by Carol Caiton
"I had nothing to do with that, either."
Libby just grinned. She took a swallow of her chai tea and said, "And what about all the girls who are planning to activate their files now?"
"What does that have to do with me?"
"A couple of them have been here since the beginning and never activated their files. And four employees are planning to update and apply for a blue link. All because you inspired them."
Nina harrumphed. "Some inspiration. If they ever saw Simon and me together, they'd change their minds. We argue more often than we get along." The truth was, she didn't believe her relationship with Simon had much of a future.
"That's just temporary," Libby said. "They see you as an example. And all the R-links are in awe of you."
"For goodness sake, whatever for?"
"Geri overheard you tell Simon he'd be stuck on your blacklist forever if you had one."
Nina stilled.
"Of course, no one knew back then that you were linked with him. But still . . . telling off one of the owners . . . ."
"What else did she hear?"
Libby shrugged. "Nothing. I asked. And don't worry because it hasn't been repeated outside the R-link complex." She pushed her plate off to the side. "So, will we still see you? Are you keeping your membership active?"
"Yes, and yes. I'm planning to be here most evenings. I'm in the process of rescheduling my classes."
"Good. We can have dinner together when I'm not on scene."
* * *
At three o'clock, sunglasses in place, Nina walked over to Member Services. While she was technically still an R-link, asking Jen to rearrange her entire schedule didn't feel right, so she asked if someone could show her where to go to access her account.
An assistant led her down an unfamiliar corridor to a large, double-sized classroom where several rows of cubicles were outfitted with all-in-one computers and small printers. Fewer than a quarter of the cubicles were occupied, and the assistant took Nina to one on the first aisle.
"Your schedule will come up when you fill in the prompt, and everything is color-coded so it's user-friendly." She tapped on the edge of the monitor, bringing it to life, then tapped on a tab labeled Classes.
A chart listing all the classes RUSH offered took up the left side of the screen. On the right was the prompt for Nina to enter her name and password.
"It's pretty self-explanatory," the assistant added. "Lavender indicates the classes open to women, blue is for men, and green is co-ed. Each listing shows how many openings are available, which days, and the time slot. Just click or tap on the one you want and it'll show up on your schedule."
"That seems easy enough. Thanks."
Actually, she knew all of that already. But it hadn't occurred to her to rearrange her schedule before leaving her apartment and she didn't know if she could get back in to use the laptop now.
"You're welcome. If you have any questions, just tap Help and someone will be with you in a minute. And when you're finished, press Escape to close your schedule."
"Okay."
Removing her sunglasses, she sat down, typed in the required information, and printed out a copy of her current schedule for reference. She set about deleting all her salon appointments and was surprised by the number of blank spaces that were left. Still, it took nearly an hour to move her day classes to a workable evening schedule. One of them had to be dropped altogether because it occupied the same time slot as Tai Chi and she preferred to keep Tai Chi. It was interesting as well to see that several co-ed classes had reached maximum capacity for male participation, showing available openings for women only.
When she finished and sat back for an overall view of her selections, she noted that two evenings would finish up at seven o'clock, putting her back at Ethan's house before seven thirty. If she wanted to stay out of his way, she should fill those slots with something, and she should probably think about part of the weekend as well.
Scanning the list again, she spotted a Lifestyle Improvement class to fill the two nights in question, so she clicked on it. Then another class caught her eye. Bondage Techniques.
She stared at the listing, perplexed. How many ways could there be to tie a woman to a bed? Her heart gave a little start. Simon had threatened to tie her to a tree. Did they teach that too? She noticed there was only a blue column, so the class was for men only. How were they supposed to practice tying someone up if they didn't have any women to tie?
Continuing down the list, she searched for the Moon Orchid Spa. After a full week at work, it would be heavenly to be pampered on Saturdays.
But the spa wasn't listed. Probably because it wasn't a class. She'd have to ask how to fill it in on her schedule.
That would have to wait though. She printed out the new schedule, folded both and slid them into her back pocket, then pressed Escape. The home page appeared again, along with the prompt for someone else to type in a name and password.
She'd purposely saved visiting the R-link salon until last. Having spent so much time in their care, the staff of women assigned to her personal regimen, if not actual friends, had become more than passing acquaintances. They knew her body better than she did. They'd pampered her beyond imagination, had taken the time to explain every procedure, and told her the results she could expect. It would be difficult to say goodbye. She might not be leaving RUSH permanently, but she wouldn't see these exceptional woman again unless they were out on the grounds. One girl, however—the girl who teased and helped to relax her while shaping her pubic area—had applied for a transfer to the Moon Orchid Spa in order to cut back her hours. Nina could ask for her there and she planned to do that.
Saying goodbye to Marguerite proved to be both difficult and easy. Easy because the woman sat behind her desk, accepting Nina's departure with professional courtesy. And difficult because her austerity made it awkward for Nina to express the depth of her regard. Consequently, when the queen of beauty police met Nina's outstretched hand with her own, Nina slid her other palm over both their hands and held on.
Not surprisingly, Marguerite arched a brow.
