by Amelia Wilde
I scramble into my bra and panties, then slip the dress back up over my hips. I zip it to the best of my abilities, put my feet back in my shoes, and look around the bedroom one more time. My purse?
I dropped it somewhere near the elevator.
I’m almost out the door when Ace’s voice cuts through the silence. “Carolyn?”
“Yeah?”
His arms are crossed in front of his chest, shoulders rounded slightly to the front like he’s expecting a blow to the gut. His eyes are thunderclouds. His eyes are the center of a storm.
“We—” He raises a hand, gestures to the empty space between us. “We probably shouldn’t do this again.”
Are you kidding me? “No shit,” I say, acid in my tone, and turn on my heel and go.
My purse is right where I left it last night.
On the sidewalk in front of the Four Seasons, the doorman beckons a taxi over for me, and I slide into the back, choke out my address to the cabbie.
I don’t let a single tear fall on the way home.
Chapter 10
Ace
I’m a complete prick, and I know it the moment I turn to see Carolyn’s face when she emerges from the bathroom, her hair wet, cheeks pink, a smile on her face. I’ve known it for a long time. I just didn’t think I would have to trot out my usual asshole tendencies to get rid of a woman this soon after arriving back in New York.
And, fuck, this is exactly why I didn’t want to get involved with anyone.
My life is a mess.
After what happened with Elisa….
The Italians didn’t publicize what happened after Elisa died. After the last time an American was accused of a heinous crime on Italian soil, it became an international fiasco. The officials I talked to wanted no part of that.
Carolyn’s not going to want any part of that either.
The news is going to come out sooner or later. I’ve attracted too much attention by even being in the city.
More than that, more than all of it, I just can’t take the risk.
It makes me fucking furious, the way my mind recoils from the thought of getting deeply involved with another woman, but I can’t deny it. Last night was unbelievable. Carolyn’s body fits to mine like we were made for each other from the start. Every movement she makes is exactly what I want, what I need, in that moment. There’s no way she’s not right for me.
Which means she’s absolutely, positively wrong for me.
The end game is always a sucker punch, and one more minute with her will mean I’m in over my head.
It’s not worth the inevitable gut-wrenching loss.
I’m short with her. And then, when she’s leaving, her face flaming red, shoulders tensed up toward her ears, I drive home the final blow.
“Carolyn?”
She turns back toward me, and there’s a glimmer of hope in her face.
So what do I do?
I crush it underneath my foot like one of the expensive baubles on the bookshelves.
“We—” Fuck. I don’t want to be saying this, but it’ll be better for her in the long run if I say it now and spare her the fallout. I wave my hand in the air between us, dismissing the intensity of what happened last night. “We probably shouldn’t do this again.”
Her chin quivers, just for a split second, and then her mouth curves downward into a semblance of a sneer that doesn’t quite convince me. “No shit.”
Then she turns and jams her thumb into the call button for the elevator. The doors slide open, and Carolyn Banks doesn’t look back as she steps inside and presses the button for the lobby, with delicate care this time. Her dark eyes are blazing, but she doesn’t meet my gaze. She doesn’t have to tell me to fuck off. It’s clear as day.
As soon as the doors hide her from view, I fucking lose it.
Silently, my fists clenched in front of my mouth, I double over.
What the fuck was I thinking, letting her get to me like that?
What am I, some kind of glutton for pain?
Is that really what I want out of life, loss after loss because I can’t resist a gorgeous woman at a dining club?
She’s not just any woman, the little voice in the back of my mind says, insistently, repeatedly, until I drown it out with another shitty movie that I watch but don’t see.
She’s not.
What happened between us last night wasn’t just a one-night stand, as much as I wanted it to be meaningless and casual. There’s no denying it.
So I won’t deny it.
But I will move on.
I have no other choice.
I dig my phone out of my pocket. I don’t know when I put on this pair of sweatpants—expensive as fuck and not worth the price—but I look like shit, I look like a mess.
I can’t go on like this.
Change of plans.
Noah responds like he’s been hovering over his phone, waiting for me to summon him. Probably he has. God knows I pay him enough.
What can I do, boss?
Call the realtor. Have her list my penthouse for sale immediately. And have her send over a list of her top three available properties. I want to be moving on this by tomorrow.
It’s the weekend, but she’s not going to care. With enough money at your disposal, business hours have no meaning.
Consider it done.
I’d call her myself, but before I call anyone, I need to get a fucking grip.
I’m not the kind of man to sit around, holed up in the world’s most expensive hideout. I’m not the kind of man who’s going to let his chewed-up-and-spit-out heart make him into some pussy who can’t face the world.
Everything from my past life here, the life before Elisa, has to go.
There’s a thrum of electricity in my chest. A clean slate. A new life. Those fucking paparazzi will find me. The news will break. But this time, I’m going to be in control of what happens to me. I’m not going to sneak past them into my old apartment. I’m going to walk with my head high into my new place, and let the chips fall where they may.
