Nicholas Lyon is the perfect husband—a handsome divorce attorney who dotes on his wife and family. Sara Kaplan is the perfect seductress—a vivacious young lawyer tired of being single. And Malinche Lyon is the perfect wife—a still-beautiful cookbook writer and mother to three darling daughters. Now, in this smart, wickedly sexy novel, Nick, Sara, and Malinche are all about to join…The Adultery Club
Suddenly Nicholas—a man totally in love with his wife—is fantasizing about Sara. Sara is toying with Nick. And Malinche is facing temptations of her own. While appetites are whetted and sated from London to the English countryside, what began as instant animal attraction is spinning wildly out of control, turning lives upside down—and hearts inside out. And now one heretofore happily married man and two very different women are about to discover the difference between fulfilling your wildest desires—and getting your just deserts.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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|Title of History eBook: The Adultery Club|
|Release Date: 02-10-2010|
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The Adultery Club
Divorce is a difficult business. Never more so, may I suggest, than when your client authoritatively declares all men are bastards, and you’re left shifting uncomfortably in your seat.
“Not all men, Mrs. Stephenson,” I venture.
My client ignores my genial smile, gray eyes flicking dismissively around my oak-paneled office. Her gaze briefly snags on the silver-framed photograph of my wife propped beside the leather blotter on my desk; her expression of pity for my spouse places me foursquare with those unfortunates whose parents neglected the legal niceties before bedding down together. Since I have just secured her an extremely generous seven-figure settlement from her ex-husband, I find her disdain for my sex in its entirety a little unfair.
She stands and I rise with her, straightening my silk tie. She extends a scrawny pink tweed arm; her hand sits like a wet fish in mine.
“You may be right, Mr. Lyon,” she says dryly. “Maybe it’s just the men I marry.”
Her scent is pungent and overpowering: synthetic cat piss. Far too much makeup; I can’t imagine kissing those jammy red lips. She’s the kind of woman one would find smeared all over the sheets in the morning, the pillowslip imprinted with her face like the Turin shroud.
Good legs, though. Slender, neat calves, with nicely turned ankles. But no meat on her bones, and breasts like a boy.
My professional smile does not slip as I escort her to the door. I endeavor not to morally judge my clients; it’s distracting and unproductive. There’s no place in the context of divorce law for emotion or sentimentality; one has...