Soul to Soul (RUSH, Inc. Book 2)

by Carol Caiton

  As soon as it released he was inside—just in time to see Dalton slide his hand down the curve of her ass.

  Fucking hell, no.

  Some kind of red haze swam in front of his eyes. Nearly blind with it, he stalked toward the center of the turret, drilled Dalton with a laser glare, and jerked his thumb toward the far wall.

  The guy backed off without question.

  But Rachel . . . . Oh, sweet baby. She didn't move.

  Arms stretched above her head, wrists fastened to a thick black chain dangling from the ceiling, she stood utterly still. Her legs were spread semi-wide, and her ankles locked in manacles that were anchored to the floor. Her head was down, her chin resting on her chest, and he had to fight back an almost suffocating rage.

  He dragged in a harsh breath. Then another. Over and over he kept pushing the rage aside. Control. This was about control and getting her out of here.

  Slowing his steps, forcing himself to approach calmly, he moved forward until he stood in front of her. It took a lot to maintain that control, to stop from ripping her out of those manacles.

  "Rachel." He said her name softly.

  No response.

  Goddamn fucking manacles.

  "Rachel, I need you to look at me so I know it's okay to touch you, baby."

  Her head gave a little jerk. Slowly she lifted her chin, like she was all tired out and it took a lot of effort.

  "Michael?"

  Her voice was rusty, cracking like she hadn't used it for a while. But when she lifted her face and he got a look at what she'd done to herself, the emotion boiling up inside made his hands shake.

  "Oh, baby," he whispered

  Her chin was covered in blood. Her bottom lip was swollen, and beneath it was an oozing gash where she'd bitten down so hard, she might need a couple of stitches.

  Her eyes watered. "Michael . . . I'm not going to cry."

  His heart ripped into shreds. "I know, baby. But it's okay if you do. I'm just gonna get you outta here, okay?"

  He reached for the handcuffs but waited for her nod. When she gave it, he unfastened the Velcro at her wrists and carefully lowered her arms to his shoulders. He waited a minute, then he stooped down to release her ankles and her arms fell to her sides.

  "Straighten your legs now, baby."

  She sniffed. "I . . . can't."

  He looked at her legs, at the way her knees were locked, and stood up. "I'm gonna carry you then, okay?"

  She wiped at the tears starting to roll down her cheeks and nodded a little jerkily. "I'm not fragile, Michael."

  "I know, baby. I know you're strong." He bent down some. "You just need a little help right now, okay? Can you put your arms around my neck and hold on?"

  Another nod.

  But he could see it was hard for her to lift them again. He wanted to reach out and help her. He wanted to take the struggle away. But he made himself wait, giving her as much control as he could.

  She took a few short breaths, then her hands slid up his chest and around his neck.

  The contact . . . feeling her slight weight . . . it sent that familiar jolt of something through him. When she started to droop, he circled his hands around her back and edged in closer. Then he lifted her straight up against his chest till her legs came off the floor and fell together.

  She inhaled sharply and he gave her some time to adjust.

  "Okay?" he asked. He couldn't see her face, but she wasn't squirming to get free so he held on.

  "I'm okay," she whispered.

  Her breasts were firm and round and pushed against him and he squeezed his eyes shut for a second. Then he reached one arm down and around the back of her knees and scooped her up. Right away she put her head on his shoulder and when she breathed in, it was all jerky and broken up.

  He was ready to combust.

  Where the fuck was security? And Zeman? Why hadn't somebody put a stop to this before she bit a frigging hole through her chin? He looked up at the observation box, but the figures behind the glass were indistinguishable.

  Anger swirled through him. He reminded himself that she'd had her head down. Dalton had been behind her. He wouldn't have known what she was doing to herself unless she'd lifted her face and looked at him.

  He turned toward the exit, holding her against his chest. Goddamn frigging torture chamber.

  The lock on the door released as he stepped forward. He stopped and waited, staring straight at it.

