The Blue Link

by Carol Caiton

  Wiggling forward a little more, she logged on without a problem and typed in the address given to her by Fiona Roberts. She knew where Millennia Boulevard was so she didn't need a map to get there. But she didn't know how much distance the street covered or how far she'd have to drive to reach the Merona Tropics Hotel. Unfortunately, she forgot to bring a pen with her from the kitchen so she opened the top center drawer of Ethan's desk in search of one.

  Instead of the usual assortment of office supplies she expected to see however, the drawer was filled with electronic doodads, wires, and a couple of remotes. Not a pen or pencil was anywhere to be found. She closed that drawer and turned to the top one on her right. What she found there however, raised a thousand goose bumps down her neck and arms.

  A golf ball.

  A once crumpled M&M's wrapper.

  A lollipop she'd put on Ethan's plate, still unopened, along with the note that told him he needed to sweeten up.

  The smiley face mouse pad she'd thrown at his feet.

  A pack of gum, minus one piece.

  All the silly notes she'd written.

  The comic strip featuring Lucy's temper tantrum.

  All the articles she'd clipped and thought he might find interesting.

  The balloon he'd had to blow up in order to read the message she'd written on it.

  The small box of chamomile tea bags . . . .

  What did it mean? Why had he kept all these things, empty wrappers and all?

  Slowly, she reached inside the drawer and fingered through the odd assortment. Even the bar of soap she'd grabbed from beneath the kitchen sink was there. Why keep that? Why not just put it back?

  The answer that came to her brought an ache to her chest and a lump to her throat.

  "Ethan," she whispered, lifting the M&M's wrapper to stare at it. Why would he save all these meaningless little trinkets unless, to him, they weren't meaningless?

  Like a young girl in the throes of new love, she pressed the brown wrapper to her chest. Then she placed it back inside the drawer and traced a finger along the edge of the soap. She thought about Thanksgiving Day, she thought about the shimmering silk gown he'd had made for her, and she thought about all those times he'd been watching and had come to her rescue. It was Ethan who had paid her sister's medical bills. She knew it now without doubt. Because that was exactly the sort of thing he'd do.

  "Oh, Ethan," she whispered again. Then she pulled herself together.

  "I don't have time for this right now," she reminded herself. Her eyes went to the digital clock in the lower corner of the monitor and she gasped. Forcing her attention back to the map on the screen, she committed it to memory. Then she turned off the system, took a last glance at the contents of the drawer, and closed it.

  By four thirty that same afternoon she had a new job.

  She'd been given a tour of the hotel's administrative offices and once again the whirlwind of life seemed to be tugging her along. She drove home bemused, wondering how her ho-hum routine life had morphed into the series of nonstop changes she could hardly keep up with. They weren't just minor changes either. She was losing her sense of stability, of knowing what to expect from day to day, and wished she could reclaim a little of that old routine. Just a little.

  She didn't go to RUSH that evening. She stayed home, puttering around the house, reading the newspaper . . . doing anything she could to occupy her mind while she waited. She wanted to see Ethan. She wanted to talk with him. She wanted to piece together the fragmented relationship they had. But midnight came and went with no sign of him and, unable to keep her eyes open any longer, she went to bed.

  She set the alarm for five the next morning. Her job at Merona Tropics wouldn't begin until after the new year, but she was determined to see Ethan before he left for work.

  By the time she brushed her teeth and tied the belt of her robe however, he was gone. The lingering aroma of coffee was faint, telling her he'd been gone for some time. She took his empty cup from the sink and placed it in the dishwasher. He couldn't have slept more than three or four hours.

  That evening she set the table for two. She'd used a little of her severance pay to buy two steaks and broiled them just in time for him to turn into the driveway. But once again he didn't come home. Instead of the intimate meal she'd hoped for, she sat at the table alone and ate alone.

  At seven o'clock she called his cell and was put through to voicemail. She tried again at eight with the same result. At nine she pressed redial, waited for the beep and said, "Please just call and let me know you're all right." Then she hung up.

  Two minutes later the phone rang.

  "I'm all right," his deep voice told her. "When will you know if you got the job?"

  "I already know. I got it."

  "Good going." Then the phone went dead in her ear and she had no chance to say anything else.

  Wednesday followed the same pattern. She tried to reach him by calling Security Central but he'd just left the building. She didn't leave a message.

  She sat at the breakfast counter with a cup of coffee and mulled things over in her mind. How could she talk to him when he wouldn't answer her calls or stay home long enough to say good morning?

  Eventually an idea occurred to her and she looked over toward his wing of the house, thought about it, then got up and headed for his study. She lowered herself onto his big leather chair, tugged on the drawer that contained the evidence of his feelings for her . . . and found it locked.

  She tried the center drawer and came up with the same result. He'd locked his desk. Why would a man lock his desk when he hadn't bothered to before? . . . Maybe because he suspected someone might come snooping around?

