by Carol Caiton
Her pale green eyes softened again and she gave a brief nod. "You're welcome."
When Nina left the salon her skin tingled, fresh and rejuvenated. The light fragrance of honeysuckle and that faint dash of cinnamon surrounded her with a soft, fragrant aura. It drifted to her nostrils if she happened to turn just so, or when a breeze caught her hair and swept it across her face.
Marguerite had given her good advice. Seated outside, she tried to ignore the other diners. As she'd been told, fewer than half the tables were occupied. But walking across the food court hadn't been easy. She knew she looked better than she'd ever looked in her life. But maintaining good posture pushed her already enlarged breasts outward and she felt as though she intentionally invited the stares, silently asked every stranger to ogle her visible nipples and the naked flesh above.
So she compromised. She didn't hide away in the dining room as she would have liked. But she chose an umbrella table beside the fountain and sat facing the water. It wasn't a dark corner, but it allowed her to eat in relative peace. At least Simon Yetzer was nowhere about.
When her meal was finished, she prepared herself mentally for the walk back to the R-link complex and managed the distance without stumbling, slouching, or attempting to cover her cleavage.
In the lobby she found Stephanie Wheeler, clipboard in hand, assisting a dark-haired woman as they sorted through rack after rack of clothing. The other woman, she learned, was her advisor Jen Limason. And the clothing—all of it—was for Nina.
After her initial astonishment, she counted the racks. There were nine. Nine racks of clothing designed and stitched to fit her body, every shade and tone chosen to complement her coloring. The cost was unthinkable. If she left RUSH now, not only would she have to pay the price of her breast injections, but thousands upon thousands of dollars would be added to her debt to compensate for an unbelievable abundance of clothing.
With each passing day she found herself more deeply entangled in this beautiful web. Cybil Matheson at Member Services had advised her to take a few days to think it over before filling out an R-link application, but Nina had refused. Even now she remembered pushing away the doubt in favor of the chance—the thrill—to live in this luxurious setting, to be pampered, to wear beautiful clothes and have her breasts enhanced free of charge. And that foolishness, the selfishness and vanity of it, was coming back to punish her.
She walked over to one of the racks. Winter wasn't far off and the row of sweaters caught her eye, some as short as the one she now wore, some so fine and loosely woven, she'd absolutely have to wear something beneath them. She smoothed her fingers down a wine colored sleeve and her throat closed a little tighter. So soft. So beautiful.
One rack held nothing but skirts, several so miniscule, they might be mistaken for tube tops. Another displayed a full row of dresses, some protected by plastic sleeves, most of them barely long enough to reach her thighs. Still another accommodated blouses and another, pullover tops, both long- and short-sleeved, some with crisscrossing straps, others that dangled from their hangers, reminding her of oversized headbands.
Gi pants and T-shirts, lounging attire and filmy nightwear overtook two more racks. Jeans, leggings, and a row of jeggings—long, short, and calf-length—lined another. And not to be overlooked, yet another smaller rack was lined end-to-end with matching sets of underwear in a beautiful array of colors.
Thus the reason for a huge closet.
Jen Limason reached for two end bars and began rolling two of the racks toward the elevator. That was when Nina saw all the boxes stacked up against the wall. Then Stephanie turned, caught sight of her, and smiled.
"Nina. Hi."
Jen stopped and introductions were made. Everything on the racks did indeed belong to Nina, as well as the boxes and two coats, both wrapped in plastic and draped over the reception counter. One appeared casual, the other a more formal length.
Stephanie and Jen had been taking inventory, which had just been completed. Jen signed off on the invoice, then Nina's signature was required for verification of receipt. Hiding her dismay, she skimmed through the pages and added her name to the bottom of the last. She felt almost ill.
Half an hour later, when all nine racks, both coats, and the stacks of boxes had been transferred to her apartment, Jen said, "Alternate styles each day—a skirt one day, legging the next, then a dress, jeans, and so forth." Then she told Nina to leave the empty racks next to the elevator and come to her office once everything had been put away.
