by Carol Caiton
"Where did she go?" Simon asked.
"Hell if I know." He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his jaw. "I'll tell you what, though . . . if she's still living here come Christmas, I'm going to buy her a damned cell phone so I can keep track of her on GPS."
It was the wrong thing to say. Not a flicker of commiseration showed in Simon's eyes.
"Ah, hell, Simon. She's worse than a kitten wandering out onto I--. You know that as well as I do."
The coffeemaker hissed and sputtered, completing its cycle before Simon responded.
"I'll admit I'm taking things on the raw right now, but there's more going on here than my conduct."
Ethan tensed.
"I know you want her, and I know you said it wasn't a problem. But I'm asking you to stay away from her Ethan."
Ah, Christ, what was he supposed to say to that? He wanted to shrug off Simon's concern, but the bonds of long-standing friendship deserved better than that.
"She's never around anyway," he conceded. "But that's not to say I won't be watching out for her. She's too damned naïve. Whether directly or indirectly, trouble has a way of finding her. And being your blue link, Mason, Elliott, and any of the others would watch over her the same way."
Hell, he couldn't not watch out for her, at home or at RUSH. As head of security that was his job. He'd already planned to go into the system and re-program her tolerance range, reduce it slightly, so that Simon didn't overwhelm her.
Simon assessed the situation and sighed. "Understood."
But the memory of Thanksgiving weighed on Ethan's conscience. And last night, taunting Nina with sexual gestures . . . . He took a hard look at himself, knowing he hadn't played it straight.
"I owe you an apology as well," he said. He poured two cups of coffee and slid one across the granite. "Yes, I want her. She's funny and compassionate and— It's hard not to care. But I know she belongs to you. And I'm not going to go up against a blue icon."
Still, he couldn't help wondering what would happen if Nina withdrew from her link with Simon. A moment later he discarded that idea. With a compatibility rating as high as a status-2, they'd probably work things out. And if they did? If Simon married her and they lived three doors away? He'd put his own house on the market and move across town.
Pulling in a breath he said, "So what happened to Thanksgiving in New York?"
"My father was called back to Germany. Right after dinner."
"Did your mother talk to you about ZER again?"
"She probably would have before the weekend was through. Coming to terms with the fact that I don't want it isn't easy for her."
Ethan shrugged. "Your father built it into a multi-national corporation and you're their only offspring."
"Well they're going to have to come up with an alternative plan."
Ethan topped off their cups and the next couple of hours passed in companionable conversation. Eventually Simon glanced at his watch and asked, "When did she leave?"
"I couldn't tell you. She was gone when I got up."
Simon ran a hand along the back of his neck. "At the risk of sounding like a seventh-grader, I'm going to ask if she talked to you about what she saw."
Ethan looked away, clamping his jaw.
"That bad?" Simon drained his mug and set it down on the counter. "I'm going to have to tell the others about it. This could rebound on RUSH. Goddamn it . . . We're living in a goddamned fishbowl. I can't even fuck up in private."
With that he stood up. "I want her back, Ethan."
Ethan stood up as well.
"Stay there and enjoy your coffee. I can find my own way out."
* * *
Enjoy his coffee? Enjoy his goddamn coffee?
He scrubbed both hands over his face.
Damned women. RUSH existed to avoid situations like this, not to create them. Enter one frigging blue icon into the equation and it brought a good man to his knees, stripped him of his pride, and forced him to stand in front of his peers to expose the intimate details of his life. Goddamn it!
The garage door glided open.
Turning toward the utility door he struggled to switch gears, to dredge up the support Nina needed right now. But switching gears on the heels of Simon's visit wasn't happening. He resented her at the moment. Women like Nina didn't comprehend the sexual drive that pushed a man to take chances. They had no concept of the build-up that shorted a man's temper, couldn't understand that sex might have nothing to do with emotion or preferring one woman over another.
He heard the muted thud of her car door slamming shut. Then came the return glide along the overhead tracks.
