by J. P. Lane
He went out on the deck and looked up and down the beach. Lauren was nowhere to be seen. Finally, he headed towards the rocky outcrop that protected the private half moon of pristine white sand from prying eyes. She was sitting as motionless as a statue, resting against a rock, arms hugging her knees as she gazed out to sea.
“Lauren!” he waved, but she did not see or hear him. He continued down the beach, the powdery sand clinging to his feet. “Lauren!” he shouted, struggling to be heard above the sound of the waves. “I wondered where you were hiding,” he smiled as he finally made it over to her.
“You sneaked up on me, you devil. I didn’t see you,” she started.
Logan eased himself down on the sand beside her.
“You have everything don’t you,” she said wistfully, her attention once again on the water.
“I’m not sure what you mean by that. What I mean is I’m not sure where that statement is coming from.”
“I’m just stating a fact. You should count your blessings you’re so fortunate. Not many people are.”
“Well, it didn’t just land in my lap you know,” he said defensively.
“Can I ask you something?” he said out of the blue.
She looked at him quizzically. “What?”
“Would you feel the same way about me if I wasn’t who I am?”
“That’s a weird question. Of course I wouldn’t feel the same way about you if you weren’t who you are.”
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. Would you have felt the same way if you met me, say twenty years ago?”
“What you’re asking is would I feel the same way about you if you weren’t filthy rich.”
“That’s putting it a bit bluntly, but yes.”
Lauren heaved an exasperated sigh. “Logan, I didn’t know you twenty years ago. In any case, you’re rich because of who you are. You can’t ask me to separate the white from the yolk of a scrambled egg.”
“I’m not sure I find your comparison of me to a scrambled egg very flattering,” he objected laughingly.
“It was the first analogy that came to mind,” she twinkled.
“I suppose it’s a good enough one.”
“Why did you ask that anyway? I have to say I’m quite affronted by the question. Surely you don’t think I’m after your money.”
“Don’t take it personally,” he said pensively. “It’s just something I always take into consideration. I mean one has to be realistic. The world is what it is, people are who they are. Women will be women.”
“You don’t think your gorgeous bod would be enough reason for a woman to want you madly?” Lauren teased tousling his hair. He laughed and put his arm around her. They sat quietly looking out to sea.
The sun was beginning to set, the sky afire with shades of burnished orange stretching from one end of the horizon to the other. Almost with reverence they watched the blazing ball slip slowly below the horizon leaving behind a mere hint of indigo as a reminder it had been there. Now with no competition to outshine her brilliance, Venus took her rightful place in the early evening sky as the sea gradually submerged into darkness beneath her.
Logan got to his feet and pulled Lauren up. “Let’s go inside or sandflies are going to eat us alive.” He put his arm around her waist as they strolled along the beach back to the house.
“Ready for dinner?” he asked.
“Anytime you are.”
Lauren was already in the water by the time Logan made it to the beach the following morning. He unfolded two beach towels and positioned them in a prime spot on the sand as he watched her swimming like a fish fifty yards or so away from him. The water there was deep, he knew, at least twenty feet. She rolled over on her back, soaking in the sea and sun with closed eyes, her hair floating around her head like a dark halo. It wasn’t long before she turned face downward, abandoning her body to the sea. Soon she started swimming again, this time with purpose, as if she had spotted something of interest. Then she raised her head and spied Logan sitting on the beach. She started swimming in.
He squinted against the sun as she emerged, walking towards him, mask and snorkel in hand, body browned by a lifetime in the sun. From his vantage point, her tan marks looked like a bikini, but as she got nearer, Logan realized she wasn’t wearing a stitch. She flashed the water from her hair as she came closer. Her nipples hardened under his scrutiny as he took her in, her firm breasts, her small waist, her thighs, and the place between them.
“Don’t you feel like swimming?” she murmured lying beside him breathlessly.
“There’s something else I’d rather be doing,” he said, his voice husky with desire.
The mood in his eyes shifted as he leaned over and kissed her. A shock of electricity charged through Lauren’s body sending fire into her groin. Her breasts began to rise and fall with the intake of each sharp breath. He left her lips and began circling her nipples one by one with his tongue, slowly, lazily, savoring the salty taste of them until they became as hard as pebbles. She caught her breath as he began traveling downward, taking his time as he moved towards his destination. He paused at the tiny birthmark near her navel whispering, “I love this little cloud,” before moving on again.
The breeze was picking up now, whipping the glass-smooth water into a frothy surf that crept over the sand to within inches of their feet. His tongue continued on down her body, lingering at each waiting part, teasing her, maddening her beyond endurance. “Yes, more, more, more,” she moaned, her legs opening, her body arching toward him in anticipation. He pulled off his swimsuit and mounted her, moving leisurely, teasing her to a wanton frenzy. She wrapped her legs around him, moaning and begging, her love sounds drowning out the easy ebb and flow of the tide. Suddenly, he plunged into her with his full length, filling her as she opened for him. “Oh God, yes,” she cried out, her body moving in harmony with his every thrust as he quickened his pace. The sweat began dripping from him onto her, bathing her in his passion as she undulated and moaned beneath him, taking him deeper and deeper into her, driving him on. He groaned as he felt her pull him into her climax, her wet warmth gripping him, taking him to that pinnacle of intensity where time stands still. Then with one last plunge he gave her his all and the world around them drifted away.
