The shutter snapped three consecutive frames, capturing the subject in vivid detail; shades, black skintight trunks, no shirt, no protective
lotion to degrade his swimmer’s tan. The body, a perfect sculpture like that of Michelangelo’s David, captured her artist’s imagination and the
desire to put on canvas the magnificence of man.
Lilah Johnson stepped away from her digital camera and stared along Bears Creek to the mouth entering the main leg of Watauga Lake. The
scenic vistas of Lunar Cove from the wall of glass fed her muse the imagery that bled onto each canvas. The painted morning skies, the moon
beams that flickered and marched toward the dam each night, and the blanket of colored foliage touched a chord deep within. Yet with all the
stimulus to her minds eye, the inheritance from her mother became a haven, one that placed her on the fringes of society, but kept her safe from
paparazzi.
The strong scent of oil and turpentine saturated her small studio. On an easel facing the window, her newest painting sat half done. She’d
captured the rich glowing sunset in expressive detail. The composition lacked a focal point, a fault she planned to rectify after this evening’s
photo session. She put her eye to the viewer and sighted on the private cove.
To her left at the far end of the lake, a vintage sailboat trimmed in teak bobbed against its moorings. Its captain, a stranger with admittedly
stunning male features escaped from the ship’s cabin and scratched his left buttocks, unaware he was the center of someone’s attention. She
repositioned the camera with its tripod and waited. Finally, the craft departed, angled right, and motored forty yards from her porch.
No, not yet.
The day sailer advanced toward her lookout post, proudly displaying its graceful lines. With the mask still furled, she had a clear view of the
man at the helm, his bronzed skin gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat.
Lilah adjusted her telescopic lenses and snapped two shots of his sculpted chest. He reached for a dark blue pull over shirt. She grunted,
wishing the cool autumn breeze hadn’t forced him to don the covering. Powerful muscles strained with each rotation of the wench as the main
lifted with the halyard. Clambering onto the bow, he tugged on the jib halyard, and raised the second sail. He scurried for the tiller and brought
the boat off the wind. The sail billowed, filling with air, and the boat gently leaned to port. After setting course, he settled into place alongside
the tiller, looking for all the world like a man with no worries.
The ripples dancing along the reflective surface of the cove spread willingly and created a V-shaped wake that licked the tight curves of the
vessel’s belly. She focused the lens, spotting the name of the boat. The Jenny May. A woman’s name. A girlfriend perhaps? His wife? A spurt
of jealousy attacked so swiftly, she inhaled a sharp breath.
Why on earth would I be jealous of a complete stranger?
She’d never had such a reaction before while spying on the sailor, until now. But she knew. She’d been painting this particular man since
spotting him three weeks ago. And in that time, her brushes had lovingly sculpted his form on one painting after another. In her creative mind,
the man and boat had become one, an extension of the need she felt within.
Isolated for the past year with nothing but her paints and work at the library to keep her company, she’d become socially barren; the nearest
neighbor half a mile away. The low profile, her attempt to horde this treasured privacy; the voice in her conscious mind declared her self
entombed a positive achievement. Yet in that secret garden, the castle where her little girl still danced and sung happy thoughts, the guardian of
Lilah’s spirit whispered, there’s more out there, the possibility of love, passion, the pleasure only a man’s touch can bring.
She blinked twice and drove the distant echo back inside the fortress, until she was ready again. Better to maintain distance, an obsession
with a complete stranger from far. Lonely, yes, but save.
The hull skimmed the liquid body beneath its weight. A sharp starboard tack, and he vanished behind the distant foliage of Pelican Point,
continuing on his journey down the main branch of the lake.
She inserted the memory card from her camera into the computer and projected the recent replicas of him and his sweetheart, the Jenny
May, against the back wall. She retrieved her palette, several brushes, took a deep breath, and returned to the only source of relief from her
chaotically messy world.
Excerpt 2
Reece went into the garage, emptied two storage boxes, took them back into the house, and placed one on both sides of his scope so that
just the nose of the sighting tube stuck through the opening. He placed the dark green towel above the gap in the two boxes, slid the louver
blinds open across his viewing portal, just enough to vector on his target, then returned to his observation post, and waited.
After twenty minutes, he detected motion at the far end of the bedroom through the window.
Figured you were safe through the pine trees, didn’t you.
The owner of the cabin left their curtain exposed, but a sufficient gap existed between the dozen-ponderosa firs and cedar trees for a clever
detective to eye his subject with a high-powered telescope.
A door opened, releasing a cloud of steam. An image formed, oblique at first, reflecting off the dresser mirror, and moving in and out of the
fog bank.
