Authors: Sidney Halston
Tags: #romance, #love, #suspense, #paranormal, #sex, #twins, #psychic, #alpha, #alphamale
Copyright © 2013 Sidney Halston
This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s
imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual
events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
All rights reserved.
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Edited by Theresa Wegand.
July 9, 1989—Day
If you’re reading this, we’re most likely dead, and
you, whoever you are, found this among the rubble. I have to write
about what happened in order to keep some semblance of sanity.
Luckily, I found this pen and notebook inside one of the suitcases.
My name is Helen Gold. I’m a writer back in Texas. Writing normally
takes the edge off. Ironically, I wrote adventure novels. (Why am I
writing in past tense? I WRITE. I need to stay positive.). Let me
tell you, I don’t want this kind of adventure. I’m
genres as soon as we’re rescued!
Our plane crashed on this island two days ago. The
pilot calculates we are near the Maldives. He keeps saying someone
should be coming to find us soon because of the trajectory and the
flight plan and blah, blah, blah. All I know is that I have not
seen one plane or boat since we crashed. I’ve counted about
thirty-four survivors. My husband, Matthew, is among the survivors
and so is Jillian, who’s only a month old and looks so fragile. She
was born prematurely, so she’s so small. I’m very concerned about a
lady named Mary who miraculously survived. She’s pregnant with
twins and says she is due in seven months. I’m normally a very
positive person, but I’m scared. I pray that we’re rescued soon,
because I don’t know what to do with Jillian. She was still nursing
when her mother died on impact, and now all we have are coconuts
and onions. I didn’t even know onions grew on islands! In fact,
Matthew has named this little piece of hell—Onion Island.
Jillian is crying. I have to go. I’ll write soon. I
am going to do my best to keep track of our time here. I hope it’s
how someone can break your heart but you still love them with all
the broken little pieces.
With clammy hands, Jillian held on to the towel bar
in the bathroom of her hotel room. The all too familiar feeling of
nausea consumed her
. Take deep calming breaths in and out, in
Eyes closed. Visions, like snapshots, tattooed the
inside of her eyelids. Her heart pounded like a drum, blood rushing
to her ears. All senses slowly paralyzed as the snapshots began to
Thighs. Strong, muscular thighs. Snapshot. Breathe
in and out, Jillian Stone. Pull yourself together.
. No doubt about
it. It was going to happen soon.
Piercing blue eyes.
Lips gliding against a neck.
black all-consuming darkness. Her last thought was:
Five minutes later, half-hour, three hours . . .
time had been lost. Jillian’s eyes burst open, still holding on to
the towel bar. The burning bile slowly moved back down her
esophagus, but the heat that encased her body still consumed her.
She took two very slow and deep breaths and looked up at the
. What the hell was that?
Ignoring her made-up face and hair, Jill reached for
the sink, turned on the cold water, and splashed it on her face and
neck, over and over again. She could almost hear the fizzle of the
cold water hitting her hot face, like a hot frying pan suddenly
being doused in water. When she looked back up, her black mascara
and red lipstick were smeared all over her pale face, and the hair
against her hairline, which was now wet, began springing little red
Already running late for Helen’s funeral, she would
have to re-straighten her hair and re-apply her makeup, all while
quickly composing herself emotionally. Just moments before, she had
been crying non-stop because of Helen’s death, and now she was
seeing what . . . sex? And, erotic sex, at that! Of all the visions
she had in her lifetime, these kinds of visions had never happened.
Actually, if she were being truthful, she wasn’t even such a sexual
Hmm? I think I could get used to these kinds of
Most of Jillian’s visions were ominous and resulted
in bad things occurring to herself or to her loved ones, like all
the visions she had been having during the past few weeks about
Helen. But sex? No, never about sex. Maybe she needed more than a
little water splashed on her face; this might call for a cold
The last week had been a perpetual mixture of lost
time and nausea; Jillian had seen herself getting dressed to go to
Helen’s funeral for goodness’ sake! This shouldn’t hurt this bad.
She had known it was coming and should have been prepared for the
pain. Now, the sex vision? Well, hell, that was another thing
Who were the people having sex? Was she one of the
participants? Was she a
participant? She certainly
didn’t feel unwilling! These inappropriate thoughts were flooding
her mind at a time when her thoughts should have been solely on the
woman that raised her—Helen.
Totally unnerved, Jillian brushed away a tear that
threatened to wash away the newly applied mascara. A lump formed in
her throat, knowing her final goodbye to Helen neared.
Butterflies had taken residence inside her stomach,
and if she were being truthful with herself, it was because of
Oliver and Alexander. Helen was their mother as much as she was
Jillian’s, and they would undoubtedly be at the funeral. It had
been seven years since she saw them—since the rescue,
actually—seven long and lonely years. Helen, Alexander, and Oliver
were her only family. How could they have gone so long without
seeing each other?
Jillian took out her flat iron one last time and ran
it through her unruly red hair to make sure it was perfectly
straight. “Shit! Ouch!” For the third time that morning, the flat
iron attacked her. She was too nervous to be handling dangerous
Would they even recognize her after so many
Stumbling on her four-inch pumps on the way out of the
motel room, she ran her hands down her black A-line skirt in an
effort to compose herself.
