by Avery Aster
"We've recently improved our room keys, so if you'll give me your hand," Connie said, catching her attention. She snapped a slim bracelet on Emma's wrist as she explained. "Line up the 'E' to the one on the door of your apartment and the lock releases. The bracelet will also allow you to enter the spa, gymnasium, and any other part of the resort you want to visit."
Emma thanked her, but knew she wasn't going to have a lot of time to visit the spa or the gym. She had a deadline to meet.
"The elevator to your suite is just down here." Connie gestured for her to follow and they stopped before a floor to ceiling mirror. The mirror slid to the right revealing a hidden elevator.
"Wow." Emma stepped inside and the door slid closed.
"Sensors," Connie informed her. "Align your bracelet with the Tower apartment."
Emma did as she was told and they were in motion.
Then she wondered what on earth was going to happen next.
She didn't have long to wait.
The doors opened in a smooth move.
They entered a wide hallway with two sets of double doors.
Connie indicated the wall plaque made of bronze that stated The Tower Suite.
Emma used the sensor on her bracelet to open the door.
"I hope you will be comfortable here," Connie opened the double doors, then stepped back and waited for Emma to move into the room ahead of her.
The space was vast, the walls lime-washed in a chalk white. Emma tipped back her head to study the vaulted ceiling. It was gorgeous with heavy fans of dark wood lazily stirring the breeze. The floor was an ivory marble that ran through the whole apartment. The sitting area had a rug of thick wool that matched two four seater velvet sofas the colour of fresh cranberries. A river of cushions in ivory linen matched the carefully folded throws on the arms. There was a square coffee table made of tempered glass that held a giant glass bowl overflowing with fruit. Emma wandered through the space, loving the ruthlessly modern round glass table tucked in a dining alcove that sat four. The table groaned under the weight of another huge glass bowl, this one crammed with frangipani. The scent was wondrous.
But then she spotted a U shaped desk with an ergonomically designed leather chair in what had been turned into a writing nook. The desk was set in front of a wide window with spectacular views of the sand and the sea.
Bliss.
Amazing.
"This is the perfect space for my work. Thank you so..." Emma turned to Connie to find her gone, "much," she said to the empty room.
With a shrug she went to explore. A small but functional kitchen was L shaped, kitted out with worktops in sparkly cream granite, with press-touch cupboards the colour of a frothy cappuccino. Inserted into the worktop was a four burner halogen hob with a bowl-shaped wok burner. She opened a built-in larder refrigerator, found it filled to the brim. She certainly wasn't going to starve.
When Emma entered a stunning bedroom, airy and fresh with voile drapes fluttering in a light breeze at the floor to ceiling windows, she couldn't help but grin at a bed so huge it would sleep four quite comfortably. She poked her head into a stupendous bathroom, with its towering ceilings and spectacular view of the ocean.
Then she wandered back into the sitting room and stepped through wide open French doors onto the smooth sundeck with a plunge pool, the water gin clear. With a happy sigh, Emma leaned on the balcony and just inhaled the scent of the sea mingling with jasmine and vast pots of tea roses. And for the first time in a long time, her shoulders relaxed. She kicked off her sandals, curled her toes and closed her eyes. Except for the cry of a lone gull, the ebb and flow of the soft beat of the waves, it was so very tranquil, so relaxing.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
Maybe here, in Eden, was the place where the healing could begin, where her mind would settle and she'd work uninterrupted. Emma reminded herself that she wasn't here for a holiday. She was here to find her mojo, to make a deadline. With a last lingering look at the beach and the ocean, Emma turned to organise her workspace.
Chapter Three
Forty-eight hours later, best-selling crime writer E.J. Byron, aka Emma Ludlow, sat in front of her laptop without an original thought in her lamebrain. Since it was just before dawn, she guzzled strong black coffee gone cold in the feeble hope it would kick start her creative thinking, but her mind remained as empty as the screen in front of her. Emma didn’t believe in writer’s block. She certainly didn’t believe in it on a deadline.
