Take Two: An Erotic Romance (Book 1)

  Take Two

  Book One

  Maddie Bennett

  Copyright © 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Copyright © 2013

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Warning: This work contains scenes of graphic sexual nature and it is written for adults only(18+). All characters depicted in this story are over 18 years of age.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 1

  How the hell did I get here?

  The bullet burst through my windshield and buried itself into the back seat. The sound echoed in my ears. The blood drained from my face. I turned to look at Mathis, his blue eyes staring back at me widened in shock. For a moment I couldn’t hear anything. My vision blurred as my eyes fell to his lips mouthing words I couldn’t hear. What? What was he saying?

  Slowly, my hearing started to come back. “Ama… Aman… Amanda!” My eyes that were dazed, now focused on his blue eyes again registering his voice.

  “Drive!”

  TWO WEEKS AGO

  I sighed with discomfort as I leant back in my chair, stretching my back as far as it would go to ease the dull ache which was developing after four straight hours sat at my deck. I was sitting in my bland, grey cubicle, the monitor in front of me glaring its offensively bright glare and the fluorescent lighting above me doing absolutely nothing for my fair complexion or the general cheeriness of the room. Of all the places to work, this little accounting firm had to be one of the most soulless.

  To delay the inevitable moment when my tired eyes would have to refocus on the painfully boring excel sheet in front of me, I untied my thick, glossy brown hair, combing the dark strands with my fingers and retying it in its customary braid, putting the wayward strands in their rightful places. Unfortunately, my practiced hands took only a few seconds to perform this task. I looked at the excel sheet again. The sullen little rectangle of tiny black figures looked back defiantly. If you don’t concentrate on me, Amanda, you’ll lose your job, and then where will you be? Great, I was imagining my excel sheet talking to me.

  Desperate for a distraction, I looked around my cubicle again. Dull and grey and lifeless. The only point of color or interest was my tiny little Christmas tree, still cheerily embodying the spirit of a festival which had passed more than three months ago. Still, even in March, the Christmas tree seemed to perk the place up a bit, its little lights glowing loyally and its ornaments managing to turn the florescent glare into something approaching a twinkle. Slightly cheered, I went back to my skulking excel sheet, determined to knock that insolent attitude right out of it.

  The gentle tapping of keys filled my little cubicle as I got to work again. See, this was fine. This was a nice, sensible job to have. It paid the bills, kept me in clothes and almond vanilla body scrub, and even allowed me to grab a sandwich from my favorite deli once in a while. Excel sheets were great. Much greater than out-of-date Christmas trees with no presents underneath them and irritatingly upbeat ornaments.

  I looked up from my work again as the mailman came into the room, eager to see if he would be heading my way. This wasn’t just another pathetic attempt at getting out of my work. I’d already finished reconciling myself to the fact that I would be making spreadsheets until the world ended or my fingers were too withered to type anymore. I was expecting a letter any day, and now was as good a time as any.

  It had been three weeks now since my Uncle Andy’s passing. He wasn’t really my uncle – he was my great uncle, my grandmother’s brother. Still, we’d been very close, and I already knew that he would include me in his will. It was unthinkable that he wouldn’t leave his favorite great-niece without a little something to remember him by. I wasn’t asking for money – Uncle Andy had always been very serious on the subject of everybody having to work to earn their bread. I just wanted to know that he had remembered me in some little way. So here I was, ears pricked, waiting for the mailman to bring me a letter.

  Except he didn’t bring me a letter. He brought me a package.

  “Miss Amanda Taylor?” he confirmed with me, his eyes twinkling (he knew I’d been on high alert for mail for the past couple of weeks). “Here’s a package for you, miss.”

  “Thanks,” I said, grabbing the little rectangular package quickly and shoving it under some files so that my nosy co-workers couldn’t get their eyeballs all over it.

  “Have a nice day, miss,” the mailman grinned.

  “You too,” I murmured with an absent smile. “Have fun delivering mail.”

  “Always do, miss. Always do.”

  As the mailman walked across the room towards another lucky recipient of his services, I made a quick survey of the room: Daisy’s ample bulk was shielding the photocopier, Kyle and Jill were flirting like crazy in the cubicle opposite and, from the gentle snores coming from the cubicle next to me, I figured that David was probably taking his customary day-long nap. Those were the worst gossips accounted for – I would risk my other coworkers and open my package now.

  With slightly trembling fingers, I took the little package from its snug nest of month-old files. It was addressed to me in Uncle Andy’s elegant, precise handwriting. Although the sight of his writing tugged at my heart a little, I knew there was no danger of tears – I’d already cried all my tears at his funeral; there was only so much salt water a human body could produce, especially considering the chronically under-seasoned fare available from the company cafeteria. Besides, I’d never cry at my office. It had been my number one objective never to be the subject of lunchtime gossip and so far, the conversation over limp chicken salads and tasteless quinoa had been entirely Amanda-free.