And I’m not, under any circumstances, going to think about Carolyn Banks, and her perfect ass, and her unbelievable breasts, and the way her dark hair curled down against my chest, and the way she moaned when I stroked her, and the way she shuddered and shook against me when she came….
I’m not going to think about her for another goddamn second.
Last night was a mistake. A fucking sexy mistake, for sure, but a mistake nonetheless. And it’s over now. It’s going to stay over.
I stand up from the couch, turn the TV off, and stride into the master bathroom, stripping off the rumpled clothes.
I’m going to take a shower. I’m going to shave. I’m going to get dressed.
And then I’m going to take the rest of my life in my fists, and I’m going to make it mine.
Chapter 11
Carolyn
All I want is for Ace Kingsley to disappear from my life, to go back to wherever it is that he dropped in from.
On Saturday, when I get back to my apartment, the silence reminds me of a cathedral. Instead of empty and depressing, the absence of sound—except the low hum of my refrigerator in the kitchen, the blowing air from the air conditioning unit as it cycles on and off—it wraps itself around me like a blanket. After the thundering noise of the Swan and the serrated daggers of Ace’s voice this morning, I can’t even bear to put my iPhone in its dock and play background music to work.
I take another shower, stripping myself of all the scents from the Four Seasons. My hair is heavy and wet, but I don’t bother drying it. I towel it off and then brush it back, hard, into a tight bun.
I could use a trim, and it’ll be nice to have someone wash my hair and massage my temples. My favorite salon in the city is three blocks away, so before I do anything else, I text my hairdresser, Janine. She normally doesn’t do weekend appointments, but today is my lucky day.
I laugh bitterly at the thought.
I’m doing
a wedding party at the salon tomorrow. Done at 3:00. You want to come down?
Hell yes.
:)
Janine is the one person I can count on in the entire city not to ask me about Ace Kingsley, and the thought loosens some of the tension in my shoulders.
That asshole isn’t going to get the better of me. Not today, not ever.
And you know what? I’m done with one-night stands. He was hot as hell, and the sex was…well, it was mind-blowing. If I think about it separately from his douchebag behavior this morning, it still makes the space between my legs heat up.
Forget about him. There’s a man out there who’s even better, and when the time is right, I’ll find him, and I’ll take him. No doubt about it.
Some doubt pricks at the back of my mind. Are you sure? Are you one hundred percent sure that somebody can top that?
The brutal truth? No. I’m not sure, and it pisses me off.
In the end, what can I do?
Ace Kingsley wants nothing to do with me. When it comes right down to it, I’m probably dodging a bullet by not getting involved with him. Past experience tells me that it would end in disaster. The memory of cheating Anderson floats into view, and I slap it away, forcing it back into the past.
Not entirely, of course. But enough that I can move on.
Well, screw him. I don’t want anything to do with him either.
On Sunday afternoon, I linger in my walk-in closet, choosing a boho maxi dress in a bright, cheery pattern and pairing it with buttery leather boots. I start with my best bra and panty set, the one that makes me feel the sexiest, and then slip the dress on over my shoulders, finishing with the boots.
Then I sit down at my lighted vanity and open my makeup case. Two weeks ago I went to the makeup megastore on 5th and 9th and filled a bag with new stuff from Smashbox and Elizabeth Arden, replenishing my stash with smooth new containers and bottles and a new set of brushes. I work my own magic on my face until there’s no sign I might have been holding back tears.
I look damn fabulous.
There’s only one more thing I need to do before I head to the salon. My laptop is right where I left it, perched on the desk in the living room, the fall sunlight streaming down on it like some kind of heavenly beacon. The dust motes in the air are almost transfixing.
Yeah—a nap is in order when I get back from being pampered.
I flip open the cover of the laptop and tap at the keyboard to wake it up. It takes no time to respond, and in seconds I’m at the Rainflower Blue login screen.
Of course, today is the day that the site has exploded with traffic, with new posts.
And they’re all about Ace Kingsley.
At least half of them are about Ace Kingsley leaving the Swan last night.
My heart rate speeds up.
I have options. I can confirm some of the rumors, as Magnolia, right now. I can ignore it entirely and wait until this blows over. Or I can keep watching, waiting, until the right move becomes more obvious.
I choose the most innocuous thread, titled ACE KINGSLEY, NEW YORK CITY?? and make a post at the end of all the chatter. Ace Kingsley is back in New York City. Then I change the title of the thread to read CONFIRMED: ACE KINGSLEY IS IN NEW YORK CITY.
That will be enough fodder for discussion until I feel like wading into this. I need to know what people are saying before I respond, if I ever do. The fact that I went home with him last night won’t help or harm anyone.
Unless, of course, he’s got a secret wife from Italy who also happens to be a member of Rainflower Blue.
Doubtful.
When in doubt, stay silent.
I’ll come back to this when I’m good and ready.
I grab my purse from the hook by the door and sling it over my shoulder, feeling lighter already. At least the conversation about Ace is in my kingdom. I can engage with it if I choose. I’m in control.
The elevator deposits me in the lobby a few moments later. I can’t wait to be back in the September sun.
