The Extraordinary Mr Maellen: The Maellen Chronicles, #1

By Morgana Le Maal

A psychic romance book from Australian Amazon Author Morgana Le Maal.

It was only meant to be a weekend stay in that damned hotel. Work. Sleep. Eat. That's it.

What I got was temptation laid in wait. First the damn rose. Then him. Hadrian Maellen – enigmatic with his dark tousled hair and unassuming perfection.

Things started to perk up the moment I opened my hotel room door to him.

The line between work and play became dangerously blurry that weekend.

I never intended for things to get so out of hand.

You see, I'm an empath and I can taste people's emotions. Yes taste them. I use it to my advantage. Most of the time.

Hadrian tasted good. Heart pounding lust good.

Where is my dignity? My self-respect? My panties?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Morgana Le Maal
• Release date: May 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781540127976

Morgana Le Maal

Morgana Le Maal is an Author with a love of romance, paranormal and everything related to love and relationships. Her romance novels explore rich character development, detailed encounters and real world dialogue. She loves to write on scrap bits of paper when an idea floats into her mind… Mother of two and lover of one. Inspired by the little things. Living on the little Island of Australia. When not sitting in lotus position and living in the land of OM, she is a writer, daydreamer and lover of yoga and cool spiritual encounters.

Book preview

Prologue ~ Don't Let it Look Like You're Interested

Iknow where to look . I know all the tricks; which mirrors reflect where and what can be seen from each. I've been working here a while.

My eyes blink to the brunette corporate girl pretending to be unamused with the pamphlet she's turning over in her hand.

My mind flashes up the bookings register: Ms Stravinsky. She checked in this morning. Early. Before I started my shift. She’s a regular, of sorts, here at the hotel; every several weeks or month or so. Or whenever whatever business she’s involved in requires her presence up here. She travels from Sydney... I think.

My eyes linger on the flamboyant bow nestled above the perk of her bum; sitting up and out on her grey skirt and not bothered by the prospect of a chair which may flatten it. Nice skirt. Expensive, tailored and hugging her hips to her knees.

Her head tilts to the mirror I know reflects in my direction. My eyes sharpen through the mirror opposite me chasing reflection upon reflection. She hasn't noticed yet. I hold it; refusing to give her my eyes, or let her know I've spotted her. What is she doing?

Her hand fumbles the tourist pamphlet back to its stand; and draws another, turning it over with the sort of deliberation reserved for the fine print on business contracts.

She isn't interested in that. I know she isn't.

Her eyes blink to the mirror and flash around the room even as her head tilts down feigning to the pamphlet. Fine female fingers turn it over; and over again with the sort of exaggerated disinterest one shows to something they are certainly not interested in. Her brows rise. She faces the pamphlet but her eyes dart everywhere except on the writing she’s pretending to read.

I can feel it; them; her eyes as they blink through the room from her would-be camouflage of the mirror. For some reason my breath tightens in my chest, my lungs refusing to relinquish the already spent air. But my insides thrum with the prospect she’s trying not to be noticed; and that I've noticed her.

My lips tease my cheeks with the smile I don't want to show, so I hold it, plastering picture perfect blasé across my face as I put on an efficient concierge demeanour, lest she realise her cover is blown.

My neck seems to heat and my bow-tie seems abnormally tight as my throat hitches on the would-be cotton wad I didn't realise was there.

I casual a glance in the opposite mirror, my gaze catching her from behind. Is she looking at me?

... She is looking at me, and my breath evaporates from my chest as my heart quickens with the nerves I wasn't expecting. I could offer to help, offer to fetch her whatever she is pretending to be interested in, but I hold fast, refusing to stray from the lectern which is my station in the foyer. Not moving till someone explicitly requires my attention.

Her eyes work on my neck.

My eyes blink to every prospective pedestrian on the off chance they will turn off the sidewalk and into the lobby, offering me reprieve from her gaze and the implication of having to face her... But no one does.

The distress of the pamphlet rustles the foyer with the flutter of bent pages being forced back into the stand.

The sharp tacks of high heels on hard marble echo around the atrium getting louder and reverberating back on themselves as they build a discrete cacophony in the stillness.

My heart quickens on the would-be approaching footsteps: Can.Not.Do.This, as my eyes track frantic on oblivious pedestrians. No.Cavorting.With.Guests. I'll get the sack.

A tired tinker bell tolls long and hollow in the void.

My heart sinks and my chest rises, breath draughting deep through my nose at the relief I don't want to feel.

The room hints the soft hum I'm all too familiar with: the elevator door's opening.

A soft clunk ticks the silence.

I know the sounds. I listen to it fifty times a day; guests taking to the elevator, and I chance a look back.

And she's gone.

Breath seeps long and slow through my nose. I can't... I daren't. I'll get the sack, and right now this job is like oxygen.

... But my heart refuses to slow.

