Title: Perfect Obsession
Author: Sophia Karlson
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Cover Designer: Diana Carlile
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Editor: Ally Robertson
Publication Date: December 13th, 2019
Hosted by: Lady Amberâs PR
Chris Summers needs purpose to come to grips with his new disability and save his own sanity. A friend's offer to get involved in an architectural photobook as the professional photographer is the only solution. The project allows him to work with his friend's sister, Julia Carlevaro, a luxury hotel heiress, who has sworn off men, love, and some other things she prefers to keep to herself.
Once on location in East Africa, Chris and Julia work long hours together to meet their looming deadline. The attraction between them is palpable but Julia sticks to her no-men resolve and to her secrets.
After a shooting accident that leaves Chris unhinged, he is forced to reveal the true nature of the incident that led to his disability. His cards are on the table, and Julia will need to show hers, or let go of their one chance for love.
Sophia Karlson has lived in France, Germany, Tanzania, Madagascar (not the movie, the country) and now finds herself in Toronto, Canada. As a teenager, she devoured romances with far-flung settings, loving to travel through books. After school, her itchy feet took her around the world, but now she doesn't get much further than the school run and the daily walk with her two demanding beagles. She writes contemporary and erotic romance with the aim of taking readers on a journey of their own.
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Website - www.sophiakarlson.com
Amazon - https://amzn.to/2CLxrQB
Perfect Mistake â https://books2read.com/u/bxvx7e
Perfect Obsession â https://books2read.com/u/bO6DMo
Chris Summers shifted in the taxiâs leather seat and bumped his knee against his cane. The elegant bit of wood slipped down to the floor, and he cursed the thing for the umpteenth time that day. It had been months now, and he still hadnât quite gotten used to having it as his constant companion. He bent to pick up the cane and settled it next to him on the seat.
Heâd arrived in Italy forty minutes ago, and he could tell that it was at least six degrees warmer in Rome than in London. The warmer temperature soothed his legâmaybe moving to a warmer climate would save his sanity.
Had bloody Heathrow always been so big? Traipsing from London to Rome had been more taxing than heâd expected. His leg pulsed a consistent beat of pain, reminding him that his doctors hadnât exactly approved this trip. But heâd no longer cared. His fleet of doctors, therapists and family were competing to see who could drive him up the wall first. The best cure for him was to get out and away, as it had always been.
What he really needed was to get back on the job, in whichever form it was going to take. He gazed out of the taxiâs window, catching glimpses of Romeâs antiquities. The drive to the Carlevaro estate on the Appia Antica was riddled with photo opportunities, yet the familiar need to get out his camera and take photos was glaringly absent. What was the point?
His lack of enthusiasm was his biggest worry and one of the reasons heâd considered his friend Carlo Carlevaroâs offer. It wasnât quite an offer yet, but after the weekend something might be on the cards. Carlo had spoken about a hotel book, and the Carlevaros didnât own just any hotels. It sounded like a prestigious project and would put his name back in print. But it was really the complete change of subject matter, environment, and function as photographer that he was after. He needed a burst of sunlight on his clouded soul. Something to revive the passion that had bled out of him that godforsaken day he got shot in Syria.
As they turned into the driveway to the estate, he swallowed the two painkillers he took three times a day ever since heâd gotten off the stronger injections. Today of all days they didnât seem enough, but it was because heâd overexerted himself. Or was it?
He shrugged off the thought as the taxi pulled up under the portico. A tall blonde in jeans and a gray cashmere jersey came out of the double doors of the house; a little girl with spiral curls skipped in her wake.
He couldnât help grinning on seeing Carloâs wife, Simone, and four-year-old daughter, Sarah, for the first time.
âChris?â Simone smiled as he got out of the taxi. âIâll have you know that Iâm starved for English conversation!â
They shook hands. âThe lovely Simone, lost in Rome?â Carloâs description of Simone fitted her perfectly...a Venus who didnât suffer from goddess syndrome.
