by Carol Caiton
Leaning farther back, he propped one ankle across the opposite knee and gave that some thought. Most people were born with an easy nature, quick to laugh and form friendships. Simon, however, was an analyst—personally as well as professionally. He didn't have an easy nature. He didn't laugh as readily as most, and he didn't form friendships with blithe unconcern. He studied facts, made an assessment, and planned accordingly. Any woman the linking system paired him with in a blue-link match was bound to share those same character traits, and that was an enlightening thought.
Satisfaction might be his particular version of contentment but he knew there was more than that to be had. Was he capable of sustaining a long-term relationship? He supposed he must be. His file held the results of ten grueling hours of psychological probing.
. . . it might never happen again.
"Damn it, Ethan," he muttered.
This time, however, his objection was a spontaneous reaction rather than true annoyance. During the last couple of hours a sense of anticipation had begun filtering through his resistance. Hell, it was blue. A status-2 blue. And Ethan was right—he'd probably never see something like that again, never have such a guarantee of comprehensive fulfillment.
Could he overlook the failure of one green? Apart from that single debacle, every one of the thousands of links generated by the system during the last two years had received a rating of one hundred percent satisfaction. Those were impressive results. Better than impressive, they were extraordinary.
With that in mind, he reached for the mouse beside his keyboard and maneuvered the cursor until it rested over the plus button.
But that was when it struck him—the risk, the personal cost if he pursued this and lost, the audience that would witness his failure. More than his future was at stake here.
He wavered, narrowing his eyes, and spent another forty minutes considering the ramifications, reminding himself of all the reasons he had to decline. But there was still a chance Michael would spot an error somewhere, correct it, and the blue icon would disappear.
He didn't want to spend the rest of his life wondering who this woman was, didn't want to go through each day asking the same questions that had no answers. Frustration would prick at him like a constant, thorny barb, always there, undermining every link from here on out as he asked himself whether or not the woman he was with could have been the one, wondering if he could have had a lifetime of so much more.
And because that thought was a powerful motivator, he drew an expansive breath, he held it for a moment, then clicked. She'd better be goddamn worth it.
The digital clock stopped at forty-four hours and thirty-eight minutes. The data he'd been working on disappeared beneath a photograph that filled his screen—a jaw-dropping photograph. And yes, his jaw did drop.
She was naked.
Or she might as well be.
Posed in a semi-reclining position, an alluring young woman stretched from the left side of his monitor to the right, her full naked breasts supported by a creamy yellow shelf bra. A matching scrap of lace panty was tugged downward, held by a manicured thumb to reveal a neatly trimmed triangle of dark pubic hair. Smooth, slender hips and shapely legs spread slightly apart were meant to entice and the photographer had done his job well.
Visually, she was captivating. His eyes traveled to her face, to the tumble of rich, dark hair that fell off to one side. Her skin was flawless, her lips lush and pink, her nose small and proportionate to the shape of her face. But it was her eyes, brown with flecks of hazel that caught and held his attention. They were young. Innocent. Yes, innocent was a good word.
He frowned. The contrast between those eyes and her state of undress was so sharp, it took a minute for him to remember she shouldn't have been undressed at all. The download photo of an amber, green, or blue link should be attractive, even alluring, but conventional. This image was more in keeping with the modeling submissions of RUSH's R-links.
He stared, frozen in place while a chill ran straight up his scalp.
He jerked his gaze to the upper right corner where the young woman's signature was scrawled above the more legible computerized font . . . and received yet another shock during an evening that had already had its share of them.
No wonder she was all but naked. No wonder this photo brought to mind the image of an R-link posing for a magazine spread. He was looking at Nina Millering—the young woman who had chosen a membership package that would pair her with a different male three days a week, forty-eight weeks of the year. Nina Lucille Millering. He'd been blue-linked with a woman who wanted a widely diverse, unlimited sex life with a widely diverse, unlimited number of men.
He shook his head. This was wrong. It was absolutely wrong.
Unable to look away, he heard the printer eject a page from her profile to the output tray. In something of a daze, he reached for the single sheet of paper and tore his eyes from the monitor to look at it. Then he scowled.
This was it? A mere half page of information? This was a blue link, for God's sake.
Or was it?
He turned toward the monitor again and narrowed his eyes. The young, near-naked woman staring back at him couldn't possibly be the epitome of all he might ever want. Physically, yes, she was exactly what he desired in a woman. Just looking at her stirred his interest. But every instinct inside him denied the authenticity of a blue link with her. She was no more suited to a monogamous relationship than he was. The minute he left for work each morning, she'd be out screwing the mailman, the gate guard, and the lawn-care crew.
Frustration gnawed at him. He glared at his watch, angry at the lateness of the hour, angry because he wanted answers and there was no one here to give them to him. Could the receptionist at Medical Services—Holly McGarvey—have unknowingly altered something in the program?
Looking down at the sheet of paper in his hand, he forced himself to read it.
Nina Lucille Millering. Twenty-two years old. Five feet, five inches tall. One hundred eighteen pounds. He skimmed down to the body of the page and kept reading.
