by Ruth Owen
She looked around. “Can’t find it.”
Dutifully Chris reached over to pull out the belt, realizing too late he’d have to straddle Melanie’s body. Her hand covered his own, guiding the belt across her hips in an extremely intimate fashion. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to remove his hand and sit up.
“Melanie—” he warned through gritted teeth.
She smiled sweetly. “I’ll help you with yours,” she offered.
“No, you won’t,” he commanded. “Now get back on your side like a good girl.”
Melanie sighed, leaning back against the seat. “You’re no fun,” she intoned glumly.
Chris smiled. “Don’t be too sure,” he said as he turned on the ignition. “The evening’s just beginning.”
Melanie stretched like a contented cat. “Oh?”
“Don’t ‘oh?’ me. You wanted to get out of there just as much as I did. I can still feel that kiss.”
“Umm,” Melanie agreed, brushing her lips with the back of her hand. “A very satisfactory solution to my equation.”
“Equation? What equation?”
“This one.” She bent over and kissed him. A soft, lingering kiss full of promise.
Chris was shaken to the core. Melanie’s barest touch ignited him like a match to dry tinder, and his self-control was almost burned away. Some equation, he thought as he watched her settle back in the seat, forcing himself not to touch her. The woman was more dangerous than dynamite. “So, Miss Rollins,” he said, backing the car out of the parking space, “are there any more ‘equations’ you’d like to share with me?”
She made a small, noncommittal sound.
“No comment, eh? Well, I think I should warn you I’ve got a few equations of my own.”
Melanie didn’t answer. When he glanced over in her direction, he saw why his last comments had received no response.
Melanie—vibrant, enticing Melanie—was curled up against the far door, fast asleep.
Someone was building computers in her mind. Melanie’s head resonated with each fall of the hammer as it pounded the modular units into place. Her mouth tasted stale from the metallic wire shavings.
I know manufacturing space is limited, she thought with a sleeper’s logic, but couldn’t they have picked a better place to set up shop? She turned over slowly, trying not to disturb the tiny workmen banging away in her brain. But disturb them she did. The hammers beat out double-time, threatening to break right through her fragile cranium. She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling of her bedroom, waiting for the pain to stop ricocheting through her tender tissues. “Ow,” she mumbled, “I can’t take much more of this.”
“Trust me, it’ll pass.”
Great. Now one of the workmen was talking to her, imitating Chris’s voice to gain her attention. “Go ’way,” she told him. “And stop sounding like Chris.”
The workman chuckled. “Who should I sound like, genius? Einstein?”
It couldn’t be. But it was. Melanie peered over the top of her comforter and saw Chris standing at the foot of her bed. His sleeves were rolled up and he was casually wiping grease from the end of a screwdriver, as if being in her room were the most normal thing in the world.
“Wh-what are you doing here?”
“Installing a modem,” he answered. “We’re testing E’s remote today, aren’t we? Besides, it’s the least I could do after what happened last night.”
“Last night?” Melanie searched her memory of the night before. Except for a few scattered images, her mind registered a disturbing blank. She remembered the warm, glowing wine, the unpalatable oyster, more wine, low-cut Lily, more wine, dancing with Chris, kissing him.… Kissing him!
Suddenly the pounding in her head seemed the least of her worries. She was afraid to ask him what happened, and afraid not to. More questions, more panic. More panic, more pain. She moaned low, pulling a pillow over her face. “Please. Just go away and let me die in peace.”
She expected some sarcastic reply. When none came, she lifted the pillow and looked toward the doorway. It was empty. “Just my luck,” she muttered, absurdly disappointed. “The one time he takes me seriously is the one time I don’t want him to. When will I learn to keep my big mouth shu—”
“Did you say something?”
She jumped. Chris hadn’t left at all but had just stepped over to the other side of the room near her bureau. Warm relief replaced disappointment. “I thought you’d left.”
His smile reached straight down into her heart. “Since when do I do what you tell me to?”
He retrieved a foam cup from her bureau and brought it to her bedside. “This will make you feel better.”
Melanie eyed the covered cup suspiciously. “What is it?”
Chris sighed. “It’s toxic waste.” Then, at Melanie’s surprised expression, he added, “It’s orange juice, genius. To raise your blood sugar. Just trust me, will you? I’ve cured enough hangovers to know what I’m doing. Relax.”
Relaxing was not an option. Chris settled down on the bed beside her and helped her to a sitting position. Every muscle in her body pulled taut at his touch. She was far too aware of him, of the way her mattress bent under his weight, of the solid yet gentle strength of his arms as he cradled her. Sugarcoated dynamite.
Some women have all the luck, she thought sarcastically as she sipped the cool, sharply sweet liquid. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d fantasized about having Chris Sheffield in her bed, but not one of those fantasies involved him force-feeding her orange juice. Champagne out of a crystal goblet maybe, but not orange juice out of a throwaway cup. The absurdity of the situation struck her, and she smiled.
“Feeling better?”
She raised her head and nodded, omitting the fact that her cure had more to do with his presence than the juice. “Thanks.”
