by Ruth Owen
“Where’s that?”
“Straight into the head office of Product Research. Once the board of directors sees this they’ll have to give me my promotion. And if that computer is half of what I think it is, that’s only the beginning. I hope you didn’t have any big plans for the next, say, thirty or forty years. I intend to spend a lot of time with your machine.”
Melanie made a small sound of disapproval. “Einstein’s not a machine. He’s got a heart. A soul.”
“Good, good,” Chris agreed. “A human touch always helps in marketing a machine. ‘He’s got a soul.’ I can use that line in the campaign. People eat up that personification stuff.”
The silence on the other end should have alerted him, but it didn’t. Chris was too caught up in planning the future of the product that would save Sheffield Industries. First, he’d have to present it to the board. Second, he’d have to hire a development team. Third—
“Mr. Sheffield?”
“Oh, sorry,” Chris said, realizing he’d been ignoring her. “I guess I got carried away with—”
“Mr. Sheffield,” she interrupted. “I’ve … I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want you to work with Einstein.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I’m trying to teach him … that is, he’s very sensitive. I don’t think you’re the right kind of person for him to be around.”
“Why?” Chris asked.
“Well, his consciousness needs to be handled very carefully. Nurtured. He’s like a child: Eager, inquisitive—”
“And you don’t think I’m bright enough to teach him,” Chris finished.
“I didn’t mean that.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said bitterly. “What you really meant is that you don’t think I’m bright enough to market your computer. What’s the matter? Did you think the truth would tax my tiny little mind?”
“That’s not … Look, we just couldn’t work together. If you have a problem with that, I’m sorry.”
“Damn right I have a problem with it. I’m bending over backward here. What is it you want me to say?”
“ ‘Good-bye,’ Mr. Sheffield. Just ‘good-bye.’ ” The soft click on the other end of the line added a final period to her words.
“Brains!” Chris jumped up and started pacing the floor like a caged lion. “God save me from brains.”
It wasn’t fair. He didn’t deserve to be treated this way. Not by her. Especially not by her.
He remembered his last sight of Melanie Rollins, of her bowed expression and her sad, tear-filled eyes. Then and there he’d made up his mind to help her, whether her computer could earn him his coveted promotion or not. The fact that it could was an added bonus, or had been until she’d turned him down. She’d thrown all his good intentions back in his face.
“Not the right kind of person,” she’d said. Hell, why didn’t she just call him an airhead and be done with it?
This isn’t getting me anywhere. He stepped out onto the deck, taking in a deep breath of the fresh night air. Spotlights illuminated the beach and the moving edge of the sea beyond. But the hushed beauty of the moment did little to calm the turmoil inside him.
Damn, couldn’t she see how important her invention was? If that computer was truly as sophisticated as she said, the whole world could benefit. The practical applications were endless: Mechanical helpers for the disabled, intelligent robots to replace human hands in deep sea oil drilling and other hazardous occupations, deep space probes.… An intelligent computer could help thousands of people, from heads of state to average Joes, to lead happier, richer lives.
Chris wanted that computer. But inside he knew that wasn’t the only thing he wanted. Despite her aloof behavior he couldn’t keep Melanie’s image out of his mind. He remembered his all-too-brief glimpse of her shapely legs as she bent to plug in the computer power cord. He recalled the unspoken invitation of her flower-soft mouth.
Most of all, he remembered her eyes—her smoky, dreamer’s eyes that wove their magic through him like some kind of spell. Eyes like that could make a man crazy. His mouth grew dry and his palms grew wet at the thought of being reflected in those eyes, of watching them change and darken with passion’s heat.
Whoa! Chris thought, shaking his head to clear it. Didn’t he have enough problems without fantasizing about Melanie Rollins? Talk about a lost cause. The woman had ice water in her veins. Brains were all that mattered to her, brains she didn’t believe he possessed. He could just imagine what she thought of him—the boss’s none-too-bright son, good at golf and not much else. He’d faced that kind of prejudice before, but this time it bothered him. This time it hurt.
The night wind, so sweet and fresh a moment before, had suddenly turned cold and indifferent. Chris pushed himself away from the back-porch railing and walked into the living room, closing the door behind him with a decisive metal click.
It wasn’t fair. The future of Sheffield Industries was too important to be derailed by the prejudices of a temperamental scientist. A chance was all he wanted, one chance to prove he could make a difference. But he wasn’t likely to get that chance. Not while his father kept his conservative stranglehold on the company. And not while Melanie Rollins refused to give him the time of day.
It wasn’t fair. And he damn well wasn’t going to stand for it. He walked over to his leather sofa and fell back into its well-worn comfort. For an instant he wished he had Miss Rollins there with him. He’d melt that glacial response of hers.
He picked up the remaining scotch from the end table, and swirled the warm amber liquid around the cut glass prisms of the tumbler. Slowly and deliberately a resolution formed in his mind. Miss Rollins believed she’d seen the last of him. She was wrong. He’d tried the standard approach, and had met an icy wall of totally unjustified indifference. He had no choice but to try an alternate method.