Chapter 1 ~ Closer...

My reflection stares back from the mirror on the door. The glow above draws my eyes as golden numbers light then dim in a patient: three... four... five, and my mind ticks to the straight suited guy in the foyer. He looked the same. Exactly the same, as the guy I used to sit behind in maths class in high school.

Seven... eight, TING. Nine, the number brightening more than the others as my body lightens wanting to continue the ascent.

Tired old-world motors inch the doors apart and I pass between them before they are finished opening. My hand tucks into my bag rummaging for the key as my eyes zoom up the hall to my hotel suite, but I still, high heels sinking in the carpet.

Air eases from my chest. The moment pauses from the outside world. Curious. Something is... different from this morning.

Tired elevator doors click closed behind me, the dark-wood panelled walls hinting at nothing, absorbing the light and sounds of the world outside.

A whisper sparks in my head:

Closer...

My heart ticks faster, my eyelids fluttering, What... was-that?

Closer...

Closer? Images of Mother flash through my mind; her doing her thing during the new moon; standing at the kitchen bench, candle flames ebbing on each lick and flick and funny coloured gas flames breathing from the stove. Pay attention to your senses, she would say. They won't lead you astray. But I brush it off. She was like that, with the Old World stuff that no one heeds any more; and I don't share her aspirations for me.

Sweetness teases my nose, a whisp of perfume wafting on my skin. My nostrils flare and my eyes sharpen as my chest draws deep, Perfume...

My head snaps right, my fringe brushing my skin in a springy to and fro as my eyes zero on a side table. A vase. And a rose sitting in it; small and demure; blood red, its hue glowing vivid in the subdued light. Velvet petals splay out, too small to admire from afar but too big for my tired eyes to ignore.

The scant trace of scent dusts my flesh and then... nothing, the sweetness evaporating from the air. Imaginary gossamer threads caress my skin; a hint of what might be cool air whisping on my face... but it isn't; it isn't cool air, it's something else, wanting me to come closer to the table. A niggle for the scent sparks my senses and my chest draws again.

Closer...

My eyes widen.

Closer...

Why closer?

My head ticks, my eyes blinking up the hall to my room, and back to the table. Left; a fire exit. Right; a door; Do Not Disturb hanging on the handle; and the side table sitting in the corner.

I still, not daring to move. But restless feet niggle my legs. Longing swells inside me, my chest working the air in deep breasty breaths.

My ears prime:

No sound.

No movement.

No one... except me.

My toes inch nearer the table, high heels planting in the unworn plush pile off of the thoroughfare. My eyes lower, hesitant, waiting for something; I'm not sure what but for something, anything.

Subdued light plays tricks with my vision, the bloom seeming to dim with the hint of my shadow. My pupils refuse to focus and my eyelids flutter in vain. I need my glasses. My eyes crinkle in the corners as I squint away the indecision and my hand slips to my bag for my glasses, but it stills at the inconvenience of finding them.

The crimson petals pretend to pulse with colour in the dim of the hall. It must be the light, old incandescent globes threatening to die with the sort of teasing flicker you're not sure actually happened. Pink speckles dot around the edge like splatters as if an artist has flicked a paint brush with his fingertip. Long arcs of needle tip sharpness hold the stem still in the neck of the vase, vanishing into nothing as the ultimate warning to would be defilers.

Closer...

More perfume whisps past my nose and my heart clutches at it, my chest rising for the sweetness. Another elevator hums by ticking my heart up a notch as my eyes linger on the thorns, disproportionately large for a bloom the size of a golf ball. Where is the flower arrangement from this morning? It looked new.

Closer...

My throat hitches, What time is it? Five? My fingers itch with the compulsion to finger my phone. I left work at what, four thirty? Or was it a quarter to?

The scent teases my nose. My chest rises drawing long greedy breaths searching for more.

Closer...

What is with that?

Mother's face flashes behind my eyes, corny old fashioned images of her lips muttering mystic words only she could understand; and resentment knots my tummy. Damn all her crap.

Closer...

The seconds still, my body tensing on the prospect of unexpected onlookers and my ears sharpen for the tell tale sound of approaching voices, or any sound signaling that I'm not alone.

Nothing.

My eyes blink up, primed for movement; left, and right.

No one.

My hand draws from my bag and edges to the vase, my fingers meeting at the tips in a loose round O just shy of the thorns. Cool petals kiss my skin as I slip it from the vase, the bloom nestling in the cradle of my fingers.

My heart patters. My ears pulse with blood, and the tip of my nose meets the faintest kiss of petal on skin as its cool velvet sparks my senses.

My chest rises, the air sharp... and my nose comes alive as perfume fills my head. Oh... My... G-o-d. I inhale again and my mind giddies on the rainbow of aroma as my thoughts evaporate. My chest draws on the scent, again and again, lost to compulsion as whisp after delightful whisp flows deep inside my body, the perfume egging me on as one breath demands another, and another.

