Title: Beautiful
Lies
Author: Gina
Whitney
Genre: Erotic Romance
Synopsis:Enigmatic Cameron Sterling is quickly rising through the ranks
at New York’s most prestigious and corrupt law firm Wotherspoon and Associates.
He has willfully avoided any meaningful personal relationships and is content
to casually hook up with Becky, a young woman who fancies herself as his actual
girlfriend. As a child, Cam witnessed his father murder his mother, and this
was the genesis of his relationship-avoidance issue. The only thing he cares
about now is becoming a partner at Wotherspoon and Associates. Cam is obsessed
with the promotion and will not let anything—or anyone—stand in his way.
But
when Cam crosses paths with Lilly Amsel, a fashion model, the edges of his well
laid plans begin to fray. At first, Cam is unimpressed by Lilly’s exaggerated
effervescence and entitled air. However, he is taken aback by her incredible
beauty—legs as long as an Amazon’s, silky honeyed-hair, and blazing body. This
undeniable physical attraction disturbs Cam on all levels, leaving him
intrigued by Lilly and wanting to get away from her at the same time.
Lilly
is strongly aroused by Cam’s moody presence. His dark, erotic looks and heady
scent ignite long-dormant embers of wanton desire buried deep within her.
Practically hypnotized, she finds her body reacting in the most surprising and
carnal of ways. However, the two separate and never expect to see each other
again, but somehow they manage to still linger on each other. Lilly’s
larger-than-life persona that Cam initially encountered is a sham, though. It
is a well-crafted costume that masks deeply rooted insecurity and an
unfortunate dependence on prescription drugs. This stems from a horrifically
abusive childhood that she is trying desperately, and unsuccessfully, to
forget. Her mediocre modeling career was the perfect vehicle for her to escape
that tumult and simultaneously receive acceptance and praise. It did not matter
to Lilly that the kudos were based on superficial assumptions. She was still
almost satisfied with the result and what modeling could not fix, the drugs
could.
Enthrallment
and lust have other plans, though. Despite their best efforts to stay apart,
Cam and Lilly come back together and embark on a tempestuous affair. For both
of them, a torrid weekend getaway in the mountains unleashes years of pent-up
sexual frustration and destroys inhibitions. Cam has no problem taking charge
as he relishes Lilly’s delicious inner nectar. Again and again, Cam delivers
Lilly pleasure she has never known before, leaving her trembling as she
reclaims the goddess within.
Gina Whitney grew up reading Judy
Blume, and Nancy Drew books. She was raised in the town of North Valley Stream,
New York(Long Island)and attended community college for fashion design. At 19
she opened a boutique. She recently published her first paranormal romance
novel Blood Ties. When she's not writing, she's hanging with family and
friends. She shares a home with her wonderful son’s PJ and Drew, and their
200lb Mastiff Hercules. She currently lives in Massapequa, New York. Reading
has always been a passion and
obsession. You can usually find her
typing furiously while shouting obscenities over her latest work. She also
enjoys a good laugh, being snarky, espresso, and above all steamy swooning
angst filled novels. She's pathologically obsessed with True Blood(Eric ;),
Games of Thrones, Borgias, Vampire Diaries and Originals. You can also find her
chatting it up with readers on Facebook.
Links:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/ginamwhitney
Buy Links:
*Amazon: http://amzn.to/1H7w75s
Chapter
One
If I had known then that Lilly Amsel would set
such a fierce blaze in my life, I would have taken the next
elevator.
All I wanted that morning was to get
a hard run on the treadmill and go to my office to put in some weekend
overtime. I arrived at The Equity, the most prestigious gym not only in New
York City but in the country, and was checking my work-issued
Blackberry as usual. I tended to avoid such pretentious settings, but
membership was one of the many perks of my employment at Wotherspoon and
Associates. As a law student at Aldensburg University, I had
interned at the corporate law firm and had been offered a
position after I’d passed the bar five years ago. Aldensburg was not
as premier a college when compared to the Ivies; in fact most
people have never heard of it. But, like me, it got the job
done. And professionally the job I was trying to get done now was
making partner. I know it was an ambitious goal, but I had nothing but faith in
my skills to make it happen.
For the moment I was there at
The Equity in my sagging basketball shorts and stretched-out T-shirt,
standing amid chichi air kissers. I was not there to hobnob;
I actually had a serious goal. I worked out not
only to maintain my body but to keep my mind sharp,
focused, and ready at all times. That was what separated me
from those people. I was a shark
among peacocks.
The cheerless receptionist with the
sucked-in cheeks eyed me as I stepped through the door. I could see her hostile
nostrils widen like a bull’s as she feigned a barely polite smile. She knew who
I was but played this ridiculous game with me every day. Always
pretending not to know me.
“I’m sorry, sir. You must be looking for the gym
down the street.”
That was her way of
telling me that my choice of clothing was not up to
par, and I might consider some more appropriate attire. I had
known plenty of people like her growing up and knew that the best way to handle
her was to be in her face every chance I got, to be the proverbial pebble in
her shoe. I swiped my security pass card and told her, “See you
tomorrow.”
