GG’s voice sounded from the doorway, “Mary, do you want to have lunch with me?”
Dang. I didn’t want to stop reading, but couldn’t be rude. “Yeah, sure, just a moment.” I grabbed my purse, and we headed out.
Chapter Three
A Lamb in His Arms.
A California breeze blew my messy hair, and I cleared a wild strand from my eye. “Do we need a cab?”
“That depends. There’s a quaint restaurant that serves Chinese right around the corner.” GG pointed.
I nodded. “I love Chinese food.”
Dragons covered the entrance walls as a hostess in a multi-colored blouse smiled. “Two?”
GG nodded, and the hostess seated us next to a large fish tank. The woman handed us the menu, and we ordered drinks. I ordered water because of the low funds in my wallet.
“Order anything you like,” GG said. “My treat.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
She reached across the table and patted my hand. “When you get your first check, you can treat me to lunch.” She winked and lowered the glasses from her neck chain.
I began to enjoy the sassy lady’s company as we relished in our eggrolls and rice. She explained the details of how the book report should be outlined and how Mr. Randle would read my recommended novel. He then would create a synopsis screenplay and pile it on a movie producer’s desk with fifty other suggested screenplays.
“Why am I reading the works of other authors when he writes his own literature?”
GG set her chopsticks to the side. “The television series, Criminal Red, is his main focus.” She picked up her napkin, wiped her mouth, and smeared her thick lipstick. “Mr. Randle has more friends in the film industry than anyone I know. Publishers are constantly asking him to recommend their books. If he gets an acceptance, he’ll sign a deal and turn a novel into a screenplay. He’s very good with explosive action.”
I thought about his face. “He’s good with action?”
She chuckled. “You’ll see when he gets back.”
I thanked GG for the nice lunch and returned to the office.
Full and comfortable, I focused on the portrait that matched the aging space. Why would the older man bother with love novels? He looked more like the detective story type. I shook my head. Back to Ra and her struggles.
Oh, thank goodness. A Roman soldier to the rescue. He had recognized her princess status, but treated her rough. The masculine hero thrust her into a guarded chariot.
Poor Ra, she would rather be tossed into the fiery pit than go back into the clutches of her sinister uncle. I couldn’t blame her. The uncle was a beast.
She dared to ask the soldier’s name as the chariot carried them away from her homelands.
Her rescuer, Cyrus, snapped a whip that sent the horses down a barren path. They had traveled under a desert sun for hours before they came upon a large cluster of Egyptian tents.
When Ra pleaded to speak with Cyrus’s general, he answered, “I am in charge.” He carried her into the cloth shelter. “One so much like a flower is now my captive. I plan to ransom you for the lands you stole.”
Ra tried to explain. Her father’s death had left her heartless uncle in charge. She had nothing to do with the capture of his lands, and asked not to be blamed for the uncle’s barbaric acts.
Cyrus refused to believe that she was innocent. He sent her to a tent where slaves would bathe and scent her for his pleasure.
As the author changed the point of view to Cyrus, I learned of his true feelings for Ra. How he cared for the beautiful princess and had spies who watched over her. He knew she was trapped in her uncle’s world, but to show her the weakness of his caring heart could mean death for him and his people. He planned to use her to trap the uncle, but even in his intent, he would never allow her return to the man’s ruthless care.
I hummed a sigh. “Just tell her already! Ra would appreciate a guy like you.” Okay. Time to go home. I’m speaking aloud to a romance novel.
I closed a window as the phone rang for the third time today. A pen lay next to my notepad, and I cleared my throat. “Mark Randle’s office. Can I help you?”
I had taken messages from colleagues, but this time, the caller claimed to be his sister. Her pleasant voice sounded young. After she had ended the call, I gazed at the portrait. How could he have a sister so young? I studied Mr. Randle’s blue eyes. The same blue eyes on the handsome face of the man by the cab door; on Fire Dancer… The matching eyes flashed from one man to the next. I shook my head. Quit freaking out.
