Dirtiest Lie by Cleo Peitsche Read Free Book Online Page B

doesn’t seem like the type to open herself up to wrinkles and saggy skin—but the color looks natural. The muscles of her legs are perfectly toned.
    If I had a personal trainer, I’d have perfect legs, a perky ass and a flat stomach, too. Oddly, I find myself staring at her neck. It’s slender and long, though not freakishly so.
    Some people have perfect everything, and some people are even more attractive than the sum of their parts. This woman definitely falls into that category.
    She wrinkles her cute nose and smiles. “Looks like you need a fourth,” she says to me.
    I freeze for a moment.
    I’ve been through a lot of things with my bosses. Heavy, life-altering shit.
    But now an uncomfortable feeling is slithering around my body.
    I hate this woman solely because she’s gorgeous and because she knows my bosses.
    No, those aren’t the only reasons. She wants Hawthorne, and she knows the game. Her smile is fake. I know exactly how she feels.
    “The four of us are a set team,” Slade says, coming to stand beside me. “We’re waiting for Bill.”
    “Bill?” She tilts her head. “I overheard him telling Romeo that he wouldn’t be free for twenty minutes.” And she winks—she winks .
    At that moment, there’s no doubt in my mind. This woman knows their sexual secrets, and I can tell from the way Slade is bristling that she’s experienced them firsthand.
    “I’m Karen,” she says, extending a delicate hand, which is cool when I shake it. “And your name is?” she prods.
    I just smile. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
    “You’re with Slade,” Hawthorne tells her.
    “Fantastic!” She loops her arm through Slade’s. “You look great, Rick,” I hear her saying as they walk away.
    I cut a desperate look Hawthorne’s way. “Is she an ex?”
    “We all have a past,” he says.
    I’d like to say something about how my past isn’t flirting with me in front of them, even though from the way Slade is acting, I have nothing to be jealous about.
    But jealous is exactly what I am. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, and not a pleasant one.
    It’s enough to motivate me to play even harder. Karen’s a mediocre player. If she weren’t so intent on always presenting a pretty picture, she might even be good, but it’s like every move she makes is calculated to turn men on.
    That, I must admit, is a kind of talent when applied to an athletic game. One that I strangely don’t possess, but only because it never occurred to me.
    Under different circumstances, Karen and I might be friends. We could share tips and complain about men.
    But as she sends the tennis ball hurtling my way, I suspect the interest is one-sided.
    I jump backward, and the ball lands out of bounds.
    Ten minutes later, she sends another fastball right at me.
    No one seems to notice.
    When the next one comes, I slam it back, toward Slade, hoping to get his attention. Karen practically dives for it, her back arching and her breasts thrusting out, and Slade jumps back.
    The ball bounces between them.
    “Good job, Lindsay,” Hawthorne says, oblivious.
    “I’m taking a break,” I say in disgust. I don’t exactly drop the tennis racket, but it does end up on the court, and I head inside. If Karen wants my bosses, and if they want her, who am I to stand in the way?
    But I don’t know the code to get into the private locker room.
    “Allow me.” Slade leans over me to punch in the code—which I make a note of. He also pushes the door open. “Ladies first.”
    Ladies? I glance behind me to see if Karen is also coming in, but no, it’s just Slade.
    “She’s a bit intense,” he says apologetically.
    I don’t actually have to use the bathroom, but I pretend to. When I come out, Slade’s clothes are in a rumpled heap, spilling over one of the flat benches.
    “I’m in here,” he calls out. I follow the sound of his voice to the hot tub. His shoulders, chest and torso are masculine perfection, and the way his smooth skin glistens is