The Blue Link

by Carol Caiton

  Fifteen minutes later she sat down at the table alone. Fifteen minutes after that, she slid her plate aside and took a sip of coffee.

  "I don't expect you to cook for me."

  She whirled around in her seat and found him standing in the other doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, watching her. Suddenly her sweatshirt felt overly warm.

  "I didn't cook for you. I found a casserole in the refrigerator and heated it."

  He pushed away from the doorframe and approached the table. At RUSH he hadn't seemed so tall and imposing. Here, he was just as intimidating as Simon. She stood up and carried her dishes to the sink as he pulled out a chair.

  "I have a housekeeper," he said, sitting down. He unfolded his napkin, put it on his lap, then reached for a bottle of salad dressing. "She comes in twice a week."

  Nina relaxed a little. "Is she the person who made the casserole?"

  He nodded. "Her name is Norma Deggens. She takes care of the house and shops for food." He ladled out a man-sized helping from the large dish then pointed the spoon toward his plate. "I usually eat this cold."

  She watched him from the other side of the island. His bad mood was still there beneath the surface, but he appeared to have it under control.

  "Do you prefer to eat it cold?" she asked.

  "No."

  He didn't elaborate and she decided not to point out that scooping something onto a plate and heating it in the microwave took only a couple of minutes. Instead, she told him, "I'll take care of dinner then."

  He looked up.

  She shrugged. "I have to cook for myself anyway." She opened the dishwasher, rinsed off her plate, and put it inside. "Are there any other arrangements we should discuss? Anything you'd like me to take care of while I'm here?"

  The doorbell rang.

  "Yes," he said, scooping up a forkful of salad. "You can get the door."

  "But . . . whoever's there might get the wrong impression."

  "You live here, don't you?"

  "Well . . . I'm staying here, but—"

  "I'll give you one guess as to who's standing out on the porch. Are you going to let him in?"

  * * *

  If anyone had told her a week ago that she'd be relieved to see Simon, she might not have verbally denied it, but she wouldn't have believed it. Yet here she stood, wearing the same baggy sweatshirt he'd first seen her in, feeling considerably friendly.

  "Hi," she said, offering a smile. "Would you like to come in?"

  He glanced at her bare feet then up again. "No. I'd like you to come out."

  "Oh. Okay. Let me put on some shoes. Are you sure you don't want to come in?"

  "I'm sure."

  "All right. I'll just be a minute."

  She hurried back to the kitchen and slipped on the sandals she'd worn earlier. "I'm going out," she told Ethan. "I probably won't be long."

  He merely grunted and kept eating so she turned away and walked back to the foyer. When she opened the door, Simon stood with his back to her. He looked different wearing faded jeans, a gray pullover, and a brown jacket. She'd become used to seeing him in a suit.

  He turned as she paused on the threshold and it struck her that his appearance here, ringing the doorbell, was very different from running into him at RUSH. He was a tall, incredibly handsome man who was standing on this front porch because he was here to see her—outside the walls of RUSH.

  "Nina?"

  She gave herself a mental shake. "Yes. Sorry."

  She stepped outside and joined him.

  "Do you want to get a coat?"

  "No, I'm fine." In fact the chilly night air felt good. She'd been overly warm inside, more so because of the tension between her and Ethan.

  "Let's go then." He held out a hand.

  "Where are we going?"

  "To my house. I want you to see it."

  Her stomach gave a little quiver. Yes, this was normal. Real. RUSH may have been the place where they'd met, but Simon gave more validity to their blue link by bringing it outside those majestic gates. It wasn't a fantasy here. This was real life in the real world and he wanted her to see his house.

  With a nod she stepped forward and slid her hand into his. Out on the sidewalk, he passed her hand around the back of his waist, then slid his across her shoulders.

  "How long have you known Ethan?" she asked.

  "Several years. Why?"

  "I was wondering how all of you formed RUSH."

