Ride Rough - Tessa Layne Page 0,70

not invade your privacy."

"Yet that's exactly what you did by sending what I assume was the copy I recycled to someone you know." Her eyebrows lifted by means of confirmation.

He shut his eyes, head dropping. "Yeah. That's what I did." He lifted his chin. "But only because I believe in you and I wanted to help. You have to believe that."

Her eyes softened briefly. "Funny, I actually do. Because no high profile personality would ever self-incriminate the way you did by sharing that article."

Trace's thoughts split. She was now referring to him as a high profile personality? Bad. Very bad. And the worse thought - he'd self-incriminated? "What do you mean, self-incriminated?"

She tilted her head to the table. "I assume you recognized the photo I sent last night?"

He nodded.

"What can you tell me about it?"

He shrugged. "Guy to my right is my agent, Emerson Scott. The woman to my left is Bonita Carradine."

"And how do you know her?"

"She's a friend of Emerson's. We partied a bunch, both in California and a handful of times where she lives, in Chicago."

"And how much do you know about Bonita?"

He shrugged. "Socialite with too much money to spend on maintenance. Introduces a lot of people. She's a connector. She... ahh, introduced me to a few women," he confessed, neck heating.

Cecilia's face went white, and her mouth pinched. For a second she looked like she was going to vomit. She clutched her mug so hard her knuckles glowed. "Did you have sex with any of those women?" she whispered.

Trace scraped a hand across his jaw. "Shit, I don't know. Maybe? Probably?" he hated admitting it. He didn't want the ugly part of his life to pollute what he had with Cecilia. Although, given the direction of their conversation, it was a little late for that. "I don't remember."

Cecilia shut her eyes, dark lashes brushing against the top of her cheeks like little coal feathers.

"Look, I'm not proud of my prior behavior. I spent a lot of those parties... out of it."

"High? Or drunk?"

"Sometimes both." His mouth tasted bitter with the admission. "If you'll let me explain-"

She shook her head, cutting him off. "We'll get to that." She lifted her eyes, cold and hard. "Were any of the women Bonita introduced you to minors?"

Trace jumped to his feet. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he snapped. "I'd never..." he clutched his hair, white-hot anger spotting his vision. "I'm an asshole and I have a lot to atone for. But the last time I even looked at a seventeen-year-old girl with anything more than polite regard was when I was seventeen."

"It's hard to tell, Trace. That girl in the photo-"

"I have no idea how old that girl was, and yes, I agree she's a girl. But that has never been me. Emerson? Quite possibly. Emerson has... fluid rules."

"And you don't?"

Oh, god. He was going to be sick. He could see how she would think the worst. The evidence was awful... and damning. He braced his hands on the table and leaned close. "My proclivities have always run toward older... willing women," he bit out in clipped words. "And I'll give you the contact information of someone who can verify it."

"Who?"

It cut to the quick that she asked, but he'd offered. "Portia Taylor."

"Who's she?"

"The only seventeen-year-old I ever fucked." He said it like that on purpose, and got the intended result. A flash of pain ripped across her face. "She's thirty-five now, and pregnant with her first child, not mine," he added, because he could see the wheels turning in her lovely head. "She also has the distinction of being my oldest, and some might say only friend." He retreated to the counter, leaning back and crossing his arms.

"Is she any relation to Ophelia Taylor?" she asked barely above a whisper.

Trace huffed out a short laugh. He'd give Cecilia props for her due diligence. "Younger sister."

She nodded. "I see." She sucked in a breath, chest rising then falling with her harsh exhale. "So, full disclosure, if you don't have a lawyer on retainer, you should hire one as soon as possible."

Trace's brows drew together. "What do you mean?"

She tapped the manila folder. "Your name's on the Until You client list."

Chapter Twenty-Nine

"What?" He pushed off the counter and snapped up the folder. "You're shitting me."

"I wish I was," she said quietly.

Fuuuuuuuuck. He scanned photo after photo - client lists, parties, couples, some very compromised - cringing when he came across the one of him and Emerson and Bonita and the