Nice Guys Finish Last

By Sienna Sparks

Ariana de Havilland wanted nothing to do with nice guys. As the daughter of a billionaire and a busy lawyer, she was looking a relationship that required her to show up, take off her clothes and be pleasured - something bad boys knew how to do to perfection. Until she met Cameron Townsend, star hockey player and ultimate nice guy, Ariana had been happy to dedicate her life to her career. Cam convinced her he could be a bad boy in bed but a nice guy in life and Ariana's not been able to look back since. But is Cameron hiding something that will jeopardize everything? Will this nice guy break her heart or lead her somewhere she never expected?

Excerpt:
"...He was exactly the kind of commitment I could entertain at this junction in my life - namely, none. He was interested in my family's connections and enjoyed the pleasures of my black Amex card, I was interested in the way his **** could make me come after I'd gotten off an eight hour flight from Caracas."

This book contains adult material and is not suitable for readers under the age of 18.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sienna Sparks
• Release date: Oct 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310872136

Sienna Sparks

Sienna writes romance for the millions of ladies who like a little something more erotic with their love stories. Her debut novel, All She Ever Wanted, will be released on October 19th, 2015.

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Nice Guys Finish Last

Copyright © 2015 Sienna Sparks

Published by Sienna Sparks at Smashwords

ISBN 9781310872136

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever without the prior written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a media publication. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Electronic Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter One: Ariana

Chapter Two: Cameron

Chapter Three: Ariana

Chapter Four: Cameron

Chapter Five: Ariana

Chapter Six: Cameron

Chapter Seven: Ariana

Chapter Eight: Cameron

Chapter Nine: Ariana

Chapter Ten: Cameron

Chapter Eleven: Ariana

Chapter Twelve: Cameron

Chapter Thirteen: Ariana

Chapter Fourteen: Cameron

Chapter Fifteen: Ariana

Chapter Sixteen: Cameron

Chapter Seventeen: Ariana

Epilogue: Ariana

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Other Books by this Author

Connect with Sienna Sparks

Chapter 1 - Ariana

When Thomas de Havilland asked you to do something, you did it. As the richest man in the world, he was used to people listening to his requests, obeying his orders and not questioning his motives. He was used to it from everyone except me, his only child.

When I was five, my dad had told me I couldn’t dance in the school production of the Wizard of Oz (… too many photographs that could end up in gossip columns, Ariana!); I did it anyway and had a nanny sign the permission slips. When I was eleven, I wasn’t allowed to ride horses at my friend Clara’s estate in England (Do you know how many children fall off horses and break bones, Ariana?); I told Clara’s parents my parents didn’t speak English very well and that they were only insisting I didn’t ride their polo horses. When I was twenty-two, my dad suggested I take some time off after obtaining my Bachelor’s degree to travel the world (You will be young only once, Ariana!); but I did a low-level internship at a legal aid clinic to get extra credit towards my Law School application.

I graduated Summa Cum Laude from Harvard Law School two years ago and have been busting my ass working my way up in the legal department of my father’s multinational billion dollar business since. It was hard work proving your worth as not only the boss’ daughter, but as one of only a handful of women in the field of corporate mergers and acquisitions.

While I loved the lifestyle my father’s success afforded me, as his heir I needed to be serious about the business I was inheriting. I allowed myself no time for anything other than the love of my life, the family business. I wanted to be taken seriously – I needed to be - and over the last two years of working closely with my father on deals both large and small, I’d come to earn his respect, his trust and most importantly unlock a whole new side of him. I had come to understand why he was so protective of his daughter and why he wanted me to not be tied down with work too soon. My dad loved me and wanted nothing more than to see me happy in life. What my father failed to see was that Havilland Holdings made me immensely happy.

It’s why that afternoon when my dad sent me an urgent e-mail strongly requesting my presence at a charity event that upcoming Friday evening I sighed, rubbed my temples and replied with a begrudging acceptance. I shrank back into the seat of my chauffeured Rolls Royce Phantom and watched the familiar New York City skyline grow closer and closer as we raced towards the city.

It was only Thursday evening and it had been a long week. Between long hours in the boardroom negotiating the details of a pending corporate merger, a couple of trans-continental flights and my friend Zoe’s birthday celebrations the weekend before, I had been in my own apartment for a total of eleven hours. While I obviously supported charitable endeavors, it was not my ideal way to spend this particular Friday evening. I would have much rather collapsed on the sofa with Chinese takeout and trashy new episodes of Outlander than get gussied up to hear about another philanthropic success story for my family.

