by Ruby Laska
Table of Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
Please enjoy this excerpt of a man for the summer
About the Author
ALONG FOR THE RIDE
RUBY LASKA
Copyright © 2013 by Ruby Laska.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Along for the Ride / Ruby Laska. -- 1st ed.
ISBN 978-1-940501-02-4
CHAPTER ONE
Laurel slid into the sleek black town car, the good wool of her coat gliding effortlessly across the leather seats. Outside the rain kept on, relentless through the swirling mists.
It had been raining steadily since Philip left her.
“Good morning, Ms. Sherman,” Rafi murmured, his voice familiar and welcoming and warm.
"Please call me Laurel, Rafi." She made the request every time, but her young driver never complied.
Laurel’s senses slowly awakened to the interior of the elegant car as it made its way through the dark suburban streets. The scent was heady, as always; it was leather and tobacco and incense and something else that was Rafi alone.
Laurel blushed. How easy it was to ascribe romantic sentiments to a man like Rafi, foreign-born and mysterious, his every gesture and word exotic. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five or thirty, she guessed, but he had the courtly manners of another generation.
“Good morning, Rafi,” she relented, sighing deeply, smoothing her rain-damped hair and settling her purse and briefcase for the ride.
A moment passed. “You are not yourself today, Ms. Sherman,” Rafi said. It was not a question.
Lauren felt the now-familiar sting at the corner of her eyes, the tears that waited to spill at the first thought of Philip. “I’m fine,” she tried, but her voice betrayed her, cracking into a half-sob.
The car slid over, Rafi changing lanes smoothly as he always did, and coasted to a stop. Laurel dug in her purse for a tissue and dabbed furiously at her eyes.
“No, really, I’m all right,” she said hastily.
“We’re early. There will be plenty of time.” Rafi did not add what they both knew—that Laurel always got to the airport at least two hours before her flight, the old silly fears about flying wrestled into submission by cup after cup of coffee and pacing through the airport corridors.
Philip had always ridiculed her fears.
“It’s nothing,” she protested, but the ignition clicked off and Rafi turned to regard her across the gulf between the seats.
They were in the parking lot of a gas station that was not yet open for the day, but the lights from its signs lit the car with a surprisingly gentle glow. Rafi’s eyes, dark as agate, were clouded with concern, his mouth turned down at the corners.
“It is not nothing, when a beautiful woman cries in my presence.”
Beautiful. The word stung like ice. Laurel replayed for the thousandth time Philip’s final accusation the night he broke off their relationship, the one that never failed to turn her feelings of loss and helplessness into anger, pure focused rage. You've forgotten what it means to be a woman, he’d growled, and then flown into the arms of his post-pubescent lover, no doubt to bury his face in her masses of platinum hair, plunge his hands deep inside her tight blouses and short skirts. A sexy college intern, practically half his age…was that to be the standard of beauty with which Laurel would now forever compare herself?
Laurel wiped her eyes and decided she was done crying for the day. It was getting easier, each day a little less tortuous. After all, in every way that counted, Philip had left her long ago.
“Thank you, Rafi. You’re so kind.”
“It is that man, no?”
Laurel started, grateful for the reprieve of the dim light. How could he know?
“No! I mean, we broke up, but it has been two weeks.” Laurel tried to sound dismissive.
“Come sit up here with me for a moment.”
The notion was ridiculous, but somehow welcome. Laurel sometimes felt a near-intimate connection with Rafi. How many times—a dozen?—had she found herself talking easily in the pre-dawn rides, the interior of the car an oasis of comfort and security, Rafi’s soothing voice encouraging her. The age difference made it easier—knowing that her driver would never look at her that way, she could discuss anything.
Laurel lifted the latch and found herself briefly in the chilly rain. The drops slid down her cheeks, cooling the heat of her tears, and she shrugged off her coat and tossed it in the back before settling into the front seat and closing the door with a satisfying thunk.
“This is silly,” she said, trying for a smile. “You’re working. You can’t waste your time on a basket case like me.”
Rafi seized her hand, held it firmly. The unexpected gesture sent a shock of sensation coursing through her. His hand was large, warm—oh, so warm—but his skin dry and silken. And the way he laced his fingers through her own felt surprisingly intimate.
Laurel blushed, but did not reclaim her hand. How long since someone had touched her…
“You will not call yourself any more names,” Rafi said firmly. “Not in my car. In here, you will recognize the beautiful woman you are.”
His solemn glare softened a little, and his frown eased away. “For my enjoyment also,” he added. “I like to hear you talk, but not when you talk like that.”
“All right.” She tried to ignore the sensations radiating from their joined hands. Still, it was so easy with him. At first the anonymity had given her the freedom to talk, and as her driver had become familiar, she looked forward to their rides. For the return trips, on Friday nights, she had another driver, and she usually closed her eyes and rested until they pulled into the townhouse complex.
