Advance Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author
CHRISTINA LAUREN’s
“Like Brit hero Niall, Beautiful Secret is bloody freakin’ hot.”
—Joyce Lamb, USA Today’s Happy Ever After
“Christina Lauren reads our minds and creates, yet again, a perfectly scrumptious main character in Niall that all the ladies will lust after. This addition to the Beautiful Bastard series will convince you that under any stiff-upper-lipped Brit is a man just waiting for you to bring out a beast in bed.”
—That’s Normal
“Beautiful Secret is so fresh, so adorably awkward, and—wow—the heat is explosive!”
—Rock Stars of Romance
“Christina Lauren’s most swoon-worthy book yet! The only way this book could be hotter is if it was on fire. No one writes romance like Christina Lauren does—with humor, heart, and the sexiest scenes around.”
—Kate Spencer
“Will we ever stop falling in love with Christina Lauren’s fictional men? The answer to this is HECK NO.”
—Fangirlish
“Writing duo Lauren have really hit their stride, blending erotic romance with a flirty, funny new adult voice . . . . Lauren continues to write simmering sexual tension like no other, and the creative sex scenes keep things interesting.”
—Romantic Times
Praise for CHRISTINA LAUREN and the Beautiful Bastard and Wild Seasons series
“A sexy, sweet treasure of a story. I loved every word.”
—Sylvia Day, #1 bestselling author on Sweet Filthy Boy
“Hot! . . . if you like your hook-ups early and plentiful.”
—EW.com on Beautiful Stranger
“A devilishly depraved cross between a hardcore porn and a very special episode of The Office . . . . For us fetish-friendly fiends to feast on!!”
—PerezHilton on Beautiful Bastard
“Lauren has mastered writing delectable heroes and strong-willed heroines to match, and the contrast between rough-edged Finn and polished Harlow makes for a passionate romance. Each character’s relationship with their families gives the story depth, all while setting readers up for [the next] story.”
—RT Book Reviews on Dirty Rowdy Thing
“The thing that I love the most about Christina Lauren and the duo’s Beautiful books is that there is always humor in them. As well as hot steamy moments and some of the sweetest I love yous.”
—Books She Reads
“This book, like the others in this series, sucked me in right away, and I couldn’t get enough.”
—The Autumn Review on Beautiful Player
“The perfect blend of sex, sass and heart, Beautiful Bastard is a steamy battle of wills that will get your blood pumping!”
—S. C. Stephens, author of Thoughtless
“Both dirty and rowdy . . . . In a story that is easily devoured in one sitting, the details are sparse but spot-on . . . and witty dialogue carries the plot swiftly to a happy ending.”
—Kirkus Reviews on Dirty Rowdy Thing
“I loved Beautiful Bastard, truly . . . . I wasn’t sure how Christina Lauren planned on topping Bennett . . . . They did it . . . . Max is walking hotness.”
—Bookalicious on Beautiful Stranger
“Smart, sexy, and satisfying, Beautiful Bastard is destined to become a romance classic.”
—Tara Sue Me, author of The Submissive
“Christina Lauren’s done it again! The perfect dose of romance that sexy comedy fans of the Beautiful Bastard series have come to expect and adore.”
—The Stir on Sweet Filthy Boy
“Beautiful Bastard has heart, heat, and a healthy dose of snark. Romance readers who love a smart plot are in for an amazingly sexy treat!”
—Myra McEntire, author of Hourglass
“Christina Lauren are my go-to gals for when I’m in the mood for a laugh-out-loud, sizzling sexy romance.”
—Flirty and Dirty Book Blog
“It’s official: I’d read Christina Lauren’s grocery list if they’d let me. The girls wrote the French-boy fantasy I didn’t know I had.”
—That’s Normal on Sweet Filthy Boy
“Hilariously entertaining, blazingly passionate and deeply emotional.”
—Sensual Reads on Beautiful Beloved
“A sweet, superhot introduction to a promising series.”
—Library Journal on Sweet Filthy Boy
“I recommend this story to everyone who is old enough to read . . . Fans of Fifty Shades, Bared to You, and On Dublin Street will love this story and will have their own love/hate relationship with Bennett (the Beautiful Bastard).”
—Once Upon a Twilight on Beautiful Bastard
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To Kresley:
The first line, and all that follows, is for you.
One
Ruby
“I’m not saying I bet his cock is massive, but I’m not not saying it, either.”
“Pippa,” I groaned, covering my face in horror. It was seven thirty on a Thursday morning, for God’s sake. She could not possibly be drunk already.
I aimed an apologetic smile at the wide-eyed man standing across from us, and wondered if I could speed the elevator up with the power of my mind.
When I glared at her across the elevator, Pippa mouthed, “What?” and then held her index fingers up about a foot apart. She whispered, “Hung like a bloody horse.”
I was saved from having to apologize again when we stopped on the third floor and the doors opened.
“You realize we weren’t alone in there, right?” I hissed, following her down the hall and around a corner, stopping at a set of wide doors with RICHARDSON-CORBETT engraved into the frosted glass.