  Her eyes shot to the opposite wall, scanned the area from one corner to the other, but found no security camera. Still, this was his study. Ethan was a security expert. She knew—knew—her presence was being recorded. There had to be a camera somewhere.

  She scooted forward and turned on his computer. When prompted she typed in the password he'd given her and was relieved when she saw it hadn't been changed.

  She spotted the icon she was looking for and brought up his word processor program. Then she enlarged the font so the lettering stood two inches high and typed a brief, straightforward message.

  I want to talk about that drawer.

  Satisfied, she brought up the Control Panel, turned off his screen saver, and changed his energy plan to prevent the computer from going into hibernation mode.

  When she pushed away from the desk this time she left the system up and running. There had to be a camera hidden somewhere, aimed at anyone looking around, but if she was wrong, no problem. He'd see her message on his monitor as soon as he entered his study.

  She walked over to the door, turned, and gave a sweeping bow worthy of the stage. And if she wasn't the star of her own little video performance, well, no one was the wiser.

  She had a plan.

  First stop? Shower. Next stop? The walk-in closet with its stunning array of the sexiest clothing a woman could ask for.

  She was going to RUSH.

  CHAPTER 48

  On his personal laptop at Security Central Ethan watched Nina breeze into his study at home as though entitled to invade his personal space whenever the mood struck.

  But there was something different about the way she carried herself this time, something in the set of her chin that made him uneasy. She had a sense of purpose about her. She was a woman on a mission and she was fixed on something in his study.

  "What are you up to, sweetheart?"

  He leaned forward studying the live feed projected onto his laptop and waited. She didn't know he had cameras in that room and he watched her now through the wide-angle lens mounted behind his desk. He had a full, if slightly distorted view of the entire room and the feed it provided could be transmitted live as well as saved for review at a later time.

  She crossed the room and walked directly to his desk so maybe she needed to use
his computer again.

  But it wasn't the computer she reached for when she sat down in his chair. It was his desk drawer. The desk drawer. The one that held a collection of things he wasn't ready for her to know about . . . things that said she thought about him in the middle of her day . . . things that cost her next to nothing but meant more to him than he could put into words.

  He'd wondered last night if she'd opened that drawer. He hadn't been able to monitor her actions yesterday because he'd been on his way to the Moon Orchid Spa when her call was put through. Then he'd been too damned tired to check the video when he got home. So he'd locked the desk, just in case, set his clock and fell into bed.

  He wouldn't have pegged her for a snoop so maybe she was looking for something—paper maybe. Or an envelope.

  While he turned that over in his mind she caught his attention yet again by turning on the computer. He watched as she pulled up the word processor and started typing. Then he zoomed in to check out what she was writing. But the oversized font was plenty large enough to see without going in for a close-up.

  I want to talk about that drawer.

  Shit.

  She disabled his screen saver, readjusted his damned power settings, then pushed away from the desk. Mission completed, she waltzed back over to the door, bent over, and gave a showy, theatrical bow, just as though she'd known all along he was watching.

  He snorted. Anyone else caught prying into someone's personal belongings would have skulked away, but not Nina.

  So she wanted an explanation. She wanted to know about that drawer, did she? Well, she could check the lock on his desk every day. But she wasn't going to get any answers until he was ready to give them. That desk belonged to him. The whole house belonged to him, goddamn it. Why the hell did he have to keep reminding himself of that?

  He shut down the laptop and closed it. Maybe she'd stay home again tonight and give him some peace.

  * * *

  Nina was miserable.

  The afternoon hadn't started out that way. When she'd driven to RUSH and parked in one of the guest slots she'd been eager and excited. Encouraged by the contents of that drawer, she'd left the house armed to win. Not that she knew a lot about the battle she was facing. She'd never in her life tried to entice a man's interest. But she'd taken extra care with her clothes, her hair, and her makeup, following all the advice and tips she'd learned. She looked good. She knew she did. And she smelled fantastic.

  Instead of the jeans she usually wore for comfort and convenience, she'd chosen a snug pair of white capris with rolled up cuffs. Libby always paired that style with high-heeled sandals so Nina did the same and her legs looked long and sleek. She layered a pale peach cami with a billowy, transparent tunic, the polish on her nails complimented the cami, and she added a few bangles, an anklet, and one toe ring. If looking exceptionally nice was half the battle, then all that was left was figuring out the other half.

  Unfortunately she wasn't doing such a good job with the other half. When she arrived at RUSH it had been barely three thirty. That left plenty of time to call Ethan from one of the house phones and ask if he'd have dinner with her at the food court.

  But she was put through to voicemail again. Either he was in the middle of something or he was screening his calls. She didn't let that deter her, however. She left a message, waited forty-five minutes, then phoned again. When her second call was bumped to voicemail as well, she frowned. But she left another message, this one telling him she'd wait for him inside Shells. At six thirty however, stomach growling with hunger, she finally ordered dinner and ate alone.

