Soul to Soul (RUSH, Inc. Book 2)

by Carol Caiton

  He pulled his chin away from the top of her head and looked down at her. "Why? You like fish?"

  "I don't know." She stretched her head back to look at him. "It just occurred to me."

  "Well, okay. Let's give fish a try. One of those big tanks so it's interesting to look at."

  "All right."

  There went her fingers, sifting into his chest hair. Good thing he had plenty of it.

  "Do you have anything in mind for the game room?" she asked next.

  "You want a pool table?" He wasn't much for the game himself but—

  "No, not a pool table. I was thinking maybe air hockey—"

  "Yes," he interrupted. "I like air hockey."

  In the end, she didn't plan to add much at all to the house, but he liked what she had in mind.

  They showered together, then she made them a couple of sandwiches since that was all the food he had on hand, and they used the TV in the living room to look online at kitchen tables, bookcases, and surprising him again, art. She said it showed her the color schemes and styles he liked. He'd never thought about it that way. Maybe if he had, he would have come up with some stuff on his own.

  But she made it interesting. She made a lot of things interesting. He liked listening to her and he liked being with her, even when he wasn't a horny dog.

  So they ended up buying a couple of pen and ink prints and some big abstract stuff for the living and game rooms. And when they were done, he was even looking forward to seeing what it would all look like when she put it together.

  "Michael?"

  "What is it, baby?" he clicked over to the local weather.

  "Would it be okay if I set up a desk in one of the empty bedrooms?"

  Forget the weather.

  He clicked on the same website where he'd bought his own office furniture. There wasn't a big variety to choose from, but it was quality, solid wood furniture.

  "Show me what you like," he said.

  What she liked was walnut and elegant and he bought the entire suite for her.

  "But I only need a desk and a bookcase," she told him.

  "Yeah, but you'll probably be glad later to have the rest of it." He clicked on the Check Out button and a few seconds later the transaction was complete.

  But she got quiet after that, so he shut off the TV.

  "What is it? What's wrong, baby?"

  She worried the diamond on her left hand with her right thumb. Finally she looked up. "I could have paid for a desk and a bookcase out of my own bank account. I wouldn't have asked to use one of the bedrooms if I couldn't."

  He stared. She was his wife. Did she think he was gonna let her pay her own way like they were roommates or something?

  "Look at me, Rachel."

  She did.

  "It's important for a man to feel like he can provide for his woman."

  She opened her mouth and he knew she was gonna protest so he kept going before she had a chance.

  "I came from nothing, baby. Less than nothing." He lifted a hand and smoothed a wisp of hair away from her face. "When you look in my eyes and tell me you love me . . . ." He shook his head, not really knowing what he wanted to say about that, and tried something else.

  "When I gave you that credit card and showed you the safe . . . . I feel good knowing I can take care of my wife. Maybe I need that more than most because of what I came from. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  He knew she did. It was in her eyes. The same way they seemed to connect on other things.

  Damn but it scared him. Not because she understood, but because she was perfect. Beautiful and perfect and he was crazy about her. She was already too important to him and it was only gonna get worse. He knew it. And if anything ever happened to take her away from him, he'd be fucked. Bad fucked.

  "I've got money," he assured her, pushing that thought away. "A lot of money. About half of it was inherited, and the other half I earned or made good on investments." He lifted her hand from her lap and rubbed his own thumb over the diamond he'd put there. "I'm talking millions, Rachel. About thirty of them—plus what I've got into RUSH. That's how much we're worth. We," he emphasized. "I already got my lawyers on it and the bank is waiting for me to bring you down there to add your signature to a bunch of paperwork." He brought her hand to his lips and rubbed his mouth over her knuckles. "So let me feel adequate, okay? Let me buy the things you want and take care of you, okay?"

  She was staring at him and those pretty blue eyes looked stunned. It was probably the same expression he'd worn when he found out John Rawson left him millions of dollars.

