Risk Takers

By Eleanor Cocreham

The restoration of an abandoned house forces two unlikely people to work together—an uninhibited supermodel who flaunts her sexuality and a divorced-scarred architect desperate to ignore the woman representing the antithesis of everything he wants in a mate.

Will love prove to be the risk worth taking?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781597052993

Book preview

Risk Takers

Mike entered the sunroom with the faxes he’d received, his rubber soled shoes soundless on the white tile floor. He paused seeing Emily sprawled sideways on a wicker chair. Her bare legs hung over the chair arm and swung to the blaring music of Brooks and Dunn.

Unruly strands of damp red hair stirred under the whir of the overhead fan. Sunshine streamed through the southwest windows bathing her tawny skin in golden light. Heat surged through Mike. She was beyond glorious. Unable to drag his gaze from her tight shorts and the knit shirt she’d tied beneath her breasts, his body reacted predictably.

He tried to concentrate on the surround sound music filling the room, the lush ferns cascading from ceiling hooks, the shocking fact Emily was to be married—anything other than the swelling inside his faded jeans. But all he could do was picture himself sliding up those beautiful legs to the junction of gleaming thighs.

The erotic image jarred Mike back to the reason for his visit. Yet, with his heart beating erratically, he was reluctant to speak. Three times that day he’d succeeded in avoiding her. First while she worked in the flowerbeds in those skimpy shorts, and again during his noonday swim when she appeared in an indecent suit dragging a reluctant Gulliver into the rough surf. The sight of her wet and slick had him breaking a sweat despite the cold water. And if that display of skin wasn’t enough, she’d appeared later in a brief tee-top and proceeded to bathe Gulliver before him and every other workman within fifty feet. Her total unconcern about modesty in a wet shirt left all of them helpless to concentrate. And he wondered why he was delusional? He knew he shouldn’t have come to the sunroom, and he damn well shouldn’t have promised Jonathan he’d stay around for another couple of weeks.

Mike looked down in dismay at the papers he’d crumpled in a clenched fist and made an attempt to smooth the creases. Emily glanced up from her Reader’s Digest Guide to Gardening and scowled. He gritted his teeth and pitched the pictures into her lap, bracing for the blast of sarcasm that was sure to follow.

The papers slid off the book and drifted downward. Mike lunged at the same time Emily swung around and scrambled to catch the flyaway sheets. Their hands and legs collided. Emily’s mouth rounded into an O and his breath ceased at the unexpected surge of awareness that flashed between them.

Neither spoke.

In that brief moment, surrounded in her sweet scent, the heady mix of jasmine and gardenia as intoxicating as fine wine, Mike dropped to his knees in the most irrational act of his life. Without taking his eyes from hers, he slid his hands inside her knees and spread them. Then he moved in as close to her as he could get. Ignoring her sudden gasp, he stroked her face with the back of his fingers, and with unexpected gentleness, traced the outline of her jaw with his thumbs.

His gaze slid from her face downward to the swell of her breasts showing through the thin shirt. Her nipples firmed against the cloth, and he laid his arms across her shoulders and buried his face in her heaven-scented hair.

Her eyes widened, and she might have protested if his calloused fingertips hadn’t pressed against her lips and kept her silent. Emily exhaled sharply and her warm breath fanned Mike’s forehead as a wandering hand deftly untied her shirt and slipped inside. Soft skin rippled as his palm skimmed her ribs. Looking at her mouth, he knew if he didn’t taste those parted lips, he might die from wanting.

He lowered his head slowly, purposefully. She saw his intent and tried to resist but his fingers worked their way through her hair and held her head still while his mouth savored the first contact. His kiss became demanding, his tongue slick and insistent. Her eyelids fluttered closed and her arms slid around his neck, her cool skin growing warm as their tongues met and entwined.

Soon her mouth was as demanding as his and if Mike hadn’t known better, he’d have thought Emily starved for foreplay. Even knowing her history didn’t stop him from greedily taking what she freely offered. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her taste, the feel of her skin or the way she melted against him, all soft woman.

The sheer cloth of her shirt fell away under his fingers. Her breasts arched into his hands as though they belonged there, and her breath quickened as his work-hardened hands cupped, stroked, caressed.

All sense of time and place vanished for Mike. Blinded by a need he’d tried to deny, he ripped open the waistband of her shorts and worked the zipper down with clumsy impatience.

