Managed:a VIP novel(52)

All good things must come to an end. I knew my time with Gabriel to  myself had a limit; he's too much of a workaholic to stay on vacation  for very long. But though we had two glorious weeks to ourselves, it  doesn't feel like enough. Still, I cannot deny that it's done him well.

Days of sleeping until midday, spending lazy hours in bed making love,  or lounging by the pool soaking up the sun, have given him a healthy  glow and an easy smile in his eyes.

Days of drinking rich red wine and sopping up olive oil with crusty  bread, devouring ripe tomatoes and creamy cheese, have filled out the  hollows in his cheeks.

I thought Gabriel was gorgeous when I met him. Now I realize I hadn't  gotten the full story. He's robust, deeply tanned, and so attractive in  his tailored linen suit that I get a little lightheaded whenever I look  at him.

He flashes me a quick, happy grin as he navigates the Ferrari over the  switchbacks along the Italian coast, and I'm thankful I'm sitting.         

     



 

"I can almost hear you thinking," he says, downshifting with authority. Good Lord, the way his thighs strain against his pants …

I cross my legs. "All dirty thoughts, I promise you."

His grin grows but he keeps his eyes on the road. "Behave yourself, chatty girl. I need to concentrate."

"It's like I've fallen into the cover of Suit and Car Porn."

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest. "There's no such magazine, Darling."

"There should be."

Laughing, he shifts again and accelerates. I'm thrust against the seat  as the car leaps forward. Squealing, I throw my hands up and let the  wind catch my hair as we race down the coast.

We arrive at our hotel in Naples all too soon. Kill John is doing a show  tonight, and then we're headed up to Milan, and finally Bern in  Switzerland.

Gabriel takes my hand as we walk into the lobby. I wouldn't have  expected it, but he loves holding hands. Whenever we're in close  proximity, he finds a way to thread his fingers with mine, his thumb  caressing my knuckles or the back of my hand as if touching me soothes  him.

One evening during our vacation, I sat with him on the terrace, me  drinking wine and him playing with my hand, looking down at it as if he  wasn't sure how he'd arrived at the place were he could freely touch me.

I'd smiled at him then, and he'd tugged me onto his lap. He put his  hands to better use after that. And I'd licked wine from his skin until  he shivered and growled and demanded dirty things of me in that bossy,  manly way of his.

A wistful sigh escapes me, and Gabriel gives me a squeeze. "What's that all about, chatty girl?"

"I don't want to say."

"Which only makes me want to know more. Talk to me, Darling."

We reach the elevators, and he hits the up button. I shake my head, but give in.

"I'm just being ridiculous and greedy. I already miss it being just the two of us."

His brows draw together, and he takes a step closer, wrapping me up in  his scent and the strength of his arms. Warm fingers slide to my nape.

"Where we are is simply a matter of geography." Soft lips brush my  cheek, and his voice rumbles in my ear. "Remember, chatty girl? I'll  never truly be apart from you because you're always in here." He takes  my hand and puts it against his temple as he did that night backstage.

I smile and rest my cheek against his chest where his heart beats strong and sure. "And in here."

"Precisely."

I love him. I love him so much it doesn't feel real. I love him so much  it terrifies me a little. I've never been in love before. I don't have  any experience with processing the emotion. How can it make a person so  happy and yet so afraid? I can't lose him. I can't. My heart won't  survive.

But he's here, holding me as if he'll stay right here, giving me comfort for as long as I need it.

The elevator dings, and I step back. That's when I see him. He's looking  a little worse for the wear, with a sunburn on his face, but I'd  recognize him anywhere.

The bottom falls out of my stomach, and I swallow hard, feeling dangerously close to throwing up.

He's looking right at me from his spot across the lobby. The calculating  glint in his eyes tells me he knows exactly who Gabriel is, and he's  figuring out how to use the knowledge that we're obviously together.

A cold sweat breaks out along my skin as Gabriel puts his hand on the  small of my back and guides me into the elevator. The last thing I see  before the doors close is Martin's smug grin and ugly wink, as if to  say, "I'll be in touch soon."





