by Carol Caiton
Except Michael.
RUSH wasn't an environment where a man found himself intrigued by much of anything other than women, sex, and his next encounter. But Michael's indifference went beyond disinterest. He'd treated Nina with a callousness that was both surprising and disturbing and Simon didn't know why.
Michael claimed to have already met Nina. But when? What prompted a man who charmed every other woman on property to treat one in particular with rude disregard? Had she offended him? If so, Simon was fairly certain it had been unknowingly. Or only after provocation. From what he'd seen of her, she was a woman who felt empathy and compassion for others. She'd selflessly given several hours of her time, going without dinner, to produce the face of a man she'd never seen. He was inclined to believe her when she said people liked her. Yet Michael had left the building without a word of thanks or acknowledgement. In the lobby his conduct had bordered on open hostility—the kind of hostility Simon hadn't seen since the early days of their acquaintance, and never toward a woman. But Nina was the exception.
He found Michael at a table outside the coffee bar with an oversized take-away cup. As usual, his T-shirt of the day, this one proclaiming to the world that Everlast rocks, slouched over the waistband of a well-worn pair of jeans.
"When are you going to start dressing the part of a successful entrepreneur?" Simon asked by way of a greeting.
"Yo, Simon, wassup?"
Simon pulled out a chair and sat down. "You dress as though you belong on a college campus instead of spearheading the technological backbone of a corporation."
Michael grinned. "Yeah, well, when you got a genius IQ and a shitload of money in the bank, I figure you can dress any way you want."
Simon swept a finger under the lapel of his suit jacket, calling attention to the matching vest beneath and said, "If I'm not mistaken, I've got just as much money in the bank. And as for IQ—"
Michael snorted. "Geez, put your dick back in your pants already."
It felt good to laugh. There hadn't been much reason to during the past couple of days.
"So, what's up?" Michael asked again.
Simon gave a meaningful glance at the oversized cup of coffee. "Late night?"
"Always, man."
"Hmmph. One of these days I'm going to find a way to pull up your stats and see how many links you've had since we opened this place."
"Yeah, yeah."
"And then I'm going to find a way to access your application, analyze it, and uncover how you do it."
Michael leaned back in his chair, stretched out his long, jean-clad legs, and crossed his ankles. "You're just playin' me. The only female you're interested in is your blue link."
Well, that was simple.
"You're right, she is. Those are the rules. So tell me, what's she done to make you dislike her?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all." He scowled into his coffee.
"You said you met her before last night."
"Yeah. She was with Libby."
"And? Did you talk to her? Have a conversation?"
"Nope."
"Did she insult you? Did she insult me?"
"No, man, she didn't say anything."
Simon drew on his patience and spoke carefully. "All right, then, consider this. My blue link went without dinner last night because you phoned asking for her help. She sat for hours, using her skill in a way she'd never tried before. And if that picture turns out to be Serena Mandek's murderer, she'll have saved your ass, along with mine, and probably RUSH itself. "
"Any other artist could have done the same thing. And a police artist would've done it faster."
Simon's temper kindled. "You didn't call on any other artist. You called on Nina. And you're the one who said Kaylene couldn't go public."
"You know Kaylene?"
"Yes, I know Kaylene. So you and I both know what's at stake. And we both know Nina was the best choice to handle this."
Instead of responding to that, Michael said, "You gonna marry her?"
"I hardly know her."
"That's a bullshit answer."
"Michael—"
"Fuck you, man. You've been uptight since the night you got that icon. Why don't you just fuck her a few times and get it over with? And you'd better do it soon or you won't be able to walk away."
Simon pushed away from the table. Resisting the urge to yank Michael up by his shirt, he rose slowly to his feet. "Be careful, Michael." He gripped the back of the chair and slid it under the table. "Walking away isn't part of my plan."
