Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set

by Sandra Marton

  Her ‘testimony’ struck her as meaningless. All she’d done was overhear Tony Vitale make a phone call to someone named Frank.

  ‘Riley refuses to come around, Frank,’ Vitale had whispered into the receiver. ‘I want him taken care of tonight.’ His broad face had blanched when he’d looked up and seen her in the doorway. ‘What are you doing? How long have you been spying on me?’

  Gabrielle had stared at him in amazement. It was the first time he’d ever spoken harshly to her.

  ‘I’m not spying on you! I’m looking for my father.’

  Vitale’s dark eyes had burned into hers, and then he’d let out his breath and smiled. ‘Sure. He’s out back, getting the car ready.’ His smile had twisted just a little. ‘Come give Uncle Tony a big kiss, Gabriella.’

  She’d stammered something about being in a hurry and fled his office.

  Only weeks later, her life had changed forever.

  The charges against Vitale had made headlines everywhere, her father had fallen ill, and the tabloids, always eager for dirt, had discovered her, the coolly beautiful young woman living in the little house behind Tony Vitale’s.

  And nothing had ever been the same again.

  The musical peal of the clock on the bedside table brought Gabrielle back to the present. Her eyes flew to it. Eight o’clock! It was so late. How was that possible?

  She stared at the dresses tossed across the bed. It looked as if she’d tried on everything she owned, as if it really mattered how she looked tonight when she and James Forrester went out to dinner.

  This wasn’t a date. It was a way of saying ‘thank you’ for what he’d done and ‘I’m sorry’ for her own foolishness.

  Besides, he’d tricked her into this. She’d never in­tended to go to lunch with him, much less dinner.

  Gabrielle looked at the bed again.

  And yet, she’d spent the afternoon thinking about the evening ahead; she’d been so caught up in her own musings that she’d even managed to be polite to Mrs. Delacroix when she’d tele­phoned for the fifth time.

  The doorbell rang and Gabrielle tossed her head impatiently.

  ‘Such nonsense,’ she whispered to her reflection. ‘Just pick a dress and put it on. An hour of polite conver­sation in a brightly lit restaurant and it will all be over.’

  She reached for the closest dress to hand and slipped it over her head.

  The doorbell chimed for a second time as she slipped on her high heels. She staggered out of the bedroom, one foot half out of its shoe.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she called, and she clattered down the stairs.

  She reached the door just as a heavy fist pounded against it. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ she said, flinging the door open, ‘don’t be so...’

  The words died in her throat. James Forrester stood on the narrow porch, bathed in the faint pool of light from the lamp that lit the courtyard. His face was a stone mask.

  Gabrielle swallowed. ‘I—I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I didn’t realize it was so...’

  His hands closed on her arms and he half lifted her from her feet as he pushed her back into the house. ‘What the hell took you so long?’

  His voice was grim and angry. Gabrielle’s pulse raced as she felt the bite of his fingers into her flesh.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she said. ‘You’re hurting me.’

  He glared at her through eyes as hard as ice.

  ‘And what kind of way is that to open the door? Don’t you even ask who it is?’ Her shoulders hit the wall as he pressed her into the hall. ‘This is New Orleans, not some little town painted by Norman Rockwell.’

  She looked at him in bewilderment. ‘But I knew it was you. It’s eight o’clock. And you said—’

  ‘It damned well could have been anybody.’ He nodded towards the still-open door as if it were an enemy. ‘Why didn’t you look through the grille?’

  ‘I suppose I should have. I’

  ‘Start doing it.’

  Gabrielle stared at him. Her heart was still galloping, but anger was replacing fear. Who did James Forrester think he was, anyway?

  ‘I appreciate your concern,’ she said coolly. ‘But this is my house, not yours. And I do not take orders from you.’

  Their eyes met and held. She thought she saw some­thing in the depths of his that chilled her, but it was gone so quickly that later she was sure she’d imagined it.

  Drawing in his breath, James lifted his hands from her with exaggerated care. ‘Sorry.’ He smiled tightly. ‘I guess that was a hell of a way to say hello.’

