La Petite Mort Read online

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  Red Rose Publishing

  www.redrosepublishing.com

  Copyright ©2008 by Carolyn Gregg

  First published in 2008-08-28, 2008

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  HOMEPAGE URL: www.CarolynGregg.com

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  La Petite Mort

  By

  Carolyn Gregg

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  La Petite Mort by Carolyn Gregg

  Red Rose™ Publishing

  Publishing with a touch of Class! ™

  The symbol of the Red Rose and Red Rose is a trademark of Red Rose™ Publishing

  Red Rose™ Publishing

  Copyright© 2007 Carolyn Gregg

  ISBN: 978-1-60435-198-9

  ISBN: 1-60435-198-5

  Cover Artist: Brenda Porterr

  Editor: Lea Schizas

  Line Editor: Zena Gainer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Due to copyright laws you cannot trade, sell or give any ebooks away.

  Red Rose™ Publishing

  . www.redrosepublishing.com

  Forestport, NY 13338

  La Petite Mort

  By

  Carolyn Gregg

  Chapter One

  I want to die.

  Bria held off on that thought and knocked again on the boss's door, but the lack of response from inside told her Angie had stepped out. A quick glance at her watch revealed it was almost half past two. Angie always took her lunch around eleven, which meant the woman had more going on this afternoon other than her usual BLT down at Cyril's Bar and Deli.

  Sighing, she opened the door and entered. These new specs had to be delivered to Rassen Enterprises before five p.m. today. If Angie didn't make the deadline, she wouldn't be able to blame anyone but herself for the flub.

  Bria snorted as she propped the disk against the woman's computer monitor. Oh, yeah. Let her say she couldn't find it this time!

  Forget it, Bria, a little voice inside her head argued. If there's any way the woman can foist both her responsibilities and her subsequent fuck-ups on someone else, she will. And that someone is you, as you well know. She'll miss the deadline, like she has in the past, and will again in the future. And when she does, you'll become her whipping post all over again. Whipped, filleted, strung up, and left out to dry. Damn it.

  I want to die.

  That nagging little demon was back, riding inside her ear like an irritating fly that couldn't be shooed away. Every so often it would open its mouth and whisper sweet, demented nothings in her ear. Just recently—just as her life was seriously heading for hell in a hand basket—it had started a new, more morose litany.

  I want to die.

  Giving herself a mental shake, Bria turned to walk out of the office and return to her stuffy little cubicle when her eyes caught sight of a piece of paper sticking out of the woman's trash can. Normally, Angie's trash didn't interest her. All of the important papers, especially the ones that could prove to be damaging to Angie's reputation if ever she was dragged into court, those papers always went into the shredder. The little aluminum receptacle was relegated to unimportant items like empty coffee cups, used tissues ... and this brown colored object that caught her eye. It was expensive-looking and covered with elaborate print, and definitely out of place in Angie's faux shabby chic office.

  Pulling it out, Bria surreptitiously palmed the paper against her skirt and left the office. It wasn't until she was safely ensconced back in her private little domain that she lifted the heavy cardstock and read what she'd pilfered.

  No, not pilfered. The woman had thrown it away, so obviously it was garbage to her, Bria argued with herself. The trashcan sat against the wall behind the desk. Bria had placed it there to make sure nothing else “fell” off Angie's desk and got accidentally thrown away, as the woman insisted in the past had happened whenever her work failed to appear on time. If the paper was in file thirteen, then it was because Angela Bergman deliberately put it there. So even if Angie caught her with it, there was no way Bria could be accused of theft ... again.

  You can't steal what's already been tossed out, and everyone knows what's one man's trash could be another man's treasure.

  The trash in question was an invitation to a masquerade ball. And not any masquerade ball. The annual Midnight Fantasies Masquerade Ball.

  Sitting back in her chair, Bria tried to absorb the implications. Angie Bergman threw away an invitation to what many considered to be the most exclusive, most sought-after, most prized event of the year? What was that woman smoking?

  Midnight Fantasies was said to be “THE club to end all clubs". The fact that it was located on a privately owned island only enhanced its mystery. But those who had attended in the past often spoke of fulfilled fantasies, most of them the sexual kind. The paparazzi was forced to observe from the shore as the rich, the famous, and the well-connected were shuttled by ferry to the castle-like mansion located almost two miles off-shore. And that was only the social aspect of it. Monetarily, the event raised ungodly sums of millions for charity.

  Bria stared at the card. Like many people, she read all the juicy news after every ball, which took place the last weekend of October. The guest list was kept as secret as the combination to the safe at Fort Knox. Why in the hell would Angie pass up this kind of opportunity? There was no doubt she'd thrown it away. There was a coffee stain streaking one corner, which Bria wiped away.