Two and a half years ago she'd graduated from Valencia Community College with an associate degree. From that time to the present she'd worked as a bookkeeper for a well-known real estate firm. Both her parents were alive and still married to one another. She had an older sister. She enjoyed reading—biographies in particular. She was an artist, preferring charcoal and pastels . . . .
Basic information. Useful enough to provide him with a conversation opener, but nothing with substance.
Continuing on, he absorbed each detail, filed it away, and moved on to the next. The last line, however, sent him reeling when he read the answer she'd provided on her application. It ranked right up there with every other shock he'd had that evening because, when asked to rate her level of sexual experience, she'd clicked, unbelievably, on None.
He stared. And kept staring.
Finally dragging his eyes away, he tossed the sheet of paper onto his desk. He knew of only one way to get to the bottom of this.
With a flick of his wrist he checked the time. It might be evening here in Orlando, but the sun would be shining in Australia.
Mentally he calculated. Then he reached for his cell phone.
CHAPTER 3
The conference room, located on the far side of the administrative building, had no windows to the outside. It was surrounded on three sides by a continuous corridor with offices opposite. Three of its interior walls had been finished with white raised paneling while the fourth, a row of stationary glass panes, provided a clear view of anyone approaching. The long, teakwood conference table inside seated twenty-two comfortably and, when privacy was called for, wide, sage-green plantation blinds could be lowered with the press of a button, closing out the view from passers-by.
On this day the blinds were raised. Six pairs of eyes followed Simon's approach as he neared the door, one pair with curious interest and one with visible amusement.
Michael's broad
grin and laid-back posture were easy enough to explain. Michael was a man of two passions—computers and women. Tall and fit with scruffy blond hair, blue eyes, and a ready smile, he appeared as though he'd be more at ease on a surfboard than sitting inside the boardroom of a corporation. At twenty-eight, he was the youngest man in the room. His IQ, however, was comparable to, and in some cases higher than that of the others. He knew his way around cyberspace with a finesse that Simon suspected was more sophisticated than anyone realized. When Michael sat down at a keyboard, firewalls dissolved as though he'd been issued a personal invitation to explore whichever guarded network he happened to choose. And because he found it a simple matter to slip in and out at will, he figured there were others who could do the same. Consequently, he had ensured system-wide security at RUSH by designing a closed, impenetrable network.
Michael's job now focused on system maintenance, performing background checks on all candidates who passed the application process, and maintaining RUSH's website. He met regularly with each of the department heads and wrote programs, or tweaked existing ones to meet their needs. And each Thursday morning he attended the weekly board meeting to bring everyone up to speed on each of those tasks.
More than once, however, Simon or one of the others had risen from the table, walked over to Michael's office, and reminded him that a group of humans awaited his presence in the conference room. If he happened to be writing a program for one of those department heads, the board meeting and everything else was forgotten until he surfaced again.
On the other hand, it was just as likely to be a woman that held him up. Ironically, as the man who wrote the program for the linking system, Michael was probably the only man on property who was rarely without a link. Of course, the rest of the board members goaded and accused him of rigging things in his favor. But the fact was, Michael loved women. He loved everything about them. And women seemed to love Michael right back. It was no longer a surprise when he charged into the conference room five or ten minutes late, bouncing the door against its rubber stop while tucking his T-shirt into a pair of jeans. Today, however, his openly smug grin said he was damned happy to be one of those who had made it on time. He wasn't the one holding things up.
Ethan's interest, though more subtle, was equally obvious. It flickered in his eyes and pulled at one corner of his mouth. Ethan, as well, was concerned with protecting the privacy of RUSH's members—its women in particular—and had stipulated that no cell phones, cameras, or electronic devices of any kind were permitted on property. Nothing could be photographed, recorded, or transmitted in any way. As a result, this lack of available information cast a cloak of mystery over the entire operation, inadvertently adding to its allure, and the public relations department took full advantage of it.
At this moment, however, Ethan was probably wondering if Simon had spent half the night contemplating whether or not to accept a blue icon, oversleeping as a result. Then again, he knew Simon well. He might have guessed Simon had taken the gamble, then spent half the night analyzing his future . . . oversleeping as a result.
Well, he hadn't overslept. He'd been too busy trying to put some order back into his life. He didn't want to tell these six men that he'd received a blue icon. He didn't want to tell them he'd accepted it. And he sure as hell didn't want to tell them Nina Millering—a potential R-link without a scrap of sexual experience—was the woman he'd been paired with.
What he did want was to make it through this meeting with the fewest possible jabs at his pride. But he needed some concessions, and he wasn't going to get them without an explanation—several of them. Nor did he expect to. If he happened to be sitting at the conference table on the other side of this issue, listening to one of them ask what he was about to ask for, he'd want answers, too. And if he was honest, he'd toss out a few jabs of his own.
Stepping over the threshold, he turned to close the door. In all of his professional life, he'd never been late for a meeting. He'd never been late for anything.
