Treasured by Thursday (Weekday Brides Series Book 7) (2 page)

The name on the display had her sucking in a breath for support. Word traveled fast. She lifted the phone, closed her eyes, and pressed the answer button. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“What?” Samantha Harrison, otherwise known as Gabi’s boss and new friend, didn’t laugh or lay the blame on her.

“I thought he motioned for me to back up. I’m much better than when I first arrived.”

“What are you talking about?”

Gabi sucked in her bottom lip. “You, ah . . . you don’t know?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t pretend otherwise. What isn’t your fault?”

“Minor fender-bender in the parking lot. No one was hurt.”

Gabi thought she heard Sam groan. “And it wasn’t your fault?”

She waved a hand in the air, as if Sam could see. “No. Of course not. So if you’re not calling about the accident, what can I do for you?” Her thinly veiled attempt to change the subject as quickly as possible was met with a tiny laugh.

“I have a client I need you to crunch some numbers on.”

Numbers . . . she could do that. Gabi was a savant with numbers. “Give me a name and the access code to your file and I’m on it.”

Gabi jotted down the name and code. Hunter Blackwell. J836AY9

“Numbers is all you need from me?”

“No. Actually . . . I need more than a bottom-line portfolio report. Mr. Blackwell is an old friend of Blake’s, so I’m giving him an extra chance. Based on what I’ve already learned, I would have encouraged him to look elsewhere for the future Mrs. Blackwell.”

If there was one thing Gabi had discovered about her boss, the woman scrutinized every client, both male and female, with a high-powered microscope. She looked beyond any tabloid fodder and water-cooler gossip to determine the truth behind the persona. Nearly every male client searching for a bride had a driving reason for doing so, and sometimes they weren’t forthcoming with their backgrounds. Sam always found the skeletons, displayed them for her clients to see, then determined their worthiness based on their reaction to the facts. Most high-powered men willing to part with over seven figures for a bride hated having their dirty parts displayed. They especially didn’t like a woman advertising it.

If at any time during the initial meeting with Sam or now Gabi, they felt the slightest bit threatened, the meeting ended, and the ability to do business with the client dissolved.

“What has you dismissing him so quickly?”

“The few bits of information about the man available have recently been laced with an assault charge. The charges were dropped long before the case could see a judge. Then there was an accusation that Mr. Blackwell had been found with three women in the back of his limo after a fundraiser in Dallas.”

“Since when do we listen to the gossip magazines?”

“We don’t,” Sam defended. “But one of the girls was allegedly seventeen. I’m digging into that now. But if this guy likes underage girls, I’m not setting him up with anyone.”

Warning bells rang inside Gabi’s head. “How soon will we know the facts?”

“I have a few people working on it now. In the meantime, I need his numbers crunched.”

The warning bell rang a second time.

“Sounds like a risk.”

“He is. But my head isn’t in this right now with Jordan back in the hospital. I know I’m distracted and wouldn’t want my personal life to interfere with my business.”

“Oh, Sam . . . I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard.” Samantha’s sister Jordan had lost her ability to really live much of a life years before. As a young woman, Jordan attempted to take her life and ended up having a massive stroke, leaving her severely compromised. Gabi didn’t know all the details, but she did know that Samantha and Blake cared for the now thirty-year-old woman out of their home. A twenty-four-hour private nurse still couldn’t keep away some of the decay and issues being stuck in a wheelchair without all her faculties created.

Since Gabi had moved to California, Jordan had been admitted to the hospital at least half a dozen times.

“So you’ll take care of Blackwell?”

“Consider it done. Do you want me to meet with him?”

“Would you?”

“Don’t be silly. Once the files from your contacts are uploaded in the system, I’ll contact Mr. Blackwell for a meeting.”

Sam sighed into the phone. “Perfect. And if you’re not happy with him . . . with anything . . . feel free to dismiss him as a client. I trust your judgment.”

Gabi hesitated. “But he’s Blake’s friend.”

“Blake knew him and his brother in high school. They kept in touch the first couple of years in college, but they’d never been terribly close. Blake offered some advice over the years, but that’s it. He made it perfectly clear that our decision wouldn’t come between them.”

