and made do with heavy petting and deep, hungry make-out sessions that usually left him blue-balled and needing to visit his own hand. Knowing they were supposed to consummate their relationship on prom night had been like racing for the end of the rainbow to get the pot of gold.
Instead, he’d spent that night running away from everything he knew with his cold, selfish parents, already mourning what he had lost…and what he’d never had.
He hadn’t come here to have sex with Lauren. But he wasn’t a liar. If the opportunity presented itself, he’d take it and never look back. Because he thought it might kill him if he lived his entire life without ever knowing what it would be like to make love to her.
He was about to ask where she wanted to go when she said, “I need a drink. Let’s find the nearest bar.”
“Good plan,” he said with a nod.
He didn’t steer her toward the saloon, which had been heating up with a raucous crowd when he’d left a short time ago. Nor was he interested in the ‘50s Sock Hop Hall, the ‘70s Disco, or the ‘80s Techno Club. The piano bar sounded like the best place for them to sit in a shadowy corner undisturbed.
Fortunately, most of the reunions being held at Celebrations this weekend had similar opening dinners tonight. So while the banquet rooms were filled to the brim, the small piano lounge was almost completely empty.
She spied the same back corner table he did, and strode toward it. A waitress met them there and Lauren said, “Vodka martini. Dirty. And make it a double.”
Hiding his smile, Seth murmured, “I’ll have the same.”
He sat across from her, letting his eyes adjust to the low lighting, liking the way the amber table light cast shadows on her gold-streaked hair. It wasn’t quite as long as it had been in high school, but was still thick and beautiful. He remembered burying his hands in it when they kissed. Many times.
“So. Dragged to a foreign country by your fleeing-the-law parents,” she finally said, holding his steady gaze. “I guess that qualifies as a decent excuse for not coming to prom.”
A tiny smile tugged at his mouth. “Have I mentioned our flight was so turbulent, I got sick in my mom’s purse?”
“On the silver?”
“They wouldn’t let her carry it on. But I ruined her designer wallet.”
“Was it really airsickness?” she asked, seeing through the humor and getting right to the point.
He shook his head. “No. It wasn’t.”
He’d been physically ill all right…sick about what his parents had done, that he’d let them drag him along, about what would happen to Emily. The minute he’d found out the truth, he’d started to argue, demanding to be returned home. His pleas had fallen on deaf ears. And when he truly accepted the fact that his father—who he’d assumed was inattentive because he was busy making millions of dollars for other people—had been stealing those dollars, he’d literally thrown up.
He had to be honest with himself. If he’d been able to call Lauren sooner, he might not have done it. He’d been pretty ashamed for the first few months of his unwanted exile.
As if she knew that, she reached across the table and gently squeezed his hand. It was meant to be comforting, quick, friendly. But Seth found himself gripping her fingers, holding tight. He was flooded with memories of innocent days when holding Lauren’s hand had felt like the most momentous part of his day.
Her fingers were still soft, fragile, slender. He wanted them touching him, twining in his hair, pulling him close for a warm, sultry kiss.
Their stares met and locked for a long second. Then, knowing they still had talking to do, he released her.
The silence continued as the waitress returned with their drinks. Lauren took a sip of hers, then lowered the glass back onto the table and ran the tip of her finger across its wet rim.
“So then what happened?” she finally asked.
He didn’t really want to get into the whole story, but he’d promised her—and himself—that he wouldn’t hold anything back if she gave him the chance to speak. So he told her, trying not to dwell on the dark details or let his voice reveal the still-tangled emotions he carried with him and probably always would.
When he was finished, she peppered him with questions. “Did you even know which country you were in?”
“Not at first.”
“And you didn’t have any money?”
“Not a cent. Or my passport. They took it.”
“There was no phone, no computer at the house they rented?”
“No computer. They had a satellite phone they kept under lock and key in a safe in their bedroom.” Knowing the other questions she had to be wondering about, he added, “The servants all spoke Spanish, and I didn’t. Plus the estate they rented was in the middle of nowhere. The times we went into the nearest town, my parents never let us out of their sight. Em and I pretty much just had each other.”
She bit her lip and blinked quickly, as if trying to hide any telltale moisture in her eyes. “How did you get away?” she asked, her voice soft, a whisper.
“I cracked the safe,” he admitted, smiling at the memory.
“Seriously?”
“It was pretty old. I worked on it for months. Finally, I opened it, got a hold of the phone and called my grandfather in California.”
“Did he come for you?”
“He waited long enough to get a visa, then hopped on a plane to South America,” he replied, wondering if she could hear the relief and gratitude he still felt, all these years later. His grandfather had been the best man he’d ever known, had been everything Seth’s own father wasn’t. Honest, loving, honorable, he’d been a straight-arrow high school football coach who’d never understood the woman his daughter had become when she’d married Seth’s rich father. Seth had known his Gramps would know what to do. And he had.
“How…”
“I was able to tell him the country and the name of the nearest town. He showed up a week after my call for help. He told my parents he’d already called the FBI and turned them in. Demanding our passports, he packed up me and Em and flew us back stateside.”
“When was that?”
“October ‘02. Almost five months after we left Chicago. He took us back to live with him in L.A.” Seth reached for his own drink, sipping and letting the icy liquid cool off the heat of the memories. “That was the week I called you at your parents’ house.” Not sure what answer he wanted, he asked, “I guess you didn’t get the message?”
“I got it.”
Oh. She’d chosen not to call him back. A part of him had been hoping she’d say her parents had never told her he’d been trying to find her. “I understand. I guess you’d moved on and didn’t want to hear any excuses.”
“True,
