The Blue Link

by Carol Caiton

  Out in the lobby she'd handled an awkward moment with smooth efficiency, showing a generosity he hadn't expected. That intrigued him, as did her eyes—wary one minute, then soft with distress when she realized Denny Cooper was watching them. Her eyes were a window to her emotions, showing him what to expect before it took place. He'd have to remember that.

  Walking beside her—this woman he'd just met—a woman for whom he felt no particular attachment yet knew he'd likely marry—was probably the most surreal experience he'd ever had. He wanted to place a hand on the small of her back, guide her around the corner toward his office, but they had fences to mend. No, he had fences to mend. And he didn't want her to flinch from his touch, so he'd wait.

  "Is my timing all right?" she asked, breaking the silence. "I don't want to interrupt—"

  "Your timing is fine," he assured her.

  A light, sweet fragrance drifted to his nostrils, just enough to trigger an urge to smell it again. He bent his head toward her hair and breathed in. Jesus, she smelled good. He gestured toward the open doorway to his office, waited for her to enter, then followed her inside.

  "I wasn't sure where to find you." Her voice was shaky, a little breathy.

  He closed the door and she turned to stare at it.

  "I knew you worked in an office, so I thought I'd try here first . . . ."

  She was nervous. In the way of men, and of dominant men in particular, the fluttering pulse in her neck roused the hunter inside.

  Her gaze shifted to look around his office, spotted the various reports covering his desk, then came back to him. "I did interrupt."

  He told her the truth. "You did. But right now there's nothing more important than you."

  His words surprised her. Immediately after, wariness crept into her eyes.

  He couldn't afford to be subtle though. He'd lost too much time. Moreover, now that she was friends with Geneva Harmer, time had become his enemy.

  "Come sit down," he said, pretending he hadn't noticed her caution. He motioned toward the seating arrangement in the corner and wasn't surprised when she chose the chair.

  Knees pressed tightly together, she perched on the edge of the cushion as though ready to spring up at the first sign of danger. She glanced up at the painting on the wall behind the sofa, down at the tube of paper resting on her lap, then met his eyes.

  "I came to speak with you about the gift you sent."

  He braced. "Did I get it wrong?"

  "No. No, it's perfect. Beautiful. But I can't accept it."

  "Would you prefer a different brand?"

  "Heavens, no." She smiled and it was genuine. Natural. "What I'm trying to say is it's too expensive."

  He shook his head. "I disagree."

  "No, really. It's too much. Too extravagant."

  "Like the insult I hurled at you?"

  Her breath caught.

  He stared into her eyes, holding her gaze, wishing he could bury those insane words. Quietly, he said, "Would anything else have brought you here?"

  She hesitated, thought about it. "I don't know," she admitted.

  "Then I consider it money well spent."

  "Simon—"

  "Nina, give me a chance to apologize for my last offense before we start arguing again." He smiled to soften the rebuke, then changed the subject. "You've seen the blue icon in your account, haven't you?"

  He liked being able to read her expressive eyes, the way they widened with surprise, grew wary again, and studied him with distrust. He liked the honesty he saw and he wanted to watch her changing emotions as they discussed this. Rationally. Finally.

  She gave a jerky nod. "Yes."

  "Do you understand what it implies and the fact that it's a status-2?"

  Fear leapt into her eyes. Without warning she thrust the sheet of rolled paper in his direction and said, "This was drawn from memory. I see now that I didn't capture the light in your—" She broke off. "I'd like to keep the charcoal sticks. And the tablet if that's all right."

  Apparently frustration was going to become a familiar companion. Beating back his irritation, he accepted the roll, let it unfurl, and stared at a lifelike sketch of himself in shades of black and white.

  He looked up. Met her eyes. Then looked back at the drawing.

  His knowledge of art stretched only as far as knowing what appealed to him. But he knew he'd never seen this sort of realism in a drawing. In a painting, yes, but never a drawing. He had no idea what she thought she'd missed. As far as he could see, she'd missed nothing. Had she used the colored chalks—pastels—it would have been portrait quality.

  "Careful," she said as he touched the line around his jaw. "It'll rub off onto your fingers and anything else. That's what the can of fixative is for."

  He brought his eyes back to hers. "This is exceptional." He meant it, too. "Why aren't you pursuing art as a career?"

  Her smile was spontaneous. "Thank you. That's the nicest compliment I've had in a while. But several million people can draw just as well. Better, even."

  He wasn't sure he believed that.

  Rising to his feet, he held the sketch by one corner and walked across the room to his desk. The aerosol can of fixative was stored in a bottom drawer. He reached for it and held it out . "You're the expert."

  She pointed toward the folded newspaper on the corner table. "Is it all right if I use a few pages from this?"

  "Go ahead."

  "You might want to open a window . . . or the sliding glass door," she amended when she realized there were no functional windows. "The fumes from this are strong."

  He enjoyed watching her approach, relaxed and comfortable with him now. She placed several sheets of newspaper on the carpet while he opened the sliding door that led out to the courtyard. Taking the drawing from him, she centered it on the paper and began shaking the can. When she applied a light spray over the entire sheet, a vaporous mist rose in the air.

