The Player's Club: Lincoln
She needs him. He wants her.
The Pledge: Juliana Mayfield, cash-strapped celebutante.
The Goal: A juicy reality show about joining the notorious Player’s Club.
The Conditions: Complete three crazy initiation challenges...and seal the production deal.
The Complication: Lincoln Stone, steely, tabloid-phobic Club founder.
Lincoln’s always fought to keep the Player’s Club exclusive and secret, and he doesn’t trust the attention-seeking pseudostarlet as far as he can throw her. Only problem is, he wants to throw her down on her designer sofa and do very naughty things to her....
Gorgeous Jules is about to destroy Lincoln’s famous self-control—and maybe the Player’s Club, too!
He didn’t trust her, she thought, and he was right not to.
He suspected her. It hurt, but Lincoln wasn’t wrong, and he obviously wasn’t stupid. Another point in his favor, even if it screwed up her plans.
The fact that he also had piercing hazel eyes and a lean yet muscular body that made Juliana wonder what he looked like naked only completed the package.
She sighed, thinking about how she might’ve liked wearing that sexy black merry widow in front of him under different circumstances. He had great hands, she recalled, caressing the keyboard, trying to concentrate on her work. Impossible.
She wondered, absently, if he knew how to use those hands. And his mouth. When it wasn’t pulled into a stern scowl, what could he do with those surprisingly sensual lips?
Juliana couldn’t wait to find out....
Dear Reader,
Lincoln Stone is the rich, brilliant, secretive leader of The Player’s Club. When tabloid queen Juliana Mayfield wants to join, he’s torn between his attraction to her and his need to protect his past.
This is the second book in my Player’s Club trilogy. I’d always seen Lincoln as a George Clooney type in
Ocean’s Eleven
or
Out of Sight,
sort of sexy and darkly mysterious and just smooth. Juliana is more like Brigitte Bardot once was, and when Lincoln meets her, he doesn’t know what hit him!
When a strong man meets a strong woman, sparks fly, and this story’s no exception. I love this series, and I hope you enjoy the adventures of my Club as much as I do.
Happy reading,
Cathy Yardley
Cathy Yardley
The Player’s Club: Lincoln
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
People think Cathy Yardley was crazy to trade sunny Southern California for the rainy Pacific Northwest. Fortunately, she firmly believes that writing isn’t a job for sane people. Now happily writing in the wilds of Seattle, she loves hearing from readers. To do so, email her at [email protected].
Books by Cathy Yardley
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
14—THE DRIVEN SNOWE
59—GUILTY PLEASURES
89—WORKING IT
300—JACK & JILTED
332—ONE NIGHT STANDARDS
366—BABY, IT’S COLD OUTSIDE
662—THE PLAYER’S CLUB: SCOTT*
*The Player’s Club
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Big shout-out to my writergirls, Erin Eisenberg, Shannon “the Happy Writer” McKelden, Serena Robar and Barb Ferrer.
Our monthly meets keep me going!
And to my San Diego posse, Ara, Cheryl Howe, Mary Leo, Ann, Lorelle Marinello and Sylvia Mendoza… I miss you guys. Thanks for being there for me online when I can’t be there physically!
Contents
1
“RAISE YOUR GLASSES—and shake your asses—for the hostess with the mostest, our birthday girlfriend
Juliana Mayfield!
”
Juliana stood straight, shoulders thrown back, tummy sucked in and her smile a billion megawatts as the spotlight shone and digital cameras flashed like fireworks around her. She raised her glass of champagne, toasting them in return. “Thank you!
Thank you!
” she called, hearing the cheers and congratulations. Then she nodded to Andre, the DJ, who started spinning one of his own mixes, a contagious, absolutely kicking mash-up of the Wallflowers and Mos Def.
The party was a big hit. The trick now was making sure it was a more tangible success. She ducked into the VIP section—into a quiet booth—and took a deep breath, letting her cheek muscles relax before they cramped. She’d actually had that happen once, years ago, when she’d been working a convention, back when she had aspirations toward being a model. After all, her mother was once a famous model, her father a famous actor, so it seemed only natural that she do something with the fame that seemed her birthright.
What a fiasco
that
had been, she remembered with a smirk. The modeling world wanted skinny, wanted basically adolescent boys without the dangly bits. Unfortunately, she’d been given certain physical assets that meant she wasn’t going to pass for a hipless, flat-chested kid anytime soon.
Fortunately, she seemed to have managed to stay famous simply by being…well, famous. And having a trust fund from her parents’ fortunes hadn’t hurt. She glanced up at the tap on her shoulder. Then her eyes went wide.
“Bernie,” she said, surprised enough to stammer. The gentleman sat across from her, his gleaming white hair styled perfectly, his navy blue suit as out-of-place at the nightclub as a penguin at a flamingo convention. “I, ah, wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“I imagine you weren’t,” Bernie responded, blinking owlishly at the strobe lights. It was midnight, and the frail older man looked as if he ought to be in bed. In fact, he looked as if there was nowhere he’d rather be. “But you did send the bills for this party through the office, so I thought I’d check up on you. Seeing as you weren’t answering any of your phones or emails.”
She winced. She had been dodging him. And the hangdog expression he was wearing, right this second, was precisely why.
With a name like Bernie the Accountant, one would think he’d be a wiseguy, a number-cruncher to mobsters. Instead, Bernie was a quiet-voiced Southerner with an even worse weapon: the Disappointed Look.
He looked at her soulfully. “Juliana, we’ve discussed your spending before, on countless occasions. Looking at your profit-loss statement, I can’t help but feel that you’re ignoring my advice.”
She squirmed against the dark leather banquette, like a butterfly on a pin. “This is a legitimate business expense.”
The Look got more intense. If his eyes got any bigger and soulful, he’d be a bassett hound. “How do you figure a birthday party is a business expense?”
“It’s all just for publicity, Bernie,” she assured him in a low voice, hoping nobody was paying attention. “Do you remember how I told you I was talking to some television producers, trying to get a reality TV show?”
He nodded, still looking skeptical.
“Every time I get into print, or have my picture on the websites, I build my brand,” she said. “That’s all this is. By tomorrow morning, I’ll be on every tabloid for dancing on the tabletops and swimming topless in champagne—that happens later, don’t worry,” she said, at his shocked expression. “You can leave before then. My point is, it’s all calculated.”
He pursed his lips, more disapproval than disappointment, which she could handle. She’d been bucking disapproval since she hit high school. “And when is this reality show
deal
supposed to go through?”
She bit her lip. “These things take time,” she hedged. “I don’t have anything in writing, but I’ve got some clear interest—”
“Juliana,” Bernie interrupted sadly. “I don’t think you have that kind of time.”
She laughed, and it sounded carefree and sincere—even as ice formed in the pit of her stomach. At least all those acting lessons weren’t going to waste. “Oh, Bernie. Always the pessimist.”
“If you’d only picked up your messages,” he said. “You’d know. We didn’t have enough money to cover the caterer for this thing. I don’t even know how your utilities stay on.”
“It’s not that bad.” She winced.
“Dear,” he said, and the very gentleness of his tone told her exactly how dire the situation was. “You’re going to lose the condo if you don’t get some kind of income, and soon.”
Her throat choked up, preventing her from speaking.
“We need to come up with a plan, Juliana.” He patted her hand, awkwardly, as though he’d just told her someone had died. “You’ve been running with rich celebrities and high-society trust-fund kids, you’ve been blowing through what little you’ve had set aside—and your parents have been borrowing off your trust fund, besides that.”