It was a while before he broke the easy silence between them, which had become one with the waves that splashed against the rocky outcrops sheltering the cove.
“I love you,” he said squinting up at the flawless blue dome above them. “I don’t know how you feel, but I want to be with you.”
She reached for his hand. “I want to be with you too, but I don’t know how we could swing being together seeing we don’t live in the same country.” She said nothing more for a minute then she asked, “Have you ever considered slowing down?”
“Funny you said that. I was thinking about slowing down not too long ago. I guess I could slow down a bit, but I have businesses that need to be taken care of. Besides, I’m too young to retire.” He stared thoughtfully up at the sky. “Would you consider living in New York with me?”
“I don’t think I’d be too happy being a lady of leisure for very long.”
“Couldn’t you work in New York?”
Lauren sighed. “It would be difficult. I’d have to re-establish myself as a journalist. And I’m not familiar with the territory, so the odds of getting a job would be against me.”
He raised himself onto his elbows and looked at her. “I have an idea, a brilliant one if I may say so myself. Since I don’t seem to be able to convince you to leave your career to be with me, how about we create a career for you?”
“What kind of career were you thinking of?” Lauren asked dubiously.
“You could have your own magazine… something with editorial focusing on the Caribbean… good color photography and that kind of thing. Instead of prying into the political workings of the island, you could pry into the shenanigans of the island’s elite, and not-so-elite for that matter. I�
�m sure you’d uncover enough for the magazine to sell like hot cakes, not to mention keep you busy for the rest of your life. Think about it. You would be editor-in-chief. Have a staff of writers working for you.” He shot her a wicked grin. “I’m offering you a chance to make good on your rather suspect claim you cover social events such as my sister’s parties.”
“Logan, you are incorrigible!” Lauren scolded with mock sobriety.
“It’s hardly fair of you to say that. I was simply examining every possibility.”
The playfulness left his face. “I don’t want to be apart from you for huge lengths of time, Lauren, and that’s the way it would have to be until one of us gives up on working.”
“What would we call the magazine?” she asked musingly.
“LA,” he replied without hesitation.
“LA? That doesn’t sound remotely like anything Caribbean. Why LA?”
“You don’t get it?”
“The only thing I can think of is LA are my initials.”
“Correction. L and A are our initials, my darling,” he explained bringing her hand to his lips. “See how easy I make it for you? You won’t even have to change your initials.”
She gave him a long, searching look. “Mr. Armstrong, are you trying to tell me you want us to get married?”
“That’s exactly what I’m getting at, Miss Anderson. How astute of you to have figured it out so quickly,” he said with a laugh in his eyes. “Yes, I’d like to marry you, and the sooner the better if you’ll have me. What do you say? Will you?”
ONE MONTH LATER
It was bitterly cold as Pavel walked briskly through Charles Square, his hands buried in the pockets of his full-length fur. After a few yards he turned right, weaving his way through the sidewalk bustle towards Hotel Adria on Wenceslas Square. He entered the 14th century building, now converted into a hotel popular with visitors and made his way down to the cellar where the intimate Art Nouveau style restaurant offered welcome relief from the bone-chilling Prague winter. More often thronged by tourists than not, the Triton was not a particular favorite of Pavel’s, but it was the most convenient meeting place for his contact who had checked in at the Adria that afternoon.
The man was already seated when Pavel arrived. Seeing Pavel, he acknowledged him with a slight nod. Pavel strolled over to the table, recoiling at the sight of the cave-like interior, dripping with faux stalactites accented by an overkill of Greek sculptures, the antithesis of his Spartan tastes. He shook the man’s hand and sat, noting he had already started on his Glenmorangie, one of the better Scottish malts, a choice from which he never strayed. This evening, for the first time since knowing him, Pavel thought to ask him about his particular choice of whisky. “It’s all in the name,” the man explained gladly. “It means the glen of tranquility. I can’t think of a better reason for having a drink can you?”
“So, how was Italy?” Pavel asked.
“Political chaos. Not having to be involved in the realities of everyday life there, I found it pleasant enough, though my wife is head over heels in love with Italy.”
“It would seem all women are…” Pavel stopped in mid sentence, his train of thought interrupted by the waiter arriving to take his drink order.
“I see you’re diverting from that Czech beer of yours,” the man observed dryly after Pavel had ordered.
“Well, I do like variety,” Pavel smiled darkly. “Which brings me to the subject you wanted to discuss. Tell me more. You mentioned it’s South America somewhere?”
“Yes, Central America actually, but before we get into that, let’s see what’s on the menu. I think I might like to have something local tonight,” he said perusing the menu.
“I would recommend the goulash then. The food here is fair enough, so you shouldn’t go wrong with that.”