She was going about it the wrong way, Emma decided as she carefully selected a green M&M candy from the glass bowl sitting at her elbow. Green was for go. She tossed the candy into her mouth and crunched. Her outline for the story was printed out on paper. The plotline, too. She had a sentence to begin the scene structure in her head. But no luck. Maybe a change of routine would nudge something loose. She'd already, with the help of a yoga DVD, tried that by standing on her head for ten minutes. Apparently blood surge to the brain was a failsafe way of kicking the muse up the ass.
It didn't work.
And she wasn’t working either.
Maybe she should light a scented candle.
Maybe she'd wait until twilight.
Candles in the dark would set the mood, set the scene.
Maybe meditation was the answer.
Sounded like a plan.
So she clicked on her iTunes account and selected Utopian Sounds, they always worked for her muse. In the past, she'd never had a problem in believing in, or working towards, an out of body experience.
Closing her eyes, Emma took a deep breath in through her nose and out her mouth, and tried to float around the astral plane chanting, "Mind awake. Body asleep."
* * *
Ten minutes later.
Nothing.
It appeared the universe was busy with more important things today.
Emma opened her eyes again and stared at the screen, the blank screen.
With an editor who was an evil witch, a talented witch, like Susie Phillips, she couldn't afford to claim writer's block because Susie would just bitch slap her and tell her to, 'Get the hell on with it!'
Tired of herself, Emma reached for another green M&M.
She needed to do something physical, a diversion, a change of scene.
Eden was gorgeous, but she’d buried herself in her room stubbornly determined to write and achieving bugger all. To Emma's way of thinking, her subconscious was telling her to take some beach time. She wasn't making the most of Eden, was she? And by not making the most of it, her mind was rebelling.
A healthy body, her yogini told her, meant a healthy mind.
Words to live by.
As Emma strolled into the bedroom, she caught sight of herself in the massive mirror that leaned against the wall. She was vertically challenged, nothing she could do about that. But she was perfectly proportioned, had a tight little body made that way by the hours she spent with light weights and resistance bands. As a girl she'd been painfully shy, laughably skinny, though she'd eaten enough (according to her late father) for a starving trucker. The ragging about her shyness, her height, hadn't bothered her too much until she'd found boys. Boys who, without exception, treated her as if she was their fragile little sister, their best little pal. At the time she'd had the muscle-tone of a tea-leaf. So, with the quiet focus and a persistence she'd been born with, Emma had altered what could be altered. It had taken her a year of stretching, muscle toning, and plenty of sweat to make herself physically strong, but she'd done it. These days she tried very hard not to take her body for granted and worked it as regularly as she did her brain.
Her step hitched when her eye caught the Kindle on the bedside table, and temptation whispered in her ears.
Her office at home was bulging with books. Books on medicine, science, manuals on police procedure, forensics, how-to, and of course, all her favourites by the masters of the macabre; Poe, King, Masterton, Laymon, McCammon, Bloch, Koontz, and more. She might write cr
ime, but the genre that thrilled her and got her blood pumping was well-written horror. Emma ignored the siren call to open her reader and bury herself in one of the greats. She was up against a deadline and her self-discipline wouldn't let her take time for one of life's greatest pleasures, reading.
So she stripped, tossed her clothes on the floor, dragged on running gear, and skipped out the door to run a brisk three miles.
* * *
Two days later, dawn broke over the horizon as Emma jogged at a fast but steady clip along the edge of the surf. The breeze was warm as it tossed the heavy ponytail tied high on her head. With joy in her heart, she inhaled deeply the salty scent of the sea. She wore tiny lycra shorts and matching sports bra the colour of crushed raspberries. This morning her feet were bare. She loved feeling the fine sand between her toes, the chill of the ocean. Eden was a very well named piece of island paradise.
