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  TALK NERDY TO ME

  Copyright © 2006 by Vicki Lewis Thompson. Tip-in photo © Shirley Green

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in die case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 1001ft

  ISBN: 0-312-93907-8

  BAN: 9780312-93907-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / February 2006

  St Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To the real Eve,

  who happens to be my

  extremely glamorous, black office cat;

  and to the real David and Jill Henkel,

  who happen to be married and living happily ever after.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to my engineering persona consultants. What would I have done without you? Kudos to Patty Anderson, Barb Betke, Lynn Bielin, Benjamin Foresta, Nicole Hulst, Ericka and Don Poletti, Julie Wang, and Gina Watson-Haley for sending me advice, jokes, and encouragement on the subject of engineering nerds. If I screwed this up, it's my fault, not yours!

  And as always, I'm grateful for the unwavering support of my editor, Jennifer Enderlin, and all the folks at St. Martin's Press; my agent, Maureen Walters; my husband Larry; and my daughter and assistant, Audrey Sharpe.

  Chapter One

  The explosion caught Charlie by surprise. People didn't usually blow things up in Middlesex, Connecticut, especially at four in the afternoon. But as Charlie rode his Harley down Elm Street, something exploded behind the metal door of an ordinary two-car garage.

  The door was still rattling as he made a U-turn and swerved his bike into the drive, skidding on layers of snow and ice. He damned near hit the Civic Hybrid parked there.

  Leaping from his bike, he ran toward the garage. "Don't panic! I'm here!" He banged on the door. "Can you hear me? Are you okay?"

  "Yes!" The voice was muffled and female. And she was coughing.

  "I'm calling 911!" He reached for the cell phone clipped to his jeans pocket.

  "No! Don't do that!" More coughing.

  He paused, his finger over the send button. "Why not?"

  "Because I'm fine!"

  Charlie needed more information. There had been an explosion, for God's sake. And there was this funny smell seeping out of the cracks around the garage door molding. "Can you open the door? You could be in shock or something."

  "Honestly." She coughed again. "I'm okay."

  "Are you sure?" Charlie tried to picture himself climbing back on his bike and riding away without knowing what had caused the explosion and whether the woman in the garage was as fine as she claimed. Nope, couldn't do it. "Open the door. I need to know you're okay."

  After a moment of silence, the door started up. Then it quickly stopped, leaving a gap of six inches. The funny smell grew stronger.

  "See there?" Charlie breathed in the fumes and the back of his throat tickled. He cleared his throat. "Now your door's jammed."

  "No, it's ... uh, yeah! It must be jammed! But I'm fine, really." She coughed twice. "Here's my hand, in one piece."

  Charlie stared at the hand she stuck through the six-inch opening. He thought of Thing from The Addams Family, except her hand was a lot prettier than Thing. She was wearing a pink sweater with the cuff turned back over a very delicate wrist.

  She wiggled her fingers. "See? Everything works." Her nails looked manicured, although she wasn't wearing polish. No rings, either. She'd have to be lying on her back on the garage floor in order to stick her hand out like that. Maybe she'd landed on the floor after the explosion.

  But that made no sense, because she'd just activated the garage door opener. Sure, she could have been holding the opener at the time of the blast, but that was highly improbable, which meant she was lying there specifically to stick her hand out and convince him she wasn't maimed. She was hiding something in that garage.

  Just his luck, that kind of behavior intrigued him. Not too many women he knew caused explosions and then tried to pretend nothing had happened. None, in fact. He dropped to one knee and took off his helmet so he could peek under the door, but the warm air coming out made his glasses fog so he couldn't see much of anything. "What's that smell?" Now he'd started coughing, too.

  She pulled her hand back inside. "I'm... um . .. making something."

  "Moonshine?" Charlie had never smelled moonshine, but he'd tasted his share of cheap whiskey in his under-grad days. This garage had distillery written all over it, not that he cared, philosophically speaking. He was just damned curious.

