Threshold of Passion. Vivi AnnaЧитать онлайн книгу.
off to England.
From Thomas, she had learned that a local landscape company, paid by her family’s estate money, kept up maintenance on the house and the grounds in hopes that Sara would one day return.
Now, here she was.
Grabbing her purse, she opened the car door and slid out. She walked around the car and slowly made her way up the front stone steps to the big white door. Hands shaking, she managed to put the key in and turn it. The audible click of the lock nearly made her jump out of her skin.
Taking a deep breath, Sara turned the doorknob and pushed opened the door.
Memories surged over her and her knees buckled. Grabbing the door frame, she kept herself on her feet, but knew if she didn’t sit down soon she would collapse.
Sinking to the threshold of the door, Sara put her head between her knees to take in some deep cleansing breaths. It was too hard to face. She wasn’t strong enough. She should have never come back. The past should’ve remained behind the locked door of her childhood home.
You have the strength to do this, Sara. Look inside, and you’ll find it.
His voice instantly calmed her. Lifting her head, she took in a final cleansing breath and pushed to her feet. She turned and stepped past the door frame and into the front foyer, shutting the door behind her.
Glancing around the high-ceilinged entranceway and through the archway into the living room, Sara noticed that everything was still in place. None of the furnishings had been moved, just draped with white cloths to keep the dust and dirt from settling onto them.
She shuffled farther into the house and stood at the base of the curving staircase, looking up toward the second floor to the bedrooms. Clutching her purse tightly to her chest, she mounted the steps, taking each one with slow, deliberate movements. She counted each one as she had when she had been a child. When she reached thirty, she was on the second-floor landing.
To the right was her dad’s office, her stepmother’s sewing room and a small half bathroom. On the left was her old bedroom, her dad and stepmom’s room, and another bathroom, the one she had used growing up. Taking a deep breath, she turned left.
The walk down the wide hall seemed to last an eternity. Her legs vibrated with each step. When she came to the first door on her right, she opened it and walked through.
Her walls were still pink, a soft hue like in a sunrise. All her girlie posters of movie stars and music idols were still fastened with hot pink thumbtacks. Pulling off the sheet covering her dresser, she smiled when she saw all the trinkets and knickknacks she’d collected over the fourteen years of her childhood.
Her hands shaking, she picked up the music box her mother had given her before she’d died. Sara had been only five, but she could still remember the day as if it had recently happened. Slowly, she opened the lid. Soft strains of Chopin floated out from the box’s small speaker, and the little swan spun around on a blue crystal representing a pond. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she ran her finger over the tiny little bird. Her mother used to call Sara “my little swan.”
Shutting the lid, Sara set the box back on her dresser.She turned and walked out of her room and went down the hall to a set of double doors. Her father’s bedroom. Pain still swam around in her heart and tears blurred her vision, but she turned the brass knob and pushed open the doors anyway.
A rush of stale air surged over her. Underneath it, she swore she could smell the woodsy cologne her father was so fond of wearing. The scent nearly brought her to her knees.
She’d spent many years grieving for her father. For a few months she had retreated so far into herself, her grandmother had sent her to a child psychologist. The good doctor didn’t do anything for her except push her further into withdrawal. By the time she was done with therapy, she was an angry fifteen-year-old on medication.
All those same feelings came surging through her. Instead of an independent woman of twenty-nine, she felt like a frightened teenager all over again, having just realized that she’d never see her father again.
Like a zombie, she wandered into the room. She pulled the sheet off her father’s king-sized platform bed then collapsed onto it, her sobs so intense she could barely breathe. Curling herself in a ball, she cried. Wept all over again for losing her family and being left to fend for herself. She’d been too young to be without someone to depend on, someone to love. She’d been too young to be completely and utterly alone.
As she sobbed and wept, she had the distinct feeling of being comforted. As if a phantom had sat down beside her on the bed and put its arm around her. A male arm. She knew in an instant it was her dream lover comforting her. The wild scent of him swirled around her, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
* * *
Hours later, after full dark had settled in, Sara rolled off her father’s bed and stretched. She had cried until, spent, she’d fallen asleep. She supposed she needed it, having not slept more than two hours since leaving Paris almost four days before.
Her crying jag had exhausted her, but she felt surprisingly refreshed. She felt cleansed. Maybe she had needed to purge herself of her pain. To finally have it all come out. Now maybe she could finally put the pieces of her life back together. In the same place where it had all fallen apart.
Twisting side to side trying to ease the aches starting to creep up on her, Sara wandered toward the floor-to-ceiling windows of the balcony and looked out over the manor’s expansive garden. Pushing the door open, she stepped out onto the veranda. The fresh, salty air swept over her and made her smile. There was nothing like the smell of an ocean breeze. That was one of the things she missed about living on the island.
She lifted her arms up and stretched her back. Then she froze.
There was someone in the garden.
Sara could see a dark shape standing by the stone water fountain. “Who’s there?” she called.
The form didn’t move.
“I’m calling the police if you don’t leave.”
Sara.
She shivered as the sound of her name floated up to her on the warm breeze. She felt a sudden tug at her body, compelling her to go down into the garden.
Turning, she rushed from her father’s room, ran down the stairs and marched into the large kitchen facing the garden. She went to the glass doors at the breakfast nook, turned the lock and opened them.
Sara. I’ve been waiting for you.
Again something tugged at her, as if an invisible rope had been tied around her waist. She walked out onto the porch.
Was it her dream lover calling her? Although she knew it to be impossible, she wanted desperately to see him. To be able to actually, physically, touch him. The seductive summons from the garden seemed familiar. Like the sound of his lilting voice. Curls of desire started to unfurl between her legs as she stepped down the steps and onto the garden’s stone path.
She walked briskly, with purpose, as if whatever was calling to her wanted her to hurry. She could feel the urgency in the summons. And the seduction.
As she neared the fountain, her heart hammered in her chest. The hair at the nape of her neck rose to attention as a delightful tickle rushed down her back. She gasped as the pleasant sensations moved over her body and brushed at her inner thighs as if to coax them apart.
A sudden urge to rip off her clothes filled her. She wondered how the warm breeze would feel blowing over her heated flesh. And hot she was. Sweat dribbled down her chest to pool in her navel. Lifting her hands, she unbuttoned her blouse, her fingers quivering with the effort. Finally, she was able to shrug the cotton off and let it drop to the ground.
Instantly, she felt relief as the ocean air caressed her skin. However, it was not air she wanted but other flesh. A man’s hands. Her dream lover’s hands.
Certain he was waiting