“The eyes are the windows to the soul”. As the newest rising star in the art world, Lyssa Ryan’s dreams and her budding career are shattered when she is blinded by a freak accident. Her vision restored by a cornea transplant and the amazing generosity of an anonymous donor, Lyssa is unable to explain her compulsion to paint people she’s never met and places she’s never been. A portrait of an unknown man with tortured eyes becomes her obsession; a man who haunts her dreams and imbeds himself firmly into her heart, sending her on a quest for answers and a man whose heart belongs to another.
“Laced with wonderful writing, I’ll Be Seeing You is a story of second chances in ways that most people can never imagine.” Just Erotic Romance Reviews
”This is a fantastic paranormal romance. Well written with real life problems and exceptionally defined characters,this romance will take you on a romantic adventure that has some very surprising parts. Extremely erotic sex scenes that leave the paper blushing. I’ll Be Seeing You has a more refreshing tone than your average romance with loads of emotions. This is a very special romance you will not want to miss.” Coffee Time Romance
“Kay Wilde is an extraordinary writer whose stories never fail to enchant readers everywhere. In I'll Be Seeing You, Kay Wilde has written a page-turning paranormal romance featuring a heroine you can't fail but sympathize with, a sexy and tortured hero and plenty of hot passion and dramatic emotion to keep you turning the pages late into the night. I'll Be Seeing You is a story that manages to be sexy, romantic and poignant. It is truly a story which you will never manage to forget.” ECataRomance Reviews
“One thing is for certain, not everything is, as it seems. I’ll Be Seeing You is a blend of intense emotions combined with a really incredible story, classic Kay Wilde.” Fallen Angels Reviews Recommended Read
This novella has been previously published.
WARNING: This book contains hot, explicit love scenes.
Excerpt
Lyssa shook her head, allowing her freshly washed hair fall naturally to frame her features. “There is a lot to be said for an expert cut,” she informed the reflection looking back at her. It had been six months since a cornea transplant restored her vision, and the novelty of being able to stand in front of a mirror, style her hair and apply makeup still hadn’t worn off.
“What the hell is going on, Lyssa?”
Standing at the bathroom sink wearing nothing but a towel, Lyssa was so startled by the angry voice that she dropped her hairbrush. It hit the porcelain tank cover then fell on to the plush covered lid which she was thankful she had remembered to close. “Jeez, Marti, don’t you ever knock? You scared the hell out of me.” “Didn’t have to.” Martina Sheffield held up the key Lyssa had given her shortly after the accident. “You close yourself off from everyone for months, claiming that you needed to be alone to work and to sort some things out. I respected your wishes because you went through hell and needed time to readjust. Then I receive a note informing me that you’re leaving the city, with no explanations. Damn it, Lyssa, I thought we were friends.”
The anger in Martina’s eyes was as unmistakable as was the hurt in her voice. She was her most trusted friend and the last person Lyssa wanted to hurt or upset.
Her feeling of regret only added to Lyssa’s sense of helpless frustration. “We are friends, Marti. I couldn’t have made it through those six months after the accident without you,” Lyssa said. “I know the note was inadequate, but I didn’t know what else to say.”
“How about the truth?” Marti’s tone was heavy with reproach. “Even if you feel that as a friend I don’t deserve an explanation, as the person who has busted her ass to make Lyssa Ryan a name to be reckoned with in the art community, I do.”
Marti was right. She deserved answers. Which brought Lyssa back to square one . . . she didn’t have the answers to give.
“Why do you feel you have to leave the city, Lyssa?”
“I don’t know,” was all Lyssa could say.
“Okay, then where are you going?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know where you’re going or why you have to go there. Do you honestly expect me to buy that crap?” Marti sounded thoroughly ticked off by Lyssa’s lack of cooperation. “I’m sorry, Marti. I swear to you, if I had . . .” Lyssa began, then clutched at the towel as it began to slip.
“Get dressed. Like it or not, I’m not leaving this apartment without some answers. I’ll be in the studio.” Marti turned and walked away. “Oh, by the way,” she tossed over her shoulder. “I like the hair. It suits you.”
Lyssa turned back to the mirror, taking in her new, short hair style which had been layered to frame her features and required little more than a few minutes with a blow dryer to give it texture, sheen, and as her stylist called it, a saucy bounce.
If Dr. Bartlett’s office hadn’t rescheduled her appointment until this afternoon, Lyssa would have left the city yesterday. She’d have avoided the confrontation with her friend, who was now in her studio waiting for answers.
“The studio. Oh shit,” Lyssa groaned, as she ran from the bathroom into her bedroom. She tossed the towel aside and grabbed her jeans, only zipping them halfway. She pushed her arms into the sleeves of her blouse, buttoning it en-route as she hurried toward her studio.
