by Ruth Owen
She obeyed—she didn’t have much choice. Her only alternative was to be left standing alone and unprotected in the middle of a shadowed, fogbound runway. But as she hurried to catch up with him, watching his powerful strides and the easy swing of his hips, she wondered if she wasn’t rushing from one dangerous situation to another. The doctor’s potent physical presence was quickly whittling away at her resolve. And, virtual projection or not, she was only human.
“Nothing.” Jill gave the clutter of papers strewn across the office floor a dejected kick. “There’s nothing here at all.”
“We still have five minutes,” Ian commented as he continued to rifle through a nearby file cabinet. “Keep looking.”
“Why? So your simulator can measure my frustration level? So your diodes can digitize my failure? You’re only failing an experiment. But I’m failing … a friend.”
She walked over to the office door and looked out toward the dark, dismal blackness of the airfield, feeling frustrated in ways she couldn’t even begin to name. It’s not just Einstein that’s making me crazy. It’s Ian, and the way I feel about him. I don’t like it. I don’t want it. But it’s there no matter what I do. And it’s getting worse.
“Jill.”
She didn’t turn around, not when he said her name, not when she heard the file drawer close and the sound of his footsteps coming up behind her. She hugged her arms protectively to her body, feeling more vulnerable than she ever had in her life.
“Jill, contrary to popular opinion, I do have a heart. I know how much Einstein means to you, and I won’t stop searching until I find him. If I have to examine every cubic inch of his internal matrix, I’ll find him. That’s a promise.”
His warm words brushed by her ear, melting her in intimate, erotic places. His virtual seduction technique was every bit as effective as the real thing. And, she reminded herself, every bit as false. She balled her hands into fists and spun around to face him, fighting to hang on to her anger like a sinner fights to hang on to her soul. “And what would you know about promises? You make and break them on a regular basis. You say you want to be my friend, but a friend doesn’t pretend to care about you when he really cares about someone else. When he’s living with someone else.”
She looked into his dark eyes, hoping to see at least a trace of guilt. Instead, she saw only confusion, and concern. “What in blazes are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the woman who called Marsha’s looking for you. The one you live with. And I think it’s pretty low of you to try to add another notch to your bedpost when that bed is occupied by someone el—Ian, don’t you dare smile!”
He took her by the shoulders, forcing her to remain facing him. “Jill, I confess I do live with a woman, but she’s my housekeeper.”
“Housekeeper?” Jill repeated in a small voice.
Ian nodded, still grinning. “And just for the record, Partridge was also my nanny.”
His nanny! Jill knew she’d probably made a complete fool of herself, but it somehow it didn’t matter. Something cracked open inside her, a hard shell of resistance that had been born during her gypsy childhood and nurtured ever since. She looked up at Ian, seeing the gentle warmth in his smile, feeling it wash over her like yellow sunshine. For the first time she let herself believe in his gentleness, to trust him—and toppled into love with him with a force that took her breath away. “Ian,” she breathed shakily, “I—”
“Vell, English, we meet again,” said a heavily accented voice behind her.
No, it can’t be. But as Jill whirled around, she saw that it not only could be, it was. Standing in the office doorway was the Nazi officer who’d threatened to shoot her at the nightclub. And once again his lethal-looking Luger was pointed directly at her heart.
“Not again,” she groaned. “We already told you—we don’t have your stupid letters.”
“So you said,” the Nazi agreed with a menacing smile. “But here you are at the airport. Why would you be here if you did not have the letters?”
“Because—oh, it’s a long story. Ian, can’t Sadie zap this loser out of the topology?”
“Not before he could get a bullet off, I’m afraid,” the doctor admitted. He raised his head, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the storm trooper. “Look, if I tell you where the letters are, will you let the woman go?”
“No! I won’t go. Not without you.”
“Don’t be a bloody fool. This way at least one of us gets out safely.”
“I don’t care,” she cried, turning back to the officer. “He doesn’t know where the letters are. Neither of us does.”
