Yes, it finally happened. "Listen to the heartbeat" is finally live on Amazon.com. You can get your copy HERE. I hope you enjoy reading it. :)
Lillian Summers' romance novels
A blog that updates the readers about Lillian Summers' romance novels.
Saturday 20 June 2015
Monday 23 February 2015
New romance novel
It's been a while since I published a book, and
now it's time to go back to work. Within the next couple of weeks, I will be
releasing 'Listen to the heartbeat', a romance novel that I wrote
at the beginning of 2012.
Here is a short description:
Andrew Langston focuses his life on taking care
of his mega-business, hence his irritation when he must become the legal
guardian of orphan Lucy Whitfield for two months until she turns eighteen. But
his discontent melts away when he meets his beautiful pupil. Not even the fact
that Lucy is madly in love with business tycoon Peter Randall will stop Andrew
from attempting to reach his goal. He takes advantage of the guardianship
agreement provisions to keep the two lovers apart. The two moguls will fight to
no end for Lucy's love. Their goals will turn her life upside down when they
clash. But while one’s personal interests will endanger her life, the other’s
will keep her alive. One of them will ultimately achieve what he wants. But
which one?
And for those wanting to see how it begins, here is the first chapter.
Chapter
One
The stale air steamed in the room, saturated with a week’s worth
of humidifier mist. Lucy fought back the urge to wipe the sheen of perspiration
that coated her forehead. A quick dab with her silky handkerchief would do. But
that would definitely qualify as a slap on father’s face and would most
assuredly stick her with an hour-long sermon on her miserable failure to have
turned into a refined beau monde mademoiselle. “Educated young ladies
never display disrespect for the basic needs of the ill and frail,” he
would say, struggling to breathe as the humidifier only provided small relief.
He’d made a considerable investment in her expensive education, and
expected—no, demanded—a high standard of behavior as part of the dividend.
Lucy stole a quick
glance at him. Edward Whitfield looked a lot frailer today than any other day
in the past few weeks. His thin body, once athletic and stalwart, now was that
of a wrinkled child. It would not be long before the cancer would consume the
last of him, but Lucy had no doubt that the very last part claimed would be his
caustic tongue. His eyes were glazed by fever, and he’d just finished spilling
his guts into an enamel bowl. But even at this very moment, Edward still had
enough breath left in him to huff at his team of doctors over poor medication
choices. At his current tempo, there seemed to be only two options left: either
spend his fortune on the creation of a new anti-spew potion, or find a new
medical team overseas after having sacked all available U.S. oncologists.
“Strength is
derived by ignoring the weaknesses of the human physique and relying on the
infinite power of the human mind,” Descartes had once said. Maybe that’s
how her father’s spirit was still strong as a bull, even though he had one foot
in the grave and the other one firmly on the edge. Her father quoted those
Descartes teachings day in and day out. Additionally, he had her read them
aloud to him, what seemed like one hundred and one times a day. The motto of
existentialism, he called it: “Je pense donc je suis. Cogito, ergo sum. I
think, therefore I am.” No wonder she woke up in the middle of the night,
chanting like a lunatic.
“Je pense donc
je suis.” “Cogito, ergo sum.” “I think, therefore I am.”…
“Je pense donc
je suis.” “Cogito, ergo sum.” “I think, therefore I am.”…
“Je pense donc
je suis.” “Cogito, ergo sum.” “I think, therefore I am.”…
That must be how
cults hypnotized people and turned them into lifelong puppets.
Lucy risked another
furtive glance his way. Maybe there was a chance now to wipe her forehead
without him blustering at her even for moving her hand. Or even better, to
sneak out of here together with the damn copy of Descartes’ volume from her
father’s priceless library. Lucy ran with that thought, dreaming of digging a
deep hole at the bottom of Edward’s beloved Longleaf Pine and burying the
wretched book underneath a huge bucketful of dung.
A small vibration
started tickling Lucy’s hip and grew stronger and stronger as the seconds
ticked by. To risk or not to risk? She stuck her hand between the folds of her
dress and took out the cell phone, stealing another furtive glimpse at her
father. His eyelids had drooped under the spell of his exhaustion, but an
erratic flutter was still haunting them. Returning her attention to the phone,
she looked fondly at the handsome face displayed on the screen. Peter Randall’s
pale blue eyes were staring back at her, bearing funny little crinkles at their
corners as he was smiling at her with those lips that were the cornucopia of
her fantasies at night and the very essence of her daydreams.
“Hey.” Lucy picked
up and breathed into the handset, her voice a faint whisper.
“Hey, babe.”
Peter’s voice caressed her senses, velvet soft. “Is it safe to talk?”
“Uh-uh,” she said,
looking warily toward the huge king size bed. “Not yet…maybe in another half an
hour.”
“Do you think you
can sneak out?” he asked. “I miss you.”
Lucy felt a
thousand wild shivers run hot through her veins. “I miss you too, but I can’t
leave. He won’t let me out without his guard dogs on my heels.” She struggled
to keep her voice down to a whisper.
Peter Randall
stifled an irritated sigh. “You shouldn’t have told him about me, babe,” he
said. “That’s why he’s put a tail on you.”
She shot a dark
glare toward the bed. “I know, but it’s a little too late now, isn’t it?” Damn my stupidity and my tendency to be
sincere with the wrong people at the wrong time. Yeah, the truth will set you
free, but first it will make you so miserable, you’d rather choose to rot in
the damn cage of lies, she mused bitterly.
“Don’t worry, we’ll
find a way around it.” Peter’s soft voice kept sending hot flames through her
body. “I’ll call you later tonight. I love you, babe.”
“I love you, too,”
Lucy murmured, staring pensively at the screen. Had he heard her last words? Not quite sure. She bit her lower lip.
“Lucy Whitfield,
would you kindly give your cell phone to Rosa?” Edward’s voice resounded from
the bed.
