I sat up. Which century?
Early 20th.
I grabbed his laptop and returned to the bed.
“I’m doing a name search.” I entered Stuart Fairchild in the query.
He sat up and laughed. “My last name was Rathbone then, different family.”
I hesitated then acknowledged the change of direction. “Okay, Stuart Rathbone.” I typed in the name, adding “But you can’t keep changing your name, Fairchild. I like Fairchild and if you change again I can’t call you Fairchild.”
“Okay. But my first name then was Pierre.” He stretched his spectacular torso.
“Holy rollers!” Several links and one old sepia image, likely scanned by someone, popped up. “Oh my god, this is you!”
He got out of bed shirtless, wearing only drawstring pajama bottoms and nearly stopping my heart. I smiled knowing he was all mine, thinking I would never grow tired of watching him stroll around in whatever.
“Come back here, Fairchild!”
“The loo, love. Nature beckons.” He strolled with nonchalant grace as if my discovery about him being a über-hot debonair pianist should be taken in stride, as if I should be unfazed, as if my heart shouldn’t flutter madly. His long fingers grazed through his thick, coal hair just before he shut the door behind him and my phone rang.
It was Mom calling from the main house. She was leaving England tomorrow and wanted us to drive her to Heathrow. Dad had been home alone and I missed him already.
Colin and Mom had been preoccupied with StoneWall business since the incident, doing who knows what. I was too enthralled with the new feeling of being in love and leaving the dreadful kidnapping debacle behind me I didn’t care what they did.
“Mom, Stuart was a concert pianist in the 1900’s. Oh, but he was Pierre Rathbone. How cool is that?”
Her reaction was similar to when I would show her yet another paper marked with an ‘A’ – “That’s nice.”
So maybe we would never have a “sharing” relationship.
Stuart emerged from the loo, still tousled from sleep, a look he pulled off well and I labored to resist the urge to tackle him after the call.
“That was Mom needing airport transportation tomorrow. Hey, how about pancakes?” I pace when I talk on the phone so had ended up in the kitchen when he walked in.
He didn’t respond to the food suggestion. Instead he took a moment to scan my body then wrapped his arms around me, his fingers crumpling the back of my nightshirt. There was hunger in our kisses – almost a fear something else would try to destroy our couple, our destiny together. We were desperately clinging to each other for dear life, memorizing every inch, taste, smell of the other.
He held me tight, lifting me off my feet and sitting me on the kitchen table. We kissed and tasted the skin on our necks and face and lips until we were without breath, and then I tightened my legs around him with all the strength I had, our hands uninhibited, our kisses still new despite the familiar.
The pancakes could wait.
EPILOGUE
Mom took a taxi from StoneWall to the Fairchild’s then we hopped in Stuart’s car for the drive to London. Her face had aged in the last few days and she barely spoke. I was accustomed to her distance, but this felt different. She seemed genuinely worried, the weight of stress heavy on her shoulders.
I figured we had been through enough that confronting her shouldn’t be an issue any longer. “Why so quiet, Mom?”
She stared out the car window at the gray drizzle saying nothing. I couldn’t read her, and didn’t know if she intended to respond so I just gave her a smile.
“StoneWall is busy,” she finally offered.
Decidedly stubborn, I wasn’t going to settle for monosyllabic speech fragments yet again. “Define busy. What’s going on?”
She turned to me, her face cast in stone and void of expression. “The usual. Fighting against evil forces. Blah, blah.” The shake of her head was almost imperceptible. “We’re taking care of – things.”
I turned back and faced the road, fuming she still wouldn’t open up to me and talk. Stuart sensed my frustration, probably reading the four letter words roaming my thoughts, and covered my hand with his.
Let it go, love.
But I twisted my torso to face her again, to glare at her in the backseat. “Mom. Seriously. After everything it’s really that hard to tell me things?”
She threw her eyes at me like laser beams, causing me to almost duck from radiation, but I saw she wasn’t angry at me; she was worried about whatever was going on, concerned for our safety, my safety. “I just don’t want to bog you down with so much information your head will feel like imploding as mine does now. God, I need aspirin!”
I pulled a bottle of headache tablets from my purse leftover from the migraine phase.
