Soul to Soul (RUSH, Inc. Book 2)

by Carol Caiton

Pushing through the chest-high hedge, he turned at the koi pond . . . and came to a jarring stop.

  Ho-ly fuck.

  Talk about angels.

  He only caught a glimpse of her before she ducked behind a bunch of stubby palms, but whoa, baby. She was small and slender with pale golden curls tumbling all the way down to her ass, and a face that looked as creamy smooth as perfection itself.

  "Too late," he called out. "I already saw you." Then he grinned. "So, unless you're back there pickin' your nose or something, you might as well come out."

  It took a few seconds but she poked her head around the trunk of a palm tree. Then, just as cautiously, she stepped out and faced him, not ten feet away . . . and oh, crap, wasn't she the sweetest looking little bit of female fluff he'd ever laid eyes on. Faded jeans hugged her like they were made for her. She wore a simple white pullover beneath a short tan jacket, a couple of dainty necklaces, and that hair . . . . Oh, honey.

  Never in his life had he applied the word 'enchanted' to himself but damn if he wasn't.

  Until he looked into her eyes.

  Then every fleeting fantasy, every charming word on the tip of his tongue vanished before he even opened his mouth.

  He didn't know how he knew. He just knew. And when he did open his mouth, the words that came out were words he'd never spoken to another living soul.

  "I was eleven years old."

  Then he shut his mouth. Tight.

  For the barest moment her brow furrowed, then her eyes widened with comprehension and she stared back at him for silent seconds. Something—respect maybe, for the mutual survival of an unspeakable atrocity—softened her blue eyes and she gave him a small acknowledging nod.

  But he was shaken. Not sure what had just happened and plenty spooked, he spun around and walked away.

  * * *

  Rachel watched him disappear back into the greenery. What had he seen when he looked at her? How could he have known?

  Reaching up, she closed her hand around her upper arm where a monster had left her with a disfiguring scar. But that scar was hidden beneath her jacket. It was thin now, a little jagged, and had long since healed.

  She brought her hand back down to her side. There was nothing in the way she carried herself that singled her out. She would have known it before now. Whoever he was, he'd seen something else. Something no one else had ever seen. Because what just happened had never happened before.

  A light breeze swept her hair forward. Absently she brushed it back behind her. Whatever he'd seen, he'd recognized it right away. Then he'd maintained a non-threatening distance. But just as startling, he'd revealed his own nightmare. With a single sentence, five words, he told her he knew what had happened to her, that he'd suffered a similar experience and that he carried, as well, all the tortuous memories that went with it. And then he'd left. Which gave her the necessary breathing room to assimilate it, and him, and decide what to do about both.

  Naturally she was curious. She wanted to know who he was and, if nothing else, ask him what he'd seen when he'd looked at her.

  Pushing up the cuff of her jacket, she checked the time. She had forty-five minutes before her first session with Dalton Cooper. It was ridiculous to think she could wander around RUSH looking for one particular person and expect to find him. The grounds were vast. The jungle branched out everywhere and more than a dozen buildings were scattered throughout. He could have disappeared into any one of them just as he'd stepped off the sidewalk and disappeared into the landscaping.

  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, flowerbud 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."
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  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.

  CHAPTER 2

  More than three years had passed since the developers of RUSH, Inc. broke ground in Orlando. They were a small group of businessmen who had purchased several acres of low-lying marshland in a city known for family theme parks, tourist attractions, and a world-class convention center. The marsh had been drained, covered with clay, and truckload after truckload of dirt had been brought in. For months, traffic maneuvered around the barricades on International Drive, residents and tourists alike glancing curiously at the project underway.

  Unlike other construction sites however, no colorful artist's rendering had been out on display to show a representation of the architect's vision. Perhaps it would be another tourist attraction. Or a shopping mall. Or another high-priced, gated community. Then traffic would clear the last barricade and the site was forgotten as curiosity gave way to other points of interest.

  Over time, a number of large, official-looking buildings sprang up, adding a small college campus to the list of possibilities. Then more dirt had been brought in, raising the foundation to an elevation slightly above street level. And directly after that a sprawling, ten-foot-high stucco wall was erected around the entire perimeter along with towering wrought-iron gates that closed off the property from inquisitive passersby and further speculation.

  Eventually, a gleaming brass plaque appeared, mounted on a column beside the immense gate that read, simply,

  RUSH, Inc.

  The plaque, however, only confirmed that the property was owned by a corporation and once again, the public took it in stride when a convoy of trucks passed through the gates weighted down with trees, shrubbery, and plant life enough to fill a small island.

  Not long after that a local news station picked up the project as a filler, airing before-and-after footage along that stretch of I-Drive. Then, confusing everyone, it was revealed that RUSH, Inc. would be a private retreat to facilitate the practice of safe sex. What, exactly, did that mean? Was it the future headquarters of a planned parenthood organization, relocating its corporate office to Orlando? Or maybe it was a complex for medical research, focusing on a cure for sexually transmitted disease.

  Another bit of information that found its way to the public reported that RUSH, Inc. was a privately held corporation with plans to conduct business as a member-only operation. Once again however, the lack of specific details only opened the door to further questions. Membership to what? As far as anyone knew, planned parenthood centers didn't require membership to take advantage of their services. Nevertheless, without any cause for concern, those few minutes of renewed curiosity were again forgotten in the face of more immediate headlines and public interest moved on.