She whooshed through the utility door with a shove from the other side, the handles of several grocery bags strung along each arm.
"Oh, hi," she peeped, flashing a smile in his direction. "I stopped by the market on my way home."
She lugged her purchases across the kitchen, hoisted one arm, then the other, and wrestled the bags onto the counter.
"I'm not a gourmet cook," she went on, "but I feel bad sharing your casseroles since I'm not contributing to the household." She flashed another smile then lifted a bottle of juice from one of the bags. "And I make a pretty good chicken parmesan. Do you like chicken parmesan?"
Her jeans were R-link issue and hugged that compact little body like a provocative second skin. The bronze crew neck sweater she wore was not R-link issue but might as well have been for all that it stretched across and advertised a pair of tits that would stop traffic. Her rich dark hair swirled around her shoulders as though she'd just walked out of a salon, her skin glowed with health and her eyes sparkled with innocent pleasure. She was happy today, even downright chipper and, by God, she smelled like heaven.
Pushing away from the counter, he glared at her. Simon's remorse was fresh in his mind, the humiliation yet to come a bitter taste in his mouth. She had no right to the innocence in those eyes, no right to light up his kitchen with cheerful exuberance, and no right to chatter and smile as though life was breezy and perfect.
"Fuck you, Nina."
He set off for the only room in the house where he felt safe, left her staring after him, eyes wide, and mouth agape. He needed another goddamn cold shower.
Not five seconds after he slammed the bedroom door, however, she twisted the knob and flung it open, gold fire burning in her eyes.
"You nasty-tempered, foul-mouthed jerk!" She threw something flat and rubbery at his feet and shouted, "I didn't deserve that!" Then she whirled around and marched back down the hall.
Clenching his teeth, he strode over to the door and slammed it shut with so much force, the frame shook. Anger nearly blinded him. He didn't know what to do with all the turbulence battering him. Lust. Fury. Need. Resentment. Attraction so powerful it hurt. And guilt. Always the goddamn guilt.
Glowering at the floppy piece of black rubber she'd thrown at his feet, he took himself back across the carpet. A frigging mouse pad? Face-down, he wasn't sure, but the shape was right.
Bending down, he picked it up and turned it over. A big round happy face stared back at him from a bright yellow background. A fucking happy face.
What the frigging hell? Did she pull this stuff out of her shoe or something?
Wrapping his fist around the spongy polyurethane, he squeezed the huge mocking grin until it was no longer visible.
Pissed at the world, hard as a goddamn iron pipe, two long strides took him back to the door. He yanked it open, ignored the sharp crack when the knob smacked the wall, and headed for his target. He was jacked, he was furious, and the need to let it out rode him so hard, his skin buzzed like an electrified fence.
Erupting into the kitchen, his grip around the polyurethane so fierce his fingers ached, he drew up short and shot his eyes around the room. Her grocery bags sat on the island where she'd left them, the bottle of juice right where she'd set it down, but Nina was nowhere to be seen.
Smashing the mouse pad down onto the nearest counter, he headed f
or the guest wing. This was his house, goddamn it. It used to be a comfortable place to come home to at night. He used to be able to get some work done. Groceries weren't left out on the counter. There weren't any boxes filling up his hallways. Why hadn't she unpacked? Where the hell did she think she was going?
Stalking past the row of cardboard, he planted one hand on the doorjamb and swung around the threshold, through the sitting room, and into her bedroom. Mouth open, ready to ream her up one side and down the other, his frustration reached new heights when he found that room empty as well.
She was gone.
Again, goddamn it!
"Nina!"
Spinning around, heart pounding in his temples, he stalked back out to the hall and grabbed one of the boxes. He was acting irrationally. He knew that even as he carried it to the nearest dresser and ripped it open.
Yanking at a drawer, he upended the contents, dumping her clothes inside, and when half of them spilled onto the floor, he scooped them up and crammed them into a second drawer.
