by Ruth Owen
“Miss Rollins, I haven’t got all day,” Duncan said. “Is that laptop supposed to be your thinking computer?”
“Er, yes,” she said, pulling her gaze away from Chris and facing his father. She set down the case and opened the lid, keeping her attention firmly focused on her creation.
Duncan looked at the computer. “Young lady,” he said, frowning, “this is an ordinary three-hundred-eight-six-powered laptop computer. I could find it in any department store.”
“Not with my modifications, you can’t. Of course, this is only a port …” she said, starting to explain about her invention. Duncan studied the laptop, but Chris studied her face. Her precise features, stone hard a moment before, had come alive with an inner excitement that completely changed her appearance. Her mouth in particular drew his attention. Full lipped and touched with just a hint of gloss, its sweet shape was to kisses what a flower is to bees: an irresistible invitation.
“Chris. What’s the matter, son?”
“Headache,” Chris mumbled, grateful his father’s harsh words had brought him back to reality. He looked at the laptop, deliberately keeping his eyes away from Miss Rollins’s bewitching mouth. Best get his mind back on business—fast. “If this is the port, where’s the CPU?”
“In my house. I link them by phone.”
“Your house?” Duncan said. “You have an electronic brain in your home? What did you do, tinker it together one afternoon in your garage?”
“No. My spare bedroom.”
The older Sheffield shook his head. “Forgive me,” he said harshly, “but that’s ridiculous. No one can create that kind of technology on their own.”
The light went out of the woman’s eyes, and her features hardened into their former wooden expression. Chris watched her sensual mouth pull into a hard, defensive line, feeling her hurt almost as if it were his own. His father was about as subtle as a steamroller. Couldn’t he see he was crushing her?
Chris stepped to her side. “Dad, think about it. Steve Jobs built the first Apple computer in his garage. It wouldn’t hurt us to look at Miss Rollins’s demonstration, would it?”
She looked up at him, more surprised than grateful. Obviously she wasn’t used to people coming to her assistance. A tinge of guilt pricked Chris’s conscience. She deserved a better defender than a man who was more interested in her mouth than her machine. He put his emotions aside, determined to think of her in a completely professional, asexual manner—then caught his breath at the sight of her bending over to plug the power cord into the wall socket. He’d been right about those curves.
When everything was ready, Miss Rollins pushed the laptop in front of the seated Duncan. “He’s waiting for you. Type something. Pretend you’re talking to another person, and type the words.”
Duncan poised his hands over the keyboard, but stopped. “Chris, you’re better at these modern things than I am. What should I say?”
“How about ‘Hello, Computer.’ ”
“Einstein,” she corrected. “His name is Einstein.”
A good name for an intelligent computer, Chris thought. He watched as his father typed “Hello, Einstein” and hit the enter key.
Nothing happened.
“Hit enter again,” she suggested.
Duncan obeyed, but still nothing happened.
The woman punched a series of buttons on the keyboard to no avail. Duncan drummed his fingers on his desk, fast losing his patience. “Miss Rollins, it appears your computer doesn’t want to talk with us.”
“I don’t understand. This couldn’t happen. Unless …” She wasted no more time on words. In less than a minute she’d removed the back panel of the laptop and pulled out the circuitry, her slim fingers sorting through the wires as if they were strands of knitting wool. A moment later she pulled out a small, wafer-thin circuit board, and held it up to the light. “It’s the internal modem chip, the interface between the CPU and the phone line. It burned out once before, but I thought I’d fixed it.”
“Well, it’s not fixed now,” Duncan commented dryly.
“Mr. Sheffield, I think I can fix it. If you’ll just give me a minute—”
“Young lady, I don’t mean to be rude, but I do have a business to run.” He picked up the computer case, snapped it shut, and delivered it into her arms. “I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“Leave? But—”
“Miss Rollins, you’ve wasted quite enough of my time for one day,” Sheffield said, motioning toward the door. “Now, please go.”