Stand still, will ya.
Finally, enough of the vapor dissipated for a figure to come into focus. A thigh, bare, a towel stroking up and down along its smooth tapered
length.
Holy shit.
Next, half a buttocks, and then the appetizing curve leading up to a seductive dimple. The object rotated into view, presenting a delicious
portrait of every male’s delight, an inviting visual stimulus to all his primal senses. Reece pulled back from the scope and gulped a gallon of air
before talking to a stirring appendage below his waist.
Settle down, ya pervert.
A mild pane of shame rolled through his skull, one suggesting the intrusive nature of his folly. A game, advancing first from a playful exercise
to gain information about one that had spied on him, to what some would consider deprived, ensued. The voice grew louder: guilt, invasion of
privacy. His cell phone interrupted the words from his shoulder angel. He backed from beneath the cover of the protective shroud and took the
call.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Edwards. This is Sally at the Cantar Airline scheduling office.”
He scanned the clock above the kitchen sink and noted the time, ten o’clock. “Hi, Sally. What’s up?”
“One of our connecting flights from Atlanta has been deleted due to mechanical problems. We need a pilot qualified on the DHC-8 De
Havilland to transfer one of our airplanes arriving at TRI in one hour.”
He lied. “Sorry, Sweetheart. I’d love the extra money, but I came off standby an hour ago. Already downed two beers.”
“I understand, Mr. Edwards. Figured it was a long shot. I’ll keep checking around. By the way, next time you’re delayed in Atlanta, stop by
and see me again.”
“Will do Sally. Bye.”
Reece flipped the cover on his phone and returned to his spy post, the affects of the momentary bout with his conscious gone. He peered back
through the eyepiece only to see a woman with her hair rolled in a towel staring back through her own telescope toward his dock.
“What the hell is she looking at?”
He followed the direction of her attention.
Of course, my sailboat.
“You’re obsessed with that damn thing, aren’t ya girl.”
A rush of male pride shook into his libido as he considered maybe it wasn’t his play toy at all that drew her repeated admiration. Perhaps the
focus of her interest was its captain. He shifted his scope back to the fellow peeping tom in the distant observation post only to come eye to eye
with the owner of the house staring directly at him.
“Jesus!”
He immediately slid off the stool and hid behind the bar counter.
“Wait a minute, what am I hiding for. You started this game.”
She ventured the first invasion of his privacy with her camera and canvas. The lady was obviously curious beyond mere photographs. The
ball was in his court. Time to up the ante.
“Okay, let’s have a little fun; see how you react.”
Reece removed a yellow legal pad from his clipboard on the counter top and scribbled the message in bold lettering; Need to move your
mirror, and held it above the boxes before looking back through the scope.
The female on the other end of the visual exchange jerked rearward, stood, studied the dresser mirror against the wall, then glanced toward
the bathroom. She disappeared from his field of view.
“Where’d ya go?”
Ten seconds later she returned with a pad of paper and projected her own message written in bold red letters, possibly using lipstick. What,
didn’t you like what you saw?
“Cute, very cute. She’s a frisky lassie, this Carmen.”
Reece replied with a follow up note, Of course I did. Followed by, Just didn’t want some pervert getting a free show.
She returned the communiqué. Oh, you mean like you.
Reece laughed. “Ouch but good sense of humor.” He transmitted another quip. Touché, you got me.
To which she replied, No problem. I watched you work out last night. Nice ass.
“Damn, she is a bold little thing. Wish I could see her face.”
He jotted down another message. Is that one pervert to another?
Only her mouth was exposed below the binoculars, but enough was showing to witness her long distant chortle. Touché. Gotta run. Same
time tomorrow?
Before he could scribble a response, the mystery painter leaped from her chair and headed into another room.
His clandestine admirer was no longer a secret, and the exchange across the creek had left Reece unexpectedly excited over what lie ahead
for their first face-to-face encounter.
So much spunk, such a zest for life. Definitely got to meet this girl.
lotion to degrade his swimmer’s tan. The body, a perfect sculpture like that of Michelangelo’s David, captured her artist’s imagination and the
desire to put on canvas the magnificence of man.
Lilah Johnson stepped away from her digital camera and stared along Bears Creek to the mouth entering the main leg of Watauga Lake. The
scenic vistas of Lunar Cove from the wall of glass fed her muse the imagery that bled onto each canvas. The painted morning skies, the moon
beams that flickered and marched toward the dam each night, and the blanket of colored foliage touched a chord deep within. Yet with all the
stimulus to her minds eye, the inheritance from her mother became a haven, one that placed her on the fringes of society, but kept her safe from
paparazzi.