  Gabrielle crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed her shoulders. The skin beneath her hands was tender, and she wondered if James’s hard grip had left her bruised.

  ‘Yes,’ she said warily, ‘it certainly was.’ She dropped her hands to her hips and tilted her head as she stared at him. ‘Do you always come through the door like that?’

  His smile grew sheepish. ‘Not always.’

  ‘Good. Otherwise, your dates would be few and far between.’

  The pale blue eyes darkened. ‘Is that what this is? A date?’

  She felt a wash of color rise to her cheeks. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I was afraid you’d only agreed to see me this evening because you felt you owed me something—or because I didn’t give you much choice.’

  Her eyes met his. ‘Well, that’s true, isn’t it? You’

  Laughter glinted in his eyes.

  ‘Still, you have to admit my technique’s unusual. First I badgered you into having dinner with me and then I made an entrance guaranteed to catch your attention. I mean, you probably expected me to say, “You look lovely,” or something equally banal when you opened the door.’

  She thought of how he’d come forcefully through the door and a faint smile twitched on her lips. He was right, of course. She’d half expected him to show up with the six dozen roses he’d ordered clutched in his arms.

  ‘Something like that,’ she admitted

  ‘Well, you were wrong. Even if I hadn’t launched into the big city cynic’s lecture on household safety, you’d have been disappointed.’ His smile was for her alone. ‘I could never simply say, “you look lovely” to you.’

  Gabrielle felt a soft warmth suffuse her skin. She knew what he was doing: he was flirting with her as he had that afternoon. She wanted to say something clever in return, but her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth.

  He drew closer. ‘Don’t you want to hear what I’d have said instead?’

  She hadn’t bargained for this. He was supposed to take her to dinner, that was all, and then they could shake hands and she’d wish him a happy vacation and...

  He smiled into her eyes. ‘I’d have said I was going to have dinner with the most beautiful woman in New Orleans.’

  She felt her heartbeat quicken. Say something, you fool, she thought, and finally she did.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, striving for a lightness she didn’t feel, ‘that’s certainly not in the same category as the standard “you look lovely” opening.’

  His teeth flashed in a smile. ‘We aim to please,’ he said. ‘I like that dress you’re wearing.’

  Which dress was that? she thought in surprise, glancing down at herself. In the end, she had dressed so quickly that she had no idea what she was wearing.

  It was the pink dress, after all. She smiled as she looked up and met James’s eyes. ‘Thank you. I wasn’t sure where we were going.'

  ‘I thought we’d dine chez Gabrielle.’ He turned away and stepped out the door. When he turned toward her again, he held an overflowing shopping bag in his arms. 'My mother taught me to always bring a lady flowers or chocolates,’ he said, elbowing the door shut behind him. ‘Well, I tried the flowers, but I think I went over­board.’. Which way’s the kitchen?’ Gabrielle pointed, then hurried after him.’ And I knew better than to bring chocolates to a woman who jogs." He set the bag on the counter. ‘So I gave up and brought dinner.�
�� Her mouth dropped open and he grinned. ‘Yeah, I know. You thought we were going out. Well, I thought so, too. And then I said to myself, come on, Forrester, don’t be so pedestrian. Making a reservation at a restaurant is no way to impress a woman.’

  He began taking things from the bag. Wine. Idaho potatoes. Two porterhouse steaks. A container of sour cream. Chives.

  ‘Incredible,’ she said, and then she laughed. ‘It’s almost as if you know all about me.’

  There was a silence, and then James laughed, too.

  ‘Yes,’ he said finally, ‘it is, isn’t it?’

  She shook her head as she stared at the small mountain of groceries. ‘There’s enough there to feed an army.’

  James looked at her. ‘You don’t mind, then?’

  Gabrielle hesitated. She should mind, she thought. This man she barely knew had tricked her into this dinner engagement; she’d only moments before been assuring herself it would be a quick, impersonal evening, and now here they were, about to have a cozy dinner for two in her own home.