In the sudden quiet, Nina stood inside the door and stared at the staggering array of clothing that crowded her living and dining rooms. She reached for the nearest armchair, eased down onto the cushioned seat, and burst into tears.
Ironically, Marguerite came to mind. The queen of beauty police would assign yet another five hours of salon time if she kept up these bouts of crying. But the stream of tears wouldn't stop and when one tear dropped to the bare skin of her all but naked breast, she cried that much harder.
Some time later she stood in front of the bathroom mirror to survey the damage. She'd cried away her makeup and her eyes were red and puffy. Resigned, she freshened up, then took herself back to the living room.
She rolled one rack, then another down the hallway to her bedroom and began transferring everything to the walk-in closet. This time it filled up so quickly, she wasn't sure it would hold everything RUSH had provided.
The task didn't take long, probably because the clothes were already grouped and on hangers. But she paused several times, brushing her fingers over the many splendid fabrics. Even the tank tops had been cut from the softest cotton she'd ever felt.
When she opened a drawer and began filling it with the rainbow of underwear, she saw that each bra was accompanied by three pairs of panties, most of which were thongs, some a network of strings attached to a tiny triangle, and a few had no crotch at all.
Curious, she lifted up one of each pair, turning it this way and that, trying to determine which were the leg openings. Then she placed them neatly inside the drawer. At the end of the rack, a line of teddies had been included, some with garters, some without.
The first box she opened held an assortment of shawls, the next, a small selection of leather handbags. The fourth revealed the stockings she guessed would be somewhere in the mix. Picking up one of the packages, she saw they were silk and on further inspection of the box, not just five or six pairs, but dozens of packages. They filled the entire box, white, nude, or black, and not one was a pair of pantyhose.
The next box contained some of the Olida products she'd hoped to find. The next one, as well. She set both of those off to the side and reached for another. Bathing suits and cover-ups. The box after that was smaller, heavier, and held only two items. When she lifted them out, she found matching, hand-tooled jewelry boxes, each one large enough to hold more than she'd ever owned. Both were empty and she set them on two separate shelves. Another box held so many belts, they filled an entire drawer. Some were wide, some narrow, some leather, some chain, and some a woven combination of both.
Inside the next box she found the jewelry, so much it could have been a shipment for restocking a jewelry store. From earrings to toe rings, bracelets, wristwatches, necklaces, and rings for her fingers, the styles ranged from fine and delicate to chunky and dramatic, from metal to stones and shells. She discarded all the little boxes, arranged everything into the two jewelry boxes, then picked through the assortment for several minutes. Already her mind matched several pieces to the various articles of clothing she'd hung up.
Taking a break, she sat down on the floor and looked at the rows of clothing. All of this was hers, and the beautiful spectrum was perfect. It was like being caught up in a bizarre, spectacular Christmas.
She needed to walk over to the administrative building right now and sign that addendum. She should have done it before lunch, but Marguerite's instruction and the prospect of putting herself on display had overridden every other t
hought. Now, though, if she happened to be late for her appointment with Dr. Zeman, she'd have a legitimate excuse and she certainly wouldn't lose any sleep over it.
She glanced down at her breasts, at the deep cleavage exposed by the coral sweater. If the blue icon in her account was still there tomorrow evening, she'd let it sit indefinitely. If its presence allowed her to live at RUSH without the threat of impending sex, a thousand staring eyes wouldn't be a problem . . . eventually. She'd be sure to fulfill every other aspect of her contract so no one could fault her conduct. She'd follow any schedule her advisor drew up. She'd wear each and every article of clothing in this closet. And she'd sign up for every class that caught her interest, indulge herself, and relish every minute of wealth and extravagance this place had to offer. Because one way or another, she would have to pay for it. The blue icon wasn't going to sit idly forever. She wished she knew how it got there in the first place. But maybe she could ask for some time to consider it. After all, her contract was an R-link agreement. If Simon was the man at the other end of the icon, she could say she wanted time to get to know him before making a decision. Meanwhile, she'd look for a job, take on as many modeling assignments as possible, and save as much as she could before she had to move out. Then, like a thirty-year mortgage, she'd probably pay for this once-in-a-lifetime experience until her hair was gray.
