Escape From Reality (13 page)

She lay back,
letting her legs fall open, one hand straying to her breast, fingers rubbing
her nipple. It puckered at her touch, hardening, growing exquisitely sensitive.
She pinched it, an electric jolt shooting through her, going directly to her
core.

The man watched
her for a moment longer, then his eyes slid slowly down her body as she lay
waiting for him, aching for him. She shifted, her legs moving further apart.

Even though
she’d written the words before in her story, she never really believed they
could be true, but in that moment, she could actually feel his eyes caressing
her body as she lay on the bed.

His eyes met
hers again. She waited, but instead of coming to her, he shook his head. Her
brows drew together in confusion, but then it was clear. She knew what he
wanted.

Under his
intense gaze, Leila rose up to her knees, then turned, her back to the man.
Looking over her shoulder, she saw him nod, his lips curving into a knowing
smile.

He moved behind
her, his hands caressing her hips with such familiarity, as if he’d touched
her—made love to her—a thousand times before. She leaned forward,
hands braced on the headboard of the bed, spreading her legs for him, willing
to do anything for him.

His caresses
stopped as he dug his fingers into her skin. Pressing his body against her, he
rubbed himself slowly back and forth, his erection hot and hard against her
skin.

Anticipation
welled inside Leila, her breath coming in short gasps. As she turned her head
again to look at the man, he reached forward and grabbed a handful of her hair,
jerking her head back. At the same instant, he drove himself into her, filling
her with one stroke.

Leila cried
out, every nerve in her body reacting as the man thrust into her. Just as
before, the man thrust quickly, his moans deep and masculine. Then Leila heard
herself, as if from a distance, her high, sharp cries mixing with his. They
startled her; she’d never made noises like this, wanton and wild and
uncontrollable.

What he did to
her was brief and fast and utterly primal. He drove himself deeply into Leila,
over and over, pulling her head back, his breath rasping in her ear. And then
with a deep moan, he buried himself completely, held himself still inside her,
his body trembling fiercely. As before, she knew he was close, so close she
could feel it in every shudder and movement of his body against her, inside
her.

She was so
close, her body trembling on the edge, aching for release, waiting for him,
knowing this was how it was supposed to happen. He tensed briefly, fingers
digging into her hips, and then he thrust forward quickly, sharply, his voice
rising as he came. As his heat filled her, Leila cried out, shaking and
jerking, her orgasm taking over her body, igniting her from the inside.

Her climax
spiraled on for what felt like an eternity, carrying her higher and higher, her
body shaking, out of control. It was more than she’d ever experienced…and
everything she’d ever wanted.

The man finally
released her hair and she fell forward, catching herself on the headboard. The
man moved away from her and for a moment she hung there, gasping. Sinking to
the mattress, she brushed the hair from her face.

“Leila.”

Leila lifted
her head.

Sebastian stood
just inside the open doorway. The man was gone, and she was alone on the bed,
naked, gasping, body still trembling with the aftershocks of her powerful
orgasm. The look on his face told her everything, told her he’d been there long
enough to hear, to see…to know.

“Sebastian…I
can explain.” But could she? She wasn’t even sure what had just happened, who
had just been there in her room, in her bed.

Without a word,
Sebastian turned and walked out. Leila scrambled off the bed and rushed into
the hall.

But the hall
was empty. Sebastian was gone, again.

Leila turned
back to her room. She avoided looking at the figures on the door, afraid of
what she might—or might not—see. Closing the door behind her, she
climbed back into bed.

The last image on
her mind before she fell into a restless sleep was the look on Sebastian’s
face, the knowledge…the hurt in his eyes.

Chapter
Eight

Leila blinked
once, then her eyes flew open. The room was dim, the light subdued, and for a
moment she was disoriented. She turned to the bedside table, picked up her
watch, and squinted. It was past breakfast. Then a flash of lightning lit the
room, a boom of thunder following a moment later. She sat up as the heavy
raindrops hit the window.

Her heart sank;
she’d probably missed her critique with Cheryl. The last thing she
wanted—needed—was to disappoint the woman who’d given her this
amazing opportunity.

Throwing back
the sheet, she grabbed the robe from the foot of her bed and ran to the door,
flinging it open. On the silver tray was an envelope, thicker than yesterday’s.
Leila let out a sigh of relief. It was a written critique. She snatched up the
envelope, turning back to her room.

Her eyes fell
on the door and her heart sank for a moment, her dream coming back to her. She
glared at the figure of the man, the image of Sebastian’s face impressed in her
mind. It was just a dream, but it felt so very real.

The critique
from Cheryl lifted Leila’s spirits. She read the pages eagerly, rereading
certain pages and passages. Cheryl thought the conflict scene was particularly
well written, the emotions between the couple deep and authentic.

Cheryl then
gave Leila her last assignment, bringing her characters back together and
giving them a happily-ever-after ending. She encouraged Leila to keep the pace
of the story moving, to make the reunion realistic and believable and then
leave the reader with a well-planned final scene showing her characters
together.

The last page
wasn’t part of the critique. It was a note from Cheryl explaining that the next
day would be Leila’s last. Cheryl asked to meet Leila at breakfast for one
final critique of the final scenes of the book, the scenes bringing her hero
and heroine back together. Then the seaplane would take Leila to Miami, the charter
flight returning her to New York.

Leila finally
set the pages on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. She was excited
to reunite her characters and finish her manuscript.

But she was sad
to think she only had the rest of the day and the next morning on the island.
Her time with Cheryl had flown by and even though she’d felt she’d learned so
much, she wished she could stay longer.