I take a deep breath as I step out in front of the building, looking forward to the stroll I have ahead of me, only to be confronted with the sight of a massive moving truck. There are six men moving furniture out of it and onto the sidewalk.
Someone’s moving into my building.
I vaguely remember running into the realtor in the elevator a few weeks ago, but this seems like a quick sale. As far as I know, the only unit available in the building is the penthouse unit, and that would have to be….
My thoughts grind to a halt as a man in a white button-down tucked into flawlessly pressed, tailored pants steps around from the back of the truck, directing the other men in a voice that’s as collected and confident as ever.
It’s Ace Kingsley.
And that asshole is moving into my place.
Chapter 12
Ace
My realtor, Hilary, was only too happy to oblige me with a lightning round of property shopping in the city yesterday, and the second place we visited was a perfect fit.
It’s a penthouse unit in Midtown, far enough away from my place on the Upper East Side to offer a clean slate.
Hilary rushed the paperwork through—anything is possible with the right incentive—and even though I won’t be able to sign the final documents until Friday, my new move-in day is today.
I’m having her tag everything in the old penthouse for sale, except my personal items. There’s a team of people working on packing up my clothes and books and other miscellaneous things right now.
After I shook hands with Hilary, I went down to a furniture store owned by a friend in Chelsea and spent the rest of the evening choosing all new furniture—entire rooms worth of chairs, sofas, decorations, a new bed for the master bedroom, bookshelves, everything. He called in several of his people to work overtime having the majority of it collected for this morning, when I sent a moving truck to pick it all up at once.
This new place is going to be fucking perfect.
My heart pounds as I climb out of the Bentley. The moving truck is already pulled up in front of the new building. I’m normally not one to micromanage the staff, but this day is going to go off without a hitch or I’ll be damned.
One of the guys from the moving company—the embroidered name on his shirt reads Ricky—detaches from the little knot of men standing near the curb and approaches, his hand out for a shake.
“Mr. Kingsley?” His accent is strong, and he wears a wide smile.
“In the flesh.”
“Great to meet you, sir. I’m Ricky, and this is my crew. We’ll have your things up to your place in no time. The penthouse, right?”
“That’s right.”
He cranes his neck to look up at the building and lets out a low whistle. “You must be big-time.”
“You could say that.”
Normally, I wouldn’t spend time on chatting with some nobody from a moving company, but there’s a humming in my veins today that’s wiping away some of the black fog from the weekend. Electricity arcs over my skin. I can see just how every single one of these pieces is going to fit into the new place.
This time, I’m going to get it right.
Ricky claps his hands together. “Well, enough with the small talk. Let’s get you moved in.”
“Sounds great.”
I move around to the back of the truck. When two of Ricky’s guys slide the door open, I can’t help but smile. This stack of furniture is about to become my new domain, and it feels fucking great.
They start unloading a few of the pieces in back, shooting me questions every so often about which room this chair is for, where the bed is going to go. The penthouse is spacious enough that moving things around inside shouldn’t be an issue, but Ricky has moving down to a science, so he doesn’t want to waste time rearranging too much once it’s up there.
Good man.
Things are migrating onto the sidewalk when Ricky nods at me from the top of the ramp leading down from the truck be
d. “Excuse us, Mr. Kingsley. We’re going to need to put a sofa right where you’re standing. Was this for the master bedroom or the living room?”
“The living room,” I say as I step up onto the curb, backing up a little bit to get clear of the other furniture. “The leather one is for the living area of the master bedroom.”
“Right,” Ricky says, his muscles flexing as he carries the sofa down the ramp. It’s not going to be long until they’re taking things in through the lobby. This building has a freight elevator in back, which is mighty convenient.
I turn toward the front entrance to see how much foot traffic we might be blocking—not that I really care—and that’s when I see her.
My mouth goes dry, and I can feel the adrenaline spiking through my veins.
Holy fuck.
There, standing on the sidewalk, looking at me, is Carolyn Banks, looking like a goddamn vision in some kind of flowing dress, her lips red and vibrant, her hair spilling down over her back.
Her dark eyes are huge and wide, and her mouth is half open.
At first, my brain can’t make the connection, and when it does, it’s like I’m being swept under by a tidal wave.
This is Carolyn’s building.
Her expression confirms it. She wouldn’t care at all if she were leaving a friend’s place. She wouldn’t be frozen on the sidewalk if she never had to come back here.
The wave of sheer excitement that first hit me fades beneath a jolt of pain.
Oh, shit.
I can’t silence the drumbeat in my mind.
Of all the apartments in New York City. Of all the buildings I could have chosen to move into. And this one is hers. It’s fucking hers.
Heat crackles between us, even from 20 feet away.
Is this a cruel trick from the universe or a goddamn neon sign blinking BE WITH HER over and over in the night?
She straightens her back, and her lips press together into a thin line. Then she tears her eyes away from mine, turns around so gracefully it hurts to watch, and moves down the sidewalk, her steps measured. She’s not rushing. She’s the queen of everything around her.
