by Mia Moore
RISK
Everything to gain. Everything to lose.
By
Mia Moore
RISK
Published by Mia Moore
Copyright 2012, Mia Moore
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book was formerly published, titled The Story of Rachel
Published by Monarch Moments Publishers
Visit the author blog:
Miamooreauthor.blogspot.ca
Acknowledgments
To Spike, my partner and soul mate whose encouragement and superior editing skills have enabled me to write RISK, Book One of the Tales of Paradox series.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
About the Author
Chapter 1
What the hell am I doing here? Jessica Rogers looked across the table at her date.
From the moment they’d shook hands at the bar, this was destined to go nowhere. The time over dinner confirmed it. Gordon wasn’t bad looking. Nice smile-no bad or missing teeth. He was well dressed and friendly, but there was no chemistry. No sparks.
What is wrong with her? He's a nice guy… okay, not as tall as I'd like. Chin's a little weak- maybe he should grow a beard? The meal was great! This is one of the best restaurants in the city. What do I expect in a guy?
Twenty-six years old and doing the on-line dating shit. In the last six months, this was her twelfth date. And not a single spark.
She didn’t expect fireworks and wasn’t asking to be swept off her feet. But please, a spark at least- was that too much to ask? Her tinderbox was ready for a damn spark!
But there was no spark to be had with this guy. The drip across the table was all wet, but not her.
Dammit.
Yeah, she was good looking and had written a great profile (it helps being a journalist). She could have been on a date seven nights a week. But she’d learned the hard way that being nice and kind wasn’t always the best route to follow on the Fish site.
The first guy who’d hooked her was from Markham. He’d showed up at formal event at The Royal Alexandria wearing a ski jacket. And blue jeans. She’d met him at the box office in an evening gown. She had told him it was a black tie affair, and he did have a black tie on. A clip on. He considered himself funny and ironic. She considered killing him on the spot.
The one guy who had a potential spark turned out to be married.
And how about the guy with personal hygiene issues? Thank God for the iphone app that gave her a phone call twenty minutes into the date. Mr. B.O. (what the hell was his name?) was informed that her (non-existent) eleven year old daughter was sick and she had to go. The sad thing was, Mr. B.O. didn't really have a problem with a twenty-six year old woman who had an eleven year old daughter. He’d understood and called her six more times. The closest that jerk had been to the profession of investment banking, as he’d professed, was probably using an ATM machine.
Okay, compared to those losers, Gordon Moreau looked like quite the catch. As long as you didn't focus on the comb over (his picture on the site was at least five-probably ten years old), the stomach covering his belt buckle (how could that happen when he wrote that he exercised religiously) and his non-stop autobiographical monologue.
Her eyes were about to cross, fake nodding every so often during Gord-O's (he actually asked her to call him 'Gord-Oh, hint, hint) endless chatter. Kill me now Lord.
Gordon watched her watching him. He motioned to the waiter for the check.
Her eyes flew open and she grabbed her purse.
"No, no baby. I asked YOU on a date, I got this." Gord-O slid his hand inside his jacket pocket.
Baby...BABY? Instead of reaching for her wallet, she grabbed her purse and explained "Excuse me. I need to go to the ladies room."
"Mention my name and you'll get a good seat and be sure to wash your hands." Gord-O laughed at his rapier wit.
What a tool. Crude as well as balding. Two can play at this game buster. I noticed your eyes on my chest all night.
She leaned into Gord-O, holding her purse up high, she whispered, "Don't worry Gord. I always wash my hands. Twice, at this time of the month."
And just like the Master card commercial,
The five year old picture on the web – you jerk.
Crude humor – yes, dinner IS on you, Mister.
The expression on his face
a combo of disappointment and "eeeewe"
priceless.
Covering her smirk, she retreated to the washroom.
Ninety seconds later, she appeared back at the table as Gord-O was signing the credit card.
"Would you like me to get the tip?" She smiled sweetly.
"No, I got it" He wasn’t so glib now. She glanced down at the charge slip- 8% tip; last of the big time spenders taking his frustration out on the server. She palmed a ten and hid it under her plate.
"I'm not feeling that well. I hope you understand. I'd like to go home. I'll just get a cab and thanks for dinner." She turned and started walking through the restaurant to the entrance.
"Can I see you again?" He helped her into her coat in the foyer.
In your dreams BABY. See you again? Did hell just freeze over? "Sure. But better wait a week or so…you know…."
"Yeah, I took biology in college. Gotcha…" His tone was condescending.
Fifteen minutes later at her apartment, she closed her door and her eyes, letting her head fall gently again and again on its hard surface. Thank God it was a solo cab ride. Four million people in the naked city- stop thinking about naked- all I want is just one. Is that too greedy?
She looked into the mirror beside the door Hmmm… bangs are getting a bit long, covering half my eyebrows now; they’re going to need a trim soon.
She sighed watching her reflection sigh back.