âThat can only be Carloâs one-liner.â Simone laughed as she swung his laptop bag over her shoulder and took his carry-on cabin bag. âSay hello to Chris, Sarah.â
Sarah gave him a cheeky stare before hiding behind her motherâs legs. He winked at her, feeling lighter. Here, at least, life had allowed everything to fall perfectly into place.
âItâs nice to finally meet you,â he said, wanting to take his bags from her, but she shook her head.
âLikewise.â She gave his shoulder a soft squeeze. âCome on, thereâs a fire going inside, and Iâve made hot chocolate.â
âWith marshmallows,â Sarah chirped.
âHot chocolate sounds great. And I love marshmallows.â Chris smiled and followed them into the house.
âCarlo should have been here already, but something came up at the office.â Simone walked toward the elegant staircase that curved to the second floor. Sarah was halfway up the stairs already. âLet me show you your room, and you can get comfortable. Itâs up here.â
Looking at the stairs, he stifled a disheartened groan. It was a two-story building but of old-fashioned proportions. The staircase followed suit. Simone stopped short of the first step, turning to him.
He hesitated. âThis might take time.â
Her eyes dropped to his cane, and she raised a hand to her lips. âIâm sorry, I didnât realize.â
âNo problem. I can do them slowly.â
She worried her bottom lip. âCarlo didnât say anything.â
âHe...Iââ Chris looked away. Making a fuss was the last thing he wanted. He hadnât seen Carlo since the incident and the operations which followed. Carlo knew what had happened but had no idea of the exact state of his leg. There was no way Simone could have a clue.
âJuliaâs cottage in the garden will work better. Itâs mostly level, and thereâs ample space.â Simone nodded, seeming pleased with this idea. âCarloâs sister wonât mind.â
His gut tightened. The last thing he wanted to do was to impose on someone he didnât know, even if she was Carloâs sister. At this rate, heâd prefer a hotel with a lift. âDonât worry about it, please, Simone. Iâll manage.â
She shook her head as she pulled her mobile from her jeans pocket. âYouâll be going up and down these stairs the whole weekend and wish youâd never visited. Come down, Sarah!â
Simone stepped away as she made a call. He politely turned his back to give her privacy and studied an old Italian painting on the wall closest to him, trying to suppress the budding frustration at the situation he had no control over.
Simone spoke quietly for a minute then returned to him. âYes, yes...See you soon. Love you too.â As she wrapped up the call she smiled at him, her embarrassment gone. âItâs all arranged. Carlo will talk to Julia, and heâll be home soon.â
This time he got hold of his cabin bag before she could reach for it again.
âCome on, out to the cold again, Iâm afraid.â She led them out of the front door. The pavement of the driveway continued on a path which disappeared into a sculpted garden. The path was wide enough for them to walk abreast, and Simone slowed her long strides to his pace, with Sarah twirling ahead of them. Statues hid in topiary alcoves of evergreen shrubs, and even in February, the garden was vibrant. About a hundred meters from the main house, the pathway opened to a modern building, which could hardly be described as a cottage.
The stark architectural design was in such contrast to his expectations that Chris laughed. âWhen you said cottage, I expected something different.â
âI know. They got me the first time around as well.â Simone chuckled as she took her daughterâs hand. âCarloâs brother designed it. Itâs Angeloâs dream house, but heâs in Tanzania managing the business there.â
Chris stopped for a moment to take it in. It was a single-story building, with the exception of a room which protruded over an outside sitting area, supported by nothing, floating in space. A glass-fenced swimming pool stretched the length of the house, catching the last
of the afternoon light. Outside lighting illuminated the houseâs exterior, casting a warm glow over the concrete walls and veranda. âItâs impressive. Julia lives here alone?â
âYes.â Pausing, Simone took a deep breath and sighed out a cloud of warm fog into the winter air. âShe used to live with Carlo in the main house, but when we got married, she moved here.â
âSounds fair enough.â
âShe said sheâll look after Angeloâs place for him, but she couldâve stayed on with us. Itâs not as if there is a lack of space around here.â
He sensed her hesitation, as if she wanted to tell him more, but at the last moment she swallowed her thoughts before they could slip off her tongue. The cold crept into his bones, and his muscles protested. Chris shifted all his weight to his good leg, a subtle movement which caught Simoneâs attention.
