Treasured by Thursday (Weekday Brides Series Book 7) (3 page)

“I want something by the morning. I’ll keep you on the payroll so long as the information continues to come in.”

“You’re the boss.”

Well at least someone recognizes that.

Chapter Three

Maybe the lack of a car thing wouldn’t be so bad. Yoga in front of a TV was just as effective . . . right?

Gabi leaned into a warrior two, reached for the ceiling, and really hoped those who monitored the house system weren’t watching her fold onto herself.

Not that she looked bad in her tight-knit workout clothing. She was in the best shape of her life. Strange how tragedy and roadblocks in life resulted in two options . . . they killed you or made you stronger.

She reminded herself that life without a car was yet one more roadblock. A detour that wouldn’t knock her down.

She realized, too late, that the instructor on the DVD had already moved on to the next pose, and Gabi took a deep breath and tried to think of something other than the fact that she didn’t have a car in the driveway.

What if she needed emergency ice cream? She was a woman, and there were times emergency ice cream was in order.

Gabi leaned past her reverse warrior and grabbed a pen from the coffee table. Without a piece of paper, she wrote “ice cream” on her hand in an effort to remember to place an extra half gallon in her shopping cart on her next trip to the store.

When the doorbell rang, she lost her concentration completely and gave up on DVD yoga. She clicked off the set and reached for a towel.

The bell buzzed again and Gabi pulled the door open in a rush.

All she saw was a lush bouquet of tropical flowers that reminded her of Florida.

The man peeking behind the stems paused when he saw her. His eyes ran down her frame and slowly made their way back up.

He had to be in his early forties . . . much older than a floral delivery boy. At least in her experience.

“Can I help you?”

“I-I am looking for a Gabriella Masini.” The rough quality of the man’s voice suggested a pack-a-day habit . . . maybe more.

“That’s me.”

“Well,” he said, his eyes took her in again. “These are for you.”

Gabi quickly felt too underdressed to encourage a delivery man into her house. Not to mention the suggestive way he was looking at her.

“Wait here,” she said as she slid the door shut and retrieved a five-dollar bill from her purse. She returned and handed him the money. “Sorry. I needed to grab a tip.”

The man smiled, and some of his edge faded. “No problem.” He thrust the flowers into her hands and then pulled a tiny notebook from his back pocket. “Just need you to sign.”

“OK.” She hoisted the massive bouquet in her left hand and signed with her right.

“Have a good day, Miss Masini.”

“Thank you.”

The man took a final look before returning to his car in the drive.

She closed the front door with a hip and moved to the hall table. The explosion of color and fragrant buds were a nice addition to the room. She should grace her home with fresh flowers more often, she mused. Then she found a folded card tucked into the blooms.

For a moment, she thought maybe they were from her brother . . . maybe Meg.

Only the flowers weren’t from her family.

The card said simply:
You don’t have a sister.
And it was signed
HB
.

It took Gabi three reads before she realized who had sent the flowers.

Then she remembered her parting words to Hunter Blackwell.
I wouldn’t let my sister marry you, Mr. Blackwell, let alone a client.

She chuckled and sniffed the flowers. “Flowers won’t work, Mr. Blackwell.”

The man had unethical, untrustworthy, and underhanded written all over him . . . but he had superb taste in flowers.

“That’s one sexy kitten you’ve found there, Blackwell.”

Chatting with Remington was right up there with a root canal.

“Cut to the chase.” Hunter gripped the phone to his ear as he stood facing the corner office window, where he was met with a crisp view of LA.

“She is living at the address I found.”

Sending flowers was the perfect way of confirming someone’s address.

“Great, what else?”

“Like I told you earlier, the driver is from a service. Your sex kitten doesn’t have a car in the drive and no windows into the garage. Much as I wanted to nose around, that house is wired like Fort Knox.”

“Wired?”

“Cameras everywhere. A sophisticated alarm system at the door. It’s impressive.”

Hunter leaned against the massive pane of glass that separated him from a forty-story drop. “And what is Miss Masini afraid of?”

“That’s what I wanted to know. Then I found a hidden fact . . .”

Hunter’s jaw twitched. Remington paused for drama. “I’m waiting.”

“Miss Masini isn’t Miss Masini. She’s Mrs. Picano.”

“She’s married?”
That
, Hunter didn’t expect. Equally annoying, his gut twisted.

“Widowed.”

Hunter sat on that for a minute. “Let me guess, she married some old shit who died?” The woman marrying some rich sugar daddy for money, just like Alliance claimed to support, made more sense.

“Nope. A young shit, and from a few old tabloids I found, they were all lovey-dovey and kissy-wissy.” Remington added a few sound effects over the line.

“Do you know how he died?”

“Now this is where it gets interesting. Are you sitting down?”

“You’re pissing me off, Remington. Out with it.”

“Gunshot wounds . . . as in many.”

“Law enforcement? Military?”

“Nope! Owned a winery from what I can tell. Details around his death are very tight. I might need a little more persuading to break some of these walls.”