  Her laughter was interspersed with more coughing. "Are you a revenuer?"

  "No, I'm an engineer." His knee was getting cold where it rested on the icy cement. His leather chaps helped, but he decided to shift to the other knee to balance out the chill factor.

  "An engineer? The choo-choo kind or the brainy kind?"

  "The electrical kind." He tried not to breathe the fumes. "I work at Middlesex Light and Power." At least for now. Before the end of the month he'd have his new position nailed down at Hoover Dam. At that point the ML & P would have to survive without him.

  "Interesting." Her coughing fit seemed to have ended. "Are you out reading meters?"

  "No. I have a desk job." He shifted knees again.

  "Then why aren't you there? At your desk?"

  "In winter I come in an hour early so I can knock off at four. Look, we're straying from the topic here. Are you sure you're okay? Some injuries have a delayed reaction. You can bleed to death without really knowing you're hurt."

  "I'm not bleeding."

  "It could be internal. I've heard of people who had no idea they were wounded and then bam! They keel over dead."

  "That would be bad." She didn't sound as if she were taking this seriously at all. "Are you qualified to assess internal bleeding?"

  "Well, no. But I'll bet I could tell if you were mortally wounded or not." Besides, he wanted to know what she was hiding in there. "If this door's jammed, you could come to the front door." And after he'd made sure she was fine, he'd talk her into letting him into the garage.

  "What happens at four that you take off from work early?"

  "I like to shoot pool at the Rack and Balls before dinner. I was on my way there when I heard the explosion. Naturally I stopped." He could still smell the noxious odor, but it was much fainter.

  "I appreciate your concern. I really do."

  "Anyone would have done the same. And speaking as an engineer, I'm not sure you should be breathing those fumes."

  "The Rack and Balls has a pool table?" "Yeah." It was common knowledge. "You must be new here."

  "I bought the house in October. I guess that's new."

  With that, Charlie's brain processed the data and came up with an ID. She was the New York model who'd moved to Middlesex last fall. Both his mother and his aunt Myrtle had mentioned that a model had bought a house on Elm Street and she sometimes came into the bakery. But she'd only allow herself one cinnamon roll and then she'd make it last several days.

  And what was her name, anyway? Erin? Elise? He couldn't remember. But now he was really confused about the explosion. Fashion models and explosions only coexisted in James Bond movies.

  Curiosity made him ignore the cold cement. Leaning down, he balanced on his forearm and took off his glasses so they wouldn't fog up while he tried to get another look inside the garage. He ended up with a fuzzy view of denim overalls and lots of brown wavy hair. He couldn't see her face and he definitel
y couldn't see what was going on in the garage.

  Obviously she wasn't planning to open the door all the way. He might never find out what had caused the explosion, but at the very least he needed to make sure that she wasn't in shock and therefore numbed to the pain of something like a piece of metal sticking in the back of her skull.

  "About the pool table," she said. "Is it full-sized or bar-sized?"

  "It's an Olhausen eight-footer."

  "Really?" She sounded more than a little interested.

  He knew she could be faking that interest to distract him, but somehow he didn't think so. It seemed as if she recognized the make of the pool table. He acted on impulse. "Want to come with me and try it out?"

  In the resulting silence, he could almost see wisps of indecision curling out from under the door along with the noxious fumes. Of course she was hesitating. A New York model might not see herself playing pool with just any schmuck who happened along after an unscheduled explosion.

  In point of fact, he'd never envisioned himself playing pool with a New York model, either, regardless of whether an explosion had preceded the game or not. But pool required such concentration and coordination that even one game would probably be enough to convince him that she was okay.

  If she was new in town she might not have any close friends who would check on her tonight. She could lapse into unconsciousness and he on the garage floor for hours, maybe even days, before anyone noticed. She could die in there and not be discovered until she failed to show up on some runway or another.

