Touch Me Now

Layla felt as if she’d been pumped full of air and then suddenly stabbed with an ice pick. As the air in her balloon dissipated, so did her appetite. She pushed her food around on her plate until it was sufficiently cold then gathered up her things and went out to get her car for the drive into town.

Maurice returned to his room. He’d wanted to say something more to Layla. But what was the point. He tossed his cane into a corner. He plopped down on the couch. Even if he was attracted to her, what would she want with him? She probably felt pity for him just like everyone else.

He stretched out his injured leg and absently massaged the never-ending ache.

It had been longer than he would have liked since he’d been with a woman, through choice as well as circumstance. After his injury and then rehab he continued to struggle with what happened that night. The guilt was almost as painful if not more so than the injury that ended his career. The therapy sessions helped, but only so much. He still could not get beyond the feeling that had he done something differently, lives would have been saved and he would be one hundred percent man. Without his career as a Navy SEAL, the job he’d worked so hard for, trained for, lived for—all of that was gone. Being a SEAL defined who he was. The loss of that combined with his debilitating injury was almost more than he could stand. He didn’t feel like a man anymore. And if he didn’t feel it, what woman would feel it? He leaned his head back against the cushion of the couch and closed his eyes against his inescapable realities.

Layla spent the better part of the morning shopping for supplies for the suite. Her car’s trunk was loaded and it took several trips back and forth to unload and get everything inside the suite. She’d purchased plants, artwork, oils, lotions, CDs, mats, small bowls, oil burners, hand sanitizers, disinfectant, cases of fruit juice and water, and soft lightbulbs. She’d placed an order for a dozen terry cloth robes and shower slippers. The boutique where she’d made her purchases promised that her items would be delivered within the next two days.

She spent the next couple of hours organizing her supplies and rolling towels to be stacked. She hung pictures and poured the aromatic oils into the burners. Aromatherapy was just as important in creating the perfect atmosphere as the treatments.

Layla took a look around and was finally satisfied with what she’d accomplished. She took some pictures of the space for the flyers, then locked up and walked back to the main building in search of Desiree.

“It looks fabulous,” Desiree was saying. “Let me download them to my computer.”

Layla touched a few icons on her iPad and sent the images to Desiree.

Within moments Desiree was loading them into her graphics program. “You’ve been busy,” she said while she worked.

Layla laughed. “To keep my mind off of other things.”

Desiree looked up at her friend for a moment. “Other things like what? Don’t tell me New York.”

Layla sat on the edge of Desiree’s desk and folded her arms. “No. Not New York.” She leaned closer. “Do you know that guy…with the limp?”

Desiree frowned in concentration. “Limp?”

“Yes and gorgeous.”

Desiree grinned. “Oh, Maurice Lawson.”

“Him.”

Desiree crossed her legs. Her right brow rose with her question. “What about him?”

“What do you know about him?”

“Hmm, not much. He checked in about three days ago. Booked his cottage for six weeks. That’s about it really. I see him around from time to time.” A slow smile moved across her mouth. “And you want to know all this because…”

Layla blew out a breath. “I wish I knew. Well, maybe I do know. It’s hard to explain. I mean, I only saw him for a minute a couple of times…but…” She looked away as if searching for the answers somewhere in the corners of the room. Finally, she shrugged. “No big deal. Forget it. He looked like he’d rather be alone.”

Desiree stared at Layla’s profile. “Hey, this is the twenty-first century, girl. If a woman is interested in a man she doesn’t have to stand on protocol and wait for the man to make the first move anymore.”

Layla slowly shook her head. “That is so not me. In my head I’m bold and aggressive. But then reality sets in.”

Desiree reached out and touched Layla’s hand. “Bold and not standing on protocol is you. Brent screwed up a perfectly good relationship. But you can’t let what he did diminish you. Every man is not like Brent.”

Layla hopped down off the desk. “I know that. I’m over Brent.”

“Are you? Really? I’m not saying that you still have feelings for him, but I am saying that what he did messed with your confidence, challenged your womanhood.”

Layla snapped her head away. She tightened her arms around her waist. The words to refute Desiree’s assertion were on her lips. They lingered on her tongue. She couldn’t say them. What Desiree said was true. It was painfully true. It had been a year since she’d come home to have him tell her that he was leaving, that he no longer loved her. But there wasn’t a day that had gone by that she didn’t remember how small and insignificant she’d felt; how could he so easily stop loving her. It wasn’t until months later that she found out why.

She’d gone over that night a million times. In some versions she threw a lamp at Brent and then dumped all of his clothes out of the window. In another he came running after her, begging her to forgive him. But in all the versions, in the end, she was alone. Probably what stung the most was that she’d heard from their mutual acquaintances that Brent and Grace—his assistant—the woman he’d stopped loving her for—were still together and there was talk of them getting married the following spring.

