“…it is not latte that you need, is it, Lauren?”
CHAPTER TWO
Rafi let himself into the silent apartment and, heaving a weary sigh, tossed the day’s mail on the small table that served as dining area, desk, and bookcase.
It could have been a challenge, keeping such a small place organized, sorting through a lifetime’s possessions to cull out only those that would fit in this tiny studio. But Rafi had always preferred to keep his home neat, almost stark. Many engineers were that way, he knew. Clues to their inner lives were not to be found in their bare refrigerators and precisely-made beds, but rather in the workplace. In the wallpaper on their computers, the web sites they bookmarked, the cartoons pinned to the fabric walls of cubicles.
For the moment, though, he thought with a twinge of bitterness, he had not even a fabric cubicle to store his identity. He had the car.
And most days, that was enough. He’d come to love the crazy pattern of the streets of Chicago, the character of the neighborhoods through which he drove, the noise and smells and life that was evident on every street corner.
So why was he feeling so restless today?
Ah, but he knew the answer; knew it far too well.
Lauren
.
He didn’t realize he’d spoken her name aloud until he felt the dryness of his throat.
His last fare hadn’t spoken a word to him, and that suited him fine. His clients treasured their privacy as much as Rafi did, savored the smooth silence of the richly appointed interior of the car.
So why was it that when Lauren entered his car, he wanted nothing more than to speak to her, hear her voice, draw out the details of her life? Why did he want to open himself to her, reveal the stories and dreams he’d so carefully sequestered?
Rafi shook his head angrily. “Stupid bastard,” he chided himself, unrolling the paper sack that contained his dinner.
Two years in this country had made an American of him in so many ways. He cursed like one, enjoying the rich language of insult and irony and ribald humor. And he had developed a taste for the fast food so unthinkable to him on his arrival. Food in sacks! Nothing but one’s hands and a few paper napkins to contain the fries, the chicken sandwiches dripping with mayonnaise, the bacon double cheeseburgers nearly too thick to bite into.
It was a small consolation tonight, though. Rafi gloomily shoved the greasy bag aside and poured a tall glass of water. He sat at his small table and stared out the window, where winter twilight was being ushered in by another gust of freezing rain, slanting between the densely packed high-rise buildings.
When a man leaves everything behind to forge a new life, he learns to let go of many things, many desires. He learns to concentrate on getting from one long day to the next, ignoring the distractions around him.
So why couldn’t he ignore this woman? There was a lushness about her that aroused him, but it was also her husky voice, fresh from sleep, that lingered in his mind. She had accomplished so much, but the cost of the struggle was reflected in her beautiful eyes, in those unguarded moments when they said their goodbyes. There was a wisdom and a presence about her that he had never sensed in a woman before. Younger women, by comparison, seemed so unformed, so directionless.
There was only one sure way to get a woman out of one’s system, Rafi knew. And that was to have her, take her, drink one’s fill of her and a little more. He’d proven it to himself so many times before.
He would have this woman. And then he wouldn’t have to fight with his hunger any longer.
#
Lauren knew he waited.
Rafi never honked his horn. When she came down the steps in the early morning, he was always there, the car just outside the circle of light cast by a streetlight, dark and sleek like a sleeping cat.
And always as she reached for the handle there was the soft click of the locks, as though he had been watching the door, waiting for her.
Lauren glanced at the clock again. There were hours before she needed to be at the airport. Frantically she raked her fingers through her hair, struggling to force the defiant waves into the straight mane so popular these days. Ridiculous, she knew; it would never happen, no matter where the vagaries of fashion led, they never seemed to include Lauren in their realm.
She flicked off the bathroom light and strode out of the apartment, nearly forgetting her computer bag. Primping like a high school girl, and for what?—a ride to the airport, with a man who hadn't even been born when she was fighting acne and wearing braces?
A gust of stinging rain somehow managed to blow upwards as she struggled to close the front door. It blew her hair back from her face and lifted her wool skirt, sending a freezing sluice of raindrops against her thighs.
