Chapter Twenty-Seven
Gabi sat on the sofa, her legs curled up under her as the twinkling of Christmas lights added a glow to the room.
Lori’s words had haunted her all day.
Was she making the same mistakes? Was she trusting the wrong man? If Hunter was capable of bribing the law, seducing it . . . was he doing the same to her? All his mutterings of not being good enough for her infused her with power in their relationship. Was it false power? Was his seduction of her an extension of getting what he wanted?
He wanted Hayden . . .
Or maybe he just wanted to stick it to his brother.
Lori’s other words . . . the ones not spoken bothered her, too. What if Hayden really was Hunter’s son? Perhaps the woman in the mall was fighting for the rights of her son.
Gabi hated the doubt running like a crazy person in her head.
The alarm on the gate sounded, signaling Hunter’s return. She saw the lights of the car, heard the front door open and close. His footsteps hesitated when he entered the room.
“Gabi?”
She didn’t answer, just picked at the fringe of the throw pillow in her lap.
He approached slowly until he was standing close enough to take in the scent of his skin. The scent that had seduced her from the first day they met.
He knelt down until he was eye level with her. “What happened?”
“I visited my lawyer today . . . you remember Lori Cumberland.”
“How could I ever forget Ms. Cumberland?” he asked with a half smile.
Gabi didn’t smile back. “I told her about the insurance policy, about the international accounts.”
Hunter lost his smile and sat in the chair to her side. “I told you I’d take care of that.”
Gabi lifted her chin. “I didn’t see a need to wait.”
“Now’s not the time.”
“That’s similar to what she said.” Gabi kept her eyes glued to Hunter’s. “Did you know how difficult it was going to be to clear my name after I became your wife?”
There wasn’t an ounce of emotion on his face.
Something inside her died. “Jesus.” She tossed the pillow from her lap and stood.
Hunter jumped to his feet and grabbed her arm, keeping her from fleeing the room. “I didn’t know you, Gabi.”
“And you were willing to use the information you had to blackmail me, knowing damn well I could still end up in jail for something I didn’t do.”
He moved closer and she pulled from his grasp. “You won’t go to jail. I’ll see to it.”
“How are you going to do that, Hunter?”
“We’ll pay the insurance company back.”
“It’s not that simple. You knew that long before you showed up in the back of my limousine.”
His jaw grew tight. “Yes. I knew that.”
“When were you going to start working on clearing my name?”
He looked past her. “Once I gained custody of Hayden. We’ll clear your name then.”
She colored herself all kinds of fool. “Once you have what you’re in this for.”
“None of that was hidden from you,” he told her.
“And nothing has changed. With everything between us . . . nothing has changed. You get Hayden and I end up in jail.”
He looked at her then, anger close to the surface of his stance. “You really believe that?”
“I don’t know what to believe, Hunter.”
He took two swift steps and reached for the back of her head. His kiss was hard, demanding . . . just like the man. Damn her for responding even in her anger. She desperately wanted to believe in him, but she couldn’t.
Not blindly.
Never again.
She pulled away and brought a hand to her lips before she turned and fled the room.
His tie hung loose around his neck, ice cooled the bourbon in his glass. The lights of the Christmas tree, the only one he’d had since he was a kid, filled the room.
Gabi had finally stopped crying.
Every tear was a knife in his side, every sob . . . and he had nothing to offer as support. He didn’t trust himself to go to her, tell her she was wrong about him. When in fact, she wasn’t.
When he’d first learned of the insurance fraud and the foreign account, he assumed she was guilty of more than trusting the wrong person. A beautiful, artful woman batting her lashes to get what she wanted in life. He blackmailed her before he knew her.
Even when he learned more, he still kept himself slightly detached.
Get Hayden.
Deny his brother of everything.
Then Gabi struck again, where he never expected.
The Christmas tree mocked him.
“There you are.” Andrew walked in the room, took in the half-empty decanter of bourbon, and frowned. “Busy?”
“Not now, Andrew.”
Andrew sat, uninvited.
“I mean it.”
“Fire me.”
“You’re fired.”
Andrew simply laughed. “When are you going to slow your personal life down and think before you act?”