She looked up from where she was digging through her enormous purse, the bracelets on her right forearm clinking like wind chimes while she searched for keys. Her bag was huge and bright yellow and covered in glittering metal studs. Under the brash, fluorescent lights, her long red hair looked practically neon.
I was dark blond and carrying a beige crossbody; I felt like a vanilla wafer standing next to her.
“We weren’t?”
“No! That guy from accounting was standing right across from you. I have to go up there later and, thanks to you, we’ll share accidental, awkward eye contact while we remember you saying cock.”
“I also said ‘Hung like a bloody horse.’ ” She looked momentarily guilty before turning her attention back to her bag. “Guys in accounting need to loosen up, anyway.” Then, motioning dramatically to the still-dark hallway in front of us, she said, “I assume we’re acceptably alone for you?”
I gave Pippa a playful curtsey. “Please. Go ahead.”
She nodded, brows drawn in concentration. “I mean, logically it’s got to be huge.”
“Logically,” I repeated, biting back my grin. My heart was doing that flip-tumble thing it always did when we talked about Niall Stella. Speculating on the size of his penis might be my undoing.
With a victorious thrust of her arm into the air, Pippa brandished the keys to the offices before fitting the longest of the set into the lock. “Ruby, have you seen his fingers? His feet? Not to mention the fact that he’s about eight feet tall.”
“Six foot seven,” I corrected under my breath. “But hand size doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” We closed the door behind us and flipped on the main office lights. “
Lots of guys have big hands and aren’t especially gifted in the Man Parts department.”
I followed Pippa down the narrow hall to a roomful of desks in a smaller, far less opulent corner of the third floor. Though cramped, our little section of the office was at least cozy, which was lucky considering I spent more of my time there, working, than in the tiny flat I rented in South London.
Richardson-Corbett Consulting may have been one of the largest and most successful engineering firms in all of Europe, but it kept only a handful of interns on staff at a time. Soon after graduating from UC San Diego, I’d been thrilled beyond belief to snag one of the spots. The hours were long, and the money had immediately quashed my shoe habit, but the sacrifice was already starting to pay off: after completing the first ninety days of my internship, an actual metal nameplate had replaced the piece of masking tape with the name Ruby Miller scribbled across it, and I’d been moved from what was no more than a closet on the second floor, to one of the joint offices here on the third.
I’d breezed through high school and survived undergrad with only the occasional freak-out. But moving halfway across the world and rubbing elbows with some of the finest engineering minds in the UK? I’d never worked so hard for anything in my life. If I managed to finish this internship as well as I’d started it, a spot at Oxford in the graduate program of my dreams would be mine. Of course, finishing it well most likely involved not talking about executives’ cocks in the elevator at work . . .
But Pippa was just getting started.
“I remember reading that it was wrist to the tip of the middle finger . . .” she added, and used her fingers to measure the length of her own hand, and then held them up to further illustrate her point. “If that’s true, your dream man is packing.”
I hummed, hanging my coat on the back of the door. “I guess.”
Pippa dropped her bag to her chair and leveled me with a knowing look. “I love how you try and look all disinterested. Like you’re not staring at his junk whenever it’s within a ten-foot radius of you.”
I tried to look indignant.
I tried to look horrified and come up with some sort of argument.
I had nothing. In the past six months, I’d logged so many covert glances in Niall Stella’s direction that if anyone was a qualified expert in the topography of his crotch, it would be me.
I tucked my purse in the bottom drawer of my desk and pushed it closed with a resigned sigh. Apparently my covert glances hadn’t been quite as covert as I thought. “Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure his junk hasn’t ever, and won’t ever, be that close to me.”
“It won’t if you never speak to him. I mean, look, as soon as I get the chance I’ll snog that ginger in PR till he cries. You should at least talk to the man, Ruby.”
But I was already shaking my head and she snapped me with the end of her scarf. “Consider it research for your Structural Integrity class. Tell him you need to test the tensile strength of his steel girder.”
I groaned. “Great plan.”
“Okay, then someone else. The blond chap in the mailroom. Always has his eye on you.”
I made a face. “Not interested.”
“Ethan in contracts, then. He’s short, all right, but he’s fit. And have you seen him do that tongue trick at the pub?”
“God, no.” I sat down, slumping under the weight of her inspection. “Are we really having this conversation now? Can’t we just pretend my enormous crush is not a thing?”
“Afraid not. You’re not interested in any of the other lads, but won’t make a play for Mr. Uptight, either.” She sighed. “Don’t get me wrong. Stella’s fit as fuck, but he’s a bit on the prim side, wouldn’t you say?”
I ran a nail along the edge of my desk. “I sort of like that about him,” I said. “He’s steady.”
“Stodgy,” she countered.
“Restrained,” I insisted. “It’s like he’s stepped right out of an Austen novel. He’s Mr. Darcy.” I hoped that would help her understand.
“I don’t get that. Mr. Darcy is short with Elizabeth to the point of rudeness. Why would you want someone who’s so much work?”
“How is that more work?” I asked. “Darcy doesn’t lavish her with false praise or compliments that mean nothing. When he says he loves her it’s because he does.”
Pippa plopped down into a chair and turned on her computer. “Maybe I like a flirt.”
