Page 1 of Jordan

Chapter 1

She woke with a jolt, the scream trapped inside her throat. Dragging herself up on the pillows, she took deep gulping breaths to try and steady the panicked hammering of her heart. Her skin was clammy with sweat, armpits soaked with moisture.

It was when she lifted her hands to wipe her forehead, she realized they were trembling.

Cursing softly, she swung her legs off the bed and waited a few minutes to settle before trusting herself to rise. Her mouth was as dry as cotton and her legs wobbly like a toddler just finding its balance. Bracing a hand on the elegant design of the bedpost, she waited a few more minutes before making her way into the bathroom.

Water. She needed it desperately.

The sight of her reflection in the double mirror had her eyes widening. Tendrils of hair were plastered on her forehead and her mahogany-colored eyes had a wildness to them that had her stepping back. Walking backwards, she leaned against the wall and wrapped slender arms around her waist and closed her eyes.

She hadn't had a nightmare in months. Not one this intense. Not one where every detail was imprinted on her mind. She had felt the cold breeze on her skin, the clamminess of fear filling her throat and the despair so thick she could cut it with a dull knife.

Sliding down, she brought her knees up in an unconsciously vulnerable and childish gesture, her face pressed between them as she fought for control.

She was strong. Her therapist had instilled those words inside her and she repeated them now, like a mantra. At thirty-two, she was successful. The New York Times had dubbed her the next best thing. Her books were intense and violently alive, throbbing with emotions – every page filled with passion and purpose.

She had made it. Winter's Peak was behind her and so were the bitterness and desolation of growing up there.

But she knew what had prompted the nightmare. She had to go back. And she had sworn that after burying her mother, she would never go back there. But Aunt Sybil had been kind to them, had taken them in when they lost everything and couldnot afford to maintain the tiny house. She owed the woman. So, she would put away her distaste and go back one last time.

Rubbing her hands over her face, she sighed, blinking back the tears that had started at the back of her eyes. She was no longer that girl. She had made it. Against all odds – she was now wealthy in her own rights. She was a bestselling author whose last two novels had been adapted to the big screen. "Troubled Realm" had grossed several billion at the box office.

She had made it. She was no longer the scrawny offspring of Carl Simpson, the town drunk, a man who had been incapable of holding down a job, who had spent his earnings at the local bar and beat up on his wife and stepson when life got too hard. But he had loved her, Julesa thought fiercely. Her daddy had loved her. And he had tried.

Blinking back the tears, she realized she missed him terribly. Even after all the years that had passed, she still recalled his peppermint breath as he tried to hide the fact that he had been drinking and his funny stories.

He had a penchant for making things up and spinning a tale in that deep voice of his that had left her spellbound and wide eyed with wonder as she listened. She had gotten her creativity from him, but unlike her father, she had put it to good use.

Scrubbing her face dry, she shoved off the floor and with a deliberate brisk movement, turned the tap on and washed herface. Dipping the glass under the cold water, she filled it to the brim and drank it until it was finished.

She was never going to get back to sleep now, she thought grimly as she returned to her bedroom. From past experiences, she knew she was going to spend the rest of the night – early morning, she corrected herself. A glance at the bedside clock told her that it was half past four. She would spend the rest of the time agonizing over the trip and dredging up memories.

Experience also told her that it was the best time to put some work in. Grabbing the discarded robe, she draped it over her old t-shirt and made her way into the office. Walking over to the desk, she stood there for a minute, smoothing her hand over the battered antique desk she had picked up on one of her many trips to out of the way antique stores.

It was chipped and bruised in places, and she kept promising herself she would refinish the magnificent mahogany to give it its original shine but had to admit that it has character just the way it was.

She flicked on the soft desk lamp and settled in her chair, its worn leather comforting against her skin. The room was quiet, a sanctuary amidst the storm of her mind. She opened her laptop, the screen's glow illuminating her face as she prepared to immerse herself in her craft. Writing had always been her solace, the place where she could put her fears and dreams onto paper, transforming them into stories that resonated with readers.

As she began typing, the rhythmic clacking of the keys became a steady heartbeat, grounding her. Her thoughts flowed effortlessly, the characters she created taking on lives of their own. She lost track of time, consumed by the world she was building.

The darkness outside was slowly replaced by the first light of dawn, a tranquil reminder that time moved forward, always.

Hours passed, and by the time she looked up from her work, the sun had risen, casting a warm glow through the window. She felt a sense of accomplishment, the weight of the nightmare eased by her creative process. Stretching, she allowed herself a moment of respite, knowing that the journey back to Winter's Peak was inevitable, but for now, she was here, in control, and making her own path.

*****

Jordan wasn't having a good time of it. He had thought, naturally, that being away from the manor with its oppressive feeling and pressure from his parents would make him feel lighter, certainly anything would be better than being bombarded every single day and night by the two people who had made him and was determined to make his life a living hell.

Winter's Peak was several hundred miles away and here he was in the lush and plush surroundings of the Elite Club where he was a member. The exalted club with its richly decorated rooms,incredible amenities, arts and varied ethnicities strewn all over made him feel claustrophobic.

He had been on a losing streak since he sat down at the poker table, and it was not because he was not good at the game. He was a master. But his mind was not on the cards, Nor was it on Bitsy Mitchell, the luscious blonde who had been offering to fetch him drinks and take a shower with him in his suite.

Normally, he would have no problem taking her up on her invitation, but he was not in the mood.

And that worried him. She was a looker and had whispered what she wanted to do to him in bed, and the very salacious and provocative suggestions had not stirred him one bit.

Taking a long drag of his cigar, he tilted his head back to stare at the large circle of the winter pale moon, surrounded by stars.

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