The Blue Link

by Carol Caiton

  It was the zebra jeans, she thought. She wasn't a zebra-jeans sort of girl, but Lord above, she looked sexy and classy and adventurous . . . maybe even a little naughty. A sparkle was in her eyes and she flashed a smile at her reflection feeling suddenly young and carefree. A pair of high heeled black boots completed the ensemble, and she headed for the kitchen.

  It was already dark outside. The shorter days of winter always took time to adjust to. She woke up in the dark, then drove home from work when the sun was low in the sky. It was like missing out on a whole day.

  She looked over at the utility door, then made her way across the slate floor and opened it. Peering into the garage, her heart gave an extra thump. Ethan was home.

  She set a place for him at the table and prepared his meal, hoping the tantalizing aroma would lure him out to the kitchen. But the minutes wore on and he stayed away.

  When everything was ready she stood for a minute in indecision. If she wanted to see him, she had a legitimate excuse. Dinner was ready. She could go find him and spend a few extra minutes in the kitchen. He didn't need to know she'd already wiped down the counters.

  Anticipation fluttered its wings. Her pulse quickened. She took a step toward the archway then abruptly caught herself and stopped.

  Who was she kidding? Not only did she want to see him, but she wanted him to see her. She looked good. Darned good. And she wanted to watch his eyes sweep over her, wanted to know she'd left him with the image of skin-tight zebra jeans, a sexy, off-the-shoulder sweater, and all the feminine accoutrements she'd taken the time to add.

  Shutting her eyes, she fought the urge to continue on. She'd been telling herself all day it would be better—she'd be better—if she made a clean break. He didn't want her. He. Didn't. Want. Her. How many times did she have to remind herself?

  She opened her eyes and they zeroed in on the landline telephone. She stared at it. Just stared. Is this what they'd been reduced to? If it wasn't so painfully sad, she'd probably laugh.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, she walked across the room, lifted the receiver, and dialed his cell. He answered on the first ring.

  "Nina?"

  "Yes, it's me."

  "Why—" He broke off. "I'm home. In my office."

  "Yes, I know."

  "You know?"

  In her mind's eye she saw him scowl.

  "If you know I'm in the house, why did you—"

  "Dinner's ready," she interrupted. "I just wanted to let you know before I leave for RUSH."

  "You called me on my cell to tell me dinner's ready? What the hell's wrong with your legs?"

  She hung up on him.

  Making a dash for her bedroom, she grabbed up her purse and dug inside for the golf ball she'd picked up last week. Obviously his nasty attitude carried over to talking on the telephone, too.

  * * *

  She'd called him on the goddamn telephone for dinner. From the frigging landline in his own house.

  Simon was better off without her. He was better off without her. God himself probably had seizures every time she prayed. If she prayed. Maybe she didn't believe in God. Maybe she was an atheist. And it was none of his damn business if she was.

  Hauling in a breath, he brought his frustration under control and watched the monitor, waiting for her to leave the house. It didn't take long. Her over-sized shoulder bag bumped against her hip as she en-tered the garage and scurried over to her car. He zeroed in on her butt, then ran his eyes down the zebra stripes glued to her legs. Holy . . . .

  The leather purse strap slipped off her shoulder in that practiced move she had, and he slid his gaze up to the drooping neckline of her sweater. The damned thing was hanging halfway down her arm. Cashmere. He knew because it was part of her wardrobe from RUSH. Exquisitely soft, tempting a man to touch and to keep touching, to stroke his palm down her back, wrap his fist in a bulk of wool, then inch beneath it and explore.

  He muttered another curse. He'd been with a lot of women since RUSH opened for business. Not as many as Michael, but he sure as hell couldn't complain. He'd played. Played hard at times. So what set Nina apart from the others? What was it about her that pushed him to compromise his business concerns, to gamble with his integrity, and to jeopardize a solid and valued friendship? He'd been with prettier women. More sophisticated women. Sexier women.

  But Nina brought something to life inside him. Something basic. She dredged up every characteristic of his personality, good, lousy, and mediocre. When he was with her he felt whole. Complete within himself—with life—as though chunks of his nature had been buried until she dragged them out to the open. Everything he was felt fuller, even when she exasperated him to the point of insanity. They connected with a flair that stripped away the glossy veneer and he couldn't remember a time when he'd viewed life so clearly or felt so goddamned real.

  He pushed away from the desk and stood up. He didn't know how to stop these feelings from growing. He couldn't just shut himself down. Isolating himself on his side of the house helped to some degree. He had plenty to occupy himself. Blueprints of Threshold were taped to both drawing boards in his office waiting for him to map out the specifics for additional surveillance. Inside a filing cabinet were the rudiments of a plan to scatter sensors throughout the property, able to detect changes in blood type and hormones without having to pass through the sensors at the checkpoints. He had enough to keep him busy at work and at home for weeks. Nevertheless, he knew exactly when to expect Nina home. It didn't matter how involved he was or what he was working on, in the back of his mind he was aware of time passing. And when she pulled into the driveway, he stopped whatever he was doing and watched—watched now as she climbed into her car and backed out.