The Equity was an “it” destination
for celebrities and all manner of the rich and powerful. The
entry level consisted of a wide, stark-white hallway with
electric-blue tube lights lining the walls and
ceiling, and filled with the ethereal melody of a string
orchestra. This main hallway connected with several more, with the
last one ending a spacious, low-lit lounge area. Scattered
about were suede couches and glass tables; black-and-white photos of
perfectly sculpted body parts hung on the walls. This was where
those who came to be seen strategically posed themselves just in case
an undercover paparazzo managed to sneak in. The lounge was
usually empty in the morning because its denizens could not
manage to roll out of bed until well into the afternoon.
I made my way across the rugs to yet another hall
that led to a bank of elevators. I pushed the “up” button,
eager to start my workout. Then I heard the quick click clack of feminine
footsteps come up behind me. I sighed because I knew those shoes—probably high
heels—were not made for running. This was just
another pampered pest whose idea of working out was getting a massage. I did
not even have to turn around to figure this chick
out.
Her heavy perfume was layered with the fresh smell
of soap and shampoo. Typical of someone who saw the gym as a
social occasion rather than a place to exercise. I never had patience
with lackadaisical people who were not willing to put
in the effort to achieve anything. I wanted so badly to turn
around and say, “Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be
having Sunday brunch over at Peacock Alley?”
However, I was not there to judge. I was there to
work out. But I was curious as to who was standing behind me. I looked
into the stainless-steel door of the elevator to see if I could make out the
reflection. The dull surface only revealed that the grayish silhouette behind
me was tall and lanky. Not as tall as me at six foot three, but tall
nonetheless.
Then a hoard of more click-clacking footsteps
arrived, accompanied by raucously shrill voices greeting the first
woman. I thought, Oh
god. Jersey girls.
“Lilly!” they all screamed in
unison.
The first woman, Lilly, chirped
back. “Sweetie pies, how are
you?”
One nasally voice responded, “Fine if you like
your nipples turning into Popsicles. It’s cold as hell out there.
What’s on your agenda today? ”
“Pilates with Jean-Paul. Thirty
minutes.”
“What is he? A slave driver?” another woman said seriously with
a croaky smoker’s voice.
“I know, right?” Lilly agreed. All I could do was
roll my eyes at that nonsense.
Lilly had an odd way of speaking that only a
discerning ear could pick up. She was trying her best to affect a newscaster
accent, that plain Midwestern way of speaking. However, she would
occasionally slip into an upward inflection
that made every sentence sound like a question. She was
definitely a So-Cal transplant. It was beyond me why, in the midst of
shudder-inducing Jersey accents, Lilly hid her
natural one.
As the elevator numbers slowly ticked down, I
noticed in my peripheral vision the number of men passing.
They were all doing double takes at Lilly. Either
she was gorgeous or hideous beyond measure. Either way, it did not matter to
me. I had seen plenty of both and was not swayed by the slop or gloss of
anything. An ethics professor a long way back even accused me of being jaded.
What he could not understand was that when your life has been a trial by fire,
you see things differently from most. The
world and all the people in it are just opportunities for you
to get what you need. You can’t depend on anyone but yourself. When you have
lived in a cushioned bubble like the professor, you just don’t get that.
Needless to say I barely passed that
class.
The elevator finally
arrived, and the herd of new-money cows stampeded past me to get in. I
turned back, and Lilly was waiting for me to usher
her out like I was the doorman. Sure
enough she was decked out in black from head to toe—leggings,
turtleneck, and those clacking ankle boots. She had a leather bag
brimming with Voss water and vitamin blister packs. She appeared to be
in her early twenties, so I was perplexed as to why she
needed so many pills.
Still, I must admit that I was
taken aback by how beautiful she was. Her
hair, pushed back and glossed into a tight bun, reminded me
of dark honey, and her graceful, lithe body looked like that
of a ballet dancer. And those eyes—they were extraordinarily large
orbs of malachite rimmed in chestnut. However, no matter how pouty her
dewy lips were, Lilly still acted like an entitled elitist, so pampered that
she probably considered Park Slope to be the ghetto.
I watched her standing there
looking at me. This woman was used to people fawning all over her, and
I was not one to do that. I did not grovel or bow down to anybody. But no
matter what I felt about her at the moment, I decided to do the
gentlemanly thing.
“Ladies first,” I
said.
Lilly sashayed past me and joined her
tacky and deeply moneyed crew. As she crossed the threshold
of the elevator, she gave me a “thanks” that was nowhere near
sincere. I spent the elevator ride to the third floor listening
to her companions’ boisterous gossip about other women at the
club. Yet I did not hear Lilly utter any comment. I just felt her eyes
laser beaming my back. Apparently she was still shocked and pissed
that I didn’t think she was the
shit.