The strong scent of oil and turpentine saturated her small studio. On an easel facing the window, her newest painting sat half done. She’d
captured the rich glowing sunset in expressive detail. The composition lacked a focal point, a fault she planned to rectify after this evening’s
photo session. She put her eye to the viewer and sighted on the private cove.
To her left at the far end of the lake, a vintage sailboat trimmed in teak bobbed against its moorings. Its captain, a stranger with admittedly
stunning male features escaped from the ship’s cabin and scratched his left buttocks, unaware he was the center of someone’s attention. She
repositioned the camera with its tripod and waited. Finally, the craft departed, angled right, and motored forty yards from her porch.
No, not yet.
The day sailer advanced toward her lookout post, proudly displaying its graceful lines. With the mask still furled, she had a clear view of the
man at the helm, his bronzed skin gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat.
Lilah adjusted her telescopic lenses and snapped two shots of his sculpted chest. He reached for a dark blue pull over shirt. She grunted,
wishing the cool autumn breeze hadn’t forced him to don the covering. Powerful muscles strained with each rotation of the wench as the main
lifted with the halyard. Clambering onto the bow, he tugged on the jib halyard, and raised the second sail. He scurried for the tiller and brought
the boat off the wind. The sail billowed, filling with air, and the boat gently leaned to port. After setting course, he settled into place alongside
the tiller, looking for all the world like a man with no worries.
The ripples dancing along the reflective surface of the cove spread willingly and created a V-shaped wake that licked the tight curves of the
vessel’s belly. She focused the lens, spotting the name of the boat. The Jenny May. A woman’s name. A girlfriend perhaps? His wife? A spurt
of jealousy attacked so swiftly, she inhaled a sharp breath.
Why on earth would I be jealous of a complete stranger?
She’d never had such a reaction before while spying on the sailor, until now. But she knew. She’d been painting this particular man since
spotting him three weeks ago. And in that time, her brushes had lovingly sculpted his form on one painting after another. In her creative mind,
the man and boat had become one, an extension of the need she felt within.
Isolated for the past year with nothing but her paints and work at the library to keep her company, she’d become socially barren; the nearest
neighbor half a mile away. The low profile, her attempt to horde this treasured privacy; the voice in her conscious mind declared her self
entombed a positive achievement. Yet in that secret garden, the castle where her little girl still danced and sung happy thoughts, the guardian of
Lilah’s spirit whispered, there’s more out there, the possibility of love, passion, the pleasure only a man’s touch can bring.
She blinked twice and drove the distant echo back inside the fortress, until she was ready again. Better to maintain distance, an obsession
with a complete stranger from far. Lonely, yes, but save.
The hull skimmed the liquid body beneath its weight. A sharp starboard tack, and he vanished behind the distant foliage of Pelican Point,
continuing on his journey down the main branch of the lake.
She inserted the memory card from her camera into the computer and projected the recent replicas of him and his sweetheart, the Jenny
May, against the back wall. She retrieved her palette, several brushes, took a deep breath, and returned to the only source of relief from her
chaotically messy world.
Excerpt 2
Reece went into the garage, emptied two storage boxes, took them back into the house, and placed one on both sides of his scope so that
just the nose of the sighting tube stuck through the opening. He placed the dark green towel above the gap in the two boxes, slid the louver
blinds open across his viewing portal, just enough to vector on his target, then returned to his observation post, and waited.
After twenty minutes, he detected motion at the far end of the bedroom through the window.
Figured you were safe through the pine trees, didn’t you.
The owner of the cabin left their curtain exposed, but a sufficient gap existed between the dozen-ponderosa firs and cedar trees for a clever
detective to eye his subject with a high-powered telescope.
A door opened, releasing a cloud of steam. An image formed, oblique at first, reflecting off the dresser mirror, and moving in and out of the
fog bank.
Stand still, will ya.
Finally, enough of the vapor dissipated for a figure to come into focus. A thigh, bare, a towel stroking up and down along its smooth tapered
length.
Holy shit.
Next, half a buttocks, and then the appetizing curve leading up to a seductive dimple. The object rotated into view, presenting a delicious
portrait of every male’s delight, an inviting visual stimulus to all his primal senses. Reece pulled back from the scope and gulped a gallon of air
before talking to a stirring appendage below his waist.
Settle down, ya pervert.
