The Player's Club: Lincoln

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 …

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, e-mail her at [email protected].

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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!

Dear Reader,

Lincoln Stone is the rich, brilliant, secretive leader of the 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

“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.”