A White Rose Read online

  A White Rose

  Bekah Ferguson

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of Rock of Ages Publishing House, a division of Prodigy Digital Solutions – prodigydigital.net

  Copyright © 2007-2012 by Bekah Ferguson. All rights reserved.

  Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. zondervan.com

  The "NIV" and "New International Version" are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

  Cover photograph by Nikola Miljkovic. Used with permission.

  Designed and formatted by Robbie Ferguson.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyrights reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  ISBN: 978-0-9782047-4-7

  First self-published printing October, 2012.

  Please visit the author's web site at www.bekahferguson.com

  Chapter 1

  Dakota Reilly was fourteen when she lost her virginity.

  It wasn't romantic in the slightest. If anything, it was a basic case of statutory rape. But she would never call it that. It was much more comfortable to tweak the memory here, twist it a little there, until it really did seem sexy and romantic to recall. She had consented, willingly—though not exactly knowing what she was doing—and he had been pushy, rough and twice her age.

  That cute young friend of her dad's.

  She had gushed and drooled over him from the moment he first joined her father's poker group. And she'd loved the way he'd shown her special attention—a wink here, a tickle there. Her dad didn't seemed to notice; but he didn't seem to notice anything about her. Sometimes she wondered how he even managed to remember her name. And of course, her mother hadn't noticed either because she was always out on the town; living it up with the ladies, hitting the clubs.

  If Dakota really got to analyzing her situation—which wasn't often—she had to admit she had taken after her mother in many ways. She loved to party, she loved to club, to shop… But more than all that, she loved a beautiful man.

  Any beautiful man.

  If he was available for the taking, she would do the taking. She never tried to restrain herself and she never stopped to wonder if she might regret her actions later. She simply enjoyed each encounter and kept her eyes wide open for the next.

  Without sex—or without an ensuing conquest, which was just as much fun—she felt… well, dreadfully bored.

  Restless.

  But Dakota wasn't your regular, run-of-the-mill temptress. She had class. To see her on the street, you might think she was gorgeous, stylish, smart, and respectable. She had that intelligent gleam in her eye—the look of a woman who is strong, independent and in control of her world. She lived in a gray-brick home with French doors and windows and a garden framing the backyard. She wore stiletto heels and sleek pantsuits when she hit the sophisticated city shops; miniskirts and halter tops at the clubs. Her look could go from professional babe to bouncing beauty in a matter of minutes: she knew how to dress and act the part. It all depended on the man she was after—which of course, was whatever man had attracted her eye at any particular time.

  If she was feeling lazy or simply didn't have the time for anything otherwise, she'd find a man at her favorite dance club. It was a hot spot for easy men. But most of the time she wanted more of a challenge—like that handsome jeweler, the sexy bank teller, or the married man who owned the upscale dry cleaning shop—the type of men who took several months to seduce. It was a sense of accomplishment for her to effectively wear down a man who thought he had the self-control to resist. It made her feel powerful. And she could find an interesting catch almost anywhere: the mall, the fitness club in the nearby plaza, the Canadian Tire paint shop, the doctor's office, the dentist.

  Good-looking men were everywhere and they were always quick to notice that beautiful ash-blond who was giving them the eye as she moved past them or called them to attention for whatever it was she needed assistance with. Oh, sir, could I see a pair of these shoes in a different size?… Do you have this necklace in white gold?… I've had this little bit of a sore ankle…

  One time, she'd taken her car in for a tune-up and had noticed a young man working in the back of the shop. He was wearing coveralls with the sleeves rolled up, a rag in hand and a smear across his perfectly-chiseled, tan cheek. It had taken only a moment to catch his eye and after posing a series of car questions, she'd managed to arrange a cocktail date for later that evening. Oh, he was much younger than she. A good five years younger—maybe twenty-two at the most. But she liked that. Younger men doted over her all the more, so thrilled they were to have attracted the affection of a stunning “older” woman.

  She wasn't keen on virgins though.

  Bad memories from high school and university. Virgins were too awkward to bother with no matter how good-looking they might be. She liked an aggressive man who knew exactly what he wanted. A man who would throw her around a bit, knock the breath out of her in the midst of his uncontrollable lust; make her feel like she was the most desirable woman in the world.

  She didn't like “attached” men either, though there used to be a certain allure to them. It had since dissolved. One too many guilt-ridden, remorseful men to deal with in the aftermath. There was no bigger turn-off than a crying, blubbering male claiming he couldn't help himself and was somehow a victim. Though she didn't care to delve too deeply into the whys and wherefores, there was something disconcerting in the way a man could go from all strength and charm and intrigue, to a sort of frail, shameful state of brokenness. Consequently, over the past two years, she had made a conscious decision to let the “taken” ones go; permanently. Besides, it wasn't much fun when her own high wore off and she had to admit to herself that she was hurting other women by stealing their men. Then again, maybe she was doing them a favor by unveiling the faithless losers they thought they loved.

