Managed: a VIP novel

by Kristen Callihan

With a huff, he tugs at his cuffs. “Go on holiday. It’s absurd. Where would I even go?”

  Rye laughs without humor. “You’re in Italy, for fuck’s sake. Laze around, eat good food, drink wine, fuck—”

  “Do not finish that statement, Ryland.” Gabriel’s stare is suppressive.

  Rye shrugs. “You get my point.”

  “I think it’s a great idea.” I pipe up.

  Oh, but Gabriel looks at me as though I’m the worst traitor. I move closer and put my hand on his forearm. It’s like rock beneath his jacket. “Come on, sunshine. You’ve got the all clear. Let’s celebrate life, laze around like Rye suggests, and…” I grin wide. “Eat. We’ll hole up in the room, just you and me.”

  “Nah.” Jax shakes his head. “He’ll find a way to slink off and work.”

  Whip nods. “Truth.”

  “See?” Gabriel gestures toward them. “It is agreed.”

  “Go to your villa,” Killian says, firmly.

  “You have a villa?” I picture wineries and rolling Tuscan hills.

  Gabriel’s jaw bunches. “On the coast. In Positano.” He glares at Killian. “But it’s all closed up.”

  “You can have it aired out with a call. Come on, man, try a little harder with your protests.”

  “Arse.”

  “It must be beautiful,” I say. With Gabriel’s sense of style, it’s probably perfect.

  “We wouldn’t know,” Rye says with a dramatic sigh. “He never invites us anywhere.”

  “Because I work, you git.”

  Rye waggles his brows. “I bet you’d take Sophie.”

  If looks could kill. “Sophie has to work too.”

  Hurt makes my voice small. “You don’t want me to see your villa?”

  Gabriel’s brows lift. “What? No. My home is your home, Sophie. I thought you knew that much.”

  I smile at the tender reproach in his voice.

  “Or take her to one of your other houses,” Jax puts in.

  “How many houses do you have,” I ask, because, really?

  Gabriel glances away. “Five.”

  Every time I feel I’ve finally got to know all there is about this man, he surprises me with more. “Where?”

  With a long-suffering sigh, he answers. “The flat in New York. The townhouse in London. A flat in Paris.”

  “The lodge in St. Moritz,” Brenna adds.

  “The villa in Positano,” Rye reminds us.

  Gabriel’s gaze darts around, glaring, as if he can’t figure out how to stop them all from speaking but is dearly wishing he could.

  “And didn’t you buy a place in Ireland last year?” Jax asks.

  “Right,” Killian snaps his fingers. “That little cottage in County Clare.”

  “Near my place,” Whip says with a grin. “By the Cliffs of Insanity.”

  “They are the Cliffs of Moher,” Gabriel says with a grimace. “Christ, you’re half Irish. Know your country.”

  “Dude, whatever, the Cliffs of Insanity sounds way cooler.”

  “So that’s six homes,” says Libby, who has been quiet this whole time.

  “Great gravy,” I mutter. I rent my place, and it is literally the size of a walk-in closet.

  The difference between our stations is staggering, and yet I can’t see him as anything other than mine.

  Gabriel ducks his head and shrugs. “Property makes for a good investment.”

  Jax saunters over and puts an arm around my shoulders. “Sophie girl, you don’t know the half of it. Scottie is a genius with money. Our boy here is solely responsible for all of us being obscenely rich, as opposed to mostly rich. Seriously, stick with him.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’d stick with him if he was a pauper.”

  Gabriel looks up and a quiet smile softens the hard edges of his expression. I return it, my heart beating a little faster. Relief that he isn’t terminally ill weakens my knees, and the lump has returned to my throat.

  I will stay by his side in sickness, in health, the whole deal. Yet I’m so very glad that he’s safe, my voice comes out thick and husky. “Given that Positano is the only place we wouldn’t have to fly to, I vote we go there.”

  His eyes search mine for a long moment. “Do you truly want to go?”

  I could give him a hard time about trying to pawn this off as doing me a favor, but there’s something to be said for picking your battles. So I nod and give him the puppy eyes.

  “Do this for me? Please, sunshine?”

