by Renee Roszel
Over the years, he’d learned to distance himself from pain, both his own and other people’s. Since his divorce, he’d made it a practice—no, a strict policy—not to get involved. Especially with women who wore their hearts on their sleeves and lived by their emotions—like Jess.
Why, then, was he suddenly ambivalent about his strict policy of noninvolvement? What was it about her that made him want to punch somebody? Her father, maybe? Or her ass of an ex-husband? Why did he want to shout, “Leave the woman alone. She’s damned pushy enough the way she is!”
He almost smiled at that. For a woman who thought she was a failure, she’d gotten him to do things for her he’d never have done for anyone else. Damned honest gray eyes of hers. He snorted derisively. He knew she wasn’t manipulative. He knew she’d tried her damnedest to be, but it just wasn’t her nature. Still, in her own decent, scrupulous way, she’d handled him like a pro. He was strangely ambivalent about that, too. Sometimes her directness irritated the fire out of him, and other times, like when she was sputtering out her “You bother me” speech last night, it sent a stab of feeling through him that he couldn’t quite identify—and couldn’t quite ignore.
As he rocked back in his swivel chair, listening to the faint squeak of its hinges, he found himself fantasizing about making love to her. She was so caring and vulnerable with the kids, and so guarded with him. What would it be like, he wondered, to see her flushed with passion, gasping and moaning softly in his arms? Beautifully naked, her silky skin wet and pulsing against his. He gritted his teeth, crushing the dangerous image. But another emerged in its place, just as haunting, and every bit as dangerous: the image of Jess today, when she’d shocked him by taking his fingers in hers.
He’d resisted squeezing back, had balked at the compliment and the intimacy. He fisted the hand she’d held so tightly. He wasn’t Mr. Niceguy, dammit. Wasn’t the generous soul old Roxbury was, and he didn’t want to care, to deceive the woman who was looking at him with a new, almost-admiring expression. He’d backed off, growled at her. Rejected her approval.
It was best that he had, he told himself. She was an open person by nature. Unfortunately, people who were supposed to have loved her had given her a lot of emotional scars. It was ironic, he mused. Both he and Jess were guarded in their own ways. She’d never had much affection in her life, or much approval. By working with these kids, she was getting both, at last.
Because Lucas had known affection, but had lost it suddenly and cruelly, he no longer sought it. He rejected it, and didn’t give a damn about anyone’s approval. They were an interesting twosome, he and Jess Glen. Very different, but ironically alike.
Though the kiss they’d shared had proved they were highly compatible sexually, pulling her into bed would be a mistake. It might do his ego some momentary good, but it would only make her more guarded and inhibited when the affair ended. He didn’t want to add to her hurts, and offering uncommitted sex to a woman who wanted affection and emotional attachment would be underhanded and sleazy.
He knew he had to steer clear. But the memory of the kiss nagged, driving him crazy. Dammit! He jerked forward and switched on the diagnostics. Enough time had been wasted dwelling on that idiotic kiss. It was time he moved on.
“Hey, man,” came a voice from behind him. Swiveling around in his chair, he saw Molly and Moses standing just inside the door. The thin girl, her hair pulled back into a runty ponytail, was carrying a plate with what looked like a sandwich on it. Moses held a steaming mug.
Lucas sat forward, frowning, but not particularly irritated by the interruption. Maybe a break was a good idea. “What can I do for you two?”
They were looking around the room, clearly in awe of the advanced technology they were seeing. “Shi— uh—” Moses began, then amended, “Shoot, man, you know how to work all this stuff?”
Lucas raked an impatient gaze over the computer equipment. “The board of directors thinks so,” he muttered.
“What is it you’re doing?” asked Molly.