Chapter Twenty-Five





Sophie







We need to talk.

I stare at the text on my phone, and my rage grows to a black haze that  blurs the edges of my vision. My gut churns. That motherfucker still has  my number. I'm sorry I didn't change it long ago. But it wouldn't have  mattered; Martin always finds a way to get what he wants.

My stomach lurches, and I press a hand to it.

I should tell Gabriel that Martin is skulking around the lobby. But I  don't want to. Speaking his name is like calling forth the devil. I  don't want to remind Gabriel of what I did. Of course he knows, but  seeing Martin, visually linking him with me, will make it more real.  More pungent. Because that's what Martin is: a foul odor hanging around,  stinking up the place. The bastard wants to talk. It takes little  imagination to discern about what.

A breeze blows in from the harbor. I huddle down in the lounge chair on  the balcony, drawing my knees to my chest. It's not cold out here, but  I'm freezing inside, while my skin burns hot.         

     



 

"Sophie." Gabriel's face hovers in front of me, a frown marring his brow.

Startled, I blink and look around, taking in the dark sea and the lights along the shore. "Yes?"

He sits on the foot of the lounger. "I called your name three times."

"Sorry. I … " I don't know what to say, so I shrug.

He assesses my face, worrying. "What's going on in that head, chatty girl?"

"I don't feel well." It's true. I want to climb under the covers and cry. "Too much driving on mountain roads, I guess."

The cool press of his fingers to my brow almost has me weeping, and I have to blink several times to keep from losing it.

His frown deepens. "You feel warm."

"And you feel nice and cool." I force a smile. "Kiss me and make it all better."

He leans in and kisses my forehead. But he's on a mission. "I'm serious.  I want you to stay in tonight. I'll text Dr. Stern and have her come  look you over."

"No, don't," I say to Gabriel. "I'm fine. I'll be better off working."

"Bollocks to that." Without an apparent effort, he scoops me up and  carries me inside. Despite myself, a little thrill runs through me. I've  never been carried around, or handled as if I were precious. And though  I'm not really sick, his care makes me want to cling to him and cry my  troubles away.

He sets me on the couch. "Stay."

"Yes, sir." I salute him, but he's already going into the bedroom.

He returns with a blanket, which he promptly tucks around my body. "There."

"You're acting like a mother hen." Which I love.

"Cluck, cluck," he deadpans as he picks up the house phone with one hand  and grabs the TV remote with the other. I'm impressed by his  multitasking; he scrolls through the movie selections and selects a  rom-com, while simultaneously ordering a soup and bread basket through  room service.

"And a pot of tea," he adds, finishing up the call.

My poor, battered heart turns to mush there and then. He's getting me  tea. My voice is too thick when I speak. "Italians aren't known for  their tea."

"It'll likely be rubbish," he agrees. "But it will have to do."

And though I'm all tucked up like a package, he moves me once more,  lifting me onto his lap and snuggling us both under the blanket. It's so  much better being held. I burrow against his chest, and his arms wrap  around me.

"I don't want to leave you," he murmurs in my hair.

"I'm fine. Really. I can go with you-"

"No." His voice is gentle but firm. "Even if you aren't ill, you need rest. Now, shut up and do as directed for once."

"Bossy."

"You're only sorry it's my turn to do the bossing."

Unable to help myself, I stroke his chest. Touching him is a luxury I  don't think I'll ever get used to. "What was you said about forced  relaxation being an oxymoron?"

"I don't recall that at all. You've grown delusional in your exhaustion."

I snort, and he kisses me on the forehead, chuckling.

The movie starts playing, and we fall silent.

"How did you know I love When Harry Met Sally?" I ask softly.

He shifts a little beneath me, propping one foot on the table. "You told me."

"What? When?"

"The third night on the coach. You were taking a piss at my love of all  things Star Trek, and I asked what your favorite movies were. And I  still take umbrage that you think Spaceballs is on par with Star Wars."