  "You're right," he told her when she was finished. "Let's go for a walk while the fumes disperse."

  He gathered the various reports from his desk, locked them inside the top drawer, then held out his hand for the fixative. It had worked for him once and he wasn't beyond using it to lure her a second time.

  She handed him the can and started to turn away.

  "Nina?"

  She looked back.

  "Have dinner with me tonight." He knew he was pushing it, but she surprised him.

  "Where?" she asked.

  "Here. At Gabriel's." He would have preferred taking her off property where she wasn't obligated to dress in something that oozed of sex and drew every male eye in sight, somewhere private so she couldn't stand up and walk away from him if he said something that irritated her. But he was pretty sure she wouldn't leave RUSH with him. Not yet. So he opted for what he thought he could get.

  She nodded. "All right. Thank you."

  "Let's go for that walk."

  This time, he allowed his hand to rest on the small of her back as he guided her out of his office, and the small possessive gesture appeased his need to touch. He was asking for trouble by taking her to dinner at RUSH. He knew it, and even as he looked forward to that time with her, part of him wanted a reason to cancel. R-links didn't socialize with the male population—not for dinner, not for drinks, not even for a cup of coffee. An R-link spent two never-to-be-forgotten hours with whichever man she'd been paired, but neither of those hours was spent outside a fantasy room at the Carnelian Jade. So he and Nina were going to draw attention. He knew well how that merry-go-round turned and he wanted no part of it. In less time than it took him to hold out her chair, the whispers would start. Then, somehow—don't ask him how—word of a blue link between them would surface. Speculation would become outright gossip and within a few days the gossip would spread like an inferno. Everywhere they went, be it together or alone, eyes would follow, tongues would loosen, and all of RUSH would be watching, curious to see how it all turned out.

  She walked quietly
beside him through the corridor. Ethan's green link smiled as they crossed the lobby, and her brother strolled through the entrance doors, nodding a greeting as he passed.

  Simon returned the greeting. "Dalton."

  Nina snapped her head around and Simon cursed beneath his breath.

  "Are they related?" she asked. "Dalton Cooper and Denny Cooper?"

  "Brother and sister."

  She looked up and he knew his response had been abrupt, his tone too harsh. He waited for her to precede him out the doors and said, "Have you eaten at Gabriel's yet?"

  "No. But I'm familiar with the dress code. Evening wear, right?"

  "Yes." He gestured toward a side path but wished they could use one of the rendezvous alcoves for its guaranteed privacy. They needed to discuss the blue icon that connected them, but without an official link Security would muscle its way into any alcove he accessed, separate them, and penalize him for violating a primary bylaw. There were, however other secluded alcoves, some that took a complicated, winding route to find. He guided her onto an offshooting path, then another.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Just ahead . . . a quiet place where we can talk." And maybe she wouldn't be so quick to walk away if she couldn't find the main path without him.

  "Simon?"

  "Hmm?"

  "How many women apply for an R-link membership over the course of a year?"

  He glanced down at her. "Why do you ask?"

  "Just curious. More than a hundred?"

  "Yes."

  "More than two hundred?"

  "Yes."

  She grew quiet. Then, "I didn't think there would be so many. Why are there only thirty-two of us?"

  He considered how to explain a complex computer program that disqualified many times the number of applicants than it approved. "When someone fills out an application, a process of elimination begins, regardless of the membership package. Every box the applicant clicks on is analyzed on a number of levels. Some of those levels are obvious, most aren't. Those that aren't focus on the psyche, motivation, and psychological well being."

  He paused to direct her toward the last turnoff, then continued. "Because of the nature of an R-link membership, the women who apply for it have to pass three-to-four times the number of markers everyone else has to pass. Unfortunately, most women see the R-link membership as a means to escape poverty, domestic violence, or any number of other situations." He shrugged. "Sometimes elimination is based on the simple matter of a non-answer. The computer keeps track of non-responses, tags them, and processes that data as well. Ultimately, the few women who do pass all the markers are here for the right reasons and RUSH flourishes."

  The path was deserted and the quiet jungle whispered softly around them. She seemed relaxed again. The cautious expression she'd worn upon entering his office was no longer visible.

  "I have another question," she said.

  "Go ahead."

  "I keep wondering how a blue icon found its way into the account of an R-link."

  He stopped walking. She stopped as well, turning her face up to his with open curiosity, and, as Mason advised, he chose his words carefully.

  "When an R-link applicant passes all the markers, her file is automatically forwarded to Dr. Zeman. He reviews it, and in your case he wrote a note with the word 'link' on it."

  She nodded. "He wanted me to have a couple of amber links to . . . um . . . ease me into an becoming an active R-link."

  "He told you that?"

  "Yes. But he wouldn't tell me why I received a blue icon. He said I should ask you."

  Simon didn't want to lie to her, but his choice of words could mean the difference between an acceptable explanation and a lawsuit. Nina needed to perceive the blunder of an untrained employee as standard operating procedure, nothing else. So he said, "Dr. Zeman didn't specify a color at the time he wrote the note to your file. Consequently, the person who processed you into the system didn't attach a color or classification. So the system did exactly what it was supposed to do and matched your file in a link of the highest possible compatibility. When it came up blue, the entire board of directors was staggered."

