Love On My Mind (5 page)

“Exactly,” he interrupted, triumph in his voice.

“But they won’t be reading this article. You know who will? The everyday consumer who’ll make you a success. It’s the difference between the Linux operating system and the iPod. One used and respected by people in the industry, the other a pop-culture phenomenon that not only changed the way we listened to music, but changed the way we consumed music as a product.

“Now, I don’t know what you’ve created,” she hedged, when he subjected her to that laser-eyed stare again, “but if you’re being asked to do this interview, it means the company is trying a mass market approach. And that means appealing to people outside of your usual sphere.”

She was fascinated by the way he considered her opinion. She thought she could see the rotors and gears in his brain sifting through the options.

“How do you know who my peers are?”

Her breath caught. Damn, this was hard. “I don’t. But anyone with this setup, and who talks the way you do, must work in an industry with intelligent people. And those people tend to read industry journals, not celebrity magazines.” Hopefully, that appeased any suspicions he had . . .

Finally, he nodded. “No one, nothing, Unmapped, pepperoni and banana peppers, and combo.”

Chelsea gaped at him. He’d delivered the information so smoothly that it took a moment to realize he’d responded to the questions. She glanced at the monitor and matched each answer he’d given to its proper mate.

“Okay, that’s a start.”

“Start? I’m done.”

“Technically, you answered the questions, but your replies are basic and, well, boring. You’ve got to elaborate, spice it up.”

“I told you, I don’t lie, Chelsea.”

Did she imagine the extra grimness in his voice? A tingle of apprehension skittered down her spine and she shook off the feeling.

“You’re not lying. You’re selling yourself to your future customers. Think of an apple. Apples are good for you. They’re healthy. But that’s not enough for people to buy them. We make them look appetizing. We emphasize the taste—tart or sweet—and the texture—soft or crisp—all to make the apple more appealing. And in the end, it’s worth it because we’ve sold an apple and we know the person who bought it will be healthy.”

“You’re presuming it’s not enough to tell people that apples are healthy. That’s pessimistic.”

“Not pessimistic. Realistic. I can help you with this. Let’s take each question one at a time. You don’t have a celebrity crush?”

“No.”

“I find that hard to believe. Come on, who do you find attractive?”

“This isn’t the appropriate time to answer that question.” His blazing stare gleamed down on her, causing her nipples to tighten against her bra.

It wasn’t?

No! What was wrong with her? Had her body declared mutiny against her brain’s rationality and decided to throw its lot in with the nearest source of testosterone? Sure, she hadn’t been laid in a while—
In over eight months!
her body screamed—but she’d been around numerous men during that time and her body had never rebelled like an overprivileged teenager. Why was she reacting
this
way to
this
man?

She swallowed thickly and looked away from his heated gaze, crossing her arms over her chest. “We can come back to that one. What about question number two? You don’t watch television?”

“Of course I do.”

“You don’t record shows?”

“I work extensively. I don’t watch anything in real time.”

“Then why did you answer ‘none’ to the question of which shows you DVR?”

“Because I don’t use a digital video recorder. I can watch whatever I want online and on demand.”

She drummed her fingers on the desk. “You don’t have to be so specific. All they want to know is your favorite show on TV.”

He shrugged. “Then that’s the question they should ask.”

“They did,” she cried, throwing her hands in the air. They were on question number two. Two! Was he being difficult on purpose? She took a deep breath and exhaled. “Moving on, why do you like the video game ‘Unmapped?’ ”

“The graphic set pieces are innovatively atmospheric and the game allows its players to make logical and reasoned decisions without penalizing the fun of the play.”

“That’s a great response,” she said, pleased he could compose a compound answer. She checked the monitor. “What do you mean by ‘combo?’ ”

“Boxer briefs.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks, but she knew her complexion would hide the evidence of her embarrassment. This was ridiculous. She was a grown woman. She’d seen her share of men in their undies and less, but something about imagining Adam in the sexy form-fitting underwear, the rippled plane of his muscled abs, the fabric molded to his ass and thighs, the waistband teasing the package beneath . . .

She needed to chill out or she’d never make it through the questionnaire without her pelvic region bursting into flames.

Ten minutes later, Chelsea sat back in the chair, relieved that her body had settled down and pleased with the progress they’d made. She’d helped him craft solid responses to the other four questions and he returned the interview to the person who’d requested it. Despite their shaky start, the end result was well done. Their answers were intelligent, insightful, and funny. Maybe this
could
work out.

