The Mogul and the Muscle - Claire Kingsley Page 0,61

labels. We couldn’t even tell for sure if it had been a man or a woman. The person’s face had been buried deep in a hood and they’d kept their head down.

I didn’t have cameras inside—although Jude was gradually talking me into letting him install one in the entry. Indoor surveillance had always felt like an unnecessary infringement on my privacy. But after this, I had to admit, the idea had merit.

It still sent a tingle down my spine—and not the good kind—that someone had waltzed right into my home. How had they gotten access? The police were investigating the cleaning service. Jude had talked to Nicholas and Inda earlier, as well as Bert, and he agreed that it was highly unlikely any of them were involved. He’d also ruled out Brandy, which didn’t surprise me, but was also a relief. I was worried I’d sorely misjudged someone close to me. But I trusted Jude, and he’d said he was as sure as he could be that my closest employees weren’t the culprits.

If it was Aldrich, I was going to have his ass. It made me want to sue him for breach of contract over the sex tape—we’d both signed that non-disclosure—even though that was a guarantee it would be made public. But it might be worth it to bury him in the legal system for a while.

A twinge of guilt fluttered in my stomach. I still hadn’t told Jude about the sex tape. With Aldrich a potential suspect, I knew I needed to just come out and tell him. But I couldn’t seem to get the words out.

I didn’t want him to think less of me. I thought less of myself, and that was bad enough. I couldn’t deal with the thought of disappointment in Jude’s eyes.

My phone buzzed against the gray marble counter. When I’d built my house, I’d let my architectural and design team go nuts with their luxury beach hut concept. What they’d given me was a gorgeous home that was stylish and unique. My master bathroom was a soothing mix of grays, ocean blue glass tile, and a sprawling teak-style vanity that was actually constructed from more sustainable bamboo.

While Valentina consulted her sizable collection of eye shadows, I checked my phone, stifling a groan.

Bobby the Douchebag: Are you sure about tonight? You can still come over.

Me: Positive.

Bobby the Douchebag: I’ll get your favorite dinner.

Me: What’s my favorite?

Bobby the Douchebag: I’ll know when you tell me…

Me: No thanks.

Bobby the Douchebag: Come on. I told you, not a date. I don’t even want to date you.

Bobby the Douchebag: That was a lie. We’d be the hottest couple in Miami.

Me: Nope.

Bobby the Douchebag: Think about it, Cami. We’re the ultimate power couple.

Me: We’re not a couple.

Bobby the Douchebag: Only because you’re being stubborn.

Me: Still no.

Me: And in case I’m not being clear, no.

Me: Also, no.

I put my phone down. It buzzed again, but I ignored it. He’d get distracted by something shiny—his ridiculous Instagram groupies or his equally douchey club-hopping friends.

“Trouble in paradise?” Valentina asked, wielding a makeup brush. “Close your eyes.”

I did as I was told. “No, just Bobby Spencer.”

“Ugh, that guy. I heard he got blacklisted by both Liv and Wall Lounge.”

“Barred from Miami’s hottest clubs? Such a shame.”

Valentina snorted. “Almost done. You just need mascara and another layer of hairspray.”

She finished caking on my makeup, then covered me in a cloud of high-hold spray. I bit my lip with excitement while she sprayed the back of my hair, waiting to get a glimpse of her magic. Eighties night couldn’t have come at a better time. I desperately needed the distraction, and I had a shameless love of eighties music. If they broke out the karaoke machine, I was going to dominate. I could rock anything by Pat Benatar.

“Okay, gorgeous, take a look.”

I spun around and giggled. I looked like a ginger version of Jem from Jem and the Holograms. My green and gold eyeshadow went all the way to my sculpted eyebrows. She’d painted sparkling gold stars at the corners of my eyes and dramatic peach blush highlighted my cheekbones. The lipstick she’d chosen was a darker peach and so shiny it almost looked like glitter. My hair was southern-beauty-queen huge, a mass of teased-out waves that gave me at least another four inches of height.

It was perfect.

“You’re a goddess,” I said. “I look ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous but still hot,” she said. “I keep trying to make you ugly and it never works. Your outfit is on