Beautiful Lies Read online

  Copyright

  BEAUTIFUL LIES

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  BOOKS BY JORDYN WHITE

  Connect with Jordyn!

  Published by Velvet Pen Books

  Copyright © 2018 Jordyn White

  ISBN 978-1-945261-34-3

  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, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. You must not circulate this book in any format. Thank you for respecting the work of the author.

  Cover Design: Sara Eirew

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Copyright Page

  Beautiful Lies

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  GET YOUR FREE BOOK

  BOOKS BY JORDYN WHITE

  Connect with Jordyn!

  Beautiful Lies

  by Jordyn White

  Chapter 1

  Rita

  I once climbed nine flights of stairs in order to avoid the elevator. No, I’m not afraid of heights. I’m just afraid of falling hundreds of feet to my death. One of the perks of living in Swan Pointe, California is the absence of skyscrapers. I haven’t taken an elevator in years.

  But I’m not in Swan Pointe. I’m in Boise, Idaho, currently stepping into the elevator of literally the tallest building in town. I would have taken the stairs except I’m going all the way to the seventeenth floor for a big corporate shindig and I can tell you from experience that sweaty redhead is not a good look for me. I have no choice but to suck it up.

  Being in this little floating box inside a massive elevator shaft would be bad enough, but being in it with Dallas Huntington is so much worse.

  He’s near the opposite wall, in his charcoal suit and tie, giving me a smirk and preparing to take advantage of the fact that we’re the only two people in here. He probably thinks we’re going to exchange the normal snide remarks we always do.

  We both work for the same company back in Swan Pointe, each on opposite sides of a hallway everyone calls The Great Divide, no kidding. He’s an investigative journalist for the Swan Pointe Daily Times, and I’m the snarky gossip columnist for an Indie rag known as The Voice.

  He may have everyone’s respect, but at least my shit sells papers.

  Finding creative new ways to insult Dallas Huntington as we pass each other in the hall is fun in its own twisted way. It doesn’t hurt that this guy is extremely easy on the eyes. I mean, if you have to look at someone, right?

  He’s not really my type, but he has that rugged jawline that gets just a little bit scruffy at the end of the day, and an oh-so-professional haircut that nevertheless looks luxuriously thick and soft.

  And steel gray eyes that fascinate me.

  His eyes turn to flint when he’s playing hardball; like me, he knows how to get what he wants from his sources. But when he throws a playful jab in my direction, those eyes of his take on an almost boyish twinkle that ties the whole visual of him together and brings to mind the phrase ‘male pinup model’.

  I have no idea if he really would make a good pinup model because I’ve only ever seen the guy in a shirt and tie. He seriously needs to loosen the fuck up.

  I would tell him that right now, because judging by the smirk he’s wearing over there he’s ready to play. But I’m a little busy trying not to freak out over the fact that I am now six, six, stories high, with nothing between me and the ground but a thin metal floor and a shit ton of air.

  Make that seven floors. Oh God.

  My eyes are locked on the little digital number that’s climbing, climbing, climbing as my pulse gallops through my veins in rapid-fire fashion. I take a slow breath, trying not to let Dallas see my distress.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you,” he says, winding me up for something.

  “Uh huh.”

  “I’ve noticed there’s been a little less bite in your column recently.”

  “I don’t know why you bother to read my column.”

  Actually, I do. We read each other’s stuff all the time. How else are we going to razz each other about it?

  The little number above the door switches from a nine to a ten. Shit. Double freaking digits.

  I pinch my eyes shut briefly, looking away and to the red high heels beneath my slender, black cocktail dress. But that doesn’t help because do you know what’s beneath the heels?

  That’s right. Ten fucking floors of a gaping black hole.

  I’m squeezing the life out of my little red clutch, and Dallas keeps talking.

  “Well, when your headlines say things like ‘Swan Pointe Darling’ I have to find out who you’re so enamored with.”

  He’s referring to the column I wrote about Emma Swanson, the unlikely woman who swept Swan Pointe’s most notorious rake of a bachelor off his feet. I never would’ve believed the whole thing was real had I not witnessed it myself.

  That moment in the café, when I saw him profess his love for her, not caring for once if anyone saw or what anyone thought about him... that moment did something to me that I still haven’t figured out.

  No, I’m not about to get snarky about those two because they’re the cutest fucking lovebirds I’ve ever seen. But Dallas does need to know that.

  “I’m not enamored with anyone.” I don’t say that nearly as calmly as I’d like, because we’re on floor eleven. Jesus, why is this taking so long?

  I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s watching me more closely than usual. Is it obvious that I’m a tiny bit losing my mind over here?

  I lift my chin and give him a defiant glare and he breaks into a handsome grin. He’s annoying like that.

  “Then again,” he says, “you really stuck it to the mayor. Poor guy didn’t know what hit him. That’s how I knew it was still you writing those columns and not some lackey ghostwriting for you.”

  If only he knew what I have been ghostwriting, for years.

