Married Lovers


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A secret lover is a desparate plea for help and a catalyst for change.

This one though, one time read. Oct 27, Mammie rated it it was amazing. I loved how her characters flow from one book to the next. You feel like you know everyone. Better than some Mar 17, Punit Sahani rated it really liked it. Quite an amalgamation of the Bold and the Beautiful, the Rich and the Famous. Lovely read after a long time. Sep 22, Brittaney rated it it was amazing.

Karelasyon: I love married men (full episode)

I liked it. I won't say anymore because I don't want to give anything away. Mar 10, Anuradha Mohankumar rated it really liked it. Read a Jackie Collins novel after a long time. I had forgotten how good her books are and how much I enjoy them. Married lovers was no different. Lots of fancy characters displaying the hep Hollywood lifestyle amidst a gripping and fast paced story line.

Apr 02, Leona Romich rated it really liked it Shelves: review. Cameron Paradise has dreams of owning a fitness club, one where all the high-powered Hollywood folks could come to get fit and in shape. While she has big dreams to do so, she is saving up every penny she has in working as a personal trainer to the very elite of Hollywood. Her dreams are about to come true, although she is about to find out that there is more to opening up your own business than thought. But with good friends and people financially backing and believing in her dream, she is sur Cameron Paradise has dreams of owning a fitness club, one where all the high-powered Hollywood folks could come to get fit and in shape.

But with good friends and people financially backing and believing in her dream, she is sure to succeed. Ryan is beginning to realize how selfish and self-centered his wife is and as time keeps going by he realizes that maybe it is time for him to get a divorce since he is no longer happy. It is all in the timing though and it just never seems to be the right time to discuss this with his wife because of problems that arise that needs his immediate attention.

Don Verona is a well-known and has a successful talk show on television. He is extremely sexy and is known to be a playboy. When he lays eyes on his new personal trainer, he is in lust. He is determined to win her over with his charm. Unfortunately, Cameron is not the kind of girl that he is used to.

There is just something about her that is intriguing to him and he is determined to make her his woman. Married Lovers by Jackie Collins was a good read. When secrets are revealed it will end in an explosive turn of events. The question is who will the last man or woman standing when it is all said and done. This was the first novel by Jackie Collins that I have read and the author was recommended to me by a fellow reviewer and I have to say I rather enjoyed the novel. It was a bit too detailed in parts but the overall story was pretty good. I see myself reading more by this author in the future.

Feb 27, Liz Pollinger rated it it was amazing. Quick read. No surprises. Typical Jackie Collins story involving high powered Hollywood couples, love, lust, hookers and a murder thrown in for good measure. Readers also enjoyed. Videos About This Book. More videos About Jackie Collins. Jackie Collins. There have been many imitators, but only Jackie Collins can tell you what really goes on in the fastest lane of all.

From Beverly Hills bedrooms to a raunchy prowl along the streets of Hollywood; from glittering rock parties and concerts to stretch limos and the mansions of power brokers-Jackie Collins chronicles the real truth from the inside looking out. Jackie Collins has been called a "raunchy There have been many imitators, but only Jackie Collins can tell you what really goes on in the fastest lane of all. With over million copies of her books sold in more than forty countries, and with some 30 New York Times bestsellers to her credit, Jackie Collins is one of the world's top-selling novelists.

She is known for giving her readers an unrivalled insider's knowledge of Hollywood and the glamorous lives and loves of the rich, famous, and infamous. Books by Jackie Collins. Trivia About Married Lovers. No trivia or quizzes yet. Quotes from Married Lovers. Women are not to be trusted. And most people are dumb. You need to move on. The psychologist says the response is not surprising. These women, she said, need a place to talk without being judged and to get support for decisions to continue or leave their relationships. Little research has been done on the taboo relationships between single women and married men, but available data shows a dramatic unavailability of single men for women 35 to 65, the psychologist said.

Bitner said a study by Ohio State sociologist Laurel Richardson argues that the undersupply of available males results from three factors: the higher mortality rate among men, their greater tendency to remarry after divorce and their preference for younger women. Richardson, who extensively interviewed 55 women who had or were having long-term relationships with married men, said the females seldom sought married partners.

