The Perfect Stranger Read online

  The Perfect Stranger

  Marin Montgomery

  Contents

  © Copyright

  Description

  Prologue

  1. Stella

  2. Stella

  3. Stella

  4. Stella

  5. Stella

  6. Stella

  7. Stella

  8. Stella

  9. Stella

  10. Stella

  11. Stella

  12. The Perfect Stranger

  13. Stella

  14. Stella

  15. Stella

  16. Stella

  17. Stella

  18. Stella

  19. Stella

  20. Stella

  21. Stella

  22. Stella

  23. Stella

  24. Stella

  25. Stella

  26. Stella

  27. Stella

  28. Stella

  29. Stella

  30. Stella

  31. Stella

  32. Stella

  33. Stella

  34. Stella

  35. Stella

  36. Grant

  37. The Police

  38. Grant

  39. Grant

  40. Grant

  41. Stella

  42. Grant

  43. Stella

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  © Copyright

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  COVER DESIGN: OneGraphica

  EDITING: The Passionate Proofreader

  COPYRIGHT: Wilted Lilly LLC 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permission Coordinator” at the address below. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Description

  Stella McKinney has a great life, or so she thinks. A Malibu beach house, talented husband, and her own makeup line that's been getting major play by fashion magazines and A-List actresses that have been photographed wearing her signature colors.

  As her career starts to skyrocket, her marriage tumbles into a crash landing of accusations and lies.

  Her introverted husband, Grant, has started to devote more time to his work and less time to their life together.

  Every time she turns around, Stella swears there are traces of another woman he seems unable to leave behind. Yet she can't seem to catch him in the act.

  Stella tries to convince herself nothing is wrong.

  Grant does the same, claiming it’s all in her head.

  Until one night when Grant’s out of town. A woman shows up at their door, spilling secrets that belong to both of them.

  Who is this perfect stranger, and more importantly, at what cost will she go to ruin their idyllic lifestyle?

  “Do not save your loving speeches for your friends till they are dead; Do not write them on their tombstones, speak them rather now instead.” - Anna Cummins

  For my friends and family that have offered me support during one of the most challenging years of my life. You’ve been the rock that’s kept me anchored.

  Prologue

  Smoothing down a lock of her dark hair, she tugs on her Burberry trench coat, inching the belt just a tad bit tighter. She knows it’s ridiculous - no one can see what’s underneath the tan fabric, or what’s absent, but she knows. It’s like keeping a delicious secret and having no one to tell.

  She feels naughty, visiting his office like this, unexpected but hopefully wanted. Chuckling to herself, she can’t imagine he will turn her down.

  It’s their little secret, and if anyone knew, it would raise a few eyebrows.

  But it is Hollywood, and people here have come to expect just about anything.

  Trying to exude an air of confidence while teetering on her almost five-inch So Kate Louboutin heels, she stands up straight as she strolls into his office.

  The literary agency he works for is floor-to-ceiling glass and it feels more like a library than an office. Framed first edition prints and antique typewriters are housed in a glass case. The couches are buttery leather, and they look worn, but in an extravagant way, the price tag going up with each expensive-looking crease.

  Striding up to the front desk, a tall, skinny blonde wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a pin-striped vest with a tight matching skirt looks up from the phone. She has the sexy, chic librarian vibe down to a science. Holding up a finger, she finishes the phone conversation and hangs up with a flourish.

  “Hi, welcome to the Masen & Snyder Agency. Do you have an appointment?” The blonde gives her an appreciative glance as she touches her clavicle, a nervous habit she has that’s endearing to some, mainly the man she’s here to meet.

  “Yes, here for Grant Masen.”

  “Okay, let me buzz him. Give me a moment.” She gestures towards the waiting area. “You can have a seat if you’d like.”

  She considers her wobbly legs but doesn’t want to risk giving the office a peek when she sits or stands.

  “I’ll just wait over here.” She glances at what would be a fish tank in a normal office, and this is precisely that, except it houses floating books instead of scurrying fish. At the bottom, literary classics like Treasure Island, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, and Robinson Crusoe lay as buried treasure.

  The blonde murmurs into the phone, then hangs up.

  “Ma’am?” She gestures her back to the desk with her hand. “Grant said he’s busy at the moment.”

  “Ohh ... okay.” Biting her lip, she thinks of a different tactic.

  “I’m a friend of his wife’s.”

  Startled, the blonde’s perfectly manicured hand pauses in mid-air. “Oh ... okay, um ... I’ll let him know. What’s your name?”

  “Just tell him Lucy is here.”

