Her grandparents had died within a year of each other a couple of years back, and their brownstone on the Upper East Side had been sold. Julia lived in Manhattan now, apprenticing at an interior design firm, but her tiny apartment was barely big enough to accommodate her and her extensive wardrobe. So whenever Lauren had to be in town, she stayed with Aunt Maddy, who owned a spacious apartment conveniently located near her job as the head buyer at Bergdorf Goodman, Manhattan’s most exclusive department store. And as much as Lauren adored spending time with both her sister and their beloved aunt, it was always with a sense of relief that she boarded a flight out of New York, whether it was to return home or to head out on a new assignment.
And that was the second issue she had with an otherwise dream job – the travel arrangements. Nadine, the staff member who was responsible for making flight and hotel reservations for the crews, stuck to the budget she’d been given like a hawk. She prided herself on not just staying within budget but saving the magazine as much money as possible. That was why the crew rarely got direct flights anywhere, being forced to make connections and endure long layovers. Each time Lauren had to fly to New York from the West Coast it was on a red-eye. Checking baggage was frowned upon since it incurred extra charges. And their accommodations were often on the borderline between three stars and dicey. Lauren certainly didn’t expect to sleep on five hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, or have a top of the line flat panel TV with a hundred cable channels in her room. But she drew the line at mildew on the shower walls, or air conditioning that didn’t work, and she would often nag and complain to the front desk staff until she got moved to a better room.
Yet another of Nadine’s cost-cutting tricks was to book their trips during the off season. That was why they’d traveled to Mozambique at the height of rainy season, and why the drive from the airport out to the guest lodge had been made through a torrential downpour and over nearly washed out roads. When Lauren had seen the nasty weather upon landing a few days ago, she’d overridden Nadine’s strict instructions and rented a vehicle with four wheel drive and tires that wouldn’t get them stuck in the mud. A stern lecture on staying within the budget would be awaiting her upon their return to New York, but it certainly wouldn’t be the first time she’d pissed Nadine off and it definitely wouldn’t be the last.
Fortunately, the rain had eased up enough yesterday for their diving excursion to go off successfully. And while the forecast called for more rain this afternoon – bucket loads of the stuff – Stefan was fairly confident they could get their morning shoot finished in time.
They were due to fly home tomorrow, with connecting flights in both Johannesburg and Frankfurt, before returning to a cold, snowy New York winter. And by the end of her time there, she’d be nearly climbing the walls, anxious to be back in California and her much loved sanctuary. Even if that sanctuary continued to brim over with memories that were almost unbearable at times.
Even now, a year and a half after Ben had broken her heart, she still reached for him in the night or found herself taking two coffee mugs out of the cabinet. And no other man had ever come close to helping her forget about Ben the Bastard – the not so flattering nickname she’d bestowed on him after he’d left her without so much as a “have a nice day”.
Oh, she’d tried like hell to forget the sonovabitch, to date other guys and move on. As soon as she’d returned to college, she had agreed to a date with the first guy who’d asked her, even though he had been way too clean cut and straitlaced for her taste. At least he’d been a decent kisser, and their make-out session had almost progressed as far as third base. But then Lauren had gotten cold feet, had felt more than mildly repulsed at the touch of hands and lips that hadn’t been Ben’s, and she’d abruptly called a halt to the action.
It had taken six months and more than half a bottle of tequila before she’d actually had sex with a guy, and it had been such an unsatisfactory experience that she’d sworn off men for the foreseeable future. A vow she hadn’t broken – well, except for a whole lot of relatively harmless flirting – until last night’s unfortunate hook-up.
The lowlife, would-be thief that she’d tossed out of her room had reminded her of Ben. The resemblance – plus his really sexy Australian accent – had caught her attention, and they’d made frequent eye contact across the largely empty bar last night. That still hadn’t been enough to tempt her into breaking her dry spell, however. It hadn’t been until that half-drunk idiot Chris had double dared her to approach the guy, taunting that she didn’t have the nerve to actually do it. And when Lauren had still refused to pick up the gauntlet, Chris had upped the ante by calling her a tease, a spoilsport, and, worst of all, a chicken.
That had done it for Lauren. Nobody called her a chicken, no matter what the circumstances, and so she’d bolted down another shot of vodka - since the bar didn’t stock what she considered a decent brand of tequila – and then approached the hot Australian surfer-type dude. And considering what a piss poor decision that had turned out to be, she figured she was due for a much longer dry spell to commence.
***
Stefan’s optimism about the weather had been short-lived, for the heavens had opened up about half an hour before their final shoot at an elephant reserve wrapped up. Lauren, who’d been standing in thigh-deep water taking her shots, had borne the brunt of the downpour, and was thoroughly drenched by the time they’d bundled back into the Range Rover. She’d wasted little time hurrying into the shower upon their return to the guest lodge, thankful that Nadine had at least booked them decent accommodations this time – with clean, hot showers, plush bath towels, and brand name toiletries.