The relationships developed accidentally and were tender and loving in the initial secret years. Women busy seeking identity or professional growth often preferred involvement with a married man to a more time-consuming relationship with a single one, she said. Everybody I know kind of comes down to. If a man is having an intimate marriage. Bitner said that the relationships start strong, but that a decision about continuing must usually be made after two or three years. The nature of things you do in the beginning of a relationship are involved around sex and affection and excitement and learning more about one another.

But then you have to kind of start doing things together and making a future and kind of building something. Cynthia, who works in investment services, reached this point after joining the group last fall. You know, I hated it. You still don't understand why I left you in April. You left because you'd been shaken out of that romantic dream in which you had been living, a dream in which I starred as a rich prince who had chosen you to be his bride to live happily ever after.

You left because you found out suddenly that I'm human after all, and that you weren't the only woman I'd made love to during my life. I hope you've brought a decent dress with you, something better than that dowdy suit you're wearing. She had to admit they looked droopy, sagging on her slim figure. Now, do you or don't you have something better to wear?

I'm not your property. I'm not something you own and can take out to show off to your friends. Marco, will you please listen to me. In the archway, he stopped, turned to look at her, his lips curling, his slanted glance cold. Oh, I know why you married me You pretended you married me because you loved me, but all the time you were thinking how advantageous it would be to be married to the daughter of the.

And also you wanted a wife who would make your colleagues and friends envious of you. That's why you always want me to dress up! Nothing she did or said ever seemed to get through his tough armour of worldliness. Marco was much more sophisticated than she would ever be, and he had been using his wits to plot and scheme his way in business for more than half her life.

Now he was looking at her with a rather pitying expression that made her want to scream and rant at him even more. I've never thought of you as a piece of property that I own. I've always thought of you as an attractive and often lovable woman. You think of me as a woman. I married you because I believed you to be all woman, not one of those persons who aren't at all sure what gender they are. That's one reason why I asked you to come here so we can discuss the situation and reach some conclusion together, not jump to one.

Will you agree to stay here a few days while we work something out?


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His realistic assessment of the situation. She wished she could needle him into losing his temper as he could make her lose hers. I came to see her,' she complained. I have a phone number I can call. Would that please you? Then you can ask her yourself if she is all right. I would like to speak to her. It'll be long distance and I'll probably need the assistance of the operator. He moved quickly into the hall and across it into the study where there was a phone. Sandra had begun to turn back into the lounge when a new suspicion flared up into her mind. Why hadn't he given her the number and allowed her to phone Claire herself?

There could only be one reason. He didn't want her to hear the number he would be asking for. He didn't want her to know where Claire was. But she could always find out from Claire where she was. Realising how foolish her suspicion was, Sandra didn't go into the lounge to drink more champagne. She walked across the hall and into the study. Books and magazines were scattered about and chairs were deep and comfortable. Sandra had spent many hours in it with Marco, some of the happiest she had ever known during their short marriage. Where had they gone, those happy times, and would they ever come again?

She arrived in the room too late to hear the number he was phoning. She heard only that he was making a personal call to Claire and then he hung up. Again, briefly and disparagingly, his glance swept over her. Do you? Have you brought a dress suitable for dining out in? What would you do? The stores are still open. Didn't anything ever disconcert him? She didn't want him escorting her from boutique to boutique until he found a dress he liked and he would pay for.

That would give him too much of an advantage over her, more than he had already. The phone rang. Marco slid off the desk. I'm sure you wish your conversation with Claire to be private. The operator informed her that the party she had been calling was on the line and then she heard Claire's voice, pleasant and beautifully modulated. Is it really you, darling? How nice of you to phone. Where are you?

At the palazzo. Marco phoned me last night, said you'd been in a car accident and that you were asking for me. He insisted that I fly here this morning. I thought you were in hospital in Mestre but now he tells me that the accident happened near Milan. Oh, Claire, are you really all right? But nothing was broken, thank God.

I suffered a little from shock and whiplash and was allowed to leave hospital this morning. We're not,' Sandra interrupted hastily. Now Claire sounded cooler, distant, as if she were backing away from something nasty that she didn't want to know about. You and Marco are married to each other, so you should be together. Frankly, darling, I can't understand why you've stayed away from him for so long. Or, for that matter, why you went away to England in the first place.

