by Carol Caiton
"All right?" he asked, his mouth just above her ear.
She nodded. But now she had to collect herself and apologize to this roomful of men. The owners of RUSH. Its board of directors.
She shut her eyes.
"What is it?" His voice whispered through her curls, the heat of his breath fanning her neck to send a different kind of tremor through her.
She lifted her head, prepared to face down her embarrassment, and wondered if she'd ever have the sophistication to approach sex with casual nonchalance. But when she opened her eyes, there was no one to apologize to. The conference room was deserted.
She looked up. "Everyone left?"
"No." The fingers at the base of her spine moved slowly back and forth. "They're somewhere in the building. Probably Mason's office. Or Malcolm's."
"I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to attract attention."
"I know."
"And I'm sorry I came apart at the seams."
His eyes crinkled at the corners. "What seams?"
She blinked. Then she gave a shaky smile. "You're probably right. I don't remember seeing any."
"I am right." His hands slid around to the sides of her waist, the heat of his thumbs on her naked flesh, and he gave a gentle squeeze. "Let's go."
He stepped back, reached for the shawl, and draped it around her shoulders.
"I've made a mess of your shirt," she said, eyeing the smudges of color.
"I have others."
She arranged the shawl much as she had before, then plastered one palm over her stomach to hold it in place. Simon waited while she slid into her shoes, then he guided her out of the conference room.
Instead of returning to the lobby, however, he steered her into a long open corridor that ran the length of the back of the building.
"Where are we going?"
"My office. We need some privacy."
His office. The one with the ninety-degree view of the night-lit gardens and a gorgeous rock waterfall. He'd been instrumental in creating this beautiful fantasy world and in financing it. The significance of that hadn't impacted her when Libby tried to tell her. But the determination that drove him took on a different light now. What did an indomitable man like that want with her?
Privacy . . . for now.
Alarm whispered along her nerves. It was late. Probably close to midnight. His business partners were the only other people in the building.
He ushered her over the threshold.
What if he closed the door?
He closed the door.
She froze. What should she do? She knew what he wanted and the truth was, she wanted it as well. But only some of it. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted to feel all that large male presence surround her. She was ready to stretch her wings a little and wanted to know if she'd like it.
But he wouldn't stop at a single kiss. He'd do exactly as she'd surmised and whirl her into the unknown.
She squeezed the fabric of her shawl and walked over to stare at the painting above his sofa. She knew the artist but couldn't think of his name.
Two warm hands settled on her shoulders. Two thumbs lightly rubbed the area between her shoulder blades. "You see the world in lines and colors the rest of us miss," he murmured. "And you bring them together in a way we can only marvel at." He dipped his head, breathed in, and pressed his face into the curls at the side of her neck.
"I should have known you'd analyze it," she whispered in a shaky voice.
She felt him smile. Then he lifted one hand, brushed her hair back, and touched his lips to her skin.
"I should . . . go wash."
"Why?" His mouth trailed a path to her collarbone, then back up to her ear where his teeth grazed her skin, then tugged at her earlobe.
"Simon?" More than her voice shook now.
He turned her around to face him, sliding one hand down her back, the other raking up into her curls to send a million chills over her scalp.
"Simon?"
"Mmm?"
"I . . . I don't even know if I like you."
He paused, his lips a bare inch from her own. "We'll work on it," he muttered.
Then his mouth closed over hers, careful, warm, tasting, taking. And she liked it. More than liked it.
Sliding her hands around his waist, she ran her fingers up the back of his crisp white shirt, absorbing the gazillion sensations that came with being wrapped in the arms of a six-foot-plus man and learning what it meant to be seduced.
His tongue slid into her mouth and a languid warmth pooled in the lower region of her body. Moving in closer, she pressed her breasts against his ribs, then brushed the fullness of them against his chest. It felt so good. How many times had she wondered what it would be like?
Her shawl slid down her arms, half its length slipping to the floor as he skimmed one hand up her side, tugged at the side of her bodice, and freed her left breast.
She gasped as his warm hand slid between them and covered her flesh, then moaned a long, needy sound when he found her nipple and squeezed. Then his other hand swept down to her rear and held her hard against the first erection she'd ever felt in her life.
He thrust himself against her, his strong arm vice-like as he pushed.
"Damn it!"
He ripped his mouth away and went suddenly, abruptly still, his breath rasping in her ear.
"Simon?" she breathed.
The arms around her loosened their hold and he gently pulled her away.
"Nina."
His voice was soft but firm and she lifted her lids. His face—the dark eyes that always intimidated her smoldered with heat. Why had he stopped? She dropped her forehead to his chest and felt the thud of his heart.
"Nina," he said again. "Damn it. The drawing you and Kay did. Do you need to spray it with fixative?"
"Fixative?"
Pushing through layers of desire, the face on the tablet in the conference room came into focus and she, too, went still.
"Yes." She nodded, lifting her head. "It'll smear."
His eyes held hers and she saw regret, then resignation. "We have to go."
"Yes."