Part of Chris rebelled against the way his thoughts were turning, but he forced himself to ignore it. Sheffield Industries needed that computer. He needed that computer. Maybe he wasn’t the smartest person in the world. Maybe he didn’t have a wall covered with diplomas and an IQ in the stratosphere. But he excelled in other, less quantifiable fields.
He brought the glass to his lips and drained it in a single, satisfying toss. Miss Melanie “Too bright to work with ordinary people” Rollins was about to get a personal lesson in those less quantifiable fields. People didn’t call him Casanova for nothing.
Melanie stood at the bathroom sink, running cold water over her fever-hot wrists. She cupped her hands and brought a handful up to her face, splashing the icy wetness over her forehead, her eyes, her burning cheeks. She brought another handful to her lips, letting the chill slide down her tight, parched throat. It helped a little, but not much. She still felt as if she’d run twenty miles.
He’d called. He’d wanted to work with her. Just the two of them. And she’d turned him down.
She’d wanted to work with him. Just the thought of being in the same room with him dripped heat down her spine. But her first responsibility was to Einstein. And Chris’s words about climbing to the top, along with all the stories she’d heard at the office, convinced her that he would use and discard Einstein as surely as he used and discarded the women in his life. As he’d no doubt use and discard her, too, if he got the chance.
There had to be other people at Sheffield who could help her, other people who would treat Einstein with the respect he deserved. As for Chris Sheffield—well, he’d shown his true colors. Why, to think he considered using Einstein’s soul as a marketing ploy … it was indecent! The man she’d been dreaming about for months was nothing more than a self-centered individual without an ounce of human compassion. Any feelings she might have had for him were history now.
So why did she feel as if she’d just run a marathon?
Because you’re a fool, Melanie Rollins. Because every time you think of him you start itching in places you can’t scratch, and burning in places that
should have cooled out long ago.
The lights flickered, breaking her concentration. “I’m not talking to you.”
Again the lights flickered, more insistently. “Look, you can flicker until you’re blue in the transceiver. I don’t care if you think I should take him up on his offer. I’m not changing my mind. After all, I’m only thinking of you.”
This time the lights blinked in a slow, easily recognizable pattern. Morse code. Three quick blinks. S. Four quick blinks. H. Two quick blinks.
“You follow that with a T, buster, and it’s no TV for a month. Understand?”
The steady light indicated he did.
A foulmouthed computer. Just what I need. She turned off the faucet and dried her hands. It wasn’t fair. Scientists ought to be exempt from hormonal urges. And they certainly shouldn’t have to deal with a sweet-talking, coldhearted Casanova, whose voice alone knocked the wind out of her.
• • •
Melanie woke early the next morning, grateful to put a night of dreamless sleep between her and her problems. Granted, she was no closer to solving her financial difficulties than yesterday, but in the clear, clean light of morning anything seemed possible. She gave her hair a cursory brush and slipped into an outfit that dated back to her college days: A faded pair of hip-hugger cutoffs and a pink tank top sporting the phrase “I Love It When You Talk BASIC.” Not fashionable, but comfortable. Then she took up her screwdriver and scooted under Einstein’s console to attack a particularly nasty tangle of wiring.
She’d been working at it about an hour when the doorbell rang. Melanie frowned, annoyed by the interruption. She had more important things to do than listen to some fool salesman try to sell her something she didn’t need. She continued working, figuring he would take the hint and go away.
He didn’t. A minute later the doorbell rang again.
Damn, she thought, giving up her hold on the worst of the snarl. She inched herself out and walked toward the living room, none too pleased. She wiped her oil-covered hands on her cutoffs, grasped the knob, and prepared to give the person on the other side of the door a comprehensive lecture on the right to privacy.
Instead, she stopped dead in her tracks, unable to utter a sound.
He stood there in a white T-shirt and buff-khaki pants, looking as if he’d just stepped off the deck of a yacht. His windblown hair fell rakishly over one eye, somehow making him look dangerous and irresistible at the same time. He leaned against one of the wooden support posts, as if he hadn’t a worry in the world, and the sun behind him edged his body with fire.
“Good morning, Miss Rollins,” Chris said, his voice pouring over her buzzing senses like warm, sweet honey. “Mind if I come in?”
Three
It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. But it was. Chris Sheffield was on her front porch, smiling down at her with bone-melting intensity. Melanie passed a hand over her eyes, hoping the vision would dissolve like a bad dream. It didn’t. If anything, it became more real.
“Wh-what are you doing here?”
He smiled, his careless expression warming her in ways the sun never could. “Well, I just happened to be passing by—”
“You were not.”
She saw him shift his weight, the slow, sleek movement causing her heart to skip a beat. Tigers moved that way. Woman-eating tigers.
“Okay,” he agreed. “I wasn’t. You’re the genius. You tell me why I’m here.”
“You want to talk about my computer.”
“Two for two,” Chris said, grinning.
