So much for my stereotype.
“Mr. O’Malley, such a pleasure to have you.” He shakes Gabe’s hand and turns to me. “Franco Salvini.”
I take the offered hand, a little surprised that his palm is sweaty. Then I notice that there’s a bead of sweat on his temple, despite the cool air circulating via the large ceiling fans. I’m left to assume, then, that he’s nervous. I shake his hand, a little irritated by the way he shakes mine. Men never shake a woman’s hand the same way they do a man’s. “Luna Harmon,” I murmur my introduction softly, hoping to put him at ease, despite not knowing why he’s anxious.
“I love what you’ve done here, Franco,” Gabe glances up and around, and I wonder if this is the first time he’s been.
“Thank you, sir.” Franco follows Gabe’s gaze, his foot tapping.
Gabe looks back down at him and mocks drily, “Franco, why in the hell would you think you have to call me ‘Mr. O’Malley’ and ‘sir’ now when you’ve called me every four letter word under the sun for the past twenty years.”
Franco flushes and smiles a little. “But you weren’t my bo…”
“And I’m not now,” Gabe interrupts firmly.
Franco grins at me and tilts his head toward Gabe. “Don’t let this guy intimidate you, bella. He’s mostly full of…”
“I might not be your boss, Franc, but I do have your wife’s phone number and firsthand knowledge of where you hide your cigarettes.”
Franco frowns, and gives Gabe an evil stare. “That’s dirty, man.” But he stops teasing and gestures to the packed tables, presumably to change the subject. “Packed house isn’t bad for opening night, huh?”
“Are you surprised?” Gabe asks, his voice droll.
Franco shrugs. “Eh, not really.” He grins and leans toward me to whisper conspiratorially, “My grandmother’s panzanella has brought thousands of people hundreds of miles over decades. Of course it’s packed.”
I just smile at him. I don’t know what panzanella is, and I’m sure his grandmother made a fine one. But I couldn’t care less. I want to know why the owner of a wind energy company owns an Italian restaurant. He said he wasn’t the boss, but Franco considers him to be in charge in a way. That can only mean he’s funding the restaurant or owns it or something. And now that I think of it, why does he own a club in Mobile?
What the hell?
Franco and Gabe exchange chatter—though I’m sure they consider it important, manly, business talk—as Franco leads us to a secluded table on the second floor. We can see the entire restaurant from our seats and I look around, awestruck at how they’ve managed to turn an old, decrepit building into something so classy and tasteful.
“Luna.”
I jerk my head around to look at Gabe, realizing he’s been calling my name for several minutes while I stared over the balcony at the tables below us. His lips twist in a smile and he looks back up at Franco.
“A chianti, Franc. And whatever your special is tonight. I trust you.” Franco leaves with a nod and smile, promising to return quickly. Gabe just watches me, a little smirk on his face. I hate that smirk. It puts me in a bad mood every time I see it. That look tells me that he knows something I don’t. He gestures over the rail and inquires, “What do you think?”
I look back out, at the industrial fans keeping the air circulating, at the simple but artsy décor that is somehow an amalgamation of old Italy and modern Mobile all at once. “I like it,” I decide. “It’s comfortable but not casual. Formal but not stuffy.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
I drag my gaze away from the hand-painted mural that dominates one brick wall and look at him. “Because you own it?”
He tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “I don’t own Franco’s. I helped establish it.” He hesitates and looks down at his hand resting on the table. “I have a controlling interest and will receive a large percentage of profit until such a time as my initial investment is repaid, plus interest.”
Now it’s my turn to narrow my eyes. He’s helping Franco, but with stipulations. At least, that’s how I understand it. But it still doesn’t make sense to me. “So why does the ‘king of green’ need an Italian restaurant? And a thirties nightclub, for that matter?”
Before he can answer, one of the waiters shows up with a bottle of wine. He pours a tiny amount for Gabe and waits. Gabe tries it, then—much to my surprise—nods to me. The waiter complies, pouring barely a sip into my glass.
