Dirty Scandal

by Amelia Wilde

  Or am I falling for her?

  In the end, will it matter?

  “Then how do you know about the giant in Harry Potter?”

  “I saw the movies.”

  “You watched the movies?” She stares at me, open-mouthed.

  “In Italy.”

  “Oh,” she says, shaking her head slightly as if I’ve told a joke. “You would do that.”

  “Yes.”

  Good save. I can tell she doesn’t want to steer the conversation in that direction.

  “My turn. One time, I was at the pool with every guy worth knowing in my college classes and all of my girlfriends, and I did an incredible dive off the diving board.”

  “This isn’t like my story.”

  “No. Because at the end, my top came off.”

  She’s so graceful.

  I never want her to leave.

  23

  Carolyn

  It’s easy to put off the rumors during the weekend, with Ace as the sexiest distraction known to mankind, but when I wake up on Monday morning, I know I’ve waited as long as I can.

  Rainflower Blue is still buzzing with it, the visitor count humming, climbing by the second. I thought I’d been fairly careful about letting it slip to certain individuals through various channels, but people must be talking because there are new requests for memberships coming in every hour—and nobody is balking at the cost.

  Of course, in addition to ad revenue, I implemented a membership fee almost as soon as I started the website. There was a small group of users I allowed in for testing, and when it became clear there was a hunger for this kind of site—secure, secluded, and secret—I knew it was going to need more than password protection to keep out random gossip hunters and the press. And that was going to cost people money.

  The fee for joining Rainflower Blue is a thousand dollars a month, which is part of the reason I’ve never been forthcoming about the fact that I own the site. With over a hundred regular members and more coming to the site every day…well, you get the idea.

  While I do profit quite a bit from the ad revenue and kickbacks from retailers who I’ve partnered with to advertise on the site, most of the membership fees go toward cybersecurity.

  I have two different firms constantly going over the forum with a fine-toothed comb, looking for any weak access points and beefing up the encryption every time there’s a new advance in technology, which seems to happen about every three days. Twice a year, I have them compete against each other to find any hidden backdoors that people might use for nefarious purposes. So far, one has been found, and ever since then the site has been locked up tighter than Fort Knox.

  I call in to the boutique. I’ve been running Rainflower Blue for long enough to know that the rumors about Ace won’t settle down until new information comes out. If I can prove he didn’t do it—didn’t murder his wife….Jesus, that sounds so absurd, after the weekend we’ve had—and issue a Magnolia confirmation, then all this will die out, and I won’t feel so guilty about sleeping with him.

  My heart flutters in my chest.

  He’s not upstairs right now, at nine-thirty in the morning. He told me last night that he’s doing some work at his father’s firm—advising someone, or some department—so he had to be in the office today.

  “We can’t stay in bed all day,” he’d said, grey eyes shining with possibility.

  I bit my lip. “We could stay in bed all night.”

  That’s exactly what we did.

  But this morning at seven, while he was in the shower, I crept out, leaving him a note on his bedside table.

  Work beckons… ~C

  I had every intention of going into the boutique and putting in my regular hours there, but in the elevator I took a minute to check my phone.

  Even more alerts.

  Even more updates.

  People are clamoring for information, and I’m the trusted source.

  So instead I’m at my desk, a blank browser window open in front of me, getting ready to do as much of a background check as possible on the man I’m in love with.

  The moment the thought crosses my mind, my cheeks go dark and my heart starts to race.

  Oh, my God…I’m in love with him.

  Why is this hitting me so hard right now, after we spent all weekend wrapped in each other’s arms? After he made me laugh? After he started to seem like a different version of himself, not nearly so defensive? I can’t imagine this version of Ace dismissing me the morning after like some prickly asshole.

  I put a hand to my chest.

  I can’t help how I feel. I can’t stop it, even though I know it grew out of an instant obsession with his body. Now that I’ve spent a solid three days with him, getting to know him, I can feel our rightness for one another thrumming underneath my skin.

  My hands tremble above the keyboard, a cold flush of fear trickling down my spine.

  What if I find out something about him that I don’t like during this search?

  What if I find out that he is a cold-blooded murderer?

  Would it be worse to find out that he was a passionate murderer, one who killed in a jealous rage?

  Is that what happened to his wife?

  Who was she?

  “Stop it, Carolyn.” I give myself the command firmly, in a tone that broaches no argument.

  First things first: I need to confirm that he was in Italy. There’s no point in getting ahead of myself with this. If there’s anything I’ve learned from owning a website like Rainflower Blue, it’s that most rumors have some element of falsehood. This one, for all I know, could be totally untrue.

  I try a few cursory searches, but they reveal nothing but press releases from his company, which apparently he started with the help of his father when he gained access to his trust fund. From what I can tell, he doesn’t run the day-to-day operations, sits on the Board of Directors, so there’s not much to run down there.

  Finally, I come across the first solid piece of evidence that Ace was, in fact, in Italy, and when I see it, my heart drops into my stomach.

