Treasured by Thursday(11)
What is he talking about? He was goading her . . . trying to get a reaction, she decided.
Gabi refused and concentrated on keeping her hands loose in her lap.
“You’re a beautiful woman, but I don’t think you’d survive wearing orange long-term.”
“I have done nothing illegal.”
“You cashed the check after violating the terms of the policy.”
It was impossible to sit still. Gabi leaned forward. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but I do. You signed the papers and removed your husband from life support. A direct violation to the terms of the insurance policy. One might speculate that you wanted your husband dead for the money.”
“You don’t . . . you’re wrong.” Only she knew most of what he said was true. The insurance policy, she wasn’t sure about. So much happened during that volatile time in her life, she hadn’t paid attention to most of the papers she’d signed and couldn’t verify anything Blackwell was saying. Not that it mattered, she’d fight a fraud charge. Come up with the funds to repay the insurance company if it came to it.
“Then there is the offshore account to consider.”
She jerked her attention his way. The desire to slap the smirk off his face was palpable. “What account?”
“Yours.”
“I don’t have—”
“Mrs. Picano most certainly does have an account.” He reached into his pocket and removed a folded paper before handing it over.
She couldn’t read the language, not completely, but understood a few key words. The money was in euros, there were several zeros, and her name was listed. Instead of telling the man she knew nothing about the account, she soaked in the name of the bank and the account number and returned the paper.
“Do I have your attention now, Gabriella?”
“You’re a bastard.”
“True. But I’m not the one who will find herself in prison for either insurance fraud or tax evasion.”
The numbers that swam in her head were worthy of several years in a state penitentiary. She could fight it . . . probably win . . . eventually. But wouldn’t it be easier to fix her so-called crimes if she was free?
“What do you want?”
“A wife . . . you.”
“Why me?” She wasn’t smiling now.
“Because you and I have a lot in common.”
“We have nothing in common,” she spat.
“I’m in need of a wife, and you need a husband who can financially fix your criminal background.”
“Even if I had a criminal background, I wouldn’t need a husband to fix it for me.”
He grinned. “Becoming Mrs. Blackwell will start the process of distancing yourself from Mr. Picano’s name. My lawyers understand the need to quietly remove problems. By my estimates, it will take eighteen months, give or take, to remove the threat of prison being on your resume.”
“Let me guess,” she said. “Eighteen months is the duration of time you need a wife?”
“Beautiful and smart.”
“Condescending and a bastard.”
He laughed, lifted his glass, and drank. “Touché.”
Hunter remembered his first trip to Vegas . . . the lights, the women, the whiskey . . . the game. He’d walked up to an exclusive poker table, laid fifty thousand down, and proceeded to bluff. He collected over four hundred thousand dollars from one game on the premise of intimidation.
Wearing his poker face, he proceeded to bluff again.
Good thing the back of the limousine had poor lighting or Miss Masini would have seen his reaction to her face when he mentioned her late husband. There was so much more to her story than what he’d been given, and even if she walked away, called his bluff, he would find those answers.
Thankfully, Gabriella didn’t take his threats by rolling over. She fought, which delighted him. So few people in the world spoke to him the way she did.
He was a bastard. One that always won . . . eventually.
“How much time do I have to decide?” she asked.
“The fundraiser will go on for several hours.”
“You can’t be serious.” She was outraged, once again.
He relented, slightly. “I expect contracts on my desk in the morning.”
“Impossible.” She shook her head.
“Nothing is impossible.”
The car started to slow, announcing their arrival.
“Blackmail is such an ugly practice.”
The limo stopped and she reached for the door.
He moved forward, caught her ice-cold hand. “So is prison.”
Their eyes locked, both of their jaws set in tight control.
Charles opened the door and extended a hand.