  He sighs, and his shoulders lower from their defensive stance. “All right, chatty girl. You win.”

  “Awesome,” Jax says, lifting his hand for a high five.

  Gabriel doesn’t move.

  “Always leaving me hanging.” Jax shakes his head.

  “Just one thing.” Killian rises from his seat to face Gabriel. “You’re leaving your phone with Brenna.”

  “What?” Gabriel snaps. “Absolutely not.”

  Killian holds out his hand. “Give it up, Scott, and nobody gets hurt.”

  “Over my beaten and bloody body.”

  The guys all stand, and Rye rolls his head, setting off a dozen cracks in his neck. “Fellas,” he says, flexing his hands, “let’s do this.”

  And they do. They actually jump him.

  The scuffle is a loud, curse-filled tangle of flailing limbs and grappling men.

  It ends with a bloody lip for Rye, a poked eye for Jax, Killian without a shirt, Whip without a shoe, and Gabriel on the floor, suit rumpled and his precious phone spirited away by Brenna, who can run surprisingly fast in her heels.

  “Bastards,” he mutters as they file out the door.

  “It’s for your own good,” Killian says.

  “We love you too, Scottie boy,” Jax calls.

  I kneel and kiss a scuff mark on Gabriel’s forehead. “Poor baby. I’ll make it better. I promise.”

  He does not look appeased, but his lip quirks. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sophie

  * * *

  Gabriel has something to pick up for our trip, and he’s gone when I wake. He’s left me a note that says I should be ready to go by nine. Mother hen that he is, he also set my phone alarm for seven, something I bitch about for a good ten minutes as I bumble my way into a hot shower.

  As it nears eight, room service arrives with cappuccino and a little bowl of extra creamy, ridiculously thick yogurt, topped with roasted hazelnuts and drizzled in golden honey. It’s not something I’d have thought to try, but I scrape up every little bit clinging to the glass bowl.

  Determination steels my spine. I’m supposed to be taking care of Gabriel, helping him relax, and here he is pampering me, arranging every step of my morning without even being present. I cannot let myself forget that I’m contending with a professional manager of people’s lives. I need to step up my game.

  I’m not remotely surprised when a bellhop arrives at eight forty-five to take my bags and escort me down to the lobby. Mr. Scott, he tells me, is waiting.

  Wry amusement puts a bounce in my step as I walk through the lobby. Were I someone into high fashion, my heels would be clicking on the marble. But I’m in white flip-flops and a red, cotton eyelet sundress. Gabriel has warned that it will take about four hours to get to Positano, and I intend on being comfortable.

  The bellhop leads me out to the front drive, and my steps slow as I catch sight of Gabriel waiting for me.

  “Oh, fuck me,” I blurt out.

  At my side, the bellhop makes a gurgled sound of shock. I’m too busy staring at my man to care.

  Dressed in a crisp white polo shirt, which shows off the deep gold of his skin and stretches around the bulge of his biceps, and slouchy, gray slacks that highlight the narrowness of his hips and drape over his thick thighs, he leans against a red Ferrari, his hands tucked into his pockets.

  Move over Jake Ryan.

  When Gabriel smiles—a full one, complete with that cute dimple on his left c
heek, the corners of his eyes crinkling in joy—I’m tempted to look around before mouthing, “Who me?”

  But I don’t do that. I run to him like a loon. He catches me with a soft oof and wraps me up in his arms as I kiss his cheeks, the corner of his eye, the edge of his jaw. Chuckling, he captures my mouth and gives me a proper kiss.

  He tastes faintly of tea. His body is warm and solid, and he is mine.

  I give his lip one last nibble before pulling back. “Sexy beast, you’re going to melt me on the spot one day, you know.”

  He gives the tip of my nose a quick kiss. “If you’re taking requests, I prefer that you melt on my mouth.”

  “Sweet talker.” I glance at the car, truly taking it in now that I’ve had my Gabriel fix. “Holy shit, that’s a Ferrari 488GTB Spider.”

  He blinks, swaying a little. “You’ve just given me a hard-on.”

