O! FANTASY!

By Patricia Green
copyright and all rights reserved

There was a run in her stocking! A run! It was entirely par for the course today to have a stupid run and no time to buy new pantyhose before the award banquet.

She ran out of her apartment lobby and slipped on the wet pavement, but the doorman caught her as she gracelessly cartwheeled her arms. “Careful, Missus Wilburn. That rain makes the pavement slippery.”

Amanda said something polite in return, and got into the waiting limousine.

Falling on her butt would have really been the topper to her day. That morning she’d groggily turned off the alarm clock and gone back to sleep – missing a morning meeting with her literary agent. He had been nonplussed, but in such a good mood over her recent successes that he could find forgiveness in his fickle heart for a change. Rod, her husband of ten years, had left a mess-and-a-half in the kitchen, drawing every ant in the known universe to the counter. Amanda, of course, had been the person stuck with cleaning it all up and getting rid of the ants.

The cleanup had resulted in a broken fingernail and a sinus headache from the ant spray. Her manicurist was overbooked that afternoon, so Amanda glued the broken tip back on with super-glue. It looked kludged together, if one generously assessed her handiwork.

She downed three aspirin and hurried through her toilet.

Next, she raced out to lunch with her mother, who was visiting Manhattan from Miami Beach. Mother was, well, Mother. Always finding something to carp about. She was proud that Amanda had managed to write another best-seller, but certain that it was actually the work of Amanda’s agent or editor which really made the book triumphant. Anyonebut Amanda.

Just when Amanda was considering going back to bed for a couple of hours – at least she was safe there – she got a series of calls from newspaper reporters looking to coax out the secrets of her success. The press could not be ignored. Her book sales always soared after these interviews were published.

Finally, though, she had to turn on the answering machine and start getting ready for the banquet. A new, sequined, cream silk evening dress had been made just for the occasion. It set off the rich golden highlights in her shoulder-length chestnut hair and the amber tint of her eyes. The slinky fit made her a little uncomfortable, as her working “uniform” was sweat-pants and a t-shirt. But, for this occasion, she’d show off her stair-master-built figure with pride.

Rod called to tell her to go on without him; he was running late and would meet her during the reception. While Amanda understood the vagaries of scheduling, she was miffed at Rod for not being on time this day, this one important day. Undoubted-ly, he figured she wouldn’t mind. After all, she never complained about his absent-minded behavior. She never mentioned their slowly ebbing sex life, though she missed it. Oh Lord, how she missed the passion.

It was hard writing about people falling in love, having wild, life-shattering sex every day and not feeling decidedly left out of the fun. The romantic couples she crafted in her books would most likely lose their passion, too, after ten years. Two kisses, five minutes of belly-bumping, and roll over to snore, she thought wryly.

No matter. This night the whole romance community was turning out to honor Amanda Wilburn’s mad, passionate, fictional lovers. Tonight she was being given the Platinum Kiss, the ultimate romance writer’s award.

She was lauded from the moment she got to the door of the huge, glittering ballroom where the banquet was being held. People waved, people smiled, people congratulated her – mostly people she didn’t know, but a few she did, too.

Half-an-hour into the reception, Amanda excused herself and made her way to the ladies’ room, determined to strip off her ruined pantyhose and do without for the evening. Her tanned legs would be just fine without the traditional nylon coverings.

The stall was tiny, making the job something better suited to a contortionist. Worse, the latch wasn’t secure, so she had to hold the door closed as she peeled off the pantyhose. Finally, she wadded up the offending hosiery and took her small evening bag off the door-hook, but the clasp opened and her lipstick fell out. It rolled back behind the commode, the most awkward place it could possibly find to fetch up.

Amanda sighed and rolled her golden eyes heavenward. What more today?

