Sorcerer: A Loveswept Contemporary Classic Romance (7 page)

“I remember,” she said, her words sounding
more like a croak than the forceful statement she’d hoped for. “But you hardly ever come to parties.”

He fixed her with his silver gaze. “I came to this one,” he said softly, “because I wanted to see you.”

“Oh,” she said weakly, her purse again dropping to the floor. Her leaden arms had lost the strength to hold anything. Horribly she realized her knees weren’t far behind.
He came because he wanted to see me.
…

“I wanted to see you,” he continued as he again bent down to collect her fallen purse, “because you left the lab before we had a chance to discuss and log what happened in the simulator.”

Discuss and log … He’d come here to add her to his test results. The man didn’t even have the decency to wait until the next day! Furious, Jill spun around and stalked across the kitchen, heading for the living room door. But before she reached it, Marsha entered from the other side with Kevin in tow.

“Jill, somebody rang the front doorbell but they left before—Dr. Sinclair!”

Any hope Jill might have cherished about Marsha’s support died as she watched her friend catch sight of the handsome scientist. With a coquettish toss of her hair and a thousand-watt smile, Marsha went straight into flirt mode.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” she said, ushering Sinclair into the kitchen. “By the way, sorry about that nickname crack I made earlier. No offense meant.”

“None taken, Miss Valdez. In fact,” he added with the ghost of a smile, “I found it eminently appropriate.”

Good God, he’s got a sense of humor
, Jill thought in distress. “Dr. Sinclair won’t be staying long,” she said hurriedly. “He just needs some information about our experience in his simulator and—”

“The virtual reality simulator?” Kevin exclaimed, his eyes growing big as saucers. “You’re
that
Sinclair?”

Ian gave a low chuckle. “Dr. Doom in the flesh,” he assured the goggle-eyed engineer.

After that, things got complicated. Kevin, and most of the rest of his engineering department, appeared to be card-carrying members of the Dr. Ian Sinclair fan club. Once they entered the living room, Marsha’s party guests swamped the scientist with a barrage of technical questions and a wave of unabashed admiration. Jill expected the doctor to be annoyed by the attention, but to her surprise he handled the group with ease. He even—unbelievably—appeared to be enjoying himself.

He gave every question his full attention, and answered every compliment with an apparently sincere thank-you. His earnestness was as compelling as his knowledge. By the end of the evening he had everyone in the room eating out of his hand. Everyone, that is, except Jill.

She sat in a distant corner, munching cold pizza, feeling very confused. She’d known Dr. Sinclair for months, and he’d never displayed one tenth of the
animation he was exhibiting tonight. She didn’t get it. Ice cubes had more warmth than the Ian Sinclair she knew. She wondered if he had a twin brother, a personable man who’d temporarily taken the place of the enigmatic scientist. Or maybe it was just she who brought out his cold and unfeeling side.

But he’d kissed her …

No, he hadn’t, she reminded herself sternly. He’d kissed a woman in cyberspace, a projection, a phantom. He’d never held her in his arms, never thrilled her with his touch, never consumed her with the seductive glory of his caress. Worse, he wanted to dissect the non-event for his research notes, reducing her tumultuous feelings to a series of passionless test results. Well, maybe he could fool the others into thinking he was a decent, caring human being, but she knew better. And if he thought she was going to bear her soul to him like some well-trained lab rat, he had another think com—

“Ms. Polanski? Are you all right?”

Jillian opened her eyes and looked up into the molten silver eyes of the courageous knight who’d saved her from the orc. She reminded herself the knight wasn’t real, and neither was the counterfeit concern in his gaze. “I’m fine,” she stated sharply. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I have no idea, but you’ve been holding that piece of pizza in front of you a full minute.” He leaned closer, smiling gently. “We were beginning to worry.”

“Worry?” Jill repeated, caught off guard by the
soft humor in his expression. She’d always thought of Sinclair as a hard man—whether as a steel-skinned scientist or an armor-garbed knight. Softness didn’t figure into her image of him. Yet, as she looked at him for once without anger, she noticed the small laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, and the way his mouth turned up when it was hovering toward a smile. She knew from her experience in the simulator what it felt like to kiss him, but she suddenly found herself wondering what it would be like to laugh with him.

Right, Jill. Yet another emotion he can dissect.

She glanced away from the doctor, her gaze seeking out Marsha. “I’m a little tired. I … think I’ll just go on home.”

“I’ll drive you,” Sinclair decided, apparently not caring that she was no longer looking at him.

“It’s not necessary. I live only a few blocks up the beach. I’ll just walk.”

“Then I’ll walk with you,” he said as he extracted the half-eaten pizza from her hands.

The brief touch of his fingers, firm, warm, and decidedly unmetallic, made her realize how close she was to letting herself feel something more than infatuation for this man. Walking alone with him on a deserted beach wasn’t even close to being a wise choice, yet she found her protests weakening. “Well, if you really want to …”

“I most certainly do,” he stated as he helped her to her feet. “It will give us a chance to discuss what happened today in the simulator.”

The few blocks to Jillian Polanski’s house were some of the longest Ian had ever traveled in his life. They walked along the beach in the North Miami suburb, listening to the hush of the night waves and the intermittent blare of a far-off channel horn. The night was warm, even balmy, despite its mid-winter calendar date. Yet Ian felt a definite chill in the air—a chill radiating from the woman who walked beside him.

“We’re almost at my house, Doctor,” she said curtly. “Ask your questions. What do you want to know?”

He glanced at her, noticing her bent head and hunched shoulders. The woman was definitely on the defensive. She reminded him of a box turtle he’d had as a boy, a cautious creature that was forever disappearing into its shell. Every time the animal retreated, Ian felt as if he’d done something wrong, as if he’d failed it in some inexplicable way.

