by Carol Caiton
Guilt probably. Nina would have blamed herself for leaning over at that particular moment. Her sister's legs had been crushed. To this day, nine years later, Lydia was confined to a wheelchair because a bunch of library books prevented her from stopping for a red light.
How long had Nina shouldered that burden? How long had it taken her mind to work it out before she could live in peace with what happened? What a thing for a kid to carry around in her head. What a thing to—
"Ah, hell."
He straightened in his chair. Was that the big secret? Had she never come to terms with it? Did she still carry it around in her head? Was that why she snapped her mouth shut when he asked a few ordinary questions?
And what about the sister? Would an adrenaline junkie . . . a hellion in the making . . . resent the loss of her legs? Of course she would. She'd be twenty-six now. Stuck in a wheelchair. Would she have grown bitter and nurtured Nina's guilt? Would she have sought revenge?
He stared across the room at nothing in particular. Could bitterness and the need for vengeance have anything to do with the reason a virginal young woman had joined RUSH as an R-link for God's sake?
He refocused again. He didn't know if he was out in left field somewhere or if it all tied in together but he was going to find out.
For the next three hours he pored over the information he'd been given. He reread the police affidavit and each of the witness statements, studied the damage estimates and compared them to the insurance documents, then settled back in his chair with the medical records his investigator had accessed. A sticky note was attached to the front page.
Going out of town. Be back Thursday night if you need anything else.
D.
He started reading. A minute later he opened his laptop and located an online medical dictionary. It took time to key in the medical terms, but he came away with a clearer understanding of Lydia's injuries. In all, she'd undergone three separate surgeries. None of them, however, had given back the use of her legs. He wondered if her hips could support braces. Was that even an option?
He looked through the rest of the paperwork for her medical expenses and frowned when he came up short. He thumbed through everything and found the checklist and invoice Doug had enclosed . . . no reference to medical bills, and he wouldn't be back in town until Thursday.
Sliding the report onto his desk, he leaned back in his chair. A vulnerable thirteen-year-old girl had walked away from an accident that left her sister disabled for life. As a twenty-two-year-old, what kind of baggage would she be carrying?
He went over in his mind all that he'd learned until his stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten for a while.
Gathering up the array of documents, he stuffed everything inside the two express envelopes, locked them inside the bottom desk drawer, and stood up.
Where had she gone? He checked the monitors once more, but the empty bay in the garage told him she hadn't come home.
Wandering out to the kitchen, he glanced at the clock on the stove then went to the pantry for the jar of sunflower seeds he'd taken from one of her grocery bags. When he sat down at the breakfast bar and started munching, the quiet was more noticeable than usual. He ate a good portion of her seeds, screwed the lid back on, then put them away.
At three o'clock he came back out and grabbed an apple. He looked at the time again. Then he took himself back to his study, made a couple of phone calls, and stared at the monitors.
At four o'clock he hunted down a deck of cards.
At six o'clock it started to rain.
At seven o'clock the doorbell rang.
"Is she here?" Simon wanted to know.
"No. Not yet."
He didn't mention that she'd come back once, or that he'd driven her out again. Nor did he invite Simon inside. Time would have passed more quickly with company but the truth was, he didn't want Simon around when she came home. He owed her an apology and he wanted time alone with her to give it. He wanted to reestablish a modicum of harmony. He wanted to try some of that chicken parmesan she'd offered to cook.
At eight o'clock he turned on the TV.
At eight-fifteen he turned it off again.
At eight-thirty he headed for the exercise room to work off the restlessness that plagued him.
At eight forty-five he realized he wouldn't be able to hear the garage door open from that part of the house so he went back to his study to stare at the monitors.
At nine o'clock he called Security Central to ask if she'd listed a phone number on her membership application. Then, halfway through dialing it he realized he had no idea who he was calling and disconnected.
At nine-thirty he marched out to the kitchen, slapped together a sandwich, and sat down at the breakfast bar to eat.
At ten he began to pace. He wondered about Nina's life at home. He wondered how her parents had reacted when Lydia, a newly licensed teenager, had been arrested for drag racing. Twice. He wondered how they'd dealt with the accident that crippled her. And he wondered why Nina hadn't wanted to move back home when he told her she couldn't stay in the R-link complex.
At ten-thirty he stalked out to the foyer, jammed his hands into his pants pockets, and stared through the sidelights at the moonlit lawn.
At ten forty-five, when her headlights turned into the driveway, more than twelve hours had passed since she left. Twelve goddamn hours with no way to reach her.
He watched as she braked, paused, then disappeared into the garage. And the moment her car was out of view, the unholy rage that had gripped him that morning lit a fire in his veins and combusted.
The repentance he'd felt at seven o'clock was smoke. The full-blown fury that now propelled him toward the kitchen left sparks in his wake.
He stood in the archway as the utility door opened. Then there she was, dark hair shining and wavy, looking just as fresh as though she'd made a quick run to the store and back.
"Where the goddamn frigging hell have you been?"
