Treasured by Thursday (Weekday Brides Series Book 7) (4 page)

“I’d like to schedule a ride.”

“I can certainly help you with that, Mr. . . . ?”

“Blackwell.”

The pleasant male even-toned voice on the line asked a rapid fire of questions. “Have you used our service before?”

“No. You come recommended.”

“We do enjoy hearing that. When and where will you need a car?”

“This Saturday, six p.m. from the Wilshire to the Disney Concert Hall.”

He heard the clattering of fingers on a keyboard and waited for a brief second before continuing. “Has Miss Masini ordered her car this weekend?” He was taking a gamble that she’d have weekend plans. According to the conversation Hunter had had with Blake, the women in his wife’s employ spent quite a bit of time fraternizing with the rich and famous on the weekends. Since the event he was scheduled to attend was filled with an equal number of rich and famous attendees, he crossed his fingers that the beautiful Italian woman would be in attendance.

“I believe she has . . . shall I check on that reservation while I’m in the system?”

A satisfied smile lifted the corners of Hunter’s lips. “Please.”

“One moment.”

He sipped his whiskey and waited.

“Her standard car is scheduled for six as well, Mr. Blackwell. Since your destinations are the same, shall I have one driver attend to you both?”

Bingo!

“Please. I was supposed to meet her there, so let’s order a stretch and pick me up first.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Blackwell. This will go on your card?”

“Of course.”

Hunter gave the necessary information and hung up.

At least something in his day was moving in the right direction.

Chapter Four

Gabi grasped her clutch, checked to make sure her ticket for the event was inside, and turned off the light in her bedroom before walking down the stairs.

Her foot no sooner found the ground floor than the doorbell rang.

She peeked through the view in the door, noticed a driver, and proceeded to set the alarm.

“Perfect timing,” she said as she exited the house.

“How are you this evening, Miss Masini?”

“I’m well, Charles. You?”

Gabi didn’t think she’d be on a first-name basis with a personal driver in her life, and yet here she was walking up to the limousine . . . “I didn
’t request a limo.” She hesitated and Charles opened the back door with a smile.

“It’s all taken care of, Miss Masini.”

Gabi grinned, assuming Sam had made sure she arrived at the Ricker’s fundraiser in fashion. They were supposed to go together, but that was before her sister became ill.

She slid into the back, lifted her dress to mind the hem and keep it from becoming caught in the door.

It wasn’t until the door closed that Gabi realized she wasn’t alone. She tried to control the gasp and instant elevation in her heart rate.

She failed.

He loomed from the other side of the limo. One arm rested on the back of the seat, the other held a drink. His face was hidden in the shadows, but she knew who he was.

The need to escape and a swarm of unwanted memories paralyzed her.

“Miss Masini.”

She couldn’t find her voice. Why was Hunter Blackwell in the back of her car?

“Or should I say Mrs. Picano?”

The blood rushed from her face and her hands shook. Very few people knew of her brief marriage. The fact that the billionaire sitting across from her did shouldn’t be a surprise.

The car started to move, prompting her to reach for the door.

“Jumping from a moving car is a bit extreme,” he said.

She closed her eyes, sucked in a slow breath. “What are you doing here, Mr. Blackwell?”

“Attempting to have a private conversation with you, Mrs. Picano.”

“Don’t call me that!” She felt some of her fight returning.

He leaned forward and she saw his face. Clean shaven, dangerously handsome. “You look like you need a drink.” He set his glass down and reached for the decanter at his side.

“No, thank you.”

Her words had no effect. Fine, let the man pour a drink . . . at this rate he’d be wearing it before they left the car.

Amber liquid and ice filled the crystal glass. She took it to avoid him moving closer, then promptly placed it on the secure shelf at her side.

He raised an eyebrow and sat back.

“I have a proposition for you, Miss Masini.”

“No.” Such a powerful word, yet the man smiled.

“You haven’t heard it yet.”

“Any man who believes flowers and unwelcome visits in limousines are going to change my mind is obviously not listening to my words.
No
, Mr. Blackwell. Whatever you want, the answer is
no
.”

“You might reconsider once we arrive at the Disney Hall. You see, I don’t accept the word no. I need a wife, and I’ve chosen you.”

Gabi felt the tension leave her system when she laughed. “You’re delusional.”

Her smile faded when his emerged and he sat back as if he’d just signed a million-dollar deal.

“Your late husband had a hefty life insurance policy.”

She swallowed. Every time he mentioned Alonzo’s name . . . or alluded to him, her stomach twisted and her palms itched. She decided the best action was none. Gabi listened.

“The insurance policy made you a relatively wealthy woman.”

Lot he knew . . . anything that showed up after Alonzo’s death went to charity.

“Insurance companies despise paying out. The clauses they place inside policies are designed to keep the beneficiaries penniless. Only Mr. Picano’s paid out. Do you know what happens when insurance companies learn that they paid over a million dollars on a policy that was fraudulently obtained?”

What is he talking about?
He was goading her . . . trying to get a reaction, she decided.

Gabi refused and concentrated on keeping her hands loose in her lap.

“You’re a beautiful woman, but I don’t think you’d survive wearing orange long-term.”

“I have done nothing illegal.”

“You cashed the check after violating the terms of the policy.”

It was impossible to sit still. Gabi leaned forward. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I do. You signed the papers and removed your husband from life support. A direct violation to the terms of the insurance policy. One might speculate that you wanted your husband dead for the money.”