Lyssa didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until she stepped into the room, then exhaled when she saw that the painting she’d left on the easel was still covered. Marti knew Lyssa kept her works in progress covered while she wasn’t working because she didn’t want anyone viewing her paintings until they were finished. Even in her anger, Marti continued to respect Lyssa’s wishes. She had instead, crossed the room to the CD player and was in the process of sorting through a stack of recently purchased CDs.
“What’s this?” Martina inclined her head toward the CD player.
“Billie Holiday.”
“I know who it is. What it is, is jazz, Lyssa. You hate jazz,” Martina pointed out. “I’ve never been here when you didn’t have some funky rock group like Black Eyed Peas or Puddle Of Mud playing at full volume.”
There was no denying the truth in her friend’s observation. “After six months of blindness, my hearing is more acute. I now find rock too . . . I don’t know . . . grating,” Lyssa said. “My taste in music has just changed. No big deal.”
“Probably not, if that was all that has changed. You have changed, Lyssa. Your taste in music, your hair, and your reclusive behavior. There’s even a difference in your paintings.”
“You don’t like the paintings I sent to the gallery?”
Martina rolled her eyes heavenward and gave a weary sigh as if she were attempting to deal with an uncooperative child and failing. “You know better than that. They’re breathtaking, as always, but different somehow.” She replaced the CDs on the shelf, her brow furrowing as if she was trying to find the words to describe the subtle yet unmistakable variation from Lyssa’s usual style. “There’s more emotion. More passion,” Marti explained. “It’s like, three pianists playing the same concerto; two of them are excellent, but one brings a unique passion to those same notes and creates a musical masterpiece. That’s the difference I see and feel in your latest paintings.”
What an incredible compliment. Lyssa couldn’t be more pleased. “And you’re upset because?”
“The reason I’m upset has nothing to do with your paintings, Lyssa. I’m upset because while I represent an artist who has added a magical something to her work, I also feel as if I’ve lost a friend. So, who are you, and what have you done with my friend?” Martina was being sarcastic, but her words hit a little too close to the mark.
Lyssa’s face drained of color, her legs went weak, and she sank onto the love seat behind her.
Shocked by Lyssa’s reaction, Martina rushed over to her, went to her knees and took Lyssa’s hands. “Good Lord. Your hands are like ice. You know me well enough to know that I’m not really angry. You’ve just changed so much and grown so distant that I’m worried about you.”
Lyssa had been on her own for so long that she found it difficult to confide in anyone, even her closest friends. The six months after the accident, when she’d been forced to rely on her friends for almost everything, had been almost as hard for her to accept as the blindness itself.
Billie Holiday began singing, I’ll Be Seeing You. Lyssa’s heart skipped several beats. Her eyes filled with tears and she was filled with the same overwhelming sense of loss she always felt when she heard that particular song. Even knowing in advance how she reacted to the song, why did she feel compelled to listen to it over and over again?
“Talk to me, Lyssa. What’s going on?”
With a sigh, Lyssa met Martina’s concerned gaze. “How much influence does your father have at The Eye Center?” she asked.
“He has several friends on the board of directors. Why?”
She’d have preferred to do this on her own, without bringing anyone into it, but she hadn’t been able to find a way around the brick wall she kept coming up against in her own attempts to obtain the information she needed. “I have to find out who my cornea donor was, Marti. I’ve tried to get the information, but no one will tell me anything, except that the information is confidential.”
“It’s confidential, if the family requests it,” Martina said. “You can see, Lyssa. Does it matter who the donor was?”
“It matters. More than you can possibly imagine.” Lyssa rose to her feet and walked to the easel. She hesitated for a moment. This was the only painting she’d ever done that was hers alone, one she didn’t want to share with anyone. But, if she wanted Martina’s help, Lyssa saw no other alternative. Lifting the concealing tarp, she stood back, allowing her friend to see the painting which had become her obsession.
“Whoa.” Martina’s one word response was little more than a whisper. She rose to her feet and joined Lyssa in front of the painting. It was a portrait of a man who was surrounded by a thick swirling mist; only his face was clear. “He’s gorgeous, but he looks so . . .”
“Tortured,” Lyssa supplied. His dark brown, nearly black hair was way past due for a cut, and he looked as if he hadn’t shaved in days. But it was the eyes that told the story. The only color in the sepia-toned painting was the intense cobalt blue of the eyes. Those eyes haunted Lyssa’s dreams and filled her with a longing she couldn’t begin to express or explain. Eyes that were filled with such bleak anguish that Lyssa’s heart hurt every time she looked into them.
“Who is he?” Martina asked.
“I don’t know. I just know that I have to find him. I have to tell him . . .”
“You have to tell him what?”
“I don’t know.”