She jerked when he spoke and froze, fingers clutching the doorknob. Then she recovered, stepped calmly forward, and closed the door with a soft snick. "Is it only me, Ethan, or do you keep tabs on everyone?"
He snapped.
Everything snapped.
Four strides carried him across the slate. He crowded her against the utility door so there would be no edging past him to get away. No escaping to her bedroom until he'd had his say.
He slammed one palm up against the door and she jumped.
"Where. Have. You. Been?" He chewed the words out.
Once again she went very still. He could see her mind working, deciding whether or not to answer him.
Fortunately for her, she made the right choice.
Unfortunately for her, she gave the wrong answer.
"You were drunk—"
"I was not drunk!"
"You acted like you were."
"I got up with the goddamn sun! I hadn't even showered yet—"
"You were horrible!"
"You haven't seen horrible yet!"
"You're yelling at me!"
"You're goddamn right I'm yelling at you! I couldn't find you! Again! You left groceries all over the place! You threw that goddamn silly-face at my feet and tore out of here!"
Her brows drew together and she glanced over at the counter. "Thank you—"
"Don't frigging thank me! I want to know where you've been!"
"Stop shouting at me!
"I will when you start using some consideration!"
She stared up at him in puzzled confusion, too genuine to be faked. "Is this about the groceries?"
For three infernally full seconds he stared at her, at an utter loss for words.
Christ Almighty. Christ Almighty.
"This is not about the groceries!" he bellowed. "It's about you! It's about you taking off like a crazy woman twelve goddamn hours ago! And don't tell me to stop shouting! I've spent half the night pacing the floor! If you'd been in an accident, it would
have been my goddamn fault! You could have been lying in a hospital somewhere and I wouldn't have known. No one would have known to call me!"
Horror leaped into her eyes and something in the depths of that stricken expression sent a chill down his spine. It threw him off, yanking on the reins of his fury.
The haze in front of his mind vanished and an onrush of air filled his chest. He could breathe again. Think again.
"I wasn't . . . in . . . an accident. I'm okay. I wasn't."
For God's sake, she was worried about convincing him when he could see for himself she was fine.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't know you worried like that. I'm sorry—"
He exhaled heavily. Took another steadying breath. "Okay. It's okay, Nina. Honey, don't look at me like that." He lifted a hand and brushed his fingers across her cheek. "I know you're okay."
Cursing his temper, he tucked her hair behind her ear and watched the shadows start to fade.
"I was an ass this morning and I'm sorry. You were right. You didn't deserve that. And I blew up just now because I was worried. I had no way of knowing you were safe." He smiled, hoping it looked genuine, and withdrew his hand. "Before you go to bed tonight, put my contact information in your wallet, okay?"
She nodded. "Okay."
"And the next time I'm an ass and you run off, have a little mercy and call home."
Her mouth twitched a couple of times.
"Better now?"
She nodded. "Yes. I'm fine."
"Okay then." He stepped aside and backed away so she could pass.
She walked over to the table, shrugged her shoulder, and the strap of her purse slid down her arm in a well-practiced move.
"Simon stopped by," he told her. "Twice. He wanted to talk to you."
She gave a small nod and hung her purse over one of the chairs. "Why didn't he just call?"
"I don't know. You'll have to ask him that."
"I don't want to ask him anything. I don't want to—"
"Don't want to what?"
"Nothing. Never mind. It's not your problem." She walked over to the refrigerator and opened it.
"Nina, it's been my problem since the day you moved in."
Her eyes shot to his.
"Not you specifically. You and Simon. The whole situation." He ambled over to the island, pulled out a barstool, and sat down. "And I think you're in over your head here."
"I'm twenty-two, Ethan."
She closed the refrigerator and turned, bottle of juice in hand, and he relaxed. They were back on safe ground again. "Well, no offense," he said, "but you're a naïve twenty-two. Admit it. Trouble has a way of finding you on just about a weekly basis."
"That's not true."
"It is."
"No it isn't."
"What was your life like before you moved to RUSH?"
Her eyes widened. Then they narrowed. "Have you been talking to Libby?"
"Libby Pye? What's she got to do with this?"
"Nothing. Never mind."
"That answer's getting old."
He waited but she didn't enlighten him. "You were going to cook tonight. Chicken parmesan."
"I know." She reached for a glass from the cabinet and he watched the waistband of her sweater rise. "I'll make it tomorrow."
"Nina?"
She turned to look at him.
"Are you going to tell me where you've been all day?"
Sighing, she poured a small glass of juice and said, "I went back to RUSH."
RUSH.
He shook his head. The easiest place in the world to have found her. But he hadn't asked Security to check and see if she was on property.
Then he froze.
Had she logged onto her account? Had she withdrawn from her link with Simon?"
"Libby and I spent the day together. After her session."
She paused, glass halfway to her mouth, glanced at him, turned bright red, and looked quickly away.
Inwardly he smiled. "I've never been with Libby, Nina."
"Oh. Well. Um, Libby and I are friends."