  It’s a photograph of him, his arm wrapped around a petite blonde woman—even behind her dark glasses, she’s stunning—in front of the Colosseum. It’s from an odd Italian paper that seems to have been digitized, and lists him as “American tourist Ace K and his wife.”

  So he was in Italy—at least he was eight months ago when the photograph was taken.

  I close the monitor and stand up, running my hands through my hair. I feel giddy, anxious, like I need a walk. I’ll go get a bagel from the deli down the street.

  And even though my heart pounds—the chase is on, and I’m going to get some information about this, even if I don’t like it—I can’t stop myself from smiling.

  I love Ace Kingsley.

  I do.

  24

  Ace

  I can’t stop thinking about her, even when I’m supposed to be advising the department heads at my father’s company on streamlining employee retention practices. The figures on the sheets in front of me keep slipping away from my attention.

  “Mr. Kingsley?”

  “Yes?” The man who’s sitting to my right—his name completely escapes me—looks at me through thick, round glasses, his face pink, like he’s doing something slightly embarrassing.

  Oh, right. I’ve been staring at this sheet of paper for God knows how long, and everyone in this meeting is waiting on me to say….

  What was I talking about?

  “I’m sorry, Mr.—”

  “Mr. Howard. Joe Howard,” he says, then clears his throat. “You were suggesting some alternative forms of compensation to add to our repertoire.”

  “Right. Of course. Thank you, Mr. Howard.” I don’t smile, but I give him a nod. His shoulders relax. “I have a memo here that describes the relative success of flexible vacation time and paid travel opportunities in some of the other divisions. You should all have copies of the emails in your inboxes.”

 
I stand up, and the rest of the people sitting around the massive meeting room table follow suit. “I’ll be available for further discussion, if necessary.”

  A chorus of “Thank you, Mr. Kingsley” rings out around the table, and I slide the leather portfolio carrying my paperwork off the table and leave the room.

  I try to keep my stride in check as I head back to my corner office. I want to get back to my phone, to send Carolyn a dirty message, and start making plans for this weekend.

  When I came out of the shower this morning, she was gone, a little note on my bedside table.

  Work beckons… ~C

  In a way. In another way, work is screaming at me to remember that my net worth is well over a billion dollars, and that if I don’t show up at the office, nobody will be the worse for it.

  Of course, my father did pull some strings to put me in this temporary time-suck, so I’m not about to blow him off, even if Carolyn is the one woman in the world I want to spend all day in bed with. Possibly ever.

  It’s a dangerous thought, but the majority of my mind doesn’t seem to care. The majority of my mind wants to toy with the possibilities, wants to spend every moment without her thinking about what she might be doing, daydreaming about being with her again, fantasizing about making her laugh…and making her do so much more.

  She probably won’t answer. She’s probably working in that little boutique of hers—she hasn’t invited me to come see it yet, but I hunted around online until I found out where it was and walked by last week to see where she spends her days—and if I know anything about Carolyn, it’s that she’ll single-mindedly focus on work until the work is done.

  Like she’s been focused on getting me out of the Swan and back to my apartment.

  So far, we’re one of two success-wise. I want to erase that first disastrous night together from her memory completely, and I can only do that if every weekend from now on is a stellar one.

  I’m three doors down from the office when my father comes out of one of the presidents’ offices at high speed, looking over his shoulder to say one last thing.

  “Oh, and Schell, don’t even think about—shit!”

  I skid to a stop, my hand on his shoulder, in time to keep from running him down.

  “Son!” he says, laughing, and claps his hand against my shoulder. “Where the hell are you going at such a high speed? Don’t tell me you’ve discovered a passion for advising.”

  “Maybe I have,” I say, sticking my hands into my pockets. “Sorry about that.”

  My father looks like me, only he’s twenty-five years older and a silver fox. His smile is as genuine as they come. At least he doesn’t think I’m a killer. Although it’s possible he hasn’t heard anything out of Italy either. If his board members haven’t brought it up, he likely doesn’t care. My father’s business is his life. I rank high up there, but the main thing is that I don’t hurt the business. I don’t resent him for that, but my throat tightens. I hope this shit somehow stays in Italy. I hope it doesn’t get to New York. I don’t want to put that on his plate.

  It’s not true, of course. Only one thing about that situation is true. But I would feel horrible if it damaged his enterprise in any way. Me? I can recover. My investments are rock solid. But he’s been known to take a risk with the stock market here and there, and….

  I open my mouth to say something, but there’s nothing I can say right now—not coherently, at least. My marriage to Elisa wasn’t a family celebration. It was more a matter of necessity, and now that she’s gone, I don’t want to give my father the punch to the gut of knowing that he wasn’t at my wedding, even if it was a—

  He throws his arm around my shoulders and turns me back in the direction I came from. “Let’s get the hell out of here, son,” he says jovially.

  “Wait—what? I don’t have—” I don’t have anything, aside from my wallet. My phone is locked in my desk. I want to send Carolyn a message so badly I can practically feel it underneath my fingers.

  “Your phone? Leave it! We’re going to lunch.”

  “I scheduled a meeting for—”

  He waves his hand in the air. “It can wait another twenty minutes. I’m taking my son out to lunch, and we’re going to have a conversation. No phones. Let’s go!”

