Dirty Rumor: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance

by Amelia Wilde

  Dirty Rumor

  A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance

  by Amelia Wilde

  Hello! My name is Amelia Wilde, and I can’t get enough of romance…especially those bad boys. Since you’re here reading my book, I’d like to offer you another free read by yours truly.

  Hate Loving You is another story from the same world as Dirty Rich, Dirty Royal, and Dirty Rogue but with a small-town flavor. This title is exclusively available to members of my mailing list.

  Interested? Just let me know where to send it by following this link: http://tiny.cc/awilderomance.

  In addition to your complimentary book, you’ll also be the first to know when my new releases drop as well as giveaways and other perks…like the extended epilogue to Dirty Rogue that will be released exclusively to my mailing list members.

  See you there!

  ~Amelia

  Table of Contents

  Dirty Rumor

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Epilogue

  Looking for More?

  Claim Your Free Book Today

  Sneak Peek: Dirty Rich

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Download Dirty Rich today!

  About Amelia Wilde

  Copyright Information

  Chapter 1

  Carolyn

  Nobody wants to work past five o’clock on a Friday. Nobody even wants to shop past five o’clock on a Friday, if the lack of foot traffic in my boutique is any indication.

  I spent most of the afternoon in the back stockroom making floor selections from an arrival of original pieces delivered earlier in the week from a couple of European designers. Most of the designs were rejects, but there were a few standouts among the array spread out in front of me that I wanted to rotate through inventory.

  It’s certainly not the most glamorous work one expects to see a woman whose net worth hovers around a billion dollars doing on a Friday afternoon. My friend Quinn is one of the few who doesn’t roll her eyes when we chat about the hours I keep at the store. She didn’t come from money, and even though she’s married to a Pierce, she still goes into work every day.

  Well, on most days, that is. I know she and her husband have a fondness for traveling. Who wouldn’t when it’s on a private jet and money is no object?

  I tap my painted fingernails against the countertop next to the cash register and scan the store for any couture pieces that appear to be out of place on the racks or eclectic artwork on the walls—also for sale—that might need straightening, but, as usual, everything appears perfect—still. It was perfect when I sent Natalie, one of the four girls I hired to cover the register when I’m not here, home at four. No reason why it should look any different only an hour later, especially since not a single customer has walked through the door during that time.

  The computer beckons.

  It’s situated on a classy desk, the monitor sunk in low so it’s not obvious to any customers from where they stand for check-out, and it has a thin, sleek keyboard that rests beside it on the brushed metal surface.

  I jiggle the mouse—one of those futuristic affairs that came packaged with the computer when I purchased it—and the screen wakes up, the boutique’s logo hovering in the middle of a white expanse. The logo design features a stylized flower, one that I spent two weeks going back and forth on with the designer before it was finalized. I simply love my store’s logo, and it’s undoubtedly one of my favorite parts of owning this store.

  The password is so ingrained in my muscle memory that I hardly remember the letters, so it only takes a fraction of a second before the desktop, pristinely organized, pops into view. Chrome browser, password-protected, private window that won’t record anything, and I’m logging on to Rainflower Blue, the website nobody—not a single person—knows that I own and run.

  Running the boutique is a nice change from working among the top echelons of a marketing firm, but it’s just another job front that occupies my time, acting as a placeholder for what I really do. Conveniently, a lot of my friends shop here, and while they shop, we chat. Visit. Gossip.

  That’s the business model for Rainflower Blue. It’s what draws people in—the majority of them are wealthy and powerful, the type of person who might click on an unassuming advertisement for a premium-priced item.

  Not advertising. Not shopping.

  Rumors.

  I own and administer the online home for the rumor mill of the ultra-wealthy. The fact that I profit handsomely from it is just icing on the cake.

  The door to the boutique opens, the bell hanging gracefully over top of it tinkling clearly, and my heart leaps into my throat. Without a second thought, I hit the commands to close the browser window and paste on a bright smile to welcome a customer.

  When my brain finally registers who’s just entered the boutique out of the autumn sunlight, my smile turns genuine. “Jess! Oh, my God!”

  She looks absolutely fabulous, her auburn hair piled on top of her head in a bun that’s somehow messy and perfectly styled at the same time, and she’s wearing a navy sheath dress that sets off the jade color of her eyes. She was always the more rough-and-tumble one in our friend group, but damn—a year as a princess, or queen, or whatever she is—has been good to her. And motherhood doesn’t seem to have slowed her down. At all.

  Jess spins around, her purse strap slung slickly over her shoulder, and then she spreads her arms out wide in anticipation of a hug. “I had to come see my former roomie’s new boutique!”