  He’s not lying; I can feel it rise against my belly. I grin, pressing into him just a little.

  “Will you be able to drive? Or should we take care of it now?”

  His lips purse, but there’s a glint in his eye that promises retribution. With a subtle shift of his hips, he prods my belly with that hard dick, then moves me away from him.

  “Get in the car, chatty girl, before I call this trip off and take you to bed instead.”

  “As good as that sounds, the car is calling my name.” And Gabriel needs this vacation. I have plans for him. Most of them dirty, all of them fun.

  Gabriel opens the door for me. “Thrown over for a car, lovely.”

  I grin. “Not just any car.”

  And oh what a car it is. The bucket seats are dark grey leather, buttery soft. They’re designed to hold your ass in place as the car zooms down the road, but I’m not complaining. I touch the gray and red dash as Gabriel closes my door.

  He tips the bellhop after the luggage is placed in the front trunk, and a moment later, he’s sliding into his seat. With a push of a button, the car purrs to life.

  “Is this what you were picking up?” I ask, stroking the seat leather.

  “Yes.” For a second, his expression is so pleased he looks almost boyish, but it soon morphs into the cool loftiness he uses when giving a lecture. “If we’re going to drive along the Almalfi coast, we’re going to do it in style.”

  So very Gabriel.

  “How did you get your hands on one of these babies? Aren’t they, like, impossible to buy?”

  “Not if you’re on a list,” he says as he pulls into traffic.

  Good Lord, there is something sexy about a man who knows how to handle a car. If Ferrari execs saw Gabriel driving this, I’m certain they’d try to hire him as a spokesmodel.

  “Of course you’re on a list. Why am I not surprised?”

  He glances my way. “How do you know about this car, anyway? From what I’ve heard, you don’t even know how to drive.”

  “Hey, a lot of New Yorkers don’t.”

  “This sad state of affairs must be rectified as soon as I buy a proper car to teach you in. Now, answer the question.”

  “I read your car magazines when I got bored one day.” I turn a little in my seat to face him. “You realize they’re the male equivalent of Vogue.”

  He gives me a sly grin. “But far sexier.”

  The drive goes quickly, in part because the car is speedy and luxurious, in part because the scenery is so blindingly beautiful, but mostly because I’m with Gabriel.

  We never run out of things to talk about, whether it be music or movies or speculating on history as we drive by through the area where they’ve excavated parts of Pompeii and Herculaneum—both sites he promises to take me on day trips to explore. And I realize that no one else sees him this way, as the man who has tons of tidbits of knowledge stored up, the man who smiles frequently and with ease, and who teases me with jokes as lame as my own.

  It’s afternoon when we arrive in Positano, a town so picturesque it brings a lump to my throat. Colorful stucco buildings that look almost Moorish in architecture cling to the steep green mountains that plunge toward the turquoise sea. The air is fresh, tinged with hints of sweet lemon and salty ocean.

  Gabriel’s house is a little way out, nestled between the crags of two mountain outcrops and guarded by a tall gate. You can’t tell much about it from the drive, but inside it’s all crisp white stucco walls, airy spaces that face the blue sea, with endless French doors open to the breeze.

  A small, elderly lady greets us. Gabriel kisses her cheeks and talks to her in Italian. I’ve never had a fetish for foreign languages until I heard him speak in one. He introduces her to me. Martina, who is both cook and housekeeper, doesn’t speak English, but she doesn’t need to. Her welcoming smile says enough. She leaves us, bustling off toward the back of the house.

  “How many languages do you know?” I ask him. I’ve heard him speak French and Spanish on the tour.

  “English, of course. Italian, French, Spanish, a little German, and a bit of Portuguese. A few phrases in Japanese.”

  “You’re killing me.”

  “Languages always came naturally to me.” A smug smile unfurls. “Your expression, Darling… You like that?”

  “I’m going to demand that you speak to me in Italian in bed.”

  His expression goes thoughtful and he leans down and whispers in my ear, his voice hot cream. “Sei tutto per me. Baciami.”

  I swear my knees go weak. “Jesus, give a little warning. What did you say?”

  His smile grows secretive. “I said ‘kiss me’.”