Hunter didn’t comment, merely studied the ice melting in his glass as Andrew went on.
“You’re brilliant in business. You turn blades of grass into dollar bills; always capture the flag before the opposing team. Something tells me, however, that on your report card in school, it stated, does not play well with others.”
“Why are you still sitting here?”
“Because I’m the only one who will. If you don’t start exercising patience, you’re going to be one lonely, bitter, albeit rich, old man. Sound like someone you know?”
“I’m not my father.”
“I’m thinking of a tree and an apple right about now. Funny thing about clichés, they are all true.”
Hunter finished the rest of his drink and set the glass aside.
“You have a unique opportunity with a woman who has a heart the size of Texas. You’re about to bring a child into your home who is going to need more than a bitter old man raising him. You have the world a snap away and you’re blowing it.”
Hunter fixed his eyes on the only person in his life willing to talk to him this way. “I blew it before I began.”
“Then you need to do what every other red-blooded man out there does. Find some damn duct tape and fix it.” Andrew took to his feet and started to leave the room.
Hunter stopped him.
“Why do you care if I fix anything?”
Andrew looked around the room. “I want the solo title of bitter old man.”
Hunter smiled at that.
“And the tree is a nice touch.”
He walked out of the room, leaving his wisdom behind.
“So Blackwell wants to be a daddy . . . how perfect.” Diaz tapped the table in thought. Of all the useless information he’d obtained by listening to the Blackwell’s conversations, this one would pay off.
“This is going to be easier than I thought, eh, Raul?” Diaz snapped his fingers. “I need those pictures.”
“Pictures, what pictures?”
“Picano sent you pictures before he ended up dead. Blackmail-worthy pictures. I think a few were of his wife.”
Raul shrugged and twisted back to the computer.
Diaz had to give the dead guy credit. He covered his tracks when it came to Gabriella. Marry her, put the money in her name, make her look as guilty as he was . . . have dirt on her . . . string her up. Had the man lived, he would have walked far enough to run until the law couldn’t find him.
Damn shame he ended up with a chest full of lead.
Screws up anyone’s day.
It took Raul a good hour to find and hack into the images.
Diaz flipped through the pictures, held the one with Gabriella Blackwell holding her arm out for a hit. Nothing better than an image of Blackwell’s wife banging up caught on film. “Perfecto.” There were others . . . but the most damning was the one of an imperfect socialite in the throes of a drug-induced high. The picture was worth a few million if Blackwell wanted to keep it from the judge deciding his eligibility to hold sole custody of his son. Diaz nodded Raul’s way. “Now I need you to find the life insurance company Picano used. I need his policy number, a name of an agent . . . everything.”
Raul sniffed, shot both index fingers in the air, and started typing.
Later, Diaz pulled his cigar from his lips, sucked in the smoke, and blew it out slowly. He had everything he needed, and soon he’d have Hunter Blackwell’s balls in his hand. The man had a couple of important decisions in front of him.
His son . . . his wife . . . or his money.
Gabi didn’t know which room Hunter slept in, but it wasn’t hers. She woke the next morning with bloodshot eyes and a headache to kill all others. She’d managed to come to a conclusion somewhere around two in the morning.
The bed she made was her own. She’d chosen Alonzo and all his false advertising. She’d decided to marry Hunter instead of bringing her troubles to the doorstep of her family. She’d consciously and quite willingly begun a physical relationship with her temporary husband. The emotional attachment wasn’t something she had expected, but somewhere between fall and winter, her heart started to crack and Hunter took hold.
He said he couldn’t be trusted and didn’t deserve her. He freely admitted he was using her, and yet she’d hoped that something had changed inside him as it had her.
How had Lori put it? To come out of this marriage whole, she’d have to find the cold and detached part of her that had entered into it.
Only as she showered and attempted to hide the circles under her eyes, the image in the mirror was of a broken woman, not a cold one.
