Treasured by Thursday (Weekday Brides Series Book 7) (16 page)

Gabi and Meg sat with their heads together, their ears tuned into the noise drifting from the kitchen.

“That’s not right. Do it again.”

“I’m not a cook, Mrs. Masini,” Hunter said for the umpteenth time in the last half an hour.

When Gabi had peeked into her mother’s space, flour covered the entire counter and half the floor. A telltale sign that pasta was in progress. Or at least a mix of flour and eggs. There was no guarantee anyone would be eating anything at this rate.

“Crack the egg
gently
.”

When Gabi’s mom groaned, Meg started to giggle. “I wish I had a camera set up in there.” Meg stretched her neck in an attempt to see inside the mess.

“Do it again.”

Meg nudged Gabi’s arm. “How long are you going to let that continue?”

Gabi sat back, crossed her legs. “I have nowhere I need to be.”

“No, no, no.” Simona lowered her tone. “Pretend the egg is a fragile woman, not a twist top on a beer.”

Gabi and Meg held their breath and waited . . .

“Better. Now, three more eggs.”

Silence.

Sigh.

Silence.

“Damn it!” Hunter’s patience had to be at an end.

Gabi pushed off the couch. “Distract my mother.”

“You’re going to rescue him?” Meg asked.

“I did throw him in the dark waters of my mother’s kitchen. I think he’s learned his lesson.”

The two of them entered the kitchen at the same time. Meg instantly started to laugh.

Hunter stood over the sink, his hands dripping with raw eggs and flour.

Gabi’s mother was scooping a mound of flour off the counter.

Hunter snapped his eyes to Gabi, causing her to step back. “Maybe I should—”

“Help?” her mother offered. “This husband of yours is useless.”

Meg pushed around Hunter, patted his arm with understood sympathy.

Meg moved to Simona’s side and nudged her away. “How about a break?”

Simona looked between the two women. “Don’t you do it for him, Gabriella. He needs to learn.”

“Yes, Mama. Why don’t you rest?” Gabi pushed the open bottle of wine in her mother’s direction before Meg led her out of the kitchen.

Gabi and Hunter were still until they heard the door to the outside patio open and close.

Hunter’s shoulders slumped. “Your mother is the kitchen Nazi.”

It felt good to laugh.

Hunter wasn’t amused. “You set me up.”

Gabi tossed her hands in the air. “Guilty. Serves you right for pretending to be able to cook crepes.” She found a clean apron and tied it around her waist.

Hunter made to remove his and she stopped him. “Not so fast, Wall Street. I told my mother I would help you . . . not do it for you.”

“I don’t cook.”

She stepped close and turned on the faucet to wash her hands. “Stop whining.” She wasn’t sure exactly where her confidence came from . . . maybe it was the mass of flour that covered the front of Hunter’s apron and most of his shirt. Maybe the smudge on his cheek, the lock of hair drifting into his eyes . . . or maybe seeing him completely out of his element empowered her.

He untied his apron.

She snapped a finger in his direction. “Put that back on.”

“Oh, God . . . the kitchen Nazi’s spawn.”

“I can call my mother back in.”

“You’re pushing me, Gabi.”

She shrugged. “What are you going to do, divorce me?”

He moaned.

“Exactly. Besides . . .” she found a clean, empty bowl, “my mother won’t let up until you master a few steps.”

His eyes followed her as she completed the mountain of flour and punched a fist-size crater in the center for the raw eggs.

“Let me guess.” She picked up an egg with one hand. “My mother showed you like this.” With a gentle crack, Gabi opened the shell and slid the egg into the flour with one hand and a tiny flourish of her wrist.

Hunter sighed. “You make it look easy.”

She smiled, moved close to his side, and handed over an egg. “Use two hands and crack it into the bowl. That way you don’t ruin what you’ve started if the shell decides it wants to be part of our dinner.”

He hit the side of the bowl too hard, the egg spilled on the counter, the shell in the bowl. “I look like a fool.”

“You look like you’re trying too hard.”

She rinsed the bowl, retrieved another egg. “Place your hands over mine.”

Hunter moved closer, the heat of his body seeping between them.
Maybe this isn’t a good idea.

Digging for the confidence that was there a moment ago, she attempted to ignore Hunter’s large shoulders and spicy scent. When his hands covered hers, dwarfing them instantly, she shuddered.

Crack the egg.

“Slow and easy,” she told him.

His hands where a whisper above hers while she cracked and separated the shell from the yolk.

Hunter didn’t pull away when she moved to release the shell and dump the perfect egg into the flour.

