Valley of Fire

by Janelle Taylor

  “You must be referring to that huge catfish I landed a while ago,” he cunningly parried her joke.

  “What else?” she swiftly shot back, then laughed.

  “Perhaps the marvelous lunch and excellent company?” he murmured in a husky tone which sent thrills racing over her body.

  They leisurely enjoyed the lunch which Mary had prepared for them. Their conversation was light and easy. Nigel entertained them with hilarious tales about some of his past performances. But it was Steven’s stories about his African safari which captured her interest and undivided attention.

  “If you plan to go again, Steven, I’d love to tag along. That would be a spectacular setting for a story.”

  “If you’re serious, come with me this spring,” he offered.

  Her emerald eyes glowed. “Could I really?”

  “Sure. Mary could tag along as camp cook,” he jested.

  “I don’t think she would risk her life and limb on a jungle trek,” she said, removing her socks and shoes, digging her toes into the grass.

  “But you would?”

  “Naturally. The heart of an adventuress beats beneath all of this fragile flesh and sweet charm.”

  His blue eyes softened as they traveled over her from sunlit head to bare feet. “Bring lots of insect spray—they’d have a field day with that delectable body.”

  She grinned and scoffed, “Is that a fact, Winngate?”

  “Definitely!” Their eyes met and locked. She reluctantly pulled hers away, fearing the heat from his would surely singe her skin and sear her mind if she did not.

  “Don’t they have snakes in the jungle?” she inquired innocently.

  “Of course,” he responded.

  “Can I bring one back to add to my collection on the barn?”

  As their eyes met and their thoughts matched, they began to laugh. Nigel lay back and observed the looks and tones which passed between them. Yes sir, he decided, this could be some match!

  Brandy could not control her giggles as the two men insisted on cleaning the fish for a blushing and giggling Mary. The men teased Mary until she returned to her kitchen to prepare another fabulous meal for the only man she could picture providing her little Brandy with a beautiful future. Brandy also went inside to bathe and change into a navy gabardine A-line skirt and yellow oxford blouse.

  After dinner, the three spent hours playing chess. Each winner played the loser from the past game. Only once was that loser Steven Winngate. At last the hour was late, and the three early risers were contentedly exhausted. They said good night and retired, still arguing over who caught the biggest fish.

  Brandy denied her desire to work on the manuscript which had arrived that morning via email. A greater desire gnawed at her. She slipped between her periwinkle satin sheets, her naked body savoring the feel of sensuous satin next to silky flesh. It seemed as if Steven was awakening her senses to countless sensations. A soft moan escaped her lips as Steven’s mouth closed over hers . . .

  The next day, Brandy told the two men they were on their own while she tackled the Twilight revisions. Nigel was content to entertain himself, but Steven didn’t look pleased at all. He scowled at Brandy when she suggested he work on his article about her. Instead, he spent hours on the downstairs phone . . .

  Brandy curled up on the sofa in her cork-paneled office and started reading the edited manuscript. For once, her attention span was terrible. She couldn’t seem to concentrate on the pages or the story. Her mind kept straying to the man who was around somewhere. Finally, with great determination, she poured herself into that story.

  Mary knew Brandy was never to be disturbed, even for meals or calls, when her door was closed. Steven did not. When she didn’t appear for lunch, he went to her office and calmly and ignorantly strolled inside. He moved so quietly that Brandy didn’t hear his approach. He leaned over and nibbled on her ear.

  She jumped and screamed, her mind engrossed in the torture scene which she was intensely reading. “Steven! Why did you do that?” she scolded him.

  He grinned, still blissfully ignorant. “I thought you might be starving by now. Nigel’s gone riding, and Mary’s gone shopping,” he hinted meaningfully.

  “I’m working,” she informed him, as if that explained everything.

  “You skipped lunch. Why not take a break?” he persisted, nodding towards the door.

  “I can’t. I’m right in the middle of this work. If I stop now, I’ll have to reread everything to this point,” she said, politely attempting to discourage his amorous mood.

