by Cora Kenborn
Her jaw drops. “He told you that?”
I nod. “More or less.”
Mostly less.
There’s a brief silence as she nibbles on the bait. I can tell she wants to take it, but she’s hesitant. Finally, she lets out a resigned sigh. “Dominic was never interested in Hollywood gossip. He started BTN for one reason.”
Hook, line, and sinker.
“Money?”
“Revenge,” she says, rubbing her forehead. “When I said Dominic didn’t have the easiest life, I wasn’t kidding. He grew up on the streets of West Hollywood with holes in his shoes, a newspaper roof, and a vendetta against Hollywood heavyweights with open-leg obligations attached to their open-door policies. It’s why he’s so damn determined to destroy their lives, even at the risk of his own.”
Then it hits me. “Paulo Bellini.”
She nods stiffly. “For starters. Bellini was just a surrogate for the man he was really after.”
My brain digs through files of industry gossip, and one name spoken across a front lawn comes barreling back like a freight train. At the time I didn’t think I heard it. All I knew was that Dominic reacted violently and shoved the baseball hat guy in the chest.
But now…
Now I remember exactly what he said.
“How do you feel about McCallum’s feud with Greg Rosten?”
“Greg Rosten,” I whisper, the words stuck in my throat.
The seething hatred in Milly’s eyes says everything. “Dom drove the nail a little too deep. Rosten retaliated and sued him for libel.”
“And he won.” It’s not a question.
“At least Rosten kept the lawsuit quiet. To save his own ass from more bad press, of course. Dom had to let everyone go and even took out a second mortgage on his house.” She shakes her head, swallowing hard. “It doesn’t matter. It’s still not enough.”
I cock my chin. “You’re still here.”
“Because he trusts me,” she snaps. “Which is more than I can say for—”
“Milly!”
We both spin around to find Dominic standing in front of us, arms crossed, nostrils flared, and a glare in his eyes I’ve never seen.
Milly shrinks under the weight of his hard stare. “Hey, boss. Any updates?”
He doesn’t answer her. Instead, he moves until he’s standing right in front of me. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay,” I answer softly, terrified he overheard us. “Why? What’s going on?”
He draws in a slow, steady breath, his pale eyes never leaving mine. “I just got off the phone with Wrenn’s secretary.” Without thinking, I jump off the desk, all but propelling myself into his chest. Dominic catches my stumble, his grip tight on my shoulders. “He’s on his way.”
My heart does a backflip into my throat, and I lock eyes with him, that familiar electrical current sizzling in the small space between us. “Does that mean…?”
He smiles with the leer of a poisonous snake about to strike. “Yes, with the DNA results. And unless something unexpected happened, a check for a million bucks.”
Pandemonium.
That’s the only word that comes close to describing the last forty-eight hours. Even then, it doesn’t come close to painting a picture of the chaos my life has become.
Or Alexandra’s life. Which is now my life.
I lean against the glass and close my eyes. God, my head hurts.
“Rook, get away from the window,” Dominic growls, a cell phone attached to each ear.
Flinching, I step away, letting the curtain fall, much to the irritation of the disgruntled press on our front lawn. After Wrenn arrived at BTN two days ago with the positive DNA test and a cashier’s check for a million dollars, our lives exploded. Not only was my claim validated, Arroyo, Tate, and Wrenn issued a statement on behalf of the Romanov estate confirming the results.
I’m officially Alexandra Romanov. A billionaire heiress with more money than God.
Wandering across the living room, I lean against the back of the couch watching as Dominic carries on two conversations at once. We have matching dark circles under our eyes, but where I roam around in a daze, he’s operating in hyper-speed, thriving on the anarchy.
“Yes, I’ve got it, Wrenn. She’ll be there to sign the papers. Ten o’clock. Of course, A.M., I’m not fucking stupid.” Glancing at me, he rolls his eyes. “Gotta go. Time’s money.” Disconnecting the call, he pockets that phone, turning his attention toward the other before hitting the unmute button. “Michaela, talk to me, baby.”
My fingers dig into the couch leather.
Who the hell is Michaela?
Dominic’s eyebrows shoot up. “Well, we didn’t expect that to happen so quickly, but yes, of course. Tomorrow? I suppose—” He abruptly cuts off, that stone look rolling across his face again. “Is that really necessary? Considering all the change she’s faced, I really don’t think—” He breaks off again, his jaw clenching so hard, I’m afraid it might snap. “Fine,” he growls. “Take care of it.” Disconnecting the call, he tosses the phone onto the couch.
I clear my throat. “Do I want to know?”
“Good news,” he announces. “You’re moving.”
Obviously, I heard him wrong. “I’m what?”
“The estate has already transferred the Bel Air mansion under your name. You’re going home, Alexandra Romanov.”
This is a joke. It has to be a joke.
“To a crime scene?”
“Look at it as owning a slice of history.”
I fly off the couch, pacing in front of him like a wild animal. “Then you move there. Enjoy your thirty-eight thousand square feet of blood-soaked bullshit.”
He grabs my arm, swinging me around to face him. “Well, you can’t live here. The world is watching. Shacking up with the guy who found you doesn’t exactly feed the fairy tale, now does it?”
