Treasured by Thursday (Weekday Brides Series Book 7) (18 page)

She stilled. “I hoped you wouldn’t follow through on that threat.”

“I’m a man of action, not threats.”

“So you already know my secrets.” Her voice was tight.

He shook his head. “No. Not the personal stuff. My investigator was working on the personal stuff until this weekend.” That afternoon . . . but Hunter didn’t think his confession needed that minor detail.

“What is he working on now?”

The rest of his confession wasn’t an admission of any guilt, and the words flowed. “I promised to work toward removing your name from Picano . . . from the bank accounts. He’s working on determining who is behind the offshore money.”

When his words met with silence, he ventured a glance and found Gabi staring. Her eyes softened, her smile easy and inviting.

Genuine.

She opened her lips to say something, then closed them.

“What?”

She hesitated. “Why? Why remove your investigator away from the information you seek?”

The answer came in one word.
Trust.
He wanted her to trust him. Only revealing that now . . . this early in their contract gave her too much power. If she knew he wanted her trust, she could pull out now and where would he be? No . . . as much as it killed him, he left that word out of his explanation. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

He heard her legs shifting on the lounge.

“You’re impossible to place a finger on . . . you know that?”

He felt a smile on his lips. “I try.”

“See . . . I don’t believe that. I think it’s natural. Like a God given-right born unto only you.”

“I’m like everyone else . . . just a little more driven to get what I want.”

“Even if you have to blackmail to get it.”

He winced. “It sounds so ugly when you say it that way.”

She laughed. “It
is
ugly.”

He shrugged. He wouldn’t change it . . . and in light of the past week, didn’t think he did the wrong thing.

The conversation waned until he thought maybe they had exhausted all their words for the night.

“He was a manipulative bastard.”

Hunter practiced the fine art of silence.

And the gates opened.

“Our chance meeting, which I learned later wasn’t so chance, happened on the mainland. A fundraiser my brother and I were a part of. He was attentive and Val liked him. I liked him.”

Hunter heard the hurt in her voice.

“I was sheltered . . . as Meg has pointed out . . . living on this island. Not that I cared. But when Alonzo landed in my life I was more than ready to explore shores other than these.”

Hunter knew the story ended badly, and searched for words to keep her talking. “So you did.”

“I did. He would sail to the island, bring crates of quality wine as a gift to my brother. Val didn’t need the wine, but the guests seemed to enjoy it.”

The pieces of the puzzle in his head started to fall into place.

“He was supposedly setting up our future home in the vineyards of the California coast. His land in Italy was already prosperous . . . or so I thought, so when he suggested we start our life together in the States, I couldn’t be happier. I’d spent time in Italy, but the thought of being that far away from my family didn’t sit well.”

“Let me guess, Alonzo banked on that.” He was watching her now . . . the play of emotions on her face . . . the drop in her voice when she spoke of herself.

“I was such an easy target. It wasn’t until Margaret and Michael arrived on the island that everything came unraveled.”

There was a name Hunter had yet to hear. “Michael?”

“Michael Wolfe . . . the movie star.”

For the first time in the conversation, Hunter was stunned. “What do Meg and Michael Wolfe have in common?”

“Meg is best friends with Judy. Michael is Judy’s brother.”

He tried to catch up, and just went with the names and hoped he could connect the dots later.

“So Michael and Meg were here on vacation and Meg ended up with your brother?”

Gabi was smiling now . . . some of the earlier tension having left her body. “Meg was here checking out the privacy of the island for clients of Alliance.”

“Ohhh . . . got it.” That made sense. “So Meg and Michael hit the island . . . then what?”

“Michael knows a lot about wine.”

“So he heard of Picano’s wine?”

“No. The opposite. And when Alonzo figured out Michael was on to his misleading label, Alonzo made their stay here very difficult,” Gabi said.

“Misleading label?” Hunter was lost.

“Alonzo may have owned the land in Italy, that did in fact grow grapes, but he didn’t make wine. He used his supposed status as a winemaker to smuggle drugs.”

“Ohh . . .” He followed along with relative ease. “He smuggled the drugs with the wine he brought onto the island.”

Gabi was silent for a few moments. “I could have destroyed everything my brother built here with my fiancé’s deceit.”