  “So?” he speculated unknowingly. “What’s the big deal?” he asked hazily.

  “The big deal is a loss of concentration. Once I’m into something, I can’t just stop and come back later. It’s like keying yourself up. You let go and feel the action and moods. It’s frustrating to stop and go. The creative juices get clogged. It’s nerve-racking to be forced to turn off and turn on. It’s like a swollen river during a flood, impossible to control. Every time I halt, I have to restart my engine.”

  “You look tired. You have to eat and rest,” he coaxed.

  “Not when I’m busy,” she argued. “When you’re working and concentrating, don’t you skip meals or lose sleep? Do you like being interrupted or distracted?”

  “That’s different,” he said too hastily, miffed by her refusal.

  “Really?” she scoffed. “How so?”

  “My work is—”He halted promptly when he realized what he was about to say.

  “More important than mine?” she finished sarcastically.

  “I have thousands of people working for me who depend on me, Brandy, their families too. If I don’t work, they don’t eat. What happens if you don’t finish that book?”

  “I have a contract, Steven. I have a deadline. Writing is my work, my love, my life. People depend on me to meet those obligations. If I miss a deadline, it throws off the whole schedule. Then, other people are involved, people who work and eat because of me and my writing: cover artists, publicity people, publishers, editors, agents, copyeditors, line editors, booksellers, buyers . . . There’s a long list waiting for this work to be completed. My readers are also expecting it to be on the shelf soon. If I disappoint them or my book isn’t available, they switch to some other writer.”

  He waited to see if she was finished with her dressing down. She sighed heavily. “I’m not used to having anyone around when I’m working, Steven. Mary knows when that door’s closed, it stays closed. Writers have a saying—‘When the flow is on the go, stay out of its path.’ We artistic people are sensitive, moody, disciplined. Sometimes I think writing a book is far easier than revising it. When you’re creating it, the mood and reality are present. Once it’s finished, so are the mood and reality. It’s difficult to go back to that work and recall those feelings. Do you understand at all?”

  “Yes and no,” he replied honestly. “I do hate distractions and interruptions, but sometimes they can’t be avoided. I just psych myself up again.”

  “With your kind of work, that’s possible. You have notes and realities to deal with. I don’t. It’s all here, and it slips away if I keep staunching it,” she stated, touching her forehead.

  “But you have the book in front of you,” he pressed for clarity.

  “The book, yes, but not the revisions. They come after I read it and get into it again. Have you ever tried to retell an argument or frightening scene? Have you noticed how it varies with each telling? Scenes are like that, especially quarrels and perils. The first time they strike your mind, they’re at their best. You try to record them as quickly as possible. When it has to wait until later, it never comes out the same, not as good. The characters come alive for a brief span. Each word, look, or action spurs the next character’s. If I forget one of those, it spoils the entire scene. Once
everything’s mentally plotted, I record it as it runs across my mind, much like watching a movie. If the tape is broken, something’s lost or edited when it starts running again. The losses are frustrating. I’m sure this isn’t making any sense to you,” she stated in exasperation. How did one explain inspiration, creativity, the writing flow, the intensity involved, the mental process?

  “I understand writers don’t like distractions, even stimulating ones. If you need any inspiration later, you’ll call me, won’t you?”

  Her train of thought broken, she tossed her red pen aside. She stood up and flexed her muscles. “Perhaps a hot shower will refresh me. Care to join me?” she hinted, smiling at him. The work could wait a while . . .

  “Sounds enticing, but Nigel just rode in. I think I’ll take a ride. See you at dinner.” With that casual dismissal, he swaggered out, whistling.

  Brandy stared after him through the open door. He was gone, and her concentration was positively nil now. Damn you, Steven, she mused angrily. Brandy sighed loudly as she flopped down into her desk chair and stared out the window over it.

  As Nigel encountered Steven, they exchanged smiles. “What’s going, Steve?”