  But his smile was engaging. And the feast spread before her was enough to make her mouth water. In this city with its worldwide reputation for world-famous chefs and exotic food, she'd been existing on frozen dinners supplemented by the occasional hamburger.

  Somehow, the thought of cooking a whole meal just for herself only made her remember all the more clearly how much she missed her father and the quiet life they’d shared together.

  And the one time she’d gone out to dinner alone, she’d grudgingly decided that women who felt comfortable dining alone were far braver and more liberated than she,

  There was nothing to do but shake her head and give the devil his due.

  ‘No, I don’t mind. But if you wanted a home-cooked meal, you should have said so. I’d have been happy to oblige.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought women like you would even know how to cook.’

  The sudden harshness in his voice startled her. She frowned as she looked at him. ‘Women like me? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘From what I know of you, I wouldn’t think you’d have spent much time in the kitchen.’

  Gabrielle shook her head. ‘Because I run a business, you mean?’

  James drew in his breath. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘Be­cause of that. I hope you have a corkscrew—it’s the one thing I forgot to buy.’

  ‘There’s one here somewhere,’ she said, opening a drawer and poking through it. ‘Ah, here it is.’ She handed it over and then took two wine goblets from the cabinet. ‘I’ve been looking for an excuse to use these.’

  James extracted the cork and tossed it aside. ‘Let the wine breathe a while,’ he said. ‘Hand me that skillet, will you?’

  Gabrielle did as he’d asked. She watched as he un­wrapped the steaks and seasoned them. ‘Are you a good cook?’ she said after a few minutes.

  He looked up at her and smiled. ‘The best. Are you a good assistant?’

  She nodded. ‘I know my way around a kitchen.’ A shadow flitted across her face. ‘Of course, I’m out of practice. I—I don’t like cooking for myself. And there’s no one to make meals for now...’

  ‘What a pity.’ His voice was suddenly callous and she looked up, surprised, but his back was to her. ‘What happened?’

  Gabrielle pushed aside the specter of her father’s ghost. Tonight was not a night for remembering the bad times, she thought, it was a night for happier things.

  ‘My life changed,’ she said with a little shrug.

  ‘I’ll bet.’ James turned towards her. He was smiling, but there was an unexpected coolness in his eyes. ‘It must be very different for you now. Working all day...’

  Gabrielle turned on the water and began rinsing lettuce leaves. ‘I worked then, too,’ she said. ‘I’ve always worked, ever since I finished school.’ She glanced at him and smiled. ‘Guess what I did?’

  His eyes met hers. ‘I’d rather not,’ he said flatly. ‘Suppose you tell me, Gabrielle.’

  There was that harsh tone again. Did he think she’d led a pampered life or something?

  ‘I was a PA,’ she said.

  ‘A Personal Assistant..’

  'Yes. Is there something wrong with that?’

  James shrugged. ‘Nothing, if that’s what you wanted.’ He stabbed a knife into a tomato and slashed through the red flesh. ‘So,’ he said finally, ‘you worked for this guy by day and cooked for him by night. Sounds like a pretty good deal.’

  She looked up sharply. ‘I never said that. Where’d you get that idea?’

  He looked at her, his face unreadable. ‘I just put two and two together,’ he said. ‘You told me you used to cook for someone and I thought...’

  Gabrielle slid from the stool and walked across the kitchen. ‘Well, you thought wrong. The man I cooked for was my father.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t any more. Not since he.. .since he...’ Her voice broke. To her stunned surprise, she felt the sudden bum of tears in her eyes. And that was imposs­ible; she hadn’t cried, not even at the funeral. She had been too filled with bitterness.

  ‘Gabrielle.’

  She heard James’s footsteps behind her. ‘I’m all right,’ she said stiffly.

  Tears began to stream down her cheeks. James cursed softly and gathered her into his arms, turning her un­yielding body until she faced him.

  ‘Gabrielle,’ he whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ she said. ‘It’s... it’s...’

