Page 60 of Sinful Lies

I couldn’t resist poking the bear.

Stopping at the door, I turned around and leaned against it. “No date tonight?”

He got up and grabbed his vest, putting it on. “No, Miss Whitenhouse. No date tonight.”

“Guess the married women of Manhattan can have one night of peace, for once.”

His jaw twitched. “I guess so.”

I’d been sitting on a secret for three years now.

One of Lazzio’s littlesecrets.

One stormy night—one of those nights that felt like the universe is in a bad mood—I had been working late on a project with a small art dealer in Spain.

He had this rare painting of Louis XIV, and I’d been pushing hard to convince him to lend it to us for an exhibition we were planning.

The exhibit had been calledKings and Queens of Remorse, showcasing monarchs who’d lived these glamorous, luxurious lives, but were absolute monsters to their people.

Louis XIV was a prime example: yes, he’d built Versailles and lived in a gilded palace, but at the same time, he had been ruthless, ruling with an iron fist while starving his people. It was a perfect fit.

And I wasn’t just talking about Louis XIV.

There was Catherine the Great, who hadn’t just ruled Russia—she’d apparently ruled a hell of a lot of men, too. No judgment, but she hadn’t exactly been known for keeping thingstamein the bedroom. A real queen, right?

Then there’s Henry VIII, who couldn’t make up his mind about wives—he’d married six, killed two, andstillhadn’t gotten the son he’d wanted.

And let’s not forget Queen Mary I of England, Bloody Mary, who had executed hundreds of Protestants in her quest to restore Catholicism to England.

If you wanted to make an impression in history, you had to be both glamorousandawful.

Anyway, after hours—literally hours—of negotiating, the man had finally caved.

He’d signed the contract and sent it over to me right away.

Grinning to myself, eager to rub my skills in Lazzio’s face, I’d taken the elevator up to his office, barging in unannounced like I always did.

What I had walked in on, though, had been enough to traumatize me for life.

Lazzio was sitting behind his desk, his suit still perfectly in place—at least the parts that mattered. The rest of him was buried deep inside a woman, her body pressed against his as she rode him, hands gripping the desk for support. Her head was thrown back, her back arched, and his hands were tight on her hips, guiding her in a rhythm that looked as though it was designed to destroy her.

The whole scene was just…crazy.

For a second, I just stood there, frozen in disbelief.

Finally sensing my presence, Lazzio looked up.

His face contorted in horror as he shot up from his chair, quickly trying to adjust himself. The woman, still in a daze, finally saw me and let out a blood-curdling scream before scrambling to hide under his desk.

I gasped once my eyes recognized her.

Of course!

Long blonde hair, timid blue eyes, and that thin, slightly crooked nose—how could I have forgotten?

“Jade, I promise this is not what it looks like,” she muttered, her voice weak and trembling.

I raised an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly like what it is, Mrs. Lazzio.”

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