  “Not Brandy. She’s bleeding over her work in there,” he snarled.

  “You talked to her?” he asked in amazement.

  “I tried to get her to take a break. She skipped lunch, and it’s nearly dinner time.”

  Nigel shook his head of dark brown curls. “You’ve got a lot to learn, old buddy. When that door’s closed, it’s no-man’s-land. It’s an unwritten law, you can’t break a writer’s concentration.” Nigel went on to deliver nearly the same lecture Brandy had just given him.

  Coming from a professional male, somehow the explanation sounded valid, clearer. Of course Nigel’s vivid parallel, that of interrupting sex during the intensity and involvement at a critical moment, clarified Steven’s confusion. “Creativity is a unique and taxing gift, Steve, sometimes a curse. I can see her point. Hell, I’ve endured it. Some of my best songs have come to me when I couldn’t write them down. Would you believe I can’t recall half the words if I have to wait until another time to record them? It’s as discouraging and infuriating as a flop record, or as mindboggling and satisfying as a hit. Try to understand, Steve. Show her some patience and consideration. Writers don’t always choose their own schedules, or deadline. It’s even worse when we try to fight our body-clocks. If we weren’t here, she would be sleeping all day and writing all night.”

  Brandy went to her room and took a refreshing bubble bath. When she entered the kitchen, both men and Mary were surprised to see her. The strain was vivid on her face, and she was exceptionally quiet. Nigel understood her mood and ignored it, as did the perceptive and well-trained Mary. But Steven attempted to draw her out with conversation and jokes. Brandy halfheartedly replied, but didn’t inspire further talk. She smiled faintly at his witty words, but the tension never left her somber eyes.

  To Steven, Brandy appeared guarded and reserved tonight. He fretted over his innocent blunder. He had been making marvelous progress with her, but now he could detect her withdrawal and resentment. He had bruised her feelings as well as her ego. He had caused her to feel guilty and selfish, and those emotions denied her sunny glow and happiness. Worse, he had implied her precious work was frivolous.

  Brandy forced herself to remain with her guests until dinner was over and the men were playing chess in the upstairs den. She softly excused herself, then returned to her office. With sheer determination, she finished reading the manuscript and made notes for her revisions. But something was wrong. One scene just wouldn’t flow, as if refusing to be written.

  Steven had pulled out his briefcase and was working on some papers he had brought with him. Nigel offered to bring him a drink when he went upstairs. Nigel entered the kitchen just as Brandy was leaving it, a glass of iced tea in her grip.

  Noting the look on her face, he cuffed her chin and asked, “What’s wrong, love?”

  “I can’t concentrate, Nigel. That scene’s being stub- born. Sometimes I wish characters didn’t have minds of their own. They’re refusing to do what Devon wants. How do I make them hustle when they demand to waltz?”

  “Maybe you should pull back for a while,” he suggested tenderly.

  “I can’t. Devon wants this change yesterday,” she replied miserably.

  “Don’t they always want things yesterday?” he teased to lighten her heavy mood.

  “This time it’s true. Everything’s finished. They caught something they didn’t like after the galleys were printed. They feel it’s worth the expense to change it before it’s in final pages.”

  “You’re forcing it, Brandy. We both know it won’t work that way.”

  Nigel walked her back to her office. They sat down on the floor. Brandy rested her head on his comforting shoulder. They talked for a few minutes.

  Steven gazed into the office, his blue eyes filled with jealousy and irritation. It was all right for Nigel to disrupt her, but he couldn’t? Now he knew why his drink was taking so long to arrive! He left the tender scene which rankled him.

  When Nigel returned, he found Steven sipping a drink. He glanced at the one in his own grip and the one in Steven’s. “Give up on me?” he jested.

  “I didn’t want to disturb you and Brandy. I got it myself,” Steven stated sullenly.