Attempting to ignore his silent presence, and refusing to look into his face, she handed him an egg.

She placed her hands over his.

Gabi wasn’t sure if Hunter hummed in concentration or something else. The something else was what kept her from looking directly at him.

“Slowly,” she cautioned when he lifted his hands to crack the egg.

The break was clean.

“That wasn’t hard, was it?” she asked, glancing at him as she removed her hands from his.

The anger and frustration that had been there moments before was replaced with something much more dangerous. Her heart kicked hard in her chest, reminding her of forbidden feelings. Dangerous desire.

His full lips parted, capturing her attention.

She caught herself staring. The silence in the room an open invitation for more than cooking.

Neither of them moved forward or away. Maybe it was kitchen chemistry . . . or a combination of nerves, but there was no mistaking the mutual attraction. Unwanted and completely forbidden attraction, but desire nonetheless.

“What are we doing, Gabi?” Hunter’s question was just above a whisper.

She blinked, pulling her eyes away from his parted lips. “Cooking.” She put space between them, nearly knocking over the bowl with the eggs inside.

They mixed with their hands and slowly turned the flour and eggs into dough. The air between them sparked with current.

Hunter played with his section, his eyes on her hands.

“We will never eat if you can’t concentrate,” she told him.

His hand stopped hers from pushing the heel of her palm into the dough. “I think we should talk about what’s going on here.”

She swallowed. “We’re cooking.”

“Gabi, look at me.”

She shook her head, taking the coward’s way out. If she noticed the lock of hair falling into his eyes a second time, she might have to push it back in place.

“Gabriella?” The smooth texture of his voice was like chocolate on her tongue.

His sticky hand tucked under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze.

He stepped closer, his frame molding to hers and pressing her back against the counter.

She couldn’t breathe.

His thumb traced her bottom lip. “This is a bad idea,” he mumbled her thoughts.

She nodded. “Very poor choice.” Her hands gripped the side of the counter to keep from touching him.

Hunter sucked in a deep breath. “You smell like flowers.”

“I’ll change my shampoo.”

He started to dip his head and she kept talking. “Something musky, so you won’t notice me.”

“I don’t think that’s going to work.”

He was close enough to catch the scent of mint on his breath. “I don’t even like you.” One of her legs lifted and rubbed against one of his.

“I don’t trust you.” His hand moved from her lip to the side of her neck.

“You blackmailed me.”

“You tricked me into cooking with your mother.”

She smiled. “The two hardly compare.”

Instead of dropping his lips to hers, he detoured to the side of her neck and kept talking, his breath brushing her skin. “Have you met your mother?”

“That’s sill—”

His lips found her neck.

She moaned and closed her eyes.
Such a deliciously bad idea.

Her head fell back, giving him room to do whatever he wanted.

“Well, well.” Meg’s voice filled the silent kitchen.

Gabi froze.

Hunter’s hand on her neck tightened.

“Your mom is on her way back in. Guess it’s a good thing I came in to warn you.”

Heat swept up Gabi’s throat. “It’s not how it looks,” she managed.

Meg simply laughed and left the room.

Chapter Fifteen

Comfort food and wine . . . lots and lots of wine.

What the hell was he doing? The last thing he needed was to seduce his wife. Had he forgotten the terms of her contract? The part where a child conceived between them would cost him half of everything he’d worked for?

Gabi sat across from him at the dinner table, picking at the food on her plate. Food they’d managed to make together under the watchful eye of the kitchen Nazi.

Meg kept a knowing smile on her face; Val appeared mildly irritated with the tension in the room. It was still midday, a strange time for a large meal, but Hunter ate anyway. The eating had more to do with the fact he’d actually cooked the food, and less to do with hunger. If anyone had told him he’d be cooking pasta from scratch at any time in his life, he would have wagered a six-figure sum against them.

Who knew?

Meg pushed her plate aside. “Not bad for your first attempt.”

My only attempt.

One look at his mother-in-law and Hunter kept his words to himself.

“I don’t think I’ll be applying for a chef position anytime soon,” he said instead.

The first smile from Val flashed on the other man’s face.

“Well,” Mrs. Masini pushed away from the table. “I need a nap.”

When she stood, Hunter moved to help her. Her wrinkled and spotted hand patted his.

“Thank you for teaching me something new,” he told her. “But let’s not do it again anytime soon.”

It wasn’t a real smile . . . more a smirk. “I’m not a young woman. My patience only holds for one lesson a month.”

Good thing she lived an entire country away.

“Gabriella,” Mrs. Masini said. “Walk me to my room.”

Gabi moved to her mother’s side and took her arm. She offered a coy glance over her shoulder before walking away.

