Undo Part 22

She obeyed, dropping beside him. He leaned from his saddle and handed her a single calla lily. She felt touched and overwhelmed, and closed her eyes for a moment, forgetting he was there riding right beside her. Then, suddenly aware of her obvious pleasure, she felt embarra.s.sed. Carefully she tucked the flower between her leg and the saddle, then raced off for the final stretch, hoping the distance would allow her a moment to regain her composure.

He called after her, yet, when she turned once, she saw that he was letting the stretch widen between them, as if he had seen her fl.u.s.tered condition and had, once again, understood what she was feeling.

The soft black path turned dusty as she neared the barn. Her car was parked in the lot. Jennifer's truck, parked in front of her house, was the only other vehicle there.

She brought Mighty Boy to a halt before the stable entrance and wiped her brow with the sleeve of her chambray s.h.i.+rt. Carefully holding the flower, she lowered herself from the horse.

Jean-Pierre had dismounted by the far ring and was walking toward the barn. Normally, the horses would be hosed down, to both clean and cool them, but the groom had not yet arrived, so they allowed some time for the horses to cool down a little in the chilly morning air.

"I'd better be going," Greta said after some time had pa.s.sed, taking Might Boy's bridle in her hand.

In silence, they led the horses into the barn. The animal bodies were lathered with sweat, and the fine layer of dust that covered their muscles was beginning to dry and crinkle in the shadowed coolness. She reached behind her head and unclipped her barrette, allowing her hair to fall loosely over her shoulders. It was as if everything had changed as they walked through a near-dark silence, like day into night. Her senses sharpened, like those of a nocturnal creature. She knew he was looking at her, and she felt awkwardly exposed. She glanced quickly at him. His eyes gazed at her with peaceful, deliberate regard. She maintained her lead into the barn with Mighty Boy, then Jean-Pierre stopped at his own horse's stall, and she hastened her task at hand, in an attempt to be done and out of the stall before he had a chance to come to hers. But as she worked with Mighty Boy's halter, she felt his presence at the entrance of the stall. He pulled the double door shut behind him as he entered, closing them in together in nearly complete darkness.

Her insides tightened as he slowly approached, the very act of breathing becoming more difficult the closer he came. She blinked to adjust her vision, and busied herself with releasing the girth of Mighty Boy's saddle, but she was clearly having problems; she had not thought to simply put down the flower for a moment while she worked with the snaps. And, as always, there was her hand, which forever burdened even the simplest tasks.

He came to her rescue, and she froze at the touch of his large strong hands on hers. And before she had to even consider retracting her flawed hand, he moved her aside and set about unfastening the girth and removing the saddle, leaving her to just stand there and watch, holding the flower.

Time stopped. Even Mighty Boy was still. His stare was on her again, but she willed her gaze to remain fixed on the hay-strewn floor. If she looked up into his eyes, there was no telling what would happen. Yet she made no effort to alter what was happening.

Instead she shut her eyes, and tried not to think about how much time was pa.s.sing between them without words. What were his thoughts? Were they the same as her own? What were hers? She could not focus on any of these blind musings. Unaware of her own action she had raised her head, as though all of him would become clearer if she trained her closed lids in his direction. She opened her eyes. Nothing in her mind could prepare her for what she faced. The emerald intensity of his eyes pierced through her, instantly warming her neck, her nipples, her loins.

"Come," he said, motioning to her with one hand, the other flat against the horse's side. "Feel this."

She allowed him to lift her right hand and pull her closer. He made her feel the animal's hot, damp flank, flattening his own hard hand over hers. She focused on his dusty manicured nails, his long fingers, weathered knuckles, and tanned skin. This was the hand she had fantasized about, touching her as it was now, and more.

"The strength of this animal, it can all be felt through his heartbeat. So strong," he whispered. She felt his breath on her forehead, and inhaled to try to bring it inside of her.

Mighty Boy stood steady as she experienced the bold breathing and strong heartbeat drumming beneath her hand. "Yes," she managed, barely, willing her hand to stop trembling beneath his.

He slowly lifted her hand from the horse and turned her so that they were facing each other. The flower fell from her free hand.

He removed the glove from the hand he was holding, then he reached for her other hand.

"No," she said, a little panicked. "Not that one."

He nodded to let her know that he understood, then guided the ungloved hand beneath his s.h.i.+rt. He pressed her palm to his chest, over his heart. "It is no different," he said. Then she had the other, gloved hand in his s.h.i.+rt. She felt his insistent heartbeat, so powerful in its pounding, the pulse of his life beneath her hands. She raked her fingers over his muscles. The wild scent of horses mingled sharply with his spiciness. She closed her eyes and took a deep, heady breath, and experienced a wave of pleasant dizziness.

He gripped her wrists and pressed her against Mighty Boy, touched his lips to her ear. "Perhaps this attraction I feel for you is the first to come between me and my love for horses," he said with a little laugh.

