Zodiac Rising - The Air Signs: Zodiac Rising, #2

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Gina and Gemma (Gemini)

Gina and Gemma Twining, twins that couldn’t be more dissimilar, or maybe they’re just two sides of the same coin. Gina is the writer, determined to write gritty novels, revealing the seamy underside of mankind. Gemma is an artist, determined to paint the world in soft pastels seen through rose-colored glasses.

The sisters are vacationing in London when Gemma meets the man of her dreams. Suspicious by nature and wanting to protect her naïve sister, Gina pulls the old twin switch. But pretending to be Gemma and checking out the love of her sister’s life proves to be dangerous for Gina’s heart as well. Which twin will win this perfect Brit?

Libby (Libra)

Libby Balanca spends her days negotiating divorce settlements and the last thing she wants to do is negotiate between her two best friends. Krystal and Ana have been fighting over everything for the past year. The latest fight is over hot divorce lawyer, Dan Steadman.

Dan spends his days protecting women dumped by their husbands after twenty or thirty years of marriage and he’s determined not to turn into one of those scumbags. He avoids marriage by playing the field but now he’s dating Libby’s two friends, Krystal and Ana. That he can handle. What he can’t handle is his feelings for Libby, and if he doesn’t find a way to break off with Krystal and Ana without breaking their hearts, he’ll lose Libby forever.

Aquaria (Aquarius)

Aquaria, conceptual artist (although she’d created nothing), free spirit (although she likes the life provided by her fishing captain father), a woman who wants to get as far away from fish and fishermen as she can. But until she can wheedle the money out of her father, she’s stuck in the tiny seaport town she’d grown up in.

Javier, Javy to his friends and family, loves the sea, and as a third generation fisherman, has no intention of giving up the life he was born for. But when he meets Aquaria, nearly running her down in the dark with his bike, he’s soon faced with a choice that could tear him apart; his love or his life.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Description

Gina and Gemma

Libby

Aquaria

Contact

Copyright

GINA AND GEMMA

GINA

Gina and Gemma, GinaandGemma, GinaNGemma, GinGem. Our names had become almost a mantra. Gemma didn't mind. She just laughed it off. But I hated it.

No, I didn't really hate it, because if I hated that we were so linked together, I would hate my sister and it's impossible to hate a twin. It would be like hating yourself.

But we weren't alike. Not really. Gemma was the smart one, the happy one. I was the dark side of Gemma's light. At least that's how I saw myself.

Once, I tried to explain to Gemma, but she'd just laughed that beautiful, sweet laugh of hers and told me not to be ridiculous. She told me I was a lovely person and I just needed to have more confidence in myself.

Sure, right. When we were kids and tried to pull the old twin-switcheroo, it never worked. Everyone knew I wasn't Gemma and Gemma wasn't me. She smiled and laughed all the time, and I just tried to stay in the background so I wouldn't look like the wicked stepsister.

Fat chance of that. Gemma made sure I was never alone, practically forcing me into conversations. She made me dance with boys, but I was so awkward next to Gemma's grace that I dug in my heels and refused until she got the hint and left me alone.

Dammit, I liked being a wallflower. I liked sitting back and observing. If I wanted to be a writer (and I hadn't even told Gemma about that secret ambition), I needed to learn as much as I could about people.

Gemma wanted to be an artist and she spent as much time sketching as I did observing. Gemma drew people in a way that made the subject so much more than they were. No, she didn't shorten noses or trim waists. She saw the inner beauty in everyone and was able to translate that onto her sketch pad.

I saw the depths of despair and one day hoped to write gritty novels that exposed the soft underbelly of our rotten society.

See? Like I told you. Different as night and day.

When we went away to college (my sister insisted we room together), Gemma took one look at my course schedule and my secret was out.

Gemma! I didn't know you wanted to write! I'm so thrilled.

Yeah, well, been sort of thinking about it, I mumbled.

