Along for the Ride

by Ruby Laska

  #

  He picked up on the second ring.

  “Rafi.” Her voice trembled. “It’s me. Lauren.”

  There was a pause, and then he spoke her name. “Hello, Lauren.” He didn’t seem surprised. Wary, perhaps. But at least he didn’t hang up.

  First hurdle.

  “I…would like to meet for a drink. Would that be possible? To talk,” she added. There was silence. She could barely make out the sound of his breathing, steady, even.

  “Do you think we have something to talk about?” His tone was not unkind.

  “Please.” It was all she had; she willed him to hear in her request how badly she needed him to say yes.

  “All right.”

  #

  Lauren had lied. It was not a talk that she planned. It was a seduction. She was taking a chance, she knew, that Rafi would reject her, that he might even be angry that she’d manipulated him into meeting her.

  But somehow Lauren knew that she could best convey what was in her heart by showing him, rather than by putting it into words. After all, why should he believe that she had changed, unless she offered him irrefutable proof? How could she explain that no other man could provide her the love that she needed as plants need sun? How would he know she was ready to move from being his lover to being his partner, his equal?

  “Forgive me,” she murmured, as she dialed the Tate Monroe.

  #

  It was hot.

  Over the weeks, spring had vanished, giving way to the long humid days of summer. Heat rose off the sizzling sidewalks in dizzying waves; workers on their lunch hour flocked to the lake for the breezes that sometimes blew inland. Even now, with evening on its way, the people leaving the office buildings tugged at collars, fanned at themselves with their hands.

  Rafi didn’t mind the heat as he approached the address he’d memorized. He’d chosen with care: a linen shirt, Italian sandals. It had been difficult, because he wasn’t certain what effect he was attempting to create.

  He’d agreed to meet her. How could he refuse? Her voice, in his thoughts each day since he last talked to her, was like balm to the wounds he still carried. Seeing her might leave them more jagged than before, but he didn’t care.

  “Fool,” he muttered beneath his breath, and pushed open the door.

  It was a cozy little place, a diner with specials chalked along a board that ran the length of the counter, but it took only a moment for Rafi to see that it was completely empty except for the bored-looking woman who dabbed at the counter with a white cloth.

  “Are you Rafi?” she asked without preamble. “This is for you.”

  She handed him a cinnamon-colored envelope. Rafi turned it over in his hand, saw his name written in careful script. Rafi looked up and saw that the woman was gazing at him with open curiosity.

  Let her wonder.

  “I—may I have a glass of water?” he asked, sitting down at the counter. He took out a bill and tucked it next to the napkin holder to reassure the waitress. She brought the water, then eased down and busied herself stacking a rack of coffee cups.

  Dear Rafi,

  You asked me if I would still want you when I was back among my colleagues, my family. I have had time to think your question through.

  The answer is yes.

  You asked me if I would marry you. I know you didn’t mean it as a proposal, but I want to give you my answer anyway. Today or ten years from now, it wouldn’t matter.

  My answer would be yes.

  You said another man could love me as well as you have.

  But I know that isn’t true.

  You may think I’m still the naïve woman you first made love to.

  I assure you I am not. Please, let me show you.

  When you have read this letter, you may crumple it and walk away, and if you do I promise not to bother you again. But if you feel in your heart there may be a future for us, please join me across the street, in the bar at the Tate Monroe.

  She signed her note, “L.”

  Rafi read it through twice, then once more, slowly. He carefully folded and slipped it back into its envelope and slid the envelope into a pocket, all the while trying to control the shaking in his fingers.

  A growing sense of excitement conquered his initial disbelief.

  Lauren still wanted him. She’d had time to come to her senses, time to forget him, time to find someone else.

  And still she wanted him.

  Rafi did not try to stifle the grin that split his face. “That was a delicious glass of water,” he called to the surprised waitress, rising from his chair.