Damn it! Lucy cursed
silently just as a jolt of panic shot through her. The scoundrel had lain there
in silence, playing dead and listening to the entire conversation. Dead meat,
that’s what she was right now, grounded until the day when her father was
finally nailed in his coffin.
“Yes,” she
muttered, holding her phone out for the maid to confiscate.
“I beg your
pardon?” Edward Whitfield’s voice turned silky.
“Yes, sir,” she
amended, this time looking straight at him.
He stared back at
her, dark-eyed, his thin, crumpled face hard like steel. “Could you please go
to the library and get the Plato Oxford Classical Texts? I would like
you to read them to me,” he said.
She stood up
without a word and headed for the door.
“Lucy Whitfield!” His
voice thundered across the room, making her flinch.
“Yes, sir.” She
turned around abruptly.
Edward’s face was
once more calm and unreadable, only bearing the print of exhaustion. “Educated
people reply when talked to. They do not just turn their back on their
interlocutors,” he said.
“My apologies,
sir,” Lucy replied. “I’ll get that volume right away. If you would excuse me…”
She let her words trail just as she executed a perfect curtsy and left the
room. Let him feel the blow of her insult, she thought with devilish
satisfaction. He’ll certainly choke or puke once more, having seen his daughter
bob a miserable servant’s curtsy. Now, that was a little cruel to wish for. A short
pang of guilt hit her. Only a short one, though. She pushed the guilt out of
her mind, leaving room for smiling, pale blue eyes. Too bad Edward Whitfield
thought philosophy readings were the appropriate punishment for every wrong he
thought she’d ever done to him. Like...being born a girl, looking so much like
her late mother, having nothing in common with her father, being in love with
Peter Randall, and right now, for planning a romantic rendezvous. A rendezvous
which was going to happen, even if she had to dig her way out the
mansion.
*****
Richard Langston
linked his hands on his lap and waited patiently for his son to finish his
phone call.
Sitting straight on
his sumptuous gray leather chair, Andrew Langston had not spared a glance at
his father for the last ten minutes. His forefinger kept absently drawing a
spiral on the desk as he concluded his conversation and a hundred and fifty
million dollar deal with it. At twenty-seven, he hardly showed his age on his
patrician, sculpted face, but his young, inquisitive mind had the strength and
wisdom of a much older man. His intellect was definitely beneficial for the
business, a disconcerting weapon that more often than not led adversaries on
the path of lethal mistakes. Andrew Langston had an innate ability to sniff out
his rivals’ weaknesses and mercilessly exploit every crack in their defense
using all resources available to him, both personal and corporate. His
investments seemed to be bold, risky ventures, yet each one had returned
profit, confirming his instincts for investing based on intuition rather than
popular or safe trends. Andrew Langston’s career was on a rapid ascend, but at
times, Richard wondered if that made his son happy. Amassing billion after
billion had not brought his son love and tenderness. Andrew’s handsome face was
always dark and rigid, like carved steel. Neither the fascinating bright green
shade of his eyes, or the way his brown hair always rebelled, carelessly waving
and slightly curling at the temples, softened his outward expression. Richard
Langston had no doubt that his son’s heart was just as hard as his granite
expression.
“Dad, I’m terribly
sorry, but if it’s business you need to discuss, I’m afraid you came at the
wrong time. I have a meeting in five minutes.” Andrew looked up at him as soon
as he hung up. That was his polite way of scolding his father for barging in.
Richard smiled
inwardly. By the look of it, he obviously needed to make an appointment to see
his own son. “It’s not business…as such,” he decided to amend after starting
too vaguely. Five minutes was not long enough for what he had to say, let alone
for the explosion that would, without doubt, follow as a result. “I need your
help in a personal matter,” he said.
Andrew’s eyebrows
rearranged into two indignant lines that almost met in the middle. “Then why didn’t
you wait until this evening, Dad? You know I’m always home after six.”
“It’s urgent, son.”
Richard met his gaze with a defiant one of his own. “I don’t think you’d lose
that much if you spared a few moments for your own father.”
He waited a little to
assess the impact of his words. Victory or defeat? Victory, it seemed, for Andrew
leaned back on his chair, the frustration gone from his green eyes.
Richard cleared his
throat and recommenced. “Edward is dying…not long now, maybe another few days?”
A painful lump wedged in his throat, making him stammer a little. A lifetime of
memories bonded him to Edward Whitfield. So many, in fact, it had never really
mattered that as young men, they’d been fierce rivals in the petroleum
business.
“I’m sorry to hear it, Dad,” Andrew said, his
voice suddenly soft and caressing.
His son could at
times be just as gentle as he was hard and unforgiving. Richard summoned the
strength to get back to the matter at hand. “Edward has a daughter, Lucy. You
may remember her.”
“Yes, I do.” Andrew
nodded. “That scrawny child with a million freckles and a crooked eye. She bit
me when I was fourteen. I still have a scar, you know.” He pointed at his left
arm, profound indignation written all over his face.
“Of course she did.”
Richard snorted. “You would have done that too if someone called you Doodle
Moose.”
“Not if I knew I
looked like one,” Andrew retorted, pursing his lips. “She looked like a Doodle
monster, with carrot hair and skinny legs. That day, she’d stuck a horrible
pair of split hoofs on her skull, saying she was Santa’s reindeer. That’s why I
called her Doodle Moose, remember?”
“She was only five
years old, for God’s sake. What would you expect?” Richard exclaimed with
exasperation. “In contrast, you were big enough to know it was stupid to pick
on a child who’d just gotten out of diapers.”
“All right, all
right.” Andrew rolled his eyes. “I gather you’re not here to talk about my
childhood memories. So what’s the point?”
Richard took a big
breath. “Edward asked me to take care of
Lucy, and her fortune, until she turns eighteen.”
Andrew stared back
at him with mild interest. His forefinger resumed the spiraling drawing on the
smooth surface of the desk. “Why you? Doesn’t he have relatives to take care of
it?” he asked.
