Page 23 of Salvaged Hearts

A chirped notification had me pulling my phone from my pocket where I stood on my balcony, hoping the crash of the Pacific held answers my office didn’t.

Despite her well-thought-out location, someone managed to snap a photo of me leading Alessandra out of the banquet room through the front window. The article was yet another story speculating about a secret love affair. The vipers had been using our consistent appearances together to spur on rumors for the better portion of her twenty-one months with me. She’d never so much as wasted a breath dispelling the tale, treating the paparazzi like gnats—irritating, but not worth her time.

Kind of…kind of like a Hart.

I straightened from my place against the railing, pacing before making my way to the stairs and down onto the beach, where I stripped to my boxers in the concealment of night and dove into the ocean. Nothing cleared my head quite like salt and sea. Only, instead of the soothing rush of the pulsing ocean, my ears replayed the last twelve hours.

Reporters ambushed me on my way in today to ask if I wanted to make a statement regarding the embezzlement allegations leveled against you.

Somebody is trying to crucify you, Grey.

Tell me what you know about Obsidian.

Even if he does, if this allegation draws government attention, the feds won’t.

You better pray I can come up with something more tempting than the fall of America’s prince.

The only thing that could make a splash big enough to swallowthatwould be a royal wedding…

The last time you were seen with a woman other than your cousin was before your father died…

Gasping for breath, I hauled myself from the surf because no matter how hard I swam along the shore, the mess just swirled behind my eyelids.

Dried and dressed, I snatched my phone and read the rest of the article, which included prior images of us in Paris and Rome and an extensive list of the galas I’d paid her to attend beside me. Of course, according to the article, she was there as a romantic plus one, not an obligatory one.

You’re born either loving or hating the media when you grow up in the limelight. I was the latter. I loved my privacy. I wanted nothing to do with status or show. Which left them to speculate however they wanted to about whomever was in your life. If you decide not to humor the vampires of society with endless interviews, you learned better than to go poking around the fairytales and accusations they weave around your name like invasive vines destined to suffocate the truth with their imagined reality.

But when I finished the article, a psychotic idea struck. One I would inevitably regret, but it might hold merit. Curious to see if I had a leg to stand on, I did the one thing I promised never to do.

I googled myself.

“Doyou still have the paparazzi images of us in Barcelona? The one at the theater festival?”

“Make yourself at home,” Alessandra scoffed, gaping as I stormed past her into her sleek condo about two hours later.

“We were drinking wine,” I snapped my fingers, attempting to draw the details out of my memory bank. For this to work, it would have to be as convincing as unhinged. “It was the trip you met my golf buddy, Ashcroft, and his wife on.”

When I whirled to face her, she glared at me with equal parts confusion and irritation. Was that…insultin her parted lips? “Irememberthe theater festival, Greyson,” she patronized with an endearing level of condescension. “They named the damn amphitheater after you, andI helped you cut the ribbon.” She enunciated every word like I was an invalid.

“Good. Right,” I nodded, turning to pace as she reluctantly closed her front door. She wore loose plaid boxer-style shorts and an oversizedGuns N’ RosesT-shirt with the neckline cut into a V that left it hanging off her shoulder in an obnoxious temptation. The woman had the most decadent golden skin I’d ever encountered. Forcing myself to focus on the insanity unfolding in my mind, I asked, “But do you have the images in your delightfully anal little archives?”

“They arenotanal. They’reefficient,” she bit out before knocking back her red wine and following me to her kitchen island. “And you know I catalog everything. Why?”

Nodding, I blew out a heavy breath. Why’d the old prick have to suggest a royal wedding, of all things? And why the hell did the ploy have merit?

I studied Alessandra as she glared back at me, still awaiting answers I couldn’t give.She self-consciously pulled the t-shirt back over her shoulder after setting the glass on her waterfall marble counter.

“You know, Greyson, this isexactlywhy I quit,” she snarled.

“Because I think your systems are anal?”

“Because you think it’s acceptable to burst intomy homewith obscure questions about an event we attended sixteen months ago, at ten-forty-five on a Monday night when I work at eight tomorrow. You could have just sent me a text.”

“Trust me when I tell you I couldn’t send this over any form of unsecured communication. And time is of the essence.” Finally forcing myself to stop the incessant pacing, I turned to study this woman who’d worked her tempting little ass off for me for two years straight. She glared at me with the skepticism my late-night outburst no doubt deserved.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Because I have four people on the planet I actually trust,” I admitted candidly before shrugging. “Three, if minors are eliminated.”

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