It’s rich, a hearty, semi-sweet red that tastes far more expensive than the supermarket wine I’m used to drinking. But it’s so good that I hum a little and close my eyes when I swallow.
Gabe lets out a bark of laughter and tells the waiter, “I believe the lady approves.”
My eyes pop open and I give him a sheepish smile as the waiter pours our wine and leaves the bottle in an ice bucket.
Gabe sips his wine, his eyes burning me over the rim of the glass. He puts the glass down and leans forward to whisper across the table, “That’s the sound you make just before you come. It made me hard as fuck.”
I almost shoot wine out of my nose, which, really, would be a damn shame since it’s so good. But I manage to gulp it back, though my eyes sting a little from the effort of pulling it out of my nasal cavity in the nick of time. Did he seriously just say that? I don’t know how to address it.
On one hand, I’d like to slip my shoe off and use my toes to find out if he’s telling the truth. One the other hand it’s probably a good idea not to test the limits of my own control. So, I just ignore the entire situation and continue our conversation as though the waiter never interrupted for wine service.
“Why are you involved with restaurants and nightclubs? I thought GWE was your baby.”
He leans back and smiles briefly. “It is. I started GWE eighteen years ago. But it takes a lot of money to keep buying land and building the turbines and panels. Then they need maintenance and upkeep. Lines have to be run, storage, rents for the farmers that let me use their land while they’re still farming it.” He takes a sip of wine and tilts the glass in emphasis before setting it back down. “My cost is pretty high right now, and my profit is…well, not what it could be. It’s far too political to be completely above board, but suffice it to say that I’ve recently had to find other forms of income to keep me in the green. No pun intended.” He leans back and looks around before settling his eyes on mine. “I loaned some associates the start-up for several businesses that would have an immediate return. Until we get state legislation that allows for a competitive, private utility market, I can only market my product as supplemental, and businesses are an ideal market.”
Ah. I begin to see. “So, basically, you help your friends start their business, take your profit from theirs and put back into yours, then sell them your product?”
He frowns for a moment, and then says, “In a nutshell, yes.”
I don’t know if he’s the smartest person alive or the shadiest.
“But.” He leans forward and holds up a finger. “Just to clarify, once the profit I receive from them reaches the original start-up loan amount plus the below-average interest I charge, I sign away all rights. It’s theirs.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “But they’re still buying your product, right? They’ll still get supplemental electricity from you.”
“Yes,” he drawls. “But at 75 percent less cost than they get it from government regulated utilities.”
Hmm. “75 percent less?”
He nods.
My skull almost explodes. “Are you telling me that if you could convince the state to let you, that you could provide electricity to my house that would more than cut my bill in half?”
He nods again.
I know my eyes are wide, and my jaw is on the floor. If it’s cheaper and better for the environment, why the fuck doesn’t everyone have it? “But if it’s that easy, why…” I can’t even finish.
He smiles viciously. “That’s where politics co
mes in. Sam doesn’t want me to succeed, so he’s doing everything he can to stop it. I would have had everything I needed ten years ago if he hadn’t gotten involved. Then again, he’s not the only one that stands to lose profit if I succeed.”
“Dan’s father?” My mind is reeling, absolutely spinning as I try to put everything together. Murdered mother, tried for murder, gay stepbrother, stepfather halting progress, helping friends build their businesses, but still rich enough for expensive cars and beach houses…What the hell have I gotten myself into?
“Yes, Dan’s father.” He watches me for a moment, and then asks quietly, “Any other questions, Luna?”
Dear God, where to start? “If your profits suck so badly, how can you afford everything you do?”
He chuckles a little. “I didn’t say they suck. I said they’re not where they could be.”
I shake my head, trying to comprehend how he can afford everything he has if his business is barely breaking even. “But…why do you…why does Sam…” I have no idea how to ask what I want to know without sounding completely nosey and ridiculous. So I just shut my mouth instead. It’s not really my business anyway.
