary as a skittish doe’s. He recalled the last minutes they’d spent in cyberspace, when she had come to his side in that tattered dress with her hair full of brambles, smelling of loam and moss. He’d thought of her as a wood nymph, a fairy creature of spirit and fire, a dream never to be recaptured. Yet now, right in the mundane world of soap suds and coffee mugs, he again found himself staring into the eyes of that wood nymph—or eyes that would have belonged to a wood nymph if they hadn’t been clouded by suspicion and distrust.
Something twisted near his heart. For all her causes and courageous stances, Jillian Polanski was as delicate as lace inside. Sinclair had seen how cruel the world could be to fragile and unique spirits, but he’d never seen a pair of eyes more tragic or a spirit more afraid to let its true nature be discovered. He wondered who had taught her to be so wary, and experienced a surge of anger so strong, it nearly made him wince.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely, wondering whose damage he was apologizing for. “I never intended to hurt you.�
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She studied him for a few moments longer. Then her mouth sneaked up in a tentative half-grin that made his heart twist all over again. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have jumped to the conclusion that you were after something.” She turned back to the sink and finished rinsing the mugs. “I mean, everyone knows you never think about anything but science.”
Not always, Ms. Polanski. As Dr. Doom he’d fostered a reputation for stoic indifference. But underneath his passionless exterior beat the heart of a normal, red-blooded man with all the normal, red-blooded desires as the rest of his race. Nowadays he tried to ignore that part of himself—letting his heart rule his head had almost ruined his life. Still, his physical self kept asserting itself, usually at inconvenient moments. Like during the slow dance at Griffith’s party. Like now. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop staring at Ms. Polanski’s petal-shaped mouth, and thinking some distinctly unscientific thoughts.
When they’d come out of the simulator, the shock of reentering the real world had wiped the details of their kiss from his mind. He recalled the event visually, like a silent movie, but the additional sensations of sound, touch, and taste were missing from his personal memory banks. He’d lost partial sensation memory of other cyberspace events before, but he’d never regretted the loss so keenly.
Until that moment he’d never questioned his motives for asking Jillian to help him recreate their kiss. But gazing at her soft, inviting lips, he had the uncomfortable suspicion that there might be more to his suggestion than he’d realized. After what he’d glimpsed in her eyes a moment earlier, he didn’t want to give her yet another reason for not trusting someone. Perhaps it was a lucky thing she’d turned him down after all.
“Okay,” she said suddenly.
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I’ll kiss you.”
Ian stared at her dumbfounded. For a second he thought he was back in the simulator, and Parker had switched realities on him while he wasn’t looking. “But you just said—”