Her mind was clear of stress and strain.
And for the first time in months, she felt... happy.
Hard not to be happy when her dastardly plan for the hero of her series, Cole Dawson, was, finally, coming together very nicely in her mind. In the first book of her series, An Angel's Tear, she'd made Cole suffer the torments of hell. In this story he was still physically and psychologically shaky. Now she was about to send his world spinning out of control again. How he'd need to dig deep to deal with the grisly murder and mayhem she was about to toss into his path, was coming together very nicely, too. Very nicely.
Since the dawn run along the beach was working for her muse, Emma made a firm promise to herself to jog every single day.
* * *
And talking of happy things, her mind flew back to the telephone conversation she'd had last night with her cousin Alexander's wife, Rosie.
"Are you kidding me?" Emma had responded to Rosie’s invitation with a laugh. "No, I am not coming to England. Do you seriously think I'm going to play gooseberry with loved-up newlyweds?"
"For God's sake, Em. It's not as if we're doing anything kinky... unfortunately. Especially now I am, and I quote, carrying his child."
Since Rosie had been a friend from kindergarten and had always in Emma's opinion, over-shared, she interrupted before Rosie got into her stride.
"Lalalala. I do not want to hear about your love life."
"It's about time you had a little bit of love in your own life," Rosie told her, not mincing her words.
No. Way.
"Not a chance, 'Stupid Cupid'. Keep your little bow and arrow to yourself."
"Not all men are low life scum double-dealing bastards."
Maybe in Rosie-land men were caring, sharing and loving. But Emma's experiences with men had left her wiser and a hell of a lot poorer.
"Divorcing Richard was expensive. He almost bankrupted me. I don't think I've ever been so scared in my life. I lost my home, my job, most of my savings."
"Look on the bright side. You're a best-selling author. He can't touch you now."
"Don't be too sure," Emma muttered darkly. "His shark of a lawyer circled around An Angel's Tear for months trying to find something that might indicate it was about his client."
"That's ridiculous," Rosie retorted. "No one in their right mind would call Tricky Dicky an angel."
Emma couldn't help but grin. "I did use his characteristics in the book," she admitted.
"Who?"
"Evangeline Grey."
Emma grinned at Rosie's howl of laughter.
"Omigod. She's the ultimate evil crone. I must read it again."
"She's a dipsomaniacal nose-candy who nails anything that moves."
"She was so lovely in the beginning, too. So... normal. The way you chronicled her psychological deterioration was just horrible. How do you come up with this stuff?"
"My imagination," Emma said, not wanting to admit that her marriage had given her a unique insight into the emergent evolution of an unstable mind.
"Alexander always said you were a bit of a dreamer."
That was very true. Emma had indeed been a quiet, introspective child. An observer of life. Her cousins had called her Mouse, sometimes Alexander still did. Emma knew the term was one of endearment, but she had to accept that even in adulthood the barb of the name still stung. It made her feel invisible, as if she didn’t matter.
"Still am," Emma admitted. "I can’t thank Alexander enough for securing me the invitation to Eden. It's so tranquil. The book's rocking along."
"Working?” Rosie exploded. “You're supposed to be taking a break!"
"I'm jogging every morning," Emma offered in a hopeful tone.
"Can't say you don't lead an exciting life," Rosie drawled. "I hope you're eating properly and not existing on M&M’s. I know what you're like when you're writing. You forget your own name.” Then she paused before speaking in a strangely cheery voice. “What's the food like? I hear they've a new chef."
Emma’s brow wrinkled at the weird change of tone.
"To be honest I haven't had time to think about food. The kitchen's well-stocked. I haven't bothered to visit the restaurant. I hate eating alone in public."
Then she frowned again at the very annoyed grunt in her ear.
"Order room service! Honestly, Emma, you need to start looking after yourself better."
"Yes, mummy."
Rosie heaved a heartfelt sigh.