It's a very dangerous thing for a woman to do, you know, to leave her husband on his own for so long. He could have got into all kinds of mischief while you've been away. With other women, I mean. If you had consulted me in April before you left I would have advised you quite strongly not to stay away too long. To tell the truth, darling, even though you're my daughter I was rather surprised when he chose to marry you. He could have had his pick of many lovely and wellconnectedsocially, I meanwomen' 'But you weren't here,' Sandra complained loudly, knowing that if she didn't interrupt Claire would go on and on in the same vein for a while and then suddenly say they had talked long enough and hang up.

And it was partly because of another woman that I left. Claire, where are you? I'd like to come and see you. That's why I've come to Italy, to see you. I've only a few days off from work' 'And that's another thing! You've no need to earn money. You have plenty of your own I can't discuss this now. Please tell me and I'll come and see you tomorrow. Joan is quite worried about you, too. She asked me to phone her as soon as I was satisfied you're all right and not badly hurt. Sandra thought she could hear Claire speaking to someone else but could not make out what she was actually saying.

Then she spoke into the phone again. Perhaps next week Ill have to return to London on Sunday. I've only a few days' leave. You'll just have to come back next spring to see me, if you're not going to stay. I might And now I must go. We're going out to dinner and I must change. Goodbye, darling, and thanks for phoning me and being so concerned about me. Lovely to hear from you. Claire had hung up.

Irritation flared through her and she crashed the receiver down on the rest, swore vigorously and flung the pen she had been doodling with across the room. For the first time since she had met Claire she realised how selfish her natural mother was; how Claire always put herself first. Claire wasn't a natural mother. She was an unnatural mother. She was a mother without any natural maternal instincts, who had preferred to give up her only child to live in luxury with a man who hadn't wanted to be a stepfather.

About to leave the room Sandra had a sudden idea. Finding another pen in the holder on the desk she picked up the receiver and dialled for an operator. Then in her slow, careful Italian, she asked for the area code and number of the phone to which she had just been connected,. The operator complied with her request, gave her the number which she wrote down on a pad and then told her to put down the receiver.

After a few moments the phone rang again. The operator told her that there was no answer from the number she had called. She then asked if the operator knew which district had such an area code. The operator said the code number was for a district near Genoa. Claire was still in Italy. What was going on? What game were Claire and Marco playing?

Why didn't Claire want her to visit tomorrow? She could easily get to the Riviera area near Genoa. And who was Claire staying with over there? With the piece of paper on which she had written Claire's phone number clutched in her hand, Sandra left the study and went along to the master bedroom determined to confront Marco, tell him she knew where Claire was but not exactly the place she was staying in and to demand he tell her Claire's address. He wasn't in the bedroom, and without considering how her behaviour might look to him she marched over to the bathroom door, opened it and walked straight in just as Marco, his bare skin glistening with drops of water, his hair hanging in wet fronds over his forehead, stepped out of the shower.

Confronted with his powerful yet symmetrical naked body, she pulled up short, all that she intended to say forgotten for a few moments. He, it seemed, was not as nonplussed as she was. He had always made love to her in that language. This is an unexpected pleasure. Why didn't you say you wish to take a shower with me?

I would have waited for you. I didn't come I've no wish She wanted so much to feel him again, to touch him everywhere. He smelt exotic from the soap he had usedsandalwood she thoughtand when he stepped closer to her her senses seemed to reel from inhaling it. He took hold of one end of the silk tie of her ivory-coloured blouse and pulled it to undo the bow. Finding his scented nakedness too much for her, she stepped back again and the bow slipped undone.

Grabbing hold of the long wide ribbon of silk, she pulled it from his wet fingers and, turning quickly, fled from the bathroom, closing the door behind her. For a moment she hesitated, breathing hard, trying to regain her equilibrium, then she went over to the dressing-table to look in the mirror while she retied the bow of her blouse. Bewildered, she stared at the three images of herself in the triple mirror. Her cheeks were flushed pink, her eyes were sparkling and her ruffled hair seemed to shoot with red sparks. With shaking fingers she started to tie the bow, wondering when her heart would stop beating so madly, wondering too, what she would do if she couldn't contain and suppress the sexual excitement her abrupt encounter with Marco in the bathroom had roused.