  "Michael—" Her hand trembled in his. "Why didn't you have me sign a prenup?"

  Her question surprised him. "Did I need to?"

  "Well, no, but—"

  "And that's why."

  He leaned forward to kiss her. He wanted her again. Man, it was like he wanted to absorb her right into himself.

  Pulling together some self-control, he eased back and watched her eyelids open.

  "Last year I had a different car," he said.

  It took a second for that to register. Then her brow wrinkled with confusion and he could hardly keep from smiling.

  "It was a Lotus, too," he said. "Different color, different year."

  She blinked, still confused.

  "But it was stolen out of a parking lot and got totaled in an accident. So I bought another one. But before that I'd heard that a Spider was a fun ride."

  Bingo.

  Her eyes widened with a spark of interest. Yep, his woman was as serious about her wheels as he was.

  "Anyway," he went on, "Oliver was right. It's a fun ride."

  Her eyebrows shot up.

  Ah, fuck it. He grinned. "It handles good, holds the road . . . . I took it out on Oliver's track. Zero to sixty in something like eight seconds—"

  "Six point four."

  He laughed. "Just checking."

  She straightened away from him. "You have a Spider? That's the other car in your garage?"

  Right on cue his stomach growled. "I thought maybe we could go buy some food."

  She stood up.

  "Hey," he called after her, "do you cook?"

  But she was already gone, heading out to the kitchen to look for the door to the garage.

  He chuckled and got to his feet. He'd better go get the spare key. If he knew his wife—yeah, his wife—she'd wanna do the driving.

  CHAPTER 26

  It had been a while since Dalton dropped in on a nightclub other than the two at RUSH. But when he caught himself prowling around the house, oddly restless, he decided to lock up, get in his car, and take off. He'd noticed the crowded parking lot at Seven Over on several occasions and he noticed it again while he sat at a traffic light drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. So he changed lanes, signaled a thank-you to the guy who let him in, and turned into the entrance.

  It took two full minutes of weaving through the aisles before someone backed out and he was able to pull in and park. Once he paid the cover charge and went inside though, he understood why the place was so popular. The band was one of the better ones and loud enough to make the air vibrate with a pounding beat. In fact, the more he listened, the more he thought they were as good as any he'd heard at RUSH, and RUSH paid top dollar for the best.

  But once he made his way to the bar and ordered a drink, it wasn't the band that held his attention. Glancing out over the dance floor, he checked out the women, appreciating the lithe young bodies keeping time to the music. One particular redhead caught his attention and he watched until her partner blocked her from sight. Then a wealth of long blonde curls caught his eye and he did a double-take. Only one woman he'd ever seen had hair like that.

  He shifted closer to the end of the bar and focused on the place where he'd seen her. And sure enough, his eyes landed on a sparkly, sexy Rachel Oslund, bumping asses with her dance partner—who wasn't Michael Vassek.

  Straightening to his full height for a better view, h
e swirled the ice in his glass and watched. He watched for a solid twenty minutes as one dance merged into the next, one partner changing to another while her slender body—a body he was pretty damned familiar with—played, provoked, ignored, challenged, and came into contact with any number of people on the crowded dance floor. Contact being the operative word. Bumping asses being the operative activity.

  She was good. Very, very good. Between his fascination with her moves and an equally powerful dose of disbelief, the only time he took his eyes off her was when the redhead he'd been watching appeared in front of him and asked him to dance. It was an invitation he would have taken her up on had he not been caught up in trying to figure out what sort of game Rachel Oslund was playing.

  Maybe she had some sort of personality disorder. Or maybe she had a twin.

  Now there was a thought. The young woman who had nailed him with a girly but solid punch for touching her, then pleaded with him to restrain her so she couldn't do it again, was nothing like this teasing, fun-loving double on the dance floor.