His anger smoldered as he left the food court. On the main path he turned away from the administrative building and headed for The Den. If one more of his business partners dropped by to wander over and stare at the portrait Nina had drawn of him, he'd be tempted to say something he knew he'd regret. Once it was sprayed with a final coat of fixative, he'd roll the damn thing up and put it in his car.
The Den, like the R-link complex, was surrounded by a tall stucco wall. Antithetical to the R-link complex, however, The Den was a haven for the men of RUSH. Women weren't permitted inside the gate. No flowering trees or delicate petals bordered the sidewalk. Instead, an abundance of palm trees and dense, sturdy greenery provided a solid, grounding habitat away from all things feminine.
That settling effect continued inside where pale, muted earth tones and comfortable lighting graced the outer lounge, the bar, and the semi-private rooms where a man could sit all afternoon with a drink at hand and not be disturbed. The waiters were men, the bartenders were men, and the artwork on the walls displayed thought-provoking abstracts.
Simon ordered a bourbon and ginger at the bar. When it was placed in front of him on a small beige napkin, he stared at it for all of three seconds then opted for a semi-private lounge which, as it happened, turned out to be completely private because the room was unoccupied. He settled into an overstuffed wing chair and set his drink on the small occasional table beside it. His anger still simmered, but it had cooled enough for him to weigh the validity of Michael's words. Had he been uptight since the night Nina's blue icon appeared on his monitor?
Maybe so. Yes, all right, he'd own that. Accepting an icon he should never have received in the first place, then working though all the complications it entailed . . . hell, anyone would have been chafed and quick to anger. Add Serena Mandek's murder and the involvement of PIC to the mix and he had a number of good reasons to be edgy.
But his temper today was the result of something else, and maybe it was time he gave that some thought. It shouldn't have been surprising when each of his partners, save Michael and Ethan, had invaded his office at one time or another during the day to examine the portrait on his floor. All of them had commented on Nina's talent, on her patience, on her manner and appearance. Malcolm had summed it up, saying she was lovely.
Lovely? Who the hell used a word like that but an Englishman? Oliver, however, had taken lovely a giant step further with indirect references to the voluptuous curves of RUSH's R-links. And Elliott . . . . Elliott's admiration had required few words. Maybe his perusal of the drawing had more to do with the fact that he was an artist as well, appreciating the talent of a kindred soul. He'd stood over it, staring down at the carpet for several minutes until Simon finally asked how the new mall was coming along.
Mason's interest had been the least offensive. Dropping by for only a couple of minutes, he'd studied Nina's drawing, given the expected compliments, and left. But he'd paused at the door, turning back to say, "You chose well, Simon. And so did she."
But then there was Ethan. He may not have made an appearance, but he'd already gone further than any of the others, moving right into Nina's space while she repaired the smudges his curiosity had caused. Ethan attracted women with the same charm and flair that drew them to Michael. He need only catch some female's attention, show a casual interest, and the outcome was inevitable. A hip on the table within intimate contact had accomplished the first, then speaking in quiet tones and showing conce
rn had taken care of the second. At the earliest possible moment, Simon had ushered Nina out of the building and that little scene had annoyed him for the rest of the night. It more than annoyed him now.
Taking a swallow of his drink, he brooded over the attention she'd drawn even before her wrap had fallen slack around her shoulders. Malcolm and the others had checked her out while remaining in the background, undetected. They were curious, just as he would have been had a blue link connected her to one of them. When her shawl slipped down her arms, collecting at her elbows, she'd pulled one arm free, then the other, as though absently removing a hindrance. Simon hadn't given it a thought until he'd taken his eyes from her hand and saw the dress she'd chosen to wear. He made no move to recover the shawl, however. Had he done so, it would have broken her concentration. More than that, she would have noticed her audience, necessitating introductions that, again, would have caused a distraction.
So he'd done nothing. And of course he hadn't been the only man to notice what she wore. Her dress was one in a collection of designs all seven of them had approved just a few weeks earlier, knowing it would be consigned to one of the R-links. Nina, of course, filled it out to perfection, and seeing it on her was the first time any of them had viewed it off the drawing board.