  #

  The Tate Monroe was the finest hotel in the city. Rafi had been only as far as the circular drive in the front, to drop off clients. But he paid little attention to the elegant lobby, the many expensive appointments, as he crossed the marble floor to the bar.

  Inside, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.

  There she was.

  Even if she hadn’t been the only woman at the bar, she would have been the only one he noticed.

  She was still Lauren, the curve of her back unmistakable, the slow way she swung her foot a familiar rhythm.

  But she was different.

  She was wearing a dress created from some textured black fabric, what there was of it, that snaked around her neck and left her back almost completely bare. Her legs were crossed at the ankles, her skirt barely covering the tops of her thighs. She wore no jewelry, but her hair fanned out over her shoulders in a mass of shiny, luxuriant waves.

  As he claimed the bar stool next to her, he took in her profile: her lips were deepened with lipstick and slightly parted as she watched the financial news silently scrolling across a television suspended above the bar. Her lashes were mascara-thickened, kohl emphasizing her lids.

  She took no notice of him.

  “Lauren,” he finally breathed, barely trusting his voice to conceal the passion that flared within him.

  She glanced his way, returned her gaze to the television screen. “I think you must have me confused with someone else.”

  Rafi knit his eyebrows together in consternation, confused. It was definitely her. He would know her scent in the dark. Then realization dawned on him. His pulse quickened as he imagined the possibilities. “You wish to play a game, Lauren?”

  She turned her gaze to his, impassive but for a flash of challenge, quickly concealed. “I told you, I don’t think we have met. And the only game I am interested in is the stock market. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Rafi smiled to himself. So his lover had come up with an idea of her own. If her goal had been to show him that she could be his equal in their sensual dance, she was certainly off to a good start. “Well, then. My apologies. May I buy you a drink? We can toast—” he indicated the screen—“your holdings.”

  Finally she smiled, a quick, ironic smile, and turned away from the screen. “All right. But perhaps you’ll order for me.”

  Rafi considered. Drinking in her lovely face, he decided it wasn’t the makeup, but a new confidence, that made her so radiant. “A woman such as yourself,” he murmured, “a woman who knows what she wants, a woman with the courage to pursue it—what would such a woman drink, I wonder?”

  He signaled the bartender. “A dirty martini for the lady. Whiskey and soda for me.”

  The bartender looked from him to Lauren and back, raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. As they waited for their drinks, Rafi glanced around the bar; two nearby businessmen were regarding him with open envy. “I assume I’m not the first man to offer to buy you a drink tonight.”

  Lauren smiled, and shifted in her chair, re-crossing her legs. Her skirt was short to begin with, and the movement caused it to slide even further up her thighs, revealing a smooth stretch of bare skin. The neckline of her dress plunged low, her breasts swelling tantalizingly, rising and falling with her breathing. “You assume correctly.”

  Rafi edged a little closer. “So, I wonde
r what it was that made you accept my offer, in particular?”

  She regarded him openly, appraising, letting her gaze travel down his chest, lingering at his crotch, then back again. “You seem like you might be a man who knows how to handle himself.”

  The drinks were placed in front of them. This time the bartender made a circle with his lips, feigning a wolf whistle. Rafi nodded, exchanged a grin—what luck—and took a deep draw on his drink.

  It burned going down, but it was nothing like the heat Lauren stoked when she tasted her drink, then ran her tongue along the rim of the glass, regarding him all the while through thick lashes. “Delicious,” she said.

  A few more happy hour patrons had taken their places at the bar, sweating, no doubt thirsty and happy to be out of the sun. As each settled in, their casual glances around the bar turned to wide-eyed yearning when they spotted Lauren.

  But her eyes never left Rafi.

  She took another dainty sip. “Tell me,” she said, swiveling her hips, the movement pushing up the black fabric of her skirt until he could almost see the cleft of her legs, “do you find these barstools comfortable?”

  Rafi swallowed, unable to answer.

  “Because,” she continued, smoothing her dress with the lacquered fingertips of one hand, sliding them slowly from her throat, down across her breasts, until she grasped her hem and gave a small tug, “I must say that I don’t.”