“I have money now.” I try to jerk away, but he pulls me even closer. “Why can’t I buy my own place?”
“Because that’s not what they want. Alexandra Romanov has been gone from the public eye for fifteen years along with the keys to California’s version of Camelot. The people are hard up for a happy ending, and I’m giving it to them if it kills us. So, you’ll move into that goddamn house, and you’ll do it with a smile on your face.”
I want to yell. I want to scream. I want to punch him in the face.
But I don’t. What do I do?
I say the most juvenile thing possible. “Who’s Michaela?”
The hard lines in Dominic’s face ease into the barest hint of a smile. “Green’s one hell of a color on you, rook.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss. “I’m not jealous.” I am so jealous. “I’m invested. The conversation was about me, was it not?”
His smile fades, and he releases me to massage his thumb against his temple. “You’re throwing a party.”
“I’m what?”
“Michaela is the public relations director for the Romanov estate,” he explains, like I give a shit anymore. That train left the station thirty seconds ago.
“So?”
His hand stills, and he stares up at me through his spread fingers. “So, apparently a big party celebrating your return to Hollywood was a stipulation attached to the reward.”
“Why did you seem so angry about it?”
“I’m not angry about the party. I’m angry about—” He never finishes his thought because as usual, the doorbell rings. And if it’s not the doorbell, it’s a telephone call, or a text chime, or a camera flash. It’s a never-ending communications shit parade stomping all over our privacy.
I sigh. “It’s probably another reporter. Maybe People magazine? Time?” Spinning around, I toss him an exaggerated smirk. “Oh, how about Maxim? That might be fun.”
Dominic pins me with a fiery glare, growling as he reaches for the doorknob. “Over my dead body.”
I’m too tired to decode what that means, so I tuck it away for later and turn to head
down the hallway when I hear an unfamiliar baritone voice filtering through the living room.
“Mr. McCallum?”
“Who wants to know?”
Something in Dominic’s voice stops me cold, but it’s the man’s response that paralyzes me.
“I’m Detective Javier Rubio with the LAPD. Is Miss Romanov here?”
Chapter Nineteen
Dominic
Plan for rain and you’ll get a storm. Isn’t that something people say? If not, it should be. Because a storm is exactly what’s standing at my front door flashing a badge in my face like an all access pass.
Detective Rubio is intimidating enough. Tall, lean, well-dressed in a dark blue suit and matching attitude. Hell, I’d have an attitude too if I had a haircut like that. It’s like Elvis Presley fucked Bruno Mars and had a bastard kid who got screwed over at Great Clips.
You’re welcome for that image. Pleasant dreams.
I know Angel is behind me, so I step forward, blocking his path and his view. “What makes you think she’d be here?”
Rubio leans a shoulder against the doorframe, so I move with him. He knows I’m full of shit. The smug smile on his face confirms it. “Because I saw her standing at the window five minutes ago.”
Now he has my interest. He’s not much older than me. I’d put him about thirty-five, maybe thirty-eight with a double shot of California collagen. Well, except for those frown lines he’s got going on. The ones I hate to tell him aren’t hidden by that patchy ass beard.
I cock an eyebrow. “Then why bother asking?”
“To see if you’d lie. Thanks for confirming what I already suspected, McCallum.” He slaps my shoulder like we’re best buds. If he didn’t have a badge and a gun, I’d punch him in the face and clear that up.
I knock his hand off my shoulder. “And what’s that?”
He smiles. “That I can wipe my ass with ninety percent of what comes out of your mouth.”
“And the other ten percent?”
“Post-jerk-off clean-up.”
Great. The detective’s got jokes.
I hear soft footsteps behind me, and I barely have time to react before Angel pushes that peach of an ass in front of me. “Detective Rubio, what can I do for you?”
Rubio looks her up and down. “Alexandra Romanov, I presume?”
“You presume correctly.”
He’s still staring at her, and I swear, if he doesn’t put his eyes back in his head, I’m going to shove them back in there for him.
With a goddamn fork.
“Forgive me for staring, but in my line of work, missing persons cases are either never solved or end with a dead body. It’s not often I come face to face with a happy ending.”
I snort. “I have ten percent that begs to differ.”
Angel whips around and smacks me across the chest. “Dominic!”
“It’s fine, Miss Romanov,” he says with a curt nod. “May I come in?”
Angel and I answer simultaneously.
“No.”
“Yes.”
Rubio doesn’t flinch. “It’s for your protection. The hills have eyes and ears.” He nods over his shoulder where paparazzi cameras flash, and news anchors grip microphones like samurai warriors. “I promise not to take up too much of your time.”
“Fine.” Reluctantly, I step aside, opening the door just enough to let him in. I’m happy to make him stand in the middle of the living room with his dick in his hand, but Angel glares at me and gestures to the couch. Instead, he opts for the chair directly across from her.
I slump down on the far end of the couch, raising an eyebrow as Angel stands in front of me, rubbing her palms down her jeans. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Yeah, whiskey would be great,” I grumble.
If I’m about to go to jail, I’m going lit as fuck.
She cuts her eyes at me. “I was talking to him.”
