Flood Tide (17 page)

“Marriage?” Reah looked at him with a growing happiness. “Is the famous Ewart Morgan actually suggesting marriage?”

“Not suggesting…stating. We are getting married. But I’m not going down on my knees in these wet clothes. You’re frozen! It’s time we both got out of our clothes and into the tub. Does this antiquated cottage possess a bathroom?”

“Of course,” said Reah shyly. “There’s plenty of hot water. You go first. Did you say marriage?”

“Yes, I did. I mean it. And don’t look so alarmed,” he chuckled. “I’ve already seen you in the bath, remember?”

Reah found herself blushing but that memory was crushed into oblivion as Ewart’s mouth came down with a burning kiss that took her breath away. She flung her arms round his neck and pulled him closer, her slender body pressing against the hardness of the man she loved. She wanted him so dreadfully.

Their bodies caught alight with desire. Ewart began to peel off her wet shirt, his fingers seeking the tiny buttons without hesitation. Her bare shoulders were pale and satiny in the half light.

“How I adored you that night in Florence, so long ago, when you stood there wrapped in a ridiculous sheet, making your declaration of rights. You were wonderful. I wanted to tell you then that I loved you, but would you have believed me?”

“No,” said Reah. “How could I, when you had just tried to rape me. There was no love in you that night.”

He was touching her shoulders gently, lightly. She turned her head this way and that, moving under his touch.

“Perhaps not. Love and hate are very closely entwined. You were driving me wild. When I saw you with that young Italian, I went insane with jealousy. I wanted to make you mine…at any cost.”

“The cost was almost too high, my darling,” said Reah.

“I have a beautiful moonlight dress waiting for its owner to claim it.” He smiled. “Also a green thing with slashed sleeves. Do you always leave your clothes all over the place? You’ll have to stop that habit when we are married.”

“So you have them… I had been wondering.” It was becoming almost impossible to talk as their kisses deepened and grew more intense.

“And I have a sketch of the head of David, given to me by a talented young artist as a protest. Perhaps one day she’ll sign it. I’ll have it framed, and it will hang in the study of our home so that neither of us will ever forget Florence.”

“We’ll never forget Florence,” Reah sighed.

“You’re beautiful Reah…so beautiful,” he murmured.

He kissed the hollow of her throat, his lips moving over her skin with sensitive probing; she could feel her body becoming weak with a longing to be loved. Waves of sweet elation carried away her last doubts. She loved him and wanted to be loved.

“Ewart, darling,” she whispered. “Love me, love me now…”

“This time nothing is going to stop us,” he said, his dark eyes glinting. “We are together and the door is locked against the outside world. It’s still raining and no one can even see in the windows. It’s you and I, and all the time in the world.”

“I can’t think of anything I’d like more,” said Reah, touching his face with infinite tenderness.

“I’m going to carry you upstairs and make love to you until you fall asleep in my arms, full of sweet content and happiness,” said Ewart. She could feel that the desire in his caressing mouth was barely restrained. She knew that when his passion was unleashed, it would be like nothing she had ever known before.

“It sounds…wonderful,” she said breathlessly.

“It is wonderful,” he said. “And no one is going to interrupt us. I’m going to make sure of that.”

He leaned away from her momentarily. The dark hair on his chest was still glistening from the rain. He reached for the telephone and took the receiver off the hook. A faint buzz came from it; the engaged signal was in for a long session.

“But supposing Miss Hardcastle tries to telephone me,” said Reah, trying to sound shocked.

“I’ve a feeling Miss Hardcastle would approve,” said Ewart.

He lifted her up in his arms, their mouths clinging, hair tangling, skin tingling, their senses drowning but drowning in a sea of love.

“To bed, my darling…” he said.

“It’s not an Alpine meadow,” said Reah.

“Oh, but it is,” said Ewart. “Can’t you smell the flowers?”

About the Author

Stella Whitelaw has been writing since the age of nine when her father gave her a second-hand portable typewriter. She was in bed with measles and, covered in spots, she immediately started to teach herself to type.

She progressed from short stories in national magazines to writing novels. She is a cross genre writer with 15 crime books, eight books of cat stories and many romance mysteries. She is currently writing the ninth book in the acclaimed Jordan Lacey PI series. It’s called Jazz and Die.

Her short story won the Art of Writing competition in The London Magazine, judged by Sheridan Morley. She was short-listed for the Catherine Cookson memorial prize and was awarded the Elizabeth Goudge Cup at Guildford University by the RNA.

Her hobbies, when she has time for them, are singing, walking and of course, reading.

Look for these titles by Stella Whitelaw

Now Available:

Flood Tide

Coming Soon:

Pennyroyal

The Secret Taj

The island paradise would be perfect, if only she could remember her name…

The Takamaka Tree

© 2012 Alexandra Thomas

A mysterious woman…

Washing ashore on a tropical beach, she awakes to find herself with no memory of how she came to be there. Helpless and hurting, she is grateful that she is not alone.

A curious man…

Daniel, a scientist studying local bird migrations, discovers the mystery woman, and suspects that she may have been a passenger on a recently missing yacht. Now if he can only figure out who she is…

An island paradise…

Among the sand, sun, and verdant Takamaka trees, they both work to unravel the mystery of her arrival on the island…all while falling in love.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
The Takamaka Tree:

Her mouth was full of sand. Her first conscious thought was the unpleasant sensation of fine grit caking her tongue and teeth.

