Bad Liar (The Reed Rivers Trilogy #1) - Lauren Rowe Page 0,12

as jaw-dropping as his face. Add “swimsuit model” to the list of potential careers for him in a parallel universe. Holy crap. From top to bottom, Reed Rivers is more than a chick magnet—he’s a Taser gun. A crossbow. Even if he were a pauper without an ounce of power or clout, any red-blooded woman would tumble into this man’s bed without a second thought, if only to experience one delicious, reckless night with a god among men.

My heart rate increasing, I click onto Reed’s Wikipedia page and devour the basics. His record label, River Records, burst onto the music scene with Red Card Riot’s debut album ten years ago. And ever since, it’s churned out hit after hit, with an ever-increasing roster of top-notch bands and artists.

Along the way, smart man that he is, Reed’s parlayed his success in music into other successful investments and businesses, as well—in real estate, tequila, nightclubs, restaurants, and more. The man has even successfully invested in some hit independent films. Apparently, whatever he touches turns to gold. Which, of course, is why he’s earned the nickname “The Man with the Midas Touch.”

I come to the “personal information” section of Reed’s Wiki page and find out Reed is thirty-four years old, six-foot-three, and an exercise enthusiast. No surprise on that last thing, given his sculpted frame. Snowboarding, triathlons, jumping out of airplanes, surfing, scuba-diving, rock climbing, cycling, beach volleyball, basketball, kayaking... If it gets Reed’s body moving and his heart pumping, he’s all over it. And, lucky for the world, there are plenty of hot photos online of him doing it all. Damn.

Back on Reed’s Wiki page, I learn he’s never been married and has no children. And that, apparently, he likes it that way. “I’m not a married-with-kids kind of guy,” Reed has been quoted as saying. “Being Uncle Reed to my baby sister’s and best friends’ kids is perfect for me.”

I keep reading and discover a bit of shocking news: Reed’s father, now deceased, was a renowned white-collar criminal who hanged himself in prison fifteen years ago. His surviving family consists of his mother, a paternal aunt, and a much-younger sister. No details supplied on any of them.

I glance at the empty stage to make sure I’m not missing CeeCee’s grand entrance, and then eagerly return to my phone. I click on the “romantic relationships” tab of Reed’s page, and discover he’s been linked to a smattering of high-profile women, some of them instantly recognizable actresses and models. It seems the highly likeable model-turned-actress, Isabel Randolph, is in more photos with Reed than anyone else. Did adorable Isabel manage to tie Reed’s hunky, playboy ass down longer than anybody else?

I google to find out, and immediately discover my hunch is right: Reed and Isabel had a two-year relationship that ended about six years ago. I search their names in the images tab and a cache of sexy photos of the pair pops up. In some of them, Reed and Isabel are dressed to kill for a night on the town. In others, they’re dressed casually, or in ski clothes, or swim suits, always looking perfect.

In one particularly gorgeous shot, they’re both tanned and dressed in white, walking through what looks like a small village in some oceanside paradise. And that’s all my brain needs to conjure images of the sexy pair going at it hard in some beachfront vacation villa, the aquamarine ocean their backdrop as they fuck each other’s brains out...

Suddenly, Isabel in my hot fantasy becomes me. Out of nowhere, I’m the lucky woman who’s sweaty and moaning and getting fucked hard by Reed on some Greek island. I’m the one on my hands and knees, growling as he invades my body with his, over and over again...

Oh, holy hell. I’m seriously losing it. These days, I think about sex as much as magazine articles always say the average male thinks about it. Gah. Why’d Bryce have to turn out to be such a Cling-On? If only he’d played his cards right, if only he’d been the cocky football star I’d thought, it’s fifty-fifty I would have been having hot, sweaty sex with him this week. Not on a Greek island, with an aquamarine ocean as our backdrop, but I’d take it, just the same.

Applause erupts around me, jerking me from my reverie. Quickly, I drop my phone into my lap and direct my attention to the stage, just in time to see my idol striding across it in a