Her low whimper and sharp nails digging into Mike’s arms shattered the moment, rudely awakening him. He rocked backwards on his heels, staring in shock at her glazed eyes fastened on his face, her swollen lips glistening from his marauding mouth. He groaned. Dear God, what am I doing only moments after entering the room?

Table of Contents

What They Are Saying About Risk Takers

Risk Takers Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapters

Meet Eleanor Cocreham

Other Works by Eleanor Cocreham

What They Are Saying About Risk Takers

Eleanor Cocreham has done it again—another epic tale of romance. In Risk Takers, the sequel to Choice Makers, Eleanor takes the reader on a whirlwind adventure from the fashion runways of Paris to the highest echelons of American society. Fascinating characters and convoluted sub-plots offer an escape from the ordinary.

Sparks fly when super model Emily Wannamaker and architect Mike Randolph meet, but one calamitous event after the other turns a possible relationship into a war of obstinacy. Despite past demons and the fear of uncertainty, their hunger for one another intensifies. Can they shed the shackles of the past? Are they willing to risk everything for love?

—Sylvia Rochester,

Shadow of the Soul

Risk Takers, the second book in the Wanamaker series is as exciting and sensual as Choice Makers. Pair an irresistible woman searching for herself and a man trying to avoid women, and sooner or later things have to heat up. Yet even as their passion grows, Emily and Mike fear commitment, and try everything they can to avoid the truth of their feelings for one another—until a horrific accident brings them together again and they realize that their love and need for one another is far stronger than their differences. You won’t want to put this one down, either.

—Elaine Gran

http://www.elainegrant.com/

www.myspace.com/eygrant

Rita Finalist Make-Believe Mom

An Ideal Father

Harlequin Superromance

A true family saga the like of which was never seen by the Waltons. Everything is challenged, morality, fidelity, even legality. Risk Takers exposes the not so pretty underbelly of the glamorous world of models. Each chapter reveals another aspect of this tightly crafted tale. Ms. Cocreham has once again woven a story that both entertains and enlightens. The author unfolds not only the story but the multi-layers of her characters. You see their flaws and how they grow in spite of them. The reader has a stake in the outcome and finds themselves compelled to turn each page until the final page. This reviewer is continually amazed at this author’s ability to create multi-leveled and cleverly interwoven tales that so engage the reader. Rather than reveal any of her tale I will simply say this book rates a five out of five. You really must read this book.

—A. Dee Carey

www.foxladycarey.com

Foxpaw Reviews www.careyfoxlady.googlepages.com

The Fox Lady www.foxladycarey.com

Foxpaw Reviews http: http.www//careyfoxlady.googlepages.com

Risk Takers

Eleanor Cocreham

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Contemporary Romance Novel

Edited by:Gina Cadorette

Copy Edited by:Karen Babcock

Senior Editor: Anita York

Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Cover Artist: Trisha FitzGerald

All rights reserved

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

Copyright © 2008 by Eleanor Cocreham

ISBN 978-1-59705-299-3

Published by Wings ePress, Inc. at Smashwords

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS 67114

Dedication

To my old and new best friends.

I love you all.

Prologue

New York, 1999

Paul Mitchell hesitated before the imposing mahogany door and ran his fingertips over the brass nameplate shining in the afternoon sun. Guilt and sympathy for the family warred inside him as he pressed the buzzer. He had to get this behind him.

Mike Randolph threw open the door. My savior. I’m out of here.

Behind the smiling architect, a disheveled fifteen-year-old girl shoved wet tendrils of auburn curls off her face. You can’t leave, Mike. We haven’t finished your dance lesson.

Oh yes, we have, Mike said, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. See ya.

Lucky laughed as Mike sped to the curb and jumped into Paul’s taxi. She turned to her godfather. What kind of friend is that? He claimed he wanted me to teach him the latest dance craze, but he lied.

Paul’s smile did not quite reach his eyes. I need to see your mother. Is she here?

Lucky’s smile vanished. Yes, sir. She’s upstairs working, but you know she’s always glad to see you.

Tell her I’m here, please.

Lucky nodded, looking confused by his harsh voice. He’d not been able to control his emotions since he received news of Marc Holloman’s death. He slipped off his topcoat, laid it at the foot of the massive pier mirror occupying one wall of the foyer, then went into the salon facing Central Park South.