  If the quality of the invite was any indication, no expense was spared for the event. Bria felt the texture of the paper, noting the barely perceptible watermark embossed on the back. More intriguing, though, was the simple phrase “explore your wildest fantasies” written in heavy black ink deeply embedded in the finely woven rag content.

  Explore my wildest fantasies? How much simpler could it be?

  I want to die.

  Finding this invitation was almost as good as having her dreams come true. She was depressed enough and just desperate enough to take the chance.

  Shit! There's not much time. The ball is Saturday night. That's the day after tomorrow. How am I going to find a costume in just two days?

  She flipped the invitation over, searching for the RSVP. It wasn't on the card she held. Maybe it had been included in the original envelope. What if Angie hadn't answered it? Or if she had, would they let Bria in anyway? For that matter, should she even try to pass herself off as her boss?

  The Ball was a noted charitable event. She had a little over thirty-eight thousand dollars in savings that she could immediately get to. Hopefully, it would be enough.

  A noise outside her cubicle alerted her to the fact that Angie was
back, and she wasn't in a good mood. Hastily, Bria stuffed the invitation into her purse before checking to see what the woman was complaining about now. But for the rest of the day, the paperback book size sheet of vellum was never far from Bria's mind.

  By five that evening, she'd made up her mind to take the risk. To hell with the consequences. If they discovered she wasn't the person to whom the invitation had originally been sent, so what? After all, what could anyone do to her if she was already dead?

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Two

  Torch lights illuminated the huge castle-like mansion where the ball was taking place. Bria stared at the multiple spires with their mullioned windows with a gnawing hunger that had nothing to do with the need for food. Tonight she would be granted her ultimate wish, her penultimate fantasy, and her nerves were so tightly strung, the synapses were singing in anticipation. Her skin was dry and damp at the same time. Her mouth felt like it was clogged with cotton balls.

  It had taken her all day Friday and Saturday to figure out what to wear. After all, what did one wear to one's own death? And in the midst of a masquerade ball, at that?

  Careful snooping and a few well-placed questions only revealed that just about anything would be acceptable in the form of a disguise. Which meant that a trip to a costume shop had been part of the agenda. Endless searching, and more than a dozen try-ons later, Bria had settled on a Grecian toga of sorts. The layers of material were diaphanous. Even after wrapping it around her, it was still almost completely see-through; but the store clerk assured Bria she had the figure to pull it off.

  "Did you know Grecian women loved to drench themselves in water to highlight their attributes?” the woman grinned. “With your dark, naturally curly hair, you could be the spitting image of one of those models on their mosaics or urns. By the way,” the clerk added in a conspiratorial tone of voice, “be sure to go braless, but wear some little something down below so your thatch won't be so prominent."

  Red-faced, Bria had nodded and hustled out of the shop. Yet, once she put the costume on again, secured her hair up on top of her head, and added a gold cuff as her only jewelry, the final results were superb. The Greek goddess Bria was ready to descend from Mount Olympus and honor the common mortals below with her presence.

  As the moon rose above the horizon, she drove to the outskirts of town, and the secluded stretch of beach where the island's parking lot was located. A man dressed as a knight, complete with chain mail and tabard, merely glanced at her invitation before helping her onto the ferry that would take her over to the event. There were three other people with her on the brief ride. They were all dressed in different outfits—a cowboy, an Egyptian pharaoh, and a super heroine complete with cape. No one spoke, much less attempted to engage in conversation.

  Once they docked at the island, another knight escorted them to one of three open carriages, each one driven by two pristine white horses that took them through a small forest, and finally up the main drive to the mansion. As she was helped from the conveyance, Bria handed over the invitation to the Musketeer standing in the doorway.

  The place boiled with activity. Kings, satyrs, belly dancers, and princesses in medieval finery—the flowing wall of color and flesh was overwhelming. With every passing minute, Bria realized she didn't know these people. And, in truth, she didn't belong here. The invitation hadn't been meant for her, so her being here could be legitimately argued as fraud.

  She turned to see if she could escape back outside and make her way back to the ferry when a fresh wave of costumed revelers came through the door, blocking her exit. Almost panicking, Bria turned to see a huge set of double doors leading to another room. She headed toward them.

  Buffet tables and drinks trays piled high with nearly everything edible imaginable filled this room adjacent to the entryway. Music filtered in from the ballroom next door—loud but not overwhelming. Not knowing much about music, Bria couldn't tell whether the live orchestra played a tarantella, or a minuet, or a waltz. Did people actually dance to it? It didn't seem to matter anyway. The costumed guests appeared to be unaware of the entertainment as they meandered from room to room and indulged.

  All right. The hosts were taking care of the basic needs. So where was the person taking the fantasy orders?

  "May I be of service?"

  The sudden, deep voice coming from behind Bria startled her. She hoped the white cotton half mask over her eyes helped to hide a lot of her confusion, and disguised most of her embarrassment when she turned around to see who was talking to her.

