by Ruth Owen
Meltdown is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
2013 Loveswept eBook Edition
Copyright © 1992 by Ruth Owen.
Excerpt from Roman Holiday 1: Chained by Ruthie Knox copyright © 2013 by Ruth Homrighaus
Excerpt from Claimed by Stacey Kennedy copyright © 2013 by Stacey Kennedy
Excerpt from Loving the Earl by Sharon Cullen copyright © 2013 by Sharon Cullen
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.
eBook ISBN 978-0-307-82212-3
Originally published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House Company, New York, in 1992.
www.readloveswept.com
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Dedication
Editor’s Corner
Excerpt from Ruth Knox’s Roman Holiday 1: Chained
Excerpt from Stacey Kennedy’s Claimed
Excerpt from Sharon Cullen’s Loving the Earl
One
“Would you like some coffee while you’re waiting?”
Melanie Rollins shook her head. Though the matronly secretary had no way of knowing it, coffee was the last thing Melanie needed. She pulled at the collar of her high-necked blouse, hating its stiffness, but knowing that its severe design added authority to her waiflike appearance. Authority she’d need if she wanted Mr. Sheffield to take her proposal seriously. Duncan Sheffield ruled Sheffield Industries with an iron hand, having built the Florida electronics company into one of the largest in the world.
Mrs. Sawyer must have noticed her discomfort, for she gave Melanie a broad, reassuring smile. “He’ll be with you in a moment, I’m sure,” she said soothingly, and continued with her work.
Melanie tried to return the older woman’s encouraging expression, but failed miserably. She could manage only a tight grin. She shifted in the hard office chair, trying to forget the anxiety that was slowly knotting in her stomach. She’d been waiting fifteen minutes for her Friday afternoon appointment with Duncan Sheffield. It felt like fifteen years.
She ran her fingers along the edge of the black laptop computer she held, taking comfort in its smooth design and clean, hard edges. A slight smile touched her lips. The computer case’s unassuming appearance gave no hint of the wealth of possibilities contained within.
She’d spent the last five of her twenty-six years designing and constructing the contents of this nondescript case. She’d spent the last four months in a data-entry position at Sheffield, even though her master’s in systems design entitled her to a more senior position somewhere else. Hell, she’d have swept floors if that’s what it would have taken to get this case in front of Duncan Sheffield. Anything.
“He’ll see you now, Miss Rollins.”
She froze, unable to recall a single word of the carefully constructed argument she’d practiced for hours in front of her bathroom mirror.
“He’ll see you now,” Mrs. Sawyer repeated.
She had no choice. More than her reputation was at risk here. A life was at stake. She cradled the computer case in her arms like a child. “Don’t worry,” she whispered to the featureless cover. “I won’t let you down.”
She stood up, smoothing the straight lines of her navy skirt like a knight adjusting his armor. Prepared for battle, she took a step and was about to take another when the outer door flew open. A bellowed greeting thundered through the waiting room. “Angela! My love!”
Startled, Melanie watched as a tall, broad-shouldered man burst in, radiating life the way the sun radiates heat. He strode across the room with the easy confidence of the blessed—or the damned. Everything around him seemed to shrink into insignificance by comparison, and Melanie felt herself fading into the shadows.
He lighted on Mrs. Sawyer’s desk like a white-gold angel, taking her plump hand in his. “Hello, doll. You get more gorgeous every time I see you.”
Mrs. Sawyer was neither gorgeous nor doll-like, but she blushed with delight at the compliment. “Chris, the things you say. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Oh, I am. I am. But love makes me bold. Is he in?”
“Yes, but—”
“But he’s busy,” finished the man. “He’s always busy. ‘Busy’ is my father’s middle name. Is he alone?”
“Yes, but—”
“My own, you’re worse than a lioness with her cub. I’ll take only a moment of his time, I promise.” He stretched his long arm across her desk and pushed down the intercom switch. “Hi. It’s me. I’m coming in, so hide the booze and women.” He released the switch immediately, cutting off the answer mid-growl.
Mrs. Sawyer shook her head. “Chris, you shouldn’t have done that.”
“If I didn’t, I’d never see him at all,” the charmer reasoned. He sprang off her desk, pausing only to plant a kiss on her hand. “Say hello to that lucky husband of yours for me, will you?”
“Chris—” she began, but it was already too late. He was through the door. Melanie heard the angry baritone of Sheffield’s voice before the door closed out the sound.
Mrs. Sawyer, the celebrated Angela, recovered first. She filled a cup of water at the cooler, and took it to Melanie. “He’s quite an experience, isn’t he?”
Experience? Try explosion, Melanie thought. She felt hot all over, as if she’d been swept by the tail of a fiery comet. She lifted her hands to her cheeks, almost surprised to find them unburned.
Mrs. Sawyer handed her the paper cup. “In case you were wondering, that was Chris Sheffield, the president’s son.”
“I know,” Melanie said, too quickly. She noticed Mrs. Sawyer’s sharp gaze on her and looked down, unwilling to let the other woman read her eyes. “I’ve … heard about him.”
