"Tina Wainscott - Dreams of You [rtf]" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wainscott Tina)

"He's not breathing!" he heard someone scream.
The twisting mass formed a tunnel, and at the end a brilliant light pulsed, waiting, for him. He moved toward that light as a roller coaster screams across the tracks. Images flashed past him, vivid and full of life.
Only it wasn't his life.
A young girl made a sandcastle on the beach, patting the sides with infinite care until a boy with dark hair stalked over and kicked it in. That same girl, now a lovely teenager, standing on a sea wall, her golden blond curls dancing in the breeze as she looked out to a cerulean ocean. Her arms were crossed in front of her, slender hands on her throat. And then the same girl, now a woman, driving through town in a white Mercedes convertible on a summer day.
He kept rushing through space without time or thought. The woman's image flashed in front of him again. She was walking out of a pristine mansion. Storm clouds darkened the sky there, too, but he hardly had time to notice. If he kept going, he was going to crash into her. She didn't see him coming right at her, rightЕ
He was expelled into a thicker darkness, a liquid warmth that flowed all around him. Blood pumping through his veins, a muffled thunder that pulsed through the thickness. A heartbeat. Her heartbeat. He was inside her.
And then everything exploded, worse than the thunder, more painful than the lightning. Fire, the smell of smoke, flames on his skin, searing pain, so much fear and panic! All he could see was the venomous orange burst that surrounded the woman. Her thoughts were louder than the roar of flames. What is happening? Mother! I've got to get out and find her.
"He's got a heartbeat!" a voice said from some far outer place.
Adrian jumped with a start, rolling on the sand in a desperate attempt to smother the flames. Hands were everywhere on him, holding him down as he struggled. He opened his eyes. The crew. The people he'd left behind what seemed like hours ago. They stood around him, confusion and concern in their eyes.
"He's alive!" Ellie breathed, squeezing his arm.
He looked around. No fire. Only the rain, gushing from the sky.
Two of the men helped him to his feet as he struggled to stand. His shoes had been knocked off, and his feet felt like two balls of fire. They looked as if he'd been standing in a frying pan.
"Let's get you out of the rain. Geez, are you all right? You gave us a helluva scare."
Adrian's breath came in heavy gasps. His body felt like liquid. When he reached the nearest palm, he held onto it.
"Get away from that tree, Wilde," Bob said. "You want to get hit by lightning again?"
"Is that what happened to me?" He saw his camera lying on the sand, scorched and now wet. "Where was the fire? I felt flames, smelled smoke."
Ellie pulled him to the van, where he dropped down onto the floor. "There was no fire, love," she said, wiping his shoulder-length dark hair out of his eyes. "It must have been the lightning you felt. You were dead, you know. Margot performed CPR and got your heart beating again."
"I was dead," he said softly, looking at the place where he'd been thrown. He closed his eyes, settling his forehead in his hand. Flashes of the tunnel ripped through the blackness behind his eyes. Dead. He had heard of the tunnel, of people seeing their life flash before them. But who was the woman? Why had her life exploded?

