The Bad Boys of Eden

by Avery Aster

  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 l
ose 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.

  The longer Leila wrote about him, the more she came to know Sebastian, the more she thought those were the qualities she’d want in her hero as well.

  And then it dawned on her: she was falling in love with Sebastian, right along with her heroine.

  After some time, she became aware of movement beside her, Dominick leaving a tray of food. But she didn’t stop to acknowledge him and he left as he had arrived, in silence.

  Only when her hand finally began to ache did she stop. Absently rubbing her fingers, she read back over her pages, a faint smile on her lips. She’d done what she’d set out to do: she’d given her characters scenes outside the bedroom, strengthened their relationship, and then torn them apart.

  For the first time in her writing, Leila truly felt the depth of the emotions she’d created for her characters, both the hero and the heroine. It surprised her to find tears welling in her eyes as she read through certain scenes even though she knew she’d bring them back together in the end, give her characters the happily ever after they deserved.

  Finally she turned to the tray Dominick had brought. He’d left her a salad and small loaf of bread, along with cheese and fruit and a carafe of wine. With a sigh of contentment she dug in, more hungry than she realized. Before long, the salad and bread were gone, and she was working her way through the fruit and cheese.

  Finally sated, she poured a second glass of wine, savoring the delicate flavor. The garden was quiet, a few birds overhead and colorful butterflies flitting from flower to flower. She thought she should take a walk, admire the blooms, but the heat of the day and the wine conspired to make her drowsy. Maybe Cheryl was right and a nap would be good for her.

  Leila set the empty wine glass on the table and adjusted the pillows behind her head, stretching out on the bench. The sun was behind her, and even though the bench was in shade, it was warm. Bees moved lazily in the roses over her head, the scent of the blossoms heavy in the summer air.

  For the first time in days, Leila felt completely relaxed and at peace. She was working under the tutelage of Cheryl Bullard, and her writing was better than it had ever been. She was in paradise, with anything she’d want at her fingertips. There were two more days before she had to leave and she sighed. It was perfect.

  Closing her eyes, she drew a deep breath, inhaling the rich scents of the flowers around her. The only dark thought that intruded was that of the man who had come to her rescue, and then to her bed that night.

  Leila shifted, a wave of unease washing over her. She’d pushed him out of her mind as she wrote, but he’d hovered at the edge of her consciousness and she realized she’d been not just creating a character from her imagination but envisioning the man who’d been in her room as her hero.

  But he was her hero, wasn’t he? He’d been there at the cove, in her bed. Was he the man from her story or a figment of her imagination? Or, as she’d thought earl
ier, were Cheryl and Dominick determined to carry out an elaborate scheme to bring her writing eerily to life?

  She turned over in her mind what had happened to her. Or what she’d thought had happened. At the cove, or in her bed in the middle of the night, she had been certain the man had been there. Her ankle had been injured, and she was certain someone had made love to her. She didn’t think it was possible that it was a figment of her imagination.

  But when she’d woken, both times, everything seemed off, as if her dreams and reality had somehow overlapped.

  As the sun moved overhead, Leila finally drifted to sleep and began to dream. The man—Sebastian Phillips—the hero from her story, came to her, kissing her urgently, passionately, and she knew he was going to make love to her like she’d never experienced before.

  But then the dream changed and she was at the cove, alone, swimming. She knew she was going to be trapped in the rocks, but she was helpless to swim away. As if drawn by some force, she repeated every move she’d made exactly, felt her foot slide between the rough surfaces of the rocks.

  Then the water closed over her head and she tried to scream but it was impossible. She waited for what felt like an eternity, heart thudding in her chest, for the man to come to her rescue, but he didn’t appear. She sank lower beneath the green water, watching the sky above her grow watery and dim.

  “Leila.”

  It was Sebastian. He’d come to rescue her, and she waited for his hands to pull her from the water. But she couldn’t see him. She felt a wave of panic wash over her. She was going to die.

  “Leila!”

  She struggled with all her might, clawing toward the surface of the water, reaching for the light above her.