âIâm sorry, here I ramble on and itâs so cold today. The main entrance is on the other side, but this is quicker.â
They navigated the enclosed swimming pool and Simone pulled open a sliding door to let him in.
The interior of the house was equally stark and rigid. A staircase was suspended off the wall, leading to the room which hung over the outside veranda.
âThe stairs go to the master bedroom where Julia sleeps,â Simone said. âAngelo designed the house with the views in mind, and from up there theyâre truly spectacular.â
âIâll take your word for it.â Chris eyed the stairs, which had no railing. Heâd never suffered from vertigo, but the possibility of stumbling was a new reality he didnât want to toy with.
âIâll put your things in the first bedroom,â Simone said as she took his bag. âDonât touch anything on the tables, Sarah. Julia is busy with a project which has taken over the lounge.â
He followed Sarahâs patter to the lounge. It was incongruous with the rest of the architectural splendor of the house. A shocking pink plastic dollâs house stood in one corner, next to a box overflowing with toys. Makeshift tables lined the walls, and cartons were stacked in alphabetical order on them. The lounge set was crammed into the window corner and the coffee table was piled high with glossy books.
He crossed to the tables where photos were laid out. The photos were older, taken in the seventies, early eighties. He idly fingered one of the photos; it was of a bull elephant with the longest tusks heâd ever seen.
âDonât touch nothing,â a little voice peeped.
It came from under the table and he suppressed a chuckle. âIâm not touching anything, Sarah.â He kept his tone serious but wanted to laugh. âPromise.â
He cruised along the tables and paused at a photo layout of two men. They looked like brothers, smiling in several photosâin one leaning against a Land Rover, in another one of the men stood by a small aircraft with a bottle of champagne in his hand. A pile of typed notes was stacked next to it. He picked it up and started to read, when a sudden cold draft swept through the room, sending photos and notes aflutter.
âGood grief, where did that come from?â Simone came rushing from the corridor. âDonât get anything mixed up, Julia has been working on this for months.â
He covered the quivering photos which threatened to take flight again with his hands and glanced to where Simone was closing the sliding door.
For the first time, he noticed the life-size black and white framed photograph of a dancer on the double volume wall in his peripheral. His breath caught as he took in the image. The dancer was dressed only in a heavy, long and voluminous black skirt, holding a pose with her back to the photographer, arms and hands poised in ballerina grace above her head, her left leg raised to shoulder height, balancing en pointe on the right. Her dark hair was curled into a loose bun, leaving her back naked. She was topless, the muscles of her arms and back flexed in equal grace and strength.
The visual was strikingly beautiful and utterly erotic, making his heart beat in double pace. The idea that she could turn and reveal the fullness of her breasts stirred him to his core, and his groin responded. His body pulsed with desire. God, he wished he had taken that photo. It had been ages since heâd experienced such an intense reaction to an image.
This was what every photographer wanted to createâemotionsâwhether the emotion was desire or something else. In an instant, all inspiration flooded back to him, and his hands itched empty without a camera.
He wanted to photograph that dancer, every inch of her. And keep the photos to himself.
Julia stared at the brochure of their picture-perfect tropical island resort and suppressed the nausea churning in her stomach. It was a lovely brochure, but the photos were dated. Refurbishments had changed many things at their lodges in the past year. She was responsible for the new marketing campaign, which included an updated website and
coffee table photo book. Capturing the beauty of Carlevaroâs East Africa lodges on paper wouldnât be easy, and the thought of the task ahead twisted her stomach in a knot of stress.
The photo shoots were due to begin in two weeks, and she still hadnât signed up a photographer. The contract for Matthias Schmidt had been burning a hole in her desk the past week. Schmidt was the perfect fit for Carlevaro International, but Carlo still hadnât approved the contract.
