The Bad Boys of Eden (42 page)

“I can’t, Leila. You haven’t given me one yet.”

* * *

Leila woke with a start, heart racing. The room was dark, and for a moment she lay blinking, confused.

And then it all came back in a rush, the memory of the man in her bed, what he’d done to her…all of it. And she smiled.

She turned, reaching across the bed, seeking his warmth, his broad chest, already breathing deeply, trying to catch the scent of him, of them together.

The bed was empty, the sheet cool beneath her fingers. Sitting up, she fumbled for the matches and managed to light the bedside candle with a shaky hand. Its yellow glow spread across the bed.

The bed was empty and she was alone. More than empty, the other side of the wide bed appeared undisturbed, the second pillow full and plump, the sheet smooth. Nothing at all like a bed where two people had made wild passionate love.

Leila sat up and it was then she realized she was wearing the red satin nightgown. But he’d pulled it off of her body, dropped it somewhere out of sight. She didn’t remember getting up, pulling it back on. The last she remembered, she’d been curled against him, her bare skin against his warm body.

She shook her head. No, the last thing she remembered were his words, the answer to her question.

“You haven’t given me one yet.”

Leila lay back, pulling up the sheet, wondering briefly if she was losing her mind, if she’d dreamed the entire thing. She certainly felt as if she’d made love; her body was wonderfully relaxed, her muscles humming slightly as if she’d done something strenuous but wholly enjoyable. And there was no mistaking the residual heat that lingered deep inside. No, she’d definitely not dreamed it.

She wondered just how far Cheryl, or the owner of the island, was willing to go to carry out this…whatever this was. Or if the man who apparently was so diligently playing a part really was that good, to so totally inhabit the role of her hero down to not having a name and being able to make love to her so thoroughly before simply walking away.

After a long time, she leaned over and blew out the candle. For much longer, she lay in the dark, listening, hoping for the sound of her door opening again, the footfall on the stone that meant he was back.

Chapter Six

Leila woke slowly, sunlight flooding her room. The bed was as she’d discovered it during the night, the second pillow still full, undented by her lover’s head, the sheet unwrinkled by her clutching hands. She sighed, climbing out of bed. At least she’d have Cheryl’s critique to look forward to. Maybe she’d mention to Cheryl that the intense workshop was getting a little too intense, especially if the actor they had hired had decided to recreate the love scene from her novel.

Leila opened the door to the hall. A single sheet lay on the silver tray and she picked it up, retreating to the bed to read it. But all it contained was a single sentence in Cheryl’s impeccable handwriting.

“Meet me for coffee.”

Setting the paper aside, Leila climbed back out of bed, shedding her nightgown and walking slowly to the bathroom. Her shower was brief, disappointment clouding her mind. Cheryl’s critique must be so bad she didn’t want to devastate Leila by writing it down.

Leila pulled the first dress out of the wardrobe that wasn’t sequined or to the floor, a pale blue linen sundress, with a row of buttons running down the front. The seemingly bottomless lingerie drawer provided a beautiful set of cream satin bra and panties, each outlined with delicate embroidered flowers.

She briefly wondered who was responsible for purchasing all of it. Whomever it was had exquisite taste. The garments, again, fit perfectly. But even the beautiful clothing did little to lift her spirits.

The ballet flats were where she’d left them and she slipped them on, absently noting her foot was no longer swollen, the abrasion gone. Maybe she’d dreamed all of that as well.

Cheryl was seated in the dining room near one of the large windows next to a table set with delicate china cups and saucers. She rose, resplendent in a long rose-colored dress and shawl, graciously extending her hand toward Leila.

“Sit, dear.” Cheryl indicated Leila should take the other seat. Dominick materialized, silent as always, holding a silver coffee pot.

“Leila. So lovely to see you. I thought we’d discuss your writing over coffee.”

Leila sat in the chair, watched as Dominick filled her cup, and nodded her thanks. She added sugar and cream, stirred, and took a sip, waiting for the blow from Cheryl.

“I wanted to tell you, Leila, that your writing is coming along quite beautifully. You’re really drawing me in to the story between your characters. I’ve been in this business for a long time and sometimes I confess; I’m a bit jaded. But your story is so very original.”

Leila’s cup rattled against her saucer. Words of praise weren’t what she had expected at all.

Cheryl looked at Leila over the edge of her coffee cup. “What’s the matter? You look surprised.”

“I…I thought, because you wanted to see me—in person—that you weren’t pleased.”

Cheryl threw her head back, her rich laugh echoing in the large space. “Oh, my dear. Quite the contrary. As I’ve said before, you have talent. You just need encouragement and a perhaps a bit of direction.”