My heart slows with the seconds, my mind light with delight, my thoughts ebbing on the seductive triumph of Mother Nature. This is no man-made fragrance; no concoction of chemicals tested in a lab. No. This is the triumph of a million years of trial and error by Gaia; Nirvana on a breath.

My emotions eddy, played like a fiddle on ambrosia from the bloom. I want to bathe in it; soak in it; wrap myself up in its velvet petals and melt into bliss. My ears tinge with the echo of a far away ring as my nose buries deeper and like a child lost with delight in a lolly shop my chest draws again. It's as if a cotton bud knots in my throat and my eyes glass over behind the cover of my lids. My eyes struggle open and blur as I drown in its rouge:

TING

My body jars, my hand snaps tight and thorns bite my flesh,ARRGH. My hand springs wide, the thorns wrenching as my hand flicks, but they stick fast, "F-u-c-k!"

The elevator SHUNK's to a halt behind me. A soft CLUNK! And I pivot on my heels shaking my hand but the needles stick fast, Arrgh!

Old motors hum and the giggle of a girls voice seeps from behind parting doors.

My eyes flash up the hall to my room as my left hand grips my wrist and my savaged hand tenses closed on the thorns: Oh-Christ.

Voices ebb behind me. My legs break stride, heels spiking the carpet as I make for my room with hushed voices breathing behind me. The niggle of a girls voice baits me as long strides and stinging seconds outpace her. I draw up a breath away from my door, dipping my face and my savaged hand from would-be onlookers. PAIN- as my left hand scrabbles in my bag for the square edge of my room key:

Phone-

Purse-

Pen-

Door keys to my flat in Sydney.

PAIN- Arrgh, wrenching at my flesh as my heart pounds in my chest.

Tissues-

Tampon-

Phone AGAIN-

Pen AGAIN. "Oh-fuck," on a breath as the thorns bite my flesh. My throat hitches, a proverbial cotton wad lodged tight as the voices echo up the hall, curt and hushed about the girl trapped at the door by her wretched-bag-of-crap. My knees weaken, blood draining from my face as I fight it, stiffening my fingers not to move as they beg for mercy. Don't turn round. Don't give them my eyes.

Lipstick-

Compact-

Pen Again-

Nail file-

Phone-AGAIN!

Every-Fucking-Shape-Except-What-I-Fucking-Need, and my chest shudders, the needle fine thorns sparking tears behind my eyelids at the mocking tink of clutter in my bag.

A sticky heat ebbs in my palm. I know what it is. It's blood! My head giddies as swirling rises in my mind, the image of my fingers slicking with blood taunting my resolve. My teeth blanch harder into my lip desperate to distract me from the pending swoon. Don't look down. Don't look at my hand.

Tampon AGAIN-

A square plastic edge: and the rectangle shape of my room key! A-ha! My fingers lock on it and I left-hand scrabble it to the door knob. A soft SHUNK in - twist - I force the door wide; quick strides in - a heavy CLUNK behind me and I pelt the key at the suit case rack, FAAAAAAARRCK,

My bag thuds to the floor, FUCK-FUCK-FUCK.

My body slumps to the mattress as pain slices up my arm. My left hand grips my wrist squeezing beyond reason trying to choke off the agony. My eyes sharpen through the watery blur as I force my fingers to uncurl off the needles.

The rose refuses to move, stuck fast on the thorns deep in my flesh and a frantic car wreck feeling flashes in my chest. Desperate fingers tug it from my palm with the squelch of wet meat and I pelt it at the case rack. My left hand tightens back around my wrist, insane strength trying to choke out the agony.

Crimson streaks glob off my hand onto the cream carpet as my eyes widen, Oh-for-fucks-sake, and I dash to the bathroom whipping up a hand towel and wrapping it tight around my hand. Anger ignites in my stomach, Jesus-Fucking-Christ, and I still, hoping the seconds will lessen the horror. Panic consumes my chest as I clutch the horror up higher. My legs wander me aimless around the room as throbbing eats at my hand:

Window...

Table...

Case rack...

Pivot on a heel; table again. Fuck this, and my body slumps to the bed, my head plumping back deep in the pillow.

My hand rises, perched atop my arm, the white towel a parody of surrender. Mother made me do this when I was little, to lessen the throbbing when I hurt myself; but she would always end up doing some of her stuff as well. What would she do?

My eyes squint shut on images of Mother. A blue gas flame glows under a cast iron saucepan, a trademark of her night time in the kitchen on a new moon: eyes closed; wooden spoon; no lights, just red or white candles depending on her mood and whatever whispers were seeping from her lips. She was like that, with the Old World Stuff. It always smelt bad.

I will my body to still as panic and pain make another assault on my senses.

Breathe. Just breathe, my chest easing up and down in long focused breaths.

The throbbing ebbs, pulses,