Page 29 of Blow Me Down
“I’m a financial analyst, as a matter of fact. We are just as persistent. What is the second reason?”
“There’s no one to report me to,” he said simply. “I own Buckling Swashes.”
“Corbin, you’re just a computer character—”
“My name is Peter Corbin Monroe. I was born in 1965 in a small town in Idaho. I am divorced, and I have two children whom I see far too seldom and no known diseases or ailments beyond fallen arches. I went to school at the University of Wisconsin, where I got a master’s in information science. My likes include Thai food, women who can beat me in a duel, and pirates. My pet peeves are people who act without regard for anyone else, commercial television, and the color pink.”
I stared at him, starting to wonder which one of us was real, and which wasn’t.
Could he be what he said he was? If so… hope sprang to life in me as I stared at what could well be my way out of this virtual world.
“You own this? All of this?” I asked, waving my hand around to encompass everything in the captain’s cabin. “You created this?”
“Well, I didn’t do it single-handedly. I programmed the first version of the game in an office in my garage, but later I had a partner, and now I have two teams of programmers— one that works on the Internet version, and the new crew working on the VR side. You met the art director, Holder McReady.”
“Holder is real, too? The guy with the monk delusions?”
“Yes. He is in charge of all the artwork you see around you. Everything from the clothing on down to the pattern of the rug. My partner was in charge of the VR technology, but he left me a few months ago to form his own company.
Still,” Corbin said, looking around the cabin with satisfaction, “I’m happy with how it turned out. I think people are going to enjoy it, don’t you? We’ve worked hard to make it as realistic as possible.”
“Oh, you’ve done that all right,” I said, relief mingling with the irritation that he’d written a program that would trap unwary players. “If you don’t mind, though, I’d like to get the hell out of here.”
“Why? Aren’t you having fun?”
“No. I want out.”
He frowned. “I can’t believe anyone wouldn’t have a blast here, but if you aren’t enjoying it, why don’t leave?”
“I’m stuck, that’s why,” I said in a half snarl. “Your game is a trap! It won’t let go of me!”
“No, no, that’s impossible,” he said, setting down the knife to take another swig of rum. “I had the programmers write in all sorts of safeguards against the program locking. It’s impossible.”
“Look deep into my eyes,” I said through gritted teeth. “Do I look like I’m having so much fun I never want to leave the game?”
He took me at my word, setting down the flask before striding over to where I stood next to a tiny window. He took both my arms in his hands, leaning forward until our noses were almost touching. “You look…”
“What?” I asked on a breath, all the air suddenly having been stripped from my lungs. Standing so close to him was making me a little dizzy, the scent of leather and man teasing my nose in a way that had dark, secret parts of me coming to life and starting to take interest in the proceedings. “What do I look?”
“Sexy,” he answered, his voice a rumble deep in his chest, his fingers hard on my arms as he pulled me toward him.
My hands unfisted, but rather than pushing him away from me as I thought they would, they slid up the front of his leather jerkin in a caress that gave me as much pleasure as it gave him, if not more. Beneath the warm leather I could feel the contours of his chest, my fingers skimming lightly over the jerkin as if they were mapping out terrain.
“Really? I don’t think anyone has ever called me that,” I finally managed to say.
Croak might be another description— my voice was suddenly very hoarse.
“Then you have not met the right man,” he answered, his breath fanning across my mouth as he spoke. “Because I think you have all the qualifications. Would you mind if I kissed you now?”
“Mind? Well…” I said slowly, pretending to think about it. My body knew better. It was all but throwing itself on him. I let my fingers wander up to his neck, tangling them in the short curls of his hair. “I have this policy against kissing murderers and kidnappers, and you’re both.”
“Says who?” he asked, his hands sliding up my arms to my shoulders, then down my ribcage. Even through the barrier of my clothing, little rivulets of molten pleasure followed his touch.
His mouth was hot. Hot and spicy and tasting of rum, his tongue flicking across my lips in a polite request for admission. I tried to tell my lips to stand firm, reminding them of my rules of sexual engagement(cautionhad hitherto been my byword), informing them that I wasn’t about to suck the tongue out of a man I’d just met a few days before, but my lips were traitors. They parted without the slightest display of modesty, allowing the kiss to deepen and change from an act that seemed pleasing to something much more profound.
I shivered a shiver of blatant excitement as his lips parted from mine, my thoughts so muddled I couldn’t seem to hold on to one for longer man a second or two. “Um? What were we talking—oh, the crew. They aren’t real people, are they? I mean, you know they’re not real. Before, when I thought you were one of them, that bothered me because from your point of view, that poor crew was real, but you’re not, and you know they’re not, and now that I know that you know they’re not, it’s all different.”
“Amy, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