  It sounded like more than that, but I lift to my toes and place a soft, lingering kiss on his lips. He kisses me back, keeping it light and gentle.

  “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you fed before you become hangry.”

  “You know me so well.”

  Hand to the small of my back, he guides me out to the terrace. It’s enormous, surrounding the property and carved out of the hill. It’s part garden with lemon trees and rustling palms, part slate-lined terrace with an infinity pool hovering along one cliffside, and a dining area shaded by a trellis covered in bougainvillea. Sunlight filtering through the fuchsia blooms tints the air pink.

  Gabriel watches me take it all in, then comes to stand by my side, shoving his hands into his pockets.

  “You own a slice of paradise,” I tell him, staring out at the sea.

  His shoulder brushes against mine. “Paradise is a state of mind, not a location.”

  “Fair enough. You own the perfect place to evoke paradise.”

  Behind us, Martina sets the table. She waves off my offer to help, and we’re soon sipping icy limoncello.

  “This tastes like summer in a glass,” I tell Gabriel.

  He lounges in his chair, stretching his long legs out before him. “Wait until you taste Martina’s food.”

  When she plunks down two bowls of pasta, I can see why. Clams and mussels tangle with linguine, all glossy with olive oil and fragrant with little bits of garlic, parsley, and lemon zest. It’s the best thing I’ve eaten in my life, and I sop up the juices with crusty white bread.

  For a while, we are silent, simply enjoying the food and the sea breeze that cools our skin. When we’re done eating, Martina comes and takes the plates away, and Gabriel says something to her again.

  It’s fairly ridiculous how much I swoon when he speaks; he’s probably saying something banal like, hey, thanks for the meal. But it sounds like pure sex coming from his mouth.

  I sit back with a sigh. He seems equally content, his hands folded over his flat belly, his expression calm as he stares at the sea.

  “I don’t understand it,” I find myself saying.

  He looks my way. “Don’t understand what?”

  “This.” I wave my hand around. “You have this stunning house that you rarely visit, and other houses that are presumably equally gorgeous, and yet none of the guys has been to any of them. Why bother?”

  A frown wrinkles the space between his bro
ws. “Killian’s dad once told me the best thing a man can invest in is property. It is tangible, true, eternal. I agree.”

  “I get that, but why have these properties if you’re never going to enjoy them, never bring your friends here?” I lean forward. “Why don’t you let them in, Gabriel? They love you, and you keep them at arm’s length.”

  A flush tints his cheeks, and he lurches up from his chair to pace. “I’m not a social man, Sophie. You know that about me.”

  I watch him walk. “I’m not talking about hosting wild parties. I’m asking about you systematically building a wall between you and the people who mean the most.” He glares at me over his shoulder, and I soften my tone. “And I think you know that.”

  Our gazes clash, but I don’t blink. He curses under his breath and squeezes the back of his neck.

  “Gabriel, you are a charming, witty, kind man—don’t roll your eyes at me, you are.” I stand and walk over to him. Not too close, because he’s cagey right now. “You are kind. The guys, Brenna—they’re your family, and you treat them so well, care for them better than anyone I’ve ever met. Why won’t you let them care for you too?”

  A breath bursts from him, and he whirls to face me. “I don’t know how,” he snaps.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sodding…” He rakes a hand through his hair and grips it hard. “My mum, my dad…They…They fucking left me, yeah? The two people who were supposed to love me the most. Left. And I know the guys and Brenna love me. But if I let them in then…”

  He paces away before coming back, his eyes wide and pained. “If they’re fully in then I’m fully in. It will hurt more, Sophie. Do you understand? It will hurt more if…”

  He looks off, scowling so hard his lips pinch.

  “Gabriel, they won’t leave—”

  “I can barely handle letting you in. Opening up is so foreign to me; I don’t know what the bloody hell I’m doing. But I’m trying for you because you’re…” He struggles for the words, looking panicked.

  I wrap my arms around him and hug him close. I expect resistance, but he yields, burrowing his nose in my hair and breathing deep, hugging me as if I might disappear.

  “It’s all right.” I stroke his tense neck. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.”