“I doubt you knew anything about the drugs.”

“Still my fault.”

The desire to reach for her was huge.

She’d all but curled up onto herself as she spoke, giving no indication that she needed comfort.

“What happened next?” They’d yet to get to the personal stuff . . . the part that shattered the woman in front of him.

Gabi hugged her bent knees, her gaze fixated on the ocean. “While Meg and Michael accompanied Val to Italy . . . in search of the truth, I was oblivious.
He
took me away for a short weekend . . . a vacation off the coast on his yacht.” She shivered and her skin grew pale. She swallowed, and continued. “I grew up on these waters . . . well, maybe not grew up, but certainly never found myself sick on them.”

Hunter felt his hand clenching the arm of the chair.

“From the minute I stepped on the ship, I wasn’t right. We ate, drank . . .” her nervous laugh left him cold. “I slept. Woke to aspirin . . .” She laughed again and Hunter’s back teeth ground together.

“He told me it was for my headache.” Her eyes were a hard stare on the water. “Everything blurred.”

Hunter was sitting on the edge of the lounge chair, his knees bumping her chair. He wanted to touch her, but didn’t. He waited for the words to tell him the worst of it. Knew the story was going to get worse.

“The morning we married, I was lucid. Well . . . blurry, but I can’t say I didn’t know what I was doing.” She blinked in his direction for a moment, then looked away. “It would be easier if I knew he forced the marriage certificate.” She rested her head on her knees. “Let’s get married, he said. Today . . . now . . . he talked about romance. I said yes.” She sighed. “I said yes.”

Hunter found his tongue. “You loved him.”

She shook her head. “I thought I loved him.”

The waves crashed a few times . . .

“I remember bits from there. A meal . . . the stateroom. The nausea. I thought I was sick. After, the doctors told me the drugs he slipped into my wine . . . my water . . . was triple the prescribed amount.”

Hunter couldn’t help his hand that found her ankle. It was a comfort that she didn’t back away.

“I’m sorry.”

She shook her head, a tear fell from her eye. “He didn’t stop with pills.”

Hunter’s nose flared and his skin grew ice-cold.

“Alonzo smuggled heroin. I have a memory of his captain sliding a needle into me.”

Holy fuck.
Hunter had to force the hand on her ankle to relax or risk breaking her delicate bones.

She looked into the star-filled sky. “They found me floating alone in a dingy in the middle of the ocean. I don’t remember how I’d gotten there, or how long I was bobbing in the sea. I remember a helicopter, then nothing until I woke in the ICU in Miami. I’d learned what he’d done to me, and why . . . he heard that my brother and Meg were on to him, so he forced his hand . . . used me . . .”

“Jesus.” No wonder everyone he’d met that knew Gabi threatened to kill him if he harmed her. Hell, he wouldn’t hesitate after hearing that story.

Hunter removed his jacket and took a chance.

He slid into the space beside Gabi and covered the two of them. The need to tell her everything, every reason he needed her as a wife, sat on his lips.

He couldn’t. The risk of her walking way, and him letting her, was too great.

“It’s a good thing he’s already dead,” he said a long time later.

She’d snuggled into his chest and finally settled into slow, easy breaths.

“Oh?”

“Yeah . . . I don’t look good in orange, either.”

Chapter Seventeen

They were cruising somewhere between 27,000 and 30,000 feet. The open book in Gabi’s lap sat unread. She and Hunter had fallen asleep under an open sky. Sometime later, he’d lifted her into his arms and carried her to her room. The connecting door to their bedrooms was left open, giving her space, but not closing her off. It was probably one of the sweetest things anyone had ever done for her.

What surprised her more was a lack of dreams . . . of memories. Whenever she spent time talking about her tragic past, dreams plagued her for nights after.

Instead, she dreamed of Hunter covered in flour.

Hunter’s breath on her neck.

Hunter on the dance floor.

He had left the villa before she rose and showered for their return trip home. He’d kept their conversation polite, if not cold. The heat generated in her mother’s kitchen was a distant memory.

She shouldn’t be surprised. The image of her with a needle in her arm sickened her as well.

Gabi gave up on the language textbook and stood.