He shrugged. “Working on a Virtual Reality program for a pharmaceutical company in Japan.” Lucas indicated the helmet sitting on the desktop to his left. “This is what we call an HMD, or head-mounted display. Through it we see a Virtual, or imaginary, world. And this—” he lifted the glove, barely able to keep the anger at the malfunctioning piece of junk from his voice “—is our cordless, force-feedback glove. It lets you feel an imaginary thing the way it would really feel. Say, an imaginary marshmallow that feels spongy, like a real marshmallow, or an imaginary rock that feels hard, like a real rock.” He slipped on the silver glove and opened and closed his fingers in a clawlike maneuver. “This drug company wants a computer program that’ll help them pick up molecules and move them around so they can improve medicines.”
“But molecules are too small to move with your hand,” Molly said, a confused frown puckering her forehead.
“That’s true,” Lucas agreed, giving the girl an approving nod. “So my job is to make imaginary molecules that are big enough to move with this glove, and to see through this helmet, so the computer can then work microscopic tools that do the same thing to the real molecules.”
“No jive?” Moses exclaimed.
“No jive,” Lucas echoed, pleased at the boy’s interest. “The drug company hopes this new technology will help reduce the costs of products.”
“Cool,” Molly breathed. “You’re almost like a saint to be working on something so wonderful.”
Lucas halted in the act of taking off his glove, and shot her a startled glance. “I wouldn’t say I’m very close to sainthood,” he hedged, embarrassed by the young girl’s admiration. “It’s my business to come up with computer programs.”
“But you do such awesome stuff, Mr. Niceguy,” she objected passionately. “You’re a totally awesome man.”
He felt a prick of guilt as he turned away to finish removing the glove. “What is that you two brought?” he asked brusquely, anxious to change the subject.
“We, uh, thought you might be hungry,” Molly offered, still sounding too impassioned for Lucas’s peace of mind. He turned to stare somberly at her. She held out the plate, but did not move forward.
He realized now why neither of them had come any closer. To a fourteen-year-old, his equipment no doubt looked like the inside of an alien spacecraft. “I am a little hungry, at that,” he admitted, feeling the weariness of the past several weeks lying heavily on his shoulders. “Thanks.” He got up and indicated a table and four chairs in the corner near the door. “I’ll eat over there.”
Molly and Moses, hurrying along the far wall, beat him to the table and had set down his sandwich and mug by the time he got there. Lucas was surprised to see he’d been brought a cup of cocoa instead of coffee. “Looks good,” he offered less gruffly, realizing how really hungry he was.
“Mrs. Glen thought you might be ready for something,” Molly said, taking a step back, as though she still feared he might reach out and slug her for tossing his computer into the lake.
After seating himself, he ran a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. “Tell her thanks,” he said, tiredly. Then, looking at the boy, he asked, “How are you feeling, Moses?”
He shrugged. “Like a dumb-butt, but I ain’t cold anymore.” He elbowed Molly gently. “We both feel pretty stupid.”
Molly bit her lower lip. “Yeah,” she added shyly. “Spitball told me those little computers can cost a couple of thousand dollars—” She broke off suddenly, as tears flooded her eyes. The storm of emotion was so unexpected, Lucas was taken aback. He flinched, lowering the sandwich he’d been about to bite into.
“Hey—” He reached out and took her hand. “Cut that out,” he cautioned gently. “We had a deal. You’re peeling my potatoes remember?”
She sniffled. “But—I ruined an expensive computer!” she sobbed, brokenly.
She was right about that—except for one small detail. The XJ 9000 had cost fifteen thousand dollars, n
ot two. Frowning at her distress, he squeezed her fingers. “Molly, I don’t usually brag to women about my finances,” he said, with a grin he hoped would charm her out of her tears, “but I’m filthy, stinking rich. I could toss one of those little toys in the lake every day if I wanted and still be able to afford cable TV.” He squeezed her hand again, then let go, adding, “Besides, I have insurance for stuff like that. Won’t cost me a dime.”
She blinked, and sniffed. “You—you sure?”
“Would Mr. Niceguy lie?” he asked, ashamed at his use of the title he didn’t feel worthy of. But he figured it was a label she’d have faith in, and he hoped it would get her mind off the blasted computer.