"There aren't words to tell you how much your guidance has meant. I just wanted you to know that. I was a little awed when I first came here and you helped me through that." Then she drew back her hands and turned toward the door.
"Nina."
She looked over her shoulder.
"Even queens appreciate a kind word."
Nina stared. She was utterly speechless.
Marguerite watched her from across the desk, then she narrowed one eye and . . . winked. She. Winked.
"Now go on. I need to make sure the Moon Orchid Spa can access your records."
CHAPTER 25
Arriving at Ethan's house shortly before five, Nina parked on the far side of the driveway to allow plenty of room for a truck to pull in beside the Toyota. She let herself in through Ethan's front door, turned off the burglar alarm, and let her eyes travel around the spacious foyer.
It felt strange to stand in someone else's house when no one was home. She ambled toward the double-wide opening that led to the living room, looked around, and found an odd sort of comfort when she saw the sofa she'd slept on the night before.
Things happen around you . . . . It's like a domino effect.
A better analysis would have been that things happened to her, then the dominos tumbled on from there.
Using the living room as a familiar starting point, she located the hallway—there were three—that led to the bathroom she'd used. Across from the bathroom was a large guest suite with a small sitting room. Farther down were two more guest suites equally as large. Ethan had said there were six so the other three must be located in a different wing of the house.
The suite she chose for herself made her wonder why an unmarried man would furnish one of his guest rooms with graceful, antique-white furniture. In the sitting room, the small desk with its scrolling legs was suitable for a female. The matching bed and dr
essers were equally feminine. Maybe he had a sister who came to visit.
Locating the closet, another huge walk-in, she peeked inside. But it was empty save for a couple of blankets up on one of the shelves. She opened a couple of dresser drawers but they, too, were empty.
Well, he'd told her to pick a room and this was the one she liked.
Heading back out to her car for the food she'd brought, it took only a few trips to carry everything inside. She hadn't kept much on hand since her meals had been supplied by Magnolias.
When the doorbell rang, she hurried back to the foyer, rose up on her toes to look out the peephole, and saw three of RUSH's uniformed security guards. Wondering how they'd gotten past the gatehouse, she guessed Ethan must have called ahead, giving them clearance.
She opened the door, led them to the bedroom she'd chosen, and they set about carrying in the boxes she'd packed. They were kind enough to stack the ones she'd labeled for storage inside the closet and twenty minutes later, they drove off.
It took her nearly two hours to unpack. She filled the dresser drawers, arranged her shoes on the closet shoe rack, and hung everything else around the perimeter. Midway through the task, however, a twinge of guilt assailed her. The few hours spent drawing one portrait seemed insignificant compared to the compensation. At least the other R-links fulfilled a year's contract before walking away with a wardrobe to die for.
She flattened and carried the empty boxes to another guest room, then stacked them inside another empty closet. If everything went as planned, she'd need them again once she collected a couple of paychecks.
Tired and hungry, she checked her watch and saw it was nearly seven thirty. Ethan still hadn't come home. It was possible the linking system had paired him with someone else now that his file was active again. He could be occupied in one of RUSH's hundreds of rooms at the Carnelian Jade . . . or he might be drowning himself in liquor again.
She considered both those possibilities, knowing he wouldn't appreciate her interference in either situation. If he wasn't home in another half hour, though, she'd walk three doors down, in both directions if need be, and knock on Simon's door. He'd know what to do.
She made her way down the hall to the living room, continued on to the kitchen, and turned on the light. Dark granite counters provided enough space for three cooks to work comfortably. Together with the stainless steel appliances and black cabinetry, the room should have appeared cold and stark. But a weathered brick wall behind the range and the slate tiled floor softened the severity.
She found a covered casserole in the refrigerator that hadn't been there the night before. Maybe Ethan had a housekeeper. Maybe he had a cook and a housekeeper.
Removing the casserole, she set it carefully on the island counter then went back for the cranberry juice she'd brought in earlier.
About to search the rows of cabinets for a plate, she reached up, then jerked to a stop at the sound of shattering glass. It was distant, but definitely somewhere inside the house.
She snapped her eyes toward the entrance foyer but distinctly remembered resetting the alarm. Wouldn't it have gone off if someone tried to get in by breaking a window?
But someone was inside the house with her.
Straining to hear more, she stood unmoving for long seconds, heart thumping in her chest. But the house was silent. Still, unless she checked it out, she'd be on edge for the rest of the night. Wasn’t that the same sort of logic that always got the heroine killed?
Her eyes landed on a set of knives, neatly encased in an angled wood block next to the sink. Sliding out of her shoes, she skirted around the island and pulled the largest butcher knife from its slot. Then, heart in her throat, she crept carefully toward the direction from which she thought the sound had come.
She squeezed the handle of the knife with a grip that cramped her fingers, moving from one room to the next, feeling for each light switch and reluctant to take her eyes from whatever stretched ahead. She investigated one dark and silent wing and found the other three guest rooms—all deserted. Retracing her steps, she turned yet another corner and spotted a dim shaft of light glowing from an open doorway.
Knife held in front of her chest, she inched forward, peered into the room, then stepped cautiously inside.
"Planning to stab me in my sleep?"
She jumped and whirled around, heart pounding.
