Broken Lion (39 page)

Now I’m stuck shadowing him all weekend long at the world’s largest Romance Convention. I’m forced to watch in disgust as 45,000 women throw themselves at him and worship his shirtless body while he taunts me incessantly.

We hate each other as much today as we did seven years ago. But I can’t stop stealing glances at his perfect abs and perfect a**.

My better judgment tells me to drop everything and run, but
something deep inside me is dying to know if he’s as HUGE as the rumors…

***Cover Model is a steamy standalone with an HEA***

PROLOGUE

ELECTRA

GRAD NIGHT, 2008.

“Not on your life,” I chuckle, staring into the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever hated.

I stand toe to toe with Connor Hughes, the gorgeous young man I hate more than any other human being on the planet.

“You totally want me.” He flashes his insolent grin, the one that makes all the girls in school drool over him and write his name in their notebooks and stalk his Facebook page in hopes that he’ll mention them. “You’ve
always
wanted me.”

My anger rises and I snort, “I’ve
never
wanted you.
Connor.
” I spit out his name like it’s filthy. “You must think I’m pretty stupid if you think I’m going to let myself become yet another notch on your bedpost.”

In the distance, a flickering rainbow of lights beam from the grad night carnival set up behind our high school. All that frolic and fun seems a million miles away.

Ten hours ago, Connor and I walked separately across the stage in the North Valley High School gymnasium and got our diplomas from the principal. When Connor got his, he took a bow to an uproar of cheers and applause. Everybody loves Connor Hughes. Except me. When I took my diploma, nobody made a sound, not even the crickets.

Now it’s four in the morning and I’m all alone with Connor under the starry night sky.

I fold my arms defensively across my chest and growl in his arrogant and undeniably handsome face. “The only reason you want me is because you never
had
me,
Connor
. We both know that if I was dumb enough to have sex with you, you’d get what you’ve wanted all along, and you’d move on. Just like you did with every other unsuspecting girl you’ve fucked. Tell me I’m wrong.”

He opens his mouth to speak. A strained half syllable wheezes out but catches in his throat. “I—” He deflates, his muscled shoulders sagging.

“That’s what I thought,” I smirk. “I’m just another notch for you. But I’ve got news for you, Connor
Screws
. You will
never
catch me. I will
always
get away. After everything that you’ve done, I will
never
be one of your notches.”

I turn on the heel of my brand new bowtie flats and stride across the damp grass field toward the main parking lot. I never look back, promising myself that I will
never
think about Connor Hughes
ever
again.

As far as I’m concerned, he is out of my life forever.

Good riddance.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

CHAPTER 1

CONNOR

SEVEN YEARS LATER…

“Fuck, you’re tight,” I grunt as I push my dick deeper into her pussy. “And wet as fuck.”

We’re sprawled on the king-sized hotel bed where we’ve been fuckin since the sun came up.

Her eyes are clamped shut and her face is screwed up as tight as her pussy. “Ohhhh, yes, Connor, yes…” she moans. “I’m going to come again…”

They always do.

This will be her fourth orgasm this morning, and the seventh since last night when we stumbled up to my room.

I slam into her harder and harder. “Squeeze my dick, babe. Fuckin
squeeze
it… Yeah…”

Her mouth splits open and she cries out, “
Yes, yes, oh my god, yes!!
” Her nails claw my shoulders. This chick’s a fuckin beast between the sheets.

I’m down with that. “Come on my dick, Juh—” I stop myself because I almost said Jasmine. She doesn’t notice. I don’t think this chick’s name is Jasmine. Jasmine was Tuesday. At least I
think
it was Jasmine. Or was Jasmine on Wednesday and Siobhan was Tuesday?

Who knows.

I should just stick to calling all of them Babe.

The only thing I do remember about this chick is that she told me earlier she’s half Chinese and half Brazilian. Exotic as hell. Long black hair, tanned caramel skin, perfect bod, killer tits. Crazy hot. You don’t come across a chick like this every day, but I’m going to come inside her in a minute.