He reached for the remaining newspaper on the occasional table then walked over to his desk to retrieve the can of fixative while she adjusted her dress. Dull, colorful smears streaked the sides and back of his white shirt, but the deep rise and fall of his chest told her he'd been just affected by the last few minutes as she had.
Reaching for the ends of her shawl, she arranged them once more and held the front in place.
"You need a clip for that wrap," he told her, opening the door for her. "Something to hold it in place."
"Yes."
The stationary panes of glass across the front of the conference room allowed her to see inside as they approached. Three of the original group were inside—Mason Ingersol, Ethan Vale, and another good looking man with dark hair. She thought she remembered hearing someone address him as Elliott.
All three looked toward the door as she and Simon entered. The attorney smiled warmly and Ethan nodded a greeting. The other man glanced at her hair, then smiled as well. No doubt they all knew what she and Simon had been doing, and the stains on his shirt would confirm it.
She walked over to the drawing still resting on the table beside the box of pastels. Someone had indeed smudged the collar of the jacket into the flesh tones of the man's neck.
"Can you fix it?"
She looked up.
Ethan broke away from the group and approached, holding up his right hand to reveal a dark smear on his index finger. "My fault," he said. "Can it be fixed?"
"Yes. It'll be fine."
Maintaining her hold on the shawl, she opened the box with her free hand and reached inside. Then she realized she needed a third hand to keep the tablet from shifting.
"Would you mind holding the paper in place?"
He looked down at her fist wrapped around the shawl and grinned. "Not going to give us something to drool over this time?" He pro
pped a hip on the tabletop and secured the pad in place with one hand.
"Once was enough, thank you." This was the teasing, likeable man she'd seen with the receptionist.
"Can you talk and draw at the same time?"
"I'm versatile." She studied the drawing.
"Did you catch any rumors earlier? Anything about what happened?"
She paused but kept her eyes on the jacket collar. "I started hearing things as soon as the sirens came closer. Word spreads quickly."
"What did you hear?"
"That the girl—the victim—was a waitress here. That she was murdered, and it was . . . horrible."
"Horrible how?"
She looked up. The charmer was still there, but the questions he asked came from the man who headed security. She turned back to the drawing. "One person said the fingers of her left hand had been cut off. Someone else said she was naked and cuffed to the wall behind Threshold and . . . ."
"And?"
"And someone else said there was dry semen on her thighs. They said her wrists and ankles were locked to the wall and her face was sliced."
"Hmm. Anything else?"
"No. That's all I heard. I was on my way back to the R-link complex and went inside."
She stopped working and stared at the face she'd drawn. It was a face that would stay with her longer than most because of the way it had been constructed, piecing it together in her mind before bringing it into reality on paper. The face of a murderer? A member of RUSH who tortured women?
"Do you know who he is?" she asked.
"Not yet. But we'll find out."
When she looked up again, Simon, Mason, and the other man had gathered around, listening.
"Her fingers were intact," Ethan told her, dispelling that rumor and drawing her eyes back to his. "Her face wasn't cut, either. But she was naked. And her right wrist was secured to the wall. He removed the microchip from her left, which is probably what someone saw and thought her fingers had been cut off."
"Why would he—" Her mind answered the question before she finished voicing it. "He's not a member of RUSH, is he? He needed her chip so the sensors wouldn't send out an alarm."
"That's what we believe."
"But what about his palmprint? How did he get through the checkpoint?"
"We have video of him climbing over the wall."
She looked into Ethan's eyes. "Did he kill her here? At the wall behind Threshold?"
"No," he said quietly. "He killed her somewhere else then brought her to RUSH."
Sighing, she gave a small nod and turned back to finish the repairs on the drawing. She didn't want another image in her mind. She didn't want to picture someone dropping a young woman's dead body over that tall wall to the ground on the other side.
"Check your account. We've sent a memo, summarizing what we know. All done?"
"Yes."
He took his hand away, looked down at the paper, and said, "Thanks." Then he pushed up from the table and stood. "Unless it's an emergency, don't go out alone until we catch this guy. We've deactivated the chip he stole so it's unlikely he'll get inside again. But stay on the safe side and have one of the other R-links accompany you, even in the tunnels, and even if it's just to get a cup of coffee."
"I will."
"Good. Now, how can I scan your drawing into the computer without smudging it up again?"
Aerosol can still in hand, Simon passed it to Nina.
"That'll seal the surface?"
"Yes, but it takes a few coats. And the fumes are strong."
"Use my office if you want," the attorney said. "I'm heading out." He drew his keys from his pocket, took one off, and handed it to Simon. "I don't have to tell you to lock up again when you're finished, but I will because we've all had a long day."
"I'm heading out as well," the unknown man said.
"Nina, you haven't met Elliott. This is Elliott Longstreet, RUSH's architect. Elliott, Nina Millering."
Ethan reached for the tablet, sliding his fingers beneath and holding it by the edges as Mason and the architect gave a final nod and left the room.
Nina pushed away from the table, tired, hungry, and her feet ached. When Simon slid an arm around her waist, she moved in close, grateful for the support and too darned weary to be embarrassed by the things she'd allowed him to do to her.