Melanie had been hearing about Chris “Casanova” Sheffield since her first day on the job. He was a major topic of conversation in the data-entry department. Every week brought some new story about the fascinatingly wicked exploits of the president’s playboy son. Young or old, married or single, it seemed no woman could resist his deliciously shameless charms, or so they said. He was sin and seduction wrapped up in a sweet honey smile. Sugarcoated dynamite.
Melanie had scoffed at the stories—until she caught a glimpse of him in the company cafeteria three months ago. She experienced instant nuclear meltdown. No logical explanation could account for the immediate, potent, and very unscientific effect he had on her. She only knew that from that moment on, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t keep Chris’s image out of her mind.
“Miss Rollins? You are all right, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” Melanie answered, forcing a smile. She lifted the cup and took a long, steadying sip. “Is he always that … abrupt?”
“Always,” confirmed the older woman, her troubled voice at odds with the smile on her lips. “He’s just as single-minded as his father. I doubt anyone or anything could have kept him out of that office.” She paused, hesitating. “Don’t take it personally. I
doubt if he even saw you.”
Men rarely did, Melanie thought. The knowledge no longer caused her pain. Her brain was by far her greatest asset, and that tended to chase men off rather than attract them. “Well,” she said with a sigh, “I’ve waited this long. I guess I can wait a few minutes longer.”
“You’d be wasting your time,” Mrs. Sawyer said. “It’ll be dinnertime before those two get out of there. I’m afraid we’re going to have to reschedule your appointment.”
“To when?”
Mrs. Sawyer walked over to her desk and picked up her calendar. “Let’s see … there’s an opening on the tenth of next month. I can squeeze you in then.”
Next month! She couldn’t wait that long. Einstein couldn’t wait that long.
Chris Sheffield had ruined her one chance to convince his father that her project deserved funding. A month might not seem long to some people, but her experiments had almost depleted her bank account. Her electric bill was three times that of a normal household, and her equipment wore out three times as fast. Many parts already needed upgrading, or replacing. If she didn’t replace them soon, the decaying circuitry would become a safety hazard to both herself and her prototype.
She wouldn’t have a choice in the matter. She’d have to shut him down. A death sentence for a computer.
A small sound reached her ears. Melanie looked down and saw the crumpled shape of the paper cup in her hand. She’d crushed it unconsciously, as Chris Sheffield had unwittingly crushed her dreams. Correction, their dreams.
Perhaps it was the vision of the paper cup, or the frustration of the wasted years, or her quirky brand of courage, which surfaced at the oddest moments. Whatever the reason, Melanie Rollins decided to fight. Casanova Sheffield had interrupted her meeting. Let’s see how he liked it when she interrupted his.
Instinct, more than logic, steered her feet toward Sheffield’s door. She held her case in front of her like a knight’s shield, and placed her hand on the large brass knob. Then, with all the fortitude she could muster, she pushed open the office door, and plunged in.
Chris figured his father would be angry with him for his interruption. He was right. Duncan Sheffield took one look at his son’s white polo shirt emblazoned with the Royal Oaks Country Club insignia, and assumed the worst. “God bless it! You can’t just waltz in here between golf games and expect me to drop everything—”
“Cool your jets, Dad. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.” He strolled over to his father’s immense mahogany desk and tossed a thin binder onto it. “Take a look.”
Duncan Sheffield continued to grumble, but he picked up the binder and looked at the pages it contained. Chris took advantage of the pause to grab a beer from the wet bar. He leaned back, sipping his drink while he watched his father read the document. Silently he started to count to ten, figuring it would take that long for his father to react.
He got to eight.
“Good God. Abernathy Chemicals. Sales has been trying to set up a deal with them for three months. How in the world …?”
“It’s in the wrist,” Chris conceded. “Really. I just spent the afternoon on the links with Joe Abernathy, carving up the fairway. The man could start a nursery with the divots he dug out of the course. I had a hard time losing to him.”
Duncan shook his head in disbelief. “Abernathy Chemicals,” he said, scanning the pages. “We’ll save twenty percent on their acid wash this year alone. This is an amazing deal. Did Sales work up the figures?”
Chris sighed. When, he wondered, was his father going to give him credit for having a brain? “I do have an MBA. I can work up a contract on my own.”
“I’ll say you can,” Duncan said, too delighted to hear the sting in his son’s words. “You’re going to be a real asset to this company one day.”
One day, but not now. Long practice enabled Chris to swallow his frustration along with his beer. “I’m glad to hear it, because there’s something I want to talk over with you—the future of this company.”
“Again?”
“Yes, again.” Chris raked his fingers through his sun-bright hair, fighting frustration. Trying to steer a runaway truck was easier than changing his father’s mind. “We can’t ignore the facts. Our customer base is eroding. Market uncertainty will shrink it further. We need a new, multipurpose product, one which can meet the changing needs of a broad segment of the population.”
Duncan was far from convinced. “And where do you suggest we find this wonder product? K mart? Systems “R” Us?”