“Not a problem. I picked up the OJ on my way over this morning. To tell you the truth, I needed a cup myself. Seven o’clock’s an early hour in anyone’s book.”
On his way over. Melanie breathed a small sigh of relief. Chris hadn’t spent the night. Her fears about the previous evening partially allayed, she took another sip of orange juice and nestled back against his arm. “Did I really say seven o’clock?”
“You did. I wouldn’t make something like that up.”
“No, I guess n—Hey!” Melanie’s eyes focused on her arm where her movements had caused the comforter to slip away. She was still wearing her blouse. “I’m still in my clothes.”
“Not your skirt.”
Melanie flipped back the bed sheet. Chris was right; she wasn’t wearing her skirt. Anxiety returned. She didn’t want to ask the next logical question, but her analytical nature demanded it. “How did you know I wasn’t wearing my skirt?”
“Because I took … I mean, I saw it lying on the floor when I came in.”
It wasn’t the truth. A third grader could have seen through the lie, yet Melanie was grateful for it. Chris was trying to save her from feeling even more embarrassed about last evening. Whether his efforts were successful or unsuccessful hardly mattered. The fact that he tried was enough. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
She reached out her free hand and touched his cheek. “For lying.”
He took her hand, stroking warmth into the supple flesh of her palm. She noticed again what large hands he had, how her smaller palm disappeared into his. Yet his touch was infinitely gentle, and his strong fingers curled around her own like a warm memory around her heart. Heat, soft and comforting, radiated through her body, melting away the last of her anxiety. She closed her eyes and burrowed into the solid warmth of his supporting arm. I could get used to this, she thought absently. I could definitely get used to this.
She didn’t get the chance. Abruptly Chris stopped his gentle massage and pulled away. Melanie felt as if the floor had fallen out beneath her. In the scant seconds it took her to recover he’d stood up and taken several steps toward the d
oor.
“Chris?”
“Hey, look at the time. We’d better get started.”
“It’s not even eight,” she protested.
“Yeah, well, no sense waiting until the last minute.”
“No, I guess not,” Melanie said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “I’ll meet you in Einstein’s room in fifteen minutes. Okay?”
He didn’t even answer. He just nodded once and left the room, disappearing down the hall with the speed of a nanosecond processor.
“Hell,” Melanie swore as she got out of bed. The oath wasn’t for Chris; it was for her own foolish self. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the reason for his sudden departure. He’d felt her respond to his touch, and was afraid it would lead to a repeat of last night. Her recollections of the night were still hazy, but she could easily imagine he’d spent the better part of the evening fending off her amorous advances. She felt like crawling under a rock!
Well, she wasn’t about to make that mistake again. She might not be able to change the way she felt about Chris, but she could certainly keep those feelings to herself. It was simply a question of mind over matter. In time it would become second nature. In time she’d be able to ignore the fact that his barest touch filled her with the warmth of a noon sun, or that his brandy eyes laced her soul with night desires.…
Some women had all the luck. But she certainly wasn’t one of them.
Chris leaned against the wall of the hallway, taking in deep, ragged breaths. He tried to think cold, sober thoughts, but his mind refused to cooperate. All he could think of was the way he felt when Melanie’s soft, sensuous body melted into his arms. Nuclear reactors had lower temperatures. Whatever havoc she’d stirred up in him last night had returned—with a vengeance.
He knew she’d accepted his caress because it was offered in the spirit of friendship, nothing more. Another minute and she’d have found herself in an entirely different kind of embrace. It was all he could do to get out of that room before his animal instincts took over.
A half-dozen deep breaths brought his breathing under control, but left his mind in turmoil. His simple business deal had become far more complicated. Now Einstein wasn’t the only thing he wanted from Melanie.
He was crazy to even consider having a relationship with the woman. They were complete opposites. She liked structure, he liked excitement. She planned every step she took, while he leapt before he looked. Oil and vinegar had more chance of getting together than they did.
Yet he couldn’t forget the warmth in her eyes when she’d thanked him for lying, or the sweet laughter in her voice when she talked to Einstein. Or the way his body reacted when he even thought about touching her.…
Crazy! that’s what he was. Shaking his head at his folly, he started down the hall toward Einstein’s room. A relationship with Melanie would tax his willpower to the limit. She’d probably make him wait two months before she’d let him kiss her good night. He thought about the soul-spinning sample she’d given him last night, and doubted he’d be able to wait two days, much less two months. This gentleman thing was vastly overrated. He slumped into the chair in front of the monitor. “I ought to have my head examined.”
Einstein’s audio antenna pivoted sharply. Perhaps you’re coming down with something.
“What? What are you talking about?”
Illness, Einstein suggested. Digital heat sensors indicate temperature fluctuation in your abdominal region.
I’ll just bet they do, Chris thought. “Sorry, E, but my ‘temperature fluctuation’ has nothing to do with illness. At least, not the kind of illness you mean.”
A large question mark appeared on the screen, followed by the word Define.
“I’ll do my best, bud, but I don’t think it’s been programmed into your circuitry. You see, I like Melanie.”
I like her too.
