Dirty Rumor: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance(38)

“Thank you, sir. Goodbye.”

At least Aida doesn’t seem fazed by this at all.

I’m turning into a goddamn wreck.

Carolyn did not respond to that declaration well at all. And maybe it’s because I didn’t plan it. Maybe it’s because I just blurted it out to stop myself from telling her that I overheard the strange phone call. It’s still true, though. Every other indication tells me that she feels the same way, so why the weird, guilty look?

Am I just getting entrapped into another no-win situation, like with Elisa?

The memory of her giggling in one of the markets in Rome makes my stomach knot up. Things can go so f*cking wrong, if you’re not careful.

I just don’t know the best way to fix this.

On Tuesday, she texts me at about three o’clock, and the sight of her name makes my heart flutter, despite the churning in my gut about everything else.

Meet me at my place. 5:30?

Done.

Her spare key has been tucked in my pocket, going with me everywhere, since she gave it to me on Sunday.

Another text comes in.

I can’t wait to see you. I can’t wait to talk with you. Let’s figure this out.

So she feels it too—the unrest, the unease.

The only issue now is that I can’t sit in this office and wait any longer. Not now. Not today.

I open my email and write a hasty out-of-office message telling everyone I’ll be back tomorrow, turn off the screen, and pick up my phone from my desk.

Noah is waiting at the curb when I get there.

“What’s up, boss?”

“Nothing,” I say, but I can’t stop my jaw from clenching. “The penthouse.”

“No problem.” He says it calmly, neutrally, but I see his worried look in the rearview mirror. Maybe I’ll tell him what’s been going on. After it’s over and done with.

I take the elevator up to the penthouse and strip off my clothes. The heat of the water is relaxing, and I stand under the stream for twenty minutes before I can bring myself to get out and shave. I go with a similar outfit—dress slacks and a button-down—but this time I push the sleeves up to my elbows and leave the top button undone.

If Carolyn decides to come home early, I’m going to be waiting for her.

I’m not in her apartment thirty seconds when there’s a knock at the door.

A courier stands outside. “Carolyn Banks’ place?”

“Yes, but—”

He shoves an envelope into my hands and turns on his heel, typing something into a handheld device.

Okay.

I close the door. Where the hell am I going to put this thing? It’s fairly large, at least the size of a file folder, and it has some weight to it.

I flip it over to look at the address.

When I see where it’s from, my heart plummets to my feet. It’s from Italy. From a woman named Aida Russo. The same woman who answered the phone.

The hair on the back of my neck pricks up. Is this confirmation for some kind of trip? My heart hammers against my rib cage. I’m so damn curious that I don’t know if I’ll be able to sit here with it until 5:30.

I go into the living room and toss it onto the table. That’s when it becomes clear that the tape sealing one end of the envelope has been damaged in transit, because a sheaf of papers comes out nearly halfway.

I pick it up automatically to shuffle the papers back in place, but I can’t resist. I can’t f*cking resist turning it over.

On the top sheet, there’s my name. And a picture of me.

It says “Investigative Report: Ace Kingsley.”

Holy f*ck.





Chapter 35

Carolyn





Two grueling days dealing with police reports and inventory replacements and having the front window glass newly installed, and all I can think about is what an * I was to Ace.

All I can think about is how I should have responded right way.

When I sign in to Rainflower Blue on Monday afternoon, I’m blown away by the traffic.

It’s still booming, and there are more threads than ever about Ace Kingsley.

And me.

Carolyn Banks dating a murderer?

There’s even a thread about what happened to the boutique.

If you ask me, she deserved it, writes an anonymous user about halfway down the thread. That’s what you get for dating someone who’s done such heinous things to women.

The farther down I scroll, the worse it gets. Theories about what happened to his wife, who is as of yet unnamed, which has to be some kind of miracle. Theories that he’s still married and is just on the run. Theories that the Italian government is running some kind of cover-up for him.

It turns my stomach.

This is how I’m making all my money, and it’s just f*cking wrong.

I’m going to start by telling Ace everything—absolutely everything—and letting the chips fall where they f*cking may.

For the first time, I can see it: that I deserve to lose him, and other good men, if this is the kind of life I’m going to lead, if I’m going to keep an open platform for witch hunts while I drag my heels on confirming it.

Jesus, why should I? That’s the real question. Why should I confirm or deny anything? If anyone wants to know my opinion on any kind of situation, they can ask me.