His father’s callous attitude irritated Chris. He might have to put up with his father’s temper—he’d lived on the wrong side of it most of his life—but he’d be damned if he was going to let him browbeat this woman, whose only transgression was failure. “Wait.”
She looked at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. Those eyes. Once again their gazes locked, rocking him in that same profound, inexplicable way. He wanted to say something, needed to say something, but words eluded him. He reached out and gently touched her arm.
He’d meant to offer her support. Instead, she jumped back as if he’d slapped her. The smoky eyes abruptly turned away from his, leaving him disoriented, as if someone had pulled the rug out from under him. Before he could react she’d gone, disappearing through the door in a single quicksilver motion.
Chris turned back to his father, angrier than he had any right to be. “You could have given her a few more minutes.”
“Shows just how much you know about business. That was a classic example of bait and switch. Get the customer interested in one thing, then sell him on something he doesn’t need. If I’d let her stay, she might have convinced us to invest in the thing, whether it worked or not.”
“And what if it did work? What if she has invented an artificial intelligence? Did you ever consider that?”
“Stick to golf, Chris. I seriously doubt a little lady like that could invent a sophisticated piece of machinery on her own. It’s preposterous.”
Chris didn’t answer. His father’s mind was made up, and Chris knew better than to try to change it—not without facts, anyway. He let the matter drop, but inwardly he promised himself he’d find out more about Miss Rollins’s computer.
And more about Miss Rollins too.
Two
The day was sinking into soft September twilight as Melanie turned her car into the brick driveway of her bungalow. Ancient oaks surrounded her, the air between them heavy with the cloying scents of moss and dank, humid bark. Dark smells, she thought. They matched her mood.
What was she going to say to him? How could she tell him she’d failed?
She got out of the car, slamming the door behind her, the loud noise disturbing the dead quiet of the evening air. It startled a pair of squirrels, sending them skittering through the jungle of undergrowth which passed for her front yard. Their small panic reminded her of her own cowardice. When it came right down to it, she wasn’t any braver than they were. Not a bit.
She’d run. She had taken one look into Chris Sheffield’s honey-gold eyes, and she’d run for the hills. Sweet, burning eyes. She slid her hand over the place on her arm where he’d touched her. Even now she could feel the heat.
Sugarcoated dynamite.
Damn! She didn’t want to feel this way, not when this whole thing was partially his fault. The man had blown apart her carefully laid plans. He’d detonated her senses as well, reminding her of the passionate heart she kept hidden under her tailored suits and high-necked blouses.
A soft wind disturbed the air, rustling the hanging moss. “Coward,” it whispered.
The logical portion of Melanie’s mind ignored the condemnation. She stepped up on the darkened porch, mentally making a note to replace the bulb as soon as she got inside. It was the same mental note she’d been making for the last three weeks. She started digging through her purse, dislodging transistors and wads of steel wool in her search for the front door keys.
She didn’t need them. E
ven before she touched the door, the lock snapped open. She’d forgotten that Einstein could feel the vibrations of her footsteps on the wooden porch. Once inside she reached through the darkness for the table lamp, only to have it switch on as she touched it. “Thanks,” she called down the hallway, wondering if she was ever going to get used to this.
The table lamp illuminated a jumble of packing crates and computer hardware stacked in the middle of her living room. Somewhere under the confusion was a sleeper sofa and a pair of armchairs, but Melanie hadn’t seen them in a month. Only the fan chair in the corner was free of clutter. Melanie made a beeline for it, pausing only to kick off her uncomfortable heels, and to scoop up the small stack of mail from the floor.
She dropped into the deep cushions of the cane-backed chair and began to sort through her mail. The take was meager: Two technical magazines, three bills, a letter from her mother, and a squat, red-wrapped package postmarked Pennsylvania. Melanie frowned. She couldn’t recall knowing anyone in Pennsylvania, until a closer examination of the package revealed the dollar sign masthead of the Shopping Channel.
