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 Prelude
To Heaven was the second manuscript I ever wrote and my first
published book. Back then, I knew very little about the publishing business.
I didn't know France was a difficult setting to sell to an editor. I didn't
know a heroine pregnant by a man other than the hero was a no-no. I didn't
know the dark, disturbing shadow of spousal abuse was not very commercial.
All I knew was that I had a story on my hands that I wanted to tell, the
story of a tortured hero, a suffering heroine, a despicable villain, and
the power of love to redeem one's soul. An editor at Harper Collins decided
to take a chance on an unknown author with a very un-commercial manuscript,
and bought Prelude To Heaven because
she loved the story. I hope you will, too.
This feature coming shortly
Alexandre Dumond cursed softly as his left hand moved the brush across the canvas. He knew the rain was coming, but he wanted to capture the fury of the waves crashing against the rocks before the deluge began. He dipped the brush into a blob of steel-gray on his palette and continued to paint. His black gaze moved rapidly from canvas to sea to canvas as a crack of thunder echoed through the hills behind him. The wind tore away his ribbon, but Alexandre tossed back his flying black hair with an impatient shake of his head and kept painting. Storms of such violence were rare along the Provencal coast this time of year. Now. He had to get it on canvas now, before it was lost forever. He painted with a kind of frenzy, obsessed by the vision before him. The need to paint had been coming on for days. Filled with restless energy, he had tramped through the hills, walked along the coast, and prowled through the nearby forests, searching for what he envisioned on the edge of his mind, not knowing what it was but certain he would know when he saw it. Until this afternoon, everything he had seen had left him dissatisfied. Suddenly, he had sensed the sharpness in the breeze, the change in the sound of the sea, the scent of a storm. And he had known what his mind had been searching for. He frowned at the canvas. Something was wrong with the cliff that jutted out to meet the waves. He applied touches of black to the shadows, gradually altering the perspective. Voila. It was coming. He was getting it. Just a few moments more. Without warning the rain began, pouring from the sky like the tears of a thousand angels, soaking his rumpled white shirt and paint-spattered trousers, but he paid no heed. He kept painting, knowing the rain would not hurt the oils. He only needed a little more time to capture the storm's essence on canvas; he could finish the painting in his studio. Another powerful gust of wind erupted, tumbling both easel and canvas to the ground. "Sacré tonnere!" he cried, throwing aside the brush, watching in agony as the rain poured over the canvas which now lay face down in the mud. The painting was ruined. His agony faded, leaving him bereft and empty. It was over. The obsession would return, but for now it was gone, washed away with the rain. Alexandre wrapped the ruined painting in a ragged cloth, gathered his brushes and supplies, folded his easel, and carried them home through the pouring rain. These were the moments he dreaded, these quiet times after the passion to paint had spent itself, when he could not drown out the echoes of other passions lost. He could not forget. That was the problem, he supposed, as he began the steep climb toward Chateau Dumond. Many times he had sworn he would leave this place, but he could never do it. Leaving here would mean leaving Anne-Marie, and that Alexandre was not prepared to do. As he reached the top of the cliff, he paused. Ahead of him the path wound through the overgrown garden to the empty château, and he almost expected to see her waiting for him by the gate, but she was not there. Sometimes, he heard her voice, soft and filled with teasing laughter. Sometimes, he even answered her. Sometimes, he could swear she walked beside him.
Alexandre kicked open the decrepit gate and walked toward the château, but a low moan stopped him on the path. He wondered if perhaps he had imagined the sound, but when he heard another moan, he knew his mind was not playing tricks on him. He glanced in the direction of the sound, and that was when he saw her. She was lying on her side several yards away, unconscious and unmoving, with one cheek in the mud. Alexandre moved closer, then knelt down beside her. She was wearing a man's clothing. His gaze scanned her face, then traveled down the length of her body. The clothes were that of a man, but rain-soaked, they clung to her in all the curving feminine places. In one hand, she clutched a half-eaten potato. The other hand was spread protectively over her rounded abdomen. She was pregnant. Memories of Anne-Marie swamped him, and he fought to keep the past at bay. He reached for the unconscious woman's limp wrist. Her pulse was weak, but steady, her breathing shallow, but even. She felt hot to his touch despite the dampness in the air. Lines of pain and weariness were carved in her pale, heart-shaped face. He gently turned her onto her back, put one arm beneath her knees and the other beneath her shoulders, then lifted her from the weeds and mud. Even pregnant and soaking wet, she couldn't weigh more than eight stone. He carried her through the weed-filled courtyard and into his crumbling château. He ascended the back stairs to the kitchen, crossed the empty hall, and carried her up another flight of stairs to his bedchamber.
He found a goose-down quilt amid Anne-Marie's stored away linens and an old nightshirt he never wore. He pulled the nightshirt over her shivering body. After shaking out the quilt to remove the dust, he tucked its thick folds around her. He stared down at her unconscious form, wondering whom she was and what the hell he was going to do with her. Her head moved restlessly on the pillow, and she cried out
in her sleep, a cry of fright and pain. Alexandre reached forward to brush
back a short, wet curl that had fallen over her eyes. "Pauvre petite,"
he murmured, running one finger down her hollow cheek, then let his hand
fall away. Abruptly, he turned away and left the room.
END OF EXCERPT. LIKE IT? ORDER IT!
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Three
years had passed since her death, and still he could not let her go. She
was dead. That was his fault. He was alone. That was his punishment.
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