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 thesoft 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
“Worry?” Jill repeated, caught off guard by thesoft 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
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