Her rage had been magnificent by the time she’d arrived. To be summoned, like an underling, for a meeting after this humiliation? Was she to be the witness to the morning after? To have her nose rubbed in what she could not have?

And then…she’d seen. The confusion. The honest denial. The hurt. That shouldn’t have been on Madeleine’s face. To her shame, Elena knew she’d put it there. She’d immediately set about making it right.

And then…they’d kissed. Madeleine’s lips had been a warm, sweet ambrosia that made her crave more.

Elena hadn’t meant to allow that. She almost wished she didn’t know how intoxicating Madeleine’s kisses could be. She’d meant what she said—she wanted to look Richard in the eye, knowing her own conscience was clear, during the divorce. But after that? Would she dare then?

She could still barely process the thought. She’d never consciously considered a relationship with a woman, opting for the obligatory husband (or two), which had been more about protecting, or furthering, her one true love. Her business. Everything she’d done had been to ensure her success. And Richard hadn’t been bad company. But she hadn’t even understood the raw power of desire until the night she reached across the charged air and touched Madeleine’s back. Never had she felt a thrill like that.

Subconsciously, had she always known? That her vaunted emotional control would be at risk with a woman? Was that why she’d never even considered anything beyond the safe norms? Was that why she’d never stopped to analyse her love for the beauty of the female form, which made her body hum in a way that never extended to the male form?

She shifted in her seat as a new thought rose.

Why her?

Elena often found women’s forms pleasing but had never allowed her interest to cross over to intimate, unless you counted Jenny Copeland’s artless but enthusiastic fumbles under the sleeping bag during school camp. But Madeleine was the first one to make her want to risk everything.

Why her? The thought hammered her brain.

The soft curve of Madeleine’s ass or the straining tightness of a T-shirt had drawn her focus on many late nights in New York. Not to mention those curious eyes. And her even more curious mind. She was a riddle, a contradiction. Sad yet amusing. Isolated but keenly aware of her world. Her blog was another side of her again.

There was a reason Elena had started working later and later at that fishbowl of an office. She needed to know more. Her curiosity had to be fed.

Madeleine had a directness to her, a way of seeing beyond Elena’s mask. She had no interest in Elena’s fame. She asked nothing from her and remained as unintimidated by her title now as she had been the day they’d met. But what Elena most appreciated was the fearless way she put her passion into the things she cared about—words, food, or people. When Madeleine Grey cared for you, you felt it.

Elena felt it.

But now, little had gone right. She spun around to the computer to glare at the email she’d discovered. Opportunity of a lifetime was the subject header. Madeleine had apparently sent her résumé far and wide, seeking freelance work, and Condé Nast Traveller had replied. Maddie was thrilled with the job they’d offered her.

Vietnam! I’m going to Vietnam, all expenses paid by the Singaporean government. Okay, I know that sounds weird, but Vietnam is too poor to fly media in for travel stories, and they desperately need tourists for their economy. So, Singapore pays for their media junkets as part of a foreign aid deal and…oh, I’m rambling aren’t I? Anyway, the brief from CNT was to go off the beaten track after I’ve done all of the usual tourist stuff the publicity team will send me to see, and whatever I do, make it interesting and different. They said if I could make a fashion designer’s story fascinating, I can do anything. Three months! Can you believe it? So excited! I have some great ideas, and none of them involve the usual fluff. Sorry, I have to miss the next gala we were supposed to go to together, but I’ll be back for the one after that.

Maddie.

On Elena’s desk sat another not-parsley plant—both a reminder of the girl’s absurd sense of humour and a partial apology. It had arrived not ten minutes ago.

“More exorcism plants?”

Elena glanced up to find Felicity glaring at it.

“Oh God! I’ll get rid of it at once!”

“No.” Elena brushed her hand away. “It stays.”

Felicity backed out of the office with such a confused look on her face that Elena almost laughed.

* * *

Elena hadn’t known how to reply to that email. She didn’t have the words to explain that Madeleine would be greatly missed. So she didn’t say a thing. She picked her up in her Lexus, put on that dubious Latvian folk band on her car music system, much to Madeleine’s mirth, and drove the intrepid reporter to the airport herself.

She sat with her in the departure lounge, drinking terrible tea after terrible tea, for almost two hours. Madeleine chattered on, spreading out her Vietnam maps, and pointing out her plans. Elena trusted that she’d nodded in all the appropriate places.

When it was time to leave, Elena hesitated, then pulled her into a tight hug, savouring the smell and feel of her. She was all lumpy due to a padded jacket she’d filled with various supplies. Madeleine squeezed her back, dropping a tiny sigh against her ear.