Molly seemed to relax slightly. His reference to the damned Mr. Niceguy fraud he was perpetrating had done what he’d wanted it to. She swallowed and wiped her nose with the napkin she’d brought. “I—I made the sandwich,” she said, her voice almost steady.
Moses added, “I made the cocoa. Larry’s trying to say he’s sorry by helpin’ Jack wash that moron dog.”
Lucas was confused. “What moron dog?”
“You know,” Moses said, “the dumb one that chases skunks. He came home smellin’ like shi—uh—smellin’ gross, again.”
Lucas shook his head. “Moron sounds like a good name for a dog who likes to chase skunks.”
Molly giggled, and that surprised Lucas. She seemed to have bounced back quickly with his reassurance. “I’ll tell Jack,” she was saying. “It’s nicer than most of the names he’s been calling that mutt.” Her big eyes were still glistening with liquid, but she seemed at peace, somehow. Lucas felt an odd gratification about that, then he caught himself and grunted at his slackening of control. “If you kids will excuse me, I have to get back to work.”
“Right. No problem,” Moses said, tugging on Molly’s sleeve. “See ya tomorrow, man.”
“Sure.” He didn’t look up as they left the room. After a minute he took a bite of the sandwich. Leftover meat loaf from the dinner the kids had concocted last night. He chewed, deciding it tasted pretty good. He hadn’t had leftover meat loaf sandwiches since he was a kid. Eyeing the cocoa dubiously, he considered it. Odd how the world could grow colder, crueler, the economy could crumble, countries could wage wars all around the globe, but somehow, cocoa seemed to remain a quaint constant in his life. Somehow it wasn’t just a drink; it invariably came to him as an offering of thanks or help or hope.
He scowled in contemplation. Once, he’d heard a quote—actually a question—that went something like, “Who knows where great things begin?” A long time ago, a great thing had begun for him when he’d been offered a simple cup of cocoa. He lifted the mug, staring at it. Though he wasn’t crazy about the sweet taste, he took a swallow. It warmed him, and he felt curiously melancholy.
“I hope I’m not intruding.” Jess’s hesitant voice shattered his pensive mood and he glanced over to where she stood by the door. All the apprehension she’d ever harbored for him seemed to have returned to her face, and stiffened her stance. He found himself regretting that.
Though obviously she’d distanced herself emotionally from him since her attempt at friendship this afternoon, she looked much improved over the last time he’d seen her, dirt-caked and drenched. Her light-colored hair hung straight to her shoulders, and her wispy bangs half hid expressive gray eyes. Her features were earnest, though apprehensive. He wondered if she had any idea how lovely she was in her own quiet, insecure way.
She had a skittish, fawnlike beauty, especially when casually dressed in jeans and a sweater. She was softer this way than in those power suits she’d worn when they’d first met. Now he understood how out of place she’d felt in them, how she’d never really been herself, dressed for success. She didn’t even like the power-dresser types. Preferred comfortable clothes and affectionate relationships, not boardrooms and techno-bull—any kind of bull, for that matter.
She was a caring, vulnerable person. He found himself warming to the idea of making love to her again, as the memory of their kiss raced through his mind with renewed vigor. But he squelched the thought along with the smile that had almost made it to his lips. “What is it?” he asked, purposefully gruff.
Her tentative smile faded and she gave him a mildly offended look as she approached the table. “Do you realize you have an exasperating habit of making people come to you?”
He scanned her skeptically. “I’ve been eating sitting down for a long time. I didn’t know it was so daunting.”
She flushed, disconcerted. “You’re in a charming mood,” she said, her voice edged with sarcasm. “Find your mistake yet?”
“No,” he admitted gruffly, trying not to give a damn about her feelings. “What do you want?”
She pulled out a chair and sat down, her expression pained. “Okay. You want to play it this way, I can be grouchy, too.” She planted her elbows on the table and laced her fingers below her chin. He had a feeling the move was to keep from tapping her nails nervously on the table. “How familiar are you with horses?” she asked.
“I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never made love to one. Is that all?”
“That’s terribly charming, but not what I meant,” she chided. “I meant, can you ride?”
“It’s been a long time.”