Rafi was different. She glanced down at their twined fingers, the contrast of his burnished skin against her pale, slender, fingers, and the sensation deepened, pooled into something different. Something delicious—and forbidden.
Now she tugged at her hand, blushing furiously.
“Not yet.” Rafi’s fingers ingratiated themselves more deeply, locking her fingers into a sensuous knot. “Today it is my duty to make you understand that you are a woman who is worthy of admiration. Do you believe that, Laurel?”
Laurel laughed, her breath coming short. It didn't escape her notice that he had finally called her by her given name. “Is this a service you provide all your clients? Salve for the lovelorn?”
“Ah, Laurel.” His brows knit, and he shook his head reprovingly. “Is that what you think? You are just another client? What about the hours we have spent together? What about the stories we have shared?”
“I’ve talked non-stop,” Laurel said, remembering their conversations with a pang of guilt. “You listened. You’re such a good listener, but I never gave you a chance to talk about yourself. I don’t know—”
Lauren shrugged. She had been going to say that she didn’t know anything about him, b
ut that seemed like an insult, somehow. It had been her selfishness, after all, which kept her from asking him about himself.
Suddenly she wanted to know more. Wanted very much to know more.
“I don’t know a lot about your life,” she amended.
Rafi lifted an eyebrow. “Another time,” he promised. He released her hands from his, and Laurel felt a stab of disappointment. The moment was over; she was being dismissed.
But then his hands were on her shoulders, the distance between them lessened fractionally. Laurel inhaled deeply of his scent, the curious mixture of heady spice and cool masculinity that was so unique to this man, this car.
“Laurel. Do you know what you do to a man? Shall I tell you what all your colleagues are thinking, in those meeting rooms you fly to? They conduct their deals with you, but all the time, they are seeing your green eyes, the way you part your lips before you speak, your body underneath your conservative clothes.”
His words shocked her, but they also mesmerized her. Laurel could not pull away now. The confection that Rafi was spinning might be illusory, but she wanted—needed—to believe, at least for a moment.
“I'm forty-one years old,” she protested. “Women my age don't get attention like that. And my body…I have gained so much weight. Men don't want a body like mine.”
“So you know what is in a man’s mind?” The threatening cloud loomed in Rafi’s eyes. A shiver of delicious power went through Laurel’s body, as she realized that she had provoked him. And she liked the angry sparks. Philip had always been so unflappable, so dispassionate.
This man, she suspected, could be incited, ignited, with very little provocation. For a moment she let herself believe that he could possibly be attracted to a woman like her, a woman who wore the ravages of time and disappointment in the lines on her face.
“No,” she breathed. “But…tell me.”
The fire in Rafi’s eyes changed. It deepened, pooled into restrained hunger. His hands on her shoulders tightened for a fraction of a second, and then relaxed. His thumbs caressed the inside of her arms as he slid his hands down the silk of her ivory blouse.
“I will tell you, then. A man does not want a stick for a woman. He wants curves. Here—” his fingertips brushed the outside of her breasts before traveling down, and she could feel her skin reacting, her nipples tightening, the blood rushing to swell against his touch.
“And here.” He spread his palms against her belly, her treacherous belly which hadn’t budged against the thousands of crunches she’d subjected herself to before giving up.
She didn’t have time to react before his hands followed the curve of her waist to her hips. He took her measure, cupping his hands around the widest part of her thighs, crushing the charcoal fabric of her skirt in his explorations.
“A woman’s body,” he reiterated. “This is what a man wants. Ample curves, smooth skin to satisfy his hunger. And then in the early morning hours, when the loving is done, a man wants to rest his body in her softness.”
Laurel knew this was going too far. Few men had spoken to her so intimately and they were—she chided herself before the thought could form completely. They were professional men, attorneys and bankers, pale-suited men like Philip.
None, however, had ever made her feel the way Rafi had. And it had taken him only minutes. What would he do to her, if she offered him the chance? If he accepted?
Suddenly aware that her lips were parted in anticipation of an imagined embrace, Laurel clamped her mouth shut and tried to edge away. But Rafi, somehow knowing her moves, her thoughts, before even she could, took her hand again.
“I regret that we must get you to the airport now, Laurel. Next week I will be early.” There was a question in his voice.
“Um…I don’t know…” A thousand protests flew through her mind, but Laurel could not manage to voice any of them.
“To talk, if that is what you need. Or if you like we shall have a latte, no?”
Laurel nodded, relief tinged with disappointment at his words.
“But…” Rafi turned her hand so her palm faced up, and slowly traced his thumb along its surface. He deepened the pressure in the soft center of her palm, and her fingers involuntarily closed around his thumb. The touch was shockingly intimate, as he rubbed slowly back and forth, a perfect rhythm that awakened a long-suppressed hunger in her core. Then he slowly ran his thumb between each of her fingers before lifting her palm, limp with pleasure, to his lips. His kiss was chaste, but even in the pre-dawn hour his fresh shave had given way to a growth of stubble, and the sensation against her skin caused her to catch her breath.
“…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.