My phone vibrated as the car sped towards the Lincoln Tunnel and I glanced over to see a text message from Jeff, the Wall Street broker I was casually seeing - although seeing might have been a bit of an exaggeration. I was really only interested in the fact that Jeff could accurately predict not only when the markets would go down but also when his mouth should when we would inevitably wind up back at his place.

Jeff was exactly the kind of commitment I could entertain at this junction in my life – namely, none. He was interested in my family’s connections and enjoyed the pleasures of my black Amex card, I was interested in the way his cock could make me come after I’d gotten off an eight flight from Caracas. I was far too busy with my work life to be able to worry about anyone else’s needs. A relationship that required me to show up, take off my clothes and be pleasured was all I was looking for right now.

Need to talk. R U home?

Jeff’s text irritated me because I hated abbreviations almost as much as I hated having talks. Talks were never good. Talks meant feelings and the implication of a relationship where I strived to keep it strictly physical. Jeff was an attractive man who spent every waking moment either researching the movements of the markets or with his personal trainer; his chiseled chest was proof positive of the amount of time and energy he spent on looking his best. Coupled with the tailored suits, custom shirts and handmade Italian silk boxers he cut a handsome partner whom I could dine, fuck and send home before washing my face and heading to bed. But now Jeff wanted to talk.

As a busy lawyer, I have precious little time to spend in the company of the opposite sex, the only exception being my best friend Johnny Kim; so flamboyantly fabulous I’m not sure that he even counted. My weekends were often spent buried in briefs – and not the kind that house male genitalia. With so much of my life already occupied, and the love of my life already having been identified as Havilland Holdings, I was really just looking for a relationship that fulfilled the one thing that an overflowing bank account couldn’t buy me – without employing an escort agency, anyway. I wanted the weight of a man on top of me fucking my brains out.

Marcus, can you please make a stop in Murray Hill, Mr. Cavanagh’s place? Marcus had been driving me around New York City since I took ballet lessons in the preschool and is one of the very few people whom my parents and I trusted to handle our personal matters with utmost discretion – something very important for our family. Marcus nodded and quickly changed lanes to accommodate my request.

We arrived at Jeff’s place a few minutes later as Marcus miraculously found the only available parking spot within a 5-block radius directly outside his building. I indicated that I would only be a few minutes before discreetly re-applying my lipstick and emerging from the car. While Jeff said he wanted to talk, I was secretly hoping that we could first solve the pent up horniness building between my thighs from a week spent haggling over international oil export contracts without a man’s touch. While Jeff’s hands were no match for my own in knowing what I liked, they would be a welcome change of pace. I was hoping that they could work their magic tonight before I had Marcus drive me home and I could collapse on my fifteen hundred thread count sheets recently imported from Egypt.

I walked up the stairs to the door in my slim cut suit, feeling irresistibly sexy as I tugged on the neckline of my silk blouse to reveal only the slightest glance at the lace La Perla bra underneath. If Jeff wanted to talk, he’d have to resist this sexy successful lawyer first. I rang the buzzer and heard his voice on the intercom telling me to come in, as I took a deep breath and entered the building. I really didn’t give a shit if Jeff was having an existential crisis at this point. I wanted to get fucked.

As Jeff opened the door to his bachelor pad, I realized very quickly that this was not the booty call kind of talk I had been hoping for. The place was cleaner than I remembered, with a plate of cookies on the counter and a neat pile of magazines on the coffee table. Jeff was living with a woman, or at the very least, a woman frequented his home often enough to reorganize his normally cluttered tables. Jeff kissed me awkwardly on the cheek and escorted me into his living room, asking me if I would like a glass of water before my blank stares of confusion prompted him to get to the point.

Ariana, I have loved the time we have spent together, but I need more than you can give me. I met someone. The words coming out of his mouth surprised me, but didn’t astound me. I diplomatically pulled up the neckline of my blouse and allowed him to continue.

I love her, and while I obviously feel for you in a different way, I feel like I need to be true to her. My mind started to wander to who this woman could be – a blonde? Brunette? Redhead? Must be a redhead… We had role played with a wig once and he got really into it.

I never meant to hurt you, he continued as my mind continued to race. Did her pubic hair match her hair color? I knew this was something that everyone had asked after Lindsay Lohan burst onto the scene years ago, was this what had attracted him to redheads? Sure, that was a decade ago but had men stopped thinking about it?

