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.
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-wrappedpackage 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
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.
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-wrappedpackage 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
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