The Blue Link

by Carol Caiton

  "It's stress," she croaked on another flood of tears. "I told you I need a body massage."

  Another sob rose up.

  "I want a facial too!" she added, building on the lie to give it credibility. "I want my nails done! And I want a million damn dollars so I can move out of your house a buy a party dress!"

  He stood up.

  Tossing the wet paper towels onto the counter, he planted both hands on the waistband of his jeans and gave her a long, considering look. "A million dollars, huh? That's some party dress."

  She jerked.

  On a whoosh of air the floodgate of tears that wracked her body suddenly stopped. Just like that.

  She blinked. Sniffled. Hitched in a couple of breaths. And blinked again. "What did you say?"

  His lips twitched. "I said that must be some party dress."

  She wasn't sure if it was a smile, but when she looked into his eyes, the chilling hostility of a minute before was gone. In its place, however, was an expression that told her any hope of escaping to her bedroom wasn't going to be realized.

  He reached out, slid one hand along the small of her back, and began steering her toward the table. "Sit down and I'll get you another cup of coffee."

  "No. Wait." She tried to draw back. "I need to . . . freshen up."

  He hesitated, then his arm fell away. "If you're not back in two minutes I'm coming to get you."

  She didn't make the mistake of believing it was a hollow threat. Hurrying back to her own en suite bathroom, she wiped her legs with a wet washcloth, splashed cool water on her face, then looked in the mirror. Automatically she reached for the jar of moisturizer Olida Laboratories had formulated for her skin. But she was sure two minutes hadn't yet passed when Ethan's reflection joined hers in the mirror.

  "Coffee's ready," he said.

  Their eyes met in the glass.

  "Finished?"

  She tightened her hold on the jar, then set it down and turned to face him. "I walk into Simon's arms every night because we have an audience. He waits for me outside the Moon Orchid Spa and we smile at one another because we're trying to quell the gossip." She squared her shoulders. "And I stay out until all hours of the night so I can avoid running into you."

  Pleased with herself for salvaging a chunk of her ego, she took a confident step toward the door, expecting him to move aside. But he put out a hand and grabbed her arm, pulling her to a stop.

  One hard thigh pressed against her own. The heat of his fingers seared her right breast through the thin silk robe and she caught her breath.

  "You're saying it's an act?"

  She had to tilt her head back to look up at him. "Yes."

  The fingers around her arm tightened. Some unidentifiable emotion glittered in his eyes. Then he eased his hold and the back of his hand slid slowly along the outer curve of her breast before he released her.

  She stepped back. "Why did you do that?"

  "Do what?"

  He knew exactly what she was asking, but for some reason he wanted to put her on the defensive.

  She was out of her depth. As usual.

  Instead of answering, she posed a question of her own. "Why did you come to my bedroom and kiss me?"

  "Because I was angry." He started to turn away.

  "Ethan?"

  "What?"

  "I don't like this."

  "Don't like what?"

  "The undercurrents. The . . . insinuations. At least when we yell at each other we're being honest."

  For a long minute he just looked at her. Then he shut his eyes on a weary sigh. When he opened them again, the aggression was gone. "You're right. You're right and I'm sorry."

  He took a step into the bathroom, then another. "Come here." He slid his arms around her and gathered her close.

  Emotion clogged her throat. She slipped her own arms around his waist and savored the feel of him, solid and strong. "I'm sorry too," she whispered.

  He held her for long seconds and his heart thudded steadily beneath her cheek.

  "Let's go have that coffee," he said. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and eased his arms from around her. Reaching for her hand, he tugged her out of the bathroom. "I want to hear about that million-dollar party dress."

  "There is no party dress," she said, trailing in his wake.

  "I figured that out already. But you want one, right?"

  "Well . . . yes."

  "Why?"

  The hallway was plenty wide for them to walk side by side, but she had to quicken her steps to keep up. "The law firm I work for is hosting its annual Christmas party tonight. It's an older, established firm. Swanky and ultra-conservative," she added. "Slow down. My legs aren't as long as yours."