Rubio watches our exchange, his index finger tapping his lips. “No, thank you. I can’t stay long. Would you mind if we spoke privately?”
“This is my house, Rubio. Get to talking or get the fu—”
Angel holds up a hand, stopping me. “I’d like Dominic to stay.”
I fight a smirk. Or is it a smile? Hell, I don’t know. Whatever it is, it needs to stop. Angel Smith is just a paycheck. Nothing more. This is the end of the line for us. I got what I needed and so did she. After this, she’s on her own. I have my own shit to deal with.
Rubio’s not happy, but he nods and continues because there’s not a lot he can do about it. “To be honest, Miss Romanov, I came here because the department is rather speechless over what’s unfolded over the last couple of weeks.”
Angel nods, sinking down beside me. “Join the club.”
“How is it that you’ve been right under our noses for fifteen years?” he asks.
It’s a leading question. A classic confidence rattler. I should know; I fucking invented them. I’ve clearly underestimated him.
“I mean, this is the age of media,” he continues, leaning forward. “During every milestone, news sources around the world ran countless stories about the murders”—giving a dramatic pause, he gestures toward Angel—“and about you. How is it that none of that prompted you to come forward? How is it that only when a million-dollar reward came into play, did you suddenly want to step back into the spotlight?”
Shit.
Sweat starts to bead across my forehead, and I can’t even risk a look over at her. Rubio is watching us too carefully. His dark eyes are narrowed, ready to catch any sign of a convoluted conspiracy.
Angel lets out a soft breath and swallows hard. That’s not good. I clench my jaw, watching as Rubio stares relentlessly at her. Almost as if he can glare the truth out of her. Hell, maybe he can. She’s an actress by trade, but a cocktail waitress by force. Maybe she’s rusty. It’s a fifty-fifty shot she can pull this off.
“Detective Rubio,” she says slowly, and I brace myself for what’s coming. “I’ve been on my own since I was sixteen years old. The group home I ran from is the only family I’ve ever known. Life hasn’t been kind to me.”
He regards her silently for a moment. “Interestingly enough, Angel Smith tried her hand at acting. Jade Saxton was it? So close yet so far. Especially when Mr. McCallum ruined your chances at stardom. I’d say he owed you one, wouldn’t you?”
Someone’s done their homework. I hope Angel pulls something out of her ass right about now because I have an aversion to steel bars.
“I don’t like what you’re implying, detective,” she snaps. “Until Dominic walked into my bar to interview another woman, we’d never seen each other before. Our chance meeting was the work of fate, not opportunity.” Her gaze remains stoic as she adds, “And in case you weren’t aware, let me be clear about something.”
What the fuck?
The sheer force of her tone is so passionate, I can’t not look at her. And when I do, I find a steely, unwavering confidence. Rubio and I are both so caught up in her spell, I don’t think either of us take a breath until she speaks again.
“I have no idea what is going on, or why I have no memory of being the person Dominic suspected me to be, but there is no disputing scientific evidence. DNA testing has proven with one-hundred percent accuracy that I am Alexandra Romanov. Do I remember my childhood, or the horrific crime that happened to my family? No, Detective Rubio, I don’t. And for that, I am extremely thankful.”
He takes it all in with a smirk. “So, you want us to believe you’ve just conveniently forgotten your life as Alexandra Romanov?”
Angel calmly folds her hands together and leans forward. “Do you have parents, detective?”
“Yes, but I don’t see how—”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
I have no idea where she’s going with this, and apparently neither does Rubio. His confident smirk has long since faded and now a deep vertical line has settled in between his eyes.
“A brother a
nd two sisters.”
“What if you watched parents take their last breaths?” she asks, tilting her head. “Then what if you watched the same people who killed them put bullets in both your sisters’ heads and between your brother’s eyes.” Rubio’s breathing becomes labored, his fists clenching by his side. “What if your body was so stained with their blood, you couldn’t wash it off?” Her voice drops an octave, the rhythm of her words becoming almost staccato. “Would you want to remember that? Or would you get down on your knees, and thank God all that exists in your head is static and silence?”
Holy shit.
I don’t know whether to stand up and clap, kiss the shit out of her, or back the fuck away.
I take back every snide remark I’ve ever made about Angel being a hack, or an ingénue, or a wannabe. If I doubted her acting chops before, I don’t anymore. That was some Oscar-worthy shit. She sold the hell out of that and saved our asses.
And if I’m being honest, freaked me the hell out.
We rehearsed none of that. None. Not a damn word. That last bit about her family’s murder? Where did that come from? I never told her that two of her sisters were shot in the head, or that her brother took a bullet between the eyes.
She definitely has some explaining to do.
“No,” he says, clearing his voice. “I wouldn’t want to remember it.”
Angel gives him a curt nod and rises to her feet. “If that’s all then, I’ve had a very long day, and I’m sure you have work to do.”
Translation: Get the fuck out.
Rubio and I stand at the same time, still twisting in whatever web she’s spun. All three of us migrate to the front door, and as Angel’s flat stare bores holes in him, he pats down his suit until he produces a black business card. “This is my personal number. Should your memory start to return, please give me a call.”