“But a flirt is that way with everyone,” I argued. “Darcy is awkward and hard to read, but when you have his heart, it’s yours.”
“Sounds a lot like work to me.”
I knew I’d always been a touch on the romantic side, but the idea of seeing the restrained hero unleashed in a way no one else did—uninhibited, hungry, seductive—made it hard for me to think about anything else when Niall Stella was within a four-foot radius.
The problem was I became genuinely stupid when he was around.
“How can I ever hope to have an actual conversation?” I asked her. I knew I would never actually act on it, but it felt good to finally talk about this with someone who knew him, someone other than London and Lola, who were half the world away. “You know, one where we both know we’re having the conversation? During last week’s meeting, Anthony asked me if I could present some data he’d had me organize from the Diamond Square project, and I was kicking ass until I looked up, and saw him standing behind Anthony. Do you know how hard I worked on that? Weeks. Then one look from Niall Stella and my concentration was shot.”
For some reason I was unable to call him by only his given name. Niall Stella was a two-name honor, like Prince Harry or Jesus Christ.
“I stopped speaking midsentence,” I continued. “When he’s near me, either I blurt out ridiculous things, or I turn into a mute.”
Pippa laughed before her eyes narrowed and she looked me up and down. She picked up the calendar and pretended to scrutinize it. “Funny thing, I just realized it’s Thursday,” she sang. “That explains why your hair looks particularly sexy, and you’re wearing that minxy little skirt.”
I ran my hand through my chin-length, choppy hair. “It looks like it does every day.”
Pippa snorted. In truth, I’d spent way too long getting ready this morning, but I needed the confidence today.
Because just like she said, today was Thursday, my favorite day of the week.
On Thursdays I got to see him.
In most respects, Thursdays shouldn’t have been anything to get excited about. That particular Thursday’s to-do list included such mundane chores as watering the sad little ficus Lola insisted I smuggle the 5,400 miles separating San Diego from London, typing up a bid proposal and sending it out in the mail, and putting the recycling out on the curb. A life of glamour. But pinned to the top of my Outlook every Thursday was also Anthony Smith’s engineering group meeting, where, for one hour every week, I had an unobstructed view of Niall Stella, Vice President, Director of Planning, and, Holy Hell, The Hottest Man Alive.
If only I could add him to my to-do list, too.
An hour of prime Niall Stella time was both a blessing and a curse, because I was interested in what was happening in our firm, and found most of the discussions that took place between the senior partners to be absolutely fascinating. I was twenty-three, not twelve. I had a degree in engineering and would be their boss one day if I had anything to say about it. That a single individual had the power to hijack my attention was beyond mortifying. I wasn’t usually flighty or awkward and I did date. In fact, I’d dated more since moving to London than I had back home because, well, English Boys. Enough said.
But this particular English Boy was, unfortunately, beyond my reach. Almost literally: Niall Stella was over six and a half feet tall and effortlessly refined, with perfectly styled brown hair, soulful brown eyes, broad muscled shoulders, and a smile so gorgeous, on the rare occasion it made an appearance at work, it brought my train of thought to a screeching halt.
According to the offic
e gossip, he had finished school practically as an infant and was some sort of legendary urban planning mastermind. I hadn’t realized that was an Actual Thing until I started working in the engineering group at Richardson-Corbett and saw him advise on everything from Building Control guidelines to the chemical composition of concrete additives. He was the unofficial final word in London on all bridge, commercial, and transport structure blueprints. To my utter heartbreak, he even once left in the middle of a Thursday meeting to direct a construction team when a panicked city worker called because another firm had botched a foundation design and concrete had already been poured. Virtually nothing got built in London without Niall Stella’s hand in it somewhere.
He took his tea milk first (no sugar), had an enormous office on the third floor—far from mine—clearly never had time for television, but was a Leeds United man through and through. And although he was raised in Leeds, he went to school at Cambridge, then Oxford, and now resided in London. Somewhere along the way Niall Stella had developed quite the posh accent.
Also: recently divorced. My heart could barely take it.
Moving on.
Number of Times Niall Stella Had Glanced at Me During Thursday Meetings? Twelve. Number of Conversations We’d Had? Four. Number of Either of These Events He Might Actually Remember? Zero. I’d been wrestling with my Niall Stella crush for six months, and I was pretty sure he still didn’t know that I was an employee at the firm rather than a regular takeout delivery girl.
Surprisingly, because he was almost always one of the first to the office, the man in question wasn’t here yet. I’d checked—a few times—craning my neck to see through the mass of bleary-eyed people filing in through the conference room door.
Our meeting room was lined with a wall of windows, each looking out onto the fairly busy street below. My morning walk to work had been relatively dry, but as it did most days here, rain had begun to drizzle from a sky heavy with clouds. It was the kind of rain that looked like a harmless haze, but I’d learned not to be fooled: three minutes outside and I’d be soaked through. Even if I’d grown up somewhere rainier than Southern California, I could never have been prepared for the way the London air, between October and April, felt almost saturated with water, heavy and damp. Like a rain cloud had wrapped itself around my body and seeped straight into my bones.