Sex, Lies and Dirty Secrets

by Jamie Sobrato

  SEX, LIES AND DIRTY SECRETS

  Jamie Sobrato

  www.millsandboon.com.au

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  1

  “MY STUDY proves it—sex makes us dumb.”

  Macy Thomaston leaned in close to make sure her friend could hear her over the noise in the downtown San Francisco bar. “You needed to spend the past three years of your life researching to figure that out?”

  Lauren Parish shook her head. “Not dumb like you’re thinking. What I mean is, we literally lose IQ points every time we have an orgasm.”

  Macy stared at her friend, a sense of outrage rising in her chest. “When you became a medical researcher, I thought you were going to discover cures for serious illnesses, not ruin my sex life.”

  Lauren, who, up until a few seconds ago, had been one of Macy’s favorite people in the world, dismissed her concern with a shrug. “Knowledge is power.”

  Macy glanced around the Irish pub at the disappointing selection of single men. “Maybe that’s what’s wrong with all the men I’ve dated lately. Too much sex.”

  “Seriously,” Lauren said. “It’s all about biochemistry.” She pushed some papers across the table. “Read the concluding paragraph.”

  Macy flipped through the pages of the study Lauren had just finished drafting until she came to the end. And there it was, laid out in medical jargon, soon to be published in the Journal of American Medicine—that biochemicals released during orgasm have a temporary dumbing-down effect on the human brain. Weakened recall skills, sluggish thought processes, even a brief drop in IQ had been noted among the research subjects.

  “I can’t believe you’ve proven this,” Macy said as a waitress brushed past, dropping a green flyer of the bar’s weekly events on the table.

  “So what do you think?”

  “I think you’re going to piss off the world,” Macy said, her mind whirring with the possibilities.

  “Of course, but what do you really think? Does it freak you out a little? Make you want to change your behavior at all?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just stunned.”

  Lauren sipped her beer. “I, for one, will be a lot more careful about the timing of my sexual encounters. I mean, think about it—”

  “You’ve got a big job interview or an important meeting Monday morning, so that means no hot sex Saturday night,” Macy said, her bewilderment growing.

  Would this mean the end of casual sex as she knew it?

  “Exactly. And since the effects last up to four days, any important mental challenge in the early part of the work week could ruin entire weekends of potential sex.”

  “Unless it’s bad sex, right?”

  Lauren laughed. “That seems to be the case. The stronger the orgasm, the more noticeable the effects. And study subjects who had no orgasm at all experienced no negative reactions.”

  Around them, blue-collar regulars at the bar mixed with the growing crowd of yuppies who’d recently discovered O’Shaunnessy’s and declared it authentic and therefore a cool place to be seen. Authentic was certainly one way to describe the grungy hardwood floors, the slightly sticky tables and the malt scent that filled the air. The bartenders had Irish accents, and the waitresses wore skin-tight jeans.

  Macy, still in her pale yellow wool summer suit, and Lauren, in her standard black pants and black top, with her long brown hair gleaming in the dim light, were guilty of being from the searching-for-authenticity side of the crowd.

  “Oh God,” Macy said, the reality of the findings settling in her brain. “We can have sex before the big meeting, but we can’t come.”

  “Not if you want to be at your best, you shouldn’t.”

  “This is so depressing. Why’d you even have to do this stupid study, anyway?” Macy asked.

  “Because it will make my career?”

  “You should find a new career—something outside of medical research—before you discover that chocolate is the singular cause of cellulite or something equally horrifying.”

  “Try to look on the bright side. Now that you know the truth about sex, you can use it to your advantage.”

  “Right, so when I need to become dumb and forgetful, I just have to go get laid. That’s so helpful to know.”

  “No, when you need your boyfriend to become dumb and forgetful, you just need to screw his brains out.”

  “I’ll be sure to use the information for my own evil purposes next chance I get.”

  “Seriously, you should! The results of the study won’t hit mainstream media for at least another few months.”

  Macy sighed. “Too bad I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said without really meaning it. Being a career girl of the overachieving variety meant she’d been too busy for a boyfriend lately, and she didn’t need a guy hanging around just to tell her she worked too hard, anyway.

  “There are probably a hundred men here tonight who’d be happy to remedy that problem.”

  Macy was occasionally caught off guard by the fact that men found her attractive. Even after ten years of being thin, blond and decidedly coquettish, within her lurked the kid who’d had to wear the chubby sizes from the Sears kids’ department.

  “I just need the sex, not the guy. But now you’ve ruined even that for me. Could you remind me why we’re friends again?”

  “Because I always embarrass myself when I get drunk, and you like to watch the spectacle.”

  That much was true. And at the rate Lauren was going tonight, she’d be creating a spectacle in another twenty minutes or so.

  “How good are you at faking it?”

  Macy looked at Lauren, for a moment confused about whether she meant faking orgasms or faking any sort of enthusiasm for the bar scene tonight. “It’s not something I do often, but I can call upon my acting skills if I have to,” she said.