“Sure you do, but it’s not the same. It’s a human feeling. A man/woman thing.”
Gender specific?
“Very specific.”
Einstein’s screen went blank, signaling internal processing. He was thinking—thinking in the electronic sense of filing, sorting, and analyzing—over what Chris had said. A moment later the screen lit up with his single-word conclusion.
SEX.
Chris did a double take. “You know about that?”
Affirmative, Einstein answered. Melanie told me. Wanted to enhance my understanding of human relationships.
Chris leaned closer to the monitor screen. “Did she now. And what, exactly, did she say about … er, human relationships?”
At Chris’s request, Einstein began to scroll a multipage file across his screen. Chris’s jaw dropped. It was a collection of some of the most sensuous sexual fantasies he’d ever seen. If they’d been printed on paper, they would have set the page on fire.
“Break!” he cried. “Melanie programmed that into you? I don’t believe it.”
If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’, Einstein asserted. Are you going to have sex with Melanie?
“Whoa, you don’t beat around the bush, do you? Well, my metallic goomba, let’s just say it’s been on my mind. But it’s tricky. I don’t want to screw up our friendship.”
Sex screws up friendships?
“Sometimes.”
Then why, he asked logically, have sex at all?
Chris grinned. “Someday I’ll explain it to you. But right now let’s go back to that scroll.…”
Melanie leaned back against the passenger seat of Chris’s convertible and stared up at the luminous sky. The day came right out of a postcard; the kind of brisk, brilliant weather that had lured northern tourists down to Florida for decades, even when the state had little to offer besides oranges and alligators. She could count the number of clouds in the sky on one hand. She wished her problems were as scarce.
“How’s your headache?”
Melanie glanced over at the car’s driver, trying not to notice how the sun sent sparks of living light through his windblown hair. Keep it together, she warned herself. Don’t think about him sitting on your bed, or about the way you feel when he holds you. She took a steadying breath. “Much better, thanks.”
“I knew orange juice would cure your hangover,” he said, flashing her an irresistible smile. “One of the benefits of spending one’s teenage years as a juvenile delinquent.”
“I can’t believe you were that bad.”
“I could tell you stories … but then, we all have our secrets, don’t we?”
His words stirred something deep inside her, something so hot and sharp, it made her shift uncomfortably in her seat. A memory bobbed to the surface of her mind, something to do with this car and Chris and seat belts. Seat belts? Looking at her lap, she saw the hazy image of her own hand drawing Chris’s across her—Oh Lord, how many ways had she made a fool of herself last night?
Keep it together. “Yes, well, since we have some time why don’t we go over the checklist for our test scenario.”
Chris groaned. “Not again.”
“Yes, again.” She reached into the carton near her feet and pulled out a clipboard, relishing the sanity of its hard, uncompromising edges. “We’ll be at the office in a few minutes and—hey, you passed it.”
Chris drove on as if he hadn’t heard.
“Chris, we just passed the office. We’ll have to turn back at the next intersection.”
“We would, if we were going to the office.” He looked over at Melanie and smiled a thoroughly wicked grin. “I guess I ought to tell you. You’re being kidnapped.”
Eight
“What did you say?”
“Kidnapped, Melanie. I said kidnapped. You know, what pirates do to defenseless, young vir—”
“I know what it means,” Melanie stated, trying to keep a cool head. A delicious terror raced through her and settled in her abdomen. There was no way Chris could know what the mention of kidnapping and pirates did to her, how it brought to mind images of one of her
most sensual fantasies. She’d never told anyone about it—except Einstein, and he didn’t count.
She grasped the hard edges of the clipboard, fighting for composure. This was not the time and definitely not the place to let her raw emotions get the better of her. She took a sobering breath, then stated in a remarkably steady voice, “We don’t have time for … detours. We have to test Einstein’s remote terminal.”
“All we need for E’s test is a phone jack and a wall plug. I guarantee to provide you with both before the day is out. Trust me.”
“You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”
“And I’m going to keep on saying it until you start doing it. Sit back and relax, genius. Today I’m taking control of this project.”
Melanie wasn’t used to taking orders, especially where Einstein was concerned, but Chris’s tone didn’t invite argument. Besides, she wasn’t sure she was capable of arguing with him. The events of the morning had sent her usually organized mind into a processing loop. Nothing made sense. The more times she went over Chris’s actions—from his abrupt departure from her bedroom, to his disturbingly arousing “kidnapping”—the more confused she became. Her overwhelming physical reaction to him only served to muddy the waters.
Things became no clearer when, a few minutes later, Chris turned into the parking lot of Ron Jon’s Surf Shop. Ron Jon’s whimsically art deco building was the beachcomber’s mecca, famous for having everything necessary to enjoy a day at the beach except water.
“Wait here,” he told her as he closed the car door behind him. “I’ll only be a minute.”
“Why are we stopping?”
Chris rolled his eyes up to heaven. “Lady, you ask a hell of a lot of questions. You’re worse than Einstein.”
“Well, if you would answer a couple, I wouldn’t have to ask so many,” she countered as she put her hand on the door handle. “I’m coming with you.”