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Oct. 14th, 2004 12:54 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
OK, I'll try the challenge. Here's my beginning, my prologue...
Chasing Alessandro Safina
Chasing Alessandro Safina
Prologue
A midnight mist crept into a grove in Siena, the haze stretching through the olive branches like ghostly laundry. In one of the trees lining the driveway, an owl hooted. Its eyes reflected the muted light from a second-story window of the 18th century stone villa at 45 Via San Pietro.
Had the great bird flown to the ledge and perched there, it would have seen Isabel Cahill, a twenty-six-year-old American, standing naked before a cracked mirror in the candlelight, rubbing virgin olive oil into her skin. The electricity was out again in Siena. Isabel always thought this only made central Italy’s most medieval town feel all the more romantic.
Pouring a miniature pool of oil into one hand, Isabel watched it settle, then smeared it down her right cheek like war paint. She poured a trickle more, slathering it diagonally across her smooth belly. Using a sea sponge, she took a long, lazy swipe down the length of one arm. The dark eyes looking back at her from the ornately framed mirror were wide and slightly panicked. A long tendril of brown hair flecked with gold had escaped a barrette to tickle ( Read more... )
Chasing Alessandro Safina
Chasing Alessandro Safina
Prologue
A midnight mist crept into a grove in Siena, the haze stretching through the olive branches like ghostly laundry. In one of the trees lining the driveway, an owl hooted. Its eyes reflected the muted light from a second-story window of the 18th century stone villa at 45 Via San Pietro.
Had the great bird flown to the ledge and perched there, it would have seen Isabel Cahill, a twenty-six-year-old American, standing naked before a cracked mirror in the candlelight, rubbing virgin olive oil into her skin. The electricity was out again in Siena. Isabel always thought this only made central Italy’s most medieval town feel all the more romantic.
Pouring a miniature pool of oil into one hand, Isabel watched it settle, then smeared it down her right cheek like war paint. She poured a trickle more, slathering it diagonally across her smooth belly. Using a sea sponge, she took a long, lazy swipe down the length of one arm. The dark eyes looking back at her from the ornately framed mirror were wide and slightly panicked. A long tendril of brown hair flecked with gold had escaped a barrette to tickle ( Read more... )