“Not really,”
Richard answered. “He has estranged himself from Catherine’s side of the family
since she passed away. You know he couldn’t bear anything that reminded him of
her—not even the sight of Lucy. That’s why he sent his daughter to Linden Hall
School for Girls for twelve years.”
“Linden Hall School for Girls? Isn’t that in
Lititz, Pennsylvania? That’s more than three hundred miles south of here.”
Andrew’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“That is precisely what he was aiming for.”
Richard nodded his head curtly. “Longer the distance, lesser the pain, or at
least that was what he thought. Lucy is the spitting image of her mother, and
that was something Edward couldn’t live with. So, he sent the girl to boarding
school, only allowing her to visit for a couple of weeks each year. During the
rest of the school holidays, she stayed in D.C. with her grandmother.”
“So, why isn’t her
grandmother taking on that responsibility now that Edward will…” Andrew
hesitated a little over his choice of words. “Depart this life?” he continued.
“She suffers from
dementia,” Richard answered. “And there’s only one aunt left from Edward’s side
of the family, but she’s two years Lucy’s junior. An orphan herself after her
parents died in a plane crash. She has her own guardian, but he’s not someone
Edward would entrust with his daughter’s care.”
There was a
mounting tension in his father’s voice and definitely a wavering unrest. Andrew
picked up the uneasiness with a brief pang of alarm. Richard Langston had so
far skirted around the issue of concern.
“What is it that
you want from me, Dad?” Andrew asked bluntly, suddenly straightening in his
chair.
It was now well
past the time for diplomacy, Richard concluded. He mentally cursed his weakness
that more often than not made him yield to his own son’s power of mind. “I need
you to take over the guardianship, son,” he replied, hating the feebleness of
the request as it left his mouth.
Andrew’s eyes
narrowed to slits as he fixed his father with a frosty stare. “I beg your
pardon?” he blasted.
“You heard me,”
Richard recovered his strength. “I need your help for a change, Andrew, and I
am in no mood to waste time with a confrontation. Edward is my best friend, and
I will not betray his trust. You know that your mother and I will be leaving
for England for eight months. Amanda has already started the departure
preparations, and as soon as she says she’s ready, we’ll go. It could be a
couple of weeks, maybe longer, I don’t know, but one thing is certain: we
cannot possibly take the girl with us. She is due to start her first year of
college here in Rochester.”
He stopped for a
moment to stare at his son’s unyielding face. Too bad, he was going to push it
right to the point when Andrew would lose patience and either give in or send
him packing.
“I know it’s a lot
I’m asking of you, but it’s your turn to do something to help us out.”
Reminding Andrew it had been his parents’ fortune that had opened the door to
his own was uncalled for, but he didn’t have much of a choice, did he? The
guardianship agreement involved not only the care of the girl, but also
entailed managing the entire Whitfield financial empire. That was a task that
he would never entrust a board of directors with while he was away overseas.
Yet, the only person he could count on, his own son, was a man who was used to
wielding, not yielding.
Nothing on Andrew’s
face gave away what was on his mind. He just stared at his father with calm,
unreadable eyes. “What is it that I need to do, in practical terms?” he asked.
His voice was now as hard as his features.
Richard stifled the
urge to push out a sigh of relief—or one of immense misery, he couldn’t quite
decide. “You’ll need to go see Edward this evening and meet with his lawyers to
sign the legal papers appointing you as Lucy’s legal guardian for the next two
months. This will give you full control over her wellbeing and her fortune,
which will be entrusted to you to manage and protect to the best of your
ability.” He stared for a moment at his son. Andrew’s face was once again hard and
unyielding. “It’s only for two months, for God’s sake,” he sighed with
exasperation. “Only for two months.”
Andrew felt a small
muscle twitch in his neck. “Why doesn’t he give her control of her fortune
right now?” he asked. “She’s only two months away from turning eighteen. What’s
the difference?”
“Her father has no
intentions to do so,” Richard answered. “He believes she’s too reckless and
crude and needs more time to grow up. As a matter of fact, he wanted to send
her to Mississippi, where she’d only come of age at twenty one, had you been
able to move your business headquarters in that state.”
How ridiculous! Andrew looked up to
the heavens. On second thought, Edward Whitfield must have a good reason.
After all, Doodle Moose was already a little hellcat when she wasn’t even five
years old. The scar on my arm is a lifetime testimony of it. And she’d only had
baby teeth at the time. Now she must have grown fangs, he thought with
profound irritation. “All right,” he said. “I will go talk to Mr. Whitfield.
But this by no means implies my acceptance,” he warned as soon as he saw
excitement painted all over his father’s face. “It will be just for a
discussion, no strings attached. I need to fully understand what’s expected of
me. And I’ll talk to you about this later tonight.”
The few moments of silence that followed were enough to send the
unspoken message from son to his father. There was a business meeting waiting
to happen, and by now, it was long overdue.
Richard
stood up in no hurry and shot a friendly hand over the desk. No need to show he
was in debt in any way. “Thank you,” he said before turning around to leave the
room.
Andrew followed his
father with his gaze until the door closed behind him, and only then did he
crash his fist on the desk, making the fountain pen jump with a startle.
Changing the diapers of a seventeen-year-old, crooked-eyed chick, and looking
after her fortune… Jesus Christ! This was the last thing in the world he wanted
to deal with.
*****
The wind picked up,
sending a hot, humid gust of air through the lush branches of the summersweet
shrubs. A blond lock of hair swooped down over Peter’s forehead, followed by
another one. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the feel of Lucy’s
fingers as they pushed the tendrils back in place.
“Your touch is so
magic,” he murmured. “I could stay here forever, begging for your caress.”
Lucy felt her
cheeks turn crimson. “You are the sweetest advantage-seeker I’ve ever met.” She
smiled, letting her fingers trail across his forehead. “You lure me with
enticing words at the precise moment when I should stand up and leave.”
Peter leaned
forward to gently bite the lobe of her ear. “Little cheat,” he said. “You would
give anything to stay here a little longer, yet you can’t help it... You have
to give me a little lecture about having to go home.”