Oh no. He was at it again.
The package contained a replacement chain for a garage-door opener. The price on the invoice was ridiculously low, a real bargain for such an item. If she’d had a garage-door opener to begin with, that is. If she’d had a garage.
When would he learn? She’d told him time and time again not to spend money on nonessential items. But he was a sucker for a bargain. And he always had such noble, albeit misplaced, reasons for his purchases. Like the time he’d ordered her a year’s subscription to Playgirl, believing it was a recreation magazine.
She took off her glasses, rubbing the weariness out of her tired eyes. How, she wondered, did one discipline a computer? Send him to bed without his microprocessor? Switch out his VGA color graphics monitor for a monochrome?
Sighing, she turned to the letter, hoping it would cheer her. No such luck. After the initial preamble about the weather, her mother’s missive deteriorated into a well-intentioned, but pointless appeal for Melanie to give up all this computer foolishness and “… find yourself a nice young man.”
A nice young man. Melanie grimaced and tossed the letter on a nearby packing case. Long ago she’d realized romance wasn’t going to be a part of her life. She’d reached the conclusion scientifically, as she watched her number of dates decrease in direct proportion to her increasing GPA. She told herself it didn’t matter, and locked her secret desires behind a wall of square roots and differential equations. She could calculate binomial distributions in her sleep, but when it came to romantic equations she couldn’t add two and two.
This isn’t getting me anywhere, she thought. She shrugged, and fingered the garage chain from the Shopping Channel she still held in her lap. She smiled, thinking how alike she and Einstein were. Brains by the truckload, and not a spoonful of common sense between them. She didn’t know how, and she didn’t know where, but somehow she’d find a way to keep him up and running. If she had to starve herself, she’d find it.
She needed money, not molding memories. And not fantasies of a blond Adonis as far removed from her as the moon. Hell had more chance of freezing over than she did of being noticed by those golden eyes.
Chris Sheffield had a plan. Granted, it wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the best he could come up with on such short notice. He had met the woman only this afternoon, and it had taken the better part of the evening to convince the reluctant switchboard operator to part with Melanie Rollins’s unlisted home phone number. Now, three tacos, two tequila sunrises, and one toe-crunching bossa nova later, he was back home at his beach house, ready to put his plan into action.
He poured himself a scotch, and settled back into the deep comfort of his leather couch, grateful he would never have to put his body, specifically his feet, through that particular exercise again. Bertha Short may have been the epitome of efficiency at the telephone console, but she had the physical coordination of an elephant. When she finally gave him Melanie’s number, he felt like singing the Hallelujah Chorus. He just hoped this computer was worth it.
Chris set down his drink and prepared to put step two of his plan into motion. Compared to step one it would be a breeze. He intended to ask Miss Rollins for another look at her computer. If it really was as innovative as she’d said, he’d make certain she got another chance to present it to Sheffield Industries. It was a win-win situation as far as she was concerned, and he had no doubt she’d accept the offer.
He picked up the receiver and dialed Melanie Rollins’s phone number. He smiled, recalling the image of the slight, navy-suited warrior facing down his intimidating father. A warrior with the most kissable lips he’d ever seen. Chris looked forward to seeing her again, and not only because of her computer. All things considered, this could turn out to be a win-win situation for him as well.
She answered her phone on the second ring, her brisk “hello” all business. Hell, he thought, doesn’t she ever give it a rest? “Miss Rollins? It’s Chris Sheffield.”
Silence.
“Chris Sheffield,” he repeated. “We met this afternoon.”
“Oh.”
Just Oh. Glaciers had more warmth. Not that he blamed her. His father’s behavior had been no heat wave. “Miss Rollins, I’ll get right to the point. I liked what I heard this afternoon. I’d be interested in seeing your presentation.”
“Mr. Sheffield’s giving me another chance? That’s wonderful!”
Chris hated like hell to crush the joy in her voice. “Not exactly.”
“But you said—”
“I said I was interested.”