  I glance back at the numbers. Twelve. Twelve floors worth of falling, falling, falling. I don’t think you can survive that shit.

  My stomach does a sickening flip. I close my eyes and rub my fingertips on my forehead. “The mayor had it coming.”

  “Yeah,” Dallas says slowly. “Are you all right?”

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was dropping all pretenses. He sounds so genuinely concerned, and like such a surprisingly safe place to land that I almost say, No, get me the fuck out of here.

  Then.

  Then the horrible thing I knew was going to happen starts to actually happen and I drop all pretenses myself.

  There’s a deafening grinding sound at the same time the elevator gives a terrifying jolt and comes to a stop and I just know the next thing that’s going to happen is we’re going to drop, tumble, plummet.

  I close the space between us in half a heartbeat and start climbing Dallas. Literally climbing him, frantic to go I don’t know where and find some sense of safety because I
just know we’re about to plunge to our deaths, and all the while he’s saying “Oof!” and “Rita!” and “Hang on! Hang on! We’re just stuck. Calm down.”

  My legs are wrapped around his chest—his chest, not his waist, because like I said, climbing—and I’m clinging to his shoulders and he’s trying to hang on to me and somehow keeping us from tipping right over. Someone’s making panicked noises like a frightened rabbit and I think that someone is me.

  Then he says firmly, “Enough now.”

  The next thing I know he’s taking hold of me, plopping me on my feet, and bringing me close to his hard body while he speaks gentle and firm in my ear, “Whoa there. Whoa.”

  Like he’s a fucking horse whisperer or something.

  But there’s something about the deep timbre of his voice that compels my body to stop fighting. I freeze, caught off guard by this sudden authority.

  I’ve never heard Dallas’ voice sound like that before and I respond to it on an almost primal level.

  My heart is still racing and I’m clutching myself to him, my arms beneath his heavy suit coat, but other than that, I’m not moving at all. He’s firmly cupping the back of my head, his fingers laced up into my hair, and he’s tucked me into the warm crook of his neck.

  “I’ve got you. You’re all right. You’re okay.”

  His voice is a steady presence of a rushing stream. He is a sturdy tree that smells of sandalwood and strength.

  “We’re a little stuck but we’re safe.”

  With every word I am more and more calm. I’m not thinking about anything anymore except for this little cocoon he’s wrapped me in and the comfort of his voice.

  Dallas Huntington is the Rita whisperer.

  Who knew?

  My heartbeat continues to slow and my grip on him becomes less vice-like. His hold likewise lessens in intensity but is still firm and steady. Warm and safe.

  “I’ve got you,” he says gently. “All right?”

  I nod against his neck. My hair rustles softly against his shirt, echoing in my ear. I slowly inhale through my nose, breathing in his scent again. It blooms inside my chest.

  “We need to press the call button.”

  I nod again, but I’m pretty sure he intends to move so I tighten my arms around his broad chest. There’s nothing between my hands and his skin besides thin, soft fabric. I’m getting a better sense of how he might look underneath the shirt and tie. He’s solid. Firm and trim.

  Pinup model worthy after all, I’d bet.

  With one hand still cradling the back of my head, he reaches for the call button with the other. The loss of that security around my body causes my heart to race and I cling to him again.

  “Shh, shhh,” he whispers in my ear, and that’s enough to keep me from panicking until he’s pressed the little silver button and his arm is back around me. My heartrate starts to slow again.

  Someone answers the call, and as he explains the situation, his deep voice resonates inside his chest. I nestle the side of my head more firmly against him to better hear it. I’m aware that I, Rita Becker, just snuggled into Dallas Huntington’s chest. But it’s so nice and he’s letting me and it’s so, so nice.

  When he stops talking to the voice on the other end of the call, the elevator falls to silence. I can hear his heartbeat pumping calmly. Slow and steady. Not frightened at all.

  “They’re on their way,” he says to me.

  Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump.

  Calm. Safe. Strong. And he smells so good. Like, amazingly good. I angle my head slightly upward so I can smell him better.

  My pulse starts to quicken.

  Not out of fear.

  As if of their own accord, my hands soften on his back. Then start to move, just slightly. Then next thing I know, I’m exploring the firm muscles and dipping into the ridge of his spine. I can’t help it. I just want to touch him.

  His touch is changing, too. The hand that’s cradling my head slowly lightens.

  My fingertips softly brush along his back. Almost a caress.

  His hand drops until he’s gently resting on the base of my neck.

  His heartrate has picked up speed. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. It’s beating in time with mine.

  I slowly pull back, just enough to look into those gray eyes of his. They’re soft, questioning, heated.

  My body is alert everywhere his body is touching me, and tingling with wanting everywhere he’s not. My lips part slightly and his eyes drop to my mouth. And stay there.

  What the hell are we doing? Are Dallas Huntington and I about to kiss?

  I want the answer to be yes, and am too caught in the sudden desire for it to care why. Those gray eyes have gone stormy, darkened with longing and intent.

