Rachel Carrington

CHOICES

An Ellora’s Cave Publication, March 2005

Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

1337 Commerce Drive, #13

Stow, OH 44224

ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-0178-8

Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

CHOICES Copyright © 2005 RACHEL CARRINGTON

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

Edited by
Briana St. James
.

Cover art by
Syneca
.

Warning:

The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Choices has been rated S-ensuous by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E

(E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

S-
ensuous
love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

E-
rotic
love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth.

E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

X-
treme
titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

Choices

Rachel Carrington

“Shit.” A gust of wind blew the edge of Carla’s miniskirt higher up her thighs. Juggling her cell phone, the bag of groceries and the mail, she hitched her hip against the door to her penthouse and dug for her house keys. Rain slapped the concrete at her feet, threatening her expensive leather heels. A loud rumble of thunder made her jump and she hastened her efforts to get inside her house.

“No, Jeremy, I wasn’t talking to you. Listen to me. I’ve already told you that if you want to invest in that stock, it’s your decision, but I think it’s risky. I…” Her call waiting beeped and Carla frowned. “Can you hold on a minute? I’m getting another call.” Carla opened the door, dropped the brown paper bag down on the Queen Anne table just inside the foyer and switched calls. “Carla Morgan. Mother, I’m going to have to call you back. I have a client on the other line.”

“It’s imperative that I speak with you, Carla,” Sandra Morgan, in an icily polite tone, made the demand two octaves higher than usual.

“I’ll call you back in ten minutes.” Carla didn’t give her mother time to protest before she returned to the original call. “Jeremy, just promise me that you’ll think about it before putting a lot of money into a stock we don’t know that much about. I know that your brother-in-law has given you what you consider good advice, but honestly, I wouldn’t do it without a little more research. It’s not going to hurt to think about it over the weekend and while you’re doing that, I’ll spend some time digging into this company and find out the inside scoop. And I promise I’ll be impartial. If I find good news, I’ll be the first one to tell you. I don’t mind admitting when I’m wrong. It’s just my job to protect you and I can do that better if I have all the facts. So all I’m asking for is two days. Okay?” Used to dealing with undecided clients, Carla climbed to the top of the ladder in the competitive field of stockbrokers simply by persuading her clients to come around to her way of thinking. So Jeremy’s quick agreement to her terms didn’t surprise her.

She ended the call with a sigh of relief. Kicking off her heels, she dug her toes into the plush cream carpet and pressed her front door shut. One glance toward the kitchen counter revealed the blinking light on her answering machine. Messages. Most of them, no doubt, from her mother. As most of the Morgan family had already ascertained, Sandra Morgan was persistent.

Her shoulders aching, Carla hefted the grocery bag to her hip and managed to make it to the kitchen before her cell phone trilled again. Her fingers curled around the slim receiver and she debated whether or not to answer or let the call roll to voice mail. It wouldn’t be her mother. Sandra would give her exactly ten minutes before she called again. That was her mother’s way. With a sigh, Carla knew that she would cave in to responsibility. She was a responsible person and responsible people did not hide from duties be they to client or family. “Carla Morgan.”

“I really need to talk to you.” Diane, Carla’s older sister, didn’t waste time with preambles. “Mother’s on the warpath because she’s gotten wind that you’re not going to the family reunion.”

“Is she kidding?” Carla placed the milk inside the refrigerator and reached for the bottle of wine in the cabinet above. “Does she know how swamped I am right now? I just got ten new clients and there’s just no way that I’m going to be able to get away right now. I could lose everything I’ve gained in the last few months.” The amber liquid sloshed against the wineglass as Carla carried it into the den. Setting the glass down on a porcelain coaster, she sank down into the leather recliner and reached for the remote. The flat, fifty-two inch screen television blared to life, forcing Carla to mute the sound. “Not to mention that I just told one of my biggest clients that I would research a stock tip he got from a relative. If he invests in this deal, he could lose everything he has. That wouldn’t be good for business.”

Diane murmured her sympathy. “But Mother still isn’t going to understand. This is the biggest gathering of the Morgans in at least twenty years. Mother is counting on all of us to be there.”

“So you and Sam are going then?”

“Unfortunately. I didn’t really have any choice in the matter.” Diane’s resignation was unmistakable.

Diane had never hidden the fact that she was unhappily married and she never wasted an opportunity to encourage her sister to remain single and free, not that Carla needed the tip. Men didn’t exactly storm her front door.

“I’m sure Sam stood up to Mother and Dad like a pro, right?” Carla instantly regretted the sarcastic question. Her sister suffered enough being married to her father’s pompous assistant. She certainly didn’t need her to rub salt in the wound.

The line grew quiet and Carla sighed. “I’m sorry, Sis. I know you don’t want to hear my complaints about your husband.”

Diane gave a bitter laugh. “No, I have enough of my own.” She didn’t elaborate, both women knew the disappointment Diane felt inside each morning when she woke to face Sam O’Hara, a man so lost in his own world that he barely acknowledged the fact that his wife and two children existed.