  Then came the inglorious announcement that all but shook Central Florida to its seabed. The elaborate gates on International Drive were open. RUSH, Inc. was accepting applications for employment and membership from eligible men and women who would like to experience computer-matched, highly compatible sexual connections.

  The public was stunned.

  A sex club? RUSH, Incorporated was a sex club? In the land of family-oriented theme parks? How could something like that have made it past the municipal planning board? How could it have gone unreported by the news media? What sort of impact would it have on the tourist industry? Wasn't it illegal to promote sex as a business venture? Wasn't that prostitution?

  "Absolutely not," RUSH's elegant public relations representative stated on Roland's Morning Show. "RUSH doesn't endorse prostitution. It provides a service very similar to a dating service. Our linking system analyzes each response on every application for the highest occurrence of sexual compatibility."

  "Sexual compatibility," Roland repeated. "Without emotional involvement?"

  She smiled. It was a charming, provocative smile. "Believe it or not, Roland, countless numbers of men and women embrace the opportunity to explore sex without the obligations of emotional involvement."

  Svelte yet warmly engaging, Vanessa Boyer was relaxed in her role as RUSH's spokesperson. Short, impeccably styled brown hair shone under the lights, dramatically large disk earrings swayed with every movement of her head . . . . She smiled easily and presented an overview of RUSH's application process, it's lengthy development, and the linking system. She gave a brief description of the various membership packages, mentioned a number of thought-provoking classes, and elaborated on the cutting-edge technology that allowed RUSH to operate with all the safety features it boasted.

  "You've led right into my next question," Roland said. "How can all this sexual interaction be safe?"

  Smiling again, Vanessa said, "We're very proud of our achievements regarding risk-free sex. Are you familiar with the K2R microchip implant?"

  Roland was mildly surprised. "The miracle chip? —The one that detects the onset of disease through changes in the blood? Yes, I've heard of it. Are you saying the people from RUSH funded that?"

  "No, not the original chip. But RUSH provided the funding to take it a step further. As well as detecting sexually transmitted diseases, our microchip picks up the first indications of pregnancy, traces of drug use, and relays other types of information as well."

  "Okay, I have to admit that's impressive, but let's get more specific here. What do you mean by other types of information? How does it all work?"

  "It begins at the outer gates. Sensors at both entrances detect the chip within a range of fifty feet. The gates open, the client is identified, and an updated analysis of that person's blood is transmitted to Medical Services and Security Central."

  "Security Central?" He frowned. "Why would security personnel need access to a person's lab results?"

  "Because any abnormalities will raise a flag to prevent that client from passing through the checkpoint. Security is on hand to investigate the situation and proceed accordingly."

  "Ah. But what if the abnormality is caused by an allergy medication or a headache remedy?"

  "Then Security will clear that with Medical Services and reset the control."

  "I see. Does it happen often? These red flags?"

  "They're not uncommon. We do have presets—meaning the system records then passes over some of the more routine OTC remedies. But we expect flags to be a fairly common occurrence, most often during flu season."

  It was the first of three televised interviews wherein Vanessa Boyer provided statistics that showed an ever increasing risk of sexually transmitted diseases, along with the current number of unplanned pregnancies nationwide. She stressed the need for a retreat such as RUSH where the guarantee of a safe and healthy partner was a top priority, then expanded on the various functions of the microchip. It not only monitored the general health of each client but sent out an alert if for some reason normal biological levels of emotional excitement rose above a predetermined range. Little by little she offered snippets of insight into the planning, the exacting standards, and RUSH's sophisticated technology. It was not a center for prostitution. It wasn't a sleazy organization promoting orgies. Each of the three segments introduced RUSH as an exclusive club for professional men and women as well as students of higher education. It was a graceful landscape in which to enjoy an escape into p
hysical indulgence, a luxurious backdrop for compatible individuals to freely explore their sexuality in an environment focused on safety. There was no exchange of money for sex. Membership fees paid for the use of the linking system and the costs of maintenance.

  By the end of the third segment, RUSH sounded like an exotic vacation spot for the wealthy. And oddly, the more Vanessa Boyer revealed, the more refined, fascinating, and mysterious it became.

  Rachel and large percentage of the nation's population watched all three segments. It didn't take long for several groups of concerned individuals to gather and publicly protest outside the beautiful gates. At the same time, equally free-thinking crowds staged counter demonstrations, lauding the club as a realistic approach to modern-day living.

  Rachel's interest, however, grew from an altogether different concern. It began with the first interview. A plan began taking shape in her mind, the possible fruition of a dream. If RUSH, Inc. was everything Vanessa Boyer claimed, then Rachel stood a chance, a slim one, but a chance all the same, of living the normal, balanced life she hadn't allowed herself to hope for since she was in her teens.

  Some would call her childhood enchanted, growing up in an affluent household with loving parents. Her father was a pediatrician and her mother had worked as a nurse until well into her pregnancy. Then, after Rachel and her twin sister Jill were born, their mother chose to be a stay-at-home mom, providing the one-on-one time and quiet discipline that steered both girls in the right direction. Life had been happy and carefree. Their days had been filled with school, friends, bicycles, and eventually, the last stages of Barbie dolls and make-believe.

  But eleven years ago Rachel had been walking home from a birthday party when a man approached her from behind. He'd had a knife in one hand and held it at her throat while his other clamped hard over her mouth. When she struggled to break free, he'd punched her in the face, dazing her, then he'd dragged her behind a row of bushes, stabbed, and raped her. The attack had torn through her sheltered life, fracturing every corner of her psyche to leave her traumatized and unable to engage with the reality of everyday living.