Leila relaxed with a tentative laugh of her own. “I guess my mind is still at the conference, where nothing seemed positive.”

“Well, your writing is much better here. More focused, and you’re taking my advice to heart. There are a few things you can work on though.” Cheryl set her coffee cup down.

“First, you really need a name for your hero. I know sometimes names are the hardest part of the story. You want that perfect name, masculine without being over the top. Something that’s not in use by every other romance writer. It is rather important. After all, you give him life when you give him a name.”

Leila sighed. “I know. I just haven’t decided on a name that suits him.”

“And you set up the first meeting in such a way that a name wasn’t crucial. But your readers want to call your hero something besides ‘him’. They want to fall in love, and for that, their lover needs a name.”

“I understand. I’ll decide on a name shortly.”

“Good. Now, on to the love scene.” Cheryl’s manner was matter of fact, but Leila cringed inwardly, knowing pretty much where this was headed.

“You did an excellent job of getting the mechanics of sex accurate, the who-is-where-and-when, which some writers struggle with. Sometimes there are just too many arms and legs to keep track of, and in that respect, your scene was perfect. But…” Cheryl hesitated.

“You left out some crucial emotional elements. You have the physical; we all know how our heroine’s body reacts, how the hero makes her feel physically. But we don’t always get how she feels emotionally, what her thoughts are. It may be too soon for declarations of love from either of them, but she should have some emotional attachment to her hero. Do you understand?”

Leila nodded. “I do. It’s something I’ve heard before, at the conference.”

Cheryl nodded. “Then you know what to work on. Emotion can surface outside the bedroom as well, so don’t forget to pack the emotional punch in those scenes.” Cheryl’s eyebrows quirked up, her eyes twinkling. “And you left out one other critical detail.”

Leila frowned. “In which area?”

“Regarding your hero, you neglected some very important details. You stopped describing him at the waist.”

“Oh.” Leila’s face grew hot. She knew exactly what Cheryl meant, and she was embarrassed both by Cheryl’s words and her own shortcomings.

“There’s no need for vulgarities when describing your hero and his physical attributes. You can learn to be subtle but still be evocative. We’re not looking for clinical details, but most readers do like at least a hint of what the hero has to offer our heroine.” Cheryl tilted her head, fixing Leila with a sympathetic smile.

“It takes practice. There are ways, you know, of fudging it a little, until you gain confidence with the words. You can have them in the dark, or softly lit by candlelight, or the occasional flash of lightening. Not all encounters have to happen in daylight or with the lights on. Although...” The corner of Cheryl’s mouth turned up in a grin. “…sometimes those scenes are the most fun to write, and for our readers, it’s the best part of the story.”

Images from the previous night flashed through Leila’s mind, the moment he’d blown out the candle, leaving them in darkness, and the frustration she’d felt. It was eerily reminiscent of her own written scene, and Cheryl’s words made complete sense.

The whole question of the actor who’d visited Leila rose in her mind. Should she talk with Cheryl? Would the visits continue? If she wrote the story she wanted, events would escalate. She wasn’t sure she could write knowing he would reenact every scene…with her.

Yet knowing he might sent a thrill through her. The man’s visit last night had been so arousing, so incredibly erotic. But would she want to—could she—repeat that, night after night? And, if he followed the story she wrote, they’d be torn apart by the conflicts, romantic and otherwise, every romance novel had. There was no way she could fudge that plot point with Cheryl.

Leila’s flush deepened, but she decided to forge ahead. “About the hero…or rather, the man you’ve hired to play my hero. I…I appreciate the thought, the idea, I guess…but maybe things have gone a bit too far.”

It was Cheryl’s turn to look confused. “I’m not sure what you’re saying, Leila. What man are you talking about?”

“The man who was there yesterday, at the cove while I was swimming. And last night…” Leila’s face flamed but she knew she couldn’t stop now. She took a deep breath.

“The actor who came to my room during the night, the one who recreated the scene I gave you yesterday.” The look of confusion on Cheryl’s face was not what Leila expected.

“Leila…there is no actor. I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cheryl leaned forward, her hand resting on Leila’s knee.

“Are you certain you’re alright? Was yesterday at the cove something more than you’ve told me?”

“I’m …” Leila wasn’t sure what the right answer was. The last thing she wanted now was to alarm Cheryl or have the woman think she was unbalanced. If there was no actor, than what was happening?

“Maybe you’re right, maybe yesterday was a little more…traumatic than I thought.”