  “Let me grab him.” She stands abruptly, her messy chignon bobbing behind her as she hurriedly walks down the hallway. A moment later, Grant follows her out, his own glasses in hand.

  His mouth drops, an inaudible gasp.

  “Oh ... oh hi. I didn’t know you would be dropping by. This is an unexpected surprise.”

  “I know, it’s last minute, but I had some time to kill.”

  The blonde looks between them, a look of thinly-veiled disgust on her face. After all, it is Hollywood. She’s seen it all. Probably judging that the woman standing in the lobby is dark-haired instead of blonde, like his wife.

  Grant looks at the blonde, enunciating her name. “Re-bec-ca, please hold my calls until I say otherwise.”

  “Yes, Grant, no problem.” She taps a finger to her chin. “What about your lunch with Robert Gallagher?”

  Grant’s eyes don’t leave hers even as he considers Rebecca’s question. Smoldering, their hazel depths are subtle but clear. They both want the same thing.

  Perfect.

  “That’s still on. Consider me a ghost until I come back from my noon meeting.”

  “Are you going to drive or do you need a rid
e?”

  “I drove today, thank you.”

  Rebecca nods. Realizing she’s no longer welcome to be privy to this conversation, she heaves herself back in her desk chair, drumming her nails on the polished marble.

  Waving with his hand, he motions her to follow him to his office.

  The tall heels tap on the bamboo flooring, and for a split second she feels self-conscious. Why did I decide to come here? she asks herself. Licking her lips, she sneaks her hand into her handbag to suck on a mint before they get down to business.

  After they enter his spacious office, she shuts the door quietly behind them, grateful for the lock she clicks into place.

  Watching her with his chocolate brown eyes, his pensive stare never leaves her face. For some reason, the way his shirtsleeves are rolled up seem sexy, like he's ready to get down to business. For a moment, he seems uncertain about what to do next, and he rubs his hands together in consideration.

  Her voice sounds meek at first, and she clears her throat. Gaining confidence, she says, “I know you didn’t expect me.”

  “No, I didn’t.” He stands guard between her and his large teak desk, his legs spread slightly apart.

  “Mind if I sit, or are you going to keep a girl standing in these heels?”

  His eyes drift appreciatively to her Louboutins as he whistles in appreciation. “Those are some sexy shoes.” Giving her a nervous smile, he points to the one of the chairs in front of his desk, “and yes, please have a seat. Welcome to my office.”

  She gazes around his space, insight into him as a person and as an agent. It’s a large room, complete with a closet. Two mid-century modern chairs with antique brass legs in a peacock blue velvet are perched in front of his desk.

  Slowly lowering herself into a chair, she sharply inhales as the corset squeezes her tight. Her ribs feel like they could already be bruised in the short amount of time she's been wearing it.

  Grant moves behind his desk, sinking into his leather chair, his eyes still locked on her movements.

  “Is it a problem that I came?” she whispers, crossing her legs.

  He sighs, “It’s a little too late to consider that now.”

  Biting her lower lip, she groans. “I know. I don’t want to get you in trouble.” She knows his favorite feature is her legs.

  So she moves them apart, inch by inch, as she unbuckles the belt on her trench coat, then languidly unfastens each button, starting at the bottom and working her way towards the top.

  Grant’s breathing starts to quicken as surprise registers in his eyes. A sharp intake of breath escapes his lungs as he realizes she’s wearing a corset, the opened trench giving him a full-frontal view of her body.

  “Oh my God.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” She gives him a wicked smile. “Do you like?” She cups one of her breasts in her hand, pinching her nipple through the thin fabric.

  “How could I not?”

  Carefully she stands, gripping the chair handles for support. She lets the coat fall off of her shoulders and drop to the floor, abandoning it once and for all.

  Seductively, she leans over his desk. Her boobs try and spill out over her black lace corset, a fortune at Agent Provocateur, but they have nowhere to go.

  “Show me more.” He reaches his hands out to cup her breasts.

  “No touching yet, naughty boy.”

  Grant’s mouth hangs open, transfixed by the way the bodysuit hugs her curves, leaving little to the imagination.

  He rises as if shot out of a cannon, practically climbing across his desk to close the space between them.

  “Not yet,” she breathes, “I’m not done.”

  Gripping the edge of the wood, his chocolate eyes are a shade darker as he considers her. “Come here,” she commands. In one fluid movement, he’s in front of her. Motioning to the chair she just stood from, she pushes him into the seat. “I haven't shown you the back yet.”

  With her hands lightly touching his workspace and his heavy panting behind her, she bends forward, her lace thong exposing her bare cheeks, the back covered with hook and eye fasteners that resemble fancy black ribbon. She doesn’t have to look over her shoulder to know he has a raging hard-on.

