Beautiful Liars Read Online Free Page A

breathing?”
    â€œYou make him sound ancient,” Emma protested with good humor. “I’m not exactly Anna Nicole.”
    â€œBut he has voted for over ten presidents.”
    In her own personal record, Emma could count only three elections. Disturbed by the thought, she shook it away. “I should go. I don’t hear Garrison snoring.”
    â€œMaybe he’s dead,” Delilah cracked.
    â€œOh, that’s nice,” Emma said, laughing in spite of herself as she hung up and ventured back into the bedroom, where Garrison was alive and well and reading The Financial Times .
    His gaze zeroed in on the cordless telephone. “Secret boyfriend?”
    â€œDelilah,” Emma confirmed.
    Garrison grunted disagreeably and returned to his newspaper.There had been one get-acquainted-with-my-friend-Delilahdinner at Mr. Chow. It had not gone well. In fact, he had referred to her as a “foul-mouthed cunt” in the cab on the way home.
    Emma began to dress quickly in a Juicy Couture suit that was hanging carelessly across her vanity chair.
    â€œAre we finished?” Garrison asked. Engrossed in an article,he barely looked up. “I could go at it again.”
    â€œI have to run down to the newsstand. Can I bring you back anything?”
    He shook his head. “Fix me a bourbon before you go.”
    The request irritated her. It sounded like a line from an old Harold Robbins novel. The rich bastard had just screwed the young girl, and now he expected her to serve him like a geisha. She took in the sight of his bald head and protruding stomach, experiencing a moment’s pure disgust.
    All of a sudden, it was astonishing that Garrison Friedberg had landed someone like her. Even Sutton Lancaster, a woman closer to his own age, should have been out of his league, not to mention the scores of beautiful girls who had come before both of them.
    Men who played the asshole card usually enjoyed consistentsuccess with uneducated women. So why was Emma pouring the Masterpiece bourbon into a highballer instead of splashing it in this guy’s face?
    The fact that she had no answer simply underscored how far off course she was. Dutifully, Emma delivered the drink.
    Garrison accepted it without a word, clicking on the small flat screen television to CNBC’s Street Signs .
    Emma grabbed her BlackBerry and dashed downstairs to the newsstand on the corner. The teaser headline ONE SWEET LITTLE MELON made her stomach do a revolution as she pushed a dollar into the attendant’s hand and walked away, lost in the business of tearing through the smelly newsprint for the actual story.
    And there it was. Dean Paul on a stretch of beach in the Hamptons, his body impossibly toned and cut as he cradled Cantaloupe in both arms while a bikini-clad Tilly looked on adoringly.
    The impact of the image hit her like a shot to the solar plexus. It was as if someone had stolen the life she always dreamed about, then staged a photograph just to torturously twist the knife.
    Her BlackBerry vibrated, followed by the chime of an incominge-mail. She glanced down to see a message from her agent, Adam Moss. Finally, The Beehive deal was negotiated. Contracts were being drawn up. A show prep package would be sent by messenger tonight. She was due on the set tomorrowmorning.
    A terribly nervous feeling swamped over Emma as she meandered back to her Upper East Side apartment by muscle memory alone. It was the weirdest sensation. She felt estranged from her own life, detached from almost everything.
    When she got back, Garrison was in the same position—marooned on her Ralph Lauren mahogany sleigh bed like a beached whale.
    â€œIt’s official,” Emma said quietly. “I’ll be cohosting The Beehive .”
    Garrison glanced up at her curiously. “You sound surprised.”
    â€œIt’s strange,” Emma murmured. “Part of me was hoping the negotiations would fall apart. If this doesn’t