As she dried off, she took a brief glance at the permanent reminder of Ben that she’d impulsively had inked on her body – a very small but nonetheless exact replica of his own intricate tattoo. It had hurt like fuck to have the super sensitive skin of her inner thigh inked, but she’d insisted on having it applied to that particular spot. When Ben had left her all those months ago, it had been incredibly difficult to fight past the pain, to go on with her life as though nothing had happened, and to never reveal to her family or friends how stupidly naïve she’d been.
The tattoo served as a painful reminder to never, ever let anyone hurt her that way again – and especially not a gorgeous, hunky man with dark blue eyes and three-day stubble. Lauren only wished with vengeful malice that she had thought to carve her initials on his skin so that he, too, would have a constant reminder of the girl he’d left behind.
Chapter Six
New York City, 2½ years later
October
It was her. He was sure of it this time. Unlike the dozen or so other occasions when he’d been certain the woman he had spied dashing across the street or entering a restaurant was Lauren – only to realize it had been merely wishful thinking on his part – this time he was convinced it was really her. Who else walked with that particular swagger, or had hair that exact shade of light brown – like creamy, melted caramel? And unlike some of the other women he’d spotted over the last months, this one was dressed as he’d imagine Lauren would be on a crisp autumn day in Manhattan – tight jeans, long-sleeved thermal top, quilted down vest, and high-top sneakers.
And then she was gone as quickly as she’d appeared, swallowed up in the sea of humanity that seemed to be a constant here in the city. Ben cursed himself silently for not having moved faster, at having remained frozen in place as he’d tried to determine if the girl he had glimpsed was really Lauren. Now it was too late.
But, no. It had been too late to run after Lauren more than three years ago. Less than twenty four hours after sneaking out of her cabin like a gutless coward, he’d regretted his actions, had waged a fierce internal battle with himself about whether to retrace his footsteps and run back to her, begging her to forgive him and doing whatever he had to in order to make things right.
But each time he’d reminded himself that he still had nothing to offer her, that
his bank account was shrinking alarmingly with each passing day, and that he didn’t even know if this current article he’d spent so many weeks researching would even sell.
So he’d stayed away, had forced himself not to contact her, and thus ensure she would have the opportunity to have the sort of future she deserved. He’d forced himself to finish the article, even though his heart hadn’t really been in it ever since he had left Big Sur.
But to his surprise the article had sold, and rather quickly at that. Outdoor Magazine had liked his writing so much, in fact, that they’d offered him a staff position at their headquarters in Santa Fe. The pay hadn’t been great, and most of the assignments he’d received not especially exciting or challenging, but at least he’d gained both a steady income and enough experience to pad his resume. He’d continued to live frugally, sharing a house with three other guys, and trying hard not to feel like he was back in college again.
But it was now two and a half years later, and he had a relatively healthy bank account as well as a much better paying job with Conde Nast here in New York City. He’d moved in May, and was currently living in a tiny Brooklyn apartment that wasn’t much bigger than a walk-in closet. But given that he’d had precious few belongings to move in, Ben hadn’t minded, especially since he still kept himself on a strict budget. Not to mention the fact that he seemed to be traveling on assignments three weeks out of every five, and hardly spent any time in town.
It hadn’t been a requirement of the job to live in New York, but given the amount of time he spent at the magazine’s offices or at the airport, moving here had made sense. Despite the conveniences, though, Ben knew he could never make New York his permanent home. There had really only been one place that he’d wanted to call home for the rest of his life.
The memory of those ten life-changing days in Big Sur were still as vivid as ever, and scarcely a day went by when he didn’t long to be back in that magical cabin by the sea. And as for Lauren – well, the memories of his feisty, passionate young lover alternately thrilled and tortured him. In the years since he’d last seen her, there had been no other women for him, not even the temptation to hook up for a night or two. That little green-eyed witch had ruined him for other women, had captured his heart and refused to release it, even though they hadn’t seen each other for more than three years.
He’d told himself on more than one occasion that he was just too busy these days to date, much less have a relationship, even joking to co-workers that he was married to his job. But the real truth was that he simply didn’t want anyone else, no matter how lonely he felt at times. Any woman that might briefly catch his attention would just as quickly be dismissed when he realized she wasn’t Lauren. That was one of the reasons, perhaps, why he thought he’d seen her so many times since moving here. He knew that her aunt lived in Manhattan, and that her grandparents had owned a home in the city before their deaths. It was entirely possible, therefore, that the slim, graceful girl he’d just spotted striding along with a confident swagger a few moments ago had really been Lauren this time – in town, perhaps, to visit her aunt.
The quiet, discreetly appointed restaurant he entered a couple of minutes later was very much like the person he was meeting here for lunch. Ben was only two minutes late, but he knew from past experience that Elle would have arrived at least five minutes early. She was already sitting at the table he was ushered to, her napkin already spread neatly across her lap. As usual, she looked perfectly put together, the epitome of the sophisticated, ladylike professional. She wore one of her typical work outfits – crisp, white linen blouse, slim navy skirt, sensible leather pumps. Her glossy black hair was drawn back from her lovely face into a neat chignon, her pale gold skin and large, dark brown eyes subtly made up.