  I quickly hurry around the table, my grin spreading from ear to ear, my arms stretched out for a hug. “What do you think? Are you a boutique person now?”

  Jess hugs me, and then she turns to assess my selection and wrinkles her nose a bit. “I’ll be honest—my clothes are usually brought to me. I don’t go to them.” Then she bursts out laughing. “It’s cute, Carrie!”

  “Well,” I say, moving sinuously over to one of the racks and running my hand seductively down a dress, “is there anything I can…help you find?”

  Jess laughs so hard tears spring to her eyes. “This is a far cry from when you’d just pull some things out of your closet for me to wear. Those were the days.”

  “They really were.”

  “Actually, though…there’s a thing you should come to.”

 
“A thing?”

  “At the Swan. Tonight.” Jess’s eyes sparkle at the thought of it. “We’re in town for a couple of weeks, and Alec wanted to throw a party for all of my friends—our friends—to kick it off. The Swan was perfect for us security-wise.”

  For the first time, I notice the hulking, suited men, their feet planted, standing outside the front window of the boutique. My own security is far more discreet. “You’re big-time.”

  “I’m royalty, darling.” Jessica pats the side of my face, then dissolves into laughter again. I laugh along with her, but there’s a curious ache in my chest.

  “Well, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Especially since my only other plans for the day were going home to my empty apartment, ordering takeout, and losing myself in Rainflower Blue, like the spinster I am.

  “I knew you wouldn’t.” Jessica breezes past me, throws her purse onto the counter, and then turns around, eyes flying over the meticulously arranged racks. Then she’s scanning my outfit. It’s a black ensemble, high-quality but nothing flashy. Jess looks down at her watch.

  “Quick, Carrie. We don’t have time to waste, and we both need to look way better than we do right now. The Swan awaits!”

  She’s right. And you can’t deal in rumors unless you’re right in the epicenter.

  Chapter 2

  Ace

  The sidewalk in front of my building on the Upper East Side is swarming with reporters.

  Honest to God reporters, with telephoto lenses and phones clipped to their belts, squinting down at the LCD screens on the back of top-of-the-line equipment. Or maybe the fucking paparazzi, although they’re not hiding in the bushes or lurking around pretending not to be watching for me.

  “Who the hell do they work for?”

  My driver, Noah, who also heads up my security team, shrugs. “Can’t be the newspapers.”

  “No chance of that.”

  The photographers mill around on the sidewalk for another five minutes.

  Noah shifts in his seat. “What’s your call, boss?” He says it with a half grin on his face. Noah’s been a friend since before I went to Exeter. When I came back to New York after college, he was rising through the ranks at one of the top security firms in the city. With our current arrangement, there’s no firm taking a cut, and he’s never once complained about the extra money.

  “I’m not dealing with that.”

  He doesn’t wait for more instructions, just shifts the Bentley into drive and pulls away from the curb, back into the evening traffic.

  The air conditioning has the interior of the car at the perfect temperature, but I’m overheating in my suit. I tug at the collar of my shirt and then loosen my tie. I’ve been traveling all goddamn day, and all I want is to be back in my penthouse.

  Of course, the vultures have already swarmed.

  I never had this kind of problem before Elisa.

  The thought of her has my stomach tied up in knots, the air dry and scorching when I take in a breath. My hands clench into fists against my pant legs.

  Fuck this.

  I press one fist against the pain in my chest and clench my jaw, letting it crush me, roll me over, until it releases me for another hour.

  I am never falling in love again.

  The rumors are enough to drive anyone fucking insane, but this recurring heart attack is more than I want to handle. Certainly more than I’m ever going to admit to another human.

  They wouldn’t believe me anyway.

  I work my jaw as the buildings we’re rushing past swim back into view. Noah will drive around for the rest of the evening, and all night, if I stay silent.

  “The Four Seasons,” I rasp, then swallow, trying to make my voice sound normal. “Call ahead for the penthouse. Get yourself a room.” If I can’t be in my own penthouse, then I want to be at the top of the Four Seasons, as far away from the leeches on the street as possible.

  Noah takes his cell out of his pocket without a second’s thought. He waits until we’re stopped at a light to swipe through his contacts and place the call. I tune him out after I’ve heard him drop the fake name that signals a priority client to the hotel reservations line.

  My heart rate speeds up, panic and anxiety setting in again, and I stare out the window, forcing myself to read every marquee above the business to calm my racing thoughts.

  Fuck this.

  People can think what they want about me. They can say what they want about me. But I’m not going to let them run me out of town. I was here first.

  Noah pulls up in front of the Four Seasons and hops out of the driver’s side. “I’ll be right back.” He reappears a few minutes later and opens the back door, a small cardboard envelope tucked in his hand. “Lobby’s clear. You ready, boss?”