She squared her shoulders and added one layer at a time. Moisturizer, something to block the circles . . . a layer of armor disguised as foundation. A blush of confidence she was going to have to fake until it felt natural. Her eyes, the best asset she had, were going to have to pop today. An uplifting swirl of liner and a thick coat of mascara were equivalent to a clown painting on a smile. The dark plum lipstick completed her cosmetic arsenal. She piled her hair on her head with a teasing strand or two lying on her neck.
Hunter liked it down . . .
She’d wear it up.
Gabi stepped into the walk-in closet and dropped her robe. Every inch of clothing had a job other than what the tailor intended. Her underclothing made her smile; even more when she knew Hunter would like them but never see them.
The sexual part of them was over.
The knit top hugged her breasts and slimmed over her waist before sitting low on her hips. The silk pants felt like a layer of soft skin, and the three-inch heels offered the right amount of sex appeal she desired.
The entire routine took an hour of her morning and reminded her of how strong she was. No more tears.
No more trust.
No more mistakes.
She moved into the kitchen to find Andrew sitting with a morning paper. He jumped to his feet when she walked in. “Good morning, Mrs. Blackwell.”
The need to remind Andrew to call her by her first name stuck in the back of her throat. Cold and detached.
“Good morning, Andrew.”
“I’ve made coffee, or would you prefer tea?”
“Coffee’s fine.”
He was around the counter and pulling a cup from a cupboard before she could stop him.
She accepted the cup and took a sip before muttering her thanks.
“Hunter asked me to tell you that he’d gone to the office.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was after nine. “Fine.”
She heard footsteps and then the familiar call of her new name. “Mornin’, Mrs. B.”
“Good morning, Solomon.”
He headed straight toward the coffeepot and hummed his approval as he gulped the brew.
“I’ve been perfecting my pancake skills, if you’d like some,” Andrew said.
“I’m fine with this,” she told him.
His smile flattened.
The sound of the buzzer of the gate interrupted the silence that followed.
Andrew answered and let in whoever rang.
Gabi sipped her coffee and contemplated her day, her life, as the men in the house regarded her in strained silence.
Andrew pulled her out of her thoughts after he opened the front door.
Gabi set her coffee aside and found the valet standing at the door, his hands behind his back.
A deliveryman, one with an armload of flowers, stood with a mocking grin. “Special delivery,” he said as he thrust the bouquet into her arms.
Her nose flared, her eyes swelled with unshed emotion. “Who sent them?” As if she didn’t know.
“A Mr. Blackwell.”
She didn’t trust too many coherent words to pass her lips. “Andrew,” she lifted her free hand. “Can you—”
“I have it, Mrs. Blackwell.”
Andrew dug into his pocket and tipped the man before shutting the door.
They were beautiful. Much like the ones Hunter had sent her the first time they’d met.
I can’t do this again.
Gabi plucked the card from the flowers and enjoyed the fragrant blooms for the time it took to cross into the kitchen. Once there, she opened the door to the garbage receptacle, and dropped the flowers inside.
She knew, without a doubt, that every move she made would be reported to her husband.
As much as it killed her to throw away perfectly lovely flowers, it was the crossing to the fireplace and the strike of the match that gutted her.
She lit Hunter’s note with a flame, watched it lick up the sides of the waxed paper before threatening to burn her skin. Then she tossed the card into the cold, dark fireplace unread. “Fool me once,” she whispered to herself.
As the note evaporated into ash, so did Gabi’s concern about the thoughts of others. “Solomon?”
“Ah, yes, Mrs. B?”
“I’m not a very good driver,” she said in a monotone voice as she watched the rest of the note smolder and smoke.
“Yeah, I, ah . . . Neil mentioned something to that effect.”
She turned away from the message that she’d never read and tried to smile.
Both men were staring at her as if she suddenly sprouted a tail.
“You’re a good driver.”
Solomon stood a little taller, added a half-ass smile. “I considered the NASCAR circuit before I joined the service.”
A thought formed in her head.
“The Aston is back from the shop, right, Andrew?”
“It is . . .”
That solved that.
“How do you feel about offering a lesson in defensive driving?”
Solomon lifted a brow . . . blinked.
“We’ll take my car.”
Blink.
Blink.
“The Aston Martin?”
Gabi shrugged. “What’s the worst thing that can happen?”