  With one last glance around the room, I deftly opened the little package, lifting off the wrapping with care. Inside, I found a book and an envelope, the book wrapped in crinkly white tissue paper, and the envelope, with its typewritten address and little plastic window, looking very much like the bearer of bad news. I opened the envelope first, pulling out a very official looking slip of paper from Williams, Williams and Slopey, my uncle’s lawyers. A quick scan of the paper told me that it was about his will. At least I wasn’t in any kind of trouble.

  I started over from the beginning, the part where it said ‘to whom it may concern’ instead of my actual name, and tried to separate the details from the lawyer-speak. After a few minutes of intense struggle, I surmised that my uncle’s will was going to be read and that I was supposed to be present. The details of the place, date and time were all there – a huge, fancy building I had never so much as set foot in before. I decided to worry about it at a later date. I’d probably have to go in wearing a full suit and some shiny court shoes. Well, if it was what Uncle Andy wanted, I would be there.

  Laying the envelope to one side, I turned my attention back to the “package” part of the package. Tearing off the thin layer of tissue paper, I carefully lifted out an old book, dog-eared and careworn, the spine slightly cracked and the pages discolored from years of use and multiple re-readings. While the letter had failed to raise much interest, this bo
ok more than made up for it. I remembered the book well.

  It was Martin Eden, by Jack London, a book I had read countless times. Not just any book either – this exact copy. I could remember Uncle Andy lending it to me for the umpteenth time, his lips quirked into an indulgent smile as he gestured to his vast library. “You know where it is, Amanda – you read it frequently, after all. Why you don’t invest in your own copy, I’ll never know…or has your copy disintegrated?”

  “I dropped it in the bath,” I answered glibly.

  “Well, you’d better be careful with this copy, young lady. It’s a first edition. It won’t react well to bathwater.”

  Despite my previous certainty that I would remain stoic, I felt tears pricking in my green eyes. Before I could get weepy, though, I was distracted by a piece of paper peeping out of the book. I drew it out, and read what was written in Uncle Andy’s writing: follow your dreams, Amanda – dreams are what make us alive. Uncle Andy.

  I smiled fondly as I recalled his dry, pleasant voice telling me exactly the same thing almost every time we parted. He had always believed strongly that everyone should have a dream and pursue it with all their heart and soul, just as he had. He had built himself up as a successful hedge fund manager from a modest background, believing in himself and his ability to be someone.

  I looked back down at the book. Somewhere, almost lost in the sands of time, it had been my dream to be a writer like Jack London. I loved this book so passionately, was so inspired by it, that every time I turned its pages it felt like I was reading it for the first time. It was the first book which had made me think that one day I would like to be a writer.

  Where had that dream gone? As I looked down at the book, I recalled how strongly I had wanted to write, to let my feelings and emotions pour out onto page after page of creamy white paper. I had dreamed of sitting outside with an empty journal and a fountain pen, creating masterpieces as other people worked away indoors, processing meaningless data and dealing with belligerent colleagues and aggressive customers. I would be free to let my own creativity flow, crafting my own worlds and writing as the mood took me.

  Looking at my partly-finished excel spreadsheet, I smiled bitterly to myself. Follow my dreams? I couldn’t imagine anything farther from what I had imagined back in my youth. But that was reality for you. Uncle Andy may have succeeded, but for most people, the things they dream about as children and teenagers are just that – dreams.

  Putting the book and the letter into my desk drawer and throwing the wrapping paper into the bin, I pulled in my chair, took a deep breath, and began tapping away at my keyboard again.

  Chapter 2

  I was sitting in what was certainly the most opulent office I had ever set foot in. The conference table had feet – actual feet – made out of some kind of very shiny wood, probably carved by blind Tibetan monks or something. A circle of plushy armchairs which looked too heavy to even move were arranged around the table, full of well-dressed people who obviously changed their outfit twice a day and spent their lunch breaks ironing their ties. I was sitting like a schoolgirl, my hands in the lap of my grey suit pants – which I now realized were speckled with lint – and trying to concentrate on the will which was being read in pompous tones more suitable for a coronation than a will reading:

  “Lastly,” Mr. Williams, head of the law firm intoned, “Miss Amanda Taylor, great niece of the deceased, Mr. Andrew Scott, is bequeathed the extensive hedge fund investments of Mr. Andrew Scott, namely Mr. Andrew Scott’s investments in Dillinger Inc., Mr. Scott’s investments in Coraopolis Inc., Mr. Scott’s investments in…”

  “Wait,” I interrupted, earning myself affronted looks from a few of the tie-ironing suits. “Uncle Andy left me his investments?”