  Around them, the crowd was getting rowdier by the drink. Wednesday was Ladies’ Night, and people were celebrating the middle of the week as if they meant it.

  “We’re at O’Shaunnessy’s—AKA the Big O—and that means there’s a fake-orgasm contest starting in a half hour,” Lauren said in a tone that would have been more appropriate for offering Macy a fudge brownie sundae, and now she knew to what sort of faking her friend referred.

  “I’m supposed to be tempted by that because?”

  “Because you should enter. Given the results of my study, I’d say we’re all going to have to hone our acting skills sooner or later.”

  “Um…no.”

  “C’mon, it’ll be fun. I’ll enter too—it’s the perfect way to celebrate my having finished the study.”

  “Now that I’d like to see. I could definitely get cheered up by you faking it in front of all these guys.”

  “I bet my fake orgasm’s way better than your fake orgasm.”

  Macy resisted a smile. She had to hand it to Lauren—she knew how to cheer a girl up. And after a miserable day like today, Macy seriously needed cheering.

  She eyed the dance floor, where one of the bar employees was setting up a small platform and a microphone. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t had en
ough to drink to fake an orgasm into a microphone in front of several hundred people.”

  Lauren shooed away her protest. “You’ll be great.”

  Macy hadn’t been great today when she’d needed to be. Then again, it wasn’t her style to feel sorry for herself, or to let a guy like Griffin Reed get the best of her. She’d think of a way to get him back for making her look like an idiot in front of everyone at Bronson and Wade. But first, she needed to unwind, to stop thinking about the world of advertising for a while.

  “I’m going to sign us up. I’ll be right back.”

  “No!” Macy said, to no avail.

  As her friend disappeared, she found herself sitting alone with her drink at the bar, suddenly an easy target for the barflies. And she was far from in the mood to field pick-up lines.

  Her inner chubby girl wanted to go home and curl up on the couch with a pepperoni pizza. Macy might be thin now—in the best shape of her life actually, thanks to living far away from her food-equals-love mother and sticking with a torturous workout regimen—and she might be blond, thanks to the skill of her beloved hair stylist, but surface changes could only go so far past skin-deep.

  The ingenue act she’d mastered to go with her polished look was just that—an act designed to distract the world from the fact that Macy wasn’t nearly as sure of herself as everyone expected her to be.

  Working in advertising, she knew the importance of packaging, the irresistible lure of a glossy, attractive appearance. And she knew how to project that shiny happy appearance to the world, even when she was feeling anything but. However, when Griffin Reed was involved, sometimes she faltered.

  Today had been a case in point. Instead of standing up to Griffin when he’d made her look as though she possessed the creativity of a cucumber during a brainstorming session with their entire creative team, she’d simply let him have all the glory. And if that’s how little spine she possessed, she deserved the humiliation she got.

  She and Griffin were competing for the same promotion to creative director, and she wanted it at least as badly as he did. Yet she let her faltering confidence sabotage her when it counted most. Lack of confidence kept her from taking risks, and in the world of advertising, willingness to take risks meant the difference between success and failure.

  She had to buckle up and show everyone that she had what it took to lead the creative team. What she might sometimes lack in confidence, she made up for in her ability to think outside the box. She could, and would, take the risks needed.

  She’d been the leader of the art department for two years now, and while she liked her job, she didn’t feel challenged enough. She wanted to feel as though she was living up to her full potential. She wanted to shape the entire vision on their projects, not just one aspect of it. She knew she had what it took—her ideas were often the most visionary in the office—but everyone considered Griffin a shoo-in for the promotion.

  He was the head of the copywriting department, and he’d been at Bronson and Wade three years longer than Macy. He had enough confidence for ten people, and that made him look more capable than he actually was. Sure, he did his job well, but he wasn’t nearly as talented as Macy.

  But everyone loved Griffin. He was an all-star American-jock kind of guy, and everywhere he went people flocked around him, just as in high school, where guys like him had gotten all the attention and ignored girls like her.

  She stared into the crowd until Lauren emerged from it. When she caught Macy’s expression, her friend offered a weak smile.

  “You’ve got twenty minutes to liquor up before the orgasm fest begins,” Lauren said as she sat down.

  “You’ve mistaken me for a girl who likes to be in the spotlight.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, you love attention. How you act when you’re drunk tells the truth.”

  Macy grimaced, then polished off her vodka tonic. “I’m having an overweight moment.”

  Lauren made a show of looking around her barstool. “I’m sorry, I don’t see a couch here.”

  “A what?”

  “You must have mistaken me for your shrink, but sorry, babe, you need to get over the trauma of not fitting into your prom dress a decade ago.”

  Macy bit her lip to keep from laughing. No doubt, Lauren knew how to keep it real. “Point taken.”

  “I don’t care how many cookies your mother fed you, you look fabulous now, and you need to act the part of the babe you are.”