  He tossed a glance over his shoulder but he shortened his stride. "Davidson, Davidson & Bligh, right?"

  "How did you know?"

  "Honey." He shot her a scornful glance.

  "Yes, I know. You're a security specialist. But why check out my employer?"

  "I didn't have to check out your employer. I'm familiar with all three partners. Corporate law. High end, low key, and deadly in the courtroom. Your description is right on the mark. But I would have added a few more colorful words."

  "Like what?"

  "You don't want to know."

  "Yes I do." She tugged on his hand. "You've got me curious."

  "I'm in the presence of a woman."

  "Like that's ever stopped you before."

  He chuckled and released her hand as they entered the kitchen. "Let's just say I don't harbor any fondness for the pompous ass who refused—politely, of course—to represent RUSH when City Hall tried to shut us down before we ever broke ground."

  "Oh."

  "Yes, oh. Now go sit down."

  Instead of the fresh cup of coffee she expected, he'd prepared a fresh full pot. Why? Did he think this was going to be a marathon conversation?

  Slipping up onto one of the barstools, she watched while he poured two mugs of coffee and slid both across the counter.

  "So tell me," he said, walking around the bar to join her, "was that some kind of anxiety attack?" He sat down next to her, anchoring one large bare foot on the lower rung, and waited for an answer.

  "I guess," she murmured, reaching for her cup so she wouldn't have to look at him.

  "It's never happened before?"

  "No." She blew lightly into the mug and took a sip.

  "How did you deal with stress before you came to RUSH?"

  Turning in her seat, she gave him a bemused look. "Why does everyone assume my life was filled with calamity and stress before I moved to RUSH?"

  "Because it tends to follow in your shadow."

  "It doesn't."

  "Honey, you can deny it till you're blue in the face but I've seen the evidence."

  "I led a quiet, ordinary life. Less than ordinary. I lived at home with my parents and worked full-time. There were no wild parties, no criminal investigations . . . . I never even spoke to a police officer until—"

  She broke off.

  Jerking her eyes from his, she faced forward again and lifted her cup. Nine years ago she'd had a long conversation with several police officers. But Ethan didn't ask why she stopped in midsentence.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw him reach for his cell phone and tap a number.

  The tinny sound of a female voice said, "Good morning, Ethan. What can I do for you?"

  "Good morning, Marguerite."

  Nina turned to stare.

  His eyes locked on hers as he spoke into the phone. "What does your schedule look like today?"

  A light laugh sounded over the connection. "Typical for a Saturday. Why?"

  "I'd like to bring someone in."

  "To the R-link salon?"

  "Nina Millering. If you've got any openings, she'll take them. She wants anything and everything—wherever you can fit her in. She's willing to spend the day there and wait."

  He raised a questioning brow and Nina nodded
vigorously.

  "Will that work for you?" he asked the other woman.

  "I'm sure it will. When should we expect her?"

  "Within the hour."

  Again Nina nodded.

  "I'll be bringing her through the tunnels. And Marguerite, I'd like her to leave the same way. Call a guard to escort her over to Wardrobe at . . . let's say four o'clock?"

  "Four o'clock it is."

  "All right then. She'll be there shortly.

  As soon as he disconnected the call, Nina swiveled her seat, leaned forward, and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Thank you."

  His hands steadied her waist. "I can't guarantee you'll get everything you want. It's Saturday and—"

  "I know. I remember how busy it is on weekends."

  She released him and sat back again. "Even if I only walk away with a manicure," she smiled brightly, "that was a really nice thing to do."

  "Well hell, if sitting around in a spa all day is all it takes—"

  "Oh, stop. You know what I mean." She softened her tone and smiled warmly. "Thank you."

  He returned the smile. And the warmth. "You're welcome."

  "So does this mean I get a visitor's pass into the complex?"

  "No. No visitor's pass. And before you hear it from someone else, I'm telling you now that I was your strongest opponent at the conference table."