  He smiled. "RUSH was Michael's idea initially. He and I knew one another because we worked for the same branch of government and the nature of our jobs brought us into contact. But we weren't friends. Not then."

  A breeze blew in off a nearby lake and Simon drew her closer.

  "Michael didn't particularly like me at the time," he went on, "and I returned the sentiment. He was a cocky, pain-in-the-ass computer kid with a genius IQ and an attitude. I only dealt with him when I had to." He chuckled quietly. "Then he showed up at my house one night. The temperature outside was below freezing, the slush in the street had turned to ice, and that belligerent computer guy from the office was standing on my front porch without a coat."

  Nina smiled. "Did you make him suffer?"

  "Hmmph. No. I was too curious."

  They walked slowly along the pavement, Simon caught up in remembering, and Nina too interested in the story to feel the cold.

  "I had a change of opinion that night," he told her. "We both did. Michael brought up several issues that stood between us. He made me aware of things I hadn't known, and my regard for him did a complete about-face."

  He grew quiet for a minute, then said, "We talked for a long while that night. Till around two in the morning. And that conversation eventually led to something he said—several somethings—that laid the groundwork for RUSH."

  She heard the smile in his voice, the affection behind it, and smiled as well. It surprised her, however, that everything had originated with Michael. He couldn't have been much older than she was now.

  "I already knew Ethan," he continued. "I thought RUSH might be something he'd be interested in, so I talked to Michael about him and it progressed from there. All three of us had heard of Elliott. Elliott knew Mason, who had worked with Malcolm, and Malcolm was friends with a man named Gabriel who introduced us to Oliver."

  She looked up. "Gabriel as in Gabriel's restaurant at RUSH?"

  "Yes. There were eight of us. But Gabriel died in a helicopter crash a couple of months before we opened."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I am too."

  He guided her off the sidewalk and onto a walkway that led to a stately, two-story manor, the stone walls and multi-paned windows reminiscent of something she might expect to see in England.

  "This is yours?"

  "Yes."

  "It's beautiful," she told him, taken aback by the size. That two unmarried men required the enormous amount of living space he and Ethan did baffled her.

  "Thank you," he said.

  The foyer inside was larger than Ethan's. The white marble floor led to a wide winding staircase which, in turn, led to a wrap-around second story landing. A stunning chandelier hung suspended from the domed ceiling and sparkled although it had been dimmed.

  Simon reset his burglar alarm as she looked around. He removed his jacket, draped it over the railing, then took her hand and led her into the living area.

  Open, spacious, it was yet another living room furnished with two separate seating arrangements. She liked the deep earthy tones of Ethan's house, but she also liked the cooler neutral tones in Simon's. Both houses backed up to the Butler chain of lakes and she suspected the view beyond the drapes would be magnificent during the day.

  He took her on a tour of the first floor, then up the wide winding staircase to the second. Unease niggled at her as they climbed the steps, but she walked by his side. She supposed she'd trust him unless he gave her reason not to.

  He guided her from one beautiful room to another, the eleg
ant period furniture in each embracing Florida's tropical climate with pale grays, blues, or greens. They spent the better part of an hour while she made all the appropriate comments, smoothed her fingers along the edge of a secretary in one room, and sincerely complimented his taste.

  But his wealth was almost overwhelming. She wasn't accustomed to rooms the size of a gymnasium . . . well, okay, that was an exaggeration. But his lifestyle was so far removed from her own that it seemed like a different culture.

  She waited until he took her hand again, guiding her back down the hallway, then asked, "Has Ethan always been involved with security?"

  He looked down at her. "Yes. Before signing on with RUSH he designed security systems."

  "Designed them?"

  "Mmm."

  "Residential?"

  "No. His clients were corporate. High-tech. Some government contracts. He traveled a lot."

  "So he was an independent contractor."

  They'd crossed the landing and started down the other hallway when he drew her to a stop. "Why all these questions about Ethan?"

