The Billionaire's Assistant

“Abigail—I went to Barcelona for the ice cream. Did you, by chance, flee here? Hoping to escape one of those pesky little murder charges?”

“Oh, Nicholas,” I laughed, patting him indulgently on the hand. Then I sobered suddenly and leveled him with my eyes. “You think there’s even a chance that I would get caught?”

He held my gaze for a moment, before a sudden chill rippled down his arms. Followed by a twinkling smile as he slowly shook his head.

“Remind me never to fire you.”

“Done.”

“So what really happened to her?” he asked.

“She’s moving to California for her new modeling contract, that’s all.”

“You used your contacts to get her out of here, didn’t you?”

I smiled. “Maybe.”

We continued people watching for a while longer—ordering another hot espresso when the air began to get cold. The nightclub across the street was starting to hit its stride. Flashing lights and a pulsing bass vibrated through the cobblestones—flickering in our eyes and shaking up through our shoes. Before long, we were both nodding our heads to the beat.

After a few more minutes, Nick caught my eye with a sideways smile.

“You wanna check it out?”

I glanced in surprise from him to the club, my eyes glowing with the neon fluorescence. I did want to go. Very much. But professionally speaking, it wasn’t the best idea.

“Hey,” he leaned over, guessing my thoughts, “this is Spain. What happens here...”

He offered out a hand, hovering it in the air in front of me. After a moment’s consideration, I took it with a mischievous grin.

“...stays here.”

Chapter 23

I had dropped Nick off at a club more times than I could count. Seen pictures of him dancing and draped over so many women, I couldn’t possibly tell you all of their names. To be fair, neither could he. I’d picked him up even more times, after receiving a drunken phone call in the middle of the night—slurring that he’d misplaced his driver, and fired his keys.

But never, not once in two years, had I gone inside.

The lights were dim, and the air was sticky and hot. It was the kind of place that just reeked of trouble. The kind of place I was always nervous for Nick to go.

He weaved us through the gyrating crowd and walked us to the bar with the skill and ease of one who had done it many, many times before. Normally, it would feel strange to be holding his hand, but under the circumstances, I held on for dear life.

The bartender muttered something in Spanish, and Nick turned to me with a nod.

“What would you like to drink?”

I could barely hear him over the dea

fening music. I settled for reading his lips.

A dozen options glittered before me. All of them printed in Spanish lettering. I shrugged and pointed to the brightest bottle I could find. Nick grinned and held up his fingers for two.

Three shots and five cocktails later—the two of us were feeling pretty damn good about ourselves. And pretty damn clever that we’d left our NYC trouble behind and escaped to Spain.

“I tooootally get why you do this now,” I slurred, leaning against him as our faces flashed alternatingly red and gold in the lights. “This whole running away thing.”

“I’m not running away,” he countered, looking offended at the very idea. I raised my eyebrows and gestured to the club and he laughed. “Okay, maybe a little. But it works, right?” He stepped us away from the bar, holding onto my wrists for mutual balance. “When you woke up this morning, did you have any idea that by tonight, we would be at a nightclub in Spain?”

A sudden thought seized me, and I looked away with intoxicated concern.