  Had she ever had an actual boyfriend? No. At least, not for more than three or four months at a time. “Boy toy” was a better description for the type of relationships she had—because after a handful of hot nights, it became routine, and that was just plain boring.

  Above all else, she stayed in charge. She did the phoning. She brought the man to her house (unless, of course, his was a nicer house) and she called the shots. She didn't care whether they had anything in common. All that mattered was his body—and to some degree, his intelligence. A stimulating conversation could be riveting. She knew it was superficial at best, but she had no desire for anything deeper.

  Had she ever been in love? No. Did she hope to fall in love? Never. She was too independent for that. Becoming subordinate to some man was the last thing she had any intention of doing.

  So, why did it matter that Jason Sinclair had no interest in her?

  Sure, he was incredibly handsome, but so were all the others.

  Why obsess over this one?

  It had to be because he was unattainable. He was more than a challenge—he was a locked door. No, he wasn't married… wasn't engaged… didn't even have a girlfriend. But he wouldn't budge. And he hadn't once given her the satisfaction of a lustful glance; there was no indication that he found her attractive at all. In a moment of fr
ustration, when her not-so-subtle flirtations seemed to be making no headway, she'd outright asked him if he was gay. With a startled look, followed by calm understanding, he'd let out a laugh and shook his head.

  “No, I'm not gay,” he'd said, turning back to his painting with a wry expression.

  Nevertheless, what was a challenge if not a mountain to be scaled? Who wants to spear fish in a barrel? There was no skill in that. She could break him. And oh what a prize he would be.

  She licked her lips at the very thought of it—a lioness stalking her prey.

  Jason Sinclair was a realist artist and she had hired him to paint a mural in her living room. It was a big job too: a detailed garden. She had found his ad in the newspaper and had viewed his website to see his portfolio. Impressed with his artistic abilities, she called him up one day and offered him the job. But when he showed up at her door three weeks ago, she nearly choked on her pretty little tongue. He had to be one of the most beautiful men she'd ever seen.

  Yet from the start she'd noticed his lack of response to her coquetry; though perhaps he was merely stoic and would eventually come out of his shell. She was used to the gregarious sorts who lined the clubs and owned the dance floors. But maybe as an artist, Jason was of the reserved sort, aloof; disinclined to talk.

  In which case, drawing him out might prove to be a pleasure in itself.

  Chapter 2

  Dakota pulled a mug from a white kitchen cupboard and poured a cup of coffee from a stainless steel percolator. She added a spot of cream and dropped a slice of raisin bread into a matching toaster. Humming along to Madonna on the radio, she slid open her patio door and stepped out into the bright sunshine of an early Saturday morning.

  The flagstone patio was cool on the pads of her bare feet. Dew drops twinkled wherever sun rays caught them on the marigold and clematis shielding her fence line. The neatly trimmed floral plants and shrubs were her extravagant attempt to mask the fact that she lived in the city, closely surrounded by houses on every side; albeit nice houses, but houses nonetheless. What she wouldn't give for an ocean view or lake front. Or a tree that stood more than ten feet tall.

  Taking a seat at a glass patio table, she sipped her coffee, enjoying its bitter flavor. Jason would be arriving in an hour or so to continue work on the mural and she would try again to engage him in camaraderie.

  Rising, she slipped inside to butter her toast and replenish her coffee. A moment later, she was back outside, weekend paper spread open in front of her as she crunched on the sweet toast. When she'd finished with the paper, she resigned herself to gazing at the leafy branches of the crabapple tree in the left corner of her yard. From somewhere in its depths a songbird was singing.

  It was in these moments, these early weekend mornings, that she suffered an annoying sense of melancholy. The outskirts of her career and social life, where her inner self dwelt, was a void. Yet, she wouldn't call it loneliness or regret that crept out of the woodwork when her guard was down—it was more like the gnarled fingers of time threatening to take away her beauty and charm. Old age frightened her, but she consoled herself with assuming that old men would eventually become attractive as she herself grew old. All that mattered was whether or not she had the funds to pay for a luxurious retirement suite. Sure, she would miss the friskiness and smooth skin of youth; but because old age was so far off, she refused to dwell on it.

  This sense of vacancy was nothing more than paranoia—fear of the unknown future. It was safest to assume boredom because then she could always find a distraction quickly enough.

  Finishing the last of her coffee, Dakota took her dishes inside and headed upstairs to apply her makeup. She hadn't ventured out-of-doors without wearing makeup in over ten years. Not a single current acquaintance or peer had ever seen her without makeup, and they never would. It was something she was rigid about; not being able to bear the sight of her naked face for any longer than it took to apply a fresh coat of rouge.

