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"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 cheek, 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."