Chapter One
Holy shit, does this guy know what he’s doing in the sack! Or in the bathroom stall, rather.
That was Vivian Blake’s first thought as she watched the video. Watched as he slammed the voluptuous blonde against the wall and drove into her with so much force, it took Viv’s breath away. Though she was watching the X-rated bathroom romp from her iPad—in the privacy of her own home—it didn’t stop the heat from spreading over her chest, up her neck and face, to the tips of her ears. She felt downright pervy watching the footage. The surprisingly clear footage. Yeah, she could see everything. This was no shady production. The picture was clear and sharp, damn near HD. She sank a little deeper under her covers, the cool, crisp sheets brushing against her sensitive skin.
Viv couldn’t help but wonder how she would feel up against that wall. Ah—she squirmed as another wave of warmth rolled in, blanketing her from head to toe, reaching places she hadn’t felt in a long time. It was too much to even think about.
Get your mind out of your pants and focus, Viv.
The tendons in the man’s arms bulged as he held Blondie up, cradling her thighs. It was one of the hottest things she had ever seen. And we were talking arms for fuck’s sake. Once she locked in on his face? Forget about it. The camera was placed overhead so the angle provided Viv with an excellent view of that rugged mug. Piercing blue eyes, strong jaw with the perfect amount of stubble, and plump kissable lips that he used to his full advantage as he brought this unnamed woman to the brink of ecstasy in a bar bathroom.
The guy, however, had a name. A name worth millions. Mr. Bathroom Stall Sex Guy was better known as racing sensation Jarod Cage. And he was a foolish, foolish man.
The recording went viral almost immediately after he’d done the deed. What followed was a steady, and often vicious, stream of media coverage all over Racing Land. Cage Caught Again. More Trouble for Racing Bad Boy. Could This Be the Beginning of the End?
Now, twenty hours later, most of the photos and video clips had been taken down from the scummy websites. The attorneys made sure of it. But as a lucky insider, Viv had one of the few copies left for her viewing pleasure.
And what a pleasure it was.
As she assessed the evidence in question, it was easy to make out the delicious piece of mancake in the stall. Almost too easy. Viv wasn’t even remotely into racing, yet she recognized the man on the screen as Jarod Cage. There’d be no way to deny it was him. She made a note to look into the logistics as soon as she could—the equipment used to get the footage, as well as the methods of distribution—to find out who was responsible for the leak.
PR Rule Number 1: Know your audience. That included your enemies.
Amazed that the guy could hold up this mystery woman for so long, Viv checked the running time on the video. Five minutes. She stroked her own flabby arms and grimaced. Then she typed “go to the gym” on her work calendar.
Jarod shifted his angle a bit, and the woman’s blond locks fell over her full breasts. It reminded Viv that an appointment with her stylist was also in order. She could use some highlights in her hair for summer. She’d already been feeling frumpy lately, and this bombshell wasn’t helping matters. Not that she wanted to ooze sex like Video Girl here—that would not go over well at the office—but she could stand to pump it up a notch. Maybe even start breaking into her collection of shoes, take them out for a spin every now and again. Viv was no Carrie Bradshaw, but she did have a few pairs of Manolos and Jimmy Choos from an off-season sale. She considered them an investment and cared for them like a comic book nerd cares for a first-edition Batman or his G.I. Joe action figure. It was true. In fact, her burgundy sling-backs had never even left the box. What a shame, when they could be digging into a fine ass like the one currently gracing her screen.
Another minute ticked by. Viv’s brain finally, reluctantly, pulled away from Mr. Sex on Wheels and shifted to work mode. It was time for some serious damage control, and they would need to come up with the mother of all excuses for this one. Drinking problem? A bad reaction from prescription drugs? A doppelgänger? She’d have to cook up something good to get him out of this predicament.
How he didn’t realize he was being recorded in this compromising position, she had no idea. Actually, that wasn’t true. She did understand. After dealing with so many athletes, musicians, and actors—and their very delicate dirty laundry—she’d come to realize that incredible talent came with a price…intellect, in most cases. Thus, leaving the other head in charge of the important decisions.
No difference here. It was an open-and-shut case. Thankfully for the manwhore, it was Viv’s job to clean up indiscretions like these and make him nice and shiny again.