A mild pane of shame rolled through his skull, one suggesting the intrusive nature of his folly. A game, advancing first from a playful exercise
to gain information about one that had spied on him, to what some would consider deprived, ensued. The voice grew louder: guilt, invasion of
privacy. His cell phone interrupted the words from his shoulder angel. He backed from beneath the cover of the protective shroud and took the
call.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Edwards. This is Sally at the Cantar Airline scheduling office.”
He scanned the clock above the kitchen sink and noted the time, ten o’clock. “Hi, Sally. What’s up?”
“One of our connecting flights from Atlanta has been deleted due to mechanical problems. We need a pilot qualified on the DHC-8 De
Havilland to transfer one of our airplanes arriving at TRI in one hour.”
He lied. “Sorry, Sweetheart. I’d love the extra money, but I came off standby an hour ago. Already downed two beers.”
“I understand, Mr. Edwards. Figured it was a long shot. I’ll keep checking around. By the way, next time you’re delayed in Atlanta, stop by
and see me again.”
“Will do Sally. Bye.”
Reece flipped the cover on his phone and returned to his spy post, the affects of the momentary bout with his conscious gone. He peered back
through the eyepiece only to see a woman with her hair rolled in a towel staring back through her own telescope toward his dock.
“What the hell is she looking at?”
He followed the direction of her attention.
Of course, my sailboat.
“You’re obsessed with that damn thing, aren’t ya girl.”
A rush of male pride shook into his libido as he considered maybe it wasn’t his play toy at all that drew her repeated admiration. Perhaps the
focus of her interest was its captain. He shifted his scope back to the fellow peeping tom in the distant observation post only to come eye to eye
with the owner of the house staring directly at him.
“Jesus!”
He immediately slid off the stool and hid behind the bar counter.
“Wait a minute, what am I hiding for. You started this game.”
She ventured the first invasion of his privacy with her camera and canvas. The lady was obviously curious beyond mere photographs. The
ball was in his court. Time to up the ante.
“Okay, let’s have a little fun; see how you react.”
Reece removed a yellow legal pad from his clipboard on the counter top and scribbled the message in bold lettering; Need to move your
mirror, and held it above the boxes before looking back through the scope.
The female on the other end of the visual exchange jerked rearward, stood, studied the dresser mirror against the wall, then glanced toward
the bathroom. She disappeared from his field of view.
“Where’d ya go?”
Ten seconds later she returned with a pad of paper and projected her own message written in bold red letters, possibly using lipstick. What,
didn’t you like what you saw?
“Cute, very cute. She’s a frisky lassie, this Carmen.”
Reece replied with a follow up note, Of course I did. Followed by, Just didn’t want some pervert getting a free show.
She returned the communiqué. Oh, you mean like you.
Reece laughed. “Ouch but good sense of humor.” He transmitted another quip. Touché, you got me.
To which she replied, No problem. I watched you work out last night. Nice ass.
“Damn, she is a bold little thing. Wish I could see her face.”
He jotted down another message. Is that one pervert to another?
Only her mouth was exposed below the binoculars, but enough was showing to witness her long distant chortle. Touché. Gotta run. Same
time tomorrow?
Before he could scribble a response, the mystery painter leaped from her chair and headed into another room.
His clandestine admirer was no longer a secret, and the exchange across the creek had left Reece unexpectedly excited over what lie ahead
for their first face-to-face encounter.
So much spunk, such a zest for life. Definitely got to meet this girl.
Excerpt 1
Copyright 2010 by Michael W. Davis
| After years struggling to succeed as an artist, Lilah Randal accomplishes here dream, only to return from her first sold out exhibition to find her husband and his mistress in bed, murdered. For a year she’s persecuted by the cops and media, accused of killing the Senator, her husband. With no proof, only suspicious, the police give up, but not the news hounds, nor the discomforting phone calls or late night attempted intrusions into her home. Reluctantly, Lilah stalls her career, assumes a different identify and begins fresh hiding in a small town far away from the attention of DC. Her days are filled with new vigor as the serenity of the Cherokee Valley surrounding Watauga Lake fed her creative muse under a fake alias, Carmen. Yet her nights remain hollow, like her marriage to the Senator, until she becomes obsessed by the allure of a stranger that glides by her cabin in his sailboat. Both his male form and solemn expression bleed into every painting, every midnight fantasy, until her new dream becomes reality. Lilah learns her future will remain corrupted by the past until she solves the secret behind her husband’s murder and explores her attraction of the mysterious sailor. |
Blurb
| Can the past corrupt a woman's future |
Stories to touch the heart and mind
Michael W. Davis
 | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  |
2008 Author
of the year
of the year
2009 Author
of the year
of the year
Electronic copies at:
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Distant Obession
(Special $1.49)