She squatted down and reached behind the commode, leaning forward as far as she could to grope for the little runaway tube. All of a sudden she was propelled from behind, the stall-door bashing into her fanny, hard. Amanda tried to stop herself from colliding with the hard porcelain bowl, but it was too awkward to do. Her head smacked the cold surface with a resounding thud, and then the lights narrowed to a pinpoint and went out.

* * *

Loud voices coaxed Amanda from the fog of sleep. She was lying in a wide, soft four-poster bed, nestled in the shadows of finely embroidered corner bed-hangings.

"Yer besotted, M'lord, and Lady Emerald is still sleepin'!" The Scots brogue was thick, but Amanda understood it. Who the hell was Lady Emerald, and what was going on?

"Then wake her up!" roared the deep, masculine voice in response. "It's all her fault I'm in this deucedly wretched condition! And, damnme but I'll await her answer not a moment more!"

"Out, M'Lord! Ye canna come in, I say!"

"Out of my way, woman!"

Amanda squirmed toward the middle of the bed and faced the two combatants. "What is going on here?"

"Emerald!" the man bellowed. And what a man! Tall, broad-shouldered, but slender at the waist, his cobalt blue eyes were lit by an inner fire as he approached the bed with long purposeful strides. He wore a navy tail-coat, brocaded vest, mussed white cravat, and tightly fitted gray pantaloons tucked into black Hessians.

"Ach now, ye've woken her. I knew ye would," the older woman chided. "I tried ta keep him away, lassie, but he would hae none o' it."

She was wearing a long, dull black dress -- something antique, as if she was a remnant of the Regency period in England -- but her brown eyes were warm.

"It's all right," Amanda replied, wondering if she'd gone mad. She must be dreaming.

"There!" the man said. "Now leave us. Emerald and I have much to discuss."

"I'll nae be leavin'," the older woman disagreed stiffly.

Rather than join in the argument, Amanda wanted answers. "What is going on?" She moved to the edge of the high bed, and the long, fine, lawn nightgown she wore gathered up toward her thighs. Her legs and thighs were pale, absolutely lacking in the tan she usually maintained. Amanda reached up to push off the shawl that covered her shoulders and found that it wasn't a shawl at all; it was very long, platinum-blonde hair. Her hands went to her scalp in surprise.

"Hae ye a headache, hinny?" the older woman asked solicitously, pushing past the man to approach the bed. Her first action was to pull the nightgown down over Amanda's legs once again. "And no surprise in that, with this rude fellow bargin' in here ta wake ye from a sweet sleep!"

There was something almost familiar about this room, these people. "Maddie?" Amanda tried, hoping she was wrong.

"Aye, lass, I'm here for ye."

Amanda gasped, then looked at the tall, handsome man whose eyes were like hot flames as they traveled all over Amanda's face and form. "Hal?"

The fellow scowled. "Finally found my name, have you, minx? I thought you'd 'Lord Derby' me to death."

Amanda knew, with sudden, agonizing clarity what was going on: she was the heroine in one of her own books. How this had happened she couldn't imagine, except to presume she was dreaming. She closed her eyes and willed herself to wake. No luck. When she opened them again she was still in the beautiful historical room, faced with creatures -- surely one could not consider fictional characters to be people -- of her own creation.

She decided to play along with it and hope the dream was short.

"Hal, what are you doing here?" she asked, knowing exactly what he was about. She'd written it, after all.

"I've come to settle things between you and I, minx," he answered, striding into the room.

"I see. Maddie, you can leave us." The order did not conform to the social mores of the time period, and was very much a writer's device. She should have come up with something better, Amanda realized. It had been quite a while since she'd written For the Love of a Rake.

"But, lass! Yer brother will-"

Brother? Oh yes, the blustering, head-of-the-family character. "He'll just have to deal with it," Amanda said firmly.

The maid clucked her tongue and shot a warning look at Hal Derby. "I'll be right outside th' door, if ye need me, hinny."

Amanda smiled tightly. "Thank you." As the door closed behind Maddie, Hal moved to the bed and took Amanda by the shoulders.