  At seven thirty she used a house phone again to call Security Central and asked if he was still on property. For all she knew he could have left her there and gone home. After a brief pause she was told he was at his office in the admin building. The operator offered to transfer her call but Nina declined. He'd probably just let it go to voicemail.

  So here she sat on the hard concrete steps in front of the admin building, waiting for him to come out. She would have gone inside where it was warm if that had been possible. But access to Admin was denied to the general population after five o'clock. So she was cold, she was tired, and she was discouraged. The sun had gone down, the filmy tunic she wore fluttered with every chilling breeze, and maybe she was chasing rainbows, waiting for a man who had made it clear he didn't want a relationship with her. Maybe he had an altogether logical reason for the contents of that drawer, some reason she didn't comprehend because she wasn't a man. And maybe it was time she faced that before she made an even bigger fool of herself.

  Shivering, she folded her arms around her middle and drew her knees in closer. Behind her the pneumatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh of air. She heard them, heard Ethan's quiet footsteps, but she didn't move, didn't turn around or stand up to confront him. Her emotions were too close to the surface.

  "Nina?"

  She closed her eyes. Just the sound of his voice cut across her heart. Why, why did he have to be the one?

  Composing her features, she pulled herself together and rose to her feet. When she shivered, Ethan shrugged out of his suit jacket and held it open.

  "Here. Put this on."

  He started toward her and she turned to slide her arms into the over-long sleeves. But she couldn't thank him. She couldn't even swallow. So she turned away.

  "Nina." He caught her arm.

  "Don't," she gritted out. "I just want to go." She pulled her arm out of his grasp. If she tried to say anything more she'd start crying.

  Carefully she picked her way down the shallow steps and started along the sidewalk. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ethan match his strides to hers.

  He was a friend. Just a friend. And maybe he wasn't even that. What friend would leave her sitting by herself, not even send a message to say he wouldn't be joining her for dinner, then stand her up? What kind of friend went so far out of his way to avoid her that he waited until she was sleeping before coming home to his own house?

  But what kind of friend kept an empty M&M's wrapper tucked away in a locked drawer?

  Her heartbeat faltered.

  Ethan isn't an alcoholic . . . or schizophrenic.

  Well, if he wasn't then why were the signals so mixed up? How could he tease her in public, show affection that was so genuine even she was fooled, then shut it off like a light switch when he chose?

  She couldn't play this game. She didn't know how. Either he cared for her or he didn't. So maybe it was time to find out one way or the other.

  Bracing for the worst, she steeled herself for the possibility of crushing rejection and moved closer to him. Lifting her arm, she shook the sleeve of his jacket until her fingers cleared the cuff, then she reached out and slid her arm around his waist.

  He jerked to a stop.

  The sudden standstill dragged her to a halt as well and she stood silently beside him, heart hammering in her chest. It was the first overtly forward move she'd ever made toward a man and she couldn't look at him. If he rejected her, she didn't want to see it in his eyes.

  So she kept her head down and waited.

  And waited.

  And when she felt she had her answer, she withdrew her arm, turned, and walked away.

  "Nina."

  He caught up and reached for her wrist but she yanked it away and kept walking. She didn't want an explanation. She just wanted to go home and hide.

  "Nina."

  Two hands caught her upper arms and turned her roughly to face him. "We're at RUSH," he growled. "Think!" He gave her a small shake. "You and I don't have a link. Do you understand? I helped set the rules here."

  But he jerked her against his body, wrapped his arms around her, and sank his face in her hair in defiance of all he just said. "Let me do this my way, will you?"

  She answered with an abbreviated nod. She could scarcely breathe. But she'd worry about breathing tomorrow.

  He lifted his head and eased his hold. His hands traveled do
wn her back over the bulk of his jacket, then he stepped away. "Come on, let's get you to your car."

  She could have stayed in the middle of the path for half the night. She didn't want to go anywhere. With the way her life kept switching lanes, too much could happen between now and the time they got home. Too much could change.

  And it did.

  Simon stood at the end of the walkway, hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat, watching them.

  Nina gasped.

  "Go to your car and drive home," Ethan said.

  "But—"

  "Do what I said, honey. We'll talk later."

  Already his attention was splintered. He spoke to her, but he was staring straight ahead at Simon. She was afraid violence that might erupt between them but her instincts told her this was something he needed to take care of without her. So she moved away and started down the path toward Simon who looked as cold and unfeeling as a statue. But before she passed around him though, she met his eyes and said, "I pursued him, Simon. It wasn't the other way around."

  "Nina, go home."

  She jumped a little, startled to realize Ethan was directly behind her.

  Simon said nothing, his dark eyes shifting to Ethan. So Nina did what she was told and made her way to the checkpoint. He'd said they would talk later.

  So she waited for him to come home. She waited until two o'clock in the morning.

  But later never came and she fell asleep on the sofa.

  * * *

  "You said you could handle it."

  "I remember."

  "Have you slept with her?"

  "No, goddamn it. I'm all but living here at RUSH."