Elena might not have spoken much at all that morning, but she hoped Madeleine understood what she was saying. Couldn’t she read her mind, after all? Isn’t that what she’d said? They stepped apart.

“I’ll write as often as I can,” Madeleine promised, swinging her backpack over her shoulders.

“See that you do.” Elena was proud of how dry and imperious she sounded. Not at all like someone wishing they could ground a plane.

Madeleine laughed at her tone and waved, disappearing into the crowd.

Despite having a mountain of work backed up, Elena stayed and watched as the plane took off almost forty minutes later.

Three weeks crawled by after that. Deep down, Elena was beginning to fret. Okay, she was well beyond “beginning to”. Vietnam was a stable and beautiful country, she reminded herself. It was rustic and, in rural areas, primitive by western standards. It was essentially all the things Elena recoiled from, because you could not control such variables. But Madeleine seemed undaunted. And yes, there were issues with poverty and crime, but Madeleine would be conscious of this. So all would be well.

Elena frowned and tapped her index finger on her desk.

On the other hand, Madeleine had delighted at the thought of going off the beaten track. That sounded risky, did it not? And what were these story ideas that didn’t involve the “usual fluff”? Would she do anything dangerous? Besides, weren’t parts of Vietnam malaria areas? Or cholera ridden? Elena was also fairly sure pirates still hid in Hạ Long Bay. She’d have to look that up.

Every time Elena asked herself these questions, a little voice in the back of her guilt-ridden mind whispered to her. You told her she wasn’t a real reporter. What if she wants to prove you wrong and do something foolish?

Elena had made certain to spell out to Madeleine the necessity of not doing anything foolish in every email and during the rare phone calls Madeleine managed to make from whatever minor map smudge she’d moved to since they’d last communicated. Elena willed her to understand what she was really saying—Be safe. You have nothing to prove. But every night, Elena lay in bed fretting that if anything went wrong, this was entirely her fault.

After four weeks, she swallowed her pride and wrote Madeleine an email. She detailed, at length, how Madeleine was an exemplary journalist and, yes, that included a news journalist given her powerful Vanity Fair feature. Her stories were well received, and wasn’t there something more interesting she could be doing closer to home?

There. That wasn’t meddling, was it?

It hadn’t worked. Madeleine had called her, voice burbling with excitement, telling her about more destinations in the middle of nowhere she’d learned of that she had to check out.

Another week went by, and this time a handwritten letter arrived. Madeleine expressed regret for missing their planned industry event.

I like to imagine what you were wearing. How your eyes followed me around the room. These are the things I think about in my lonely little tent. I miss you. Maddie.

Elena did not go to sleep picturing Madeleine looking beautiful at galas. All she saw was her green eyes on her. Caring and filled with desire, but always just that little bit too far away.

She frowned at the reference to a tent and searched online for tropical diseases Vietnam. Then, after a moment’s pause, she also looked up kidnappings Vietnam.

Idly, Elena wondered how much Madeleine would resent her if she sent an armed security team over there to shadow her.

At one point, Madeleine had become quite good friends with some of the local women in a mountainous northern region of Vietnam, close to the border with China. Apparently, she’d discovered the secret to breaking the ice was cooking with the women. Sharing recipes. Of course, Madeleine would win them over. Her guileless, silly grin and food of the gods could win anyone over.

A few days and as many sleepless nights later, Elena considered putting the fear of God into the Condé Nast Traveller’s editor. His wasn’t a Bartell Corp masthead, but surely the man would see reason and send his freelancer home if she “asked”. Or bought him out.

Elation burst through her at that genius idea, before common sense prevailed. Her shoulders sagged. It would not be the most auspicious start to a relationship, ending Madeleine’s budding career by buying the magazine just to get her sent home.

Five and a half weeks. The waiting was not acceptable. Elena mutilated a paperclip, as she glared at her to-do list. It was not getting any shorter, especially given the changes she had planned on implementing. They would send a rocket through her company. Madeleine’s probing questions all those months ago had made her stop and really wonder about her life. Her work. Her happiness. Now, though, missing Madeleine had become an unexpected, engulfing distraction. Her mood was affecting her work. Her focus. Perry had begun side-eying her copy of The Rough Guide To Vietnam that she now kept within easy reach, and giving her puzzled looks.

Recently, he’d started with random trivia. One day, he waltzed in and declared, “I hear it’s going to be a sizzler in Hanoi tomorrow. I’d sure want to slap on my sunscreen if I was anywhere near there and had a delicate complexion.”