“Can I get you something, Mrs. Blackwell?” The flight attendant appeared from a niche around the corner with a smile.

“I have it, thank you.”

She disappeared again, leaving Gabi to fend for herself. She wasn’t
hungry but needed to do something with her hands, so she proceeded
to fill a glass with ice . . . a splash of vodka. Maybe she could sleep?

The ruffling of Hunter’s paper caught her attention.

He was watching her, his expression as unreadable as it had been that morning.

Telling him what had happened to her felt right the night before. Now she regretted it. The distance between them had narrowed on the island and was destined to spread like the Grand Canyon now.

Hunter shook his head and looked away. “I’m leaving tomorrow night for New York. I’ll be there until Saturday.”

She wasn’t sure what to say. A week ago, she would have applauded. Today it felt like rejection. “Oh.”

“I need you to join me in Dallas Saturday for dinner with the Adams.”

She sipped the vodka, wish she’d poured more into the glass.

“All right.”

“I’ll have the jet ready for you Saturday morning. I’ll meet you at the Hyatt.” He sounded like he was talking to Andrew.

“Should I make a reservation?”

“Tiffany will take care of it.”

Wonderful.
She finished her drink, poured a second.

“What are you doing, Gabi?”

She didn’t meet his eyes as she lifted her glass in the air in salute. “Enjoying a cocktail. Would you like one?” She turned and opened the cupboard that housed the crystal glasses with a little too much force. The glassware rattled as she tossed ice into his glass.

She hadn’t seen him approach and only stopped when his hand covered hers.

She snapped back as if burned.

He stepped back. “You’re upset.”

“No,” she said. “I’m pissed. At myself.” The worst kind of anger.

“Why?”

She abandoned his glass and fisted hers as she put a few feet between them.

“I should have never told you about Alonzo.”

“Why?”

All her nervous energy kept her from sitting. She swirled the ice inside her drink and looked into it as if it held the right words. “Because I’d rather endure your hate . . . your passion, than your cold tolerance or pity.”

“Cold tolerance?” his voice rose. “I’m trying to give you space.”

“You’re disgusted with the facts. Don’t try and tell me any differently. I’ve seen the look before.” In the mirror, for months after Alonzo had died.

He ran a hand through his hair. “You’re right. I am disgusted.”

She cringed. Wanted to cry.

“With a dead man. With myself.”

“With me.”

“No!” he yelled.

“Then why are you being so cold?”

Gabi’s hand went still, her eyes followed him as he attempted to move.

“I don’t know what else to do.”

“You seemed to know last night.”

He stopped pacing, looked at her over his shoulder.

Some of her anger faded in his look of distress.

“Damn it, Gabi, don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you trust me.”

Did she trust him? Maybe a little more than when they’d met.

“You can’t trust me. I will fuck up. I always do.”

Now it was her turn to feel pity . . . pity for him.

“Hunter—”

He lifted a hand in the air, cutting off her words. “Last night while you slept, I laid there trying to figure out a way to release you.”

Instead of the elation she would have expected, a stronger sense of denial swam up her spine.

“Then the cold son of a bitch I am clicked in. I can’t let you go . . . not now . . . not yet.”

She set her drink down, crossed her arms over her chest. “So you decided to treat me like baggage instead.”

His gray eyes held hers. “I know how to handle baggage. I don’t know how to handle you.”

She stepped forward and poked two fingers into his chest. “Well let me give you a tip, Wall Street. You don’t let me open up to you, especially after my mother’s kitchen, and then wake today acting like nothing happened.”

She dug her nail in a little harder.

He captured her hand and squeezed. “Your mother’s kitchen is exactly why I’m being the bastard that I am now.”

She tried to pull away, failed.

“Your image of me is different now. I get it. It’s hard to see past a needle once you’ve envisioned it.”

“What?”

Insecurity was thick on her tongue. Alonzo had taken pictures of her. Those nasty pictures that he sent to Val flashed in her mind. “I don’t blame you.” She tugged her hand again.

“Blame? You think my need to touch you is gone because of what that bastard did to you?”

She didn’t meet his eyes.

He tugged her hand closer and turned her into the closed door of the bedroom suite. He was on her in a breath.