All seven of them took an interest in the designs they paid a fortune to procure. That Malcolm or anyone else had given her a leisurely once-over shouldn't have provoked in him the reaction it had. Oliver's interests were fixed on Threshold and the grittier pursuits of sexual gratification, not on innocent virgins. Elliott, Simon suspected, harbored a carefully guarded attraction for his secretary, Hannah, and Malcolm was privately enchanted by a sculptor who worked in stone—last name Hart, first name unknown. As for Ethan, all evidence pointed toward a successful relationship between him and Dalton's sister. And since Michael carried a grievance against Nina, that left Mason who had invested in RUSH for three specific reasons: the potential profit, his position as corporate counsel, and to shield his son from exposure to a chain of casual relationships. Mason had no desire to connect with a specific woman, not even the twin sister of someone who was smart, fun to be around, and borderline beautiful.
Simon acknowledged all of that. So why was he quick to resent the attention his friends had shown for a particularly attractive woman? That's all it had been. Natural and simple appreciation. He should have received their compliments as a voice of approval, the willingness to accept Nina into their circle. Instead, he who prided himself on the ability to think logically and objectivity had adapted the irrational thought processes he attributed to the opposite sex. Was that the price a man paid when he pursued a woman who didn't want to be caught? She wasn't even sure she liked him. She'd freely admitted as much. And how had he responded? He'd kissed her anyway. For all he knew, the passionate response he got in return might have been just as passionate had he been anyone—a randomly plucked name from RUSH's entire male population.
And that was the crucial element here. Not Malcolm's or Oliver's or Mason's perusal of an attractive woman. Not Ethan's invasive position while he questioned her. It was Nina and the membership package she'd chosen. He'd become single-mindedly focused on a woman and was advancing as though every other male was a potential threat, even the men he trusted.
Maybe Michael was right. To a point. His analytical outlook had become skewed. He hadn't been processing along normal pathways. He wasn't going to fuck Nina a few times then walk away, but neither was he so enmeshed in a relationship that he couldn't step back and put things in perspective. She'd signed Mason's addendum so he had time. And despite her friendship with Geneva Harmer, Nina was drawn to him now. She hadn't accepted the blue icon yet, but neither had she shown any indication that would suggest she was impatient for adventure.
So his confrontation with Michael had been a wake-up call. He needed to realign his priorities. RUSH had sustained a blow with the murder of Serena Mandek. They had a killer on their hands. And PIC, a power in its own right, had taken a stand against the corporation. He had a month to iron out the glitches with Nina. But RUSH, on the other hand was in trouble right now and a strong united front pulled rank over everything else.
* * *
Mason closed his office door, stowed his briefcase on the floor beside his desk, then straightened and stared out the windows at the quiet courtyard.
He'd spent all morning and half the afternoon watching an inexperienced prosecutor win only one conviction out of four felony charges brought against the PIC group. He'd been in the courtroom as an observer to watch the PIC team of attorneys in action—a team he might one day be facing now that their newest grumble was focused on RUSH. They were good. Quick. Able to cast doubt as a matter of course.
Removing his jacket, he draped it over the back of his chair. Next on the day's agenda was Nina Millering's drawing. Sealed and dry, it was time to get it into the hands of the police. In agreement with Ethan and the others, his instincts told him the man in the drawing was connected to Gary Rundle. Finding that connection, however, wasn't going to be easy since, according to Rundle, he'd been mugged by an unknown assailant.
The time had come, as well, to phone Alison Brosig. Procrastinating wouldn't make rejection any easier. He hadn't realized how much he'd been looking forward to their day on the lake until Rachel Oslund phoned and the opportunity was lost. He'd wanted time to watch Ali with his son again. He'd wanted time with her himself, wanted to get to know her. She was the first woman for whom he'd felt a personal interest since Maryann.
