by Amelia Wilde
It seems like the most natural thing in the world to run my fingers through her hair, over and over, working out the knots from her sleep.
Her eyes search my face, but I keep mine purposely unfocused. If I look at her now, I’ll lose myself entirely.
She closes her eyes.
I want to say, I heard you. I didn’t mean to, but I heard you through the door, and I want you to tell me who you were talking to. But even in my head, the words sound too overbearing, even for me.
“You’re gorgeous,” I say.
“You’re gorgeous,” she murmurs, keeping her eyes closed, but I feel her back arch a little bit like she’s replaying me fucking her not long ago. Her lips turn down into a little frown, and my mouth goes dry. I want to know what’s happening in her mind so badly that it hurts.
Her eyelids flutter, and I look away from her face. When I look back down, they’re closed again.
“Is something on your mind?”
Her tone is so soft it’s almost pleading. It’s the most gentle invitation possible for me to talk to her.
All the things I could say rush through my mind in a cacophony of words, senseless and jumbled. You need to tell me what you’re up to. Tell me what’s on your mind. Don’t hide things from me because I don’t think I can take it again. Not one more time in this life or any other. Just tell me, tell me, tell me.
Instead, I say, “Yes.”
Then there’s a thickness in my throat that I can’t seem to swallow away. Elisa swims up in my memory, the way her face looked before she died, and my mind rears back away from it.
I can’t say anything.
I can’t break the silence, which grows heavier by the moment. Carolyn’s face remains completely neutral—I haven’t stopped running my fingers through her hair, and at this point I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to—and her muscles are relaxed against me with a hint of tension humming underneath.
She parts her lips, and I want to lean down and kiss her, but I don’t.
“We don’t have to talk about it.”
My heart twists. Her voice is so sincere, so soothing, that for once I don’t feel like I’m being baited into revealing something in spite of myself. Her shoulders tense a little bit, waiting for my reply.
I can’t leave her hanging indefinitely.
“I don’t know if I can find the right words.”
This is as much of the truth as I can bear to give her. If I tell her everything in a rush right now, there’s no telling what might happen, and there’s a tiny part of me that questions whether she can be trusted, after all that happened today.
I want so much for it to be a meaningless phone conversation to a friend that I can’t ask the question.
I can’t.
But there’s another truth that I can tell her. This one might possibly open some door between us that will rid us of these silences.
Carolyn’s air conditioning unit kicks on, humming quietly in the background, while I struggle to settle on the best approach. Do I just blurt it out?
Jesus, I’m going to look like a fucking idiot, no matter what I say. If it’s not perfect, after spending this long thinking about it, she’s going to think I’m a total dumbass. I have to say something, and even though Carolyn is giving me no indication that she’s in any kind of rush, I feel the moments ticking away with the beating of my heart.
Say something. Say something. Say something.
I suck in a deep breath, hoping that by the time my lungs are filled with air, I’ll be certain of the ideal thing to say to this lovely woman with her head in my lap, the woman I want to spend every waking minute with, the one I’m desperate to be sure of before I let myself go completely.
But I’m already gone. That’s the catch. I’ve already fallen so hard for her, for her kindness, for the way she wants me, that it’s too late.
She must be dying for me to say something, after that little preamble. Who wouldn’t be? But she doesn’t move, just lets me keep stroking her hair. There is not even the slightest hint of a knot now. I’ve been thorough.
“The thing is,” I say, and then I have to stop to clear my throat. “The thing is, I don’t want to spend another day without you.”
The unsaid “but” hangs in the air between us, and Carolyn opens her eyes.
She bites her lip and looks away.
Instead of joy, her face shows nothing but guilt.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Carolyn
Jesus Christ, I am the worst human on the face of the earth.
Ace’s face is red—he basically just admitted to me that he loves me, or at least cares about me enough to want to spend every waking moment with me, and I—
I do nothing.
I sit up from his lap and look down at my hands, trying to force a smile onto my face.
This is exactly what I wanted. He is exactly the kind of man I want to be with—strong, passionate, complex. At this point, now that we’ve gotten past the asshole exterior, I can see clearly that he only has one flaw…and that flaw might turn out to be nothing.
I look up into his face, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking blankly across the room, cheeks flaming.
I can’t stand it.
“Ace,” I say into the silence, and he turns to look into my face, his gray eyes dark, his forehead slightly furrowed with embarrassment. “I feel the same way.”
His expression relaxes, but he keeps his lips pressed together, hard. I waited too damn long to say anything and now this is awkward and awful.
I want to tell him how I feel—how I really feel, like my heart is going to explode when he’s not with me, how, more than anything, I want all these rumors to go away and leave us both alone forever, but if I do that….
If I do that, it’s going to mean coming clean about every aspect of my life. Including Rainflower Blue. Including the private investigator.
Now or never.
My phone buzzes in my purse, and then a ringtone kicks on.
“Shit.”
My phone is almost always on silent, so that it only vibrates, but calls from the boutique have a special ringtone so that I know not to ignore them. I leap up from the couch and hustle across to where my purse hangs on a hook near the doorway, fumbling for it and answering it at the last second.
“Hello?” I say, with just a hint of irritation in my voice. The boutique isn’t open on Sundays, so I don’t know what the problem could possibly be. I glance back into the living room. Ace is looking at me, eyebrows drawn together, and when I mouth “just a second, I’m sorry” he rubs the back of his neck and picks up his own phone.
“Carolyn? It’s—it’s Natalie.” Her voice is wavering, shaken. I’m such an asshole sometimes. She wouldn’t be calling me on a Sunday afternoon unless something was wrong.
“What’s up, Natalie?”
“I was coming in to the boutique to make sure we were all set up tomorrow, since—since last Monday was so busy, and—”
“Did something happen, Nat?”
“The front window is smashed!” she wails, and I can tell she’s on the verge of tears, if not already crying. “It looks like there’s some stuff missing on the inside, but I can’t tell what, and….”
“Did you call 9-1-1?”
“N—not yet. I just got here, and I—”
“I’m going to hang up, Natalie. You call 9-1-1 and tell them what happened. I’ll be there in five minutes, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, her voice choked. I can’t leave her like that, even for five minutes.
“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 fuck. 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 Thirty-Four
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 fuck 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.”
“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 fucking 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 fucking resist turning it over.
On the top sheet, there’s my name. And a picture of me.
It says “Investigative Report: Ace Kingsley.”
Holy fuck.
Chapter Thirty-Five
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 asshole 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 fucking wrong.
I’m going to start by telling Ace everything—absolutely everything—and letting the chips fall where they fucking 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.