But he
was
there, and Lauren smiled despite herself. She held tight to the iron railing as she navigated the dozen stone steps leading down from her brownstone. And then he was out of the car, around to her side, holding open the door for her.
“Rafi,” she managed, pushing wet strands of hair out of her eyes. “You didn’t have to—”
“A lady should not have to open a car door in the rain,” Rafi scolded.
The fiery depths of his eyes somehow managed to burn through even the swirling mists of the freezing dawn. He held out his hand to help her off the curb, and Lauren hesitated only for a fraction of a second before she placed her cold fingers in his palm.
And immediately the sensations of the week before, when he had somehow made love to her by simply holding her hand, came rushing back and she leaned hard against him as her legs betrayed her.
“Careful,” Rafi ordered, and she chanced a look at his face. His brow was lowered, his jaw set; the caution he commanded seemed somehow to be about more than the weather.
“Today you ride in front, no?”
It wasn’t really a question, but Lauren murmured her assent even as Rafi deftly opened the door and eased her inside, where it was warm and welcoming.
His scent teased her, a curious mixture of spice and tobacco and something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Something old, like the heady musk of old books in a dusty attic.
No doubt it was just the leather interior of the car, nothing more.
Rafi slid into his seat and the door shut with the heavy click to which Lauren had become accustomed. As she eased out of her coat, he took it from her, folded it carefully and laid it on the back seat.
“I brought the latte,” Rafi said, indicating two paper cups in the holders in the console.
“Oh,” Lauren said. “Thank you.”
“Tell me,” Rafi said. Though he put the car in gear, he did not start it moving. Nor did he look at her, though Lauren could not keep her own eyes off him. His profile was such a new pleasure; all these months he had turned to greet her with that solemn smile, and then she had stared only at the back of his head as he drove. “These flights to New York, they are hourly?”
“Of course,” Lauren answered automatically. His features were strong and sharp, as though they had been chiseled out of marble. She had to fight an urge to reach out her hand and trace the taut line of his jaw, the straight nose, the lips that were just on the sensuous side of full.
“And you are always at the airport early. That is your way.”
It was a statement, not a question, but Lauren murmured a reply. It was a pleasure to look at Rafi this way, especially as he finally eased the car out of the tight parking space and out into the street, alone in the darkness.
And so it was that when he spoke again she didn’t really understand at first. In fact, by the time his words sunk in, she’d already spoken her assent.
“So today, we take a little extra time. Lauren, there is something I want to show you.”
#
There was nothing new he could show her in the forest preserve. She’d driven by it a thousand times, walked and cycled in it dozens of times. A thick forest criss-crossed by paved paths, its most interesting feature was merely that it existed at all, an unlikely haven in the midst of miles of crowded city neighborhoods.
Rafi drove a slow arc around the parking lot, but then he veered off on a crumbling service lane. Ahead, under the overhang of the forest’s edge, a small, squat building hugged the ground. As they drew closer, she saw that it was made of red brick, its stone details blackened with age, its wide windows shuttered.
“I don’t know what they do here. This much is like home.” Rafi gestured. “Buildings in the park, perhaps they store equipment, perhaps they control the water, the sewer...perhaps they are empty."
Lauren looked where he pointed, trying to see what he saw, realizing that so many of the features of the city were invisible to the people who lived there. He spoke of home; was his home like Chicago? Were its streets like the streets he now drove?
“No one looks any more,” Rafi continued. “But then, maybe one day someone does. Someone sees more than a discarded shack. See there.”
He pointed to the corner of the building, where a patch of scrubby weeds partially obscured a smooth stretch of granite.
“The cornerstone, I believe it is called.”
Lauren strained to see in the faint morning light—and sure enough was rewarded by the carved lines of numerals. “1922,” she read.
“Yes, 1922,” Rafi agreed. “Not so long ago. But for this city, very old indeed. And, I believe, rather beautiful. I am no student of architecture, but I know what I like.”
