High Stakes Seduction - Book 1

PUBLISHED BY:

Career Life Press
Copyright © 2014
Ami LeCoeur

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be copied or reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior written consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events, is entirely coincidental. All names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and situations are either the product of the author's imagination, or used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real.

After a horrific accident that killed her mother and left her sister in a wheelchair, Angela Tilson dropped out of college to care for her remaining family.

But her father wasn't faring well. Between his binge drinking and gambling, he didn't have much time or energy left for his daughters. When threats started coming in, demanding payment of the debts he'd racked up, he took off, leaving the two girls to fend for themselves.

Months later, Angela receives a call that changes their lives forever. The call closes the door on their father's disappearance, but sets in motion a new set of dangers and complications, including the powerful, and mysteriously connected fashion mogul, Antonio Mancini.

Antonio is attractive, remote, and very much in control. He quite literally holds the key to their security and wellbeing in his hands. He offers Angela a job, and the means to repay her father's debts... but the conditions require her to step way outside her normal boundaries.

In desperation, Angela accepts the new challenges before her. Now she must battle her growing attraction for Antonio, and conquer her own fears and secrets. The stakes are high - she and her sister could lose everything if she doesn't follow the rules to this game he's set up.

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Book 2
- October 10, 2014

Book 3
- October 24, 2014

Book 4
- November 7, 2014

Book 5
- November 21, 2014

"Hello. May I speak to Angela Tilson, please?" asked the almost-too-cheerful voice on the other end of the telephone.

"This is she. How may I help you?" I hadn't recognized the number on the caller ID, and the voice didn't register either.

"Hello Miss Tilson. This is Mrs. Dobbs from Casa Consuelo."

Great
, I thought,
another telemarketer looking for a donation
.

"Sorry, we're not interested…" I started.

"Oh, no, my dear, you misunderstand. I'm so sorry, you are the daughter of Jack Tilson?"

"Yes. Are you calling about my father?" I tried to keep the suspicion out of my voice. We'd had so many people trying to reach him. But they were rude, unsavory types, "goons" is how I'd come to think of them. And this woman had a sweet voice—almost too sweet.

"Yes, my dear. I'm sorry to have to contact you this way, especially over the phone." She paused for a moment. "We provide alcohol and drug rehabilitation for those who seek it, or are required by the courts to obtain it. Your father has been a member of our community for the past three months."

Dad? Three months?
It had been just over a year since we'd heard anything from him or about him.

"I'm terribly sorry," the saccharine-like voice continued. "It's my unfortunate duty to tell you your father passed away last night. You are listed as his next of kin. That is correct, isn't it? There isn't much, you know, but what he had is now yours."

Passed away? That meant Dad was… dead…?
I paused, trying to gather my scattered thoughts.

"Hello?" the woman asked. "Are you okay, my dear?"

I took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. We… um, we haven't heard from him at all in the last year. We didn't know where he was, let alone if he was still… alive. This is the first thing we've heard since he left."

"It was a heart attack, dear." She paused. "He was a valued member of our community, and doing quite well by the way. He spoke of you and your sister often. He was looking forward to being reunited with you again."

I sat down, my knees suddenly weak. My thoughts confused. It was hard to describe what I felt. Or thought. Or thought I should be thinking.

"Here's my number," said the voice on the other end, speaking into the silence. "Please come by at your earliest convenience. And, there's no rush. We'll have everything ready for you."

My thoughts jumbled all together inside my head—memories of the accident, the threatening phone calls, all those nights Maria and I had spent worrying about what had happened to Dad. I could hardly sort my own thoughts, let alone remember what else I might have said to the woman as I hung up the phone.

Mobsters don't like gamblers who run up debts without paying.

But that was exactly what Dad had done. Massive debt, drained bank accounts. And then he'd run off. Disappeared from view without a word. He'd promised to let us know where he was, but all we'd gotten since he'd left was silence. Maria and I had given up, suspecting the gangsters who'd been calling had most likely caught up with him. After all, it was those same gangsters who'd caused Dad to run in the first place.

Yesterday's call had come as a shock. But here I sat, watching the house, thinking about those calls. Just as suddenly as they'd started, they stopped. Even while we'd held out hope that Dad would call us, we had no clue about what might have happened to him.

A realtor would have called the house "quaint". But I had other thoughts as I watched the quiet, somehow ominous house that seemed to fit quietly into the surrounding neighborhood.

The big front yard had well-manicured grass, and the garden was filled with colorful flowers. I could see potted plants hanging inside through the open windows, and curtains fluttering in the breeze.

From the outside, it looked like a warm, welcoming place. And yet, for some unknown reason, I dreaded walking up its front steps.