  "What about you? What was your reaction when you saw it on your monitor?"

  "Astonishment," he said. "Disbelief. We've never had a blue come up before."

  She nodded, watching him thoughtfully. "Do you mind if I ask how long it took you to accept it?"

  This time he hesitated. It had been his intention to steer the conversation toward their potential link, but there was more going on here than idle curiosity. He could see it in her eyes.

  "A few hours," he answered carefully, watching her just as intently. "A decision that might change the course of your life can't be made in five or ten minutes."

  She nodded in agreement then turned to look off into the jungle. "If I were to accept this blue link with you," she began, "how much information from your file would be sent to me?"

  "What do you want to know?"

  She looked up again. "I just want to know how much information is sent to each of the parties if it involves a blue icon."

  "Not much."

  "Really? Would it be more than an R-link gets? More than a name, sexual preferences, and contact information?"

  "Yes. Color links are given enough to facilitate conversation."

  "Like what?"

  "Like common interests. Or, supposing both parties had once resided in Los Angeles, or Kansas City . . . they'd both be given that information as a means to establish comfortable interaction."

  "What about a photograph?"

  "All links are provided with a photo," he said. Then he stilled. She was setting him up, goddamn it.

  "So you received a photograph of me?"

  "Yes." He didn't elaborate, but that didn't make any difference.

  "Was I dressed?"

  He simply looked at her, letting his silence speak for itself.

  A heated blush flushed her cheeks. She drew in a long breath and said, "Would I receive a history of your sexual exploits?"

  "No, you wouldn't."

  He slid his palm to her elbow and steered her into the alcove. She allowed it, but she paid no attention to the koi pond or the profusion of frangipani she'd been so intent on a minute before.

  "So," she said, "the board of directors wouldn't expect me to appear and tell them how much sexual experience you've had." She made it a statement, then lifted her face to his. "I can understand why Dr. Zeman would need to know about my virginity. And I even understand why the lawyer needed to know. But did you have to tell the entire board of directors?"

  "Nina—"

  "Does my advisor know? And Marguerite?"

  "Nina."

  "What about Denny Cooper?"

  "Denny?"

  "Your receptionist. Does your receptionist know I have no sexual experience?"

  "I know who Denny Cooper is," he bit out. "But Ethan wouldn't divulge that—"

  "Who on earth is Ethan?" she interrupted.

  "RUSH's head of Security."

  Horrified eyes stared back at him. "You . . . . Why would you tell the head of security about my virginity?"

  She sucked in a breath, eyes breathing fire, and he saw it. She was about to whirl around and walk away.

  Reaching out, he snagged her arm, pulled her forward, and held her in front of him. "You're going to listen to what I have to say if I have to tie you to a tree, goddamn it. I'm a statistician. It's my job to report every detail that affects the development of RUSH, and that includes anything out of the ordinary." He drew a breath. "Ethan Vale is on the board of directors. So is Mason Ingersol—the attorney."

  "I—"

  "I'm not finished," he cut her off. "To the best of my knowledge your advisor knows nothing about your lack of experience. As far as our receptionist is concerned, I have no idea what she knows or doesn't know. Denny's involved in a monogamous link with Ethan, but Ethan doesn't discuss company business between the sheets. And Dr. Ze
man has a complete file on you because the information on your application was forwarded to him as soon as your membership was approved."

  Tears sprang into her eyes and he sighed, eased his hold on her arm, and lowered his voice. "As much as you and I might wish otherwise, something of this magnitude was bound to get out. Don't cry," he ordered. As if anything he said could stop a woman's tears.

  But she surprised him. "I won't," she said. And she didn't.

  He inhaled deeply, then released it. "Accept the link, Nina. We need to spend time together."

  His cell phone rang.

  With a quiet oath he reached for it and saw Ethan's name on the display. "I have to take this," he said, releasing her arm. "Yetzer."

  "Where are you?"

  The clipped question got his full attention. "North side koi pond. What's wrong?"

  "We have a dead girl. It's bad. Get over to Threshold."

  Simon heard shouting in the background, then Ethan cut the connection.

  For a brief, shocked moment he stared into Nina's astonished eyes.

  "Dinner," he barked, shoving the phone back into its case. "Tonight!"

  Then he plowed a path through the jungle, foregoing the winding walkways.

  CHAPTER 17

  Nina exited the elevator and headed toward her apartment just as Libby stepped into the hallway and caught sight of her.

  "Oh, hi!" the other girl chirped.

  "Hi." Nina smiled back, but she couldn't stop thinking about a dead girl—a bad-dead girl—here inside the walls of RUSH where a microchip should have set off alarms at the first sign of trouble. And why had Simon been called? He was a statistician. But the voice on the other end of that call had been rough with urgency, demanding his presence. She hadn't meant to listen in, but she'd been standing so close, the caller's voice had carried.

  "I was just about to knock on your door," Libby said. "How's your schedule? Do you have some free time?"