by Carol Caiton
Sighing, she turned away from the koi pond and started back along the path that had brought her there. She lost her way twice, forgetting which turn led to the main walkway, but after a while she ended up at the food court. Central to everything, it wouldn't be hard to figure out how to get where she needed to go.
She looked around to reorient herself. Then, surprisingly, there he was, sitting alone at an outside table with a cup of something cradled between both hands. Dark blond hair touched his collar. It was just this side of messy and he wore a gray T-shirt declaring him to be a protector of Florida's manatee population. The raw cut under his eye looked as though he'd been in a barroom brawl and she guessed he'd been involved in the violent protest she'd seen on the news.
He was watching her. Maybe he'd spotted her before she'd spotted him.
He didn't smile, but he didn't frown either. So she started toward him, heart beating rapidly in her chest.
She gave him the same respect for space that he'd given her, stopping several inches away from the other side of his table. Then she tilted her head to the side and told him quite simply, "I haven't picked my nose for at least two weeks."
And following that impish remark, with knees as wobbly as marshmallows, she turned and walked away. Her hair floated around her arms in the soft breeze, and she skirted the surrounding tables with absolutely no idea where she was going.
Her stomach churned. Her pulse tripped over itself in exhilarated terror. For the first time in her life—the first time in her life—she'd flirted with a man. She wanted to cry with the thrill of it and hide with the fear of it. She could scarcely breathe through all the emotion bursting inside.
What on earth had come over her?
* * *
Deep sky-blue. She had deep sky-blue eyes.
Michael shoved away from his desk with such propelling force, his chair rolled a good six feet and his elbow slammed into the corner of the filing cabinet behind him. "Ouch! Shit!"
Who the hell was she?
He had no idea how many searches he'd run. Seemed like a hundred. He'd entered a whole range of keywords, from hair color to hair length and a shitload of other combinations and variations. He'd looked at so many photos, the faces had started blurring together. And he still had zip.
She wasn't a guest. She would've had a security escort nearby if she'd been a guest. So that meant she was a client. Still, she must be a new client. A really new client. 'Cause he wouldn't have missed that hair. But short of pulling up the images of every female in the database, he was running out of options.
Unless . . . .
Pushing off with one hand on the filing cabinet, he rolled back across to his keyboard with renewed purpose.
Rachel.
Mason had said her name was Rachel Something-or-other. She was his brother's sister-in-law. Future sister-in-law. That was enough to go on.
Adrenaline zinged into his veins and his fingers flew across the keyboard. He had her this time. He knew it.
The system called up fourteen Rachels and he skimmed the list until her found her last name. Oslund. That was it—Rachel Oslund.
He clicked on the name . . . and there she was. Sky-blue eyes, pert little nose, flower-bud lips, and pretty as a porcelain doll.
"Gotcha, sweetheart." Satisfaction curved his lips.
So, she was a guest after all—with special qualifications. And that meant she was on property to see Dalton. Or maybe she'd already seen him. But he didn't think so. He didn't figure she'd be walking around RUSH doing the tourist thing after a session with Dalton Cooper.
Pulling out his cell phone, he started to punch the speed-dial button for Ethan, then remembered Ethan didn't head up Security anymore.
"Shit."
He punched the code for Security Central instead and his call was answered on the first ring.
"This is Michael Vassek. Is Jeremiah in or out?"
"In," the operator answered. "Passing you through."
Michael waited. Anyone over at Security could run a trace for him but he didn't want just anyone. Ethan had recommended Jeremiah Case, so Case would be the one to handle personal requests. He'd do it quickly and discretely and he'd be the one the rest of them called now that Ethan had taken himself out of the game.
"Case here."
"Your first name has too many syllables in it."
"I told my mother the same thing. What do you need, Michael?"
"I need to put your number on my speed dial."
Jeremiah recited his phone number then said, "What else can I do for you?"
"A trace. Last name Oslund."
"First name Rachel?"
"That's her."
"She has a two o'clock with Dalton in Classroom C. Does that help?"
"How the hell did you know that off the top of your head?"
"Because I'm good."
Jeremiah paused long enough to let that sink in, then he chuckled and said, "I'm getting ready to go monitor her stress levels. Walking out the door as we speak."
Michael grunted. "Okay. Thanks."
"Anything else?"
"Nope."
He disconnected the call and took a quick minute to program Jeremiah's number into his phone. Then he looked over at the image of Rachel Oslund on his monitor, grinned, and stood up.