After the phone call from the professionally-pleasant-sounding woman at the center yesterday, Maria and I had spent the rest of the evening trying to figure out what might have happened in the year since we'd last seen our father. And, especially, how Dad had ended up in rehabilitation.

I suppose it was a comfort, knowing he'd tried to clean himself up in the end. I just wished he’d called us. We would have helped him. But he was always emotionally remote. Except when it came to Mom. Maybe it was just too hard for him to believe that we didn’t blame him for the awful accident that killed her and cost Maria her mobility.

Well
, I sighed,
at least we don't have to wonder any longer about where he is.

I looked back up at the Casa Consuelo sign on the door, and got out of the taxi, straightening my skirt with a brush of my hands.

"Can you wait for me, please? I don't expect to be more than about 20 minutes," I told the driver.

It was a warm day, but I decided to keep my sweater with me as I headed for the front door. I clutched its warmth with trembling fingers. I couldn’t shake the apprehension that slid through me as I wondered what I might find inside.

I walked through the gardens and past the array of potted plants that sat like sentries along the clean lines of the front porch. The bright colors seemed to glare back at me. The scene felt too perfect. Like someone was trying too hard to give the place a sense of normalcy, to cover up what was going on inside. Not that I really knew what went on inside a place like this. I’m not sure reality television shows had prepared me well enough.

I raised my hand to knock at the door, but it opened suddenly.

"You must be Miss Tilson," said a short, plump, dark-haired lady with a forced smile plastered across her face. "I’m so sorry to meet you under such sad circumstances," she said, still smiling brightly. "I'm Mrs. Dobbs. Please come in, Miss Tilson."

"Angela," I said politely.

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Dobbs replied. "Your father’s room is right this way."

I followed her through the house, glancing into the rooms we passed. To all outward appearances, it seemed like a normal home. Television on in the living room, people sprawled across comfy-looking couches watching the screen. Some of them almost zombie-like, the occasional glance in my direction. Books lined the shelves, with the library room opening into a bright, open kitchen. But there was still an overwhelming clinical air to it all. Like everyone was trying too hard to be happy and healthy.

Maybe I was judging them too harshly. I kept thinking of my last memories of my dad, wasting away in front of a picture of Mom, a bottle in one hand. I just couldn’t imagine him in this place, let alone trying to clean himself up.

"Here we are," Mrs. Dobbs said, pushing open a door at the end of the hall. She stepped over to the bed and patted a large box, still giving me that too bright smile of hers. "As I'm sure you already know, Mr. Tilson —er, your father—wanted to be cremated, so we've already started that process for you. I’ve packed away his belongings—there wasn’t much."

In less than an hour, I was back in front of my own little bungalow, trying to decide what I was going to tell Maria. I stood on the sidewalk, staring at what remained of our happy childhood.

The house was typical for the neighborhood. Small, three bedrooms, white shingles, a few steps leading up to a small front porch. Inside, the hardwood floors made it easy for Maria to wheel herself around. We'd taken up the rugs after the accident, and it had become her little haven. Like the folks at the rehab house, she spent most of her time watching TV or reading. And sometimes baking. But she still hadn't gone back to her painting. As usual, I wondered what it might take to get her out into the world again.

The contrast between Casa Consuelo and our own home was striking. But then, neither Maria nor I had ever been into gardening. At least I managed to keep the lawn from growing into a forest of weeds.

I fumbled for my keys with my free hand, awkwardly balancing the box Mrs. Dobbs had given me, but Maria opened the door before I could get the keys in the lock.

"That’s it?" she asked.

I couldn’t see her face, but I knew by her tone that she was frowning. She was almost always frowning now. Not that I could blame her.

"Do you mind letting me in, sis?" I said, not quite hiding the annoyance I myself was feeling, and not being able to shake the uneasiness I'd felt at the rehabilitation house.

She obliged without further comment, wheeling her chair backward to let me pass. I shuffled into the living room and set my father’s things down on the coffee table. I flopped onto the couch, glad to be free of the heavy box. Maria rolled up to the table and began opening it.

"Wait," I said, putting a hand on the lid to stop her. "Are you sure you’re ready for this?"

Maria glared at me for a moment, then she sighed and her expression changed to something that reminded me much more of the way she used to be. A little less tense, a little more open and trusting. The way she was before the accident, that horrible crash that killed Mom and took away so much more than just the use of her legs.

"Are
you
ready for this?" she asked, taking my hand in hers.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure. This entire day had been such an ordeal already. Was I ready to open this box and find out how much worse things might be? Was I ready to find out the true extent of the legacy Dad left behind? The box suddenly looked menacing and I just sat there, anxiety making me tense again.

"Yeah," I said finally. "Let’s just get this over with. Then I’m going to take a nice, long bath and de-stress for the rest of the day."