My home in the south of France, where I’m residing for the summer, has panoramic views over the Mediterranean. On a calm day, I sit out and watch the sparkling sea melding into the hazy cobalt horizon, and I get lost in the majesty of sweeping sunsets and sunrises whose colours never fail to take my breath away. But as for any coastal location, the calm cannot be permanent, and before long a storm comes to clear the air and drench the vegetation and send us all scuttling into our homes to watch, wide-eyed, as the spectacle unfolds; Mother Nature’s way of reminding us of her might and her theatrical side.

In France, I’ve come to know the signs that a storm is brewing: there’s threat implicit in the air, a difference in the wind, and an accumulation of fast-moving clouds – such beautiful clouds. Here are photographs I took before a storm in Ste Maxime this week.

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Who could failed to be moved by such a sight! The colours, the shapes, the textures – it’s like the sky is God’s canvas and he’s turned to wonderfully expressive oil painting with bold, brash strokes calling on every colour combination in his palette.

As a romantic – and an author – I love a good storm. They contain so much emotion and drama: the perfect backdrop for an unfolding love story. Storms are thrilling, but that thrill contains fissions of fear. How may those duel reactions – excitement and terror – affect lovers?

When I was writing Burning Embers, I wanted to explore how the emotions aroused by a storm would feed into a developing relationship between two people. So I placed poor Coral, who’s terribly afraid of thunder, in a deserted and remote valley with Rafe, who’s far too strong and manly to tremble in the face of lightning flashes, and I brewed up a sudden and violent storm. Here’s the result:

A flash of long blue lightning split the sky, closely followed by a crash of thunder. Coral instinctively threw herself into Rafe’s arms, hiding her face against his broad chest. She had always had a strong phobia of thunderstorms. Now she knew why the place had seemed eerie, why there had been no bird song or insect tick-tocks, no scuffling and ruffling in the undergrowth. Even though the skies when they entered the valley had not foretold the electrical storm that was to come, just like with the animals, her instinct had told her that something was wrong. But she had been too distracted by the turbulence crackling between her and Rafe to pay attention to the changing sky.

Rafe, too, was shaken out of his daze and turned his head to see that the sun had dropped behind the mountain. Dense clouds had swept into the valley and were hanging overhead like a black mantle.

“Where did that come from? No storm was forecast for today?” he muttered, jumping up.

There was another tremendous peal of thunder, lightning lit up the whole glade, and again another crash. Then the heavy drops of rain came hammering down against the treetops, pouring down through the foliage.

A wind was starting up. Without hesitation, Rafe folded the blanket into a small bundle and tucked it under his arm. He slung the hamper over his shoulder, and lifting Coral into his arms, he climbed his way up to the next level of the escarpment where a ledge of rock was jutting out and found the entrance to a cave where they could shelter. Coral was shivering. She tucked her face into his shoulder, her fingers tightly gripping his shirt. She was completely inert, paralyzed by fear. They were both drenched.

There was no way they would be able to get back to Narok tonight. Coral knew from her childhood that storms were always long in this part of the country, and through her panic she prayed that he wouldn’t be piloting that little plane back in this howling gale. At least here they were protected from the storm. It was not yet completely dark. Rafe looked around, still holding her tightly against him. Coral couldn’t herself as she sobbed uncontrollably.

“Shush, it’s all right,” he whispered softly in her ear. “It’s only a storm. By tomorrow morning it’ll all be over.” He brushed her tears away as more fell. “I’m going to have to set you down for a moment, Coral. I need to light us a fire and get you out of those wet clothes.”

What do you think? Do you find storms simply terrifying, or do you enjoy the show? Do you sit through them calm and unaffected, or feel exhilarated and stirred? Can you imagine a storm inciting romance with a partner? Can a storm create a sort of bubble, where barriers crumble and people come together? If so, what happens after the storm – does the connection last, or does the intensity wash away? I would love to hear your thoughts.