by Carol Caiton
All week long, from a careful distance, he'd watched her come and go from the R-link complex. Since he had access to her schedule, he knew when he'd find her at the food court, the training center, or anywhere else. If he'd chosen to, he could have tracked her every move through the implant in her wrist, but he was reasonably sure she hadn't ventured over to the entertainment sector. She wouldn't have had time. She'd signed up for several classes on her own, some stretching well into the evening hours, and he'd made sure the rest of the slots in her schedule were full. Marguerite, excellent employee that she was, took as many daytime slots as possible, scheduling a variety of salon appointments once he ran out of options on his own.
Still, he had no doubt his name was at the bottom on Nina's list of favorite people. So it baffled him each time he turned on his computer and saw her icon, still in limbo though it might be. On the other hand, she was near the bottom of his list of logical-minded women. No matter how often he turned it over in his mind, any thought process that ended with a virginal woman choosing an R-link membership was convoluted. It was . . . deranged. So was the unbelievable total of seventeen virginal women at RUSH. But it had given the board something else to focus on.
"That was unexpected," Mason finally said.
Privately, Simon smiled.
"Seventeen virgins?" Elliott asked as though needing further clarification.
"Jesus."
"How the hell have we been in operation for two years without being aware of that?"
"It wasn't flagged," Michael reminded them. "We didn't flag it until last week."
"Why would Zeman even include that response on the application?" Oliver asked. "Do you think he knew this would happen?"
"It wouldn't surprise me," Ethan said.
"Hell."
Malcolm leaned back in his chair, studying the tip of his silver pen with a thoughtful expression. "Fascinating," he murmured. He glanced around the table. "Don't you think?"
Raised eyebrows met his question.
"It engages the imagination . . . leaves me wondering what inspired so many untouched young women to seek employment at a men's sex club. I find that particularly intriguing." He looked at Simon. "Do you know their ages?"
Of course he knew. He'd been intrigued as well. He'd investigated them from every conceivable angle until there were no more answers to be found. And Malcolm would know that.
"Two of them are eighteen," he said
Elliott let out a whoosh of breath.
"Six are nineteen, three are twenty, five are twenty-one, and one is twenty-three." He hadn't included Nina in that number because she wasn't an employee.
"And their occupations?" Malcolm asked, the hint of a smile playing around his mouth.
Simon answered that smile. "Are you suggesting I probed around to find out who these innocent women are?"
"Of course."
Chuckles met his response.
Simon knew every man at the table was equally curious. "I've only been able to identify three."
"We're listening," Malcolm prompted.
"One of them is Avery Nicholson—the tai chi instructor."
Oliver frowned. "A virgin working with the R-links?"
"Another is someone named Devon Bailey. She's an evening hostess at the Carnelian Jade."
"This just keeps getting worse," Michael said. "What the hell is a virgin doing at the Carnelian Jade?"
"And the third one is Hannah."
"Hannah?" Mason asked.
"My Hannah?" Elliott barked.
"She was the only eighteen-year-old without sexual experience who applied for a secretarial position."
"Which means she twenty now," Ethan said.
Elliott scowled. "When's the last time she updated her file?"
"Three months ago."
"And she was still a virgin? Is still a virgin?"
"According to the numbers, yes." Which explained why he'd never been linked with her. Hannah's file wasn't active yet.
No one seemed inclined to speak. Silence settled around them. Then Michael looked across the table and said, "Now I wish you hadn't told us. I like Hannah."
"We all like Hannah," Malcolm said.
"Sure. But now I wanna tell her to go find a job somewhere else. You know—before she gets sucked into the lifestyle."
Amusement flickered in Malcolm's eyes. "I'm sure you'll find the forbearance to control yourself."
"Well yeah. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to say something. And I know Devon, too."
Oliver harrumphed. "Of course you do."
Mason chuckled. "Is there a woman at RUSH you don't know, Michael?"
Malcolm inclined his head toward the door. "We're about to be joined by the others."
* * *
Nina sat at the breakfast counter with a fresh cup of coffee and stared at her schedule. Every morning, tai chi was followed by salon time. That was easy enough to remember. Trying to keep track of everything else was the challenge because it kept changing. Just when she expected to have a little free time, Marguerite decided she needed a scented bath to relax her. Or a body wrap to detox her skin. Or half an hour at the indoor pool swimming laps to help tone her muscles. An hour here . . . half an hour there . . . . Was the stress she carried so obvious? Was caffeine full of toxins? Or did the queen of beauty police just think Nina was dirtier than everyone else?
Well, today was her free day. Her nails were perfect, her hair was glossy, and, darn it all, she was clean.
She'd dressed in a pair of ultra low-rise jeans though it was supposed to be a skirt day. But the weather had turned a little chilly so she was compensating. The long sleeves of her pale green pullover were probably the warmest part of that garment, though, since nothing more than a wide band of tiny amethyst beads reached from the bodice to a strip of elastic at the crotch where the front and back bands snapped together. It was probably meant to be worn by itself, but it was nearing winter, for goodness sake. She hesitated to imagine what RUSH's summer wardrobe would look like.
