The Claimed (38 page)

Dear Reader,

 

BAREFOOT IN THE SAND opens during a powerful hurricane that forces the heroine and her daughter to hole up in a bathtub under a mattress and pray for survival. The scene, I’m sorry to say, took very little imagination for me to write. I’ve been there. On August 24, 1992, one of the worst hurricanes in the history of this country slammed into Dade County, Florida, and changed hundreds of thousands of lives. Mine was one of them.

Exactly one month pregnant with a baby that had taken four years and a quadrillion deals with God to conceive, I decided to spend the night at my sister’s house when Hurricane Andrew approached Miami. Despite the fact that the forecasters predicted the storm would turn north before making landfall, my husband and I had worried that our proximity to the coastline made us vulnerable, and that our east-facing double front doors might buckle with the wind. We braced the doors with the living room sofa and evacuated just eight miles north. My sister’s house sustained little damage that night, though freight-train winds ripped her patio screen and took down some beloved trees.

We headed home the next morning, and with each
passing mile, it was clear that the southern section of Miami had taken the brunt of the storm. We sure hoped that sofa had held the doors closed.

We still laugh about that because, well, we never did find that sofa.

When we arrived at what we thought was our street—all the trees were uprooted or stripped bare and not a single street sign survived—all we could do was stare. The sofa was long gone (but our neighbor’s love seat was in our driveway!), along with our doors, every window, all the roof tiles, the garage doors, and just about everything we’d ever owned.
Everything
.

Inside, all the ceilings had collapsed, leaving snowdrifts of insulation. My beautiful home was covered in mud, drywall, and broken glass. Every remaining wall was green from the chlorophyll in the leaves that had blown around during what had to have been mini-tornadoes in the house.

I stood in the midst of that chaos and started to cry, of course. Shaking uncontrollably, unable to process what might lie ahead, I could barely suck in shuddering breaths and weep at the sight of my rain-soaked wedding album and shattered bits of my precious Waterford crystal.

Everything we had was gone
.

Then my husband gripped my shoulders, giving me a stern shake and silencing me with two words: The baby.
The baby
.

Obviously, not everything was gone. When Mother Nature has a temper tantrum and breaks all your stuff, the only things that really matter are the people who are left.

When I needed the catalyst to set Lacey Armstrong’s story in motion and start the Barefoot Bay series, the
lessons I learned from surviving and rebuilding after Hurricane Andrew were still fresh in my heart, even almost two decades later. It wasn’t hard to imagine riding out that storm in a bathtub; I had many friends and neighbors who had done just that. It wasn’t impossible to put myself in Lacey’s shoes the next day, digging for optimism in a mountain of rubble.

But I also had twenty years of perspective and knew that no matter what she lost in the storm, Lacey’s indomitable spirit wouldn’t merely survive, but thrive. She not only found optimism in that rubble, she found love.

P.S. “The baby” turns nineteen this year. And, no, we didn’t name him Andrew.

Dear Reader,

 

Psst!
I’ve got a secret to share with you about my hero in TOO TEMPTING TO RESIST. Okay, you already know that Gryffin Owain Dwight, the Marquess of Haddan, is rich, handsome, titled, and an incorrigibly charming flirt. But I’ll bet you weren’t aware of this intimate little detail—he speaks a
very
special language.

No, no, not French or Italian! (Though as a dashingly
romantic rake, he’s fluent in those lovely tongues.) It’s the secret language of Flowers, a highly seductive skill. For example, he knows that red roses signify “Love,” while orange ones mean “Fascination.” He can tell you that yellow irises murmur “Passion” and peach blossoms say “I am your captive.”

Now, you might ask how he came to know all this. Well, here’s an interesting bit of history (as the author of historical romances, I love discovering interesting little facts from the past): Flowers have long been powerful symbols in Eastern cultures, and in the early eighteenth century, Lady Mary Wortley Montague, wife of the British ambassador to Constantinople (and a fascinating woman in her own right), learned of a little Turkish book called
The Secret Language of Flowers
. Intrigued, she had it translated and brought it back to England with her… and from there the romantic idea that lovers could send hidden messages to each other via bouquets was introduced to Europe.

Today, the symbolic use of flowers is still flourishing. Here’s another secret! Kate Middleton’s bouquet at the Royal Wedding to Prince William was carefully designed using the language of flowers to express special meaning for the bride and groom and their families:
Lily-of-the-valley
, which means “Return of Happiness” (chosen in memory of Diana);
Sweet William
, which means “Gallantry” (isn’t that romantic!);
Hyacinth
, which means “Constancy of Love”;
Ivy
, which means “Fidelity, Friendship and Affection”;
Myrtle
, which is the emblem of marriage and love.

Now, getting back to
my
hero, Gryff has a number of other intriguing secrets. He’s a man of hidden talents—and hidden passions. It’s no wonder that Eliza, Lady Brentford, finds him irresistibly alluring, despite her distrust of
rakes and rascals. She too has an interest in flowers, so when she discovers that he speaks their language…

And how does Gryff use this special skill? Well, that’s for you to find out for yourself! I hope you’ll take a peek at his story and let him whisper his petal-soft seductions in your ear!