Conceal (The Barker Triplets 3)

Chapter Nineteen

THE PARTY WAS going strong inside the arena that housed her sister’s hockey school. Billie had had the ice removed and donated the space for the reception following the tournament, that included a massive buffet, bar, and dance. It seemed as if everyone from town had paid to attend the event. They all wanted to rub shoulders with the celebrities who’d taken part in the baseball tournament, and Beau Simon was the busiest.

He’d posed for more pictures and signed more autographs than anyone and he’d done it graciously. God, Marianne Phibbs had swooned like a teenager when he’d spent some extra time with her and had taken at least five photos with the woman. The guy was almost too good to be true.

Almost.

Outside, a half moon hung low in the sky and Betty welcomed the shadows as she leaned against the still-hot brick of the building. Her hair clung to the damp skin on her neck, the long tendrils waving madly in the humidity. Her dress, a slinky, black halter she’d confiscated from one of her last photo shoots, stuck in places much too sensitive.

Her breasts.

Slowly, her hand crept up and she grazed nipples that were hard. With a groan she closed her eyes.

God, why had Beau kissed her like that?

And why the hell was it so hot?

She rubbed her forehead and sighed, feeling the twinges of a headache coming on.

It had been a day.

God, it had been a day.

She’d played her part perfectly—the Betty Jo Barker everyone expected—and she’d done it well. But it was exhausting.

The men. The comments. The smiles and pats on the ass when they thought they could get away with it.

Beau.

Betty’s fingers fell to her lips and the ache inside her—the one that had been building all day erupted. She moved restlessly, whimpering at the friction between her legs.

She was hot. Bothered. And that damn hole inside her yawned open, its emptiness taunting her. She felt as if she was coming out of her skin. It was worse than coming down from a high and she wished she’d have tossed back a few vodkas. At least then she might have had a chance at being relaxed.

Instead, she was outside, hiding in the shadows, rubbing her thighs together, nipples rock hard with desire.

For him. For Beau.

The kiss had been amazing.

“Shit,” she murmured.

What am I going to do?

Why was everything so screwed up?

Lane Summers was inside. Lane-fucking-Summers.

Betty had heard rumors they were dating and judging by the nasty looks the woman had thrown her way, she was willing to believe them.

Hmm. Beau and Lane. She supposed they were perfect for each other. Both came from money and ran in the same social circles. Both were successful—Beau in his career and Lane as a professional famous person. Heck, they were so golden you needed a pair of goddamn sunglasses just to look at them.

Though, the fact that he was into her kind of disappointed Betty. She was just so…standard. Un-original. Boring. Predictable.

Whatever, Lane could have him. It’s not as if Betty wanted Beau that way.

So why was Betty focused on a kiss that didn’t mean anything? A kiss that had been pure adrenaline and nothing more than part of the game? Of course Beau had done it for the crowd.

And she’d let him. She let him and she’d loved it and she didn’t care that the entire town now thought she was sleeping with Beau Simon.