Treasured by Thursday(91)
Not blindly.
Never again.
She pulled away and brought a hand to her lips before she turned and fled the room.
His tie hung loose around his neck, ice cooled the bourbon in his glass. The lights of the Christmas tree, the only one he’d had since he was a kid, filled the room.
Gabi had finally stopped crying.
Every tear was a knife in his side, every sob . . . and he had nothing to offer as support. He didn’t trust himself to go to her, tell her she was wrong about him. When in fact, she wasn’t.
When he’d first learned of the insurance fraud and the foreign account, he assumed she was guilty of more than trusting the wrong person. A beautiful, artful woman batting her lashes to get what she wanted in life. He blackmailed her before he knew her.
Even when he learned more, he still kept himself slightly detached.
Get Hayden.
Deny his brother of everything.
Then Gabi struck again, where he never expected.
The Christmas tree mocked him.
“There you are.” Andrew walked in the room, took in the half-empty decanter of bourbon, and frowned. “Busy?”
“Not now, Andrew.”
Andrew sat, uninvited.
“I mean it.”
“Fire me.”
“You’re fired.”
Andrew simply laughed. “When are you going to slow your personal life down and think before you act?”
Hunter didn’t comment, merely studied the ice melting in his glass as Andrew went on.
“You’re brilliant in business. You turn blades of grass into dollar bills; always capture the flag before the opposing team. Something tells me, however, that on your report card in school, it stated, does not play well with others.”
“Why are you still sitting here?”
“Because I’m the only one who will. If you don’t start exercising patience, you’re going to be one lonely, bitter, albeit rich, old man. Sound like someone you know?”
“I’m not my father.”
“I’m thinking of a tree and an apple right about now. Funny thing about clichés, they are all true.”
Hunter finished the rest of his drink and set the glass aside.
“You have a unique opportunity with a woman who has a heart the size of Texas. You’re about to bring a child into your home who is going to need more than a bitter old man raising him. You have the world a snap away and you’re blowing it.”
Hunter fixed his eyes on the only person in his life willing to talk to him this way. “I blew it before I began.”
“Then you need to do what every other red-blooded man out there does. Find some damn duct tape and fix it.” Andrew took to his feet and started to leave the room.
Hunter stopped him.
“Why do you care if I fix anything?”
Andrew looked around the room. “I want the solo title of bitter old man.”
Hunter smiled at that.
“And the tree is a nice touch.”
He walked out of the room, leaving his wisdom behind.
“So Blackwell wants to be a daddy . . . how perfect.” Diaz tapped the table in thought. Of all the useless information he’d obtained by listening to the Blackwell’s conversations, this one would pay off.
“This is going to be easier than I thought, eh, Raul?” Diaz snapped his fingers. “I need those pictures.”
“Pictures, what pictures?”
“Picano sent you pictures before he ended up dead. Blackmail-worthy pictures. I think a few were of his wife.”
Raul shrugged and twisted back to the computer.
Diaz had to give the dead guy credit. He covered his tracks when it came to Gabriella. Marry her, put the money in her name, make her look as guilty as he was . . . have dirt on her . . . string her up. Had the man lived, he would have walked far enough to run until the law couldn’t find him.
Damn shame he ended up with a chest full of lead.
Screws up anyone’s day.
It took Raul a good hour to find and hack into the images.
Diaz flipped through the pictures, held the one with Gabriella Blackwell holding her arm out for a hit. Nothing better than an image of Blackwell’s wife banging up caught on film. “Perfecto.” There were others . . . but the most damning was the one of an imperfect socialite in the throes of a drug-induced high. The picture was worth a few million if Blackwell wanted to keep it from the judge deciding his eligibility to hold sole custody of his son. Diaz nodded Raul’s way. “Now I need you to find the life insurance company Picano used. I need his policy number, a name of an agent . . . everything.”
Raul sniffed, shot both index fingers in the air, and started typing.
Later, Diaz pulled his cigar from his lips, sucked in the smoke, and blew it out slowly. He had everything he needed, and soon he’d have Hunter Blackwell’s balls in his hand. The man had a couple of important decisions in front of him.