The Risk

by Skye Jordan

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgement

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Check out More of Joan's Books

  A huge thank you to my writing buddies and writing retreat companions Marina Adair and Hannah Jayne for plotting The Risk out with me on the floor of our condo in South Lake Tahoe on retreat. It was one of the most enjoyable plotting sessions ever, fueled with junk food and alcohol.

  A very special and heartfelt appreciation goes out to o Elisabeth Naughton, my critique partner, for keeping me on the straight and narrow.

  And to Marina (again) and Joya Ryan, who saw me through to The End.

  Writing may be a (mostly) solitary profession, but without these other writers, I’d never get my words on the page.

  Thanks for being so freaking awesome, ladies!

  Copyright 2015 by Skye Jordan

  Cover art and design by Skye Jordan

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in encouraging piracy of copyrighted materials in violation with the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Julia Quinn had a lot of strengths, but multitasking was not one of them. Actually, it often made her think of that old phrase, “This is your brain on drugs.”

  She tried to focus on her current patient’s liver-spotted hand, settling it into the paraffin wax bath for the third dip, but across the convalescent home’s recreation room, a space Julia was using as her therapy center, the whir of treadmills slowed.

  “Less chatting, more walking,” she called to her other patients without looking up from Mabel’s hand. “Big, slow, consistent steps.”

  “Slave driver,” Kit, a spry ninety-two-year-old, chided over her shoulder.

  “I know it’s difficult to tell the difference between me and Kobe Bryant, little girl,” Harold added in his good-natured tone, “but I’m not an NBA star.”

  Julia grinned at the arthritic eighty-eight-year-old, his knees twice the size of his matchstick legs. “Which makes you far more pleasant to work with.”

  “That’s debatable,” Mabel teased, a small smile turning her thin lips as she studied her waxy hand.

  Julia glanced at Burt and Tony sitting on balance balls near the floor-to-ceiling windows, using their feet to push them in small circles. Beyond the windows, the foggy San Francisco day closed in around traffic along the city’s main thoroughfare, Nineteenth Avenue. “Switch directions, guys.”

  The two older men obeyed, and Julia scanned the room to make sure all her current patients were doing what they should be doing, the way they should be doing it, then dipped Mabel’s hand again, holding the tedious monotony at bay.

  As a premier physical therapist—correction, former premier physical therapist—to the world’s most elite athletes, Julia had spent the last four years of her career focusing on every movement of one supremely fit and driven competitor at a time. Now she found herself more than a little frazzled playing nursemaid to half a dozen eighty-and-ninety-something-year-olds far more interested in bowel movements than limb function.

  Clara, one of Sunrise Manor’s registered nurses, stopped beside the table, frowning down at the thrift-store crockpot Julia had fashioned into a paraffin bath. “What in the Sam Hill have you concocted there?”

  Julia forced a careless smile at her coworker, as if using substandard equipment didn’t make her perfectionist’s quills stand on end. “Ingenuity is the mother of invention, right?”

  “What’s next? Garage-sale bike tires as resistance bands?”

  Julia gasped in mock delight. “Oh, great idea.”

  Clara chuckled and shook her head. “Can I take Paul onto the patio for his haircut?”

  “Sure. Just bring him back to me.” She glanced toward a sofa nearby, where the ninety-year-old rhythmically squeezed and released a foam ball just as Julia had instructed. “He’s my next paraffin victim.”

  Clara lifted her chin to a small side room. “Dorothy’s changing.”

  “She doesn’t need to. I’m just working out her knee.”

  “Uh-oh…”

  Clara’s troubled murmur made Julia’s eyes roll because it meant she’d walk in on a naked ninety-two-year-old. Dorothy was harder to keep clothed than a toddler.

  Julia wrapped a piece of Saran Wrap over Mable’s five-layered paraffin-dipped hand, then a towel, and pressed it against her body. “Give that twenty minutes to warm you up, and I’ll be back to give you a nice stretch and massage. You’ll be playing the piano by dinner.”

  Mabel’s thin mouth tipped up in a barely there smile. “You’re such a sweetheart.”

  “Don’t tell the others.” Julia winked, then stood and turned toward the exam room while calling to the treadmill groupies. “Harold, Kit, switch over to the BOSU balls and work on your balance for ten minutes, then hit the bikes. By the time you’re done warming up, I’ll have Dorothy’s knee bouncing to Sinatra and Mable’s hands playing Mozart. Then I’ll be back for you two.”

  At the exam room door, Julia paused to flex and stretch her fingers, already sore from hours of manual manipulation. She was going to need her own paraffin treatment by the end of this day. The thought of smooth heat penetrating deep into her tired muscles, followed by a careful, targeted massage to create space in her aching joints, made her knees weak with pleasure.

  Yep, that was all it took nowadays.

  Sad, but so very true.

  With a quiet knock, Julia slipped into Dorothy’s room and closed the door. Sure enough, the feisty, senile grandmother of twelve, great-grandmother of six, stood beside the exam table completely naked, her body slender, her skin folded and discolored like an ancient road map.

