His Unlikely Lover (Unwanted #3) (3 page)

Bobbi was gone! Gabe swore softly and frantically looked around for her in the throng of people surrounding him. He hadn’t been gone more than a couple of minutes. Where the hell had she disappeared to?

“Shit,” he whispered beneath his breath and pushed his way through the chatting, laughing groups of people. He spotted Max Kinsley, an old university friend standing at the far side of the room. Bobbi may have wandered over to chat with him . . . or
dance
with him. Would she have kissed him too? The question hit him like a fist to the solar plexus and expelled the breath from his lungs as he visualized Max with Bobbi in his arms, with his mouth on hers and his chest plastered to hers.

Hell no!

He told himself that the rage he felt at the vision that formed in his mind’s eye was the same protective instinct Sandro felt toward his sister . . . that had to be it.

“Where’s Bobbi?” He demanded to know when he eventually managed to reach Max’s side. The other man looked surprised by his question.

“No idea.
You’re
her minder, bro. Not me.” Seeing the truth on his friend’s face, Gabe’s eyes roamed the crowded room again. He couldn’t help picturing her flitting from one guy to the next, bestowing her dances and kisses freely on every one of them like some horny, drunken little fairy. She could get herself into some serious trouble if she ran into the wrong guy.

“Lose something?” a deep voice murmured from behind him, and he whirled around to see Sandro smirking at him.

“I assume you know where Bobbi is?” he asked. The other man took a lazy sip of whiskey before replying.

“Theresa just escorted Roberta to her room. She’s feeling the effects of too much champagne.” Gabe grimaced at that information; she could go from tipsy to violently ill in pretty short order. He should have known it would only be a matter of time before she got sick.

“I’ll take care of her and send your wife back down to you,” he offered, and Sandro nodded.

“That would be appreciated.”

They had put her in the room next to his, Gabe remembered. What had seemed perfectly acceptable just a few short hours ago now seemed . . . inappropriate.

He rapped on the door before opening it after the briefest of hesitations. Theresa De Lucci, looking stunning in her evening wear—probably by one high-end designer or the other, he wasn’t sure which, he never really paid attention to women’s wear unless he was in the process of removing it—was stroking a damp cloth over Bobbi’s face. She looked up in surprise when Gabe walked in.

“How is she?” he asked, shrugging out of his tux jacket and draping it carefully over the back of a chair so as not to wrinkle it.

“Somewhat under the weather,” Theresa said with a slight smile. “I think she got most of it out of her system though.”

“She doesn’t handle alcohol very well,” he stated unnecessarily.

“I noticed.” Her smile widened.

“She’s usually better at managing her alcohol intake. I don’t know what came over her tonight.” Theresa said nothing in response to that and merely continued to stroke Bobbi’s face gently.

“I’m sorry about this. Why don’t you head back to the party? I’ll take care of her.”

Theresa slanted her head questioningly. “Are you sure about that? I don’t mind staying with her.”

“Sandro’s already looking restless without you.”

She laughed with an indulgent shake of her head. “He has no patience with parties that serve no function other than an excuse for people to gather in a festive social setting.”

“All business all the time, huh?” Gabe rejoined, and she rolled her eyes.

“I’ve been attempting to change that, and he does try, but he tends to get short-tempered if I’m not around to make sure he maintains his civility.”

“You’d better get down there before he tosses everybody out then.” He ushered her out, and after one last look back at Bobbi, she left the room.

Gabe shut the door behind her. He stood there for a while with his hands braced on the door and his head bent as he steeled himself to turn around and walk back to that bed.

“Gut up, Braddock,” he whispered, thumping his forehead against the wood before pushing himself away from the door and turning back toward the large bed.

She was so small that she barely made a dent beneath the covers. He removed his diamond and gold cufflinks, slipping them into one of his trouser pockets, and folded his sleeves meticulously up to his elbows. He sat down on the chair so recently vacated by Theresa and forced himself to look down into her unconscious face.

It was just Bobbi
. He nearly laughed his relief out loud. He didn’t know what he had expected, but this short-haired, golden-skinned, sleeping urchin stirred no desire in him—no crazy, ill-advised lust. Nothing close to it. He felt fondness, affection, even love. Every insipid emotion associated with platonic friendship one could hope for. No desire. None at all.

He shook his head, unable to keep the grin from his face.

“Thank Christ for that,” he whispered. He could only conclude that he’d been more affected by his dance with the stunning Rosalie De Lucci than he’d known. It was past time for him to form a new relationship. His last one had ended months ago and he’d been celibate ever since. The lack of sex seemed to be manifesting itself in seriously weird and unanticipated ways.

He linked his fingers and rested them on his torso before dropping his head back on the cushioned chair. He mentally inventoried all the single women he knew, with the intention of calling one or two of them up soon for some sexy times, and fell asleep in the middle of his strategizing.

CHAPTER TWO

S
omething—some small, rodent-type creature—had died
in her mouth
. Why else would the latter taste so putrid and feel so furry? And some cruel prankster had glued her eyelids together, because she couldn’t seem to open her eyes.