Stuffed animals of various sizes dominated a child’s miniature table and chairs placed before an eighteenth-century fire screen. How like Charlotte to allow small children full use of rooms filled with priceless antiques. Only someone with her capacity for love would. He prayed vehemently that capacity would still exist and include him when she discovered the part he’d played in her husband’s tragic death. He braced, trying to calm his thundering heartbeat while he listened to muffled laughter and footsteps on the upper floors.

With a clatter of heels, Charlotte entered the room, a broad smile on her face. What a nice surprise, Paul. I never get to see you in the middle of the afternoon. She paused and looked at him intently. You look terrible. What’s wrong?

Overwhelmed by the event he’d come to relay, Paul remained silent. He seized her hands and drew her close, and in a few moments managed to say, I have terrible news.

Charlotte pushed him away, the sparkle dying in her eyes. Not again, she whispered. Poor Marc. The loss of both his parents in one year will be too much for him.

Not Margery, sweetheart. Marc.

The color drained from Charlotte’s face and Paul quickly slipped his arm around her waist. With a low moan, he closed his eyes briefly. How could he explain this? He began again. I wanted to be the one to tell you. She tried to jerk free but he held fast. Marc had a fatal heart attack this afternoon.

Don’t be silly, she said, interrupting him. He flew to a conference in West Virginia. He’ll be home Friday.

Paul’s throat constricted, and he had to swallow several times. He isn’t coming home. At least not...

She twisted out of his grasp. I just told you that. Her voice rose. Why are you doing this?

Paul managed to prevent her escape. He took her face in his hands and forced her to look at him. A look he would remember always. Marc didn’t show up for his luncheon meeting today. A hotel staff member found him in the indoor pool around one o’clock. Apparently he made it to the shallow end before he collapsed. The medics couldn’t revive him.

Horror spread across her face, and violent tremors buckled her knees as his words sank in. He caught her before she fell and held her close, murmuring over and over, I’m so sorry. So, so, sorry, sweetheart.

Sobs racked her slender frame, and he couldn’t quiet her. He called for help, and within moments Lucky raced in followed by the elderly housekeeper. Louise Ellison’s lined face reflected the child’s terror. She hurried forward and took the hysterical woman from Paul’s arms. Her voice was raspy with fear when she guided Charlotte to the sofa. Doctor?

He told them the devastating news as gently as he could.

Both Louise and Lucky gasped, and like Charlotte, Lucky denied it. No. When Daddy kissed me goodbye this morning he promised to come to my play on Friday. She looked from her mother back to Paul, then started to cry. He promised.

Despite his pity, Paul had to remain calm. He guided the child to a chair and gently seated her. And you know he would have kept that promise if he could. His gaze whipped to Charlotte, who had lapsed into silence cradled in Louise’s comforting grasp. The doctors assured me the EMS team worked very hard.

Daddy was a strong swimmer.

I know, honey. He didn’t drown, his heart gave out, Paul said, patting the child’s shoulder.

Charlotte stirred. Where is he, Paul?

As difficult as it had been to confer with Marc’s brothers concerning the technicalities involved in sudden death, talking about the arrangements with Charlotte was so horrendous Paul almost choked on the words. He was taken to the diagnostic clinic connected to the hotel. After the coroner examines him and establishes cause of death, and the police are satisfied there was no foul play, his body will be released. John and Orin are ready to take you there to identify him and bring him home.

Tears spilled down Charlotte’s face. Oh God, Paul, this can’t be happening! She pushed Louise aside and started to rise. Should I leave for the airport now?

Paul shook his head, eased down beside her on the sofa to stop her from standing and wiped the tears with his handkerchief. No. This all takes time. Hours, perhaps. John will call you.

Does Margery know?

Yes. She took it as well as a mother can.

She’s so strong despite all she’s been through.

Paul heard the rising panic in Charlotte’s voice as she struggled to accept her loss. He clenched his fists. Though desperate to help her, he couldn’t. Just as he couldn’t once before in the face of death. If only he could redo the past and convince Marc he was flirting with danger.

Waves of remorse overcame Paul and drowned out Charlotte’s words until she plucked at his sleeve. Marc was never ill, how could such a thing happen?

You know he never slowed down. She nodded as if in agreement, her eyes again awash with tears. That she accepted his ridiculous excuse only made Paul feel worse, and he glanced away, unable to watch her emotional meltdown.

We made... stayed in bed awhile this morning, she amended, conscious of her daughter. He seemed his usual self when he left me. How could this happen so suddenly?

Charlotte, I don’t believe it was sudden. I noticed Marc tired easily during our tennis matches, and I warned him several times about excessive exercise and overwork. He just laughed and said it was age.

