Triple D Drones’ owner Dallas Dyson has made a fortune in the service drone industry. He’ll even lend a helping hand himself if someone’s in a pinch.
When Madelyn’s service drone breaks just before a dinner party, she calls Triple D Drones for help. When the new “Dallas” prototype shows up to lend a hand, Madelyn finds she needs help with more than serving dinner. Isn’t service what a Triple D drone does best?
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EXCERPT
Dallas Dyson had weathered his fair share of calamities, but this one threatened to expand far beyond the initial predictions. A tiny, fifty-cent relay wreaked havoc across his multi-billion-dollar, service-drone empire. The years it had taken to build his company into the industry standard, the long hours, hard work, and personal sacrifices would all be for nothing if he didn’t manage this crisis very carefully.
Almost eighty-percent of the Hazel I model drones around the world equipped with the Gamma Del Royce upgrade had crashed and burned. His screen lit up with information about the incoming caller, identifying her as one Madelyn Murphy. Damn. This customer had a GDR-equipped original Hazel. He took a deep breath and forced his lips into a smile.
“Triple D Drones. May I help you?”
Dark hair, dark eyes, the pale complexion of someone who took care not to allow sun damage to her skin, and a smudge of…Was that a parsley leaf on her otherwise perfect nose? Dallas discretely zoomed in for a closer look.
It was a basil leaf on her nose and olive oil in her hair. This didn’t bode well for the condition of her drone. The GDR upgrade involved Hazel’s cooking protocols.
Her full lower lip quivered. A drop of olive oil broke free and dripped from her bangs. Her eyes rounded in horror as she swiped her hand over her face.
“Oh, dear. I must look a fright,” she murmured. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re a drone.”
Drone? Not the last time he checked, he wasn’t. Last night, he’d been flesh and blood man as he sweated through his workout at the gym. His shoulders and thighs still ached from the punishment he inflicted on his body to keep it in shape. He checked her account.
She didn’t own a Triple D personal pleasure drone, but that didn’t mean some of her friends didn’t, which would explain why she thought him a drone. Not for the first time, he cursed his vast stupidity in basing the appearance of the Trent personal pleasure model on his own features.
Dallas quickly gave her the good and bad on her drone, his mind racing as it tried to come up with a temporary replacement for her.
“Ms. Murphy, we have isolated the problem with the Hazel I model with the most recent food preparation upgrade. However, we’re waiting for the repair part to become available.”
Her lovely face carefully arranged itself into a bland expression. She blinked rapidly, several times, her long, thick eyelashes dampened.
Dallas knew from experience to choose his next words carefully else he’d fall into the bottomless pit of feminine desperation. A woman’s tears sent him to his knees, every time, and this one hovered on the verge of major flooding.
“However, I’m available to assist you in any capacity necessary.”
He’d not planned on saying that. Good lord, how had that spilled from his lips? He’d lost his mind!
She stared at him, astonishment holding the tears at bay. He watched, mesmerized as the tip of her tongue flicked over her full lips. She cleared her throat—twice.
“I need an emergency replacement that can assist with preparation and serving a very important dinner party in…” She checked her watch. “Four hours. I need the replacement to arrive immediately.”
Insanity seized him, sucker-punched him right in the gut and he didn’t even feel the blow until it was too late to dodge it.
“I am trained as a chef, ma’am, and as a server with full host protocols. I will arrive in approximately thirty minutes.”
What the hell was wrong with him? He couldn’t impersonate a drone!
She nodded, forging brusquely ahead. “I’ll expect you to be prompt. Thirty minutes. Please be prepared to remain on call until my Hazel is repaired.” She pursed her lips. “And…um…activate your level five personal interaction chip before arriving.”
Dallas’ stomach plunged nervously even as his body sent out urgent, greedy pleas that he fulfill that level five personal interaction request to the best of his ability. After all, hadn’t he invented what was frequently called the ‘love machine’ chip? Hadn’t it made him a very wealthy man?
Before he could say another word, his screen blanked as Madelyn severed the link, eliminating the opportunity for him to tell her the truth before he reported for the assignment. Only one option remained.
Tough it out.
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MISCHIEF AT MIDNIGHT
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