But if Rachel knew about his connection to RUSH, chances were better than good that Ali was aware of it, too. By now, she probably knew he'd paved the way for Rachel to meet with Dan Zeman. Rachel would still have to jump through a lot of hoops and consent to a series of uncomfortable interviews. But if Zeman, Security, and one instructor agreed to work with her—on her dime—she'd be approved for an unorthodox guest admission. And if Ali held a negative view of RUSH, as did half the city, then the fact that he'd been the person to put Rachel's case before the board would be a black mark against him. If not for him, Rachel wouldn't have made it beyond a phone call.
So instead of looking forward to time spent with a woman who had been pushing her way into his thoughts since the day he'd met her, the only Brosig he'd be talking to after today would be her brother who, if Mason guessed correctly, was in love with Rachel.
One of two business cards attached to the folder on his desk belonged to the detective investigating Serena Mandek's murder. The other had been given to him by Nathan Brosig the day Gary Rundle had been taken into custody for possession of cocaine. It was the second one he pulled from the paperclip. On back, written in blue ink, was Nathan's cell number.
When he reached the other man's voicemail, he waited for the beep, then left a message. "This is Mason Ingersol. If you have a chance, stop by RUSH this afternoon. I'll leave word with Security to expect you as a guest." He paused. "A guard will ask for your driver's license. He'll scan it along with an image of your palmprint into our computer. It's standard procedure. You'll also be asked for a drop of blood. This is for our protection—mostly to check for STDs. And you'll be required to wear a sensor. It'll be attached to a wristwatch-type band and it monitors anxiety levels. That's it." He thought about telling the cop that his sister was next on his list of people to call, then decided against it. "If you can't make it in before five, get back to me when you have time and we'll set up something else."
Hanging up the landline, he pulled out his cell phone. It was probably a vain undertaking, but he wanted Ali to have a record of his cell number. Reaching for his wallet, he removed the slip of paper on which he'd written hers, and punched it in.
On the fourth ring she answered sounding breathless. "Hello!"
Her exuberant greeting caught him by surprise. "Ali, this is Mason. Have I called at a bad time?"
A short silence followed.
"Mason. No, your timing's fine. I just walked in the doo
r with an armful of pumpkins. They're not that big, but they're heavy."
"Pumpkins. If I'd had a couple hundred guesses, pumpkins wouldn't have made the list."
"Yes, well, Thanksgiving is coming up and I have to decorate because three of my kids live nearby. They'll report me to the rest of the class if I don't and I'll lose points."
"A spy squad."
"Something like that."
"Do you have plans for the holiday?"
"Yes. We spend it with the Oslunds every year. Will you and Joshua be there with Luke? I understand you were invited as well."
He wished like hell he could be there. "I had to decline," he told her. "Joshua's grandparents will be in town, so we'll be taking them out for dinner."
"You're wife's parents?"
"That's right." But he didn't want to discuss his dead wife or her parents. "I'm calling to ask if you'd like to go sailing with us this weekend."
He was prepared for her refusal, but it stung all the same.
"Thank you for remembering," she said, "but I think it would be better if we left things as they are."
"Are you still involved with someone?"
She hesitated. "No."
It would have been easier for them both if she'd lied and said yes. But she hadn't. "Is it the job or the man you object to?"
When she didn't answer right away, he wished he could see her face, weigh her expression.
"Aren't they one and the same?" she finally asked.
It was a clever way of asking an incredibly personal question. But then, then he'd given her the opening.
He wanted to tell her no . . . that his involvement with RUSH was limited to his profession as an attorney. But that wasn't the truth. He hadn't arranged for an encounter with the amber folder he held, not since the day he'd met Ali. But his involvement at RUSH wasn't limited to practicing law. It was professional and it was sexual. No matter how you looked at it, he was a joint partner in the ownership of a sex club.