If Miss Polanski had a shell, he doubted he’d ever see her face. Dammit, why was she so wary of him? “What I’d like to know,” he said honestly, “is why you are so dead set against discussing what happened in the simulator. Dr. Miller never minded.”

“Well, Dr. Miller didn’t … I mean, you never … look, I don’t see why you need my input anyway. You were there—why don’t you just write down your experiences?”

“Because that’s what they are—
my
experiences.
It’s important that I know your experiences too. I’d like to know what you thought and felt.”

“Why?”

The simple question hit him broadside. His step faltered, though he told himself he’d tripped on a piece of driftwood. “Because we’re scientists, Ms. Polanski. Because we’re pioneers in the field of virtual reality, and it’s our duty to log our results so others will be able to build on our work and avoid our mistakes. Perhaps our experiences will help save the life of another scientist. Surely you agree with that.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I do. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize anyone’s safety. You’re right, Dr. Sinclair.”

She spoke his name dully, as if all the life had been sapped right out of her. Unbidden, his mind called up an image from their time in the simulator, when she’d knelt beside him in her provocative travesty of a dress, saying his name.
Ian.
Simulator or no simulator, his body still reacted to the sweet, enticing memory.

He turned his head toward her, noting that she’d sunk her fists into her jeans pockets, hunching her shoulders again in a posture so guarded, it put his box turtle to shame. Darkness curled around her, making her look small and vulnerable, and achingly young.

“We’re not going into the simulator tomorrow,” he said suddenly. “It’s been a hard day and we could both use some rest.”

“But Einstein—”

“Einstein will have to wait. I’m not risking my equipment—or your life—by pushing you too hard.”

“I don’t need to be coddled,” she snapped.

Very much like my turtle.
“I never imagined you did. I remember how you fired off that barrage of stones at the orc. No one with an arm like yours needs to be coddled.”

She smiled. It was a hesitant, ungainly grin that lasted less than a second, yet it managed to set his heart tumbling in his chest. Something very close to sympathy tugged at his heart. “Why don’t you want to talk about what happened in the simulator?” he asked again.

For a moment she didn’t answer. Then she sighed, a sound as soft and forlorn as a night breeze. “I don’t want to end up as a footnote in some musty science journal, or as a point of illustration in your lecture notes. What happened to me in the simulator was very—special. Reducing it to a series of test results seems … I don’t know, like killing the golden goose.”

Sinclair wanted to tell her she was being foolish, but he couldn’t get the words out. As a scientist he’d killed more than his share of golden geese. Taking things apart to see what made them tick was his business, even if that meant gutting them of their beauty and mystery as well. The discipline had bled over into his personal life. He recalled how often Samantha had accused him of practicing it in their marriage. What she hadn’t accepted was that their
“golden” union had been nothing more than dross from the beginning.

His smile turned brittle. “My wife used to say golden goose was my favorite meal.”

Jillian came to an abrupt standstill. “You’re married?”

“
Was
married,” Ian amended, still walking. “It ended a year ago, but I suppose old habits are hard to break.”

“I’m sorry,” Jill said as she caught up with him.

I’m sorry.
He’d heard those two words a hundred times, and had learned to hate them. During their marriage, pretty, petulant Samantha had prefaced almost all her sentences with it, especially when she was asking for forgiveness, or money. He’d indulged her in both for far too long. Now, of course, she didn’t bother. She just had her lawyer send his lawyer another demand.

Intellectually he knew Jillian had meant to be kind, and that she couldn’t possibly know the loathsome memories associated with those particular words. Nevertheless he spoke to her with more harshness than he intended. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I was raised by my grandfather as an only child. Being alone suits me. Besides, it gives me more time to spend on my—”

It took him a moment to realize she was no longer walking beside him. Turning around, he saw she’d stopped in her tracks.

“We’re here,” she said simply, nodding toward the modest town house that fronted the beach.

It was just the sort of place he expected her to live in. A floodlight illuminated the back of the house, showing its cheerful cornflower-blue siding and neat white trim, and the window boxes stuffed with colorful flowers. The condominium’s small back deck was all but enveloped by a jungle of houseplants, and a set of wind chimes picked merry, tuneless notes from the night breeze. The town house looked crazy, chaotic, and welcoming in a way no home of his ever had. He turned his gaze toward the ocean’s darkness, feeling as if he’d been robbed of something he couldn’t begin to name. “Well then, good night, Miss Polanski. I’ll call you tomor—”

“You can stay.”

Sinclair spun back so quickly, he almost lost his balance on the loose sand. “What?”

“For coffee, I mean.” She shifted from foot to foot, nearly losing balance herself. “It was kind of you to walk me home. I just wanted to … oh, hell, it was a stupid idea. Forget it.”

Without waiting for his answer, she started up the slope of the beach to her condominium. Shoulders back, chin tilted toward the stars, she reminded him of another woman, a fairy princess with a slipping gold circlet, pelting a ferocious beast with ineffectual stones. Warning voices cautioned him not to accept her offer, that her cheery little house might hold greater dangers than any ferocious orc. Yet before he knew it, he was beside her, shortening his stride to match hers. “Coffee is fine, but I would prefer a cup of tea. Earl Grey, if you have it.”

“I think I can find a bag.” She smiled again, the tentative grin that had such an arresting effect on his heart. Once more the warning voices sounded, telling him that he was veering from his meticulously charted course and heading straight for unmapped waters. He shrugged off his misgivings, reminding himself that he was a respected scientist who lived a strict, disciplined, and completely satisfactory life. He was no callow youth to be ruled by the hormonal urges of his body.

And Ms. Polanski, the voices added, was no box turtle.

“Tell me, Ms. Polanski,” Sinclair said as he studied the Save the Whales poster hanging over her living room couch, “are there any causes you don’t support?”