"Does Simon know you creep around the house like a knife-wielding lunatic?"
A bedside lamp on a nightstand at the other end of the room softly lit the interior. Beside it, Ethan lay stretched out on a huge bed, shirt sleeves rolled up, still wearing his dress slacks.
Her breath whooshed out.
Knees weak and wobbly, she lowered her weapon. "I don't creep around like a knife-wielding lunatic."
He merely raised a brow and studied her.
Her racing heart wouldn't slow down.
"So what do you want?" he asked.
Gathering herself, she started for the bench at the foot of the bed. Her legs were so shaky, she was surprised she made it across the room. Collapsing down onto it, she placed the knife on the tapestry cushion.
"Sure, come on in. Make yourself comfortable."
She gave him a brief frown and looked around. His bedroom rivaled the size of his living room. He even had a sofa, wing chair, and a coffee table positioned at the other end.
"What do you do with all this space?"
"Climb on up and I'll show you."
She jerked her gaze back to his, expecting to find at least a trace of amusement. But no teasing smile met her eyes. He stared right back, his own narrowed and assessing.
"Why did you say that?"
His gaze dropped to her lips, then lower, lingering on her breasts. "You come dressed like that, inviting yourself into my bedroom . . . why do you think I said it?"
She looked down, then stared. She'd driven here straight from RUSH. It hadn't occurred to her to change into off-property attire. The beige, off-the-shoulder—and nearly off the breasts—pullover showed way too much flesh.
But Ethan was Simon's business partner. They were probably friends as well. And he saw women dressed exactly as she was dressed every day. Should she be afraid of him?
Confused, apprehensive, and embarrassed by an oversight that he interpreted to convey something it didn't, she stole a quick glance at his belt buckle, then a little lower to assure herself he wasn't serious, only to hear him chuckle.
"I'm more than ready, sweetheart."
Mortified, she tore her gaze back to his. Hot blood rushed to her face so fiercely, her eyes watered. "I . . . ."
He scowled. "Forget it. I'm in a lousy mood and you're here to take it out on."
She spotted it then—a tumbler sitting beside the lamp on the bedside table, about a finger's worth of amber liquid in the bottom. Was he an alcoholic?
"You've been drinking again."
He exhaled heavily. "Just get the hell out, will you?"
She ignored him. "What was that crash I heard?"
"Full of questions tonight, aren't you?"
She looked around again, this time surveying the other side of the room, and saw a shattered lamp on the floor in front of the far wall. He'd either thrown it or smashed it and the pieces were so thoroughly destroyed, she wouldn't have known it was a lamp if not for the shade beside it.
"Oh." She didn't know what else to say.
"Now get the hell out before I change my mind and pull you up here myself."
Again she wondered if he was serious. How fast could a drunken man lunge across the bed? Then she remembered something he told her just that morning and relaxed. "You won't pounce." But she stood up all the same.
Hard, glittering eyes drilled into hers. He pulled his hands from behind his head and lifted up onto one elbow. "What makes you think I won't"
"Because you told me you're loyal to Simon."
Still, his tone stirred the hairs on the nape of her neck and she took a step backward.
Loyal or not, intoxicated or not, a world of anger burned in his eyes. She darted a glance toward the butcher knife on the bench where she'd left it.
"Oh, honey, I really wish you'd try it."
She froze.
She didn't have to ask herself this time if she should be afraid. His tone would have given a mad dog pause. He might look relaxed, legs stretched out, propped up on an elbow, but his eyes gleamed with anticipation. Alert. Calculating. He'd be across the bed if she so much as stretched out a hand.
Well, she wasn't about to reach for the knife, though she wished she hadn't put it down. He was a lot taller than she was and powerfully built. He probably outweighed her by eighty pounds or more. She wouldn't stand a chance.
"Dinner's in ten minutes," she blurted out. Then she whirled around and fled.
Back in her own wing of the house, she shut her bedroom door, locked it, then stood back and stared at it. What had she gotten into? What if Ethan Vale turned out to be a mean drunk and indulged in these binges every night? Simon told her he wasn't, but what if Simon didn't know? She'd never been around a person who drank excessively.
It took three of those ten minutes to convince herself she wasn't in danger. Ethan hadn't given chase and he wasn't going to. Why would he?
It took another minute before it occurred to her that his words hadn't been slurred. He'd been mean and angry, maybe a little drunk, but not sloshed. Nevertheless, like an idiot she'd told him to be in the kitchen within ten minutes if he wanted to eat. With her. "Not smart, Nina."
Sighing, she walked over to the larger of the three dressers and opened the bottom drawer. If she hadn't entered his bedroom looking like an R-link, maybe none of this would have happened. And if she'd left when he told her to get out instead of taunting him, she wouldn't be hiding out in her bedroom.
Pulling the old blue sweatshirt over her head, she checked the mirror, then headed back out to the kitchen.
The casserole sat on the island where she'd left it and Ethan was nowhere in sight. Maybe he'd already eaten. It was nearly eight o'clock. Just in case, though, she set two places and prepared two salads. If he did come out to join her, some food and a pot of strong coffee would help sober him up.