Have you written anything, yet? Can I see it? You will let me design your book covers for you, won't you?

There she was, planning this happy future for the two of us together. Typical. But I had my own plans.

As soon as my first novel was published or I graduated college, whichever came first, I was off to India or Africa or someplace to work with the poor. Not that I was particularly altruistic. I just thought the experience would give me a lot to write about.

The stories in my head weren't enough. I needed to experience real life at its lowest level. I should have been a beatnik, living in a black room, surrounded by burning candles in Chianti bottles, listening to bad poetry.

If I did that, though, Dad would surely cut off my allowance, and losing the Twining fortune (not the tea people) would wreck all my plans. But if I was off doing good, Mom and Dad would be so proud and the bucks would continue to flow into my wallet.

Now graduation was looming on the horizon and the parents were sending us on a three month tour of Europe. England, Spain, France, Italy, Switzerland, Austria, Germany. We'd visited many times, usually just for a week or two, but this was to be like the Grand Tour the Brits used to send their young men on in the nineteenth century.  Heaven.

I couldn't resist. It wouldn't hurt to absorb some human interest from the viewpoint of the rich and famous.  I'd wait until we got back to join the Peace Corps and put my plan into action.

London. The National Gallery. VanGogh and all that beautiful torment on canvas. What a wonderfully dark soul. Now why couldn't Gemma paint like that?

Gemma wanted to go back again the next day, but I pleaded a headache so I could stay behind. I didn't want to spoil her fun, but I couldn't take another day feigning interest in all those Italian Madonnas and portraits of smug archbishops. Yuck.

As soon as Gemma was out the door, reluctant to leave me behind, of course, I ordered up a pot of black coffee and some of those decadent English cream cakes. A serious social faux pas as I was about to discover when the room service guy brought my order.

This is tea, I said, giving him my most withering look. I ordered coffee.

Beg pardon, Miss. I thought it might have been a mistake, since one usually has tea with cake.

Lordy. Not only did this guy talk like someone out of a Jane Austen novel, but he was actually looking down his nose at me! He must have been studying butling (butlering?) in night school.

Doesn't one usually have tea in the afternoon and coffee in the morning? I simpered. Now he had me acting like one of the Bennett girls. I almost had to restrain myself from batting my eyelashes like Scarlett O'Hara. I was certainly feeling literary this morning and not like the literature I usually read.

My mistake, Miss. I shall send a boy up with your coffee directly.

I watched as he backed out of the door, bent in a half bow. Was this guy for real?

But the glance he flashed me from surprisingly deep blue eyes just before closing the door was about as unbutlery as you could get. He must have thought I was Gemma, because nice guys never looked at me like that. I liked the bad boys and the bad boys liked me.

And while I was thinking about it, I realized I was way overdue in the bad boy department. These English boys were just too nicey-nicey for words.

Paris was next on the agenda and I couldn't wait to meet some hot French guys who knew what the score was. Englishmen probably said please and thank you during sex. The very thought sent a shiver up my spine and not the kind of shiver that I wanted.

I didn't sleep around. No, not me. Treating sex like a sport could dry up the creative juices. I need to keep my edge. I need to experience the human condition in all its variations in order to be able to write the kind of books I want to write, but since I won't be writing silly romance novels I wouldn't need that kind of experience.

The plain truth, if I'm going to be honest (and I have to be honest in my life if I'm going to be honest in my writing), is that no one had yet sent the right shiver up my spine. Frustrating.

And what about Gemma? She certainly had her pick of the men. But even though she was very social, I knew there was something held back in reserve. A part of her she wouldn't or couldn't let go of with anyone else but me. Maybe it was that special bond of sharing a tiny, floating universe in the womb, a world that was all our own.

A discreet knock on the door made me jump and I jammed the cream cake I was about to bite into my upper lip.

Coming, I mumbled around the crisp linen napkin I was using to wipe my mouth. Didn't want Mr-Stiff-Upper-Lip to catch me with icing all