Chapter 5
She couldn’t concentrate. Libby stared at her computer screen, trying to work up some interest in the words she’d already written.
The Kolbari Islanders and their traditional moon dance no longer fascinated her.
She’d been certain work was the answer—an immersion in it.
No one had ever distracted her from her studies before.
In college she’d completed a thesis while her roommates threw an open-door pizza party.
That single-minded concentration had followed her into her professional life.
She’d written papers in tents by lamplight, read notes on the back of a jogging mule and prepared lectures in the jungle.
Once a project was begun, nothing broke the flow.
As she read a single paragraph through for the third time, all she could think of was Cal.
It was a pity she hadn’t had a greater interest in chemistry, she thought, pulling off her glasses to rub at her eyes.
If she had, perhaps she would understand more clearly her reaction to him.
Surely there was a book somewhere that would give her the information so that she could analyze it.
She didn’t want to feel without being able to list logical reasons why.
Daydreaming about love and romance was one thing.
Experiencing it was something else altogether.
This wasn’t like her.
With a long sigh, she pushed away from the desk and folded her legs under her.
Her eyes still on the screen, she propped her elbows on her knees and braced her chin on her fisted hands.
She wasn’t in love, she told herself. It had been a knee-jerk reaction to the intensity of the moment.
People didn’t really fall in love that quickly.
They could be attracted, of course, even strongly attracted.
For love, though, other factors had to be mixed in.
Common ground and common interests, Libby decided. That made good, solid sense to her. How could she be in love with Cal when the only interest he had that she knew about was flying? And eating, she added with a reluctant smile.
An understanding of each other’s feelings, goals, temperaments. Surely that was vital to love. How could she be in love when she didn’t understand Caleb Hornblower in the least? His feelings were a mystery to her, his goals had never been discussed, and his temperament seemed to change by the hour.
He was troubled. A frown brought her brows together when she thought of the look that she so often saw in his eyes. Sometimes he made her think of a man who had taken a wrong turn on the freeway and ended up in a strange, foreign land.
Troubled, yes, but he was also just plain trouble, she reminded herself, trying to keep her compassion from outweighing her common sense.
His personality was too strong, his charm too smooth, his confidence too high.
She didn’t have room in her neatly ordered life for a man like Cal.
He would, simply by existing, cause chaos.
She heard him come in the kitchen door, and her body braced automatically. Just as her pulse speeded up and her blood ran faster. Automatically.
Disgusted with herself, she scooted her chair back to her desk. She was going to work. In fact, she was going to work straight through to midnight, and she wasn’t going to give Cal another thought. She caught herself gnawing on her thumbnail again.
“Damn it, who is Caleb Hornblower?”
The last thing she’d expected from her muttered question was an answer. The tinny, disembodied voice had her jolting. She grabbed the edge of her desk to keep from spilling out of her chair, then stared, openmouthed, at her computer screen.
Hornblower, Caleb, Captain ISF, retired.
“Oh, my God.” With a hand to her throat, she shook her head. “Now just hold on,” she whispered.
Holding.
It wasn’t possible, Libby told herself as she pressed an unsteady hand to her mouth.
She had to be hallucinating. That was it.
Emotional stress, overwork and the lack of a good night’s sleep were causing her to hallucinate.
Closing her eyes, she took three deep breaths.
But when she opened them again, the words were still on the screen.
“What the devil is going on here?”
Information requested and relayed. Is additional data required?
With an unsteady hand, she pushed aside some of the papers on her desk and uncovered Cal’s watch. She would have sworn the voice she had heard had come from it. No, it just wasn’t possible. Using a fingertip, she traced a thread-slim transparent wire that ran from his watch to the computer’s drive.
“What kind of game is he playing?”
Five hundred twenty games are available on this unit. Which would you prefer?
“Libby?” Caleb stood just inside the doorway, thinking fast. There was no use berating himself for being careless.
In fact, he wondered if subconsciously he’d wanted to put himself in a position where he would be forced to tell her the truth.
But now, when she turned, he wasn’t certain that would be good for either of them.
She wasn’t just frightened, she was furious.
“All right, Hornblower, I want you to tell me exactly what’s going on here.”
He tried an easy, cooperative smile. “Where?”