  His hand slid beneath her hair and cupped the nape of her neck. She stood rigid within his embrace, her spine like a steel rod, while his hand moved gently against her skin. It had been months since anyone had offered even the simplest show of warmth and kindness to her; the touch of his hand seemed almost a miracle.

  She put her hand to her mouth, muffling the first sob, but they came too quickly after that, until finally she gave up fighting and let James draw her into the shel­tering curve of his arms.

  ‘I miss him,’ she said brokenly. ‘He was—he was never sick a day in his life, he was always so strong and healthy, and then one day he just didn’t feel well and—and...’

  ‘It’s all right,’ James murmured. ‘It’s all right, Gabrielle.’

  She closed her eyes, pressing her face against his soft wool jacket. ‘Sometimes, I still don’t believe he’s gone. I just—I just...’ Her tears, so long repressed, seemed unstoppable. ‘He was all I had.’

  His arms tightened around her. ‘Was he?’

  Later, it would seem a strange question. Now, it made perfect sense. Gabrielle nodded and sniffed damply.

  ‘And they said such terrible things about him, James. None of it was true. None of it. I...’

  She fell silent. What was the matter with her? She was talking too much, saying things she couldn’t afford to say, not if she was to maintain her new identity. This morning, she’d been filled with doubts about James Forrester. Now she was babbling to him, on the verge of spilling secrets that had to remain locked within her forever if she was to have any peace.

  She was Gabrielle Shelton, not Gabrielle Chiari. She could never be Gabrielle Chiari again.

  She wiped her hand across her nose and stepped back in James’s arms. Her tears had left dark spots on his jacket.

  ‘I seem to make a specialty out of ruining your clothing,’ she said, forcing a smile to her lips. ‘Let me get a tissue before I do any more damage.’

  He kept one arm around her while he reached in his pocket and drew out a handkerchief. ‘Here you go,’ he said, holding it out to her. ‘Use this.’

  ‘I couldn’t.’ She laughed through the tears that still trickled down her face. ‘My mascara’s running. I’ll ruin your handkerchief.’

  James smiled at her. ‘What’s a handkerchief, com­pared to two wool jackets and a pair of trousers? Go on, I’ll risk it.’

  She laughed again, wiped the tears from her eyes, then blew her nose lou
dly. ‘Thank you.’

  He nodded solemnly. ‘You’re welcome. I think you needed that cry.’

  Gabrielle sighed. ‘I think you’re right.’ She dabbed at her eyes again. ‘You know what else I need?’

  Their eyes met. ‘Yes,’ he said softly, and, before she could move, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

  The kiss was gentle, but the feel of his mouth against hers was electric. James made a sound deep in his throat, and gathered her to him, his lips parting hers so he could taste her. For a second, she swayed against him, and then she put her hands against his chest and drew away.

  ‘That’s not quite what I had in mind,’ she said. She’d been trying for a light tone, but her voice sounded hoarse and uncertain.

  ‘Gabrielle...’

  ‘If you don’t feed me soon, I swear I’m going to swoon.’

  A smile touched his lips, but she could feel the racing beat of his heart beneath her palms.

  ‘Is that what happens when you live in the south? Do you learn to swoon?’

  She laughed softly. ‘Alma says that went out with Scarlett O’Hara. If I faint, you’ll have nothing but low blood-sugar to blame.’

  He touched the tip of her nose with his finger. ‘Can I trust you to make the salad?’

  Gabrielle nodded. ‘Of course. Can I trust you to grill the steaks?’

  James laughed. ‘You’ll eat those words, young lady.’

  She smiled. ‘I’d rather eat the steaks.’

  James was a quick and efficient cook. He worked with his jacket off and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, and there was something very masculine in the way he moved around her small kitchen. They dined before the fire­place by candle-light, talking about a lot of things, none of them terribly important.

  What was important, Gabrielle thought, as she watched him from beneath her lashes, was that she was happy. It was a feeling she’d almost forgotten.

  And when the evening ended, when he took her in his arms and whispered goodnight, she trembled, eyes closed, awaiting his kiss. His mouth moved against hers as lightly as the touch of spring rain against a petal, and then he drew back and looked at her.