  “I thought you were a proponent of faking it in bed—not in life.”

  “Here’s your chance to fake it in front of an audience. If you tried, you could bring all the men in this bar to their knees.”

  Macy rolled her eyes. Lauren was exaggerating…or was she? Maybe this stupid orgasm contest was her chance to make up for the lack of confidence she’d displayed at work. Maybe the risk of humiliation would be made up for by the reward of testing her limits. Okay, that was stretching it, but she did need to do something to banish all the negative energy she’d gotten wrapped up in.

  “Fine,” she said, feeling the stress of the workday finally draining away. “Bring on the microphone.”

  AFTER WORKING a twelve-hour day, Griffin Reed hadn’t been thrilled by the idea of walking an extra four blocks to the out-of-the-way Irish pub his coworker and closest friend at the office, Carson McCullen, claimed was the new hot place to be on Wednesday nights.

  All he’d really wanted to do was go home, grab a beer and chill out on the couch. Not exactly the stuff an exciting night was made of, but he was damn tired. Working his ass off to impress the higher-ups at the agency enough to convince them he deserved a promotion left him occasionally wondering if it was all worth it—if getting the promotion would really be the end-all, be-all he’d told himself it would be.

  Immediately, the noise and merriment in the bar sapped away a little more of his energy, and he glanced back at the door, wondering how long he’d have to stay before he could politely skip out for the night. Probably he was stuck until Carson found a girl to hook up with.

  But the moment Griffin saw Macy Thomaston across the room, he could have danced a freaking jig.

  He spotted her at a table near the back with a friend, her long legs peeking out of her skirt, crossed and propped on the bottom rung of her chair. Did she have any idea how distracting her legs were? Did she suspect how often he’d nearly lost his train of thought after catching a glimpse of them in a meeting?

  She must have, or she wouldn’t have so often made a point of wearing skirts that were cut above the knee.

  Did she have the slightest notion how often he’d fantasized about taking her into his office, closing the door, sprawling her on his desk, and pushing her designer skirt up around her waist? Trailing his tongue up her satiny inner thigh—

  Damn it, he had to stop.

  She’d been the object of his desire for too long, and something had to give. He’d turned her ass and her legs and her tits into his own personal fetishes.

  He insisted to Carson they sit in an inconspicuous spot, where he could keep tabs on Macy unnoticed. Seeing her outside of work was a rare treat, and seeing how she behaved around a bunch of horny men when she didn’t know she was being watched would be interesting, to say the least.

  Not that he was some kind of stalker—he’d let his presence be known after he’d had the chance to observe for a short while. He just wondered what she was like when she wasn’t making his life hell at work.

  Macy had no idea how hot she was. Or, more likely she did know, and she was extremely good at using what she had to get what she wanted.

  “When are you two finally going to screw and get it over with?” Carson asked, his gaze traveling from Macy to Griffin.

  Griffin shrugged. “I keep reminding myself that all the fun is in the chase,” he said in a tone that didn’t sound convincing even to his own ears.

  “All the fun is in the panties, man.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve gotta work with the p
anties and the girl who lives in them.”

  “And she might be our supervisor as of next week. Guess that could create problems.”

  That was one problem Griffin didn’t plan to worry about, because he was going to get the promotion, not Macy. He ached for the challenge of more responsibility almost as much as he ached for Macy herself.

  “Macy’s friend is kind of hot. I hope we’re not going to hide out over here all damn night, because I’d like to make a move.”

  “Just give me fifteen minutes.” Fifteen minutes to watch, and possibly find some clue about Macy. What, he didn’t know. Maybe he’d be able to figure out which part of Macy’s vixen persona was an act and which part was for real. But that was probably hoping for too much.

  A waitress arrived to take their drink order, then disappeared into the crowd that was growing denser by the minute. All attention seemed to be directed toward a guy with a microphone who hadn’t said anything yet.

  “I forgot to tell you the best part of this place—every Wednesday, they hold a fake orgasm contest.”

  “Sounds classy.”

  The guy at the microphone started talking, introducing the contest, which he claimed was a beloved O’Shaunnessy’s tradition. Griffin tuned him out and turned his attention back to Macy’s table, but she was no longer there. He glanced around, trying to spot her golden-blond hair in the crowd, but no luck. Her suit jacket was still hanging from the back of her chair, so he knew she hadn’t left.

  But then he heard the words, “Our first contestant, Macy,” and his heart stopped beating in his chest for a few seconds.

  There couldn’t be two women named Macy in the bar tonight. And then he saw her, standing first in the lineup of women waiting to compete in the orgasm contest.

  God help him.

  Griffin had never mastered predicting anything about Macy, and his reaction to seeing her ready to take the microphone was just one more example of the many ways she could throw him off guard.

  He loved that about her. He loved that just when he thought she was going to weave left, she darted right. Just when he thought she’d turn cold and bitchy, she became flirty and inviting. And he hated that he loved that about her.