The multitude of demands for more information from all corners was threatening to break Vito’s phone, coming from every direction from family to news contacts to the bank’s core investors. The story across the sea of media had shifted from lurid curiosity about the woman in the photos to deeper speculation as to who she was and how she had ensnared not just one, but two powerful men into a nude photo scandal. Was she sleeping with both of them?
He stroked his thumb along the edge of his screen, deciding it was time to feed another tidbit to the press, leading them away from Jensen’s version of events toward his own.
Yesterday, he had ordered a team to look for a connection between the spa owner and Jensen, suspecting it could be a laundry for some of the funds Jensen had funneled. Even if the spa’s only crime was the breach of Gwyn’s privacy, he didn’t see any reason they should remain open and making money while Gwyn suffered.
With enormous satisfaction, he touched the query from one of his former paramours who worked as an anchor for an Italian morning talk show. Quote me as stating that the photos were taken without her consent at a local spa, he messaged to her.
As the whoosh sounded to tell him the text was sent, he could practically hear her spiked heels racing down to her producer’s office, intent on identifying said spa and surprising the owner with an early-morning interview. She would seize world coverage with her exclusive by noon.
With a smirk at how easily the press was played, he turned his attention to the email Paolo had forwarded.
It was from Travis Sanders, director of an architectural firm Vito had never heard of. A quick swipe to his browser revealed it was a growing global corporation based in Charleston. Henry Sanders had started in real estate and morphed into renovation and restoration. His son, Travis, had earned his degree then took over his father’s firm, expanding into design and engineering. All of their projects were prestigious; the most current one was a cathedral in Brazil.
Vito read Travis’s email to Paolo:
I haven’t heard from my sister since the tenth of last month. If you’re screening her calls, stop screening me. I want to hear from her.
Short and decidedly acrid.
Gwyn shifted on the bed, rolling onto her back and opening her eyes. Confusion quickly fell into a wince of memory. She glanced at the empty spot beside her, sat up, saw him and brought the edge of the sheet up to the buttons closed across her chest.
“I thought you said he was your stepbrother?” Vito said.
“Who? Travis?” She frowned in sleepy confusion. “He is. Why?”
“He wants to hear from you. He thinks we’re preventing you from calling.”
She sighed and looked at the landline beside the bed like it was a snake he’d asked her to pick up.
Since she’d left her own mobile back at the house, he rose and took his across to her. “Would you rather text?”
Her gaze flickered across his bare chest and wariness trembled in her eyelashes while sexual awareness brought a light pink glow to her skin. He would have smiled with satisfaction if his entire body hadn’t tightened in response. Her scent was coming off those rumpled sheets in a way that tugged at his vitals.
She expertly sent off a quick message and handed back the phone, not looking at him.
Despite it being very early in Charleston, the phone vibrated immediately with a response.
Vito glanced at it and couldn’t help a dry smirk. “He wants to know his father’s birthday. To confirm that was actually you who just texted, I imagine.”
“Seriously?” She took back the phone, tapped out a lengthy message and slapped it back into Vito’s hand.
He glanced at the exchange, reading that she’d told her stepbrother she was fine, not being held hostage, didn’t know what to say and hoped the press wasn’t bothering Henry. She wanted Travis to apologize to him for her.
Vito frowned at her expression of misery, started to tell her what was in store for the spa, but another message came through.
“‘This isn’t like you,’” Vito read.
“How the hell does he know what I’m like?” she muttered, sliding her feet out the side of the bed. “He barely talks to me.”
“You’re to call him when you can talk freely,” he read aloud as she headed toward the bathroom.
She made a noise and said, “I’m going to see if it’s possible to drown in a shower.”
“Don’t take too long. I’m hungry and plan to order breakfast now that you’re up.”
* * *
Funny how something as simple as a shower became a saving grace in a time of crisis. Washing her hair, smoothing a soapy facecloth over her body... It was comfortingly normal. Routine. She took her time, thinking of nothing as water rained down upon her.