Some of the tension inside Gabi’s shoulders eased. “Do you want me to tell you of my decision before I tell the client?”

“No need. I’ve got too much going on. Listen, Jordan’s cardiologist is on the other line. I’ve got to go.”

“Go. Call if you need anything.”

“I will.” Without any more, Sam hung up.

Gabi prepared a cup of strong tea and moved into the home office. She sat at a desk that held three massive screens. She opened up the main computer, moved to the interface that linked to Sam’s. Within a couple of minutes, she’d opened Hunter Blackwell’s file.

She skimmed over the contact and personal profile information. It didn’t matter to Gabi if the man was six two or four eleven. She could care less if he’d been married before or if he had children. All Gabi focused on was the numbers.

Really big numbers.

Hunter Blackwell recently made the Forbes list of eligible billionaires and was quickly referred to as high risk for making the list of “Billionaires and Their Outrageous Scandals” that Forbes would post at the end of the year.

Before jumping into the numbers, Gabi cross-referenced the media hype to determine why Blackwell was on Forbes’s radar.

Hours later, her head still buzzing with the caffeinated tea, Gabi heard the grandfather clock sounding once. A crusty plate sat on her otherwise clean desk; three tea bags were now drying beside an empty cup.

She printed out the files she needed and noted the automated change in code to the Blackwell file before switching off her computers.

Gabi tapped the edges of the papers together and leaned back in her chair.

Her body screamed with the hours of inactivity as she stood and walked out of the office.

“Well, Mr. Blackwell. You better be an exceptional man in person or you’re going to have to plead to your latest Bambi to marry you and not take you for all you’re worth.”

Chapter Two

Gabi shoved her nerves into submission and channeled Samantha as she sat in the coffee shop. The site of client meetings never changed. The Starbucks sat in the center of town and had a constant flow of patrons. The location was safe and easily found. Alliance didn’t have an office outside of the room in Gabi’s Tarzana residence. There were five mainframe computers scattered over the States, but Tarzana was the main house. Inviting a client for a formal meeting in an official office wasn’t part of the program.

While Gabi had accepted a few male clients over the past year and a half, she’d yet to meet one as wealthy, and apparently difficult, as the one she was meeting today.

Knowing that 70 percent of her decision was already made, Gabi felt her palms itch. As much as she liked to think her unwelcomed fear of unknown men was controlled . . . it wasn’t. Days like this made her realized the magnitude of her fraudulent life.

To make matters worse, Gabi forgot to download a picture of Hunter Blackwell before she left home. She was reduced to searching for images on the Internet, of which there were very few. Very few, very hidden, or very old. How he managed to stay relatively incognito while making the Forbes list was impressive.

If Sam wasn’t at that moment in the hospital with her sister, Gabi would have made a quick call to get a lock on the basics of Hunter Blackwell’s face.

She gave up on her search and glanced at her phone for the fourth time before tucking it into her purse. Ten minutes.

Her heart sped.

One slow breath followed by a meditative exhale had her pulse slowing.

She watched those entering the coffee shop. A family with two young boys harping for something filled with chocolate, who hung on their mother’s legs. A half dozen college students huddled around a group table with laptops and cell phones plugged into the outlets available. Some of them had notepads while others sat quietly with their ears filled with music, lessons . . . or any number of things.

Gabi sipped her tea and glanced at the door every time it opened. Asian couple . . . not Blackwell. Two teenage girls. A potbellied sixtysomething in shorts and flip-flops . . . definitely not Blackwell.

Then came two suits . . . men wearing business attire, one slightly taller than the other. They spoke in low tones and moved through the line. At no time did they look around the room.

Gabi glanced at her watch.

Five minutes.

Tapping her fingers, she forced another deep breath. Then the door opened, someone beyond the panes of glass held the door open for a flustered woman pushing a stroller. “Thank you,” the woman said to the man beside her.

For one brief moment, Gabi passed over the family as just that.

Then the woman with the infant pushed away and left him.

