As much as she valued her assistant, this task was too important to trust to anyone else.
“You take care of the client files. I’ll handle Mr. Bennett personally.”
Chapter Three
WHO IS YOUR celebrity crush?
Which shows do you DVR?
What is your favorite video game?
What is your favorite pizza topping?
Boxers or briefs?
These were the questions they wanted him to answer?
Adam Bennett scowled and thrust his fingers through his hair. His company’s promotions liaison had been emailing him all week, requesting he answer five questions for a brief spotlight in a magazine. When he’d finally opened the message today, he’d expected the usual rote of queries from magazines like CODE, Macro User Daily, or Engineering Today, the only magazines that mattered in his field.
Instead, he’d gotten five questions from CGR, a magazine he’d thought discontinued years ago. A couple of keystrokes later, he’d learned CGR didn’t stand for Computer Graphics Review as he’d originally thought. It stood for Celebrity Gossip Rave, and their home page was a dizzying collage of bright colors, objectively aesthetic people, and headlines that touted “Cutest Baby Bump,” “Sexiest Couple,” and “Stars: They Do What We Do!” Thus, the absurd questions weren’t that surprising.
He pressed a button on his keyboard and his central monitor blacked out. Five seconds later, a woman’s image appeared. The petite redhead smiled, revealing the piercing beneath her bottom lip.
That had to be aggravating.
“Hey, Mr. Bennett.”
“Anya, hay is for horses.” He pointed to the forty-six-inch monitor on his right. “Now, what does any of this have to do with the HPC’s product launch?”
“Any of what, sir?”
He sighed. “The questions you sent me. For CGR magazine.”
There weren’t enough hours in the day for all he needed to accomplish. Therefore, what time he had was valuable and he despised wasting it. He crossed his arms.
Anya’s gaze dropped and her jaw sagged slightly. She licked her lip and the metal stud jiggled.
After three seconds he cleared his throat, impatient for her response.
“Oh.” She jerked and lifted her gaze back to his face, a blush spreading across her cheeks. “The interview. It’s about getting your face out there.”
“Getting my face out where? It’s fine where it is.”
She shook her head. “Promotions. The more opportunities people have to see your face and name, the more we increase your social quotient, which will increase consumers’ perceptions about your authority.”
“Oh.” He considered her response. “Are you telling me that my inclusion in a checkout line gossip rag will compel people into believing my credentials as a computer scientist, engineer, and chief technology officer, founder, and CEO of Computronix?”
Her smile was slightly askew. “That’s the plan.”
“That’s not my plan. This strategy was unsuccessful the last time and I refuse to participate again. I will not whore myself out to the lowest common denominator. I will be judged by my work, not for answering inane questions.”
Her eyes widened. “Okaaay. Speaking of questions, I’ve scheduled a podcast interview with—”
“I can’t spare the time.”
Anya rubbed the back of her neck. “Mr. Bennett, I’m trying to do my job.”
So was he. “Try harder.”
He disconnected the video and scrubbed a hand over his face.
He was a genius. He had an IQ of 176. He’d graduated from Stanford University with a BS in Computer Science, an MS in Hardware Design and Software Theory, and an MBA. He wrote his first program at the age of fourteen, started his first company when he was twenty, and made his first million two years later. Some of his papers had been presented at conferences, and he’d even advised the President of the United States.
But when navigating daily, basic social interactions with people, he was reduced to a condition with which he wasn’t familiar.
Confusion.
If only dealing with people was as simple as dealing with computers. Computers were logical, methodical, and unambiguous. You input a prompt, it delivered a response. You request a function, it carried out your command. No judgment. No miscommunication.
People were walking, organic structures of judgment. The way he spoke. What he neglected to do. Who he failed to be. They took it all in and judged him as different. And no one wanted different. No one stayed for different. No one loved different.
His mother had taught him that.
Which was why he dealt with them—people—as infrequently as possible.
It had taken him a long time to find a circle of people he could trust. People who accepted him, who said what they meant and didn’t couch every word in nuance and double-talk. People who were reliable. He’d made mistakes along the way. Most recent and notably, Birgitta. She’d cost him a year’s worth of work, but had reiterated his mother’s infinitely more valuable lesson. One he’d almost been lulled into forgetting. Personal involvement with anyone, particularly women, had to be limited. He had no difficulties with casual encounters. Indeed, they were very beneficial. They sated his active libido while boosting his immune system and easing stress. But he’d never again risk another emotionally intimate relationship with a woman.
Enough introspection. He needed to fix the glitch in the search function and hand it off to his senior level programmers by the end of the week. His stomach grumbled and he frowned, glancing at the clock in the top right-hand corner of his center screen. Coding had kept him occupied for hours and he’d missed lunch. Again. Rolling back from his workstation, he stood, stretched, and headed to the kitchen to assuage his hunger.