  Rather than cover her flesh, the movement only served to push her skirt up the last critical few millimeters.

  Rafi glimpsed red silk.

  He gulped for air, downed the rest of his drink. “No?” he said hoarsely.

  “No. Their surface is…rather hard.” She moved almost imperceptibly on the stool, rubbing herself against the polished wood. Then she stopped, and glanced at her watch. “If you’ll excuse me, there is a call I must make.”

  She slid off the barstool like satin sliding into a heap, fluid and graceful, and somehow her skirt managed to settle around her thighs without exposing her again.

  Rafi, and every other man in the room, watched her cross the room, and disappear into the darkened hall that led to the ladies’ lounge.

  Rafi tried to steady his breathing. From down the polished mahogany bar, a couple of his fellow patrons raised their glasses in a silent congratulatory toast. Rafi raised his eyebrows in return, knowing full well what they were thinking.

  Wondering, no doubt, how a man such as him could nab a woman like Lauren.

  In what seemed like an eternity she returned. She held out her hand. “I’m afraid I need to go. It was a pleasure,” she said.

  He took her hand, and felt the pressure of her fingertips in his sensitive flesh.

  “You shake hands like someone I once knew,” she said, before letting go, and he was certain that she, too, was remembering the first time they ever touched. It seemed like eons ago that he’d held his hand in hers, inscribing a sensual question in her skin.

  Perhaps tonight held the answer to his question. “Do you have a card?”

  Lauren smiled, her red lips curving wickedly. “I thought you’d never ask,” she murmured in a throaty voice, drawing a business card from a sleek clutch purse, and handing it to him.

  He glanced down: “Room 417” was scrawled above her name.

  “And…”

  He looked up, noted the fiery challenge in her eyes.

  “I wonder if you might have dropped this?”

  She pressed something gossamer soft into his hand. He looked down, saw that he held a puddle of red silk.

  When he looked up again, she was gone.

  #

  Lauren let the door close behind her, then leaned back against it, suddenly weak-kneed with the sustained effort of her ruse.

  The room was perfect. She’d left her things earlier, and the maid had been there since, turning down the bed, freshening the floral arrangements. A few of the lamps had been left on low, and the golden light made the beautiful furnishings glow.

  Lauren walked to the center of the room, hesitated, sat on the edge of the bed, stood again. Should she stand at the window, sit at the desk? Pour a glass of champagne?

  Before she could decide, she heard him at the door, and then he was inside, crossing the room to her, closing in, until he stood inches away.

  He didn’t touch her. But she could feel his warm, faintly liquor-laced breath on her skin.

  “You didn’t lock the door,” he whispered. “Anyone could have walked right in. Some might say you were asking for trouble.”

  “I don’t think I need to ask for trouble any more,” Lauren responded, mesmerized by the inky sparks in Rafi’s eyes. “I think from now on I’ll make my own.”

  The corner of Rafi’s mouth curved up, and he lifted a hand to touch her face, tracing a spiral on her cheek. Then he found her hairline, laced his fingers gently in her hair, luxuriating in the thick waves. “May I kiss you?”

  As much as she longed to taste him, to fall into his arms, she pulled away. “Not yet.” She allowed him a challenging smile. “Rafi.”

  “Ah.” Rafi let his hands fall to his sides. “I am no longer the stranger?”

  “No. That was just a little fantasy of mine. And a way to get you up to my room. I have other fantasies, however.”

  Rafi made a choking sound, took a deep breath. His eyes did not leave her face as he faltered. “I…I imagine that you do. But Lauren…there are a thousand things I want to say to you. I read your note. I haven’t stopped thinking about you, not for a second, since—”

  “Hush.” Lauren whispered the word, drawing it out. She leaned into Rafi and held his face gently in her hands, kissed him lightly on the lips. “Not now. Later.”

  Rafi closed his eyes and groaned. “Whatever you say.”