Gabi’s heart raced.

Crisp and polished, Hunter Blackwell emerged. He stood an easy six four . . . maybe even taller. His suit made the other men in the room look as if they were wearing flannel. A firm-cut jaw with what looked like a scar under his left ear. Not that it took away from the man’s appearance. “Dangerously handsome” had been used in a few tabloids she’d read, and they were spot-on. His full head of light brown hair and gray eyes scanned the room. They passed over her once and quickly returned.

Gabi felt her bottom lip curling in and forced the nervous habit away.

With her hand wound in a tight knot in her lap, she watched his slow descent.

Samantha’s tutelage ran through her like a tape. Another mantra, one easier to remember, came from her sister-in-law, Meg . . .
fake it till you make it.

Gabi held Mr. Blackwell’s immediate future in her hands. She had something he wanted, and that empowered her.

At least it should.

“Mr. Blackwell.” Gabi didn’t bother standing . . . a slightly intimidating tactic Samantha had taught her.

“Miss Masini.” His smooth voice was an octave below most.

She felt her heart speeding for entirely different reasons.

“Please, sit.” Gabi indicated the chair beside her and forced a smile.

Hunter Blackwell unbuttoned his jacket and took a seat.

“I took the liberty of ordering you coffee,” she told him.

Gabi glanced at the barista behind the counter and returned her eyes to the man in front of her.

“And if I don’t care for coffee?”

So that’s how this was going to be. Gabi felt her pulse slow . . . slightly. “A temp . . . I believe her name was Natalie, said you drank three cups, black, every morning before you took your first call. You appear to be a man who cuts the fluff, Mr. Blackwell.”

He smiled, showing a divot in his chin.

“Coffee it is then.”

Gabi signaled the barista.

For a brief moment, they spoke of the traffic, the warm day.

Once the employee left the coffee on the table, Mr. Blackwell took his obligatory sip and settled into his chair.

“So how do we proceed?”

Gabi glanced at her watch . . . set her internal timer.

“I’m in the business of matching people, Mr. Blackwell. No one slips through our proven system.”

His left eye twitched. “I’m listening.”

Whether Hunter Blackwell knew it or not . . . that was his only warning. “Have you ever been arrested?”

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.

“Care to elaborate?”

He shook his head. “I assume Blake’s wife found all she needed in
that
file.”

She had. The man had been arrested, released, and charges dropped a minimum of four times. Two in the last few years, two more before he was eighteen. The man knew Gabi had done her research, so she moved on.

“Have you ever hit a woman?”

“No.” His answer was quick and difficult to dispute.

“Ever wanted to?”

He paused. “I saw a woman leave her child in a hot car once . . . the thought occurred to me. Other than that, no.”

Gabi couldn’t confirm his claim . . . couldn’t deny it, either.

“Have you ever
harmed
a woman?” The question was her own. Gabi had a second set of questions that weren’t a part of Sam’s list.

“According to many . . . I have. But if you’re referring to physically . . . no. I hold no responsibility to women claiming to love what they don’t know.”

So the tabloids were right about the player inside the billionaire.

The arrogant man didn’t even appear to care that he’d broken hearts in the attempt to have a good time. Gabi wondered how many women fell for his devastating smile and natural charm.

Pushing past his exterior, it was time for Gabi to fire questions. “I need the name of your closest friend.”

He shrugged. “I don’t have a close friend.”

Not the answer she expected. The tug at Gabi’s heart threatened to kill the interview. “Everyone has a friend.”

“I have enemies, Miss Masini . . . people who want a piece of me. I don’t think of anyone as a close friend. Not someone I confide in.”

A shadow passed over his gray eyes.

She shook off the feeling of déjà vu and continued.

“Who is your biggest enemy?”

He laughed. Tossed his head back and caught the attention of the coffee shop. “I’ve been told since I was a child that
I
would be my greatest enemy.”

“So that’s your answer?”

Hunter Blackwell’s jaw twitched. “My enemies are too many to count. I’m sure your research has taught you that, too.”