“What is your profession?”

His question snapped her out of her reverie. “Excuse me?”

“Your use of the terms ‘consumer’ and ‘mass market approach’ sound like words marketing strategists use. Are you in that field?”

What should she do? Admit her professional knowledge or play it off?

“I work in the entertainment field.”

Which was the truth, just not the entire truth. If she had to prevaricate, the safest course of action was to stick as close to the truth as possible. She waited, not sure if he would buy her explanation or detect her evasion and call her and Mike on what they’d tried to do.

“You’re not an actress, are you?”

She laughed. “God, no.”

Those gears in his brain commenced rotating, but were interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. He picked it up off the floor, wiped the screen against his jean-clad thigh, and answered it.

“Yes, Anya . . . I know . . . You’re pleased with the outcome? Good.”

He disconnected the call. “That was the media liaison. She’s never sounded that . . . content while talking to me on the phone. You must be good at your job.”

He smiled and the gesture knocked the wind out of her body. With his keen intellect and devastating good looks, he was already hard to resist, but add that satisfied grin, and it was a lethal combination. The elation didn’t lessen his sexiness; it made him approachable. Which made him exceedingly more attractive. It suddenly occurred to her that Adam Bennett could be detrimental to her emotional well-being.

She
was
good at her job and she deserved that promotion. She’d do whatever it took to complete this assignment and claim her partnership and the better life it represented. With that bolster to her resolve, she was able to ignore the part of her that screamed she should overlook the storm, get in her car, and haul ass back down the mountain and away from the provocative genius.

Chapter Five

W
HAT HAD HE
been thinking?

That question summed up his dilemma. His brain hadn’t been able to perform its primary function because a portion of his blood had been diverted to another area. He’d awakened in the middle of the night, with a raging hard-on, aware that his house seemed different. Though two thousand square feet separated their bedrooms, his body hummed and burned as if Chelsea were lying next to him. Under him. On top of him.

There was another person sharing his space. And not just any person. A gorgeous woman with curves he wanted to analyze and curls he wanted to explore. How would she look sprawled across his bed? Would her skin feel as dewy soft as it looked? Would he relish the flavor of her on his tongue? His mind zipped through the endless possibilities that began with him stripping her naked and ended with him buried deep inside of her.

He’d been delusional to assume her proximity wouldn’t disrupt his life, but what other options were available? The storm knocked down a tree one mile from his house. The probability of her reaching the Andersons’ was nonexistent. He hadn’t wanted her to stay, but forcing her to leave would be morally reprehensible.

This morning, standing under the cold water that failed to calm his roused cock, he wondered if he hadn’t made a terrible mistake. Yesterday, when he’d shown her the magazine questions on the screen and turned to find her tantalizingly close, he’d yearned to ignore caution and crush his mouth against her kissable, plump lips. But he refrained, and rightfully so. He rued the strength of this sudden attraction, knew the level of distraction it could be. He didn’t have the luxury of getting involved in a physically intimate relationship, not when the launch required his undiluted focus. He would never again allow his business to suffer because of poor decisions made due to the woman he was screwing.

Resolved, he dressed and left his room. Stroking a finger over his mouse pad, he activated his computer and sought to ascertain the current status of the storm cleanup. A few keystrokes and clicks later, he learned crews had been working throughout the night and the road should be cleared in a few hours.

He raked his fingers through his hair and let his head fall back as he exhaled with relief. He hadn’t shared his living space with another person since his first year of college. His heart thudded in his chest as he pictured Chelsea strutting around his house, her jeans-clad long legs and shapely ass rendering his hormones unruly. Thank God he’d be spared that torture.

Maybe she’d render his worrying useless and sleep late. Perhaps she’d lounge in bed and read a book. He rolled his eyes. Not the best imagery to soothe his desire. He could offer her the opportunity to watch a movie, or let her use a laptop if she’d like to be online. Anything to keep her busy and out of his space until the road was cleared and he could send her on to the Andersons’. And out of his orbit.

Satisfied with his formulated plan, he brought up the schematics of another product they were launching—it was the first item he’d need to check when he began working—then strolled into the kitchen. He grabbed the blender and the ingredients to make his breakfast. The whir of the blades settled him as his body went through the motions of his morning routine.

