Page 112 of Assistant to the Billionaire CEO

“I know,” I said quietly, pulling her back into my arms.

47

DAMON

The door fell closed. I left Stella’s apartment with a heavy feeling bearing down on me. It was an unfamiliar feeling. It wasn’t frustration or anger—the usual fucking suspects—no, it was something else. As I meandered back down to my car and opened its driver’s side door, I realized what it was: fear. I was scared for my sister. Ace was a good guy, I wanted to believe that with my whole heart—but who knew how he’d react to an unplanned pregnancy?

God dammit.

My car’s engine roared to life just as my cell phone started ringing. I grumbled and stuck my hand into my slacks’ pocket to retrieve it.

The word “Harris” flashed across the screen.

Harris? What could our P.I. possibly want at this time of the evening? My cell felt heavier in the palm of my hand than it usually did. Calling this late in the day was never good.

I swiped left.

“Harris? What’s going on?” I asked without greeting, pressing my phone against my ear.

“What? No hello?” he chortled in his usual raw tone. His voice was the result of years of chain smoking and screaming matches in interrogation rooms. He was a retired detective, and still one of the best, a fact he wouldn’t allow anyone to forget.

“Get to the point.”

“All right,” he said unaffectedly. “I’ve got some news for you: I took a little initiative and did some digging on that guy whose company you’re merging with.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” I hissed as I lowered my handbrake and pulled away from the curb.

“I know you didn’t, but I overheard Oliver mention something, and I thought you’d be pleased as punch that I did it for you anyway.” He coughed violently and continued, “Besides, you’ll definitely be interested in what I found.”

“You know how I feel about anything being done without my express go-ahead,” I said, trying to mask the frustration that was causing my voice to shake. I paused for a moment and tried to prepare myself for what was coming next. “What did you find?”

“A photo of your friend, Mr. Ace Windsor, having dinner with Mr. Edmund Ecclestone.”

My jaw dropped.

No way. Fuck.

Fuck.

“Are you sure?” I sucked in a breath and turned onto the main road. “Where did you find it?”

“I found it in an extra insert of a magazine that’s gone out of print. I’m the proud owner of the last existing copy they published. It wasn’t easy to find, but I have…well, let’s say connections.”

“Is there any way it was tampered with?”

“Nope,” he replied, and coughed again.“It’s a bit older and Ecclestone’s face is in partial shadow, but the beard is unmistakable. It’s him. Edmond ‘Edmund’ Ecclestone, born and raised in Marseille France, his mother Céleste Lavogne, French, his father Emmet Ecclestone, American.”

God dammit.An intersection forced me to stop, and I changed lanes. The initial plan was to head home, but instead, I turned toward the Upper East Side where Ace’s apartment was located. “Harris, send me a copy of the damn photo. And keep this to yourself for now, clear?”

“Clear, boss,” he said.

I ended the call and pulled onto the street leading to Ace’s apartment building. While parallel parking in front of it, my cell phone vibrated again. I unlocked it, revealing the picture Harris had sent me.

He was right. I gritted my teeth as I examined it. Ace and Ecclestone. Shit. This couldn’t have come at a worse time. Stella’s tear-stained face flashed before my eyes, and I felt a red-hot rage rising up in my chest.

That lying bastard.

Angrily, I flung my car door open and got out.

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