“Promise you’ll
give me your heart forever, and I’ll stay just as long,” Lucy laughed.
“My heart is ever
at your service,” Peter took a dramatic side bow, propping the palm of his hand
on the ground as he sat next to her behind the shrubs.
Lucy stared
thoughtfully at him, her lips pursed in a jokingly rebellious pout. “Whose
saying is that?” she challenged.
“Mine, of course,”
Peter laughed, leaning forward to kiss her.
Her heart filled
with emotion and all the tenderness in the world. “You have the soul of a poet.
You should write poetry.” She smiled.
“I don’t think it’s talent.” He playfully flicked the tip of her nose
with his forefinger. “At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.”
Lucy drew her upper
lip in between her teeth and stared pensively at him for a moment. “Whose
saying is this one?” she asked the same question.
Peter burst out
laughing. “Mine, of course,” he said, half closing his eyelids again to take in
the feel of her caress.
She let her fingers
once more roam across his forehead, drawing along his dark blond brows. His
lips slid across her wrist, lingering there in a slow caress until he felt her
pulse thunder.
“Peter…I need to
go,” she whispered, not quite sure if she wanted to pull away or get closer to
his touch.
He helped her lie
down on the grass. “No, you don’t,” he whispered back, brushing his lips over
hers. He let his fingers venture along the hem of her shirt, slowly pushing it
up until he felt the warmth of her skin just above her navel.
A sudden rush of
alarm shot through her. “I need to go.” She hastily sat up. “They probably
noticed my absence and are already looking for me. Besides, I don’t want a
security guard to bump into you around here. Because how would you explain your
presence in the property? Father would have a heart attack.”
“And why would that
bother you, baby? He’s almost food for worms anyway.” Peter laughed.
Somehow, it did
bother her. Yet she couldn’t quite put the finger on the unfathomable reason
for the unease that was gripping at her heart every time Peter was talking
about it with such nonchalance.
“I really need to
go.” Lucy almost begged for his permission, not wanting to aggravate him. It
had been hard enough for her to sneak Peter onto the property under the noses
of four security guards and constant 24/7 video surveillance that swept the
entire property.
Peter stood up
slowly. “All right,” he sighed. “I’ll talk to you tonight, then. Just try to
sneak out sometime tomorrow.” His mouth took hers without warning in a
dominant, drugging kiss, leaving her out of breath. “I want you to come to my
place. You’ve never been there.”
Lucy felt her
cheeks catch fire and definitely turn crimson. “We’ll see about that…” She said
the words with a voice so low, he had to strain his ears to hear it.
Whether she’d been
so vague about tomorrow’s rendezvous or had just tried to fend off his latter
invitation, he couldn’t quite tell. One thing was certain, though, Peter
concluded with a sweet smile on his lips as he watched her walk toward the
mansion: getting every bit of Lucy Whitfield for himself wasn’t going to be
easy.
The double doors to
Edward Whitfield’s room were, for once, wide open. Lucy’s heart picked up
speed, and so did her feet, until she almost broke into a run along the
corridor. She should have stayed indoors and waited for father’s call. A pang
of remorse ran through her mind, just before delayed panic shattered her. God!
Maybe the priest was in there with him right now, or even worse, he may have
even breathed his last.
Masculine voices
resounded from the room.
“It was our
understanding, Mr. Langston, that you would be coming here tonight to sign the
guardianship documents. This is what your father told Mr. Whitfield,” a throaty
voice cried out.
She peeked inside
for the briefest moment then pulled back quickly. There was no way on earth she
could see the bed, let alone her father’s silhouette. Five men were standing
there, blocking him from view. That was, if Edward Whitfield was still sprawled
on that king-sized mattress, instead of being whisked away to a funeral home.
Another voice
resounded in the room, calm and dispassionate. “I truly understand the urgency,
Mr. Dunmore, but my father only briefed me about the situation this afternoon.
You appreciate that I cannot take lightly the responsibility of being Miss
Whitfield’s legal guardian, and I have to confer with my legal team before
making any undertaking of this sort or signing any binding documents for that
matter.”
A frustrated sigh
exploded across the walls, and the same throaty voice continued to berate the
last speaker. “With respect, Mr. Langston, you need to take into account that
Mr. Whitfield’s condition is critical, and any delay in making your decision
may gravely and irremediably affect his business empire. As I told you, Mr.
Whitfield made no provisions about how his fortune would be managed, were he to
pass away before the guardianship was settled.”
“I was under the
impression that the main concern was Miss Whitfield’s wellbeing, Mr. Denmore.”
An ironic note clearly radiated from the other voice.
So, her father was
still alive and definitely lying down behind that wall of quarrelsome idiots,
Lucy decided. She took a few cautious steps and stretched her neck to look
beyond them. Yes, she could now see his head poking out from behind a fat man’s
backside. His closed eyelids kept fluttering erratically.
“Dunmore,” Edward
Whitfield suddenly opened his eyes and croaked. “Just shut up and let Mr.
Langston take his time, would you?”
Martin Dunmore flinched violently, taken aback by his boss’s eerie
return from the slumber of near purgatory. “Yes, sir,” he snapped in military
compliance.
Edward’s feverish
stare swept his attorney once more, then his eyelids dropped again, resuming
their fluttering. “And what are you doing in here?” His eyes snapped open
without warning, scanning his daughter’s face.
“I just came to see
if you needed me, sir,” Lucy answered.
Five pairs of eyes
turned to sweep her from head to toe. Four of them turned back to Edward Whitfield.
The fifth man’s gaze remained locked on her, hypnotized. Andrew Langston let
the last drop of breath push out past his lips before clamping them together,
forgetting to let air come back in. It was not the stale air in the room that
made his head spin; he’d been in there for a while without any such thing
troubling him. His heart kept skipping beat after beat, and when it remembered
to thump in his chest, it did it so hard, it threatened to break out of it
altogether. She is a vision. The
thought flowed through him, intense, warm, tender. Midnight blue eyes on an
angelic face, framed by copper-gold locks that fell over her shoulders, down to
her hips…
Lucy briefly bit
her upper lip, stealing a furtive glance at Andrew Langston just before Edward
Whitfield’s voice croaked back at her once more.
