The Bad Boys of Eden

by Avery Aster

  At the mention of Ms. Bullard’s name, a wave of butterflies erupted in Leila’s stomach. During the excitement, and occasional moments of panic, during her trip, she’d lost sight of the real reason she was here: to meet and work with the famous romance writer Cheryl Bullard. The only author she truly looked up to. The woman that could ultimately change her life.

  “Thank you, Dominick.”

  “The dining room is right this way…” He pointed toward their left and Leila caught a brief glimpse of a roaring fire and a large table that appeared set for two, candlelight flickering on silver.

  “Your room is at the top of the stairs.” They ascended a thick marble staircase that sparkled with a myriad of colored light reflected from the large twinkling stained glass windows at the very top. Tapestries lined the walls, and Leila’s fingers trailed along the rich fabric as she followed along, her eyes scanning the artwork, shocked to see bold paintings of different couples in the throes of passion and one large portrait that looked like a woman’s vulva.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  They reached the landing, Dominick pausing before an intricately carved door flanked by wall sconces holding fat white candles. In the flickering light, shadows played across a carving of two figures, arms tightly wrapped around each other.

  Dominick nodded. “The castle will likely introduce you to many things that you have never seen before.”

  His voice faded as Leila leaned closer to the door. For an instant, the figures shimmered and swayed then drew closer, arms pulling the other into a passionate embrace, the kiss deepening.

  The clothing on the figures fell away, the woman’s breast briefly burnished by flickering candlelight before being covered by the man’s caressing fingers. The man was clearly aroused, the scene quickly becoming extremely erotic. Sounds—a soft moan of pleasure, a sighed gasp—echoed in the hall. The couple’s actions were clear now, the man was making love to the woman as they stood, her leg placed high on his hip, his hand beneath her leg, his hips flexing…

  “Oh…my…” Leila stepped quickly away from the door, one hand to her throat, backing into Dominick. He caught her elbow and she turned to him in confusion.

  “Miss Connors, are you alright?”

  Heat rose in Leila’s cheeks, her words caught in her throat as she struggled to reply. Glancing back at the door, she drew in a startled breath. The couple, now fully clothed, stood a polite distance apart, sharing a chaste kiss.

  “I…I’m fine. I think I’m just tired. The carvings…I thought I saw them move.”

  Dominick’s chuckle was low. He released her elbow, reaching for the wrought-iron door handle.

  “Writers, yes…such vivid imaginations. I would imagine that comes in very handy in your line of work, seeing inspiration in even the mundane. Even in a simple door.” In the soft light, she thought she saw him smile.

  Dominick opened the heavy door to her bedroom and Leila’s uncertainty was quickly forgotten.

  “Oh my! It’s beautiful!”

  Her room was incredibly large, dominated by a glorious four-poster bed intricately carved in the Jacobean style. Rich burgundy drapes hung from the sides and across the top, and a heavily detailed Tree of Life spread covered the thick plush mattress.

  Carefully arranged around the room were various antique dressers and a massive wardrobe, all in the same style and all heavily carved. The floor was covered with a thick burgundy rug, reflecting the Tree of Life pattern on the bedclothes. As on the stairs, the walls were hung with tapestries, but the light was muted and Leila couldn’t see the details. A single multi-paned window with a deep padded ledge reflected the light of the candles.

  “It’s a bit anachronistic, you know, 17th century Jacobean in a medieval castle, but the owner is a bit of an eccentric and, well, when you own a castle, you can furnish it as you like.”

  Leila dropped her purse and bag on the carved bench at the end of the bed, turning to watch Dominick light the last of the candles on the mantle with a long taper.

  “The owner… who is he?”

  He turned, an enigmatic smile on his face. “I’m afraid I cannot divulge that information, Miss Connors. If you were looking for the provenance of each piece of furniture in the castle or the vintage of every bottle of wine in the cellar, I’d be happy to supply that information. But…” He blew out the taper, dropping it into the banked fire.

  “That’s one of the many charms of this island, and this castle.” He looked around the room with such fondness that Leila believed, for a moment, the castle belonged to him.

  “I’ve worked here since the beginning; I know all the secrets.” With a measured step and a broad smile, he walked toward her. “But now, as you well know, giving away all of the secrets, especially at the very beginning, ruins the story.”