Chapter 1

Just because no one will listen does not make me silent.
Cold water engulfed Adrian, pulling him down, down to some hellish oblivion beneath the sea. He heard the wild beating of his heart and the sound of air as it escaped his lips in the last bubbles of hope. Blackness surrounded him. He held his breath until his lungs threatened to burst. Breathe, he had to breathe. No air. He inhaled cold water into his lungs. Panic froze him. He took two short gasps. More water rushed in, crushing his chest.
"No!" He heard his own voice tear the word from his mouth in one long wail of agony. Fear raged through his veins as he caught his breath in gasps. He looked desperately around for a way to escape, his survival instinct strong and fierce. But there was nothing.
The water and fury disappeared, leaving only the cool darkness of a November New York night. The sounds of the city far below assured him that life progressed-taxi drivers honked their horns, music drifted from somewhere. He wasn't dying. YetЕ
''My God, Adrian, what were you dreaming about?'' Rita's voice whispered from the dark.
He'd forgotten she had wormed an overnight invitation.
She reached over and turned on the soft light over the bed. He studied his outstretched arms and hands, the bed around him. No water, except for the dampness on his body. A faucet leaked in the bathroom, the drip, drip chilling him all over again. He rubbed his long fingers over his face, trying to erase his expression of fear.
Rita touched the tensed muscle of his arm, then wiped the perspiration that covered him onto the silk sheets. "Are you all right? Geez, you're soaked!" She tucked a lock of his hair back from his face.
He finally felt composed enough to turn at the concern in her voice. Her black mane of curls tumbled around her face, wildly framing dark eyes and olive skin. She always looked camera ready. Adrian smoothed back his damp hair, dark as her own.
"It was just a nightmare. Go back to sleep." But his voice betrayed him, cracking softly.
How long would he keep having this nightmare? It was worse than the fire he'd experienced through Madame Blue's eyes, and no less vivid. Since the moment of his death three years earlier, his life had never been the same.
Adrian rolled out of bed and walked over to the black lacquer dresser, leaning on the slick, uncluttered surface. In the mirror he could see the green light spilling from beneath the pedestal of the black bed like a mystical fog, and Rita sitting there watching him. The air chilled his damp skin, every inch exposed. He lit a cigarette, took two drags, and crushed it out in the blue glass ashtray.
"Why don't you just quit cold turkey?" she asked.
"I'll quit the way I want." That reminded him why he didn't want anything permanent with a woman. Nagging. So, he wasted money. Last month he took five drags before putting it out. Last week, three.
Rita's voice softened, and suddenly she stood behind him, her body pressed against his back. "Adrian, talk to me. It'll help."
"No," he answered with finality, moving away from her. He would never share his after death experience. He had, in fact, only shared it with one other person, the only person who wouldn't think he was crazy.
It wasn't just the strange journey death had taken him on, but what that journey had started. Visions. Whatever happened that day connected his soul with that mysterious woman's soul. He could feel her emotions. During brief flashes, like those images in the tunnel, her delight, or sadness, or acute loneliness reached out to him. That's why she became his Madame Blue. He could feel what she felt, see what she saw, but he couldn't see her. Sometimes it was the ocean, other times it was an art gallery someplace.
"Adrian, did you hear me?" Rita's voice penetrated his thoughts. "Don't shut me out."
He shook his head, straightening. "Go back to sleep. I'm going to get some work done."
It wasn't the first time he'd spent half the night printing photographs after a nightmare. But the watery dream was far different from any ordinary nightmare. Although he had experienced a fiery explosion through Madame Blue, his nightmares were the final moments of her life. If this woman existed, what had the fire done to her? He would never know the truth because he knew nothing about her, not even her name. Not even, for sure, if she really existed beyond his soul.
After taking a cold shower, he threw on some baggy cotton pants, pulled his thick hair into a ponytail, and walked into his studio. The bright lights and faint vinegar smell of darkroom chemicals brought the comfort he wanted. He thought of Rita sitting there in his bed wanting to comfort him. As one of the most sought after fashion photographers in the business, Adrian considered emotional involvement with a woman hazardous. Frequent travel and work with beautiful women didn't lend themselves to the average dating scenario.
Throwing a Moody Blues CD into the stereo system, he took the negatives still hanging in the drying cabinet and closed himself in the darkroom. He laid the strips on the contact easel and shot the contact sheets for the black and whites he'd taken last week in Palm Beach for Guess. Although he'd never been to the area before, it had felt eerily familiar to him. He still couldn't shake the feeling.
Adrian worked for hours, hoping that when he emerged daylight would be a rising force and the long night far behind him. The contact sheets came alive in the developer, and as always, he was pleased with the results. Mari Flannegan, a new star he had discovered, looked fresh and innocent in the foamy waves, like a Norma Jean for the nineties. Behind her, the Atlantic Ocean shimmered like a blanket of diamonds in the sun. Adrian smiled. This was his life-nothing meant more to him than his photography.
The shot of Mari holding a wad of seaweed with a grimace on her face wasn't planned, but he would recommend it be the first one in the series. He pulled the sheet out of the wash, squeegeed it, and hung it up to dry, pleased with the spontaneous side of his work.
Adrian never kidded himself that he didn't have miles to go before becoming the best of the best. When he reached that pinnacle, then what? For now, he had everything he wanted, mostly the security that he would never worry again about losing his home or not having food for dinner. All that was iff the faraway past before he had any control over his life. This was enough, he told himself. A penthouse in downtown New York City, travel to exotic places, working with gorgeous womenЕ what more could he want? What else could there possibly be?
He started the last contact sheet, feeling lack of sleep creeping up on his features. So far most of the shots looked perfect, except for the blurry one when the bedraggled Spanish girl tugged at his sleeve just as he was making the exposure. Adrian told her to leave, then felt so bad at her obvious disappointment, he played sucker and bought one of the shell necklaces dangling over her arm.
When he had put the last contact sheet in the fix, he snapped on the light and surveyed the shots. His gaze rested on the last one. Mari gave the camera a sensational smile, probably glad she was almost done with her part and could get out of the nippy sea air that pinkened her nose. The beach curved away behind her. Mari wore a gold tank top and skin-tight blue jean shorts, trying to pretend it was a summer day for the June campaign. The mist that enveloped the background made it seem surreal-a perfect shot. ButЕ wait a minute. Something showed up in the background that he'd clearly missed when taking the shot.
Adrian squinted, making out a lone figure of a woman standing on the beach. Judging by the drab attire and general appearance, she looked to be a ragamuffin, a homeless person. His face went red with frustration even as his mind worked on how to cut that part out. He decided the figure could be airbrushed so that it would blend in with the mist.
"Damn," he muttered, leaving the darkroom to let the pictures dry and grab a bite to eat. He hated missing details like that.