  “All right,” I say, plastering a smile on my face.

  “What?” my father says, leaning in, grinning. “You in love with a girl, is that it? Can’t wait another hour to talk to her?”

  My mouth drops open as his words sink in.

  “No,” I choke out, finally.

  It’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told, because now that my father has said it—even if he was only kidding—I have no choice but to accept it.

  I’ve fallen for Carolyn Banks.

  25

  Carolyn

  I have never been so conflicted in my entire life.

  There are multiple forces pulling me in every direction, the least of them all is the boutique.

  I take one day off and foot traffic skyrockets. No idea why, but the first thing I do when I get in on Tuesday morning is have Natalie and Sarah overhaul the displays in the front window to show off some of our newest arrivals. There’s a surge in customers around the lunch hour, and I stay on the floor to help move product.

  Natalie doesn’t think I should stoop so low as to wait on customers.

  She stops in the midst of rushing back to the dressing room with another armload of clothes. “Carolyn, we can handle it!”

  I give her a smile and shake my head. “What? I own the place, so you think I should be in the back counting money?” I would never tell Natalie that I’m not passionate about my boutique—it’s a fun project that happens to be successful—but even so, I’m not going to put my feet up while everyone else does the dirty work. With a wink and a dismissive wave of my hand, I send her on her way and turn to face two women who look like they’ve walked directly out of the Victoria’s Secret catalogue into my boutique. “Welcome, ladies. Is there anything I can direct you toward today?”

  “Yes!” chirps the brunette. “I’m looking for a dress that can go from day to evening.”

  “I have the perfect thing for you.” I lead her back toward a rack that’s purposefully filled with pieces that could—but don’t necessarily have to—form a stunning, eclectic outfit.

  The rest of the afternoon passes by in a blur, the cash register ringing nonstop.

  “This is incredible,” Natalie whispers to me when I come around behind the counter with another customer’s purchases. “Have you ever seen this much traffic before?”

  “No,” I say, then laugh. “Maybe all I had to do was go away for the day.”

  “It definitely wasn’t like this yesterday.”

  She has a good point. What is bringing people in like this?

  Before close, I ask a girl with gorgeous auburn hair what brought her to the boutique today.

  She looks at me with a strange half smile. “You’re—I mean, I’m so sorry if this sounds creepy—but you’re Carolyn Banks, right?”

  “I am.” I return the smile, then wait. If she wants to tell me more, she will. In the meantime, I pull another blouse off the rack and hold it up for her approval.

  She nods, and I lay it on the pile to take to the dressing room. “Well—I heard you were—I heard you were dating Ace Kingsley.”

  My cheeks go pink—I can feel it—but I force my face to stay neutral, open. “Well, that’s a rumor, if I’ve ever heard one.”

  Now it’s her turn to blush. “Oh. Maybe it wasn’t you then. I saw some pictures from an exclusive nightclub—I think it was last weekend—and they’ve hit some of the…some of the blogs I follow.”

  This poor girl doesn’t want to say that they’re “gossip blogs,” but who in New York City doesn’t read them? I certainly do, although it’s more as research for Rainflower Blue than anything else.

  “Oh!” I exclaim, laughing a little. “I was with him there. You got me. But I wouldn
’t say we’re dating.” I arch an eyebrow at her.

  “No?” She runs her hands down one last dress, then turns to face me. “It looked like fun. I heard about you—he’s been big news lately—and then one of my friends said you owned a boutique here, and I had to check it out. Your outfit in the picture was so beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” I say, keeping my tone gracious. She changes the subject on the way back to the dressing room, and we turn our attention to the clothes. She buys almost everything she tries on, and after she steps out onto the sidewalk, I lock the front door behind her and flip the “open” sign to “closed.”

  Behind me, Natalie lets out a sigh of relief. When things started to slow down a little around the dinner hour, I let Sarah leave—she has a date, and I’m not one of those bitchy bosses—so it’s the two of us.

  “Unbelievable.” Natalie leans against the counter and surveys the boutique, which is more than a little rumpled, despite how hard we’ve tried to keep it in order. “That was crazy, right?”

  “Are you holding out on me, Nat? Don’t tell me you don’t read the gossip sites.”

  Natalie gives me a wide-eyed look. “Gossip blogs? Never!”

  “I’ve been a little bit behind. So…I’ve been on them, right?” It’s true. I spent all weekend with Ace and all day yesterday…but not exactly searching for information about him. After I went for a walk, I had lunch with Jess and then I went to the gym, and then I ordered in for dinner…anything to keep my mind off the swirling, dizzy love that wouldn’t let go of its hold on me.

  We both move farther into the boutique shoulder to shoulder, instinctively straightening the first items that come to our hands.

  “I mean…a little bit,” she says, hanging a dress back in its place. “I think some pictures came out yesterday, so word has had a chance to get around.”

  I laugh. “Well, it’s done wonders for sales, hasn’t it?”

  “No kidding. Maybe you should make out with Ace Kingsley more often.”