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.
“Bloomingdale. 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.