  But it wasn't enough. He wanted to ask how her first day on the job had been. He wanted to probe around and get her to talk so he could learn more about her. He almost wished he'd installed cameras throughout the house so he could have watched her cooking dinner. But he hadn't. Only his office was equipped with surveillance. One camera focused on his desk, another was aimed toward the safe, and a third on the locked filing cabinets across the room. The rest of the cameras were outside and in the garage.

  His stomach growled. Again. It had been growling off and on since the aroma of chicken parmesan drifted through the air ducts.

  But it wasn't food that drew his attention when he entered the kitchen. It was the golf ball resting smack dab in the center of his dinner plate, a yellow sticky note beneath it.

  Feeling suddenly lighter, he walked across the floor to the table. Lifting the ball, he gave it a little toss, caught it, then peeled the note off his plate.

  Exercise works wonders for a grouchy disposition.

  Even if it's just golf.

  Just golf? He smirked. He'd have to take her out on the course some time.

  And just that quickly his good humor vanished. He smoothed his thumb over the dimpled surface of the ball. There wasn't going to be a sometime. Why did thoughts like that keep jumping to mind?

  Stuffing the ball and her note into his pants pocket, he served himself a large helping of the food she'd cooked and ate until he was full. She'd claimed she wasn't a gourmet chef, but he didn't have any complaints. It occurred to him, however, that she hadn't eaten.

  Pushing away from the table he checked the dishwasher for another dinner plate. When he didn't find one, he prepared one for her, covered it with plastic wrap, and set it in the refrigerator with a sticky note of his own. Nothing personal, he told himself. Just a simple thank you for taking the time to cook for him.

  It was good—a welcome change from casserole.

  Your turn now. Eat.

  He cleared away his dirty dishes, poured a cup of coffee, and sat down at the breakfast bar, feeling the quiet as he never had before. The whole house smelled of chicken parmesan and she should have been here to enjoy it. He mulled over that for a minute. Had she skipped din-ner because she was now avoiding him the way he was avoiding her
?

  Perversely, that possibility annoyed him. If he steered clear of her, then he was the one calling the shots. But if she was keeping him at arm's length, it messed with his perspective and stirred things up. It posed a challenge, daring him to seek her out and crowd her personal space just to prove that he could.

  Disgusted with his hunter hormones, he told himself he should be over at Simon's doing whatever it took to repair the damage to their friendship. He could tell himself a hundred times that Simon had blown his chance with Nina, that she'd been free of all emotional attachments when he'd backed her up against the refrigerator and stripped her clothes away. But the fact was, she hadn't said anything about with-drawing from that blue link. Not one word. For all he knew it was still active and the possibility of that ate at him.

  He looked over at the clock, rinsed out his cup, and headed for the foyer. Grabbing a jacket from the coat closet, he let himself out. The night air had turned cold. Biting. He thought of Nina in her sexy excuse for a sweater. She couldn't even use the tunnels to stay warm now that she was no longer an R-link.

  His ears were chilled by the time he turned onto the walkway that led to Simon's front door. Two stories of glass panes left the elaborate chandelier in the foyer exposed to view. The hundred or so candle-shaped bulbs were dimmed and inviting.

  He rang the doorbell then turned to face the security camera he himself had installed when Simon bought the house. A cold gust of wind swept in off the lake, rustling a multitude of leaves off the old maple tree near the garage, then scattering them across the front lawn. He pressed the bell a second time and waited. When another thirty seconds passed, he reached for his cell phone.

  About to press the speed-dial button that would connect them, he hesitated, hand hovering over the keypad. Simon had been trying, unsuccessfully, to speak with Nina. Obviously he wasn't home tonight. He often ate at the food court, but what if he'd decided to hang around and ambush her after class? He had access to her schedule so he'd know where she'd be and when.

  Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he turned away and started back down the sidewalk. The biting cold went unnoticed this time, aggression in his footsteps as he strode back to his own house.

  Fishing out his keys, he unlocked the front door, reset the alarm, then headed straight for the garage. He wouldn't interfere, he told himself, backing the Audi out onto the driveway. He'd watch and keep tabs on Nina's stress levels. In fact, RUSH was the safest place for her to weather this confrontation. Sooner or later, Simon was going to have his say. He wasn't a man to back down and when the stakes were as high as this, he'd be that much more determined to win.

  CHAPTER 38

  Whenever Nina walked up the path leading to the training center she felt as though she was approaching a modern-age castle. Shielded by dozens of trees that bordered each side of the walkway, little of the multi-level building was visible until rounding that last curve. One of the turrets stretching up beyond the roofline always caught her attention. The brochure had stated there were four and of course her imagination sparked to life when her eyes locked on one of the outer circular walls.

  Libby once said the final week of R-link training took place in a turret. She said it scared the curl right out of her hair the first time she set eyes on an honest-to-God pillory. It stood smack dab in the middle of the circle, threatening her freedom.

  But Dalton Cooper had been the instructor assigned to her that day and because she'd worked with him once before and had positively melted under his hands, she'd put her trust in him and had taken a chance.

  "Oh, God, Nina, oh, God! That man makes you feel like you're the only woman on earth and he adores you." And, of course, Libby had been thrilled with the session.

