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.
Shit.
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, anyway?
“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, just 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 just 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.
Chapter Twenty-Four
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 the fuck 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.