Instead of burning under the microscope of Meg and Val, he said, “I’d like to make a few calls.”

“All the phones on the island are operable.”

Hunter was certain they were . . . and traceable, too. “My contacts are in my phone.”

Val stood, retrieved his jacket. “You can use my office.”

They walked into the heat of the Keys. Hunter followed Val to a golf cart, the only form of transportation on the island.

“You survived my mother. I have to give you points for that, Blackwell. I didn’t think you’d follow through.”

They turned up a two-lane road to the main building on the island. The three-story structure held Val’s office, rooms designed to hold staff that needed to sleep on the island. The long verandas swept around the building with massive windows that opened to a dining room and kitchens. The resort’s swimming pools and spa were a hedge and greenbelt away. A nightclub and separate gathering halls completed the lower portions of the building. “Your mother didn’t leave me much of a choice.”

Val nodded. “She has her ways.”

“Stubborn, much like your sister.”

Val pulled to a stop and turned toward him. “It runs in the family.”

“We have that in common, then. Once my mind is set on something, I seldom let down until I have it in my fingers.”

“Like my sister.” Val’s observation couldn’t be closer to the truth.

“My relationship with Gabi isn’t the same.”

There was a tick in Val’s eye. “The last man I allowed to court my sister nearly killed her. You’ll have to forgive my need to protect her.”

Killed her? Wait . . .
“Picano?”

“A man I trusted. A man we all trusted.”

“Even your mother?”

Val looked away. “My mother never liked him.” Val muttered something in Italian. “I don’t think she cares for you, either.”

Hunter wasn’t so sure. He caught Simona close to a grin at least twice when he destroyed her kitchen. “Did Picano ever cook with your mother?”

“Lord no. She wouldn’t have bothered.”

Interesting . . . yet she did with him.

Hunter moved to leave the golf cart, Val stopped him. “Has Gabriella told you about Picano?”

All the answers felt as if they were only a question away. So why was he hesitating?

“Not everything.”

Val opened his mouth and Hunter cut him off.

“She will tell me when she’s ready. For the first time in a long time, I will wait for her to reveal the truth.”

Val regarded him in silence. “You surprise me, Blackwell.”

Hunter pushed out of the cart. “It probably won’t last.” He thought of the question Blake had asked him and decided one question could be asked without learning too much about Gabi’s past. “Who shot him?”

Val hesitated.

“Never mind.” What if it was Gabi? He shouldn’t have asked. “I’ll wait for Gabi to tell me.”

“I don’t think Gabi knows. She wasn’t there when it happened.”

Now he was confused. He thought . . .

“I, however, was.”

“You shot him?”

Val shook his head. “If only I had a gun in my hand. No . . . I didn’t have the pleasure. Between the Coast Guard, Neil, Rick, and my wife, there wasn’t much left for me to take out.”

Meg . . . Val’s snarky blonde wife?

“I see you have more questions than answers.”

He did. “I’ve said this before, but I’m going to repeat myself. I won’t hurt her, Valentino. You have my word.”

Val shoved his hands in his pockets, the tick in his eye gone. “I’m holding you to that,” he said.

Hunter offered a nod and followed Val to his office.

When he was alone, he checked his messages. First was Tiffany. She muttered something about liking his wife and wondering if she still had a job on Monday. Hunter couldn’t remember another time when a secretary had drunk too much at a cocktail party and spoken out of turn. Tiffany was a rare find. The second message was Andrew’s. “You received a message . . . one you were expecting.”

Damn. Not good.

The third message was from Remington. As the man rambled about Colombia and Italy, Hunter held his head in his hand. He needed to divert his PI from finding any personal facts about Gabi and concentrate on her offshore accounts. Any trust he was building with his temporary wife would be shattered in one phone call if she knew he was paying someone to learn about her past. For some strange reason, he wanted her trust.

Wanted to trust her.

He dialed Remington first and met with a voice mailbox. With caution, he stepped out onto Val’s veranda and looked below. Once Hunter was assured of his privacy, he kept his message short. “It’s Blackwell. I need you to drop what you’re doing. I need to find out who Picano dealt with in Columbia. Someone accessed those accounts, I need to know who. Same with Italy. If you come across Gabriella’s name anywhere else, contact me immediately.”

He sent a text to Tiffany, said he’d see her on Monday.

Andrew picked up on the first ring.

“How is Florida?” Andrew asked.

“Warm, sticky . . . beautiful. Tell me.”

Andrew sighed.

Hunter knew, before Andrew opened his mouth to confirm, what he was going to say.

“The paternity test is positive.”