  Dominick walked to the door, hand resting on the large handle. “The fire is banked for the night and needs no further attention.” He glanced at the hearth as if to confirm his words. “It’s not so much for the warmth, although we do get a freshening breeze at times, but to ward off the ever-present dampness. You’ll be expected in the great hall for supper shortly. Bottom of the stairs, to your right.”

  He left her standing in the middle of her room, the door closing softly behind him. After a moment, she retrieved her bag and stepped toward the bathroom.

  Reflexively, she glanced at the heavy wooden door, as intricately carved as the door to her room. Rather than finding a man and woman in an embrace, she saw a pair of swans, their arched necks gracefully entwined, floating on a calm pool beneath weeping willow trees. She stared at the door, willing the figures to move, but the placid swans remained immobile, heads bowed.

  Finally stepping past the swans, she walked into the bathroom. It was a cavernous space, and as Dominick had said, anachronistic. The walls were rough-cut gray stone, the window no more than an arrow-slit filled with tiny panes of leaded glass.

  But the fixtures were state-of-the-art, surfaces covered in rich marbles and granites, almost invisible glass doors covering the shower. Leila glanced longingly at the deep bathtub, sighed, and turned to the vanity mirror.

  Ten minutes saw her ready, or as ready as she felt she could be, to meet the most inspiring person in her life. Her clothes were more or less clean, a bit wrinkled from travel but still presentable. There would be time later to explore the offerings in the dressers and wardrobe.

  The great hall was enormous, a coffered ceiling rising over twenty feet above her head. Leila let her eyes travel over the room, taking in the stained glass windows, glowing softly in the candlelight. Suits of armor stood between the windows, glowing dull silver.

  “Welcome, Leila.”

  The voice seemed to come out of nowhere, but she recognized it instantly and turned with a stifled gasp.

  “Oh, Ms. Bullard. I…I didn’t see you there.” The woman seated at the head of the table rose, coming toward Leila.

  For all her diminutive size, Cheryl Bullard was an imposing figure. Dressed in her customary skirt and flowing shawl, she held out her hands toward Leila.

  “I’m sorry, dear. I know it all must be a bit overwhelming.”

  Leila took Cheryl’s hands and was rewarded with a brief kiss on both cheeks along with an embrace.

  “Come.” Leila was released and Cheryl turned, indicating a chair for Leila.

  “You must be absolutely famished. We’ll have our supper and then I’ll give you your first assignment and homework before you rest.”

  Leila took her seat, placing the linen napkin across her lap. “Assignment?”

  Cheryl waved her hand. “Nothing too stressful, I can assure you. The plan for the week will be very simple; we meet once a day for tea or dinner, discuss your writing and overall progress, and I give you something to take away, to work on, usually overnight. There’s a table outside of your room; just place your pages there and they’ll be brought to me. I’ll review them…”

  “Pages
?”

  “Yes, there are no computers or Internet here, just paper and pen. I don’t want you distracted by anything but your own desires and thoughts. You need to truly connect with your writing. Let yourself get caught up in the beauty and mystery of your own mind, Leila. That is a place where fantasies come true.”

  A door suddenly opened behind Cheryl and Dominick entered carrying two covered dishes, setting them in front of the women. He reached for the bottle of wine, filling Leila’s glass.

  “Anything else?” He hesitated. Leila shook her head, as did Cheryl, and he retreated.

  “I’ll review your assignment and you’ll receive my written critique in the morning, the same place where you left your pages.” Cheryl removed the cover from her plate. Leila followed suit, the aroma of roasted Cornish game hen making her mouth water. The plump golden bird was nestled on a bed of wild rice, with steamed vegetables alongside.

  “This looked delicious. I guess I’m hungrier than I realized.” Leila picked up her knife and fork, cutting into the delicate hen. She lifted the fork to her mouth, closing her eyes in bliss, almost unaware that Cheryl was speaking. Opening her eyes, she chewed while focusing on the woman to her right.

  “We’ll jump right in. You’re going to write a romance while you’re here. To make this really your novel, you’re going to be the heroine. You’ll write from your perspective. Your first assignment will be to bring your hero to life.”

  Leila took a sip of wine. Crafting her hero had been one of the things that had come up in the conference critique as a resounding negative.

  “Heroes are the throbbing pulse of your manuscript, the person the heroine falls in love with, and the person your reader falls in love with. Make him someone you fall in love with as well. You’re going to be with him for many pages – make it a good relationship.”