  Nigel laughed. “I’d slap that little green monster off my back, old buddy. She was in the kitchen when I went upstairs. Something’s blowing her attention—I can’t imagine what,” he joked pointedly. “Could be she’d rather be doing something else? I was just offering some brotherly solace.”

  Steven and Nigel exchanged probing looks. “You’re crowding her, Steve,” Nigel stated seriously. “She’s under stress and pressure. Don’t add more.”

  The tone of Nigel’s voice prevented a surly comeback. “Maybe I should have gone for the drinks,” Steven declared huskily, then smiled.

  “Too bad you didn’t,” Nigel agreed. “I think I’ll call it a night.”

  “I think I’ll take a walk,” Steven said. He needed to unwind and think. Brandy was locked in her office, so he didn’t change out of his satin robe in deep wine with black trim. He left the house and headed towards the pool. He perked up when he heard splashing.

  “Don’t you know it isn’t safe out here alone?” he reprimanded Brandy, squatting beside the pool. Moonlight reflected off the gently moving water as she headed to where he was positioned.

  “I thought you and Nigel were fast asleep,” she murmured.

  “I guess I’m not the only one who needed to unwind. Having problems?”

  Brandy mounted the steps and tossed a large towel around her shoulders. “Sometimes a writer gets too close to a scene, and she has to back off for a while, then try a fresh approach.”

  Something in her voice and expression said she was referring to more than her work. “That’s true about many things,” he ventured, smiling at her.

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” she agreed, returning his smile.

  “Worked out all those kinks?” he inquired tenderly.

  “Muscles, yes, brain, no,” she replied honestly. “Want to take a swim? I could use some stimulating company and witty conversation.”

  “Like this?” he teased, patting his hand over his manner of dress.

  “Is Nigel still up?” she asked oddly, glancing towards the house.

  “Nope. Why?”

  “Then why not? You modest, Winngate?” she boldly taunted.

  He stepped close to her and gently seized her shoulders. “I can think of a better way to loosen taut muscles . . .”

  “So can I,” she laughingly declared, then shoved him into the pool. She knelt on the edge and mocked, “Is that any better, my fiery-blooded dragon?”

 
“I doubt this qualifies for a cold shower, my naïve maiden,” he parried, edging towards her.

  Brandy giggled. “Do you need one?” she quipped playfully.

  Before she realized what he was planning, his hand snaked out and yanked her into the pool. “I think we both need one,” he stated triumphantly.

  “I’ve had mine, this afternoon,” she informed him sassily, revealingly.

  “You don’t need another one?” he hinted wickedly.

  “I hope not. I’ve called it a night, in my office,” she added bravely. Perhaps he needed special attention, reassurance.

  A look of utter surprise flooded his features. He scooped her up in his arms and left the pool. He deposited her on the thick towel she had spread out beside the pool. His lips hungrily ravaged hers, and his hands played over her receptive body. When the heat between them built to a fiery level, she whispered breathlessly, “We’d better go inside . . .”

  “Why? We’re alone. I like this romantic setting,” he mischievously told her.

  “But we’re in view of anyone who happens by,” she argued modestly, the idea exciting and stimulating.

  “We’re wet. We’ll ruin your bed. How will you explain a soaked bed to Mary? As for me, I can’t wait to dry off. I’m on fire, Brandy,” he reasoned huskily.

  “So am I,” she promptly acquiesced, throwing caution to the gentle breeze which played over their torrid bodies.

  As Steven’s mouth took hers, he deftly unfastened the top and bottom of her swimsuit. He twisted to remove his clingy robe and silk bottoms, without pulling his lips from hers. Their wet bodies fused instantly, the drops of water evaporating from their blistering heat.

  The union was rapid and urgent, restrained emotions set free. When they lay exhausted in each other’s arms, he whispered, “How about that swim now?”

  Before Brandy could answer, he picked up her naked body and jumped into the water. “Steven,” she shrieked softly.

  “Never swam in the buff before?” he jested. “Might be excellent research.”

  “You’re a devil,” she scolded him, snuggling against his hard frame.