She hadn't taken into account that she might want him once she was with him again, she thought wryly, and for the first time she understood why she was afraid of him. She wasn't really afraid of him as a person. She was afraid of her own physical responses to his masculine attractions; afraid of her own desires.

He appeared in the three mirrors behind her. He had draped a towel around his hips, leaving his chest and shoulders bare, and his drying hair was brushed back from his forehead behind his ears. His light eyes glinted wickedly between their black lashes; he was a dark, devilish figure against which her own bright colouring glowed fierily. He put his hands lightly cm her shoulders and she stiffened immediately and defensively. Take your hands off me,' she said tautly. That's why you married me.

Long, lean and olive-skinned, the fingers sprinkled with dark hairs, they contrasted threateningly with her white skin, two tensile weapons designed to assault her. They had only to slide upwards a little and they would cut off her breath, she thought wildly. They could throttle her. Her heart pounding in her ears, she made no attempt to free herself, afraid that if she did she might set off some violent reaction in him. For answer he tipped his head forward. She saw the reflection of his drying hair springing up, the jet blackness of it making the parting seem startlingly white.

Then his lips were hot against the side of her neck. The caress was familiar, the kiss that had always been a prelude to their lovemaking. It both seared and seduced, sending messages of white-hot desire flickering through her. Her eyes closed as a spinning blackness took over her mind. Beneath the silk of her blouse her breasts lifted and hardened. You promised we would discuss the situation first.

After,' he mocked with the glint of a smile. Ruthlessly his lips parted hers and a swimming giddiness spun her round and round. Before she knew what she was doing she was kissing him back, fondling his bare chest, feeling again the erotic sensations spreading through her like hot flames;. Now,' he growled thickly. But she was too slow. He reached out one long arm and caught her around the waist, lifted her easily and dumped her down on the silken bed amongst plump cushions, and he was there immediately beside her, the towel gone.

Dark: and menacing, he leaned over her, eyes smoky with lust, hands pulling at the fastenings of her blouse. I'll never forgive you for this. If you force me I'll' 'No force will be needed, sweetheart. You'll see. It never has been needed between you and me. It comes to us naturally because we both want each other. His lips stroked and wooed hers while his fingers strayed amongst the thickness of her hair, and stroked her throat before sliding inevitably down to her breasts. Gently and expertly he stroked away her blouse while keeping her quiet with his kiss.

Once more the darkness invaded her mind, a whirling darkness splintered with flame-coloured sparks and, hardly aware of what she was doing, she helped him to remove the rest of her clothing. Then, groaning helplessly as her body betrayed her, lifting involuntarily to his touch, she flung her arms around him and pulled him down on top of her. Under his heavenly, much-missed weight she was buried and almost smothered as his lips and hands and the subtle movements of his body incited her to share with him the.

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She could hardly breathe. But, oh, she could feel, inside and out. She could feel the heat and throb of his passion and the delicious needle- pricks of her own exquisitely excited nerves. Suddenly she was shooting upwards out of the darkness. Up and up she went to explode in a white Minding light, and they were both laughing and groaning, the sounds stifled against skin and hair and he was whispering triumphantly, 'Nothing forced about that, cara mia.

Gradually she became aware that what she had been afraid of happening if she was in too close contact with him had happened. Once again he had conquered her physically, had led her into the depths of desire, as if their physical union was all that mattered, as if it would solve the problems that had led to their separation. Far away, coming through the languorous haziness that engulfed her, she thought she heard voices.

She raised heavy eyelids, turned her head.

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Dear Mary: I can't get over my married lover but I worry he's wasting my time - yvufohoj.cf

Marco wasn't beside her. He had gone, leaving her alone on the chaos of the bed. She sat up. In the soft lighting she could see her clothes strewn about the floor, wherever they had fallen after Marco had tossed them aside. A little smile, a purely feminine smile, curved her lips and she knew a moment of secret triumph. Marco had been right. It had been natural and enjoyable, nothing forced.