“You are not
required here,” he wheezed, gasping for air. “Go to the library and clean up
the mess you left behind when you pulled out the texts from the Oxford
Classical Collection.”
“Right away, sir,”
she almost whispered, bobbing a deep curtsy.
And then she was
gone.
Andrew’s face
turned hard again. “I would like to take a copy of these papers with me, Mr.
Dunmore.” He looked at the plump little man. “I will confer with my legal team
in the morning, and someone will get in touch with you before lunch.” And with
that, he turned his back on the lawyer, as if he were no more than a freshly
squashed fat beetle. “Mr. Whitfield,” he gently called out, “if I’m not asking
too much, I would like to meet your daughter before I leave.”
Edward Whitfield
popped his eyes wide open, pinning him with a glazed, feverish stare. “You just
did,” he whispered, then he shut up, looking immobile and serene, or maybe
dead.
The man must be
delirious. Andrew looked pitifully at him. He suddenly swept the room with an
incredulous stare, attracted to an image he had brushed with his gaze a few
minutes ago. The portrait of a vision with midnight blue eyes and long tendrils
of copper-gold hair was hanging on the wall. The woman was the spitting image
of the girl who’d just been chased away, only that she was some twenty-five
years older. The late Catherine Whitfield, most certainly.
Raw fury mounted to
Andrew’s temples as he blasted the frail man with a murderous glare. This
monster was treating his daughter as if she were a servant. There was no “Dad”
and “Father” in her vocabulary. Just “sir,” like the gardener, the maid, and
the cleaner addressed him. He’d estranged her from him for twelve long years
for looking like her mother, but the portrait of his late wife was sitting on
the wall right here in his bedroom. I
hope you rot in hell, Mr. Whitfield, Andrew mused bitterly as he left the
room, bobbing a curt nod toward the old man’s legal team.
“Hey!”
Andrew turned
around abruptly, almost colliding with Lucy in the middle of the corridor. She
was even more exquisite from so close. Where had Doodle Moose disappeared, with
her plump, chubby little body stuck on top of two long toothpicks? What about
her carrot hair and her million freckles? Well, maybe that can go away with
age, but there sure was no miracle cure when it came to a crooked eye. Wrong,
he thought in fascination as he lost himself in a sea of midnight blue.
Lucy looked him up
and down for a moment, then started scrutinizing his features with a critical
eye. “Are you the Langston kid?” she rapid-fired the question.
Andrew’s eyebrows
shot up in surprise.
“You know, the one
I bit thirteen years ago.” She pointed at his arm.
“Oh, that.” He understood.
“Yes, that would be me.”
“I see.” Lucy
nodded. “Then listen to me very carefully, Langston kid.” Her eyes narrowed to
slits. “I bit you once when I was only five. Dare to sign the damn guardianship
papers, and I swear I’ll stick my teeth in you and tear you to tiny, little
pieces. So little, in fact, nobody will ever be able to sew you back together.
Is this understood?” And with that, she turned her back on him and walked away,
swaying her hips with unconscious grace.
Andrew stared after
her, open-mouthed, not quite sure when he’d last felt that mesmerized—if he
ever had. She’d bitten him almost thirteen years ago; she’d just done it again
with her caustic tongue. Only now, she was no crooked-eyed toddler. She was a
fairy tale princess with a big, nasty mouth.
His fingers
feverishly tapped the screen of his cell phone as he threw himself on the back
seat of his limousine. The two cars of the convoy were just pulling away from the
stairs of Whitfield’s mansion when Richard Langston picked up, his voice
charged with impatience.
“Dad,” Andrew said, staring absently out the
window at the manicured parkland of the property. “I’m calling you about Doodle
Moose. I’ve just decided to take her.”
*****
Nine rows of chairs
were arranged in a wide semicircle. In the center of it, the silk-covered
pedestal strained under the enormous weight of the white marble casket and the
much lesser one of Edward Whitfield, who lay within. The ceremony had started
an hour ago, and there was no sign it was anywhere close to an end, but none of
the mourners were raising their eyebrows. After all, they all knew their dearly
departed had spent quite some time writing his own fond farewell long before
his number came up. Strangely enough, though, a lot of it had to do with
Descartes. Not that they didn’t want to hear that “strength is derived by
ignoring the weaknesses of the human physique and relying on the infinite power
of the human mind,” but by now, they’d all started to whither from the
stinking hot humidity that was misting in the air, clinging to their clothes
and drawing patchy stains underneath their armpits.
“May his soul rest
in peace.”
The magic words
came out of the funeral celebrant’s lips, prompting a hundred and twenty-five
mourners to stifle a collective sigh of relief. They stood up in silence and
queued one behind another to pay their respects to both Lucy and her deceased
father. One by one, they stopped in front of the casket, placing their white
rose gently on the casket lid.
Lucy’s
dispassionate gaze swept the mountain of flowers that now covered the casket,
choking underneath them the white spray of roses that had been laid on the lid
at the beginning of the ceremony. Damn ass-lickers, she thought with
disdain, turning her stare toward the crowd. None of them had given a damn
about Edward Whitfield while he was rotting with cancer, let alone now when he
was about to take residence six feet under. Her gaze filled with infinite
fondness as it met Peter’s pale blue eyes smiling at her from the last row of
chairs, their corners creased with funny little crinkles. Damn the Langston
family, who was flanking her, and their damn bodyguards watching like jackals
from a distance, hands linked in front of their guts, as if they suffered from
chronic cramps! How the hell was she going to slip away even for a minute with
so many guard dogs on her tail? She sent a tortured look Peter’s way and blew
an almost imperceptible kiss at him over the heads of about fifty mourners.