“Too bad,” the Nazi said with an indifferent shrug. “Zen I will have to kill you both.”
He calmly cocked his weapon and leveled it at her heart. Good grief, the odious twerp was really going to kill her! It’s not fair, her mind shouted. Rick and Ilsa had Paris, but Ian and I never had anything. She glanced up at Ian, wanting to tell him how she felt, to just say it once before she died. “Ian, I l—”
She never finished the sentence. Instead, she was grabbed from behind and shoved unceremoniously to the ground. The gun went off, missing her by a clear foot. But her relief vanished as she saw Ian launch himself at the Nazi.
“No!” she shouted, but by the time she said it, it was too late. Ian and the officer were locked in a down and dirty struggle, fighting for the gun the soldier still held.
“Ian!” she cried, feeling more helpless than she ever had in her life. She made a grab for the Nazi’s boot, but the bastard kicked out, narrowly missing her face.
“Control, get her out of here!” Ian commanded. “Now!”
“Not without you!” But even as she said it, the world around her began to run together, like a watercolor in the rain. She was being pulled out of the topology whether she liked it or not. “Dammit, Sadie, I can’t leave. I’ve got to help him!”
But Sadie didn’t listen. Despite Jill’s protests, the Casablanca world around her faded into nothing, shifting to the sightless black of the inside surface of her HMD visor. The last thing she heard was the gunshot.
“Ian!” She threw back the visor’s hood and attacked the clasps on the harness, working furiously despite her still-unsteady fingers and the tears that brimmed in her eyes. With the clasps finally undone, she bolted from the harness, tearing several delicate nodes from their computer connections as she did so. She would have torn them all out if it meant getting free more quickly. She slammed her palm against the internal door switch. The door slid up, and she ducked through without waiting for it to open the whole way. Ian.
Outside, she ran to the edge of the egg’s small platform. She could see the other egg suspended in the middle of the simulator’s steel scaffolding. It was less than twenty feet away from her, but it might have been on the moon for all the good it did her. Between them was empty air—and a sheer drop to the laboratory floor below.
The egg’s door was still sealed shut. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the scaffolding, fighting the bitter helplessness that rose in her heart. “Let him be all right,” she pleaded to the glass and metal monstrosity that surrounded her. “Please, please let him be all right.”
A familiar whooshing noise made her open her eyes. She looked across to the other platform and saw the egg door open and a tall, achingly dear figure step through. Breathing heavily, he staggered against the side of the canister for support, clearly exhausted from his recent fight. Jill bit her lip, hoping to heaven exhaustion was all it was. “Ian?”
He turned at the sound of his name, jerking his head toward her. He shook his head as if to clear it, then focused on her as if he couldn’t quite believe she was standing there. He tried to say something, but his ragged breathing prevented it. Instead, he looked at her with an intensity that stole her breath, even at that distance. Then, incredibly, he gave her a devilish wink.
There was no time for more. A nanosecond later Jill was surrounded by a swarm of busy techn
icians and paramedics, all of them stumbling over each other to insure her safety. Before she could say a word, she had a blood pressure cuff shoved up her arm and a thermometer stuffed into her mouth.
She caught sight of a familiar face and pulled the thermometer out despite the huffy displeasure of the nurse who had put it in. “Felix, who are all these people?”
“Sadie and I thought you might need some medical help when you got back,” Felix said as he hunkered down beside her. “We called every medical resource person in the building.”
“Looks like you called everyone in Miami.” Then, seeing Felix’s crestfallen face, she placed a comforting hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. You did the right thing. I’m just sorry it was all for nothing. We didn’t find Einstein.”
“No, but we did,” he told her. “You weren’t able to see it visually, but the topology overlay of the office was just stuffed with cryptic hexadecimal equations. We pinpointed the location in core and started downloading it even before you went. If Einstein’s left us a message, we’ll be able to decode it.”