“I have my mother’s estate,” he explains in a low voice. “Everything business related stays within the realm of business. My mother’s estate goes toward anything personal. And Sam and I have some disagreements.” I watch his hand resting beside his wineglass, his thumb slowly stroking the stem. “Any more worries about my financial well-being?”
I close my eyes and look away. I’ve snooped too far, and owe him an apology. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
He waves it away. “I don’t mind. It’s actually refreshing to break it down to its bare bones instead of focusing on all the intricate details that take up entirely too much time. Puts it into perspective.”
“Maybe. But I shouldn’t have quizzed you about it.”
He tilts his head in acknowledgment and the conversation is over.
Gabe seems distracted the rest of the meal, barely speaking at all. The food is wonderful, much better than the typical Olive Garden-style Italian food I’m used to. But Gabe hardly notices and certainly doesn’t comment when I remark on it, so eventually I ignore him too.
When I try and stimulate conversation, he gives me clipped, one word responses. I can feel my temper ratchet up with each avoidance. I apologized for prying, he accepted, and that should be the end of it. He’s dragging it out like a fucking child.
If he wants to be a moody ass, I can top him any day. I learned how to be a temperamental asshole from Corey, who made an Olympic sport out of it. I catch Gabe shooting me glances here and there but I never let him catch my eye, focus entirely on the food. When Franco comes around to check on us, I’m all smiles and charming chatter.
I hope it’s charming, anyway. It might just be obnoxious. Judging by the way Gabe’s lips tighten, I’m hitting a nerve. Not sure which nerve it is, but…whatever. As long as I’m pissing him off as much as he’s pissing me off.
Or maybe I’m scared, not pissed off. Maybe I just want to spark some kind of response—any response—from him so I can figure out if I went too far with my questions. But instead of responding, he just…keeps. Fucking. Ignoring. Me.
Bastard.
When we’re both done with dessert—and he was right, Franco’s tiramisu was out of this world—he pulls my chair out and I stand. I make sure to twitch my hips a little as I walk in front of him, putting a little extra sway in my step.
Because fuck him, that’s why.
When we reach the car he stands beside the passenger door, his hand on the handle, just staring at it blankly, for several long, tense moments.
Finally, his tone low, he asks, “Does my money matter to you, Luna?”
He lifts his eyes to mine and for a moment I’m stunned into silence. I hurt his feelings somehow. The feeling is not as elating as I thought it would be when I started ignoring him. “N-no. Why?”
He looks away, off into the distance and lets go of the door handle to put his hands in his pockets before admonishing gently, “Because after you found out that I don’t have that much, you seemed more interested in Franco than me.”
I just blink stupidly at him for a minute before bursting into laughter. I can’t help it. It’s funny. He thinks he doesn’t have much money. How cute. “Gabe,” I begin, forcing the laughter down. “You have more money than anyone I’ve ever met. For God’s sake, you went out and bought me a brand new electric car. I couldn’t buy a toaster without applying for a loan, so don’t try and tell me you don’t have money. You do. But even if you didn’t…” I have to stop for a breath here, to keep from laughing, not for courage. Nope, definitely not for courage. “…I would want to spend time with you even if you were waiting tables with me at Sammy’s.” He tenses and looks at me, his expression unreadable. I take a step closer and reach up to finger the tiny thread of silver off center above his forehead. “I like you,” I whisper. “And I wasn’t interested in Franco.” I try not to grin at the knowledge that he’s jealous. Awesome, as long as he doesn’t get weird about it. I’ve never had a man be jealous over me before. “You were ignoring me.”
He grabs my hand and pulls it to his lips where he presses a hard kiss against my fingers. “Jesus, Luna. I wasn’t ignoring you.” He pulls me closer until he can press me against the side of the car with his body. He leans in close and breathes in my ear, “I was trying to save myself the embarrassment of having to stand up at the end of our meal with a blatantly obvious hard-on. I wasn’t ignoring you, sweetheart. I’m sorry if you thought that.”
