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“Yeah. And she’s asking a lot of questions. You said you wanted it anonymous. Is that still the case?” Marcus paused for a moment. “Or are you going to be smart about this and pull out?”
His first instinct was to scream a hell no, but Aimee hadn’t so much as moved in her circles. In fact, Aimee was back on the west coast or overseas most of the time. The weekly updates between the both of them were less than two paragraphs long in an email.
He didn’t give two shits about the money. He had more than enough of that to go around. And part of him lived for those updates. But only the Isabella ones. To see where she’d gone, what she was up to, who she was meeting.
How many times had he tortured himself with pictures of her with affluent collectors and businessman, art critics and curators, as well as the occasional patron? He moved over to his desk and shook the mouse to bring the computer out of hibernation. He clicked on the folder labeled January.
He found the photograph that he’d spent way too many hours staring at. Isabella smiling over her shoulder, her dark hair a sweep of silk bunched around her neck thanks to a scarf and parka. Those damn eyes, kicking him in the teeth.
“Logan?”
“Where’s Aimee?”
“Out of the country. Ibiza.”
Christ. Still living the party life. “Has there been any overlap? Even—”
“No. I tell you this every week.”
“Even the same city?”
“They’ve been in the same airport a handful of times, but Ms. Collen takes a private jet, so they never overlap.”
“Pull Elijah. Put one of your medium-level people on her. Then we’ll see where we go from there.”
“All right. At least you’re seeing reason finally. We still need to explain ourselves to her.”
“Keep it anonymous. If she knew it was me, she’d give you nothing but grief.”
“Too late. She’s very stubborn. And she’s not stupid.”
No, she wasn’t. Which was exactly why he pushed her away in the first place. Beyond the lies that started him down that path, it was better for her to steer clear of him. He’d filed restraining orders discreetly, but they were still part of public record if someone wanted to find them. For now, Aimee had let things go.
He still got weekly deliveries of white dahlias and red roses which he immediately re-routed to nursing homes and hospitals. Once upon a time he’d loved the wild, full flower, but again…it had been tainted by her.
And there was no way to get the flower shop to stop delivering to him. So there was never a time he wasn’t reminded that she was still out there waiting for him.
“You don’t make my life easy, King.”
A smile, the first in days, stretched his mouth. “I keep the lights on at the very least.”
“Even your pretty payments can’t do that in Manhattan, my friend. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks.”
Logan tossed his cell on the counter and dragged his sorry ass into the shower. Twenty minutes later he was dressed and out the door. He used the maintenance elevator so he could escape the building through the delivery entrance.
He didn’t keep a personal detail on himself. Aimee only liked to ambush him in public where there was a camera to satiate her need for attention.
And the paparazzi still loved her face. The innocence that she so deftly wielded with her huge gray eyes and ready smiles. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about that. It was the crazy hiding under the beauty that he had a healthy fear of.
He hated it, but he owned it.
His career wasn’t just his own. It belonged to the record label and the five other men that he called brothers. She’d done enough damage to his reputation the previous year and he was still digging out from under it.
She was the wronged woman, and he the unrepentant bad boy rockstar who had broken her heart. The newspapers didn’t see the calculating gleam in her eyes as she caused scene after scene. They’d only seen him lose it.
They only remembered his anger that had flared and cost him a cool eighty thousand dollars in damages to a string of her family hotels. He barely remembered it, but there was photo and video proof of his rage and destruction.