Zoe told me I’m one of the first since Vinc – My redheaded fantasies about Jeff’s girlfriend stopped at the first mention of my ex-boyfriend, the bastard who had shattered my heart. My emotions must not have been hard to read as I got up and turned to walk towards the door, streaming awkward wishes for his future happiness.

Fuming, I almost lost my balance going down the stairs in my four-inch Louboutins as I raced to get back into the waiting car. I plunked myself down into the plush leather seats and closed my eyes. Marcus sped away as I reflected on what had just happened. How dare Jeff mention Vincent to me? I opened up the rear compartment in the Phantom and pulled out a miniature bottle of Macallan fourty-year old Scotch and swallowed it without stopping to enjoy the peaty taste or the staggering price tag. Vincent was a name I never wanted to hear again. A name I never wanted to talk, think or hear about one more time.

Vincent had been more than just the only man who hadn’t cared about my money. Vincent Bernadotte and I had met through our families when we were children. The only son of the monarchs of a small European country, his formal name was technically His Royal Highness Prince Vincent, but I grew up knowing him as only Vince, the easy going kid with a European accent. We spent summers in the South of France, Christmas in Aspen and by the time we were teenagers had progressed to spending those vacations exploring each other’s bodies at any moment we could slip away.

Vincent was not only a Prince, but also a genuinely nice guy. He had always taken the time to remember anniversaries, would be the first to offer me a jacket when there was a chill in the air and always made sure I was shielded from the inevitable paparazzi that were always trying to get a picture of a Prince doing something, anything, tabloid worthy. Vince had comforted me when my beloved grandmother passed away and had sent me a card every year since – even after we stopped speaking. He was my first love, my first fuck and though we had only seen each other only a few times a year, I had never thought of anyone as a serious contender for my heart other than Vincent.

That’s not to say we didn’t have other relationships – we were hormone-fueled teenagers living on opposite sides of the globe - but things always fell back into sync when we would meet up. It was like our bodies couldn’t say no. I spent one semester in high school at a boarding school in Switzerland, a well-known finishing school for the world’s richest young women. For me, that semester served as an opportunity for regular weekend get-togethers with Vince. During those reunions, we would practice what my father would have been shocked to find out was what was actually being taught at Villa Pierrefeu. While the official transcript read that I learned about European masters, classical music and the etiquette required to navigate my social circles, the exclusive boarding school also taught how to keep a man’s attention for reasons other than our bank accounts.

Vincent and I made our relationship official when I started law school at Harvard and he was attending a semester at Boston College. I spent days attending endless classes, evenings studying case law… and nights being fucked by a boyfriend I loved. I talked to my parents about our surely upcoming wedding which thrilled them to no end, as he would be a great match for their only daughter and heir to the family fortune. I had fallen hook, line and sinker.

One night I had been out late at a study group and came home to find Vincent in bed with his mouth on my friend Kari’s clit and a hooker on his cock. We had become boring, he said, like an old married couple. Although he loved and wanted to marry me, he needed to spice it up a little bit – he’d always had other women when we’d been living on opposite sides of the globe and he wanted that to continue. I sat, shocked, as he continued explaining that his life had been mapped out at birth, and the type of woman he should marry was too. My money, ancestry and lineage made me a perfect contender. The nice guy bastard broke my heart and was one of the main reasons why I focused my life on my career and refused to enter any form of romantic relationship other than the kind that focused solely on giving me orgasms. My heart was not worth the risk.

Just then Marcus pulled up to my building and I let out an audible sigh of relief. There is nothing better than being home when you are exhausted. I rode the elevator to the penthouse, opened the doors to my apartment and dumped my bags at the door. I turned off the alarm system and stripped out of my clothes, leaving a trail of discarded couture behind me as I moved to my bedroom and collapsed into my bed. My pent up sexual frustration was taken out on the well-used vibrator in my night table. I fell asleep quickly after the hurried release, so tired I couldn’t even form a dream.

Friday morning came with a start as I heard the distant sound of my coffee machine whirling to life. Maria must have gotten word that I had come home last night, I thought with a smile. Sure enough, my discarded clothing and suitcases were nowhere to be seen and the clothing from my suitcase was now hung in my walk-in closets. I ventured to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth before throwing on a robe and walking towards the coffee smell.

Maria smiled warmly and rushed over to give me a hug as I entered the kitchen. She had been my nanny as a child, and when I moved out to my own place she had come with me despite my refusals. My dad ensured she was extremely well taken care of and she currently lived not far away in her own apartment.

