Escape From Reality

by Adriana Hunter

  Kicking off her shoes, she walked across the sand, letting the water lap at her toes. In front of her, all she could see was endless blue water, a cloudless blue sky stretching overhead. The only sound here was the soft wash of the waves on the sand, the louder sounds she’d heard from above softened by the pillars of rock flanking the beach.

  The water was warm and the idea of a swim tempted Leila. But that meant a long walk back to her room in search of a swimsuit and towel. Or it meant skinny-dipping.

  She bit her lip and glanced back at the stairs. There were no other guests on the island and the only other people she’d seen were Dominick and Cheryl. Even if someone did come down to the beach, they’d certainly leave if they saw her swimming.

  Leila ducked behind a shrub and tugged the zipper down on the dress, shimmying it past her hips. She draped it over the shrub, then reached behind and undid the clasp of her bra. It, and then the panties, joined the dress.

  With one last glance over her shoulder at the stone steps, Leila waded into the water. It rose around her legs in a warm caress, and when it reached her waist, she dove beneath the surface. She surfaced after a moment, raising her face to the sky as she tread water.

  She swam the width of the cove, occasionally floating on the calm surface. The water was a clear, crystal blue and she dove again and again down to the sandy bottom, marveling at the clarity and warmth of the water. She’d spent summers vacationing with her parents and swimming in the chilly waters in Maine. This was a far cry from what she remembered.

  She swam underwater along the base of the gray rocks, rising up in the shadow of one of the larger stones. They loomed over a narrow channel to the ocean and as she swam across that opening, she looked out over the vast expanse of water before her.

  Leila felt tiny, a speck floating in a vast sea, as she looked out toward the limitless horizon. Then she dove. The sandy bottom of the cove had dropped off gradually from the beach, but here, where the rocks reared out of the water, it dropped off sharply, nothing but darkness as far down as she could see. The sand gave way abruptly to rocks, fragments, she supposed, of the larger pieces rising above her.

  Drawing a deep breath, she sank lower, staring ahead into the deep blue, images of mermaids and kraken rising in her mind. She moved forward, mesmerized by the idea of floating above all that vast empty space.

  But then, for a moment, the water in front of her seemed to shimmer, wavering like light reflected on a pane of glass. A wash of chill water surrounded her and she retreated, pushing off from the bottom, heading for the sunlit surface.

  Instead of rising, her body jerked back toward the bottom, pain slicing across her ankle. Twisting, she looked down. Her right foot was wedged in a crevice between two sharp rocks. A small cloud of crimson stained the water and a chill passed through Leila, images of mermaids replaced by that of sharks.

  Kicking hard with her other leg, she pushed against the water with her hands, but she only succeeded in tearing the flesh of her ankle. She changed her tactic, sinking down, feeling along her leg with her hands and trying to turn her foot so it would be free of the rocks. But she was stuck. Her lungs burned and panic took over as she beat against the rocks with her fists.

  The world turned into a chaotic mass of bubbles and churning water as she kicked and clawed upward, frantically trying to reach the surface.

  Suddenly, something tugged her back down and she twisted again. Through a screen of bubbles she saw a man, his hands wrapped around her leg. With incredible strength he pulled her down toward the rocks, forcibly bending her knee. His hand slid down the top of her foot, pressing against it. His eyes met hers and he pressed again and she understood: point her toes.

  Immediately her foot slid from the rocks. The man moved to her side, one arm around her waist, and with a powerful kick they rose to the surface.

  As Leila’s face broke through the surface of the water, she threw back her head, mouth open, dragging air into her starved lungs. The man held her easily as he tread water, keeping both of them afloat. Leila had the overwhelming urge to throw her arms around his neck but she drew another deep breath, forcing herself to relax, to stay calm.

  The man began swimming toward the shore, arm still firmly around Leila’s waist. It took only a few strong strokes for them to reach shallow water. Leila tried to stand but before she could even get her feet on the sand, the man scooped her up, carrying her through the shallow water. He set her gently on the sand.

