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~Chapter Reveal~ Beautiful Lies by Gina Whitney

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Beautiful Lies

Title: Beautiful Lies
Author: Gina Whitney
Genre: Erotic Romance
Reveal Host: Lady Amber’s Tours
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.

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Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18718514-beautiful-lies

About the Author

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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:

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7093718.Gina_Whitney

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ginawhitneyauthor
Twitter: https://twitter.com/ginamwhitney
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Gina-Whitney/e/B00DWDU1KG/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

Blog: http://authorginawhitney.blogspot.com/

CHAPTER ONE.

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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