Tossing the empty box aside, he went after another. Then another. And the next.
The last box contained a colorful assortment of satiny underwear. He stared at it, then emptied it into the last drawer. The feminine lace slid across his knuckles and when he scooped up the silky mass that had fallen to the floor, something in him snapped, piercing the haze of his wrath.
He stared down at his hand.
Christ. Jesus Christ.
Pure, heart-stopping femininity at its finest. Custom stitched to fit her body.
He dragged his gaze to the open drawer then back to the wine colored lace in his hand. Its deep wide cups extended past the length of his fingers and his body throbbed an aching heavy beat of appreciation.
A mental image came to mind, one he didn't even bother to shake. He gentled his grip on the delicate fabric and stroked the inside curve of one silky cup.
Defeat flooded over him like a tidal wave.
"Jesus, sweetheart." The words were a whisper past his lips. "Ah, Jesus."
Opening his fingers, he let the bra drop to the floor. How had this happened? How could he feel so much for another man's woman? And how had it happened so fast?
He skimmed his gaze around her bedroom, taking in the results of his rampage. Strips of torn cardboard lay strewn about. The remains of empty boxes, tossed heedlessly aside, had turned the room into a trash heap. Half her dresser drawers stood wide, her clothes a jumbled mess hanging over the sides. And the undergarments he refused to touch again sat in a pile at his feet.
His eyes skipped over to her bed, imagined that honeysuckle scent on her pillow, on her sheets, and he shut his eyes. Breathed. Waited for the longing to pass.
When his pulse finally slowed to normal and he could separate himself from her presence enough to function, he reached for one of the mangled boxes, pulled apart the bottom, and broke it down. He seized another and did the same, and then the rest until he had a flat manageable stack.
It took two trips to carry it all out to the garage. He piled the flattened cardboard inside his Hummer then locked the doors and stood for a minute listening to the silence.
Was he going to go berserk the next time he got tangled in this lousy triangle? He looked over at her empty parking spot. He'd been in such a rage, he hadn't even heard the garage door open.
He ran a weary hand through his hair. If she came back now and said she'd found a place to live, he drive the Hummer over to RUSH and come back with a pile of new boxes for her. He needed his house back. He needed distance from her and from whatever happened between her and Simon. If he thought she'd take it, he'd give her the money she needed to move out and set herself up. But Simon had probably thought of that as well . . . and dismissed the idea as well.
Dropping his hand back to his side, he wondered where she'd gone.
Again.
She was right. She hadn't deserved his foul mouth. And if he didn't know where she was, it was his own fault this time.
Walking over to the keypad, he let himself back inside and began unpacking the groceries he knew she couldn't afford. When he came across something called couscous, he stared at it, wondering what it was, then put it away in the pantry.
When he finished, he rinsed out the cups he and Simon had used, put them in the dishwasher, and paused for a second before snatching up the ridiculous mouse pad Nina had thrown at him.
He emerged from his bedroom half an hour later, showered and dressed in jeans and a once black sweatshirt that was now charcoal gray after years of laundering.
Refreshed and feeling like himself again, he crossed the hall to his study and zeroed in on the sheaf of papers faxed to his output tray. He was about to get some answers.
CHAPTER 34
He scanned the monitors on the wall across from his desk then sat down. But he no sooner plucked the paper from the output tray when the doorbell rang.
He signed for two express envelopes, returned to his study, and peeled one open. Inside were copies of four separate charging affidavits, all of them naming Lydia Rae Millering as the defendant.
Making himself comfortable, he glanced at the dates, then at the charges on each affidavit, and concluded that Nina's sister had a wild streak. At the age of seventeen she'd already racked up two speeding tickets, both involving reckless driving or, more specifically, drag racing on International Drive, and again on I--.
He checked the time of day on one affidavit and frowned. Two o'clock in the morning. What had a seventeen-year-old girl been doing out drag racing at two o'clock in the morning? He sifted through the documents and found she'd paid a hefty little fine for those joy rides. She'd also attended Traffic School.
