In her absence, her bed had been turned down and several candles extinguished. Leila stretched, easing her shoulders and back, releasing a sigh. She was tired—frankly, she was exhausted—but she had her first assignment and was anxious not to disappoint Ms. Bullard. While a hot bath sounded heavenly, she could ill afford to lull herself to sleep.
The wardrobe revealed a selection of dresses, ranging from elaborate gowns to simple sundresses. But it offered up nothing that she could sleep in.
Pulling open one of the myriad dresser drawers, she found a selection of sleepwear. She took out a delicate white batiste gown, the front covered with lavish embroidery in pale blues and pinks. Slipping out of her travel-creased slacks and limp blouse and dropping them onto the bench, she took the gown and walked into the bathroom.
The water in the shower was instantly hot and she stood beneath it, letting it course down her shoulders, the heat loosening the knot between her shoulders. The selection of soaps and shampoos was amazing, and soon the shower was steamy with the scent of eucalyptus and lavender, a heady combination.
Stepping out, Leila reached for a fluffy towel, wrapping it around her hair, then reached for a second towel. She dried off slowly, using lotion from a collection lining the narrow window ledge, smoothing it over her arms and legs. It smelled rich and decadent, like crushed blackberries and wine, and she felt utterly pampered.
The gown slipped over her head, billowing around her for a moment before molding against her body, the sleeves coming almost to the ends of her fingertips. The fabric was so light it was almost transparent, and she debated changing into something more modest.
But something about the gown, the sensuous feel of the fabric against her skin, the contrast between the modest high collar and long sleeves against the glimpse of her breasts and thighs made her hesitate, the comfort outweighing any concern. Besides, she was alone in the privacy of her room.
Taking the towel from her hair, she brushed it out, sitting in front of the fire, until it was lying in soft waves against her shoulders.
At a small writing desk set into an alcove beneath a leaded-glass window, Leila found a stack of writing paper and a dozen black ink pens. A bit daunted by the number of pens, she sat down and selected one, drawing a fresh sheet of paper from the stack and placing it on the desk in front of her.
For a long time, Leila sat, eyes first focused on the candle flame, her gaze gradually softening, the candle flame blurring. Finally she drew a deep breath, bent her head, and began to write.
It was well past midnight when she finally laid the pen down, absently massaging her hand. She read through the sheets, a faint smile on her lips. She’d done her first assignment and described her hero – her lover. Her brow furrowed slightly; her uncertainty had overwhelmed her at times, and she’d skimmed over some of the more intimate details. She hoped the rest was strong enough to make up for it and that Cheryl’s critique wouldn’t be too harsh.
Finally she rose, folded the sheets once, blew out the candle on the table, and opened the door, stepping into the hall. With care, she laid the pages on the silver salver.
As she turned away, a noise at the far end of the hall caught her attention, and a moment later a chill breeze brushed against her skin. An involuntary shiver ran through her, goose bumps rising on her arms.
“Dominick? Cheryl?” Her voice echoed against the stones and she took a step or two down the shadowy hall, half expecting an answer. But the hall remained silent.
Musing it must be the ocean breezes at play, Leila turned back to the doorway to her room. She glanced down at the table then stopped abruptly. The pages she’d left were gone. Stepping back, she looked beneath the table, but there was nothing on the thick rug. She peered behind the table, lifted the salver, even turned it over, looking in bewilderment at the bottom, seeing only the hallmark. Setting it back on the table, she gave one more look beneath the table. There was still nothing there.
The pages had vanished.
Brows drawn, hand to her forehead, she took a step toward her room, still searching for the missing pages. Her glance fell on the carved figures on her door and she drew in a sharp breath.
No longer in a fully clothed chaste embrace, the figures were again nude, the man holding the woman, this time from behind, his hips pressed against her buttocks as she bent forward. One hand caressed her hip while the other was wrapped around a thick hank of her long hair, pulling her head back, her neck extended, eyes closed, lips parted.