She became aware that she was wet, and that warm water was lapping around her, washing over her legs rhythmically and gently. It was soothing and held no menace. She wished she could reach the water to rinse the sand out of her mouth, but the effort seemed too much.

The sun was rising in the sky and its warmth lulled her into sleep, an uneasy sleep in which she longed for unknown things to happen. There was a constricting band across her diaphragm which prevented movement, and each time she stirred a stabbing pain froze her into stillness.

She did not know how long she lay there, sun and sea warming and wetting her. A tiny crab scuttled away beneath her hand. A pair of sooty terns pattered curiously around her still figure, weaving a trail of arrowed footprints. Overhead the lush foliage of the leaning palms swept the sands with long green fingers. The scent of wild vanilla mingled with a confusion of oleander, hibiscus, frangipani.

Someone was turning her onto her side and she moaned because it hurt. She felt faintly annoyed, because the person ought to know that it hurt her to move. Her feeble resistance went unnoticed. She resented this interference. She only wanted to be allowed to sleep. The breeze murmuring through the leaves was her lullaby.

Her parched lips were being parted and a damp piece of fabric was probing gently, wiping out the grains of sand which clung to the inside of her mouth. She moved her tongue.

“In a minute,” said a voice, understanding. “Let’s get the sand out first, then you can have a drink.”

She trusted the voice. She lay still, letting the exploration go on, and with returning consciousness came other points of discomfort. Her eyelids and nostrils were encrusted with sand and she wanted to tell the damp fabric that it had more work to do.

She was becoming aware of an ache in her shoulders, up the back of her neck and spreading into her head. Her head felt as if it was swollen, as if the pressure would make her brain spill out of her ears.

She moaned again, wanting the promised water, but waiting with a new patience that came from the simple relief of knowing that someone was there.

Something light and damp was put over her shoulders and head, shutting off the now burning sun. A small round disc lay against her cheek. A button, she thought, with absolute clarity.

“We can’t have you getting sunstroke on top of this lot,” said the voice. “Won’t be long now, it’s nearly all gone.”

An arm was behind her head, lifting her only slightly, but the pain seared across her chest. She cried out, but at the same instant water dribbled into her mouth and she swallowed it greedily, choking on the uneven flow, the drink momentarily washing away the agony of the forward lift.

“Steady now, slowly does it.”

But she did not hear. The water dribbled down her chin and she lost consciousness again.

Much later, she emerged from the darkness and this time she opened her eyes. They opened freely, and for a while she lay staring at the patch of light from the window. It was still daylight but she had a feeling that evening was coming and the heat was sliding away.

She was lying on a narrow bed in a corner of a strange room, covered with a rough cotton sheet. The sand had gone and she was dry, but her neck was stiff and the pounding pain continued in her head.

She moved tentatively and found to her surprise that a wide bandage had been wrapped around her diaphragm and secured with two safety pins. Curiously, the support it gave was not unpleasant. Her middle area felt sore, and she automatically began to breathe with a shallow intake to ease the discomfort.

She grew more aware of the room. It was built of wood and furnished very simply with a chest of drawers, a table, some wooden chairs, a row of books on a crude shelf, and by the window someone had stuck a handful of wild flowers in a pot. A little green lizard ran across the ceiling. Where was she? Suppose she was alone? What had happened to her?

Dimly she thought she must have been in some accident, or had been ill, for she was very weak. She fought through the wool that clouded her mind, but nothing came. She could remember nothing, nothing at all. But the thought of water tormented her. Suddenly she was terribly frightened, and weak tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

Somewhere a door opened and a man came into the room. Vaguely she saw him through her mist of tears. He was a lean giant towering over the bed, dark-skinned, dark-haired, dark eyes beneath unruly brows. He dragged a chair over beside the bed and set a tin mug down on it. Gently he put an arm under her head and lifted her.

“Open your mouth,” he said with some authority. He put two pills on her tongue. “Now swallow these pills.”

She would have swallowed anything for the sake of the water. It was cool, fresh and sparkling, and she drank and drank. He let her drink it all to the last drop. She had never felt so thirsty.

“More,” she said.

“Good,” he said. “You’re English. That’s going to make life a lot easier. Still thirsty, are you? I’ll be back in a moment with something much nicer.”

English. She turned the word over in her mind. She was English.

Even in Hollywood, love is the ultimate director.

More Than a Dream

© 2012 Lynn Patrick

It was the big break she was waiting for. Randi St. Martin finally had the chance to direct her own project—a TV miniseries. Too bad Dion Hayden was cast in the starring role. Years ago Randi had nearly lost everything after a night of passion with the arrogant actor. But this time, she’s keeping her heart under control and all of their interactions strictly professional.

Unluckily for her, Dion doesn’t seem to have received the memo. Determined to convince her to give him another chance, he pursues Randi from location to location, both on set and off. Unable to resist the urgent desire between them, Randi can only hope and pray that their new relationship will be more than a dream…

Enjoy the following excerpt for
More Than a Dream:

“Good evening, darling.” Olga Griffin-Vasquez set a glass bowl of mixed berries on the table and gave her godchild a hug without releasing Persephone, her favorite black cat. Stroking the animal’s silky ears, Randi smiled into Olga’s dark, kohl-lined eyes, then admired her ankle-length fringed silk shawl draped over a black dress and set off by her long silver hair.

“Don’t you look dramatic! I’ve never seen that beautiful shawl before.”

“Mae gave it to me as a wedding gift,” Olga told her, referring to Raoul’s mother. “It was part of her costume in
Blood and Sand.
I thought wearing a memento from the Valentino movie would bring good luck to our project.”