  She looked up and met his eyes. His tone suggested he wasn't pleased and his expression confirmed it. "Because I'm staying in the house of a man I barely know," she told him quietly. "I'll be more comfortable if I understand something about him."

  "Then stay here."

  She made a face. "I don't know you any more than I know Ethan."

  "Nina." He stepped in close. "This is important. To me and to us."

  She shook her head. "I know you think it is, and I understand why you do. But I'm afraid it won't work out. I don't know what you want from me, and I'm afraid of what you expect."

  Something flickered in his eyes. "What I want from you is a blue link." He cupped her cheek with one large palm, then slid it around to the back of her neck, lacing his fingers in her hair. "As for what I expect . . . . I don't know what to expect any more than you do. But accepting that icon gives things a start. It gives us time. It gives us exclusivity. No other links for either of us. That's something else I want."

  The tips of his fingers traced a feather-light path down the nape of her neck. Then up. He gathered up a handful of her hair.

  Chills raced across her scalp as he gently pulled, tilting her head farther back. "What . . . are you doing?"

  His eyes, heavy-lidded, came closer. "I'm showing you there's nothing to be afraid of."

  Holding her gaze with his, he slipped is other hand under her sweatshirt, and across her ribcage.

  She drew in a quick, short gasp.

  "Put your hands on my waist," he ordered.

  She hesitated, then placed her hands at either side of his waist, staring into his eyes as his thumb reached up, slipped into her cleavage, and dragged the beige pullover down, rasping the neckline over one nipple and down until it caught beneath her breast.

  "Simon . . . ."

  Easing his grip on her hair, he bent his head those last few inches and closed his mouth over hers.

  "Kiss me back."

  As soon as she did his fingers found her nipple, captured it, and tugged.

  She cried out, breaking the kiss, and grabbed onto his waist.

  "It's good, isn't it?" he murmured. "Tell me."

  "Yes, it's good."

  "I knew it would be."

  His hot breath dragged down the side of her neck, his teeth scraping, then he bit down while tugging at her nipple.

  "Simon!"

  He caught her weight as she drooped, swinging her up in his arms, and carried her across the room.

  "Simon . . . ?"

  He stopped walking. "Look at me."

  She did.

  "I'm not going to take this all the way. I know you're not ready for that." His eyes bored into hers. "But I want to look at you. And I want to touch."

  She stared into his eyes and admitted to herself she wanted this, too, wanted the things he wanted. He said he wouldn't take it all the way, so she didn't have to be afraid.

  Lost in a surge of tenderness she hadn't expected to feel, she nodded. "Yes," she whispered. "All right."

  Emotion flared in his eyes. Then he lowered her onto a bed and in one fluid motion, pulled his gray shirt over his head.

  Dark curly hair shadowed across his chest, the muscles beneath well defined. He lifted a knee onto the bedspread and she slid over, making room for him. But a shiver of fear rose up when he stretched out beside her.

  He seemed to read her reaction. Holding her gaze, he slid one finger along her jaw and paused. "I'll wait," he said softly. "For as long as you need me to, I'll wait. But I want to be able to look. And to touch."

  He'd wait. For as long as she needed. God, he was beautiful, looking down at her as though nothing else in the world existed.

  "Yes," she breathed. And she meant it this time.

  His hand moved down to the waistband of her sweatshirt. "Lift your arms," he told her, drawing it up over her head. Then he dragged the neckline of her beige top down over the other breast, breathed in sharply, and at no other time had she been so completely proud of her body.

  He plucked one protruding bud between his fingers and for a brief moment she felt the heat of his breath before his mouth closed over the other to suck it hard into his mouth.

  Jolt after jolt of wild desire surged up inside her. This new, sensual creature she'd become brought with it new wants and needs. She bucked off the bed, pushed her breast toward his mouth, and dug her fingers into his hair.