It had, which told Gabi that Hunter Blackwell’s future bride would be in danger regardless of the disposition of the husband.

“Why are you looking for a wife, Mr. Blackwell?”

He held his chin high, narrowed his gaze on hers. “As I explained to Mrs. Harrison, the Forbes list of eligible bachelors has made my life a maze of insanity. I need a year to escape the chaos and refocus. Removing my eligibility status will clear my head of dating and temporary relationships. Sounds trivial, but the amount of women claiming I’ve slept with them and promised a ring has tripled in the last year. It’s tiring, Miss Masini.”

He did look a little fatigued, but that wasn’t the answer she was looking for.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else?”

He shook his head.

Too bad.

Gabi pushed her tea aside and gathered her purse from the floor. She looked at her watch . . . four minutes had passed since Hunter Blackwell sat down. She was one minute under her limit. “Thank you for considering Alliance, Mr. Blackwell. But at this time we’re going to have to pass on any future contractual relationship.”

She stood.

He was up and in front of her in a second. “Excuse me?”

“We’re going to pass.”

He shook his head. “Why?”

Instead of laying out all her cards, she started with the easiest. “I asked you for one name . . . someone you considered a friend . . . nothing. I asked you for an enemy . . . again your answer was nothing. I’ve sat across from politicians who are more forthcoming than you. Honesty is something Alliance holds sacred. Without it, two parties entering marriage can have devastating results. I wouldn’t allow my sister to marry you, Mr. Blackwell, let alone a client.”

She started to walk away, felt his hand on her elbow.

Without thought, she flinched, pulled away, and placed a foot between them.

Mr. Blackwell dropped her arm immediately. “I can send a list of potential enemies within the hour. As for friends . . . I can call Blake Harrison an old acquaintance, but can’t say I’ve spent any time with the man in over a decade.”

“I’m sorry.”

He moved in front of her. “I need a wife,” he said under his breath.

She swallowed her fear and took a closer step. “Then I suggest you ask your latest conquest for the privilege. Alliance isn’t going to help you.”

Gabi pushed around him, headed for the door.

“This isn’t over.”

She glanced over her shoulder, noticed more than one set of eyes watching them. “I’m afraid it is.” With one last look at a man who on the surface was a woman’s dream, she shoved through the swinging glass doors and out of the building.

She climbed into the back of the waiting car and noticed the darkened gaze of one ticked-off billionaire following her as they drove away.

Holy shit.

Hunter’s eyes fell on the slim butt and long legs in a tight-fitting skirt as Gabriella Masini marched across the street toward a waiting car. A driver jumped out and opened her door. Without realizing his own actions, he followed the car with his eyes as his future sped away.

That did not just happen.

He’d walked in expecting an entirely different outcome.

If there was one thing Hunter was not accustomed to, it was losing.

A dry gust of hot wind propelled him to his car. Unlike Miss Masini, he liked to drive himself. Well, when he was in LA, in any event.

Once he was settled behind the steering wheel, he pressed the phone command. Instead of calling his office, he phoned his private investigator.

“If it isn’t Mr. Blackwell,” the man on the line answered with an edge of superiority.

“I need you to look someone up for me.”

“You sound pissed.”

“I’m not calling to chat, Remington. Do you have a pen?”

“I’m ready.”

“Gabriella Masini. This is acquisitions and mergers,” Hunter said.

“Someone is out for blood.”

Hunter called Remington when he wanted dirt. Acquiring every possible piece of information on a conquest was paramount for success, and something he did with every person he did business with. He hadn’t felt the need with Samantha Harrison’s employee. A mistake he made with Miss Masini that he wouldn’t make twice. Hunter knew that Blake’s wife wasn’t running his show, so he felt no remorse in digging into one of the duchess’s employees now. Any woman with the flawless skin, smooth speech, and legs that shot to her luscious breasts had to have dirt. No one had ever turned their back, dismissing him, after five minutes of conversation.

She obviously didn’t know who she was dealing with.

“I want every possible spec on this one, Remington, and I want it by morning.”

Remington blew out a breath. “That’s not much time, Deep Pockets.”