She groaned and the small sound set a tsunami of pain into motion in her head. Even with her eyes closed it felt like the room was spinning, and the vertiginous sensation made her feel sick to her stomach. She was almost certain she was going to vomit. She gritted her teeth and breathed through her nose, trying to quell the nausea.

Was she ill?

“Bobbi?” Even though the word was whispered, it sounded like a gunshot in the silence and she winced.

“Gabe?” she whimpered, managing to unstick her eyelids at last and peer at him. The room was dim, with only one wall lamp spilling the barest amount of light across half of his face. “I’m sick.”

“Have a sip of this water,” he instructed, and his neutral tone set her mind at ease. He slid a hand beneath her neck and gently helped her sit up. She tensed, and shut her eyes again, trying to keep her breathing deep and steady.

“You need to puke?” he asked gruffly. She shook her head and clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Give me a second,” she groaned from behind her hand. “I’m okay.”

“Come on, drink the water.” He held a glass up and she took it in both of her trembling hands. He closed his own hand over hers to keep the glass steady and guided it to her lips. She took a sip, then another, and then realized that she had a raging thirst and gulped the rest down eagerly.

“Good girl,” he praised, still in that quiet whisper. He refilled the glass from the carafe on the pedestal and this time handed her a couple of aspirin to go with it.

“I drank too much champagne, didn’t I?” she asked as she remembered, and he nodded, his face expressionless. She downed the aspirin and handed the glass back to him. He placed it on the pedestal with that precise economy of movement that she always found so inordinately fascinating about him. How could such a large man keep his every movement so neat and controlled?

“I’m sorry. You should go back to the party. I think I’m okay now.”

“The party’s mostly over,” he said. “There are a few stragglers still lingering, but it’s only a matter of time before Sandro loses his patience with them.” She smiled weakly at that and sank back against the headboard, shutting her eyes for a second.

A sinking feeling of dread was starting to form in the pit of her stomach. Something wasn’t right. She had done something at the party and the exact details remained infuriatingly elusive and couldn’t seem to take any coherent shape in her mind.

“Try to get some sleep,” he instructed.

“I just woke up.”

“That wasn’t sleep,” he corrected. “You had passed out.”

“Charming.” She snorted.

“Indeed.”

“I’m sorry I spoiled your evening,” she whispered.

“You didn’t.”

“I did. I . . .” And that’s when she remembered. Her eyes flew open to meet his enigmatic stare and her hand fluttered helplessly to her lips. His eyes seemed to darken as they watched her fingers trace the outline of her mouth, but it could merely have been a trick of the light. His face still held very little expression.

“Oh my God.” How much had she revealed? Had she said anything? She tried to remember everything that had preceded the kiss, but it was all frustratingly hazy. “I’m sorry. I was . . . drunk.” She had forced herself on him. The very idea of how she must have behaved was horrifying.

“I know. Forget about it.” There was something
off
about the cadence of his voice and it worried her. Had she irreparably ruined their friendship? Would they ever get past this? Had she
told
him she loved him? She had all but violated him and had even fooled herself into believing that he had returned her kiss.

She buried her face in her hands, absolutely mortified—after years of self-restraint and hiding the nature of her feelings from him for the good of their friendship—she had probably destroyed that same friendship on some drunken whim.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, Bobbi, there was no harm done.”

No harm done? She peeked at him from between a gap in her fingers—not quite sure how she felt about that. Relieved? Or even more humiliated because her kiss had had so little impact on him?

There was still no expression on his face. Gabe had never been one to wear his emotions on his sleeve. He was the most self-restrained man she knew, but she could usually read him better than this—one couldn’t be a friend to someone for nearly twenty years without learning his moods, but he was a complete mystery to her at this moment and it confused her.

She needed to get away from him for a few minutes, needed to gather her thoughts and compose herself. She pushed the bed covers down to her hips and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She sat there for a couple of seconds, swallowing down the nausea when her movements caused the room to swirl sickeningly around her.

“What are you doing?” he asked, and in her disorientated state it almost sounded like there was a slight edge of panic in his voice.

“Bathroom.” She kept her response succinct, not really feeling capable of saying anything more than that. He used his feet to push the chair farther away from the bed, giving her room to maneuver.

“Thanks.” She glanced down at him and caught a flash of something dark in his eyes. She paused—not certain of that look—but then his face went back to that maddeningly neutral expression. She sighed quietly and wobbled to the en suite, shutting the door firmly.

Gabe groaned softly and ran his hands roughly over his face and into his hair—he sat there for a brief moment, hands clenched in his hair before inhaling deeply in an attempt to calm himself. He had been doing pretty well, had had the situation under control. She was his friend, they had grown up together—there was absolutely nothing but friendship and deep affection between them. That was the way it had always been, the way it
would
always be.

So why the hell did the sight of her in that tiny white tank top and those skimpy blue boy shorts send his blood pressure sky-rocketing? He’d seen her in similar clothing before, seen her in less really—but he’d never fully appreciated the pert perfection of her small breasts and had certainly never wanted to cup the firm, ripe curve of her butt before.

And even worse, the inescapable realization that she was wearing absolutely nothing beneath all that innocent cotton had him fighting a losing battle to keep his inevitable hard-on at bay.