She looked over her small collection of art supplies now sitting in a pile on the floor. The coat closet would hold them. It wasn't as though she had all that much.
She glanced at her watch and pushed to her feet. The shoes and everything else would have to wait until later. She wanted to sign the lawyer's addendum before it got any later. It wouldn't be easy standing face to face and talking with a man while her upper body was out there for the viewing, but the coral color of the sweater made it a little more difficult to distinguish her nipples, or so she told herself. Taking an extra minute, she sorted through the boxes from Olida Laboratories and repaired her makeup. Fortunately her eyes weren't red and puffy anymore.
At Jen's office she explained that she'd been told to meet with RUSH's attorney at some point today and found her advisor to be flexible.
"Go ahead. But don't forget your appointment with Dr. Zeman."
"I won't."
"And check your schedule tonight. I'm adding in some changes."
Nina nodded. "All right."
The temperature had risen and she wasn't cold at all in her meager attire. It wasn't unusual for a warm front to sweep through during November, but it could also change overnight and become chilly again.
She forgot to check the other side of the gate to see if Simon Yetzer might be out on the main path, then remembered it was Monday. A workday. He had numbers to analyze.
Heading toward the administrative building, she passed Checkpoint 2, conscious of her attire and the eyes that followed her. But she had a destination to reach and signing the board's addendum took priority over her unease.
The double doors swept open as she approached and the first person she saw was the pretty blonde—Denny—behind the reception desk.
She looked up and smiled as Nina approached. "Hi. It's Nina, right? How can I help you?"
Nina smiled in return. "You have a good memory. I'm here to sign some legal documents. Would you tell me where I'm supposed to go?"
"Is Mason expecting you?
"I think so. But I wasn't given an appointment."
The girl glanced up at the clock on the wall beside her desk, then back at Nina. "If you'll have a seat, I'll check with his secretary."
"Okay. Thanks." She walked over to the waiting area, picked up a magazine from one of the occasional tables, and sat down. She barely began flipping through the pages when a tall, handsome man entered the lobby and headed in her direction. He was the same dark-haired man she'd seen laughing with Simon in front of the checkpoint a couple of days ago. Not brothers then.
"Nina Millering?" he asked.
She rose to her feet. "Yes."
"I'm Mason Ingersol, attorney for RUSH."
She held out her hand, mildly surprised by the warmth in his eyes. "It's nice to meet you."
"Let's go back to my office," he invited, releasing her fingers.
Quickly replacing the magazine, she walked with him across the lobby. Did every building at RUSH have glistening marble floors?
Passing through an arched opening, they entered a wide corridor where bright sconce lights lit the way instead of overhead fluorescents. The plaster walls were creamy white and each doorway they passed was framed with woodwork for a white-on-white effect. Decorative niches, recessed in the walls, displayed various forms of sculpture, be it glass, metal, or clay, implying that whoever had designed this building had had an artist's eye and the funds to make even an office building elegant and beautiful.
The attorney's office was located at the far rear corner and looked out into RUSH's dense jungle through two intersecting walls of glass. With the draperies wide open, it was as though his desk sat in a small clearing amid the vegetation. If she'd ever had an office like this, she would have been daydreaming every time she looked up.
"Have a seat, Nina." He gestured toward two guest chairs positioned in front of his desk, then waited for her to sit down before he sat as well.
Two things occurred to her. First, Simon was probably working somewhere inside this building. As far as she knew, it was the only office building on the property. And second, along with all the other people Simon had told, this lawyer knew she was a virgin. What must he think of the membership package she'd chosen?