But what broke Leila’s
heart was the realization she would never know for sure who—or
what—Sebastian was.

With a sigh,
she went to the desk to retrieve the writer’s box and a supply of paper.
Curling up in the bed, she stacked the pillows behind her back, setting a fresh
piece of paper on the top of the box.

Leila was going
to bring her characters back together, come hell or high water. She paused,
listening to the rain, chewing on the end of her pen. Then it came to her and
she began writing.

Everything came
together, the idea for the reconciliation, the way it happened. Leila outlined
every scene carefully, wanting to save the best until last. She went back,
adding details, filling in the dialog, layering emotions and feelings.

She finally
came to the last scene, anticipation rising. For the first time, Leila was
completely confident in what she was writing, how the scene would go, the exact
words that would convey exactly what she wanted to say.

And then she
was done. She sat back, drew a deep breath, and exhaled. It was finished. Her
hero and heroine were reunited, the conflict resolved, their future secure. She
had the happily ever after ending she wanted, the ending her characters
deserved. Her story—their story—was finished.

Leila
stretched, working the kinks out of her neck and shoulders. She felt
exhilarated and exhausted at the same time. But it was a hard won exhaustion
and a deep satisfaction, knowing she’d written something pretty amazing.

The storm was
still raging outside, rain pelting the windows. She folded the pages, opened
the door, and set them on the silver salver. Sitting beside the tray was a pot
of coffee, a pitcher of juice, and a tray of pastries.

It was long
past breakfast, but Leila found she was ravenous. She took the tray back to bed
and devoured the pastries, bypassing the cold coffee for a glass of juice.

Finally, she
sat back, licking the last of the pastry filling from her fingers. There was
nothing more to write. It felt strange to have nothing to do, no more story to
tell.

The rain had
stopped, the pale yellow sun filling her room. A walk would do her good, maybe
lift the funk she was in. She took a shower, lingering beneath the fall of hot
water.

The wardrobe
yielded a long dress, flowing and floating and utterly romantic. She pulled it
over her head, letting the billowy fabric fall to the floor. The image of Sebastian
came to her unbidden, his hands on her, tearing the dress from her body,
exposing her breasts, leaning down to kiss them.

His face was
etched in her mind. She’d memorized every feature: the green eyes, the
startling ring of blue around the iris. The way his mouth turned up just at one
corner.

She shook
herself. Fantasies like that weren’t going to do her any good. If the day were
to play out like the previous one had, Sebastian wasn’t going to appear. She’d
written the scenes and, for the most part, he’d followed them. Now she’d
written the conflict, the scenes that tore her hero and heroine apart. They
were no more. She and Sebastian were no more.

Leila walked
down the stairs and out the castle’s front door. The grass was wet, the world
alive with the sounds of water dripping from the leaves. For a moment, she
stood on the wide area of grass at the base of the first set of steps.

The lush
garden, where Sebastian had last come to her—last made love to
her—lay just ahead. But as much as she wanted to go there, she knew he
wouldn’t appear. She’d done too good of a job on her novel, written the scenes
too well.

She knew in her
heart—whether he was real or imaginary—there would be no more
visits from Sebastian.

Chapter
Nine

Leila’s alarm
went off early, jarring her out of a dreamless sleep. She stretched, looking up
for the last time at the underside of the canopy. Reluctantly, she climbed out
of bed, heading to the bathroom for her shower.

She realized
she’d need to wear the clothes she had arrived in. Somewhere in the time she’d
been on the island, her clothes had been laundered and hung in the wardrobe. As
she slipped into her slacks and blouse, it was like slipping back into her old
life. She really was going home to New York.

Cheryl was
waiting in the dining room. She rose, kissing Leila’s cheeks.

“Leila, dear.
Our last breakfast together, and your last critique. It’s been quite a week for
you, hasn’t it?”

Leila set her
bag on the floor then sat at the table. Dominick appeared at her elbow, pouring
her coffee. As she stirred in sugar and cream, Cheryl watched her over the rim
of her cup.

“I must say, Leila,
I’ve been very impressed with your work. You’ve created a fresh story, with
vibrant characters and a compelling relationship between them. The conflict was
believable and heart wrenching, and your ending is satisfying. Even your
secondary characters have life and depth. That’s not always easy to do.”

“Thank you, Cheryl.
It means a great deal to hear you say that. Now what? What’s the next step?”

“You have a
manuscript to be proud of. I suggest you set it aside for a few weeks, let it
rest in your mind. Then give it a very good read through, looking for any typos
or missing words, plot holes, inconsistencies.”

Cheryl smiled.
“I must admit, I’m notorious for leaving out words in my first draft. My brain
goes much faster than my fingers can. And then, well…you’ll submit your
manuscript.”

Cheryl reached
for a small card, sliding it toward Leila. “This is the contact number for my
agent. I’ve let her know about you.”

Leila was
stunned. She accepted the card from Cheryl, a broad smile on her face. “Oh, Cheryl,
thank you! I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this.”

Cheryl held up
her hand. “Please, Leila. It’s my pleasure. But your manuscript will have to
stand on its own merits. My agent isn’t taking a look just because I’ve been
working with you.”

“I understand.
And I appreciate that. I really do.”

“It’s what
writers do for each other. Someday, you can help someone else.”

“So this is it,
then?” Leila sat back. “I’m headed home.”

“You are. And
you’re ready. Believe me, it’ll be work, but you can do it, Leila. Here.” She slid
a thick envelope across the table toward Leila. “Your manuscript. The
original.”