As before, his hips flexed forward and pulled back, repeating his erotic movements as Leila’s eyes widened in amazement. The silence in the hall was broken by a deep moan, followed by a sharp cry. And then a stifled gasp from Leila.
The man turned his head – he’d heard her – and his eyes met Leila’s. They were no longer the flat eyes of a wood carving; they were hot and intense, his arousal and passion evident in their depths. Leila’s lips parted, breath passing between them, shallow and fast.
It was clear his attention wasn’t directed toward the woman beneath his hands. Everything in him was focused on Leila, his hot gaze sliding over her body in the thin gown, traveling down her many curves, following the lines of her body as if he were drinking her in as she stood in the chilly hallway.
For the first time, Leila really looked at the woman carved into the door and she cried out, hand flying to her mouth in shock. The long hair in his hand, the curve of her breasts, the rise and swell of her hips – and then she turned and Leila saw her own face, eyes almost closed, mouth open in heated passion.
A wave of desire, sudden and primal, blossomed deep inside Leila and she stumbled back, almost bent double from the visceral force of it, a sucker punch that caught her completely off guard. Her nipples drew up hard and tight against the friction of her gown and she was suddenly aware that every inch of her body felt as though it were on fire. Everywhere his eyes looked left a burning sensation; as though he were leaving his mark, claiming her as his own. She looked again at herself cradled in his hands as though she were nothing more than his delicious plaything.
Overwhelmed, frightened, and confused, Leila reached forward, pushing open the door, stumbling into her room. She glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes passing once again over the man’s face, catching a smile so carnal—so utterly masculine—on his lips. She hesitated. Caught between the intense desire to watch and the safety that her room offered, she stopped, a profound sense of unreality washing over her.
The man threw his head back, his eyes closed, his thrusts now frenzied. The moaning reaching a crescendo, all sharp cries and deep groans, and Leila held her breath. With a final cry that bespoke as much of pain as pleasure, the man opened his eyes, locking with hers. Every muscle in his body held taut, he thrust once more, hard and deep, and Leila knew – felt deep inside – that he’d reached his climax. Over the harsh sound of his breathing, he spoke, his voice low and rough with passion.
“Leila.”
She slammed the door shut.
Backing away, trembling, she bumped into the bench at the foot of her bed, sitting down hard. Her heart pounded in her chest, her own breath rasping into her lungs. She’d been the woman in the carving, the man taking her, using her, his passion filling her. Her body shuddered with aftershocks and tremors, a liquid heat filling the deepest recesses of her body.
She sat for a long time until her breathing slowed and her heart wasn’t threatening to burst from her chest. Rising, she looked at the bed with longing and came to the only possible conclusion – her exhausted mind must be playing devilish tricks on her. Or, possibly – logically – she’d had entirely too much wine with dinner.
Or the castle was haunted.
A shiver ran down her spine and she moved quickly around the room, blowing out candles until the only light came from the slowly dying coals in the hearth and the single candle in the holder by her bed.
Crawling beneath the sheets, she leaned over and blew out the candle. The room went dark,
but after a moment Leila was aware of the moonlight coming through the window, casting a silvery path across the floor. She turned onto her side, catching a glimpse of the moon through the leaded glass, a wavering slice of white in one corner.
As exhausted as she was, sleep remained elusive. She tried to force the carved images from her mind, trying to concentrate on the details of her day, the series of events that had taken her from a writer’s conference in Austin, to her home—albeit briefly—then to an island somewhere east of Bermuda. She turned restlessly from side to side.
But the image of the couple—of the man—resurfaced, over and over. His passion, his lust, everything about him had drawn her in. She should have been horrified at watching such an intimate act, but the man had consumed her with every movement, every sound, every look. It hadn’t been Leila watching a couple; it had been Leila watching herself.
It had been the man making love—wild, passionate love—to Leila. That was the thought that tugged at her mind and confused her. It made her doubt her sanity, what she’d really seen. What was fantasy and what was real?