  Personally, he figured it was the former—a personality disorder. Something like that was more common than identical twins, especially when they looked like she did. God wouldn't be so generous. Besides, Mason never mentioned a twin. Dalton knew she had a sister, that the sister had been engaged to Mason's brother, but there'd been no mention of a twin.

  He kept watching, waiting for her to take a breather. When she did, he maneuvered through the crowd along the bar until he could squeeze a place beside her. Then he purposely bumped her arm.

  "Sorry," he said when she glanced up at him.

  She wouldn't have heard him over the music, but the shape of the word on his lips was recognized. She smiled, gave a quick nod, then turned back toward the bar. And wasn't that interesting?

  More intrigued by the second, he watched as the bartender slid a drink in front of her. She took a long swallow, put it back on the bar, then scooped a hand beneath her hair and used its length to fan the back of her neck.

  She wasn't looking, but he was, when the sonofabitch on her other side rested his forearm along the bar and casually slid his drink toward hers. Then, just as casually, he exchanged the two and brought her glass back in front of him.

  The move was too obvious for a pro, but it would have been successful had Dalton not been watching.

  Rachel, oblivious to what had gone down, was too busy rocking that very attractive little body to the music and cooling the back of her neck. Then she reached for the glass.

  Dalton bent his mouth to her ear. "Ask the bartender for a fresh drink," he advised before she picked it up.

  The glass was three-quarters full, but his warning had the desired effect. She froze, fingers clasped around the glass. Then she whirled around to look at him, her hand releasing the icy tumbler as though it was filled with lava instead.

  Still no sign of recognition there, but her eyes were intelligent and alert. He held her gaze, then gave a small nod in the direction of her last dance partner.

  It only took a second for her to realize something could have happened while she wasn't looking. Comprehension flashed in her eyes. She held his gaze for another couple of seconds, nodded, then pushed the glass away.

  As soon as she did, the asshole on her other side knew he was looking at jail time. Sweeping his arm across the bar, he knocked both drinks over, driving the glasses until they flew off the surface and crashed to the floor behind the bar.

  Dalton barely heard the chink of breaking glass, but the bartender, apparently attuned to his station, whirled and looked for the source of the disturbance. That fast, however, Rachel's partner was gone, disappearing into the crowd.

  Rachel stood as though stunned, staring at the edge of the bar where the glasses had disappeared.

  Dalton bent to her ear again. "Do you know who he is?"

  She turned sharply and looked up at him, clearly shaken. He knew her eyes were blue though the strobe lights made them appear an indistinct gray.

  "No," she said and shook her head. Then she stretched up on her toes, mouth toward his ear, so he bent down again.

  "He was just someone to dance with. Thank you. Thank you very much."

  Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the bartender bearing down on them. The expression on his face told Dalton one word from the lady and he was gone.

  "Everything okay, Jill?"

  Jill?

  "Thanks, Carl," she called over the guitar riff. "I wasn't paying attention."

  Carl caught on fast. He turned a sharp eye on Dalton and started to signal for a bouncer, but Rachel/Jill shook her head.

  "No," she called out. "Not him."

  Carl looked back at Dalton.

  "Long gone," Dalton said.

  The bartender frowned, nodded once, and looked down at Dalton's glass. Then he turned away, picked out a clean one, and reached for a bottle. Fresh drinks, on the house, would be sitting in front of them promptly.

  "So . . . Jill . . . do you have a twin sister?" he asked, putting his mouth to her ear. The band had switched to a slow number, just as loud, but it made hearing easier.

  The woman calling herself Jill pulled back and stared at him, suddenly cautious.

  "I work for Mason," he told her, wondering how she'd respond to that.

  Her reaction was immediate. Eyes widening, she stretched toward his ear again. "You work at RUSH?"

  He nodded.

  "What's your name?"

  "Dalton. Dalton Cooper."

  "Dalton Cooper."

  He watched her mouth repeat his name. Then she smiled, held out her hand, and stretched up on her toes again.

