Read Anew: Book One: Awakened Online
Authors: Josie Litton
Anew: Book One: Awakened
“This non-stop read kept my
attention with its strong characters and powerful sensuality. Ms. Litton’s
ability to use women’s fantasies…gives her books the touch that makes them
reader favorites.”--Romantic Times, 51/2 Stars, Top Pick,
Dream Island
“Strong characterizations,
rapier-sharp dialogue, colorful historical details and sizzling passion explode
within the pages of this dynamic duet.”--Romantic Times, 5
1/2
Stars, Top Pick
Dream
of Me/Believe in Me
“I can’t remember the last time
I’ve finished one book by an author, immediately wished for another, and when
that one was finished wished I had the third.”--All About Romance,
Dream of
Me/Believe in Me
“
Dream of Me
is fabulous
and is the only romance book that I have actually re-read over and over.”--5
Stars, Amazon Reviewer,
Dream of Me
“C
lassic
storylines, incredibly sexy love stories and plenty of action.”--5 Stars,
Amazon Reviewer,
Dream of me/Believe in Me
“
Litton excels at depicting
realistically flawed, charismatic protagonists.”--Publishers Weekly,
Come
Back to Me
“Through lyrical prose and sharp
sensory details, Litton conveys the harshness of an era tempered by the promise
of peace and the prospect of love.”--Publishers Weekly,
Dream of Me/Believe
in Me
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This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters,
locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales,
or events is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2014 Josie Litton. All rights reserved.
ANEW: Book One: Awakened
ISBN 978-0-9906042-0-4
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Cover design by Josie Litton
Interior design by Josie Litton
Table of Contents
Dedication
With heartfelt thanks to my readers over the years. Your steadfastness and
encouragement have been amazing!
Once Upon a Time
“
T
here was then in
this castle a princess, the most beautiful was ever seen; that she must sleep
there a hundred years and should be waked by a prince, for whom she was
reserved.”
“
A
t last he came into
a chamber all gilded with gold, where he saw upon a bed, the curtains of which
were all open, the finest sight was ever beheld--a resplendent beauty.”
Charles Perrault,
The Sleeping Beauty
, 1697
Amelia
The Palazzo
200 miles north of Manhattan
April, 2059
I
breathe
…and a surge of fragrant air fills
me.
I hear
… the murmur of wind in spring
leaves.
I feel
… the feather weight of fabric
on my limbs.
Slowly, afraid it is all yet one
more cruel dream,
I open my eyes.
Splinters of color and shape
pierce me.
The world rushes in.
I
am lying on a
floating bed suspended under the wrought iron dome of a small pavilion. The
sky, glimpsed between tall white columns, is painfully bright. Far off in the
distance, light creates shards of diamonds on the surface of a lake fringed
with the reflections of tall pines. Beyond, an endless vista of trees and
mountains falls away to the edge of the world.
In the stillness, I hear the stirring of life all around me.
The bed sways as I leave it and step out onto the far end of a garden divided
by the long sweep of a manicured lawn. Spring flowers in a riot of white, pink,
and blue fill the formal beds. A robin flits by, bound for the fountain at the
center where sprays of water create prisms of light in the fragrant air.
I turn and turn again, trying to drink it all in, relief for
my parched senses. In the periphery of my vision, I see chestnut strands of
hair--my hair!--fluttering in the air. I feel the shifting of the thin sheath
that skims my body from shoulders to ankles. Backlit by the sun, the fabric
becomes diaphanous and I glimpse blushing alabaster skin.
Turning, turning, my arms fling out to embrace this
extraordinary world. I laugh because I can and because the joy bubbling up in
me will not be denied.
I am free!
But I am not alone.
The sight of an elegant palazzo at the opposite end of the
garden brings me to a sudden stop. Late afternoon sun falls over white stone
walls that gleam under a sloping, red-tiled roof. A graceful balcony runs the
length of the second floor. Twin, one-story wings extend perpendicular to the
main part of the house. They frame the garden between columned galleries.
As I watch, a man emerges from the deep shadows on the far
side of the fountain, coming from darkness into light. His stride--steady,
swift, purposeful--dissolves the distance between us. Black jeans hug the long
length of his legs and his narrow hips. Under a snug black T-shirt, I see the
movement of muscles across his broad shoulders and chest. His arms hang loosely
at his sides, the fingers of each hand curling inward as though he carries
weapons that are invisible to me. His hair is dark brown, thick and slightly
long. The sun has burnished his skin. He has strong, symmetrical features, the
facial bones angular and chiseled.
Too far away to see his eyes, I nonetheless feel their
intensity. My first instinct is to flee but where? Belatedly, I realize that I
don’t know where I am, much less where I could go.
