The Tryst (The Virgin Society #2) Read Online Lauren Blakely

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary, Forbidden Tags Authors: Series: The Virgin Society Series by Lauren Blakely
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Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
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Only, I sure wouldn’t mind going on a date where I didn’t have to report back to anyone except my friends.

Just in case, when I’m packing for the conference later that night, I include a red, cap-sleeve dress with white polka dots.

Well, it does make me look like a good girl.

I spend the first day of the Miami conference in sessions from morning to night, as focused as a high-end Nikon. The next day, I meet with platform partners and marketers, showing them the growth I’ve achieved on my own with the makeup app I started a year ago. With “The Makeover,” you upload a photo of your bare face, and it offers color and style suggestions paired with how-to tutorials from yours truly—AKA Lola Jones. I’ve been creating those videos and building a solid following online for more than five years. My little app has been chugging along all on its own, but we want to go big. After those meetings, I send a report to my partner, Geeta, back in Brooklyn.

When the sessions end for the day, I stop in my room for a quick change into beach gear so I can join some business school friends for volleyball. Once I put on a red bikini, I hit the sand, playing against MBA-ers from another school as the sun dips lower in the sky. I’m poised at the back of the net, waiting for our opponents to serve, when I spot a tall, broad, well-built man walking through the sand.

Hello.

Light blue swim trunks hug his hips, showing off his golden skin and his V cut. My eyes travel up his strong body. Just the right amount of chest hair covers firm pecs. He’s maybe in his late thirties, and he’s heading toward the surf with purpose. I only catch a glimpse of his chiseled profile. A trim beard lines his square jaw, and crinkles form at the corner of his eyes. He looks just my type.

“Heads up!”

I jerk my gaze away just in time to dodge a volleyball to the face. That would have served me right for gawking.

Volleyball victory still burns in my thighs the next morning as I stroll across the hotel mezzanine, on my way to my next session. I’m checking the conference app on my phone when my skin tingles. I look up and glimpse another echo of yesterday—that same, strong, sturdy man from the beach.

He crosses my path, talking to a small group of attendees as he walks.

There’s an intensity in his powerful stride as he makes his way toward double French doors that lead into a VIP room at the end of the hallway.

I stop in the doorway of my next session, stealing a few more seconds to shamelessly stare at him from this angle.

When he reaches the destination, he holds one of the French doors open for the attendees with him. Like a gentleman should. Once the last of the group disappears in the room, his gaze strays back down the hall, checking out his surroundings like a bodyguard checking for threats.

His dark eyes find me, and he doesn’t look away for several tingly seconds. He just stares at me, unflinching, unashamedly. A tiger checking out his prey.

His eyes travel down my body, lingering briefly on the tattoo on my shoulder.

Then, he turns and goes inside.

I spin around, drawing a steadying breath as I smooth a hand over my sleeveless black dress with the cherry print.

You’re here for work, Lola Jones.

I touch my conference badge; the skull-shaped rings on my fingers are a reminder too. I started the Lola brand when I was a senior in high school and desperately needed to become another version of me. Someone without news stories of family tragedy trailing her. Someone not bound by a promise.

Lola is carefree, independent, and happy-go-lucky. Lola earned my going-out money during college.

Lola can create a hell of a seductive smoky eye and design a terrific user interface for an app.

Most of all, Lola is just Lola. Here, I’m not the daughter of Anna Mayweather, the woman who founded a global billion-dollar makeup empire. Or that girl whose family was torn apart one dark evening in Manhattan.

With that, I march inside and settle down in a chair. I cross my legs. Open my tablet. Listen attentively.

Only, near the end of the session, my mind briefly wanders to the other room. Who is that guy dressed up in the smart, tailored clothes by day and dressed down in a sexy swimsuit by night? What is he doing here at the conference? And…will he go to the ocean again this evening?

Too bad I won’t be playing volleyball then, since I’ve got a networking dinner to attend.

But really, it’s not like I’m going to stalk him on the beach. I’m not even going to look up who’s speaking in the VIP room right now to see if I can figure out who he is.



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