When she picked me up last night, she was easily the hottest chick in the club. I spotted her out of a sea of plastic Beverly Hills blondes immediately. I grew out of my blonde bimbo phase three years ago. They’re usually shitty lays. But this chick around my dick is top shelf. Prime Grade. Just like that choice beef they serve down in the restaurants of Brazil. Or is that Argentina? I can’t remember. For me, the month long jungle photo shoot I did down in South America was one big blur of exotic pussy, killer booze, and killer food. The steaks down there are unreal.

I nearly laugh out loud at the thought.

I can’t believe I’m thinking about Argentinian beef while I’m fuckin this hottie, but I am. No matter how much I think I’m into a chick, my mind always ends up wandering during sex.

“I’m coming, Connor,” she squeals as her pussy grabs my dick like a fist.

Yeah she is.

Time for me to let loose myself and get this over with. I’ve got shit to do today. I groan wordlessly as I pump harder and shoot a load into the condom. It’s good but not great.

It’s never great.

But it helps me forget about
her
.

For a minute, anyway.

The second I roll off Babe, or whatever her name is, and close my eyes, I see
her
face.

I fuckin
hate
that.

After seven years, I can’t stop thinking about the last time I saw
her
face.

One of these years, I’m going to forget about Electra Warmoth.

Or not.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

ELECTRA

I didn’t spend four years at UCLA getting a degree in journalism for
this
. Writing an exposé on a male model who poses shirtless for romance novel book covers?

Please.

What about this assignment says serious journalism?

None of it.

Sleek modernist decor on the seventh floor surrounds me as I walk along the luxe patterned carpeting toward my destination. Early morning light shines through windows at the end of the long hallway, stabbing my eyes. I need coffee. It’s way too early for this nonsense.

I’m beyond irritated about being here.

Why?

Late last night, Vince Pitts, my annoying ass of a Managing Editor over at
Trending Magazine,
insisted I cover this silly story if I wanted to keep getting work from him. I’m a freelancer, and only a junior contributor at that, which means I barely scrape by on what I earn. Considering I still owe a king’s ransom on my student loans from getting my journalism degree at UCLA, I agreed. So here I am at Rom Com Con 2015, short for Romantic Comedy Convention, which takes place every summer at the sprawling Beverly Hills Resort and Convention Center.

Can you say waste of time?

I told Vince I didn’t care that there will be over a hundred hot hard-bodied male cover models circulating throughout the convention for the next three days, signing autographs and showing off their flawless physiques. I reminded him that a few weeks ago, Hilary Clinton announced her candidacy for President. Whether I agree with her politics or not, I should be following
her
on the campaign trail, covering
her
story as she sets
her
sights on making feminist history. It’s about time this country had a woman for president.

But
nooooo
, Vince insisted I spend my Fourth of July weekend here covering this trivial fluff piece. The only fireworks I’m going to see are the irritated ones shooting out of my ears.

Walking beside me in the hotel hallway is a guy named Romeo Fabiano. He’s slightly shorter than I am, has olive skin, a coifed black faux-hawk, and a perpetual grin. As we walk, a slick black vinyl trench coat billows out behind him and a monocle bounces from a black string tied to one of his vest’s many buckles. Emo chic. He and I met for the first time this morning. Margaret Lang, my media contact for the convention, introduced me to Romeo when I arrived at the resort. She instructed him to take me up to the interview.

“Are you excited to meet him?” Romeo titters. “I know
I
am.”

“Excited?” I sigh. “Why should I be excited?”

“Because
no one
has ever seen
HIS
face.”

“Maybe
HIS
face isn’t worth seeing,” I mock, picturing some random meathead gym rat with a dopey expression and a crooked nose whose only asset is his body.

“Surely you jest,” Romeo says. “We’re talking about
the
Connor. The hottest male model in the business. The man with the perfect body. The body by which all others are measured and found lacking.”

The sour expression on my face says:
I don’t care.
I could be reporting on the plight of displaced refugees in third world countries. Instead, I’m here at Rom Com Con covering
this
. Open disdain shows on my face. Poker is not my game. But I am a professional, so I try to think happy thoughts to smooth out my wrinkled brow. It doesn’t work.