I go a little limp. Because I’m a sucker for raspy words of uncontrollable desire whispered in my ear while standing in a parking lot with an unknown number of observers. Who knew? Sierra’s motto flickers across my mind unbidden. If you find a sucker, lick it.
God damn, I’d like to lick him.
He’s nibbling my ear, tiny little nips followed by slow, soft suction to soothe the vague sting. He trails the nipping, licking kisses down my neck and my mind…goes…blank.
Fuuuck.
I can feel his fingers spread wide as he grips my ass cheeks and urges me closer to him, riding my cleft against the firm swell of his erection. Then he lets me go so quickly I stumble back against the car. When I blink away the haze of distraction and focus on him, he’s got his head tilted back to stare at the sky, hands on his hips, and chest heaving with labored breaths.
And a very, very obvious tent.
He takes several deep breaths and reaches down to adjust himself, tucking somehow so his arousal isn’t quite so obvious. Without speaking or touching me, he opens the passenger door and ushers me in. When he slides behind the wheel, he asks in a tight voice, “Would you like to see a movie?”
I shake my head. “I don’t really care for theaters. I only go for the girls when there’s a new Disney movie, and then only if I can’t find anyone else to take them.” When he gives me a questioning look I explain, “Motion sickness.”
“Ah. Well, I’ll keep that in mind. Do you like theater?”
I shrug and watch his fingers as he starts the little Batmobile, remembering what those fingers can do. I clear my throat and jerk my head around to face the front. “I’ve never been.”
He shifts and pulls out of the parking space. “We’ll have to fix that, then.” He checks before pulling onto the road and accelerating then looks back over at me. “I’ve got a pretty good collection of movies, if you’d like to…” He turns back to the road and clenches his jaw. “If you’d like to watch something at my house. I can have you home in the morning.” Before I can answer, he holds a hand up and clarifies, “No sex. I won’t promise no touching, but no sex unless you ask for it.” He smirks a little and says, “Actually, I think I’ll make you beg for it.”
And he could, too, which is why I should probably tell him to take me home. But the whole purpose of this exercise is to get to know one another better, to figure out how co
mpatible we are. We’re not going to do that ignoring each other over Italian food and then driving home for a chaste peck on the cheek.
“All right. But I pick the movie.”
I try not to notice the triumphant gleam in his eyes when he gives me a quick glance. “Deal.”
Chapter 17
“Do you want some popcorn?”
Gabe’s voice startles me, and I look up from the bookshelf housing the hundreds of DVDs and Blue-Rays that he so conservatively called “a collection.” This is more than a collection…it’s damn near every movie ever made. We’re at the same, Southern-plantation style house he brought me to last year, though this time I get to see more than the foyer and a dark bedroom. Not much more, though. Gabe’s not a tour-giver apparently. When we came in, we went straight to the “theater room”, which is just a living room with large, fluffy recliners, a huge reclining sofa, and a television the size of a garage door. Discreet little surround sound speakers are mounted into the walls, mostly hidden from view. Not much different from an actual theater, but probably not overwhelming enough to make the nausea kick in.
“Uh, sure, I guess.”
He gives me a sheepish smile and says, “No one’s here this late, so you’ll have to risk eating popcorn that I make.”
I roll my eyes and stalk toward him, taking a moment to appreciate the gym shorts and T-shirt he changed into. He looks so relaxed, so different from the suit-wearing businessman I had dinner with. His eyes are twinkling with mischief when I finally manage to drag my gaze back to his.
“If you want, I have some…”—he gives me the same thorough examination, head to toe, that I just gave him—“…more comfortable clothes you can wear.”
For a split second I consider not taking him up on it. I’d have to get undressed to put it on. On the other hand, whatever he’s got will probably be miles too big but still better for lounging around than what I’m wearing. Plus, there’s something so intimate about wearing a man’s clothes. I want to wear his clothes.
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