  "Why?"

  "Because you might be the first to request it, but others will too, eventually. And that being the case, the complex wouldn't be the private retreat it's supposed to be."

  Unfortunately she understood. "So this is a one-time deal today?"

  "Yes. I'll follow behind you in my car and reprogram your chip from up in Security Central. Wait for me inside the checkpoint. I'll only be a few minutes, then I'll take you down to the tunnels and drive you over to the salon."

  "Okay." She started to get up then paused. "Why do you want me to go to Wardrobe at four o'clock?"

  "You wanted a party dress, didn't you?"

  Astonished, she stared at him. "You can't do that."

  "Honey, I own the place. I can do anything I want."

  "But—"

  "I'll call from Security and have whoever's in charge pull something off the rack. Something modest."

  "Ethan, they don't just pull something off the rack at Wardrobe. And they don't design anything modest." She stopped and eyed him curiously. "Was it you who had that female security guard—K. Springer—bring that jacket to me?"

  "The jacket was a loan," he said without answering. "Be sure to return it. The party get-up too. What's the dress code tonight? Formal?"

  "Yes but—"

  "Go get dressed so we can leave. I want to get back and park myself in front of the TV today."

  CHAPTER 44

  It was the most relaxing day she'd had since . . . well, in a while. Soaking in an oversized garden tub, the water scented with her signature oil and an abundance of floating honeysuckle blossoms had only been the beginning. The myriad candles, the soft music of wind chimes . . . it was as though her entire body sighed in relief.

  She'd had to wait while Marguerite sent someone to collect her various lotions and cosmetics from the Moon Orchid Spa, but she'd been treated to the same indulgent pampering she'd known as an R-link, right down to having her pubic area trimmed and shaped. There had been a few delays, some more than half an hour since all thirty-one R-links were active on weekends, but each delay only drew out the hours of leisure.

  As it turned out, she hadn't been able to have the full body massage she'd hoped for. But other than that the day had been perfect. Yes, she'd been taught how to use the same Olida products at home, but it was wonderfully decadent to place herself in the care of several professionals and let them take care of her.

  Now, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors, clothed in the most striking gown ever likely to grace her body, she stood unmoving in a matching pair of open-toe high heels while one of the fitters circled her for the third time. Eyes narrowed, she critically examined the yards upon yards of shimmering, pale gold silk, criss-crossing over one hipbone with a slit that extended all the way down to her ankle, offering a full glimpse of her leg when she walked. The stiff pleated bodice cupped her breasts, supporting them without the aid of a bra. There were no sleeves, no straps, and barely two inches of fabric covered the flesh above her nipples. It was stunning. The fit was perfect and she badly wanted to wear it. But not to a Davidson, Davidson & Bligh Christmas party, and especially not when her employers were so old-school, they'd pass up a fortune in legal fees by refusing to represent RUSH.

  Still, she had nothing formal in her closet. She couldn't afford to spend what little money was left in her checking account on a dress she was sure she'd only wear once. She'd arrived at RUSH with only a couple hundred dollars to her name and it was just about all gone now. Besides, it was late—nearly five o'clock. She had no time to shop for something more appropriate.

  Was she trying to talk herself into wearing the beautiful gown? Yes, she certainly was.

  "Do you have a wrap I could borrow?" she asked.

  "Borrow?" The woman chuckled lightly. "My dear, this isn't a community closet. The clothing I design is fitted to the specific measurements of each young lady. And you don't have to borrow anything. Just ask and it's yours."

  A little confused, Nina asked, "You're a designer?"

  "Yes, of course. Now tell me, how do you like the gown?"

  Not a fitter then. But designers didn't work on weekends. A tingle of premonition tickled across the back of Nina's neck.

  "It's the most beautiful dress I've ever tried on."

  "Good. Good. And you wear it well. I'm glad we still had your data on file. Now let's see you on the runway."

  "The runway?"