"Look, when you're finished in Eden, why don't you come and spend time at Ludlow Hall? You don't have to stay with us if you don't want to. You can have your own space, your own cabin in the hills. Alexander says you can be the author in residence."
And Emma found she couldn't resist the wheedling in Rosie's tone.
Sounded like long term plan.
"I'll think about it," she promised.
* * *
And she was thinking about it.
As Emma slowed from a jog to a brisk walk she decided it might be a good idea to spend time with her extended family.
Perhaps, after she was finished in Eden, a fresh start in the land of her birth was just what she needed.
Chapter Four
Two miles into his morning run, Oscar lifted his face to the breeze, to the sun's first kiss that turned the sky into a dome of blinding blue. He’d awoken this morning and listened to the call of the ocean. Dressed in board shorts, he'd jogged down the beach and into the water for a swim before his run.
What a beautiful day.
For the first time in months he felt relaxed and... happy.
A lone gull screeched in a cloudless sky.
Oscar picked up the pace.
When a man worked with food twenty-four-seven, he needed to keep a weather eye on his waistline. With years of military training under his belt, he'd learned to enjoy the discipline of working his body hard. Oscar lengthened his long stride, revelling in the feel of salty air in his lungs, the way the wind dried the sea on his skin.
Then he spotted another runner ahead of him. A woman. She was a little thing. Tinkerbelle in tiny pink shorts. Toned arms pumped out a rhythm that matched bare feet kicking up damp sand on the shoreline. Her legs were lean. Maybe too lean, edging towards skinny. Her ponytail bounced low on her back, the hair dark.
Oscar’s eyes narrowed.
The way she moved, her build, made him think of Emma.
The ache in his heart, a constant companion for far too long, deepened to remind him of all that he had lost.
Annoyed with himself and annoyed with how his subconscious snuck Emma's stunning features to the forefront of his mind too often these days, Oscar told himself this was what happened when a man had too much time on his hands. Too much time meant his mind stopped focusing on the things that mattered and instead centred on things that could never be changed.
On deep regrets.
On past failures.
On love lost.
Fuck.
He sounded like a pitiful love song.
However, his eyes never left the girl who'd slowed from a run to a walk.
He knew that walk.
To get the crazy beat of his heart under control, to pull air into abruptly tight lungs, Oscar slowed his pace.
He knew the swing of the narrow hips, the way her head sat on those slim shoulders.
She stopped, and began a stretch routine to ease out her muscles.
He knew the way her thigh and calf muscles worked.
Not once did he realise he’d automatically moved to stay out of her line of vision, keeping pace with her like a big black panther might stalk a tethered fawn.
* * *
Emma turned towards the ocean, lifted her face to the sun.
God, she felt fabulous.
Taking her time, she slowly moved into a yoga sun salute, stretching out tight muscles in her back, her shoulders. She’d been taught by her yogini to create the Ujjayi breath. The key was to tighten the back of the throat, similar to the constriction made when a person whispered. The audible breath had been compared to the sound of the ocean. The Ujjayi breath flows in and out through the nostrils, with the lips gently closed.
Emma closed her eyes, gave thanks for such a beautiful day.
And cleared her mind.
She stood with her head bowed, palms together as if in prayer, and let her breathing match the beat of the waves.
The sensation of a cloud passing over the sun had her slowly open her eyes.
And stare right into the face of a man.
Shock gave her a sucker-punch to the gut as her heart stuttered before beating too hard against her ribs, in her ears. For Emma the real world just dropped away. Every single night since he'd left her, through all the loss and all the pain, she'd dreamed of Oscar. And sent a silent prayer to the universe that he stayed safe. The man standing in front of her was the spitting image of Oscar, except... he was different. His hair was the colour of jet, like Oscar’s, but this man’s hair was too long and tied back at the neck. He had a tattooed sleeve on his left arm. Emma couldn’t imagine Oscar having a tattoo.