Dirty Rumor: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance(37)

“Natalie, are you still there?”

“Y-yes?”

“You did the right thing, okay? You’re not at fault for this. Unless you were the one who smashed the window.” I keep my tone calm, with the hint of a tease at the end.

“I didn’t!” she says, letting out a burst of laughter that verges on hysteria. “I would never!”

“I know it. That’s why I hired you. Now, call 9-1-1 and wait for me.”

I end the call and turn back toward Ace.

“Something happen with the boutique?”

“Yeah,” I say, shoulders slumping. Today of all days…. “Someone smashed one of the front windows, and it looks like some of the merchandise was stolen.” I think of Natalie standing on the sidewalk by herself, and that’s all it takes to send me sprinting to my bedroom.

While I’m pulling a respectable outfit from my dresser drawers and throwing it on, Ace appears in the doorway. He leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No,” I say, then realize I’ve rejected him too quickly. I give him a flirty smile, but the corners of his mouth barely turn upward. “You’ll distract me with your sexy ways. I don’t want this to take up the rest of your day.”

He opens his mouth like he wants to argue, then moves into the room and starts collecting his clothes. “You’ll let me know how everything goes?”

The sincerity in his tone, the hurt that’s underneath, tears my heart in two. I want to knock the clothes out of his hands and take him right back to bed, where we can just talk everything out…after a slow, delicious f*ck. That’s what I want right now.

I just can’t have it.

“Ace,” I say, straightening up. “I want to talk to you. I don’t think our conversation is over.”

He pulls his pants on over his boxers and waves dismissively. “Another time.” There’s a jolt of something cool in the air between us, and I don’t like it.

I’m going to have to be the one to change it.

But what the hell am I going to be able to do?

“You’re working tomorrow, right?”

“Of course.” He pulls his shirt on over his head, then finishes with socks. I watch him as he scans the room, looking for anything he might have left behind, and then he heads for the doorway.

I follow him out as he moves toward the front door.

“Wait.”

When he turns to me, I pull him down and kiss him, long and hard, and he kisses me back, but there’s a hint of reservation there that sends a chill down my spine.

What have I done?

“There’s one more thing,” I say, slipping on my shoes. Then I go back into the kitchen and open one of the cupboards.

When I get back to Ace, he’s put his shoes on and is waiting to leave.

“Will you come back and wait for me if I call?”

He pauses for a beat, then nods. “Yes.”

I drop my spare key into his hand. “Be ready.”

He doesn’t return my wicked grin.





Chapter 34

Ace





Carolyn doesn’t call me on Sunday, or on Monday, although we exchange several text conversations. She’s completely wrapped up in the business with the boutique.

I walked by later on Sunday evening and she was still there with two of her employees. The glass had been swept into a pile on the edge of the sidewalk.

She didn’t see me, but I saw her. The compassion in her face was just as genuine as her voice had been on the phone when the first call came in. Just before I turned away, she finished speaking, and the three women turned toward the display racks together, Carolyn saying something that made them laugh.

How can she be so wonderful, yet clearly be hiding something from me?

On Monday, after I’ve returned from the office, I dial one of the Italian numbers. A man with a clean British accent answers the phone, announcing that I’ve reached a travel agency with one branch in Rome.

“I’m sorry. I’ve dialed the wrong number.”

Could it be that Carolyn is just planning an Italian vacation? Is that seriously what I’ve been worked up about all this time? The name of the travel agency doesn’t ring any bells. Why should it? I never used a travel agency when I lived in Italy.

The second number also connects me with someone who speaks English with a British accent—a woman who answers the phone with a clipped “Aida.”

I was expecting another company, some kind of organization, but I’m not sure why Aida’s voice catches me off guard the way it does.

“Oh—” I say. “I’m sorry.” But I forget to tell her that I have the wrong number.

“Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

“Actually, yes. Have you ever heard of—” I stop myself before I can complete the sentence. What the f*ck am I doing? What business of mine is it that Carolyn has called a couple of people in Italy? For all I know, this Aida is a friend of hers. Most of us do have international acquaintances. It wouldn’t be odd.

“No,” I say firmly. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. Have a good—” Italy is six hours ahead, so… “—evening.”