“Well, don’t worry.” She stood and assumed a pose every bit as dismissive as his had been, earlier that day. “I’m sure it’ll come back to you. See you at eight sharp for a day of horseback riding.”
“Or what?”
She gave him one of those stringent looks he’d gotten used to. They were more engaging than intimidating, and he fought an urge to tell her so.
“Or this, Mr. Niceguy,” she warned, turning away. “If you don’t show up, you’re a dead man.”
“I hope you realize murder can’t solve all of life’s little problems,” he taunted.
“Maybe not,” she retorted over her shoulder. “But it would sure put a dent in mine.”
Lucas sat back, watching the inviting sway of her hips as she marched away. A smile played on his lips in spite of himself.
9
Jess had never ridden a horse before becoming Mr. Roxbury’s assistant. Every year at the retreat, she endured the agony of bouncing around in the saddle, getting bruised and battered pretending to be a cowgirl. And, though she was getting better, she was still no Dale Evans. “Whoa, Snowflake,” she challenged, irritated that the horse had a mind of its own, and no matter how she tugged on the reins, she kept getting separated from the rest of the group.
Luckily, both Bertha and Bernie were excellent riders. And strangely enough, Lucas had turned out to be more than a glowering burden today. He rode well, maneuvered his horse like a man who’d done it before and done it well. He’d said he hadn’t ridden in a long time, but he hadn’t said he’d been extremely good at it.
She’d been too busy trying to keep from being scraped off her saddle under one low branch after another, or struggling to help one of the kids who were experiencing similar problems, to have any conversation with Lucas. But he was there, sitting on that horse as tall and broad-shouldered as John Wayne had ever been, chasing after straying horses and guiding them back into line. Except for her, of course. She was on her own, as far as he was concerned.
She supposed it was for the best. After all, she’d told him to leave her alone, and she wanted him to leave her alone. But right now, as Snowflake doggedly plowed under another low-hanging branch, she cursed the fact that she’d insisted she didn’t want his gallantry.
“Snowflake, darn you,” she groused under her breath. “I thought you were supposed to be docile. Don’t you know what docile means? It means you aren’t supposed to try to kill me every five minutes!”
Looking up, she realized she was once again separated from the others. Unfortunately, they’d entered the deepest part of the woods, and the trees were as thick as quills on a porcupine. She glanced around and sighed. “Thanks, you bag of ornery bones. Do
you see any of the other horses?”
She could hear the kids laughing and shouting. But from what direction? Frowning, she tried to determine where the sounds were coming from. It seemed like they were off to her right. She kneed her untrusty steed, and shook the reins. Snowflake angled left. “No—no!” Jess complained. “Are you doing this on purpose? Go right! Right!”
Snowflake whinnied, arched her neck saucily and lurched to the left, lurching directly under a branch so low that Jess couldn’t crouch down enough to escape. In desperation, she slid from the saddle and landed in a heap on the ground, her foot still tangled in a stirrup. Groaning, she yanked it free. “Fine. My backside’s already hamburger, and now you hurl me down on the part of my anatomy that’s sorest, you—you escapee from a dog food factory!”
Snowflake who had smelled water, snorted and plodded toward the stream close by, to get a drink.
Jess gave the departing mare a murderous scowl and rubbed her painful hip. As she stood up stiffly, she thought she saw a glint of something white. She squinted and peered more closely. It looked like a white wooden wall with a green shutter. A cottage in the middle of nowhere? “Hmm,” she mused. “Hansel and Gretel’s place? Or, with my luck, it’ll belong to the wicked witch.” She started after Snowflake, who was drinking noisily in the nearby stream, but remembered that she and the horse weren’t on speaking terms. She left Snowflake, her nose down in the swirling water, and wandered off alone.
The little cottage wasn’t far away through the trees. It was surrounded by a white picket fence; the gate was locked. Inside the neatly trimmed yard, an ancient oak tree mushroomed high above the wood-shingled rooftop, and an old-fashioned tire swing hung from one of its sturdy lower branches.