“Am I expecting too much?” She inched forward to the mirror.
Her reflection shrugged. Maybe?
“It’s such a pain in the ass. Why do I bother, and on a work night? It's…" she sighed.
Her reflection nodded in agreement, eyes wide, lips pulled to the side.
“What do I want? Let me tell you what I want. I want a guy who’s self confident. Not arrogant or conceited, or crude, but self assured. Not a guy who's condescending just because HIS condo's paid off!”
Her reflection nodded in agreement. Damn right, hon.
"As long as we're being honest, here- and we are, aren't we?"
Reflection nodded.
"He's got to be interesting. He needs to talk about things and have me hang on every
word- how about that? AND interested! In me. In what I have to say. "
A few quick nods in the mirror. Sure! That makes all the sense in the world, dear.
"Aaaannd…" Her eyes narrowed. "I want… she paused, I want to be desired. No! I want to be craved." That was a good word-craved-it almost sounded dirty. "Yes, I want to be craved. I want a guy to crave me. To want me MORE than I want him. Yeah! More! To want me with passion. With yearning. With lust!"
Lust…. That sounds 'dirty' too, doesn't it? Oh yeah….
The reflection nodded its head several times quickly, eyes bright. Keep going girl!
“I want a guy with self control, too. And who takes control. That’s right, TAKE control. I want to be kissed hotly, to be possessed. To be ravished…”
Oh God- ravished… yeah… that's dirty too. Ohhh yeahhh…
She stared at her reflection, wide eyed again.
“I want… I want to be claimed!”
She stared in the mirror. Wow!
She turned and shook her head. Great. Now I’m talking to myself. Next thing you know, I’ll be buying a cat. Probably lots of cats. And talk to them too. Mid twenties and already dementia’s setting in. Oh boy.
She chuckled. She’d tried a cat when her relationship with Peter broke up. Didn’t work out too good- she kept forgetting to feed the poor thing. Thank God, Angie at the office took it off her hands before the humane society showed up.
She hung up her coat and put her purse away.
Am I looking for someone who doesn't exist? Some kind of Prince Charming? Like in Snow White or some other fairytale? Those guys just went out and claimed their princess and took her to their castle. Yeah, I want that. Claiming. And I want passion. And … Ahh... Who am I kidding? Nice fantasy, but….
She prepared her coffee for the morning. Living with Peter for three years; it ended before any children-thank God! Yeah, we drifted apart, but did he really have to drift to someone at the office? So cliché.
And those years of being set up by friends, meeting nice guys, but no sparks. Then the dating sites – she could write a book. Lots of funny stories, met some guys who were maybe friend category, but no Prince Charming.
Aside from the 'Guy' part, she’d done pretty well career-wise. She’d advanced at Weekly News over the years. When she’d started, she was everyone’s Girl Friday. With an English degree, and not a Journalism one, she was grateful to get her foot in the door. It was after all the most popular news weekly in the country. She scheduled interviews, booked travel and researched background information, needed for articles. When the insightfulness and thoroughness of her research was recognized, she was promoted to full time researcher with a nice pay increase.
She’d taken it upon herself to write a few articles, and submitted them to her editor. He was impressed by her initiative, enough to look at them. When he read her articles on art, entertainment, and culture, he’d enjoyed her informed, yet wry writing style. She looked at the cultural scene with respect, yes, but always injected her pieces with humor. If she wasn't poking fun at pretentiousness, she was mocking her own 'bourgeois' tastes. She’d been promoted once more, this time to staff writer in the entertainment section.
Now she had her own 'Girl Friday', and Brenda was a gem.
She turned off the kitchen light and went into her bedroom. She slipped off her clothes and was about to hang them up when she caught a glance at herself in the mirror. Her 5’ 4” body was trim, legs were shapely and slender but just a hint of cellulite had begun to appear high on her outer thighs. And her stomach wasn’t washboard flat but a slight roundness had begun just below her navel. Breasts were firm and a D cup. How much longer till that D began to migrate South. She noticed some muscle definition in her arms and raising them, she flicked her fingers across the flesh on the underarm – no flying squirrel yet.
Her gaze rose to her face. Yes, there were a few laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, a little furrow between her brows but her skin was smooth over high cheekbones. With dark red, russet colored hair, she was fair skinned. Because she burned easily she’d always worn lots of sunscreen and was careful. So her face had been spared the lined ravages of the sun that many of her sun worshipping friends now contended with.
She climbed into her queen bed and turned on her stained glass reading lamp. After reading for an hour she turned out her light.
Again, she pictured the date tonight, which was just one more date of the same bland dates. Where was passion? The tall, strong man to sweep her off her feet? She drifted off to sleep, tossing and turning throughout the night.