Finally Leila turned over again and looked out the window one last time. The moon had disappeared from her view and with its departure, the ebb and flow in her body gradually slowed, the heat inside her receding. She closed her eyes, the echo of her name fading from her mind.
Chapter Three
Sunlight warmed her face and Leila opened her eyes, blinking, disoriented, her mind lost among the fragments of a dream. She’d been in the arms of a man, and she still felt the warmth of his embrace, the pressure of his chest against hers. She rolled onto her back, staring up at the carved floral patterns on the canopy above her. But the more she tried to hold on to the images, the warmth, the faster it dissipated, until she felt nothing and couldn’t even conjure an image of the man’s face. She picked up her watch from the bedside table. It was just after seven, too late to go back to sleep. Leila buried her face in the pillow. Another hour in this bed would be wonderful. Maybe she could dip back into her dream, find the man who’d held her so tightly.
Sighing deeply, she threw back the covers and padded to the window. She hadn’t looked closely the night before, but now she saw it had a latch and handle and opened like a modern casement window. Cranking the handle, she opened the window outward, breathing deeply, taking in the sun-warmed tropical air. Far below, she could see blue water and make out the sound of waves hitting unseen rocks and heard the distant cry of water birds.
With a start she remembered: Cheryl’s critique of her assignment. Leila flew across the room and opened the door. There was an envelope waiting, similar to the one that had started this whole adventure. She opened the flap and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. Closing the door behind her, she sat on the edge of her bed, eyes scanning the meticulous handwriting that filled the page.
A smile began, spreading across Leila’s face as she read Cheryl’s words. She’d written that Leila had created a hero that was realistic, sexy, and above all, honest. At the bottom were the words that lifted Leila’s spirits: good job.
Leila held the paper for a moment longer, reading certain lines again. The meeting between hero and heroine still seemed a bit contrived, not quite as authentic as Cheryl thought it should be. Leila should try to make the initial meeting more organic, maybe something dramatic. But overall, it might work.
The sudden rumble of her stomach brought Leila back to reality. Glancing at her watch, she laid the paper reverently on the desk and turned to the wardrobe, pulling open the massive doors and looking over the selection of dresses. Her everyday wardrobe consisted of pants and blouses, with the occasional skirt. This selection was far from ordinary.
Everything she could see in front of her was satin and over-the-top glamorous, or floral and lacy, decidedly feminine. But this was something of a vacation; maybe it would be fun to play dress up. She pushed aside several dresses before pulling out a pale pink floral dress that was less frothy than its sisters. She hung it on the wardrobe door then stepped back, eyeing it critically.
A search of the dresser revealed an astonishing array of lingerie. Leila pulled out a gorgeous matching bra and panty in a deep blush-colored satin, laying them on the bed. She dropped her nightgown across the foot of the bed and headed to the bathroom for a quick shower, indulging in a different selection of scented soaps and lotions. She towel-dried her hair, brushing it out quickly before winding it into a low knot at the nape of her neck, securing it with a few pins from her make-up bag.
The lingerie fit like a dream, the bra molding to her body perfectly as if she’d been measured for the garment. She stepped into the dress, tugging the zipper up. There were several pairs of shoes in the bottom of the wardrobe and she chose a pair of ballerina flats, slipping them on her feet.
She looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror that stood beside the wardrobe. For a moment, she didn’t recognize herself. On impulse, she pulled the pins from her hair, shaking it loose, letting it cascade in loose waves over her shoulders. For a moment, she let herself believe she was beautiful.
Leila stepped into the hall, wondering if Cheryl would be joining her for breakfast. As she closed the door, she glanced at the carved figures, her heart skipping a beat. They were back to their regular places, dressed, in their embrace, their faces flat and anonymous, any hint of the passion she’d seen last night now gone. For a moment she longed to reach out and touch the man. But she drew back her hand. It was funny; she felt a pang of—longing, perhaps. Almost as if she’d met a new friend and now missed them when they’d failed to appear.