"No more of this, Emerald! You cannot possibly marry Hastings!"

Amanda squirmed against his hold, half-heartedly. "Let me go! You're annoying me!"

"I'd like to do more." Hal pulled her close against his chest, something like pleading in his eyes. "You are wasted on him, Emmy," he said softly, his lips hovering over Amanda's.

Amanda's thoughts whirled. If she remembered correctly, this scene was the one where Emerald and Hal ended up making love together. So, this was an erotic dream? It was the most bizarre dream of any kind she'd ever had.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, pressing a kiss to each of her cheeks. "I mean he hasn't the fire to match yours."

Amanda's eyes were drawn to the sensual lips she'd created for Hal Derby. "But you do."

"Yes!" He kissed her lips, first gently, then deeply, and Amanda met his passion.

His hands left her shoulders to tangle in her hair, then slid down to her breasts. Amanda enjoyed every moment. The lawn nightdress ended up on the floor, as did Hal's rich clothing, and soon they were breathing heavily on the bed together.

Hal positioned himself between Amanda's pale, white thighs. Too late, Amanda remembered that Emerald had lost her virginity in that scene. She tensed with pain, then blacked out.

* * *

"Wake! Wake up thou sorry bit of offal!"

A hand shook Amanda's shoulder roughly and she opened her eyes only to groan in realization. She was in another one of her books. This one was far less plush than the Regency she'd just left.

She awoke on a pallet on the floor. The sun had yet to rise and only embers lit the hearth. It was quite cold. Other girls, garbed in coarse, scratchy wool, just like Amanda, were rising sleepily from their pallets, too.

"The solstice festival begins this day! Get to work, slaves!"

Amanda watched the limping older woman leave the room. The slave-mistress Kaaren, from Viking's Prize. That meant that Amanda was the beautiful Egyptian slave Penina. She reached up and ran her hands through the long, black curls, she'd written for the girl, and noticed that she was indeed several inches taller than the other, European, girls in the room. Her skin was dark brown, smooth. Her eyes would be pure black.

Amanda wracked her brain to remember the plot of this one as she and the other women made their way from their small, wooden hut to the main house, a much larger wooden structure. Laars Erickson won Penina in a dice game. After one night with her, he couldn't get enough and became obsessed, finally falling in love with the girl.

The slaves began preparing food and drink for the festival. Amanda worked at making flat bread while she wondered just when she would wake up. Guests were gathering in the smoky hall, and the noise level rose accordingly. Eventually, the feast was ready.

Amanda brought a big platter of stewed rabbit forward, placing it on the largest of the tables. She could feel eyes on her.

Before she could escape to the hearth and the cooking again, she heard a deep, booming voice refer to her. "Name your price for the dark maid, Garth!"

Amanda turned. The gorgeous, golden Adonis standing behind one of the tables must be Laars Erickson. Lord, had she really written him so improbably handsome?

But this was too early in the story from Amanda's point of view. This was the section where Laars wins her and demands his rights as her new owner. Those rights, of course, include the taking of Penina's maidenhead.

Amanda sighed. She obviously needed to write fewer stories about virgins. Or maybe she needed to conjure up some ruby slippers -- it was her dream after all. She stared at her bare, dirty, feet and concentrated. No luck. She concentrated harder. Still no heeled ticket to wakefulness. So much for dream magic.

Well, what would happen if she simply changed the plot on the fly? She could hide until the dream was over. It might not be very interesting, but it was bound to be less painful than another deflowering.

While the men began the bartering that would end with the exchange of Penina, Amanda considered hiding places. There were no closets or cubbies in the big house; the homes simply weren't built that way in the period Viking's Prize took place. However, there was a stable outside.

Amanda stealthily crept toward the door. She eased it open and had nearly taken a step when she saw she'd be stepping into pitch blackness. There was simply nothing outside. Nothing right. Nothing left. Nothing up or down. Nothing.