  Out of the water, Leila was instantly conscious of being naked, drawing her knees to her chest. As if reading her mind, the man reached down and picked up a shirt from the sand, holding it out to her, averting his eyes as she rose.

  “Here. This should work.”

  Leila took the shirt and the man turned away as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. But he didn’t turn completely; she caught a glimpse of his face as he glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes moving over her body

  She looked down as she fumbled with the buttons of the shirt, her fingers suddenly clumsy. The shirt just reached to the tops of her thighs, barely covering her.

  The man turned back as she finished the last button. For the first time, she took a good look at his face and she gasped, taking an involuntary step backward.

  ‘Green eyes, almost arrogant, looked out from beneath arched brows. A shock of tousled black hair fell across his high forehead.’

  Those had been her words, her own written description of her hero. And now, as she looked at the man who’d just saved her life, that’s exactly what she saw. The tousled black hair was wet, but it was the same deep, raven black of her description. The nose was long and straight, cheekbones high. His face held the same look she’d described, the look of confidence in a man who knew what he wanted and went after it. Who could be ruthless in that pursuit, crushing everyone in his path. Even the woman he loved.

  “Are you alright?” His words brought her back to reality. He stood on the sand a few feet away, shirtless, his wet jeans hugging every curve of his lower body. Leila’s cheeks burned as she caught herself looking over every inch of him, mentally checking off the details she’d written: broad chest, muscular arms, long legs…

  She closed her eyes and tried to stop thinking of what she’d described next, how he’d looked naked, the sounds he’d utter while making love, what he’d smell like. The sun was suddenly very hot and she wanted to be in the shade, away from the glare. Maybe she’d fallen asleep on the sand and was suffering from heat stroke. That happened sometimes to people who weren’t used to the intensity of the tropical sun. That was it; this was all just a dream.

  “Maybe you should sit down…”

  At his words, Leila’s eyes flew open. He’d taken her arm firmly at the elbow and she looked down at his hand. It was very real, very warm, and not very dream-like at all. She could smell the salt on his skin, and beneath that the scent of his body as the sun warmed him. The world began to go gray and foggy, wavering as if she were underwater again.

  As he pulled her against his chest, Leila’s hands rose, sliding over smooth hot skin. She blinked, watching her hands as if they belonged to someone else.

  “I’m…fine. It’s the sun…it’s so hot.” She looked up into his emerald green eyes and made a small sound of regret. She’d neglected to describe the ring of deep blue that circled the iris, a rather stunning feature and a detail she should never have overlooked. Cheryl would be very disappointed in her.

  Then the world went dark and she felt herself falling, relieved to think it would be onto the soft, warm sand.

  Chapter Four

  Leila woke slowly, her hand sliding across the surface she was lying on. It should be sand, warm sand, possibly even wet sand. She’d fallen asleep in the cove and had a bad dream, but she was safe now.

  But it was fabric beneath her fingers and a mattress cradling her body.

  She opened her eyes and found herself looking up at the underside of the canopy of her bed, the deeply carved pa
nels holding the same floral patterns she’d looked at this morning. Sitting up, she looked down at herself and found she was wearing the same gown she’d slept in the night before.

  In panic, she looked at her watch. It was late afternoon, almost time for her meeting with Cheryl.

  Swinging her legs over the bed, she set her feet on the floor and stood. She cried out at the sudden pain in her ankle and sat back, pulling her foot onto the bed. There was a circle of abraded flesh just above her anklebone and the foot was slightly swollen. But the wound was clean, as if someone had washed the sand away.

  She was more careful this time. She stood gingerly, gradually putting weight on the injured foot. After a few tentative steps, the pain subsided and she was able to walk almost normally. Glancing down, she found her dress and lingerie folded neatly on the bench at the foot of her bed. But the shirt the man had given her was nowhere in sight.

