Escape From Reality (5 page)

“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.

Musing it must
be the ocean breezes at play, Leila turned back to the doorway to her room. She
glanced down at the table then stopped abruptly. The pages she’d left were
gone. Stepping back, she looked beneath the table, but there was nothing on the
thick rug. She peered behind the table, lifted the salver, even turned it over,
looking in bewilderment at the bottom, seeing only the hallmark. Setting it
back on the table, she gave one more look beneath the table. There was still
nothing there.

The pages had
vanished.

Brows drawn,
hand to her forehead, she took a step toward her room, still searching for the
missing pages. Her glance fell on the carved figures on her door and she drew
in a sharp breath.

No longer in a
fully clothed chaste embrace, the figures were again nude, the man holding the
woman, this time from behind, his hips pressed against her buttocks as she bent
forward. One hand caressed her hip while the other was wrapped around a thick
hank of her long hair, pulling her head back, her neck extended, eyes closed,
lips parted.

As before, his
hips flexed forward and pulled back, repeating his erotic movements as Leila’s eyes
widened in amazement. The silence in the hall was broken by a deep moan,
followed by a sharp cry. And then a stifled gasp from Leila.

The man turned
his head – he’d heard her – and his eyes met Leila’s. They were no
longer the flat eyes of a wood carving; they were hot and intense, his arousal
and passion evident in their depths. Leila’s lips parted, breath passing
between them, shallow and fast.

It was clear
his attention wasn’t directed toward the woman beneath his hands. Everything in
him was focused on Leila, his hot gaze sliding over her body in the thin gown,
traveling down her many curves, following the lines of her body as if he were drinking
her in as she stood in the chilly hallway.

For the first
time, Leila really looked at the woman carved into the door and she cried out,
hand flying to her mouth in shock.  The long hair in his hand, the curve
of her breasts, the rise and swell of her hips – and then she turned and Leila
saw her own face, eyes almost closed, mouth open in heated passion.

A wave of desire,
sudden and primal, blossomed deep inside Leila and she stumbled back, almost
bent double from the visceral force of it, a sucker punch that caught her
completely off guard. Her nipples drew up hard and tight against the friction
of her gown and she was suddenly aware that every inch of her body felt as
though it were on fire. Everywhere his eyes looked left a burning sensation; as
though he were leaving his mark, claiming her as his own.  She looked
again at herself cradled in his hands as though she were nothing more than his
delicious plaything.

Overwhelmed,
frightened, and confused, Leila reached forward, pushing open the door, stumbling
into her room. She glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes passing once again over
the man’s face, catching a smile so carnal—so utterly masculine—on
his lips. She hesitated. Caught between the intense desire to watch and the
safety that her room offered, she stopped, a profound sense of unreality
washing over her.

The man threw
his head back, his eyes closed, his thrusts now frenzied. The moaning reaching
a crescendo, all sharp cries and deep groans, and Leila held her breath. With a
final cry that bespoke as much of pain as pleasure, the man opened his eyes,
locking with hers.  Every muscle in his body held taut, he thrust once
more, hard and deep, and Leila knew – felt deep inside – that he’d
reached his climax. Over the harsh sound of his breathing, he spoke, his voice
low and rough with passion.

“Leila.”

She slammed the
door shut.

Backing away,
trembling, she bumped into the bench at the foot of her bed, sitting down hard.
Her heart pounded in her chest, her own breath rasping into her lungs. She’d been
the woman in the carving, the man taking her, using her, his passion filling
her. Her body shuddered with aftershocks and tremors, a liquid heat filling the
deepest recesses of her body.