* *
*
“Lilly, you forgot your water,” Jean-Paul yelled
out to me. He had been my Pilates instructor for the past six
years—my entire time in New York. After I finished my thirty-minute workout
with him, I got some fresh acrylics in the spa. I was preparing for an
interview with Paramour Life, fashion’s most prominent
magazine, later that afternoon. Though I was modeling, the interview was not
about me. It was really about my boyfriend of two years, Sig Krok. Sig
had come from Sweden twenty years ago and started his own fashion house, Klå.
Klå. It quickly became one of the best-selling clothing lines in the
world.
This article would be a
tribute to Sig. The magazine just wanted my
perspective of him and a little insider knowledge of our highly
visible yet terribly private
relationship.
With discreet sleight of hand,
Jean-Paul handed me my property, and it was not really water. It was
my bottle of Klonopin.
“I know how
important water is,” he said then quickly
dismissed himself to his next scheduled client. I watched him for a moment. I
was in awe and bewilderment over how he mastered the art of prancing and
swaying like a seasoned burlesque dancer. He really had to teach me that
sometime.
Realizing I was running out of time before the
interview and still had to get my makeup done, I abruptly turned around to
leave. And I turned right into Mr. Scowl—the guy at the elevator this
morning. Aw, just great, I
thought.
“Excuse me,” I said as I started walking away.
By then he had put on some more weather-appropriate
clothing—jeans and a cable-knit sweater with a white T-shirt
underneath. And the creep did not even respond to me, smirking his arrogant
mouth instead. Even though he was pompous, he was kind of cute. Though it was
the middle of winter, his skin looked sun kissed. He was a giant of a
man, well over six feet tall. His luminous, copper eyes seemed like they were
always narrowed, like he was annoyed with people because they were merely human
and could not withstand his
survey.
I headed toward the
elevator, and he did the same. When we got
there, I started pushing buttons in hopes it would make the
elevator come faster. The bell dinged, and he let me on first. I could
tell he didn’t want to but was trying to be The
Man.
We stood in opposite corners.
By then most men would have engaged me in conversation.
He hadn’t. Was he gay? No, I had a fairly accurate gaydar. What was
wrong with him then? I was becoming increasingly irritated by this man’s
presence. I glanced over at
him. He was wiping his sweaty
brow, and his hand pushed up his cap a bit, exposing
his inky hair cut with perfect precision around the edges.
The cap was thready and had a large A on the front.
He probably had gotten it from some college a while back. I
also noticed that on the underside of the cap’s bill, he had written
his name in permanent
marker: Cam.
Even though he grated on me, I
could not help but be distracted by his body. He had Adonis-like shoulders,
broad and protective. His thick thighs were agape, his wide
stance taking up a good deal of space. This square-jawed man was
definitely broody, but even without a smile, I could make out the
dimple in his cheek. And I did not even want to get
started on the size of his hands and feet. They
were enormous.
The air vent was blowing a light, steady stream of
air across Cam. I inhaled the heady scent of his newly
sweaty body intermingled with a woodsy
deodorant. I leaned in his direction.
One of my eyes went on autopilot and fluttered—that
thing that happens when something is real good. I took another breath
and leaned in some more.
Wait! What…the fuck…am I doing? I caught myself right before my nose landed on
Cam’s arm. And there he was with the same
“what the fuck?” look. He was staring at me going for his pit with my crazy
eye. He obviously thought I was about to rape
him.
Quick,
deflect. I pointed at my ear. “I
thought you said something.” I regained my composure and returned my gaze
forward.
But he sure did
smell good. And boy, was I
horny.
Whatever. I wasn’t
going to say anything else to Cam. He was still nothing but an aloof, smug
asshole to me. And I had to endure what seemed like a forever ride to
the first floor with him. I turned my face back to the elevator doors with just
the sound of the motors and cables to break the
silence.
I was so relieved to get out of the
elevator, I practically sprinted into the parking garage. I slung my
faux fur over my shoulders as I rushed to Sig’s Infiniti QX80. Cam was
trailing me, sliding into his leather jacket. And I
just knew he was about to ask me for my number despite that fiasco in
the elevator. Maybe I hadn’t lost my touch. I was prepared to
shoot him down, of course. But he sure was taking his
time. I was already at Sig’s
SUV.
However, not only did
Cam not ask me for my number, he
was only walking behind me because he had parked his
powerful, black Harley 1200 Custom next to me. He spread his thick
legs and straddled it then put on his Aviator sunglasses and
revved up his baby. I had to say, that motorcycle…the way it
just hung between his legs…looked more like a big, hard dick than anything
else.
Cam turned the twist grip like it was his cock and
throttled up. The rumble from the motorcycle bounced off the concrete walls of
the garage. It was almost deafening. He didn’t care. In fact, if
I hadn’t known any better, I would have sworn he’d
done it on purpose. I was totally conflicted.
Never had I so detested a man and still
wanted to fuck the skin off his dick at the same
time.
Alas, Cam drove off without even looking
in my direction. I let out an audible gasp. No
straight male ever looked at me and just turned
away.
Hmm…maybe my gaydar was in need of a tune-up.
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