After returning home, I unpacked a few boxes. Weaver arched his back and massaged his front claws into the carpet.
“I’m with you. An early bedtime tonight.”
My pink polka-dot gown smelled like home. A reminder, my mother, would call tomorrow night.
Weaver jumped on the bed. I pooched my lips and said, “Come here, pretty kitty.” He strolled up for an ear scratch. A stroke down his back made his tail shake. “It’s just us, Weave.”
With the desk light tilted toward My Fearless Roman, and my pillow fluffed, I let the words sweep me away.
The gold wrist cuffs on Ra's arms were removed. Her headband and blue gown lay tattered on the floor. After a full day in the desert sun, she couldn’t remember a more refreshing bath. The slaves dressed her in a simple white frock and left her on the floor surrounded by pillows and a bowl of grapes. She picked at the fruit and pondered her escape.
Cyrus dismissed the tent guards and entered the room. He no longer wielded the shield and sword, but his mere form had Ra gripping the bowl as a weapon. “You’ll claim no reward from my uncle if I’m hurt,” she cried.
Cyrus laughed. “My intent is not to hurt, for what pain is there in a kiss?”
Ra dumped the grapes from the bowl and held it to her side. The pillows hindered her balance as she stood and backed away from his approaching form.
She pointed the golden container like a knife. “Touch me, and my uncle will have your head for this bowl.”
“Such nasty words from such red lips.” Cyrus thwarted her feeble attempt with the bowl and bound her with his strong arms. Braced against his firm chest, the Roman’s green eyes burned into the depths of her soul. She refused to cower, and drew breath in anticipation of a hard kiss, but when his soft lips covered hers in tender movement, the tension in her shoulders fell away. “You taste of sweet wine—”
I closed the book and tossed it to the end of the bed. Why did I have to read this stuff? I was single, and this was torture. I came to California to get away from college-boy flirtation and romance—start a life for myself. Last thing I needed was to be reminded of how good a man’s arms felt.
Weaver raised his little furry head, as I ranted. “Long-haired Indians. Broad-chested Romans. I don’t want these guys in my brain.” I gave Weaver’s head a pat. “Do I, baby?”
The TV remote sat inches away. What would be on at 9:00 p.m.? The news, a talk show, maybe a crime story. The masculine form on the book-cover beckoned me. Would Ra give in to Cyrus’s lust? I craned back my neck and released an “ugh” into the air. I had to know.
I walked on my knees across the bed and snatched the book. A lick on my finger helped for a quick search. Found it. You taste of sweet wine…
Oh, my. Oh, my, gosh, I fell back onto my pillow. She does give in. I covered my eyes and read the next two paragraphs peeking between my fingers. The room grew warm with the author’s written passion, and I fanned my face through the next chapter. How could Mark Randle add more action to this scene?
Ra struggled between the love she felt in Cyrus’s arms, and his need to ransom her. At times, he treated her as the queen of the Nile, and other times, a lowly captive. The longer she remained in his care, the more difficult it became to understand his reasons for wanting to be rid of her. She must escape for fear of a broken heart.
With heavy eyes, I turned off the lamp. Weaver purred us to sleep.
o0o
; Wait. Wait. Stop! My horse galloped across a desolate plane, under a moonlit sky. With a handful of horse mane, I searched for stirrups. Where was the saddle? “Whoa, baby, whoa.” The horse slowed, and I patted his neck. “Where are we going in such a hurry, pretty horse?” A glance over the mare’s rump and the answer came in the form of a dark rider on a black stallion. He raced toward me.
The feel of dread wrapped around my body like a blanket. My heels dug into the animal’s quarter, but the rider had gained too much headway. His animal stopped the progression of mine.
This country girl rolled a leg over the horse’s rump and slid to the ground. “I’m warning you. Stay away from me. I learned karate in the fifth grade.” I took a basic stance. “Six full weeks of lessons.”
“Nah, Flower Princess. How good is your fight without a fruit bowl in hand?”
“Cyrus.” A bare leg showed through the tear in my gown as I crouched and circled.