He’d always craved structure. As a boy, he’d established the ideal morning procedure: wake up, timed plank and push-ups, floss and brush teeth, shower and get dressed. He performed it daily, in the same manner, never deviating. He used to advocate it to others in his life and was bewildered when they failed to recognize his routine’s many benefits. Through time and his friendship with Mike and Jonathan, he learned to accept that others might choose different options, even when those options were senseless and inefficient.

He took a deep breath. This day was no different from any other. He’d gotten riled up over nothing.

“Good morning.”

He stiffened and looked up to see Chelsea standing in the entrance to the hallway that led to the other set of bedrooms in his house. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly brimming with moisture. He hadn’t gotten worked up over nothing. He’d gotten worked up over her. Clearing his throat, he nodded and returned his attention to the machine blending his smoothie.

She moved to the windows, where clouds still blocked the sun, although the storm had ended. “Where’s my car?”

Against that backdrop she cut a stunning figure, wearing dark, fitted jeans—just as he predicted—and a creamy long-sleeved shirt that looked lush against her dark skin. In comparison, she probably found his ripped jeans and T-shirt slovenly. He clenched his jaw. Too damn bad. He wouldn’t let her presence cause him to curate his behavior. His clothing was appropriate for working by himself, which he would be.

Shortly.

“I parked it in the garage next to mine.”

Her chin grazed her shoulder as she gazed back at him. “Thanks again for bringing in my bags and supplies.”

“They would do no one any good sitting in your car.”

“Right.” She pressed her hands together and sighed. “It’s finally stopped raining. That’s a good sign.”

“The crews have been working all night clearing away debris from the storm,” he said. “You should be able to leave in a few hours.”

“Great,” she said. Was there a slight tremor in her voice?

With the smoothie reaching his desired consistency, he turned the machine off, leaving a sudden and conspicuous silence. She turned to face him and slid her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. Her breasts pushed against her shirt and his hands clenched into fists on the kitchen counter. He was a rational, intelligent adult male. He was more than capable of corralling his hormones, despite certain physical indices determined to prove him wrong.

“I slept well,” she said. “The bedroom was quite comfortable.”

A shiver of awareness slid through him. The image of her tangled in his sheets flashed in his mind.

“Mike convinced me to use one of the three extra bedrooms for its intended purpose. I use the others for a workshop and for storage.”

“Is Mike your roommate?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m a grown man and I’m gainfully employed. I don’t need a roommate. No, Mike is my business partner and best friend.”

He poured half the smoothie into a tall glass and grabbed a straw.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. Uh, do you have any coffee?”

He frowned. “I don’t drink coffee.”

“That’s okay, I usually bring my own. There’s this incredible coffee shop around the corner from my office and they import their coffee beans from eastern Africa. I’m totally addicted to it but I can’t find it anywhere else. So I stock up on it and take it with me whenever I travel.” She crossed to his kitchen and stared at his uncluttered counters. “If you tell me where your coffeemaker is, I can take care of everything else.”

“I told you, I don’t drink coffee.”

“I got that,” she said slowly, opening a cabinet. “I don’t need coffee, just the maker.”

“If I don’t drink coffee, why would I own a coffeemaker?”

She turned bulging eyes in his direction. “Because sixty-one percent of American adults drink coffee. What do you do when you have visitors?”

“That statistic isn’t as staggering as you may have intended,” he said, amusement at her aggrieved tone curving his lips. “On the very rare occasions I have guests, I offer them what I have. If they don’t want what I offer, they remain thirsty.”

She blinked. Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again.

His smile expired. Not the proper response? Social niceties didn’t come naturally to him, as they did to everyone else, and it had taken years to figure out what people expected in various situations. Eventually, he’d culled together a resource of acceptable responses to certain social interactions. A protocol for politeness. Unfortunately for her, he’d been alone on the mountain for a long time. It had been a while since he’d had to refer to it and he was out of practice. Without a word, he turned on his heel and stalked over to his computer workstation.

“Do you have anything I can eat for breakfast?”

He couldn’t be blamed for this. He hadn’t expected guests. Why would he stock his house with ingredients he didn’t consume? It wasn’t logical. He pointed to the blender on the counter.

She sighed. “May I have some?”

He nodded.

She poured the remaining green smoothie into a glass and took a sip. Her head tipped to the left and her expression . . . brightened? “This is really good.”

He warmed with pleasure.

“How long have you been up?” she asked.

He shifted, his semi-erect member refueling. No, not that. She probably meant the time he’d awakened. “Six and a half hours.”