  "Yes. I want you to walk for me. I want to see movement. A good design comes alive on the right woman."

  Forget premonition. This beautiful gown was no loan and she didn't need to ask if she happened to be the 'right woman' because it had obviously been created for her specifically. She was sure it hadn't even existed before today . . . and it wouldn't exist now but for Ethan. How had he managed it? How many people had been called in so it could be completed by four o'clock?

  A clan of nasty little goblins chanted a mantra in her head. Silly girl. Silly girl. Naïve. Naïve. Naïve.

  Oh, Ethan, what have you done?

  She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. He'd gone to a lot of trouble to do this for her. There was no end to his generosity. She lifted her chin. So one thing was certain now. She was absolutely without a doubt wearing this gown tonight.

  Riding to the first floor in an elevator that opened to the backstage of a midsize auditorium, she waited in semi-darkness until the overhead lights were turned on. Then, walking across the stage, she strolled the length of a narrow platform, carrying herself as she'd been taught and listening to the rhythmic tap, tap, tap of her heels as they echoed in the deserted theatre.

  Apparently satisfied with her efforts, the other woman, Doreen, smiled her approval then escorted Nina back upstairs. Unfortunately, however, the wrap she'd had in mind—something she could drape across her shoulders and breasts and wear throughout the evening—wasn't what she got. Instead of a lightweight length of gauze, she was presented with a stunning fur stole, perfect for a cold winter night.

  Wrapped in tissue and carefully folded over three padded hangers, the dress and stole were zipped into a garment bag while the matching shoes and clutch were bundled into a separate shopping bag with sturdy handles. Together they weren't particularly heavy, but Nina had parked all the way down at Checkpoint 1 so a leisurely stroll around the grounds wasn't advisable.

  She set out at a brisk pace, hair swaying around her shoulders, and headed for the main walkway. The sun was shining, the air had warmed, and a new anticipation for the evening ahead lightened her step. She felt good, healthy, and pretty. After a day at the R-link salon, she knew she looked her best. />
  By the time she reached the gleaming brass plate that pointed the way to the food court, the weight of the garment bag doubled. Since she'd had nothing more than a health bar and a cup of chai tea for lunch, she decided to stop for a bite to eat and give her arms a rest.

  But she caught sight of Simon approaching from the opposite direction. He'd seen her as well, which meant she wasn't going to get that bite to eat unless she wanted to spend the next hour watching everything she said and guarding her body language and facial expressions. Just thinking about it sapped a little bit of joy out of her day.

  But she pasted a welcoming smile on her face and pretended she was happy to see him. They were onstage again.

  "Hi," she said as he drew near. "What brings you here on a Saturday?"

  "You do. Here, let me take that for you."

  "No. That's okay, it's not heavy. But thanks."

  She didn't want to hand off the gift Ethan had given her as though it was nothing more important than a sack of groceries. Not this gift. And not to Simon. She couldn't begin to guess what it had cost, but she treasured it for the thought and planning and for the hurdles and inconvenience Ethan had had to overcome to give it to her.

  Simon watched, however, as she switched the trio of hangers from one hand to the other, the shopping bag as well, and she knew he wasn't fooled.

  He fell into step beside her as she started forward again, his long stride slowing to match hers. "Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

  Before she could answer he added, "Not here. Somewhere else. Away from the curious eyes."

  "I'm sorry, I can't. I have plans for tonight."

  He was quiet for a moment. "Are you?"

  She looked up. "Am I what?"

  "Sorry."

  He watched her as though prepared to analyze her response.

  Uncomfortable, she looked away. She stared at the path ahead, at the trees, at the number of people on the sidewalk. It was busy. It was the weekend. Everyone appeared to be intent on his or her own business, but there were always those who weren't.

  "Simon, we can't have this conversation here."

  "It's a simple question. Just smile and say yes or no."

  "Simon—"

  "Just yes or no, Nina. If I ask you to have dinner with me tomorrow will you turn me down again?"