Maria would occasionally feed me and clean up after me, but she was mostly around to make sure the small army of people that kept my life organized, orderly and efficient were doing their jobs. She was protective like a grandmother, fierce like a pitbull and as loving as any child could ever ask for in a caregiver. I had lost my own grandmother years before, but felt lucky to have Maria in my life to fulfill a semblance of that role.

I pulled out my phone as I saw a text message from my father, confirming my attendance once again. I promised to be there on time as I checked my phone to see that I had only 9 hours to complete a day’s worth of legal paperwork that had piled up when I was away as well as the array of beauty appointments necessary to attend even a small event at my parents home.

Maria made me an egg-white omelet with grilled tomatoes while we chatted. I always ate healthily, which luckily happened to include most of my favorite foods, a fact that greatly helped my size two slim figure stay in perfect shape when I couldn’t get to the gym. Maria took off shortly after breakfast and I slowly made my way to my office.

After writing a few e-mails about the South American deals I was negotiating, I made a few calls to start the process of getting ready for the charity event. Help arrived shortly after in the form of my hairdresser, who did a last minute house visit for a quick trim and blow out; my manicurist, who painted my fingers and toes the same nude color I had used for years and my makeup artist, who sculpted my features with enough brushes, paints and shadows to make me look as though I had come off a week long retreat in St. Barths rather than a week of contract negotiations. I even managed to confirm some closing margins on trades on the London Exchange before the European markets closed as the masseuse kneaded out the stress in my shoulders.

I finally stepped into my blue Matrisse Écolier dress that had been custom made for me by my friend Johnny with minutes to go before I had to leave. Johnny knew just how to dress my every curve to perfectly flatter my shape while not making me look like a tramp. A rare skill in a designer, if you ask me. By six thirty, I was beautified and looking every inch the billionaire’s daughter.

Marcus and I pulled up to the front doors of my parents’ building just after seven o’clock and were immediately met by several paparazzi stationed outside. My parents lived in the most prestigious and expensive building in Manhattan and were often the hosts of events that gossip columnists would kill to have access to. I smiled as I emerged from the car, declaring how happy my family was to support charitable endeavors and how thrilled I was to attend.

Fourty five minutes, Ariana. You can do anything for fourty five minutes. I whispered to myself as I rode the elevator to the top floors of the building. I paused, plastered on a smile, and emerged from the familiar elevator confines into the already crowded entry of my parents’ home. I just needed be seen, schmooze a little and then could skip out to meet my girlfriends.

Chapter 2 – Cameron

How my Publicity team managed to keep talking me into this shit, I will never know. About two years ago, my publicist Pauline O’Reilly had convinced me to reach out to the people at Havilland Charities when they were looking for a celebrity athlete to become the face of their new venture. Tom de Havilland, the well-known business mogul and hockey fan, had set up Hockey House Leagues allowing underprivileged children to play hockey. As the all-star face of the American Hockey League, I had been looking to grow my reach off the ice and it would be a natural fit– or so Pauline said.

It’s just a few events a couple of times a year. Plus, I heard Tom has a gorgeous daughter who is like a Doctor or something Pauline had said, with my Agent, Mitchell Frank, agreeing wholeheartedly with her.

A girl like that on your arm will not hurt contract negotiations, Townsend. Your off-ice reputation needs work I had rolled my eyes as Mitchell tried for the hundredth time to have me seen with a woman in the press. I was supportive of charitable events and had no issues with the extra cash the endorsements brought in, and I had to admit I was intrigued by the potential of a gorgeous daughter. A quick Google search done at the time had revealed that Ariana de Havilland was in fact not a Doctor, but a law student at Harvard. Oh, and gorgeous might be an understatement.

Ariana, however, looked like the type of woman who likely never dated anyone with a net worth less than a billion dollars and had seven poodles who travelled with her on a private jet from party to party. Plus, as the smoking hot daughter of a billionaire, she probably also never gave head. In my experience, hot chicks didn’t need to give head; it was usually the needy ones who sucked the best cock. And holy fuck did I like to get head.

Besides, Ariana de Havilland was not a woman that a guy from small-town British Columbia, Canada would wind up with. I wanted someone who would spend summers at the house I was re-building in my hometown, someone to have kids and grow old with. As fucking lame as it sounded, I wanted to come home after a game and fuck my wife rather than a random puck slut. I hadn’t