“You don’t . . . you’re wrong.” Only she knew most of what he said was true. The insurance policy, she wasn’t sure about. So much happened during that volatile time in her life, she hadn’t paid attention to most of the papers she’d signed and couldn’t verify anything Blackwell was saying. Not that it mattered, she’d fight a fraud charge. Come up with the funds to repay the insurance company if it came to it.

“Then there is the offshore account to consider.”

She jerked her attention his way. The desire to slap the smirk off his face was palpable. “What account?”

“Yours.”

“I don’t have—”

“Mrs. Picano most certainly does have an account.” He reached into his pocket and removed a folded paper before handing it over.

She couldn’t read the language, not completely, but understood a few key words. The money was in euros, there were several zeros, and her name was listed. Instead of telling the man she knew nothing about the account, she soaked in the name of the bank and the account number and returned the paper.

“Do I have your attention now, Gabriella?”

“You’re a bastard.”

“True. But I’m not the one who will find herself in prison for either insurance fraud or tax evasion.”

The numbers that swam in her head were worthy of several years in a state penitentiary. She could fight it . . . probably win . . . eventually. But wouldn’t it be easier to fix her
so-called
crimes if she was free?

“What do you want?”

“A wife . . . you.”

“Why me?” She wasn’t smiling now.

“Because you and I have a lot in common.”

“We have nothing in common,” she spat.

“I’m in need of a wife, and you need a husband who can financially fix your criminal background.”

“Even if I had a criminal background, I wouldn’t need a husband to fix it for me.”

He grinned. “Becoming Mrs. Blackwell will start the process of distancing yourself from Mr. Picano’s name. My lawyers understand the need to quietly remove problems. By my estimates, it will take eighteen months, give or take, to remove the threat of prison being on your resume.”

“Let me guess,” she said. “Eighteen months is the duration of time you need a wife?”

“Beautiful and smart.”

“Condescending and a bastard.”

He laughed, lifted his glass, and drank. “Touché.”

Hunter remembered his first trip to Vegas . . . the lights, the women, the whiskey . . . the game. He’d walked up to an exclusive poker table, laid fifty thousand down, and proceeded to bluff. He collected over four hundred thousand dollars from one game on the premise of intimidation.

Wearing his poker face, he proceeded to bluff again.

Good thing the back of the limousine had poor lighting or Miss Masini would have seen his reaction to her face when he mentioned her late husband. There was so much more to her story than what he’d been given, and even if she walked away, called his bluff, he would find those answers.

Thankfully, Gabriella didn’t take his threats by rolling over. She fought, which delighted him. So few people in the world spoke to him the way she did.

He was a bastard. One that always won . . . eventually.

“How much time do I have to decide?” she asked.

“The fundraiser will go on for several hours.”

“You can’t be serious.” She was outraged, once again.

He relented, slightly. “I expect contracts on my desk in the morning.”

“Impossible.” She shook her head.

“Nothing is impossible.”

The car started to slow, announcing their arrival.

“Blackmail is such an ugly practice.”

The limo stopped and she reached for the door.

He moved forward, caught her ice-cold hand. “So is prison.”

Their eyes locked, both of their jaws set in tight control.

Charles opened the door and extended a hand.

Hunter quickly followed her, ignored her flinch when he placed a hand to the small of her back to escort her inside. To her credit, she didn’t take a swing. Though from the way she held her purse, she certainly wanted to.

The cameras flashed as they walked the red carpet. A bottleneck of celebrities blocked their quick entrance, and Gabriella was forced to turn to the cameras.

He leaned forward, was awarded the floral scent of her skin. “Smile, darling,” he whispered.

She turned toward him, and he was grateful that looks couldn’t actually kill. She mumbled something in a language he didn’t understand and painted on a debutante smile. The expression didn’t meet her eyes, but she twisted to the flash of cameras and sucked in a deep breath.

Why Hunter was so mindful of her every move baffled him. This was an acquisition . . . nothing more, nothing less. Yet he was pleased to see more color in her face.

Hunter kept close to her side so there was no question as to whom she was with. The sooner he established contact with his personal life and the public, the better. He heard his name in the flash of media and purposely pushed closer to Gabriella. “Keep moving,” he suggested.

“And where would you suggest I run?” Her words were pure venom, her smile coy for the camera.

God, she was stunning. Her long, sleek hair was pulled up, with trails running down her neck. Her strong jaw with clenched teeth told him she would bite if he moved too close. Olive skin spoke of her Italian heritage; her guarded, expressive eyes hid so much from those around them. Yet he knew the daggers she tossed, felt them hit their mark every time she glanced his way.

The line moved, and he gifted his hand with the small of her back.

This time, her flinch was barely palpable. He reminded himself to keep his hand on the fabric of her dress as much as he could . . . all evening.

His eyes traveled to the sway of her firm hips. The thick material of her gown kept him from seeing what she wore underneath.

Attraction in this game would be lethal, not to mention useless. The woman hated him, and rightly so.

He was a bastard.

The worst kind.

Yet he plowed forward, his goal in mind.

The line released its hold on them, and they spilled into the hall of the famous restaurant. Hunter gave their names to the attendant and kept hold of his charge.

“I’m not here with you,” she hissed through the crush of people.

He grinned. “You are now.”

Escaping Hunter Blackwell was akin to running from rain during a hurricane. It didn’t matter where she went, what she said . . . he was always there.