"Simon. Glad you could join us," Malcolm greeted in his refined, British accent.
Mentally, Simon shook his head. How many times had Malcolm greeted Michael in exactly that way?
All six were seated, as usual, at the far end of the room, Malcolm at the head of the table. From a wide range of backgrounds, each of them had added to Michael's original idea, bringing new insight and possibilities to build RUSH into what it was today.
"Yo, Simon," Michael joined in, still grinning. "We were just about to send someone after you."
And so it began.
Under different circumstances Simon would have responded with a clever comeback. But he wasn't in a particularly humorous mood. In just a few minutes he was going to provide all six of them with enough firepower to keep him at their mercy for weeks.
He gave a general nod toward the table. "Malcolm. Everyone."
All six sets of eyes watched as he dropped his weekly report onto the tabletop. Taking a seat, he told them by way of explanation, "Sorry to keep you waiting. We've had some unusual developments."
Malcolm, of course, zeroed in on his explanation. Silver pen in hand, he raised one dark blond brow and smoothly steered the meeting toward corporate matters. "Unusual in what way?"
As CEO of RUSH, Malcolm's talent rested in his ability to manage. It was an ability that encompassed people, business, and seemingly anything that fell in his path. His lightning-fast mind targeted, categorized, and organized details while the rest of them were still examining the big picture—which said a great deal since each man at the table could lay claim to a superior IQ. Malcolm, however, focused everyone on whichever task required immediate attention, pooling unexpected resources, and got the job done with a smooth expediency that still had the power to surprise them all. He'd been the perfect choice to lead a group of markedly intelligent men who were leaders in their own fields.
Simon met pale, crystal-blue eyes. "The system generated two high-classification links this week." He paused and looked around the table. "Remarkably high," he added. "A green, status--, and a blue, status-2."
Silence followed his announcement and he didn't have to guess what everyone was thinking. He already knew and shared their concerns.
"Indeed," Malcolm said at length—his usual, low-key response to a myriad of situations. It was interesting, how that one word could acknowledge a wide spectrum of controversial issues without committing a thing.
"Yes," Simon agreed dryly. "Indeed." Maybe he was capable of a little humor after all.
Oliver shifted in his seat then nudged his chair away from the table as though physically separating himself from the unwelcome news. Mason's legal mind was probably factoring in the possible implications. Michael, on the other hand, slumped back in his chair and summed it up in a word.
"Shit."
Simon waited, giving everyone another minute.
"Anything else?" Malcolm finally asked. He smoothed his fingers along the barrel of his pen.
"Yes," Simon told him. "Both links were accepted."
Startled expressions once again stared back at him. Diagonally across the table, Ethan gave a barely perceptible nod.
"Conclusions?"
But Simon shook his head. "There isn't enough data to draw a conclusion."
"Oh, man," Michael groaned. "We need to keep this quiet."
"I agree," Elliott put in.
"Give us an uneducated guess, then," Malcolm pressed.
Still, Simon hesitated. He didn't like guessing. Facts—visible data—left no room for error. Nevertheless, taking into account the only two examples available and knowing what he did about each, he could offer a fairly straightforward answer.
"At this time," he said, "I don't believe we have anything to worry about. The two cases don't appear to be related in any way. In fact, the two females—"
He caught himself. If Ethan wanted them to know the green was his, he'd tell them. "One of the females," he amended, "is a new applicant."
&nbs
p; "It's not a trend then."
"Not that I foresee right now, no."
"—Whoa," Michael cut in. "Hold up a minute." He looked across the table at Simon. "How the hell do you know one of the women is a new applicant? That doesn't come up on a stat report."
"Nice catch, Michael." That, from Malcolm.
All eyes turned toward Simon, expecting a prompt, logical response. But he didn't have the answer they wanted. His silence made that apparent and, one by one, each of them stilled. The expressions that stared back at him ranged from shock, to disbelief, to denial, and uncertainty. They knew, but they didn't want to know.
Again, Simon let his gaze travel around the table. Over time each of these men had come to be friends as well as business partners. They didn't always agree on all issues, but they agreed on most. More importantly, though, they trusted one another. These were men he could depend on, and vice versa. Right now, however, it felt as though he had betrayed them.
"The blue link," he said, "is mine."
No one spoke.
The silence was so heavy, it seemed almost physical in substance, like a weight hanging over the room. He'd hashed out ideas with these men in countless meetings, made numerous flights from one side of the continent to the other, consumed dozens of pots of coffee until a solid plan had taken form. What would they make of it when they learned—and they would learn—that Ethan was the man who had accepted the green?
Michael, seated on the other side of the table between Ethan and Mason, raked his blond hair off his forehead, and simply asked, "Why?" And though he'd been the one to voice the question, six pairs of eyes looked at Simon, waiting for an answer.
Once again he hesitated. If he'd had access to Nina Millering's file before accepting her icon he might well have passed it up. But he was intrigued now. By God, yes, he was. The single, half page of information that had struck him as utterly inept was potent enough to astound him even now.