  Jeremiah walked in, followed by Zeman, Mason, and some other guy. The other guy looked familiar. Then it hit him. The amber lighting wasn't so dim that he didn’t recognize the way a cop carried himself. The question was, what the hell was he doing here?

  He started forward again, tucking Rachel's forehead into the crook of his neck. Locking eyes with the cop, he pulled her in closer and made sure they all knew exactly where he was coming from. —Touch her and your fucking dead. He didn't give two shits about the threat in the cop's eyes.

  "Michael?" Mason said, his eyes questioning.

  "Back off, Mason."

  He started for the door again but the stupid cop stepped forward, right into his path. Fine, you asshole. A big part of him was prepared, even wanted to tangle with the guy. He'd release some of this rage boiling up inside.

  But Mason stuck out a hand, restraining the guy. The cop stiffened. His jaw tensed up. He shifted his eyes to look at Rachel, then at Michael again. Then he shook off Mason's hand and stepped back, clearing the way.

  Damn straight. Fucking cops.

  He carried her through the lobby like that, cuddled up against him. The exit doors opened as he approached and he carried her outside.

  People stared. She was dressed in nothing but a thin fucking leotard. No shoes, no nothing, and it wasn't every day a man walked through RUSH carrying a woman in his arms. So what. Let them stare. He owned the place, didn't he?

  He carried her out to the main path, past the R-link complex, all the way to Checkpoint 2. Good thing she had an implant instead of a security bracelet 'cause he wasn't stopping for anyone.

  He headed into the parking garage and directly to his Lotus. Maybe he should have taken her to Medical Services so the doctor could look at her mouth, but she'd had enough strange frigging hands touching her today and something powerful in him wanted to get her away from RUSH. He'd clean her up himself and if it was bad, he'd see if she wanted her father to take care of her.

  "Rachel?" He rubbed his chin against her forehead.

  "I'm awake." Her voice was still all croaky-like.

  "I'm gonna put you down so I can get my keys out."

  She lifted her head off his shoulder. "Okay. I'm okay now, Michael."

  He set her down slowly. She might be awake, but it hadn't occurred to her yet that her stuff was back at the training center.

  She blinked when her bare feet touched the concrete. "My clothes," she said.

  "Don't worry about it. I'll call Mason and tell him to hold them for you."

  He got her into the passenger seat and reached inside to buckle her seatbelt. Then he closed the door and pulled out his phone.

  "Where are you?" Mason wanted to know.

  "About to get into my car."

  "Is Rachel with you?"

  "Yeah."

  "How do you know her, Michael?"

  "Stop with all the questions, will ya, Mason? Just hold onto her purse and stuff, okay? She's gonna be fine."

  There was a noticeable pause. Then Mason said, "She doesn't have a problem with you touching her."

  "Yeah, I know."

  Another pause. "All right, Michael. I'll hold her things in my office."

  Michael disconnected. Then he shut off his phone so no one could reach him and opened the car door. Her eyes were closed and her chin looked like it might have stopped bleeding. Good. Maybe it wasn't as bad as he'd thought.

  He turned on the ignition, backed out of his assigned slot, and headed for the gates.

  She fell asleep. It was a good thi
ng, too, 'cause it took him the whole ride home to downshift. He kept having to ease his grip on the steering wheel and his stomach muscles wouldn't stop bunching up.

  He took in some slow, deep breaths and it helped. But then he conjured up the image of her shackled to that chain, remembered Dalton's hand gliding over her ass, and that red haze started to fill his vision again. Good thing he was about to pull into his driveway.

  He shut off the engine, took another deep breath, and told himself he'd gotten to her in time. Then he turned in his seat to look at her.

  She was small and girly and something inside him went all soft just looking at her. Bunches of blonde curls had come out of her clip and she was messy and tousled, just the way he'd imagined she'd be when she slept. And man, was she gorgeous.

  He dropped his eyes to her breasts. High and sweetly full . . . . Damn, but she turned him on.

  He brought his gaze back up to her face. "Rachel?"