  And Lauren came to a realization. For the first time since she’d been with Rafi, she was the one in control. And she liked it—a lot. She was nowhere near certain of herself, not yet. It still felt very much like a gamble, playing the evening out this way. She could stop now. Take her gains to the bank, tell him everything.

  Or she could go for broke.

  If she gambled and won, she knew in her heart that he was hers beyond a doubt. There were things he needed to know, things she couldn’t tell him with words. If she played it right, she would cement their bond by showing him that she was a woman who knew what she wanted. Who would be proud to stand beside him.

  A woman who wanted only him. And wanted him with a fire hotter than any either of them had felt before.

  “The view is magnificent,” she murmured. “Come see.” She gestured to the bank of glass high above the city, the lights of Michigan Avenue a sparkling diamond strand in the night below.

  Rafi walked closer, and Lauren noted that his stride was confident, whatever his wavering voice betrayed. He touched his fingers to the glass, gazed out. “Magnificent,” he said.

  “Indeed,” Lauren whispered at his ear. She insinuated her body against his, sliding a knee up the side of his hip, pressing herself against him and rubbing. She slipped her hands around his waist and kissed the back of his neck, trailing kisses up to his earlobe, nipping the tender flesh.

  Groaning, Rafi turned to take her in his arms.

  But she slipped out of his grasp. “Not yet,” she scolded. “Patience.”

  “Lauren, you are killing me.”

  “I certainly hope not,” she said, taking his wrist and leading him to the bed. “I want to show you what I have planned. Lie down.”

  Rafi sat abruptly down at the edge of the bed, clutched handfuls of the gilded fabric bedspread.

  “I said, lie down. Or I may have to punish you.” She lowered her brows menacingly. “Bad boys go to bed with no dinner.”

  Obediently, Rafi reclined on the bed, propped up on his elbows, resting against the pile of brocaded pillows.

  “I thought perhaps…you might like to look at me,” Lauren said.

  Rafi nodded, swallowed.

  But th
en her confidence faltered.

  Earlier she had thought to do a strip tease, along with music perhaps, slowly and enticingly. But now she found she didn’t have the courage. Rafi had called her beautiful, it was true. But he had never really beheld her, all of her, before him, in the light.

  What if he didn’t find her so beautiful now? What if the curves he’d held and tasted were not so lovely, her imperfections laid bare?

  But then Lauren remembered her resolution — to make Rafi understand what she offered. All her love, all her devotion, all of her. Everything.

  And her fingers went to the button at the back of her neck.

  “Oh, Lauren,” Rafi breathed, as though reading her thoughts. “You are so beautiful. You bring light into the room, light and fire. Every man in the bar—”

  “Shhh,” Lauren reminded him, and the button loosened. A deft twist of her wrist made short work of the tiny dress, and it slid down her body into a puddle on the floor. She felt the heat of embarrassment flood her cheeks, and for a brief second longed to cover herself.

  The sound he uttered made her reconsider. Lauren looked at her lover, who appeared to be unable to breathe. His hands fisted at his side, his jaw was set.

  “You look uncomfortable,” she said, shame giving way to amusement and the return of that lovely sense of the power she held. “Here, I wonder if there is something I can do for you.”

  She went to the bed and knelt next to him. She tried to forget the fact that she was naked, although his gaze burned her flesh in the most delicious way as it traveled from her breasts down to her belly. He raised a hand, and she quickly slapped it away. “No, no, no,” she murmured. “My turn, remember?”

  Gently she loosened the buttons of his shirt, tugged it free of his trousers. He allowed her to slide it off his shoulders, lifting slightly off the pillows as she pulled it off of him, then threw it in a corner of the room without looking.

  She sat back on her heels and surveyed his torso. His skin was deep bronze in the low light. A few glossy ebony hairs curled at his chest, made a line down between the striated muscles of his stomach, disappearing into his trousers. His arms, though they lay palms up at his sides, were tense, and she took her time admiring the definition of the muscles that lay below the surface of his smooth, slightly damp skin.