“Perhaps you should rest today, Leila. No writing. Maybe I’ve been pushing you a little too hard.”

“Oh, no, really…” Leila held up her hand. “Please. I’m fine. I don’t want to lose momentum or waste your time.”

Cheryl hesitated. “If you’re sure.” Concern was evident in Cheryl’s face, and it touched Leila deeply.

“I am.” Leila managed a weak laugh. “Maybe it’s a case of reality blurring just a bit. You know, us writers and our over-active imaginations.”

Cheryl’s face relaxed and she gave Leila a hesitant smile. “As long as you feel up to it…”

“I do. I’ll be fine.” Leila squared her shoulders, trying to put as much confidence in her words and posture as she could.

“Good.” Cheryl hesitated a moment longer, then rose. Leila joined her as they walked across the dining room. “Then I’ll leave you to your day’s work. It’s going to be the conflict that pulls them apart. There’s a fine line between rushing a section and having it drag. Pay attention to pacing, make the conflict realistic, and don’t pull your punches. You need to give them a challenge, something that makes them fight to be together.”

Leila nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good. And rest, dear. I don’t want to worry about you.” Cheryl leaned toward Leila, planting a kiss on each cheek. And then she was gone in a swirl of rose-colored silk.

Leila watched her disappear around the corner at the end of the hall. She turned with a deep sigh.

“There’s a beautiful garden on the south side of the island.”

“Oh!” Leila’s hand flew to her throat. Dominick stepped from the shadows of the dining room into the hall.

“I’m sorry, Miss Connors. I didn’t intend to startle you.”

“It’s alright, Dominick. What were you saying about a garden?”

“If you’ll follow me.” Dominick turned and Leila followed him down the hall past the dining room. She recognized the large iron-banded front door. He pulled the door open. Bright sunshine spilled across the stone floor and Leila blinked, hesitating for a moment behind him.

“If you walk down the stairs to the first landing and then continue across, you’ll come to a garden. It’s in full bloom at the moment and quite lovely.” He turned, a knowing look in his eye.

“It might be just the restful place you need today to work.”

“You may be right.”

Dominick smiled. “I was hoping you’d agree. You’ll find a seating area and a box with paper and pens. I’ll bring brunch down shortly.”

“Thank you, Dominick. That’s very kind. And I appreciate it.”

He bowed, stepping back into the doorway. “Then I’ll leave you to your work.” And then he was gone, the door closing behind him.

Leila followed the stone stairs down the first flight. It had been dark when she’d arrived, and she’d been less than focused on the surroundings as Dominick had led her up the stairs. But now she walked slowly, enjoying the patches of sunshine, the cool shade where the foliage grew over the path.

The stairs swept out, ending at a patch of grass. Leila remembered these and saw the stairs to her right, descending down to the beach where the plane had landed. And, just as Dominick had said, she glimpsed a garden through a break in the foliage. Walking forward, she pushed aside a large palm frond and stopped, momentarily confused at what she saw.

Ahead lay a small oval emerald lawn, surrounded by, of all things, an English cottage garden. Stepping onto the grass, she gazed around in amazement. A profusion of blooms billowed out of beds, rich purples and blues highlighted by ethereal clouds of yellow flowers. She recognized delphiniums, lilies, but beyond that there were just too many different varieties to identify any single bloom. It should have been incongruous in the tropical setting, but it was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Set in one corner was a three-sided garden structure covered with pink roses. Leila was drawn to it out of curiosity. As she drew closer, she saw it was a rose arbor arching over a pillow-covered bench. Set in front of the bench was a wrought-iron table holding the writing box Dominick mentioned.

Kicking off her shoes, Leila walked beneath the arbor, opening the box. Inside was fresh paper, slightly intimidating in its blankness, but holding the promise of a new scene for her story.

She settled on the bench, adjusting the pillows behind her, the writing box resting on her lap. Cheryl’s advice came back to her and Leila sat for a moment, imagining the next scenes in her mind. And then she began writing.

The words came easily, her pen moving quickly across the page. The name for the hero came to her and she smiled.

“Sebastian Phillips.” She said his name softly, almost shyly, testing the feel of it on her tongue. “Sebastian Phillips.” She said it a second time, with more confidence, then nodded, satisfied she’d found the name for her hero.

A fitting name for a man who was strong, almost arrogant, but so masculine he was irresistible to the heroine. He was everything she had ever wanted, someone who would love her, protect her without holding her back, cherish her without smothering her. And all of that came with a passion so fierce it sometimes threatened to consume them both. A tall order, certainly, but she felt confident she could create him and all that depth with her words.