  Her shoulder twitched, but that was all the response he got.

  "Rachel?" he said again. This time she blinked, then opened her eyes.

  "Where are we?" She looked out the passenger window, then straightened and looked out the windshield.

  "My house."

  He opened his door and got out, but he was feeling a little edgy now. He'd owned this place for three years, but he'd never brought a woman here. He was a social animal when he wanted to be, but he'd been forced early on to get used to his own company. So he had some issues from that time in his life, just like she did, and his house reflected how he dealt with those issues.

  He stared at it for a minute, then he walked around the car and opened the passenger door for her. He didn't want to have to make excuses for a way of life that was comfortable to him, but if he was gonna show this part of himself to a woman, he figured she'd probably be the one he'd show it to.

  She didn't get out though. She looked up at him all serious and unsure. So he opened the door all the way and hunkered down in front of her.

  "Come inside, baby." He opened his hand, palm up, and waited.

  Her blue eyes searched his.

  Was she afraid to trust him? Was it because of how he'd turned his back and walked away from her?

  He didn't know how to reconcile that night with his protective instincts today. He was flying by the seat of his pants.

  Fortunately she didn't call him on it. After a few seconds she looked down at his hand then slipped her fingers across his palm. And when she did, geez, he wanted to park his ass on the driveway, pull her onto his lap, and just hold her.

  He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile, then he stood up and helped her out of the car.

  "My purse," she said.

  "Mason has your stuff. He's keeping it in his office for you." He closed the door. "Come on, let's go inside."

  She held onto his hand and padded along the pavement beside him. His house was only one story, but it was big. Not fancy, but it had big rooms with a lot of square footage and a whole lot of glass so he could see the outdoors.

  He needed a lot of open space so he'd hardly furnished the place. Electronics were his only extravagance 'cause computers were his thing. But other than that, he had a sofa and a couple of tables in the living room, an office setup where he did a little work on the side, and a bed and a nightstand for the master suite. He hadn't bothered with a kitchen table since he had a breakfast counter that did the job just fine.

  Now, though, looking at things through her eyes, he saw the sparseness of it. Not unlived-in. There was an empty pizza box on the coffee table and a dirty T-shirt on the floor by the end of the sofa. But the echo that never bothered him before seemed pronounced now as he shut the door. He wondered if she'd see past the emptiness to remember that he didn't like closed in spaces.

  "Why did you bring me here?" she asked, her voice quiet and still uncertain.

  He looked down at her, at the way the fading sun settled on her through the sidelights. Without shoes she was about a foot shorter than he was. Her hair was falling out of that clip thing now, but every time he looked at her, she just looked prettier and prettier.

  The tile floor was probably cold under her bare feet. Or maybe she was just cold in that leotard because she gave a little shiver. Her nipples tightened into hard little pebbles and he had to jerk his eyes back up. Hell.

  He turned away, resetting the alarm Ethan had installed when the place was built. Why had he brought her here? "I don't know," he said, facing her again. "I wanted to get you out of there. I needed to take you someplace where we could take a look at your lip." He frowned. "Come with me. Let's get you cleaned up. You might end up needing stitches."

  Her pretty blue eyes widened at that and she followed him down the hallway to the main bathroom.

  He opened the linen closet and grabbed a washcloth, but the whole inside of the closet smelled like fresh paint that had been shut up for three years. Tossing the washcloth back inside, he said, "Let's go to a different bathroom."

  "What's wrong with this one?" she asked, trailing behind him back down the hall.

  "No first-aid cream," he muttered.

  In fact, now that he thought about it, he'd spoken the truth. The medicine cabinet in there was bare.

  "Oh."

  He led her over to the master suite on the other side of the house, then into his own bathroom. Good thing he wasn't in the habit of leaving dirty clothes around . . . except for the occasional T-shirt. His bed was unmade, but the sheets were clean, and the rest of the room looked okay. Empty, but okay.