“Here.” I dumped two in her hand. She swallowed the pills quickly and without water, throwing her head back with enough force to cause whiplash. “Easy there, Courtney Love.”
She caught the joke, and I was rewarded with a small upward twitch of her mouth.
We opted to go through security and walk her to the gate.
When it was time for her to board, she stopped and turned to me, her face softening for a brief instant. “Layla, being independent is different than needing people.”
Her words made tears form in my eyes.
I know that now, Mom.
Before boarding I made one last attempt to glean information. “Can you at least give me a Readers Digest version of what’s going on? I mean, the worst is over. You guys ended the stand-off, rescued me, drove Jasper and his cronies away…”
She interrupted. “Over?” She lowered her voice and leaned in to me. “Are you shitting me?”
I chuckled, taken slightly aback by her relaxed, more sailor toned dialect.
She finally spoke again leaving me with a chill that filled my entire being. “Oh dear, girl.” She shook her head solemnly. “Now it begins.”
She showed her ticket to the attendant before turning to kiss my cheek.
Now it begins.
*****
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My husband and children are the reason I exist in this form. There is a quote by Friedrich Nietzsche that says, “You must become who you are,” and they have helped me do just that.
To my beautiful, smart, awesome beta readers who not only cheered me on but provided the best feedback: Lisa Acuna, Lauren Bagby, Kristin Harris, T. Blossom Romel, and Corey White.
Author photo credit goes to Bryson Kim, who spent a few fun hours with me shooting all angles on the beach at sunset with our respective spouses.
To the readers – I am deeply indebted for your support, early stellar reviews and purchases. You are the reason I write stories.
To my fellow authors – Every day we tread in the trenches, connecting with each other and our readers, fighting side by side, promoting together, overcoming obstacles. There are days you carry me forward, and days you help me soar.
To my publisher, eInteractive Media, who spent countless hours designing, formatting, critiquing, editing, and talked me of the ledge a time or two…ok, maybe at least a dozen!
Dad, I’m so happy I’ve made you proud. You inspire us all to keep moving forward. Phyllis, my sister, my heart, always there for me.
Will and Kristin, it’s really difficult for a mom to express the love she has for her children in words. You fill in the places of my heart that were unoccupied before I had you, and stay with me daily regardless of what I do.
Chuck – I’ve tried writing the perfect line over and over and all I can say is, thank you for seeing through my protective layer, and choosing to love me unconditionally. We are partners in live, love and other misdemeanors always and forever.
*****
Excerpt from
Soul Herder
(Second sequel in VISION series)
*****
PROLOGUE
Paris, France
Ap
ril 1902
The long graceful fingers of Pierre Rathbone seduced the piano keys with precision accuracy as he replicated Mozart’s Symphony Number 25 in G Minor, while his wife peeked around the deep rose velvet curtain, saturated with love for her husband.
Melanie carried their first child, to be born sometime in September when the leaves change color and the weather cools. It was all so perfect, she thought. Married to the most brilliant, handsome man who was a famous concert pianist and love of her life, a glamorous townhouse in the city, and a new baby on the way. She smiled at him, but his eyes were closed. He was temporarily living in his world, exclusive, impervious to outside elements, people. It was only his, this secret existence, and he shared it with no one.
Perhaps after the birth he would change. This mental seclusion was likely temporary, she assured herself, the result of nerves about being a new father. Surely his love for her was real. It had to be. Without it, Melanie knew of no alternative.
Pierre, on the other hand, was barely content. Melanie was pleasing, sweet and attractive, but she was only a blip on the radar. Eternity was a long time, and he was partially ashamed for biding his time with a wife and family who would grow old and die before him while he stayed looking no older than eighteen or twenty. He didn’t yet have a plan for explaining that small detail.
Instead he waited for the century to pass, filling the hours with music to drown out the grief and passion contained within. For there was only one love in his life lost so long ago.
His hands barely grazed the piano keys in contrast to the building crescendo he played.
Now he knew she would return, thanks to a mystic friend from his country of rebirth, Morocco.
Nineteen hundred and ninety five, plus sixteen years until they would meet again.
She wouldn’t be Sarah anymore, but would contain her essence. No matter. He never stopped loving her, not for one minute of his endless life.
And now he only had to wait a mere century to see her again.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Vision Page 15