  It seemed there was nothing Libby wasn't enthusiastic about when it came to RUSH. And every time Nina saw one of those turrets she thought of Libby's 'ride to the stars' and a strange sort of yearning welled up inside. Her friend's description of that ride had awakened her to a side of herself she never would have guessed existed. Did she have the same submissive tendencies Libby and the other girls had? Libby had been quick to tell her all the women at RUSH were thus inclined. Submissiveness was one of the requirements for membership, R-links to an even greater degree. There were other clubs that accommodated female dominants, but not RUSH. Not a single man on the premises could tolerate the idea of relinquishing control. It just wasn't in their DNA. They were stubborn, fearless, independent, competitive, bossy extroverts.

  Bulldozers, Nina thought. All of them. Heaven help the women who ended up settling down with them. If they didn't want to be trampled, they'd have to acquire a strong backbone and give as good as they got.

  Turning off the main walkway, she hurried her pace to escape the cold and rounded the last curve in the path. She saw one of the turrets and immediately looked away. She didn't want to think about any of the things Libby had described. She didn't want to yearn anymore for things she couldn't have.

  She focused instead on the ambience, the whisper of things about to unfold as night approached. It was the same atmosphere of suggestion she picked up on during the day but amplified. Sometimes it felt as though the air itself smoldered with a sexual charge.

  With an answering smile for the man who stood aside so she could enter the training center first, she rubbed the cold from her arms and started across the lobby. She should have worn a jacket. She'd been so agitated after Ethan barked at her for calling his cell phone, she hadn't thought about the weather. She'd been intent on planting her golf ball in the middle of his dinner plate and getting out of the house before he barreled into the kitchen and started in on her again.

  She wondered what he thought of all the little gifts she left for him. What did he do with them? She hadn't noticed any of them in the trash, but then she hadn't been looking.

  The same man who stepped aside for her at the front entrance reached over her head and held the stairwell door as she and several others avoided the crowded elevators. He fell in behind her as she climbed the steps and opened her classroom door as well.

  Grinning this time, she thanked him again. "If I didn't know better, I'd wonder if you were following me."

  A slow, sexy smile curved his mouth. "Honey, if it weren't against the rules, I would be."

  Flattered and feeling a little lightheaded, she fanned her face with her hand and turned away.

  He chuckled good-naturedly as she slipped between two rows of desks to take a seat in the middle of the room. Where on earth had she learned to banter like that? Was it a result of her newly acquired confidence? Maybe all the passion in the air was contagious. But she'd better not be so bold outside the walls of RUSH. Someone like Bill Durrand would jump all over it, then claim she'd invited his advances.

  Digging into her purse for the spiral notebook she'd put there, she slid a covert glance toward the man who had held the door for her. He was tall and handsome in a stern sort of way, and he was dressed in a security uniform so he worked with Ethan. But he wasn't here for tonight's class. Not this one anyway. This was a woman's etiquette class.

  She watched as he spoke with the instructor, then he turned and left the room. But she caught sight of his name tag before he did.

  J. Case. Jeremiah Case? If Nina remembered correctly, Jeremiah Case was Ethan's right-hand man. Wonderful.

  She looked around the room, surprised by the number of women in attendance. Only ten had been enrolled in the same etiquette class during the afternoon. By contrast, nearly every desk was occupied tonight. No wonder she couldn't get a body massage at a reasonable hour. Still, if her Pleasure Points class the following night turned out to be just as full, she could look forward to a fun time. By nature of the material covered, class discussions tended to be intimate and candid and when a group of women, even a small group, talked and joked about sex, well, Nina had learned a lot after just one class, book knowledge or not.

  It was Pleasure Points II that she was really looking forward to t
hough. In Pleasure Points II everyone applied what they'd learned in Pleasure Points I. Interestingly, it too was segregated by sex. Each person who enrolled was assigned a human prototype—a highly advanced, lifelike model with a supple outer shell that matched the density of real skin. Designed specifically for RUSH, each prototype was equipped with more than three thousand sensors. Each one registered varying degrees of both pain and pleasure and measured three aspects of every touch—the upsurge of anticipation on the part of the prototype, accuracy on the student's part, and the student's sensitivity to the amount of pressure needed for optimal pleasure.

  The prototypes were unclothed, explicitly detailed, and programmed to keep track of its assigned student's progress. According to both Libby and Geneva, R-links were required to attend a Pleasure Points II workshop for the duration of their membership. They were expected to master and maintain a ninety-three percent skill level which, both said, was more difficult than one would think. It demanded concentration and, in view of the fact that different men reacted differently to the same stimulus, the responsiveness of the sensors was programmed to change from day to day. In theory, it was this modification that trained each woman to develop a fine-tuned awareness, enabling her to gauge the degree of effectiveness and how long to indulge that stimulus in order to feed and sustain the desired level of sexual excitement. Most of the girls gave their prototypes exotic names like Vladimir, Augustus, or Geronimo. Libby had named hers Max, short for Maximilian. She said it gave him an air of sophistication, And Geneva called hers Tarzan.