Searching for answers, I stumble across a greater mystery. I
have no idea who I am.
With that discovery, my heart begins to race but only for an
instant. Panic recedes like a swiftly ebbing tide, replaced by a swell of
soothing calm. I stand frozen in place, waiting heartbeat to heartbeat as he
nears.
Across shrinking space, further details reveal themselves. He
hasn’t shaved in a day…two? I wonder suddenly how the stubble along his square
jaw would feel against my fingertips. Is it coarse? Raspy? Silken? The thought
shocks me with its presumption of intimacy.
When no more than an arm’s length separates us, he stops.
That close, he appears even larger, more formidable but also young, still in
his twenties, I think. At last, I can see his eyes. Set under arching brows,
they are a rich golden amber shading to brown and framed by thick lashes.
When I meet his gaze, I glimpse curiosity darkened
by…passion? I shy away from that at once, concentrating on what else I glimpse.
Wariness? Can that be right? Is there something about me that makes this man
cautious?
At that moment, what I want most is to hear his voice. When
it comes, the deep, slightly husky timbre sends a shiver through me. I watch in
unwilling fascination as his full, surprisingly sensuous mouth--the only hint
of softness I can see in him--shapes a single word:
“Amelia.”
I have a name.
One I do not recognize but a name even so.
Without taking his eyes from me, he steps closer and holds
out his hand in a gesture that is equally comfort and command. Without thought,
I give him my own and am drawn to him.
I can feel the heat of his body through the thin sheath that
covers me. His touch is new, strange, disturbing. Yet not for a moment do I
consider trying to break the contact between us.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, looking down at me. He
appears genuinely concerned but still watchful.
I answer honestly. “Confused. I have no idea who or where
or how--”
My voice is faint and a little raspy, as though unused, but
it rises slightly as I speak. The keen edge of panic, surely understandable
under the circumstances, surges in me. Just as quickly, it slips away. The
quiet inside returns, containing me once again even as I begin to struggle
against it.
This is not right. I should not be so accepting. I should be
demanding answers. Why don’t I know who I am? Why am I in this place? Who is
this man? Who am I? But even as the questions clamor in me, I stand mute.
Something of my anxiousness must communicate itself to him.
His fingers tighten around mine. I can feel his strength, so much greater than
my own even when he holds it strictly in check.
The intensity of his gaze has not lessened. If anything it
is growing. His nostrils flare as he leans closer. I have the distinct
impression that he is inhaling my scent, my heat, the essence of me.
The gesture, and my own recognition of it, is so carnal that
the muscles in my abdomen clench. I try to step away but he doesn’t allow it.
In a tone that seems meant to reassure and soothe, he says,
“Your confusion is understandable but it will pass soon. Right now just know
that you’re safe.”
A laugh verging on hysterical gurgles up in me. Safe? He
must be joking. I have never felt less safe not even in the--
A wisp of memory comes and as quickly goes across the
landscape of my mind. I am left with an elusive sense that there is something I
should know but it remains well beyond my reach.
“My name is Ian…Ian Slade.” He pauses as though waiting for
a sign of recognition. I can offer none. His name means no more to me than my
own does. I don’t know it any more than I know his face or his voice yet there
is something in his touch…a sense of being in accord with him, in harmony, as
though we belong together.
A thread of yearning unspools deep within me, arching
upward, reaching for him…
All at once, I break beyond whatever restriction keeps me silent
and blurt, “Why can’t I remember who I am or how I got here? What has happened
to me?”
My outburst takes him by surprise, which in turn surprises
me. Why would he expect me to be other than upset?
“You’ve only just awakened after a long sleep,” he says
finally. “Right now your senses are being overwhelmed. If I try to answer your
questions, you won’t understand half of what I tell you, if that much.”
I open my mouth to protest but he shakes his head. “Tomorrow
everything will be clearer, you’ll see. Until then, just give yourself a little
time to adjust to waking up. All right?”
I can refuse, of course. I can insist that he tell me now. I
can…I think…but I don’t. Instead, held by his golden gaze, I nod. My brief
moment of rebellion is over. For now. But my alarm at my own docility remains.
In contrast, he appears pleased. The smile he gives me is
instant and real. At the sight of it, warmth curls through me. I am happy
because he is. I want to do whatever I must to earn that smile again.
“Good,” he says.
With this voicing of his approval, I find myself relaxing
and can only distantly manage to wonder why. When he begins leading me by the
hand from the garden, I don’t think of resisting.
Disturbingly submissive, I go with him across the gallery
and through the high doors of the palazzo that stand open to admit us.