He glanced through the glass-fronted door of his freezer and counted the white boxes. Only eight more meals. It was time to order another month’s supply of food. When he was working on a project, he blocked out everything around him and got lost in the process. Having prepared meals on hand ensured that he had nutritious food he could consume in as little time as possible. The fare was also delicious, thanks to a hefty investment in his friend’s popular San Francisco restaurant. He chose the meal he wanted and popped it into the microwave.
As the smells of asiago chicken and pasta filled the air, his cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID and answered the call.
“Mike,” he said, speaking to his chief operating officer and one of the few people in his trusted inner circle.
“Adam, you’ve got to stop terrorizing the staff.”
He rested his hip against the island’s concrete countertop. “I didn’t threaten or intimidate any member of the staff.”
Where had Mike gotten that erroneous information?
“Anya from promotions said you refused to cooperate with her regarding a magazine interview.”
“Declining to participate in an interview is all that’s necessary to label someone as a terrorist in a post–9/11 America?”
“So I exaggerated a little.”
“And that exaggeration cost us valuable seconds as we strove for clarity.”
The microwave beeped. Setting the phone on the countertop and placing it in speaker mode, he retrieved his meal and a fork and stood looking out the large windows that usually afforded him a stunning view of the Santa Cruz Mountains. Currently, the thick sheet of rain that had doused the mountains for the past eight days obscured his view.
“Dammit, Adam—”
“Is this about those pointless questions?” He cut Mike off, needing to get to the reason behind his call.
“We discussed this,” Mike said. “Your invention won’t just change the computer industry, it’s going to change the world. Everyone, in every walk of life, will be using y
our device, even the readers of that gossip magazine. You need to cooperate. Please. You know I hate getting these calls.”
He took another bite and wondered, for the seventy-third time, why he hadn’t kept his invention to himself. He didn’t need the money. Most people used the hardware and operating systems his company had created on a daily basis. He’d made more than enough money to keep a small country running for the next fifty years.
But the technology industry was unforgiving. It had no patience for people who rested on their laurels, and even less for those who’d made a mistake. Those who wanted to stay at the top had to stay one step ahead of the competition, which was no longer confined to other computing firms. It had grown to include the possibility of every kid gifted with his or her first computer. The HPC would advance him several miles. The device he’d created would change personal computing the same way the iPod changed the way people listened to music. With it, he’d regain his reputation and his spot among the elite of Silicon Valley. He’d lost his foothold once. Never again.
“I don’t understand the necessity of my inclusion in this launch, since I’ve never participated before.”
“Times have changed since our last rollout. Like it or not, creators are the new celebrities. Jeff Bezos and Amazon, Mark Zuckerberg and Facebook, Adam Bennett and the HPC.” Silence. “You wouldn’t have to worry about this if you’d let me hire a PR firm to handle the product launch,” Mike said.
Adam’s body went rigid and his response was immediate. “No.”
“It would free up your time. They’d take care of the interviews and promotions leading up to the launch and you could finish getting the device ready.”
“No.”
“You need help. Everything is riding on the launch and at your last press conference, you managed to alienate most of the people in attendance.”
“So you recall the last time we utilized a PR agency? It was a failure. That publicist wanted acclaim for getting me in People Magazine, not based on my work, but on my physical features. And the press conference? I would consider that a living nightmare.” He took another bite of his food and swallowed. “Besides, that wasn’t an actual press conference. Those reporters—and I use the term sardonically—cover celebrities and entertainment. They were not the real press.”
“They are for our purposes. A large portion of our advertising involves celebrities using our devices and television shows and movies spotlighting them front and center. The same people who were at that press conference, and more, will be at the launch.”
Adam walked back to the kitchen area and set his container on the counter, his appetite deserting him. He’d promised Mike he’d do the launch, but he’d do it on his own and without the assistance of a person who was paid to convince people of a product’s benefit, whether it was true or not.
“I will not deal with people who lie for a living.”
“Fuck, Adam! It’s not just about you. The company’s resources are involved. This is the right thing to do. I need you to trust me.”
The expletive, increased volume of Mike’s voice, and the velocity of his words indicated he was upset. Adam knew he and his friend were under a similar amount of stress. But he wouldn’t place Mike’s welfare above his own concern for what was best for the HPC.
“I won’t work with a PR firm, but I’ll do my best to help the promotions team. That’s all I’ll promise.”
Mike mumbled something he couldn’t hear. Then, “Your best is better than ninety-nine percent of the world’s.”
“True. How’s production coming on the other devices we’re unveiling?” Adam asked.
He listened to Mike’s response and watched the rain fall from the sky. The clouds and trees blocked any light, and the tableau from his window was gloomy and overcast. To the right he noticed a break in the murkiness and turned to see headlights coming up his drive. Squinting, he moved closer to the window.
What the hell?
He wasn’t expecting anyone. Who would be foolish enough to traverse this far up the mountain in this type of weather?
He interrupted Mike mid-sentence. “Did you send someone to my house?”