“Right here, damn it.” She jabbed a finger at the machine.
“You’d know more about that than I would. It’s your work.”
“I want an explanation, and I want it now.”
He crossed to her. A quick scan of the screen had a smile tugging at his mouth. So she’d wanted to know who he was. There was some comfort in knowing she was as confused by him as he was by her—and as interested.
“No, you don’t.”
He said it quietly, and he would have taken her hand if she hadn’t batted his away.
“I not only want one, I insist on one. You . . . you . . .” On a sound of frustration, she took another breath. He wasn’t going to make her stutter. “You come in here and plug your watch into my machine, and—”
“Interface,” he said. “If you’re going to work on a computer, you should know the language.”
She snapped her teeth together. “Suppose you tell me how you can interface a watch with a PC.”
“A what?”
She couldn’t prevent the smirk. “Personal computer. You’d better brush up on the language yourself. Now—answers.”
He put a hand on each of her shoulders. “You’d never believe me.”
“You’d better make me believe. Is that watch some kind of miniature computer?”
“Yes.” He started to reach for it, but she slapped a hand down on his wrist.
“Leave it. I’ve never heard of any miniature computer that answers voice commands, interfaces with a PC and claims to play over five hundred games.”
“No.” He looked down at her angry eyes. “You wouldn’t have.”
“Why don’t you tell me how to get one, Hornblower? I’ll buy my father one for Christmas.”
Pure good humor tilted the corner of his mouth. “Actually, I don’t think that model’s going to be on the market for a little while yet. Can I interest you in something else?”
She kept her eyes level with his. “You can interest me in the truth.”
Stalling seemed to be the best approach. He turned her hand over and linked his fingers with hers. “The whole truth, or the simple parts?”
“Are you a spy?”
The last thing she’d expected was laughter. After his first chuckle it rolled out of him, warm and delighted. He kissed her, once on each cheek, before she could stop him.
“You didn’t answer my question.” She wiggled out of his hold. “Are you an agent?”
“What makes you think so?”
“A wild guess,” she said, throwing up her hands and spinning around the room.
“You crash down in the middle of a storm no sensible person would have been driving in, much less flying. You have no ID. You claim you’re not in the military, but you were wearing some kind of weird uniform.
Your shoes were nearly falling apart, but you have a watch that makes a Rolex look like a Tinkertoy.
A watch that talks back.” Even as she said it, it seemed so preposterous that she looked at the screen to make certain she hadn’t imagined it all.
“Look, I know intelligence agencies have some pretty advanced equipment. It might not be James Bond, but—”
“Who’s James Bond?” Cal asked.
Bond, James. Code name 007. Fictional character created by twentieth-century writer Ian Fleming. Novels include—
“Disengage,” Cal ordered, dragging a frustrated hand through his hair. One look at Libby’s face told him he was in deep. “Maybe you should sit down.”
With a weak nod, she sat on the edge of the bed.
Though it was a bit late for precautions, Cal unhooked the wire and slipped it and his unit into his pocket. “You want an explanation.”
She wasn’t so sure anymore. Calling herself a coward, she gave a quick, jerky nod. “Yes.”
“Okay, but you’re not going to like it.” He sat in her chair and crossed his ankles. “I was making a routine run from the Brigston colony.”
“Excuse me?”
“The Brigston colony,” Cal repeated. Then he took the plunge. “On Mars.”
Libby closed her eyes and rubbed a hand over her face. “Give me a break, Hornblower.”
“I told you you wouldn’t like it.”
“You want me to believe you’re a Martian.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
She dropped her hand into her lap. “I’m ridiculous?
You sit there and try to feed me some story about coming from Mars and I’m ridiculous?
” For lack of anything better to do, she tossed a pillow across the room, then rose and began to pace.
“Look, it’s not as though I’m prying into your personal life, or even that I expect some kind of humble gratitude for dragging you in out of that storm, but I think some mutual respect is in order here.
You’re in my home, Hornblower, and I deserve the truth. ”
“Yes, I think you do. I’m trying to give it to you.”
“Fine.” Temper wasn’t going to help, she thought. She dropped back on the bed and spread her arms. “So you’re from Mars.”
“No, I’m from Philadelphia.”