  She held the gown up with both hands and stared at it with narrowed eyes. “Whoever invented these ought to be shot.” She balled up the gown and tossed it on the table. “What do I care at my age anyway?”

  “It’s a little chilly in here.” Julia spoke softly and moved slowly. Depending on Dorothy’s mood, the woman could go from crabby to combative in a blink. “Do you want to put your clothes back on?”

  “No,” she said, the snappish tone carrying a don’t-ask-me-again attitude. “This is a bad day to move my parts around anyway. I already told Clara.”

  “Why’s that?” Julia righted the flimsy gown. When she was able to ease one of the woman’s skeletal arms into the garment without protest, she tried for the next, all while half expecting to get whopped upside the head. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “I’ve got gas,” she said as if she were trying to start an argument. “I’m gonna fumigate this room as soon as you start moving me around. That can’t be healthy for a little thing like you.”

  “I’m tougher than I look.” She patted Dorothy’s shoulder and faced her with a smile. “We’ll take it really easy today and just see how it goes.”

 
; Dorothy’s partial scowl remained, and she harrumphed but worked her butt onto the table and lay back.

  “How’s your knee feeling after yesterday’s treatment?”

  “Hurts,” was all she said.

  Julia gently massaged her thigh, knee, and shin, warming the muscles while feeling bones, joints, and ligaments. Then started on the movements that would take up the majority of the session—gently pressing Dorothy’s leg into a bend, then drawing it straight again. Bend, straighten. Bend, straighten. Bend, straighten.

  Fundamental, simple…mind-numbing exercises. The complete opposite of what she’d come from, where every day her former clients strove for personal records, combining mind, body, and spirit to reach new heights of physical achievement.

  But that was over. And after three months of these rudimentary exercises, she felt her joy for life leaking from her soul.

  Julia lowered Dorothy’s leg to the table, and the older woman grunted and grimaced.

  “Doing okay?” she asked, massaging the area around Dorothy’s kneecap.

  “I think it’s time to stop.”

  “But you’re doing so well. Your knee is going to feel much better after these muscles loosen up.”

  Julia pushed Dorothy’s bent knee gently toward her chest again.

  “Doesn’t feel like you’re working on my knee,” she grumbled. “Feels like you’re trying to pop my hoo-ha out of joint.”

  Julia grinned. “Well, I can promise that won’t happen.”

  She eased the stretch, altered the position slightly, and pressed against Dorothy’s leg again.

  The woman’s face wrinkled, and her fragile hands roamed her belly. “You’re in the danger zone, missy. I’m—”

  A gas bubble ripped from Dorothy’s backside.

  “Oh dear,” Dorothy said. “They probably heard that all the way in Kansas.”

  Julia chuckled at Dorothy’s candid observation. Then the rank smell hit her, and she stifled a choke, holding her breath until she could safely settle Dorothy’s leg on the table and step out of the direct trajectory of yet another gurgling gas leak.

  “Dear, dear, dear,” Dorothy said. “This is terrible. I told Clara…”

  Julia’s throat tightened with both humor and insult. “Let me open the door.”

  “Don’t bother.” Dorothy sat up and slipped off the table. “I can’t stand to smell myself, and I’m not going to trap you in the room with me.”

  She flung the door open and hobbled into the rec room, her gown flapping open, exposing her bony back, butt, and legs. “Dorothy, wait. Let me tie—”

  “Ah, forget it.” She waved Julia off as she passed Clara, who looked like she’d been on her way to the exam room. “If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all.”

  Clara’s what-the-hell expression made absurd humor bubble up inside Julia again. There was one thing she could say about this job—patient personalities made up for at least some of the monotony.

  Dorothy entertained the room at large with a spectacular version of walking farts before Clara turned back to Julia with raised brows and wide eyes.

  “Oh…well…” Clara stammered in a low voice. “This might be awkward. I was just coming to get you. Seems you have a visitor.”

  Clara’s gaze turned pointedly toward a far corner of the room. Julia’s gaze followed and settled on a man standing in one empty corner alone. A man who absolutely did not belong. He was built strong and lean in a way that made his suit—probably Armani, if she knew him, and, unfortunately, she did—hang off every curve and plane perfectly. He was staring out a side window into a courtyard where two older women played a tame game of Ping-Pong, but he was grinning like a kid with a secret, which meant he’d just witnessed Dorothy’s vivid audiovisual presentation.

  Of course he had. Only him witnessing just how far she’d fallen would add insult to injury.

  “Ah, hell,” she muttered, caught between dread and fury. “What does he want?”

  “That was not the response I expected,” Clara said quietly beside her. “I’ll take care of Dorothy and move the other patients out, but only if you promise details.”

  The innuendo in Clara’s voice spoke of sexual details. Which, despite the man’s model looks, made Julia’s lip curl. “He’s a snake. That’s the only detail you need to know. And Mabel’s hand is still in paraffin—”

  “I can take care of paraffin.” Clara’s dark eyes roamed up and down Drake’s long frame. “You take care of the sexy snake.”