She turned away from the door, laughing at herself. It was silly. She was mooning over a carved man on a door, acting as if he were real. Her laugh took on a slightly nervous edge as the flood of images came back to her. It wasn’t real, couldn’t have been. Was it?
The smell of coffee drew her down the stairs. Dominick was in the dining room, moving about near a buffet set between two open French doors. They led out onto a patio and Leila saw a small table set beneath an umbrella. He turned as she entered the room.
“Good morning, Ms. Connors. I trust your first night was a comfortable one?”
“Yes, thank you. It was…although I think I was really too exhausted from everything that happened yesterday to get a really decent sleep. I’m sure by tonight it will all catch up with me.”
“Would you like your breakfast on the terrace?” Dominick inclined his head toward the open doors. “I can bring you whatever you like.”
“Yes, thank you. But I can serve myself, Dominick.” Leila moved toward the buffet, marveling at the assortment of fresh fruit and pastries.
“At least let me get you a cup of coffee or tea. If you don’t allow me to do that, I’ll be out of a job.” He winked as he filled a porcelain cup from a large coffee pot.
Leila moved down the table, filling her plate with fruit and, after much deliberation, one large pastry with something that was certain to be dark chocolate peeking from its delicate layers. Dominick had placed her coffee on the table and held her chair as she sat.
“Thank you. Do you know if Ms. Bullard will be down? Or have I missed her?”
“She left word she would meet you for tea at four o’clock, here on the terrace.”
“Oh.” Disappointment furrowed Leila’s brow.
“She also left this.” Dominick laid another cream envelope on the table. Leila’s name was written in script across the front. Leila opened the envelope, withdrawing a single page. She read it quickly.
“She suggests I take a walk around the island, gather some inspiration, and recharge my creative energies.” Leila laid the paper on the table and turned to face Dominick.
“How exactly do I walk around the island?”
“There are actually quite a few walking paths. The rules are simple: walking down, you’ll find the ocean. Walking up, you’ll find the castle. It’s impossible to become lost.” Dominick pointed toward the edge of the terrace. “Th
ere’s a staircase that leads down to the beach from here. You could start there.”
Leila smiled. “Thank you. I think I’ll take her advice. After breakfast.”
Dominick bowed slightly and turned, walking into the shadows of the dining room. Leila sat for a moment and then ate her breakfast with gusto. She couldn’t remember enjoying breakfast…any breakfast…this much. Finally she sat back, sipping the last of her coffee, planning her day. Cheryl’s note had suggested she enjoy the island and then work on different ways for her heroine to meet the hero, not a formal assignment, but more like a brainstorming session. She took a moment to set the alarm on her watch far enough ahead so she wouldn’t be late.
Leila stood and walked to the edge of the terrace. As Dominick had indicated, there was an opening, a stairway of stone winding beneath the palm fronds. As she passed a blooming hibiscus trailing over the terrace railing, she reached out and picked a bloom, tucking it into her hair.
The steps descended into dark shade. Leila hesitated then began walking downward, her slippers whispering on the gray stone. It was much cooler in the shade, and she thought for a moment about getting a shawl from her room. But she’d already started down; it would take too much time to retrace her steps. She hoped to be back in her room, working on additional ideas for Ms. Bullard, in time to have something to offer during afternoon tea.
The steps curved down and around what Leila decided must be the cliff she’d seen from the air as she’d arrived. Craning her neck, she caught glimpses of the castle rising above her, the occasional tower or parapet showing above the trees.
As she continued, the sound of waves grew louder. To her left, far below, she saw deep blue water but not a sign of the rocks.
She finally came to the end of the stairs, which ended abruptly at a narrow sandy beach. Ahead was a cove, the sand stretching to the water, rocks rising sharply on either side, almost completely enclosing the cove, with just a small opening between them that showed the rolling Atlantic Ocean.
Escape From Reality Page 4