They had both wanted, needed it. But there were definitely other people in the apartmenta man and a woman. She could hear the ' rise and fall of their voices and the deep murmur of Marco's voice. They must have arrived without her hearing them. She had been too steeped in the languor induced by satisfaction. Her lips quirked again into a smile but this time it was wry. Might as well face facts. She had been too stunned and shaken by her complete capitulation to Marco's lovemaking to notice. She pushed her hair back from her forehead and shrugged.

No point in regrets; the deed was done.

Married Women Who Cheat Have More Secret Lovers and Stray A Year Earlier Than Men

But her mind was still her own, and now it was warning her that it would be dangerous for her to stay with him any longer. As soon as she could she would leave. Nothing had changed just because they had made love. He still regarded her as a possession to be shown off to his friends and business colleagues, as a doll to dress up in clothes he liked.

He still didn't understand her or regard her as a person in her own right. And then there was Lucia. Quickly, she left the bed and went into the bathroom. When she had showered she changed into the dress she had hung in the wardrobe. Made of emerald-green velvet and bought for her last Christmas by Marco, it clung to her figure, and the deep V of the neck showed the cleft between her breasts.

The sleeves were long and tight-fitting, the waist was belted and the skirt was flared, the hem just below the knees. It annoyed her to have to admit that the colour and style of the dress played up her white skin, the burnished reddish-brown of her hair, and accentuated the green flecks in her eyes, and it annoyed her that she had to wear it, because Marco had bought it for her, but it was easy to pack and to wear.

She slipped her feet into high-heeled black shoes, arranged a long loop of pearls around her neck, again wishing that Marco hadn't given them to her. If they were going out she would have to wear the raincoat she had brought with her over her dress instead of a coat, but since it was stylishly cut from smooth grey gaberdine it looked, she thought, quite smart. What Marco's opinion would be of it, she daredn't think. She was picking up her discarded suit and blouse from the floor when Marco came back into the room.

He had obviously dressed hurriedly in a clean white shirt and the well-cut trousers of another suit, dark grey with a fine, dark red line woven into it. His hair was still ruffled from the touch of her hands and his eyes looked sleepy. He gave her a lazily intimate smile as he looked her over. We must do it again. Later, tonight,' he added with a wickedly importunate glance that flicked from her lips to her partially revealed breasts. It wobbled weakly and she couldn't take her eyes away from his lips.

Selecting a tie from a rack of them, he went over to the dressing-table to watch himself knot his tie. Sandra watched too, fascinated by the deft movements of his hands, her body tingling unexpectedly at the memory of their touch, so recently experienced. In the three mirrors their eyes met, hers more green than grey, reflecting the colour of the dress, sparkling like emeralds.

Come and meet them. Her leaving in April had done no damage to his ego. It hadn't even dented it. He still thought of her as his possession. True, he talked often of love to her; after all, he was partly Italian. Once she had believed him. But now she knew the feeling didn't go deeply with him. For him, love was nine-tenths physical. He loved where he found sexual satisfaction. The other tenth of love was possession. He loved what he owned. Sandra gritted her teeth. The woman was tall and shapely and about fifty-five years of age.

She was dressed simply. Her hair was jet-black too, save for one streak of silver, and her features were finely chiselled, almost familiar. From under arching eyebrows her dark eyes regarded Sandra with a critical interest that made Sandra glad she had brought the green dress and changed into it.

Four Apology Myths

Wondering whether to lie and say she had heard much about Liza Morison, Sandra took the outstretched hand, muttering something about being pleased to meet her. A little older than Liza, Sandra judged, he had light grey eyes set under bristling bronze eyebrows and he spoke with just the slightest suggestion of a Scottish accent. His lean hand gripped hers tightly and his eyes twinkled. She muttered something polite again while secretly and viciously calling Marco names for having played yet another trick on her, with this offbeat introduction to a near relative of his about whom he had told her nothing.

She mused on the similarity of the two names as they sat drinking champagne and chattering about this and that. She glanced stealthily at Ian Morison. Thinning sandy hair, a long-jawed face and those frosty deep-set grey eyes, so similar to Marco's. Ian looked Scottish as well as sounding Scottish, and the name Morison was a common one in Scotland. Morison's Workshops. Of course. That was why it was familiar to her.