There was no way that she could get around the feeling that it was something she’d done or didn’t do or that she wasn’t appealing enough. Something. The feeling of inadequacy was not as bad as it had been, but it hovered and sat on her shoulder waiting patiently to whisper in her ear.

“I remember the Layla Brooks that would walk into a minefield with high heels and a smile on her face, who could step into a room and every head would turn, who could have a conversation with the Secretary of State as easily as the woman who owns the dry cleaner on the corner. That’s the Layla that I know.”

Layla lowered her head for a moment. Had she really changed that much? She looked at Desiree. “So I should just walk up to him and what?”

“Hand him one of your flyers for starters,” she said pressing the print button on the computer. Moments later a color-printed flyer announcing the new massage therapy services slid out of the printer. Desiree lifted it from the tray and handed it to Layla with a “now what’s your excuse,” look on her face.

Layla tilted her head slightly to the left and eyed the flyer. “Not bad. I’ll see what I can do with it,” she said with a lift of her chin before turning away and waving goodbye on her way out.

Chapter 5

Layla made it a point to be on the lookout for Maurice, but it had been three days since she’d seen him last. Desiree assured her that he hadn’t checked out. Maybe they simply kept missing each other, she’d suggested. Or maybe it just wasn’t meant to be, Layla concluded.

Whatever the case may be, her massage services were officially open for business and from the moment she turned on the lights, she was busy and she didn’t have much time to dwell on the illusive Maurice Lawson.

* * *

The nightmares had begun again. He awoke that morning with his entire body aching, damp from sweat and his head pounding. The dark, twisted images began to recede as the sun rose over the horizon, but the feeling of helplessness lingered. He’d been caught in the clutches of his deepest fears for hours, listening to the explosions and the screams and the heat from the flames that seemed to go on into infinity. He couldn’t get away because he couldn’t wake up until a soft glow could be seen in the valley of the dark mountains where his Black Hawk had gone down. It beckoned him, getting brighter when he seemed to lose his way. He could feel the bands of darkness that held him down begin to loosen as the light grew brighter. It felt as if he was being lifted from a deep pit. And then he woke up.

For a while he simply lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and watched the blades of the fan turn in slow, hypnotic circles.

Would it ever end? Would he ever feel whole again? Some days it almost seemed possible and then there were others, like today that had him believing that this endless dark road was his future. But it couldn’t be. He couldn’t live like this day after day. He would go out of his mind.

He sat up in bed. His T-shirt clung to his upper body. Gingerly he eased his legs over the side and closed his eyes for a moment as the pain dimmed enough for him to think about getting up. With some effort he pushed himself to a standing position, took a deep breath and limped into the bathroom.

Even after a long hot shower, the pulsing aches in his body persisted, beating like his heart. He took his time getting dressed and finally stepped outside onto the front porch of the cottage.

Another magnificent day. The sky was clear for miles. The air hinted at the summer just beyond the horizon. The sun was at that perfect angle. Faint sounds of laughter and life could be heard in the distance. He should be enjoying it. He should be diving into the ocean or jogging along the sandy beach, lounging with friends in the late afternoon, sipping drinks with island names and sleeping with his arms wrapped around a beautiful woman at night.

He drew in a long breath as he leaned against the pillar that supported the overhang. The caw of seagulls wafted in the breeze. He turned his attention to the path leading to the main building and wondered if the woman he’d met—Layla—had opened her massage spa yet. The idea of her hands on his body stroking away the tightness, releasing the tension that coiled in his limbs and down his spine, caused an inadvertent moan to escape. He imagined the pressure of her fingers playing across his neck, massaging his biceps. Her scent filled his nostrils and the sudden tug in his groin heated his blood.

He shook his head to clear the cobwebs of lust that had ensnared him. It was as if she’d cast some kind of spell over him. From the moment he’d caught sight of her walking along the pathway, he’d been unable to shake her from his thoughts.

It was her image, her light that finally led him out of the grip of his nightmare. Although he could not see her in his dream, he understood that it was her. How, he was not certain. But he felt it in the depths of his being.

Layla had been open for business since nine a.m. It was nearing one o’clock and she’d been going non-stop. Although she loved what she did, she knew she couldn’t keep up the pace and still maintain her high standards of quality. As soon as she shut down for the day, she was going to have to take some time and plan a schedule that was going to work for her and not shortchange the guests.

She’d put the “Out to Lunch” sign on the door and was in the middle of resetting the massage room when there was a knock on the front door.

“Go away,” she muttered under her breath as she rolled a fresh towel and put it on the shelf. She picked up the basket of used towels and walked to the front. “Whoever it is obviously cannot—”

Her throat went dry. She went to the glass door and turned the lock.