Carla massaged her temples. “So when is this group fest again?”

“Next weekend.”

“It’s impossible. It’s just impossible. Maybe if it was a month or two down the road, but right now, I just can’t see it happening.”

“Can you see Mother’s temper tantrum happening?”

That she could see…quite clearly. “Oh, God, sometimes, I wish I could just escape to another world and leave all of this behind.” The signal indicated another call and Carla’s hand whitened on the slim, digital phone. “Great. I’m getting another call. That has to be Mother. She’d only allotted me ten minutes.

I’m sure I’ve gone over.”

“I’ll let you go. Don’t tell her that you were talking to me. And if you do manage to escape to that other world, take me with you.” Diane rang off with the glum plea.

Carla couldn’t blame Diane for her fear though she didn’t understand it. What power did Sandra Morgan wield that reduced a successful businesswoman and mother of two to a quivering mass of jelly with just the sound of her voice? At thirty-five, Diane took care of home, her business and her children without problem…unless their mother called. Sandra Morgan personified problems. Not having time for further introspection, Carla answered the call.

“Your ten minutes are up,” Sandra announced testily.

“I took the time to pour myself a glass of wine. I’m sure that’s allowed.” Carla’s own voice dripped with displeasure. Her muscles tensed and all thoughts of relaxation fled. Sandra had a way of doing that to a person, wiping away comfort and quickly replacing it with edginess and discontent.

“I was calling to remind you about the Morgan family reunion next weekend. Your father and I are driving up on Friday night, but you may, if you wish, wait until Saturday morning to arrive. I know how busy you claim your schedule is, so I will allow that. However, I do expect you to arrive in proper attire, Carla. I cannot begin to tell you how much I dislike your latest fashions.” For ten minutes, Sandra rambled on about her distaste of Carla’s entire closet.

And for ten minutes, Carla held the phone away from her ear and surfed through the channels, looking for something to capture her attention. When the low drone of her mother’s voice subsided, Carla placed the phone against her ear once more and calmly said, “I’m not going to the reunion, Mother.”

A hideous silence followed then a slow, audible intake of breath told Carla her mother was gathering steam. “That is unacceptable, Carla Morgan. We have been planning this for months now. You have had plenty of time to rearrange your schedule and make yourself available to attend. I will simply not take no for an answer. Your father is expecting you as well and you know how he hates to be disappointed.”

“Mother,” Carla began the same debate that was, in her mind, centuries old. “I am thirty-three years old.

I make my own schedule and while I apologize if it doesn’t fit in with yours, I simply cannot change it.”

“I will have your father call you.”

Carla’s blood ran cold. If Diane was intimidated by Sandra Morgan, it was only fair to say that Carla was intimidated by Baylor Morgan. A domineering man in his late fifties, Baylor was a powerhouse in the business community, making his name by taking down smaller companies and swallowing them, leaving no survivors. He’d built Morgan Industries from the ground up, and now a multi-million dollar enterprise, it, along with its creator, was a force to be reckoned with.

“Mother, don’t threaten me. You know as well as I do that Dad rarely has time for you much less to make a telephone call to appease you.” Glossed lips curved around the rim of the wineglass and she focused her attention on the framed Picasso original that occupied the center of the wall to her left. She allowed the colors and blends to soothe her while she concentrated on breathing techniques that were supposed to relax her. They weren’t working.

“I expect you there, Carla. You have managed to avoid our Sunday dinners for the last several months and you go out of your way to arrange your schedule so you can’t attend our monthly family meetings.

Missing the reunion would be a slap in the face to the entire Morgan family. I reiterate…I expect you there. No excuse will be acceptable.” Sandra ended the call with a decisive click that seemed to echo throughout Carla’s entire house.

“Shit,” Carla repeated. She should have stayed at work.

* * * * *

The lights of the Manhattan skyline winked over the edge of the balcony surrounding Carla’s twentieth-story penthouse. A picture in luxury, the four-bedroom structure boasted the finest of decorations, a mixture of the late Renaissance Period and Queen Anne furniture. The walls were adorned with framed art from the early eighteenth century and the floors were covered in carpet that would have paid a factory worker’s salary for a year. Screaming wealth and prestige, the penthouse surrounded Carla in class and entombed her in the aristocracy of the Morgan Empire.

Leaning over the edge of the gilt-edged balcony, Carla had never felt more miserable in her life. At the top of her game, she lived the high life with plenty of money she’d earned herself, a car that boasted all of the latest technology and a home that most people could only dream about. Still, that elusive struggle for happiness eluded her. She wanted more. Maybe she was searching for that white picket fence with two kids, husband and a dog, the same life Diane had warned her against so many times. Or maybe she didn’t know what she was looking for. At times, the urge to pack a suitcase and take off for parts unknown was almost overwhelming. Success came at a high price…her belief in happiness.