“You and Sheffield Industries?”
“No, just me.”
“Oh.”
That word again. For a genius she certainly had a limited vocabulary. “Maybe we’d better start back at the beginning. Hello, Miss Rollins. It’s Chris Sheffield. We met over dinner last night.”
“No, we didn’t. We met in your father’s office.”
“So we did,” Chris conceded with a laugh. “Can’t put anything past you, can I? I guess you’re not just another pretty face.”
He’d expected his casual remark to put her at ease. It didn’t.
“Mr. Sheffield, I doubt you called to discuss my appearance.”
Well, no, Chris thought. Your lips, maybe, but not your appearance. “I simply hoped you would join me for dinner tomorrow night. We could discuss our alternatives.”
“Alternatives? What alternatives?”
“For marketing your computer—Einstein, isn’t it? Well, if Einstein is as advanced as you say, it’s definitely something Sheffield Industries would be interested in.”
“Didn’t you just tell me they weren’t interested?”
“Well, yes I did—”
“Then I don’t understand.”
Neither did Chris. This conversation wasn’t going at all the way he’d planned. Her incessant questions were tying him up in knots. “Look, all I want to do is see your computer. If you’re not free for dinner, maybe I could come over to your house sometime this weekend and—”
“No.”
“No?” Chris repeated, annoyed by her evasiveness. “Mind telling me why?”
“My house isn’t—I mean, I think the office would be a better place to discuss this.”
The office, Chris thought, is a weekend away. And for him time was running out. In less than a month the board of directors would be appointing a new head of Product Research. “Frankly, I don’t see what difference it makes where we discuss it.”
“The difference, Mr. Sheffield, is—” she began, and stopped. Her voice changed to a less formal tone. “Yes, I’m saying no. I’ll explain it to you later.”
“Why can’t you explain it to me now?”
“Not you,” she said, sounding harried. “It’s just … it’s just I’m not very experienced at telling my ideas to other people.”
“You were willing
to tell them to my father.”
“That’s different. That was a company, not … an individual.”
An individual, she’d said. She’d meant an individual whose golf score was higher than his IQ. No doubt she’d heard those fabricated stories passed around the office by the local gossips. Damn! She didn’t even know him. Couldn’t she bother to hear him out before passing judgment on him? “Just let me talk with you. What could dinner hurt?”
“You don’t understand. I … look, I told you I’d explain it to you later. Quit bugging me.”
“I didn’t know I was,” Chris said.
“You aren’t. I mean, you are, but you’re not. I mean—thanks for the offer, but we’re not interested.”
Chris caught the we. Now he understood why her conversation had seemed so disjointed. “Is there someone else there with you?”
“Y-yes. There is.”
Boyfriend, Chris thought. Not in his original plans, but he could be flexible. “Well, bring him along to dinner. We’ll make a party of it.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Jealous type, is he? Don’t worry. I’ll bring a date.”
“You don’t … Look, I can’t bring him to dinner. It’s Einstein. There’s no one here except me and Einstein.”
“Then who—?” Chris began, but stopped when he realized the implications of her words. Einstein. Her computer was interrupting their conversation, interrupting in an irritating, totally human way. “Are you telling me that you’ve been arguing with … Einstein?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it arguing, exactly.”
“I don’t care what you call it,” Chris said in a rush. “I want to see that computer immediately. Tomorrow. Tonight. Good God, what a find. And to think my father actually sent you away. I almost lost you.”
“You don’t want to lose me?” she asked, her voice oddly hushed.
“Hell, no,” Chris answered, still reeling from the unexpected windfall. At best he’d anticipated Melanie’s computer to be able to make decisions between three, maybe four alternatives. But to be sophisticated enough to follow a conversation! That was light-years ahead of anything on the market. Bringing a project of this magnitude to Sheffield Industries was certain to earn the respect of the board of directors. Not to mention his father. “Lady, that computer of yours is going to take me exactly where I want to go.”