“Fu . . . Fudge! Stupid shoes! I need to work on my
temper and my cursing . . . and my balance, apparently. Don’t
forget you’re in Pleasantville, USA. People don’t curse here.”
Damn sex visions! Damn funeral. Damn Texas heat, and most of
all, damn frizzy hair. Damn, damn, damn!
Alexander woke up to pounding on the door.
“Alexander! Wake up, goddammit! You’ll never forgive yourself for
missing Helen’s funeral, and you’re twenty minutes away from doing
just that.” Oliver yelled.
“Oh shit! Okay, I’ll be right there. Actually, I’ll
meet you there. Just go.” Alexander jumped out of bed, accidentally
knocking someone over.
“Ow!” she yelped.
“Alexander? You okay? What was that? If I leave and
you don’t show up, I’ll kick your ass. I swear to God you better be
there!” Oliver yelled, still pounding on the door.
“No . . . um . . . no, I accidentally stubbed my
toe. I’m up. I’m up. I’ll be there. Quick shower and I’ll meet you
Alexander looked down to the floor and saw
Who the hell is she and why does my head hurt
Quickly, he helped her off the floor and apologized
for knocking her off the bed as he ran to the bathroom for a quick
shower. While the steaming hot water fell on his back, glimpses of
the previous evening began flooding his mind. Music was definitely
involved . . . and alcohol—lots and lots of alcohol . . . and some
sort of little pill. It was slowly coming back to him. A little
pill was placed in his mouth by what’s-her-name as she slid her
tongue into his mouth. He remembered going into some dance club,
and he remembered what’s-her-name flirting with him across the
dance floor, but all other memories after the pill-induced kiss
were hazy. And now, he was going to be late for the funeral of the
woman he loved most in the world.
He felt so guilty for the way he acted the last
couple of months. He rarely returned Helen’s calls, not for lack of
love but because he was a fuckup—a selfish fuckup—too busy sleeping
with every woman that glanced at him, too busy drinking and
partying, and too busy being too stoned to pick up the phone.
Alexander closed his eyes and rested his hands
against the white tiled walls while the hot water flowed down his
head. He was lost in thoughts about his life and what Helen had
meant to him, and a knot formed in the back of his throat. It must
have been the massive hangover looming over him.
Suddenly, he felt two cold hands wrap around his
waist and a naked body push against his back. He looked down to see
ten red fake fingernails caressing his chest, while simultaneously
smelling the remnants of tequila. He jumped and almost slipped.
“Hi, honey. I thought I’d join you,”
what’s-her-face’s hot breath whispered into his ear as she tried to
push him aside to get some of that hot water on her body too. She
had raccoon eyes from the smeared mascara and red lipstick stains
all around her mouth. She looked more like The Joker from Batman
than the seductive temptress she tried to be. His standards needed
improvement, stat. She had looked so good in the dark confines of
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Sorry, did I scare you?” She sounded like a
croaking frog from all the yelling at the club and the smoking.
“No! Get the fuck out of here! Do you need money for
a cab or something?”
“You prick! You think you can just screw me and then
ask me to leave? You said I was the most beautiful thing you had
ever seen, and you said you’d never brought a girl back to your
place before. Was all that a lie to get me into bed?”
“First, I didn’t lie. I have never brought a woman
into my bed. This is my brother’s place, so, technically, it’s not
my bed, sweetheart. Second, you drugged me. I didn’t mind, but we
weren’t exactly in the midst of a Romeo and Juliet love scene last
night. Um, I’m sure last night was great,” that was a complete lie
because he couldn’t remember a single moment of the night, “but
that’s all it was—sex. But now you gotta go, because I have
somewhere to be, and I’m not leaving you alone in this
“You think I’m goin’ to steal somethin’ or
“Yep, I do. Now get the fuck out,” he said as he
pushed her aside, grabbed a towel, and quickly dried himself. He
sprinted back into the bedroom to get dressed. Oliver left him one
of his black suits to wear. As he quickly got dressed, he picked up
what’s-her-name’s clothes and threw them at her. “Hurry up,
sweetheart. I gotta go and so do you.” He braced himself against
the wall, trying to find his equilibrium. Bile was starting to
creep up his throat and the room was spinning. Putting on clothes
was going to prove to be as challenging as trying to climb Mt.
Everest. When had his life gotten so out of control?
Helen didn’t deserve a stumbling mess strolling in
late to her funeral. And Jillian? Would she be there? How long had
it been—four or five years? He wondered if she looked the same. She
was about eight months older than he and his brother. Jillian
looked nothing like what’s-her-name. Even in his drug-induced haze,
Alexander knew how to pick ’em. Once you got past the smeared
makeup and just-had-sex-hair, what’s-her-face had legs that went on
and on. She was tall—maybe as tall as he was—with long blond hair,
probably extensions, voluptuously expensive breasts, and a
beautiful ass. He got a good look at her ass as she fumbled to get
dressed. He could bet that she was a model. They usually were.