“Oh, Luuucy . . . you have some ’splaining to do.” Meg’s singsong voice called Gabi outside once her mother finished her interrogation.

There was no way out of this conversation, though Gabi had to try. “Can we ignore what you walked in on?”

Meg shook her head. “Hell to the no! I want details, lady . . . lots of details.”

Gabi glanced up the stairs and motioned toward the outside. “How about a walk?”

“Good idea. Your mother is trying to make me fat. Pasta in the afternoon? Who does that?”

“We’re Italian, we do.”

They walked out to the shore and both left their shoes close to the entrance of Meg and Val’s private villa.

“I thought this was a name-only marriage,” Meg started in.

“It is. I don’t even like the man.”

Meg lifted her eyebrows.

“Well, most of the time.”

“His body was molded to yours and it didn’t look like you were pushing him away.”

“He’s a very attractive man,” Gabi defended.

“Mmm-hmm.”

She thought of his breath on her neck with a sigh. “Extremely attractive.”

“There are plenty of attractive men out there, Gabi. Why Hunter?”

Gabi pulled her hair back to keep the wind from tossing it in her face. “He’s convenient.”

Meg laughed. “So is the taxi driver. You haven’t so much as blinked at the men that have come on to you since . . .”

It was sweet of Meg to avoid saying his name. “Since Alonzo.”

“Yeah.”

They walked in silence a little longer.

“Can I ask you something?” Meg asked. “About Alonzo?”

He was
the man who shall never be spoken of
. . . or had been since his death. Hearing his name so many times in the last month had the opposite effect it had in those early days. It was easier, she realized, now that Hunter was there to annoy and distract her.

“I suppose.”

“If you don’t want to answer, I’ll understand.”

“I won’t fall apart with a question,” said Gabi.

“How were things . . . you know, sexually . . . between the two of you?”

It had been a long time since she’d thought about intimacy. Even with Hunter recharging her hormones, she hadn’t once thought of her time in Alonzo’s bed.

“Well . . . before.” She shook her head.

Meg placed a hand on her arm briefly as they walked down the empty beach.

“It was satisfying.”

“Satisfying?”

It was hard to remember any of their time together as being something other than a lie. She’d told herself that their sex life was off because of his deception.

“Are we talking
prime rib
satisfying, or
bologna sandwich fill the stomach
satisfying?”

Gabi looked out over the ocean, tried to remember. “I have to admit I was always a little hungry . . . after.”

Meg looped her arm through Gabi’s. “That’s so wrong.”

“I know . . . I can see that now.”

They dodged the water climbing up on the shore.

“What about with Hunter?”

“Oh, we haven’t. I mean . . . what you saw in the kitchen . . . we haven’t.” How was it possible as a grown woman she had such a hard time talking about sex?

“What I saw in the kitchen looked really hot.”

Gabi felt the blush reach her cheeks. “It was,” came her breathy reply.

Meg laughed.

“I don’t want to compare, but did the big asshole ever make you feel like Hunter did today?”

Her answer was swift. “No. Absolutely nothing alike.”

“Hmm . . .”

“It can’t happen,” Gabi voiced the caution running in her head since she parted Hunter’s company.

“Why not? He’s obviously into you. You’re stuck in this marriage for a year and a half? Meaningless hot sex is better than supposed meaningful wet-noodle sex.”

“There shouldn’t be sex of any kind. I’m not the woman who has meaningless sex.”

“Have you ever tried? Seems Val kept you sheltered most of your life.”

“True,” Gabi managed. “But I’ve had more opportunities than Val is aware of. I simply didn’t act on them.”

Meg pinched her lips together, her expression amused. “How did that work out for you?”

“What are you suggesting, Margaret . . . that I sleep with my husband to scratch an itch?”

Meg shrugged with a nod. “You said he was attractive. My guess is all the parts work.”

Gabi gave a playful shove and had Meg dancing at the water’s edge.

“I can’t trust him.”

Meg’s smile fell. “You think he’ll hurt you?”

“No. Not physically. I don’t get that from him at all.”

“So emotionally?”

Gabi couldn’t put a finger on what her thoughts were. “How does someone have sex with someone they don’t like?”

“Men do it all the time.”

“I don’t have the plumbing to qualify as a man.”

It was Meg’s turn to push her. “You know what I mean. Listen, I’m not suggesting you ignore your head. But don’t be afraid to follow a smoking hot distraction. You know he’s not telling you he cares to get you in bed. You’re already married. There’s a deadline to your relationship that might give you exactly what you need to find your sexual self. It doesn’t sound like Alonzo helped with that at all.”