Her fantasy man was paying a nocturnal visit! He sat across from her in the elegant restaurant charming her, stroking her hand sensuously as they enjoyed dessert. In the next subliminal, yet vivid moment, they kissed while standing in the bedroom in his home. (Castle?) He stroked her back as he kissed her deeply, and led her to his bed. In the magic of dreamscape’s quickly changing moments, they were now naked, intertwined in his bed, their lovemaking urgent, passionate, yet tender. She writhed on her bed to the perfection of her dream lover’s touch. The spark that had been missing when she’d met men over the last while, ignited into an inferno of lust, consuming and conquering her.
She startled awake. “Do it to me one more time, once is never enough” Tenille sang as her Captain tickled the ivories. An oldie but goodie. With a swat, she hit snooze on her alarm clock.
Yeah, one more time. She closed her eyes, willing the return of her erotic dream lover. But with the dawn of a new day, he’d left the building.
Damn.
Chapter 2
She eased out of the warm cocoon of her bed, stretching her arms out, feeling the muscles and tendons pull. What a great night's sleep. She smiled and headed to the bathroom.
As she showered, she reviewed the day’s schedule. A two hour meeting at nine with the Editor and other writers, planning upcoming issues.
And then, work on the article due next week. A western artist-Bruno Pasquale- was being shown at the Cutter gallery tonight. It was the first time he was being exhibited in the east. The major theme of his art was human pain and suffering portrayed in a dark, sexual style. There were favorable reviews from art critics on the coast, describing Pasquale’s work as ‘disturbingly erotic’. But she’d form her own impressions of his work when she attended the gallery that night.
***
The day at the office passed quickly. After the morning meeting and subsequent lunch, she worked on her article for a bit. It wasn't going to be a very long piece in terms of writing. Most of the two pages would be taken up by photos of Pasquale. She put that project aside and started on another piece, due for the same issue.
Just as the day was drawing to a close, a rap on her office door interrupted her. Brenda, her research assistant strode in, parking her pixie-like body in front of her cluttered desk.
"Hey, Jessica, I got some glossies printed up on the Pasquale guy's work. You're going to his opening tonight, right?" Brenda laid a series of four photos on the desk facedown. "They're really 'Not Safe For Work, y'know. I'm thinking of filing a sex harassment lawsuit just for printing them off." She ended with a smirk.
"Oh? They're that good, huh?" Jessica leaned over and picked up the photos.
"Oh yeah- if that's your bag."
She leafed through the four photos, a deep blush warming her face. She glanced up. Brenda was grinning. "Where did you get these?"
"From his website. He's got photos of his work there. Pretty racy, eh?"
"I don’t get this stuff," She tossed the photos aside. "I think they picked the wrong writer for this piece."
"Wrong writer? Are you kidding? You're perfect! You're kinda’ vanilla, it's gonna come through in the writing. I'll bet you were picked because your reaction will be like most of our readers.”
"What do you mean vanilla? He’s a painter, not a chef for God’s sake."
Brenda laughed. "That's my point! You really don't know!” She stepped to th
e door of the office. "You need anything else? If not, let's get outta here."
She glanced at her watch- five o'clock already! She'd have to hustle now to get to this exhibition by eight. "You take off, I'm just going to finish up here." She didn't need any more ribbing from Brenda right now. Big deal, I don't know what 'vanilla' means. I’ll look it up when I get around to it.
Brenda said goodnight, and like Houdini, disappeared.
Jessica stuffed her laptop into its case and left her office. On her way home she picked up some groceries and wine. With a couple hours ahead of her until the art gallery, she’d go to the gym. She didn't go to the gym as often as she should; but she DID manage to get at least two workouts in a week.
On the Lifecycle, her mind began to drift as a sultry jazz number by Brubeck played in her earphones. Images of Pasquale’s work combined with her erotic dream the night before, caused her to squirm in her seat as she pedaled. This is going to be an interesting assignment tonight, to say the least.
Later, at home she showered and selected a dark green dress to wear to the gallery. The color highlighted her green eyes and auburn hair. It was cut low at the back with a skirt that draped softly over her hips. The neckline scooped slightly showing just a hint of cleavage. She surveyed herself in the mirror and smiled. Yeah, looks professional. After all I AM working. But there’s nothing wrong with looking attractive and a bit…alluring? From the photos of Pasquale’s work, the sexuality, I think it’s appropriate.
A frown replaced her smile. But why bother? Really. It’s not like there’ll be anyone remotely interesting there.
Her eyes became wide. But what if I’ve been fishing in the wrong pond? A sterile, predictable FISH FARM!. An ‘O’ species of fish. Gord-O, Mr. Body O and Mr. Ski jacket-O. Maybe tonight, I’ll be on the shore of a tumultuous river, rushing fast to the sea. Majestic wild Pacific salmon. The sun glinting off their silvery skin as they leap into the air, clamoring upstream to their birthplace, to mate and spawn. The call of the wild! Yeah. Sure. Nice analogy Ms. Journalist, but this isn’t British Columbia.