  I respond by climbing out of the backseat and rising onto the sidewalk, back ramrod straight, shoulders thrown back. Noah’s right, as usual. The lobby is deserted except for two receptionists, and gentle music drowns out the sound of our shoes as they echo against the gleaming tiles. I’m fucking dying to be by myself.

  There’s a private elevator leading directly up to the penthouse, accessed by one of the keys Noah pulls out of the envelope. Once we get above the fortieth floor, my stomach churns. Don’t think about her. Don’t.

  I can’t stop myself. Elisa would have loved this place.

  Both Noah and I step out of the elevator into the expansive suite. It’s quiet like a cathedral, everything in its interior shining and spotless.

  He whistles. “Damn.”

  I hardly see any of it. The floor-to-ceiling windows frame a stunning view of the skyline, framing the sun as it sets brilliantly over the cityscape, its vibrant hues of oranges, reds and deep yellows coating the room with subtle warmth. I should feel relieved. I should feel at home.

  Instead I feel numb, stiff, braced for the next wave of anxiety.

  Noah turns to me and presses the envelope into my hand. “I’m on the forty-second floor, if you need anything.”

  I give him a nod, my throat too tight to speak, and he claps me on the shoulder like he’s my grandfather. “Order some food at least, boss. Nobody wants you to starve to death.”

  I give a bitter laugh. “Okay.”

  Then he’s stepping back into the elevator, the door sliding shut soundlessly behind him, and I’m finally alone.

  I wander through all nine rooms of the suite, staring out at the rapidly changing view as the sun sinks below the top lines of the buildings. Elisa’s laughter echoes in my memory. I can practically hear her exclaiming in glee about the enormous square tub in the master bathroom, at the master bedroom’s canopy bed with gold-threaded fabrics, at the views. My God, she would have loved the views.

  I let out a deep sigh and rub at my chest.

  Wallowing is not going to do me a damn bit of good.

  I’ll have food sent up. I’ll eat. I’ll watch movies.

  I’ll spend the weekend here, collecting myself, and when Monday comes, I’ll be able to make some decisions.

  I’m in control of my life. Not the paparazzi camped out in front of my penthouse. Not the media. Not the Italian courts—at least not anymore. And not the ghost of the woman I loved and lost.

  When Monday comes, I’ll go back to being Ace Kingsley, the man in charge, the man who takes what he wants, the man who never lets anything get to him.

  When Monday comes, I’ll be invincible.

  Chapter 3

  Carolyn

  Jess and I try on every dress at the boutique, finally settling on a lush emerald green one for her—it makes her look like a goddess—and a fitted fuchsia sheath for me. I don’t have Jess’s stunning blue eyes, but the bright pink next to my skin makes my dark orbs look more mysterious than boring.

  She’s called in her prep team to the boutique, so at six o’clock I flip the elegantly calligraphed sign on the door to “closed” and lead the duo into a little setup I’ve got in the storage room—chair, vanity, lighted mirror.

/>   “This is Candy and Harold,” Jess says, and Harold gives me a grin. His hair is styled to within an inch of its life.

  I grin back. “Like what you see?”

  “I like a beautiful brunette.” His accent is polished style, all poise and elegance. “Are you ready to be styled?”

  I pull out my hair clip, letting my locks spill down over my shoulders. “Am I ever.”

  We all laugh, and then the two stylists turn serious as they transform us into amped-up versions of ourselves.

  “I didn’t expect to look like royalty when I woke up this morning.” Harold is doing something complicated and lovely to my hair. I can’t wait to see what it looks like when it’s done.

  “Oh, you don’t look like royalty,” Jess jokes, sticking her nose up in the air. “For that, you’d need to wear a crown.”

  “My, my, how high we have risen!”

  The two of us laugh again, and it dispels some of the ache forming in my chest. Who cares if I don’t have a date? If, once again, I’m seated next to someone’s plus-one at the party? I’ve been lucky before. I could be lucky again.

  And anyway, I remind myself, it’s better for Rainflower Blue if I’m…unattached. Men have a way of becoming distractions.

  By the time Harold has turned my hair into an exquisite creation—half-up with curls doesn’t begin to do it justice—and he’s switched places with Candy, my skin is buzzing, electrified with jolts of anticipation.

  An old friend is in town and hosting a massive party. There’s sure to be an uptick in site traffic as a result…but more than that, I can’t wait to be there.

  The undercurrent in the room is obvious the moment we step inside the Purple Swan’s main dining room. It features a huge dance floor up at the front of it, a stage where a jazz quartet is playing—low-key for the beginning of the evening, but by the time the last people stagger out of this place, it will be anything but background noise.