After a few moments of being stunned, Amanda closed the door and leaned back against it.

And now it was too late. Laars was approaching, a wide grin splitting his stunning face, forcing two deep dimples to show. Amanda squeaked when he grabbed her by the waist, nearly knocking the air out of her as she came up against his hard chest abruptly.

"I'm not what you think!" she tried.

He frowned slightly. "Thou had best be a maid, mistress, for that is what I think. If thou art not, then Garth will feel my fists." He pulled her along to the table and onto his lap while the remainder of the food was served.

Every conceivable type of food was brought forth, and slowly, carefully, laid on the big tables. Amanda squirmed as the parade of servers went on and on, while Laars' big hands roamed all over her. Take another note to yourself, Amanda, she chided silently, leave out the long-winded lists of foods.

She knew right down to the last Swedish meatball when Laars had had enough of the feast. He stood up so quickly that Amada was forced to wrap her arms around his thick neck or be dropped onto the rush-strewn floor.

Laars grabbed a handful of Amanda's -- no, Penina's -- hair and pulled her head back so that he could look down into her eyes. His pale gray ones were amused. "Thou hast done thy worst with that soft bottom against my thighs, mistress. Now 'tis my turn to do my worst."

Amanda felt the blood rush out of her face as panic assailed her. "No! Let me go!"

Laars laughed, picked her up and threw her over his shoulder as he made for the back door. The back door! Of course. Amanda groaned with more than the rib-crunching bouncing she was getting. She should have tried sneaking out that way.

It didn't matter now, humiliation and pain still lay before her. She began to squirm and kick and pound on his back with vigor. It wouldn't make a difference, she knew. The deflowering was written, and it might as well have been engraved on stone tablets for all she could do to change it. But, she could extract her pound of flesh.

She had a handful of Laars golden hair in her fist as he dropped her in a bed of sweet-smelling hay in the stable. His eyes narrowed at what must have been considerable pain as she yanked on his locks mercilessly, but patiently, he pulled back each of the fingers that held his hair 'till, finally, he was loose.

"Anger me not, mistress, for though I have no want to harm thee, I will not abide thy tantrums after this night." He stood and began to loosen his clothing.

"Look, Laars," Amanda said, scrabbling up to her knees in front of him. "I have a better idea." She put each of her hands on a pillar-like thigh and smiled up at him. "Why don't I just use my mouth on you? Then we won't have to-"

"Whore!" he bellowed, pushing her back into the hay. "I thought that cur Garth was playing me false, but never did I think he would run so afoul of the truth!" He threw off his tunic and opened the front of his pants, releasing himself as he knelt in the hay and began fighting to open Amanda's knees.

Amanda gasped. Really, she thought with one part of her mind as the other part was fighting the assault she knew would come, I have got to stop exaggerating the human physique so dramatically.

"Please, Laars," she begged. What use was pride in a nightmare after all? "Please don't hurt me like this."

He slowed, looking into her eyes with a gentle smile. "Fear not, mistress, for I am not averse to taking thee slowly dost thou cooperate."

She groaned sinking into the hay with bitter acceptance. "Fine. Fine then. Do your worst, you great testosterone-driven hulk."

His smile was incredibly sweet as he pulled the scratchy wool shift off Amanda and began an assault on her senses. After a while, Amanda relaxed and began to enjoy the pleasant sensations he was drawing from her. Perhaps this encounter would be more satisfying than the first. And once again she found a hunky hero between her thighs.

There was a sharp pain, and blackness overcame her.

* * *

A bullet smacked into the ground near Amanda's head, bringing her eyes open with instant panic. Oh, no! Not another of her books! If Amanda's dream was going to cover all thirty of her works, they might as well put her in a straight-jacket right now.

"Damn it, woman!"

A big, hard body smacked into her, rolling her away from the worst of the danger as bullets flew faster, whizzing by far too close.

"I told you to stay in town. But no! You had to stick your damned little pug nose into a gunfight!"