  We’ve tilted toward one another, my chin lifted upward and his mouth now hovering inches above mine, perfectly aligned. His gaze flits between my eyes and my mouth.

  What’s gotten into us? I can admit that sometimes our teasing feels a bit like flirting. But this? This is a line we’ve never crossed in the years we’ve known one another. Why are we all of a sudden doing this? Why never before now?

  I don’t know, but I suspect the answer is because we’ve never touched before. Certainly not like this, with our bodies so joined together. We fit so perfectly too, our curves and shapes molding to the other.

  We never had a reason to be in each other’s arms before, but if we had? I’d bet it would’ve led exactly to where we are right now. Because touching Dallas Huntington is too powerful not to want more.

  “I’m pretty sure,” he says slowly, his eyes still on my mouth, “this would be taking advantage.”

  “Advantage?” I repeat vaguely. His lips are soft and full. What would they feel like on mine?

  “You’re scared.”

  “Not anymore.” I slowly tighten my hold on him and he responds in kind, pulling me more firmly against him. But otherwise he does not move.

  “Aren’t you?”

  I shake my head. “No. And I don’t let people take advantage of me.”

  His eyes fly to mine.

  In the space of two heartbeats, he holds my eyes, deciding. My body is taut with anticipation. Then Dallas Huntington leans down and kisses me full on the mouth.

  I get the swooping sensation of falling, followed by the soaring feeling of rising. My lips part, wanting more of whatever it is Dallas is giving me. He answers with a soft brush of his tongue against mine, then a deeper, more urgent one.

  A hot lick of wanting strokes at my center. My hand sweeps along his jaw and into his hairline, the soft thickness of it shocking my fingertips. My breasts swell against the lacy fabric of my bra.

  Holy lord, what is this?

  We break momentarily, just long enough to exchange heated looks of confirmation. We’re not done here. Not by a mile.

  He claims my mouth again, tilting his head and coming at me from a different angle.

  I rise on my tiptoes.

  He grips my hair, pulling at the roots.

  I press my chest against his.

  He gives my rear an authoritative squeeze.

  Damn, is this what it’s like to kiss Dallas Huntington? Vanished is the image of the stuffed shirt I pass in the hall from time to time. No. This guy is nothing but pure, unadulterated man and knows exactly how to kiss a woman.

  Oh yes, he does.

  I never would’ve thought this straight-laced guy could deliver such wicked hot kisses.

  And I’m letting him. More than letting him. I’m doing everything I can to encourage it.

  We open wider to one another, bold and greedy. He leans over me, a low growl escaping the back of his throat.

  Just as my body responded to the sound of his voice before, it responds now. Only this time, I am the opposite of calm. I am flush with rising heat and dizzy with fierce, sharp desire.

  He breaks our kiss and I gasp for breath as he works his way over my jaw. He sucks my earlobe into his mouth, at the same time
he cups my breast.

  I throw my head back and angle my hips against him, pulling him closer to discover a rapidly growing erection.

  He takes hold of my shoulders and breaks our kiss abruptly. I startle slightly, confused as to why he stopped. He pinches his eyes shut as he drops his forehead against mine. We’re both exhaling heatedly. “Wait,” he says.

  “Why?”

  He pulls back slightly, his expression torn with indecision and eyes dark with wanting. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Don’t insult me.”

  I grab his cock, and we both inhale with surprise. Him, no doubt, from my boldness. Me, from his sheer size. An ache of longing pulses in my core, craving that thickness inside me.

  His indecision seems to vanish and I’m backed toward the wall, my high-heels shuffling as I try to keep up. He lifts me and I wrap my legs around his waist. He pins me against the wall and presses that hard shaft against my core.

  Oh yeah. Now we’re talking.

  I’m suspended in his steady embrace and whimpering, too overcome by the powertrain of desire raging through me to try to maintain any semblance of control.

  I never imagined Dallas could get me to yield to him for anything. Like, fucking anything. But I’m ready to give up whatever he wants. I am soft and fluid, eager in his arms, letting him claim my body with his mouth, his hands, his impressive erection.

  He’s hiked my form-fitting dress around my waist, exposing my red lace bikini panties. He’s still fully dressed but we’re grinding against each other as if we’re fucking already, the heat in my core rising and rising. I’m throbbing with need.

  Clinging to his broad shoulders, I slide my free hand between us and grab at the belt at his waist.

  “Rita, don’t fucking tempt me,” that deep voice says in my ear.

  But I’m fumbling with the buckle. “Just tell me you have a condom.”

  He half groans, half grunts in answer, grabbing my panties with two hands and yanking them halfway down my thighs. I’m exposed and throbbing against bare air. I feel a rush of wetness at the sound of his zipper.

  Then the car gives a sudden jolt and my stomach drops as I come to several realizations at once: we’re in an elevator, we’re ascending up toward a company party hosted by the CEO himself, and we’re both in a very, very compromising position.