Meltdown (2 page)

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 further 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.…

“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.

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. Even 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.