The red cape of his Roman uniform soared in the wind behind his broad shoulders. He came for me. A twist with a side kick hit him straight in the groin. But it wasn’t him who screamed. I hit some metal plate, and my ankle seared with pain.
On the ground in a pile of humiliation, I held my foot and cried.
“Ra, you’ve brought an injury upon yourself.” He knelt on the ground beside me.
I stared into familiar blue eyes. Wasn’t he supposed to have green eyes? And that face—Fire Dancer. The cab guy. The portrait. Flash, flash, flash. It’s the same man.
Chapter Four
Dream Vision
My lungs filled with air as I awoke with a gasp. Why am I having such vivid dreams of the same guy? I reached for the light and jumped when I saw a set of glowing eyes next to the lamp.
“Meow.”
“Oh, you scared me, Weave. What are you doing on the night stand?” The tag on his collar sparkled as I lifted him. Dream Weaver. I dropped him on the blanket, pulled back the sheet and got out of bed. No. A cat can’t make you dream.
In all contemplation, the only thing that made sense was a drink. A real drink to help me sleep. As I headed toward the kitchen, my ankle gave way. “Ouch. Ouch! What the—why?” My ankle had a blue lump the size of a golf ball. It couldn’t be. I hobbled back to the bed and searched for my marker in the book. There it was…Ra had fled on a horse. Her ankle hurt from a confrontation with Cyrus.
I limped to the kitchen and found a cork-screw, Uncle Chris’s house warming gift. I didn’t trouble with a glass, and tilted the entire bottle of wine. The sweet blackberry flavor warmed my throat as I chugged it down. I smiled at the label. I won’t dream after this…
o0o
But I did dream. I dreamt the entire story. In a field of battle and romance, I played the part of Ra and fell in love with my blue-eyed captor. Cyrus destroyed the vindictive uncle, and we started a royal race of our own by the seaside. Again, love conquered all.
The vitality of the heart-felt dream made it hard to wake in the real world. I stretched across my sheets and touched Weaver’s side. “If dreams are the reason your last owner gave you away. They weren’t reading the right books.” I searched through the pages. Yep, every word. By the end of the book, Ra’s ankle had healed, and so had mine.
Up early and on schedule with the books, I used my laptop and searched every link I could find on dreams and cats. There were hundreds of pictures and videos of dreaming cats. How to interpret a dream involving a cat, but nothing on cats that make you dream. The scenario seemed impossible, yet I was sure, Weaver had something to do with my dreams.
My third day at work wasn’t unlike the first or second, although the last book on the desk had me wondering what I might dream. The simple red cover read Seductive Blood. A mystery, maybe? I turned the book over. Instead of a woman, this time the author was a middle-aged male. I swallowed as I read the blurb. Vampires.
Oh no. Would I wake up in the middle of the night, thirsty for blood?
What started out as dread turned to fascination as my eyes scanned the words. The first three paragraphs had me gripping the edge of the desk.
o0o
Devan Carter blew a warm breath into his hands and took careful steps between the graves at old Pike Cemetery. Dusk had settled on the Roanoke River gap, near the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Devan hurried to find his father’s headstone before darkness fell. He knelt into a rolling fog and pushed a spiked crucifix into the dirt at the head of his father’s grave.
The sound of blackbirds’ wings filled the air as they took flight from the branches above. Devan craned his neck at the spectacle and breathed in more than the scent of rotten wood. He smelled death. An army of goose bumps set his hair on end, and an instinct to run battled with the logic in his mind. He started for the exit gate, swung around twice to see if someone followed, then picked up his pace.
The trees whispered the name, Lenora, as he rushed through the black iron opening. A sudden gust of wind raised the fog into the air.
Haze encircled his car, and he froze. With near zero visibility, he removed the key fob from his pocket and stepped closer. The chirp sounded mere feet away.
“Lenora.” The whisper came once more, but this time, sounded before him. A hand reached out of the mist and gripped down on his shoulder. “You will bring her to me.” A tall, cloaked figure appeared with red eyes that locked with his own. Devan’s legs forbade his command to move.