  His hands reach out to caress her hips, then each butt cheek, then they stroke each leg up and down, his soft touch giving her goosebumps as she sucks on her bottom lip.

  “Look at me,” he moans.

  Giving him a provocative smile, she turns her head, and he wordlessly pulls her backwards onto his lap. Brushing a strand of dark hair off her face, he kisses her passionately, his tongue exploring her mouth. His hands make their way between her legs as she softly squeals.

  “You can’t be loud,” he murmurs in her ear.

  She moves against him, silently gyrating on his lap. He nibbles her ear lobe, biting harder on the back of her neck, sure to leave a mark.

  “Where do you want me?”

  “Hmmm ... against the desk.”

  “Think you’ll be able to get this off?”

  “Absolutely.” He pushes her up off him and spins her around, kissing the tops of her breasts. “I have to get to the bottom of it. Find out what’s underneath.” Hooking his fingers in her panties, he slides them down, little by little, taking his time to remove them. After teasing her, he moves back up to the top of her corset. Painstakingly he unhooks the clasps, this time making her wait after each hook is freed, as he plants small kisses down her body as more skin is exposed.

  “You like this?” He purrs into her skin, his wet tongue driving her wild.

  “Umm ... hmm.”

  Before she knows what’s happening, he rotates her so she’s back facing the desk, pushing her against the wood, and the sound of his zipper goes down.

  “Shoes on or off?” she asks.

  “Definitely on.”

  Clenching onto the rim, she starts to heave as he enters her. Her violet eyes drift to the frame on his desk, to the wedding picture of a petite strawberry blonde and blue-eyed woman smiling into the sunshine. She looks so in love, the quintessential bride holding onto her man for dear life, her ivory wedding gown and pale pink lips complete the stunning picture.

  Shutting her eyes, she reaches out and slams the picture down forcefully as Grant thrusts into her, making the silver frame crack against the wood at the same time to make it seem like it’s an accident.

  He doesn’t seem to notice, or care, when she looks back at him. His eyes are glazed, hands pressed against her hips.

  Moaning, she refocuses, shoving everything else from her mind except Grant.

  A true gentleman always takes care of his lady first, and he has to clench a hand over her mouth to keep her from crying out. Biting his hand, she rams her hips backward, and her legs start to shake.

  Talking dirty to him, she describes in shocking detail what she’d do on a daily basis to him if she were his secretary. With a final heave, he reaches his climax and falls against her, pushing her onto the desk as they half-lay, half-stand over the top.

  “Jesus, that was hot,” he whispers in her ear.

  “You’re telling me.”

  “I could use a cigarette.”

  “You’re in luck. I brought a pack.”

  He gives her a quick slap on the ass. “What, seriously?”

  She nods.

  “I quit...”

  “Old habits die hard.”

  “Just like you. I can never seem to quit you.”

  She rests a hand over his. “You never have to.”

  He tucks a strand of brown hair behind her ear. “I think I can be bad this one time.”

  “Then I’ll grab us a light.” She raises her brows. “Can we smoke in here?”

  “Are you crazy? The smoke alarms will go off and you’ll have to run outside naked.”

  “Yeah, but so will you.”

  “Everyone will know...”

  “About what?” She shrugs, “the size of your package?”

  He elbows her in the
back. “Let’s go out on my patio.”

  “I can’t get up until you get off me.”

  “Oh, true. Sorry.” He slowly pushes himself off her.

  “Are you going to wear that home?” He points to the discarded fabric on the floor.

  “The corset?”

  He nods.

  “No, just the trench. Maybe I’ll leave this here as a souvenir.” She winks as she twirls the dainty lingerie in her hand.

  “You better not.” He pulls his pants back on, tucking his shirt in, securing his belt around his waist.

  She fumbles in her purse for the pack of cigarettes she picked up at the gas station and a lighter. It’s been years since she took a drag.

  Sliding her trench coat back on, they stand outside, the small patio fairly secluded. A wall of concrete covered by ivy and greenery acts as a backdrop against the sounds of traffic and impatient honks from the I-5.

  They share a light, both taking a moment to inhale the smell of nicotine and tar as billows of smoke drift into the air and they stand, unmoving. She leans against him, his hand resting protectively on her hip.

  After a couple moments, he glances at the Patek Philippe on his wrist for the time.

  “Shit, I gotta get to this lunch.” He gives her a peck on the cheek. “Traffic’s going to be a bitch.” Nodding, she stubs out the cigarette, dropping it in a ceramic flower pot.

  She tries not to sigh, the delicious moment now over.