With the pianist playing a surprisingly excellent rendition of Chopin’s Impromptu in C Sharp Minor in the background, the man who had just flown in from Italy gave Pavel a brief outline of the circumstances surrounding the new contract. It was unusual, and difficult taking into account how heavily the subject was guarded at all times. “She doesn’t even go out to lunch without bodyguards trailing her,” he confided. “And as to her home, it’s like a fortress, impenetrable. Guards at the gate and alarms at every turn. You’re lucky to get in there as a guest. I gather she has few anyway. She seems to be somewhat of a recluse, though from what I gather she was a social butterfly at one time.”
Pavel’s interest heightened immediately. It was uncommon for a woman to be targeted as a hit. He wondered who it could be.
“However large the obstacles appear to be, and they do appear to be large, this is a very lucrative assignment,” the man went on. “The request has come from a man in Cali, Colombia. A drug lord I’m assuming. As you know, those people have more money than God. The sky’s the limit on this one.”
Pavel raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Colombia?” I thought they took care of their own business.”
“They wanted an outsider for this one, but someone who knows what they’re doing, needless to say.”
“Who is the target?”
“A woman named Echiverría. As I said, she’s heavily guarded – and her arm is long. To put it in a nutshell, she’s virtually bought the country. Worth billions I’m told.”
The pianist was now playing Chopin’s Mazurka in C Sharp Minor as Pavel wondered why the name Echiverría sounded so familiar. He crossed paths with few Hispanics. He rifled through his memory trying to figure out where he had heard the name before. Echiverría. Suddenly the memory of her came flooding back. It was the name on the card she had given him that evening at the gallery! And she had told him she was from Colombia! In his haste to wrap up everything before leaving for the island, he had not noticed an address on the card, assuming there had been one at all. But he remembered her vividly – the lips, the eyes, the jet black hair – the emerald dangling above her cleavage. He had unrobed her in his mind, imagined doing unspeakable things to her.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a picture of her on you, would you?” Pavel asked as he struggled not to reveal his excitement.
“As a matter of fact I do. I thought it would be of help. Here it is.”
Pavel’s pulse raced as he saw the beautiful face. He studied the photo centered on a glossy page, obviously clipped from some society magazine. The text was in Spanish so he could not understand what the article was saying. “Small world, and it keeps getting smaller each day,” he murmured.
The temperature had dropped a few degrees and it had begun to snow by the time he left the restaurant and headed to the nearest tram stop. He often walked the distance between Wenceslas Square and his apartment when the weather was mild, but tonight, the cold was hostile. The streets were quieter now. Those who hadn’t already retired for the night were seeking refuge from the weather, the exception being a few boisterous carousers who were feeling no pain.
Hardly able to contain his elation, Pavel watched the mist of his breath drift into the chilled air. She had stirred him like no other woman during their brief encounter. But strong as that feeling had been, it was nothing compared to the rush he was experiencing now as he hurried his pace along the cobblestone street of Prague. She was the ultimate trophy, the perfect portrait of the paradox that was his life. To say she had fallen into his lap was an understatement. It was a remarkable twist of fate. He glanced at his watch doing a mental calculation of the time difference between Prague and Colombia. He would check to see what it really was on his computer when he got home, though he estimated it was about six hours. It was now after 10 p.m. Prague time, probably not yet dinnertime in Colombia, but he had all the time in the world.
Pavel took the short tram ride and after hopping off, continued walking for a few paces until he reached a club not far from his home. He paused at the entrance, deliberating whether or not to stop for a quick drink. Deciding he’d rather go home and see what time it was in Colombia, he braved the
cold once again and walked the short distance along Navratilova to his apartment. He unlocked the heavy wood front door and bounded up the stairs. The words of a song of long ago hummed incessantly in his mind. Maria! I’ve just met a girl named Maria, and suddenly that name will never be the same to me. “Yes indeed! Maria, that name will never be the same,” Pavel chortled as he rushed to his computer.
It was a sublime seventy degrees Fahrenheit in Cali as Maria stretched like a contented cat and picked up the phone by her bed. Her voice was not yet quite awake as she answered huskily, “Si?”
Pavel recognized her voice immediately and again, his heart skipped a beat. Assuming a British accent with the ease of a seasoned actor, the predator moved in for the kill. “Hello, Miss Echivarría, this is Paul Morrison. I don’t know if you remember me,” he said by way of introduction, his air of professionalism softened ever so slightly by a deliberate hint of intimacy.
Maria did little to hide her delight. “Of course I do,” she cooed, “How could I forget? What an unexpected pleasure!”
“When we met in London, you suggested I visit Colombia some day. I’ve been thinking I’d like to do that.”
“Oh?” Maria said with mild surprise.
“Yes, I’d love to get some shots of the bull fighting festival there for my next exhibition. I could shoot you at the same time, kill two birds with one stone so to speak.”
Maria adjusted her mountain of pillows while she considered Pavel’s proposal and the barely hidden implications behind it. Cali had not much in the way of excitement to offer and she welcomed this unexpected diversion.
“When were you thinking of coming?” she asked with quickened breath.
“Whenever it’s convenient for you,” Pavel replied smoothly. “I’m so anxious to see you, nothing would stop me jumping on a plane right now.”
“Adoraría verlo en cualquier tiempo.”