His hard body molding itself to hers, his growing erection pressing firm on her belly. Long fingers let loose her hand and wove onto her neck. And then his lips were in the exact place they’d been before Meg had interrupted them. Insecurity flew away like the wind blowing past the plane at over three hundred miles an hour.

Hunter’s lips were hot, open as he dragged his teeth along her neck.

Gabi slumped against the door.

She felt Hunter’s free hand run down her waist and hip.

“Does this feel like a man who doesn’t desire you? A man hung up on your past?” he whispered, his warm breath against her ear.

He shifted her hips closer, the hard edge of him pressing her into submission.

“No.”

He nipped at her chin, the side of her lips. “Never think for a minute I don’t want you . . . just like this.”

She reached around his waist, tried to get closer.

He groaned, his breathing heavy. “You’re not ready for me.”

Gabi was fairly certain she was. The scent of her desire mixed with his.

“You hated me last week,” he said against her cheek. “You’ll hate me again next.”

She started to shake her head.

“Yes. You will.” He took some of his weight off of her, but didn’t completely let go. “Hating me I can handle. Hating yourself for letting me inside of you . . . I don’t think I can live with that.”

His rejection still stung, even if he made sense.

Instead of the hot kiss she expected . . . wanted more than air, he kissed her forehead and walked away.

True to his word, he stayed away from his wife for nearly an entire week. He did, however, find a reason to call her every day
. Is escrow going as planned? Have the media let up? Do you know where to go to catch my plane for Dallas?

She saw through all of it. By Friday, she sent him a text . . .
Escrow is closing next week, probably Thursday. I only hit one tabloid today. You’re in two. The car will be here at eight to take me to the airport . . . and before you ask, the weather is fine.

As he read her text, he smiled.

Another blinked in before he could respond.
The flowers are beautiful.

Her local florist knew his credit card number by heart.

He tapped his fingers on his desk, searching for a reason to hear her voice.

She picked up on the first ring. “Couldn’t stop yourself, could you?” There was laughter in her voice.

“This is important.” He leaned back in his chair, stared out over the New York skyline.

“I’m waiting.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Excuse me?”

He laughed, caught his own slip. “In Dallas?”

“I was thinking yoga pants and a sport bra . . . you?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. The image of her in spandex shot straight to his balls. “That might work.”

“A dress, Hunter. I’m wearing a dress.”

“What color?”

“What is it with you and women’s fashion? Going to take on Bloomingdales? Macy’s?”

“I don’t think the world of fashion could handle me.”

She laughed, the sound warmed him more than it should. He was playing a dangerous game but couldn’t seem to stop himself.

“I was thinking black. Or red . . . red is a power color, and since you’re going into a business relationship with the Adams, I thought a power color would be appropriate.”

Damn, that was smart. He remembered early on in his acquiring years he’d listened to a media consultant say nearly the same thing.

“Did your brother teach you that?”

Her short laugh told him otherwise. “
I
taught
him
. He’s taken the power suit to a new level, but I spent countless hours explaining the need to dress like you’re already the boss.”

“Wear black.”

“And if I want to wear red?” she huffed.

Once again, he was reminded that she wasn’t his employee. “Please.”

“It kills you to say that . . . doesn’t it?”

“Years off my life.”

“Well, if that was your
important
question . . . I need to go.”

“Hot date?”

“You found me out, Hunter. I’m cheating on you already.”

She was teasing, so why did the hair on his neck stand on end? “What’s his name?”

“Dale,” she offered without hesitation.

Silence.

“Blooming
dale
. Seems I’m in need of a new black dress.”

“I’ll get you for that.”

“No, I’ll get you. I’m using your credit card.”

As she should, he mused.

“Drive safe,” he told her.

“Jump off a building,” she replied.

Hunter hung up with a smile on his lips.

He turned to drop his cell into the cradle on his desk to charge when it rang. Thinking it was her, he answered laughing. “Couldn’t stop yourself, could you?”

There was a moment of silence, then a sound that resembled a fax machine tone. He glanced at the screen, noticed the call came from Remington.

Hunter listened for a few seconds of continuous hum and squeals, then hung up.

He attempted to call Remington back and was met with the same tones assaulting his ears.

Without thought, Hunter disconnected the call.