  The man who’d saved her life. He must be an employee, a gardener or some other staff, obviously someone she hadn’t met yet.

  But the eerie resemblance to her written description hung in her mind. He was exactly as she’d described, eye and hair color, body size and shape, even his masculine scent. Everything except the dark blue in his hypnotic green eyes.

  Leila suddenly laughed out loud. Of course, it was all part of the fantasy of the writer’s retreat. Cheryl must be part of it, and Dominick as well. She’d read Leila’s description of the hero and found an actor who fit the bill. Or close enough. Tall, handsome men with dark hair were common; contacts could easily change the color of someone’s eyes.

  As if it had been triggered by the thought of Cheryl’s name, Leila’s watch alarm sounded and she switched it off. Tapping the watch face, she thought for a moment. She wouldn’t let them know she’d figured out what they were up to. Playing along would make it more interesting. Her face grew hot. Just how far would they go? Just how much longer would they be willing to play their part?

  Shaking her head in wonder at the amount of planning it must have taken to carry out such a ruse, Leila shed the nightgown for the second time that day, pulling on the lingerie and pink dress. Her shoes were by the door and she slipped them on, wincing as she forced the right one over her swollen foot. That part was real, no façade there, she had blood and bruises to show for her adventure.

  A chill swept over her. She could easily have drowned in the cove. Her hand trembled as she reached for the door handle. The man who’d obviously followed her was more than just an actor in some elaborate fantasy now. He really was her hero; he’d saved her life.

  Chapter Five

  Cheryl was waiting for her in the dining room, and she rose as Leila entered, lightly kissing her cheeks. Cheryl led Leila onto the terrace and took her seat, pouring tea into Leila’s cup. Leila added a lump of sugar, stirring the amber liquid with a silver spoon.

  “Did you have a pleasant walk around the island? Any ideas pop into your head as to how your characters could meet in your story?” Cheryl sat back, sipping her tea.

  Leila took a swallow of the fragrant sweet tea before answering. She had never been good at keeping secrets, but she didn’t want to announce that she knew Cheryl’s plans.

  “I had a nice walk, thank you. And yes, something rather interesting did happen.” She set her cup down, watching Cheryl closely.

  “I went for a swim in the cove, a beautiful place. I…well, I had a bit of an accident, nothing serious, but it made me think. I was alone, with no one around. What if, in my story, that happened to my heroine and the hero was there to save her? It would be organic, of the moment, not an artificial construct or a forced situation to bring two people together.”

  Leila paused for breath, knowing her face was flushed with telling her little-white-lie version of events. Cheryl regarded her for a moment over the edge of her teacup.

  “If you think you can work with that, then go for it. You’ll need to have your characters act authentically, stay in character. It might work, if you believe in it.”

  Leila blew out a sigh and sank back in her chair. “I’ll rewrite the scene where they meet then, and leave it for you with whatever comes next.”

  Cheryl nodded. “Very good. And your next assignment will be your character’s first romantic scene together. Your work before had a certain hesitancy to it, almost as if you were embarrassed to write the words.”

  The flush in her cheeks intensified. “I’m…I’m a very private person, so…it’s awkward sometimes…”

  “Only you know who your heroine really is. You’re writing fiction, Leila. And a fictitious story that’s over the top in sensuality, with a hero who always lets his heroine take her pleasure first, who’s capable of repeat performances over and over, who can make love all night and serve breakfast in the morning. Larger-than-life, but still believable.”

  Leila laughed. “Not a tall order at all, is it?” She finished the last of her tea, waving off Cheryl’s offer of a refill, and rose.

  “I’m going to my room to write. I’ll have the assignment and my rewritten meeting scene for you tonight.”

  “Fine. I think I’m going to stay here and enjoy the afternoon.” Cheryl turned as Leila stepped into the cool shadows of the dining room.

