The Tycoon's Baby. Leigh Michaels

noisy, for even during the change of shifts the machines kept running. As Janey crossed the factory floor to check in with her supervisor, her safety goggles were still dangling on their strap around her neck, but she made sure her electronic earmuffs were already in place. The earmuffs were less than comfortable, but the up-to-date engineering muted the roar of the machinery while allowing the human voice to come through loud and strong. Janey wasn’t so sure that was really a technological advance; given her choice, she’d have opted for cotton balls instead so she wouldn’t have to listen to her fellow workers. Certain ones of them, at any rate.

      She arrived at her assigned post with a minute to spare, and the man who’d operated the machine on the day shift stepped aside. “It’s been running a little wild,” he said. “I’ve been adjusting it all day, but it keeps throwing the shavings instead of dropping them into the bin. I’m starting to think we’ve got a bad batch of steel and it’s not the machine at all.”

      “Great,” Janey muttered, and watched intently as he showed her the adjustments he’d made. As soon as he left she pulled up a tall stool so she could perch high enough to keep an eye on every moving part. If she was going to have to baby-sit the machine, she might as well be comfortable.

      The man at the next machine called, “Wish I could sit down on the job.”

      She looked over in surprise. The man who usually ran that piece of equipment—the one who so frequently entertained himself by tossing suggestive remarks at Janey—was nowhere to be seen, and this worker was obviously settling in for the shift.

      The wave of relief that surged over Janey surprised her just a little. She hadn’t realized how tightly controlled she’d been until suddenly she was free of the need to guard herself at every moment.

      Enjoy it while it lasts, she told herself. He’ll probably be back tomorrow.

      Despite the warnings, the machine seemed to be on its best behavior through the first half of the shift. As her hands automatically moved pieces from the supply pile to the machine to the pallet full of processed metal ready to move on to the next step, Janey’s brain was reviewing that last lecture and thinking ahead to next week’s test.

      It was almost time for her midshift break when the machine began to groan and rattle as the day worker had warned it might, and she slowed it to a crawl and reached for the tool kit.

      She had just opened the safety guard to make the necessary adjustments when the substitute worker next to her suggested that the two of them coordinate their break time so they could spend a few minutes in the back seat of his car—and he didn’t hesitate to describe the activity he had in mind.

      Janey was so taken aback that she turned to stare at him, and in the instant her attention was distracted the cutting blade caught and jerked and flung a red-hot fragment. It hit the unprotected skin on the side of her neck, and she heard the sizzle even before she felt the heat.

      She dropped the safety guard shut and cupped a gloved hand over the wound, wincing as the pain surged in waves like an incoming tide.

      Within a minute the supervisor was beside her. “Dammit, Griffin,” he said, “we were working our way up to a perfect injury-free month, and now you do this.”

      The man at the next machine said virtuously, “It’s a good thing I asked you about your family just then, Griffin. If you hadn’t turned your head you’d have gotten that piece of steel right in the face.”

      Between the pain and his bold-faced lie, Janey was too stunned even to speak.

      “That’s about the way it looks to me,” the supervisor said. “What were you thinking of to open the safety guard, anyway?”

      From behind Janey came another voice—rich and deep, with a note which almost sounded like kindness. “Gentlemen, let’s treat the injury before we dissect the accident.”

      Slowly, as if she were a music box figurine with no say in her own movements, Janey turned to face the man who’d spoken.

      She’d seen Webb Copeland before, of course; he frequently walked the production lines, though not usually at this hour of the evening. But she’d never been this close to him before.

      He was taller than she’d thought. Or perhaps it was the charcoal trench coat he wore, open over a pin-striped gray suit, which emphasized both his height and the width of his shoulders.

      His eyes, she noted, were the same silvery gray as the steel she handled every day, though they didn’t look as chilly. His dark brows were drawn together, giving his entire face an expression of concern that was even more appealing than his good looks.

      And then Janey noticed something really odd. The smell of oil in the factory was so strong that she’d never been aware of any other scent before. But now from four feet away she could breathe the essence of Webb Copeland’s cologne. In fact, the aroma made her feel just a little dizzy...

      His eyes narrowed. “You’re going to the infirmary right now to get that burn looked at. In fact, I’ll take you down.”

      Janey’s feminist streak wanted to say, I’ll go to the infirmary when and if I darned well please, and I don’t need to be delivered there like a package. But common sense interceded and she obediently walked beside him across the factory floor to the door that led to the office wing.

      As the roar of the factory faded, Janey realized she was still wearing her electronic earmuffs, and she snatched them off. The office wing stretched before them, its silence almost more deafening than the roar of the machines.

      She broke it hesitantly. “I don’t even know where the infirmary is.”

      “If that’s your way of telling me you’re not in the habit of injuring yourself on the job, don’t worry,” he said with a trace of humor. “If you were, I’d have heard about it by now.”

      “That’s not... I just meant I’ve only been in the office wing once, and that was the day I was hired.”

      “When was that?”

      Janey said reluctantly, “Two months ago.” She wondered if he was thinking, as she was, that there was still another month to go before the company would decide if she was an employee they wanted to keep or more trouble than she was worth.

      Great move, Janey, she told herself. You don’t only break the safety record, but you do it right in front of the boss. And then you point out how inexperienced you are.

      A middle-aged woman in a long white lab coat stepped out of a room at the end of a hallway. “The supervisor called to tell me you were on the way,” she said. “Let me take a look.” She inspected the side of Janey’s neck and shook her head. “Second degree burn—bad enough, but it’s not large and not particularly deep. It’ll hurt like fury for a while, and you’ll probably have a very interesting scar. Come on in. Let’s get it clean so we can see about minimizing the damage.”

      The toe of Janey’s steel-reinforced work shoe caught on the threshold of the treatment room, and she stumbled.

      Webb Copeland caught her arm and steadied her. “Those things aren’t much like ballet slippers, are they?”

      “Not unless ballet slippers weigh half a ton apiece.” She glanced around the room and decided to sit in a chair rather than climb onto the examining table. “I wouldn’t know, because I never took dance lessons.”

      He said evenly, “Of course not. I beg your pardon.”

      Embarrassed at her sharpness, Janey rubbed her temple. “Sorry to snap at you. Look, I didn’t intend to come off like a clinging vine just now. I don’t make a habit of tripping over thin air and expecting the nearest man to catch me. I jog. I lift weights.” At least I used to, when I had time, she thought. “I even changed the oil in my car when I had one. So if you’re harboring any doubts about whether I really can run that machine, Mr. Copeland—”

      He leaned against a rank of stainless steel cabinets. “I thought you’d get to the point eventually.”