Treasured by Thursday (Weekday Brides Series Book 7)

by Catherine Bybee

  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. “Fi
ne.”

  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?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  He couldn’t concentrate. All it took was one text sent to Hunter to blow his entire day. Andrew took a picture of the flowers he’d sent to Gabi in the trash and added the message: The card is in the fireplace, unread and smoldering.

  The next message simply said, Duct Tape!!!

  He needed to fix this. Admittedly, he had no idea how. All his life, money and power fixed his problems. With more money came more power and a quicker resolve. Andrew’s words stuck in his head. Slow down. He needed to slow his personal life down or watch it spiral out of control. Flowers in the trash were a sign of an impending tornado.

  He twisted his desk chair until he was staring out over the city. It was gray . . . not at all the Southern California weather he’d grown used to. It matched his mood, he supposed.

  Gabi’s, too, he guessed.

  His goals were easily defined a few months ago, now they were mucked up with emotion and consequences. Having Gabi by his side, having his back with something as simple as decorating a nursery in support, was a priceless example of the depth of her heart. With all she’d been through, he’d think she’d be jaded and dead on the inside.

  Her family and friends adored her, would think nothing of burying him if he harmed her. Even Andrew was squarely on her side of the swinging pendulum.

  A conversation . . . flowers . . . these things weren’t going to duct tape his relationship back together.

  He wanted it back together.

  He took in his colorless office and thought of the penthouse condo that held the same empty, quiet life. He wanted more.

  And he wanted it with Gabi.

  A plan began to form in his head.

  A plan that meant slowing down his objectives and speeding up hers.

  The cell phone in his suit jacket buzzed. He considered ignoring it before he pulled it from his pocket to check the caller.

  Hope flared when he saw Gabi’s name.

  “Gabi,” he whispered her name as his answer.

  Silence met his ears.

  He was close to begging. “Talk to me, Gabi.”

  He heard laughter . . . male laughter.

  Hunter froze, looked at the screen again, saw Gabi’s name.

  “Who is this?”

  “Mr. Blackwell . . . I’m your new best friend.” The voice was deep, with a south of the boarder accent.

  “Who is this? Where’s my wife?”

  “Ah, your caring wife is right where she’s supposed to be . . . for now. That can change, my friend. I don’t take kindly to people stealing my money. Makes my fingers itchy to take from others. You understand, no?”

  “What are you talking about? Who are you?” Hunter leaned over and took his office phone off the hook.

  “Ten million, Mr. Blackwell.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The voice laughed. “Check your e-mail. Gabriella . . . beautiful woman your wife. She sent you a picture.”

  Hunter started clicking, found a message in his private inbox, and opened it.

  His stomach twisted. Gabi, from what had to be during the darkest days of her life, looked like the shell of the woman he knew. Dark circles under her eyes, the white dress hanging on her thin shoulders . . . her arm extended with a needle hanging out.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “A man who will be ten million dollars richer very soon, eh? And so you know not to fuck with me . . . I will give you ten minutes to keep your wife alive.”

  Hunter gripped his desk and stood.

  “Do I have your attention, Mr. Blackwell?”

  “Yes,” he gritted out between his teeth.

  “Aston Martins have been known to blow up in those Bond films. You might encourage your driver to end his driving lesson to watch the fireworks from outside the car.”

  “What the—”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  The line went dead.

  His heart sped and the light inside him threatened to fade as he dialed his home number and yelled to the closed office door, “Tiffany?”

  Andrew answered on the first ring. “Find some duct tape?”

  “Put Solomon on the phone.”

  “He’s not here.”

  Tiffany ran into the room.

  “Where is he? Where’s Gabi?” There was no mistaking the urgency in his voice.

  Hunter glared at Tiffany. “Get Neil MacBain on the phone. Now!”

  Tiffany fled the room as quickly as she entered.

  “Driving around. Gabi wanted a driving lesson.”

  “In the Aston?”

  “Yeah. What’s going
on, Hunter?”

  Oh, God. “No time.”

  He hung up as Tiffany scurried back in. “Line two.”

  “Neil?”

  “Talk to me.”

  “I just received a death threat for Gabi. I have nine minutes to get her and Solomon out of the Aston.”

  Fear kept Hunter’s hands moving. The cell phone sat on his desk, he took a chance and redialed Gabi’s number. It went to instant voice mail. He slammed his hand against the desk.

  He heard Neil barking orders through the phone.

  “Do you have him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Eight minutes, Neil.”

  It was a closed course, so why was Solomon gripping the side of the car with such intensity? Gabi let up on the gas and concentrated on avoiding the cones. She’d done rather well, when she kept the speed under thirty.

  At fifty, things became a little dicey.

  “You’re oversteering,” Solomon instructed her. “Relax your grip on the wheel and let the car balance itself out.”

  The car jerked in the opposite direction.

  “Relax, don’t let go.”

  “Oh . . .” Gabi took the next curve a little faster and attempted to relax.

  The phone in her purse rang, and she glanced behind her.

  “Don’t even think about answering that.”

  She looked at him with a frown. “Well of course not.”

  Solomon swung his gaze out the window and gripped the door rail. “Watch it.”

  Several cones went down as she missed the next turn completely.

  She straightened the car as Solomon’s phone started to buzz. “Straighten her out and let’s try again. You can’t let phones and people distract you, Mrs. B., or you’re going to end up getting hurt.”

  Gabi squared her shoulders and started again. They rounded the second turn for the umpteenth time. When Solomon’s phone went off again, Gabi praised herself on ignoring the noise.

  She didn’t even look when Solomon answered his phone. “I’m a little busy right now,” he told whoever called.

  “What?”

  Ease into the corner; let the wheel do the work.

  Perfect. Not one cone off course.

  “Oh, fuck.”

  Gabi wanted to look toward the passenger seat but thought Solomon was testing her resolve to avoid distractions.