She started to walk away, felt his hand on her elbow.
Without thought, she flinched, pulled away, and placed a foot between them.
Mr. Blackwell dropped her arm immediately. “I can send a list of potential enemies within the hour. As for friends . . . I can call Blake Harrison an old acquaintance, but can’t say I’ve spent any time with the man in over a decade.”
“I’m sorry.”
He moved in front of her. “I need a wife,” he said under his breath.
She swallowed her fear and took a closer step. “Then I suggest you ask your latest conquest for the privilege. Alliance isn’t going to help you.”
Gabi pushed around him, headed for the door.
“This isn’t over.”
She glanced over her shoulder, noticed more than one set of eyes watching them. “I’m afraid it is.” With one last look at a man who on the surface was a woman’s dream, she shoved through the swinging glass doors and out of the building.
She climbed into the back of the waiting car and noticed the darkened gaze of one ticked-off billionaire following her as they drove away.
Holy shit.
Hunter’s eyes fell on the slim butt and long legs in a tight-fitting skirt as Gabriella Masini marched across the street toward a waiting car. A driver jumped out and opened her door. Without realizing his own actions, he followed the car with his eyes as his future sped away.
That did not just happen.
He’d walked in expecting an entirely different outcome.
If there was one thing Hunter was not accustomed to, it was losing.
A dry gust of hot wind propelled him to his car. Unlike Miss Masini, he liked to drive himself. Well, when he was in LA, in any event.
Once he was settled behind the steering wheel, he pressed the phone command. Instead of calling his office, he phoned his private investigator.
“If it isn’t Mr. Blackwell,” the man on the line answered with an edge of superiority.
“I need you to look someone up for me.”
“You sound pissed.”
“I’m not calling to chat, Remington. Do you have a pen?”
“I’m ready.”
“Gabriella Masini. This is acquisitions and mergers,” Hunter said.
“Someone is out for blood.”
Hunter called Remington when he wanted dirt. Acquiring every possible piece of information on a conquest was paramount for success, and something he did with every person he did business with. He hadn’t felt the need with Samantha Harrison’s employee. A mistake he made with Miss Masini that he wouldn’t make twice. Hunter knew that Blake’s wife wasn’t running his show, so he felt no remorse in digging into one of the duchess’s employees now. Any woman with the flawless skin, smooth speech, and legs that shot to her luscious breasts had to have dirt. No one had ever turned their back, dismissing him, after five minutes of conversation.
She obviously didn’t know who she was dealing with.
“I want every possible spec on this one, Remington, and I want it by morning.”
Remington blew out a breath. “That’s not much time, Deep Pockets.”
“I want something by the morning. I’ll keep you on the payroll so long as the information continues to come in.”
“You’re the boss.”
Well at least someone recognizes that.
Chapter Three
Maybe the lack of a car thing wouldn’t be so bad. Yoga in front of a TV was just as effective . . . right?
Gabi leaned into a warrior two, reached for the ceiling, and really hoped those who monitored the house system weren’t watching her fold onto herself.
Not that she looked bad in her tight-knit workout clothing. She was in the best shape of her life. Strange how tragedy and roadblocks in life resulted in two options . . . they killed you or made you stronger.
She reminded herself that life without a car was yet one more roadblock. A detour that wouldn’t knock her down.
She realized, too late, that the instructor on the DVD had already moved on to the next pose, and Gabi took a deep breath and tried to think of something other than the fact that she didn’t have a car in the driveway.
What if she needed emergency ice cream? She was a woman, and there were times emergency ice cream was in order.
Gabi leaned past her reverse warrior and grabbed a pen from the coffee table. Without a piece of paper, she wrote “ice cream” on her hand in an effort to remember to place an extra half gallon in her shopping cart on her next trip to the store.
When the doorbell rang, she lost her concentration completely and gave up on DVD yoga. She clicked off the set and reached for a towel.
The bell buzzed again and Gabi pulled the door open in a rush.
All she saw was a lush bouquet of tropical flowers that reminded her of Florida.
The man peeking behind the stems paused when he saw her. His eyes ran down her frame and slowly made their way back up.
He had to be in his early forties . . . much older than a floral delivery boy. At least in her experience.
“Can I help you?”
“I-I am looking for a Gabriella Masini.” The rough quality of the man’s voice suggested a pack-a-day habit . . . maybe more.
“That’s me.”
“Well,” he said, his eyes took her in again. “These are for you.”
Gabi quickly felt too underdressed to encourage a delivery man into her house. Not to mention the suggestive way he was looking at her.
“Wait here,” she said as she slid the door shut and retrieved a five-dollar bill from her purse. She returned and handed him the money. “Sorry. I needed to grab a tip.”