Andrew Langston
turned his head for the hundredth time to steal a glimpse at her. She looked
both beautiful and fragile, dressed in an ivory suit that was too severe for
her age. Then again, who could have argued with Edward Whitfield’s funeral
design? He’d most certainly planned every single detail, maybe even chosen the
color of her underwear. Andrew felt the rage boiling once more in his temples,
but it died just as fast. Now the bastard was nothing more than a rotting
corpse, and she…she belonged to no other. His heart overflowed with tenderness as
he looked at her once more and froze. Her eyes were sparkling with that
midnight blue hue, sparkling like mystique precious stones filled with fire, a
fire of love and passion and desire. His gaze shot through the crowd to follow
hers and met Peter Randall’s. No, the way Lucy was looking at the blond,
handsome man must be accidental. Andrew forced the thought in his enraged mind,
unable to peel his gaze from their silent, loving exchange.
The last mourner
stopped in front of Lucy and whispered something to her ear. He turned toward
the casket with a pained look on his face to drop on it a gorgeous lily with
creamy, heavy petals. There was a short moment of silence, as if the crowd
inwardly questioned the choice of the flower, then a rumbling that seemed to
come from inside the coffin made them all wonder if Edward Whitfield was making
some complaints of his own. Why on earth lilies, when white roses were
specifically mentioned in the funeral plan? And just as the rumbling got loud
enough to make the fiercest materialists believe in disembodied spirits, the
overloaded casket crashed on the white carpet, flattening the pedestal to the
ground.
It took Andrew a
fraction of a second to catch Lucy in his arms and pull her securely to his
chest as she fainted for the first time in her life. From the last row of
chairs, Peter Randall’s gaze shot at him and held his in a silent duel.
A huge roar spread
amongst the mourners as they tumbled the chairs and trampled on the floral
arrangements, trying to get closer to the casket. Some didn’t even bother, too
busy to secretly rejoice at the thought that the ceremony was now truly over,
even though the place looked like a ravaged field after a battle. One thing was
certain, no doubt whatsoever. This unholy event with the casket, everybody had
to agree, meant that Edward Whitfield was in a hurry to sink down to hell. Or
maybe hell was rushing to claim him.
Thursday 9 October 2014
A fantastic book, not to be missed.
It is called "The penis chronicles and other random observations." Yes, you read it right. 'The penis chronicles.' This book contains, indeed, all you need to know about the penis, although not anatomically speaking. Its insecurities, its needs, the way we, women respond to it, and so on. In a debut book that will, without any doubt, glue you to the pages, Australian author Cheryl Van Hoorn will tell you all about the legendary male organ that commands men's lives and fascinates those of women.
Here is how it all begins:
THE
DIVINITY OF THE PENIS
Penis,
penis, penis, penis! There, I’ve said it. I am placing the penis on notice,
right here, right now, front and centre. I am declaring that there is a
Divinity of the penis.
The
seeds of this rather inopportune sentiment were planted while I was growing up
on the heels of my mother’s well-worn shoes as she walked my sister and myself
from one end of Hurstville to another. Throughout these walks mum would tell
stories. She had a gift for words (something she passed to me) and her constant
chatter did not require a reply. She talked to us of Kings and Queens in the
past, of the politics of the day and what the woman on the corner was doing now
to piss her off. But mostly she spoke to us about the penis.
We
were cautioned here; it was a dangerous thing and not something that could be
taken lightly. It was both a weapon and a tool and it scared the bejesus out of
my mother as well as myself. I believed the words that came from her mouth.
Mind
you I believed her when she told me that I would get pregnant if I drank out a
green straw.
This
belief regarding the penis placed me in an oddly myopic position as I grew up.
It coloured the way in which I observed the adult world I was about to enter. A
world where men lived with their penis and wanted THE SEX.
Growing up in a house with a mother and a
sister and rarely seeing the patriarch of the house gave me no point of
comparison. Of course I had a normal interest in this implement, a curiosity
that was sated by the fact that I chose one of the few legitimate professions
where I was able to view the penis frequently. I became a Nurse.
The
not so humble penis is the centre of a man’s being. The orientation of life.
For them anyway. Women are really sure it is not.
This
is not something that woman talk about this in so many words however it is
present in the side slip of gentle conversation; engaged in the tales told by
mothers in the schoolyard while waiting for offspring and those mothers with
friends who have sons. From this it is not difficult to see that males have a
singular point of worship: their penis.
This
was demonstrated to me in hard terms early one morning.
I have no doubt that by now you are curious to see what follows. For those eager to keep going, the book is available for sale in both hard copy and in E-book format. Click HERE for the purchase link.
About Cheryl:
Cheryl was born and bred in Australia and grew up
against the 70’s and 80’s learning her lessons in life at her mother’s heels
along with a disenfranchised youth.
Cheryl entered the University of Sydney to
complete a diploma of applied sciences, Nursing. Upon graduation she
commenced work on a kidney ward leading to some of the most gratifying work in
her life and delivering to her a husband and two sons.
Cheryl is now the owner/editor of Tweaking MADD
and is currently completing a Bachelor of Communication with a double major in
Film Studies and Creative Writing while being owned by three fractured cats and
two dogs.
*****
ENJOY THIS FABULOUS BOOK!
Friday 13 June 2014
Friday the 13th, the night of full moon
If you ever wondered, here is what happens on Friday the 13th, the night of full moon. Not to mention that on that particular night, there was a total lunar eclipse too.
PROLOGUE
'Mindbender' by Lillian Summers can be purchased on Amazon in Kindle format HERE
PROLOGUE
Friday,
October 13th, 2000
NSA,
PR12 facility, somewhere near Clearwater River, Idaho
The
moon was flat and pale, forever scarred by the old, ugly rabbit that kept
gawking down at the earthly lethargy with its dull, eerie stare. He did it
every time the moon’s face was round and at its fullest. And it sure happened
this time.
Brian
Splice peeled his gaze from the sky and cursed bitterly. He should have started
his first day on the job Monday, nice and clean, if it wasn’t for a bunch of
superstitious imbeciles who had called in sick, all because of the full moon.