Her face lit up with pleasure as she saw him approach, and she reached out a hand to him in greeting. “Ben, it’s so good to see you,” she told him with a warm smile. “How was Antigua?”
He returned her smile, giving her hand a brief squeeze before taking his seat. “Hot, humid, and crowded. But the new resort was pretty spectacular so I suppose it was worth it. How’s everything been here?”
Her dark eyes twinkled. “Cool, drizzly, and crowded.”
Ben chuckled as he took a sip of water. “I could see that for myself when I landed a few days ago. More specifically, what’s been going on with you? Write any interesting articles lately?”
Elle was always eager to talk about her job at The New Yorker, where she was a staff writer. “Only an interview with Harold Fielding,” she declared triumphantly. “An interview that might just land me a few rungs higher up the ladder for that promotion I’ve been angling for.”
“That’s great, Elle,” he told her sincerely. “I’ll look forward to reading the interview with Harold, uh, Fields.”
Elle gave him an indulgent smile. “You have no idea who he is, do you?”
Ben returned her smile sheepishly. “Guess I’m not very good at faking it, am I? The name sounds familiar but - ”
“His latest book has been on the New York Times bestseller list for six months,” clarified Elle. “He writes political fiction, and he’s brilliant. Just brilliant. It was a real coup for me to snag that interview.”
As they ate lunch – a strawberry kale salad and herbal tea for Elle, grilled salmon and mineral water for Ben – she talked at length about the interview she’d done with the famed writer that he had honestly never heard of until now. He feigned polite interest in her recounting, making comments or asking questions from time to time, but nearly half of what Elle said went over his head as usual, as it had from the very first time they’d met.
He’d only been in New York a couple of weeks, still learning his way around not only the bustling, perplexing city but the maze of offices occupied by the Conde Nast Group as well. The publishing conglomerate owned more than twenty different magazines, including the famed literary magazine that Elle worked for.
Ben had been searching for the Human Resources Department to drop off some additional forms they’d asked for, and somehow got rather hopelessly lost in the process. Elle had been walking past as he’d been wandering the hallways and taken pity on him. She had personally escorted him to HR, and then surprised him by waiting outside until he was finished.
“Just to make sure you don’t get lost again,” she’d teased. “By the way, I’m Elle Kimbrough, a staff writer for the New Yorker.”
Ben had shaken her slim, elegant hand. “Ben Rafferty. New travel writer for Conde Nast. Nice to meet you.”
They’d wound up having coffee – herbal tea for Elle – at the employee cafeteria, where Ben had gratefully listened to all the advice she’d eagerly imparted about the company, and New York City in general. He had learned that Elle had been born and raised in London, the only child of a British father and an Indian mother. She’d graduated from Cambridge with a double major in English and political science, before getting her master’s degree in journalism from NYU.
It had been very obvious from her elegant designer suit, posh accent, and flawless manners that Elle had come from a very upper crust family. As they’d continued to chat, she had told him that her father was a top ranking executive at British Petroleum, while her mother’s family was actually descended from royalty in India.
She’d wrinkled her aristocratic little nose in mild distaste to learn he was living in a tiny apartment in Brooklyn, but hadn’t commented otherwise. Elle and a former NYU classmate shared a floor in the brownstone her parents owned in one of the toniest neighborhoods in Manhattan.
And it had also been obvious to Ben right from that first casual meeting that Elle was very interested in him. Oh, she was far too well-bred and reserved to have done something as crass as make a pass at him, but he hadn’t missed the way her dark eyes held all sorts of hidden promises, or the rather deliberate way she kept smiling at him.
Elle’s interest, however, had been completely one-sided and continued to be so. There was
no denying that she was a very pretty woman, of medium height and almost ethereally slender. She was highly intelligent, a skilled conversationalist, and overall a very pleasant, likeable person. But Ben had yet to feel anything for her beyond friendship and admiration, had never had the slightest urge to become intimate with her or even hold her hand. She was his friend, his colleague, but she would never be more as long as his heart still belonged to someone else.
Elle knew that he’d been involved with someone a few years back, and that the relationship had had a profound, intense effect on him. And when he’d told Elle that he was still very much in love with this woman, she had backed off on her subtle efforts to mold their friendship into something deeper.
So now they met for lunch or coffee every couple of weeks, exchanged texts once in awhile, discussed their current work assignments. Elle was always giving him suggestions about where to get his hair cut, where the best restaurants in his neighborhood were, made a point of introducing him to other colleagues. And on a handful of occasions they had seen a movie together and once a Broadway play. But Ben persisted in keeping their interactions as low-key and casual as possible, treating Elle solely as a friend, and even teased her about the continual stream of eligible bachelors that her family and friends set her up with. And while he sensed she still wanted more, she seemed content to keep things status quo – at least for now.
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