Mason's office was a quick walk across the hall and a reversed replica of Simon's. Her stomach growled as they crossed the threshold and Simon gave a light, answering squeeze. "Let's get this finished so we can eat."
He chose an open area, spread out the newspaper, and shook the can for her. Then he passed it over so she could crouch down to apply a light spray.
"That's it?" Ethan asked when she stood up again.
"I'll come back early in the morning to spray it a couple more times."
"We're leaving," Simon stated. "Neither of us has eaten yet."
He took the can from her fingers, snapped the cap on, then placed it on the floor beside the newspaper. With a hand at the center of her back, he steered her out the door, waited for Ethan to follow, then locked Mason's office.
Nina waited until they were alone outside to ask, "Why didn't you tell me you're one of the owners of RUSH?"
"You would have found out if you'd accepted our link."
"You should have mentioned it back when I asked if you worked here."
He stopped walking and drew her to a halt. "Why? Would it have made a difference."
"No. I still wouldn't have liked you."
"You wouldn't—"
She smiled mischievously.
"But no one likes to feel foolish," she added.
"Why do you feel foolish?"
"I don't. Not now."
He stared at her for a minute. Then he slid a hand to her elbow and started them walking again. "It's been too long a day for this," he said. "If you'll accept the icon, you'll get enough information to ask questions and I'll answer them."
A breeze caught her hair, tossing it in front of her face. She pushed it back, holding her shawl close against the night air. "Do you mind if I take a rain check on dinner?"
Once again he drew her to a stop. "Why?"
"Because I'm tired and cold. My dress is ruined and I have to shower and change anyway, so I'd rather just eat something quick and go to bed."
She could see it wasn't want he wanted. But he relented and walked with her to the R-link gate.
"Don't forget what Ethan told you." He lifted a hand and brushed his knuckles along her cheek. "Don't walk around alone."
"Do you think he can get into the R-link complex?"
"No. Even if Serena's microchip was compromised, it wasn't programmed for access to the complex. We'd know right away if he tried."
"I'm so sorry for everything you're facing right now."
He cupped her chin in his palm. "You helped. More than I can say." Then he leaned down for a brief kiss. "Sleep well."
"You, too."
MEMO
TO: All Clients
FROM: The Board of Directors
SUBJECT: Client Safety
As many of you know, an employee of RUSH, Serena Mandek, has been murdered. The purpose of this memo is to present the facts as we know them and to advise you of new safety measures now in effect.
Serena was kidnapped the night she was murdered. She was beaten, sexually abused, and stabbed three times. Her left wrist was cut and her microchip removed. These crimes were committed off property by a man who, we believe, wanted her chip for the purpose of accessing the grounds without setting off an alarm. He is not a member of RUSH.
After killing Serena, he brought her body to RUSH and, at 3:17 AM, climbed the wall at Threshold to gain entry. He secured her right wrist to a manacle and left her for us to find. A portion of this was captured on video. He wore a stocking mask, obscuring his features, but he chose to do some exploring before he left and that was his mistake. He avoided the various paths and kept to the trees, but he removed the
mask for a brief time and was seen—very clearly seen. As a result, we have an artist's rendering of his face which will be turned over to the police.
Serena's microchip has been deactivated. However, until her murderer is in police custody, we ask that you practice the following safety precautions. Ladies in particular, pair up while on property. Don't stroll the grounds alone. Don't walk to or from your car alone. Additional guards will patrol each level of both parking garages, there to escort you to and from the checkpoints. Use them. We're pleased to report that nearly all the men and women who make up RUSH's security force have volunteered to work double shifts until this is resolved. As well, a substantial number of new cameras will be installed at random locations throughout the property. Patrols around the outer perimeter will be increased, and Human Resources will be hiring a minimum of ten additional guards per shift.
Travel in pairs.
Lock your car doors.
Be safe.
CHAPTER 20
Simon sat behind his desk and stared over at the portrait Nina had drawn of him, still resting on the floor in front of the sliding door. She'd drawn it from memory, though she'd spent little more than an hour in his company at that point. And in that small space of time, she'd somehow captured the nuances of his personality like a photograph of character traits in her mind. Then she'd recorded her subject on paper, filling it with presence. Somehow she was able to preserve the essence of life on paper and she did it as easily as he scribbled notes on a legal pad.
Watching her use that talent, from those first quick strokes of charcoal all the way through to the final color portrait of their murderer, he'd been lured into a complicated chain of emotions he hadn't expected. Surprise. Admiration. Pride in her ability while his friends looked on, as absorbed and fascinated as he. And then anger. Possession. Even jealousy. Malcolm, Ethan—all of them—had been captivated. Even Elliott who could rough out a quick, accurate sketch of the Moon Orchid Spa, complete with landscaping in a matter of minutes. Every man in the room had been caught up in her magic. He'd seen it in the way they watched her, the shift of their eyes from her drawing to her face and then to her body as her wrap drifted unheeded to the chair behind her. She'd gathered them in. All of them.