"I - I -"

"Shut up for once, Livy."

"I'm Olivia?" Olivia Barnard was the heroine in A Breed Apart, her novel about a half-breed Comanche and a schoolmarm. The dusty, lean and lanky man oozing virility next to her must be John Sky-Eyes.

He snorted. "Livy to me, honey, since I just saved your plump little butt again." He spoke while shooting, as though it was as natural as buttoning his shirt - which he hadn't.

"I've got to get out of here!" She started to crab away through the dirt, but was brought up short by John's arm, hard as a steel band, around her middle.

"You're safe enough for the moment. They're takin' off."

"Oh."

He leaned over her, his heady, masculine scent making Amanda blink. She'd done a fine job with this character. He wasn't perfectly handsome, but was much more like a real man, a very rugged, intimidating real man. She gulped.

"McAfee and his men are gone."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet, Livy." His pale blue eyes roamed her face, lingering on her lips. "Or, better, thank me a little now, and a little later."

His lips came down on hers like a gentle storm, growing harder and more insistent as the seconds passed. Amanda wanted to struggle, really wanted to. But John's kisses were written to encourage her to succumb. At least that's what she told herself.

His groan brought her back to reality - the dream's reality. "I don't want to take you here in the dirt, honey," he said wryly, his hand brushing Olivia's red-gold curls away from her face. "Come on."

He rose and pulled her up with him.

"I can't," Amanda tried, her senses coming back slowly as her proximity to John dwindled.

"You mean you won't," he said bitterly.

"It's not that, John. It's just that-"

"Yeah. Save it for someone who hasn't heard it before." He stalked to the horses and began checking their tack.

"No, really! I want to!" she insisted, grabbing him by the arm. "But you'll hurt me and then I'll be gone."

His sky-blue eyes roamed her face skeptically. "I should have just kept going there on the ground. You weren't too mindful of getting hurt right then."

Amanda felt Olivia's cheeks go hot. Bickering wasn't going to get them anywhere. And she didn't know if the dream would end without that agonizing stab. Maybe if she never let it happen she'd be stuck here forever. Much as she loved her characters and plots, she desperately wanted reality. Her reality, complete with her thoughtless husband and critical mother.

"Very well," she said softly.

John turned. "What are you saying?"

She began opening her buttons. "Now."

"Now?"

"Mmm-hmm."

John stilled her hands and tilted up her chin until she met his eyes. "Livy, honey…"

"No more talking. Just kiss me, John."

He groaned softly then took her lips.

There wasn't much grass to be had, but John found them some. Amanda reveled in the touch of his callused fingers and the hard sleekness of his body, taking what pleasure she could. But the anticipated moment came, and though she tried not to cringe, she couldn't help it.

* * *

Even before she opened her eyes, Amanda felt the difference. Or perhaps she smelled the difference: antiseptic.

"Amanda?" Rod's voice was soft, but rose as enthusiasm gripped him. "Amanda?"

"Mmm."

"Oh, baby!" he gushed, taking her hand in his, squeezing as though he'd never let go.

"What…" Her throat felt scratchy, dry. Her tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth. Finally she opened her eyes. Yes, it was Rod. Thank God.

"You've been out for five days! You have a concussion."

"How… undignified," she pointed out.

He chuckled. "I won't argue. But everything will be all right now." Rod brought her hand to his lips and kissed it several times. "Oh baby, I was so worried about you. I love you so much, Amanda."

She smiled, or tried to. Her lips were still not quite interested in moving. "Love you, too."

The dreams were fading now, but Amanda was trying to make mental notes of all the things she'd discovered during her romance odyssey. Without a doubt, the genre wasn't meant to portray gritty reality, but all the same, Amanda hoped that her forthcoming works would be better because of this bizarre experience. And she vowed, with an inner grin, never, ever, to write her heroines as virgins. Just in case she happened to bump her head again in the future.

The End