Beautiful Player

Praise for the
New York Times
bestselling series

An ambitious intern.

A perfectionist executive.

And a whole lot of name calling.

“Filled with plenty of hot sex and sizzling tension . . .”

—RT Book Reviews

“. . . deliciously steamy . . .”

—EW.com

“A devilishly depraved cross between a hardcore porn and a very special episode of
The Office
. . . . For us fetish-friendly fiends to feast on!!”

—PerezHilton.com

“The perfect blend of sex, sass and heart,
Beautiful Bastard
is a steamy battle of wills that will get your blood pumping!”

—S. C. Stephens,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Thoughtless

“
Beautiful Bastard
has heart, heat, and a healthy dose of snark. Romance readers who love a smart plot are in for an amazingly sexy treat!”

—Myra McEntire, author of
Hourglass

“
Beautiful Bastard
is the perfect mix of passionate romance and naughty eroticism. I couldn’t, and didn’t, put it down until I’d read every last word.”

—Elena Raines,
Twilightish

A charming British playboy.

A girl determined to finally live.

And a secret liaison revealed in all too vivid color.

“Hot . . . if you like your hookups early and plentiful . . .”

—EW.com

“I loved
Beautiful Bastard
, truly. I wasn’t sure how Christina Lauren planned on topping Bennett. . . . They did it. Max is walking hotness.”

—Bookalicious

“The thing that I love the most about Christina Lauren and the duo’s
Beautiful
books is that there is always humor in them. As well as hot steamy moments and some of the sweetest I love you’s.”

—BooksSheReads.com

“When I say
Beautiful Stranger
is hot, I mean
Beautiful Stranger
is HOOOOOOOOOOOOTTTTTTT!!! This book has some of the steamiest, sexiest, panty-dropping scenes and dialogue of any book I’ve ever read.”

—
Live Love Laugh & Read

We were in the ugliest apartment in all of Manhattan, and it wasn’t just that my brain was especially programmed away from art appreciation: objectively these paintings were
all
hideous. A hairy leg growing from a flower stem. A mouth with spaghetti pouring out. Beside me, my oldest brother and my father hummed thoughtfully, nodding as if they understood what they were seeing. I was the one who kept us moving forward; it seemed to be the unspoken protocol that party guests should make the circuit, admire the art, and only
then
feel free to enjoy the appetizers being carried on trays around the room.

But at the very end, above the massive fireplace and between two garish candelabras, was a painting of a double helix—the structure of the DNA molecule—and printed across the entire canvas was a quote by Tim Burton:
We all know interspecies romance is weird.

Thrilled, I laughed, turning to Jensen and Dad. “Okay.
That
one is good.”

Jensen sighed. “You
would
like that.”

I glanced to the painting and back to my brother. “Why? Because it’s the only thing in this entire place that makes any sense?”

He looked at Dad and something passed between them, some permission granted from father to son. “We need to talk to you about your relationship to your job.”

It took a minute before his words, his tone, and his determined expression triggered my understanding. “Jensen,” I said. “Are we really going to have this conversation
here
?”

“Yes, here.” His green eyes narrowed. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you out of the lab in the past two days when you weren’t sleeping or scarfing down a meal.”

I’d often noted how it seemed the most prominent personality traits of my parents—vigilance, charm, caution, impulse, and drive—had been divided cleanly and without contamination among their five offspring.

Vigilance
and
Drive
were headed into battle in the middle of a Manhattan soiree.

“We’re at a party, Jens. We’re supposed to be talking about how wonderful the art is,” I countered, waving vaguely to the walls of the opulently furnished living room. “And how scandalous the . . . something . . . is.” I had no idea what the latest gossip was, and this little white flag of ignorance just proved my brother’s point.

I watched as Jensen tamped down the urge to roll his eyes.

Dad handed me an appetizer that looked something like a snail on a cracker and I discreetly slid it onto a cocktail napkin as a caterer passed. My new dress itched and
I wished I’d taken the time to ask around the lab about these Spanx things I had on. From this first experience with them, I decided they were created by Satan, or a man who was too thin for skinny jeans.

“You’re not just smart,” Jensen was telling me. “You’re fun. You’re social. You’re a pretty girl.”

“Woman,” I corrected in a mumble.

He leaned closer, keeping our conversation hidden from passing partygoers. Heaven forbid one of New York’s high society should hear him giving me a lecture on how to be more socially slutty. “So I don’t understand why we’ve been visiting you here for three days and the only people we’ve hung out with are
my
friends.”

I smiled at my oldest brother, and let my gratitude for his overprotective hypervigilance wash over me before the slower, heated flush of irritation rose along my skin; it was like touching a hot iron, the sharp reflex followed by the prolonged, throbbing burn. “I’m almost done with school, Jens. There’s plenty of time for life after this.”

“
This
is life,” he said, eyes wide and urgent. “
Right now.
When I was your age I was barely hanging on to my GPA, just hoping I would wake up on Monday and not be hungover.”

Dad stood silently beside him, ignoring that last remark but nodding at the general gist that I was a loser with no friends. I gave him a look that was meant to communicate,
I get
this
coming from the workaholic scientist who spent more time in the lab than he did in his own house?
But he remained impassive, wearing the same
expression he had when a compound he expected to be soluble ended up a goopy suspension in a vial: confused, maybe a little offended on principle.

Dad had given me
drive,
but he always assumed Mom had given me even a little
charm,
too. Maybe because I was female, or maybe because he thought each generation should improve upon the actions of the one before, I was meant to do the whole career-life balance better than he had. The day Dad turned fifty, he’d pulled me into his office and said, simply, “The people are as important as the science. Learn from my mistakes.” And then he’d straightened some papers on his desk and stared at his hands until I got bored enough to get up and go back into the lab.

Clearly, I hadn’t succeeded.

“I know I’m overbearing,” Jensen whispered.

“A bit,” I agreed.

“And I know I meddle.”

I gave him a knowing look, whispering, “You’re my own personal Athena Poliás.”

“Except I’m not Greek and I have a penis.”

“I try to forget about that.”

Jensen sighed and, finally, Dad seemed to get that this was meant to be a two-man job. They’d both come down to visit me, and although it had seemed a strange combination for a random visit in February, I hadn’t given it much thought until now. Dad put his arm around me, squeezing. His arms were long and thin, but he’d always had the viselike grip of a man much stronger than he looked. “Ziggs, you’re a good kid.”

I smiled at Dad’s version of an elaborate pep talk. “Thanks.”

Jensen added, “You know we love you.”

“I love you, too. Mostly.”

“But . . . consider this an intervention. You’re addicted to work. You’re addicted to whatever fast track you think you need your career to follow. Maybe I always take over and micromanage your life—”

“Maybe?”
I cut in. “You dictated everything from when Mom and Dad took the training wheels off my bike to when my curfew could be extended past sunset. And you didn’t even live at home anymore, Jens. I was
sixteen
.”

He stilled me with a look. “I swear I’m not going to tell you what to do just . . .” He trailed off, looking around as if someone nearby might be holding up a sign prompting the end of his sentence. Asking Jensen to keep from micromanaging was like asking anyone else to stop breathing for ten short minutes. “Just call someone.”