  Squirming closer, half twisting her body toward his, she whimpered in frustration when nothing seemed to be enough. She wanted more. She pressed in, felt the length of his erection against her hip, and a fresh wave of need rose up.

  "Please, Simon," she begged between breaths. "Please."

  His hand skimmed down her stomach to her abdomen, fingers grazing between her legs before she felt him unfasten the button of her jeans.

  "Yes," she whispered.

  The zipper came down and he slid his hand inside, stretching the fabric to slip one finger under the small triangle of her G-string. It glided easily through her wetness, caressed her moist heat, then found the exact spot that ached for relief.

  She gasped, arching against his hand, the tension inside building and building . . . .

  Then, unbelievably, horribly, he took his hand away.

  His mouth left her breast and he raised his head, staring down at her, passion burning a fire in his eyes.

  "I want you in my bed tonight," he grated out. "I want you here every night."

  She stared into his eyes, struggling to breathe, helplessly pushing her lower body in search of his hand.

  "I don't want you to live in another man's house. I don't care who he is." He flung a heavy thigh over hers to still her movements and said, "Say yes, Nina. I'll give you everything you need, I swear it."

  She had to be mistaken. He couldn't be bargaining with her, trading on sex and withholding gratification unless she agreed to move into his house.

  But his hand rested unmoving on her abdomen, and he watched her, breathing as heavily as she as he waited for her answer.

  She searched his eyes, probing their depths with her own, not quite able to believe he'd propose such an ultimatum. And yet . . . his hand was no longer inside her jeans, his mouth no longer on her breast, and he stared back at her, waiting.

  Jerking out from under his leg, she scrambled to the other side of the bed, then off and onto her feet.

  "Nina?"

  "Don't talk to me!"

  She whisked up her zipper, glared at him, then reached beneath her breasts to yank up the neckline of her top.

  "Stop," he growled, pushing himself up.

  She ignored him and sprinted for the door. He let out a vicious curse and bounded to his feet, but she made it through the doorway before he could catch her.

  "Nina!"

  Racing down the stairs, she whipped the front door open, leaving him to reset the burglar alarm and hoped it stalled him long enough fo
r her to make it out to the sidewalk.

  She ran. Supporting her breasts with a forearm, she ran through the dark back to Ethan's house.

  Out of breath, she fumbled in her pocket for her keys, then jammed the one he'd given her into the deadbolt and swept inside.

  Locking the door behind her, she leaned against it and shut her eyes. Just in time she remembered Ethan's alarm, reset it, and sagged against the wall.

  Unlike the glittering chandelier in Simon's entryway, a large, frosted globe cast a soft glowing light over Ethan's. Tears drizzled down her cheeks and she wondered if he'd turned it on for her, of if he simply left the foyer light on all night.

  Pushing tiredly from the wall, she made her way to the living room and sank down onto the nearest sofa. She wiped her face with her fingers, and stared at nothing in particular.

  Somewhere in the house a clock chimed. Silently she counted down the hour and learned it was midnight. An ungodly hour after a miserable, ungodly lesson. A lesson in sex. Not even lovemaking. Just sex. There was definitely a difference.

  Pressing her knees together, she folded her hands in her lap and stared down at the floor. How could she have been so gullible? She should have known better than to trust him. He'd shown her time and again that she'd be wise to keep her distance. But she'd given in, and her lack of sophistication had won out again.

  "Why are you sitting in the dark?"

  CHAPTER 26

  He didn't want to know.

  By all that was holy, he didn't want to know.

  He'd told himself three times to walk away before he finally gave in and asked. Whatever was wrong, it was none of his business. She was none of his business. She was Simon's responsibility and that was fine by him. Any compassion he felt for women in general wouldn't fill a shot glass right now.

  So why the hell was he standing in the archway drinking warm ginger ale and watching her? Why was he asking questions when he didn't want to know the answers? He should have turned off the light and gone to bed once he knew she was safely home. If something was wrong, she had Simon's shoulder to cry on.