Lucky whimpered and looked at her mom, then Paul. Daddy can’t be dead. He just can’t.

Paul rose and gathered the sobbing child into his arms and buried her face against his chest, offering what solace he could muster. He loved you very, very much. You must remember that.

She was not to be consoled, and he signaled Louise for help. Relief flooded him when Louise read his silent plea and took the girl upstairs.

Poor baby, Charlotte said, tearfully. She’ll never know what being her Daddy meant to Marc.

Paul understood and nodded. She will, I’ll see to it.

Charlotte glanced at the doorway with terror-stricken eyes. No. You mustn’t.

Paul shook his head and frowned. I only meant I’d remind her often of his love.

Oh, she whispered, letting out another heartbreaking sob. What will I do without him, Paul? We had so many plans—he even talked of our having another child as if he was the only man in the world capable of making babies. He was only fifty-six. Fifty-six! A worried expression crossed her face. Could our making love have caused his death?

He quickly gave assurance. No, honey, love making alone doesn’t bring on heart failure.

Charlotte’s gaze shifted slowly from Paul to the empty rooms beyond the doorway as if catching a glimpse of the future. She shuddered and shook her head. The service... his clothes... obituary... where do I start? Her voice trailed off as another violent tremor overtook her.

First you go upstairs and rest. These next weeks will be brutal. Come, I’ll help you.

Drained emotionally, Charlotte acquiesced, leaning heavily on Paul for support.

Though he intended to stay with her until the pill he gave her took effect, once in her sitting room he found himself surrounded by stacks of books and manuscripts that attested to its occupants’ shared interest. Too overwhelmed by Marc’s haunting presence, he couldn’t remain. Before he could escape, Charlotte stopped him with more questions. Her hand went to her throat, and again that terrible sadness crossed her face. She took a deep breath. Do you know what caused the attack?

No. Most likely heart disease. When I first noticed a weakness in him, I scheduled tests to discover the reason. He didn’t show for even one.

Why didn’t you tell me?

He wouldn’t let me.

Why?

Paul shrugged. Marc’s love for her was indescribable.

Charlotte suppressed a sob. I know. As usual, he wanted to protect me. Those tests. What would they have shown?

Clogged, narrowed arteries. Arrhythmia. Maybe even blacking out on occasion.

Blacking out?

Since the heart was damaged enough to cause such a massive attack, he may have and didn’t tell anyone.

He would not do that to me. We told each other everything.

Paul flinched at her outcry. He didn’t realize the significance. I did.

How did he get so sick? Why didn’t I notice?

Because he hid it well, Paul muttered. A heart can get damaged in a variety of ways. A viral infection for one.

She looked doubtful. A virus?

Something as simple as influenza.

He had the flu two years ago, Charlotte whispered, tears again swimming in her eyes.

Paul listened to her cry, his anguish increasing as he prowled the sitting room. Viruses are hard to prove. Yet, statistics show that despite a person being completely healthy, a viral infection can produce an inflammation of the heart muscle which never goes away.

Unable to face her, he turned his back and forced the words past his lips. I let him die, Charlotte. I helped kill him, but I swear the damage was there.

The silence deafened Paul in those moments it took Charlotte to reach him. She flung her arms around his stocky body and hugged him, her tears mingling with his. Dearest Paul, you loved him, too. How could you be responsible?

If I’d insisted... tried harder, he might have...

Her sad, turquoise eyes flashed. Stop. You did your best. Marc made the choice. He took the risks.

Feeling almost lightheaded that she didn’t blame him, Paul took a deep breath and thanked her. If you need help with anything at any time, you’ll tell me?

She nodded, and he knew then that the joyful, luminous sparkle that brightened the face of this woman Marc loved beyond reason would be buried with him.

Her voice trembled. Should we call Jonathan?

No. He’ll hear it soon enough.

One

Paris, 2000

Emily Wanamaker plucked Allain St. Dizier’s long fingers from her thigh and turned to gaze through the limousine window at the Paris streets washed clean by the brief April shower. Oh, to be cleansed in such a way. She was so tired of parading down runways, of hot lights and energy-sapping photo shoots. Most of all, tired of horny men like the baron seated beside her. Couldn’t anyone see she was dying inside?

The handsome, aristocratic man whose face was reflected in the tinted glass window certainly couldn’t. He hadn’t a clue. In no mood for an argument after an exhausting three-week shoot in Greece, Emily looked at him and forced her best supermodel smile. What did you do while I was away?