  "You're the instructor who worked with Rachel."

  "That's right." He shook her hand. Okay. Maybe God wasn't so uncharitable after all. No personality disorder here . . . and this gorgeous princess had no problem being touched.

  "Rachel and I are twins. She got married a few days ago."

  "I heard about that. To Michael."

  Her smile told him she was happy with the match. "Yes. Wow, what a small world."

  Their drinks arrived and she reached for hers. "Thank you, Carl."

  Dalton nodded to the bartender and Jill lifted her glass. When she set it down again, she kept it in her hand. Good girl.

  She gave him a considering look. "So, Dalton, what do you instruct? At RUSH?"

  He smiled, wondering how this perfect little vanilla example of middle America would respond to certain aspects of his occupation. He decided to try her out.

  "I train women," he stated. Then he watched.

  For a moment she just stared. Then she blinked. And then she smiled, or tried to. But it was the confusion in her expression that stood out. She was just as innocent as her sister. No hint whatsoever of an adventurous spirit. And that, he decided was unfortunate. Which surprised him because the availability of women to an instructor at RUSH was ongoing and without interruption. He knew as well, that most of those he'd worked with had requested to work with him again in future sessions. But this mirror image of Rachel Oslund intrigued him. He thought he might have enjoyed getting to know her better.

  "What do you train women to do?" she asked, curious.

  Yes, she was curious. But she was smart too. She had some suspicions. He saw it in the wariness of her expression. RUSH, after all, was a sex club.

  He picked up his drink and took a swallow. How much to reveal? She already knew he was an instructor. Rachel had been given permission to discuss her sessions at RUSH with her family. Mason had told him that. So he decided to take it one step further. For some reason, the perverse desire to shock this particular female was riding him. Maybe that was because it perturbed him to know he wasn't going to pursue anything with her.

  He put his glass back down on the bar and leaned in toward her ear. "I teach women how to please a man. In about a hundred different ways."

  Her brows shot up. Even under the flashing lights he knew she was blushing.

&nb
sp; "I see," she said.

  He laughed outright. "No, you don't darlin'. But that's okay." He slid his empty glass aside. "Dance?"

  She looked down at her wristwatch and frowned. "I'd like to. But I have to work tomorrow."

  Again, unfortunate. "Then introduce me to Carl so he gets a good look at my face and tell him I'm going to walk you to your car."

  Her appreciation was immediate and easy to read. After what had happened, she was spooked. Any woman would have been.

  "Thanks."

  She slid a ten under her glass and introduced him to the bartender. Then Dalton left a tip as well and turned to cut a path for them through the crowd.

  * * *

  All four of her tires were slashed. Her car sat on four puddles of black rubber and she stared in disbelief. Her mind just didn't want to accept another shock tonight. God, she was so tired.

  The instructor from RUSH—Dalton—had his cell phone in hand and was connected with the police before she even had the presence of mind to call Nathan. Which was just as well, all things considered. She'd been avoiding Nathan since Rachel's wedding. Again. He'd wanted her to go back to his place and discuss things, things she wasn't ready yet to talk about. If she called him now, he'd not only rake her over the coals, he'd also want to have that talk.

  Dalton disconnected his call. "Cops are on the way."

  She rubbed her forehead, trying to concentrate.

  "I'm no expert here," Dalton said, "but it looks like someone's got you in his sights."

  "What do you mean?" She lowered her hand and looked up.

  He took a few seconds and looked around the parking lot. "First your drink," he said, "and when that didn't work, your tires. It's a good thing I came out here with you."

  The chill that raced down her spine raised goose bumps on her arms. "You think the person who did this is the same guy who tried to drug my drink?"

  Dalton gave her a steady look. "He didn't try, darlin', he did it. He might be working alone, or he could be part of a ring. Either way, somebody's been watching you long enough and close enough to know your car. If I were you, I'd find a different club for a while."