  Time to get tough. "Here's the deal," he said. "If you'll come down to the Rack and Balls and play a game of pool with me, I'll be able to see for myself that you're not hurt. If you won't, I'm going to call 911 right now."

  "I'd rather you didn't call 911."

  "That's pretty clear. Obviously, whatever you're building is top secret, but I can't let myself leave you lying on your garage floor, when something could be seriously wrong with you."

  "I see. Well, come to think of it, I wouldn't mind a game of pool."

  He smiled with relief. "Great! We can ride over on my motorcycle. I always carry an extra helmet."

  "Thanks, but I'll meet you there. It's an easy walk. So you go ahead. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

  He wished she'd come out right now, but she probably wanted to fix her face. Women always wanted to fix their face, and that had to go double for models. After an explosion it would be even more critical. "Okay, but if you're not there in thirty minutes, a truck full of paramedics will arrive on your doorstep."

  She laughed. "All right, all right, I've got it!" Then she stuck her hand through the opening again. "Eve Dupree."

  Eve. That was it. He took off his glove, reached down, and shook her hand. "Charlie Shepherd." She had a soft hand, a firm grip, and warm skin. Not everyone had a really good handshake, the kind that made you think the person was worth knowing. Eve did. Shaking hands through the bottom of a garage door without being able to see her felt sort of kinky and sexy, like making love with masks on. Not that he'd ever done that.

  "Well, Charlie Shepherd, I'll see you in twenty minutes at the Rack and Balls."

  "But not a minute later."

  "I'll be there." She pulled her hand back inside. "And bring your A game."

  "You bet." Charlie's A game was pretty good. He didn't expect to need to perform at that level, but you never knew. A fashion model who exploded stuff in her garage might be closer to a James Bond heroine than he thought. She might be a pool shark.

  As Charlie stood up and walked back to his bike, Eve scooted toward the opening in the garage door. Turning on her side, she pushed her prescription goggles tight against her face so she could get a good look at the guy she'd just agreed to play pool with, a guy with an electrical engineering degree. She couldn't decide which was more exciting, the chance to play pool or the chance to play pool with an electrical engineer.

  Much as she hated to admit it, she could really use an engineer right now. But she had to evaluate this guy's character before saying anything about her project. She wasn't spilling the beans to just anybody who happened along.

  Then she caught her first glimpse of Charlie's jeans-covered ass framed in black motorcycle chaps and character became a secondary issue. Her reaction to seeing that great butt was a shock. Ever since she'd run screaming from Lyle's proposal in September, her libido had been in time-out.

  No longer, apparently. Maybe Charlie's white-knight rescue attempt had started the sap flowing through her dormant sexual equipment. Whatever the cause, she found herself getting turned on by those excellent buns. Then there was the added attraction of his black leather jacket. Nothing made a guy's shoulders look broader or his hips leaner than a black motorcycle jacket. She'd fallen for the Fonz as a kid and had never gotten over that crush.

  But Fonzie hadn't been much of a student. Charlie was a brainy guy decked out in a Fonzie outfit. Eve couldn't imagine a better combination than that. Fortunately, Charlie didn't have Fonzie hair, either. Brown and un-gelled, it looked thick enough for a girl to bury her fingers in and wavy enough to make that experience sensual.

  She wondered if he had a girlfriend. Not likely. A guy who had a girlfriend wouldn't be so quick to invite a woman to play pool with him.

  Okay, so she was interested. Still, she might have a hard time flirting with him unless she told him what she was inventing in her garage. He obviously wanted to know about that.

  When he turned around so he could sling one of his long legs over his macho motorcycle, she pushed back from the door. No point in taking a chance that he'd glance down and see her face wedged in the opening as she checked him out. Besides, she needed to get going if she expected to make herself presentable so she could arrive at the Rack and Balls before Charlie sent the paramedics to her door.