  The man towered over her. With glossy black hair and the deepest blue eyes she had ever seen on a man, his face alone was enough to stop traffic. He wore no mask, which surprised her. But what concerned her was not his alarming good looks. Nor was it those impossibly wide shoulders, complete with Superman muscles. No. It was the tiny white skirt he wore below the wide, gold belt about his narrow waist. A skirt that was barely long enough to cover his buttocks in the back.

  Dear Lord! I hope he's wearing something underneath it, was her first thought, until the little devil sitting on her shoulder firmly rebuked her. Five will get you twenty he's not. Betcha if he gets a hard-on, it would peek right past the hem. What a bitch to discover a man who looked better in a short skirt than most women did.

  "We seem to make a couple,” the man continued, either oblivious to her staring, or not caring about the way she was ogling him. In fact, by the time Bria managed to drag her eyes back up to his, he was smiling.

  "Uhh ... a couple?"

  Laughing softly, the man indicated her toga and his similar attire. “I'm Hercules. And you are ... who? Athena? Or perhaps Hera, the queen of the gods."

  She had to have a personification? Bria opened the rusty gates on her mental files regarding Greek and Roman gods. Vague memories of an old college class came back to her, until a name clicked into place.

  "I'm Persephone, spending what time I have here on this earth to attend this masked ball,” she managed to reply without stammering.

  "Ah. Persephone. Queen of the underworld. I am honored to make your acquaintance.” The man bowed over her hand before pressing his lips to the back of her wrist. The feel of his mouth on her skin sent a warm flood of desire surging through her, soaking the tiny thong she was wearing and leaving her moist between the thighs. Unconsciously, her eyes darted to the tiny skirt, but nothing stirred.

  "My real name..."

  "Ah!” Hercules wagged a forefinger at her as his eyes sparkled with amusement. “No real anything. Not tonight. Tonight we are whoever we wish to be, doing whatever we so desire. And what is your desire, my queen?"

  Well, hell, Bria. Now's your chance. Go for it!

  "I want to die."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Three

  The words were out before she was aware she'd said them. Her eyes remained glued to the tall hunk standing so intimately close, toga and skirt nearly merged. She waited for the look of condemnation or shock to cross his face. Strangely, Hercules gave her a small, sad smile.

  "May I ask why you wish to die?"

  "Because I'm ready. Because there's nothing left for me.” Reaching under her toga, she pulled out the white envelope containing her savings. “This is all I have,” she started to offer him. The man stayed her hand.

  "Take back your money, My Queen. We can deal with that later."

  Someone passed by. Hercules gave a nod to acknowledge the man's greeting. He also gave a signal to someone behind Bria. She assumed the man was well-known.

  "Are you one of the hosts of this ball?” she asked, hoping it would lessen the growing discomfort she was feeling. Although she was on the verge of thinking she had made a mistake in coming here, she was closer to believing she should have kept her mouth shut and just soaked in the ambience of the place. Have some fun, do a little flirting, and maybe have a harmless tryst afterwards.

  Oh, yeah, and wake up the next morning to pr
epare yourself for the coming week. Another opportunity to tackle the world and your asshole boss on Monday.

  Hercules slid a tall glass of something cold into her hand. “No,” he said, answering her question. “That honor goes to Madame Diana. I am simply one of her humble servants here to mingle among the guests. And to ... see to their every need.” The insinuation slid under her skin, setting fire to her blood vessels like they were tinder. Her eyes dropped to see his long fingers still curled around the glass. As she watched, he released the glass and slid over her hand, lightly caressing the skin between her thumb and forefinger before delicately brushing across her wrist.

  Without realizing it, her eyes went from his hand to the slight movement of the white skirt. She stared as the material moved again, this time lifting upward. There was no doubt in her mind what was causing the skirt to move.

  Bria fought against the heat washing over her. The room suddenly grew stuffy and too closed in. The door leading out to the foyer was right behind Hercules, but before she could make a move, the man seemed to read her mind.

  "You need to drink,” he told her, helping to lift the glass to her lips. “Nectar of the gods. It will help to clear your head."

  Indeed, the liquid was cold, sweet, and packed a punch in its aftermath. Gasping, Bria breathed past the alcohol sliding down her throat. “Whoa. Potent."

  Hercules chuckled. “Feeling better?"

  "Yes. Yes, I am. Thank you."

  "Just being a good host. So, tell me, My Queen, regarding your wish to die, did you have any particular way or method in mind to accomplish this feat?"

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Four

  The second swallow cleared her head. By the third sip, all sense of trepidation had sunk into the floor. Bria cleared her throat and gave him her best smile before she answered. “I want to be fucked to death."

  "Oh?"

  Bammo! That one had his thick eyebrows crawling up into his hairline. She desperately wanted to look down to see if what she felt nudging her hip was what she hoped it was.