Lauren caught her breath. Again he seemed to be speaking straight to her, his words only half the story, his voice sharp and direct and aimed straight at her.
“I never would have noticed this, if you hadn’t brought me here,” she faltered. She fixed her gaze on the small patch of smooth dark skin at the throat of his white cotton shirt, not daring to look into those eyes that seemed to always hold a challenge.
“Not so different from yourself, am I right, Lauren?”
Rafi’s voice deepened and roughened. She felt it vibrate through her as though he had touched her. A hollow ache throbbed deep in her belly; she wanted to listen to that voice forever.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“You think you are like this building, worn, passed over, unnoticed. You are not aware that you are a treasure worthy of desire. That foolish man who has let you slip through his fingers—”
Lauren flinched at the mention of Philip; Rafi must have noticed, because he reached out a hand to steady her. He pressed his palm against her cheek, its heat startling and intoxicating. His fingers grazed the soft flesh under her chin and then found their way into her hair.
“He is blind to you. Blind, Lauren. But others see. Others see…and they desire.”
He wove his fingers through her damp waves, then gently pulled against her neck. Lauren felt her nipples tighten against the silk of her blouse, felt the pooling desire inside. She slid toward him, succumbing to the pressure of his fingers, drawn as though by a magnet across the expanse of soft leather.
“
I
desire you, Lauren.” Rafi spoke now against her ear, his lips not quite touching her, his breath hot on her skin. “You must know that I have desired you for so long.”
“I—I didn’t,” Lauren breathed.
Somewhere in her brain alarms were going off, rationale was struggling to assert itself. She was with a man who was so much younger…but at the same time the attraction between them was impossible to ignore, his body next to hers so inviting. Could such passion really be wrong?
And then Rafi’s lips brushed the lobe of her ear and silenced the alarms. In dim amazement Lauren realized that the low moan she heard was her own, as Rafi softly kissed the hollow behind her ear. She tried to pull away, but when Rafi slid his arm down her back to hold her closer she melted against him, suddenly desperate to taste him. She breathed deep his heady scent, then twisted in his arms to guide his kisses. But as she offered her lips to him, parted in anticipation and hunger, it was his turn to pull back.
“Lauren,” he murmured. “I want to make love to you. I want to pleasure you until both of us are exhausted. I want to wear your smell and remember your touch as you fly away to New York.”
His eyes narrowed and Lauren saw the dangerous spark of provocation. “But if you do not want this, you must stop me now.” His body was suddenly still, perfectly still, like a tiger crouched in stealth.
“I…” She wanted him, it was certain. The damp heat in her core was proof of that. But it was crazy, unimaginable that she should be here, in the open, contemplating allowing this man to take her—
“Ah,” Rafi nodded slowly. “As I thought. As I hoped.”
Only then did he meet her lips with his own.
The kiss made Lauren forget that she’d never really answered him. The kiss
was
an answer.
He tasted her slowly at first, like a connoisseur, taking his time, while she felt as though she would die from his tender ministrations. He nipped the corners of her mouth, kissed her chastely, a butterfly brush.
And then he plundered, seizing, demanding, compelling. She met his tongue with her own, felt her teeth click against his and then melted more deeply against him. The pulsing heat within her raged hotter.
Philip had kissed her delicately. Philip never tasted her this way, his teeth never raked her skin. Philip’s breath was never hot against her throat.
Philip was gone.
As Rafi’s lips played at her collarbones and the hollow in her throat, his fingers made short work of the buttons of her blouse. He didn’t falter as he found the lace bra underneath and unhooked the clasp with a flick of his thumb.
Rafi’s hands were practiced, deft. He brushed one nipple with the palm of his hand and Lauren moaned, the sound deep in her throat, and then the moan became a hum of pleasure as he stroked and kneaded. She felt her nipples harden at his touch, and when he bent to taste her, the sensation was so sharp it was almost like an ache, but so sweet she gave herself in to it and begged for more. She laced her fingers through Rafi’s hair and as he traced hungry whorls around her other nipple she pressed him closer against her.