Hunter might as well slash his wrists now for all the bleeding Remington was going to take for this one.

Three hours later, and a whole lot lighter in the wallet, Hunter had the one piece of information he needed to force Miss Masini to bend to his will. Just in case it wasn’t enough, he was sending Remington to Florida. Leech had better come back with his weight in gold.

The phone on his desk buzzed. His secretary’s line lit up.

“Yes, Tiffany?”

“I have your weekend schedule and reminders.”

Hunter glanced at his watch. It was after five. “Come in.”

Tiffany Stone was a curvy redhead in her late twenties. She was attractive but frankly, not Hunter’s taste. Didn’t matter to him that some in the office thought he was screwing her, he knew he wasn’t. She typed like Clark Kent, kept meticulous notes, and never let him miss an important meeting. Sleeping with his secretary was a cliché he refused to fall into. He had his share of scorned women out there making his life difficult who knew nothing about him. A good secretary simply knew too much.

She took the seat across from his desk and tapped on a tablet. “You have lunch with Senator Fillmore at Providence tomorrow at one. The Ricker’s fundraiser is at Patina at seven.” She glanced over her tablet, which he knew was linking to his phone as she spoke with him. “Patina is at the Disney Concert Hall.”

“I know where Patina is.”

She continued without pause, “Your tux is cleaned and they confirmed delivery to your home at two today. Will I need to order a car?”

Hunter shook his head.

“Sunday is quiet, but don’t forget you’re in New York next Friday for the board meeting.”

Like he’d ever forget that.

“Nothing tonight?” He could have sworn there was something planned.

Tiffany lifted one brow and offered a smile. “Not unless it’s a date I know nothing about.”

A date . . . a date?

Aww hell.

Tiffany rolled her eyes before setting her tablet on her lap. “Who am I sending flowers to?”

He was all kinds of asshole. “I have it.”

She stood to leave.

He stopped her. “And Tiffany?”

She turned.

“I want you to jot this name down.”

He waited for her to lift her notepad.

“Gabriella Masini.” He paused. “Until I tell you otherwise, let her calls come through regardless of who I’m in with.”

She lifted her gaze. “Anyone?”

“Anyone.”

He didn’t duck . . . he should have ducked.

What a shit day.

Hunter had stopped Shannon’s second hit by bobbing to the right, the third hit by grasping her fist that came from the left.

She’d been fire in bed, if not a little demanding, but the real fight came when he told her it was over.

It was so much easier to send the flowers and say “It was fun.” Or some such sentiment.

He was trying to be a better man . . . damn it. He just didn’t know where to find him. Breaking it off in person was the better man . . . right?

Hunter tossed his keys on the hall table, dumped his phone and wallet in the same collection bowl.

“Mr. Blackwell.”

Hunter removed his overcoat, handed it to his aging valet.

The man took the coat, stared at what Hunter knew was a bruise forming on his chin. “Don’t ask.”

“Of course not.”

The man was itching to ask, but didn’t. “I need whiskey.”

“In your office?”

“Yes.”

Andrew had been in Hunter’s employ for over five years. In his midsixties, the man took care of his home and had the added fun of serving Hunter when he was in LA. The opinionated help was sometimes a pain, but Hunter trusted the man. And there were very few that fell into that category.

The light in his office turned on with the motion of him walking into the room.

He walked around his glass-top desk, turned on his computer. A remote opened the blinds, where he managed a stunning view from his Westwood penthouse. On a clear day he could see the ocean, tonight the lights of the city entertained his brain. It wasn’t as spectacular as New York . . . but it worked.

The soft shuffle of Andrew’s feet announced his arrival.

The crystal snifter held a generous portion of amber liquid. “No ice?”

Andrew reached out his other hand. A bag held the missing ice.

Hunter chuckled, took the ice, and winced when it touched his face. When the older man didn’t immediately leave, he said, “I’m no longer expecting Miss Shannon’s company.”

Andrew lifted his chin in understanding. “Right hook?”

“She deserved one shot, I suppose.”

“Shall I contact the front desk?”

Aww, one of the many reasons he enjoyed having the man in his employ. “Please. And while you’re at it, add the name Gabriella Masini.”

Now Andrew gazed at the floor and offered a shake of his head.

“It’s not what you think.”

“I’m not at liberty to think.”

Hunter huffed out a short laugh. “Yeah, right.”

Andrew started to turn. “Anything else?”

He hesitated. “Any calls today?”

The grin on Andrew’s face fell. “No. I’m sorry.”

Hunter returned his gaze out the window and dropped the bag of ice on his desk. The whiskey added a nice slow burn down his throat.

Halfway through his drink he sat down at his computer and turned it on. The reminders for his weekend were blinking on his calendar, a gift from Tiffany so he wouldn’t forget. He reached for the phone to call the desk for a driver and stopped himself. He removed a small notebook from his pocket and found the information about Miss Masini’s service.

The phone was answered on the second ring. “First Class Services. How can I help you?”