  Cheryl paused, eyeing Leila critically. “If I remember from your critique, your hero was one dimensional, lacking depth. Also, your external conflict was weak; the event that continually pulls our couple apart was almost nonexistent. It’s almost as if you’re afraid to give your characters any challenges.”

  Leila cringed. “Those were the exact words. Your exact words, Cheryl.”

  Cheryl smiled. “Then you know what you need to work on. Throw everything you can at them, anything that pulls them apart. Test them over and over. There should be internal conflict as well, emotional issues that keep them apart, and a romantic conflict, why they believe they’ll never be together as lovers even though everything about their minds and bodies tells them that they should be.”

  Leila sighed. “It’s all confusing sometimes, which is internal or romantic.”

  “It gets easier, believe me. For now, write who your hero is, what he is. Everything – his physical description, what he smells like, what he sounds like when he makes love. Eyes closed as he takes his heroine – you – or eyes open, locked with yours. How he smiles, when he smiles, what he looks like in his sleep. Imagine your perfect lover. And then imagine how you’d meet him.”

  Leila didn’t think she could attribute the flush in her cheeks to just the wine alone. While she had the image of her perfect lover locked in her mind’s eye, she’d never ventured to expose that image on a page. Cheryl’s words were as if the woman had read Leila’s mind, sensed her deepest secrets and desires.

  “Leila, if you’re embarrassed or hesitant or can’t describe a love scene as though you are caught right in the middle of it, your readers will notice and your book becomes a wall banger.”

  “Wall banger?”

  “When your reader closes the book in disgust and throws it against the wall,” she replied with a laugh before quickly growing serious. “If you’re not honest with your readers, they’ll know and you’ll lose them.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t worry. Your romance will be anything but a wall banger.” Cheryl leaned forward, resting her hand on Leila’s. “You’re selling yourself short. You have it in you. You just need to let go of your fears, and it’ll flow.”

  Leila leaned back, pushing her empty plate away. “This is an amazing opportunity, Cheryl, and I want to thank you for giving me this chance…”

  “Oh, please, no…it’s my pleasure. Anytime I can mentor someone, I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

  A grin spread across Cheryl’s face, setting her eyes alight with a mischievous glint. “There’s one more thing you need to add to the recipe for your hero.”

  “And that is?”

  “The fun part; the spice. He needs a flaw and an edge…he needs both. Give him something that takes him from beyond the one-dimensional ordinary into absolutely unforgettable. There has to be darkness, a secret perhaps, the imperfection in all that masculinity to make him real…the basis for his internal and romantic conflicts. Think of something rough and primal and almost—but not quite—dangerous. Relationships that run smoothly from start to finish are boring. Readers want the twists and turns the hero’s flaw—and the heroine’s—add to the story.”

  Leila was quiet for a moment, then sighed deeply. “Do you believe if you’ve never had luck in love, you can’t write romance that people can believe in?”

  Cheryl made a dismissive noise and waved her hand. “Absolutely not. You have it in you…” She pointed a finger at Leila. “We all know what we want, Leila…and we all have our fantasies. And you…” the finger jabbed toward Leila again “…have the ability to tell those stories; to make people feel something. Not everyone has that. You just need a bit of practice…some confidence.”

  Pushing her chair back, Cheryl rose. “Now. Off to do your assignment. It’s getting late. I’m a night owl by nature, but you’ve had a long day.”

  Leila rose, following Cheryl to the door. “It has been a long day…a long week, counting the conference. But I am excited to get started. A fresh start, as it were.”

  Cheryl turned and smiled. “Then I’ll keep you no longer. Remember, your ideal hero, with a dark side. And leave your pages outside your door. Look for my critique in the morning. Good night, Leila.” And with a swirl of shawl and skirt, Cheryl was gone, disappearing down the dim hallway.

  Leila climbed the stairs to her room. Outside of her door was the table Cheryl had mentioned, another intricately carved Jacobean masterpiece topped by an oval silver salver, a heavy Georgian piece resting on three diminutive legs. The top was intricately carved and Leila leaned closer, inspecting the initials set into the center motif. They were far too intricate to even identify the individual letters and she straightened, the fleeting thought she might have found a clue to the castle’s owner fading.

  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.