Nina's big sister, he decided, had been a young lady with a penchant for adrenaline. He wondered if that might still be the case or if landing in a wheelchair had crushed the kind of personality it took to ride that wave.
The charge on the third affidavit was listed as Indecent Exposure. She was one of three co-defendants, all underage females, and the arrest had been made during Bike Week at Daytona Beach.
Shaking his head, he set those affidavits on top of his desk and began reading the fourth.
At 3:32 PM this officer responded to the scene of an accident involving three vehicles. Lydia R. Millering, driver of a 2007 Grand Marquis registered to Robert P. Millering, was traveling east on Old Winter Garden Road, en route to the Orlando Public Library on Central Boulevard. Millering and the front seat passenger wore seatbelts. The passenger, Millering's sister, is a minor child, age thirteen. She held 15-20 books on her lap to be returned to the library.
Millering's vehicle was traveling at approximately 30 mph. Passenger states that Millering was slowing for the approaching traffic light at Kirkman Road. The passenger leaned forward to access the glove box at a point where the lane curves, causing several books to slide off her lap and into the driver's footwell. This impaired Millering's ability to stop the vehicle as it entered the intersection . . . .
Ethan read through to the end of the affidavit. Then he raised his eyes and stared out at the lake beyond the windows. The answers he now had satisfied his curiosity, but raised other questions.
Why the secrecy? What had he missed?
He read the affidavit again but a second perusal provided nothing new. Lydia had had the presence of mind to apply the emergency brake, but not until she'd passed into the intersection. The Grand Marquis had been struck broadside and the impact had trapped her inside the car and crushed her legs. The second driver suffered a broken arm and collar bone, and the third, a concussion and minor abrasions. Nina, however, had walked away with a small bump on the side of her head.
The books she'd been holding were an assortment of paperback and hardcover novels. Between fifteen and twenty of them. He looked over at his own bookcase and counted across twenty books. It was a hefty stack, even divided into two piles. It wouldn't have taken much to scatter them.
He sifted through the bundle o
f information for insurance documents. Scrutinized them. Frowned at the damage estimate to the Grand Marquis. Then he lifted out the witness statements and began reading.
There were seven, all telling the same story, just slightly different versions. But one stood out from the rest. He glanced at the name. Madeline Elrich. Age forty-six.
. . . and one of the other witnesses—a blond-haired man—opened the passenger door and helped the little girl out. She was crying but I don't think she knew it because she was sort of dazed. It took a minute for her to understand what happened. But then she heard the driver. We all heard the driver. She was screaming, "Nina! Niiiiiiinaaa!" over and over and over. Then the little girl tried to climb back inside the car and the blond-haired man had to pull her back out and hold her. He tried to tell her they couldn't get the driver out, that she was trapped and they had to wait for the ambulance. But the little girl kept fighting to get back inside the car.
He told her again and again that they had to wait for the ambulance. But the woman inside the car kept screaming for Nina, and when the girl couldn't get to her, she started screaming too. Just screaming and screaming. She put her hands over both ears and screamed until her voice broke and no sound would come out. But her mouth was open and she kept thinking she was screaming.
It broke my heart to watch. And I could see the blond-haired man wasn't sure he was doing the right thing. So I went over and put my arms around the girl and tried to tell her it would be okay. Everything would be okay. But it wasn't okay. I don't know if it'll ever be okay for that little girl. Or the other one trapped in the car. The blond-haired man let go of her and I held her instead. I kept telling her it would be okay because I didn't know what else to say. I know I'll never forget what happened. And I don't know if I'll ever be able to get the sound of their screams out of my mind.
For a long time Ethan sat staring at the woman's signature. When he tried to swallow, he had to clear his throat first. What had Nina looked like at thirteen? How long had it taken to get her voice back? How would the mind of a thirteen-year-old girl process what happened?