“Seriously? It’s only 9 a.m.”

“The closer I get to the product launch, the less I sleep.”

“What are you working on today?” she asked, after taking another sip from the glass.

“From now until the launch, the majority of my focus will be last-minute preparations for Computronix’s presentation.”

“You work for Computronix?”

“No. I own the company.”

She laughed. “I own your phone. Are you unveiling the latest model or some other gadgets?”

Gadgets? He didn’t deal in can openers or video watches.

“We’ll roll out a line of
devices
”—he added emphasis to the word to correct her error—“in our business and entertainment arenas, but the HPC will be the featured product.”

She trailed her fingers along the back of a bar stool. “The HPC? You mentioned that yesterday. What is it?”

“I told you that was classified information.”

She rolled her eyes and drank more of the smoothie. The schematics on the screen in front of him may as well have been a toddler’s picture book for the effect it had on his attention, namely an inability to hold it. Chelsea’s presence was kryptonite to his concentration, leaving him powerless to focus on anything except her nearness.

His pulse pummeled in his throat and he cast a sidelong glance in her direction. After placing her empty glass in the sink, she’d settled on his couch with her back against the armrest, her profile a temptation. Her curls were gathered precariously on the top of her head and stray spirals teased her brows, ears, and nape. Thankfully this would be a short-term problem. Once the road reopened, she’d be free to leave and he’d have a much-needed respite from her and this unprecedented attraction.

Perhaps he’d call and volunteer his assistance to the county if it would make the cleanup occur faster.

“Is this all you do?”

His focus widened, shifting from the curl bouncing near the corner of her eye to her entire face. “What?”

She draped an arm over the back of the sofa. “Is this all you do?”

“I don’t understand your question.”

She waved a fluid hand, indicating his workstation. “This. You spend a lot of time working. Do you do anything else?”

“No.”

Why would he do “anything else”? The theoretical study and application of computer science was his calling. It helped him to discover order in a world he often found chaotic. Additionally, it was an avenue for acceptance. In the scope of his work, he was embraced, not judged, for his differences.

“Do you have family?” she asked.

His chest tightened and the back of his throat burned. “Yes.”

He heard her embellished sigh. “Does your family live here in California? Are you close to them?”

He abhorred discussing his family, often burdened with twin sentiments of guilt and responsibility. “My parents are divorced. I’m the youngest of three, the only son. My father and sisters still live in Colorado.”

She tilted her head to the side, creating an acute angle with her shoulder. She did that often. “Friends?”

“Mike and Jonathan.”

“Is that it?”

A deceptively simple query.

Did he have friends other than Mike and Jonathan? People attached to him by feelings of affection or personal regard, not by economic necessity, greed, or sexual desire? He’d been involved with Birgitta, but had he ever considered her his friend? How could he when he’d never invited her here, into his sanctuary?

“I have work to complete. If you require entertainment, you’ll have better luck with the TV. The remote is on the table.”

He forced himself to study the latest HPC income projections, but he couldn’t block out the evidence of her presence. His ears pricked at the pulpous sound of her body sinking into the cushions on his sofa, the heavy thud of the remote landing on the table, the varied voices erupting from the powered-on television. Approving the rollout of his company’s newest device was failing in comparison to his growing fascination with Chelsea Grant.

“I love this movie.”

Do not turn around. Do not turn around.

He swung around to see two women standing in the hallway of a government building or courthouse. Unable to stop himself, he left his desk and perched on the other sofa arm. He frowned, watching one woman wildly gesticulate in her effort to advise her blonde friend. “I’ve never seen this one.”

Chelsea sat up and smiled. The effect caused an unusual tingling sensation beneath his skin. “You’re joking, right? It came out a few years ago and made a boatload at the box office. This woman meets this guy one morning and they end up spending an amazing day together. The next morning, she vanishes without a trace. He goes to the place she said she worked and finds out the superficial stuff she told him—her name, where she works—was a lie. He spends the rest of the movie searching for her, using clues from their brief encounter. Turns out, she was an accountant and was turning state’s evidence against the company she worked for, a front for organized crime. He finally finds her and helps her evade the mob.”

Sounded like the typical insipid, dewy-eyed schmaltz consistently fed to the masses. He crossed his arms. “I don’t enjoy that type of movie.”

“What type of movie?”

“Movies like that. It’s ridiculous. She lied to him and abandoned him yet he wastes valuable time searching for her.”

“He’s in love with her.”