And because it was Friday the 13th. A total lunar eclipse night too.
He walked out of the booth with lazy steps and rubbed his hands together, at
times blowing in between his fingers to bring some warmth to the hollow of his
palms. It was unusually cold for mid-October.
The
silver curtains of moonlight stretched past the wired fence to the edge of the
woods. Then darkness conquered light, opening an endless, hungry mouth as dark
as the blackest soul. He shivered. God only knew what happened at night beyond
the border of the forest. No, not God. That looked nothing like His territory.
Jesus. What am I thinking? Brian
mused with irritation. All this ‘full moon, Friday the 13th’
business was messing with his head, that’s what it was. There was nothing wrong
with the forest, or with starting a new job today. He had made damn sure he’d
be transferred to the most boring, uneventful place a soldier could go;
guarding a top secret NSA facility where nothing ever happened. The buildings
were nestled right in the middle of an unbreakable stronghold, about a mile
away from the forest, and separated by another three rows of barbed-wired
barricades from the outer fence. Unreachable.
The
moonlight grew fainter and the Earth’s shadow began to bite at the moon’s round
face. A hungry rat nibbling at a stale slice of cheese.
Brian
looked up again. It’s happening.
How
creepy to see the moon’s trail become so narrow and dim. But even so, it stayed
visible and red. As if bleeding inwardly with its own strangely colored blood.
A curse following an erratic pattern of its own. Another few minutes and it
will be gone.
Yes, it will be gone, he
reassured himself.
The
strident howling of the sirens made him flinch. He took a few unsteady steps
toward the wired barricades and tripped on a rock. The lights turned on all at
once and the buildings came to life in the distance, lighting up like a
carousel at a carnival. Definitely not a drill. Cold terror swept through him
from head to toe. He slid the belt of his rifle off his shoulder and turned the
weapon forward hastily, clasping it hard with both hands until his knuckles
turned white.
I’m safe. I’m safe. It’s all happening
in the buildings, he chanted silently as he whirled on his heels, completing
a full circle. Nothing in sight. I’m
safe. I’m safe. It’s all happening in the buildings.
A
scratching noise behind the booth made him jump.
“Who’s
there?” he croaked, his finger shaking on the trigger. Take a deep breath, Brian. Deep breath. You’re a soldier, not a sissy.
Too bad
it had been his father’s idea to send him to the army for the sake of his own
political image. The overly polished senator risked to lose some of his shine
if his son failed his patriotic duty or was demoted for unsatisfactory service.
“Who’s
there?” Brian repeated a little more forcefully.
A
little silhouette slipped out of the dark and inched its way toward him in silence.
Panic
rose to Brian’s temples in pulsing storms. He extended his arms, clenching his
weapon and engaged the trigger.
“Hold
it right there,” he yelled. “Hold it or I will shoot you. Hands up.”
Two
small hands rose in the air unhurriedly and stayed there, not far above a head
covered by a fleece of tousled hair. Very light brown or very dark blond, Brian
couldn’t quite decide.
The
moonlight was slowly coming back. The soldier stretched his neck and squinted,
trying to make out the features of the young boy standing in front of him, only
a couple of yards away, staring with mild curiosity. Definitely not fear.
A child. Jesus Christ. Brian
looked bewildered.
He
grabbed his radio from his belt and pressed a button. “This is Private Splice,
calling from Gate 14. I have a suspect in custody. Awaiting orders. Over.”
The
radio came back to life in an instant. “Splice. This is Captain Huntley. Listen
carefully to me. Do not shoot the suspect. I repeat. Do not shoot the suspect
under any circumstances. And make sure you don’t touch him. Stay away from him.
This is very important. Stay away from the suspect. Do you copy, Splice?”
“Affirmative,
sir,” Brian shouted his compliance.
“We’ll
be there in a couple of minutes. Over and out,” Captain Huntley announced. Then
the radio went dead.
Silence
lingered for a moment, only interrupted every now and then by the soft tapping
of Brian’s nail as it trembled on the side of the trigger. His gaze scrutinized
the boy’s face. It was calm and unreadable.
“What’s
your name?” the boy asked, slowly dropping his hands.
A new
wave of panic shook Brian from head to toe. “Hands up,” he yelled.
“Nah.”
The boy crinkled his nose. “I’m tired. Besides, I’m not gonna wait for them.”
He took a few small steps backward.
“Hands
up or I’m going to…” Brian started shaking his rifle menacingly.
“You’re
going to do what?” The boy raised his palms in the air questioningly. “Hit me
in the head? Bash me? Knock me out? Cuz’ you sure can’t shoot me, I heard the
guy.”
He
began a leisurely walk around Brian, keeping a safe distance, his eyes scanning
the soldier up and down with amused interest.
“Okay,”
he said suddenly. “I’m going. See you later.”
He
turned around and took off with lively steps.
Brian
stared at him open-mouthed. “Hey. Hold it right there. Don’t move,” he
exclaimed once he came back to his senses.
The boy
ignored him and kept going, as if Brian were just a rotten stump.
Rage
and disbelief mixed in Brian’s mind, only to make room for his sense of duty.
Any second now the captain would arrive; he had to stop that child.
“Hey,
kiddo, I told you not to move.”
He
caught up with the boy in a few brisk steps, stuck the tip of his rifle right
behind his ear and engaged the trigger once more.
“Just
stop, for God’s sake,” he huffed.
“Are
you going to shoot me?” the boy asked without turning his head.
Jesus! How long before the team would
arrive?
One mile to drive from the buildings over bare land was not much, but there
were the three wired barricades to go through, each with their own
sophisticated locking systems, even more complicated now at times of red alert.
“I’m
not going to shoot you, but don’t make me hurt you, kid, because I will if I
have to,” Brian warned him through clenched teeth.
The boy
shot a side glance at him and suddenly turned around, starting back toward the
gate.