"I know."
"Oh," she said again. She took a sip of her juice then set the glass down. "I can't visit her inside her apartment now that I'm not an R-link. So I was wondering if my security chip can be programmed for a sort of guest clearance. I mean . . . it's not as though I've never been inside the complex before."
He leaned back in his chair. "It can, but you know the rules. No one but R-links and authorized personnel are allowed in."
"Hasn't anyone ever left then wanted to come back and visit?"
"No."
"No one's ever asked?"
"No. It's never been an issue. But we've only had two R-links leave."
"Really? Those are good logistics."
"Yes, they are."
"Well, I'd like to make it an issue."
"Of course you would."
She made a face. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Never mind. It was bound to come up sooner or later anyway. Do you want me to put it before the board?"
"Yes, please. We had dinner at Magnolias, but it was too cold to sit outside, and now that it's winter, everyone wants to eat in the dining room, so we couldn't linger at a table.
He counted himself lucky she hadn't invited Libby to his house. He wouldn't mind if she had people over—as long as it wasn't anyone from RUSH.
"I'll see what the others have to say," he told her.
"Thanks."
When she smiled, her eyes lit with pleasure and it made him feel ridiculously good to have caused it. He cleared his throat. "So, what else did you do at RUSH besides have dinner with Libby?" He was fishing, but short of asking outright if she'd withdrawn from her link, it was the best he could do.
"Actually, I have another issue to bring up."
"Naturally."
She stuck her tongue out at him. "I've got your number now."
"I doubt it." He chuckled. "But let's hear your issue."
"Well, I've rearranged my classes so I can take them at night. After work. But I also want to maintain a regular salon schedule, only none of the salons at the mall book long-standing appointments. Everything's walk-in only and there's no guarantee they can fit me in."
"You'll have to wait for the Moon Orchid Spa to open."
"Yes, they told me that. But the problem is, if I want a massage, they're booked for the next six weeks unless I want to wait until eleven o'clock. But that's too late on a work night."
Six weeks, he thought. That could be a problem.
"I did find a solution," she went on. "In a roundabout way. But I'll come home first—I mean, I'll come here first—and put dinner together for you."
"Aren't you going to eat?"
"I'll get something at RUSH. I had to move things around again so I could fit dinner in between classes and body preps."
He couldn't have heard correctly.
"I won't go hungry," she assured him, putting the juice back in the refrigerator as though she hadn't just rendered him speechless. She couldn't be that naïve, could she?
"Did you say body preps?"
CHAPTER 35
"Yes." She glanced over her shoulder then slid the bottle into the refrigerator. "It's the only way I could get around the massage issue. Too many women come to RUSH after work. That's why evenings are so difficult. So I scheduled one body prep a week."
"No." He was on his feet before she finished speaking.
"What?" She closed the refrigerator door.
"I said no. No body preps."
"Now look here—"
"Cancel them. Go back and change your schedule."
"Whatever for?"
"Has Simon ever scheduled you for a body prep?"
She looked confused. "Why would he?"
How the hell could a twenty-two-year-old woman be so clueless? "Do you know what a body prep is?"
Her chin came up. "As a matter of fact I asked the receptionist at the training center."
&n
bsp; "And?"
"She told me it's a full-body massage, but on a sensual level."
He strove for patience. "Nina, a body prep is nothing like the massage you want. You can't wander around RUSH after a body prep."
"I won't be wandering around RUSH. I'll go to class, get something to eat, body prep, then class again. And then I'll come home."
She'd never make it to another class. Not after a body prep. She'd end up wandering into Threshold, ravenous for someone—probably three or four someones—to slake a lust she couldn't begin to imagine. And if he thought she was still hung up on her sister's car accident, that would be nothing to what she'd come away with after Threshold.
"No," he repeated. "No body preps. Not unless you reschedule them and meet Simon afterward."
She gave him an affronted look. "I can't believe you said that."
He stood for a minute, contemplating her expression but was still unable to determine whether or not she'd ended her link.
"Nina, a body prep is exactly what it sounds like. It's a massage, yes, but it's more than a sensual experience. It's an intimate sexual experience.
"It's a two-part process, bathing and cleansing first, then the massage. You'll be asked to lie down, face-down to begin with, and open your legs. A padded brace is built into the table to keep you in position—to spread your thighs for easy access.
"Then it starts with the feet, one masseuse on each side. And if you're an R-link, your personal fragrance will have been mixed into an ingestible oil.
"It begins slowly," he went on, "with each masseuse working the oil into your skin. Into every pore. They work in unison and they know every pleasure point on your body. They know how to touch and tease and press and caress, and by the time they reach your thighs, you'll already be swollen and pulsing with need."
The image of a wine colored bra flickered across his mind with its deep, wide cups and silky lace. "They work slowly up your thighs while the brace keeps your legs spread for them. And when they reach your anus, they open your cheeks for lubrication. You'll be stroked inside and out, honey, preparing you for a man's pleasure until you're gasping with need."