  The snake’s hands were tucked into the pockets of his jet-black suit pants, his blazer pushed off his hips, his gaze riveted to the docile game of Ping-Pong on the deck. His hair, as dark as his suit, was cut short and stylish, his face tan from rounds of golf or time on the slopes with clients.

  Julia approached Drake Mitchell, but his attention held on the Ping-Pong players. One hand slid from his pocket and absently gestured toward the elderly pair outside. “Does the one in the lavender have an agent? With a little work, I could get her into the Huntsman World Senior Games. Imagine the sponsorships—Kimberly-Clark for Depends, GlaxoSmithKline for Poligrip—”

  She huffed a sad laugh at his attempt to break the foot-thick slab of ice wedged between them. “You’d do anything for a buck, wouldn’t you?”

  He cast a sidelong glance at her with mock seriousness. “Table tennis is as big in some countries as the NFL is here.”

  She leaned into one hip and crossed her arms with a disgusted sigh. “What do you want?”

  He turned toward her, head tilted, his smile fading. “I could see how working in a place like this would kill your sense of humor.” He pulled his hands from his pockets and lifted them in a gesture of dismay. “I almost didn’t come. Was sure the information I had on your new employment was wrong. What in the hell are you doing working here, Jules?”

  She clenched her teeth to keep her temper from flaring. “Turns out the rich and famous don’t want people with scuff marks working on their team, regardless of the truth. At the moment, I don’t get to pick and choose my employment, and I still have rent and student loans to pay. Food to eat. You know, petty stuff no one thinks about unless it’s happening to them.”

  “But here? Surely you could find—”

  “Stop trying to talk about something you don’t understand.” She’d done her best to make peace with her situation and didn’t need him whipping up the anger she’d fought to let go. “I already told you I’m not going to sue you or Phillips. Why are you here?”

  He rocked back on his heels and glanced down at his perfectly polished black shoes. “There are always a few bad apples in the bunch.”

  “Your bunch always seems a little more rotten than others.”

  “That’s because I always have the ripest fruit. Sometimes they turn bad faster.”

  “God, you can spin anything. I have to get back to work. Just tell me what you want.”

  His gaze sharpened the way it did when his brain was clicking on all twelve cylinders. “So, I have this client—”

  “Stop.” She put up a hand. “Jesus, I can’t believe you’ve got the balls to bring this to me.” Disgusted, she turned away. “The answer is no.”

  “Whoa, whoa…” He grabbed her bicep and gently pulled her to a stop. “Honey, I know I’m the last person you want to listen to right now—”

  “You’re right,” she said, pulling from his touch. “So leave.”

  “This guy is special.” He pressed his hands together, almost as if in prayer.

  “How many times have I heard this?” She crossed her arms, fighting to keep all those bad feelings that had developed over the previous six months from seeping in. “They’re all special to you.”

  “But this guy…” Drake’s gaze went distant and his hands floated out to his sides in a helpless gesture. “He’s just different. He’s one of the good ones. Like you and me.”

  “For God’s sake.” She put both hands up in a stop gesture. “I’m not even touching that.
”

  “He’s got so much talent, so much charisma, even has business sense. This guy is going places.”

  “I was going places too, until I crossed paths with one of your bad apples.”

  “I know.” He took a step forward, leaning into the conversation. Julia knew him well enough to feel the sales pitch coming. “And I think I’ve finally found a way to make it up to you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “That was high and ridiculously outside. How’d you ever pitch three world series?”

  “Just hear me out—”

  “The last time I heard you out, I…got…fired.”

  “I’m telling you, this guy is amazing. Top shelf—”

  “Great, then you don’t need me.”

  “He took a bad fall in the very first event of the season in France in September—”

  “Poor baby.” She crossed her arms, tiring quickly of a man she used to be able to chat with for hours.

  “And missed out on everything this season since then,” Drake continued. “He’s had to bail on all the big tours: Tailgate, the USASA Nationals, the Freeride World Tour, the—”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” Disbelief tightened her forehead. “A snowboarder? You’re coming to me for a favor involving a snowboarder at my new job?” She threw her hands up again. “Dude,” she said, in an imitation of every snowboarder’s favorite word, “Strike three. Get out.”

  “Julia, please, just listen—”

  “I don’t do snowboarders. I don’t speak their language. I can’t even freaking understand what they’re saying most of the time. They’re too young, too stupid, too—”

  “He’s not that young, and he’s definitely not stupid. He’s seasoned. He’s professional.”

  “Professional and snowboarder do not belong in the same sentence.” She opened her hand and started ticking off the annoying habits of every snowboarder, skateboarder, and surfer she’d ever known. “Cocky, reckless, lazy—”

  “Okay, yeah, he’s cocky. And, maybe a little reckless. But he’s not lazy. And he’s savvy and real and funny and generous—”