“Of course not. I’m not heartless enough to strand any of our employees up there with you. Why? Is someone there?”
Adam ignored the question and continued staring as a light-colored Mercedes-Benz SUV crested his circular driveway, careened wildly, then skidded to a stop. From his vantage point he couldn’t see the driver of the car, but he waited, hoping the new arrival would realize their mistake, turn around, and head back down the mountain.
The rain was thicker now, a veil of gunmetal gray, obstructing his view of any fine details. All he could discern was the flickering glow of the headlights and the rhythmic motion of the windshield wipers. The car didn’t move. Suddenly, thunder boomed from above and the sky was lit in glorious streaks of silver and gold.
“Holy shit, that’s loud.” Mike’s voice shouted from the phone. “All we’ve got is rain.”
The car door opened. Adam placed a palm flat against the window and watched the tan canopied figure race from the car toward his front door. And out of his view.
No, no, no.
He moved away from the window and grabbed his phone, hurrying to the staircase that led down to his foyer. “I’ve got to go.”
“But we haven’t settled the issue of the inter—”
Adam hung up and slid the phone into the back pocket of his jeans as the chimes of his doorbell pealed. He bounded down the steps and pulled open the heavy iron door. “You can’t—”
The drenched figure on his doorstep raised the coat covering her head. Before an impression of her could be imprinted on his brain, the sky ignited with light and another boom of thunder echoed in the air. The woman squeaked and ran into his house, pushing past him in her haste to seek shelter.
Dread rolled through his stomach. This wasn’t happening. She must be lost. The last thing he needed was to waste time on a directionally challenged trespasser. He would direct her to the turn she overshot and send her on her way. He closed the door and turned to find her back to him as she shook out the coat that had served as flimsy protection from the torrential rains. Drops of water fell to his cork tile floors and he idly wondered if the moisture would damage them.
Then all he saw were curls.
A thick mass of corkscrew curls flowed down her back. A back that dipped into a narrow waist that flared into curvy hips and a lush, round ass. Long legs were covered in black stretchy pants and black leather boots that rose above her knees. Heat inundated his body and his hands tingled, fingers to palm. He was beset by a sudden urge to pull her back against him, wrap his fist in her hair, and bury his nose in those soft-looking spirals.
When she finally twisted to face him, his breath fled the prison of his being, leaving him light-headed, similar to his plight after Thomas Brown punched him in the stomach in the eighth grade. Her skin was the color of creamy milk chocolate, her eyes were dark and her long, thick lashes were spiky from the rain.
“I’m sorry for intruding,” she said, “but I was trying to reach the Anderson house.”
Her melodic and cadenced voice stroked him, eliciting visions of heavy breathing, tangled sheets and back-arching orgasms. He frowned. The haste and strength of his attraction unbalanced him, a state of being he despised.
He cleared his throat. “The Andersons moved.”
The video game software developer had married an actress and relocated closer to LA, leaving his house empty most of the year. Every once in a while the developer rented it out to a writer or artist or anyone else seeking the isolation of being situated near the summit of the mountain. The area was too remote for the casual visitor.
Which was why Adam liked it.
“I know. I’ll be staying there for a while.”
Maybe afterward . . .
“You passed the turnoff to his house two miles ago. It’s difficult to spot if you don’t know where you’re going. Especially in this weather.” He motioned to the steps. “If you want to come up, I’ll draw you a map that will get you there in six minutes.”
What was he doing? He hated visitors, especially uninvited ones. The interactions began pleasantly, but it wasn’t long before misunderstanding, confusion, and awkward silences rendered the encounter uncomfortable. Still, he could be forgiven his change in policy. He’d never had an uninvited guest who looked like her. Hell, her body alone was enough to warrant a respite. But it would be a brief one, all in service to dispatch her and her distracting body.
Her appealingly symmetrical eyes surveyed the space where they stood, sweeping over the high ceilings, cool tones, and the windows that brought the outside in. She stretched on her toes and peered up the stairs before swinging her gaze back to him. She shivered slightly.
“I’m not a serial killer,” he stated plainly. “Of course, if I were, I’d deny it in an effort to put you at ease before I struck. I have no way of proving what I say other than to tell you that I don’t lie. But you don’t know me. I could be lying now. If it will help you feel more comfortable, keep your phone close and stay a few feet away from me.”
He stopped abruptly, annoyed by his own babbling. Unsure of what to do next, he started up the stairs, leaving her to decide whether to follow him or not. His phone rang, but he ignored it, grabbed paper off his desk, and began sketching a rudimentary map to lead her back to the Andersons’ turnoff when he heard her audibly indrawn breath.
“That’s an incredible setup. Are you a computer hacker?”
He glared at her. “No.”
“It was a joke,” she said in a low voice.
And so it begins. . .
He straightened and turned the sheet in her direction, demonstrating the route for her.
Love On My Mind Page 3