Sliding her arms into a camel colored suede jacket, she ran her hands up and down the nap and breathed in the scent of leather. Then she walked over to Magnolias, bought a newspaper, and carried it back to her apartment.
She skimmed through the meager classifieds, picked up the phone to respond to a move-in-special that advertised free rent during the first month of occupancy. Surely she'd be able to find a job within a month. The ad, however, wasn't special for someone who couldn't provide proof of employment. Not a big surprise. Still, you never knew. So she'd called anyway and she'd keep calling whenever she spotted anything affordable.
Replacing the receiver, she started when it rang while still in her hand. Lifting it from the cradle again, it didn't occur to her until too late that she should have waited, allowing the call to go to voicemail in case it was Simon.
"Hello?"
"Nina? This is Stephanie—your residence attendant."
"Oh. Yes, hi."
"Hi. I'm calling to let you know that a couple of packages have been delivered for you."
Packages? "Okay, I'll be right down."
The only person who knew her address was Lydia, and since she spoke to Lydia almost every night, Nina was curious. Nothing had been said about a package.
She rode the elevator down to the lobby, breathing in the fresh floral scent that was always present, and there, on the reception counter, sat a large flat box with a smaller one on top. She double-checked to make sure it was her name on both mailing labels, then frowned at the return address that identified the sender as an art supply store.
Stephanie, busily placing an order for something over the phone, slid a piece of paper across the granite and handed her a pen.
A confirmation receipt, of course.
Nina signed and placed the pen down on top. Then she maneuvered the boxes so she could carry both at once and made her way back to the elevator. Together they were heavy so she probably should have made two trips.
Once inside her apartment, she bumped the door closed with her hip and carried them over to the dining table. She stared at them for a minute, then curiosity won out and she went to work on the smaller of the two. It wasn't light. When she finally peeled back the flaps, she found an assortment of charcoal, blending sticks, a pad of cold press paper, and beneath that, a highly polished wood box that filled the bottom of the cardboard.
Her breath caught. She knew what was in the box.
Skimming her fingers over the glossy wood, she hesitated, then lifted it out. Breaking open the seal, she released the delicate clasps on front and opened the lid.
Again, she caught her breath.
Row after perfect row, three individual tiers held every tint, shade, and tone of colored pastel she could ever wish for, each resting in its own slot. She glanced at the brand, passing reverent fingers over the small sticks. Then she stilled.
The fact that she'd never had extra spending money didn't mean she wasn't familiar with the cost of a boxed set of pastels. Even a small box on sale began at well over a hundred dollars. This one, with three large tiers of professional grade colors, was a major investment. Why had these been delivered to her? Who had sent them?
Reluctantly she closed the lid and set it aside. Moving the empty cardboard box to the floor, she started on the second, larger package. It was nearly as wide as it was long and she found what she expected to see inside: a wide selection of full-size colored paper. No wonder both of them together had been so heavy.
On top of the stack was a generic white card and a handwritten message in neat block letters.
Nina,
Since I have no artistic talent myself, I'm not familiar with the tools of the trade. So I trusted this selection to a sales clerk who pointed out what you might like.
In addition to what you see here is one more item—a can of something called Workable Fixative. I'm holding it in my office as a lure.
Please accept my very sincere apology and come explain to me the mysterious functions of Workable Fixative.
Simon
She read the card through a second time, then pulled out a chair from beneath the table and sat down.
Simon.
How much did he know about her? Apparently quite a bit. He was privy to some very deep, very private aspects of her life that even Lydia didn't know.
Her eyes fell to the note. He must still want their link so she'd been wrong.
The icon was always there, resting at the bottom corner of her monitor. She didn't have to accept it. Dr Zeman wanted her to spend time with Simon, but he'd told her that accepting or declining the icon was entirely up to her.
She looked over at the beautiful wood box. She wanted very much to keep it, ached to feel the pastels in her fingers. He'd chosen a gift that went straight to her soul.
But she'd have to give it back. Not only was it too extravagant, but she'd be plagued by guilt every time she opened the polished lid. She was planning to leave RUSH as soon as the opportunity presented itself. She didn't intend to accept his link and that's what this was about.
Still, his gift had been meant as an apology. She might not like him, but he'd taken the time to search out something that mattered to her, then he'd spent a small fortune to give her the best. She couldn't ignore that.
Her eyes skimmed over the smaller items. The charcoal sticks . . . the pad of paper . . . . Those were things she could accept, and should accept after the trouble he'd gone to.
She glanced at her watch and sighed. Pressing her lips together, she made a decision and reached for the pad of paper. Removing a stick of charcoal, she paused, brought up an image of him in her mind, then set charcoal to the rough surface.
Time melted away. It always did when she began drawing, when some region of her brain focused on meticulous details in a different dimension. It took a little longer than usual, maybe because she worked from memory. But when she finished, she set the pad aside, looked at the drawing objectively, and was both pleased and a little tired. Simon had a forceful demeanor and it was there in his face. He wasn't a man easily forgotten and she'd captured that in the dark intensity of his eyes, the faint hollow of his cheeks, his long, noble nose and the stern mouth. Glancing at his hair, she half smiled. It was conservatively short, but it was wavy . . . something she hadn't consciously noticed before. But she'd gotten it right. All of it.