Only last night she and Thea had been talking about Morison's silver and pewter ware. And Ian Morison's brother must be Marco's father. Why had no one ever told her that? Why hadn't Marco? Her glance swerved to Liza, and she surprised the woman watching her. Caught staring openly, Liza was too much a woman of the world to be embarrassed. She smiled and leaning forward whispered, 'Is there a mirror where I could see myself, please? I have a feeling I've put on too much make-up. Ian was so excited about coming to meet you that he rushed me.

They excused themselves to the two men, who seemed to be deep in conversation about Fontelli Enterprises in the United States and went along the passage to the master bedroom. As soon as they entered the room Liza turned to Sandra with a mischievous little grin. Didn't you notice? She glanced around the room. This is really something.

Very Byzantine. Not your choice I suspect, but Marco's. We Venetians have a lot that is Moorish or Arabic in our make-up as well, of course, some hints of more northern ancestors. We're a mixed-up lot. Maybe that's why we're so devious. Am I right? I've only just come from England and there hasn't been much time Visiting relatives, he said. He's always been very secretive, and we didn't know he had married you until last April.

You're Claire's daughter, I believe? I was very surprised to learn she had a daughter. She kept very quiet about you all the years she was married to Francesco. I wonder if he knew about you. He's never told me anything about his parents and I've always assumed him to be connected with the old Venetian family of Morosini,' she said. How amusing. Marco's last name was once Morison, but when he came to live in Venice my. He was full of tricks, too. I thought that Claire might have mentioned it to you.

I'm a Fontelli, Francesco's younger sister. He was a very handsome man. Francesco took quite a fancy to Ian and so did I. After we were married, Ian took over the management of Fontelli Enterprises in the States and we went to live in New York. We've lived there ever since. Marco used to stay with us often when he was studying for his MBA.

He and my daughter have always been very close, very good friends. Does he still live in Scotland and does he still manage the workshops?

Dear Mary: I can't get over my married lover but I worry he's wasting my time

Ian's brother is much younger than he is and is a teacher of painting at a Scottish college of art. Hasn't Marco ever told you anything about his mother?


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  • He's told me nothing. Marco's mother was Ian's sister. His mother was Isabel Morison and when he was born he was registered under her family name. Possibly that is why he has never told you about her. Perhaps he thinks you wouldn't approve if you knew he was born out of wedlock,' suggested Liza.

    Sandra was silent. She was thinking that Marco's arrival in the world was very like her own. I'm glad you have. Isabel Morison, I mean? She had died years before I met Ian. She was an artist too, or at least training to be one when she visited Italy, met a man and fell in love with him. It happens all the time, as you know. It happened to you. Something in the air. Or something about Italians.

    She told her parents and decided to keep the baby. Something went wrong at the birth, I'm not sure what. It seems she was never very strong. She died but the baby survived. Her parents adopted him and christened him Mark. Did she contact him? She was a very independent young woman, very proud. Something like you, perhaps? The man, whoever he was, had deceived her, had seduced her pretending he loved her, but she was going to take the responsibility for her own actions.

    She left him when she found he had deceived her and had her revenge on him by not telling him about the baby, although, of course, it's possible he wouldn't have cared about it anyway. Some men are like that. Marco said eight thirty and it's now ten past eight. I'm really glad I've had this little talk with you, and I hope you don't feel quite so much in the dark, now. Now she knows, and not before time,' said Liza smoothly as she walked past him.

    She reached up and patted his cheek affectionately, it was really too bad of you not to tell her, you know. She must be wondering now in what other ways you've deceived her. Taking her raincoat from her, Marco held it for Sandra to slip into the sleeves. The damp paving of the Calle Merceria shimmered with reflected light slanting out from the windows of shops that were just closing.

    Sandra walked with Marco. Her right arm was linked in his left one. Or rather it was trapped by him, she thought, because he had taken hold of her right hand with his right one and had pulled it through the crook of his arm and then had kept hold of her hand in a tight grip. They walked ahead of Liza and Ian, weaving their way through the people who were window shopping, on their way home from shopping or just out for the usual evening stroll.

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