“Felix, that’s wonderful,” Jill said, giving her friend a congratulatory hug. “Wait until you tell Ian. He’ll probably give you a raise.”
“Oh, I told him. No raise, but he said he wanted to get working on the equations immediately. He already left the lab for his office.”
“He left?” Without seeing me? Without even checking to see if I was all right?
Well, what did she expect? This was the real world, not the sepia-toned virtual reality of Casablanca. She’d stepped out of Ilsa’s designer clothes into her functional bodysuit. She’d stepped out of the glittering, romantic illusion into her common-place, everyday life. Casablanca was a dream, and nothing that had happened there mattered in the real world.
Nothing—except for the little fact that she’d fallen in love with Ian Sinclair.
She felt a sharp stab of disappointment, which she quickly disguised with anger. “Well,” she grumbled, “the least he could have done is thank me for trying to help him save his life.”
“I think he might have,” Felix said. He reached into his lab coat and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “He asked me to give you this.”
She unfolded the note slowly. Inside was a scrawled sentence followed by a bold letter S. Pick you up seven-thirty tonight.
It was only a date. She’d be a fool to read more into it. Nevertheless, her spirits soared. She felt the disappointment drain out of her heart, replaced by all the colors of joy. In the make-believe world of the simulator she’d discovered the greatest truth of all—love.
But would her joy dissolve, like Casablanca’s bogus fog, in the unforgiving light of reality?
TEN
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Jill said as she studied herself in her full-length bedroom mirror.
“Why?” Marsha asked, coming over to stand beside her friend. “In the words of Billy Crystal, ‘You look mahvelous.’ ”
Mahvelous was not the first word that sprung to Jill’s mind. True, the dress Marsha had lent her was strikingly beautiful—a strapless black velvet sheath that wrapped her body like a glove. And Jill couldn’t deny that the style Marsh had teased her brown hair into made it look less mediocre than usual. But underneath the dress and the big hair she was still plain, ordinary Jill Polanski. She felt like an ugly duckling, except that she knew she wasn’t ever going to turn into a swan. She felt … dishonest.
“I don’t know, Marsh,” she said as she bent down to smooth her black silk stockings. “It’s just not me.”
“Well, whoever you are, Dr. Doom’s gonna love you in that dress,” her friend said practically. “And when he finds out you’re wearing garters—”
“He’s not going to find out,” Jill promised as she glanced back to the mirror, feeling more and more unsure of herself. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“Trust me, it’s the best idea I’ve ever had,” Marsh stated confidently. “Now, where are your shoes?”
“Next to the dresser. But seriously—”
“Seriously?” Marsh repeated as she collected the sequined velvet high-heeled shoes from the bureau. “Seriously—I haven’t seen you this wound up over something since … well, since we raided the bio building to free the lab mice.” She walked back to the mirror and handed the heels to her friend, frowning in concern. “I don’t get it, Jill. You’ve been on lots of dates. Why are you so nervous about this one?”
Because I’m in love, she repeated silently, not even able to trust Marsha with her terrible, glorious secret. She was in love—desperate, passionate, aching love—with a man who didn’t know the meaning of the word. Hopeless didn’t even begin to cover it.
“He’s kind of stuffy,” Marsha continued, apparently not noticing her friend’s silence. “Are you worried he’s not going to be good in bed?”
“What? No, of course not! Good God, that’s got nothing to do with—”
“Then are you worried you aren’t going to be good?” Marsh asked, undaunted. “Because if you are, you shouldn’t be. Sometimes it takes a while to work the mechanics out—like who likes to be on top and stuff—but after a few times, I’m sure—”
“Marsha,” Jill pleaded, blushing to the roots of her hair. Images of Ian in both of the positions her friend had mentioned flashed through her mind, increasing her embarrassment. “We haven’t … I mean, Dr. Sinclair and I aren’t—”
“Doing the nasty?” Marsha finished, smiling slyly. “I know that. But considering the amount of virtual and real kissing that’s been going on between you two, I suspect it’s only a matter of time. Anyway, I put a condom in your purse, just in case you two—oh, for heaven’s sake, Jill, don’t look so ticked off. It’s not like you’re a virgin or anything.”