Sliding the pad onto the table, she stood, stretched, and took herself off to the bathroom to clean up. While drying her hands, she looked in the mirror and noticed her posture was correct without having to remind herself to straighten her shoulders. Progress.
But she was about to go see Simon Yetzer and too much skin was showing. Odd that she hadn't been this concerned about it earlier, walking across the grounds to buy a newspaper. She'd taken Marguerite's advice, avoiding the tunnels and walked among the men with a confidence that increased each day. The need to find a restroom, to stand in front of a mirror for a boost of self-assurance had passed. She knew she looked good. She'd never in her life looked so good. But she felt different, too. Not in a bad way . . . just different.
She was more aware of her body now. Maybe that had something to do with all the hours she spent at the salon, the many hands that touched her, each treatment room focused on enhancing every female hormone she possessed. Maybe it was the honeysuckle-cinnamon fragrance that seeped into her pores, seeming to be a part of her now. Or maybe it was the still unfamiliar weight of her breasts. She was ever aware of them, especially now, exposed as they were. She still stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. That hadn't changed. But now, she sometimes brushed her thumbs across her nipples, watched them tighten and peak, and felt a warm melting sensation spread through her. When a cool breeze swept through the food court and they puckered with the chill, she wondered what it would be like to have a man's hands cover them, caress them, and a languid sort of womanliness would flow through her.
But it wasn't Simon's hands she wanted. She hadn't seen him since the day she told him to stay away from her. Nor had he seen her—not since Marguerite had taken over every spare minute of her life and transformed her into another symbol of womanhood.
She didn't want Simon to see her dressed as an R-link. But it was a little too warm for the suede jacket she'd worn earlier so she added a droopy, loosely woven sweater as an extra layer of protection. Then she rolled up the portrait she'd drawn, carefully so it wouldn't smudge, and left her apartment.
She breathed in the cool air and told herself to relax. It did no good, however. She was on her way, willingly, to see a man she wished she'd never met, a man who purposely intimidated her.
The wide double doors of the administrative building slid open. Straight ahead the pretty blonde receptionist looked up from behind her desk and smiled.
"Hi. Nina."
"Hi, Denny. I'm surprised you remembered my name. You have a good memory."
"Sometimes. But today I'm under orders to locate Simon if you come in."
"Oh."
"You're his blue link, right?"
She was too surprised to respond. Was that what he was telling everyone? That she'd already accepted the icon and they were linked?
"I'm sorry," the other girl said. "Our links are private. I shouldn't have said anything."
"Um . . . it's okay."
But it wasn't okay. Until she'd come to RUSH, her life had been an open book but no one was particularly interested. Now, too many people knew too much.
"I'll let him know you're here," Denny said, reaching for the phone.
Nina stepped away from the counter. Nervously she looked around and then there he was, approaching from one of the arched corridors, and her stomach went all jumpy inside.
Tall and looking professional in a business suit and tie, his dark eyes seemed even more intense, his unsmiling mouth sterner than ever.
She swallowed. He didn't look especially pleased to see her. But she didn't know what he looked like when he was pleased, did she
? As far as she could tell, he was a perpetually unhappy man.
He stopped just inches from her and she couldn't control the impulse to step back. Then she caught herself. She might not be out on the grounds right now, but her actions were under scrutiny here as well. She could feel Denny Cooper's curiosity and knew the other girl was watching.
Quickly compensating for her indiscretion, she brought the drawing forward, holding up the roll of paper as though protecting it from damage had been her reason for backing away.
He glanced at the roll, then his eyes returned to hers. "You covered that nicely. Thank you." He gestured toward the arch. "Let's go to my office."
CHAPTER 16
He couldn't stop looking at her. Watching her from a distance had had its benefits since there'd been no need to remind himself to keep his gaze above her neck. He'd been able to look at her, at every inch of her, whenever he wanted for as long as he wanted, and he'd done a fair amount of looking. He'd watched the transformation from shy uncertainty to voluptuous siren with an increasing desire to possess. Her dark hair flowed freely in shiny soft waves, replacing the lopsided ponytail. Small, dainty earrings dangled from her earlobes and mocha-pink lipstick and a whisper of blush lent soft color to her face. His hands itched to touch, to explore the skin revealed by her new wardrobe. And those breasts . . . he'd spent a lot of time appreciating that particular view. But then, he was a breast man.
The overwhelming majority of women at RUSH could be described as alluring, even glamorous. But few could match the distinctive presence of an R-link and Nina had already begun to acquire that mysterious aura. Whether the change could be attributed to luxurious living conditions, intimate pampering, the nutrition plan that catered to her specific needs, classes that focused on exploiting her natural femininity, or the style and quality of clothing designed exclusively, he couldn't say. Maybe it was all of the above. Whatever it was, she carried herself differently now. She might not be sexually active yet, but there was no mistaking her membership rank. She exuded that signature sense of self that singled her out from the rest.