  Getting to her feet, she assessed the damage in the garage. The rotary engine on her workbench was trashed, as was a chunk of the bench itself. The veggie fuel was way more volatile than she'd expected. Maybe she'd added too much broccoli.

  She'd hit the deck fast enough to avoid flying metal, but she'd singed her hair. That wouldn't be popular when she went into the city tomorrow to shoot the toothpaste ad, but they could airbrush the frizzy parts. She probably should have waited to test her newest version of the fuel, but now that she had space for her experiments, she hated putting things off. Thanks to her impatience, she'd have to buy a new engine.

  At least the hovercraft was okay. She glanced at the purple disc-shaped object that took up more than half the garage. Thank goodness no metal fragments had lodged in the fiberglass hull of the hovercraft. The day she'd found the flying saucer mock-up on eBay had been a glorious one, indeed. She'd never get that lucky again, and she loved how her purple paint job made the hovercraft stand out.

  But there would be no more progress on the project tonight, so she might as well find out how Charlie Shepherd handled a cue stick and whether he had a decent screw shot. You could tell a lot about a guy from the way he played pool.

  Charlie fought the urge to wait outside the Rack and Balls for Eve to show up. But hanging around outside the tavern wouldn't get her there any faster and it would make him look dorky. So he pushed open the heavy oak door and walked in. If she didn't arrive in fifteen minutes, he'd retrace his path to her house, in case she'd collapsed on the way.

  The interior of the Rack and Balls smelled comfortingly familiar—a combination of cedar smoke from the log-burning fireplace in the corner, the aroma of clam chowder on the stove in the back, and the acrid scent of beer on tap at the bar.

  A huge set of elk antlers hung on the wall behind the bar. On one side a basketball autographed by Michael Jordan hung suspended by a piece of basketball netting, and on the other side hung a football signed by every member of Middlesex High's 1992 state championship team.

  The antlers and sports memorabilia were one socially acceptable explanation for the tavern's name. The pool table that took ce
nter stage was another. Either explanation could be used when kids were around.

  But everyone in town knew that the tavern's owner, Archie Townsend, appreciated stacked women and good sex, so he'd most likely named the Rack and Balls with no thought to sports or pool equipment. A burly guy with a thick black beard, Archie had tried monogamy and had found it too confining.

  He was behind the bar washing glasses when Charlie walked in. "Hey, Charlie, how're they hanging?"

  "Just fine, Archie." Charlie took off his jacket and chaps and left them on a peg by the door before taking a seat on one of the vinyl-cushioned bar stools.

  "Sam Adams?"

  "Not yet, thanks."

  Archie gazed at him with the kind of scrutiny that time and mutual affection allowed. "Expecting somebody?" "Uh ... yeah."

  "A woman, judging from the look in your eye." Archie flipped his towel over his shoulder and leaned against the scarred oak bar. "Not Mariah, I hope."

  "No." Charlie noticed he felt no twinge of regret when Mariah was mentioned. It had taken a few months, but he was definitely over her.

  "That's good. She wasn't right for you."

  Charlie didn't think so, either, mostly because Mariah had labeled his proposed relocation to Nevada a stupid idea. "Maybe I wasn't right for her. Did you ever think of it that way, Archie?"

  "Well, no, on account of any woman would be lucky to hook up with you." Archie used the towel to polish a section of the bar. "If I had a daughter, I'd advise her to chase your ass all the way to Hoover Dam."

  Charlie laughed. "Thanks for the vote of confidence." Good old Archie. He'd come to mean even more to Charlie now that his dad was gone. Hard to believe it had been fourteen months since the funeral. Fortunately, his mom had perked up in the past couple of months. Helping Aunt Myrtle in the bakery was taking her mind off widowhood.

  "You get that interview set up yet?" Archie asked.

  "I heard from them this morning. I fly out to Vegas a week from next Wednesday." Thanks to Aunt Myrtle and the bakery, Charlie didn't feel so guilty about the new job prospect.