She s.h.i.+fted her head back. A bead of sweat jiggled on his chin, beside a tiny flake of hay. She dabbed the droplet with the back of her bare hand, touched the hay flake away and pulled it past his lips, yet did not let herself touch them. He took her hand from his cheek, then curled her fingers into his own. He inhaled the fragrance on her wrist, kissed it.

She began trembling as he lowered his arm around her waist and pressed her harder into Mighty Boy, layering her between the heat of two powerful bodies. She pulled her fingers free of his grip and plunged her hands into his long hair and down his neck, across the hard muscles of his shoulders.

Then, just as their lips drew near, Greta reeled her head away with a shake, as if snapping awake from frightening dream - he had taken her gloved hand in his own.

"No," she said, struggling.

He tightened his hold on her. "What are you hiding, Greta? What is it you are so afraid to show me?" Then suddenly, Matthew's image appeared in her mind's eye.

An agonized moan escaped her, and she let out a small, frustrated cry. She had to leave, at once. "I can't," she said, bringing her lips closer to his. "Do you hear me, I can't."

Or could she? Could she just once, to have him completely in her memory forever? Yes, just this one time. Quickly, she thought, before Matthew returns and makes it impossible for her to go any further.

Lips parting ardently, she hungrily drew in his breath as their mouths joined.

Chapter 8

"Matthew, this is everything." Eileen said, placing a manila folder before him on his desk. "You've got about ten minutes before the meeting begins," she said, then closed his office door. He opened the folder. Before him was an a.s.sortment of transparencies, his presentation to the board of directors and executive staff.

Yesterday's introduction of the new Joey Plus, which was warmly received by the press and the user community, would certainly work in his favor this morning when he detailed his plan for ICP connectivity.

He flipped through the films. They were perfect. He felt armed and ready to face for the first time all of Wallaby's power players in the very room from which three months earlier he had ejected Peter Jones.

His intercom beeped softly, and he looked out of his gla.s.s office at Eileen. She tapped her wrist.w.a.tch. It was time to start the meeting.

He nodded and shuffled the films and his notes together into the folder and headed for the meeting. Just as he reached for the boardroom door, it opened. Hank Towers appeared carrying a small plate.

"Good morning, Matthew," Hank said brightly. "Give me just a second for seconds," he said, gesturing at the remaining treats arranged on the long table outside the conference room.

Matthew laughed good-naturedly and went inside. "Good morning,"

he said, addressing everyone seated around the table. He set down his materials beside the overhead projector. Finis.h.i.+ng sentences or the last bite of a m.u.f.fin or looking up from their agendas, the board members and executive staff voiced their good mornings.

"We're just waiting for Hank," Matthew said. Just then Hank entered the room smiling sheepishly over a plate of fresh fruit salad.

"Matthew, congratulations on the Joey Plus," Hank said. The others followed with congratulations, and someone clapped.

Another pair of hands joined in, and then another, until the entire room was applauding his success.

"Thank you," Matthew said. "But the congratulations should go to all of your people who made the development of the Joey Plus successful." His smile swept each face at the table.

Martin Cohn stood and announced the agenda, a copy of which rested before each person. Four items down the list was "The Whole World In Your Hand: Wallaby's Future - Matthew."

After ninety minutes of standard status reports, discussion, and voting, it was time for Matthew's presentation, and he stood.

"Should we break for a few minutes before I begin?"

He knew his agenda t.i.tle had them all intrigued - this would be the first time anyone but Peter had revealed a major future strategy for Wallaby. No one stood or motioned departure.

He dimmed the room lights, then switched on the overhead projector and advanced to the first slide, a modified Wallaby logo. Normally the logo depicted the baby kangaroo poking its head out of a pocket, but Matthew's slide showed only the joey and no pocket.

"At Wallaby," he began, "we've always been intensely focused on the idea of people using a portable computer for their personal tasks and needs. This had been a successful strategy, inherent in our culture because we got our start by giving people the power to use our portable personal computers for exactly that: very personal computing.

"But to some degree, we've been in the dark. In the early days we succeeded because we were the only players. But we lost our number-one status to our largest compet.i.tor, ICP."

He changed to the next slide and paused for a moment, allowing the visual a.n.a.logy depicted to sink in. The slide showed the same lone joey, offset to the bottom left corner of the frame, and a sketch of the earth with the initials ICP stretching around it.

"International Computer Products is everywhere. They own the world of mainstream computing. There's hardly any big business, organization, or function in the world that doesn't in some way use ICP's products for its information processing."

The next slide showed the Joey Plus screen with little filing cabinets and doc.u.ments positioned here and there. "By design, Wallaby's Joey Plus is the choice method of computing. The user community has stated that, and we all know that.

"But compet.i.tion from ICP with its BP system, regardless of its inferior technology, continues to grow at a steady rate. The ICP logo on the front of its desktop and portable computers makes them mentally compatible with its mainframe computers. And for the past decade at Wallaby, we've all held a resentful att.i.tude toward ICP. This is due, in part, to the premise upon which the company was founded. We're a small, free-spirited company, providing people with personal mobile computing tools contrary to what ICP has represented throughout its history - people acting as slaves to headquarters and mainframes."