Allain’s hand returned to her leg. Missed you, and I did not intend to spend your first night home in an art gallery.

Wishing she had remained out of touch on the remote Greek island, Emily turned back to gaze at the sparkle of street lamps mirrored on the wet pavement. "You don’t have to come with me. I can meet you later at LeOcLy for dinner."

He cupped her chin, making her face him. I think not. I want to be alone with you. Make this stop brief. Three weeks is long enough to remain celibate.

I seriously doubt you’ve been celibate.

He knuckled her cheek. The question is, have you?

She tried to ignore the fingers of his other hand tracing circles on her thigh. Unlike you, Allain, sex is not high on my list of priorities after a grueling, ten-hour work day.

He stroked further up her leg. My poor Milee. So afraid to indulge in life’s great pleasures.

The silly name attached to her by the fashion world was a constant irritant, a reminder she was a fake. Emily. Remember?

His black eyes swept downward and lingered on her breasts. To me you are Milee, the toast of Paris.

Emily cursed silently and pulled the edges of her wrap together. She had been pointed to, stared at, and lusted after since she was fifteen, and Allain was greedier than most. When would she learn not to get him excited by an over-kill of flesh early in the evening? Tonight she’d be lucky to get dinner.

Allain’s eyes narrowed at her attempt to conceal herself. "You are in a strange mood tonight, ma chérie. You wear an outrageous dress, and then try to cover yourself. May I ask why?"

It’s still chilly.

"I am not a fool, Milee. Whatever reason you have chosen to bare your body tonight does not overly concern me. I will only remind you that I do not share. Comprend?"

As long as you understand you don’t own me, she said. Now stop pawing me. I don’t like it.

I know what you will like. He described his plans for later.

Don’t be so crude, Emily snapped.

He moved closer, crowding her against the limo door. You like crude, Milee. It excites you.

To prove his point, he pried open her jaw and clamped his mouth on hers, his tongue raking hers. After a moment he released her mouth and licked his way down her face, fastened his lips to the tender underside of her jaw and sucked.

Her neck pulsated from the rough assault and she jabbed him in the ribs. Dammit! Show some restraint. I have another shoot tomorrow. It’ll take an entire cover stick to hide that bruise.

Allen chuckled and smoothed her cheek with the back of his hand. Again her skin crawled, and turning away, she murmured, Why me, Allain? You could have your pick of women in this city.

Few are as beautiful or were so...

Virginal? she said sarcastically.

Allain looked smug, and nuzzled the long column of her neck. An inexperienced woman such as you needed lovemaking properly done.

We don’t make love, we have sex. S-E-X.

Allain ran a fingertip beneath the top edge of her dress, raising goose bumps on her skin. Which you seem to like very much. I’m not a patient man, my beauty, he warned. I’ll not wait much longer for you to shed those infantile inhibitions.

Emily lifted his hand from inside her dress, not bothering to answer him. He wanted more than she was willing to give, and she had come to dread these evenings with him that ended in ways she often regretted. The dangerous game she was playing with him had to end before he totally corrupted her morals.

She was also aware that ending the affair with Allain was not her only concern. She had more important issues with which to deal, like a lack of enthusiasm for her successful career, her bitchy mother, the notoriety of her current lifestyle, and the disreputable men she attracted who only wanted one thing.

A longing for a quiet life with an honorable man like her father who would see beyond the glamour and fame to the person she really was sometimes overwhelmed her. She knew if she ever found such a guy, she would grab hold and never let him go.

Allain’s speculative gaze turned into a frown as he reached inside his coat pocket and extracted a thin, silver case. "You really are not yourself this evening, chérie. Perhaps something here will relax you."

After checking the mark on her throat in the mirror she pulled from her handbag, Emily glanced at the assortment of drugs nestled inside the box he always carried. She hesitated. Smoking pot was one thing—it got her down runways—but the one time she tried something out of Allain’s stash, she felt out of control. That had not been a good feeling. Then again, loosening up was what she needed to face her mother tonight. Just this once? No. She had enough troubles without becoming addicted to mind-altering crap.

The automobile’s interior soon filled with the pungent scent of Allain’s cigarette, and for a while both were silent. Finally, he glanced at his watch. Is there a particular reason for this appearance at Archer’s?

Emily leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. Obligation.

Much to her relief Allain didn’t press for an explanation. Not that she would have given him one; she’d