Romeo drives his point home. “A
Connor Cover
, as they’re known in the industry, practically guarantees that a book will sell millions of copies and land a top ten slot on The New York Times best sellers list. His abs put washboards out of business. His chest makes granite statues weep with envy. His shoulders made Atlas shrug in defeat. And those tattooed arms? Mmm-mmm, girl. With a body like his, I can only imagine what his
heads
look like.”

“You mean, ‘head’,” I correct.

“No, I mean
heads
. As in, plural. As in, both of them…” His eyes flicker impishly.

I refrain from rolling mine, but the urge is intense. “I hate to break it to you, but the logical conclusion why he’s never shown his face is because it’s not worth showing.”

Romeo nods, “There’s been endless speculation on the fan blogs about whether he’s handsome or heinous.”

“I vote heinous. He’s probably a troll. With two troll heads growing from his shoulders.”

“O, ye of little faith,” Romeo snickers while pulling out a smart phone. He taps the screen and shows me an image. It’s a shirtless and headless male torso on the cover of some random book called
Stepbrother Obsessed
. I have no idea what that is. Sounds pornographic. But there’s no denying the perfection of the body I’m looking at. It’s hard, cut, masculine, inked, and it makes something squirm between my legs, something I thought was either hibernating or flat out extinct.

“You’re blush-
iiiing
,” Romeo singsongs.

“No I’m not,” I bark. I clear my throat and try to sound professional. Yes, I can appreciate a gorgeous body as much as the next woman or obviously gay man like Romeo. But I’ve always preferred brains over beefcake. “Who is this Connor guy again? Does he have a last name?”

“Nobody knows what it is. He’s very protective of his anonymity. Some people believe Connor isn’t his real first name at all.”

That’s no help. I sigh heavily, “Look, my editor literally gave me this assignment last night and I didn’t have time to research Connor
Whoever
.” The truth is, I didn’t
want
to do any research because this is such a meaningless non-story. It’s not like interviewing a headless male model with no last name at Rom Com Con 2015 is going to win me a Pulitzer. “So unfortunately I don’t know the first thing about this guy. Can you fill me in?”

“Don’t you
read
?” Romeo gasps. “Connor is
the
thing in the romance books business.”

“I read the Wall Street Journal and Ms. Magazine. Not frivolous romance novels filled with gratuitous sex. I know about 50 Shades of Grey.”

“Your loss,” Romeo shrugs. “Sounds to me like you could use some frivolity and gratuity in your life.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” I bark.

“Here we
ARE-rreeee
!” Romeo sings, ignoring me.

We stand in front of room 714.

“Are you ready to meet him?” Romeo asks anxiously, his eyes shining gleefully. “I know I am.”

“I guess.” I fold my arms across my chest and shift my weight impatiently onto the heel of one pump.

“The man of my dreams is on the other side of that door.” Romeo beams while he knocks. “Do you think he’ll be wearing a mask? Like a sexy but mysterious professional wrestler?”

I didn’t realize professional wrestlers were sexy. As before, I try to keep my confrontational comments to myself. I reach into my conservative purse and flick the power button on my mp3 voice recorder to make sure the battery is still good. It is. Distracted, I ask, “Why would he be wearing a mask?”

“Maybe he’s horribly disfigured like
The Phantom of the Opera
. Yes, that’s it! Once a dashing young man, he lost his looks in a tragic opera fire.”

“Opera fire?” I ask doubtfully.

“Yes, bear with me,” Romeo says seriously. “Now he’s wounded, his heart damaged beyond repair. He yearns in secret for the love of a strong young woman to save him from his solitary misery!” Romeo’s eyes light victoriously.

“You’re hopeless, Romeo,” I chuckle.

“I know, right?” he smiles and winks at me. “Now
THE
Connor is finally going to make his first
ever
public appearance this afternoon, mask and all, exclusively for Rom Com Con 2015!!!”

I arch an eyebrow.

“It’s an historic event,” he says seriously.

“
An
historic event?” I mock.
A woman president would be an historic event.

“That’s what I said. Did I misspeak?”

Misspeak? Romeo is definitely in a class by himself. I frown at him and nod toward the door. “Never mind. Let’s get this over with. Let’s meet
THE
Connor.”