Heat crept into her face. Instinctively she raised a hand to her breast, only to remember Marguerite's warning, and dropped it awkwardly to her lap again.
A knowing look entered the attorney's eyes. Of course he would notice. And he must be curious. But he graciously refrained from using her embarrassment as an opening to ask uncomfortable questions. Instead, he lifted a sheet of paper from his desk. "Why don't you look this over and tell me if there's anything you don't agree with."
She took the single sheet, grateful to have something to focus on, and wondered if he'd just done her another courtesy. She glanced at the sheet, then looked across the desk to meet his eyes. "Thank you."
When he needed no explanation for her appreciation, she knew she was right. His mouth curved, and that warmth returned to his eyes. "You're welcome."
Her discomfort lingered, but she decided she liked this man. He might wonder about her insane decision to become an R-link, but he exerted himself to help her relax. She considered asking him about that forty-eight hour time limit, but he was RUSH's attorney, not hers. If he guessed that she'd received a colored icon when she shouldn't have, he might notify the appropriate people and make it go away.
So she turned her attention to the document and began reading. Immediately she noticed the careful wording and the diplomatic reference to her virginity as sexual inexperience. She noticed something else, as well, and looked up. "The board of directors wants to control my . . . physical participation, but no mention is made of a time frame."
"That's correct. The sensitive nature of this situation calls for a delay. That was my legal opinion, by the way. And a decision was made to leave the addendum open-ended. You'll be enrolled in all the standard classes every R-link is required to take except those involving sexual contact. And your sessions with Dr. Zeman will be weekly instead of monthly. After two or three sessions, the board will consult with him to determine the pace of your training."
"I see," she said, struggling to control her sudden, giddy relief. She looked down at the document again, letting her hair drift in front of her face.
"Do you understand why the board felt a need to take this step?" he asked. "If you'd like to suggest a tentative time frame, I'll bring it up at the next meeting."
She caught herself in the nick of time and calmly raised her eyes to his. "No. I don't mind leaving it open-ended for now." Then she lied right through her
teeth. "I'm sure Dr. Zeman will validate my suitability as an R-link—eventually."
So now she had to convince a practicing psychologist that she wanted to have sex with a hundred different men but in a way that would make him decide she wasn't quite ready to begin. Could this get any more difficult?
"May I use your pen?"
CHAPTER 14
Signing RUSH's addendum was a smart move. She'd been given an open-ended time frame and she'd stretch it out for as long as she could. It all rested on her acting ability. God. How did a person pretend she was excited and eager to have sex with a multitude of perverted men, but not too excited and eager?
She left the administrative building and turned toward the west side of the property. She was more conscious of the eyes following her this time, but she wasn't quite as nervous. Outside the walls of RUSH she would probably have been attacked. Inside, however, the male population appeared to take pleasure in just looking. And maybe it was just as Marguerite had suggested. It was simple appreciation for something worth looking at.
Remembering that bit of advice helped. She concentrated on projecting the image RUSH wanted and tried to enjoy, as Libby did, the compliment.
At Medical Services she rode the elevator to the second floor, lifting her chin and straightening her posture as she walked toward Dr. Zeman's office—another man she had to make direct contact with while half naked. But she needed to look confident . . . happy to be here . . . ready for an adventure. How on earth could she be all those things and appear nervous and wary at the same time?
Perturbed, she didn't understand why he wanted to meet with her at all. RUSH's application had been detailed and explicit enough to provide him with an accurate representation of her mental health. But she was locked into this, more so now that she'd signed Mason Ingersol's addendum.
Almost immediately she was shown into a large, sunny office where flourishing green plants crowded the credenza in front of a window. A balding, middle-aged man who made an expensive-looking business suit appear as casual as a soft flannel shirt smiled a warm welcome. Had she not been so nervous and on guard, his friendly regard would have paved the way for her to like him.