  She entered the bathroom next to her bedroom and ran a brush through her wavy, ash-blond hair, pulling part of it back into a tiny sparkling clip. It hung in stylish layers part way down her back. To begin, she smoothed a layer of concealer and foundation over her face to hide her mild dusting of freckles. After that, she applied gray eyeliner around her almond-shaped eyes and spread a shimmer of khaki eyeshadow over her lids to accent her naturally green irises. Grabbing a mascara tube, she ran a coating of black over her long lashes and blinked twice to dry them. Satisfied with the Bambi look, she coated her lips with a soft peach lipstick. The final touch was a thin hoop earring in each ear and her chakra talisman necklace, which settled in the crook of her collarbones.

  She wore a lime-green top with fitted bodice and off-the-shoulder cap sleeves. The front of the shirt was cupped, making a bra unnecessary, and her cleavage filled it out perfectly with more than enough accentuation to entice a man's senses. A pair of white hipster shorts completed the outfit.

  Jason had to notice her this time.

  The doorbell rang a few minutes later. She hurried downstairs to answer it and taking a second to catch her breath, opened the door casually.

  Jason Sinclair stood on the doormat wearing paint clothes and holding a studio tote bag in his right hand. He smiled at her politely and followed her indoors as she gestured for him to do so. The living room was to the right of the deeply inset front door and as usual, she assured Jason he need not remove his shoes. The floor beneath the mural wall was covered with a protective sheet of plastic. In the living room, he set down his bag and dropped to one knee where he began assembling his supplies. She offered him a coffee, which he accepted, and she went to prepare it in the kitchen.

  When she returned to the living room, Jason was already at work on the wall. All of her furniture had previously been moved to the far side of the room. He was only working on the mural one half-day a week, and it would take him at least another month to complete. She hoped it would take even longer than that.

  He was painting a garden scene along two of the room's walls. “No loopy modern art,” she had explained. “I want this to look like my walls are made of glass and I'm looking out on a luscious bed of flowers.” So far, he was doing an amazing job and she was more than pleased. The fact that he was so good-looking merely added to her pleasure.

  “Here's your coffee,” she said as she returned to the living room, throwing on a sweet smile and handing him the mug. He took it from her with a pleasant smile of his own. He took a sip and asked her how her week was, hazel eyes warm but distant.

  She answered in a tranquil tone, being sure to gaze up at him from the corner of her eyes so that she could tilt her head coyly and thrust her chest toward him ever-so-slightly as she spoke. Seduction was an art form and she could wear a man down without him even realizing what she was up to; at least, not until he was already past the point of no return. Basically, that was the key to success.

  She realized suddenly that Jason was only listening to her out of tact. “Well, I won't keep you from your work,” she said sweetly, hiding a pout and stepping backward; pivoting. “If there's anything I can get you, just give me a whistle. I'll be out back enjoying the sun.” With a wink, she started out of the room, but hesitated—turning at the sound of him setting down his mug on a nearby step ladder.

  “Thanks, Ms. Reilly,” he said. “Great coffee, by the way.” With a smile directed her way, he dabbed some color onto his paint brush and was absorbed in his own world again.

  She continued on her way down the hall and poured herself another coffee, stepping outdoors. Already, she was bored again and somewhat sullen. She would much rather be back in the living room conversing with Jason.

  ***

  Dakota crossed a leg over her knee and lightly swung her pedicured foot back and forth. She examined her fingernails and gazed up at the blue sky. She peered at the crabapple tree and scowled when a neighboring kid tossed a beach ball over her fence. She stomped to where the ball had landed and flung i
t back over the fence. Then, hands on her hips, she gazed about the tiny yard and wondered for the umpteenth time why she'd bought a house in town rather than in the country.

  Workdays kept her busy enough to be content, but unless she found a dashing young man to spend the weekend with, weekends had a tendency to drag on long and dull. Like this one. She was no fool—Jason wouldn't be spending the night this night; she still had weeks of work ahead of her, maybe months. He wasn't an easy catch. Perhaps she should instead call up a girlfriend and arrange to go clubbing. It would help pass the time this weekend, at least.

  Mentally, she ran through her list of friends and decided to call Tiffany. She'd known Tiff for three years now and they always had a good time when they went out together. Theirs wasn't a close relationship by any means, but it didn't need to be. Most of the time, they kept each other company only so long as it took to catch a man's eye across a crowded room; then they parted ways. Basically, they used each other as social springboards. Both of them knew it too, but neither cared.

  With determined steps across her flagstone patio, Dakota stepped back into the kitchen. Leaving the sliding door open so the fresh air could billow in, she picked up a cordless phone and dialed her friend's number. From where she stood, she had a clear view down the hallway and into the living room where Jason was crouched. He was working on a cluster of flowers. Grape hyacinths. She watched him while she leaned against the counter. He didn't look her way and she wondered if he could sense her watching him. Was he pretending not to notice?

  He was wearing frayed jeans and a yellow tee, his dark shoes smudged with long-dried paint. His hair, a sandy blond, was short but long enough to curl at the nape of his neck, around his ears and over his hairline. A short lock hung partway down his forehead. She loved that hair… his eyes… and those strong shoulders that strained against his shirt as he moved the paintbrush up and down—