“What
are you doing?” Brian asked disconcerted.
“Going
out,” the boy said. “I just realized the exit is back there.”
Raw
fury began to throb through Brian’s temples. He wasn’t going to play games with
this kid anymore.
“That’s
it,” he said and landed a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You stop right now
or…” His gaze met that of the kid’s for a moment. He stared into eyes that
looked like liquid silver in the moonlight. Mercury silver.
“Okay,”
the boy said. “I stopped. What’s your name?”
“Brian…”
The boy
nodded slowly. “Good. I need your help, Brian. Are you going to help me?” He
kept staring in the soldier’s eyes, watching as they glazed over.
“Yes,
sure,” Brian answered. ‘What can I do for you?”
“For
starters, you could open that gate for me.” The boy pointed toward the fence.
“You can also let go of me now, okay?”
“Oh, of
course.” Brian nodded.
He
dropped his hand off the kid’s shoulder and walked back to the booth. A moment
later there was a heavy magnetic click.
“Here we
are.” He poked his head out. “Just pull the handle, and you’re all set to go.”
Two
cars were fast approaching from the nearest barricade. The beams of their
headlights wobbled up and down as their wheels bumped over the bare land.
“Thanks.”
The boy winked at him. “Gotta go.”
He
pushed the gate open just enough to slide his slim body out.
“Do you
need something to warm you up? It’s cold out there,” Brian called after him.
The boy
hesitated for a moment. “Yeah, that would be good, thanks.” He waited in silence
for Brian to bring him his tunic, keeping a wary eye on the approaching cars.
“Take
care of yourself, kiddo.” Brian waved, smiling foolishly.
He was
already talking to the darkness. The forest had claimed its prize. The kid
wasn’t there anymore.
“Splice.”
The captain’s voice boomed from behind, making him flinch. “Where’s the boy?”
The
Private turned around in surprise, taking in the massive man who jumped out of
the first car before it stopped.
“He
just left, sir,” he answered.
Captain
Huntley came to an abrupt halt in front of him and stared open-mouthed.
“What
did you just say?” he almost whispered.
“He
just left, sir,” Brian repeated, looking at his superior a little disconcerted.
“Did
you open the gate for him, Splice?” Captain Huntley asked.
He suddenly
grabbed Brian’s chin and turned his face toward the moonlight to look into his
eyes. Bright and clear.
“Yes,
sir, I did. He asked me to,” Brian squeezed the words out of the captain’s
grip.
“Which
way did he go?” Huntley continued his interrogation, his gaze still drilling
into Brian’s.
The
soldier jerked his head toward the woods. “The forest, sir.”
“God
dammit,” Huntley spat. He let go of the Private’s chin and stormed away.
“Carter. Carrasco. Send all teams to search every inch of the woods with
sniffer dogs. Get helicopters. Reinforcements. This is a code red situation.
Search the river downstream. And don’t come back until you find MB1, do you
hear me?” he rapid-fired the order.
“Yes,
sir,” the men chorused their compliance.
He
turned his back on them and squeezed out a tortured sigh just as his cell phone
rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the number displayed on the
screen.
“Good
evening, sir,” he replied with a resigned tone. “We have a situation here.”
“What’s
the situation, Huntley?” A sour voice sounded at the other end of the line.
He
paused for a moment to swallow hard before answering. “We have an escapee, sir.
Our mindbender.”
“Jesus
Christ. How did that happen?”
Captain
Huntley ran a hand over his day’s worth of stubble. “I don’t know the details
just yet, sir, an investigation is underway as we speak. All I can tell you is
that he touched a guard from the outer fence, and the guard let him out after
that.”
“Are
you telling me it took you that long to find out he had escaped the building,
Huntley?” The voice broke out angrily.
“No,
sir, we arrived at the scene in two minutes tops after the guard told us he had
MB1 in custody,” Huntley replied.
“But
the scientists said the boy needed at least ten minutes to link. Are you now
telling me he linked in less than two minutes?”
“So it
seems, sir.” In fact, it must have taken
a lot less than two minutes, Huntley thought.
“Is
there a chance that the full moon may have heightened his senses?” The voice
pressed.
Huntley
looked up for a moment. There it was, pale, scarred and eerie. “That I wouldn’t
know, sir. I’m a captain, not a scientist. But I can reassure you that we are
doing all we can to get him back. He won’t get very far, he’s only fourteen.”
The
voice exploded in his ear like a firecracker. “He’s only fourteen and he was
able to break out of a high security facility. What sort of guards do you have
if your mindbender can link with them in less than two minutes? Don’t you put
them through a psychological test before you station them?”
Huntley
stuttered. “Y-yes, we do, sir. But maybe you’re right. Maybe his senses are
heightened by the full moon.”
“Can he
read minds too?”
“I
think he can, sir, but I doubt he can do it from a distance, if that’s what you
mean,” Huntley said. “I don’t think he’ll be able to figure out our strategy.
And he’ll most probably try to go downstream. Upstream would be suicide. We’ll
get him, don’t you worry.”
“You
better, Huntley, or I’ll have your skin.”
And
with that he hung up.
“No you
won’t, dammit.” Huntley clenched his cell phone in his hand with rage.
The
darkness of the forest was for once conquered by light. Dozens of flashlights
were sparkling in its blanket like dazzling diamonds. Powerful helicopter beams
shot down from the sky, dancing their way through the untouched wilderness.
Deflowering it.
“Do you
think he’ll be all right, sir?” Brian Splice’s voice made Huntley turn around.
Huntley
stared at him as if he were insane.
“The
boy, I mean,” Brian persisted. “It’s cold out there. But I gave him my tunic.
Not much of a loss for me. I hope it’s warm enough for him.”
Huntley
kept quiet for a moment then nodded slowly. “You know what, Splice? You’re
right; your tunic is not much of a loss. It’s just that you gave away your
insignia with it, you idiot.” And he walked away without another word.
'Mindbender' by Lillian Summers can be purchased on Amazon in Kindle format HERE
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