Flood Tide

by Stella Whitelaw

  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.”

  “When’s the meeting going to start, anyway?” asked Benny. “I’m ready.”

  “So am I,” Olga agreed, adjusting the shawl over her tall, spare frame after setting the cat down.

  Randi pulled up a high-backed Spanish chair, and the others turned their attention to the writer. Where was Dion? Did the ill-mannered actor think he could make his appearance whenever he felt like it, even if it meant everyone else had to wait for him? That had been his attitude when they worked on a feature film together three years ago, Randi the assistant director, Dion a rising star. Would the actor’s current status as a film idol make him even more demanding and impossible? She shuddered when she thought about asking him to redo a scene again and again.

  Randi put Dion out of her mind as Olga began the meeting.

  “The reason I wanted to meet with all of you—”

  But a scuffling noise muffled her words. All heads turned toward the source. As the drawing room’s double-story central doors opened, their mirrored surfaces multiplied Dion Hayden’s golden image; three Dions smiled at the crowd. His sensuous lips, high cheekbones and dark golden hair set over a perfect body combined for a blatant display of masculine beauty. He looked the part of the “golden god”—the title Hollywood had given him— his lines so perfect, he could be a statue.

  All he needs is a pedestal, Randi thought with disgust. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Dion said apologetically,
his tone nonchalant. Running his eyes over his audience, he noisily pulled up a chair across from Randi and gazed at her intently.

  Purposefully she turned her face away from him and back to Olga.

  “I wanted to talk to you, the crew and actors of Chrysalis, personally before the shoot began.” Olga’s strong, unwavering voice drew the group’s attention back to her. “This miniseries will be based on one of my best-selling books, as were the movies Beyond Eden and Faster Than the Queen of Light. Unlike those films, however, Chrysalis will be the first adaptation to be subject to my creative control as well as the producers’.”

  Randi felt Dion’s blue eyes boring into her as Olga spoke, but she tried to avoid giving him the satisfaction of knowing she noticed. She’d have to maintain control over him or the shoot could turn into a disaster. She still remembered how Dion had almost made her lose her job the last time she’d worked with him. Because of an argument with the arrogant young actor, she’d missed an important meeting, causing her to make a costly scheduling mistake. He was bad news, there was no doubt about it.

  “There will be no gratuitous battle scenes or fantastic weaponry added to this project,” Olga continued. “I believe human experience can be an inner as well as an outer adventure, that our understanding of our own powers and emotions is more important than our invention of machinery.”

  Randi glanced toward Dion in spite of herself and found the young actor engrossed in Olga’s speech. Maybe he’d learned to listen. Three years ago she’d prepped him for a fight scene in the western Wrangler, and he’d broken the jaw of another actor because he’d forgotten to pull his punch. More than once his childish tantrums had caused a lengthy shooting delay. He’d always been short on talent and long on ego. Could she hope for more now?

  “These beliefs underlie the theme of Chrysalis, in which two contrasting cultures, one with developed psychic abilities and the other with incredible scientific technology, albeit useless on an unknown planet, are united through the love of a man and a woman.” Olga paused, her black eyes flicking over the assemblage.

  “I have the network’s agreement on final say and have approved the script and casting. With everyone’s cooperation, I think we can complete a successful production that will remain true to my book’s original ideas. There is certainly enough talent in this room to make Chrysalis unique and outstanding!”

  “I, for one, am looking forward to working on it!” exclaimed Dion. “I’ve read your book several times.”

  “And I’ve seen your performances several times.” Olga smiled at him.

  She sounded like a fan of Dion Hayden’s! Randi still wondered why Olga had forced Dion on her, knowing how Randi felt. Her godmother couldn’t have forgotten the confidences Randi had shared with her concerning the actor. When questioned, Olga had insisted that Dion was perfect for the part and, since Randi was a professional, she was sure her godchild could deal with the situation.

  “Now I’ll turn the rest of this meeting over to your very talented director, Randi St. Martin,” Olga announced.

  Starting slightly, Randi managed to say, “I’d like to take this opportunity to have each of the department heads tell you how his or her work is coming along. Why don’t we start with costume design.”

  As the head designer reported to the gathering, Randi found her mind wandering and her eyes straying directly to Dion. His profile to her, his finely chiseled features formed a golden mask. Amazing how his smooth tan looked like it contained particles of the precious metal.

  As if he knew she was studying him, Dion turned directly toward her. Startled, her eyes met his brilliant gaze, which enmeshed her in blue depths as alluring as Mediterranean waters. Dion’s faultless lips split into a slow grin. Warmth spreading throughout her body, Randi quickly looked away.

  And so it went. Those in charge of various phases of production reported on each department’s progress as Randi introduced them one by one. She made suggestions several times but tried to keep the meeting moving. While Randi was able to keep track of the proceedings on one level, on another she grew more and more aware of Dion. She resented this unwanted intrusion into her thoughts. As the director, she had to stay on top of everything that went on in this meeting.

  “It sounds like the special effects are coming along well,” Randi finally concluded. “If any of you would like to come to the studio to see the spaceship models before you go on location, you’re certainly welcome to do so. Now that’s it for business. Thank you all for coming. Olga?”

  “Please feel free to stay for drinks,” Olga said. “And if there’s anything else I can do for you, let me know.”

  “How about a tour of this fabulous place?” Nora said enthusiastically. “That way we could all be more in touch with your personal reality, if you know what. I mean.”

  Graciously Olga consented, suggesting they start with the grounds. The room quickly cleared, everyone following her and Raoul outside. Having been intimately acquainted with Olga’s private domain since she was a child, Randi opted to finish her glass of wine on the balcony.

  Looking out into the garden’s lantern-lit depths, she reviewed the evening. Things had gone well in spite of her distraction. Feedback had been good, and she thought plans for the miniseries were shaping up. What a feeling of accomplishment she would have when the project was finished! Randi was determined it would be the foundation block of a great film career.

  She listened to the gentle swish of leaves in the breeze and the sound of wind chimes. His step was so quiet, she barely heard him. Turning quickly to view the intruder, she was startled to see Dion.

  “Why didn’t you go on the tour?” she asked. It made her uneasy to be alone with him.

  Dion lounged casually against a blue column. “I’ve already seen everything. I took my own tour earlier. Besides,” he said, leaning toward her, his voice intimate and silky, “I’d rather see you. It’s been a long time, Ariadne.”

  At the use of her proper name, she drew back. “Not long enough.”

  “You’re bitter,” he stated.

  “I don’t hold anything against you.”

  “How about starting over, then? I’ve changed, you know.”

  Flood Tide

  Stella Whitelaw

  Is he the man of her dreams…or her darkest nightmares?

  Ever since the death of her father, Reah Lawrence has been haunted by nightmares of a terrifying mystery man. When she meets Ewart Morgan, a successful playwright, she knows he is the man in her dreams. Despite her distrust, Reah is drawn to him, and they soon embark on a whirlwind romance.

  Putting her ominous dreams aside for the time being, Reah and Ewart explore the magical city of Florence, Italy, as well as each other. But all fantasies must come to an end, and when they return to stormy Sussex, Reah at last learns the truth behind her dark dreams.

  This Retro Romance reprint was originally published by Robert Hale, Ltd. in 1986.

  eBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B

  Cincinnati OH 45249

  Flood Tide

  Copyright © 2012 by Stella Whitelaw

  ISBN: 978-1-61921-035-6

  Edited by Heather Osborn

  Cover by Valerie Tibbs

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Original Publication by Robert Hale, Ltd.: 1986

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electroni
c publication: December 2012

  www.samhainpublishing.com