Carlo was half the problem.
In frustration, she tossed the Carlevaro Private Island brochure to the corner of her desk, where it missed a line of empty espresso cups by an inch and slid to the floor. Her older brother ruled Carlevaro and had vetoed every photographer sheâd proposed.
Yes, no ordinary photographer would do for their bookâthey needed a name, preferably a famous one. But if they kept on banging heads over who the photographer should be her project wouldnât take off, never mind meet the deadline. As if that was an optionâtheyâd paid a ludicrous deposit for the bookâs launch event: a gala dinner at the annual International Travel Market in London. Invitations had left the building a month ago. Five hundred of their top safari agents and the whoâs who of the tourism industry would be there. They would present the new website, and the photo book had to be there, tangible, beautiful, and doing justice to the Carlevaro founders, her father and her uncle, and the
heritage theyâd left them.
Her stomach settled in a nauseating twist; the sensation had become a permanent fixture because it was more than that. This book would make or break her, not only her fragile standing in the family business but the very essence of her being, which balanced precariously on a narrow, trembling surface.
For a moment she closed her eyes. Beyond this project, there was nothing if she didnât prove herself. She cupped her hands to her mouth, taking in deep, slow breaths. On each exhale she let her inner voice calm her, counting, conscious of the number of days,
then repeating that sheâd be fine.
A knock on her open office door made her jerk up her head.
Carlo stood in the door, pulling on his coat. âCome on, Julia. Call it a day.â
âWhat?â She glanced at the time on her computer screen. It was only three in the afternoon, and it might be Friday, but she still hadnât sent Schmidtâs contract to him. Her to-do list was longer than her arm, and she added more things to it daily, while hardly ticking anything off.
âChris Summers arrived from London and is at the house.â
The name rang a bell, but she couldnât place it.
âAn old schoolmate of mine from the UK. Heâs visiting for the weekend.â
âAnd?â She had no idea how this impacted her. She liked her weekends clean and simple. Firstly, a good few hours of dancing each morning, and for the rest, she pottered around with Sarah, or worked on the bane of her existence: The Book Project.
âCome on.â Carlo had finished pulling on his coat and was playing with his car keys.
She hadnât stirred. âI still have so much to doâthe contract for Matthias Schmidt, which you still havenât signed, by the way, must be sent off today.â Julia rummaged through some papers on her desk to look for the contract. âNow that youâre here, can we deal with
âIâm not signing it now. Letâs go.â
Why did she sense he was never going to sign Schmidtâs contract? And why did her car need to be in for a service right now? Since Carlo got married to Simone and sheâd moved out of his space, any dependence on him grated on her. Recalling how sheâd leaned on him in the past made her want to bury her head in shame.
âYou need a break, Julia. Burning out is not going to get this project done.â Carlo walked into her office and hovered. He probably wanted to pull her physically from her desk by the hand, but he would never touch her. Since that horrible night five years ago, any physical contact with Carlo had become the ultimate no-go zone.
âIn any case, you need to come and meet Chris. Heâs staying with you.â
What? This was news. âWith me? Whatever for?â
The old family house where Carlo lived in Romeâs Appia Antica had room aplenty. She was in no mental space to share her house with a male, never mind an unknown one.
âSimone phoned me. Chris canât do the stairs so I promised her Iâd speak to you about him staying with you instead.â Carlo sighed. âNow that Iâve spoken to you, can we go?â
She frowned, piqued at both Carloâs overbearing attitude and the fact that this Chris âcanât do the stairs.â Why ever not? But...if Chris couldnât do the stairs in Carloâs house, there was no way heâd be able to take the stairs in her house. Heâd be on the ground floor
only. She could live with that. It was only for the weekend.
Huffing out a sigh, she put the contract for Schmidt to the side, stood and gathered her handbag and coat. âIs he one of your Eton cronies?â
âYes. He didnât finish school at Eton, but weâve always kept in touch.â
At least Chris Summers would be acting the gentleman, if nothing else.