  "Oh, my," she said, looking in the mirror when he turned on the light. She touched a finger to the crusty blood on her chin.

  "Yeah. Why don't you wash up so we can see what kind of damage you did there. But go easy so you don't start bleeding again."

  He reached inside his own linen closet for a fresh washcloth and towel and he didn't have to worry about them smelling funny.

  Rachel turned on the water, leaned over, and began splashing her face.

  He took advantage of being able to watch her. He'd been with a hell of a lot of truly fine women since RUSH opened, so why was he focused on this one in particular? What was it about her that pulled at him so hard? 'Cause every time he was with her, he felt like he couldn't get close enough . . . like he wanted to breathe her in or something. It scared the shit out of him in a way few things could anymore.

  He let his eyes travel down to the curve of her waist. To her ass. Back up to the curls falling around her left shoulder. He was a tall man and he liked being with tall women. He was a loner, so the independent women at RUSH suited him. They were experienced and enjoyed sex for the sake of sex.

  Rachel Oslund wasn't any of those things. She wasn't tall, she wasn't experienced, and she'd never had consensual sex in her life. She was dainty and feminine and even though she carried the scars of an ugly world, he knew she'd been protected and sheltered. She'd probably say she was independent, but she lived at home with her parents. And okay, she might have the courage and strength to make tough decisions and see them through, but she was the kind of female who needed a man to watch out for her, to protect her.

  —And she had a fucking jagged scar high up on her left arm. She'd been stabbed.

  Fucking maggot bastard.

  He opened the medicine cabinet, grabbed the tube of antibiotic cream, and closed the door. He had the equipment and the know-how to track down anyone anywhere, anytime he wanted. All he needed was something to start with.

  "Rachel?"

  She dried her face, then met his eyes in the mirror.

  He looked at her chin. She had two small but clear teeth marks just below her bottom lip. But they hadn't started bleeding again and they didn't look as bad as he'd figured they would.

  He set the tube of cream on the counter. "Why doesn't it bother you when I touch you?"

  Some emotion he couldn't define came into her eyes. She looked down at the towel in her hands, then back up. "I don't know," she said. "I'
ve never been like this with anyone else." She gave a self-conscious little shrug. "The last therapist I saw told me I had intimacy issues."

  Really? He snorted.

  "No. Not in the physical sense. —Well, that too, I guess. But she meant emotionally."

  "Emotionally how?"

  She folded the towel, put it on the counter, then fidgeted with the tag. Was she embarrassed? Ashamed? Fuck, if anyone was walking around with a bunch of shit to be ashamed of, he could scoop it out by the truckload.

  "Trust," she finally said. "The therapist said I won't let myself trust anyone, that my self-preservation instincts are in a constant state of high alert." She met his eyes in the mirror again. "But that doesn't make sense because I'm like this with the people I love, people I do trust, even with my parents."

  He thought about that. He knew first-hand that the mind could do some weird shit. "What about the connection you said you have with your sister?"

  "It's a different sort of connection than it used to be when we were children. We're still close, but there's a fissure now . . . a sort of crevice that she can't cross. No one can cross it." She frowned with concentration. "Maybe it is connected with trust. I've always thought of it as fear. Whenever someone touches me I'm afraid they'll want something from me that I don't want to give away, something from my soul, and I'm afraid I won't be able to stop whoever it is from taking it. And if one person takes a little, and another takes a little, one day there won't be anything left and I'll just be an empty shell."

  She picked up the antibiotic cream, leaned in toward the mirror, and dabbed a little on her chin.

  But he wasn't done talking about the trust thing. If he was gonna be caught up in something this intense, he for damn sure wasn't gonna do it alone.

  "So how come I can touch you when no one else can?" he asked again. "Does it mean you aren't afraid I'll take stuff from you?"

  She didn't answer.

  "Rachel?"

  She put the cap back on the tube and stared down at it.

  "I asked you a question, baby."

  "I don't want to talk about this anymore," she murmured. She put the tube down and took a step toward the door.