Chris brushed aside the sarcasm. “At universities. At independent research labs. Scouting out new products used to be one of the major goals of this company, and could be again, if—”
“—if I promote you to head of Product Research,” his father finished. “We’ve been through this before. I know you want the job, but you just don’t have the necessary experience.”
“Experience? Dad, I grew up at Sheffield. I’ve worked in every major department, with every manager. I know how this company works. But most of all, I know what this company needs.”
Duncan settled back in his chair, and folded his arms in front of him, a posture Chris found all too familiar. Hell, he thought, here comes The Speech.
Duncan opened his mouth to speak, but never got the chance. At that moment the door to his office opened, and a small, neat woman in a navy suit entered the room, clutching a computer case with white-knuckled intensity. Chris’s eyes brushed over her, taking a cursory inventory of her appearance. Starched blouse, glasses, hair pulled into a bun so tight it probably hurt her toenails—everything about her contributed to an image of discipline and intellect, the perfect example of the repressed spinster. Harmless, he concluded. A frightened mouse. And yet, there was something about her …
Chris’s father cut short his perusal. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
The mouse started to speak, but she was interrupted as Mrs. Sawyer’s ample form filled the doorway behind her. “She’s your two o’clock, Mr. Sheffield.”
“What?”
“Your two o’clock appointment,” Mrs. Sawyer stated, glaring at her employer. “She’s supposed to be here.”
This was news to Chris. He stared at the slim figure, standing sentry-straight. He hadn’t seen her in the waiting room, but then her small, trim form was easy to miss. She might have been there all along. Judging by the determined set of her jaw, she probably had been.
Damn, she probably thinks I saw her and ignored her, Chris thought. He didn’t like her believing that. God knows he had his faults, but trampling the weak and helpless wasn’t one of them. He opened his mouth to apologize, but his father spoke first.
“Yes, well, I’m sorry for the mix-up,” Duncan said, temporarily cowed by his secretary’s condemning stare. “I’m sure Mrs. Sawyer can reschedule your appointment—”
“I have to talk to you now.”
She spoke tightly, her words edged with desperation. Chris looked up, surprised the slight body could contain such passion. There was more to this woman than met the eye. She might appear fragile, but few people had the courage to contradict his father, especially to his face. Courage like that deserved assistance.
Without taking his eyes off the woman he spoke to Mrs. Sawyer. “Angela, I think my father and I can handle this situation on our own. Would you please hold all calls until we’re finished seeing Miss …?”
“Miss Rollins,” Angela supplied. She gave the younger woman a quick, reassuring pat on the arm—and Duncan a final glare—before leaving, and shutting the door behind her.
Her goal accomplished, the woman seemed unsure of how to proceed. Chris knew his father would read her hesitation as weakness, and stepped in to fill the silence. “Well, Miss Rollins, it seems I owe you an apology.”
The woman said nothing, but momentarily glanced his way. Chris received the quick impression of dark lashes and darker eyes, but her glasses prevented any furthe
r observations. Intrigued, he took a step closer, wondering what she would do if he stripped off her glasses and took a long, leisurely look into her hidden eyes. Slap him, most likely. Still, if his father hadn’t been watching, he might have chanced it—slap and all. Instead he offered her his hand.
Miss Rollins avoided the hand as if he were offering her a viper instead of a handshake. She acknowledged his apology with a curt nod, then walked past him toward his father’s desk. Chris frowned at the implied rejection, more disturbed than he cared to admit. Okay, lady. You don’t want my help, you don’t get it.
Shoulders squared, the slim woman faced his father. “Mr. Sheffield, I believe I have the answer to your problems.”
“I wasn’t aware I had any problems.”
She blinked, momentarily taken aback by his answer. “But you do. Sheffield Industries is falling behind in computer technology.”
“That’s just what I think,” Chris said, her distress making him forget his recent resolution.
“That’s no recommendation,” his father commented. “But, please, Miss … Rollins, is it? Please, continue.”
She cleared her throat. “For the past two years I’ve been conducting extensive experiments in the field of artificial intelligence.”
That surprised Chris. Judging from her conservative appearance he’d expected something more—well, more conservative. Apparently Miss Rollins was full of surprises, something he should have figured out long ago from her appearance. Her tailored suit was admirably demure, but it clung to curves that were anything but. And the dark eyes he’d glimpsed behind her glasses were definitely worth another look. Underneath that prim disguise she was probably an attractive woman. Too bad she was also certifiably crazy. “No offense, Miss Rollins, but the greatest minds in the world have tried to develop a computer that mirrors human thought processes. Are you saying you’ve succeeded where they failed?”
“Yes,” she said, glancing at him.
For a long moment their gazes met. Her eyes were gray, Chris noted, gray like soft, twisting smoke. Inwardly, he reeled. Eyes like that had more to do with sorcery than circuitry. They disturbed him, rocking something deep and primitive inside him. He wanted—no, he needed to reach out and touch her. He lifted his hand.…