  “Remember, your hero needs to take your reader’s breath away, and yours too. Your love scene should leave you just as hungry for love as your readers. No room for embarrassment there.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “And Leila? Remember, you’re the heroine in this story. Put yourself into the scene, heart and soul.”

  * * *

  Leila sat for a long time at the small writing desk. The stack of paper had been replenished and she industriously worked her way through it before sitting back and leafing through the pages. She’d thought writing long-hand was going to be difficult, but she’d found that the rhythmic flow of the ink over the page lulled her into some kind of writer’s trance and the words flowed almost effortlessly.

  The scene between the hero and heroine, their first meeting, had been rewritten. It was better, more organic, based on her experience that afternoon, but not exactly.

  Of course, in her version, the heroine didn’t faint. And the hero made passionate love to her on the beach.

  Leila wrinkled her nose. Sand…sand would get everywhere. She crumpled the last piece of paper. He’d carry her away to her room. Only not up so many stairs.

  A soft knock on the door broke her concentration. She set down her pen, walked across the room, and opened the door. The hallway was empty, but on the floor near her door was a tray with several covered plates. She bent and retrieved the tray, silently thanking Dominick for remembering her dinner before carefully setting it down on the wide padded window seat, laying out the feast on the deep green brocade. She found a lovely salad, fresh fruit and cheese, and a very decadent looking dessert. A small carafe of wine accompanied her meal. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation and she wasted no time in diving into the food. The open window let in the soft evening breezes, scented with the tang of the ocean and a hint of tropical flowers. It was warmer than the previous day and while the hearth in her room was clean, no one had lit a fire tonight.

  The salad was fresh, the dressing light but full of complex flavors. Leila quickly finished the salad and dessert along with a glass of wine. She carried the fruit and cheese, along with a second glass of wine, into the bathroom, setting them on the wide marble edge of the tub. She found several fat candles and lit them, the glass and marble reflecting the flickering flames.

  Tonight was the night, finally, for the bath she’d craved since coming home from the writer’s conference. The thought of soaking by candlelight, mulling over the next scene she was going to write, seemed the most promising way to spend her evening.

  Leila ran the water and poured in a stream of bath oil labeled Dragon’s Blood. She’d never heard of the fragrance before, but soon the bathroom was filled with exotic scents, spice and floral and a hint of ince
nse, intense and mysterious. She drew a deep breath, imagining how relaxing this bath was going to be.

  There was a wealth of sleepwear to choose from, and tonight she pulled a sleeveless gown with a plunging neckline from the dresser. The material was a lightweight satin, deep red, obviously not as sheer as the previous night’s choice but sensuous in its own right. Definitely a nightgown for an evening of sex, even if it was just on the written page.

  The bathroom was filling with fragrant steam and Leila eagerly shed her clothes, sinking with a sigh of contentment into the warm silky water. The tub was deep enough that she could almost soak completely submerged. Whoever had designed this masterpiece had been a genius. The porcelain surrounded her, held her at the perfect angle to relax, letting her head rest against the edge, seeming to cradle her body. Her body felt weightless, suspended, finally relaxing.

  It was the perfect place to sip wine, nibble on fruit and cheese, and muse about her hero, imagining the scene she was going to write. The nuts and bolts of the scene came together quickly, the where and when. The rest was hazy at first, but soon her mind became as relaxed as her body and the ideas crystalized, flooding her mind with details and her body with sensation.

  Stepping out of the tub, she dried herself quickly. The bath oil had left her with soft deliciously scented skin, and she pulled the satin gown over her head. The brush of the fabric against her flushed skin was like the caress of a lover. She bit her lip, a sudden intense ache springing up deep inside.

  She lit the candle on her table and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. They’d be in a bed, like hers, after an afternoon of swimming—skinny-dipping—in a secluded cove. The sun would have warmed their bodies and heated their passion, and the cool linen against their skin would only serve as counterpoint to the passions that raged inside them.