Well, not technically, Jill thought, her blush deepening. She’d had a brief physical relationship in college with one of her fellow environmentalists. But their few, largely disappointing sexual encounters had left her clueless as to what men wanted physically. She had no idea of what turned men on—except that she didn’t seem to have any of it.
The doorbell rang, bringing all her thoughts, except panic, to a halt.
“Show time!” Marsha chorused, hustling her friend out the bedroom door toward the stairs. “Now, remember, I’ll feed Merlin and lock up here. You just have a fun time.”
Fun? Jill suspected Daniel had more fun facing the lion’s den. Briefly she considered sending Marsha to the door with a message that she was sick or dead or something, but there were three very good reasons why she couldn’t do that. One, matchmaker Marsha wouldn’t agree to do it. Second, Ian probably wouldn’t believe that she was really dead—especially when she showed up at the lab the following afternoon for their next episode in the simulator. And the third, the most damning reason of all, was that—despite her anxiety—she couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing him.
She pulled open the door, smiling up at the place she expected his face to be—and lowered it in surprise when she saw that the man on the other side of the door wasn’t Ian. “Who are you?”
“Rogers, ma’am,” the shorter, considerably wider stranger answered. “I’m Dr. Sinclair’s chauffeur. He’s working on the simulator equations, and asked me to pick you up and drive you to his estate.”
“Chauffeur?” Jill repeated in surprise. Then, as the words sunk in, she added in a strangled gasp, “Estate?”
“Dammit, the answer’s here somewhere,” Ian muttered as he studied the computer printouts strewn across his home office desk. Rows and rows of hexadecimal numbers littered the pages—machine code—mined whole from the very heart of Einstein’s core. The bits and bytes translated to computer commands—a language as intricate and powerful as any medieval incantation. Change a number here, and you could talk to a person halfway around the world. Insert a calculation there, and you could fly to the moon. It was the sorcery of science, the spell of predictable magic. And somewhere in this ream o
f statistical wizardry was the digital key that would unlock the secret to Einstein’s disappearance.
Ian’s intercom buzzed.
“Rogers phoned from the car,” a lyrical voice on the other end of the line informed him. “He just passed the front gate.”
“Fine. I’ll be down soon,” Ian answered vaguely, his attention still focused on the printouts.
“You’ll get downstairs this instant, you heartless bugger. You’re the one who invited the poor lass to this mausoleum, and I’ll not have you let her arrive here without a welcome.”
Ian chuckled at the reprimand. He’d received similar chastisements since he was six years old, and knew they were delivered with more love than anger. “All right, Partridge,” he said, depressing the intercom lever. “I’m coming down now.”
He rose from his desk and stretched his cramped muscles. How long had he been sitting here? An hour? Two? Well, he’d better get used to it—he still had the lion’s share of the data to sift through, most of which was stacked downstairs on the dining room table. There he and Jill could spread them out and study them in detail. Her knowledge of Einstein’s internal matrix would be invaluable.
Is that the only reason you wanted her here?
Of course it was. His dining room was three times as large as any of the conference cubicles at the office. And while his nineteenth-century ancestor’s baronial banquet table hadn’t been specifically constructed as an oversize work space, it would serve that purpose admirably. He and Ms. Polanski would be able to go over the printouts thoroughly, without any of the annoying distractions of the office. It made perfect, logical sense to invite her to his house.
Just like it made perfect, logical sense to douse yourself in cologne.
He hadn’t doused. He’d merely put some on after he’d taken a shower, and changed into some comfortable clothes. And just because those clothes happened to be a black V-neck sweater and a pair of jeans that Partridge had told him “would keep a gel’s attention focused somewhere other than his mind” … well, they were just the first things that came to hand.