  “If you would let me read from the document,” Mr. Williams said, “you will be equipped with a full list of the assets bequeathed to you by Mr. Scott.”

  “But – the Dillinger investments? That’s a global company! Those alone must be worth almost a million dollars!”

  “Correct, Miss Taylor. Now: if you would let me continue. Ahem. Mr. Scott’s investments in…”

  But I wasn’t paying attention as he continued to read a list of investments which now belonged to me. I already knew the only thing I needed to know: Uncle Andy had left me his lifetime of achievement – and millions of dollars’ worth of investments to boot.

  I was only eleven years old the first time he let me sit in the corner of his office with my book while he was making investments. We had just spent the day playing soccer in the field outside his country mansion.

  “You’re turning into a real tomboy,” he teased me as I powered the ball through our makeshift goalposts yet again. My knees were muddy, my cropped hair was a dark brown tangle and I was panting with exertion, grinning up at my uncle.

  “You’re just getting old,” I taunted him.

  “Maybe I am,” he laughed, rubbing ruefully at his bald spot. “A little too old to stop my energetic little niece from scoring goals, at least.” He leaned back stretching his body. “Well, I think it’s time to get back indoors.”

  My face fell. “Uncle Andy, please. Just one more goal – I’ll even let you block it.”

  Uncle Andy laughed heartily at my comment and threw the ball back to me. “Just one more, Mandy. Then it’s back to the office for me, and settling down with a quiet book for you.”

  “But I want to spend time with you,” I whined.

  “Well… if you promise to be very quiet, you can read in my office while I do my work,” Uncle Andy reasoned.”

  “For real?”

  “Yes – for real. You can even give me a bit of your expert advice if you like. I’m thinking of making an investment in a soccer team – if you want, you can help me choose which one.”

  Forgetting about the one last goal, I tackled him in a hug. As he hugged me back, ruffling my tangled hair, I felt a burst of happiness, like a bubble growing and growing inside me. Uncle Andy had always treated me like an equal, like a grown up, even as a small child. Now he was showing how much trust he truly had in me – entrusting me with the investments he built up from scratch, helping small businesses to grow into successful companies.

  As I considered the enormity of what Uncle Andy had given me, I realized that my life had changed irrevocably. Uncle Andy’s investments were worth millions of dollars, and the interest alone would mean that I never had to work again unless I wanted to.

  Unbidden, the thought rose in my mind: I could write… The dreams I had abandoned because I needed to have a practical job floated through my mind, tantalizing me. I could quit my job as an accountant, turn my back on the three foot square cubicle and the desk which was essentially laminated cardboard. I could buy one of these squishy armchairs, hire a few extremely muscular men to carry it to my apartment and spend my days working on my novel.

  I felt dizzy and intoxicated, like I had just been given my first kiss all over again. Everything I had dreamed of which had been pushed to one side was suddenly within my grasp, if I was brave enough to reach out and take it. Was that what Uncle Andy had meant when he wrote that note in the book?

  “Miss Taylor? I’d hate to think we were boring you,” the stuffy old lawyer sneered, peering over his thick glasses to glare at me. I suddenly felt like a guilty schoolgirl, daydreaming about being a famous writer when I should be paying attention to the teacher. It was stupid, but even as a 29 year old woman, highly successful and official people could still make me feel like a grubby child caught goofing off in class.

  “Not at all,” I said in my best cultured voice, resisting the urge to check my face for smudges of dirt.

  “Excellent,” Mr. Williams said briskly. “As I was saying, the will attaches some rather particular requests to your inheritance.”

  My heart immediately clenched – of course, there would have to be strings attached. No such miracle as free money could ever come bounding in my direction.

  “What c
onditions?” I asked nervously.

  “Mr. Scott guarded his investments closely, and dedicated his whole life to maintaining them.”

  “I know,” I said. “I know how much they mean, I mean, meant to him.”

  “Then you know that he would not merely put them into the hands of an individual unable to take proper care of the investments. As such, you will need to undergo training in order to understand how to handle them.”

  “Training?” I frowned.

  “As you might be aware, a hedge fund is no laughing matter. Not just any idiot can make money on their investments. Although the investments your great uncle left you are largely passive and won’t require a great deal of maintenance, he wished you to be trained in order to take over his investments. This knowledge doesn’t just grow on trees.” The dry little speech from the lawyer was dripping with disdain and sarcasm.

  “I – does he want me to take a class?” I asked.

  “No, absolutely not – Mr. Scott had a protégé, whom he wished to oversee your education in this matter – Mr. Mathis Côté.”