I rolled back my office chair and rubbed the chill out of my arms. If I dreamt about vampires during the afternoon, instead of the middle of the night, maybe it wouldn’t be so scary. And, I would have more time to work on the report.
GG didn’t stop by for lunch, so I locked up early and made a quiet dash for home.
Chapter Five
Afternoon Escape
This time, I planned to let the dream guide me. I would say what came to my mind and not interrupt the course.
Like Cinderella, going to the ball, I peered down at my lavender cocktail dress. Hairpins tugged at my scalp and feelings of anticipation beckoned me to the door. There he was. My handsome blue-eyed stranger, standing in a tux. Without thought, I knew his name.
“Come in, Devan.”
He handed me a bouquet of red roses.
“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”
Devan held a hand to his chest. “You’re beautiful, Lenora.”
I smiled and left the door wide open so he could enter, but found it odd, he remained on the stoop. I tucked the flowers in a vase and twisted the lock on the knob before we left.
Instead of opening the car door, he blocked my path and looked at the ground.
“What is it?” I asked.
His eyes shot up. “Let’s leave tonight. Run away from this backward town. I’ll show you things you never knew existed.”
He took hold of my chin and ran his mouth along my neck.
I giggled and gave him a gentle nudge. “What are you talking about? You know how much this night means to me. Please, let’s go. We’ll be late for the champagne toast.”
The long heels on my white pearl shoes tapped nervously on floorboards as we turned down a back-wooded road. “This isn’t the way to the party, Devan.”
He stared straight ahead as if in a trance when the car veered to the left and then to the right. “Devan.” We headed straight for a tree. “Devan, wake up!”
I gasped and sat up in the bed. My heart pounded. Weaver jumped to the floor and headed for his litterbox. “That scared the pee out of me too,” I muttered.
I grabbed the book and thumbed to the last chapter.
After the crash, Devan’s vampire blood allowed him to heal quickly. He carried Lenora to the cemetery while she remained unconscious. He laid her on the damp ground near the tombstone of his father. His master, the monster who had changed him, appeared behind the grave.
“Lenora,” the creature whispered, standing over her body. His red eyes peered out at Devan. “You’ve done well. Now, seek your reward in the freedom I of
fer.” He stretched a long, cloaked arm toward the gate. “Go,” he commanded.
I made a note. The words the author used to describe Devan’s love for Lenora flowed like melted butter over the page. He overcame the master’s powers and used the spiked-tipped cross from his father’s grave to pierce the heart of the beast.
Lenora had internal bleeding, and Devan had no choice but to turn her into a creature of the night. He sank his teeth into her soft, white neck. A moment filled with sadness and bliss.
It wasn’t the exact happy ending that inspired the other books, but the chilling tale made me write the words…My recommendation…Crimson Red.
I worked into the evening on a report that was sure to impress my new boss. In the midst of a spell check, the doorbell rang. I looped the front of my robe and peered out the door’s peephole. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. It was him.
The cab guy. The hero in the stories. The man of my dreams! I turned full circle. Too late to clear the boxes. I ran fingers through my hair. What should I do?
I straightened my shoulders and opened the door a crack. “Can I help you?”
“Mary Lynn Price?”
I recognized the voice, and the instinct to jump into his arms overwhelmed me. I opened the door a little wider. “Yes.”
He tilted his head. “Wait.” He blinked. “I recognize you.”
Our embrace in Fire Dancer’s cave, the kiss in the Egyptian tent, his teeth sinking into my neck all flashed in my mind. “You do? You know who I am?”
“I saw you in the rain by a cab the other day.”
My shoulders dropped. “Oh, yeah. The cab.”
“And…I’m also your new boss.” He held out his hand. “Mark Randle.”
I closed the door half way. “No, you’re not. My boss is an older gentleman.”
He laughed and pulled out his wallet. “We’ve never been formally introduced.” He handed me his card and showed me his driver’s license.
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