The sight of his white, even teeth sent a thrilling shiver down her spine. Heat crackled through her like fireworks, making her feel shocked, frightened, and undeniably aroused all at once. She swallowed and concentrated on cold, sober rationality. Chris was only a man, after all—just flesh and blood, she reasoned. Just sweet, burning flesh, and hot, pounding blood—
“So, can I come in?” he said, interrupting her thoughts.
In was the last place Melanie wanted him. She needed to get rid of him, to keep him away from Einstein. And from her. No amount of scientific logic could counteract the powerful physical attraction she felt for him. God knows she’d tried. Too much time under that seductive gaze might make her forget that he was a calculating manipulator who saw her computer as a way to further his own career. Einstein deserved better, and she intended to see that he got it.
As far as Melanie was concerned nothing had changed since last night—nothing except that Chris’s proximity gave him the upper hand. Turning him down over the phone last night had taken every ounce of her resolve. Turning him down face-to-face was going to be infinitely more difficult. That hot, honey-edged smile of his was throwing her senses into overload. Lord, how could someone so coldhearted make her feel so warm? “Mr. Sheffield, as I stated last night, I’m not interested. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’ve made the trip for nothing.”
Chris’s smile deepened. His gaze slid over her, leisurely taking in her hip-hugger cutoffs and her clinging tank top. “I wouldn’t say that.”
The look caressed her like an intimate touch, leaving a burning trail in its wake. She remembered her daydreams, the passionate fantasies she’d created with Chris as the hero. She felt her body respond, and hated herself for it. “Mr. Sheffield—”
“Chris.”
Even his name whispered seduction. She couldn’t resist saying it. Just once. “Chris. As I told you, I’m not interested.”
“How do you know unless you hear me out?”
She knew all right. Casanova Sheffield’s powers of persuasion were legend, or they were according to the stories she’d heard in the data-entry department. And if his southern comfort voice could make her tight and tingly in all the wrong places, heaven only knew what his touch could do. She had to end this conversation and get rid of him. Now. “Mr. Sheffield—”
“What happened to ‘Chris’?”
She gritted her teeth. “Mr. Sheffield, I’m in no mood to play word games with you. I’m not interested in your ideas, and that’s final. Now, please leave.”
She’d used her harshest, most intimidating voice, the one her mother called her “Schoolmarm Special.” Chris didn’t bat an eye. He just leaned back against the post, crossing his arms in front of him and smiling like a cat in cream.
“I’m not leaving,” he stated, “until I’ve said my piece.”
“Then say it to the door,” Melanie said, shutting and locking it.
She retreated across the cluttered room into the haven of her fan chair, hugging her arms tightly around her body, as if that could stop the wild pace of her beating heart. She filled her mind with numbers—cold equations designed to block out the image of the powerful, sexually devastating man standing on her front porch. Multiplication tables, binomial equations, linear coefficients—she tried them all. With no success.
It’s only hormones, she told herself. A simple chemical reaction. It’ll pass.
It might have, but she never got the chance to find out. A soft, telltale click informed her the door had been unlocked. Einstein. She’d forgotten that her naive computer had taken Chris’s side in last night’s argument. She jumped up, hoping she had time to relatch the door before Chris discovered it was open.
But before she managed even half a step the door swung inward. It was too late. There was nothing she could do. Wordlessly she sank back into the fan chair and watched as Chris Sheffield entered the room.
Her living room looked like a fire sale for a computer hardware discount store. After that jungle of a front yard of hers he should have expected the clutter. The woman was a perpetual contradiction: A meticulous navy suit with a disaster area for a house; a starched linen temperament in the body of a walking dream.
He’d nearly lost it when she’d opened the front door wearing that next-to-nothing outfit. The tank top stretched taut across the sweet curves of her breasts, giving extra meaning to its charming, suggestive saying. Yesterday he’d suspected the tailored suit con
cealed a figure worth seeing, but this exceeded his wildest expectations. Just looking at her made his temperature rise.
It took him a moment to adjust to the half light of the living room. Then he saw her. She was curled into a large, fan-backed chair in the far corner. Small and vulnerable, she tugged at a place in his heart that hadn’t been touched in a long time.
He walked over to her cautiously, half afraid she’d bolt at his approach. The dimness enhanced the sultry mystery of her eyes and the dark softness of her unbound hair. “I’m glad you opened the door,” he said, meaning it.
“I didn’t. He did.”
“Who?” he asked, looking around.
She lifted her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “There’s a radio receiver in the locking mechanism. Einstein just reverses the polarity on his digital channel, sends out a signal, and it’s open.”
“Einstein? Are you saying the computer let me in?”
Melanie nodded glumly.
Chris was amazed. “Your machine made an independent judgment, without any prompting from you?”
She shrugged helplessly. “Yes, unfortunately. I mean, if he’s going to let someone in, he should ask me whether I want him to let that person in. It’s common courtesy.”
She’s nuts, Chris thought. Her computer had just performed an impressive feat of autonomous decision making, and she was worried about social etiquette. He wasn’t joining this project a moment too soon. “How about letting me see this disrespectful computer of yours? Maybe I could give him a lesson in manners.”
The look she gave him dripped with disbelief. “Good or bad?”
